Visit Roland.

You make for the town, where the survivors of yesterday's attack happen to be recuperating. You bide your time, for your first couple of hours, making a conspicuous show of being there to wish Itherian men particularly, a speedy recovery, to thank your nobles for their sacrifices in dealing with this threat to the entire continent.

That smokescreen established, you skulk off to where Roland is abed. The Shark's wearing furs under the covers, the fire roaring. As always, the cold-blooded mercenary is not taking too well to the Beathan climate.

Your cousin has regained consciousness since last you saw him. Good, you think. It would only be proper to bring him up to speed on yesterday's events.

“Leave us.” you say to the nurse, tending him. She's Beathan, only a scant few years older than you, with dark red hair and freckles. Under her smock, you imagine she's probably got a passable body.

“Are ye sure about that, Your Majesty?” she burrs. The concern in her eyes tells you all you need to know.

“You can relax, girl.” Roland scowls. “Just cause I'm a beastfolk, doesn't mean I'm gonna take a chomp out of my king. 'Sides, I much prefer peasant. Not as tender, but ooh, the crunch!”

The Shark smiles, giving the Beathan a wonderful display of his rows of teeth. Losing her nerve, she soon scampers off.

“Was that strictly necessary, cousin?” you ask, unable to hide your smirk.

“No.” Roland admits, struggling to sit up. “But, I certainly enjoyed it. I don't mind being feared, hated, even. But the way she did both and still pitied me... I didn't care for it.”

“People like her are hardly worth paying any mind to.” you advise him.

“Maybe not for a king, Edward.” Roland muses. “But I've had to put up with their shit my entire life.”

“Enough of this.” you say forthrightly, limping over to a chair and pulling it close to Roland's bedside. “There's much of import to discuss.”

“I like this more direct Edward.” Roland snickers. “Could've used him after the raid, eh? Come on then, say what needs saying.”

You steel yourself, trying to think of the best way to broach the difficult topic. Ultimately, you decide on laying it out plainly.

“It's your mother.” you tell him. “As she tended to you, Robert of the White Torch had his suspicions aroused. When I returned to check up on you, he doused her with water from one of the Order's enchanted springs. Her glamour was dispelled.”

The Shark is stunned, taking in your words with an expression as dead as his black eyes.

“You what?” Roland says blankly. “A human, stumbling on one of us? And you stood by and let it happen? Allsire, why didn't you do anything?!”

“There was nothing I could do!” you're quick to assure your cousin. “Robert acted mere seconds after revealing his intentions to me.”

“And what of my mother?” the sell-sword demands. “Where is she? Is she alright?”

“She stunned us and made good her escape. Got out of the town, but with the White Torch on her tail.” you try not to snicker at the expression's literal accuracy in Bezoriana's case. “I contacted Corinne, she was already in pursuit.”

“And?” Roland says blankly.

“I haven't heard back from her yet. But you know our cousin.” you venture. “The hunters have little hope.”

“Aye.” Roland says, comforted in that at least. “No doubt Corinne'll make it messy. Good. I hope those insolent worms suffer, I hope they-”

“Peace, cousin.” you say, holding up your good hand. “Bezoriana will be fine. She just has to stay out of Beatha a few years, there'll be new guises to assume, new ways to serve Grandfather.”

“Worked out perfect for you, hmm?” Roland says bitterly. “My mother won't be able to meddle in Beatha, a kingdom you're so very fond of, and maybe you can even have her resettled in Itheria. Close to you, close to your bed.”

“Cousin, you're being paranoid.” you assure him. “I'm still loyal to the Cult, and I simply want to see Bezoriana safe. Do you forget she's carrying my daughter?”

“No, I'm very much aware of that, Edward.” Roland says.

“Y'know, I shouldn't be telling you this,” The Shark pushes himself up as best he's able, bringing your eyes level. “But Mother told me Gramps plans to call another summit of the Cult, like that one in Sinnabarrow last year. And very soon.”

“Word is, the Old Man has his doubts, concerning your devotion to his cause. After seeing the way you are around these barbarians, I'm not surprised. It's like you... think you're one of them.” the hybrid finishes his words with an aristocratic sneer. One that's justified given his heritage, but still, jarring given his otherwise common demeanour.

“That's not true.” you slur, your voice shaking. “I want to see Arinum rule this world just as much as any of you.”

“Yes, you're keen to serve, when the old man wants you to breed his daughters, or when he gives you power over me and Corinne's blades. We've yet to see if you'll back your family over these pathetic humans, though.”

“Perhaps a fool like you may doubt my resolve, cousin.” you tell Roland. “I'm sure grandfather isn't quite so foolish. I'm one of you.”

“And would you still be one of us if he told you to say... withdraw your support from the Beathans, support the raiders instead?” Roland asks.

“That's never going to happen.” you evade. “Donald's far more useful as an ally than any Deanian could be...”

“Tell yourself that, cousin.” Roland chuckles. “But I've crossed swords with them, a few times now. And let me tell you, they're everything the All-Sire could want in an army.”

“That's nonsense.” you tell him. Surely your grandfather would see the advantage in a prosperous Itheria, supported militarily by a strong alliance with Beatha, right?

“Is it, though? Because my mother's often told me tales of what it was like before, those ancient days, when Arinum ruled the continent. Men like Einar bowed in service to the Allsire. Kings, kneeling beneath the one true High King of them all. A little like you are now, only y'know... useful.”

“Things have changed since then.” you argue, shifting forwards in your seat. “If we-”

“King Edward?” A surprised voice, comes from the doorway, barely more than a squeak.

Khaliq stands there, slender and poised, carrying a covered plate of food for your injured cousin.

You clear your throat, hoping your face does not betray the panic pulsing through your body. How much did the young lion hear?