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  Rydan’s ears immediately perk up. The king notices almost instantly. Way to be nonchalant.

  “I’ve come to learn—from credible sources, of course—that you’ve been participating in illicit behavior with one of the handmaidens.”

  Rydan can’t help but snort. “If you mean casual conversation, then yes, I’m guilty. But that’s hardly illicit behavior.”

  King Tymond narrows his eyes. “For a prisoner it is.”

  For a moment, Rydan thinks he must be joking, but the king’s expression doesn’t shift. It’s as rigid as a statue. He’s serious.

  Tymond turns away from him and slowly walks toward his throne. “Elvira is a handmaiden, a servant. Her duties involve serving our prisoners their meals and then returning to the dining hall to wash and dry the empty trays. But Elvira . . .”

  Rydan gulps. He can feel beads of sweat forming along his hairline.

  “Elvira has been late on more than one occasion. And we’ve determined that the culprit,” he turns to give him a crooked smile, “is you.”

  Rydan’s breath catches in his throat, but he manages to think on his feet. “She’s been serving my food and making polite conversation,” he says a little too quickly. “I swear, if I had known that talking to her would have gotten her into trouble, I would have kept my mouth shut. I wouldn’t have so much as looked at her.”

  Tymond clucks, his tongue tapping the roof of his mouth. “Well, you did.”

  Rydan’s heart sinks. What have I done?

  “Seeing as she can’t deign to do the one thing I’ve asked of her, I have no use for her services anymore. She shall be punished.”

  The smell of copper appears again, and all Rydan can think about is her perfect head of blonde hair being smashed into a pulp. The ground beneath him is suddenly tinged with red, and he has to blink a few times to clear the disturbing hallucination.

  Tymond claps his hands twice, and Rydan looks behind him as the double doors to the Great Room open. Two guards enter—burlier than the one that brought him here—and behind them is a petite girl with matted blonde hair. Elvira. Her tunic and skirt are ragged and torn, and her feet are black with soot.

  Rydan’s jaw clenches at the sight of her. He turns his gaze from his battered friend to King Tymond. The guard stumbles as he takes an abrupt step forward, then spits at the tyrant’s feet. “This isn’t her fault. She didn’t do anything!”

  The king’s eyes lower to the wad of spit on the ground, then back up to Rydan. “Precisely,” he hisses, “she didn’t do anything.”

  The irony takes Rydan aback. He looks at Elvira, but her focus remains on the floor.

  “Well, Mr. Helstrom, you’ve certainly made it much easier on me to decide her punishment.” He flicks his hand at the guards. “Lock her in the cell in the south corridor. I don’t want to make any rash decisions.”

  Rydan’s eyes widen as the guards begin to drag Vira away. “Please! Let her go.”

  At the sound of his plea, Vira’s head snaps up, if only for a brief moment. Her blue eyes meet his. They’re eerily calm, as if she’s accepted all of this—as if it’s her fault.

  As if she deserves this.

  I’m sorry, Rydan mouths, afraid that if he says it aloud, she’ll hear how weak he really is.

  Vira gives a single nod of her head, then drops her gaze back to the floor. The guards drag her out. She doesn’t flinch—not even the slightest movement can be seen. She is completely still.

  Rydan blinks back his rage as the Great Room doors shut behind them.

  “Her punishment will be decided before tomorrow at dawn. But first, I need a proper meal.” With a jovial hop, Tymond excuses himself from his throne and heads for the doors.

  Rydan watches him with vengeful eyes. “Coward,” he mutters.

  With one hand on the door handle, Tymond turns to face him. “I’d keep that mouth of yours sealed shut. It only seems to get you into trouble.”

  Rydan bites his tongue.

  “Take him off the meal schedule for a week,” he directs the guard. “And after that week, let Gladys know that she’ll be his handmaiden.”

  The guard nods and Tymond opens the doors. They slam shut behind him, the sound reverberating throughout the entire room.

  Rydan can feel his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He doesn’t know who Gladys is, but from the way Tymond just said her name, he knows he’s just gotten into something way over his head.

  DARIUS TYMOND

  WITH A BAD taste in his mouth from the last encounter, Darius finds himself on yet another doorstep in Declorath. Fortunately, the resident of this dwelling is one he’s looking forward to seeing.

  He knocks on the door and waits a few moments. Footsteps scurry on the other side and before he realizes what’s happening, the door swings open. Before him stands a pale, lanky man with disheveled auburn hair and deep set brown eyes. He extends a bony hand toward the king.

  “Landon Graeme,” Darius beams as he meets his grip. “It’s been a while.”

  “Darius Tymond,” Landon says with a smile.

  The king pulls his hand away after a surprisingly firm handshake, then says, “May I come in?”

  Landon throws his hands up in the air. “Pardon me, where are my manners? Of course, do come in.”

  Darius follows him inside the quaint household, motioning for his guards to stay outside.

  “I’ll be brief,” he says as Landon shuts the door. He gestures toward a seat, but Darius refuses. “I have no doubt that Clive will be reaching out to you shortly, but I wanted to come here first and break the news.”

  Landon’s face falls. Darius turns to see a stout woman appear from behind one of the walls, carrying a stack of dishes. “A moment,” Landon snaps. The woman sighs and sets the dishes down on a nearby table before marching into the other room.

  “Servant?” Darius asks.

  “I wish,” Landon responds with a roll of his eyes. “Wife.”

  Darius gives him an empathetic smile. “As I was saying, I won’t be too long, but there’s a situation in Trendalath I’d very much like to discuss with you . . .”

  By the time Darius finishes his story, Landon is sitting in a chair, rubbing the bristles on his half-shaven beard. “So you want me to come back with you?”

  “Not want,” Darius says firmly. “Need.”

  Landon’s eyes flit to the room his wife had walked into earlier. “I can’t just leave on such short notice.”

  Darius gives him a coy smile. “Oh, I think you can. To be frank, I can’t imagine why you’d want to stay.”

  Landon tilts his head back and forth, weighing the validity of the statement. “You do have a point.”

  He gets up to show Darius the door, but the king stays put. “There’s one other thing,” he whispers under his breath.

  Landon looks at him intently.

  “I need you to befriend Clive.”

  Landon groans. “You know that’s a poor idea.”

  “I need you to watch him. And I need you to watch . . .” He doesn’t realize until now how difficult the words are to speak. “I need you to keep an eye on Aldreda, but mostly the two of them. I need reports if and when you see them together, for how long, what their conversations consist of, and so on.” He takes a deep breath, not sure how his request will be received.

  Now it’s Landon’s turn to give him an empathetic smile. “I understand. And I will do just as you ask.”

  “Good.” Darius nods. “Now pack your things.”

  Landon looks taken aback. “We’re leaving now?”

  “Clive and the others should arrive by tonight. You need to be there beforehand.”

  Again, Landon’s eyes flicker to the other room. “Well, can I just . . . I just need a moment.”

  “Certainly. I will meet you outside at the carriage.”

  Landon shows him to the door and hurriedly packs his things. Even from outside the house, Darius can h
ear his wife yelling. He feels slightly guilty for a moment, then immediately better knowing that he’s taking Landon away from such a miserable situation.

  He’s going to be living in a castle, for lord’s sake.

  

  Upon their arrival at the castle, Darius is dismayed to see another carriage already parked outside the drawbridge. His lips tighten as they draw nearer and a familiar object comes into view. Eloquently detailed serpents have been carved into the wood of the carriage, and the cover is a deep emerald green.

  As the royal coachman is about to park the carriage next to it, Darius pokes his head out the side and yells, “Carry on and release the drawbridge!”

  The coachman turns over his shoulder and, with a confused look, continues onward. The drawbridge lowers slowly. Only once it’s completely lowered does Darius pull the upper half of his body back inside the moving carriage.

  “Unbelievable,” he mutters, the fact that he has company briefly slipping his mind.

  “What’s that, Your Majesty?” Landon asks.

  “Oh, don’t mind me. Just talking to myself.”

  Landon nods and averts his eyes out the window.

  When the carriage finally comes to a stop within the castle walls, Darius swings the door open and jumps out, straightening his robe behind him as he hurries toward the entrance. Landon can barely keep up. “Come along now, we have no time to waste!”

  As they enter the castle, Darius stops for a brief moment. His ears are on high alert as he attempts to hear any conversations that might be coming from other rooms, although it’s hard to hear anything with Landon’s excessive panting. “Hush, will you?” he snaps.

  And then he hears it.

  Laughter. Just down the hall.

  “This way,” he commands as he marches in the direction of the noise. They arrive at the Great Room just moments later. Muffled voices continue to converse on the other side of the doors. There’s another bout of laughter, one that’s easily recognizable.

  His wife’s.

  He gathers his nerve, then pushes through the double doors into the Great Room. There, sitting at the oversized table are his wife and, not surprisingly, his dear old friend, Clive Ridley.

  Darius looks directly at Clive. “Impeccable timing,” he says, his tone overflowing with sarcasm. He glances around the room, realizing that no one else has arrived yet. “And where are the others?”

  Clive gives him a sinister smile. “They’re on their way. Aldreda saw my carriage from the tower window and let me in. She’s been quite hospitable, something I truly appreciate after my long travels.” Aldreda blushes, and Darius can feel his own face burning. Clive changes the subject and says, “Landon Graeme, is that you?”

  From the hall, Landon pokes his head around the doorframe. Darius didn’t even realize he hadn’t followed him into the room. Landon steps through the double doors. “Clive Ridley. How long has it been?”

  “I would dare to say at least six years!” Clive says as he grabs his shoulder and slaps him across the back. “When I went to find you, you weren’t home. I should have known Darius was on top of it though.” He winks at the king.

  Darius looks up at the ceiling in an attempt to keep his eyes from rolling. He repeats his question that Clive so rudely ignored. “Where are the others?”

  “No need for unease, Your Majesty,” Clive responds with a condescending chuckle. “The remaining Savant members should arrive before midnight.”

  Aldreda pipes up, “It’ll be nice to see everyone together again.”

  Her face immediately falls as Darius shoots her a sharp look. “Right. Well, Landon and I are weary from our travels and we could use a meal. Have you two eaten supper?” Aldreda slides a goblet closer to her, clearly trying to hide some evidence. “I see you’ve already started on the wine,” Darius comments, his tone crisp. He turns to Landon. “Well, come on, pull up a chair. Let’s all have a meal.”

  Aldreda and Clive exchange a glance before joining the table. Darius pretends not to notice it, but beneath the surface, his blood is boiling. Aldreda sits next to him, with Clive across from her, and Landon takes the seat just across from him. He calls out to the servants, and they head straight for the galley to prepare the meal.

  He reaches for the half-empty bottle of verdot and pours a hefty glass. With three giant glugs, the goblet is empty. Silence surrounds them, but he quickly changes that as he slams his goblet down on the table. “Why the somber undertone? This is to be a joyous occasion!” He bangs his other hand down on the table, rattling his guests’ goblets and dishes.

  Aldreda slides her hand underneath the table and gently places it on his forearm. Darius turns his steely gaze on her. The words come out as a growl. “Do not touch me.”

  Without hesitation, she removes her hand from his arm. Darius takes another look around the table as he refills his goblet.

  Yes, tonight will surely be interesting.

  CERYLIA JARETH

  ALERTING THE GUARDS to search the castle for a rogue Caldari seemed like a bit of a stretch, even to Cerylia, but, at the time, she hadn’t had much of a choice. Unfortunately, the guards had found nothing after a full week of monitoring and searching. She’d ordered they discreetly keep an eye on Opal for several days—and in this aspect, they’d managed to succeed.

  As if her stress level isn’t already high enough, Delwynn has become increasingly more frustrated with her for not disclosing why she alerted the guards in the first place. Days have passed without speaking to Opal, and she knows if she doesn’t talk with her soon, the girl will likely sense, if she hasn’t already, that something is wrong. In tense situations, Cerylia normally confronts the problem head-on; however, this particular situation calls for a delicate hand—a thoughtful, and certainly methodical, approach.

  The queen sits quietly in her chambers, deep in thought over the prior week’s events. Trying to understand and piece things together only makes things more confusing and, on more than one occasion, she’s wanted to take the easy way out. To rid the castle of Opal and her secrets and start fresh with a new Caldari.

  The problem is . . . whomever Opal was talking to seems to know more about Cerylia’s situation than she ever would have wished. And, if that person is a Caldari, then it’s likely all Caldari members now know her plans.

  Trust has been shattered.

  Cerylia runs her fingers through her long chestnut hair, working out a tangle or two in the process. After a couple of deep breaths, she decides it’s time to face one of her two counterparts. Delwynn’s incessant whining is starting to get on her last nerve, but the thought of confronting Opal is equally as taxing. She drums her fingers on the side of her bedframe.

  Be done with it. Go straight to the source.

  Without a second thought, she leaves her room to walk to Opal’s bedchambers. It’s late in the evening, so she should already be winding down from her training and supper. She knocks on the door and Opal answers quickly, as if she’d sensed her arrival. Feeling surprised, Cerylia takes a step back, and then steps back again after just one look at her supposed protégé.

  The girl looks awful.

  Her hair is knotted and unkempt, the bags under her eyes are a dark violet, and she appears frailer than before, as if she’s made the foolish decision to forego food for the past week. She looks damaged, broken. Disheartened, even.

  “May I come in?” Cerylia asks gently.

  Opal hesitates, but eventually opens the door wider and gestures for her to enter. “What can I do for you, Your Greatness?”

  Cerylia sits in a chair across from the bed and motions for Opal to join. With an exhausted sigh, the girl trudges over to the bed and plops down. She looks her dead in the eye. “I need to discuss something of great importance with you.”

  At this, Opal straightens up a little. “Will it explain why you’ve been ignoring me for the past week?”

  Cerylia blushes, feeling fool
ish. “Yes, most likely.”

  Opal nods. “Proceed.”

  “Several days ago, I overheard something I wasn’t supposed to. And as much as I’d rather not know, I need clarification.” Cerylia studies the girl’s face before continuing. “I heard you speaking with someone . . . about me. They were asking about my situation and what I want from you.”

  Opal’s face falls.

  “At first, I heard Delwynn’s voice. But as I was leaving, I happened to run into Delwynn. He explained that he’d been with my counsel for two hours. That’s when I knew it couldn’t have been him.” She leans forward as Opal falls back. “There’s only one group who can enter this castle undetected. You and I both know who they are.”

  Opal lowers her head, but not fast enough for Cerylia to miss the guilt written all over her face. “You were speaking to another Caldari, weren’t you?”

  Her voice comes out as a squeak. “Yes.”

  The answer sends a chill down Cerylia’s spine. “Who was it, Opal?”

  The girl gives her a pleading look. “Your Greatness, I wish more than anything that I could say, but I can’t.”

  Cerylia narrows her eyes. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  “I have to protect his identity. There is so much I need to tell you, but I need to know that you still trust me.”

  The queen feels a sudden urge to laugh, but, with great effort, remains silent. Trust her? How could she tell Opal that that ship had already sailed?

  Although . . . it could be in her best interest to lie to the girl, and see what other information she might reveal. Being conniving has never been Cerylia’s strong suit, but she’ll have to make do if she ever hopes to uncover the truth. In the most unwavering tone she can manage, she says, “Yes. I still trust you.”

  Opal studies her for a moment, and Cerylia can’t tell if she’s relieved, nervous, or maybe a little of both. “Okay, here it is.” She pauses as if she might change her mind again.

  “Go on,” Cerylia urges with a forced smile.