“War?” Belikon sneered. “We haven’t been at war, you fool. I’ve simply been feeding my brother’s army.” There was that word again. Brother. I still didn’t fully understand, but some pieces of this puzzle were snapping into place. Belikon had refused to send supplies and food down to Irrín. He’d embargoed silver—the only thing capable of permanently killing Malcolm’s kind—and had refused to send any of it south.
