Blackveil

“No!” Richmont roared. “You can’t do this! I’ve plans in place that will bring you down! My valet stands ready with letters he shall distribute the moment he knows something has happened to me. The information in them will destroy you. Is that what you wish? Your reign torn down in disgrace?”

“Richmont,” Estora said calmly, almost kindly, which surely meant she mocked him. “Meet Green Rider, and swordmaster initiate, Beryl Spencer. Formerly Major Spencer, aide to Lord-Governor Tomas Mirwell.”

Richmont shuddered. He’d heard of her, known what she’d done to Tomas Mirwell, but the rest was all rumor. Her secrets lay even deeper than Richmont could dig. Now he identified that tone in Estora’s voice—pity.

“Were these the letters you were speaking of?” Beryl Spencer asked from behind him. She shoved a bundle of letters beneath his nose.

Spane gasped, recognizing his own seal on them.

She drew him close against her and whispered in his ear, “Your valet proved most cooperative. You and I shall have much to discuss.”

“I’ve nothing to say to you.”

“How disappointing.” But Beryl’s tone indicated she was not disappointed at all. “I’ve already unraveled a good many of your schemes, picked apart your connections and networks, questioned those whom you believed loyal. I received many answers. Far fewer than you thought were truly loyal. People, it may surprise you to know, generally dislike being threatened and extorted, and most are more sympathetic to Queen Estora than, say, you.”

Her voice was soft, lovely, almost melodic. She terrified him.

“By the time we finish our interview,” Beryl added, “you will reveal everything I wish of you, and there will be a reckoning for the murder you arranged for one of my fellow Riders. Your desires, your plans, and any status you once enjoyed are perfectly meaningless while you are in my hands. And finally, when I’m done with you, the king and queen shall have you for judgment.”

Richmont was handed over to the iron grip of a Weapon. Before he was led away, he cast one more glance into the chamber. Estora stood by Zachary’s bedside, neither of the two paying him the least attention, but gazing at one another and talking quietly. Beryl Spencer walked beside him, smiling pleasantly.

Richmont Spane wanted to cry.

Estora sat trembling in the chair beside Zachary’s bed. The scene with Richmont had rattled her more than she cared to admit. She put her face into her hands.

“My lady?” Zachary queried. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she replied firmly. And then more hesitantly, “No.”

He regarded her silently for some moments before speaking. “It is never easy,” he said, “to be betrayed by one who was trusted.”

He spoke from experience, she knew. How could one in his position not? His own brother had tried to destroy him.

“You’ve also been burdened with far more than you should have while I lay here insensible all this time,” he continued. “And this on the heels of your father’s death. I know how responsibility to the realm prevents the time and space for proper grief and grieving. Now that Destarion has stopped dosing me so heavily, I hope I can remove some of that burden from you.”

“But you are still recovering.”

“And improving daily.” He yawned. “Colin has told me a little of what is transpiring in the realm, and I see there are things I need to put to rights. And we must discuss this awkward situation between us, but perhaps not just now.”

He was drifting off to sleep. It would be a while before he was allowed to rise and command the realm again. Today’s encounter with Richmont had been too much, but he’d insisted on it, against Destarion’s advice.

He had taken the news of their marriage calmly, though she suspected Destarion or Colin had broken it to him before she’d a chance to do so herself. He’d remembered the rite of consummation as a dream, he said, and an odd light had caught in his eyes. There was a sense of loss about him she could not explain, which served only to make her feel more desolate.

His chest rose and fell in easy breaths, his face peaceful. She did not know what more he wished to say about their “awkward situation.” Did he wish to rescind the marriage? Punish her? Was the marriage one of the things he must “put to rights”? She would not know until he awoke again and pronounced his judgment.

KING AND QUEEN

Estora sat in state in the throne room, wearing the crown of Queen Isen that still required adjustment from the royal jeweler, and a mantle of heather and cobalt, seeded with pearls from the coast of Coutre. The colors represented the union of Hillander and Coutre. Work on the mantle had begun as soon as the betrothal was announced and was ready for her even before the assassination attempt on Zachary.

Across her lap rested the scepter, also once wielded by Queen Isen, that went with the crown. It was said that the crystal crescent moon at its tip had to be replaced more than once when the queen, during fits of impatience, had used it to smack those who displeased her.

Estora was bedecked, bejeweled, and thoroughly uncomfortable sitting in the queen’s throne, now perched on the dais next to the king’s. The king’s chair remained vacant, and those who stood before her—five lord-governors and their aides—demanded to know exactly what was going on and what had become of the king. Mostly she let Colin handle the questions, which bordered on insolence.

“How do we know this marriage is not false?” young Lord Penburn demanded not for the first time. He’d been one of her suitors and only lately had she heard the extent of his displeasure at having been rejected.