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I’m still just a boy, playing at make-believe.
“Most still stand by Rowan Dietrich, though I’ve been working hard to change that,” Huntley said at length, more to hear the ring of his own voice than to engage in a back and forth with his lord father. Christ, he was tired. Tired and so very cold. There was a winter in his soul that never seemed to thaw.
“And what of the girl? How about your betrothed?” Admiral James asked, his lips pressing together. His pale eyes stared forward.
“I met her once, years ago. I doubt she’d recognize my face in a crowd. We’ve been out of the fold for so long, I don’t think?—”
“She is yours by right, and now so is Norland. You took a holy vow. You think too much like a child. Act like a man. It’s time you grow up, Peter.”
“I’m in the process, Father. And it’s a vow I take quite seriously.” That seemed to make his father happy. Or at least appeased. He nodded, the edges of his eyes crinkling under the pressure of hard thought. “I would see Norland burn to the ground before a traitor steals our legacy.”
“By a hellhound.”
“Aye. By a hellhound,” his father echoed.
Then Admiral James stood. His small yet strong hand came to Huntley’s shoulders, gripping hard. His pale eyes seemed to flash, and he saw a shred of pride there for the first time in years.
“That hellhound helped lead the attack on our family. Have you forgotten?” Admiral James asked. “Are we to allow him to keep stealing from us? This is your time to decide who you want to be. Your actions in the coming weeks will determine that… and the legacy of our house. I saw your strength when you were just a boy, and I see it now,” he said, his fingers gripping Huntley’s shoulders again. “That’s why I chose you for this alliance and not your brother. Don’t let me down, Huntley. There’s power in being out of the fold. We have been undetected. And we can use that to our strategy.”
“I understand.”
“See that you do,” he concluded, and Huntley blew out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding until his father’s hand withdrew. Huntley watched as his fingers tightened into a ball, pushing against some unseen pressure. “I need you to be strong. This is your hour, and time is moving fast. Make use of every minute.”
Huntley sighed. A servant—some pretty wench—entered the hall, clutching firewood to her chest.
“Ah,” Huntley greeted, “you read our mind.”
“Yes, milord,” she said, a light blush brightening her cheeks. She stepped between Huntley and Admiral James as if she were crossing between two rabid wolves having a go at each other.
She stoked a fire within minutes, but the chill still hung in the air. Huntley stared at the mantel, where the Greek god Pan embedded the wood.
Admiral James gestured to one of the high wingback chairs as the servant slipped past them again. Huntley watched as she left the room and was swallowed up by the castle. Then he sank into a chair and dragged it closer to the hearth. “Aren’t you going to join me?” he asked his father, gesturing toward a parallel chair.
“I’d rather stand,” he simply said. It held the ring of an insult—as if Huntley had failed some morbid test, and now his father basked in his victory.
Dark laughter bubbled inside Huntley, but he swallowed it back.
I’d give my right hand for the luxury of rest, he imagined his father saying.
Huntley withdrew the dagger from his scabbard. The blade shimmered in the fire’s light. He ran his finger down the smooth, cold metal as he felt the pressure of his father’s eyes on his every move. The warm fire seemed to kiss his hand; he flexed his fingers slowly, waiting for his father to speak.
He didn’t. Only the ambient sound of the crackling hearth imbued the hall.
“Aye, most of the houses in Norland are still with him,” Huntley finally said, twirling the dagger and watching the firelight dance off the metal. “Less by the day, but the majority still bows to their Black Wolf.”
“Nine times out of ten, the side with the bigger numbers wins. We must steal them away, Huntley. You must steal them away.”
Huntley twirled the dagger. Tossed it in the air and caught it by the handle. He leaned forward toward the hearth and felt the heat waft at his face. He stared at his family’s sigil, unblinking, his heart racing. “Nay, you were right the first time. Our subtlety, being out of his notice—that’s our strength. Most of the houses still side with him, true. But not all. Not the most important one.”
Huntley came to his feet and slid the dagger back into its home in the scabbard. The scrape of metal was loud in the barren stone hall. “I’ve a letter to send,” he said, placing his hand on his father’s right shoulder in a mockery of the gesture he’d given not ten minutes ago.
“Be well,” Admiral James said, his pale eyes showing no emotion. No fear. It was like looking into two muddy puddles.
“I intend to make war,” he said.
Huntley patted his father’s shoulder, then shuffled past him and across the hall. The din of his footsteps echoed dully. It was a hollow sound, and something about it put him on edge. His father’s voice called him to a standstill as he reached the stairs.
“I loved this country once. Did you know that? I would have even died for it.”
