Page 172 of Given to the Black King

Through the bond, her amusement settles warm against my irritation.

A year ago, I knew how to hold a pass against four thousand men.

Now the third stair on the east flight keeps me awake.

It becomes slick when the air is damp. I ordered it replaced. The mason said the stone was sound. I replaced the mason.

Ghenn reinstated him the next day and had the stair roughened.

A practical solution. I would have reached it eventually.

The entire hold has adapted to my vigilance.

Council pauses every hour so I can refrain from sending a runner to Iona’s rooms. The kitchen sends written inventories of everything she eats because I was repeatedly entering to check. Vess has formed what she calls the Committee for Preventing the King’s Arrest by His Own Queen.

Its membership is Vess and Ghenn.

They meet whenever I order a road closed because Iona may someday travel it.

Sera ignores all committees.

She moved into the nursery wing two months ago with six trunks of linen, a spinning wheel, and enough opinions to govern a smaller country.

The nursery itself is ready.

Too ready, according to Iona.

The cradle stands near the inner wall, away from drafts. The windows have double catches. The fireguard is iron. Every rug has been nailed flat. There are no edged corners below the height of my knee. The shelves are anchored into stone.

The rowan waits in the sheltered court for the first thaw after the birth.

My grandsire’s line plants one for every child born already chosen.

I have checked the root ball four times.

Ghenn caught me on the fifth.

“It is a tree,” he said.

“It is dormant.”

“Yes.”

“It may be dead.”

“It has buds.”

“Small ones.”

He stood beside me in the snow, studying the wrapped roots with the seriousness of a man inspecting enemy fortifications.

“I can get another tree,” he said.

“I have another tree.”

“Of course you do.”

Three rowans now wait in the court.