Page 176 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“What?” Isander half-rose from the armchair.

Duncan crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside his travel pack. He tore it open and dug through it with unsteady hands. Spare shirts. A rolled map. Cursed moons. A tin of salve. At last, his fingers closed around a folded scrap of parchment.

He pulled it free and bent over it, scanning the lines. Then he cursed.

“What are you reading?” Isander moved behind him, peering over his shoulder.

Duncan dragged a hand down his face. “Another letter from the imposter baron. It arrived the day Kora fell ill. I read it quickly. I did not know what to do with it. Then Yaoaya arrived, and Alewyn, and…” He shook his head. “I forgot I had it.”

Isander’s brow furrowed. “Go on.”

“It confirms Valdir is conspiring with Oorlon, and it claims he has a man inside the palace.”

Isander went still. “Someone working in secret with Kryovarre?”

“The letter does not clarify the connection,” Duncan replied. “But I assume that is the meaning. Someone at court. Someone trusted.”

“And you believe that person may have killed the empress?”

“Possibly.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Or perhaps they had no hand in it at all. I can make little sense of any of it.”

Isander folded his arms. “Killing the empress is no petty act. It suggests planning. A clear aim. It may have nothing to do with Kryovarre’s informant. It could be retaliation for Wolmer’s policies. Koraleise may not be in danger.”

Duncan sank into a chair, elbows braced on his knees as he pressed his palms to his face. He could scarcely separate one emotion from the next.

“Is that all?” Isander asked quietly.

Duncan lowered his hands and stared at the parchment again, as if the ink might rearrange itself into clearer meaning. “He also claims an army intends to strike in winter.”

Isander blinked. “Winter campaigns cripple armies. Men die of cold before they see battle. Supply lines falter. There is a reason nobles save their wars for warmer months.”

“Which is precisely why it would work,” Duncan said, leaning back to stare at the ceiling.

Isander pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did he say where?”

“No.”

“That is of little help—”

“The lad is walking a blade’s edge,” Duncan interrupted, worry cutting into his voice. “He risks his life sending even fragments of warning. We cannot expect neat answers.”

Isander’s jaw tightened, then eased. He returned to his seat, posture still tense. “I wonder who it could be. Valdir’s man in the palace.”

Duncan forced his thoughts into order. “When I first read the letter, a few names came to mind. But none seemed right once I considered them.”

“Who?” Isander asked, leaning forward.

“Sabine derKyral,” Duncan said. “Born in Kryovarre, though he pretends otherwise. He has land there but spends the year in Vaelstrom, circling Wolmer like a vulture with too much time and too few morals. He asks questions he has no business asking. He knows details he should not.”

Isander considered that. “Interesting,” he allowed. Then he shook his head. “Sabine lives for gossip and wine. He trades information for attention and sells secrets to the highest bidder, not for allegiance. Treason demands conviction or desperation. Sabine has neither.”

Duncan exhaled. “I know.” He rubbed at his temple. “I also considered Banholt derRhree.”

“The handsome Marquess of Ardan Keep?” Isander lifted a brow. “The one who has bedded his steward’s wife for years and still believes no one knows?”

“The very same.” Duncan gave a tired breath. “He is fundamentally decent, affairs aside. But he is drowning in debt. Enough that someone could exert pressure and make him comply. When a man fears ruin, principles begin to look negotiable.”

Isander nodded slowly. “He owns a courier network. Letters pass through his hands daily. It would be simple to divert correspondence, to read what was never meant for him.”