Page 4 of The Uncrowned Prince

They were closest, and the signal should have reached Oakhaven already. Allera and Valeric had been sufficiently distracted by the gathering of Garimoran troops in the forest to the south, and so would be caught unaware by the enemy within their own ranks.

The queen’s heir, Princess Caro, spent her time playing soldier in the forest instead of learning how to rule, and security in Eddris was nearly nonexistent. The king had confirmed as much when he traveled through their kingdom some ten years ago now, and little had changed, or so his people reported. There were no moats, no walls, and few locks. Allera behaved like a farmwife trusting the stoats not to steal her hens, and he intended to teach her how very wrong she was.

Not that she would have much time left to appreciate the lesson.

In Iria… They were the farthest of the three Thrones presently within his reach, so their suffering would likely come last. King Trevelian employed a palace guard, but they were far more flashy than competent. Trevelian, too, would fall victim to his own stubbornness, leaving his young and impressionable son without a strong hand to guide him.

And in Farhall…

Farhall. Most of the king’s agents had been discovered and forcibly ejected from Farhall’s borders—the work of that witch who now claimed the throne. It was a pity, really. Soren had been far easier to manipulate. Evaraine, on the other hand, was a worthy opponent, much as the king loathed to admit it, and she was aided by his greatest personal failure—the treacherous Garimoran prince.

The king had pinned so many hopes on that boy. Molded him with care to be the puppet he needed, but in the end, Danric had proven weak. Seduced by a pair of big green eyes and the feigned helplessness of a woman.

And he would pay. They would both pay. The king longed to be the one to twist the knife himself, but it was far more important they die swiftly, before there were any heirs. Farhall, like Eddris and Iria, must be in chaos, so they would welcome a firm hand at the helm. Whichever unprepared upstart grasped the reins of power could be easily made to see the wisdom of closer ties with their powerful neighbor to the south.

And in Katal… Well, that would have to wait. The king had long considered what he might do to bring that vast land of mountains and deserts under his control, but for now, it was too distant and difficult to access.

He would have to content himself with only four Thrones for the present. And the beauty of this plan was, he would not even have to fight for them. Soon, they would fall into his hands like overripe fruit, begging him to aid them. Begging him to guide and direct their future, until it seemed entirely natural for him to accept the leadership of a united Abreia.

It was a cause worthy of sacrifice.

Even the sacrifice of the king’s own wife. He had not at first intended for her to live this long, but she was needed for this final stroke of his master plan. When assassins invaded Hanselm and robbed him of his beloved queen, he would be placed beyond all possibility of suspicion.

Especially when the other Thrones attended the funeral and saw exactly what he intended them to see—a bereaved monarch, hair lank, eyes shadowed, shoulders bent by sorrow. Heart bewildered by grief and unimaginable betrayal.

They would whisper sympathetically behind their hands, reminding each other of his losses.

His eldest son and heir turned traitor before he died.

His second son disappeared into the world without a trace.

And his beloved wife, taken from him too soon by the cowardly actions of an enemy none of them could have anticipated.

He would mourn with all the rest of Abreia, and then he would rise above his grief to confront the threat.

And by the time anyone realized the truth, it would be far too late. He would have already won. Abreia would be his—a fitting gift for the Empress when he made his triumphant return.

Second Blade no longer.

He would be First.

And everyone who had ever opposed him would pay.

CHAPTER1

The man in the long black coat took a cautious sip of the lukewarm ale in front of him and reflected that while dockside inns were quite useful for gathering information, they were less useful if one intended to enjoy a long and healthy life.

For one thing, whatever he was drinking could not possibly be safe for human consumption. And for another…

Well, there were far too many people like the hooded stranger who had just slipped in through the crooked and weathered front door.

The fellow paused to gaze around the room, his cloak pulled back just far enough to reveal that he was carrying more knives than he had fingers, plus a pair of swords and an interesting collection of belt pouches.

Either he wanted everyone to know he was armed and confident, or he was hoping the sight of so many weapons would make the other patrons hesitate to confront him.

Either way, the man in the black coat reflected, someone was about to be stabbed, and considering the thickening tension in the atmosphere, that someone was likely to be the cloaked newcomer. The regulars were watching, and when they watched too hard, the subjects of their scrutiny had a habit of disappearing. There were no bouncers in a dockside tavern—only the regular patrons, but they were more than happy to offer an appropriate welcome to any outsiders who disturbed their peace.

This stranger was nothing if not a disturbance waiting to happen as he moved soundlessly towards the bar, hands empty, hood still covering his face. His build was slight and his feet were small, as were his gloved hands…

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