Cas found Lena standing by a round table. With her were six old men in blue robes, each, it seemed, determined to grow the longest beard and the bushiest eyebrows. Spread before them were several dozen illuminated manuscripts. Cas inspected Lena as closely as he could from the opposite side of the table. She, too, wore robes of midnight, the collar rising to her ears. Whatever injuries she had suffered, the ones Bittor had hinted at, must be covered up, hidden behind all that cloth. Anxiousness and sweat trickled down his back.
“My lord Cassiapeus.” Lena’s expression was sober, her voice distant. Her hair had been brushed into two cloudlike puffs above her ears. A slender silver circlet sat on her brow. There were shadows beneath her eyes. She looked a far different person from the cheerful courier who had once stolen his horse. “Welcome.”
Cassiapeus, not Cas. Those days were over.
“Lady Analena.” Cas bowed, greeting the men as they were presented to him. All royal historians, as he had guessed. Guild masters.
When Lena finished introductions, she asked, “How may I help you?” The six old men listened expectantly.
Cas said, “Ah . . . I thought we might speak privately.”
Silence. Bushy eyebrows drew together in disapproval. One historian eventually answered. “That is highly irregular, my lord Cassiapeus,” he chided. “For a lady to converse with a man without a guardian present. Surely you know this.”
Cas looked at him. He looked at all six of them. Another historian chuckled. “He means a young, handsome man. We don’t count, clearly.”
“You may speak freely here,” Lena said, unsmiling. She indicated the note in his hands. “Is that for me?”
Cas held it out across the table. “I hoped you might see it delivered. On my behalf.”
Lena took the note. She studied the name written on it, turned it over, examined Cas’ family seal in the wax. There was a twitching and shifting among the historians. A few suspicious looks were thrown Cas’ way. They were unused to seeing Lena so reserved, Cas suspected, and were now wondering what he had done to deserve it.
Lena lifted her head. She met Cas’ gaze directly and nodded once. “I understand its importance. I’ll see it’s delivered into the right hands.”
“Thank you.” Then, because there was no other way and he had to know, “Bittor said you were injured.”
As one, the six historians turned to Lena, alarmed. After a startled moment, understanding and irritation settled over her features. “He said those words to you? I was injured?”
Cas was beginning to harbor a terrible suspicion about Bittor. He thought back, revisiting their exchange in the alley. His hands curled into fists. “He implied it.” That Bittor was a dead man.
Lena tapped the note against an open palm. “He enjoys needling you. As you know. I am perfectly well, Lord Cassiapeus. Thank you for your concern, and your visit.” Her words held a dismissal.
Stung, Cas bowed. “I’ll see myself out. Lady Analena, sirs.” He made it to the doorway before he turned back to her. Their eyes met across the library. And he thought that, for the briefest span of time, she did not look at him as though he were a stranger. Cas no longer cared who heard. “Forgive me,” he said quietly, and left.
Cas did not return to the palace that day. Instead, he joined his brother’s men on the practice field, where they stayed until the sun dipped low on the horizon.
It was there that they heard the news from travelers leaving the city. The queen was to go south in the coming days, to winter at the palace there. Just the queen and the prince and the servants. King Rayan would visit when time permitted.
Cas knew then that her punishment would not be a public denouncement. It would be a permanent estrangement from the king. It would be exile.
When Cas returned to the barracks, he found a royal messenger waiting impatiently by the quay. Cas was to appear at the palace the following morning. Lena had not forsaken him. He had been granted an audience with the king.
29
Did you know?” King Rayan asked.
Cas stood before his sovereign in the great cavernous throne room of Elvira. No one else was present. “Your Grace, I swear I did not.”
King Rayan wore robes of deep blue and a crown that sat heavy on his head. There was nothing of the good cheer and informality he had shown at Palmerin. Today, he looked tired and angry. And sad.
“He said he wanted only to end the war. This is what your brother said to me. What is your opinion? Is this reason enough to betray your king?”
The throne itself was made of silver, the cushions blue. The head of a bull had been carved onto each arm. They looked directly out at the king’s audience, at Cas, scowling and furious.
“I have not spoken to Ventillas.” Cas chose his words with care. “All I know is that what he did, however misguided”—here, the king snorted—“it was not done in malice, toward you. That is not in him. All his life, he has only ever wanted to serve his king and his kingdom.”
Fingers drummed along the arm of the throne. “Instead he has done the opposite.”
Careful. Be silent be silent be silent. But this was his brother’s life, after all. And the time for silence had passed.
Cas bowed his head. “With respect, Your Grace. You have a queen you care for. A son who is healthy. Oliveras is at peace. An enemy would not wish these things for you.”
The drumming stopped. “How pleasant you make it sound,” King Rayan said in a soft, scary voice. He leaned forward, glaring down the length of the steps that separated them. “Tell me, Lord Cassiapeus, what happens when Brisa sends their ambassadors to our kingdom? They will surely notice something amiss. What happens to my queen then? To my newfound peace?”
Cas had no answer to that nightmare. “Is it why you’re sending her away?” Seeing the king’s expression, he said hastily, “Forgive me. It’s not my place to speak.”
“No,” King Rayan agreed flatly. “I received your note. You’re here to request your boon.”
“I am.”
“Well, then.” King Rayan waved a hand, permission for Cas to continue.
Cas clasped his hands behind his back. “I ask that the punishment levied against Palmerin’s soldiers be stopped. That they be allowed to ride home, immediately and without prejudice.”
A frown drew the king’s brows together. “How are they being punished?”
Cas was startled. Did he not know? “They were removed from the royal barracks nearly two weeks ago. We’ve been staying by the harbor.”
King Rayan’s eyes narrowed. “The mercenaries’ barracks? That flea pit?”
The same. Cas resisted the urge to scratch his neck. “Yes.”
“You’ve been sleeping there as well?”
“I have.”
“I was not aware of this.” King Rayan yanked off his crown and tossed it over a bull’s head. He shook his hair out with both hands. “The men may leave for Palmerin when they wish, without prejudice.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We both know this is not worthy of a boon. You saved my son’s life. So let us begin.” The king sat back in his throne. “I will go first. Lord Ventillas is to be exiled from Oliveras and all its territories for no fewer than twenty years.”
Cas fell back a step, stunned. It was not a beheading, but it was close. “An ambassadorship,” he countered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Three years.”