the boy. Just as the Royal Guard knew of Miriel, they knew that Wilhelm was Garad’s one friend. I peeked out, and saw him holding a little pie and a bottle of wine, and frowned at the strangeness.
I saw him one or two times more, both times with something small: a chunk of cheese and some bread, a couple of apples, fruit wine. When I realized what I was seeing, my heart ached. Wilhelm was going to Garad to sit and talk, bringing enough for a little feast, as I might have done for Miriel. The King and his friend would sneak about and steal sweetmeats and bread so that they could sit and talk together, so that Garad might pretend that he was not a King, who might command the pastry chefs and the sommeliers to bring him the best of anything.
I did not tell the Duke of this, and I did not tell Miriel, or Roine, or Temar, or even Donnett—who might have been one who could understand my pity. I kept it to myself, as closely-guarded as a state secret. I thought of it sometimes when I saw Wilhelm appear up the tunnels to summon the King back to his rooms from a late night debate with Miriel, I thought of it when I saw the King sitting at dinner with the servants holding huge platters of roast boar and duck and stewed venison in front of him.
And I thought of it when I saw Wilhelm swallow and look down, as his King spoke of crushing the rebellion in the south. I thought of it when Wilhelm forgot me, like the shadow I was, and watched Miriel with longing in his eyes. The King’s only friend, and, I thought, a true friend indeed, and yet pushing away his anger at the King’s politics, pushing down his desire for the King’s mistress. Wilhelm had been despised since he was born, and now he walked the hard road of a royal cousin and heir; I did not envy him.
In those times, I had the misguided notion that my life was simpler: my friends were not the great powers of the nation, nobles who might shape the lay of the land for generations. I was not caught between love and duty, I thought. Those I loved were my Lady, a palace healer, a palace guard, and an assassin I knew better than to trust. I watched them all, at nights and in their meetings with each other, and thought myself beyond their machinations.
“I am sending a messenger to Mavlon,” the King announced one night. He was looking at Miriel, his eyes warm at the sight of her, sleep-tousled and sitting on a great wine barrel. Still, he was half-occupied with his discontent. “They are the on es behind this Jacces, I know they must be...but we cannot find a trace from here. The spy will be able to learn more, embedded in the court. Someone will talk.”
“What if Jacces really is only a peasant from Norstrung?” Miriel queried. She needled him on this, undermined him; it was her only defiance that he could see, and even though he could not understand it, it was a dangerous game. I frowned at her, over the King’s head, and I saw him frown as well.
“He cannot be. He is an educated man, he is well read. We have sent men to watch and ask questions, and none there know of this man, none could name who he might be. No commoner is so subtle. He holds to their cause, but he writes like…” The King frowned. “He writes like a priest, he writes like a philosopher. Like one of the men at the academies, perhaps. I told the envoy to seek out the academics in Mavlon.”
Miriel had stopped attending, she had gone very still; a change had come over her face. Garad, turned from her, did not see it, and in a moment she had composed herself. She settled her shoulders and regained the adoring half-smile she practiced and practiced. She drew a breath and said, lightly, “Your spy will be able to learn this man’s true identity, your Grace. It was clever to send him. But do you not need to return now? Wilhelm, what is the time?”
As we walked back to her rooms, she was fairly quivering with excitement. I waited patiently in silence, but she said nothing. She walked with her
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