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him angry.
    ‘Come, my son,’ Herezah said, taking his soft hand. ‘You are fifteen now and old enough to witness your father’s final breaths.’
    Final breaths? Boaz scowled. He could hear the predatory tone in his mother’s voice. He knew only too well what his father’s death meant—especially for his mother who had comforted him to sleep when he was a young child with stories about how one day the two of them would rule Percheron. That was all well and good if love existed between them, but his mother had, for the past six or seven years, essentially ignored him and he had learned to live without the maternal love he craved. Instead he had been raised by royal servants. Still, it amused him that both parents adored him: his mother because of the power he could bring her, and his father because he recognised in Boaz a future leader. Boaz knew the Zar loved his sharp mind and especially his scholarly pursuits and love of the arts. It didn’t hurt that he was described as handsome these days either—he could see how all of these attributes made him the most eligible heir. Nevertheless, it was sickening to watch his mother revelling in this same knowledge and using it to get precisely what she wanted, not for his benefit, but for hers.
    Yet she was his only ally—not friend, not loved one, but someone he could count on to look after his interests because they served hers sowell. It was a terrible thing to admit but he needed Herezah and her bright, agile mind that could plot and plan faster and more skilfully than anyone he knew.
    Accepting this only made him angrier still, but these dark thoughts were put on hold as Pez scampered up. Boaz smiled inwardly at the dwarf’s oversized pantaloons which, because they had insufficient length to billow properly, instead pooled comically around his thick ankles. Nevertheless, the swathe of fabric hid the savage bow of his legs that made Pez’s gait sway so oddly. He arrived pulling silk squares from his nose. It was a trick that had always amused Boaz, but not today.
    ‘Hello, Pez,’ Boaz muttered.
    ‘Master,’ Pez replied.
    The boy looked sadly at the dwarf. ‘Is he truly dying?’ he said, as if, by asking his friend rather than those he disliked, the reality might be different.
    ‘We all die,’ Pez replied in a singsong voice. ‘You, birds, fish, me…your parents too.’ Herezah glared at the dwarf as Pez’s gaze slid past her in a deliberate provocation. ‘You must carry yourself proudly now, young prince. Do you know why?’
    Boaz looked at his friend—the only one he trusted in this room—and nodded. ‘Because I’m to be Zar.’
    ‘That’s right, my darling.’ Herezah gushed, clearly surprised that the dwarf was making sensefor once. ‘Your father awaits,’ she urged, pulling Boaz away from the jester.
    The young man glanced at Pez, who blinked slowly in that curious manner of his. Then the dwarf bowed theatrically, the bells on his velvet cap tinkling into strained silence, for the groaning had now subsided.
    Aware that all eyes in the room were trained upon him, Boaz took his father’s hand. It felt dry, too cold, as if death had indeed arrived, although a rasping groan put an end to that fright. Through puffy eyes, the King of Kings tried to focus.
    ‘My lord,’ Herezah spoke lovingly near the Zar’s ear, ‘our son, Boaz.’
    The man rallied ever so slightly, a brief smile immediately replaced by another grimace. ‘Boaz.’
    ‘Father, I—’
    ‘Hush. Listen now,’ he growled and it took all his effort to load his weak voice with the tone needed to make the youngster pay attention. ‘You are the Chosen One. No-one else! You alone. Never forget it!’ he forced out. The stricken physicians watched the last struggling breath arrive and expel in a desperate gasp. The head of the Zar lolled to one side; spittle escaped to run down his chin. Herezah looked away in pretend despair, the action hiding her triumph. The men of medicine hung