Chapter 1
Guest Right
My brother was an axe murderer. People usually laughed when I said this. I had never understood why. The man in the stable remained dead regardless of whether Levan had inherited our father's title before or after splitting his skull.
“Don’t tell them that tonight,” my mother said.
She stood behind me while her maid tightened the final row of hooks along the back of my dress.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You always say that.”
“I don’t always say it.”
“You told Bishop Ioseb.”
“He asked why Levan wasn’t permitted to carry an axe into the sanctuary.”
Mother closed her eyes. The maid, Eliso, became extremely interested in a loose thread at my shoulder. I watched them both in the mirror.
“I gave him the relevant information.”
“You told a bishop that the Lord of Vashadze was an axe murderer.”
“He asked.”
“He expected you to say it was ceremonial protocol.”
“That would have been untrue.”
“It would have been polite.”
Those were not the same thing, although Mother had spent twenty-four years trying to convince me otherwise. She stepped away from my dress and examined me. My mother was still beautiful enough to make grown men straighten when she entered a room, though she was nearly fifty and had long since stopped pretending she did not know it. Her hair had silvered at both temples. She wore it braided around the crown of her head tonight, with the narrow red stones of House Vashadze tucked into the plaits. No jewels for me. That had been deliberate. Tonight I was supposed to look unmarried. Apparently jewels confused men.
The dress was dark green, high at the throat, narrow through the waist, and heavy enough that if diplomacy failed I could probably drown in it without assistance. Mother adjusted one sleeve.
“You look beautiful.”
“I look expensive.”
“That is one component of beauty.”
“I thought symmetry was involved.”
She gave me the look. There were several versions of the look. This one meant I love you, but occasionally I understand why your tutors drank. I smiled. She did not. That was when I realized she was frightened. Mother had spent the afternoon commanding forty-three servants, two cooks, six guards, one furious steward, a wine merchant, and my brother without raising her voice. Only one of those was ordinarily considered impossible. But her left hand had gone to the gold ring on her right thumb. She turned it once. Then again. I stopped smiling.
“They’re already inside the walls?”
“Half an hour ago.”
“Prince Avtandil?”
“Yes.”
I looked at her through the mirror.
“We weren’t sure he was coming.”
“We are now.”
That changed things. The delegation from Arasani had been expected. Its crown prince had not. Three generations of our family had managed to live and die without hosting an Arasani prince under our roof. The last one to visit the Vashadze mountains had arrived with eight thousand soldiers and left without most of them. We still sang about it. Not tonight, presumably. Mother turned her ring again.
“They brought seventy-two men.”
“That’s rude.”
“It is not rude.”
“We agreed to forty.”
“Forty were permitted inside the inner wall. The others have camped below the eastern road.”
“So they brought seventy-two.”
“Tamar.”
“I’m merely counting them.”
“I know.”
That was another thing people said to me rather often. Mother faced me fully.
“We need tonight to go well.”
It was not a request. I glanced toward the door.
“Where’s Levan?”
Her silence answered me. I sighed.
“Mother.”
“He knows.”
“What does he know?”
“Everything.”
“That’s considerably worse.”
“He promised me.”
“What?”
“That he would behave.”
I stared at her. Eliso made a small noise that might have been a cough. Mother looked offended.
“He can behave.”
“Levan once broke a man’s wrist during a christening.”
“The man touched you.”
“He was eighty.”
“Seventy-three.”
“He was trying to steady himself.”
“Levan misunderstood.”
“He broke both wrists.”
“One was an accident.”
“Mother.”
She pressed her lips together. Then, to my surprise, laughed. It escaped her quickly. One sharp breath, almost unwilling. That was better. I preferred Mother angry. Or exasperated. Or even disappointed. Fear sat badly on her. I reached for her hand.
“I won’t say axe murderer.”
“Thank you.”
“Unless someone asks directly.”
“Tamar.”
“I’m joking.”
She studied me. I waited. After several seconds she said, “Were you?”
“No.”
“I know.”
There it was again.
The great hall of Vashadze had been built by people who believed mountains were not sufficiently intimidating on their own. Black stone climbed two stories above the feast tables. Cedar beams crossed the ceiling, each one carved with horses, wolves, grapevines, saints from an older faith no one practiced anymore, and enough dead ancestors to make eating beneath them feel vaguely supervised. Three fires burned despite the mild autumn night. The central hearth mattered most. It had burned for two hundred and seventeen years. Household fires went out. Everyone knew that. Chimneys cracked. Servants fell asleep. Storms came down from the peaks and pushed smoke backward through the rooms. The Vashadze fire did not.
My great-grandfather claimed that meant the mountain loved us. My father had said it meant our ancestors had bullied someone competent into maintaining it. I believed Father. Tonight, three iron branches stood over the hearth. One for Vashadze. One for the Crown of Merova. One left bare. The bare branch was the problem. Arasani iron would be placed there before the third toast. If the negotiations succeeded. A hundred and twelve people filled the hall. I knew because I counted.
Our people wore the deep reds and greens of the northern houses. Arasani nobles favored blue, bronze, black, and cream. Their clothes were cut differently from ours, more tightly across the shoulders, with long side closures and embroidered cuffs that made even their soldiers look as if somebody had dressed them for a wedding. Perhaps they had. Music came from the gallery. Three strings. A drum. Two male voices holding a low harmony beneath a woman's song. Wine moved faster than diplomacy. It usually did. At the head table, my brother sat in Father's chair. Levan Vashadze was thirty years old and looked harmless from a sufficient distance. A very great distance. Possibly another country.
He had our mother's black hair, our father's heavy shoulders, and an expression that made elderly women feed him because they assumed nobody had ever loved him correctly. This was inaccurate. Levan had been loved excessively. That might have been the problem. He wore no crown because we were not royalty and because he would have looked ridiculous in one. Instead he wore the narrow silver collar of the mountain lords. No axe. I checked twice. Mother caught me doing it. I raised one finger. She shook her head. Levan saw us both and smiled. The left side of his mouth lifted before the right. He knew exactly what we were discussing.
Across from him sat Prince Avtandil Orbelani. My future husband. Possibly. I had seen paintings. The paintings had lied. Not about his face, exactly. Artists tended to improve royal men in predictable ways. Straighter noses. Larger eyes. Smaller scars. Hair arranged as if the subject had never experienced weather. Avtandil's official portrait hung in the western reception room. In it he looked handsome, solemn, and unbearably clean. The real man looked as though somebody had taken that portrait outside and made it survive three campaigns. His nose had been broken. Not dramatically. Just enough to shift the bridge slightly left.
There was a pale scar beneath his lower lip and another disappearing into the hair above his right temple. His hair was black and longer than fashion required in our court, tied loosely at the nape. His skin was darker than Levan's, browned further by years outdoors. He was not smiling. That was the first thing I liked about him. Everybody else smiled too much during negotiations. Avtandil listened. Those were different activities. The royal chancellor beside him was speaking to Levan. Avtandil's attention appeared to be on the conversation. It wasn't. His eyes moved once toward the western doors. Then the servants. Then the gallery. Then the hearth. Then me.
I had just reached the lower stair. He looked directly at me. Not the dress. Not my chest. Not my mother behind me. Me. His gaze stayed for perhaps two seconds. Then he stood. Everyone at the high table stood with him because princes made other people inconveniently vertical. Levan stayed seated. Of course he did. I descended the final three steps. The hall quieted by degrees. Mother went ahead of me.
“Your Highness,” she said.
Avtandil bowed to her. Not as deeply as he would have bowed to his own queen. Deeper than he technically owed the widow of a northern lord. Mother noticed. So did Levan. Interesting.
“Lady Nino.”
His voice was lower than I expected. No courtly softness. He spoke our language well, though the eastern vowels sat underneath it.
“House Vashadze honors us.”
“My house remembers its duties.”
Avtandil's mouth moved. Not quite a smile. He knew. Then Mother shifted.
“My daughter, Tamar.”
I bowed. He did too.
“Lady Tamar.”
“Your Highness.”
I waited. So did he. This became mildly awkward. I had been instructed that when presented to the man who might shortly become my husband, I was expected to say something gracious. I had prepared six possibilities. All six disappeared. Avtandil rescued me.
“I apologize for arriving unexpectedly.”
“You were expected.”
“Not personally.”
“No.”
A tiny pause.
“I meant for the inconvenience,” he said.
“We had enough food.”
Mother inhaled through her nose. Avtandil looked at me. Then toward the tables. Then back.
“That was my principal concern.”
His chancellor made a strangled noise. Levan laughed. Loudly. I decided I might marry the prince after all.
There are people who become more impressive when they speak. There are people who become less impressive. Avtandil was irritatingly stable. I had expected to discover something wrong with him during supper. This expectation was not malicious. Every unmarried royal man over twenty-six had something wrong with him. Sometimes the defect was obvious. Drunkenness. Cruelty. Debt. A fascination with hunting animals too small to fight back. Sometimes it required investigation. The Duke of Ormani, for example, had been thirty-one, handsome, wealthy, devout, and unmarried. For six months the court had whispered about mysterious heartbreak. It turned out he liked goats. Not agriculturally. Mother had refused to explain the mechanics. I remained grateful. Avtandil was thirty.
He was heir to Arasani. He had commanded armies since twenty-three. He had not married. Therefore there was a problem. I simply hadn't found it yet.
“You're staring.”
Levan spoke without looking at me.
“I’m investigating.”
“Subtly?”
“Yes.”
“You haven't blinked.”
I blinked. He drank from his cup.
“Better.”
We sat side by side at the center of the high table. Mother occupied my other side. Avtandil sat opposite me. The seating itself had required three letters, a threat from the royal steward, and a two-hour argument about whether Levan's chair should be four fingers higher than the prince's. Levan had solved the issue by ordering both chairs cut down. Mother had nearly killed him. Not with an axe. There were standards. The first course disappeared. Bread stuffed with soft cheese and herbs. Roasted peppers. Walnuts crushed with garlic. Cold river trout with sour plum. Thin slices of smoked lamb. Avtandil ate everything. Another point in his favor.
The last foreign noble who visited us had inspected mountain cheese as if expecting treason. A servant filled Avtandil's cup. He thanked her. Another point. This was becoming concerning. I leaned toward Levan.
“Do you know what's wrong with him?”
Avtandil's eyes lifted. Levan slowly turned his head toward me. Mother stopped chewing. I realized the music had ended. The entire central section of the table had heard me. I considered pretending I had meant someone else. That would require lying. Avtandil rested one forearm on the table.
“Several people have theories.”
“I'm sure.”
“I'd be interested in yours.”
“I haven't developed one.”
“So far?”
“So far.”
Levan rubbed his mouth. He was hiding a smile. Traitor. Avtandil's chancellor, Beso Tavkari, looked as though our marriage alliance had begun shaving years from his life. He was a narrow man in his sixties with silver hair and the permanent expression of someone who had just discovered incorrect arithmetic.
“Our prince's virtues are extensively documented,” he said.
“That's suspicious too,” I said.
“Tamar.”
Mother didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Avtandil finally smiled. Not much. One corner. It altered him. That was inconvenient. He had looked easier to dislike before.
“I bite,” he said.
Silence. I looked at him. He lifted his wine.
“Children, usually.”
Beso closed his eyes. Levan stared at Avtandil for one long second. Then he laughed so violently he nearly spilled his drink. Mother whispered something in the old language that I was fairly certain translated to God abandoned me. I smiled into my cup. Fine. One problem located. The prince was funny. That was worse than goats.
The first toast belonged to the dead. It always did in our house. Elsewhere, people toasted kings first. Gods. Victory. Harvest. Marriage. The Vashadze had buried too many people to make the living wait very long for recognition. Levan rose. Conversation softened. He held his cup in both hands. For once, my brother looked exactly like the lord everyone believed him to be. Not the man who had taught me to throw a knife by painting circles on the pantry door. Not the boy who once climbed onto our roof during a thunderstorm because I was afraid and declared that lightning would have to kill him first.
Not the twenty-four-year-old who returned from the southern war with Father's sword, Father's horse, and no father. Lord Levan Vashadze.
“We begin with those who should be sitting beside us.”
No performance. That was his particular talent. People expected Levan to be loud because he was large. Instead he could make a room lean toward him.
“To Irakli.”
Father. Mother lowered her eyes.
“To Sandro and Luka.”
My uncles.
“To everyone whose chair stayed empty long enough that we finally stopped setting it.”
Cups lifted. Avtandil stood with the rest. Levan's eyes found him across the table.
“And to the Arasani dead.”
Something shifted in the room. Small. Real. Nobody had agreed beforehand that he would say that. I knew because Mother's fingers tightened around her cup. Levan continued.
“We killed enough of yours.”
His voice did not soften.
“You killed enough of ours.”
Avtandil watched him.
“Dead men don't care which banner covered them afterward.”
Somewhere lower in the hall, somebody muttered. Levan heard. He always heard. He lifted the wine.
“May they forgive us for how long it took the living to grow tired.”
Avtandil stood.
“To the dead,” he said.
A hundred voices answered.
“To the dead.”
We drank. I looked at my brother. He sat. His eyes stayed on Avtandil. For one ridiculous moment, hope entered the room. I disliked hope. Hope encouraged people to stop checking doors.
The second toast belonged to guests. By then the lamb had arrived. Whole shoulders roasted until the meat came apart beneath a spoon. Onions blackened at the edges. Herbed rice with dried cherries. Stewed beans. Hot bread replaced before anyone could ask. The wine had progressed from respectable to dangerous. Music returned. Conversation loosened. Nobody had been stabbed. By Vashadze standards the evening was already extraordinary. Mother relaxed enough to eat. Levan remained sober. That worried me more than drunkenness would have. Avtandil had consumed exactly three cups over two hours. I knew because I counted those too.
“You count everything,” he said.
I looked up. Levan had been pulled into conversation with an Arasani general. Mother was speaking to Beso. For the first time, there was nobody between the prince and me except half a roasted animal.
“What?”
“The soldiers when we entered.”
He tore bread.
“The doors.”
A piece of lamb.
“My cups.”
I disliked being observed while observing.
“How many?”
“Three.”
“How many doors?”
“Six that matter.”
His hand stopped.
“Seven.”
“The servants' passage behind the musicians is too narrow for armored men.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“Unarmored men?”
“Seven.”
He studied me. I tore my own bread.
“You missed the gallery stair.”
“I didn't.”
“That makes eight.”
“The gallery stair ends at a locked iron door.”
“It was unlocked when I arrived.”
“It isn't now.”
His eyes moved toward the gallery. Not obviously. Enough.
“How do you know?”
“I asked.”
“Why?”
“You brought seventy-two men.”
That almost-smile again.
“Forty.”
“Seventy-two.”
“Thirty-two are outside the wall.”
“They still have weapons.”
“So does your brother.”
“Not tonight.”
Avtandil looked toward Levan. My brother had taken the small knife intended for his lamb and was using it to shave a splinter from the edge of the table.
“Debatable.”
“He prefers an axe.”
“I've heard.”
I paused.
“Have you?”
“Everyone has.”
“Which version?”
“There are versions?”
“Seven that I know.”
“Which is true?”
“The stable.”
His gaze returned to me. He didn't laugh. I liked him considerably more for that.
“What happened in the stable?”
“Levan murdered a man.”
“I gathered that.”
“With an axe.”
“Yes.”
“That's why I call him an axe murderer.”
Across the table, Avtandil's expression changed by perhaps half a degree.
“You aren't joking.”
“No.”
“Everyone told me you were.”
“They usually do.”
“Why?”
“I assume because the alternative is uncomfortable.”
He considered that.
“What had the man done?”
I took a drink. That was where the story stopped being funny.
“He sold the road.”
Avtandil's face emptied. Not confusion. Recognition. Good. He knew what that meant. During the final winter of the southern war, somebody had given Arasani scouts the path our supply wagons used through the Suravi pass. Thirty-eight men died. Nine froze afterward because the wagons carrying blankets and lamp oil never arrived. Father had survived that winter. Barely. Two years later we discovered the seller had been one of our own household captains. Levan confronted him in the lower stable. The captain confessed. Levan killed him before a trial could be called. One blow. Possibly two. Accounts varied. The law called it murder. So did I. Most people called it justice because justice was prettier.
Avtandil looked at Levan again.
“He was twenty-five?”
“Twenty-six.”
“And already lord.”
“Yes.”
“He could have ordered an execution.”
“Yes.”
“But he didn't.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I glanced at my brother. The knife whispered over wood.
“Because executions involve waiting.”
Avtandil understood. I saw it happen. Not approval. That would have been simpler. Understanding was more dangerous.
“And you still trust him,” he said.
It was not really a question.
“With my life.”
“Interesting.”
“No. Predictable.”
That got his attention. I put the bread down.
“Levan would never hurt me.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am.”
“Those are often famous last words.”
“He would burn this house with every person inside it before allowing somebody to hurt me.”
Avtandil sat back.
“That is not the reassuring statement you seem to think it is.”
“I didn't say it to reassure you.”
For one heartbeat he simply looked at me. Then he laughed. Quietly this time. I felt the sound somewhere inconvenient. I reached for my wine. Problem number two.
The second toast was given by Mother.
“To the guest who enters beneath your roof,” she said, “you owe bread before questions, warmth before judgment, and a road home even when you wish he'd never come.”
Laughter moved around the tables. This was an old saying. Mother waited.
“To enter another person's house is to put your life briefly in their hands.”
The hall quieted.
“There is no peace without that first stupidity.”
More laughter. Avtandil's eyes stayed on her. Mother lifted her cup.
“Tonight our eastern neighbors eat our bread.”
Servants stepped forward carrying a narrow iron branch wrapped in blue silk. The room changed. This was the part that mattered. Beso rose. So did Avtandil. The prince took the iron himself. It was old. Older than him. Older than the present war. The lower half had blackened from generations of hearth smoke. Its upper end split into three curling prongs shaped like grapevines. Arasani iron. The object that had not entered this hall since before my grandmother was born. Avtandil approached the hearth. Levan stood opposite him. Two men whose fathers had tried repeatedly to kill each other. The music stopped. Even servants froze. Avtandil extended the branch. Levan took it.
Together they lowered it into the empty iron bracket above the fire. Metal touched metal. The flames rose. Not dramatically. No thunder. No divine voice. Just an abrupt blue edge curling along the orange flame. A hundred people inhaled. I did too. Old stories said ancestral fires recognized promises. I did not believe old stories. Mostly. The blue flame moved around the Arasani branch. Once. Twice. Then held. Mother's hand found mine beneath the table.
“To the guest,” she said.
Cups rose.
“To the guest.”
We drank. Avtandil returned to his seat. His face had changed. Barely. He had believed that part. Interesting.
“What?” he asked.
“You expected something else.”
“So did you.”
“I didn't.”
“The flame surprised you.”
“You were looking at me instead of it?”
“I can look at two things.”
“That's useful.”
“So is counting.”
“Occasionally.”
Beneath the table, something touched my foot. I looked down. A little white dog belonging to my cousin Salome had escaped somebody and was nosing around beneath the cloth. I tore off a piece of lamb. Avtandil watched.
“Don't.”
“Why?”
“Cooked onions.”
I stopped. There were onions in the sauce. I looked at the dog. Then him.
“You know what poisons dogs?”
“I know onions are bad for dogs.”
“How?”
“I have dogs.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
“What kind?”
“Large.”
“That isn't a kind.”
“They think it is.”
I set the meat back down. He tore off a piece from the unseasoned interior of his bread and held it below the table. The dog took it. Avtandil scratched its head once. Then resumed eating as though he had not just performed the most persuasive diplomatic act of the night. I stared. He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring again.”
“I found a third problem.”
“That sounds efficient.”
I did not tell him the problem. Five dogs was already enough.
The marriage proposal came between pears and the third toast. There are rituals for these things. The ritual had apparently been designed by people who hated everyone involved. Beso stood. The servants stopped pouring. The musicians stopped playing. The plates remained in front of us despite nobody having any reasonable chance of eating. He began with history. History is what governments use when they want violence to sound hereditary. Merova and Arasani had shared a border for four hundred and six years. They had disputed it for approximately four hundred and five. There had been seventeen formal wars. Thirty-one raids large enough to receive names. Five royal marriages. Three successful assassinations.
One poisoning everyone officially agreed had been foodborne illness despite the dead king's soup turning green. The present war had lasted nineteen years. I was five when it began. Avtandil was eleven. Levan eleven as well. Neither man remembered a world in which the other's soldiers were not positioned across a river waiting for permission to kill them. Beso spoke of grain. Ports. Mountain passes. Trade. Widows. Taxes. The ruined western road. The cost of feeding soldiers. He did not speak of love. I appreciated this. Eventually he reached me.
“Peace requires continuity beyond the men presently seated at this table.”
There it was. I had become continuity. Mother's fingers tightened once around mine. I had known for six months. That did not make the moment less strange.
“His Majesty King Zurab of Arasani therefore proposes a union between his son and heir, His Highness Avtandil Orbelani, and Lady Tamar Vashadze, daughter of the late Lord Irakli Vashadze and sister to Lord Levan Vashadze.”
One hundred people became extremely quiet while pretending not to stare at me. I looked at Avtandil. He looked at me. There was no smile now. No joke. No prince. Just a man sitting opposite the woman his father had asked him to marry. I wondered whether his stomach hurt. Mine did. Beso continued.
“The union would be witnessed by the crowns of Arasani and Merova and accompanied by a twenty-year border compact, mutual restoration of trade, recognition of existing provincial boundaries, and—”
Levan moved. Not much. His right hand turned flat against the table. I noticed because I had spent my life noticing Levan. The knuckles had gone white. Beso kept speaking.
“—an exchange of noble wards following the first year of peace.”
Levan's hand went still. Oh. Nobody had told him that. I looked at Mother. She wasn't surprised. Oh. Interesting. I leaned slightly toward her.
“You knew.”
“Later.”
“You knew.”
“Tamar.”
“Which children?”
“Later.”
Across from us, Avtandil watched the exchange. Levan interrupted.
“No.”
Beso stopped. Every sound in the room died. Levan did not raise his voice.
“What portion are you refusing?” Beso asked carefully.
“The wards.”
“It is a customary assurance.”
“Not here.”
“Lord Vashadze—”
“You will not take mountain children east as collateral.”
Avtandil spoke. “We didn't propose collateral.”
Levan's eyes shifted toward him.
“A child held to guarantee his father's behavior is collateral with tutors.”
Several Arasani nobles stiffened. Avtandil didn't.
“The wards would be reciprocal.”
“I don't want your children either.”
One of their generals muttered something. Levan heard that too.
“What was that?”
Avtandil lifted two fingers. The general went silent. He never even looked at him. Interesting. Avtandil rested his forearms on the table.
“The clause can be removed.”
Beso turned. “Your Highness.”
“It can be removed.”
“It was personally requested by His Majesty.”
“My father isn't here.”
That changed the room more than Levan's refusal had. Beso's face became careful. Levan's became interested. Mine probably did too.
“You have authority to remove it?” Levan asked.
“Yes.”
“Without consulting your king?”
“Yes.”
Beso looked as though he wanted to die. Levan leaned back.
“Fine.”
That was it. One clause capable of collapsing months of negotiations disappeared in thirteen seconds. I looked at Avtandil. He caught me. I raised an eyebrow. He did the same. Problem number four. Authority.
Beso finished. The formal question was finally asked. Would House Vashadze consider the proposed union? Not accept. Consider. Diplomacy was full of doors nobody admitted were doors. Levan looked at me. He had promised. Months ago. Whatever came, the decision would be mine. That promise was one of the reasons I loved him. He could decide whether three villages went hungry. He could send five hundred men into battle. He could hang a thief. He could negotiate with kings. But he had looked me in the eye when the first marriage letter arrived and said: I can say no for you. Then: I won't say yes for you. So now everyone waited.
I looked at Avtandil. He was not handsome anymore. Not exactly. Handsome belonged to paintings. Attractive was too small a word for the problem developing across from me. He looked capable. I had always considered capability dangerous. Men who wanted power were common. Men who knew what to do with it were not.
“I have a question,” I said.
Beso visibly suffered. Avtandil said, “Ask.”
“Why haven't you married?”
Somebody at the lower table coughed wine through his nose. Mother squeezed my hand hard enough to hurt. I kept looking at Avtandil. He didn't smile.
“Several reasons.”
“Goats?”
Silence. Levan made a choking sound. Mother released my hand because apparently she had decided matricide was preferable. Avtandil stared at me. I waited. Then his entire expression broke. Not the controlled half-smile. An actual laugh. It changed his face so completely I almost regretted causing it. Almost.
“No goats,” he said.
“Good.”
“Was that a serious concern?”
“You're thirty.”
“That explains nothing.”
“Unmarried princes over thirty generally require investigation.”
“I'm exactly thirty.”
“Approaching thirty-one.”
“Seven months away.”
“So you've counted that too.”
“Your birthday is in spring.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You researched me.”
“You're trying to marry me.”
“Fair.”
He considered his cup. Then me.
“I was betrothed once.”
That silenced even Levan. I had not known that. Apparently Mother hadn't either.
“To whom?”
“Princess Elene of Vardeni.”
I knew the name. Everyone did. She had died six years ago during the fever winter.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Eleven years.”
Betrothed at thirteen. A political match, then. Still.
“You knew her.”
“Very well.”
I had expected a joke. Instead he gave me the truth. At least part of it.
“Did you love her?”
Mother whispered my name. I ignored her. Avtandil's eyes stayed on mine.
“Yes.”
There. Something in my chest shifted. Not jealousy. That would have been absurd. Something closer to relief. A dead woman existed behind all the polished negotiations. A real person. He had not stepped out of a portrait at thirty years old. He had lived before this table. Lost something. Perhaps that was what had been wrong with him. Perhaps not.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“Answering.”
“You asked.”
“People often don't.”
He glanced toward Levan.
“I've noticed.”
My brother looked offended. I took a breath.
“I will consider the proposal.”
The room released itself. Conversation burst in small waves. Beso sat down so abruptly his chair complained. Mother leaned toward me.
“You couldn't simply say that?”
“I did.”
“You asked him about goats first.”
“It was important.”
Levan leaned over. “What goats?”
“Later.”
“I want to know now.”
“Duke of Ormani.”
Recognition arrived.
“Oh.”
Avtandil looked between us. “You know too?”
Levan nodded gravely. “Everyone knows.”
“I did not.”
“You live too far east.”
For perhaps thirty seconds, diplomacy became remarkably easy. Then somebody screamed.
The sound came from behind me. High. Short. A servant. I turned. The central hearth went blue. Not edged in blue. Blue. Every flame. Floor to chimney. For one strange moment nobody moved. I remember that clearly. A hundred people staring at impossible fire. Then the wine jug shattered. The servant holding it fell. There was a knife in her throat. Things happened quickly after that. They did not feel quick. Levan came over the table. Not around it. Over. His shoulder hit me hard enough to throw me backward. The chair overturned. Mother disappeared beneath two guards. Someone shouted. The western doors opened. Three men entered wearing our colors. Vashadze red. Wrong boots.
I noticed the boots. That was my contribution. Other people noticed the swords. Avtandil stood. No weapon. Guest law. Neither side had brought swords to the high table. The first attacker went for him anyway.
Avtandil caught the man's wrist. The movement was ugly. Fast. No flourish. He drove the man's hand into the edge of the table once. Twice. Bone cracked. The knife fell. Avtandil caught it before it reached the floor. I had been wondering whether he could fight. Question answered. The second man reached the high table from the opposite side. Levan intercepted him. Still no axe. This seemed unfair to everyone involved. The attacker slashed. Levan took the cut across his left forearm rather than step away from me. Then he grabbed the man by the throat. I knew what came next. I had seen it before.
“Levan!”
He stopped. Not completely. Enough. Instead of crushing the man's windpipe against the table, he threw him into two chairs. Progress. The third attacker wasn't watching Avtandil. He was watching me. Oh. That was disappointing. I had assumed I was less important. He came from the left. I backed away. There were overturned chairs behind me. Bad. I could hear fighting below the high table now. More than three. Arasani men shouting. Our guards shouting louder. Nobody knew whose colors meant anything anymore. The blue hearth screamed. I cannot explain that better. Fire does not scream. This one did. A thin metallic sound entered my teeth. The attacker lunged. I moved right. Too slow.
The knife caught my sleeve. Fabric tore. Then his hand closed around my wrist. I looked at it. Large hand. Hair across the knuckles. Scar on his thumb. His grip tightened.
“Tamar.”
He knew my name. I drove my forehead into his nose. There is a romantic idea that women defend themselves elegantly. We do not. His nose broke. Mine hurt. He swore. I stamped down on his foot. Hard. He loosened his grip. I bit him. That surprised both of us. He jerked away. I tasted blood. Disgusting. I spat. He raised the knife. Then Avtandil hit him with a plate. It was a very good plate. Silver. Heavy. The attacker staggered. Avtandil stepped between us. The man slashed. Avtandil moved inside the blade, elbowed him in the jaw, caught his wrist, turned— And stopped. Because Levan's dinner knife entered the man's eye.
There was a very small sound. The man collapsed. Everyone looked at Levan. My brother stood six paces away. His empty right hand remained extended from the throw.
“I told you,” I said.
Avtandil looked at the body. Then at Levan. Then at me.
“This wasn't an axe.”
“Technicality.”
Levan crossed the distance in three strides. He touched my face. My throat. Both shoulders. Hands moving too fast.
“Tamar.”
“I'm fine.”
“Blood.”
“Not mine.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth. I wiped it.
“Mostly.”
“What do you mean mostly?”
“I bit him.”
“You—”
“Later.”
Avtandil turned away before I could see his expression. I suspected laughter. That seemed inappropriate. Another scream came from the lower tables. Levan spun. The hall had become several small battles instead of one. Our guards had closed the doors. Six attackers. Perhaps seven. One already dead near the hearth. Two Arasani soldiers had violated the agreement and produced concealed weapons. That would matter later. At present, I was pleased they had cheated. A man rushed toward Mother. He never reached her. Avtandil's general drove a short blade beneath his ribs. The attacker folded. Then the room went still. Not gradually. Instantly. Because someone had an axe. I turned.
Levan's captain, Davit, stood in the eastern doorway holding my brother's weapon. He must have fetched it from the guard room. A broad northern war axe. Dark wooden haft. Single steel crescent. Davit looked at Levan. Levan looked at the attackers still standing. There were two. Both dropped their weapons. Reasonable. Davit handed him the axe. Mother said, “No.” Levan looked at her. She stood between two guards, hair partially fallen from its pins.
“No.”
He looked at the prisoners. Then me. Then the dead man with his dinner knife protruding from one eye. Slowly, Levan lowered the axe.
“Alive,” Mother said.
One prisoner spat blood.
“You'll wish we weren't.”
Levan turned his head. I closed my eyes.
“Please don't.”
“Tamar.”
“We need them.”
“They touched you.”
“One did.”
“He touched you.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
Levan tightened both hands around the axe. Avtandil stepped forward. This was brave. Or stupid. I had not determined which.
“She's right.”
Levan looked at him. The room contracted. Avtandil still held the attacker's knife. Blood covered one cuff. His hair had come loose. A thin line of red crossed his cheek. He did not look like a prince anymore. Levan raised the axe slightly. Avtandil did not move.
“Put that down,” Levan said.
“After you.”
Oh no. Men. I stepped between them. Mother shouted my name. Levan went pale. Not figuratively. Actually pale.
“Tamar.”
“What?”
“Move.”
“No.”
He looked at Avtandil over my shoulder.
“If he moves, I kill him.”
Avtandil said, “That seems counterproductive.”
“Stop helping,” I told him.
“Understood.”
I faced Levan. “We have prisoners.”
His jaw flexed.
“We have six dead people.”
“Five.”
Someone behind me said, “Six.” I looked. The servant with the throat wound had stopped moving. Six.
“Fine,” I said. “Six.”
Levan stared. “This is not the moment to correct arithmetic.”
“It usually isn't.”
He made a sound deep in his throat. Not anger. Something worse. Fear. That worked on me. I lowered my voice.
“I'm fine.”
He looked at the torn sleeve.
“You're not.”
“I am.”
“He had you.”
“And now he has a knife in his eye.”
That appeared to help. A little.
“We need to know who sent them.”
Levan's eyes moved toward the prisoners. “We can ask pieces.”
“No.”
“Tamar.”
“No pieces until after questions.”
There was silence. Avtandil leaned slightly toward me.
“Is that a customary distinction here?”
I looked over my shoulder.
“Unfortunately.”
“I see.”
“You don't.”
“No.”
Levan finally lowered the axe. Davit exhaled. So did approximately ninety people.
“Take them below,” Levan ordered.
His guards moved. Avtandil lifted a hand.
“Wait.”
Levan's eyes went cold again.
“What?”
“Their mouths.”
Everyone looked at the prisoners. One was chewing. Avtandil crossed the space quickly. Too late. The prisoner convulsed. Foam appeared at his lips.
“Hold him!”
Three guards grabbed him. The second prisoner bit down. I saw the movement. Saw Avtandil move. Saw Levan move. Neither reached him. The man smiled. Then his eyes rolled upward. Poison. Both collapsed within seconds. Levan stared at the bodies. Avtandil crouched. He did not touch them.
“Teeth?”
His general checked.
“Back molar.”
Avtandil swore. Levan's gaze moved over the hall. Every door. Every servant. Every guest. The axe remained in his hand.
“All gates close.”
Davit bowed.
“No one leaves.”
Beso stepped forward.
“You cannot confine the Arasani delegation.”
Levan looked at him.
“I can confine God until I know who brought knives into my house.”
“That is not—”
“Beso.”
Avtandil's voice cut through. The chancellor stopped. Avtandil stood.
“Close the gates.”
Levan studied him.
“Your people too.”
“Yes.”
“Your soldiers outside remain outside.”
“Yes.”
“No messenger leaves.”
“Yes.”
“Not even to your father.”
A pause. Then:
“Yes.”
There was something between them now. Not trust. Recognition, perhaps. Two men discovering they disliked the same problem. The central hearth was still blue. I looked at it. Nobody else seemed to. The Arasani branch trembled in the heat. Not from air. There was no draft. It trembled. Then cracked. A sound like a finger snapping. The uppermost iron curl split in two. I stared. The blue flame went out. Orange returned.
“Tamar?”
Mother. I pointed. Everyone near the high table turned. Levan's face changed. Beso whispered something. Avtandil stepped toward the hearth.
“What does that mean?” his general asked.
Nobody answered. Old stories were suddenly less decorative. Mother crossed herself. Levan held the axe loosely now.
“Guest right was broken,” he said.
Beso looked at the dead servant.
“Obviously.”
“No.”
Levan nodded toward the iron.
“The hearth doesn't judge accidents.”
“An assassination is hardly an accident.”
“You misunderstand.”
I knew what he meant. So did Mother. Avtandil turned from the flame. His eyes found mine. I said it first.
“Someone under our roof invited them.”
The third toast was never given. That bothered me. It should not have. Six people were dead. My dress was torn. My mouth tasted like someone else's blood. One potential assassin had died with my brother's dinner knife lodged in his head. The ancient hearth had apparently developed opinions. And yet part of my mind remained caught on the third toast. Marriage. That was what Mother had intended. The dead first. Guests second. Marriage third. The iron branch had cracked before we reached it. Superstitious people would make something of that. Unfortunately, most people were superstitious. Even more unfortunately, the fire had actually turned blue.
I sat in Father's old study while Eliso cleaned the cut along my wrist. It was barely a cut. She behaved as if reattaching my hand. Mother paced. Levan stood by the door with his axe. He had refused to surrender it. Nobody had been foolish enough to insist. Avtandil stood near Father's bookshelves. Also still present. Also armed now. His own sword had been brought from his rooms once the gates closed. I had not previously considered swords attractive. This seemed a dangerous time to begin. Beso, Davit, the Arasani general, and our steward completed the room. Eight people. Too many. Everyone was speaking. Nobody was saying anything.
“The attackers wore Vashadze colors.”
“Stolen.”
“From where?”
“We don't know.”
“Six men do not simply materialize within a sealed inner wall.”
“Seven.”
Everybody stopped. I looked at them. Avtandil spoke first.
“You saw seven?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Western entrance.”
“There were three at the high table,” Davit said. “Four below.”
“Seven.”
“We have six bodies.”
“I know.”
Levan straightened.
“Describe him.”
“I can't.”
His face hardened.
“I only saw the boots.”
“What boots?”
“Brown. Split outer seam. Eastern make.”
Avtandil's general looked at me.
“Half our men wear those.”
“I know.”
Levan's expression became deeply unhelpful.
“So an Arasani escaped.”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“I said eastern boots.”
“Tamar.”
“A Vashadze uniform and Arasani boots are both very obvious. That makes them useless.”
Avtandil leaned against the edge of Father's desk.
“Disguise.”
“Yes.”
“Designed to implicate both sides.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the general.
“How many of ours are unaccounted for?”
“None.”
“You checked?”
“Twice.”
“Again.”
The general bowed and left. Levan looked at me.
“Where did the seventh go?”
“Gallery.”
Davit swore. I nodded.
“The locked stair.”
Avtandil looked at me sharply.
“You said it was locked.”
“It was.”
“When?”
“Before supper.”
“After?”
I looked toward the ceiling. I could see it in my head. The hall. Tables. Doors. Fire. Attackers. Servants. Musicians. The gallery. Someone had left during the second toast. Not through the stair. Across it. A musician.
“No,” I said.
“What?”
“The stair wasn't for him.”
I stood. Eliso protested. I pulled my hand away.
“The musicians.”
Davit frowned.
“All five are accounted for.”
“I know.”
“Then—”
“The singer left.”
Mother stared at me.
“She returned.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
I thought. Second toast. Iron branch. Dog. Marriage proposal.
“The third course.”
Avtandil pushed away from the desk.
“She wasn't in the gallery when the attack began.”
“No.”
“Where was she?”
I looked at the western wall. Behind it ran the narrow servants' passage. The seventh door.
“She opened it.”
Levan was already moving.
The singer was gone. Her room had never been used. The dress she arrived in was folded on the bed. Her traveling bag contained two stones wrapped in linen to give it weight. The servants' passage behind the gallery opened into the old wine stair. The wine stair opened onto the lower courtyard. The lower courtyard connected to a drainage tunnel large enough for a thin person to crawl through. We discovered this because Levan sent a thin person to crawl through it. He emerged outside the wall covered in mud and deeply offended. The singer had been hired in the capital. Three weeks earlier. Recommended by a merchant none of us knew.
Paid in silver minted six years ago. No family. No permanent address. Nobody could remember who had suggested hiring her. That was the part I liked least. People remembered decisions. They did not always remember where ideas came from. By midnight the feast hall had become an interrogation chamber with better tablecloths. Guests were moved to rooms. Separated by household. Nobody left. The dead were covered. The fires remained lit. The broken Arasani branch stayed above the central hearth. Levan wanted it removed. Mother refused. Avtandil agreed with her. Levan disliked that. I liked it. At some point someone found me a clean dress. I refused. The tear in the sleeve was small.
Changing seemed dishonest. Avtandil found me in the gallery shortly after one in the morning. I knew it was him from the footsteps. He walked evenly. Levan walked as though stairs had personally insulted him.
“You shouldn't be alone,” Avtandil said.
“I'm not.”
He looked behind me.
“No?”
“My brother has three men watching from the courtyard.”
He went to the railing. Three Vashadze guards looked up. Avtandil lifted one hand. One guard reluctantly returned the gesture.
“How romantic.”
“They'd be offended by that description.”
“I meant your brother.”
“That makes it worse.”
He stood beside me. Below us the great hall looked wounded. Overturned furniture. Dark stains on stone. Servants cleaning around covered bodies. The central hearth burned orange again.
“You're hurt,” I said.
He touched his cheek. The cut was shallow.
“So are you.”
“I bit someone.”
“Yes.”
“You saw.”
“I did.”
“You laughed.”
“I did not.”
“You turned away.”
“I was being diplomatic.”
I leaned on the railing. His mouth twitched.
“You are very strange.”
There it was. I had expected it earlier. People usually reached that conclusion.
“Yes.”
He seemed surprised by my agreement.
“You don't object?”
“Would it help?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
He looked below. I studied his profile. The broken nose. Scar beneath his lip. There was blood drying beneath one thumbnail. Not his.
“You should wash your hands.”
He looked down at them.
“So should you.”
“I did.”
“Your mouth?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Silence. It wasn't uncomfortable. That surprised me. Most silence became uncomfortable when another person noticed it. Avtandil seemed content to let it remain. Finally he said, “You were right.”
“About?”
“Your brother.”
I looked toward the courtyard. Levan was visible through the open doors below, questioning a guard. The axe rested against his shoulder.
“He hasn't murdered anyone tonight.”
“Yet.”
“That's growth.”
Avtandil laughed under his breath. Then sobered.
“He stopped when you asked.”
“Yes.”
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
“That is unusual.”
“For Levan?”
“For anyone like Levan.”
“What is someone like Levan?”
“A man everyone obeys.”
“You didn't.”
“No.”
“That was stupid.”
“Probably.”
“He could have killed you.”
“He could have tried.”
Oh. There it was. I looked at him more carefully.
“That's a man thing, isn't it?”
“What?”
“That sentence.”
His forehead creased.
“He could have killed you.”
“He could have tried.”
“Yes.”
“You're objecting to grammar?”
“I'm objecting to the little piece of stupidity men insert between danger and pride.”
He stared. I continued.
“If I tell a woman there is a bear outside, she generally asks where.”
He was already smiling.
“A man asks how large.”
“That's useful information.”
“No.”
“It could be.”
“For what?”
“To decide whether I can fight it.”
I pointed at him.
“That.”
He laughed. This time I did too. Quietly. It felt wrong above a room containing dead people. It also felt necessary. The laughter faded. He looked at my torn sleeve.
“Did you know about the wards?”
“No.”
“Neither did I.”
I turned.
“What?”
“My father added them.”
“You said you had authority to remove the clause.”
“I did.”
“You hadn't read it?”
“I read the draft that left our capital.”
“And the one that arrived?”
“Beso had it.”
“That seems careless.”
“It was.”
No defensiveness. Interesting.
“You're admitting that quickly.”
“I almost got murdered at dinner. I'm conserving time.”
I appreciated that.
“So someone changed the proposal.”
“My father.”
“You're sure?”
“No.”
That was better. He leaned against the railing.
“The seal was valid.”
“Seals can be stolen.”
“Yes.”
“Copied.”
“Yes.”
“People can also be idiots.”
“Frequently.”
“Your father?”
He looked at me. I waited.
“Occasionally.”
“So we have a changed treaty and an assassination on the same night.”
“Yes.”
“You still want the marriage?”
That surprised him. Only slightly. He took his time.
“I still want the treaty.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“No.”
He looked below again. I could have let him avoid it. I didn't.
“Do you still want to marry me?”
His jaw shifted once.
“Yes.”
My stomach did the unpleasant thing again.
“Why?”
“Several reasons.”
“Political ones.”
“Yes.”
“Only?”
There. That was too far. I knew as soon as I said it. Not because the question was improper. Because I suddenly cared about the answer. Avtandil looked at me fully. Something in his expression changed. The gallery felt smaller.
“We met four hours ago.”
“I know.”
“You told a dining room full of diplomats that I was probably defective.”
“I asked what was wrong with you.”
“Then you investigated whether I had relations with livestock.”
“I asked about goats.”
“Yes.”
“Specificity matters.”
He took one step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to notice. He smelled like smoke, wine, and the soap our servants left in the guest rooms. No mysterious masculine cedar forests. Soap. I liked that.
“You bit a man,” he said.
“He had a knife.”
“You stepped between your brother and me while he was holding an axe.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Levan wouldn't hurt me.”
“That wasn't the part I found alarming.”
I looked at him. He looked at me. Something happened. Not magic. Nothing so convenient. Just awareness. His body. Mine. Distance. The fact that I had spent six months thinking about the Arasani prince and had somehow failed to consider that the Arasani prince would be a person. A man. One who stood too close. One I might marry. One who had loved somebody before me. That last thought bothered me for reasons I had no intention of examining at one in the morning. Avtandil's voice lowered.
“So no.”
“No?”
“Not only political reasons.”
I forgot what we were discussing. Then remembered.
“Oh.”
He smiled slightly. It was an unfair expression.
“What are the others?”
“I haven't decided yet.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It is the only one you're getting tonight.”
I considered pushing. Then didn't. Growth. He started toward the stairs.
“Avtandil.”
He stopped. I had not used his name before. He noticed. That made two of us.
“My brother really did murder that man.”
“I believe you now.”
“No.”
I looked toward Levan below.
“That isn't what I mean.”
Avtandil waited.
“If we marry, he doesn't stop being my brother.”
“I assumed not.”
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain.”
This was difficult. Not emotionally. Structurally. How did one explain Levan?
“He won't threaten you once.”
Avtandil said nothing.
“He won't give you some dramatic speech about hurting me.”
Still nothing.
“He'll watch you.”
“For years.”
That smile disappeared.
“He will remember how you speak to servants. Whether you interrupt me. Whether I stop laughing. Whether I sleep. Whether I visit home more often or less. He'll know if I lie in letters. He'll ask my maids questions they won't realize are questions. He'll learn the names of your physicians.”
Avtandil listened.
“If he thinks you're hurting me,” I continued, “he won't challenge you.”
“What will he do?”
“I don't know.”
That was the honest answer.
“He'll think of something.”
A long pause.
“And that doesn't frighten you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he's my brother.”
Avtandil looked down into the hall. Levan happened to look up. Their eyes met across the distance. Neither man moved. There were conversations that did not require words. This seemed to be one. Finally Avtandil said, “Good.” I frowned.
“Good?”
“I'd be worried if you weren't loved by anyone dangerous.”
He continued down the stairs. I watched him go. Problem number five.
At two seventeen in the morning, we found the missing singer. Dead. Not outside the wall. Inside it. Her body had been pushed into an empty wine jar in the old cellar. Her throat had been cut before the feast began. The woman who sang above us all evening had never been the singer we hired. At two thirty-one, Levan ordered every cellar searched. At two forty, Avtandil's men found a second Vashadze uniform beneath the eastern stairs. At three twelve, Mother discovered one of her personal seals missing. At three twenty-seven, Beso admitted the marriage treaty in his possession had been out of his sight for one night during the journey north.
At four, nobody was pretending the attack had been improvised. Someone had spent weeks arranging it. Possibly months. At dawn, we met again in the great hall. No feast this time. No musicians. No dead. They had been moved before sunrise. The tables remained. So did the blood between the stones. It would take scrubbing. Eventually the stain would disappear. Father once told me blood vanished from stone faster than memory. I had been nine. That was an odd thing to tell a nine-year-old. It had also been true. Levan stood at the hearth. Avtandil opposite him. Mother sat. Beso looked twenty years older. I drank tea. Nobody had slept.
This improved conversation by removing the energy required for dishonesty. Levan began.
“The proposal is suspended.”
Avtandil nodded.
“Agreed.”
Mother looked at him.
“Not withdrawn?”
“No.”
Levan's eyes narrowed.
“You still want it.”
“Yes.”
“You were attacked under my roof.”
“Yes.”
“My household was compromised.”
“Yes.”
“My sister bit one of your assassins.”
I put down my tea.
“He wasn't his assassin.”
Levan ignored me. Avtandil did not.
“Apparently that increased my enthusiasm.”
I choked on tea. Mother stared at him. Levan did not blink. Avtandil remained perfectly serious. I realized after approximately three seconds that he had made a joke. Terrible man. Levan slowly turned toward me.
“You like him.”
“What?”
“You do.”
“We are discussing attempted murder.”
“You like him during attempted murder.”
“I have known him for eleven hours.”
“Twelve.”
I looked at the windows. Dawn. Damn him. Avtandil said, “She counts.” Levan's gaze returned to him.
“I know.”
Mother touched her forehead.
“Can all three of you attempt to behave like adults?”
“No,” Levan and I said simultaneously.
Avtandil had the decency not to join us. Mother pointed at him.
“You. Keep that.”
“Yes, Lady Nino.”
She looked relieved to have found one manageable person. Poor woman. Levan turned serious again.
“The wedding negotiations stop until we know who did this.”
“That may be the objective,” I said.
Everyone looked at me. I hated when that happened.
“What?” Levan asked.
“If someone wanted to kill Avtandil, this was unnecessarily complicated.”
Beso frowned.
“They nearly succeeded.”
“They could have tried on the road.”
“He travels guarded.”
“He traveled here with seventy-two men.”
Avtandil folded his arms.
“Seventy-two.”
“Thank you.”
Levan looked annoyed. I continued.
“They had to replace a singer, enter our household, steal uniforms, alter a treaty, hide weapons, identify passages, and arrange poison for capture.”
Mother's ring turned. Once.
“What are you saying?”
“They wanted the attack here.”
Silence. I pointed toward the hearth.
“They wanted it under our roof.”
Levan's eyes went to the cracked Arasani iron. Avtandil followed.
“The guest right,” he said.
“Yes.”
Beso shook his head.
“That is superstition.”
“Is it?”
He looked at the iron. Nobody answered. I continued.
“Even if the hearth means nothing, people think it means something.”
Levan understood first.
“They wanted the alliance cursed.”
“Yes.”
“And one side to blame the other,” Mother said.
“Yes.”
Avtandil looked toward the eastern windows.
“If I died in Vashadze hall—”
“Your father invades by winter,” Levan said.
“If Tamar died while my men were present?”
Levan's face changed. We all saw it. Mother answered instead.
“Arasani princes would not survive the northern road.”
There it was. Not assassination. War. The attack had not failed simply because we were alive. It had partially succeeded. The hearth had broken. The treaty had been compromised. People had died wearing our colors and eastern boots. By noon, rumors would begin. By tomorrow they would become facts. By next week every border village would have its preferred version. Levan looked at Avtandil.
“What do you propose?”
“Finish what they tried to stop.”
Beso turned. “Your Highness.”
Avtandil ignored him.
“So do I,” I said.
Now Levan stared at me.
“No.”
“You said the choice was mine.”
“The proposal is compromised.”
“So?”
“So someone tried to kill you.”
“People have tried before.”
“Not help—”
“One person tried before.”
“That was different.”
“He also had a knife.”
“You were twelve.”
“I still had skin.”
Mother interrupted.
“Tamar.”
I took a breath. Levan's anger did not bother me. His fear did. That was what sat beneath it. If the marriage proceeded, I would go east. Away from Vashadze. Away from the mountains. Away from him. He had been preparing for that. Badly. Last night gave him a reason to stop it. A very good reason. I understood. I still refused.
“If we cancel now,” I said, “whoever arranged this gets exactly what they wanted.”
“I don't care.”
“I do.”
“I care more that you're alive.”
“Those aren't opposites.”
“They are if you go east.”
Not diplomacy. Not politics. My brother. I stood. He was larger than me by nearly a head. I had once thought he was the largest person in the world. Children think ridiculous things.
“I am going to leave eventually.”
“No.”
“Levan.”
“You can live here.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“Forever?”
“Yes.”
“What if I want a husband?”
“He can move here.”
Avtandil coughed. I looked toward him.
“Would you like to move here?”
“No.”
“See?”
Levan pointed at him.
“Then he's unsuitable.”
I laughed. I couldn't help it. Levan looked wounded. That made me laugh harder. Mother covered her mouth. Even Beso looked away.
“This isn't funny,” Levan said.
“It is a little.”
“No.”
I went to him. His axe leaned against the hearth. I pushed it farther away with my foot. He watched me do it.
“I'm not marrying him today.”
“Good.”
“I'm not promising to marry him.”
“Better.”
“I am going east.”
“No.”
“To continue negotiations.”
“No.”
“To find out who tried to kill us.”
“No.”
“And you're coming.”
He stopped. I smiled. There. Levan looked at Mother. She was already smiling too. Betrayal arrived from both women simultaneously.
“You planned that,” he said.
“No,” I said.
Mother said, “I did.” We both looked at her. She lifted her chin.
“The attack changes everything.”
Beso stared.
“You would send Lady Tamar into Arasani after an assassination attempt?”
“No.”
Mother looked at Levan.
“I would send Lord Vashadze.”
Levan's expression became beautiful. Not pleasant. Beautiful. Like watching a storm discover architecture. Avtandil straightened. Mother continued.
“The negotiations require representatives from both houses. We cannot hold them here while our household remains compromised. The prince cannot remain indefinitely without provoking his father.”
She looked at Avtandil.
“You return east.”
“Yes.”
“Tamar goes with you.”
Levan opened his mouth. Mother raised one finger. He closed it. Miracles did occur.
“You go too.”
Levan's jaw hardened.
“With what authority?”
“The authority of a brother who has spent his entire adult life insisting he must personally inspect every danger within five miles of his sister.”
I smiled. He glared at me. Mother wasn't finished.
“If someone wants this marriage stopped, let them discover they have accidentally placed you inside the Arasani royal court.”
That silenced everyone. Even Avtandil. Levan considered. I knew exactly when the idea began to appeal to him. His eyes changed. Oh no. Perhaps Mother had miscalculated.
“You'd permit me to bring my own men?”
Avtandil answered.
“Twenty.”
“Forty.”
“Twenty.”
“Thirty-six.”
“Twenty-four.”
“Thirty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-six.”
Levan smiled.
“Done.”
Beso whispered, “Your Highness.” Avtandil ignored him again. Mother looked between them.
“I suppose that's diplomacy.”
“It isn't,” I said.
“No?”
“It's haggling.”
“What's the difference?”
“Better clothes.”
Avtandil laughed. Levan looked annoyed that he had. I drank the rest of my tea. The sun had climbed above the eastern ridge. Light entered through the tall windows and struck the central hearth. The three iron branches hung above it. Vashadze. The Crown. Arasani. The Arasani branch was cracked. Not broken completely. I noticed that for the first time. The upper curl had split, but the stem remained seated in the bracket. Still there. Damaged. Holding. I walked toward it. Heat touched my face. Behind me, negotiations began again. Men. Horses. Roads. Guards. Dates. Messages. Twenty-six Vashadze soldiers. Forty Arasani. My mother already reorganizing the household around my departure.
My brother discovering new people to threaten. My possible husband arguing that bringing six hunting dogs to a diplomatic visit was reasonable because apparently they were “better behaved than most courtiers.” Something settled inside me. Not certainty. I didn't trust certainty. A decision. Those were different. I touched two fingers to the cold base of the Arasani iron. The flame moved. Blue appeared. Tiny. No larger than the edge of my thumbnail. I froze. It vanished.
“Tamar?”
Avtandil. I turned. He stood several paces away.
“Are you ready?”
For what? Marriage? War? His country? My brother in his palace? Whatever had happened to the fire? Probably not. I looked at Levan. He had retrieved his axe. Of course he had. Then at Avtandil. The prince waited. He did not offer me his hand. I liked him for that too.
“No,” I said.
His eyebrow lifted. I stepped away from the hearth.
“But I'm coming.”
Behind us, the cracked iron warmed over the fire. The third toast remained ungiven. For now.