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Esodir started to respond, but fell silent as they passed a group of gray-clad scholars exiting the library. At the sight of Isael, they hung back by the wall, as if confined by an invisible barrier. He acknowledged them with a glance, and they fell into deep bows.
Once the others were well behind them, Esodir asked,“What of your new concubine? You’ve not yet bedded her, and you’ve already given up hope of her giving you an heir?”
Isael lifted a shoulder.“I’d planned on giving history’s most expensive whoreto you.”
“What?”The color drained from his nephew’s face.“But she’s a catalyst. And I’m thrice her age.”
“And how many times her age am I?”Isael asked dryly.
Fifty.
He’d spent the past month turning the number over in his mind with revulsion. The miniature portrait her father sent featured a young woman who looked acceptable—for a human. But when Isael thought of Cera Wyntre, all he could picture was the girl he’d seen when he’d visited Atera a decade ago.
Small and reed-like. Stiff and unsteady on her feet. Reeking of fear as she’d stared up at him. Granted, she’d had more cause to fear him than most. She’d been a girl in the truest sense of the word, despite her father’s claims to the contrary. A child, staring up at the man her father had been desperate to sell her to.
Now, following a decade of scheming and with the help of a conniving councillor that Isael might yet kill, King Geon of Atera had gotten his wish.
“What do I do with a concubine?”Esodir recognized his mistake at once, a scowl crossing his face.“Do not start. I know what to do with a woman. But women that I court. Or at least, seduce. I’ve never gone to bed with a woman who’sobligatedto…”
So you think.
Isael kept the thought to himself. It was endearing to know that his nephew believed the young women who went to bed with him had fallen prey to his fumbling efforts at seduction. Though it did trouble him to realize Esodir was still so naïve. Or perhaps it was vanity that made him willfully ignorant to the fact that their families pressured the women to seek a way into Esodir’s bed.
Assuming they couldn’t get into Isael’s.
“She’s a concubine,” Isael said. “No one is expecting you to court her, least of all her. You will go to her in the nights, bed her, and then leave her, ideally with Ishvalier’s next heir in her belly.”
“An heir that will be old bones in the ground, while you’re still wearing the crown,”Esodir muttered.“What’s the point?”
“It is your duty to ensure the line of succession, as it was your father’s duty before you.”
Because I cannot.
They were words Isael had yet to say aloud, though some variation of them spilled from the lips of his people whenever his back was turned. Whenever they thought he could not hear them. Not even the women that wormed their way into his bed had faith that his seed would take root within them.
“Will she really become an elf when I give her my blood?”Esodir asked.
“For what she cost, she’d better,”Isael said, not bothering to restrain his contempt.“But it’ll bemyblood she’s given.”
If anything good could come from the debacle, the girl would at least be made into something resembling himself. If the ritual could give her the ability to pass on even a fraction of his magic to the children she would bear, he might yet have a nephew powerful enough to bear the weight of his crown.
It was doubtful.
Elven magic had always been weak. The heroes of Esryian legends and founders of their noble houses had been the offspring of the fae. Once the fae were overthrown, it had fallen on their half-elf children to preserve their unique and powerful magic.
Efforts to consolidate the magic by restricting unions had served for a few centuries. But eventually, stillbirths and infertility drove the elves to pursue marriages outside of their families. Some on the fringes of Esryia even interbred with humans, which only sped up the dilution of their magic.
Esodir’s blood was richer in magic than most elves his age. He could weave illusions and work water magic with skill that put even many of the councillors to shame. But had he been born in Ishvalier a thousand years earlier, they would have called hima’faern. In modern times, it meant“weak in magic.”In the time of Isael’s birth, it had been synonymous with“worthless.”
His nephew remained quiet as they descended the staircase that led to the ground floor of the citadel. Like his father and grandfather before him, Esodir was prone to brooding. But unlike them, he usually responded well to inquiries.
“What is bothering you?” Isael asked.“Tell me plainly.”
Esodir rolled his shoulders, but said,“I don’t know that I’m ready to have a child. I didn’t think I’d be considering it until my first century.”
“And you have me to thank for that,”Isael said.“I’ve been rejecting marriage proposals for you since you were suckling at your mother’s breast. But you’re no child. And as you said, you’re thrice the girl’s age.”
“That’s not the same. She’s practically human. Might as well measure my age against a gnat’s.”Esodir swallowed.“Is she pretty?”
