Page 82 of Given to the Black King

The marriage clause is worse in full. It promises my residence, my loyalty, and any children of the union as guarantees of the border peace. It does not contain a single line requiring my consent.

The word children refuses to stay ink.

At nineteen, I had known the names Danel wanted for daughters. We had argued about them beside my mother’s kitchen table while she pretended not to listen. He wanted old family names. I wanted names no dead relative could claim. We had believed we possessed enough time to settle it.

My father had been dead since I was eight. River fever took Danel, then my mother less than a fortnight later. Afterward there were men I chose quietly. Kind men. Skilled men. None I asked to build a future with me. That room in my life stayed shut because shutting it was easier than discovering what else fever could enter.

Now Callas has written children who do not exist into a treaty as if Serath already owns their loyalty. He has assigned their home, their blood, and their usefulness before I have chosen whether to bear them. Before I have chosen their father. Before they have drawn breath.

The paper trembles once between my hands.

I set it flat. My hand steadies because there is work to do, not because the clause has stopped hurting.

Perr watches my face. “Can they do this?”

“They can write it.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“No.” I fold the papers. “They cannot make it true.”

He nods quickly.

“Take this back to Callas. Tell him it needs to be redrafted from the beginning.”

“It may take several days.”

“At least.”

Perr reaches the door, then stops. “We are not going home, are we?”

“I don’t know.”

He looks relieved that I did not lie.

After Perr leaves, I sit with the clean treaty on one side of my desk and Callas’s rough draft on the other.

Torgan heard Callas dictate it. He hears everything in this hold.

He could have destroyed the paper.

He could have ordered Callas out of the country. He could have called it protection and decided the matter for me.

He did not.

I find him on the west wall near sunset.

He stands with both hands on the parapet. The wind pulls at his coat. His claws are hidden, but I can see the tension in his fingers.

“You knew,” I say.

He does not pretend otherwise. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I knew Perr would.”

“You trusted a frightened clerk?”