The Falcon Throne (The Tarnished Crown Series) by Karen Miller Read Free Book Online

pain him. They were brothers, tied hand and foot by blood and memories and death. Nothing could change that, though he often wished otherwise.
    “How long have you had that doublet, Gref? A year? You should’ve turned it to dishcloths months ago.”
    “When it’s only been mended twice?” said Grefin, eyebrows raised. “I don’t think so. Besides, you keep the household tailor busy enough for both of us.”
    He snorted. “Spoke like a true nip-purse. Are you certain sure we’re related?”
    “Mother seemed to think so.”
    “You do know she’s dying again, from shame, seeing you put together like a third-rate Ardennese merchant with a hole in his money chest.”
    Grefin tugged at his dark blue velvet doublet, unleavened by so much as a single pink pearl. “Bite your tongue. I’m as well-dressedas a
second
-rate merchant, thank you.” Then he frowned. “And don’t speak of Mother like that.”
    He raised a placating hand. “Sorry.”
    “It’s just…” Grefin drank more brandy. “I miss her.”
    “I know.” A headache was brewing behind his eyes. He pressed a knuckle hard against his forehead, rubbing “So. How was the duke when you left him?”
    “Not sweet,” said Grefin, after an uncomfortable pause. “Herewart’s grief has left him raw.”
    “Will he see me tonight?”
    “No.”
    “And if I want to see him?”
    “Do you?”
    He laughed, unamused. “No.”
    “Well, then.” Grefin nodded at the scattered shards of Maletti glass beneath the wine-spoiled tapestry. “You broke a goblet.”
    “And if I did?”
    “It’s a pity,” said Grefin, shrugging. “They were Mother’s favourites.”
    And so they were. “It was an accident.”
    “Like Hughe?”
    The sharp question stabbed him onto his feet. “Meaning?”
    Grefin’s eyes had shaded to the cold blue of winter, and the grief in his face was turned to wariness… and doubt. “You spoke to him, after the joust. Couldn’t you tell he was mortal hurt?”
    “I’m not a leech.”
    “There was no hint, no sign, that he—”
    “It was a joust,” he said, as temper stirred again. Tangled in all his adult feelings for the man Grefin had become, the childhood pride of a little brother tottering faithfully in his footsteps. Where was that little brother now? Where was the Grefin who thought Balfre could do no wrong? “Sometimes men die when they joust. I never forced Hughe to ride against me. And I never hobbled his horse or sat a burr under his saddle or cut through his stirrup leather or weakened his lance. All I did was win. Is winning enough to make me a murderer?”
    “I know you never meant Hughe to die,” Grefin snapped. “But admit this much, Balfre. When you’re angry you don’t see straight. You don’t even try. I think you saw Hughe was hurt and because he’d hurt you first, you just didn’t
care
.”
    He was sore tempted to smash another glass goblet. “Why shouldI flinch for Black Hughe’s spilled blood or weep because he’s a corpse now, and rotting? He was an upstart, a brash-boy, he mocked his betters and never knew when to hold his nasty tongue. Did
he
care when he slandered me? Fuck if he did! So no, I didn’t care he was hurt and I don’t care he died of being the poorer man in a joust!”
    Grefin’s face twisted. “You should.”
    “And you should care I’ve had my birthright stolen. The Green Isle is mine, Grefin. Not yours.”
    “The Isle belongs to Aimery. Whoever is named its Steward, that man holds it in trust for Harcia’s duke.”
    “And we both know I should be that man.
Please
, Gref.” Stepping close, he took hold of his brother’s shoulder. “Tell Aimery that for love of me you won’t steal the Isle like a common thief.”
    “I can’t.” Shrugging free, Grefin put down his empty goblet. “I’ve already said I’d be Steward for a year.”
    Balfre moistened his lips. “You’ve promised him that?”
    “I have.” Grefin stared, defiant. “For both of us.”
    His hot blood