20 BLEED FOR ME

20

BLEED FOR ME

Erida

“The suitor is next, Your Majesty,” Lady Harrsing said in her ear, bending over Erida, who was seated on her throne.

Both sighed in annoyance. The old woman and the Queen had seen a hundred of their like over the years, petitioners noble and peasant, both men and women, rich and poor, handsome, ugly, and everything in between. They had only one thing in common—they were stupid enough to think they could tempt the Queen of Galland.

In most courts, petitions were heard in public, in a throne room or great hall jammed with courtiers feeding their own amusement. Not so in Galland. The petitions chamber was small and comfortable, wood-paneled with tapestries on the walls, one end of the room raised to seat the Queen, her chosen advisors, and her knights of the Lionguard. Today the odious honor fell to Lady Harrsing and six guardians, half of them nearly asleep. There were more knights stationed just outside, in the halls and passageways branching off the throne, should the need arise. Erida guessed they were dozing as well.

She could not blame them. She wanted nothing more than to sleep too, but she had another hour of hearings to suffer through.I can manage another starry-eyed dreamer, she thought, dismissing the Madrentine diplomat in front of her with a wave of her jeweled hand.

He bowed low and left the throne room, clearly dissatisfied. The Queen cared little for the whims of Madrence and forgot him as soon as he disappeared, leaving the space before her dais empty and waiting for the next person brave enough to approach.

Erida blinked, surprised when not one but two men approached the throne. Most petitioners were easy to read, by either the heraldry on their clothing or the set of their faces. Not so with these two. One was some kind of priest, cloaked in scarlet, his hood thrown back to show pale skin and white-blond hair. He walked with his hands folded, hidden in his sleeves. She guessed him to be a dedicant of Syrek, Galland’s patron god, though his robes were unfamiliar from any service she’d ever attended.

The other had no heraldry and no immediate look. He was pale with dark red hair—definitely of the northern continent, but she could not place him further. He had come far, if his muddy boots and dirty cloak were anything to be believed. His hands were gloved, but she wagered his nails were dirty.A soldier, she guessed, judging by his gait and the hard set of his jaw, the squaring of his shoulders. Some captain from an outpost, drunk on glory, victorious in an insignificant skirmish somewhere, and now he thinks to conquer me too.

The sword beneath his cloak gave her pause. As he walked, the folds of his clothing parted, and she glimpsed the wink of jewels. Ruby and amethyst, red and purple.No simple soldier carries a sword like that, she thought.

He did not kneel like the others, and neither did the priest. A cord of tension drew through the room, her knights rousing in their armor.

“Welcome, petitioners,” Erida said aloud, looking between them as she recited the words hammered into her skull. “What would you ask of the Lion?”

The man met her gaze slowly, raising his face. Even in the throne room, well lit by many torches and chandeliers, his eyes were dark, black as jet but without its gleam. They seemed to swallow the room. In spite of herself, Erida felt a pull to them.

“I have nothing to ask, and the world to offer. I would give you my hand in marriage, and I would give you the realm entire.” He reached out, and even from a distance, she thought she could feel his fingers. “I am Taristan of Old Cor. I carry Spindleblood in my veins, a Spindle­blade in my fist. Take them both.”

For a moment, Erida felt fear. Pure terror.

She had heard that name before, from the lips of a squire with blood on his hands.

Her well-practiced mask never wavered, as good as a shield now. She hid behind it, taking even, steady breaths. Only a few seconds passed before her fear melted like iron in the forge.

It took shape again, becoming steel.

Then there was only resolve. A plan.

A choice.

Thanks to the antics of the Spindleblood mouse, the squire, the lumbering Elder, and whoever that woman was, Erida’s wedding ceremony had to be moved from the Syrekom. The Queen of Galland couldn’t very well be married surrounded by broken glass, with evidence of catastrophe looming over everything. The court would already be talking about the feast for weeks. She didn’t need to throw any more kindling on that fire.

Luckily, there was no lack of cathedrals within Ascal. The Konrada was close enough and grand enough for a royal wedding. The Queen had an army of servants at her disposal, not to mention an actual army, and they worked tirelessly through the night to prepare. They hung the spire of the Konrada with new banners, golden as a sunbeam, and scattered roses throughout the sanctuary. They polished marble, cleaned windows, dusted pews, and shooed off the beggars at spearpoint. In the morning, the procession from the palace made for a breathtaking sight. While the court paraded over the Bridge of Valor, the citizens of Ascal crowded along the neighboring canals, craning for a glimpse.

Erida was difficult to miss, alone within a circle of knights, her cream veil trailing a full twenty feet behind her. The bridal crown was a pretty circlet of gold, curling with emerald vines and ruby roses. Taristan followed after her, resplendent in imperial red, a son of Old Cor in image as well as blood. He looked far from the man she’d met in the throne room, his muddy cloak exchanged for silk and brocade. But the soldier’s edge remained. No amount of finery could hide his lethal heart.

Ascal cheered for them both. In her mind, Erida cheered too.

He was the promise of empire. The promise of a husband who could give her as much as she gave him. Who held value as much as weakness. High enough to help her, low enough not to control her. A rare thing to find, for a ruling queen.

Despite the events of the night before, the ceremony went on without much trouble. The sun still shone; the gods still blessed the union; Lord Konegin did not attempt a coup before the vows were made. No one else dropped a chandelier or six on the court.

All in all, a success,Erida thought, eyeing the glittering crowd within the cathedral tower.

The ceremony ended in the traditional way of Galland, albeit grander than any common wedding across the kingdom. The high priest of the Godly Pantheon presented Prevail, the marriage sword of Erida’s family, and held it between them, the hilt like a standing cross. The blade was two hundred years old, too fine for war. It did not know blood. Every king and queen of Galland had married with it in hand, fingers joined together, in defiance of all that would tear them apart. Erida took it with relish, enjoying the feel of its leather grip. I am the first queen regnant to hold this sword, she thought, as Taristan’s warm hand covered her own. The high priest relinquished it, letting them hold it together. The jewels of the hilt, emeralds and diamonds, glittered beneath the stained glass of the Konrada. The gods themselves watched from their walls. Erida could feel their marble gaze.

She hoped her father was watching too.

“With this sword, you will conquer all that seeks to separate you,” the high priest said, a blessing to the couple and a prayer to the mighty Syrek. “Your allegiance is to each other and to the crown.”

Erida bowed her head first, dipping her brow to the pommel. “To you, to the crown,” she said. They were the last of her vows, the binding words. She expected to feel them like a chain around her neck. Instead there was nothing. Not joy, not fear. Nothing changed in her heart. The line she walked remained straight and true.

“To you, to the crown,” Taristan answered, lowering his own face as she straightened.

His black eyes followed her movement. His head was bare, the red of his hair shining darkly without a consort’s crown. Taristan had refused even a simple circlet. He had no use for jewels or gold. Though he had spent all night combing the city with the garrison, he did not look like it. Erida saw no circles beneath his eyes, no sharp pull of exhaustion at the edges of his face. There was only the grim shadow of failure, something they shared. For now.

And of course the four lines torn down the left side of his face. Starting below the eye, the scratches were not so deep, but they were unmistakable and refusing to fade.

He’s still handsome, at least,Erida thought, contemplating his face. The scratches did little to hide his well-boned features, more rugged than beautiful. Which is more than I can say for most. And, truly, he was a man. Not a boy playing at swords or an overgrown toddler coddled into adulthood. Taristan of Old Cor walked his own pace, self-assured, single-minded in focus. He was no stranger to blood or ambition. She’d seen it in their first meeting. She’d seen it in their second, the night before. And she saw it now, the third time, as he became her husband, rigid as a statue, determined as stone.

When he stood up again, the deed was done. She braced herself for a wave of regret that never came.

This is the path I’ve chosen.

She looked him over, her new prince consort. The celebrating, simpering court drowned out all sound from the high priest, who spoke words she did not need to hear. Taristan was not smiling, his lips set like a challenge. She offered no smile of her own. He returned her stare, black eyes meeting blue. He was not unfathomable. His wants were clear, his use obvious. There were things each could take from the other, in equal standing.

He is the right path.

Prevail returned to the high priest but their hands remained joined, as they would all the way back to the New Palace. His skin was hot but not uncomfortable, her palm fitting oddly well in his. Their steps matched as they turned from the altar and led the procession back out of the cathedral, the aisle carpeted in soft green. Taristan did not speak, as taciturn as he’d been in their first two meetings. Of course, the second had been under less than ideal circumstances, with only a few words passed between them at all before the feast went to ruin. And the first meeting had been closer to a military negotiation than a proposal, both sides well armored and clear in intention.

Taristan’s red wizard fell into the procession, a scarlet dot at the corner of her vision, just outside the circle of the Lionguard escort. Ronin, he was named. Spindletouched and gangly, he was ill at ease surrounded by people, and spent most days in the archives, hunting the tomes and crumbling parchments for word of Spindles long gone. He did not speak now, but his red hood was lowered, showing a white face and pink-rimmed, darting eyes. He reminded Erida of a hairless rat.

Outside, the summer heat continued to climb, and Erida was glad for the short walk back to the cool shade of her palace.

The canals echoed with the voices of Ascal. Her subjects roared their approval from seemingly every bridge and waterside street, their faces a pink-tinged sea. Erida waved and gestured for Taristan to do the same. Coaxing the love of the commons was always wise, especially when it was easy. And there was nothing the commons loved so much as a wedding, the splendor of a life they could not fathom brought close for a heartbeat. Joy, false as it might be, was difficult to resist.

Erida fed off it, the love of the people for the Queen. It was a comfort as much as a shield. While they love me, I am safe.

Taristan’s fingers flexed in hers, his grip loosening as they reached the Kingsbridge.

“Wait until we’re out of sight,” she warned. Her teeth set in an exaggerated smile. “Don’t give anyone an excuse to gossip. They’ll find enough reason without our help.”

He grimaced but tightened his grasp again. There were calluses on his palm and fingertips, patches of skin worn rough by years of swordsmanship. The touch of them shuddered her a little. Taristan of Old Cor had lived hard years, the testament of them in his skin. She tried not to imagine those hands elsewhere, as they would be later. There was no wedding without a bedding, no bond of marriage without a bond of body. A sword in the church and a sword in the sheets, as the crude saying went.

“I care little for court opinion,” he muttered, almost inaudible.

All thoughts of the bedding and his fine face snapped apart. Erida refused to roll her eyes. I’ll have a lifetime to teach him how wrong he is, but I don’t need to start this instant.

“How lovely that must be,” she said dryly.

Erida had never dreamed of her wedding, though her ladies-in-waiting had often asked. She’d made things up to satisfy them. A cathedral filled with flowers, milk-white horses, Madrentine lace, the marriage sword bright as lightning, a veil as long as a river, gifts from every monarch in every corner of the Ward. Some of those things had come to pass without much effort.

But what Erida had truly wished for on this day, not even a ruling queen could acquire. Her mother was dead. Her father was dead. Neither Konrad Righand nor Alisandra Reccio had lived to see their daughter crowned or wed. She tried to feel them with her, as she’d felt the gods in the cathedral, but it was like reaching through open air. The usual emptiness remained. It was an old wound, but today it bled anew. It was difficult not to look for them, even when she knew they would not appear.

With the feasting hall in tatters, the ruins of her father’s chandeliers smashed all over the floor, the reception took place in the palace gardens, beneath hastily assembled tents, with an armada of servants waving long fans. At least a good breeze blew off the lagoon, through the only gap in the palace walls.

Their table was separate from the rest, isolating the new couple from all but each other. Even Erida’s council sat apart, arranged around a long table with Ronin glowering in their midst. She pitied Lady Harrsing, who tried in vain to engage the wizard in talk.

Erida sat, taking her hand from Taristan’s. His blood ran too hot for summer. He did not seem to mind the temperature, despite his thick red doublet and the heavy gold chain strung between his shoulders. His cheeks remained pale; there was no sweat on his brow.

A servant offered him a goblet of wine. He took it without drinking, assessing the facets of the crystal cup, letting it catch the light. Taristan of Old Cor was noble in blood but not birth. He was not accustomed to the riches of royalty, nor the expectations.

“Are you going to gawk at me all day?” he said, raising his gaze to match her stare.

She didn’t blink, unfazed by the challenge. “Where are you from?”

His answer was quick, stoic. “I am the blood of Old Cor.”

Erida resisted the urge to roll her eyes once again. Instead she pulled at her wine, using the seconds to cool her frustration. “I mean, where were you born?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, shrugging without thought. “My parents were either dead or gone by the time I had the sense to look for them.” His fingers played over the crystal goblet, looking for flaws. “The Elders took my brother to Iona and made him there. The rest of the world made me.”

Thoughtful, Erida tried to listen between his words, to read thoughts as they raced through his mind. But his abyssal eyes were stone blank, as inscrutable as his face.

Taristan nudged the wine away. Unlike most rogues, he did not seem to have a taste for drink. “I spent my days in wandering.”

“Even as a boy?” She pictured an orphan growing up harshly, with no money and only his wits, then his fists, to rely upon. And then his blood, his great lineage, buried like a diamond waiting to be discovered.

“Corblood do not grow roots,” he said sternly. “I dislike this interrogation, Your Majesty.”

Erida sipped at her wine before answering.

“I am your ruling queen; I follow my own will.” The agreement is already made, our lines drawn. But I might as well remind him.

“Do as you like,” he said, shrugging. The court glittered before them, eager to eat and drink even in the hot air. But they were as jumpy as rabbits. The events of the night before were not so easily forgotten. “Your will bothers me little, so long as we keep sight of the same goal.”

The realm beneath the Lion, an empire of Galland, the Ward in my fist. The glory of Old Cor reborn.In her mind, the map on the wall of the council chamber bloomed with green, like grass in springtime. She could already feel all the world laid out, the hopes of her forefathers realized in a woman’s hands. My father’s dream made real.

She ducked her head to hide a smile, using her hair as a shield from the rest. Conquest was in her blood. It sated her better than any feast.

The first of twenty-one courses—twenty for the gods and one for the kingdom—was brought out quickly. The original plan had called for soup, but in the heat, the kitchens had wisely pivoted to a spread of herbs, cold sauces and spiced jams, cured meats, and thick, white cheeses.

Erida was served first, though she had little appetite.

“The city garrison continues their search,” she said in a low voice, poking at her plate. Quietly, discreetly. Peering into every ditch and sewer looking for Corayne and her Spindle sword. We must give no cause for alarm, to either the commons or the court. “And we have companies riding out from the fort at Canterweld to comb the countryside. If she can be found, she will be found.” The scratches on Taristan’s face were not as blue as they were yesterday, giving over to purple as bruises took shape. “It’s good she attacked you. No one will question us riding her down.”

Taristan curdled under her attention, turning his head to hide the wound. “There are other matters to attend to,” he ground out. A red sheen flared in his gaze, a trick of the sun filtering through the flapping tents.

This time, Erida did roll her eyes. She wondered if her new husband would be as predictable as most men. In this, it seemed, they were all alike.

“I know my duties, Taristan,” she replied coolly, careful to use his name. Not a title, not an endearment. No my lord or Your Highness, by careful design. I am king and queen. My rank far outweighs your own, no matter where your blood comes from. “They will be performed.”

Taristan hissed and forcibly drained his goblet, the wine dark on his lips. “I’m not talking about whatever nonsense your court requires after a wedding,” he said. “That weighs very little in my mind, when measured against what is to come.”

She blinked, surprised, though she did her best not to show it. A queen’s hand of cards should not be so easily played.

“And what is to come?” she replied. “You have twenty thousand . . . men in the foothills of the Ward Mountains, awaiting orders before a Spindle torn.” Men being the corpses of a burned realm, every soldier broken and obedient to her new consort, armed to the teeth and then some. They had killed Sir Grandel and the Norths, men she’d known all her life. But their ghosts bothered her little. “They’re nothing to sneer at, but no match for the men at my disposal, should I muster the combined might of Galland.”

“You know an army of Ashlanders is not all the Spindle gave me.” Though the sun was bright, a darkness seemed to pool around Taristan. Erida felt it on her bare skin, a weight like a feather touch.

“Yes, the temple did something to you,” she said, tentatively brushing his arm. Her eyes trailed over his chest, where a sword had punched through his heart. To anyone looking, they might have seemed the picture of cautious newlyweds. Instead of wolves sizing each other up. “The Spindle did something to you.”

Taristan watched her trailing fingers. He remained as still as the surface of a pond, and just as inscrutable.

Erida swallowed, pulling her hand away. She was glad for their small table, away from the prying eyes and ears of a court that would not understand. To Konegin and the rest, Taristan was a blood match, a son of Old Cor with little more than his dynasty to offer, an inheritance for their children. A stepping-stone to the old empire, a path to be forged by her heirs. A birthright they could claim in conquest. Emperors and empresses reborn. But Erida remembered what Taristan had said in her petitions chamber, when she’d commanded the rest away. When he’d cut his palm and bled and healed before her eyes. When he’d told her of his destiny, and what it could buy them both.

She could not resist the opportunity, then or now.

“And you have another Spindle ripped in the desert, its forgotten realm bleeding through.” She threw his own words back at him, the promises made with his proposal. Spindles torn, armies won. At the temple, in the dunes. More would follow, if Taristan and his wizard held up their end of the bargain. “As you said, you gain strength with every Spindle, and therefore so do I. In your body, in your army. So gain it,” she whispered.

Her fist clenched on the table, knuckles bright with jeweled rings. She wished for Prevail in her hand, or the Spindleblade sheathed at her husband’s hip. For a weapon to match the fire she felt inside.

“Take your sword and bleed for me, and I will bleed for you. Win us the crown our ancestors could only dream of.”

He inhaled sharply, returning her scrutiny, and Erida almost felt the breath drawn through his teeth. He was thirty-three years old, fourteen years her senior. In royal circles, that was not so terrible. But he seemed older than his years. Because of the life he had lived or the Corblood in his veins, Erida did not know. A crown sets you apart, she knew. She’d felt one all her life, even before it landed on her head. Perhaps it’s the same with him: the weight of destiny never lifting. Until it becomes second nature.

He continued to stare, black-eyed, a muscle feathering in his jaw. The son of Old Cor, a rogue and a murderer, did not enjoy being ordered around by anyone. Men never do.

“A marriage is a promise, and we promised each other the world entire,” Erida said hotly, looking away from him with wrenching force. She set to her plate, but it held no taste for the Queen. She wanted nothing more than to be finished with all this nonsense. I’m better suited to the council chamber than the feasting hall.

Taristan’s laugh was low, and as rough as his hands.

She looked back at him, braced for disdain. Instead Erida saw a sliver of pride.

“The Lion should take you as its sigil,” he said, gesturing to the banners all over the tents. Green and gold, roaring true. “You’re twice as fierce, and twice as hungry.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It was meant to be,” he answered.

At the closest table, still several yards away, the red wizard sat and glared. He ignored the council around him, for all of Harrsing’s efforts. Konegin pretended Ronin didn’t exist at all, speaking only to his lump of a son. Both were gray-faced in defeat. Erida spared them little mind. Lord Konegin was an obstacle, yes, but small in comparison to the road ahead. And she had an ally against him, a powerful one, who could not be killed by man nor steel.

The wizard drew her eye instead.

“At first I thought Ronin was a priest.”

Taristan finished the meat on his plate, leaving the rest undisturbed. “Silent and useless gods do not hold my interest,” he muttered.

“In Galland, we pray to Syrek above all. God of war, god of victory, god of conquest, god of life. And, in some scriptures, some teachings, the god of death too. The god of hell and heaven, in equal measure. You need only decide which side to worship and believe in.”

She thought of the statues, the idols, the many stained-glass windows and tapestries depicting Syrek and his bleeding sword, his flaming spear, sunlight like a halo around him, smoke and victory in his wake.

“The scriptures say he brought forth Old Cor, ushering your people into Allward from their lost realm.” Erida leaned forward. “Perhaps he means to do so again.”

Taristan did not hesitate. “Perhaps.”

When the servant returned, Erida did not refuse another glass of ruby wine.

“Where does Ronin guide you next?” she asked when he was gone. The drink was cold, at least, a relief in the heat. And it numbed her a little, smoothing her edges after a long night and longer morning.

“He’s found some promising leads in the cathedral records, whispers of Spindles through the centuries and further.” Erida wanted to ask precisely what but refrained. “We’ll head east.”

“And what will the next Spindle bring us?” Invulnerability granted. One army given. And in the desert, the power to rule the seas. What more comes?

“I don’t know until the crossing is made. I could open a door to any realm in existence, known or unknown. To Glorian, the home of the Elders, or the lost realm of my ancestors. To Infyrna’s furious blaze, the frozen wastes of Kaldine, Syderion, Drift, Irridas, Tempest,” he said, rattling off realms Erida only half-remembered from religious lessons and Spindle tales.

“Even the Crossroads, the door to all doorways.” Taristan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Or Asunder herself.” He looked to his wizard, holding his red gaze. Something passed between them, a message even Erida could not fathom. “If the girl cannot be found by nightfall, you must set a guard in Ibal, and in the foothills.”

A corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk. Corayne of Old Cor is barely more than a child, a sparrow alone while the hawks circle. “You’re afraid of her getting through burning sands and an army? She barely escaped my palace—”

“But escape she did,” Taristan bit back. The red sheen was in his eyes again, a glimmer like the edge of a coin. “There’s more at play with her, and the others traipsing after her.” His face darkened, his black brows swooping together. “Set the guard, Your Majesty.”

Dispatching men to the temple, to guard foothills within my own border, will be easy enough. We just need to keep a low profile, direct attention elsewhere.Erida clenched her teeth. But to send a company to Ibal, a foreign kingdom? Over the Long Sea and into the Great Sands, past their fearsome navy . . . how do I disguise that? How do I even make such an order?

Taristan held her stare as she thought, watching the scales balance. She wanted to shrink from his attention, to think alone, to plan in her own measured way. But there was no escape from the man beside her. And there should not be. He is my husband, a choice I made, a path I followed. He is mine to use. I should not hide from him.

Though no answer came, Erida knew she would will one into being eventually. She nodded slowly and he smiled, cruel as a knife-edge.

“Very well,” she said. “You’ll leave this evening.”

He dipped his head, glancing at Ronin again. The wizard placed his white hands on the table and stood, despite the second course being served around him.

“I’ll leave in an hour,” Taristan replied, matching the wizard.

Erida watched him stand, her face carefully blank. She was not the only one to see. The eyes of the court rose with her consort, some of them grinning rudely, others whispering. Erida did not like being pushed into a corner, but this was a corner she needed to face.

With a sigh, she rose to her feet as well, leaving the plates and wine abandoned.

“I suppose it’s best the court think you eager rather than indifferent,” she hissed. He eyed her sharply, confused for a blistering second.

Then she pulled him away, the Lionguard traipsing along at a respectable distance.

“One course of the wedding feast,” she muttered, taking his arm with a violent grip. “I believe we’ve set the record.”

The royal residence was oddly quiet. Most of the palace servants, even her handmaidens, had been commandeered for the ceremony and reception. The halls echoed, yawning as Erida walked the well-known steps to her bedchamber. The Lionguard tromped behind, their armor ringing, but they would not follow much longer. The bedding of a ruling queen would have no witnesses. Not even the red wizard, who followed behind the knights with his haunting glare.

It was not so warm within the cool stone of the palace, but she felt heat all the same, creeping up her arm and into her spine. Taristan’s palm still pressed against hers, neither of them dropping the charade of a couple. As with the glass at the feast, he looked sharply at everything—the walls, the rugs, the tapestries—drinking in a world he had never known before. All of it was as familiar to Erida as her own face. She tried to see it through the eyes of another. It felt bizarre.

Her solar was as long as a gallery, lit by a wall of windows looking out over the gardens. She could see the tents, big as ship sails, and the lagoon beyond like a green mirror. The knights planted themselves beside the windows in practiced formation. Their path ended here, guarding the door to the Queen’s bedchamber. But no further.

Better to get it over with as soon as possible. One less thing to do.

Taristan glanced at Ronin before Erida could, his expression tight. “Be ready to leave.”

The wizard didn’t argue, and turned in a smooth arc, his red cloak sweeping behind him. He left the long sitting room without a word, disappearing through another doorway, seeking a back stair. Only a few weeks and he knows the palace as well as my oldest servants.

It was not often that Queen Erida of Galland opened a door for herself, and she endeavored not to struggle with the thick oak ones leading to her bedchamber. They swung on greased hinges, heavier than she remembered, to reveal what looked like the heart of another cathedral.

Rugs patterned the floor, frames of priceless mirror glass decorated the walls, and curtains hung the columns and archways. Red flowers bloomed in vases, perfuming the air. A rose window illuminated the chamber, an ancient bed caught in the circle of rainbow light. In winter, curtains could be drawn around it, to insulate against the cold, but they were flung open in summer, the down pillows and brocade silk blankets difficult to ignore. Erida had never seen this room so empty or so still. With a jolt, she realized she had never been alone in her bedchamber, not once in her life.

The door shut with a snap. In spite of herself and the calm she tried to exude, Erida jumped in her skin.

Taristan dropped her hand. “This is of little use,” he grumbled, gesturing between them.

Then he shucked off the golden chain between his shoulders. His cloak fell with it, a pool of silk blood. He walked, not to the bed but to the closest window. It looked over the spires of the New Palace, beyond the walls to the river, the canals, the bridges. Ascal splayed out, served up on a plate. He looked eager to devour it whole.

Erida removed her crown with more care, laying it on a dressing table. “To me, yes,” she answered, grateful for something to argue. It would make this less strange. “But an heir would cement your precarious position here.”

He leaned against one of the columns, arms and ankles crossed. “A waste of time. I don’t need a child; I need Spindles,” he replied. “I’ll consider our dynasty when the Ward is won.”

The Queen scoffed and set to the pearl buttons marching down the back of her dress. They were difficult, near impossible without her fleet of maids. Taristan let her struggle, never moving from the window.

“You’re a rare man,” she said, eyeing him over her shoulder. “Unfortunately, Husband, we can only remake the world when we own it. But for now there are rules.”

The pearls unfastened, slipping through their loops, until the gown hung off her frame. Erida stepped out from it as nonchalantly as she could, clad only in her underclothes. A fine silk shift, light as a dove’s wing, left little to the imagination. Still, Taristan did not move, even when the Queen perched on the edge of the great bed.

“Make no mistake, my cousin Konegin would seize any opportunity to cast you down and annul any marriage of mine he opposes.”

“Then kill him,” he said dryly, dripping with disinterest.

Erida would be lying if she said she had not considered such a thing, especially in recent days. Konegin had his uses, but they were steadily becoming outweighed by his dangers.

“If only life were that simple,” she said, picking at her sheer skirt. Perhaps if I do away with clothing all together, I might stir him to action and get this over with. Then another thought seized her, and she snapped up her head, eyes wide as she looked over her consort. “By the gods, are you chaste, Taristan?”

His responding smile was crooked, drawn up to show a single, deep dimple in his cheek. Somehow, the scratches down his face complemented the grin. Those flat black eyes sparked, and Erida fought the urge to break his stare.

“Hardly,” he said, a hand straying to the gold clasps of his doublet. “But aren’t you? Isn’t that one of your rules?” He cast a hand around the room, using the other to unfasten the fabric at his throat. Pale skin showed beneath.

Finally,Erida thought, gritting her teeth. She wasn’t sure which was more frustrating—her obtuse husband or the rising thud of her own heartbeat.

“Some rules are less important than others, and easier to break, if you know how,” she said dismissively. The Queen of Galland was only bound by what the court saw, and it was easier to hide dalliances than a fever or cold, with both men and women. “So get on with it, then.”

His doublet hung open, revealing his own underclothes. The neck of his shirt was unlaced, strings hanging. The planes of his bare chest stood out, sculpted like a maiden’s dream, well formed by the years. But the smooth skin was scarred in a way Erida had never seen, white lines tracing over his collarbone. As her eyes followed their paths, she realized they were his veins, standing out like roots or branching lightning. He closed the distance between them as she looked, her blue eyes wide and consuming. Is his whole body like this? She wondered. Is this the price the Spindles demand?

“Is this what you want, Erida of Galland?”

Suddenly he stood over her, glaring down, a lock of dark red hair falling over his forehead. She reached up to remove his doublet, fingers grasping at his collar, but he seized her by both wrists. His skin seared against her own, though his grip was gentle as he pulled her hands away.

“Get on with it,” she said again, a whisper this time. A plea as much as a command.

He leaned forward, coming closer. Erida could smell the tang of smoke on his skin, the new embers of flame.

Then he dropped her wrists. “Not like this.”

She didn’t move when he reached behind her, swiping pillows and blankets to the floor. Silk and fine linens peeled away, spilling off the bed at haphazard angles. He even shifted the mattress for good measure, forcing her to jump to her feet.

“What are you doing?” Erida demanded, looking between him and the ruined bed.

He didn’t answer and assessed the blankets. After a long moment, he nodded, satisfied. Then he rounded on the Queen, his focus unbroken, his eyes combing over her hair. His fingers soon followed, loosing her braids, mussing the ash-brown curls until they fell in errant waves, unkempt and out of place. Erida stared at him through it all, speechless, furious. She wanted to slap him away. She wanted to pull him closer, the heat of his fingers a threat and a promise. Taristan kept his lips pursed, his breathing even, his eyes far from her own as he worked. And, finally, he tugged at the shift, lowering one side of the collar, until a white shoulder peeked through, spotted with three small freckles few men had ever seen.

Before she could even flinch, he drew a dagger and cut at his own palm, using the hand to smear a line of blood across the white sheets.

Only when he stepped back, putting a full six feet between them, did he raise his eyes. His palm healed before her eyes, the flesh knitting back together as he wiped the blood away. He scrubbed his other hand through his hair, setting it at ends like her own. Erida glared at him with all the rage and indignation she could muster, her anger volcanic. A tinge of pink spotted high on his cheeks, the only change in his stoic face.

“I’ll send word when Ronin gets his bearings,” Taristan said, bending into a short, stiff bow. It was the only awkward thing about him, like watching a lion try to joust.

“That’s too much blood,” Erida said dryly, glaring at the mussed blankets, feeling hot all over. How dare you, she thought, running a hand through her ruined hair. She wanted to strangle him.

“Enough to satisfy any stupid lords who dare to ask after our bedsheets.”

“There will still be talk,” she said through clenched teeth. If you shrug again, I will kill you, and find someone less infuriating to marry.

Taristan tossed his doublet away with a curling sneer, leaving only his undershirt tucked into his breeches. He seemed more himself without the trappings of royalty, and he rolled his shoulders, the white veins moving with his muscles.

“Let them talk, Your Majesty,” he replied, turning on his heel. It was the closest thing to a farewell he gave, another Spindle already on his mind.

In his wake, the Queen burned. Not like this, she thought, playing the words over and over in her mind. It was a puzzle she didn’t know how to solve.