Chapter 23
The guests arrive slowly.
Not in a procession, not with trumpets or announcements, but in ones and twos—carriages rolling up the gravel drive, riders dismounting and handing off reins, figures stepping through the doors with the quiet confidence of people who know exactly where they are going and why.
I stand near the windows of the great room and watch them come.
Some I recognize from my father’s estate—faces I have seen bent over maps or wine cups, voices lowered when I entered the room. Others are strangers to me, men and women alike. Nobles in fine, but simple dress, tradesmen, commanders, and even clergy.
Then I see him.
The bishop who married Charles and me steps across the threshold, his robes plain, his expression serene. When his eyes find mine, he smiles.
Something passes between us in that glance—recognition, understanding, perhaps even apology. He inclines his head, the smallest gesture, and moves on into the room as if this were the most natural place for him to be.
My stomach tightens.
Rowan appears at my side, as if summoned by the fear rising inside me.
“We should speak,” he says quietly.
Aileen joins us without a word. Together, we slip away from the gathering and into my chambers, closing the door behind us.
Rowan does not waste time.
“There are rules,” he says. “You need to know them before you go back in.”
I nod, folding my hands to keep them still.
“In those meetings,” he continues, “there are no titles. No ranks. No honors. Kings and cobblers are the same.” He meets my gaze. “Only first names.”
“And outside?” I ask.
“Outside, these meetings never happened,” Aileen says softly. “These people barely know one another. They’ve never shared a table.”
Rowan inclines his head. “The opposition has existed for years. They’ve tried to weaken Charles without drawing his eye.”
“But they failed,” I say.
“Yes.” His mouth tightens. “His hunger for power is greater than anyone anticipated.”
“And their aims?” I ask.
He ticks them off without drama. “Religious freedom. Independent kingdoms. An end to forced conversion.” A pause. “An end to unnecessary slaughter.”
My chest constricts.
“Verden,” I say.
A shadow crosses his face. “Verden changed everything.”
Aileen steps closer to me. I feel her presence like a brace at my back.
“The riots in the North,” Rowan continues, more carefully now, “were not spontaneous.”
I look up. “You supplied them.”
“Weapons. Coin. Information.” He does not flinch from the admission. “The intent was pressure. Distraction. Not—” He stops himself, jaw hardening. “Not what happened.”
“He broke,” I say.
“Yes.” Rowan’s voice drops. “And none of us thought he would…”
Silence settles between us, heavy and shared.
“They are afraid now,” Aileen says quietly. “Not just of him. Of what they may have unleashed.”
“And me?” I ask. “What am I to them?”
Rowan studies me for a long moment. “You are the only one who stands close enough to the fire to describe its shape.”
I swallow.
“Be honest,” he adds. “But be careful. Truth is a blade. It cuts both ways.”
From the corridor beyond the door, I hear voices rising, chairs moving, the low murmur of people gathering closer together.
The meeting is about to begin.
“Are you ready?” Aileen asks.
I think of the bishop’s smile. Of the river running dark. Of my ring.
Will I ever be ready?