“Your majesty,” he said in a husky voice. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I wanted you to be the first to hear it.”

“Tell me.” The words dropped like two stones from the King’s lips. Desirée had gone still, and her hand felt slippery in mine, although I daresay it was mine that sweated.

Denis bowed his head. “The Dauphin is gone.”

Although he spoke softly, the words carried in the stillness; and where they did not carry, they were passed from mouth to ear. A great outcry of shared grief arose, a spontaneous ululating. The only thing that kept me from joining it was the pressure of the young princess’ hand in mine.

“Moirin?” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, dear heart,” I whispered in reply, my own heart breaking. “Ah, gods! I wish it had been otherwise.”

Later, we would learn more details about how the Dauphin’s expedition had found favor with the Nahuatl Emperor by virtue of Raphael de Mereliot’s skills as a physician. It seemed that along with foreign elements such as horses and steel, the Aragonian explorers who established a base of trade with the Nahuatl unwittingly introduced foreign diseases that ravaged the native folk, rendering them helpless before its onslaught.

The killing pox.

It was Raphael who found a way to ameliorate the effects of the pox, persuading the Nahuatl Emperor to allow him to inoculate him and his extensive family with a lesser strain of the disease.

When it proved effective, the Emperor rewarded him with knowledge, knowledge of another empire on the far side of the sea, rich in gold. But that day on the docks, we learned only that Thierry had set out on a secondary expedition that vanished into the jungles of Terra Nova.

“I was sick myself,” Denis de Toluard murmured, still kneeling. “Dysentery. I was too weak to travel. I agreed to stay behind and wait. I waited and waited, your majesty. Months past the appointed time.” He lifted his face, screwed up with grief. “But he never came. Prince Thierry never came back. None of them did. He made me promise that if anything befell him, I’d tell you myself. So I took charge of the flagship, and set sail.”

The King laid one hand on his head. “It wasn’t your fault. You did the right thing.”

“It wasn’t enough!”

“No.” The King smiled sadly. “It never is, is it?”

I swallowed my grief as best I could.

Ah, gods! Thierry, good-natured Prince Thierry, who had forgiven me all my transgressions.

Gone…

It seemed impossible—and yet it was so. Of course, it had always been a possibility. In my head, I knew this. Ships foundered, men died. Seafaring and exploring was a dangerous business. But in my heart, I simply hadn’t thought the gods would be cruel enough to deal one more crushing blow to a man who had experienced so much grief in his life.

King Daniel turned away and began walking toward the royal carriage like a blind man, his face gone utterly blank. Guards and spectators moved out of his way uncertainly.

Trusting Desirée to Bao’s care, I ran after his majesty. “My lord!” I wasn’t sure what to say. “You… you should not be alone.”

He looked at me as though I were a stranger for a moment. “Moirin. Oh. The child.” His blank gaze shifted to Desirée, holding Bao’s hand, tears streaking her face. “See that she’s safely returned to the Palace.”

“You should not be alone right now,” I said stubbornly.

My father came alongside me. “My daughter is right, your majesty.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Daniel de la Courcel said with gentle firmness. “You are dismissed.”

We could not ignore a royal command, could do nothing but watch as he climbed into the carriage and gave the order to depart.

I stole a glance at Duc Rogier. He was standing with one hand on his son Tristan’s shoulder. I thought the look of sorrow on his face was genuine, but behind it, calculating wheels were turning. It struck me that Desirée had just become the heir to the throne of Terre d’Ange in earnest.

Beneath the bright spring sunshine, I shivered.

Obeying the King’s order, Bao and I saw the young Dauphine returned to the nursery, where she wept herself into a state of profound exhaustion. Not even Sister Gemma’s most soothing cradle-songs could comfort her for the loss of her absent brother. I wondered if she sensed the burden that had settled on her shoulders that day. At last, wrung as limp as a dishrag, Desirée fell asleep with her thumb in her mouth. I stroked her damp hair, plastered to her cheeks. Her tear-spiked lashes were like fans.

“You should go,” Sister Gemma said wearily. “She’ll sleep for hours now.”

“I know.”

Our eyes met. “It was a bad day,” the priestess said. “A very bad day.”

I nodded. “One of the worst.”

Bao leaned over the bed, coaxing Desirée’s thumb out of her mouth and crooning to her in the Ch’in dialect of his youth. “Tomorrow will be better,” he said with a confidence none of us felt. “It will, won’t it?”

My eyes stung. “Gods, I hope so!”

It wasn’t.

Worn out by my own grief, I slept hard that night. I woke from a dream of a great bell tolling for all the world’s sorrows to find Bao shaking me, and every bell in the City of Elua tolling loudly.

“What is it?” I asked sleepily.

“I don’t know.” Bao’s expression was alert and grim. “But I think we ought to find out.”

Outside, we found commonfolk roaming the streets of the City, and rumor running wild. We followed the course of the rumors to a promenade along the banks of the Aviline River, close to the Palace, where guardsmen in the livery of House Courcel raced frantically back and forth, torches streaking the night with flame, firelight glinting off the waters of the river. All the while, the bells continued their urgent summons.

“Here, here!”

“No, here!”

“There he is!” one shouted, pointing at the river. “There, there!”

I covered my mouth with one hand. “Oh, gods! No!”

Guards plunged into the river.

Bao put his arm over my shoulders, pressed his lips to my hair. “Moirin, don’t look.”

But I did, because I had to. I looked. I watched as members of the Royal Guard swam and gasped in the benighted waters of the Aviline River, sodden in their livery, towing their burden ashore.

King Daniel.

For once, he looked at peace. His pale, grave face was at peace with death, his dark hair strewn about him in wet tendrils.

There was more shouting.

There were physicians—to no avail. They breathed into his mouth, but he did not respond. His body lay still and lifeless. Daniel de la Courcel, the King of Terre d’Ange, was dead.

Later, we would learn that the King had begged his Captain of the Guard for solitude, and a chance to walk alone along the banks of the river. That his guards had trailed him at a respectful distance, leaving him to his grief. In the darkness, they’d lost sight of him from time to time.

No one knew when he’d slipped over the embankment and waded into the river. All they knew was that he’d done it a-purpose, for he hadn’t made a sound and there were stones in his pockets, weighting him down.

I wept.

Bao held me.

Everything had changed.

Everything.

TWENTY-FOUR

Terre d’Ange mourned.

Everywhere in the City of Elua, swags of black crepe were draped over doorways. The trunk of Elua’s Oak was swathed in it. Folk gathered in taverns and wineshops, in each other’s homes, offering comfort to one another. No one wanted to be alone.

Bao and I spent a great deal of time with Desirée. If the news of her brother’s death had sent her into paroxysms of grief, her father’s suicide had an even worse effect. Somewhat inside her shut down, and she was near as lifeless as a doll.

I asked my father what was to become of the realm.

“Parliament will convene after the funeral to appoint a regent until the princess gains her majority,” he said soberly. “Since Duc Rogier’s done a fine job as Royal Minister, odds are they’ll select him.”

It was what I feared. “Father, they can’t!”

He stared at me. “Why ever not?”

“Because the King was going to replace him.” I told him what I knew. When I had finished, he closed his eyes for a long time. “I’m sorry!” I whispered in anguish. “I know you care for him.”

“I do,” he murmured. “But if what you’re telling me is true… it should at least be taken into account.”

“What do we do?” I asked him.

My father sighed. “You’ll have to petition to address Parliament, Moirin. And I warn you, they will not want to hear what you have to say, and you’ll earn his grace’s enmity in the bargain.” He ran a hand over his face. “Think well on it. Rogier may be more ambitious than I reckoned, but he’s a good man at heart.”

“Is his son?” I asked. “Because that’s who he’s aiming to put on the throne. That’s who he’d see betrothed to Desirée.”

He fell silent for a time. “I don’t know. Just… think on it.”

My diadh-anam flickered. “I will,” I said. “But I may not have a choice. I’m oath-bound.”

“I know.” He took my hand. “And I will stand by you, no matter what you decide.”

Three days after the King’s death, a joint funeral service for Daniel and Thierry de la Courcel was held at the great Temple of Elua. Bao and I rode in the royal carriage with Desirée, Duc Rogier, and his son.

All throughout the streets of the City, folk turned out to share their grief, weeping openly and calling out blessings on the young princess. Desirée stared straight ahead without responding, clad in a black gown that made her translucent skin look ghostly pale. A delicate crown of gold filigree sat atop her fair hair. I held her hand and whispered words of comfort to her.

Duc Rogier acknowledged the mourners with solemn nods. Young Tristan looked grave and noble, bending forward from time to time to pat Desirée’s other hand. She gazed at him with listless eyes.

I remembered how she had sparkled at the tumblers’ performance the day of the oath-swearing ceremony, how his majesty had reached out to her and helped her throw the bouquet at Antoine nó Eglantine’s feet, and I wanted to weep.

For Desirée’s sake, I didn’t.

Bao gave me a miserable glance over the top of her crowned head, understanding.

At the temple, we removed our shoes and stockings in the vestibule and proceeded into the garden sanctum. Directed by priests and priestesses, we took our place at the base of the plinth on which the effigy of Blessed Elua stood. A seemingly endless throng of mourning peers followed us, jostling for position. Exchanging complicit nods with the royal guardsmen in attendance, Bao took a protective stance beside Desirée, leaning on his bamboo staff. Somehow, they’d gotten word of his prowess.

Once the sanctum was full and the doors to the temple had been barred, the senior Priest of Elua who had presided over the oath-swearing ceremony gave the invocation. It was earnest and heartfelt, reminding the crowd of all the tragic losses House Courcel had suffered over the years, and it reduced well nigh the entire crowd to tears—including me. Although I managed to keep from sobbing aloud, this time I couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

I couldn’t help it.

When he was done, Duc Rogier spoke. “They were kin,” he said simply. “And I loved them both very much. Prince Thierry for his unfailing good nature, his boundless spirit of adventure. King Daniel for his vast, gentle heart, and his gracious manner. And today I am angry at the gods for allowing their best qualities to destroy them.”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

The priest raised one hand for silence. “The gods understand.”

“I hope they do.” Duc Rogier Courcel de Barthelme turned to glance at Blessed Elua’s effigy. “While I am not a member of House Courcel proper, I am descended from it. I bear the Courcel name, as do all the members of House Barthelme.” He bowed in Desirée’s direction. There were tears in his eyes, but the line of his jaw was set and firm. “I was your brother’s oath-sworn protector, young majesty, not yours. But I swear to you today, I will do all in my power to keep further sorrow from touching House Courcel.”

“As will I!” Tristan called in a ringing voice. “I promise, Desirée!”

It was well received—and it made me angry.

The worst part of it was that I didn’t doubt the Duc’s grief was sincere. But it was still a piece of theater. He was willing to use his grief and the plight of a royal orphan to further his own ends.

At least it dried my tears.

“Moirin, don’t glower,” Bao murmured to me. “You can’t afford to lose sympathy.”

I gritted my teeth. “I am trying!”

Desirée tugged at my hand. “What’s wrong, Moirin? Are you angry at the gods, too?”

It was the first spark of life I’d seen from her since her father’s death. I knelt and hugged her. She felt oh, so very fragile in my arms. “Today, yes, dear heart. Today I am hurt and angry. But it’s all right. It’s all right to feel such things. Everyone does. You heard the priest, didn’t you? The gods understand sorrow—and anger, too.”

She put her arms around my neck, nestling her face against my throat. “Why do they send so much of it?”