Chapter 24
Ienter the room and feel the weight of it at once.
The doors facing the back garden stand open, letting in the night air.
Curtains lift and fall in the breeze like slow breaths.
Outside it is dark, save for the torches that have been lit along the path, but inside—inside there is fire.
Hundreds of candles burn along the walls, on side tables, on the long table placed at the center of the room.
Their light flickers and wavers, never settling.
The sitting room has been stripped of comfort. Sofas and settees pushed against the walls to make space for the table, for the gathering. Even so, there are not enough seats. People stand in clusters, lean against pillars, perch on windowsills. So many of them…
This is not a council.
This is a reckoning.
My father has kept a chair for me. When I sit, the room quiets.
A man steps forward into the open space near the table.
He is silver-haired, and self-assured. His voice carries without effort.
“Thank you for coming,” he says. “All of you.”
I lean slightly toward my father. “Who is he?”
“Aileen’s father,” he murmurs. “Philipp.”
Sir Philipp inclines his head toward me. “And thank you, Fastrada, for allowing us to meet under your roof. Your presence here matters more than you know.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the room.
“This is her first meeting,” he continues, “and we are fortunate to have her on our side.”
My throat tightens as he speaks of Verden, the massacre.
He speaks not with rage, just with the bare truth of it. How it has slowed plans, scattered networks, terrified allies into silence. How something was broken there that cannot easily be mended.
He gestures to a man near the far end of the table. “Tell us about the North.”
The man steps forward, he does not hurry. He sets his hands on the edge of the table as if grounding himself there.
“I was in the north three days after,” he says. He recounts his experiences with the steadiness of someone who has repeated this often and still does not believe it happened. “Not at the river itself. Further out. In the villages that depended on it.”
He swallows.
“There were no men left in the first village we reached. Only women, children and old people.” A pause. “They did not ask us who we were. They only asked if we had come to finish what the others had started.”
A low sound moves through the room.
“The river had changed,” he continues. “Not just in color. In smell. In taste. Wells fed from it turned foul. For weeks, the water ran thick. People tried to strain it. Boil it. Pray over it.” His mouth tightens. “It did not matter.”
Sir Philipp leans forward. “What happened to them?”
The man lifts his eyes. “They left, if they could. Those who couldn’t stayed and drank. They became sick.”
He straightens, as if bracing himself.
“Children first. Then the old. Then the women who had tended the wounded with bare hands.” He gestures vaguely, as though the shape of it resists language. “Fevers. Sores that would not close. Infections that took limbs before they took lives.”
Someone raps their knuckles softly against the table.
Then another.
The sound spreads—haunting and rhythmic, an acknowledgment of the atrocities.
“Those who survived the day of the killings,” the man goes on, “are dying still. From wounds that never healed. From what they saw. From what they were forced to clean from the riverbanks.”
His voice falters for the first time.
“There are villages now with doors still standing and no one left inside them.”
Silence falls.
Sir Philipp nods once. “Thank you,” he says. “You have done your duty.”
The knuckles rap again—stronger now. Not applause, but a vow that what has been spoken of will not be dismissed.
I feel the tears before I notice them falling. The guilt and shame inside of me are bubbling up in my chest to the point of pain.
I do not wipe the tears away.
My chest aches.
When I look up, my gaze finds Ashford.
He stands near one of the pillars, half in shadow. His eyes are on me, full of intent.
There is no judgment there, only a sort of recognition, as if he too knows the burden of shame.
Finally, I turn away and scrub my cheeks with the edge of my sleeve, ashamed of nothing and everything all at once.
The discussion turns sharp.
Charles must be stopped. The South is bending to him, slowly but surely. His current campaign against the Avars will bring gold, prestige, and renewed fervor. Someone says he will return worse than before. Another voice answers that not all the South has yielded.
“Tassilo has not.”
The voice that follows is tired—and unmistakable.
“I am here.”
Tassilo steps forward.
Relief flashes through me. I haven’t seen him since the day in the woods. His face is drawn, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
“I am holding,” he says. “Barely. Morale is fragile, and the dukes doubt the cause. They whisper that resistance is pointless.”
He exhales slowly.
“Charles has turned the Pope against me,” Tassilo continues. “He claims I failed to protect him during the Lombard incursions. That I neglected my duty to Rome.”
A murmur stirs the room, and the bishop steps forward.
“It is true,” he says quietly. The authority in his voice stills the murmurs at once. “Charles has written often, yet carefully. He has made certain the Holy Father believes Tassilo withheld aid—failed to shield Rome when the Lombards pressed closest.”
Tassilo closes his eyes for a brief moment, then opens them again.
“This is how he works,” the bishop adds. “He isolates. He poisons trust. He makes sure a man stands alone before he moves against him.”
Silence spreads.
“If I lose Rome,” Tassilo says at last, his voice hoarse, “I lose everything. The dukes will kneel. The South will fall without a fight.”
The room turns, slowly, toward me and like my father predicted, the questions begin.
They thank me for what I have already given—routes, patterns, places Charles favors when he travels. Then the questions narrow.
Verden.
“What was he like?” someone asks.
“Manic,” I say. My voice does not shake. “Beside himself.”
They listen, but it is not enough. I can feel it in the room—the unease, the need to understand.
“Before,” another voice says. “What was he like before he gave the order?”
A murmur of agreement. Chairs scrape softly, their eyes fix on me.
“The North was harsh,” I draw a slow breath. “The winter was long, endless gray skies. Cold that seeped into the bones.” I pause, choosing each word with care. “Charles does not fare well in isolation or without light.”
Someone scoffs. “Weather does not turn a king into a butcher.”
Before I can answer, Aileen’s voice cuts in, sharp and clear. “Let her speak.”
Silence follows.
“This was not the first time,” I continue. “The last time he returned from the North, he was…unrecognizable. He couldn’t sleep, and he was quick to anger. Suspicious of everyone around him.”
I glance down at my hands.
“He knows people are working against him,” I say. “He hears the whispers. He knows someone is leaking his movements to outsiders.”
I feel it then—Ashford’s attention snapping fully into place, like a blade sliding free of its sheath. He had been casually leaning against a pillar before, but now he is upright, his shoulders tight as a bow.
“He spoke of it often,” I add. “Of betrayal. Of being surrounded by enemies who smile to his face.”
A gasp ripples through the room.
“I confronted him,” I say. “About the attack on Tassilo.”
That does it.
Voices rise. Shock. Outrage. Disbelief.
“You did what?” someone demands.
I lift my chin. “I wanted answers.”
My fingers curl around my ring. Heat pulses against my skin.
“He didn’t rage,” I say slowly. “Not at first. He…unraveled. Spiraled.” I search for the right word. “He became unmoored.”
The room holds its breath.
“He spoke of proving himself,” I continue. “To the nobles, to his enemies, and of course to God.” My throat tightens. “He said the kingdom needed a warning. A cleansing.”
Someone whispers, “devil’s mercy.”
“He kept repeating that he was chosen,” I say. “Sent to purge the land of heathens, he said that mercy was weakness. That slaughter was obedience.”
The words taste like ash.
“He said he would kill them all,” I finish. “And in doing so, show the world who the rightful King is.”
Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute.
“And Aynhard?” Sir Philipp asks quietly.
I hesitate.
“He encouraged him,” I say at last. “he called it righteous punishment.”
My breath comes shallow now.
I want to tell them everything.
My hand tightens on the ring. Heat flares. I draw a breath, ready to pull it free, ready to confess—
“Enough.” Ashford steps forward. That single word cuts cleanly through the room.
He does not look at me. He looks at them.
“She has answered,” he says evenly. “And she has already placed herself in danger by doing so.”
I sit frozen, heart hammering, the ring still warm against my skin. Whatever I was about to reveal dies unspoken…for now.
“I have seen the King unravel,” Rowan says. “And I have seen this woman stand against him. She has already risked more than any of you.”
Tassilo nods. “If Charles learns how deeply she is involved, he will destroy her—and use it to discredit us all.”
My father places a small leather pouch on the table. Coins spill out.
“Do you recognize these?” he asks me.
I lean forward and examine them. My stomach sinks.
“Freshly minted,” I say. “Those were made in Brockton, an eastern mint. Only a few coins have been minted there, the distribution was delayed.”
“Has Charles traveled there?” My father asks.
“I don’t think—” I stop. A memory resurfaces. “He stopped nearby, at an abbey, to pray for…Queen Hilde.”
“When was this?” Tassilo asks.
“It was right after Lent,” I say.
Two months before the hunt.
“These were the coins found on the man who attacked Tassilo,” my father says. “It looks like Charles paid the man directly.”
Silence.
Ashford speaks again. “We cannot be certain that Tassilo was his only target. The Queen cannot be asked for more. An exit plan is required.”
Agreement moves through the room like a wave.
“I will stay at court,” I say loudly into the room. “We need someone who can keep a close eye on Charles. But I do have a favor to ask. My daughters, they must be sent somewhere safe.”
The bishop steps forward. “Of course, Your Majesty. I know a convent. It’s secure, and the princesses may finish their education there. You may visit.”
I nod, throat too tight to speak.
My father rises. “One final matter,” he says. “We need an ally beyond reach. Someone Charles cannot easily silence.”
He pauses.
“Pepin will join us tomorrow night.”
The room erupts in shock. There is protest, but also applause.
I sit frozen.
Pepin.
I met him once, and that was enough. He is Charles’s first born son, a madman in his own right. And the last person I’d ever see myself aligning with.
The meeting is adjourned in chaos. People spill out into the night, some staying, some fleeing back to the safety of their own homes.
I remain seated long after the room empties.
Then I see Ashford slip through the garden doors.
I follow him into the night. The lake lies still, reflecting torchlight and stars.
Again, he is nowhere to be seen.