“We may be,” Simeon said. “Thank you, old friend. That was what I needed to hear, and I don’t believe anyone else would have said the words aloud. Even if everyone were thinking them. Don’t take it amiss if I ask you to retire now. I think I need to rest.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Dawson said.
He paused in the archway and looked back. King Simeon had turned away, and Dawson could not see his face. This is the last time I will see him, Dawson thought, and then walked away.
At the gates of the Kingspire, he waved his carriage away. He didn’t want to be carried now. He wanted to walk. The path between the Kingspire and his mansion was miles, but he didn’t care. He adjusted his sword on his belt and started off. He’d spent nights walking and running through the dark streets of Camnipol, racing horses through the empty market squares, drinking until he was too tipsy to walk a straight line and then hanging over the side of a bridge until the vertigo made his head spin. On a night like that, he’d have walked eight miles. Ten. From his dying king to his own drawing rooms weren’t half that.
Despite its name, the Silver Bridge spanned the Division with stone and wood. Its supports dug into the walls of the great canyon, falling away as far below the city as the great tower was high. Dawson paused at the center of the span, looking south. A flock of pigeons wheeled through the shadows below him, whirling above the midden heap hidden by darkness and mist at the bottom. He stood for a long time, his mind scoured and raw. Behind him, the traffic of the city passed over the void, men and women, horses and oxen, nobles and peasants. He wept briefly.
When he walked into the courtyard outside his mansion, an unfamiliar carriage stood by the door. The crest on its side and the colors of its cloth announced House Skestinin. The old Tralgu door servant rose and bowed, his chain rattling as he did.
“My lord,” he said. “It is very good to see you again. The lady was concerned when your carriage returned empty. She is with Sabiha Skestinin in her private rooms. My Lord Jorey asked to have a word at your convenience. He is in your study.” Dawson nodded and the door slave bowed. Dawson’s hunting dogs greeted him just inside the hall, their wide tails flogging the air and sincere canine grins plucking at their mouths. Dawson couldn’t help smiling as he scratched their ears. There was no love so pure as a dog’s for its master.
He thought of going to Clara before he saw his son, but her rooms were at the farthest end of the mansion and his hips ached from walking. He knew, anyway, what Jorey wanted to talk about. He’d been expecting the conversation since Clara had told him to. Dawson commanded his dogs with a gesture, and they sat as he went into his study and closed the door behind him.
Jorey stood at the window, the afternoon light spilling across his face. It occurred to Dawson again how much the boy could look like his mother. Not in the shape of the jaw so much as the eyes and the color of his hair. It seemed so recent that Jorey had been a thin-limbed boy climbing trees and playing swords with fallen branches. He was broad across the shoulders now, his face serious. And the swords he wielded cut.
“Father,” Jorey said.
“Son,” Dawson replied, feeling the just-conquered tears struggling behind his eyes. “You’re looking well.”
“I’m feeling… I need to ask your permission for something. And it may not be something you like hearing.”
Dawson sat with a grunt and then immediately wished he’d thought to call for a drink before he had. Not wine. Not today. But a cup of water would have been welcome.
“You want to marry the Skestinin girl,” Dawson said.
“I do.”
“Even though she brings no honor to the family.”
“She does, though. The world may not see it, but it’s there. She did something stupid once, and she carries it with her now. But she is a good woman. She won’t embarrass you.”
Dawson licked his lips. There were a dozen objections and concerns he’d had when Clara first explained who Sabiha Skestinin was, and more that had grown up and been trimmed back only to grow again since they’d come to Camnipol. Who was the father of the offending child, and was Jorey willing to have that man, whoever he was, hold that bit of scandal over him in court for the rest of his life? Wouldn’t Barriath, who served under Skestinin in the fleet, be the better match? How could he trust the girl to keep her sex in harness when she’d already shown she couldn’t control it unwed?
“Do you still dream about Vanai? The fire?”
“I do,” Jorey said, his expression grim.
“Is that guilt the reason you want a fallen woman for your wife? She’s something you can save?”