Forest Kingdom Trilogy 2 - Blood and Honor

happened?'
    'The man died, Sire. Eventually.'
    'I gathered that. I meant, what happened to the Prince?'
    'Nothing.'
    'Nothing? He wasn't punished, or disciplined?'
    'Of course not, Sire. There wasn't even a trial. You are a Prince of the Realm. And you did give him a chance to apologise.'
    Jordan thought about that. He didn't like the taste of it at all. In his time Jordan had played all kinds of aristocrat, from Lords to Barons and Dukes to Kings, and every single one of them had followed the old ways of duty and honour. It wasn't enough to have noble blood, a ruler had to show noble behaviour to justify his exalted position. A noble could only rule with the consent of his subjects; the alternative was a land permanently wracked by civil wars. That was the tale he always told, the tale he'd told so often he had finally come to believe it himself. Jordan suddenly felt very tired. The truths he was finding at Castle Midnight kept hitting him like hammer blows. Perhaps the more so because deep down he'd always known them.
    He knew about King Malcolm. Most people did. The King had fancied himself a general, and had sent his troops into battle after battle to test his own theories of warfare. At first he took on the bandits and outlaws in his own land, and then, as his confidence grew, he moved against his neighbouring countries in a series of border campaigns intended to spread the boundaries of Redhart. With his elemental magic to aid him, he won more battles than he lost, but still the campaigns cost him more in revenue and men than his newly conquered lands could replace. And so it went. King Malcolm had not been a cruel man, as Kings went, but it could not be said he was greatly loved by his people, for all his victories. His sons appeared to be cast from the same mould, only worse. Dominic is mad, and Lewis is vile . . . and now it seemed Viktor was no better. It came as no real surprise. Jordan had seen a dangerous weakness in the Prince's face, for all his brave words, added to a petulance that changed all too easily into arrogance and viciousness.
    I will sit upon the throne of Redhart if I have to see all the corridors of this Castle awash in blood to do it. . .
    Jordan sighed inwardly. His dreams and illusions had never really been any more than that. His audiences might have believed in the heroic nobles he had portrayed for them, but he never had. Not deep down, where it counted. The aristocracy held its power and position by force of arms and magic, nothing more. Anything else was just a dream . . .
    Jordan drank the last of the wine Gawaine had brought him. It was too sweet for his taste, but he was thirsty and it was something to do. He felt restive without any planned moves or actions to fall back on.
    He strolled casually forward, headed nowhere in particular, and the courtiers fell unobtrusively back before him. Gawaine moved silently at his side. It didn't have to be just a dream, Jordan suddenly realised. He was a Prince now, and could act as a Prince should. But if he did, he'd be acting out of character, and could be revealed as an imposter. Besides, there was Count Roderik to consider. Viktor might think he was in charge, but it was clear to Jordan that Roderik was the real brains and power in this conspiracy. It wouldn't surprise Jordan to discover that Roderik was using Viktor, rather than the other way round.
    Jordan looked around for another drink. He was damned if he was going to get through this sober.
    Brion DeGrange sat in his study, nursing a glass of wine and staring at it bitterly. There was a time he'd been a real drinking man, but not any more. The geas wouldn't let him do anything to himself that might interfere with his duties as Head of Security. The bastard spell wouldn't let him get drunk, no matter how much he needed to. One glass of wine an evening, sometimes two. A mug of beer with his dinner. And that was it. He couldn't get drunk, he couldn't run away, and he couldn't even kill himself, let alone the men who'd done this to him. DeGrange scowled at his half-empty glass. He might have been an outlaw, but at least he usually granted his enemies the kindness of a quick death. And he'd never kept slaves.
    One day, he would have his revenge. One day.
    Until then, he worked hard as Head of Castle Security. Partly because the geas demanded it, but mainly because it wasn't in his nature to do sloppy work. If he did something, his pride demanded that he do it well. He'd never been