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Zhalina. I spoke before the king today.”
All of them stirred. So they recognized her name.
One glanced into the open cell. Ilse’s throat squeezed shut as two more guards emerged with a prisoner between them. It was Raul, his hands manacled behind his back, his cheeks bruised and his mouth swollen and bleeding.
All her frantic thoughts of the king and his intentions vanished at the sight. Ilse glided forward to Raul, hardly noticing how the guards parted to either side. Raul’s head swung up just as she reached him. “Ah,” he breathed. “My love.”
“My love.”
She embraced him gently. His heart was beating swift and light. His skin radiated a heat far beyond what she expected. Had magic been involved? She could not tell. She only cared that she had reached him in time. Whatever Armand had decided, she would convince him otherwise. She would …
“Mistress Therez.”
Ilse recoiled. Raul stiffened.
Theodr Galt stepped from the cell. He was dressed in dark civilian garb. He also carried a heavy sword in one hand. A strange smile lit his face.
“Your lover is dead,” he said. “Or he will be, soon enough.”
“By whose order?”
“The king’s.”
Ilse laid a hand on Raul’s arm. He was trembling. So was she.
“Let me see the king’s order,” she demanded.
“You have no right,” Galt said.
“Wrong,” Raul said, and tilted his head toward the guards. “They know. A king’s order is a public matter. I am no traitor, but if the king believes me one, then let the world know. Show her the papers, you miserable impostor.”
Arguments followed. The king’s order needed no witnesses, Galt insisted. Nor were they a secret, the senior officer replied. Besides, they had all listened to the Lady Ilse’s testimony. She had a right. It was not just their own doubts about the matter, she realized. They disliked Galt for assuming authority where he had none.
“Show me the order,” she said quietly. “Please. If the king has ordered Lord Kosenmark to die, then…” Her voice caught. “If he must die, let me say farewell.”
She sank against Raul’s chest and held him tight. His clothes were filthy, and he had not bathed in weeks. She did not care. She could only memorize the weight of his body against hers, the texture of his skin, all the myriad details that made up the man Raul Kosenmark. She would need all those to find him in the next life, if the gods were not kind.
“You are a master at theatrics,” he whispered into her hair. His voice was higher, lighter than she recalled. He, too, was terrified.
“I am only telling the truth,” she whispered back.
“That is what makes you so compelling.”
The argument had died to silence. With an effort, Ilse released her hold on Raul. The senior guard waited, his expression deferential. In his hands, he held a sheaf of papers.
“The king’s orders,” he said. “For you to examine.”
Ilse accepted them, hardly daring to believe she had been given this chance. And what if it means nothing?
She refused to think of that. She read through the six pages of densely written script. It was all nonsense, accusations that Raul Kosenmark had conspired to betray Veraene’s concerns to interested parties in Károví. (Not the king. That much had changed since her audience.) It was as though Armand had rejected her testimony. He would do what he wished and launch a war.
The last few paragraphs caused her head to swim. Lord Kosenmark to be executed by sword. His head removed and brought as proof to the king’s chambers. It was an act of cruelty, one she would not have ascribed to Armand. Except …
“I see no signature,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Galt said.
“No signature. There is the king’s seal but—”
