Page 137

“Mind your certainty.”

Joran shifts behind the guards. “My lord walked here from the practice hall. No message left this keep after he was wounded.”

The royal captain glances back at him.

Varrus does not. “A King’s Guard patrol was already traveling to inspect the pass. We received word of disorder within the stronghold.”

The explanation is polished and empty. No disorder preceded their arrival. Their route, their numbers, and Varrus’s presence cannot be chance.

I would expose the lie if I could move my tongue.

I force breath through an uncooperative throat. No sound emerges. My chest rises by a narrow measure, then sinks. Each breath demands attention that should belong to strategy.

Fiona looks back at me.

Her pale blue eyes search my face. “He remains conscious.”

“Can he confirm your tale?” Varrus asks.

“The poison has paralyzed him.”

“Convenient.”

Rage gathers without outlet. It is cold, exact, and useless. I cannot strike Varrus. I cannot command Joran. I cannot close my hand around the ring that makes my authority visible.

I cannot tell the royal guard what I know.

The numiscu leaves me the humiliating freedom to hear every judgment pronounced over my living body. I measure my breaths because I can control nothing else. In. A pause that lasts too long. Out. My lungs answer weakly, yet they answer.

Fiona notices each rise of my chest. Even while facing Varrus, she keeps two fingers near the pulse at my throat. Her touch is firm enough to ground me and light enough not to obstruct breath. She is frightened, but her fear serves observation rather than panic.

Yet I know Fiona.

I know how she examines a remedy before it touches another person. I know she carried Lowtown’s hunger into a marriage she did not choose, then used every scrap of power available to feed others. I know she stayed beside me through the curse when escape would have been safer. I know the bright defiance she placed on my war table and the quiet care with which she built life beneath neglected glass.

No staged jar can outweigh what I have witnessed.

She did not poison me.

Varrus did not expect trust to survive convincing evidence. He understands bargains, fear, and ambition. He does not understand the slow accumulation of proof offered by a person’s choices.

The royal captain gestures to two guards. “Take her.”

Steel whispers against leather as Joran draws half his blade.

“Captain,” he says, “touch Lady Morwen’thir without my lord’s order and you will answer to this house.”

“Your lord cannot issue an order.”

“Then you will wait until he can.”

Varrus turns at last. “You presume much for a Miou servant.”

Joran’s blade slides another finger’s width free. “Test the presumption.”

The King’s Guard closes formation. The chamber shrinks around the threat of violence. If Joran attacks royal soldiers, Varrus gains another charge against Morwen’thir. If he yields, Fiona leaves in chains and I remain exposed to whatever Varrus planned after her arrest.

Sarveth is absent from the chamber. Briar is not in sight. The household clerk who could produce current contracts would carry little weight against a lord of Varrus’s caste. Every ordinary line of authority ends with me, and I am unable to lift one finger.