The bells would soon begin their summons, and the sept would stir like a hive before swarming. Garlands of ivy and hawthorn were strewn along the beams with white bunting and threads of gold. Files of unlit candles guarded the walls and dais of the otherwise empty hall. Outside, Sol shone cold yet bright, and the bitter winds did gust and whip as winter clung to its final days.

  Olian stood in the antechamber adjoining the temple, hands clasped behind his back, jaw grinding as though upon unseen bone. Gedain leaned upon the narrow windowsill, peering through the cloudy glass, his wedding cloak draped upon a chair.

  “Tonight,” Olian said low, “or never.”

  Gedain nodded faintly. “The guards who matter are with us— Menek, Joles, others. The rex will dine and drink, then, when he withdraws… I pray he goes swiftly.”

  “He will.” Olian paced. “He’s weak, indecisive. Such men die easy.”

  “Then chaos…”

  “For a fortnight, perhaps. Until the council selects a steward.”

  “Dos thou think Fia will go?” Gedain asked.

  “To Dregrove? The council will insist. For her safety, of course. Until the conspirators are found. Which, of course, they never shall.”

  Gedain stiffened. “Be still!”

  He reached for his hilt, then stepped swiftly to the door, wrenching it open with sudden force. He burst through snatching the spy listening beyond.

  “Avarlon!” Olian exclaimed. “Why art thou here?”

  Avarlon stood frozen in the doorway, Gedain’s hand clutching her arm, her other hand clutching the ribbon meant for her hair. Her face had gone pale as milk. She stepped forward, her voice thin but steady. “What speak ye of?”

  Olian’s expression smoothed. “Daughter, thou shouldst not wander here.”

  “We were discussing matters of guard and station only,” Gedain explained. “The realm is restless. Thy father frets.”

  “Do not lie to me,” Avarlon said.

  Silence fell.

  “I heard talk of dying easy and— ”

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  Olian laughed once, sharply. “Idle speech. Soldiers’ tongues run loose ere ceremony.”

  “We spoke of dangers past,” Gedain added quickly. “Of old wounds. Of Madrot.”

  Then something broke at the sound of that name.

  “No,” Avarlon whispered. Then louder, “No more.”

  They stared as she tried to pull away from Gedain’s grip, body trembling. “I will not be party to this. I have borne enough blood upon my soul.”

  Olian’s brow furrowed.

  Her eyes filled, yet she did not weep. “I must confess. I can no longer bear the weight upon my conscience.

  “What are you speaking of?” Olian asked.

  “I… I lied, father.”

  “What didst thou lie of, my child?”

  “No!” Gedain implored, tightening his grip on Avarlon’s arm.

  “I lied about that night last summer.” She took a long breath. “Madrot did not force me. He never touched me. He is innocent.”

  The words rang like the great iron bell of the sept.

  Olian staggered as though struck. “Why speak of this now? No… No, I don’t believe you.”

  “Avarlon, silence,” Gedain ordered.

  “I lied, father,” she said again. “I lied out of fear. Out of shame. I was with Gedain that night in the stable, not Madrot.”

  Gedain’s face drained of color.

  “It is the truth,” she answered, “Gedain knows it, father. I slept in the stable with him. And when thou questioned me, I chose the easier sin, to shield him.”

  Gedain’s jaw tightened. “Enough.”

  “No,” she said fiercely, wrenching her arm free from his grip. “Ceryd died for my cowardice. I will not let another brother die in silence.”

  Olian clenched his fists. “Knowest thou what thou hast done?”

  “I know, father. I shall bear it all my days,” she said softly. “But I will not do further harm.”

  For a long moment, silence. Gedain stared at Avarlon. Avarlon stared at her father. Olian stared at the stones of the floor. Beyond the walls, the bells began their peal.

  At last Gedain spoke. “She is overwrought. I’ll take her to the south wing. Guarded, she shall say nothing more before the ceremony.”

  Olian did not look up from the floor. Avarlon gazed between them, horror dawning in her eyes. “You would silence me?”

  “We would spare thee,” Gedain said firmly. Then he led her away.

  The chapel filled. The candles flared. Voices rose in chorus. Yet Olian stood rigid beside the altar, sweat cooling upon his spine, eyes seeing nothing, staring into oblivion. The words of the priest washed over him unheard.

  The ravens gathered in the high bell tower, their voices croaked doom while their talons scratched at the stone.

  Olian’s empty gaze strayed to the high seat, where the boy Cerenid Rex sat. Pale beneath the tilted crown that still seemed too heavy despite the passing of a full season. For the first time since mid-winter, when the plot was sworn, Olian felt his grip unbalanced, for he had risked everything, and the two people nearest to him, his daughter and his would-be son in law had lied to him. The heat of rage and desperation flamed within.