“It’s as much a symbolic marriage as it is a political one. Bearing my child to seal the alliance would, of course, be ideal, but in desperate situations—as, for example, when war is a tangible threat—the Yalaengs would select one of her siblings to take her place. A union with a prince would work just as well. Possibly even preferably, since I doubt they want any half-Kazan children becoming potential threats to the throne.”

“I see.” As much good as the union might bring to Thiy, a royal marriage can’t erase past wrongs. Just as a peace treaty can’t hold forever. Words on paper, signed by kings and queens long dead. Signing a contract agreeing not to act on standing hatreds is not a promise to stop hating.

I hadn’t understood until I arrived here how fragile Ronin’s grip is on the peace. He’s holding the kingdoms together by a gossamer spider’s thread.

Theyen insists on finishing his meal before answering any other questions, so I allow him to change the subject. Since he seems to enjoy hearing himself talk, I let him carry the conversation as I construct a mental layout of his suite in case I ever get the opportunity to rifle through his rooms in his absence.

After we finish eating, we move into the sitting room as servants clear the table. A few patches of white mar the walls in here, but the room is otherwise in superb condition. Silk dressings adorn the walls, framing a tapestry of a landscape constructed from thousands of perfect little stitches.

Random musical notes puncture the room as Theyen plucks at a long horizontal string instrument tucked into the corner. I’ve always envied those with musical talent.

“Have you been by that maze of gardens at the back of the castle?” I ask Theyen. The memory of scurrying legs and the density of an unnameable power sends a shiver through me. Saengo and I move to the window, drawn by a warm draft of air.

“I’ve seen them in passing. The area is restricted to everyone but a few guards. The staff whisper that Ronin keeps his familiar back there.”

“His Spinner?” I knew that had been a Spinner lurking in the maze, but Ronin’s own familiar? “What about the rot? How can his familiar survive in the middle of the Dead Wood?”

Saengo looks to Theyen, clearly keen on the answer as well.

Theyen smiles with false benevolence. “I understand why you would think that I know everything, Sirscha, but—prepare yourself now—shockingly, that isn’t the case.” As I roll my eyes, he continues, “Ronin’s magic is intact. I’ve seen him use it to heal some sagging crops in the vegetable gardens. So clearly he must have a familiar stowed somewhere nearby.”