“Are you afraid?” Count Pavlov said to Sten as he stood near a large tray of sandwiches in the Great Tea Room of the Royal Palace.

  “Of what?” Sten replied, his tone making it clear that he knew, and had no intention of discussing it.

  Pavlov snickered in acceptance. “You know, I heard the Venek were not unanimous in making Vargas king,” he said, chewing thoughtfully on his sandwich.

  Sten glanced around, but no one seemed to have heard Pavlov’s unwise words. Seemed was the key word.

  He leaned closer and hissed quietly, “Bite your tongue, sir.”

  Pavlov swallowed, paused as if considering obedience, then merely winked. “Everyone knows. It’s the talk of court. Truly, Your Highness, you have many factions behind you. Always.”

  Yes, Sten thought. Behind me, ready to impale me.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Sten said curtly.

  He walked through the room and out onto the mezzanine overlooking the great hall below. People filled every space. On the dais, his uncle Vargas sat upon the throne, dark eyes sweeping the room, his presence commanding silence.

  Had the Venek truly not been unanimous? Sten wondered. Was that even possible?

  Snap out of it, he told himself. He was listening to Pavlov.

  Below, a line of men, the Korsar, moved through the crowd one by one to swear allegiance to the new king. Sten leaned against the railing, watching as their polished steel armor reflected the light. Each genuflected, and each time Vargas raised a hand to accept their oath.

  “Your Highness.”

  Sten froze.

  No. Not now.

  He turned to see Lady Whit standing behind him, smiling. Her eyes were wide and bright, her cheeks flushed. For a fleeting moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss them.

  Snap out of it, you fool.

  He bowed. When he straightened, their eyes met.

  Gods, get me out of here.

  Sten stepped aside awkwardly. Lady Whit hesitated, her smile faltering, unsure of his intent. He turned sharply and walked away. His body felt rigid, his breath shallow. When he glanced back, she was still watching him, perplexed.

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  You fool, he thought, clenching his fists as he descended the stairs into the great hall.

  “There you are.”

  The steward seized his arm and guided him through the crowd toward the end of the line. “You were meant to go before the Korsar, Your Highness.”

  Sten yanked his arm free and faced forward.

  “Where are your spectacles, sir?” the steward asked impatiently.

  “I don’t need them,” Sten replied. The steward sighed as the line moved.

  Sten was next.

  The last of the Korsar rose from his genuflection as Vargas waved him away. Their eyes met. Sten looked down, then cursed himself and looked back up. His stomach churned as he climbed the three steps to the dais and knelt.

  “I vow to give you my allegiance and my life, my king,” Sten said, then stood.

  Vargas did not move. His eyes appeared almost black in the lighting, just like Sten’s father’s had been.

  Would he kill me to secure everything?

  Did he even need to?

  The silence stretched. Then Vargas rose and embraced him.

  “Where were you?” Vargas murmured into his ear. A shiver ran down Sten’s spine.

  “Outside,” Sten replied, resisting the urge to pull away.

  “Outside the walls?” Vargas’s voice sharpened.

  “Is my time not my own now, uncle?”

  Vargas gripped Sten’s shoulders and turned him to face him. Their voices remained low as the crowd leaned in, pretending not to listen.

  “Your time is never your own, nephew,” Vargas said evenly. “It belongs to the crown. And that means it belongs to me.”

  Sten forced a calm expression. “Of course. I apologize for my ignorance. I don’t know what I was thinking. It won’t happen again.”

  They stared at one another, mirrors of cold restraint.

  “Good,” Vargas said.

  “Good,” Sten agreed.

  Vargas draped an arm across Sten’s shoulders and turned to the crowd. “Let the Ceremony of Flowers begin.”

  Cheers erupted. Vargas slapped Sten’s back sharply before disappearing into the throng.

  Sten did not follow. He backed away until he reached the wall, then slipped through a door behind him and shut it quickly.

  The library was warm, vast, and silent. He locked the door.

  “Have you got it, then?” Rowan asked.

  The young chronicler sat at a circular table surrounded by books, a heavy volume open before him.

  “No. I haven’t been able to,” Sten said, weaving through towers of stacked tomes.

  “Ah. Well, that’s fine for now, so long as she doesn’t go back right away, we should be all right.”

  Sten stopped. “What do you mean? You never said that before.”

  Rowan shrugged. “I can’t be certain, but dying that many times must take a toll. She may seem fine, but it would be best to get her the spruce bark soon. It should help her withstand the deaths better.”

  “You said it would be a good idea,” Sten snapped. “Not that it was urgent.”

  Rowan looked up, surprised. “It is a good idea. It’s also necessary. I thought that was obvious.”

  “It wasn’t obvious to me.”

  It will be fine, Sten told himself. She won’t go back until I return.

  “I’ll get it after the ceremony,” he said, sitting across from Rowan.

  “Where are you?” Sten asked, glancing at the book.

  “The fifth day of the sixteenth week of your father’s twenty-fifth regnal year,” Rowan replied. “If this is the date she returns to, we must know why, and where your sister was.”

  “Good,” Sten said, a spark of hope breaking through.

  Rowan hesitated. “The chronicles focus mostly on your father. But I know your sister visited the queen dowager that morning, along with the king. She then left early for lessons.”

  “That’s it?”

  Rowan nodded. “So far. After that… I don’t know. Only that she was murdered four days later in the courtyard.”

  Sten sank deeper into his chair.