Royal Exile. Fiona McIntosh
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‘Less of a blunt instrument. I understand. But that doesn’t necessarily make me feel safe.’
Loethar’s smile broadened. Gavriel realised that Freath’s cunning made him a perfect match and someone who had, over the last few moments, changed from aide’s executioner to new employer. The barbarian called in some of his henchmen.
‘This man has access to Queen Iselda. Him alone.’ He had obviously changed his mind about wanting Iselda for the first night. He turned back to the aide. ‘You amuse me, Freath. I like your mind, if not you.’ Freath inclined his head, obviously deciding to take the barbarian’s words as a compliment. ‘As long as you continue to amuse me and keep me informed of everything around this palace and the realm — as I assume you have a well connected spy network — you are safe from my blade.’
‘In that case, sire, we shall take each other on his word. So, for the young prince, let me suggest you try the secret corridor.’
Gavriel felt Leo’s mouth open in terror behind his hand.
‘Show them!’ Loethar ordered Freath, pointing at his men.
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