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I force myself up to standing and walk across the tower, stepping carefully around the piles I’ve made. Donovan’s signet ring lands on Ensyvir’s new wooden desk with a thud, and I wipe my palms on my shirt, as though I’ve just touched something dirty.
When I close my eyes, Doshir’s wings spread across my memory. He’d been injured, bleeding out of an open wound in his shoulder, and that’s the part of this particular memory that won’t leave me alone. He needed stitches, and the wound needed to be washed. He needed—
I clench my jaw, wrestling with my own thoughts. It’s over. Whatever Doshir needed, I’m damn sure he was able to find it. And now the only thing I can do is keep quiet, keep small, and keep from drawing attention to Doshir’s escape. Still, my eyes pull back to the vast expanse of the new wooden desk four servants hauled up here yesterday morning, and I find the signet ring shining like a little sun.
My vision blurs, and something bitter rises in the back of my throat. Because I chose that stupid kings-cursed ring, didn’t I? I chose the man who was supposed to wear that ring, the man I’d been taught to obey above all else. The man who had never once given me what I’d wanted.
Foolish, foolish woman.
My gut lurches sideways. I bring my fist to my mouth and close my teeth over my fingers until the nausea abates, and then I press my palms to my eyes and breathe, slowly, through my mouth.
Ensyvir put me in charge of cleaning his tower. I’m still not certain what destroyed his tower in the first place, although I’m starting to suspect it was Ensyvir himself. All the doors lining the far wall are closed fast, and I haven’t dared to see if they’re locked. It might be some sort of test, seeing if the foolish woman would dare to slide a key into a lock.
Memories tumble over themselves in my mind. A key in a lock. A door yawning open, revealing darkness. Then revealing Doshir, chained to the wall, his dark eyes locked on mine like he was seeing something out of a fever dream. My chest feels tight; the room spins.
Damn it, this isn’t helping. I squeeze my hands into fists so tight my nails bite into my palms, then force myself to walk in a slow circle around Ensyvir’s tower. Around the mess I’m cleaning. Around all the many interesting things I’ve found here.
The maps were the first mystery. So many maps, and almost none of Valgros. There were dozens of maps of Cassonia, home to King Donovan’s new wife Queen Nepetha, and an entire stack of maps of the Iron Mountains, which were claimed by dragons and only loosely affiliated with any human s.
And then I found the orders Ensyvir had been writing. They were mostly troop movements, sending His Majesty’s Royal Army to Cassonia and then establishing outposts along the foothills of the Iron Mountains. Requesting supplies. Raising a few taxes to generate income to purchase those supplies. A few of the orders were addressed to the of Cassonia and signed with a different signet ring, one I hadn’t yet seen. Perhaps Queen Nepetha was still holding her own signet ring, even if Ensyvir was the one writing the orders.
But I still couldn’t see the sense in any of it. Why would Ensyvir choose to ally Valgros with Cassonia? Valgros and Cassonia had been rivals for as long as I’d been alive, fighting petty skirmishes over coastal outposts. Besides, Cassonia was a small, rugged with suspicious ties to the dragons of the Iron Mountains, a stuttering economy and, if Ensyvir’s maps were accurate, even less arable land than I’d been led to believe. Donovan’s marriage to Nepetha would bring precious little to Valgros, and it looks like it had already cost us damn near our entire army.
I rub my eyes again, then walk back to the stack I’ve been organizing. The heat and the stink of the room is making my head spin, and I have to move quickly. I don’t dare risk Ensyvir’s suspicions by taking the time to examine the things I’d found. He expects me to be foolish and weak. Someone foolish and weak wouldn’t dare read His Majesty’s Royal Advisor’s paperwork.
No, she would just do as she was told. And Ensyvir had told me to clean this mess up, with an indignant swing of his hand as he’d marched toward the door, papers and quill tips crunching beneath his black boots.
So I was cleaning this mess up. And I’d decided to arrange the paperwork I’d found in the most asinine way I could imagine. I pick up the stack of parchment that had been hiding Donovan’s signet ring and bring it to the far wall, where I have the rest of Ensyvir’s documents. Neatly arranged. By size.
I smile at the utter chaos of stacking royal proclamations on top of city maps on top of lists of expenses just because they are all roughly the size of a clay brick. Foolish indeed. Then I turn back to the room, and to the tiny island of destruction that still remains.
A distant thud drifts up the stairwell, followed by another, and another. My body goes cold, despite the sweat sliding down the back of my neck. That sound could be many things, of course. Servants or soldiers or just a strange echo from another part of the palace.
But it isn’t. I haven’t seen Ensyvir in two days, not since he’d demanded that I clean up the destruction of his tower, but I know this is him. It has to be him.
I stand perfectly still in the center of the tower, my heart hammering inside its cage, as the footsteps boom closer and closer. Finally, a shadow falls across the open door. A moment later Ensyvir steps into the room, his black cape sweeping out behind him. He’s smiling at me with a strange, predatory expression that makes me feel like ice is gathering inside my veins.
“Mothers, it’s hot in here,” Ensyvir snaps. “You have heard of windows, have you not, child?”
I jump, then rush over to the closest window and tilt it open. A gust of wind drags through the room, rustling the stacks of papers. I walk to the next window and open it as well, breathing deeply of the salt-tinged air, while Ensyvir frowns at the neat piles of paperwork I’ve laid out along his far wall.
“What in the nine hells is this?” he growls.
“They’re organized,” I reply. “Sir.”
He narrows his eyes at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m toying with him. My gut pulls tight.
“Organized by what, exactly?” he asks.
I swallow hard. “I— I didn’t want to read them,” I say. “Sir.”
Ensyvir steps closer to me. My back goes stiff.
“So you organized them by… size?” he asks, in a voice that sounds like a hiss.
I nod, and it’s only as my head comes up that I catch the flicker of motion. Ensyvir’s cloak billows as he raises his fist toward my temple.
I move without thinking, my body following the steps to the dance I’ve been taught my entire life. My arm meets Ensyvir’s with a solid thud, muscle against muscle, my forearm catching his fist just before it slams into my skull.
