Swift to Its Close

“They’re living near Albus Magnus now. That’s what I heard. Tee, hee, hee!”

Broderick recognized the piercing giggle of Lady Oliviana Parkhurst, Duke Aldrick’s new mistress. Jannike thought Oliviana had a fair chance of becoming the new Duchess of Newshire. Broderick thought the girl had better get rid of that stupid giggle first, though.

The armorer politely asked, “Could your majesty turn and slightly incline your royal self forward, please?”

Broderick turned, bent at the waist, and raised his gauntleted arms. The armorer and his apprentice tugged and prodded at the joint where the gilded culet met the cuirass. Broderick had forgotten how tedious getting fitted for new armor was. But Duke Aldrick was paying for this, like he was paying for the whole tournament. And the reason he was paying for the tournament was that Broderick had told him to. So, it would seem churlish for Broderick not to participate.

Outside the tent, Lady Oliviana burst out giggling again, then said, “I’ve heard the Severi have cut them off without a single penny.”

“He has money from his mother’s side of the family, or so I’ve been told,” said Jannike, in her usual calm, stately way.

“Oh, don’t tell me that,” said Oliviana. “I had this notion Elwyn Sigor would be reduced to selling herself or singing for her supper at low taverns. Don’t take that image away from me. Tee, hee, hee!”

A new voice joined the group outside the tent. “Oliviana, darling, why don’t you take Lady Jannike to see the gardens.” This was Duke Aldrick himself, sounding a bit put out, like he always did.

Moments later, the gold-embroidered flap of the tent parted, and Aldrick entered. “Ah, the armor is coming along splendidly, your majesty.”

“Thank you, yes,” said Broderick. “Mr. Phelps here is a master of his craft.” A polite nod to the armorer, who bowed extravagantly in return. Then, to Aldrick, Broderick added, “Did you need something, your grace?”

“Ah...well, um....” The duke’s face reddened. “I was wondering if this was a good time to discuss the disposition of my troops. Obviously, I’m pleased to contribute to the defense of the realm. More than pleased, in fact, I’m...ah...proud, yes, proud to help.”

“However, is it really wise to place all of Newshire’s troops under a single commander who is so, um...young and untried?”

“William Trevelyan has my complete confidence,” said Broderick, catching Aldrick’s gaze and holding it until the man looked away. “I named him lieutenant general of the west because he is our finest commander.”

Well, their finest if you didn’t count Broderick himself, and his son, and Lukas. Although Lukas wasn’t exactly reliable anymore, blast it all. And Broderick the younger had never really had a true killer’s instincts. In any case, William Trevelyan, Earl of Moltzig, was a brilliant strategist and leader of men. And, more to the point, he wasn’t Aldrick Sigor. Broderick didn’t trust Aldrick any farther than he could throw him in full armor.

“There will be no further discussion on this point,” Broderick said, raising his voice slightly. Then, smiling, he added. “Good day, your grace. I’m sure you have a feast to plan.”

Broderick observed with satisfaction the way Aldrick’s face fell and turned a shade of sickly green as he excused himself and backed out of the tent. Holy Finster—to think there had been a time when everyone had thought that slimy reptile was going to be the next King of Myrcia. They had all dodged an arrow there, hadn’t they?

Some hours later, when the armor was finally finished, Broderick found Jannike in the chambers they were sharing and told her about his conversation with Aldrick. She did not seem to find the duke’s humiliation as amusing as he did, however.

She pursed her lips and tapped him on the chest. “Remember, darling, you’re supposed to be here to make friends, yes? That’s what her majesty said, isn’t it?”

“If Muriel wants to be friends with fucking Aldrick Sigor,” grumbled Broderick, “then she can come here and do it herself.”

“But didn’t you say yourself in the carriage on the way here that ‘we need Aldrick’?”

That was true—Broderick was pretty sure he could bully Aldrick into bullying his brother-in-law, the Duke of Wislicshire, into handing over Alice Sigor and Jennifer Stansted when the time was right. Their value as hostages would make up for a lot of Aldrick’s foolishness. But not for all of it.

Jannike looked as if she might have continued the argument, but he tugged at the laces of her bodice and pulled her down into bed with him. And she, clever woman that she was, quickly realized there was something much more pleasant she could do with her mouth than trying to defend Aldrick Sigor.

The morning of the Northern Grand Tournament dawned cold and drizzly. Broderick felt oddly out of sorts, like he had drunk far too much wine the night before, even though he hadn’t. Jannike tended to him as she usually did, but to his embarrassment, it took her considerably more effort than usual.

She had the servants fetch some hot, black coffee and he drank it in bed, feeling the beginnings of a headache stirring in his temples. The armorer and his apprentice arrived, along with Broderick’s squires. He put the coffee cup aside, and a sharp pain ran down his arm.

“Finster’s balls,” he said, wincing and rubbing his bicep. Had he injured it during sword practice the day before and hadn’t noticed?

His second squire, Phillip Ostensen, rushed forward with his socks and trousers. Broderick threw back the covers and stepped out of bed. Suddenly, a fiery pain shot down his arm again, and it felt as if a horse had sat on his chest. He opened his mouth to cry out, but before he could say a word, everything went dark, and he crashed forward on the floor.

He woke from a dream of utter, impenetrable blackness, thick and heavy as tar, to find himself on the settee in front of the window. Jannike hovered over him; he slowly realized his head was resting on her lap. Her eyes were red; tears ran freely down her cheeks and into her bodice.

Turning, he saw Duke Aldrick, the armorer, the apprentice, the squires, and the royal physician. They were smiling now, but he could still see traces of terror in their eyes.

The physician hurried forward. “Just a minor...well, perhaps more than minor, but in any case, definitely some kind of apoplectic attack, your majesty.” He pressed a bottle of silvery liquid into Jannike’s quivering hand. “Twice a day with food. And, ah...,” he averted his eyes from Jannike, “um...try to avoid strenuous activity of, ah...any kind.”

“Your majesty, I apologize, but might I remind you—” Little Eleanor Rath let out a squeak of surprise and turned away, studying the pattern of the thick Sahasran carpet with mortified intensity.

Anything the matter, other than the fact that one of Eleanor’s older brothers, Sir Edward Rath, was currently lying stark naked in Muriel’s bed, still sticky and trying to catch his post-coital breath.

“N-no, your majesty,” the girl stammered. “But Lady Jorunn wished me to, um...remind you that she is waiting in the outer parlor.”

The girl brought the robe and held it for Muriel, all the while averting her eyes from her brother. Edward was red-faced with embarrassment now, too, racing to pull his trousers on and getting them backwards by mistake.

“I would ask you to join Lady Jorunn and me for luncheon,” Muriel said, as the boy got his pants turned the right way around at last and started on his shirt. “But I think I recall you saying that you have an appointment this afternoon, as well.”

“It’s nothing important,” said the boy, trying and failing to get his trousers laced properly. “I’m just going riding with Uncle Theodore.” He rolled his eyes as he said his esteemed relative’s name.

Muriel frowned at him. “Don’t you like your uncle? He’s one of my oldest and dearest friends, you know.”

Turning now to Eleanor, Muriel asked, “What do you think of your uncle, Lord Musgrove?”

Muriel shook her head and grinned at the Rath siblings. “Oh, my dears, someday soon I need to have a talk with both of you about your late father. But in the meantime.... Yes, the slippers, Eleanor. Good girl. In the meantime, I must speak with Lady Jorunn.”

She left the brother and sister together in embarrassed silence and walked to the next parlor, where Lady Jorunn was, indeed, seated by the long windows. There was a bottle of unopened wine and a silver pot with coffee that was probably getting cold now.

“Lady Jorunn,” Muriel said with her brightest smile, “I do apologize. Somehow my staff neglected to tell me you were waiting. I do hope nothing serious has happened.”

The hillichmagnar stood and gave an abbreviated curtsy. “Your majesty, I bring grave tidings. I have reason to believe that the Sigors are building a new army in the Immani Protectorate of Cruedrua, and they will be invading soon.”

“Is that so?” Muriel sat, opened the wine bottle and poured two glasses. “Are you certain about this, my lady? After all, Edwin has been trying to gather foreign allies for thirteen years now.”

“My friends at Diernemynster tell me Caedmon Aldred has left, heading north up the Styrung Pass to Cruedrua.”

“I see.” Muriel sipped her wine, trying not to show how much this news disquieted her. “But surely Lord Aldred travels frequently.”

“Yes, your majesty, but I believe he has gone to help the Sigors again. I sent him a message by bird, asking him directly if he was going to fight, and if the Sigors were going to invade.”

“Yes, and did he reply?” Muriel set down her glass a little too hard, and wine sloshed over the crisp starched linen.

“His answer was...evasive, your majesty. He claims only to want to protect Edwin Sigor. He avoided answering my question about the invasion, and I believe he did so deliberately.” Jorunn picked up the other glass and took a long drink. “I felt duty-bound to report this information to you.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Muriel. “Your consideration is much appreciated. Can I take it that we may again rely upon you for aid, just as the Sigors rely on Lord Aldred?”

The hillichmagnar fiddled with her glass, and a tinge of pink appeared on her ageless brow. “I...I would like to be of service, your majesty. Truly, I would. However, the Freagast still wishes to avoid an open conflict between two hillichmagnars of Diernemynster, so my ability to help is...somewhat limited.”

“Of course,” said Muriel between gritted teeth. Forcing her face back into a mask of politeness, she asked, “Could you possibly speak with your distant relations in Annenstruk? Any help they could give would be most welcome.”

Lady Jorunn’s face grew pinker. “But...but your majesty, surely there is little I could do in that regard that you could not do better yourself. Your cousin, after all—”

“Yes, my cousin is the King of Annenstruk,” snapped Muriel. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Unfortunately, the king liked her brother Lukas a lot more than he liked Muriel. And Lukas was in a touchy mood at the moment. If Lukas kept acting like there was no reason to help Muriel and her husband, then Cousin Galt wouldn’t see any reason to help, either.

At that moment, while Muriel struggled against the temptation to tell Jorunn how useless she was, a loud frantic knocking came on the outer door of the apartment. Eleanor, now recovered from her embarrassment, went to see who it was and returned moments later leading her uncle, Teddy Musgrove, himself.

Teddy looked perfectly respectable today, in Muriel’s opinion, with a rather modest riding dress of gray tweed. When Muriel met his gaze, however—wide-eyed with horror—she knew something awful must have happened.

“Your majesty,” he started, bowing. Then he dropped the pretense and rushed over to take her hand. “Muriel, a messenger just rode in. He’s downstairs with your son at the moment. The king...Broderick has....”

All the air seemed to have left Muriel’s chest. In a tiny whisper, she asked, “Yes? What?”

“He suffered some sort of apoplectic attack on the morning of the tourney. He’s still alive, thank Earstien, and Duke Aldrick has arranged to have him brought back here immediately.” Teddy leaned down and kissed Muriel’s hand. “I’ll go right now. I’ll meet him on the road and see how he is, and then I’ll come back and report.”

“Thank you,” said Muriel breathlessly. “Thank you, dear Teddy. Thank you.”

He left, and Muriel had to sit and listen to everyone else’s prayers and words of empty sympathy. She sat still, barely acknowledging their presence, trying to comprehend a world without Broderick. It was like hearing the moon was gone from the sky, or that the Hafocbeorg was falling. It was like having the floor give way beneath her.

“There’s a pretty metaphor,” she thought. “When you spend half your life walking all over something, you expect it to always be there.”

Broderick would live. He had to live. There was simply no alternative. Except that everyone died, sooner or later; Broderick was no exception to that rule. So, what would she do if the worst happened? What would they all do?

“Excuse me,” she said, standing up and abruptly cutting off a long and droning prayer from Lady Jorunn. “I need to speak with my son.”

She found him downstairs in the library with his private secretary, a young monk named Brother Hamon Friel. They were poring over a map of Newshire.

“I’m going with Lord Musgrove,” he said, stepping back. “Brother Hamon can stay and—”

“No, darling.” She turned and glared at Brother Hamon until the clever young monk got the hint and excused himself. Looking back at young Broderick, she said, “You must stay here.”

“I...I don’t understand.” And bless him, he clearly didn’t, the poor fool.

“I’ve just learned the Sigors may be building a new army. If your father dies, a lot of our so-called ‘allies’ may rethink their support for us.”

“Pledges mean nothing. Your father rules because people fear him. People may love you, my dear boy, but no one fears you. You had better start thinking about how to remedy that.”

She patted his cheek hard—almost hard enough to be a slap. “Well, darling, you might start by making a list of your father’s enemies. If he goes to the Light, you need to make sure he has plenty of company on the journey.”

The ride back to Formacaster was supposed to be as comfortable as possible. That was what the royal physician had said. Broderick was supposed to stay in bed, which meant he couldn’t ride a horse or even take the royal carriage. Instead, he rode in the back of a special cart that had been built a decade ago for Duke Aldrick’s father, Duke Jeffery Sigor, in the old man’s final decline.

The cart had a massive feather bed, soft carpets, and a dizzying array of awnings and curtains. Plus, the axles were equipped with a suspension of chains and leather straps that was supposed to even out the bumps and potholes in the road. In point of fact, it felt like riding in a boat that had gone broadside to the waves. Even the slightest obstacle would set it swaying back and forth, side to side, over and over again. Broderick hated it passionately before they had gone five miles, and it was more than a hundred and thirty miles to Formacaster.

Jannike rode beside him, propped up on pillows. She read aloud to him from a new Annenstruker romance she had bought in Rawdon, though he didn’t pay much attention. Twice a day, she gave him his potion, and each morning and evening, she stood by as the physician examined him.

“Of course, your majesty,” the physician would say, in a tone that managed to combine polite deference with undisguised condescension. “This is all a precaution. Merely a precaution.”

Then the old fool would go outside and talk with Jannike in a low, serious voice. Broderick could peek through a gap in the awning and see Jannike listening, jaw clenched, face white, clutching her arms tightly to herself.

Later, Broderick would ask her what the man had said, but she would put on an awkward smile, stroke his cheek, and say, “Nothing important, darling. Just lie there and get better, now.”

When they were three days out of Rawdon, Baron Teddy Musgrove, of all people, met them on the road. He had come from Formacaster to see Broderick in person and bring back a report on his health to Muriel. Old Teddy had managed to put on men’s trousers. That curious mark of respect, more than anything, brought home to Broderick the fact that everyone around him expected him to die.

“I’m not going to die,” he told Jannike, after Teddy left. “I feel better than I have in years, in fact.”

Apparently she believed him, or was at least willing to put him to the test, because that evening, when the royal party had stopped for the night, she crawled naked into his bed. The results were more than satisfactory for both of them, with a degree of vigor and passion that surprised even him.

He woke the next morning with her still naked at his side, lovely as she had ever been, her thick blonde hair pooling loosely across the pillows and his chest. He should have been happy. He should have been thrilled to find her there, and grateful for her care. But he found himself strangely troubled, instead.

An odd notion had been flitting through his mind, ever since he had awakened from the apoplectic attack. At first it had simply been a joke he told himself—a way of mocking his own pretensions. And then it stopped being funny and started to seem like the only logical explanation for what had happened.

“Earstien spared me,” he thought. “I should be dead, but I’m not. There has to be a reason.” And the more he thought about it, the more he felt sure he could see the reason clearly. “I’ve got a chance to make things right. I can fix all the worst mistakes I’ve ever made. That’s the reason this happened.”

Well, then. If he was going to start fixing his mistakes, then he had better start with the very worst one—the only thing that had ever stirred the atrophied remnants of his conscience.

When the cart approached Formacaster, Broderick ordered the driver to take a slight detour into the village of Abertref, across the River Trahern from the city. Ignoring the physician’s protests, Broderick dismounted there and walked up to the little church where his mother was buried. Jannike went with him, too, of course, and she said a little prayer over the grave.

“Most likely,” he agreed. He was pretty sure she would have been, but she probably wouldn’t have understood what he was about to do. She would probably have told him he was on the verge of being a damned fool. And who knew? Maybe she would have been right.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, taking Jannike’s hand. “You’re a wonderful woman, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

There was no way she would understand, so he simply said, “Because I wish it. That’s why.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “You always have. But I don’t need to be happy. I need a true partner. I had one, but I have let our partnership...fade away.”

Jannike shook her head. “Do you mean the queen? But she approves of us! She is the one who arranged for us to meet, don’t you remember? She and I are friends.”

He said, “I will, of course, provide you with an estate and sufficient income to—”

“I don’t need an allowance or an estate,” she said, drawing herself up and wiping her tears. “I will return to my late husband’s estate in Annenstruk, if you will permit me.”

He had no objection, and when she insisted on arranging her own transportation on her own barge down the Trahern, he left her to it at the Ealdmund Docks, while he rode up to the castle, feeling young and unencumbered for the first time in years.

The physician tried to make him go straight to his apartment, but Broderick made a point of doing a little business first, just to make sure the physician knew who was in charge. He found Lady Jorunn in the council chamber and asked for a full report on this supposed Sigor army in Cruedrua. Teddy Musgrove had passed along that news when they had met on the road in Newshire.

“Do you think there is any chance Edwin Sigor could be convinced to sign a peace treaty?” Broderick asked.

The hillichmagnar sighed. “I cannot say, your majesty. I hear rumors now that there are whole regiments from Wislicshire and northern Newshire equipping for war and heading north. And Emperor Tullius and Empress Vita are said to be turning a blind eye to any Immani legionnaires or officers who take a ‘leave of absence’ to join the Sigor army.”

“Even so, would you be willing to go meet Edwin and Rohesia and propose a peace conference?”

Lady Jorunn curtsied. “Of course, your majesty. And may I say how moved I am by your clear and honest desire for peace.”

He let her think what she wanted and bade her farewell with a passage about brotherhood and charity from the Halig Leoth. Then he went to find his son.

Broderick the younger and his secretary, Brother Friel, had appropriated one of the second floor parlors as an office, full of maps and charts and regimental lists. They were trying to determine what forces they could count on, if the rumored Sigor invasion actually happened. Like Lady Jorunn, they were unfortunately finding that a lot of the northern soldiers were slipping quietly away to Cruedrua.

“I’ve heard that even as early as the Solstice, there were Immani agents riding around Wislicshire, Newshire, and Trahernshire,” said young Broderick. “They’re offering a lot of money for experienced knights and officers. They’re offering a lot of money for anyone willing to fight, actually.”

“Fucking Faustinus,” grumbled Broderick, knowing the wily Immani hillichmagnar was even more to blame than the emperor. Then, smiling again, he said, “Hopefully this won’t matter. I’ve just sent Jorunn to start peace talks. All we have to do is draw this out long enough for Edwin’s army to get bored. And for Faustinus and Emperor Tullius to turn their attention somewhere else. They always do, in the end.”

It wasn’t, actually. It was only common sense. But it was at least the start of a plan, and that would have to be good enough for the time being.

Feeling satisfied with a good day’s work, Broderick went up to his old apartment. His squires were already unpacking his clothes, while the housemaids brought in refreshments.

“No, wait. Stop,” he said, hands on hips, surveying the rooms where he had lived for thirty-six years. “Pack this all up again and take it to the royal apartments.”

His squires exchanged an awkward glance. The housemaids bit their lips and scuffed their feet on his carpet. One of them finally said, “Um...the royal apartments, your majesty? You...you mean where the queen lives?”

“Yes, exactly. Where the queen lives. And from now on, it’s going to be where the king lives, too.”

Muriel returned from a carriage ride with Sir Edward Rath, expecting a long bath and a decadent afternoon with the young man, only to find her husband in her bed. The royal physician was checking his pulse, while their son and Broderick’s squires looked on. There was no sign of Jannike, curiously enough.

“Oh, ah...hello, darling,” she said, rallying quickly. She walked over and bent down to give him a tiny kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’ve returned safely.”

He caught one of her hands and held it to his chest. “I’m glad to be home.”

The physician put a little vial of silvery liquid on the bedside table and bowed. “Two drops with food every day, your majesty.” Another bow, and he led the way out of the room, followed by the two squires and young Broderick.

Muriel gave him a nod and said, “Be so good as to close the doors, will you?”

On the threshold, he hesitated, as if unsure whether she meant for him to close the doors with him on the other side or this side. Fortunately, he chose correctly, and Muriel was alone with her husband.

She sat on the bed by him. “I hope you don’t expect me to mother you, dear. I’ve never been one for mothering, as I’m sure our children can attest.”

From one of the inner parlors, she heard a “thump” and some whispered conversation.

When she opened the door, she saw two footmen and several housemaids shifting her brand new settee to make room for Broderick’s ancient, well-worn couch. And his wretched old campaign trunks with all his clothes were in a corner. And here was the carpet she had given him as a wedding present all those years ago. None of it matched the décor, which she had just changed the past autumn to a pale blue in watered silk and velvet.

“Carry on, then,” she said, with a vaguely regal wave of her hand. She shut the door and went back to the bed. “Is this some sort of joke?”

Again, she had that same feeling like the floor had dropped out from under her. “I don’t understand. We’re comfortable now as we are, aren’t we?”

“You and I were never meant to be comfortable,” he said. “We were meant to rule. Everything that’s happening—Lukas abandoning us, the Sigors gathering an army—it’s because we haven’t kept a united front.”

She bristled at the obvious implication. “You blame me for losing Lukas, don’t you? And Flora, too, I suppose.”

“No. There’s enough blame to go around. You drove Flora off, but I’m the idiot who started fucking her to begin with. So what do you think? Partners again?”

Muriel sighed and patted his head. “Why don’t we get you better again before we go making drastic changes in our life.”

She leaned in and kissed him. He tried to drag her into bed, but she slipped out of his grasp, laughing. It had to be a joke; he couldn’t really want that sort of relationship again. But it made her feel good to be in control of him for once.

“Get your sleep, now,” she said, heading for her dressing room. “I will check in later to make sure you take your medicine.”

As she changed her clothes, she summoned her ladies and ordered them to find Jannike Overfelt. Young Eline Unset (daughter of the Earl of Levanger and many-times-removed niece of Lady Jorunn) was the one who managed to locate the woman at the Ealdmund Docks. Muriel hurried down there, arriving just as Jannike was supervising the stevedores in moving her luggage aboard a passenger barge headed south.

“His majesty has dismissed me,” said Jannike, with a proud little tilt of her head, like he’d given her a knighthood. “I am going home. Farewell, your majesty.”

“But you and Broderick have been together almost eight years now. Don’t you feel anything for him anymore? Don’t you have any sense of loyalty?”

“Loyalty?” scoffed Jannike. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been thinking a lot over the past few hours. I don’t believe you and your husband have the faintest notion what the word ‘loyalty’ means.”

“There’s no reason to be rude,” said Muriel. “What would it take to get you to stay and care for him? I have some estates from my mother’s side of the family. I could find you a handsome young knight, if Broderick isn’t quite as...capable as he used to be.”

“Then name your price, blast it all. The king needs you. I need you. They say the Sigors might attack soon, and we have to all work together now. We can’t be arguing with each other.”

Jannike shook her head sadly. “You do realize, don’t you, that this is all your fault. You and your husband keep pushing everyone away.” For the first time, her voice grew hoarse, and tears came to her eyes. “There are so many people who would love you—who have tried to love you—and you keep pushing them away.”

“Goodbye, your majesty. I think the captain is getting ready to push off. You had better go ashore now.”

From the dock, Muriel watched in helpless astonishment as the barge headed out into the middle of the Trahern, passed the confluence where the River Colwinn joined the stream, and disappeared around the corner, hidden by the red cliffs of the Hafocbeorg.

She was about to return to her rooms and get thoroughly drunk, when she realized what she had to do. No one else could possibly do it, because it was her family, and her fault, too. She sent Eline Unset to give orders for one of the royal barges to be made ready to sail. Then she went back to the castle, but only to pack.

Broderick got out of bed and stood in the door of her dressing room. “What are you doing?” he asked. “I thought you might stay, and the two of us could—”

“Be partners. Real partners. Yes, dear. That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m going to Severn. You stay here and plan for war. I’m going to have a word with my brother. I promise I’ll get him to see reason and start sending troops and money again.”

Broderick seized her around the waist and pulled her in for a long, powerful kiss. After a moment’s hesitation, she left her ladies to finish the packing and took her husband into the bedroom, closing the door behind them.

She felt almost like a newlywed as she left Formacaster, sailing down the bright blue waters of the mighty Trahern. She had a mission, and she had the support and trust of her husband again. That meant a great deal.

Even so, it wasn’t everything. She took Sir Edward Rath with her. She was turning over a new leaf, not planting a whole new tree.

“Your majesty, please. The physician said you’re not to leave your bed under any circumstances.”

Broderick laced up his trousers and washed his hands in the basin. Then he addressed himself to Landon Halifax, one of his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber. “Landon, did you know there’s an army post south of Oasestadt, on the salt flats deep in the western desert, where men sometimes boil in their own armor and go blind from the glare of the sun on the sand?”

“Well, now you do.” Broderick pushed past the young man. “And that’s where you’ll be posted if you ever try to stop me from taking a piss in my own damned privy again.”

It would have been one thing to take medical orders from Muriel—Broderick thought he might have enjoyed that. But it was quite another thing to be ordered around by a gangly youth barely out of his teens.

Landon’s reply was lost as Broderick continued past the door to the bedroom and into one of the outer parlors. At a round table there, Broderick’s son and Brother Friel were poring over maps again. Young Broderick’s wife, Therese—who happened to be Landon’s older sister—was seated nearby, taking notes for them. The girl was quite visibly pregnant, and Broderick went over to see if she wanted another cushion or a settee to lie down on, which was only polite.

“Oh, thank you, Father,” she said, smiling brightly, as he brought her a pillow for her feet. “You’re always so considerate.”

Wonderful girl. Smart and strong, but also kind. The people loved her, for what that was worth. Broderick couldn’t honestly remember anymore why Muriel had been so set against the match. Just her usual stubbornness, probably.

No, he wasn’t going to be like that. Not anymore. He and Muriel were true partners again, and she was on her way to Severn at this very moment, trying to make amends with Lukas. He owed her his gratitude, just as he owed it to his daughter-in-law to make sure her son (if indeed it was a son) had a kingdom to grow up and rule someday.

“Yes, probably,” he answered. “Don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly fine.”

In point of fact, he had suffered another sudden spike of pain down his arm that very morning. But he hadn’t felt that crushing pain in his chest again, and he hadn’t passed out. So, he had decided it was better not to mention it to anyone.

Going over to the table and gesturing at the map, he asked, “How are your plans going?”

“Well, sir,” said young Broderick, clasping his hands behind him like an officer reporting to his commander. “I have William Trevelyan gathering new mercenaries at the moment.”

“Ah. I see.” Broderick cleared his throat. “And...how do you intend to pay for these mercenaries?”

Brother Friel raised his hand like a student in class. “Please, your majesty. I have arranged a meeting for Prince Broderick this afternoon with a delegation of the high clergy to discuss what the church might be able to do for your cause.”

“The church?” Broderick raised an eyebrow as he looked from the monk to his son.

“Uncle Arthur” was Arthur Ostensen, Muriel’s other surviving brother, whom Broderick had made Bishop of Leornian and head of the Leafa Church in an entirely unsuccessful act of nepotism. The man was pious, frustratingly incorruptible, and far smarter than a righteous man had any right to be. Far smarter than Broderick’s son, unfortunately. Earstien only knew what would happen if the boy tried negotiating with his uncle in earnest. The whole blasted kingdom would probably end up belonging to the church.

His son looked slightly alarmed. “You, Father? Um...shouldn’t you stay here in—”

“The next person who tells me to go to bed will be in the front rank when the Sigors attack, stark naked and armed only with his hands and his own flaccid....” He stopped and looked at Therese. “Your pardon, my lady.”

An hour later, he sat in the library across an ivory-inlaid table from his brother-in-law, Bishop Arthur. The man had the same strong jaw and prominent nose as the rest of the Ostensens. His eyes had none of the mystery and sly cunning of Muriel’s, though. And his distinguished face bore none of the signs of dissipation that Lukas had started to show.

Arthur began, as he always did, by asking after mutual friends and family, particularly the pregnant Princess Therese, even though he was a frequent visitor to the castle and must have known how they were already.

Finally, Broderick cut him off and said, “Your grace, our nation may be approaching a crisis. I would like to know what the church intends to do if Edwin Sigor and his followers launch a new civil war.”

“A ‘new’ civil war?” said Arthur, tapping his fingertips together. “Did the old one ever really end? But be that as it may, the church has always loyally supported the true King of Myrcia.”

“Yes, well, that’s always the real question, isn’t it?” said Broderick amiably. “Who’s the true king—me or Edwin?”

Arthur bowed his head. “You would know the answer better than I, your majesty. What would you have us do?”

Now the negotiations had started. “I’d like you to preach against the Sigors. I’d like you to encourage men to stay in Myrcia and serve in my army. And if you happen to find a few spare Sovereigns, here and there, you might make a contribution to the cause.”

“I fear there are few churches or abbeys that could contribute anything, your majesty. Times are hard, and taxes are so very high.”

The vast majority of church lands were already exempt from taxes, blast it all. And now the greedy bastards wanted more. How typical.

“I’m sure I could speak with the lord high treasurer,” said Broderick. “We could lower some of the taxes. At least temporarily.”

“Then I suppose I could help with that, too. But only after the danger of invasion has passed.”

“Of course. I must say I am surprised to find you so amenable, your majesty.”

“Consider it a sign of my newfound piety, your grace. As you know, I recently suffered a brief illness, and I believe Earstien has preserved me for a reason.”

Arthur gave him a long and searching look. “I hope that is true, your majesty. May Earstien’s Light be with you.”

“He saved me for a reason,” Broderick reiterated. “Perhaps you could arrange for all your preosts to mention that in their sermons.”

“Of course they will, your majesty,” said Arthur, with a small bow. “I shall have my staff prepare an encyclical asking the faithful to pray for your continued recovery. I can promise you that the church will remain as loyal to you as it has ever been.”

Exactly as loyal, which was to say, not very loyal at all. And he’d promised money he didn’t have simply to keep them neutral. Broderick rubbed his eyes. This was going to be one massive headache, he could already tell. But at least the church wouldn’t openly side against him, Earstien willing.

The tall, muscular blonde girl stood facing her father—seeing him for the first time ever. Lukas stared back, utterly entranced. Muriel hovered anxiously to one side, seemingly forgotten. Hours and hours spent waiting, and now she had been interrupted!

“Karina, my dear,” said Lukas, bowing. “I am so very pleased you could come. I was so happy to receive your letter.”

“This is all very touching,” said Muriel, trying to catch his eyes, “but I have been waiting here for nearly a full day now, Lukas. I certainly wouldn’t wish to deprive you of the oft-repeated joy of meeting one of your own, unexpected progeny, but I need to speak with you.”

She had to press on. “If not now, when? The Sigor armies are gathering in Cruedrua. Everyone knows this. We will be under attack by midsummer, and your army is sitting idle.”

“So you and the king have finally remembered that you need me?” He shook his head and turned back to Karina Swithasdatter. “Your aunt made it quite clear to me that she and your uncle didn’t want my help anymore. They went behind my back and undermined my authority. They blocked advantageous marriages for my daughters. Don’t you think, my dear, that it’s a bit rich of them to come crawling back now?”

Karina was said to be a distinguished and highly-decorated officer in the navy of her matriarchal homeland of Krigadam. But when she dipped her head and blushed, she seemed like a little girl, still. “I...I really can’t say, your grace.”

“Lukas!” Muriel cried, her voice quavering and desperate now. “Lukas, please. Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”

“Not especially,” he said, chuckling darkly. “I know you wouldn’t mean it.”

Arm in arm, they headed in the direction of the buttery, and Muriel stormed out of the hall into the damp gravel courtyard of the Ducal Palace.

After coming all the way here to Severn, she had waited nearly a whole day and part of another for Lukas to acknowledge her presence. And then one of his many, many bastards had arrived, hoping to meet him. Naturally he had seized the excuse to avoid his sister—his queen!

Just before Lukas had finally shown up, as Muriel and Karina waited together in the great hall, Muriel had warned the girl not to get her hopes up, not to expect too much from her absentee father. Even so, even Muriel could never have guessed the man would prove so thoroughly unreliable.

Not even ten minutes later, as the rain started up again, Karina emerged from the great hall looking annoyed and offended. It seemed Lukas’s roving eye had landed on a pretty new housemaid, and so, like a spoiled child dropping an old toy for a shinier one, he had abandoned his newly-discovered daughter so he could get laid.

Muriel offered to buy the girl a drink, but Karina politely refused, saying she needed to get back to the docks, as she was on her way to her next military posting.

Watching the girl go, Muriel thought, “I am wasting my time here, too. This was a horrible, horrible mistake.” Her place was back in Formacaster with her son and her husband, not here with the greatest blockhead in the entire family.

Quickly, Muriel collected her light luggage from her room in the family quarters. She did not bother saying goodbye to Lukas or to Duchess Stacy, his new, third wife. Muriel could hear Stacy at the far end of the hall, in the room that had once belonged to Muriel and Lukas’s mother, belting out a dirty Kenedalic folksong in a drunken, quavering mezzo-soprano. No doubt the girl had picked up many such songs in her parents’ tavern. Muriel hurried quietly away, shuddering at how low her brother had fallen.

Back on the royal barge, she barely had time to unpack before Sir Edward came in and flopped on their big bed, pouting.

For a moment, she wavered between making him walk home and putting him to more pleasant uses. As usual, her better—or at least baser—nature won out, and she joined him in bed.

He kept whining about getting a command, though, all the way back north. One evening, when they had tied up alongside an inn with several other barges, he came racing into their cabin full of excitement.

“I can’t begin to imagine,” she said, not bothering to look up from the letter she was writing.

“William Trevelyan, Earl of Moltzig! You know—the lieutenant general of the west!” Edward came and knelt by her little folding desk. “Do you think.... I mean, if it’s not too much trouble, could you talk to him about getting a regiment or a brigade or something for me?”

Muriel agreed to invite the lieutenant general aboard the royal barge for a drink, though she had no intention of wasting the conversation in pushing the advancement of Sir Edward Rath. There were much more important things to talk about with this man her husband thought was their great hope for stopping the Sigor invasion.

She knew him from court, of course. And he had been one of her son’s most trusted officers for a number of years now, so she knew his reputation. But authority seemed to have done wonders for him. Despite his youth (he was only 33), he seemed mature and responsible and confident. It didn’t hurt that he was very good looking, too, with long brown hair, brooding eyes, and roguish stubble that was nearly long enough to be called a beard.

In many ways, he reminded Muriel of her husband at that age—the age when they had first married and formed their “true partnership.”

After a couple rounds of Annenstruker whiskey, and a little light gossip about the court, she sent Sir Edward forward to the galley to get some snacks. Then, changing tack abruptly, she asked Trevelyan for his assessment of their military situation.

Caught off-guard, he could only tell the truth, as she had intended. “Your majesty, I regret to say that our position is very precarious. And getting worse every day.”

He seemed surprisingly downcast. Muriel studied his broad shoulders for a moment and began to think of ways she might serve the cause by helping this man find his martial spirit again.

Trevelyan heaved an angry sigh. “There is little I can do, your majesty, without support from the local nobility in Keneshire and Severnshire.”

“From my brother, you mean,” said Muriel, swirling her latest glass of whiskey. “And from Duchess Flora, too, I assume.”

“Nonsense. You can cast aspersions wherever you wish. It’s not like you have to pick them up again. You’re a general now, William. Can I call you ‘William’?” She shifted closer to him on the long settee in her cabin. “Listen, why don’t you sail back to Formacaster with me? We could carry on this conversation at our leisure. And we could get to know each other better, yes? Wouldn’t that be nice?” She put a hand on his knee. “As well as...strategically valuable, of course.”

“It was my understanding you already had a...companion on this trip, your majesty.”

Trevelyan smiled, stood, and bowed. “Your majesty, that is a charming invitation, truly. But I have many stops to make before I return to Formacaster, and no doubt you need to make haste.”

He left, and she had to content herself with Sir Edward that evening. But in the afterglow, as she lay back watching the stars through the big stern window of their cabin, she thought, “I nearly had him. One more push, and I bet he could be mine. For the sake of the cause, of course.”

The ladies-in-waiting stood completely still, eyes wide in shock. The only sound was the dripping of mead onto the floor. Broderick, still seething, looked down at the pitcher he had just smashed. The side of his hand was bleeding.

“That’s exactly how I feel,” said Muriel. As always, she was the first to recover her composure. “I tried my best, honestly, but Lukas is being stubborn.” She ventured closer, warily at first, and then took his hand. “Oh, dear. You’ve cut yourself.”

“Sh-should I fetch the royal physician, ma’am?” asked Eleanor Rath in a tremulous whisper.

“Don’t bother,” said Muriel. “I’ll bind it myself. Mead is practically medicine already. Just fetch me some linen bandages, will you?”

Eleanor and the other ladies hurried away, even though it only took one woman to carry linen bandages. No doubt they were eager to get away from the king’s temper. Broderick felt slightly ashamed of himself. But not nearly as much as he felt ashamed of Lukas.

“Honestly, what an ass,” Broderick grumbled. “I was counting on some help from the south.”

He and his son had been over the numbers three times. Without Lukas and King Galt, they didn’t have the money or the troops to stop an invasion, because the moment Edwin Sigor crossed the border, Broderick just knew Duke Aldrick of Newshire and Duchess Flora of Keneburg would switch sides back to Edwin. And Duke Robert Dryhten of Leornian, too. Damn and blast it all!

Eleanor returned with some cloth, gave it to Muriel with a curtsy, and hurried away again.

“I did talk to William Trevelyan, though,” said Muriel, starting to bandage Broderick’s hand.

“Not as many as he would have liked. To be honest...put your finger there while I tie it off. Thank you. As I was saying, to be honest, William seems a trifle discouraged. I will do my best to help him find his fighting spirit again.”

“Will you, now?” Broderick turned and looked at her, eyebrow raised. With his uninjured hand, he gestured to the huge royal bed. “I had hoped you and I might—”

“Oh, not to worry, darling. It’s all for the cause.” Muriel kissed his cheek. “Speaking of which, I’m going to move back to my old apartment downstairs. I don’t want to get in the way of your war planning.”

He tried to convince her to stay, both by words and more subtle physical means, but she was cheerfully adamant, and in minutes—less than an hour after she had returned from Severn—she had moved out of the royal apartments.

As he was starting to wonder if he should send a letter of apology to Jannike, asking her to return, his squire Richard Olsby came running in to say that Lady Jorunn Unset had returned from the north. Broderick forgot all his various frustrations and jogged personally down to the Magnarhus—the separate building on top of the Hafocbeorg that served as home and office to the court sorcerers. He sent Richard to tell Muriel about Jorunn’s return, as well. It seemed only polite.

It looked as if Jorunn had only just arrived. She still had on a dusty traveling cloak, and her luggage was lined up neatly in the hall.

“Your majesty,” she said. “I was going to call on Queen Muriel as soon as I freshened up a bit.”

“Never mind that,” he said eagerly. “What news do you have? Did you speak to Caedmon Aldred? Did you talk to Edwin or Rohesia?”

Muriel appeared at this moment, hair coming loose from her silver hairnet, having clearly run all the way from the palace, as he had. “Yes, what news?” she demanded.

“I wish I could say I was successful,” said the hillichmagnar, curtsying to the queen. “Unfortunately, the Sigors are in no mood to negotiate. It is clear to me they have the full backing of the Immani government. Or at least a certain portion of that government.”

“I don’t understand, though,” said Muriel. “For years, it seemed the Immani were content to play host, but had no intention of doing anything else to help the Sigors. Why the change? And why now?”

Broderick let out a long sigh. This was a subject he and his son had been debating now for several days. And the answer was sadly obvious.

“It’s because everyone knows Lukas is on the outs with us,” he said. “And because...well, because I’m old.”

Muriel put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, darling. No one would call you ‘old.’”

“Evening services,” said Lady Jorunn, looking glad for an excuse to cut the conversation short. “I was hoping to attend, if your majesties don’t mind.”

“We should all go,” said Muriel. “We should put in an appearance, anyway. Let’s show a united front.”

He didn’t hear a word the preost said during the service. He didn’t bother with the prayers or the hymns. He sat staring at the stained-glass windows, and at the altar, and most of all at the Onsetting Candle—the symbol of Earstien’s Light.

“You didn’t save me for anything, did you?” he thought. “You didn’t save me at all. You took your best shot at me, and I survived.”

After the service, he found his brother-in-law Bishop Arthur Ostensen and took him aside. “I’ve been thinking more about the taxes that the church and the monasteries pay.”

“Really, your majesty?” said Arthur, with a satisfied grin. “Were you thinking of adjusting the tax rates?”

“Yes. I’m doubling them. You people have more money than Earstien, and it’s about time it got put to use for the good of the country.”

Damn, it felt good to show an Ostensen who was in charge for once. Granted, it would have been a lot more satisfying if he’d been able to punch Lukas in the face. Or if he’d been able to get Muriel in bed and.... Well, in any case, he was still pretty happy about rendering Bishop Arthur speechless.

The next day, Arthur tried to get him to change his mind by bringing in a delegation of clergy, monks, and nuns. But Broderick held firm and refused to change his mind. He spent most of the meeting, in fact, watching one of the nuns, Sister Morwen Byrne, who happened to be treasurer of a very wealthy abbey in addition to being Duchess Flora’s eldest daughter. He remembered that one of Lukas’s natural sons, Sir Halvor Ingridsson, had made an ass of himself chasing the girl a few years ago, and in fairness, she was well worth chasing. She looked disarmingly like her mother had at that age.

Perhaps it was for the best that the meeting ended quickly, because he was starting to think how Morwen would look under that habit and veil, and wondering if she might be convinced to come to his rooms to “negotiate” the tax rate for her abbey. There was no time for such distractions now, however. After he won the war, then maybe he could try to reach an “accommodation” with the lovely Sister Morwen. For now, though, he needed to focus on the impending invasion.

That evening, William Trevelyan returned to the castle. As Muriel had said, the lieutenant general seemed a bit downcast. At their first army staff meeting since William had left, he spent most of his time talking about avenues of retreat and fallback positions.

“What will we do if we have to evacuate the whole north?” Broderick’s son wondered aloud.

Broderick leaned forward over the table, looking his captains each in the eye in turn. “If we have to leave the north, we will burn it down as we go. All of it.”

“You mean scorched earth?” asked William, looking aghast. “Sir, that would leave the civilian inhabitants of Newshire and Wislicshire to—”

"Let them starve," Broderick said, banging his fist on the table. “Burn everything, poison the wells, blow up the bridges. If we can’t have this country, then no one can.”

My Dear Cousin,

Once again my husband and I find ourselves obliged to defend our kingdom. Just as, in his youth, Broderick once looked for help and guidance to our dear uncle, Valdemar V, we now look to you for help in our hour of need.

In my childhood, my mother—whom you remember, no doubt, as your “Dearest Aunt Vibeka”—told me often of estates and fiefdoms all around Severnshire and Haydonshire which had once belonged to our royal ancestors, and which had been most unjustly confiscated by King Edmund Dryhten when he founded Myrcia. If you were to enter this war openly on our side, I can assure you that my husband would look with favor upon any claim you might wish to make for those lands. Particularly, of course, those lands that currently belong to my Ostensen relations.

Please let me know at your earliest convenience when we can expect you and your army.

Yours with the utmost humility and gratitude,

Your cousin,

Muriel

The bit about taking lands from Lukas and giving them to Cousin Galt made her grin. Even so, she knew she had absolutely no authority to make this offer. Broderick might be furious with her if he knew. But there was no reason for him to know. Not until Galt was on his way north with an army to save them all. At that point, Broderick would be a good boy, like he usually was in the end, and recognize her brilliance. He would see once and for all that they really were partners—true partners—even if they weren’t sleeping in the same bed.

For a minute or two, Muriel considered adding a much more personal kind of appeal to the letter. Cousin Galt, five years younger, had seemed besotted with her as a boy, on her various trips to the Annenstruker court. She suspected that part of him had never quite forgiven her for marrying Broderick. Should she hint that a very private reward might be forthcoming if Galt saved them? No, probably not. If it came to that, she would do so without hesitation. But putting it in a letter might smack of desperation.

After sending off the message with an army courier, Muriel went over to the nursery. Her daughter-in-law, the painfully pregnant Princess Therese, sat in a cushioned rocking chair, watching fondly as her little daughter, Hariette, now almost 1 ½, chased a ball around the floor with her nurse. Hariette’s little cousin, the 1-year-old daughter of Muriel’s daughter, Donella, crawled around trying to join in the game. Donella had named the little one “Muriel” in a transparent—and fully successful—attempt at parental flattery.

“Oh, your majesty!” cried Therese, rising unsteadily to her feet. “We were going to have story time in a few minutes. Would you care to join us?”

“No, thank you,” said Muriel, casting a disapproving glance over the wretched mural of dancing animals that disfigured the nursery wall. “Could I have a word with you? Privately, I mean.”

They went to the outer balcony, overlooking the whole city of Formacaster, and Therese asked what was the matter.

“Let us imagine a story, my dear girl,” said Muriel. “Let us imagine that Myrcia was under attack, and the only way it could be saved is if a brave king from a foreign land had to invade and help us. And suppose that afterward, that king needed a reward, as heroes always do. What would you think of that?”

“Let us be more specific. Suppose the reward given to our hero was land down in Haydonshire, where your father is the duke. How do you think your father would feel about that? How would the people of Haydonshire feel?”

Therese looked as if Muriel had suggested her father and his people might want to eat raw slugs for supper. “I mean no offense, your majesty, but if someone tried to take away land from Haydonshire and give it to King Galt of Annenstruk—I assume that’s who you’re talking about—then people would be highly offended. Haydonshire has been Myrcian for three-and-a-half centuries, ma’am.”

“Suppose I asked you to prove your loyalty to your king and your husband. Suppose I asked you to go to Haydonshire and convince your father to accept the loss of some land in return for peace.”

“For my husband, perhaps I would try,” said Therese, with a fire in her eyes Muriel had not seen there before. “But only for him, and only if he asked me directly.”

Muriel let pass the girl’s distressing lack of respect for her queen and mother-in-law. If it came to it, she was pretty sure she could make her son tell his wife to go to Haydonshire. That would have to be good enough for the time being.

Now she had to work on the other part of her little plan—the easier part, hopefully, and the part that would bring her far more personal satisfaction.

Back in her old chambers—the third-floor rooms she had occupied before Broderick won his throne—her ladies and the housemaids had been hard at work. They were still clearing away the ugly old spare furniture that had been put there for the use of guests, while moving down all of Muriel’s favorite settees, wardrobes, and chairs. Plus, crucially, a large and comfortable bed.

Servants brought up wine and platters of cold ham and cheese. They lit candles and little cones of Sahasran incense and then trooped out again, followed by the housemaids and Muriel’s ladies. Barely a minute after they left, there was a knock at the door, and William Trevelyan, Earl of Moltzig, looked in.

“Your majesty, I was told you wished to....” His voice trailed off as he took in the candles, the wine, and the incense. “I’m terribly sorry, but am I interrupting something?”

She laughed, coming up to take him by the arm and lead him over to the sideboard with the wine. “This is all for you, William. May I call you ‘William’? Yes, good.” She asked him about his family. He had an older sister named Hortense who was now Baroness Krien.

She asked him about his schooldays, putting him at ease. It turned out both he and his sister had been at Atherton around the same time as Princess Elwyn. He said he hadn’t known her, but, of course, his sister had lived in the same house as Elwyn, since all the girls lived in one place. But he didn’t seem to know much more about the princess.

Then, sitting very close to him on her favorite settee, she came around to the point at last. “I am trying to organize a new army of Annenstruker volunteers. I would like to know your thoughts, as you would be my first choice to lead them.”

Quickly, she summarized the letter she had written to her cousin, King Galt, and described the various estates of the Ostensen family that could easily be given to the Annenstrukers in return for their help.

He watched her, immobile and impassive, not even touching his wine. Then, when she finished, he said, “Forgive me, your majesty, but what you are proposing is...not practical.”

“Many people would see this as undoing the great victory of Edmund Dryhten—indeed, of the founding of Myrcia itself.”

“They would, your majesty. They will. Already in the west, some people in Oaseshire and Dunkelshire worry about the king’s relationship with Bishop Lothar of the Glaube Church. Especially now they are learning how the king intends to tax our Leafa Church. People wonder what the Odelanders will want for their help. Will they want Oasestadt back? All the western desert? If word gets out that you are now negotiating to give land to King Galt, then people will think you are carving up Myrcia, simply so that you can remain in power over the remnants.”

Stung, she took a moment to sip her wine and regain her composure. Then she asked, “What would you do, instead?”

“Our only realistic option, ma’am, is to fight a delaying action and hope for a negotiated peace when the Sigor assault runs out of momentum and money.”

“Then think how much better you could fight with Annenstruker reinforcements,” she said. “I am not trying to destroy Myrcia, William. I am trying to preserve it. Help me.” She slid closer to him and ran a hand slowly up his thigh. “You will earn my undying gratitude.” Closer now, so her lips were almost at his ear. “And I know how to show gratitude, William. Trust me.”

Even as her hand reached its goal, he leapt to his feet. “Y-your majesty, I am...fully sensible of the, er...honor you are offering. But I am already quite busy with my current duties, under the command of your son and your...your husband.” He bowed. “Good night, your majesty, and thank you for the wine.”

She spent several hours after that brooding on her settee, thinking up improbable and vicious punishments for William Trevelyan. “Sensible of the honor?” she scoffed. “He has no idea. I could do things for him he’s never even imagined.”

Eventually, she wrote a note to Brother Friel, her son’s secretary, asking him if he could identify any properties of the Trevelyan family that could be “redistributed to families of fallen knights and soldiers.”

She felt much better after that, and sent for Sir Edward Rath, who was so happy to join her naked on the settee that it suddenly occurred to her that he might be “sensible of the honor” of the other offer she had made to William Trevelyan.

Except that would feel like giving up. No, she would bide her time and look for a better opportunity to win over William. After all, what was life without a little challenge, now and then?

He looked around the parlor as the housemaids shifted the last chairs perfectly into place under Muriel’s direction. Rain lashed against the window, framed in long curtains of severe white linen. The room now looked exactly as it had thirteen years before, when this was Muriel’s apartment, next-door to his. Back before he had won the crown and she had moved into the official royal suite.

“It’s lovely, of course,” he said, after she dismissed the maids. “I still don’t understand why you’re moving down here, though.”

He walked over and put an arm around her. “As your husband, I have to feel it’s at least somewhat personal.”

“We are partners, dear, not some common peasant couple in their happy hovel.” Turning, she draped her arms around his neck and gave him a long, deep kiss. Then, as he started to pull her toward her settee, she asked, “Have you given Edward Rath his commission yet?”

“Muriel, honestly.” He shrugged off her arms. “The fellow is fit to command a company. Perhaps a battalion in an emergency. If we do manage to gather the troops for a new army, I would like to appoint our son to command it.”

“No, our son needs to stay here,” she said, with sudden vehemence. “He must remain at Wealdan Castle, no matter what.”

That was odd. Muriel had never been a protective kind of mother. “The boy has been fighting since Yusipova’s Fields at 14. Why are you suddenly so...?” Then he saw it. “Oh. Because I was sick. Of course.”

A knock came at the outer door, and since the servants had gone, Broderick opened it. He found Lady Jorunn Unset looking somewhat wild and uncharacteristically disheveled. Normally she was impeccably well-dressed and the model of cool politeness. Now she barged into the room past him, trailing drops of water from her damp, muddy cloak.

“Your majesties,” she cried, nodding at both him and Muriel, “I was told you were here. Forgive me for interrupting, but I have caught an assassin.”

“Yes, your majesty. I have been on the lookout recently, taking note of all new visitors and consulting with the chamberlain when they were unknown to me. I spotted a fellow who did not seem to belong, and who seemed to avoid conversation. I followed him to the stables. And then I felt magy on him—he was fumbling with this, desperate to get it on before I surprised him.” Jorunn reached into her cloak and produced a small silver ring with a jet-black stone.

“Fucking Faustinus,” muttered Broderick. “So, who is this fellow? Do we know him? And where are you holding him?”

“You do, indeed, know him, your majesty. He is your half-brother, Sir Robert Tynsdale. And I have him under guard in the dungeon of this castle.”

Muriel crossed her arms. “So, what do we do with him? Execute him immediately, or try to hold him for ransom?”

“If I might make a suggestion,” said Jorunn, “I would recommend questioning him first. He may know a great deal about what the Sigors are planning.”

“Robert isn’t going to give up anything,” said Broderick. “He learned from the best.”

“More, er...persuasive means will certainly need to be applied,” said Jorunn.

“Ah, um...well, that is to say...,” she stammered. “There are certain spells, of course. But Diernemynster frowns on their use in, um...normal circumstances. And I would not wish to implicate your majesties in practices that could be viewed as dark magy by certain—”

“Very well, thumbscrews it is, then,” said Muriel. “After which, we slit his throat. I assume one of your people can handle this, my dear.”

All three of them trooped down to the steam-filled lower vaults of the castle, past the gleaming brass pump tower and the water storage tanks. Robert was chained to a wall in one of the dank little storage rooms along the eastern wall, not far from the room where Lawrence Swithin, the unfortunate Earl of Hyrne, was still confined.

The guard on duty opened the door, and they all peered in. Broderick instantly recognized his half-brother, dressed in fine clothes, but smeared with mud, presumably from the stable where Jorunn had caught him. Robert met his gaze. There was a challenge in his expression, but no sign of anger or hate.

“No, thank you,” said Broderick. “Robert and I are simply going to have a little chat. Brother-to-brother.”

“Ah,” said Muriel, “in that case I’ll excuse myself, as well. I think I’ll go down the hall and taunt the Earl of Hyrne. That always brightens my day.”

They left, and Broderick moved deeper into the room, closer to his brother. “I always liked you, Robert. Do you remember how I used to look after you and your family?”

“People can be so cruel about the supposed ‘stain’ of illegitimacy. I didn’t want you and your sisters to suffer the way I did.”

“And I believe I’m currently paying for your son to attend Atherton. How is young Bryan? Have you heard from him lately?”

Broderick smiled at the obvious lie. “Lady Jorunn thinks you’re here to kill me.”

“Why would she suppose that?” Robert shifted his chains and lounged against the wall.

“Perhaps because you tried it before. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how close you came to doing it before the Battle of Osricksburg. You managed to kill my poor mistress, though—Anne Merriweather. Did you know that?”

“Thirteen years. In any case, Jorunn found a magysk ring on you. A ring made by Servius Faustinus. Didn’t you realize Jorunn was here at court?”

“Then having that ring was practically suicidal. You must have known she would sense it and find you.”

“Because you were suddenly overcome with gratitude for all I did for you as a boy, and you wanted to serve me, instead?”

“Partly. I’ll admit I think much better of you now than I did when I was younger. I don’t think Edwin Sigor is fit to be king anymore.”

“No, you don’t understand. He’s becoming proud and dissolute. He surrounds himself with all the wrong sorts of people. His mother has lost all control over him, and he only listens to his wife, who is a monster.”

“Might do him some good,” said Broderick, trying to be fair. “I’ve always felt a man should marry a woman who is more ruthless than him.”

“It was. The princess and my wife were always close. When I realized I had to choose between my wife’s allegiances and King Edwin’s, it became rather clearer to me.”

“Normally, I would agree. But King Edwin’s wife and ‘queen,’ Irena Glauca, has badgered him into trying to invade. He’s going to get thousands of people killed.”

From his seated position by the wall, Robert bowed. “I am yours, if you will have me.”

She was just finishing up with the Earl of Hyrne. Over her bright laughter, Broderick could make out low, rattling sobs. She exited the cell wreathed in smiles, dabbing essence of lavender at her wrists and neck to cover up the dreadful stench.

“Oh, then we really should kill him, and quickly, too. We can’t trust him. I certainly never have.”

She was probably right, but he didn’t want her to feel like she had “won” some kind of point against him. Muriel had been doing that a lot lately, and he thought it might be time to remind her who had the actual power in this “partnership.”

Broderick took her arm and led her back upstairs. “On second thought, he might prove useful, if I can only think of a use for him.”

The exodus began as a mere trickle. The Tartuvian ambassador said he was retiring, which wasn’t all that strange, since he was rather old. Then the husband of the Krigadamite military attaché needed to go to Sydensby for his health, and naturally his wife needed to go with him. Then the merchants started leaving. In two days in early May, half the shops and stalls in the cloth market shut down, and their proprietors departed in a huge, brightly-colored caravan down the Keneburg road.

The goldsmiths decided to have a “guild conference” in Leornian. Most of the boatmen on the river decided fishing was better upstream near Keelweard. Knights and nobles found excuses to go stay at their country houses. Ordinary people took to the road with little handcarts, heading for the farms of distant relations.

Not that Muriel saw most of this herself. She didn’t know any peasants with handcarts, and she didn’t want to know them, either. She heard most of the news second-hand from her ladies-in-waiting and her son. For some reason, young Broderick had an odd sympathy for such people.

“Why should we care if people leave?” she wondered aloud at supper, which she was sharing with her son, her husband, and Sir Edward Rath. “Why should we care if they all fell in the river and drowned?”

Edward, bless him, agreed with her instantly. But to her surprise, her husband disagreed.

“Those people are leaving because we look weak. They think the Sigors will invade soon, and they think we’re going to lose.”

Muriel didn’t think it was as bad as all that. But she started to see his point after supper, when they were all having some Cheruscian fortified wine, and Lady Jorunn stopped in. Muriel immediately offered her a drink, but Jorunn politely declined.

“I, ah...fear I must leave this evening,” she said. “I find I must return to Diernemynster for a time.”

“Er, yes, your majesty,” she said, blushing. “My student, Evika Videle, as you will remember, is there, and she needs me to help her with her, um...spell theory lessons.”

“We could use your help, my lady,” said young Broderick in his usual, earnest way.

“I am sorry, your royal highness.” Jorunn gave a low, elegant curtsy. “I am very sorry, your majesties. I have done all I possibly can. Goodbye.”

When she was gone, Broderick shook his head and said, “I suppose the good thing about being on a sinking ship is that you find out who all the rats are.”

Both he and their son were in a gloomy mood after that, and poor Sir Edward wasn’t much better. Muriel quickly formed a plan in her mind, however. She didn’t tell them about it, though; she wanted them to fully appreciate her genius later, when everything worked out.

If people were leaving because they thought the Sigors would win, then surely what Muriel’s family needed to do was show they were still unbeatably strong. They needed a huge new army, and they needed a trusted, well-known general for that army.

She still hadn’t heard back from Cousin Galt, but she had only written to him five days ago, so the letter probably hadn’t even reached him yet. Even so, she could still get William Trevelyan to announce the formation of the new army. There were a few new companies and regiments camped in the Crown Lands around Formacaster that William and her son had managed to dredge up somewhere, as well as the Odelandic mercenaries under a Freiherr named von Baumbach. They just needed to get all those people together, dress them up a little, and have them parade through the city with Broderick and Trevelyan at their head. Maybe include the royal guard and Broderick’s personal retainers to fill out the ranks a bit.

Later, of course, when Cousin Galt sent more troops, they would have an actual army. But they could at least pretend to have one for the time being. She only needed to convince William Trevelyan to go along with the ruse. And despite his previous shyness, she knew she had the talents to make any man agree to do anything she liked.

Once her husband and son had left, she pleaded a headache to get Sir Edward to leave. Then she put on a little shift she had recently bought, made of lace and silk and so small it barely constituted an article of clothing. She wrapped herself in a dressing gown and went upstairs to the fifth floor apartment that had been assigned to William Trevelyan’s use during his stay in Formacaster.

He didn’t answer her knock, and when she fetched her set of master keys and unlocked the door, she found no one was there. There were a number of trunks still in the bedroom and parlor, full of what appeared to be fashionable new court outfits. There was, she noted, no sign of his armor, weapons, or practical riding clothes. She found the housemaid who cleaned that apartment, who said Trevelyan had tipped her a whole shilling that morning.

Muriel pondered this as she went back to her room and changed into a more staid and modest dress. She went to the chamberlain’s office, where she learned that Trevelyan had left a note saying he needed to return to his troops in the west for “urgent reasons,” whatever those might be. But when Muriel sent a servant over to the guard barracks, she learned that the handful of new troops Trevelyan had gathered were still camped in the Crown Lands, exactly where they had been. And there were no immediate plans or orders for them to leave.

So, the “lieutenant general of the west” had run off in broad daylight, leaving all his court clothes behind, along with his latest recruits.

“How dare he,” she thought, clenching her fists as she walked back across the Palm Court. “Am I really so old and ugly now that a man sneaks away from Wealdan Castle to avoid me? No, clearly not. There is something else going on here.”

He might be yet another rat fleeing the good ship Gramiren as it took on water. And this particular rat was a talented commander—everyone said so—much loved and admired in Newshire and Dunkelshire and Wislicshire. If he went over to the enemy, their entire northern flank might collapse.

Or was she wrong? She thought about going straight to her husband with what she had learned, but she hesitated. What if it really was as simple as Trevelyan wanting to avoid her? What if they found him and dragged him back to Wealdan Castle, and the man said, “I’m sorry, your majesty, but your wife kept trying to seduce me, so I had to get away!” Then everyone would laugh—Broderick more than anyone—and she would look ridiculous in front of the entire court.

Worse, Broderick would have won a point against her in the grand, decades-long competition that constituted their “true partnership.” He would never let her forget it.

Rather than going up to the royal apartments, therefore, she went down into the dungeons, where she had the guard open Robert Tynsdale’s cell.

“I have a proposition for you,” she said, “assuming you still want to help us defeat Edwin Sigor.”

If he had said, “yes,” immediately, she would have assumed he was lying about wanting to change sides and ordered the guard to beat him. But he thought about it for a minute or two before finally answering.

“I will need that magysk ring. Assuming you trust me enough to give it back. Otherwise,” he shrugged, “I can’t help you.”

She thought getting the ring might be a problem. She even worried that she might be driven to the extremity of telling her husband the truth of what she was doing. But fortunately, Broderick was in an amorous mood, and when she said she wanted the ring “just to play with and see if I can figure out the spells,” he was more than willing to trade it to her in return for the same favors William Trevelyan had declined.

She felt she had scored a point on Broderick, and now she had the opportunity to score again. If Robert Tynsdale turned out to be reliable, then all the credit for catching William Trevelyan would go to her. If Robert were still working for the Sigors, though, then it would prove Broderick had been wrong to let him live.

Getting the captain of the guard to release a prisoner was no trouble at all—the man had grown used to taking her orders when Broderick was off on campaign. She walked Robert to the stables and let him choose his own mount.

He bowed to her, and she leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. Then, in a whisper, she added, “If you betray me, though, I will have you flayed alive.”

“You needn’t worry, your majesty,” he said. “We are family, after all.”

He looked around the half-empty table, meeting the eyes of each person in turn. First, Ulrich von Baumbach, the commander of the Odelandic mercenaries. Then Sir Wyatt Yates, one of Broderick’s gentlemen of the bedchamber, who had just been promoted to a brigade commander because no one better was available to take the job. Next to him sat Sir Edward Rath, Muriel’s newest flame, who was now a general for much the same reason.

At the far end of the long table, framed by a gilded arch, sat Muriel, grinning at him over her cup of wine. That grin made him suspicious, like she was on the verge of pulling some trump card from her sleeve. Probably something to do with that phantom army she thought her Cousin Galt would be sending any day now.

On the right side of the table were their son and his secretary, Brother Friel, along with Baron Teddy Musgrove.

Broderick couldn’t help glancing at all the empty chairs, too. He had scheduled this meeting in the Gold Parlor, precisely because he wanted to make sure there was enough room. There were so many people who weren’t here tonight, but should have been.

Flora Byrne, for one. She kept making excuses about fighting “bandits,” as did the Duke of Pinshire. Ridiculous. Same with the Duke of Haydonshire, whose daughter was married to Broderick’s son, the swine. And the Duke of Keelshire. And the Earl of Montgomery, who had been in town only the day before. They all had excuses for not being here.

Broderick had very much expected William Trevelyan, Earl of Moltzig, to be present. There were conflicting reports about where he had gone, precisely. Some said he’d gone back to his troops in Newshire and Dunkelshire. Some said he had gone south again to gather more levies. Whatever the case, it was odd the man hadn’t bothered to see his king to formally take his leave.

Then there was Duke Lukas—a special case if there ever was one. He absolutely should have been here, but he wasn’t. When all this was over, and Edwin Sigor was finally dead, Broderick had some very special punishments planned for his dear, old friend Lukas. You didn’t get to keep stabbing the king in the back, over and over, and live to tell about it.

Beyond all these people, though, were the ones who weren’t here because they couldn’t be—the ones who had gone long ago, either disappeared or dead. Like Vernon Goss, who had died at Gleade Hill, killed by Broderick’s own troops. Or Volker Rath, killed at Leornian. Or William Aitken, who had deserted at the same battle. What Broderick wouldn’t give for men like that now. He didn’t even care that Aitken had been passing information to the Sigors. If William had appeared here before him at that moment, Broderick would have made him a general, no questions asked. You didn’t get men like that anymore.

The doors opened at the far end, and the servants came in, carrying roast pork, spring vegetables in some sort of curry sauce, and fresh white bread with cream. After them came the wine stewards. One of them, a young fellow with curly blond hair, came up to offer Broderick a pale, sweet Argitis. The smell was delicious—light and flowery with a hint of spice. Broderick wasn’t in the mood for wine, but he let the boy pour and then slipped a penny into his hand. The boy bowed and moved back to the sideboard.

This was to be a “working dinner,” so once the wine was poured and the pork was carved, Broderick went around the table, soliciting each person’s opinion in turn. “What should we do when Edwin Sigor attacks?” he asked. “Because I think we must now assume an attack is imminent.”

Von Baumbach had no ideas of his own, which was hardly surprising. He was a mercenary, and his job was to do what his employer told him to do. Wyatt Yates suggested a very aggressive strategy, counterattacking over and over and defending “every sacred inch” of Myrcian soil. Very brave, but very stupid. Edward Rath suggested a grand flanking maneuver—precisely the sort of thing his late father might have done. But that was a different time, with a very different army.

Broderick skipped Muriel at first, just because he knew she had some announcement she desperately wanted to make, and he found it amusing to make her wait.

Teddy Musgrove thought they ought to fortify the passes into Cruedrua. Which was a marvelous idea, if only they had started on it six months earlier.

Broderick’s son wanted to try a slow withdrawal to the south, which as he put it, would, “shorten our own lines of supply while forcing the enemy to live off the land.”

“Which, of course, they won’t be able to do,” Sir Edward said quickly. “Once we implement his majesty’s plan of destroying all the granaries and wells as we retreat.”

Broderick saw his son wince at this. Earstien save that boy from his own soft heart.

“As some of you already know, I’ve written to my Cousin Galt,” she said, smiling broadly. “I have every reason to believe he will be sending us a large force of men very soon.”

“Really, Mother?” gasped their son. “When did you write this letter? When can we expect these Annenstruker troops?”

“Those are all details to be worked out later,” she said airily. “The important thing is that we will be safe.” She didn’t add, “And I was the one responsible,” but Broderick could tell that was what she meant to say.

She raised her glass and called for a toast to “Friendship between Annenstruk and Myrcia.”

Broderick reluctantly raised his glass and joined in the toast. Then, for the sake of form, he took a small sip of the Argitis. It was surprisingly good, with an odd little sweet flavor he didn’t recognize. He took another, longer drink, then another, and motioned the blond wine steward forward to refill the glass.

“Very well,” Broderick said. “If these new troops are coming north to join us, then my son’s plan seems the obvious strategy for us to adopt. We will fight a holding action in Newshire, slowing the enemy.” Glancing at Brother Friel, he said, “Make a note to send orders to that effect to William Trevelyan, wherever in the Void he happens to be at the moment.”

He turned to Edward Rath, about to issue another order, but there was an odd little scratching sensation in his throat. Nothing painful, but like something had gotten stuck there. He coughed slightly, took another sip of wine, then coughed again.

Now there was a burning sensation deep in his throat and the top of his chest. He rubbed that area with one hand, wincing. Was this another blasted apoplectic attack? But there wasn’t that sense of crushing weight.

Looking around, he started to ask the wine steward for a glass of water. But before his eyes, the boy underwent the most horrifying transformation. His cheeks seemed to ripple and sway. His blond curls shrank back and turned light brown. His smooth chin sprouted stubble. His eyes grew cold and hard, and his features rearranged themselves into the face of Sir Robert Tynsdale.

Broderick tried to cry out, but his throat felt like it was on fire now, and he started to cough again. He looked down and saw there was blood on his hands and down the front of his tunic and down the side of the chair. In that moment, Robert vanished, no doubt with that blasted ring of his. How had he gotten out? How had he gotten the ring back after Broderick gave it to Muriel? How...?

The world contracted to a tight ball of pain in Broderick’s throat and chest. He kept coughing up blood, rivers and rivers of it. Everyone around the table was on their feet; they were crowding around him, but he barely paid them any attention.

Someone who seemed far, far away was screaming for a physician. Teddy Musgrove was shouting for someone to bring charcoal. But in the tiny portion of his brain not overwhelmed by the pain, Broderick knew there was no point. He knew what this was—La Domina Grisea. It had killed his half-brother, Prince Maxen, and that wretched old toad, Lady Hildred, long ago at the Bocburg. It had killed Anne Merriweather.

The room began to fade, and strong arms lifted him onto the table. His son was holding him, tears running down into his beard. Muriel was there, too, looking utterly aghast. She had blood all over her hands and down her dress, and she was saying something. It might have been, “Hold on, hold on, hold on!”

He tried to keep himself present, but everything kept going dark, and the darker it grew, the less pain he felt. Then he felt himself falling away. The last thing he saw was Muriel’s pale face and frightened eyes. Through the blood, he forced out three final words: “Fuck it all.”

For the first few days, Muriel felt completely numb. The world had fallen apart, and she was only floating in the wreckage left behind. Her son took charge of everything—the council, the army, Wealdan Castle. He tried to make the funeral arrangements, too, with some minimal help from his fairytale-loving sister, Donella, and dear old Teddy Musgrove.

That was where Muriel began to come out of her daze—with the funeral arrangements. Because that was where the cracks first started to show.

The chancellor and the Bishop of Formacaster both hinted that perhaps “the family” might wish to bury the dead king “on a private estate.” Muriel was incensed. Broderick was not some country squire who could be interred in a mossy little chapel by the vegetable garden. He was the greatest king Myrcia had seen since Edmund Dryhten. Obviously he had to be, because only the greatest king could have a queen as great as Muriel.

She put her foot down, much to her son’s embarrassment, and insisted that Broderick be laid to rest in the Dryhten Chapel under the high altar of Terrwyn Cathedral, in the same chamber as Edmund Dryhten. It was the least she could do, and it would never be enough.

The whole night before the funeral, she sat up with the body, holding his cold hand and staring at his blank, sunken, gray face. She loved him, and yet she was furious with him at the same time—furious that he had left her to clean up all this mess. She felt as if he had played some prank and gotten away with it, while she was left there helpless, holding the bag, and waiting to be punished.

In the great game of their “true partnership,” he had scored the last goal, taken the last trick. And she would never, ever be able to even the score.

The evening after the funeral, word came in that a Sigor army had, indeed, crossed the border under the command of the Earl of Stansted. But they had done it in Dunkelshire, in the far west, beyond the Dunkelberge Mountains, rather than taking the obvious path down the Styrung Pass into Newshire. Over the next few days, Muriel and her son received reports that the Dunkelshire militia were all going over to the Sigors. And then some of the Oaseshire militia, too.

King Broderick II—the only “Broderick” left—kept sending out messages to his commanders in the field. But very few of them ever wrote back. Muriel (taking the initiative) sent Sir Wyatt Yates and Sir Edward Rath off with all the men they could spare to join William Trevelyan’s western army. Her son was quite cross with her, saying those soldiers had been the reserve to protect Formacaster.

She told him, “There is no point in waiting until the last moment to fight. We need to bring this to a halt now before the avalanche becomes impossible to stop.”

The news got worse. Duke Aldrick Sigor (that odious little prick) switched sides yet again and marched his troops south to join the invading army at Stansted in southwestern Newshire.

That would have been bad enough, but on May 27, barely eleven days after the funeral, word came that William Trevelyan, lieutenant general of the west, had switched sides, too. He had gone over to the Sigors, taking the bulk of his troops with him. The only men in the west who still remained true to the Gramiren cause were the Odelandic mercenaries of Freiherr von Baumbach and the two ill-trained brigades led by Wyatt Yates and Edward Rath.

Muriel’s only satisfaction—and it was rather small—came from a rumor that arrived a few days later, claiming that Trevelyan’s defection had been orchestrated by Duke Aldrick, and that Aldrick had promised Trevelyan the hand of Princess Alice, Edwin Sigor’s younger sister.

“Good luck to William Trevelyan,” Muriel laughed bitterly when she heard this story. “If Alice is anything at all like her older sister, he will receive precisely the reward that treachery deserves.”

For a few days in early June, things seemed a bit more heartening. Muriel’s son rode north and defeated a motley force of Newshire militia. But then he had to retreat, and the brigades of Wyatt Yates and Edward Rath were wiped out. Both Wyatt and Edward were killed.

Muriel tried to summon tears for Edward’s death, but she found herself inadequate to the task.

Soon, news came that Duke Herbert Shepherd of Wislicshire was now sending troops southwest along the Colwinn to meet William Trevelyan, Earl Cedric of Stansted, and Duke Aldrick at Aglaca Town. And from there, this grand combined army would clearly march on Formacaster.

Even worse, Duke Robert of Leornian and the Dukes of Pinshire and Keelshire were calling out their knights and their levies, no doubt planning to join the attack from the east.

The final straw came on June 11, when Duchess Flora—that foul, wretched woman—called out her troops and proclaimed her support for Edwin Sigor, as well. Now Formacaster might be completely surrounded. And to top it all off, the guilds of the city called a general strike for the following day.

This was the time for cool nerve and strong leadership. But unfortunately, Muriel’s son chose this moment to completely take leave of his senses. With armies converging on the city from three sides, the Gramiren family obviously had to retreat south, protected by von Baumbach’s mercenaries. But instead, Broderick II, King of Myrcia, decided on a mad plan to take his hugely pregnant wife and little daughter north into Newshire, hoping to slip unnoticed past their enemies, in order to meet up with some “sympathizers” that would help them build a new army.

“This is ridiculous,” Muriel told him, late one night on the outer balcony of the royal apartment. “Who will help you in the north?”

But he insisted there were people all over Myrcia who were loyal to him, personally—people who would never bow to the Sigors again. She tried to explain that people would bow to whoever had the crown and Finster’s book.

Her son got a strange, rather manic grin, and said, “Ah, but you and Father told me the spell! So I’m going to take the book with me. And the coronation crown. And Edmund Dryhten’s sword. The Sigors can take Formacaster, but without the book and the crown, Edwin can never truly be king.”

“That sounds like something your sister would write in one of her stupid little fantasy stories.” Muriel had tears in her eyes as she said it—actual tears! She who had never shed a single tear for her children before. But it had no effect at all on the brave, stupid boy.

They parted the next day, and Muriel knew she would never see him again. She and a handful of loyal nobles like Teddy Musgrove set off on barges down the Trahern, guarded by von Baumbach’s mercenaries. And meanwhile, the true King of Myrcia and his family slipped incognito onto the Abertref ferry, heading for their first meeting with these “friends” who would help them carry on the struggle in the north.

On the 17^th of June, Muriel reached Severn to find that her stupid ass of a brother, Duke Lukas, had finally called out his troops. Far too little, far too late. By this point, Duchess Flora’s army was barely a day’s ride away. Their cavalry commander was Andras Byrne, Muriel’s son-in-law, who had been named Earl of Arven by Broderick as a wedding present. Blast that wicked, ungrateful boy and his wicked, ungrateful wife.

“I am a childless widow now,” Muriel thought. “My idiot son will get himself killed for nothing. And Donella is no daughter of mine, anymore.”

After two days of hopeless defensive skirmishing, Freiherr von Baumbach resigned his commission and informed Muriel he would be taking his surviving mercenaries home with him. Lukas suspected—and Muriel thought he was right—that von Baumbach had gotten a better offer from the Sigors.

Now the Gramiren forces could no longer hold Severn. Muriel and Lukas barely had enough loyal troops to mount a rearguard as they sailed south together, back to their mother’s homeland.

On the last day of June, 365 M.E., they stood together on the quarterdeck of their barge as they passed the great clifftop fortress of Broderick Fastenn and crossed the border into Annenstruk. The fortress was not named for Muriel’s husband, or for her son, but for a different Broderick, a crown prince who had died before his father, more than 250 years earlier, and had never reigned. Not especially a good omen, now that she thought of it.

“This is no time for recriminations,” Lukas said, perhaps guessing what she was thinking.

He turned and looked at her, eyes alight with fury. “Me? This is my fault? Muriel, every damn thing that has happened is because of you. Every damn thing. You drove me away with your insults. You did the same to Flora, and when she surrendered and came back, you deliberately humiliated her. Every step of the way, you undermined your husband, because you care more about your fucking pride than the good of this family!”

She stared back, open-mouthed. For the briefest moment, she wondered if he might have a point. But then she decided he was just angry and bitter and trying to shift the blame. Of course he would, because who wanted to take the blame for this debacle? Who would ever want to admit that his mistakes had destroyed everything he claimed to care about?

“Never mind that,” she said, looking back over the fantail of the boat. “It’s time to think about the future.”

“Nonsense.” She smiled. “Everything will work out. You’ll see. My son has plans to meet with our friends in the north. No doubt they’ll be forming a resistance movement.”