Crown of Iron (Book 1 of the Crown Trilogy)

Fifty-Three

I suck in a lungful of air and stare at my father's study door.

Since we returned home, I've held back, letting my siblings and mother consume his time. We're finding our new normal, and I'm enjoying every second of it. At night, we eat dinner as a family, and afterward we gather in the front room where he reads us a chapter from his favorite adventure book. He and Rowan discuss hunting and politics, and Salone regales him with all the palace gossip. When the entire house is dark and quiet, the sounds of laughter resound from his and my mother's bedroom as they take some time for themselves.

But the moment that delighted me the most was when he presented Ansley with her first sparring sword. With bright eyes, she secured it to her waist and begged him to spar with her. He did, of course, and she was sure she would be the next general of the king's army by the end of the game.

I'm scheduled to return to the palace in the coming hour, and I need a moment alone with him. As happy as I am to have him home, I also can't shake the sorrow of what his rescue cost me and his soldiers.

The pain on Greer, Ulric, and Terro's faces was gut-wrenching when I told them Kyron stayed in Stigian. They thought the secret, secondary directions he left them were part of his impeccable intuition for battle, and not his way of minimizing the death toll to our forces because he warned Esmeray of our invasion. His betrayal only heightened the loss of their friend, their general, their brother.

And my loss...I would have rather lost a limb, traded my freedom, or never known Kyron at all.

I hope my father can offer me some guidance to soothe my broken heart.

I rap on his door.

"Come in."

My father sits behind his desk, sorting through an endless stack of papers from the military camps. His clothes hang from his frame, but the fullness and coloring are returning to his face. He has cropped his hair, shaped his beard, and can almost pass for his old self. The irritated skin around his neck from his collar is almost healed, and he is the happiest I've ever seen him. He has even taken on some of his old duties as a general.

I sit in the chair across from him and stare at my fingernails. "How are you feeling today?" I ask.

"I'm home with my family; I can't think of anything better." He folds the letter he is reading and places it on his desk, giving me his undivided attention. "How are you feeling, Raelle?"

"Happy, grateful...lost."

"Is there anything in particular you would like to talk about?"

I shift in my seat and take in the minute details of his study. The small wooden dog Rowan whittled with his first pocketknife. The arrangement of flowers my mother hand-picks for him, so he has a bit of the outdoors while cooped inside. The framed declarations of honor for his service to the King's Guard. So many facets to his amazing life.

"Raelle?"

My gaze meets his, and I force a smile, choosing to start with the easier of the two topics I would like to discuss with him. "How does Esmeray keep the Cyffreds who wish to leave? The treaty says they should come and go as they please. Why hasn't the Statera withdrawn its favor from her and stripped her of her rule?"

Folding his hands upon his desk, my father says, "Have I not taught you that nothing is final?"

"You have, Papa. There is always a loophole."

"Correct. She's found her way around the treaty. The Cyffreds who seek to join Stigian must swear their loyalty to the care of the land. During the bonding ceremony, they claim it as their one true home which they will never forsake. The words are poetic, painted with declarations of love and hope. What they don't realize is the moment they declare their intention to leave, they forfeit their freedom, becoming slaves to the land."