Iona
The first thing I see is the horns. They hang above the gate in three black rows.
Some are broad and ridged, trophies taken from defeated enemies. Others are narrow. Pale. Almost delicate. My mare shies before I can study them.
“Easy.” I pull her back into line.
Callas rides close enough that our stirrups nearly strike. “Keep your eyes down when we enter.”
“I’ll need my eyes for the ground.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do.
For eleven days he has told me what not to do. Do not challenge the king in public. Do not mention the failed harvest until the gifts are accepted. Do not speak over Minister Callas if the king asks for concessions beyond my brief.
That last one is the problem.
“What did the council give you permission to concede?” I ask.
His hand tightens on the reins.
“We have discussed this.”
“No. You have avoided it.”
“We are at his gate, Iona.”
“Yes. It seems an excellent place to stop lying to me.”
Perr, riding behind us with the document cases strapped across his saddle, studies the back of Callas’s head. Our six guards ride behind him around the gift wagons, trying not to look up at the gate.
Callas lowers his voice. “The council granted me discretion if the king requires a personal guarantee.”
A personal guarantee.
I look at him.
He looks at the horns.
There it is.
Not an accusation I can use. Not yet. But enough.
“They sent an envoy,” I say. “Not a bride.”
“They sent someone empowered to secure peace.”
“They sent me after three men found reasons not to come.”
Callas flinches.
The first man had developed pains in his chest. The second discovered an aunt near death. The third disappeared before dawn with two horses and most of the travel silver.
Then the council chose me. No husband. No children. No powerful family to complain if I did not come home.
Perr clears his throat behind us. “My lady, the gift list.” His voice cracks on the last word.
I turn in the saddle. He is twenty-two, perhaps twenty-three, with ink on two fingers and fear all over his face.
“Still eight bolts of river silk?” I ask.
“Yes.” He fumbles with the case buckle. “And the carved table, the glass, the—”
“Perr.”
He stops.
“Breathe.”
He does, badly.
“They shouldn’t have sent you,” he says. “I know I’m not supposed to say that.”
“No. You aren’t.”
His face falls.
“But you’re right.”
He blinks at me.
“Now check the seals again. If the Black King kills us, I don’t want the inventory questioned afterward.”
A shocked laugh escapes him. Callas gives me a look.
Perr’s breathing evens.
The gate opens.
Nobody comes out to greet us.
Our horses carry us beneath the horns and into a courtyard full of armed men who barely glance up from their work.
Our guards close around the gift wagons until an officer directs four of them toward the stables and two toward the south wing.
A smith is shoeing a cavalry horse. Two soldiers drag a practice dummy back into place.
Servants cross the yard with baskets of black bread.
No one gathers to stare at the doomed southern woman. That frightens me more than shouting would have.
A chamberlain in dark wool waits at the inner steps. He is thin, silver-haired, and entirely unimpressed by our existence.
“Minister Callas. Envoy.” His gaze rests on me for half a beat. “I am Orrick. Your rooms are prepared. His Majesty will receive you tomorrow at second bell.”
Callas dismounts too quickly and nearly loses his footing. I hand my reins to a groom.
The boy looks at the horse, then at me, then past my shoulder toward the high wall.
He freezes with my reins in his hand.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing, my lady.”
Another groom elbows him hard. I follow the direction of his first look. A figure stands on the wall above the gate.
Even at this distance, he is enormous. Horns sweep back from his brow. A black cloak moves around his legs in the wind. He does not wave or call down.
He only watches me.
Heat gathers under my collar. I cannot see his face clearly, but I know when his attention changes. His shoulders go rigid. One hand closes on the parapet.
The stone breaks beneath it. A piece chips free and falls into the yard. It strikes near the groom’s boot.
The boy jerks back.
Above us, the king turns and disappears from the wall. Callas has seen it too. “Inside.”
“I’m going.”
“Now, Iona.”
I look once more at the empty parapet.
Then I go inside.
Our rooms occupy the south wing. Warm carpets. Heavy curtains. A fire already burning. Two of our guards take the outer corridor while the other four remain with the horses and gifts. The door is thick enough for a cell, but the latch opens when I test it.
Perr watches. “Is that normal?”
“For a guest wing in a fortress?”
“Yes.”
“No idea.”
Callas closes the shutters. “We should rehearse tomorrow.”
“We have rehearsed for eleven days.”
“Then one more will not hurt you.”
I turn from the door. “Tell me exactly what a personal guarantee means.”
His mouth sets.
“Iona.”
“Does the council expect me to marry him?”
Perr drops the seal case. Wax cylinders roll across the floor.
Callas looks at the clerk. “Leave us.”
“No,” I say. “He stays. If you intend to trade me, someone should hear the terms.”
“I intend to keep Serath from being invaded.”
“By giving him what?”
“Whatever prevents ten thousand people from dying.”
The answer is not an answer.
He knows it.
I kneel to help Perr gather the seals. My hands stay steady until I close one around a wax cylinder.
It cracks in my palm.
A sharp edge bites below my thumb. I set both halves into the case before Perr can see the red mark.
“Tomorrow,” I say, “I speak first. I negotiate the treaty. You do not offer my body, my hand, or any other part of me without my consent.”
Callas’s face tightens. “You do not command this delegation.”
“No. I’m only the person expected to pay for it.”
For a moment, nobody speaks.
Then something hits stone outside.
A heavy crack.
Another.
We all turn toward the windows. The sound comes again from the yard below. I cross the room and open the shutter Callas just closed.
The Black King is in the training yard.
He has stripped off his coat. His shirt is dark with sweat between the shoulders. Each time he strikes the practice post, the whole frame shudders.
His hands are shaped like a man’s, though much larger. At each fingertip, a narrow seam opens in the flesh and a dark claw slides free when he strikes. They tear four clean lines down the wood.
He strikes again.
The post splits.
Perr whispers, “Gods.”
The king’s head lifts.
He turns toward our window.
Straight toward me.
The distance between us is three floors and half a courtyard. It does not feel like enough.
His head lifts. The line of his shoulders locks.
Every claw extends.
My body answers before I can stop it. My nipples tighten beneath my traveling dress. Heat pulls low in my belly.
His gaze drops as if he can see through stone, wool, and skin.
Perhaps he can.
The broken post creaks under his hand.
“Close it,” Callas says.
I do not move.
The king’s mouth opens slightly.
Two pale points catch the yard light.
“Close the shutter, Iona.”
This time I do.
The wood shuts out the yard. It does nothing to stop the memory of his face.
That night I lie awake listening to him destroy another post.