“You told me much the same after the Kensgold,” she said, setting down the cup. “As you have every year for the past five. The mercenaries have bled us dry. Our mines to the north no longer produce the yields they were renowned for. The king is too frightened to help us. How long until we eat in rags, without coin for servants and wood for fires?”

“We are on the defensive,” Bertram said, accepting his own cup of wine. “Such is our fate for being a large target. But the bloodshed has slowed, you know that as well as I. Be patient. Let us bleed them as they bleed us. The last thing we want is to inflame their passions while we still appear weak and leaderless.”

Alyssa felt anger flare in her chest, not only at the insult, but also its damning familiarity.

“Leaderless?” she asked. “I have protected the Gemcroft name for five years of shadow war, brokered trade agreements, organized mercenaries, bribed nobles, and done everything as well as my father ever did, yet we are leaderless? Why is that, Bertram?”

Bertram endured the rant without a shred of emotion on his face, and that only infuriated Alyssa further. Again she felt like a schoolchild before her teacher, and part of her wondered if that was exactly how her advisor thought of her.

“I say this only because the rest of Dezrel believes it,” he said when she was finished. “You have no husband, and the only heir to the Gemcroft name is a bastard of unknown heritage.”

“Don’t talk about Nathaniel that way,” she said, her voice turning cold. “Don’t you dare speak ill against my son.”

Bertram raised his hands and spread his palms.

“I meant no offense, milady. Nathaniel is a good child, smart, too. But a lady of your station should be partnered with someone equally influential. You’ve had many suitors; surely you’ve taken a liking to one of them?”

Alyssa took another sip of wine, her eyes glancing up at the shadowy corners of the dining hall.