The King's Road
Author: Lina J. Potter
Date: 2020-04-06T18:00:00+00:00
Description: This adventure of Lilian Earton is coming to its end. All mysteries will be unraveled, all questions will be answered right here and right now. The Road of Kings is the 8th book in a bestselling Amazon A Medieval Tale series by Lina J. Potter. A #1 Amazon bestseller series in multiple categories continues now. One of the top 10 Amazon authors with a huge fanbase all over the world, Lina J. Potter now reveals all the secrets of her heroes. **
Publisher: Lithunters Ltd

A Medieval Tale

Book Eight

The Road of Kings

By Lina J. Potter

Translated by LitHunters

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A Medieval Tale: The Road of the Kings

Contents:

Welcome

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

From the Author

Book Recommendations

About Lina J. Potter

A Medieval Tale: The Road of the Kings

A Medieval Tale of Lilian Earton is coming to its end. All mysteries will be unraveled, all questions will be answered right here and right now.

The Road of Kings is the 8th and the last book in the bestselling Amazon A Medieval Tale series by Lina J. Potter. The #1 Amazon bestseller series in multiple categories continues. One of the top 10 Amazon authors with a huge fanbase all over the world, Lina J. Potter finally reveals all the secrets of her heroes.

Prologue

The cart that Lilian had already cursed a thousand times in rather flowery language once again hit a bump, causing a knot in the wood to poke her hip. It hurt so much that she almost wished she had never lost weight; at least with a layer of fat protecting her insides, it wouldn't be as painful. She promised herself that when it was finally over, she would personally break that wagon apart. Nope, no entrusting it to someone else—she'd swing an axe with her own hands, then gather the fragments and burn it down while performing a traditional Sioux dance. Or Mioux. Hell, even Meow! In any case, it would be sincere and full of joy.

Next to her, Milia whimpered something, and Lily grasped her hand to cheer her up. That's it; be patient.
Hold on, just a little bit.

And to think that it had all started so well.

Really, what was so bad about a family trip to Wellster for His Highness' bride? It almost served as a honeymoon trip, except for bandits, accidents, annoying leirs, and other trivial matters. On the other hand, Lily had managed to find common ground with her husband. It turned out that Jerisson wasn't such an ass as she had thought—or maybe not even an ass, but another, handier, type of livestock. He even loved his wife and refused to take a mistress. She wasn't sure how long that would last, but it did feel nice.

It all started when they reached Wellster, at a ball in Cardin. Who'd ever expect such villainy? All right, messieurs conspirators, so you wanted to stage a coup d’état. Was it so hard for you to wait a few weeks, when the Ativernans would have been long gone, putting everything behind them? Instead, they had to run around Wellster saving their own skin. So much for attending a party.

And that's exactly what happened. Lily and her husband came to a ball, Jerisson was sent to entertain Her Highness Maria, and Gardwig asked Lily to attend to his wife, remembering her healing skills. After all, she had managed to help him—why not consult his wife as well?

The world Lily was in might be different, but people were the same, as well as their actions. So a good doctor showed up nearby? Grab them and make them tell you everything about what ails you! Oh, and your wife, your kids, your dogs...and quickly, before the poor medic is gone. In this regard, Gardwig was the same as Aliya's neighbor Uncle Grisha, who had always gone running to her mother for help if something happened. Ah, whatever. It's not like Lily minded that much.

She examined Milia, who was expecting her third child. Giving birth too often wasn't good for a woman's health in any era. The verdict was clear: rest, rest, and more rest. The next child would have to come after a three-year-long pause, or even better, five; otherwise, she risked not carrying to term, if not dying herself.

Who knew that right at that moment, the conspirators would launch their attack?

Lily got lucky, though. Gardwig, who was just going to his wife, took the first blow. Instead of bursting into the nursery and cutting down the queen and her children, the conspirators ran into the king, who took the offensive. He immediately realized everything, shielding everyone with his body. He died but gave them time to escape.

The royal nursery wasn't a simple room—it had secret passages of its own, in case the children needed rescue. Thankfully, Milia knew her husband's secrets. All of them managed to flee: the queen herself, her two kids, and finally, Lilian Earton, thanking the heavens that her own sweet daughter was home, at the embassy, instead of with her and her murky prospects.

And then it happened. Scared out of her mind, Milia went into labor. Once again, they got lucky: before the culmination, the ladies got out of the passage and found shelter in a house. A little sympathy and some gold went a long way, and they didn't have to deliver the baby on a trash heap. Now that would have been truly Shakespearian: a king born in a dump! Fine, fine, a prince, but still!

Maybe someone would write about it yet, though: a three-act play. The world, after all, was small, and if you got into a mess on one side, they would inevitably tell a pack of lies about it on another.

Milia successfully gave birth to a boy, and while Lily pondered their next move,  the Virmans found them. It was no accident, either—she had managed to send a message to them, and her loyal men rushed to the side of their countess. They did not come empty-handed, either, but rather with a clear plan of action. The goal was to escape the city. Let the Wellsterians sort out their own problems. They also needed to rescue the countess, the viscountess, the dogs, and preferably themselves...

Oh, so there was a queen with her children? Oh well, then let's take them, too!

But how were they supposed to get that motley crew out of the city? The rest was a matter of morbid Virman imagination. So who'd be the first to be searched at the city exit? A merchant, a salesman...even a nobleman's carriage would be checked. A gong farmer's barrel or a garbage cart, though? Unlikely. Few guards had the desire to rummage through trash or poop.

The Virmans managed to avoid taking it to the extreme by diving into a barrel of excrement. Instead, they procured a wagon of garbage—several of them, actually—and smuggled Lily, Milia, Miranda, the princes, plus a group of Eveers out of Cardin. They couldn't very well throw them to the wolves, could they?

The entire procession headed to the Summer Palace, where the Armored Regiment was quartered. Its commander Count Chaintaine would definitely support the queen in the coup, and a thousand soldiers were sure to come in handy. All they had to do was to get there and come to an understanding with the count.

Lily recognized that Milia's skills were somewhat limited. Honestly, she was a wonderful woman, whom Lily genuinely envied. Soft, kind, warm... It was understandable why Gardwig had fallen for her. She could make any place into a cozy home, but fighting? Signing death warrants? Sending scum to the gallows by the dozen? She'd falter, leaving conspirators alive and well. Best-case scenario, maybe five of them would be sentenced, with the rest of them running away. What would happen then? Obviously, another plot would spring up in a couple of years. Take two, so to speak. Only that time, nobody would be there to save Milia and the children: Ed, Cor, newborn Gard... Yes, even a mother hen could become a beast to save her offspring, but what good would that do?

And so, Lily was going to take something into her delicate hands.

War? Oh, no, please! She could strategize as well as a ballerina could load trains. She wouldn't be of much help with it; her father might have told her a lot, but... Have you ever tried removing an appendix using a book as your only guide? Lily wasn't going to attempt it. War wasn't for her. They could handle it themselves and crush the bastards for good. But dealing with them later?

If needed, Lily would strong-arm Milia into signing sentences, following the classic doctrine of a good healer: better remove the affected organ than lose the entire body. It would probably hurt, yes, but dying hurt more.

There was one other thing, too. Lilian Earton lived in Ativerna. Aliya, however, had lived in a country that had survived a revolution and a war and knew very well that it was the people who always paid the price for the noblemen's amusements. She felt sorry for Wellsterians. She'd never wish such life on anyone.

Therefore, as soon as they reached Count Chantaine... Oh, by the way!

"Milia! Milia?"

"Wh—"

"Where's Count Lort?"

Lily knew the count only by correspondence, as well as from the stories told by her husband Jess, Hans Tremain, His Majesty, Her Majesty... Basically, the count was a real prick, and that wasn’t saying much. If she could sic him on the conspirators, she could rest easy while watching the poor bastards squeal and whimper as they scurried away. Well, those who remained alive, that is. But the count was nowhere to be seen—definitely not at court, or he would have been introduced to Lily. Could he find a worse time to go wandering about?

"Gard sent him to the estate for half a year."

Lily's answer was succinct.

"F...!"

Milia signed guiltily, although she clearly wasn't the one to blame.

"Edward insisted."

Lily expressed her reaction in a somewhat longer phrase. Then she paused.

"Is there a way to send him a message?"

"I-I guess. From the royal pigeon coop..."

"And from another?"

"I-I don’t know. It would take longer, and then the time on the road..."

"It doesn't matter. Let's send a message, and he'll arrive when he can. Having him won't hurt. The king trusted him?"

"Altres is his brother. Milk brother."

It wasn't much proof for Lily, who still remembered the story of Caine and Abel, but Milia was supposed to know what was what. Well, maybe. She also had to discuss it with Jerisson. He knew much more about politics.

Jess!

The thought that Lily had been painstakingly dismissing sunk into her just like that wooden knot, hitting her heart instead of her hip.

Jess had been inside the palace with the princess. He might not have escaped. Worse, he might have rushed into action like the king and died right there. What would she do then? Bury him for the second time in a year? Miranda would go crazy. She still hadn't forgotten the first time.

Lily took a deep sigh, calming her throbbing heart. Hush! Maybe they wouldn't kill him right away. Maybe he had managed to escape. If Jerisson was alive, she would devise a way to help him. If he was not... For Miranda's sake, she'd take such revenge on his murderers that history would remember her as Lilian the Bloody! Even Countess Bathory and Vlad Tepes would envy her.

What about her own sake? Well, fine. She'd take it personally, too. She had spent so much time treating her husband, teaching him, training him to understand her. For him to die after all of that would have been too much! She'd never let him hear the end of it! The conspirators would answer for her wasted time!

And no, she wasn't crying. Her eyes were just watering, period.

Another bump in the road made the cart shake. She couldn’t even cry out to her heart's content, though—it ran the risk of unmasking them all.

"Just thirty minutes, Your Grace, and we can get out."

In Lily's view, that was the best news she had heard in a year. All that remained was to survive those thirty minutes... Oh, for crying out loud, the damned knot is back!

Chapter 1

Wellster. Cardin and around Cardin.

Robert was listening to the reports.

It was nice, seeing the results of his own ingenuity. The capital had fallen, bending down before him. The Arsenal, the bridge, the treasury—everything deferred to him; his people were everywhere. He hadn't needed that many people, either. His calculations proved true: another sign of his genius. All those years spent hatching plans, pouring his heart's blood into them, and the results were plain to see.

Fort Shedar was still silent. Robert didn't know if his men had prevailed against the Ceruleans. In any case, they would send a pigeon. Most likely, the battle was still going strong; not much time had passed.

Capturing the fort, purging it, sorting out the mess... It would be good if they contacted him by noon, if not evening. Robert wanted to celebrate victory, but in real life, things never went smoothly.

The thing that was really eating at the duke was the missing queen. Where was that bitch? If he could show the people not just Gardwig's dead body, but also the corpses of his wife and children, nobody would dare to object. The dynasty would be over. King Gardwig is dead, long live King Henry. Yet instead of lying down and dying, that skank had run away. But what could she do?

How had she managed to escape? Robert knew that she wasn't anywhere inside the palace. Baron Fremont had searched the place from top to bottom, and neither the queen, nor her children, nor Princess Maria, nor Count and Countess Earton were there. Where could they go? Were they together or apart? What was he supposed to expect?

Robert knew what he would have done. By any means available, he would have reached his people, rallied the soldiers to fight the usurper, blocked the capital... There were many options. But what would Milia do?

He had seen the queen; he had gathered information on her. The best that sheep were capable of was to die on the king's body, sobbing. She was pliant, clueless, stupid... Instead, she ran away, taking her pups with her, leaving Robert's men none the wiser.

No, that was not Milia's doing. Whose, though? Who dared to disrupt his plans?

Robert had only one version: Count Earton. Who else could it be? Countess Earton, that high-society whore? What could she do, she was a woman! Women were unable to think with their heads; they had another part for that, the one in the nethers... Count Earton, however? The man who had incidentally disappeared together with the queen?

Robert needed a plan.

"We could block the embassy of Ativerna and take it," Edwin Fremont suggested. "If Viscountess Earton is there..."

"We'll get a great hostage," Robert nodded. "Do it. The count is trouble."

The baron seemed in no hurry to leave, hesitating and shifting his feet.

"Well?!"

"What about the countess?"

"The countess?" Robert Alcine was genuinely surprised. "What about her? She's probably holed up somewhere... We'll find her eventually."

Edwin shook his head.

"Your Excellency, she's a smart one. A dangerous one... If she were here, I'd put her down first."

Robert chuckled. No surprises there; he knew about the relationship between the baron and the countess. She hadn't just sent him packing, she also made him look like a fool. Who would ever like that?

No real man would swallow such an insult, and if Edwin had decided to settle an old score on the quiet... Let him.

"If you find her, kill her."

"She was with the queen, I’ve asked around. She left with her, too."

"Just as well. Does she love her daughter?"

Edwin nodded. There was no doubt about that; she doted on her.

"Get into the embassy. Now."

***

Having finished with the orders, Robert returned to the Ativernans. Seizing them had been his first command: all fourteen people found in the palace. Sorting them out came later.

The Roivels, the Elonts, and Marquis Erando were left for questioning, while the youths got thrown into prison. There wasn't much to be gained from them; let them stay there for the time being. They didn't know anything, and Robert had no use for them. Why leave them inside the palace?

The elders, however, could come in handy. Let them know what lay in store for them.

Robert entered the room where five people waited for him in fear, gave them a friendly smile, and even bowed slightly.

"Ladies, gentlemen, I'm happy to welcome you to my home."

Marquis Erando glared at the duke. A veteran diplomat, he hadn’t missed the hint. Knowing that they would never leave that place alive and well, he decided to test the waters.

"Your Excellency? Have you forgotten your crown?"

Robert nodded at the closest mercenary, who stepped forward and gave the marquis a hard blow, jabbing the shaft of his spear into the man's ribs. Erando Losan doubled over and sank to the floor.

"Don't you dare!" Priscilla Elont yelled, hurrying to his side. "You're a brute!"

Robert smirked.

"Curb your tongue, Marquis, or I'll rip it out together with your head."

"What do you want?" Count Roivel asked, sullen. He understood everything as well, but people often kept hoping until the end.

The duke smiled sweetly.

"What do I want? The thing more precious than money, ladies and gentlemen. Knowledge."

"There are no scholars here," Losan retorted from the floor. Did he want a second helping? Whatever, let him yap. He doesn’t have anything to bite with, anyway.

"All the scholars of Wellster are already at my service. But they know nothing about Count and Countess Earton."

That was the truth. Baron Fremont had told him about Count Earton, but the countess... Yes, they had traveled together, but the countess absolutely refused to spend time with him. "A smart bitch" wasn't much of a character reference: even a dog could bark, bite, hide, give a paw, and bring slippers, but what exactly was Countess Earton capable of? Edwin had no idea. Still, he managed to instill some doubt in Robert, and so, His Excellency decided to learn more about his possible enemy.

Ermina Roivel coughed.

"I suppose Your Excellency should ask me."

"Then I ask you, Countess," Robert readily agreed. "What do you know about the Eartons?"

"You're interested in them as people, not in their wealth. Right, Your Excellency?"

Robert nodded again. That lady was quick on the uptake and thankfully willing to cooperate. It was nice getting information upon first demand. Torture took so much time, and time was a luxury that Robert didn't have. He could have separated everyone and interrogated them one at a time, but that would have taken a while. He wanted to deal with his problem as soon as possible. And again, the Eartons weren't really a royal secret. What was there to hide?

Robert was very good at scheming, bribing, and selling weapons, and by extension, was a great judge of character. The duke also tended to be somewhat presumptuous and have a high opinion about his ability to see through lies. After all, he had always been able to tell when he was being lied to. Why would that case be any different?

So all he needed was to sort it out as quickly as possible and return to the business at hand.

"Count...I'll start with him if you don't mind. He's pretty reckless and self-involved, but not stupid. He loves to take risks and isn't afraid of the fallout," Ermina reflected. "Jerisson Earton commands His Majesty's personal guard, but I've always thought the reason for this was his kinship to the king. He's his nephew, you see. It's always better to have someone you can trust in such a position. And so, His Majesty assigned Jerisson. He's had good training, too, but sometimes, he slips..."

Gossip was something that Ermina was no stranger to. If she didn't hear something, she'd just make it up on the spot. A veritable flood of information poured on Robert. The gist of it was that Jerisson was a rich, spoiled idiot, and everything he did at court got glossed over thanks to his pedigree. Being a king's nephew was nothing to sneeze at!

Otherwise, he was a womanizer who could get away with murder,  a duelist, a bully, and a troublemaker whose work was done by his assistants. He was far from reliable, but His Majesty loved the schlump and indulged him. If it were up to Ermina, she'd put him in line, that's for sure.

The Ativernans listened to her with straight faces, especially Marquis Losan. Meanwhile, Ermina kept on talking. She segued from the count to his wife, and it was Lilian Earton's time to shine. The countess was described as a country bumpkin, a shipwright's daughter, a commoner who could only blend in with the peasants, not noblemen. It's not like she was of noble stock herself, anyway. As soon as the poor count had married, he dumped his wife in Earton, where she sat tight.

Why'd he fetch her, you ask? Why, it's a secret, of course—shhh!—but Ermina was smart and knew how to keep her mouth shut. August Broklend was gravely ill, and the old viper was cozying up to him.

The viper? Jerisson's mother, of course! That's how they called her at Ativernan court, as she was a real snake of a woman. Her son was the same, too—a toady and a weasel. Anyway, August said that he didn't want to die without seeing his grandchildren first. The king slammed his fist, and the poor count had to take his wife from the countryside. Not by his own free will, that's for sure. He has visited Wellster before with his mistress, hasn't he? Lady Wells, do you know?

Ah, so you had seen her. Then just compare them, the lady and that yokel! Night and day! Lady Wells is all grace, beauty, and elegance, and the only thing Lilian knows about propriety is that it exists! There could be no contest. You must see it's ridiculous. She's let her servants get out of hand, and her father hired Virmans to guard her, the unmannered louts who poke their noses into everything...

"That's right!" Priscilla Elont chimed in. "Those Virmans, They're horrible! I mean, I have a daughter..."

An hour later, Robert Alcine knew one thing: if there was anybody more useless, stupid, and rude as the Eartons, none of the people present knew them. Everyone complained; even the men put in their two coppers.

Well then, it meant there was no danger from that side. He had to keep searching—most likely, inside the embassy. And when he found what he was seeking...

He decided to leave the Ativernans locked up to collect the complete set. Having only idiots as his opponents reassured him.

***

Robert didn't see Erando Losan get up after the interrogations. His ribs hurt like hell after the beating—he might have a fracture. Overcoming the pain, he came up to Countess Roivel, bowed down, and kissed her hand.

"You're wonderful, Ermina."

The countess smiled. She was a shrew, a harpy, and a hag, but she was no fool, and she was quite sure that the Eartons had managed to flee. What could she do for them, then? Only one thing—make the conspirators underestimate them, as long and as much as she could.

She had assessed the count and the countess over the time of the journey to Wellster and held no doubts: they wouldn't lay low in hiding. They wouldn't flee and abandon their people.

It meant they had to be given time and an opportunity to make their move. She hoped she was able to buy them that. Maybe she and the others wouldn't die in prison. Maybe they would even get out alive. Ermina harbored no illusions: torture, executions—it was unlikely they could expect anything else from Alcine. Yet there was still a chance, and she was going to keep fighting, the way she could. But where was Count Earton?

***

At that moment, Count Earton was busy holding an interrogation in the field.

Some of the mercenaries were still alive, including two commanders, and nobody was going to pull any punches with them. They got a brazier with embers, tongs, plyers, plus some other pleasantly sparkling tools and proceeded to the interview. Leir Olsen had no desire to play nice.

In the meantime, Miguel had left to fetch the girls. Jess had no time for that; the sooner they learned the truth about the conspiracy, the better. It didn't matter as much for the Ivernean. He had his people with him, but Jess's family was in the city. He needed to know how powerful their enemies were—after all, he was going to crush them.

"So will we talk, or should I snip an ear off first?" Leir Olsen asked one of the mercenaries casually.

There were no heroes there. They got paid to fight, and they had been before, but the fighting was already over, as was most likely their chance to get their payment. What was the point in being honorable?

The people interrogating them were dead set on getting answers and weren't going to pardon them. They would snip off their ears, cut off their fingers, and make belts out of their backs, and that's just for starters. It was better not to think about what would happen after that.

"If I tell you everything, will you let me go?"

Leir Olsen narrowed his eyes.

"Maybe you'd like a glass of wine and a few wenches, too? If you tell me everything, I'll just hang you. If you don't, you'll beg for that, got it?"

Jerisson shook his head.

"Why so harsh, Leir?"

"What do you suggest, Count? Let this scum go so he can tip his masters off?"

"Who said anything about letting him go? There must be a couple of places for holding captives inside the fortress. And later..."

"Release him? Bah!"

"If we're defeated, he'll be freed anyway. But if we win, just kick him out into the sunset. If he knows anything, that is."

The "good cop, bad cop" routine had been well-known even in the Middle Ages, and like any good thing, hadn't gotten any worse with time.

The mercenary gulped and started talking.

***

A mercenary's fate was a hard one. Being hired meant having money. Having money meant making a living. But making a living wasn't enough; it had to be a good living, too. And then there was saving up for old age. One couldn't spend a lifetime being a mercenary; by thirty, most of them already had lots of injuries, scars, and ailments. A bad back and "lewd diseases" were only the tip of the iceberg: in practice, there was no end to the list.

So when a customer offered good money, mercenaries usually agreed...to anything. It was never too late to run, and one couldn't have too much money.

The thin line between professionals and amateurs was not accepting ill-fated missions and refusing frame jobs...while not being overly picky. Ryan Beck, a sergeant of the Red Dogs Gang, was no fool. When their commander had told them about their task, he had a hell of a fright. Still, it's not like they had to go inside the palace or, really, even stand anywhere next to it. All they had to do was to capture Fort Shedar. It didn't seem like a big deal.

If not for that bothersome caravan, everything would have worked out swimmingly.

Flush with anger, Leir Olsen was about to punch the mercenary in the jaw, but Jerisson's glare made him cool down. There was no need. The bird was singing, and yanking its tail could only hurt.

That said, Jerisson was in complete agreement with the mercenary. They could have taken the fortress; the odds had been in their favor. They simply had no luck.

Never in his life would he believe that there was no traitor on the gate or an inside man among the Ceruleans. There must have been! And he would ask about that, but later. If a man started talking, let him get a load off his mind; inquiries came after.

It didn't seem too bad, either. The commander of the group, who was no fool either, had known what a risky venture that was. A wild ride, really. He wasn't going to lay down his life for Alcine.

It was a bit more complicated, however. They had known the duke for some time. From time to time, he had given the gang profitable jobs and never set them up. There was also one other thing. Beck had a hunch that his commander had some other dealings with the duke, of a personal nature. He had no idea what exactly—lots of options there, starting with them once grabbing some lady and...ahem!...and ending with someone close to the commander living on the duke's lands. He never liked to talk about his life. His subordinates who proved too nosy often got a blow to the jaw in response to their questions, putting a lid on them for good.

In a word, they couldn't refuse Alcine. All that remained was to go with the tide.

Otherwise—yes, it was Alcine. He had a thousand men, give or take.

What did they capture? The arsenal, he was sure of it; his friend went there. The treasury, too. Maybe the office of foreign affairs, but that was up in the air. He knew very little himself.

The plan? The commander did hint at it a few times...and then, he who has ears, let him hear. Little by little, a bit at a time, but he managed to put two and two together.

Alcine was going to kill the king and apparently had a queen and a prince with him. Still, that was far from certain. Someone blabbed something; someone else passed it on...

No, he couldn't say for sure.

Leir Olsen waved his hand, and the guards dragged the man somewhere in the darkness.

"Where are you taking him?" Jerisson asked, concerned.

"We have a shed. Let them sit there while we..."

"Talk to the others?"

"Exactly."

***

Thomas Concord really didn't want to believe his eyes, but Lilian Earton had never shown any love for pranks or stupid jokes. That's why he hastened to find Jack Wilson, Marquis Losan's trusted servant.

Jack had been living with his master in Wellster for some time, knew the local scene inside and out, and was generally a smart man.  Two heads were better than one, in any case.

Jack was in his master's chambers. Without hesitation, Thomas handed him the note.

"Is it her handwriting?"

"Yes."

"And the seal?"

"Same."

"Why are you so sure?"

Servants usually treated each other as equals. There were certain tensions and nuances, but overall, Thomas and Jack were mostly on the same level. One of them drove caravans, and the other managed the household, but both had hard and thankless jobs, especially when one had to deal with noblemen. Honestly, it would be easier to walk on eggs without breaking them—less chance of doing something wrong.

"I know it. I've seen it more than once. Want me to swear by Aldonai?"

Jack shook his head.

"No need. I'd wait for the morning and then try to find out what's what."

"What if they come here before then?"

"Who'd care about us, servants?"

"Not about servants. About our masters. See, they think they're here..."

"They're all at the ball."

"What about the children? Say, Viscountess Earton?"

Realization flashed in Jack's eyes.

"What do you want to do?"

"Take everything I can and run."

"Where?"

Thom shrugged.

"I have an idea..."

He thought about innkeepers. For starters, they could spread out to several different inns, each group taking one or two carts. Gold coins would buy the owners' loyalty—no sense in giving up a paying customer.

Snitches never lasted long in that business, in any case. They just didn’t survive. Dim and loose-tongued innkeepers were the stuff of street shows, not reality. True, they did like to talk, but only for their own benefit. Like, say, about the weather, nature, or fighting cocks; definitely not about politics. And not with guards, either, or spies. There was only one sacred cow for innkeepers—the one that paid, and its interests had to be protected. Thomas, in turn, was willing to pay in gold, generously. At the moment, coins were nothing to him, unlike human lives.

Of course, that trick couldn't buy them a lot of time, but a few days were something. Afterward, as Countess Earton liked to say, someone would die anyway: the Emir, the donkey, or the man himself, and nobody would care if the donkey could speak.

That's what he told Jack. The servant spent a few minutes mulling it over and finally nodded.

"Yes, that would be right. But I suggest you do one other thing."

"What?"

"Count Dishan's house is not far from here."

Concord shrugged. So what if it was?

"We should let him know, or his family, at least..."

"Who's this count?"

"The king's right hand, the chief of the secret service. It used to be Count Lort, but His Majesty sent him away or—"

Concord waved his hand.

"Jack, you're talking rubbish! Imagine me coming at night to the house of a noble-born count, showing him a note from Aldonai knows who, and trying to convince him that it's the honest truth. They'll throw me out to the wolves!"

"I know their servant. You can be sure that Remi will let you in, and his masters will hear you out."

Thom shook his head.

"Do it yourself if you want. I have people to assemble, then arrange everything..."

"Will you give me the note?"

Without a sound, Thom handed him a piece of parchment.

"Don't lose it."

"I promise I won't. Save a couple of seats, will you?"

Thom nodded and hurried to his men.

Jack hadn't ridiculed him or told him it was all nonsense, but still, talking to him was a huge risk. The worst thing for servants was getting into their masters' games. Where a noble might keep his head, a smaller fish could easily lose both head and tail—and its own life as well. Who'd ever care about lowly lackeys? He had no business tarrying about.

Thomas silently thanked Countess Earton, who had always spared a thought to her servants, and proceeded to make arrangements for the Exodus. He needed to tell everyone what to load, where to go, whom to talk to about lodging... He had nowhere enough hands and people.

Whatever. It was better to get covered in sweat than with a funeral shroud.

Let's get to work, guys!
Nobody's going to wait for us!

***

As Jack Wilson approached the gate of the Dishan mansion, he felt a certain trepidation. Thomas might have had absolute faith in Lilian Earton, but what about Jack himself?

He was going to bet his life on a piece of parchment—and more than just his life. If the whole thing turned out to be a prank played by the nobles... Jack once again pulled out the note and read it.

No, it was no joking matter. Something like that could get even a duke executed. The handwriting was uneven; the author had been in a great hurry or on edge. And the smell... The parchment reeked of something stale and stuffy. It had spent a lot of time in some chest or cabinet. It also smelled of rich perfume, just like that of Lilian Earton's rooms.

Perfume, coffee... Not hesitating anymore, Jack knocked at the fence door. He couldn't very well bang on the front gate, could he?

Fortunately for him, Remi wasn't asleep yet. Explaining the situation was a matter of minutes.

So, and so, here's a note, we're running away, and you...think for yourself. But what about Count Dishan? Was he all right?

Remi could only scratch the back of his head at that. Truthfully, it was hard to wrap your head around such news. Just a while ago, everything had seemed in order, and then... Cripes.

"Jack...you'd better talk to Master."

"That's why I came here."

As the Marquis' servant, Jack was privy to certain secrets of the Wellsterian court and genuinely counted on Dishan's help.

"Let’s go. I'll report, and the Young Master will decide..."

"Young Master?"

"The count is at the palace. His son's home."

"Isn't the engagement ball today?"

"His wife's with child," Remi revealed the dark secret to him. "She felt sick in that crowd and stuffy heat, and the viscount brought her here."

"I see. All right, go report. I'll wait here."

***

True, listening to a servant's story might be beneath a nobleman's dignity, but what if it was a matter of life and death? The life and death of the king, even?

In this scenario, you'd hear anyone out, much less a servant. Viscount Dishan received Jack, read the note, and paused.

On the one hand...on the other... No matter which way he looked at it, he needed to figure out the truth.

Jack stepped in.

"Your Grace, if Thomas is right, the embassy will get visitors soon. Maybe you'd send someone to watch it and run to you if anything's wrong?"

It seemed sensible. The viscount agreed, sent Remi himself to the embassy, and in the meantime, went to see his mother. The countess was at home that day. She didn't like parties; her daughter-in-law was unwell; and really...

He asked her to quietly pack all the money and valuables and be prepared for anything. Who knows what could happen...or who.

When Jack and Remi returned to the embassy, Thomas was already finishing his arrangements. Jack gave him back the note and wished him luck. He would stay in any case. The way the embassy was constructed, he could always find a nook. He would wait out anything other than fire. But who'd ever burn a house in the middle of Cardin? The entire capital would end up in flames!

Just tell me where to find you, Thom.
You know, just in case?

Thom came clean and told him the name of the inn he was going to stay at. The men shook hands and bid each other goodbye.

***

Interrogating the rest of the mercenaries didn't result in anything. Nobody really knew any facts.

Alcine was a right bastard, Jess surmised, and they had nothing to counter him with. Except for one thing.

In two hours, Count Earton, Leir Olsen, and Miguel of Ivernea held council.

"This is my way," the leir said simply. "I’ve sworn fealty to the king, and I will go to the very ends for him. I'll start sending out birds. You, messieurs, should go."

Jerisson waved his hand.

"Leir...no titles, all right?"

"All right..."

"Jess."

"Ert."

The men shook hands as Miguel stared. Before, they had had no chance for a normal conversation, being too busy with the battle and the interrogation. It was finally time to clear things up.

"I won't go anywhere. My wife and daughter are in the city. I’m with you. One man won't do much good, but I do have an escort—"

"In the city?" Miguel asked softly.

Jess snickered.

"You know it yourself. I had no time to get to the embassy. I had to rescue Her Highness."

"We'll deal with it," Ert Olsen said. "In the mayhem that's coming, any hands will be of use. And you, Jess, are no coward."

Jess gave a curt nod.

"I won't stay," Miguel said. "I'd like to escort my sister and Her Highness Maria to the border, just in case."

Jerisson stared at him aghast.

"Your sister, sure. But why take Her Highness?"

"She's the only heir we have left. If anything happens to her... You must realize that without a legitimate ruler, Wellster will succumb to chaos. And by the way, this country borders yours."

"As if it won't affect you either," Jerisson snapped. "Your Highness, if the princess leaves with you, do you really think anyone will believe she's the real deal? Nobody will accept her. They'll say you found a fake somewhere..."

"They'll trust the word of the king."

"Yes, in Ivernea. Not here."

Leir Olsen kept silent. He wasn't going to argue with the prince, simply waiting for the count to finish.

A veteran soldier, he knew that Jess was right. He didn't want to let the princess go either, but there was only one person who could cast the deciding vote: Maria herself.

So far, she hadn't announced her opinion. Leir had seen only a pale, tired girl who was pulled down from a horse and led into the castellan's quarters, asking for hot water and food.

There really wasn't any point in jumping into the conversation. He should just wait and see.

The discussion, in the meantime, heated up.

"Her Highness is engaged to my cousin."

"Nobody is going to prevent her from marrying him—later, when she's free of all this horror."

"Her betrothal was concluded, and I'm Richard's lawful representative. I'm the one to decide, and I'm not going to let the princess go with you."

"You're not her father. As for the engagement...do you have all the papers on your person?"

The papers were in the foreign office, where Robert Alcine ran the show, plague take him. Jerisson knitted his eyebrows.

"Papers are secondary. The king's word is worth more than gold."

"Nobody's breaking it," Miguel retorted, already celebrating victory.

"Isn't anyone going to ask me, gentlemen?"

Nobody had heard Maria come up. It made sense; the castellan's quarters were just around the corner, and a window was open, or the chimney duct, or who knows what.

The princess had already washed up and changed into new clothes. The fortress didn't have any women's clothing, but a shirt and pants suited her well, even despite the turned up sleeves and legs. Her dark hair was down and combed, and her brown eyes were flashing with anger.

The men said nothing. They were no fools and knew that a woman in such state of mind was not to be argued with unless they wanted to part with their heads.

"Your Highness," Miguel said, finally getting up the resolve to start speaking, "we were thinking how to help you avoid danger."

"Yes, I heard."

The poison in Maria's voice would have been enough for three Gardwigs and maybe even one Lort. At that moment, it became clear that she truly was her parents’ daughter: royal blood mixed with a snake's.

"Then, we'd like you to state your opinion, Your Highness."

Her Highness wasn't about to squirm.

"Maria, Count. After everything that happened, you've earned the right to call me by my name."

"Thank you...Maria."

"And now I hope I'll be heard. I have made myself clear, and since then, my opinion hasn't changed. Gentlemen, I can't even understand how you can be so impudent as to decide something for a princess? You, Jerisson, might have a wife and a daughter inside the city, and I have my father's body to take care of. My stepmother and my brothers. My sisters. Do you truly think I can leave them in the hands of my enemies and nobly retreat to Ivernea to tremble in fear under a rock?"

"Why a rock, Your Highness?" Miguel tried to play it off as a joke, but there was no way he could succeed. Maria glared daggers at him, making Jerisson inadvertently remember Albitta.

He hoped she wouldn't bite the hapless prince, at least. He might get poisoned.

"In your bed, Your Highness? Or whoever else who’ll try to discredit me to break off my betrothal to Richard of Ativerna?"

Everyone was speechless. Maria chuckled.

The only man she had been afraid of, her father, was dead. The others...the others didn't seem anywhere as scary.

"Gentlemen, I'm not stupid. I realize what plans everyone has for me. Let's get things straight. You, Miguel, can go wherever you please. I won't keep you. It won't affect the relationship between our countries, at least while I'm alive and can influence it. Jerisson, I hope you'll escort me everywhere. My honor must remain untarnished. Leir Olsen, what are you going to do to retake the capital from the pretender and her ally?"

The men closed their mouths. Jess coughed.

"I'm at your service...my lady."

Maria lowered her head, hiding the bristling sparks in her eyes. She wasn't angry at Jerisson; there was nothing to be mad at. He had been looking after both her interests and his. He pulled her out of the palace, helped her however he could...

Of course, Ativerna meant more to him than Wellster; it was understandable. And his family, too. Leir Olsen's behavior made sense, as well. He wasn't used to going against a prince. But the Iverneans... Oh no, no hostility, no hateful looks. But she would remember that; she would remember that well.

And now, to business.

"I remember about your loved ones, Jess. We'll do everything to save them."

"Or take revenge."

"I also have someone to avenge. Still, I'll pray to Aldonai for your family to survive."

Leir Olsen smiled. Royal blood, what could you say? She'd never run away from danger, just like her father.

"Take my life, Your Highness, and use it as you see fit."

"I don't need your life, Leir, but Wellster does. So?"

"I'm sending out pigeons. I don't know how many troops we can assemble in a day, but we can't dally for longer. I'll write to Chantaine. He shouldn't be far from here. There are also a few regiments stationed in castles. With their help, we'll try retaking the capital. We don't really have a choice. The longer the enemy's inside the capital, the harder it will be."

Maria gave him an approving nod.

"You’re right, Leir. Do it, and I promise you a dukedom."

"I'm not doing it for a reward, Your Highness."

"And I'm not rewarding you. Not yet, at least. I don’t hold enough influence for it."

Miguel’s mind was racing. If he and Lydia decided to leave, he could forget about Wellster. If they lost...he still had a chance to get a piece of the pie and save the princess. He also needed to write to his father, quick. If they won...

If he left and the Wellsterians reigned that chaos in, they would never forget it. When you abandon a man in trouble, don't be surprised when he refuses to shake hands with you.

"My sister and I will stay. Leir Olsen, use my men as you see fit."

Beggars couldn't be choosers, so nobody really asked why he had changed his mind. They just nodded and sighed in relief. In a situation like that, every man counted, especially a score of them.

"Then I propose we chart a course of action," Leir Olsen said as he leaned over a map. "Look, our fort is here. That's the Summer Palace, where Chantaine's troops are. At dawn, I'll send a pigeon, even a few of them. Could you add a few lines, Your Highness?"

Maria smiled, removing a signet ring with a royal crest from her finger. A diamond with an image of a lion with a rose in its paws, it was a masterpiece. At first, the golden lion seemed to be engraved on the gem, but then you saw the clamps holding the gem and the figure.

"It's as if my father had a premonition...He told me to wear it today."

"This is..."

"The lesser royal seal. Not the king's, no, but the queen's. I was given it for one night, just so I could make an impression."

"Does Chantaine know about it?" Miguel was the first to catch on.

"Nobody else would have dared to touch it. It's punished by death."

"Well then, let's make haste. I'll send the pigeons and dispatch messengers to Chantaine. That's one. Here's the castle of Dolan. It has a fifty-man garrison. Your Highness..."

"Tell me what to write."

"And here we have the Earson and Calon estates. They're always at odds, and they must have at least a score of mercenaries each."

Maria nodded.

Yes, the Earsons and the Calons were the talk of all Wellster. Nobody was quite sure about the reason for the bad blood between the neighbors, but for some time (at least fifteen years), they had been carefully guarding their lands and borders against each other.

"I'll write to them. Let them come. Maybe they'll make peace while we're at it."

"I could go," Miguel offered. "To both of them. I think they'll believe me."

Leir Olsen narrowed his eyes.

"Your Highness, what if something happens?"

"One can't survive all deaths at once."

That was something the leir couldn't disagree with. He had also heard a lot about lords Earon and Calon. Stubborn lot, the two of them.

On the other hand, nobody was going to attack the fort—according to the mercenaries, Alcine didn't have enough troops for everything. Sending out the prince seemed safe and sensible enough. At least he wouldn't get underfoot.

It would be truly perfect if he took his sister with him, but the old leir couldn't dare to hope for that. Still, two royal scions were less than three, even if he preferred zero.

Why do you test me so, Aldonai?

***

Duke Alcine was fiddling with the ring he had taken off Gardwig's hand. He needed to write to the Summer Palace.

Why fight Chantaine? Luring him into a trap was much easier. He would fall for it, too: he had no news from the capital yet, and the king's assassination...no, it wasn't something one could believe just like that. He had at least two days. He would succeed.

He must.

Albitta slipped through the door.

"His signet ring?"

"Now yours, as a regent. Then Henry's."

"You still haven't found my son?"

"We're looking for him, dear. Lie down and rest. You look tired."

Robert knew what to focus on. Albitta cared about her looks more than she had ever cared about her children. Children could be made, but beauty—oh, beauty could never be returned if you let your guard down.

Worried, Her Majesty touched her cheek the smoothness of which she took pains to maintain.

"Yes, I should lie down."

"Go, then, my queen, and let your servant do the work for you," Robert Alcine said with a smile.

He had to spend five more minutes buttering Albitta up and breathed a sigh of relief when she was finally out the door.

He had done all he could; there was nothing to do but wait. But until then...

A minute of triumph. Just one minute.

He hadn't gotten his hands on Gardwig, but his replacement was going to serve just as well.

***

Count Dishan opened his eyes. Every part of him was in pain.

Of course, it would be, seeing as he woke up on a rack. But what had happened?

The count concentrated, waiting for the black wave of pain between his temples to pass, and remembered.

Alcine. The soldiers. Betrayal. Darkness.

From the looks of it, he had been hit in the head. But what about the king?

Dishan tried to move his eyes and groaned. Even a movement as simple as that resulted in his head seemingly splitting apart.

Aughhh...

"He's awake, Your Excellency."

"Good."

The man Dishan hated more than anyone else in the world stepped into the circle of light before him. It was Duke Robert Alcine: elegant, perfumed, dressed in immaculately clean clothes, and wearing a look of contempt and superiority.

"Finally, we meet, Dishan."

"I'd rather never see you again."

The count tried to spit at the traitor, but his throat was far too dry.

"And you won't."

Dishan would have loved to fall silent, proud and disdainful, but...

"What happened to the king?"

Alcine didn't say anything. Instead, he stretched his hand. As the royal diamond signet sparkled on his finger, the count realized that it was over. Gardwig would have never parted with that ring.

"You wretch!"

He had no strength left to do anything more.

"I'm the winner," Alcine replied with a soft laugh. "The winner."

"Bastard."

"I'll get to Lort, too. He'll hang next to you."

"I hate you! I hope you rot!"

"You'll have to wait for that. A long time."

Dishan gritted his teeth but didn't get to say anything. Alcine still had a mad and blissful smile on his face.

"It's you who's in my power, Dishan. And...you'll be regretting it for a long while."

The count sagged in his chains, knowing that speaking was useless. There was no use trying to talk sense into a lunatic. They had their own logic, their own thoughts, their own laws.

"You'll live. I'll visit you from time to time to check up on you, to cheer up... How many bones do you think a man can survive having broken?"

"Damn you!"

"I am damned. I've been damned for a long time."

He gave the torturer a nod.

"Let's start with his legs. Just make sure he doesn't get gangrene. I don't want him to die. He needs to hold out a couple of years."

Dishan groaned. It wasn't especially manly, but knowing about his lot and being a plaything of a rabid madman...

Later, he would consider his options—figure out a way to die and deprive the duke of that pleasure—but that would be later.

The torturer stepped forward, and he felt it again. Pain, intense, and enormous, and never-ending. It bloated out the sun, and the world around him exploded, shattering into pieces. The count screamed, knowing that it wouldn’t change anything.

He only stopped screaming when he was thrown on the floor of his cell, its icy stones dulling the pain in his broken legs.

Aldonai, have mercy on me.

Aldonai, have mercy on Wellster.

***

Albitta was lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling.

Of course, she couldn't actually see the ceiling, as the canopy above her blocked the view. It was impressive, gold-embroidered, decorated with tassels and trimming worth the price of a ship. Gardwig had been spoiling his latest skank.

Albitta sneered. Sleep wasn't coming. Too much had happened too quickly.

Maybe she could have some wine? Have a servant heat it? Albitta rejected that idea at once. She wasn't sleepy at all. She wanted to sing, dance, do something...

And then, her cup could be poisoned. During the daytime, her food was tested on prisoners, but would it be tested in the middle of the night? Robert had assured her that she had nothing to be afraid of, but she still wanted to be careful.

Her servants. When had Albitta thought about them last? Never, really. At first, she was a noble lady, then the queen. It had never occurred to her that they were people with their own feelings, thoughts, and desires. Servants were a tool to make her comfortable, albeit a walking and talking one. And then, it changed. It turned out that they were as human as her, with opinions of their own—and they had to be reckoned with.

So far, Alcine hadn't replaced the palace staff. Well, replacing all of them was impossible, as the palace had several hundred of them, but they did need to get rid of those closest to Gardwig and Milia. It was too risky to let them be.

Some wretch might prove too fond of their late masters, pour a handful of rat poison into the kettle, and goodbye, Your Majesty. Things happened.

She hadn't considered that before, but not anymore. She even had a dagger under her pillow, although she hoped not to use it. She was a lady, not a fighter. She was to be protected, not protect herself. Yet the dagger calmed her nerves.

Wine wouldn't do. What, then? A man would be nice. At the estate, Albitta had often entertained herself in that way without caring much for what Alcine thought, but in the palace... No, she couldn't. It wasn't the right time, and she didn't have the right men. Mercenaries were mercenaries; nobody knew how many brothels they had visited. Albitta really didn't want to treat a shameful disease.

The courtiers weren't a good idea, either. She couldn't trust them. They might fawn and grovel, but at the bottom of their eyes, like mud at the bottom of a swamp, lay fear, dark and nasty. They didn't respect her; they were afraid—for themselves, for their families... That's why they kowtowed. But what would come later?

Same old. If you bring a reptile home, don't act all shocked when it bites you. Such is the nature of those creatures.

Have you ever seen a snake? Are they known for their gratitude? Their love, their affection? If you set it free, it will just slither around, hissing, until one day it finally sinks its fangs into your hand.

No, Albitta couldn't trust anyone yet—neither her own people nor others...nobody.

Robert had told her to wait a year. If they managed to hold onto the throne, things would change. Their neighbors would acknowledge them; alliances would be made...

Oh yes, an alliance. It was impossible to ally with Ativerna. Someone must become a scapegoat; why not the Ativernans? It seemed convenient. The king had visited the country; there was that shady business with the wedding; and everything started as soon as their ambassador arrived. Maybe they could try striking a deal with Ivernea...but the Ivernean party turned out to be hollow. Just like the Ativernan one.

What else did they have? Avester? Absolutely. Thankfully, she had four daughters. None of them could compete with her son, but they did need to be married off—to suitable countries, that is.

Four daughters...although the eldest was still at large. Where could she be? How was she?

No, not quite that. Who was she with?

Albitta didn't really care much about Maria's life or health. It didn't matter. So what if she was her daughter? She hadn't seen her for more than a decade and might not get to see her for just as long. What was there to grieve? But the rest...

Maria had been intended as a pledge of friendship with Ativerna. If she managed to get there, that would mean war. Maria would become its banner. Albitta didn't want a war, though; she wanted two things: power and revenge.

She had almost gotten the first; all that remained was to see Milia's head. Albitta would have even spared her children, in truth. She'd send them to foster in poor families, and afterward, let Aldonai decide whether they survived. In fairy tales, foundlings raised by peasants might run away to find their parents, become knights or save the king and marry the princess. In reality, such children never got to see the land beyond their village and were content to stay there, living, growing turnips or whatever it was those muckworms grew.

That was not the point; power was.

If war broke out, Alcine would take all power. That was not Albitta's wish. Her wish was for balls, parties, splendor, and everything else she had longed for all those years thanks to her former husband. And she would get it! She was already getting it!

The diamonds in her rings gleamed in the light of the stars. Albitta admired their sparkle and smiled, content. Yes, that was her. At last, she had turned the tables on those who made her suffer!

The luster of diamonds calmed her down, entrancing her. She turned over on her side, admired the rings again, then took a bracelet from the dressing table and fiddled with it. She fell asleep—still clutching the bracelet—deep and sound, like a person with a clean conscience and a pure soul.

***

Edwin Fremont stormed into the embassy of Ativerna.

He didn't have to, though, as there was nobody inside. After getting a warning, Thomas Concord had wasted no time in gathering people, not wanting to leave them to be slaughtered. Baron Fremont ended up with nothing—literally. Thomas had taken everything he could get his hands on, as long as it was valuable.

He didn't take furniture, of course, but the carpets were gone, as were the tapestries, silver candlesticks, cutlery, and even the masters' personal belongings. Why not? Cart drivers were experts able to pack up an elephant in half an hour while it wouldn't even flinch. Thomas had more than half an hour, and he used that time for all it was worth.

All the baron could do was to run about the embassy, kick the stools graciously left for him, and emit a stream of choicest profanities. Alas, it didn't help. Aldonai couldn't hear him, and Maldonaya chose not to reply.

He had to go tell the duke that the bird had slipped away. Edwin wasn't stupid; in fact, he was a quick thinker. But his thoughts didn't please him a bit.

Who could warn the embassy? Only one of those who had escaped: either Jerisson or Lilian Earton. Bastards!

Instead of trying to seduce the countess, he should have twisted her neck. But who could ever know?

***

As soon as the baron left, Jack and Remi climbed out of their hiding places. They exchanged looks.

After his visit, how much more proof did they need?

"I'll go to the viscount. Will you come with me?" Remi asked.

Jack nodded. He would come, and he would tell everything he had seen and heard. Baron Fremont was in a foul temper and had run his mouth off, even mentioning the dead as a doornail (Aldonai have mercy) king and lots of other things.

Just thinking about it made Jack shudder, but to find himself in the middle of such a nightmare? All he could do was to pray to Aldonai. Maybe he would save them.

***

As the viscount heard the account, his expression turned dark. Then he started making arrangements. In such circumstances, the best thing was to get far away from the capital.

Who had done it? How? Who to retaliate against? What to do? The time for these questions would come later. So far, the most important thing was not to get killed.

"Can I hire you?"

Jack considered his words.

"I'll talk to Thom. We need to get out of the city anyway. We might be of use to each other, Your Grace."

"I'll be waiting for you in two hours, alone or with Thom."

Jack bowed and disappeared. In two hours, he returned bearing good news, and four hours later, several more people were on the run from Cardin.

Everyone was pleased. Viscount Dishan learned what was going on and secured himself and his family, having also sent out messages to some of his friends. Let them decide for themselves; they got a warning. If they ignored it, it was their problem. Jack received a tidy sum from Dishan. Remi, for his part, was also rewarded. So far, in money, but he was also promised other favors. Thom, in turn, was sure to get his own recognition for rendering a service to a highborn Wellsterian nobleman.  And if he didn't... Well, then it wouldn't matter anyway, as it would mean their lives were forfeit.

Viscount Dishan wasn't going to rely on Aldonai's mercy. He would defend himself and his loved ones, and the rest remained to be seen. If his father wouldn't return or send a message, he should assume the worst and consider himself the head of the family. The viscount genuinely hoped it not to be the case, but it wouldn't make it any easier for him. He needed to save his mother, his wife, his children, and, preferably, their valuables as well. So he chose to make arrangements and play it safe, and the future showed that he chose right.

Alcine didn't think about the other Dishans straight away, so when his men came to the manor by noon, they found an empty nest, completely cleaned out. The viscount had followed the example of the Ativernans and scraped the place out of all small and expensive items while stashing away the larger objects. The only thing to be gained was furniture, but how much profit was in that?

None. There were no people and no money.

***

"Come out, Your Grace."

With an effort, Lilian crawled out from under the canopy, rubbing her hurting hips.

Milia was so weak she could barely move; they had to pull her out in their arms. Such strain just after giving birth! And even before, really. She should be lying for a few days on a comfy bed instead of that. It was all really screwed up; Lily couldn't find another phrase or another opinion, really.

They laid Her Majesty on several cloaks and attended to the others. The Eveers climbed out one after another, and Rutha flung herself at Lily, sobbing.

"I was so scared! SO SCARED! YOU'RE ALIVE!"

She didn't really have any other words left. Lily started stroking the girl's dark braids, thinking that Gael would have been a better comfort. Well, baby steps. At least, he had become Rutha's savior, hero, and knight; the rest would come.

Still, the others weren't about to let Rutha cry for long. Miranda clung to her mother's neck, and then, the dogs swooped in as well. In the end, the countess found herself lying flat on her back on the grass, laughing as she was kissed and licked from all three sides. Lily could stand up only after three minutes, and even then wasn't able to tear Miranda away from herself. The girl pressed herself against her chest, put her arms around her shoulders, and fell silent. She clearly wasn't going to part with her mother anytime soon.

Master Salsi was the first to bow to Lilian.

"Once again, you're saving us, Your Grace."

Lily waved with her free hand.

"Ah, come on, Master. You've saved my daughter, and if I was able to help you, let's call us even. Do you mind calling me by my name? Let's save time."

He opened his mouth, then considered his words and closed it again, bowing instead.

"Kort Salsi, at your service, Lilian."

"We're all in the same boat."

Lily wasted no time before holding an impromptu operational briefing while women dispensed with waterworks and checked up on their children and men stretched their bodies after lying around inside the carts.

Master Salsi nodded. He had already figured something out from bits and pieces of explanations, but that wasn't nearly enough to make a decision. He needed details.

Famously, Maldonaya hid in the details like a snake in the grass; you'd never see either until you stepped right there. Master Salsi didn't really want that, as the price was too high: life, and not just his, but of his children, his grandchildren, and his entire people—at least the part that lived in Wellster.

For some reason, historically, the Eveers always got a beating.

What for? Well, if there really was a good reason, they would have been slaughtered to a man. They were persecuted for their faith, for being different from others, for their wealth, for...it was a long list.

Of course, he had put the word out and knew what was going on in the Eveer quarter at that moment. People were seeking shelter. Cardin was an old city, and any old city has old houses, basements, catacombs... They could serve as good hideouts, even for a month, as long as you had supplies, and the Eveers had them.

Why hadn't the master himself used one of those places? Well, have you tried controlling the situation and monitoring the scene from a cellar? It was impossible; you would need to be free to move around, to maneuver, to gather information... Something like that couldn't be pulled off while sitting in one spot with no contact with the outside.

Some of the Eveers spread out to take refuge with their friends and associates, one or two people at a time. Others, like himself, packed up, stuffing their valuables in safe places, and left the city— completely logical solution. It would be too late to hide after the beatings started, anyway.

Therefore, he was quite receptive to Her Grace's ideas.

"Your Majesty, may I?"

"Yes," they heard from the cloaks.

Master Salsi whistled—not out loud, of course.

Her Majesty Milia? Oh my! By Maldonaya's knickers!

He had seen the queen during celebrations and remembered her face—such was his trade. But to recognize her in such a state? So what had happened?

Lily didn't drag it out.

"Everyone, please sit down and try not to be distracted. His Majesty Gardwig was killed last night."

Fortunately for Master Salsi, he had heeded the countess' words and sat down beforehand, or he would have dropped down right where he stood. Meanwhile, Lily, all calm and serene, recounted how the conspirators attacked the king and tried to fight their way to the queen, but the king blocked their way, buying time for his family at the expense of his own life. She talked about how they fled through the secret passage, how Milia's labor started, forcing Lily herself to deliver the baby, and how she then sent a message to the Virmans.

She was self-composed, and her eyes were dry; only her hand moved as she caressed her daughter's back, comforting her. Kort appreciated that. No crying, to tears, no hysterics—only cold facts and her reading of the situation, specifically from Lilian Earton's point of view. That commanded respect.

"Now, we're here, and we're together. We have only one option: to reach the Summer Palace, where Count Chantaine's garrison is quartered. If we make it, we'll be protected and might get a chance to return to the capital and deal with the conspirators using force."

"Do you think it's a conspiracy?" Master Salsi asked, staring right into the countess' face.

As she described horrific things, she stayed dead calm, as if...as if she had seen worse. But how? Her age...she was twice as young as he, maybe even more! And it wasn't due to a shock, Kort could tell. That was just how she saw life. Astounding!

Lily smiled to the master with the corners of her mouth, but her eyes weren't smiling.

"It's stupid to kill the king without putting your own candidate on the throne. I'm sure we're already hunted. Still, if we hurry, they won't find us. Another thing that troubles me is that the only way for us to move quickly is on horseback, but Her Majesty Milia should not even entertain this thought."

"I'll do it," the queen tried to say, but Lily's glare made even the master shudder.

"Leave three children orphaned? That's what you'll do! Maybe I should give you a knife, too, so you can speed things up? I don't even know what gods I should pray to so you don't get swelling and catch some sickness..."

Once again, the master felt intimidated. The way Lilian talked, it was different. People didn't use that tone when speaking to a queen. Usually, everyone was exceedingly polite toward royals, knowing that the king held power over their life and death—and so did the queen, especially with Gardwig being dead. Lily, however, genuinely believed herself to be in charge.

No, not even that. She believed herself to be equal to the queen.

The master didn't even doubt that Milia would yell at her, reprimand her...how could she stand to be treated like that? Lilian might be calm and polite, but she had completely forgotten about...well, everything.

Lily sighed as she caught Master Salsi's stare. Yes, Your Grace, you're no good at staying in character. As soon as she found herself in a critical situation, she reverted back into Aliya, the twenty-first century medic with a completely different style of behavior.

"Please pardon me for being rude," Lily apologized. "Your Majesty, I didn't save you for you to die now."

"It's all right," they heard a rustle from the cloak heap. "Countess, you're right. I didn't consider the consequences."

"We'll deal with it," Olav waved his hand. "Let's use the old method and fix up a stretcher."

"How's that?" Lily inquired.

"We've done it before. Take two horses, put a stretcher between them..."

Lily scratched her nose and remembered the Swedish king Charles XII, who had been carried exactly the same way at the Battle of Poltava against Russia, and considered the suggestion.

"Won't the queen fall down this way?"

"It's not our first run, Your Grace," Olav said, grinning. "We have a wee bit of wood, a spot of rope—we'll slap together this thingy, just you wait. It'll swing around, but we're used to that."

"You are, but for Her Majesty, it will be even worse than inside," Lily sighed. "No. Let's leave at least one cart for the weakest of us to carry the baby and the children. Make it as light as possible, stuff some straw inside and whatever else you can find in the village... Can you do it?"

"What's so hard about it?" the Virman shrugged. "We'll get it done. It would be even quicker, anyways."

Lily smiled at Olav. Those people were as good as gold! They were worth their weight in diamonds, at the very least.

"Woof," someone said politely next to her, slipping their moist nose and fluffy paw under her hand. Nanook requested his beloved mistress to confirm her presence.

Lily patted her mutt on the head. Lou-Lou, Nanook, Mirrie... Gah, the order didn't matter. They were safe. That's what mattered.

In the meantime, Bertha was consoling the princes, or rather the eldest ones, as the youngest was given to his mother so he wouldn't cry. As she watched them, she thought that they had gotten lucky. She knew all the flaws of her beloved Millie, who was a wonderful woman, but embarrassingly indecisive. If not for Lilian Earton, they would still be hiding in the secret passage. With her, Aldonai help them, they stood a chance of reuniting with their people.

What would they have done without Lilian, really?

Master Salsi coughed.

"With all due respect...we don't have enough horses."

Olav snorted.

"We have money, and there's a township not far. We'll go and buy them, no big deal!"

He flashed a gold coin, patting his huge Virman axe. Master Salsi nodded, recognizing that there was no arguing. Anyone would be happy to strike a bargain and thank them for an honest deal.

Apparently, Lily was just thinking about that, seeing as she sighed and pulled the remaining rings off her fingers.

"Master Salsi, I suspect that my people don't have a lot of money. Could you loan us some with my jewelry as collateral?"

"Your Grace! Lilian!"

The master couldn't even find the right words, then simply removed a purse from his belt and handed it to the countess.

"I already owe..."

Lily sighed. She stood up, came up to the master, put her rings into his hand, and clenched his fist together.

"Don't argue with me, Master. We've just gotten involved in a real gamble that can result in the gallows for me. Maybe even something worse—the gallows is a pretty clean option, actually. What they will do to the queen, to the princes, to me...let's not think about these horrors. Maybe I'll be able to return the favor, but what if I won't? Take these rings as your...insurance."

"Insurance?"

"I'll explain this concept to you later." Lily chuckled. "And please, no more noble acts. Money will come in handy later, anyway."

"I think so, too," Gael chimed in. "We've brought some food with us. Maybe while we're fetching horses, the ladies will prepare something to eat?"

"A great idea," Lily said, excited as she realized how hungry she was. "Where are the supplies?"

***

The next two hours were pretty fun. Everyone was busy. The women cooked while the men made a stretcher for the queen. Thankfully, the Virmans had explained what it was supposed to look like. They also attended to their horses, stripped down the carts, and removed the trash, so nobody would connect them to the waste collectors who had left the city. Master Salsi joined the group with Lilian, listened to her explanation of insurance, and considered the idea.

It seemed to have potential. But how to implement it? That was the question. He'd need protection. The master cast a glance at the queen. That was something to be entertained, later, that is.

At the moment, the most important issue was food. They had some smoked meats, some grain, some vegetables...All of that went into a soup. Milia was the first to be fed, and the others followed suit. Then they waited.

The Virmans weren't long in coming. The horses they had found were far from combat steeds—short, plain, and shaggy, they were nonetheless sturdy and resilient. Unfortunately, there weren't enough of them for everyone, seeing as there were almost thirty people in the group. They had to leave two carts, each of them pulled by two horses. At least that way, the journey would be faster.

The men climbed into saddles, and the journey started.

Milia and the children were safely resting in the carts, and the Eveers, as it turned out, were passable riders. The ladies didn't shy away from getting into crude male saddles, and so what if it exposed their legs up to their knees? It was definitely not the time for thinking about propriety. Only survival mattered.

Everyone understood that lingering only a couple of hours away from the capital was not an option. Their only salvation lay in speed…and praying to Aldonai, of course. Maybe he would take mercy on them.

***

As Lily bumped in the saddle, she thought about Lidarh, wishing the conspirators to catch pox and grow bald and then fall into her hands...at least for an hour. She was no sadist, after all, and didn't quite know how to dissect a human.

Too bad, really. She'd just tie them up and get down to business while they were still squirming.

Back in her world, she had heard rumors that some countries did something like that to prisoners. What was the point in wasting lead on death row inmates? Each body was a veritable treasure trove of priceless organs. Liver, kidneys, cornea...

Anesthesia?
Did you use anesthesia to kill the king, sweetie?
Oh, you didn’t?
Then just hang on, honey. You won't have to suffer long.
Serves you right, too.

Transplants weren't a thing yet, but truly, the parasites who made her feel like a cat with its tail set on fire for the last twelve hours deserved a trepanation or a surgery without anesthesia—a nice opportunity to train, too.

The thought about medical procedures made Lilian switch to the queen. She didn't like Milia's state. A doctor's intuition told her—screamed at her—that something was off. She could feel it in her gut.

Her temperature wasn't much higher than normal, and the bleeding...who said it stopped just after the labor? Absolutely not! A woman could suffer for two more weeks, if not more.

Nothing seemed off, overall. Still, Lily would have given her left ear to get the woman into a good bed, put ice on her belly, and watch her condition.

Milia had said that in the past, traveling to the Summer Palace took two days. That, however, was with a retinue, carriages, and stops on the way.

A kingdom for a horse?
A map, dammit!
A map and a compass, that's what a kingdom is worth!

Lily regretted never studying topography. All she could do was to wait and pray, pray and wait. And ride.

The thing that she hated the most in the world were circumstances she had no control over. And then, there was Jerisson’s uncertain fate...

Stop!
Shut up, stupid heart!
Listen to the liver, Lily!
Think about Milia!
You have no time to worry, and that's it!

***

As Altres Lort prepared to march out, he couldn't stop thinking about one thing. Where was he going to march?

He imagined himself, all decked out and commanding five hundred soldiers, ride into capital and tell Gardwig, "Brother, you have a plot brewing. I think."

The first question would be, who was conspiring? If there would be a question at all. His brother might as well greet him by throwing a stool at him for such an arrival. And he could. And he should! Violating an order, coming to the capital before the ambassador had left, taking troops... Yes, Gard would rip off his head first and talk later.

What else could he do, then? Stay somewhere close to the capital and send his brother a message with a reliable man, that's all.

Where, though? Altres racked his brains. There weren't many options—say, Fort Shedar. He could stay there for several nights; it was a conveniently located place with a roof.

There was one problem, of course. If a plot truly existed, it was a given that the conspirators would learn about Lort's arrival. What would they do? Either strike immediately—if they were prepared—or hide in a place where he'd never find them. It put him at a disadvantage.

Where else could he go? Altres remembered what the marquis had told him. What about...the Summer Palace?

It had its pros and cons. Pro, it had the Armored Regiment stationed there. He could assume control of them. Chantaine was loyal to the king, and he and Lort went way back. He knew that Altres would never go against Gardwig.

Con? If a plot existed, Chantaine would be attacked soon, and the Armored Regiment most likely had spies in their midst.

Still, they wouldn't have time to warn them. Altres had the upper hand. Maybe he would even get to identify the spies.

He could crash with someone else as well, but how could he tell who was involved in the plot? He might step inside and find himself smack dab in the middle of the mess.

Yes, Summer Palace seemed the best option. If he got lucky, he might get there by the next evening.

Aldonai, please help me to get there in time. Please. I know I'm no believer, and then some, but still. Not for me, but Milia and the children. They aren't to blame, even if Gardwig and I might be!

Chapter 2

Virma. The lands of Clan Oronsteg.

If Wulf Oronsteg did expect anything, it certainly wasn't a visit by Bran Gardren. Or, rather, he had been anticipating a visit ever since his father sent him a messenger pigeon, but definitely not one like that.

Clan Hardar? Clan Torsveg? Just Elg Torsveg himself? Who else could it be? Could there be a traitor in his own clan?

A storm raged on in his mind, and not for nothing. Bran, who sat next to him, glanced at Wulf with a look of sympathy.

"Tough luck..."

Oronsteg rubbed his face with his hands. It didn't really help.

"Gardren, what am I to do now?"

Bran sighed. It couldn't be helped. Chief Oronsteg had taken his heir to the Circle to show him around and let him learn the ropes, and as for Wulf... Gardren had a perfect memory and remembered very well what Wulf Oronsteg was like. He was loyal and kind, true, but he was also a bit simple. The perfect number two, who, if he had his number one, always knew who was in charge and never pushed forward. He had no ambitions of his own, but would never lack for a slice of bread.

Well, since Bran was already there...

"Wulf, you need to inform the clan immediately. If the Hardars decide to re-divide Virma, you, as their neighbors, will bear the brunt of their first attack."

"I... I'm going to rally them all!"

"That's first. Second, send several pigeons to the Circle. Not one, Wulf, several. Maybe at least one of them will make it. A few riders, too, just in case. I'll write a letter. Have your servants bring me ink and parchment."

Wulf nodded. So far, everything made sense.

"Assign two maids and guards to Her Highness Angelina. She's a princess. If anything happens to her, we'll never make peace with Ativerna."

"Wh—"

"When will we get out of here?"

"Err..."

Wulf couldn't say that out loud, of course. Hospitality didn't allow him to: tradition said that he should die before saving his guest. He felt safer next to Bran, too. Gardren was astoundingly charismatic; a man like him could sell sand to the Khangans. And unlike Wulf, he knew exactly what he was doing and what needed to be done.

On the flip side, if not for Bran, trouble wouldn't have come knocking at the Oronsteg gate for...

How long, really? A month? Two? Wulf held no illusions: if an all-out war broke out, he wouldn't survive it, either. He was no lowlife to sell out his father and brother, and Chief Oronsteg was quite content with Olav Hardring as the head of the Circle and the order that reigned in Virma. Sooner or later, he'd be sucked into it anyway. Wulf wasn't simple enough not to realize that. That said, he didn't know what measures he had to take, which is why he was hanging on Bran's every word.

They would leave as soon as it was safe. There, they were under the protection of an entire clan. On the road, though? They didn't wish to be ambushed again: one miraculous survival was enough—no need taking risks once more. Holosh didn't approve of suicide, and that was sheer suicide.

Wulf easily accepted those arguments. All he had left to do was to send out pigeons and wait.

***

Angelina was sitting in the room given to her. Bran knocked at the door and came in.

"May I, M'lady?"

"Of course, Bran."

She looked so much like a Virman girl, dressed in a common Virman dress—they couldn't find another one in short order—and with her hair braided and decorated with a pearly band. For a second, he wanted to lie to himself and see her not as a princess, but as a woman.

He couldn't, though. He couldn't do anything.

"Everything's fine, M'lady Angelina, but until we get a response from Olav, we should stay here. In Clan Oronsteg, we're well-protected."

"Here?" Angelina gasped. Bran threw her a reproachful look.

"M’lady, I won't put you into danger again."

Angelina stood up from the bed on which she sat, walked through the room, and stopped within arm's reach of Bran.

"But I was safe with you!"

Bran smiled.

Sweet girl, if only you knew how many I killed and how many more I will kill to keep you safe, you'd scream and recoil. One cannot become a priest of Holosh and keep their hands clean. I'm not just up to my elbows in blood; I've been swimming in it for years, and I don't regret a thing. But even if I did...

I have nothing to give to you. I'm married, I won't leave my clan, I'm forever bound to Virma, and those ties cannot be broken. I can't betray those who trust me.

But maybe I can still have my memories, so when I'm old and grey, I'll flip through them like the precious gems they are. Your smile. Your amazing shining eyes. A strand of golden hair that fell on your soft face.

Ah, Angelina. I would have sold my soul to Holosh to be with you. I'd become your servant just so I could see you. But my life already belongs to Holosh. I have nothing else to offer to the gods.

"M’lady..."

"Bran, stop using my title! After all that we've been through, it sounds stupid!"

Bran knit his eyebrows together. All right, in any case, he would get his way.

"Angie, I won't risk you. It's not up for discussion."

"But Richard's there!"

"Unlike you, he's a man, and he knows how to hold a sword. What can you do for him if you're there?"

"He won't have to be afraid for me."

Bran smiled.

"He doesn’t have to be afraid now either. Clan Oronsteg is one of the strongest in Virma. Olav will know where danger's coming from, and together, they'll manage. And I'll be protecting you."

Angelina stepped forward and touched Bran's hand. He startled as if he got burned.

"I believe you. Do what you must."

"I will. And...Angelina, our ways are simpler. Yours, however... What happens if it becomes known that we've spent more than a day alone?"

Angelina grew pale. She hadn't thought about traditions while saving her life, but they had a nasty habit of chasing you and biting your heels.

Ah, he was saving your life? And in which positions?

She could almost hear the courtiers’ vicious remarks. Her fingers clenched into fists but then relaxed. Angelina was still a princess.

"I don’t think anyone will learn about it."

"You should. Rumors have long legs and fast wings, and in light of us getting closer to Ativerna... A word there, a whisper here—I can't allow it."

"And what will we do?"

"Kyria Edaina was with us."

"All right. But..."

"Angelina, I've already made arrangements. When we came here, it was the three of us. She was badly injured, but she accompanied you. Wulf has already sent his people to the shore. They'll get her body here."

Angelina shivered.

"Disturbing a grave?"

"The dead don't care anymore. Those who are alive do."

Bran was practical to a fault. That said, if he were anything different, Angelina would have never fallen in love with him.

It was only in fairy tales where a princess fell in love with a fool and lived with him happily ever after. In real life, living with a fool would be dull and tedious. She'd die of boredom. No great love could replace an intellectual connection or a kinship of souls. When people were together, they didn't spend all of their time in bed. They also talked. When you loved someone, you had to breathe the same air and share common goals. Otherwise, your love would die with the first frost. It was natural that fleshly desire was complemented by a spiritual one—otherwise it became pointless, bringing a person down to the level of a beast. Didn't we think better of ourselves than to mate any time we got an itch?

Angelina didn't really think in such categories. She had simply been brought up among gossip and courtly intrigue, and Bran was something she could understand. Now, some strait-laced knight in shining armor? Nobody could say for sure, but usually, honor had no place in a palace. There, it was fumigated, like bedbugs. Honor and chivalry could bite, making them inconvenient to many.

"And...what should I do here?"

Bran laughed out loud.

"Clan Oronsteg has wonderful jewelers and weavers. And a great library, too."

The library attracted more interest. Angelina thanked him and asked meekly, "Bran, could you teach me to fire a crossbow? I don't want to be helpless anymore...

"Of course," Bran agreed.

Really, that wasn't right. His princess couldn't protect herself in a pinch. That couldn't go on. She had to learn—to shoot, to use a dagger, and maybe about a few poisons, too. He couldn't let her return to Ativerna defenseless, could he?

Somewhere in Virma

Ian Gardren slowly rode ahead.

On the second horse, behind him, rode Rith, holding little Hilda. After them, tagged two more horses and three goats, fir branches attached to the tails of the latter.

Lots of branches. Not enough to hinder them, but still.

The boy had also wrapped rags around the horses' hooves, remembering the stories told by his father and brother, and also tried to avoid sandy places. He would get to Clan Hardring and explain everything to his father.

And then, the living would envy the dead.

The lands of Clan Hardring.

"No news from Angelina."

Richard was genuinely worried. Tira, who was sitting next to him, caressed his hand. She didn't give a damn about the rumors. She was a kyria and could stuff them into anyone's throat along with their teeth although Olav would have probably done it first.

"It's Virma. A day or two later is nothing out of the ordinary."

"Is it?" Richard frowned.

"They have to sail against the current. Wind's a huge factor, as is the weather in general. And then, it's a journey. Who knows what might happen? They might run aground, strike a reef..."

It didn't do much to dissuade Richard.

"The wind's blowing from the sea."

"Here. What about the center of the island?"

Richard was sullen and anxious. Tira knew only one way to distract him: with a kiss. She used this tool gladly and to mutual satisfaction.

She saw the way Elg Torsveg looked at her, knew that her mother was worried, but couldn't help herself. Her beloved was next to her; she couldn't give up on him. She might get only an hour with him, but it was her hour!

And the others' hate... It burned, of course, but next to the flame of her passion, that fire was weak and unconvincing. She could easily overlook it.

***

"When?"

"Tomorrow night."

"We won't make it."

"When, then?"

"At least a day later. We'll gather more people. Our men will get here, too."

It wasn’t the first time the four men had met in that spot. Quiet, secluded, and well-hidden from outside eyes, its only downside was not showing if anyone had followed the participants. Still, they could post sentries—and that's what they had been doing lately, having learned from their mistakes. They had dealt with the fallout, but nobody wanted to take another risk, especially at that stage, when ships were already full of people, their axes sharpened, and victory seemed only a few steps away...

"Be careful with the Ativernans," one of the men repeated once again. Another one gritted his teeth, which didn't go unnoticed. The third one put his hand on his shoulder.

"Elg, you understand it yourself."

Elg did, both that he needed to be careful and that they truly needed peace with Ativerna. After all, what difference did it make to Edward who ruled Virma? All he needed was an alliance, and as for whom to sign it with, it was the island's private matter. The Circle was the Circle. And if they didn't stop Hardring in time...

Gardren was both correct and wrong at the same time. He had served as an impetus for changes in Virma, realizing that the island couldn't carry on the way it was. It needed to move forward and transform. A broom was hardier and more useful than a twig, which couldn't even serve to write a message in the sand. Bran had pursued his goal to unite Virma under one strong ruler for a long time, scheming and bribing. He chose Hardring and never once regretted it. But the other clans...

The question "Why him?" had always been relevant, and it was usually followed by the question "Why not me?". The men who attended the secret meeting knew that if they didn't break the Hardring-Gardren alliance at once, soon Virma would have a king. They didn't want that.

To obey when you used to be a lord in your own right? Never!

There was also the issue of personal profit. Each one of the attendees had their own enemies, plans—including getting the lands of their neighbors—and their own dreams of power.

For Torsveg, it was an opportunity not just to become chief of his clan, but also to be part of the Circle, multiplying his power and prestige. There was only one problem: Tira.

Blonde hair, huge blue eyes, a slender figure that seemed to hover in mid-air... She should have flowers in her hands instead of a sword. Too bad it wasn't Elg she had noticed. In the entire world, there was only one man for Tira—His Highness Richard of Ativerna. Elg knew that at that very same moment, they were together, and it tied him up in knots. He hated it. Whatever happened, he would settle his score with that wretch!

He wouldn't touch Richard—for that, Edward would drown Virma in blood and burn the rest—but the girl would pay. It didn't occur to Elg that Tira had never promised him anything. So what? If not for that pretty boy, she'd come to terms with her fate, sooner or later getting under him, but the prince...

"I remember our plan. The Ativernans won't be hurt, I give you my word as a Torsveg," Elg replied after a pause.

The men breathed out. Each of them knew what it was like to lose themselves in the heat of battle. Each of them had experienced being drunk on blood and death. Each of them was in jeopardy if Torsveg lost it.

"Great, then," Chief Hardar summed it up. "So in a day, two at most, as soon as the ships signal..."

A day or two? It was a big difference, especially when the plot could be uncovered any minute. The third man voiced his concerns.

"It's a long time."

"But we got rid of Gardren."

"We don't know that yet."

"He couldn’t have escaped. He couldn’t. And really, why drag it out now?"

They still hadn't gotten a pigeon from Clan Hardar, and neither did they have any news about Gardren's clan. The Gardrens were a dangerous prey, one that wasn't easy to hunt. It required time. Nobody was worried.

As for a day—well, how long could they stall? The time to kill had come.

Virma was about to change, and whether for good or for ill... The conspirators thought it was good for them, at least. And that meant they had to make their move.

Wellster, outside of Cardin.

Lily kept glancing at Milia. The queen's condition worried her more and more. Her fever had spiked, and she spent most of her time barely conscious. Lily would have loved to put her under, but she had no drugs to speak of. She'd even settle for opium or weed, but...

She touched the flanks of her horse with her heels and pulled up to Gael.

"Will we pass by a village?"

"Chances are we will, Your Grace."

"Gael, we badly need a she-goat or a wetnurse."

"Ahem?"

"If Milia develops an inflammation, she won't be able to feed the baby, and without milk... You think they’d forgive us if we get a prince killed?"

The Virman nodded with a serious expression.

"Will do."

Master Salsi, who was listening in on the conversation, rode up.

"Lilian?"

"Yes, Kort?"

"Rivana gave birth not long ago. She's nursing, but she has enough milk for two."

Lily breathed out.

"Good. But we still need a goat. Some herbs, too! The herbalists should have something, right?"

"What exactly do you need?"

"Chamomile, marigold, sage, stickseeds, clover, thyme, spearmint, yarrow..."

The Virman stared in round-eyed amazement. He clearly hadn't memorized it.

"That's for inflammation, and the more of it, the better. Sedatives, if you find them, and...oh, take everything! I'll find a use for it!"

Having received a clear and brief instruction, Gael nodded. All the herbs, plus a she-goat, or better, two of them.

Lily sighed heavily. They would have to spend the night in the open field, which was risky for Milia. But what could she do, really? It couldn't be helped. All of her herbs, medicine, and supplies were back in Cardin.

Ah, how she wished she could kill those blasted conspirators, just kill them, slowly and coldly! They couldn't have chosen a worse time for their plot.

Once again, the thought about Jerisson's fate came unbidden. Her mood, which was already far from cheerful, grew even more sour. To distract herself, Lily turned to her daughter. At least Mirrie was with her. The girl alternated between obediently riding with her mother and inside a cart. She never gave any trouble, didn't ask for anything, and didn't bother her mother with ill-timed questions.

That's how children grew up, Lily thought, becoming tempered in the fire of other people's woes. You couldn't shelter them; you couldn't keep them safe...even if you really wanted to.

She would have given everything to shield Mirrie from the world and raise her like a delicate pampered flower. Not a chance.

Lily touched her dark hair with her lips. Mommy's here, sweetie.
Mommy loves you and will see that no harm comes to you.
And if anyone dares to threaten you, she'll bite of their head and spit it out.

"Mirrie, are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Please hang in there, honey. Soon, we'll stop for the night, and after that, it's not too far until safety."

"I will," Miranda agreed. "I promise." She hesitated a bit and muttered, quietly and with uncertainty. "Mama, will Papa make it? Will he be all right?"

"Of course." Lily's voice had enough confidence for three men. "He's so smart and wonderful, how can he not? Impossible!"

Mirrie nodded. For her, it was that simple. If her Mama said it, then so it was. For her mother, though...

***

At that moment, Count Earton was busy arguing with Leir Olsen.

"What do you mean you won't give me soldiers?"

"Not a single man. Don't you see that it's foolish?"

"My wife is there!"

"Half of our men have families inside the city! You can't go inside. Your appearance is quite distinctive; they'll recognize you in an instant. You'll fail both her and yourself!"

"I'll make it."

"How?"

"I'll dress like a beggar."

Leir Olsen groaned. Yeah, as a beggar. The other beggars would knock the hell out of him as soon as he entered the gate. Their world was a different one, with their own laws and rules. A stranger had no place there. In a flash, the right argument came to him.

"Jess, you have to stay."

"No, I don't."

"You must. Just think—if you leave, who am I next to the prince? You're an ambassador, the king's nephew, his representative, and I'm a simple leir, a commander of a backwater garrison. They'll snatch the princess; I bet my boots on it! They're already staring at her like cats look at fish!"

Jess sighed. Richard would have ripped off his head for that, and so would his uncle.

But Lily and Miranda were inside the city. How would he keep on living if something happened to them?

"We'll march out tomorrow." Leir Olsen put his hand on Jerisson's shoulder. "I've arranged it, and we've also sent a message to the duke saying that the fort has been taken, the Ceruleans were captured, and we'll arrive tomorrow. Let's get the fortress in order, wash the blood off, and have a bite to eat, plus take care of the wounded. They can't all know each other in person—we'll change and try entering the capital. After that, it's either Aldonai or Maldonaya."

Jess sighed.

"If my wife and daughter—"

"We'll also send one more letter."

"What kind of letter?"

"That we've captured Count Earton here. He's still alive, but the princess is not with him."

"Hmm."

Jess paused and then nodded. Yes, in that scenario, he would be led to the pretender, or maybe he'd even send men after him, splitting his forces. That was good.

Plus, if Alcine had Lily and Mirrie and they were still alive, he'd put off killing them. They were leverage, after all.

"Thank you, Leir."

"Pay it off with blood in battle."

Jess smiled. It was an old saying among soldiers. Still, it felt nice, being accepted not just as a count from another kingdom, but as one of their own. One would never joke like that with a man who could become your enemy.

"Won't be long now."

"It won't. Come on, let's write a letter."

***

Aldon Peters wasn't surprised to hear from his secretary about Duke Alcine's visit. That was inevitable, considering what had transpired the night before. The aldon himself hadn't attended the ball, but any palace has a gate and servants, making it impossible to keep a secret within its walls. Drop by drop, the truth will out.

Was the aldon mourning Gardwig? Now that would be funny. To grieve a man who could send you to the gallows any minute and replace you with a more obedient priest? Never. Peters had never been that honorable. He was, however, quite concerned. It wasn’t like Alcine couldn't do the same to him; he could, easily.

And so, Peters received the duke with all due courteousness, ordered the servants to bring wine, and amicably offered the guest a comfortable chair.

"Happy to see you in good health, Duke."

"Thank you, Aldon. Through your prayers, I suppose."

An exchange of niceties followed, but both men were far too anxious to prolong it. Alcine got down to business.

"The funeral for His Majesty Gardwig will take place tomorrow evening."

"Well then...we're all mortal. A great sorrow struck Wellster, but life goes on, Duke. Isn't that right?"

Alcine nodded to his own thoughts. He had expected something like that from Peters. The aldon would never grieve over Gardwig or his children.

"I hope, Aldon, you won't refuse to perform a funeral service for those who left us?"

"It's my sacred duty. I hope Her Majesty Albitta will be present at the ceremony?"

"Yes, of course."

"I’ll do everything in my power to attend."

Robert nodded and moved on to a more complicated matter.

"After a while, Cardin will be visited by the son of His Majesty. And Her Majesty."

"I'll be glad to meet this young man," Peters said with a friendly smile.

"He'll need to be crowned."

"Of course, Duke. A country cannot exist without its king. But...you must realize that there cannot be strife."

Robert understood that.

"Crowned as the king's first and only son."

Another nod.

The aldon had just named his price.

He would only take part in the plot if he were sure in the outcome. Her Majesty and Their Highnesses had to die. In any case, it didn't go against Robert's plans. The duke nodded.

"Yes...a royal funeral is a costly affair, especially when there are several of them."

"Such a sad event..."

Two dirt bags could easily find common ground.

All that remained was to capture the condemned but that was Alcine's task.

***

Aldon Peters wouldn't be as calm if he knew about one little fact. Trusting the clergy would have never occurred to Gardwig. Why trust those whom you're constantly stomping on, forcing them to do something against their wishes?

Hoping the church wouldn't retaliate, stabbing him in the back, would have been extremely naive, and both Gardwig and Altres Lort were anything but.

The aldon's secretary had long since been turned, ratting out his boss so diligently and dutifully that real vermin could only envy him. There was nobody to contact at the moment, but the secretary still wrote down the entire conversation. As they said, nature abhorred a vacuum.

Sooner or later, he would figure out to whom to sell the dirt.

***

"Why don't you want to go to Ivernea?"

Lydia didn't really have anything against Wellster. That said, she wouldn't mind spiting Richard. Wouldn't it be ironic if Lydia's brother stole Richard's bride when Richard himself had chosen another girl over Lydia? From her point of view, it was. That's why she kept on pestering Maria.

She wasn't doing too well, though. The princess kept calmly brushing her hair, seemingly unperturbed.

"I gave my word."

"Your father did. If he knew how it all would turn out, he might have married you to Miguel."

"There's no point in talking about it," Maria brushed her off. "And no need to try and persuade me. I will never agree to anything like that. It would be low."

"It's a military maneuver!" Lydia argued.

Alas, it was hopeless. Maria sighed.

"Lydia, may I be frank?"

"Yes."

"I just really don't like Miguel. He's not my type at all."

Lydia was about to object, but then she noticed sparks of amusement in Maria's brown eyes. So she was joking?

"In a marriage, one loves, while another permits one to love them. It's better to be the latter."

"Who said that?" Maria grew interested.

"Lilian Earton, my friend."

A dark look clouded the princess's face.

"The count still doesn't know what happened to her. He's mad with worry...he loves his wife."

"He does? Jerisson Earton has no idea how to love!"

"Look at him; he's all dark and gloomy."

"He just forgot to wash up."

Maria couldn't help but giggle.

Yes, between the two of them, the nice ladies had enough poison for a squad of king cobras. Too bad they couldn't switch places. Cobras would have come in handy.

***

"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Her Majesty Albitta."

The Assembly started.

Most countries had a similar institute, a gathering of noblemen under the king. Sometimes, the sovereign was able to squash their ambitions with an iron fist, and sometimes, the Assembly managed to bring him to heel. The name of the body was of secondary importance. It could be a Seym, a House of Peers, a Parliament... The details didn't matter. In Wellster, people lost no sleep over them.

So noblemen met up to solve a question?
Great!
Then Assembly's in session!

In truth, in Gardwig's time, the lords had gathered purely for decoration, applauding any and all words spoken by the king and approving any of his decisions. It's not like they could talk back, really. Those who were too loud, Gardwig immediately made shorter by the head or hung them around in pleasant disorder. It didn't save him, but neither was Alcine ever a member of the Assembly. He wouldn't take it for free.

So the nobles lost a privilege? Let them choke on it!

At the moment, he still wasn't a member—he was its head. It was him who had given out the order to get everybody to the palace. It was him who commanded his men to bring them in politely, not by force. He could have said something else, and his servants wouldn't dare to object. Robert could feel the taste of power almost physically: hot, spicy, just a little bit bitter, and impossibly intoxicating.

It was he who spent the rest of the night sorting through papers and looking for dirt on those he still didn't have any dirt on. The copies of some of those documents were being handed to the nobles as they entered the hall.

Really, why hold people at knifepoint? It was easier to threaten them with losing their purses or muddying their reputation. Sometimes, such prospects were much easier to understand. In any case, even if they accepted Robert by force, he still would have to rule them.

Despite his original intentions, he was starting to think that the best revenge on Gardwig would be him staying in power. Forever. Not a trace of that bastard would be left in Wellster!

The lords entered, whispering and exchanging glances as they took their seats. Robert Alcine slowly came up to the dais holding the throne, a woman dressed in scarlet and white on his arm: royal purple and white as snow…and diamonds, of course.

The royal crown shined on Albitta's head. Her wrists, her neck, her fingers—all of her was covered with diamonds; enough splendor to make a Christmas tree would be jealous. Albitta was rewarding herself for years spent as a caged rat.

And they recognized her, too. She hadn't changed much, and the circumstances favored her. Marquis Eshar was the first to stand up.

"Your Majesty, please allow me to express my regards."

The first and the smartest of all rats received a nod of approval. The rest would get less: make your own conclusions, messieurs.

Albitta sat down on the throne and smiled with the corners of her mouth. In truth, she wanted to scream, letting out her exhilaration, wild, frantic, and unbridled, like the lava of a volcano. Aldonai, how many years had she dreamed about that moment! So many long, long years...

"I see you've recognized me, Marquis."

"Yes, Your Majesty. May I ask about...the details?" The marquis struggled to find the right words. Or maybe he had already made a deal with Alcine? Albitta didn't want to delve into such matters; those were the toys of men.

"Then you must understand what's going on. When Gardwig divorced me and ordered me executed, I was pregnant. I gave birth to a boy. My Henry."

Albitta paused, watching the faces of the people. Shock, understanding, hate, anger—not a single one of them stayed apathetic. Well, she would have time to crush her remaining enemies and reward her allies later.

"My son's with trusted people, and I am here. And I think that after the death of my poor mad husband, Henry is worthy of claiming the throne."

Her implication was transparent: not murder, death. The king was mad, that should be obvious. And Gardwig's eldest son was the cherry on top.

But was he truly Gardwig's? If anybody had doubts about that, they were prudent enough to keep them to themselves.

"Your Majesty," someone spoke up from the crowd. "When will we see...your son?"

Robert narrowed his eyes but couldn't find the speaker. Shame. The suggestion was obvious. The queen, whether she was the king's former wife or not, couldn't rule. She might put as much as three crowns on her head, but the mutinies would never stop. Her son, though...

Albitta didn't even bat an eyelid.

"My son will be here soon. For now, I count on your loyalty, messieurs.  I have to warn you—any who dare to infringe on his claim will be punished. My son is the only thing I have left from my poor husband..."

"What about your daughters?" Another voice came from the other side of the hall.

"My daughters cannot inherit the throne."

"Then, Your Majesty," Marquis Eshar said politely, even with a smile, "I hope that next time, we'll be assembled to recognize your son as the king."

"Of course, Marquis."

"Your Majesty, do you have papers—"

Albitta pursed her lips.

"Marquis, you must realize that Gardwig would have never acknowledged my son. If I came to him with this request, if he learned that I was alive...I would be killed before your very eyes! What documents do you wish to see? An entry in the cartulary? I can show it right here...any can go there and confirm my words. The midwife who delivered the child? What do you want?"

The marquis made a sound indicating uncertainty. The situation was complicated.

Alcine frowned. That was the most slippery part of their plan. Nobody had ever said that the queen's child was the king's. Henry was the one closest to Gardwig in looks, and they could present him to the lords, but...

Maldonaya take that bitch!
The damnable woman!

Although if Mary Wigellow could hear it, she wouldn't give a toss, as long as her son was safe.

"My son is the spitting image of his father," Albitta said. "My poor half-mad husband. In a few days, you'll see it for yourself. And now, I urge you to prevent any trouble in the city and not leave. You still need to attend the coronation."

Nobody was going to argue. Albitta stood up, her skirts rustling against the floor.

"Your loyalty is important to me, messieurs. You’re free to go. "

***

Alcine waited for the room to empty and kissed Albitta's hand.

"You were magnificent."

"It's nothing... Have you found that bitch?"

"Which one?"

"All of them!"

Robert couldn't help but snort.

"Not yet, dear."

Albitta stamped her delicate foot, flashing the diamonds on the heel of her shoe.

"How long should I wait?"

"I'm trying, my love. I'm trying really hard."

"How much time do we still have?"

"Maybe three days. They won't hold out for longer."

"And?"

"We'll make it."

Robert wasn't as confident as he sounded. Still, he had no choice. They had to make it.

***

They spent the night in an open field.

The Virmans, together with the Eveers, quickly set up camp, and the women started preparing dinner, leaving Lily to handle the inevitable injuries. Someone had sprained their ankle and someone else had rubbed a sore, to say nothing about bumps and bruises. She washed them all and dusted them with plantain powder. That was something, at least.

She would have given so much for some sulphanilamide! Lily remembered the formula for streptocide well, but she had no idea about how it was synthesized. The medics were supposed to write down prescriptions for that stuff, not mix medicine in pharmacies. It was such a great antimicrobial agent!

Well, what couldn't be cured must be endured. And so she kept rinsing the wounds, pouring alcohol on them, bandaging them, and not even saying anything. She didn't notice Master Salsi staring at her hands.

At last, the Eveer mustered up his resolve to inquire into the matter. He didn't ask Lily directly, however. He attacked Miranda.

"Your Grace?"

Viscountess Earton smiled sweetly.

"Yes, Master? I'm listening."

"Your mother is so good at healing people..."

"Mama can do anything. She teaches me, too."

"Helping people is very important, Your Grace," the master agreed.

Mirrie puffed out.

"Mama was taught by Tahir Djiaman din Dashar himself! He's a wonderful healer!"

Tahir was known even in Wellster. Master Salsi nodded, said a few more polite words, and left her alone; the mystery was solved.

He still didn't know why the countess had started learning healing arts. However, things happened, and no one was protected from ill luck. It was better to be able to help yourself and the people around you than sit and cry. The master could understand that reasoning.

In the meantime, Lily was examining Milia. She made some anti-fever medicine, mixing together rosehip, lime blossom, chamomile, plantain, colt's foot, and boiling water, and gave it to the queen. That mixture was quick to prepare, requiring only fifteen minutes to infuse. She also sponged her body with alcohol and called Bertha.

"Don't let Her Majesty nurse the baby yet."

"Why not?" Milia was conscious. She simply hadn't protested, but that was up to a point.

"Because you have fever and inflammation." Lily didn't beat around the bush. "Because I'm giving you herbs, and when they get to your milk, they might cause problems for the baby."

"But those are herbs!" Bertha grumbled. "We always took them, what kind of trouble can there be?"

"Are you prepared to risk the prince's life? I'm not. I need you all safe and sound," Lily snapped. "Even if you don't plan on it. I'm serious. I'll be giving the infusion to Her Majesty every two hours. It will affect her milk."

Milia sighed. A tear rolled out from the corner of her eye and slid down to her cloak.

"My poor darling..."

"And you, Your Majesty, will listen to me, if you don't want him to lose his mother."

Bertha sniffed.

"Fine. I'll go to that...wetnurse. But I'd never!"

"It's not like we have a choice," Lily brushed her off. "And do you see any court ladies here? Or handmaids? No? Neither do I. We'll have to make do with Eveers, and they don't mind it."

"Of course they don’t," Bertha mumbled.

Lily knew that that was how the old woman dealt with the world around her, so she wasn't angered. But neither was she going to stand and bear her remarks.

"Right now, neither we nor they can pick and choose. We're all in the same pot. Let's not stir it."

Bertha nodded and left, but her conversation with Rivana seemed quite amicable. The Eveer woman accepted the boy with all due care.

Alas, the baby's belly was bound to start hurting; the milk of a mother who had just given birth was quite different from that taken from a mother who had been nursing for a few months. Yet it was a better way out than to die of hunger. Wellster would have never forgiven them that.

***

Robert Alcine flashed a content smile as he browsed the letter.

Wonderful.

Fort Shedar had been taken, together with Count Earton—unfortunately, without the princess. The next day, or the day after, at most, he would be brought to the capital. What else did Robert need to be happy?

The funeral was to take place in the morning, and the count would arrive in the afternoon—a great opportunity to execute the murderer. Having a dead king with no scapegoat wasn't right.

Milia was still at large, but Robert refused to even think she might be outside the city. Cardin was being searched with a fine-toothed comb. Sooner or later, the queen would be found, and then, everything would be over.

He smiled again and went to bed. He wasn't made of iron, being in his forties; he needed at least five hours of sleep, or he wouldn't be able to think in the morning, and that would be unacceptable.

Robert Alcine slept and dreamed of his beloved. Camilla smiled as she beckoned to him, her eyes so vivid and full of life that he felt that if he were to put his hand into her cool palm with slender white fingers, he could follow her anywhere, beyond the horizon or even to Aldonai himself.

Robert almost left with her. Too bad, it was just a dream.

Oh, my love, you can rest easy now, and I can dream of you the way you were alive instead of the chopping block and the horrible sound of an axe cleaving live flesh making it forever dead.

You've been avenged.

***

So what is a royal funeral like? In a word, pompous—at least, when you have time and opportunity. Then you get a procession, a catafalque, horses, royal guards, courtiers...bread and coins thrown into the crowd, all to remember the king with a kind word.

Alcine didn't have time and opportunity, nor any wish to actually honor Gardwig. He would have rather thrown him to the dogs, leaving nary a bone, but he could not. He needed to show the king's body to the citizens of Cardin as soon as possible, with fanfare and all the ceremony he was entitled to. It was vital to prevent the emergence of pretenders and a "king who survived by the grace of Aldonai."

He also wished with all his heart to bury the bastard with his wife and children, but so far, it couldn't be done. His mercenaries were searching the city, but Milia and the princes had vanished into thin air, and so had Princess Maria. Well, maybe interrogating Count Earton would reveal something. Soon, he would be brought from Shedar...

However, Alcine didn't expect them to arrive until the evening or maybe even the next day. They had things to take care of, after all—treating the wounds after the battle, eating, resting, and only then slowly riding to Cardin. There was no point in ordering them to bring Earton immediately.

An hour more, an hour less—it didn't matter. Alcine had enough on his plate already: arranging the funeral, giving out orders, talking with people. At least Albitta took the lead on dealing with the court. She remembered very well how to behave like a queen and had been issuing commands to the servants and the courtiers since morning. He was glad she was good for something.

Edwin Fremont came to report for his failures. And those were failures, no other way to put it. The embassy of Ativerna was empty, and so was the embassy of Ivernea. He couldn't locate even the servants. Edwin knew many of them personally, but those wretches had disappeared without a trace. And Cardin was a big city, too—there was not much point in combing through every house and every basement, not to mention secret rooms and catacombs. They had searched for people, horses, dogs... None of them were in Cardin, or they had hidden so well that finding them was impossible.

Alcine yelled at the baron and ordered him to keep looking, but the thoughts got stuck in his head like a nail in a floorboard. What if the queen wasn't inside the city anymore? What if she had managed to escape?

Then all of it was for naught... But it wasn't. He knew that. Gardwig was dead, and that alone was worth all the pain. As for the rest...well, Robert was in no hurry to give up. Not for a minute.

***

Thomas Concord patted Lidarh on his glossy black neck, content.

So, where would one hide a tree? In a forest, of course. A horse? In a stable. An Avarian? Among other Avarians, that's all.

A big city like Cardin was bound to have some Khangans, and his guess had proved true. They even knew about Countess Earton and Tahir Djiaman din Dashar.

Any merchant collected news. Information was as much of a ware as spices and silk, if not even pricier. The Khangans had heard about the ruckus in the palace, but they didn't know the reason for it. The truth held value for them. Thomas shared his information with them, and they shared safety.

The rest was rather simple but quite bothersome. Lidarh got painted black and stationed among other horses. Thomas was painted as well. It was some kind of dye for skin and hair; they promised it would wash off. He dismissed any concerns.

A turban, Khanganite clothes, and he was unrecognizable. And not just him; the ladies were also hidden among Khanganite women. Nobody would dare to ask them to go out, as it was a deadly insult. As for Viscount Dishan, he stayed away from the Khangan embassy, afraid to catch anyone's eye. A good decision by all accounts.

Scouring the city on the orders of Alcine, Baron Fremont dropped in to visit the Khangan embassy, but needless to say, didn't learn anything, even if he got a warm welcome, some tea, and a pressing invitation to return as soon as the next day. Or the day after, really. In fact, he could visit any day! He would get tea, halva, and a cordial reception.

Edwin left in a good mood, but without any results. Thomas had recognized him and gave thanks to the typical noble arrogance. The baron didn't even spare a look to the servants; all of them blended together, with their dark features. He was nothing like Lilian Earton, who always looked people in the eyes and remembered everyone. She would have recognized Thomas in any disguise.

The other nobles, even her husband, tended to see right through them, haughtily giving out orders and trying to avoid touching the help. To them, a servant wasn't human, but rather a piece of furniture. Fremont was no exception. He might have bothered to memorize the soldiers, but cart drivers? Eww!

Thomas gave praise to Aldonai and rejoiced. They had gotten out just in time. All that remained was to flee the city, but that had to wait. The gate was currently under heavy watch; later, they would relax and lower their guard, making it possible to escape. And...if no other option presented itself, tell the whole story to the king.

What had happened to their masters? Thomas genuinely hoped they were alive. They had sent him a note, after all. But Aldonai helped those who helped themselves, and Thomas waited. He couldn’t do anything more, could he?

***

When the Summer Palace loomed on the horizon ahead of them, Lily almost burst into tears.

Aldonai, Jesus Christ, Allah, whoever can hear me, thank you!
Thank you so much!

In some ways, it was as impressive as Versailles: a huge complex of buildings with a garden spread over ten square kilometers. Thankfully, it wasn't fenced off.

Lily ignored all lanes and ordered everyone to take the short route. In less than ten minutes, they were accosted by the guards.

"Who are you?"

Two cute guys on horses looked aggressive and warlike. They had bristling mustaches, shining weapons, and decorated harnesses on their prancing stallions. Lily touched Milia's hand.

"Are they dressed right?"

Startled, Milia took a closer look.

"Yes. They are the Armored Regiment."

"Great. Excuse me, Leirs, mind paying me some attention?"

With an effort, Lily jumped down from the cart. Her whole body was numb, and her muscles ached. The guards turned their mounts toward the countess, and Gael stepped forward to shield her only to see a dismissing gesture.

"Don’t."

Emeralds flashed on her wrists and fingers. Lily had freely handed away everything she had bought or ordered herself: trinkets, as she called it. But the heirlooms—those she would have parted with only if her life was on the line. They didn't belong to her. That jewelry belonged to her descendants: a bridge across generations.

And so, the only things on the countess' hands were an emerald ring and the Earton heirloom bracelet. Ancestral treasures. The leirs' eyes were glued to them.

The jewels were genuine, and her dress, even if dirty, ragged, bloodstained, and torn in several places—she had no time to find new clothes—was expensive.

"M’lady..."

"Her Grace Countess Earton," Lily answered simply. "There's a mutiny in the capital. Is Count Chantaine here?"

The men exchanged looks. It was funny to see their expressions turn from cocky to confused and clueless.

A mutiny? It was a scary word in any era.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Take us to him."

"You? Forgive us, Your Grace..."

Lily shook her head.

"You don't understand me, Leirs. I have no right to reveal everything to you at the moment. If you'd like, I could go to the count with one of you, while the other escorts my companions to the palace. But it has to be done right away."

The countess' tone had steel in it. The leirs exchanged looks and understood each other without a word. If something was wrong, let that wench answer to Chantaine, a hard-fisted, easily-angered man who rarely listened to excuses.

"Let us go, then, Your Grace."

"Leir..." Lily was in no hurry to take his outstretched arm.

"Leir Eals."

"And your companion?"

"Leir Eral."

"I won't forget your names, Leirs. Just a minute, please."

Lily returned to the queen's cart. Milia was burning with fever, like a furnace. She half-opened her eyes, smiled at Lily, but…

"I'm too weak to raise my head."

"Millie, hold on. I'll ride forward so they can meet us. All right?"

"Yes."

Bertha wiped away another tear. Lily shushed the nanny, seeing as Mirrie was currently handling the children, recounting stories about Mowgli to Edwin and Cor while the wetnurse was feeding the baby.

"Tsk. She'll make it, all right?"

"Oh..."

"Away with the snot! Give her another herbal infusion before you reach the palace and change her compress. Got it? "

"Yes, Mistress."

"Do it, then." Lily's voice softened. "Mirrie, watch the dogs. Lou-Lou, Nanook, guard!"

In two confident steps, she leveled with Leir Eals.

"Let's go. We need to be as quick as possible."

Foot in the stirrup, pull yourself up, and to the saddle behind the man.
Grab his waist tight.

"Go!"

The horse turned out to be quicker on the uptake than its master and broke into a gallop without being spurred.

***

"Leir Eral..."

A quiet voice from the cart caught the man's attention. The Eveers and the Virmans spread ranks to let him through. Mirrie tsked at the growling Lou-Lou, and the man spurred the horse...and choked up, dumbfounded.

He knew the queen's face; they had met a few times.

"Y...your—"

"Your Majesty," Master Salsi awkwardly tried to clear the air, "the leir wants to say that he didn't expect to meet you."

The leir managed to recover.

"Your Majesty!"

"Yes, Leir. It's me. Please escort us to the palace as soon as possible."

"Ah...err...yes, Your Majesty!"

The procession took off.

The Virmans looked at each other. They weren't comfortable with letting their mistress go alone, but there didn't seem to be any other options. And it's not like anything threatened her in that place, right?

Even if something did, it remained to be seen who threatened whom. They believed in the countess unconditionally; Her Grace could whip anyone into shape. That's who she was.

***

By the time the lathering horse reached the palace, Lily was in a pretty poor condition. Sitting behind someone might be nice if your mount slowly trotted. If it broke into a gallop, however? Most of your energy would be spent trying to hold on, not sliding aside, falling off, or plopping on the ground on your behind.

Her legs hurt, her arms hurt, her bum... It didn't hurt anymore. It was already beyond that.

Lily barely managed to climb down from the saddle and almost debased a nearby rosebush. Thankfully, she hadn't eaten anything for breakfast, or the flowers would get fertilized. She held it in and pulled herself together.

"Is there any water?"

"What’s going on here?"

Now that was a real commanding snarl. Lily immediately discerned a fancy uniform coupled with an emerald bracelet, a ring, and even an earring. Then she stepped forward, presenting herself to the eyes of a man in his sixties.

"Are you Count Chantaine?"

Blown away by her impudence, the count couldn’t help but nod.

"Great. My name is Lilian Elizabeth Mariella Earton, Countess Earton. I don't know if you've heard of me, but we need to talk. Now."

Even if the count had heard of her, it couldn't have been much, considering the doubt on his face.

"His Majesty didn't tell me—"

"His Majesty is dead."

Lily decided against wasting time on niceties. Milia would reach them soon; she needed help, fast, and then...they needed a lot of other stuff.

Could she really mollycoddle the captain of the "musketeers," trying to spare his feelings? As if he was a Victorian maiden about to faint! And even if he did, a rose garden was much more efficient than any smelling salts; even a corpse would snap out of it after diving in there.

"WHAT?"

Count Chantaine turned pale as a sheet, slumping down from his horse instead of jumping. He came up to Lilian but was unable to grab her by the collar, as she had stepped aside a moment before.

"We shouldn't discuss this in public, Count. I hope you're not afraid to talk to me one-on-one?"

The count's face became crimson.

"I...I..."

"Great. Come here, Count."

She took his arm and dragged him to the rose bushes, then eyeballed the distance to the soldiers and added six more steps. All right, that was far enough for them not to be heard, unless she started screaming. As for the count...

Well, the more he screamed, the less he'd cry.

"Do you know that Princess Maria is marrying the prince of Ativerna? That Count Earton is the head ambassador who represents the groom?"

"Earton...ah, that's right! Yes, I’m aware of that, Your Grace."

Lily smiled, pleased. Of course, the man was still in doubt. He had never encountered a countess like her before, or a countess in such a state, really. It didn't matter. He was going to hear her out and believe her.

"I came with my husband and child. I don't know what His Majesty told you about me, but I had the honor to meet them when he visited Ativerna."

Going by the count's salacious look, the king hadn't mentioned her. That said, what could anyone think, considering Gardwig's tendency to go after anything that moved and move whatever couldn't budge?

"I am a student of Tahir Djiaman din Dashar and was present when he treated the ulcer on His Majesty's leg."

That was something the count had heard of, apparently.

"It was you, Your Grace?"

"Yes. My teacher couldn't come, which is why His Majesty asked me for a private consultation. He took me to the queen."

The count didn't expect that.

"The queen?"

"His leg was practically healed, but Her Majesty had a complicated third pregnancy."

The count nodded, losing all grip on reality. No big deal, bud. You're far from the first. Jerisson Earton still sometimes doubts whether he's still alive and not in the afterlife.

"All right..."

"When I was with the queen, we were attacked. At the cost of his own life, His Majesty bought us time to escape."

"But you didn't see his death?"

Lily shook her head.

"No. But he couldn't have survived. There was at least a score of them and more incoming. I can't imagine what they would have done with us... There's a secret passage from the nursery. We escaped through it."

"You and..."

"Her Majesty, the children, the nanny, and I."

"And where are they?"

Lily narrowed her eyes.

"They should be here soon. Her Majesty gave birth recently and cannot ride, and it will be a while until a cart gets here through your lavish scenery..."

"Gave birth?"

The count was completely flabbergasted. Lily waved her hand.

"Her husband died, the escape... Thank Aldonai that a kind man gave us shelter, or the prince would be delivered on a trash heap."

Chantaine could only produce jabbering sounds.

"Umm...err..."

"She's alive, Your Grace, but she has a fever. Do you know her in person?"

"Yes."

"If you want, you could ride ahead to meet her."

"Wh—"

"Tell the servants to follow my orders. They will need to prepare rooms for the queen, and the guests need some attention as well."

"Wh-what guests?"

"Count, as awesome as I might be," Lily said coyly, "I couldn't have obtained a cart in the city at night, driven Her Majesty out, and got here all by myself. Well, fine, I probably could, but I didn't have to. Thank Aldonai, I have friends."

The count shook his head so heartily that the bushes shrank back.

"Your Grace... I'll go. But if—"

"If I lied, you can bury me right under these roses."

Lily was so calm that Count Chantaine couldn't help but believe her. A roar trumpeted across the Summer Palace.

The count commanded someone to bring him a horse, for the servants to obey Countess Earton, and for the guards to gather in the courtyard with some of them accompanying him.

At least he grabbed Leir Eals, or he would have still roamed the area, unsure where to go.

Lily followed him with her eyes, looked at startled guards and the servants, who stayed away and exchanged fearful looks, expecting the worst, and put her hands on her hips.

Look out, kiddos!
I'll whip you all into shape!

With a resolute gait, she walked toward the servants.

"Who's in charge here?"

"I...am, Your Grace."

It was a portly man around forty-five with a noticeable belly and a livery richly decorated with gold. Lily nodded.

"Your name?"

"Leir Tivet Olsen."

"Great, Leir. Countess Earton. Let's go; we need to get everything in order for a visit from Her Majesty and the princes."

"But..."

The poor guy was all flustered by her declaration.

"Calm down, Leir. Are the chambers ready?"

"The royal chambers and the ones adjacent to them are. But there aren't many of them..."

"No worries, there aren't too many of us, either. Listen then. Her Majesty, her children, and the nanny will go to the royal chambers. If it gets too cramped..."

"Those are royal chambers!"

"How many rooms are there?"

"Eighteen!"

"It won't get cramped. All right, so Her Majesty, the children, and the nanny will go to the royal chambers. I want one of those eighteen rooms for my daughter and me. I know a bit about healing arts, so...is it possible?"

"There's a maid's room there."

"It will do."

"But, Your Grace!"

"Leir, we have no time for ceremonies. The count will explain everything. Just make the arrangements. I will need hot water, lots of it., and a bowl."

"The royal chambers have a wonderful bathroom!"

"Her Majesty cannot take a bath right now; only get splashed with water, Leir. Her children should be washed. We also need food for thirty people, more or less. No frills."

"B-but..."

"Leir, believe me, I'm not joking. Everything's more than serious."

The leir could only sigh heavily and issue orders. If anything happened, all responsibility would fall on Chantaine, anyway. The servants scurried like frightened rabbits. Lily breathed out and accidentally leaned on the leir.

She almost fainted. For a second, she felt dizzy and couldn't see straight.

She was safe. Miranda was safe. Not completely, of course, but being inside a palace guarded by a thousand men felt much more secure than on a cart—or a horse—in the middle of nowhere.

"It's all right, Leir. I promise you I'm not going to faint. Do you have any medicine? Or a doctorus, at least?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Send him to the royal chambers at once."

Lily didn't doubt that she would be able to handle Milia's sickness by herself, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Everything should be as transparent as possible. She wanted witnesses.

***

Count Chantaine didn't fully believe that crazy woman, but...

Was she crazy, though? Her eyes, her face, her posture, her jewels… Hadn't he seen lunatics before? They weren't like that. Yet how could he accept her story? He couldn't quite make up his mind.

Eals confidently led the group, keeping ahead by half-a-body length. Considering the caliber of their mounts, the journey didn't take much time. Soon, a strange caravan loomed ahead: several carts, the stench of which made even flies drop dead mid-air, people, horses, dogs... The most apt description of that ragtag bunch was a crew of vagabonds that any decent man was supposed to drive out of his lands with a stick.

Eral was riding next to one of the carts, looking like... Chantaine struggled to find a word. Like the sky fell on his head. And he wasn't the worst of his men by far; what could happen to him to confound him so much?

All Chantaine could do was to spur his horse. He would learn it when he got there.

But it was not to be. Not so fast, bucko. Like grey lightning bolts, two huge dogs scrambled to meet him, blocking the way. Virman dogs? Where could they come from?

"Lou-Lou, Nanook! Heel! Friend!"

A young girl of no more than ten years old who sat in a cart gave the command. The dogs set their ears back, growled out of habit, but let him through. Only Chantaine himself, though.

Inside the cart... The count couldn't be mistaken. He knew Her Majesty well. It was her, but her appearance was far from one he was accustomed to.

She was wrapped in rags of some kind. Two of her children were by her side, while the third was in her hap. The nanny, whom Chantaine also knew, was next to her. She was all haggard, with red blotches on her sullen cheeks, barely alive...

But she was alive. That's what mattered.

"Your Majesty!"

Milia slowly opened her eyes, and two tears ran down her cheeks.

"Count...we made it. Lily promised..."

Lily? Lilian Earton. She hadn't lied.

"Your Majesty, you're safe. I swear on my honor..."

Milia could barely move her lips.

"Did Lily tell you everything?"

"About the king, about your escape, the delivery..."

"Yes. Meet my youngest son—His Highness Gardwig."

The count bit his lip. From the looks of it, he owed a lot to that strange countess. He would need to think of it later and pay her back.

"Your Majesty, lie down and don't worry about anything. I'll deal with your problems."

Milia closed her eyes and seemingly passed out. Bertha's look made Chantaine ride up and reach out for her. She clearly wanted to talk. Despite her old age, she was pretty sprightly and quickly got on the horse.

"Did the countess tell you all about us? Did she make arrangements?"

"Yes. I told the servants to listen to her."

"Thank Aldonai."

"So what happened, Bertha?"

"Didn't Lilian tell you everything?"

"I rode here as in a dream! Do you think that it's easy to believe something like that?"

Bertha only sighed. Then she repeated Lilian Earton's story but in more detail. She also hadn't seen what happened to the king, but she did praise the countess in every other sentence.

As the count listened to her, he grew to appreciate Lilian. She really had saved them. He was in her debt. No, scratch that—the whole of Wellster was in her debt, and paying her back would take a long while!

***

Upon his return to the Summer Palace, Count Chantaine encountered a surprise: a letter sealed with His Majesty's personal seal instructing the count to stay put and not listen to any stupid rumors. Gardwig would come later and deal with it personally.

The count kept the letter and went into the royal chambers. The queen had already been carried there with all due respect, and Lilian Earton was busy undressing her, deftly wielding scissors and cutting off the remains of the once glamorous dress. Milia didn't mind that.

Doctorus Ilave was fidgeting by her side. Gardwig hadn't sent his court physician there, but how could a regiment survive without their own "leech"? That's whom Chantaine had called for.

"What's wrong with the queen?"

"She's weak after labor. The countess says that she got a fever during their travels—apparently, it's bad for her health, but they didn't have a choice. And then, there's blood loss..."

"What do you think?"

The doctorus shrugged.

"I can always recognize a colleague. Whoever taught Countess Earton, she has skilled hands. Good hands."

Chantaine trusted Ilave's opinion. Still, the doctorus was used to treating soldiers’ wounds, and that was a noble lady there. He wanted to be sure.

"She won't hurt her?"

"She's real bossy, but it's going to be fine."

"Bossy?"

"She made me undress almost completely and take off my boots, said I'd get dirt on the mother and child..."

It was only then that the count noticed the doctorus was half-dressed. He had his pants on, but his doublet had disappeared, as did his wig powdered after the latest fashion. The countess herself was wearing...well, something. Mostly, it resembled a maid's nightgown under which she hid her hair. At least it was clean.

Chantaine dismissed it. Was it madness? He decided to think that the whole world had gone insane. Nothing special, really. It happened.

"Don't worry, doctorus. Help the queen, will you?"

"Of course, Your Grace. It's my duty."

"And could you tell the countess that I'd like a minute of her attention later?"

"Absolutely, Your Grace. Oh, and the countess asked for a wetnurse for the baby, preferably a clean and healthy one. In case one won't be enough."

"Will do."

A wetnurse? Where would he find one? In a village? Count Chantaine had basically zero knowledge in that area, so he did what he was supposed to do: called for his second and gave him an order. The man ran away, bewildered, and the count decided to ask around.

He had no luck. After going such a long way buried in trash, everyone was busy washing themselves at the same time, making the staff run off their legs carrying hot water.

Her Majesty's people took quarters not far from her chambers, just in case. They didn't really look like the king's soldiers, not at all. The Virmans, the Eveers, women, children...

Chantaine didn't give a damn. Even if it were Maldonaya herself, he would have kissed her hand. Countess Earton had performed a miracle, and her friends helped her. Who were they? Nobles, of course. Common rabble were simply incapable of honorable deeds, so these men must be noble. Chantaine didn't doubt that the queen would recognize that in writing as soon as she got better.

Finally, he got the chance to speak to Countess Earton and ask his questions. Alas, Lily knew very little about what was going on in the city. She guessed that Gardwig was dead and that Cardin was overrun by mercenaries.

But who had started all of it and why? Damned if she knew. Lilian had no time for reconnaissance. She had her own hide to rescue, and the count couldn't blame her, seeing as she hadn't saved only herself and her immediate circle. No matter how much easier it would have been for her to flee without a woman giving birth, little children, a grumpy old maid, or the Eveers, Lilian Earton would have never abandoned anyone inside a city swept up in chaos.

She had escaped, taking everyone she managed to get her hands on, regardless of their status. Saving came first; she could sort it out later. And that, if nothing else, was worthy of respect.

He would take care of recon himself; he needed to know whose hide he'd be flaying. That's what the count was telling the pleased Lilian when he was interrupted once again.

Another letter had arrived by pigeon, no personal royal seal. It came from Fort Shedar. But this one bore the imprint of the queen’s signet ring.

Chantaine knew such things, and he wasn't going to keep secrets from Countess Earton. Instead, he unfolded the letter.

***

Lily closely watched the count's face and was astonished to see it lit with a smile.

Was it really the time for that?

"This is Leir Olsen, Your Grace."

Lily searched her memory. Thankfully, she had taken pains to study the important names, and she did remember that one. Her brain that stored more than one volume of handbooks on anatomy, physiology, pathology, pharmacology, and other medical wisdom, didn't even consider that a problem, easily producing the answer.

"Garrison commander at Fort Shedar?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Good news?"

"In these circumstances, yes. They have Her Highness Maria, and they're going to the capital."

"How many men do they have?"

"Three hundred, at least."

Lily shook her head.

"I doubt they make it. A mutiny cannot start with such puny numbers, and it's unlikely to be quelled with that. If I were a conspirator, I would have gathered more men. Many more."

The countess was right. Still...

"But I'll lend them a hand. I'll write to them that we can strike from two directions and crush those bastards! Um, forgive me, Your Grace..."

"No need to apologize for the truth," Lily grumbled and then realized something. "Will you write about the queen?"

"What if something goes wrong? The letter might fall into the wrong hands..."

It was hard to argue that. Something might go wrong, easily, and they were still in the Summer Palace...

"How many men will you leave to guard Her Majesty?"

"A hundred."

She nodded. A hundred royal guards, elite warriors. Chantaine, of course, wouldn't leave just anyone to guard them—only the men he could count on. For those times, it meant not just a lot—it meant everything.

A hundred men. They could protect them, shield them, let them survive.

"Thank you. We'll feel much safer."

"Countess, it's you we should thank."

Lily brushed it off. She had no time for titles and gratitude. They still could die a thousand deaths, and if they didn't, they'd get even at some point.

"Will my people stay with me?"

"Of course, Your Grace," Chantaine said with a nod and couldn't help but ask, even if he berated himself for that. Still, she was a doctorus of a kind, and even a thousand or three thousand years ago, people would ask them of the same thing. "Are you...are you sure Her Majesty will survive?"

Lily sighed.

"She should. I'll do everything in my power."

Her voice wasn't completely confident, and the count could understand why. To survive something like that...a stronger man would break, not to mention the queen. A veteran warrior, he could recount many tales about mental health influencing physical recovery, putting to shame any doctorus.

"I count on you, Countess."

Lily tossed her head. So he counted on her. But even thousands of years later and in a different world, physicians would be afraid of guaranteeing a safe recovery. Not because they didn't care about the family's peace of mind. They were simply scared to jinx it.

"I've already said everything."

"Then I'll write Olsen and gather the troops, too."

Lily considered his words.

"Count, you'll only march out in the evening, right?"

"Yes."

"I'm sure you have spies in your ranks. I mean, the conspirators must have planted their men in your regiment. I doubt there's many of them, maybe one or two, and probably not your closest confidantes, but still."

Chantaine didn't doubt that either. Considering the foul betrayal at the palace, why would he be worse off? But how to identify the traitors?

He admitted to himself that he could not. That wasn't his strong suit. On the other hand, why not ask? Even if the countess suggested nonsense, nobody forced him to put it in motion, and she'd love to express her observations.

That's what diplomacy was like.

"Do you have any ideas, Countess?"

Lily gave him a mischievous smile.

Did she have an idea? Oh, she had a college degree, a history of logical thinking, the knowledge of past generations that she didn't mind carrying on her shoulders, the stories told by her father and Alex, who loved the hell out of those musketeer romances...

She didn't just have an idea. She had a plan.

***

How would one send a message in those dark times?

Only two ways existed, really. Either you ran into a village and sent a pigeon from there or risked sending a bird from the castle's pigeon coop. There were no other options.

You could try sending a letter with a messenger, but finding a man was a problem. Nobody was going to wait for you in the bushes with a ready horse; you were no high-flyer.

Rudiger Ayn, a royal guard and a sergeant of Count Chantaine's regiment, would have loved to go AWOL to a nearby village and send a pigeon from there, seeing as he had a contact anyway. Unfortunately, nobody was going to let him do that. Chantaine told everyone to prepare to march out, and nobody from the regiment was to leave even if the sky fell to the ground. And if anyone's not ready, you'll regret it!

So what did those preparations include? Packing up, checking your armor, weapons, horses, taking everything necessary... They could have marched on the capital at once, but that would be foolish. Attacking it without help was ill-advised. It was a city. If Alcine hadn't devised a way to defend Cardin, he wasn't worth a copper. The gates would be shut; all passages would be barricaded—riding through all by yourself on a horse armed with only a sword didn't seem inspiring.

No, Chantaine didn't want that. He wanted an inflammable mixture, ropes, grappling hooks, and lots of other stuff...even a battering ram, to be safe. Something like that couldn't be prepared in a matter of minutes.

And then again, they had a thousand men with a thousand horses. Was it realistic that none of them had any problems at all? Only in a fairy tale. One had his horse lose a shoe, another had problems with his horse's harness, and one didn't have his weapon in proper shape. It would be a miracle for everybody to be ready by the evening.

Rudy faithfully issued orders and took a walk around the pigeon coop while he was at it. He didn't like what he saw. Two brutes were standing guard, not likely to move an inch. Both were part of Chantaine's trusted group. In such conditions, trying to get into the coop was tantamount to suicide; he'd get caught before saying "pigeon."

What other opportunities did he have? Pass a note into the village. Nobody had locked down the palace kitchen, and all those commoners were allowed outside.

Rudy quietly scribbled a short message.

We have the queen and the princes. Marching out to Shedar and the capital in the evening.

He didn't need to write anything else; those were the main points. Alcine would understand him and reward him...or at least give him his promissory notes back! Having a gambling addiction was a pretty sad thing, especially when you got snake eyes all the time. And if you were only a leir instead of a duke, your debts might get the best of you. Not play if you couldn't stop while you were ahead? Now that was advice for cowards and sissies! Real men would die before losing!

And so, Alcine had reeled Rudy in. The boy was convenient: not very rich, quite greedy, and, most importantly, plain. A regiment of a thousand men had a hundred such sergeants.

Rudy walked to the kitchen and picked a pretty-looking maid, one of those always ready to serve any master of theirs. Had he rolled in the hay with her? Was it another one? Ah, those wenches all looked alike. He had better things to do than memorize every skank!

A flashing gold coin drew the girl's attention.

"Sweetie, could you run over to the village?"

"If the master wishes so. What needs to be done?"

"Give a note to Arno Saran. He'll scribble a few lines for me...can you read?"

"Where'd I learn to, master?"

"No matter. Just give him the note, take his letter, and run here. One more coin for you when you return."

The maid gave him a sweet smile and hid both the coin and the note.

"Always ready to serve you, master. Should I...give you anything else?"

"We'll discuss it later," Rudy said. "Go on, then."

And so she did, straight to the palace exit. Alas, she didn't run far. She was caught right at the doorstep. They searched her, found the coin and the note, and shook their fists at her.

Unwilling to have her nose lose its cute-looking original shape, the maid immediately confessed. It's not like she had anything to hide, in any case. She had been hired to deliver a note from Leir Ayn to Mister Saran. It might be important, but how should she know? She was illiterate!

The maid got off with a cuff on the nape, although a silver coin "for trinkets" sweetened the pot. The note was taken, and both she and Rudy himself were locked in a closet. He, however, got a bit more than a slap. Chantaine personally promised to rip off his head—but later, when he returned from the expedition—with wit and feeling.

Rudy realized that the count wasn't joking and decided against playing the hero. After all, he didn't serve any other cause than money—no need to pretend to be something he was not. He needed to confess before they tied him up on a rack, unless he wanted to spend his remaining years begging for scraps at city walls.

Half an hour later, three more guards joined the merry band. Defecting to warn the duke might sound funny, but Virman watchdogs didn't have a sense of humor to speak of. They could jump, they could bite, they could scare horses...

Just two dogs, you say? Ah, you've never met them! Those who did, however, thought there were at least eight of them, attacking from all directions at once.

Lou-Lou and Nanook couldn't, of course, sweep the entire area, but two or three routes to the village were enough. The Virmans intercepted the villains and diligently delivered them to Count Chantaine.

The results cheered Lily up. Just four traitors out of a thousand? That was a great ratio; even the Bible was worse with its one betrayer among twelve Apostles. And then, they had caught everyone! That was something to be happy about.

***

"Master Salsi, I need your help."

"Your Grace?"

The master didn't ask what kind of help; he already understood it.

Lilian exchanged glances with Count Chantaine, and the latter spoke up.

"Master Salsi, we've found spies in our midst. We know where they were going, we know whom they tried sending a letter to..."

The master immediately put two and two together, not being noble-born and having had to use guile and smarts throughout his life just to survive.

"What letter had they tried sending? And to whom?"

Chantaine looked at Lilian, and they both breathed out in relief, glad they wouldn't have to spend time explaining.

"You got it right, Master Salsi. This letter. It's addressed to someone called Arno Saran in the village."

Master Salsi listened to their plan, made a few adjustments, and the trio proceeded to put it into effect. They didn't have a lot of time left.

***

Less than an hour later, a vagrant with an obvious touch of Eveer blood appeared on the road connecting the palace with the village. He was dirty, disheveled, and reeking of trash—just as vagrants were supposed to. Lots of people like that wandered the roads.

There was something out of the ordinary about him, however. Not scared of being beaten off with a stick, he asked the first man he saw for the whereabouts of Arno Saran's house. The man, a shepherd, was so shocked that he didn't even kick the impudent vagrant or lash him with his whip. He pointed at a house, to which the beggar boy promptly took off, all purposeful.

He knocked at the door and, not waiting for Arno to release the dogs at him, whispered loud enough for the master to hear,

"A message from the castle."

That earned him admission to the courtyard.

Arno Saran turned out to be a well-off farmer: stately, with a half-grey spade beard reaching down his waist and a belly that even that beard couldn't hide.

"A message, you say?"

"Yes, kind sir," the vagrant blabbered. "So I was going past the castle. Didn't dare to beg for alms, fat chance they'd let me into the park, even..."

Arno nodded. If he had his way, he'd hang those like the beggar.

"And then, someone called me up from behind the fence. A soldier, all tall and handsome..."

Arno asked a few more questions and realized that the boy was talking about Leir Rudiger. Well, why not?

"He gave me a coin to deliver this letter to you and promised another one...he said you'd give it to me, sir."

"Give me the letter," Arno demanded.

He didn't want to spend a coin, but he had to. No need for that snotty beggar to blab about the letter around the neighborhood; if he got his reward, he would simply leave. The seal and the handwriting were correct.

Standing guard. He bought the letter; we won't march.

Short and on topic.

Arno didn't quite get certain aspects, but the point was, the regiment would stay in the palace. It was time to send a pigeon to the capital.

He threw a coin at the boy.

"Take it and be gone. Make sure nobody sees you here."

"Master...forgive me...I wanted to buy some bread...master..."

The boy whined, looking at Arno in horror, and the man waved his hand.

"I'll give you bread. Just get out of here, quickly."

The boy started bowing and thanking Arno until he finally got a loaf of stale bread baked two days before. Arno had intended to give it to the cattle, but it was good enough for beggars as well. Biting off the pieces, the boy took off, loudly praising the kind master.

Five minutes later, a pigeon flew off from the house. In thirty more minutes, two riders picked up the boy from behind the village.

"Did you do it?"

"As soon as I left, he rushed to the pigeon coop. I watched it," the young trickster reported. He was Master Salsi's nephew.

"So he bought it," one of the soldiers trusted by Count Chantaine said with a nod.

The horses took off. Let Alcine think that ruse had worked, and that the idiot Chantaine remained in place. Let him.

As for tricks...what else could they do? Alcine might have other people working for him in the village; they couldn't watch everyone. But he should believe the information he received from one of his own. Aldonai help them, he would.

Chapter 3

"How many men do we have?"

Once again, Jerisson attacked Ert Olsen. The commander kept brushing him off.

"Not enough. Not even close!"

He needed to wait for Chantaine's reply.

If Alcine had at least a thousand men, rushing there would be idiocy: they'd lay down their lives without solving anything. They simply didn't have the numbers.

Alcine's messenger had already arrived, too.

He started cursing at them and giving them lip. Too bad for him.

At the moment, he was lying on his back in the dungeon, counting his remaining teeth and thinking about life. Served him right.

Then Leir Olsen sent another note to Alcine, saying that they were ready to march, but the Iverneans had attempted to break through. Scumbags, what can you say?
They could have paid a nice visit, all fair and square, getting a gift for them...

The battle was furious. Some of the enemy soldiers were killed or maimed, but the prince and the princess escaped.

Sorry, Your Excellency, but we're going to fix our mistake...get you the prince as a nice trump card, too.
So we'll be late; don't be angry with us.

Leir Olsen genuinely hoped to win some more time, at least a little. Marching out only with his men was one thing, but attacking the capital from two sides with Chantaine's people?

Pigeons were wonderful birds, but they couldn't fly faster even if you tied a burning twig to their tails. Who knew what went on in bird brains, anyway? A pigeon had left for Chantaine's regiment, but the response was yet to arrive. All they could do at Fort Shedar was to prepare and wait.

For Jerisson, it was harder than for anyone else. He fussed about the fortress and dreamed of returning home. Thankfully, he hadn't done anything stupid yet; he knew that he couldn't help his wife if he got killed.

Where are you, Lily?

Where's Mirrie?

What's happened to you, my dearies?

***

"The troops are about to march out."

Milia squeezed Lilian's hand.

"Do you want to watch?"

"Of course I do," Lily said with a smile. She had never seen it happen before, only in movies. But movies were no reality.

"Go then. I feel better already."

That was the honest truth. Her fever had subsided, and Milia looked much better. No, moving a woman immediately after she had given birth was a travesty. No matter how robust she might be, she was bound to encounter complications. Lily sincerely hoped for a happy outcome, but two wetnurses and one she-goat were the bare minimum required to make her better.

"Thank you."

"Lily, will I be able to nurse Gard by myself?"

"If your fever doesn't return... Let's wait for a month. As long as you do it carefully and the baby doesn't start to vomit or get a rash..."

"My milk will disappear!"

"Pump it out. The wetnurses will help."

Milia sighed.

"How do you know all that?"

"I was taught. I will teach you, too, if I don’t have to leave early. Don't worry; I won't leave you without help."

Milia smiled but didn't get the chance to say anything, as Count Chantaine walked into the room.

"Your Majesty. Your Grace."

"Count, glad to see you," Milia said from the bed.

"How are you feeling, Your Majesty?"

"The countess helped me a lot. I'm much better," she replied.

Chantaine took a closer look at her and smiled. True, the queen seemed much livelier. Her fever was down, too.

"I'm leaving you in good hands, Your Majesty."

"Yes, Count..."

"And this is my second-in-command. Leir Renard Loran, Your Majesty."

A dark-haired man behind the count bowed.

"Guarding you is an honor, Your Majesty."

"I hope we'll be safe with you," Milia said.

"I'm also leaving you a hundred men, Your Majesty. I trust everything will be fine."

Lily nodded. She would do anything to make it so. The dogs would stay with Milia and the children, Lily herself would sleep with one eye open, and the Virmans would guard the door, just in case. She would also get a taster to play it safe.

Horns blew in the distance.

***

Count Chantaine perked up.

"Alarm?"

Lily flinched. Milia raised her head and turned pale.

"Alarm?"

"Gael! Olav!" Lily barked loudly enough to shake the walls. The Virmans didn't have to be asked twice, thankfully sparing the doors in their path.

"Your Grace?"

"Be with the queen. If anything comes up, save her and the children."

Then she darted off behind Count Chantaine.

She didn't run far. The count had to join the troops; she simply needed a balcony. It was a good vantage point that also made it easier to escape in case of danger.

From above, Lily saw several people ride in and Count Chantaine dismount with a sigh of relief, followed by another man: a short hunchbacked guy.

They might have never seen each other in person, but Lily was willing to bet her emerald bracelet against a dead frog that that was Altres Lort himself. Whom else could the cat drag in? Figuratively speaking, of course. He clearly came on a horse. Giving silent thanks to Aldonai, she rushed to the queen at full steam.

The most interesting stuff was about to happen right in that room. Milia met her with an anxious look, but she didn't have to question her for long.

"Altres Lort, a dark-haired hunchback in his forties with a beak nose?" the countess fired away right off the bat.

"Yes."

The queen immediately calmed down and sank back against the pillows.

"I think he's just arrived."

"Praise Aldonai!"

Lily snickered.

"Should I leave? He must want to see Your Majesty."

"Lily, stop it!"

Milia even waved her hand. What kind of secrets could there be between them?

Lily was right. In less than ten minutes, she heard the clicking of heels on the stairs. The door flung open, and she finally saw the face of the man who used to write to her.

He wasn't tall and had light eyes, dark hair, clothes covered with road dust—and an incredible force of personality. Was it charisma? Nope! It was a concentrated solution! A commanding presence, fierceness, decisiveness...even Gardwig had less. He had been a lion, and lions were pretty lazy: strong, ferocious, needing time to get truly angry. That man, however, was no lion but rather a leopard. Not as big but dangerous, deadly, and completely devoid of mercy. He was a natural-born killer.

So that's what you’re like, King Gardwig's Butcher.

***

Altres Lort didn't risk riding into the palace with all of his men. First, he took a look: there were no banners. The king wasn't there. So he decided to approach Chantaine with five soldiers in his retinue: enough for starters. Later, after talking to the count, he would consider this question. Maybe Chantaine would send a pigeon himself.

What Altres hadn't expected was to see a locked gate and for everyone to...rejoice at his arrival? They didn't tell him anything, but the respect they gave him spoke volumes. What had happened?

That was the first hint. The second was armored soldiers ready to march out. The third was Chantaine himself, all dressed up in his uniform, running out to meet him and lighting up at the sight of the king's jester.

"Lort! You're just in time!"

Altres jumped down from the horse.

"What's wrong, Uncle Chant?"

They weren't related, but their age and their long friendship made that form of address fitting.

Chantaine didn't spare Lort's feelings and bluntly blurted out as if swinging a sword, "There's a mutiny in the capital led by Duke Alcine. His Majesty Gardwig is dead. The queen and the princes survived by a miracle. They're here. We were going to march out to Shedar and then the capital."

Altres flinched.

Fate, you're a cruel mistress.

He had raced, he made haste...and he was too late.

"When?"

Chantaine understood his meaning. He sighed.

"Two days ago."

"Two days?"

Aldonai!

If he just hadn't delayed. If he just hadn't stayed at the estate, if he just...

There was no "just." His brother was gone. Altres couldn't believe it; it seemed impossible. He had just said goodbye to Gardwig. He remembered him alive, cheerful, expecting a son; to return to his grave...

Why?

A wolfish howl tried to break away from his chest, and Altres clenched his teeth shut.

Quiet, Lort. Quiet.
You'll survive.
For your brother's sake, you'll survive.

"Milia..."

"She's alive and well. Her children are with her, all three of them..."

"Three?"

"She gave birth to a son. His name's Gardwig."

A stray tear nevertheless escaped his eyes, rolling down and getting lost somewhere around his collar. Even if Chantaine noticed it, he gave no sign of it and let it slide.

"May I..."

"See her? Come on. She'll feel better after seeing you, anyway."

"Tell me, how did it all happen?"

It was hard to talk through clenched teeth, but Uncle Chant figured out his question and patted Lort on the back.

"I don't know much myself, and it's all told by the countess. Her Majesty doesn't remember much."

"The countess?"

"Lilian Earton, have you heard of her?"

Altres almost lost his footing.

"H-how?"

"Gardwig invited her to examine the queen."

Lort gave a knowing nod, knowing who was to thank for his brother's leg.

"The countess was with her when everything started..."

Altres listened as they walked, and rage boiled inside of him.

I will kill you, he swore to himself. You will all drown in blood; I will tear you apart with my teeth and nails so you'll beg for death, pigs! You will pay! For this moment of weakness, for me being late, for...

For my brother.

I will rip out your insides and make you eat them!

Then the door swung open, and Altres saw Milia: pale, quiet, lying in a bed...and Aldonai be praised, alive. Her children were by her side, Ed and Cor, and loyal Bertha and a bundle wrapped in baby linen...

There was another woman there, too: tall, blonde, with bright green eyes. Altres had never seen her before, but he recognized her immediately—Her Grace Lilian Earton.

He bent his knee.

***

Altres didn't know whom he was bowing to. The queen? Lilian? At the moment, both of them were parts of a whole. Two women, one of whom he had been supposed to protect but failed, failing his brother as well, and another who was instrumental in saving the queen and her children, his nephews, Gardwig's life and legacy.

"Altres," the queen said happily.

The green-eyed woman narrowed her eyes but stayed silent, simply glancing at Lort, as if implying they needed to talk.

They did, Altres knew that himself. Of course, they did. But first, he needed to attend to the queen, who smiled at him and lowered her eyelashes, permitting him to come closer.

Altres stood up, reeling, approached the bed, and touched Milia's icy hands, warming them with his palms.

"Millie...forgive me."

The queen shook her head softly.

"I have nothing to forgive you for. Nobody expected—"

"I should have foreseen it."

"You're not to blame."

"Your Majesty," the countess interjected sharply. "I understand everything, but we'll have to release the count now. He'll be back as soon as he can."

Altres threw a surprised glance at the woman who dared to interrupt their conversation so boldly, only to be rewarded with an apologetic smile.

"Count, you've just arrived. You're all dirty, and here's a woman who's recently given birth. The room needs to be clean. That's first. Second, you need to march out for the capital with Count Chantaine. The king has to be avenged. I think you have better things to do than to deal with niceties. The time for them will come later when the enemies fall under the hooves of your horses."

Milia closed her eyes, agreeing with the countess.

"Yes, Alt. I beg you...don't let them get away! I don’t know who's there or what's going on, but make them pay!"

Fierce rage sparkled in her grey eyes. In less than a day, Milia had lost her love and almost lost her child and her life: enough to make a mother hen into a beast. She had her children to take care of and would show no mercy to her enemies.

That said, Altres was of the same mind. Death.
Make them beg for it.

"Your Majesty, then we'll march out immediately..."

"And if you permit, Your Majesty, I will wave my handkerchief at the troops," said Lilian Earton, smiling. "I've always dreamed of it. Like the heroines of songs and sagas."

A shadow of a smile touched Milia's pale lips.

"Go, then, Countess."

"By your leave, Your Majesty." Lily returned a smile and left the room.

Everyone understood each other, but the etiquette was upheld, that nasty little thing.

Altres bowed and followed the countess.

***

Deciding not to drag it out further, Lily turned to face Lort as soon as they made two steps.

"We have a little bit of time, Count. What do you want to know?"

Her blunt delivery confused Altres. He was used to having to question people, not them offering him the answers on a silver platter.

He blurted out, "Why did you stop our conversation?"

"Because Her Majesty is still very sick," Lily answered truthfully. "I was afraid for her life. You see, delivering babies isn't quite what I'm used to, and then...she needs more rest. Learning about your arrival, about you intending to avenge her husband, about her being safe is all well and fine, but long conversations, apologies, and regrets should be saved for later. After we win."

"You're so confident in our victory?"

"I can always escape." Lily chuckled. "And I won't leave the queen here. But...for some reason, I think you'll do everything for you’re the sake of your brother and nephews."

Altres slowly lowered his head. Yes, the countess was truly a unique woman.

"To business?" Lilian offered, politely disregarding his state.

Well then. Altres tossed his head and moved on to his questions.

"How did it all start?"

Lily relayed the story for the...  Which time was that? She had already lost count. Altres listened to her carefully, thinking and nodding to his thoughts. Then he summarized everything.

"Thank you, Your—"

"Lilian."

"Whatever happens in your life, Lilian, you will always have a brother."

Lily appreciated that. Not a friend, no, a brother. That was a much more serious claim. Whatever she did, whatever might happen in her life, Altres would always support her without asking any questions. Just like a sibling would.

Maybe it was an even stronger bond. Things happened between relatives, and love often turned to hate. Altres promised something more. What could she say to him?

"Altres, I will never use our kinship to harm Wellster. I swear."

She was rewarded with a grateful look.

"Are you going to storm Cardin?"

Altres shrugged.

"I don’t know yet. We’ll see."

Lily wasn't offended. What was the point in telling her the truth?

"I ask of you one thing: please send either birds or messengers back to us. It's easier for you, in a way: you're going into battle, and we're left here scared to death of waiting."

"I swear. Lilian, keep the queen alive for me, will you?"

Lily nodded.

"I'll do everything in my power. Forgive me my rudeness. I had no choice."

Altres waved his hand.

"Describe it again, where did the secret passage lead?"

The palace was a country within a country, of a sort. Closed territory, a castle, walls—just shut the gate and you could hold the ground for a long time. A secret passage might throw a spanner in the works.

That was good.

"It might not be so secret anymore," Lily warned. "But, I memorized that place."

She described the street and the house next to which they had exited, and Altres nodded.

"I know that passage."

"Good to have you back, Count."

Altres sighed.

"I was late."

"No. If Milia and the children were dead, then you'd be late. Right now, you still have a chance."

He lowered his head. It was hard to convince himself of that. Conscience was a beast scarier than any dragon.

Lilian ignored that.

"I think dinner's ready, and a hot bath. I won't keep you anymore, Count."

And she took off, not giving him time for useless words. Why'd he need them, anyway?

***

Altres Lort didn't permit himself to spend too much time resting or talking. He knew what had to be done, and he had the strength to do it.

He had a bath, feeling hot water relieve his fatigue, ate a meal, slept for three hours—no more than that, as he had a lot of work ahead—and paid the queen a short visit. After making sure that Milia was alive and well, he kissed Her Majesty's hand and left. They had a war to win: a small one, taking part entirely within Wellster, but that didn't make it any easier.

Lily caught up with him in a corridor. She hadn't been by the queen's side, having been called to attend to a cook who had scalded his hand with boiling oil. Still, how could she not see the men off?

"Count, wait."

Altres Lort slowed his pace without turning back. That was a bad omen.

Lily took a step forward and gave the embarrassed count a tight embrace. Chantaine also got a hug.

"Come back alive."

She was an officer's daughter. She knew how to give a send-off.

Just come back.
After that, we'll pull you out, we'll nurse you, we'll keep death and sickness away from you.
Come back safe. A kiss on the cheek, the sign of Aldonai, and a slight push forward—to victory.

Then she turned away and went to the balcony, her back straight, nary a tear in her eyes. The servants kept whispering something, but it didn't matter at that moment. Something else did.

The soldiers were lined up in orderly lines, their armor, helmets, and weapons gleaming in the sun. Before the day bowed, some of them might not be alive anymore.

Altres found her with his eyes and smiled.

A brother.

It felt so odd, yet so right. Who would ever think about that even a week ago?

Lily raised her handkerchief. The white silk fluttered in the wind, trying to break free of her fingers. She only let it go when the troops disappeared around the bend.

Gods, how had other mothers survived that? Sisters, wives... She didn't have family among those soldiers, but what did those who did feel? Those who had to see their loved ones leave to die? Where could one find the strength not to break? Where?

Only from those who could never return, remembering those who laid their lives in battle and drawing strength from their memory and their names.

Don't you ever shame those who died so you could live; don't you ever cry for those who march into battle now; don't you think of courting disaster!
And as for our damp cheeks, we'll wipe them off with our sleeves—it's not like anyone can see them. The wind will dry our eyes in a minute, and the face will be as calm as ever.

That's how countess Earton walked back, her back tall, her smile confident. She knew that everything would work out. They left to win. There was no other option.

"Goodness gracious, how can it be..."

The whimpering came from the servants' quarters. It was a girl, still young, seventeen at most. She was crying in the corner, not wailing, but moaning, biting her hand to rein in a fit. Who had she lost? A brother? A lover? Did it really matter?

"Stop whining!"

The girl fell quiet, but another one, a bit older, but with a strong familial resemblance, chimed in.

"Your Grace, how can we not? I mean, they've gone off to their deaths..."

A stinging slap burned the maid's cheek.

"Silence! They've gone to bring victory. If I hear anything else, I'll order to have you whipped at the stables."

The maids recoiled. Still, Lily saw looks of approval in the audience, so she dealt the final blow.

"Don't you dare think any different! You'll invite trouble!"

Then she turned around and left. And only in the farthest room of the royal quarters, having locked it tight...

There are no atheists in foxholes.

Lily fell on her knees and joined her hands in a gesture that millions of wives and mothers back in her homeworld had used.

"God, please help them! Let them return alive! Oh, God..."

She could finally allow herself to cry, but Lily hadn't realized it yet. Her cheeks were just moist.

In less than an hour, she would stand up, go to the queen, smile and calm everyone down, but for the time being, she needed to be weak. For whom was she praying? For her husband? For Lort? For Chantaine? For his soldiers?

She didn't care, as long as they came back alive and victorious. The rest were words in the wind.

***

Altres Lort squinted. The wind blew in his face, tussling his hair, trying to unclench his pressed lips, cutting his eyes with sharp fragments.

Forgive me, brother.
Forgive me for being late, for not being by your side, for not predicting the mutiny...
Forgive me that I couldn't even help your wife and children.
In the darkest hour, other people did for them what I should have done.
I'm sorry.

Gardwig didn't reply. He never would.

Altres couldn't even cry out to the skies, asking what he had done to deserve it. He knew everything already.

How much dirt, blood, pain, and death, how many broken human lives are on your conscience, sir royal butcher?
How many times have you been cursed?
Fate has finally caught up with you, and praise Aldonai that at least the children made it out alive, that Milia survived.
That Countess Earton was by her side.

But Altres had no time for a moment of weakness.  First, he needed to find out who the enemy was and get to his throat. He needed to get to Fort Shedar. Mourning came later. Vengeance was number one on his list.

The wind touched his cheeks, snatching his tears and covering their tracks with dust. Nobody would see Altres Lort, the king's butcher, cry. Nobody, ever. As for his soul...who had ever cared about that?

Thank you, wind.

A joint regiment almost fifteen hundred strong was marching to Fort Shedar.

Virma, the lands of Clan Oronsteg.

Angelina couldn't sleep.

She kept pacing the room like a fox trapped in a cage. Her pillow was hard, her bed was too narrow, the wind was cold, and she felt a draft coming from the window. That wouldn’t do at all!

Wulf Oronsteg was a gracious host, and she and Bran had received rooms, servants, and guards. At that moment, the servants were asleep, and the guards were downstairs, which boded well for Angelina's plan. Still, it felt really scary, even if she knew that she wouldn't get another chance—never.

That thought made Angelina shiver as if a grave chill overcame her. What a nasty feeling.

Never.

No. She wasn't going for that. Having made up her mind, she pulled on a cloak above her shirt and left the room.

Bran wasn't asleep; she saw light coming from under his door. For a second, Angelina hesitated and finally knocked. She didn't doubt that the door was locked. It was Bran, after all.

He opened up almost immediately, standing on the doorstep and looking at her.

"Angelina?"

The dagger that the chief of Gardren had been wielding fell on the floor with a loud clang. He had made sure to give a warm welcome to any unwelcome guests.

"Will you let me in?"

Angelina took a step forward, then another, not allowing either Bran or herself the chance to change their minds.

"Yes. What's wrong?"

Angelina turned around, shutting the door. She placed a heavy bolt into the groove, buying time to muster her courage. Then she took the plunge.

"I want us to spend this night together."

She was the only person in the world to see Gardren's jaw drop. Bran quickly recovered, but it was too late—he had already lost the advantage. He couldn't push Angelina out the door anymore, and she didn't care about anything else.

"Angelina...you..."

"Don't send me away, please," she asked softly. She knew that if she didn't say or do anything, Bran would kick her out. While he was formulating his arguments, she had time. "Don't shut me out. I love you."

Bran slumped down on the floor by the feet of his beloved, kneeling before as he would before a god.

"Angie..."

His fists clenched. He had dreamed of touching her, but he never dared to, never allowed himself that. Never, not with Angelina. He had no right to ruin her life.

But how was he supposed to keep the girl from doing something stupid? Angelina dropped on her knees next to Bran, touched his fingers, and immediately noticed the tension.

"I love you. I know you won't leave Virma, I know that I can't stay, and I know that we will part ways... Bran, please!" It was almost a moan. "Let us have just a few nights together!"

His blue eyes were an ocean of longing.

"Angie...I can't. I can't do this to you."

He could say so many other words: beautiful, clever, convincing. He didn't get the chance, as Angelina awkwardly touched his lips with hers.

"Please..."

Her cloak opened, falling from her shoulders, and Bran couldn't resist anymore. After all, he wasn't made of steel.

Burying his strong fingers in her golden mane, he pressed his mouth against hers, with her cloak serving as their bedding. The night belonged to them, and tomorrow didn't matter.

Bran knew that he was going to regret it in the morning, but he couldn't fight back. His love, his dream come true, was next to him. He was a man of flesh and blood, dammit!

Let the one who could refuse his beloved throw a stone at him.

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

Richard and Tira couldn't sleep either. Their reason was the same. As a tide of passion subsided, their bodies were pressed against each other.

"I've never felt so happy."

"I've never loved anyone like that."

"I don’t believe it. You have experience."

"Tira, I wasn't born yesterday. I did share a bed with others, but I’ve never loved like that."

Tira rubbed her head against his chest like a cat.

"I don't care what was before. I care that right here and right now, you're mine. Our paths might have never crossed..."

"No. I love you too much for that."

Tender words, followed by gentle caresses, passed into a new act of love.

Richard fell asleep, but Tira could not. She was full of energy. She wished to dance, to sing, to tell the whole world of her happiness.

Donning a cloak, she stepped outside. Stars shined from above. She stretched and started spinning on the porch.

"Satisfied?"

A low voice wrested her from her happy oblivion.

"Huh?"

Elg Torsveg appeared as if out of nowhere. Tira looked at him in genuine surprise.

Richard hadn't yet realized her absence and gone to get her, but it would happen soon. If he saw Torsveg here...she didn't need that. She wasn't afraid for her beloved, knowing full well that even if the slightest harm were caused to Richard, Olav would flay the entire Clan Torsveg alive. He had the power and the reach, and then there was Ativerna...

But the day was so wonderful, and the night was just as nice. Tira understood that her love was doomed. Sooner or later, Richard would leave, and she would stay, and nobody knew what would happen next. So why would she stain those fleeting moments, Fleyna's divine gift, by talking to Elg Torsveg?

She had no reason to.

"What do you want? "

If Tira wasn't a warrior trained by old Virman masters since her childhood, she would have never noticed a sweeping blow aimed at her chin and intended to knock her out, to stun her, to drag her away...

But she did, barely managing to dodge it.

"Torsveg!"

Elg knew that he was running out of time. He could afford only a few minutes; after that, he needed to go to his people and lead them—but only after that snotty girl was lying in a secluded spot bound hand and foot, completely at his mercy. Desire prevailed over the mind. She wasn't supposed to last long against a veteran warrior. Just one more blow...

Yet Tira had passed through her initiation and never left home without a dagger on her waist. As she evaded his attack, metal gleamed in her hand, and Elg sprang back, drawing his sword from the sheath.

So be it. If she couldn't be his, she wouldn't be anyone else's!

"Alarm!" Tira yelled desperately, knowing that she couldn't handle him, not with a dagger against a sword. She stepped back, but she was too late. She couldn't do anything else. His blade struck hard and true, right into her chest where her heart was beating.

All Tira felt was cold. Not even pain; pain came later after Elg pulled out his blade. Inside her heart, where a minute before were only warmth and lightness, lay a piece of ice.

Elg Torsveg grinned. So she didn't want him? Traded him for a prince?

Serves you right, bitch!

The Virman didn't consider one thing: malice was fraught with consequence. Tira had been brought up as a warrior and was a warrior herself. She dropped down on the spot. Elg sneered, watching her unmoving figure with a measure of triumph.

So you spurned me?
Set your eyes on Richard?
You will get what you deserve, then, and so will he.

He stepped forward to the door and reached out to open it. A promise? Yes, there had been something like that. But in the heat of the moment, Torsveg forgot all about it: about his people, about peace with Ativerna, about Virma itself. Rage clouded his mind, coupled with bitterness and the sense of loss.

Never.

Anything might happen in his life later, but not Tira, not anymore.

Elg couldn't hold back a scream when a dagger pierced his leg.

With the last bit of her strength, Tira took a swing. Aiming at the heart usually was a good idea, as such a blow was supposed to kill a person immediately...or almost. After all, different people might have their hearts in slightly different places, plus it was protected by the ribs.

The girl braced herself up and dealt one final blow. She wasn't going to meet Olive empty-handed. She flashed the smile of a warrior who knew that her strike had hit true and caught sight of a door opening wide and steel flashing in the starlight. The goddess was merciful: her last sight was Richard, his sword unsheathed in his hand.

His Highness had heard a scream and, without a moment's hesitation, burst out with his weapon ready, start naked.

One look was enough for him. Platinum hair on the bloodstained wood of the porch, Torsveg's triumphant grin...

His blade swooshed. Elg had no time to parry it, and his head rolled on the ground.

"Tira!"

At that moment, Richard forgot everything about the enemy and the potential attack. Nothing existed for him in the entire world except for the girl dying in his arms, a rivulet of blood dripping down from the corner of her mouth.

"Healer!

But what healer could there be? Fights broke out here and there, dark shadows ran across the village, battling Hardring warriors, and Olav burst out of his house spinning his giant axe above his head and felling an unlucky opponent from the get-go while arrows swooshed past their heads, as Jamie put his shooting skills to use, harboring no illusions about his skills in melee.

As the alarm went off on the ships, people started lighting torches. Bran Gardren's warning hadn’t come in time.

"Tira! No!"

Her blue eyes opened, unseeing, and for a second, Richard saw a fleeting smile.

"I love..."

Quieter than wind, softer than thought, the dying whisper of her soul.

Her head went limp, her blond hair smeared with blood.

"NO!"

Blades rang all around, and people kept falling down, screaming, and running, but Richard didn't care. Only one thing mattered: Tira's body, and he couldn't let go of it. It didn't feel real and final. It couldn't be real, could it?

A droplet fell on the dead girl's cheek, then another.

It must have been rain.

***

Olav Hardring didn't sleep that night. His reasons were much less pleasurable: there was still no news from Bran.

Olav didn't know that a bird had already been sent but hadn’t reached him yet, as pigeons couldn't fly at night, unlike owls, so he was concerned about Chief Gardren. Or maybe not quite that: being concerned about Bran was akin to being worried about the safety of a coral snake. It was a gorgeous thing with deadly venom; it could be defeated, but how many men would it take? It would be a nightmare. But Her Highness...

Olav might have been pulling algae over Richard's eyes, but the truth was if Bran still hadn't written anything, things weren't fine. So what had happened?

Olav doubted the problem was Gardren himself; he firmly believed in Bran's ability to get out of any scrape and bite everyone he could get his teeth in, but that was if he was alone.

What about the rest? If something was wrong with the princess, how could he look Richard in the eyes?

Ah, to Holosh with looking, he could look aside. Any alliance between Virma and Ativerna would be out of the question forever. A treaty might happen, so might a trade agreement, but not an alliance, no way. Something like that could never be forgiven. Many families might have paid a bonus for getting rid of their kin, but that was not the case there. Richard loved his sister; that's why he had let her go. If she was in trouble...

Please let her survive.
Please let him survive.

Struggling with his heavy thoughts, Olav sat in his hall. He heard the scream, too. The night was bright, and the sky was studded with so many stars you could make them into beads. When he peeked out of the window, he saw the entire scene: Tira, slumping on the ground, Torsveg (Olav didn't recognize him at first) with a sword in his hand, and Richard rushing to meet them.

"TO ARMS!"

That shout woke everyone up. Those who weren't asleep grabbed their weapons and ran to their chief's call.

"ENEMY!"

Olav darted out of the room still dressed for sleep, only taking his axe, and cut down the first unlucky fool who approached him with his sword.

No, it wasn't one of his men; an ally wouldn't try to run his blade into your gut. Experienced fighters noticed such things immediately, and Olav knew where his opponent was aiming before he even started moving.

Another swing and another enemy fell as Olav yelled, rallying his people, and stepped forward. One more down.

Clan Hardring wasn't going to get killed in their sleep. Even if luck weren't on their side that day, they would die with honor, fighting.

***

Everything was calculated down to the minute.

Ships (they couldn't very well travel by land, could they?) would dock, releasing veteran warriors, who would first slaughter every person on the other ships, getting rid of sentries, and then help the bulk of their force: clans Saragr, Draen, and Adrag.

The men of clans Torsveg, Hardar, and Erdar, who had taken part in the Circle's meeting, would start in the village. Around midnight, they would attack the others, first covertly, and then, after the alarm was sounded, openly.

The warriors from the ships would join forces with those ashore, and nobody would be able to resist them, especially those asleep and not expecting an attack.

Was it dishonorable? Well, Olive would forgive them, and Holosh wouldn't judge. In the end, history was written by the winners.

And that's what would have happened if Elg hadn't decided to put his interests before the cause. Torsveg knew that Tira would be in the thick of the action, and to lose the girl without even getting a taste would have been unforgivable.

Love? Obsession? Nobody could say anymore.

Elg left his people and went to get the girl. And then he lost. Tira managed to sound the alarm, leaving the conspirators no option but to attack before time, so they still stood a chance.

Anders Erdar was an intelligent man and a good warrior—bad ones didn't survive in Virma—but even he was at a loss. They had been supposed to lead their people together with Torsveg, but out of the blue, an alarm went off, with Elg nowhere to be seen. Would his people obey Anders?

A few minutes of hesitation made all the difference. The Virmans might not have gotten  to pull on their pants, but they always kept their weapons within reach. Upon waking, their blade was the first thing they touched, not their clothes.

While Erdar wavered, the Hardrings had already snatched their weapons and burst out of their homes. They didn't have to search for the enemy for long.

A squad of crossbowmen would have taken down half of them on the spot, but crossbows weren't particularly popular in Virma. Bows were, but firing at night was hard. The best weapons in close quarters would be short swords, daggers, knives—the tools of an assassin. As for shooting...

Several archers started firing from inside the houses, but a dozen arrows were nothing, a trifle.

A melee broke out, even worse than a wall on wall fight—a real free-for-all. The Hardrings did know their allies in person and generally adhered to a simple principle: anyone dressed in dark clothes, chainmail, and wielding a short blade was an enemy and had to be cut down. Their allies, after all, had to fight in whatever they were wearing when they heard the alarm.

A battle was in full swing. That night, the gods would be happy.

***

Leif Erquig had never wanted to become a hero. In truth, he was sleeping on a ship because he was afraid. He would have never confessed it, but he knew that Torsveg was trouble and expected a dirty move from him. When something had started inside the village, the first thing Leif did was to wake up his crew.

He wasn’t surprised. As Lilian Earton liked to say, if something felt wrong, it didn't mean it wasn't true.

Leif didn't go into the village, abandoning the ships to their fate. He rightly figured that Richard was no fool, that it was him the Ativernans would make their way to, and that the ship should be fully ready for battle. He ordered everybody to arm themselves, keep their weapons at hand, and prepare, just in case, pitchers of flammable fluid. When three ships with their lights out and their sails painted black tried entering the harbor on the sly, he knew that he had done right.

After five seconds of hesitation, he decided that decent people wouldn't sail and especially disembark at night, heard metal clanging and noise common to armed people, called out, asking them to stop and identify themselves...and barely managed to dodge an arrow.

He didn't need any more hints.

"FIRE!" Erquig's voice boomed above the water.

He meant it literally. The Virmans occasionally made use of projectiles with oleum terrae. Not too often, as ships were made of wood, and cinders weren't much of a trophy.

The current case was different. It was Lilian Earton who had all but forced Leif to take those flasks.  She handed them to him and explained how to use them. She still remembered how Leif had left Virma. He got lucky back then.

Moonshine can be used for more than distilling alcohol. It could also distill oil—thankfully, she had gotten a shipment from the Khanganat. Mix it with alcohol, add something else... It wasn't quite the infamous Molotov cocktail, but for the Middle Ages, it was a real wonder waffle. The perfect weapon, as long as you didn't get blown up by it yourself.

And that's what Leif commanded his men to use. In a minute, the catapults were loaded with the flasks, which then got ignited and...fire! That stuff would burn even in water. The enemy could hardly douse it: the Virmans didn't carry sand on their ships, having no reason to do it.

It was a terrifying mixture, especially when it splashed people, and a fiery sphere blossomed on deck, turning into a lake of fire, burning everything it touched. The enemy ships were about to dock, but nobody was going to let them.

Leif didn't have a lot of missiles—only about ten—but that was enough for three enemy vessels. He didn't keep any bad shots in his crew.  Each ship got hit with at least two projectiles. Go on, guys, try to put the fire out now.

As for boarding Leif, it only sounded pretty in theory. Before they reached him, they could find themselves in the water, and that's if the fire hadn't gotten to them first. Dousing didn't work, and burned and crippled bodies writhed on the decks, while more missiles flew toward them. Fire was only the first harbinger, too.

Illuminated targets became all the easier to hit, both from catapults and ballistae. Leif's ship was also far from the only one docked. Other ships started shooting at the enemy as well, even if only with bows, not catapults, having figured that such guests were no good, plus the odd goings-on ashore...

The Virmans of clans Saragr, Draen, and Adrag had only one thing left to do: get to the shore. Still, jumping overboard and swimming while armed and armored was a challenge, seeing as all of it added at least ten kilos to a person's weight. Goodbye armor, goodbye shield, helmet, weapon...

Virmans were great swimmers—nobody argued that—but even they couldn't swim carrying all of that. They would get to the shore, but they wouldn't be battle-ready anymore, and then, their opponents would meet them there, anyway.

The only remaining option was trying to get their ships to land. Still, doing that on a burning deck under enemy fire, with other enemies waiting for you at the docks, seemed barely possible.

Each harbor had many ships docked manned by their crews and sentries, plus more people on the shore.

The landing party had failed their mission before they even disembarked. Yet it didn't mean that they would surrender.

Leif got caught in his own trap. Yes, he did set the enemy ships on fire, but that made boarding impossible. Would he risk coming close enough for his own ship to light up? Would he fight them on their burning vessel?

He was no fool.

"Landward!" he commanded. "Cut them down!"

Nobody was going to argue that.

Leif's ship was much faster than those on fire and reached the shore ahead of them.

The Virmans were getting off. Leif grabbed his nephew's collar.

"Where are you going? Stop right here!"

"You might as well kill me!" Torn snapped.

He was already wearing armor and weapons. Where had he found them?

Leif waved his hand. All right; he hadn't promised Ingrid to wrap her brother in silk and carry him in a box.

"If you die, I'll kill you!"

And he pushed him toward the shore. The ship groaned as it scraped against sand, complaining about its passengers, yet obeying them. It knew that for Virmans, it cost more than life itself.

Clan Erquig poured out of its depths, lining up in battle order, grabbing their bows and crossbows. The burning ships were already close, within easy distance. The welcoming committee was ready. To battle!

***

Surprise was the only element the conspirators could count on.  All Virmans were warriors, fierce, cruel, and skilled. Olav didn't have any other in his posse. When the alarm had been sounded, and bells were rung on the ships as people battled each other on the land...

The attackers' numbers weren't high: one hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred. It was hard for them to assemble more men without drawing unneeded attention. Most of them had arrived in ships. They were supposed to join in later. If not for that deadly coincidence, they would have prevailed. How hard could it be to kill sleeping men quietly, especially when nobody expected any tricks from you? Just sneak up and strike, like it had happened to Tira.

Yet they failed. Elg's lust had proved to be their undoing. After that, everything just snowballed. The Virmans might have been spending their time feasting and drinking, but getting plastered wasn't the Hardring way. It was their clan, their land, and if anything happened, there would be no end to their shame. Some were fine with the idea of drinking until they dropped, but Olav wasn't, and his melon-sized fist was a good argument.

The white shoulder bands worn by the attackers to identify each other played against them. Arrows kept flying from the windows, and steel clashed against steel as the wounded cried out in pain. When Jamie saw Richard from his window, he ignored safety concerns and ran outside, his crossbow at the ready.

Something was clearly wrong. He knew Tira. It couldn't be her, could it?

His house was within a stone's throw from hers. In a giant leap, Jamie jumped in shadow and unloaded his crossbow from there. Then he rushed to Richard's side. He was the prince; if anything happened to him, Jamie would never forgive himself.

***

The attackers' ranks had been thinned out as early as on their ships, and then they got smothered with arrows and bolts while disembarking. The remaining fighters were met with axes and swords, and there was no quarter.

Saragrs, Draens, and Adrags knew what they had gotten into and fought with the fury of the damned. The Erquigs and the others in the docks understood—there would be no mercy. None would be spared, and it meant that they could strike freely.

Leif whirled his axe like a straw, thinking about only one thing: killing. He didn't think about his guess being proved right, about going to the village to help the others: he was simply killing and maiming, and woe be to those who stood in his path. His men covered his back, proud of their leader. Even Olive—even Holosh— was bound to appreciate a warrior like that!

Leif didn't even realize at first that he had run out of enemies. It seemed that just moments before, he had been taking hits with his shield and pressing forward, and suddenly, everyone was either lying dead or wounded or fleeing for their life.

Ha! Stinking cowards!

"The village!" someone cried out.

They could hear steel clashing and people screaming. The sounds were coming from there.

Leif wasn't going to spend too much time thinking. It wasn't likely that any more enemies would come from the sea.

"A score will remain here to guard the area and treat the wounded. The rest are with me!"

And with a huge leap, he took off. The battle wasn't over yet!

***

Richard still couldn't understand what had happened. He had just been sitting with Tira's head in his lap, and all at once, he found himself lying on his back, his nape killing him.

Jamie, once Meytle and currently Baron Donter, carefully touched a vein on the girl's neck. He shook his head.

"She's dead."

"James!"

Jamie took the girl's body in his arms.

"No...I can't do anything."

The healer's eyes were dark and full of sadness. The man in front of him wasn't a prince, but simply someone who had lost the person dearest to him.

"Jamie!"

Was it a moan? A plea? Richard didn't know himself what he wanted to say.

Work a miracle!
You're a doctorus, come on!

But a doctorus was no god and no wizard.

"I’m sorry."

That time, death won completely. Jamie saw the wound and knew that even if he had reacted immediately, he couldn't have done anything, other than maybe giving her a few more minutes.

Bastards.

All he could do was to save whatever there was to be saved, like, say, Richard himself. In such a state, even cockroaches could have taken him down with their little legs.

"Follow me!"

In critical situations, healers could order about no worse than generals. Jamie kicked down the door to the house and carried Tira's body inside. He put it on the bed and tried dragging Richard in, but the prince came by himself. In all likelihood, he had trouble understanding what was going on and whether he was dead or alive himself. It made sense; he was in shock. The only thing his mind could muster was to stay by Tira's side, whatever happened.

Richard lowered himself on the floor next to the bed, where the healer had placed the girl and squeezed her hand tightly. He was in pain.

Jamie poured something into a glass and handed it to Richard.

"Gulp it down."

"What’s that?"

"Drink," the doctorus snapped, completely forgetting subordination. "Just do it."

Richard nodded and knocked it back.

With relief, Jamie watched his eyes become clouded and sleepy. That opium was good stuff. His teacher Tahir had personally ordered it from the Khanganat. Jamie knew the right dosage, and Richard really needed a few hours of sleep.

What was going on outside? Jamie peeked out of the window and saw that he had nothing to worry about. Two tall men were fighting their way to the village from two directions.

Olav Hardring spun a giant axe above his head and roared like a frenzied bear, promising his enemies all earthly and heavenly punishment. Leif Erquig made do with a sword, but in his hands, the long blade seemed weightless, effortlessly flying around him. Both men weren't going to leave their opponents alive.

A living enemy was a luxury they couldn't afford.

***

Jamie had no desire to leave his patient unprotected, especially when he was drugged. And even later, it wasn't good to abandon him; that was clear.

Jamie wasn't much help in battle; better to wait inside until everything was over. He loaded his crossbow, put it close, and waited for any outcome. He didn't know what was going on, but that was no excuse to die like a sheep in a slaughterhouse.

So when Leif burst inside, he was met with a crossbow aimed at his head. The Virman spat out and pulled off his helmet.

"Jamie!"

"Leif!" Baron Donter responded with genuine joy. "Is it over?"

"Yes. What's going on here?"

"It's...bad."

Leif could already see the two bodies, immediately recognizing one as dead and the other as alive.

"Richard?"

"He's alive. But Tira was killed."

Jamie gave a heavy sigh. Leif could imagine the consequences. Jamie didn't know if the prince would retain his mind after that. Even the best doctorus couldn't help with healing a soul. Maybe Tahir Djiaman din Dashar or Lilian Earton would have known what to do, but how could he?

"Holosh!"

In truth, Leif's phrase was more colorful, but there's no need to quote it. Jamie's ears turned red.

"Yeah, no meadow daisies."

"And Richard?"

"I gave him a sedative. He'll be out for two hours."

"You shouldn't have."

Jamie brushed it off. There was no second-guessing it.

"Have you seen them together?"

"Yes."

"Then what are you talking about? He loves her to the point of madness. I couldn't have him lose his mind. He could never fight in that state. He'd take the first blow he chanced upon."

Leif nodded slowly.

That was true.

If anything happened to Ingrid... Olive, don't make it so!
Fleyna, protect my beloved!

"I see."

Yes, it was probably the most merciful of options. Either death upon losing his mind or...

"What is it with him?"

That was Olav Hardring. Enemies or no enemies, diplomacy was as important as ever—as well as peace of mind. The Virmans could have won the fight but saddled themselves with a war against Ativerna. Making sure that Richard was alive was the first thing that Olav did after the battle. He had heard a part of the conversation between Jamie and Leif and approved of the healer's decisions, too.

There was no medicine to heal the pain of your beloved's murder, only oblivion. After the prince woke up, he would decide whether he wanted to live or didn't, as long as he didn't actually commit suicide in Virma, waiting to get home.

Jamie was rewarded with Olav's approving nod.

"Thank you, healer. I'll send women to take care of him."

"I'd rather you send wounded," Jamie replied. "I won't leave the house, but I can help. Right now, any hands are as good as gold."

Nobody was going to argue.

"I'll send my men to keep him company," Leif said, nodding at Richard. What if there were still-alive enemies about? He quickly left.

Olav could only shake his head.

"Poor boy."

Jamie was in complete agreement. Poor boy, indeed. It didn't matter that he was a prince; the only feelings Richard could currently incur were pity and sympathy.

But what would happen when he woke up?

***

Leif's men arrived almost immediately. Two burly men mostly resembling double-door wardrobes, Jamie knew them and had treated them in the past. Without any further drama, he pointed at Richard.

"Call me when he starts moving."

Then he left. Wounded people were waiting for him, lots of them.

Not everybody had managed to fight back. Eighty-seven men had fallen that night, their bodies lying on the white sand. And that's only the allies; the enemies' losses counted almost three times as much, on top of those who had died on the ships or were slowly burning out on the coast. Jamie suspected that by the morning, the number of killed would multiply.

Olav didn't hover over him, instead retreating into the darkness. From time to time, shrieks coming from there reached Jamie's ears. The Virmans, as was their habit, were beating information out of their victims—literally.

Meanwhile, Jamie was busy working. Tend to the wound, stitch it up, examine it, disinfect it—who said that it was easy? Without letup, other than walking from one patient to another, he toiled away, not raising his head and using a moist towel to wipe off his hands and then his brow that sweated profusely despite the night-time.

That was no simple work. Someone worked side-by-side with him: Virman women treated their injured as best they could, but they couldn't do it without a doctorus.

Jamie was slaving away when someone touched his shoulder.

"He's moaning."

That short phrase was enough. Jamie nodded, indicating that he would come, carefully stitched up a wound on a Virman man's leg, bandaged it properly, and went inside. He had a hard conversation ahead of him.

Or did he? Trudy Elleig was sitting inside the house, her dead daughter in her arms, and her face...

She didn't have any, only a death mask made of gypsum. She was already dead—or at least, her spirit was, and her body...it was only a body.

Jamie would have rather spent an entire week stitching up wounds. That would have been easier than seeing something like that.

***

What is the perpetual temptation of those in second place? To get to first.  But what to do with those who illegally and immorally take their own position?

Well, that depends on decency. Some make do by simply deposing them, letting them live freely, some kill them, some arrange accidents...

There were six of them in total: clans Torsveg, Hardar, Erdar, Saragr, Draen, and Adrag. Six clans who decided that they were fit to run the Circle and decide the fate of Virma. Clearly, they were the best ones for the job, Holosh damn those Hardrings, Gardrens, Kellogs, and Oronstegs. With some, they had planned to negotiate later. Some, they would massacre—definitely the Hardrings and the Gardrens. Their plan was a good one, Olav had to admit.

The conspirators had wanted to wait for the Circle to gather, arranging a nightly visit for those asleep. And they would have succeeded, too. An ordinary session of the Circle would have been over by then. The Ativernans were a surprise, and a big one.

Olav had strictly forbidden docking next to the visiting ships; the only possible place to moor was several hours from there, and that order was enforced, while the coast was patrolled. What would you do? Those were the prince and the princess of an allied kingdom! Olav and Bran had gone out of their way to arrange the visit, and they didn't do it for nothing. If not for them, the conspirators would have simply sent several ships to dock at night and send their warriors in rowboats to the shore.

But what were they supposed to do when Erquig had decided to stay on board? The only option was to strike all at once; otherwise, they would have given themselves away. And that's what they did.

They had several hundred men. If they had started from land, the people aboard would have joined in, making it easy to leave no trace of the Hardrings by the morning. But Tira had come out onto the porch, and Elg Torsveg's lust had gotten the best of him.

As for the medallion, it used to belong to the chief of Adrag. Aliah Reinst had been killed on his order, as a witness and to return the evidence.

At last, Olav knew the truth. Both Aliah and Ashley Lorin had fallen victim to their own stupidity.

It seemed so cute at first, a girl accepting a courtship and then considering it too aggressive and hiding somewhere private.  Then she heard something that she wasn't supposed to hear: Elg Torsveg making arrangements with the chief of Adrag. They couldn't really have prepared everything in advance, not the entire plan. The Adrags were supposed to deliver weapons, and their shipment went south, leaving the attackers without crossbows. Elg was furious and gave way to his temper.

The clan was not at fault; their ship had gotten into the same storm that the Ativernans had to weather on their way to Virma. It drowned, forcing them to figure out their funds. There might have been six of them, but the clans weren't rich, and the money paid for the crossbows was serious enough for them. They had no time to shell out more coins to order more weapons. They had swords, chainmail, daggers, even throwing knives, but crossbows were scarce in Virma; they had to be imported along with bolts for them.

The Torsveg kept attacking, while the Adrag offered excuses. How much had Aliah managed to overhear?

Enough.

When Elg, in the heat of the argument, punched his opponent with all the force of his Virman heart, forcing him to land in blackberry bushes full of thorns, she even picked up the medallion.

What conspirators would they be without a proper symbol? It might be silly and absurd, but they had ordered medallions from various craftsmen all over Virma and wore them. They needed a way to recognize each other, after all, and something to show to messengers.

Aliah had eavesdropped on the conversation, realized the speaker's identity, and snatched the medallion. After the betrayal she had experienced, she didn't really like men. Even more, she was sure that they were to be used before they used her.

That's what she did. She caught the chief of Adrag and made him an unambiguous proposal: no, not of marriage, but a business one. Gold in exchange for gold, and she would forget everything. The chief agreed, but instead of him, another man came to the meeting—an assassin.

Alas, the girl hadn't taken the medallion with her. She had left it in Her Highness' belongings so that nobody would find it. She did, however, tell her friend whom she was going to meet.

Ashley Lorin had turned out to be no smarter than Aliah. Deciding that she didn't mind a bigger dowry, she became the second victim. After all, killing a blackmailer was cheaper than paying for their whims—and definitely easier.

Then Angelina found the medallion and went traveling.

So what had provoked the attack? Olav had figured that out, too, and that news didn't bring him any joy. If the curs weren't lying, and lies were pretty damn unconvincing when you were being flayed alive, the conspirators had planned to assassinate Bran. They weren't sure about the outcome of the attempt—someone seemed to have escaped, and before that, someone had managed to warn Olav...

That was luck. By coincidence, the jackal attacked the wolf before it wanted to. Not everybody was in place, there weren't enough weapons, and the moment wasn't perfect.

And then, there was Tira. Richard should have woken up already; Olav knew that. Yet he didn't go into the guest house. Was that cowardice? Not a chance! He had interrogations to take care of, suspects, work to do... Conversation was Gardren's department. When he returned, he would handle it. Plus, Richard had a healer and everything...

Later. He would attend to it later, and until then, how about questioning that fellow before he gave up the ghost?

***

When Richard opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Trudy. She sat by his side, staring at nothing. What could he say to her? Only one thing.

"I would have rather died myself."

She lowered her hand on his palm and squeezed it tightly. Trudy was still silent, but Jamie breathed out, made the sign of Aldonai, and left the room sidewise.

His task was finished. He was the odd one out in that place; they would figure it out themselves. Shared grief is never halved, but it still becomes easier to bear. Jamie knew that; he had seen enough. There would be tears, and there would be many more things, but Richard wouldn't kill himself, no matter how much Jamie feared that.

Love could make a man go to great lengths. Nobody could know in advance what strings it would touch in a man's heart. Some might drown themselves in drink, some might carouse, and some might wither away. Not like this, though. Not together with someone else.

He had no poison, Jamie knew.

A dagger? Unlikely, he wasn't in the right mood.

However, Jamie didn't go far. He stayed on the porch by the door, making sure he could hear everything. Just to be safe.

At first, he could only hear Richard's voice, then Trudy joined him.

And then came sobbing. Everything seemed fine.

Jamie peeked into the eyehole. Richard was crying, his head nestled in Trudy Elleig's lap, and she was patting his hair. She wasn't crying herself, though.

That wasn't good. For Richard, letting tears carry out his grief was normal. If he found a release, he wouldn't be eaten from the inside. Trudy, however... But how could you comfort a mother who had lost her only child? No words would do. Never.

And don't you dare say that Richard, just Richard, and only Richard was the only one Jamie had to care for! A doctorus was supposed to help everyone, without separating them into rich and poor, friend and foe. Otherwise, there was no point in learning to heal people; you might just as well go herd goats.

Yet James had no idea how to help Trudy. All he could do was to keep doing what he was good at—tending to wounded Virmans. It was easier with them, at least.

Virma, the lands of Clan Oronsteg.

"You're sad."

Angelina was drawing a complex pattern on her lover's chest with her finger.

The things that had happened became a revelation to her. Just like that, their souls entwined, and as their bodies came together, their breath was as one.

It was a little bit painful, but not scary. It felt as if she got wings, huge and incredible, and with them, she flew to the sun, not needing anything, just two of them together and the sky, the eternal sky of two people in love. Despite her youth, Angelina was no fool. She had read books and even questioned Lilian Earton, knowing that the countess wouldn't hide anything from her, Jolie by her side. They were blushing and embarrassed, but nonetheless, they persisted.

Whom else would they ask for advice? They didn't have a mother, and their father and brother were men who wouldn't get it—or alternatively, would get it all too well and wouldn't approve. With whom could they speak privately about such important concerns?  Not with their handmaidens, obviously! They would have blabbed their secrets to the entire palace.

Lilian had given them a detailed account. She was also right when it came to the most important thing. When you love someone, it's a force of nature. When you don't, it's only a physical act: pleasurable, inspired, but nothing more.

Angelina wasn't going to put her words to the test. She already understood that Lilian was right. Force of nature? Yes, it could be called that, she thought. It felt as if a wave of passion carried the lovers to a secluded island with only the two of them and nobody else in the entire world.

Not that they needed anyone else, though.

"We've made a mistake," Bran said, caressing her hair. "I've made a mistake."

"You presume too much." Angelina didn't want to shift the responsibility to her beloved. Bran might be twice her age, but it was she who had made the decision. No matter what the man might have thought, that it was a game for two. As often as not, it was the woman who made the decision with a man none the wiser. Not then, however.

Bran was already blaming himself. Angelina realized one thing: he couldn't refuse her love, but neither could he accept it.

What was that story that Lilian had told? Beauty and the beast? There was a much sadder fairy tale: about a princess and a common soldier. Maybe even a clan leader, Bran would never become a prince, anyway. That story wouldn't end with a wedding. But saddling the responsibility on Bran? No. She'd never do that.

"You won’t be able to stay, and I won't be able to leave. I can't leave you defenseless."

Angelina sighed. She turned around, leaning on her elbows, and looked in her lover's eyes, all serious.

"I've known that from the beginning. Enough, Bran. Remember, I'm a princess."

"And I'm just a Virman commoner?"

She snorted petulantly. Out of all possible options, why did men always pick the most inconvenient and unsuitable response? That was a horrible trait!

"No. You're the only one who could have married me for love, mutual and sincere."

Bran raised his eyebrows. He might be a chief and a priest of Holosh, but her words could befuddle him on a regular basis. Once in two minutes, at least.

"Who'd marry you to a Virman? And I'm married, anyway."

"I know. But whoever else I marry won't marry Angelina; he'll marry the princess. Money, connections, politics...he'll gain all of that, but not me. And my virginity won't matter...oh!"

"What? Does it hurt?"

"No. I just hope we haven't made a child."

Bran shook his head.

"We haven't."

He had enough self-control for that. How in Fleyna's name did he manage it? She probably had mercy on him.

"Then it's fine," Angelina said, breathing out.

Bran didn't think so, but he wasn't going to argue. Instead, he pulled her closer and touched her lips, then her cheeks, then the tip of her nose...

"We still have time. In the morning, I'll escort you so nobody will see you. Don't get me wrong..."

Angelina nodded. She understood it. Her reputation meant the world. Everyone might have their guesses, might even know the truth, but that wasn't the reason to make their relationship public, flaunting and parading it around. It was gross, anyway. Personal life was personal for a reason. Angelina responded to his kiss and thought that she didn't regret anything, not for a minute.

At that moment, her choice was right, and even ten or twenty years later, she would remember that night: the crackling fireplace, the thick bear hide where they found themselves, the feel of Bran's skin under her fingers, his blue eyes glowing in the dim light, his hands, his lips...

At least she had gotten all of that. Dying wasn't so scary anymore.

***

In the morning, Bran Gardren escorted Angelina to her rooms. On his way back, he bumped into Wulf.

The Oronsteg was leaning against the wall and giving Bran a sardonic look. Bran paused for a second and then nodded at him, inviting him to his rooms.

They needed to talk, but not in a corridor.

Inside, Bran sat in a chair, gestured at another, and after a moment of hesitation, reached out for a jug of wine.

"Want some?"

"Thank you, Lord of Gardren."

"Wait," Bran said, raising his hand to stop the man. "I know what you're going to ask, but please, keep this secret."

Wulf slowly nodded.

"This is..."

"It was the first time, although I can't promise it's the last."

Wulf shook his head.

"Lord of Gardren, I hope you know what you're doing."

Bran would have liked to answer yes but didn't have the heart to say it. He didn't want to confide in Wulf, either, nor in anyone else. Even when Bran would appear before Holosh, he would stay silent. Whatever had happened that night, it was his and only his, forever.

"I ask you and your men not to talk about it."

"Nobody knows, only me and the maid. But Tarna was my wetnurse," Wulf replied. "She'll keep quiet."

Bran slowly lowered his head.

"I'll be in your debt."

"I accept it," Wulf said without any false modesty. "How can I get you to the Hardrings?"

"We'll wait for their reply, hopefully, and an escort home," Bran said, waving his hand. "Ten days, at least."

Wulf narrowed his eyes.

"And all this time..."

"Once again, I count on your silence."

"Talk to Her Highness, Lord of Gardren. And I'll assign Tarna to her."

Bran cast his eyes down. He knew that he was acting dishonorably. He should leave, just turn around and leave for good, but he could not. He couldn't give up on Angelina, place her in danger, leave her in other people's care—nor resist her. They might as well punish him with death, but the chief of Gardren had already made his choice. At least he would have those days. Holosh, hadn't he earned just a small piece of human happiness?

A familiar dark thought slipped into his mind. Priests of Holosh didn't believe in fate giving gifts. They knew: everything had its cost. What would Bran have to pay for that?

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

Olav only resolved to go to Richard after talking to Jamie. The doctorus—despite being up to his eyes in work—spared a minute for the chief and pulled no punches, explaining what was going on with Richard. Why would he mince words? All of them were in the same boat!

"How are you?"

No sympathy, no condolences; men were not supposed to mop tears. They were supposed to take revenge.

"Bad," Richard responded apathetically.

"The funeral's in the evening." Olav was calm and serious. "Will you guide her soul?"

"Yes."

"The execution's tomorrow morning."

"Execution?" Richard didn't seem interested, simply repeating his words, but Olav was persistent.

"This is our internal affair. Does it matter to you why she died?"

"Because of whom? Yes."

Opium had dulled his pain, and Richard didn't feel like he had a void inside of him anymore. The drug served as a railing above the abyss.

Jamie had given him a fair warning that it wouldn't help for long, but for the time being, until the funeral was over, he was safe.

Richard didn't know how to live on.

Fate, you're... He didn't have any non-cuss words after that. How could it beckon him with happiness only to snatch it away? Give hope and steal it from him?

He was a prince, and she was a Virman girl, but couldn't they really be happy together? They could have!

They could have had children; he could have visited, and...everything that his father had had with Jessie, he could have had with Tira.

But they never would. Never. There would be no Tira for him.

Richard knew that he wouldn't do anything to himself. He was a prince; he had his duty, his obligations, his father, his sisters, and Ativerna. He had to keep living for their sake, at least. As for how he would live... Did it really matter? Not anymore. Not after she had died. Tira was gone, and so were his love and his future. Only duty remained. He had made his choice, and he would answer for it. If he wasn't destined for happiness... Well, he would make do. He must.

Olav told him about the six clans that had decided to share power between them, and Richard listened.

"What is your decision?"

"These clans won't exist anymore."

"You...you'll kill everyone?"

"No," Olav said, shaking his head. "We'll banish them."

"What do you mean?"

"The children younger than five will stay in Virma. We'll find them foster parents. The men will be killed, and the women and older children will be sent to the continent."

"This is murder."

"They'll take their dowries with them. To remain here, they'll need someone's custody. If their parents or someone else accepts responsibility for them, then they'll be allowed to stay. But they will remember that others had to pay for their lives for them."

Richard nodded.

He didn't really care about that, but...

"So, it was just power."

"It was personal, too."

"Personal?"

"Tira arrived here together with Torsveg. No, there was nothing between them; they were just traveling the same way. Elg set his sights on her."

"I didn't know," Richard said, shaking his head.

Olav sighed.

"I did, but I didn't think it was that serious. When she and you...he was furious."

"Too bad, I didn't kill him right away."

"Too bad," Olav agreed. "Stay with her. In the evening, go to the docks."

Richard nodded. Olav left, relieved, even if he didn't show it.

Richard hadn't asked about his sister, and thank the gods, as Olav had nothing to answer him.

***

The harbor was crowded that evening. Everyone who was staying with the Hardrings came. All Virmans were barefoot to say farewell. Such was their tradition: bare feet, loose hair.

Richard was dressed in green but didn't wear any shoes in solidarity. Everybody was armed, and women were holding torches. Olav led the ceremony.

The dead bodies were carried into a ship and lined up. Nobody was crying: no sobs and no moans. Richard remembered how they showed grief in his homeland, widows throwing themselves at the coffins, tears flowing freely.

Nothing like that was done in Virma. If anyone cried, they did it quietly. The children were silent; the surviving men stood straight, their teeth clenched.

Richard carried Tira to the ship by himself. For the last time, he pressed her against his chest and touched her hair with his lips. He wrapped her in his cloak, then paused and removed a diamond bracelet from his wrist to put it on hers. Let her depart to eternity as his wife. Whatever happened after death, let their souls meet at least there.

Someone touched Richard's elbow. Trudy.

"Here, take it."

A heavy medallion fell in his hand. It looked like silver.

"I—"

"Take it and leave."

She was holding a torch, her blonde hair flowing in the sea breeze.

"Farewell...son."

For a few seconds, Richard stared at her, dumbfounded. Then he figured it out.

"But...no!"

"Yes. This is my right, son. Goodbye and remember this: she loved you more than life itself."

Slowly, Richard got down on one knee and kissed Trudy's hand.

"I will remember. Always."

Her warm palm ruffled his hair.

"Farewell, son."

***

As Richard climbed down from the ship, he noticed several people staying there. He looked at Olav, who was standing next to him.

"Is this...what I think it is?"

"This is their right," Olav said with a look of sympathy. "It looks savage to you, I know. But what if a person cannot live on in this world? What if nothing keeps them here, while someone waits for them over there?"

Richard slowly lowered his head. He understood. He understood it all too well.

The ship drifted from the shore, the fire growing brighter. The railings covered with oil burst almost straight away, giving off smoke, and Richard burned together with them—the old Richard, the cheerful scallywag who had once caroused and drunk together with Jerisson. Something inside him had burned down;  something that he couldn't quite name.

That night, he left together with Tira, and he knew that he would never return. His youth was gone. His Highness Richard of Ativerna was dead, giving way to the next king. He would have a long life. He would have his duty. He would marry, hold his children in his arms, raise them, save them for Ativerna and save Ativerna for them. Nobody would ever learn...

The silver lid of the medallion made a dull click in his hand. Tira was smiling at him from the portrait, a strand of blond hair wrapped around his fingers. Richard groaned, turned around, and headed into the darkness. He hadn't seen Leif send two of his men after him, hadn't seen the rocks and the brambles, didn't realize that his feet were bleeding.

My love...

As usual, Aldonai didn't hear Richard's prayer—or maybe he wasn't listening? Tears rolled down his face. When it came to heartache, even opium didn't help.

Chapter 4

Wellster, outside of Cardin.

Leir Olsen couldn't believe his eyes when a pigeon finally arrived.

The note was short, just three words.

On my way.

But did words really matter? The leir was well aware whose signet ring had been used to seal the letter. Knowing such things was his job, after all.

Chantaine.

Had their own pigeon reached the count? That was complicated. It might have. But for Chantaine to believe, to actually head to Shedar... Leir Olsen did realize that it wasn't half the battle or even a beginning, but still. They weren't alone anymore, and that made all the difference.

Jerisson Earton became the first to know that wondrous news.

"They're marching here?"

"Yes."

"That was very quick," he said, noting the same thing that irked the leir.

"I suppose."

"A thousand men couldn't have set off so quickly..."

"Unless they learned about all of that from another source," the leir finished and gave a happier smile. "So someone must have escaped the palace. Good."

Jerisson nodded.

"They might know something about my wife and daughter."

Leir Olsen looked at him with sympathy.

"Pull yourself together. If you lose it, you'll fail both yourself and them."

"I know."

The men knew each other's minds but couldn't do anything except for waiting.

It felt like the worst thing in the world.

***

Robert Alcine was waiting, too. He was about to receive the second boy: the replacement Henry.

He was calming Albitta, talking to the nobles...he had a lot of business, just as he would in the evening. His Majesty's funeral—Robert would have loved to throw Gardwig's corpse in a dump to be eaten by dogs, but the people needed to see the king dead, so as not to get hordes of pretenders. He knew that ilk; before one knew it, they would crawl out of the woodwork like cockroaches.

With time, Robert would deal with all of Gardwig's whelps, including the daughters—in public, too, so that nobody would suspect him while the girls would be undoubtedly dead.

Sparing anyone? What a silly idea! There was pleasure Robert couldn't deny himself.

He went to look at his defeated enemy. Corpse artists—and yes, the court had some of those—had done a wonderful job. They even covered up the neck scar with a collar, so Gardwig looked almost alive.

Robert stared at him for a few minutes and finally spat into the coffin.

"May Maldonaya never grant you any rest, scum! And remember: your children will follow you."

Gardwig didn't reply.

However...  Was it a dancing shadow? A flickering torch? Out of nowhere, the corpse seemed to sneer, and Alcine barely held back his rage.

You crowned wretch!
I hate you!

The fit was so powerful that he had to stand a few moments with his eyes closed, or he would have pulled the body out of the coffin and started kicking it.

Yet he could not. The people were waiting, and they needed their ceremony. Time to go.

***

Funeral rites in Wellster and Virma were strikingly different.  The only thing in common they had was a body—and the name.

The Virmans believed that the soul would soar into the sky between water and fire and thus, buried their dead between the three elements: air, fire, and water, except for a small pouch of sand from Virman shores put under the head of the deceased. It wasn't like that in Wellster.

The king's funeral started with a solemn mass.  The Aldon personally read a prayer for the repose of Gardwig's soul. He was quite good at it, too. As Robert stood at the forefront of the audience, he felt his soul at peace. Serves you right, you royal trash.

He knew that his vengeance for his beloved was finally complete and would be over as soon as he got his hands on Gardwig's bastards.

Albitta was pale and dressed in green. That color didn't fit the queen at all, making her look older by a decade and her skin yellow. Still, that was a necessity.

At least she could wear lots of diamonds on top of the dress; let them shine just like Albitta's eyes.

So far, she was only a regent. She would only be crowned when her son arrived.

And as for him not really being her son... That was nothing. The main point was the crown; she had never loved children, anyway. She had had her girls to tie her husband to her, hoping for a boy; as for her son, she gave birth to him for revenge.

Her daughters were standing right behind her: all pale and scared but not daring even to cry. Gardwig had trained them well. Console the girls? Explain things to them? That seemed funny to Albitta. She had no time to waste on those snot-nosed babies.

Her Majesty Albitta threw another glance at Gardwig.  She couldn't believe she had won. In their game, the one who survived the opponent was in the right, and she had.

The courtiers kept exchanging looks, quietly whispering to each other, while some glanced at her with apprehension or respect. There was no loyalty, not yet, but it wasn't a problem. She would make up for it later. First came subduing, then came taming. People were no different from wild beasts, and they had nowhere to go.

After the service, the king's coffin was carried outside and solemnly laid on a bier. Gardwig was to make one last journey around the capital.

The funeral cortege took their places.

The grieving wife and the daughters followed the coffin. Behind them came the courtiers, positioned according to their title, then the royal guards... The crowds would have bread and coins thrown to them,  people saying goodbye to the king, and the king to his subjects.

Robert took his place just behind the princesses, and nobody dared to argue that. Albitta was content and calm, but he didn't like what he saw. As they rode around the city, the people's faces were clear to him: Cardin didn't accept them. It was rejection, dark and gloomy, hanging above the crowds like a cloud, glowing in the people's eyes, visible in the corners of their mouths.

They loved Gardwig; Robert had to admit it. He might have been a tyrant and a despot, but he was charismatic, handsome, always providing grounds for a talk... Commoners didn't like rulers for their intelligence or decency. The sympathy of a crowd is an unpredictable thing. Gardwig was their favorite, and Robert and Albitta had killed him.

Unbidden came the thought—how long did they have yet? When would the thunder strike? Robert didn't know, but even at the peak of his triumph, he mused: maybe it was time to flee. Or maybe wait a few days? Prepare an escape route? Gather valuables, funds, make arrangements, buy and sell something... Nobody in their right mind would want to start a new life in another country from scratch, including Alcine. He might not get to be a duke there, but he would have a quiet and comfortable life.

Albitta? She wasn't his problem. She had wanted revenge, and she got it. The crown? Power? Fame? Money? Absolutely. But she would have to spend her entire life—whatever was left of it—holding on to that power. And thus, Robert made his decision and would start implementing his plan as soon as he returned home.

But that was later. For the time being, both of them were riding along the streets and giving the king his due.  An hour, two... At last, the circle was complete, leaving them free to go back to the palace.

There, in the palace chapel, Gardwig would rest in the family crypt. Even his enemies couldn't deny him that, not yet. They didn't dare to. Albitta had suggested otherwise, incidentally, but Robert asked her to wait. Why risk ticking people off? Later, when it was safe, they might pull his body out and throw it away, if they still wanted to carry corpses around. Albitta agreed.

She watched the coffin with her husband's body be lowered into the vault, the undertakers leaving it, the heavy door being shut... A milestone in her journey through life, yet another one.

***

Pigeons might not fly at night, but people could ride. Not as fast as they might have wanted, of course; the road was hard to see, a horse might easily stumble and twist its leg, get scared of something and throw the rider off—a lot of things could happen with that soft and fickle means of transport. Horses weren't human, really. They needed care, affection, and attention.

And that is why Lort and Chantaine took their time riding to Fort Shedar. They planned on reaching it by the morning, getting a brief rest, and then going to the city to ascertain the situation. Maybe Olsen had some news, too.

They made it almost without any accidents, other than a few limping horses: pretty much a miracle, by the grace of Aldonai. Nobody was surprised to see all the gates shut.  They exchanged looks and nodded at one of their adjutants—knocking was beneath a commander; he had squires for that.

It didn't take long for the gate to open. A group of fifteen hundred men might sound simple on paper, but in reality, so many people couldn't sneak through back roads. Such a regiment was bound to be noticed from afar, and the dwellers of the fort had done so. They counted down the numbers, made estimations, and rightly decided not to fuss: if those were friends, there was no need to twitch, and if enemies, better to avoid alarming them. Let the fort seem quiet as if everyone was sleeping and definitely not preparing to be attacked. As for stones and timber logs on the walls and water being boiled in the courtyard... Well, those were details.

There was no need for torches; in the fall, the nights weren't especially dark yet. Coupled with campfires and stars, the defenders of the fortress had enough light.

"Who goes here?" a voice came out from the walls.

"His Grace Count Lort."

"WHO?"

Leir Olsen, who was standing on the wall, couldn't help but ask to repeat the name.

Altres Lort rode forward.

"Don't you recognize me?"

That wasn't the roar of the Lion of Wellster, but everybody knew the Wolf as well.

"Open the gate!" Leir Olsen shouted and rushed downstairs to meet the guests.

The help had finally arrived. It was the king's brother; what else did he need to be happy?

***

The council of war took place in the commander's quarters thirty minutes later. While the soldiers were being escorted inside and their horses unsaddled and rubbed, the leaders held a discussion. The people in attendance were Altres Lort, Count Chantaine, Leir Olsen, and as the representatives of foreign powers, Count Earton and His Highness Miguel of Ivernea. The princesses hadn't been asked.

The meeting started with Jerisson's story about the events in the palace. Altres Lort listened to him without a word, same as Count Chantaine. Some parts of his tale they had already learned from Lilian, some they had guessed, but something was new. At last, they could see the big picture.

"Alcine, that rat," Lort said through his teeth.

"A rotten seed," Chantaine agreed. "We should have rooted it out from the beginning."

"If we didn't, let us fix that mistake," Leir Olsen concluded.

Everybody present was in agreement. But how would they accomplish that? It stood to reason that they needed to attack, but... Oh, that perennial word!

Alcine was no fool, having arranged and implemented such a coup, and he had his own men. The most likely scenario was the avengers getting stuck fighting on the streets, while the duke figured out that they came for him and slipped away. He must have prepared an exit route; everyone present would have done it, and they shouldn't think any worse of their enemy. They wanted him specifically, the real culprit. If he fled and they only got Albitta, what was the point?

Even if she was the heart of the conspiracy, someone else was the brain. It was he who needed to be hung on the city gate.

Jerisson Earton broke the silence.

"We wanted to use me as bait. Alcine will definitely want to know where I hid the princess. After that...I'll distract him."

Altres shook his head.

"By being tortured?"

Jess shrugged.

"My wife is out there. I have to find her."

"Your wife is in the Summer Palace, and so is your daughter. Plus, two of the furry beasts she keeps calling dogs and a ragtag bunch of people she picked up along the way," Chantaine said.

It took an effort of will for Jerisson to keep standing.

"What?"

He couldn't pronounce anything else.

Leir Olsen took pity on him, pouring some wine in a cup and handing it to him.

"Gulp it down."

Jess obeyed. He felt a little better; at least the lump in his throat seemed to grow softer.

"Lily and Mirrie are...safe?"

Altres Lort nodded.

"You have a wonderful wife, Jerisson. She escaped the capital, got to the count, and told him everything."

Jess breathed out. Lily was alive. Miranda was alive. They were safe in the Summer Palace, and he could go there any minute.

Thank you, Aldonai.

The rest of the story didn't matter to Jess. Whom had Lily dragged along? He didn't care even if it was Maldonaya's unholy army and the forces of darkness, as long as Lily was all right.

"Are they all right?"

"Yes. They're worried for you, but they're fine."

For a second, Jess touched the leg of the chair with his cheek and closed his eyes. The wood felt pleasantly cool against his feverish flesh. So that's what true happiness felt like. A heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

All that was left was to survive and get back to his wife and daughter, but he could deal with it.

"Then I need to go all the more so. I'll figure out what to tell Alcine and how to delay him."

He didn't ask the other men to take care of his family if anything happened to him. It was already clear to everyone.

"We could lead maybe fifty men through the secret passages," Altres Lort estimated. "Any more than that, and we risk being caught."

"Then our task is to engage the enemy and cause a commotion," Olsen replied with a nod.

"That's what I'll do, then: engage them in battle, arrange road patrols, so not a single of those scumbags escapes," Chantaine said, agreeing with the others.

"Ahem?" Miguel of Ivernea coughed.

Nobody had time to respond, as the door swung open.

***

The girls looked dazzling, especially next to each other.

Lydia was blushing in indignation, while Maria's eyes shot lightning bolts just like her father's.

The ladies were offended by not receiving an invitation to the meeting, and having to break through completely obtuse soldiers didn't improve their mood in the least.

Out of habit, Jess gazed at them with admiration. Maybe Richard shouldn't have let Lydia slip away. In her light blue dress, her hair in a casual braid, her eyes sparkling like diamonds, she was amazingly pretty. Maria was no less gorgeous. A sapphire dress, dark eyebrows knit together, her hands clenched in fists...

"Count Lort? I’m glad that you're here," the princess said, launching an attack.

She miscalculated. She was nowhere experienced enough to go toe-to-toe with him.

Altres lowered his head.

"Your Highness, I'm glad to be here myself. I came later than I should have, but not too late, I hope."

"I hope so, too. Do you know anything about my stepmother and brothers?"

Unlike novels, where one exchange of glances gave conspirators out, Lort and Chantaine didn't even turn a hair. They had agreed to keep silent about the queen, at least so far. Any potential rumors didn't have the time to heat up.

"We'll make sure to ask the conspirators about that, Your Highness."

Maria bit her lip.

"Is there any chance they are alive?"

"There's always a chance, Your Highness," Count Lort wasn't going to concede. "I'm glad you're all right."

"It's all thanks to Count Earton."

"What are you planning to do next?" Lydia didn't waste any time on being angry. "Count?"

Altres shrugged.

"Take Cardin."

"I'll go with you!" Maria perked up.

"No!"

All five men said it in unison. The princess almost opened her mouth, but before she managed to utter a word...

"I'll leave fifty men as an escort," Count Chantaine spoke out. "If anything unexpected arises, they'll help you escape, Your Highness."

"And His Highness Miguel will help them," Altres added in a syrupy voice.

Miguel flushed.

"Do you expect me to cower under a skirt?"

"Oh, come on, Your Highness. This is Wellster's internal matter." Altres gave him a cocky look.

"And you seem fine with involving Count Earton in it," Miguel remarked snidely.

"The count isn't a stranger in Wellster, largely thanks to his wife." Altres was quick on the draw.

Jerisson threw him a not very kind look but decided to let it go. He could forgive a lot of things to a bearer of such good news.

"And we are strangers," Lydia hissed.

"I would never dare to say it to you, Your Highness."

"Then I'll have to translate your implications into words," she snapped.

"Your Highness, I am not at liberty to object to you."

"And to me?" Maria's look was pure ice.

"Even more so, Your Highness."

"I want to go with you."

"Put me to death, Your Highness, but later, when I'm done with our enemies."

"You won't take me?" Maria understood everything pretty quickly.

"No, Your Highness."

"I can be useful to you. My mother's there."

"No."

His tone made it clear to everyone: there was no use arguing it.

Maria turned away, left, and slammed the door.

Altres Lort looked at Miguel with a measure of sympathy.

"Your Highness, forgive me, but nobody else can do it. I mean, protect the ladies."

Lydia started shaking. She burst out behind Maria and also slammed the door shut. The door was pretty heavy, so it didn't work quite as well as she expected.

The men exchanged looks and continued drawing up a plan. They had precious little time, and they still needed to talk things over, sleep at most until noon, and head out. By the evening, they would be in Cardin.

***

All of that didn't prevent Miguel from scratching at his sister's door two hours later.

"Lee! Lee!!!"

Lydia opened up almost immediately.

"What do you want?"

Miguel stepped into his dear sister's chambers, closed the door firmly, and grinned.

"I want to talk to Maria."

"What for?"

"Lee, can't you take a hint?"

Lydia could—and did. A young woman, a possible heiress to the throne of Wellster (Lort had sensibly kept the news about the surviving queen and her sons to himself), a handsome young prince from another kingdom...

Why not? True, she was engaged to Richard, but Lydia didn't hold a lot of affection for the Ativernan prince. She could play a mean trick on him easily. And if she could, then she should—at least try.

"Why do it now? Let them leave first."

"They'll be keeping close tabs on her. Now, however, they're busy packing, and in this chaos..."

Lydia sighed.

"I could try. Where will you be waiting?"

Miguel had already considered that question.

The best place would be Maria's chambers, but should he risk that much?

"Could you invite her over? I will wait."

Lydia rolled her eyes theatrically.

"You'll owe me, brother."

"We'll get even. And guard the door, please."

Lydia glared daggers but didn't argue.

***

Maria wasn't asleep. She paced the room, tried to read a book, but nothing helped. She was even glad that Lydia came. The princess of Ivernea didn't lie; she confessed that Miguel wanted to talk to Maria and was waiting in his sister's chambers, not wishing to compromise her. The girl gave it some thought but ultimately decided to go. In any case, she was too nervous to sleep and had nothing to do. At least it was a distraction.

And a distraction it was, too, because as soon as she stepped inside Lydia's rooms, Miguel fell on one knee in front of Maria.

"Your Highness..."

Lydia smiled wryly and closed the door. She would wait in the corridor.

That said, she held few doubts about the result. Her brother was unlikely to seduce Maria; she wasn't one to be swayed easily. Still, who could tell? Since the dawn of time, women kept falling for the same old phrases. "I love you." "I'll marry you." "You're the only one." As if those words had a magical effect, crawling into their ears and turning their brains off. What if Maria was no different?

In the meantime, Maria watched the top of Miguel's head, thinking that by the time he turned forty, he would be completely bald. There was already a hint of a bald spot there, no matter how tiny. His enthusiastic confessions of love flew right past her, rolling down like drops of rain on window panes.

As she looked at His Highness, she didn't feel anything. True, Miguel was handsome, charming, and smart, and if the circumstances were different... But she didn't have any feelings. Those several days had burned everything right out of her. The flight, the chase, the fear for her own life and the life of her family...

Love? She had no strength left for any love. In ballads, they sing about a couple meeting on a battlefield and falling in love. It didn't work like that in real life.

The thing Maria wanted the most at the moment was for the last three days to have never happened.

She would be playing with Ed and Cor on a bearskin rug next to the fire, Bertha watching them with her kind eyes, and the children would climb into her lap to hug her while she was laughing, and then, Milia would come in and pat her hair, calling her dearest aide...

Even her father, no matter how much he screamed and how terribly he treated her—she would rather he was alive.

Suddenly, she realized that even if Gardwig had never loved his daughters, he at least took care of them. He had trusted them to the wrong people, true, but at least he didn't throw them out into the street, didn't order them to be killed—he even tried finding them good husbands.

Maria remembered the portrait of Richard of Ativerna: he was a stunner. Anna had been stupid to reject him.

Miguel coughed, and she looked at him, surprised.

"Your Highness?"

"Maria, I've loved you since I saw you. You were so proud and lovely in that throne room amidst the glow of diamonds..."

Miguel was clearly overacting, but she was a girl, a young one, almost a child...weren't they supposed to like such stuff?

But Maria's dark eyes were calm and emotionless. He was giving a fiery and impassioned speech, pouring his heart out as much as his inspiration allowed him to, but...

There was no answer. He just as well could speechify before a statue of Aldonai. Still, when he attempted to take her hand, the statue came alive.

"No!"

"Maria, I'll never—"

"Did Lydia leave us alone on purpose? Did she know what we'd talk about? She still isn't back..."

Miguel couldn't help but look aside. She was correct.

"I cannot return your feelings," Maria said simply. "Maybe one of my sisters could, but not me, no."

"But I love you!"

Maria shrugged.

"I gave my word. I intend to honor it."

"It was your father's word, not yours. You haven't even met your fiancé!"

"Are you suggesting I betray him?"

"It won't be a betrayal!" Miguel argued hotly. "Don't get me wrong, Maria, you'll have everything! The entire world will open before you, large, amazing—"

"Let's finish this conversation, Your Highness. It does no credit to either of us."

***

Altres Lort had a different reason to visit Maria. While Miguel wanted to seduce and take her away, Altres had to warn her not to respond to provocations.

He wasn't going to tell her about Milia and the princes, but he definitely needed to advise her not to listen to the Iverneans. She seemed to be a sensible girl, but Altres knew that nobody was unyielding to the end. And he...he badly needed Ativerna's support, whatever happened.

If they failed, they would need to hide somewhere. Ativerna was the logical choice, and Princess Maria's marriage would be a real gift for Edward and Richard. Because of her, they would have to get involved in the war and help restore the rightful rulers in Wellster. Of course, they would get their own piece of the pie, but sometimes, it was better to lose a piece of the pie than the entire thing. When a wolf gnaws off its paw to get out of a bear trap, it doesn't think of lofty matters; it just wants to survive.

If Altres' plan worked out, Ativerna's help would still prove useful,  indispensable, even. They were their closest neighbors and allies, and a marriage would only serve to confirm that. But if the second princess of Wellster pulled something off... They had forgiven them for the first one, forgiven and forgotten. It wouldn't happen with the second.

Altres slowly climbed the stairs into the tower where the girls had been placed. He wasn't overjoyed to see a pink dress in the corridor. What could the princess do outside her own door? Why wouldn't she go in?

Lort coughed. Lydia jumped a foot and turned around, almost falling down.

"You scared me!"

"Your Highness, forgive me," Altres said with a courtly bow. Unfortunately, it didn't look especially gallant without a hat, and there was something inherently sarcastic in the jester's whole figure. There was a reason he was a jester, after all.

Lydia perked her nose up.

"Well then, I might forgive you if you accompany me to the kitchen. I really need some water, and I can't seem to get any of the servants to hear me."

Altres smiled sweetly.

"As you wish, Your Highness. Please wait just a minute; I need to give something to Her Highness Maria."

Just as he had expected, Lydia didn't let him take another step, grabbing the sleeve of his doublet.

"I don't want to wait! Are you refusing me?"

"No, Your Highness," the jester said with a smile. "I'm simply preventing you from making a mistake."

Lydia almost opened her mouth, shocked by that declaration, and it was enough of an opportunity for Altres to step forward and open the doors of Maria’s room.

It was empty and quiet.

He turned back to Lydia, but she was blocking the way to her own rooms for good.

"I’m going to scream," she warned. "I’ll say that you were molesting me."

"Go on, then," Altres agreed. "Be as loud as you like. Maybe they’ll think I dishonored you and force us to marry."

Lydia fluttered her eyelashes, aghast, but didn’t stand aside. It seemed that Altres had no choice but to take drastic action.

Her words about molesting gave him an idea. Hunch or no hunch, being a jester, he held complete mastery over his body.

"Ah…" Lydia squealed, but it was too late. She was locked into a steely embraced and kissed, catching her resentful scream in her throat.

The king’s butcher wasn’t bad with kissing, either. His disability didn’t mean a lack of personal life, and money and a noble title incidentally attracted women like honey attracted flies. Not prostitutes, either: just those who were passionate about…well, the money and the noble title. But experience was experience no matter where you got it.

Nobody had ever kissed Lydia like that. Nobody even tried, considering her many brothers, her formerly being considered ugly as sin, her being the king’s daughter… That side of life had passed by the princess completely.

When Altres finally decided to let her go, she stumbled, leaning against the wall. Her lips were moist and swollen, and looking at Lydia, he thought that he wouldn’t have minded continuing. She looked quite fetching with her languid look and disheveled hair.

But his plan had worked, and the room had lost its guardian. Altres reached out and knocked at Her Highness Lydia’s door.

***

The knock on the door came at just at the right time. Miguel turned around, opened the door, and found himself face to face with Altres Lort, who was calm, content, and wearing a cocky smile on his face.

"Wh—"

The prince didn't get the chance to say anything else as Maria almost swept him aside.

"Your Grace! I'm so happy that you came!"

Altres took a closer look. The girl wasn't lying. She did seem happy, and she clearly didn't like the conversation. It didn't look like there had been any kisses. Great! Good girl.

"Your Highness, I was just coming to see you. I want to talk. Could you spare me a few minutes of your time?"

"Yes, of course!"

Maria didn't just agree; she was overjoyed.

"What about His Highness?" Altres asked, indicating Miguel with his eyes.

He didn't want to start an argument, but letting him off the hook...

"We're done talking!" Maria snapped. "And I hope that we understood each other. I appreciate your offer, Your Highness, and I hope that you and my future husband can be friends. I will be happy to see you at my wedding in Ativerna."

Miguel gritted his teeth.

"Your Highness, and still—"

"I hope there are no more misunderstandings between us."

"None, Your Highness."

"Good," Altres Lort said with a grin befitting a hungry crocodile. "Your Highness, I entrust your sister to you. I can assure you of her chastity."

"What!" Miguel choked up.

"What!" Lydia flared.

"I mean, Her Highness has spent ten entire minutes with me in the corridor. I beg you not to condemn her for that. Her Highness was very persuasive."

Lydia was furious, not knowing what to say, while Altres Lort snatched Maria by her elbow and was gone, slamming the door shut.

Miguel looked at his sister with a measure of suspicion. He had noticed her lips and her hair being different.

"Lydia?"

He really shouldn't have opened his mouth.

"Get lost," the princess snapped and threw the first thing lying around at her brother. It was a bowl of apples.

Miguel caught it on the fly and decided to withdraw.

An enraged woman was likely to cause injury. She might not kill anyone—she wasn't strong enough—but she could cause enough damage. And if Lort truly had kissed her...

Miguel couldn't very well demand he marry her, could he? That sounded idiotic: a princess and some count? Too bad, he had failed with Maria, but whatever. Maybe he would get another chance?

Alone, Lydia rushed around her chambers, swearing like a fishwife at Altres Lort.

Scum, idiot, bastard, rascal!
Ugh!

***

"Your Highness?" In the meantime, Altres Lort was scrutinizing Maria.

The princess didn't hold things back from him.

"His Highness proposed to me. I refused."

"You did the right thing, Your Highness."

Maria looked at him anxiously.

"Count, I beg you...save Milia and my brothers! My sisters, too... I'm going crazy! I'm here, and they're in danger in Cardin..."

"I'll do everything possible and impossible," Altres reassured the girl. "And I implore you to resist any provocations and listen to Leir Olsen."

"Of course! I promise I will."

"I'm sure you're prudent enough, Your Highness."

"And I hope you will return victorious, Count."

Altres Lort gave an approving nod and started advising Maria on the best course of action in specific cases. She paid attention.  That wasn’t some love confession; he was talking business, and she'd do well to listen. She needed to pull herself together.

If only the count wins!
If only everything works out!

***

Maria kept repeating those words well into the night as she looked at the troops marching out, clasping her hands and wringing her fingers.

If only the count wins!
If only everything works out!

Thankfully, Fort Shedar had its share of towers—every flavor of them. Lydia was standing nearby, her expression aggravated. Maria had explained to her that she could understand her point, but she wouldn't take Miguel even if he were the last man in the world.

Lydia realized that the problem wasn't Miguel, but she still felt bad for her brother—as well as herself.

What did that scoundrel think about himself? Was she a kitchen maid?  She was a princess, unlike that...that creep!

She couldn't very well tell it to Miguel or Maria, either. What kind of situation was that? Lilian Earton would have understood her, but where was the countess? Maybe wherever Altres Lort was headed to. Maybe she was dead. Lort hadn't informed the Iverneans of anything, and they had not a clue.

Clenching her teeth, Lydia approached Maria.

"I’m sorry. I shouldn't have done it."

Without a word, Maria reached out for Lydia, found her hand, and squeezed it. Maria's fingers were icy cold.  Both girls were thinking the same thing. It was the first time any of them had seen anyone off to battle.  Their lives depended on that regiment.

Scary? No, it wasn't that. It was something else. The princesses exchanged looks and didn't take their eyes off the troops until the last of them disappeared from the horizon. Then they came downstairs.

Any fortress had a temple. It might be small and derelict, but still... That's where both girls were headed. Men went to fight, and women were left to pray, that's how it went in the world.

Aldonai, please protect them.
Thy will be done...

What arguments could be there at such a time?

Wellster, Cardin.

"Good day, Duke."

"Hello, Duke."

There was one more weakness Alcine couldn't help but indulge in. He had ordered Duke Estorn to be brought into the palace.

Armand Estorn was one of Gardwig's most ardent supporters. Despite his age—he was in his sixties—he was a tough and resilient man, tough as an old oak. Alcine had never liked him, and it was mutual. The power was in Robert's hands, which is why he had sent mercenaries after Estorn with an order to bring him to the palace. At first, politely.

Estorn didn't resist. He had ignored the Assembly; he had other things on his mind, namely smuggling his family and friends away. Still, he stayed in the city.  He didn't believe his enemy to be less clever than Armand himself. He was right. Armand had his people watch the duke's estate.  If they had noticed him pack up or prepare to leave, they would have instantly reported it to Armand.

Still, Armand was no fool. Two maids had left the mansion, and two returned. Nobody noticed that one of them had a different face. Several servants had gone out of the house to a tavern, spent some time there, and gotten back... Nobody cared about the duke's son, daughter-in-law, and three grandchildren. Armand had everyone move to his estate in Estorn and not stick their nose out until the situation sorted itself out. When things cleared up, they would either raise a rebellion, hide their families, or cut and run, depending on the situation. What mattered was to survive the first days of madness.

That's why Armand himself hadn't fled. He had nowhere to go, no reason to escape, and then, he was the most significant person in the area. It was easier for him to wait.

At the moment, he was staring at Robert with an arrogant expression. No matter how you looked at it, the duke was no match for him, and it wasn't even about the title. It's just that the Estorns had never counted traitors among their family.

Alcine was the first to break the silence.

"Will you drink, Duke?"

"Thank you, but I'd rather not," Estorn refused. Taking anything from an enemy's hands was both dangerous and disgusting.

"I'll still pour a glass. If I'm not mistaken, you like Lavreinian of the '45 vintage."

Alcine produced the glasses and poured the crimson liquid into them. The fragrance of grape and distant summer filled the study. Estorn shrugged but didn't even think about touching the glass.

"Are you wondering why I invited you?"

"No. You'll tell me anyway," Estorn replied, staring through the window pensively.

"Of course I will, right now," Alcine agreed. "I need your support. In a few days, His Majesty Henry will arrive at the capital for the coronation."

"Gardwig didn't have a son called Henry," Estorn cut off.

"You weren't at the Assembly..."

"And I don't know that Albitta gave birth to a bastard of an unknown father? I do know that."

"Henry's no bastard. He's a legitimate son of His Majesty Gardwig."

"I wonder if there's anyone who believes your lies."

"It's the thing I care the least about. I don't need faith. I need support."

"Did the aldon already agree?" Estorn asked with a crooked smile.

"Yes."

"And you offer me to join you."

"Yes."

"No."

"Think again, Estorn."

"About what? I count no lowlifes in my lineage."

"I can check and also terminate your line while I'm at it."

Armand shrugged.

"Maybe. But even then, I won't change my mind."

"Even if I order your grandchildren to be tortured in front of you?"

Armand leaned forward.

"Alcine, have you ever thought that not everyone wants to live as traitors? Or as scumbags, not that it makes any difference. I'd rather die than dig into the bullshit you're pouring your actions with."

Robert grew white with rage.

"Big talk for a doomed man."

"If the truth can only be shouted, it should be done on the main square."

"Oh, you can shout as much as you like, Duke—on the rack. Guards! "

Armand had no wish to die in a torture chamber. As his glass of wine flew into Alcine's face, the duke shot back, pulling out his dagger. It didn't stop the mercenaries from bursting into the room. Two started to advance on Armand, their swords out.

Estorn looked around. He had no choice. The only thing ahead was their blades. He had no chance to reach Alcine.

What else could he do? Die. But die with honor.

The duke calculated his chances and darted forward. He managed to parry a blow from the mercenary to the left of him, but the one on the right didn't miss the opportunity. Something cold pierced the duke's body, a strike that seemed to go all the way into his guts, and a chill spread out across his very being. He had nothing to lose anymore.

Armand leaned forward, skewering himself on the man's sword, and swung his own, striking his final blow. It was successful.

That was Aldonai's last gift—to die in battle, taking an enemy with yourself. Darkness blanketed his eyes, but Armand could see his opponent fall down with his dagger in his chest. He smiled.

***

Alcine spat at the old man's corpse in anger.

"Son of a bitch! "

The mercenary didn't say anything, preferring to stay unnoticed, not risking getting a lashing.

He guessed right. After spending several more seconds kicking the still-warm body, Alcine glared.

"Cut off his head and put it on display on the market square. Declare that he was plotting against Her Majesty."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Send people to his estate. All Estorns should be brought here."

"Just brought or—"

"Whatever it takes," Alcine said, brushing the question off. "It'll make them more pliant."

"Will do, Your Excellency."

"Hurry up!" Robert snapped.

It wasn't that Estorn had disturbed his plans. Still, he managed to make the duke furious.

So he was squeamish, of all things?

Yet he had nothing to compete with it. Estorn had been a nobleman to the very end and went out saying what was on his mind.

Alcine breathed in and out, trying to reign in a fit of temper. He didn't need it, not at the moment.

Yet the sword and the table fell victim to his rage. Robert pulled out his blade and swung at the table: once, twice, the third time...  He only stopped when he found a twisted piece of iron in his hands, blunt and dented. The table had gotten it bad, too.

Ah, to Maldonaya with it.

Alcine threw the remains of his sword on the floor, ordered the first servant he saw to tidy up, and left the study. Some of his captives were about to get really unlucky. The main wave of anger had subsided, but Alcine still needed to take out his frustration on someone. Why not his enemies?

So, who did he have? Ah, the Ativernans...

Wellster, on the road.

"You're risking a lot, Jess."

"I know."

Jerisson shrugged casually. He knew everything, he understood everything, but he didn't have a choice. Of all the men they had, nobody else could play that role.

Alcine could have fallen for Altres Lort, maybe Count Chantaine...that was it. The rest were too small of a prey for him. But those two were too important in the grand scheme of things.

Jerisson was the perfect man, really. The duke must have heard a lot about him already; he was sure to rise to the fly. How would it happen? What would the count have to contend with? Neither Jerisson himself nor Altres Lort could guess, but they needed to buy time—and prevent Duke Alcine from fleeing.

Risk? Madness? The last word was a great description of the situation in Wellster, and it meant they had to move.

Jerisson saw no other way out. He would do what he could, and after that... It was all in Aldonai's hands.

Onwards, friends!
To victory or death!

Virma. Somewhere on the island.

Ian Gardren couldn't believe his luck.

A boat!

Generally, in Virma, people got hanged for stealing boats: by the neck, if they were lucky, by their feet if not, and nobody would condemn the judges. With fish being the main source of food for the locals, the means of obtaining it became incredibly important. Plus, making a good boat wasn't easy.

But what would a boy do? His nanny was weak and out of her mind, the baby girl kept whimpering, it was drizzling, the horses were tired... Ian realized that at this rate, he might not make it to the Hardrings.

He would simply fall down and die. His sister would die with him, too, and so would the last chance of revenge.

The boy didn't hesitate. He tied the horses, emptied the sack of grain they were carrying on the ground for them to eat, and left a few gold coins as payment for the boat.

It was a good payment, too, almost thrice its cost. One coin would have been enough, not to mention the horses that would always come in handy.

All that was left to do was to carve the emblem of Clan Gardren on a log the boat was attached to and get inside. Like any Virman boy his age, Ian knew how to sail. It would be safer for them on the water.

Sailing was easier than riding and required less effort.

Too bad they had nothing to eat, though.

Olive, could you help? You always help those who don't give up. Maybe you could spare us a look too?

For a second, the sun peeked out from behind the heavy clouds and flashed golden light right into his eyes. The god had heard him.

Virma. The lands of Clan Oronsteg.

Angelina was sitting on a log pouring sand from one hand into the other.

Some people would have never understood her, but the princess appreciated such quiet moments without any handmaidens or people around, when she could remove all masks and be alone with herself, the sky, Virma, and her own thoughts. Especially the last, really.

She knew that she had committed the unthinkable. Still, some things couldn't be changed or altered. So, did she regret it? Alone, she could answer the question honestly: she didn't.

Later, it might happen; later, she could lament her foolhardiness and spend her whole life paying for it. Actually, that seemed pretty likely.

Angelina remembered a story told by Lilian Earton that had gotten stuck in her memory.

Once, two families feuded with each other, and their children fell madly in love. The man died, but the girl survived. She was married off, had children, laughed and was happy, but once...

Imagine that: a cheerful family, children playing around, their parents watching them with a smile on their face, no signs of trouble—and then, something vividly reminds the woman of her tragic past when she was her daughter's age.

She cries, calling for her lover, who died twenty years ago, and can't do anything. She simply dies. Angelina thought that it was the best outcome.

It was impossible to live with something like that or to forget it. Had Angelina condemned herself to such a fate? Possibly.  She might not be regretting it at the moment, but could it cause her pain down the road? Maybe.  Was she willing to pay the price? She was. On second thought, she realized the difference between herself and the girl in Lilian's story. The girl had wanted to live her entire life with her beloved, hoping for happiness.

Angelina's love for Bran, before it had even a chance to blossom, was already tinged with loss and doomed. They would kill that passion themselves, rip it out of their hearts.

Bran was married, and she was a princess. What was there to talk about? What arguments could they give?

Everything had been perfectly clear from the very beginning. There was no point in torturing herself anymore; she would rather give up and be happy for at least a few days and nights. She would have enough time for pain later. The voyage home, her life in Ativerna...

Richard would know the truth; she couldn't hide it from him. Her father, too. But Joliette?

Angelina considered the question. No, she wouldn't say anything to Jolie. It was too personal; it was only between her and Bran.

She didn't want to waste another minute.

Onwards, Angie!
Pull it together!
If destiny gave you such a gift as these minutes, use them well!

Thank you, Virman gods.
Thank you for Bran.
And a special thanks to you, Fleyna.

Suddenly, Angelina felt a chill, as if a breeze ran down her spine like someone laughed in the heavens.

Mortals.
Naive, stupid mortals.  You play with your feelings, build plans, and hold out hopes.
For what?

It doesn't matter.
Keep playing, and we, the gods, will watch you and judge you.
And then, we'll do everything our way.

Twenty years later, you might be crying, girl, or you might be grateful.
Who could know the ways of the gods?
Definitely not mortals.

Wellster, Cardin.

"Halt! Who goes here? "

"It's all right! We're on the same side!"

"Password?"

"Betty! "

"Who’s this?"

"Count Earton. We caught him. The duke will surely appreciate it!"

"Ah..."

It was the fourth time Jerisson had heard that conversation, and he liked it less and less each time. From the looks of it, the duke was a right bastard.

The duke... If only Jess could remember his face! But no matter how many jogs down memory lane he made, he couldn't recall it—something blurry, something polite...nope, no luck.

And that duke must have been a smart man, too. If not for the mercenaries on the streets, Jess would have never believed Cardin to be caught in a mutiny. Everything seemed fine and dandy; nobody was demanding justice...

He wondered what had happened to the other Ativernans: Count and Countess Elont, the Roivels, Marquis Losan. They were his people, and Jess had all but forgotten about them.

But he had other things on his mind after a furious ride to the city, always pushing forward, not letting himself stop and think even for a second. Everything had worked just as planned.  He was a valuable prisoner, Alcine already knew of him, and so did the patrols and the entire capital. All he needed was to hold on.

Altres Lort was following him with fifteen hundred soldiers. They wouldn't abandon him.

Still, there was a big difference between not abandoning and rescuing in due time. He would prefer to remain all in one piece without any important bits missing.

He hoped that his unsavory reputation could help with that: Jess was known in Wellster as a philanderer, troublemaker, and lady-killer whose best asset was friendship with the crown prince. Nobody would take him seriously, let alone Alcine.

And if Jess did what was expected of him—run away, get caught— the duke would eat it up.

After that, Jerisson's task was simple:  draw Alcine's attention and not let him escape. Otherwise, all of their efforts were for naught.

They needed Robert Alcine, preferably alive, if not, then dead, as long as he didn't get away. He was a snake that would keep biting until it was dead. Such enemies couldn't be left alive, absolutely. They needed to crack him and then kill, slowly. All right, maybe quickly—it wouldn't matter anymore; for such plans as his, failure was worse than death.

Jess was aware that he was risking life and limb—if, say, Alcine ordered his men to throw Jess into the torture chamber right away or put him on the rack or...

Altres Lort had searched his memory and told everything he remembered about Alcine. It wasn't a lot, but it was surprisingly not little, either. The Alcines were considered untrustworthy, after all, and needed to be watched.

Too bad he hadn't watched closely enough. Or maybe he had. Why did Alcine have so few men? A thousand wasn't nearly the number for seizing power in a country.

He couldn't get more because he had to hide. It was impossible to gather a huge army in secret and follow the law, at least, in public. Altres had his spies, and they had told him about the duke—apparently, only fifty percent of their information was true, but that was better than nothing.

Alcine was stubborn, vindictive, vengeful, and never denied himself the pleasure of torturing a captive enemy. So was Jess his enemy?

That depended. Alcine was clearly hell-bent on making him one and didn't take no for an answer. That was half the battle. All Jess had to do was to pique Robert's interest for long enough; after that, it would be time for stages two and three of their plan. As for risk...well, Jess had never intended to live forever.

Impending death changes people a lot. Some understood that each moment was precious and decided to play it safe. Some, like Jerisson, decided to live the rest of their life so as not to be ashamed for those moments.

Jess could have refused. It wasn't his home, his country, or his business. He could have refused, but he could never live with himself after that. That's why he did that.

At last, the palace loomed ahead.

"What a meeting!"

It was Baron Fremont.

Oh, for cripes' sake!

Jess eyeballed his former drinking buddy but didn't say a word. He needed to bide his time before striking; at that moment, he had no chance of crushing that bastard, so he shouldn't waste his energy on petty slaps or threats, not to mention a murder attempt. That would have been squashing a bedbug when facing a viper, in a word, foolish.

The baron grinned.

"Count, I'm glad that you've decided to avail yourself of our hospitality. But where's your lovely wife? I hope she'll join us soon!"

"You should fear that rather than hope," Jess retorted. He really wanted to wipe that stupid grin off his face for even one word said about his wife, but he couldn't. What he could do was to speak, as they hadn't gagged him. "Lily was just thinking about getting herself new specimens."

"About what?"

Lily really had contemplated starting up a museum of human anatomy. Jerisson knew her plans, so he explained everything with competence and the smile of a seasoned vivisectionist.

"It's when a human body is cut into parts and put into jars. The ear, the eye, the liver, the lung, I dunno, the heart..."

The baron shuddered.

"What for?"

He even forgot to mock his defeated enemy.

"To learn what people are made of," Jerisson explained. "She'd feel sorry to use a good man, but you, Baron, would fit right in. At least you'd be of use to science if you can't be of use to people."

The mercenaries could barely restrain a chuckle.

The baron realized that he was being made fun of and punched Jerisson in his gut. As usual, Jess tensed his muscles and bent a little, decreasing the force of the blow, but still doubled up and groaned, so as not to get a second helping.

"Hitting captives is easy, huh?"

"And comfortable. So...whose squad are you on?"

"Sharden’s," one of Jerisson's escorts replied.

"Where's he?"

"He said he'll be late."

He really had said that—just before his death.

Leir Olsen had no time for niceties when hanging out the surviving soldiers over the walls of his fortress.

Question first, hang later. What else could they expect? That was the only option.

Jess considered asking the leir to hang Fremont on the same wall as Sharden as a favor to him.

"Go to the guardhouse. I'll have wine and food brought to you. I'll take this one to the duke myself."

"Tell him how you hunted me in the wilderness yourself while you're at it," Jerisson added hoarsely.

Another punch silenced him.

All right, his mission was to buy time.

Edwin walked forward, and Jerisson was forced to follow him, as he was holding the chain of his manacles, while two soldiers kept jabbing him in the back.

So where were they going?

He didn't have to guess long as they came up to the doors of the king's study, and the baron vanished behind them. Jerisson was left to wait.

Before long, Fremont stepped out and pushed the count in his back.

"Get going."

"I'd rather you get gone," Jess snapped, but still walked inside the door.

So that's what you look like, Duke Alcine.

Chapter 5

The man sitting behind the Lion of Wellster's desk could only be described as average. Dark hair, a purebred face, attentive eyes...what could Jess say? Men with such looks were a dime a dozen among nobles.

But something felt off about him. Something was wrong.

Jess instantly realized what it was; his experience allowed him to. It was the dark water at the bottom of his pupils, hiding either a Kraken or a wyrm...or madness. You never knew what could look out from his eyes, but you'd never like it.

Why couldn't anyone notice that? Had it showed up only recently, with the duke suppressing that side of him until then? And after reaching his goal, or a part of it, and gaining power, it was unleashed.

Yes, it might be.

"Count Earton."

A smooth voice was somehow scarier than shouting.

So that was the man whom Jess was going to speak to? He needed to be killed straight away, no words, just straight-up attack!

He should be crushed like a venomous snake!

But not yet, alas.

"Your Excellency," the count replied, not waiting for an invitation to sit down in a chair on the other side of the desk, "Could you pour some wine? I'm parched. What kind of rabble do you employ? They seem to have no idea about manners."

The duke definitely didn't expect such a question. He smirked, appreciating Jess's cheekiness.

"Well then, I suppose I could pour you some wine...as a last favor."

"Well, if it's the last favor, I'd like twelve-years Sharonian," Jerisson retorted, not about to concede. "My life should have something nice in it, should it not?"

"Do you want to complain about your life?"

"Are you willing to listen?"

"I am. But first, could you tell me the whereabouts of Her Highness Maria?"

Jess shrugged.

"She's with Her Highness Lydia and His Highness Miguel. I personally handed her over to the Iverneans."

"What for?"

"To cause problems for you." Jess gave him a charming smile. "So, where's my wine?"

Robert touched a bell and gave orders to the scared servant.

"Just a minute. So tell me, Count, how did you get Her Highness out?"

"From the very beginning?"

"Yes, please. You don't want to be tortured, do you?"

"I really don't," Jess confessed.

"Then go on."

The temptation to start with Lily's favorite "In the beginning, there was a word, and that word was 'Get lost'" was unbearable, but unfortunately, it never worked even with Miranda, so Jess decided to start with the ball. His task was stalling. If they wanted to listen, he would sing them a song so pretty nightingales would die of envy!

***

Altres Lort touched the stone.

It was right where it was supposed to be.

"We need to move this boulder."

The soldiers pushed all at once.

It was already dark, and nobody could see them from the city walls. As for the noise—well, who said nobody made noise under the walls at night? The guards were used to stuff happening there, and nobody paid any attention to it. It was more trouble than it was worth.

Moving the boulder was pretty hard, but ten men were enough to succeed. The underground passage into the city was finally open.

Alas, they couldn't get too many people inside. It might sound nice, smuggling a thousand soldiers through a secret route, but in reality, the more people were there, the likelier was failure. Fifty men were the maximum.

"Follow me and try not to make noise."

Count Lort led the descent.

They needed to make haste.

Count Earton had been left at the gates thirty minutes before, an hour, tops. It was Altres' turn at the moment; Chantaine would approach the city walls an hour later, starting the real party. By that time, Altres had to be inside the palace—or die trying.

The conspirators had cut off Wellster's head, and that's what he wanted to do to them. It needed to happen quickly, just in one clean cut. The mercenaries would never give their lives for those who wouldn't pay them.

Count Lort walked downstairs, feeling for the stairs with his feet. The air was damp, and the staircase was moist. It hadn't been cleaned in forever.

They needed to go through the tunnel, enter the city, and enter another secret passage into the palace.

Altres wondered if he would make it in time. He must. He had already been late once; it should never happen again.

***

Sipping his wine, Jerisson told his story. He was good with words, so the duke had spent the last half an hour listening to the story of Jess and Maria's escape in graphic detail, including how ravishing Princess Lydia had looked.

Have you met her?
No?Too bad!

You are going to rule, aren't you?
Really?
Then who's on the throne?
Not my business?
Oh well. I wouldn't take it for free, anyway. So, where was I? Ah, Lydia!
And Miguel!
And Maria, of course—it's her you care about the most, Duke, am I right?

Where are they headed, you ask?
To the nearest temple, I suppose, to be wed.
You know, politics... I'll never get the princess to Ativerna, anyway—you'll capture her as you've already captured me.

So the Iverneans will get a claim on the throne of Wellster, and you'll never get rid of them.
Sooner or later, you'll come to blows, and we'll sit on the sidelines and wait it out. And then, we'll deal with the one who's left.

Yes, Duke.
I suppose I am a bad man.

Alcine nodded, agreeing that politics was for villains. Then he threw up his hands.

"If so, Count, I suppose you won't have a problem."

"With what?"

"With you being the one to kill poor King Gardwig."

"Really?" Jerisson, who had no idea about such a detail in his biography, was quite surprised.

"Of course," Alcine affirmed. "And you confessed to it, too."

"Are you sure I did?"

"You have two options. Either you confessed willingly or under torture."

"These two are options, right?" Jerisson wasn't even mocking the duke; he was simply inquiring.

"Of course," Alcine confirmed. "In any case, you'll be executed tomorrow. As for whether you'll go to the gallows with your head high or crawl there crippled, it’s your choice, Count."

"I'm not sure. I need to think. Do I have time?"

Duke Alcine chuckled, looking like a man who had the life and death of all of Cardin in his hands.

"Five minutes?"

"Duke, would that be enough for you? I spend longer reflecting in a latrine."

The crude joke seemed to amuse the count.

"Well then...I'll even give you company for your thoughts."

"A lady, I hope?"

"Almost, Count. Almost."

The bell rang once again.

"Send the count to the Ativernans in the northern tower for half an hour, then get him back here."

Jess weighed in.

So he got half an hour.

Would he see the Ativernans?

So some of them were still alive? Great! The rest could be fixed.

"You're very kind, Your Excellency."

"I hope you appreciate it, Count."

The door swung shut behind Jerisson.

***

Altres Lort led his group across the city.

He really wished they could have exited somewhere in the vicinity of the palace, but no luck.

They still had several streets to cross. But Aldonai didn't seem to hold him in his favor that night.

"Halt! Who goes here?"

Alcine did have the streets patrolled.

Killing several guards wouldn't be hard, but the noise they would make...

But how was he supposed to explain fifty people being outside at night?

Altres might have figured something out, but his face was too well-known in Wellster.

"The King's Butcher!" someone far too sharp-sighted for his own good yelled out.

What were they supposed to do after that?

The soldiers charged forward like wolves. Swords clashed, and a dozen guards were felled before they knew it. Unfortunately, they still managed to cause a ruckus.

Altres looked around.

"Forward! Run!"

Orders like that were carried out immediately.

Behind them, people screamed, and weapons thundered. The alarm was sounded all over the city.

Where in Maldonaya's name was Chantaine?

***

At that moment, Count Chantaine was headed toward the gate.

He was taking his time as he deployed the troops in battle formation.

All of them were carrying torches: famously, danger could make mountains out of molehills. Let the enemy think he had a not a hundred-plus men, but many more.

"Knock!" he told the runner riding by his side.

One didn't knock at the city gate with his hand, so the runner used the handle of his poleaxe to strike at the wood. It looked impressive enough.

"Who's there?" a voice asked from the wall.

Chantaine could swear the man was trembling.

"The Armored Regiment! Open up, thug!"

"WHO?"

The shriek from behind the wall was full of genuine horror.

"Didn't I make myself clear? Open up! If I'm not inside the city in five minutes, then in half an hour, you'll be missing your head!"

Silence fell.

In a moment like that, even the torches seemed to crackle quieter so as not to bother the men.

In a few moments, everything changed.

"Chantaine?" a clearly higher-ranked officer asked.

"For you, it's Your Grace!"

The runner was shouting at the top of his lungs as if he had been picked specifically for the strength of his voice.

"Your Grace, I won't let you inside Cardin." The voice was calm. "But, I can invite you to negotiate."

The runner turned around and looked at Chantaine. The count nodded.

All of it had been planned in advance. Those few minutes could mean the world to Lort or Earton. Both of them were risking their lives, so fair was fair.

"Come out of the gates if you're no coward," the runner replied. "The count guarantees your safety during parlay."

The man didn't hesitate for long.

"I'll be down in a minute."

***

Cortho Lingar, the leader of a mercenary band, was a man who couldn't be called a coward. Of course, he had been called a bastard a fair share of times, or a dirt bag, a murderer, a lowlife, a rat... Not a coward, though.

Cortho, a child of a Khangan man and Virman slave girl, had never been accepted by either of those nations. He never felt at home in Virma, while living in the Khanganat stifled him. The sea didn't call to him, so he chose the land.

At fifteen years old, he ran away from home to leave with mercenaries and hadn't regretted that once.

He never spared a thought to his mother or his siblings. Having inherited contempt for fellow human beings from his father, he left home for good, not caring about it a bit.

Why would he? He learned everything the other mercenaries had to teach, was injured many times, and lost and gained money many times. Still, money always ran out eventually, and age was catching up to him.

Like prostitutes, mercenaries had a short shelf life. After that, they either retired or advanced to the next level. Cortho got his own back, but what came next?

He had several options. Enter the service of some nobleman, join the king's men, or scrape up a small fortune and settle down somewhere.

Alas, he could not. Both Cortho and his gang were infamous for nobody being foolish enough to hire them for good. All they could get was dirty work, after doing which their employers usually paid up and tried to forget about it.

Dirt was dirt, after all. Nobody liked to think of themselves as evil, but what else would you call killing women and children, abductions, and...other stuff?

With such a record, any king would send Cortho only one way: to the gallows. Lords didn't seem to be in a hurry to acquire his services, either. And money... Money was running out.

That's when Robert Alcine came in.

When the mercenary first heard his offer, he twisted his finger at the temple. Not physically, of course—who'd do something like that? But then he thought again.

Alcine paid generously. If it worked out, Cortho had a comfortable retirement ahead of him and a title. If it didn't... Well, a part of the payment was made upfront, and a good part, too. If anything went wrong, all they needed to do was make a run for it and lie low with their money in a quiet spot somewhere far away.

Cortho liked both of those options. Stupid mercenaries didn't live long, and they always knew when to run.

And so, Cortho decided to accept the offer. Thus far, it seemed to be the right choice.

The capital fell into their hands like a ripe apple. Had he known himself how easy it would be... But no, it wouldn't have been easy for just anyone. Alcine had planned it out well and waited for the right moment to strike. Someone else might have missed it.

Cortho held no illusions about himself. Petty tasks were his limit; he wasn't cut out for bigger things, simple as that.

Some people couldn't play the flute, some couldn't even wield a knife without cutting their legs, and he wasn't meant for anything large-scale.

He could plan out a scuffle, but not a war.

He had, however, to hand it to Alcine: crazy or not, the man was really good.

But where had Chantaine come from? With so many men, too?

Cortho leaned over the wall, estimated their number, and shivered. He had a score of people at the gate, and he'd be lucky if Chantaine had gathered less than a thousand. They had no chance of holding the entrance—maybe only stall for time.

Cortho grabbed one of his men by the hand.

Dying for Alcine?

He wasn't dumb enough for that.

"Prepare the cloaks and the horses."

The mercenary gave an understanding nod and disappeared in the darkness of the gate. Cortho didn't doubt that it would be done. If Chantaine would rush the gate, let anyone but Cortho defend it! It wasn't his battle. He had money stashed in a safe place, and getting out of the city wasn't impossible for young and healthy men.

But first, he would stall. Maybe Alcine had a contingency for that?

Money was good, but a noble title was still a better prize.

Cortho sent a runner to Alcine and went down to parlay.

***

Chantaine watched a small door open in the gate and a man come out.

He was alone,  even if armed. He was also holding a red scarf as a sign of parlay.

The count spurred his horse forward but didn't ride up to the wall. He didn't want them to fire an arrow at him from the wall. Cortho had to walk for quite a while to reach Chantaine, which didn't put him in a better mood. Still, the clock was ticking.

"Your Grace," he greeted the count.

"With whom am I speaking?"

Chantaine got down and stood to face the mercenary, as etiquette required. Cortho appreciated that. The count, due to his title, could speak to him while mounted, but he decided not to humiliate his counterpart.

"Cortho Lingar, mercenary leader," Cortho said, introducing himself the way he was used to.

Chantaine nodded.

"And what are you doing at Cardin's gate?"

Cortho feigned innocence.

"Your Grace, you must not know that a mutiny broke out in the city."

"Really? "

The count's tone gave Cortho a toothache.

So he knew?

Apparently, Chantaine knew everything. Still, he continued to stall.

"Yes. The Ativernans treacherously assassinated His Majesty Gardwig and tried to kill the princesses. My master was able to resist them, but unfortunately..."

Chantaine didn't let Cortho finish, raising his hand to break off the stream of lies.

"And who's this master of yours?"

"Duke Alcine."

"By what right did he close the gate of Cardin?"

"We're afraid of being attacked." Cortho threw his hands up. "What if civilians get hurt?"

Chantaine nodded.

Upon giving it some thought, he suspected he would have bought it, had he not known the truth. They would have convinced him. Everyone had their flaws. Some couldn't lead troops into battle, and some easily fell for deception, especially such a disgusting one, when everyone knew the truth, but nobody could catch the liar red-handed.

"Then get me Alcine. Let him open the gate."

"I've already sent for His Excellency."

Chantaine nodded.

"Great. I'll give you...half an hour."

"Your Grace! It's Cardin, not a field in the middle of nowhere! It's going to take a while..."

"Fine. An hour."

"Your Grace!"

"Mister Lingar, in an hour, I'm going to send this gate down Maldonaya's nethers and hang anyone who dares to resist on the walls. Then I'll come to Alcine myself."

Cortho could only bow as a sign of understanding.

"All right, then. I'm waiting."

Cortho bowed again. Chantaine nodded, and the envoys left.

The count returned to his men.

"Your Grace? "

"Make a racket, guys. Let them think we have thrice as many people."

Having figured out his order, the soldiers rushed to raise some noise and scare the guards on the walls—no point in letting the enemy know your true numbers.

Cortho also returned to his band.

Looking from above, he thought that Alcine might come, try to talk to Chantaine, try to persuade him, but he would fail.

That wouldn't cut in.

Chantaine knew the whole truth. Where he had learned it was a different matter, but he did.

With the instincts of a battered prey, Cortho realized that the count hadn't believed him. He had simply heard him out, and what came next?

But he couldn't very well report it to Alcine.

Your Excellency, it seems and appears to me...

Nope, it wouldn't sound right.

Cortho would rather keep his mouth shut and prepare a fresh horse. He would wait before fleeing, he still had to wait out an hour, but after that, it remained to be seen. Maybe Alcine would get around and reach the gate?

And Maldonaya's tricks would help him persuade Chantaine?  Win him over, explain it to him, buy him out—any option would do, as long as the count agreed with the duke and supported him. Still, his gut told Cortho that waiting was pointless.

They still hadn't found the missing queen, either. What if Chantaine had her?

He might, and that shed a wholly different light on the big picture. Cortho pondered it over, did a mental tally...

Personally, in Chantaine's place, he would have wavered. Why would people care who the regent was? It could just as well work out, and the count would have power, lots of power, all the power in his hands. Why share it with Alcine?

Then the negotiations were doomed from the get-go.

Cortho thought some more and got down from the wall closer to the horses. Both his heart and his gut told him to run. But a title...an estate...

All right. He would give Alcine a chance...as long as his horse was ready.

***

The northern tower didn't bring Jerisson any joy. Or was it the other way round? He was glad to see everyone alive—Erando, the Elonts, and the Roivels. But their condition...

Everyone had gotten their share, no matter their age or gender. The marquis was put on a rack and branded; Count Elont was whipped; Count Roivel waterboarded; the women had their nails pulled... It might have been more, but Jess didn't pay attention. The sight of Countess Roivel huddled up on the floor crying was enough. Not long before, she had seemed so strong and unbending, but some things broke people.

They recognized Jerisson, but nobody seemed happy to see him, not anymore.

"Jess," Marquis Losan said, barely moving his lips. "You..."

Jerisson would have loved to punch the jailor, twisting his neck and freeing the prisoners, but... He couldn't, not yet, at least. He couldn't even tell them the truth. Instead, he threw up his hands, dejected.

"Yes. It's me."

"You'll have time to talk," the torturer chuckled. "You'll all hang together."

Jess turned around.

"None of us will talk to you; I promise you that."

It almost sounded like a threat.

The jailor squirmed and waved his hand.

"Your time is up, I'm sure! Scram."

Jess couldn't help but glance in the direction where help was supposed to come.

How soon would Chantaine's troops arrive?

He didn't want to hang next to the marquis, but if he had no other opportunity... He wanted to die even less.

"I'll be back," he swore to his friends and turned to the door.

"You will, oh yes," the jailor grinned.

With a heavy heart, Jess left the tower, followed by Countess Elont's wail.

***

Altres Lort took only two minutes to open the fence door.

Who said that a secret passage leading from the palace could only end on the street? In some cases, the exit was an ordinary house, one of those handed out by His Majesty to his loyal men, an elderly couple living inside and attending to it.

How would one enter it?

Definitely not bang at the door, especially when you were chased by the guards. They might not open up straight away, and you'd lose time. But a man who knew certain secrets...

Altres did know a fair share of them.

After running for his life together with Gardwig in their youth, he hadn't just learned all the secret passages by heart: he improved them. You never knew when you'd have to escape—or where. Everything was planned out. How could it not be? It was a matter of national importance! The king's security mattered a lot!

Altres simply pulled out several rivets from the ornamented grid of the fence door, and it immediately opened up. As soon as the last of his men went inside, they pushed it down.

Everyone fell on the ground and covered themselves with their cloaks, while Altres crawled closer to the porch. It's not like he could stand tall for everybody to see him. No, he crawled on the ground to the back door so that nobody would notice.

The tenants were already waiting for him. The door was open.

"Your Grace? "

"Hush!"

It wasn't the smartest of replies, but it was enough to be understood.

The lights in the house went out, and the old servant blew at the candle in his hands.

Of course, he knew Altres Lort. He had worked for thirty years in the palace and was currently living out the rest of his days with his wife on the royal pension in the house given by His Majesty. He was also taking care of the secret passage.

The King's Butcher slipped inside, followed by the soldiers.

Fitting fifty men inside was a story in its own right. It was a real challenge, but they couldn't stay in the street. Well, the more, the merrier, Altres thought. They wouldn't have to wait long; soon, they would find someone to take it out on.

"Your Grace, what's going on?"

Altres clapped the old servant on the shoulder.

"Nothing good, Yurnie. Nothing good."

The servant had already guessed that.

"Goodness knows what's happened in the palace..."

"That's where we're headed. Just so you know, you haven't seen us, and you don't know us."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Open the passage for us."

Giving a hurried bow, the servant went to the kitchen and down to the basement. There, everything was set up the easiest way possible.

Move aside the barrel of sauerkraut, push down the seemingly unyielding shelves... A lever could work miracles. All of that might have seemed to be there forever, unable to be lifted, but in reality, one move changed everything.

Count Lort knew where to push. He led the procession across the dark secret corridor to the place where nobody expected them and didn't want them.

He moved his mouth in a smile, but his eyes remained cold. He had been too late to help, but he would be fast enough to avenge his brother. That was his right.

***

"No! NO!"

Milia was writhing on her bed.

Lily gave her a firm shake. She had been sleeping in the adjacent room and immediately ran to the queen when the noise woke her up. Seeing that Milia was deep in the throes of a nightmare, she interrupted it in the simplest way possible: by waking her up.

"Come up! Wake up!"

The grey eyes slowly opened, still full of fear. Milia grasped the surroundings, sighed, and closed her eyelids. A tear rolled down her cheek, then another.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Drink something."

"All right."

Lily skillfully helped the woman sit upright, fluffed up her pillow, and gave her water.

"I really need to make you a sippy cup. I'll have a talk with the Eveers."

"A sippy cup?"

"I'll show it to you later when all of this is over."

"You're so confident in this..."

Lily shrugged. Two years ago, she had found herself in a new world all alone, with no friends or family—only her hands, her head, and her determination. That proved to be enough.

At that moment, she had all of that, but also something else: someone to love and someone to fight for, and she wasn't going to give up. Even if she died, she would go out with her teeth clenched on an enemy's throat.

That's what she told Milia.

"You also have someone to fight for."

"I can't. I'm weak like that."

"You must." Lily wasn't going to admit defeat. "I have Miranda, and for her, I will swim across an ocean and scoop out a mountain with a spoon. And also, Roman and Jacob, there, at home... I don't love them like I love Mirrie, but they are my children, and I'm responsible for them. And you have three! Do you want to betray them?"

Lily didn't mention Jerisson. Milia reminded her.

"My husband is dead."

"And mine is nowhere to be found. Maybe he's also dead," Lily retorted. "Should I die as well?"

The queen was embarrassed.

"It's even easier for you, in a way," Lily added, twisting the knife. "For me, everything's still in flux, and you know for sure. I'm tormented by doubt and speculation, and I'll have to keep doing that for a long time. But even if Jess is dead, I still have my children to live for. I won't betray them by being a spineless weakling!"

"I'd rather not know," Milia whispered. "I'd rather keep hoping...at least for a bit!"

"Hope is something kings can't afford."

"I’m not—"

"Milia, please understand. We don't have any choice. A king is more than fancy ceremonies and accessories. By accepting the crown, you assumed not only rights but also responsibilities. This country is yours: your choice, your right, your road, if you will. Nobody else can travel it but you. When you become a ruler, you become something more than human: a symbol. You're responsible for more than just your own self, but for every one of your subjects, down to the last beggar."

"I'm not a king."

"You're the mother of a future king. Your burden is even heavier. Your husband ruled, and then your son will. You may not get to rule yourself, but you will get to shape him, make him a better king."

"You're so cruel."

"Our life's no bed of roses, either."

Milia paused for a few seconds, composing herself.

"What would you have done in my place?"

"I'd summon a regency council," Lily immediately replied, not surprised with the question. "You already have the chairman, Count Lort. He was completely loyal to Gardwig and will be loyal to your children. He'll love them, too. As for the rest, we'll pick them one by one as the need arises. In the meantime, you can tend to the children."

"You speak as if that's easy..."

"It's never been easy for me," Lily snapped. "And it won't be easy for you, so get used to it. That is the road of kings."

"I'm just the king's wife."

"No, Milia. You're the queen. You're responsible for those who live in Wellster, as well as your children, as well as many other things. You'll have to learn to live with it."

Milia didn't want to learn, but there were no other options in sight. All she had to do was move forward, and for the time being, pray to Aldonai to grant luck to those who protected them.

***

When he entered Alcine's study, Jerisson wasn't as calm as before. The duke noticed that, too.

"Have you figured what's waiting for you, Count?"

"What was the point in torturing the women?"

"We didn't torture them. They were just a means to influence their husbands," Alcine replied, apathetic. "If it was your wife there, what would you tell?"

"Everything," Jess said without hesitating. "But I'd lose her after that."

"Really?"

"She'd never forgive me for that betrayal. She'd either kill me or leave."

Alcine raised his eyebrows. That wasn't something he'd expect from a woman.

"Interesting... Maybe we'll have a chance to talk to her yet."

Jerisson shuddered, imagining Lilian next to that dirt bag. At least it wouldn't last long.

If Lily would still be able to act, she'd never take it. She'd strike the bastard down without flinching. A smile came unbidden.

"Did I say something funny?" Alcine asked with a slight scowl.

"You haven't caught her, have you? And you won't catch her now."

"Why's that?"

Jerisson grinned. I know, but you can keep guessing. The duke squinted.

"So what have you decided, Count? Will you write a confession that you killed His Majesty, or would you rather return to the northern tower?"

Jess shrugged.

"Give me parchment and tell me what to write."

Alcine pushed him pen and ink from his side of the desk. The feather in the quill was one of those gifted by Lilian to Gardwig. Jerisson recognized the "G" letter adorned with a crown.

"Go on then. Cardin, Wellster, day... of... I, Jerisson, Count Earton..."

Jess obediently started scribbling on the paper. It was a confession, true.

He finished it with his signature, poured a dash of sand, and handed it to the duke.

"Check."

Alcine couldn't help but set his eyes on the text. He read it carefully.

"Wh—"

He didn't get the chance to say anything more. Jess deftly shook the shackles from one of his hands.

Manacles? He wasn't going to fall for that! It was time to end that circus. They might look threatening and weigh as much as the real deal, but the bracelet wasn't held by a rivet, but by a simple screw. He didn't need more than a few minutes to pull that out. He had already practiced doing that on his way to the study, so as to be prepared.

A chain wrapped around Robert Alcine's throat, preventing him from calling for help, depriving him of air...

Jerisson hadn't gotten to lead the royal guards for nothing; a position like that required guts, whether you were the king's nephew or not.

Jess waited for Alcine to lose consciousness and masterfully tied him up. The arms, the legs, a gag, a door bolt...

Great!

So what was next?

That was a question. Altres didn't know where Jess would end up in capture, so he couldn't list all the secret passages to him. Therefore, he had decided not even to start. What was the point, really? He would forget some, mix up the others, and some were state secrets fit only for use by the king.

Well then. If he couldn't escape, then Jess would hold out inside the room for as long as Aldonai willed.

He might need a weapon, too—something to fit his hand. Having only the good word at his disposal when the time came didn't seem appealing.

Gardwig's study was helpful enough to provide the count with a curved Khangan sword. It felt a bit odd, but it had the proper weight and a grip that felt just right in his hand. Ooh, what's this? A dagger?

All the weapons inside were Gardwig's. Jess could have taken a zweihander, a bastard sword, or even a glaive from the wall, but all of them were far too heavy. Fine, he wouldn't be greedy.

The duke was still out. No need to wake him up; let him sleep, for the time being, build up strength for the execution. Meanwhile, Jess decided to examine the study.

***

Altres Lort counted down steps and corners.

After that memorable escape together with Gardwig, he had personally explored all the nooks and crannies in the palace and knew each and every secret passage.

Gard had known them as well, but he didn't make use of that information.

They were already inside the palace, or rather, underneath it. Where would they exit?

Altres held no doubts about that: definitely under the queen's chambers. There might be guards posted at the princes' rooms, the enemies having already learned about the secret passage, but that branch might still be free.

That's where Altres was headed.

Of course, he didn't fall out in the middle of the room, all covered by dust and cobwebs, cussing his heart out. He didn't even make a noise.

The builders of the tunnels were no fools.

The people who designed secret passages always accounted for peepholes. You never knew who could be inside the room. It was better to be safe.

And really, what if the king decided not to escape, but to eavesdrop?

But Her Majesty's quarters were dark and still.

A woman was snoring in the bed. Several ladies-in-waiting and a few maids were huddled on the couches in the anteroom. That wasn't good. If that coop took alarm...

On the other hand, if it really was Albitta, Altres didn't want to let her get away.

He made up his mind. Pointing at his men, he gave out orders and opened the door. Conveniently, it opened just into the closet. While technically a part of the chambers, it didn't have anyone inside.

Six soldiers led by the count found themselves in a world of laces, silk, ribbons, and perfume. They didn't rush forward, stomping their boots and waking the entire palace.

Only two of them went forward, slipping inside the bedroom: Altres himself and Rein, one of the soldiers.

As he came up to the bed, Altres took a closer look, having accustomed himself to the darkness. Yes, it was Betty: older and uglier, but definitely her. Out of reflex, he reached out for his dagger, but no. He couldn't kill her.  Instead, he pressed his hand against her throat, picking just the right spot.

He didn't want to kill her, although it would have been acceptable; he only aimed to knock her out, putting her in a deep sleep.

The rest was simple. He wrapped the former queen in the blanket, tied her up in a bundle, gagged her, and passed her over to Rein. The soldier was no hunchback; with his build, it wouldn't be as hard for him to carry that load. In the closet, Altres left Albitta with two of the men to guard her and commanded the rest to follow him. They needed to take a captive, make him talk, find out where the second conspiracy leader was, and get to him.

The bastard wouldn't get away.  Altres closed his fists. The slime had no chance. He wouldn't slip out, not if Altres had anything to say about it.

***

The timing for the knock at the door was exceedingly bad—at least, from Jerisson's point of view.

"Your Excellency! Urgent news!"

Jess was willing to bet a gold coin that he knew the reason.

Chantaine.

Really, couldn't he have strolled around for twenty more minutes? Too bad.

All that was left was to stall, as always.

"Go away!" Jerisson snapped, trying to imitate the duke's voice.

A whimper came from behind the door.

"Y-your Ex-cellency..."

"I said, GO AWAY!" Jess bellowed.

He glanced at the window and sighed. It was quite likely he wouldn't make it to dawn.

Alcine, by his side, had already woken up and kept glaring at Jerisson. At least he was still silent. A gag was a handy thing in some circumstances.

Jess sat down and grinned.

"Want to talk?"

The duke only closed his eyes.

Jess pulled out the gag. There was no more reason to keep the man silent. In ten minutes, the entire palace would assemble behind the door.

"Do you want to live?"

Alcine's expression was indifferent.

"You'll kill me anyway."

"What if we trade? Death can be different: an easy one, a bad one..."

He only got a mocking smile in return.

"Too bad, I didn't finish off Gardwig's pups. Didn't get enough time."

"And you won't," Jess gave him the good news. "You should pray to Aldonai if you believe in him. I'll kill you first."

"What did you say about trading? I can offer you a chance to walk away on your own two legs."

It was time for Jerisson to smile.

"Do I look like an idiot?"

The problem was, he didn't. Shame.

Alcine clearly understood that. Well, it's not like it mattered. Who'd believe that swine anyway?

"Know that my men will carve belts of your people just behind this door."

"Were you planning anything else? Don't take me for a fool. And don't worry, my wife and my daughter aren't there. I'll survive."

Alcine fell silent.

Wellster might not have chess, but that didn't mean there could be no stalemate. What could any of them offer to each other?

Nothing.

Both sides had put everything on the line and had nowhere to go: only to die.

That's what Jerisson expected to do, but he wasn't going to do it alone.

He could still move something bulky to the door and prepare a few surprises for dear guests. Thanks to Gardwig, the room had enough weapons for a score of people and then some. To work!

***

Truly, only fools were worse than chicken.

At least, when it came to animals, Altres could snap their necks without any remorse. He couldn't do it with those women: after all, they were noble and highborn, someone's wives and daughters.

Thankfully, they managed to get through the antechamber without a lot of noise, pinning the ladies down and gagging them, even leaving a man to guard that lacy camarilla.

But how they glared!

They also squealed and writhed. Altres couldn’t afford any noise, and approaching every one of them was a colossal waste of time.

The only option was simply knocking them out for a spell.

The maids did try to fight, but it wasn't clear whether they wanted to get away or not. The soldiers didn't waste time and rendered them senseless.

Altres was sure that some of them worked for Alcine, but that would have to wait for after the victory.

"Where's Alcine?"

The question was addressed to the head lady-in-waiting.

She answered almost immediately.

"His Excellency occupies His Majesty's chambers."

All Altres could do was to grit his teeth.

So the duke hadn't just killed the lion, but also wiped his feet off on his hide? Just you wait, cur!

On the other hand, the chambers of the king and queen were connected. Why not check?

Nobody else knew the passage, so Altres led the way again.

Alas, the chambers were empty: no guards, no servants, nobody. Where had Maldonaya taken that bastard?

That said, the king didn't have only bedchambers in the palace. He also had rooms for official business, for rest, lots of them.

For instance, he had a study. Maybe Alcine was there? It was possible.

Unfortunately, no secret passages led there; they would have to go on foot. Or maybe some of the servants could check?

Altres was deep in thought when destiny solved that dilemma for him. A clatter of boots came from the corridor: first quiet, then louder.

The King's Butcher peeked out to have a look.

It was clearly an alarm. Could it be Count Earton's doing?

The men who answered it seemed busy, and all of them were headed somewhere west, where the king's study was located.

That definitely warranted investigation.

***

Unsurprisingly, it was none other than Baron Fremont standing behind the door.

"Jess, don't be stupid!"

Jerisson told the baron to go jump in a lake using rather imaginative vocabulary. Fremont listened with a measure of respect.

"Is the duke alive?"

"He hasn't kicked it yet!"

"Let him say something!"

"Alcine?"

The duke gave every appearance of being ready to die before collaborating with the enemy.

Jerisson took better aim.

A curt kick solved the problem. The duke wailed like a cat being neutered, which wasn't far from the truth. Fremont believed his ears and started trying to convince Earton that such behavior was wrong.

"Jess, you won't leave this place."

"And neither would the duke!"

"The duke?"

"As soon as you start barging in, I'll slit his throat. Then I'll take down as many of you as I can." Jerisson wasn't about to give up.

It might sound like what a terrorist would say, but really, it's not like anyone invited Alcine into the palace in the first place, the scum.

Jess couldn't help himself and gave the duke another kick for good measure, this time aiming at his ribs. It was still pretty painful. Alcine howled once again, confirming that he was alive and close enough for Jerisson to reach him.

The voice behind the door grew quiet.

"You're alone here! You'll never escape alive!"

Jess snorted, realized that the door was too thick for him to be heard, and replied in a louder voice.

"You weren't going to let me escape anyway!"

It was hard to argue that. They weren’t; they planned to execute him.

Fremont didn't waste time thinking.

"What do you want? "

"Freedom, of course," Jess said immediately.

"And what if we let you go?"

"As if I'll buy that for a minute!"

"I guarantee that you can leave the palace. I'll also give you a carriage and an escort."

Jess snickered.

"So they'd butcher me somewhere in the woods later?"

"Whom do you think we are?"

"Lowlifes."

Fremont cussed. Jess listened with a measure of interest.

Really, he had no reason to hurry. And incidentally...

"And what could have happened, I wonder, for you to need the duke so suddenly?"

Fremont faltered.

It's not like he could confess that Chantaine was at the doorstep, and not in the best of moods to boot.

"None of your business! Get the door down, lads!"

Jess praised himself for having moved the dresser to the door and started pushing an armoire in that direction as well. Ah, Your Majesty!
Couldn't you have placed a secret passage into the study, too? He felt like a rat caught in a trap.

Although that was to be expected, really.

So he had captured Alcine. Who said that his own men wouldn't kill him? Has anyone ever seen noble rats? And in that case, he had a whole pack of rats. If their leader stumbled, another rat would immediately try to take the vacant spot—like, say, Baron Fremont. He might be only a baron, but people of even lower birth were known to rise to power.

On the other side of the door, two men were loudly swearing as they tried to break the oak wood.

Jess didn't have time to listen.

He fortified the door as much as he could, grabbed Alcine, and dragged the struggling duke farther away to the desk. Then he set him up so he couldn't even flinch, even chaining him to the table with his own manacles. Unless he could unscrew them like Jess had, he'd never get out.

"Rest a bit."

"You're a dead man!"

"Maybe. Still, you should lie down. If you get scratched, Altres will never forgive me. He has his own plans for your hide."

"Altres?"

"Lort. He's here," Jerisson informed Alcine, cheerfully watching his face turn pale as a corpse. A lovely sight, indeed. "He'd love to have a conversation with you, too—an intimate one!"

The duke might have also soiled his pants.

Jess didn't give a hoot.

Your Majesty, why did you only use melee weapons to decorate the room?
I really wouldn't have minded a dozen crossbows.
Ah, what the hell, make it a score.

But the count had to content himself with several throwing knives, which he wasn't on the best terms with.

Now, Lily was pretty handy with knives, for a woman, of course.

Too bad, she wasn't there.

Too bad, he didn't get to see her one last time.

***

There was only one reason why Edwin Fremont wasn't swearing for all he was worth: he didn't have time. He had to give out orders.

Oh, that idiot!

He meant Alcine, of course. Not Jess, who was simply a dirt bag of the highest order, but Alcine, the imbecile!

He had let his guard down, thinking himself better than the rest of them. Fine, Fremont himself had made a similar mistake once, but really, how could he not realize that Count Earton was dangerous and stay alone with him?

That said, nobody who had seen Jerisson in his previous visit to Wellster could ever expect that of him: a slacker and a womanizer who only had the prince's friendship to his credit. The rest was a pile of shortfalls.

But somehow, he had managed to escape the cuffs and get to Alcine.

The secretary told the baron that Robert had ordered his men to lead Count Earton inside and leave them.

The baron suspected why: some things really didn't need any witnesses.

But using your brain was a must!

Everybody knew that a cornered rat could attack a cat, and the count was much bigger than a rat.

Of course, he did everything to avoid the gallows!

Fremont had no idea how to rescue the duke. If anyone thought that Count Earton wouldn't kill Alcine...that was far from certain. He just might.

On the other hand...was Alcine really that important?

Edwin had to confess to himself: yes, he was, important and necessary. The duke was a big player, while he was not much more than a pawn. Edwin was a not an especially respectable baron, but Alcine was entitled to revenge, having lands and money.

There was also Albitta, of course. In truth, Edwin didn't believe in the queen. He knew better than that: she was a fool, a hissy skank, a harpy. The duke must be praised for tolerating her for so many years; Fremont would have strangled her to death long before.

So if that's how things stood, there was only one choice.

Edwin started slowly pulling back. Someone else could take command. He had to admit that the game was over. Better to make a run for it while he had a chance.

When taken together, all of that sounded pretty fishy: Chantaine at the gates,  the captive count...

Was it just a coincidence?

Despite his wanton ways, Count Earton was no fool. He wouldn't have taken such a risk, giving himself up to the enemy, exposing himself by capturing the duke, stalling... It could only mean one thing: help was on its way.

Someone was coming to save the count.

It didn't matter who and how. Alcine's fate was already sealed—Jess could cut his throat any minute. But even if they managed to get the duke out, nobody was stupid enough to grapple with the Armored Regiment. Edwin was in no hurry to die for Her Majesty Albitta.

And he would die, too.

Heavy cavalry would make mincemeat out of mercenaries, who, despite being heavily armed and well-equipped, were no regular army able to crush an uncoordinated enemy.

It was decided then.

He would grab all the money, assets, and promissory notes he could get his hands on and flee as fast and far away as possible.

Then a short stay with trusted friends in the capital, and he'd be gone with the wind.

And thus, the baron disappeared in one of the corridors, leaving the mercenaries to break the door. Let them have their fun and also delay any pursuit while they were at it. The Baron held no doubt that it would happen.

***

Altres Lort walked through the palace, not bothering to hide himself, not scared of a dagger in back or a crossbow bolt. Behind him, with firm tread, marched the soldiers. Their scarlet cloaks fluttered, distracting any potential audience from the dirt they had collected underground. They had prudently carried those into the palace folded, only to put them on their armor after getting outside.  Hopefully, they would lessen the impact of a blow or two.

But nobody was there to attack them. Alcine's army was all mercenaries: people paid to fight, not to die. What use would corpses have of money? Some tried to mount a resistance, but most of them preferred to skulk into the darkness like cockroaches and scuttle away.

Of course, if Alcine was free, he might have rallied his men, and who knows what might have happened? Even vermin might be dangerous if they had a leader. Without one, however...

Count Earton had done everything right, capturing Alcine as a hostage and holding him inside the royal chamber, buying time. He helped Altres, and Altres and his men would help him in turn. Sometimes, help came too late. That time, it was different.

The scene around the study was a funny one. The mercenaries were busy breaking the door, having already made a medium-sized hole in it, and kept jabbing their spears inside, mostly at random, swearing enough to turn the air blue.

Altres would have spent more time admiring the sight, but he had no time. Instead, he whistled.

The mercenaries turned around, priceless expressions on their faces. For three seconds, Altres kept quiet, letting the circumstances dawn upon them, and then said loudly, "Those who surrender will live. The others die. You have my word. "

Altres' reputation was good enough.

Nobody in their right mind wanted to argue.

Slowly, one by one, the men dropped their blades.

Altres coughed.

"Are you alive there, Count?"

"Don't hold your breath!" Jerisson retorted. "Yes, I'm alive, and Alcine still hasn't dropped dead yet."

To Lort's credit, the first piece of information made him happier than the second.

"Count, you're priceless! Open the door!"

"You'll have to wait for that. I've piled up quite a bit of furniture," a merry voice said.

Something rumbled inside the room.

Altres sighed and turned to the soldiers.

"Get busy, gentlemen."

He didn't have to ask twice.

Some started picking up dropped weapons, while others escorted mercenaries into suitable rooms.

There wasn't much point in tying them up: they could just as well sit tight behind locked doors. After all, it's not like they had anywhere to run.

Their lives would be spared, but nobody had said anything about their freedom.

The mercenaries knew that but didn't resist anyway. Forced labor was something they were used to anyway, if not in Wellster, then somewhere else. As long as they survived, it didn't matter; unlike Aldonai's watch, one could escape from any camp.

At last, the final barricades fell, and Altres stepped into the study. He appreciated the count's preparations.

"Commendable, Your Grace."

Jess shrugged.

"What else could I do, surrender? And this is for you."

He dragged out Alcine by his collar without a drop of politeness.

"What a meeting, Duke!" Altres looked happy.

The duke clearly wasn't overjoyed, but who cared about his feelings? That only served him right.

Altres nodded at the soldiers.

"Take this one to Albitta and guard him with your life. If he dies, I'll hold you responsible."

Four men took the duke and carried him toward the queen's bedroom to rest inside the secret passage. Where else would they take him?

At least in a place like that, finding him would take a while, even if his accomplices started looking for him.

"Wellster won't forget your help, Count."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Jess stretched.

Altres looked around the room.

The wind was blowing a piece of parchment across the floor.

He picked it up, read carefully, and snorted a laugh.

Wellster, Cardin, the date...

I hereby confirm that Duke Alcine is a pesky and detestable wretch whose place is...

Jess had expressed himself with flowery language worthy of a criminal standing before the gallows, although he was forced to be brief because of time. All in all, it was a respectable specimen of sailors' language worthy of being included in academic papers. What else could he write, a confession to His Majesty's murder?

As if!

Altres threw the parchment on the desk, turned around, and left. There was much to be done yet.

***

As it turned out, winning was only half the solution.

Sorting out the mess made by the usurpers was a much more time-consuming and challenging task.

How many men had Alcine bought off? How many turned traitors? How many nobles would have to be killed or banished from the court?

Altres wasn't even trying to count. He simply perused the receipts and the protocols found in Gardwig's study and decided to remove everyone mentioned from the capital, not caring whether they were guilty or not.

Executing seemed too much. No matter how you looked at it, Albitta was a queen.

That was his fault, too. He had missed it once. But how could he know? He couldn't have crossed half of the country to put her down personally. He had people for that.

Bad luck.

Alcine had already started weaving his web at that point and chose to include Albitta in it.

He spent more than ten years preparing for the coup, but why?

There must have been a reason.

Altres was at a loss. Thankfully, he had his own torturers, trusted people who hadn't been harmed during the takeover. Such assets were rarely let go rather than converted. It was too hard to find people who knew that craft.

A good torturer needed to do more than procure the truth.

Depending on the employer's mood, he needed to either break the client or leave their free will intact, transform them into a piece of flesh shrieking with pain or preserve the former appearance.

Lort ordered not to pay Alcine any special attention and use the intermediate option. The point was keeping him alive until the execution.

Albitta?

Same thing.

Altres wasn't going to show mercy to traitors and lowlifes. Gardwig might have been guilty, true. Maybe he should have acted differently with his wife. It's not like it was her fault she had only birthed girls. He could have let her go, help her build a life instead of ordering her assassinated.

Fine.

But Milia?

The children?

Those who accidentally got caught up in the grindstone of Albitta's mad revenge? Like, say, the Ativernans.

How was it the fault of the Roivels and the Elonts, or young princesses who were found in their chambers scared out of their minds? The people who had died during the coup?

Ah, you couldn't do it another way?

Tough luck, then.

***

Everyone had their plate full with something, and there wasn't nearly enough manpower to handle even the major errands.

Altres sorted out the papers, while Chantaine cleaned out the palace. After giving it some thought, Jerisson decided to patrol the capital. At least he'd be useful that way.

In the meantime, Lort sent a pigeon to Milia, letting Her Majesty know they were safe, and also to Maria in Fort Shedar. It was too early for her to go to the capital, but at least it would allay her worries, and the Iverneans wouldn't get around to any mischief.

He held no illusions about that: they could.

Still, things would work out. They must.

***

Edwin Fremont's escape was a lucky one.

He got lucky enough to slip out of the palace. He also got lucky by being prepared and having ten trusted people with him. The horses, the gates... In truth, his luck was all due to planning. The bones of those who let things slide were currently being picked clean by Altres Lort.

Edwin shuddered reflexively. That was a man he really wanted to stay away from.

Bones? It would be worse than that; Lort would cut his flesh off and force him to eat it, if not worse. The count was known throughout Wellster for his imagination.

Run. There was no other option.

Where then? To the river?

Closing down the harbor was the first thing Lort had done. Technically, the order had been made by Alcine, and Lort simply sent a message confirming it. Nobody was to be let in or out, and all the ships were to stay anchored. Anybody who tried to get inside was to be considered an enemy and shown no mercy.

If Edwin wanted to leave Wellster, he would have to travel overland.

It might not sound bad if not for Fort Shedar standing on the crossroad of all routes. What was he to do with it? He couldn't ride past; there were probably sentries there. It was a real hot spot; Alcine had sent his men there, too, and if Lort was in Cardin, then the reports from the fortress must have been fake.

That meant the baron had only one option: stay in the country.

He would disappear, get to some port, and eventually set sail for...well, why not the Khanganat? There, he could survive, and in Wellster, Lort would definitely get to him, as would Earton.

His gut feeling had been correct: he really shouldn't have messed with the Ativernans. But the plan seemed to be so good!

Edwin Fremont was riding toward the Summer Palace.

It might not be the best destination, but Alcine had his informants and helpers there. They could prove handy, telling Edwin where to go, where the ambushes were, give a tip... And really, why not head there? Just as long as it was far from the capital.

Virma, the lands of Clan Oronsteg.

Bran and Angelina felt so happy they didn't want to return to the waking world.

Still, reality never cared for love; it had its own rules and regulations.

When Olav's pigeon arrived, Bran couldn't believe his eyes, reading and re-reading the letter several times.

Then he went to see Angelina.

"What’s wrong? "

Bran was blunt.

"A mutiny almost broke out in Virma. Olav says the Hardar, who almost killed us, are involved, on top of other clans."

"How's Richard?" Angelina asked, worried.

"He's alive."

"But?.." The princess had always been empathic enough.

"Tira was killed."

"Holy Aldonai! "

The princess put her hand on her mouth. Tears flooded her eyes.

Poor Richard!

As soon as he allowed himself to have a drop of happiness, destiny deprived him of it forever.

What had he done to deserve it?

Bran walked up to his beloved and awkwardly put his arm around her shoulders. If she were any other woman, he would have known what to say and what to do, but with Angie, he felt lost like a young boy.

"Her murderer is dead, too."

Angelina accepted his embrace and thought that at least Bran had managed to defend her.

He would have given his life for her, but Richard failed. Poor brother. Poor Tira...

"What’s going to happen now? "

"I'll go to Clan Hardar, tell them the good news." Bran chuckled. "And we'll return to the Hardrings."

Angeline gave him a questioning look. Bran gently traced her moist cheek with his hand.

"I know we have no future, but you're here, and I can't refuse that…at least while we're in Virma."

The answer was a kiss salted by her tears, and Bran forgot everything, both the fact that it was daytime and that he...no, he had locked the door out of habit and also visited Wulf before talking to Angelina. The warriors were packing up, and he did have some time. Maybe only an hour, but it was his and his alone.

The others could wait.

***

There was one thing Bran was wrong about.

They could only march out the next morning. Angelina refused to let him go so much that even forty bulls couldn't have budged her.

She wanted to go with him, and her argument was a deadly one.

Would he really leave her alone with Aldonai knew whom?

What if something happened?

Was Bran ready to spend his whole life lamenting that he hadn't kept his beloved safe? He might just as well!

He couldn’t object to that, and neither did he expect any combat. Bran was sure that the Hardars had already learned about the incident. Hardrings weren't the only clan with pigeons, and everyone had their agents in the enemy's midst.

Bran was going to go not with war, but with an offer of peace, and Angelina could only emphasize that.

And really, how could he abandon her like that?

Upon learning about a loss such as Richard's, he couldn't help but realize how easy it was to lose a part of his life and start treasuring what was close to him, realizing how fragile life was and how thin was the thread connecting people.

No, Bran couldn't leave Angie. He'd rather gnaw his own hand off.

Fine.

They would ride together.

Chapter 6

Wellster, The Summer Palace.

"They've won!"

The morning started with wonderful news.

The pigeon released in the evening reached the palace only by late noon, unable to fly at night. The people were cheerful and congratulated each other.

Lily made haste to Milia.

The latter had already been told, but nonetheless met the countess with a smile.

"Yes! Victory!"

Lily sat on her bed, touched her head, checked her heartbeat, and examined her.

"Great. I think that in five to ten days, I'll permit you to move to Cardin."

Milia sighed.

"I'm not sure I'd like that. Would it be possible to move a part of the court here?"

"Isn't this the Summer Palace?" Lily asked, surprised. "It's already autumn."

"So? It's just a name. There's also the Small Palace, the Green Palace, the Rose one... They called it that because of its amazing rosary, by the way. It doesn't matter much where I live. Without Gard..."

"Maybe you're right," Lily agreed. "You have children. Cardin might not be the best place for them. It's so dirty, and here, you have scenery, lots of air—plus, it's not like you'd have to move the entire court."

"Altres will decide. But I don't think I'll need a hundred people here. A hundred and fifty at most."

Lily nodded.

The queen mother's court was a political issue, but having met with Altres Lort, Lily held no doubt: Milia's court would be full of spies, informants, and guards. She was just too defenseless.

Could Lort want to change the game to his tune?

No, that was unlikely. That said, he would probably play a hand in the heir's education. They'd grow up complete bastards.

Maybe it wasn't too bad.

Any good ruler needed a touch of steel and ruthlessness, being able to become a villain for both their own people and the enemy if it meant that the country survived. Such was the road of kings.

***

"WE'VE WON!"

Maria was happy as a baby, which made sense considering her age. She was jumping in her place and clapping. Watching her, Leir Olsen was tempted to dance, too.

Victory!

It could have been so much worse. Olsen had estimated his own prospects at Her Majesty Albitta's court as pretty gloomy. He would have been hung or, in the best-case scenario, exiled to an estate. But in the current scenario, he had every chance to get a real title, maybe a baron or even more. After all, he had chosen the right side, and Altres Lort, with all his cruelty and smarts, knew how to be generous—just like Gardwig, may he rest in peace.

Her Highness would, of course, marry and leave...

"What else?" Maria asked, watching him with hungry eyes but unable to make sense of the shorthand writing.

A pigeon couldn't carry much, after all; if you wrote everything directly, you'd need an albatross, at the very least. Thus, they used a cipher.

Leir Olsen knew it and could easily interpret, unlike the princess.

"The princes are alive, and so is the queen."

"Yay!"

Maria was completely sincere, but the Iverneans escorting her turned sulky and exchanged looks.

Leir Olsen smirked.

Nothing you can do here.
You'll have to make do.

If the queen and the princess were alive, Maria became...an ordinary card. It was worthless to bet on her; she'd never gain power.

No need to kidnap her, no need to force her to marry Miguel. He could just as well relax and stop guarding the girl so diligently. But could he, really?

He couldn't. He knew of such things.

Leir Olsen might not have heard about Finangles's law, but he was aware of the gist of it.

As soon as he let his guard down and decided the worst had already passed...

It was too early to sheathe his sword. Let the soldiers watch Maria and the guests; who knows what might happen later?

"When can I return to the capital?" Maria seized the bull by its horns.

"Your Highness, Count Lort says it's still unsafe," Leir Olsen said, looking at the cipher. "They're holding the fort."

Maria sighed.

"Is it safe here?"

"I can ensure your safety, Your Highness."

"Thank you, Leir Olsen." The princess smiled. "I'll be the first to petition for lands befitting your title."

The leir bowed.

"I'll be very grateful, Your Highness."

What else did he want to be happy?

His own house to meet old age. He already had some money saved, and his wife would be happy if their children would get a title.

All he had to do was not to let his guard down. The rest would come.

***

Altres Lort walked into the hall, his pace firm.

The Assembly had seen a lot over the last days. They were watching him with the eyes of rabbits who had soiled their pants: big and ready for anything.

No wonder: Alcine usually had a short way with anyone able to mount a resistance. After Count Estorn's execution, the rest were quiet, knowing that they could lose their heads at any minute.

Nobody said anything as Altres walked toward Gardwig's throne. Unlike Alcine, however, he didn't take it. He sat on the stairs and stretched his legs.

"Dear Assembly!"

The Assembly listened.

"I, Count Lort, ask to be bequeathed the title of regent for His Majesty Edwin. The coronation will happen in...let's say, five days."

It would have been worse if he had thrown a brick into the crowd. Everyone was agitated.

Baron Egran spoke up first. He was no fool, being one of those who had always supported Gardwig. Altres liked it that he was still alive. It was good.

He wasn't mentioned in Alcine's papers. Maybe Altres should have paid more attention to the baron. Resourcefulness, survivability...what else did one need to be a full-fledged agent of the crown? Loyalty? He seemed to have it in spades.

"May I speak, Your Grace?"

Altres Lort graciously nodded.

"Glad to see you alive, Baron."

"And so I am, Count."

The baron wasn't faking it, either. He was looking the count straight in the eyes, his voice wavering.

Only someone who had survived something like that could understand that, the horror of a mutiny, the bloody head of the king. A usurper on the throne, fear for your family—not even yourself, but your loved ones, whom that bastard would certainly use to get to you. What would you do in such circumstances?

And then there were honor and loyalty, things useless for survival, but necessary for living on. How would one save his own humanity if he lost them?

Over the last few days, the baron had hidden his wife and children and sent out servants from the city with orders for his estate's steward. In the meantime, he was busy thinking of what to do next.

By all appearances, he needed to look for allies and raise a rebellion against Alcine, but how? Where? The baron had no such skills.

He got lucky, though.

Altres Lort came in and destroyed the pretender.

"So, Their Highnesses are alive?"

"Alcine really wanted to get to them." Altres smirked, looking vicious enough for the Virman god Holosh. "Thanks to our friends from Ativerna, Her Majesty was able to survive, and so were Their Highnesses."

Altres watched their faces.

Thankfully, most of the nobles seemed to be genuinely relieved, even happy.

A living king guaranteed stability, continuity, and succession, from father to son. His Highness Edwin might be young, but age was a matter of time.

And Her Majesty was alive, too?

"I have more good news. His Royal Majesty Gardwig was cowardly assassinated, but another son of his was born later: His Highness Gardwig, named after his father. The mother and the child are healthy and are currently resting in a safe place."

Silence fell, and then...

"HURRAH! Hurrah to Her Majesty! Hurrah to His Highness Gardwig!"

The nobles shouted from the heart, letting out all their horror in those screams. Altres smiled as he watched them.

You might be scum, but I don't have anyone else. He had to work with what he had.

Afterward, everything was simple. The nobles unanimously declared that Prince Edwin was to be crowned in five days with Altres Lort as his regent.

Milia? Everyone knew the queen—as well as her inability to rule. Some wouldn't mind appointing her regent, anyway—Altres could see it on several, Aldonai forbid, muzzles. It was hard to call them anything else, really.

That's what life was; if some had their house on fire, others would rush to line their pockets with the stuff they'd lose.

It didn't matter. He was able to knock off the overly insolent hands. At the moment, they might be quiet, but later, they'd start hissing behind his back, shoving their daughters and ladies-in-waiting on him, trying to drive a wedge between him and the queen.

Altres sighed. He would have loved a wife like Lilian Earton. Gardwig had mentioned to him the need to marry, true. If he had a wife like her, he could have assigned her to the queen and felt secure for his rear, through and through. Lilian Earton would have never allowed anyone to get too cocky.

For a second, a smile appeared on Altres' face. Still, to the count's honor, he never entertained the idea of arranging an accident for Count Earton. That would have been too much. Some lines could never be crossed. Aldonai could forgive you if you amused yourself by partying in the vicinity, but if you trespassed, you'd pay for it, and the price would be high.

It wasn't laws, even, not exactly; it was the lines that any decent person set for themselves. Or not quite decent, really.

Anything had happened in the life of the king's butcher, even backstabbing, but he had never done it to those he considered allies—or friends. Count Earton was a friend, and Lilian Earton had all but saved Altres' life. After all, if he had found Milia and her boys dead, all he could have done was to hang himself out of grief. No, he could never betray someone like that.

As for marriage...well, he'd probably have to do it eventually. It's not like he had a choice. Ugh, wasn't there enough on his plate?

***

When Jess came back to the palace, it was already dark.

Fortunately for him, Alcine's hirelings had scattered away without thinking of resistance. Why fight for an all-but-dead employer? There was no point. All he encountered were a couple of altercations on the streets, never getting a chance even to warm up, let alone actually fight.

Instead of ambushing him, mercenaries tried to make a run for it, fighting only as a last resort.

Should he have finished them off?

Frankly, he probably should have...or should he? Jerisson was Ativernan; it wasn't his job to worry about Wellster, since it didn't concern his plans. A small confusion on the roads of Wellster wasn't a problem for his country. No big deal!

Lort shouldn't get too comfortable. Jess didn't mind helping, but he'd rather work in Cardin, wait for His Highness Edwin's coronation, and take Richard's bride home to Ativerna, where he could retire to the castle of Teral that had already become home to him.

Jess missed Laveri, his home, the Virmans swarming around all day, the work-outs and friendly clashes with Eric and Leif, Lilian, sitting behind her desk in the study and biting at her pencil, writing something, Tahir, always appearing out of nowhere, like a living shadow...even the damnable mongooses!

Let them sleep on his pillow and bite as much as they would; he didn't mind that!

Home, sweet home...

Fine.

At least Lily and Mirrie were under guard by Her Majesty's side. In several days, they could move to the capital.

As for the time being, he wanted to rest his bones in a hot bath, followed by a hearty meal and spiced wine. Sleep would come next, hopefully, ten hours of it.

Alas, that was not to be. A servant quickly prepared a bath and a meal, but also told him that Count Lort wished to see His Grace, as well as Marquis Losan.

Jess sighed and requested clean clothes, any clean clothes—his own were so dusty and reeked bad enough to scare horses.

So, where would he start? With Count Lort, of course.

***

He found Altres Lort in the king's study. Still awake, he was scrolling through documents and reading them. He made notes, laid some of the papers aside, but was nonetheless glad to see Jerisson.

"Sit down...Jess?"

"Altres?"

Jerisson accepted a more familial form of address without any internal resistance. Honestly, if not for Lort, he and his family would have been gone for good.

"How's Cardin?"

"The mercenaries are scattering. We're tying up those we can catch and sending them to jail. After that, I think it's the mines for them...depending on the regent's opinion, of course."

A wolfish grin appeared on Altres' face.

"We’ll see. There are never enough hands in the salt mines."

Jess didn't feel sorry for the mercenaries.

"Otherwise, it's quiet."

"Can you keep patrolling the city until the coronation, at least?"

"I can. Will Edwin ascend the throne as the eldest son?"

"Yes."

"And you're the regent, right?"

"I am."

"Is our arrangement still in force?"

"Princess Maria will go to Ativerna and take a treaty of friendship with her."

"And an agreement to reduce the trade tariffs?" Jerisson seized the opportunity.

Altres shrugged. Friendship or no friendship, pockets were a different matter.

"We’ll see. You must realize that Alcine didn't care much for our coffers."

"Is he still alive?"

"I should feel insulted by that question. He won't die for a long time," Lort sneered.

"Have you found out why he started all of that?"

Altres frowned.

"Yes. It was the first thing we learned. Gardwig's second wife was Alcine's lover. They wanted to get married, but the king saw her, and her parents couldn't refuse him."

"And Alcine was left with nothing but his love?"

"It was mutual. Anna's mother...remember her?"

A pang of pain shot up in Jerisson's stomach. It was hard to forget something like that.

"Yes, it was her. She was executed for adultery, but they thought that Alcine's older brother was the culprit."

"And it turned out to be the younger one?"

"Robert couldn't forgive Gardwig her death."

"For almost twenty years? Is he mad?"

Altres shook his head. His head was hurting, but he had no time to relax.

"And like many madmen, he's clever and cunning."

Jess didn't argue. Worse things had happened. Would he avenge Mirrie? Yes. Lily? Absolutely!

He didn't know Anna's mother, but there was an arrow for every bird, and one woman for each man, a woman who was worth killing for. He could understand Alcine. He didn't want to, but he could.

"And Albitta? She was—"

"Just Albitta. It's the way she is."

"She didn't even care about her daughters?"

Altres shook his head.

"Oh, no. She'd stop at nothing for her revenge. Thank your wife that she didn't get her claws on Milia and the boys."

Jess nodded.

"Lily didn't do it for a reward."

"It doesn't mean I can't be grateful. I recognize all previous agreements with Ativerna. I'll take a look at what else can be done. You must understand, all of this came crashing down on me..."

Jess nodded.

He had seen Edward rule the country, knew whom to talk to, but...

Aldonai forbid he'd ever get the crown himself!

Jerisson had no wish to rule; his own position was enough for him.

Poor Richard had all of that ahead of him.

Jess would help him, but he would never accept such a burden. Not everyone was fit to walk the road of kings. Altres, however, would have to set foot on it.

Until Edwin's coming of age, he would be king, no matter what it was called. He would rule, punish and spare, be in charge of everything, make difficult decisions, raise the little princes...

"A drink?" Altres offered.

"Just a bit. I'm afraid I fall down on the stop."

"Me too. Cheers, then...to friendship."

"To friendship."

The men silently emptied the glasses. A lot had been said, but even more was left out.

Jess didn't pity Count Lort, but he got him as one man can get the other. He felt sympathy. That was something else.

***

"Altres Lort asks you to come to the capital as soon as possible."

Lily raised her eyebrows.

"What’s wrong? "

Although that was a stupid question; she knew it already.

Someone had to take the throne; the country needed a king, whether good or bad, or else, it would be all confusion and mayhem, and Wellster had been through too much as it was.

Gardwig was dead. Albitta had taken the throne—without an official coronation yet—but the people were worried. Thankfully, the world didn't have Internet or mass media; otherwise, it would be absolute chaos.

In the backwater villages, peasants might not even learn of the king's death, nothing to worry about.

Even if they did, it would take half a year, just in time for spring.

Spring meant sowing crops and working the land.

King or no king, everybody needed food. The farmers wouldn't care about politics then; they wouldn't rebel for the "legitimate" king.

Edwin would be crowned with Altres Lort as his regent.

"Altres writes that Edwin needs to be shown to the people and crowned."

"I suppose we'll need to arrange a fancier procession then," Lily mused.

"Of course. Show me off, the children..."

Lily smiled with the corner of her mouth.

Milia was still a queen. Even if she had spent most of her time behind her husband's back, she did manage to pick up some skills.

"I think we'll need two carriages: one open, to have a triumphant ride across the capital's streets, and one closed with a couch inside. You still need rest, lots of it, and to avoid being shaken too much or getting a cold. We'll only change into the first carriage when we reach Cardin."

Milia slowly nodded.

"There should be carriages here..."

"I'll go find us a carpenter. They should be done with it by tomorrow."

"The day after tomorrow would be better," Milia decided. "I won't go tomorrow, better to wait."

She still remembered, too well, her pain, helplessness, and fear.

Milia wasn't afraid of death. Gardwig was there in Aldonai's abode; he would wait for her and support her. It wasn't scary. But leaving her children alone?

Failing them and her husband? That was a true nightmare.

But fate had sent her Lilian Earton. Milia didn't want to take any more risks.

Lily winked at her and left.

She needed to find a carpenter.

So how were carriages designed?

Each one was a box on wheels with two seats inside. They were wide and comfortable, but that wasn't nearly enough. She needed to turn the entire inside of the carriage into a couch and also think about leaf springs. Lily remembered her own rides. Milia and the children definitely shouldn't suffer as much.

Fine.

She knew what she needed, Milia would give orders, and the Virmans behind Lily's back would add weight to her argument. Everything would be in order.

***

An hour later, Lily wasn't as sure of that. There was no carpenter in the palace. Not a soul!

Nobody really needed one, ever. There were servants and maids to clean up before Their Majesties' arrival, guards, but no carpenter. Where would she find one?

In the nearest village, of course.

Lily nodded to her thoughts and went to see Chantaine's deputy, Leir Loran.

To his credit, she didn't need to spend too long explaining things. He agreed to send men to the village and help in redesigning the carriages. Really, why argue when Her Majesty made her wish clear?

A carpenter? He'd find as many as three of them if need be!

***

Altres Lort gave the aldon a gentle smile.

Peters kept changing his coloring from red to pale and overall didn't look his best at all. Altres didn't mind. Even if the aldon dropped dead in front of him, why would he care?

He wouldn't. As if there wouldn't be a horde of people wishing to take that place!

They might not even wait until the funeral!

"Peters," the count said in a soft drawling tone.

"Lort," Peters tried to match it. It didn't work quite as well; his voice was lower and will weaker. Altres stayed untouched by his attempts.

"I see you've taken ill, Peters?"

If not for Altres' tone, it might have sounded like sympathy. But his voice said different: vicious, mocking, poisonous.

"Yes, I'm not feeling well," the aldon replied, pretending not to notice.

"So what ails you?"

"Arthritis..."

"How awful! Well, I could recommend a good healer. Would you like that?"

Peters wouldn’t, going by the huge beads of sweat on his forehead. But it wasn't really an offer.

Altres Lort was still smiling.

"You don't want a healer? What about joyous news?"

"Joyous?"

"They say that happiness is the best cure."

Peters sincerely doubted that, but Altres wasn't interested in his opinion. He already knew about certain events and truly loathed turncoats. Who didn’t, though? People bought them, used them, but never loved them.

"Soon, you'll perform a coronation."

"A c-coronation?"

"Of the lawful king, Edwin."

Peters breathed out.

"He's alive?"

"All of the children of Her Majesty are."

Altres considered that just. Gardwig was no aldon and had made a lot of blunders in his life, but his children weren't guilty of anything.

"I'll pray to Aldonai! What a happy occasion!"

"You should pray twice," Altres said.

"Twice?"

"If you crowned the pretender..."

"T-then?" Peters sweated even more, although it wasn't hot in the room, as fall had already taken over.

"You must realize that such a coronation couldn't be legitimate, and neither could be its performance."

Peters realized the implication.

He would have been either killed or declared insane and killed later, depending on circumstances.

"I was forced!"

"Were you tortured? Branded?"

"Alcine threatened me! Count, he's a horrible man!"

"Worse than me?"

Peters hissed.

"When you have a blade against your throat, it doesn't matter whose hand is holding it."

"Then it shouldn't surprise you when one blade is replaced by another," Altres Lort replied in tune. "In several days...is everything prepared for the coronation?"

Peters almost started nodding but realized that such an answer would expose him even more.

"W-well...I'll get it ready quickly, Your Grace."

"Do that, Peters. It's important for me, Wellster, and you as its loyal citizen."

Peters breathed out.

Yes, he could count himself lucky if that was the extent of it. It wasn't, though; Altres wasn't going to let anyone go unpunished.

"If the coronation goes through in a suitable manner, we'll discuss your fate."

"My fate?"

"What's the punishment in Wellster for taking part in a coup?"

"But I didn't!"

"You've hosted an insurgent. Their leader, actually."

"So? A lot of people did!"

"Don't go pointing fingers, Peters. Worry about your own skin. Everyone will get their share," Lort purred. "You think I'll get tired?"

Peters could only dream of it, or even of Aldonai's wrath.

If only a lightning bolt shot down from the heavens and hit the deplorable jester! But alas, that wasn't going to happen. Aldonai wasn't listening to his faithful servant.

"I'm sure you won't get tired, Your Grace," Peters said reluctantly.

Altres slowly closed his eyes.

"Let's have a serious talk, Bright One. I know that you supported Alcine, but I'm willing to forget everything on certain terms. The coronation must go without a hitch. That's first. I also need your complete support on all of my undertakings. That's second."

"And that's it?"

"I only want the best for Wellster."

"And if your concept of good becomes different from Her Majesty's, for instance?"

"Then I'll find common ground with the queen, while you continue to support me."

His words were strong. Peters had a clear understanding of what he was offered.

Yes, you're a wretch and a bastard, Altres's eyes told him. But you're my wretch.
And if you want to keep your place, you'll have to listen and obey me.
You give an inch here, you give an inch there, and the game is over. It's the gallows for you.

What else could the poor aldon do? Only lower his head.

"I'm sure everything you'll do will benefit Wellster."

Altres smiled, showing that they reached an understanding. Then he threw in a carrot.

"His Majesty Gardwig didn't...treat the Temple especially nicely lately. But this is one of the pillars of the kingdom. Its foundation..."

"Absolutely!"

"I think we should build a few more temples. We'll discuss it later in more detail." Altres smiled.

Peters relaxed a bit.

Well then.

He would retain his position. Altres would work with him, and Peters himself would do everything in his power to oblige.

Even Lort could be agreed with. But what would happen afterward? Who could say?

All men were mortal...maybe King Edwin would prove to be a softer man than his father? Time would tell.

Peters personally saw the count out, smiling and inviting him to come back.

Altres Lort walked through the temple, sat into the carriage, and even gave a friendly wave of a hand.

He only dropped his guard after lowering the leather curtain.

Scum.

Aldonai, what a scumbag is serving you!

How can you permit that?

The aldon was a corrupt cowardly wretch, but Altres had no choice. The kingdom was already on shaky ground; he couldn't remove anyone, or he risked a rebellion.

He would have to work with what he had.

But Altres was already used to digging through trash. He would succeed, and Peters would do his best, too. Later, of course, he would start plotting, but by that time, Altres would find a way to keep him in line. He might get caught stealing or ruin something...there would always be a reason to tan his hide or even poison him discreetly.

But how I want to choke this wretch right here and right now!

Peters would never learn how close he was to death at that moment.

***

That wasn't something that Jerisson had ever expected to see, but as it turned out, Aldonai had a wicked sense of humor.

When he returned into the chambers assigned to him, his first thought was that he had drunk too much; the second, that he had bumped his head somewhere. He shook it a few times, but the vision didn't dissipate. A gorgeous naked woman in his bed held out her hands to him.

"My love..."

Her voice... Her face... It was Adelaide Wells: Jerisson couldn't confuse his former mistress with anyone else.

"Dellie? What are you doing here?"

Adelaide frowned. Before, in a situation like that, the count would always join her in bed to jump-start sweet insanity that she so lacked in her marriage. Stable boys and other rabble were nothing, only fit to sate her hunger for five minutes. Jess was a full-course meal.

She thought of him often, and about his wife, too, although with different feelings. She longed for the count but hated the countess.

"Haven't they told you that I live in Wellster?"

Jerisson tossed his head again. The alcohol had worn off, and he realized that he wouldn't be able to avoid a fight. Nope, no chance.

Still, sleeping with her was completely out of the question.

"Nobody told me anything. Have you come for the engagement?"

"I wanted to see you. Jess, I missed you so much..."

Adelaide leaned forward, her shoulders bare...once, Jerisson would have put his arms around her and never let go until the morning. Not anymore.

What had broken inside him? Or was it the other way round? Had it finally fallen into place?

"Dellie, I think you need to dress and leave."

"What? "

"You attempted to kill my wife, and you're wanted in Ativerna. As a law-abiding citizen, I must give you up to the guards. I won't do that, but please go. Leave the country."

Adelaide fluttered her eyelashes and did the only thing she could—shed a tear.

"You...you... "

"Dellie, I'm telling you this for the last time: dress and leave."

It sounded serious enough for her not to object. Adelaide realized that she had lost.

But to whom? To the cow whom Jerisson had never said a kind word about? Or...was there someone else?

There must be. There couldn't not be.

"Jess...I beg you!"

"Dellie..."

"In the name of our love, please, give me a few more minutes!"

Jess didn't say that it had never been about love but nodded. Maybe she would go away after pouring her heart out. The bed beckoned him more than the prettiest of women could.

"I have to stay in the capital. My husband wouldn't understand..."

For a few minutes, Jess was silent.

He didn't want that meeting, but Lily had never seen Lady Wells in person, meaning only one thing.

"Dellie, my wife must not know about you. Got it?"

Adelaide nodded.

"Yes, Jess. You...you're so wonderful..."

She was blatantly slow as she dressed. Her goodbye kiss was very much not familial, either. But Jerisson stayed cold and calm as she touched his lips with hers.

Something might have moved, true, but that was it.

He had no inclination of laying her on the nearest surface and having his way with her. He did have other, different, thoughts, however—like how had she gotten there?

Who let her in?

Who gave her a place to stay in Wellster?

Maybe he should ask Altres Lort about it in the morning.

And with that, Jerisson fell asleep, not before barring the door and putting a chair in front of it. That's how one learned to appreciate dogs and ferrets: with them in your bed, no stranger would dare to intrude in the room—at least without getting bitten all over.

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardar.

"We've come in peace!"

Bran smiled with the corner of his mouth as he gave the sentry a sly look.

"Really? "

"Do you doubt my word, warrior?"

The Virman man shook his head. Nobody on the island ever doubted Gardren's words. If he said he would skin you, he would, hopefully, after you were dead. It wasn't a given he'd wait until then, though.

"No, Lord of Gardren."

Bran was still smiling.

"Who's in command?"

"Krast Hardar, Lord of Gardren."

Bran attempted to remember Krast. His memory stubbornly refused to help. So they hadn't met, then.

"Tell him about my arrival."

"Yes, Lord of Gardren. Please wait."

"I've already said we've come in peace," Bran snapped and started waiting.

He was alone, for the time being, protected only by a chain shirt under his clothes. Angelina had wanted to come with him to the meeting, but Bran refused her. It would be possible later, but before negotiations had even begun, one could easily get a random arrow in the chest. He didn't want that for her.

Fighting, killing...Bran didn't really have anything against blood; Holosh liked it, and Bran was always prepared to offer it to his god, but it seemed enough already.

Hardring had written that six clans had lost their leaders, and four would lose even their names, plus ten more would be punished in another way. Oh, those perennial number twos, wishing to reach the top...

They had no idea they would never be able to hold on to power. There was no chance of it. A fight would break out, a slaughter, a massacre...and Virma couldn't afford that, especially in winter.

One side would defeat the other, and cold and hunger would finish off the remaining people, leaving the pirates to use the situation to their advantage, or maybe someone else. Fighting was good, but only in moderation. Not bloody madness.

While reflecting, Bran almost missed the return of the guard.

"My lord, Krast Hardar, invites you, Lord of Gardren, to visit our hearth."

"Only me?"

"And your companions."

"My companions will wait. Lead on," Bran said, dismounting and adjusting the reins.

Like most Virmans, he held no particular love for horses, even if he tolerated them.

Krast was waiting for the guest behind the gate, a young man of medium height, blond and stocky. He was wearing the colors of his clan. Bran easily recognized him, thanks to his resemblance to his father and elder brother.

"Lord of Gardren."

"Hardar."

The men exchanged polite bows, looking warily at each other.

"I came in peace," Bran repeated.

"Is this the word of the Lord of Gardren or a member of the Circle?" Krast finally asked.

"This is the word of the leader of the Circle. Olav Hardring," Bran explained.

For a second, Krast closed his eyes, making his face look defenseless as if all pressure disappeared. He could finally relax: neither his home nor his people would be harmed.

"Welcome, Lord of Gardren. Be my guest."

"My people are waiting for me outside," Bran said with a scrutinizing glare.

"I will be happy to invite them, as well, as guests of Clan Hardar."

Bran considered his words. Then he removed a small, but heavy horn from his belt and played a few notes, repeating the signal toward the gate, then once more.

"Your people won't shoot?"

Krast shook his head.

"I was preparing for the worst. But I...didn't share my father's views."

He was lying, of course, but Bran could understand him.

When the game was over, all you could do was to save what was left: the clan, the people who trusted you, the women and the children. Bran could respect Hardar the junior for that although he was already the eldest in line.

"These are your people. While there's no bad blood between us..."

"We took part in attacking your boats," Krast said bluntly. "Not me, but Hardar."

"I killed your people. We're even, to a point."

"And my father? His actions?"

"We'll discuss the wergild now."

Krast relaxed even more.

"Will Hardar stay?"

"Maybe not in the Circle, but you will survive."

Olav had mentioned that as well, but Bran had his own opinion. The current Clan Hardar was easy-to-control, but there would have to be a punishment...

"Her Highness?"

Angelina became one of the first to ride through the gate. Bran hurried to meet her, giving his hand and helping her down. Angelina's hand briefly lingered on his arm, and it didn't escape Krast's notice. Still, he said nothing.

Bran noticed that and approved.

Krast Hardar, the future clan chief, bowed.

"Your Highness. One day, I'll tell my children about your visit to my humble abode."

Angelina answered with a gentle smile.

"On behalf of Ativerna, I thank you for your hospitality."

Krast bowed again.

Angelina implied that she had no beef with Clan Hardar, either, and it gave him hope.

Two hours later, his sunny disposition was gone. With all possible courtesy, Bran explained to Krast that some things deserved punishment with no regard to repentance. The dead couldn't be resurrected, and spilled blood couldn't be returned. He would have to give up the clan's place in the Circle as well as a part of their lands.

I can understand that it's a sensitive matter for Clan Hardar, but what were you thinking?

That's how it always is with coups; it's a gamble, and then you lose.
Be grateful that you're still a clan.
The others didn't get to save theirs, unlike you and the Torsvegs.

Krast realized that and agreed to almost everything. He did try to bargain, but both Gardren and Krast himself knew that it was nothing more than a convention, so as to avoid any other demands. The Hardars weren't poor, and they still had something set aside. Sooner or later, they'd get their status back, even if it took them five decades.

Angelina didn't say anything during the negotiations, instead looking at Bran and enjoying the process. It was a marvelous sight: the lord of Gardren was dogged and meticulous, shrewd and calculating. It didn't seem possible to pin him to his word. If only Richard could get an advisor like him in Ativerna...

Alas, that was beyond her wildest dreams.

***

"Maybe I could stay here—in Virma."

Leif threw his brother-in-law a pensive look. Torn was focused and resolute. The naval battle had left a mark on him; he was nursing an injured arm. He had also grown up a lot.

"Stay as whom?" Leif asked.

"Elg's no more. Nothing's threatening me."

"You think so?" Leif was calm; he had already considered the issue. In truth, it was easier for him to leave Torn in Virma: he wouldn't have to fuss over him or worry about him. But Ingrid would have never forgiven him if her brother were killed.

No, not quite that.

She would forgive him, but she would never forget it, and their happiness would be stained with someone's death. He didn't want that for her.

"Don't you?"

Leif shook his head.

"Six clans, and that's it? You think it was only them?"

"But nobody else was involved!"

"That we know of," Leif replied simply. "Someone must have stayed on the sidelines, and some will slip away and want revenge."

"Against me?"

"They'd attack Olav, Bran, maybe me. You'll just be on the list. They might simply kill you to lure me to Virma, for instance."

"That's nonsense."

"Ingrid," Leif explained. "She loves you."

"Among the clan..."

"You won't be safe, and you know it. Not yet. Build yourself up, gather your own crew, get a ship...you can do it in Ativerna. And in a few years, Torn Torsveg, the Lord of Torsveg, will come to the clan. Not a pimpled boy."

Torn flushed. True, he had a couple of pimples, but no more than that!

Leif threw his arms up to placate him.

"You know what I mean. You don't have anything other than your name yet. Prove that you're worthy of it. Prove it with deeds rather than words!"

"Why can't I do it in Virma?"

"Because nobody will listen to you. You'll just die."

"Maybe if you supported me..."

"Again, me. Why would I?"

"Well, you..."

Torn stumbled, realizing that the point had already been made. True, his name wasn't enough. He needed to back it up with deeds. Leif had them, and he didn't. Leif couldn't support him forever or protect him.

"I'd rather stay."

"I get it, but some things are stronger than us."

Torn sighed and looked downcast.

"How soon do we set sail?"

"Five or ten days, I think. Richard doesn't want to stay longer than he has to."

Torn shivered.

"I wouldn't want to be in his place."

Leif nodded silently. What could he say? That was worse than having your heart ripped from your chest—scarier, at least.

"He'll..."

"Get home. Marry. He'll still remember someone else and love someone else."

It was Torn's turn to be silent.

At his age, any loss seemed irreparable. You couldn't forget it or put it on the backburner. Leif knew that any pain faded with time as if buried in sand, but he felt sorry for Richard's wife. She would have to spend her whole life competing with a ghost.

A dead woman was the worst rival. She was perfect; she would never throw a fit; she wouldn't argue; she had all possible virtues... If Tira stayed alive, they might have drifted apart.

She wanted to follow the path of a warrior, while he had his duty. They couldn't have stayed together. Sooner or later, love would have faded under the pressure of circumstances.

That was not the case. Tira was gone, and Richard spent day and night staring at the sea.

True, he had signed the treaty with Olav, but Leif looked him in the eyes and saw what he didn't want to see. He saw a strong man who had lost a part of his soul, the best and the happiest part. Richard's halcyon years were behind him, and his youth had fled, forget-me-nots in its white hair.

What was left?

The road of kings.

Leif knew that Richard would be a good ruler, but he would never be happy, and the keepsake with Tira's hair would always stay with him.

What would it result in? Could someone thaw his soul?

Leif wistfully thought about Lilian Earton. A woman like her could, definitely. But there was only one Lilian in the world, and she had already made her choice. She had her family, her husband, her favorite occupation...there was no time for a king, other than maybe as a friend. Not even a lover, Lilian was too well adjusted for that. She wouldn't share her man with someone else, never, and neither would she cheat on him. Leif respected her for that. He detested the idea of bed-hopping.

Lilian's idea of honor was similar to a Virman; that's why the sailors revered her so much.

"Will we leave when the princess returns?"

"Yes. Richard has no reason to stay here anymore," Leif replied with a nod and surprised himself by adding, "We'll go home."

"Home?"

Those words sounded strange for Torn, but Leif suddenly realized that it was true.

Virma wasn't his home anymore.

It was still his birthplace. Leif loved that harsh and inhospitable island and would have been happy to die for it, but he preferred to live in a big and colorful world. In Ativerna, with his wife, his children, the people he cared for, and the work he wanted to do. To live: not survive, but live.

"Yes. Home."

Torn didn't ask again. For him, Torsveg was his home, but what about Leif? Wasn't it Erquig? It seemed strange.

Well then. Life was strange, in general. He would have to wait and see, but Leif was right about one thing: he needed to be worthy of his lineage, and he wasn't a Torsveg yet. Maybe only a hatchling.

He would grow up and become the chief, just give him time!

Leif smiled as he looked at the boy. Torn's thoughts were written on his face, expressive and serious. What would he say in five years, Leif wondered.

Time would tell.

Wellster, Cardin.

Count Dishan didn't expect anything good from his life, but he got dragged out of his cell, bandaged, and generally patched up.

What was going on?

He was prepared for the next dose of Alcine's torture, or maybe even worse, but the servants were silent. What could they say to the count, really? He got his answers soon enough, directly from Altres Lort's hands.

When the Royal Butcher entered the room, the count's hands started shaking.

"Lort! It's you!"

"Of course, it's me. How are you, Eron?"

"Terrible. And...Alcine?"

"Still alive," Altres Lort said, smiling. "For now."

Eron breathed out. They had won. It was over. Everything would be all right. And he hadn't done anything for the victory, so the winners didn't really need him.

"It's my fault. You should kill me." Eron Dishan didn't doubt his words. "I let the king be assassinated."

Altres shook his head.

"Not you, Eron. Not you."

"I failed."

"And I? Eron, do you seriously think the conspiracy sprung up overnight? In those two months that I was absent?"

Eron Dishan hadn't thought about that.

"How long?"

"I questioned Alcine. That bastard likes talking."

"And?"

Eron was genuinely curious. Alcine had never opened up to him; that would have been too much.

"Alcine loved Camilla."

"Camilla?"

"The king's second wife. It was mutual, too. She cheated on Gardwig with Robert rather than Robert's brother. She lied so as to spare her beloved."

Eron needed at least ten minutes to make sense of the information.

"Really? "

"Yes. Alcine's been nursing a grudge since then."

"And he was plotting for all this time?"

"Since Gardwig sent Albitta away. Alcine picked her up, got her pregnant, and tried installing his bastard as the king."

Eron cursed, using a quite flowery expression.

Altres shrugged.

"His game is over."

"And Albitta?"

"She sings like a bird, although listening to her is nauseating. She had never borne a son from Gardwig. That's Alcine's doing. Part of his plan."

"And where's this...child?"

Altres shook his head.

"I don't know."

"How?"

"I don't even want to know," Lort explained. "Alcine raised him...them...in ignorance. There were several boys, in case one died. They live in good families, and he supported them. There won’t be any more money, of course."

"What if... "

"He did bring one here. His and Albitta's real son, I gather. The boy turned out to be smart, having escaped after he saw everything."

"Escaped?"

"Exactly. With a nanny whom he considered his mother."

Dishan tossed his head with gusto. It hurt but nonetheless produced a sobering effect.

"What a tangled web!"

"I decided not to look for them. Let them live...I don't want to burden my conscience. They aren't dangerous."

Eron Dishan understood it.

"What’s going to happen now? "

"We'll crown Edwin. And...get well, Eron. I've no idea how we'll carry this load."

"We?"

"As a regent, I will have a lot of responsibilities. I'll leave the burden of security to you."

The count cast a doubtful look at his legs.

"Altres, I'd love to, but I suspect that I'm crippled for good."

"I talked to the torturers. They were pretty careful. They needed to keep you alive, and that means avoiding gangrene. The wounds are clean. As for bones..."

"Will I be able to walk?"

"I'll ask Countess Earton to take a look."

"Countess Earton?"

"Yes, Eron."

"Oh, right! She was with the queen..."

"She also led the queen out of the city and delivered her baby. She's a marvel. Praise Aldonai she was in the right place at the right time."

Eron shook his head.

"Incredible!"

"Yet it's true. Soon, she'll arrive at the capital, and I'll ask her to tend to you."

"Thank you, Count."

"Altres. We have a lot of work ahead between the two of us. By the way, your family..."

"What's happened? How are my..."

Eron shuddered.

It's not like he really loved his wife, but two decades spent together, not to mention their children and grandchildren, had to account for something.

"Your son got everyone out in time."

Eron caught his breath.

"I never asked Alcine."

Altres shrugged.

"Luck and a little bit of savvy go a long way. Your grandson fell ill, and your wife decided against going to the ball. Your daughter-in-law was worried for her son and begged her husband to leave early, before everything started."

"But how did they learn about everything?"

"Your house isn't far from the embassy of Ativerna, is it?"

Eron nodded.

"That's right."

"Countess Earton informed the embassy about the coup and told them to leave.

"And they—"

"The Ativernans knew who you were and what you were in charge of. It made sense to them to either make inquiries or warn your household."

"Holy Aldonai! "

"Yes, it was truly His hand. So your family's safe. The house was damaged, though."

"Whatever!" Eron dismissed it. "As long as everyone's alive."

"Yes, Count, and they'll be here in three or four days, so get well, please."

"Such news can make me stand up and dance," Eron agreed and received Altres' smile in turn.

The men understood each other well. Altres needed an assistant who hadn't been stained by participating in the coup, and Eron needed to redeem himself, at least in his own eyes. Death wouldn't change anything; only life—life and work.

His Majesty Edwin needed to rule and prosper for a long time, and they would make sure of it. Maybe one day, they would be able...no, not to forget their failure, but to learn to live with it. To breathe, to walk the earth without dreaming of death. It would be hard labor, but they'd make it. They had no other choice.

Wellster, The Summer Palace.

Lily watched her orders carried out from inside the carriage.

"Great!"

The springs, the couch...it didn't look nice, but it was comfortable enough for Her Majesty and the baby.

In a day or two, they would head out to the capital. All they had to do was to take care of their clothes. Appearances were important, after all.

Thankfully, the Summer Palace stored a number of dresses.

Lily picked purple velvet for Milia, but the queen vetoed it and demanded something green: the mourning color.

Lily considered the issue. On the one hand, yes: Milia had lost her husband. The people wouldn't understand if she wore something festive. On the other…green looked awful on Milia. She would look like a sick frog.

"It's the royal procession and the coronation, and you'll look like you're about to die!"

"Lilian Earton!"

"Your Majesty!"

The two women looked at each other, both indignant.

Lily was the first to give up.

"It's your choice, but I think we should look for different combinations of colors."

"What do you mean?" Milia was confused.

"Green goes well with white, black, and all shades of gold. It will still look like mourning, but quite luxurious. Oh, and dark cherry is nice, too, as long as you pick the right hue."

Milia waved her hand.

"Fine. Let's try it."

"I'll go to the girls, then," Lily said with a nod and went to the Eveers. To whom else could she entrust such a delicate order? Definitely not the guards or the peasant girls from the village. She needed to have a talk with Master Salsi and ask him to provide a service for the queen.

***

Edwin, Baron Fremont, was running for all his horses were worth.

The game had been lost, but he still had a head on his shoulders and fully intended to keep it.

Thankfully, Edwin had good insurance: a small house in the Khanganat and a plot of land. He liked the local ways well enough, too. He'd settle down and live out the rest of his days in peace...

Ugh!

That wasn't a good word.

The rest of his days? Nothing interesting would happen to him or anything new, really. He wouldn't be able to show his face anywhere outside the Khanganat and would spend at least fifteen years stuck there. What a life!

He felt sad. It didn't, however, preclude him from stopping by a village: yes, the very same one. Edwin needed to restock, and Arno Saran could help with that. He knew many people corresponding with the duke, as well as those keeping an eye on Chantaine in the Summer Palace.

Fortunately for him, the baron didn't ask about the location of Saran's house straight away. Instead, he decided to find out the latest news, taking up residence in the center of all rumors and gossip: the village inn.

He and his men hinted that they were going to the capital, asked for food and drink, and seated themselves at the table. Edwin casually threw out several silver coins—twice the price of the meal they had ordered.

The innkeeper himself emerged to serve such generous customers, bowing and setting the table. Bit by bit, they started chatting.

"They say the capital's in turmoil these days, sir."

Edwin hadn't mentioned he was a baron. He pretended to be surprised at the news.

"The capital? In turmoil? Shouldn't it be celebrating the betrothal?"

"No!" The owner shook his head emphatically. "Not at all! There are no celebrations. It's pretty bad. Must be a mess of some kind!"

"Really? Sit down, good man, and do share the rumors! What kind of mess? We'd hate to get plucked out like chickens if we get into a scuffle!"

When he needed to, Edwin could easily talk like an ordinary illiterate mercenary. The innkeeper bowed, sat with them, and started talking.

He told how one day (the horror) Virmans had shown up in the village, followed by the royal guard.

They caught Mister Saran, and then Mister Tourlet, and...

People were saying they had been hanged after an interrogation inside the palace. What could they have done, really?

It was baffling and not good, either.

The soldiers headed by Count Chantaine darted off to somewhere, all decked in battle uniforms.

They were also saying that the queen herself had arrived at the Summer Palace, while the king (THE HORROR!) got killed in the capital!

"The queen?" That definitely drew Edwin's attention. It's not like it mattered, though. Even if she was there, Chantaine must have assigned guards to her. Fremont didn't have enough men.

And what next, then? What would he do with the queen?

Nothing. Let her be, really.

Edwin could understand Her Majesty. She had fled, saving her children and her own skin, and got to the palace. That was worthy of respect.

The innkeeper, in the meantime, was pouring out every last bit of knowledge he had.

Yes, the queen had supposedly miraculously fled the capital and had the king's third son. The village maids told everything!

The palace was also full of various Eveers and other Virmans led by some countess, Earmon or Earlon.

"Earton? "

That got Edwin's undivided attention. He might not have any issues with the queen, but he did have it in for the countess and then some—for all Eartons, really.

Several questions revealed the truth.

The queen, Countess Earton, and various rabble taken in by the countess were in the palace. The queen was supposed to head out to the capital soon. Maybe the generous sir could invite himself into the retinue?

Edwin considered the idea and nodded.

"I suppose so. I'll sleep here and go to the palace tomorrow."

In the evening, as he lay on the bed lazily crushing one bedbug after another, Edwin Fremont contemplated getting his revenge.

Jerisson Earton had deserved payback, and so did his wife Lilian, whose involvement didn't feel like a surprise either.

There was only one problem: reaching her. Her Grace likely wasn't stupid enough to go to the village or go walking around the woods at night as fairy tale heroines were wont to do.

No, that was doubtful. What could he do, then?

Using a crossbow was a safe bet, but would he pull it off? And how would he escape afterward?

Edwin spent a long time coming up with a plan. He really wanted to get back at her for his humiliation, but he also wanted to live a long and happy life. It was a dilemma.

By morning, he had killed at least a hundred insects but still hadn't arrived at a decision. Frustrated and sleep-deprived, Baron Fremont took his place by the table and took a mouthful of cherry brandy.

Damnable flophouse!

Maldonaya take Lilian Earton!

Apparently, bedbug bites had an unexpected effect of stimulating brain activity, as, by the end of breakfast, an idea took shape in his mind.

It would allow him to both get his revenge and get away with it. He needed to try.

It's not like he had anything to lose, either—at least he would reckon with her. And with that thought, Edwin sent his men to scout the area. He needed a good place for an ambush.

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

"My name is Ian Gardren."

Olav looked at the dirty, unkempt boy and saw that his eyes were the same as Bran's: smart and bright.

"By Olive the Crusher! Where did you come from?"

Olav's phrasing was a bit awkward, but the boy understood him. With a sob, he started his story, telling everything about the attack on his clan, his escape with his sister and her nanny, his brother's death, and their journey to the Hardrings—to his father.

Olav could only shake his head.

"Do you know who attacked you?"

"They descended upon us like knaves, their faces hidden," the boy replied.

One more repercussion of the war.

How would Bran deal with it?

His eldest son might not matter in the grand scheme of things, but Bran loved him with all his heart, and his wife... Fine, he might not have loved her, but it was his clan and his people.

There were still Gardrens in Virma, of course, but not his blood kin—only those who lived under his protection. How would he go on after that?

Olav imagined telling all of that to Bran. Yikes.

"Let's go, young warrior. I'll set you up and have your women taken care of."

Ian nodded gratefully.

A leaden burden of fatigue suddenly overwhelmed him. He knew that if he lay down or even sat on a bench, he wouldn't stand up, never.

He had done his best; he had been strong, watching out for himself, his sister, everything...

He had reached his destination and was heard. His duty was over. Someone else would decide what to do with the news he brought.

"Where's my father?"

"He's in Clan Hardar. I think he should be back soon."

The boy gave a curt nod.

Disheveled and bristling, he reminded Olav of a baby shark.

Yes, Bran had raised a good boy. He would never bring dishonor to Clan Gardren. But what would happen to the clan?

Olav wasn't stupid and had a good grasp of Bran's character. Sometimes, fate dealt blows capable of breaking even the strongest of men.

Wellster, Cardin.

Altres Lort came in without knocking. He didn't really need to knock, anyway. If Albitta wanted a meeting, she would get it.

He had no desire to do it, of course, but that was the right course of action. He would meet her, look her in the eyes, and say the words he didn't even want to think.

It wasn't cruelty, only necessity, just like lancing an abscess. If you neglected to do it, you would die in agony later. Still, Altres had hesitated almost two days before entering those chambers.

Guards were standing watch in front of the doors.

There were also guards inside, but they would have to leave. A conversation like that didn't need any witnesses.

Her former majesty Albitta raised her head from a book that she had been staring at like a mechanical doll.

She wasn't even reading, only scrolling through pages to keep her hands busy.

Her nails had been chewed down to her fingers, Altres noticed.

It had been a long time, but Albitta always used to chew her nails when she was nervous; he still remembered that.

He remembered Gardwig grabbing his wife's hands, asking her to calm down.

So much time had passed... For a second, Altres felt nostalgic.

"Hello, Betty."

"Albitta!"

Altres was glad to see sparks in her seemingly faded dark eyes. How else could he bring a woman out of her shell?

Only make her happy or angry; both options worked, as long as he managed to dodge afterward. After all, women were unpredictable and often pretty good at throwing things.

"It doesn't matter anymore. Betty, Albitta...do you know how it ends?"

Albitta shrugged.

"Chopping block?"

"Yes."

"I had my suspicions."

"You knew it would happen from the very start."

"What else should I have done? Accept your sentence and put my throat up for a garrote or my cup for your poison? What did you prepare for me back then, Altres? After the divorce?"

"A dagger," Altres confessed unabashedly. It hadn't been his idea, but Gardwig's; he wasn't one to be judged. Yes, he had followed the king's orders, but who wouldn't?

"A dagger for being a faithful wife and mother. A chopping block for a coup. What else was left?"

Altres shrugged.

"You managed to escape. Couldn't you start a new life?"

"Start with what? I was almost thirty and had given birth to four children..."

"That boy isn't Gardwig's son, is he?"

"Didn't Robert tell you?"

"He did. I just don't believe him?"

"Why is that?" Albitta was clearly mocking him.

"Because Robert Alcine is mad," Altres replied simply. "He'd send anyone to the gallows as long as... What's that boy's name? Henry?"

"Does it matter now?"

"If he has at least one drop of Gardwig's blood, Robert would be happy to spill it."

Albitta snorted.

For a second, she wanted to lie—only for a second.

As if having guessed her thought, Altres added, "I'm not asking, but I don't want one more sin on my conscience."

"Do you have any of it left?"

"You know, Betty, I've never killed children. Could you say you wouldn't have done it to Gard's sons?"

"He sentenced me, and I sentenced him."

"What about the children?"

"They simply pay for their parents' sins."

"Should your children pay for yours?"

"My children...I wouldn't have recognized them. I haven't seen them for so long... What's the point of this conversation, Harnie?"

Altres flinched. That name should have died with Gardwig.

"I don't know, Albitta. I don't know."

"I do," she said with a bitter and mocking smile on her face. "The loyal dog lost its master and wants to bite someone, doesn't it?"

Altres shrugged.

"But you were never capable of killing without an order, Harnie."

"Really?"

The conversation grew more and more ridiculous.

Why had he come there?

Why had he started all of it?

She sighed.

"You'll kill me anyway. But I...at least I avenged myself, Altres. I have no regrets."

"Gardwig wanted a son. He didn't do it out of spite—"

"He didn't sleep with the ladies-in-waiting out of spite; he didn't eye up a replacement for me out of spite; he didn't give you the order out of spite... He was kind, right? I didn't appreciate that kindness, though. I dared to survive and make my own plans."

"Didn't your plans have too high of a cost?"

"A cost?"

"Wellster. You would have never held on to power, and neither would Alcine. The entire country would be swept in flames and drenched in blood. Would it be just?"

"What about what was done to me?"

"Gardwig had to give his country an heir. I remember that you didn't want to have any more children."

"Because each time I was pregnant, my husband was busy plowing every woman in the palace."

Altres threw his hands up.

"I didn't say he was right to do it."

"And you don't say I am."

"Gardwig was a good king, Albitta."

"And was I a bad queen? You condemned me back then, Altres, and you're going to carry out your sentence now. Is it just?"

"No."

Albitta placed her book on the bedside table, stood up, and paced the room.

"I would have killed you if I could."

"I know. Even back then. You wanted to, didn’t you?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you want to see me, Betty?"

"Do I get my last wish?"

"Yes."

"I want you to be present at my execution and give the order in person."

"Why do you want that?"

"Look at me as I die, Altres, and remember, remember for the rest of your life that I was innocent when you sentenced me to death. You did this to me."

Altres sighed.

He had nothing to say. She was right. They had sentenced her and betrayed her, and their evil came back to haunt them. At least Gard's children managed to remain unscathed.

"I will, Betty. Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Goodbye, then."

"See you later, Harnie, one last time...when?"

"Tomorrow."

"Send me maids, then. I want to look good as I go."

"All right, Albitta."

Altres bowed and left.

He needed to be finished with everything before Milia returned to Cardin. But why did he feel so rotten? What was that nasty feeling? Or was that the road of kings he had heard all about?

He didn't like it one bit.

***

No matter how busy Jerisson Earton might have been, he still found time to meet his loyal servants.

"Your Grace!"

Thomas was overjoyed to see Count Earton as if he was his own kin. How could he not?

They had made it! They had survived!

Everything was over, was it? Was it?

Jerisson smiled at Thomas.

"Yes, Thom. Everything will be all right. We can return to the embassy."

"For real?"

"There shouldn't be any trouble anymore. We've caught everyone. They're now sitting behind bars waiting for execution."

"Serves them right! Killing a king, who's ever heard of such thing?"

Jess nodded.

"Good thing you're all right."

"Her Grace sent us a note, letting us flee. We even took the Dishans, too."

"Yes. Count Dishan wanted to see you."

"Err..." Thom looked worried.

"If he offers you an estate, don't agree. We'll give you one in Ativerna," Jerisson warned, but his eyes were smiling. "Those Wellsterians! They'll woo all the best people if you let them!"

Thomas realized that nothing bad was going to happen and smiled.

"How can I leave my homeland, Your Grace? When are we returning, by the way?"

"As soon as the Roivels and the Elonts recover."

"What happened to Their Graces, Your Grace?"

"They were tortured."

"How dastardly! Aldonai's scourge upon them! How about M’lady Countess?"

"She's all right. She'll be in the capital soon."

"Praise Aldonai! I need to visit the temple. Oh, and wash Lidarh."

"Wash him?"

"We had to dye him, Your Grace, to get him out of the city..."

Jerisson simply shook his head.

"Fine. Go back to the embassy. It should be all clear from now on."

Thomas bowed.

"Should" didn't quite mean "will."

The difference was considerable. He and his men would return to the embassy, but they would be ready even for the worst.

***

The people of Cardin hadn't seen such a sheer number of ceremonies since forever.

An engagement, the king's funeral, and finally, the pretender's execution.

Yes, exactly. Altres Lort had it announced everywhere that Robert Alcine had killed the king, found a woman to pass her off as the late Queen Albitta, and plotted to put his own bastard son on the throne.

He was still being interrogated, but the pretender's fate was sealed. There could only be one punishment for someone claiming to be the queen: death.

The execution was to take place at noon.

Everyone left their homes to go to the Palace Square, even those who didn't like such things. How could they miss something like that? Their children and grandchildren would never forgive them!

Entire families walked together, talking along the way.

The square was packed with people with no room to swing a cat. Townsfolk were standing next to each other or sitting on the rooftops, while the owners of nearby balconies rented them out for a tidy profit.

Only the very center of the square was empty: the scaffolding padded with green fabric. Technically, for Albitta, they should have chosen purple, but Altres Lort ordered them to use green. He didn't want to start rumors or gossip.

It was a pretender who was executed, not the queen, period.

If anyone told Altres that he was thinking along the same lines as Robert Alcine, the count would have been insulted. Still, both needed confirmation for the people, and what could be more convincing than the predecessor's execution or funeral?

For himself, Altres picked a spot just next to the chopping block. He wanted to play it safe and be as close to the center of events as possible. If anyone tried to rescue Albitta, he would always be able to throw his dagger. As for the rest...

He was Gardwig's Butcher, after all; he would stay one even without his king.

The crowd, calm at first, grew restless.

"They're bringing her!"

"A carriage! Look!"

Usually, convicts were transported in a special cart, but Altres decided against that. Knowing Albitta, she would have been screaming the entire trip. He didn't want that.

A plain closed carriage slowly drove by the scaffolding and stopped just next to it. Two guards walked out, the last of them helping Albitta to do the same. She couldn't do it by herself, bound in heavy chains as she was.

Still, she retained a truly royal poise. Altres even regretted sending her maids. The woman had done everything to make up for her predicament, using any tool at her disposal.

Heavy purple velvet dress embroidered with gold, braids shaped like a crown...just add diamond jewelry, and she could easily go to a ball that very minute. Her stature, her face, her eyes... Albitta looked around and slowly walked to the scaffolding.

The executioner was waiting. Altres Lort was waiting. The crowd of onlookers was waiting.

Carrying herself with utmost dignity, the former queen climbed the stairs of the platform, the guards behind her as her retinue. The executioner pointed at the spot by the chopping block, and Albitta stood there. He started speaking.

"By order of Her Majesty Milia, the regent for His Majesty Edwin..."

The people needed to hear that the woman punished was a heinous pretender should have been killed ages ago.

Albitta listened with a look of contempt, not saying anything. That said, Altres had let her know in advance that if she screamed at the execution, they would just gag her.

The man finished reading the decree.

Aldon Peters stepped out.

"Your...ahem! Child of Aldonai, are you ready to repent your sins?"

"I have nothing to repent! I was a queen. I was betrayed and disgraced, and I only returned what was mine by right," Albitta sharply retorted. Her words thundered above the pavement as people listened. "I have avenged myself, and I regret nothing."

And before anyone managed to gag her, she knelt by the chopping block.

"Aldonai, accept my soul!"

Her head lay on the polished wood.

The executioner glanced at Altres Lort and saw him nod.

The axe flashed.

Albitta's last glare was addressed toward the king's jester, and Altres couldn't look away. That glare told volumes:

her pain, her hate...

You have won.
Damn you!

But was Altres really the one to blame? After all, he had protested Gard's decision once, but his brother insisted. What was a loyal butcher to do? Only carry out the order whether he liked it or not. Nobody cared about his opinion back then.

Altres felt disgusted with himself.

Blood was pouring out of Albitta's body, smearing the scaffolding, ugly brown against the green padding, the sky reflected in the queen's dead eyes.

Yes, the queen.

He had only followed orders. He had only avenged his brother. Why did he feel so awful, though? As nasty as if all stray cats of Cardin pooped on his conscience?

Damnable politics.
Damnable cycle of revenge.

Altres knew that later that night, he would be getting drunk. With whom, though? What about Count Earton? He wasn't supposed to fraternize with his subordinates, and the count was an outsider who would leave soon.

Absolutely. He would do it.

***

Edwin and three more mercenaries were watching the Summer Palace.

The rest of his men had left after threatening their employer and getting their payment. They never agreed to risk their own heads like that, after all. Edwin, however, wouldn't budge.

He needed some kind of payback, dammit! Some way to retaliate for his humiliation, his loss, his prospects cast into the dirt... He could have become a chancellor for Her Majesty Albitta or Henry.

His current options were becoming an exile or a corpse.

Edwin didn't want to try to assassinate the queen. To Maldonaya with her! He had seen Milia a few times and formed an opinion. True, she was a klutz, but someone might need a woman like her.

He bore no ill will toward the queen; all she had done was to save her children. That was quite admirable, actually. The Eartons, however... They were the proverbial spanner in the works.

Ed decided to start with ambushing Lilian Earton.

There was no salvation from a crossbow bolt, even if she was a shilda. Maldonaya's name couldn't repel it, as long as he aimed true. Worst-case scenario, he could have it blessed in a temple.

Gold coins did their part, and Edwin found out that Her Majesty would leave for the capital at dawn, naturally accompanied by the countess.

That Ativernan woman held way too much power in her hands, going around and giving orders. Yes, she had said that she was versed in the healing arts, but how could she? She was a woman! She couldn't have any real skills!

The maids had it out for the countess for making them wash the royal chambers and wet-clean it every day, but Lily was unrelenting.

Three children, one of them a baby, plus a woman who had just given birth. Leaving dirt with them? She didn't think so!

"Clean" was the word.

A similar fate befell the kitchen, where plates were to be scrubbed clean, while Lily personally tasted all the cooked dishes. No, she wasn't mean like that.

It's just that fridges were a twentieth-century invention. The Middle Ages had sauces designed to mask the taste of not-so-fresh food.

Lily had already told Milia about the field version of a thermos, impressing her, but introducing them would take lots of time.

What if the servants cooked days-old fish, poured sauce on it, and gave to the queen?

She wouldn't allow them!

She had gone to great lengths to save Her Majesty; she didn't want her to get an upset stomach, food poisoning, or intoxication. Milia had just got her milk coming in.

Usually, noble ladies didn't breastfeed, but the queen decided to attempt it with her newborn.

She had no husband to get back to (intimacy during breastfeeding was considered a sin), and Lily explained to her that drinking her milk would be good for both the mother and the child.

Several times a day, Milia put the baby against her chest, and felt a little bit better: not physically, but mentally.

She had been unable to help her husband, but she did save his sons for whom he had given his life, including the youngest one.

Cor wouldn't remember his father, and Gard would never get to see him. Milia grieved that.

The scullery maids, in turn, grieved Countess Earton's nagging. She wasn't well-loved in the castle, and any information about her was easily divulged to the king and generous sir.

By the morning of the third day, Edwin Fremont had prepared everything for an ambush, grabbed two crossbows (loading one took ages, after all), and lay in wait. Nobody would know where the bolt came from.

He had planned everything out—except for one thing.

***

The time for the royal departure had finally come.

Lily watched everything with ill-concealed skepticism.

She remembered how Thomas Concord had arranged their journey and realized that the Summer Palace had no such expert. All they had were royal guards, capable of marching out to expeditions, setting camps, and staying overnight in roadside inns.

They had no idea how to escort highborn ladies and make them happy along the way; after all, it wasn't in their job description. Thus, Lily decided to shoulder some of the problems herself.

For instance, the carriage…it had to be properly equipped, and they needed two more as backup.

Food. Milia couldn't eat roasted meat past its best or game caught in the woods. A nursing mother required a specific diet.

Maids, wetnurses, the Eveers who had decided to make use of the opportunity to travel back to the capital, and the children.

She could sit on her backside, hoping that a skilled steward would jump out from somewhere...until problems arose.

She could also make a list of issues to handle—thankfully having a good idea of what exactly had to be done after spending so much time with Thomas—and proceed to resolve them.

Nobody objected.

Everyone decided that if she were successful, that would be their shared achievement, and if not, they could always blame it on the countess' uncalled-for overtures. Let Her Majesty lay the guilt on Countess Earton; it's not like they felt sorry for the latter.

Lily realized that and calmly arranged everything.

Meanwhile, the Virmans had the time of their lives wooing local farm girls. Where else would palace staff come from?

His Majesty, of course, would bring his own servants, but until he decided to grace the residence with his presence, simpler folk would suffice. Farm girls were quite enough to wash and clean the rooms, cook something, and if any of them got a baby in their belly—well, that would only improve their bloodstock.

The guards, however, never grew too cocky. There was a balance of sorts. No matter their birth, each nobleman had certain things drummed into his head: one didn't shit where he ate or starve his sheep when he could sell wool for a profit. His Majesty could also have an unpredictable reaction to the peasants' complaints, depending on his mood.

Once, Gardwig had had the petitioners whipped, and another time, ordered the culprit to buy a cow for each farmer. Nobody was quite sure what the queen would do, but why tempt fate?

The farm girls took a liking to the Virmans. Back in Earton, Lilian had instructed the latter to be sure to obtain consent, or she'd rip off all of their bits or, even worse, marry them off.

The threat was acknowledged, and the Virmans never crossed boundaries either back home or in Wellster, wooing the women as well as they could and trying to be as gallant as possible.

One time, a girl shared the news with Ivar: a nobleman had been passing through their village. Why'd she take him for a nobleman? Well, it's not like he could trick anyone. His hands were well-groomed; he had obviously never known hard labor. His clothes might be plain, but his weapons were expensive. Despite common preconceptions, peasant girls weren't stupid. They had different interests, but any commoner knew: noblemen, danger, and money always came together.

Who knew what might occur to a highborn man? It was better to give them a wide berth.

Little by little, it emerged that the man had been asking about the queen, the palace, and most importantly, about the time the queen would leave for the capital. He also seemed interested in Countess Earton.

A village was its own world where everyone knew everything about each other. An outsider was big news. In a way, a village was like an onion: even if you peeled it, it didn't mean you'd get to the core easily. You'd have to shed a lot of tears first.

Ivar shared his findings with Gael, who considered it, found it worrying, and went to see Lilian Earton. He didn't want to trouble her without a good reason; first, he would check everything himself.

"Your Grace?"

"What?"

"We'd like to go and scout out the area, find out what's going on."

Lily was surprised.

"What for?"

Gael shook his head. Despite all her skills and expertise, in some ways, the countess was naive as a child. Leif had been right to ask them to protect her.

"Your Grace, Alcine flooded the city with mercenaries. At the moment, they're scattering..."

"Would they care about us?" Lily shrugged.

"Why not? They could get a good ransom for any of Their Highnesses. And then there's Miranda and you..."

Lily sighed.

Terrorism wasn't invented in the twentieth century, not by a long shot. Pirates had long since learned to kidnap hostages and demand ransom. The Virmans tried to avoid doing that, but...the sea wrote many things off.

"Do it," she told Gael. "Report to me tomorrow."

Gael bowed and left.

The countess had her upsides, too. She never tried butting in on things she didn't know and didn't try to order people around and get her own way without a good reason.

Her subordinates would do their own work, and she would do hers, with the results added together—a good system, all in all.

***

The Virmans decided to ride around the neighboring villages, getting a beer, having fun with pretty girls, and chatting with rumormongers.

How else would they get news?

It worked in the very first village, where the locals told them about Edwin Fremont, even if their account somewhat differed from what had really transpired.

Yes, some mercenaries had passed through, wanting to visit the castle and find work. They seemed to be headed to the capital, not fleeing it, however.

So they hadn't stayed?

That piqued the Virmans' attention.

Mercenaries?
How curious!

Could it be they were going to help Alcine? What were they going to attempt after learning that the duke's enterprise had failed horribly? The latest tidings were all extremely favorable for Milia.

Alcine imprisoned, Albitta sentenced to death... And knowing Altres Lort, the sentence would be carried out quickly enough.

What would those people do?

Either turn around and go back or ride on, hoping to make a profit as true carrion eaters, or... The Virmans had a third version as well. The mercenaries could stay somewhere in the vicinity, plotting something shady.

The capital wasn't the only place where they could make a good haul. There must have been a reason they were asking about the palace. And with those thoughts, the Virmans started combing the area.

They easily located Fremont's hiding place and his preparations.

Edwin's plan was simple: fell a couple of trees on the road and fire a shot while everyone was busy deciding what to do, hopefully hitting Countess Earton. He had spent a few days traveling with her and knew that riding in a carriage made her sick. She would most likely be on horseback.

He would shoot, and he would flee.

His prospects seemed decent enough, but he needed to be ready: find escape routes, file down the trees, and set up an ambush spot. It was autumn, and trees were either leafless or in the process of losing foliage. If he climbed them to hide, even the birds would mock him.

Whatever one man cooked up, another could always spot, and the Virmans did, noticing the footprints on the ground, a flooring, and filed trees.

They would have done the same if they wanted to set an ambush, and it meant only one thing: it was hunting time.

***

Gael explained his idea to Her Grace.

Lily suggested she would play the bait, straying away from the procession.

Gael objected, yelled at her, and promised to tie her up and lock her in the carriage, prompting the countess to threaten to rip off his head and rat him out to Leif.

After a ten-minute screaming match (their shared tribulations allowed for such drama), Lily and Gael reached a truce and started coming up with a new plan.

Of course, nobody would let Lily play the bait. All women would be sitting inside the carriages: the Virmans wouldn't agree otherwise.

As for the rest... Who said that hunters couldn't be hunted? They absolutely could, provided you had the right scheme.

And that was exactly what they had.

***

Despite the Virmans' objections, Lily's idea about bait was a sound one.  Instead of her, however, that role went to the skinniest of the royal guards. The poor guy had to shave off his mustache and put on a dress.

Everyone emphasized that it wasn't shameful in the least, but rather a military trick.

They could have used a farm girl or an Eveer woman in his stead, but alas, they had no idea how to wear noblewomen's dresses, move the right way, ride horseback, or wear a heavy, if almost gossamer-thin, chain shirt under the clothes. They could never succeed, instead only scaring the prey off.

Gael knew what he would do if he wanted to lay an ambush.

He would have sent a man to watch the royal procession from afar and signal in case everything was fine. Unfortunately, Gael had no idea where such a man would be hiding, forcing the countess to sneak into the stables and get inside the carriage there, while the guard disguised as her left with Miranda, the dogs, and the Virmans, and was triumphantly hoisted on a horse. Nobody even thought about laughing, other than maybe chuckling inwardly.

The cortege left the gates and slowly started moving.

Lily was seething. Miranda and Milia were trying to calm her down as well as they could. The countess was frustrated by uncertainty and a mysterious enemy who... How dare they!
They were beaten! In such circumstances, any proper enemy would get the hell away with their tail between their legs and never come back.

What could they want? Revenge? She could understand it, but still... Bastards!

Lily was so carried away with her anger that she didn't even notice when everything started.

One could say a lot of things about Edwin Fremont, but he was no fool, and his plans were quite feasible.

Everything happened at once. Two huge trees started falling on both sides of the road, arrows whooshed past, someone screamed... Lily tried peeking out of the window, but six hands held her—even the maid jumped in.

"Where are you going?"

"Mama!"

"M’lady!"

Lily remembered herself and quieted down.

Really, why risk looking out of the window and getting an arrow? It was better to lay low. After all, nobody had installed metal plates around the carriage. Being shot after a victory would be foolish.

Swords kept clashing outside, accompanied by yelling. So what was going on?

***

Edwin actually got enough time to be happy that his plan had worked.

Several crossbows fired at once, and he grabbed his backup weapon, unloading it as well. No, they couldn't delay anymore. In a second, their enemies would recover and begin pursuit.

He saw a blonde woman fall out of the saddle, someone trying to scoop her up, and then...

It was time to flee.

Edwin gestured to his people and darted off, running through the woodland to the spot where they had left saddled horses.

They were allowed to cross that distance.

The trap hadn't been set next to the ambush spot. It was clear that the mercenaries would arrive in advance, plus they might have reserves. Instead, the Virmans waited for them at the place where they would come anyway: their horses.

They couldn't attempt to run on foot, could they?

Edwin wasn't going to surrender without a fight, while the royal guards were eager to capture him and his men alive. A fight broke out.

A Virman man appeared in front of Edwin. His face even looked familiar. The countess' man? He was sure of it.

Edwin gritted his teeth, furious, and charged forward.

The sword clashed against the axe, then again. The Virman warrior used his brute force, making the opponent evade his blows rather than parry. Edwin took a step back, then another, and suddenly screamed like a bird caught in a net. To be fair, it wasn't far from the truth.

Edwin might have set up an ambush with a crossbow, but the Virmans used nets, common fishing nets that they threw at the baron and his companions on cue. It was impossible not to get trapped, and Edwin was no exception.

He lost several precious seconds, and that was enough for the Virman. A powerful blow knocked the baron out, and everything went dark.

***

"Your Majesty, Your Grace, we're safe now."

Only after hearing those words did Milia dare to peek out of the carriage.

The guards were clearing the road of felled trees, cutting them into pieces first—thankfully, they had axes for that.

The Virmans rode out in the open. They were carrying bodies toppled over their saddles.

"How many were there?" Lily asked.

"Six."

Twelve bolts.

"And what—"

"A crossbow bolt."

Lily jumped out of the carriage.

The guard disguised as her had gotten a crossbow bolt in his leg. His chain shirt protected from serious injuries, but his ribs might have been broken. He also had difficulty breathing.

Lily swore.

"On the grass, now. Get your dirty hands off, or I'll punch you!"

A countess was gone, replaced by a medic, and Her Grace wasn't going to be shy.

Her first aid kit had been left at the embassy—it's not like she could take it to a ball—but over the time spent in the Summer Palace, she managed to scrounge a few things up, such as bandages, needles, a few knives serving as scalpels, and various supplies like alcohol—fine, fortified wine—and opium for killing pain.

Why'd she need it?

Lily felt naked without her tools. The circumstances around them didn't allow a medic to sit on her hands idle. Someone was bound to need medical aid; if she didn't have anything, that would be embarrassing.

Lily lowered herself onto the grass next to the guard.

The bolt had pierced his thigh, thankfully not passing through, or it might have pinned him to his horse, resulting in a laceration. But even without it, she had her hands full. She hoped that the tip wouldn't get stuck inside the wound.

Lily glanced at the squad's physician.

"Could you lend me a hand?"

He wasn't about to argue, and Lily got down to work, not paying any attention to what was going on. It's not like the cortege could start moving anytime soon: they needed to clear the road and deal with the attackers first.

***

The tip of the crossbow bolt almost bounced off; she had to start cutting from the other side of the leg and carefully pull it out, then sew the wound and drain it.

The doctorus who helped her was completely floored. The countess' movements oozed discipline. Training like that was obvious to any medic who wasn't stupid.

The way she threaded a needle, her stitching, her knots...how many indications did a skilled eye need?

And then the ribs: Lily palpated the guard like a true professional.

"Two ribs are broken, one cracked. We'll apply a dressing, but avoid strain for the next three days. You'll also have problems breathing, but it will heal."

Curiously, it didn't occur to anyone to crack a dirty joke. The countess wasn't wiping off the injured man's sweat from his forehead or doing other silly stuff. She was working: calm, focused, and professional. The guards, most of whom had gotten their share of wounds either in battle or duels, could appreciate her skill. How could they joke?

She applied the bandage just as masterfully. The guard sighed with relief and thanked her.

Lily watched as he was put into a cart.

Yes, the attackers had clearly targeted her specifically. But who were they? Why would they do it?

At last, she was free to look for the Virmans. She found Gael not far, pleased, calm, and as usual, guarding someone.

"How are you?"

"Everything's fine."

"And those—"

"Two dead, four alive. Have a look, Your Grace."

"I would like that, yes."

"After you."

***

Edwin Fremont opened his eyes, rudely awakened by the sharp tang of smelling salts. He groaned with impotent rage. A woman leaned over his face—the one he hated so much, Lilian Earton.

Aldonai damn the day they met!
It was then when everything went downhill...

"You..."

That simple word was seething with so much hate that Lilian didn't need anything else. Everything was clear.

"Revenge. Just revenge."

Edwin spat out a few angry curses, but it was pointless; Lilian wasn't listening anymore.

"Good catch, Gael. Count Lort is bound to reward you handsomely."

The Virman smiled, content. One could never have too much money, and he was thinking about marrying if Rutha agreed. He would put it to good use starting a household, maybe buy a share in a ship company. He was a poor trader, but ships were a different story.

Lily smiled.

She could easily read Gael's thoughts on his expressive face. And who'd blame him, really?

Such was the time.

Enemies were to be killed, but if you could make a profit on them, you would.

"Damn you!" Fremont spewed.

Lily shrugged.

"I suggest you discuss curses and other things with Count Lort. He'd be happy to oblige."

She turned around. That page of her life held no interest for her anymore.

Behind her back, the Virmans were busy tying the baron up in just the right way so he wouldn't choke, harm himself, or lose his limbs if he tried to struggle. They had a lot of experience at that. A gag would prevent him from biting his tongue off or any unnecessary screaming. He would get the opportunity to say whatever he had on his mind at the interrogation.

The rest of the journey was uneventful.

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

Angelina had never seen an expression like that, other than maybe on her father's face when her mother had died, but she was still a child back then.

Right before her eyes, Bran faded to grey, as if his very being was scrubbed away from the fabric of the world. His features turned thin as if he was a living corpse rather than human.

"H-how?"

"Your son and your daughter are alive, the youngest ones. The eldest died protecting the house and his family."

"Who?"

"The same people. They sent one squad to your clan. I've already dispatched a pursuit..."

Olav knew that finding the culprits was a long shot. All of them had been disguised, and the boy would never identify them, and after learning about the conspirators' defeat, they would surely pretend to be loyal subjects. The Virman held no illusions: they had caught only some of the mutineers, but far from everyone.

"Papa!"

Ian Gardren flung his arms around his father's neck, showering him with tears. Bran knelt down and hugged his son.

Angelina was standing by his side.

The moment of choice had come.

Either she was a princess with her own troubles and worries or...

Slowly, she knelt down and embraced both men, showing that she wanted a place in their life. Just let them try to push her away!

It didn't occur to either of them. Instead, Bran breathed out, as if human warmth was pulling him out of a dark abyss.

His clan; his people; the ones he could call kin.

The woman he had shared a bed with who bore him a daughter. His eldest son, his pride and hope. His aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, the ones who had the same blood...

They were all dead, and he was to blame. He couldn't even protect them.

He had been too caught up in the game. If only he could get everything back! How could Bran not see that his people would become targets? He could live with placing himself in danger, but they... They were blameless.

Ian sniffled.

"Papa...I should have fought, too..."

"You should have survived, taking care of your sister and telling the news," Bran cut him off.

Fight?

He should have foreseen it. Instead...

Idiot.

A stupid idiot.

His cheeks were moist. Was it his son's tears? His own?

At some point, Bran realized that he had been left alone with Angelina and Ian. Angelina?

The princess was by his side, kneeling and watching him. She was silent, not expressing her sympathy, not saying unnecessary words. She was simply there for him, and for Bran, it meant more than any promises and oaths.

"Thank you."

Angelina's eyes flashed.

"Wait until we talk to Richard. He'll probably give me a piece of his mind."

Bran didn't doubt that. Still, it's not like the prince would kill him. The rest didn't matter. And even if he did...

Death had already taken his family and kin. He wasn't scared of it anymore; there, beyond the veil, they were waiting for him. Well, other than his son and his daughter...

"Angie?"

Richard was late for the meeting. Sitting by the sea, he had forgotten the time. Lately, he had spent hours staring at that icy mirror.

If only those who left could return...

Angelina grew pale at the sight of her brother but didn't stop touching Bran and Ian.

The confused boy kept glancing back and forth between the strange lady and the prince. His father's son, he was smart enough to avoid saying anything.

Still, he was curious.

"Yes, Richard?" the princess echoed in an even tone.

"Do you want to explain something to me?"

Angelina shrugged.

"Should I explain something that's already obvious?"

Richard shook his head.

"Am I to understand that you regret nothing and aren't going to repent your sins or refuse your—"

"Richard!"

He tossed his head, looked at her again, and realized everything.

That's how Tira had looked at him, with love, Aldonai be damned! With the desperation of love that would be unable to overcome all hurdles.

Wouldn't it, though? It hadn't worked for him and would never work.

But what about his sister?

If he could turn back time and he knew what would happen, would he have married Tira?

Yes. He would have, and he would have taken her from the island the very same day—and never regretted it. It was too late for that, though. Unforgivably late.

"Don’t, Your Highness. I am the one at fault, and I will answer for that."

The prince had learned as much about Bran Gardren as that enigmatic man allowed to, but at the moment, all he could see in Bran's narrowed blue eyes was a reflection of Richard's own pain.

He had also lost the things he held dear, but he did love Angie. It was clear.

So if that's how things stood, there was only one choice.

"You are, Gardren. Do you love my sister?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

Bran wasn't going to dodge the question. There was no need to hide it.

Richard grinned.

"Then you'll have to make an honest woman out of her."

All three of them were blown away by his words, including the boy who sat down on the sand right where he had stood. Bran raised his eyebrows. Angelina opened her mouth agape in a decidedly unmannered way.

"Have...have I heard it right?"

"Did I understand you correctly, Your Highness?"

"We'll hold the wedding under Virman laws. The second time will be at sea. Captains have a right to perform marriages."

"Father..." Angelina couldn't gather her wits and thus picked arguments against marriage rather than for it.

"Will be furious, no doubt. He'll cuss at you, throw a tantrum, even banish you from the capital for a spell...but you'll be back in a year or two."

"B-back?"

"You'll need to present him with grandchildren. And Gardren, take heed: if you agree, you'll become a citizen of Ativerna. You'll get a title upfront, but I absolutely count on your skills."

Bran started shaking his head.

Holosh, you...

All Virmans knew that the gods loved having fun at the mortals' expense, but that seemed too cynical even for them.

On the other hand...

"Your Highness, if I am executed, will you care about my family?"

"Of course. It's my family, too."

Bran couldn't believe that was happening.

"You...really want to let me marry Angelina?"

"I did say that, didn't I? Gardren, I'm not the one to use words lightly."

"I'm no one. I have no title, no estate, not even a clan anymore."

"Do you love my sister, or are you trying to find an excuse to refuse?"

Richard could be quite heartless when he needed to.

Angelina was quiet. Sometimes, it was better to stay silent, especially since she had already made her stance clear. Let the men negotiate, and she'd use the results as she saw fit.

"Angelina is my heart and soul."

The princess smiled softly. When would she have heard such a confession if not for her brother?

"You're the chief of Clan Gardren. It's equivalent to a duke or a count in Ativerna."

"A chief without a clan..."

"Yes or no, Gardren?"

"Yes."

"The rest can be figured out. Talk to Angelina, and then we'll go over the details."

Bran nodded in confirmation.

Richard left, and Angelina shook her head.

"I'm not dreaming, am I?"

"I'm not sure," Bran answered. "Maybe we've gone crazy?"

"Papa, who's this lady?"

A child's voice surprised them.

Bran did remember about his son, but...

Looking in his blue eyes, he suddenly realized that the answer would be harder than the question.

Angelina stepped in, sitting down on the grass next to the boy.

"If you'd like, I could take care of you and your father."

"Like a stepmother?" Ian asked matter-of-factly.

Now that was a surprise.

"Yes. If you don't mind."

The boy waved his hand in a very un-childlike manner.

"I don’t. Nanny said that good men never stayed single for long."

Bran opened his mouth, thought a bit, and closed it. Children, enough said. Their universe was full of weird phrases, their logic incomprehensible for adults.

Angelina smiled.

"It's true. But I hope we'll get along."

"And you're a princess?"

"Yes. Why did you think so?"

"That mister is a prince. It means you're a princess, aren't you?"

"Yes. You're definitely your father's son."

"Why?"

"You're just as smart and quick-witted."

Ian puffed his chest up and then paused.

"So we're going to live in a palace? I heard princesses live in palaces."

"Would you like to?"

"I guess you can't fish there..."

Angelina laughed out.

"I suppose we can sort this issue out."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

***

She managed to talk to Richard only in the evening.

Angelina knocked at his door when everyone was already asleep. Richard didn't answer for about ten minutes but finally opened up. Angelina nodded at the window.

"Let's take a walk."

"You've changed, sister."

"So, will you?"

"All right."

She had changed.

Richard, sweetie, sometimes, one night is enough to change, and sometimes, an entire life isn't enough.

I was almost killed; I killed with my own hand; I, worried for my beloved and made the most important decision of my life. It would have been strange for you to see the same innocent girl as before.

Aloud, Angelina said nothing, simply waiting for her brother to put on warm clothes and leave the room.

***

The seashore was calm and quiet.

The tide purred sweetly, licking the smooth rocks and swaddling them in its moist hands while the wind whistled a tune.

It wasn't strong, either: just your usual nightly breeze, cool, salty, and heralding bad weather.

"It’s almost winter."

Richard sat on a rock, picked up a few pebbles, and fiddled with them.

Angelina looked around. She didn't want to keep standing in front of her brother, but she would get cold if she sat. She settled on finding a nice rock and using the folds of her cloak as lining.

"We need to go home soon."

"Yes. Don't be scared; I'll back you up. I won't let Father do anything serious. I think we shouldn't go to Laveri at once."

"What should we do, then?"

"You'll stay on the Virman ship, or Bran will while you accompany me to Father. We'll talk, sort it out..."

Angelina shrugged.

"I guess we could. Maybe it would be best."

"Father will be livid at first, but then he'll understand you. He won't go against me."

Angelina got the implication.

Of course, he would not. How much time had her father left? Two years? Three?

No doctorus could promise him more, neither Lilian Earton with her divine hands nor Tahir Djiaman din Dashar. And then, Richard would sit on the throne. Their father was already passing the torch to him, step by step, slowly, but still…

"Bran will always be faithful to you. He wanted you to know it."

"Oh, really?"

"We've talked."

Angelina said nothing.

She didn't like voicing such things, but...

Honesty came on several levels—for strangers, for friends, and for family. With your family, you had to be completely open, no other option.

Lie, cheat, and you'd lose your kin's trust. Who else would accept you for who you were? Who else would help you in your hour of need?

Even a white lie had no place in a family, simply because those it was supposed to help would never forgive the liar.

"Bran said he didn't want to stay in Virma. His clan is no more."

"But there are those he would retaliate against."

"Yes. But he can't."

"What do you mean?"

"Bran serves Holosh, do you know that?"

"I do. Odd that you do."

Angelina shrugged.

She didn't mind her lover serving probably the scariest of all Virman deities. When you loved, you loved the entire person with all his virtues and flaws. That said, Angelina wasn't quite sure yet to which of them Bran's dedication to Holosh pertained to.

"I saw him kill."

Richard knitted his eyebrows.

He was already aware of the whole story, knew how his sister had been saved, and understood that if not for Bran... In a way, their marriage was just. If not for Bran, Angelina wouldn't be alive. He had saved her life, and if so...

"Just like a fairy tale, right, Angie? A hero saved a beautiful maiden and got to marry her."

"You're vulgar."

"But smart and handsome."

"All right, that's true."

"So, what about revenge?" Richard returned to the matter at hand.

"Bran serves Holosh. If he starts to get revenge, Virma will burn, and that mutiny wouldn't be as easy to subdue. You must realize that such coups involve more than five clans. There must be more, but who and how many of them? They need to be flushed out, slowly and gradually, and dealt with quietly."

"Bran would have been indispensable at that."

"Yes. But if he stayed in Virma, he'd become a target. His bloodline was destroyed because they were sure of Bran's death and their victory. His survival threatens the assassins. They'll start hunting him, and his children will become the first to suffer. Bran doesn't want that."

"What does he want, then?"

"He will communicate with Olav. And then, there are several people..."

Angelina wasn't cutting corners; she simply didn't know everything. Several people? It was an entire web that spanned all of Virma, and it was those threads that Bran would pass down to Olav, even if not every last one.

In time, they would learn who had done the deed and when. And revenge...revenge was best served cold. He would wait. Sooner or later, his time would come.

Richard chuckled. He saw the picture a bit clearer, but if Bran hadn't told his sister everything yet, then so be it. It's not like he had lied—simply omitted a few details.

"So, you'll come together."

"Yes. Bran said that he could swear fealty to you...a blood oath."

Richard nodded.

"It won't hurt."

He knew that was for a reason. In essence, Bran Gardren got a lot out of the deal: a new lease on life, a new country, social standing, an estate and income, a title and a wife...

That was on the surface. On the other hand, it wasn't all rainbows. He would also get the nobles' scorn, intrigues and backstabbing, unfinished business in Virma, and uncertainty as to whether Bran would actually be able to start with a clean slate. Richard believed he would, though.

Still, not all nobles would look down on him and wrinkle their noses. Richard was sure that such families as Earton, Brocklend, and maybe a few more would quickly befriend the Virman. Angelina would help him, but Gardren wasn't the one to stay down long or ask her to wipe away his tears.

He would fight bitterly and to the last, just like he fought circumstances his entire life. He would clench his teeth and do his damnedest... It occurred to Richard that he would have to introduce him to Hans Tremaine. They were bound to find common ground.

Both were rather cold, cruel, and pragmatic. If Bran would take Ativernan interests as close to heart as he had taken Virman, he couldn't wish for a better subject. He'd crush every foe and eat them unsalted.

"I don’t mind. Was it the only thing you wanted to discuss?"

"When and how?"

"We can do it tomorrow night. An oath doesn't require much."

Richard had learned it from the Virmans. Fire, water, a blade: three components. Cut a hand above a fire, speak the words, and wash the blood into the sea. A river would suffice, too, as all rivers run into the sea anyway—as long as the river was flowing, not still water.

Then the gods would hear the speaker and his oath and accept it, and if he broke it, the sea would do the punishment.

Angelina nodded.

"I'll tell him. Same time as now?"

"Yes."

Richard understood why Gardren hadn't come himself. He wasn't afraid—he had never been. He simply decided it would be better to let the siblings talk it out first. He would never evade a meeting and would gladly answer any of Richard's questions, swearing an oath and agreeing to everything.

A lot could be said about the lord of Gardren.

He was cruel, true, and slippery as an eel.

He was also ruthless, absolutely, but he had his own brand of honor, and he was also capable of gratitude. Richard needed an advisor such as him, and as for any ill-wishers among nobles...

He would have an excuse to reign in the smartest of his opponents. Although Richard doubted there would be many dissenters, especially after an unveiled conspiracy.

"Richard..."

Tired of silence, Angelina was the first to speak up.

"What?"

"I'm sorry about what happened to Tira."

Richard shook his head.

"Don't, Angie. Don't."

"No, Richard. I would have been glad to call her my sister."

"If she survived, I would have abandoned everything sooner or later," Richard blurted out. "You know, Angie, once, I condemned Father for choosing love over his country, causing a lot of bloodshed. I never thought I could do something like that."

"Do you still think that father was wrong?"

Richard lowered his head into his palms. He didn't want to lie, but saying the truth hurt.

"I don’t know, Angie, I don't know...Aldonai! It hurts so much! If Tira were alive, I would have dropped everything. I would have married her, abandoning Wellster and the crown's interests...but would it be right? I don't know."

Angelina shook her head.

"I'm glad I'm only a princess. I'm not a queen, and I'll never become one. I don't want to, either."

"I'm happy for you too, sister."

"The morals of a common man and the morals of a king... You are going to become a king, Richard, but the price you pay for that is dire."

Angelina leaned forward and impulsively hugged her brother. Richard pulled her in, resting his nose in her fluffy blond mane.

"Angie... As one man to another, I don't just understand my father: I know that he did right. But as a king, he did not. Fate made the choice for me. Tira's dead, and I get a chance to become a good ruler. I'll go home, marry Maria, and she'll never know that my heart remained in Virma. But it hurts, sister, it hurts so much! It's as if it was I who died, not her. I will remember Tira while I draw breath. I'll even name my daughter after her. But a part of me burned on that ship with her. Maybe the best part."

What could Angelina say? Nothing, really. She simply embraced her brother and stroked his hair as a mother would.

Oh, Richard.

How could she comfort him? She could not. He already understood everything. But why did Angelina feel so guilty? It's not like she had done anything. She would simply live and try to be happy, thanks to Richard.

The road of kings: life, happiness, honor, and the soul of one man in exchange for life and prosperity for many others. Was it a fair trade?

It was not, but destiny didn't offer a choice.

The siblings sat by the sea in silence. There were no words and no answers. Everything had been decided. Each of them had chosen a road and would walk it to the end.

***

Richard met Bran the next evening.

Gardren came to the shore alone, without Angelina. He was standing still and watching.

Richard reached out for the campfire, trying to warm himself.

"Have you decided, Gardren?"

"I have."

"Then let's talk everything through and make everything clear. You'll marry Angelina. I'll give you a title and an estate. In exchange, I demand unconditional loyalty, the same as it was between you and Hardring."

"I'll need time. Here, I'm playing in my own field. In Ativerna, everything will be new."

"Really?"

Bran looked at him innocently.

Fine, it wasn't that new. The island lord had been observing the goings-on on the mainland for some time. He didn't take any active measures, however, having no reason or desire to. He would have to step up his game as he got acquainted with new pastures.

Well then, he would play, and he would win. The stakes were too high for him: his life, his children, and his love. His happiness.

Yes, as it turned out, happiness was in the books even for him, even if it cost an ocean of blood and pain.

Bran would never forget and forgive what had been done to his clan, never. But it wouldn't preclude him from living on, being happy, and maybe having more children—Angelina would probably want them, anyway.

Bran pulled out a ritual dagger, cut his palm above the fire, and spoke the words of an oath. A similar blade flashed in the prince's hands.

Richard accepted his vow and made one in turn: to never betray him. They were a vassal and his liege.

The sea listened to them, silent. It listened and remembered.

Wellster, Cardin.

Altres Lort didn't do anything to arrange a welcoming ceremony. What for? So some resenter could fire an arrow at the queen or come up with something else? He didn't want that.

The people, however, poured out into the streets as soon as they caught sight of the queen's cortege and carriages emblazoned with the royal coat of arms. The first hurrahs went off, and shawls and hats flew under the wheels and hooves in the absence of flowers.

Milia looked at Lilian.

"Maybe I should come out?"

Lily shook her head.

"Your Majesty, it's not a good idea. Remember Fremont. One crossbow bolt..."

"The people are waiting."

Lily paused for a few minutes, then called Lord Renard.

"Leir, could you make an announcement?"

"Your Grace?"

After the assassination attempt, the leir had started to defer to Lilian. Yes, the guards had never listened to peasant women, thinking that they were only good for one thing. The Virmans, however, had—and caught the assassin as a result. Maybe he should be listening to the countess, too? She might be a woman, but even women had brains...apparently.

"You need to say the following..."

The leir heard her out, nodded, and called up a trumpeter.

In a minute, the high-pitched sound of a trumpet drowned out the noise of the crowd.

"People of Wellster! Her Majesty is alive and well. However, she has survived an assassination attempt, so you can see her a bit later. For now, rejoice! The king's third son was born: His Highness Gardwig!"

For a second, the crowd fell silent. Then, tentative and unsure but growing stronger with each second, a thunderous cheer roared above the streets.

"Hurrah to Her Majesty! Hurrah to His Highness Gardwig!"

He had to repeat his announcement a few times, but the people showed understanding.

"What next?"

Lily shrugged.

"Security is Altres Lort's task. Let him put archers on the roofs, post guards in vulnerable positions... He should know it better than me. Was he in charge of guarding the king?"

"No. Viscount Dishan was."

"He's alive?"

Milia shrugged. She didn't know anything about the fate of Count and Viscount Dishan, although she suspected both might be dead. It was unlike Alcine to leave them be.

"So discuss it. What, where, when..."

Her Majesty nodded.

"I hope that one day, it will all be over."

Lily took the queen by the hand, checking her pulse along the way—it was good and steady, maybe a little bit quick, but that was natural in such situations.

"Everything will be all right. You will live; you will raise your children... Oh, by the way," the countess said with a sly smile, "Is Count Lort married?"

"No.

"Any children?"

"Where from?"

"How should I know? Maybe he has a brood of bastards running around in some village."

"No, I would have known that."

"We need to marry him off. Such a man shouldn't go to waste without a family!"

Milia considered her words. Lily gave her a mischievous smile.

Serves you right, Your Grace.
This is for your last year's shenanigans!
You'll have to beat off brides with a stick.
Consider this my tiny but very sweet revenge.

Still smiling, Lily rode into the palace. She might be all white and fluffy, but some people deserved hell…with interest!

***

"Lilian!"

"Jess!"

"My girl!"

"Papa!"

A man, a woman, and a child tangled together in a ball so tight one couldn't stick a needle between them. Tears, hugs, kisses...

The proud and unyielding Countess Earton was bawling like a baby, and nobody could condemn her.

As soon as her carriage stopped, Jerisson flung the doors open, pulled his wife out, and locked her in an embrace. Lily couldn't resist.

She was safe. He was safe.

She could finally let go and let him take charge—well, for a spell. She wasn't going to change much or start relying on him all the time, of course not. But she was tired of taking care of everything and everyone all the time. She wanted peace. She wanted safety.

Miranda was sobbing by her side. Lily could understand her. The girl had carried herself extremely well. It must have cost her a lot. She helped as much as she could, never crying or complaining, never... Oh, there were so many "nevers."

It had been less than a year since she had almost lost her father. That wound was still fresh, and no matter how Lily might have tried to comfort her, Mirrie was still grappling with it. Having finally seen Jerisson alive and well, she fell apart. She was still a child, after all.

And then Jess himself... His cheeks were moist, but it must have been Lilian's tears. He couldn't have cried, could he? Men weren't supposed to!

They were alive. They were together.

"I'll never let you two go!"

"And neither will I! I left you for only five minutes!"

"I only released you to see the queen..."

Lily pulled herself together, glanced at the guards, who were busy enjoying the free show, and Milia, who was tactfully tending to her children, and realized that the time for displaying feelings had passed.

"That's where I was! Where the hell have you been?"

Jess snorted something in response to her impudent attack and kissed his wife.

The nightmare was over.

***

"Your Majesty."

Altres Lort got down on one knee in front of Milia.

The queen touched his shoulder.

"Stand up, Altres. No need."

Altres kissed her thin fingers.

"My life belongs to you and Their Highnesses."

"Could you escort us to my chambers?" Milia asked.

Altres hesitated.

"I took the liberty to assume..."

"What exactly? "

"To prepare a different set of rooms for you. In the south wing."

Milia sighed, relieved.

"You did right, Count."

She didn’t want to return to the place that she had run from for dear life.

She didn't want to see the door next to which her husband had met his doom, giving his life to buy them time to escape.

She didn’t want any of that, especially in full view of everyone else. At least there were no courtiers, only Viscount Dishan, Lort himself, the Eartons, and the guards.

Milia waited for Lort to stand up and offer her his hand.

"Let's go, Your Grace."

The wetnurse grabbed the baby, the maid took Corin and Edwin by their hands, and everyone went to the queen's new chambers.

Except for the Eartons, who elected to remain behind and go somewhere private. They had a lot to discuss.

***

Jess would have loved to do more than just discuss. That, however, would have to wait. It's not like they could kick their daughter out! But at some point, she would fall asleep...although he suspected that she'd want to sleep with her parents that night, and the next night as well. And the dogs, and... At least the ferrets had stayed at home.

He'd never have the heart to send her off to her own bedroom; both Jess and Lily knew that.

"Tell me what happened to you."

His wife was the first to ask that question, but Jerisson didn't mind. He described his escape from the ball together with the princess, their journey to the Ivernean embassy, taking up residence at Fort Shedar... He did, however, omit his adventures inside the palace. Lily was bound to suspect something, of course, but...

She didn't need to hear it. He'd never stay alive if she did.

"Papa, you're a hero!" Miranda said admiringly.

Lily was sitting and caressing his hand. Then she started her own story, and it was time for Jerisson to admire her.

He had never known a woman like her.

"Lily, you're amazing."

Lily smiled.

Ah, if only her dear husband knew what she had gone through in her own country. Since childhood, one thing had been drilled into her head: if you need a helping hand, find one at the end of your arm. Heaven helps those who help themselves.

And so she had, saving both herself and the people around her. If she sat around waiting for a knight in shining armor, she'd get trampled by the hooves of his steed, as it usually happened.

Women didn't act like that in this world? So what? By local standards, Lily was supposed to die back in Earton...at least ten times. Dream on. She hadn't fixed the place only to die. Maybe many years later, in her own bed, on clean sheets...oh, by the way!

Something stirred at the back of her head.

Exactly!

Satin, crepe-satin...the point was the weaving technique, the interlacing of the weft and the warp, Lily was certain. She hadn't gotten around to it yet, but she could try drawing up a scheme and experiment in Taral.

She was itching to do it, but she still continued to tell her husband about her misadventures. Jess perked up as she mentioned Fremont.

"So, the little birdie got caught?"

"Yes. Gael deserves a reward for that."

"Of course he'll get one," Jerisson said, offended. "I'll talk to Lort, as long as he won't give him land..."

"And he might," Lily drawled. Wooing away personnel was a fact of life there.

"He might," Jess agreed. "Well, no matter. We'll deal with it."

Lily didn't doubt that but still decided to talk to Master Schmulz and Rutha and convince them to move to Ativerna, where it would be safer for them. And without Rutha, Gael wouldn't stay in Wellster anyway—why'd he need it?

Needless to say, nobody bothered the Eartons for the rest of the day, never even approaching them, other than delivering dinner to their rooms. Lily didn't leave Jerisson's side, while Miranda kept clutching her father's hand like a little monkey. Any business was out of the question.

Everything could wait for the next day.

***

Night fell on Wellster, and the bold new moon peeked inside the window, young and fresh, curious about everything, including people. What odd and mysterious creatures!

Miranda was blissfully asleep in her parent's bed, while Lily and Jess fled to the adjacent room. They did have to push the dogs away and bite the pillow during especially sensitive moments, or they would have woken up half the palace.

When the first wave of passion subsided, they snuggled against each other.

The couch was comfortable enough, but somewhat on the narrow side.

"I was so scared I'd lose you both."

"And I feared for you. Mirrie was with me, but where were you? I know you! You dove right into the thick of it for Alcine, blast him!"

"He will be. Lort will make sure of it," Jerisson snorted. "I didn't know anything about you! I would have climbed into Maldonaya's jaws for any piece of news."

"Didn't Altres Lort tell you?"

"About what?"

"That I was with the queen?"

"Well..." Jerisson stumbled.

Lily sighed. As if she didn't know her husband!

But in that era, it couldn't be helped. A man was supposed to be a warrior and a protector. If he couldn't rush into trouble, he wasn't worth a pence.

"I want to go home."

Jess pressed his face against his wife's soft hair and breathed in its fragrance. Lily never smelled of flowers: pine needles, fresh green, herbs, but never flowers or musk, so popular with other women. She never tried to suppress the smell of sweat, whether her own or a horse's.

"I want to go home, too, to Earton or at least Laveri..."

"And rest a while. I wonder how the children are doing. And my father and your mother..."

Jess sighed.

"I hope they're all right. They would have sent us a letter if anything happened."

"Here, the target would die three times before a letter arrived," Lily grumbled. "I wonder how Richard finds Virma."

"What could happen there? Just sail there and back again. All he has to do is to address the Circle and confirm that Leif is our man. Oh, and sign the peace treaty."

"And all you had to do was to confirm the engagement, take the bride, and leave," Lily reminded him snidely. "How did it work out, remind me?"

Jess was embarrassed.

"I couldn't have known..."

"What about Richard?"

"I hope nothing like that has happened to him."

Lily shrugged.

"Man plans, Aldonai laughs."

"What do you mean?"

"Things never work out the way you expect them to. Such is fate."

"At least we're safe and sound. The rest isn't as important." Jess waved his hand. "And I believe in Richard. He's a big boy. He can handle anything. I would have loved to help him, but if His Majesty decided to send me here, so be it. After that, it's in Aldonai's hands."

Lily was in complete agreement.

"So, we'll leave in a month?"

"I doubt our companions will recover any earlier."

"Maybe we could leave them here for a while?" Lily wondered, but then sighed. "No, we can't. It would be low."

Jerisson nodded. She was right. They couldn't abandon their people in Wellster. He was certain they would be taken care of and receive the best medical attention, but it would still be wrong, period.

"How's Lydia?"

"Her Highness?"

"Yes."

"You know...I think she's a bit like you."

Lily shrugged. That wasn't surprising. All clever women had one thing in common: their brains and a penchant for using them.

In the past, Jerisson had never noticed that, but at last, he did—and grew to appreciate it. A frail orchid might look lovely, but what if the environment didn't allow it to grow? Having burrs was much more reliable—plus, it's not like burrs couldn't be beautiful, too, like milkthistle or eryngium. And then there were cacti; they could be simply marvelous!

"She's a good girl. I'm sure she'll find a good match, too..."

Jerisson wasn't that interested in the princess, unlike his half-naked wife pressing her chest against him.

"Jess..."

"Let's talk later, shall we?"

Lily didn't mind.

The moon took a closer look, blushed, and covered its face with a timely cloud. Humans truly were shameless, doing things like that!

***

The idyll time was over the next morning. Her Majesty needed Lily, and Altres Lort needed Jerisson. They had to go their separate ways.

Miranda looked at that, thought hard, and decided to visit the princesses. The girls were shocked after everything that had transpired and needed encouragement from someone—why not her?

The best remedy against depression was Virman dogs and Sherlock Holmes stories. She could also ask the cooks to make ice cream...

Altres Lort saw it, chuckled kindly, and allowed it. After all, the princesses still hadn't recovered after meeting their loving mother—may Maldonaya roast her in the afterlife! Maybe Miranda Earton would prove to be a good influence.

And they could order some dogs, too. It's not like Virman hounds cost as much as diamond trinkets.

Jerisson went to patrol the capital. At that moment, each and every blade counted, and every man was needed. Altres didn't have that many people he could trust—or rather, he had a lot of men and very little trust, owing to his rather specific choice of profession.

Lily also decided against sitting still and collecting gossip. She examined the queen and the boys, made sure they were all right, then looked over the wetnurses, picked the best two, and prescribed a diet for them.

Then she went to the western wing of the palace, where Altres Lort had ordered his people to set up a temporary hospital.

A lot of people had been hurt during Alcine's short reign, including some of Lort's own, who hadn't sat out the commotion rather than burst into battle, resulting in injuries.

Everyone needed care and attention. It wasn't a peaceful time when everyone could be let go to recover at home—plus, most of them lived far from Cardin.

Lily dutifully came down to the west wing, looked around, and called up one of the maids.

"Come here, darling."

"Yes, Your Grace?" The girl immediately noticed her emerald bracelet.

"How many people are here?"

"Around a hundred, I guess."

"And how many are doctoruses?"

"Two. "

"You are from the palace staff, aren't you?"

"Y-yes. "

"How many of you are here at the same time?"

"Five people...maybe eight."

Lily nodded, asked a few more questions, rewarded the maid with a coin for her trouble, turned around, and went to Altres Lort.

***

Count Lort might have admired Lilian Earton...right until the moment he met her on the warpath.

The door of his study opened wide without any warning, the sentry guard quaking in his boots in a corner, while Lilian Earton sailed inside, slow and inevitable like fate itself.

Her green eyes were looking daggers.

Altres used to think it was just an expression. Not anymore; there was clearly no messing around with cold steel.

"Your Grace?"

"Count, this is unacceptable."

Lily had no time for niceties when it came to her profession.

"Excuse me?"

"I've just visited the west wing. My dogs live in better conditions, Altres," Lily replied sharply.

Altres Lort shook his head.

He had been there as well and hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. Straw mats, bandages, wooden bowls for an obvious purpose...

It seemed all right. What was the problem?

Lily threw her hands up.

"Altres, you're going to lose half of the wounded at this rate. This is horrible!"

"Lilian, what would you like? What can I do?" Altres asked wearily. "I'm no doctorus..."

"Are there any?"

"Yes. Two, actually."

Lily came up to the desk.

"Do you have any parchment?"

"Yes."

"Then start writing."

"What?"

"Orders. First, to allocate funds to me for setting up a hospital. Second, to give me authority."

Altres considered her words, then pulled up a blank sheet and started writing.

The wounded needed care, and if Lilian could arrange that, more power to her. There was still some money in the treasury, as Alcine hadn't had enough time to loot it. Still...

"What kind of money are we talking about?"

Lily paused.

"It's hard to say for sure. I need to know the hospital's current resources, from dressings to basic herbs. And straw mats are awful, too..."

"I'm afraid we can't afford anything better."

Lily entertained the idea of inventing a folding bed. Still, that was a matter for the future, and she needed to deal with the present.

"I'll figure something out," she promised.

Altres nodded, knowing that nothing would happen without his order, and continued writing. He signed it, stamped it with the royal seal, poured some sand on the parchment, waited a few minutes, shook it off, and handed it to Lilian.

"Thank you."

"Maybe it's me who should be thanking you," Lort said with a shrug.

Someone had to look after the wounded and treat them. If a person stepped up to take that burden, let them work.

***

After getting ahold of those wonderful papers, Lily didn't go to the hospital.

Instead, she headed to Milia, who soon sent a servant to fetch the butler. He wasted little time in coming.

Alcine hadn't had time to change the palace staff, so the queen knew Leir Ervan very well. It's just that before, they had existed in different dimensions. Why would the queen need to talk to the butler if everything already ran like clockwork?

"Your Majesty."

"Leir Ervan, Her Grace has need of you."

The leir gave a dignified bow. He was probably hoping to get off easy—say, learn that Lilian didn't like her chambers or the food. However, what he heard left him shocked.

"Leir Ervan, the hospital in the west wing is in dire shape. Sit down. You're going to write down a list of necessary items, and by the evening, arrange their delivery. Oh, and manpower."

"Your...Grace?"

The butler all but fainted. What was going on? When had noblewomen ever cared about such trivialities?

But Lily wasn't jesting; she was calm and serious.

"Go on, sit down."

"Sit down, Leir. Those people defended me with their lives. I have to take care of them," Milia echoed.

The leir looked at them like a cornered beast. He could have handled Lilian—eventually—but the triumvirate of Lily, Altres, and Milia?

Quitting seemed easier than arguing. He gave a sigh worthy of a martyr, produced a quill, and prepared to start writing. Personally, he thought that the resources at hand were enough to treat noble sirs and ladies, and as for the soldiers...

Well, it's not like they would drop dead!

They should be thankful for being fed and having a roof above their heads! And they did eat a lot, really.

Her Grace started listing everything.

A field hospital?

No, Lily was no expert in setting them up, but she was a daughter of an officer and a doctor. She had been an attentive listener, she read, and she compared things, and she also helped her mother, who had to arrange everything in a new place practically from the ground up. A new broom swept differently; what could you do?

So she had a good idea of what she would need, and one should always ask for more than they needed.

Any excess stuff would be of use later, and if she didn't get what she needed, things could get worse.

The worst problem turned out to be manpower.

"We don't have that many servants!" Leir Ervan groaned. "We just don't!"

"You'll have to find them, then," Lily cut him off.

"WHERE?"

Her Grace could have easily told him the address, but saying such words in the presence of the queen seemed improper.

"I'll order the ladies-in-waiting to help," Milia suddenly offered.

Lily raised her eyebrows.

"Would they agree?"

That seemed doubtful.

"Those foolish women were happy to serve Albitta!" The eyes of the usually meek Milia flashed with anger. "Now, they're oohing and aahing over me. I have no wish to see them!"

Lily could relate.

"How about we make use of them?"

"What do you mean?"

"Tell them to bring two maids each. They must have some servants, or maybe their families do."

"Hmm. Not a bad idea. Leir Ervan, make it known to our court sluggards. Let them do their best to retain the favor of the queen and the regent."

The leir bowed.

He couldn't say that he liked that enterprise, but if Her Majesty had commanded, then so be it.

"Wonderful." The countess gave a vicious grin. "Now accompany me to the pantry and the kitchen. These things," she said as she took a quill and circled several lines, "are essential. The hospital requires them, and you can give them to me right now. I'll never believe the palace doesn't have any."

The leir flinched, but Milia suddenly copied Lily's grin. It didn't work as well, but it was a good honest attempt.

"And if you can't find anything, Lilian, then feel free to visit me. We'll discuss it."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Lily said as she gave her a half-bow that couldn't fool anyone. It was already obvious that the women were friends.

Milia respected and appreciated the countess too much. And how else could you treat a person who had saved your life and the lives of your children?

Of course, it was different strokes for different folks, but Milia was a decent human being.

Lily was almost like a sister to her.

Leir Ervan sighed and made his peace.

***

The pantry. The kitchen. The servants, the orders, people's irate glances, Leir Ervan bellowing out commands...

Only after all of that was Lily able to start tending to the wounded.

No, it wasn't cruel, not in the least. How else would you help a patient if you didn't have sterile bandages, balms, blankets—or only enough for ten people at most? What about the rest?

Sorry guys, I'll drop by in a week?

Lily had never been evil enough for that. That's why she had to deal with the butler, talk to Count Lort, bring Milia in... Yes, her job was helping people, giving them medical aid, and just that.

But in that world, and many others, that required first wheedling money out of bureaucrats. And thus, Lily did what she had to.

The doors of the west wing finally loomed ahead.

Here it goes!

***

Over the next three hours, the entirety of the palace staff grew to hate Lilian Earton.

That said, all the wounded were singing her praises, thus offsetting it.

Lily made the servants pour boiling water over all rooms one at a time, killing most of the creepy crawlies and bloodsuckers, shake up all blankets and mats, air the rooms, throw all incense burners down Maldonaya's knickers, and generally look after the patients.

And yes, she put the Roivels, the Elonts, and Losan first. They had gotten the brunt of Alcine's anger, yet they were alive, and that meant that everything could be fixed. Still, fever and infection could quickly change that; she needed to be wary.

Everyone was glad to see Lily, at least.  She appreciated that nobody was resentful of her or bearing a grudge for her having escaped. She hadn't expected such magnanimity, even if there was a simple explanation: Aldonai's will.

In their eyes, she had never been the one in control; Aldonai had spoken, and that was it. The cards had been dealt. Arguing His will meant asking for even more trouble. Everyone got their own trial and their own burden.

And so, Lily told Marquis Losan the latest news while skillfully applying dressings, cleaning up wounds, and administering balms.

At first, the two resident doctoruses regarded her with contempt.  If not for the countess' Virman escorts—who glared at everyone while casually fiddling with their daggers—and Altres Lort's strict orders, Lily would have heard a lot of unpleasant words about herself.

Maybe she should invent streptocide. Yep, definitely.
Add it to the "to do" list upon getting home.

She knew how sulfanilamide had been discovered, although Domagk had much better equipment. But what would she lose?

Even if she managed to synthesize any type of streptocide, red or white, it would be a breakthrough. After all, it was still used in the twenty-first century despite antibiotics being widely available. Too bad antibiotics were out of the question. She'd love to prepare them, but she had neither the experience nor technology to do that. The simpler stuff, however...it was worth a try.

She had a feeling it had something to do with fabric dyes. She just had to remember.

She needed to get home.

Too bad they couldn't do it yet; that was a fact. First, the coronation, and then the Roivels and Elonts needed to recover... The damage was extensive, cuts and burns, and dislocations all over.

Lily really hoped that Alcine would get a just punishment in the afterlife. Maybe Maldonaya could hang him upside down for a hundred years or so?

She knew he had been captured and would be executed. Served him right. She wasn't going to attend, though, and didn't really care for it anyway. That was Wellster's internal matter; let them deal with it themselves.

Her task was getting her friends and companions back into shape, witness the coronation, finalize the betrothal, and finally leave.

She missed home. It dawned on her suddenly, leaving her shocked. Home...

It used to be that her home was her parents, Alex, and college. Was it still? Had it changed?

Lily asked herself that question and couldn't lie. Her home was her husband, her daughter, her family, the people who loved her. In Ativerna, whether Laveri or Earton. There, she had carved out a place for herself. When had she realized that? During the journey, when she and Jerisson had fought off the bandits? When they went night fishing?

Or later, when she dragged the queen to safety while deathly afraid for her husband and daughter? When she was writing a note for Concord and praying that Miranda was all right? When she was fleeing the capital, hoping that Jerisson did the same?

When she returned to Cardin and Jerisson pulled her out of the carriage and embraced her? She saw so many things in his eyes: happiness, love, hope... A miracle that came true. She should be dead, but they weren't, and that was a miracle worthy of Aldonai. Had her prayers in the monastery worked? There was no telling that.

Lily didn't want to speculate. She simply was happy.

Your Majesty Edward the Eighth, you did right in sending us on this journey.
It's as if you had a hunch...

Or maybe you had.
But still, thank you.
I owe you one.

For the next six hours, Lily tended to the wounded. She cleaned injuries, applied bandages, even performed one amputation...a lot of things. She had no time for the people's judgmental stares or sidelong glances, not a bit.

Scowl as much as you want, as long as you don't meddle in my business and prevent me from doing my work. And her work was cut out for her, too.

Festering abscesses, fever, blisters... Ativerna might be slowly introducing hygienic standards, its doctoruses having heard that hands were to be washed. Not so in Wellster.

One would ride a horse, then dig into a wound, then pick their nose.

Sterile?
You mean stern?

At least that's what doctoruses thought. Still, one expert could always recognize another, and as they observed Lily, they started noticing things. Idiots might put on airs, but idiots had no place in the palace, or they'd get swallowed up. A clever man would never pass on an opportunity to learn.

Jerisson peeked inside, looked at his wife, nodded, and left. Half an hour later, servants brought a meal from the kitchen, and the Virmans forced her to eat. Then it was work again.

Lily didn't mind. First and foremost, she was a medic. Intrigues, plots, wars, and court affairs were not her thing, but the hospital was.  She might get up to her elbows in blood, but it was something only she could do. For good or for ill, she genuinely tried to help people. Thankfully, for the most part, she was successful.

She would return the next day.

***

That night, Jerisson and Lily kept whispering.

"How are the Roivels? The Elonts?"

"It will take at least a month, maybe more."

"Too long."

"Yes. But it can't be helped. I'm already as optimistic as they come. A month, as long as the wounds heal as they're supposed to and no complications arise..."

"And might they?"

"I've asked them questions. It's quite possible, Jess, especially if they travel."

"So, what should we do, then?"

"Well...either stay here or go."

Jess frowned.

"I'd go, but...it feels like a dirty move."

"Then, we stay. I'd rather keep an eye on Milia, anyway. She's getting better, but you never know."

"Altres said we could stay in the palace as honored guests for as long as we want."

Lily shrugged.

She didn't care about that as long as they let her do her job.

The palace was fine, but she could have stayed in the closest inn just as well.

"Mirrie says she's become friends with the princesses."

"Our girl's making connections."

"She has a hard life ahead of her. Amir will respect and appreciate her, but what would happen then?" Lily sighed. "A different country, different traditions..."

"I've noticed her learning the language."

"So have I, and what?"

"As for traditions...if Amir meets her halfway..."

"And what if he doesn't?"

Lily couldn't avoid thinking about that.

Yes, Amir Gulim was a great match—it was like marrying a sheik—but romantic love existed only in stories.

Life had traditions, customs... Like, say, the harem.

How would Miranda handle it? Nobody would conform to her—instead, they would try to break her. Lily understood it, but how would she explain it to Jerisson, who was so proud of that betrothal?

Amir was a wonderful young man, but would Mirrie be able to live his life? It's not like she would get her own, other than maybe get a hobby.

Medicine? It was an option, but theory was nothing without practice, and where would she find it in a harem? Except for gynecology, although a wife wasn't supposed to do something like that. Nobody would understand Amir and Miranda if she did it. People were afraid of new things, preferring to destroy them rather than accept them.

For the first time, Lily considered finding a hobby for Miranda, one she could practice in any place. But what?

Well, she still had a couple of years. She would see.

***

The next day, Lily once again went to the hospital. Work, work, and more work.

Who else could apply the dressing? Definitely not the maids, who were yet to learn that they shouldn't wipe off their snot with their sleeves and then put their dirty hands into open wounds. Parasites!

One upside was the patients' common mood. In the twenty-first century, torture like that was bound to trigger trauma. Here, it was different. The damage had been done by their enemies; nobody really expected any better of them. Enemies were supposed to do something like that.

Yes, it was painful and hard, but even for the nobles, everyday life in that era wasn't devoid of hardship.  The main point was that they were alive, while their enemies weren't, and that's what the latter deserved. Hopefully, they would suffer for all eternity in Maldonaya's clutches.

No anguish, no qualms, and an absolutely fighting spirit that, according to Lily, increased recovery by at least fifty percent.

In their world, you survived, you learned your lesson, and you lived on, thanking Aldonai.

And in turn, Lily wanted to help the wounded and make their continued existence as fulfilling as she could. At that moment, that meant treating their wounds, examining stitches and making new ones, changing bandages... Lots of things required her attention—after all, her medical expertise was very different from the local doctoruses.

An unexpected pleasure was Thomas Concord bringing Lily her old first aid kit consisting of a large chest that could fit her entire body inside.It contained herbs, good surgical tools, and other stuff that she had carefully prepared in case problems arose.

Another news that made her happy was Lidarh's survival.Lily had been blaming herself for abandoning her loyal friend so much that she couldn't help but hug Thomas without any regard for their class difference, kiss him on both cheeks (to the secret envy of everyone present), and promise to make up for it. She was in his debt. Nothing was too much for a thing like that.

The men could understand her. It was a real live Avarian! The countess was within her rights; they would have spared no expense, either.

Lidarh, who had no idea about the countess' inner turmoil, happily accepted a salted piece of rye bread from her hands, then another one, and even pushed his head against her, offering to go for a ride. She had to comb his mane and promise to do it later. She had no time for it yet.

The horse was smart enough to realize that and take it in stride. They would make up for it later, anyway.

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

"So, you'll be my stepmother now?"

Ian's eyes were piercing blue and un-childlike.

The boy, all serious-looking and having grown up before his time, looked so much like Bran, only without a limp, that Angelina felt all warm inside.

Sometimes, a person you fell in love with came with children attached.

That required finding common ground with them. But the princess held no doubt that she would succeed.

Miranda Earton adored her own stepmother; why couldn't Angelina pull off the same as Lilian Earton had? She absolutely could!

Bran had left the day before. He had to visit the place where his house had once stood, see the dead off. He knew that it would be a while before he returned to Virma, if ever, and didn't want to leave any debts unpaid.

Angelina wanted to go with him, but Richard dissuaded her. True, Bran needed support, but it would be easier for him to know that Angelina was safe. Plus, everyone had something they might want to keep secret even from their beloved.

Richard wouldn't have wanted to be seen in a moment of grief, and Bran was likely the same.

Angelina followed his advice and allowed Bran to make the decision himself, implying that she would accept it in any case. Bran chose to go alone, leaving the children under Olav's care. Hilda was too young, and it wasn't the right place for Ian, either.

And then, there were certain things that Bran wanted to take with him.

A fire, murders... Do you seriously think that Gardren's caches would be so easy to find just in one night?

The attackers would have to spend a month digging around the area, and even then, success wasn't guaranteed. Gold, gems, and other valuables wouldn't hurt Bran in his new life. He had a family to take care of, and he never liked accepting charity. He was already investing in trading houses on the mainland and would want to invest even more.

With Bran gone, Angelina stayed alone with Ian and couldn't help thinking that it was part of Bran's plan.

When else would he talk with his future stepmother?

"Do you mind?"

Ian shrugged.

"I don't remember my mother well. Hilda won’t, either. Only Rith."

"Your father didn't have much luck."

"Father never lied to me. Both of his marriages were arranged. He needed support to become the chief of the clan, so he married my mother. He never married for love, and he didn't want children, either."

"Why? "

"He was afraid that his children would be born cripples, too."

Angelina shrugged. Maybe the boy expected a different reaction, but...

"His disability is nothing. People live with worse things."

"He loves you."

"And I love him, too. I hope you and I can be friends."

Ian shrugged as well.

"Because my father wants us to?"

"No. Because you lost a lot, and I never had anything."

"But you're a princess, aren't you?"

"It doesn't mean that I was happy."

Angelina wasn't dodging questions. Ian was Bran's son, and the only thing Gardren could never forgive was lying.

Strangers could lie to him all the time, from morning till night, by all means.

But his family? Never.

Maybe it was because the Gardrens never really cared about strangers; they had a clan, and they had a plan.

Strangers were either a tool or expendable resources. Who cared what a hammer or a chisel would think?

Family was different. Bran was prepared to give his life for his own, and he asked no less of them. Angelina accepted it and approved.

She didn't swear to Ian that she would always love him, didn't say that she couldn't live without Bran, but tried talking to him as if he was an adult. Ian embraced her tone and reciprocated.

They would have to learn to live with each other.

Friendship? It might happen, or it might not. They would have to wait and see.

But it was a start.

Wellster, Cardin.

Maria rode into the capital without any pomp: quiet, unassuming, almost in secret. Still, she was almost beaming with joy.

As soon as she entered the palace, she sought out Milia.

"Milia! Ed! Cor!"

Milia embraced the girl and burst into tears.

"Maria!"

"I was beside myself!"

"I almost went mad with worry!"

Tears, sobs, confessions...

It's not like Milia and Maria were like mother and daughter. Still, both remembered the old life before the coup, when G was alive and everyone was at peace, and both of them liked it.

They had a lot to talk about and cry about, and that's what they did.

Milia told her stepdaughter about her plans for the immediate future. The most important matter was Ed's coronation, followed by the meeting with the Assembly and the regent's confirmation.

Then came Maria's betrothal, seeing as it hadn't been quite finalized. Let her be given to Ativerna one more time.

The Iverneans? Well, they couldn't drive them out of the country, could they? Even if what they had tried was the height of impudence. Making overtures to a girl who was spoken for? The nerve! But they would leave soon, anyway.

Nobody cared what the Iverneans themselves thought about it, as long as they put on a brave face. So they had failed with Maria? Well, it's not like they were all that interested. And as for Wellster, well, at least they had a peace treaty.

Altres Lort pulled a diplomatic stunt and dumped the Iverneans on Milia. Let Her Majesty handle them. Milia didn't mind. She had her hands full with preparing for her son's coronation.

***

The coronation. A spectacular event sure to impress even the most hardcore skeptic. But what would it be like for a child?

Altres Lort needed to have a serious conversation about that with Aldon Peters. Just imagine: rituals, regalia, and a small boy who might not even bear the weight of the crown.

They would have to trim the sails and get rid of as much of the ceremony as possible while retaining the coronation's legal standing in the eyes of Aldonai and, most importantly, the people—the nobility.

Otherwise, some scumbag would definitely start protesting, start a riot, try to use the opportunity... Altres knew that he couldn't crush every last one of them. Human nature was such that someone would always want more power or money or maybe get a grudge like Alcine.

Therefore, everything must be impeccable.

Aldon Peters calmed the count, telling him that a shortened version of the ceremony already existed, even citing a few instances from history.

It wasn't the first time a child ascended the throne. He would be crowned, while a regent... Ostensibly, only one regent was supposed to exist at a time, usually the queen mother. But Milia...

Altres decided to talk to Her Majesty. As bad luck would have it, on his way back, he stumbled across Her Highness Lydia.

Now, that was a person he really didn't want to see. She managed to press all his buttons and caused him no end of frustration.

Altres had no idea why, not being especially introspective, and simply preferred to give her a wide birth, especially since their feelings seemed mutual, going by the glare of her grey eyes.

If anyone told Altres and Lydia that many a grand romance started off that way, they would have laughed it off. How could they like each other, that haughty bastard and that mousy librarian? Never!

But there was no one to tell them that.

Lily, who could blurt out something in that vein, spent all her time in the hospital, Miguel had fled the abundance of women and hid in the embassy, and Milia was simply too polite to say anything like that.

Altres gave everyone a polite bow and asked to be left one on one with Milia.

The ladies obeyed, pouring out of the door like a swarm of butterflies. Altres stared at the queen, silent, until Milia gestured at a chair next to her.

"Alt, sit down, please. You're scaring me."

Altres gave her a sad sigh.

"Milia, I'd like to talk about the coronation."

"What's there to talk about? Edwin will be king; you'll be regent...what's wrong?"

Something was, definitely. Like, say, the damnable Assembly, and then the aldon's hint...

Of course, Milia would be much more convenient for them as a regent than Altres. Yet he would still be the one to rule, and running to the queen every single time he needed to sign something would be chaos.

"That's what I wanted. But the Assembly objects."

Milia glared at him.

"Not likely! It's not their business. Altres, I trust you!" Then she added, softer and pleadingly, "Altres, dear, I'll never make it. I just can't! Lily keeps telling me I must be strong for my children, but I can't, not all the time. Sooner or later, they'll break me... I just know that nothing good will come of it. Please, don't make me do it!"

Altres felt relieved.

"Millie, do you believe in me?"

"Yes."

She didn't hesitate for a second. Milia really did have faith in her brother-in-law.

How could he throw her to those vultures when she was so helpless?

"Millie, I can handle it, but we'll need to put up a small performance for the Assembly."

Milia slowly nodded.

"I'll hate it, won't I?"

"Absolutely."

"But I have no choice?"

"We can't have it both ways."

Milia gave him a bitter smile.

"As Lily says, one time is better than all the time. What should I do?"

Altres paused for a few minutes and explained.

Milia argued for a while, but finally sighed and gave up. What else could she do?

***

And that's when Altres bumped into Lydia in a corridor.

"May I? "

"Go ahead, Your Highness."

The jester pulled off an especially spectacular bow, gallant and mocking at the same time. That used to be his job, after all. It worked well for Lydia, who hissed like a cat.

After something like that, containing herself was impossible.

"May I congratulate the new regent of Wellster?"

"Not yet, Your Highness. Maybe after the coronation..."

"Who cares? Everyone already knows who'll really rule," Lydia parried.

"The one who can handle this burden," the jester retorted, unwilling to give up. "The one who can, say, keep the neighbors who wish only the best for Wellster at bay."

His implication didn't go unnoticed. Lydia flared up.

"Are you the best for Wellster, then?"

"You'll have to ask the people."

"They've already given you a rather expressive moniker."

"And more than one, Your Highness. But didn't your subjects give you one, too?"

Lydia stomped her foot.

"My nicknames had something to do with my looks, and you... You're the King's Wolf!"

"And also the jackal, the butcher, the monster, lots of things," Altres agreed. "So what?"

"Really, why would you care?"

"I wouldn't, Your Highness, as long as Wellster exists."

"I'm sure that without you, it will be destroyed."

"It will be, or divided, at least," Lort shot back, unexpectedly pleased with their sparring. "Attempts have been made. Her Highness Maria..."

That struck home.

"Miguel really does like her!"

"Both Her Highness and her dowry, I'm sure," Altres said, narrowing his eyes. "Thankfully, the princess is a woman of integrity."

"What are you implying?" Lydia started hissing again.

That was too much.

Altres just couldn't resist.

"This."

The second kiss was no worse than the first, although quite a bit longer—there was no need to hurry.

They forgot all around them, and Lydia's ashen locks spilled over the jester's leather jerkin as if marking their territory.

They came apart only several minutes later.

Lydia leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

Altres shook his head.

"That wasn't even an implication."

Slap!

The blow turned out to be surprisingly strong.

Lydia took off. As she marched, she imagined trampling the jester into the floor.

Rascal!
Knave!
Ill-behaved lout!

***

Altres rubbed his cheek.

That was certainly a novel experience for him. He supposed that Her Highness was similar to Lilian Earton in some ways, being clever and beautiful.

Still, she was a princess.

What are you thinking about, you idiot?
You have an Assembly session ahead.

Altres pulled himself together and walked forward. He had a veritable mountain of work ahead of him.

***

"Lily, I have to talk to you."

Lily looked at Her  Highness.

Lydia was pale with red blotches on her cheekbones. She was pacing the room to and fro. What could have happened?

"Lydia?"

The princess sighed.

Mustering up resolve for that conversation took some effort, but she needed to talk.

She had no mother, her brothers were likely to turn a deaf ear to her turmoil in the best case, and in the worst, challenge Altres Lort. She wasn't sure how it might end, but it definitely wasn't anything good.

Whom else could she talk to? The court ladies? That wasn't even funny. Who in their right mind would present anyone with such a prime piece of blackmail material? And maids and ladies-in-waiting would be no better, either. No, she needed to keep her mouth shut. There was one problem: she couldn't.

She needed advice, and Lilian Earton was the woman for the job.

Lydia had already realized that Lilian was a decent human being with her own complex yet understandable codex of honor. If she gave her word, she would keep Lydia's problems secret.

True, two couldn't keep a secret, but there had been two sides in that kiss, so another person in on the story wouldn't change matters much.

"Lily, promise that you won't tell it even to your husband."

"Does it have anything to do with the national security of Ativerna?"

Friendship and politics didn't go hand to hand. She remembered the history of her own world.

Russian tsar Alexander the Third had said that Russia had two allies: its army and its fleet, while Lord Palmerston famously declared that England had no eternal friends, only perpetual interests. Here, the names of the countries were different, but the gist of the saying still held true.

"No," Lydia said, shaking her head. "It's...personal."

Lily tossed her head.

"Then, I promise. Anything personal will stay between the two of us."

Lydia all but collapsed into a chair.

"I kissed Count Lort today."

It was a good thing that Lily was sitting down and the furniture was solid enough, made from oak.

"Whom?"

"Count Lort."

"Altres?"

Lydia stomped her foot.

"Are you mocking me?"

"No, I'm just shocked," Lily confessed. "Do you like him?"

"He's arrogant, shameless, presumptuous, repulsive—"

"I get it. You do."

"Lily!"

"Lydia, honey, if you didn't, you would have brushed it off and forgotten all about it. It's not like it was your first kiss...or..."

Lydia was blushing furiously. Lily cursed and slammed her fist against the armrest of her couch. Nanook turned his head but quickly realized that his mistress was just angry and he had nobody to punish... Well, let them live, for now.

"Lydia, how come?"

Lily was looking at her with barely concealed sympathy. It all made sense, though. Lydia had been considered ugly up to a certain point, had lots of brothers, plus her title... Why would anyone court her? And then came Altres Lort with his kisses.

Ugh, he must have spoiled the poor girl's first-ever experience. Oh, had he?

"It was an accident," Lydia said through her teeth. "We had a fight. A big one."

"Does it happen often?"

Lydia faltered. Still, Lily wasn't embarrassed. Doctors were taught to do a lot of things, including gathering information, and they were as good as any detective, maybe even better. They would sink their teeth into a hapless patient worse than any piranha, biting down to the bone, but they would get the truth.

After all, that was the only way to learn the origin of the disease.

So Lily got to the bottom of the entire story, starting with the first kiss...and realized that she couldn't keep it secret from her husband. Not because she was bitchy like that—it's just that it really did concern Ativerna's security.

If Altres Lort was interested in Lydia—and he was, as he'd never kiss a random girl just like that, he'd find a different way...

If Lydia was interested in the King's Butcher—and she was, it was clear, considering how flustered she was and the fact that Altres Lort was actually a man who could spark any woman's attention...

Yes, he wasn't popular in Wellster; such was his job. No, not his looks; it was his job that prevented women from noticing how smart, strong, and loyal he was. Lily, on the other hand, could see him for what he was, and if not for her husband, might easily take an interest in him herself.

Appearance was a trifle thing; many handsome men and pretty ladies were empty shells.

Lydia, however?

Going by her frustrated snorting and sniffling, her shining eyes and nervously squeezed fingers, Lydia had noticed him as well. Lily had no idea if that would turn into anything more, but Altres was sure to become regent, and if Lydia...

Could Her Highness marry a regent? They might not have married her off to a common count; there was no shortage of them. A regent, though, was an almost absolute sovereign of Wellster for the next fifteen years or so.

That would be a good match; Lily was sure of that.

But what would she do? As a politician, she should derail that marriage. But as a friend?

She chose the second option. She was a woman and a doctor. She would never hurt Lydia. Instead, Lily embraced the girl and patted her head.

"Calm down, sweetie pie. Everything will be all right."

"Pie?"

"Yep, you're just as darling and pretty."

Lydia sniffled, but simmered down, drank herb tea with Lily, ate some cakes, and discussed Altres Lort in detail.

Lily wasn't sure if the princess was satisfied with the discussion, but at least she didn't look worried anymore. Then she went upstairs to mull everything over, recover some more, and pick the right course of action.

Lily, in turn, went to see Erando Losan. She wasn't going to break her word, not quite. Any personal matters would have stayed between her and Lydia—if, say, the princess had sinned with a valet. Count Lort, however, was an important man. She couldn't stay silent about him. That was a matter of politics.

She would have to spill the beans; there was no getting around that.

***

"So listen to me, Erando..."

As an attending physician, Lily had long since gotten used to addressing any of her patients by name. She was respectful enough but had no wish to waste time on titles and ceremonies.

She'd rather use it to apply a dressing.

Marquis Losan turned out to be quite interested in her news.

"Do you think it might grow into...something more?"

"I'm quite sure," Lily nodded.

"Hmm. Interesting. Thank you, Lilian."

Lily snickered.

So the country wouldn't forget her?

"Don't try to outmaneuver Lort, Marquis."

Erando grimaced.

"I understand that. Even an alliance like that can be made to benefit Ativerna."

"How?" Lily was sincerely surprised.

The veteran diplomat allowed himself to smile.

"There are certain ways."

Lily didn't pressure him for details. Whatever.

Maybe he was going to find someone to seduce Lort or Lydia; maybe it was something else. Sometimes, it was easier to stay ignorant. At least her conscience would be clean.

Lily understood that intrigues were an integral part of politics, and so were pitfalls and currents. So what? It was still better than dealing with someone like Robert Alcine. At least she had advance knowledge.

So should she also tell Jerisson?

That question didn't even occur to Lily.

Why wouldn't she?

***

However, she didn't. First, she had to deal with a ton of business during the day, and in the evening, she had to spend time with Miranda.

"Mama, why are people like that?"

"Like what? Walking on two feet? Talking? What do you mean?"

Lily put away the notebook she used to calculate the funds necessary to open a decent hospital in Wellster and looked at her daughter. Mirrie sniffed and climbed in Lily's lap the way she used to do in Earton.

She, Lily, the big armchair, the fireplace, and two dogs asleep by their feet made up a peaceful sight.

"They're awful," the girl said firmly.

Lily chuckled.

"Honey, you're not alone in thinking that. As a wise man once said, the more I learn about people, the more I like dogs."

"He really was wise." Miranda sighed.

Lily pulled out a strand of her hair from under her daughter's backside (no matter how she braided it, it always got out) and drew the girl closer.

"What's wrong, little one?"

"Mama...do you know how many people died here, in the palace?"

"Many." Lily sighed.

Alcine hadn't played games, and neither had his mercenaries.

No, they didn't slaughter indiscriminately, but a lot of servants, soldiers, royal guards, and courtiers had lost their lives, not to mention the people who were tortured.

"I talked to the girls..."

"The princesses?"

"Yes. They're shocked."

Lily made a mental note to discuss it with Milia. The girls needed care and a mother, even if not a biological one. The queen had enough warmth in her heart for at least forty children.

"Why?"

"Several of their maids were killed. And Albitta... Mama, she really deserved death!"

"Why?"

Lily didn't doubt that she had. But why did her child think so?

"Jane said...she dared to ask their mother what would happen to them. Albitta visited them once."

"All right. So?"

"Albitta slapped her and said she didn't care about the girls' fate. They didn't care about her, and neither would she care about them. They would be either sold off into marriage, sent to a convent, or even killed off quietly."

Lily gritted her teeth. Damn it!

They were still little, the eldest one no older than thirteen, barely older than Miranda. Lily imagined anyone saying something like that to her own daughter. That person might get a chance to speak their mind, but not to survive afterward.

"I can see how the girls might not like that," she commented dryly.

Her mother's tone didn't fool Miranda.

"Mama..."

"I'll talk to Milia. You can tell your friends that nothing like that will happen to them. Milia is no monster. They will grow up in the palace with all the privileges befitting princesses and then marry. I can't promise all of them will love their husbands, but their opinions will be taken into account."

Lily had no doubts: Milia would make sure of that, and as for Altres, she would talk to him herself. He wasn't a monster either; he wouldn't harm Gardwig's daughters.

Maybe out of folly or lack of consideration, but not by intent, breaking down the children's minds bit by bit.

What a bitch!

"Thank you, Mama. But why would Albitta do something like that to her own daughters?"

Lily sent a few more colorful curses at Albitta. How could she explain that to a child? How could she explain such a rotten act in general?

But she had to because Albitta wasn't the first and the only person capable of such, and the harem was bound to have worse than that.

"Honey, there are several reasons. First, Albitta never loved her children."

"Why?"

"Because she didn't want to have daughters, see? She wanted a son, an heir, and each daughter was a disappointment for her."

"But they were still her own children! How could she not?"

"I understand, but so must you. Just understand, not accept or justify it. Some people have children in order to obtain something: money, marriage, connections...and if the child doesn't live up to their expectations, they simply ignore them."

"That is low."

"Papa loves you, and so do I. We're happy to have you. But not all families are like that."

"Yes. But..."

Lily patted her black hair.

Miranda was loved. Yes, she had been spoiled mercilessly, but Jess loved his daughter and trained her to think that the sun shone out of her derriere. Later, Miranda's worldview was changed under Lilian's influence (sitting on such a shiny place didn't seem all that comfortable), but she was still confident in one thing: for her parents, she was number one. To face the fact that a mother could be someone like that was shocking.

The girl's world started bursting at the seams, and she couldn't help but look for protection and support.

Maybe psychologists could find other words and a better explanation, but Aliya's psychology grade had never been better than a C. Too bad, really.

She excelled at surgery, but psychology was different. No, she could cram up and memorize it, but both she and the professor knew the truth.

"It happens, too, sweetie, it does. You can't change it. The only thing you can do is to grin and bear it."

"Animals are better."

"In nature, the weaker and less adapted species don't survive, either, and neither do cubs without their parents. I told you, remember?"

"Nature's cruel because it's mindless. People are cruel because they're intelligent."

It was hard to argue that.

"You're my little philosopher."

"Mama!"

"Talk to the girls. They won't get hurt; I'll make sure of it. And Albitta is no more."

"But there are still many others like her in the world, aren't there?"

"True. But that depends on you."

"What do you mean?"

"Life, Miranda. Just life."

"I don't get it. Mama?"

"Just remember. Sometimes, a person next to you starts playing dirty, trying to gain something. And yes, sometimes they even use children, not caring about their suffering. You won't be able to turn around or ignore it, but you will always have a choice."

"Which one?"

"You can try to play on their field, trying to outsmart a trickster, fool a liar, or double-cross a traitor. Or you can simply step back and, at the right time, help those who can't help themselves—like the princesses."

Miranda nodded. She was dutifully memorizing Lily's words.

"Traitors...what if we just remove them?"

"It's not always possible, honey. I'm afraid it's not. Take Albitta, for instance. Who could have known? Or maybe it's Gardwig's fault: he was the one that ordered her death. Don't get into the dirt if you can stand aside. Trust me; there are things that even your grandchildren won’t get rid of."

The girl sniffled.

"Yep, dogs are better."

"How much do you like taking care of animals?"

"A lot."

Lily smiled at her thoughts. So she did. Good.

She got the opportunity to resume her business only late that night. She still had her notebook to take care of.

Altres Lort had found the time to visit her makeshift hospital (thanks to the pesky butler's complaints), looked it over, and asked Lily to write what a permanent version of one required. Her protests weren't taken into consideration.

She had to start writing.

***

"Lou-Lou, flower!"

Lily watched Miranda confidently order her dogs.

Following her commands, Nanook and Lou-Lou ran around, raised their paws, fetched various items, bared their teeth, gave voice...the girl all but rode them.

Maybe that was the solution.

Lily considered it and then ordered the Virmans to find a very specific animal. If Miranda succeeded...

No, it wasn't a calling for a noble girl. But that depended on how one looked at it. There were women like Mabel Stark and Ursula Bottcher, after all, famous during a time when it was thought to be a man's profession. Why not try?

It was a hobby that could last Mirrie a lifetime, and a well-trained animal was something to be proud of. There was a world of difference between a common pet shop and an elite kennel, Lily knew it. Miranda wasn't meant to be a doctor; she was curious but no more than that. But animals...

Plants could work, too, but she didn't seem to have any talent for it, unlike animal training. There was a reason why Nanook and Lou-Lou followed her everywhere, even despite Nanook knowing that Lily was his mistress. Jerisson? He wasn't even in the top ten for the dog, supplanted by the Virmans.

Still, there was a lot of time to be spent in Wellster before they went back. The coronation loomed ahead.

***

Lilian and the other Ativernans might be preoccupied with the coronation, but Altres and Milia also had the Assembly on their minds. There was no getting around the next session, no missing it.

Altres Lort, by the right of the strong, opened the meeting with an announcement, saying that he had delivered on his promise: Her Majesty and the children were in the capital, and the coronation was to take place soon. Were the gentlemen in attendance satisfied?

The gentlemen exchanged looks, hesitated, and finally, the densest and the loudest one of them spoke out. It was Baron Freaudoir.

"Your Grace, who will be regent for the young king? His Majesty Edwin won't be able to rule for quite some time; it would be better we learn the second name right now."

"Do you have anything against me as a candidate?" Altres asked with a smile.

His teeth were sharp enough to impress even a wolf. If the baron were a bit smarter, he would have stayed silent, but alas, he was not.

"His Highness has his mother. It's she who's supposed to..."

"Do you mean Her Majesty Milia?"

"Yes, of course," the baron said with a pompous nod.

Altres shrugged.

"You'll have to discuss it with her. Allow me..."

Of course, it didn't matter if they did mind. The doors opened, and Milia walked into the room: slow, calm, holding her head straight.

She wore the colors of mourning. Proper green, skillfully interlaced with gold, made her look tragic and fetching at the same time. Gossamer lace, a dark jade dress, chestnut hair tinged with gold...

She had diamonds in her hair, on her chest, and on her fingers: nothing more than the royal regalia humbly reminding everyone about that woman's status.

The nobles all stood up as one.

Milia raised her hand, asking them to sit down, and slowly made her way to the tribune. The ladies accompanying her were also dressed in green, although a shade lighter.

The one in diamonds was Princess Maria, and the one in emeralds, Lilian Earton.

Milia had pointed out that the Ativernans were her guests and that the leadership of Wellster was an international matter.

In any case, they would find everything out; it was better to just tell it to them outright. Why force them to use spies? Altres Lort agreed.

Lily was completely calm. Maria, in contrast, felt uneasy but watching the countess allayed her worries. At least she would have one friend in Ativerna. Life had taught the princess to be a good judge of character, and she knew that Lilian wasn't a person who could betray her or sell her out.

The people watched Her Majesty slowly ascend the platform.

"My lords... Altres asked me to come because he was wary of dissenting opinions. I can see that his concerns weren't groundless."

The queen's voice echoed across the chamber. The acoustics were good; she didn't need to raise her voice. The nobles fidgeted.

"Your Majesty." A stately old man stood up. Lily didn't know him, but judging by the shining rubies on his fingers, he was a duke. "We only want the law to be upheld."

"But why wouldn't it be, darling Remi?" the queen asked. "My son will inherit his father’s crown. Is this wrong?"

"We'd like you to be the regent for His Majesty, Your Majesty."

Milia shook her head.

"It's impossible, Remi."

"Your Majesty?"

The nobles stared at her wide-eyed. Milia threw her arms up.

"Think for yourself. The matters of state take a lot of time and effort, and I have three girls and three boys. The oldest girl is getting married, or I'd have four." Milia looked at Maria with a smile. "You're asking me to choose? If I dedicate myself to the country, I would have to pass my children to other people. I don't like that."

The nobles looked at each other.  Didn't other people usually attend to children, anyway? Nurses and nannies and governesses, the servants... Their wives spend much less time with their own offspring. Milia gave them a charming smile.

"You know that I don't come from the most highborn of families, Remi. We're used to raising our children ourselves: read them stories at night, hug them, comfort them when they're sad, and punish them for mischief. And now...when my husband was killed by the people he trusted..." Milia's voice faltered. The nobles knew she wasn't acting. She really did grieve him and felt pain. And yet...

Had anyone missed the implication?

Killed by the people he trusted.

Had everyone been caught, or was someone still at large?

Altres Lort was the one to handle that.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty." The duke couldn't hide his embarrassment at seeing a tear roll down the queen's cheek. Her face distorted, and for a second, she closed her eyes with her hand.

Lily immediately grabbed her by the elbow.

"Hush...is there a chair here?"

"No need, Lilian. I'll just lean against you." With an effort, Milia removed her hand from her eyes. "I have a duty to my husband. He was happy when I tended to our children. It's the only thing I can do for him. Our sons won't have a father, but they will have a mother. And the affairs of the state will be handled by my husband's brother, a man whom I trust completely. Count Lort."

Her words didn't leave room for doubt.

The nobles started making noise, agitated. And then...

Lily never understood how it happened.

Something popped, clicked, whooshed, and with a wheezing sound, Maria rushed forward.

"NO!"

The arrow had been aimed straight at the queen's chest.

Instead, it hit the princess in her shoulder, knocking her down.

Lily acted firmly, as if on a drill.

Someone opened fire?

Lie down!

Milia was the first to be thrown on the floor; she was the easiest to reach. Lily sharply pushed her behind the tribune.

"Get down!"

To the queen's credit, she didn't ask anything, simply sliding behind the tall wooden stand. Meanwhile, Lily crawled forward on all fours.

The hall was swept in pandemonium.

Something clanged and thundered as Altres Lort, pale with fury, barked out orders to find someone.

Clearly, someone had tried to assassinate the queen. What could it be connected with?

But Lily wasn't thinking about that.

Maria was down on the floor, the tail end of a crossbow bolt sticking out of her shoulder.

Lily somehow dragged her to Milia and breathed out. Yep, she was far from weightless. How had the women carried wounded during the war?

Thankfully, Maria was unconscious.

"How's the girl?"

"I'll have a look." Lily unceremoniously pulled out a scalpel from her waist pouch.

Some people carried around pomander or a sewing kit—although Lily did have a needle and thread, too, only she used it for suturing wounds. They had been properly disinfected and were kept inside a small golden box. She also had a scalpel made by Master Leitz and several remedies.

The dress easily yielded to metal.

"All right..."

"What?"

"It's not so bad. There's an exit wound," Lily reported. "I'll need to pull it out and clean the wound... I won't list all the procedures, but the girl should survive."

"Lilian?"

Count Lort finally deigned to remember about the women.

"Count, give us a few soldiers to carry Her Highness to the hospital."

"Of course."

She didn't have to wait long as one of the soldiers snatched the princess, while three more surrounded the queen and Lilian. They left the chamber through another exit.

Inside, chaos still reigned.

***

"A scalpel!"

"A tampon!"

"A needle and thread, dammit! Now!"

Lily was swearing like a sailor, but what could she do?

She needed to pull out the bolt, clean the wound, stitch it, drain it... A nasty exit injury like that required many things. Well, at least the projectile hadn't been poisoned, or they'd have a dead princess on their hands. Still, it was hard enough as it was.

A good team in the operating room was worth its weight, not even in gold, but in diamonds. Imagine everyone used to working with each other and finishing not just each other's sentences, but thoughts; nurses who acted like the doctor's hands, like they were supposed to...

When would she get it in Wellster, though?

Even in Ativerna, it wasn't more than a dream.

Yes, Ativerna had Tahir and Jamie and a few young doctors, but that wasn't nearly enough.

And Wellster at that moment had only Lily and the doctoruses who had hissed at her the day before.

Would that be enough?

Not for Lilian Earton; she wanted more, and she wanted better. Yet she had to work with what she had.

After two hours, she stumbled back from the surgical table (which was big, oaken, and intended for dinner) feeling like a boiled rag. But the princess was happily snuffling in an opium-induced sleep. Lily wiped the sweat from her face, leaving a bloody print, breathed out, and left the room.

"How is she doing?"

"She's fine," Lily said, smiling at Milia.

The queen had clearly been sitting next to the door, worried out of her mind. Yes, Maria wasn't her own daughter, but she was her family. Kinship wasn't determined by blood only.

"Thank Aldonai!"

Milia made a sign, knelt down, and started praying.

Lily knew that she was supposed to follow suit, but her back hurt like hell. Those two hours took their toll.

A page rushed to the exit to inform Altres Lort of the news.

Lily leaned against the wall and stood there.

"It's boiled water and lemon."

A doctorus handed her a glass. One of them had spent an hour with her during surgery; then the other took the second shift. The one with the glass was the first of them, who had gotten the time to rest.

The water really did turn out to be boiled, even still hot. It strongly smelled of lemon.

Lily emptied the glass in three gulps.

"Thank you."

"You’re welcome. You have hands of gold, Your Grace."

"Considering the circumstances, just call me Lilian," she suggested.

It had been difficult for the doctoruses to assist her. Yet, instead of arguing, they simply helped. That said, Her Majesty's arrival clearly played a part in that.

"Joshua, at your service, Lilian."

She replied with a grateful smile.

"Tell me, how long are you going to stay in Wellster?"

"A month, I guess. Until Her Highness recovers..."

"Then you will probably perform more surgeries?"

Lily smiled.

From the looks of it, she would have no shortage of students in Wellster.

"Undoubtedly. I'd get out of shape without practice."

The doctorus respectfully nodded.

He appreciated skill and thought that it was something worthy of learning. Lilian Earton's movements were clearly sharply honed.

"May I learn who was your teacher?"

"I'm still learning. As for my teacher...maybe you've heard about Tahir Djiaman din Dashar? He's a scientist from the Khanganat..."

The doctorus nodded.

Lily smiled with the corners of her mouth.

So he heard about him. He would write her expertise off to the Khangan's training. She didn't mind. She would teach him and the others anyway.

Why would she sit on her knowledge? Was she a hen sitting on her eggs? Never in her life!

***

"W-will Her Highness recover?"

Milia had just finished praying. Altres Lort burst inside like a hurricane but still helped his sister-in-law stand up and threw Lilian Earton a questioning look.

"She will," Lily replied. "She'll have a scar and will have to recover for at least a month, but she will survive. We weren't going to leave early anyway. Now we'll definitely have to hold off on our departure."

Altres chuckled. He was clearly already plotting something. Whatever; using everything to benefit Wellster was his job. It's not like the Ativernans were any better.

"We got lucky..."

"Yes, Her Highness is a real hero," Lily said, nodding. "If not for her... I didn't even see the bolt, but it was aimed at Her Majesty, wasn't it?"

Altres nodded sharply.

"Yes...those bastards!"

"Is it a secret?" Lily asked.

Altres waved his hand.

"Oh, Maldonaya take this secret! Tomorrow, the whole of Cardin will know it!"

Lily listened closely, her head low.

"We didn't get all of them. Alcine wasn't acting alone. Several people...well, not quite supported him, but wanted to use him in their interests. I take it they planned on removing him later and replacing him with one of their own men."

"Overthrowing a tyrant and a usurper."

"And the heir, well, they could work with him. He's just a child. They'd marry him off to someone suitable and rule the country."

Lily nodded.

It wasn't a novel idea; history knew cases such as that, or even more convoluted.

"If Her Majesty were killed..."

"They would have blamed me. I can't say I would have taken the fall, but it would present certain problems."

Lily nodded.

She saw the big picture. One thing was ruling with the consent of the queen while she was alive. Essentially usurping power was quite different. Altres would risk a lot.

But the conspirators had just lost one more hook. There was a good reason why Milia had mentioned raising children. Lily remembered Louis XIII and Cardinal Richelieu: a weak ruler and a powerful advisor. And how would one make a ruler weak? Raise him as such. Parties, wine, hunting, women—there was a key to every heart, and Milia was one hundred percent correct. If she managed the state, who would manage her children?

The twenty-first century wasn't much different. When parents dedicated themselves to their career a bit too much, leaving their children to be raised by someone else, there was a good chance they would never see eye-to-eye with them later, if ever.

With Milia as the regent, the conspirators could have influenced the upbringing of the children through nannies and maids. Having realized that it would be impossible, they resorted to Plan B.

Lily wondered about how many other plans they might have and immediately asked Lort.

Altres sighed.

"I'll dig into that. I'll do everything I can."

Lily didn't doubt that such excavation would significantly diminish the overall number of nobles in Wellster. Well, such was his job: digging something up and burying someone under.

Mercy? Pity?

Oh, absolutely.

As soon as the enemies die, Lily would feel sorry for them. No earlier than that.

Virma, the lands of Clan Gardren.

Bran Gardren was kneeling, silent.

He wasn't praying or invoking his patron; it was of no use, the latter particularly. Yell as much as you want, but Holosh would never answer with words. As for deeds... weren't there enough deeds for Bran already?

He could even add some; there was a reason why he was called the God of Deceit.

Nobody bothered Bran. He had come alone.

Someone, however, had come before, having buried the dead and put up small tombstones.

Bran touched one of the stones with his fingers. His eldest son was lying there, his father's pride and joy. He had been so happy to have him...

He had only Ian and Hilda left…and Angelina, too. The fragments of his old life…the dream of a new one.

But why were you so merciless, Holosh?

He could have passed the reigns to his eldest son and left...he could have. But no, lying to your own self was pointless. If Holosh hadn't snapped all threads binding Bran to his homeland, he would have never found the strength to do it.

He would have let his beloved go, convincing himself that it would be for the better, and stayed, continuing plotting and scheming.

He would leave, likely never to return. Bran felt it. Would it be good or bad?

Gods worked in mysterious ways, Holosh most of all. Bran had no hope of understanding; how could he? All he could do was to follow the path set for him.

Rituals? No, he wasn't thinking about them. It's just, sometimes, the gods gave you signs. That's what it was. If he tried to avoid the road shown to him, something even worse might happen. Bran wasn't going to risk his remaining children and the woman he loved.

He was standing silent, asking for forgiveness from those he had been unable to save. He was too reckless, too thoughtless. too shortsighted.

How would his life turn out after all of that? Whatever happened, he knew he would stay with Angelina. Even if the king decided to execute him, Bran would spend his final moments with her.

He had things to take to Ativerna; money from the caches, some documents... He would give the latter to Olav, or at least those that concerned Virma. As for the rest... The rest Bran would take with him.

Island or mainland, it didn't matter. He would serve Holosh anywhere. The god of trickery, deceit, intrigues, branching paths...he had many names, but that wasn't what was important. Serving was more than rituals and ceremonies; more often than that, it was life spent the way the gods wanted you to.

Bran would do it. He might even have more children; Angelina would definitely want them. Would he deny his beloved? No. He wouldn't want that, anyway. If she had accepted his deformity, she would accept any children of his; there was no doubting that.

His Angie, his ray of sunlight, his happiness... And happiness was to be protected and cherished.

Late that night, Bran loaded several chests in the cart, once again scanned the ruins of his home, and left Gardren forever.

He would give those lands to Olav so someone worthy might get them. They would discuss it later: who would get them, how, for what service...

He would settle his remaining affairs in Virma and leave.

He and his men rode at night, and it was a good thing. In this way, nobody could see Bran's face.

After all, Gardrens didn't cry, and neither did servants of Holosh.

But tears kept falling, unable to stop.

Wellster, Cardin.

Bread and circuses. It was the same in all times: bread and circuses.

Coronation managed to combine both of them, and the circus was a real spectacle. Most people got to see one or two coronations in their lifetime.

The townsfolk met the announcement with a cheer.

King Edwin was known to most, having been seen riding across the capital with his father, the beloved King Gardwig. A king meant order and stability.

A regent?

Why would commoners care about such things?

Nobody was going to ask them or inquire about their opinion. They would never get anything good from that.

Still, the people were glad to hear about Count Lort being in charge.

The old king had trusted him, and the troubles only started after his departure.

After all, wolves didn't kill mice. Altres Lort might be a pain in the rear for the nobles, and why would commoners like the nobles?

They didn't.

And so, people started staking out seats as early as the previous day. The big square in front of the main temple of Cardin began filling out even earlier, while the owners of the nearby houses once again lined their pockets with gold, selling out top spots on their balconies and roofs. Peddlers scurried around, selling their wares.

Both they and the pickpockets had a successful day ahead of them.

Torches burned, and people called each other back and forth.

Tradition dictated the king to be crowned at dawn, as the crown was supposed to be placed on his head with the first rays of sunlight. The route of the royal procession was well-lit, making it as bright as day.

The cathedral itself was packed to the brim. Some had been present since the previous night. The balcony, the choir loft, and the aisle were still empty, intended for the noble lords and ladies who would enter together with the king.

Being a part of the royal procession at the coronation was a big honor. For the rest of their lives, those nobles would carry a scarlet and golden rose on their shoulder, the symbol of the king.

The center of the cathedral was occupied by a throne: big and pompous, it was draped with gold cloth, glancing invitingly in the flickering torchlight. Only its back was plain and made of wood.

The platform the throne stood upon was also covered with brocade: scarlet and gold, the royal colors.

People knew that the throne was made of the wood that hid the first of the Wellsterian kings. Legend said that he had been a knight-errant wandering the world, helping the helpless, protecting the meek, and overall leading a valiant life. Once, chasing a gang of bandits, he found shelter under an oak.

There, a herald of Aldonai (by some accounts, a fairy, but the church disapproved of that version) manifested to him and ordered the knight to found a kingdom in that place, promising him luck in such a godly pursuit.

Truthfully, the story worked better with a fairy. Supposedly, the knight married her, thus starting the royal dynasty. After their death, the old oak fell down, and their son, the second king, ordered to make a throne out of it. Later, the throne was given to the church and was used to crown the future generations of kings.

Now the version with a herald of Aldonai told that the knight was promised a faithful and devout wife and a dynasty that would last centuries.

Maybe there was a drop of truth in those stories? Nobody could say for sure.

***

The people were waiting.

A while later, ladies started dropping in, charming and resplendent, in fabulous dresses, wearing as much jewelry as the ceremony permitted. They took their places, their servants fussing over them—the ladies couldn't stand like commoners, could they? They needed stools (one of nine types, depending on the title and the ancestry), footrests, prayer books, and fans...

The ladies knew that they were a part of the show thrown for the lowborn, but still refused to notice commoners, pretending not to hear how the latter judged their looks, their dresses, and their accessories or shrewdly discussed whom each lady would marry and what her dowry would be.

The common folk knew everything. Those who thought that poverty meant stupidity were completely mistaken. All too often, the rich were dumber than those they looked down on.

Finally, the last of the ladies filled her spot.

Wives and daughters, mothers and grandmothers, some of the latter still remembering His Majesty Gardwig's late father—everyone was there, as long as they lived in the capital.

Ambassadors and their retinues had a special area allocated to them, and they slowly took their places as well.

Just like the ladies, they were dressed to impress and bedecked with jewels, sparkling in the torchlight, sometimes even hurting the others' eyes.

The only exception was the Ativernan ambassador.

Marquis Losan was one of the few men who was permitted to sit. Still, the people were forgiving of him: everyone knew that during the coup, the marquis had been captured and tortured and simply couldn't stand, just as several dozens of other noblemen.

They couldn't be a part of the royal procession, but they immediately took their seats in the cathedral, which was as much of an honor as parading through the streets.

The audience whispered.

Aldon Peters entered the hall.

Usually, the servants of Aldonai were supposed to dress modestly. That day was different.

The aldon's robe was made of expensive velvet, while the golden holy symbols he carried were studded with diamonds. The priests that followed him wore gold as well. Sparkling censers, glistening staves...

His Majesty's crown was carried inside separately.

So who was holding the ancestral crown of Wellster?

Merciful Aldonai!

That had never happened in the entire history of the kingdom.

The crown was carried by His Majesty's eldest sister: Princess Maria.

The people knew her story, too: her escape from the usurper, her sneaking into Fort Shedar to inform everyone about his plans, her defending the walls together with the soldiers...

The last rumor made Altres Lort stop, but eventually, he let it go.

You can't have too much of a good thing. Let them be proud of their princess. In any case, she would leave soon, and the crown was still supposed to be carried by a relative of the king, even if usually a male one. Instead of finding a cousin many times removed on unknown character, he'd rather bestow that honor to Her Highness.

Maria had to expend a lot of effort to recover and take part in the ceremony.

Even Lilian's tongue-lashing didn't give her pause, but at least, the countess had insisted on bringing the doctoruses with her. She also warned both the princess and Count Lort that she wasn't responsible for any problems that might arise.

Still, that was a coronation. Nobody could miss it for the world.

At last, the clerics took their places, and the people held their breath.

All that remained was to listen…listen and wait.

As if living up to their expectations, they heard a cadenced drumroll and the sound of trumpets coming from outside.

The royal procession was close.

While it was still dark, His Majesty was supposed to leave his palace and, together with his loyal servants, walk the streets of Cardin and enter the cathedral.

That was intended as a test of sorts: if Aldonai didn't accept the king, he would never reach the temple.

Altres Lort, however, didn't rely on Aldonai's protection and instead had tightened the security along the route.

He could have pegged something like an earthquake or a flood for divine will, but definitely not an assassination attempt.

He was sick and tired of that.

Finally, Prince Edwin entered the cathedral. Immediately, everyone stood up—or rather, the nobles did, as the commoners were already standing.

Only those people who couldn't stand remained sitting, but the others were lenient of them.

People gazed into the faces of the newcomers.

There was His Highness, who would soon become His Majesty.

Count Lort stood behind his back.

The queen mother had a baby in her hands. But who was it next to her? Who was holding the second prince?

It was a woman.

The people looked closer and recognized her golden braids and the colors of the Earton family, calming down. One couldn't gag every mouth; it didn't just work for dirty gossip.

A word here, a sentence there, and people learned who had saved their third prince and helped the queen flee.

Lilian had the complete right to carry the second prince.

Poor Edwin, however, had to walk on his own, while Corin and Gardwig were nestled comfortably in women's hands.

Usually, foreigners weren't allowed to take part in such ceremonies; their place was in the audience. Still, nobody dared to say a word.

Lort, Chantaine, Olsen, Her Majesty, Her Highness...

The list of those "in favor" had a lot of impressive names. How could one argue against them? That could result in losing your head.

The courtiers from the procession entered the hall and took their spots, while royal guards lined up against the walls, flashing gold and steel. Yes, they were the very same men from Count Chantaine's regiment.

Music started, although the tune was far from refined: drums, trumpets, and timpani.

There was no room for other instruments at that moment. Those were the rules. That's how it was to be done.

Edwin knelt in front of the throne, and the ceremony began.

First came a prayer, then the ritual anointment, and finally, the crown was laid upon his head. Lilian was the only one to notice how pale Princess Maria was, but she still kept her chin up, only relaxing when the crown (a smaller, lighter version that existed for such cases) took its place on her brother's head.

Aldon asked the ceremonial questions, and Edwin replied in a clear and loud voice. Milia had prepared him well.

People watched adoringly.

The sword.

The scepter.

The mantle.

And finally, the throne.

A small footrest had been put so His Majesty wouldn't completely be lost in the vast golden expanse.

Everyone in the cathedral fell either on one knee (for the nobles) or both. Ladies dropped in a low curtsey.

The lawful king had been enthroned.

"The king is dead. Long live the king!" Lily whispered. She was one of the few not to bow, still holding Cor.

The people saw that.

Lily became a target of jealous stares, although only a few. Everyone knew that she was from another country and would leave instead of using the royal favor to better her position. They just needed to wait. The only thing she would reap was glory.

Of course, the countess would be mentioned in the annals and stories, but why would a practical person care about that? Old parchment couldn't feed anyone.

Edwin slowly stood up and spoke the words of the oath, swearing to take care of his country, keep peace and order, be the first to rise to Wellster's defense, and put its interests before his own. The oath was long, taking up almost a page. Milia had him study it over and over, which is why the coronation had to be delayed.

There was also the matter of an investigation and the princess' recovery, of course. But at least everything went smoothly.

Edwin slowly walked out into the streets, accompanied by cheering. People shouted in happiness, throwing flowers under the boy's feet, while a shower of gold coins spilled on the crowd as a symbol of a long and prosperous reign.

Hurray to the king!

***

The evening welcomed the coronation ball. It had its own set of strict rules with a ceremonial dinner with specific dishes.

Ironically, the king himself wasn't present. Instead, he was represented by Milia, while the boy, exhausted over the day, was sleeping like a log under the supervision of his loyal nanny—and ten trusted guards, of course. After the assassination attempt, Altres Lort herded almost all of Chantaine's regiment into the palace.

Lily felt like a pig inside Buckingham Palace. Even her husband sitting next to her and cheering her up with a smile didn't help. She understood everything, but that wasn't her scene.

Receptions, awards... Upon their return to the palace, His Majesty Edwin bestowed Wellster's highest honors on both Jerisson and Lilian Earton. He would have given them an estate and lands, too, but it didn't feel right with foreign dignitaries. Medals, jewels, and privileges would have to be enough. Both Eartons and their descendants received the right to receive the king's direct justice, no matter the accusation.

Not bad at all, really.

Count Chantaine became a duke, while Leir Olsen, a count.

All nobles who had helped to put down the mutiny got higher titles, and the guards weren't left empty-handed either.

Altres Lort was announced as regent, and Edwin personally laid the Iron Crown on his head.

Such were the royal symbols: the king got a golden crown, while the regent was given an iron one, which resembled a helmet with its top cut off and spikes along its edges.

It was intended to remind the regent that he was only a temporary ruler and that his burden was a heavy one.

Altres accepted the crown with a bow and the ritual phrase, swearing to serve, protect, and surrender the power when the time was right. Nobody doubted his words.

He would do it, and if anyone tried to intervene, they would have only themselves to blame.

A feast, dancing... Lily was so tired she felt she was about to drop down and fall asleep right in the middle of the ballroom. She stepped out onto the balcony.

Jess wanted to follow her but was delayed by someone who had a question for him.

Outside, Lilian rested her head against a cold pillar, letting herself relax.

She was terribly sleepy.

Everything around her was blurry; it wasn't a fainting spell, but the dizzying sensation that made the world seem not quite real.

At first, she didn't even realize that someone was speaking to her.

"It's you! You're that pink cow!"

Her brain having registered the familiar expression, Lily turned and saw the woman who had once been Lady Wells. It wasn't clear what kind of reaction she had expected, but it definitely wasn't that.

The countess was so tired that the floor was shaking beneath her feet.

A cow, a crown...oh, even a crow, for God's sake!

Lily put her index fingers to her head as children were wont to do, imitating horns, and said softly, "Moo!"

Adelaide Wells flinched.

That came as a complete shock.

In truth, she had approached Lily out of anger.

She had also been invited to the royal ball, her husband having brought his new wife to Cardin and the court.

She had tried seducing Jerisson under the orders of Altres Lort, who hadn't expected things to unfold in such a way. Otherwise, he would have sent Lady Wells packing far away from the capital and Count Earton. Still, he forgot.

He was only human.

But that was Jerisson. With Lilian, it was personal.

Adelaide came to her because she was ticked off, full of a dark and nasty feeling: jealousy.

Why?

Why does she have everything while I have nothing?

Why does Lilian Earton have the title of a countess, a handsome husband, love, and respect, and I don't?
I deserve it so much more!

I'm prettier, I have longer legs and a slimmer waist, and emeralds look much better on me!

Why are you so unfair, Aldonai?

I hate her!

But as usual, Aldonai didn't answer, while Adelaide could never imagine that the countess hadn't gotten all those gifts for her good looks.

She had worked her butt off, laboring hard with no hope of a reward just to survive, doing what she had to and what she could.

She succeeded, but who said that it came easy for her?

Yet Adelaide hadn't seen it and couldn't understand it. The results, however, were definitely to her liking.

She couldn't do anything to the countess, but at least she could try to spoil her mood. Messing up her hair was out of the question—that might bring hell on Adelaide's own head—but she might turn her against her husband.

Unfortunately, the conversation didn't start off right. Adelaide was used to snide remarks, but mooing?

"Do you know where your husband was last night?" she tried resuming the offensive.

She miscalculated.

Lily slowly advanced on Adelaide.

"Moo, moo, brown cow, have you any milk..."

Her fingers symbolizing horns moved in the twilight of the balcony as she pretended to prepare for a charge.

Adelaide yelped and shot back into the ballroom at the speed of a ballistic missile that was yet to be invented.

Something was clearly off with the countess. What if she was rabid? She might bite!

Lily stopped reciting the nursery rhyme and play-acting a cow, sat down on the floor, and broke into laughter.

Someone softly chuckled, echoing her. Who was it?

She turned around.

Her Highness Lydia was giggling while hiding behind a pillar.

"Eavesdropping isn't nice," Lily berated her.

"I'm a princess."

"Then even more so, Your Highness. You need to say you were simply making inquiries in the interests of the state..."

Lydia stopped putting on airs, sat down next to Lilian, and joined her in laughing.

"You should have seen her bulging eyes!"

"M-moo," Lily drawled.

That triggered another burst of laughter.

"I've never thought it possible to treat them like that..."

"You think they can understand human speech?"

Lydia shook her head.

"Don't they?"

"Of course not. They're rats."

Forgive me, rats.
You're cute and smart, and here I go comparing you to courtiers. But Lydia snorted.

"I've never tried mooing at them."

"Maybe you should have."

"I'll remember that."

Lily stood up from the floor and stretched.

"Don't go sitting on the cold floor for too long. We'll have to give birth at some point."

Lydia blushed.

"Umm...err..."

"Maybe I should go pick a fight with my husband while my brains are still in working order."

Lily elegantly strode out from the balcony.

Lydia thought that her friend wouldn't start any fights; maybe she wouldn't even say anything about that incident.

Her musings were interrupted by another shadow breaking away from the pillar. It walked forward a few steps, entered a lit area, and, unfortunately, didn't dissipate, turning out to be Altres Lort.

"Stand up, Your Highness."

Lydia glared at him. She was going to anyway, but...

Have you ever tried standing up from the floor while wearing a long dress? True, the Mariella cut made moving much easier than any other type of dress, but still.

She had to accept his hand, unwilling to get down on all fours.

The princess made a passing note about Lort having long, thin, and strong fingers, while his hand was warm and dry.

"Thank you."

"You’re welcome. So speaking about giving birth, have you decided on the future father?"

Lydia swung at him with her free hand.

Alas, the jester was prepared for that and easily caught her wrist.

"You're starting to form a bad habit, Your Highness: hitting the poor innocent me."

The princess responded by trying to kick him in the knee.

Her silken dancing slippers, however, couldn't hold a candle to peasant clogs; all she achieved was bruising her own toes.

Altres sighed...and kissed her on the mouth.

If anyone entered the balcony, even an entire division of royal guards, they wouldn't have noticed that.

Lydia twitched once, twice, and finally went limp in his strong embrace. Altres kissed her calmly but confidently as if he had every right to, and she gave up.

She did, of course, try to slap him afterward, but that didn't look convincing in the slightest.

"Stop it, or I'll kiss you again," Altres warned her.

"Do you do it with everyone?" Lydia tried to snap.

She wasn't in the mood for arguing.

Her head was full of pleasant haze, her lips tingled, and she felt warmth spread all over her body.

"Only to those I really like," Altres replied seriously.

"I—"

"I more than like you, Your Highness. But we should discuss this another time in another place."

Lydia tossed her head.

"Have you lost your mind?"

She had intended that phrase to sound disdainful, but instead, it came across as pitiful and uncertain.

Altres gave a deep sigh.

"I guess I must have. But I'll wait before confessing it."

A minute later, Lydia was left alone on the balcony.

She came up to the railing and leaned against it. She needed to calm down before returning into the ballroom.

What foul trickery was that? What was the world coming to? She had never consented to that!

But she had to admit: she really did like Altres Lort.

***

"Mama..."

Lily watched Miranda burst inside the room.

"Mirrie, don't you care that your parents are still asleep?"

"But I'm not!"

"Makes sense," Jerisson grumbled and covered his head with a pillow.

Lily hadn't told him about Adelaide. She had neither the strength for it nor the desire. After returning to their chambers, they collapsed pretty much right where they stood.

Lily wasn't sure, but someone must have helped her to get undressed.

The coronation took a heavy toll on everyone: the day was impossibly difficult. Even prisoners in mines didn't work as hard.

"Mama, can I keep her?"

"Whom?" Lily was slowly waking up to the reality around her.

"Her!"

Lilian felt like covering herself with a pillow as well.

Nope, she hadn't expected such a low trick. Yes, she did make a request, but why so soon?

The story was simple. Olav, whom she had talked to, immediately dropped the whole thing on Gael, who went to see Rutha, and... Well, the Eveers were the people who had a very good idea of what the countess wanted.

And thus, Miranda was standing in front of Lily with a small monkey in her hands. It looked like a marmoset, but Lily couldn't have identified the species even on pain of death.

The monkey was painfully thin and had a collar mark on its neck. It was clutching at Miranda for dear life.

"We'll have to treat you both for ringworm."

"Ringworm?"

"It's a miracle if it only has fleas," Lily chuckled.

Jerisson peeked out from under the pillow.

"What kind of pest is that?"

"Papa!"

Lily sighed and started getting out of bed, which was far from easy, considering that it was twice as wide as she was tall.

"Mirrie, do you realize it's not a toy? It's a living being that requires care, attention, and training..."

"I'll do it! Please let me keep it!"

"Let your father decide."

"You can," Jerisson agreed, not bothering to grasp the details. They had gone to bed just four hours before, and now there were monkeys?

But even alligators wouldn't make him budge. He needed his sleep, dammit!

"Thank you!" Mirrie screamed, rushing in to hug her father, but the wicked stepmother was on the alert.

"First, you need to wash up and get examined. Spreading fleas comes later."

Miranda didn't mind.

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

Angelina had always known what her wedding would look like. It would take place in the main temple of Laveri, led by Aldon Roman. His Majesty would personally lead his daughter to the altar, all dressed in blue...or pink...that was complicated: so many colors, so many styles!

And there, he would wait for her. Who would it be, though? Angelina had done her best to picture her groom. The results were usually the same: young, tall, handsome, blue-eyed (why not?), certainly a noble, at least a duke, maybe even a prince...

She had no idea what would happen afterward. A feast? A dance with her husband? Maybe a kiss? It was funny how naive she had been.

Reality turned out to be very different.

As soon as Bran returned, Richard slammed his fist on the table. He couldn't marry them off by the laws of Ativerna, not yet, but that didn't mean his sister would get to live in sin. She would have to marry the Virman way.

The island tradition dictated swearing vows before the face of Fleyna.

Who would be better suited for looking after families and accepting oaths than the goddess of love who joined people's hearts together?

Still, Bran was a priest of Holosh, and priests had to get their deity's blessing to be married. The wedding would have to proceed in the dark god's temple.

Few places were less romantic than that one.

The temple of Holosh was a simple cave. Of course, half of Virman temples were the same, but that one seemed particularly uninviting.

Inside, there was a statue, a few torches, an altar, and a knife lying on it,  nothing more.

Nobody was leading Angelina to the altar, either. Bran waited for her there, but she would have to walk the path on her own; such was the rule.

As for the dress, Angelina decided to wear a traditional Virman one, made from thin, unbleached linen with embroidery, plus a shawl that her husband was to remove as part of the ceremony.

Slowly, she moved across the narrow passage.

The walls were rough-hewn, with few torches set upon them. The darkness felt overwhelming, crushing her, making it hard to breathe.

What was that? Voices?

Step back...

Leave...

What are you getting yourself into?

Why would you want that?

The darkness pressed down on her, stifled her, didn't want to let her pass. She wanted to break into a run and leave the cave forever. Sometimes, the ceiling looked dangerously low; at other times, it appeared that she had gotten lost and would have to wander those winding corridors for eternity.

It was scary, but she couldn't leave. She wouldn't.   Bran was her beloved; for him, she'd step into a fire, not just some cave.

Her fighting spirit clearly helped, as Angelina made a few more steps, turned around a corner, and was almost blinded by a bright light.

Or maybe it just seemed bright, after the darkness of the cave; in truth, it was just torches, only more of them.

Bran was standing by the altar. Angelina threw him a look and immediately realized that he was wavering. She would have to scold him later.

Angelina had never seen the face of Holosh before. Truly, the hand of the sculptor had been guided by a god. At first sight, it was only a cloaked man who was standing in a casual pose while leaning on his staff. A careless observer might even notice the folds of his cape fluttering behind him only to look closer and realize that it was a stone statue, its shadow playing tricks.

But the face—the face was a different story. Generic features, a high forehead, a thin nose, big eyes, the latter represented by gemstones of some kind. Taken individually, they seemed ordinary and even looked like someone nice, but together...

When you looked at Holosh, you wanted to shiver and hide. How could a human sculptor depict something like that? Indifference, curiosity, the cold ruthlessness of an explorer, and at the same time, understanding.   How could all of that coexist in one man?

Although he was no man, he was a god.

It felt scary. Angelina took a step forward, then another.

Her beloved was waiting for her, and she wasn't going to stop. Bran stood at the right side of the altar, seemingly calm, but his blue eyes closely watched her every move. He was no prince charming or a knight in shining armor. He could tell her no tales about chivalry or valor. But Bran would be faithful to her for the rest of his days, protecting her, destroying her enemies, loving their children. No, scratch that. Both she and their children would be a part of Bran, just like his arms or legs. He would love them and protect them just as he would himself. He couldn't do otherwise. He would never bring her a hundred scarlet roses from the garden, but as long as he drew breath—and even after that—nobody would dare to look at her askance or even think bad thoughts. Their love wasn't the one from fairy tales, not the romance between Tira and Richard, not even what Lilian Earton had told her about, not what her parents had once had. But everyone had their own story, didn't they? Angelina couldn't have wished for a different one.

The eye of Holosh kept watching her, weighing her down, and the princess knew what she was asked for. Bran was no angel. He was cold and cruel and calculating; he had killed, and he would continue to kill, betray, and scheme. Such was his nature, and she would never strip him of that. One could catch a shark swimming in the ocean, but could it ever become a herring? Never, and she didn't want that anyway. Angelina had known everything from the beginning. Why kick up a fuss?

Another step, two more, and she touched Bran's chilly fingers.

"I love you."

"You're my heart and my life."

It didn't matter who said it first or who replied. It was the truth said before the face of Holosh.

Bran cut his wrist, and blood dripped on the altar, speaking the words of the old vow, then passed the blade to Angelina. The princess hesitated. It felt scary, and she was unused to such things. Yet it was important.

Anxious, she cut a bit deeper than she had to. It would probably leave a scar, but she didn't care. A rivulet of blood poured on the altar once again.

"I swear..."

To love and protect, to believe and preserve, to be faithful and never to betray. The essence of the oath was the same for all people in all eras, and fire obediently accepted the blood and the oath.

Holosh looked pleased. Not by the offering, no. The realization hit Angelina, and she couldn't stay silent.

"Am I...his now, too?"

Bran didn't reply, instead touching her lips with his. The kiss was short, but not any less deep. Then he pulled out a bandage and applied it to his wife's hand. But Angelina had become more than his wife; a small part of her was dedicated to Holosh, and he would watch her.

Only the gods knew what that could result in. Bran's second wife, for instance, had hesitated. She didn't want to cut her hand, sobbing and scared.

What was done was done. Would Holosh bestow a little bit of happiness upon his priest?

The choice was his. All Bran could do was to obey.

When they left the cave, Richard met them, a question on his face.

"Yes?"

"Yes," Bran answered simply.

Olav, who was the only other person present—Holosh didn't care for lavish ceremonies—had already understood it. He smiled and congratulated the newlyweds.

That was right.

Let the mercy of Holosh and the grace of Fleyna be with you.
Live and be happy.

Wellster, Cardin.

"Thank you," Lily whispered to Olav when she got the chance.

"Don't mention it," the Virman chuckled. "I see the girl's getting pretty good, isn't she, Your Grace?"

Lily nodded. That was true.

The monkey, who got the moniker of Mimi, was washed, treated, fed, and the training started. No, they weren't going to send her to a circus, but Lily insisted that if the animal was going to live with people, Mirrie had to school her.

In record time, Mimi learned basic commands. She didn't obey every one of them, but could understand what was wanted of her, didn't poop all over the place, and overall considered Miranda to be her mommy just as Lilian wanted.

Her daughter might not be a medical prodigy, but treating and training animals could very well be her true calling. She remembered people like Gerald Darrell or James Harriot.

She would have to prepare her, though. At that moment, the palace already had three Virman dogs running around, Miranda enthusiastically helping the princesses train them.

The princesses also, having recovered under Milia's protective wing, were making active hints about getting their own monkeys. And how about horses, too? Even the young king couldn't help but be curious.

Altres Lort knew where the wind blew from but didn't mind. It wasn't his child to lecture or raise. The choice of occupation seemed unusual for a noblewoman, but not everyone was fit for embroidering all the time. Miranda Catherine Earton's life would be an eventful one; there was no doubt about that, seeing as she was going to get married in the Khanganat.

Slowly, everything came to order. People got used to King Edwin sitting on the throne with Altres Lort as his regent, both of them pursuing the same goals. Her Highness Maria was gradually recovering, and so were the Ativernans after their torture. Lily received a palatial estate for her hospital and spent her days and nights there, alternating between giving lessons and getting it up and running. Jerisson became fast friends with Altres Lort. While Marquis Losan was ill, he acted as the ambassador, writing letters to His Majesty and visiting the court.

Miranda spent all her time with the princesses, much to the entertainment of Mimi, the monkey, and to the court ladies' utter displeasure. Monkeys didn't care for titles or ranks, but they could start searching a person for fleas, throw fruit at them, or pick their pocket. Complaining was pointless. Milia was simply too kind, and the regent, too terrifying.

***

Robert Alcine's execution went down quietly.

It was painful but private: he was staked in the prison courtyard. When Altres was sure that nothing more could be extracted from him, realizing that that sliver of a human (what else could he be after all that torture?) was about to lose what vestiges of reason he had remaining, he ordered his death.

The duke agonized for several days. It might not be humane, but Altres made a note to visit him a few times over his torment.

The story that had started so long ago was finally ending with blood and pain.

He didn't feel sorry for Alcine, not in the least.

His duchy was divided into several parts and given to loyal people, his coat-of-arms was turned upside down and struck from the Golden Book, and the duke's grave, salted.

Altres thought that wasn't enough.

He acknowledged that Alcine and Albitta had the right to vengeance; he could understand them.

What he couldn't do was to accept it, justifying and forgiving them—and he could definitely not let them live in peace.

Gardwig was to blame for a lot of things, but should each of them result in a mutiny? By arranging a coup, they had brought a lot of pain and suffering, killing many people and paving the way for many more deaths.

Now, if Alcine simply tried to assassinate the king, it would have been different. He could have simply drawn a dagger and struck. He had his chance.

What he had done was unforgivable, especially to Milia and the innocent children.

***

The Ativernans left Wellster at the start of winter.

The children had said their goodbyes in advance, and Altres Lort personally escorted the procession to Fort Shedar to show his respect.

Princess Maria had completely recovered. The nasty wound had brought her down for more than a month, but she got lucky. The swelling wasn't serious, and the resulting scar was barely noticeable.

The same could be said about the Roivels, the Elonts, and Losan. They got lucky, too. Nobody had died or become a cripple, and Lily managed to deal with the consequences. They would never forget, of course, but they would live.

Lily left a lasting impression on Wellster. The hospital she had built received King Gardwig's name.  The people who fought against the coup had mostly recovered, while the doctoruses underwent a short training. In the future, they would have to upgrade their skills by themselves.

Milia wept as she bid goodbye to her good friend. They knew that they would likely never meet again.  There were no trains or airplanes, even phones. Each of them was too attached to their own home to travel. At least they could correspond in writing.

Lilian kissed the queen for the last time and took her place in the caravan.

Thomas Concord rode back and forth along the procession, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything.

Lily released Lidarh, and the Avarian flew like a bird over the road and the fields. He was finally free, and soon, he would be home. His hooves evenly clattered along the frozen ground. The countess returned to the others only after a while.

"You seem happy to leave," Lort finally said, seemingly in a chatting mood.

Lily smiled at the regent.

His romance with Lydia was developing slowly, but surely. In any case, she had stopped hissing at him, while Altres started contemplating marriage, Lily knew for sure.

He also became a frequent guest in the embassy of Ivernea, while Their Highnesses decided to stay in Cardin for the winter.

"Home is always better," she said simply.

"We'll always be happy to see you, Lilian. Don't forget us."

Lily smiled.

"I promise I'll keep in touch. Maybe I could even attend the wedding."

Altres chuckled, not embarrassed in the slightest.

"Not before the fall."

"Time doesn't matter, but the bride does," Lily retorted.

"If Her Highness accepts..."

"Her Highness will be happy. I'm certain of it."

Altres smiled, content.

"I'll try to make her happy."

"Children would be good, too."

Altres glanced at Jerisson.

"What about you, then?"

"We're working on it."

"Do so, then," Altres said with an amicable nod, briefly casting down one of his many masks and becoming a plain jester. "One alliance doesn't seem to be enough. Maybe we'll need a few more."

"You still have princesses left."

"And Miguel is already courting the eldest one." Altres winced.

"I hope the girl doesn't mind."

"She isn't sure yet, but she seems to like him," the count said, waving his hand. "Maybe we'll become relatives yet."

Lily smiled.

"Fairy tales are supposed to end with weddings, are they not?"

"And then comes the real life. A damnably hard thing."

"That's how it was for me."

Altres nodded thoughtfully.

Yes, life was hard and unpredictable in all its richness and hideousness, but there was no refusing it.

"Do come to visit, Lilian."

They were in no hurry to make promises.

After all, Altres Lort was a regent, while Lilian had a lot on her plate as well. Unlike the twenty-first century, where one could get anywhere on the planet in the span of a day, not to mention the neighboring regions, parting ways might mean never getting to see each other again.

It was sad, but at least it made you appreciate the people who were always by your side.

Some of the Eveers were leaving with Lilian. Gael had proposed to Rutha, and she accepted. However, both simultaneously refused the offer to stay in Wellster.

Ativerna was the only option.

Castle Taral, be sure to write letters.

Lily and Jerisson were homesick.

Farewells, a few tears, and once again, cold ground spread under the hooves of their horses, thoughtful wind drying their moist cheeks.

It was time to go home.

Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

"Holosh help you, Bran!"

Olav once again hugged his friend goodbye. He knew they were unlikely to see each other again.

The last month had been hard on them. Bran could leave any moment. Richard was fine with departing for Ativerna. It felt like torture to remember Tira and watch the sea that had taken her far away on a burning ship. Even looking at someone else being happy was hard.

To His Highness' credit, he did good, being truly happy for his sister.

Bran was working. He and Olav made lists of people to be executed or pardoned and put their decisions into practice. Bran drew up chats for his friend, suggesting various courses of action...

A month? Even a year wouldn't be enough, but the storms were about to stop, or at least the autumn ones were, and they needed to avail themselves of the opportunity to slip into Ativerna unless they wanted to wait for spring.

Nobody did.

And thus, the two schemers hurried to get everything over with before they set sail, by fits and starts.

Angelina said her farewells with tears in her eyes. Her ladies-in-waiting had come to see her off. Jean was already expecting, her husband glowing with happiness. His line would continue; wasn't it a cause for celebration?

The princess was shuddering at the thought of meeting her father, but that couldn't be changed. She was an adult, and she had made her choice, never regretting it.

If Aldonai himself appeared before her and offered a chance to do everything anew, Angelina would have sent him packing. Fat chance!

She was grateful for her happiness. Change it? Marry someone else and spend her whole life being miserable? Never!

On the ship, she and Bran would marry in Ativernan tradition. The third wedding would take place in Laveri, in the main temple of the capital, for the public to see so that nobody could dispute the marriage. Richard had promised her that. Yes, there would be issues, but love was worth it.

Angelina once again hugged her former handmaidens and searched for her husband with her eyes. Bran turned around, having noticed her stare, and smiled at her, his beloved.

Yes, it was worth it, a million times and more.

Ativerna, Laveri.

That time around, there were no storms. The ships obediently crossed the channel and dropped anchor at Laveri harbor.

"You'll wait on the ship," Richard said once again. "I'll go to the palace."

Bran didn't argue. His time to fight would come later. All he could do was wait. Holosh, after all, had said that everyone had to time their own battles.

Coming ashore didn't take long, and neither did getting to the palace.

At last, Richard entered his father's study.

With Tahir Djiaman din Dashar sent off, father and son stared at each other.

For the first time in his life, it dawned on Richard how old and tired his father really was. Something like that could only be realized after losing someone close. Having lived through that, Richard didn't want to lose anybody else. Too bad life might have other plans.

"Father... "

Richard made a step forward and embraced his father.

Did he imagine it, or did a tear roll down Edward's cheek?

Are you crying, Your Majesty?

"My son. My boy..."

It was nothing more than a whisper, but it was an ocean of truth and love. For Richard, those several words meant volumes. For a few minutes, they stayed locked in each other's embrace, before Edward finally pulled himself together and pushed Richard away.

"What happened in Virma?"

Richard didn't omit anything, telling the entire story from the storm to their arrival, from Tira to Gardren.

Cutting corners would come later. Some things, he would never tell even to Jerisson...but he would never conceal it from his father.

Edward didn't interrupt, quietly listening, sometimes nodding or putting his hand on his son's shoulder as a show of support.

Yes, such was life. He had gotten lucky with Jessamine. Aldonai wasn't as kind to his son. As for his daughter... Edward had never wanted that for her, no. But whatever happened, happened.

"I want to see this Gardren before I make a decision."

"I'll send a messenger for him."

"Do that."

A year before, Edward might have decided differently. Not anymore.

The Ivelien conspiracy had done a number on him. The sentence he had passed, his pain, his tears, his despair... He wouldn't ruin his children's life. Whether good or bad, their choice would be their own, not his.

And so, Edward patiently waited while talking to Richard. At last, a blue-eyed man of middle height entered the room. Edward didn't even notice his hunched back at first; Bran had long since stopped paying attention to his disability, influencing the others around him.

"Your Majesty."

He bowed, and a strange feeling came upon Edward. A predator had just entered his office: fierce, cunning, and dangerous. Yet, his daughter had tamed him.

"Lord of Gardren."

"Just Bran Gardren now. At your service, Your Majesty."

Edward permitted himself a brief smile.

"Not just Bran Garden. You're also my daughter's husband."

"I suppose I am."

"What if I order you killed?"

Bran nodded.

"I won't kill you in turn, Your Majesty. It would upset my wife. However, I hope that you won't transfer your rage to her and my children."

"Whom will you kill, then?" Edward wondered.

"I won't resign myself to being killed, Your Majesty. I think I can dispatch half a score of men, maybe more."

Bran understood that he was being tested and tried to avoid overdoing it. It was the moment of truth: his future was at stake, and so was Richard's.

Previous arrangements were one thing. Nobody knew the final outcome.

"You're a pagan."

"I can get Aldonai's blessing in his temple. My faith allows for that, Your Majesty."

"And be married in a church?"

"For Angelina, yes."

Edward chuckled.

"What if I told you that my daughter can do better than you?"

"I agree, Your Majesty. All I can say is that I did try to dissuade her."

Edward laughed.

"Do you love her?"

Bran looked at him with all sincerity a man like him could muster.

"I will die without her. As for love...well, I never knew what it was like."

Edward slowly nodded.

"I suppose we can postpone the execution."

"What about marriage?"

"We'll speed it up," His Majesty stressed.

Bran smiled with the corners of his mouth.

"Can I relay the happy news to my wife?"

"I will do that myself. I'll also cuff her ears. She did come here with you, didn’t she?"

"That's right."

Edward chuckled. He knew his daughter.

"Then both of you are free to go. And call that brat here. I'm going to give her a spanking."

Bran bowed.

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I have to say that it's her husband's prerogative."

Edward concluded that Bran was one cocky bastard. Still, even people like them could be of use.

"Will you find the door?"

Bran replied with a mischievous smile, bowed, and left.

Richard lingered for a minute.

"Father?"

Edward gave him a cheerful smile.

"He's a right snake, of course. But...Angie made a good choice."

"I've never doubted that."

"You shouldn't, either. Call that scamp here."

Richard bowed and left.

His sister was going to get a real dressing-down. Whatever. Maybe it would be good for her.

The most important thing was over. Father had recognized his sister's marriage. Soon, the official wedding would take place.

Be happy, Angie.
Be happy for both of us.

***

Richard wished the best for his sister, and so did His Majesty Edward. However, all concerned parties knew very well that the marriage would cause a public outcry, to put it mildly.

The slackers at court could accept the princess being married off to another country or maybe being given to a worthy nobleman, such as a duke or a marquis. There were even a few candidates, considering that His Majesty had two marriageable daughters. Everyone wanted a princess in their family: it meant certain prospects, if not for the current generation, then for the next one. If everything was all right, it meant a link to the royal dynasty. In case the ruling family encountered difficulties, it meant rights to the throne. Who'd refuse an opportunity like that?

And then, out of the blue, Her Highness had sailed to some island and gotten married to a local, halving down the chances of old blood nobles. Maldonaya take this Virma! Did it really have anything except for fish? True, they said that her husband was the leader of some clan, but did it really mean anything on the mainland? It wasn't even funny! He had no lands, no title, not a thing to his name. How could they just swallow it? After all, a widow was still marriage material!

The courtiers livened up and began to stir.

Bran, who had talked to sailors in advance, watched their movements with interest. The sailors, warned by their captains, happily accepted money and went around drinking in taverns, all telling the same story, slight differences only serving to confirm the veracity of the main version.

Yes, a Virman.
Yes, a cripple.

As for Bran being a priest of Holosh...

The Ativernans didn't care about that, and Virmans didn't say anything. Some gods were not to be mentioned; their attention might only do harm.

Angelina knew his plan, too, and hated that her husband was going to risk his life. Still, she understood that there were no other options. He would either frighten the living daylights out of his resenters, hammering home that dogs weren't supposed to bark at wolves or wait for an assassination attempt, a duel, an ambush, or other such tricks. Angelina didn’t want that.

And thus, amid their planning, the day of the audience with His Majesty finally came.

***

The noise was overwhelming. The court was up in arms as everyone discussed the versions of the story.

What a nightmare!
A princess and...a monster!

People wagged their tongues as dogs wagged tails, producing almost an annual amount of gossip in record time.

So he was a Virman noble. Or maybe not a noble? A pirate? An assassin? That seemed intriguing.

Alas, the princess refused to dispel the errors of others and say anything. As for Bran himself...

He needed to perform the ritual by attending to the court and asking for Her Highness' hand. He did exactly that two days after their arrival at Laveri. During those two days, he moved his children to Castle Taral and talked to His Majesty once again, also making the acquaintance of Aldon Roman.

Based on their meeting, the aldon made a statement unbefitting a man of the cloth that nonetheless was quite specific. In a one-on-one conversation, he told Edward that in Aldonai's place, he would have sent down a plague in retaliation for such a present—or maybe a swarm of locust.

Edward snorted and ordered him to bless Bran and perform the wedding. A plague, locust—that was for Aldonai to decide. He worked in mysterious ways, after all.

That said, His Majesty sometimes allowed himself to think blasphemous thoughts. Imagine God, a being of unimaginable majesty and complexity, creating the world, the people, countries, animals, the sun, the sea, and lots of other things that people couldn't even grasp. After all of that, why would he care who slept with whom or who wore what? It seemed silly.

Naturally, Edward never shared his musings with anyone; the people might not understand. Bran might, though.

Edward genuinely hoped that his son-in-law would be able to bring the courtiers to heel or at least scare them straight. There would be no end to challenges coming from them.

It was better to show them teeth straight away.

***

The first challenge appeared as soon as Bran entered the palace. He was standing waiting for the king to receive him, and out of the blue...

The last time anything like that had happened to him was twenty years ago. A gaudily dressed fop gave him a push and eyed him like a pile of shit, loudly calling for a valet to check if there was rotten fish anywhere near.

Bran smirked at the first portent of things to come and tripped the lout up in a completely unchivalrous manner.

Really, he should have thought better than to turn up his nose and walk around looking like the world owed him.

The man dropped flat down, while Bran chuckled and ordered the incoming valet, "Please pour perfume on the gentleman. And wipe the floor, too."

"You, knave!" the insulted nobleman screeched. "I challenge you—"

"You challenge my guest?" Edward, who arrived just in time, asked politely. "Viscount?"

The viscount grew pale but lifted his chin even higher. Or was he simply trying to stop the bleeding from his broken nose?

"Your Majesty... "

"Your Majesty." Bran was completely calm. "May I kill him?"

"Of course, Lord of Gardren."

"Right here?"

"Absolutely. I can be your second if you'd like. Viscount, Lord of Gardren, accepts your challenge. A duel to the death, right here, right now. You can choose any weapons. Would you like to offer your apology?"

"No, Your Majesty," the offended viscount grinned. "I want that bastard dead. I have no need to apologize."

"I've warned you, Viscount," His Majesty said. "Ladies and gentlemen, please make room for the duel."

The royal parlor was a huge hall that had enough space for three duels at once. The viscount was immediately left in a large circle with Gardren. Slowly, he pulled his blade from the sheath, clearly showing off.

Bran didn’t even flinch.

Bored stiff, he watched the viscount unsheathe his sword and advance, demonstrating various feints. Then he made one sharp movement.

A small knife with a barely noticeable grip, but perfectly balanced, sunk into the fop's throat. The viscount wheezed and collapsed.

Bran waited for him to stop writhing, carefully pulled out his knife so as not to get his hands dirty, and wiped the blade off on his opponent's clothes.

"I testify that the duel followed the rules," Edward said the ritual phrase. "Aldonai delivered his justice. Lord of Gardren, could you kill him with a sword?"

"Any weapon you would choose, Your Majesty. I thought it wrong to waste your time."

Edward chuckled.

"Then let us proceed."

***

Four days later, Bran Gardren and Her Highness Angelina united in marriage in the main temple of Laveri.

Over the next week, Bran was challenged to a duel eight times.

He accepted each of them, selecting various weapons: a sword, a saber, even a crossbow. His Highness became his second, both as a favor to his sister and to show the nobles whose side he was on.

The smart ones took note of that, and the idiots were soon gone: a natural decline by the hand of a stronger opponent.

Edward, Richard, Bran, Angelina—everyone knew that the attempts would continue. But what could they do?

They would deal with it. Bran never challenged anyone himself, and as for attackers... That was their choice.  If they wanted a fight, they would get it.

***

The road back was much easier on Lilian. No adventures, no unwanted advances, and no problems. The bandits were laying low, as the first snow made it easy to track them.

The nobles...weren't, but the news about the events in the capital had spread all over the country. Balls? Receptions? That was taboo. For a year after a monarch's death, the country was in mourning.  There was no dress code, but most people had green bands wrapped around their arms, showing their sympathy for Her Majesty's plight.

Some might even be sincere. Milia was well-loved among the people. Everyone knew about her love for the king, and the story of their marriage was lovely and romantic, at least for blushing maids and elderly ladies.

The only allowed receptions were small private gatherings; no mass festivities, aside from the coronation. Twenty guests was the limit; any more than that would be bad form, especially if there was no worthy excuse such as a son's wedding or the birth of an heir.

Therefore, the Ativernans never stopped in cities for long: only a day or two to give the horses some rest, replenish the supplies, and tell the local mayor what had transpired in the capital.

Everyone wanted to get home as soon as possible. The only exception was Princess Maria, who felt restless. How would her fiancé find her? What was he like? How would he treat her? She had many questions but had experienced a lot, too. The journey calmed her down a bit.

Lilian swore that Richard was a clever and kind man, allaying Maria's fears. All the time she had known the countess, she became sure that the latter hated lying. If anything was amiss, she would have told her.

A month later, the outlines of Laveri loomed on the horizon: the spires of the temple, the towers of the palace... Thomas Concord dispatched a messenger to announce their arrival. He had already sent a pigeon three days before that, of course, but it was time for a person who could talk and tell everything.

They couldn't simply ride into the capital, could they? They had a princess with them, the future queen. A welcoming party was in order.

***

Having received the messenger pigeon three days before, His Majesty had been busy preparing for the meeting. All that remained was to gather the people, and even then, it was hardly an issue.

Everyone he needed was already inside the palace. He would simply tell the master of ceremonies to set the wheels in motion, call up Richard, and send a message to Angelina.

His daughter was living on her own with her husband, which saddened Edward. He would have preferred to keep her under his wing in the palace, but everybody had banded together to dissuade him from that idea. Bran considered the palace an unsuitable place for Virmans, children, or his wife. Angelina was sick and tired of living at court. Richard, for his part, had noticed the tension between the sisters. Joliet was jealous, having noticed the way Bran treated his wife and realizing that she was unlikely to get a husband like that. That wasn't even friendly envy; no, Jolie's jealousy was a common one, and nobody knew what it would result in. It was better to keep them apart for the time being.

Thomas had arranged for His Majesty to have more than five hours for preparations and the grand entrance. One procession was slowly approaching Laveri, while the second moved across the city streets.

The townsfolk were waiting with bated breath. Soon, they would meet their future queen.

***

Maria was beside herself with anxiety. Thankfully, she didn't need to conceal it from the people inside the carriage: Countess and Viscountess Earton. The princess had asked the rest to leave.

Later, the other women would leave, replaced by her fiancé. She and Richard would ride across the city into the temple, where the betrothal would be formally acknowledged. Then they would go to the palace.

Lily adjusted the silver fox mantle on Maria's shoulders.

"You look amazing. Pretty as a picture!"

Maria shivered.

She really did look lovely in her white and pink dress, and the dark fur of her mantle worked wonders to emphasize her brown hair and shining eyes.

"It will work out, right?"

Lily gave her a confident nod.

"It must. We're alive, are we not?"

The princess smiled and started waiting.

His Majesty's cortege was coming closer. The music swelled—drums, tambourines, trumpets, timpani—and banners fluttered in the wind, while dust scattered under the hooves of the horses. Maria would have loved to peek out of the window, but she couldn't. That wouldn't be proper for a princess.

Finally, the carriage stopped, and Maria slowly stood on the worn ground. A man stepped out from among the welcoming party. Edward had yielded to his son the right to meet his fiancée.

Richard walked forward, and as Maria looked at him, her heart melted. His Highness looked like a prince straight out of fairy tales: tall, golden-haired, with a charming smile. Maria gave him a shy smile in return.

She didn't know that the insides of Richard's heart were all black. His bride looked so different.

Dark-haired, with huge brown eyes and a tender smile, Tira had been like a blade woven of steel and moonlight. Maria was a fluffy ball of wool: pretty, soft, and cozy. She felt wrong.

But the one who had been intended for Richard was gone forever, and they would never meet in this life.

Richard dropped on one knee in front of Maria and brought her hand to his lips.

"My princess."

The girl blushed, which only served to make her more charming.

"Y-your Highness... "

"May you honor me with your presence?" Richard asked, a sly smile on his face.

The girl wasn't to blame. She just wasn't Tira.

Let him hurt, let his heart be torn into pieces, let him remember her blue eyes and silver hair, but Maria would never know anything, never suspect anything. She would have a loving husband, a family, and children.

Would that be enough? Richard didn't know, but he would do everything in his power.

He helped his wife-to-be inside the carriage. Her fingers were freezing, because of either cold or worry. He warmed them with his breath.

Let it be.

The road of kings was cruel and hard, sometimes even ugly, but it was his burden and his choice.

***

Lily watched Richard. Jess had already helped Miranda into the saddle and was holding Lidarh's reins.

"Climb up."

"Just a minute," she replied.

A good doctor could observe a lot, even without a full check-up. Lily was a good doctor.

There was something wrong with Richard.

The prince got inside the carriage, and Lily asked Jerisson about that. Her husband shrugged.

"I don't know. He looks good."

"I suppose."

Lily decided to keep quiet. Later, she would talk to Leif. If anyone knew what was wrong with Richard, it was the Virmans. Something probably had gone down in Virma, Lily was more than sure of it.

Jess, however, no matter how much affection she held toward him, had the insight of a battering ram. Richard would tell him everything himself if he wanted to.

***

The temple spread out in front of Lily as Aldon Roman joined Maria and Richard together with vows. It was only a betrothal, not a wedding, but it was more than serious.

Richard... Why did he have that face?

Lily prayed with all her heart that the nightmare that had happened to Edward wouldn't happen again. Loving one woman while marrying another wasn't especially great, but it could be dealt with. The consequences of that love, however...

She was sick of coups, mutinies, conspiracies, and rebellions. That was the worst time for all of that, really. Lily wanted to practice medicine and manufacture and spend time with her family. Please, let it all work out.

As they slipped diamond bracelets on each other's wrists, Maria smiled happily, clearly not noticing a thing. His Majesty seemed moved, too.

The princesses were there as well, Angelina standing next to a grey-haired man of medium build...blue eyes, hunched back...were they married? Going by their bracelets, they were. Joliet, however, looked at them with a mixture of envy and frustration.

Faces, people, flowers... Where had they gotten so many in the middle of winter?

When Richard walked out of the temple with his bride in hand, the crown broke into a cheer, throwing flowers at them, hundreds and thousands of them. Maria caught a pink bouquet and laughed.

Lily, however, felt sad. She didn’t even know why.

***

She received the answer only the next morning. The source wasn't even Leif, but Ingrid. As she listened to the Virman woman's story, she nodded.

Oh well.

She felt sorry for the girl who had died in Virma and for Richard.

Still, she had a lot to tell, herself, and it was time for Ingrid to ooh and ah. So much news, so many happenings...

And so many things to do, too.

Like visiting the king, for instance. How was his health?

She also wanted to talk to His Highness, as long as he agreed, of course. Jerisson wasn't going to let him feel bored, and that was for the best.

She had to see the princesses and meet Angelina's new husband—although she had already caught onto him. They had left one Count Lort behind in Wellster only to find another one in their own home.  Maybe they were long lost twins? Anyway, he was a good reason for her to stay on her guard.

There was also her production facility. Of course, she would never get off with a simple visit: there were probably a million issues to fix.

And then there was the hospital, too.

So much to do, so little time... Life went on in full swing, barely giving people time to evade its blows, unwilling to fall into patterns set by people and stubbornly dictating its rules, instead. But the important thing was that it didn't stop. Everyone chose their own road, and everyone had to answer for it.

What about Lilian herself, though?

Maybe there was one more conversation she needed to have.

***

"Jess, which do you want more, a son or daughter?'

"A son. And a daughter."

"No, I don't think I'll give birth to twins..."

"Um...Lily?"

"Yes..."

"So...how long? When did you..."

"Back in Wellster. I think you'll become a father in half a year, give or take. The second time, I mean. Do you think Mirrie will be happy?"

"I'll flog you blind!"

"What for?"

"How could you travel while pregnant?"

"It's not like I was sick!"

"And on horseback!"

"I get nauseous in a carriage!"

"You have no shame!"

"But I will have a baby. Aren't you happy?"

"I'm thrilled, dear. But could you be more careful about travel?"

"Jerisson! I won't let you lock me up for the next six months..."

Jess wanted to snap but suddenly remembered that one mustn't yell at a pregnant woman. They were absolutely unpredictable, after all.

He sighed.

"Lily...we'll find the middle ground, all right?"

"Of course!" his wife assured him.

He sighed again and clasped her in his arms.

Life was wonderful, wasn't it?

The End of book 8

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 Road of Kings (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

Book Recommendations

Leyna: book 1 by Helen E. Peters

Let me introduce to you a good friend of mine, Helen E. Peters. She is one of the most popular fantasy romance writers in my country, and I am a big admirer of her works. Finally, the first book in her breathtaking romantic series Leyna is also available in English!

The main character starts her story just like Lilian: with waking up in another world. She is dreaming of coming back home and has a long way ahead of her in a fantasy land filled with elves and other magical creatures.

I suggest this book to everyone who likes fantasy, adventures, strong female characters, magic, and fairy tales.

*** Read FREE in KU! ***

Serafina’s by Marie Treanor

Silence has never been so sinful…

Welcome to Edinburgh's unique psychic investigation agency, Serafina's.

Serafina MacBride is psychic - but not strictly honest. While staging a hilarious vampire attack at a client's party, Sera is stunned to encounter a real vampire - annoying, gorgeous and inaudible to everyone but her. When her client's son is found dead with puncture wounds in his neck, she tracks the silent vampire to his lair.

But the amoral and seductive Blair is also on a mission - to find and kill a nest of young vampires who've invaded his territory. Soon Sera is drawn into the bizarre world of the undead, where danger lurks in the shadows along with forbidden sensual delights - and a murderous conspiracy to flood the world with financially astute vampires who talk.

Supported and hindered by Blair's eccentric, undead friends, and by her own motley crew from Serafina's, Sera and Blair uncover surprising truths about each other and about the mysterious Founder from whom all vampires are descended.

*** Read FREE in KU! ***

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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Table of Contents

Welcome

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

From the Author

Book Recommendations

About Lina J. Potter