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But there had never been any question of giving in to those instincts. Shifters knew they were wrong. Any shifter who did give in was no better than an animal. Looking into Haruuc’s eyes, he knew it would be a mistake—it had been a mistake—to assume the same of goblins. He thought of a hundred little things about Ekhaas or Chetiin or the heroes of Kuun that Wrath remembered. How they ate. How they moved. How they spoke—so many ways to express honor and hierarchy, so many ways to say, “Thank you,” but no words, he realized abruptly, for, “You’re welcome.”

A goblin that gave in to his instincts was no animal. He was simply a goblin.

Suddenly, Geth felt like a tamed dog. He struggled to find something else to say, some other argument to put before Haruuc. “Think of the good of Darguun then,” he said. “Munta was right. The other nations of Khorvaire won’t like this.”

“And what will they do? For the sake of Darguun, I became a sheep. Now for the sake of Darguun, I must be a wolf again—and the sheep should be wary.”

The carved doors opened again. This time Razu stepped through. “Rekseen of Ja’aram comes in answer to Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat’kor’s summons.”

Another hobgoblin woman entered, and Razu stepped out, closing the door behind her. Rekseen of Ja’aram wore the armor of a warrior and, although many years younger than he had been, bore a strong resemblance to Vanii. As she walked down the aisle of the throne room, Haruuc spoke quietly over his shoulder. There was grief in his voice again, existing alongside the craving for blood with no hint of contradiction.

“The most sacred duty of a shava,” he said, “has always been to take charge of his brother’s affairs when he dies and to carry news of his death. Our every tradition respects it. Vanii’s death serves Darguun now, but in this at least I can serve him. The grieving trees are not your concern, Geth. You’ve spoken as a shava should. Now organize the games as I’ve asked—and make sure she has good seats.” He rose from his throne, set down the Rod of Kings, and faced the warrior woman. “Rekseen of Ja’aram, I have news of your uncle.”

The time of mourning passed. Geth spent the next five days walking with a knife in his gut. Word of the funerary games to come and of the forest that grew along the road to the Gathering Stone spread in Rhukaan Draal. Just as Haruuc had predicted, the people of Darguun greeted both with eager anticipation.

He organized the games with a kind of numb detachment. In truth, Razu did most of the work for him—Haruuc’s throne room remained sealed and the lhesh in isolation, so there was little else for the mistress of ceremonies to do. Geth approved her suggestions without much thought. He wasn’t sure what else there was for him to do. He felt helpless and not at all heroic, in spite of a sense of approval from Wrath. He suspected that only came because he was fulfilling his duties as a shava.

Ekhaas and Chetiin were no help. They came to see him the first day, and he poured his emotions out to them—at least as much as he could without offending them. Both the duur’kala and the shaarat’khesh elder offered consolation, but no condemnation for Haruuc’s actions. “What did you think he would do, Geth?” Ekhaas asked. “Keraal didn’t act alone. All of the Gan’duur warriors were with him. At least Haruuc’s not using the rod.”

“Would you have done it?” Geth asked her bluntly.

Her mouth opened and closed, but she finally said, “Tales of the Empire of Dhakaan speak of even harsher actions.”

“So you would have done it.”

Ekhaas’s ears went back flat.

“It’s the right response for the situation,” Chetiin said. “I wouldn’t have expected it from Haruuc, but it’s what a strong ruler should have done. The warlords like it. Haruuc has greater support now than in the first years of his rule.”

If the Darguul warlords liked Haruuc’s actions, reaction from the representatives of the other nations of Khorvaire and the dragonmarked houses was exactly what Munta had said it would be. Razu’s main distraction from helping Geth plan