My stomach clenched. That was the story she’d constructed. Not a murder. Not an unmarked grave in the woods. Just a sick girl who’d had a breakdown and run away from the people trying to help her. She’d been telling this lie for three months, and now she had to sell it or lose everything.
A girl whose testimony couldn’t be trusted because she was clearly, obviously, tragically mad.
Brilliant. It was brilliant. If I tried to accuse her of murder, I’d sound like exactly what she was claiming, a delusional woman who’d invented persecution to explain her own breakdown.
“The Raven Lands do not fall under Lawkeeper jurisdiction.” The speaker was one of the clan elders. I recognized his voice from the banquet, though I couldn’t see his face from this angle. “Your authority ends at the Veil.”
“Of course, of course.” Mabyn’s tone was soothing, conciliatory. “I’m not here to make demands. I’m here as aconcerned family member, begging for your help. My niece is dangerous to herself. The healers at the sanatorium warned us that without treatment, she might...”
A delicate pause. A catch in her voice that sounded almost real. “She might harm herself, or others.”
Murmurs from the crowd below. I couldn’t see how many clan members had gathered, but I could hear them, the rustle of fabric, the low hum of voices debating, weighing, considering.
They were actually considering it.
My fingers tightened on the railing. The stone cracked beneath my grip, a small sound, barely audible, but I felt it. Felt the way the cold rock split under pressure that shouldn’t have been strong enough to damage it.
The blood. His blood in my veins, making me stronger than I should be.
“The King’s bride is not available for inspection.” Another elder, this one female, her voice sharp with disapproval. “She is under his protection now. Whatever claims you have are moot.”
“I have no claims.” Mabyn lifted her veil, and even from this distance I could see the performance on her face. The red-rimmed eyes. The tear-streaked cheeks. The trembling lip of a woman driven to desperate measures by love and worry.
“I only want to see her. To know she’s safe. To speak with her for just a moment, and if she tells me herself that she wishes to stay, I’ll leave. I swear it.”
She was good. She’d always been good, the grieving sister at my mother’s funeral, the concerned aunt at my father’s deathbed, the responsible guardian who’d taken in her orphaned niece out of the goodness of her heart.
Everyone had believed her. I’d believed her, for years, until the evening tea and the bitter taste and the darkness that swallowed me whole.
Fingers clamped onto my bicep.
I spun, ready to fight, ready to run.
Cador.
I hadn’t heard him come up behind me.
“How long have you been standing here?” he asked.
“A few minutes. I heard the horns.”
“The elders sent a runner to wake me when she arrived. I’ve been watching from the upper gallery.” His grip on my arm tightened. Firm. Grounding.
“They’re wavering. She’s playing the concerned guardian well, and some of them want to believe her. A sick human in their territory is a liability. Better to hand her back and wash their hands of the problem.”
The coldness in his voice wasn’t directed at me. It was the cold of calculation, of a king assessing threats and weighing options.
“If she takes me back?—”
“She won’t.”
“You don’t understand.” I turned to face him, and my voice came out harder than I intended.
“The sanatorium doesn’t exist. There is no treatment, no healers, no concerned physicians waiting to help me recover. There’s a shallow grave somewhere with my name on it, and she’ll put me in it the moment she has me alone.”
His expression didn’t change. He studied my face, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, what he was planning, whether he believed me or not.
Below, the debate continued. I heard the words “jurisdiction” and “treaty” and “diplomatic incident.” The clan elders were arguing among themselves now, their voices rising, and Mabyn stood at the gates with her Lawkeepers and waited.
