My heart ceased beating once again.
When I couldn’t continue with the hearings, Kjell told those waiting in the long line that we would resume first thing in the morning. I waited—sitting motionless on my throne—until the hall cleared and the guard moved to their exterior posts. Kjell waited with me, standing over the bird, his hands clenched and his eyes wet.
“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed. “I don’t know what is right or wrong anymore. And I’m afraid I’ll never see my brother again.”
I went looking for Tiras. It wasn’t the first time in the last twenty-eight days. I’d disregarded the king’s wishes repeatedly, walking through the forest with Boojohni trundling behind me when I couldn’t escape him. He had stayed close, sensitive to my emotions and to the ever-increasing absences of the king. But I had magic on my side, and that night I slipped away unnoticed.
I walked to the cottage in the western wood, the one where Tiras had shared his secret, the cottage so perfectly described by the huntsman. No eagle swooped down to greet me, to give me words and point me toward home, but there were signs that someone had been in the cottage. A dish, a comb, firewood on the hearth.
None of the items had been there before. I touched the comb in confusion and turned toward the bed where I’d spent a miserable night after escaping the castle, wondering where I would go and what I would do. Someone had slept in the bed since. The bed was not made. Had Tiras changed and simply stayed away? Had his Gift taken yet another piece of him, a piece that made him believe he could no longer return to the castle?
I slumped down on the bed, so weary I could no longer stand.
Tiras? I called. Tiras, please don’t hide from me.
The shutters on the cottage banged against the stone, lifted by the wind, and I listened for an answering voice, a heartbeat, a flutter of wings, but heard nothing but my own trepidation. I bowed my head in dejection, my gaze falling to the hard-packed dirt floor.
A bit of white lace protruded from under the bed.
I leaned down and grasped it, only to find it caught on something heavy. Kneeling, I peered beneath the old frame and saw a valise, tipped on its side, garments spilling from the top. I tugged it out to examine it more closely, and fingered the lace in bewilderment, pulling it free from the valise. The lace was attached to the neckline of a voluminous gown, its light color indistinguishable in the darkness. A pair of dainty shoes, a size larger than my own, silk underthings, and another gown were folded beneath it, along with a fine, scarlet cloak.
Someone had made themselves at home in the king’s cottage, but it was not Tiras.
I exhaled in painful relief, still shaking my head in bewilderment. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I knew one thing. A woman had been there. A Changer. And now she was dead.
The bird the huntsman had presented to me the previous day had been removed from the Great Hall when I returned the next morning. The floors gleamed, and the room had been aired, and I mourned again over the bird that wasn’t really a bird. Kjell was at my side again, my mouthpiece, and I resolved to question him over its whereabouts when the hearings were over. I doubted I would tell him about my discovery at the cottage; my late night wanderings would earn me an around-the-clock guard.
I greeted the line that had already formed with a tip of my head and a crook of my wrist, beckoning the first subjects to come forward. The guards kept things moving along in an orderly fashion and kept a measure of security between me and those who left the hearing unhappily or in chains. As the day wore on and the judgments commenced, one after the other, a murmur suddenly rippled through the crowd and a cry went up.
The guards immediately moved in front of me, concerned that a squabble had broken out in the line, or someone had grown violent. I felt his name swell from the throng, as if he’d suddenly become the focus of every thought. King Tiras. King Tiras. I stood, desperate to see over the guard that had closed ranks in front of my throne. Kjell rose with me, parting the guard and descending the dais with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Step back. Move back!” Kjell ordered, and I stretched to peer beyond the wall of protection around me. Then I heard his name again, spoken with exuberance and welcome by the men who stood between us.
“The king is returned! King Tiras is back!”
I don’t remember standing or leaving the dais. I only knew I was moving through the crowd as Kjell and the guards I pushed past sought to create a path for me, their arms outstretched on either side to hold back the swell. But the crowd parted easily and without hesitation, a wave of deferential bows and bobs opening the way before me.
Then I saw him, standing at the rear of the hall, a full head taller than almost everyone around him, though those nearest him had fallen to one knee, baring him to my view. He was dressed for judgment day, except for the long black gauntlets that covered his hands and forearms, making him look like the warrior kings he’d descended from. A crown adorned his white head, and a cape of royal green swung around his shoulders. His mouth was unsmiling but his eyes clung to mine, warm and amber, and as familiar and welcome as my own heartbeat. Then I was running, my feet flying, and I was in his arms.
“You are not acting like a queen,” he scolded as he lifted me off my feet and buried his face in my hair. “The people will think me soft.” I couldn’t answer, couldn’t form words at all, and clung to him as he embraced me in return.
Without loosening his arms, he raised his face from my neck and dismissed the entire gathering with a simple, “Go now and do no harm.”
No one muttered—or even thought—a word of complaint.
We had little time to celebrate or rejoice.
Late in the night, boots sounded in the corridor, and Kjell pounded on our chamber door.
“Tiras. We’ve a visitor. Come quickly.”
We rose and dressed without question, rushing to the center courtyard where torches were blazing, making the shadows dance and climb, reaching toward the parapets that gaped like huge teeth above us. The captain of the watch had just begun briefing Kjell on the situation.
“She was at the city gates, demanding entrance. She says she’s Lady Ariel of Firi. She’s on foot, and she’s by herself,” the watch captain explained.
Kjell cursed and began striding for the gate that separated the inner bailey from the outer bailey.
“Where is she now?” Tiras demanded.
“The watchman told her she would have to wait until dawn, Majesty. Those are his orders.”
“She’s still outside the gates?” Kjell roared, spinning back toward the watchman.
“No, sir,” the captain of the watch hurried to explain. “He woke me, afraid that she might actually be a noblewoman. I sent guards over the wall to see that it wasn’t a trap. She was alone, sir. We lowered the gate, and she is being brought to the castle.”
As if on cue, a trumpet sounded, and we rushed through the gates to the lower courtyard, watching as the portcullis was slowly raised. Two guards proceeded her entrance, then Lady Ariel of Firi took several weary steps and collapsed to her knees. Her hair hung in matted rows, coated with dust and trailing down a crimson cloak that was torn and splattered with gore. I recognized the scent that clung to her, the streaks of green and black that sullied the pale dress that showed beneath her cloak. Not human blood. Volgar. She clutched a dagger as if she’d gone to battle herself and barely survived.
Kjell was at her side immediately, swooping her up in his arms. Her dagger fell to the cobblestones, the clatter making her jerk. When Kjell didn’t stoop to retrieve it, she reached for it desperately, as if an attack was forthcoming and she wanted to be prepared.