Laveth despised Open Court. It was a waste of time and effort. Her husband was too ill to be doing this; he’d closed last night’s session so exhausted she’d actually feared for his life. Secondly, none of it made any difference. The peasants would return, dragging the same tales with them. A scrub bull had escaped and freshened a farmer’s prize herd, an old hag had soured milk with a look, a tanner had delivered the wrong boots. As for the young lords, they never grew up. They argued over tavern bills, denied paternity, and engaged in frivolous duels. During these sessions, Laveth would have gladly welcomed her entrance into the Deep.

            Once, at the height of his love for her, Laveth had asked Ranald to discontinue Open Court. She couldn’t have chosen a subject more contrary to his purpose. Ranald had assumed a kingly posture under the bed coverings, thumping his chest while expounding on his responsibilities to his people. Open Court was his sacred duty before Jah and would be attended to a King and Queen, and so Laveth had obediently attended both sessions. Her face had burned blood ripe under the scrutiny of both court and commoners. No one dared utter her nickname, but  it hung in the air.