Page 57 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

“Don’t pretend that was the annoyance,” Patran interrupted. “What was it your friend said, when they came to stay? They were less angry about the drought, even though it hit Luthar, Eprain, and Nestria, and more annoyed that the High Lady took no meetings for apologies in the week that followed, nor did her ministers offer an explanation.”

“It was not the best decision, no,” Aren allowed.

Patran turned to Nore. “I imagine the whole thing would be fine if Locke had just owned up to some mistake.”

Nore leaned in, frowning. She felt Caspian’s hand as it snaked around her back before resting on her hip. She felt his middle finger tap twice on her hip, a sign to let him lead. She hesitated—but held her tongue.

“What caused it?” Caspian asked.

Nore looked up, meeting Caspian’s eye. He was watching her face—he had fed her this question.

“Most people assume it was yet another negotiation tactic,” Patran said, and Nore didn’t think she was imagining the bitterness in their tone. “The new High Lady yet again taking the power from those she thought unfit to carry it, then restoring it again when she got her way.”

“But whatever it is she wanted,” Aren said, a touch slower, “no one really knows.”

Aren and Patran shared a loaded glance, one Nore recognized from her own marriage: someone referring publicly to a private disagreement.

Nore reached for the open bottle of Patran’s current favorite wine. Filled their glasses. Handed one to Aren. He drank, possibly without realizing how deeply.

Caspian looked at the fire. “I grew up far from here. I spent much of my early life away from home, in different systems,” he said, surprising Nore—it had never seemed to faze him. “I know what it’s like to pass into a system, to reach for your magic, and to find it lacking. It’s… Well, I needn’t explain it to you. I suppose we all know what that’s like.”

“I suppose we do,” Aren agreed. He adjusted, recrossing his legs, clearly somewhat uncomfortable. “Winter,” he said, turning back to the conversation at hand. “They fear it because it’s vulnerable. Idistran winter is hard and cold and long, and no one wants to face it without magic.” He sighed, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. “Hence this foolish competition, I suppose. There is fear of another waning—that’s what they called the deadening of power during the war.”

“Yes,” Nore said, “I’ve heard something of this. They want her to marry?”

“It’s meant to bind her will, supposedly,” Patran said. “If she remains unbound, she can continue to manipulate power as she desires. Bound, she does not have that ability.” They shrugged. “Apparently, that’s how it’s been for a thousand years, but we’ve not had to care or think about it much.”

“Or interfere,” Aren muttered under his breath.

“And Scaela,” Nore said, hoping she was treading lightly enough, hoping to slide out of Caspian’s notice. “Are they sending a suitor, too? I’ve heard tell of others…?”

Aren laughed, the sound drawn and tired. “Well,” he said, “Scaelas is somewhat protective of her. But that I cannot say. Even if he did not put forth an option, Scaelas alone is not enough to stop the United Council if everyone else forces her hand.”

Aren sighed, draining his glass. Nore refilled it before he could notice it was empty. “The hope is, if she binds her power to the mainland, it will increase stability for all. If only she were not so unwilling.”

Nore glanced over at Caspian. “How awful it would be, to not have a choice,” she murmured.

“Oh, she has a choice—I doubt she would take any of them on if she didn’t want to. But surely she, too, sees the problem of holding a throne with no blood-sworn alliances and no heir.” Aren shrugged.

Caspian looked at her again, and in that moment, she knew that she was again unveiled. She met his gaze openly, daring him to comment. Daring him to bring this up later, to fight with her, to decide that actually, this form of betrayal was not worth whatever Celestine had offered to pay him.

Everything about this mission would be easier if he just left. And everything about her future, her hopes and dreams and aspirations, would be ruined if he did.

“At least we are not marrying for nations,” Patran said. They smiled at Aren, then reached over to grip his hand. Patran raised their glass. “And we have good wine, and good company. A toast to friendship, and to choice.”

“To choice,” Nore muttered, her stomach turning sour.

She already knew she had drunk too much, but that was further cemented in the carriage as they left Aren and Patran’s and rode to the tavern where they would collect Gail, then continue their journey to the inn for the evening. Nore’s head was clouded, too light, effervescent.

Caspian sat across from her, fidgeting with the ring he wore on his little finger. Every so often, he glanced up at her, frowned, and went back to studying the trees in the darkness.

“What are you playing at, Finch?” he asked finally.

Nore was doing her best to record what she could of the night in her journal, which was made difficult by the darkness, the jolting of the carriage, and her slippery brain’s inability to hold on to the cipher she was using. “That is none of your concern.”

“It should be,” Caspian said, glancing back at his hands. “Because if you’re spying on the High Lady of Locke, it’ll get both of us killed.”

Nore’s hand stilled. She set down her pen. She had not mentioned anything about Locke in front of Caspian—Nore and Gail had been careful to keep all discussion away from him, and they never pushed conversations with their clients in that direction. But when they asked Nore about the Lindle system, or when they questioned Caspian’s ability…