". . .why would he have spared Miraz?" Peter demanded, putting aside his goblet of wine with a grimace.

Edmund couldn't blame him; the Telmarine wine was a far cry from the faun wine they'd gotten used to, even if it had been more than a year since they had drunk any. "He's an idiot?" he suggested, propping his feet on his brother's desk. "A noble idiot raised on fairy stories - including of us, because a thousand years is apparently long enough to forget the blood that soaked our reign - by an idealist . . . in an all but openly backstabbing court."