For three or so years, Bitterblue had been receiving such letters. She and her friends had begun to learn the Keepish language—for a while, it had been a bit of a fad—and import Keepish goods. The silks of Winterkeep were bright and beautifully woven and their oils produced a clear, warm light. Winterkeep also had a vast range of teas that were medicinal or recreational, some merely delicious. The Torlan nations were close enough for trade, but seemed to have no thoughts of war. The Keepish were dark-haired like the Lienid, dark-eyed as well, with browner skin than anyone from Giddon’s continent. The Torlan continent had at least five languages and the Keepish were eager to communicate with their new neighbors across the sea. In Monsea, as in all Seven Nations, the native language was called Lingian, shortened from “Gracelingian.” At the request of the Keepish prime minister, Bitterblue had sent teachers to the Winterkeep Academy, to teach Lingian to the Keepish.

Everything had been exciting and hopeful. Until her envoy and one of her advisers had taken a pleasure cruise in the Brumal Sea and gone down with their ship. Before getting a chance to tell Bitterblue news about zilfium, apparently.

When Giddon reached Bitterblue’s court, he slid off his horse. A groom materialized, taking the responsibility of the animal away from him with such efficiency that he could have wept with relief. He dragged himself through the castle, down corridors, up staircases, talking to no one, looking at no one. He found his rooms, blundered inside, ignored the mountain of letters on the table, the cat on the armchair who shot him an aggrieved look. He was asleep before he’d even landed on the bed.

—

In early evening he woke, feeling like a new man. He glanced around for the cat. Lovejoy, the world’s oldest, scruffiest, and grouchiest animal, belonged to the royal librarian and always entered and exited Giddon’s rooms by his bathing room window. The window was five floors above the ground and the cat did a terrifying shimmying maneuver down the slope of a nearby roof in order to avail himself of it. The first time Giddon had seen the stupid cat half sliding, half barreling down the roof with legs akimbo like he was having a skiing accident, Giddon had yelled at him, then gone downstairs and yelled at the librarian, then determined to keep his window closed. But then Lovejoy had just come clunking against the closed window, the fur of his face and body pressed flat as he glared in at Giddon, outraged. Giddon, who’d been in the bath, had surrendered. He kept the window open now, and tried not to jump out of his shoes whenever the cat came flying in like a piece of mail through a mail chute.

Lovejoy was lying in the middle of the pile of letters on the table, blinking at Giddon.

“Did you miss me?” said Giddon.