Page 147 of The Cradle of Ice
Even now.
But for Mikaen, no fault could be overlooked, only punished. Mikaen was held out as the silver son, whose glorious shine must never be blemished. As a boy, he had been cast into the Legionary, to be hardened further, tempered to a strong steel. Still, every slip required castigation and humiliation.
Like now, with the death of an enemy prince.
Toranth continued, still holding out hope. “Kanthe was clever enough to abscond with his two imri captives. It was clearly an attack directed at the heart of the empire. Even Makar believes my son was in league with us. And maybe, in his own way, he was.”
Mikaen could stand it no longer. He took a furious step forward, driven by the fire inside him, by the pain hidden under silver.
“Feck that!” he blurted out.
All eyes turned on him, accompanied by a range of shocked expressions.
He ignored them all. “It’s been four days since the supposed abductions. Where is my brother? Why hasn’t he come on bended knee to us all? Either he plots with another realm, or the empire is lying and making fools of us all. There can be no other reason.”
Mikaen clenched his fists, drawing blood from his palms, trembling with frustration, impotent to get his father to face reality. He knew of only one way to make his point, to leave no doubt.
He grabbed his mask and ripped it away, exposing the ruin beneath.
Gasps rose all around.
“Does this look like the act of a peacemaker or a clever scoundrel?” he demanded, fury flecking his lips. “Or is it the mark of a traitor?”
Thoryn came up and placed a hand on his shoulder. Mikaen shook, tears welling. He turned toward the silver of his captain, both to hide his tears and fumble to fix his mask in place.
Thoryn helped him. “I’ve got it.”
Mikaen let him, a whisper spilling from his lips. “Why can’t he see me?”
Still, except for Thoryn, there was no sympathy to be found in this chamber.
His outburst only inflamed his father. King Toranth was back on his feet, ready to punish as always. He struck Mikaen where he knew it would hurt the worst.
“Maybe I made the wrong choice when I picked a firstborn,” Toranth growled, raising a specter that had haunted Mikaen all his life.
The room went dead quiet. Everyone here had heard the whispers, the rumors, the sleights, the innuendos. Mikaen and Kanthe had been born twins, which was not unusual. The royal families of Azantiia had a long history of twin births, some born with the same face, others with different appearances. And in the tumult of those births, sometimes the order got blurred, the bloody babes mixed.
Still, one would have to be declared the firstborn to firm a lineage.
Especially that of a king.
It was whispered that Toranth had purposefully disordered their births, to lift higher the son who looked more like him, with blond curls and a matching pale complexion. Whereas Kanthe took after their mother, with his coppery dark skin and coal-black hair.
Mikaen wondered if such rumors were the first wedge driven between the two brothers. Even now, deeper down than he would care to admit, a part of him believed this story. Such doubts seeded a measure of insecurity in him and an animosity toward Kanthe.
Still, when it came to the official lineage, none dared say otherwise. Even the midwives and healers had all died under strange circumstances—or so it was said, but those stories could be fabrications to embellish those rumors and prop up such gossip.
Not even their mother could attest to the truth.
After a hard pregnancy and harder birth, she waned, plagued by a ceaseless melancholia. She slowly wound down, refusing to eat and wasting away. Some said she took her own life, others that she expired on her own. But no one disputed how she doted on her two boys, cherishing them equally.
Such was not the same with their father.
He had loved their mother with all his heart, never taking another wife afterward, especially as there was no need to sire any more sons. He took what little relief he needed at his palacio of pleasure serfs. Perhaps it was why the king forever sought to cast Kanthe in a better light, seeing in his dark son the shadow of the woman he once loved.
Still, it had left little room for another son in his heart.
Toranth amply demonstrated it now, red-faced and seething. “You’re lucky you have children. Especially a boy. At least, one sword of yours hasn’t shamed me. We can only pray that your son proves to have a better temperament than his father.”
