“It had to be done,” he says at last. “Saxony would never have bent otherwise. Rebellion breeds rebellion. Fear ends it.” His gaze flicks back to the river, then returns to me. “And you understood that.”
I feel the weight of his respect settle on me like a curse.
“For the first time,” he continues quietly, “I see what you are capable of.” His mouth tightens. “And I do not think you are a woman sent to stand beside a king.”
The wind tousles my hair. The cries from below fade into a distant, broken rhythm.
“You have corrupted him,” Aynhard says. “You did not need spells or charms. Youarethe spell. You have rotted his judgment, turned his mind inward on itself. Whatever God placed in him, you have bent.” His eyes sharpen. “If the devil wished to weaken a ruler, he would not strike the King. He would send a wife.”
I say nothing.
“This blood is on your hands now,” he says. “Do not pretend otherwise. You have proven useful. You have proven…effective.” A pause. “But never mistake that for innocence.”
He turns away from me then, back toward the castle.
I turn back to the river. The sounds blur together—the cries,the dull rhythm of iron, the water taking what it is given. The ring burns against my skin, not hot, but tight. A closed circle. Protection, yes. And consequence.
Below us, Charles’s voice carries, clear and unwavering. There is no rage in it now. Only certainty. Every man obeys.
What love cannot reach, it destroys.
I sink to my knees, silent. The truth settles into my bones like cold: I am safe. And because I am safe, this is happening.
Nothing, no prayer, no spell, no act of will, can call the blood back once it has found its course.
Click.
III
Queen of Nightbound Crowns
Chapter 22
Summer in Acheron presses down like a hand.
Heat gathers between the stone buildings, clings to my skin, turns every breath into effort. I leave the palace and slip into the chapel, where the air is cool and still, heavy with wax and old incense. The door closes behind me, the sound ringing too loudly in the stillness. I do not come here often, but in the July heat it is often the only place to find some relief.
After the long, hard winter in the North, I was looking forward to the warmth of the summer days. I wonder what Charles is doing. The heat in the southern territories must be unbearable right now. He left a couple of weeks ago; new trade routes and possibly a new war have drawn his attention toward the South east. We argued—he wanted me to follow—but I stood firm. After the catastrophic outcome of our trip to the North, I will not be seeing another battlefield any time soon.
My eyes are slowly adjusting to the dim light of the chapel.
Someone is already here.
Lord Ashford sits alone in one of the rows of chairs, head tipped back, staring up at the dome. The Broker. So still he might be carved there, another ornament of stone andshadow.
I move quietly. There has always been something about him that made me want to stare. The line of his shoulders beneath dark cloth. The slow rise of his chest. I notice his throat as he swallows, the movement of his Adam’s apple catching the light. He always appears where I least expect him, vanishes before I can ask questions. Known to everyone. Known by no one.
What sort of deals do you make in places like this?
“Fastrada.”
The sound fills the chapel, deep and resonant, echoing off the stone. It vibrates straight through my stomach.
I shriek.
Laughter follows immediately—warm, unmistakably him.
Ashford lowers his head and turns toward me.
