Chapter 8: The Seat He Keeps

Edric did not cross the ford.

He had lost his nerve in front of two thousand men, and he knew it.

He ordered the cart turned around and the army marched home in sullen silence, with Odile's small face vanishing behind the iron bars.

Marit rode back to Stonefast in a daze.

The words rang in her head all the way up the cliff road.

Whose crown he wears.

Torren was waiting in the stable yard.

He lifted her out of the saddle himself and held her a heartbeat too long before he set her down.

"You were magnificent," he said.

"What did my father mean?"

His hands dropped from her waist.

"Torren."

"Not here."

"Here." Her voice shook. "He pointed at you. In front of two thousand soldiers. What did he mean?"

Grooms were ducking behind horses.

The king took her elbow, steered her through the kitchen door, up a back stair and into a round room that smelled of steam.

It was the bathhouse, a stone chamber with a sunken pool, and the water was hot and clouded with white mist.

He bolted the door.

"I sit on this throne," he said, "and I have no right to it."

The words dropped into the steam.

Marit stared at him.

"You are the king."

"I was crowned king at twenty-one, when my father died."

He stood by the pool with his hands braced on the stone rim.

"He was the old High King's general. He held the Wildlands together after the slaughter."

"He made me swear to keep the seat."

"Keep it for whom?"

"For someone."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you."

She went cold.

"You can't tell me. Your wife."

"I swore it on my father's body."

"I walked into your house in a stranger's veil," she said, quiet and furious.

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