Page 6 of Winter's Fate

At least he still inspiredsomediscipline. Though he might have expected more whispers. Even a question or two. Could it be that they didn’t know?

As he crossed the courtyard toward the warmth of the palace, a young soldier came running from the direction of the barracks, nearly crashing straight into Callum. The soldier swerved at the last minute, slamming into the wall instead.

“Watch yourself,” Callum said.

“I’m sorry.” The kid’s eyes widened as they landed on Callum, and he appeared in danger of fainting on the spot. “Captain Farrow.”

He said Callum’s name with a hint of wonder, the kind that always made Callum want to box people on the ear. But then again, the kid was young. Scraggly blond whiskers poking out of his chin suggested an attempt to grow facial hair—or lack ofa razor—but by his gawky posture, the kid couldn’t be more than eighteen.

Judging by his reaction, the soldiers truly didn’t know that their captain hadn’t earned the role of general and that, worse, he’d been relieved of his position.

And Callum wasn’t going to be the one to spread the news before it was absolutely necessary.

“My apologies,” the soldier said, his eyes darting around the hall until he looked completely frantic. “I didn’t mean… that is, I’ve lost the key to the… but I needn’t bother you with… if I may?”

Callum waved him away. “Never mind. Be on your way.”

The soldier took off at a run. Callum shook his head, remembering his own early days in the King’s Guard. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. He hadn’t been raised in any palace, and he’d always felt more comfortable in the spare accommodations of the barracks. To him, they’d represented the epitome of luxury.

Despite the early hour, King Hawk was already ensconced in his study, a fire burning on the hearth as if it had never died overnight. Perhaps it hadn’t; Hawk was as likely to work through the night as he was to rise early. The king sat hunched over his desk, a quill in his hand. The pinched look on his face made Callum consider suggesting a trip to the privy. But he wasn’t quite soshed enough for that anymore.

Hawk’s looks were about as different from Callum’s as a man’s might be. Hawk favored his late father’s features, his pale skin and wiry frame. Callum’s own skin was olive in tone, his hair dark and prone to curling, his body taller and broader. Which was no doubt enhanced by his time spent training for—and serving in—the King’s Guard.

Where he’d failed. In the worst possible way, he’d failed.

“I know about what happened. It’s no matter. You’re not on the payroll.” Hawk didn’t look up from the stack of papers onhis desk. What did they say? Reports full of kingly matters, no doubt. The state of the treasury, perhaps. Reports from the outer districts. Requests for supplies. Lists of princesses hoping to wed. “So if you’d show yourself out, I’m quite bus?—”

“Why the fuck aren’t I going to Etra?”

Still soshed enough for that, clearly.

Hawk set down his quill with slow, deliberate patience, then dabbed his fingers on the ink rag before turning to Callum. “First, because you are drunk out of your mind.”

“I’m fine.”

Hawk tapped his fingers on the desk. No doubt he’d much rather be reading from one of those books of his. What did he see in there that was so much more important, so much more engrossing than the world around him?

“I seem to recall dismissing you as captain of the King’s Guard. And ex-captains do not lead, or participate in, official delegations.”

“You’d dismiss me over a mere fight?” As if Callum didn’t know it was much more than that.

“When am I ever less than serious?” Hawk asked.

Never. And he’d told Moore, too—promoted the man to the spot Callum ought to have had—so he meant what he’d said. And yet.

“You continue to hold my failure against me,” Callum said. Hawk was already shaking his head, but Callum pushed on. “You’ve disgraced me.”

Hawk stood abruptly, brushing ink-stained fingers through his hair without leaving a mark. “You’ve disgraced yourself.” He didn’t sound angry. Merely tired. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business that must be addressed.”

Callum considered disregarding the dismissal, sitting down in Hawk’s fireside chair and making the king understand. They’d grown up together, both of them trained to fight under the late king’s watchful eye. Callum had helped Hawk out ofmore scrapes than he could count. Right now, he wanted to recount each one, in detail. He wanted to remind Hawk that though he was Aglye’s king, he was still a man. He was still a friend, at least in theory.

But the post-drink headache was beginning to make advances on his temples, and he found he wanted his bed more than he wanted a fight. He merely bowed, his back stiff, his cheekbone throbbing.

By the time he made it to the door, Hawk had already buried himself in the stack of papers. Callum let the door slam on the way out with the petty hope that it would startle the king into making a mistake, forcing him to rewrite a page of notes.

Landon Moore still hadn’t graced the courtyard with his presence as Callum made his way into the light, intending to cross to his own accommodations for a day of sleep. A week, perhaps. What else was there?

But as he crossed the courtyard, returning several of the soldiers’ greetings—though grizzled old Edmun’s came with an eyebrow raise that said the truth had reached his ears, at least—the young soldier who’d nearly collided with him in the courtyard came tearing out once again, this time balancing a cage full of live chickens in his arms.

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