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Ilse stopped, her heartbeat stilled by the unexpected sight.
He sat alone, behind a plain small table, his hands clasped together before him, weighed down with chains. His face was drawn, his eyes dark from sleepless night, his mouth pinched in despair. There was no trace of beard upon his face, but there would not be. Not after Baerne extracted that most final promise of loyalty from his councillors.
One year since she had left Tiralien. Four months and more since Hallau Island.
Oh, my love, my love …
She had lied when she told Duke Kosenmark that his son didn’t matter. He did. But if his death and hers meant peace, she would not fail, not at this last moment.
The guard searched her person for weapons. Ilse bore the indigity with trembling anger. A few yards, a few moments of speech, separated her from her goal. Once the woman finished her inspection and motioned her forward, Ilse advanced toward the dais. As if he had finally become aware of her presence, Raul lifted his head and swiveled around.
His eyes were dulled, no longer the brilliant gold of her memory. His once-black hair was streaked with gray. There was an air of defeat about him, as though he had spent these past four months in despair.
My love, she thought, with all her will.
My love, came his clear reply.
It was as though she witnessed Toc’s resurrection. His eyes brightened. His lips parted in a smile beyond hopeful. Her own pulse beat quick and light with anticipation.
There was no time for more. The guard who had exam
ined her resumed her position in line, blocking Raul from her sight. Ilse crossed to the last distance to face the king and his mage councillor.
“Your Majesty.” Ilse sank to her knees and bowed her head.
“They tell me you have evidence for this man’s trial,” Armand said.
His voice was high and light, like a string drawn taut, but clearly a man’s voice. This was the king who had determined to reinvent himself into a greater legend than his famous grandfather. She would have to tread carefully, for her sake and Raul’s. And Veraene’s.
“I have evidence and more,” Ilse said.
She rose and advanced up the half dozen steps to lay Miro Karasek’s letter at her king’s feet. Armand motioned to an attendant, who retrieved the envelope from the floor and offered it to the king.
“It is a letter from Duke Miro Karasek,” Ilse said. “He is— He was a general of Károví. While he addressed this letter to Lord Kosenmark, in truth he wrote to Veraene and you, your Majesty. On the matter of peace between our kingdoms,” she added, when the king still made no move to unfold the envelope or read its contents.
Armand regarded the square of paper in his hands. “You are not one of my diplomats,” he said. “Nor an envoy.”
His expression was bland, unnervingly so.
“No,” she replied. “I cannot claim any authority in this life. But once I was a princess of Károví, charged with the same mission. The circumstances of my life—the one before, the one today—brought me back to Károví.” When he continued to study the envelope, she said, “You have heard that Leos Dzavek is dead. There is more you ought to know. Lir’s jewels have departed this world. And Morennioù’s queen has returned to her homeland. Once she has dealt with those Károvín who remain in the islands, she will turn her attention to the continent. She has promised us peace, but in return, we must promise her the same.”
Now she had his attention.
“What queen?” Armand said. “And who made such promises to her?”
He had recovered himself quickly enough, but Ilse had not missed how his eyes had widened, nor how his gaze veered briefly to one side, to Markus Khandarr.
“The queen of Morennioù,” she replied. “The Károvín took her hostage, when Leos Dzavek sent those ships east. On their return, three of the ships foundered in the shoals off Osterling Keep. The queen was taken along with the Károvín survivors. Lord Khandarr questioned her himself.”
Another abortive glance toward Khandarr. Ilse felt the temptation to follow that glance, to observe Khandarr’s expression for herself, but she kept her gaze locked on Armand’s face. She read a flicker of doubt in his frown, whether directed at Khandarr or herself she could not tell.
“You say Duke Karasek is no longer a general,” Armand said. “Which means he no longer has any influence. His letter means nothing.”
“He no longer has influence, your Majesty. But the men and women he names, dukes and barons and lords, do.”
And never mind the common people who held equally strong opinions. But she knew Armand could not comprehend such a thing.
Meanwhile, Armand regarded her with that same maddeningly blank expression. He still had not read the letter—he might simply make his decision on a whim. Belatedly, she wondered if she had made a mistake, coming to him so openly. Perhaps if she had listened to the duke’s first suggestion, for a private interview …
