Raman and Kalyn ran down the center aisle of the Great Hall, hand in hand, their heads ducked as their guests tossed rose petals and thyme over them. Alannys came back to herself in time to watch, but not in time to grab her own pouch and participate. She figured Dorramon had to be doing better though, for her to even be aware enough to witness the end of the ceremony. It was a joyous scene and she couldn’t explain why it should give her a pang to see it. But it did, and her mood was worse after the wedding than it had been before.

All at once Dorramon leaned over to her. “Do you see?” he whispered. His lips were so close, they brushed her skin when he spoke, and his breath was hot in her ear. Her heart gave an almighty thump, then beat double-time. She tried to focus.

“Truly,” he said, “anything is possible.”

She knew he meant it. She didn’t see how he stayed so positive in his position, but she had been inside his head and she could vouch that to him all things really were possible, and to him this unlikely wedding was proof. Perhaps, to him, it was even a precedent. Anything was possible.

To him.

She just wished she could believe it too.

Dorramon took her arm and led her back down the aisle, toward the big double doors where Raman and Kalyn waited with beaming faces to greet their guests. He strode confidently beside her, moving not at all like a man who was ill, and a surreptitious glance at his face revealed none of the strain she would have expected to see. The Muse’s tea must have been more effective than she had expected, or he was better at hiding it than she imagined.

Or both.

Dorramon grinned broadly at his friends, clasping their hands tightly. “Congratulations, you two. I’m so happy for you, I don’t even have the words. Good luck, Kalyn. I don’t know how you put up with him.”

Kalyn’s face colored, and Dorramon and Raman laughed out loud. Alannys felt like a raincloud hanging over their happiness, and she attempted to put herself in a better mood, to offer them a smile that felt a bit less forced. “Double congratulations from me,” she said. “This was such an amazing wedding. I know you will both be very happy.”

She reached for Raman’s hand, but he grabbed her and pulled her into a crushing hug instead. The gesture caught her off guard, but she hugged him back. She didn’t have many friends as true as Raman, and she really did wish him the best.

“I know this had to be hard for you,” he said, low and right into her ear. “Are you all right?”

Abruptly her throat closed up, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She nodded her head, and finally forced out the words. “I’m fine. Really. You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“You know I do. If you need anything, you tell me. Any time.” He held her at arm’s length, studying her face. She wondered if he could see the tears that suddenly threatened to overwhelm her. If so, he gave no sign of it as he clapped her on the shoulder and turned to the next person in line.

“He really is fond of you, my Lady,” Kalyn said, looking into her face anxiously. Alannys wondered how much of her inner turmoil they sensed, how much of her impossible situation they had discussed, and felt very exposed.

“And I am of him too,” Alannys answered automatically. “You picked a good one, Kalyn. I really do think you two are going to be so happy together.”

“Thank you.” Kalyn smiled, but then she bit her lip, looking at Alannys again. “Please do let us know if there is anything we can do for you. I’m afraid I won’t be able to come help you anymore…with the change in my station…and my married duties…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that! Really, Kalyn, I’m fine. I want both of you to stop fretting over me, especially at a time like this.”

Kalyn didn’t look convinced. “Thank you, my Lady.” She turned to Raman and the guests in line, but she glanced back at Alannys and Dorramon, and bit her lip again.

“I should never have come here,” Alannys muttered. “I’m just spoiling everyone’s fun.” She turned away, feeling like a great big wet blanket, planning to sneak away from the party in the inner ward and hide alone in her room for a while.

“Nonsense.” Dorramon’s voice was unruffled and his face was smooth—she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But he caught her arm in a firm grip that left no possibility of sneaking anywhere. “They would miss you if you weren’t here, you know that. They only worry about you because they are your friends.”

“I know. But Dorramon, I really don’t feel much like celebrating right now. I’ve just been knocked halfway to next week. And you’ve just had Muse’s Fever.”

“That’s all the more reason to celebrate.” His tone brooked no opposition. The inner ward had been decorated for the reception, with colored candles and tables of food and drink. Dorramon handed her a silver goblet of strong red wine, and took one for himself. “You’re still here, and so am I. Everything is fine. Relax. You’ve had a lot on your mind lately.”

A lot on her mind. Well, she supposed that was one way of putting it. She drank deeply of the wine to cover her discomfort, surprised to find that it was actually quite good. It had been warmed against the chill of the evening, and it seemed to warm her when she drank it.

Alannys knew there was a lot they needed to talk about. But she also knew none of it was suitable for public discussion, so she stood silent and awkward next to Dorramon, watching him but pretending not to, as the remaining light faded around them. How much longer would she be able to stay near him? She didn’t have a good answer for that, and even asking the question made something crack inside her heart.

She didn’t know how long they stood there together in that uncomfortable silence. She finished her first goblet of wine, and a second, and had made a good start on a third, when Dorramon glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure you’re not drinking too much of that? It might not be a good idea—perhaps something to eat would be wise.”

“I’m fine.” Wine always made her feel warm. On a cool night like this one, that seemed like a blessing. She could feel the color rise in her cheeks under his gaze, and that felt a bit less like a blessing. She averted her eyes. “I think it cuts the chill. Besides, it might improve my mood.”

Dorramon sighed, and turned suddenly to face her. The look on his face was serious, and the shadows falling across his handsome features imparted a resoluteness she had never seen there before. She felt herself tense. “Look, Alannys, I know things haven’t been easy for you. You went through so much in your travels—and it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing since you came back. I understand your worries, but…” He trailed off, searching her face as if the words he wanted might be found there. “But I don’t think—”

“Toast!” She didn’t know who had raised the shout, but it was close enough it made her jump. Others immediately took up the cry, and it became a loud, incessant chant. “Toast, toast, toast, toast!”

“Ach.” Dorramon ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “That’s my cue, I’m afraid. Don’t go anywhere, all right? We’ll continue this conversation when I get back.”

“But…” She felt claustrophobic, cornered by his concern and well-meaning. She hadn’t yet worked out what her path should be from here, and she feared she might be pushed into making a premature choice. “But I should really—”

“Alannys, please. This is important. Just—just wait for me.” He carried his goblet into the center of the open inner ward, where the torchlight was strongest. The crowd fell silent, and he addressed them, his ringing tenor carrying easily through the space. “Tonight we celebrate the marriage of two of the finest people in all of Ravanmark. Our dear Kalyn, whose freedom from the tyranny of Lord Malrec has now been echoed in the freedom we all so recently gained, and the Arch-Prince Raman, whose winding path has led him up many hills and around many bends, but never seemed to be leading him here. It is a miracle of sorts that these two have come together at all. It seems to me that our dear friends have taught us a valuable lesson this night, and that lesson is that miracles are not only possible but perhaps more likely than we think.”

His eyes found hers on those last words, and gave her a start. It made her uncomfortable—how many people listening to him now knew what he really meant when he spoke to them of miracles? As soon as his eyes left her, she turned and hurried toward the keep. Maybe her room was the best place for her after all. Dorramon’s hopeful words were meant to be uplifting, she knew that. But in her mind’s eye she could see the Great Hall as she had seen it the night before, smeared with blood and littered with bodies of dead and dying men…and she knew she couldn’t stand there any longer. She couldn’t condone any more bloodshed on her account. Her guilt spurred her on and she moved quickly, seeking the cover of the shadows at the edges of the reception.

“Sneaking off?” The low voice from the shadows sounded darkly amused, and it froze her in place.

“Ch—Chen?” She stopped cold in shock, and saw him again in her mind, as blood-smeared as the hall she’d just been remembering. “What are you doing hiding over here in the dark?”

“Staying out of the way. I don’t—I don’t quite feel as though I belong here.” His gaze flitted out, over the reception and away again, never touching on her, and she thought perhaps she wasn’t the only one nursing a guilty conscience that evening. “I have no place in decent society.”

She frowned at him. “Ballocks. I don’t agree with that.”

“That’s only because you don’t understand. I’m not—I don’t mean because I’m Singari. Because I’m a murderer. I’m a killer, Alannys.”

“I already know that. And I still say I’m right. Why did you kill him?”

“What?”

“Wermal. You had a reason, right? What was it?”

“He was trying to kill you!” Chen’s reticence was gone now; his dark eyes flashed with outrage. “He hit you—you were lying there bleeding—but Alannys, he wasn’t stopping! He seriously meant to kill you—I had to stop him. I had to.”

Alannys tried to give no indication of how deeply that upset her. She’d known Wermal didn’t like her—but he had seriously wanted her dead? Enough to do it himself? “Well, don’t you think that matters? You had a good reason for what you did. You didn’t just take a random notion to kill someone, like he did.”

Chen didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree either. And he still wouldn’t look at her.

Alannys sighed. “Look, Chen, what you did is killing in defense of someone else. It’s no different than what Trago did in the Cavern of the Damned. Hell, I’d have done it myself for you in Shadowkeep if you hadn’t been so bad off at the time. Even Dorramon has done that before. If you’re a monster, you’re only as much as he is, and you’ve every bit as much right to be here. Unless you want to argue that the King of Ravanmark is an uncivilized monster who isn’t fit for decent society?”

“I don’t guess I’d care to make that argument, no.” Chen’s tone was sour. “But it doesn’t really make me feel any better. I just…I don’t think I ever realized I carried something so…dark…inside me. Part of me.”

“All humans have the ability to kill, Chen. It’s when and why they choose to use it that makes the difference—not having the ability at all.”

“I hope you’re right. It’s going to take some getting used to, that’s for sure.” He heaved a massive sigh, as though he was expelling something unpleasant. “None of that explains what you’re doing over here, though. Or am I wrong that you’re running away?”

“Sorry,” Alannys mumbled, not quite meeting his gaze. All of the sudden it was her turn to be evasive. The light really was bad over here; his dark hair and dark clothes seemed to fade into the darkness around them. “I’m not much in the mood for a party, I suppose.”

“Party?” Chen echoed. Her eyes were finally adjusting; she could see him holding a silver goblet full of red wine as though he wasn’t sure what to do with it. He looked at the gleaming goblet, and out at the crowd of people scattered into little groups across the inner ward. “Can you even use that word to describe this? It would certainly be the dullest party I’ve ever seen.”

Alannys laughed, remembering wild revels around blazing bonfires. “I suppose it would be. What are Singari weddings like, Chen?”

“Oh, that’s right, you never got to see one.” He sounded surprised. “I’m not even sure how to compare them, we do so many things that would never fit in here. Money dancing, for instance, and jumping the broomstick—I’m sure everyone here would be horrified.”

“Dancing.” Alannys realized with some surprise that her goblet was empty again; she held it up anyway as the crowd toasted Dorramon’s apparently finished speech. Was it the wine that had made her mood so dark? “You’re probably right, they probably wouldn’t know how to handle it.”

“Outsiders,” Chen said, as if that explained everything, and slugged back the rest of his wine in one pull.

“When I get married,” Alannys said decisively, “I’m having dancing at my reception. With music.”

Chen stared at her, his shock plain even in the low light. Alannys was surprised at herself, too—where had that blunt declaration come from? Was the wine really that strong?

But she couldn’t deny that what she had said was true.

Belatedly, she noticed Chen’s knuckles were strained and white on the hand clenched around his goblet. That made her feel bad—knowing that she had hurt him. “Is it—is it official, then? We’re to the point of planning weddings?”

“No.” Her response was as blunt as it was painful. She knew her reaction was unreasonable—how could Chen have expected the simple question to hit a nerve? But she couldn’t help it; on this particular issue she was still raw and bleeding. “Forgive me—I don’t know what I’m on about, talking about weddings. I’ll never have one. I will never marry.”

Chen couldn’t seem to summon a response. Alannys turned away to put her empty goblet on a table…

…and found Dorramon standing right behind her, frozen to the spot, a stricken expression on his face that pierced her to her core.

For a split second she stood there in mute shock, unable to do anything but stare. She’d had no idea he was so close—what had possessed her to shoot off her mouth in the first place?

And how in the world could she fix it now? She had hurt him worse than she’d hurt Chen—and she hadn’t meant to, either time. But she couldn’t make it better and she didn’t think she even had the right to try.

Alannys turned and ran headlong to the keep. She didn’t slow down for her own guilt, or for the anguished voice that called her name behind her. She didn’t stop running until she was safely inside her own room.

Then she leaned back against the door behind her and cried as though her heart had broken.

Alannys spent the rest of that night locked in her room, huddled in a ball on the bed with her knees pulled up against her chest. Sometimes she thought, sometimes she cried, but she didn’t sleep at all. Three or four different times people knocked at her door, but she never answered and they all eventually went away.

Dorramon had tried to contact her through the mindlink, so she held it shut. What could he say that would make any difference now? What could she say? She understood the situation well enough, and if she was having trouble accepting it, that was her own lookout. Dorramon’s kind consideration toward her feelings was only slowing everybody down, and in the long run it probably wasn’t doing either of them any good. She didn’t pack, but she knew she should.

Eventually a faint light began to glow in the window, gradually gaining strength. Dawn had broken, but what did it mean to her? She had spent all night trying to figure out what place there was for her in Ravanmark, and she was no closer to an answer than she had been when she ran from the reception the night before. Once upon a time she’d told Chen she had to come back here, that she had to stay at the Great Palace even if all she could do for Dorramon was stand on the sidelines and watch him live his life without her. She shook her head, remembering her confidence back then. Had she had any idea of the sheer magnitude of pain involved in what she had sworn to do?

She watched the new sunbeams streak across the floor of her bedroom, but felt nothing. The bright light didn’t lift her spirits, it didn’t even feel cheerful—it felt harsh and demanding, and she tired of looking at it almost as soon as she saw it.

It was a measure of a person’s mood, she thought, when something as warm and good as sunlight could rub them the wrong way.

She pulled on her leather boots and wandered out into the courtyard, in the same rumpled linen shirt and work pants she’d spent the night in. She needed some distraction, even if it was just a change of scenery, and she figured there wasn’t much chance of running into anyone in the courtyard this early.

A morose sigh from the garden was her first clue that she was wrong.

She froze in mid-step, squinting out into the courtyard, poorly lit by the oblique angle of the morning sun. She probably should have turned and gone right back into her room, but after a breath a fresh air, she dreaded going back.

So she went quietly on out toward the garden, wondering who else in the keep had been driven from their chambers this early by demons that they could not quite slay.

Then she saw the figure slumped on one of the benches near the water garden, the forehead buried in caramel-colored hands, the shiny, longish black hair obscuring the face, and she knew. Of course. There were enough demons to go around, and not just for palace residents.

“Chen.” She stopped near the bench, unsure how she should proceed. He must have heard her approach—he must have. No one moved that quietly, least of all her. And yet he hadn’t moved, in fact he was so completely still she might have thought he was asleep, if his position hadn’t made that impossible. “Are you all right?”

“Alannys.” He still didn’t move, but his voice told her pretty well how he would look—the single word had no inflection at all. He sounded ragged, and utterly exhausted. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

No joking laced the words; they were flat, completely deadpan, and yet they reminded her of something she had sensed through the open rush of the mindlink during Dorramon’s Muse’s Fever: jealousy. Dorramon was torn, driven to distraction by his own conflicting emotions—she knew this because she had felt them herself. On the one hand he was jealous—madly, bitterly jealous of Chen, of the time he had spent with her, of the casual familiarity they shared, of the feelings still hanging there between them. But on the other, he knew no one had forced her to come back, he knew that he could trust her, and he did. He knew she loved him, and he buried it all so deeply no trace could be seen. Alannys didn’t know how he managed, and the sudden reminder made her feel guilty again. She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I can’t argue that. And yet I notice you’ve managed to completely sidestep the question. Are you all right?”

“I am perfectly fine,” he said, “at least as fine as it is possible for any of us to be. I’ve just been thinking.” He raised his head and regarded her wanly, from a face that looked gaunter than the last time she’d seen it. “Worrying doesn’t suit me—I’m not used to it. But what about you—are you all right, Alannys? You really look terrible.”

“Blunt as always,” Alannys said wryly. “I could say the same for you, but I was trying to be nice. I didn’t get much sleep, I’m afraid—I was up all last night.”

“All night.” Chen leaned back against the bench, folding his hands behind his head. “Doing what? Stewing?”

She glanced at him in sharp surprise. “I guess that’s accurate enough. I was thinking, and it wasn’t very pleasant.”

“Thinking all night? It doesn’t sound very pleasant. What were you thinking about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Alannys stalled, wandering toward the water garden. When she sat down on the edge and found him still watching her expectantly, she figured she’d have to answer him somehow. “Myself, I suppose. Why I even came here. I was so busy for a while, but…now I can’t really see any place in Ravanmark for me at all.”

“Now hold on.” Chen sat up suddenly. “I don’t think I like the way you’re talking. No place in Ravanmark for you? Have you forgotten everything you’ve done here? I wasn’t with you for all of it, but even I have heard the rumors of Garrant. There’s a whole big seaboard town of people that wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. If you had never come here, Ethal would still be running free slaughtering people, and Orinthal Holding would still be falling apart with no leader—Seven Hells, even our own people would still be suffering under Brutagar. You’ve taught people, and saved people, and changed everything around you, and now you want to toss all that out? Now it doesn’t matter anymore?”

She tried to grin at him, but it came out a little crooked. He was serious—she could see it on his face, could hear it in his voice. And his words hit too close to home for comfort—everything he spoke of came to life again in her mind, and each memory felt like a wound, open and bleeding. She had been so focused then, so full of purpose. It had all seemed so clear at the time.

“Can I run off with you and the Singari again?” She didn’t know why she had blurted the question out like that—a rush of nostalgia, maybe—but she couldn’t deny that when she thought about their time together, she desperately wanted to feel that way again…that sure, that happy, that alive. She held her breath, waiting to hear how he would answer. If he said yes…she would go.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. He just stared at her, his mouth moving, but making no sound. “Why—why are you asking me that?”

“I don’t see how I can stay here, Chen. Dorramon doesn’t want me to do the acts yet, but I can’t stay at the palace—this place is tearing itself apart because of me. I just keep making things worse—I need to leave.”

Chen bit his lip, and looked away. “Ah, Alannys. If you had asked me that when you first got back to the Great Palace…I would have had an altogether different answer for you.”

“I thought you said I would always have a place with you.” Her voice sounded dull. Was she disappointed? Did she want to go, or to stay? She didn’t know for sure, and she supposed that was the whole problem.

Chen winced. “You do. You know you do. But this, now…” He shook his head. “Everyone is entitled to a crisis of faith, I guess. But you really have picked the worst time of all to have yours.”

“I…don’t understand.”

“I don’t think you do.” Chen’s smile was gentle, but she couldn’t shake a feeling of foreboding. “I think you mean to go through with this, do you know that? If I pressed my case to you now…I think this time, you would leave with me. And eventually—not today, not tomorrow, but sometime in the not-too-distant future—you would be ready to marry me.”

She couldn’t look at him, but she shook her head, forcing words out past her burning embarrassment. “No. Don’t mistake me, Chen—that isn’t what I’m after. I meant it when I told you I will never have a wedding. If I can’t marry Dorramon, I won’t marry anyone. I’m sorry, Chen. But this…once you have it, you can’t just substitute for it. Maybe…maybe if I had never met him, things would be different. But now…now all I am looking for is escape from a situation that feels intolerable.”

His laugh was harsh. “Do you think so? I suppose I can see that. But I still think you should stay here, at the palace. It comes down to this, Alannys—I would rather see you happy with someone else than unhappy with me.”

“Happy? Is that a joke?”

“You’ve fought awfully hard to get back here, even knowing that he was engaged to marry somebody else. You knew what you were getting into, and you can’t have expected it to be easy. What has changed?”

“Everything!” She stomped away from the water garden, pacing in short, agitated strides. “I wanted to come back because I thought he needed me. I thought I could support him, and help him. But all I do is make things worse! My being here is making everything harder on him, and it’s putting him in danger. I can’t make either one of us happy!”

Chen watched from the bench, chewing on the inside of his lip. “You can’t have thought things were going to be easy. You knew what you were getting into. Alannys, I told you back at Danningham Manor that I believe he intends to marry you. I haven’t seen anything here that changes my mind. I think he’s only waited this long because he worried that you might have wanted me instead.”

“He can’t marry me, Chen! It isn’t up to him!”

All of the sudden Chen was right in front of her, and he grabbed her hands. She hadn’t realized they were balled into fists until he held them up in front of her. “Look at you. Now do you see what I mean by a crisis of faith? I’ve just told you the man intends to marry you. And your response is to tell me what he can’t do?”

“There’s more to consider here than just me.” She jerked her hands away from him. “There’s more to consider here than just him.”

Chen’s sigh sounded impatient. “Do you think you are the only person who ever thinks about Ravanmark? Look, Alannys, just exactly how much of your own happiness are you expected to give up, because you are the Redeemer? How much is King Dorramon expected to give up, just because he happened to be born a prince? Aren’t you both still people? Don’t you both still deserve what all people deserve?”

She stared at him, stricken by questions she had never considered before.

“Calm down. This is King Dorramon we are talking about. You know him better than probably anyone else in the world. Now forget about everything else—forget for a minute this is you we’re talking about. If I told you he had made up his mind to do something everyone said was impossible—fully intended from the bottom of his soul to do this thing everyone says he can’t do—what would you say? Would you believe he could do it? Or would you become another naysayer telling him he’s wasting his time?”

She didn’t answer at first. She stood there staring into Chen’s resolute face, and finally she understood—finally it hit her—what Chen was talking about. She’d thought she was having a bad morning, after a bad night, but something pivotal was happening here. This was a turning point that would define the rest of her life, and it took a chance meeting in the garden to make her realize it. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

Because she finally saw clearly what she had done yesterday. She had, in Chen’s words, become just another naysayer. And then she had refused to even hear anybody out. But when Chen posed the question to her that way, there was only one answer she could honestly give. And they both knew it.

“I’d believe it,” she said, and her hands fell limp at her sides. “I know what it looks like, I know how I’ve behaved, but I don’t doubt him. I can’t doubt him. I have more faith in him than anyone I’ve ever met in my whole life. If he’s made up his mind, he’ll make it happen. But…but I can’t forget about the cost.”

Chen reached for her face, wiping away tears she hadn’t realized were there. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about. He’s the King of Ravanmark, Alannys—the cost isn’t yours to worry about, but his. And if you have faith in him, you have to believe that he will work that out. Do you think he cares that little for his kingdom?”

“No. You’re right. Good heavens, what must he think of me right now? I have to go talk to him!”

“Yes. I don’t think you should wait much longer.”

Something about his tone brought her up short. “What is it? What’s happened?”

All at once he seemed to be looking everywhere in the courtyard except at her. “You probably already know there are two Cadendan warships anchored just outside the harbor, near the diplomatic ship that brought the ambassador. Two days ago, the royal ship anchored as well.”

“The royal ship?” She remember in a sudden rush what Raman had told her days before. “They say the King of Cadenda is on that ship…”

“Right. He hasn’t shown himself, though, not yet. But a party of three men was offloaded at the docks, and they are supposed to arrive at the Great Palace this morning. Whatever King Dorramon does now is likely to determine our future with Cadenda.”

“Oh, what a time for me to be in a snit!” Alannys cried. “I have to go find him, right now!”

“As if your snits are ever particularly well timed,” Chen snickered.

She look up in surprise, and found him smiling at her in a way that took the sting out of his remark. Her throat closed up, and her vision blurred. “Thank you, Chen. Thank you for everything. I don’t know what would have become of me without you.”

“Don’t think you’ve got rid of me just yet,” Chen grumbled, but he couldn’t seem to look her in the eye. “I’m coming with you.”

She stopped short on her way to the corridor, looking at him with complete incomprehension. “Coming…with me? To see Dorramon?”

He cleared his throat, still not quite managing to look at her. “Well, I will certainly escort you that far, anyway. You can’t judge the state of the outer ward by the inner ward, Alannys. You can’t imagine the rumors that are spreading out there—people are scared, and angry—the whole place is a mess. I don’t think you would be safe wandering around out there alone right now.”

Alannys swallowed hard. It pained her to think of the outer ward of the Great Palace reduced to such a state because, essentially, of her. “Thank you, Chen.” She didn’t know what else to say. She started walking again, her eyes on the ground.

Chen fell into step beside her, and put her arm through his. It seemed he didn’t really know what to say, either.

But between the two of them, as always, no words were necessary.

Alannys knew that Chen had meant what he told her about the state of the Great Palace. She knew he’d been out there; he would know what it was like. And yet she couldn’t really believe it; she couldn’t quite accept any of what he had described as real. Some part of her mind doggedly held on to her vision of the palace as she had first seen it—a gleaming castle from a fairy tale, prosperous and peaceful, filled with happy, content people.

But as they crossed the quiet inner ward she could hear ominous sounds—faraway shouts, the ringing of distant swords, crashes and thuds—that got her heart pounding. It sounded as though perhaps the outer ward really was as bad as Chen said. The thought tormented her, filled her with a restless, gnawing guilt she could not quell—because she knew this was fundamentally her fault. What she hadn’t figured out yet was how to live with it.

The gate between the wards was shut. Alannys had never seen that gate closed in all her time at the Great Palace. She knew the Royal Guard kept a close eye on who came and went, and refused admittance to some, but…to see that massive iron gate blocking any passage between the two wards…she tried to imagine how bad things must be out there, to cause that. Even in the aftermath of Lord Malrec’s horrific bomb attack, that gate had stayed open. To see it closed now…it gave her a very bad feeling about going out there at all. But she remembered what Chen had told her, and she knew she didn’t have time to wait.

The uniformed Royal Guard standing watch at the gate frowned at her severely, from a face that looked too young to bear such an expression, and she figured this too was her fault—Ravanmark’s young growing prematurely old and humorless. She felt older than her years these days too. “I hope,” the guard said archly, “that my Lady and her companion are not considering going out there.”

“I hate to disappoint you,” she said, her eyes scanning what little she could see of the outer ward on the other side of the gate, “but we are.” Was that smoke she could smell on the air?

The guard’s frown deepened, carving dark lines into that too-young-looking face. He didn’t look made for such a scowl. “Please, my Lady. You can’t expect us to raise this enormous gate for a person or two to pass. That’s not reasonable.”

“Not reasonable?” Chen sounded entirely calm—they might have been discussing the weather. “Isn’t that what you do when the king goes in and out?”

This observation did nothing to improve the Royal Guard’s mood or expression. His pale face flushed, making his red hair seem orange and almost completely hiding his freckles. “As a matter of fact, it is. But—and I realize this may be a tricky distinction for a Singari like yourself—this woman is not, in fact, the King of Ravanmark.”

“No, it’s pretty clear she isn’t. I daresay even a Singari like myself could work that out.” Chen was still unruffled—Alannys was ready to spit nails, herself, and she wondered how he could keep such a civilized tone in the face of such outright, deliberate rudeness. But he had always been like that. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who had missed a diplomatic calling. “But then, she is the Redeemer of the Realm, invested as such by the King of Ravanmark himself. She’s been at every major palace function for the last six months. I would certainly hate to be the one who turned her away, if he should find out about it later.”

“Tch.” The guard clicked his tongue and turned away in apparent aggravation, but not before Alannys saw his red face go suddenly pale. “Stand here, you two.”

Chen and Alannys moved to the spot he indicated, right in front of the center of the gate. It made her feel uncomfortably small, standing in front of the massive iron grid. She could see rust in the corners of the frame, but it implied only age, not weakness—this gate could easily keep out her and every person she had ever known in the relatively short span of her life. It felt like the gate knew that too, somehow, and she fidgeted, waiting.

The red-haired guard snapped to attention, crossing his arm over his chest in stiff salute, and raised his voice. “Guards of the ward! Assemble at the gate!”

Every guard patrolling the inner ward left his post, and formed lines to the left and the right of Chen and Alannys, completely covering the gate except the spot where they would pass when it opened. Standing in that line of fighting men intimidated Alannys—she knew well enough they weren’t there for her protection going out, but to keep any of the trouble in the outer ward from finding its way in. She couldn’t stop herself from wondering how many of these men shared the red-haired guard’s hostility, and that made her fidget even more.

“Guards of the tower! Raise the gate!”

With the heavy clink of thick chains, and the low groan of iron under massive pressure, the big gate began slowly to raise, in stilted fits and starts, inch by precarious inch. How many guards did it take to work the enormous winches that moved the gate? Small wonder they didn’t want to go to the effort for just anybody.

As soon as the gate began to move, Alannys could see the shapes of people, appearing like ghosts out of the smoky air of the outer ward, pressing up against the iron. Old and young, dressed well and in dirty rags, they clamored together, reaching through the bars and begging for passage.

“Jomain!” cried a sudden voice from the far side of the gate, shaking with age and yet surprisingly strong. Alannys could see her wrinkled, weathered face, surrounded by a fuzzy cloud of white hair, clinging to the bars with pale hands in which blue veins were clearly visible. “Jomain, you must bring me in there with you. You can’t leave me out here!”

The redheaded guard flinched. “Sorry, Granny,” he muttered. The old woman reached through the bars and caught his arm, but he shook her off, turning to face Alannys evenly. “Look, my Lady, as soon as you can get under this gate you must go. Don’t wait, and don’t hesitate. As soon as you are through they will lower it again, and fast.”

Alannys stared at him, not sure whether she was impressed by his composure or horrified by it. “That’s your grandmother?” she said, and her eyes flicked of their own accord to the withered old woman still calling out to his back. “She’s your grandmother and you’re just going to leave her out there in all of that? Doesn’t that bother you?”

“As a matter of fact it does.” Jomain’s eyes flared anger so strongly she couldn’t hold his gaze. “It bothers me more than I imagine you know. But I don’t have any choice—we are under very specific orders about who may enter the inner ward right now. And we don’t all have the luxury of breaking the rules because of personal friendships with the king.”

She wanted to snap back at him, but how could she? There was nothing she could say, not to the boy, not to his grandmother. Whether she wanted to hear it or not, he had a point. She bowed her head, listening to the creaking and clanking of the big gate as it inched higher, willing it to move faster.

“You’re tossing aside what they want most,” Jomain said. She didn’t look at him; his voice was hard as flint and she knew she wouldn’t like what she would see. “I wish you much luck with it. It isn’t fit out there for man nor beast, and least of all for a woman.”

She felt Chen’s hand on her arm in the same moment that she heard his voice, low and right in her ear. “Come on, Alannys. We can make it under now.”

She ducked down and crawled under the gate behind him, keeping her eyes fast to his back. She heard the sounds of struggle around her, and she didn’t want to see the Royal Guards fighting to keep their friends and relatives on the wrong side of the gate. She didn’t think she could live with the sight.

As soon as more of Alannys was in the outer ward than the inner ward, the massive gate came crashing back down. She pulled her knees up to her chin and rolled clear, narrowly avoiding the loss of body parts to its mad rush. The finality of the heavy crash made her shiver. She tried not to hear the heartrending wails of the people who had wanted so desperately to get through, tried not to think what they might be consigned to out here.

What she and Chen might now be consigned to, as well.

Chen hauled her to her feet, and helped her brush the dirt off of her clothes. “We should get moving.”

Before he even let go of her, she heard another sound, one that convinced her that he was right. They had much more to worry about than whether the guards of the gate had hurt anybody’s feelings.

“They open the gate for that woman and her pet Singari, but not for us.” The resentful mutter sounded a world away from the pleading grandmother, but there she was, her bony hands clenched into fists, her wrinkled face twisted with rage. “My own grandson—the man I raised like he was my own—he opens the gate for her and not for me. Guess it pays to be the king’s whore, even in times like these.”

Alannys took a hesitant step backward, her skin prickling. The old woman might not have been much of a threat, but there were at least a dozen people behind her, and Alannys had to assume they all felt more of less the same.

“This whole country has gone in the moat, and it all goes back to her. Why should we all be put in danger—for her? Why should our sons, our grandsons, our husbands and fathers go to fight Cadenda—for her? If the king will not hear us, there’s but one thing to do—get rid of the woman ourselves!”

Shouts of assent surrounded the old woman, chilling Alannys to her core.

Chen grabbed her hand and tugged at her. “Come on, Alannys!”

Alannys turned away, running behind him, away from the gate, wondering what she had gotten herself into. She remembered all the times during her travels that she had fervently wished to be back at the Great Palace. She could never have imagined it like this! Maybe the old woman was right. It seemed she brought trouble wherever she went.

She grabbed Chen’s arm and veered toward the royal stables, where the crowd wouldn’t be able to follow. She flashed her royal medallion at the two startled Royal Guards on duty as she raced past, but didn’t slow down until they were inside the stable and out of sight.

“That…” Chen gasped, “was good thinking.”

They stood in the wide center aisle, flanked with stalls, breathing deep the warm scents of hay and horses, trying to catch their breath. Their sudden entrance had disturbed the building’s equine occupants; Alannys could see twitching ears, could hear snorts and the stomping of hooves.

“You ever notice,” she said, aware that she was coming at him out of left field, “the Royal Guard?”

Chen looked at her in surprise. “Of course—I’m Singari. I keep an eye on people who look at me like that, especially people with authority. Those guys are everywhere.”

“They are, aren’t they? They’re everywhere around the palace, so much that we take them for granted. We don’t even notice them—unless we have a reason to.”

Chen straightened up, watching her closely. “What are you getting at?”

“I guess…I guess I have a reason now. I’ve been attacked by a royal guard, and whether I mean to or not, I notice them now. And it makes me think, Chen. It feels threatening. When a group of people is everywhere…when they are completely ubiquitous…what happens when you can’t trust them anymore?”

“You don’t,” Chen sighed. He untied the red scarf he wore about his waist, and pulled it over her head. “You can’t. You watch, and you wait, and you always try to be ready. Because even though you hope you’re wrong, Alannys—if you feel that way, you’re probably right.”

He knotted the ends of the scarf under her chin, and she frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to give you a bit of a disguise,” he said, as if that should have been obvious. “I think it would be better right now if people don’t know who you are, especially after that mess at the gate. Wearing a headscarf, walking with me…”

“People will assume I’m Singari?”

“At least they will if they don’t look any closer.” He pulled the edge of the scarf down over her forehead and gave her a crooked smile. “It isn’t fit out for man nor beast, but for Singari, who are some of both and all of neither…we may get on just fine.”

“Chen!” Alannys gasped, scandalized, and then she started to laugh with him. “I suppose we might, at that. I suppose we might.”

The outer ward loomed dark and unfamiliar around them, the same and yet not the same, like something out of a nightmare. Smoke laced the air, thick and unpleasant, making their eyes water. Alannys pulled the edges of Chen’s scarf over her nose and mouth, remembering the times she had walked through here delighting to the scent of meat roasting over open flames. Now darker smells hung in the air—homes and businesses burning to the ground. They saw merchant tents torn down and trampled into the mud, peasant cottages burned to nearly nothing, their blackened, burnt-out frames jutting from the ground like old bones. In the places that still stood, families huddled in the dark, afraid to venture into the madness that infected the streets. In her mind she could see a similar scene, on the other side of the palace—the outer ward a crumbling, rubble-filled, smoking ruin in the aftermath of Lord Malrec’s bomb. In a way, this was worse—what surrounded her now was not the result of any attack from outside. This came from within. It felt like it negated everything she had accomplished there.

Alannys and Chen crept through the mostly-abandoned streets, keeping to the alleys and avoiding any sign of people. Twice they passed gangs of thieves and vandals, destroying shops and looting the goods that stocked them. Alannys turned unthinkingly toward them, her fists balled, and Chen’s hand tightened on her elbow.

“No.” The whisper was low and intense, right next to her ear. “You stay out of that. You aren’t even armed. Do you fancy getting yourself killed here?”

“Chen!” She jerked her arm free. “This isn’t right. We can’t just ignore this!”

“We can, and we’d better. Look at those guys—those are no kids, Alannys, acting out because nobody’s watching. They know what they’re doing. Do you really think they’re going to be afraid of a woman who isn’t even carrying a sword?”

Alannys looked at him, and back at the looters. She knew what was right—how could she convince her conscience she had to do something else?

“Alannys,” he hissed, pulling at her arm again. “There is nothing you can say or do here—you of all people!—that will make this any better. Listen to me! If you’re going to help at all, you’re going to have to do it higher up.”

“Higher up,” she whispered.

He shook her arm, smiling like he had just seen the sun. “Yes, Alannys. Yes! Right at the very top. I know it’s crazy out here, but look at it this way: every minute we delay is another minute that King Dorramon is out in this too. It’s not just our safety, but his—we have to keep moving.”

He was right. Damn him, he was right. She didn’t like it, but she could see it. Her heart dropped and she ducked her head, hurrying away next to Chen. It went against every moral she had to walk away from something like that. But he was right—to help any of these people, she was going to have to go right to the top.

Assuming, of course, that she could keep herself alive long enough to make it to the top.

Thinking in that line brought her uncomfortably close to the realization Chen had spelled out for her, a realization she’d been trying hard to avoid—Dorramon was out here, somewhere in this same madness that threatened her. She couldn’t imagine it, she didn’t want to. What if something happened to him?

Alannys abruptly realized their places had reversed—all at once she was dragging Chen along with her, moving too fast for stealth. “Sorry,” she muttered, averting her eyes.

“No worries,” Chen said, with a fleeting smile that made her think he knew exactly what was behind her sudden burst of speed.

No worries. The phrase echoed in her mind as they ran through the deserted and half-destroyed lower market, an odd and incongruent choice of words. Her mind was nothing but worries, and her worries drove her on, faster and faster still, with no regard for the danger surrounding her.

They finally cleared the ghost of the market, and the massive main gate came into sight. Even from that distance Alannys could see that the drawbridge was open—but the gate was closed. The scene before her was so unexpected it stopped her in her tracks, and it took her befuddled brain a moment to sort through what was happening in front of her.

There in front of the guard tower was King Dorramon, next to Grand Chancellor Ebrad, both surrounded by two rows of Royal Guards in a defensive double-circle. Even Captain Grayble was on guard. With so many people around them it was difficult to be sure, but to Alannys it looked as though they were arguing.

Or rather, Ebrad was arguing, waving his arms, his broad face twisted into a scowl that made his sharply hooked nose appear even more beak-like than usual. In his loose robes, the histrionic spasms of his rage made him look like nothing so much as a great, flapping bird in the midst of all those people. Dorramon watched his antics impassively, with Grayble standing just behind him, wearing the peculiar stone-faced expression that meant he was actively concealing his dislike.

What was the chancellor on about? Given the closed gate, the answer was clear—Dorramon had refused, for the final time, to receive Cadenda’s emissaries, and Ebrad looked as though he might have a conniption fit because of it.

Farther back, at the enormous gate, she could see Raman, talking equally animatedly through the iron bars with Ambassador Thell.

Ambassador Thell! She hadn’t seen him in months, but that did nothing to quell the wave of intense dislike that washed over her when she recognized the man himself at the gate, wearing his flowing silk robes and his customary sneer. He had his arm pushed between the bars, waving around a large, thick envelope bearing a gold gilt crest—an envelope nobody inside seemed willing to take.

“Your Majesty!” Thell’s reedy voice, made for sneering, sounded just as she remembered, and hearing it again gave her stomach a sour twist. “You must reconsider! Are you really prepared to commit both of our kingdoms to war, over that whore?”

Dorramon spun to face the gate, wearing an expression of such extreme fury, such absolute hatred, it might have been a mask. Captain Grayble caught his arm and held him back, but Thell stepped back from the gate anyway, his composure finally rattled.

It didn’t matter. His remark had served its purpose—the damage was done. It was as if someone had dropped a lit match on a pile of dry kindling—the outer ward exploded into furious activity. Everywhere she looked she saw red faces, and in the clamor of angry voices it was impossible to make out individual words. And behind her was the burning wreckage from the violence that had nearly consumed the market.

…you should both know better than to think I would let Ravanmark fall down around my ears. She could hear his voice then, as clearly as if he stood beside her, his words ringing with the same conviction they’d had when he said them.

But from where she stood, as much as it hurt to admit it, this looked an awful lot like the kingdom falling down around his ears.

And as much as it hurt to admit it, it looked like it was all her fault.

Alannys panicked at her sudden realization. She burst into a dead run toward the Royal Guards surrounding Dorramon, unable to just stand and watch the world go to hell any longer.

“What are you doing?” Until he spoke, she hadn’t realized Chen was running with her. She saw Raman turn away from the gate and charge into the knot of guards. The darkness in his expression seemed to confirm her fears.

“I have to get to the king,” she said, skidding to a halt in front of the defensive ring of guards. “I have to talk to him!”

“Sorry,” said the guard in front of her. His kind tone surprised her, and she looked up into eyes that were green and very clear. “His Majesty can’t be disturbed right now. But if you two can be patient for another hour, I imagine we’ll have the gate open and you can go back to your camp.”

“N—no,” she stammered. She had been taken for Singari, and she wasn’t altogether sure what to do about it. “You don’t understand, I—”

“Her fault,” muttered the guard next to her green-eyed friend, startling her into silence. This man’s eyes were dark, and the expression in them darker still, leaving her cold. She backed up a step in sudden, instinctive fear. “She ain’t Singari. This whole mess is her fault.”

The man was small but fast, moving towards her in a blur, and before she could turn and flee he drove his elbow deep into her stomach, doubling her over. She dropped to her knees, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to think in the onslaught of crippling pain.

Her awareness seemed to cave in on itself, and she had a hard time keeping up with that was happening around her. She felt more than saw Chen jump in front of her, blocking the guard’s approach, berating him for attacking her. A third guard dove in from the edge of her vision, bowling Chen over and wrestling him to the ground.

“Barat!” The green-eyed guard sounded honestly horrified, moving into Chen’s recently-vacated spot to block her. “What have you done? These Singari have hurt no one!”

“Already told you,” the dark-eyed guard—apparently Barat—grunted. “She ain’t Singari. Everything that’s happening here is down to her, and we got to stop her.”

“No,” the green-eyed guard said. “Leave her alone.”

Barat lifted a hand casually, as if in greeting, and knocked the green-eyed guard sideways. Alannys managed to drag one halting breath past the stabbing pain that flared in her middle, before a boot crashed into her back and sent her sprawling into the dirt. She tried to pull her arms under her, to push herself up off the ground, but it seemed her battered body had quit taking orders from her. She could see her own hand lying next to her face, as limp and unresponsive as if she had never tried to move at all.

“Now,” she heard Barat’s voice grate above her, “help me haul her out of here. We got to finish her.”

“N—no.” The green-eyed guard sprawled on the ground near her, nursing a bloodied nose. He sounded completely flabbergasted, but he was resolute. “You’re mental, Barat! Leave that woman alone!”

“So that’s the way of it.” A brown boot crunched down near her face, then another. “Guess I better handle this myself, then, and finish her now.” Barat drew his sword, and knelt down in front of her. “Got any last words, woman?”

“Ungh…” It was the only sound she could push past the pain that seemed to have consumed most of her torso.

Barat’s laugh was unkind, and the glint in his eyes was positively cruel. He didn’t say anything more to her. She was too dazed and pained to save herself. She could hear Chen raising holy hell a few feet away, as Barat and his weapon loomed closer.

Suddenly he froze. His muscles tensed and his eyes bulged—his mouth worked frantically but no sound came out. Before Alannys could make sense of what she was seeing, a big hand pushed Barat out of her field of vision and Captain Grayble knelt down in front of her, peering into her face. “Great Muses, my Lady—are you all right?”

She managed to nod her head—a pathetic gesture, sprawled on her belly in the dirt as she was. Captain Grayble helped her to her feet, the gentleness of his hands cutting a sharp contrast to the iron in his voice as he barked orders to his men. “Get my sword out of him. You two, hold him up—I have some questions for him. Don’t be daft, he isn’t dead yet. And for pity’s sake, quit fighting with that Singari! Do none of you have any wits at all?”

The world faded as she stood upright, then swam back into focus. She could see the guards hurrying to carry out orders, heads bowed and faces averted. Farther away, she could see the grand chancellor, staring at her with barely concealed fury. And next to him, Dorramon, pale and frantic. Raman held him back, both arms wrapped around his middle.

“Damn it, Raman!” Dorramon’s voice carried clearly to Alannys, over every other sound around her, as he shook Raman off. “Let go of me!”

Ignoring the chaos surrounding them, he hurried to her and took her face in his hands, inspecting her closely. The electricity of his fingers tingling against her skin soothed her, but it was hard to hold his gaze—the shock and anger she read there touched her too deeply. “Muses,” he breathed, and turned to Grayble in a rush of fury. “What is the meaning of this? Why did your man attack her? Do the guards hate Singari that much?”

“He didn’t think she was Singari,” Chen said sourly, beating the dust from his clothes. “The other guy did, but not him. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t that.”

“What?” Dorramon’s eyes cut to her. “He knew who she was—and he attacked her anyway?”

“Yes.” Captain Grayble glowered at Barat, held up between two of his men. “Explain yourself, dog. Why did you attack Lady Alannys?”

Barat’s eyes wandered among them all. Maybe he was avoiding eye contact, or maybe he was having a hard time focusing—it was hard to be sure. “That wasn’t Lady Alannys. Just some Singari bitch.”

“No.” Grayble didn’t hesitate. “I heard what you said, Barat. You clearly knew who she was. Who are you working for?”

Barat laughed, a shrill, manic sound. “This is bigger than me, Captain. Bigger than you! The storm is coming, and you can’t blow it away with all your bellowing!” His laugh degraded into a hacking, bloody cough.

Captain Grayble grabbed Barat’s shirt in his fist, jerking him forward, shouting right into his face. “Damn you! Who are you working for? Who put you up to this?”

Barat’s face was waxy and pale. Even his lips, speckled with flecks of his own dark blood, were colorless underneath. His voice was a weak whisper, and yet everyone heard him clearly in the silence blanketing them. “You can’t stop this, Captain. The evil will be purged…and the power…held by the few…given to the many.”

Grayble let go of Barat’s shirt and stepped back, staring at him. “You’re raving.”

“Power…to the many.” Barat slumped against his captors, and moved no more. But his words seemed to echo off the stone of the curtain wall, sending a shiver up Alannys’s spine.

The power held by the few, given to the many.

Lord Malrec was dead. The Dark Alliance had been beheaded, the revolt squashed. Where was this rhetoric coming from? If Barat was simply a puppet, who was pulling the strings?

What new menace faced them now?

The massive main gate clanked up inch by arduous inch, slower and with even more noise than the gate to the inner ward, commanding the attention of every person in the vicinity. Alannys watched it raise, leaning heavily on the king, yet feeling her heart lift with it. The raising of the gate heralded the return of something like normal, and Alannys was all for the return of normal.

Or even something like it.

“This is where I must leave you,” Chen said, jolting her from her dazed sort of reverie. “In name at least, I’m still kortha. I have to check in on the tribe every now and again.”

“Thank you,” Dorramon said. “I’m not sure why you thought Alannys should be here, but that you for staying with her. I’m not sure how she would have fared out here alone.”

“Perhaps she would have fared better,” Chen said, but he gave a small bow. “I’m honored that I was of service to both of you. I wish you luck.” He aimed a mock-salute in her general direction, then turned and headed for the gate.

Alannys frowned. That seemed like an odd sort of farewell. But if anyone else thought so, they were giving no indication of it.

“We should head back to the inner ward as well,” Dorramon said.

“Double circle formation!” Captain Grayble barked to his men. “Protect the king and his lady, no mistakes! Move!”

“Talk to me, Grayble,” Dorramon said. “What just happened?”

They were moving fast for a group of such size; evidently nobody liked being in the outer ward just then any more than Alannys did. Dorramon was supporting her, and she was struggling to keep up even so.

Grayble glanced over at them, then looked straight ahead. “I don’t know, your Highness. And that is what bothers me. You know that we have suspected for some time that some of the Royal Guard oppose Lady Alannys. But I never seriously imagined they would resort to treason.”

“Treason?” Alannys said. “Barat almost committed murder, certainly. But murdering me isn’t treason. I’m not the king.”

“No,” Grayble said. His eyes roved over the ward, scanning every shape and shadow that might conceal an attacker. “This may not technically have been treason. But it’s only one short step away. In the minds of the people, my Lady, you and his Majesty are closely connected. It is a small step from taking a stab at you to taking a stab at the king himself. And I am determined to rid the Great Palace of this conspiracy before either of you are harmed.”

“That would be easier,” Dorramon said, “if we had any idea who was behind it.”

“True.” Captain Grayble’s tone was sour, and his craggy face twisted into a grimace. “I must apologize, your Majesty. This is my fault—I should not have killed Barat.”

“You did what you had to do,” Dorramon said.

“No. It was an amateur mistake. It was not my intention…I am afraid I let my anger get the best of me.”

“Given the situation,” Dorramon said, his jaw hard, “I would say you can be forgiven.”

A shadow of a smile crossed the captain’s face. “Thank you, my Lord King. But nonetheless, my actions have made things hard for us. Without knowing who is involved in this, we must assume anyone could be. We know there are surviving members of the Dark Alliance, your Highness, even one that can paint. I recommend we Talent-proof Prubard’s cell. It will not stop anyone who wishes to free him, but it will make it harder for them to work undetected.”

“Agreed,” Dorramon said. “See to it, as soon as possible.”

“A wise plan, your Majesty, I am sure,” Ebrad said from behind them, “but does Prubard really merit the effort? Whether on his own or allied with others, the man is hardly capable enough to cause real problems.”

“He took an active part in a conspiracy to steal the throne,” Dorramon snapped. “That is enough of a problem for me. Any threat to the country must be taken seriously.”

“Doubtless my most wise Lord King is correct,” Ebrad said, “but any threat presented by the ex-baron must necessarily be minimal. Undoubtedly the largest threat to the country right now is docked in the Port Grandview harbor, and your Highness has only just now refused to admit their envoys.”

“Ebrad,” Dorramon said, “this conversation is over.”

His tone brooked no opposition. The grand chancellor fell silent. Alannys risked a look back and saw him and Raman wearing almost identical expressions of dissatisfaction.

“Dorramon.” Raman’s tone carried a warning—Alannys felt her back stiffen when she heard it. “You can’t wish this away.”

“Raman, listen to me—”

“No. For once in your life, try listening to me. The King of Cadenda isn’t going to turn around and sail quietly home because you ignored him. ‘Death before dishonor,’ remember? They won’t back down from this.”

“You are welcome to your opinion,” Dorramon said shortly. “But you must let me handle this.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong.” Raman smiled, but it was a feral baring of his teeth that did nothing to make Alannys feel better about the situation. “It is certainly your responsibility to handle it, I’ll grant you that. But I am in no way obligated to sit idly by and watch you commit Ravanmark to a war no one—not even you—really wants.”

Alannys had never heard Raman take such a blatantly disrespectful tone with the king, especially in front of others. But she felt Dorramon’s hand tighten on her arm, heard his low oath in her ear, and she knew there was more to this than simple rudeness.

Raman’s smile twisted, hardened, and he reached into his vest with a flourishing twitch of his fingers to produce…

…a heavy envelope of fine linen paper, its gold gilt crest glittering in the sun.

The gate to the inner ward was open when they arrived—Alannys didn’t know if the outer ward had settled enough to leave it open, or if the Royal Guard had just known they were coming. What she did know was that it didn’t really matter either way, and she was distracting herself from greater concerns by considering it at all. Concerns that did matter, concerns like—

“I’ve already told you, Raman, I’m not touching that letter.” Dorramon had gone past snapping, past anger, and was now royally pissed off, stomping into the inner ward as if he suspected every person and every thing in it of conspiring against him. “I told Ambassador Thell, I told every single guard in the outer ward, and I told you. The fact that you alone decided the command of a king didn’t bind you is neither my fault nor my problem.”

“But what am I supposed to do with it?” Raman protested, in a fit of agitation.

“Also not my problem. You made this bed, Raman, I suppose you’ll have to lie in it.”

Raman veered sharply away from them and stormed off toward the keep, muttering a barrage of curse words that they all heard clearly.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Dorramon said with eerie calm, eyeing in turn each of the Royal Guards around them, “in case any of you have a memory as poor as the arch-prince’s. None of you are to touch that letter. It has never been officially accepted, and it never will be. Do I make myself clear?”

The guards saluted in unison, with a crisp “Aye!” that seemed to come from all of them as one.

“Very well. You are dismissed.”

Grayble herded his men into the barracks, barking orders in such quick succession that Alannys found them unintelligible. Dorramon watched them go with a peculiar look on his face, as though he was mulling over something he didn’t like. To her surprise, he didn’t release her, and headed for the Great Hall still pulling her along with him.

“D—Dorramon? Shouldn’t I go back to my room?” She was acutely aware of her rumpled clothes, of her dirty hair and face. She looked entirely the part of someone who had just had the stuffing beaten out of them—not of someone who belonged in the royal court.

“No. After what just happened, I’m not letting you out of my sight. I won’t hear of it.”

“I’m sorry. I never meant for any of that to happen, I never meant to worry you. I just…”

He stopped suddenly in the open courtyard of the inner ward, and rounded on her. “What? You just what?”

Alannys swallowed hard, suddenly nervous under his direct gaze. How could she answer that? I just didn’t want you to run off and marry Varilyn? I just worried that this might be the start of an international war? I just couldn’t bear the thought of you out there in all that chaos? All entirely true, and yet she couldn’t give voice to any of those answers now, out in the open inner ward, with Dorramon’s clear blue eyes steadily on her, challenging her to own her feelings. She cleared her throat, stalling. “I just…wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?” He crossed his arms, watching her squirm. It was clear he hadn’t expected her to say that—but it was equally clear he thought she should apologize. “What for, if you don’t mind my asking? Trying to sneak away with the Singari without even a goodbye?”

“I—sneaking…what?”

“Isn’t that what you were doing? Right up until you found the gate closed?” His blue eyes felt cold, suddenly…hard, like ice. She had never thought of ice as something to fear, but that was before she saw the way he looked at her now…ice could cut after all, could cut very deeply.

“No! No—I told you I was going to pack, Dorramon, and go attempt the acts…but you told me not to, so I didn’t.”

“That’s what I thought, too, until I saw you in a headscarf and realized you don’t need to pack—you have everything you need in that camp. And who better to get you where you want to go?”

“No. Just no.” People were beginning to stop and stare, but Alannys didn’t care and neither, it seemed, did he. She pulled the scarf off her head and held it in front of him. “This is not a braytha. This is Chen’s, and he put it on me to help me avoid attracting attention, even though that didn’t work out so well. I didn’t come out here intending to leave. I only came to stop you from doing something rash.”

“Something rash.” His eyes flicked from the scarf in her hand, dancing like a flame in the slight breeze, back to her face. “That’s not very specific, is it? People are always vague when they are trying to hide something. So why don’t you get more specific for me, Alannys? Why don’t you tell me directly that you don’t think me competent to rule my kingdom—that you don’t trust me any more than Raman does?”

“What?” She was too shocked to say more. She had known he was upset with her, but she could never have imagined this.

“Go ahead, say it! Now is your chance to get it all out without worrying about any retribution from anybody. And once you’ve said your piece, you should go back to the main gate, and keep right on going to the Singari camp. Because I don’t think I can stand to keep you here…to look into your eyes every day, knowing thoughts like that are behind them.”

“No!” Alannys never made a conscious decision to move, but she was on her knees, kneeling before Dorramon like a supplicant with her head bowed, while people passing by watched, pretending not to. “No, listen to me, you are reading this all wrong, I swear. I messed up last night and hurt your feelings, and I didn’t know how to fix it so I ran away and hid. I came out to the gate this morning because I know how badly I messed up and I was afraid I pushed you into marrying Princess Varilyn. I came back here to try to help you and all I have done is make everything worse and I totally understand if you want me to leave, but I swear to you that’s all it was.”

The words rushed from her in a frantic torrent, leaving her empty and exhausted and gasping for breath, like something big had just found its way out of her, something she wasn’t quite sure she had been ready to let go of just yet. She wasn’t ready for that, and she certainly wasn’t ready to find out what kind of reaction she’d gotten. She braced her hands on her thighs and leaned forward, panting like she had just run a mile.

Something thrust suddenly into her field of vision, startling her—Dorramon’s hand, extended to help her up. She blinked at it in surprise, then reached out to accept it, finally daring to look up as she did. In the bright cool of the morning, his hand wrapped around hers felt like the warmest thing she had ever experienced, until she met his gaze. The ice in his eyes had melted completely. The only thing warmer was the crushing embrace he pulled her into.

The people in the inner ward walked on by, not even pretending they weren’t watching.

Dorramon strode through the Great Hall, up the red granite walkway to the dais, ignoring the courtiers scattered through the room, scowling in a manner that encouraged them all to keep their distance. A pageboy awaited them on the dais. “Bring the lady a chair,” Dorramon said, and flopped down into the throne in a manner that didn’t really seem to suit Alannys’s idea of kingly behavior.

The page brought a chair and set it down near the throne, then scuttled away backwards, apparently eager to put some distance between himself and the monarch’s bad mood.

Alannys sort of felt the same, but she recognized that this—like so much else affecting Ravanmark—was pretty much her fault. She stood awkwardly on the dais, shifting from foot to foot, looking everywhere but at the throne in front of her, wondering what on earth she could do to get out of this.

“Sit.” Dorramon jerked his chin in the direction of the extra chair.

“Thank you.” She perched herself on the edge of the chair, as though she expected to have to make a run for it. That assessment probably had more truth to it than she wanted to admit. She might have expected clearing the air between them to raise Dorramon’s spirits; she might have expected her emotional—and, truth be told, embarrassing—public confession to put him in a better mood.

She would have been wrong.

It seemed like a good time to tread carefully. “Your Highness, are…are you mad at me?”

“No.” He sighed heavily, and she had to admit he didn’t sound angry. He sounded world-worn, sad, and very, very tired. It was a mistake, and probably a vain one, to assume his every emotion had to do with her—it was plain he had a lot on his mind. “Please stop using titles when you talk to me. It’s bad for morale.”

“Bad for morale?” she echoed in confusion. “People expect to see proper respect for the king.”

“Not bad for their morale,” Dorramon said, waving a hand at the hall. “Bad for mine. I hate it when you talk like that. Whatever differences you see between us, Alannys, I don’t see them. I don’t accept them.”

“Still…you must see it wouldn’t be wise for me to take too casual a tone with you. Even your parents used titles with each other in public. Your Highness.”

“Agh.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He looked exhausted, and she felt bad for arguing with him. “I’ll have to concede defeat on that point, I suppose. Still, I would appreciate it if you would stop doing that when we’re alone. It feels like an insult.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. “It’s never my intent to insult you. I’ll do my best to stop.”

This minor victory seemed to finally raise his spirits. But before she had time to properly appreciate his warm smile, a knot of people exploded into the Great Hall, led by Captain Grayble and Arch-Prince Raman.

She stood up, peering down the hall, taken aback by the noise and indignity the group brought with them. Raman and Grayble walked with their heads high and their expressions stony, looking straight ahead as though they were somehow unaware of what followed them.

Behind them were four men in flowing white robes with voluminous sleeves and big rounded hoods that draped low over their faces. It was a sight Alannys had not seen in months but recognized immediately, with a cold, clammy tingle, like seeing ghosts.

The warrior monks of Brookeshire Castle had come to the Great Palace.

Captain Grayble and Arch-Prince Raman marched crisply down the center of the Great Hall, each followed by two ghostly warrior monks. The billowing robes covered them so completely they appeared to float across the red granite walkway. Between them they dragged a figure in the tattered remnants of noble garments, now so dirty and bedraggled they were little more than rags. The man’s sharply pointed face was overgrown with many day’s worth of unkempt whiskers, and his hair hung untrimmed and tangled around him face. Yet for all of that his carriage was proud and tall, his eyes sharp and intelligent, and his voice was strong and imperious as he demanded his immediate release. For all his reduced circumstances, there was no mistaking the person Brookeshire’s guards dragged ignominiously into the hall.

“Lord Diabon!” Alannys gasped.

“None other,” Raman said, in a tone that seemed far too cheerful for the occasion. “With Lady Etherra’s compliments. Apparently he tried to sneak into Brookeshire Castle.”

“A man such as myself should never be required to sneak anywhere, least of all into his own home,” Diabon announced, as though they had been eagerly awaiting his thoughts on the matter. “Imagine, my people—my very wife—turning against me. Me! It’s utterly inconceivable!”

“And yet, here you are.” Dorramon’s face remained impassive, but he sounded amused. “What are we to make of that?”

“You know well enough.” Diabon’s chains clanked as he struggled to raise his arms to point at Alannys. “That demon witch of yours has bewitched better minds than Etherra’s.”

“Ah, I should have known,” Dorramon muttered. “There’s no point to this. Raman, see that the Royal Guard escort our guest to the dungeon, please. Same cell as ex-Baron Prubard. I imagine Prubard will have some choice words for Diabon about his desertion.”

“With pleasure.” Raman’s grin was alarming; it looked almost—feral.

“You are wasting your time,” Diabon declared, pulling himself up as tall as he could manage. It ought to have seemed dignified, but the coarse, unkempt hair covering his hollowed-out cheeks made him seem more like insane. “You and that woman won’t be in command much longer. The tide is soon to turn, and when it does, it shall wash you away.”

“Whatever are you on about?” Dorramon sounded utterly bored, and Alannys realized at last that he was baiting his prisoner. “Malrec is dead, Prubard is imprisoned, and you are soon to join him. Your little rebellion is over—even you must be able to see that.”

Diabon cackled with unkind laughter. “Over. Perhaps. Or perhaps a fallen leader is replaced by one superior, and the rebellion goes on. It all depends, I suppose, on what one is rebelling against.”

Dorramon’s face showed no reaction, but Alannys could see his knuckles whiten on the arm of the throne. “What are you talking about, Diabon? Have you found a superior leader? Are you the superior leader?”

Diabon laughed his crazy laugh again. “I have no intention of indulging your curiosity. I am here only to deliver a message.”

Dorramon’s eyes narrowed. “And what is that message?”

For a long moment, Diabon didn’t answer. Silence blanketed the hall, heavy and oppressive, making the very air seem thick around them. The tension grew with every passing second, and Alannys had to wonder how anyone could face a king that uncooperatively. Diabon had not once, she realized, used a single title of courtesy—no your Highness, no your Majesty, not once.

That seemed like a singularly bad sign.

Lord Diabon savored the silence a moment longer. When he spoke, his sepulchural tone echoed hollowly in the hall. “The winds of great change have begun to blow, and not even the power of a king can turn them back now. The power now held by the few shall soon be given unto the many.”

The words hit Alannys like an electric shock. She never saw Dorramon come out of the throne, but suddenly he was standing, glowering like a mighty thundercloud at the prisoner below. Alannys was reminded yet again of what she so often managed to ignore—this man was king of the most powerful nation on the planet, and any person courted his disfavor at their own peril. Lord Diabon must have reached a similar conclusion, judging by the way his face blanched under Dorramon’s fearsome scowl.

“Explain yourself,” the king commanded.

Lord Diabon drew himself up straighter. “I have nothing more to say. My message has been delivered.”

“Get him out of here,” Dorramon snapped. “Captain Grayble, a word, if I may.”

Captain Grayble approached the dais, as Raman and the warrior monks dragged their prisoner back toward the door, still loudly protesting his treatment to any who would listen. “Yes, your Majesty?”

Dorramon sat slowly back down. When he spoke, his voice was carefully pitched not to carry, even in the acoustically live hall. “Grayble, that man is hiding something. Maybe quite a few somethings.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“I want you to find out what.” Dorramon’s eyes were uncharacteristically hard. “Do you understand? I want you to use any means at your disposal to get answers from your prisoner.”

“It shall be as you command. Rest easy, my Lord King, I will have the answers you seek.” Grayble bowed low, then turned sharply on his heel and followed the others out of the Great Hall. A cold wind blew in behind him.

Dorramon glanced at Alannys sidelong. “Please, sit. I am sorry you had to witness that.” He slumped in the throne as though he could scarcely imagine being more relaxed, and yet it didn’t quite feel as though that regal aura had left him. Was it her imagination, or was there the barest edge of a command in his request?

Alannys didn’t remember standing, and it came as a bit of a surprise to find that she was. “Don’t apologize. That was…enlightening.”

“Was it?” Dorramon sounded wry.

She sat carefully back down on her chair, smoothing her pants over her lap. “Why do you think Diabon is hiding something? Perhaps he’s just repeating what he’s heard from others—trying to make himself seem important, so he has some bargaining power.”

Dorramon shook his head, but he didn’t look at her, his faraway gaze wandering the lights and shadows of the hall as if he wasn’t really seeing any of it. “Under other circumstances, I could believe it—that would certainly be in line with his character. But right now—he isn’t acting right, Alannys. Diabon is fundamentally a coward. We know that. We heard just recently how he ran from battle to save himself, remember? Now he’s dragged in chains before the very king he tried to overthrow, and the only reasonable expectation he can have is execution. What does he do? He doesn’t beg, or apologize, or attempt to placate me in any way. He’s arrogant, he plays games and issues veiled threats—he treats me as if I am somehow irrelevant to him. Now here is the puzzle I present to you: what could make a man who values his life behave in such a manner?”

Alannys thought about it. Everything Dorramon had said was true. How could she make that make sense? Could any set of circumstances account for Lord Diabon’s seemingly suicidal behavior? “The only way he could act like that,” she said slowly, “is if he had the backing of someone else, someone he truly believed to be able to protect him from the consequences.”

“Yes. And who is able to protect him, and how, in my own castle? Every answer I can conceive to that question is profoundly disturbing.”

“Profoundly disturbing,” Alannys echoed. She shivered in a sudden chill. “Is that why you told Captain Grayble to torture him?”

The glance Dorramon directed at her then was difficult to decipher. “Grayble is a very capable Captain of the Guard. I never doubt he will find what he seeks, no matter who withholds it. Do you?”

“No,” she admitted. “But it sounded as though you were approving methods—more forceful than usual, shall we say.”

“Yes. And you think that was badly done?” His tone carried a defensive edge that reminded her of their recent unpleasantness, and made her feel a touch defensive herself.

Alannys felt her face burn, and looked away. “It isn’t my place to question you, your Highness. It’s just—don’t you think…torture…is a bit…beneath you?” There was no way to keep the question from sounding accusatory, no matter how she tiptoed around it.

“Beneath me.” Dorramon sat back in the throne, looking out over the hall. “I suppose you must not think much of me. Believe it or not, I don’t get any joy from the thought of causing other people pain, Alannys, even people like Lord Diabon. Under normal conditions, I would never advocate treating a prisoner that way. But these are not normal conditions. Those kinds of scruples are for people who don’t have anything to lose.”

“I guess I understand,” she said, trying to make it so. “They are trying to take the throne, after all. And we don’t even know who they are.”

“The throne?” Dorramon looked at her in evident surprise. “The throne has been under attack for months. These people are targeting you, Alannys. When they talk about the power held by the few…I really don’t think they are referencing the monarchy. Whatever this new conspiracy is, it’s dangerous to both of us, but it’s about you. And I’m not going to let them harm you. I will do whatever I must to protect you. I can’t…I can’t lose you, Alannys. I just can’t.”

Alannys stared at him, stricken. Her mouth was suddenly dry; her throat worked painfully but no sound emerged. Dorramon, Captain Grayble, all of them were doing this for her. They wouldn’t torture people to save the throne, but they would do it for her. She wasn’t sure how to live with that.

“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “It isn’t my place to question you. I do know that. I’ll try to do a better job of showing it.”

“I don’t believe I said anything like that.” Dorramon looked at her in sudden concern. “You look burnt-out—are you all right? Do you need a nap?”

“A nap? Didn’t you tell me I wasn’t allowed out of your sight?”

His quiet chuckle barely reached her ears. “And I thought you weren’t paying attention. I did say that. But with Cadenda’s emissaries headed back to the harbor, and Lord Diabon safely behind bars…I suppose I can turn loose of you long enough for you to take a nap. You really do look like you need it. I’ll be busy here for a while, but I’ll have Raman take you to your rooms.” He nodded to the page, who bowed once and ran down the hall and out the door.

Alannys watched the boy go. Her befuddled brain was having a hard time keeping up. Perhaps Dorramon was right; maybe she really did need a nap. She hoped that was all it was.

She couldn’t bear to think about the alternatives.

“So what did you think of your adventure in the outer ward?” Raman’s mood seemed greatly improved since Lord Diabon’s capture. Alannys didn’t think she could ever, in good conscience, refer to that as an adventure. She walked with him across the inner ward, wondering how she could possibly answer such a question.

He must have seen her hesitation in her face, because he chuckled, taking her arm as they walked. “Yes, I quite agree. An adventure like that, I could have done without myself. Who could ever have imagined the outer ward coming to that?”

“Not me,” she said glumly. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I seem to bring nothing but disaster to every part of Ravanmark I touch.”

Raman’s expression turned abruptly serious. “Now that I can’t agree with. You’ve done a lot of great work here, Alannys. And you know this current mess isn’t your fault.”

Alannys sighed, looking away. “If you say so. What happened out there, Raman? At the gate?”

He stopped outside the keep, and held the door open for her. His expression just kept clouding over; he looked downright somber. “Dorramon ordered the main gate closed early this morning, well before the emissaries from Cadenda had even arrived. He really had no intention of acknowledging them at all, I think. Of course the people reacted badly to the closure of the gate, and the fear and uncertainty out there…” He shook his head. “And then the delegation from Cadenda arrived; Ambassador Thell, two advisers, and their guards, all on spent horses. They brought a sealed letter from the King of Cadenda himself.”

“And?” Her voice quavered; she was almost afraid to hear what happened next. She had seen the end—she knew it couldn’t be good.

“And Dorramon refused to admit them. He wouldn’t speak to them, he wouldn’t even accept the letter.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing, listening to her footsteps in the deserted corridor.

They stopped outside her door, and Raman turned to her suddenly, sighing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him sigh quite like that. It seemed like a warning, and she felt her spirits sink again.

“Look, Alannys, I don’t suppose you are very familiar with Cadenda, or what it takes to get from here to there. Cadenda is on the other side of the world from here. Imagine you are looking at a map. Ravanmark would be right in the center. Off to the right of Ravanmark, separated by many kays of ocean, you would find another continent. This continent holds several countries, and it’s tall. Passing it on the north gets into icebergs and other unpleasant dangers. To the south are some very dangerous, turbulent waters, infamous the world round, known as the Muse’s Cauldron. Father south than that are ice floes.”

“That sounds horrible,” Alannys ventured, “but why—”

Raman held up a hand. “Hear me out, please. Out to the left of Ravanmark is a vast, open sea. This sea is treacherous—the word ‘open’ is perhaps a bit misleading here. There are underwater volcanoes and Muses-know-what-else out there. There are few maps of that sea, and they are all inaccurate. You could sail out and draw one this week, and it would be inaccurate by next week. Little volcanic islands appear out there, only to be swallowed up by the sea again a few months later. Underwater lava formations are grown tall enough and sharp enough to gut a sailing ship…and then are swept away again. Terrible storms and killing squalls flare up, rage, and die again.”

He stopped, seeming to collect his thoughts. Alannys stared at him in grim silence.

“What I’m telling you,” he said finally, “is that sea travel is no small thing. The journey takes many days, and as many people die at sea as make it safely across. Only in the last thirty or forty years have ships advanced enough that safe travel is even really possible. This journey is not lightly taken. King Rathmar’s visit is enormous—unprecedented, even. How bad would a situation have to be for a king himself to risk his life in that sea, to deliver a letter? And what would be the consequences of refusing to accept it?”

She couldn’t hold his gaze. She averted her eyes, looking awkwardly out into the garden. “I’m sorry, Raman.”

His hand fell heavily on her shoulder. “Don’t apologize. I know you are doing everything you can to make things right. That’s why I wanted to give you this.”

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a familiar linen paper packet, sealed on the back with wax, and glittering with a crest she didn’t recognize.

It drew her gaze like a magnet; her field of vision seemed to narrow around it. “Is that…”

“The letter itself. Yes. I convinced the ambassador to give it to me at the gate. The advisers weren’t happy about it—their orders were to deliver it to Dorramon only—but nobody wants a war, Alannys. I promised Thell I would get it to him, and this way he can tell King Rathmar the letter was delivered. Their national motto is ‘death before dishonor.’ They aren’t going to back down—this must be delivered.”

“But I’m not Dorramon.” She eyed the letter dubiously, the way she might look at a venomous snake, and made no move to take it.

“No. But you are the next best thing. He’ll never take it himself—simple pride would keep him from ever reading it.”

“Then you could…”

Raman ran a hand through his hair. “Alannys, I could read this letter and spend the rest of my life nagging him like a fishwife about what it said. And he would spend the rest of his life stubbornly ignoring me. The only one who has a chance of fixing this, the only one who has a chance of making him listen, is you. And that’s why I’m giving you this letter.” He reached out and took her hand, gently closing her fingers around the paper packet. “This is state information, Alannys. Whatever is in this letter is important, and secret, and you must not let it out of your sight unless the king himself takes it.”

“Raman—”

“I know you’ll do the right thing.” He turned away quickly, obviously expecting further protest, and hurried back toward the vestibule. He stopped just before reaching it and looked at her again. “Just think, Alannys—think of all the lives that might be saved.”

Leaving that final thought floating on the air between them, Raman turned away again and disappeared from view.

Alannys looked down at the paper packet in her hand, then let herself into her room. Now that she actually had it, she confronted the problem of what exactly she should do with it.

She wasn’t going to read it, of course. She knew Raman was manipulating her, and she knew that Dorramon wouldn’t want her to have anything to do with it. Nothing in the world could make her break that seal.

The paper packet made a heavy, solid slap landing on the little table in her sitting room. She turned her back on it and headed through the arch into her bedroom, to the bath chamber to clean herself up. She’d been told, after all, to have a nap.

She ran herself through a bath, into a nightgown, and back out to her bed. She burrowed into the covers, pushed her head down into her pillow, and told herself she was going to fall immediately asleep.

She wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all herself. She laid on her back and stared at the ceiling, rolled over on her side and stared at the wall, rolled over on her other side and stared at the mid-morning sun through her window, but all she saw was that ivory envelope with its golden crest.

It haunted her, that envelope, called to her like the song of a siren. She couldn’t forget it, couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t stop it consuming her mind like a slow-burning fire.

She found herself in her sitting room, gnawing on the ball of her own thumb and pacing in front of the coffee table, back and forth.

She wasn’t going to have any peace. The thing had gotten hold of her now, driven its twisting, spiny roots into her brain, and there was no escape for her now.

Back and forth.

Her own curiosity would drive her mad, push her right over her limit and abandon her there, if she left things as they were.

Back and forth.

Had Raman known? Had he forced that letter into her hands knowing how it would torment her, knowing how she would suffer until she gave in and did as he had wanted all along?

“Bastard,” she muttered, and snatched up the letter.

She didn’t even sit down. She broke the seal, and began to read, pacing her sitting room as she did.

To my Most Noble Cousin,

King of the Land of Ravanmark,

It is my sincere wish that this humble Correspondence should find you well. All talk of Ravanmark these days is talk of Trouble, it seems, and this grieves me greatly. The future of one of our Kingdoms will undoubtedly become the future of both, and I would like to see both of them Bright.

In that vein I must admit my great disappointment upon hearing of the delay in the consummation of the Royal Engagement between yourself and my dearest Daughter, Varilyn. Rumors of the most distressing nature surround this delicate Topic, and I suppose I need not tell you how discouraging it is to me to hear these—to say nothing of my lovely Varilyn, whose Merry Disposition has faded to a mere ghost of its former self, and whose pleasing figure begins to wither from the enormity of her Troubles.

Naturally I do not intend to make light of your own feelings on the matter, my young Cousin, for as you are a Man of great honor and impeccable character (as I repeatedly remind all of those around me) I know that this untenable situation aggrieves you as well. Heavy indeed must be the Burden that forces you to neglect your Betrothed in this despicable fashion. Well do I remember my exchanges with your dear Parents, arranging the Wedding we all now soon hope to celebrate. Great was the joy and high was the excitement that surrounded all of these tedious tasks, made wonderful by the knowledge we all had of the Happiness that these arrangements would one day bring to you and to my beloved Daughter. It pains me inhumanly to think of the sorrow that would assail my sainted Uncle, should he chance to look upon us from his rest and see the ruinous Delays which have beset his cherished Wish.

Of course I do not mean to overlook your own Regret, which I know must be very great, because undoing your departed Father’s plans is a grave Dishonor none of us would willingly bring upon ourselves. It pains us all to see the closer ties we had all wished between our two Nations jeopardized by this distressing Delay.

You may read the depth of my concern in the Journey I have undertaken, in order to deliver this most Humble, and most Important, correspondence into your Hands. Such a perilous voyage I would not risk for any other matter in the world; but for the Happiness of yourself and my beautiful Daughter, as well as the continued peace, prosperity, and safety of our combined Kingdoms, we all must do whatever we can. I know that you share my Sentiment, and I eagerly await your favorable Reply so that we may begin the formal arrangements for the Day that will make you the happiest man in Ravanmark and Cadenda combined. Until that Time I shall remain

Your doting Cousin,

and most forbearing Friend,

King Rathmar II of Cadenda

Alannys stood motionless in the middle of the sitting room, surrounded by the litter of pages she had already read and dropped to the floor, staring at the signature scrawled across the page she still held in her hand.

Heavy indeed must be the burden that forces you to neglect your betrothed…

Was that how the rest of the world saw them? The noble, dutiful monarch, and the selfish, headstrong woman who led him astray? The entire letter sounded too much like Ambassador Thell to her, and she wondered what plans and emotions were concealed behind the flowery language and reassurances.

What was she supposed to do about this now? She had never felt quite so lost in Ravanmark as she did these days—it seemed like every course of action before her was wrong, like nothing she could ever do could please all the people who were counting on her. Dorramon hadn’t even wanted her to read that letter. She remembered swearing her oath to him in full view of the inner ward, and guilt burned her like a red-hot coal.

Have faith in him, Chen had told her. Don’t be just another naysayer telling him his dreams are impossible. But Dorramon needed more than just faith—he needed someone who could stand beside him, support him, be worthy of him. How could that be her? And these dreams—they were her dreams, too. Did anyone care about that?

Do what’s right. She could hear Raman now, as clearly as if he stood with her in the room. He has a duty, and so do you. You must get this through to him. They did have duties—more than one, and to so many different people. But they also had duties to themselves. How much of himself was Dorramon required to give up, in service to the people he ruled? Where was the line? Who decided what was right? Raman? Dorramon? Her?

The letter in her hand caught her eye again, certain words jumping from the page as though they were meant for her alone. …for the continued peace, prosperity, and safety…

Safety…

That was a threat. Leaving aside everything else in the letter, that line contained a very real, if somewhat veiled, threat. The danger was clear, but it seemed that no one could tell her what she should do about it.

Alannys sank to the floor amid the various pages of the letter, regarding with fear and hostility King Rathmar’s signature scrawled across the paper in her hand. The bold, black slashes that made up the name seemed like a bad omen for them all.

“Merciful Muses!” The voice was female, shocked, and full of familiar gravel.

Alannys hadn’t even heard anyone come into the sitting room. She looked up through blurry eyes to find Tralice standing there, looking down at her with surprise written all over a face that carried more lines than Alannys remembered. Her dark eyes wandered across the papers littering the floor, and she frowned. “My Lady, are you all right?”

Alannys didn’t know how to answer that, so she just looked back down at her lap, where King Rathmar’s signature was faring badly against the tears that had fallen on it. She didn’t know when exactly she had started to cry, or how long she had sat here since, and she didn’t really care.

“Oh, dear. This won’t do, my Lady, this won’t do at all. You’ll catch your death sitting on that cold floor.” Tralice grabbed Alannys by the arm, attempting to haul her off of the floor.

Alannys wasn’t much in the mood to be hauled anywhere, especially by someone she could be only half sure wasn’t imaginary anyway. She jerked her arm free and returned her attention to the last page of Rathmar’s letter, staring at the tear-stained signature. Yet another thing she’d messed up, and didn’t know how to fix.

The thought didn’t make her feel any better, and she sobbed out loud, a choking, hiccuping sound.

“Now, now,” Tralice said, “nothing’s as bad as all that. Come, now, my Lady—up with you.”

It turned out Alannys was also not in the mood to be bossed around. She remained stubbornly where she was, regarding Tralice balefully. What call did the woman have to barge in after all this time and start issuing orders like nothing had changed?

“Oho, so that’s how it is, is it?” Tralice folded her arms and regarded her obstinate charge.

Tralice, Alannys suddenly remembered, could be pretty obstinate herself.

“What are you doing here?” Alannys tried to keep her bad mood out of her tone, but she was only partly successful. She sounded sullen, like a pouting child. She probably looked like one too, parked on the floor like she was.

“That is a fine how-do-you-do. I am here, my Lady, to take care of you—a good thing, too, because it looks like you need it. I was a bit surprised to find you here, actually—I had rather expected you would already be out attempting the acts of the Redeemer. I heard you found the songs.”

Alannys said nothing. She was duly chastised, but she also felt this was an odd thing for Tralice to have heard, and she wasn’t quite sure what she should do about it.

Tralice studied her a moment, then shrugged. “Not in a talkative mood today, are we? Have it your way, I suppose.” She bent down and reached for the papers Alannys had left scattered on the floor.

“No! Don’t touch those!” Alannys scrambled over on her hands and knees and gathered the pages to her chest with both arms. Hands shaking, she tamped them into a neat stack and attempted to fit them back into the envelope.

Tralice watched Alannys’s efforts with her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. The gold gilt flashed in the light, and something in the maid’s eyes shifted. “My Lady, really. This is an embarrassment. You must get yourself up off the floor! Give me that letter.”

“No!” In a fit of pique, Alannys crushed the whole packet to her chest. She couldn’t pass it on the king now even if she wanted to—between the crumpling and the tear stains, it wasn’t suitable any more. This did little to help cool her temper. “No, I’m keeping this, and I’m not getting up! I’ll wallow here the rest of my life if I want to. I’d like to know just who in the hell you think you are, to come waltzing back in here after all this time, telling me what to do, telling me I’m not good enough, I’m only making things worse…”

Tralice stared at her in utter shock, and something Alannys hadn’t even known she was holding on to abruptly broke loose.

She buried her face in her hands. She wasn’t even sure when she had started crying again. “I’m sorry, Tralice. I’m sorry. I just…I’ve been having a rough time lately. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Things have been going from bad to worse, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, and…oh, Tralice, I’ve missed you.”

“Ach, my Lady, I can see that.” Tralice had some of her usual humor in her tone, and when Alannys dared to look at her, her gaze had softened. She took Alannys’s arm and helped her up. “There, there, my Lady. Let’s get you to the sofa. That’s right. Lie down, my Lady, and dry your tears. I’ll be back directly.” She pressed a handkerchief into Alannys’s hand and disappeared into the bedroom.

Alannys laid the paper packet on her chest and dried her face, staring up at the ceiling with gritty, sore eyes. Nothing was making sense, but that seemed very much like the way of things lately. She tried not to think too much about it, lying on her back on the couch and drawing shuddering breaths that did little to improve her mood.

Tralice returned from the bedroom carrying a damp cloth. “Just close your eyes, my Lady, and calm yourself. Nothing is as bad as it seems.” She spread the cool cloth over Alannys’s forehead, murmuring soothing sounds. “Now you just rest yourself. I’ll run and bring you some tea. Everything will look better after a nice, hot cup of tea, you’ll see.”

She bustled around the room a moment longer, before disappearing out the door. It all seemed so familiar, Alannys could almost believe that she had never left at all.

But Tralice had gone, Alannys knew that, and she had been gone for quite a little while. And just now everything felt so bizarre that Alannys was quite prepared to believe that King Rathmar’s royal missive had pushed her right over the edge, and this was all nothing more than a hallucination.

As far as hallucinations went, though, this one was, at the moment, uncommonly comfortable. She lay in the quiet, with the cool cloth against the hot skin of her forehead, listening to her own breathing slowly return to normal. She felt better in that moment than she had all morning—like a weight had been lifted from her.

It was only then that she realized—Tralice had taken King Rathmar’s letter with her when she left.

When Alannys awoke, the first thing that she noticed wasn’t that she was still sprawled out on her sofa, or that her wet cloth had fallen off onto the floor. The first thing that she realized was that she was not alone. Someone sat next to her; a familiar presence perched between her and the edge of the couch.

But before she could even put a name to that familiar presence in her mind, before she could even open her eyes, warm lips moved against hers in a gentle kiss. She had been holding him at arm’s length ever since they came back from Castle Glennayre, but she just didn’t have it in her to push Dorramon away anymore. Alannys threw her arms around him and kissed him back, forgetting for the moment all the troubles that had clouded their interactions lately, surrendering herself to the music and the electricity that swirled around them as him lips pressed against hers, as his fingers tangled into her hair, as his velvet doublet pressed against her.

Finally he sat back and looked at her, his eyes sparkling. “Well, now. Tralice told me you were upset, but your mood actually seems much better now.”

She felt a tingling blush creeping up her face. “Yes, well…I suppose you were right, what I really needed was a nap.”

“Is that so?” Dorramon didn’t laugh, but he sounded as though he might have liked to. “Well, then, I’m glad I suggested it. Here, sit up and I’ll pour you some of this tea Tralice kindly brought for you.”

She pushed herself upright on the sofa. “Thank you. But, Dorramon—didn’t you say you had to be in court?”

He looked away, busying himself with the silver tea service laid out on the coffee table. “That was the plan, yes. But Tralice told me how she found you…I couldn’t ignore that.”

It might have been only her imagination, but it looked to her as though his hands trembled when he passed her a teacup on a saucer. “Thank you,” she said again.

Then her gaze landed on the stack of papers next to the tea service, and the tea cup clattered against the saucer in her hands. She snatched up the cup and drank deeply to cover her surprise, grateful that the tea had cooled somewhat while she slept. “I…see she brought you the letter,” she said lamely. “Did you read it?”

“How could I not?” Dorramon leaned back against the cushions, rubbing at his face. “I had to know what had upset you so badly, didn’t I? Look, Alannys, that letter never should have been here. Curse Raman for giving it to you in the first place. What was he thinking, saddling you with something like that?”

She leaned forward, carefully placing her cup and saucer on the table. “He was thinking it was the only way he might get you to read it. And it looks like he may have been right.”

“I don’t like being manipulated,” Dorramon grumbled, “even by him. And I like it even less when he uses you to do it. This changes nothing. What has he accomplished here, beyond making you cry?”

“You—you aren’t going to answer the letter?”

“Answer it? I should think not. I want you to forget about that letter. It’s not important.”

“Not important? How can you even say that? King Rathmar obviously went to a lot of trouble to get this to you. Don’t you think you should—”

“No. I told them I would not accept any correspondence from them, and I meant it. Whatever he wrote in this letter, Rathmar obviously expected as much. I have heard that he and his entourage set out for the Great Palace the day after Ambassador Thell left to bring this letter.”

“The day after…?” She stared at him. “Then he will be here—tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Dorramon looked at her, then looked away. “They tell me Prince Cardoth and Princess Varilyn ride with him.”

“What?” The word sounded weak. “I thought there was no way she would come here right now.”

“So did I. It would seem they are serious about this wedding—or this war.”

Alannys buried her face in her hands. His decision was being forced, then—and they had never even talked about it.

“Alannys? Are you all right?”

“No.” Her voice was muffled by her hands. She folded them in her lap and regarded them morosely. “I’m sorry, Dorramon. I know you’re in an impossible position, and I haven’t been making things any better for you. What are you going to do?”

He watched her for a long moment without answering. When he finally did speak, his voice was very low. “What do you want me to do?”

“What?” She looked at the letter on the table, then looked away again. “It doesn’t matter what I want, you know that. There are bigger concerns here than that.”

“No.” He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me—I want you to forget all of that. King Rathmar isn’t your concern. You’ve done everything you can for Ravanmark, and now I want you to forget about it. There’s nothing here but me, and you. What do you want?”

Facing him directly, with such a simple question, she couldn’t hide any more. “I want you,” she said simply, and the truth of it washed over her like a physical force, cracking her voice and burning her eyes with unshed tears. “I know it’s selfish and I know it’s wrong and I’ve spent I-don’t-know-how-many hours trying to find a place for myself in Ravanmark that doesn’t involve dragging you away from your duty. But I can’t do it—I don’t want to see Ravanmark go to war, but if I have to stand by and watch you marry another woman, I think I’ll go mad. I think it’ll kill me, Dorramon. I love you too much.”

For a moment he just stared at her, motionless, and she wondered fleetingly if she had gone too far, said too much.

Then he grabbed her into the warmest embrace she’d ever felt, pulling her face into his chest and burying his face in her hair. “Oh, Alannys. You can’t imagine how happy I am to hear you say that.”

“I don’t know why,” she said. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything.” He squeezed her tighter. She could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong, and all she wanted right then was a way to make that moment last forever. “You’ve just given me the only chance at real happiness I think I’ve ever had. When you left this morning…” He held her at arm’s length, studying her face. “I learned something today. All my life I’ve been raised to be king—it’s all I thought I was here for, the only reason I existed at all. The measures of a good ruler are the only way I know to judge my worth, and my duty is all I’ve ever had. For most of my life it was all I cared about.

“But today I discovered there are other measures, and the yardstick of a good ruler doesn’t measure some of the things that matter most. Duty isn’t everything. I can’t stay here and watch you leave again. If being King of Ravanmark means letting you go, then I’d rather throw my crown in the moat and start a farm somewhere. I love you, Alannys, and I want to stay beside you. I want you to stay beside me, forever. Will you marry me?”

“What? But…but…Cadenda, and—”

“Forget about that! I don’t care what happens, we will figure out a way to handle it. No one is going to force me to marry anyone else, not while the woman I love more than anything in the entire world is right here and she loves me, too.” His blue eyes were intense, and dead serious.

She stared at him for a moment. Could she really keep arguing with him…arguing against what she wanted more than she had ever wanted anything before? She swallowed hard. “Are you—are you sure that’s what you want? I don’t think this is going to be easy, or safe.”

“Nothing worth doing is ever easy.” There was something wry about the smile he gave her. “How often does the easiest, safest path prove to be the best path?”

She recognized the very words she had once said to him, all those many months ago, and she laughed out loud. Her heart might have sprouted wings, for the sudden lightness in her chest. “I suppose I can’t argue with that. Oh, Dorramon, I wish I had words to tell you how happy I feel right now.”

“Hold on to it, because tomorrow things are going to get rough.”

“I don’t care. I think with you beside me I could stand anything.”

He chuckled, a low and inviting sound, and pulled her close. “Well, then, we should be nigh onto invincible, because I feel the same way with you.”

Alannys took his face in her hands and kissed him, savoring the play of electricity between his skin and her hands, between their lips. Dorramon groaned against her mouth, pulling her tight up against him, and she flushed with sudden heat. She knew she should probably feel bad—who knew what ramifications their decision would yet have?—but at that moment, she couldn’t seem to do it. Let the world cast whatever slings and arrows it could muster. She would never again leave the side of the man beside her now.

The sitting room door suddenly opened. “Your Highness? Oh, your Highness, I am sorry to interrupt!”

Alannys recognized Tralice’s flustered voice and sighed, slumping back into the sofa in resignation. She raked her hands through her unkempt hair and straightened her rumpled nightgown, even though part of her had to wonder what it really mattered anymore.

“Again.” Dorramon released her grudgingly, and she couldn’t help but think his tone as he turned to the maid was a bit short—evidently she wasn’t the only one getting frustrated.

“What?” Tralice sounded confused.

“You’re sorry to interrupt again. This is hardly the first time this has happened, wouldn’t you say?” Something like humor twinkled in his eyes.

“But this time it isn’t my fault! Captain Grayble begs your presence at the dungeon, right away, your Majesty!”

“The dungeon? What’s this?” Dorramon was abruptly serious.

Tralice shook her head. “I don’t know all the details, my Lord King, but he says that Lord Diabon and Baron Prubard have escaped.”

Dorramon swore, a blistering oath Alannys had never heard from the royal lips before. “Why in the Seven Hells didn’t they Talent-proof that cell?”

Tralice fidgeted, her eyes wide and round in a face that suddenly looked strained. “Begging your pardon, my Lord King, but—they did. The prisoners, they escaped anyway.”

A thundering silence enveloped the room, full of the shock that Alannys was sure they all had to be feeling. It was chillingly obvious what this revelation meant—the prisoners must have had help from the inside. There was just no other way both escaped from a Talent-proofed cell.

Dorramon’s jaw hardened, and he stomped off toward the door. He was halfway there before he stopped and looked back at her. “Stay here. Don’t worry about this—I’m going to take care of it. And don’t forget your promise. We’ll get through all of this, one way or another, and I’m going to hold you to it.”

She was too stunned to do anything more than nod. Diabon and Prubard—escaped? There is no way all of these jailbreaks happened independently. When had Raman said that to her? She couldn’t remember, but whenever it was, he had been right.

Dorramon was going to take care of this—how? How could any of them battle a force they couldn’t even contain?

When Alannys finally recovered from her shock and looked around her sitting room, Tralice was standing there alone, watching her. “Is my Lady all right?”

“I am. I’m sorry, Tralice. What about you? Are you all right? I didn’t expect to see you back at the palace.”

“I gathered as much.” Tralice turned away and started cleaning up the remains of the tea. Her voice sounded strained, but she kept her back to Alannys. “A girl has to get her money from somewhere, right? And you were bound to run out of dresses you could put on by yourself eventually.”

Alannys brushed aside this odd attempt at a joke. There wasn’t a trace of humor in Tralice’s tone, and the words rang flat. A peculiar distance had opened up between them, a distance Alannys had never sensed there before and did not know how to close. “I wasn’t asking about the job, Tralice. I was asking about you. I thought we were friends.”

“Of course, my Lady,” Tralice said stiffly. “You need not worry over me. I returned to my work because it was time for me to return to my work, that’s all. I am living my life now for my husband, and my boys.”

Alannys didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t even sure what most of that was supposed to mean. Tralice said they were friends, but she didn’t feel very friendly. All Alannys was certain of was that there was a darkness about Tralice now, an ominous aura that had never been there before.

“But you, my Lady,” Tralice said suddenly, “I am happy to find you doing so well. And still so close to his Majesty, it seems.”

Alannys frowned. How was she even expected to respond to that? She couldn’t tell if it was her imagination, or if something more than idle conversation lurked behind the observation. “Yes, well…we’ve had a bumpy time of it lately, but—”

“It makes me happy to see you’ve both come through it so well.” Tralice deposited the tray holding the dirty tea service on the table and turned back to Alannys, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s a bit of too bad it’ll all change, now Princess Varilyn has come to claim what’s hers.”

Alannys was immediately on the defensive. “I don’t think so.”

Tralice glanced at her face and then away. She moved to the far wall and made a show of straightening the royal tapestry. “I do admire your courage, my Lady, and I can’t fault your ambition. But…well, most kings keep concubines, as I suppose you know well enough, but not as they are getting married! There is a way to these things, after all, and proper decorum must be observed. You’ll have to make yourself scarce, my Lady, at least until Princess Varilyn’s first child is born.”

Alannys closed her eyes and tried to collect herself, pushing the unwanted mental images Tralice had given her aside. “No, Tralice, I don’t think you’re understanding me. Dorramon doesn’t have any intention of marrying Princess Varilyn. I haven’t told anyone yet, but he proposed to me, today, just before you came in.”

Alannys could remember all the time she had spent with Tralice since she came to Ravanmark, all the laughs they had shared, the secret scandalous jokes. In her mind, Tralice would be thrilled by this news, grabbing her hands and squealing like a schoolgirl.

In actuality, Tralice didn’t react at all for a long, long moment. She stood stock still, her hands frozen on the big tapestry. She didn’t even seem to be breathing.

Then she turned around to face Alannys, folded her hands primly in front of her, and said quite calmly, “I believe I must have misheard you, my Lady.”

Alannys frowned. “I would be very surprised if you did. It was pretty clear.”

“Then you must have misspoken! What you just said is impossible!”

Alannys wanted to snap back, but her maid’s reaction worried her more than it angered her. “Tralice, I don’t understand. This is not impossible. Dorramon sat right here on this sofa and proposed to me, not ten minutes ago. It was the happiest moment of my life, and I frankly expected a completely different reaction from you. You’ve known about Dorramon and I since the beginning, and you’ve always been supportive.”

“I support him having some fun, not overturning the whole social order!”

“Calm down.” Alannys sat down on the sofa, trying to look more in control of the situation than she felt. “No one is overturning the social order.”

“Aren’t you? You can’t marry a king on the strength of a courtesy title, my Lady!” Tralice wasn’t backing down, and her eyes blasted Alannys with hard accusation.

“What about the title of Redeemer of the Realm?”

“Now you’re just trying to confuse the issue. This was supposed to be a bit of harmless fun for you both, not marriage! There are rules for these things, Lady Alannys, these things are serious, and the rules don’t include kings marrying commoners. Especially alien commoners!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Tralice. I assure you I love Dorramon just as much as you loved your husband. Is it fair to tell us we can’t be together because of my position, or his?”

“Fair?” Tralice demanded, balling her hands into white-knuckled, tendon-corded fists. “Fair? You dare to even speak to me of fair?” She stopped suddenly, pulling in a shuddering breath. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just not done. You are overstepping your boundaries, my Lady.”

There was no point to this. Alannys stood up, staring evenly into Tralice’s flushed face. “I acknowledge no boundaries.”

She walked stiffly into her bedroom, doing her best not to slow or stumble under Tralice’s stony glare.

Alannys sat on her sofa bright and early the next morning, with her face buried in her hands, trying to tune out some of the noise and confusion raging around her.

“Lady Alannys, about bread—”

“No! No, no, no—Lady Alannys was talking to me! You must wait your turn!” The tailor stepped in front of the baker when he interrupted him, using his portly frame to physically separate him from her. He was but one person in quite a vocal group of people crowding her sitting room, all vying for her attention and each looking for answers. She wasn’t much in the mood for it and probably would have sent them away, only they were all evidently there at the request of the king.

“My Lady!” the agitated tailor continued, turning back to her. “You simply must pick a color. I can have trunks of samples brought for your review, but I must have the color first!” He sounded almost apoplectic.

Alannys had to wonder how much pressure Dorramon had put on these people. “You mean you don’t use white wedding gowns here?”

“White? No. I can’t think of a single queen who wore white to her wedding. It’s rather…drab, wouldn’t you say? It seems like a common choice, if my Lady will forgive me for saying so—not really suited to the woman marrying the King of Ravanmark.”

“Well—all right.” Alannys had no desire to argue it. If traditions weren’t the same here, then so be it. “What color do queens wear to the weddings?”

“Ach, my Lady, if there was a simple answer to that question I would not be asking you! It can be anything you want—even white, although I would not recommend it, myself. You could choose royal purple, for obvious reasons. Or maybe blue, it’s quite feminine…”

“Red,” she said.

“Red?” The tailor considered it, staring at the ceiling and rubbing his chins. “That will be quite…striking, my Lady.”

“Yes. I want the same color his Majesty wore to his coronation.”

“Ah! I see your meaning. A fine choice, my Lady. Very striking. Give me two days and I will return with fabric samples for you to inspect. Then we can begin to discuss the styling of your gown.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” she said, happy and relieved that her choices finally met with his approval.

“Do that. Do that! I will too.” He grabbed her hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

Her joy was short-lived. The tailor had barely released her hand before the baker, a wiry little man, pushed him out of the way. “Rye, pumpernickel, or sourdough?”

She blinked at him. “Pumpernickel. What am I choosing?” A knock sounded at her door.

The baker probably didn’t even hear her question; he was snorting in poorly concealed distaste before she even finished her answer. As soon as she named the bread, he spoke again. “Apple, strawberry, or blueberry?”

“Strawberry. But what—”

“Veal, venison, or pheasant?” The knocking continued.

“Veal.” She gave up trying to understand the choices she was being offered and just made decisions.

The baker marked her answer on a parchment sheet, and looked at her out of the tops of her eyes, his face still turned down. “Look, you do understand this is for the royalty and nobility attending your wedding, right? Not the peasant rabble?”

“What, have you got something against veal?”

“Love it, myself.” He quirked a sardonic grin at her. “But then, I’m only one small step above the peasant rabble. Nobles don’t—”

“If my selections are unsuitable, how about you just make some suitable ones for me and save us all some aggravation?” The knocking at her door had become a thundering, incessant pounding, and it felt like it was driving her mad. “Tralice! Would you very much mind getting the door?”

“As it happens,” Tralice said airily from behind her, “I would mind.”

“What?” Alannys spun to face her, surprised by the defiance in her tone, only to find it reflected in her expression as well. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate.” Tralice planted her feet and crossed her arms, the very picture of obstinance. “It isn’t right for the king’s betrothed to receive unmarried men in her rooms—especially Singari men; they cause enough scandals all on their own.”

“That’s Chen out there? And you didn’t let him in?” Alannys was already halfway to the door, ignoring the questions that continued to fly at her back. What’s your favorite flower? Red wine, or white? Do you prefer your hair up, or down?

“My Lady.” Tralice sounded like she was gritting her teeth. “This is not appropriate!”

“I don’t give a single damn about what is appropriate. My friends are my friends, and they are always welcome here, regardless of their rank.” She threw the door open, relieved to see a friendly face in the whirlwind of frenetic activity that her sitting room had become.

He smiled at her, but it seemed like a half-hearted smile. He shot a wary glance around the busy room. “Muses, Alannys, I didn’t think you were going to answer! Is this a bad time?”

“Maybe, if you ask them. What’s going on?”

“It’s the King of Cadenda.” His voice was low and flat. “I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but he’s here.”

“What? Now?” The world lurched sideways, and she grabbed the doorframe to steady herself.

“Almost. You know we’re camped near the main road. I could see the royal party approaching, so I figured I’d better get over here and tell you, because I didn’t know if anyone else would.”

“Mercy. I’ve got to get to the Great Hall.” She looked down at herself, surveying her clothes. Tralice had helped her dress that morning, and though her gray brocade gown was simple, it was a good deal nicer than anything she would have worn on her own. But she didn’t have Songstrike, or even her dagger, and she didn’t have time to get either of them.

“Alannys?” Chen was already turning away from the door, and he looked back at her over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

She pushed away her doubts. “Everybody out!” she shouted. “I’m sorry, but I have to attend an audience. We’ll have to continue this later.”

She didn’t wait for them to comply. She walked out the door with Chen, heading for the Great Hall as fast as her legs would carry her.

“So,” Chen said, staring straight ahead, “last time I asked you, things were not official. I’m guessing that now they are.”

His tone was carefully neutral. She glanced at his face, and had to look away. “Yes. I’m sorry, Chen.”

“I don’t think you should be sorry. I wouldn’t have taken you to the outer ward if I had expected any less. Judging from the state of your room, it doesn’t look like the king is in any mood to wait, and the Singari just happen to be here. If you were serious about music at your reception, I hope you’ll consider letting us provide it.”

“Are you—are you sure?”

He shot a crooked smile at her, then looked away. “We’re tired of singing for battles. I don’t think we’ve played for entertainment since Pinevale.”

“There is that. I would be honored, Chen, really.”

“Good.” He held the vestibule door open, and they walked out into the bright, chilly morning. “I’m happy for you, Alannys. I really am.”

“Then why do you sound so gloomy?”

He sighed. “I’m glad you two finally cleared the air between you. The king and the Redeemer…it’s like something out of a fairy tale, with a dark, scary forest and a shining castle, and everybody lives happily ever after at the end.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked at him expectantly.

“Be strong, Alannys, because I think you’ve got a bit more time in the dark, scary forest before you get your happily ever after.” He kissed her hand in a gesture that seemed quite courtly, then turned and headed for the gate to the outer ward.

She stared after him, wondering how much of his assessment was true. She wanted to blow it off entirely, but she had a sensation she couldn’t shake, a sensation her grandmother would have had a quick explanation for.

Someone, somewhere was walking on her grave.