She heard what people said about her. They called her distant, distracted. But in truth, she was simply listening. Not only to them, but to everyone and everything beneath the gilded spires of the roof. Few people noticed the pitchers by every bed, the basins on every table. A bowl of water was a simple thing, but with the right spell, it could carry sound. With the right spell, Emira could make the palace speak.
Her fear of breaking things had taught her well to watch her step, to listen close. The world was a fragile place, full of cracks that didn’t always show. One misstep, and they might fissure, break. One wrong move, and the whole of it could come crashing down, a tower of Sanct cards burned to cinders.
It was Emira’s job to make sure that her world stayed strong, to shore the fractures, to listen for fresh cracks. It was her duty to keep her family safe, her palace whole, her kingdom well. It was her calling, and if she was careful enough, sharp enough, then nothing bad would happen. That is what Emira told herself.
Only she had been wrong.
She’d done everything she could, and Rhy had nearly died. A shadow had fallen on London. Her husband was hiding something. Kell would not look at her.
She hadn’t been able to stop the cracks, but now she turned her focus on the rest of the palace.
As she walked the halls, she could hear the priests in the sparring room, the crinkle of scrolls, the drag of ink, the soft murmur as they prepared their spell.
She could hear the heavy tread of guards in armor moving through the lower levels, the deep, guttural voices of Veskans and the sibilant melody of the Faroan tongue in the eastern hall, the murmur of the nobles in the gallery as they sat up still, whispering over tea. Talking about the city, the curse, the king. What was he doing? What could he do? Maxim Maresh, gone soft with age and peace. Maxim Maresh, a man against a monster, against a god.
From the Rose Hall, Emira heard the toss and turn of the fevered bodies still trapped in burning dreams, and when she turned her ear to the palace’s east wing she heard her son’s similarly fitful sleep, echoed in turn by Kell’s own restless turnings.
And through it all, the steady whisper against the windows, against the walls, words muffled by the wards, breaking down into the rise and fall and hush of the wind. A voice trying to get in.
Emira heard so many things, but she also heard the absences where sound should be, and wasn’t. She heard the muffled hush of those trying too hard to be quiet. In a corner of the ballroom, a pair of guards summoning their courage. In an alcove, a noble and a magician tangled up like string. And in the map room, the sound of a single man standing alone before the table.
She went toward him, but drawing closer, she realized it wasn’t her husband.
The man in the map room stood with his back to the door, head bent over the city of London. Emira watched as he reached out a single, dark finger and brought it to rest on the quartz figurine of a royal guard before the palace.
The figurine fell onto its side with the tiny clatter of stone on stone. Emira winced, but the statue did not break.
“Lord Sol-in-Ar,” she said evenly.
The Faroan turned, the white gold gems embedded in his profile catching the light. He showed neither surprise at her presence nor guilt at his own.
“Your Majesty.”
“Why are you here alone?”
“I was looking for the king,” answered Sol-in-Ar in his smooth, susurrant way.
Emira shook her head, eyes darting around the room. It felt askew without Maxim. She scanned the table, as if something might be missing, but Sol-in-Ar had already righted the fallen piece and taken up another from the table’s edge. The chalice and sun. The marker of the House Maresh.
The sigil of Arnes.
“I hope it is not out of line,” he said, “to say I believe we are alike.”
“You and my husband?”
A single shake of the head. “You and I.”
Emira’s face warmed even as the temperature in the room fell. “How so?”
“We both know much, and say little. We both stand at the side of kings. We are the truth whispered in their ears. The reason.”
She said nothing, only inclined her head.
“The darkness is spreading,” he added softly, though the words were full of edges. “It must be contained.”
“It will be,” answered the queen.
Sol-in-Ar nodded once. “Tell the king,” he said, “that we can help. If he will let us.”
The Faroan started toward the door.
“Lord Sol-in-Ar,” she called after him. “Our standard.”
He looked down at the carved figure in his hand as if he’d forgotten about it entirely. “Apologies,” he said, setting the piece back on the board.
* * *
Emira finally found her husband in their chamber, though not in their bed. He’d fallen asleep at her writing desk, slumped forward on the carved wooden table, his head on folded arms atop a ledger, the scent of ink still fresh.
Only the first line was legible beneath his wrinkled sleeve.
To my son, the crown prince of Arnes, when it is time …
Emira drew in a sharp breath at the words, then steadied herself. She did not wake Maxim. Did not pull the book from its place beneath his head. She padded silently to the sofa, took up a throw, and settled the blanket over his shoulders.
He stirred briefly, arms shifting beneath his head, the small change revealing not only the next line—know that a father lives for his son, but a king lives for his people—but the bandage wrapped around his wrist. Emira stilled at the sight of it, lines of blood seeping through the crisp white linen.