The chief was a grander-looking man than Magnus would have expected, given the peasant status of his people. In Paelsia, there was no upper or middle class, only varying degrees of lower, especially in recent generations as their land had begun to fade away.
Even seated, it was obvious that Basilius was no peasant. He was tall, his shoulders broad. His long, dark hair was streaked with gray. His tanned face was lined, and there was a keen sharpness in his dark eyes. His clothes were finely made, stitched from soft leathers and silver fox fur. He looked more like a king than Magnus expected. He would have to guess that Basilius did not suffer the same lifestyle in his compound as the commoners of Paelsia.
“Shall we fill your son in on what we’ve discussed so far?” Basilius asked.
“Of course.” King Gaius’s attention hadn’t left his son since he’d entered the room. Even without looking, Magnus felt his father’s gaze like a burning sensation along the length of his scar. A cool line of perspiration slid down his spine, even though he tried his best to look completely at ease.
King Gaius had a quick temper, and Magnus knew firsthand what it was like to be punished if he pushed too far. After all, he had the scar to prove it.
A scar he remembered far too well how he’d acquired.
Ten years ago, the king had taken Magnus with him and Queen Althea on the royal visit to Auranos. It hadn’t been very long at all in the opulent and richly decorated palace, a sharp contrast to the utilitarian and sparse Limeros castle, before Magnus had given in to his childhood curiosity. He’d wandered off during a banquet to explore the castle alone. He’d come across a display case of jeweled daggers and felt the overwhelming urge to steal a golden one encrusted with sapphires and emeralds. In Limeros, weapons were not as beautiful and ornate as this. They were practical and useful, forged from steel or iron. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything else in his seven years of life.
His father caught him as he drew the dagger from its case. The king had been so enraged that his son would steal, potentially damaging his family name in the process, that he’d lashed out. Magnus’s punishment came via the blade itself.
His father ripped it out of his son’s hands and slashed its sharp edge across Magnus’s face.
Immediately, he’d regretted his violent turn. But instead of helping Magnus and bandaging the wound immediately, he’d knelt down before his son and spoken in a low, dangerous tone while blood dripped from the little boy’s cheek and onto the shiny marble floor of the Auranian palace. He’d coldly threatened Magnus’s life, his mother’s life, and his little sister’s life. Magnus was not to ever tell anyone how he’d received this injury.
To this day, he never had. He was reminded of this threat and his father’s mindless rage every time he looked in the mirror.
But he was not a seven-year-old boy anymore. He was seventeen, almost eighteen. Just as tall as his father was. And just as strong. He didn’t want to be afraid any longer.
“I sent word to Chief Basilius,” the king said, “that I wanted to meet with him personally about the problems in his land, punctuated by the murder of Tomas Agallon at the hands of an Auranian lord. He agreed to come here and discuss a possible alliance.”
“An alliance?” Magnus repeated with surprise.
“A joining of two lands for one purpose,” Tobias spoke up.
Magnus sent a withering look at the king’s bastard. “I know what an alliance is.”
“I believe it may be the omen I’ve been waiting for,” Chief Basilius said. “Long have I searched for a solution to aid my dying land.”
“And what solution will aligning with Limeros bring forth?” Magnus asked.
His father and the chief shared a look of understanding, and then King Gaius met his son’s gaze. “I have proposed that we combine our strengths and take Auranos from a greedy and selfish king who would let his people believe they can do whatever they please to whomever they please without a single thought to consequence.”
“Take Auranos,” Magnus said, not quite believing his own ears. “You mean to conquer it. Together.”
The king’s smile stretched. “What do you make of that, my son?”
That was a loaded question. It was clear to Magnus that this discussion had been going on for some time before he arrived. No one seemed the least bit shocked by the suggestion of war after generations of peace.
And now that Magnus had a chance to catch his breath, he wasn’t all that surprised either. His father had publicly hated Corvin Bellos for a decade, and Limerian disapproval toward a kingdom devoted to hedonism and frivolous excess had been a hotly debated issue over royal council meetings and banquets for twice that time. No, reflecting rapidly, Magnus was surprised only that it had taken this long for his father to want action.
Chief Basilius’s land sat directly between Limeros and Auranos. It was a stretch of a hundred and fifty miles that any army would have to cross to reach the Auranian border. A newly forged, friendly alliance would certainly make that a much smoother journey.
“I can tell you what I think of it,” Tobias said. “I think it’s a brilliant plan, your grace.”
Magnus eyed the king’s valet with distaste. Dark hair, brown eyes, same height and build as himself. Tobias’s features were slightly softer than Magnus’s. Otherwise, there was little doubt that they shared a father. It was disturbing, really, how much Tobias looked as if he could legitimately be Magnus’s older brother. If the king ever admitted the boy’s parentage and claimed him as a true son, it would put Tobias before Magnus in line for the throne. There was no Limerian law that stated that pure royal blood was necessary for the position. Even the son of a whore could become king.