Beatrice peered through a crack in the servants’ door to the throne room.

She didn’t dare stand in the gallery outside the main doors where the entire court could see her spying. The Blessed Emperor’s official legate arrived on Ammarish soil in less than a month — and she did not want the imperial delegation to hear the rumor that the new king and queen slept apart.

When Anryn sleeps at all.

From where she stood, Beatrice could just make out Anryn’s fingers resting on the arm of the throne. Red blisters puckered her fingers from long hours practicing with her sword. She came to bed late and rose early, scarcely giving Beatrice any time to talk with her. Whenever Beatrice tried to go with her to the practice yard, Lord Maelor kicked up a fuss and Professor Lawson suggested that a queen’s time was better spent at chapel among her ladies.

Beatrice wiggled her toes inside her slippers. She really needed a better pair of shoes for standing on bare wood to listen in on the king’s council meetings.

Today they met to determine the fate of a mage caught on a ship in the Gulf of Sanchia. For an entire week at least, she’d let herself hope that it would be Ciamon. The captured mage arrived on one of her father’s ships, bearing nothing but disappointment and dark tidings. The bald, wide man who knelt before the throne in chains looked nothing like Ciamon — and claimed he knew nothing of the Emperor’s delegation to Ammar.

All mages are liars. Beatrice brushed her fingers against the coins in her pocket. She thought of shouting Ciamon’s name to them right then, to see whether he would appear.

“My Lords, the council will turn now to the matter of Magekind Omer Nitty — apprehended aboard the merchant ship Midriff, bound for Isle Damort. The captain names him stowaway. Duke Cesar names him spy. How shall the King name the accused?”

The council of Great Lords faced the accused from behind long, narrow tables arranged to either side of the throne. Their narrow chairs looked scarcely more comfortable than Beatrice’s shoes, but at least they all had a place to sit while proceedings carried on. Each lord had a copy of the report from the captain of the captured ship, and from Duke Cesar detailing the route the ship took across the Gulf. Anryn herself had a copy of the letter the Duke had sent to Beatrice:

It’s been two years. Get your house in order.

Anryn’s fingers drummed against the arm of the throne, a mirror of Beatrice’s toes. The royal couple faced pressure from all sides now to produce an heir. Anryn came to bed most nights sullen and silent, her teeth grinding even in her sleep. Beatrice did everything that she could think of to draw her out, but it always ended in yelling and only half the time did that lead to trying for heirs.

Maybe this mage could bring the king some peace, Beatrice thought.

The man in chains placed both hands on the ground and bowed low over his fingers. He spoke in a hoarse, ragged baritone that reached her easily from where she stood. Beatrice heard only the slightest bend of his accent.

“Your Majesty — I am Omer Nitty. Two years ago, we met on the road at Java. I swear, on the God that we both share, I did not know who you were at that time.” He lifted his head and swallowed, the heavy pit of his throat working. I thought that… I thought…”

“You thought I was a witch and that I belonged in one of your cages.” Anryn’s royal lilt disguised an edge beneath her words. She switched easily into the Old Language, having rehearsed it now for months after receiving the box of insults. “Proceed to answer—which part is wrong?”

The Great Lords shifted in their narrow chairs, gray beards and silver mustaches twitching. Beatrice craned her neck for a glimpse at Professor Lawson, his head bent over the paper on which he scribbled. Witchcraft was a dangerous word to use in an Ammarish court. The Lightning King converted the old law of exile to burning at the stake. Just before he died, he’d had Anryn arrested and charged with the crime. Since she took the throne, no one dared bring the matter up in open court — not even Gruffydd.

Beatrice tapped her foot. If one of the venerated old farts didn’t speak up soon, the interrogation would stall. She thought that Anryn should take a firmer hand in the proceedings, perhaps calling on one of her councilors to speak.

The grizzled Lord Maelor, creaking in his gleaming leather breastplate, leaned back to squint at the doorway. The Lightning King’s one-time master of arms still had the keen senses of a soldier if not the knees. He glared at Beatrice’s hiding place until she stilled her slippered toe.

“The prisoner will answer,” the old soldier barked.

The mage pressed his forehead to the floor. He stayed so still, Beatrice wondered whether he understood Ammarish as well as he claimed. She’d learned from Ciamon never to take anything about a mage at face value. If he is a stowaway headed for somewhere else, why is his vessel on the wrong side of the Gulf and only miles from Ammarish soil? She’d have asked that very question if she’d sat in the room.

The seneschal, Lord Tommasi, prodded the mage with the council staff. “His Majesty asked you a question.”

“I’m dead if I answer and damned if I don’t,” Omer muttered. He sat back on his heels and held out both hands. He turned over his palms one at a time— “On the one hand, I saw you are a witch and on the other I say you belong in a cage. Which one gets me out of here alive?”

The desperation in his voice sounded real enough. Beatrice jingled the coins in her palm. She tried to imagine Ciamon kneeling there, begging for his life. Somehow she didn’t believe that he would be stupid enough to be caught. He lived with Gruffydd for years and no one suspected him… How is it that this man was caught so easily?

“How can we believe anything that you say at all, witch hunter?” asked Lord Kenon. He slapped his hand against his sword, tied with a black velvet ribbon of mourning. “You incited a massacre on Ammarish soil. Until the Dome answers for that insult, all the words of their mages are dead to Ammar.”

Beatrice bit her lip. She could not argue with the Lord’s point, even inside her head. That cabinet of insults from Nynomath so soon after the Witch Massacre did cast suspicion on the mages. To have one here now without the Emperor’s banner of peace seemed like a fresh insult altogether.

She searched the grizzled faces of the councilors. They all had scowls like what her grandmother called boca de guerra — war-mouth. For decades, the Lightning King had led his country steadily toward invasion. With her marriage to Anryn, their fathers planned to send the Golden Fleet hurtling across the Gulf like an arrow aimed straight at the Great Dome’s heart. Since childhood, Duke Cesar regaled his children with stories of the hidden port that led straight up the River Ny all the way to the Dome. These Lords had told their children the same sort of stories.

Now none of them spared a sympathetic glance toward Omer Nitty.

Save for Gruffydd the Traitor. The lone dissenter on Anryn’s council. The Great Lord looked sicker than ever, the hue of his skin matching the yellow whites of his eyes. Beatrice was not sure how he managed to stay upright in his chair. The hand he raised to Anryn was thin and unsteady.

The king nodded for him to speak.

“Consider the possibility that this man is a broken cup,” said the dying lord. “He can hold no water, no faith. Perhaps the Dome discarded him and in his shame, he turned on his masters. As a son will turn on the father who throws him away.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Beatrice wanted to spit. Nothing galled her more than when the traitor made good points. She understood now why Professor Lawson insisted that Gruffydd remain on the king’s council. The mages’ Axioms were taught even to girls of Sanchia learning to thread their first friendships at the childrens’ pools — Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

“Irrelevant. The court cannot consider the character of a man beyond the scope of his crimes.” Professor Lawson spoke without ever looking up from the papers spread across his little table. “This man was caught in Ammarish waters without the Emperor's banner of peace. He begged asylum and to plead his case to the king himself. The king may now render judgment on this matter without any consideration for the man’s masters.”

Beatrice heard Anryn’s teeth click together. She tried to guess what her husband might be thinking. Gruffydd spoke reason while the rest of the room angled toward violence. Professor Lawson urged Anryn to reach a determination on her own without further questions. One way or another, Beatrice thought Anryn needed to get Omer Nitty out of her throne room before he said another word about witchcraft, lest more councilors remembered that their king was one accused.

When Anryn spoke again, Beatrice could hear the strain in her voice as she fought to keep her careful courtier’s lilt in place.

“Why do I care if you are dead or damned? I do not want your apology — I don’t even want your life,” said Anryn. Her hand left the arm of the throne and Beatrice saw her face in profile as Anryn leaned forward. “Let me ask another question: Did you come here as you claim by accident, or because the Great Dome sent you to finish what you started the day that you meant me?”

Fuck, thought Beatrice. Once Anryn’s anger showed itself, there’d be no hiding the woman. Nobody on the king’s council yet had guessed the insult the Great Dome had offered her with the veil. But each mage they came upon was more likely than the last to know about it.

She coughed three times — their signal to call halt. A few tense moments passed and still Anryn glared at Omer Nitty, expecting him to answer. Beatrice coughed the signal again to be sure that she heard.

“Excuse me for a moment.”

Proceedings halted as the king rose from her throne. The councilors shuffled halfway to their feet in a flurry of grumbles and creaking joints. Anryn rounded the throne and walked to where a Sanchian tapestry half-covered the servant’s door. She leaned her head down to the crack and whispered to Beatrice.

“What? How am I supposed to govern if you’re back here huffing and stomping?”

“I did not huff, I am not the one losing my temper.” Beatrice never knew just how to argue with Anryn. She wasn’t sure whether to treat her as friend or sister. As a married woman, she felt entitled to sarcasm at least. “Remember what happened with the archmage’s gifts? I am your queen, not your maid. Don’t you dare expect me to clean up more messes you make in the throne room.”

“You don’t have to clean, that’s what the servants are for,” Anryn hissed. “And who told you to send it back? I never ordered that.”

“I told the castellan to get rid of it. And I don’t know why you would let an empty bottle of all things upset you.” Beatrice squeezed her coins and fought hard to soften her voice. “I don’t trust mages anymore than you do, but you can’t spill this man’s blood today without making yourself out to be a despot. No one will follow a mad king anywhere.”

Anryn’s eyes flashed. Anger only sharpened the feminine set of her features. It sent a thrill of passion and jealousy through Beatrice she barely understood. I wish she would let me line her eyes with kohl — it’d look so good with the blue…

“You think I’m mad?” The hurt in her voice caught Beatrice off guard. She forgot that Anryn often turned to anger when what she really felt was grief. She can’t help how she was raised…

“No, of course not.” Beatrice reached up a hand to brush against Anryn’s cheek. She kept her voice very low as she murmured, “Is it the Sight that has you so worried? You can tell me if that’s what it is… Tell me why you want to pick a fight with this man.”

Anryn blinked back the rage and put her hand against Beatrice’s. She gently pulled it away from her face. She pressed closer and lowered her voice to match Beatrice’s, “Two red lines touch this man, but neither points at me. I think he means harm to someone near me, but I don’t know who and I don’t know how.”

Relief washed over Beatrice. She still trusts me with this at least. From the very first, Anryn was always cagey and cautious. Beatrice wondered now whether her nighttime silences hid some other secret.

“Even if that’s true, you can’t just kill him if he hasn’t done anything yet,” said Beatrice. “Whether the Great Dome sent this man as spy or assassin, who cares? Send him back.”

Anryn hesitated. Beatrice knew she took the suggestion when she dropped a quick kiss on her cheek. She caught the faint scent of gardenia beneath soap and fresh-laundered linen. She hoped it meant Anryn would be up to trying for an heir that night. The king stepped away from the tapestry and let it fall back into place, shielding Beatrice from the council room. Beatrice pressed herself back up against the crack in the door so that she could watch Anryn climb up to her throne again and resume the council.

When Anryn spoke, her tone was back to calm and melodious, “You must be blessed by your saints, Omer Nitty. My gracious queen has a great deal more care for your life than I do.”

Beatrice felt her heart flutter at the mention of her before the councilors. So far as she knew, it was the first time Anryn had invoked her at council even if she did not use Beatrice’s name. If she could keep up her steady, gentle influence, she hoped one day she could have her own place on the council — or at the very least a chair to sit on.

“I do wonder, though,” Anryn continued. “What will happen when I send you back to the Dome? Do you think your masters will be as merciful as my queen?”

The chains around Omer Nitty’s wrists rattled as the man stiffened. His face seemed to go slack as if Anryn had slapped his cheek. “Back? You would send me… back? No, no, Your Majesty. I do not wish to go back.”

“Why not?” Anryn pressed.

The eager note in her voice drew all the councilors upright. Lord Gruffydd’s head tipped back against his chair, yellowing eyes fixed on Anryn. Beatrice couldn’t understand the sudden dread.

The mage quivered and shook his head. He said first in Ammarish, then in the Old Language, “No, non andare. I will not go back. I cannot go back. Not while he’s there.”

Professor Lawson cleared his throat, and rustled the papers on the table. “The accused’s consent is not a consideration in his sentence under Ammarish law…”

“Who? Say his name.”

Anryn stood up from the throne and reached for her sword propped against the far side of it. She slid the blade free of the scabbard with hardly a sound. Beatrice shivered at the sight of it. No good had ever come from Anryn wielding a sword in defense of justice.

She coughed three times — but Anryn ignored her and pointed the tip right at Omer Nitty.

The mage hesitated a moment, then threw himself on the floor, all six and half feet of him prostrate and trembling. For the first time since the proceeding started, Beatrice believed that the mage feared for his life.

His words tumbled free of his mouth without even an effort to speak them in a borrowed tongue: “I cannot even pronounce it! Saints witness me, that man is Death. When I met you that day, he stood right beside you. The Winze, the Winze of Nymaut is returned. He is the death of your father, the death of your kingdom. The Great Dome, too—”

“Choose your next words well, Omer Nitty,” Anryn warned. “You kneel right on top of where my father died. You dare try to name his killer with no proof?”

Her voice had gone calm again. Beatrice jingled her coins and prayed that meant Anryn’s anger had abated. She thought of coughing again to get her attention, but couldn’t bear the thought that Anryn would simply ignore her.

Lord Maelor spat at the ground. “The Winze — peh! Our king is not a child to take a fright at ghost stories. Give me leave to cut his lying tongue from his mouth, Your Majesty!”

“I don’t want this coward’s tongue anymore than I want his miserable life.”

Anryn kept her blade pointed at Omer Nitty a moment longer. To Beatrice, it seemed as though she looked down the length of it like a measuring stick. The frightening anger left her face as Anryn swept her sword back into its scabbard.

“I will take that hand you offered, though,” the king said. “Which one had me in the cage, Omer Nitty? Left or right?”

Omer hesitated. “L-left.”

“Liar,” said Anryn. She waved a hand at Lord Tommasi, bidding him to approach. “Omer Nitty loses his right hand for the crimes of assault, kidnapping, and unlawful entry. He’s free to go when the bleeding stops. If he dies before then, shove his body on a ship bound for Nymaut.”

“Vai p’ra merda!”

Beatrice swore so loudly Professor Lawson turned all the way around in his chair to frown at her. For a white hot instant, every man’s eye went to the crack in the door — even Omer Nitty’s. Beatrice slammed it shut, too furious to even feel embarrassment. She stood in the hallway shaking, feeling just as ignored and alone as she had three years before when she’d been only a duke’s daughter.

Put a crown over a veil and it makes no difference, she thought. A woman in Ammar has no voice and no chair!

She slid her shoes off and limped barefoot back to her rooms.