He wet his lips, leaving them shiny, and drew in a breath as if to speak. Even his throat wobbled, the words clearly building. But then came the groan of iron and the shuttering of light. They had entered the palace gatehouse; their drive was at its end.

Henrick’s breath exhaled, his throat stilled, and Safi knew immediately that her moment had passed. Her chance to learn more was squandered.

The carriage rolled to a stop. The door opened. A footman rushed a stepping-box into place.

“Get cleaned up,” Henrick drawled as he squeezed his body outside. “We are late for dinner, and your near death does not excuse you from attending tonight’s celebrations.”

“Yes, my Emperor,” Safi said while inwardly she shrieked and raged. So close, she’d been so thrice-damned close, and who knew if another chance would come.

And though she knew that spies might be watching—and that Hell-Bards certainly were—she didn’t fight the glare folding over her face as the Emperor strode away. Curse him, curse him, curse him.

Fourteen Days After the Earth Well Healed

Safi never thought she would get married.

And she certainly never thought she would become an empress.

Only ten years ago, she had hidden behind her uncle in this very room and prayed that no Hell-Bard would notice her. That the Emperor would be satisfied with her uncle Eron’s tithes so she could leave right away.

Now she stands beside that emperor and wonders how he does not get a headache with his crown so tight.

Her gown is too thin for this weather and this stone wing of the palace. The blue silk clings uncomfortably thanks to the wool cloak that Henrick had told her to remove. She had obeyed; sparks had flown.

Somewhere to her left in the room’s darkest corner, Iseult watches. She stands alone save for four Hell-Bards, hoping the rest of the court does not notice her. But they notice her—they always notice her. She is Nomatsi in a world of Cartorrans.

And she is half of the Cahr Awen.

Safi rests her hand over her Threadstone. “Are you all right?” she whispers, too soft for anyone to hear. But the words reach Iseult across their rubies.

And Iseult replies: Yes. A word that blooms in Safi’s mind even though no truth hums in her lungs. Are you all right?

I don’t want to do this, Safi admits, still whispering silently.

Then don’t.

Uncle will die if I don’t, Iz. Besides, I doubt Henrick will let me leave now, twenty paces from our wedding.

Iseult seems to wince, a tightening of grief across their bond. I’m sorry. I should have come up with a better plan.

Hush. Don’t make me come over there and smack you. Safi glares toward the corner, and though she can’t see Iseult, she senses a smile.

I’ll be here the entire time, Safi.