Evanthya felt her mouth go dry. “My lord?”

“You thought I didn’t know.”

What could she say? “Yes, my lord,” she said, staring at the river, knowing that her cheeks must be crimson. “I feared that you wouldn’t approve.”

“I’m not certain that I do, but I learned long ago that Adnel can be stingy with her gifts. We all must take love where we can find it.”

She looked up at him, her surprise and relief mingling until she felt that her heart would burst. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the gentle rush of the river.

“You realize, of course, that if Brail and I ever have a falling-out, this will become a problem.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He nodded, then gazed up at the castle again. “We should ride. Night approaches and I’d like to be in the castle before dark.”

The duke started to lead his horse back toward the soldiers, but Evanthya called to him, making him turn once more.

“I fear that Lord Orvinti would not be as… as understanding. Fetnalla has told him nothing of our love.” She stopped, unsure of how to speak her mind without sounding impertinent.

“Don’t concern yourself, First Minister. Brail will hear nothing of this from me.” He started walking again, then halted to look back at her a second time. “You’re right, though. He wouldn’t be happy at all.”

The rest of their journey passed quickly. Soon all the riders from Dantrielle were within the castle, and Evanthya was warming herself before the great hearth in the king’s hall.

After allowing his men time to eat and rest, Tebeo ordered them to offer their swords to the captain of the Royal Army for the remainder of their stay. It was a customary gesture, and judging from the many colors worn by the men guarding the gates and corridors of the castle, it was clear that other nobles had done the same. Evanthya had been pleased to see a large number of men wearing the green, blue, and white of Orvinti. Fetnalla was already here and the first minister longed to find her.

As if in answer to Evanthya’s desires, a horn rang out from the nearest doorway of the hall and a herald announced the queen. An instant later Chofya entered the great room, followed by the dukes of Rassor, Mertesse, and Orvinti, several lesser nobles, and their ministers, including Fetnalla. Tebeo knelt before the queen, as did Evanthya, although she couldn’t keep from looking at her love, who was already watching her.

Fetnalla looked as she always did, tall and graceful, her face as white and soft as Panya’s light reflected on the waters of the Rassor. She had her hair pulled back and she wore her long ministerial robes rather than riding clothes. It seemed she had been here at least a full day. She was smiling as she gazed at Evanthya, but there was a troubled look in her eyes.

The formalities seemed to take forever, with the queen presenting each of her guests to Tebeo, and the duke, in turn, presenting Evanthya to all the gathered nobles. At last, however, they finished and the queen called forth more food from the kitchen and flasks of wine from the cellars, inviting all her guests to partake of a feast.

Brail and Tebeo chose to dine together, giving Fetnalla and Evanthya an excuse to do so as well. They were surrounded by the most powerful men and women in Aneira, so they could do nothing more than sit, speak, and eat. But just being this close to Fetnalla made Evanthya’s skin tingle as it did just before a thunderstorm on a warm evening.

“You look well, First Minister,” Fetnalla said. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

“Yes, thank you. And you?”

“We’ve been here some time now. Ten days, I believe. But the journey was pleasant enough.”

Evanthya gaped at her. “Ten days?” she breathed. She thought a moment. “But that means you were here when-”

“Yes,” Fetnalla said, her voice falling to a whisper. “Carden died our first night in Solkara. The blade that killed him was a gift from my duke.”

“Demons and fire!”

Fetnalla cast a quick look at the others sitting with them at the table. “Perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to discuss these matters later,” she said, “when we can speak more freely.”

Evanthya nodded, wishing they could steal away immediately. “I’d like that. I have tidings as well.”

A strange look came into Fetnalla’s eyes. “You’ve done it, haven’t you?”

It took Evanthya a moment to realize that she was speaking of hiring the assassin. She nodded, glancing around the table, much as Fetnalla had a moment before. Brail and Tebeo were deep in conversation.

Fetnalla just gazed at her, shaking her head slightly, as if not quite believing it was true. “I want very much to hear about that.” She gave a small laugh. “I wish I had seen it. You in a place like that.” She shook her head again.

“It wasn’t funny,” Evanthya whispered, feeling her color rise. “I was terrified, and one of the men knew me.”

The smile vanished from Fetnalla’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have laughed.” She looked as if she might say more, but at that moment, the horn sounded again, and the herald stepped into the hall.

“Grigor, Marquess of Renbrere!”

Every conversation in the hall stopped and all eyes turned toward the doorway. For a moment they waited. Then a man stepped past the herald into the great room, his satin cape swirling. For just an instant it seemed to Evanthya that she looked upon a wraith, so much did the marquess resemble his brother the king. Like Carden, Grigor was tall and powerfully built, broad in the chest and shoulders, with muscular forearms that he left uncovered, even in the last days of Bohdan’s Turn. His hair was golden, his eyes were dark, and his features were so fine that they almost appeared womanly. He didn’t have Carden’s swagger, but moved instead with an effortless elegance that made him seem even more impressive than the king ever had.

She had heard others speak of the man more times than she could count, always referring to him as the Jackal. But seeing him now, Evanthya couldn’t help thinking that he was more like a great wolf. There was a nobility to him that Carden never possessed.

After a moment’s silence, the others in the hall rose and bowed to him, though many of them, Brail and Tebeo included, were of higher rank.

Chofya did not bow. She didn’t even stand. After her guests took their seats once more, Grigor walked to where she was sitting and knelt before her.

“Your Highness,” he said, his voice as clear and strong as the ring of a smith’s hammer on hot steel. “You have my sympathy for your loss.”

“And you have mine for yours,” the queen answered. “Carden was as much your brother as he was my husband.”

Grigor looked up at that, his eyes dancing with torchlight. “That may be so.” The queen shifted uncomfortably, drawing a grin from the man. He stood, though Chofya hadn’t yet given him leave to do so. Glancing around the hall, he spotted his brothers sitting together at a nearby table. He nodded to them, but remained where he was, continuing to survey the room. The other guests were still watching him silently, waiting for him to speak or sit or, perhaps, claim the throne right then and there. “Where are the other dukes?” he finally asked of no one in particular. “Noltierre, Tounstrel, Bistari, Kett. They should be here by now.”

“I expect them in the next day or two,” Chofya said after a brief pause. “The funeral is in three days. I’m sure they’ll arrive in time.”

“We should have a new king by then.”

The queen straightened in her chair. “Aneira’s new leader will be chosen after the funeral, as custom dictates.”

Grigor turned to her once more, his eyes narrowing.

Evanthya had noticed as well. Aneira’s new leader, Chofya said. Not, Aneira’s new king.

She turned to Fetnalla, a question in her eyes, but the minister shook her head.