Author: Lina J. Potter
Date: 2019-10-07T18:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Romance
Description: Two countries are caught up in the flames of conspiracy, desperate to restore order. Rebellions in Virma and Wellster are at its peak. In these dark days, when no one is safe, in order to survive, Lilian has to remember who her friends are. Separated from Lilian in the very heart of a cruel scheme, Jess will have to face reality: his wife is one of a kind. The journey from Ativerna to Wellster continues, and the ambassador party led by Jerrison Earton arrives to retrieve the bride of their prince—only to find themselves in the middle of a conspiracy led by the former queen and her allies. With
Publisher: LitHunters ltd.

A Medieval Tale

Book Seven

The Right of Vengeance

By Lina J. Potter

Translated by LitHunters

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Contents:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

From the Author

Book Recommendations

About Lina J. Potter

A Medieval Tale: The Right of Vengeance

Two countries are caught up in the flames of conspiracy, desperate to restore order. Rebellions in Virma and Wellster are at its peak. In these dark days, when no one is safe, in order to survive, Lilian has to remember who her friends are. Separated from Lilian in the very heart of a cruel scheme, Jess will have to face reality: his wife is one of a kind.

The journey from Ativerna to Wellster continues, and the ambassador party led by Jerrison Earton arrives to retrieve the bride of their prince—only to find themselves in the middle of a conspiracy led by the former queen and her allies. With the capital swept up in chaos and lives on the line, it’s up to the resourceful countess and her companions to solve the conflict and save the country—and themselves.

Meanwhile, in the distant Virma after the murder of her lady-in-waiting that threatens to ruin the alliance between Virma and Ativerna, Princess Angelina winds up leading the investigation and trying to find the murderer, whose motives remain unclear.

Yet even with danger lurking behind every corner, a heart cannot be denied what it wants. Two couples get caught up in illicit affairs, ill-advised, yet oh so alluring. The obstacles in their paths are seemingly insurmountable…

***

The Right of Vengeance is the 7th book in a bestselling Amazon historical romance and time travel A Medieval Tale series by Lina J. Potter.

The author took a pause after book 5 to come back with new adventures of Lilian Earton; with higher stakes, more danger, and more romance. Medieval times are not the calmest era, so Lilian has to use all her knowledge, charm, and wit to prove that a woman has her voice, her rights, and her opinion that need to be listened to, that love truly exists, and that everyone deserves their chance at happiness.

Prologue

Lily tossed her thick braid behind her back and sent Lidarh into a gallop. The horse, almost as smart as his mistress, was happy to break into a run. He flew across the fields like a bird, rushing to meet the setting sun.

Truly, riding was an experience that was hard to describe with words: becoming one with an intelligent and obedient animal... No, that was the wrong word. How could that horse be called an animal?

Back in her childhood, the adventures Lily had read had it all simple: heroes were traveling somewhere, riding their horses to death, stealing them, switching for new ones...

How could she do something like that? Ride Lidarh to death? Trade him? Abandon him? That would be worse than a crime. Would a hanging tree even tolerate someone who did that? And don't even try saying that for them, it was just a four-legged means of transport. Just see how Jerisson looks at Lidarh, or even at his own monster of a mount, even if it was nowhere a match for the Avarian!

For him, a horse is a friend. It is not expendable.

Oh yes, Jerisson... Now that was a complicated situation all around.

Maybe that's what happens when you rush into battle, swords ringing and arrows swooshing past, with people dropping on the ground all around you, with nary a second to stop and think... How many great people had confessed that fighting was easier?

Many. And that was true. Kill or be killed. Protect your friends; protect your home, nothing else.

But when war gives way to peace, when honeyed words hide poisoned chalices, when snakes skulk in the bushes...

It becomes hard to see friend from foe.

For Aliya, or rather Lilian, it had been simple. When she found herself in the body of the poor countess inside Castle Earton, all she had to do was to survive. She would sort things out, drive away her enemies, last through the winter...

She succeeded.

Later, when she got to the capital, she also had it tough—but her goals seemed clear: launch her business (she was no genius, but she knew the basics, while the locals knew only primitive technology), make a good impression on the king and the court, figure out the conspiracy that she had stumbled upon by complete accident...

Ugh, those bastards!

She could understand when a plot was hatched by people without any means—no money, no shame, no prospects, while the powers that be squeezed them dry...

That made sense, like Marie Antoinette and her cakes. Something like that deserved a beating—and a revolution.

*Author's note: Lilian is mistaken due to her poor knowledge of history. This phrase originates from Jean Jacque Russo, written when Marie Antoinette was only nine. Moreover, in that time period in France, it was customary to give beggars the baking goods that weren’t sold during the day. If you had no bread, you could take a cake and eat it, as it couldn't be sold the next day, due to the law enacted by Louis XIV.

But when your only dilemma was which cake to eat first, the cherry or the raspberry one? When you had no problems and had money and power in spades?

Did those people have an itch?

Lily had a good reason to be offended.

The first to be caught were the Iveliens—close relatives of poor Jerisson. Thank God that her husband still didn't know about certain pitfalls—really, ignorance was a blessing.

Then the Falions joined in. Incidentally, Her Grace quite fancied Alexander Falion back then...fancied very much, even. What a snake he turned out to be!

Later, he insisted that he had gotten into the plot because of his broken heart: he fell in love with Lilian, while she chose another man over him (her lawful husband and the father of her daughter, by the way), causing him great pain and making him give up women for life. Um, sorry.

And then, there was her daughter, Miranda. Maybe she wasn't Mirrie's biological mother, but Lily genuinely came to love the girl and wanted to do everything to make her life better, including helping her father, which, incidentally, proved to be a challenge. The good count, thanks to his contempt of women, didn't take one of them seriously and paid for it with poison in his glass. If only he knew what it was like for Lily to pull him out...

Maybe each person, once in their life, should get a tour of an intensive care unit. And as for public servants, they should be kicked inside and locked for three days.

After that, people would forever lose the desire to attack doctors, cut their wages, or bury them in paperwork. Lily had been there, and she kept her eyes open. She repeated what she had seen to save Jess.

Honestly, both of them got lucky—twice. Jess survived and stayed healthy, despite being on the brink of death. To make sure he healed, the count spent almost three months eating gruel and broth: Lily was terrified of an ulcer. She couldn't perform surgery in those conditions, a gastroscopy wasn't an option, so an ulcer, especially perforated, was a death sentence.

They lucked out.

Evidently, the poison hadn't had enough time to permanently damage the stomach, as help arrived in time. And Jerisson... Jerisson decided to mend bridges with his wife. The outcome of his attempts was still up in the air, as they were interrupted by a letter from Virma.

When Lily hired the Virmans to guard the estate, Leif having a blood feud was the least of her worries. Do what you want, just help.

Still, in the end, the loose ends had to be tied.

Apparently, Virman blood feuds were sanctioned by the Circle. She had to either deal with that issue straight away, or Leaf would become an outlaw and never be able to sail again—and that was the best-case scenario. In the worst, any Virman could cut him down on the spot like a rabid dog.

Lily didn't want such a fate for her friend and would readily go to Virma to stand for him. How could she not? She had hired Leif, and he swore an oath to her. She was to take care of him, and she would have—and who knows if Virma would have survived her assault, as a doctor's wrath is terrible indeed—but she didn't get the opportunity.

Turned out, His Majesty had plans of his own for Count Earton. Specifically, Jess was to go to Wellster, take His Highness' bride, Princess Maria, and escort her home. They still had an agreement with Gardwig, and seeing as Anna had escaped...

Let Maria grow up at the court of His Majesty Edward—maybe then, she wouldn't get loose morals and a penchant for poisoning.

The count had to go, with his entire family, to add gravity to the situation, and a retinue.

Lily was about to bristle, but His Majesty politely explained to her that he had no other options. Gardwig really wanted to see Lilian; his leg still hurt, despite him following all instructions of his healer down to the letter, so her counsel was needed. Really, she had no choice.

And Jerisson was the king's nephew.

What about Richard, the prince of Ativerna? His Highness could have gone himself, of course, but that didn't seem proper. It would look like Ativernans placed themselves lower than Wellster, which wouldn't do at all. They still owed Ativernans for the defective princess. Count Earton, on the other hand, was a great fit.

Why is that?

Countess, don't try to find greater meaning in etiquette; just follow its regulations, and your head won't hurt.

Virma?

Oh, Virma will be the destination for His Highness. Everything will be fine, you'll see. Richard will gain experience, hone his skills, and sign a mutual assistance treaty—they have the so-called Circle of Clans, that's who'll sign. Did you really think it through when you needed the Virmans' aid, countess? Is it the king's problem that now, the Virmans are tied to the Eartons and not the whole of Ativerna? That doesn't seem like the behavior of a loyal subject.

His Highness will go, and one of the girls. Aside from the treaty, we'll make marriage pacts. No, not with a princess, that would be ridiculous! If Virma had a king, it would be a different matter, but the chief of an ordinary clan is small fish for a princess. For a lady-in-waiting, however, it will be a good match, provided we pick the right girls, but His Majesty will take care of that—he had solved worse problems than that.

Lily gave up and agreed to go.

Unfortunately, not by sea. A ship would be faster, but the route was rather inconvenient, and the storm season was coming. Actually, the Virmans always gathered their Circle right after the harvest, during the storms when nobody could sail out. Smart people. Virma wasn't too far away, only a few days’ travel, so that was doable. But sailing along the coast, with its high and low tide and Limayera Bay...plus, the whirlpools… It was no Maelstrom, Saltstraumen, or Old Sow, but during the storm season, the currents were ruthless. Whirlpools turned up here and there, dangerous and cunning; in the Baleful Channel, next to Loris, they were almost perpetual, but a few sprung up even close to the coast of Ativerna.

Those whirlpools weren't the worst in the world, but for those sailing boats, rowboats, made from wood...it didn't take much.

On top of that, Cardin, the capital of Wellster, was not a port. After overcoming those dreadful storms and insane currents, they would have to travel by land. It was much easier to dismiss the idea of sailing in the first place, cross the Limayera Bay far away from the “bottleneck,” and ride straight to Cardin.

That's what they decided.

Later, Lily realized that His Majesty had devised a plan of his own that nobody told the countess.

Once, Aliya had had a friend who bred hamsters. Sometimes, she bought new ones. The old guard never took kindly to those additions. What did the friend do? She would put all her hamsters, old and new ones, into a pet carrier and go for a two-hour walk, dangling the bag without much care. Fitness and friendship, combined! After returning to their cage, the hamsters were so dazed they didn't give a care in the world about new recruits.

At that moment, Lily felt herself like one of those newbie hamsters. She was shoved into the same pet carrier as Jerisson and other courtiers and sent for a walk, mercilessly shaken along the way.

On the other hand... Over the course of the journey, she really did get to know her husband much better. Apparently, the road was the one true relationship test.

Jerisson turned out to be a rather good traveling partner, not stupid, not a whiner, and always ready to meet her halfway. He was also reliable; Lily found that out when they were attacked by bandits.

By the way, she really shouldn't be riding too far from the cortege—the roads weren't safe. Lily turned the Avarian around toward the road.

Soon, they would camp for the night. And Cardin wasn't far away, either.

Maybe His Majesty had been right. At least she and Jerisson weren't dreaming of getting a divorce any time soon. Who knows? They might even become friends on the road back.

One could say that wasn't the best foundation for a marriage. No sparks, no all-consuming lust, no instant passion...what did they write in romance novels?

Well, just let us get to know each other first! Then, we'll see. Sparks? Was the count an electrical malfunction? A heart paddle?

Clear!

Once again! We're losing him!

Oh, speak of the devil. The count was riding toward Lily, Miranda in tow.

"Mama, are you coming?" the viscountess yelled out.

Lily laughed and gently touched Lidarh's flanks with her heels. He sped up, obeying her command.

Against all her expectations, the journey turned out to be an interesting diversion. Hurray to hamsters!

Chapter 1

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

A long night? A long day? Bran had been mistaken. They weren’t long; they turned out to be without end. At least he... But first things first.

Hors Kellog didn’t waste any time. He darted off, screaming, alerting everyone he could.

Olav was the first to arrive at the beach. He fell on his knees next to Aliah Reinst and took a good look at her. A veteran warrior, he immediately realized that the girl was dead and the way she had died. He glanced at Bran and breathed out only one word. "Who?"

"If only I knew," Bran replied. "I heard a scream and rushed to help."

Olav’s gaze stopped at Her Highness, his implication clear. How can I get rid of a lady while being both polite and firm enough for her to come back? She’s getting in the way of men, hindering them from doing stuff. Most likely, she’s about to throw a fit, all those fragile things are like that!

"She was my lady-in-waiting!" Angelina countered, sensing Olav’s intentions. "Don’t even think about removing me from here! I won’t leave!"

She even stomped her foot for good measure.

Of course, such trifles wouldn’t stop the Virmans, even if she were to trample out all the sand around them, but nobody had time to send the princess packing.

"Angie?"

Richard couldn’t run as fast as the Virmans, so when he arrived, the beach was already packed with people. Thankfully, everyone already knew his face and let him pass or he would have still been jumping around in the back. Everybody was curious, after all.

Virmans had a pretty pragmatic approach to death. Nobody was going to cry and be appalled. It was the Middle Ages. The locals didn’t consider death to be the end or, really, something to be afraid of. If a man died, he would simply move on to another world: to Aldonai’s or Olive’s abode. The rest of them stayed, but in time, would join him. What was there to fear?

The priests assured people that life beyond the veil wasn’t any worse. So all they had to do was to pray for the departed and live on.

And that’s what people did. Aliah had no immediate family on Virma, so nobody could weep next to her lifeless body, and the lament had to be canceled. Yet the question of the perpetrator was relevant as ever. That death had the worst timing and jeopardized the entire ambassador party and their mission to establish a close rapport with Ativerna, which was critical for Virma. Even an idiot could understand that...except for one person. Or had they understood everything a little too well? Bran didn’t know, but he was going to find out.

"Richard, I’m fine. Aliah Reinst was murdered," the princess spoke up. She was pale but kept herself together.

"By whom?"

"If only we knew, Your Majesty," Olav said.

Richard knelt down beside the girl and started examining the body. Judging by the look of things, someone had snapped her neck like a chicken’s. A woman could never do something like that; only a man could, and a strong one at that. That was something. Half of Virma was women, and a third part, the elderly and children. How many people were there that night? Five hundred? In theory, the girl could have been killed by absolutely any of the two hundred men. Richard had already realized that tracking down anybody in the midst of Fleyna’s night was impossible, and all Virmans knew how to handle weapons, even the aforementioned women and children.

Icy fingers touched Bran’s hand.

"Your Highness," he said, turning around. "Let me escort you home..."

Angelina shook her head. She was pasty white and dizzy, but her grey eyes stared straight ahead, completely serious.

"Bran, it’s not the time. We need to study this scene, find the clues, sort it out before it’s too late."

"Your Highness, I’m afraid it is already too late."

Angelina looked around and sighed. Saying the words wasn’t hard, but doing that? If there were any track marks, the flock of onlookers had long since trampled over them. Yet she did know a few similar cases.

"We still have a chance."

Bran, never an optimist, shook his head.

"What will we discover, My Lady, after that crowd?"

"Answer me this, Bran. How was she killed? I didn’t take a look, "Angelina confessed. "But I need to know. It’s important for the investigation."

Bran wanted nothing more than to lead her away from all that, but it wasn’t a common Virman girl standing before him, but a princess. She was responsible for her people. There was no way to win her over, no way to take her away. She would never understand that.

But why was she asking all those questions? What were they teaching princesses in Ativerna? Bran suspected that none of the women he knew would ever wonder about the manner of death. How could a girl think about something like that?

He would have been quite surprised to learn about the stories of Baron Holmes that Lilian Earton had been telling.

"Her neck was snapped."

"So that’s how it is... Then the murderer is a man?" Angelina came to the same conclusion as Richard.

"Yes, absolutely."

"Are there any marks on her arms?"

"What marks?"

At first, Bran didn’t understand the princess. Angelina sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"On her arms, her wrists. Was he holding her? Are there any bruises on her face and her neck? Was he trying to rape her, for instance?"

"Holosh!"

Bran finally caught the implication.

If there were any marks left on her arms, it meant that the murderer had been trying to restrain the girl. If there were none, she had come by her own free will and never expected for things to go so far. Bruises meant a struggle. No bruises meant no violence—but even then, there could be other marks: swollen lips or hickeys. They would have to check. Calling a midwife was pointless, going by some intimate information Bran was privy to, but even without a midwife, you could often tell when the girl had been with someone…but alas, not his identity.

"Your Highness, I’ll have a look."

Bran threw the princess a look of respect and headed to the body. Nothing like that ever occurred to him, but if she insisted...

All right.

So the girl hadn’t resisted. She had no injuries other than the twisted neck. Bran considered a few possible scenarios.

Imagine a man, inflamed with passion, desiring a woman, who refuses him, fights him off, and in the throes of passion, he... Bran knew what a man could do under the sway of lust.

He would rip off her dress, place hickeys on her neck, hold her in a death grip... There wasn’t anything like that. The body was clean, the dress was undamaged. Her lips weren’t swollen. That wasn’t love or violation.

Could the girl have said something to make an enraged man kill her right on the spot? Just like that? At once? Without even hitting her?

That was possible but unlikely. And there weren’t any marks on her face, either.

Someone had simply snapped her neck and left her on the spot: cold-blooded, merciless, calculating. She didn’t have even time to scream; maybe she didn’t even realize what was going on.

"Is there anything on the ground next to her?"

"No." Olav shook his head.

Alas, it was only in the Baron Holmes stories that the murderers left clues next to their victims’ bodies. In real life, you’d never get such a gift.

"Are her fingers clean?" the princess inquired.

"Her fingers?" Richard asked, surprised.

"If anyone tried to grab my neck, I would try to fight them off," the princess countered. "I could scratch them, even if I had a few seconds. The villain’s hands would be occupied, and he couldn’t protect his eyes..."

The men exchanged looks.

That seemed reasonable. There really must have been something in those stories.

Alas, the examination brought no results. Aliah had a few broken nails, but no blood on her fingers. From the look of things, she hadn’t quite reached her attacker. A blue woolen thread...half of Virma wore cloaks like that. It wouldn’t help them any.

The killer hadn’t been scratched.

"What about her dress? Is it all right?"

For once, the men heeded the princess. Angelina herself was too terrified to touch the body, but she could explain herself.

"The dress is undamaged. No holes..."

The men exchanged looks.

That was something beyond their understanding. Virman dresses were simpler, but those Ativernan ladies loved their frills and laces: hard to see what part of the outfit was missing among all those decorations.

"May I?"

One of the kyrias present at the feast entered the circle formed by the crowd. She was huge and powerfully built, her arm thicker than Angelina’s leg. The princess didn’t know her, but it didn't matter—yet.

The kyria knelt next to the body of Aliah Reinst and quickly examined it.

"Her pocket is torn. The drawstrings are almost ripped off, they're barely holding on...Your Highness."

"That's it!" Angelina exclaimed. "Thank you, M’Lady! So Aliah was searched after her death!"

"Thank you," Bran Gardren said with a respectful nod. Then he looked over the body more closely.

"Olav, how did he kill her?"

"With his hands."

"From the front or from her back?"

Olav studied the marks on the slender neck. The bruises were dark, contrasting with the girl's fair skin.

"From behind her, I'd say."

"So Aliah leaves the feast and goes... Did she even know this place?" Richard wondered.

Angelina looked at her lady-in-waiting.

"Jean?"

"We weren't very close, M'Lady," Jean confessed. "You'd rather ask Ashley."

"We will. But could Aliah have known about this place? Could she find it?"

Jean spread her hands. In theory, she could have. In practice...who knows?

"No tears on her face, no blow marks. So she came here on someone's request..."

"What if it was a note?" Angelina spoke up, finally fed up with propriety. "Was the request oral or written?"

The Virmans looked at each other quizzically.

"If she was searched, there would be no note," Bran remarked.

Angelina shrugged.

"Lord of Gardren, I know for a fact there are no perfect crimes. The villain always makes a mistake. If it was a note, I doubt we'll find it. But if we asked directly, what if we could learn who approached Aliah? What if there is a witness?"

"Not much hope for that, Your Highness."

"And still..."

"We'll try to find the note," Olav promised. "So the girl was summoned here. She waited. A man, a warrior, came out of the darkness and snapped her neck. All she could do was wriggle helplessly."

"Really?" Angelina asked, narrowing her eyes.

Olav shook his head.

"M'Lady..."

"Is it logical to kill her and search her body later? She might not have brought what her murderer had wanted."

"How do you think that played out, Your Highness?"

Angelina closed her eyes. That's how she imagined that scene.

Someone approaches Aliah during the feast and asks her to come to the beach. A Virman man waits for her there. For some reason, she sees him as a cloaked giant of a man, with an obligatory knife behind his back.

Why, really? Imagination is a scary thing.

Aliah comes and looks in the murderer's eyes.

"Have you brought what we agreed on?"

"Yes. Have you brought the money?"

"Yes."

Another figure steps out from the darkness behind the girl. Before she can scream, she goes limp in the stranger's arms, drawing her final breath...

"Search her," the villain commands.

Rough hands paw over the still-warm body, her pocket bursts at the seams, almost torn off... But what happens next?

"But I don't know if those men found what they were looking for."

Olav, Richard, and Bran looked at one another.

"They might have," Richard replied, nodding. "They might have."

"Who screamed?" Bran wondered.

"It was me," Jean said, sobbing. "I almost stepped on her."

Bran shifted his gaze to Hors.

"Where did you learn about this place?"

"Everyone knows about it, Lord of Gardren," the young Kellog said, spreading his hands. "At least those younger do."

Bran chuckled. That meant those older knew that, too. Who hadn't taken a pretty girl to go look at the sea? He had done something like that himself, but no man's a thief until caught.

Olav was the first to realize they wouldn't squeeze out anything more from the scene and stood up. He nodded to one of the Virmans.

"Take the body to a healer. Let her undress it, examine it, wash it clean...the whole deal. Got it?"

The man nodded. As you command. He picked up the body, eerily light in her pink dress, while Olav turned to Richard.

"Your Highness, this is a terrible incident. Please let us return to the house and discuss everything."

Richard nodded. Yes, sorting things out in public wasn't a good idea. Getting his sister away would be nice as well, as she was visibly trembling.

"Let's go, Angie."

Richard put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

Yet that night wasn't done with its surprises. Nobody knew about Fleyna, but Holosh had the time of his life. The doors of the house given to the Ativernans were wide open, and the room occupied by Aliah Reinst and Ashley Loran was swept up in real chaos.

Everything was turned upside down; even the beds were taken apart, the mattresses ripped up. Straw whirled in the air, slowly falling on the floor. The chests were ransacked, their bottoms broken.

Richard cursed, not minding the ladies next to him.

Angelina pretended that she hadn't heard anything.

"Where's Ashley?"

The ladies-in-waiting weren't hard to discover. Ashley was having a great time with the second son of the Kellog chief. They had wandered too far from the bonfire to hear the screams, and the turmoil hadn't reached them either.

The Virman man liked the giggly brown-eyed girl and made every effort to win her over. Still, they couldn't miss something like uproar: the date had to be interrupted. Currently, Ashley was staring in horror at the chests emptied of all contents and the straw scattered all over the floor. She seemed on the verge of tears.

Angelina snapped at the girl.

"Ashley, they're going to send maids here. Please sort out your things from Aliah's and check what's missing. Got it?"

"Yes, M'Lady."

"Great. Report to me afterward."

Angelina looked at Olav, but he needed no additional explanation. He was already ordering his men to bring slaves in to clean the room.

"So Aliah didn't have whatever it is the murderers wanted."

"They might have found it later, I mean, now, Your Highness," the Virman agreed.

"Or not."

"We can't know for sure yet."

Angelina sighed. No, they couldn't. But she would have liked it so much!

***

An hour later, six people sat in the main hall of the house given to the Ativernans.

Richard of Ativerna—the matter concerned him directly; Olav Hardring; Bran Gardren; Leif Erquig; James Donter; and finally, Her Highness Princess Angelina, who adamantly refused to leave. Richard wasn't going to berate his sister. After all, her ideas were sound, and she wasn't about to throw a fit. Why banish her? Just because she was a woman? Now, that would be foolish.

Richard was the first to speak up, as the most highborn and high-ranked of those present.

"Things aren't looking good." The people around him knew that well enough, but what if they underestimated the gravity of the situation? Richard had to make sure, and so, he continued to speak. "If the murderer isn't found, there'll be a huge scandal, and we won't be able to cover it up. Ativerna will be smeared in the dirt, and you'll be painted as savages who don't care who they kill, whether women or men. There will be no alliance. Even if I turn a blind eye to that, rumors will spread, and we'll lose face once and for all—and so will you."

Bran nodded.

There was only one option: find the murderer and show him to everyone together with hard proof. In the worst case, they could appoint someone guilty, but that undesirable. He would rather find the true perpetrator. Someone like him shouldn't be allowed to roam freely: what if he got a taste for killing?

"I wonder if she was killed because she was a woman or to drive a wedge between Ativerna and us," Olav mused. "No-no, Your Highness, I remember your words, but there is a difference. She might have discovered some female tryst—or stumbled onto something serious. I'd love to know what exactly happened."

Angelina spread her hands.

She had already realized that Virma was more...liberal when it came to morals, but if Aliah had found out that, for instance, Olav's wife was unfaithful, the latter would go to great lengths to shut the girl up. When would blackmailers learn that their trade was fraught with mortal danger?

"The body's unharmed, and we didn't find anything in her clothes," Jamie Donter reported. "She wasn't beaten or tortured. Someone simply came up from behind and snapped her neck. She had no time to shriek, even."

"So they didn't talk to her, didn't ask her for anything, didn't try to make her do anything..."

"Or they did all of that beforehand."

The men looked grim. Once again, they had no facts. The princess might be right—or not. You never knew.

Angelina raised her hand, drawing attention.

"Everyone, I have talked to Ashley Loran. She says that Aliah had a suitor. It happened quite recently, after my visit to the temple of Annora. A few times, Aliah returned home after a walk with flowers in her hands, and over the last two days, she was very nervous and excited."

"Did she fall in love?" Bran asked.

Angelina shook her head.

"Ashley says it was different. Aliah...once, she was abandoned and ridiculed. Since then, she didn't trust men too much. Ashley says that more than anything in the world, she wanted a husband and money. Love was not an issue."

"I suppose all girls who came here are looking for a safe match rather than love," Bran mused. "I apologize, Your Highness."

"But that's true," Angelina said with a smile. "On the other hand, Aliah didn't even seem infatuated..."

"Did her suitor take an interest in her as a woman or as your handmaiden?" Bran voiced the obvious. "Being by your side, she had the opportunity to do...anything, really. Assassinate you, poison you..."

"Aliah wouldn't do that," Angelina thought out loud. "Why would she? It wouldn't bring her anything."

Bran nodded thoughtfully.

"Harming you wouldn't bring her any advantage, true. She would never be able to leave Virma. Sooner or later, she would be discovered. It means that... By the way, who abandoned her? Was it a Virman man?"

"No. An Ativernan noble."

"I see."

"Why trash her room if she was just an object of affection?" Leif finally spoke up, surprised.

"And it might have been mutual," Jaimie remarked softly.

"Could she have gotten a present?" Bran wondered. "Something that might point at the giver?"

"The question is different. Did they find whatever it is they sought or not?" Angelina pondered.

The men looked at her at once, but she wasn't about to get embarrassed.

"They might have not?" Olav asked.

"They might," Angelina responded in a matter-of-fact voice. "Think. The stranger couldn't have searched the house before the murder, as he couldn't be next to Aliah otherwise."

"Really, sister?" Richard countered, squinting. "How about another version? He might have come and searched the house, found what he had given to Aliah, and then killed her. He wouldn't need her anymore—or be afraid of her."

Angelina shook her head.

"No. He couldn’t."

"Why?"

"Tira," the princess explained simply. "We were here together, she helped me prepare and saw me off, but never came to the bonfire. She considered going but returned home. She didn't want to celebrate with the youth and couldn't join the men—or the women—as she's going to become a kyria. She only returned when she heard a scream."

"I see," Richard surmised. "Not bad. The murderer couldn't have more than thirty minutes to search the place. He might have found something, but that's hardly a given. But what was he looking for?"

"We don't know yet. Ashley needs time to sort through everything."

The men nodded. That was understandable, but that wouldn't help the investigation.

"How would that man know that somebody was home?" Bran asked. "Was he watching the place?"

Richard shuddered. The bare thought of someone watching the house with Tira inside, all alone, helpless... He would find that bastard and rip off his head himself! With just his hands!

Angelina sighed sadly.

"And Baron Holmes made it look so easy..."

"Life isn't stories, sister," Richard replied. "What did that baron usually do first? I don't care for those stories much myself."

The Virmans exchanged glances but decided against asking who that baron was.

"He examined the crime scene," Angelina answered.

"So we did that. Then what?"

"Find out the motivation. He tried to figure out who profited from the murder."

"And who could profit from killing your handmaiden?"

"Anyone who wanted to drive a wedge between Ativerna and Virma," Bran Garden spoke up. "Or Lady Reinst might have discovered something."

"Or she was offered something and refused," Angelina added.

"Did she?"

"Why would she be nervous if she agreed?"

Bran disagreed. "It might be different, Your Highness. Let's say she first agreed to something and then refused..."

"And got an advance payment? Remember, Aliah didn't trust men," Jaimie said.

The men exchanged looks.

Really, an advance payment! But they would still have to wait for Ashley to search through the stuff.

The hard night slowly turned into a hard day, with no end in sight. All they could do was to beat the wind without any results. There were lots of theories with no proof. And where would they find it?

Investigating a murder was a complicated affair, especially if you had zero previous experience.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

"Say Ma-ri-a. Ma-ri-a."

"Maya..."

"Say R-r-r. Like a dog growling, R-r-r-r! Let's growl together!"

The princess was romping around with her little brothers, pretending to be a dog.

Edward's teeth had just fallen out, so making an "R-r-r" sound was hard for him.

The youngest one, Corin, was simply hanging on his sister's neck, like a little monkey. Bertha watched that scene, a smile on her wrinkled face.

That's what His Majesty Gardwig saw upon walking in.

Everyone had a different reaction.

Bertha sprang up and bowed deeply.

Maria froze like a statue.

Ed and Cor rushed to embrace their dear father, shrieking. The youngest just climbed up, as if his father was a tree, while the eldest hurriedly checked his pockets. What treats, delicious and not quite permitted, had their father brought them?

Gardwig smiled at his daughter.

"It's fine, Ri. Sit down."

He sat down himself.

Bertha straightened up and left the room. Edward found honeyed nuts and proceeded to nibble on them, Cor rubbed his cheek against his father's beard, while Gardwig stared at Maria.

"You like being with the children?"

"With my brothers, Your Majesty..."

"Don't be so formal. I'm your father, sweetie."

"Yes, Father."

Maria was scared to death of her father, and she had a good reason. Would anyone love a man who locked his daughters in an old castle and only took them out to suit his own needs? Yeah, not much there to love.

"The Ativernans will arrive in several days," Gardwig said, taking a different approach. "I hope you'll be happy with Richard."

"I'll do as you wish, Father," Maria whispered.

"And only that? Don't you have your eye on anybody?"

"No, Father..."

He could barely hear her voice.

Gardwig spent fifteen more minutes terrorizing her with his questions before Milia entered the room, quickly realized what was going on, and stopped that madness.

"Bertha, it's high time to put the children to bed. Maria, honey, could you help the nanny? Gard, my love, please escort me to the bedroom. My back is aching badly..."

The king, who had already prepared a rant about certain consorts, immediately fell quiet, stood up, and took his wife's hand.

"Let's go, Millie."

On her way out, Milia turned around and gave Maria a wink.

The girl replied with a look full of gratitude. She might not have a mother, but Milia was like an older sister to her. What was it she had asked for? Put the children to bed?

Maria went on, not noticing Bertha's sharp stare.

The old nanny didn't know much about state affairs, and she didn't care that Maria's love for her brothers could have political implications. She wouldn't live to see it, anyway.

She just liked it that the girl had such an affection for her brothers. It was nice that the boys would have someone to love and cherish them. Good girl, Millie, good girl.

***

Wellster, County of Lort.

Altres Lort was displeased with himself, his life, the world in general... But then, anybody would feel that in his place.

Life at court and in the country were two completely different things, and not just because of the pace. Just imagine rushing at full speed, up hill and down dale, with barely enough time to dodge blows and clear hurdles, battle all around you. And then you find yourself as a gardener, with watching pumpkins grow as your most important occupation. And they grew woefully slow, too.

Altres couldn't even remember being away from his brother, from Cardin, from the court... It didn't seem real to him.

He and Gardwig had gotten around to living in faraway castles and running for dear life, but all of that happened when they were together. And around them, life was bursting forth, plots were hatched, and only exceptional composure and cunning allowed them to win against their powerful enemies.

At that moment, Altres was alone and had no idea what to do. Inspect the fields, talk to the peasants, check the harvest... Was that really an option?

He was bored out of his mind, so much so that he wanted to scream and shout and clench his teeth so they would grind down.

The slow-paced, quiet, and comfortable life was not meant for Altres Lort. His mind had forever been poisoned by playing the game. Altres didn't know what "adrenaline junkie" meant, but he couldn't live without the thrill of the chase, without danger, without dancing on the knife's edge, without intrigues and the chaos of the court. He felt himself grow stupid, wasting and withering away like a flower in the cold.

Gossip for breakfast, inspecting the fields, visiting neighbors... Please kill me now. Edward couldn't have devised a better revenge, even if he never guessed that.

They also went to bed early in the countryside. In the palace, one could party all night long, having fun and keeping an eye on something. Lort was used to that. But in the country, they went to sleep at sunset to wake up at dawn. How did they get enough sleep?

Lort lay on his back, gloomily watching the sky, counting the stars, and thinking how much he would have wanted to kill everyone in an especially cruel manner. It didn’t really matter whom exactly—everyone would do.

And so, when a shadow eclipsed the stars, he was overjoyed. Quietly, he shifted under his blanket. The shadow raised the window latch with a dagger and slipped inside. Lort waited for the man to get into the room before saying hello...with his throwing knife that he never parted with even for a moment. Exile or not, being unarmed felt worse than being naked.

The dagger flashed in the darkness and sank right where Lort had aimed: into the shoulder.

The assassin bent down and croaked. Altres leaped up.

Don’t kill him!

Take him alive!

He was out of luck.

The assassin, knowing full well what the royal torturer (another one in the long line of monikers given to Altres) would do to him, turned around, raised his arms, and managed to fall out of the window.

At that height, and considering the sharp rocks below, there would be nobody to rescue.

Of course, Altres didn’t recognize his face. The body had no clues that could lead to the man’s employer. As for the accomplice—and there clearly was an accomplice—Lort was unable to catch up to them, with only a few hoof prints left not far from the castle. From the look of things, when the action had started, the second one realized everything and promptly fled. It made sense, really.

All Altres could do was to grit his teeth.

Curses! He should have let him get closer, but he had been too happy to get at least some entertainment—and lost a potential source in the process.

He considered who could have wanted to decorate their dwelling with the head of the royal jester. Lots of people, really. Some of them had already tried, and some were bound to try later. He could spend days figuring out the culprit—and he couldn’t ask the assassin anymore, either.

Let Maldonaya take that wretch!

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

Angelina’s morning mood could be expressed in three words: angry, sleepy, and tired. She was also disgruntled, terrifyingly so.

With what?

With everything, really. Ashley Lorin was the first one to bear the full brunt of the princess’ frustration, as Angelina summoned her.

"Sit down, Ashley. It will be a long conversation."

"Yes, M'Lady," the brown-eyed girl whispered, shivering in her seat.

"You and Aliah lived together and were closer than with the other two girls, am I right?"

"Yes, M'Lady."

Angelina realized that was the only way to get direct replies. So she switched tactics. To word her questions correctly, she needed to know at least something, and she did not. She had too little information.

The girls had been staying next to her in shifts, and they had ample free time. Angelina never took her entire retinue with her—and Aldonai knows, she regretted that. In the end, that’s what it came down to.

With a nod, Angelina pointed at a pitcher of cherry brew. Wild cherries did grow in Virma, even if extremely sour, but that could be countered with a dash more honey than usual.

"Pour yourself some brew, and some for me, too."

Ashley obeyed.

Angelina made a sip and closed her eyes. She felt the taste of berries, honey, and summer on her tongue. Her childhood... Yes, the royal garden had cherries, as well. She and Jolie had escaped their nannies’ watchful eyes to pluck the crimson droplets and gorge themselves. The cherries were warm, and their smell...

"Do you like cherries?" the princess asked, her voice soft.

"Yes, M'Lady."

"What berries did Aliah like?"

"Strawberries, M'Lady. The very first ones, she loved gathering them. She would put them on a thin string and then eat, slowly, one by one..."

"I feel so sorry for her."

Tears appeared in Ashley’s eyes.

"Me too, Your Highness... I have no idea who could have done something like that to her! Aliah was so pretty, men liked her..."

"Here as well? In Virma? Who had more suitors, Aliah or you?"

Ashley relaxed a little.

"She did, Your Highness. Aliah looked more like a Virman girl, and my hair... You know, Jean is a beauty, and so are you, but Laura and I... It’s not like nobody’s courting us, don’t think that, tastes differ, but the locals do prefer fair-haired girls. They think it’s Olive’s gift and don’t want to dilute the blood."

"Like breeding puppies," Angelina giggled. "What about the shape of the ears? Or the length of the tail?"

Ashley snickered.

"I didn’t check, M'Lady. But maybe it’s the same about the length!"

"Maybe, there’s no telling that! How many Virmans are courting you right now?"

"I really like Eron." Ashley cast down her eyes. "You know, when I saw him first...it was like the sun shining right into your eyes. One flash, and you can’t see anything else—or anyone. He came up to me and talked...I never imagined he could like me."

Angelina made a mental note to discuss that with Bran. Who knows what the young Virman man might have on his mind?

"Did anything like that happen to Aliah? Poor girl..."

Ashley shrugged with an air of superiority around her.

"Aliah didn’t think so. She said that all men are like animals and only want one thing..."

"All of them?"

"I guess so. I remember that one time, she returned home from a walk with teeth marks on her shoulder...ouch!"

"Ashley, Aliah wasn’t a maiden anymore, remember? She could make her own decisions. Was that long ago?"

"Five or seven days. It wasn’t a deep gash, no blood. In a few days, not a trace remained."

Angelina had a dim recollection of Aliah wearing high-necked dresses for a few days, but the princess hadn’t paid that any attention. So she changed her wardrobe. What about that?

"I thought she caught a cold or something."

"She might as well have, considering how often she walked to the sea," Ashley blurted out.

"For a date?"

"I suppose so. She always returned, looking pleased..."

"Were there any days when she seemed especially pleased?"

Ashley thought hard.

Slowly, very slowly, word by word, step by step, Angelina pulled everything about Aliah from Ashley’s mind—all details, everything that might be important or just seemed so...

That was back-breaking work, but Angelina thought she did well—for her first try. Still, she had more questions than answers, and she had nobody to ask.

***

That evening, a campfire burned by the seaside, illuminating the darkness above the water and the shore, and the Virmans sat around it. Conversation flew, full of coaxing and promises, but Leif tried to avoid leaving his ship if he could. He didn’t believe in Torsveg’s chivalry, not at all. A man like that would kill for a penny, and really, he was a Torsveg: it meant a lot all by itself. Leif didn’t expect anything good, so half of his men were staying on the ship, combat-ready, while the rest were on the ground, in the camp, with sentries keeping watch.

Bran Gardren had assured Leif that Elg Torsveg had no death wish to turn against the entire Circle, but who knew what might happen? Leif’s luck had been suspiciously good until then.

The Erquig himself was acquitted, his ship wasn’t burned, and the young Torn Einkirson Torsveg was given to him to foster until he turned seventeen.

The boy had latched onto his sister’s husband and wasn’t going to let go, never leaving his side.

What was it he had heard in his father’s house? The home that became cold and foreign to him... Leif had a few guesses but didn’t want to know the truth. A man must have at least some notion of honor, even a Torsveg.

Too bad nobody had bothered to tell Elg.

And how was it for the boy? His sister was kidnapped, his father and two brothers were killed, his mother died...and he was ready to latch onto his sister’s kidnapper?

Apparently, in some situations, a sworn enemy becomes closer than your own family. He wanted to survive, but Elg had all but condemned the boy to death. He might have given him two years, but then...

Torn would die, either by eating poisoned mushrooms or berries—or by choking on a sword or an axe. Whatever came to Elg’s hands.

Leif threw a look at the shore and remembered Countess Earton and her expressions. She would say, Speak of the one who’s gone and they will appear. That said, more often than not, she’d just say, Speak of the devil, whatever that "devil" thing meant.

At that moment, the devil was Torn Torsveg, who came up, sat next to Leif, and looked at him with his tired unchildlike eyes.

"May I, Uncle?"

Leif nodded.

They had had little time to talk. At first, the boy spent almost a day sleeping, and after that, Leif was swept up in his business. Plus, he felt scared. It wasn’t going to battle with his axe drawn: it was a real living person who stared you right in the eyes, a person for whom Leif was responsible, and not just before Ingrid, but himself and the gods.

That said, his wife was closer than the deities. They might overlook things, but she’d never let him hear the end of it if he failed.

Leif stretched his arm, reaching out to the fire. He took a twig of roasted bread and handed it to the boy.

"Want some?"

"Y-yes, sir..."

"Just Leif, all right?"

"Um, fine."

"Torn," Leif said. They had a hard conversation ahead of them, but he had no choice. "I’ll be frank. I love Ingrid. She’s happy with me. And I got into all that business because of her, not because of you. I didn’t even know about you. But since it happened, you’ll have to travel with me to Ativerna and your sister. I don’t really have any plans for you. I’ll raise you, teach you to fight. You don’t have to love me, only respect me if I deserve that. One thing: while in Virma, I expect unquestioning obedience. When I say walk, you walk. When I say jump, you jump. This is not a whim—Elg is dangerous, and I can’t be with you all the time. Got it?"

Torn nodded.

Gods, he looked so much like Ingrid; her carbon copy, down to the stubborn movements of his chin. Not his father, not his brothers...that’s how fate had it.

"The Erquigs and the Torsvegs have been at war for a long time."

"I love Ingrid. Olive willing, our child will never learn about that feud. That is, if you aren’t going to continue sowing it."

"You killed my father."

"I did," Leif said bluntly. "First one of your brothers, who wanted to burn my ship, and I didn’t even know who he was. Then your father, who shot at Ingrid. I don’t even remember your second brother. It was the heat of battle..."

"I’ll have to avenge them."

Leif chuckled.

"Try if you must. But I have two conditions."

"What?"

"Wait until you’re seventeen. When they recognize you as the chief, go on with your revenge. But until then, you’ll have to hold on. As a friend of mine says, revenge is a dish best served cold."

"Why is that?"

"So you don’t burn your tongue when you start eating.”

Going by the boy’s smirk, he got the point and agreed to everything.

"What’s the second condition?

"Take your revenge only against me. Ingrid and our children are off-limits, got it?"

"It’s a deal," the boy replied, nodding. Then he tensed up as if freezing. Elg Torsveg was slowly walking toward the campfire, creeping up on them.

Or trying to.

That stride did make an impression, right, but sneaking up? Not a chance in the world. Leif had no doubts that no less than two archers already had their bows aimed at Torsveg.

And so, he sat by and watched. He took one more stick of roasted bread, broke it, and gave one half to Torn.

The boy shoved the hot crust into his mouth and winced in pain, having burned his cheek.

"Now, do you get my point about revenge?" Leif wondered dryly.

"I do."

"Having supper?"

The Torsveg hissed the last word as if he were a viper. Leif wasn’t perturbed in the slightest. Hiss as much as you want, until your tail is ripped off—up to your ears.

"Whatever do you need, Torsveg?"

"Your death, Erquig. Your death."

"Slow and painful?"

For a moment, Elg was taken aback but then smirked with a vicious wolf-like grin, trying to project fear.

"I don’t mind that."

"Then get in line. You’ll be in the sixth hundred."

Torsveg ground his teeth and noticed his nephew.

"You, maggot..."

"Another word in that tone, and you’ll get to pick up your busted teeth with broken fingers," Leif warned him politely. He also wondered if Countess Earton was a bad influence on him. She wasn’t there, but her words and her phrases still came to his lips now and then. He smelled a whiff of home as if he was in back in Taral.

"You think Gardren will protect you?"

"In Virma? Go visit him, try to question that," Leif offered. "Do you want to?"

"You won’t always be in Virma."

"Elg," Leif said, switching to a blunt style, "What do you want? Did you come here to chat? I don’t really care about that. Go on, get moving before someone else has to avenge you, too. I’m a heavy hitter—one blow, and you’ll have to answer to your brother in Olive’s abode...or Holosh’s."

"You think you’ll get away with it? There he comes, recognized by the Circle, favored by the prince, given the boy to foster... You think I’m going to let you off the hook?"

Leif didn’t even flinch. Still, he was prepared to dodge a blow  at any minute, seeing the hate in Tosveg’s eyes.

"I don’t think about you at all."

"You should."

"You did get away with killing his mother," Leif said, nodding at Torn.

"Prove it."

"I won’t have to. You know it yourself."

Torsveg growled in fury.

"Just you wait... I’ll make sure you remember me..."

"Let me forget you first."

Enraged, Torsveg spit into the fire, turned around and went into the darkness.

Torn stared at Leif as if the latter had a death wish.

"He’s dangerous."

"I know that."

"He’ll want to pay you back."

"Are you afraid that someone will get ahead of you?" Leif taunted the boy.

It worked. The young Torsveg narrowed his eyes.

"What’s there to be afraid of? Elg’s in the sixth hundred."

"Right. Should I tell my secretary?"

"Tell her what?"

"To write you down after Elg."

Torn sniffed and put another piece of bread into his mouth. Leif smiled, content.

There you go.

He realized that Elg Torsveg was a dangerous man and was going to sleep with one eye open while wearing chainmail, with his weapon by his side. Still, a warning was nice. He would have to kill him without any unnecessary pain, with just one blow. As for the boy, he was a good one. He might even grow into a fine chief of Torsveg one day.

They would have to wait and see.

***

Nobody would be surprised to see those two together: just two honorable people having a respectful conversation, what about it? But the subject of their conversation was bound to render anyone speechless.

"...Should you really have killed that Ativernan whore?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure she didn’t have anything left?"

The man hesitated. His companion noticed that and frowned.

"I’ve searched through everything. She either hid it so nobody could find it or destroyed it, one thing or the other."

"But you found nothing?"

"No."

"Then, we should hurry. You must realize what's about to happen. Bran, the slimy eel that he is, is going to make Olav the king."

"Gardren won't succeed. That's too much even for him."

"He won't call Olav king, of course. He'll think of something, and in a few generations, everyone will get used to Hardrings in charge."

"We'll see about that."

The sea winced in disgust as it heard them. Humans were weird. Hadn't they crawled overland only recently? But why couldn't they walk yet? All they did was to slither and worm around, playing dirty tricks on each other, sabotaging each other... Maybe it was for the best that the sea got rid of them. It definitely didn't like those two men, at least.

***

Wellster. On the road.

"Momma, it cannot be! You must have made it all up!"

"Well, not everything."

"What, then?"

"Do you really want to know what exactly I added?"

"Not really..." Mirrie said, sinking.

Lily tousled her bangs.

"I promise I'll finish the story later. Give me time. It's a long one..."

"I'd love to hear it myself," Jerisson spoke up, smiling.

The minstrel didn't say anything, but folded his hands in an entreating gesture and looked at her with puppy eyes. He had a good reason to.

Lily was telling them “The Devil Upon Two Sticks” which was just the thing for the era. Alain-René Lesage had written it in 1707, but even three hundred years later—in her time—it was just is fun. The library of Aliya's parents, incidentally, had included that book; they completely forgot where they got it, whether from a library or an exchange, but the girl devoured it with gusto.

Of course, Lily had to replace the devil with a servant of Aldonai who had to return to his master with the first light of dawn, and until then, showed the poor leir earthly wonders. That world didn't really have any devils or imps—the best she could muster would be a shilda, but that was a bit risky.

And so she toiled, adapting novels and stories of human lives to the reality of Ativerna. Not that it was that hard, really.

"Your stories are something, all right," Count Elont agreed. Priscilla smiled at her husband and after a moment's hesitation, at Lilian. She had finally obtained the recipe of ice cream, already tasted it, and was quite happy. What a treat!

Ermina Roivel narrowed her eyes. Due to her natural spitefulness, she couldn't very well admit that she liked Lilian Earton. However, she stopped making up rumors about her.

For three days in a row, Lilian was in the best of moods. They had left Leir Anthony Sivralle in a town with a pretty name—Alaron. The poor wretch was unable to sit and could only lie on his belly—Nanook had made sure of that.

If Jess had any suspicions, he kept them to himself. The dog was smart; he would never bite a good man. That couldn't be said of all dogs, but Nanook could definitely be trusted, being intelligent and well-trained.

So the leir would have to nurse his broken hand and injured backside. If he survived, good. If he didn't...that wouldn't be so bad, either. At least, he wouldn't harass women at night.

After that stop, the procession headed to Cardin. After ten or fifteen days, they would finally reach their destination.

After twenty more days of various rituals and celebrations, they would take the bride and go back. How was the construction, Lily wondered. And how was Leif? And...

Truly, the inventors of the telephone deserved a golden statue. Maybe even with inlaid diamonds. Pidgeon mail was a poor replacement for cell service. But Lilian knew less than nothing about physics, so Ativerna would have to wait a long time for a telephone, even the simplest one.

Even a telegraph was beyond her powers, even a crude Morse code version. Electricity? Never! She had no idea how all of that worked when put together. A cable was smooth, while a wave was...wavy. How in the world could it fit inside? Nope, it was incomprehensible.

Physics was definitely not her thing, unlike chemistry, biology, and especially anatomy. The appendix was either present or not, no in-between. Quicksilver existed or not.

Aliya had never been able to sort out Schroedinger's cats, and suspected that gentleman to be a secret vivisectionist.

The sun was warm, but not hot, her spirits were high, and Lily threw Jerisson a flirty look.

“How about a race?”

The count consented.

Over the course of the journey, he had learned more about his wife than after a few years of “married life.” He had often been absent, or his wife was busy or at court... At such a pace, when they finally sat down and talked to each other in their sixties, they would be terrified.

Merciful Aldonai, who did I marry? The horror!

The king had definitely known what he was doing when he sent both of them on the trip. At least they could talk.

Jerisson spurred his horse and galloped after the giggling Amazons. Lily and Miranda laughed as they rode into the wind. Sometimes, life was more than good; it was perfect.

Chapter 2

Wellster, the castle of Count Corvus Eran.

"Good morning, Count."

"Glad to see you, Altres."

"Likewise, Corvus."

Bows, smiles, then even a friendly...well, almost friendly embrace…an invitation to the same hall with a fireplace. The same carpets, the same fire, the same wine. Yet something was different. Something bothered the old man.

Altres had decided to pay the count a visit after getting his letter. It's not like he had anything better to do at home.

The assassin did alleviate his boredom for a bit, but Altres was unable to find out the most important thing. Who sent him?

Who was it behind the assassination attempts, both on the road and not? Altres expected anything. Anyone could have been the mastermind; after all, over the time of being a “jester,” he had trodden on more than one foot.

People didn't know about his agreement with Gardwig. They thought that the exile was real and that disfavor and banishment would last forever. Whatever. He would be back, and they would sing a different tune.

But why was the lord count hesitating?

"Corvus?"

Eran expertly evaded Lort's questions, discussing winter crops, harvest, catch yield, but finally gave up and mustered up his resolve.

"Altres, I'm not sure how to start this conversation."

"Try your best."

"We have already touched upon it the last time. About His Majesty and his wives..."

"Yes."

"I've heard some rumors that are truly worrying."

Altres was all ears. The old count had never been one to exaggerate.

"I don't know how to say it... His Majesty's third wife bore him four daughters. Anna, Maria..."

"And he divorced her, and she left."

"Pregnant. With his fifth child."

Altres shook his head with such force that he almost spilled his wine. That was some odd gossip.

"No. Gard would have never done something like that if she was pregnant. I personally took four midwives to her for inspection..."

"And yet, she was pregnant with her fifth child, a boy, and gave birth to him after escaping. It means that Gardwig has a legitimate eldest son."

"Impossible."

Corvus sighed. "Then where do the rumors come from?"

Altres paused and finally had to recognize the obvious.

"I've never heard that before."

"Be that as it may. I didn't make it all up. There's even a ballad about the poor queen Allie betrayed by her husband—but her son will avenge her."

"She wasn't pregnant..." Altres said, brushing it aside, but then stopped. The name rang a bell...a lot of bells. “Allie? Queen Allie?"

"Yes. What's wrong, Altres?"

Something definitely was.

"Her full name was Albitta, but Gard called her Betty. She hated it and wanted him to call her Allie. Few people knew about that."

"I know I didn't."

Altres sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

"The child cannot be Gardwig's."

Corvus shrugged. "A premature birth is only obvious when it's a baby. But a boy? He may be ten, or ten and a half, big or small for his age, and forging records in the church books is a piece of cake."

Altres gritted his teeth. It was hard to argue.

"Yes. It's possible. But I personally..."

"Personally saw the body?" Corvus retorted, narrowing his eyes. "Tell me the truth, did you?"

"N-no," Altres forced himself to say. Back then, he had had more important things to think about. He entrusted it to his men, not caring about the grim details.

"Where is she buried?" The count's voice continued digging into the jester's tormented mind.

"It doesn't matter. I know the convent, but what will those remains tell us now? After all these years, the body's decayed," Altres said with a sigh. "Corvus, but where exactly have you heard it?"

"I let the boy go. He swore he borrowed the ballad from another minstrel. I gave him a couple of coins and sent him on his way. He also told me that the common folk think Gardwig is a heartless monster who murders women like a nobleman from a fairytale whom even Aldonai had damned. Do you see where the wind blows?"

Altres nodded.

True. Still, his Majesty had never been known for his meek disposition, and people were usually afraid of spreading such rumors. That could easily lead you into the hangman's noose. On the other hand...

"Gardwig has never been popular."

"But in the last month, the number of rumors increased tenfold. Someone's feeding into them, Altres, and that person is exceedingly generous."

With practiced ease, the jester pulled out one of his throwing knives and fiddled with it, biting at the leather binding on the handle.

"In the last month? Specifically?"

"We've talked not that long ago, remember?"

"Yes."

"I hinted at the rumors. Thing is, they used to be flickers—and now, it's a real forest fire that incinerates all trees in its way. I'm scared. I'm no coward, Altres, but this is something else. It's the fear you feel when you stand on the top of the tallest mountain, staring into the abyss below: not the fear coming from your mind, but from your soul. Something's amiss, and call me an old fool, but I'm scared."

"Now that's something I could never do," Altres responded, waving his hand. "Eran, you've never been a coward or a fear monger. It's better to play it safe than hope for things to work out by themselves."

"Thank you, Altres. And still, I have to repeat: I'm scared. It's like a drawn string humming next to your ear: there will be nothing left when it finally breaks."

Altres hesitated. "Dishan should inform His Majesty about the situation in the country."

"He should or he will?"

It was time for Altres to have second thoughts. Dishan was afraid of Gardwig, after all—everyone was. Altres had certain liberties, being the king's milk brother who had done so much for him and with him, but Dishan had no such guarantees: only the king's fickle will.

He wouldn't want to risk angering Gardwig.

It would be much easier to wait and weather the storm, hoping that it would pass them by. It made sense. It was also scary.

If Eran was right, and the sword was already raised above their heads, there had to be a shield nearby. Only there was none.

"He should, but will he? Eran, do you mean we're dealing with a betrayal and a conspiracy?"

Even thinking about it was unpleasant. One month wasn't nearly enough time to prepare something on that scale, which meant that Altres Lort had glossed it over in the most idiotic manner possible—or rather his men did, under his capable guidance.

Maybe it was really time for him to retire?

Still, some conspiracies were all but impossible to recognize, simply because too much hinged on just one person. After all, Wellster's neighbors had a real viper's nest in their midst, and how many years had they spent twiddling their thumbs? Were they amateurs as well?

No. They had simply trusted the wrong men, forgetting the old truth. Only those you trust can betray you. The others simply don't have the opportunity.

Altres didn't say anything out loud. He didn't need too, anyway, as his face told Count Eran everything.

"Altres, I'm old. I've lived a long life, and that's what I can say: even the most honest, loyal, and reliable man can be yours if you find the right approach."

Altres agreed, up to a point.

"I must know about such approaches. It's my duty."

Corvus poured himself some wine and took a big swig.

"I don't know, Alt. I don't know anything, and that's what I'm afraid of the most. Rumors are going around—bad rumors. I have to listen to them if I don't want to lose my life or the lives of those I care about."

Altres also took a sip of the wine. It tasted bitter…or was that just him and his bitter thoughts?

"I think I have to go to the capital."

"I think so, too, Altres. Believe me, you should."

"Then I'll go home, and then—"

Corvus shook his head.

"Do you have anything valuable there?"

"No."

"Then sit down and write out instructions. I'll take care of your estate and give the steward his due, while you'll have a good night's sleep and leave in the morning. A few soldiers, horses, a little money—I can lend you that, easily. You'll return everything after you get there."

"I'll write a receipt," Altres agreed. "But...Corvus, why would you do all of that?"

The count slowly took one more sip from the cup.

"It's a strange question, Altres. I live in Wellster, and so do my children and grandchildren. Do you think any of them will benefit from strife? A change of the ruling dynasty, of power, even a rebellion? I wrote to my daughter, and she promised to leave the capital for now. Still, I can't stop worrying about my children. But I want to. All too often, they tell me—it's not your concern, mind your own business, why do you care...but it's my country. It's my concern. A single twig is easy to snap, but when they're tied in a bunch, they're tough as nails. Together is something more than one. It might sound stupid, I suppose. Forgive the old fool his ravings."

Altres shook his head.

"Those are not ravings. If everyone had the same thoughts as you, Corvus, I wouldn't have any problems on my plate. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Just untangle this knot and find that viper."

"I'll strangle it with this rope, Corvus," Count Lord swore. "Tell me, what else do you know?"

"You can learn a lot in the countryside," the old count chuckled. "Listen to me, then..."

They didn't talk that long, though. And in the morning, Altres Lort, accompanied by four soldiers, left for Cardin, hoping that his brother wouldn't hang him for his insolence.

And even if he did, it was worth it, as long as Gard survived and the alarm proved to be false. Yet somewhere deep inside, Altres knew: not that time. That time, things wouldn't work out.

Had Corvus gotten to him? Or was it the intuition of a cornered and baited animal? Whatever. In the capital, they would sort that out.

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

Murder or not, life still carried on. The dead got their due, and the living, theirs.

Tira was sitting and sharpening her blade. She checked it with her nail, then with a hair...

That's how Richard found her.

“Lady of Elleig?"

The Virman girl looked around and jumped up, still holding her sword. After all, a warrior whose weapon clanked against the stones was a poor warrior.

"Your Highness?"

"M’Lord would suffice," Richard sat next to her on a rock. "When we're alone, at least. Or just Richard."

He understood everything but was unable to resist the temptation to hear his name from her pink lips. She was...absolutely gorgeous. The silver rose of Virma, he couldn't phrase it any other way.

"M’Lord Richard?"

Tira knew she had to leave, to avoid prolonging the agony, that she had nothing in common with the prince of Ativerna—and never would have. Yet she couldn't turn down Richard, either. His grey eyes, his careful and serious gaze, his...

And she wasn't even as pretty as Angelina. The princess was so elegant, so graceful, so coiffed. Tira had freckles, and scars on her arms, and bitten nails, and... Well, everything! Even her hair was salty as hell!

Tira felt ugly but had no time for despair, as Richard smiled at her, and she instantly forgot all her troubles. He was so handsome when he smiled...

"Lady of Elleig, could you tell me about last night?"

"Just Tira, M’Lord Richard," the girl whispered in reply.

"Tira..."

Blue eyes met grey, and time stopped. Two parts of the same whole found each other. They were together, and they were happy...

A seagull's sharp cry made them come back to their senses.

"Forgive me," Richard said, collecting himself. "Tira, could you tell me what happened last night?"

Tira sighed. She understood what he wanted of her, but who said she had to like it? Still, she had to tell everything.

"Your sister, M’Lord, invited me to the feast."

"But you didn't come."

"I didn't." Tira shook her head. "I can’t, M’Lord, it's impossible. Tomorrow, I will have to pass the trial for becoming a kyria. How can I dance like an ordinary girl? I need Olive's favor, not Fleyna's."

Richard nodded.

And you're also poor, embarrassed at looking at the gaudy dresses. How splendid would you look in the ballroom of Laveri's palace...

"I don't really have anything to tell," Tira said with a sigh. "I just sat looking at the fire, and when I heard screams, I rushed outside."

"Was anybody there, Tira?"

The girl hesitated.

"I think there were several people standing next to the house."

Richard tsked.

"Just standing? Loitering?"

Tira shook her head.

"They also followed the screams."

And the house was left unattended, unguarded. Anyone could have gone in to do whatever they wished.

"I see. Thank you, Tira."

Everything had been said, but neither of them wanted to leave.

Richard thought for a bit and found a new topic.

"Tira, tell me about the Virman rite of passage. I mean, those details that are public..."

"Yes, M’Lord."

***

Another couple watched that conversation—Angelina and Bran Gardren.

"Thank Aldonai that it's still storm season," Angelina sighed. "We can't leave the island, but neither can the murderer."

"What I don't get is why anyone would want to kill that brat, M'Lady." Bran was leaning on his cane a bit more than usual. As she noticed that, Angelina nodded toward the shore. An upturned boat was lying there.

"I feel like sitting and watching the sea, Bran. Will you keep me company?"

"Anything you fancy, M'Lady Angelina."

The ladies-in-waiting had the foresight to give the princess a wide berth. So she was talking? Let her. Otherwise, they might get the verbal lashing of their lifetime. The princess had never been known for her gentle nature.

Angelina sat down, spread her skirts, and waited for Bran to lower himself next to her, leaning on his cane. Oh, how unjust was life! Such intellect and such a nasty trick of fate! Or was it balance? If Bran were healthy, he would have long since become the sole ruler of Virma. Angelina would never confess it, but she would have loved that. A king, she could marry; a clan chief, never. Her father wouldn't let her.

"So we were talking about Aliah Reinst."

"Yes, M'Lady Angelina."

"Bran, tell me, could she have been killed because she wasn't a...maiden?"

Bran shook his head.

"I don't think so. We don't care about the virginity of the bride as much as you do, M'Lady. Even if she's pregnant or has a child, it's not an issue. It simply means she's fertile."

"What if the girl was sleeping around?"

"Her lawful husband has ways of discouraging her," Bran said with a shrug. "Depending on the situation, he would either deal with the wife or the men who dared to infringe on his property."

Angelina decided against asking him about those ways. It seemed clear enough as it was. He would either bust his wife's head or challenge her suitors to a duel.

"But she would still get a husband?"

"Maybe not from the ruling clan, but somebody would, yes."

"But what if she slept with a married man?"

Bran stared at the princess, dumbfounded. What did it matter? So what if a man slept around? Each Virman had a wife, slaves, and servants. The wives always turned a blind eye to all of that. Virma had many more women than men, as the sea was too dangerous an adversary.

"...And threatened to tell everything to his wife?"

Bran slowly sat down and shook his head.

"No, Your Highness, it doesn't make any sense. The wife would have simply disregarded that. Any Virman wife."

"What about the wife's father?"

"Same thing, Your Highness. The important thing is to avoid a divorce or a public disclosure, and even then... Things happen. There are ways of resolving even that, trust me."

Angelina sighed, disappointed. How typical...such a good version went to waste!

"Could she have learned something? Or seen it? Or what if someone asked her for a favor?"

Bran spread his hands.

"So far, it's unclear. But if she had a relationship... By the way, did she?"

"Yes."

"I'll find out the truth. And when I learn who that man was, I'll learn the reason."

For a second, Angelina felt her whole enterprise with the investigation stupid, childishly absurd and ridiculous. Truly, Bran would find out everything by himself, get to the bottom of things.

But what if her theories could help, like those of Baron Holmes? He had a loyal companion who often made wrong assumptions, yet still managed to help the baron. What if Angelina could do the same?

***

That evening, Angelina lay in her bed, staring at the heavy oak beams crossing above her head and thinking about many things, including Aliah.

So they had been looking for something in her room. What exactly? In the Baron Holmes stories, criminals were always looking for a letter, a clue, or money. Well, maybe, jewels.

Angelina imagined herself to be Aliah Reinst.

So Virma is her only chance to succeed in life, get a lawful marriage, children... Would she risk all of that by tangling with a married man?

No. She would not. She had been tricked once; she wouldn't allow it to happen again. Considering her unflattering view of men, she wouldn't trust them easily, and she would take no risks.

Could she have given herself to a man before a wedding to bind him to her? In theory, she could. Then she could tell him she was pregnant. Could that provoke revenge? Maybe the man had a fiancée, a woman he loved. Aliah could blackmail him, and he would snap her neck... No, that didn’t fit. That would have happened in a fit of passion, but the actual murder was pre-meditated.

Or it might be different. What if the bride had a brother who really wanted the marriage to happen? No, she had to remember it was Virma, with different customs and traditions. Bran had said that nobody would have raised any ruckus or made a big deal about that, other than local men having it out between themselves.

And Aliah wasn't stupid, either. After all, Angelina herself had already figured out that using a child to get a man was useless. At best, the child would be acknowledged, and that's it. If a man didn't want to marry, he would not, regardless of what you did. Aliah might have gotten alimony, but she wouldn't be satisfied with that. She wanted to become a lawful wife...

Or did she? Was Aliah really satisfied with her position? Angelina gave it some thought.

What had Lilian called that? Privilege? That's what it was. Angelina was used to people working for her benefit, not paying any attention to their feelings, thoughts, and worries, unless they upset her own plans. Other than that...

Whatever.

Aliah hadn't considered Virma to be her best option. She had ambition in spades—after all, she expected a future duke to marry her. Ambition, risk-taking, but poor mathematical skills. Otherwise, she wouldn't have put all her eggs in one basket and would have kept some modest leir in reserve, so he would marry her to cover up her shame. Yet that didn't happen.

So she would have to forget about any marital plans—at least with any clan chiefs, all of whom were married, as bachelors could never hold that position. A man without a grown son was considered defective in Virma. Could Aliah hope for him divorcing his wife? Her death? Unlikely. Even with a son, it was a flimsy theory. Maybe someone's heir had tangled with Aliah, and she decided they would marry, but the clan chief badly needed an alliance with someone else. But would they kill the girl? Not really. They would have simply offered her someone else, maybe even acknowledged a bastard son from a slave girl and married him off to Aliah, killing two birds with one stone. She wouldn't raise any noise, as Ativerna needed alliances, not conflicts.

Actually, come to think of it, if the whole issue was personal, why search the room?

Had the stranger promised Aliah to wed her in writing, with a huge royal seal? Funny.

Could she have taken something of his clothing, as a memento? Such evidence wasn't worth a copper. He could say he had lost it, it was stolen, all kinds of things, and wouldn't even fret. She would have to prove she wasn't a thief.

No, a search meant something serious. Blackmail was something Angelina could believe. Love, however? It felt wrong.

All right, so let's say Aliah Reinst had some kind of dirt on someone, something that could really embarrass them if made public. The target was definitely a Virman man, as the only strangers on that land were Angelina's and Richard's retinues. So what could that item be? A weapon, a letter, jewelry?

That part was unclear. But where could Aliah have hidden that object? She had just two chests for her things, she was rooming together with her friend, there were servants, slaves, Virmans... Strangers in a strange place.

What would Angelina have done? She would have hidden it somewhere nobody would look, away from home, or maybe give it to someone for safekeeping.

The princess really needed to figure out who Aliah's lover was or the investigation would be stuck.

Her eyes closed. She slept and dreamed wonderful dreams. Too bad they were impossible.

***

Tira was sitting on the shore, watching the sea and thinking.

In front of her, a moon glade stretched out atop black waves, as the stars were reflected in the water like diamonds scattered on a black velvet cloth. The wind brought the smell of the sea, leaving salty kisses on her lips.

Yes, that was the real her, with her weathered skin and jagged lips. Would he ever look upon her like a woman? It wasn't even funny.

A dark shadow manifested next to her.

"Thinking about your initiation?"

Tira's blush could be seen even in the darkness.

"Y-yes, Mistress."

Kyria Edaina smiled and patted the girl on her hair in a very motherly manner. She didn't mention that it was Bran Gardren who had asked her to talk to Tira.

The clan chief had noticed the mutual interest between Tira and Richard and was going to use it to his advantage—and the advantage of Virma, of course. The custom of offering girls to a guest hadn't started in Virma, and his country wouldn't be the last to engage in it, either.

"So about a man."

Tira somehow managed to blush even harder.

“I..."

"You're afraid that he won't notice you after the initiation? Don't. Unlike myself, you're a beauty."

That was true. In the darkness, one would be forgiven for confusing Kyria Edaina with a medium-size bear, and a cloak made from a bearskin obtained by her own hand only enhanced the likeness.

"He doesn't care about me."

"I don't believe it," the kyria said, waving her hand. "It's impossible."

"You just don't know him, Mistress. It's different with them..."

"An Ativernan?"

She furiously nodded. What else could she do? She couldn't talk to her mother about something like that: all she would get is non-stop advice and a litany of lamentations. Trudy would say that it was a sign of Fleyna's favor and that Tira should forget all about her warrior aspirations and bear a child with the man she loved.

The girl imagined herself in Trudy's place, growing old alone with only her child to help her. She didn't want that fate for her offspring; they deserved more.

And that's besides Richard being a prince and his firstborn having special privileges. Tira didn't think anything about other countries having different ways than Virma. In any case, why would Richard need her just as she was?

Now if things were different... She imagined herself in chainmail, with a sword and a shield and a long braid running from her helmet down her chest, stepping down a Laveri wharf, smiling at Richard...and the woman standing next to him, delicate and graceful, with golden locks and a charming smile.

Just like Her Highness.

And squeezing her sword, Tira would realize that it was and would forever be her man and her eternal companion.

"Have you told him about your feelings?"

"No, Mistress."

"Why?"

Tira sighed. "I wanted Olive's mercy, not Fleyna's..."

"Then do it. Remember, all gods are watching us. Olive will accept you under his banner, but Fleyna's still close. Don't forget that."

"And what am I to do with all that, Mistress?" Tira said, growing bolder.

"Pass the initiation."

"And that’s it?"

"After the initiation, there will be a feast, as usual. It will be right for you to confess your love to this man and ask for Fleyna's favor."

Tira sighed and rubbed the tip of her nose, too emotional to remember proper manners.

"What if I get pregnant?"

"Then Fleyna blessed you. I have three of my own. Do you think they were brought to me by the wind?"

Tira didn't, but she was afraid people would think ill of her. Richard could suspect her of self-interest, and Virmans would name her a girly girl who got around to rolling in the hay no sooner than she received a sword.

She didn't say anything out loud, but Kyria Edaina guessed at least half of her thoughts and shook her head.

"Don't even start. A child is a blessing from the gods, and if it's fathered by a good man, then doubly so. A strong man, a clever man...no need for me to guess; you wouldn’t have fallen for him if he were any different. And know this: if a child is born of love, you will treasure it twice as much."

Kyria Edaina returned from the beach completely exhausted.

Besotted girls were a real nuisance. So much self-doubt, so much anxiety, so much stupidity...enough for a whole squad of warriors, really! Still, she had done what she could.

She encouraged her, supported her, told her about the gods, about love... Bran would owe her.

He definitely would.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

"Your Highness." Miguel bowed before Princess Annabelle.

The little girl turned crimson but managed to curtsey.

Gardwig watched that show with a smile.

The royal lot was a hard one, and their marriages, a complicated affair. After marrying into the Avester royal family, Edward could do it again only three generations later. Until then, there could be no weddings with Avester or even Darkom, as another Avesterian princess had been married off there.

Gardwig, on the other hand, couldn't marry into Elvana, as his grandmother was Elvanian.

He could get an aldon's permission, of course. It wasn't hard, as Peters would do exactly what he was told, not wishing to repeat the mistake of the previous aldon and having gotten a few hands-on lessons from Gardwig himself. Yet even if an aldon could be tricked, Aldonai could not.

Children born of close relatives were often sickly, frail, ailing... In the current generation, he would intermarry with Ativerna and Ivernea. Afterward, for three more generations, there would be no weddings between those royal families.

But where would they get fiancés and fiancées? A king might marry whomever he wished, but princesses... Edward, as Dishan had informed Gardwig, had sent one of his girls to Virma. It might be a good idea. Gardwig considered doing the same with one of his daughters, or even two, when they grew older.

He would have to think about that later.

Meanwhile, Miguel swept Annabelle up in a dance. Milia touched her husband's hand.

"Are you thinking what I’m thinking?"

Gardwig looked away.

He was, and quite seriously.

"Let's first marry off the eldest, and then we'll see."

"They say the ambassador party is five or six days away."

In reply, Milia smiled and patted her belly.

"I wonder if I will carry to term or give birth before the time."

His Majesty broke into a grin.

Son, another son. His immortality.

***

Wellster, Dorsan.

With Lily and Dorsan, it was hate at first sight. Apparently, the animosity was mutual, too. Why? Hell if she knew.

It happens sometimes: you come to a town and realize that it's yours, down to every stone of the pavement. When you're there, you feel good, and you love watching the rooftops and walking the streets, enjoying every second of your time together and sensing its heartbeat.

Each town has its own rhythm. In some of them, you feel like sleeping, and in others, you get an urge to dance.

And sometimes, it's the opposite. As soon as you arrive, you feel ready to do anything to leave right away—preferably, to get as far away as possible and never return. You repulse each other.

That's how it was for Lilian and Dorsan: instant antipathy. The city watched the countess, cold and imperious. In response, the countess wrinkled her nose, and even Lidarh didn't stroll down the street, but rather kicked its stones with his hoofs, pounding them deeper into the ground.

Don't you go bulging out! Here, taste my horseshoe! And some poop!

Why is that? Only a shrink could answer that.

Jerisson confidently pointed in the right direction to make a turn, knew where to stop, and the inn he picked was truly amazing: big, comfortable, and surprisingly clean. No pilgrims, bedbugs, cockroaches, and straw mats, neatly scrubbed boards, cozy rooms, fresh mattresses...

Well, at least Thomas would get some rest. It wasn't easy for him to attend to so many people and leave them satisfied. Madness, really!

New guests arrived when the merry company was finishing up a magnificent dinner that even Lily couldn't help but appreciate. The meat was well-roasted, the water was clean and cold, the bread was freshly baked from the oven, and when Lily asked for vegetables, she immediately got them. Splendid!

She and Miranda were gnawing on a few carrots when an entire procession came up to their table. No, not quite a procession; it was just one man, but with a huge entourage.

Lily took a closer look. There he was, standing just ahead of everyone else, a plump, balding man in his thirties, with a jolly round face, seemingly the life of the party, a jokester and a man about town. The rest weren't dressed as richly and looked at him fawningly.

Leirs, the poor sort. Hans had told Lily how it was done: the poorer nobles sometimes...well, not quite sponged off the wealthier ones, but served in their retinue. They followed their master and took part in his adventures, while he gave them food and shelter, tossed them money, and got them out of trouble. Yet they never formally became his vassals, retaining a certain level of freedom.

The relationship between a vassal and a sovereign was pretty tightly regulated, with both of them having certain rights and obligations, but in that case, people had some wiggle room. The master could forgo protecting his dependent, while the dependent could set his master up—stuff happened. Lily didn't like that, but everyone was free to act as they chose.

Some were servants, and some were lackeys.

"Jerisson, my friend!"

The plump man spread his arms as if about to embrace Count Earton, but quickly changed his mind and pressed them to his heart. I'm so happy that I'm about to burst!

Still, Jess also smiled as if he was just handed a lollipop.

"Edwin! I see Dorsan holds no secrets from you!"

"You wanted to pass through our city," that sounded like my city, "without saying hello? Jerisson, I could never forgive you for such a betrayal!"

Jess shook his head.

"Alas, this time, I'm not my own master. First, I need to take care of my men. Friends come later."

"Is this an important state secret?"

Edwin had such a broad smile on his face that Lily wanted to kick him. Nothing personal, it's just she had an instant dislike of the man. He was too jovial, open-hearted, and charismatic. It felt...fake.

Plus, there were a few inconsistencies. A good old lad? The life and soul of the party? Not really. Its linchpin.

The difference was clear: a soul was an abstract concept, not easy to find. That man was material, with his servants looking at him, waiting for his orders. No man, even the most charismatic, could achieve that kind of obedience with only smiles.

The wrapper doesn't match the contents, as Aliya's father used to say, and he knew his business, having gone through more than one garrison in his life.

Jess, however, didn't seem to notice anything amiss, smiling as if he had just met his best friend.

"Edwin, please sit with us. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Edwin, Baron Fremont, and these are my companions. Let me introduce them..."

Jerisson introduced everyone in the circle, starting with Lilian.

The baron's eyes had to be seen to be believed.

"Your wife? My friend, you're a lucky man! What a woman!"

Lily smiled sweetly, hiding her growing worry. Miranda, who was introduced second, snorted, her nose in the air. She did say the proper words, but her look made Lilian want to yank her by her braid. Give me a break, kiddo! So what if you don't like the man?

They couldn't very well sic Lou-Lou on those people; she was a gentle creature, she could get poisoned by their meat!

"Your daughter is your copy, my friend. I have to say she looks completely different from her charming mother."

Lily decided against elaborating, as did Miranda.

Everyone got their share of compliments: the Roivels, the Elonts...

All that time, the retinue stood by the doors. Even the Virmans would be jealous of their perseverance.

That said, Lily knew that Eric, for instance, would have immediately called up the innkeeper and ordered a table for his guys, only talking after making sure they were set up. And anyone who tried to curl their lips at that would have gotten them split. Sailors? Pirates? They were his people, and the rest didn't matter. The baron, on the other hand, didn't consider his men worthy of concern. It was fine as it was.

Lily absolutely detested such an approach. Unfortunately, she and Miranda were the only ones who didn't like the baron; the rest seemed duly impressed.

In the meantime, Edwin was already inviting everyone to a reception, insisting that they could spare a day to rest, almost pleading...and Jerisson didn't refuse.

Lily gritted her teeth and made a mental note to question her husband…at length that very night.

***

The first part of the night didn't really give an opportunity for questions. Still, later, when they lay together in bed, cuddling, she finally mustered up her resolve. Famously, the best time to ask men of something was when they were clean and sated—in more ways than one. It's like the folk tales said, Give him bread to eat, give him water to drink, lay him to bed, and then talk.

Lily decided to follow the old wisdom, and it paid off. Jerisson came clean.

"The baron? He's a nice enough fellow."

"Is he the local mayor?"

"No."

"Umm...aren't there more highborn nobles around?"

Jerisson thought a bit.

"There are."

"Then why him?"

"Edwin is a very friendly, affable, and hospitable person who cannot live without his friends..."

"Doesn't he have enough of them?"

"It's a small town, and everyone has known each other for ages. New people, new faces... Last time, he threw a party that lasted three days."

"Why him, and not the mayor?"

Jerisson shrugged.

"No reason. What's so strange about it?"

For Lily, it felt off. Imagine an ambassador party passing through your town. You wouldn’t really make any profit off of it; it's not a merchant caravan, after all. What would you do? Just let it go.

Yet the baron throws a feast, each and every time. Why?

If he treated every guest with his own wine, he would quickly run out of it and money, too. Still, she couldn't really tell all of that to Jerisson. And so, Lily worked another angle.

"Maybe the baron is a rich landowner if he can afford something like that?"

Jerisson looked back, perplexed.

"I guess..."

"So he never told you? Or is he a merchant?"

Jerisson had no idea. Oh, what was she to do with him? Lilian decided to continue with her careful questions and also watch him during the reception. He was her husband, after all.

***

With Miranda, Lily wouldn't even mention that subject, but the girl made the first step herself. Why do parents think that children have no brains to speak of, no likes and dislikes, no personal opinion? Or do they simply consider all of that insignificant? Too bad that's the wrong idea. Sooner or later, you will have to face the music. If you raised your child like a lamppost, that's what they'll be.

Now, if you gave them rights, obligations, and a vote, you wouldn’t regret it. Maybe the result would be different from what you envisioned, but it would always be better for the child to make their own decisions and pick up the pieces. Too much help during childhood, and the person you raised would be unable to solve their problems.

As for Miranda, she hadn't gotten much education before meeting Lily. But Lily had never really known how to raise children!

Her father's theory was simple: first tire them out, then break them in. That's what Lily had done, all while teaching her, explaining things to her, and conferring with her—just as her own parents had done.

At some point, however, she realized that it wasn't how they brought up girls in that world. Well, whatever. She couldn't turn Pinocchio back into a log. Miranda was already a person who had tasted freedom—and responsibility. She was set in her ways, and trying to change her meant gaining an enemy in Lily's own home, a cruel one at that—an enemy who was sure to make you remember your mistakes.

There was nothing wrong with having a bird live in a cage all its life. But lock away a free one? It would die. Miranda was a free bird, and she knew that Lily would always take her words seriously. That's why she came to her that time.

"Momma, I don't like that...Edwin."

That name sounded like a spit.

"Me either, sweetie," Lily said with a sigh. "Me either..."

"Papa likes him, though. They laugh together."

Lily scratched the tip of her nose.

"Mirrie, it's a complicated situation. Not liking him isn't evidence of anything."

"What is evidence?"

Oh, Lily, you and your big mouth.

"Letters, documents, agreements, writs, notes... Basically, dirt."

"Dirt? I don't understand."

"Something that could damage the baron's reputation. Like, say, he has two wives; that's dirt. Or he cheats at dice; that's dirt, too."

Miranda nodded, all serious. She knew where documents could be kept: in a study, or a bedroom, at least.

"I got it, Momma. I was also invited to that reception, wasn't I?"

"All of us were. Mirrie, I hope you won't stab Baron Fremont with a knife?"

"Only if he kidnaps me."

"If he does, I'll stab him myself."

Mirrie smiled. Both the mother and the daughter remembered Baron Clive Donter well and how he had met his end. Don't even think about touching my family.

***

Lily's preparations for the party were quite thorough. It was one thing visiting your friends, who would accept you no matter how you looked; for your enemies, you had to do your best and put on a good show. Lily picked an outfit from the clothes she had been carefully preserving in her chests. It wasn't her old culottes or a poncho; it was a garb fit for a queen—an aquamarine silk dress in the Empire style with an embroidered corsage, a ribbon below the chest, and short sleeves with a semi-translucent bolero made from while silk stitched with green thread.

Her hair was done in a complicated do, emerald earrings in her ears. There was only one gem on her chest, but it was something to behold: an inch-long square-shaped aquamarine to match her dress, inlaid in red gold. Such a gem needed no further adornments and frames; just by itself, it cost more than some estates. On Lily, it looked just the way it was intended to, lying in her cleavage and underlining her milk-white skin.

Jerisson rewarded his wife's efforts with a kiss on the neck.

"Countess, you are astonishing."

Lily responded with a lazy smile.

Jerisson, in his dark blue, almost black outfit, looked just as dazzling, the very essence of a male panther—lazy  and elegant, with amazingly smooth movements and oozing sex appeal. They were a real power couple.

Miranda was dressed in white and green. She was too young to wear accessories.

Lou-Lou? Nanook? Miranda was about to throw a fit, demanding they take the dogs with them, but Lily shook her head.

"Honey, get used to it. Sometimes, you can't get what you want."

Mirrie nodded. Sometimes, she could not. Whatever. The dogs' turn would come. The question was, at whose expense?

***

Edwin, Baron of Fremont, met his guests in person, by the door.

"Jerisson, my friend. Oh, forgive me, Your Grace.”

Jess laughed and waved his hand, allowing a familiar form of address. The baron turned to Lilian.

"Your Grace...you are a true queen."

For such a look, Aliya would have hit him in the nose. Countess Earton smiled and slowly lowered her head. Emeralds sparkled in her golden hair.

The baron gulped, which escaped Jerisson's notice, and switched his attention to Miranda.

"Young lady, may I offer you the company of your peers?"

Miranda, emulating her mother, slightly bowed.

"I would be grateful, M’Lord Fremont."

"Jerisson," the baron said, calling up a servant and commanding him to escort the young lady to the rest of the children, "Today, you will be the envy of all the men of our town. A charming wife and a clever daughter—what could make a man happier?"

Jerisson puffed out his chest, like a pigeon. Lily stifled the desire to kick the baron’s leg. Her shoes were too soft for that anyway, and all she would achieve was to hurt her foot. She broke into a smile.

"You're so kind, M’Lord Fremont."

"Please, Your Grace. Just Edwin."

"All right, Edwin. If my husband allows..."

Jerisson did.

Annoyingly, Lily imagined beating her husband over the head with a book; maybe that could knock some sense into him. He wasn't boasting, true, but he was proud—too proud. And in the long term, pride posed a lot of problems, like, say, making him weak to flattery.

Or maybe that was just her paranoia? Lily wasn't sure, but she was about to find out. She would have to be careful, though. Good thing the dress was so big; it could hide a piglet rather than just a simple dagger.

***

So what did a reception look like? It depended on the time and the place.

For instance, for a feast, the most important thing was the feast hall, with the other concerns secondary: a playroom, a pavilion, dances... Really, dances weren’t the best idea after a feast, when stomachs were full.

You could also invite guests for a certain occasion: a birth, a death, a name day. Then, the bulk of the time would be spent on the ceremony, followed by a light meal and entertainment.

And then, you could devote most of the time to the guests and entertainment and humbly disregard the food. After all, the best things in life are free.

Incidentally, that's what the baron did. One room was set up for drinks, where respectable gentlemen conversed over a cup of good wine. There weren’t a lot of appetizers and refreshments, but still enough to grab a bite—although not enough to get a full belly and definitely not enough to get drunk and unruly.

The second room had card games and other such activities, for those willing to partake in them. The third was a greenhouse for taking a stroll. The fourth had a dancing hall: a huge room lit by candlelight with pretty girls spinning around the dance floor, their eyes and their smiles sparkling brighter than diamonds.

That was the surface impression. But if you dug deeper...

Lily watched, and Lily saw a lot of things. Several vases hidden under holding screens—after all, even noble ladies and gentlemen needed to relieve themselves during the ball; particular smells coming from those ladies and gentlemen; even a flea on a powdered hairdo. One nobleman pressed a servant against a wall and pulled him into an alcove—pretty obviously to play a game not meant for kids.

It wasn't much better in the palace, either.

But maybe it was time to stop noticing various indignities. The rest of the people were elated, and what else did she want? Jerisson was greeting people he had met during his previous visit, telling them something, asking some questions...

Miranda was with the other children.

The baron himself didn't have any offspring, but he had foreseen even that: with the party being a cozy, almost familial affair, the children got an entire room to themselves, with servants attending to their every whim, food, and toys.

Lily was still worried about Miranda but tried to keep face, smiling, replying to the compliments, always by her husband's side. A training session; that's what it was for her.

In Ativerna, mostly thanks to His Majesty's efforts, the ground had been set for her arrival: Lilian Earton was interesting, unconventional, useful to the crown, and nobody dared to raise their mangy tail against her. She was also married to the king's nephew and had a mother-in-law rightly nicknamed "The Viper." Anybody who dared to yap at her risked giving up the ghost.

In Wellster, however, it was different. There, she was just the wife of Count Earton, a mother to his child. And she would be tested just like any other person who found themselves in unfamiliar company.

Let them.

Lily kept sending everyone sweet smiles, trying to remember names and anticipating a splitting headache by the end of the evening. Yet she still had to smile. Ugh, that's why she always hated parties.

***

Miranda was bored out of her mind—to smithereens, as her mother would say. All of the children were much older than her and knew each other well, not caring about the girl in the slightest.

What was that brat to them? One day, and she would be gone: no plans to make, nothing interesting to get out of her, and her parents weren't of any use either. They would much rather use the occasion to talk to each other.

And that's what they did, mostly ignoring the guest. The guest, in turn, didn't mind. Mirrie spent a few minutes sitting in the corner, and then...

So Momma had been saying the dirt would be in a study? Then she'd go and find it. What’s so bad about it? Baron Holmes had searched strangers' houses and sneaked into Mister Milverton's home. Why couldn't she? Miranda thought that finding the dirt would compensate for all her shenanigans, so, full steam ahead!

All that was left to do was to figure out a way to escape the room without drawing the servants' attention, but Mirrie easily invented a way. A dagger is a girl's best friend, as her mother often said. Without attracting any unneeded attention, she came up to one of the heavy curtains and cut off a cord. That wasn't really nice of her, but she needed a rope.

There was a "sweet buffet" laid out for the children: candies, cakes, glasses of juice... It wasn't standing quite in the center, but rather closer to the wall. Mirrie waited for the perfect moment and seized the opportunity, diving right under the table.

Yep, that would work.

She wasn't going to bind their feet together: that would be ridiculous. Would they feel someone touching their bodies? They would, and they would certainly check what was going on.

Mirrie had a simpler solution. Flowing skirts were an Aldonai's gift: now them, she could touch to her heart's content. She quickly used her dagger to poke a hole in one of the skirts, inserted the rope inside, repeated it with another skirt and tied the ends together. Then she climbed out from under the table before anybody could notice her and made for the door.

Mirrie checked if any servants or maids were outside, on top of those in the room. Great!

She took her place next to the door and waited.

Tada!

Mirrie wasn't sure which of the girls she had tied together tried to stand up, but the cord was pulled, the girl decided that her skirt had gotten caught in something, realized that her dress was being pulled, shrieked, jumped up, and naturally collapsed. The cord was a tight one, plaited, while the skirt—thin and already damaged thanks to Miranda's dagger—was giving at the seams.

The other girl fell on her back, dragging the tablecloth with her, and the plates and other tableware all rolled down on the floor, clanging and making noise. The servants rushed to help their masters...

Miranda shrugged and slipped into the corridor. She had learned it from her mother.

How stupid was running at full speed? It makes it clear that you're either trying to escape or guilty of something. You're bound to draw attention. Walk at your own pace, look at your surroundings, and you'll become just a part of the scenery.

That's what Mirrie did, and nobody stopped her. Still, she sharply felt the absence of Lou-Lou at her side. No matter; she would succeed all by herself.

Mirrie dove behind the drapes, waiting for the servants to pass, and looked around once again. Where could the baron's study be? Maybe in the living quarters. She would need to find them.

***

Shit, that was professional was the only thought in Lily's mind when a brightly-colored crowd of dancers somehow carried her away and then, chattering and chirping, dragged Jerisson in the opposite direction. It's not like she could grab him and yell, "Give me my husband back!"

"Countess, are you headed to the capital?"

"Oh, really? Cardin itself?"

"And to think that His Majesty..."

"Countess, does His Majesty really look like a lion? He is called the Lion of Wellster..."

"Countess, have you been introduced to the court?"

"Countess, what does your king look like?"

Nobody really expected Lilian to answer. She was simply swept into that whirlwind of prattle, cackling, squealing, and flowers. Maybe that was how gypsies lead their victims away.

Dammit!

Aliya—and that was Aliya now—recoiled in surprise. That was it! Gypsy hypnosis! That's how they did it: confused their victim, dazed them, and voila!

But what could she do?

She had two options. First, hit the cockiest of the "Gypsies." Second, which was easier, would be to heap curses on them and leave. Unfortunately, neither option worked for that particular place and time.

Third... In front of everyone, Her Grace Countess Lilian Earton stumbled and collapsed to the floor, unconscious. They barely managed to catch her, or Her Grace would have hit her tailbone, which hurt like hell, smudging her dress in the process.

That said, when she discovered who had snatched her, Lily all but wailed in anguish.

Edwin freaking Fremont!

All right then! If you caught a she-bear, don't start complaining that it doesn’t let go.

***

Meanwhile, Jerisson wasn't wasting time either—or rather, he didn't get a chance to.

"Your Grace, I was hoping for this meeting so much!"

Viona!

Maldonaya take her, Viona!

Jerisson hadn't been spending time in a small town just because. Yes, he did have an official mistress, but when did that preclude getting pleasure on the side? Especially since Viona was just his type: fiery red hair, magnificent bosom, thin waist, and her bum... Oh my.

She also was an expert between the sheets—and not just the sheets, but on the table, on the windowsill, on the...

His memories were so fond that Jerisson couldn't help but lick his lips, and the lady immediately pulled him into one of the alcoves, before he had time to even look at his wife. And how could he think about his wife when such a woman was calling him? He couldn't remain oblivious to her low neckline and the nipples that were barely seen in her cleavage...

The alcove turned out to have an exit on the other side, and Viona passed through it like a needle piercing a thin cloth. She drew Jerisson into one of the corridors.

“Jess! I missed you so much!"

Jerisson couldn't help but smile. He loved leaving a lasting impression.

"I was overjoyed when I heard that you were coming. I asked Edwin, and he didn't refuse an invitation. Jess, will you come to me tonight?"

While talking, Viona continued pulling the count in.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm stealing you for my malevolent purposes."

"Viona?"

"Oh, yes, we've arrived."

Viona pushed the door and almost forced the count inside.

A bedroom?

Absolutely. A canopy bed... It was pink.

Jerisson might have not woken up from his stupor, but that color almost burned his eyes.

A pink cow.

Lilian...

She was no longer pink, or a cow, but that's how he had described his wife to Viona. Was it really surprising, her doing something like that without thinking of Lilian?

The count gently detached himself from his former mistress.

"No, Viona. Let's not make things worse."

Genuine, almost childish shock appeared on the woman's face.

“What?"

"I'm here with my wife and my daughter."

Mirrie—a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, disheveled braids, a huge grey dog by her side.

Papa, please, don’t die!

Viona relaxed. If he was with his wife, it all made sense.

"Not for the night, then, but maybe a couple of hours? I beg you, Jerisson!"

Jess resolutely shook his head.

"No, Viona. I'm married."

"To that...that..."

Viona was gulping down air like a fish. True, she couldn't really call Lilian a pink cow: that meant making a spectacle of herself. That stunning woman in an expensive dress and dazzling jewelry whose jacket—did she call it a bolero?—cost more than Viona's whole outfit. And that's on top of Lilian Earton being a countess, while Viona was married to a common leir.

"Yes, Viona. I'm not going to cheat on her."

Viona sighed.

"Jess...then I beg you...could you at least kiss me goodbye, for old times' sake?"

Jerisson didn't notice the sound of footsteps coming from the corridor. Viona hung on his neck, pressing her brightly-colored lips to his mouth.

The door creaked, making Jess turn around, and there...

His wife was standing in the doorway, angrily glaring at them, her eyes glowing green. Next to her was Baron Fremont, a look of utter reproach on his face.

Viona was trying to adjust her cleavage that had somehow slipped down almost to her waist, but without much success, as her voluptuous breasts stuck out like dough from a kneading trough.

What was the noble count supposed to say in such a situation?

Only one thing.

"Lily, dear, you got it all wrong. I'll explain everything..."

Chapter 3

Miranda was walking down a corridor.

The baron's house was large, and the girl had gotten lost. And then she heard something.

"...we going?"

Mirrie would have recognized her father's voice out of a hundred others. She grew worried.

She had been expressly told to stay in one place, and where was she? Obviously not with the other children.

Momma would protect her, of course, but if Papa was alone or with friends... She pushed one door, no luck, then another. The third one led to a bedroom with a pink canopy bed. Without further thinking, Miranda dove right there to hide under the blanket.

What if Papa walked by?

He didn't.

When that painted cat started throwing herself at her father, Miranda was about to climb out and restore justice. She was too late. The door swung open, revealing her fierce-looking mother.

Miranda looked at her, then at her father, and decided to wait a while. Better safe than sorry.

***

Lilian was dragged into an alcove and laid on a couch, all right and proper. But when wandering hands reached out to her bodice, she sat up.

"Baron, stop putting up an act. You know I didn't faint."

A lecherous smile appeared on Edwin's face, making him look like a cat in heat.

"I do, Lilian."

"And if you do, then keep your hands to yourself," the woman snorted.

“Or?”

Hmm...

"Or I'll become the first woman to vomit on you."

The baron opened his mouth with an amazingly stupid expression on his face.

"Your Gra…Lilian?"

"For starters, I never gave you permission to call me by my name."

"Then give it," the baron said, clearly enjoying the situation.

That was the problem with high society: you could do everything as long as you stayed quiet. But if you kicked up a fuss... Lilian's brain worked like a computer, calculating various outcomes.

She could scream and raise hell. She would be ridiculed instead of the baron, and Jerisson would have to defend her honor... No, that was bad timing.

She could simply leave, if he let her, and if she made any noise, see item one.

How could she leave quietly? Should she cut his throat?

Alas, Lily was no expert in such skills. Alex, on the other hand, had been a great knife fighter, but she never bothered to learn. Throwing knives was one thing, but using it in melee, something else.

What else could she do? Stun him?

Alas, that was something that could only happen in movies, a slight woman knocking out a strong man in one hit. In real life, you had to either train from birth, know exactly where to aim, or...have a really weak opponent. Neither of those situations was applicable, and once again, she risked embarrassing herself.

So what was left? As usual, Lily chose the third option.

"Should I give you something else as well?"

The baron wasn't going to draw his horns.

"If you don't mind."

Lily paused for a few seconds, then sighed dramatically.

"Baron, don't you think we should discuss such intimate issues in a more private place? You'd do just as well making love in the town square."

The baron's eyes lit up with genuine interest. Did he take the idea to heart?

"Hmm..."

"Trust me, I don't recommend that."

"Why?"

"You'll be barraged with advice," Lily snapped.

The baron burst out laughing.

"Your Grace...Lilian... Allow me to invite you for a walk."

Lily accepted his stretched hand.

But where the hell was her dearest husband?

***

The baron was leading Lilian with clear confidence. He obviously had plans for her. Lily, in the meantime, was waiting for the opportunity while also trying to memorize the route back—it's not like she could climb out of the window. Or, rather, she could, but not in that dress and with that hairdo; they were bound to catch onto something, and entering the ballroom all disheveled would make her an instant pariah, with everyone inventing all sorts of sordid stories about her.

And so, she looked for the perfect moment to strike.

Lily promised herself that if the baron took her to a bedroom, she would tie him up (maybe under the pretense of foreplay). Actually, that was a great idea!

He would undress, lie down, and agree to everything, hoping to receive unprecedented carnal pleasure. She would teach him the Kama Sutra, day and night, in all positions, leaving him barely alive to tell the tale.

Lily gazed at the baron with such lust that for a second, he started to doubt his actions.

But it was too late to turn back. The door of the bedroom creaked, revealing a mind-blowing scene.

A brazen redheaded wench who had clearly been around a lot, was pushing her husband on the bed, and Jerisson didn't seem all that unwilling.

“What’s going on here?”

But after hearing his next phrase, all of her anger dissipated in an instant.

"Lily, dear, you got it all wrong. I'll explain everything..."

***

It's unclear what everyone expected to happen, but it definitely wasn't laughter.

Leaning on the baron (poor Edwin turned out to be standing closest to her), Lily was giggling until she cried.

"I can't believe it! I'll explain everything...”

The men exchanged looks, both completely dumbfounded. What was going on? Why was she laughing? Was she having a fit? It didn’t look like that...

"Momma!"

Realizing that the storm had passed—going by the sound of laughter—Miranda crawled out of the bed and ran toward her parents.

Lily immediately calmed down, wiped her tears away, and caught the girl in her arms.

"You're such a brat."

"That's not true! I'm a good girl!"

"But a brat."

"Momma!"

"Tell me, what are you doing here?"

Mirrie cast her eyes down.

"Well, I..." And then she whispered into Lily's ear, "I was looking for dirt."

Lily almost laughed out loud again. It was hard not to, with three astonished faces looking right at her.

"Jerisson, are we going home, or will you stay with the lady?"

Jess coughed.

Somehow, he had avoided the disaster, but how?

Lily turned to the baron, clearly mocking him with her look.

"Baron, don't waste time here. As you can see, the lady is up for anything, so if our get-together is off the table, I suggest you use the lady...I mean, opportunity."

"Ahem?" Jerisson reminded her of himself.

"Oh yes," Lily replied, nodding. "I did promise the baron unequaled erotic escapades. I'll tell you later, dear husband."

Jess choked on the air.

Judging by the sparks in his eyes, the baron might have not survived those escapades.

"Edwin, really, go ahead."

The baron turned crimson with embarrassment.

"And wipe the paint off the lady," Lily suggested, handing over her daughter to Jess. "Or you might get poisoned by kissing her."

Viona didn't say a word, knowing that was the best behavior in such a situation. Too bad she couldn't have hidden under the bed.

"Goodnight, Edwin."

And the Earton family collectively retired from the room, waving goodbye to the schemers.

***

The argument started as soon as they were in a carriage.

"Miranda Catherine Earton, please explain why you were hiding in that bedroom?"

"Momma," the sassy brat said, realizing that she would be spared and pulling a "you're so smart, you'll get it" face. "I didn't like the baron right off the bat. I decided to search for dirt on him in his study, but I got lost on my way there."

"And your father..."

"He and that lady were talking, and I heard them. Then I hid...I had no idea that lady would drag Papa there!"

"I think Baron Fremont did," Jerisson said, finally starting to catch on.

“Right."

"Will you tell me what Papa and that lady were talking about?" Lily asked.

Miranda obediently repeated everything.

Lily touched her husband's hand, grateful.

"Thank you, Jerisson."

"For what?"

"In your place, many would have agreed to a more...thorough farewell. But you didn't."

Jerisson sighed.

"We'll talk about that later."

“Absolutely.”

"How did you get there?"

"The baron took me. Have you already realized that they separated us for a reason?"

Jess nodded. By then, he had.

"When I realized that, too, I pretended to faint. The baron offered to take me outside...to an alcove."

Jess ground his teeth.

"The rest was a formality. I had to lead him away from the people, so nobody would hear us, and quietly take care of him."

"What would you have done with him?" Jess asked, narrowing his eyes.

He believed in his wife, but the baron... Jerisson knew him to be an excellent fighter. Lily was no match for him.

So what was her solution?

Lily sighed.

"Mirrie, cover your ears."

The girl pulled a face.

"Momma..."

"I'll tell you when you grow up, I promise. When you're fifteen. Until then, cover your ears if you don't want me to wax them for your escape."

Miranda pursed her lips but didn't argue. Momma never lied to her; if she promised to tell her, she would. Mirrie simply had to wait a bit.

Jess raised his eyebrows.

"And what is it exactly that our daughter cannot hear?"

Lily lowered her eyes.

"That place was pretty risky. I would agree to everything, undress the baron, act like a lady who's seen it all, and bind him to the bed to...um..."

Jerisson felt himself blush.

"To make him understand the situation," he said, coming to her aid.

"Right. Then I'd gag him and leave with the window still open."

"Why? What does it have to do with that?"

"So the mosquitos would get a nice feast," Lily grumbled. "I did promise him an unforgettable experience, and promises aren't made to be broken!"

For a minute, Jerisson fell silent, imagining the scene.

Then he burst into a fit of laughter, startling even the horses.

And she might have succeeded, too! He did know how persuasive his shilda of a wife could be. In certain circumstances, Lily could convince Aldonai himself to get an enema. The baron would have fallen for the trick, no question about it.

Mosquitoes.

Naked Edwin Fremont, tied to a bed.

Oh my!

***

Lily and Jess decided against a further discussion. Why would they? It seemed clear enough as it was.

What was done was done, and they already forgot about it. In any case, that wench, whatshername, would never cross paths with Jerisson again, and even if she did, she would never come close to him. One question lingered, however: why had they led all of them into the same bedroom?

"If the baron wanted sex, he would have taken me to a different bedroom," Lily mused. "Mirrie, why did you hide in that exact room?"

"The door was open." The girl shrugged.

"What about the other rooms?"

"I didn't check, but I think they were locked."

"One of them mixed it up," Jerisson said, brushing off the question. "Either Viona or Edwin."

"They forgot where to take their lovers?"

Jerisson got a bit embarrassed but had to make it clear.

"Lilian, Edwin uses those bedrooms specifically for such occasions."

Lily glowered but soon softened.

"All right, let’s say he mixed them up. It's even likely. It might have been a coincidence, too: he could have told that redheaded idiot to distract Jerisson, and that's what she did. Nobody explained the details to her."

"That's right," Jess said with a shrug.

Lily wasn't going to calm down.

They had already put Miranda to sleep and discussed how uncomfortable the beds were in most inns: no bedposts, a solid headboard...

Lily was staring at the ceiling and thinking aloud.

"Let's say I caught you with that tramp in a compromising position. What would have happened?"

"A scandal," Jess replied, shrugging. "I guess."

"But the ambassador party wouldn't stop?"

"No. I would have to transfer my authority to, say, Roivel, but we would have to go to Cardin either way."

"Aha, so it doesn't influence politics at all. What about your personal life?"

Jess shrugged.

"What's wrong about it?"

“I don’t know. Did you steal the baron's mistress? Cuckold him?"

"I don't think so."

"What about Richard?"

"Neither did he."

"Then why does he have it in for you?"

Jess shook his head. Sometimes, his wife underestimated herself on a grand scale.

In front of him, he saw a woman with a magnificent body, amazing hair, intelligent and beautiful, and she couldn't even believe that somebody could be interested in her as a woman, not as a person.

And that was his fault. He had done it himself.

"Lily, honey, you've simply made an impression on the baron."

"That much?"

"Exactly."

Lily shook her head.

"Not sure I'm flattered."

Neither was Jerisson. He felt ill at ease, even if he fancied himself not to be a jealous man.

“Jess?”

"Yes, my love?"

He blurted out those words without thinking, only realizing it later.

"Don't leave me anymore in such circumstances, all right?"

"I promise," Count Earton swore from the bottom of his heart.

He wouldn't.

And as for Edwin, they would talk at length, as soon as the next day.

"And try not to challenge that bastard to a duel, will you?"

Jess almost stumbled.

"Are you reading my thoughts?"

"Not really. It's just that I would have killed that dyed vixen myself."

Jerisson knew very well that Viona was a natural redhead but wisely decided against correcting his wife.

"Are you jealous?"

Lily rolled around, putting her elbows on his chest.

"Yes. And don't forget that I'm not just your wife, I'm also your doctor. If anything happens, I'll poison you myself without wasting time."

It sounded pretty convincing. Too bad that the noble count had always had the same reaction to threats. He rolled back, pushing the woman beneath himself.

"So you'll poison me..."

He grabbed both of her wrists with one hand and raised them above her head, somewhat scared of having a scratched nose afterward.

"Jesssss!"

"Go on, my little snake, hiss..."

“Jess..."

***

Jerisson fell asleep, while Lily lay on her back, watching the ceiling and thinking. Outside the window, huge stars shined like maraschino cherries.

All right, then. Honestly, it was a really odd situation. Fine, they couldn't have foreseen Miranda's interference, but what about the rest?

Why foist a mistress on Jess and lead Lily right where he was frolicking with that redheaded wench?

Lily inadvertently clenched her fingers into fists. Jess got lucky that Mirrie had testified on his behalf. From now on, dear husband, you're screwed. Or will be, literally.

There is a wonderful recipe against infidelity, one that works one hundred percent, no matter the era and the mores—and Aldonai forgive, with no scandals, fights, jealousy, and other ways to waste time and energy.

Tire the man in bed so much that he would be too weak to look at other women. That's what Lily was going to do with her husband. Don't even think about playing around; it's not like I get enough myself!

A stupid situation, really. But only from her point of view. What if she were the woman that Jess had imagined her to be? A hysterical idiot? What would have happened then?

That's what. She would have been hurt. She would have thrown a fit, maybe a nasty tantrum, and then run away... Would Jess have run after her? After that Lilian? No.

And here, the baron would be there to comfort her.

What could be more dangerous than a nuclear warhead? Only a woman scorned: dangerous, cunning, ruthless, and unpredictable.

What is she capable of? Everything—and more.

But what had they sought of her? If the baron wasn't a complete idiot, Lily would never find that out. He would simply back off. Or...

That's it, "or." If you have certain plans for someone, you wouldn't just back off. So what could they do? Ambush them, kidnap Miranda...anything, really.

Lily didn't doubt that, looking at Baron Fremont's face. But what should she do with him? Set Jerisson on him? Not the best idea; she needed her husband, and the baron gave the impression of someone used to fighting dirty. That wouldn't do.

What else? She could push the baron over the edge: make a beast of herself without putting Jess' head on the block. An enraged opponent is half as dangerous.

She could also ask the maids to look for information. How many days did they still have in Dorsan? Two? Thom had mentioned something about maintenance work. They sent the horses to the blacksmith, had to repair the carriages... That was understandable.

So, two days. One was already over, one was left, and then, they would leave. If the baron tried something, it would be the next day.

Lily sighed. Once again, she got into a tight spot. How did other women manage to avoid getting into trouble all the time? Alas, that was a secret.

In any case, she needed to sleep. She had a hard day ahead.

Lily pressed her nose against Jerisson's shoulder, pushed away Nanook's paw, and nodded off, dreaming only the best dreams, cozy and warm.

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

"Momma, it won't be long. The time has come!"

Looking at her baby, Trudy could barely hold back tears.

Why was the girl so happy? Did she get a new toy? A dress? A proposal?

If only. She was happy because soon, she would be initiated as a warrior and become not the lady, but the lord of Elleig, the mistress of her own fate.

She would become a kyria.

And what would be left for Trudy? Only to wait for her baby. To wait, like she had once waited for her husband, praying to all the gods that Tira would find a worthy man... Or had she found him already? After all, Trudy knew her daughter well enough to notice the signs of infatuation: sparkling eyes, that easy swim of movements, and...really, a loving mother could notice any number of them.

"You've really grown up, my dear. Well then, if you want to be a warrior, so be it. Do you want to marry later?"

Tira slowly shook her head. Trudy didn't like her look: hopeless and full of longing. For an observant person, such an expression was tantamount to a written confession.

Her heart had chosen the wrong man.

"Sweetie?"

Tira shook her head once again.

"Don't, Momma. Just don't."

"Is he married?"

"No."

Trudy bit her lip. She was no fool, and she quickly guessed the truth.

"An Ativernan? One of them, am I right?"

Tira sighed, then fell on her knees next to her mother and nuzzled herself against the old mended dress, allowing the familiar warm hand to pat her silvery braids.

“Yes, Momma. He's from Ativerna."

Tears flooded her eyes. Trudy ground her teeth. She would have killed the bastard who considered her girl to be unworthy of him, just killed him right on the spot! But instead, she started to comfort Tira with words, trying to numb her pain.

"So what? It's not like you want to marry him. You could just have a baby. We'll raise it together..."

Tira stopped crying and breathing hard, thinking.

"You think so?"

“I’m sure of it. Just give birth, and I'll take care of the rest."

"He'll never agree to that. Never..."

"The important thing is the blessing of Fleyna, the rest is nonsense," Trudy said, not doubting herself a bit. "You're such a pretty girl..."

"It doesn't matter. He doesn't want to ruin my life—and his!"

"What's so bad about love?"

"Something like that already happened in his family, Momma, and it led to a lot of grief. That's why he'll never risk it..."

"So that's how it is..."

Trudy now saw a different side to that unknown Ativernan. Yes, love was a wonderful feeling, but how often did it bring pain and loss? How many pillows had been drenched with tears, how many eyes grew red from crying? If he realized that, he might be a pretty good person. And if he was...

"Tira, honey, then you have only one way out."

"Which one, Momma?'

"Do you love him?”

"Yes."

"Then be with him, no matter how much time is allotted to you. Consider this my blessing. And if you happen to become with child, we'll raise it together. I'll be happy to..."

Tira breathed in sharply.

"Momma, but what if he doesn't agree?"

"Tira, honey, go look in the mirror."

The argument was convincing, but not entirely.

"It's not fair."

Trudy responded with a gentle smile.

"Honey, there's no playing fair when it comes to love."

It was hard to argue with that.

***

Tira decided against talking to Richard before the initiation. There was no need.

First, she was a bit scared. Second...again, she was scared, plus, she had too little time and wasn't sure about the aftermath of lovemaking. Well, she knew one, but other than that, it varied, depending on the woman in question, and for a warrior, the body was as much a weapon as the blade, and it should be strong, flexible, obedient... What if it changed?

Tira didn't want to take risks.

And finally, that morning had come.

There were thirteen of them in total, new initiates dreaming of getting a warrior's sword. Twelve boys and she, the only girl among them. They came from different clans, from all corners of Virma.

During breakfast, Olav called the names of each of them, and the young men stood up, frozen.

Tira stood up as well.

The questions were simple and the same for everyone.

Are you sure you're ready? There will be no way back, as the gods are watching you!

Nobody refused, and twelve boys and one girl were led into a separate house. They were forbidden from talking to other people, sharing bread and water with them, receiving anything from them...

Nobody wanted to attract the ire of the gods. So far, they hadn't made their will known. When they did, everything would become clear: who would go into battle and who would plow the land.

To the boys' credit, they never overstepped the boundaries, knowing how much they risked: Olive was a serious-minded deity who wouldn't forgive foul treatment of a woman. Of course, they still joked and teased her, but Tira had expected worse.

Taunts and cutting remarks would always surround her, but she didn't have to be afraid of a violation. Some deeds the gods frowned upon. It's one thing when it happened after a fight, in the heat of battle...

Fleyna still discouraged such things, but wouldn't curse the perpetrator. But if they tried to hurt Tira during the initiation, they could incur the worst of punishments, up to sickness, infertility, or even death in their first battle. After all, why would rabbits need swords? Those who stooped to such things would never become warriors.

And as for the jokes, Tira easily got used to them. All she had to do was to wait for the first trial, which would show who laughed last.

***

Wellster, Dorsan.

Baron Fremont showed up with the first light of morning, dressed in finery, armed, and holding a gigantic bouquet of flowers, half of their names forgotten by Lily back in the times immemorial, when she had studied botany at school.

"Your Grace, Count Earton."

Jess bowed in return.

"May I offer my apologies..."

"Baron," Jess said, his eyes cold. "For the sake of our former friendship, I will forget what happened yesterday. But I have no desire to ever see you again."

Edwin sighed.

"Count, I'm very sorry. I just wanted to..."

"Introduce my wife to your little friend," Jerisson twisted the knife, making it clear that he knew everything and believed Lilian.

Edwin grimaced, which made him look like a sick rat. Why hadn't Jerisson noticed that resemblance before?

"And what's so surprising about that? During your latest visit, it was my understanding that you and your wife aren't on the best of terms..."

"It's water under the bridge, M’Lord Fremont," Lily purred, coming up to her husband.

Lou-Lou and Nanook, who accompanied her that day, were looking at the baron with a predatory expression. Hey, after partaking of human blood, they might be now terrifying cannibal dogs! Especially Lou-Lou.

The  baron bent in a deep bow before the countess, following the proper etiquette.

"Your Grace, I realize that yesterday—"

"There was a regrettable misunderstanding. Which is now over," Lily said, brushing him off.

"May I present you these simple flowers as a sign of my deepest apology?"

Lily put her hand on her husband's shoulder.

“Jerisson?”

The count shook his head.

The moment was lost. He no longer wished to challenge the bastard to a duel.

"Edwin, go away."

"W-what?" the baron asked, taken aback.

"Go to your friend, M’Lord," Lilian said, a serene smile on her face. "I hope you spend many years together, and nobody will you part."

Edwin gulped.

Army jokes really were something.

“Your Grace...”

But nobody was paying attention to him anymore. And it's not like he could challenge any of them to a duel.

Lily turned to Jerisson.

"We're going to have ice cream for breakfast. I made it yesterday."

“Wonderful! Where's Mirrie?"

"She'll be down in a minute. The others are still asleep."

The baron threw the Earton family a hateful look.

The family appeared not to notice, but both dogs responded with the least friendly of stares. He might have handled one Virman mutt, but two of them? They could even kill a boar. Who knew what might happen before his people got there? He was no boar; his throat was much easier to reach.

"Great! More for us."

"Jerisson, you don't mean that you'll wolf down an entire bowl just by yourself?"

"Miranda will help me!"

The baron gave up, threw the flowers away, and left the courtyard. What point was there in talking about plans when his own...friend was at stake?

***

Wellster, Cardin.

Her Highness, Princess Maria was quietly walking down the corridor.

Actually, a princess was supposed to have a retinue and servants, but sometimes, even she might be left alone. For instance, when going to a certain location that even princesses had to reach by foot.

She wasn't even scared when a tall, youthful-looking man blocked her way.

“Your Highness...”

The princess' gaze stopped on the ruby ring on his finger. He was clearly a duke, but she didn't remember his name. That was hardly surprising: so many faces, so many people, with half of them not worth remembering, like foam atop the water, unneeded and useless; something that you'd remove from inside of a cooking pot and pour down the drain.

"Your Grace?"

"Duke Robert Alcine, at your service, Your Highness."

"Unfortunately, Your Grace, I'm not sure if we've been introduced."

“No, Your Highness, to my utmost regret."

"Have you arrived recently?"

"I'm a homebody, Your Highness, but I couldn't stay on the sidelines during events such as these. What if my grandchildren ask me about the wedding between a beautiful princess and a powerful king and I have nothing to tell?"

Maria blushed at the compliment, but couldn't help but correct the man.

"Your Grace, I'm marrying a prince, not a king."

"Your Highness, don't be modest. If Aldonai wills it, in less than two years' time, your pretty head will be adorned with a crown."

"It's all in Aldonai's hands," the princess replied.

"And I'll be praying for the health of the gracious queen. Who knows, maybe if I happen to visit Ativerna, I won't be turned away from the court?"

"I'll always be happy to see you, Your Grace."

"And I'll also pray for Aldonai to be merciful, so you won't bear only daughters, like your poor mother."

Maria shivered.

For a second, she felt uneasy, as if someone shoved snow under her dress and the cold drops were sliding down her spine.

"Did you know my mother?"

"Her Majesty Albitta was a wonderful woman, kind, charming, and intelligent. You don't remember her at all, Your Highness?"

Maria paused and shook her head.

"I don’t know...I guess not. I do have a few memories of her. I think she had dark hair and smelled of lilacs. She didn't really spend any time with me..."

That was true.

Albitta hadn't nursed her children herself; that was forbidden. Her breasts would lose shape, and the pastors discouraged any physical relations with the husband during breastfeeding. That was a sin. And considering that she had to give Gardwig an heir as soon as possible...

The children were given to the wetnurses and nannies, and she paid only an occasional visit to the nurseries. She would cuddle with them for a bit and quickly run to the latest ball, so her husband wouldn't take a shine to anybody else.

But Robert couldn't tell something like that at that moment, so he shook his head.

"Your Highness, that's how it is in our society. Children are cared for by nannies, and the queen's duty is to shine."

Maria stopped and narrowed her eyes.

"My stepmother, Her Majesty Milia…nobody can accuse her of neglect. Her children might be attended to by a nanny, but Her Majesty always finds time to play and romp around with them. My mother, may Aldonai take her soul, thought differently, and that's all right. But I know whom I want to take after."

"Youth is radical, Your Highness."

"Youth passes, Your Grace."

Maria carried herself in a firm and tough manner. When you grow up with your sisters in a dilapidated castle, when all of you sleep together to save warmth, when you stitch together old dresses... You either break and grow up a weakling, or you become strong. The princess might have not shown her true character to everyone, but she did have one.

Anna had made her choice and was willing to do anything to run away. Lons Avels, the poor fool, had thought he seduced his student...but who really seduced whom?

Maria, however, would have never done anything like that. A convent would be a better fate. But what did that duke want from her?

Apparently, her pretty face had reflected her thoughts clear enough, as the duke shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness. Your mother does not deserve being forgotten."

"If Aldonai bestows daughters upon me, I will call the eldest Albitta and pray she doesn't repeat her grandmother's fate."

"You look a lot like her, Princess Maria—an uncanny resemblance."

As they talked, they crossed half the corridor and reached the princess' chambers. Maria slightly bowed her head as a goodbye and disappeared behind the door, while the man stopped to think.

What a little bitch. She’s the same as her mother, just a little bit smarter—or, rather, better at surviving. It made sense, really, considering her upbringing. That's good. She won't go against her father and her stepmother directly, but if everything works out, will join the winning side, heaping praises on her birth mother, no doubt about that.

He liked that prospect.

There was some bad news, too. That morning, a pigeon brought a letter from Dorsan, sent by Edwin Fremont.

Edwin was one of the men charged with leading mercenary companies to the capital. Poor and not especially highborn, his reputation sullied by an array of shady dealings, he was loyal to the duke with his body and soul. It was he whom the duke had entrusted with the mission to find a weak link in the Ativernan party, knowing that they would pass through Dorsan.

He was Robert's source for information about the ambassador. He was also supposed to arrive in Cardin together with his retinue. They wouldn't notice what his men were—the perfect plan, absolutely.

And when the duke's plan reached its culmination... Who killed the king?

The Ativernans, of course! They had come with a band of mercenaries, murdered His Majesty, started the riots, and really, up and at 'em, boys!

The cherry on top would be if Edwin managed to get on the good side of somebody from the party and got inside the palace together with the retinue.

But he had failed. The reasons were unclear, but Robert could find them out later and also deal out the punishment. He couldn't really send a lot with a pigeon, and confiding something like that to an ordinary messenger seemed unwise...or, frankly, insane.

Whose head would roll first if that happened?

Truly, it was hard, being a genius among idiots. He had to do everything himself, with his own hands, and nobody was around to appreciate it.

***

Maria was watching the door.

For some reason, she felt ill at ease. Was that disgust? Something else?

Once, she and her sisters had turned a stone upside down and saw a swarm of wood lice underneath. A nanny came running, saying they were venomous.

That's what Maria sensed about that man.

He was bad, dangerous... Should she forget about him? Or find out who he was?

And the princess approached one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting, the kindest and the most talkative of them all.

Good masters make good servants, and the kings usually held sway over their subjects. At King Gardwig's court, a lot depended on the queen. During his first marriage, the court was devout, his second, debauched, his third, busy bearing children, and his fourth, in parties.

When he had married Milia, family values became the trend.

From then on, it was customary and proper for noblemen to be accompanied by their wives rather than mistresses, talk about their children rather than revelry, and for the ladies-in-waiting to behave in a much more dignified manner: not a cluster of young maidens with low necklines, but their nurturing mothers with sharp eyes. The maidens, in the meantime, were sent to balls and receptions, with the queen to thank for all that.

After all, what did fifteen-year-olds know? They would become easy prey for any silver-tongued womanizer, and thank Aldonai if they don't get a bun in the oven. Their mothers were a different matter altogether; they would examine everyone, explain everything, and never let an unworthy suitor come near their progeny.

There was a flip side, however. They loved explaining a bit too much. Nothing could elude their scrutiny: no gaze, no rustle, no detail, no matter how small. Altres Lort and his men could rest easy: the count couldn't gather as much gossip in a month as those ladies brought in daily.

And so, Princess Maria set her sights on Baroness Holm.

"Baroness..."

“Your Highness? May I help you with anything?"

The baroness was one of the kindest ladies from the queen's retinue. She was in her late forties and probably knew a lot about what had happened back in the day...but how should Maria ask her?

"Yes," Maria said. "Baroness, could you help me pick the right thread for embroidery? I chose the colors, but you know how often the yarn seems fine at first but looks like a vulgar nightmare when combined with another!

"I'd love to," Alisandra Holm replied.

"Should I bring my needlework here?"

"Maybe I should walk with you, Your Highness?"

"Oh, Baroness, I would be so thankful!"

Another advantage of handmaidens of a certain age was their brains. They knew very well when someone needs their help or their stories—and realized that the princess wanted to keep her questions secret.

***

Inside her room, Princess Maria showed her needlework, discussed picking the right colors with the baroness, and agreed that violet should be contrasted with dark green rather than light green. Still, she had no idea how to start talking about the duke. The baroness permitted herself to smile and decided to make the first step.

"Your Highness, forgive me for my insolence, but I can see there's something on your mind."

Maria lowered her head and sighed.

"Maybe I could help you with a bit of advice like I would help any of my daughters if something was troubling her?"

"Thank you, Baroness."

"If you're concerned about keeping your secret..."

"There's no secret, Baroness," Maria said, sighing once again. They were sitting next to a fireplace, and the wooden logs were merrily cracking down, warming the old stones and driving away the dampness of the castle. "Today, I stumbled into a man who scared me."

"What's his name, Your Highness?"

Alisandra was genuinely curious. She had spent enough time evaluating the princess and knew that she was no fool. But why was she scared? Who would dare to intimidate the daughter of Gardwig? Was he tired of living? Interesting.

"Duke Robert Alcine."

The baroness paused to think and nodded.

"He's a hard and complicated man, Your Highness, true. And he's fallen out of favor with His Majesty."

"For what?"

"For the sins of his kin, Your Highness. I still remember that horrible story. It was His Majesty Gardwig's second marriage. His wife was called Camilla, a charming lady."

"The mother of Anna, my elder sister?"

“Yes, Your Highness. His Majesty adored his wife, but he was informed of infidelity: that another man was known to visit the royal quarters."

"And it was the duke?"

"His older brother. Her Majesty confessed it herself and was hanged together with her lover. The miscreant denied his guilt to the last, but nobody believed him. The lands of Lady Camilla's father were next to the Alcines, so their affair was hardly surprising."

Maria shivered.

"Soon after that story, the old duke died. His son didn't visit the court for more than a decade."

"And when did he finally come?"

"Three years ago, maybe four. His Majesty might have forgiven the insult, but still doesn't favor the Alcine family."

"Does the duke have a wife? Children?"

“No, Your Highness."

"Why?"

The baroness wasn't really sure but could think of various reasons, not all of them fit for the ears of a young girl.

"I don’t know, Your Highness."

"I felt shivers down my spine when I talked to him," Maria confessed.

The baroness shrugged.

"I will try to find out more, but I don't think you should overreact. Soon, you will marry, leave the country, and forget the court like a childhood dream. A sweet dream, I hope, not a nightmare."

Maria was in complete agreement. Yet she couldn't help but remember the fear she had felt when she stood next to Duke Robert...

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

"Richard, you've been restless since morning."

Angelina caught her brother's hand and pulled him to her. The prince obediently sat down on a giant bearskin next to his sister. Aldonai only knew how that hide had ended up in Virma: it was Bran Gardren’s personal gift to the princess.

"I'm fine," Richard snapped.

"And that's why you're running back and forth like a cat with its tail on fire," Angelina retorted. "Sit down and stop thinking about bad things. She will succeed."

It felt like all the air left Richard's lungs.

"Is it that obvious?"

"To me, yes. I think the Virmans will notice this, too. I wanted to go and support Tira, but if you keep behaving this way..."

Richard squeezed his temples with his fingers.

"Angie, I don’t know what to do. I love her, you know?"

“I do. But the best thing for you to do now is to show you believe in her."

"Three men. The warriors who started fighting even before she was born."

"When inside the circle, the gods favor a battle to first blood, I asked Bran. They surround the circle with hickory twigs, the opponents go in, and the entrance is barred. They are armed with swords but don't wear chainmail. Tira, however, is armored. She must stand her ground against three of them and either push them out of the circle or scratch them. She's a woman, so they won't be eager to kill her, trust me."

"And how often do accidents happen?"

"You don't have to fight to be killed, as poor Aliah's example showed. What does Olav say?"

"And what does Bran?" Richard countered, but softened, seeing the sorrow in Angelina's eyes. "Forgive me, sister. I'm just worried, so I snap at everyone."

"I know. Bran's quiet so far. Richard, you're luckier than me."

"Why?"

"Tira likes you, and kyrias are free to choose their men. At least you'll have something to remember about your love, and if you're lucky, then also her child, the heir of Elleig. Nobody asks who fathered a kyria's child, and they are recognized as legitimate. Her son will be called Tirson Elleig, after his mother."

For a few minutes, Richard stared at his sister, unable to believe his ears. His little sister, whose nose he had wiped and whose braids he had pulled—as a joke, of course—had finally grown up, talking about things like that? He felt strange. Was that jealousy? He wasn’t sure.

"Angie, are you crazy? What are you offering me?"

"To be happy. You'll have a wife in Ativerna and a woman you love in Virma. They won't bother each other, as Tira's too proud to come to court. There, she'll be the prince's mistress, but here, she's the lady of Elleig. I can't even have that."

"Angelina, enough."

When Richard spoke in such a tone, his sisters knew better than to resist, or they would get a good walloping. Angelina fell silent and then stood up from the bearskin, brushing off hair from her dress.

"Will you cheer for her?"

"Yes."

***

The testing ground was the same used by the Circle to gather, but that time, only warriors were inside.

"Do they let women in?" Richard asked, prepared to send his sister home.

The Virman man the prince had addressed only shrugged.

"Why not? They do. It's just the womenfolk don't care for that."

"But their sons, brothers, and fathers are here."

"In the past, women did watch the trials. But everything was different back then, and scarlet blood spilled on the ground. No initiation went without a dozen sacrifices to the gods. Now, we're offering them a spectacle of a fight, and pour down mead and wine," Bran said, appearing out of thin air. How could that man move so quietly?

"Your women know that their men will return home. That's why they aren't worried," Angelina said with a smile.

“Something like that. The art of battle isn't just killing the enemy. That's not that hard. But to avoid killing or maiming, to calculate the blow down to a hair’s breadth—now that is beautiful. That is a real art."

Angelina nodded.

"Can people cheer?"

Bran shook his head.

"No. Both cheering and yelling are forbidden—the gods are watching."

"So they keep quiet?"

"Sometimes, it's harder. Come with me, I'll lead you to the best place."

"Thank you," Richard said with a nod.

He liked it in Virma. He liked the way people treated him. Maybe if he lived there long enough, the Virman simplicity would start weighing down on him, but until then, it felt reassuring: a respite after the splendor of the court, the compliments and accolades, intrigues and flattery, honey and poison.

If only he hadn't fallen in love...

Meanwhile, on the platform, the priests were tracing a circle, setting up hickory twigs in the eight cardinal directions except for the north, which remained open. That was the entry point; when the combatants entered the circle, the last twig would take its place.

It was the initiation day for twelve boys and one girl.

None would get any leniency. Three tokens were inscribed with the first rune of the challenger's name, mixed with a generous helping of empty tokens, and given to the warriors in the audience.

The Virmans who wished to enter the circle and entertain the gods had to draw the tokens from a jar.

If you drew an empty one, it wasn't your day.

If there was a rune, wait for your turn.

Soon enough, the first contender found his opponents.

"Tirs Helvson Kellog!"

"Not the strongest of warriors," Bran commented in a hushed voice.

A young man stepped into a circle, and three men followed him. They gave their tokens to the priest, who threw them into the jar and raised his hands to the sky.

"Let Olive judge you! Rejoice, deities!"

His assistant struck the last twig into the ground, closing the loop, and the three warriors immediately moved forward, like wolves circling their prey. They tried to surround the boy, spinning their swords.

However, Tirs had no desire to become a sheep and leaped forward.

Their swords clashed, the steel ringing. Angelina couldn't understand half of what was going on, but Richard watched the battle with his fists clenched. He didn't say anything; indeed, everyone in the audience was silent, and the only things heard were the breathing of the warriors and the sounds of their blades.

Tirs might not have been the strongest of warriors, but he managed to last long enough. He put out two of the three warriors, scratching the thigh of the first and the hand of the second. They stepped aside, not offended in the least, but still remained in the circle.

They couldn't interfere with the battle in any way, but also couldn't leave before it was over. Unfortunately, Tirs' luck didn't hold, and the third combatant managed to get to him, even if his blow wasn't too strong. He nicked his cheek and knocked down his helmet.

The priest of Olive stepped forward.

"The gods have spoken, Tirs! You may come back here in spring. You fought well and brought Olive joy!"

Tirs, who was slightly dazed, nodded, not saying anything.

"And that's what all warriors go through?" Richard asked Bran in a low voice.

"Yes. Such is the law of the gods."

"I'd love to introduce something like that for our royal guard," Richard said emphatically.

"I can't give you our laws, but we could come to an arrangement about our warriors," Bran replied with a shrug. "If we sign the treaty."

Richard nodded.

“I hope so. Any news about Aliah?"

“None so far, but this is Virma, Your Highness. I've already informed everyone that I'll give a generous reward for any information. In less than a month, the murderer will be dead."

"Hopefully," Richard affirmed.

Bran snorted.

"Only scum would raise a hand against a woman, and scum are to be drowned in the sea, or at least sacrificed to Holosh."

"Does he like human sacrifices?" Angelina asked with a shudder.

Bran stared at the girl, doubtful. Still, she was a princess, and he decided against lying. Sooner or later, she would learn everything—and stop trusting him.

"Holosh devours the souls of traitors and knaves, Your Highness. Does it matter if he eats them a little bit earlier?"

"For the traitor or for Holosh?"

Bran laughed out loud. What a girl! Her tongue was as sharp as a dagger.

"I'm a priest of Holosh, not of every neighborhood wretch."

"I don’t know...your god seems to have a strange taste. Can villains be good for his health?"

"What if Holosh loves spicy food, Your Highness?"

"So you sprinkle each rogue with pepper, Bran?"

"A good idea, Your Highness."

Inwardly, Bran thought that pepper was a bit too expensive, but salt would do—after they flayed the man. He wasn't joking about human sacrifices, not for a minute.

Holosh was a cruel deity, but sometimes... What punishment was good enough for a man who had beaten his pregnant wife to death? For a man who had kicked out his elderly mother?

In some years, the elders left by their own will, so their children would have food to eat, but those were scary times. When everything was fine, and the only fault of the woman was becoming senile...

Where will we be when we grow old?

Bran had made blood offerings to Holosh a few times and wasn't going to regret it. Each time, he carefully studied the issue and tried to avoid an injustice. And as for those displeased...

Those who get sacrifices are always displeased. How odd.

They had to stop talking. The next four opponents entered the circle.

***

Out of seven recruits who had gone inside five left as winners. Two lost, but nobody made fun of them or berated them. There was no point.

In the circle, the gods showed their will. If someone didn't pass, then it was meant to be. They would try later. And going against the gods' will...Virma had no such fools.

At last, Tira entered the circle. Against the warriors who had drawn lots, she seemed especially small and fragile. But a small snake bites harder, which is what the girl proved in the very first minute.

All warriors acted about the same. There were three of them against one of her: surround her and attack from different sides.

Tira didn't give them time. She didn't leap forward, like they did, or start yelling. She simply dropped her sword, demonstrating that she yielded. For a second, the warriors hesitated and lowered their blades.

It was exactly what she wanted of them. She lunged down on the moist soil, almost sliding on her stomach, grabbed the sword she had thrown into a carefully selected spot, and scraped one of the Virmans just below the waist.

The audience gasped.

The Virman swore by Holosh, clutched his rear end, but the proof was undeniable. As for the girl using her guile—well, her success only gave her more honor. After all, she made experienced warriors fall for it.

Two opponents remained. They wouldn't buy any such tricks anymore.

Tira took a step forward, calm. That time, the swords didn't clang. She wasn't strong enough or heavy enough to go toe-to-toe against powerful men: if she did, she would be simply swept away. Instead, she deflected blow after blow and stepped back, leading the warriors round and round.

That didn't last long.

Those twenty seconds felt like an eternity to Angelina. Then she realized where Tira had been luring the men and why. At one point, they were right next to each other. Just as planned.

True, a warrior's main weapon was their sword, but why not use the entire body?

She fell on her knees, hit her opponent's legs—not trying to catch him flat-footed, he was too seasoned for that. Her intentions were different.

The warriors jumped, used to such tactics, and a thin silhouette flew up from the ground to meet them.

She didn't strike with her blade; the momentum made her spin, and she used it to her advantage, shifting in just the right way to crash into one of the warriors when he landed—after his feet had touched the ground but before he found his footing. At that moment, he was vulnerable, lacking balance.

Just one push, and the Virman rammed into the second man, knocking him off his feet. Tira herself would never be able to make them fall, she didn't have the strength for that. But who said she couldn't use her mind?

The men lost their balance only for a split second, but that was enough for the girl to use the opportunity. Her blade scratched one more body, leaving just one opponent.

The viewers froze. It was a spectacular battle; whether the girl became a kyria or not, the gods were pleased, as they rarely got such a show.

The man and Tira circled each other warily, their gazes locked...and then, Tira stumbled, leaping forward to make an ill-conceived and awkward attack. Angelina gasped, realizing that her friend was going to be knocked aside with a powerful blow, and then...

Nothing.

The Virman warrior expected the same thing, but in midair, the girl twisted around. The old men who had taught her knew that she was physically weak and should never charge a stronger opponent. So if she found herself in such a battle...

The warrior's fist hit the air, and he felt someone pull at his clothes, making him stumble, while the girl, who appeared on his side, grazed his flank and leaped back.

Victory!

The whole arena roared in joy and excitement.

Tira Rovson Elleig passed the first trial.

***

"Just seven out of twelve," Richard said, shaking his head as he left the square. "What about the others?"

"They will try their luck in the spring." Bran nodded. "One should not argue with the gods. If they indicate that a warrior is too weak, then he should train and grow. What point is it to bury stupid youths who'll die in their first battle, having gained neither glory nor children or profit?"

"What about women?"

"There are few of them. And as you have seen, Your Highness, nobody goes easy on them. Prove that you can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with men or submit."

"Does physical prowess determine everything?" Angelina pretended to purse her lips.

“No, Your Highness. Personally, I do believe there are smart women in the world, but I doubt they would take up swords and go to war."

Richard laughed out loud.

"Bran, if you were born in Ativerna, I would be worried for the throne."

"Your Highness, if I were born in Ativerna, it's the kings of neighboring countries who would be worried, not you. I'm always loyal to my king," Bran replied, looking all innocent.

All the prince could do was to shake his head.

The second trial was to take place the next day.

***

Wellster, on the road.

"Grrrrr!"

Nanook threw his mistress a curious look. Her growl sounded quite threatening. Was she going to bite, too?

No, people were pretty pathetic. Just look at their ugly small teeth! Could they really tear off a piece of meat with them? Now, his fangs... And the dog grinned, demonstrating his entire combat arsenal.

That said, Lily had a good reason to growl.

As if nothing had happened, Baron Fremont decided to accompany them on the road—and did so, unabashedly.

The problem was, there was only one road to Cardin, one procession, and one caravan. Two men were standing in the middle of the road: Jerisson, Count Earton, and Edwin, Baron Fremont.

Lily hadn't been allowed to take part in the negotiations, so all she could do was to growl—quietly, but quite dramatically. If only she could set a dog loose on the baron! Or, even better, two of them!

She couldn't, not yet.

As it turned out, Baron Fremont was headed to Cardin. He had business there, trade. Jerisson, you're the king's nephew, and I'm just a nobleman. You must realize that I need money to make a living. A title doesn't fill the belly. So I'm doing some trading...on the side.

What exactly did he trade?

Weapons, of course.

He was a baron, not a merchant; salt or grain was unworthy of a noble, but weapons, purebred horses or hounds, birds of prey—now those fit his station.

Jerisson could agree with that. His own father hadn't been above trading, even if he preferred luxury goods, and the son hadn’t changed the stewards to ruin an established business. A title was a good thing, but agriculture wasn't the most profitable branch—only fools didn't realize that. Maybe rain, maybe snow, maybe yes, maybe no. Farming depended a lot on the weather and Aldonai's will, and he never relayed it to the people or posted forecasts. And so, Jerisson never really delved into the goings-on in his estate. Why would he? The money he got from there wouldn't last him even a month at court.

Obviously, the baron apologized for the misunderstanding.

Forgive me, dear friend, I couldn't help myself. But he would remain unmoved in my place? And the lady accompanied me by her own will; I didn't beat or rape her...

Jerisson stifled the desire to inform the baron that it remained to be seen who would beat whom. His failure had also likely saved the baron from being eaten alive by mosquitos. Lily, out of the goodness of her heart, could coat Edwin with something sweet or pour wine over him to make him tastier for the insects. She had told Jerisson about such torture once: a person was tied to a tree above an anthill and left for the ants to eat. Sometimes, they also nailed the victim to the trunk and poured honey on them.

His wife knew a lot of things and often told Miranda the most miraculous stories. Lately, Bartholomeo had been forgetting his lute to listen to her tales. Where had she learned all of that? Just take the story of a prince whose parents were killed, a kidnapped noblewoman, a cult, and a treasure...

*Author's note: Lily was relaying the plot of The Mystery of the Black Jungle.

The count was overjoyed listening to it, taking twice the pleasure: from the story itself and from everyone's admiration of Lilian. Once, Count Roivel had tried to offer him his sympathy, but after getting to know Lilian, he realized that congratulations would be more fitting.

The baron, however, didn't know Her Grace yet. Which is why he survived...for the time being.

He offered to ride to Cardin together. The roads weren't safe (Jess had witnessed that firsthand), travel was dangerous, why take risks? Yes, I was a fool, but I will redeem myself! As a man, you must understand me. I'll never do anything like that again, it's just that I was under the wrong assumption...

Jerisson thought a bit, decided it was better a lean peace than a fat victory and reconciled with the baron. It seemed that he chose wisely. The baron immediately drew the attention of the entire company. Over the course of the journey, people grew tired of each other and longed to see new faces. Lilian, not overly upset, withdrew into the shadows.

She absolutely loathed the baron, but his manners and behavior were flawless. Was it possible they had simply got off on the wrong foot?

Not really. They could pull the wool, silk, or whatever over Jerisson's eyes, but she wanted no part of that.

She would wait and watch, never trusting the baron. By the way, what kind of weapons did he trade in?

***

It was Count Elont who enlightened Lilian. Weapons were useful tools, but... Again, that annoying word, "but." It seemed to be everywhere those days.

Weapons were in constant demand, but not every blacksmith could forge them. It didn't take a genius to make cheap iron swords out of lousy bog iron, but real weapons were a much more complicated matter. All too often, a person's life hung on the tip of their sword, making the blacksmith's skill essential.

To craft a good blade, one needed to cleanse the iron, weld steel, not to mention the crossguard, the head, and the hilt of the sword. All of that required a lot of knowledge, starting with picking the best weapon for the customer.

No, the customer wasn't always right, as evidenced by many service workers in the twenty-first century. Gimme that scarf and that hat, and dye me green, too... Not a care in the world that the scarf makes them ugly as sin, the hat can only be worn by a scarecrow, and the green color would make everyone around contemplate the wisdom of Islam. After all, a burka is a handy thing: it can disguise even the worst fashion rejects.

But when it came to weapons, the customer most definitely wasn't always right. Finding a good blacksmith was hard, and if they didn't like you, you could go buy the common crap. On the other hand, treating nobles like that was a risk. An especially unruly craftsman risked being thrown into jail. No one was indispensable, in any time or place.

And so, a tacit deal was maintained. The craftsmen tried to make the best weapons, while the nobles didn't put on airs too much. There was even talk that Maldonaya had blessed the blacksmiths, but few believed such tales.

She was a woman, you see. What could a woman, even Maldonaya herself, know about weapons?

Still, good weaponry was produced in small quantities, cost a lot of money, and was made to order. Mercenaries, bandits, and other rabble used junk that could probably serve better as material for horseshoes.

Therefore, weapon trade focused on the two aforementioned segments. A weapon was either high-quality and expensive or cheap and unpretentious. Seeing as Edwin was a baron and not a commoner, Lily expected the first option.

Where would he get them, though? Anywhere, really. The world was big. Some nobles occasionally rummaged through their family armories, selling or buying stuff. Nothing unusual.

In any case, weapon trade was profitable but dangerous. Demand was high, but not everyone had the means, thus explaining the baron's retinue and his desire to stick to another group.

Lily heard him out, nodded, but for the life of her, even if they killed her and cut her down to shreds, she couldn't stand that man.

Miranda shared her mother's attitude and never even came close to the baron, despite Edwin's attempts to win her over. On the very first evening of the journey, he presented Miranda with a dagger in an elaborately decorated sheath: small, delicate, fit for a child's hand.

"Your Grace, it's for you."

Miranda wasn't going to reach for the gift.

"Thank you, M’Lord Fremont, but I cannot accept such a gift."

"Mirrie?" Jess asked, not angry, but with a clear warning in his voice. What do you think you're doing, brat?

The little she-imp turned her blue eyes to her father, innocent, like a cat who had just pooped in a closet. Probably a Siamese one, considering the shade.

"Papa, teachers told me that a girl should accept expensive gifts only from her fiancée. The baron and I aren't engaged, and he's too old and lowborn for me, anyway."

Everyone laughed. Children have a unique privilege: they can tell the truth right in someone's face with a minimum risk of catching flak.

"And which man is worthy of such a charming young lady?" the baron replied, clearly bothered by her answer but opting to avoid arguing with a child, which would be stupid and embarrassing—and bound to displease her parents.

"I am already betrothed," Miranda retorted. "You will be invited to the wedding...but if you continue to take such liberties, my fiancée will feed you to his panthers. That's the custom in the Khanganat."

"Mirrie, how can you say that?" Lilian admonished her. "M’Lord baron just wanted to do something nice for you. Say thank you. But we really cannot accept your gift. Unfortunately, Miranda has a very jealous fiancée. Mind your health, M’Lord Baron, and your friend's."

"I will take heed of your advice, Your Grace," the baron replied. Edwin read the implication—he was tolerated, but not trusted and kept at arm's length.

That incident never became public. Still, Miranda made a point to show the baron her distrust, stayed away from him, and always took Lou-Lou with her.

Lilian didn’t mind.

Sometimes, you can't help but feel vexed even if, on the surface, everything seems smooth. It bothers you, nags at you, ruffles your feathers… When it happens, listen to your inner voice. After all, if you have paranoia, it doesn't mean nobody's watching you.

***

The rest of the time, the baron was charming, and his men, even if common leirs, were perfectly disciplined and kept to themselves, not causing any problems. Lily couldn't very well let her distrust get the best of her, or she'd have to send half the people around her to jail.

"Momma, I don't like him."

Lily didn't like him either. She had a suspicion. So let's say she had walked in on Jerisson with that floozy, caused a scandal, ran away... What would the baron have done? Comfort her and gain her complete trust—and maybe some dirt, as loose lips sink ships. In any case, she would have become the baron's ally.

And what if they slept together? The baron had made some overtures, after all...

Once again, that would be blackmail material for Edwin.

Why would he attach himself to the cortege? What if he was carrying something illegal? Lily wouldn't discover it as much as she wanted to. And what could he have, really? Drugs? It wasn't the era for them: opium was a legal painkiller, and you would smoke hashish just to relax. In her time, people would dream about such freedom: that's the Dark Ages for you.

So what else? Spices? Ridiculous. Maybe gems obtained through shady means—Lily couldn’t think of anything else. Still, she couldn't voice her accusations: she needed to either prove them or keep quiet, and so far, she chose the second option.

She could also do something to trigger a search in his belongings. If there was one more big town on the way to Cardin, Lily would have brought herself to do the worst: take a parchment, draw a ritual for summoning Maldonaya or something like that, and planted it on him. Then she would rat him out to the local temple: the priests had a low-tolerance policy for that kind of stuff.

Yet the capital was several days' travel away, and there, they would part for good, allowing her to breathe out in relief.

Damn that Fremont! May he live off a paycheck! So much worry because of that schmuck!

Chapter 4

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

The second trial started. Tira stood at the edge of the forest together with the remaining six boys.

Calling it a forest would be a stretch, however. Sprawling trees didn't grow in Virma; the climate was all wrong. In Ativerna, that would barely be considered a coppice.

There was a shrine of Olive in the center. The recruits were to cross the forest without being caught and get inside. She had no weapons and was dressed only in a tunic and pants, plus a ribbon on her braid.

They were given a thousand heartbeats before their pursuers entered the forest. Those who got caught were out. The pursuers were also chosen by drawing lots. The trial took place at sunset, so the newbies got at least some kind of leeway.

That said, for true warriors, darkness was no problem. They were also unarmed, but unlike their prey, had boots and torches. They had no need to hide.

The priest waited for the edge of the sun to touch the sea and raised his staff.

"For the glory of Olive, amuse the gods!"

"Glory and honor to the gods!" the students yelled out in unison.

The priest hit the drum, and the youths took off running. The drum beats followed the rhythm of the heartbeat. When they stopped, the warriors would go out and hunt.

Tira immediately established a lead. She had to avoid any risks. If the hunters found the other guys, the worst they would do was give them a few smacks. With her, however...

If a girl started playing in the male league, she had to expect everything. She might get treated as a woman—by hungry men. What would she do then?

White clothes were a drawback. She had to turn them into an advantage, fast. Tira ran forward. She knew the location of the nearest brook. She had considered everything. She had to act while the drum was still beating.

Finally, the brook.

Tira fell on her knees, allowed herself a few short gasps, and started scooping silt and leaves from the bottom of the spring. Her braid would get dirty, of course. Whatever; she would wash it later. Actually, it would be better to smear mud all over it, the more, the better.

In less than forty drum beats, the girl transformed into a forest monster. Blond hair and fair skin were gone, and only her eyes could be seen, the eyelids covered with dirt.

After disguising herself, Tira could start moving toward the shrine. Running to the other side of the forest, like a deer at bay, was foolish: nobody would be able to cross the woodland in a thousand heartbeats. If speed could save lives, hares would be immortal.

It wasn't their physical abilities that were tested, but mental. The first trial was a test of strength, of skill. The second gauged their thinking.

Slowly and carefully, trying to avoid stepping on a branch and hurting her leg, Tira walked forward.

***

Branches cracking, noise, shouting...

The cacophony grew closer and then distant, making Tira shiver. Or was it the wind? In Virma, days were warm, but the nights were cold and damp. On top of that, she was caked in mud.

She had to reach the shrine, fast, or she would be discovered by the rattling of her teeth.

A young man rushed past her just ten steps away, followed by two warriors.

Tira pressed against the trunk of a tree and froze, trying to blend into the bark. Like an ivy, she wrapped herself around the tree, pretending she was not there.

The chase was cut short with a cry and a blow.

"One down!"

"A good start, Torv..."

The hunters were laughing and cracking jokes.

Softly, step by step, Tira moved away from them, making sure not to snap any branches and avoid reflecting any light.

Just like that.

She hid behind trees and bushes, and at last, she could speed up.

She was five hundred steps away from the shrine.

It might not be quite fair, but each recruit had visited it before the initiation, checking it out, contemplating the best way to reach it—a warrior's trick. Tira had been no exception.

The road to the shrine was covered in trees, with only a twenty-steps-long clearing in front of it. She had to cross it.

Getting caught that late in the trial would be a real shame.

Quiet as a mouse, Tira approached her target.

Finally, the shrine.

Don't try picturing a colonnade or a Gothic-style cathedral. The Virman didn't care about such excesses: beggars can't be choosers. The shrine was built by nature itself: five oaks had entwined their branches together back when they were alive, creating a dome. They still weren't quite dead, either. Oaks were favored by Olive himself. With them as the foundation, all the priests had to do was add a few planks to create a roof and install a hearth in the center, then put an altar and relax. The temple was ready. As for the rest...

Olive was the patron of warriors. He didn't need gold—only steel. He didn't need coins—only blood. Pictures? The Virmans had never dared to insult their gods by drawing them. They were deities; how could they humanize them enough to depict them? They were beyond any imagination.

Aldonai? Sacred icons?

Let the landlubbers have their fallacies. Their beliefs were odd, what could you say?

Tira reached the clearing. Go on, run forward, enter the shrine... Why didn't Tira feel like that?

She pressed herself against a tree, blending into surroundings and staring deep into the shadows and the moonlight in front of her. What didn't she like?

The smell.

The reek of sweat, of men, flushed after running through the forest. She didn't see anyone, though. Conclusion? They were hiding somewhere. Tira started studying the area even more carefully. It was like the cloud shape game: at first, you didn’t see anything, and then you realized that one cloud looked like a whale and the one behind it resembled an octopus, a cute one at that... So where were those men?

The wind shook the tree, making Tira shake as well, but she still hadn't seen anything. She did hear something, though.

Someone was approaching the clearing.

He was walking slowly and quietly but was clearly unused to the forest. If she heard him, it meant that the others would hear him as well. Tira waited.

Glancing sideways, one of the recruits entered the clearing before the shrine. He breathed out in relief—he made it!—and walked forward, not afraid anymore.

So naive.

Two shadows appeared as if straight from the underworld, presided by Holosh himself. Before the boy could utter a word, he started thrashing, trying to break free from his captors' grasp, and Tira knew that it was her last chance. She sprang forward, running as if chased by Holosh.

One step, then another; a hand trying to reach her; evade it, slide below, roll on the floor...and finally, she stumbled into the doors of the shrine.

She made it.

Three more recruits had passed the trial, and only one was remaining—the sea.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

Aldon Peters was studying the man sitting next to him, and he wasn't pleased.

The man was tall, handsome, highborn, rich, and for some reason, unmarried. So why did the aldon dislike Duke Alcine so much? Because the aldon preferred women? Not really.

On some level, almost everyone recognized people like Robert and tried to stay away. Words like "obsession," "madness," and "mania" might not occur to them, but that didn't mean they didn't feel their touch in him.

"Your Grace."

"Aldon."

Robert obediently kissed the ringed hand in front of him, knelt down, but didn't look away, and his look wasn't one of humility, not in the slightest. The duke hadn't come there to talk about God.

Robert knew that, the aldon knew that, and if so...why drag it out? There was no getting away; Peters would have to hear him out anyway.

"Please hear my confession, Aldon Peters."

The aldon bent his head, blessing the duke with the sign of Aldonai.

"Let Aldonai hear you, Robert Alcine."

The duke didn't really count on that, but an aldon was enough. The rest was just window dressing.

"I am a sinner, both in thoughts and in deeds..."

Robert wasn't about to disclose all of his plans, but even some of the things the aldon heard made his hat rise up, his hair stirring.

To overthrow and kill the king, putting Her Majesty Albitta and her son on the throne? The aldon imagined how much blood would be shed in the course of it and shivered.

"Are you in your right mind, child of Aldonai?"

"Quite, aldon. Very."

"And what do you want of me?"

The confession was over. Two predators stared into each other's eyes, both of them seasoned and salted.

"I want the church to bless the new king and not get in my way."

The aldon choked. How humble of him.

So, in essence, what was an aldon supposed to do in such a situation? Tell on the duke, of course. Run to Gardwig with the speed of a purebred horse, shouting from the rooftops, pointing at Robert, but definitely not stay quiet. Rally the people to fight for their lawful king. Curse the usurper.

But Robert wasn't just asking for the aldon to stay away, but for his support. And he would get it.

Ordinary pastors could cast aside the worldly matters—but even then, they had to feed the children thrice a day, dress them, and teach them.

The aldon could not. Anybody who managed to climb to the top of the church hierarchy was bound to have an arsenal of teeth, claws, and poisons at his disposal, as well as the morals of a hyena and the decency of a jackal. Such was their job.

Was that bad? It was normal, just par for the course.

The aldon really didn't want to lose his position, and was in danger of doing so. Actually, he could even lose his life. Gardwig had never been known for being kind, and Aldon Peters still remembered his predecessor, who had been ripped to shreds during a hunt—a complete accident, of course. Peters was in no hurry to repeat the man’s fate, and if Gardwig learned about their conversation, wolves would be a mercy.

On the other hand... Say the aldon rushed to blow the whistle. Would anyone believe him?

Suppose they did. Gardwig would. Still, the duke clearly wasn't stupid enough to keep the evidence of his plot inside his home in a conspicuous location: something like the queen's dress, the queen herself, or a mercenary contract listing a hundred gold as a reward for helping to arrange a takeover.

Who would get the brunt of Gardwig's rage? The aldon. The duke would find a way to excuse everything.

On the other hand, if Peters didn't rat out the duke and Gardwig learned everything...

He was caught between a rock and a hard place, and that rock was about to fall.

The aldon smiled sweetly.

"I've heard your words, Child of Aldonai, and I will pray for Him to show me the true path."

“What do you mean?”

"I will pray for Him to grant victory to those in the right and vanquish the forces of evil. The church's sympathy will always lie with those blessed by Aldonai."

Robert was no fool and got the implication. He smiled.

"Well then, let's see whom he blesses."

I won't get into your quarrel. If you win, I will bless you. If you don't, I will curse you.

That suited Robert just fine.

He had the church on his side—in the worst case, it wouldn't interfere and defend Gardwig. He wasn't about to lose, anyway. Failure was a death sentence for him, or even worse. If he failed, Camilla would never be avenged, and that was something Robert couldn't allow to happen.

He bowed, said goodbye, and left, followed by the aldon's thoughtful stare. Peters watched the duke with only one question on his mind: when?

Yes, Robert had been through a lot: his father's and his brother's execution, a ducal title, the king's disfavor... But others survived even worse and never lost their minds. But in his case...

How had it happened? When?

The aldon didn't spend too much time contemplating abstract matters. Soon, he called for the cellarer and ordered him to get to work. He was to remove all expensive things from the temples, replace golden candlesticks with gilded ones made from bronze, hide the contents of the treasury, and post additional guards. Aldonai's cause wasn't as defenseless as it might seem; enough people could stand for it, weapons in hand, but why waste their lives in vain?

If a mutiny started, let them grab what they could and tuck it away. It would be better for them to avoid someone else's battle.

The cellarer finished listening, nodded, and dared to ask a question.

Why? Has the aldon learned something that the brethren deserved to know?

The aldon only shook his head and decided to tell a half-truth.

"We're marrying the princess off. Lots of rabble have come to the city... It might work itself out, but why take risks? We could rebuild the temples, but if the people are gone, they're gone for good."

The cellarer bowed and left to take care of things, privately admiring the aldon's wisdom.

What a mind! He'd never even thought about protecting his stuff, but the aldon did! A great man!

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

You would think spending a night on an island was nothing special. You would be wrong.

Tira wasn't sure herself why she felt so scared. Alone, dressed only in a thin shirt and pants, she was sitting on a stone that was slowly losing its warmth and shivering when icy water splashed her skin. She could have taken a swim, but that was one thing, and being attacked by cold spatter quite another.

So what was she to do? She could continue sitting, but it was better to exercise—at least it would keep her from getting cold. Too bad the islet was so small, with no room to run. Fine, for starters, she would leave the coast and find some dry weed to use as kindling to make a fire.

She wondered what the men were doing. Were they just sitting and looking at the sea?

Alas, she was unable to start a fire, with no suitable twigs or rocks around, but she did find a cozy cave shielded from the sea on three sides. There was some sand inside, too—not much, but Tira brought more from all over the place. Sleeping there would make her body ache all over in the morning, but sitting on sand sure beat rocks.

And then...

What would happen then? She would stand up, stretch her legs, get her blood going, and sit down again, then repeat it. Running might not be an option, but even without it, she could do lots of things, like two hundred squats. A great way to warm up, to be sure. Or three hundred side bends. And then, there was the greatest invention ever: push-ups!

No time for sports? You just don't have enough motivation! It's always possible to find a place.

Minutes turned into hours. Tira sat by the cliff and daydreamed, as the sea whispered into her ear, dolphins played under the nightly sky, and small waves licked the shore clean, only to roll back with the low tide. One day, they would conquer the island for good, but until then...

Between dream and reality, she heard the words.

"What a nice-looking girl. Such a shame."

"She chose her path herself."

"They always do. And each time, their choice is our fault."

"Mortals are just mortals."

"Not just. They are mortals."

The first voice seemed sad, the other, almost proud. The first was upset with something, while the second, calm and emotionless. Who was talking? Who could it be?

Tira tried to stand up, but her limbs went numb.

"Can't we do anything?"

"No. Only she can."

"What about him?"

"Neither can he. The choice has been made. It's too late, too late, too late..."

The girl abruptly woke up and opened her eyes. Was it a dream? A fantasy?

She tried to stand up. Her muscles were sore, and thin needles of cramps pierced her skin all over the body. She was cold, and the only salvation was movement. She dropped down and started doing push-ups. A hundred would do.

Yet somewhere deep inside, Tira remembered that conversation and those voices—harsh and sorrowful, one female and one male. The woman had felt bad for her, but the man hadn’t. After all, she was just a mortal.

Dawn slowly flared up above the water.

Should she tell someone what had happened?

Never.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

Count Dishan put aside the latest report and rubbed his tired eyes. How the hell had Lort dealt with all this?

The messages never stopped. Why did they think he cared? So some baron called Dalen brought his retinue fifty men strong. So what? Some had even more guards! Maybe he had traveled through unsafe territory. What purpose was there to that report?

And the paper was sent flying into the trash bin. The count rubbed his eyes once again.

He was starved of sleep. That said, he had already gotten the gist of it. The nobles were arriving, bringing their men, their families and friends, and their guards—after all, everyone expected festivities of massive proportions. The bandits on the roads stepped up their game as well. A report said even the ambassadors from Ativerna had been attacked. Count Earton personally fought off...

Oh, good thing he did.

Maybe they would send a few groups of guards to ride around and teach the brigands a few lessons—for instance, how to live, or even better, how to hang from gallows. He would need to inform the king about that: if someone got robbed, it would be an embarrassment.

The count moved on to the next report. Duke Alcine had arrived with his guards. Who was it who told him about Alcine? That's right, Baroness Holm. Actually, the nice lady had been ratting out certain individuals to Lort, just a little bit, so nobody would suspect her.

But what was so special about the duke? He had no reason to love the king, and his estate was far away, almost on the other side of Wellster. Of course, he needed guards. So what if he had chosen the wrong tone to speak to the princess? It happens. The brat had probably imagined things.

One more report was sent into the bin.

Truly, being the chief of the secret service was hard. One could almost wish for Lort to come back sooner... Really, how had he endured all that?

That was a real bitch of a job.

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

"So what happens next, Tira?"

"In a few days, I will get my sword in Olive's shrine."

"That same shrine?"

"Yes, M’lady."

"And after that?"

"I'll hire myself out on a ship. I'll be sailing the seas, serving in someone's posse, and one day, I'll build my own ship."

"I meant something else."

"And I meant this."

Tira's eyes were sad.

Angelina looked at the girl and shook her head.

“Fine. I won't talk about that, but Tira, how I wish I were you!"

Tira looked at the princess, and it dawned on her.

"I...have more freedom. Is that right, M’lady?"

"Yes. And I...I'll never be able to make the choice I want to make. I would give everything for just a few nights, but we can't even have that. Never."

Tira considered her words, compared a few things, and breathed out, positive about her guess.

"Gardren."

Angelina sighed.

"I didn't say that."

"But M’lady...he's a priest of Holosh!"

"Does it matter? A prince, a priest...you can decide for both of you. And I..."

"Even if you accept him, M’lady, Bran will never agree to this."

"Bran doesn't love me, he loves Virma. And Richard loves you. But he might not agree, either."

"Men..."

Two girls side by side, both grieving the same thing and neither able to do anything about it—not Angelina, for whom everything had been decided long ago, and not Tira, for whom nobody could decide anything. Really, what could Richard change? What could she? He had his path, and she, hers. Everything had been decided and considered in advance. Why, then, did she feel so much pain and sorrow?

***

Wellster, Cardin.

A carriage rode down the streets of the capital—plain-looking, ordinary, not even painted. The crew might not be hired hands, but then, every noble had a few coaches of his own: to take him on a journey, to transport chests...

Two people sat inside. A boy and his mother? It didn't seem so. The boy had delicate features, black hair, brown eyes, and a small frame. Next to him, the woman looked like a sheep next to a ferret.

She was full-figured, big-boned, her hair blond, almost like straw, with big, blue eyes. There was no familial resemblance at all. Of course, a mother and a son might look different, but their clothes were not the same, either.

The boy was dressed richly, in a leather travel outfit of fine make and a bright blue shirt, while the woman had only a plain striped dress, usually worn by poor townswomen.

"Momma, why did we come here?"

"We had to, sweetie, we had to."

The woman was clearly nervous but tried to avoid showing it to the child. She distracted him by offering to play games, told him stories, fed him, gave him water...

Yet she continued to worry, up until the moment when the carriage stopped in front of a small house on the edge of Cardin.

The woman went outside, helped the boy climb out, took his hand, and led him inside the house.

"Sweetie, whatever they tell us, stay quiet."

"But why, Momma?"

"Henry, my boy, do you understand me? Promise me. I'll be talking."

The worry in the mother's voice passed on to the child.

"All right, Momma. I promise."

The woman went up the stairs and touched the doorknocker. Almost immediately, a well-schooled butler flung open the door before the guests.

"Wait in the drawing-room. M’lady will be down shortly."

The room was quite humble, but the boy hadn't seen even that decor before. Delighted, he reached out to a suit of armor standing in the corner. The woman barely had time to grab his hands.

"Don't do that, sweetie."

"But Momma!"

"Don't."

Henry gave up and stepped away. It was unclear how long he would have lasted, but two people were already entering the room: her former majesty, stunning in her scarlet silk gown with rubies, and Duke Alcine, arm-in-arm. Likewise, he was wearing scarlet and black.

They were mesmerizing: dangerous, like two scorpions, and just as ruthless.

Albitta let go of her lover's hand and stepped forward. The boy had no time to pull away.

"Henry!"

The boy was locked in her arms and given a hard kiss, then once more. Afterward, the "loving mother" stepped away, adjusting her dress, and threw the governess an indignant stare.

"Why is my son dressed so poorly?"

"Your Grace, the road—"

"And he's dirty. Take him, get him changed, and put him to bed. Go with Auntie, dear."

Duke Robert Alcine watched the family reunite, smiling.

"Auntie" Mary, whom the child had known all his life, obediently took his hand. Mary Wingellow, a commoner, had crossed the path of her former majesty soon after her escape. What happens when a peasant girl becomes a maid in a rich house? Alas, exactly that. And it often results in children, too.

Mary's child was stillborn, but she had milk to spare and sold her services as a wet-nurse. Albitta's child was born alive, but to nurse a baby? Let him suckle on her breasts? Wake up in the middle of the night to feed him? Ew. Court ladies never did that.

Mary was quickly hired as a wet-nurse, and over the years, became a second mother to the boy—if not the first. It was her who watched little Henry's first steps, it was her who wiped his dirty bum and the snot from his nose, healed his bruised knees, and even (ssh! It's a secret!) bought him candy from street vendors. What about his real mother?

She was busy. She was preparing her Grand Revenge.

In the meantime, little Henry lived a quiet life with Momma Mary in a small town—one of the hundreds like it—visited the church, scrambled with street boys, and had no wish to ever become the king. How could you even think about something like that? Impossible!

But how had it all happened? That was Duke Alcine's plan.

Albitta herself was a rather remarkable person, both her personality and her manners. But why put all his eggs in one basket? Robert didn't doubt his lover for an instant. To spite her former husband, she would have recognized the child of any alley beggar as hers.

And then again, if Altres Lort's men accidentally (or not) found Albitta, her son would have stayed with Robert. He was the spitting image of his mother, which was quite lucky, seeing as his father wasn't Gardwig.

Who was it, then?

No need to point fingers, but Robert was proud of himself. Gardwig had spent almost twenty years trying to have a male heir, and Robert succeeded almost on the first try. It was clear whose seed was stronger.

Why wasn't little Henry brought up as a future king, swimming in luxury, taught all the necessary things, left in the convent? Robert didn't want to draw attention to the boy. A mother who got someone to look after her child was usual practice, maybe even hiring tutors so the boy could learn to read and write. That was enough.

Why stir up unnecessary fuss around the child? No need. He would learn everything he needed later when he ascended the throne.

Then, he would have all the teachers. He would learn how to dance and ride and fight—but only then. Until that happened, he was left to live in a small house and play with the children of the townsfolk.

Little Henry's eyes widened. "Momma, why did that lady say she's my mother?"

"Because she is your mother."

"But you are my mother! Can I have two?"

Two tears trickled down Mary's cheeks, supple as apples.

“Yes, sweetie. You can."

***

Little Henry slept in the arms of his foster mother.

Mary was awake, however. She was afraid that the coming events promised nothing good to her child. Before, she had thought that a noblewoman simply got pregnant from her lover instead of her husband and gave the child away to be raised.

But the truth was clearly something else—something nasty.

Mary had an amazing sense for danger, and she knew that something bad was coming. No, not just bad, evil, with capital "E." She felt it in the air; troubled times were ahead. At least, for her boy, and it meant that for her, too. A nanny? Not really. She was a mother, no other way to put it, and as a mother, she was prepared to do anything for her child. She didn't trust that gaudily dressed creature, a mother who could send her child away for ten years without thinking of him once. She didn't trust the man with the cold dead eyes of a snake.

Once, those two had seemed like saviors to a confused girl. But she was young and stupid. Since then, she had grown up and become wiser, learning that nothing good could come from such people. No matter their lofty speeches, they wanted nothing good for her boy. Which meant that she had to...well, what could she do, really?

Mary touched her bosom.

The object of envy of many women and the desire of many men hid a small purse—the money she had saved up over the years. Alas, it wasn't nearly enough. She would never be able to survive with a child on that money, and as for work...where could she go? A servant? A washerwoman? A scullery maid? A streetwalker? For Henry, she would have done that and more, but the life of a wench was a short one, and soon, the child would be left all alone. Nobles didn't really like to hire servants with children, and laundry and kitchen work brought too little money. And what if she got sick? Or Henry did? He had delicate health and needed warm clothes, good food, and a real house.

Mary sighed and made the sign of Aldonai. God was merciful; he would forgive her.  She would watch and listen, think and wait. She would gain their trust. And at some point, she would learn where the money and the jewels were kept, find a way to escape the capital, and...

Would they look for him? Certainly. But he was her son, and she wasn't going to give him away without a fight. That bejeweled wretch might have given birth to him a hundred times, but she wasn't his mother. If a bitch bore a litter of puppies that were then reared by a cat, the cat was their mother, even if their blood was not the same. It was her milk, her love, and her care that made her a mother.

Tears poured down the woman's cheeks.

Little Henry shifted in his sleep, cuddled against her warmth, and calmed down.

Mary knew that she was willing to sell, betray, and kill everyone just for that moment. It was her son; she had no choice but to succeed.

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

Bran Gardren was stuck.

He really needed to discuss his findings with Olav. Not because he expected advice, no. Olav never gave advice. He either solved a problem or...still solved it, with the grace of a whale and the elegance of a war elephant. Advice was out of the question. Still, Bran thought they should talk. Olav was straight-edge, like a whetstone, and just as fit to polish Bran's decision, turning him around, studying from all directions and making his thoughts razor-sharp.

He found Olav next to the ship, inspecting the broadside, not far from where tar was boiled.

"Bran?"

"I found out who was meeting the Ativernan girl," Bran said, not wishing to drag it out.

"Who was it?"

Olav reached out for his axe. Things happened, and he had killed a few women in his lifetime as well—for a good reason, of course—but that bastard who could ruin a treaty? He deserved death. Preferably, twice, but alas, that was impossible.

"Hjorth Hardring."

"My nephew?" Olav was genuinely surprised. "But..."

Bran shrugged.

"Do you believe he killed that girl?"

“Never."

"And neither do I but I couldn't talk to him without you. You're the clan chief..."

Olav nodded. He knew that such a trifle wouldn't stop Bran Gardren. That man could have more than just talked, he could have pried everything out of Hjorth, but he was showing his loyalty, demonstrating that Olav was the leader in their duo, that he was doing everything by the book.

Yes, Bran wished for Olav to become the king of Virma and was making the first steps toward that goal.

"Should we invite Richard?"

"We should," Bran replied. "It will help us show that we aren't hiding anything."

"What about his sister?" Olav asked, looking at Bran.

Bran shrugged. Angelina...

"If your nephew can keep his mouth shut. Can he?"

Now that was something Olav genuinely doubted. It was Virma, after all, not the royal court.

“Fine. Let's not invite Her Highness."

Unfortunately, their plans were ruined in the saddest manner possible. Her Highness came by herself, her arm in her brother's arm. Another couple followed them—Hors Kellog and Jean Erroy. The girl was blushing, and Hors seemed embarrassed as well.

Richard was smiling, and Angelina was beaming. There's a matchmaker inside each girl, and when her efforts pay off...

"Olav, this young man asked me for Leira Erroy's hand and wasn't refused. The girl consents."

"Then we can set the ceremony for tomorrow," Olav said, visibly delighted.

"For tomorrow?" Jean gasped. "I don't even have a dress..."

The men laughed in unison. Virma, Ativerna, or even the Khanganat: women were the same everywhere.

"For tomorrow," Richard decreed. "We don't have a pastor, but a captain of a ship is allowed to conduct a wedding."

"And then they should visit the temple of Fleyna," Olav added with a nod. "Couldn't hurt."

Nobody argued with that. It was fair enough.

Of course, not having a pastor was a problem, but such was life. After all, going up the deck during a storm wasn't the wisest of decisions, servant of Aldonai or not. The waves care not whom they wash overboard.

By the way, one could say that such was Aldonai's will—come on, just try to argue with that. Maybe it was even good they didn't have a pastor. Having a servant of faith was bound to create various disagreements.

The Virmans had a very peculiar attitude to the clergy. For them, priests were the same people as everyone else; nobody treated them with any additional respect or reverence. Only the priestesses of Annora stood apart from that, due to living away from people, and the priests of Holosh. No one else did, though.

You could argue with any priest, drink with them, and even slog them in the jaw—and get reciprocation.

They say that, once, the priests of Olive and Nier got into a fight, arguing whose god was more powerful. They debated for two hours, telling about their deities, drawing a crowd, and then, the priest of Olive took a swing and clocked his opponent in the face, making him fly into the corner.

And that's how Virmans end their philosophical disputes.

To avoid something like that happening to a pastor, they would have to find someone special, but where? Not many Ativernans could debate like Virmans.

And thus, Richard couldn't help but occasionally think that if the pastor had been washed overboard, to Aldonai with him. Err, merciful Aldonai, accept the soul of your servant. Richard knew the man: an honest fellow, but a sourpuss and a staunch believer. They needed politicians, not zealots.

Jean left, accompanied by Angelina. They needed to find a dress and accessories for the wedding. Meanwhile, the men gathered in a small hall with a fireplace that functioned as Olav's study. The Hardring chief summoned Hjorth.

They didn't have to wait long, as the young man arrived in just about twenty minutes, before the men had drunk the first toast in honor of the bride and the groom and had a bite.

"You called for me, Uncle?"

Hjorth didn't even notice the prince or Bran Gardren: Olav sat directly across from the entrance, while his guests were in the shadows to his left. Bran was warming himself next to the fireplace, his hands almost touching the flames, half-obscured by a massive chair taken by Richard.

"So, I did. Come in, sit down, and don't forget a proper greeting, you lout."

Hjorth looked around and corrected himself.

"My apologies, Your Highness. My apologies, Chief of Gardren."

Bran waved his hand, showing his forgiveness, and Richard repeated his gesture.

"Wine?" Bran offered with a smile.

"Thank you," Hjorth replied, cautiously accepting the cup from a priest of Holosh.

"Go on, drink, and tell us about Aliah Reinst while you're at it."

Hjorth didn't even flinch, although Bran watched him very carefully.

"What is there to tell?"

"Tell me, did you want to marry that girl?"

"I did," Hjorth confessed.

"Why didn't it work out?"

"She didn't want to."

Olav raised his eyebrows and started to dig into his nephew. Gradually, his questioning yielded the following results. The boy had taken a shine to Aliah almost at their first meeting. So what if she had already had a roll in the hay with someone? Anything could happen if Fleyna rules the night. The girl was still in her prime and with a dowry to match.

He gave her flowers, talked to her, invited for a walk, and she seemed open to more...but everything changed a fortnight or so ago. Hjorth didn't remember the exact day; he didn't really care about the whims of ladies.

Aliah grew cold and distant, all but pushing him away and making it clear that his advances were unwelcome.

So you don't want me? To Holosh with you, then.

Hjorth had better things to do than pine after a reluctant Aliah. It's not like there weren’t other fish in the sea. With time, he would build himself a ship, anyway—he had the skill for it, the hands for it, and the Hardring name. They were prominent enough for that to matter.

The men listened and asked him questions.

On that fateful night, Hjorth accompanied another girl altogether: Renna Kellog. Olav paused for a few minutes and then showed his nephew his fist. Don't you hurt that girl. Kellogs were pretty much their allies; it would be stupid to turn them against Hardrings for a moment of pleasure.

Hjorth got it and nodded. I'll keep it in mind. Then he left.

Bran shook his head.

"Hjorth didn't kill her, I can see it."

"Even I do," Richard said, shrugging. "But who did? And why?"

"We'll keep looking. If Aliah lost interest in Hjorth, there must have been someone else. It's Virma. You can't sweep things under the rug here."

The men exchanged glances and poured the wine into three cups. The search had to be continued.

***

Wellster, on the road. Two days' journey to Cardin.

Lily stared at Baron Fremont without even a hint of sympathy in her eyes. She was just discussing the recipe for a charlotte cake with Thom Concord, having gotten a strange craving for it—the apple one, with icing sugar, hot and delicious. The recipe was pretty simple, too, and it could be cooked even in a frying pan, as long as it was deep enough. Apples weren't an issue, flour, eggs...

Let's make it, Thomas! Please!

Thom couldn't refuse the countess, but they had to make as much as ten cakes so everyone would get a portion. All that was left was to agree on the recipe.

Lily thought she would have to invent a heavy-bottom pan. Alas, anti-stick coating was beyond her reach, but to hell with it. At least she had cast iron, and that was a wonderful thing in itself.

Her parents had used a cast iron pan, and it was a true miracle! No food had ever been burned; too bad it was heavy as a mountain.

Upon seeing the baron, Thomas bowed and left to arrange cooking, while Lily looked at Edwin with displeasure. If he had thought she would forgive him... Ha!

She simply couldn't take her revenge yet. She was never going to forgive and forget.

"Your Grace, I beg you to accept this humble gift."

The baron was holding something that Lily cherished the most in the world: an old parchment scroll. She couldn't help but be moved.

"How sweet! Mirrie, just look at this!"

Mirrie wrinkled her nose and snorted.

“What is that?”

"We'll take a look. Thank you, Baron."

Lily carefully took the scroll, unfolded it, and studied the contents.

Her enthusiasm considerably diminished. The baron had given Lilian a lesser-known poem. On the other hand...

She might have regarded Memoirs of a Physician as the best fiction ever, but someone still liked Shakespear, and a lot, too. The baron watched her expression change and frowned. He had guessed wrong.

Well, who could have known? Women usually swooned over that sappy stuff.

"Baron, how much do I owe you for this scroll?"

"Your Grace, please don't insult me. Our relationship didn't start on the best of terms, but I hope it will change for the better."

"So do I, Baron."

And having exchanged pleasantries, they parted.

"Do you believe him, Momma?"

"No."

"Will we tell Papa?"

"Absolutely. We'll give the scroll to Bartholomeo, let him sing, or recite, whatever's supposed to be done with it..."

"And what is supposed to be done with it? It's boring!"

Lily smiled, looking at her daughter. Amir Gulim was going to have a very odd wife, that was clear. But at least she would be smart, with a sense of humor and penchant for detective stories. In a harem, that was handier than excessive sappiness.

"Good thing we have only a couple of days left until the capital. Then we'll part ways with the baron for good."

"I eavesdropped on his conversation with Papa," the brat boasted.

"Really?" Lily asked, her interest piqued.

"The baron hasn't been introduced to the court and wants Papa to do it."

"I hope that your father refused."

"Yes. He said that he wasn't from Wellster and all he could do was to put in a good word for the baron if he got an opportunity."

"What about the Roivels, I wonder, and the Elonts? Has he approached them as well?"

“Yes, Momma."

Lily winced.

“And?”

"Papa's the head ambassador, it's useless to sidestep him. Count Elont did talk to him, by the way."

"And you just happened to overhear it?"

"Right."

Having fallen head over heels with Baron Holmes stories, the girl took to spying and watching people—and even tried to analyze her findings. Lily didn't mind that. At her age, Lily hadn't been much better. Military towns were microcosms, closed worlds that made it impossible to hide things. She and her friends had done many things. They spied, they calculated, and more than once, they got reprimanded for that, washing the windows and sweeping the streets as community service. But at least they knew who dated whom, who stole what, and everyone's business.

Why would a child need something like that? Because children grew up and applied their skills in their adult lives. Aliya wasn't especially good at that, but she still hadn’t lost hope. After all, Joseph Bell, the prototype for Sherlock Holmes, was a physician, and a great surgeon at that. She had every chance to reach perfection.

In a word, Lily didn't like Baron Fremont, and that was it. And the baron was charming. If not for that bedroom scene, she would have bought it, hook, line, and sinker. Even afterward, she sometimes felt ashamed of her attitude to such a sweet man... He knew how to turn on the charm, the snake. He would kiss a hand, crack a joke, run a race, give a gift—and all of that looked completely sincere.

If Lily could, she would have drowned that parasite in a swamp.

The question was, how to drive him off? Even if she managed to damage his cart, the baron would just ask for help, and no one would be able to refuse. Poison him? Lily had no scruples against doing even that, but she would have been the one to deal with that later. It didn't make sense.

All that was left was to clench her teeth and bear it, wishing the baron a bout of severe diarrhea. Unfortunately, that didn't work. The cooks were too good at their job, and they prepared food from fresh produce (courtesy of the thermoses). The baron had no problems with his stomach.

Was there any justice in that? There wasn't any in the world.

***

Wellster. On the road.

Horses weren’t the best way to travel, not by a long shot. They could become limp, lose a horseshoe, get sick, sweat, and lather. Often, buying a new one was impossible, so you would have to take care of the animals you had.

Altres Lort might not have known about Murphy's Law, but it didn’t help him at all.

As soon as he mounted the led horse, it lost a horseshoe. Altres did find it in the grass, but it wasn’t of much help. He couldn't ride his main horse, as it was too tired for anything more than walking, and he could just as well walk on his own feet by the horses' side. The led horse couldn't be ridden either. He contemplated taking a horse from one of his escorts. Unfortunately, they were just as tired; there wasn't any point in running either of their mounts into the ground.

As soon as any of the horses happened across an obstacle, it would go lame or pull a tendon. He would have to remove the other shoe, find a blacksmith... Too much time would be lost. He'd rather move slowly—also losing time, but not as much. His companions agreed.

With those sad thoughts, he reached a roadside inn run by a burly innkeeper who was swift to cheer him up.

"Don't worry, good sir. We have a blacksmith in a village not far from here. In the morning, he'll shoe your horse, and you'll ride ahead none the worse for wear. He's a real master of his craft."

"So be it," Altres decided. "Can I stay the night here?"

"We have rooms, sir, and we can offer you a hot dinner."

"Do you have enough space for five people?"

"Of course, sir, even for more. Do you want separate rooms or a common one? The latter's cheaper."

Altres waved his hand.

"Two rooms, for three and for two."

He didn't want to split up. The escorts foisted on him by the old count turned out to be great company. Calm and composed, they weren't as many guards as an entourage: all of them weren't young and had seen more than their share of scuffles. Going by them still being alive, they were good at surviving them, too.

With Altres, they were pretty laid-back. They never talked first, didn't get on his nerves, and when Altres tried to start a conversation, they brushed him off with meaningless stories.

No chumminess, no excessive fear—just all-around professionalism. They were to get him to Cardin, and they would, trying to avoid all problems on their way, which would be outstanding, considering the current hard times.

Good job, Count. Altres realized that not everyone serving Count Eran was like that—but then, he hadn't been given his best men, either.

Not the worst, certainly, but not the best.

"As you say, sir. Here are the keys." Two keys with huge wooden tags appeared on the bar counter. "Rooms three and four are just the right size and have beds."

"What about bedbugs?"

"Maybe for dinner, sir. We've never had those creatures here."

"Where'd you get them for dinner, then?"

"A boy could catch them in the grass if I tell him to," the innkeeper retorted, a sly smile on his face.

He wouldn't jest with just anyone, but Altres seemed like an ordinary guy who could appreciate a joke. The king's personal jester didn't disappoint him and smiled.

"All right, for starters, we'll have the usual, and if we get a craving for something spicier... By the way, what do you have for dinner?"

"A side of mutton with porridge, sir, some quality ale—last year's harvest, it's too early for it this year—and fish pies, or berry ones, if you want a dessert. It's been a great year for raspberry."

"We'll have everything," Altres said, throwing a few copper coins on the counter. "That's for dinner. We'll decide about the rooms after we finish it."

The innkeeper nodded and ordered a maid to bring the meal and someone else—Altres didn't see whom—to take care of the horse and send a message to the blacksmith so he would come in the next day.

The porridge turned out to be delicious, the mutton was soft, the pies tasty, and the ale undiluted. An hour later, Altres sat back and sighed. He felt good.

His companions were resting by his side. The count saw nothing wrong in eating at the same table as his retinue while traveling, especially since nobody was going to drink themselves into oblivion; they had a different goal.

Everyone was chomping down the food, not saying anything. Sometimes in life, you get those moments of respite and happiness, all too brief. You'd wish them to be less rare, but alas...

A silver coin fell on the counter.

"That's for the rooms."

"Thank you, sir. Here's the change..."

"Give it to the blacksmith," Altres said, brushing him off.

The innkeeper nodded.

That was enough money for the blacksmith—as shoeing a horse wasn't that hard—and a tip. A profitable customer, to say the least.

"Maybe you'd like something else, sir?"

The sir looked at the offer—a heaving bosom in a low-cut dress—and shook his head.

"I'll make do. We'll sit a bit and go to bed. I'm tired."

And everything would have been all right if not for a wandering minstrel who walked into the inn and chose that exact moment to produce his lute. The inn served not only the traveling folk but also the locals who came in the evening for a pint or two, making a crowd.

The minstrel began singing the Ballade of the Lawless King and the Lawful Son, telling the story of a king who was so scared of losing his throne that he executed all his wives before they could bear him sons—except for the one who got away, his son in her belly.

Of course, the son grew up to avenge his mother.

The king bore a suspicious resemblance to Gardwig.

So that's what Corvus was talking about, the count realized and decided to...no, not beat the minstrel up. Instead, he invited him to his table and questioned him. Unfortunately, it didn't yield any information.

Ballades spread from one minstrel to another, changing their master, and no one knew where it had been written. He had simply adopted it from a colleague. Updating his stock of songs was a must or he risked getting a walloping.

Altres thanked the man and even gave him a few coppers, but the evening was ruined for good. Once again, he realized that something was brewing. A few questions arose.

What were you thinking, you hunchbacked idiot?

What the hell were you doing?

What if the king has traitors by his side?

What if...what if you don't get to him in time?

Mad at himself (not that it helped, but it's not like he had someone else to blame), Altres ordered a pitcher of wine to his room, drank it together with his companions, and zoned out. The morning was blessedly free of a hangover, but he still felt the unpleasant after-taste of the previous night’s encounter. And everything had been so great! Why did that wandering rabble have to spoil his fun?

There was one good thing in all that, however. The innkeeper turned out to be a wise enough fellow, and the horse had been shoed long before its master went downstairs. The blacksmith even checked the other horses to make sure nothing like that would happen again. They could ride out at any minute.

But who was gunning for Gardwig?

***

Wellster, on the road.

The scream was loud enough to wake up the entire camp.

Jerisson hastily grabbed his sword and rushed out of the tent. Good thing he had been sleeping in his shirt and pants—they were on the road, after all.

Lily sprung to her feet as well and started to dress, but the expression on her daughter's face made her stop.

Miranda was grinning.

“Mirrie?"

"It was the baron screaming, I'm sure of that."

"And what do you know about it?" Lilian asked, suspicious.

"I never liked him anyway, Momma."

Lily sighed, put her clothes aside, and plumped down on their cot next to her daughter. She didn't like the baron either, but she needed to figure out a cover for the brat.

"Sweetie, not liking someone isn't a good enough reason to kill them."

"What about making them suffer?" the sweet child asked.

Lily suppressed the desire to rip her daughter's ears off. Instead, she raised her eyebrows and inquired,

"And how soon will your father come here, wishing to pull your ears off? Or your head?"

"Nobody will find out," the child retorted, a sly look in her eyes. Although, was she really a child? She was almost ten in a world where girls married at fourteen. She was a little devil, not a child!

"Find out what?"

"But Momma!"

Walking along the coast about her business, Miranda had found a grass snake. She didn't really know what kind of snake it was, but Lily figured it out from her description. The grass snake was busy digesting some small animal, going by the bulge on its body, and didn't care a bit about the world around it.

The world around it didn't leave it alone, though.

Miranda also really had it in for Baron Fremont. And so, we had one grass snake, one baron, and one vengeful child. See the formula?

Miranda ordered Lou-Lou to guard the snake, ran to the wagon train, and sneaked an empty wine pitcher from one of the carts.

The adults moved their wine in thermos boxes to keep it cool and then poured it into pitchers, leaving the empty glassware in a cart. Mirrie knew where that cart was and had no problems getting it.

Putting the snake into the pitcher was no problem for someone who wasn't scared of snakes, and Miranda never feared them, not for a bit. Grass snakes were cute and funny; Momma Lily had shown them to her once...

Momma Lily cursed herself inwardly. Me and my big mouth. Did she have to reminisce about her childhood shenanigans when she and her friends caught a grass snake, smeared it in black shoe polish and pretended it was a viper? She should have told the story about the beating they got for that! Their butts were sore for a week!

Scaring the wife of the lieutenant colonel by handing her the snake and offering to kiss it was too much.

Miranda managed to get the grass snake into the pitcher without scaring it. Inside, it was dark, quiet, and peaceful. The pitcher, still smelling of wine, was placed on the table in the baron's tent, and the brat sneaked out. The rest was history, but judging by the scream...

Lily knew the habits of grass snakes. She and Mirrie heard steps outside.

"Quiet. And don't say a word to anyone."

Miranda nodded. She had no desire for a birch-rod massage.

Jess barged into the tent. He was snickering. He dropped his sword, sat next to the women, and burst into a roar of laughter. Laughter was also heard throughout the camp.

“What’s happened?”

"A grass snake somehow got into the baron's tent."

“So what? Good thing it wasn't a viper," Lily said with a frown.

"It crawled into the wine pitcher. The baron decided to have a drink before bed..."

"And shook the snake out of the pitcher?" Lily asked innocently, the corners of her mouth already twitching. "Did he think it was a viper?"

"At first, yes."

"And he screamed?"

"The baron says he screamed later..."

"When?"

"When the grass snake vomited."

That made everyone laugh, both Lily and Miranda.

Grass snakes were known to do that. They had special glands that helped them reek as bad as any skunk. On top of that, when sensing danger, they vomited half-digested food and escaped. The baron had simply had really bad luck.

"The grass snake vomited on the baron?"

Jess hesitated.

"Edwin's gone to the river to wash up."

It was a while before everyone stopped laughing. At last, Jerisson managed to calm the women down and put them to bed.

Lily wasn't sure what Miranda had been trying to achieve, but the results were outstanding. The baron was furious, knowing that everyone was mocking him, but still continued to reek.

The grass snake had an impeccable aim, and its shot had reached its target one hundred percent: even perfume didn’t help. The baron smelled like a pile of poop on a lavender field.

His clothes and his tent fared just as badly.

Jerisson seemed to suspect something but didn't ask any questions. Good thing, too. A grass snake was not nearly enough of a punishment for the baron's actions. Too bad Miranda had caught only one.

Chapter 5

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

How do recruits get their swords? The ceremony is performed in Olive's shrine and is forbidden from being witnessed by anyone other than participants.

Even the newbies entered the canopy of ancient oaks one by one. They were met by a priest wearing a bear's hide.

Tira was dressed as a warrior: a shirt, pants, a helmet, and chainmail. Her only differences from a man were the soft skin on her face and a long braid flowing down the metal of her armor. She walked in—not too fast and not too slow—and dropped on one knee: she would not kneel to anyone until she died. From now on, only Olive would be her lord and master. As for people...

As a sign of respect to the Hardrings, she might bend one knee before Olav or bow to him, but never humiliate herself. She was under Olive's patronage, and stories about arguments with gods were usually told before bed, at night, so people would fear them more. No lies were needed, either. Virman gods were cruel.

The priest slowly raised her blade from the altar. Once, it had belonged to Tira's grandfather and now passed on to her.

"Put your hand forward, warrior."

A bloody gash appeared on her palm, courtesy of a ritual knife. Tira didn't flinch; her gaze remained steady. She knew what would happen. What did mild pain matter to a warrior?

It was nothing. She would endure it.

Blood dripped on the ground and the blade. The priest looked at her with approval. Ability to endure pain was a good thing for a warrior.

"I bind this blade to you by blood. Let it serve you until you die, loyal and true. Don't dishonor it with disgraceful deeds, and may Olive's blessing be with you."

"Honor and glory to the gods," Tira replied.

The rings of a metal belt closed on her waist. A sheath touched her thigh.

Slowly, Tira raised her blade above her head, showing it to the gods, and then brought it to her lips. The drops of blood, her blood, covered its surface.

That scarlet liquid bound them as one.

She put the sword into the sheath and looked at the priest. He bowed, indicating that the ritual was over. Olive was pleased.

"Go forth, warrior."

There wasn't even a hint of irony in his voice. Taking the sword gave Tira the right to that title. Now she was the lord of Elleig, not the lady. She commanded the lives and deaths of those who followed her and was responsible for them.

The girl left the shrine. People were waiting outside: more recruits. There were no adult warriors or the recruits' families. The next newbie entered in her place, his name determined by drawing lots.

Tira touched the grip of her sword with her bloodied hand. The wound was still bleeding; she would have to bandage it. She tore a scrap of cloth off her shirt and wrapped it around her palm. Slowly, she walked away from the clearing, entering the canopy of forest trees. She was calm and composed.

She was a warrior.

Haven't you always wanted that, Tira Rovson Elleig?

She had. But why did Tira feel as if the gods were smiling at her from somewhere above, snide grins on their faces?

***

"You really need to bandage this hand!"

Angelina was indignant. She looked at her friend's bloodied hand. The blood had dried up, but the wound still looked nasty. She frowned, not liking that a bit.

Tira shook her head.

“No need. This is a sign from the gods. If it festers or something..."

"Men and their games..." Angelina grumbled. "Has it ever happened?"

"It has. Some wounds festered, and once, they had to cut off a warrior's arm—a sign that the gods didn't favor his path..."

"Or the priest's knife was dirty. Did you go first, at least?"

"Yes, we drew lots."

Angelina snorted.

"Anyway, come here. Can you bear the pain?"

"Any warrior can," Tira said proudly.

"Show me the wound."

The gash looked pretty ordinary to Tira, but something about it made the princess frown. She grabbed Tira's other hand and dragged her away from the room, leaving her barely enough time to return the bandage in its place. She didn't care about the pain, but couldn't risk dripping blood all over the place—scraping wood clean was a chore.

"Jamie! Ashley, call Sir Donter here!"

They didn't have to wait for Baron James Donter for too long. He politely bowed to the princess and then, to her guest.

“Your Highness. Lady of Elleig, am I right?"

"Lord of Elleig," Tira corrected him. "From this day forth, I am a warrior."

"May I congratulate you, Lord of Elleig?" Jamie asked, quickly rectifying his mistake.

"Yes, Baron," Tira replied, forcing a smile. Her hand still hurt and even twitched a little.

"James, if you please, M’lady. Your Highness?”

"Jamie, look at her hand," Angelina said. "The wound looks awful, and I'm no medicus."

"May I, Lord of Elleig?"

Refusing him would have been awkward.

James unwrapped the scrap that Tira had used back in the forest to bandage her hand, tore it off her palm, and winced.

"Your Highness, allow me to take the Lord of Elleig with me."

"It's that bad?" Angelina asked, concerned.

“No, Your Highness. But it would be better to deal with it now before it swells—and it will."

"Swells?" Tira asked, fear in her voice.

"Go," the princess said.

James grabbed Tira's healthy hand—not especially politely, as he had become a baron quite recently and already noticed that in Virma, a good doctor was worth his weight in gold—and led her away, reprimanding her as they walked.

"What were you thinking, Lord of Elleig, cutting your hand with a dirty knife? Was it used for peeling beetroot?"

"How should I know what the priest did with it?" Tira replied, resentful.

"You should! How can you be so reckless with your health? The knife should be heated first or dipped in wine..."

"It's a ritual knife!"

“So what? Would it stop being ritual because of wine?"

Tira hissed, but without any further discussion, she got shoved into a small house and pushed to a bench.

"Sit down, Lord of Elleig. Time for your treatment."

James, Baron Donter, started rummaging through various vials and scrolls.

Jamie hadn't been conflicted about going to Virma. It didn't seem so bad: a good place, good people, and lots of practice! And practice he did get, almost from the first day of his arrival. Erik and Leif's men heaped so much praise on Jamie that he couldn't recognize himself, and then, the Hardrings took hold of him.

Specifically, he was noticed by Olav, probably courtesy of Bran Gardren. He gave Jamie a separate house, offered to provide him with all the necessary herbs and really, You wouldn’t refuse people treatment, would you?

The people weren't long in coming. Jamie re-opened old wounds, cleaned up boils and ulcers, bandaged, examined, diagnosed, and assigned treatment, slowly realizing that even convicts had it easier. And they definitely didn't work as hard as he did.

The Virmans had no god in charge of healers, other than Fleyna, who was worshipped by herb-wives, apart from lovers. Warriors could provide first aid to each other, but that was far from a scientific method and an actual theoretical foundation.

At last, Jamie appreciated the knowledge put into his head by Lilian Earton and Tahir Djiaman din Dashar. Of course, he couldn't cure everything, but he could identify a lot and at least alleviate his patients' suffering and explain if their ailments could be healed. Sometimes, he wanted to fly off the handle, though.

Freaking Virmans. Would it kill them to splash the knife with wine? Would their karma stain? Would their chakras squash?

Jamie didn't even notice himself grumbling like his teacher. He placed several vials on the table—alcohol, celandine, bandages, lint...

"Give me your hand, Lord of Elleig."

Tira obediently extended her hand. Jaimie gave it a measuring look and stretched her arm above a bowl, slipping a thumb-sized roll of leather into her other hand.

“What's that for?”

"To bite on," he explained simply. "It will hurt."

"I'll manage," Tira professed.

"And I'll complain to the princess," the healer threatened, taking a vial of dark glass into his hand.

Tira huffed but put the roll into her mouth and in a second, thanked Olive she had, as the torture began. Jamie started to clean the wound, and she felt so much pain she wanted to howl. Her jaws clenched, almost biting through the leather.

"Don't worry, it will be fine soon," the man kept saying as he washed dirt and thread out of the wound. "I'll wash it, bandage it again, and everything will be all right. Really, tying a dirty cloth around a cut? That was bound to draw all the microbes of Virma..."

Tira gritted her teeth to the point they stuck in the leather roll but endured the pain while the cut was cleaned, washed with something incredibly caustic, and dressed.

She didn't cry, even if she wanted to, but failed to extract the leather roll from her mouth straight away.

"Th-thank you."

"You're welcome. Tell the other warriors to come, won't you? If you happen to see them, Lord of Elleig."

"F-for what?"

"Because the knife was dirty. A dirty wound, infection, festering...shall I continue?"

He didn't have to; Tira got his point.

“Thank you. How much do I owe you?"

"Not a copper," Jamie replied. "The king's paying me."

Tira winced but didn't argue. After thanking him, she left.

Three days later, there would be a feast to honor the new initiates. She had to talk to her mother, discuss her clothes, the celebrations...and Richard.

Tira realized she was blushing.

Richard...

At last, she was free to do everything, including that. There were no taboos for her anymore. Were there?

***

Wellster, Cardin.

“Your Majesty...”

Count Dishan made a low bow.

Gardwig looked at him blankly. He wasn't the brightest apple in the bunch, but even if he was all that, he still wouldn't be Altres Lort. The king felt dismal without his brother. He would never confess it even to a mirror, but Altres was always by his side, guarding his back. With him gone, he expected a blow out of nowhere.

His heart was heavy. Was he imagining things?

"Yes, Count?"

"Your Majesty, the band of Cockeyed Bear has been spotted in three days' journey from the capital."

Gardwig's frown deepened.

Bandits, the perpetual bane of any country. No matter how great you were as a ruler (and Gardwig constantly raised taxes, introduced new ones, and clashed with the church) or how well you treated your subjects, you couldn't please everyone. Some scumbags would always decide that it was easier to make a living outside the law and take up banditry. And so, they would take to the highroad, become pirates—anything, as long as it was profitable.

The Cockeyed Bear had been giving Gardwig grief for two years, and in the king's opinion, was just asking to get broken on a wheel. He was a former soldier, some said, even a nobleman's bastard, who had assembled a gang fifty men strong and, according to hearsay, robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. After all, when you plunder gold coins by the dozens, even ten pouches of copper wouldn't make you much poorer, and for a peasant, it could make all the difference in the world.

The rumors didn't lie; they simply omitted a few details. The Bear always fought in battles, dressed in bearskin, scaring horses and people, and really did have a crossed eye.

Gardwig suspected that he was in cahoots with one of the nobles, who helped him hide and lay low, but still hadn't gotten around to dealing with it. When you feel so bad that you can't even stand up from your own bed, it's hard to care about the matters of the state—only about avoiding death, while your brother is bogged down under a mountain of work handed to him by you with the worst timing possible. Small-time bandits became a mere afterthought. Plus, there was trouble on the border and at sea, court officials stealing from the treasury...really, being a king was hard. He could hang all the pilferers, but who would be left?

"What did that wretch do this time?"

"He robbed the carriage of Baroness Veyren, Your Majesty."

Gardwig frowned. He remembered the baroness well. Once, she had brightened a few months for the Lion of Wellster. They parted on good terms, too. He decided to marry for the fifth time, and she graciously stepped aside so as not to bother the king.

She did get a hefty compensation for that, of course, but that didn't really matter, did it? Gardwig had never been a stingy sort when it came to his women.

"Details?"

"The baroness and her grandson were inside, together with her grandson. When it all started, the baroness told the maid to get the child and flee, as soon as the ruffians were distracted. She did that."

"And the baroness?"

"She died, Your Majesty."

The Lion of Wellster clenched his teeth.

"Find..."

“Your Majesty...”

"Send... What regiments do we have quartered close to the capital?"

"The cuirassiers, the mounted knights, and the armored soldiers."

"Send the knights there. They can spend as long as a month combing through that place, as long as they find the bastard and get him, preferably alive," Gardwig said.

Count Dishan lowered his head.

His Majesty was never wrong, of course, even if he was.

Altres Lort would have immediately argued that he could simply send a letter to local lieges so they would sweep through their lands themselves, especially since they knew the territory. But Count Dishan didn't talk back.

He knew that he was temporary; no need to bust a gut and alienate the king. And so, His Majesty was always right. Period.

Less than a day later, the Mounted Regiment commanded by Marquis Enaire marched out of Cardin to look for Bear's gang.

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

"Lord of Elleig?"

"Lord of Torsveg," Tira replied politely.

"May I?"

She didn't really have a choice but to say yes. Tira shrugged—it's not like she had bought that rock—and Elg Torsveg sat down next to her in a matter-of-course manner.

He stretched his long legs and relaxed.

Tira stared at him, her eyes devoid of sympathy.

True, he was handsome and strong. Lots of young, foolish girls were probably pining after him. Not her, though. Definitely not her. Actually, Tira would have paid dearly to never see that man again. There was something rotten inside him; something dangerous.

"May I congratulate you, Lord of Elleig?"

"You may, Lord of Torsveg."

"Just Elg. We're equals now, aren't we?"

Tira stifled the desire to remind him that Elleig, even if tiny, was hers entirely, while the fate of Torsveg hung in the air, and only Olive himself knew what would happen to it. Instead, she nodded.

"Thank you for your permission, Lord."

She didn't permit him to call her by her name, however, and neither did she address him with his, putting a distance between them. Elg frowned as he realized it, but didn't say anything.

"What are you going to do next?"

"Assemble a posse and go raiding," Tira replied with a shrug.

Elg glared at her with a thoughtful expression.

"A posse costs money."

"Lord of Torsveg, should you really count Elleig's money?"

"And you've never been on a raid."

Tira fell silent. Let him tell her something she didn't know.

"A ship, weapons, warriors...I have a proposition for you, Lord of Elleig."

"I'm listening, Lord."

"Do you want to join my posse?"

Tira bit her lower lip, not noticing the man staring at her. It was a generous offer, to say the least.

Landlubbers had a term, "vassal," A member of a posse wasn't quite that, but close enough. Not everyone had the money to hire a ship, and what happened when you had enough people and nothing to raid with? They chose a commander and joined a stronger company. They got a lesser share of the loot, but it was still something. Eventually, they gained experience and could secede, capture a ship of their own...

There was only one "but." Tira couldn't stand Elg Torsveg.

"I haven't assembled a posse yet," Tira answered simply.

"My offer still stands."

The girl looked at him the way that women often do, askance, her eyelashes half-lowered. You aren't inviting me into your posse, Torsveg, but into your bed. Your lust is written on your face; it's just you don't think much of me—that's why you show your cards so freely. And if I don't like it, you don't give a damn.

"I’ll think about it, Lord of Torsveg. I'll find men, talk to them, and we'll decide."

Elg knit his eyebrows together. It wasn't a refusal, but essentially a "no," just a polite one.

But we'll see how things pan out.

"The invitation's still open, Lord of Elleig."

"And I'm grateful to you, Lord."

Tira glared at him, signaling that she wanted to be left alone and think about girl stuff. No, not about Richard, but about getting money for her band. Unfortunately, Elleig really wasn't rich.

Elg realized everything and left, and Tira watched the sea, musing that she would rather join the Hardrings or the Gardrens as a foot soldier than Torsveg. Never. Anything but that.

***

Wellster, a few hours' ride to Cardin.

"And this is Fort Shedar," Jerisson declared, looking as proud as if he had built it himself.

"And all the roads still lead to Rome," Lily mused.

“What?”

“Sorry. A line from an old poem," Lily replied, not batting an eyelash. From her old life, rather.

The fortress was...peculiar; there was no other word for it. The hilltop had a lovely view of it: roads converging toward the fort in a wheel-shaped formation and a high wall with towers latched onto it, like bird nests. There was no central tower, no donjon.

"How many gates are there?"

“Eight, for each cardinal direction."

"Why so many?" Lily asked, surprised.

"That's how they built it. There's even a story about it," Jerisson answered, straightening his shoulders. Actually, it was his mistress who had told him that story, but he couldn't burden his wife with such details, could he?

"What story?" Both Lily and Mirrie were predictably curious.

"They say it used to be an ordinary fort. I think it was built to protect the area from the bandits. Later, people started to stay here for the night. Back then, it had only two gates, the second constructed for convenience’s sake."

"All right. But eight?"

"I don't remember who was in power then, but that king once went hunting. He got separated from the others, rode up to the fortress on the side, and couldn't find any entrance. To reach the gates, he had to go all the way around the walls. It was dark and rainy. The king was drenched through and cold. Enraged, he ordered two more gates built, so the fortress could be entered from all sides."

"That was Erdan the Sixth," Edwin Fremont helpfully added, having quietly come up from behind.

"Thank you, Baron, that's very kind of you," Lily replied politely. "What about four more gates?"

"There was a rebellion during the rule of Erdan the Eighth. Count Adyle captured the fort and decided to hold it."

"I assume the king didn't approve of such insolence?"

"You're absolutely right, Your Grace, he didn't. Upon his arrival, he said, If you block the gates, I'll make new ones!"

"And he did?"

"He made two breaches. Later they were turned into gates."

"So that makes it...six?"

"There's no story about the last two gates," Edwin said, shrugging. "They just got built when people needed them."

"Why?"

"When we get inside, you'll see, Your Grace."

***

The baron was right, for once. Lily really did understand everything. The fortress had been transformed into a huge customs station. Wide roads paved with stone were laid inside to prevent merchants and caravans from bumping into each other and mixing together. Each road had several customs inspectors.

"Interesting."

"Shedar was rebuilt several times before they achieved that...style," Jerisson said, carefully choosing the word.

The style really was quite odd-looking: a sun wheel of a fort.

"Could you go around it?"

“Yes. Why, though?"

"To avoid paying taxes," Lily replied, surprised. It seemed obvious to her.

"There's a garrison here. And the roads meet here, no matter which one you travel."

"What if you go off the road?"

"With a caravan? Carts, carriages, wagons? By the way, the fortress has a few sites for those like us. You can't sleep inside, but outside's fair game. That's how it’s often done: people stay here for the night and then ride to Cardin, rested and refreshed."

"Will we?"

"We can still reach Cardin before dark. It would be easier to just focus a bit."

Lily sighed. Yes, one rider could go around the fort, but how much could he carry with him? Still, for smugglers, that might be enough.

"How can it be defended if attacked?"

She was an army brat, after all.

The men exchanged glances. Usually, women asked questions like, Do they sell anything interesting here? or Are there any sights? Still, if she wanted to know...

"This fortress is not intended for defense. As you can see, it's right next to the capital," Jerisson nodded in the direction they were headed. Lily didn't really see, but whatever. "If the enemy reaches this place, the army will defend the capital."

"What about here? Will they abandon the fort?"

"They'll close the gates, block them with bags of sand, and wait out a siege. All they can do is send pigeons."

Lily bit her tongue, hard.

Such a fortress could be the perfect trap for the enemy: lure them inside and blow them up for good. But for that, she would have to invent gunpowder, nitroglycerin, or dynamite.

She could. But...

How could she bring so much pain, grief, and hate into the world? Even her great-great-grandchildren would never pay off such a debt. Alfred Nobel had thought his dynamite would be used to break rock, but people are strange creatures: all they want is to find a way to make each other suffer. And when it comes to geopolitical interests...

One would think that all anybody wants is to live, love, enjoy life, and be happy, maybe have children and make children. Most people, whether in Wellster, Ativerna, Ivernea, or Virma, would say the same thing, both men and women. Few people care about politics.

And yet, enough still try to meddle.

Why? Are they sick? Deluded? You have to undergo a psychiatric evaluation to pass a driving test. What about politics?

Lily pictured a scene—people coming to Gardwig. Your Majesty, we'd like to evaluate your occupational aptitude. Please pass the annual psychiatric check-up. She imagined them hanging on a tree, together with the psychiatrists, threw her head back, and laughed.

Sometimes, the things occurring to her were utterly nonsensical.

"So we'll pay the toll and go to Cardin?"

"Yes, sunshine," Jerisson said, openly admiring his wife. "We'll be spending this night in Cardin."

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

The celebration was canceled for the most mundane of reasons.

Ashley Lorin had disappeared.

She wasn't found dead, like Aliah Reinst, she had simply vanished. The latter, however, wasn't a surprise.

If a murderer didn’t have enough time to cover their tracks, they would leave the body. But if they did? The Virmans knew everything about tying up loose ends—or giving the body to Nier, as they said on the island.

Cut open the stomach, pierce the bladder, weigh it down, maybe even disfigure the face...

Fish didn't care who they ate; they were omnivorous, as well as hungry and not particularly picky.

Angelina was crying. Tira willfully chose to keep Her Highness company; being together helped both of them. It also allowed her to keep seeing Richard. She had hoped to approach him during the feast. Otherwise, she felt too awkward. She might be a kyria, but swinging a sword was one thing, and talking with a man, something quite different. Jean and Laura were sobbing as well, but out of fear. Kellog tried to comfort his new wife, but without much success. He was concerned for her life, too. What if someone had it in for the other two handmaidens? They had just gotten married...

Tensions were escalating. The Virmans were furious, the guests watched them with suspicion—it couldn't be Ativernans, could it? But then, not everyone liked the idea of allying with Virma. Some might have different plans.

Richard, tired and angry, was trying to cheer his sister up but held no hopes of finding Ashley Lorin alive. Interrogating her lover didn't yield any results either, and then, it was hard to suspect him.

They had been seeing each other, talking, discussing a possible future together.

Was that all? What else could he plan and discuss with a woman?

Bran questioned everyone: servants, slaves, warriors, women... He took the fireplace hall and called them in, one after another. He asked them where they had seen Ashley, who was she talking with, her words, the time, everything.

He wrote down some of the answers and dismissed the others. Bran didn't yell, didn't argue, and didn't threaten, but nobody could think him soft. The lord of Gardren had no mercy, and it would be better for the killer to strangle himself rather than get caught: at least it would be a quick and painless death.

Who was that killer, though? Did he have a death wish, committing a crime under Bran's watch?

***

Wellster, Cardin.

"We're here."

Lily sighed, relieved. Someone next to her did the same.

Traveling was wonderful. You left home anticipating all the new experiences the road would bring you: meetings and partings, impressions and emotions, delights and adventures. Still, at some point, you felt tired. You wanted to go home, sit by the fireplace with a cup of tea (even if they didn't have tea yet in that world), not worry about anything, and not travel anywhere, looking at the flames and enjoying the warmth and nice thoughts. And also, hug your lover, pet your dog or your cat (fine, your mongoose), leaf through an interesting book...

Lily was exhausted. There was time for traveling and time for rest, and the latter had come.

Miranda was just as tired as her mother. Jerisson, however, was not: Count Earton could handle an even longer journey, but he felt the shared sentiment.

Fine, we'll take a break. It wouldn't be long, just a few days; after that, they would go to court, introduce themselves to Gardwig, broker the marriage, visit the balls, hold the betrothal, and finally go home.

He was responsible for everything. Good thing he had at least made up with his wife. They hadn't feuded, not really, but it was a complex situation.

Jerisson, Count Earton, never even knew that he had fallen into a typical trap of the twenty-first century.

While both spouses were working, they seemed to be a good match, but after getting to be alone for a long time, they found out they didn’t really have any shared interests anymore.

One day, you might just discover a stranger in your bed. Good thing if you happen to like that stranger: you might work something out, reach an agreement, and save the family. But what if you don't? In the midst of fights and arguments, you miss the most important thing: happiness.

Jerisson and Lily had almost made that mistake.

Jess was busy in the castle, while Lily was setting up production in Taral. They did have Miranda, but if children were a panacea, there wouldn't be so many divorces.

On the road, they found the time to understand and accept each other's real selves. And Jess really liked his wife: pretty, smart, strong-willed...with such a woman, he really did want children.

And Lily took to her husband in turn.

Yes, he was a philanderer, sometimes an idiot—even if a medieval count, some things don't change in all eras, and wives always had to explain them. But he was sensible, reliable, and ready to protect her, which was a good start. The rest, she would work on.

They still had the journey home ahead, but Jess and Lily were already looking at each other with a lot more sympathy and much less apprehension than when they had left Laveri.

“Ahem..."

There wasn't a lot of sympathy in the way Jess looked at Baron Fremont, however.

Such was the flipside of living together. A common ground makes a marriage, and disagreements break it. Without an understanding between the parties, a break-up is inevitable. Lily knew that and nursed a grudge.

She didn't like the baron, and consequently, Jess started to be wary toward him as well. Why had he joined the party, really? What did he want? Was their procession a honeypot? Then she would add some mustard, pronto!

Even if Jess suspected that Lily held a grudge against the baron for his stunt with Viona, he couldn't prove anything—and wasn't going to argue, anyway.

Really, if he hadn't stifled the scandal, it could have turned much worse.

"Edwin," Jess said, not showing his contempt: he was a courtier, not a damsel. "It's time for us to part ways."

"My friend, I hope you won't refuse me a favor and allow me to visit you?"

"Of course," Jerisson assured him. "We're always happy to see you, and I genuinely hope to stay in Cardin for some time, but that's up to His Majesty."

Translated from diplomatic language to the common one, it meant you can visit us, but that's it; my plate is full with other business. Going by his smile, Edwin understood everything but wasn't about to give up. He reassured the count of his ardent and sincere affection and finally said goodbye, right after passing through the gate and showing his papers.

Lily was the only one who noticed the baron leave. What had he wanted? What were his goals? There was no answer, but she still felt an itch somewhere inside, as if someone was drilling a hole in her soul. On the outside, everything seemed fine, but what was that crushing pressure on her spine? She didn't know.

Whatever. Now, where is the Ativernan embassy?

***

In the twenty-first century, fifteenth, and fifth century BC, embassies were usually arranged in the same manner. A big house with several exits, at least three or four secret ones—after all, ambassadors and spies went hand-to-hand in all eras—preferably with a park and a fence.

The embassy of Ativerna was a huge, three-floor house in the center of a park on the very edge of Cardin: enough space for the ambassador, the cortege, and a couple more processions. It was also well-fortified.

The windows were reminiscent of arrow slits, the fence was high and sturdy, and the doors were heavy. Still, no fortress was impenetrable.

Where was she getting those thoughts from? Lily tossed her head, moving on to more pleasant thoughts—a hot bath, a fireplace, a cozy armchair, a luxurious bed, and a stunning blue-eyed man that came with it, not just for cuddling, but for something much more invigorating. It was everything she needed at the moment to be happy.

The servants scurried around, and an hour later (record time!) Lily was lying in the hottest bath ever, knowing that Miranda was soaking in the chamber next to hers, while Jerisson discussed something with Ativerna's resident ambassador, Marquis Losan.

Well, that was work.

Lavender oil? Oh my.

And the soap was lavender, too! That wasn't just happiness. That was heaven.

***

Jerisson, on the other hand, wasn't dreaming of heaven even a bit as he discussed the political prospects with Marquis Erando Losan. It seemed to be going pretty well.

The marquise, a man in his forties who bore an uncanny resemblance to a distinguished stork, smiled at the count as if they were old friends. They never were friends, of course, but it didn't matter: the count had a good enough standing at court, and a professional diplomat could find the right approach to anybody, cannibal and missionary alike. They had already bonded enough to be on first-name terms—Just Jerisson and Call me Erando, count, we're almost the same age and hold similar positions—and regarded each other with a measure of sympathy. They did have the same status, too, even if one was the resident ambassador and the other temporary, and one a marquis and the other just a count—but also the king's nephew.

They agreed on being equal and decided to avoid dividing the territory. At that moment, Erando was giving Jess a report about the state of affairs: not a complete one, but enough for Jess to get the idea of the goings-on in Cardin.

"Something odd's underway. Take the princess as soon as possible and leave."

"I wasn't going to linger around. But what's wrong?"

“I don’t know for sure. I realize it sounds stupid, but I really don't. Is it the ambiance? I suppose so. One day, they throw a stone into the gates, the other, pour filth over a carriage or yell a foul word... You'd think it ordinary, but it's not. Things weren't like that before; it has only started recently. After Gardwig returned from Ativerna, the situation became obvious, as if someone gave the go-ahead."

"Who'd want something like that? Is a treaty with Ativerna really such a milestone?"

"Maybe for someone, it is," Erando countered. "And for someone else...I don't know! It's just my intuition."

"I believe you, I do. But you've been here so long. Haven't you gotten yourselves spies?"

"Not much point to them. They say the same things, but nobody knows the reasons."

True, the reason was hard to decipher. It lay with Duke Alcine. While he was sure that Gardwig was on his deathbed, he was content to let the king rot. Even more, he was glad that he suffered. After his death, he could make his move, if he still wanted to: poison Lort (although Altres was living on borrowed time, anyway), and as for the children...they could be killed to create strife—or not, really.

What's better: to kill the enemy with your own hands or watch him suffer and writhe in agony? Robert chose the second option and never regretted that. But when Milia was about to birth her third child and Gardwig seemed on his way to recovery and a long and happy reign... Who could stand something like that? Definitely not the duke.

He started his preparations in advance, and all that was left was to set his plan in motion.

As for the tension, he started escalating it as soon as Gardwig's first son was born. Albitta was furious when Milia gave birth and the king got an heir. The plan to triumph over the body of his enemy and present his "only son" was not an option anymore. When the child was born, Robert realized that getting the throne wouldn't be a cakewalk anymore. He would have to make an effort, and he stepped up—weapons, mercenaries...

And then, Milia bore the second son. Albitta, who was hoping that Gardwig would have only one heir, who might have died in childhood anyway, gritted her teeth. It's as if Aldonai himself looked at Wellster and decided to help Gardwig. Or was it Maldonaya? Gods' ways were mysterious.

And so, Milia was about to have her third child. The hope that Gardwig would die was over. What was left? To make a move and stir up a rebellion. In simple terms, shape the public opinion, kill Gardwig, and try and take the throne. They already had the perfect scapegoats.

Why Ativerna? Well, they had to use their heads when they cured Gardwig!

Of course, Erando couldn't have known all that. He only pointed at the common tendencies, while the undercurrents remained unclear. And it made sense. How long could a conspiracy survive, if even neighboring countries knew about it?"

"Today, I'm taking a rest," Jess said, starting to count. "Tomorrow, we'll send an official letter to His Majesty personally. I think we won't have to wait long."

Erando smirked.

Of course, Gardwig had already learned about the new arrivals. He wouldn't be angry about the delay, though. Twelve hours of rest were considered permissible.

"Ten or fifteen days for the festivities. I hope I'll be able to convince His Majesty. Then we go home."

Erando nodded.

"A good plan."

"We'll try to make it work. And now, please forgive me. My wife's waiting."

Erando sighed.

"You're a lucky man, my friend. You have a wonderful wife who can accompany you on a journey."

"What about yours?"

Jess saw that the marquis was married. But why did he look so sad?

"Two years ago, Milana got pregnant. The medicuses said that Wellster's climate was harmful to the baby, and she went home, to our estate. And I'm still here..."

Jerisson felt bad for Erando. Having your wife far away from you was pretty awful, even if the embassy teemed with beddable maidservants.

"Maybe I should talk to His Majesty?"

Erando smiled.

"I'd be grateful. I like Wellster, but I would have loved a vacation."

The men exchanged knowing looks.

The last time he visited, Jerisson hadn't cared for anything but entertainment, so he and Erando didn't talk. Currently, they were making up for it—and both were happy with the results of their conversation.

Yet Jess was even happier upon returning to the chambers given to him and his wife. The room was cozy and quiet, a fire burned in the fireplace, a pitcher of wine stood on the table, the dogs slumbered in the corner, a large washtub emitted hot steam, and his wife sat in a chair, reading a book.

As she saw Jerisson, she stood up, and the flames highlighted her figure, taking the count's breath away. Lily smiled, content, and stretched her hands.

"The water's still warm."

"To Maldonaya with the water!"

"I'll rub your back, dear husband," she purred.

The count couldn't resist such an invitation.

"Just my back?"

The doublet dropped on the floor, followed by the pants, the weapons belt...

"You think I'll find something new?" Lily retorted. "Maybe I should explore..."

"What about Miranda?" Jerisson remembered, losing the last vestiges of shame and sinking into the hot water.

"She's sleeping. I put her to bed myself half an hour ago. Our daughter's tired after the road..."

"Our daughter" sounded so natural... Jess threw his wife a measuring look.

"Are we going to give her a brother?"

"Work on that, dear husband," Lily said, egging him on. "And don't be lazy!" The loofah scrubbed his spine, making Jerisson purr, but then, her confident hands moved to his head, filling his eyes and mouth with soap. Jess had to spit out the foam—and then the water that descended on him from above. "Stand up, I'll check your performance..."

Jerisson wasn't going to hide his fitness. He was ready and able, just go on and touch...but not with the loofah, dammit! This spot requires a much more delicate approach!

He didn't see his wife's sly grin.

And Lily, remembering the phrase about pure love, added a few more words.

If you want your love to be pure, you have to take it by the throat and arm yourself with a loofah. Don't wait for nature to have mercy on you; clean it up with your own hands!

***

At the same time, in the Alcine house, the duke was reprimanding Baron Fremont.

“Idiot!"

The baron wasn't going to argue.

He was a brave enough fellow, who had gone to war and looked death in the eyes a good many time, but the duke... When someone is obsessed with an idea, prepared to give his life for it, and has nothing to lose, it shows. After all, a rabid dog is smaller than a human, but you'd still do well do fear it.

"Your Grace, it was an accident..."

"I thought you were better than that, Fremont. Tell me everything."

Fremont sighed and started his account of "the accident," "the provocation," and the entire trip.

So what had led him into the conspiracy? Poverty, a low-level title, and a poor estate.

He could have worked, and after twenty or thirty years of honest labor, his children would have gotten their chance at prosperity. He could have married well, but he would have to spend his whole life paying up.

Or he could have risked it all in a single bet: if he succeeded, it would pay off and more.

Edwin had chosen the latter and was going to stand with the duke until the end, whether good or...no, not ill. That ending the duke had to meet all by himself. The baron already had an escape route all prepared, anyway. He was smart and cunning. He could slip out through grindstones if he had to.

After hearing him out, the duke summed it up.

"It's all Countess Earton's fault, I take it."

What could he say? It was! That bitch, that shilda... Really, he'd rather she were a shilda! That way, her charms would have disappeared quicker. Yet she was not.

"It's hard to say, Your Grace. But if not for her..."

"Then what? Aldonai would have helped you himself? She's just a woman!"

"It was she who set her husband against me, and then the rest..."

Edwin remembered the humiliating incident that made him the laughingstock of the camp and almost gnashed his teeth. He still felt bitter and had no one to file a claim against.

He had no idea he had gotten off easy. Another man in a similar situation was lying injured, while he was healthy and standing on his feet, only emitting a colorful aroma. Yet he didn't appreciate his luck.

"I'll have a look at her," the duke decided. "What about the weapons?"

"I've delivered everything, Your Grace."

"And the mercenaries?"

"Same. And I managed to create an impression that we arrived together at least at the gate."

The duke waved his hand carelessly.

"Fat lot of good that was. Now if Jerisson Earton helped to introduce you to the court or something like that... The guards? Hmph! Who'd listen to them? So many people pass through those gates every day..."

Fair enough.

Edwin lowered his eyes.

"I failed you, Your Grace."

"And you realize it," His Grace paused for a few minutes, but finally softened up. A few purses appeared on the table. Edwin relaxed.

His Grace was an expert in punishing failures through coin—even more, he loved it.

Your arse isn't as good at passing the message. It will heal, and you'll forget it. But your purse—now it will remember for a long time.

For Edwin, that was absolutely true.

"It's enough for you and your people. Pay up and wait for my signal. I expect we'll start in five or six days."

Edwin bared his teeth in a predatory grin.

"I won't fail you, sir."

“I hope so. Remember, you won't get a second chance."

Edwin bowed and collected the purses.

He understood what was said and what wasn't. He would probably be killed in a quiet place and replaced, but it was too late. Only one step remained, and too much was at stake to waste energy on the baron. Too much.

If he made a good showing during the takeover, all of his fumbles would be forgotten. If he didn't...

He would have to account for everything, both old and new.

And also...during the takeover, he would get the opportunity to get back at Lilian Earton. That bitch still owed him a night of love, and she would pay back with interest. Edwin wasn't used to rejection.

Of course, if he suspected what kind of love Lilian Earton dreamed of giving to him, he would have thought better. Did he really need that interest? After all, he might get hornets instead of mosquitos and a viper instead of a grass snake. Edwin did suspect that the snake hadn't gotten into his tent by accident, but there was no proof...

Lust. Why was it torturing him so?

***

After he was left alone, Duke Alcine stretched and decided to go to sleep. He had a hard day ahead and needed rest, as he suspected he wouldn't get it for a long time afterward. He was interrupted by a servant who timidly scratched on the door.

"Sir..."

"What do you need?" Robert snapped.

The man grew so pale he almost blended into the whitewashed wall.

"S-sir, it's t-the l-lady..."

"What has she done?" Robert asked, a bit calmer.

"She came up to the boy. There's a scandal..."

"Maldonaya take her!" Robert cursed and stood up from the table. The servant had done the right thing and was dismissed with a nod. "Good thinking. You were right to call me. Dismissed."

The lackey disappeared without a trace.

Robert gritted his teeth and went into another wing of the building.

Albitta, you bitch. Why can't you sit still? Do you have an itch you can't scratch?

Albitta wasn't in her room. She was with the boy, and she wasn't pleased. Robert heard her shrill voice from a distance.

"What are you talking about? What Momma? You wretch..."

Then he heard a slap.

He had to intercede.

“Allie?"

It wasn't the most pleasant of scenes. Mary was holding a crimson cheek—no need to guess whose hand had gone over it—and the boy was cowering in the corner, looking daggers at Allie. She really should have thought better before starting it!

Her Majesty turned around as she heard the door creaking and glared at Robert.

"Can you believe it, Rob? That nasty woman was suggesting to my son that she was his mother! What a skank!"

Robert simply shook his head.

"That's awful, darling. But I'm sure Mary will do her utmost to explain the current situation to the boy. Am I right?"

The cruel gaze fixed on Mary with a red stain on her cheek and the boy who made a dash for her. He was his son, but did something stir inside Robert? Nothing. Nothing at all.

He didn't think of him as a son, merely a tool for reaching his goal. There was only one woman he wanted to have children with, and she had been dead for almost fifteen years.

"Yes, sir," the nurse said, nodding. "Of course, Your Grace, right away..."

Robert nodded, content, grabbed Albitta by the elbow and all but dragged her from the room.

"What are you doing?"

"Why is he calling her his mother?" Albitta shrieked. Robert rolled his eyes.

"Because he hasn't known anyone else! And you, you stupid woman, instead of gaining his trust and giving him gifts, are making the brat hysterical! What are you thinking?"

Albitta winced.

"But it was me who gave birth to him!"

“So what? He is your future king! Do you expect him to forget everything that happened and didn't happen as soon as he reaches adulthood?"

Albitta didn't resist when Robert pushed her into a room.

"How can you cause such a row when the boy is two steps away from the throne!"

Seeing Robert's rage, the woman backslid.

"I meant well. Darling, I was so angry that our son is calling that peasant woman his mother!"

Aldonai, what an idiot! Robert almost groaned through his teeth.

"He is the son of His Majesty Gardwig."

He stressed every word. Albitta waved her hand.

"Oh, yes, of course. Do you think we could marry later? It feels wrong not to be married."

“Yes, dear. You do know I love you. We'll definitely get married." Robert also realized that it would be unwise to divulge his true feelings beforehand and pulled out. "And don't scare the boy again; we'll need him and that peasant girl, too. The boy's used to her; he's calmer in her presence."

"Of course, darling. As you say."

Albitta reached out to the duke's lips, and he answered her kiss, even if inside, all he wished was to gag her and make her quiet. Too bad he wouldn't get a good night's sleep.

***

A man and a woman were lying in bed, silent. Their thoughts flowed in parallel paths, and both would be quite surprised to learn what the other was thinking.

Robert anticipated his impending revenge—and also his freedom from that stupid woman. It had cost him so much to prevent the former queen from taking immediate revenge, but he did it.

He had a hard time, but he succeeded.

At first, Albitta was pregnant, so he could rest for a year. Then they hid the child, and she started to demand revenge.

Robert didn't mind, even the opposite, but Albitta herself had to lay low in a village, all the while wanting more: balls, men, jewels...

The solution was simple. Robert hired three young men and ordered them to provide Albitta with the things she missed so much: passion and longing. They would court her, seduce her, beg her, pine after her, and even sleep with her—let her have her cake and eat it. He got his money's worth.

With time, he had to replace the young men, even a few times, but the results were glorious. Albitta was busy with the men and her schemes, trying to hide everything from him, and Robert was free to prepare the plot. And finally, the time had come...

A marriage? Ha!

That idiot woman really believed he could marry someone like her! After Camilla, with her eyes, her lips, her smile...that would be an insult to the memory of his beloved. Thankfully, Albitta had no idea about the real reason for his revenge. She thought he was avenging his father and his brother, and who was he to erase her misconceptions?

What would happen after the plot succeeded? Honestly, it was the least of Robert's concerns. He was going to get out while the getting was good, maybe even leave the country.

His son? Most likely, the boy would be killed. And it's not like Robert considered him his son, anyway: even in his mind, he thought of him as Gardwig's child. Albitta would probably be killed as well, and strife would break out.

In the end, someone would sit on the empty throne, but Robert didn't care. He needed something else: to come to the grave of his beloved and tell her she had been avenged. After that, he was free to live out the rest of his life. Soon, so very soon...

Albitta was looking at the ceiling and thinking that men were really quite primitive, so easy to control through sex. Just open your legs, and you'll get whatever you ask. If you ask smartly, of course. She had gone overboard with the boy, true, but she was so tired of waiting! She desired to live, to take revenge, but when the goal was so close, she couldn't hold it in anymore. She wanted to leap forward, catch hold of it, cling to it...

It was exhausting. It drove her crazy.

Wistfully, Albitta pictured a scene. Gardwig, lying dead in a pool of blood next to his bitch Milia and their spawn, choked to death, and above them, her son sitting on the throne with her standing behind, wearing a magnificent dress with diamonds on her neck and a charming smile, surrounded by courtiers... All of that should have been hers—and it would be.

As for Robert...  Let him believe that she loved him and that they would marry. Let him.

She owed a lot to him, true, but marry someone and bind her life to them? Resign herself to another's control? Never again, not in a hundred years.

Albitta stared at the ceiling and dreamed of power.

***

Wellster, Cardin, the embassy of Ativerna.

For Lilian Earton, the morning started with Master Schmulz.

"Your Grace, good health to you."

"Good morning, Master. Good morning, Rutha."

The girl dropped into a low curtsey. Over the course of the journey, Rutha had recovered enough to stop being frightened of her own shadow and even started to smile. Lily knew that her wounds, both physical and mental, were far from healed, but maybe with time...

At least at that moment, the girl felt safe in the knowledge that she and her father were well-protected. The rest would follow.

"Your Grace, we came to say goodbye."

Those words didn't come as a surprise.

"Have you already talked to the other Eveers? To the elder?"

She had gotten that information from Master Helke Leitz. Eveers weren't particularly liked, so they preferred to live together, settling down in the same area, choosing an elder, and entrusting him with important decisions.

That both benefitted the Eveers—in complicated situations, they didn't have to waste time to think and discuss—and played against them. Closely knit communities were more vulnerable.

"Not yet. I'll do that today," Master Schmulz said, shrugging.

Lily smiled.

"Then hold off on saying goodbye. Master, I'm being serious. If they accept you and everything works out, I'll be happy for you. But if not, and any hold-ups or problems arise, you'll always be welcome in Ativerna, in the Taral castle. I appreciate good craftsmen."

Master Schmulz took a deep bow.

"Your Grace, you've done a lot for us. Rutha and I owe you a lot, and I'll never forget it. I know that you genuinely care for us, but the elder of Cardin is my second cousin on my mother's side."

For the Eveers, that was close kin. Lily relaxed a bit but still repeated.

"Whatever happens, my offer still stands. Master, you and your daughter will always be welcome guests in Taral, and I promise you my help and protection. You know that I don't say such words lightly."

Rutha stepped forward and then, to Lily's utter embarrassment, dropped on her knees before the countess. She took her hand and put her lips against it.

"Your Grace, if you have need of my life, just command it."

Her brown eyes shined with gratitude and devotion, deep, clear, and sincere. Rutha was thankful with all her heart and wanted to pay Lily back for her kindness with a kindness of her own.

The reason was simple. Rutha owed Lilian Earton her life and the life of her father. She couldn't tell her that she would do no less for the countess, as that would mean wishing ill, and she didn't have the heart to say something like that. But if Lilian and Jerisson Earton needed their blood and their lives, Rutha wouldn't have hesitated for a moment.

Mostly for Lilian, though. She had already realized that the count wouldn't have done anything if not for the countess. He would have gone and left them alone to...no, she would not think about that.

Nothing had happened. She simply had a bad nightmare and nothing more.

Lily touched the girl's cheek.

"Where will you stay, Rutha?"

"In the house of our elder, Master Salsi. It's on Potmakers' Street," Rutha answered simply.

"I'll be sure to visit you."

Master Schmulz bowed again. He knew what Lilian had meant.

They weren't refugees looking for relief anymore; they were travelers under the protection of Countess Earton, a lady known even as far as Wellster. Not infamous, but...Master Schmulz hesitated to find the word.

Lilian Earton was admired. She was considered a rarity: a noble—a noblewoman—able to make money, and the Eveers regarded both intelligence and business acumen highly. Lilian Earton's name, as well as her visit, would give them an edge.

"Your Grace, you are more than generous."

"Master Schmulz, don't forget about the paperwork for your inventions," Lily reminded him sternly. "I expect to be paid a part of the profits."

The Eveer bowed once again.

They weren't petitioners; they were people who could benefit the community. They would be accepted with open arms. And when Rutha forgot her nightmare, they would find a good husband for her, too.

"My life is yours, Your Grace."

"Then use it in such a way that neither your sires nor your progeny would be ashamed of you," Lily said simply.

The Eveer bid farewell and kissed her hand. They had already said goodbye to Jerisson. In Cardin, Lily couldn't afford a workout; the locals wouldn't understand. Therefore, Jerisson had been training with the Virmans since the morning, while she was left to look after herself.

Fine.

She would survive that month. Dieting and dances would make sure she didn’t gain any extra weight. Or maybe she would replace exercises with another type of strenuous activity? Say, sex.

And at that thought, Lily went to have breakfast.

***

The big table played host to all noble lords and ladies who were part of the ambassador party: the marquis, the counts, the countesses, leirs of both genders...

Miranda was there as well. Jerisson had assured Erando that his daughter had impeccable education and table manners. Nobody tried to kick out Lou-Lou and Nanook.

Lily gave everyone a polite greeting and took her place by her husband's side.

"My dearest husband."

"My darling wife," Jerisson played along, kissing his wife's hand.

"Are you going to visit His Majesty today?"

"I will go to the palace and personally pass ambassadorial documents."

"Wonderful," Lily replied with a nod. "And how soon will they be reviewed?"

"Depends on His Majesty, but I hope they won't make us wait too long."

Lily hoped as much.

"And what should Mirrie and I—"

"Lilian, we were thinking about going shopping," Priscilla chimed in with a smile. "Will you keep us company? We would also love to find a good milliner. Wellster's fashion trends do seem different, and we have so many balls ahead of us! And an engagement isn't an ordinary affair, either."

Lily considered the offer and nodded.

There might be book shops around the place; that would make it time well spent.

"If I may, I will accompany our fair ladies," Erando said with a charming smile. "With all due respect, your servants don't know the capital as well as I do, and beings as charming as you deserve only the best."

The women blushed. Priscilla giggled coyly, and even Countess Roivel seemed affected.

Lilian Earton just smiled and turned to her omelet. After all, being charming was the man's job. He was an ambassador; there was no need to take his words personally. Even if there was a herd of lame mangy sheep in the place, he would have been just as nice.

***

Jerisson didn't procrastinate. He headed out as soon as breakfast was over.

All documents, petitions, missives, and other paperwork were to be given to His Majesty Gardwig's stationery office, where they would be reviewed and sorted. Some of the papers, depending on the petitioner and the officials, would then be passed to the king himself.

Those rules didn't apply to Count Earton. All officials who served in the stationery office, even the blind, deaf, and mute ones, knew about Her Highness Maria's upcoming wedding and the Ativernan ambassadors. All the count had to do was to present his papers and introduce himself.

The official whom His Grace had addressed bowed, begging the noble lord to wait a bit, and scuttled off to his boss, who rushed to get his.

In ten minutes, which was record time for bureaucrats everywhere, His Majesty Gardwig's Chancellor, Marquis Ostorn, personally came out to meet Jerisson.

“Your Grace."

"Your Excellency."

The men bowed to each other with all possible courtesy.

"May I..."

Jerisson nodded.

Of course, he might. The goal of the ambassador party was no secret to anyone.

"There's a personal letter from His Majesty Edward to His Majesty Gardwig, as well as a personal letter from His Highness Richard to Her Highness Maria. The rest isn't sealed."

The warning was useful.

The Chancellor thanked Jess and quickly looked through the papers.

"Your Grace, His Majesty Gardwig is about to have a small reception. Could you please follow me? Then we could solve your issue right away."

Polite words, polite stares... Those were the rules. He had no real choice in the matter.

Jerisson agreed, of course, and the two men went into the palace through the corridors, discussing the beauty of Her Highness, the bravery of His Highness, and the wisdom of Their Majesties.

They were ambassadors, after all.

***

The royal reception.

Jerisson thought that Lily would have definitely left a snide remark or two. Why did she spring to his mind, though?

His Majesty Gardwig was sitting on his throne, with a man Jerisson didn't know, Count Dishan, standing behind him and a pretty, dark-haired girl sitting on a small chair a bit lower than His Majesty. This was Princess Maria, presumably.

Her Majesty Milia was absent. It made sense, with her being heavily pregnant and all.

The Chancellor caught His Majesty's stare and bowed. As he saw who accompanied Marquis Ostorn, Gardwig broke into a smile.

“Count Earton! How wonderful!"

Jerisson bowed, following the protocol to the letter.

"Your Majesty, may I pass you the letters of His Majesty Edward?"

"Of course," Gardwig clucked. He looked—and felt—much better. "We'll be happy to receive a message from our royal brother."

With a bow, Jerisson handed him the scrolls, and Gardwig, against all regulations, broke the seals and read them.

"Count Earton, you've brought us good news."

Jerisson bowed again.

"Therefore, two days from now, a ball will be thrown in your honor."

Jerisson bowed once more.

"Your Majesty, I'm deeply honored—"

"Have you brought your wife here?"

“Yes, Your Majesty."

Gardwig nodded to the chancellor.

"Marquis, make sure that all companions of the count receive an invitation, especially Her Grace Lilian. Count, please tell her that I'm looking forward to our meeting."

Jerisson gritted his teeth but restrained himself.

"Your Majesty, my wife will be truly happy. Her meeting with you was one of the most memorable moments of her life."

Gardwig smiled, pleased.

It occurred to Jerisson that Lilian would have looked great on the throne. The Lion of Wellster and her next to him, statuesque, golden-haired, her head proudly tossed back. Was he jealous?

Jerisson didn't know. He had never felt it. All his life, he had treated women leaving him as a blessing in disguise, but with Lily...

What was happening to him? He didn't truly love her, did he? Then he couldn't be jealous.

But such lofty matters were definitely not fit for the poor count and the royal reception. Now, saying effusive speeches, bowing, and blending into the crowd to wait for the reception to end (leaving was a gross violation of etiquette; nobody left before His Majesty) and politely conversing with the neighbors—that was Jerisson in a nutshell.

Thankfully, he managed to spot familiar faces, old friends from his previous visit. Say, Viscount Redel.

"Viscount..."

"Count."

"Thomas."

“Jerisson”

The men exchanged looks and burst into laughter.

"I'm glad you're here," Thomas confessed. "How are things? Did you bring any good tidings? Is it true that you're going to take the princess with you?"

"It is," Jerisson said, divulging the state secret. "She was Her Highness Maria of Wellster, and she'll be Her Highness Maria of Ativerna."

"We thought His Highness would come himself."

Jerisson chuckled in a roundabout way. Explanations were personal, not state secrets, and he couldn't reveal the truth.

The thing was, even kitchen maids knew and discussed matters of the state. When it came to royal affairs, only the king and a small circle of his confidantes, otherwise, they weren't discussed, or you might find yourself without the thing you used for discussion.

"His Highness cannot leave his father's bed."

"Oh, that's how it is..."

Edward's illness wasn't a secret. It was a handy way to excuse the prince staying with his father. Who knew what could happen—or who could happen?

Let well enough alone. Better safe than sorry.

"The ball's only in two days. How about we unwind this evening? Madam Lizzie hired new girls, and the wine there has always been fantastic—"

Jerisson shook his head.

"Tom, I'm here with my wife."

The viscount raised his eyebrows.

"You think she'll interfere? Just tell her to shut it."

Ahem.

Jerisson vividly imagined himself trying to reign Lilian in. For some reason, he pictured medical daggers that his wife called scalpels, Nanook's friendly smile, and Eric's huge axe. Really, why had all of that come up? Was it paranoia? He also saw a big vial and an enema.

Count Earton shook his head.

"Tom, when you see my wife, you'll get my point. You don't cheat on such women. You don't want to."

The viscount was no fool.

"Jess, I'm already curious who managed to...tame you."

Thomas clearly swallowed "collared" and "bridled," but Jerisson generously forgave him. He didn't say anything aloud, and thoughts broke no bones.

"But I wouldn't mind a glass of wine."

"Let's wait for the reception to end and do the following. I know a seamstress working not far from here, I sometimes buy her dresses for my ladies. Let's take a walk, and your wife will meet us there."

"Lilian doesn't need it."

"Are you sure? It's two days until a ball."

Jerisson didn't know too much about what women needed and waved his hand.

"Then a seamstress it is. Just in case."

"We'll leave her then and go for a drink. You should take care of your wife, but never forget about yourself."

Jerisson was in complete agreement. All they had to do was to wait for the reception to end.

Chapter 6

Princess Maria was also looking forward to the end of the reception. She wanted to run away and share her thoughts with Milia, or at least, Nanny Bertha. She wasn't an expert in politics, but she was a great listener.

She was sympathetic, attentive, and kind, echoing Maria's sentiments, pouring her sweetened water, and even patting her head. Nobody knew how much that simple affection meant to the princess.

She had never had a real childhood. No loving mother, no lullabies, no sweet nanny, and even if there was one, Maria didn't remember her. What she remembered was a cold castle, chilly wind, a fireplace with no fire, Anna's hatred, and disdainful servants. She remembered that she wasn't a boy: an unwanted, unloved child.

She didn't hold a grudge against Edward and Corin, though. Maria had no time for such nasty feelings. She did want to spend time with the children, though.

Children... If you had help, if you didn't have to do everything by yourself, retrieving babies from soiled napkins, if they were a joy, not a burden—then they could be the real bright spot in your life.

Nanny took care of most of that, while Maria... Maria anticipated scurrying off to see them after the reception.

And so she did.

She was sitting on the bearskin rug, helping Edward build a castle from toy blocks, while Corin handed them over. All three of them were happy.

Meanwhile, the nanny listened to Maria's story and prayed for the girl.

Aldonai, please help her! You're the God, you're almighty! Let her have a husband who's not an arrogant son of a bitch who will abuse her and stomp on her dreams...

Can't you do this little thing?

Aldonai, I beg you, have mercy.

***

While Jerisson was shining on the diplomatic stage, Lily inspected Cardin. To each his own, as they say.

The ladies, accompanied by Marquis Losan, went shopping, complaining about the lack of bare essentials, like silver ribbons or blue lace. The countess sympathized with the poor man and quietly broke away from the group. She, Miranda, four Virmans, and two dogs were more than enough, both for safe travel and good company. So what were their plans?

A walk around the city!

Lily didn't care a bit about the shops; she wanted to see the city itself. Thankfully, with the Virmans behind her, she could get anywhere she wished, and if anybody didn't like it...it wasn't her problem in the least.

The Virmans weren't especially content, but such was their lot, with their spirited mistress. On the other hand, at least they didn't have to visit shops: any normal man would start itching after half an hour spent inside them, dreaming of swinging his axe around.

In the meantime, Lily was all eyes.

Cardin... The city was situated on both sides of River Din. Ferrimen were a wide-spread profession, and they were always busy. All day long, boats went from one bank to the other.

There was also a bridge. If you had no money and no friends to help you and really needed to cross the river, you could get to the bridge and use it to get to the other side.

Lily shook her head, watching it.

How could they manage to build something like that? Construction was a puzzle to her. Once, she had glanced at a textbook on something called "Strength of Materials" and it put the fear of God into her, all horrible formulas and scary-looking diagrams.

They didn't have that course in Cardin, however, but they still made do. She marveled at the genius of that architect. The bridge was over a thousand feet in length, thirty feet wide and resting on powerful archways, high enough to let a small ship pass.

For some reason, Lily counted the arches. There were thirteen of them.

"Asymmetrical," she remarked.

"There's even a legend about this bridge, Your Grace," Gael replied.

"A legend?" Mirrie asked, immediately interested. "What is it?"

"I don't remember it well," the Virman said, shrugging. "I think a beautiful girl once paid a nightly visit to the engineer in charge of building the bridge. He fell in love with her head over heels, as it happens. They say she came to him every night while the bridge was being built, and he grew pale and withered after each visit. That's when the people guessed she was a shilda. Or even, what do you people call her... Maldonaya."

"And when they did, they decided to get rid of her?" Miranda asked.

Gael nodded.

“Yes, Your Grace. The construction works were almost finished when they caught her. They tied her up and wanted to drown her."

"And the engineer didn't know that?" Lily was admiring her daughter. Where was that prissy brat who had arrived in Earton? She was still often petulant, but otherwise, a healthy and cheerful child, happy with her life.

"How could he not? It was such a fuss, everyone and their brother heard that."

“So?"

"The engineer rushed to fight for his beloved. They couldn't catch him, the workers decided to help him... Somehow, he and the girl broke away. But they couldn't escape. Knowing that they were trapped, the engineer and his lover threw themselves into the river, hand in hand."

"And they drowned?" Miranda's eyes widened.

"Their bodies weren't found, but they say that at night, a gorgeous couple often walks over the bridge. The engineer shows his lover his creation, and she watches it, transfixed."

Miranda sniffled. Lily bit her tongue to avoid saying, It's not a proper bridge without its own ghost story. Instead, she asked,

"And what are those towers?"

"A belltower on one side, the Arsenal on the other."

"The Arsenal?"

"It's used to store weapons in case they need to rally a militia. It's not in the best shape, but good enough for an emergency."

Lily chuckled.

"They're keeping weapons inside the city? Freely accessible? What if there's a rebellion?"

Gael shook his head.

"I think it's been a while since something like that happened."

"It doesn't mean it won't happen again," Lily said, pointing her finger up in the air. "Are there any guards, at least?"

Gael paused and finally shrugged. Lily waved it off.

The only way to protect weapons from getting into the hands of rebels was to store them in the royal dungeons, under lock and key and guarded by trusted men. And if the insurgents did get there, there were ways to deal with it, like burying the entrance or drowning the dungeon. Even the Ancient Egyptians knew about the block and tackle system. Or how about a tunnel with carbon dioxide? Even if the enemies found their way to your stockpile, they wouldn't be able to use it, and you wouldn't care anyway.

*Author's note: a tunnel of carbon dioxide was invented by Ancient Egyptians or even predates them. It had a sharp bend downward and then upward. In the lowest point of the tunnels, vessels with limestone were set, and vinegar was poured on it, creating carbon dioxide and making survival without a gas mask impossible.

Some Walt Tyler or Oliver Cromwell would turn up, and goodbye, cruel world...

"And what's the belltower for?"

"Raising the alarm."

Lily snickered.

Yes, if she were to invade Cardin, she would have surely taken the bridge.

How exactly? No-brainer: through bribery. Why overcomplicate things? Old man Occam had said to keep it simple, and she would. No fortress couldn't be taken by a mule loaded with gold.

"So what else of interest is there in this city?"

***

Lily spent the next four hours in Cardin's central temple. The spires bristled atop that majestic structure, reminding Lily of Cologne Cathedral. It was beautiful. The inside was no less grand.

"His Majesty Gardwig holds Aldon Peters in low esteem," Gael whispered to Lily in confidence. "He doesn't visit the temple and forbids it from accepting donations. He says that if a person is wealthy enough to donate to the temple, then they could do something actually useful, like paving a road or building a tenement building."

Lily grinned. Now that was something she could understand. Money was better used for helping the poor instead of gilding domes. Both God and Aldonai would reward you more for the former, anyway, if you had to haggle.

True, some of the murals were chipped off, not all the dinnerware was golden—some was only silver—and there were dents in the floorboards. Those needed to be fixed but if the king could take all of that anyway... Lily didn't envy Aldon Peters at all.

She still bought souvenirs for Miranda and Jerisson and threw enough coins into the donation box for one of the pastors to notice it.

He walked to her at a brisk pace and bowed.

"Lady...Your Grace?" he said noticing  the emeralds.

“Countess Earton."

"Pastor Lyon, at your service."

"Nice to meet you, Pastor. This is my daughter, Viscountess Miranda Earton."

"A charming child. Forgive me, Your Grace, your daughter seems to have taken after your husband."

"True, my husband is dark-haired and blue-eyed," Lily affirmed, smiling.

"But she clearly took her charm from you."

Miranda gave the pastor a smile.

"And my ears are my mother's, too, aren't they?"

"Mirrie!" Lily called her daughter to order, lamenting that she would probably never become a proper lady, but rather an acid-tongued viper and a pain in the neck with no respect for the elder or the clerics.

"Don't you believe that, Momma?"

"I do, I do. I'll check it when I pull them."

Miranda noticed the threat and quieted down. The pastor paused.

"So you came here from..."

"Ativerna, good sir."

"I've never been there. They say it's a lovely country."

"Home is always the best place in the world," Lily said with a nod.

"Did you come with your husband?"

Lily sighed. Apparently, the pastor was in the mood to talk, and she would have to spend a while beating around the bush. Whatever. It's not like she could just send him packing.

"We're traveling with my husband. You might know that there's a treaty between our countries, and Her Highness Maria is to marry our prince."

"Indeed, I do. May Aldonai bless this marriage!"

Lily made the sign of Aldonai.

"I will pray for this, as well."

"Then let us pray together, Child of Aldonai, and he will definitely hear us."

Lily sighed but allowed him to lead her to the holy icons and spent ten minutes kneeling and moving her lips. Thankfully, nobody forced her to pray aloud.

She could say anything she wanted: Lily picked types of fractures and their treatment. She made a mental note to browse through the prayer book, though. Otherwise, she risked getting caught. The locals knew it by heart and could recite any prayer in no time, but her? She had forgotten everything, and too bad.

That's how great spies got burned. She couldn't allow that; she still had things to take care of at home.

The prayer finished with one more donation and an offer of a confession. Lily excused herself, claiming she had done it recently and wasn't sure she was ready for a repeat experience. After all, a confession was a very personal affair: a direct appeal to Aldonai, and that required time.

Pastor Lyon nodded, agreed with her, and invited Her Grace to visit at any time.

Lily thanked him and bowed out.

Thank you, but I'd rather wait for Pastor Vopler at home. He would hear her out, understand her, and most importantly, never pass her words to anyone. She was suspicious of confessions.

Even if the nice pastor was an honest fellow doing his duty, who said that nobody was sitting behind the wall with a listening tube doing their duty, albeit in another manner altogether?

She wanted no part of that, not for a penny, a pound, and definitely not for her own money, Aldonai forbid.

***

Lily also took a look at the Cardin market but decided against visiting it; her well-being was a priority. Even from a distance, that market reminded her of a boiling pot. There, she could lose more than her purse: local thieves could steal as much as her horse with her none the wiser. They also visited the wharf. To the utmost regret of the kings of Wellster, River Din had a really nasty temper, to be precise, shoals: sandbanks, mudflats, and alluvial, located in the most surprising of places. Deep-draft ships simply couldn't sail through them; only a flat-bottomed boat could, at best.

Trying to clean the river was pointless, and getting ships afloat every thirty minutes was a hobby for the most stout-hearted of people. The kings of Wellster were sure that such a task would enrich the sailors' vocabulary, but reduce the number of ships. Mere repairs could drive a person broke.

And so, Lily visited the wharf, admired sailing ships and flat-bottomed boats, watched seagulls with Mirrie, and was tempted to buy a huge fish—three, after some thought. Freshly caught fried fish was a real delicacy, especially with baby potatoes and some garnish.

Considering that refrigerators still hadn’t been invented, she had to get the fish to the cook as soon as possible, and the merry company went on their way.

The fish turned out to be delicious: fresh, tender, and with minimum bones. Even Nanook and Lou-Lou begged for scraps.

Jerisson, however, didn't come to dinner.

Lily still left him some fish to snack on the next day. Oh, those matters of the state...

***

Robert bent his head over a map.

If Gardwig were to see it, the duke would have surely been broken on a wheel, if not worse—the king loved humiliating his enemies and had a rich enough imagination.

The map of Cardin wasn't drawn to the fullest of details—nobody really cared about alleyways and ditches—but clearly enough to plan a takeover.

Which takeover? Let's start from the beginning.

At that moment, Robert had around a thousand mercenaries. That was a lot, and all of them were seasoned veterans, not some peasant rabble forced into military service each year and kicked out a decade later; not cannon fodder, but people for whom war was their stock in trade.

What did it cost to the duke? Tons of money.

Robert wasn't above smuggling, banditry—he got a high return from "forest folks"—and even the slave trade. A mutiny was a costly affair; no price was too high for it. And then, it's not like he could keep all of those outlaws contained in his own estate—far from that.

All of Robert's men were scattered across Wellster, fifty to a hundred at each spot, assigned to his loyal people, such as, say, Baron Fremont or Leir Seenan. In total, there were fifteen of them. That number Robert could control and keep on a leash—with a tasty morsel for some and blackmail and threats for others. A thousand men—not great, not terrible.

It might seem like a lot if you put them next to each other, but to take the capital? Not enough, definitely not enough.

The capital itself had the Royal Guard stationed inside, the so-called Royal Regiment, even if it wasn't exactly a regiment in numbers, only a third of it. But those were the elite, three hundred strong. That was one.

Three regiments were stationed outside of Cardin, a thousand men each. Gardwig wasn't especially trusting, after all. They were the cuirassiers, the mounted knights, and armored soldiers.

There was one catch, however. The commander of the cuirassiers really didn't care for Gardwig. Robert knew about that. It was a complete accident, of course...or was it the hand of Aldonai? One never knew.

Marquis Darn was sensible and smart—really, a wonderful man and a great soldier, beloved by his peers. His loathing was Gardwig's own fault. It was the king's whim that brought a tragedy into the marquis' family, and he was dealing with the consequences to that day.

Robert had stumbled onto him completely by accident. One of his spies whispered to him that something intriguing was going on in a nearby tavern. Robert had no shortage of spies. Over the years, he had planted them in the royal guard, the royal palace—everywhere, really. His men didn't even know about his goals. They simply did their job and got their money. Nobody cared why he needed the information they procured. After all, many noblemen dabbled in trade, keeping it under the radar, and in trade, intelligence was worth more than gold.

And so, they reported to him.

Robert rushed to the tavern and found the marquis, resembling mostly... A pig?

Merciful Aldonai, no pig would have ever reached such a state! Pigs were intelligent and well-behaved, and really, any hog would have died before drinking that much. But for the marquis, it still wasn't enough. He was also itching for a fight or to break something but to no avail.

Robert sat down, poured a glass, treated him... Prying the story out of the marquis was a difficult task, half of the words were incomprehensible, but Robert figured it out.

Gardwig had taken a shine to Marquise Daran—a shine strong enough to want to get her into his bed, and seeing as one couldn't really refuse the king...

No, Gardwig kept his hands away from maidens—there were at least some lines he didn't cross—but a married lady? With a child? Why are you playing hard-to-get?

At first, he asked her nicely. The marquise adamantly refused.

Then her husband got sent away to training exercises, and he doubled down. She had to acquiesce.

Robert had no witnesses, but he suspected that coercion couldn't exactly bring any pleasure, whether with a king or a vagabond. Gardwig spent three months playing with the marquise and then found a new toy and gave her the sack.

And then the marquise realized she was pregnant.

Her husband was still away, but about to come back.

She was restless. If not for the baby, she wouldn't have said anything to her husband, afraid to ruin his life, denying everything even if "well-meaning" outsiders, Maldonaya devour them, opened their mouths. She would have found the strength.

But a child? She wouldn't be able to lie that the birth was premature, she wasn't surrounded by fools.

She bought a potion from an old shilda, drank it up, and almost dropped dead. The child didn't survive, but the blood loss...she barely made it. The marquis was desperate.

How could it be? And what had he done to deserve that? He had served Gardwig faithfully, and that's how the king paid for his loyalty. How could he? Easy enough, apparently.

Without saying a word, Robert took the marquis home, gave him ale in the morning, and offered a friendly shoulder. He even found him a good herbwoman.

She quickly set the marquise back on her feet, and a year ago, they even had another child. That earned Robert a life-long friendship, while Gardwig gained a dangerous enemy, one who wasn't inclined to forgive and forget.

At that moment, the Cuirassier Regiment wasn't going to get involved in anything. Robert hadn't asked his old friend to support him, even if he could have, and the marquis would have agreed.

He didn't need to, though. He had a few ideas on neutralizing the mounted regiments, good ones, too. Robert was confident in his men. That would decrease Gardwig's force by a thousand.

The cuirassiers wouldn't fight; even if someone arrived with news, the marquis wouldn't let it move forward. He would send a messenger, command him to check what was going on, threaten him with the king's wrath... He would drag it out for as long as he could and see what would happen afterward. That would buy at least a day of non-interference.

One thousand men less? Absolutely.

The king's personal guard, three hundred men strong? Half of them were noblemen. Robert couldn't simply persuade them to join his side. He would have to kill them or convince them in another way. Still, three hundred weren't a thousand. It would be easier.

The only force left was the Armored Division. Or was it?

It was commanded by Count Chantaine, and Robert had no angle to approach him. It would have been even worse if he were to try. Count Chantaine was loyal to Gardwig, no question about that. His wife had never been dragged into the king’s bed, his loved ones had never been executed, and Gardwig held the count in high esteem, seeing as the latter had supported the king during the latest attempt of a takeover. He was still a brat when it happened, and His Majesty remembered that goodwill.

He didn't make the count a marshal, but it wasn't needed, anyway. The country wasn't at war, and the count wasn't well-suited for that: he was a regular war dog, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Commanding a regiment was his limit.

So that came to thirteen hundred people. Whom would the townspeople rally to? Who would gain the courtiers’ support? And the royal guards were also an unknown variable. Some of them would choose Robert—he didn't need a shilda to foresee that. What about the rest and their families? A member of the royal guard had standing as high as a leir.

So what did it come to in the end? He needed to take the palace as quick and painlessly as possible. The king had to be killed, preferably, right away. After that, Robert would get to Gardwig's bitch and their spawn and announce the return of the queen—the lawful queen.

Albitta had been crowned once, that was true. That's why Gardwig had tried to murder her: not because she was his former wife, but because the only way to remove a crown was together with the head, no other way. Albitta was the queen, and nobody had stripped her of that title. An aldon could have, but Albitta had "died" before that. There was a divorce, but no abdication.

If they did everything quickly, they would definitely win. But could they?

Robert moved one more mercenary squad.

Taking the palace wasn't enough. Let's say he sent five hundred people there. That should be enough, but where would the other five hundred go?

He counted.

The arsenal. Should he take it? Absolutely. Keeping it required at least fifty men, for the towers on both sides of the bridge.

The treasury? At least a hundred. All right, a hundred, but only the best and the most trusted people, who wouldn't even think about lining their pockets with the documents. The treasury wasn’t used just to store money, but also bills and bonds...and that was power.

The department of Altres Lort; the king's eyes and ears? Fifty men. Not a lot, but the jester didn't have that many people either. Robert would lose some of his mercenaries, but his enemies wouldn't be warriors; just spies. They wouldn't be able to muster a real resistance.

The Office of Foreign Affairs, also an important location. The information there should not be destroyed. Relations with other countries meant a lot; they would have to recognize the future king. No need to complicate things.

And one more thing: Fort Shedar. It was built on a river about six hours' journey from the city, on the crossroads of all trade and caravan routes: a customs office of sorts that couldn't be avoided on the road to the capital. It had a good-sized garrison force a hundred men strong, full of people loyal to the king recruited from the Cerulean Regiment.

It could present a problem. On the other hand...To Maldonaya with them! Robert could just block them off. It was possible to go around the fort, just not easily. One hundred and fifty men, at the very least.

So, what was the result? Five hundred, plus fifty, plus one hundred, one hundred more in the city, one hundred and fifty for Shedar... That made it nine hundred and fifty men, plus fifty more as backup. They would help if the plot failed, and Robert had to flee the capital quickly. He preferred to prepare escape routes beforehand.

Well then. He had the gist of it. All that was left was to explain the tasks to everyone and pray to Aldonai. He wouldn't help a sinner such as Gardwig, would he?

Would he?

***

"M-my d-darling..."

Jerisson was drunk as a skunk, or at least a big guinea pig.

Lily could feel the emptiness in his head almost physically. She shook her head.

"Your Grace, you're hammered."

It didn't seem to work. Jerisson collapsed on the bed without even removing his boots.

Lily gave up and started pulling them off. What else could she do?

"Ssssh!" her dear husband hushed. "We'll wake Miranda up!"

The aforementioned Miranda had just peeked into the door between the rooms, saw that her father was all right, and was about to berate him, but Lily shook her head. Having understood her gesture, the girl took off.

Lily was going to do the scolding in the morning. It would work much better when the hangover kicked in. A hangover usually made life a living hell, anyway, so coupled with a reprimand from her, Jerisson was going to have a really bad time.

She had never seen him in such a state. What an idiot.

On the other hand, he had simply gotten drunk. He didn't smell of perfume, so he would survive their talk.

"Whom did you drink with?"

"I m-met a friend! V-scount s-something..."

"All right," Lily nodded. "And how did you get home?"

"A-a carriage driver."

"So where's your viscount?"

"At home."

"What did you toast to, at least?"

"Our meeting," Jerisson readily answered. "To Wellster, to Ativerna, to fair ladies..."

"The sixth bottle was one too many."

"A-and the rest?"

"Even more so." Lily was busily pulling off her husband's doublet. Thankfully, he didn't seem to be injured, and she knew a couple of tricks that allowed her to turn even a heavy frame and undress it with no consequences for her back.

"W-we drank a lot."

"I got it. Go sleep it off."

"Will you be with me?"

"Absolutely."

Jerisson reached out and pulled Lily up.

"Hey!"

“I love you!"

"Really?"

It was a stupid question, but so was the situation.

Jerisson didn't reply. He was already sleeping.

Lily thought that when wine was in, the truth was out and smiled, stretching next to her husband.

She wouldn't berate him in the morning. Let him live.

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

Her Highness Angelina wasn't the person Bran Gardren had expected to see. Still, it wasn't terribly surprising, either.

She was standing at his doorstep with a serious expression on her face, with the two remaining handmaidens fidgeting behind her.

"Bran, we need to talk."

Refusing her was impossible. Bran didn't even try.

“Yes, Your Highness..."

"Bran, I had a thought..." Angelina confidently strode into the room, the girls following in her footsteps. Jean might have already married, and Laura was about to, but they still accompanied their mistress and would continue doing so while she was in Virma. The princess nodded to them, pointing at the drawing-room. "Sit there while we talk."

They didn't argue.

Angelina walked through the room and sat down in a chair.

"Bran, it's a nightmare. But I thought it over...if those two murders are connected, then how?"

That was just the thing. The possibilities were endless.

"I think the murderer doesn't want Ativerna and Virma to make an alliance, Your Highness," Bran said, deciding to share his conclusions.

"Then it would make more sense to start with me."

"Your Highness, you're never without your guards."

"What about when I'm with you?"

Bran smiled.

"Maybe when you're with me, you're protected better than with any other guards."

Her Highness didn't say anything. She also suspected that Bran had enough weapons hidden on his person. A cripple who couldn't fight with both weapons and his own body could never become a clan chief in Virma. Cunning wasn't enough.

"Let's say Aliah learned something. Eavesdropped or stole it..."

"It's possible."

"She could have told Ashley."

"It's also possible," Bran agreed.

"Ashley's room was searched, too."

"The bastard might have found what he was looking for." Bran agreed with some of her conclusions, but not all of them.

"He didn't."

"Why are you so sure, Your Highness?"

"This is why."

A metal clasp appeared in Angelina's hand, reflecting light.

It was shaped like a plain oval with a curious engraving: three snakes coiling around each other, too intricate for an ordinary craftsman to make. It was golden, only a tiny bit smaller than the princess' hand.

Angelina turned it over.

"There's no pin. I suppose it broke off, and this bauble got lost."

Bran twiddled with the clasp. It was too heavy to wear on a cloak as it would drag the fabric down, but people had done worse to show off their wealth.

"So that's how it is... Where did it come from, Your Highness?"

"I started thinking. They were looking for something hidden...where? Where could you hide an item so nobody could find it, neither your friends nor servants?"

"And?"

"In my chambers, of course," Angelina said, throwing her hands up to demonstrate her surprise. "Only my ladies-in-waiting have access to my belongings. I don't clean or sort them out—I simply tell them what I want to wear. Aliah often helped me, she had a great sense of style."

"And where was the clasp?"

"Aliah put it into the pocket of my red dress," Angelina replied. "I don't like it. I have no idea how it got into the chest, I would have never worn it."

Bran shook his head. He would have never thought of anything like that.

Hiding a clue (he adopted that word from Angelina) in the place no one would look? Women and their devious ways! The girl had been smart enough to hide the clasp, but not smart enough to realize that blackmailers never won. She miscalculated, got involved with someone dangerous, and asked for more than they could give her.

"Was there anything else?"

"No."

Bran nodded.

He could imagine what had happened. The girl had heard something, found the clasp... What exactly did she hear? How did it happen? Who was the owner of the clasp? If Bran could answer those questions, he could learn everything else as well: who was the murderer and even the reward promised to the greedy wench. That discovery changed a lot of things.

Bran threw Angelina an appreciative look.

"Your Highness, you're wonderful."

Angelina shook her head.

"It's not like you could rummage through my dresses," she remarked. Noticing Bran's thoughtful gaze and the tips of his ears growing red, she quickly changed the subject. "Whose clasp is it?"

"I don’t know, but I'm about to find out."

"I hope my girls aren't in danger?"

Angelina omitted the word "remaining."

"I'll give them guards," Bran promised. "And I'll let everyone know that we found the clasp."

"Why? The murderer would hide."

"We'll see about that," he smirked. "We’ll see..."

***

Her Highness had left, and Bran kept staring at the golden circle lying in front of him.

His look was wary, full of animosity and suspicion. The Virmans had no proper crests. They simply decorated their shields, sails, and sometimes even houses the way they liked. Some drew bears, some, a Khangan beast called a jagual: so many men, so many likes. Nobody liked snakes, though.

Snakes belonged to Holosh. That's how they usually pictured Bran's patron: with a snake on his neck or snakes in his arms. Engraving something like that on a clasp was tantamount to an executioner walking around the town in his hood holding an axe, or a murderer with the list of his victims hanging from his neck.

Nobody in Virma would have dealt with such a person.

Yet the clasp existed; he couldn't argue that. Was it just a clasp, though? What if it was an identification badge, one that couldn't be confused with anything else, seeing as even the priests of Holosh never decorated themselves with anything like that? But no one in their right mind would dare to appropriate the symbol of a deity. Only a fool would go against Holosh himself.

But using such baubles among their own ranks? Now that was possible. At least that way, you would never mistake a friend for a foe.

Attaching the clasp to the inside of a cloak to unfold it and show the badge, or hanging it on a chain—that seemed more likely than displaying it in public.

But if it was a badge, then it must belong to a group of people. Bran had already suspected that might be the case.

There was one other thing. Who could tell him more about the badge? Bran studied the golden circle, fiddled with it, noticed the fine workmanship and the intricacy of the snakes twisting on the surface. Another craftsman might recognize the maker's touch.

And knowing the maker, he could find out who had ordered that item and why. Bran harbored no illusions: it was unlikely that the person who had created those clasps (he was sure there wasn't just one) was left alive by the conspirators. That wasn't their style. Two girls had already wound up dead, and who knows who else might?

The craftsman was probably dead, but it still was a thread worth pursuing.

Which jewelers lived in the area?

That craft wasn't especially popular in Virma, seeing as it required a lot of skill and experience. Most jewelers were Eveers, and they weren't keen on teaching outsiders. Still, sometimes, Virmans stumbled on people who could work with jewelry, cut gems, and turn dead metal into works of art. They stayed on the island, took students...

The nearest of such jewelers lived within a three-day journey, in the lands of Clan Oronsteg.

Should Bran travel there? He nodded to his own thoughts. He absolutely should. Craftsmen like that were few and far between; someone should recognize the master's hand.

Only one question remained. What did the conspirators want?

Virma didn't have a king or a central government, and as for the most powerful clans...what was easier, to bolster your own or remove another one from the picture? A stronger one at that? Such risks were unneeded.

Bran couldn't help but feel that he was missing something important, something that was right in front of him, but what? What was going on? What spider had managed to weave its web under his very nose? He would have given a lot to learn that and then catch the spider and tear off all of its legs—slowly, with feeling. Nobody should play dirty in his home.

Of course, he would do that solely to gain information. He had to get to the bottom of things, didn't he?

Having made up his mind to go, Bran abruptly stood up, moved the cane to another hand—after all those years, it felt like a fifth limb to him—and headed out to visit Olav.

If anybody had expected the Chief of Gardren to travel unescorted, simply go into the night and disappear, they would be sorely disappointed. He wasn't seventeen to do something foolish like that. He would tell Olav everything: where he went, his goals, the time of his return...

The risk was acceptable. As an intelligent man, Bran preferred to expect no less from his enemies. They might be even smarter than him. Only fools considered others stupid; a clever person takes stock of all advantages their opponent might have and finds a way to counter them.

It's not like Bran was afraid of death. A priest of Holosh had nothing to be afraid of, but a stupid death...

Even Bran Gardren had his fears, and dying in vain was one of them.

***

Olav Hardring was home. He was sitting in the main hall and, as bad luck would have it, accompanied by Richard of Ativerna, his sister, and her ladies-in-waiting.

Well, at least Bran wouldn't have to tell him everything himself.

Slowly (it's not like he could run, considering his lame leg), Bran crossed the hall and put the golden circle on the table.

"Here."

Olav took it and turned it around. The clasp was barely visible in his huge hand.

"Who do you think it is, Bran?"

“I don’t know."

"I don't believe you," Olav said, demonstrating that the size of his axe wasn't the only reason he had been chosen chief. Bran shrugged. That's your right.

"I want to go to the Oronstegs."

"Why?"

"Jewelers are scarce around these parts, and their clan has one."

Olav caught on quickly.

"You think he might have made it?"

"Or he might know who did."

Olav paused.

"Let's say he does. Will you go there?"

"How else would I show him the clasp?"

Bran wasn't quite honest. Still, the Oronstegs were a powerful enough clan and had to be treated with care and respect, if not reverence. They were supposed to not just abide by Bran's policies, but to support them, and that required making compromises, such as emphasizing the importance of their clan and asking and persuading instead of ordering.

Like it or not, he had to go. He would talk to the Oronsteg Chief, ask him for a letter to his son, and head out.

"It will take a while."

"I'll send pigeons from there."

Bran wasn't really looking forward to riding around the island; he would have loved to return soon, to Angelina. He understood everything, but couldn't refuse himself those brief moments of happiness.

How could he? Even knowing that nothing would happen, he could, at least, gaze into those deep grey eyes, breathing in the subtle fragrance of wildflowers, listening to her clear voice...

Was that so little? Not to a beggar; for him, even a copper was a fortune.

"Richard, may I go with the lord of Gardren?"

Everybody froze: Richard, Bran, Olav... The ladies-in-waiting tried to blend into the background and pretend they weren't there. Angelina was looking right at her brother.

"Richard?"

Repeating his name was a trigger. His Highness twitched and emphatically shook his head.

"Angelina, what are you talking about? Where would you go?"

"With the lord of Gardren. To the jeweler," she reiterated.

"Impossible," Richard said, stressing the word.

“Why?”

"Because Aldonai knows what's going on. Two of your girls have already been killed..."

Laura Winst stepped forward.

"Please forgive my impertinence..."

Richard's stare almost made her dress burst into flames. Still, Laura kept talking.

"Your Highness, I accepted a marriage proposal. We can't go with the lady."

"I'm sorry, but my husband won't let me go either." Jean stepped forward as well. A month ago, they would have kept quiet, but fear for one’s life could make anybody brave. To go Maldonaya knew where, scared of being attacked...it was better to confess everything and say that their husbands had forbidden them to go, never leaving their side. "Here, in Virma, a marriage is considered legitimate if Fleyna's priests acknowledge it. Laura's getting married, too, and we'll visit a pastor later..."

Richard nodded energetically.

"See, Angelina? The girls are getting married, nobody can escort you, and you can't go with men."

Angelina threw an accusatory glance at the "traitors." The girls blushed and lowered their eyes, but didn't change their mind. Her Highness might be in love, but was it really worth dying for? Not to them.

"What if I take a chaperone?"

Richard groaned.

"What chaperone, Angie?"

"My honor demands I have a lady by my side, right?"

"An older lady, respectable and experienced."

Angelina smiled sweetly at her brother.

"I wasn't going to place my ladies-in-waiting in danger by making them travel with me. But Edaina Laren..."

It was Richard's turn to stare dumbfounded.

Edaina Laren was a kyria and met all the conditions. She was twice as old as Her Highness and held in high esteem by everyone (and those who didn't were quickly introduced to her fist). For her, protecting the princess' honor was a piece of cake.

How could you doubt a nice lady who could stop dead a galloping horse, was almost seven feet tall, and had the ample bosom of a matron and a biceps you couldn't wrap a hand around? As for her axe, Angelina could never even lift it, let alone use it in a fight.

"Umm...how do you know her?"

"Tira introduced us. She admires Kyria Edaina and hopes to be just like her."

Richard gulped.

“Well...”

"Richard, say yes! The kyria promised to take her friend, so I'll have even two chaperones..."

"They won't pamper you and lace your corset, do you realize that?" Richard snarled.

"I'm not going to wear a corset," the girl said, getting angry. "Countess Earton made me a riding outfit..."

"Probably indecent."

"Go on, tell Count Earton that his wife made the princess an indecent outfit," Angelina countered.

Richard sighed.

"Angelina... Bran, how are you going to travel?"

"We'll go up the river on boats," Bran said, moving his cane to imply that riding for a long time wasn't an option for him. "And then we’ll use horses. It will be twelve hours, maybe a bit more..."

"I'll survive that," Angelina added, tossing her head. "Even a day. Brother, I beg you, please let me go! I want to see Virma so much!"

"No. And don't even ask!"

"Richard!"

"We'll discuss this in the evening," Richard said with a tone of finality. "Excuse me."

And he left the room.

Angelina watched him go with an exasperated look on her face and stomped her foot.

"Well, brother... Excuse me, gentlemen!"

And she walked out, rustling her skirts as furiously as a score of enraged snakes, hissing and dreaming of avenging their crushed tails. The girls exchanged looks and followed her. They knew they would get a verbal lashing, but they really didn't want to go. Even over there, where they were protected, it was still dangerous, but in the wilderness?

Bran hopelessly looked at Olav.

"Will she wring it out of him?"

"Don't doubt that," the Lord of Hardring smirked. "You'd rather think who you want to take with you. After all, she's a princess..."

The Lord of Gardren sighed miserably.

"Yes, a princess..."

It sounded so sad that Olav clapped his friend on the shoulder without saying a word. Then he left to pour wine in the cups.

Everything is fleeting, as a wise man said, and so is love. What he didn't say is how long would the pain continue.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

Lily examined her reflection in the mirror one more time.

"Momma, you're prettier than any princess," Miranda said, direct as only a child could be.

Lily smiled at the girl.

White and green, their family colors, really did suit her. The white dress made from tightly woven satin with a chiffon overcoat, enveloped her in a cloud of green.

Wearing that, Lily didn't look like a princess; she looked like a goddess. The emeralds in her ears and on her neck couldn't hold a candle to her gleaming green eyes.

Jerisson, Count Earton, was also wearing the ancestral colors, but if Lilian had more green in her outfit, he had more white: a green shirt, green embroidery on a white doublet, a ring, and a bracelet with green stones.

“Lilian?”

"Jerisson?" his wife replied in the same unsure tone.

Miranda saved the day.

"Momma, Papa, you'll be the best! Too bad, I can't go with you. But you'll tell me everything tomorrow, right?"

The Eartons looked in the mirror and smiled at each other. They made a good-looking couple: tall, statuesque, confident.

Her golden locks were set in a deceptively simple hairdo, while his were black, but their smiles were the same: calm and self-assured.

"Jess, that's for you." Lily handed her husband a cane decorated with a green bow, emeralds inlaid around the knob.

"What's that for?"

"It's the latest trend at the court of Wellster," Lily replied. "Don't you know that?"

Jerisson did. That "trend" was Gardwig's invention. Due to his ulcer, he had trouble walking unassisted, and the courtiers, pretending that His Majesty did it to be fashionable, started to emulate him. There were canes of all kinds: gilded, elaborately decorated, studded with gems, engraved...

“I do. But why do I need it?"

Lily smiled.

"Master Schmulz and I had a talk..."

"It's already creeping me out," Jerisson said, wary.

"And we thought of something. Well, he did, I simply suggested an idea."

Oh, Jerisson knew how his dear wife "suggested" ideas. You should do this and that, and don't you dare mix it up, I know what the result must be!

"What kind of idea?"

Making a simple locking mechanism with a button release was within Lily's power. An army brat who had never seen such weapons? You must be kidding. Not only had she seen them, but she had even disassembled a few. No need for supersteel; just an ordinary button with a pin. Upon being pressed, it would shift toward the blade and release it. Of course, the mechanism had to be occasionally checked and repaired, but for the time being, it would work. In her world, they had started using those as early as the sixteenth century, if not before.

With the touch of a finger, the cane would bounce away, leaving Jerisson with more than a foot of good steel, sharp and finely honed.

The blade weighed just above a pound, maybe a bit more, and the entire cane, twice as much.

Jerisson checked the mechanism, played with it, finally realized the design, and shook his head.

"So simple..."

"Nobody needed it, that's why it wasn't invented," Lily said, brushing him off. Jess accepted her explanation and thanked his wife.

And thus, they left for the palace.

***

Balls, fair ladies, servants, cadets...

Lily was desperately hoping that all the above-mentioned persons regularly washed, knew about personal hygiene, didn't confuse it with gin, and could be tolerated for long enough that she could stand by their side, both upwind and downwind.

She also knew very well that her hopes were in vain.

She had suffered her share during Ativernan balls, and the same thing awaited her in Wellster. Alas, she had no choice.

The cloaks, the cane, and the hat were given to a lackey, and the Eartons stepped into the ballroom accompanied by the butler's shrieking announcement. They were met with a slew of looks.

Curious, angry, hostile... For some reason, Jerisson hadn't been liked in Cardin ever since his last visit, and with the things he had said about Lily, nobody would have liked her, either.

A pink cow, really?

All the courtiers were staring at the young and beautiful woman in front of them, perplexed and wondering what the mistake was. Wasn't the count supposed to know his wife? Or was that another one altogether?

Lily did her best to keep her face straight. She and her husband slowly walked across the room to the throne housing His Majesty Gardwig. He was slouching, his head regally inclined.

The Lion of Wellster; that said it all.

Her Majesty wasn't at his side. One step below him, a pretty, dark-haired girl sat in a chair. Princess Maria.

Lily studied the girl from under her eyelashes, finally concluding that Richard would be a lucky man. She was a cute brunette with brown eyes and a scared face, even if she was trying to avoid showing her fear. Still, anyone who dabbled in medicine could see when a person was afraid; that was a common occurrence during treatment.

They exchanged polite greetings, and Gardwig lowered his head.

Then Lily slowly stepped back, and His Majesty stood up, unaided, without a cane. It was clearly hard for him, and his weight didn't make it any easier, but Gardwig still appeared confident and smiled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today, I want to share with you a great joy and a great grief. Today, I am happy to give the hand of my daughter, Maria of Wellster, to His Highness Prince Richard of Ativerna, or, more precisely, his representative in Wellster, Count Earton."

Jerisson bowed but kept silent, as Gardwig clearly wasn't done speaking.

"It feels like just yesterday, I was handed a squealing wrap with her inside... Oh, ladies and gentlemen, forgive me for being so sentimental, but they grow up so fast! I hope that my grandchildren will grow even faster..."

Gardwig left the throne, took Maria's hand, and gallantly led her to Jerisson. Jess accepted her hand and fired off his own speech.

Lily wasn't even listening. Her husband had already rehearsed that speech with her three times; she would hear nothing new.

Blah, blah, blah, a union between the countries, a great honor, common ground, love, peace, and harmony, the princess is lovely, the prince is manly...

The main thing was to avoid dragging it out, as Gardwig was barely standing.

Jess didn't. He finished within five minutes and asked Her Majesty to be his partner for the first dance, as he was her future husband's confidant.

Gardwig allowed it, of course.

Lily wasn't angry in the slightest. Those were political games, the torture. And then, she was quickly approached by a handsome gentleman in his forties who bowed and invited her to dance.

“Your Grace...”

"Excuse me..." Lily glanced at the man's hand, saw a ruby ring, and smiled. "Your Excellency, forgive me, but I don't know your name. It's my first time visiting Wellster."

"Duke Robert Alcine, at your service, Your Grace."

"Great weather we're having, isn’t it?"

"Do you really want to talk to me about the weather?"

His brown eyes radiated sarcasm. Lily snickered and remembered what she had read about the royal court of Wellster before leaving Ativerna. As with any medic, her memory was like an elephant's—you couldn't really make do with anything less, as any who had studied anatomy, pharmacology, or therapy could attest.

"Duke Robert Alcine, the Hermit of Alcine, who never visits the court after certain events in his past. So what made you leave your home, Your Excellency?"

"Your Grace, I don't think it's a good subject to discuss during a dance."

Lily feigned an innocent look.

"Your Excellency, you don't want to talk about the weather or about yourself. Maybe we should talk about weapons? For instance, I do know where cuckolds wear horns, but where are they on a crossbow?"

The duke chuckled.

"Do you have experience with it?"

"I've been known to shoot a crossbow," Lily replied, missing his implication.

"Maybe I could invite you to...shoot, Your Grace?"

"You could try," Lily said, nodding. "But I'm horribly clumsy."

"In regards to what, My Lady?"

"I could break off the horns," Lily said with a smile, and the duke couldn't help but smile. "A crossbow's, I mean."

The duke snorted but closed his mouth. He got the hint.

"Your Grace, could you honor me with one more dance?"

"Of course, Your Excellency. In the name of diplomacy!" Lily emphasized.

Robert shook his head. Now that was something he had never expected of a woman. He was used to everybody flirting with him: fallen from grace or not, he was still a duke, and that meant lands, a title, connections... But she—she pushed him away.

Break off his horns...and he felt that she could, she clearly wasn't joking.

A curious lady—he would have to keep an eye on her.

***

Lily was also watching Duke Alcine with interest, even if of another kind. She was dissecting him. She had an instant dislike of a man who, by default, placed himself above all other mortals. She knew people like that.

Back in her old world, her boyfriend Alex had once dipped in a pool the "businessman" who tried to make a pass at Aliya. That's how that guy was looking at her when he offered her money to sleep with him. He looked much better on the ground, drenched in muddy water.

The duke had the exact same look: cold, calculating, arrogant. Who would ever like that? But there was no pool of mud and no Alex. Jerisson couldn't kick the duke's arse, anyway. Freaking diplomacy.

But another suitor was approaching her. Gardwig didn't dance, but he adored music and never forbade his courtiers from having fun, especially after his leg had begun to heal. Her Highness' engagement was only fitting for dancing and being merry, anyway.

Lily danced six more times before the duke caught her once again.

“Your Grace."

"Your Excellency."

She couldn't get out of it; promises were made to be fulfilled, especially in that world. There, you were worth as much as your word. If you couldn't keep it, you would never get any respect.

"Your Grace, may I call you by your name?" the duke asked, continuing to put out the feelers.

Lily grinned. That was the language of hand fans, so to speak, just like in Victorian times. It mattered if a fan was open, closed, turned the right way...no ordinary human could learn that in a year. Calling someone by your her name was something like that: a convention. If Jerisson allowed that, it wouldn't mean anything, but if she did it herself, that was a step toward a closer relationship. Did she want that? Absolutely not. And so, she replied in a different way.

"Ask my husband for his permission, Your Excellency."

"Hmm. I suppose he won't give it?"

"Who am I to presume that, Your Excellency?"

Her gaze was direct. I know what you're implying, but I don't need you, whether as a man or in any other manner. I'm my own person.

Men instinctively understood such signals. Unfortunately, to some, they worked like hunting horns, triggering their instincts.

"Your Grace, may you permit me to visit you later?"

For a man, it was hunting. For a woman, it was the desire to tear away his horns and break him all the way down to his hooves—which is what Lilian did.

"I have no doubt that my husband will be happy to see you, Your Excellency."

"What about you?"

"And I fully share his sentiments."

What else was there to understand? I'm taken! Go away!

Yet the duke still hadn't gotten it, seeing as he couldn't keep his eyes away from her cleavage. Could he look somewhere else, for a change? Her eyes were up there!

"And whose sentiments does your husband share?"

"His Majesty Edward's, of course."

The duke shook his head.

"Your husband must be happy to have such a virtuous wife."

Lily gave out a cute smile.

Having a husband and a bunch of lovers at the same time still wasn't a trend in high society. She hoped it never would be; she didn't have a taste for that.

"It's me who's happy to have a husband like Jerisson Earton."

What husband exactly?

Ah, it didn't matter. He was her husband, that's what mattered.

"Yes, he made quite an impression last time."

"Jerisson's good at that," Lily confirmed, making it a point to misunderstand his insinuations.

"The ladies were thrilled."

Now that was rude. But she could counter rudeness, too.

"Certain ladies are always thrilled with someone else's husband. I suppose this prevents them from getting their own."

The count laughed.

"Your husband is truly a lucky man, Your Grace. I'd love to continue our conversation later."

Had he finally gotten the hint? Just in case, Lily fluttered her eyelashes.

"My husband and I would love to, Your Excellency."

The dance was finally over. Eww. Even shoveling snow or doing push-ups on her fists was better than talking to that weasel.

To his credit, the count walked her to her husband and said goodbye, still without meeting the count.

"What did that man want from you?" Jerisson asked, wasting no time in leading his wife into an alcove behind a curtain.

"He was hinting at getting to know each other better," she replied, and Jess started clenching his fists. She quickly corrected herself. "With you. I think he has business in Ativerna."

Even if didn't, the duke could invent it.

"We'll talk," Jerisson confirmed with a nod. "It was Alcine, wasn't it?"

"Do you two know each other?"

"No. I've heard about him, and that's it."

"He's heard about you, too," Lily said, unable to hold it in. "You made quite an impression on your last visit."

Jerisson remembered what they had been doing to save Richard from marriage and blushed. Lily pretended not to notice anything and nobly looked the other way.

"Well, that's a useful acquaintance. His Majesty has invited us to a ball tomorrow."

"Again?"

"The betrothal will be celebrated with balls and feasts for ten to fifteen days. After that, we'll go home."

Lily thought about the journey back and almost groaned.

"Can't we pass this time productively? Catch up on our sleep, for instance?"

Jerisson laughed.

"Any other woman would be happy to shine at balls."

"It's not that I mind that, but I want to sleep so much..."

Lily made an honest attempt to stifle a yawn but didn't quite succeed.

"His Majesty offered us a chamber in the palace."

“Really?”

"At least we won't have to go back and forth. We'll use that time to sleep. Irene could take the dresses and the accessories here..."

Lily shrugged.

"We’ll see. We also have Mirrie and the dogs. But the opportunity to stay here a little longer is a good thing, I suppose."

Oh, family life. You can't really abandon children and dogs; they'll never forgive—and never forget, either.

Chapter 7

"Lily! Darling, I'm so happy to see you!"

"Lydia!" Lilian beamed. "Oh, forgive me, Your Highness...."

"Lily!"

That time around, the princess sounded indignant. Lily capitulated. She raised her hands, showing that she agreed to speak informally and had simply joked.

"I'm really glad to see you here."

"And so am I! How do I look? Does it suit me?"

Lydia turned around, demonstrating her dress. Baby blue—almost white—silk accentuated her pale skin without "swallowing" the girl like brighter colors did. There were no unneeded frills or bows, just fine, barely noticeable, needlework, thin lace, and a silhouette that emphasized her waist and her long legs. The hairdo was also quite nice, while her eyelashes and eyebrows were painted just enough for her face to look fetching.

"You're delightful," Lily said, and she meant it.

Lydia burst out laughing.

“Yes! You should have seen our courtiers! They used to think that no money could save my looks, and now..."

"We have to fight them off with a stick," Miguel said, approaching the girls.

"Your Highness," Lily said, bowing once again.

The prince waved his hand, showing that he was fine.

"The friends of my sister are my friends. Just call me Miguel."

"It's an honor for me, Miguel. And I hope to be worthy of it."

Lily could flatter with the best of them. Still...

He was a nice enough chap; she could easily be friends with such guys, as long as she wasn't on the prowl, and Lily wasn't—she already had Jerisson. They might become pals.

They had enough to talk about, too.

Prince Amir, the Avarians, the Khanganat...

They had a great time, speaking for two hours and even agreeing to take a trip to the country together. They would leave in the morning and ride around for a while, so the horses wouldn't get restive.

Jerisson was busy, so Lily didn't mention him. If he wanted, he could join them at any time.

***

Not everyone had the same opinion on balls and receptions as Lilian, so she kept her thoughts to herself. Yes, she's delighted. She's elated.

Does anyone wish to have a walk around Cardin or its surroundings, check if there's anything interesting here?

What for?

For no reason! It’s another city; why not go sightseeing? The word "tourism" didn't exist yet, but that's how Lily felt—like a real tourist.

She had already found out all about the local sights. There was an old gallows outside the city; when Lily heard about it, she couldn't help but remember the famous Gibbet of Montfaucon. In Cardin, they had also invented a square construction four levels high, each side as long as fifty feet. It's not like Lily was especially interested in hanged criminals, but it was still a historical landmark. Otherwise, they'd just destroy it, and she would have no stories to tell her grandchildren. After all, they had torn down Montfaucon, and all of that time and money had gone to waste...

And then there was the Black Tower, a two–hundred-foot-tall building with a bell that rose above the city, located about a hundred and fifty feet to the north of the city walls. Nothing stood next to it; they didn't even build houses there, even if usually, any plot of land next to the capital cost a fortune. Not that land, however. It was a graveyard.

It was the plague tower. If an outbreak occurred in Cardin, a fire was to be lit on top of the tower, letting everyone know that the city was quarantined, and the bell was rung. Folks believed that the sound of the Black Tower bell always brought bad luck. There was also a nest of ravens there; apparently, local boys weren't fond of flinging rocks at them. Those birds weren't just your ordinary scavengers, either: huge, black, angry—where were they coming from? Lily wanted to have a closer look. She was curious.

Too bad she hadn't created a camera obscura yet; it would have come in handy. Ah, she was still young.

When Lily told Jerisson about her plans, he just shrugged.

If his dear wife wished so, she could have a carriage, the Virmans, four more armed guards...

Is Mirrie going too?

Of course, she was. To get Miranda to stay home, she would have to be tied to a bedpost, and even that wouldn't have helped.

He also gave Lily some spending money and instructed her to avoid buying food from street vendors. Have fun out there!

Jerisson himself had no time for trips. He was invited to see Gardwig, and one did not refuse the king's invitation unless one wanted to lose his head. He had to go.

***

Wellster, Bluebird Inn.

"What a joyous meeting! Your Grace!"

Altres Lort narrowed his eyes, not especially happy to see the man who had recognized him.

"Baron Solier? Nice to see you..."

"Likewise, Your Grace! Will you allow me to keep you company?"

The baron and his family were traveling to his estate. They were leaving Cardin, while Altres was headed there, and their paths crossed in a small cozy roadside inn.

They sat together and had a meal, then saw off the baron's wife, two sons, and a daughter upstairs to their rooms.

"Tell me, what's going on in Cardin?" Altres immediately got to business.

The baron shrugged.

"The ambassadors from Ativerna have arrived. From Ivernea, too... The betrothal's about to happen. His Majesty is also testing the ground regarding his third daughter and Miguel of Ivernea. He's not the heir, but he's a smart young man who comes off very well..."

Altres considered his words.

Well, well, well...

"Baron, why did you leave the capital?"

The baron didn't even blink.

"My wife, Your Grace. You must have noticed..."

The count had. She was no different from dozens of other young women. What was the matter?

"She's with child, Your Grace," the baron explained. "That's why we had to leave. What if she gets sick or something?"

With child? He could understand if it was the second half of the pregnancy, but the very beginning, when there were barely any symptoms? Was there really a pregnancy?

Altres chuckled.

"Your wife must be a unique woman, Baron. To leave for the country and pass on all the celebrations..."

"She's not really fond of such festivities," the baron hastily replied, trying to find an excuse. "I think I'll go now, Your Grace..."

"Sit. Down," Altres hissed, not going to let anybody leave.

“Your Grace?”

"Baron, do you want to live?"

"Forgive me, I don't understand..."

Altres saw right through the baron, though: that man was lying through his teeth. He had to put pressure on him, maybe with a boot, if needed, devoid of mercy and full of enthusiasm. No pity for liars!

"We're going to finish the bottle, ask for two more, and go outside, somewhere where no one could hear us," Altres said softly. "Am I making myself clear?"

The baron looked at him like a cornered rabbit and nodded.

“Yes, Your Grace."

***

As it turned out, the most convenient place for such a conversation was the field. After all, noble sirs had the right to go for a walk wherever they wanted, didn't they? Absolutely. Actually, that was the tamest entertainment they could get, no imagination or scale required. They had simply drunk a bit too much, decided to take a leak, and went outside. Nothing unusual or suspicious, really.

Without further ado, Altres sat right on the ground and took a sip from the bottle.

"Baron, will you join me or what?"

The baron realized that he would look stupid standing alone in the field like a siege tower and plopped down on the grass.

"Count, you—"

“Me." Altres leaned back, propping himself on his elbows, and looked at the sky. "Do you like the stars, Baron? His Majesty and I sometimes spent the night in the wilderness, laying on our backs and watching them. Sometimes, the stars would fall down, and we felt sorry for them. Have you spent any nights out in the open?"

The baron shook his head. Was that even possible? Altres Lort, the King's Hound, felt sorry for a star? What was the world coming to?

"Sometimes, Your Grace."

"Altres, Baron, just Altres. Your name's Earon, isn't it?"

“Yes, Your Grace... Altres."

"So what happened, Earon? Just don't lie to me."

The baron sighed.

"You see everything, Altres. Do you want me to swear on my children that I don't know anything?"

Nobody made such oaths lightly, in any world. Altres narrowed his eyes.

"And yet?"

"Something's wrong in the city, Altres. I can't say any more than that. My heart is heavy, and my soul is restless."

Altres shook his head and took one more sip.

"Why is that? Have you heard anything?"

"I didn't. Dishan is a real knight, a kind and noble man, but he's in the wrong place. He doesn't have the guts for it. Not like you do."

Altres shrugged.

To be fair, it wasn't much of a problem. In half a year, he was going to return and take his place back. A smarter man might have been insulted and start scheming, making trouble. All Dishan had to do was to maintain the network handed to him, that's it.

Gardwig was quite content with that.

"People are coming into the city, the streets are crowded..."

"Well, it's the festivities," Altres said, confused.

"True, but in my youth... You do know my story, right, Count?"

Altres did, very well.

Earon was the fourth son of a baron. Usually, the first son became the heir, the second was to be in the Royal Guard, the third was destined for the church...the fourth received a small (really small) amount of money and a nice kick in the pants. Who knew what would happen in the end?

Earon had spent a decade wandering around foreign countries with mercenaries. During that time, the eldest brother died of sickness, while the second lost his life in a border dispute. Servants of Aldonai gave a vow of poverty and couldn't inherit land or titles. Gardwig wouldn't have approved of that, anyway.

And so, Earon became a baron.

"You’ve had your share of adventures, Baron."

Earon nodded.

"Yes...and I can always recognize a kindred spirit. Who usually comes to such celebrations? Craftsmen, farmers, merchants, gawkers, peddlers...not mercenaries. There's no room to swing a cat in the Cardin streets, and I recognized a few faces."

"And you didn't talk to them?" Altres asked, interested.

"I did," Earon chuckled. "That's how I realized it was time to grease my heels and run. They were all hired to work in the capital, how about that?"

"And that's it?"

"Too many mercenaries," the baron repeated almost helplessly. "And something in the air... It's a vibe, Lort. It's in my bones, an itch that I can't scratch, but I can't pinpoint what it is."

"You're keeping things back, Baron."

Earon shrugged.

"What else can I say, Count? It sounds stupid, but..."

"You can. And I suggest you do, Earon, or else..."

"Merchants."

"Merchants?"

Earon threw his arms up.

A baron might not have any business with merchants, but mercenaries? They sell loot or invest their money. Since his adventuring days, Earon had been managing his funds quite sensibly, knowing that nobody could escape old age, and it was better to make your retirement as comfortable as possible.

"I was tipped off that someone—no, Count, I don't know who exactly, don't even ask, everything's done through figureheads—has been bringing large shipments of arms into the city. It's been going for three months."

Altres gritted his teeth.

"Not buying?"

"No. Bringing in."

Importing arms into the capital was strictly limited. Ten swords were fine—they could be sold or used to arm your guards. A hundred, though? What are you going to do with all those weapons, good sir? Go on, feel free to share it with us!

It was the same with mercenaries.

A dozen of them going into the city made sense—they might have wanted to sell their loot or celebrate, but a hundred raised suspicion. They would be followed and spied upon: Cardin was a capital, and nobody wanted any trouble.

"What kinds of arms, Baron?"

"Chainmail suits. Crossbows—small but powerful. Lots of bolts... Something beyond the means of most mercenaries."

Altres slowly nodded.

True, a suit of chainmail was worth a lot. Most mercenaries made do with breastplates or studded leather armor made from thick cowhide.

If someone was bringing them in... That really wasn't good. That person had to have brought them in advance, kept them somewhere, and waited for the right moment to move them.

Had Altres slept through a plot? You old fool! He had! And then, Gard removed him from the capital just the time for the snake to bite.

If not for his neighbor and the baron, Altres would still be twiddling his thumbs. Thank Aldonai for small favors.

The count slowly drank from the bottle.

"And you, Baron, decided to make a run for it."

"What would I say if I went to the king? Even you, Altres, don't believe me completely. I might have suspicions, but am I sure of something? No!"

Altres nodded.

Would he have listened? He didn't know. It might have fallen on deaf ears. At that moment, it all sounded convincing, but would it be the same in the capital? It might not.

"The swords are short. Shorter than normal," the baron said, twisting the knife.

Just what was needed for fighting on the streets.

Altres gritted his teeth. What could he do? Let's say he arrived in the capital, went to Gardwig… He didn't need an audience, there were more secret passages under Cardin than a spider has webs, and he and his brother had studied them well. What would he say?

"What else could I do?" the baron droned on. "Taking my family away was the only option. Nobody would listen to me. They wouldn't believe me, wouldn't understand..."

Gardwig had sent his brother away, true, but...

Fine. Altres had stolen several scrolls with the Grand Royal Seal.

He had already known how to forge his brother's signature. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. And if nothing happened, let his brother be angry as much as he wanted—at least he would be alive to do so.

Altres had only one idea. Alert one of the regiments and take it to the capital. If he arrived in time, he would prevent any trouble. If he didn't...

Then it wouldn't matter anyway, but the soldiers would still come in handy.

Altres would have to delay for a few days, though, make a detour. Fine. So be it.

The songs of minstrels, the words of Corvus, Earon's story—all of that came together, tormenting the jester.

What a fool! How could I miss something like this?

***

Wellster, Cardin.

The king's dinner was a private affair. There were barely any guests other than his family—no more than twenty, really.

His Majesty, Her Majesty, and their closest confidants: the chancellor, the treasurer, and a few more people whom Jerisson vaguely remembered from his last visit. The princess was absent.

Gardwig played the role of a benevolent host, while Jerisson pretended to be a gracious guest. What for? Simply to affirm once again that the relationship between the countries was as amicable as ever. No matter how many heads would roll, a slew of rumors had sprung up after Anna's escape.

People gossiped about Jerisson, too, so the count tried his utmost to show that he was alive, well, not holding a grudge, and really—those gossipmongers needed to have their tongues ripped out.

The gossipmongers got the hint and went out of their way to show their support for His Majesty. Lofty speeches, polite words, fine cuisine... All of that felt familiar to Jerisson, who had basically grown up at court, but in the middle of the meal, he was longing to be on the road. Or, say, fishing.

To sit with his legs stretched, look at the bobber, chew bread and meat, and not think about anything at all. The campfire on the shore would burn, and his wife would sit next to him, her head against his shoulder, while Mirrie was busy throwing a stick with the dogs, Nanook and Lou-Lou racing to get it.

Jess reined in the irrational thoughts and made one more toast to the future prosperity of Wellster and a strong friendship between their countries.

***

Lily's day was turning out much better. She rode around the city with Miranda, looked at the gallows from a distance, visited the temple, prayed, gave alms to the beggars, having the foresight to put on gloves (Lily was going to burn them or at least throw them away later), and finally realized they were hungry.

She didn't want to buy food from street vendors, but hunger was no joke. They needed to have a bite.

"Maybe we should head back home?" Mirrie suggested.

Lily was thinking the same thing.

"We'll eat and continue exploring. Cardin's not going to run away."

The Virmans and the soldiers agreed, and all of them were already turning their horses toward home when... Do you know the smell of freshly baked bread, just out of the oven? The smell was strong enough to reach them through the stench of the city streets.

“Momma?”

"Yes..."

Lily touched Lidarh's reins, and the smart horse turned toward the source of the delicious smell. They didn’t have to search long.

The pastries were sold by an Eveer boy easily identifiable by his distinctive looks: a long nose, bright eyes, black hair. Without pausing to think, Gael threw him a silver coin.

"It's too much, sir. I don't have enough..."

"I'll buy everything, the basket included," Gael replied, swooping it up. The boy didn't mind. A wicker basket wasn't worth more than a copper, and the buns weren't that expensive, either. He probably had to trade at least ten days to make the money he had just received.

“Thank you, sir.”

Lily plunged her hand into the basket and produced an apple pie. She handed it to Miranda and found another one for herself.

"Leave us two more of them, the rest is yours."

The guards wasted little time in getting their hands on the food. Lily smiled at the boy.

“Thank you, they're delicious. Did your mother bake them?"

She couldn't resist treating Lidarh to the crust.

“Yes, Your Grace."

"You've got sharp eyes," she commented, smiling.

The young Eveer smiled in turn.

"Forgive me if something's wrong, My Lady. Are you by any chance Countess Earton?"

"Yes," Miranda affirmed before anyone could open his mouth.

The Eveer's expression suddenly turned serious. He removed his hat and made a deep bow.

"Thank you, My Lady..."

"For what?" Lily asked, genuinely surprised. She didn't receive an answer. The boy had vanished without a trace, as if by teleport.

Whatever. Lily didn't know who was grateful to her and why, but it was still better than a grudge.

Yet she learned the truth the very same night.

***

On the way home, Miranda and Lily discovered stunning golden satin and decided to use it to sew Mirrie a dress—with room to grow into, of course.

The girl was spinning around before the mirror, while Lily and Irene, armed with pins, tried to size her up.

They didn’t get the time.

"Your Grace, Master Salsi's here to see you."

Surprised, Lily looked at the maid who dared to disturb them.

"To me? Not my husband?"

"To you, Your Grace. That's what he said; he's here for Countess Earton."

"I've never heard of such a man. Are you sure he's not confused?"

"Oh, that can't be, Your Grace. Master Salsi can't be wrong!"

Lily shrugged. The word "Master" stirred up a few associations, and the maid explained the rest. The master's name wasn't widely known in Cardin, but the Eveer couldn't complain that it was obscure, either. Being the head of the Eveer community in the capital was nothing to sneeze at.

One would think that with him being a commoner, a heretic, and really, an Eveer, nobody would look at him twice, yet his word sometimes meant more than some duke's. Master Schmulz had mentioned him, too—Lily just forgot that. Good thing the master came to see her; she would use the opportunity to arrange a visit and check up on her former charges.

Upon entering the drawing-room, she saw a short man in his sixties wearing plain black clothing. If she were to meet him on the street, she wouldn't look at him twice, but if she somehow managed to study him closer, she would shudder: that's how much integrity and will emanated from his expression, like a Kraken hiding beneath the dark waves. Grey hair, dark eyes, a grim, intelligent face that didn't really need any beauty… That man knew his worth, and picking a fight with him would be a big mistake—that was Lilian's first impression.

"Your Grace, Countess Earton," the master spoke up, making a proper bow. Still, Lily couldn't help but feel the opposite, as if it wasn't he who should be bowing but she, as he deserved all the worship and praise.

"Sir Salsi," Lily replied politely.

There was one more thing that she felt. That right there, the mask hiding the real Master Salsi was slightly lifted to let her see his true self rather than the persona he wore in front of all others. She wondered why.

The master didn't leave the countess in the dark.

"Your Grace, I would like to thank you. You helped one of my kin, Master Schmulz, and his daughter."

Lily shrugged.

"Let's be honest, I simply didn't ride past them."

"Your Grace, a lot of people wouldn't have taken a stand against the church because of some Eveer. Kreth is my close relative..."

"Yes, he told me that you're his second cousin on his mother's side. I remember that."

"Your Grace, you honor us with such treatment."

Lily raised her hands.

"Master Salsi, if you heard about me..." Going by the sparkle in his black eyes, he had heard about her, all right. "Then you should know that I also have ties to Ativernan Eveers. Master Leitz is a good friend of mine, and we have a common business. I couldn't ride by after seeing such a blatant injustice; I would be unable to ever look Helke in the eyes."

It might have been a bit too forthright, but she was nowhere experienced enough to spin stories in front of that wolf. He would have swallowed her whole and spat her bones out.

Master Salsi appreciated her frankness.

"Your Grace, all I can do is to say once again that you honor us with your friendship. You saved my kin, and the Eveers are in your debt."

Lily threw her arms up.

"Master Salsi, in my homeland, we don't thank people for stopping an injustice. We consider it the duty of any honorable person to right wrongs and punish wrongdoers."

The Eveer bowed again.

"If you don't mind, Your Grace..." He paused and, seeing her calm expression, thrust his hand into his pocket. "The Eveers of Cardin want to give you this."

With a bow, Lily accepted a purple velvet pouch. She emptied it on her palm and saw...most of all, it resembled dog tags that soldiers wore in battle. Those had an ID number, blood type, even religion. The tokens in her hand, however...

Some kind of scribbles, three chains... The metal wasn't even gold, simple silver. Lily stared at the Eveer in confusion, wanting an explanation.

"Master Salsi?"

"This...is for Eveers. Those who are in the know. In any country of the world, in any city, you can count on the help of our community. There might be tensions, but even the Gods cannot provide for everything."

Lily slowly touched the tags with her fingers.

"Me, Jerisson..."

"Your daughter, Viscountess Earton."

That gift was priceless.

Lily realized that well. Was she now a friend of the people?

She immediately felt like Jean-Paul Marat.*

Author's Note: a French revolutionary who wrote a newspaper called "The Friend of the People" ("L'ami du peuple") and went down in history under that name.

"Are they identical, Sir Salsi?"

“Yes, Your Grace."

"Aldonai... Sir Salsi, are you sure? This gift is too expensive, too valuable. I'm afraid I might not live up to it."

That time around, the Eveer's bow was genuine.

"Your Grace, I doubted you until you said this. Now, my heart is at peace. You realize the rights and responsibilities imposed by this mark. I'm sure that your husband and your daughter will prove worthy of you as well."

What could she say? That she was sure about her daughter, but her husband was still a question mark? Even if not as much as before.

"I'll do everything not to betray your trust."

The Eveer bowed again and received a bow from Lilian in turn. She didn't mind that.

The influence held by that plainly dressed man couldn't be overestimated. In fact, Lily really wanted to ask what would happen to those who had wronged Master Schmulz, but she forced herself to say nothing.

No need. Curiosity killed the cat, but unlike them, she didn't have nine lives.

Instead, she thanked him again and moved on to business.

Thermoses. They kept food warm in winter and cool, in summer. They were far from perfect yet, but beginning was half the battle. She also had other ideas, like, say, string bags. They didn't weave them around those parts. And backpacks! There were only kit bags, and they weren't quite as handy. She could get a nice profit by inventing a rucksack.

It's the little things that count.

Still, she didn't want to invent the wheel. No need to discover basic laws; they paid little in money, but a lot in trouble. Now, mundane items present in every household...like a grater, a vegetable slicer, a garlic crusher, various nozzles for salads and decorated cutting...

Lots of housewives had them in their kitchens. They weren't divine interventions, but made life much easier—and couldn't be adapted for military use. No enemy would feel threatened by a lemon crown or a tomato rose.

Master Salsi was ready to discuss terms, and Lily was ready to share her ideas—for a fee, of course. She wasn't a fairy godmother; she wanted money, too—just enough for a diamond trinket or two.

She handed out the tokens that evening. Miranda quickly understood everything, and Jerisson didn't disappoint her, either. As for her own mark, Lily hung it on her neck straight away. Let it stay there like a holy symbol or an icon pendant. It might come in handy.

Jerisson did the same.

A title or not, the count had no scruples about trading, just like his honorable father, and Jerisson knew the worth of that badge.

And to think, he might have ridden past that town and disregarded his wife's advice...

Apparently, marriage was a profitable venture.

***

Wellster, several days' journey from Cardin.

Altres Lort never saw it coming, that tremendous stroke of luck.

They were riding down the road, still four days' travel away from the capital, when... You couldn't hide a regiment on the move; usually, it's them you'd be hiding from. Altres looked closely and gasped.

Mounted guards—commanded by Marquis Enaire, the nephew of Count Dishan! Could he be any luckier? Well, maybe if there were two regiments.

Sorry, Aldonai. I guess I'm getting too greedy. I'm truly grateful for one, but I won't mind one more, either.

After thanking the heavens, Altres Lort headed straight for the commander's tent, easily recognizable by the flag.

The marquis was inside, sitting in the shade while the soldiers set up camp. Altres strode purposefully to him. One of the soldiers attempted to stand in his path, but a slight movement of the marquis' hand immediately made him back off. If a man was walking in such a confident manner, he was clearly a good friend of His Grace. No need to jump like a flea.

The marquis didn't stand up, but quite amicably nodded at the log next to him.

"Lort?"

"Enaire," Altres replied, returning the smile.

He knew that he had a difficult task ahead of him. To persuade the marquise that... What exactly? That he needed to drop everything and run to the capital, just because Count Lort was feeling especially paranoid, if not schizophrenic?

Well, Altres would have thought that if he knew those words. The only version he could suggest was I feel it in my gut. His gut might have a great sense for trouble, but it was no oracle, and neither could it give any details, instead issuing something particularly unfit to research.

Still, Lort wasn't going to give up that easy. Let his brother string him up on a tree later, as long as it ended well.

"So what brings you here?" the marquis asked lazily.

"I'm going to the capital. It's urgent."

"But aren't you..."

Lort didn't beat around the bush, even if he was itching to.

"I'm exiled. It's a shame, though, but that's how it is. I'm not acting on the king's orders."

The difference between the uncle and the nephew was that the latter had initiative, plus some sense. Otherwise, he would have never become a commander; there were enough candidates for that position. He could have simply taken orders. One-two, one-two...

"Is this a courtesy call, Altres, or..."

"No time for that. What are you doing here?"

"Hunting Bear's gang."

"With your entire regiment? An elephant crushing a fly."

The marquis moodily watched the soldiers build a campfire.

“So? I know that's too many people, but the king is angry. Very angry."

"At what?"

"Recently that gang managed to get their hands on Baroness Veyren."

Altres remembered that pretty, giggling girl and turned sour. He didn't love her, but he liked her as a person.

"Is she dead?"

"She saved her grandson, but they killed her."

"Bastards. Let's drink to her memory."

The marquis nodded. Women like Baroness Veyren deserved respect, and the Bear and his crew should have their guts hung around the trees.

That's how they tortured people in Virma: cut open their belly, removed the innards, and nailed one end to a post. Go on, sweetie, walk around and die.

Of course, that wasn't an everyday punishment: only for betraying blood kin. After a few traitors had been killed like that, everyone quickly realized that doing that wasn't a good idea. A straightforward argument, really.

Altres handed him a flask, the marquis took a sip and returned it. Lort followed his example, then screwed the cap on and put the flask back. It was time for a serious conversation.

"Enaire, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Which one?"

"Return to the capital."

"Why?"

The question made sense, and Lort still didn't have a good enough reason. He dismissed his doubts and told it like it was.

"I think there's a conspiracy brewing. I might be wrong, but I'd rather play it safe."

"A conspiracy?" Enaire asked, genuinely surprised.

"I know it sounds odd, but I don't have any actual evidence. I need to go to the capital."

"You want us to go together."

"What will I do there alone if there's trouble? A thousand soldiers are a force to be reckoned with."

"Let me think."

Altres nodded.

It wasn't a straight-up refusal; that was good enough. He would sit around and wait, no problem.

At last, Enaire spoke up.

"Will you dine with us?"

"Absolutely."

"I can't give you the regiment, you must realize that. I will, however, give you five hundred. You're right: a thousand chasing a lousy bandit is too good for him."

Altres breathed out. He had expected to have to persuade, beg, haggle, curse...

"Enaire?"

"We've known each other for a long time. And my uncle told me...suspicion has saved your life more than once. If you suspect something, maybe it’s true. I won't gain anything by setting you up."

"Yes."

"Here. Take five hundred men and go. I have only two conditions."

“Yes?”

"If my men won’t be needed, you're going to explain everything to His Majesty yourself. You're going to write a letter saying that you ordered me to do it in the king's name."

"Give me ink and a quill."

Lort had his own paper, even with the king's seal. He had borrowed it for the good of the kingdom, so to speak. The marquis didn't need to know that, but if anything happened, his back would be covered—it would be Lort who would get a reprimand.

"I will. Second, if something's really going on...my uncle's not to blame for that. If it's about to break out, then it must have started when you were in charge."

"I promise you, Count Dishan will be safe. I give you my word."

The marquis stared at him for a long time and then nodded.

I trust you.

And then, Altres Lort had a feeling that he hadn't felt for a long time...gratitude. When was the last time he had experienced that? Today. And before that, when Lilian Earton had cured Gardwig.

Hmm, that was too often. He used to go for a decade between such bouts, if not more. That was a bad sign.

In the morning, a company of five hundred mounted guards officially commanded by Baron Lenar, assigned by the marquis, and unofficially, by Altres Lort, made haste for Cardin.

With so many men, Lort couldn't move as fast, but it was better to descend on the city with a force, wasn't it?

You never knew, after all, and five hundred men were a convincing enough argument. They could convince anyone at all.

***

Wellster, Cardin.

The next morning, a small party left the city gates. It was supposed to have even fewer people, but...

Where Lilian went, so did Jerisson, and where her parents went, so did Miranda and the dogs, and then the guards, and if the ordinary guards at least followed all orders to the letter, the Virmans...didn't.

After all, what had Leif and Eric told them? To keep the Eartons safe, or else.

The rest wasn't up for discussion. If they didn't go openly, they would have followed the Eartons in secret.

Regardless, they had a lovely time riding through the fields already cleared of the harvest, walking around a small forest that had somehow survived right next to Cardin, and chatting.

Miguel made up his mind to get a puppy just like Lou-Lou or Nanook, and Jess promised to personally take care of that and even send one to him, maybe even a couple.

Lydia, however, wasn't as lucky. Lily had wrapped Miranda in several layers of clothing and did the same to herself, seeing as the brat started to argue against the gross injustice. Why was she cocooned like a cabbage, while her mother was underclad? That wasn't fair!

To placate the girl, Lily had to put on a warm vest and neatly tie a scarf.

Therefore, she and Miranda stayed healthy, while Lydia got herself a running nose and Miguel looked droopy. Bad luck!

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

Who would ever doubt that the princess would succeed in persuading her brother?

Bran didn't even waste time hesitating; instead, he talked to the kyrias, adding Anna and Edaina to Angelina's retinue. Both had come from Clan Laren, were veteran warriors, and could rival bears in both looks and ability. Next to them, one could barely notice Her Highness.

The route to Clan Oronsteg wasn't difficult. First, they had to go up the river in boats, and then spend some time riding: three boats, twenty-one people.

Clan Oronsteg had been contacted in advance; someone was supposed to meet them.

Someone did. It happened on the second day of their journey. Kyria Edaina became the first to notice danger. Rocks couldn't reflect light in such a way—only cold steel could.

Chainmail? An arrow tip? Kyria had no time to think. She leaped forward, knocking Her Highness off her feet. Bran Gardren dropped down as well, not knowing yet what had happened.

Seven people were sailing in the first boat: the guards and Kyria Anna. Four more were inside the second one, plus Bran, Angelina, and Kyria Edaina. Seven more were in the last one.

For Angelina, all of that seemed like total chaos.

Something pressed her against the boat. She heard cries and curses, and the current swept them downstream. She was terrified. All she could see were smooth planks before her eyes and the water on the bottom of the boat. There wasn't much of it, but it was dirty, and Angelina really didn't want to stain her dress. She felt stupid and silly, worrying about only her dress when death was walking around the corner.

She didn't know that ten archers hidden on the shore had mowed down twelve Virmans in a matter of seconds, that only four people, including her and Bran, remained alive in their boat, that when the shooting started, Bran had done the only thing he could: reach for the tiller while one of the warriors shielded him with his body and his shield. How long would it work? He didn't know, but at least that was something.

The Virmans could sail even upstream; all that was left to do was to keep the boat from getting washed ashore and avoid the arrows. And pray to Holosh, too.

Bran had only a few seconds, but it was enough to assess the situation.

They could sail down the river; that would take at least a day—and even if they didn't get caught straight away, the enemies could easily intercept them later.

They could go upriver. There might be an ambush there, or there might not if the attack hadn’t been orchestrated by Clan Oronsteg, which was Bran's current suspicion.

On the other hand, there was more than one clan living around those parts, and not all of them liked Bran. It's not like he was a mint cake, after all. He was the spanner in everyone's works.

Nope, he wasn't going to die that day.

Arrows pierced the body of the Virman shielding him. Bran sensed their impact and felt the life leaving the warrior's body. That man had fulfilled his duty and was still protecting Bran, even if leaning on him with all his weight.

Well then. Olive would accept his soul. He loved bravery.

A few other arrows whooshed past Bran, and he quickly turned around.

One boat was drifting downstream: no survivors there. The second was slowing down.

Kyria Anna waved from there.

"Go. We'll hold them off!"

Bran nodded, not wasting time on pretty words, and steered the boat forward.

***

Angelina tried to raise her head. A strong hand immediately pinned her down.

"Lie down...Your Highness."

It was Kyria Edaina.

“What...”

Angelina didn't know how to phrase it, but the kyria understood her question and replied.

"You, me, Bran. The rest are dead. We'll reach land and deal with it then."

"If we don't stumble on an ambush..." Bran remarked.

Angelina bit her thumb so as not to scream. Was it really happening? Were they doomed? She would die, right there, without Richard knowing anything.

Pull yourself together, you pushover!

If not for Bran, Angelina could have had a meltdown, burst into tears, flew off the handle. But to throw a fit in front of the man you...more than liked?

Who had overcome his physical limitations and...

"Lie down on the bottom of the boat," Bran commanded, his voice metallic. "There's a second ambush."

“How many?”

"Ten men."

"You won't make it."

"Take a crossbow. Or throwing knives."

Between the two of them, Kyria Edaina and Bran didn't use any titles or ranks, but Angelina didn't have time to think about that, seeing as...

"They must have horses. Either we take them down and ride horseback, or we don't escape."

The kyria chuckled and started loading a crossbow. She inserted a bolt, cocked the firing lever, then took another crossbow and loaded it as well. They had four crossbows in total.

While preparing them, she never got up from the boat, wheezing and biding her time.

"When I yell 'Holosh,' fire."

"All right."

“Angelina...”

For a second, Gardren's voice wavered.

"Forgive me. I should have foreseen that and never taken you along. Eddie, give her a dagger, at least..."

Angelina imagined Bran leaving alone and her hearing about his death. She would have never seen him, and nobody else would have replaced him in her heart.

Empty years. Dusty years. Wasted years.

She sniveled, but answered in a bright voice, saying the first thing that came to her mind.

"You could tell them that my father would raze Virma to the ground for me."

"You think that could stop them?"

"I thought you wanted to kill them, not stop them. At least it could slow them down," Angelina replied, sniffing.

The kyria handed her a dagger, its blade as long as the girl's forearm. In truth, it was a scramasax, but Angelina wasn't an expert on weaponry. She also got a loaded crossbow; the princess could use it to hit a target at a distance, while the dagger was for melee, something that clearly wasn't her forte.

“Thank you. How do I shoot it?"

The kyria smirked and pointed at the lever.

"Point it at the target and release it."

Angelina nodded.

What if she succeeded? The Virmans think that dying surrounded by enemies is a noble death that leads you straight into Olive's abode. They aren't afraid of it. Could it be he let her in, too? If Bran couldn't go to Aldonai, as he had told her himself...

Kyria Edaina, who could read the princess' thoughts as if they were written on her forehead, smiled with the corners of her mouth. Maybe love would come in handy, and Edaina wouldn't have to wipe off the girl's snot and cure her hysterics with the old method (by giving her a hearty slap).

Bran clumsily steered toward the shore.

It helped that he was drenched in the blood of the warrior who had shielded him and that he deliberately played down his talents at controlling the boat.

At last, it burrowed its bow into the sand and stopped dead. Not for long. Bran tumbled over the side and collapsed on the sand, demonstrating an arrow that seemingly protruded from his body, but in truth was conveniently snuck in his armpit.

He didn't move an inch, playing dead, as if he had barely made it ashore and then died of blood loss.

He would have waited for the enemy inside the boat, but he could not, not with Angelina inside. Even one blow might have...no, he must not place her in danger, even accidental.

An arrow whooshed past, plowing up the sand next to Bran. Gardren prayed that they wouldn't spray him with arrows from afar; then his plan would be ruined for good. After all, he was wearing chainmail under his shirt; something like that couldn't be hidden.

"Is he dead?"

"Let's check."

Go on, my darlings, check. Just come closer.

"What about the boat? Is anybody inside?"

“We’ll see.”

Just as Bran had planned, sand creaked under the killers' feet. He got lucky; there weren’t a lot of them. Bran's calculations were correct. They had already encountered the main ambush, while another strong group was waiting for them downstream. Here, there were only ten of them or so.

They had come out of the riverside rocks, walking slowly, not trying to hide.

"HELP!"

A woman cried out from inside the boat, clearly hysterical.

"Get those awful bloody corpses away from me! I'm scared of blood! Eek!"

Angelina was an inspired crier. Kyria Edaina stared at her quizzically, but quickly grasped her intent and relaxed. The girl was trying to help. Maybe it would work out and some of their opponents would be distracted?

The assassins exchanged looks, realizing the situation. So Bran was fleeing upstream, rescuing the princess. He had managed to save her and died in the attempt, leaving her defenseless.

Even if they didn't care a damn about her title, she was still young and pretty, and nobody would know if she died straight away or not. The fish didn't care what body they would eat.

The first man stepped over Bran, then another...

The youngest rushed forward. No surprises there; they were hungry for a woman. One of them had already bent down to charge…

Nobody would have ever compared Bran to a lion. To a snake, however... A snake didn't have to be noble or pretty-looking; no matter what, it would get the respect it was due.

The first knife plunged into that Virman right below his jaw. He died instantly, shielding his enemy from his own friends.

Almost immediately, Bran threw two other knives, using both of his hands. They hit their targets. Not the body, just the legs, but that was enough. Bran had been coating their blades with a poison brought all the way from the Varian Khanganat. Have you ever seen a snake without venom in its fangs? Nobody would pay any regard to it otherwise!

The poison was fast-acting, making the muscles cramp and the teeth almost crumble, clenched tight because of the pain. It served them right.

Three died quickly, and seven still remained. The three in the rear rushed at Bran without even saying a word.

"Holosh!"

It was time to stop lying down. Bran used his fourth knife on the fourth warrior. He dodged; apparently, he was an experienced fighter.

Well then.

A chain with weights on both sides sang in Bran's hands. A long time ago, he had realized that a sword wasn't his weapon, thanks to some advice from wise people. With a sword, you had to raise it, to meet the enemy's strike, to remain standing... Right. How could Bran, with his height and his ailment, fight someone like Olav Hardring?

Yet he could; he simply had to use his own weapon: a chain with two balls.

Light and thin, it whooshed, entangling and disarming the startled Virman and throwing his sword aside, while Bran twirled it again, deflecting the knife hurled at him.

Those snotnoses thought they could get him with that? They weren't snot-nosed brats, though. They were veterans.

All right, then. He would hold out for a while; it remained to be seen what would come later.

The last knife was dancing a merry jig between Bran's fingers. One scratch would be more than enough. Just come at me.

He smiled.

***

Edaina had time to fire off two shots, and then met the two remaining warriors face to face. Blades sang as they clashed against each other.

For a second, only a second, Angelina allowed herself to feel fear, cowering on the bottom of the boat. It was all so scary. Bran was out there. He could die any minute...

That thought made her come around faster than any admonishment could have. Angelina grabbed the crossbow, stood up...

Five assassins were dead. Two were engaged by Kyria Edaina, and three advanced on Bran. He was still alive, holding out with all the strength he had left, spinning something that looked like a hazy circle in front of him.

Angelina held her breath and took aim. She didn't really know how to shoot; princesses weren't taught that. But it couldn't be that difficult, could it?

She would need to set her sights, pull the string...and as luck would have it, hit the target, but even if she missed, someone might lose focus.

Angelina picked the target farthest from Bran, so as to avoid friendly fire, and released the bolt.

***

Bran couldn't believe his eyes when the princess stood upright in the boat, holding a crossbow. It was heavy, designed for a man, but it didn't matter at that moment.

She pointed it at one of the assailants.

The chief of Gardren prayed that none of them turned around or threw his knife. She was an easy target, standing up like that.

It was unclear who was surprised more, Bran or the assassins, but the crossbow bolt still hit one of the latter—just below his spine, due to the weapon's weight. She didn't pierce the chainmail or create a new eunuch, but a bolt in the rear wasn't a pat on the back nonetheless.

The impact of the shot threw the assassin forward, and Bran didn't waste his chance. His chain flew straight ahead, sweeping through the area, twisting around his opponent, crushing the vertebrae.

No coup de grace needed.

Bran stepped forward, not caring about his lame leg.

"Come here, bastards! I'll send you all to Holosh for judgment!"

The assassins exchanged looks. Then they did what Bran feared the most. Edaina was still engaged in combat, so one of the men charged at Bran, while the other turned around and ran toward the boat—with defenseless Angelina inside.

Seconds turned into a chaotic haze. He had no chance of making it.

Well then. If so, he didn't have to spare himself, either. Resolutely, Bran stepped right under a sword blow, fell on his knees, and rolled over. Something like that couldn't be achieved if he had more than one opponent—the other one would have reached him with his weapon.

But at that moment, Bran was the one to reach him.

The chain twisted around the assassin's feet, hindering his movement, while the knife struck true, cutting through sinew. Bran knew that the blade was poisoned, but it didn't matter, not then, because...

In one sweep, Edaina severed her opponent's head and rushed forward to block the one running to the boat. The scene played out in front of Bran's eyes in slow motion, as she threw herself right under the Virman's feet.

They tumbled down on the sand. Bran could barely see what was happening, but somehow, he understood that.

The kyria jabbed her sword bottom-up, piercing the chainmail.

It was a fatal blow, but it didn't kill him immediately, giving him just enough time to strike her down with his sword, thrusting it as if it were a spear. The last assassin was seconds away from the boat. He glanced back at Bran, stepped forward, and...

Angelina fired the crossbow right in his face. When had she managed to load it once again?

What a smart girl...

You couldn't miss at such range; not a chance.

The Virman slowly collapsed, while Angelina did the same in the boat.

Was she injured? What had happened to her?

Bran hurried over to her, cursing his limp. It felt like an eternity.

Please help me, Holosh!

***

Angelina was out cold.

She was breathing, alive and uninjured, she had no wounds (Bran made sure of that himself, even if he had to feel her over), she had simply been scared to death—or almost. She had fainted after firing the crossbow. At least she had the time to shoot.

Still, Bran was thankful. He held the girl tight, as if somebody was trying to take her away from him, kissing her pale tear-stricken face. When had she started crying?

She was alive. What else did he want?

Holosh, even if nothing can ever happen between us, forgive me for taking your gift for granted: that this world has Her Highness Angelina!

She's alive, she'll get the chance to enjoy life, get married, have children...to simply live! What an idiot I was for not seeing that incredible gift of fate, to know that there was someone you value more than life itself and that she was all right.

What else did he need? Nothing.

The princess' eyelids trembled, covered with a thin web of bluish lines.

"Bran?"

"Yes, my love. It's me, we're alive..."

Bran pressed the princess to his chest, not even noticing that he had slipped, and released her, helping her to her feet.

Angelina looked around.

"We're alive..."

"Yes, we are, and they're not."

"What about...Edaina?"

Edaina... All Bran could do was to sigh. The kyria was beyond any help, any at all.

The blow had almost cleaved her in half. It was better if Angelina didn't see it.

Human insides weren’t known to look normal unless you were a healer or a priest of Holosh; then it was a common sight for you.

Unfortunately, Angelina did look in that direction, sighed, and promptly fainted once again. Bran could understand her; that wasn't the most appetizing scene.

That made him think about more important issues. What would they do next? Where would they go?

There were at least two dozen assassins wandering around the area. Alone, Bran could have done a lot: priests of Holosh weren't taught only prayers. He could track the bastards one by one, and then either cut them down, poison them, or...

A soft rustling made him turn around.

You let your guard down, you idiot.

He hadn't checked if any of the assassins were actually dead.

The one Angelina shot was still alive. She had hit him right in the head, but her aim was off, or the man might have lowered his head a bit. Contrary to popular opinion, it isn't that easy to kill someone with a headshot. Not everyone can do it on the first try. The bones of the skull are pretty hard, and an arrow might slide down instead of piercing it.

The Bran looked at the girl and the survivor. Did he have a choice?

"Your Highness, how about you take a rest?"

Angelina was laid down on a cloak, and the priest of Holosh—yes, at the moment that's who Bran was—headed to the Virman.

He searched him, tied him down hand and foot, and brought him round by nicking his ear. That wasn't hard. Incidentally, blood pouring out of an ear clearly threw the man off his balance; people don't usually like seeing their own blood. Not like someone else's.

The Virman opened his eyes.

"Who sent you?" Bran wasn't trying to make his voice booming or threatening. He was simply talking, and somehow, it was more intimidating than any screams could be.

Threatening was pointless. Doing, however...

The Virman spat on the ground.

"What's your name?" Bran asked just as softly.

The man spat again.

"How rude of you. I won’t kill you, you know that? Not right away."

The man's blue eyes seemed interested. Really, when your life is in someone else's hands, you might start caring about the owner's plans.

"I'll do something better. I'll rip open your stomach and let your guts fall out on the sand. Then I'll leave you to rot. It will take a long time, and all that time, you'll be writhing in pain. I'll also tie you in just the right way so you couldn't injure yourself. I think you'll hold out at least four days, cursing your mother that she didn't choke you in your crib."

"You don’t have time to torture me, Gardren. And I will scream."

"You won't. It won't take long for me to make a gag."

"Sooner or later, you'll have to pull it out, and the others will find you before that—"

"Tell me more about the others."

"Screw you."

Bran sighed.

"You know who I am. But do you know everything? Like, say, that I'm a priest of Holosh?"

Apparently, the Virman didn't. He grew pale and shivered, but still continued to resist. The Virmans didn't break that easy.

Bran would have continued the interrogation, but Angelina shifted and rolled around on her elbow, moaning. He had to turn his attention to her.

He came up to the princess, put her blonde head on his lap, and caressed her hair.

"It's all right, M ‘Lady Angelina. It's me, Bran. We're alive and not captured, you simply fainted once again. It happens."

Her grey eyes opened wide, realizing something.

"Bran!"

So much joy, so much happiness, simple human happiness shining in the eyes of anybody who has a loved one, whether a spouse, a parent, or a sibling...

He came back.

He's alive.

Nothing else mattered at that minute.

"Stand up, M’lady. It's not over yet."

Bran didn't want to say those words. He wanted to hug her, calm her down, tell her that everything was behind them... He couldn't. They still were likely to become food for the fish—or the crows, depending on the circumstances.

Angelina clearly remembered everything that had happened and rubbed her forehead.

"Yes, I'll... Give me a few minutes, Bran. I'll come around and do everything..."

"Please do, M’lady," Bran said, his voice gentle and reassuring. "Could you examine our supplies and find food? And change your clothes, please."

Angelina stared at Bran, dumbfounded.

"Into what?"

"M’lady, I assume you know it better than I do. Just wear something that will allow you to walk or ride without any issues," Bran answered simply. "I hope you have something like that."

Angelina bit her lower lip, thought for a few minutes, and nodded.

"I'll try to find something."

And she disappeared into the boat.

Princesses, of course, weren't supposed to do anything with their own hands, including changing clothes hidden only behind a sail. Still, when faced with a choice between survival and propriety...To Maldonaya with it. Angelina was a young and healthy girl and not the Spanish king who had burned because etiquette didn't permit him to move a brazier.

* Author's note: this was Philip III in 1604. He didn't die, but suffered severe burns.

In the meantime, Bran got back to his captive.

"Are you sure you don't want to tell me anything?"

For a second, he removed the gag from the man's mouth and immediately put it back, nipping in the bud his attempt to scream.

"As you wish."

Bran rolled the man over with a kick and went to business.

First, he searched the bodies of all attackers, gaining around ten gold in various coins, not turning his nose up at blood money. He also took a dagger that seemed particularly nice: fine steel, great workmanship, a ruby in the handle.

He circled around the clearing, making sure that, alas, there were no horses. The assailants had probably gotten there by boat or on foot. That was a clue. Only clans Oronsteg and Hardar lived around the area; that wasn't much of a choice. Still, he hoped it wasn't the Oronstegs.

After that, giving the princess time to get herself in order, he dragged Edaina's body into the boat.

Unfortunately, his search didn't procure any new information.

The assassins all had ordinary daggers, other than the ruby one. He would give it to the princess. No emblems, no clan marks—it made sense, those people weren't idiots.

Shame. It's really nice when your enemy is dumb. Too bad it wasn't the case. Still, that made it more interesting. Let's play.

“Your Highness?"

Angelina peeked out from behind the sail, looking guilty, for some reason.

"I'm ready, Bran."

And she stepped out.

The chief of Gardren almost choked on air.

No, there wasn't anything indecent in the princess' outfit: it wasn't low-cut or tight-fitting. But...

Mariella-designed culottes emphasized her long legs and thin waistline, a shirt with lace accentuated something that shouldn't be accentuated, and the gold-embroidered doublet only served to highlight her form. The wide belt and high boots completed her look. Even a small hat wouldn't feel out of place. All of that came off so tempting that Bran wanted to lick his lips. He was still a man, not a statue.

"Ahem," Bran said, having finally cleared his throat. "M’lady, you look...stunning."

Angelina rewarded him with a dazzling smile.

"I also have a cloak."

There really was a cloak to match all that splendor: medium-length, mid-calf, with slits for the arms, sleeveless, hooded, and embroidered.

Bran sighed, felt the fabric—it was fine velvet—and decided to find another cloak for Her Highness, a plainer one. At least he didn't have to sort out her skirts or try to convince her to wear pants taken from a corpse, let alone pull off those pants himself. That wasn't his favorite pastime.

"Great, Your Highness. I think this accessory will look good on you."

Bran handed her the ruby dagger, but Angelina shook her head.

"Bran, I'm not good with weapons."

"I think you'll do fine against bread or meat jerky, and I'll handle the dangerous threats," Bran joked. "Let me fasten it for you."

He carefully attached the sheath, which he had also taken from the warrior's body, to Angelina's belt.

“There you go."

“Thank you."

Grey eyes met blue, speaking without words.

"I love you. I'll keep you safe. At any cost."

"I love you. Don't risk yourself, I cannot go on without you!"

They definitely couldn't say anything like that out loud. Bran cleared his throat and was the first to look away.

"What about food?"

Angelina silently nodded at the bench. There was a box below it, but there wasn't a lot inside. Most of the supplies had been on the boat in front of them, and only their enemies knew where it was. They had only travel rations, a light snack to be eaten on the go. A little bit of rusk, meat jerky, some ale...

Bran cleared out everything.

"Not much, but it will be enough."

Angelina shivered.

"What are you going to do, Bran?"

"Reach Clan Oronsteg."

"If I understand correctly, they will be waiting for us there, won't they?"

"Let them." Bran smirked. "They were waiting for us here, too. But on the clan lands, they might miss us. I hope that Clan Oronsteg isn't in on the plot and won't care for anyone trying to prance about on their lands."

"And the only thing we need to do is to get there?"

"Yes. It's half a day on horseback, but walking is faster."

"Why?" Angelina was genuinely surprised.

Bran gestured at the island, circling around it and the sea.

"Your Highness, it's Virma. You can walk anywhere and ride only along a road."

"Will we make it?"

"Or die trying," Bran replied, shrugging. "I wouldn't want that. It's too early for me to meet Holosh."

Angelina drew her arms around herself as if shivering.

"Why did they attack us?"

"To stop us from learning the origins of that clasp, I believe."

"And how did they discover we were trying to?"

Bran chuckled.

"You're good at asking difficult questions, M’lady."

"Will we be able to answer it?"

Bran said nothing, instead nodding at the shore.

"Could you stay there, M’lady?"

“Yes, of course. What are you going to do?"

"I'll arrange a fiery burial for our companions."

Angelina clenched her fists and sniffled, but willed herself to stay calm.

"Edaina, Anna, and the rest... Jean was right in not wanting to go with me! And so was Laura! I bring bad luck."

"That's nonsense," Bran cut her off, not doubting his words. “That's not you who does it, but the bastards and traitors who seem to be everywhere these days. But we'll hang them up, don't worry."

Angelina sighed sharply but didn't argue.

"Can I help you?”

“No, Your Highness. It's my duty as a priest—to release their souls."

Angelina nodded once again and went to the shore.

Bran did everything by the book.

He knew that time was precious, that after killing their companions, the pursuers might sail upstream, and yet still...

Was it sentimentality? Not quite. How would they know later who had died and who hadn't?

Bran laid all of the bodies with their heads facing the boat bow, put a weapon next to each each, checked if there was gold in their purses, and quickly cut his finger. Drawing the sign of Holosh on each forehead didn't take long, but allowed him to invoke the god’s blessing. Holosh wouldn't hurt their souls in the afterlife, and Olive was always willing to accept those who had died in battle.

Bran didn't see any point in a prayer, not at the moment. He simply said, "I set your souls free."

Sparks created by striking a flint spilled out on a dry cloth, giving birth to a fire.

Afterward, it was time for Bran to step back. If the flame blazed up, the gods favored the offering. If it didn't, he had no right to let it burn; those people didn't deserve a fiery burial. The gods saw, and the gods judged.

But the fire blazed up immediately, barely giving Bran time to jump overboard to save his cloak and avoid getting singed. He pushed the boat off, and the sail lit up, just like a firebird spreading its wings, flying high.

Angelina stood whispering, her eyes shut. Was she saying a prayer? Let her, then. At least it was something.

Bran gently touched her hand.

"Please stand aside, Your Highness."

"I... Can I be of use?"

"No. And you don't want to see it."

Bran didn't want to waste time on reassurances; he spoke brusquely and to the point. Angelina sighed and turned around.

"Where should I go?"

"Over there," Bran said, pointing somewhere. "Fifty steps would be enough."

"Yes, Bran."

Angelina obeyed, and the lord of Gardren returned to the captive.

"Well, then. Have you decided to talk?"

Removing the gag didn't talk long. The man answered by trying to spit at Bran—more of a token gesture than anything, considering his dry throat made either spitting or screaming impossible.

“As you wish.”

Bran unsheathed a blade he had been carefully preserving: the ritual knife of Holosh.

"By the grace of Holosh, I give thee the soul of the traitor! The one who attacks his own forfeits his voice and his name!" Forcing the jaws apart wasn't hard, provided one had some experience, and neither was pulling out the tongue and slicing it. "Forfeits his face and his kin!" The incision continued along the face. The skin gave in, falling down in a shred—all Bran had to do was to cut the muscles just right. "Forfeits his hands and feet!" He severed the tendons. "His children and the womb that bears them. Let his blood fill your cup, Holosh."

As he said the final words, Bran finished the execution, first tearing open the Virman's clothes with his blade, then castrating him and dissecting his stomach. A foul smell filled the air.

Angelina didn't see it. She made a point to sit with her back to Bran, not turning around, but she must have heard that awful gurgling, the rattling, the groans, and Bran's words.

After all, he had never said that he was human. A priest of Holosh was by definition a monster; within each of them, there was a beast, only unlike humans, it didn't kill wantonly. Holosh didn't desire senseless lives. Bran wasn't torturing or disfiguring people for his own pleasure. He needed to scare their pursuers—and he didn't doubt there would be a pursuit.

But when they came to that place, they would realize what had transpired there, even if not everything.

Bran took a piece of a paddle and used it to try to cover up the tracks with sand, both their footsteps and the marks of the battle. He wasn't going to surrender. He would get out and rescue his beloved—and cut the throats of their enemies, too. May Holosh be his witness!

***

When Bran came up to Angelina and reached out with his hand, she didn't flinch, only looked at him with reproach.

"Was that...necessary?"

"They wouldn't have taken pity on us."

"And still…we're no animals."

"No. But those who come here will at least be scared. I have a certain reputation. They will either be more careful in pursuing us or at least won’t take us alive."

Angelina nodded. It was a good remark. Even men didn't want to risk getting captured, let alone women. At least, men weren't raped.

The princess slowly put her fingers into Bran's palm, standing up from the sand.

"Let's go, M’lady."

"Call me just Angie, Bran, like Richard does. It's silly, being formal with enemies on our heels."

Bran smiled.

"Then it's an honor for me, Angie."

It would also save time, just a little, but still. After all, saying "Angie" was so much shorter than “Your Highness" or "M’lady." They weren't in a palace.

They had to spend some more time on Bran covering the trail. He threw the remains of his bloody shirt in a bush where they wouldn't be found straight away, left footmarks in some spots and removed them from other places, creating the impression that several people had left, including Bran himself. But the group had an injured person, maybe even several.

Let them think they had more men. Let them fear.

***

Their head start wasn't much. The assassins didn’t waste any time, and in about an hour, the first of the pursuers reached the shore. They did see the boat, but nobody was stupid enough to enter the fire and check who was buried there.

They also saw who survived.

Bran would have never been accepted to serve in the temple of Annora, but he could predict some things no worse than the seers—maybe even better.

Fear, horror, and disgust were only a few of the emotions experienced by the pursuers at the sight of the brutally tortured body of one of their people. They exchanged looks, and only one word hung in the air, unsaid—the name of the clan. Gardren.

But who else could have survived? The princess? That was likely. Some of the warriors? It seemed so; they had bandaged someone up, that was clear. What wasn't clear was how many of them were left. They had few footprints, and those were all jumbled together—Bran had made sure of that, flattening and breaking the sand. And tracking someone who was crossing a rocky terrain was pointless, at least without hounds.

Or they could use their brains. The pursuers weren't stupid, either. Gardren, if that bastard had survived, must have a plan. He couldn't just travel around Virma, could he?

He had the choice of two clans, Oronsteg and Hardar. But where would that spawn of Holosh go?

They had already combed the area and ended the suffering of the poor warrior, but their leader was still thinking about where Bran had gone. Where would the leader have gone, then?

To Clan Hardar, no doubt. The road would be safer, and less work for him:  the prey would have walked right into his hands! But Bran Gardren had been headed to Clan Oronsteg, and that's where he would go simply because he needed information, and he could obtain it only in one place. As for Hardar...could he really trust them?

He couldn't trust anyone; that was the correct answer. He wouldn't have gone to Hardar; he wouldn't have even entertained that possibility.

And still...

The leader stood up.

"El, where's the pigeon?"

He wrote a few words, tied a piece of parchment to the bird's foot, and released it into the night sky. Gardren and someone else escaped. We're in pursuit.

What else could he write? Nothing, really. The things he had already written were a death sentence for several dozen men or even an entire clan. Maybe the toddlers could survive, but that wasn't a given.

So you escaped, Gardren? And you think that you have something left to protect, to rely on? You bit off more than you can chew, Bran, and soon, you're going to realize it.

The man bared his teeth like a wolf, looking at the blue sky.

"Four will go to Clan Hardar to look for the runaways. I don't think they're there, but we need to be sure. The other eight are with me. We're heading to the Oronstegs."

The Virmans exchanged looks and obeyed without question.

Hunting a prey like Bran Gardren was fraught with danger. One could try to hunt a viper, but in the end, who would catch whom?

Two groups of people went in different directions, looking for tracks of the Chief of Gardren. It didn't take long: Bran's crippled legs, Angelina's inexperience in the forest... What was there to look for, really?

In less than an hour, despite Bran's efforts to remain unnoticed, the pursuers picked up their trail.

***

Bran wasn't under any illusions. He knew there would be a chase. How many men, though? He had no idea.

What could he do? Use ranged weapons, sneak attacks...

He could try making a sling. He had a good rope, and finding rocks in Virma was a piece of cake. In skilled hands, it was a dangerous weapon; it might prove useful. Too bad Angelina couldn't even cover his back. He had taken one crossbow and a supply of bolts, but...

She was no kyria. Even if Her Highness had somehow managed to defeat two enemies, it didn’t mean much: killing in the heat of battle was one thing, and out of combat quite another.

Her accuracy was also up in the air. Nobody had been shooting at her back there, but it might happen later.

Bran clenched his teeth.

If only he had known! Her Highness would be sitting safely under her brother's wing. But no use thinking about what-ifs. He had a duty: get her out even if it killed him—because returning without her meant death, too, both for him and for Virma. Edward would never forgive anyone for something like that.

He wondered if those, so to speak, conspirators might not realize that—or realize all too well. He would have to ask them when he caught them, then.

Bran knew his skills; in a day or two, he would have made that guy on the shore spill his guts, but he didn't have enough time. But if he got his hands on someone when he did...

He would learn everything, up to what hole in a bathhouse wall that man had used to spy on women in his childhood. He had his ways.

All he needed was time and opportunity.

Chapter 8

Wellster, Cardin.

"Everything's ready, darling."

Her former majesty Albitta narrowed her eyes in pleasure.

“Finally! When, Rob, when?"

"Tomorrow night a ball will be held in the palace. Do you understand me? Tomorrow. Night.”

"A ball?"

"Yes, dear. A masquerade. Do you want to drop in for a visit?"

Albitta bit her lip. She knew that she could do it, that the final countdown had already begun, yet still, she felt scared. After ten years, she was used to hiding and being afraid.

"Oh, yes. But if—"

"Gardwig will be there, but not for long, I talked to his healer. We have everything going for us. That countess...Earton has arrived. I think she's his mistress, even though she's said to be the student of a healer. Women like that have many names, after all. Din Dashar probably was the one to treat him, while she swung her hips around to up the chances of a successful negotiation."

Albitta glared at him.

"And?"

"Obviously, he's going to invite her to his bedroom while Milia's pregnant. It's a masquerade, after all. The queen won't come, only Princess Maria, and I was able to find out that she will be occupied by Jerisson Earton throughout the night. Makes sense. The king will take the countess, and the princess, the count."

Yes. The count had complained about that to Roivel, who promptly told Edwin Fremont.

Some people never learn, really. On the other hand, that information wasn't especially sensitive: so what if the count would have his hands full with the young princess and not have any time for his wife? She would understand.

And could Roivel really suspect a conspiracy? After all, if everyone knew about a plot, it had either failed or already succeeded. Nobody would have expected it if they were in Count Roivel's place. He had simply shared a piece of meaningless trivia with a good man, Baron Fremont, and the duke drew conclusions, knowing Gardwig and his penchant for scooping up all women around him for himself.

"And..."

"I'll arrive a bit earlier with my men, and you will come later."

"What about Henry?"

"We won't take the boy, not yet."

"Why?" Albitta asked, surprised. He would never be allowed at the ball, of course, but they could sneak him in and reveal him to everyone at the right moment...

Robert Alcine shook his head.

"No, darling. Don't."

“Why?”

"Something might happen. If a fight breaks out, the boy might get hurt, and we don't have a backup king."

Actually, they did: two boys who were growing up with their mothers just like Henry. Still, they had only summoned Albitta's real child into the capital; Robert could have easily switched him for any other boy, of course, and not really care, but Henry was already there, and not hidden in a backwoods village.

There was one other thing, too. He was Robert's blood.

No matter which way you looked at it, Henry was his son, his only son, other than some bastards born of peasant girls, but who would ever count them? Definitely not Duke Alcine.

No, he didn't feel any father's love for the boy, no real affection, where would it come from? His love for Camilla had burned out all of his feelings and desires, leaving only grief and hate. Still...it would have been nice if Gardwig was replaced by Robert's own son. Dramatic irony at its best.

Robert wasn't sure himself what exactly he felt for the boy, yet he did feel something. He dropped that thought. It was better to discuss something that both of them were familiar with than scratch his head over some mysterious feelings.

"Look. The royal guards are ours, bought and paid for. They will be the ones to guard the palace on the night of the ball. There are also the cuirassiers, but their commander gave me his word that they'll be three hours late, sharp. We've also neutralized the mounted and armored regiments. The mounted knights are hunting Bear's gang, and if they return early, we'll get rid of them."

"How?"

Robert chuckled.

Easy enough. What was the point of riders without their mounts? One didn't have to be a genius to sneak some buttercups, sweet clovers, or ragworts into straw or pour linseed into grain. Just pay the stableboy—and they had found the right one.

The horses probably wouldn't die, maybe one or two, no more than that—the man had promised that. They would need a lot of care from their riders, though. To restore justice, the soldiers might run to the palace on their own two feet, wielding heavy lances, or they might not.

The armored knights were the most problematic regiment. Robert hadn't even risked talking to their commander, the old Count Chantaine, justifiably afraid of...not even being reported to the king, but rather being cut down right where he stood. Then Chantaine would say that that's how Robert had arrived, in two halves. Gardwig, however, unwittingly helped the duke's plan by sending the knights out of town. He was going to leave for the Summer Palace as soon as he sent the princess off and needed to make arrangements.

The rest of the soldiers were either far away or... Robert knew very well the worries and goals of everyone—as well as their price. He paid well. On the night of the ball, the palace would be full of people happy to raise their weapons against Gardwig—or at least let mercenaries pass through.

Albitta carefully listened to Robert, asked questions, and looked for faults, but there were none. They had spent so much time preparing, poured in so much effort...

They will succeed.

They must.

And at that same time the next day, she would have a crown on her head.  Her Majesty Albitta, the regent for His Majesty Henry.

The triumph of justice drew near, but something bothered Albitta. Something didn't let her put her mind to rest. What was it?

She didn't know.

Albitta wrote it off as the usual pre-battle jitters and calmed down.

***

Someone was still awake at the embassy as well. Jerisson and his wife were lying on the bed and quietly talking. The count was also chewing on a sandwich.

After fulfilling conjugal duties, men often start craving food, and women, conversation, so they were combining the two, even if Lily really wanted to snatch a piece of meat from her husband's plate.

She only managed to hold out thanks to a monumental effort of will. After all, it's not like eating at night was good for your health. Talking was certainly less risky.

"Miranda wants us to let her go tomorrow."

"Where?" Jerisson asked, chomping down on the food.

"Rutha came here. When she learned that we were going to the ball and leaving Mirrie with the servants, she invited her to visit them. Do you mind?"

"The Eveers?"

The count didn't seem displeased.

"Why not?" Lily asked, shrugging. "I talked to Rutha. She'll show the girl how they cut gems, make jewelry, work with gold and silver..."

"Didn't Master Leitz show her that?"

Lily threw her arms up.

"He would have  but he has no time, and Mirrie's not really suited to making jewelry. This craft requires talent, too: some will spend days toiling only to create a scribble, while another might draw up a quick chalk sketch on a wall that everyone will admire. Mirrie's a smart girl, but she's no artist or jeweler. But looking at the process won't hurt her."

"So you've already permitted her to go and now want my approval?"

Jerisson was quite mellow: no shouting that she was his daughter or that his wife was meddling in his business. And why would he, really? Let the girl take a break.

"Who will accompany her?"

"The Virmans, of course. Have you seen how Gael looks at Rutha?"

Jerisson hadn't, but he knew that many women loved matchmaking.

"I believe you. You think it might work out for them?"

"At the very least, she doesn't loathe him. I thought that after what happened to her, the poor girl would give men a wide berth, but she isn't. Gael can get her to talk and make her laugh."

"What about Master Schmulz?"

"Kreth's really happy that she hasn't shut off from the world. He was seriously afraid for her mind. For him, a man who knows everything about Rutha, doesn't judge her, accepts her the way she is, a man who would love to bust up any bastards who crossed her path, a man able to stand up for himself and his wife, is a gift from the Gods."

"Aldonai."

"Yes, Aldonai, dear. Especially since our Gael is head over heels for her, and he's not thinking about a roll in the hay, but actual romance. He would marry her if Rutha agrees."

"Marry her?"

"He's definitely going to propose. If it turns out well, we'll get a few more good masters—after all, it's hard for Helke to work all by himself, even if he's enlisted everyone he can trust. And then, Helke's more of a jeweler than a craftsman of household devices."

"I can't seem to understand; where are you getting all of that from?"

Lily shrugged, trying to look casual.

"Why wouldn’t I? You know everything yourself, you simply haven't set your mind to thinking about that. Everything's on the surface, it's just people are often too lazy to make a connection. And that's frightening."

Jerisson shook his head.

"How could I miss that in you back then?"

Lily shrugged once again, which succeeded in drawing her husband's attention to her cleavage and away from the Eveers.

"You were simply looking the other way."

"Such nonsense...at least now, I'm looking at what I should be."

"At the washbasin!" Lily giggled, swiftly rolling aside. "Stop trying to wipe your fingers off on me, or Nanook will mistake me for a sausage and eat me up!"

Jerisson laughed out loud but went to wash his hands. Why argue about such a trifling matter? Maybe that's what family life was like.

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Oronsteg.

Bran's predictions about the pursuit turned out to be absolutely correct, which considerably dampened his mood. If he were alone, he would have escaped and neutralized the assassins, but with the princess on his hands...

Angelina kept her chin up, never complaining about pain or fatigue, obediently chewing dried meat at campsites, and not the least bit doubting her protector. Bran, however, doubted himself a lot.

By the evening, his doubts reached their peak. Whatever plan he managed to invent, it didn't seem viable.  So let's say he left the princess. Would he find her later? Virma had no wolves or large predators, but she was a princess.

Not Tira, not Anna, or any other Virman woman. How could he just abandon her, so unused to living in the wilderness? Yet Bran knew there was no other choice. Either he dealt with the pursuers, or the pursuers dealt with them. They were moving slowly because Bran purposely picked areas that were hard to track. Still, the pursuers knew where they were headed.

Clan Oronsteg, what else could it be? Bran didn't want to go to Clan Hardar; they had a strong dislike of him for certain reasons. Well, there was no helping it. He had his own clan to take care of—and the whole of Virma, too. He couldn't attend to any clan in particular.

But what should he do with Angie?

Her Highness was the first to speak up.

"Bran, they're chasing us."

She wasn't asking; she knew that just as well as the Chief of Gardren.

"They are," the Virman agreed. "They are."

"So what can we do?"

"Flee."

"They'll catch us before we reach Oronsteg." Angelina wasn't panicking, she was thinking straight. "I can't hide, I'm not a good climber...I'm a burden."

Bran appreciated the princess' tact. She had glossed over his, to put it mildly, leg problems and his preference for riding. He knew that she knew that he knew...that line could continue infinitely. The point was clear: their enemies would catch up to them, and then Bran wouldn't be able to protect her. Someone would get to Angelina, just as those men on the coast would have gotten to her if not for Edaina's sacrifice.

"You cannot be a burden, Angie. You're a godsend."

Angelina sighed but didn't let him throw her off track.

"Bran, I don’t believe that you haven't thought of anything."

Gardren rubbed his forehead.

"Angie, I do have an idea..."

"And it is something I won't like," the princess replied calmly. "I get it."

"We'll have to split up for some time," Bran said, coming clean. Where had it all gone? He was an expert in wordplay, he could win over anyone, but at that very moment, looking into her grey eyes, he was at a loss for words. Why couldn't he lie to her?

Angelina clearly wasn't happy with his answer, but Bran once again saw that a princess was a far cry from a kitchen maid. She knew everything about duty and necessity. Her Highness nodded.

"For how long?"

"I think I'll have to leave until the morning."

"Will you help me to make up a bed?"

"Of course, Angie."

Holosh, what a woman!

No panic, no screams, no scolding...even if she was visibly afraid and nervous.

"If I don't come back, you should keep moving south, Your Highness."

Angelina waved her hand.

"Bran, if you don't come back, it won't matter. I'll die anyway, which is why you must come back in the morning. No other way."

Gardren shook his head.

"If it's an order..."

"Yes. It's an order, and make sure you carry it out."

Bran made a deep court bow.

"As my princess wishes."

Angelina blushed but kept up his pretense.

"The princess commands you to survive. If you die, don't even try coming back. I'll kill you myself."

Bran paused for a few seconds, weighed her threat, and laughed out loud.

"Angie, you're terrific."

He was rewarded with a shy smile and ears red with embarrassment.

***

For the night, Bran decided to put the princess into a small hollow between two hills. It was sheltered from both sides, and as for starting a small fire and making camp, even children could do that, let alone a grown man. For the rest, it was a dilemma in either case. If they stayed in one place, they would be caught. Bran couldn't fight them off while protecting Angie.

If he decided to have a faceoff with the pursuers, he would have to leave Angie behind and worry about her.

Still, the second option was better.

He would survive, doing his damnedest and tearing their throats with his teeth, but survive. And if he didn't come back... He hoped for the better. Their original plan was to send a pigeon after reaching Clan Oronsteg; they couldn't, not anymore. In a day or two, Richard would start worrying, and Olav would send out a search party. At least Angie would get a chance. She had weapons, supplies for two days...

Bran told all of that to the princess while making camp. Angelina nodded. She was doing her best to keep it together and only gave in when he was about to go. She slid forward, put her hands on his shoulder, and clumsily but bravely touched Bran's lips with hers.

The Chief of Gardren was far from cold. He made an effort to hold back...for half a second and then surrendered to the kiss. They barely pried themselves away from each other.

"Come back," Angelina whispered, not sure if she was begging him or ordering him.

"I will," Bran replied, making a vow. "I will."

And he went in the direction they had come from.

He was limping and leaning on his cane.

Knowing Bran, Angelina didn't doubt for an instant that that cane was hiding surprises. And really, he was bound to succeed. She was waiting for him. How could he die? She would rip his head off then!

***

Slowly, step by step, Bran was retracing his own steps. He didn't need to hurry.

In matters such as those, haste was never a good thing. He had spent an entire day walking forward, and now he had to go back... Stingy bastards! Couldn't they have given horses to their men?

People who met Bran Gardren usually felt pity for him, a cripple who could barely walk. It never occurred to them that that poor fellow had perfectly mastered his own body. How could he? He couldn't even fight with a sword or an axe. Just push him, and he'll fall on his back!

His goal was simple. Don’t let them push you.

A stiletto, poison, a chain, a garrote, a crossbow—Bran had learned all kinds of weapons that didn't require tremendous strength to wield. It was hard, and it was painful; he didn't care. Dying was more painful, anyway. Was there really any point in whining in, say, situations such as the current one?

He simply had to get there, find them, and sort it out, and that's what Bran was doing, slowly walking and listening.

The hills of Virma answered him with their song. Hedgehogs romped in the grass, hunting mice, an owl was hooting in the distance, the wind was picking through the weeds...

It was the latter that became the first traitor. It brought Bran the smell of skin, sweat, fire, bread... For a second, Gardren froze and sniffed the air—and grew twice as careful. Anything might happen.

At that moment, they were hunters, and he was prey. But a cornered rat wouldn't just attack a cat: it would even rush a lion. Hadn't they thought about that?

Bran touched his sling. He had left the crossbow with Angelina.I It would help her feel safe; at least she could shoot an enemy from afar. Bran made himself dismiss that thought.

Don't think about Angelina. Not here, not now.

He had no right to let his guard down and start questioning himself. He could only succeed if he remained completely and utterly calm. He would make it.

Bran could see pretty well in the dark, and the priests of Holosh were generally used to the darkness, as their rituals were held at night, in the light of the Dead Sun.

Slowly, he sneaked around the camp, carefully watching where the wind blew. They were unlikely to smell him, but why risk it?

Too bad, he couldn't come closer. He could have poisoned them. Bran had a poison that, if poured into the campfire, triggered various visions. Unfortunately, that was not an option.

How many of them were there? One, two, six...that few?

Ah, they also had sentries—two, in fact. It made sense but presented a problem for Bran. How would he quietly take down both of them at the same time? All right, maybe not at the same time. He could remove one and then go to the other...but he would have to move very fast.

Fine. It's not like he had a choice.

In that case, it didn't matter who would be his first target. Few people knew that being hit in the liver was fatal, especially if the blow was made with a skilled hand and a poisoned stiletto. Bran waited for the sentry who paced around the clearing to turn his back on him and withdrew from the tree, a dark shadow against the backdrop of the night.

One hand was placed over the mouth, while another stabbed the liver. One thrust was enough, as long as it was done correctly. In a couple of minutes, the body gradually sunk to the ground.

Then he switched to the second sentry. Unlike the previous one, he wasn't pacing around, but rather sitting down and sharpening his sword. Quite right, too; weapons required maintenance. A string softly wrapped around his throat, restricting his ability to make noise. The warrior still tried to swing his sword at Bran, but the latter, anticipating his blow (he would have done the same in his place), dodged it.

Bran slowly lowered the second corpse to the ground and quickly rummaged through his pockets, taking his purse and his belt. He would sort through it later; the belt clearly wasn't empty. He entertained the thought of pulling off the boots as well, but to Holosh with it.

It was time to turn his attention to the men sitting next to the fire.

That's where the sling came in: light, easy to handle, almost silent.

When a stone swished through the air and slammed into the temple of one of the Virmans by the fire, the rest didn't at first realize what was going on, giving Bran the opportunity to shoot one more stone.

That one wasn't as successful, however; it only hit the forehead, bumping against hard bone and only knocking the man unconscious. Fine; let's leave him for questioning.

The four remaining Virmans sprung to their feet and rushed toward Bran.

Idiots. Who would ever run toward an enemy? They should be approached slowly and carefully, like a viper. Bran immediately lived up to his nickname.

After all, why make a sling and not a bolas? The recipe was almost the same: a rope, rocks...

The bolas heartily swept around the neck of one of the Virmans. The man grabbed the rope and croaked. His vertebrae seemed undamaged, but the rest might not have fared as well.

Two throwing daggers found their targets.

The last Virman managed to dodge.

Then he froze, his sword in his hand. Was he their leader? Should Bran try to take him alive?

No, that was impossible.

Killing him wouldn't be hard, but talking him alive for questioning? Bran could get hurt in the process without gaining anything important. His hand slid toward another knife.

Stupid bastards.

Who would ever leave the fire for a dark forest? Of course, they were easy to deal with. Bran had had time for his vision to adapt, but those guys needed at least two minutes. Who would give them that?

"Uhhhhhhh..."

The man hit with a bolas produced a colorful sound. The Virman who, until then, had been keenly watching his surroundings, for a moment, glanced at the ground. Bran seized the opportunity.

The dagger struck the temple of the last opponent: not its blade, however, but its handle. It was enough. The Virman sunk to the ground, momentarily sending him into unconsciousness, while Bran, not about to waste time, ran to him as fast as his limping allowed.

Some had to be finished off, some had to be tied up. He had at least a couple of hours. Not bad.

***

Tork Hardar opened his eyes. He felt awful. Bran had decided to pull no punches and brought him around by pressing a red-hot blade against his cheek. It was pure agony.

He couldn't even scream: a gag was firmly set in his mouth.

Bran waited out the first fit of pain and stupor and stared Tork right in the eyes.

"Don't scream, or I'll shove the gag back. Got it?”

Tork slowly closed his eyes.

He knew very well what that situation could result in. But...how?

HOW?

There had been eight of them with only—he quickly looked around—the Chief of Gardren against them. Nobody else.

How could he have taken them down so easily? That spawn of Holosh!

The gag left his mouth, and Bran politely offered the captive a sip of water.

"Let's talk."

Tork smirked with his dry lips.

"Why? You'll kill me anyway."

"That's true," Bran said, not even arguing. "But killing you may take a long time. I have it, and I also have enough imagination. And after death, you'll go straight to my master."

A snake pendant shook before Tork's eyes, making him shiver and remember in what state they had found their friend by the river. Exactly what Bran had intended. Priests of Holosh had a certain reputation. Executioners? No. Assassins? No.

What could scare those who faced death every hour of every day? Only one thing—inhumane cruelty. The creatures who left the temple of Holosh...nobody would have the heart to call those splinters of human beings men. It wasn't just horrible. It was more.

For instance, one man had been sentenced to live as a toad until the end of his days and given to the temple. The priests didn't turn him into a toad, not exactly, but the resemblance was clear. There were also other stories that could make even veteran warriors quiver in fear.

Death, by itself, wasn't scary. But the prospect of something like that being done to you, followed by sending you to Holosh...

"Will you kill me quickly if I tell you everything?"

"If you don't lie, I'll be quick, but if you do... Remember, not all of your people are dead. I can check your words and kill you later."

Tork closed his eyelids, hopeless. He had lost, and he saw no way out. No worthy one, at least.

On the one hand, Olive disliked traitors. On the other... Holosh liked them a lot. But better a short stay than an eternity.

And so, Tork started his story.

He would die anyway. Still, at least his death wouldn't be preceded by hours, if not days, of unimaginable agony. He didn't want that—at all.

***

Two hours later, Bran Gardren took off, leaving eight dead bodies in his wake. He was in a terrible mood. Tork hadn't known much; he was just a foot soldier.

Who was the leader? He didn't know. He wasn't lying, either—Bran could see through such things with ease. People weren't really complicated. You could control your speech and your facial expressions, but what about your pulse, your breath, your perspiration? Learning to notice such things allowed him to discern any lie. Tork had very little information.

He was commanded by the Chief of Clan Hardar. Really, what was it they were missing?

Bran's intuition hadn't failed him: if they had headed to Hardar lands, they would be trapped. Good thing he chose wisely.

Tork said they were instructed not to let Bran and his crew get to Oronsteg. They received a pigeon with a message. From where?

Who'd tell Tork such things? He was a bastard son of the chief's brother, basically, an errand boy. The chief had commanded, and he took his sword and went to carry out his orders.

Chop-chop!

His task was simple: ambush the boats, kill everyone, and take the princess to Clan Hardar, preferably alive...but not necessarily. As long as everyone was dead, specifically a certain Bran Gardren, everything was fine.

So that's why Angelina was allowed to shoot as many as two bolts. That's why she wasn't killed immediately. They were surprised, and they had their orders, too. How could they disobey the clan chief?

Why did they need Angelina, though? It was obvious. What would have Bran done himself? Bargained with Richard, of course. Anybody knew that the prince would do everything for his sister's sake. And not just the prince; Olav would have given in as well. Virma couldn't be at odds with Ativerna at that moment.

So was it the Avesterians? The Elvanians? Someone else? Even the Khangans? Had any of them visited Clan Hardar? Tork did his best to remember but to no avail. He was genuinely under the impression that it was Virman business with no outside involvement.

Bran decided that it was still something.

So, going back to his thought, what could have happened to Angelina? Either death or dishonor, although the latter was a death sentence for any who tried it. There were no idiots who would believe in Edward being merciful.

Let's imagine a truly far-fetched situation. Angelina is abducted, forced into marriage, which is then consummated. Would Edward recognize that marriage and make his peace with it? Ridiculous.

If anything like that happened, the abductor would be found as a matter of principle and hung out in pieces on the trees along the entire coast. The pieces would be small enough, too; there were lots of trees there.

So what if they just murdered the princess? That option was more viable. Edward's fury would fall on the whole of Virma, true, but there probably would be a way to direct it—at Clan Gardren, for instance. They could blame Bran for dragging her into the wilderness, not being able to protect her... Really, there were lots of ways to paint a picture vivid enough to hang it inside a Laveri palace. And the clan would have no way out and no chance of exonerating themselves. Even Olav would get caught in that.

And the true culprits, having framed whom they had wanted, would get into the Circle.

What did they need for that? Angelina. Either killed in the right place at the right time or miraculously saved. And that's where the situation with the girls became clear.

Aliah, a young girl who hadn't known the area or the roads might have stumbled onto absolutely anything. Maybe she had been answering the call of nature behind a bush and happened to overhear the conspirators talking, or...

Bran considered the circumstances that could lead to someone losing a clasp. Had there been any deaths around the Virmans recently? He wasn't sure.

Maybe she had witnessed a murder instead of overhearing something and then hid a clue she found—the clasp. She might have found the murderer, started blackmailing him, asked him for money, and paid for it with her life.

Could she have told him about the evidence? Easily!

Could she have told him that she left it to her friend, putting Ashley Lorin at risk? Her Highness had told him that both of the girls' chests had been searched...

She could. Declaring "If something happens to me, everyone will learn about you, as I left a letter to..." never helped keep you safe—it only increased the number of murders. Both you and the one you trust would get killed, all to once again affirm the old principle: never leave the blackmailer alive.

It made sense. At least the two remaining girls were out of danger, for the time being. Both Jean and Laura could be easily questioned, especially on such a topic, and they wouldn't mind crying and sighing over the body of their friends, either. It should be clear that they didn't know anything.

Bran would take care of the Hardar chief himself. As soon as he returned, he would make him remember everything and spill his guts. At that moment, he couldn't spend too much time questioning; Angelina was alone. But when he had the time...

***

Angelina was still sitting by the fire, looking at the flames with unseeing eyes and stirring the embers with a branch. When Bran came out of the darkness, she raised her crossbow.

"Angie, it's me."

The crossbow was promptly dropped, and the princess leaped at Bran, almost like a lynx. She threw her arms around him, making the Virman stumble and grab hold of a tree that was, fortunately, growing next to them.

"You came back! You're alive!"

She burst into sobs.

She had gone crazy with worry while waiting for him and realized it wasn't her own life she feared for, but his. If she died, it didn't matter. Why would she want a life without him?

Bran awkwardly caressed her hair.

Life was an odd thing. There he was, used to having as many women as he wanted, a beautiful wife—even if she didn't love him and had married him for convenience—but as luck would have it, he found someone who didn't care who he was, a clan chief or a commoner, a priest of Holosh or a servant of Aldonai. Angelina saw only Bran, his essence, his soul, his eyes...

And she loved him.

Bran knew, were he to leave the island the next day, even his wife wouldn't follow him, and neither would his concubines. Nobody would; maybe twenty or thirty trusted men—his confidants, his friends. His children might.

Angelina would, too. Anywhere, even to the lands that they said lay beyond the horizon.

And the saddest part was that Bran would be the first to stop her because he loved her back and didn't wish her ill. Sometimes, the best you could do for the one you love was to leave them to avoid placing them in danger.

"It's all right, girl. I'm fine, everything's fine..."

Was it? It took Angelina fifteen minutes to calm down and wipe her nose. Bran patted her head, saying something in Virman in a soothing voice, and she absorbed his body into hers.

She wasn't alone in the world. She would never be alone. Even if they parted, Aldonai forbid such an injustice, she wouldn't be alone, because Bran would always be behind her, unseen, watching her from afar.

Aldonai, thank you for letting him exist, for bringing us together...just for that.

But humans are strange and greedy creatures: give them an inch, and they'll take a mile. Angelina wanted more, too, a home, children, a family—with Bran. She didn't doubt that if her beloved were to live in Ativerna, he would have quickly cracked the whip, bringing to heel all the courtiers he could get his hands on. Then he would have gotten his hands on the rest and done the same. That was his nature.

The princess wasn't deluded. She knew (who would ever hide that and why?) that Bran had a wife and six concubines in his clan. He only had three children, though, two sons and a daughter, all of them accidental, as he didn't want his deformity to be inherited. They couldn't have anything, other than a night together, but even her own body didn’t belong to her, not really.

Still, nobody could take her love.

Bran waited for Her Highness to calm down and looked her in the eyes. He carefully wiped the tear tracks with his palm.

"Angie, can you walk?"

"I've rested a bit. I want to sleep, but if I have to..."

"You have to. Here, chew on that."

Cava seeds were also known in Virma. They were brought from the Khanganat, cost a lot of money, and were valued for their invigorating effect. Angelina shoved a few of them into her mouth, cracked them with a crunch, winced at the bitterness, but obediently chewed.

"Will it help?"

“I hope so. But if you get dizzy, tell me immediately, all right?"

"Yes."

Bran started packing their things.

He really didn't like what Tork had told him about the pigeon they sent. Who knew what those bastards had on their minds?

Or, more precisely, he did have a few ideas, but really didn't want to entertain them. They simply had to reach Clan Oronsteg as quickly as possible; there, he would send a message to Olav.

Please help me, Holosh!

In ten minutes, having carefully put out the fire, they headed toward the Oronsteg lands. Angelina wasn't complaining or arguing.

If Bran said that it was important...

Onwards!

***

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

Richard was sleeping.

What woke him up? He wasn't sure himself. Had a twig snapped? A floorboard creaked? What happened?

The prince's reaction was straightforward. He opened his eyes and pulled a dagger from under his pillow. Strike first and cry later.

The figure in the doorway shook its head.

“Don’t."

Richard would have recognized that voice anywhere.

"Tira?"

He wasn't loud, but in the quiet of the night, even a whisper was like thunder.

The girl nodded and closed the door behind her.

Yes, it was her, dressed in only a plain shirt, her hair flowing down her shoulders. She crossed the room without a sound and sat on the bed.

Richard pulled on his blanket.

He was sleeping naked, and couldn't help but react to a girl wearing a see-through outfit. Thankfully, the blanket was heavy enough to hide his response. Otherwise, it would have been embarrassing.

"I...I..."

Apparently, sneaking into Richard's bedroom took all of her bravery.

That said, doing that hadn’t really required that. Bran Gardren, knowing very well what was going on, hadn't just arranged for Edaina to enlighten Tira, but also warned Olav. Nobody had tried to stop Tira; they simply looked the other way.

Tira breathed out and finished her phrase.

"Richard, I know that you're going to leave, but I love you, and I want you to be my first. Please."

Richard didn't even notice that she was stumbling over each word, that her ears were burning crimson bright enough to light up the blanket, that she sniffled a few times (not because of embarrassment—the floor was cold and she barefoot, as wearing boots seemed unromantic). He stared at her in complete shock.

He was also tongue-tied.

"Tira...I..."

"I know you're going to marry someone else. But at least we'll have these nights. Please!"

"What if you get pregnant?"

"No. Mother gave me something..."

Tira really had been eating a spoonful of wild carrot seeds for several days straight. They were thought to be a contraceptive.

In truth, however, the seller had sold her cumin seeds. She didn't care about such trifles, though. Did she actually want Richard's baby? Hard to tell. She did want to have at least a part of her beloved but didn't have a clue about children and how much effort they required.

She decided to let Fleyna decide. If she blessed Tira with a child, even eating all the carrots in the neighborhood wouldn’t help. If she didn't...

Same thing. Whatever the girl did didn’t truly matter.

Richard closed his face with his hands.

Here she is, the girl of your dreams. She's sitting right next to you, touching your hand. One word, and she's yours. But do you have the right?You know your father's story. You've sworn that off, you...

The voice of reason droned on and on. Richard decided to make his final attempt.

"Tira, I can never be with you. I'll leave, and you'll be all alone. Is it worth it? Find a good man, marry him..."

"You don't love me?"

Eye to eye, so close that lying was impossible. Breath mixed with breath, and the smell of mint and meadow grass hit his nose.

"I do."

"And I love you. Don't push me away, please."

"It will hurt later."

"It already does, for me. And as for later...let's think about it when it comes."

"Tira..."

It was almost a moan. She knew then: one more step, one more effort, and the fortress would fall before her.

"Richard...don't give me to someone else."

And His Highness surrendered.

Blast it all! Couldn’t he be happy for a chance? At least for a day, for an hour?

His father had been married twice, but he wasn't, and it was still a while before he would be. Let him have those several nights of happiness! He would marry Maria of Wellster, but love...nobody could forbid him to love.

And when he looked at the waves, he would remember the unimaginably blue eyes of Tira Rovson Elleig. Let him have that.

What's easier, to love and to lose or to never love at all?

Fate didn't give Richard a chance. He was already in love, and he knew what he would lose.

Slowly, his lips touched her slender hand, so unlike the well-groomed hands of court ladies. Tira was lithe, like an ermine, and her hands were rough—the hands of a person used to fighting, tending to cattle, and climbing mountains.

"My love..."

The way he said it made Tira forget everything.

She bent down and reached for his warm lips. And then...she didn't even realize how it happened.

One moment, she was in control, as a warrior was supposed to be, and a moment later, she was lying down with Richard looming over her, leaning on his elbows and kissing her in such a way that she forgot all she was thinking about, wanting only to kiss him back.

Richard, I beg you, more... To Holosh with restraint!

And when two bodies fused into one, when a girl became a woman and for the first time in her life, started moving in unison with someone else, when breath and heartbeat mingled together...

They didn't regret anything. They knew that later, they would feel pain, that they would be condemned, that...

They didn't care. That moment was only theirs, that brief moment of shared bliss. And somewhere in the heavens, where gods ought to be, Fleyna smiled at her mortal daughter. Oh, men and your games. I bless you, my dear.

***

Bran would have walked all day and all night if not for certain factors. His legs were lame, and Angelina wasn't used to walking at a brisk pace for a long time; princesses generally weren't taught that. That's why half a day of riding turned into a day and a night of walking, if not more.

They still hadn't reached the spot where Oronsteg men were waiting for them with horses, and Bran wouldn't have gone there anyway, expecting an ambush or two on the way there.

He and Angelina walked until around ten in the morning and then decided to make a stop to rest before continuing their journey.

Bran made the girl take off her shoes, dismissing all rules of propriety, and inspected her feet. He massaged her toes and ankles, shook his head, and proceeded to chaff oak bark to put it inside her boots.

"Pull them on, Angie."

"Will it help?"

"Yes."

It wasn't perfect—ideally, it needed to be boiled to make a foot bath—but it was something. At least she would avoid getting large calluses.

"How long do we have to walk?"

"I think we'll get there by the morning if we leave before nightfall."

Bran threw a hateful look at his legs, and Angelina hastened to interrupt him.

"I'm a lousy companion, aren’t I?"

"You're giving yourself a bad name, doll. I wouldn't trade you for anyone else."

It wasn't exactly the truth. He would have, as long as it kept her safe, but if she wasn't...

Let her be with him.

Simply because he was sure he would go to great lengths to keep her safe. The others, however? There was no way to be certain.

***

Richard woke up happy and content when the sun was already shining in his window. When he stretched his arm, he didn't find Tira next to him.

That was right, of course—a shame, but still right. It was him who was none the worse for that, while she would get all the blame, all the taunting and mocking, and gossip and accusations... Both of them knew that. He might realize it even more, yet he couldn't make himself refuse her.

Still, berating yourself was pointless.

Maybe such was the fate of men in their family: to love one woman and marry another.

The worst thing was, breaking the agreement with Gardwig was impossible. Maybe for another princess, but for a Virman girl? That would mean war, a long and hard one, too.

Usually, a king would try to find a bride on the same level, unless all potential candidates were closely related to him. Those who grew up in a royal family and knew what it was like.

Princess Maria was still young; she could be brought up and educated the right way. He would take care of it himself, and she would be grateful to him for their marriage and his friendship. She would never learn the difference between love and affection. Richard would never take it out on the girl; she was not to blame for his pain.

But his heart would always belong to another: a gorgeous blonde with eyes the color of winter ice.

Tira...his Tira. The arrow that pierced his heart. The shieldmaiden who slew him without making any blows, with just one look. How would he live without her? Richard didn't know.

It had been easier for his father. Jessamine understood him and knew her position, having made her peace with that. His mother hated his father's mistress, but also accepted her, in her own way. Jessamine never undermined her beloved, never flaunted her victory—she simply wanted to be by his side.

To live, to love, to bear his children... Tira could never do something like that. And Richard could never visit Virma. Or...they would have to discuss that. They couldn't meet often, of course, but at least sometimes, maybe?

Richard made himself stand up, wash up, dress, and take breakfast. The latter was especially relevant, seeing as the previous night made him hungry as a wolf.

He would need to send someone to Olav and talk to him...and also find Tira...

So much to do, so little time!

***

Olav turned up by himself. Maybe someone had whispered to him that Richard was up, and Hardring came down to have breakfast. He was talking about the weather, nature...

It looked adorable.

"Nice weather we're having today."

“Absolutely.”

"And it doesn't look like it's going to rain."

"I can't say for certain."

"Lots of fish in the nets, too. Don't hurt the girl, all right?"

Richard nodded, not even thinking about arguing.

"I won't. I hope nobody else will, either."

"I've talked to my people," Olav said, lowering a melon-sized fist on the table. It looked like a convincing proof of his words. Richard didn't doubt their truth, anyway. if Olav said something, it was the truth, and if somebody didn't like it...

Were any still alive who hadn’t?

"The broads won't even gossip about her, more like be jealous. As for the men...I told them I'll rip their legs off if they do."

That didn't seem like an empty threat.

Richard sighed, knowing that he had nobody else to share that with. Jess was far away, and he had never discussed anything like that with his father. And then, Jess didn't know that much about his father's history. Maybe Lilian Earton would have understood him; his father had told him she was in the know. But she wasn't there with him, either.

Why not Olav, then?

"She won't agree to come with me."

"I know. But I can look after her. I give you my word."

Richard was genuinely grateful.

"I'd love to visit sometime...could I?"

"It's all in the gods' hands. Be happy while you can, and they will judge you later."

"Once, such happiness proved costly to our house," Richard confessed. "And do I really have the right? I'm older and wiser. I should have stopped her."

"A woman in love? Have you ever tried stopping a storm, Your Highness?"

Olav wasn't mocking him. He simply spoke his mind.

All Richard could do was shake his head helplessly.

"I realize everything, but it feels...wrong."

Olav dismissed his concerns and poured ale in the cups.

Wrong? Life doesn't give a fig about our rules. It will eat them up and spit out the pit. Life is life, and you'll never make it bend to regulations, not for anything in the world.

***

Tira was sitting on a rock and looking at the sea.

She didn't want to see or talk to anybody. All she wished was to hide somewhere and ride out the storm raging in her soul without it spilling out. She felt too many things—but mostly, she was unimaginably happy.

Richard loved her back. Their feelings were mutual, even if doomed from the start. They might even have a child. She was happy, deliriously happy.

She got so lost in thoughts that she didn't hear pebbles creak under someone's boots—a critical mistake for a warrior.

She came back only when she saw Elg Torsveg sit on a rock next to her.

"A storm's coming."

Tira nodded, not wanting to talk to anyone, especially that nasty man who had poisoned her journey to the Hardrings. Let him fall down...under that very rock!

"A long one, too. Two days, at least."

His answer was another nod. Elg realized that he wouldn't get anything out of her and grew angry.

"So you're going to leave Virma with that..."

Was it a question or a spit?

Tira shrugged. That concerned only her, her mother, Richard, and the people of Elleig, not Torsveg. She wasn't going to pour her heart out, but neither was she going to fight.

Elg was stronger. He would have beaten her in five minutes, even if she had obtained a warrior's belt. He was more experienced; not the opponent she would have picked. Her teachers had told her that a true warrior never rushed into a battle blindly, but rather knew to gauge his or her strength and find an opponent his or her size.

"How come? Didn't he invite you?"

His voice was pure mockery. Tira wanted to turn around and push her fist into his nozzle, to make him choke on his fangs and drown in his anger. She couldn’t, though. And so, she didn't even deign to answer him or even look at him. She was afraid to lose her temper.

Elg was seething with anger; that was clear. But why? Tira held no illusions. He liked her, lusted after her, but he had a lot of other women to choose from. Why her? Why then? It would have made more sense for him to wait until Richard left and pick up the cast-offs, like a jackal after a lion.

The best answer would be silence, anyway. And if he tried something, she would fight to the death.

Elg sighed.

"Don't take it the wrong way, but see for yourself—you're on different paths. You'll ruin your life with him, and he'll ruin his. They've already found a suitable match for him, and it's not you. He'll leave soon, and they'll wolf you down..."

Tira held out for as long as she could, but finally, she had had enough.

"Mind your own business, Torsveg, and hope you won't get booted from your cushy spot, and I'll figure out my life on my own."

The implication was clear. The mask fell off the man's face.

"One day, you're going to come crawling, kissing my boots, wench..."

Tira shrugged again. That wasn't out of the realm of possibility, but...

"How about we talk then, not now?"

Elg slowly stood up. Huge, red-faced, with his fists clenching and unclenching, he presented a scary sight. Tira was completely unconcerned. She already knew that if he tried grabbing her, she would strike to kill. She would face her judgment later, even if before the gods.

There was no other way to win against that man. A fair fight was reserved for honorable people, and those like Elg deserved a stab in the liver.

But he spat on the pebbles and walked away. Tira finally allowed herself to relax.

What had made him stuck on her? What had happened? She considered asking for someone's advice. Maybe her mother? That wasn't a bad idea, but it would come later. She wanted a few more hours with the sea.

***

In Virma, the distances might have seemed long, at least for humans who had to walk across hills and mountains and rocks. It was different for pigeons. They didn’t need to walk, and flying in a straight line was always simpler.

A pigeon arriving at night and another one leaving in the morning was a common occurrence.

And the messages they carried didn't look out of ordinary, either. The keepers might have skimmed through them (such was their job), but still passed them on to their intended recipients.

And the birds flew on, carrying death on their wings.

Chapter 9

Wellster, Cardin.

"Momma, what are you going to wear?"

Lilian had only one costume for a masquerade, but since she had only worn it in Ativerna, she could wear it in Wellster without any scruples. Thank Aldonai the girls had packed it for her.

It was the very same one, a bat. Lily showed it to her daughter.

"Momma, can I stay with Rutha for the night?"

For a second, Countess Earton paused.

On the one hand, they were Eveers and strangers. On the other, what could threaten Miranda, with four Virmans and two dogs who needed only to smile to drive away a crowd of thugs? She would have to talk to Jerisson, though.

In truth, Lily really wanted to clear everything up with Jerisson and see how he would react to that stranger from before, the one in the bat costume. The main advantage of the outfit was its versatility. Lily could easily alter it as she saw fit, and that's what she was going to do.

Men rarely notice the details of women's clothing; they remember their entire appearance. If a woman looks nice and is dressed well, they will say so, but only a few can clarify that "she was wearing a green dress with white trimming, Khangan lacing, and an Elvan neckcloth embroidered with golden thread."

Jerisson wasn't one of those few.

She could leave the dress but transform a bat into a cat. She would make hairpins with "ears," gloves with "claws," a cat mask...oh, and a few accessories with cat's-eye quartz. The greenish one; it would complete the entire look.

At the right moment, all of that could be changed in three or four minutes, provided she had a secluded spot and preferably a mirror—but for the latter, Lily fetched a handbag, small enough to be attached to her belt during dancing.

What did noble ladies bring to a ball? Business as usual: a mirror, smelling salts, a comb, a few hairpins... Lily added a needle with black thread, just in case. What if her dress got torn? Would she have to spend the rest of the evening with a hole?

She also took a mini-first aid kit. A sachet with activated carbon, some poison nuts, a scalpel and tweezers—tiny, palm-sized, but irreplaceable in an emergency—and a twine of bandages sealed with wax.

All of that didn't take up too much space and could be easily stuffed into pockets, except for the scalpel and the tweezers. In an emergency, the bandages could also be used as a source of thread. They were sterile.

She had a needle; should she also bring a flask of alcohol? No need. Wine was everywhere, as was honey. That would be enough for basic disinfection.

And no, she wasn't paranoid. Just remember Jerisson, who had been poisoned right inside a palace. If not for Tahir's help, Lily wouldn't have a husband anymore...or her husband could be someone else.

As wise people said, a healthy dose of paranoia is vital for the paranoiac's health. Arguing with them would be more trouble than it was worth.

And she still wasn't sure how her relationship with Jerisson would turn out.

"Momma?" Mirrie drew her attention back.

"I don't mind, honey."

"Will you talk to Papa?"

"I will."

"I love you so much!"

"And I love you too, sunshine."

Both the countess and the viscountess were absolutely sincere.

***

Miranda's carriage arrived that afternoon, around two o'clock. Rutha came personally and found the time to talk to Lilian.

Countess Earton was fixing her hair.

"Your Grace..."

"Rutha," Lily said, smiling. She tried standing up, but Irene's indignant yell immediately made her sit down. "Nice to see you. How are you two?"

"We're getting used to our new place, Your Grace."

Lily smiled at that news.

"If you have any problems, I hope you won't hide them."

Rutha smiled with the corners of her mouth, but her eyes were sad.

"Your Grace, everything’s fine..."

Her voice was clearly hiding a sigh. It was hard for her, of course, it was. Any community always resists outside intrusion. Being new is always difficult, especially considering Rutha's past. They had come from another city, practically snatched from the paws of justice, after enduring a hardship...

Even if ninety-eight people treated them well, two or three idiots would still start badmouthing her.

She was asking for it. Prancing around, wiggling her behind...

There were always people like that, and the younger and prettier the victim, the nastier was their hissing. Such was the law of nature. Either they were jealous that nobody was enticed by their charms, or they simply liked bullying others. Lily thought that such people needed treatment—A radical one, by removing their speech organs, or, to put it simply, ripping out their tongues.

"Rutha, you and your father are under the protection of Count and Countess Earton. You're always welcome in the estate of Taral."

Reminding never hurt.

"Thank you, Your Grace. I'll...remember that."

Lily smiled at her in the mirror. She couldn't even nod.

Petty nobles? And did you know how many interesting things you could hear from your loyal maid if you fidget during hairstyling? Nobles paled by comparison.

Mirrie flew into the room like a small comet.

"Rutha!"

And she began rattling like a tractor, which was yet unknown in that world, while telling the latest news.

Mother and Father are going to the ball without her, even if she was known to visit the princesses back home. Would it kill them to take her? Even Lou-Lou and Nanook were going, but there was no need to be afraid of them, and by the way, Gael mentioned Rutha a few times...

Lily laughed out loud.

"Girls, get going! I'd love to turn around and chat, but Irene will tear my head off if I do."

"Your Grace, you may do whatever you wish," the hairdresser replied stiffly, "but your hair will get ruined immediately. You'll have to sit for two more hours."

"That's blackmail!" Miranda declared loudly, but still dragged Rutha away. "Momma, I'm counting on you."

"Go!" Lily “snarled,” adding, "I promised you I would do it."

"Kisses! I'm gone."

The door slammed shut, and Lily once again froze before the mirror. Truly, sometimes she preferred her old short ponytail to a long braid. Styling was a horror.

***

Jess was dressed as a noble outlaw or a rogue: a black cloak with blood-red lining, a black mask, a black doublet...even his shirt was black.

"Does your underwear match?" Lily couldn't help but ask.

"You'll find that out after the ball, Your Enchanting Grace," Jess replied with a smirk.

He looked like a real ladykiller, to say the least. Blue-eyed, tanned, with a dazzling smile... If Mirrie took after him, and she would, a harem wouldn't be such a bad decision. It would save so many men from being heartbroken! After all, a beautiful, smart, and loyal woman was a challenge few could resist.

"Today, it's you who's dazzling, Count," Lily countered.

"And I have the most charming cat as my companion." The count flawlessly guessed his wife's costume.

Lily smiled. She already knew when she would show her husband that strange woman and the black pearl earring—at the start of the ball.

Who knew what he might do in the heat of the moment? At least in Cardin, with Gardwig and the princess, he had no chance of dragging her to a quiet corner and starting a scandal. At home, they would calm down, mellow out, re-think everything...

Onwards, Your Grace!

***

The palace was glowing and coruscating. It was splendid...at least from a distance. Up close, it was much more mundane, but that always happens. Everyone admires the grace of ballerinas, but nobody knows how many calluses they have on their feet or how long they’ve sweated at the barre. That’s just not romantic.

So no need to ruin the impression—a ballroom, sympathetic courtiers, everyone waiting for His Majesty...

Lily beckoned to the first server bringing wine. Customarily, they were not to be noticed, but what if she needed information? And servants knew everything and more about their masters.

"Hello, friend."

The "friend" was so startled that he almost dropped the tray.

“M-M’lady?"

"Could you tell me how soon His Majesty will appear?"

A gold coin slid down from her hand, wrapped in black silk, into his, clad in white linen. In the meantime, Jerisson was greeting someone he knew.

The servant beamed.

"Thank you. They say, in half an hour, but he might be late. We've been ordered to commence, as His Majesty's leg is aching badly..."

He spoke the last words in a whisper only to Lily. In exchange, he received a smile and disappeared between the dancing nobles, gracefully juggling the tray with glasses.

Unfortunately, neither Miguel nor Lydia were going to be at the ball: Her Highness was not feeling well, and His Highness used the opportunity to visit a nice and...rather loose, morality-wise woman, using caring for his sister as an excuse for his absence.

Lily touched Jerisson's sleeve.

"Honey, I'll be back in a moment."

"Oh, I think I see Marquis Ostorn. I'll go talk to him."

Lily let her husband go and slowly, trying to avoid drawing attention, slipped into the nearest alcove. Thank Aldonai for big skirts; you could hide whatever you wanted there without them becoming any heavier. They already weighed a ton.

Poof!

She replaced the mask and the gloves, unclasped the top skirt and turned it into the bat cloak. Then came the hair: one touch, and the pins came off, completely transforming her hairdo. Oh, and she must not forget about the earring, either...

Aldonai, please help me! I might not be a true believer, and really, my parents were atheists, but help me, and I'll forever be in your debt!

***

Jerisson was in the middle of a polite conversation with the marquis. Gardwig, the state affairs, Count Lort's fall from grace and exile… He was quite a character, everyone was always complaining about him, there was no keeping him in check...

A dark shadow slid out of the crowd, smelling of lily-of-the-valley.

"Your Grace, I'll abduct you for a while. Remember that you still owe me? Forgive me, Marquis, but this is a matter of honor!"

And she dragged Jerisson with her.

Shocked, the count stared at the familiar mask, the winged cloak, the earring with a black pearl in a delicate ear...

“M’lady?"

The shadow led him into the twilight of the alcove, stepped back, removed the earring, and swung it in front of the count.

"And so meet again, Count Earton. Were you looking forward to seeing me?"

Lily did her best to change her voice, making it lower and deeper.

"I cannot believe my eyes," Jess confessed. "I thought you were in Ativerna."

"Oh no, I recently arrived in Wellster. Count, it's time for you to return the favor. Will you give me my earring back?"

Jess tossed his head.

"Any moment, M’lady. Tell me where to send a messenger."

"Count...you disappoint me! A messenger, to a lady...please return the favor personally."

The soft whispering made the scene unbearably intimate, and the twilight helped Lily, as Jess couldn't see her squeezing her hand into a fist hard enough that her nails cut into her palm.

It was the moment of truth.

A few seconds later, she would learn if she had a husband or just a horndog. She saw that he hadn't recognized her, but would he restrain himself? It was a Russian Roulette for wives. Maybe she should patent it.

"Not personally, M’lady. I'm married."

"You were married before. What changed?"

Really, though, what had changed? He could drink, philander, and cheat just the same. What was stopping him? The bed he shared with the ferrets, the dogs, and his child?  The sight of Lilian, laughing, barefoot, and merry, inside their house? Or...

"Forgive me, M’lady, but I will not cheat on my wife. I love her."

"How archaic. I promise you, she won't know anything—and won't get hurt."

"I'm sorry, M’lady. Tell me the address, and I'll send you a messenger. I think it's time to finish the conversation."

Surprised, Jerisson saw the woman lean against the wall, almost sliding down.

"Thank you, Jess."

He knew that voice.

"Lily?"

His wife pulled off her mask.

"Yes, Jess. Both back then and now."

Slowly, he came round.

"Then...you?"

Lily nodded.

And then, his confusion gave way to fury.

"So did you like it, messing around with me? Did you?"

Lily didn't have the time to reply. She got lucky. The noises around them ceased; it was time for the king's entrance. Both of them had to be in the ballroom—it was a political matter.

Jess threw her a fiery look, while Lily tried to stand up, her legs faltering. The tension was palpable.

"We'll talk later." His words didn't sound promising, but he still offered her his hand.

Lily slowly lowered her eyes.

Yes, we'll talk. But first, you'll cool down, and I'll calm my nerves. We'll have at least four or five hours, if not more. We won't be able to be alone before that.

The two figures slipped out of the alcove into the ballroom.

***

His Majesty was walking arm-in-arm with the princess, fearsome and majestic in golden velvet. Maria looked like a rosebud in her pink dress with a strand of pink pearls.

The courtiers bowed.

His Majesty found the Eartons with his eyes and gave them a friendly nod.

Lily dropped into a curtsey, Jerisson bowed. How could they have it out right there? In a minute, the entire court would learn everything. That conversation would have to happen at home.

The couple was radiating smiles at the public, but inside, they were overwhelmed with completely different emotions.

Jerisson was angry.

Lily, though... Adrenaline slowly lost its grip on her, and her body felt lighter. He had resisted her proposition! He hadn't given in! It felt wonderful, having a husband who could be trusted, even a bit. It felt like having wings.

***

It was time for the princess' first dance.

Count Earton left his wife's side and went to invite the girl. As for Lily...

"Your Grace, may I?"

It was Baron Fremont. As bad luck would have it, there was nary a dog in sight.

"Forgive me, Baron, but I don't dance."

She didn't add "with you," but those words hung in the air.

"Then maybe I could help you pass the time while you're waiting for your husband?"

What a stubborn character. Lily shook her head.

"Baron, aren't there enough lovely ladies here? Help them pass the time. I'm sure they'll be quite grateful."

"But not you, Lilian?"

"No, not me."

"It's sad to see such a beautiful woman unable to let go of her grudge."

That's it, you bastard. You had it coming!

Lily lowered her eyes.

"Forgive me, Baron. It's not that I'm holding a grudge—it's just that our meeting was so memorable that I simply cannot help myself, and giggling is unbecoming of a countess, especially at a royal ball."

Edwin got her implication and turned crimson.

Don't presume too much of yourself. Nobody's angry at you; you've amused everyone marvelously. Now scram before we start laughing again.

"Your Grace, this is harsh of you."

"Oh, Edwin. If I were harsh, I would have made our meeting public. But I intend to keep those happy moments in my memory...maybe only tell my daughter."

The baron bowed.

"So it's a no?"

"Irrevocably."

"You’re breaking my heart, Lilian."

"Not to worry, I know lots of good healers. Just ask," Lily replied, closely watching the baron's face. He was dressed as a knight, with chainmail, a sword, and even a chain hood.

Usually, people wore props for a ball: pretty but useless things. But Lily's eyes were sharp enough to see how the baron moved—a man carrying two stones of iron is nowhere as nimble on his feet as somebody who's unarmed, and the sword...she would bet her life that it was real.

Why did he take all of it to a ball? Or was she wasting her time looking for a viper in a nest of roses? The baron had arrived recently and might not have known where he could find a costume, so he decided to wear thirty pounds of iron instead. However, the room was also full of pirates—a white shirt, a scarlet sash, a leather vest, and pants.

Maybe he simply had no imagination. Did she believe that? Things happened, yes. But why did she keep having those feelings? Why was her intuition tingling?

A psychologist would have told her that due to their meeting starting off on the wrong foot, Lily perceived everything connected to the baron with a measure of suspicion, while he was the nicest man, really.

There were no psychologists in the room, though—or in the entire world. And so, Lily was left alone with her doubts and suspicions. But how could she tell her husband about that? She was scared of even approaching him, all charm and sunshine, leading the princess in a dance, almost leaving a shower of sparks...

Like faulty wiring, or ball lightning. It would strike her down on the spot.

She would have struck herself down for such business, but that would be a waste of beauty, really. Still, that made it impossible for her to tell anything to Jerisson, and who could she tell then? She knew almost no one in the room. Should she look for the Roivels or the Elonts to at least attempt to do something? But she had nothing except for her suspicions.

“Your Grace?”

Lily knew Count Dishan, and she breathed out in relief. The ball came right to the player. Still, she needed to make a good case.

"Nice seeing you, Count."

"May I invite you?"

"To dance or...?"

"To dance and," the count said with a bow, his eyes shining from behind the mask. "His Majesty would like to see you in his chambers, and Her Majesty as well."

"Where?" Lily asked simply.

"Her Majesty will wait for you in the nursery. She'd like you to examine her children, she admires your healing skills. Your results were...fascinating."

"Count, you're making me blush. And you're crediting me with my mentor's achievements."

"Your Grace, any praise wouldn't be enough for you and your mentor."

The count confidently led Lily in a dance.

Her Grace was keeping her eyes open and finally came up with the way to present her case.

"Count, the palace seems to be guarded really well."

“Your Grace?”

Count Dishan was sincerely confused. Lily quickly explained her meaning.

"I've counted around two dozen armed men. Nice to see that His Majesty trusts his courtiers so much. And then, there are all those guards, too. What if something happens, say, a duel, and His or Her Majesty might pass by... Of course, they wouldn't get harmed, but Her Majesty is pregnant! Aldonai forbid she got scared..."

Now those hints the count couldn't ignore. His expression changed.

"Yes, Your Grace, the palace is guarded exceptionally well. Let me escort you, then. You could talk to Her Majesty, and then, His Majesty will lend you a few minutes of his time."

"I'll be grateful, Count."

Truly, a healthy paranoia was requisite for your health.

If something didn't happen, it was a relief. If something did... Hindsight is 20/20. Better to have an ark prepared if a flood broke out. Who had it been who laughed at Noah? All of them had drowned.

No need to fear ridicule by taking precautions; it's better to be alive than to seem stupid.

***

The nursery was a marvelous sight: more than three hundred square yards, containing two canopy beds—huge, clearly with room for the children to grow, lots of toys, a couch for the nanny, an armchair where Her Majesty was almost lying, clearly on the verge of giving birth, the nanny herself, her eyes twinkling from under her bonnet, and two toddlers currently busy unscrewing the head of a wooden horse. They seemed quite focused on that.

Lily didn't really like children, with Miranda Catherine Earton being the sole exception. Actually, pediatrics was one of her least favorite subjects in college.

"Your Majesty," she said, curtseying.

"Countess." Milia didn't even attempt to rise from her seat but smiled warmly. "I hope you'll forgive. My legs swell as it is..."

A physician woke up inside Lily, making her forget all her worries.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. Let's look at your pulse..."

The next thirty minutes were pretty interesting and enjoyable.

Lily understood everything, but seriously, three children in less than five years? Did His Majesty have any scruples? Any shame? And did Her Majesty have any brains and knowledge inside her head? Giving birth so often could easily wear the body down. She needed to drink vitamins, embrace a healthy lifestyle—preferably in the country rather than a city—go to bed early and wake up late...

Lots of things!

What had been done, though? Nothing! Nothing at all!

It made sense, with her husband pressuring her, the crown needing heirs, and considering infant mortality, at least three boys, plenty to spare, and with her sense of duty...well.

The results of the examination weren't promising. Lily sighed and told the bitter truth.

"Your Majesty, either you make a three-year pause after this childbirth, or you won't carry the next child to term. You'll die in the process."

"What in Aldonai's name are you talking about, you shilda?" the nanny shrieked, up in arms. "How can you say such a dirty thing?"

Something like that couldn't get to Lily, not after her internship at the local community clinic.

Ha! And ha again!

"What do you want then, grandma? For me to lie through my teeth? I could promise the world and tell you to pray to Aldonai, but if there are already such problems, it won't get any better."

There really were problems. Her Majesty's swelling was bad enough that half a finger could sink in. Lily suspected stage two gestosis.

Milia stopped the scandal by moving her hand.

"Lily, are you sure—"

Lily didn't get the chance to reply. The sounds coming from the corridor didn't promise anything good: screams, the clang of weapons, a death rattle, juicy swearing...

“Treason! To arms!"

Such cries had always boded ill. Milia sprang up from the chair and rushed to the door.

"Gardwig!"

Lily barely had time to grab her by the hand.

"Where are you going? To the children, quickly!"

The nanny was quicker on her feet. She immediately pulled the princes closer, putting her arms around them.

"What’s going on there?”

Lily hissed a curse.

What else could it be? Something bad was coming, and the only question was its scale. Yet she was the only person fit for battle inside that room, and the only one able to think with her brain—the one in her head, at least, and definitely not her hormones.

"Your Majesty, take the children. I'll try to peek out of the door.

Milia rushed to the children and pressed her hand to her throat.

Apparently, there was something wrong with her. The nanny kept droning on, asking her to tough it out and not to cry.

Thankfully, the nursery had a door opening into a small room, which then opened into a guardroom leading into the corridor.

That guardroom was the source of the noise.

Lily was also grateful that curtains and drapes hadn't yet given way to wallpaper and chipboard doors. She leaned out from behind a curtain and immediately pulled her head back.

If someone was bold enough to attack the king himself, there was no time for politics. She had to run.

***

After escorting Lilian Earton, Count Dishan returned to His Majesty.

He planned on first accompanying the king to his chambers and his wife and then reprimanding the guards.

Duke Alcine clenched his fists but willed himself to relax. The final countdown had begun.

A woman wearing a veil and a massive mask entered the ballroom. She was dressed as a servant of Aldonai, even if her robe was made of expensive velvet. A hood, a smile on her scarlet lips...

Few knew that her hood was hiding a diadem, and her robe, royal attire. Her Majesty Albitta was coming back to the scene.

Jerisson Earton was still dancing with Her Highness. Gardwig waved at them—go on, keep having fun—and climbed down from the throne, pretending that he would be back soon. Count Dishan attended to the monarch.

Robert looked around for Edwin Fremont, noticed him, and gave the nod.

In the midst of their dance, Jerisson made a stumble, and Princess Maria wasn't fast enough to step back. Her floor-length dress got stuck, and the fabric ripped.

Jess removed his boot and cursed, trying to avoid obscenities.

Maria almost sobbed. She really liked that dress.

"Your Highness, let's step back to the pillar," Jess suggested. "Maybe someone in the palace could fix that?"

There was no hole, but the lace along the lower hem was slightly torn.

Maria nodded while pirouetting gracefully.

"Baroness Holm helped me in the past...and I should have a maid somewhere, too."

"May I accompany you? Let us rectify that pesky blunder and return to the ball."

Maria nodded and slipped into the shadow of an alcove after Jerisson.

***

Gardwig was walking the corridor toward the nursery. He almost made it and even grasped the door handle, when...

“Your Majesty?"

That remark was scoffing enough to burn the king like nettle. His Majesty turned around.

Duke Alcine stood across the corridor. Gardwig had never seen so much hate in the eyes of any person.

"Alcine?"

"My father. My brother. Camilla," he said, pronouncing each word like a sentence.

Yes, that was unneeded, that was showing off, but he wanted to do it so much!

Aldonai, that bastard must know what he's going to die for! He must! And he must learn how much I hate him, too.

"Camilla?"

"I loved her, and she loved me. Get it, cuckold? You'll die for her, you and your spawn!"

“You..."

Gardwig fumbled for his dagger. He didn't have his sword with him but always kept a dagger by his side. It was still a weapon, after all.

"RUN, Your Majesty!" I'll hold them off!"

Count Dishan realized everything—why the palace was full of armed people, what had happened to the guards... He was praying for only one thing. Two guards were always by the side of Their Highnesses. Aldonai, please don't let them be bribed as well!

They weren't.

The count charged forward, aided by blind despair. Maybe he could reach someone, delay them... Three blades shined at once, striking his body, and the count hung on them with all his weight, knocking them aside, shielding the path to the king.

Maybe he could win at least a minute.

A minute was enough for Gardwig.

The last thing the count heard was the king bellowing.

“TREASON! TO ARMS!"

Then everything turned to black.

***

Two guards shot up but didn't have enough time to do anything.

Neither did Gardwig. The attackers shoved the corpse away and were already forcing their way in the door.

His Majesty grabbed the table by the leg and pushed forward, like a boar charging at the hunters' spear, with a similar disposition. I'll die, but I'll take you bastards with me!

The king had the strength of a bear and could easily swing the table around. Yes, he would certainly feel that later, but he needed to live to see that "later" first. He swept aside the first two mercenaries before the royal guards came around to cover him on the sides.

Still, Gardwig knew that he had no chance of leaving. Right there, right then, the game was lost.

Survival? He had never thought about it before; his brother always was by his side, covering his back. But Altres was far away, and Milia and his sons were just behind his back, in the nursery.

Gardwig prayed to Aldonai to win at least a few precious minutes for them.

Let them survive. Let them get the time to escape.

He didn't remember about Lilian Earton.

Milia, Edward, Corin; he knew that he was going to die for them, he didn't doubt that. No help would be fast enough to arrive. But to flee and save his own skin? It didn't even occur to Gardwig. He had the right to decide when he would give his life and why—the right of the king.

One of the guards dropped dead, while the other fell on his knee. His Majesty grabbed someone's sword and clashed with the attackers, growling in rage, retreating to the door that nobody should enter. Not on his watch.

Robert Alcine appeared behind the mercenaries. He was wielding a crossbow.

The string twanged, and His Majesty stumbled.

The duke didn't miss. He hit just the spot he was aiming at, the indentation below the clavicle, and the bolt pierced the Lion of Wellster, pinning him to the door.

He didn't die until several minutes later, and the soldiers didn't dare to come up to the dying king.

Robert stared at him. His eyes were cold, cruel, and calm, absorbing each detail, each sigh and moan of the dying man.

Rest, my dear Camilla, rest in peace. I've finally avenged you.

***

Lilian scurried around the room like a hurricane.

"Your Majesty, is there a back entrance?"

Milia was ashen-faced.

"W-what—"

"A mutiny. If we don't flee, we'll be killed."

"Gardwig?"

"Is still holding on," Lily lied. How long would he survive? Ten minutes, no more. And even if reinforcements arrived, they would be dead by then. She didn't want to die.

She had experienced that, after all.

"I need to get to him."

"So he would die protecting you?" Without any sympathy, Lily grabbed the queen by the shoulders and shook her, trying to bring her to her senses. "We need to rally the troops! Immediately!"

Lily didn't give a damn about rallying anybody. They needed to escape first and sort it all out later.

Finally, Milia came around.

"Bertha..."

The nanny was ready. She was holding a parcel in one hand and the youngest child with the other. The oldest boy clang to her skirt. Lily quickly snatched Edward.

"Can you walk by yourself?"

There was no time for a formal address. That might not have been the proper form, but Lily didn't really have a choice. Too much was at stake.

Milia slowly nodded as if dreaming.

"Where to?" Bertha asked, acknowledging Lily as the leader. There should always be only one leader; otherwise, expect a failure—a complete one.

Lily glanced at the window but didn't have the time to do anything. Milia, moving as if she was sleepwalking, came up to a wall.

"Gard showed me this passage..."

A wall panel turned under the pressure of her slender fingers.

"Bertha!" Lilian snapped.

The nanny rushed inside. Lily looked around and ran up to the window.

It was the second floor, around sixteen feet above the ground. Fine.

She swung the window open and threw out various soft props like blankets and pillows. Then she put one of the curtains behind the shutters, followed by the second one.

There was no time to tie them down. She tore the curtain up and flung it down, creating a diversion, even if a short one.

It was still something. It might buy them five minutes.

Her Majesty was standing frozen, like the Statue of Liberty. Holy hell on a cracker, couldn't she find a better time to think?

"Milia!"

Her Majesty shook her head.

"I...I must..."

"Get inside, fast! You have three children!"

Lily's tone made Milia realize that arguing was impossible. In the best case, she would be dragged by her hand, in the worst, given a kick in the rear. Lilian Earton didn't give a hoot that she was a queen, nor a dime or a button.

There was no time for titles when lives were at stake.

Milia slowly walked forward. A step, another one... Lily entered the opening and pulled the panel. It closed with a sharp snap.

"Can we be heard from here?"

"N-no," Milia replied, shaking her head. "I think..."

"Can it be blocked?"

"What?"

"So it couldn't be opened from the outside?" Lily translated.

"No."

"Dammit!" The countess lost all reserve. "Dammit, dammit, dammit! All right! Where does this passage lead?"

They slowly walked down the staircase.

"To the first floor," Milia explained. "From there, you can go up to the royal chambers and exit to the Hunting Hall..."

"Is there a passage to outside the palace?"

"Yes. But..."

Lily grabbed the woman's hand and gave it a shake.

"Milia, wake up! Your husband's there right now, and he's in bad shape! He needs help! Get your act together, girl!"

Corin sobbed, scared.

"Gardwig..."

"If he's alive, you'll help him. If anything happens to him, you must save his children, at least," Lily said coldly. "Otherwise, it will be a betrayal, and he'll never forgive you up there."

Milia nodded and then gasped, bending over.

"Holy freaking shit!"

Lily couldn't help herself. But then, it's not like the situation didn't call for it.

They were walking around the secret passages inside the royal palace that she hadn't the slightest idea about. Getting lost was a slam dunk. She had an elderly nanny and a queen about to give birth on her hands, plus two children younger than five. Her husband was nowhere to be found, her daughter... Well, at least she didn't have to worry about Mirrie. The Eveers would never give her up, and the Virmans would get her out of the city and the country—they were perfectly equipped to do that, even despite a mutiny and a takeover.

A mutiny? Lily had no doubts about that. After growing up in Russia, where mutinies and revolutions had become a popular entertainment over the last century, she was used to that.

A mutiny, absolutely. And she had her hands full with someone to feed, clothe, hide, and provide for, all the while surviving herself.

She had her work cut out for her.

Chapter 10

The maid was waiting for her mistress in the bedroom.

She fixed the skirt in ten minutes—it couldn't be done later, as the lace (that same one, produced by Mariella Trading House) was too thin, and the work too careful.

All that time, Jerisson entertained the princess by telling her stories from life at the Ativernan court, simultaneously trying to keep himself in check.

For cripes' sake, wifey! You've really done it this time! A test?

His Grace was ready to tear off his wife's head, the one that gave her all those ideas. Only years of court training allowed him to stay calm.

Would he be seduced by a pretty girl in the park or not? The worst thing was, somewhere deep inside, Jess knew that Lily was right. It made him even angrier.

She had the right to mistrust him, true. But...wasn't everything fine lately?

As bad luck would have it, his memory immediately pictured Viona with her cleavage. If not for Mirrie, Jess would have never cleared himself of suspicion. How could he prove that he hadn't even wanted anything of her?

But he hadn't. How dared she? How could she even think of that? Ugh!

At last, the lace was returned to its rightful place, and Maria looked at Jerisson.

"Count...we can return unnoticed, can’t we?"

"We'll try, Your Highness," the count said, trying to cheer her up. "First, you should go back to the ballroom, and I'll follow you. We don't want any stupid gossip. Just say that your lace got stuck in something and you had to fix it, so it wouldn't tear."

"Yes." Maria touched her lacy cuff. "Amazing lace. I've no idea how it's even manufactured."

Jess smiled. She was such a child! Older than Miranda, true, but a child nonetheless.

"I'll ask my wife to show you how it's done."

"Really?" Her brown eyes sparkled with genuine joy. "That would be fantastic!"

"We'll have time after we leave for Ativerna."

Maria slowly nodded.

"Yes, we'll have time."

While talking, they approached the ballroom.

Her Highness picked the most secluded of corridors, where no guards were ever posted. She didn't want any rumors to spring up.  That's why they didn't meet anyone on their way. But closer to the ballroom, Jerisson felt that something was amiss.

Lily had gotten her experience from watching movies and reading books. Jerisson had his own life, with plots, conspiracies, and a poisoning attempt. After being on death's door, one tends to get smarter. Those who don't, quickly return there.

So what had rung the alarm bells for Jerisson? The clanging weapons? The lack of discipline, uncharacteristic of a royal palace? Jerisson was listed as a commander of the guards, and he would have reamed out any of his subordinates for walking in such manner. Or was it the laughter he heard around the corner?

Jess didn't know the answer himself, but it didn't prevent him from taking Maria by the hand and pushing her deeper into the corridor.

“Quiet!"

Thank Aldonai the girl had been taught to keep silent and obey. Maria obediently followed the count into the darkness.

“What—"

"I don't know. Hush."

Something was definitely wrong. What was it?

"...left to do is to crush the pups."

"The master will do it himself. And we'll become the royal guards, heh."

"You're no more a royal guard than I'm..."

Jerisson didn't hear anything more and was too afraid to move closer. Well, noblemen couldn't really be afraid, so let's say he was too careful.

What pups were they talking about? How could those ruffians become royal guards? What master?

If Jerisson were by himself, he would have acted differently. But he had the princess. He couldn't abandon her or leave her alone...Aldonai!

And to think that his wife was really the perfect partner in some cases! Jess remembered her seducing the bandits. He was sure that if Lily were here, she wouldn't have just supported any initiative of his, she would have helped as much as she could.

But alas, he only had Maria.

He needed to be careful, very careful. Gardwig wouldn't like it if Jess drew Her Highness into some mess, and Edward would bust his head, too—he still hadn't forgiven him the Earton steward, not to mention the "pink cow"... Ahem.

So what was he to do? Jerisson had only one idea.

"Your Highness, can we have a look at the ballroom without entering it?"

"Of course," Maria said with a nod. "From the balustrade. There's a small balcony there, I was shown it."

"What's it for?"

"In the past, it was used to release doves or throw flowers at the guests."

Jess nodded.

"Can we slip in there without anyone seeing us?"

Maria paused.

“I suppose.”

"Lead on, Your Highness."

Maria cast a fearful glance at the count, who looked suspiciously focused and dangerous. He wasn't a foppish dandy, a playboy and a ladykiller anymore—he was a predator, hungry and menacing, dreaming of a fresh kill.

"Count, what do you suspect?"

"I'm not sure." Jerisson looked into her scared brown eyes and did his best to resist the impulse to pat her head, wipe her nose, and calm her down, just as he would do to Miranda. Then he dismissed his concerns and carefully touched her coiffed hair with his palm. I'm not sure, Maria, but it's better to play it safe. Something's wrong. Such people shouldn't be in the palace. I might be an alarmist, but...

"Maybe you need a weapon, Count?"

"A weapon?" Jess grew wary. "Call me Jess, Maria. If I'm mistaken, we simply won't tell anybody about this."

Maria shrugged.

"Yes, I know where they're keeping old weapons."

Jess pried the weapon storage story out of the girl in thirty seconds, and his paranoia flared up. Storing weapons just like that, inside the palace? Even your grandmother wouldn't have believed it, let alone Count Earton!

"No, Maria, we won't go there. Let's circle around and get to the balcony."

"All right."

The girl was confused, just like before. She didn't need to know anything, though, as long as she stayed behind him. To Aldonai with the lashing he would get; let them flog him for all he cared, he would find a way to excuse himself, and if not...

Better to be a suspicious fool than an enthusiastic corpse.

But where was Lily?

***

Robert Alcine burst into the nursery thinking that right there, in just moments , he would terminate Gardwig's lineage and deprive him of his immortality. What had been the most precious thing for young Robert? Camilla.

And for Gardwig, nothing mattered more than his bitch and her pups. They would die, and the woman...let them have fun with her before her death! It would serve her right!

There was nobody inside the nursery. Not a soul.

An open window, pillows on the ground, a curtain hanging down... Had they escaped? But how?

"Search the rooms," Robert ordered the mercenaries. "Quick!"

Predictably, they didn't find anyone inside the chambers—neither in the main room nor in the cloakroom, the toilet, the maid's bedroom...

Everything was empty. He had to admit the obvious. Gardwig hadn't died for nothing. While Robert was dealing with his principal enemy, the bitch made a run for it.

"Search the garden," Robert commanded. "If they get away, I'll hang each and every one of you."

The mercenaries hurried away, only six of them remaining with the duke.

Robert came up to the body of the king, which had been pulled away from the door.

Even in death, Gardwig remained the Lion of Wellster, defeated, but still furious and awe-inspiring. He had defended his lair and his mate to the last, and he had succeeded!

Robert spat on the body and gave it a hearty kick. It didn't help. Rage was still boiling inside of him.

"I'll get to your spawn," he promised to the dead man. "And I'll stop your lineage..."

The mercenaries exchanged looks. A dynasty change was one thing; that was par for the course, it made sense. But something like that...

Nobody loves madmen. People prefer to stay away from them. Today, they might have one enemy, and tomorrow, they might think that you looked at them the wrong way...

No sir, count me out.

Still, they didn't really have a choice.

"Find me a poleaxe," Robert said as he turned to them.

"A poleaxe?"

"An axe, a sword...anything to cut off his head!" the duke roared. "I can't drag his entire body into the throne room, can I?"

The mercenaries could understand that. Finding a weapon wasn't hard, either—they simply took it from one of the knights.

The axe, however, even if made for war, turned out to be rusty and blunt. Robert managed to sever the head only after several attempts, getting blood all over himself. That's how he entered the ballroom, the king's head in his hand.

The mercenaries followed him, casting wary glances at each other. They all thought the same thing: they had to cut and run at the earliest opportunity, quickly and having lined their pockets with something.

Very quickly.

***

"That's the throne room," Maria said, standing on the balcony with Jerisson.

The count studied everything. It seemed fine. Nothing suspicious, nowhere to be found.

But why was his danger sense not just tingling, but rumbling, like a drum beating inside his chest? What was going on?

Jess didn't have to think long. The doors of the ballroom burst open—the balcony was the perfect vantage point to see them—and...

No ball in any country had ever had such entertainment. A man—Duke Alcine, Jess recognized him—paraded into the room holding the severed head of the king in his hand. It was Gardwig, no doubt about that: his mane of hair, his crown...

And the blood, slowly dripping on the floor.

Jess could see it even from above, blooming like scarlet flowers on the white marble of the floor.

Maria squeaked and fainted. She had recognized him, too.

Jess was thankful. The girl hadn't screamed or cried out; she would just lie there for a few minutes, all classy. Still, just in case, he crouched behind the balustrade, still watching the show, and put Maria in his lap.

To an onlooker, it might have seemed intimate or considerate. It wasn't though: that way, he could at least shut her mouth if she started yelling upon waking up. He didn't want to draw attention before finding out if...

For the love of Aldonai! Lily was there! Lily!

Jerisson hadn't even suspected how much his wife meant to him, but right at that moment, he felt his heart about to burst. What if she also was...

No. Impossible. He would have felt it.

Duke Alcine slowly crossed the hall and stopped in front of a woman wearing a long hooded cloak. He raised the head before her face.

She lifted her hands—unnaturally white against the black cloak—and untied the knot, making the silk trickle down into an oily puddle on the floor. Her mask followed.

The gems of her diadem sparkled in her hair.

The woman reached out and touched the severed head.

"We thank you, Duke. You've fulfilled your duty."

"It's an honor to serve you, My Queen."

Dead silence fell on the room, and in that quiet, fragile as glass, someone spoke out in a low voice.

"Your Majesty Albitta?"

***

Only Jerisson knew what it cost him to keep quiet without revealing himself. Shut your mouth. Don't say anything.

In the meantime, Her Majesty strolled around the hall, approached the throne, and calmly sat down, tossing her chiseled nose up.

Lily would have immediately explained to her husband how many pounds of make-up there was on her pretty face, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"My subjects. I know what you were told about my death. Thanks to Duke Alcine's valiant service, the heinous plot against me was uncovered, and the assassination attempt was stopped. As you know, my husband broke many laws..."

Maria stirred.

Jerisson immediately put his hand over her mouth—she couldn't even peep—and shook his head as he looked into her brown eyes, gesturing for her to keep quiet.

Then he continued looking down, where Her Majesty was smiling and talking.

"...was pregnant with the longed-for heir and gave birth to him. My son with Gardwig, conceived in a lawful marriage: Henry of Wellster!"

Maria looked at the woman. Understanding shined in her eyes, but she had no time to say anything.

Her sisters were brought into the hall. Albitta stood up.

"My dear girls... Jane, Katherine, Lizzie—my baby, you've really grown up! Please hug your mother. Robert, but where's Maria? My eldest?"

"We're looking for her, Your Majesty," Duke Alcine replied with a bow.

Maria pressed herself to Jerisson so close that three men could never tear her away. Jess stroked her hair. Calm down; nobody's going to push you off the balcony to your loving momma.

"When you find her, be sure to lead her to me right away! The poor dear must have suffered so much!"

Then came the embrace. The girls just stood there, petrified. Jess suspected they had been instructed: either they followed their mother or their father.

Maria turned to Jerisson.

"Ed? Cor? Millie?"

She was quiet as a mouse, barely indicating those words with her lips. But Jerisson's hope was just as strong. Was it a foolish feeling? Maybe. But his wife was there as well, and if anything happened, Albitta must have...

Jess didn't get the time to finish his thought.

"Where are the other children of my late husband?"

"We're looking for them, Your Majesty."

Albitta stomped her foot.

"Find them. And find the wench who took my place on the throne!"

Robert bowed again.

Maria breathed out and squeezed Jerisson's hand.

"We.., What can we do?"

"Get out of here," Jess answered simply, already calculating options. "This is the best I can think of."

"And—"

"And then I will leave you in a safe place and come back to look for them."

"But what if during this time—"

"I think Her Majesty knows the palace better than Your Highness."

"Maria."

"All right, Maria. And still?"

The girl nodded.

"We can get to the doors. What's the best way?"

"What are the variants?" Jess asked, thoughtfully.

"Dressed like this?" Maria asked, looking over herself and her companion. "None at all."

"I guess you're right."

"But I could get to the laundry room. I know where it is."

Jerisson looked down. True, two servants fleeing the palace were unlikely to arouse suspicion. Count Earton glanced at the balustrade again.

Thankfully, the gaps were rare enough so nobody could see him, as the count froze like a real knucklehead.

Baron Fremont entered the hall, quietly reported something to Duke Alcine, and got a sharp gesture in return. Keep working.

Could it be? Jess was afraid to believe, but what if... What if they were alive?

Then they had all the more reason to hurry! For runaways, any minute might prove the last.

"Let's move, Maria."

The princess smiled and became the first to crawl to the door leading into the corridor. The laundry room awaited.

***

Lily was uttering one profanity after another, swearing like a particularly inventive sailor and mentioning someone's mother, sexual intercourse with a chainsaw, and an AK-47 rifle, which hadn't yet been invented in that world but was really needed in dire straits.

Still, it's not like cursing changed anything.

There's an old saying: when water breaks, new life awakes. All midwives knew that.

Oh crap.

They didn't have anything with them, even a sheet. Although...

Lily started pulling off her underskirts, leaving only the topmost one plus the "bat" layer.

"Good enough for swaddling," she grumbled. "Millie?"

"Yes?" Her Majesty also forgot all etiquette.

"How did you give birth last time? How much time do we have?"

"Around two hours," the queen said with a sigh. "I gave birth to Ed in half a day, I was even surprised, and Cor, even faster."

"Oh for goodness' sake!" Lily was about to freak out. "So in an hour, we'll have to... All right, listen to me. Right now, we're going to make a dash for the exit. You'll be holding my hand. As soon as contractions start, you'll squeeze it, got it?"

At least that could help her estimate the frequency.

"Yes."

"For how long were you supposed to carry?"

“What?”

"When were you expected to give birth?"

Milia paused.

"Around Midwinter's night."

"Phew."

That was a relief.

"Then, the baby should be fine. Ten or fifteen days is normal, I know that. Eh...Bertha?"

The maid sighed next to them in the dark.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“Lilian, or Lily, however you like it. No time for ceremonies. Will you be able to carry one of the children?"

"Yes, Lily. I'm old enough as it is..."

"Then you'll take Cor. Can you do it?"

"I can. What about Ed?"

"And Ed is going to play a horsie on Auntie Lily's back," the countess sighed, getting down on all fours. Thankully, the secret passage wasn't too far. She couldn't make out the faces but could see the outlines and the stairs under her feet.

She felt grateful to the constructors of that place. At least they had done their job.

"How?" Everyone was aghast.

"Silently. Ed, sweetie, come here," Lily called.

The child was quick to catch on. He sat on her back, put his arms around her neck and his legs around her waist. If he fell, he would take everyone down with him, so falling was out of the question.

"Millie, where should we go?"

"Down until the next turn, then left," the queen answered simply. "Gard taught me that... I don't like all those court ceremonies, so he showed me the secret passages. It was amazing..."

The queen's voice faltered, breaking down.

"Stow it!" Lily booed. "Maybe he's still alive."

"You think so?"

"Devil only knows. Killing the king is a serious decision. It's easier to capture him and force him to abdicate."

Lily knew that it was bullshit and the best way to dethrone a king was to kill him dead, but hope might help Milia.

"Can we ask that devil, then?"

Lily snorted.

“Yes. But for this, we have to die. It's a tiny trickster spirit like a shilda, but a man." She had to think on her feet. Milia grasped Lilian's hand and stepped down the stairs.

"It's not yet time for us to die," she decided. "If Gard's still alive..."

"Here. Millie, you must live on. You're not just the queen, you're a symbol, got it? You could tell me to go to hell..."

"Go where?"

"Send packing," Lily explained shortly.

"What do you mean?" Ed asked shyly.

Lily groaned inwardly.

Children really were like sponges, absorbing everything they heard, and in such age... Would their teachers and especially parents be glad for it:?

"It's a bad name for a bad place you'd rather avoid," she explained. "Promise me not to say it, ever."

"All right."

"And Ed, honey, you'll have to keep quiet. Bad people are outside, and I' afraid they could hear us."

"They could," Milia confirmed. "Not everywhere, but they could... Oh!"

The contractions started.

Fine, they had an hour. After it, like it or not, she would have to deliver the baby. But where could they go?

Lily held no illusions; the embassy was off-limits. But what wasn't?

"Millie, try to remember, who of the soldiers stayed loyal to Gardwig?"

"I don’t understand you."

Lily gritted her teeth.

"Millie, the attack on the palace was possible only in if some of your people were bribed. So let's count, only quietly: how many regiments are garrisoned next to the capital?"

Milia had to think for some time.

She had never taken any interest in that, but with Gardwig talking about it, some of it was bound to stick.

"The Cuirassier Regiment. They were the ones guarding the palace today..."

"And they sold out. Forget them. Anybody else?"

"The Armored Regiment. I haven't seen them today."

"Are they garrisoned in the city?"

"Yes. But could they be trusted?"

"Millie, whom did your husband trust, unconditionally?"

"Count Chantaine. He's the commander of the Armored Regiment, but they're currently stationed at the Summer Palace."

"And that's all? That's not much."

"Count Dishan's nephew commands the Mounted Knights. But why isn't anybody here?"

Lily snorted.

"Because that's how all real mutinies happen, without any fanfares. Yesterday, Gardwig was the king, and today, someone else might be. The commoners don't care a bit. Your games won't make the cabbages grow any faster, and they like eating more than dabbling in politics."

"You'd better curb your tongue," Bertha grumbled.

"If I curb it now, all of ours might get pulled out later," Lily said pointedly. "We're in the same boat, all of us. You think they'll spare me? The children might survive, but all three of us will be cut down."

Bertha wasn't under any illusions, either. And still...

"Where are we going now?"

Lily grinned.

"Into any Eveer home."

"Will they take us in?"

"Master Salsi promised me they would," Lily replied.

"Fancy that!" Bertha snorted.

The old nanny knew who that was and threw her hands up. It was a serious argument.

"I'll leave you there. Millia, are there any signs, any code phrases to make Count Chantaine believe that you sent me?"

"I'll write you a note. What then?"

"Storm the castle," Lily blurted out without thinking. "Take it, raze it to the ground, hang the bastards on the gate—or rather not, let's devise something a bit more painful...we'll ask the torturers. Going by my experience, we can only kick that rabble out before they consolidate their hold, or else they become legitimate, and we, the rebels. We won't be able to prove anything."

"Experience? Where from?" Bertha muttered.

Millie squeezed Lilian's wrist.

No, the contractions weren't regular yet. They still had time.

"From out there," Lily snapped.

It's not like she could tell that woman the entire history of the Russian Empire, especially about rulers choking on forks and bumping into snuffboxes. Better not, really.

They were speaking very quietly, almost whispering, all the while straining their ears.

"Millie, is there an exit to the ballroom here?" Lily asked, having gotten an idea.

"No, but there's one into the fireplace room."

"That won't help."

Lily had a good reason to worry. He husband remained somewhere inside the palace.

Of course, Jerisson, Count Earton, was a grown-up man able to button his pants and fasten his belt, but...

It was a mutiny, and Lily had a suspicion that the Ativernans might very well become the scapegoats. After all, there must have been a reason for the whole thing to start right after their arrival. Blaming everything on outsiders seemed obvious.

Say, Jess cut down Gardwig—or Lily herself did it in a fit of jealousy—and someone later came on stage to restore law and order. Oh, and she choked the children, too, for the same reason.

It might have sounded like nonsense, but everyone knew—nobody was going to believe you if you told the truth, but tell a nonsensical lie, and people would love you for it.

Nobody would ever say, Yes, I'm an idiot who couldn't find his arse with both hands, barely scraping by, too lazy to work. I'd rather sit on the fence dilly-dallying than get off my backside and start doing something.

No. Nobody will ever admit to that.

But to say they were jinxed, or abducted by aliens, or cursed at the moment of their birth by the stars being in the wrong constellation...

That is fine. That is normal.

And it was the same thing in that case, either: not a conspiracy, but justice being restored, and just try to get off the hook: you'd never prove anything to anyone. The more brazen and audacious the lie, the harder it is to expose. This is a truth that politicians have known and used for a long time, in all countries.

Milia squeezed Lilian's hand once again.

The contractions were getting more frequent.

On the one hand, it wasn't bad: better give birth quick rather than suffer in pain later. The baby would also be less vulnerable than inside his mother's womb, and the mother herself would find it easier to walk. On the other...

After giving birth, it would be better for a woman to lie down with an ice bag on her stomach, not moving a bit. And the conditions were far from perfect, either. Good thing if there wouldn't be any complications, but what if there were?

All right. The peasants hadn't died out at the dawn of time; maybe it would work out with Milia as well. And it's not like it was better during the Second World War, either...

People still had given birth. She would have treated Milia with a dose of antibiotics, but she had none, and no way to synthesize them—you'd need a full-fledged facility for that. Alas, there was none to be found.

***

The journey to the laundry was uneventful.

Jerisson quickly pulled off his costume and quickly changed into a sweaty livery. Actually, its owner might have even been a swine lover—he adored them enough to cuddle with them and sleep in the pigpen, going by the smell. Or maybe he simply couldn't live without them and visited them thrice a day. It stank like hell, but the livery had two key advantages: it was Jerisson's size and transformed him into an invisible man like the one Lily had told him about. Whoever notices the servants?

All that was left to do was to take care of his face and his hair. Without thinking twice, Jess tore off two pieces of fabric, rolled them into balls, and shoved them behind his cheeks. Of course, those who knew him would never be fooled by such a masquerade, but Jess wasn't going to try to trick those people. If he stumbled into anyone, he had a dagger: a blunt one, but still.

Maria also changed into a maid's outfit and hid her hair under a bonnet.

"Is it all right?"

"Quite," Jerisson replied, nodding.

"Count, what are we going to do when we get out of here?"

Jess hadn't considered that yet. On the other hand...did they have a choice?

"I'll get you someplace safe and sound the alarm. It can't be that everybody was bribed and betrayed your father. I'm sure they are royal guards loyal to him..."

Maria started sobbing.

She wasn't especially upset with her father's death: he had deserved it by abandoning his daughter for more than ten years, but what about Milia? And Ed, and Cor...

"But if it works out... Ed, he's still so little."

"His mother's an adult," Jess countered her. "Let's just start. We'll figure it out later. Take a basket, Maria."

"A basket?"

"I'll take a few, too. A servant carrying a basket is a common sight. Same for a maid."

"During a mutiny?"

Jess shrugged.

"A mutiny is a major affair, but everyone needs to eat, whether Gardwig or Albitta. Nobody said servants had to stop working."

He didn't have a better idea. They had to get out, and how it might look from outside didn't matter.

"I wish someone distracted them," Maria said wistfully.

Jess grinned. That idea was no worse than the first. It was a servants' wing, with service rooms, which meant that...

Really, let the conspirators do some work for a change.

"Maria, I hope you'll forgive me."

"For what?"

Without hesitation, Jess removed a torch from a wall, came up to the nearest basket, and put it inside. As it caught fire, he kicked it into a pile of dirty laundry.

"For that."

"Jess?" The girl's voice sounded full of awe.

Jerisson grabbed her hand and dragged her away.

"Quick! It's going to be real fun soon."

Maria didn't doubt that.

***

As the fire blazed, servants, soldiers, and mercenaries rushed to douse it. Everyone knew that if they didn't put it out, they would have a hell of a time. Nobody noticed two servants running the other way, especially since they tried to avoid being seen, hiding in the niches and behind the statues.

They left the palace without any issue.

The park, however, was crowded with people and full of noise.

Thankfully, at that sight, Maria manifested her powers of persuasion, inherited from either her mother or her father. She screamed as if chased by a score of hungry rats and charged right at the four soldiers standing by the entrance.

"HELP! A FIRE!"

Maria might have been pretty loud, but quite distinctive and clear. Her screams informed the mercenaries (in the range of three miles or so) that the palace was burning and they needed to go put it out, or the queen would hang everyone if it burned down.

The possibility was there.

The palace might have been built from stone, but it had wooden beams, panels, drapes...enough flammable stuff. And the valuables?

It was a fire!

They had to be saved!

The mercenaries were duly impressed and run to douse the flame, or save people, or...

Well, whatever, but they really had to do something.

Maria, who was shoved aside, managed to stay on her feet and glanced at Jerisson.

The count didn't disappoint the girl. He took her hand and kissed it.

"Your Highness, you'll make a wonderful queen."

Maria blushed like a ripe cherry but didn't argue. Instead, she nodded toward the park.

"Let's come to the gate."

Jerisson wasn't going to ignore the invitation.

His plan was simple. They had to reach...by the way, what was their destination? It's not like they could go to the embassy!

That said... Oh, Lily, sweetie, thank you so much! After we get out of here alive, I'll kiss your hands and feet!

That small token, the gift given by the Eveer leader of Cardin. As soon as Jess remembered about it, he knew where they would go. He would leave Maria in a suitable place, send a message to Master Salsi, ask him to take care of Miranda, and return to the palace.

His wife was inside.

***

Milia was walking at a surprisingly brisk pace. Well, after all, in the past, they had often advised women to keep moving during labor, and even in the twenty-first century, nobody forced them to lie like a log.

Their brains also don't turn off at childbirth, especially if it isn't their first time. Now if the labor takes a long time and something goes wrong...

"Where does this passage lead?" Lily tried to estimate their whereabouts, but orienteering was never her forte. Outside, she, at least, could use the sun to travel, if she knew that her destination was, say, in the east. But in the underground tunnels, without even a compass...

"To the river. I've never been there."

"Momma, will we swim?"

The child, who had been patiently riding Lily's neck and getting heavier by the minute, spoke up.

Lily sighed.

"Ed... You're Ed, right?"

"Yes.

"We'll swim in the morning. The night's not a good time."

Definitely not for small children in the city river. She longed to stop and have a rest, but they couldn't. Milia was having contractions. If she gave birth, she would have to lie down at least for a few hours, and then, morning would come, and they would start combing through the capital...

The risk was too high.

"Ooohhhh..."

Milia bent double.

"Lily, I won't hold out for long."

"Hang in there for as long as you can. Then I'll help you give birth. Don't worry, it's not my first time," Lily consoled her.

"Is that right?" Bertha seemed skeptical.

"Left." Lily knew that they were in the same boat, but wasn't about to appease the cantankerous hag.

They continued their way down the tunnel.

There it was, the river. They really lucked out, having managed to reach the exit in time. Milia found the key to the grate in a hidden niche and opened it, then locked it up and returned the key into its place.

"Gard told me about it."

"I'd love to know whom else he told his secrets," Lily intoned.

Well, there didn't seem to be an ambush, and three women walking down the streets were a usual enough sight.

Lily's biggest fear was bumping into some rabble. Explaining to them that they were in the presence of noble ladies and crown princes wouldn't really work; all of them risked being drowned in the river. However, her fears turned out to be unfounded.

Right until the moment when Milia groaned and clutched Lilian's hand with such force that a few of her fingers almost got torn off.

"That's it. The baby's going out."

Lily cursed and looked around.

How was she supposed to tell an Eveer house from any other? At what door could she knock? Everyone was looking at her, depended on her...

Ah, screw it.

Lily dismissed her concerns and headed to the first house with windows overlooking the street. She knocked at one of the shutters, then again, a bit stronger.

The window on the upper floor predictably opened, and the countess barely had time to dodge the contents of a chamber pot, glad that the rest of her group had stayed further off.

"I'll sic my dog at you! Piss off, beggars!"

"And you'll lose a good deal," Lily snapped, not loud, but expressive enough. "Do you want some gold or not?"

"Where'd you get gold?" the same voice countered.

"Do I look like a beggar?" Lily discarded her hood, furious.

The gold of her hair shined, reflecting moonlight, the emeralds twinkling in her ears. The owner of the house clearly got seconds thoughts.

"Maybe not, but who'd know you..."

"Check, then. I'm not going to move an inch. You can send your dogs at me, I won't even protect myself."

In any world and in any situation, the word "gold" will always be the most powerful spell. Say it, and in the very least, it will pique people's interest. "Money, coin, cash" were just variations. That time, the man's curiosity worked in Lily's favor.

And really, what did he lose?

They had already disturbed his sleep. To release the dogs, he would have to come down either way. The least he could do was to check what was going on outside. What if he could really get lucky?

In five minutes, the door opened. The owner was standing on the doorstep, wearing a long nightgown and a nightcap. He was holding a large male dog of unclear breed by its collar. Still, it was a size and a half smaller than Nanook.

Lily, not especially afraid, approached the man and handed him a bracelet from her own hand. It wasn't the wedding one.

"Do you want it?"

The emeralds in the bracelet and her rings twinkled, and the man squinted.

"You really are one of them nobles!"

"We're in trouble," she said simply. "If you let us stay until the morning, this trinket is yours. I could add more if we have a deal. I need to send a message to my husband, urgently."

"And you have children with you..."

"We do. Help us, please." The bracelet fell into his open palm, its weight unambiguously proving that it was made from pure gold.

Famously, a generous fee awakens the most exalted of sentiments, such as, say, kindness and mercy.

"What are you standing about for? Come on in, then!"

"Call the dog away," Lily asked, not moving an inch.

"Oh... There, there, go on, ladies..."

Three women of different ages and two children didn't seem shady in the least, even in the very dead of night, around three o'clock.

Bertha shook her head but came inside and helped the children. Milia could barely stand, and a thin rivulet of blood was dripping down her chin—Her Majesty had been biting her lips so as not to scream. The pain was tremendous.

Lily all but dragged her into the house, and without further ceremonies, placed her on the first mostly clean spot she could find.

"Lie down. I'll have a look at you. Bertha, watch the children."

"Fine."

The owner came back together with a woman in her forties, clearly not his wife, going by her disheveled appearance and servile look.

"This is Anna, my housekeeper. She'll help you, Milady."

"How can I call you, Mister?"

"I'm Mister Daren, I work as a lamplighter here..."

Lily sighed, pulling off one more ring. To hells with the trinkets. If they survived, they would make new ones.

"Forgive me for not stating our names. I don't want any publicity, and you know that servants often tend to have loose tongues."

Going by the glint in his eyes, the owner got interested. In the ring, of course, as it cost more than a fortune.

"I'm listening, uh..."

"Leira Lily. That's enough."

"I'm all ears, Leira Lily."

The leira lowered her eyes and started lying.

"Mister Daren, my sister and I were traveling from our estate: the two of us, her children, and the nanny. On the way, we were attacked by bandits."

The owner looked the ladies up and down. Lily threw her arms up.

"They outnumbered our guards. But while they were fighting, we managed to escape."

Suspicion didn't disappear from his eyes. But...

"Good thing we weren't far from the city..."

"In the Bonmeyan Wastes. They often roam it, you must know it yourself," Bertha suddenly chimed in. "But Milady put her foot down and just had to leave in the middle of the night..."

"Bertha, you know it yourself!" Lily snapped and turned to the owner, lowering her voice. "As you can see, my sister's in the family way. She got a letter saying that while she was in the country estate, her husband had gotten himself a mistress and taken her home. She flew off the handle."

Going by the man's reaction, that sounded more convincing.

"And what's happening with her now?"

"The silly woman's in labor," Lily hissed. "She's giving birth. Imagine how it was for her, running around the woods, heavily pregnant, fleeing some crooks... We would have reached our home, but not with her in such a state!"

"Why didn't you wait the night out somewhere, then?"

Lily beckoned him over with her finger and whispered right in his ear.

"That idiot hoped to catch her husband with his mistress!"

Everything finally fell in its place.

The man had long since suspected that all broads were stupid, and that only served to prove him right. And if they were stupid... All right, they didn't seem to have a lot of money, but those baubles were worth at least something, and that Lilly seemed reasonable enough. Plus, they clearly wouldn't linger...

"Maybe you could stay until morning? While she gives birth, this and that... And at dawn, I'll send a boy to her husband...or yours?"

"To mine," Lily said, nodding. "Just don't take it the wrong way that we can't tell you our names. We'll be the talk of the town. I'll write to my confidant, and he'll contact my husband, all right?"

"Who's your confidant, Milady?"

"Master Salsi. He lives up on Potter Street." Lily's expression was calm. "We'll pass him a letter, and he'll send a carriage after us...no gossip needed."

The owner nodded.

Her story was certainly unconvincing, but the jewels were real, as was the labor, and a woman giving birth usually wreaks havoc on the minds of unprepared men.

And so, the owner received one more ring, warmly welcomed the ladies to his drawing-room, gave orders to the housekeeper, and returned to his sleep. What was he supposed to do, really? Just sit there?

Lily, happy that Milia's jewels had either been hidden or left behind, nodded to Bertha.

"Put the boys to bed and assist me. Anna?"

“Yes, Mistress?”

The housekeeper quickly realized the women's status. The fabric of their garments alone might have cost more than that entire house; she knew her stuff. It meant she had to help them.

"Heat up some water, bring clean sheets, and boil the knife...to cut the cord."

"Uhhhhhh," Milia groaned.

Lily rushed to her side.

"You, lie still and calm down. I'll examine you, you'll give birth, there's no escaping it. Everyone can do it, and so can you, I promise..."

The examination showed that the labor was going in full swing, and the baby's head had already shown.

All they had to do was to wait.

***

"Where are they?!"

Her Majesty Albitta wasn't quite beating around the room, as people were watching her, but hissed at the duke in a suitably expressive manner.

Robert shrugged.

"Apparently, they escaped."

"How?!"

"Through the garden, or another way."

Albitta paused.

"The palace has lots of secret passages. Have you found them?"

"Your Majesty, don't you know them?" In truth, he really wanted to shake his lover by the scruff of her neck, like a kitten, and yell at her: "Why the blazes didn't you say anything, idiot?"

He restrained himself.

"Gard didn't show them to me," Albitta said dismissively. "My understanding is he had used them to escape a few times and kept them secret."

From you. But from Milia?

Robert didn't say anything, but his thoughts must have been expressive.

"We have to find them," Albitta hissed. "As soon as possible...or find a replacement."

Robert shook his head.

"We're trying. A replacement is out of the question. Something like that must be done in advance."

"Search for them," Albitta commanded. "What about the others?"

"We didn't find the eldest princess yet. Count Earton hasn't been found either."

"Where could they be?"

"It's unclear. A fire broke out in the Green Wing, but we've managed to contain it. But it compromised the search effort."

Robert suspected that one of their targets might have had something to do with the arson, but suspecting was one thing, and knowing quite another. Why would he report it?

No, no need. Robert had already done his part. Gardwig was dead. As for the rest...

Let Albitta have her power. Robert already had everything prepared for a retreat. If their plan failed, he already knew where he would go and what he would take. He wouldn't remain a beggar.

He would peacefully live out the rest of his days in Elvana or Avester, maybe even marry and have children. He could, after avenging his family and Camilla. He had killed the tyrant with his own hands.

As for Albitta cleaning up the mess...

He didn't give a damn. The weapon had done its duty, and the nail had been battered in. What happened to the hammer afterward didn't matter to him.

Robert bowed and went to give out orders.

Whether she was successful or not, what were the most important places to take?

The treasury. The office of foreign affairs. The arsenal. The temple—and talk to the aldon and his associates. The navy ministry. Count Dishan's secret police... Maldonaya take him, had anyone asked him to sacrifice himself? He didn't have anyone to question anymore, and that was fraught with difficulties.

And then there was Fort Shedar. It was currently holding the Cerulean Regiment; they might make some trouble, as he had been unable to bring them on his side.

More precisely, nobody had even tried contacting them, as traditionally, that regiment was recruited from the ranks of mercenaries and the poor. For them, it was the chance of a lifetime, and they were utterly devoted to the king. They would have killed for him in a flash.

There was still much to be done over the night for the Assembly to crown His Majesty Henry the king by the morning.

Her Majesty Albitta also got down to business. She had the Ativernans to deal with.

***

There weren't that many of them, only five people.

Count and Countess Roivel, Count and Countess Elont, the ambassador—Marquis Erando Losan—and that's it. The youngsters hadn't been invited.

Albitta entered the room, looked over everyone with a cold expression, and nodded to the guards.

"Leave us. Ladies and gentlemen, I hope that you're sensible enough to avoid making matters worse. Are you?"

There wasn't really any point in asking, seeing as all five of them were shackled in chains, light, but strong enough to contain any fits of temper or resistance.

"What do you want of us, Your Majesty?" The marquis attacked first.

Albitta smiled with the corners of her lips.

"From you, Marquis? Nothing, other than Count Earton."

"He's not here."

"I can see that. But some of you might know where he is."

Albitta was almost purring.

Erando shrugged.

"Maybe His Grace had gone somewhere with Baron Fremont? They're friendly..."

"And with the countess?" Albitta asked, narrowing her eyes. Those wretches dared to lie to her? How insolent! As if Jerisson Earton ruining her plans hadn't been enough!

"The count and the countess were cooing like a pair of lovebirds all the way to Cardin." Ermina Roivel had sensed that their lives were hanging by a thread and tried to wriggle out. "They might have decided to get some alone time. They've done this a few times on the road... Once, they went to pick flowers and got attacked by bandits."

Albitta didn't care about any bandits.

"I know that the countess was summoned by His Majesty."

"The count might have gone with her." Roivel threw his hands up, clanking the chains. "We weren't watching them."

"Too bad," Albitta replied in a sing-songy voice. "I'd like to inform you that it was Jerisson Earton who killed my poor husband, jealous of His Majesty's interest in her. And when he's found, I'm going to insist on a death sentence for him."

"Nobody will believe you," Priscilla Elont spoke up, her face pale.

She had never been a brave woman, but her daughter was in Wellster, too.

The math was simple: if Jerisson was guilty, it made the whole of Ativerna guilty, and the Ativernans as well. They would be drawn and quartered, her girl included.

"They will." Albitta was smiling. "They won't have a choice."

Count Elont squeezed his wife's knee, unable to reach anything else because of the chains.

"Keep quiet."

Priscilla obeyed, and the count stared at Albitta.

"With all due respect, we don't know where the count is."

"What about his daughter?"

"She's at home, I believe. At the embassy?"

Albitta paused.

The mercenaries hadn't taken the Ativernan embassy yet.

"We’ll see. We’ll see..."

She left.

The Ativernans exchanged looks. Nobody said anything aloud; everything was clear as it was. From the very start, they had been set up as lambs for the slaughter, framed and double-crossed, and going by the role of Baron Fremont in all that...

Oh, Lilian Earton had been right to dislike him so.

And all five of them independently wished the Eartons good luck. They needed it.

***

If luck could be sold, Jerisson would have purchased three vessels of it without hesitation. From the look of things, he wouldn't make do with any less.

Fortunately, a palace was not an impregnable fortress and had more gates than Shedar. Jess was able to lead Her Highness away from the park door, and they were briskly walking through the city.

Well, as briskly as they could, anyway.

It wasn't a metropolis of the twenty-first century—and really, one had to be careful even there—it was Cardin, and few streets had any sort of light. There were also the so-called "treasure hunters," people who genuinely thought that passage through the streets at night should be paid for, sometimes, with your life.

And if you jumped at every noise, hid in the alleyways, and kept glancing over your shoulder, robbing you was only fitting.

Thank Aldonai Jess was armed. Two shadows appeared in front of them out of the blue.

"Good health to you, kind sir."

"Keep well," Jess replied, looking around and noticing two more shadows. It made sense; that rabble wasn’t likely to charge at someone when they could backstab.

Don't count on it, bastards.

"Mighty disrespectful of you to walk around our streets without a greeting."

"We're about to leave," Jess said, grinning.

"That may be well and true, but will you pay for the passage?"

“How much?”

Jess wasn't really going to pay rather than bide his time, preparing to strike and slowly pushing Maria back to the nearest wall so she wouldn't get in the way when the fun began.

"All your money…and the girl, too. She's going to like being with real men..."

The princess either sobbed or hiccupped; in either case, she definitely didn't approve.

Jess snorted, remember his wife standing by his side against similar scumbags. Aldonai damn those vermin...they couldn't hold a candle against her! She was a real comrade-in-arms to whom he could entrust his back. And Maria...she was a nice girl, but Lily was a marvel.

"I guess nobody gives it to you for free, eh? Or even for money?"

"You..."

Jess wasn't deluding himself. In such situations, any phrase would be a trigger, as long as he said anything at all.

If they handed over all of their belongings and raised their hands in the air, they wouldn't have survived anyway; the bandits would have first killed him and then Maria, after they had their way with her.

Blades shined in the moonlight.

Jess abruptly pushed Maria to the wall and unsheathed his saber. A knife would have been better in a narrow alley, but whatever.

He impaled the first attacker. That was a mistake; pulling out a saber took time, and such rabble attacked one by one only in fairytales. He had to dislocate the arm of his victim, who was already croaking and about to die, and skewer the second one on the same blade. Then he kicked both of them right under the feet of their companions.

"Well?"

Valor, revenge for fallen comrades, and honor among thieves were also the stuff of sappy ballads. In reality, the two remaining shadows looked at each other, saw how sharp-toothed their prey was, and quietly disappeared into the night.

Jess wasn't going to relax, though.

"Maria?"

The princess threw herself into his arms and burst into tears. That really wasn't the time for hysterics. Jess gave up and treated the future queen with a few light slaps, just to calm her down.

It worked just as well as smelling salts. Maria stopped crying and looked at Jerisson.

"W-Where to next?"

"To the embassy of Ivernea."

***

Jerisson felt grateful to Gardwig. The embassy of Ivernea was almost around the corner, just six streets away. Their own embassy was much farther.

Finally, the familiar building. Aldonai, help me.

Once again, he thought of Lily. If she hadn't made friends with Her Highness, who knew what kind of welcome Jerisson would have gotten? Probably not the best, what with Richard leaving Ivernea and refusing to marry their princess. But he had no choice in either case.

Jerisson rapped the door-knocker against the bronze plate attached to the door. Come on!

He didn't have to wait long. The door swung open, revealing, instead of a butler and a greeting, a few blades directed at the newcomers, together with two crossbows.

Jess straightened his back, not even thinking about pulling out a weapon. He removed his cloak and raised his hand, showing the emeralds of a count.

"I am Jerisson, Count Earton. I have an urgent matter to discuss with His Highness. Or Her Highness, I suppose."

“What’s happened?”

Miguel of Ivernea was coming down the stairs. Jess breathed out. At least they knew each other.

"Your Highness, do you remember me?"

"Count Earton?" Miguel said, not looking especially sympathetic.

He loved his sister and remembered the pain caused to her by Richard, with Jerisson's assistance. Still, he was prepared to keep neutral—for Lilian.

"May I come in, Your Highness?"

"Yes, of course. Who is that with you?"

"Her Highness Maria."

What could the prince of Ivernea think upon seeing her on his doorstep? Only one thing: escape, an abduction...

"Jess, have you lost your mind?"

Jess didn't get the time to answer in purely barrack-room language, as Her Highness Lydia came down the stairs, wearing her pink lace.

"What's going on? Jerisson? Maria?"

Miguel groaned and waved his hand.

"Come in. I hope you're going to explain everything to me, fast."

***

"Explain? The poor dear is barely standing!" Lydia protested, looking at the princess. "I'll take her."

"Your Highness," Jess said, his voice metallic, demonstrating that he hadn't been made the commander of the royal guard in Ativerna for his good looks. "May I ask you to go up and find some clothes for Her Highness Maria, preferably men's, clothes for yourself, and pack your valuables. Bad things are afoot, and it's not going to get better."

"What's happened?" Miguel asked sharply.

"A mutiny. Gardwig's dead. The throne's taken by his third wife, Albitta."

"WHAT?"

The siblings yelled it out in unison worthy of any vocal duo. Jess sighed.

"All right. I'll keep it short, but then, you'll have to pack up—and fast. Today, at the masquerade ball, His Majesty announced the betrothal. You couldn't attend..."

Lydia nodded.

"Yes, I was sick, and Miguel as well..."

The princess' nose, which was the color and the size of a big plum, hinted at the reason for her sickness. Miguel, on the other hand, was more than fine, even if he couldn't stay the night at his lady friend's—but it was for the best, really. The princess, however, was seriously ill. A cold, that nasty thing, didn't care about titles or nobility. With a nose full of snot and throat hurting so bad she could barely talk, what balls could she attend?

Jess wasn't sure that Lydia really regretted that, though. She had never liked balls, and even after being acknowledged as a beauty, it didn't change. Maybe the looks thrown her way became more flattering, but that wasn't enough to fool any former plain Jane. She had already seen those sycophants before, from the other side.

"I danced with Her Highness, and she had to leave for a while."

Maria blushed. Everybody thought that he was talking about her wanting to relieve herself, but didn't dare to ask.

"I escorted the lady, so we happened to be outside the room when everything started. Her Majesty Albitta came in to announce her return and that she had a son. Then Duke Alcine entered, carrying Gardwig's head."

"What about Milia?" Lydia asked quickly. "And the children?"

"They weren't there. It doesn't mean that they're safe or free, but..."

"But?"

"My wife was with them when it happened," Jess replied, gritting his teeth. "I have to get back...but I couldn't abandon Her Highness to the mercy of that..." The ladies politely pretended not to hear the next word. "But now..."

Miguel raised his hand.

"Jerisson, you can't go back."

"I can and I will," Jess snapped.

"No, you can't. If your wife's captured, you can only get her out if you remain free. If not, then you'll become a great hostage for those bastards."

"I don't know what's happened to her," Jerisson said, clenching his fists. "Don't you get it?"

Lydia spoke up.

"Jerisson, I believe in Lilian. If they didn't show her, alive or dead, then she's not there. What did they talk about?"

"That the Ativernans murdered His Majesty. As for what happens next...maybe they'll use the Iverneans, too." Jess wasn't going to hide anything.

Miguel and Lydia exchanged looks.

"I'll order everyone to pack. Liddie, take care of the guests, find them clothes and food...you know."

His Highness disappeared behind the door.

Lydia grabbed Maria's hand.

"Maria...I'll call you by your name, all right?"

"Yes, Your—"

"Lydia. We don't have time. We need to hurry. Jess, I'll send you a servant. Where's your daughter?"

"She's fine."

Jess was sure of that, at least. The new rulers wouldn't touch the Eveers, and even if they did, the latter were used to that. They would hide and keep Mirrie safe. He knew how Rutha felt about her and remembered Master Salsi's words... It looked like the Eveers' debt would be paid off sooner than planned. But if Miranda survived, it would be Jess who would owe them.

Still, it didn't matter.

Family was priceless.

***

Jerisson didn't get the chance to continue his contemplations. A lackey came in, carrying a bowl and a pitcher of water, then left to return with a servant's outfit.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but we couldn't find anything better..."

Jess waved his hand.

It didn't matter what he wore, as long as it fit and didn't hamper movement.

He quickly changed, leaving only his own boots, and gratefully nodded, looking at the big chunk of cold meet and a slice of bread, refused the wine, and asked for water. He shouldn't drink, not for the time being.

Miguel came down, fully dressed.

"We have twenty soldiers here, ten servants... Where should we go?"

"Maria mentioned the Cuirassier Regiment. We need to reach them. The commander is absolutely loyal to Gardwig. When he learns what happened, he'll march on the capital."

"Against the lawful queen?" Miguel asked, narrowing his eyes.

"That bitch's no queen," Jess said curtly.

"As far as I remember, Gardwig did crown her. We're going to have problems. Maria, do you remember that?"

The women were already dressed in men's clothes, and Maria looked pale, even if she tried to muster her bravery. Lydia was calm and business-like. She wore something similar to a hump on her back, and Maria as well.

"Your Highness?" Jess couldn't help but ask.

Lydia turned her back to him, demonstrating a weird knapsack with two pits.

"Lily sent it to me. It's called a backpack; it's very handy. And the best thing is, it leaves your hands free! It doesn't look very nice, though..."

Maria nodded, agreeing with everything.

"Where are we going?"

"I know that the Mounted Regiment was sent after Cockeyed Bear's gang," Jess said, pondering. "But...I think we should go to Shedar. Let's send out pigeons everywhere before that bitch succeeds. Then we'll head to the Summer Palace, to the Cuirassiers."

"Will we get your daughter?"

Jess shook his head.

"She'll be better off without me for now. It will be hard for us to fight our way there and survive, but as I understood it, Alcine doesn't have that many soldiers. Maybe he would be unable to block all exits?"

Miguel nodded.

"I think the horses have already been saddled. Ladies?"

Lydia nodded.

Servants were already scurrying around in the stables, preparing two carriages and harnessing the horses.

"Carriages?" Jess was surprised.

"A great way to block off the street. It will give us time while they bypass it," Miguel explained. "We don't have a lot of horses, but some of my men agreed to stay here."

Twelve people rode outside the gates of the Ivernean embassy. Lydia sat behind Miguel, and Maria was with Jerisson.

They had crossbows at the ready and all the gear they could carry, up to chainmail suits and helmets. Miguel wasn't going to risk his sister's life, let alone the princess who had popped up so suddenly, like a gift of Aldonai.

Yes, exactly that. Whatever happened in Wellster, he couldn't let the girl get away. If Albitta took the throne...

Miguel knew a fair deal about politics—it was both his hobby and his duty as a prince—and had heard about Gardwig's wives.

Albitta would never retain the throne. On the other hand, if she had a son...

Whether he was Gardwig's or not was a rhetorical question. It was impossible to find out the truth. It might not even be her own son, but a bastard bought from a peasant woman.

Hmm, that might create an opportunity.

Let's say the boy remained Gardwig's sole heir. Something might happen to the king's sons—too bad about the boys, really, but that was the first thought that occurred to Miguel. They were unlikely to be spared. That left the girls. He had enough brothers, and Ivernea was powerful enough. If they agreed to share the spoils with Ativerna, the latter could allow their army to march through their lands...or Darkom might. They could never take down Wellster on their own, they would choke over that choice bit, but the three of them together...

That wasn't cynical. That was just politics.

***

Nobody tried to stop them.

There was no order; a failure of Duke Alcine. He simply hadn't expected anybody to bounce back and flee that quickly. The streets were also chock-full of his soldiers.

If a group of armed people with no banners or identification marks was riding past them, those people were clearly on business and knew what to do. Maybe they had a mission?

The gate was closed, but Jerisson rose to the occasion. Justifiably suspecting that the mercenaries didn't know each other's names, he leaned over from the saddle.

"The duke sent me and my squad to the Shedar Fortress."

"Which duke?" The mercenary seemed distrustful.

Jess resisted the impulse to kick him in the face with his boot and fight his way through.

"Do you have three of them? Alcine, of course."

"I thought that everyone in the city—"

"Should I be responsible for the duke, too?" Jess growled. "Maybe you'd like to ask about Her Majesty, as well? Who do you think you are? Open up, quickly!"

As usual, yelling proved much more convincing than any reasoning. They didn't open the gate but unlocked a small door large enough for a horse to ride through, and the group burst out into the open, going right where they had said.

To Fort Shedar and its pigeons.

***

Maria pulled Jerisson's sleeve.

"Count..."

"Yes, Maria?"

"What happens now?"

Jess sighed.

He was thinking about the same thing. Their prospects weren't promising, but there was no point in lying.

"Depends on the situation and your intentions."

“What do you mean?”

"Maria, do you realize that that woman won't spare you?"

Maria fell silent for a few minutes, and finally, Jess felt her move. Was it a nod? He couldn't exactly turn around and look. It was dark, and he could barely make out the road in front of him. Thank Aldonai for the torches.

"I do. She hated my father. I... Aldonai, she's insane!"

"Either you run and hide or get married and lay claim to the throne of Wellster."

"H-how?"

"That's how. You're a lawful daughter of His Majesty, and your claim is just as strong as that of an unknown bastard, maybe even stronger. You'll get your supporters, even if for a cost."

"What about my brothers, Edwin and Cor? Do you think they're dead?"

Jerisson shrugged.

"I don't know, Maria, I just don't know. I pray they're still alive. My wife was with them... If they survived, I'll take you to Ativerna. Richard will be happy."

"And so will I."

"But if not... Prepare for the worst, Maria. Prepare for the worst."

Maria was trying to. Aldonai, merciful Aldonai, please save my brothers.

She remembered Edwin's serious expression as he studied letters, Cor's small fingers in her hand... No, that is just wrong! They are only children! Hate and fight as much as you want, but why blame them? What did they do to deserve that?

And right at that moment, Maria realized something else. If her brothers were dead, she would stay in Wellster. She would not leave the country until she saw that woman—even in her thoughts, Maria couldn't call her  mother—on a chopping block and wouldn't rest until the executioner lowered his axe.

Maria didn't love her sisters, and it was mutual. However, she did care for Milia and her brothers.

There would be no mercy. She would never forgive her.

Both Albitta's and Gardwig's blood ran through Maria's veins, and neither one of her parents knew how to forgive. Was there a chance that she would learn to?

And the flame of vengeance lit in her brown eyes.

Chapter 11

Lily wanted to grind her teeth.

Milia was giving birth. That wasn't something extraordinary, really, especially on her third time, and not especially dangerous, either. She didn't have twins, and the baby was positioned correctly. That was the perfect set-up for a young woman: quick and not too painful.

Too bad, she couldn't stop thinking.

Milia's issues were understandable: Gardwig, the recent events, and her immediate prospects.

She was almost alone, with two children on her hands and one more coming up and a civil war looming in the distance. What was she to do? Milia wasn't stupid, but she wasn't anything special. She wasn't a warrior, a politician, or a thinker, not even close. She was a homebody, warm and nurturing, but she would never be able to hold onto power. Nobody knew that as well as Milia herself.

"I...won't make it without Gardwig."

Lily knew that, as well. But was giving birth truly the time for discussing political problems?

Ah, blast it! Some issues had to be solved even if you were at death's door, and Milia would calm down if she knew what to do next.

"All right, one thing at a time. So we've escaped the palace. You're free. It's good, right?"

"Yes."

"Next, you have to give birth. You must realize that if the baby's stillborn or you die from fever, no one will be better off."

"Yes."

"So our immediate plan is to deliver your baby, get it over with, and plan out our next move."

"Which is?" Milia stared at Lilian as if Aldonai himself had given the countess a personal mandate. Everything done by the bearer of this is done in my name and for the good of the country of Wellster. Aldonai, sealed and signed.

"Are there troops loyal to your husband anywhere close to the capital? Someone you are sure you can trust?"

Milia sighed, sensing a contraction. They had to pause.

"Gardwig didn't tell me a lot."

"You must remember something, even if he didn't share it with you."

"He trusted Altres Lort implicitly."

"The man who's now disgraced and exiled from the capital."

"By Edward's demand."

"And for a good reason, you know that. Are you privy to that whole affair?"

"Yes."

Milia understood that Lilian was right. They shouldn't have switched a fresh fish for a rotten one and given it to their neighbors; it could have ended even worse. And it wasn't thanks to Gardwig that it had worked out as well as it had, either. They had just gotten lucky, nothing more, nothing less.

"Is there anybody closer? I think you've mentioned Count Chaintaine?"

"Yes."

"Then after you give birth, I'll find a way to get you and the children someplace safe and then smuggle you into the Summer Palace. Or the other way round."

“What do you mean?”

"We call up the count here, with his regiment. Then the conspirators might just as well be dead. By the same, can Edward say the right words if need be? Repeat a phrase?"

"What exactly?"

"For the king, for our homeland! What else can a child say in a situation such as this? The rest will be said by the others."

"He can," Bertha said, standing right next to them. "I laid the boys to rest. The housekeeper's with them. Let her stay there for a few minutes... Thank you, dear."

Lily snickered. That woman really reminded her of Martha. Thankfully, her nanny had stayed in Ativerna, too old to travel around, her bones aching. The children needed to be looked after, too.

"Thank me later, when we free our tails from the trap."

"If you weren't with us, I'd be dead," Milia said. "Thank you. By Aldonai, neither my children nor I will ever forget this."

Lily waved her hand.

"A gold piece is better than any gratitude. Let's discuss the rates later. As for now... Bertha, is there a stablehand or an errand boy to send a letter with?"

Bertha and Milia exchanged looks. Lily's artificial cynicism didn't fool anyone. Both of them saw that she was deeply embarrassed and nervous, using jokes to distract them.

She would have done the same for anyone, anyone at all.

"I think there's a boy in the stables who sleeps there and runs errands, the groom's nephew. I'll go look."

Bertha left. Lily turned back to Milia.

"All right, breathe! And don't you slack off!"

“What...ooh! ...does it mean...ooh...to slack?"

"Don't be lazy, fine? You're in the middle of the process, come on, do it! We've planned everything out, and all that's left for you is to push the baby out. We can't carry you while you're giving birth!"

Obediently, Milia started pushing.

***

Lily sat behind the owner's desk and once again felt grateful for her habits.

Never leave home without money.

You can forget your underwear, your make-up, even shave your head, but money—and some papers—should always be with you. Who knows what could happen...or who could happen. You never knew where you might end up, but money helped a lot.

And as for the papers, well... They always helped to identify the body if the money didn't help.

Lily always carried a certain amount with her. Going to the woods? Take money. Going to a ball? Take money. Going...well, you got it.

At that moment, she had ten gold coins, a tidy sum, if not especially large. It was enough to hire a carriage and...

Fine. A carriage would come later. First, she had to write to Master Salsi. What would she say, though? Ah, that wasn't an issue.

Lily's quill flashed above the paper.

Master Salsi,

Unfortunately, I'll have to make use of your kind offer—and your gift—sooner than I expected.

I implore you to arrive posthaste and in secret, as my predicament is even worse than Rutha and her father's combined.

Sincerely yours,

Lily.

Just in case, she added the address inside the envelope. All that was left was to pour some hot wax and stamp her pendant.

In her old world, they used to say karma was a bitch. Well, it seemed pretty nice to her; her ties to the Eveers proved miraculously useful. Maybe it depended on the person, really.

Lily held a gold coin in front of the boy, his eyes turning just as big and yellow.

"When you deliver it, you'll get another one."

She took the second coin out of her purse.

"Yes, Mistress. I'll take it right now to Master Salsi on Potter Street."

"Don't forget that I'll give you the other coin only after a confirmation."

"Which one?"

He wasn't stupid. Was that good or not? Ah, who knew... Maybe at that moment, it was for the better.

"The city's not safe, people are running about...you know. You might get tempted. So listen to me. Master Salsi should give you a letter with his seal, or get here himself, or send someone... I think it will be the latter, but sort it out on the spot. You get your money when I see the result, got it?"

The boy nodded. He would get it done. Then he ran into the night.

Lily got back to Milia. Ah, there was no escaping midwifery for her, and here she was dreaming about cutting people... Alas, heart surgeons wouldn't be in demand for hundreds of years in that world, and women would keep giving birth all that time.

"Come on, breathe!"

***

In Master Salsi's house, nobody was asleep. Merciful gods, what real Eveer would sleep when the city was clearly in danger? They were the people used to saving their skins and getting out while the getting was good, and that moment was just as good as any.

Master Salsi stared out of the window, silent.

Kreth, who was standing close to him, didn't say a word, either, and neither did Rutha, her arm around Mirrie, or the Virmans. Still, the latter group wasn't going to keep that up for long.

"Master Salsi?" Gael became the first to break the silence. The old Eveer turned around and threw the young Virman a sympathetic look.

"I’m listening, young man."

"My name's Gael. Master, bad things are afoot in the city. It reeks of mutiny, blood, and danger."

"I can see that."

"Then tell us what to do."

The master shrugged.

"Nothing, so far. Just wait, young man, just wait."

"Until someone who knows about your wealth bursts in?"

"We have a place to hide our women and children. As for escaping... Gael, we can't fight our way to the gate. There are nine men, sixteen women, and eight children inside my house. It's impossible."

"And I'm expected to believe that you haven't prepared an escape route, just to be safe?"

The Eveer sighed.

"There is a secret exit, yes. But we shouldn't use it before we understand the current situation. We might fall—"

"...Out of the frying pan into the fire?"

"Something like that, yes."

Gael sighed.

"Just as long as it won't be too late. We're responsible for Viscountess Earton..."

Mirrie snickered but didn't argue. Gael looked at her.

“Yes, Your Grace, and your mother will have our hides if anything happens to you. So please, listen to us."

"Fine."

"It will be all right, honey," Rutha said, patting Miranda's head. "And your parents...they will be fine, too."

Lying was pretty hard. The boys sent to scout the area had told them that the main trouble spot was the royal palace, which is exactly where the Eartons were.

Mirrie smirked and brushed Rutha's hand with hers, just like an adult would do.

"Calm down. I know my parents. They will definitely get out and help us, too."

"Oh, Mirrie..."

"You don't think so? If anyone can do it, my Momma can."

"Her Grace does have an interesting approach to problem-solving," Gael confirmed and suddenly giggled, reminded of how Lilian had done it in Earton. Doubting her was pointless: she would absolutely make it.

***

The knock on the master's door was like thunder in the silence of the night. Rutha flinched, and Gael smoothed down his hair and adjusted his axe.

"I'll go look who's there."

He walked slowly, like a bear awoken during winter. Yes, I'm angry and nasty and woken at the worst moment, but these are your problems.

But instead of looters, for whom Gael had already prepared a friendly greeting (the most important thing was to kill the first attacker on the spot to scare the others straight—say, swing your axe from his shoulder to his backside; cleaving the head would be perfect), it was a twelve-old boy, small and lithe.

"What do you want?"

"A letter to Master Salsi."

"Give it to me."

Gael took the latter, and his heart missed a beat. He knew that handwriting—who among the Virmans working for Her Grace didn't know those quick, fleeting strokes? He hoisted the messenger by the lapels and pulled inside before the poor boy could breathe out.

"Where is she?"

“Who?”

"The lady who sent the letter?"

"Um, they're in our home, that is, she, that sister of hers, and the maid, and even the children. Asked me to give the letter to Master Salsi so he, um, would write to her husband."

"All right, wait here. Master?"

The Eveer wasn't long in coming, seeing as the letter was addressed to him.

He broke the seal, scanned the text, and held it out to Gael.

"Read, Gael."

The Virman knew how to read; actually, literacy was respected in Virma, whatever the sneering land-lubbers might have said.

"All right...Oh, by Holosh and the krakens of Nier!"

He had a reason to cuss. How would they get her out of there? And to where?

To the Eveers, trading bad for worse? That didn't smell good... And who was that sister? And the children?

But he had no time for those questions.

"Where are they now?"

"On the Lamplighter Street," the boy said with a shrug. "Um, at my master's house."

"What's his name?"

"Mister Daren. Whatcha want?"

"Nothing. Sit still."

"Mistress promised me a gold coin."

Gael nodded.

"Then you'll get it. Just wait a bit. I said..."

Gael looked at Master Salsi.

"As you wish, Master. I won't leave Her Grace to you, or Leif will shove my axe into my arsehole together with the blade. Will you come with me? I promise you, I can get everyone out."

"How?" The master seemed interested.

A smirk appeared on Gael's face.

"Do you happen to have any carts? Or maybe your neighbors have them?"

"I'll find some. What do you need them for?"

"And any spare clothes. Blankets, too, enough to cover your heads."

"What for?"

Gael's smirk turned into a sneer. He told them his plan.

Yes, it was dirty, positively stinking, but it allowed them to leave the city, and soon. And after that...

They would sort everything out. Maybe M’lady would explain everything that was going on, and they would finally know where to go and whom to kill. But until then, they had to band together and escape Cardin.

***

"Congratulations, it's a boy. What will you name him?"

"Gardwig, of course," Milia replied, surprised. Were there really any other options?

"He's perfectly healthy, and you're all right, too. I just needed to sew you up a little bit..."

"I didn't even feel that," Milia told a noble lie while inwardly blessing Lilian Earton. If not for her...

Bertha loved her and would have given her life for her, but she was old and not so strong anymore. Bertha herself knew that and was likewise staring at Lilian with moist eyes.

What would have happened to her girl? She was helpless, delivering her baby in a city full of enemies... It was better to stop thinking about it. The danger hadn't passed yet.

"Put it on your belly and lie down." Lily handed Milia a pouch of ice given by the helpful housekeeper. "And don't think about anything. I got you here, and I'll get you out. I will."

“Thank you."

"Lie down, try to sleep for an hour at least."

Lily didn't feel much confidence in her abilities but avoided showing it, as medics would. I might have no idea why are you sick and how to treat you, but damn it if I confess it to you! And I will cure you, for Christ's sake!

The important thing was not to let the patient die before that.

Bertha went after Lilian.

"What do you want to do, M’l—"

"Lily. Don't waste our time, Bertha. Just Lily."

"Fine. So what are we going to do?"

"Wait for Master Salsi's reply. We don't have any choice. After that... In the worst case, we'll have to escape in a different way."

"Milia won't make it...and the children...."

Lily snickered.

"She will if she wants to save her children. Do you know the people who nobody approaches?"

"Yes. The lepers."

"Exactly."

"And—"

"I can fake sores," Lily said, nodding to her thoughts. "Maybe not especially well, but who'd check? Three leper women with children..."

"If those bastards aren't stupid, they have already posted people at all gates."

"Right. But I'll think of something."

Bertha sighed. For whatever reason, she believed in that woman. She had...no, it wasn't confidence, but rather some sense of purpose, an inner strength.

Aldonai help those who dare to cross her path.

Lily didn't know that, but it was her father's doing. Often, her father had told her, "Honey, those who panic, perish." He cited examples, recounted stories, showed it to her... As long as you kept your cool about you, you could get out alive and lead people out. Not everyone, maybe, but you could.

A leader should be trusted. A leader should be believed as if they were a god. No other way.

Only then, was victory assured. And for that, what did that leader need to do? Exactly. Believe in themselves and be one cold son of a bitch.

Lily was prepared even for a daughter of a bitch.

She would get the queen out of that trap, just because opposing scumbags was the duty of any decent person, and only scumbags of the highest order would try to kill children. Plus, those bastards had the support of Baron Fremont, with whom Lily had a personal score to settle.

How about an educational grass snake in your rectum? And turn it around three times, for good measure!

***

They had to wait for a while, but almost at dawn, the boy scratched at the door.

Behind him, a familiar shape loomed.

"Gael!"

Lily threw herself at the Virman and almost burst into tears, barely restraining herself when she saw how he was dressed.

"Wait, what are you wearing?"

"Umm..."

"Did you roll around in a dung heap?" Lily's suspicions were turning into certainty. "Please tell me you didn't."

“M’lady..."

"Where's Mirrie?"

"She's close, with the boys. She's safe."

Lily breathed out in relief. Some good news, at least.

"I was so worried about her. Thank Aldonai."

"What happened?"

Lily made a heavier sigh.

"A load of crap, a fat one at that."

That answer didn't satisfy Gael, and Lily had to spend five more minutes telling him about the events in the palace. The Virman listened to her, unenthusiastic.

"You got out just in time. If they turn on the Ativernans, our guys are in for a hard time."

"And they'll come clean about the Eveers, no doubt about that."

"And we can't help them in any way?"

Lily snickered.

"I'll send the boy with a note. He seems to be pretty smart... And maybe they won't kill anybody straight away, and afterward, when we have time and opportunity, we'll get everyone out! The most important thing is for us to escape. We'll deal with the other stuff when we’re free."

"Well, we can get you out, no problem."

Lily's expression darkened.

She pulled the Virman's sleeve and pushed him to the wall, hissing into his ear like a snake that had shed too many skins.

"Gael, I have the queen, her maid, and all the princes with me. I can't leave them."

"I'm not asking you to. We'll take everyone."

"Gael..."

"Your Grace, just trust me."

Lily waved her hand and obeyed him.

They called for Mister Daren, handing him one more purse of coins, which considerably brightened him up and caused him to invite them to stay, and gave a gold coin to each of the servants and the messenger boy, together with a note for Thomas Concord, and Gael took Milia in his arms.

Mister Daren was gracious enough to give them a few warm blankets. In Lily's opinion, they would certainly be of use.

"Oh, Gael..."

Yes, those were garbage carts.

The great city of Cardin, just like the other towns, didn't have any public toilets or trashcans. Just before dawn, garbage collectors patrolled the city, picking up trash, putting it into their carts, and driving it outside the walls.

There weren't too many of them, of course, as it was literally shitwork.

Lots of garbage remained on the streets.

And yes, their carts were so filthy that even touching them felt disgusting. Gael and his lads had disguised the horses as well as they could, too. Thankfully, Master Salsi's stables had no Avarians, so they simply trimmed the mane and the tail, smeared them with dirt... That could work. Who'd ever give them a second look? The dogs, however, both Lou-Lou and Nanook, had to be put into the cart. No idiot in the world would confuse a Virman dog for an ordinary mutt.

"Your Grace, Your Majesty, children, go on, get inside..."

The Virmans performed a miracle. It wasn't especially grand or majestic, but Lily and Milia were ready to declare them equal to Aldonai.

In a hurry, they had made an impromptu false bottom for the carts, nailing several bars to their sides and putting some planks on top. Well, calling them planks would be generous. They clearly used to be part of tables, carriages, and other stuff. But beggars can't be choosers.

The bottom was lined with blankets, and the "roof" got covered with trash. It stank like hell, but there were no other options, anyway. Lily dismissed her concerns and wrapped Milia and her newborn child as best she could.

"Millie, keep him next to your breasts. If he cries, we're done for."

Milia nodded.

There was no time for whims or protests. To save her children, she would have taken a dive into an outhouse—but instead, she got a cozy hiding place. Several people were sniffling next to them, but there was no time for words—and no reason to talk, either.

Bertha sighed but climbed inside. It was harder for her, what with her age and her weight, but she succeeded and put her arms around Edward and Corin.

"Lie down. I'm going to tell you a story, boys..."

She spoke as quietly as she could.

Lily held Milia's hand, the newborn Gardwig between them, both praying about the same thing.

Let them make it. Please.

***

Gael threw some more trash into the carts, completing their transformation into stinkholes, and followed it up by adding a few shovelfuls of black greasy mud that Cardin streets had a generous supply of, finishing the process with a dead cat on top of the heap.

Then he nodded to the other boys. Whom else could he trust? After all, garbage collectors were usually tall men of powerful build. That craft required a good deal of strength—weaker people couldn't shovel dung all day.

They were serious men who tolerated no jokes. Gael hoped they wouldn't bump into them, or they would have to forget about their disguise. Still, he had a plan.

The Virmans rode out, carts scraping against the pavement, headed to the Dust Gate.

Yes, Cardin had one. They did have to transport trash, after all. Usually, they drove it to a dumpsite somewhere outside the city limits.

Anyway, the point was to escape the trap that Cardin had turned into. Worrying came later.

They got lucky. They were the first the reach the Dust Gate. Yawning guards opened the gates and returned to sleep in the guardhouse. Why go to the trouble of searching the cart, really? What would they find there, trash and more trash? Or talk to those moldy hunks of bread? Fat chance! The sooner that junk was out of the city, the better!

Gael caught his breath.

Yes, they were doing their best to act as drunk buggers, having splashed filth all over their carts and horses, but what if they happened to stumble on someone observant? Still, any coup started from the top. Kings were the first to go, and trash was the last.

So far, its turn hadn't come, and Gael was all too happy for that.

***

The Garbage Gully stretched for miles, as far as Gael could see.

Such was life: gorgeous buildings created by the brightest of human minds, the magnificent bridge across River Din...and the dumpster site, the stench of which could drop flies dead, their legs up in the air.

Gael knocked on the cart.

"Your Grace, how are you?"

"Don't hold your breath," her voice spoke out. "Have we passed the gate?"

"Yes."

"Phew."

"Where next?"

"Gael, do you know where Gardwig's Summer Palace is?"

"Well...more or less."

"That's where we need to go."

"Oh, Holosh..."

"Do we have other plans?"

"We don't, but Master Salsi might."

"Then be so kind as to ask him." Lily's voice sounded almost otherworldly from under the trash heap. "Just don't mention Millie, all right?"

"I'm not stupid."

"I know."

***

Thomas Concord stared in surprise at the note sealed by Her Grace Countess Earton's personal seal. He had seen the seal and her ring before and knew her handwriting, but why would the countess address him?

He broke the wax seal.

The writing was haphazard, almost turning into scribbles as the countess wrote in clear haste. That was true: after Gael's arrival, each minute counted.

Gardwig was murdered, the city's rioting.

Save yourselves while you have time.

Lilian Earton.

Short and on topic.

At first, Thomas couldn't believe his eyes. When he re-read the letter, nothing changed. Then he couldn't believe the writing. Again, re-reading didn't help.

Then he dismissed his doubts. None of the masters were back home from the ball.

It did look like there was some sort of unrest in the royal palace, so... Let them hang him later, but he was responsible for his people. He had an excuse, he would keep the note next to his heart and show it as proof.

And Thomas went on to arrange things just like he had done all his life with his wagon train: calmly, thoughtfully, without unnecessary fuss.

When Robert's mercenaries arrived to look around the embassy half an hour later, there were no people to be found.

It wasn't much better with their valuables, either. Thomas, with his practical mind, had scraped the entire place almost clean.

The carpets were still there, of course, but as for the clothes, the tableware, the correspondence, personal effects... You thought we'd leave it? Dream on! He even managed to take the horses—the rabble would never get their hands on a real Avarian. That would be just wrong!

In the end, the mercenaries had nothing to loot and nobody to question, and the duke spat venom, mad as hell.

***

Four carts drove past the Garbage Gulley. Gael picked the safest route, through the backroads. They kept their disguise: just men driving carts of trash, nothing to look at, nothing to rob.

Were they to transport a score of people, including Eveers, and their belongings, there would be lots of nasty questions with no way to answer them.

The baby behaved like an angel, only waking up to grunt. The others changed his makeshift diapers made from blanket fragments by feel—it's not like his poo affected the surrounding stench—and he returned to sleep after being fed by Milia.

Bertha managed to get the children to sleep, as they were tired after a sleepless night and would have slept on a bed of nails if they had to.

Master Salsi decided to go to the Summer Palace. At least it was a place where they could wash up and get their act together. Of course, the Virmans were prepared to give the Eveers three carts out of four at any moment, but staying together felt safer, calmer.

Not to mention that the countess seemed good at arranging things. Considering what was about to break out inside the city, Master Salsi was ready to praise the gods a hundred times for the minute his relative had met Lilian Earton.

There was no use talking about revolutions and noble goals. The Eveers knew all about that: all coups were done only in one name, and it was gold. Power, too.

But you couldn't use power to pay a mercenary or feed a starved man. No power could exist without gold. And when it shifted, it meant expenses.

Where would one take money to pay the bill? Master Salsi didn't really want to guess. He preferred to cut and run.

He had had enough time to pass the word to his people to flee. Everyone should have heard the rumor, and he that hath ears to hear, let him hear. And if not...

The master didn't know the phrase "survival of the fittest," but that was the case. Only the smartest, the fastest, the most fearless would survive. The others got the raw end of the stick.

He could only save so many. And really, he would bet his rebirth as a cold and stupid fish if Lilian Earton didn't have a plan. She was too determined to abandon those who trusted her, as the master had already witnessed. He didn't have a plan of his own, which meant that he would follow someone else's—and correct it if need be.

***

Albitta paced around the room like a lioness pacing around its cage.

"Ahem," Robert coughed.

Abruptly, she turned around.

"Yes?"

"We're looking for them. We've taken the Arsenal, the bell tower, and the Treasury. There was no resistance. There was, however, a setback with Lort's people."

"Oh?"

"They've managed to set fire to the building. We've cut them down, but...only six of them."

"And we don't know the others," Albitta said with a terse nod. "What else?"

"The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is ours as well. We'll sort out the papers later, but nothing was burned. I guess they didn't get the time."

"Good news, for once."

"We sent people to Fort Shedar with your order to surrender."

Albitta gave him a nod of favor. Yes, she was already signing orders, and it sounded so nice—her Majesty Albitta, first of her name, of course.

"And those wretches?"

"Still haven't been found, neither the Eartons nor Her Majesty with the children—"

"She's no majesty!"

"Allie, calm down. I have to explain which people to catch, don't I?"

Albitta reluctantly nodded.

And still...that Milia was no majesty. She had had no right to take the throne while Albitta was alive.

"And my daughter?'

"Nowhere to be found, either. We've contained the fire and are trying to gather the Assembly. Thankfully, we don't need to look far."

Albitta sighed. Yes, they were trying...

The plan was quite different. By that time, both Gardwig and the princes were supposed to be dead, and she was to be presenting her son to the Assembly. They would have agreed; they had no choice.

But in reality, everything had gone sideways. That bitch Milia had managed to flee with her pups, and nobody knew where they would bite. Hopefully, they would die—maybe get crushed inside the city, but where exactly? Where could they go? The Summer Palace? But when Albitta said that to Robert, he waved his hand and slumped into a chair, tired. He had been on his feet the entire night, and he wasn't getting any younger.

"I ordered the gates locked and sent a squad to patrol the roads, twenty men. Let them check all travelers. We'll find them."

"You're a miracle, darling."

"I can make miracles for you. They're going to bring Henry in—"

Someone knocked at the door. The mercenary looked apologetic, while Baron Fremont, who was dragging him by the scruff of his neck, was furious.

"Repeat it, you scum!"

"He's not there! There's no boy!" the mercenary screamed.

"What?" Robert stood up.

"There's no one!"

"My son is gone?"

Honestly, Albitta would have looked less shocked if she were knocked on the head with a candlestick. Her son, her central bet... Where was he? What had happened to him? What, for Maldonaya's sake, was going on? Who dared? There was no answer, and Aldonai, as usual, was silent.

You've started that whole mess, mortals, so eat it all and try to keep your hands clean. And I'll be watching; a show like that is a rare treat.

***

There was no plot, of course. The prince hadn't been abducted. He had no enemies, no one to take revenge against him. His Majesty Henry simply had a loving mother, that's it.

Mary Wigellow. In theory, she was just a nanny, of course...but was she, really? It's not giving birth that makes a woman a mother, but actually raising the child. For Mary, he was her son, and she put just as much care and love into raising him as if she had birthed him herself. And when they were brought into a rich home and she realized that something bad was brewing...

Mary was illiterate. Henry had his tutors, but she still used an X in place of a signature. She had never read a book in her life, but her sense of danger was as good as of any noble.

She knew that she and her son were at risk. What was the problem? She had no idea, but fear hung in the air, making it hard to breathe, wrapping around her like a poison fog.

The only solution was to flee—flee as fast and far away as possible, so nobody could catch them.

That required two things: money and a hole to hide in. Mary wasn't stupid; like a cornered beast, she sensed that they needed to lay low for a month, at least.

They also had to get rid of the guards. Mary saw that she and her son...weren't quite followed, but watched, never being left alone, getting nightly visits, with people posted all over the house. Mercenaries, that was obvious—Mary had seen her fair share of them.

She had one ally, though, Henry himself. She had told him the truth—that she wasn't sure but suspected that something bad was in store of them. After Albitta's visit, Henry believed that.

They wanted to take him away from his momma? Force him to call that nasty lady his mother? It didn't matter that she was beautiful; she was a viper, and he knew that! He was already ten, old enough to know when to keep quiet and obey, old enough to realize his profit. He agreed to start acting up.

No, he wouldn't eat that! Let Momma Mary prepare his food! Only she can do it! Waaaaaah!

The duke wasn't even told that. Why bother the master with nonsense that even the butler could deal with? Those people weren't captives. The staff was told to watch the child, and the child was in his room. And if the nanny was fussing around in the kitchen or getting the food...was that truly strange or unusual?

Let her do that. Fewer problems for the other servants to take care of, and maybe the boy would be calmer, too. After all, they couldn't give him a proper thrashing; the duke would have their hides for that.

Mary visited the market square, studied Cardin, and looked around. She found an old woman selling fish; they got to talking. One word let to another...

Mary confessed that she had come to leave with her kinswoman, who promised to find her work. The woman's husband, however, was strongly against her son. He was trying to drag her into his bed and send the boy off to a workhouse. The fishwife shook her head but didn't find that story strange. Mary looked nice, younger than her age, even—her thighs seemed so juicy any man would want to cop a feel.

She complained that she wanted to leave, unable to stand such treatment, but had no place to go.

The fishwife suggested that she should. Is the man noble? Oh, a leir? Too bad! He might tell the guards that Mary stole something and send them after her. Nobody will care! They'll pass her around and throw her into prison, and she'll never leave...

Mary clutched her head. One hint led to another...

That night, Mary decided that it was time. There weren't any mercenaries home, only the servants. She had spent enough time in the kitchen, so adding some sleeping powder into the wine wasn't hard—and everyone would take a sip. All of them were accustomed to her; nobody paid her any mind.

The masters weren't home, either. Robert had taken all of the guards, rightly believing that nobody would make trouble in his home if he was the troublemaker, the servants fell asleep one after another, and finally, Mary mustered up her resolve. She asked Henry to dress warmly and headed into the duke's study.

She was looking for something small, something light, something that could be sold for a good enough price to make a living. After all, her savings wouldn't get them far.

The first room she came upon was Her Majesty Albitta's chambers. Deciding that she might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, Mary snatched a jewelry box. There weren't any hugely expensive trinkets there, but...it was enough. It's not like she and Henry were going to buy carriages and houses. They simply had to lay low.

Then she entered the study. Several pouches of gold were lying on top of the table. She didn't look anywhere else.

Good. She would get her son out, and as for the rest...let those noble masters rip each other's throats, for all she cared! Ugh!

Late that night, when the royal palace was caught in the midst of turmoil that hadn't yet spilled out on the streets, two shadows left Duke Alcine's estate and headed toward the Fishermen's Quarter.

They would spend the night there, and in the morning, be taken downriver to the bay. After that... They would see.

Mary knew only one thing for certain: she would never give her son up. She would rip out their throats, lie, kill, lay with anybody, but never abandon him. Henry's small hand in hers gave her courage.

Aldonai helped those who helped themselves, and in the end, Mary's plan worked out.

***

Duke Alcine, however, knew nothing of her scheme.

What was he to do? But then, fussing was pointless. Everything was quite simple. He still had two more boys who lived with their mothers, just like Henry. It's just he had picked his own son, specifically.

Well then.

In the morning, the Assembly would be presented with Her Majesty Albitta, first of her name. Her son would be presented later, after they got him to the capital. They would simply send messengers to both women. The boy who came first would get the throne. As for being related to Gardwig...who'd care?

Albitta didn't know his plans and was rushing around the room at such speed that her hair couldn't keep up with her.

"What will we do, what will we do..."

"Calm down, darling. I'll find another boy."

"But it won't be my son!"

"What do you care about more right now, the throne or your son?"

"The throne. But..."

"You'll bear one more, you're still young. Or we'll find that one, they couldn't have been taken far...we could figure out how to switch them later. Calm down, I'll solve that problem."

Robert didn't even think that Mary and the boy could have escaped by themselves. Why would they want to? And where? Nobody was going to do anything to them. It didn't occur to the duke that a mother could be simply afraid for her child. He had better things to do.

He touched Albitta's shoulder, caressing it off-handedly.

"Darling, prepare yourself. The Assembly is about to start. You must be magnificent."

Albitta nodded, offered her lips for a kiss, and got it, of course. Robert turned around and left.

On the one hand, their situation didn't seem that bad. The capital was in their hands, and so was the royal palace. But what about the central figures? Where were they headed? And what would happen to them in the end?

***

The Iverneans didn't try to spare their horses.

The first time, they had reached Cardin almost in a day—which made sense, considering the carts, the carriages, and spoiled ladies traveling with them—but it only took three hours the second time.

Jess felt pity for the horses, but he pitied himself even more.

Here it was, Fort Shedar. What was going on there? Thank Aldonai they didn't charge inside right away, as it would have been hard to battle while taking care of the women by their side. Still, Miguel was fast enough.

He helped his sister get down, while Jess did the same to Maria. Both girls were told to stay and wait. Then they spurred the horses and crashed right into the mercenaries' rear.

That’s how it had gone down.

Robert ordered one hundred and fifty mercenaries to be sent to the fort. If they were lucky, that would have been enough.

Alas, Lady Luck looked at the duke from above and turned her backside to him. Who could ever expect a huge forty-cart caravan to stop for the night right next to the fortress?

An axle had broken on one of the wagons, and several horses started limping. The merchants had to stay and rest. And really, why not stay the night next to the fortress and leave for Cardin in the morning, fresh and sound?

So when Alcine's mercenaries rode right up to the caravan, the guards mistook them for bandits and received them the way that bandits were supposed to be received—with spears. Well, those of them who were quick on their feet, that is.

They were promptly defeated but managed to sound the alarm and draw the attention of the fortress' garrison who rushed to the rescue. After all, attacking people right under their noses was just disrespectful. What would they do next, defecate on their heads?

The Ceruleans had never been known for their meekness, even if they were only foot soldiers, and a heated battle commenced. That was exactly what the Iverneans had stumbled upon, and they weren't about to chicken out.

All of them were in the same boat, all of them had to row.

Their attack turned out to be the last straw.

Alcine's people were crushed, even if some might have been lucky enough to escape, and Jerisson looked around the battlefield to find the commander of the garrison, a sturdy old man in his fifties.

"Leir Olsen?"

“Count Earton?"

The leir pulled off his bloodstained helmet and squinted. In his age, he had grown farsighted, but was that really a problem? He had strong arms, fast legs, and could strike true. At least four men had felt it all too well, as it was the last thing they felt in their lives.

"What brings you here? Actually, what's going on?"

"Don't you recognize me, Leir Olsen?"

Miguel of Ivernea couldn't stay silent. Not that he didn't have the right, considering his help in the battle.

“Your Highness?"

The commander had an enviable memory.

"Yes... There's been a coup in the capital. Gardwig's dead, and Count Earton, by some miracle, saved Her Highness Maria..."

"WHAT?"

Miguel threw his hands up.

"I'll order my men to bring the girls in. My sister's with us, too. We had to flee."

The commander nodded.

He waited until the princesses were delivered, arranging the clean-up, talking to the merchants, promising to escort them, ordering his men to tie up and question some of the defeated mercenaries...

When two horses with four riders showed up on the road from Cardin, he looked at them closely and nodded thoughtfully. He recognized Her Highness, and the surviving mercenaries had already confirmed a part of Miguel's story. What a mess.

***

Princess Maria could hardly stand but stared at the commander with a strict and direct expression.

"Leir Olsen, do you know me?"

"I've seen you, Your Highness. I was even introduced to you, like many others."

Maria blushed.

"Forgive me. I was so bewildered before the wedding..."

The leir waved his hand.

"Your Highness, please tell me what happened."

Jess chuckled. Yes, they still didn't trust him completely. But let them. He would survive that.

Maria was the one to tell their story, about the dance, hiding together with the count, her father's head being brought into the ballroom, their escape from the capital...

Leir Olsen listened to her, not saying a word. Then he summed it all up as if putting a seal on a royal decree.

"Your Highness, we need to rally the people."

Maria nodded, and the leir continued.

"We have a coop here, and the birds are fast. They don't fly at night, but dawn is breaking, so it will do. Will you write the letters yourself?"

Maria nodded.

"Let's go, Leir. But please, arrange to settle my companions."

Jess didn't even try to follow the princess. It wasn't time.

He needed to take a rest and return to Cardin. His wife was there, as was his daughter...and really, his people! What would he do, surrender to the mercy of a crazy bitch and her lover? Never in his life.

***

"Millie, how far it is to the Summer Palace?"

"About three days. That's how long it usually took for us..."

"With an escort, dogs, and pages?"

"I didn't have any dogs!"

"No matter. When we get out, I'll give you a Virman puppy. You'll love it."

"Fine. When we get out, I'll be grateful."

It was hard to travel lying down. Talking helped, and Lily chatted about every little thing, distracting her patient (and Millie was her patient—Lily delivered her baby, after all) from bad thoughts.

"I have two of them myself, Nanook and Lou-Lou."

"Where are they now?"

Lily was wondering that herself, but she trusted Gael. If he could take care of Miranda, he wouldn't have left the dogs unattended either. Virmans treated dogs just like the Khangans treated their horses. They were their friends, an inseparable part of their life, worth more than most people.

"I don't know about the dogs and the horses... I have an Avarian, by the way."

"Is he pretty?"

"Very. His name is Lidarh..."

The conversation turned sour.

They might have escaped, but about those left behind in the city? The question still stood.

Virma. Clan Gardren.

They came at night.

Silent, not issuing any challenges, like cowards and thieves, wrapped in black robes, their faces smeared in soot. Quietly, they took down the dogs and scaled the palisade.

Ian Gardren couldn't sleep. The boy had eaten far too many pieces of cherry pie for dinner, and his stomach vehemently demanded release from the extra food.

A chamber pot? He was too grown-up for that. He was already ten! He would go to the outhouse.

The attackers hadn't foreseen that the boy could hide as well, that he wouldn't scream when he saw dark shadows, that he wouldn't run, rather than simply freeze in fear...

Were they the servants of Holosh, coming to claim him?

Oh, Mommy...

Ian saw the shadows approach the house and shoot at it with flaming arrows. He watched his older brother, the warriors, and the women all run outside, only to be taken down by merciless crossbow bolts.

They didn't get a chance for a fair fight. Those men had come to kill, and they were killing everyone.

The boy gritted his teeth. That decision cost him a lot. He didn't run forward to protect his kin. Instead (thankfully, nobody could hear him in that noise), he broke off one of the planks in the back of the outhouse and crawled outside, immediately tumbling down on the ground. There was supposed to be a puddle somewhere nearby; father had demanded it to be buried, as it was always damp...great!

Dirt—especially black liquid mud—was an amazing thing. Blond hair, pale face, and white shirt all hid under the layers of filth.

Ian pressed himself against the high palisade. He could never climb over it, so he crawled into a bramble bush and hid in the thicket of barbed branches. Thorns dug into his skin, tearing his clothes, leaving deep gashes...

Whatever.

He had a different goal. He had to learn at least something. He couldn't help anyone, but he could avenge them later, Holosh as his witness!

And the boy listened, the wind carrying fragments of the men's conversations to him.

He kept praying to Holosh. If those people stayed until dawn, he was done for. In the light of day, he would be noticed and found. He wouldn't regret being dead, but he would regret leaving his family unavenged. It wasn't death that he feared, but a death in vain; that's what his father had taught him.

Bran genuinely loved his sons—thankfully, none of them had inherited his defect. As for his brains...it wasn't yet clear, but Ian was no fool.

He waited, watched, and listened. Their faces might have been covered, but gestures, movements, maybe a pattern on a sword or a boot clasp... Ian noticed everything.

The assassins weren't going to linger. They set fire to the house and left. Half an hour later, having made sure that nobody stayed back, Ian dared to climb out. He came up to the house. It was a nightmare come true. Corpses of people who had patted his hair just yesterday, his nearest and dearest, his brother...

Ian found Leif almost inside. He had been defending their family seat to the end. Nobody could fight their way to him—they shot him with crossbows.

The boy closed his brother's eyes, sat next to his body, and cried, quietly, like a whimpering pup. His sobbing echoed.

A puppy crawled out from behind a shed (the attackers hadn't lit them, thinking that fire would jump there eventually). Fluffy, their favorite female, had recently given birth to a litter. Together with the others, Ian had gone to watch the pups, not even hoping to get one of them—he was too young. A Virman dog was no toy; it was a warrior.

At that moment, Fluffy was lying on the ground, cut down by the assailants, while the puppy evidently got kicked away. Blood stained its muzzle, but when Ian checked, the body turned out to be uninjured. It was kicked away, but not finished off. It would be fine.

The boy cuddled the puppy and wiped tears off his cheeks.

"I'll find my father," he said, not knowing to whom he was making that promise. To the dead, maybe? "I'll get to him, and even the stone will weep blood after we take our revenge. May Holosh be my witness!"

They say the gods can hear our words. And sometimes...

Holosh, the god of rage and vengeance, the black fury of the Virman deities... But could day exist without night?

A weak groan came from the shed that was only started to light up. Ian rushed there. Idiot, how could he have forgotten? Father had made them dig a secret passage from the house into the shed, just for a time like that. What a fool he had been! He had to run inside, quick, before the roof caught on fire...

Ian dashed across the shed, pushed a bucket of dirty water away from the hatch—what bastard had put it there?—then grabbed a pitchfork and used it as a lever to open the trap door. It was hard, but there was no time to think about that. He needed to get at least someone out.

"Hilda! Rith!"

The old nanny was holding his sister in her hands. His half-sister.

Ian's mother had died, and his father re-married. His new wife bore him a daughter, Hilda. Bran didn't mind; he was even happy. Bran already had two sons, and Leif was gone, leaving only Ian—and Hilda.

"Rith, thank you!"

"Mistress gave her to me and almost pushed me here. Then she closed the door. The house was already burning," the woman whispered. "Then she screamed...she screamed so much..."

Ian realized everything.

Those bastards had entered the house to check it. If they didn't find Bran's wife, it would have looked suspicious. But a slave? Who cared about them?

Ian didn't know what Hilda's mother had planned, but any mother would have given everything to save her child, including her life—as long as the baby got a chance to survive.

"Rith. We have to go, Rith."

The slave woman shook her head. Ian unceremoniously splashed dirty water from the bucket into her face. The woman came to her senses. Her eyes cleared up.

"Rith, I saw them. Do you understand me? I saw them!"

"Where are they?"

"They're gone. But we have to get to my father. He must learn about it. And we can't leave Hilda here, she needs to be fed..."

For a second, the nanny felt as if Bran Gardren himself was looking at her from the boy's eyes. They were the same: cold and light blue, like two shards of ice.

"L-Lord..."

"They didn't kill the cattle. There are horses left in the stables. We need to release them before they burn and saddle two of them. Can you ride?"

"Yes."

"And...I don't know... How can we feed the baby?"

Rith smiled, looking at the boy. A child was a child, after all.

"We have goats. We can take them with us."

"We'll be moving slower, but Hilda will have milk," Ian agreed.

Both he and Rith realized very well that they couldn't be seen. Whoever had attacked the lands of Clan Gardren was an enemy, an enemy who didn't fear Bran Gardren. What did it mean? Nothing good.

Either Bran was dead or about to be killed. Still, Ian wanted to reach the lands of the Hardrings—thankfully, they weren't far, only three or four days of riding. It would have been faster to sail, but rivers were forbidden territory. In Virma, they were the shortest routes; if you wanted to attack anyone, you'd set up an ambush on a riverside.

The boy wanted to speak to the Circle. There, he would cry and beg and scream, but they would listen to him. Those bastards couldn't have bought or killed everyone, could they? No, they could not.

He would find a way to tell them—and a chance to take his revenge.

Holosh had saved him; Holosh would help, just as long as he kept moving and didn't give up. Holosh wasn't someone who'd help slackers and deadbeats, other than maybe find a more interesting way for them to die and a funnier way to suffer. Ian would make it.

He was a Gardren, after all.

But what about his father?

***

Bran Gardren was leaning on a stick, almost sagging, but kept walking.

His ruined legs demanded he stop, but what was pain to a priest of Holosh? It was his eternal companion, his friend, almost his kin. Those who knew nothing of pain could never become one of Holosh's clergy.

And it wasn't just causing pain, no. The priests of Holosh knew pain from their own experience. There were ways to make one feel it without being maimed. Bran had learned them once, a long time ago.

Angelina was also tired. A few hours ago, Bran had carved her a staff from a hazelnut tree. The princess' outfit had lost most of its glamor, as bristles and sleeping on the ground hadn't spared it. Still, she marched on, silent and unrelenting, never complaining about a thing...and Bran loved her all the more for that.

Frankly speaking, how many women would just follow their man, not arguing, not whining, but helping him and sharing his concerns?

Their man? Oh...

Bran wasn't deluding himself; they would never clean up the mess between them. If he were at least single, it might have been different. But as it stood, Her Highness had spent several days alone with a man, a commoner, by Ativernan standards—it didn't matter much that he was a clan chief, although, he might be considered a leir...

Still, killing him would be easier than proving that they weren't guilty, even if they really hadn't done anything. Actually, Bran would have sooner smashed his head against a rock than put his hands on Angelina. She had her whole life ahead of her, and what could he give her? Only himself. A crippled old man and a princess...

All he could do was grit his teeth and bear it. Pain was a loyal follower of Holosh's clergy, and who cared if it was physical or mental?

At least they were getting closer to the Oronstegs.

So what did clan lands consist of? In essence, it was a small fortress: the chief's house, household buildings, a guesthouse, a wharf, if there was water nearby... Those were the most important constructions.

They were surrounded by fields. Farmers—even in Virma, some couldn't answer Olive's call and become warriors—worked on the land, but stayed free. They usually lived close by. They rented land from the clan and paid for it with a part of their harvest, while the clan built them small houses on the rented land, protected them, cared for them...

Virma didn't have proper villages—not enough people, not enough fertile land. One family needed at least two or three squares to feed, and an island had only so much good soil.

Author's note: five to seven acres.

The Virmans got most of their nutrition from the sea: fish, seagull eggs, algae. The only villages they had were fishing communities, but also small.

Still, Bran didn't see any point in talking to them. Such people weren't fond of delving into deeper issues; all they cared about was their rye harvest.

And thus, he walked on and on. They managed to get a lift only in the end, when the palisade was only two hours away. A cart was transporting sacks of grain, and the driver was kind enough to pick them up, even if the horse protested.

Bran felt sorry for it, but he and Angelina were exhausted, and it's not like they had to go far.

At last, the gate of Clan Oronsteg loomed before them.

***

They were identified almost immediately, or at least, Bran was. There were few people quite like him in Virma, and they didn't have to explain long.

The servants scurried like scared rabbits, summoning a young man who ran up to Bran and gave him a reverent bow, like one would do to an elder.

"Lord of Gardren."

"Wulf Oronsteg." Bran recognized the chief's youngest son. Traditionally, when the Circle gathered, one of the sons stayed behind to watch the household. The elder sons usually traveled with their fathers, while the youngest were trusted with that duty. Bran would have done that himself, but Ian was too young. As for the wife...that wasn't the custom. Virman women could run the house, too, but the shadows of their fathers, brothers, husbands, or sons always stood behind their shoulders.

"You remember me, Lord of Gardren. It's an honor."

Bran waved his hand dismissively. Of course, he remembered such a valiant young man.

"Wulf, we need to talk. This is Her Highness Angelina of Ativerna, and we need help."

Angelina bent her head.

Wulf saw the diamonds of her earrings and the gems in her rings flash before his eyes...and believed her. There were few women like her in Virma, maybe none. Her outfit was also strange, as was her bearing and behavior, while her jewelry could buy half a clan.

"Lord of Gardren, I welcome you to my house. Errr...Your Highness..."

Angelina nodded, showing her approval.

"May I ask you something? I'd like to wash and change clothes. I'm so dirty..."

"Of course. I'll order the maids to help you."

In less than a minute, a ring of brightly colored skirts surrounded Angelina. They led her away, while Bran followed the young master inside and sat at the table.

"Is there any water?"

"Maybe with wine?"

Bran would have loved some, but if he drank it, he would fall asleep in an instant. He couldn't.

"Maybe later. Raise an alarm in the clan. Tell your people to stand guard. There might be a possible Hardar raid."

"What do they want here?"

"Us, Wulf. Us."

“I don’t get it."

"It's simple. Do you know whose clasp this is?"

Bran pulled out the trinket that had started that entire mess. Wulf took the golden circle in his hand, fiddled with it, admired the snakes...

"No, but I could ask our craftsman."

"I know you can. And he can name the creator and possibly, the client."

"And...what's so strange about it? I'm confused, Lord of—'

"Bran, just Bran. There's no time for formalities."

"But I still don't understand," Wulf said, clearly at a loss. He was used to simple household duties, not something like that. What was he to do? Where would he run? And he had nobody to ask, either.

"Because of this clasp, two people were murdered," Bran said, specifically omitting that they were women, "a war with Ativerna is about to start, and Her Highness and I were attacked, barely surviving... I suspect that Clan Hardor is behind this. I never trusted them."

Wulf shrugged.

"I'll ask Master Ilgie to come here. He'll tell you."

"Yes, please," Bran replied, nodding. "It's a long story, and I'll make sure to tell it to you later."

He didn't have any strength left for a conversation. Even if Holosh himself came down to talk to him, Bran would have asked his god to wait in a corner. His will was the only thing that allowed him to stay put.

They had to wait around ten minutes. A gaunt old man entered the house and gave Wulf a questioning look. Then he noticed Bran Gardren and gave him a deep bow.

"Lord of Gardren."

"Master Ilgie."

Bran didn't stand up. He was barely sitting as it was. Instead, he pushed the heavy golden circle toward the master. It gave out a dull chink, tried to roll away, but was caught by nimble hands and raised up.

"What's wrong with my clasp?"

"It's yours, Master?"

"Yes. I made it and six more of them about a year ago, maybe a bit more."

Bran focused, like a dog that caught wind of its prey.

"Who ordered this clasp, Master?"

"Elg Torsveg."

And the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

The End

A Medieval Tale series

Book 1: First Lessons (Find it on Amazon)

Book 2: The Clearing (Find it on Amazon)

Book 3: Palace Intrigue (Find it on Amazon)

Book 4: The Royal Court (Find it on Amazon)

Book 5: The Price of Happiness (Find it on Amazon)

Book 6: For the King (Find it on Amazon)

Book 7: The Right of Vengeance (Find it on Amazon)

Book 8: The King’s Road (Find it on Amazon)

Or you can find the whole series on Amazon. (Find it here)

More by Lina J. Potter

Legends of Radenor

Book 1: Half Demon’s Revenge (Find it on Amazon)

Book 2: Half Demon’s Fortune (Find it on Amazon)

From the Author

Dear friend!

Thank you for reading! I was happy to share this story with you and hope you liked it. If so, please, remember to leave a review, it will support me a lot.

I sincerely read all yours reviews and comments, they help me and inspires me so much, I do really appreciate each and every of them.

In appreciation you can find a sample of the second book of A Medieval Tale series further.

Thank you, my friend!

-        Best wishes, Lina J. Potter

https://amzn.to/2T6x0a6

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About Lina J. Potter

Call it inspiration, the voice of a Muse, or plain obsession... but I felt I had to write it down or else my brain would explode with all these characters longing to come alive.

Lina J. Potter has been dreaming up stories for as long as she can remember. She started putting her tales on paper when she was around ten years old. Despite that, the first her story came alive only in 2011.

Her literate pseudonym helps her saving her family and daily routine inviolable. She is laughing while remembering how her colleague at work decided to discuss A Medieval Tale series with her, having no idea she was speaking with the author herself.

Nowadays Lina J. Potter lives in the town of Tambov with her husband, daughter and two cats. She has a light-hearted approach to writing. Whenever she is not writing, you can find her practicing karate and lace-making. She avoids personal publicity and shies away from the literary limelight, preferring her quiet life to focus on writing.

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