Married. Two mornings later and the thought still feels wrong—it reminds me of coming out of the High Valleys and seeing the flat, dead horizon for the first time. No matter what evidence I had that it was real, my mind didn't want to process it. Now that same feeling of amura binds my thoughts just like the wedding ribbon bound Riszev and Aster's hands.

Trying to leave the unease behind, I lengthen my strides. Soon, I approach Riszev's new room for the first time since her marriage. Her two guards block the suite door. I nod at them, but they just eye me.

Confused, I lift the tray in my hands. "I'm here to bring the Princesse Consort her breakfast."

They frown but grudgingly step aside. Balancing the tray on one hand, I knock, then unlock the door. Steeling myself, I open it.

I let out a breath. The front room is empty.

This isn't the first time I've been in here—I helped move the last of Riszev's things during the reception—but it is the first time I've known people were sleeping behind those doors. Discomfort swirls in my stomach, but I hurry to the Consort's door and knock. "Riszev?"

"Enter."

Relieved she's already awake, I slip inside. She sits cross-legged and straight-backed on the floor. Her eyes are closed and her hands move in an intricate motion that reminds me vaguely of the fæn spell. My eyes sweep the room. No one else is here, and the last of the tension leaves my body. I set the tray on her bedside table. "Breakfast."

Her eyes stay closed. "Where were you yesterday?"

"I didn't want to bother you." Or Aster. The discomfort in my stomach tightens into a knot. "You never sent for me, so I thought you didn't need me."

"But I did not have to send for you today?" Her raised brows are the only change to her expression.

I don't bother answering her question and instead sit in front of her. "What are you doing?"

Her hands come to rest mid-air, fingers forming two touching circles. She opens her eyes and drops her arms to her lap. "Ashva. It centers your mind"—she touches her forehead—"and your self." She touches her heart. "Helpful with magic. Eri did not give me much skill with casting, but I can still honor her with ashva." She smiles, dropping her hand again. "Do you want to learn?"

I'm intrigued, but if the discipline is anything like fæn, then it'd be idiotic to try it in front of anyone. I don't know what the Retrans think of wild magic, but I don't want to find out by turning silver in front of their princess. I shake my head. "Maybe another day. Right now, your breakfast is getting cold." I wink.

"Bah," she says but smiles, and I rise to retrieve her food.

She offers me morsels from her sparse tray, but I wave my hand. "I already ate." It was a thin, meager bowl of porridge, but it was no less than Illesiarr or Elénna got, and their work is far more taxing than mine.

Her eyes flick up to me, but she says nothing. When she finishes, there's still food left on her tray, and she pushes it toward me. "I am done."

I frown at her, unconvinced.

She waves both hands. "Please, I am done. Eat the rest, or it will go to waste."

"There was hardly enough there for a child."

She stands and stretches. "Warriors learn to get by on much and little." She straightens. "Hurry, so we can go."

Grateful, I scoop what's left into a napkin and stand. "Where are we going?"

Mischief dances in her eyes. "Somewhere we were not invited. Grab my coat." She scoops up her sword and straps it on, shtan swishing as she saunters out of the room.

Stuffing a bit of bread into my mouth, I find the coat in her wardrobe and catch up in the hall. Behind us, one of her guards closes and locks her door, and the other follows us. For a moment, I expect Riszev to wave her off like normal, but she doesn't.

Bits of rumors the past two days click into place. That's why the guards were so jumpy earlier. Someone tried to hurt Riszev. I shiver and do my best to keep up. "How do you know to go if you weren't invited?" She opens her mouth, and I hold up my hand. "And don't say because you have an eye for such things."

She makes a face, but amusement shines in her gaze. I watch her expectantly.

"I overheard."

I raise my eyebrows, waiting for the rest of the story.

She huffs, and we twist around the main stairs. She takes them two at a time, and I have to hurry to keep up. When we reach the bottom, she says, "I simply do not like secrets. A great many people seem to be going—I want to know why we were not invited."

I frown, curious myself now.

We push into the first floor courtyard. A handful of women mill about, but for the most part, the area is empty. In the center, servants are putting the final touches on a wooden stage.

I grab Riszev's wrist. She looks over at me, startled.

"We don't want to stay."

Her eyes ask an unvoiced question.

"Trust me. Nothing good will come of this."

Her face softens. "You can leave if you want. But I want to see." Her wrist pulls from my grip.

Frustrated, I follow her. Within half an hour, the courtyard is filled with Ladies, and the Queen takes her place in the alcove above. The little rock-faced magician climbs the stage. This time, there are no poles for a guillotine, just a stand similar to the one they restrained Jacin against. To the magician's side, a set of courtyard doors open, and a guard leads in a middle-aged woman. She reminds me of a stuffed doll I had once—all pillowy curves and soft edges, clothed in a muslin dress. Tears stain her plain face, and her long hair hangs unbrushed. A sick feeling twists my gut. What could this poor woman have done to deserve being dragged onto this stage?

The guard forces her to her knees and binds her arms atop the block in front of her. Her face quivers, but she holds back any more tears.

Rockface looks back at the Queen, and she nods. He turns to the crowd and pulls out his scroll. "For defying the orders of our Lady Queen, holding no regard for the other inhabitants of the castle, including the soldiers that bravely defend our walls, by habitually taking more than her share of meals, Inner Lady Darraphí is henceforth stripped of her title. She shall maintain her lands but bear ten strokes of the caster's knife in her shame."

Now a sob escapes her lips, and my heart twists. As Rockface draws his small knife, the crowd leans forward, pressing in behind me. I should have taken Riszev up on her offer to leave when I was still able to. I glance at her, but her face is as unreadable as the stone walls.

After the Queen's final, icy nod of approval, Rockface steps forward and slices across the back of Darraphí's arm. She screams, and I throw my hands over my ears. What point is there to this? Hasn't there been pain enough?

Rockface draws the knife over her again, and blood drips down her arm into a bowl at the base of the stand. I look away, sickened.

A third, fourth, fifth strike. The woman's wails burrow past my hands and into my head.

Useless at blocking the noise, my hands drop. Rockface moves to the woman's other arm. I clasp my necklace, and Riszev's fingers twine with my other hand. Surprised, I look over now to see not stone but thunderheads. The woman cries out, and our grips tighten.

By the time he makes the final strike, Darraphí's voice is only a whimper. He lays his knife between her arms and stoops to retrieve the bowl where the blood collected. He raises it for the crowd to see. "By the magic Lady Jacqueline gifted us with and the gracious order of the Queen, we shall turn pain into profit."

He throws powder into the bowl like some exaggerated stage performer, and the crowd presses closer again. Their eagerness and Rockface's showmanship disgust me. He calls out words in the magic tongue and swirls his finger into the bowl. As he swirls, the blood becomes more and more solid, and he shapes it as it forms like clay. He shouts the spell's final word and holds the blood-red sculpture above his head.

Parts of the crowd murmur with delight, and my stomach sours.

"A suckling pig," he calls, "as a gift from our Lady Queen."

Something low sounds in Riszev's throat, and I tug back on her hand before she tries to charge through the crowd.

Rockface turns to Darraphí, who the guard has unbound, and proffers the sculpture. Her face is red with pain and wet with tears, and she doesn't even have the strength to glare at him. "To display in your home for the next generation. May it bless you as you have blessed this castle."

She takes it with a trembling hand, and as Rockface makes a speech to dismiss everyone, a greying man approaches the back of the stage and guides Darraphí down. She sobs into his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around her, drawing her out of the courtyard.

Softly, Riszev growls, "Did the Queen change her order?"

I tear my gaze away. "What?"

"About the food. Did your Queen change her orders about it?"

"I don't think so. It's still a brass castle a plate."

"Then how could a woman order too many plates?" she says, teeth clenched.

My stomach drops. She's right. The Queen never set a maximum. The idea of it might have been there, but there was no dictate made.

"Are your people always so cruel?"

My head turns to her sharply, but she's looking at where the Queen sits straight-backed above us. "I don't know. I didn't grow up in the castle."

Releasing my hand, she turns, and I follow close through the leaving crowd. "Then I hope your home did not punish their people like that. My countrywomen would rather die than be dishonored so."

* * *

From the Auditorium's viewing gallery, the Ladies look like a bunch of twitchy rabbits wondering if a fox is going to stick its nose down their burrow. Riszev, seated in front of the Table Arbitrate, is uncharacteristically quiet, but her dark stare is loud enough to make up for it. Queen Selenia seems to ignore the charged atmosphere, her gracious smile lighting the room. Chills murmur over my skin at the contrast between it and the cold imperiousness she wore this morning. I can't hear anything, but I imagine her voice bubbly-bright as she gestures at Lady Osennia in the tiered seats. The girl rises, curtsies to the Queen, and takes the empty seat at the Table. Lady Riletta beams at her, but her daughter ducks her head. I wonder if she's also aware that her seat can be bought and sold at the price of a blood-red statue.

Once Riszev gets out, we retreat to her suite. When pages come to the door, the guards send them away. Riszev tosses the notes her soldiers pass her into the fire.

I don't suppose she plans on going to tea with anyone today.

Her mood lightens some as the day wears on, though, and we end up trading childhood stories to pass the time. I have to modify mine, but despite our differences, little anecdotes can be surprisingly similar. We've both snuck somewhere we weren't supposed to go, annoyed our teachers with too many questions, given our everything to make our parents proud—the details aren't so important as the substance. The conversation swings from serious to humorous, and we're in the middle of laughing at each other when Aster walks in.

He looks like a cadaver alive, the rings under his eyes so dark as to make them almost seem sunken in. The staff he leans on startles me as it thrums magic words in the voice of the grandfather whisper at the tunnel door. Beneath its deep tone overlays other voices, all speaking different words at the same time.

Riszev's laugh breaks off, and I tear my eyes away from the staff. She rises from her cushion on the floor. "Astraeus."

He cringes, subtly enough that Riszev might have missed it. "Princesse Consort."

The room hangs in awkward tension until Riszev says, "Leavi, please go get our dinners."

I hurry to rise, but Aster holds up his hand. I freeze, and he says to Riszev, "I already sent Ollem." It's so odd for him not to look at me when he talks.

"Oh." She pulls her hair over her shoulder and glances at me. "Will you wait in the bedroom then?"

I dip my head, grateful to escape. Neither the crackling fire of the living room nor the staff's hum is enough to cover their voices, but at least they can't see me hearing them. I'd rather not exist in the room than Aster look at me like I don't.

Through the door, Aster says, "The assassin was a low-tier illusionist."

Riszev's voice lowers in shock. "One of your people?"

His words are burning embers. "I fear there were more traitors among us than that. A girl I wanted to interrogate for potential involvement is dead, and I doubt it was as much an accident as it looks."

There's shuffling as one of them settles onto the couch. Then Riszev says softly, "So whoever it was can try again."

I almost miss his reply under the staff's steady whisper. "They could." His voice gains a little strength. "But it seems unlikely that they would. Your people are already coming, and we've made it clear what happened to the last person."

The whisper of the staff suspends Aster and Riszev's silence in the air. Does Riszev nod? Are they looking at each other, Aster's hand finding hers? Or do their gazes drift off to the walls and floors? Maybe I'm not the only one Aster looks at like a stranger.

Barely above the pop of the flames, Riszev says, "That is how my father died."

There's a thoughtful, respectful pause before his just-as-quiet response. "I'm sorry."

"They did not get what they wanted at least. Mother never took another elyud-zin-dri."

Someone settles on the couch cushions. "These will not get you."

"I know." There's the same forced strength in her voice as when she said that marrying Aster was a great honor. "I trust my sword."

"And you'll have ours."

"Thank you." The fire crackles. "Astraeus?"

"Riszev." His voice is pointed, and there's a moment's pause. "Please, just call me Aster."

"As you like." A log pops in the hearth. "Are you sick, Aster?"

The moment suspends, and I press my ear to the door. "No." There's rustling, as if he stands. "Things have just been difficult. There's something I need to work on." The susurration of the staff moves across the room.

"Are you not going to eat dinner?"

"Ollem can bring it to my room." His door closes.

Riszev is quiet until the front door opens and Ollem comes in. He brings Aster's tray to him and Riszev calls me to join her. Her voice isn't loud when she does, and I wonder if she's used to servants overhearing her conversations.

We eat, but the spirit has gone out of us both. Hardly a word passes as I brush her hair and bid her goodnight. In Aster's room next door, the staff is the only sound.

I think all three of us heard things tonight we did not want to.