Free The Rebel Prince by Celine Kiernan Page B

was the Southlands’ strongest ally in the Europes, and the North’s primary defence against the Haun. Without Shirken’s stabilising influence, Jonathon’s fragile Northern border would be impossibly compromised.
    Alberon tapped his fingers against Marguerite’s sealed papers. ‘So Marguerite’s fears are well founded, then, and her father’s excesses are a cause for concern.’
    Wynter frowned. ‘It is not just the King’s excesses, Albi. The Princess herself is an appalling tyrant. In our time there, she called for the most outrageous of purges, her motives often obscure and deeply rooted in her hatred of any differences. You would not believe the things I’ve seen there. Simply . . . simply appalling things.’
    Once again Wynter paused. She shook her head, remembering the Northland Princess in all her finery, her beautiful clothes, her famous pearls glowing from every tight coil of her hair. She had always looked so magnificent, but always there had been that terrible smell off her. Wynter knew it still – had smelled it only recently – the fat, scorched, oily stench of human beings burned at the stake. She would never forget that smell, nor its enduring association with Marguerite Shirken.
    ‘She is an evil person,’ she whispered. ‘I have never met anyone with a heart so black.’
    Alberon was very quiet for a moment. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You . . . you are certain of this, Wyn? Father told me that Lorcan kept you very much apart from court life while you were there – a commendable decision, of course, considering your sex.’
    Wynter’s voice was colder then she wished it when she said, ‘One can see a lot from the background, Alberon. Sometimes more than would be considered appropriate.’
    ‘You were very young though,’ he said, as if he himself were years her senior. ‘It is possible that you have misread the situation?’
    ‘I grow weary of your implications that Razi and I are somehow incompetent and untrustworthy, your Highness.’
    Alberon grimaced apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I have grown too used to soldiers.’
    Wynter accepted his apology with a nod, though she was not certain what he might have meant by it. Alberon ran his fingers across Marguerite’s personal seal.
    ‘She has managed to conceal this aspect of her nature from me,’ he mused. ‘Such guile. Nevertheless, such things could perhaps be gently curbed as time went by. The influence of a good man and all that.’ Wynter looked sharply at him. Alberon glanced at Razi. ‘You cannot deny her value as an ally, brother.’
    ‘She has made moves towards an understanding?’ asked Razi.
    ‘The strongest of such.’
    Wynter straightened, a horrible light beginning to dawn. ‘Alberon,’ she said. ‘You cannot mean . . . ?’
    She turned to Razi, unable to articulate her despair.
    He remained calm, leaning back in his chair, his hand on the map, his eyes on his brother. His voice was soft and devoid of emotion when he said, ‘Father would never conscience such a marriage, Albi.’
    Alberon smiled sadly, drummed his fingers, shrugged. ‘What must be done, will be done,’ he said. ‘He will see the sense of it eventually.’
    ‘Marguerite would never take on a husband!’ cried Wynter. ‘She would never relinquish the power of her throne to a man and put herself into a position of secondary importance. That is something she has always made clear. She . . . she is misleading you, Alberon. You . . . and in any case, your father is right! He has always said that the Shirkens must be kept just so !’ She thrust out her hand, palm out, in an imitation of Jonathon. ‘Their policies are too destructive, their rule of law too . . . just too damned awful to be so closely associated with! It’s a trick! It’s a terrible trick! She’ll see you ruined!’
    Coriolanus whined querulously and squirmed in her arms. ‘Calm thyself, cat-servant,’ he hissed. ‘I am quite horribly pinioned!’
    ‘Marguerite is