The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [45]
Aradal looked grim, but he nodded. “As you wish, Majesty. But if I were you, Your Highness, I would not delay for long.”
“You will not delay another second,” Sir Fail de Liery roared, his face so red with fury that his hair might have been a plume of white smoke drifting up from it. “You will tell that puffed-up oyster from Hansa that you utterly reject any overture from his thimble-headed prince.”
Muriele watched her uncle pace like a chained birsirk for a moment. The court was over, and they were in her private solar, a room as airy and open as the court was cold and hard.
“I must appear to consider all offers,” she said.
“No,” he replied, pointing a finger, “that is certainly not true. You cannot contemplate delivering—or even appear to consider delivering—the Kingdom and Empire of Crotheny to Marcomir’s heir.”
Muriele rolled her eyes. “What heir? Even if I were to marry him, I would still have to produce one. Even if I had a mind to—and I do not—do you honestly think I could, at my age?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sir Fail snapped. “There are wheels within wheels turning here. Marrying you gives them the throne in all but name.” He pounded the casement of the window with the heel of his hand. “You must marry Lord Selqui,” he snapped.
Muriele raised an eyebrow. “Must I?” she said coldly.
“Yes, you must. It is entirely the best course of action, and I should think you would see that.”
She rose, her fists balling so tightly that her nails cut into her palms. “I have listened now to five marriage proposals, with William’s breath still warm on the wind. I have been as patient and gracious as I can be. But you are more than a foreign envoy, Fail de Liery. You are my uncle. My blood. You put me on your knee when I was five and told me it was the waterhorse, and I laughed like any child and loved you. Now you have become just one of them, another man coming into my house, telling me what I must do. I will not have this from you, Uncle. I am no longer a little girl, and you will not impose upon my affection.”
Fail’s eyes widened, and then his features softened a bit. “Muriele,” he said, “I’m sorry. But as you say, we are blood. You are a de Liery. The rift between Crotheny and Liery is growing. It isn’t your fault—something William was up to. Did you know he lent ships to Saltmark in their battles against the Sorrow Isles?”
“That is a rumor,” Muriele said. “It is also rumored that Lierish archers killed my husband.”
“You cannot believe that. The evidence for that was obviously contrived.”
“At this point, you cannot imagine what I would believe,” Muriele said.
Fail seemed to bite back a retort, then sighed. He suddenly looked ancient, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to hug him, feel that rough old cheek against hers.
“Whatever the cause,” Fail said, “the problem remains. You can heal this wound, Muriele. You can bring our nations back together.”
“And you think Liery and Crotheny together can stand against Hansa?”
“I know that alone, neither of us can.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He puffed his cheeks out and nodded.
“I am a de Liery,” she said. “I am also a Dare. I have two children left, and both are heirs to this throne. I must protect it for them.”
Fail’s voice gentled further. “It is well known that Charles cannot get a child.”
“Thank the saints, or I should be dealing with proposals for his hand.”
“Then when you speak of heirs, you mean Anne. Muriele, William’s legitimization of his daughters has little precedent. The Church is against it—Praifec Hespero has already begun a campaign to annul the law. Even if it stands, what if Anne . . .” He stumbled, his lips thinning. “What if Anne is also dead?”
“Anne is alive,” Muriele said.
Fail nodded. “I dearly hope Anne is still alive. Nevertheless, there are other heirs to consider, and you know they are being considered.”
“Not by me.”
“It may not be up to you.”
“I will die long before I see one of Ambria Gramme’s bastards put on