Page 97 of Tending the Ache

"Indrie's language has improved considerably," Eskil says. "In areas I wouldn't have thought proper for herbology textbooks."

Morgan flushes. The color is sudden and vivid, a bloom of pink across pale cheeks, remarkable both for its intensity and for appearing on a face that has spent years cultivating an immunity to embarrassment. He sets down his quill.

"Some of the words Indrie has asked me to translate would make a sailor blush," Morgan says. His voice is carefully level. "I would rather not learn what my brother whispers in his ear from the person being whispered to."

Eskil's expression remains perfectly calm. "I'll be sure to think about that next time."

Morgan chokes. The sound is somewhere between a cough and a protest, produced by a respiratory system ambushed by information it did not want. "I do not want to know about next time."

The banter settles between them, the familiar rhythm, the cadence two brothers fall into when they are expressing affection through verbal combat. It is comfortable and it is deliberate and it serves a purpose, because the purpose is to arrive at the difficult thing through the easy thing, and the easy thing is almost over.

Eskil explains what Bohdi found. The Jakadi encampment. The Wolfe connection. The scheme to take Morgan south and install him as a figurehead. He lays it out the way he laid it out for the council, factually and completely and without softening the edges.

Morgan listens. His face does not change as the scope of it unfolds, the chieftain's real intentions, the danger he will be walking into, the role he will be expected to play. He absorbs it completely, filing each piece into the structure of his understanding.

When Eskil finishes, Morgan says, without hesitation, "Of course I'll do it."

The words are simple. Unsurprising. Morgan has been volunteering for this since the day the proposal arrived, back when the proposal appeared to be genuine. Learning that it is a trap has not changed his willingness. If anything it has sharpened it, because the diplomatic mission has become an intelligence operation and intelligence operations are Morgan's native ground.

"Bohdi goes with you," Eskil says. "And you defer to his judgment in all things pertaining to your safety. That is not negotiable."

Morgan purses his lips. The pursing is precise, a compression of the mouth that communicates with elegant efficiency the full spectrum of his feelings about taking orders from a man whose primary problem-solving methodology involves a large axe.

"Bohdi has no regard for innocent lives caught in the crossfire," Morgan says.

"Soldiers following orders are not innocent."

"Things are not that simple, Eskil."

"That is exactly why you need Bohdi," Eskil says. "Because Bohdi will make the hard choice when you hesitate."

Morgan holds up his hands in concession. Palms raised, fingers spread, the signal of a negotiator who has recognized an immovable object and is declining to waste further effort on it. He will listen. The concession is genuine even if the reluctance is visible.

Eskil leans forward. Takes his feet off the desk. The casualness goes out of him all at once and what is left is the brother. Not the king. The brother, whose voice is a weapon in its own right, whose eyes carry the weight of years of decisions that have kept Morgan breathing.

"If you do not come back safely," Eskil says, low and absolute, "I will go south and raze the Wolfe stronghold to the ground."

The words are not a threat. They are not rhetoric. They are not the hyperbole of a worried brother or the posturing of an angry king. They are a statement of intent, delivered with the same flat certainty a man uses to say that winter follows autumn. It is what will happen. It is the consequence that will unfold if the condition is met, and there is no more argument in it than there is in weather.

Morgan sighs. It is deep and patient. He has heard declarations of this kind before, and twenty years of being loved by a man who expresses love through contingency plans for the destruction of enemy fortifications has taught him that his brother means every word and that arguing is pointless.

"I'll be fine," Morgan says. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," Eskil says. "I'm planning."

He reaches across the desk and grips his brother's shoulder. Hard. The grip he has used a thousand times, the one that stands in for the words he cannot produce, and Morgan puts his hand over Eskil's and squeezes, and for a moment they are not king and prince.

They are two brothers in a room, one of them about to ride into danger and the other unable to follow.

Chapter 30

Indrie

Indrie is teaching Ermin to blend a sleep tonic when he looks up and sees Morgan in the doorway, watching quietly.

The prince is leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and his mouth curved in the half-smile he wears when he is observing something that pleases him but does not wish to interrupt. His long blond hair is tied back with a leather cord and there are ink stains on his fingers, as always, and he looks, Indrie searches for the word and lands on it with a pang, he looks young.

"Ermin," Indrie says, keeping his voice even. "Keep going on your own. Two parts valerian root to one part chamomile, steeped, not boiled. I'll be back."