Fellyck lowered himself into his council chair. “Unavoidably, Your Majesty.”
Yestin offered another slight nod. Braith returned it.
But just as she reseated herself on her throne, Fellyck’s voice sounded again. “I apologize for my impertinence, Queen Braith. But I suppose your desire to hold a trial for the party responsible for Gareth’s death, if there is one, proves Her Majesty does not have an aversion to trials. I had wondered.”
“Aversion?” Braith frowned. “Why would you wonder such a thing?”
“Do we not have another important prisoner languishing in the dungeons at this moment?”
Braith sucked in a small breath but said nothing.
Fellyck showed convincing meekness. “Oh, have you forgotten, Your Majesty? Surely not. I know the business of the queen is varied and weighty, but surely she has not forgotten about Dray Bo-Anffir, her father’s closest advisor.”
“No.” Braith’s voice had lost half its strength. She well remembered his pitiful, wasted appearance last she had seen him. She remembered what sounded like remorse in his voice. Remorse, and perhaps a deep longing for redemption. A longing for something other than who he had been.
And a longing for Braith that she would never fulfill.
Yestin rose from the council table. “Dray remains in the dungeon. Perhaps Her Majesty will set a date for a trial.” His eyes were sympathetic but firm. This was right. This was necessary. Inevitable.
Braith found her voice again. “Yes. Dray will stand trial. As soon as the investigation into Gareth’s death is complete.”
“And the charges for Dray Bo-Anffir?” Fellyck was relentless.
Braith swallowed. “High treason.”
Braith shifted on her throne and turned to Sir Ethyn, the noble who had just been petitioning her. “I understand your province has been hit hard by the riots.”
Ethyn inclined his head. “Majesty, we need soldiers immediately. Aid. Something.”
Braith measured her words. She did not wish to reveal that at least half her army had deserted when Gareth fell. Stars, some of them were leading the rioters.
“I understand your plight. I will do all I can to aid my stewards, governors, and lords. You have my word.”
Would it be enough?
Sir Ethyn bowed, though he offered none of the wheedling thanks the lords were so prone to offering Braith’s father.
“Is that all for petitions?” Braith asked.
Yestin glanced at a piece of parchment before him, then nodded to the queen.
“Very well. I should like to begin our investigation, then.” Braith signaled to a guardsman at the back of the room.
Two men entered the throne room. Just two. It had been all Cameria could manage to round up on such short notice.
Murmurs sounded.
Fellyck watched as the men approached the queen. “What is this?”
“Colormasters,” Braith said. “I know Gareth enforced deeply restrictive policies on such weavers, but I intend to restore them to the positions and functions they once held.” Braith nodded to the two colormasters. “If you please, gentlemen, you may begin to recreate the scene you observed in Gareth Bo-Kelwyd’s cell this morning.”
One colormaster, an aged man dressed in peasant clothing, hesitated at the tabletop. The other, younger and wearing the finer garb of one who lived in the palace as the second son of a courtier, allowed his fingertips to light.
Braith stood and walked down the dais. She put her hand on the arm of the older colormaster. “It is all right. You will not be harmed. You have my word.”
The man nodded once, then his fingers, too, lit up.
The younger colormaster was already sweeping his hands above the table. Strands like paint spilled out, and he directed them with ease. Before many moments passed, an image took shape—a dark cell with a large man’s body lying in the middle.
Braith closed her eyes. After a short breath, she opened them again and began to examine the evidence.
The older colormaster swept his fingers over the image on the council table. He added detail the younger man missed. A particular shade to the eyes, a clump of straw clustered in one corner of the cell, markings on the body.
After a few moments more, both colormasters stepped back and bowed. It seemed their work was complete.
Braith nodded slowly. “Thank you very much, indeed.” She stared at the image they had created—so real, it was as if they were standing before the scene in person. “This.” She pointed to the markings around her father’s throat. “Was he . . . strangled?”
“I believe so, Majesty.” Cadwyth Bo-Balas, captain of the palace guard, had joined the councilmen at the table and was examining the picture alongside the others. “Do you see his eyes? The broken vessels there.” He cleared his throat.
How awkward he must feel to have this discussion with the dead man’s daughter.
He glanced sideways at Braith, then continued. “That suggests strangulation.”
“Indeed.” Braith leaned closer, and sure enough, the older artist had filled in that detail.
“Majesty?”
Braith sighed a little. “Yes, Sir Fellyck?”
“This is all well and good.” He held up the piece of parchment he had brought to the council meeting. “But if it pleases you, I have other items I’d like to discuss.”
“Oh? And what be they?”
“Well, I’d first like to address the sticky matter of Sir Dray Bo-Anffir.”
Braith’s voice hardened. “Oh? I thought we had already discussed that matter.”
“The council is well aware that you and Sir Dray had a relationship of a personal nature.”
“Indeed!” She fought for control. “I was unaware of this personal relationship.”
Of course, Dray had made no secret of his desire to wed her, but that was not her fault.
General Bo-Arthio cleared his throat. “Sir Fellyck, may I point out that Her Majesty has given us no reason to suspect she would not be fair and evenhanded with any prisoner who stands accused, no matter who he is? Let us not forget she stood against her own father when he was in the wrong.”
“Indeed.” Fellyck’s voice sounded full of icicles. “And what do you know of this, Bo-Arthio? Could you hear council meetings from your hideout? Have you been eavesdropping at court these last thirteen years?”
“That’s enough.” Anger laced Braith’s words. “General Bo-Arthio has been appointed to this council the same as any of the rest of you, and I will not tolerate disrespect. Disagreement and discourse are encouraged, but disdain is not. Now, in answer to your original question, Sir Fellyck, Dray will be brought to trial before the council and myself, just as any other prisoner. But we will see to this matter you have interrupted first.” She returned her attention to the art on the table.
“And my other matter?” Fellyck insistently held forth his parchment.
“Yes?”
He pursed his lips. At least he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Your Majesty, I mean no disrespect, but your unorthodox succession to the throne requires some discussion.”
Braith stared at him.
“Tir accepted your father’s own rather unorthodox succession because King Caradoc’s will seemed explicit and clear. But that was the first time Tir has been ruled by a man of no royal blood. And this . . .” He gestured to Braith. “Again, no disrespect. But not all the riots in the streets are on account of your father, Majesty. If nothing else, further inquiry would protect you from speculation, coup attempts, and a whole host of other unsavory possibilities I’m sure Your Majesty would not like to face.”
Braith’s gaze dropped back to the table. She stared at the image of her father’s body. “Very well. I will remind you I was chosen by the committee. But we shall open such investigation and discussion after the case of my father’s murder has been looked into to my satisfaction.”
Fellyck bowed. “Thank you, Majesty. And do make haste. The oak door
s of this palace are only so strong.”
Braith waited until the throne room was mostly clear before she sat and dropped her head in her hands. She lifted it at the sound of approaching steps.
Yestin bowed. “Majesty.”
“Yes, General. How goes the preparation for your voyage?”
“I believe the captain and his, ah, crew have it well in hand.”
Braith smiled. “Never fear. I have commissioned a naval commander and his men to accompany my rogue weavers on their journey.”
“I’m glad of it. I’m sure the Bo-Lidere boy is a fine sailor, but the others . . .”
“Yes. I suppose they are the greenest sailors a queen ever commissioned.” Braith’s smile fell. “My first council was a disaster.”
Yestin’s eyes were kind. “I’ve seen far worse in my time.”
“I just thought . . .”
“It would be easy?”
“I suppose I thought it’d be easier without having my hands tied by my father and his whims. I thought when I had more authority . . .” She sighed. “Foolish, I know.”
“Optimistic.”
She gave a short laugh. “Well, General Bo-Arthio, I’m afraid that after one council meeting on this throne, I’m beginning to understand my father’s iron rule more than I ever did sitting in that chair.” She nodded to her former seat at the council table.
“Yes, Majesty. Understand, perhaps. But not support.”
“No, not support.” She glanced at him wearily. “Let us never hope so.”
Yestin offered his arm to Braith. “I have no worries about that, Majesty.”
Braith rose and accepted his arm. The two strolled toward the throne room door. “You have more faith in me than I do in myself, General. But I shall endeavor not to disappoint you.”
A guardsman opened the door for the queen and her advisor.
Yestin remained silent as they walked for a moment.
“General, might I ask a favor?”
“Of course, Majesty.”
“Would you escort me to the palace gardens? I long for the days when I was freer to wander there. Even then, I felt like a bird trapped in a cage. But now . . . I cannot recall when last I enjoyed the sunshine and fresh air. Would you mind terribly staying with me?”
“Not in the least, Queen Braith. It’s my honor.”
Braith smiled. “No need to stand on ceremony, General.” They descended the palace stairs. “I know you’re busy with your preparations, but somehow I cannot bear to return to my chambers. Preparations for our next council are all that await me there.”
“It will come easier in time.”
“Is it strange that I rather hope not?”
Yestin lapsed into silence as they cleared the stairs and crossed through the crowded palace foyer toward the front doors.
“It will become more familiar,” Yestin said at last. “You were born for this.”
Braith’s eyes misted. “That is kind of you to say, General.”
“I mean it.” He led Braith toward the palace doors. “Your blood may not be royal, but it is diplomatic, and I think that is better.” He gestured Braith forward.
But before they could take another step, a shout sounded nearby.
“Down with Gareth’s line!”
Braith spun just in time to see a dagger flash toward her.
CHAPTER NINE
TANWEN
I was sitting halfway up the first flight of stairs leading off the foyer, feeling extremely sorry for myself, when I heard the commotion.
A muffled shout, a rustle. And then Braith screamed.
I flew down the stairs.
“Braith!”
I bolted toward the front doors of the palace, barely processing the blur of bodies and shouts and chaos around me. “Braith!”
My feet skidded against the stone floor as I pulled to a stop in time to see my father reach up and disarm a dagger from a shouting peasant’s hand. In another moment, he had the peasant pinned to the floor, face down, arms secured behind his back. Father spun the dagger around in a swift motion so that the blade rested against the back of the peasant’s neck.
The whole thing lasted about the span of a single breath, and Father didn’t even look to be sweating.
I stumbled back a step.
His calm, quiet voice somehow carried over the panic in the foyer. “You, soldier.” He nodded to one of the guards who was supposed to be manning the door. “Arrest this man for treason and attempted regicide.”
“Yes, General.” The soldier motioned to two of his fellows, and they had the peasant on his feet and secured in a few moments.
The man bled from a cut on his forehead, I guessed from his fall to the stone floor, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. He screamed as the guardsmen led him away. “Gareth’s line will end! Down with the pretender queen! Down with the monarchy!”
One guardsman delivered an elbow to the peasant’s gut. “Shut up, you!”
The crowd thinned as some of the onlookers padded after the struggling prisoner and palace guard. Braith came into view. She sat crumpled on the floor, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.
“Braith!” I rushed to her side and dropped to my knees. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She shook her head like it was full of fog and fluff. “No, just . . . startled.”
I checked her over anyway. “Cameria is going to explode when she hears. She leaves you alone for half a moment . . .”
“Indeed.” Braith allowed me to help her to her feet—not an easy task in her queenly corset and gown.
“Tannie,” Father’s voice cut in, maddeningly calm and soothing. “It is the palace guards’ job to protect the queen. What are you doing down here?”
“Well, you seemed keen to jump in.”
Father paused. “The guardsman in me is slow to retire, I suppose. I am technically still a soldier.”
I bit back any further argument. He was right, of course. “Aye. I need to get back, anyway. Need to finish packing. Just for the trip to Physgot,” I added before he could misunderstand me. If this very long day had beaten one thing into my head, it was that I would not be traveling on Mor’s ship.
“All right, Tannie. I will see you up there shortly.”
I nodded to Father, curtsied to Queen Braith, and took my leave.
I trudged back up the stairs. Father didn’t even want me going to Physgot. I could tell by the look he gave me when I mentioned it. But I had to see my friends off from the dock. Stars, it was probably safer for me in Physgot than Urian right now, with assassins breaching the palace doors.
A shudder rippled through me.
I took a right turn toward the tower housing our apartments and ran bodily into a solid black wall.
“Tannie En-Yestin, there you are!”
The wall knew my name.
But then the voice registered, and I moved past my mental hiccup at his attire. Still wasn’t used to that blasted palace guardsman uniform, even though he wore it all the time, on duty or off.
“Ho, Brac.” I moved to sidestep him and continue toward my room. I had packing to attend to and wasn’t keen to let him know about it just yet.
But Brac put his hand on my arm and pulled me back. He wrapped me in a hug. “I heard there was an attempted assassination in the foyer. So glad you weren’t down there.”
“Oh.” My voice was muffled as he pressed my face into his chest. “I was down there.”
He held me at arm’s length. “What?”
“Aye, I heard the shouting and went to see if Braith was all right.”
“Tannie! What’s gotten into you? Are you tryin’ to get yourself killed?”
I glared at him. Ironic. His overprotectiveness—and my father’s—might actually get me killed, if I really was getting as sick as Gryfelle.
“No. Course not. I just reacted.”
“Like always.”
I rolled my eyes and pushed past him. “Excuse me.”
He pulled me back aga
in. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t look up.
“Did you hear me, Tannie? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. Just been so worried about you. Everything seems so dangerous these days. And now that we’re betrothed, I feel a special need to protect you. You understand that, surely.”
Discomfort rose in my throat. “I really need to go.”
He didn’t even seem to hear me.
Next second I was wrapped in another hug, and he may as well have been trying to wring the air from my chest for all the breath I could manage.
I needed to get out of there.
“Brac, I must go. Please.”
“Aye, my girl.” He released me at last. “I’ll check on you later. Shall I have dinner sent up to your room?”
I looked at him like he’d dropped through the ceiling.
“Dinner sent to my room?”
“Aye. Thought you might want a quiet meal after your fright.”
“I’m fine,” I mumbled.
“I’ll have dinner sent.”
“Aye. Whatever you want.”
“It’ll be all right, Tannie. I promise.”
I forced a thin smile and nodded, then I fled for the stairs.
Nothing was all right. Nothing at all. Brac used to feel like home, and now? Now when I was with him I felt . . . alone.
And he was going to lose his mind when I told him I was going to Physgot.
CHAPTER TEN
TANWEN
I could tell you all about the row Brac and I had over Physgot. I could tell you how my father finally stepped in and said I had permission to see him and my friends off, and how I just about keeled over with shock. And about how Brac insisted he would travel with us as part of the guard and see me home, safely to Urian. Or about how I screamed Urian wasn’t home and then a story strand made of fire shot from my finger and singed my curtains to a blackened crisp.
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