Four weeks later, the storm broke.

I was uneasy that morning; there were dispatches to be sorted through. Perseval d’Arcenne had observed a frosty courtesy toward me since the affair of the Pruzians that might have managed to hurt my feelings had I not been occupied with a greater mystery: that of missing dispatches. Normally I would have simply waited for the vagaries of man and horse to bring them to me a day or two late, but they were all from the road to Ivrielle, and that meant the road out of the province and to the Citté.

Adrien di Cinfiliet was late as well. I could not help imagining the worst, until something even worse than the worst occurred to me—whenever I had time to think. Hard on its heels would come another terrible thought, and I sometimes laughed at my own imaginings.

Then I would sober, as the cycle of imagining began afresh.

Mornlight came warm and clear; wind snapping the pennants from the towers that day. I had breakfast in the library while I dictated diplomatic responses to Navarrin and messages to Arquitaine cities and provinces. It seemed no few had declared for me, a fact heartening and terrifying at the same time. More lives to depend on my wit, and me frantically trying to think of a way to reach a resolution with d’Orlaans that did not require bloodshed.

None seemed possible, especially in light of two assassination attempts.

Something else bothered me, too. I understood d’Orlaans wished me alive if he was to legitimize his reign and get heirs upon a noblewoman whose House would not rise against him in revolt. My House was all but extinct unless I produced an Heir, for my mother was dead and there were no other branches of Rocancheil or the ruling of Vintmorecy.

If I met with some misfortune, the Aryx would be forced to choose another holder, and mayhap the Duc thought he had extinguished all but him and me? It was an indication that he did not know of Adrien’s existence, which was heartening.

Still, the fact that assassins were sent to fetch me was not guaranteed to ease my heart. True, I was only to be brought, not dispatched immediately. But that could only mean the Duc wished the pleasure of strangling me himself. He had to suspect by now that I was not amenable to his plans.

Tristan’s behavior made me uneasy, too. He seemed on edge, waiting for a fresh disaster, though he was unfailingly gentle with me; especially at night as we lay together in his bed. He held me as if he expected me to vanish did he not keep a tight enough grasp; and if he was desperate in his use of me I was just as desperate in my use of him. What I learned of love in those days has remained with me ever after as a lesson in anguish, how two people can sense an approaching disaster and use each other’s bodies as a shield against questions growing more and more pointed.

The half-head visited me once that month; I lost half a day lying abed and weeping with agony as my skull sought to rive itself to pieces. Tristan did not leave my side, holding my hand so tightly both our fingers were bruised. He whispered a Court sorcery that plunged the room into blackness, for any stray gleam of light during the half-head is more agonizing than the worst battle-wound. Gods, he whispered after the pain had left and I lay limp and too exhausted to do aught but breathe. If I could take the pain from you, Vianne, I would. I would suffer it twice for your sake.

Thank you for the darkness, I had replied, before losing consciousness.

It was not until later that I wondered why he knew such a charm. At the time, I was simply grateful. And there were other more pressing concerns. For Navarrin was hanging back, waiting to see whether the Duc or I would finish the course. Haviroen and Badeau were pleasant but noncommittal; Tiberia was more than willing to open diplomatic relations if I agreed to trade concessions once I was firmly in power—the same concessions they were perhaps pressuring d’Orlaans for, banking their coin securely on either horse. Sirisse, girdled in their mountains, cared little, for their god sleeps but holds their tall sharp borders inviolate. Scythandra would be no help, and the Principalities of Damar-Hesse and Sea-Countries besides, both nervous of Damar on their borders, played for time.

From the Damarsene, only a chill silence. Truth be told, I did not send them a missive. If they demanded tribute from d’Orlaans and I as both styled rulers of Arquitaine, I was ill-prepared to pay, promise, or insult them in such a way that they would not hold me to account for it later.

Yet it was the missing dispatches that worried me most. So when I heard the faroff shouts and clatter in the bailey, I thought little of it except to frown and go back to the paperwork awaiting me, thinking it only a rider come with late news, who would be ushered into my presence soon enough. Tristan had gone to confer with his father about guard rosters and some points of trade with Navarrin that I wished counsel on.

So I was alone in the study—except for two of the Citadel Guard at the door—when Adersahl burst in, flushed and breathless.

I leapt to my feet, paper falling in a drift to the floor. Adersahl skidded to a stop. His bootheels all but struck sparks. “Tis di Cinfiliet,” he gasped. “Bloody and missing half his men. Come quickly!”

I wasted no time with silly questions but bolted for the door; he whirled on his heel and ran before me, trusting me to follow.

Through the corridors of Arcenne we ran, and a stitch clawed at my side under pale-blue silk. I had to pick up my skirts, cursing them for once. We took a staircase headlong, I almost tripped and had to clutch at Adersahl’s shoulder when we reached the gallery. So it was I arrived in the bailey amid a confusion of horses and shouts, me clasping Adersahl’s arm and ducking under stray hooves as a bay reared. Adersahl cursed, I swallowed a burst of language most unfit for a lady, and the stocky Guard pushed me back.

“Vianne!” A familiar voice, throat-cut hoarse with shouting. “Vianne!”

Twas di Cinfiliet, and right glad was I to see him. I shook free of Adersahl, ducked past another lathered horse, and caught the reins of Adrien’s exhausted gray-dappled gelding. Foam flung, spattered my dress. “Adrien!” Safe and here, thank the gods. What new disaster is this?

He was bloody, sweating, his shirt was in rags and his eyes burning with the kind of rage I had grown uncomfortably familiar with seeing on men’s faces lately. “Milady Riddlesharp,” he greeted me, with Risaine’s sharp accent. “You look a sight better.”

“And you a sight worse.” Sick dread thudded under my heartbeat, the Aryx rilling uncertainly. “I worried for you. Why did you not come when I sent for you?” Though it looks as if you had good reason.

“I have been busy playing hide-in-the-bushes, d’mselle. And worse games.” He swung down as I dragged on the reins; the horse pranced. Then the gray gave up, his head hanging; I stroked him soothingly.

After the war-trained behemoths the Guard rode, this gelding was far less daunting. And after coaxing and feeding and harnessing the horses the R’mini used sometimes to draw their wagons in place of oxen, I had learned at least not to fear a horse, even if it was more sprightly than a placid saddle-trained mare. “Easy there, k’vrim,” I crooned to the gray in R’mini. “Ah, big fellow, be easy in your skin and hooves, be easy in your mane, eh?” I could almost hear Jaryana as she soothed a nervous beast, clicking her tongue and half-singing.

The gray shuddered, hung his head. He had been ridden almost to death.

Adrien reeked of sweat and horse and blood. “Vianne.” Hoarse and urgent, my name pronounced as a talisman. “Tis good to see your face.”

“Likewise.” Arquitaine was strange in my mouth now after murmuring in R’mini. “Adrien, I—”

He shook his ragged dark head. “Later. Listen to me. There is news, grim news, and right glad I am to see you first and alone.” He sought to calm his breathing and slumped, running his hand along the horse’s trembling, lathered neck. “An army approaches, milady. Arcenne will soon be besieged.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. You predicted this, did you not? And I did not listen. “Siege? By whom?”

He spoke the words I dreaded hearing.

“Damarsene. Flying the Duc’s colors, though.” My cousin coughed rackingly. Blood coated his sharp, tanned face like paint. Iron-shod hooves rang against stone. The bailey ran with sound, echoed with it, spilled over with the shouts and shrills of horses.

“How many?” My knees threatened to buckle. Damarsene. They do not leave once they have marched past a border, not without much bloodshed. Is d’Orlaans mad, or does he think them easily fobbed off once he has what he wishes? The horse’s heaving sides eased. He had run his course, and mine was just beginning.

“Enough to take this city, fair lady Riddlesharp. Some few thousands, with a siege train and engines.” He caught my arm, fingers sinking in carelessly hard. “I have other tidings, cousin mine. Later, if I may speak to you? Alone?”

Had I realized how he would soon rob me of all peace, I might have refused. No, that is not correct. I could not refuse, even if I looked back on this moment as the last before my world crumbled yet again.

The Aryx rasped uneasily against my dress. “Of course. Adrien—”

His fingers dug in, merciless. “Listen to me. Trust no one. I have a tale for you, my fair one.” His lips skinned back from his teeth, a wolf’s grimace. In the distance, a battlefield yell cut through the noise.

“Vianne!” Tristan, searching for me.

Court instinct rose. I did not struggle and cause a scene. Adrien’s fingers prisoned my flesh, a bruise already rising on my arm. I did not flinch, simply gazed into his bloody face. “Tell me a tale, cousin.” What could be worse than Damarsene approaching, and the Duc—

“Vianne! Vianne!” Tristan’s voice, ringing through the bailey.

“I know a little tale, of a man who killed a King.” Di Cinfiliet’s whisper dripped venom in my ear. “He was a part of a conspiracy, and was so close to the King none suspected, not even fat Henri himself. But he was crossed; expected to be sacrificed like a chivalier on a battlechess board. Only he twisted as a chivalier does in that game; he disappeared with the key to it all, a girl with long dark hair and pretty, pretty eyes. I have proof to give you, m’cousine, captured from di Narborre himself. Your Captain, m’cousine—” Adrien’s fingers fell away, but his gaze held mine. I saw again how much he resembled Risaine, both in the shape of his face and the set of his mouth. There was another resemblance, under the dust and weather and blood.

The King surfaced from Adrien di Cinfiliet’s features, as if rising from his tomb.

My heart pounded thinly. I tasted metal.

“Vianne!” Tristan arrived, and spun me to face him. “Are you well?”

It took every scrap of Court training I possessed to face him. “There is an army approaching, Captain. Your father—I must speak to your father. These men have ridden to warn us. We must stable the h-horses…How many? How many of yours have arrived, Adrien?” I was well to witless, but it could be supposed that the news of an approaching army would maze my humble brains.

I know a little tale, of a man who killed a King.

Bile scorched my throat.

No. Tristan was the King’s Left Hand. Proof? What proof could Adrien have? It was the Duc’s lie, that Tristan had killed the King.

And yet.

Whatever crimes Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin committed in the name of kingship, his Left Hand committed more. Take care who you keep close to you…tis more important than you think.

Or had she only mistrusted any man who could be the Left Hand to the King who had discarded her so ruthlessly?

He was my Consort, and had led me through the tunnel under Mont di Cienne.

Yet the Duc had ordered Tristan’s tongue be taken so he could not speak. Tristan had been waiting in the passage for me, with Simieri—or had Simieri come along to take Tristan unawares?

Or had Tristan been the one to catch the Minister Primus at a different game?

I had not seen my Captain the entire time of the conspiracy’s unwinding. He had left me in the passage when the alarums began. And something had bothered me for a long, long while, never quite articulated.

It simply did not make sense that the King had been poisoned, for I was not so untalented a hedgewitch as to miss poison in pettite-cakes no matter how exotic the toxin…and why, oh why, had Tristan been waiting for me in that passageway?

No. I could not mistrust him, could I?

“Fifteen.” Adrien’s voice cracked harshly. “Fifteen of my riders left, tis all. We slowed them, killed some sentries. Much as we could do. They fear the countryside now. And the night.” He patted the horse’s wet neck. His grimace was fey, an animal’s bared teeth. “We caused some damage.”

“Good. How many? And who?” Tristan’s tone was needlessly harsh, but this was dire news for both of us. It was slim comfort that he thought to ask the same questions I did.

“Some thousands,” I said. “Damarsene. Flying the Duc’s colors. And with a siege train.” This time my knees did buckle. Tristan caught me, swore, and pushed a strand of my hair back. His fingers were tender, but the thought would not leave me.

Were you part of the conspiracy, Tristan? What proof could this bandit have? “When all is revealed,” Adrien taunted him once before. So, did he suspect, or…

The noble bandit was my newfound kin, and he had little reason to lie so grievously to me, unless he hated Tristan d’Arcenne beyond reason.

Or unless there was truth to this tale, of a man who killed a King.

There were too many unanswered questions. Too many mysteries conspiring to cloud my Consort, dogging his heels. If Tristan had lied about poison in pettite-cakes, why?

And what other words of his should I mistrust?

“Inside. Come, di Cinfiliet, there’s wine for you. And bandages. The physicker’s been called.” Tristan sounded just the same. Just as he always had.

My heart turned to ice. I could not doubt him, my Consort, my love.

And yet.

I had only his word for what had happened to the King. Divris di Tatancourt could not tell me anything but rumor, which painted Tristan as the blackest of murderers. At least, the official tale spread by the Duc was that Tristan was the King’s killer. Now I wondered just who Tristan truly was a traitor to.

Or was I the traitor for even entertaining the thought?

Proof captured from di Narborre. A poison well to draw from, to be sure. Or proof so damning it could not be denied.

Everything hinged on the remainder of Adrien di Cinfiliet’s tale. I could only wait, and see.

He refused all help from the hedgewitch, took only unwatered wine, and told my Council of the approaching army as he was: bloody, battered, and swaying with exhaustion. I caught a glint in his steely eyes as he did so, which led me to think there were other reasons behind his choosing to appear weakened. Risaine should be proud of him; he was playing his part to perfection.

What other part is he playing, Vianne? Wait, watch. Practice your patience.

Twas agony to keep still and to watch. I sat in the chair at the head of the table, listening through the roaring in my ears, barely aware of what he repeated: an army, some thousands, with a siege train, answering other questions about horse and man, dispositions and colors. The Council took the news well, Perseval d’Arcenne questioning him closely as to exactly where, the manner of their siege engines, how many Adrien and his riders had killed, the speed of the interlopers. How many cavalry, how many infantry, if he had taken any prisoners.

Which, of course, Adrien had not. His hatred would not allow it, for the one who led the army was the Duc’s dog, Garonne di Narborre. A murmur ran through the Council at that tidbit.

I closed my eyes, sank back into the chair. The Aryx shifted, carved scales rasping against silk fouled with horse-lather. I let out a soft sigh. Breath and my usual wit threatened to desert me.

So close to the King none suspected, not even fat Henri himself. But he was crossed; expected to be sacrificed like a chivalier on a battlechess board. Only he twisted as a chivalier does in that game; he disappeared with the key to it all, a girl with long dark hair and pretty, pretty eyes.

Adrien had little reason to lie so flagrantly, for my protection gave him and his men shelter against di Narborre, as well as a chance to avenge the wrongs done them.

Perhaps he had even suspected, before this. But how? Did any among the Guard know aught, or suspect? How many of the men I had trusted my life to had darker secrets?

He said he possessed proof. If he had killed one of di Narborre’s men, would he have proof of a conspiracy even deeper than I had dreamed?

The argument roiled around me. Voices raised, Lord Siguerre’s cranky whistle, Perseval d’Arcenne’s baritone, Tristan speaking harshly for once. I rubbed at my temples. Marquis di Falterne making a few acerbic remarks, Chivalier d’Anton seeking as usual to smooth the ruffled feathers. He and the Conte di Rivieri I had chosen because they were naturally calm and unruffled, balanced with Conte di Dienjuste’s fiery excitability and Irion di Markui’s rumbling disapproval of everything. On such short notice, and from the border provinces, I seemed to have found a great deal of talent the Court and King Henri’s Council had overlooked.

My skull twinged with pain. Twas not the half-head; yet bad enough. Each time I think this cannot possibly become worse, it becomes so.

From the beginning, Vianne. Adrien di Cinfiliet had little reason to lie to me.

That does not mean something has not been concocted to use his honesty against me. But then again, what proof could he have from di Narborre that he would trust? As much as he may dislike Tristan, he is certain to hate di Narborre more, for di Narborre killed his mother.

My heart was a chunk of lead, senselessly pulsing, though I perhaps would rather have stopped it outright, to save myself the tearing that would result if my Consort had—

“—Your Majesty?” D’Anton, appealing to me.

Brought rudely back to the present moment, I did not answer, massaging my temples. I stank of horsefoam, and a vision of the charred bandit village rose in front of me. The stinksweet of roasted flesh, the charred homes, the small, helpless bodies of children. If I did not find some solution, would the same happen in the clean white stone halls of Arcenne, in the streets below where the people went about their lives, going to market, going to the Temple? And the R’mini, scattered throughout Arquitaine, would suffer as well once the Damarsene were finished with our rebellion and turned to bring the country under their heel once and for all, whither the Duc d’Orlaans willed it or no.

Each of those lives hung on me, both the lost and those needing to be preserved.

I pushed myself to my feet, the chair scraping against the floor. Silence fell.

I opened my eyes, paced to the window. Below, Arcenne lay packed behind its wall, the Keep lifting like a stone ship’s prow. A haze of smoke drifted up from the town and the outlying settlements. Trees clothed in summer leaf swayed gently in the sunshine, mountain wind mouthing the wavery glass. “Dear gods,” I whispered.

On the mountainside, the white blocks of the Temple glistened. I remembered the statue of Jiserah, glowing with a radiance far beyond starlight or moonlight. The mysterious priestess of Kimyan, with her piercing gray eyes; and the Aryx ringing as if it would burst, power running through its straining serpents.

The gods were watching, perhaps. But theirs was not help I could do aught but beg, and I was a beggar in so much else. I had nothing to trade save the Aryx, and it belonged to them in any event. No, there was no help from that quarter.

And Tristan…

I was alone, as surely as I had ever been at Court, even among the whirl and glitter. Loneliness in disaster is the fate of every man or woman, though, and it does little good to bemoan it.

“Your Highness?” Perseval d’Arcenne. “We await you.”

And you will have to await me a few moments longer, Minister Primus. I touched the glass. Ran my fingertips over its rippling surface. I cannot do this. I cannot. I do not know why the Aryx has chosen me, but tis wrong. I cannot order more death, I cannot be responsible for this. A war on the other side of winter I thought I could avert, or at least it would give me enough time to find a solution. But a war here and now, and the Damarsene on Arquitaine soil?

Blessed preserve us all. How much more prayer would I indulge in before I ceased to think of myself as irreligious?

“D’mselle?” Baron d’Arcenne’s voice held irritation, and the snap of command. “If you would be so good as to—”

“Enough, Perseval.” My tone could have shattered the window. “When I wish for you to speak to me as if I am your lackey, I will inform you of the event. Until that time, be more careful of your manner. Tristan?”

“Aye, my liege?” Suitably hushed, carefully obedient.

“How long do we have?” My throat closed around the words, thick with tears. I wondered that I sounded so haughty.

“Three days, four at most. Enough time to get everyone inside the walls and—”

“I will spend tonight at the Temple. Send to Danae, priestess of Jiserah, to inform her I wish her services. Gather every hedgewitch and Court sorcerer you can find, prepare them for siege. Make certain Adrien’s men are given aught they require, and wait for me in your chambers. Go.”

The air crackled with his reluctance, and I am sure he exchanged a look with his father. The door soughed closed behind his bootsteps.

I rounded on my Council, my head held high. Adrien di Cinfiliet had dropped into a chair, and he watched me carefully from beneath the glare-white bandage. But he smiled, encouragingly, just a tiny curve of his thin lips.

It made no dent in the armor closing about me.

“Chivalieri en sieurs.” I let my gaze linger on Perseval d’Arcenne, who looked angry enough to spit like a Guard averting ill-luck. “I will decide tomorrow morn if I am to risk open war, or if I will surrender myself to the Duc and hope for peace. I am loath to risk even a single life.”

They stared, jaws hanging. It was a moment that would have been comic if not for the tension crackling between each man and the next. I had only a short while before their shock turned to shouting matches as they sought to change my mind, and I had little patience for such an event.

“Until I decide, I leave the preparations for this city’s defense to you. I have another duty now. Sieur di Cinfiliet, I ask for a few more moments of your time, tonight, in the Temple. Until then, rest, and look to your men and horses.” My eyes moved slowly over the faces of my Council, and the howling loneliness settled more deeply over me. “And now, chivalieri en sieurs, I wish to be alone. Be so kind as to withdraw.”

The Aryx rilled softly under my words. I did not sound like the King, but neither did I sound like a woman who could be disobeyed.

Of all of them, only d’Anton tried to speak. I lifted a hand, effectively silencing him. When they were gone, only the guards outside the door remaining, I dropped back into the chair and looked at the table, scattered with paper and candleholders. The wine decanter looked very tempting, but I required a clear head.

I let out a long breath. My head pounded. My entire body shook as if I had been struck with palsy. My right hand crept up, touched the Aryx’s pulsing. Sunlight slanted through the windows, dust dancing in each bar of thick warm yellow. The Aryx moved, serpents straining against my fingers. One hard gemstone—a serpent’s eye—drifted under my fingertip. “Gods.” My voice shook. “What did I do to deserve this?”

There was no answer. Nothing but the Aryx thrumming, singing, almost conscious against my skin. My stomach flipped, revolving, as if I had slipped on a staircase and was now starting a long fall. “Tristan,” I whispered.

I would wait until tonight, in the house of the Blessed, to speak to di Cinfiliet and hear his proof.

And what of it? What if Tristan d’Arcenne had killed the King? I had said I cared little what he had done beforehand, and I loved him. It seemed now that I had always loved him, even at Court, and only been blind to it. It hurt my heart to think of him as a traitor, but perhaps he was not. Perhaps it was another trick, a lie, something to make me mistrust him. After all, assassins had been sent to fetch me, not to kill…if I could trust what the Pruzian said.

What if I went to the Temple as suppliant and the gods were silent? What if I found no answer in the house of the Blessed? What if the city was besieged and there were yet more deaths to lay upon my conscience, people who followed me because of the Aryx, who trusted the judgment of a lady-in-waiting, a bastard royal? And what if I gave myself over to the Duc and had to endure his limp white hands on me while plague swept Arquitaine and Damarsene armies marched through her fields and orchards? What were Damarsene troops about under the Duc’s standard?

I did not trust my wit when faced with this, and the strength I would have depended on had just been rudely struck from me. What if I could no longer trust Tristan d’Arcenne? What if he was just as guilty as the Duc who had killed my Princesse?

You have suspected, Vianne. You may never fully know. But the suspicion itself will work in your heart like the poison that was not in the King’s pettite-cakes. You have known since Tierrce d’Estrienne something was amiss with Tristan’s tale, and yet you closed your eyes to it, for you needed him.

My fingers left the Aryx. I cupped my face in my hands as the sunlight burned through the empty room.

And there, alone in the Keep among hundreds depending on my wit and strength, I wept.