“I find it highly appropriate, you see.” Tolly grinned again, showing his teeth and reminding the poet that this man was a wolf even among other wolves. “Three brothers, one of them dead—because Kernios was killed, of course, before he came back to life—who must overthrow an old, useless king.” He flicked a finger. “Get to work, then. Keep yourself busy. We would not want such a gifted fellow as you to fall into idleness. That breeds danger for young men.”

Three brothers, one dead, overthrow the king, Tinwright thought as he bowed to his new patron. Surely that’s the Tollys taking Olin’s throne. He wants me to write a celebration of himself stealing the throne of Southmarch!

But even as this idea roiled in his guts, another one crept in. He’s as much as said he’ll kill me if I cause him any trouble—if I go near Elan. Clever Zosim, protector of fools like me, what can I do?

“You will perform it at the feast on the first night of Kerneia,” Tolly said. “Now you may go.”

Before going back to his rooms Tinwright stumbled into the garden so he could be alone as he threw up into a box hedge.

“What are you doing, woman?” Brone tried to get up, grimaced in pain, and slumped back down into his chair.

“Don’t speak to me that way. You will refer to me as ‘Your Grace.’”

“We’re alone now. Isn’t that why you sent the priestess away?”

“Not so you could insult me or treat me like a chambermaid. We have a problem, Brone, and by that I mean you and I.”

“But what were you thinking? You have kept the secret for years, and now it seems that everyone in the castle must know.”

“Don’t exaggerate.” Merolanna looked around the small room. “It’s bad enough you stay seated when a lady is in the room, but have you not even a chair to offer me? You are nearly as rude as Havemore.”

“That miserable, treacherous whoreson…” He growled in frustration. “There is a stool on the other side of the desk. Forgive me, Merolanna. It really is agony to stand. My gout…”

“Yes, your gout. Always it has been something—your age, your duties. Always something.” She found the stool and pulled it out, settling herself gingerly on its small seat, her dress spreading around her like the tail of a bedraggled pheasant. “Well. Now is the time when you can make no more excuses, Brone. The fairies are across the bay. Olin and the twins are gone and their throne is in terrible danger—the Eddons are your own kin, remember, however distant.”

“You don’t need to tell me that I have failed my family and my king, woman,” Brone growled. “That is the song I sing myself to sleep with every night.” He didn’t seem anywhere near as bleary as he had only a short time ago.

“Then listen now. The Tollys have their hands around the throat of the kingdom. And somehow—somehow, though I don’t pretend to understand it—my child is involved. Our child.”