Chapter 2
The Sold Road
We left three days later. This was apparently the minimum amount of time required to investigate an assassination, bury six people, interrogate everyone who had eaten dinner with us, repair a diplomatic treaty, prepare sixty-six armed riders for travel, argue about horses, and allow my brother to accuse twelve innocent people of treason. He had accused eleven by breakfast on the first day. The twelfth was the baker. I never learned what the baker had done. Possibly bread. By the morning of our departure, House Vashadze had become a place where doors opened cautiously. Servants stopped conversations when Levan entered.
Guards searched baskets belonging to women who had worked for us longer than I had been alive. Mother slept four hours across three nights and somehow became more competent. I slept considerably more and became worse. This was unfair. The false singer remained unidentified. The real singer had been buried beside the servant killed in the feast hall. Two of the attackers had served briefly in a mercenary company dissolved five years earlier. One had been a dockworker. One had no teeth except the poisoned one. The others had lied so thoroughly about themselves that death had improved their biographies. No one knew who paid them. No one knew who arranged the replacement singer.
No one knew who had stolen Mother's seal. The ward clause remained in the treaty because Beso insisted documents should not be altered until both courts could compare the original drafts. Levan wanted to burn the document. Beso wanted to preserve evidence. They compromised by putting it in a box. Levan hated the box. I had never before seen a man resent furniture. Mother found me in my rooms while Eliso attempted to fit three months of clothing into six trunks.
“We are not moving east permanently,” I said.
Eliso did not stop folding.
“Your mother said winter is possible.”
“It is early autumn.”
“Mountains,” Eliso said.
This apparently settled weather. Mother walked around the trunks. Her hair was unbraided for once, falling nearly to her waist. She had not dressed for the courtyard yet. No jewels. No formal collar. Just my mother. I had been avoiding this part. Leaving had been easier when it belonged to negotiations. Roads. Guards. Treaties. The assassination. Avtandil. All of those could be examined individually. Mother standing in my room could not. She picked up one of my riding gloves.
“You need new ones.”
“These are fine.”
“There is a hole.”
“It is very small.”
“Your finger is visible.”
“I know where my finger is.”
“Tamar.”
I took the glove. The hole was large.
“Fine.”
Mother sat on the edge of my bed. Eliso understood before I did. She gathered a stack of dresses and left. Traitor. Mother looked around the room. I did too. I had lived here since I was six. Not continuously. There had been summers in the capital. Two years with my aunt after Father decided I needed an education from someone who did not consider knife throwing a foundational skill. Three winters in the southern manor because the mountain road froze. But this had remained my room. The window overlooking the orchard. The crack above the fireplace shaped vaguely like a horse.
The shelf where Father had once hidden sugared nuts and forgotten them until mice found them. The little burn on the desk from when Levan taught me how lamp oil worked by demonstrating incorrectly. Leaving had been theoretical until that moment. Mother folded her hands.
“You can still say no.”
“To Avtandil?”
“To going.”
That surprised me.
“You planned the going.”
“I did.”
“You were extremely pleased with yourself.”
“I was.”
“You trapped Levan beautifully.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn't entirely a compliment.”
“I accepted the useful portion.”
I sat beside her.
“Do you want me to stay?”
Her answer took too long.
“Yes.”
I looked down. Mother touched my knee.
“I also want you to go.”
“That seems poorly organized.”
“It is motherhood.”
“I've heard terrible things.”
“You should.”
Her thumb moved once over the fabric of my skirt.
“When your father died, I became very good at keeping what remained.”
She continued before I could answer.
“Levan thinks protection means holding something tightly enough that no one can take it.”
“He learned that from Father.”
“Yes.”
A small smile.
“Unfortunately, so did I.”
She looked toward the open door. Beyond it, somewhere below, Levan shouted at a servant. Mother waited. The servant shouted back. Good. Probably Davit. Mother returned her attention to me.
“You cannot build a life entirely inside what your family can defend.”
I swallowed.
“I know.”
“Levan doesn't.”
“He does.”
“No.”
She was gentle about it. That was worse.
“He understands the words. That is different.”
I thought of the feast. Levan between me and knives. Levan taking a blade rather than moving away from me. Levan saying no before I could finish saying east. Mother sighed.
“Your brother will let you go.”
“He's coming.”
“That isn't letting go.”
“It's a start.”
Mother laughed. Then her expression changed.
“Be patient with him.”
“I am always patient with him.”
She looked at me.
“Occasionally patient.”
“Reasonably patient.”
“Tamar.”
“He threw a knife into a man's eye.”
“The man was trying to kill you.”
“Yes.”
Mother's face did something complicated. Pride was in there. She would deny it. Fear too.
“And be patient with the prince.”
That was suspicious.
“Why?”
“Because Levan will not be.”
“He seems capable of defending himself.”
“That isn't what I mean.”
I waited. Mother had spent three days watching Avtandil. So had I. She had access to different information.
“What did you see?”
Her eyebrows rose.
“See?”
“You don't warn me to be patient with people unless you've already decided something.”
“You make me sound manipulative.”
“You made the ambassador believe postponing the grain tariff was his idea.”
“He was very proud.”
“He thanked you.”
“He should have.”
I stared. Mother surrendered.
“He is accustomed to command.”
“Levan?”
“The prince.”
“Both.”
“Yes.”
“That should go well.”
“No.”
I laughed. She did not.
“You are accustomed to Levan,” she said. “You know how to move around his temper.”
“I don't move around it.”
“Exactly.”
That made sense.
“Avtandil does not know you.”
“He's learning.”
“Yes.”
She hesitated.
“He watches before he acts.”
“I noticed.”
“That can feel like patience.”
“But?”
“It can also be control.”
There. Mother did not dislike him. That would have been simpler. She was warning me because she did not.
“I'll watch.”
“I know.”
She smiled. Then reached into her sleeve.
“No.”
“You don't know what it is.”
“You're giving me something emotional.”
“I can put it away.”
“No.”
I held out my hand. Mother placed a small iron key in my palm. Old. Blackened. One side worn smooth. I recognized it immediately.
“The south pantry.”
“The original lock.”
“It hasn't had that lock since I was twelve.”
“No.”
I turned the key over. Father had carried it on his belt for years. Not because he needed access to the pantry. Because he liked the key. Father had liked objects more once they stopped being useful.
“Why?”
“Because it was his.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
“It is the answer.”
I closed my fingers around it. Mother touched my cheek.
“Come home.”
That hurt more than I expected. So I made a joke.
“If Levan murders Avtandil, does that count?”
Mother closed her eyes. “Please don't say that within hearing of either man.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“You always say that.”
The courtyard looked as if we were invading Arasani instead of visiting it. The thirty-two Arasani who had camped below our wall were moving separately with the heavy embassy baggage, leaving the agreed diplomatic column at forty. Twenty-six Vashadze riders. Forty Arasani. Eight pack horses. Two wagons. One carriage Mother had insisted I take and I intended not to use. Six dogs. Except there were not six dogs. There were five. I counted twice. Avtandil stood beside a tall gray horse while a broad-chested black hound leaned against his leg. I walked directly toward him.
“Five.”
“Good morning.”
“You said five.”
“I did.”
“Levan said six.”
“That explains it.”
“What?”
A second hound pushed between us. This one brown and white, with ears too large for its head. Avtandil scratched behind one.
“My captain owns a dog.”
I looked toward the Arasani commander. General Zurabeli stood near the gate, speaking with Davit. A narrow yellow dog sat beside his horse.
“That's six.”
“Mine are five.”
“So you brought six dogs.”
“No.”
“There are six.”
“Yes.”
“You arrived together.”
“Yes.”
“You told my brother you brought five.”
“I brought five.”
“Your delegation brought six.”
“I am not responsible for every dog in Arasani.”
“You are the crown prince.”
His mouth moved.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're smiling.”
“I am realizing why the number bothered you.”
“It didn't bother me.”
“You approached me before saying goodbye to your mother to challenge a dog census.”
“I said goodbye upstairs.”
“Then I retract the accusation.”
“Thank you.”
“The dog census remains.”
I looked at the yellow dog.
“What is that one's name?”
“Ask Zurabeli.”
“You don't know?”
“I know.”
“Then why would I ask him?”
“Because he'll enjoy telling you.”
I turned toward the general. “General.”
He looked over.
“What is your dog's name?”
Zurabeli glanced at Avtandil. Avtandil became intensely interested in tightening his saddle. The general's expression darkened.
“Princess.”
I frowned. The yellow dog's tail struck the ground.
“Your dog is named Princess?”
“My daughter named her.”
“That's unfortunate.”
Zurabeli looked at Avtandil again. The prince was now visibly trying not to laugh. I crouched. Princess approached immediately and shoved her narrow head beneath my hand.
“She's lovely.”
“She bites thieves.”
“So does Tamar,” Avtandil said.
I stood. Levan was behind him. Of course. My brother looked from Avtandil to me. Then to the dog. Then back.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Levan had acquired a new scar since dinner. A narrow line crossed his left forearm beneath fresh bandaging. He had dressed for riding in black wool and dark red leather, with the silver Vashadze collar beneath his coat. The axe was strapped to his saddle. I pointed.
“Absolutely necessary?”
“Yes.”
“In a diplomatic party?”
“Especially.”
“Avtandil has a sword.”
“I know.”
Avtandil looked at me. I looked at him. Levan followed both looks.
“No.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You're not riding beside him.”
“I didn't ask.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to ride my horse.”
“Beside him.”
“How do you know?”
“Your horse is standing beside his.”
I looked. It was. That was because the grooms had arranged the departure order. Possibly. I had not asked. Levan took my mare's reins and led her three places farther back. Avtandil watched.
“Problem?” I asked.
“No.”
“You look amused.”
“I have five sisters.”
“Five?”
“And three brothers.”
“Eight?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him differently. This explained several things. Possibly everything.
“You're the oldest?”
“Second.”
“Who is first?”
“My sister Ana.”
“Then why are you heir?”
“Because my father is an ass.”
Beso, passing behind him, said, “Your Highness.”
“What? He is.”
Beso kept walking. I liked Beso more every hour. Levan returned without my horse.
“Davit moved your place.”
“Why?”
“You're between us.”
Avtandil looked toward the road. Levan smiled. I understood. My brother had arranged the column so I rode directly between the two men. He thought this prevented anything. It actually meant I had both. I mounted.
“This seems ideal.”
Levan's smile disappeared. Avtandil mounted on my right.
“Agreed.”
“No,” Levan said.
We rode through the gate.
People came to watch us leave. Of course they did. The story had already changed. By sunrise after the attack, the prince had nearly died. By noon, he had definitely died. By dinner, Levan had killed thirteen assassins using an axe, a chair, and an Arasani diplomat. On the second day, somebody resurrected Avtandil. Apparently I had been kidnapped. Then rescued myself. This part was accidentally closest to reality. By the third morning, rumor had settled into something resembling agreement: The Arasani prince had survived an assassination beneath Vashadze guest right. The marriage remained possible. Lord Levan was going east. Those three facts were enough. Villagers lined the lower road.
Women held children on their hips. Old men removed their hats. Someone threw autumn flowers beneath Avtandil's horse. He looked uncomfortable. I liked that too. Some rulers learned to enjoy people cheering for them. That seemed dangerous. The road descended through vineyards first. Vashadze grapes grew on terraces carved into the lower slopes, rows of twisted black vines heavy with late fruit. Harvest would begin within two weeks. Usually I stayed. Usually I spent three days pretending to help, four eating more grapes than I carried, and one avoiding Mother after she discovered how much wine Levan had allowed me to drink at seventeen. I looked back. Our house rose above the valley. Black walls.
Square towers. Red roofs. Smoke from the central chimney. Mother stood on the western wall. I knew it was her because of the silver in her hair. The distance made her small. I hated that. I turned around. Avtandil noticed. He said nothing. Another point.
The first day taught me that sixty-six riders generated astonishing quantities of dust. It also taught me that Levan and Avtandil could disagree about almost anything. Where scouts should ride. How often horses should rest. Whether dogs should be allowed ahead of the column. Whether a river ford remained safe after rain. Whether dried apricots counted as breakfast. That final disagreement lasted twelve minutes. Neither man raised his voice. This somehow made it worse. At noon, Davit rode back from the front.
“Bridge at Maro is clear.”
Levan nodded. “Guards?”
“Four local.”
Avtandil asked, “Inspection?”
“They checked the supports at dawn.”
Levan looked at him. “You sent ahead?”
“Yes.”
“I sent ahead.”
“So did I.”
“Why?”
“Because I enjoy bridges.”
Levan stared. Avtandil looked forward. I began to suspect the prince had developed a method for surviving my brother. Unfortunately it was humor. Levan had no defense against humor except murder. I ate an apricot.
“They're breakfast.”
Both men looked at me.
“What?” Avtandil asked.
“The apricots.”
Levan shook his head. “You weren't listening.”
“I was.”
“Then you know they aren't.”
“They are food eaten before noon.”
“That is not the definition of breakfast.”
“It literally is.”
Avtandil said, “I agree with her.”
“Of course you do.”
“This has nothing to do with Tamar.”
“You said her name.”
“So?”
“Don't.”
Avtandil looked at Levan. Levan continued riding as if he had not just lost his mind. I waited.
“Don't what?”
“Use her name.”
“What should I call her?”
“Lady Tamar.”
“You call her Tamar.”
“I am her brother.”
“I might marry her.”
“You haven't.”
Avtandil's expression became thoughtful. I recognized danger.
“Would marriage grant me name privileges?”
“No.”
“What does?”
“Death.”
I nearly fell off my horse laughing. Levan glared. Avtandil said, “Mine or yours?”
“Flexible.”
“Levan.”
“What?”
“Stop threatening the prince.”
“I haven't threatened him.”
Avtandil nodded. “He's right.”
“You are not helping.”
“I've learned.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
That was when I realized something unpleasant. They liked each other. Not very much. Not enough to admit. Possibly not enough to avoid killing each other. But it was there. Recognition. The thing I'd seen after the assassination. It had grown. Men were strange. Give them enough reasons to hate each other and eventually they became friends.
The road east narrowed after Maro. Vineyards disappeared. The mountains closed. By midafternoon, we rode beneath cliffs steep enough that sunlight reached the road only in narrow gold strips. Water moved somewhere below us. We could hear it. Could not see it. The Suravi River had carved the gorge over several thousand years. House Vashadze had spent several hundred pretending we were responsible. Black watchtowers stood at bends in the road. Most had been abandoned. War had moved south twelve years ago, and the passes became supply routes instead of front lines. Even so, every tower made the Arasani riders look upward. Every narrow turn made our men look backward.
History lived in bodies long after maps changed. I watched Avtandil. He had become quieter since entering the gorge. Not tense. Aware. His horse changed too. The gray's ears moved constantly. One of his hounds, the black one, ranged ahead with Princess. Five of Avtandil's dogs. One of Zurabeli's. I had resolved this. Mostly.
“What's his name?”
Avtandil looked toward the black hound. “Who?”
“The dog.”
“Koba.”
The dog turned at the sound.
“Koba,” I repeated.
His tail moved once.
“What are the others?”
“Why?”
“I need to know.”
“You don't.”
“I do.”
“You will forget them.”
He sighed.
“Koba. Temo. Saba. Beka. Mzi.”
“Mzi?”
“Sun.”
“The enormous black one is Sun?”
“No. The small female.”
“Where?”
He pointed. A reddish dog trotted between two horses. I had assumed she belonged to one of the guards.
“She's tiny.”
“She is convinced otherwise.”
“Reasonable.”
Avtandil looked at my horse. “What's hers?”
“Lela.”
“Meaning?”
“My aunt.”
He waited. I waited.
“You named your horse after your aunt?”
“No. My aunt named the horse after herself.”
“Why?”
“She said one Lela had already carried our family for thirty years.”
Avtandil laughed. “She sounds formidable.”
“She cheats at cards.”
“So does my grandmother.”
“How old?”
“Eighty-two.”
“Does she win?”
“Always.”
“Then she isn't cheating.”
“That is not how rules work.”
“It is how grandmothers work.”
Levan rode several paces ahead now. He turned.
“Tamar.”
“Yes?”
“We stop at the next tower.”
“Why?”
“Water.”
Avtandil's face changed. Very slightly. I saw because I was looking at him. Levan saw because he was Levan.
“No,” Avtandil said.
My brother's horse stopped. The column behind us compressed.
“What?”
“Not that tower.”
Levan looked forward. I did too. At first I saw stone. Another square watchtower against the cliff. Then I saw the cairns. Small piles of pale rock lined both sides of the road. Dozens. My stomach dropped. I knew where we were. The Sold Road. Levan's face became empty. The phrase had started as an accusation. Eventually it became a name. Six winters ago, a Vashadze household captain named Tornike Beridze had sold the path our supply wagons used through Suravi. Arasani troops crossed the ridge at night. Thirty-eight soldiers died in the first attack. Nine more froze before replacement supplies arrived.
The dead had been stacked beside the tower until spring because the ground was too hard to dig. Father had survived. Two uncles had not. Levan had killed Otar two years later. With an axe. People usually laughed when I said that. No one laughed here. Levan dismounted. Davit followed. Our riders began getting down without orders. Avtandil remained mounted. I looked at him. He was staring at the tower. There was something wrong with his face. Not guilt. Not exactly. Memory. I felt cold.
“Avtandil.”
Levan heard me. His head turned. The prince looked at me. I knew before he spoke. I don't know how. Perhaps because I'd spent three days asking myself why he understood sold the road so quickly. Perhaps because his silence had begun before the cairns appeared. Perhaps I had simply been slow.
“You were here.”
Levan went still. Avtandil dismounted. No one spoke. Even the dogs seemed quieter.
“Yes.”
One word. Levan's hand moved. Not toward his axe. Toward nothing. Stopped. I looked at Avtandil.
“How?”
His gaze stayed on mine.
“I led the eastern column.”
The gorge became very small. Behind us, somebody's horse stamped. Leather creaked. The river moved far below. I heard all of it.
“You attacked the convoy.”
“Yes.”
Levan said, “No.” Avtandil looked at him. My brother took one step closer.
“You were twenty-four.”
“Yes.”
“You commanded the men who came through Suravi.”
“Yes.”
Davit swore. Several Vashadze riders shifted. Arasani hands moved toward weapons. Not drawing. Thinking. Avtandil saw. He raised one hand without turning. Every eastern rider stopped. That was authority. Not volume. Levan noticed too. It did not help.
“My father was here,” Levan said.
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“After.”
“What does that mean?”
Avtandil's jaw tightened.
“We were told the pass had been abandoned.”
Levan laughed once. There was no humor in it.
“Of course you were.”
“We expected wagons.”
“You found them.”
“Yes.”
“And men.”
“Yes.”
“How many did you kill?”
“Levan.”
He looked at me. I had not meant to stop him. Only slow him. His face was pale. The same pale as when he'd seen blood on me. That frightened me. Avtandil answered anyway.
“I don't know.”
“Convenient.”
“It isn't.”
“You commanded them.”
“Yes.”
“You don't know?”
“There were two fights.”
“Two.”
“The first at the tower. The second farther north when your escort tried to retake the wagons.”
Levan's breathing changed. I had heard that breath before. Right before violence. Davit heard it too.
“Lord.”
Levan ignored him. “Who gave you the road?”
Avtandil looked at the cairns.
“I never met him.”
“Otar.”
“I learned his name years later.”
“My household captain.”
“Yes.”
“My father's man.”
“Yes.”
“Who sold you the road.”
“Yes.”
Levan stepped closer. Avtandil did not move. I hated them both in that moment. Not equally. Not rationally. I hated Avtandil for having been there. I hated Levan for making me watch this. I hated Father for surviving. I hated my uncles for not. I hated Otar most because dead men were convenient. You could not ask them why. Avtandil spoke.
“I was told the information came from a border merchant.”
Levan's eyes narrowed.
“It didn't.”
“I know.”
“When?”
“Two years later.”
“The execution.”
“Murder,” I said.
Both men looked at me. I didn't know why I corrected it. Perhaps because words mattered most when everyone wanted them softer.
“Levan murdered him.”
My brother's face changed. Not anger. Recognition.
“Yes,” he said.
Avtandil looked at me. I looked back.
“You knew when I told you.”
“Not everything.”
“You knew enough.”
“Yes.”
That hurt. Simple admissions were difficult to fight.
“Why didn't you?”
Levan answered.
“Because he's a coward.”
Avtandil's attention shifted.
“No.”
“No?”
“I didn't tell her because we had met four hours earlier at a feast discussing marriage.”
“You found time to joke about goats.”
“This seemed slightly heavier.”
“Don't.”
“Levan.”
“No.”
My brother turned away. Walked toward the nearest cairn. Stopped. One stone sat crooked. He fixed it. That was worse than yelling. I looked at Avtandil.
“You knew Father survived.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Prisoners.”
“We took none.”
“At the first fight.”
I frowned. He continued.
“Your father was wounded. One of our men saw him carried away.”
I had never known that. Perhaps Levan had.
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Did you know who he was?”
“Not then.”
“When did you?”
“Two days later.”
“How?”
“We found his banner among the wagons.”
I imagined Father losing the Vashadze banner. He would have hated that. More than the wound, probably. Something almost made me smile. I resented it.
“Did you keep it?”
“No.”
“What happened to it?”
“I sent it back.”
Levan turned.
“What?”
Avtandil looked at him.
“The banner.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I returned it with the bodies we had.”
Davit stared. Levan's face had gone completely unreadable. I remembered the banner. Not from the battle. From Father's funeral. Blackened at one edge. A split through the wolf embroidery. Mother had wrapped Father's sword in it. I had assumed our soldiers recovered it.
“You sent it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Avtandil frowned as if the answer were obvious.
“It wasn't mine.”
Something moved through the Vashadze men. Small. Not forgiveness. Never that. But information. New information changed even old hatred. Levan hated that more than anyone. He looked at the tower. Then at the prince.
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
“Before entering my house.”
“Yes.”
“Before asking for my sister.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you?”
Avtandil's answer came slower.
“My father advised against it.”
There. Another piece.
“Your father,” Levan said.
“Yes.”
“What else has your father advised?”
Beso rode forward from farther down the column.
“Lord Vashadze.”
Levan turned. The chancellor dismounted carefully. He looked older in the mountains. Everyone did.
“The battle at Suravi is not a secret.”
“No.”
“But the prince's command was never included in the formal record.”
Levan's attention sharpened.
“Why?”
Beso looked at Avtandil. The prince said nothing. So Beso answered.
“Because His Majesty believed disclosure would make future reconciliation with House Vashadze more difficult.”
I laughed. No one joined me.
“Excellent strategy.”
Beso sighed.
“Lady Tamar.”
“No. Really. We nearly married before discovering my future husband commanded the battle where two of my uncles died. Very efficient.”
Avtandil flinched. Barely. Good. I wanted him to. Then I hated myself for wanting it. Levan walked back toward us.
“Which uncles?” Avtandil asked quietly.
“Sandro and Luka.”
His eyes closed. A fraction.
“You toasted them.”
“At dinner.”
“Yes.”
“You knew.”
“I knew their names from the memorial roll.”
The first toast. Levan had named Sandro and Luka. Then the Arasani dead. Avtandil had stood. To the dead. My anger shifted again. This was exhausting.
“I don't know what to do with that,” I said.
“You don't have to do anything.”
“Don't tell me what I have to do.”
“I didn't mean—”
“I know.”
Levan looked at Avtandil for a long time. Then he removed his gloves. Every Arasani rider tensed. My brother walked toward the prince. Stopped in front of him. Held out one glove. Avtandil looked at it. So did I.
“What?” Levan asked.
“I don't understand.”
“We stop here.”
“You told us not to.”
“I changed my mind.”
Levan pointed toward the cairns.
“You led the men who put them there.”
Avtandil's face tightened.
“Yes.”
“Then you can help stack stones.”
We stayed for an hour. No one drank much. No one spoke much. Vashadze men walked among the cairns. Some knew names. Some didn't. One cairn held only three stones. Levan added four. Avtandil added one. No one told him where. He chose the smallest. I hated him less for that. This was inconvenient. I sat on the low wall overlooking the gorge. Below, the Suravi River flashed silver through the trees. The old tower stood behind me. Its door had rotted away. Inside, someone had painted names on the walls. Some in our script. Some Arasani. Soldiers did that. They hated each other and wrote on the same walls. Avtandil approached after a while.
I heard him. He stopped several paces away. Good.
“May I sit?”
“You're a prince.”
“I've been told.”
“You can sit where you want.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
He waited. This man was going to become irritating in very specific ways.
“Yes.”
He sat. Not close. Not far. For a while we watched water.
“I was proud of it,” he said.
I turned.
“The battle.”
He looked toward the tower.
“I was twenty-four. It was the first operation I planned without my father's generals rewriting half of it.”
That hurt more than an excuse would have.
“I thought I'd done something brilliant.”
“You used a road somebody sold.”
“I didn't know that.”
“You still attacked.”
“Yes.”
“People died.”
“Yes.”
“You're very agreeable when you're being accused.”
“I've found disagreement doesn't resurrect anyone.”
I looked away. He continued.
“For three days my father praised me.”
I said nothing.
“Then we learned the wagons carried medicine for two villages.”
I looked back.
“What?”
“Not only military supplies.”
I hadn't known that either.
“Your men took them.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“We returned the medicine.”
“When?”
“The next night.”
“How?”
“Left it beyond the northern marker.”
“You crossed back?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because children were going to die.”
There was irritation in his voice now. Not at me. At the question. As if the choice had been obvious.
“Your father allowed that?”
“No.”
I almost smiled.
“There you are.”
“What?”
“Something wrong with you.”
Avtandil looked at me.
“Disobedience?”
“Apparently hereditary.”
His mouth moved. Then I remembered where we sat. The smile left.
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
“I don't know whether I can forgive that.”
“I didn't ask.”
“Do you want me to?”
He considered.
“Yes.”
Good answer. Not pretty. True.
“Levan won't.”
“I know.”
“He may pretend.”
“I doubt it.”
“So do I.”
We watched the river. Then Avtandil said, “I wasn't responsible for your father's wound.” I stiffened.
“I know that because I know who was.”
I turned slowly.
“What?”
“One of my captains.”
My mouth went dry.
“Name.”
“He's dead.”
“Name.”
“Dato Arveladze.”
I knew it. Not personally. From war lists. Arveladze had died three years ago at Kheri Ford. Levan killed him. No. Wait. Levan had been at Kheri. I stood. Avtandil stood too.
“Does my brother know?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“I only learned who your father was after Suravi. By then Arveladze had transferred south.”
“What happened at Kheri?”
“Tamar.”
“What happened?”
Avtandil watched me.
“He died.”
“I know.”
His expression told me there was more.
“How?”
“Axe wound.”
Oh. Of course. I laughed. It came out wrong. Not amused. Not sane. Not entirely. Avtandil looked alarmed. Reasonable.
“Your brother killed him?”
“I think so.”
“You didn't know?”
“No one told me.”
“Perhaps he didn't know who Arveladze was.”
I looked toward Levan. My brother stood beside Davit near the tower. He was looking at us. He always looked at us. No. That wasn't right. At me. He saw my face. Started walking. I turned back to Avtandil.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Say anything.”
“Tamar.”
“Don't.”
Levan arrived.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He looked at Avtandil.
“What did you tell her?”
The prince did not lie. I knew that about him now. Or thought I did. He opened his mouth. I stepped between them.
“Don't.”
Levan looked at me. I had done this before. At the feast. Between axe and sword. He hated it.
“What?”
“Did you kill Dato Arveladze at Kheri?”
His face changed. There. He knew. I felt it.
“Who told you?”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
Avtandil looked away. I stared at my brother.
“Did you know he wounded Father?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since before Kheri.”
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Levan's jaw tightened.
“You were eighteen.”
“So?”
“So you didn't need it.”
I laughed again. That ugly sound.
“You decided?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“Tamar.”
“You murdered Otar.”
“Yes.”
“You killed Arveladze.”
“In battle.”
“With an axe.”
“That isn't relevant.”
“It feels relevant.”
Levan stepped closer.
“I didn't hunt him.”
“Would you have?”
Silence. That was answer enough. Avtandil shifted. Levan's eyes snapped toward him.
“Leave.”
“No.”
“Avtandil.”
It was the first time Levan used his name. None of us missed it. The prince did not move.
“She asked me something.”
“She's talking to me.”
“She asked because of something I told her.”
“Then you've done enough.”
I wanted to scream. Instead I said, “Both of you shut up.” They did. That helped. A little. I looked at Levan.
“You don't get to decide which dead people I know about.”
His face softened. I hated that too.
“I was protecting you.”
“From information?”
“Yes.”
“That's stupid.”
“Probably.”
Damn him. He was learning from Avtandil.
“You can't say probably and make me less angry.”
“I know.”
“Stop.”
“All right.”
“No. Stop agreeing.”
Levan blinked. Avtandil made the mistake of breathing like a laugh. I turned.
“Not one sound.”
His mouth closed. I walked away. No one followed. That was perhaps the first intelligent choice either man had made.
We resumed an hour later. I rode alone. Not literally. Sixty-five people remained offensively nearby. But I positioned myself beside Mother's carriage, which was empty because I refused to ride in it. Levan stayed at the front. Avtandil rode with Beso. Both looked back too often. I ignored them. This was difficult because I had spent most of my life being watched by Levan. You learned where someone's attention sat. Like sunlight. Even when you did not look at it, you knew. At the next bend, my horse's ears went back. I tightened the reins. A cart appeared around the corner. Old man driving. Two mules. Three children riding on sacks of grain.
The cart stopped when he saw us. The children stared at the Arasani colors. One little boy spat into the road. His grandfather slapped the back of his head. Hard. The boy looked furious. Avtandil had seen. He lifted two fingers toward the old man. Not offended. Acknowledgment. The old man did not return it. We passed. The boy stared at the prince. Avtandil looked straight ahead. I hated that too. Not because it was wrong. Because it made things harder. A cruel man was easy. A stupid one easier. I had prepared myself for marrying a symbol. Symbols did not return medicine at night.
Symbols did not command battles where your uncles died and then help stack stones. Symbols did not have five dogs. Six in the delegation. Five personally. I had solved this. The road widened near evening. We descended from the gorge into high pasture. Grass turned gold beneath the setting sun. The mountains opened enough to show the first Arasani ridge in the distance. Not the border. Not yet. Tomorrow. I had seen Arasani from Vashadze watchtowers. Blue hills. Snow farther east. It had never looked like a place people lived. Just territory. Borders did that. They turned kitchens into maps. We camped at an old royal post house. Stone walls. One courtyard.
Stables for thirty horses. Not enough for sixty-six. Levan hated it. Avtandil hated it differently. This was progress.
“We should continue two miles to the monastery,” Levan said.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Too exposed.”
“The monastery has walls.”
“One gate.”
“So?”
“Fire.”
Levan looked at the post house.
“This roof is timber.”
“Stone lower level.”
“Two entrances.”
“Exactly.”
Davit stood between them looking tired. Zurabeli had stopped pretending he listened. I dismounted.
“Stay here.”
Levan looked at me.
“I wasn't asking you.”
“I know.”
Avtandil looked toward the western ridge.
“Rain within an hour.”
I looked at the sky. Clear.
“No.”
He pointed. Thin gray clouds had begun gathering behind the peaks. Levan looked too.
“Two hours.”
Avtandil said, “One.”
“Two.”
I walked inside. Men were exhausting.
The post house had not hosted nobility in years. Perhaps ever. There were eight rooms upstairs. Three beds worth using. One room smelled like onions. Another like wet wool. The largest room contained a dead moth the size of my hand. Eliso was not traveling with us. This was my first regret. My maid had remained behind because Mother wanted someone she trusted in Vashadze who could read my letters before Levan did. Mother had phrased it differently. I understood. A young household woman named Eka traveled instead. She stood in the doorway holding blankets.
“Lady Tamar.”
“Yes?”
“The prince says you can have his room.”
“No.”
She blinked.
“He says it has the best lock.”
“Tell him thank you.”
“And?”
“No.”
She looked uncertain.
“Just no?”
“Yes.”
“Should I explain?”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Neither do I.”
She left. A minute later Levan appeared.
“You'll take my room.”
“No.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I have the room beside the stairs.”
“Wonderful.”
“Best exit.”
“Enjoy it.”
“Tamar.”
“I can choose a room.”
“Not this one.”
“Why?”
He pointed. The window. I looked. There was a window.
“Yes.”
“Tree outside.”
“A terrible feature.”
“Someone could climb.”
I looked down. The tree was approximately four feet from the wall.
“Levan.”
“A long person.”
“A very long person.”
He crossed his arms. I crossed mine. Behind him, Avtandil appeared. Of course.
“I have a solution.”
“No,” Levan said.
“You don't know it.”
“I know you.”
“Barely.”
“Enough.”
Avtandil ignored him.
“There is a room at the end of the eastern hall.”
“The onion room?”
“No.”
“Wet wool?”
“No.”
“Dead moth?”
“That one.”
“Why is the moth relevant?”
“It isn't.”
“Then why did you say it like that?”
“I thought you were cataloguing.”
Levan looked between us.
“The eastern room has no exterior wall.”
I thought.
“So no windows.”
“Yes.”
“Door?”
“One.”
“Lock?”
Avtandil held up a key. Levan reached for it. Avtandil pulled his hand back.
“No.”
My brother's face changed. I laughed. Both looked at me.
“You're children.”
“I'm thirty,” Levan said.
“Exactly.”
Avtandil handed me the key.
“Your room.”
Levan stared at my hand. I closed my fingers.
“Problem?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He gave you the key.”
“It is a key.”
“I know.”
“So?”
Levan looked at Avtandil. The prince looked at Levan. Something idiotic was occurring beneath the surface. I wanted no part of it.
“I have Father's pantry key too.”
Both men looked at me.
“What?” Levan asked.
“Mother gave it to me.”
His face softened instantly. That was unfair.
“She did?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it was Father's.”
Levan looked away. Avtandil did too. The room became quiet. I hated that more.
“I'm taking the moth room.”
Neither objected.
Rain arrived fifty-three minutes later. I found Avtandil beneath the stable awning when it began. He looked at the sky. I looked at him.
“You counted.”
“I did.”
“Fifty-three?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“One point.”
“You said an hour.”
“Close.”
“Not correct.”
“Princes receive rounding privileges.”
“No.”
“Worth trying.”
Rain struck the courtyard. Hard. Warm at first. Then cold. Men shouted and pulled tack beneath cover. Dogs ran directly into it. All six. Five. No. All six dogs belonging to the delegation. I had to stop doing that. Princess barked at Koba. Koba ignored her. Mzi slid in mud and crashed into a bucket. Avtandil laughed. The sound surprised me. He laughed differently around animals. Less controlled. I filed that away. Then remembered I was angry with him. His smile faded.
“You're still angry.”
“Yes.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
“And Levan.”
“Yes.”
“More with him?”
“That seems brave.”
“I'm trying to determine whether I should apologize.”
“You should.”
“All right.”
I waited. He waited.
“That wasn't the apology.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
He leaned against the stone pillar. Rain drummed on the roof.
“I should have told you about Suravi.”
“Yes.”
“Before the feast.”
“Yes.”
“I didn't because my father asked me not to and because I wanted the negotiation to begin before your family had another reason to hate me.”
I appreciated the lack of decoration.
“That was selfish.”
“Yes.”
“And strategic.”
“Yes.”
“And cowardly.”
He thought.
“A little.”
I nodded.
“Better.”
“You prefer me admitting cowardice?”
“I prefer accuracy.”
“I had noticed.”
A drop of rain blew beneath the awning and struck his cheek. He wiped it.
“I am sorry.”
No performance. No explanation after. I believed him. This irritated me.
“Thank you.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“No.”
“All right.”
“You're doing it again.”
“What?”
“Agreeing.”
“Would you prefer an argument?”
“Possibly.”
“I can tell you you're wrong.”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
I considered.
“You have five dogs.”
“Yes.”
“Six came with you.”
“Yes.”
“Therefore you brought six dogs.”
“No.”
“See?”
He smiled. Princess ran beneath the awning and shook water across both of us. Avtandil closed his eyes. I laughed. The general's dog looked pleased.
“Traitor,” he told her.
“She isn't yours.”
“She knows.”
Princess leaned against my skirt. My dress immediately became wet. I scratched her neck.
“You really have five sisters.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“About my sisters?”
“Yes.”
He leaned one shoulder against the pillar.
“Ana is thirty-two.”
“The oldest.”
“Yes.”
“Married?”
“Widowed.”
I looked up. He continued.
“She has two sons. Lives at court. Terrifies ministers.”
“I'll like her.”
“You will.”
Confidence. Interesting.
“Ketevan is twenty-eight. Everyone calls her Keto.”
“The one coming to meet us?”
He frowned.
“How do you know?”
“Beso mentioned it at breakfast.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“I was there.”
“You were arguing with Levan about bridge scouts.”
He considered.
“Yes.”
“Keto?”
“Healer.”
“Court healer?”
“No. She hates court.”
“Then?”
“Runs a military hospital outside the capital.”
I liked her already.
“Mariam is twenty-six.”
“Another?”
“Not your Mariam.”
“I assumed.”
“She breeds horses.”
“That sounds peaceful.”
“It isn't.”
“Why?”
“She breeds horses.”
“Natia is twenty-one. She sings. Badly.”
“Does she know?”
“Everyone knows.”
“And the fifth?”
His expression changed. Not much.
“Salome.”
“How old?”
“Seventeen.”
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked different.”
“You count faces too?”
“Apparently.”
He looked into the rain.
“Salome was ill for most of childhood.”
“Fever?”
“Lungs.”
“Better now?”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“She was not expected to live.”
Families built themselves around expected losses, then survived them strangely.
“She'll like you,” he said.
“Why?”
“She dislikes most people.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is in my family.”
I smiled.
“What about brothers?”
“Giorgi is twenty-nine. Dato is twenty-three. Ilia is nineteen.”
“Dato.”
“Yes.”
“Same as Arveladze.”
His face went still. Damn.
“I didn't mean—”
“I know.”
We both looked into the rain. Something moved at the edge of the courtyard. Koba lifted his head. The black hound had been sleeping under a wagon. Now he stood. Ears forward. Avtandil noticed instantly.
“Koba.”
The dog did not look at him. Instead he growled. Low. Toward the stable. I straightened.
“What?”
Avtandil lifted one hand. Quiet. Rain hammered the roofs. Horses shifted inside. Koba moved. Slow. Mzi stopped playing. Princess's head came up too. Then every dog looked toward the same closed stable door. Avtandil drew his knife. Not sword. Knife.
“Levan.”
He did not shout. My brother appeared in the upper doorway almost immediately. I had no idea how. Perhaps he lived inside walls.
“What?”
“Stable.”
Levan looked at the dogs. His hand went to his axe. Men started moving. I hated this. Not another attack. Not knives. Not bodies. I reached for the little blade at my belt. Levan saw.
“No.”
“Don't.”
“Tamar.”
“If you tell me to go upstairs, I will bite you.”
Avtandil looked at me.
“This is apparently a pattern.”
“Not now.”
Levan pointed toward Davit.
“Stay with her.”
“I don't need—”
“Tamar.”
There was no fear in his voice. Worse. Command. I hated command from people I loved because sometimes it worked. Davit came beside me. Avtandil and Levan crossed the courtyard together. No arguing. No competition. They reached the stable door. Levan stood to one side. Avtandil the other. Koba growled again. Avtandil nodded. Levan opened the door. Nothing. Dark interior. Horses. Hay. Rain smell. Then Princess barked toward the floor. I frowned. The floor? Avtandil entered. Levan followed. Davit swore softly.
“What?”
“Trapdoor.”
Of course. We went in. He tried to stop me. I looked at him. He surrendered. Good man. The stable had twelve stalls. Wet horses filled ten. In the center aisle, Avtandil crouched beside a wooden hatch half-covered by straw. Levan held a lamp.
“Cellar?” I asked.
The postmaster stood near the wall. He had gone white.
“There is no cellar.”
Everyone looked at him. He corrected himself.
“There shouldn't be.”
Better. Levan handed the lamp to Avtandil. Then lifted the hatch. A smell came up. Earth. Rot. Urine. Human.
“Fuck,” Davit said.
No one corrected him. Avtandil lowered the lamp.
“There is someone down there.”
The man beneath the stable was alive. Barely. He had been tied to a support post in a shallow storage pit no one admitted existed. His wrists were raw. One eye swollen shut. He wore the brown coat of a royal road warden. The postmaster began crying the moment he saw him. That seemed incriminating. Levan agreed. He hit the postmaster once. Mother would have objected. Not strongly. The prisoner woke after we carried him inside. Avtandil's healer forced water between his lips. The man coughed. Opened one eye. Looked at Levan. Then at Avtandil. Then at me.
“Bride?”
Everyone went still. I hated that word suddenly. Levan stepped closer.
“What did you say?”
The man tried to sit. Failed.
“The bride.”
His voice was ruined.
“Had to stop.”
Avtandil crouched beside him.
“Who are you?”
“Rostom.”
The postmaster made a noise. Levan turned.
“You know him?”
“He's the road warden.”
“Then who are you?”
The postmaster backed into the wall. Davit grabbed him. The man's mouth opened. Avtandil stood.
“Teeth.”
Davit reacted instantly. He jammed two fingers into the man's jaw. The postmaster bit. Davit swore. Levan seized the man's face. A small dark capsule sat between two rear teeth.
“Don't.”
The postmaster's eyes widened. Levan looked at Avtandil.
“Suggestions?”
The prince stepped closer.
“Break his jaw.”
I stared. Levan smiled. This friendship needed to end immediately. Davit used the haft of his dagger. One strike. The man's jaw broke. The capsule fell into blood. He screamed. I flinched. Not because of the sound. Because I had asked Levan for no pieces until after questions. Apparently this counted as questions. Rostom, the real warden, watched from the bench. Fear made him more awake.
“Three days,” he whispered.
I turned.
“What?”
“They came three days ago.”
“Who?”
“Two men.”
“Names?”
He shook his head.
“Uniforms?”
“Royal road office.”
Merovan. Our side. Levan looked at me. Rostom continued.
“They had papers.”
“What papers?” Avtandil asked.
“Orders.”
“To do what?”
“Close the eastern road after the bride passed.”
I frowned.
“After?”
Rostom nodded weakly.
“Not before?”
“No.”
That did not make sense. The false postmaster groaned on the floor. Levan looked at him.
“He was supposed to delay us?”
Rostom shook his head.
“No.”
“Then?”
“Keep you here.”
“How?”
“Storm.”
We all looked toward the roof. Rain. Avtandil's face changed.
“Road wash.”
Rostom nodded.
“The lower bridge.”
Levan swore. I looked between them.
“What?”
Avtandil stood.
“This rain doesn't last.”
“You said one hour.”
“It won't.”
“Then?”
Levan understood.
“They damaged the bridge before the storm.”
Avtandil nodded.
“Rain makes it look natural.”
Davit pulled the false postmaster upright. The man's broken jaw hung wrong. He couldn't speak. Useful planning. Levan looked irritated with himself.
“Can he write?”
The false postmaster shook his head violently.
“Wonderful,” I said.
Avtandil looked at Rostom.
“What happens after the bridge?”
“Road closes.”
“How long?”
“Three days. Maybe four.”
“What is in four days?”
No answer. Rostom closed his eye. Fainted. Beso had entered without me noticing. He stood near the door. Four days. I looked at him. He looked at Avtandil. The prince's expression changed first.
“Kura.”
Beso nodded. Levan looked between them.
“What is Kura?”
Avtandil swore. I had never heard him swear that badly.
“What?”
He stood.
“In four days, my father opens the autumn council.”
“So?”
“The marriage treaty is on the agenda.”
My stomach tightened. Beso continued.
“If the prince fails to arrive before council begins, His Majesty can present the Vashadze attack without his testimony.”
Levan went still.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Avtandil said, “my father gets to tell the court what happened under your roof before I do.”
The attack. The road. The timing. Not random. Not only war. Politics. Someone wanted Avtandil absent. Or delayed. I looked at the false postmaster. His eyes met mine. For one second, I saw relief. Not fear. Relief. He had succeeded.
“Can we make it?” I asked.
Avtandil shook his head.
“Not if the lower bridge is gone.”
“Other route?”
“South adds five days.”
“North?”
“Two. Maybe three.”
Levan crossed his arms.
“Maybe?”
“Old military road.”
My brother looked toward the rain.
“Suravi.”
Avtandil nodded. Of course. The sold road. Again. Levan smiled. Not pleasantly.
“Good.”
Beso stared.
“Lord Vashadze.”
“What?”
“That road has not been maintained in six years.”
“Then fewer assassins.”
“It may not exist.”
“Roads don't vanish.”
I said, “They do.” Everyone looked at me.
“What?”
“Landslide.”
Levan glared.
“That isn't helpful.”
“It is accurate.”
Avtandil was thinking. I could see him doing it. Route. Distance. Horses. Weather. Time. His gaze moved toward me. Then Levan.
“We can reach Kura in three days.”
Beso said, “How?”
“Leave the wagons.”
My brother smiled wider.
“Now you're learning.”
We left before the rain stopped. This was stupid. Everyone agreed. We did it anyway. The false postmaster remained behind under guard. Rostom too. Two Vashadze riders stayed with them. That reduced us to twenty-four Vashadze men. Levan noticed. He disliked losing numbers. The carriage remained. So did four pack horses. Three servants stayed. We carried food for four days. Blankets. Medical supplies. No tents. The old Suravi military road began half a mile west of the post house. I knew the entrance. Had never taken it. Father had forbidden it after the betrayal. Not because of superstition. Because the road was terrible. The rain improved nothing. Within an hour my boots filled with water.
Within two, I regretted every decision I had ever made. Avtandil rode ahead with Levan. Not beside me. That was correct. They argued quietly about route markers. Also correct. I rode with Beso. This had not been my choice. The chancellor looked miserable. His horse looked worse.
“Do you ride often?” I asked.
“No.”
“That was obvious.”
“Thank you, Lady Tamar.”
“You're welcome.”
He sighed. I liked him.
“What is Kura?”
“The autumn council?”
“Yes.”
“Forty-one nobles. Nine church lords. Twelve city delegates. The king. He pretends it is advisory.”
“Is it?”
“No.”
“Then why have it?”
“So everyone can be ignored formally.”
That made sense.
“What happens if Avtandil isn't there?”
Beso adjusted his wet cloak.
“The king presents the attack.”
“As Vashadze treachery.”
“He may.”
“You think he would.”
Beso was quiet. Interesting.
“Do you dislike the king?”
“No.”
“That was too fast.”
“I have served His Majesty for thirty-one years.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“You and the prince share an irritating habit.”
“Thank you.”
“Not praise.”
“Still taking it.”
Rain ran from the edge of his hood. Beso looked ahead.
“King Zurab believes peace is useful.”
“Good.”
“He also believes peace must leave Arasani stronger than before.”
“Less good.”
“He is a king.”
“My king believes the same.”
“Yes.”
“So where does the marriage fit?”
Beso looked at me.
“You genuinely don't know?”
“No.”
That surprised him. Good. People revealed things when surprised.
“The war is expensive.”
“I know.”
“Not only coin.”
“Men.”
“Men are coin to kingdoms.”
I disliked that sentence. Beso continued.
“Arasani needs northern grain and western roads. Merova needs eastern ports. Your house controls the safest passes between them.”
“I know that.”
“The marriage makes Vashadze interests inseparable from Arasani stability.”
“And Arasani interests inseparable from ours.”
“Yes.”
“Why me?”
He hesitated. There.
“Beso.”
“You are Lord Vashadze's sister.”
“So are thousands of useful women.”
“Not his sister.”
I looked toward Levan. Even through rain, I recognized his silhouette.
“There are other powerful houses.”
“Yes.”
“Other unmarried women.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
Beso frowned.
“I was not part of the initial selection.”
Selection. Lovely.
“Who was?”
“The king.”
“Avtandil?”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
Beso realized his mistake. I smiled. He looked miserable.
“Go on.”
“The first proposal came from His Majesty's council.”
“Without Avtandil?”
“Yes.”
“Did he refuse?”
“No.”
“Did he object?”
Silence.
“Beso.”
“He asked for information.”
I laughed. Of course he did.
“What kind?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Household accounts. Education. Medical history. Court appearances. Known friendships.”
“Medical history?”
“He is thorough.”
“He investigated my teeth?”
“I don't know.”
“I am asking him.”
“I regret this conversation.”
“I don't.”
Rain softened. The road became worse. We entered trees. Old pines crowded the slopes, roots crossing the path. The column stretched single file. Beso rode behind me now. Ahead, Avtandil raised a fist. Stop. Every rider halted. No shouting. Again, authority. Levan dismounted. I looked forward. The road ended. Not metaphorically. A section had collapsed down the mountainside. Approximately twenty feet of path gone. Below was a drop I chose not to measure. Levan crouched at the edge. Avtandil beside him. Davit walked back.
“Landslide.”
I looked at Levan. He looked at me. I said nothing. He pointed one finger.
“Not one word.”
I smiled.
We found a way around. Horses could not use it. Of course. The route climbed above the slide through pine roots and broken stone. Too narrow. Too steep. We had two choices. Turn back. Or lead the horses individually. Levan chose the stupid one. Avtandil agreed. This was becoming a serious problem. I dismounted. My mare Lela looked at the climb. Then at me. I understood.
“I know.”
She sighed. Horses could sigh. No one convinced me otherwise. The first six made it. Then a pack horse slipped. Not fell. Slipped. Its hind legs went over the edge. Men grabbed the reins. The horse screamed. Everything became noise. I moved before anyone could tell me not to. The animal thrashed. Two Arasani soldiers held its front harness. Davit grabbed the saddle. Levan shouted for rope. I saw the problem. The rear pack had shifted. Weight pulling downhill.
“Cut it!”
No one heard.
“Cut the pack!”
Avtandil looked. Understood. He drew his knife. Levan grabbed his wrist.
“No.”
“What?”
“Wrong strap.”
He pointed.
“Cut that and the chest rig goes too.”
Avtandil changed angle. The horse kicked. Stone broke loose. One Arasani soldier nearly went over. I grabbed the back of his coat. He fell onto me. Heavy. We hit the ground. My breath disappeared.
“Tamar!”
Levan. Of course.
“I’m fine.”
The soldier rolled away. I stood. Too fast. The mountain tilted. Avtandil cut the rear cinch. The pack dropped. Vanished. The horse lurched forward. Four men dragged. It regained footing. Everyone breathed. Then Levan reached me.
“What happened?”
“A man fell.”
“On you.”
“Yes.”
“He could have killed you.”
I looked at Avtandil. He looked at me. Neither said it. He could have tried. I laughed. Levan stared.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're hurt.”
“No.”
“You're holding your ribs.”
I removed my hand.
“I have ribs.”
“That isn't an answer.”
Avtandil approached.
“You hit the ground hard.”
“I noticed.”
“Can you breathe?”
“Yes.”
“Deeply.”
“What?”
“Breathe deeply.”
I did. Pain. Small. Sharp. My face betrayed me. Damn face. Levan went pale.
“No.”
“It's probably bruised.”
“Probably?”
“I am not a physician.”
Avtandil looked toward the rear of the column.
“Keto isn't here.”
“That seems selfish of her,” I said.
Levan touched my side. I slapped his hand.
“Ow.”
“You said you weren't hurt.”
“I am hurt when you poke me.”
He looked at Avtandil.
“Do we turn back?”
“No.”
Both men said it at the same time. I blinked. They looked at each other. Terrifying progress.
“I can ride.”
Levan frowned.
“You'll ride with me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I have my own horse.”
“If you faint?”
“I won't.”
Avtandil said, “Let her ride.” Levan turned. I prepared for another argument. Avtandil continued.
“If she can't, we change.”
Levan looked at me. Not at him.
“Fine.”
I hated how grateful I felt. That was another problem. We continued.
By midnight, I wanted to die. Not permanently. Briefly. Somewhere dry. The old road crossed the ridge beneath moonlight. Rain had stopped. Clouds broke. Stars appeared. Beautiful. I resented them. We had been riding or walking for seventeen hours. I knew because I counted.
My side hurt. My thighs hurt. My hands hurt. My hair had escaped every pin and now existed as an independent political entity. Levan looked worse. Good. Avtandil looked unfairly intact. I hated him. Then his horse stumbled and he swore. Better. We stopped at an abandoned watch house near the ridge. One room. Roof mostly present. No door. Forty people could fit if they stopped having bones. The rest slept outside. Levan gave me the room. No argument. That frightened me enough to accept. I sat beside the old hearth while Davit tried to start a fire. Wet wood smoked. No flame. He swore. Tried again. Nothing.
“Move.”
I looked up. Avtandil entered carrying an armful of dry-looking branches.
“Where?”
“Storage recess.”
Davit stared.
“How did you know?”
“I've been here.”
Silence. Of course. Suravi military road. The Arasani campaign. Levan entered behind him. He had heard too. No one spoke. Avtandil crouched. Built the fire. Efficiently. Of course. Flame caught. Orange. Normal. I sat with my back against stone. Someone gave me soup. I drank half. Forgot the rest. Levan crouched in front of me.
“How bad?”
“Fine.”
“Tamar.”
“Six.”
His face changed.
“What?”
“Pain.”
“Out of?”
“Ten.”
He swore.
“Six when moving. Three sitting.”
“That isn't fine.”
“It isn't dying.”
Avtandil leaned against the opposite wall.
“Useful scale.”
“Thank you.”
Levan said, “Stop encouraging her.”
“Encouraging what?”
“Being injured.”
“I don't think she needs encouragement.”
Correct. My eyes closed. I heard men outside. Horses. Dogs. Fire. Levan and Avtandil speaking quietly. Not arguing. That should have kept me awake. It did not. I woke because someone touched my boot. My eyes opened. Dark. Fire lower. Mzi sat beside me. The little reddish dog. Avtandil's. She placed one paw on my foot.
“Hello.”
Her tail moved. I looked around. Levan slept near the doorway. Axe across his lap. Naturally. Avtandil was not there. I stood. Pain. Four. Maybe five. Manageable. Mzi followed me outside. The ridge was silver beneath the moon. Men slept everywhere. Cloaks. Saddles. Weapons beside hands. I found Avtandil at the edge of the drop. Apparently men went to cliffs when thinking. Women had chairs.
“Can't sleep?” I asked.
He turned.
“You should.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
I sat on a low stone. He looked at my side.
“Better?”
“No.”
“Worse?”
“No.”
“Useful.”
“I try.”
He sat too. Mzi curled against his boot. Below us, the eastern valleys spread beneath moonlight. Arasani. For the first time, I could see lights. Villages. Small clusters. Homes. Not territory. Kitchens. Avtandil pointed.
“That river is the Aveni.”
I followed. Silver line.
“The border?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Which village?”
“Tsori.”
“And those lights?”
“Dali.”
“How far to Kura?”
“Hard riding, a day and a half.”
“That seems possible.”
“It is.”
Something in his voice.
“But?”
“You're hurt.”
“I can ride.”
“I know.”
“You don't believe me?”
“I believe you'll do it even if you shouldn't.”
“That isn't the same.”
“No.”
We sat. Mzi snored. Small dog. Large conviction.
“Why me?”
Avtandil looked over. I had been thinking about Beso's answer.
“Why you what?”
“Marriage.”
His face changed.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“At midnight.”
“Technically after.”
“You counted.”
“Obviously.”
He looked toward the valley.
“Your house controls the passes.”
“Beso said that.”
“Then why ask me?”
“Because Beso said your father chose me.”
“He did.”
“And you agreed later.”
“Yes.”
“What changed?”
He was quiet. I waited. Patience was useful when the other person hated silence more. Avtandil did not hate silence. Unfortunate. Finally:
“You wrote a letter.”
I frowned.
“To you?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“To the Merovan grain office.”
“Three years ago.”
“What letter?”
“Winter stores.”
Oh. That letter. One of our western villages had received rotten grain from a royal contractor. I had written twelve pages. Mother called it excessive. Levan had sent all twelve.
“You read that?”
“It was copied through the diplomatic office.”
“Why?”
“You accused the king's contractor of theft.”
“He was stealing.”
“Yes.”
“He diluted grain with husks.”
“Yes.”
“And charged full weight.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
Avtandil smiled.
“You included tables.”
“Evidence.”
“And interviews.”
“Evidence.”
“And a drawing of the storage bins.”
“The clerk claimed the wet floor caused spoilage.”
“You proved the floor sloped away from the grain.”
“It did.”
“I liked the letter.”
I stared at him.
“You chose a wife because of a complaint about grain?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“It made me ask.”
“Ask what?”
“Who you were.”
Something in my chest moved. Dangerous. I looked away.
“That is a terrible reason to marry someone.”
“I wasn't planning to marry you then.”
“When?”
“Two years later, my father proposed the alliance.”
“And you remembered the grain letter.”
“Yes.”
I laughed softly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“You investigated me because I was annoying in writing.”
“Extremely.”
“That sounds more accurate.”
He smiled.
“Then I met you.”
“Three days ago.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“And now the investigation is more interesting.”
Oh. No. Absolutely not. I stood. Too quickly. Pain caught my side. I sucked in air. Avtandil moved. Stopped himself before touching me. That mattered.
“I'm fine.”
“You aren't.”
“Four.”
“Out of ten.”
“Yes.”
“Better.”
“See?”
I took one step. He said my name. Not Lady Tamar. Tamar. I turned. Levan was asleep. Probably. Avtandil noticed where I looked.
“So death grants name privileges?”
I smiled despite myself.
“Apparently not.”
“Then?”
“I haven't decided.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It is the only one you're getting tonight.”
He laughed. I hated him. A little. Not enough.
The fire turned blue at dawn. No assassination. No scream. No iron branch. That made it worse. I woke with Mzi's nose against my cheek. She had somehow entered the watch house. Levan slept sitting against the doorway. Davit lay beside him. Three other men occupied the floor. The hearth burned low. Orange. Then blue. I sat up. Pain in my side. Ignored. The flame changed slowly. Orange at the base. Blue at the edges. Then entirely blue. Mzi whined. I looked around. No one awake. No one except Avtandil. He stood across the room. Very still. Our eyes met. Neither spoke. The flame rose. Not high. Just enough.
A narrow tongue of blue leaned toward me. I did not like that. Avtandil walked to the hearth. I whispered, “Don't.” He stopped. The flame moved toward him. Not like wind. Like attention. We stared. Then Levan woke. Instantly. Hand on axe.
“What?”
The fire went orange. Gone. Levan looked around. Then at us.
“What happened?”
Avtandil looked at me. I looked at the hearth. Nothing. Normal flame. Mzi sneezed.
“No idea,” I said.
Avtandil's eyebrows moved. I ignored him. Levan stared.
“You're both terrible liars.”
“I'm an excellent liar.”
“You tell the truth when lying would be easier.”
“That isn't the same.”
“What happened?”
I stood. Pain three. Good.
“Breakfast.”
“Tamar.”
“Apricots count.”
He closed his eyes. I left before he could ask again. Avtandil followed five minutes later. He did not mention the fire. Neither did I. That was our first secret. I noticed. I suspected he did too.
We crossed into Arasani before noon. There was no wall. No gate. No dramatic line carved through the mountains. Just two stone markers beside the road. Merovan wolf on one. Arasani crown on the other. That disappointed me. Countries should at least have the decency to look different. The grass remained grass. The sky remained sky. My horse did not care. Levan did. He stopped beside the stones. Twenty-four Vashadze riders stopped behind him. Avtandil waited on the eastern side. Forty Arasani riders with him. For a moment the road held two countries. Me in the middle. Levan looked at me.
“You can turn around.”
“No.”
“Last chance.”
“It isn't.”
“What?”
“If I wanted to turn around tomorrow, I could.”
He frowned.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
I moved Lela forward. Across the line. Nothing happened. No thunder. No fire. No god objected. Avtandil looked at me.
“Welcome to Arasani.”
Levan crossed directly after me.
“Temporary.”
Avtandil nodded.
“Welcome temporarily.”
“I dislike you.”
“I know.”
The road descended. Eastern villages appeared. White stone instead of black. Roofs flatter. Vineyards lower. Orchards larger. People came outside. They knew. News traveled faster than horses when sufficiently unpleasant. At the first village, nobody cheered. Men watched from doorways. Women stood behind walls. Children stared at Levan's red riders. One old woman spat. Not at me. At Levan. He ignored it. A boy threw a plum. It hit Davit's horse. The horse ate it. This ruined the insult. I laughed. Davit did not. At the village well, Avtandil stopped. I rode beside him.
“Why?”
“Water.”
“We have water.”
“They don't.”
I looked. The well chain had snapped. A group of villagers stood beside it. Avtandil dismounted. So did three of his men. Levan watched.
“What is he doing?”
“Fixing a well.”
“We are late.”
“Yes.”
“He knows.”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“You would stop.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He frowned.
“If it were ours.”
“There.”
“That is different.”
“Why?”
He had no answer he liked. Good. Avtandil removed his coat. This was unnecessary. Not for the well. For me. I had already known he was broad. Armor had suggested. Wet shirt made the information less theoretical. I looked away. Then back. I was an adult. I could observe. Levan rode his horse directly between us. I stared at the back of his head.
“Move.”
“No.”
“I am watching the well.”
“There are other angles.”
“Levan.”
“No.”
I leaned sideways. Avtandil looked up. Saw my brother. Saw me leaning. His mouth twitched. I held up one finger. He laughed. Levan turned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I hate both of you.”
“I haven't done anything,” Avtandil said.
“Exactly.”
The well took twenty-two minutes. I counted. Of course. When we left, the old woman who had spat earlier brought Avtandil a round loaf. He accepted it with both hands. Then broke it. Gave half to Levan. My brother stared. The old woman stared too. Avtandil waited. Levan took it. Not graciously. Still. The woman looked between them. Then crossed herself. I understood. I almost did too.
We reached Kura the following evening. Not the palace. The city. I had expected towers. There were towers. I had expected walls. Three. I had expected gold. Less than paintings suggested. Good. Cities should not look polished. Kura sat in a wide river valley surrounded by dry hills. White stone climbed the slopes. Blue tile flashed on domes and roofs. Bridges crossed the river in six places. Markets filled both banks. Smoke. Bells. Shouting. Horses. Carts. People. Too many people. I loved it instantly. This seemed irresponsible. Avtandil looked at me as we descended the western road.
“Well?”
“Dirty.”
He smiled.
“Anything else?”
“Large.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“You like it.”
“I said dirty.”
“You like it.”
“Possibly.”
Levan rode on my other side.
“I don't.”
“You've been inside for thirty seconds.”
“Enough.”
“Your house has murder holes above the dining room.”
“Practical.”
Avtandil looked over.
“You have murder holes above the dining room?”
“No.”
“Yes,” I said.
Levan glared.
“They are defensive galleries.”
“With downward openings.”
“For defense.”
“During dinner.”
“In case.”
Avtandil nodded thoughtfully.
“I want some.”
“No,” I said.
Levan said, “I'll show you.” I looked between them. This had gone too far. Crowds thickened. People recognized Avtandil. Not everyone. Enough. Men bowed. Women called greetings. A fruit seller shouted something about him owing money. Avtandil shouted back that the peaches had been rotten. The seller threw one. Avtandil caught it. A prince. Catching fruit in the street. I looked at Levan. He looked annoyed.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“You like this.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“Your face.”
“I don't control my face.”
“I know.”
The palace appeared above the river. White walls. Long terraces. Blue roofs. Not a fortress. Not exactly. Too many windows. Levan hated it immediately. I could feel it.
“Too open,” he said.
Avtandil heard.
“Yes.”
“You agree?”
“My grandfather rebuilt after the earthquake. He liked light.”
“Light kills.”
“What does that mean?”
“Windows.”
“That is not what windows do.”
“Arrows.”
Avtandil nodded.
“My father agrees with you.”
“Finally someone sensible.”
“Please don't become friends with my father.”
Levan considered.
“No promises.”
We passed through the first gate. Then the second. At the third, bells began. Not welcome bells. Council bells. Beso swore. Avtandil's face changed.
“We're early.”
“No,” Beso said.
The bells rang again. Three. Pause. Three. Pause. Three. People in the courtyard stopped. Avtandil looked toward the palace.
“What?”
Beso had gone pale.
“The council has been called.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“It opens tomorrow.”
“Not anymore.”
The delay had not needed to last four days. Only long enough. The false postmaster had known. Someone had moved the council. Avtandil kicked his horse forward. Levan grabbed his reins. The gray reared. Half the courtyard reached for weapons.
“Let go,” Avtandil said.
“No.”
“Levan.”
“You ride into a council already discussing us without knowing why, you lose.”
Avtandil stared. My brother continued.
“You arrive angry, they control you.”
That was good. Very good. Avtandil knew it too. His breathing slowed. Levan released the reins.
“Five minutes.”
“We don't have five.”
“You have three.”
Beso said, “The doors close after the ninth bell.” Second sequence began. Three. Three. Three. Avtandil dismounted.
“Two.”
Levan smiled. They were definitely friends. I dismounted too.
“No.”
Both said it. I looked at them.
“Oh, fuck you.”
Beso choked. Avtandil's face did something. Levan looked offended.
“You aren't entering that chamber.”
“Why?”
“Because someone tried to stop the bride from arriving.”
Avtandil added, “Which means they care whether you're seen.”
“Exactly.”
“That means I should be seen.”
Silence. Men hated when women completed their strategy. I continued.
“If the council is hearing about Vashadze treachery and I walk in alive beside Avtandil, that changes the story.”
Beso looked at me. Then the bells.
“She's right.”
Levan turned.
“Don't.”
“I am not her brother.”
“Lucky you.”
Avtandil looked toward the upper palace. Fourth bell sequence.
“We go together.”
Levan said, “No.” I was done. I took his axe. He froze. Everyone froze. It was heavier than expected. Much heavier. I held it awkwardly in both hands.
“Give that back.”
“No.”
“Tamar.”
“If you try to stop me, I throw this in the fountain.”
His face became horrified.
“You wouldn't.”
“I will.”
“That axe belonged to Father.”
“I know.”
“You cannot throw Father's axe in a fountain.”
“Then behave.”
Avtandil turned away. His shoulders shook.
“Do not laugh.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am being diplomatic.”
I pointed the axe at him. Poorly.
“You too.”
He stopped. Levan held out his hand.
“Give it.”
“Promise.”
“No.”
I moved toward the fountain.
“Tamar.”
“One.”
He stared.
“Two.”
“Fine.”
“What?”
“You go.”
“And?”
“I don't kill anyone.”
“I didn't ask that.”
“You were going to.”
“I was.”
“Give me the axe.”
I handed it back. He hugged it briefly. I pretended not to notice. The bells continued. Sixth sequence. Beso ran. Actual running. We followed.
The autumn council chamber had forty-one nobles, nine church lords, twelve city delegates, one king, and nowhere near enough air. We entered during the eighth bell. Every head turned. I had looked better. My dress was muddy. My hair had given up two days earlier. My ribs hurt. Levan had dried blood on one sleeve. Avtandil had not shaved.
Let them see. At the far end of the chamber sat King Zurab Orbelani. Avtandil's father. He was not what I expected. I had imagined a larger man. Older. Crueler-looking. He was thin. Gray-haired. Clean-shaven. His face resembled Avtandil's only around the eyes. Those eyes moved first to his son. Then me. Then Levan. Then the mud on all of us. The chamber was silent. A nobleman stood beside the central table. He had been speaking. Papers lay before him. One carried a red wax seal. Vashadze. Mother's stolen seal. I knew immediately. Avtandil saw too. Levan made a sound. Very quiet. The king did not rise.
“Avtandil.”
“Father.”
“You were expected tomorrow.”
“I was.”
King Zurab's gaze shifted.
“Lord Vashadze.”
“King.”
Not Your Majesty. Beso closed his eyes. I almost smiled. Then the king looked at me.
“Lady Tamar.”
I bowed.
“Your Majesty.”
“You have had a difficult journey.”
I looked at the paper.
“So I've noticed.”
Something changed around his mouth. Not a smile. Almost. He looked at Avtandil.
“Your chancellor's message reported an attack.”
“Yes.”
“Under Vashadze roof.”
“Yes.”
Levan stepped forward.
“With men dressed in my colors, wearing eastern boots, carrying poison, led into my house by a woman who murdered one of my singers and stole my mother's seal.”
The king's eyes moved to the document.
“So I have heard.”
“From whom?”
Silence. Levan did not need to shout. The chamber leaned toward him. King Zurab rested one hand on the arm of his chair.
“This council received evidence.”
“Evidence arrived before us.”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
The nobleman beside the table spoke.
“Lord Levan, you stand before the king of Arasani.”
Levan turned.
“And you are?”
The man's face reddened. Good.
“I am Duke Sargis Tavadi.”
“Should that help?”
I covered my mouth. Avtandil closed his eyes briefly. King Zurab said, “Levan.” My brother looked back. The king had used his name. Interesting.
“Sit.”
“No.”
The chamber moved. Tiny murmurs. King Zurab's expression did not change.
“You are a guest in my court.”
Levan glanced at me. Then at Avtandil. Then back.
“That has gone poorly recently.”
Someone laughed. Not loudly. King Zurab heard. His mouth moved. There. Avtandil had inherited it. That almost-smile. Terrible family. The king looked at me again.
“You survived.”
“Yes.”
“Your brother's letter implied otherwise was possible.”
I stared at Levan.
“What letter?”
He looked innocent. Impossible.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“How?”
“Fast rider.”
“You wrote the king?”
“He needed warning.”
“What did you say?”
“Relevant information.”
Mother's phrase. I hated him. King Zurab looked amused.
“Your brother informed me that if you died in my country he would, and I quote, ‘take the eastern road apart stone by stone until I found the person responsible.’”
I turned slowly toward Levan. He shrugged.
“That is not a threat.”
Avtandil whispered, “Apparently.” I ignored him. King Zurab looked at his son.
“Is the Vashadze account accurate?”
“Yes.”
“The attack was not ordered by their house?”
“No.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
The king sat back.
“Then this document is false.”
Levan said, “Obviously.” Duke Sargis bristled.
“The seal is genuine.”
“My mother's seal was stolen.”
“Convenient.”
Levan looked at him. Oh no. I stepped closer to my brother. Not between. Nearby. Reminder. He noticed. His hand remained away from the axe. Growth. King Zurab picked up the paper.
“What does Lady Nino say?”
“She says whoever forged it does not understand her handwriting.”
I blinked. Levan looked at me.
“What?”
“That's Mother's argument?”
“Yes.”
“Not the seal?”
“No.”
I started laughing. Wrong place. Could not stop. The king watched.
“So the document is false because of penmanship.”
Levan nodded.
“My mother dots her lower script.”
King Zurab looked at the paper. Then at a secretary. The secretary approached. Examined it. His eyebrows rose.
“She does, Majesty.”
Duke Sargis stared. I loved Mother. Deeply. King Zurab placed the paper on the table.
“Then someone has summoned my council early with forged evidence of Vashadze treachery.”
Avtandil said, “And arranged to delay us beyond the meeting.” The room changed. Now we had them. Not the conspirators. The attention. Every noble understood the implication. Someone had manipulated the king's council. Kings disliked many things. Being manipulated publicly ranked high. Zurab's face became still.
“How?”
Avtandil told him. The false road warden. The damaged bridge. The timing. Suravi. Not the battle. Not yet. The road. The king listened. When Avtandil finished, he looked at Beso.
“Verify.”
Beso bowed.
“Already done.”
I really liked him. King Zurab's fingers tapped once.
“Seal the chamber.”
The doors closed. Levan smiled. Duke Sargis did not. My stomach tightened. The king looked at each face. Forty-one nobles. Nine church lords. Twelve city delegates. The royal family. Us. Whoever arranged the attack might be in this room. The thought should have frightened me. It did. A little. Mostly, it made me count. Doors. Two. Windows. Eight. Guards. Twelve. Weapons legally present. Too many. Avtandil stood on my right. Levan on my left. I realized they had done that without discussing it. Idiots. King Zurab's gaze landed on me.
“Lady Tamar.”
“Yes?”
“The forged document concerns you.”
“Yes.”
“The attack concerned you.”
“Partly.”
“The road delay concerned your arrival.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
That was not what kings asked unmarried women during councils. The room knew. So did I. I looked at the false letter. Mother's seal. Wrong handwriting. The ward clause. The false singer. The assassins. The postmaster. The council moved early. One thing bothered me.
“Who called the council?”
Silence. King Zurab frowned.
“I did.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Why?”
His eyes sharpened.
“Because I received that document.”
“When?”
“Before dawn.”
“From whom?”
The duke answered.
“A royal courier.”
“Where is he?”
No one spoke. There. I looked at Beso. He understood. Avtandil did too. The king's expression changed.
“Find him.”
A guard moved. I said, “No.” The room froze. I had told a king no. Wonderful. King Zurab looked at me.
“Why?”
“If he's real, find him.”
“And if he isn't?”
“Whoever brought that letter wants us looking outward.”
Avtandil nodded.
“Seal the palace.”
Levan added, “And the kitchens.” Everyone looked at him.
“What?”
“People use kitchens.”
He was not wrong. King Zurab looked at his son. Then Levan. Then me. Something almost like irritation crossed his face.
“You have been in my palace for nine minutes.”
“Eleven,” I said.
Avtandil looked at me. I corrected.
“Eleven.”
King Zurab stared. Then laughed. Not loudly. Not warmly. But genuinely. The room relaxed just enough to become dangerous again. He stood.
“All gates close.”
There it was. The same order Levan had given three nights earlier. No one leaves. The king descended from the dais. He stopped in front of Levan.
“My son tells me you intended to kill him.”
Levan considered.
“Briefly.”
“Tamar,” I said.
“What?”
“You promised.”
“I said intended.”
King Zurab looked between us. Then at Avtandil.
“You want to marry into this?”
Avtandil looked at me. Not my brother. Me.
“Yes.”
My chest did the thing. Again. King Zurab sighed.
“As your father, I object.”
Avtandil's face changed. The room went utterly silent. Then the king continued.
“As your king, unfortunately, I see the appeal.”
Levan laughed. I stared at Avtandil. He stared at his father. Nobody knew what to do with that. Good. I preferred rooms when everyone was equally confused. Then one of the council windows exploded. Glass came inward. A bolt crossed the chamber. Straight toward the king. Avtandil moved. Levan moved. So did I. Not intelligently. I reached. I don't know for what. The world turned blue. Not metaphorically. Blue. Every lamp. Every candle. Every brazier in the chamber erupted at once. A sound like the feast hearth screaming filled the room. The bolt stopped. In the air. Three feet from King Zurab's chest. Stopped. Not caught. Not deflected. Stopped. It hung there. Impossible. Everyone stared.
I stared. Then the iron head of the bolt began to glow. Blue. My right hand burned. I looked down. Father's old pantry key was clenched in my fist. I did not remember reaching for it. The black iron shone between my fingers. Across the room, Avtandil stared at me. He knew. The watch-house fire. The hearth at Vashadze. This. The bolt dropped. Clattered onto stone. Every blue flame went orange. No one moved. Levan looked at the bolt. Then me. Then the key. His face became very still.
“Tamar.”
I had no useful answer. The king looked at my hand. Then at his son. Then at me. Outside the shattered window, bells began ringing. Alarm. Guards shouted. People ran. Inside the chamber, no one cared. Not yet. Sixty people were looking at me. I hated when that happened. I opened my hand. Father's pantry key lay against my palm. Old. Useless. Warm. A thin line of blue light moved through the iron. Once. Then vanished. Levan whispered, “What the fuck?” I looked at him. Relief. Finally, a question I could answer honestly.
“I don't know.”