Page 116 of The Court of Venus

Above the door, the oath flashed silver, a reminder he could not yet cross. For Alvion, I take up my sword. For love of King, I become his armor. For his Magician, I offer my future.

“Did you bring the documents?” asked Roland.

Oliver nodded, peeking over our shoulders into the council room.

“Good. Bianca, look them over, won’t you? You’re better at this sort of thing.”

Oliver muttered, “What, at reading?”

We wore more appropriate clothing—and our true faces—to be received by the king.

Roland’s former chambers had already been handed over to the Guildfords, so we changed in mine. They were empty at first glance. No Bess waiting for me. There was only a russet mouse with blood-red eyes perched on the mantel.

“Leave us,” I said to the men, giving Miranda privacy to transform.

Naked and bristling, she curled over her knees. I tossed her a shift. As she tugged it over her head, she asked, “Is Tom truly dead?”

“Yes.”

She rolled over, then, laughing hysterically, clutching her stomach. The veins on her neck protruded as she cackled. When she was finally spent, she peered up at me. “What now?”

“Now, we are going to have Roland reinstated as lord chancellor by the king and you pardoned. Oliver has taken the liberty of writing your confession already. It says you were forced by the Guildfords, you had no ill will toward the king. Charles Guildford is under arrest and will be escorted to the Tomb.”

She turned so I could lace up her gown. “Will there be no more blood?”

“There will be more.”

Over her shoulder, a cruel slash of a grin. “Excellent.”

We leaned over the agreements and pardons drawn up by Oliver. Roland held up a candle for me as I crossed out lines. Rewrote others. “‘The crown shall pass to the king’s rightful heir. However, if, before his crowning, said heir plans or executes treasonous acts against His Majesty King Richard—see page eight for list of treasonous acts and deeds—or proves disloyal to His Majesty King Richard in either deed or remark—see page eleven for treasonous remarks—the lord chancellor may rule as regent in his stead.’” I tested that on my tongue. “Are you sure that wording is correct?”

Oliver hesitated. “Precision is essential. Every single word holds immense meaning in an oath.”

I crossed out plans and wrote intends.

He nodded. “Better. Now, Roland, you sign it.”

Sealing the parchment with dripped wax and a stamp of Roland’s ring, we carried it to the king’s chambers. There, Captain Tromblay nodded to us, his beard still laced with Guildford blood. “Lord Chancellor,” he said as Roland passed.

Roland’s smirk was arrogant as ever as the doors opened wide for him.

The king lay in bed, and as soon as he saw Roland, he reached for him. Roland rushed over and knelt at his side. “Your Majesty,” he said, gripping his hands. “I came as soon as I received word. Your Mercury here—” He nodded to Oliver. “—rode swiftly.”

“You tried to warn me,” cried the king. “Sweet Roland. How did you escape the Tomb?”

“Whispers of a plot reached me. That the Guildfords were planning to assassinate you and let the crown pass to Fulke. They were going to marry him to Cecily. The Archimago Tomb could not hold someone who so desperately wanted to save his king’s life, not when it bends to your will, now could it?”

The king nodded; the lie’s logic made sense to him. “They will die for this,” he hissed.

Roland’s eyes met mine as he brushed his lips over the king’s forehead. “We have taken the liberty of drawing up an arrest warrant for Charles Guildford and Fulke Roet,” Roland said.

Oliver stepped forward. “And a pardon for the Guildford magician. Miranda is her name, I believe. She has been questioned, and her loyalty to you is undoubtable. She was forced.”

“Yes, yes,” the king muttered. He was accustomed to being handed papers.

Roland helped him out of the bed to sit at his desk, and one by one, Oliver slipped the papers before the king. His pen scratched Richard Rex again and again. He did take the time to skim each one; Roland had said he would, though he rarely asked questions. Until: “What is this one, darling?” He held up the page covered in the scribbles of my own hand, not that he knew it. My hand was everywhere, and he did not see its shadow.

“Oh, this?” Roland inspected it, wrinkling his nose. “In the event of your—”