The Dragon's Path

presence of the lord during the long days of summer than they were to his absence during the winter months not taken up by the King’s Hunt. Dawson felt the weight of their consideration. Everyone knew that he had been exiled for the season, and no doubt the servants’ quarters and the stables were alive with stories, speculation, and gossip.
    Resenting that made as much sense as being angry at crickets for singing. They were low, small people. They understood nothing that wasn’t put on the table before them. Dawson had no reason to treat their opinions of the greater world with more regard than he would a raindrop or a twig on a tree.
    Canl Daskellin, on the other hand, he had expected better of.
    “Another letter, dear?” Clara asked as he paced the length of the long gallery.
    “He’s telling me nothing. Listen to this,” Dawson said, shaking the pages. He found the passage. “
His majesty remains in poor health. His physicians suspect the weight of the mercenary riot is weighing on him, but expect he will be much improved by the winter.
Or this.
Lord Maas has been most aggressive in his defense of Lord Issandrian’s good character, and is making the most of having escaped censure.
It’s all like this. Provocations and hints.”
    Clara put down her needlework. The heat of the afternoon left a beading of sweat across her brow and upper lip, and a lock of her hair had come free of its dressing. Her dress was thin summer cloth that did little to hide the shape of her body, softer than a young woman’s and more at ease with itself. In the golden light spilling through the windows, she looked beautiful.
    “What did you expect, love?” she asked. “Direct talk, plainly stated?”
    “He might as well not have written,” Dawson said.
    “You know that isn’t true, love,” Clara said. “Even if Canl isn’t giving you all the details of the court, the fact that he’s corresponding means something. You can always judge a person by who they write to. Have you heard from Jorey?”
    Dawson sat on the divan across from her. At the far endof the gallery, a servant girl stepped through the doorway, saw the lord and lady in the room, and backed out again.
    “I had a letter from him ten days ago,” Dawson said. “He says everyone in court is walking quietly and speaking low. Nobody thinks this is over. Simeon was due to name Prince Aster’s ward at his naming day, but he’s postponed it three times now.”
    “Why would he do that?” Clara asked.
    “The same reason he exiled
me
for Issandrian’s treasons,” Dawson said. “If he favors us, he’s afraid they will take up arms. If he favors them, then we’ll do it. And with Canl calling the tunes, I can’t say he’s wrong to think it.”
    “I could go and ask Phelia,” Clara said. “Her husband’s been put in roughly the same position as Canl, hasn’t he? And Phelia and I haven’t seen each other in ages. It would be good to talk with her again.”
    “Absolutely not. Send you into Camnipol alone? To Feldin Maas? It wouldn’t be safe. I forbid it.”
    “I wouldn’t be alone. Jorey would be there, and I’d take Vincen Coe to keep me safe.”
    “No.”
    “Dawson. Love,” Clara said, and her voice had taken on a hardness he rarely heard from her. “I let you stop me when there were foreign mercenaries in the streets, but that’s passed. And if someone doesn’t reach out, the breach will never be healed. Simeon can’t do it, poor bear, because it isn’t something that can be commanded. You and Feldin can’t because you’re men and you don’t know how. The way this happens is you draw your swords, and we talk about who wore the most fetching dress at the ball until you put them back in their scabbards. Just because you don’t feel comfortable with it doesn’t mean it’s difficult.”
    “We’ve gone past that now,” Dawson said.
    Clara lifted an eyebrow. The silence lasted three heartbeats. Four.
    “You need to raise your army, then, don’t you?” she said.
    “It’s forbidden. Part of my season of exile.”
    “Well, then,” Clara said, picking her needlework back up. “I’ll write to Phelia this evening and let her know I’d be open to an invitation.”
    “Clara—”
    “You’re quite right. I wouldn’t dream of going without escort. Would you like to speak with Vincen Coe, or shall I?”
    The anger that leapt up in Dawson surprised him. He rose to his feet, throwing the pages of Canl Daskellin’s letter to the