At the head table, the king stood. His face was flushed and he wobbled. He raised his glass. “My friends, my subjects, today is Midsummer’s Eve. We have much to celebrate and much to mourn. I—words have abandoned me in light of what’s happened in the last day. Our kingdom has endured the grievous loss of Catrinna Gyre and her entire household at the hands of her murderous husband, and the loss of our beloved prince.” The king choked out the words and his emotion was so obvious that not a few eyes brimmed with equal tears. The prince had been young and dashing if unwise, and the Gyres had been respected for decades personally and for generations familially.

“Today we gather to celebrate Midsummer’s. Some might wonder why we celebrate in the shadow of such dark deeds. I’ll tell you why. We wish to celebrate the lives of our loved ones, not yet mourn their deaths.” On the king’s left hand, Lord General Agon was nodding his head with grim approval. Durzo wondered how much of this speech was Agon’s. Most of it, he suspected.

The king drank from his glass, forgetting that he was in the middle of a toast. The nobles throughout the room looked confused. Should they drink, or was the king not finished? Half chose each, but the king continued, gaining volume. “I’ll tell you why we’re here. We’re here because the bastards who murdered my boy aren’t going to stop me. They aren’t going to get me. They aren’t going to stop me from doing whatever the hell I please!”

Lord General Agon looked alarmed. Aleine IX had slipped into the first person singular from the royal plural. He must have had more to drink than was apparent.

“And I’ll tell you what is our sovereign pleasure. There are schemers, plotters—traitors!—here tonight. Yes! And I swear to you traitors, you will die!” The king had gone purple with rage. “I know you’re here. I know what you’re doing! But it’s fucking not going to fucking work!”

Well, look who learned a new word.

“No, sit down, Brant!” the king shouted as the lord general stood.

The nobles were stricken silent.

“Some of you have betrayed us to Khalidor. You’ve murdered our prince! You’ve killed my boy! Logan Gyre, stand!”

Serah Drake was sitting near the back according to her rank, but even from above, Durzo could see the terror on her face. She thought the king was going to have Logan executed publicly, and she wasn’t alone.

Logan Gyre stood, shaken. He was handsome, and from what Durzo knew, formidable, and popular with both the assembled nobles and the small folk of the city.

“Logan,” the king shouted, “You’ve been charged with my son’s death. And yet here you are tonight, celebrating! Did you kill my boy?”