Hamon extended his hand. His sigil ring—heavy, gold, and bearing the boar of his House—glinted in the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows behind the throne. “For Catherine’s sake, I will forgive you,” he whispered. “But do not fail me again, Tiberius.”
Tiberius swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. He reached out, taking the king’s hand, and pressed his lips to the cold metal of that ring.
“My loyalty is yours,” he murmured.
As he pulled back, a sudden, desperate thought seized him. He needed a better shield than a mere wedding band resting uselessly on his finger.
“And my wife?” Tiberius asked, keeping his voice deferential. “When will Lady Catherine be joining us at court? Surely her place is here, by her father’s side.”
Hamon waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting away a fly. “I will not call for the rest of my kin until these turbulences within the city have settled.” His lip curled in a sneer. “Pitiful pockets of resistance. They will be crushed soon enough.”
Tiberius made to rise, to retreat while his head was still attached to his shoulders, but his gaze flickered back to the witch.
She frowned at him. “Your Majesty…surely we should receive a pledge from the Baron of Crestley that he will turn from his false faith and pledge his loyalty to the Lady Below, too.”
At the very thought, Tiberius’s blood ran cold. He was not a terribly religious man—a member of the Lord’s Faithful mostly in word rather than deed. But still, the thought rang a warning bell that rattled through his bones.
Danger.
His gaze cut back to the king, hunting for some manner of sympathy there.
He found none. But he did find resistance.
Under his breath, Hamon murmured, “It is too soon, Samira. One cannot make sweeping reforms overnight—”
“Why would you wish to deny your people the joy of knowing the Lady’s many blessings?” she smoothly countered, her voice like velvet. Velvet wrapped around a hidden dagger. “Truth is a gift, Your Majesty. Why hide it?”
Some long-dormant instinct in Tiberius warned him to run. And yet, he found himself rooted in place, still kneeling before the dais, as the witch stepped forward and gestured toward the door. “Even one of the false queen’s closest advisors knows the wisdom of seeking the Lady’s favor over the Lord’s!”
Tiberius frowned.Advisor?Seraphina had only two heathens on her Privy Council. Coreto, of course, and…
A stir at the back of the chamber drew his attention. The crowd parted, murmurs rising into a fever pitch.
Tiberius could only stare.
Striding through the room, looking perfectly—infuriatingly—well, was Olivia, his queen’s best friend, her Spymaster, and her pet pagan.
But she was not in chains. She was not bruised. She looked as she always did, wearing her fashionably impaired attire—black trousers, black boots, black shirt—cut like a man’s garb, fitting her like a second skin. Her face was composed, her expression unreadable.
Tiberius watched, stunned, as she made for the dais and dropped to one knee beside him.
“Your Majesty,” Olivia called, her voice clear and strong. “I pledge my life and my service to the true ruler of Elmoria, for this day and all the days to come. Until I breathe my last breath. Until I have no strength left in my weary bones.”
Tiberius clenched his jaw tight to keep it from coming unhinged.Olivia? The woman who had shadowed Seraphina like a devoted hound ever since they were children? She worshiped the Lady, yes. That was no secret.
But loyalty to Seraphina had always been her true religion.
For the briefest of moments, Olivia slanted him a look. Her eyes met his. There was no warmth there. No friendship hiding within those amber depths. But there was…something. A glint of steel. A sharpness that didn’t match the submission of her posture.
It was a look that said,Do not ruin this for me, Beaumont.
Tiberius bit down hard on his cheek and bowed to their new king once more before he backed away from the throne, leaving Olivia to her games.
Yet one more liar in a room full of them.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the corner of Tiberius’s mouth quirked upward.
Well, at least if he died here, he wouldn’t die bored.
