Great fucking job he'd done of keeping his word.

The wood snapped under his clenched fists.

"Tough wood to break with your bare hands," observed a dry voice.

Ven didn't look up at the priest, instead pulling splinters out of his torn and bleeding palms. "Yeah, they don't make these railings like they used to," he muttered.

Alaric walked-more like glided; the man was spooky-up to stand next to him. "I can heal that if you like," he offered, tone dispassionate.

"I think you've done enough healing for one day, don't you?"

Alaric said nothing, merely looked down over the railing at his sleeping prince.

Ven studied Alaric as the priest watched Conlan. Alaric and Conlan had grown up running around the kingdom like the hellions they were, tearing up the streets and fields with their games and pranks. Rarely reined in by their indulgent parents or a community respectful of the royal heir and his cousin.

Later making their way through the taverns and the barmaids with the same verve and boyish charm.

There was nothing of boyishness about the priest now. He wore the power of his office like a shield of armor. Invisible, but unmistakable. The sharp planes of his face and the hawklike asceticism of his nose reminded all who confronted him that here was a man of faith, stripped to muscle and bone by the demands of his service.

The demands of power. If the faintly glowing green eyes hadn't already warned them away, that is.

High priest, dark phantom, instrument of Poseidon's power.

Scary son of a bitch.

"No, there is not a helluva lot of boyish charm left in any of us, is there, Alaric?"

Alaric lifted one eyebrow, but gave no other sign of surprise at the comment. "You want to know if he has been compromised," he said, face gray and used-looking. After a dozen or so hours of healing, it was pretty impressive that he could even stand upright.