to find his employer.”
“He did say something . . .”
“What? What was it?” He moved away, his expression ferocious. “Anything, Rinka, could be helpful. I will find them, whoever they are. I will tear them to pieces for hurting you.”
Rinka nearly repeated the assassin’s words, understanding their meaning in a way she hadn’t in the moment: Long live the dragon. The dragon—like the one emblazoned on the Drachstelle crest? Like the golden one the queen wore on a chain at her throat?
“He said,” Rinka said, drawing a measured breath, “that this is what happens to faery whores.”
Alban swore softly. He dismissed his guards and drew Rinka into an embrace. He breathed declarations of love and promises of justice into her hair, his voice breaking, and Rinka allowed the touch of his hands to melt away her worried thoughts. He was gentle, and every caress unwound the knots of tension in her belly.
Long live the dragon. The words stuck in her mind like barbs, urging her to tell Alban, but whenever she imagined doing so, a terrible fear stopped her—the fear that, if she said the words, everything would change. The king would abandon discretion and rage at his wife; he would hate and distrust her even more than he already did. He would antagonize her cousins and wind the city into a frenzy, rooting out anyone remotely related to the Drachstelle family for interrogation.
He would start a civil war. Rinka did not want that blood on her hands.
But Alban read her silence, and paused to examine her face. “Is that all, Rinka?”
She paused. She found she could no longer keep the words unsaid. “Long live the dragon,” she whispered. “He said that, too. Long live the dragon.”
Alban hissed a string of violent curses and threw himself out of bed, jarring Rinka’s leg. She gritted her teeth and put out her arm to him.
“Alban, please come back. Sit and talk with me.”
“What is there to talk about, Rinka? Curse the Drachstelles, and curse Liane, for surely she knew.” He pounded his fist against the wall.
“You mustn’t say anything to them, or do anything differently. Everything must remain the same. Alban, hear me. They must think us ignorant, otherwise . . .” She paused, took a breath. “They know we will have to be on our guard now, and they will have to be as well. They will need time to regroup, and that will give us and your spies time to gather the necessary evidence against them. In the meantime—”
“I must wait.” His hands were fists at his sides, his eyes bright. “I must dine with them and drink with them, discuss politics with them, and know every word of peace they utter is a lie, and somehow not lose my temper.”
“Come back to me,” Rinka said, unsure how else to show him comfort when she needed it desperately herself. So she said nothing, and let him love her until there was nothing left of fear between them.
* * *
Rinka stepped onto the main thoroughfare of Erstadt, Leska at her side, and strove to ignore the eyes upon her.
This was a different market than the one she had enjoyed before the attack in her chambers three weeks earlier, before her first visit some three months earlier. This was a market full of people who hushed when she neared, who whispered so she could not hear their words, who sometimes shouted so she could not help but hear them.
Beside her, Leska shifted the wrapped parcels in her arms. Surrounding them were four guards, assigned to Rinka from Alban’s own personal guard, despite her protestations. They matched stride, boulders in the shape of men. At first Rinka had been irritated at their appointment to her.
Now, she was forced to admit, she was glad of their presence.
Leska inched closer. Rinka felt the cold buzz of her magic, on high alert. “Perhaps next time you find yourself needing new clothes,” she suggested wryly, “we can summon Madam Farber to the castle instead.”
Rinka forced herself on, her eyes straight
“He did say something . . .”
“What? What was it?” He moved away, his expression ferocious. “Anything, Rinka, could be helpful. I will find them, whoever they are. I will tear them to pieces for hurting you.”
Rinka nearly repeated the assassin’s words, understanding their meaning in a way she hadn’t in the moment: Long live the dragon. The dragon—like the one emblazoned on the Drachstelle crest? Like the golden one the queen wore on a chain at her throat?
“He said,” Rinka said, drawing a measured breath, “that this is what happens to faery whores.”
Alban swore softly. He dismissed his guards and drew Rinka into an embrace. He breathed declarations of love and promises of justice into her hair, his voice breaking, and Rinka allowed the touch of his hands to melt away her worried thoughts. He was gentle, and every caress unwound the knots of tension in her belly.
Long live the dragon. The words stuck in her mind like barbs, urging her to tell Alban, but whenever she imagined doing so, a terrible fear stopped her—the fear that, if she said the words, everything would change. The king would abandon discretion and rage at his wife; he would hate and distrust her even more than he already did. He would antagonize her cousins and wind the city into a frenzy, rooting out anyone remotely related to the Drachstelle family for interrogation.
He would start a civil war. Rinka did not want that blood on her hands.
But Alban read her silence, and paused to examine her face. “Is that all, Rinka?”
She paused. She found she could no longer keep the words unsaid. “Long live the dragon,” she whispered. “He said that, too. Long live the dragon.”
Alban hissed a string of violent curses and threw himself out of bed, jarring Rinka’s leg. She gritted her teeth and put out her arm to him.
“Alban, please come back. Sit and talk with me.”
“What is there to talk about, Rinka? Curse the Drachstelles, and curse Liane, for surely she knew.” He pounded his fist against the wall.
“You mustn’t say anything to them, or do anything differently. Everything must remain the same. Alban, hear me. They must think us ignorant, otherwise . . .” She paused, took a breath. “They know we will have to be on our guard now, and they will have to be as well. They will need time to regroup, and that will give us and your spies time to gather the necessary evidence against them. In the meantime—”
“I must wait.” His hands were fists at his sides, his eyes bright. “I must dine with them and drink with them, discuss politics with them, and know every word of peace they utter is a lie, and somehow not lose my temper.”
“Come back to me,” Rinka said, unsure how else to show him comfort when she needed it desperately herself. So she said nothing, and let him love her until there was nothing left of fear between them.
* * *
Rinka stepped onto the main thoroughfare of Erstadt, Leska at her side, and strove to ignore the eyes upon her.
This was a different market than the one she had enjoyed before the attack in her chambers three weeks earlier, before her first visit some three months earlier. This was a market full of people who hushed when she neared, who whispered so she could not hear their words, who sometimes shouted so she could not help but hear them.
Beside her, Leska shifted the wrapped parcels in her arms. Surrounding them were four guards, assigned to Rinka from Alban’s own personal guard, despite her protestations. They matched stride, boulders in the shape of men. At first Rinka had been irritated at their appointment to her.
Now, she was forced to admit, she was glad of their presence.
Leska inched closer. Rinka felt the cold buzz of her magic, on high alert. “Perhaps next time you find yourself needing new clothes,” she suggested wryly, “we can summon Madam Farber to the castle instead.”
Rinka forced herself on, her eyes straight
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