Chapter 3
The Useless Key
“I don't know.”
This was not an impressive answer. It was, however, the only one I had. The crossbow bolt lay on the council floor. King Zurab was still standing three feet behind it. My brother stared at me. Avtandil stared at me. Sixty other people stared at me. The old pantry key sat in my palm. It looked entirely innocent. I disliked it immediately. Levan recovered first. He always did when something frightened him. Unfortunately, his preferred method of recovery was violence.
“Everyone away from her.”
Half the room misunderstood. Hands went toward weapons. Avtandil turned.
“Don't.”
He did not shout. He didn't need to. The Arasani guards froze. Levan's men did not. That was because they belonged to Levan, who was currently walking toward me with Father's axe in one hand. Not raised. Still. Axes had a way of making intentions difficult to misinterpret. King Zurab looked at him.
“Lord Vashadze.”
“Not now.”
The room inhaled. I closed my fingers around the key.
“Levan.”
His eyes found mine. Good. There he was. Not Lord Vashadze. My brother.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Burned?”
I opened my hand again. The iron had stopped glowing. My palm was red. No blister.
“Maybe.”
He reached for the key. Avtandil said, “Don't touch it.” Levan's head turned. Slowly.
“What?”
Avtandil had moved closer without me noticing. He stood on my other side. Again. Apparently I had acquired two very large walls.
“I said don't touch it.”
“I heard you.”
“Then we're making progress.”
“Avtandil.”
I had learned that his name could be used several ways. This one meant stop helping before my brother commits regicide by association. He looked at me.
“You don't know what it does.”
“Neither do you.”
“I've seen it happen twice.”
Silence. Oh. No. Levan looked at him. Then me.
“Twice.”
I closed my eyes. Avtandil swore softly. I opened them again.
“You could have phrased that better.”
“I realized.”
“Too late.”
“Yes.”
Levan's voice became very calm. “When?”
“Tamar,” Avtandil said.
“No. You started it.”
Levan took one step toward him. “Tell me.”
The council had become remarkably interested. Wonderful. I pointed toward the doors.
“Can we perhaps finish not being assassinated first?”
That reminded everyone. The shattered window. The bolt. The bells outside. The fact that someone had just tried to shoot the king. King Zurab turned toward his guard captain.
“Report.”
The captain bowed. “Upper courtyard sealed. North roof teams moving. No second shot.”
“Find the firing position.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Alive.”
Levan muttered, “Wasteful.” The king heard. Of course.
“I prefer questions.”
“So do I.”
“No pieces until after.”
Zurab's gaze shifted to me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Avtandil coughed. I ignored him. The king looked toward the chamber doors.
“No one leaves.”
Duke Sargis Tavadi objected immediately.
“Majesty, if the shooter remains within the palace—”
“Then leaving the most secure chamber in the palace seems an unusual survival strategy.”
Sargis closed his mouth. King Zurab nodded toward the bolt.
“Don't touch it.”
A guard stopped mid-step. The king looked at me. Then the key. Then Avtandil.
“You said twice.”
My future husband looked as if he'd briefly considered jumping through the broken window. The drop was substantial. Probably not worth it.
“The fire at Vashadze hall changed during the attack,” he said.
“Everyone knows that,” Levan snapped.
Avtandil ignored him. “And again yesterday morning at the Suravi watch house.”
Levan looked at me. I looked at the floor. That was not guilt. It resembled guilt.
“What happened at the watch house?” he asked.
“The fire turned blue.”
“And?”
“That was mostly it.”
Avtandil said, “It moved toward her.” I looked at him.
“Mostly.”
Levan's face changed. “I was asleep.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't wake me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I considered saying because I knew he would react exactly like this. Instead:
“You needed sleep.”
His expression suggested I had personally betrayed the family.
“Tamar.”
“Also this.”
I gestured vaguely toward all of him. King Zurab said, “What about the first time?” Everyone looked at me.
“The feast.”
“No,” Avtandil said.
My stomach tightened. He was right. The feast wasn't first. The tiny blue flame after. When I had touched the cracked Arasani iron. I had not told anyone. Not even him. He saw my face. His eyes sharpened.
“There was another.”
Dammit. Levan looked between us.
“Another what?”
I hated observant men. They should have hobbies.
“At dawn after the attack.”
My brother said nothing. That was worse.
“I touched the Arasani branch.”
“What happened?”
“Small blue flame.”
“How small?”
I held up my thumb. “About that.”
Levan stared. “And you told no one.”
“I am telling you now.”
“Because a king was almost shot.”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.”
“Still not praise,” he said.
“I know.”
King Zurab crossed his arms. He was taking this strangely well. Perhaps kings encountered spontaneous blue fire often. I doubted it. One of the church lords stood. He was very old. Not court-old, where a man had gray hair and spoke about the previous king as if remembering dinosaurs. Actually old. His back curved beneath black robes. A white beard reached his chest. He had not spoken since we entered. Now he said:
“Show me the key.”
Levan moved immediately. “No.”
The old man looked at him.
“Lord Vashadze.”
“No.”
“I have no intention of touching your sister.”
“That would be wise.”
“Levan,” I said.
He ignored me. The old man's eyes were dark and remarkably clear.
“I want to see the iron.”
“From there,” Levan said.
The old man sighed.
“Your father was easier.”
Everything stopped. Levan went still.
“You knew him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He was less exhausting at twenty.”
I laughed. I couldn't help it. Levan looked personally offended. The old man approached. Slowly. He stopped three paces away from me. Far enough to satisfy my brother. Barely.
“I am Catholicos Petre.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“You were at my father's funeral.”
His eyes changed.
“Yes.”
“You stood beside Mother.”
“I did.”
“You didn't speak to us.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“That is a longer answer.”
I looked at his robes. Then his face. Then the key.
“You know what this is.”
He did not answer. That was enough. Levan heard it too.
“Petre.”
The old man's mouth tightened.
“Do not use that tone with me, boy.”
Levan was thirty. He looked twelve. I enjoyed this enormously. Catholicos Petre held out his hand. Not toward the key. Palm upward.
“May I look?”
I brought the key closer. He leaned forward. Did not touch. His face lost color. Interesting.
“What?”
He looked at King Zurab. Then Avtandil. Then me.
“Where did you get this?”
“My mother.”
“Where did she?”
“It was Father's.”
“Before him.”
“I don't know.”
Levan answered. “South pantry.”
Petre looked at him. “What?”
“It opened the old pantry.”
The old man's expression became strange. Almost angry.
“Of course it did.”
I looked at the key. “It is a pantry key.”
“No.”
“It definitely opened a pantry.”
“That does not make it a pantry key.”
“That is generally how keys are classified.”
Avtandil's mouth twitched. Petre did not appreciate my contribution.
“How long has House Vashadze had it?”
Levan frowned. “Always.”
“That's not a length.”
“Longer than our records.”
Petre closed his eyes. “Idiots.”
Levan looked impressed. “You knew Father.”
The catholicos opened his eyes. “Your family has spent two centuries hanging sacred iron from kitchen walls, storing grain beneath oath nails, and using witness keys to secure preserves.”
I looked at my key.
“Preserves are important.”
Avtandil covered his mouth. Petre pointed at him.
“You are not helping.”
“I know.”
King Zurab descended the last step from his dais.
“Witness key.”
The chamber shifted. Several older nobles reacted. Not dramatically. A breath. A turn. Recognition. I counted six. Seven including the king.
“Someone knows something,” I said.
No one looked pleased. Good.
“Explain.”
Duke Sargis spoke first.
“Majesty, these are peasant stories.”
Petre turned. “Young man.”
Sargis was perhaps fifty-five.
“Please stop helping me understand why your mother drank.”
Someone laughed. Not me this time. Petre looked at the king.
“Oath iron predates both crowns.”
Zurab's face was unreadable. “I know the stories.”
“Stories survive when records become inconvenient.”
There. Political sentence. The room felt different. Avtandil noticed too.
“What records?”
Petre looked toward the sealed doors.
“Not here.”
Levan said, “Here.”
“No.”
“My sister just stopped a crossbow bolt in front of sixty witnesses.”
“Which is precisely why not here.”
The king made the decision.
“My private council room.”
Sargis objected.
“Majesty—”
“You will remain.”
The duke stopped. Zurab looked around the chamber.
“No one leaves until the shooter is found. No messages. No servants. No discussion of what happened here beyond these walls.”
That was impossible. Everyone knew it. The king knew too. He looked at the shattered window.
“Try.”
The king's private council room had one window. Levan inspected it. Then the chimney. Then the door. Then beneath the table. King Zurab watched him.
“Should I have the floor removed?”
“Later.”
“I was joking.”
“I wasn't.”
Avtandil sat. I sat because my ribs had begun objecting to existence. Petre noticed.
“You're injured.”
“Bruised.”
“How?”
“Mountain.”
The catholicos considered.
“That is not usually how people answer.”
“It fell on her,” Levan said.
“It did not.”
“A man fell on her.”
“That is different.”
Zurab looked at Avtandil.
“My journey was quieter.”
“You stayed home.”
“Yes. Increasingly wise.”
The room contained six people. The king. Avtandil. Levan. Petre. Beso. Me. No Sargis. No guards. Levan objected to that. Then discovered two hidden guards behind an interior screen. He approved. A little. I placed the key on the table. Nobody touched it. It looked absurd. Old iron. Two teeth. Black surface. One worn curve where Father had rubbed it with his thumb. I remembered him doing that during conversations. Always in his left hand. He would stand by the pantry door while cooks complained about grain deliveries and turn the key between his fingers. Perhaps he had known. I disliked that possibility.
“Start,” Levan said.
Petre looked at the king. Zurab nodded. The old man sat.
“Oath iron was once common.”
“How common?” I asked.
“In every recognized house.”
“Royal?”
“Before royal.”
Avtandil leaned forward. “Before Arasani?”
“Yes.”
“Merova?”
“Yes.”
“Then whose?”
Petre looked at me. “Nobody's.”
That was not useful.
“Oath iron belonged to agreements.”
Beso spoke quietly. “Witness law.”
Petre nodded. The chancellor looked suddenly older.
“You know?” Avtandil asked.
“Fragments.”
“Why have you never mentioned it?”
“Because I am a chancellor, not a storyteller.”
“That seems like a poor distinction.”
Beso ignored him. Petre continued.
“Before kings could enforce roads, borders, marriages, trade, sanctuary, or guest right through armies, people enforced them through witnesses.”
“People,” Levan said.
“Not magic.”
“Both.”
The room quieted. Petre touched the table with one finger.
“Iron was placed in the hearth where an agreement was sworn. Keys. Nails. Rings. Door fittings. Bridge spikes. Sometimes weapons.”
“Why iron?” I asked.
“No one knows.”
“That is unsatisfying.”
“Yes.”
“At least you're honest.”
“Yes.”
I frowned. “Stop doing that.”
Avtandil smiled. Petre continued.
“An oath properly witnessed left something behind.”
“In the iron?”
“Yes.”
“Memory?”
“That is the closest word.”
King Zurab looked at the key.
“And certain people could hear it.”
Petre nodded. There. Not everyone. I felt suddenly cold.
“What people?”
The catholicos looked directly at me.
“Witnesses.”
“I am witnessing you now.”
“Not that kind.”
“Then choose a better name.”
Levan said, “Tamar.”
“No. This is confusing.”
Petre almost smiled. “The old language called them mtsignari.”
Beso translated. “Those who mark.”
“That sounds worse.”
“Most old language does.”
“What could they do?”
Petre hesitated. Levan noticed.
“Answer.”
“Nothing by themselves.”
Good. I liked that.
“Witnesses did not command fire. They did not throw lightning. They could not turn iron into weapons with thought.”
The bolt was not present. Still. Good.
“Then what happened?”
“They revealed breaches.”
Silence. I thought of the feast. Guest right broken. Blue fire. The Arasani branch cracking. The watch house. What breach had happened there? Then today. A king targeted during council. Perhaps not breach. Petre continued.
“Old accounts describe fire changing color when a sworn protection failed. Iron warming when a written agreement was false. Doors refusing to open to oathbreakers. Weapons becoming heavy.”
“Bolts stopping in midair?” Avtandil asked.
“No.”
Excellent. I felt much better. Petre looked less pleased.
“I have never read that.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
Levan leaned both hands on the table.
“Why her?”
Petre looked at him. “I don't know.”
“Family?”
“Likely.”
“Which side?”
“Vashadze carried witness blood once.”
“Once?”
“The last confirmed was more than a century ago.”
“Who?”
Petre looked at me. “Maia Vashadze.”
I knew the name. Everyone in our house did.
“Mad Maia?”
Levan asked. Petre's expression became offended.
“She was not mad.”
“She set a courthouse on fire.”
“No.”
“That's the story.”
“The courthouse caught fire.”
“While she was inside.”
“Yes.”
“After she accused seven judges of treason.”
“Yes.”
“And all seven died.”
“Three died.”
“Still.”
Petre rubbed his forehead. “History is wasted on families.”
“Mad Maia.”
“Apparently not mad.”
I smiled. He did not. He saw the problem before I did.
“She was Father's great-grandmother.”
“Yes,” Petre said.
“And no one since.”
“Not confirmed.”
“Why now?”
The old man looked at the key.
“Perhaps there was nothing left to witness.”
That silenced us. Nineteen years of war. Assassination. False treaty. Broken guest right. Political marriage. Someone trying to manufacture another war. Perhaps the world had finally become dishonest enough to wake old iron. I disliked the thought. It sounded poetic. Poetic thoughts were usually hiding practical problems.
“So what do I do?”
Petre blinked. “Do?”
“Yes.”
“With what?”
“This.”
I held up the key. Levan said, “Don't.” I put it down.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You do not use it.”
“Good.”
“You listen.”
“Less good.”
“To what?”
“The iron.”
“I have never heard iron.”
“The fire screamed,” Avtandil said.
Everyone looked at him. I had forgotten that. No. I had tried to forget. During the attack. The hearth screaming. Metal inside my teeth. Petre's face changed.
“You heard it?”
“I did.”
“Anyone else?”
Levan frowned.
“The fire made noise.”
“No.”
“What?”
“It was loud.”
“Not to me.”
Beso shook his head. “Nor me.”
Avtandil looked at me. “I heard something.”
Not the same?
“What?”
He thought. “A high sound.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Petre looked between us. “Interesting.”
Levan's head came up. “What is?”
“Nothing yet.”
“That is priest language for something.”
Petre ignored him. I looked at Avtandil.
“You heard it too.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you say?”
“We were being stabbed.”
Fair. Petre leaned toward him.
“Were you touching oath iron?”
“No.”
“Tamar?”
“I don't know.”
The key had been upstairs. The Arasani branch was above the hearth. I had not touched it.
“What about the table?”
Petre asked.
“What?”
“Any iron?”
Levan answered. “Old nails.”
Of course. Everything in our house was old. Petre looked thoughtful. I hated thoughtful old men almost as much as observant young ones.
“Could Avtandil be a witness?” I asked.
The prince looked alarmed. Petre shook his head.
“Not from the Orbelani line.”
Zurab raised an eyebrow. “You seem certain.”
“I have your genealogies.”
“Concerning.”
“Churches keep records.”
“Also concerning.”
Petre turned back to me. “Another person may hear an activated witness.”
“Why him?”
“Proximity. Agreement. Participation.”
Avtandil and I both looked at each other. Levan noticed. Of course.
“Participation in what?”
Petre smiled very slightly. “The attempted marriage.”
“No,” Levan said.
We ignored him. I looked at Petre.
“We aren't married.”
“No.”
“Betrothed?”
“Not formally.”
“No third toast,” I said.
Petre's eyes sharpened. “What?”
“At Vashadze.”
“The third toast was supposed to be marriage.”
My brother nodded slowly. “Never given.”
Petre sat back. “Oh.”
I hated that sound. “What?”
“No.”
“What does oh mean?”
“It means I need to think.”
“You can think aloud.”
“I prefer not.”
Levan leaned toward him. “Start preferring.”
“Lord Vashadze, I baptized you.”
“So?”
“I dropped you.”
Levan blinked. I laughed so hard my ribs hurt.
“What?”
Petre looked satisfied. “You were large even then.”
“Mother never told me.”
“She was angry.”
“She should have been.”
“You survived.”
“That is not the standard.”
I wiped my eyes. Avtandil was smiling. Even Zurab. Good. Then Petre became serious again.
“The third toast matters.”
“Why?”
“Because marriage was once one of the strongest witnessed agreements.”
Avtandil stopped smiling. Petre continued.
“Not because of romance.”
“Good.”
“Because marriage joined obligations between houses. Roads. Children. Sanctuary. Inheritance. Retaliation.”
Levan said, “Retaliation?”
“Yes.”
“I like old law.”
“You would.”
“So the fire expected a marriage?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then?”
“It may have recognized an unfinished agreement.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“It often was.”
King Zurab tapped the table. “Can the phenomenon be proved?”
There. King. Not father. Not storyteller. Political mind. Petre looked at him.
“Perhaps.”
Levan said, “No.” Again. I turned.
“What?”
“No tests.”
“You don't know what he's proposing.”
“I know enough.”
“What if I want to know?”
“No.”
“That is becoming your favorite word.”
“It was already.”
Avtandil looked at the king. “What kind of test?”
“Not yours to decide,” Levan said.
Avtandil's face hardened. There. The first real collision since Suravi. Not humor. Not posturing. Something important.
“If she is accused publicly of sorcery before nightfall, it becomes my problem too.”
“She is not your problem.”
“Tamar,” I said.
Neither listened. Avtandil leaned forward.
“She stopped a bolt aimed at my father in front of the entire autumn council.”
“Which is why she shouldn't be turned into an experiment.”
“I agree.”
“You asked about tests.”
“To understand what can be proven before someone else invents an explanation.”
Levan paused. Good argument. He hated that. King Zurab watched both men. I realized with some horror that he was enjoying this.
“Enough.”
They looked at me.
“Thank you.”
I pointed at myself.
“My weird pantry key. My weird fire. My decision.”
Levan's mouth opened. I pointed at him.
“Don't.”
He closed it. Growth. I looked at Petre.
“What is the least stupid test?”
He considered.
“An oath.”
“No.”
Levan. I ignored him.
“What kind?”
“A small one.”
“Like?”
Petre looked around. Then at Beso.
“Chancellor.”
Beso looked unhappy. That meant he understood.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” I asked.
Petre smiled.
“Beso lies.”
The chancellor looked offended.
“I negotiate.”
“Professionally.”
“That is not the same.”
“It is adjacent.”
“What would he do?”
“Swear something false while touching unwitnessed iron.”
I frowned.
“You said oath iron matters.”
“It becomes oath iron when sworn.”
“So any iron?”
“Potentially.”
“Then why this key?”
“Age. Memory. Repeated use. Blood.”
Blood. There. A word I disliked.
“Mine?”
“Your family's.”
“What if the test works?”
“We learn something.”
“What if it doesn't?”
“We also learn something.”
“That is why old men enjoy tests.”
Petre looked pleased. King Zurab stood.
“No.”
Everyone looked at him. He continued.
“Not because Levan is correct.”
Levan looked offended.
“But because anything performed here becomes royal knowledge. Anything royal knowledge becomes political property.”
I stared. That was unexpectedly sensible. The king looked at me.
“If you decide to investigate this, do it privately.”
Avtandil's expression changed. “Father.”
Zurab looked at him. “Do not be naive.”
“About?”
“Power.”
The room cooled.
“You are thinking about protecting her.”
“Yes.”
“Lord Vashadze is thinking about hiding her.”
“Yes.”
Levan nodded. The king looked at me.
“And everyone else will think about using her.”
No poetry. Good.
“That includes me.”
Avtandil went still. Levan's hand moved toward the axe that was not in the room. Zurab smiled without humor.
“See?”
I liked him less. Then more. Honesty was inconvenient.
“At least you said it,” I said.
“I am old enough to know when lying wastes time.”
Beso coughed. The king ignored him.
“There were sixty witnesses today. This cannot be hidden.”
“Then what?”
“We control the first explanation.”
Avtandil frowned. “What explanation?”
Zurab looked at Petre. “Old ceremonial mechanism.”
The catholicos stared. “That is a lie.”
“A useful one.”
“Majesty.”
“A dormant protection built into the council chamber. Triggered by oath iron. Poorly understood. Religious scholars investigating.”
Petre's face became deeply pained. “You want me to tell the church I accidentally rediscovered a magical security system.”
“Yes.”
“I hate kings.”
“Tradition.”
I almost laughed. Levan did not.
“What about Tamar?”
“Nothing.”
Zurab looked at me.
“She was holding an old key when the mechanism activated.”
“That is almost true,” I said.
“The best lies are.”
Petre sighed. Beso looked impressed. I filed that away. King Zurab continued.
“Meanwhile, no one outside this room learns about the earlier fires.”
Levan looked at Avtandil. The prince looked at me. That secret had just grown. I nodded.
“Fine.”
Levan said, “No one examines her.”
“Agreed.”
“No blood.”
“Agreed.”
“No church detention.”
Petre looked offended. “We do not detain people.”
Levan stared. Petre reconsidered.
“Currently.”
“No.”
“Agreed.”
“No moving her without me.”
I turned.
“That one is not agreed.”
“Tamar.”
“No.”
King Zurab smiled.
“Your sister negotiates better than you.”
Levan looked at him.
“I have an axe.”
“An excellent counterargument.”
Avtandil rubbed his face.
“I need a drink.”
“You have council,” Beso said.
“Worse.”
The assassin had fired from the roof of the western archive. He was dead. Of course. He had bitten poison before the guards reached him. Of course. He carried no papers. No insignia. No personal items.
His crossbow had been purchased in Kura six months earlier by a man the shopkeeper remembered only because he had paid too much. Of course. I was beginning to dislike conspiracies. They were repetitive. Ketevan Orbelani arrived while I was being moved to a secure suite. I knew immediately who she was. Not because we'd met. Because she walked past six guards as though they were furniture. She was tall. Not as tall as Avtandil. Few people were. Dark hair cut just below her chin. No jewelry. Gray riding clothes beneath a long physician's coat. There was blood on one cuff. Old. Probably. She entered the room while Levan argued with the captain outside.
“Tamar?”
I looked up.
“Yes.”
She shut the door.
“Good.”
Then she pointed at the bed.
“Shirt off.”
I stared. She stared back.
“Avtandil said you'd be difficult.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“I've known him four days.”
“He is annoyingly quick.”
I liked her instantly.
“I bruised my ribs.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“My brother.”
“Which?”
She looked at me. I remembered. Eight siblings.
“Avtandil.”
“Ah.”
Apparently they all called him brother as if no others existed.
“He talks?”
“When useful.”
“That must be new.”
She put a leather case on the table. Opened it. Medical instruments. I sat.
“Are you Ketevan?”
“Keto.”
“Tamar.”
“I know.”
“So does everyone.”
“After today, yes.”
Not pretending. Good. She looked at me carefully. Not like a physician yet. Like a woman trying to decide whether I had just performed a miracle or exploded her family's political future.
“Did you do it?”
“No.”
“That was quick.”
“Because I don't know what happened.”
“Better answer.”
She removed her coat.
“Now shirt.”
“No.”
“Fine. Dress.”
I blinked. She waited. I turned my back and loosened the upper laces enough to expose my side without becoming politically interesting. Keto pressed along my ribs. Pain.
“Four.”
“What?”
“Pain.”
“Useful.”
“Your brother said that.”
“Which?”
I turned my head. She smiled.
“Sorry. Family joke.”
“You have too many siblings.”
“Yes.”
“Is it deliberate?”
“My mother enjoyed winning arguments with mortality.”
I liked that sentence. Keto pressed again. I hissed.
“No break.”
“I knew.”
“You hoped.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
She moved lower.
“Breathing?”
“Fine.”
“Deep.”
I inhaled. Pain. She nodded.
“Bruised. Possibly minor cartilage strain. No riding tomorrow.”
“No.”
She looked at me. I looked at her.
“No,” I repeated.
“Why?”
“We have a conspiracy.”
“That is not a medical indication.”
“It requires movement.”
“You are in the palace.”
“For now.”
She stepped away.
“You're marrying my brother?”
“Possibly.”
“Don't.”
I stared. She began wrapping my ribs.
“That seems direct.”
“I don't mean don't marry him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don't marry him because everyone keeps arranging the room until you're standing beside him.”
I said nothing. Keto tightened the wrap.
“Breathe.”
I did. Better.
“You like him?”
“I have known him four days.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Apparently this family shared methods.
“A little.”
Keto smiled.
“Bad luck.”
“Why?”
“He likes you.”
My stomach betrayed me. She noticed. Physician. Dangerous profession.
“He has known me four days.”
“Yes.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“He is usually slower.”
“Usually?”
She tied the wrap.
“Avto spent seven years deciding whether he liked a horse.”
I laughed.
“It bit him.”
“Did he keep it?”
“Twelve years.”
That tracked. Keto lowered my dress.
“He doesn't trust quickly.”
“He investigated me for two years.”
Her hands stopped.
“What?”
I smiled. There. Something Avtandil had not told his sister. Useful.
“Grain letter.”
Understanding arrived.
“Oh.”
“You knew?”
“I knew about the letter.”
“Not me?”
“No.”
She looked delighted.
“He kept it.”
“What?”
“The letter.”
That was absurd.
“Why?”
“He keeps documents.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It may be the only one you get.”
I narrowed my eyes. Orbelani. Terrible people. The door opened. Levan. Without knocking. Keto turned.
“Out.”
He stopped.
“Who are you?”
“Ketevan Orbelani.”
He knew. His posture changed.
“Physician.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“Treated your sister.”
“What?”
“Bruised ribs.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“I meant—”
“Out.”
Levan stared at her. Keto stared back. I experienced something close to joy. My brother had finally met a woman who did not care about him.
“You're in my sister's room.”
“I am aware.”
“You ordered me out.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm examining her.”
“Finished?”
“Now I am.”
“Then I'm staying.”
Keto looked at me.
“Is he always like this?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
Levan crossed his arms.
“What did Avtandil tell you?”
“About?”
“Her.”
Keto blinked.
“Which part?”
Wrong answer. Levan's eyes narrowed.
“What parts?”
I interrupted.
“Levan.”
“Keto says I shouldn't ride tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“I am riding.”
“No.”
Keto said, “Excellent. You can fight about that while I leave.” She closed her case. Levan blocked the door.
“Wait.”
She looked at him.
“You treated soldiers at Darsk.”
Keto's expression changed.
“Yes.”
“Kheri too?”
“Yes.”
My brother's face hardened. The room shifted. Keto noticed.
“What?”
“You treated Dato Arveladze.”
Another thread. Of course. Her eyes sharpened.
“I treated hundreds at Kheri.”
“Arveladze.”
“I know the name.”
“You remember him?”
Keto thought.
“Yes.”
“Before or after?”
“After what?”
“Me.”
Silence. Keto looked at him differently. Then at the axe scar on his arm. Recognition.
“You killed him.”
“Yes.”
“He died before reaching my tent.”
Levan's face changed. Not much. Enough.
“What?”
“He was dead when they brought him.”
“You didn't treat him.”
“No.”
Avtandil appeared in the doorway behind Levan. Of course. Our rooms had become a market.
“Keto.”
She looked at him.
“You failed to mention several things.”
“Which?”
She pointed at me. He looked alarmed.
“Medical?”
“No.”
“Then later.”
Levan turned.
“Arveladze.”
Avtandil went still. He had told me. Not Levan. Keto looked between them.
“What is happening?”
I sat on the bed.
“My father was wounded at Suravi by Dato Arveladze.”
She looked at Avtandil.
“You were at Suravi.”
“Yes.”
She knew that. Of course his family knew. Levan noticed.
“How many people knew?”
Avtandil frowned.
“Knew what?”
“That he commanded Suravi.”
“In Arasani?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone important.”
My brother laughed. Again, ugly.
“Excellent.”
Keto looked at him.
“You thought it was hidden?”
“From us.”
Her face changed.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
She looked at Avtandil. He looked away. Good sister. She understood instantly.
“You should have told them.”
“I know.”
“You're an idiot.”
“I know.”
Levan stared.
“I like her.”
“No,” Avtandil said.
I laughed. My ribs hurt. Worth it.
The council reconvened without me. This was offensive. Apparently being the woman who had stopped the assassination did not qualify me to discuss it. I complained. Levan agreed. Avtandil disagreed. Keto threatened to sedate me. This settled things temporarily. I lasted forty minutes in bed. Then got up. Not to attend council. Technically. I wanted food. The secure royal suite contained a sitting room, bedroom, bathing room, and no food. This seemed like poor security design. A guard outside offered to send a servant. I declined. I had been trapped in rooms enough for one week. The palace corridors were beautiful. I distrusted them. White stone. Blue tile. Arched ceilings painted with vines and birds.
Too many doors. Too many windows. Levan was right. Light killed. Possibly. A servant showed me toward the family kitchens. I lost her after turning deliberately into the wrong corridor. This was not wise. It was pleasant. For three minutes. Then I discovered someone following me. Not a guard. Too soft. I kept walking. Turned left. The footsteps followed. Right. Followed. I stopped. They stopped. I turned. A girl stood twenty feet behind me. Seventeen, perhaps. Thin. Black hair in a long braid. Blue dress. No guard. She looked annoyed.
“You knew.”
I considered.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You walk badly.”
She looked offended.
“I do not.”
“You step on the outside of your left foot.”
She looked down. Then back up.
“You count people's feet?”
“Apparently.”
She approached.
“Are you Tamar?”
“Yes.”
“I'm Salome.”
Ah. The youngest sister. The one who had almost died. She did not look fragile. This was probably intentional.
“I know.”
“Avto told you?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That you dislike most people.”
She nodded.
“Correct.”
“I appreciate efficiency.”
She stopped in front of me. Then looked me over with absolutely no shame.
“Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Taller.”
“Why?”
“Levan.”
I laughed.
“That's fair.”
She smiled. Then it vanished.
“Did you really stop the bolt?”
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“No?”
“I was there.”
“So?”
“The bolt stopped.”
“You were holding the key.”
“Yes.”
“The fire turned blue.”
“Yes.”
“You did it.”
“I do not know that.”
Salome looked disappointed.
“Avto said you'd answer like that.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“He's in council.”
“I was outside.”
“Were you supposed to be?”
“No.”
I liked her.
“Why are you following me?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“You could have introduced yourself.”
“I wanted to see you first.”
“What did you learn?”
“You walk alone.”
“That is currently considered controversial.”
“You also lied to the guard.”
“I said I wanted food.”
“You turned away from the kitchen.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Lie.”
She smiled. Interesting.
“Do you always know?”
“Know what?”
“When people lie.”
“No.”
“Then?”
“You looked toward the stairs before asking about food.”
Observant. Dangerous family.
“Avto said you count.”
“He talks too much.”
“No one has ever said that.”
We continued walking. Salome joined me without invitation.
“Where are you going?”
“I don't know.”
“Good.”
We turned another corner.
“Do you want to see something forbidden?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. Definitely Avtandil's sister.
The forbidden thing was a door. This was initially disappointing. It stood at the end of a narrow corridor below the oldest part of the palace. Iron-banded oak. No guard. No decoration. One enormous lock. Salome held up a candle.
“Old oath room.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
She smiled.
“Thought you'd like that.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Everyone in the family does.”
“Does Petre?”
“Probably.”
“Your father?”
“Definitely.”
“Avtandil?”
“Yes.”
That irritated me.
“Why didn't anyone mention a room?”
“Because they're men discussing history.”
Fair. I approached. The iron bands were black. Very old. My palm warmed. I stopped. Salome saw.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're bad at lying.”
“I've been told.”
I reached toward the door. Did not touch. The key in my pocket became warm. No. I pulled it out. Salome inhaled. The pantry key. Father's useless key. The lock in front of us. I looked from one to the other.
“No.”
“What?”
“This is stupid.”
“What?”
I held the key up. Salome's eyes widened.
“No.”
“Exactly.”
“Try it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if my dead father's pantry key opens a forbidden oath room in the Arasani royal palace, I am going home.”
“You won't.”
“I might.”
“You crossed Suravi with bruised ribs.”
“That was before haunted kitchenware.”
Salome grabbed my sleeve.
“Try.”
“You are a terrible influence.”
“Yes.”
I put the key into the lock. It fit. Of course it did. I closed my eyes.
“Fuck.”
Salome whispered, “Turn it.”
“No.”
“Tamar.”
“You're seventeen.”
“Yes.”
“I should be responsible.”
“Why start now?”
I turned the key. The lock opened. Blue light ran through every iron band on the door. Salome stopped breathing. So did I. The door swung inward. No one screamed. No assassins. No gods. Just darkness. Then braziers inside the room ignited. One after another. Blue. Six. Twelve. Twenty. The chamber beyond was round. Stone benches descended toward a central floor. Iron covered the walls. Not decoration. Writing. Thousands of narrow black strips, each stamped with words. Names. Dates. Agreements. Some I could read. Most older than our language. My skin went cold. Salome whispered:
“Oh.”
We stepped inside. The air smelled like dust. Metal. Old ash. The blue flames moved. Not toward me. Around the room. Awakening. One wall held larger iron plates. Royal marriages. I recognized the format. Names joined by a line. House to house. Arasani. Merova. Vardeni. Others extinct. Salome walked closer.
“My family said this room was empty.”
“It isn't.”
“They said the iron was removed.”
“It wasn't.”
“Why lie?”
Good question. Then I saw one plate without names. Blank. Except it wasn't. The blue fire brightened. Letters appeared across black iron. Not carved. Light. I stepped closer. Salome caught my arm.
“Maybe don't.”
Reasonable. Too late. The words formed. Old script first. Then somehow, beneath it, something I understood. Not translation exactly. Meaning. THIRD WITNESS ABSENT. My mouth went dry. Below that: UNION OPEN. Salome whispered, “What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
The key burned. I dropped it. It struck stone. Every flame flared. The blank marriage plate split down the center. Not violently. A clean line. The sound echoed. Then another piece of iron lit. Farther down the wall. I turned. A road compact. The date was nineteen years ago. The first year of the war. Two names. King Zurab Orbelani. King Mikheil of Merova. I stared. There had been no compact nineteen years ago. The war had begun nineteen years ago. Blue light spread across the plate. Words appeared beneath the original. BROKEN BEFORE WITNESS. Salome stopped smiling.
“Tamar.”
“Yes.”
“Go get Avto.”
“Yes.”
Neither of us moved. A third plate lit. Older. House Vashadze. House Orbelani. My heart stopped. Not literally. Probably. Date: One hundred and fourteen years earlier. Two names. Maia Vashadze. Aleksandre Orbelani. I knew Maia. Mad Maia. The last witness. The second name meant nothing to me. Salome knew.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
She pointed.
“That was my great-grandfather's brother.”
“Did they marry?”
“No.”
I looked at the plate. No marriage marking. Different symbol. Two hands. One road between them.
“What is this?”
Salome shook her head.
“I don't know.”
The blue light brightened. Meaning came. WITNESS COMPACT. Then: UNFINISHED. I hated old iron. Deeply. From the doorway behind us came Avtandil's voice.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Salome and I turned. He stood there. Levan behind him. Keto behind Levan. Petre behind Keto. Everyone stared at the open room. Then at me. Then at the key on the floor. Levan closed his eyes.
“Tamar.”
“Yes?”
“I left you alone for forty minutes.”
“Technically Salome found me.”
Avtandil looked at his sister.
“Salome.”
She pointed at me.
“She had the key.”
Traitor.
“I did not know it opened this.”
Petre entered slowly. He looked at the lit walls. All color left his face.
“That room was sealed.”
“So I've heard.”
“For eighty-three years.”
“Poorly.”
“With no key.”
I pointed at the floor.
“Apparently with one.”
Petre stared at Father's old pantry key. Then looked at me.
“Where did your father get that?”
“Pantry.”
“Tamar.”
“I don't know.”
Levan entered. His eyes moved over the walls. Then found Maia's plate. He read the name.
“What was she doing here?”
Petre looked at it. Then at Avtandil. Then King Zurab's voice came from the corridor.
“I would also like to know.”
Everyone came. Why bother having secrets? The king entered. Stopped. For the first time since meeting him, King Zurab looked frightened. Not politically concerned. Not angry. Frightened. He knew this room. He knew the plate. I saw it. Avtandil saw it too.
“Father.”
Zurab did not answer. He walked toward the nineteen-year-old compact. The one with his name. Blue letters glowed beneath it. BROKEN BEFORE WITNESS. His face tightened. Levan read over his shoulder.
“What agreement?”
The king said nothing. Levan stepped closer.
“What agreement did you have with Merova before the war?”
Still nothing. Avtandil's expression changed. “Father.”
Zurab finally looked at us. The blue light made him older.
“There was supposed to be no war.”
That sentence landed strangely. I frowned.
“What?”
Zurab looked at the iron.
“Nineteen years ago, King Mikheil and I signed a border settlement.”
Levan went still.
“Our king signed peace?”
“Yes.”
“Before the invasion?”
“Yes.”
The war had begun when Arasani troops crossed Merovan territory at Osk. Everyone knew that. Children knew that. I had learned it beside maps at seven years old. Arasani invaded. Merova answered. Nineteen years. Fathers dead. Uncles dead. Sold Road. Suravi. Kheri. Everything. Avtandil's voice was quiet.
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the agreement failed.”
“That isn't an answer.”
Zurab looked at him.
“The morning after we signed, Mikheil's envoy was murdered.”
My skin prickled.
“By whom?” I asked.
“We believed Arasani extremists.”
“Believed?”
“Yes.”
Levan laughed once.
“Convenient word.”
Zurab ignored him.
“Within three days, Merovan riders attacked Osk.”
“That is not how our histories tell it,” Levan said.
“I know.”
“So one of us is lying.”
“No.”
King Zurab looked at the glowing iron.
“I think both of us were.”
Silence. Petre whispered a prayer. I looked at the words again. BROKEN BEFORE WITNESS. Something cold settled in me. Not fear. Pattern. Nineteen years ago: Secret agreement. Envoy murdered. Each side believed the other broke faith. War. Now: Marriage agreement. Singer murdered. False letters. Each side dressed to blame the other. Attempted assassination. Road sabotage. A king nearly killed. Same shape. Different people. I walked toward the old iron plate.
“How many people knew about the first agreement?”
Zurab thought.
“Six.”
“Names.”
“Tamar,” Avtandil said.
“No.”
I looked at the king.
“Names.”
King Zurab studied me. Then answered.
“Myself. King Mikheil. His chancellor. Mine. Catholicos Davit. General Arsen.”
“Alive?”
“Three.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“My former chancellor, Otar Tavadi.”
I looked at Duke Sargis's face in memory.
“Tavadi.”
Zurab nodded.
“His father.”
“And?”
“Catholicos Davit.”
Petre shook his head.
“Died twelve years ago.”
“Then two.”
Zurab nodded.
“Otar and me.”
“Where is Otar?”
Silence. Avtandil knew. I could see it.
“Father.”
Zurab's mouth tightened.
“Missing.”
“For how long?”
“Six months.”
Six months. The crossbow purchased six months ago. My stomach dropped. Avtandil said it first.
“The weapon.”
Zurab nodded.
“Possibly.”
Levan turned toward the door.
“Find Tavadi.”
“No,” I said.
He stopped.
“What?”
“Not Sargis.”
“He is Otar's son.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
“Too obvious.”
Levan stared.
“You have developed an unhealthy respect for conspirators.”
“They are competent.”
Avtandil nodded.
“She is right.”
Levan looked betrayed.
“We need Sargis watched,” I said. “Not arrested.”
King Zurab's expression had changed. He was looking at me the way he had looked at the council. Not as potential daughter-in-law. As something else. Useful. I remembered his warning. Everyone else will think about using her. That includes me. I hated that he had been honest. It made him easier to trust while knowing I should not. Petre moved toward Maia's plate.
“Majesty.”
Zurab followed. The old compact glowed. Maia Vashadze. Aleksandre Orbelani. WITNESS COMPACT. UNFINISHED.
“What was this?” I asked.
Zurab shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Petre did. Again. That pause. Levan sighed.
“Petre.”
The old man glared.
“Stop doing that.”
“Answer.”
Petre looked at the plate.
“Maia Vashadze came east after the courthouse fire.”
Levan glanced at me.
“Not mad.”
“Not mad.”
“What courthouse fire?”
Avtandil asked. Petre sighed.
“Seven judges had been selling verdicts to border houses. Maia exposed them using witness iron.”
“How?”
“She made them swear innocence.”
I liked her.
“What happened?”
“Three died.”
Levan smiled. Petre pointed at him.
“Not because she killed them.”
“Less interesting.”
“Their own oath blades heated.”
I stopped smiling.
“How hot?”
“Very.”
That explained three deaths. Possibly. Petre continued.
“Afterward she came to Kura. Aleksandre Orbelani was the king's younger brother. They believed witness law could be restored.”
“Why?”
“To prevent exactly what happened nineteen years ago.”
The room became still.
“What compact?” Avtandil asked.
“A neutral network of witnessed roads, marriages, courts, and guest houses. Agreements neither crown could alter privately.”
King Zurab looked at the plate.
“My grandfather never mentioned it.”
“Because it failed.”
“Why?”
Petre looked at Maia's name.
“She disappeared.”
Levan stiffened.
“What?”
“On the road home.”
“Body?”
“Never found.”
Our family history said Mad Maia died abroad. No body. I had never thought about that. Families turned missing people into dead people eventually because grief preferred nouns.
“What happened to Aleksandre?” Salome asked.
Everyone looked at her. We had forgotten she was there. She looked offended.
“I can read.”
Petre answered.
“Died the following year.”
“How?”
“Horse accident.”
Levan laughed. No humor.
“Of course.”
Avtandil stared at the plate.
“So someone stopped witness law a century ago.”
“Perhaps.”
“And someone stopped peace nineteen years ago.”
“Perhaps.”
“And someone is stopping this marriage now.”
No one said perhaps. The blue flames moved. The room hummed. I could feel it in my teeth. Iron remembering. Agreements unfinished. Promises broken. Dead people everywhere. I was suddenly very tired.
“No.”
Everyone looked at me. I didn't know what I meant until I said it.
“No.”
I picked up Father's key. It was cool now.
“This doesn't become the story.”
Avtandil frowned.
“What?”
“The magic.”
Petre looked offended.
“It is somewhat relevant.”
“I know.”
I pointed toward the nineteen-year plate.
“That is the story.”
The war. Not me. Not blue fire. Not Mad Maia. Someone had engineered nineteen years of death. Or at least repeated the same mechanism now. Maybe the same group. Maybe descendants. Maybe coincidence. No. Not coincidence.
“You're right,” Avtandil said.
Levan looked at him. Then me.
“What do you want?”
The question surprised me. Not what do we do. What do you want. I looked at the wall.
“Names.”
“Whose?”
“Everyone connected to the first settlement.”
King Zurab nodded.
“Done.”
“Every surviving letter.”
“Yes.”
“Travel records around Maia's disappearance.”
Petre frowned.
“Those would be church archives.”
“Then church records.”
He sighed.
“Yes.”
“The forged treaty from Vashadze.”
Beso nodded.
“I have it.”
“The original draft from Arasani.”
“Yes.”
“Mother's letters.”
Levan said, “We request copies.”
“No.”
“I want Mother.”
“For what?”
“To ask what Father knew.”
Silence. Levan's expression changed. He understood. Father had carried the key. Father's great-grandmother had been the last witness. Father had fought nineteen years in a war begun after a broken secret peace. Maybe he had known nothing. Maybe. I was getting tired of maybe. King Zurab said, “Send a royal rider.”
“No,” Levan and Avtandil said together.
They looked at each other. I nearly laughed. Avtandil continued.
“Not royal.”
Levan nodded.
“Vashadze.”
“Too obvious.”
“Beso's courier network,” I said.
Beso looked alarmed.
“How do you know I have one?”
“You're a chancellor.”
“That does not—”
“You knew about the post house before we reached Kura.”
Silence. I smiled. He sighed.
“Yes.”
“Use yours.”
Zurab looked impressed. Beso less so. Levan looked proud. That was worse.
“Fine,” the chancellor said.
I turned toward Salome. She had moved closer to the blue fire.
“Don't touch.”
She froze.
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
“How?”
“Your hand.”
She looked down. Her fingers were extended. She pulled them back.
“Sorry.”
Something about her expression bothered me.
“Do you hear it?”
The room went silent. Salome looked at me.
“Hear what?”
“The iron.”
“No.”
Too quick. Avtandil noticed.
“Salome.”
She frowned. Then looked at the wall.
“A little.”
Keto grabbed her.
“What?”
“Not words.”
“What?”
“Like singing.”
Petre went pale again. He was becoming tiresome. Levan looked at Avtandil.
“You said another person could hear it.”
Petre corrected.
“A person participating in an activated witness.”
Keto looked at her sister.
“She isn't participating in anything.”
Salome raised one hand.
“I opened the door with Tamar.”
“No,” I said.
“You were beside me.”
“I was physically there.”
Petre's eyes sharpened.
“That may be enough.”
Keto looked furious.
“No.”
Now there were two people saying it. Good. Petre lifted both hands.
“I am not proposing anything.”
“Excellent,” Keto said.
“Yet.”
“Petre.”
He sighed.
“Fine.”
I looked at Salome. She looked excited. That frightened me more than fear would have. Seventeen. Nearly died as a child. Raised in a palace full of adults who probably protected her from everything interesting. And now forbidden magic room. Of course she was excited. I knew someone exactly like that. Unfortunately, it was me.
“Don't do anything alone.”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
“That was suspicious.”
“No.”
“Worse.”
Keto pointed at her.
“You stay with me.”
Salome's face fell.
“Why?”
“Because I know you.”
Good sister. Terrible luck. The blue flames began dimming. One by one. Petre noticed.
“So soon.”
“What?”
“Witnessing usually lasted through the oath.”
“There was no oath.”
“Exactly.”
The room darkened. Only one plate remained lit. Not the war compact. Not Maia. The blank marriage plate. THIRD WITNESS ABSENT. UNION OPEN. Every eye went to it. Levan said, “No.” I laughed.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I wasn't.”
“You thought it.”
“You can't know that.”
“I raised you.”
“You are six years older.”
“Enough.”
Avtandil walked toward the plate. Not touching.
“What is a third witness?”
Petre did not answer. I turned.
“No.”
“You know.”
“I suspect.”
“Speak.”
The old man sighed.
“In old marriage law, two families were not sufficient.”
Levan's expression became suspicious.
“What else?”
“A neutral witness.”
“Priest?”
“Sometimes.”
“King?”
“Sometimes.”
“What decides?”
“The couple.”
Agency. Interesting.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because marriage joined houses powerful enough to destroy each other. The third witness belonged to neither.”
Avtandil looked at me.
“So the agreement wasn't complete at Vashadze because there was no third witness.”
“No,” Petre said.
“The toast never happened.”
“Yes.”
Levan relaxed. Too early. Petre continued.
“But the iron may have opened the union when the proposal was publicly accepted for consideration.”
Levan tensed again.
“I hate old law.”
“You liked it twenty minutes ago.”
“I changed my mind.”
I looked at the plate.
“Open means?”
“Unfinished.”
“Not binding?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Potentially dangerous.”
“Less good.”
“An open union could attract witness events.”
“What does that mean?”
Petre looked at the blue fire.
“This.”
“So until I accept or refuse the marriage, old iron might keep doing things around us?”
“Possibly.”
Levan said, “Refuse.”
“No.”
His head turned.
“Not because I accept.”
“Then refuse.”
“I haven't decided.”
“You can decide no.”
“I can also decide later.”
“Fire is following you.”
“Apparently.”
“That should influence the decision.”
“It does.”
“Good.”
“Not your direction.”
He looked pained. Avtandil stayed quiet. Interesting. I looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have an opinion.”
“Yes.”
“Speak.”
“No.”
I stared. He smiled slightly.
“My marriage proposal. Your decision.”
Oh. That was unfairly correct. Levan hated it too. I could tell.
“Stop being reasonable,” my brother said.
Avtandil looked pleased. The last blue flame went out. Darkness. Then ordinary lamps from the corridor illuminated the room. The magic was gone. The problems remained. As usual.
King Zurab sealed the oath room. This time with four guards. The key remained with me. Petre objected. Levan objected to Petre objecting. The king ended the argument by saying anyone who tried taking the key from me would answer to him. Levan approved. Then asked what that answer involved. Zurab refused to elaborate. They were going to become unbearable together. The autumn council was dismissed. Officially because of the assassination attempt. Unofficially because half its members had watched a crossbow bolt stop in the air and needed several hours to invent inaccurate versions. By dinner, Kura knew. Not details. Something. The markets apparently had three explanations already.
The king had been saved by a saint. The king had been saved by a witch. The king had been saved by an experimental military shield imported from the southern islands. I preferred the shield. It sounded expensive and boring. The church released Petre's explanation before sunset. Dormant ceremonial protections. Unusual activation. Investigation underway. No divine sign. No witchcraft. No reason for alarm. This caused considerable alarm. I ate dinner in the royal family's private room. This had not been planned. King Zurab insisted. Levan insisted harder. Avtandil looked tired. Keto drank wine. Salome had been banned from speaking about forbidden rooms. This did not stop her from making faces at me across the table.
Avtandil's older sister Ana sat beside the king. I recognized her immediately. She looked like him. Not physically. In stillness. Thirty-two. Widowed. Dark dress. Two rings on one hand. No unnecessary movement. She had met me fifteen minutes earlier and already knew everything worth knowing about my ribs, family, education, marriage proposal, and dog opinions. I liked her less quickly than Keto. Which probably meant I would eventually like her more. Three of Avtandil's brothers sat farther down. Giorgi, twenty-nine. Dato, twenty-three. Ilia, nineteen. I tried not to react when Dato was introduced. Avtandil noticed.
Dato did not. He was busy arguing with Salome about a horse. Natia and Mariam were away from the capital. Five sisters. Three brothers. Family everywhere. I understood Avtandil slightly better already. There was no possibility of privacy in his childhood. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed silence. Zurab raised his cup.
“Before anyone speaks.”
Everyone looked at him.
“This family has survived assassination attempts before.”
Keto drank.
“Encouraging.”
“Several.”
Ana said, “Less encouraging.”
“We will survive this one.”
Levan said, “You say that often?” Zurab looked at him.
“More than I would like.”
My brother considered.
“I may like it here.”
“No,” I said.
Everyone laughed. Wonderful. Zurab continued.
“Tonight we eat.”
“That is your speech?” Salome asked.
“Yes.”
“Poor.”
“You're seventeen.”
“Still poor.”
“Eat.”
She did. Family. Then Zurab looked at me.
“We have a custom.”
“What?”
“First meal in the family room, guest chooses the wine.”
Levan said, “She doesn't know your cellar.”
“Exactly.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It reveals character.”
“How?”
“Which bottle she chooses.”
I looked toward a sideboard. Twelve bottles. No labels I understood. Excellent.
“Can I smell them?”
Zurab looked delighted.
“No.”
“Then your tradition is stupid.”
Ana choked. Avtandil lowered his head. King Zurab smiled.
“Choose.”
I stood. Examined bottles. Different shapes. Different wax. One had dust. Too obvious. One had a gold seal. Also obvious. One bottle sat at the back. Plain. Dark glass. No decoration. I chose it. Zurab's smile disappeared.
“Oh.”
I looked at Petre, who was not there. I hated that sound everywhere now.
“What?”
Ana looked at the bottle. Then me.
“That was Mother's.”
The room quieted. Avtandil's expression changed. Their mother. Dead? I had not asked.
“I'm sorry.”
Zurab shook his head.
“No.”
He took the bottle.
“She made this.”
“Wine?”
“With Mariam.”
“Your daughter?”
“My wife.”
Ah. Same name. Of course.
“How long ago?”
“Nineteen years.”
Everything in my life had become nineteen years ago. Zurab looked at the wax.
“The year the war began.”
Levan stared. I considered throwing myself out the nearest window.
“Choose another.”
“No.”
Zurab broke the seal.
“Absolutely not.”
Avtandil looked at him.
“Father.”
“What?”
“You haven't opened one.”
“I have twelve.”
“Eleven.”
The king looked at the bottle.
“Now ten.”
Ana's face tightened. Keto reached for her hand under the table. Family. Zurab poured. Dark red. He raised the first cup.
“To Mariam.”
Everyone lifted theirs. Levan too. I drank. The wine was extraordinary. Of course.
“Good?” Zurab asked.
“No.”
He smiled.
“Liar.”
“Fine.”
“Your first.”
“Apparently.”
Avtandil leaned toward me.
“You choose dangerous bottles.”
“I choose plain ones.”
“Same thing here.”
I believed him. Dinner loosened after that. Not entirely. An assassination attempt remained inconvenient. But family had momentum. Giorgi told a story about Avtandil falling off a roof at fourteen. Avtandil corrected details. Giorgi improved them. Salome asked Levan how many people he had killed with the axe. I kicked her under the table. She kicked back. Keto asked me whether Vashadze women actually carried knives under formal dresses. I showed her mine. Ana asked why I had not used it during the feast attack.
“I bit him first.”
She stared. Then laughed. Very loudly. Avtandil looked pleased. Levan looked proud. This was a terrible environment for self-improvement. After dessert, Dato brought the dogs in. All six. Five belonging to Avtandil. One Princess. I had internalized this. Princess immediately went to Levan. Traitor. He pretended not to like her. She put her head on his knee. He fed her meat. I watched. Avtandil watched me watching.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Say it.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were.”
I smiled. He leaned closer.
“Walk with me after dinner.”
Not a question. Interesting.
“Why?”
“I need to show you something.”
“Forbidden room?”
“No.”
“Assassin?”
“No.”
“Goats?”
He closed his eyes. I smiled.
“Yes.”
“Is that yes to walking or an accusation?”
“Walking.”
“Good.”
Levan said from across the table, “No.” We both looked at him. He was still petting Princess. Hypocrite.
“I wasn't asking you,” Avtandil said.
Levan stared. I intervened before diplomacy collapsed.
“I am walking.”
“With guards.”
“No.”
“Tamar.”
“Far enough behind that I can't hear them.”
“Two.”
“One.”
“Three.”
“That isn't how bargaining works.”
“It is if I have the axe.”
Zurab looked at Avtandil.
“I understand your difficulty.”
“Thank you.”
Levan glared at both.
Avtandil took me onto the palace roof. Of course. Men and heights. One guard followed thirty paces behind. Levan had negotiated to two. Ana had stolen one for another task before we left. I liked her more. Kura at night was beautiful. No.
That word was insufficient. The city spread beneath us in thousands of small lights. River black. Bridges lined with lamps. Market fires. Blue-tiled roofs pale under moonlight. Bells quiet now. The air smelled like smoke, stone, water, and bread from somewhere below. I leaned against the parapet.
“My brother is right.”
Avtandil stopped beside me.
“About?”
“Too many windows.”
He laughed.
“That wasn't what I expected.”
“What?”
“You'd like the view.”
“I do.”
“You can do both.”
“Frequently.”
Silence. Good silence. Then:
“Your sister told me you kept my grain letter.”
Avtandil closed his eyes.
“Keto.”
“She didn't mean to.”
“That makes it worse.”
“Why did you keep it?”
He looked at the city.
“I told you.”
“You liked it.”
“Yes.”
“That is strange.”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“My study.”
“You brought it from wherever diplomatic complaints normally go?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It made me laugh.”
“My letter did not contain jokes.”
“It contained a diagram labeled ‘This is not how gravity works.’”
I remembered. The grain contractor had blamed wet storage on rain flowing uphill.
“That was evidence.”
“It was funny.”
“He was an idiot.”
“Yes.”
I smiled. Then remembered.
“Why are we up here?”
His expression sobered.
“The bolt.”
“Assassin?”
“The angle.”
He pointed toward the western archive. From the roof, I could see it. Lower. Across a courtyard. The council window between.
“You found something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“The shot wasn't possible from where they found the body.”
I looked.
“Why?”
“Angle.”
I studied. The council chamber sat one floor below us. The archive roof was maybe eighty yards away and significantly lower.
“He could shoot upward.”
“Through the window?”
I visualized it. Bolt trajectory. King standing.
“Maybe.”
“No.”
He pointed.
“The council window has a stone overhang.”
I looked. Yes. A projecting carved ledge above.
“So where?”
Avtandil pointed above us. I turned. The palace bell tower. Higher. Behind. My skin chilled.
“From here.”
“Yes.”
“But the window exploded inward.”
“Yes.”
“Shot came from outside.”
“From this roof or higher.”
“Then the dead assassin—”
“Wasn't the shooter.”
I sighed.
“Conspiracies are exhausting.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell the council?”
“I told my father.”
“And?”
“He locked the bell tower.”
“Did you search?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing?”
“One thing.”
Avtandil reached into his coat. Held out cloth. Inside sat a tiny black iron shaving. Curved. I did not touch it.
“What is it?”
“Crossbow guide.”
“No.”
“Probably.”
“No, why are you showing me?”
“Because it was warm.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“When I found it.”
“Before?”
“After the council fire.”
“Could be sun.”
“At night?”
“Did it glow?”
“No.”
“Blue?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I thought you should know.”
I appreciated that. Then another thought.
“You didn't bring me here to test it.”
His face hardened.
“No.”
Good. Important.
“I would not do that without asking.”
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
“I am learning.”
“Slowly.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the iron shaving.
“Petre says witness iron remembers agreements.”
“Yes.”
“What agreement does a crossbow have?”
“None.”
“Unless the bolt did.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“The bolt stopped.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe not because it threatened your father.”
“Then?”
“What if because it broke something.”
“What?”
I thought. Council. King. Guests. No.
“The room.”
“What about it?”
“Was the autumn council sworn?”
“Every opening.”
“An oath?”
“Yes.”
“To?”
“The crown. Law. Safe speech.”
“Safe speech?”
“No member may be harmed for words spoken under council protection.”
“And the king?”
“Protected too.”
“Then shooting anyone inside breaks the council oath.”
Avtandil looked toward the shattered window below.
“Witness event.”
“Maybe.”
“That's good.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it means the magic isn't protecting me.”
His face changed. I continued.
“It is protecting agreements.”
“Yes.”
“Which means if I am standing near a broken oath—”
“It activates.”
“Maybe.”
“That is better than random.”
“Yes.”
“But worse than personal protection.”
“I prefer personal protection.”
“I know.”
“Your brother does too.”
“Painfully.”
He smiled. Then stopped. The city bells marked an hour. We stood close. Not touching. Aware. Four days ago, he had been a portrait. Three days ago, a potential husband. Two days ago, the man who commanded Suravi. Yesterday, the man who apologized. Today, the man who watched a bolt stop in front of his father and did not immediately turn me into a weapon. That mattered. Too much.
“You said your father chose me first,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And you agreed after investigating.”
“Yes.”
“Would you have refused if you disliked me?”
“Yes.”
“Even if peace depended on it?”
His answer took too long.
“Avtandil.”
“I don't know.”
I preferred that.
“I was raised to marry politically.”
“So was I.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn't mean no.”
“No.”
“Did you expect to love your wife?”
His face changed. Elene. Of course.
“That is unfair.”
“I know.”
He looked away. Then back.
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“Yes what?”
“I would want to.”
“With me?”
He breathed out.
“You ask very direct questions.”
“People answer fewer of them.”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer. One step. Not touching.
“With you.”
No music. No magic. No dramatic fire. Just a man answering. I became intensely aware of my own mouth. Terrible. His gaze dropped there. Worse. We had known each other four days. This was stupid. I liked stupidity less when I was the one considering it. Avtandil raised one hand. Slow. Stopped beside my face. Did not touch.
“Can I?”
That almost ruined me. Not the hand. The asking. I nodded. His fingers touched a loose strand of my hair. Moved it behind my ear. That was all. Ridiculous. Completely inadequate. My body reacted as if he'd done something much more interesting.
“That's it?” I asked.
His eyes darkened.
“Do you want something else?”
Danger. I should say no. Probably. Instead:
“I haven't decided.”
His mouth curved.
“You steal my answers.”
“Useful ones.”
He leaned slightly closer. I could feel his breath. Then footsteps behind us. Of course. We separated. The guard appeared. Not Levan. Worse. Beso. The chancellor looked at us. Then the distance between us. Then my hair. He was old, not blind.
“Apologies.”
“You don't sound sorry,” Avtandil said.
“I am not.”
“What?”
Beso held out a folded paper.
“Message from Vashadze.”
My stomach dropped.
“Mother.”
“Yes.”
I took it. Seal intact. Beso's courier. Fast. I broke wax. Mother's handwriting. Actual handwriting. Lower script dotted. I almost laughed. Then read. Tamar, Your father knew the key was older than the pantry. He did not know what it opened. His father gave it to him with one instruction: If the eastern fire turns blue, carry this. Your father thought it referred to war. I thought it referred to nothing. I was wrong. Do not give the key to the church. Do not give it to either crown. Do not give it to your brother, because he will put it in a box and sleep on the box. At this point I stopped.
Avtandil looked concerned.
“What?”
I handed him that line. He laughed.
“Accurate.”
I continued. There is more. Three months before your father died, a man came to Vashadze asking about Maia. Your father sent him away. I saw the man only once. He gave his name as Otar Tavadi. I stopped breathing. Avtandil read over my shoulder. His body went still. Beso said, “What?” I handed him the letter. He read. Swore. Mother continued. After Irakli died, Tavadi wrote twice. I burned both letters. The third I kept because by then I had learned that burning inconvenient things does not stop them from existing. It is enclosed. There was another sheet. Older. Six years. I unfolded it. A man's handwriting. Formal. Elegant. Lady Nino Vashadze,
I regret your continued refusal. Your late husband understood that some agreements become dangerous precisely because they remain unfinished. Maia Vashadze carried something east that never returned west. The surviving key is not an heirloom. It is a claim. If your daughter has inherited what Irakli feared she might, delay will not protect her. It will only ensure others identify her first. The third witness must be chosen before the union opens again. Otar Tavadi My blood went cold. Six years ago. I had been eighteen. Father had feared I might inherit something. Mother knew enough to keep the letter. No one told me.
Avtandil took the page. Read it again.
“The union.”
“Yes.”
“Six years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Before our marriage proposal.”
“Yes.”
Beso whispered, “Then it isn't us.” I looked at him.
“What?”
“The union.”
He pointed at the letter.
“Tavadi wrote this six years ago. Your marriage proposal is six months old.”
Oh. Oh no. Avtandil's face changed.
“The open union isn't our marriage.”
The entire palace seemed to tilt. I thought of the plate. Blank. No names. We had assumed. Because we were arrogant. Because everything currently revolved around our marriage. But old iron did not care what we assumed. THIRD WITNESS ABSENT. UNION OPEN.
“Then what union?” I asked.
Beso had gone pale. He looked toward the oath room far below.
“Not marriage.”
Avtandil turned.
“Maia.”
The old plate. Maia Vashadze. Aleksandre Orbelani. WITNESS COMPACT. UNFINISHED. My father's key. A claim. Not a key. A claim. I looked out over Kura. The city. The roads. The palace. Nineteen years of war. Someone had tried to restore witness law a century ago. Someone stopped them. Someone had tried to stop peace nineteen years ago. Someone succeeded. Now someone was stopping us again. Not because Avtandil and I might marry. Maybe because our marriage had accidentally brought the two houses required to finish something much older back into the same room.
“Fuck,” I said.
Beso looked at me. Avtandil smiled without humor.
“Yes.”
Behind us, the palace bell rang once. Then again. Not alarm. Midnight. I folded Mother's letter. Carefully. The old pantry key rested against my hip. Useless. Except it had opened a room sealed for eighty-three years. Stopped a bolt. Woken old fire. And apparently belonged to a dead woman whose unfinished agreement had survived longer than everyone who tried to bury it. I looked at Avtandil.
“No kiss tonight.”
He blinked. Then laughed. Beso stared at us.
“I do not want context.”
“Good,” I said.
“There isn't any.”
Avtandil looked offended.
“There was some.”
I smiled. Then folded the old Tavadi letter into my sleeve. Below us, somewhere behind palace walls, oath iron waited in the dark. Not for our marriage. For something older. Something our families had failed to finish. And for the first time since the feast, I knew one thing with complete certainty. The third toast had never been about getting married. We had simply been stupid enough to think it was.