good and godly father, King Lazar. Fortunately, there was a second son, the cherubic, sweet-tempered, and obedient ten-year-old Prince Leo, who played Able to Rafe’s Cain in the bishop’s cosmology, though Leo’s nurse could well have attested that he, too, was a budding rogue. Bishop Justinian had been named by the king as Prince Leo’s legal guardian and had been granted the right of regency, which meant that if God ever smote Rafe down on account of his Roman orgies and drunken chariot races, the bishop would rule for Leo until the boy came of age.
For reasons Rafe could not comprehend, the people of Ascencion loved their fiery, pompous, high-living bishop.
The prime minister was Bishop Justinian’s utter opposite, though his opinion of Rafe was the same. Neat, quick, tidy, and discreet, Don Arturo was the consummate courtier. His keen, darting mind was like a silent, razor-toothed barracuda. Fortunately, the don was endowed with an unflinching loyalty to Ascencion. Slight of stature, Don Arturo had hooded brown eyes and a thin, spare mouth that only softened when he saw his sister’s children, his little nieces and nephews. He was childless, his wife having died two decades earlier, nor had he ever remarried. His work—Ascencion—was his life.
Were Rafe to repent of his wickedness, the grandiloquent Bishop Justinian probably would have killed the fatted calf for him, but the prime minister, he knew, had more personal reasons to despise him.
Meanwhile, beside Rafe, his Florentine kinsman, the Duke Orlando di Cambio, tactfully slid him the notes he had been taking.
“ Grazie, coz.” Rafe glanced over the page, feeling a little chastened by his cousin’s gesture. He knew most of the cabinet would probably have preferred to see Orlando gain the throne rather than he, were it possible.
With the stamp of the Fiori in his ruggedly handsome profile, Orlando, about five years Rafe’s senior, looked more as though he were his brother than distant cousin. They were both tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking men and arrogantly aware of their innate superiority. But where Rafe was a dark blond with hazel eyes, Orlando had jet-black hair and ice-green eyes.
Orlando was a bit of a loner, always dressed in black. A successful shipping merchant in his own right before he had left Florence and moved to the land of his ancestors, Orlando now served Ascencion under the Ministry of Finance. He had earned the trust of the cabinet and the king with his able mind and sober, reliable manner; the prime minister liked him particularly. For some months now, Orlando had been included in high-level meetings like this one because he was, distantly, of the royal blood.
“Habitual tardiness alludes to the sin of pride, Prince Rafael,” the bishop rumbled, grandly rolling his r ’s.
“Well, I do apologize for the delay,” Rafe said to them all as he glanced over Orlando’s notes. He looked up innocently, hating his own need to give excuses, even if he did have a rather good one this time. “It so happens I was attacked by highwaymen.”
The bishop and some of the other advisers gasped, but Don Arturo rolled his eyes.
The king arched a brow at Rafe, who smiled cheerfully in return.
“Were you hurt?” his cousin Orlando asked in concern.
“No harm done. All but one of the thieves are already in custody. My men search for the last remaining fugitive even now.”
“Good.” The king nodded.
“Attacking a member of the royal family,” Orlando said, sitting back in his chair with a look of disgust. “I’ll be glad to see them hanged.”
“They didn’t know whom they were attacking, I fancy. I was in a borrowed carriage—uh, never mind,” Rafe muttered, avoiding his father’s knowing smirk about the carriage race and the broken axle.
Orlando shook his head regretfully along with the others.
The king cleared his throat. “Well, Rafael, the reason we called you here is because I have decided to take a holiday. I
For reasons Rafe could not comprehend, the people of Ascencion loved their fiery, pompous, high-living bishop.
The prime minister was Bishop Justinian’s utter opposite, though his opinion of Rafe was the same. Neat, quick, tidy, and discreet, Don Arturo was the consummate courtier. His keen, darting mind was like a silent, razor-toothed barracuda. Fortunately, the don was endowed with an unflinching loyalty to Ascencion. Slight of stature, Don Arturo had hooded brown eyes and a thin, spare mouth that only softened when he saw his sister’s children, his little nieces and nephews. He was childless, his wife having died two decades earlier, nor had he ever remarried. His work—Ascencion—was his life.
Were Rafe to repent of his wickedness, the grandiloquent Bishop Justinian probably would have killed the fatted calf for him, but the prime minister, he knew, had more personal reasons to despise him.
Meanwhile, beside Rafe, his Florentine kinsman, the Duke Orlando di Cambio, tactfully slid him the notes he had been taking.
“ Grazie, coz.” Rafe glanced over the page, feeling a little chastened by his cousin’s gesture. He knew most of the cabinet would probably have preferred to see Orlando gain the throne rather than he, were it possible.
With the stamp of the Fiori in his ruggedly handsome profile, Orlando, about five years Rafe’s senior, looked more as though he were his brother than distant cousin. They were both tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking men and arrogantly aware of their innate superiority. But where Rafe was a dark blond with hazel eyes, Orlando had jet-black hair and ice-green eyes.
Orlando was a bit of a loner, always dressed in black. A successful shipping merchant in his own right before he had left Florence and moved to the land of his ancestors, Orlando now served Ascencion under the Ministry of Finance. He had earned the trust of the cabinet and the king with his able mind and sober, reliable manner; the prime minister liked him particularly. For some months now, Orlando had been included in high-level meetings like this one because he was, distantly, of the royal blood.
“Habitual tardiness alludes to the sin of pride, Prince Rafael,” the bishop rumbled, grandly rolling his r ’s.
“Well, I do apologize for the delay,” Rafe said to them all as he glanced over Orlando’s notes. He looked up innocently, hating his own need to give excuses, even if he did have a rather good one this time. “It so happens I was attacked by highwaymen.”
The bishop and some of the other advisers gasped, but Don Arturo rolled his eyes.
The king arched a brow at Rafe, who smiled cheerfully in return.
“Were you hurt?” his cousin Orlando asked in concern.
“No harm done. All but one of the thieves are already in custody. My men search for the last remaining fugitive even now.”
“Good.” The king nodded.
“Attacking a member of the royal family,” Orlando said, sitting back in his chair with a look of disgust. “I’ll be glad to see them hanged.”
“They didn’t know whom they were attacking, I fancy. I was in a borrowed carriage—uh, never mind,” Rafe muttered, avoiding his father’s knowing smirk about the carriage race and the broken axle.
Orlando shook his head regretfully along with the others.
The king cleared his throat. “Well, Rafael, the reason we called you here is because I have decided to take a holiday. I
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