Chapter XXIV #2
The Priest took the seat he was offered, and heard Glora settle in across from him. They were seated by a hearth—he could smell the soot, but so soon after midsummer, there was no fire lit.
“Pity about your brother, and about the queen,” Glora said, sounding half-disinterested, as if she were discussing an overcast day she’d hoped would be fine.
“To make a bid for the throne and fail so pathetically. But she never did understand our ways. It’s already getting round to the servants that Gaius has a pool going in the guard, setting bets on which of the nobles will take the throne and have her drawn and quartered in the city. ”
“Will Hadrian move on the throne, do you think?” the Priest asked.
When Glora answered, her voice was tense. “You know as well as I do that my husband’s business is none of mine, and hasn’t been for years. But if I had to guess, I’d say he won’t. He’s devoted to Kidrien, more so than Tyrus—trade and merchantry is his preferred avenue of conquest.”
“Given his taste for prosperity by any means, would Hadrian be amenable to a position as court magistrate? It affords many covert opportunities for material advancement. The chance to take bribes and level threats and such,” the Priest said carefully.
He knew the moment the words were out, his intentions would be clear.
“I anticipate a vacancy in the posting very soon. And given that Hadrian is the most powerful and vocal of my detractors, I thought a change in his opinion of me would do a great deal to sway the remainder of our people.”
“You upstart bastard,” Glora said, but there was admiration in the words. “You mean to make your own bid for the throne. I always did like you best of Darias Inver’s whelps. Orden was more a peacock than you, though he managed to steal your eyes.”
“Which bought him a paltry decade on the throne, in the end,” the Priest said. “And here I still stand, while his body lies cooling in the castle crypt with our forefathers.”
“How did you kill him?” Glora asked. “I heard it was poison of some kind, and they can’t sort out what.
He’d been drinking summer wine from the cloister, but Lucian forced a scullery maid to down a whole pint of it from the king’s own goblet.
She’s happily soused now, and nothing more.
So it must have been something else. Some other toxin.
That would be your way—you must get your fill of blood down in the sanctuary, if it’s not sacrilegious to say so. ”
“How Orden died isn’t important,” the Priest said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
He felt increasingly at ease in Glora’s presence.
She was no longer the towering figure he recalled from childhood, or the strident and dictatorial court manager he’d spent the better part of his priesthood avoiding.
She felt congenial—like someone he could make an ally of, not just in name, but in spirit.
“What’s important is this: a position as magistrate will mean Hadrian’s at court far more often, and he brings his family with him.
It won’t just be for a few weeks over summer anymore.
I realize the two of you don’t get on, and have some arrangement in place—that his time in Inverlyn must be brief, and that he not bring his mistress or heirs when he comes.
Which is why I’m speaking to you. I won’t ask him without your express consent.
I’ve far too much regard for the power you hold in this court. ”
It was the truth, and had the ring of it. Few Invers could resist an appeal to their pride, especially one honestly spoken.
“I have something to offer, as well,” the Priest went on.
“As a token of appreciation for your tolerance of Hadrian’s presence in Inverlyn, and of your assistance in the years to come.
There’s no one at court that doesn’t know your history with Hadrian—how he married you when you were little more than a child, and took over guardianship of the lands you’d inherited, only to refuse to turn them over when you reached the age of your majority.
How he then went on to replace you with his mistress and her get, when you were unable to bear him children.
And how, rather than live on an estate that was yours by rights, with another woman in your place, you left it all behind to carve out a position for yourself here.
“I can’t restore what is rightfully yours.
Not if I mean to keep Hadrian as a supporter as well.
But I can offer a replacement. I’m not sure if you recall Electa Inver—she was an old woman already when I was a child.
But she took an interest in me and made me a sort of unofficial ward.
There were a few attempts on my life I’m certain were only thwarted because of Electa’s influence.
When she died, she left me her land—it’s nothing like what you lost, just a few hundred acres on the eastern coast, but there’s a good stone house, and mixed timber lot and pasturage, besides some income in fishing from the streams. The place is self-sustaining, and I’ve always thought it a bit wasted on me.
I’ll likely never survive court long enough to enjoy it, but your position isn’t nearly as fraught as mine.
When you choose to set aside the role of chatelaine, and move on to a life lived for yourself, you could do it there. I’ve deeded the estate to you already.”
Reaching into the shoulder bag he carried, the Priest pulled out the documents and passed them to Glora.
“I’ll accept this on one condition,” she said, with some indefinable emotion heavy in her voice. “You and Electa and I all have something in common—no direct heirs to leave anything of ours to. When I die, I want the house and lands to revert to you.”
“As blind regent to an infant king, I have no expectation of surviving that long,” the Priest replied. “But I appreciate the gesture.”
“You won’t take the throne on your own behalf, then?” Glora asked, and for the first time, he heard some of her old disapproval. “There’s never been an Inver regency.”
“Then these are unprecedented times,” the Priest said with wry humor, rising to his feet. “How lucky we are to be living at the cusp of something new and interesting.”
And so, the Priest thought as he left Glora’s rooms, his unwilling bid for supremacy began.
With a wet nurse and a housekeeper as his first allies, and an admission that he would not even claim the crown for himself.
A low chuckle escaped the Priest as he walked through the castle, cane sweeping the ground ahead.
Gods, how Tyrus and his forefathers must hate him.