“In an hour?”

“Your Majesty, she has promoted the senior lieutenant to the captain’s position, but the men are saying they won’t serve under him.” He rushed on, “If you can stop her, Your Majesty, please, can you? Aris didn’t know the danger, I swear to you. He thought the garden was safe.”

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

“You were asleep. They gave you lethium.”

With effort, the king dragged his hand free of the sheets. “I remember,” he said. “I didn’t want it. It always makes me feel like I’ve been dead.” He rubbed his face. “Has she sent for them?”

“Not yet,” said Costis.

“Ah.”

“Your Majesty, please.”

“Costis, I can’t publicly reverse her orders.”

“But she would listen to you,” Costis pleaded.

“Privately, she might. If there were time. But she’s angry, Costis. I knew she would be.”

Costis dropped his head. He had seen so many impossible things in a day, he had hoped for one more.

“Wait,” said the king. “Just wait.” He twisted his head. “Is there water? Lethium leaves you dry as a bone.”

Costis poured him a cupful, and then refilled it twice when the king emptied it. Eugenides had hauled himself, wincing, to a more upright position to drink. He sighed heavily and stared into the invisible distances. He asked at last, “Do you know any archaic?”

Costis almost flew down the stairs and through the turning passages of the palace. He relied on the early hour to keep his way clear. He cut through the kitchens, escorted on his way by the grumbling and complaints of the kitchen folk already awake and at their work, to reach the stairs that led down to the queen’s prison, only to be brought up short by the deliberate shuffling of the prison keeper. Costis forced himself to match the man’s strides. There was no point getting ahead of him. The prison keeper had the keys, and like all the prison keepers, he was jealous of his power here in Her Majesty’s dungeon. He would make no haste for a queen’s guardsman.

Costis waited while the keeper jingled through the keys and slowly unlocked the cell. Then, his patience exhausted, he wrenched open the iron-barred door. He saw Aris first, sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up and his arms locked around them. Excess chain lay in tangled loops around his feet. He raised his head to look at Costis, then dropped it again and reached out a hand to touch the man lying beside him gently on the shoulder. “It’s time, Legarus,” he said softly.

Legarus was crying. The rest were dry-eyed, but Legarus was crying. No wonder, Costis thought. It was Legarus who had been the ostensible cause of their sudden promotion, an arrangement by some lover in the palace, everyone had assumed. But the promotion hadn’t been arranged for Legarus’s benefit. Nepotism had only been a disguise. Someone had wanted on duty that day a squad of neophytes, who, in their inexperience, could more easily be distracted from their duty. His lover had used Legarus and left him to die.

Costis turned to Teleus, who was getting to his feet. “There is no hope, Costis,” Teleus said flatly, seeing the look in his eye.

“There is,” Costis insisted.

“No,” Teleus stubbornly refused. “I should never have agreed to promote Aristogiton’s squad. I would not have done it for the queen’s bodyguard, and I shouldn’t have done it for the king’s.”

“The squad you promoted? They also die?”

“They also failed.”

Costis wanted to seize him by the shoulders and shake him. “And the Guard? She has promoted Enkilis, you know. The men won’t follow him.”

“They have pledged their swords to the queen.”

“They aren’t just swords. They are men. They follow you. Without you, their discipline will fail, maybe their loyalty. They are the keystone of the army. You are the keystone of the Guard. The queen cannot afford to lose you.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Teleus asked.

“You have to stop her.”

“She knows it, too, Costis,” Teleus said sadly. “Even if I could stop her, who am I to do so? It is her decision.”

“What if she is making a mistake?”

“Who am I to question the queen’s judgment?”

“She is human like us all, Captain.” Costis remembered how she had felt in his arms the afternoon before. “She must make mistakes sometimes.”

“Oh, yes,” said Teleus bitterly. “Rarely, but we are all living with the fruits of her greatest error. Still, we cannot remake her decisions. She is the queen.”

“Then ask her to reconsider. Just that. Ask her to take the time to be sure it is the right decision.”

“How?” asked Teleus.

The throne room was bright with lights in every sconce. The chandeliers were great wheels of light suspended in the air. The crowd was thick, though the day had not yet begun. No one would miss a chance to see the Captain of the Guard sent to his execution. It was relatively easy for Costis to slip in and stand anonymously near the door. The king had warned him to deliver his message to Teleus and then go directly to his rooms to wait there for the storm to pass, but Costis couldn’t go yet. He wasn’t sure what Teleus had decided to do. Too soon, the prison keeper had swung the door open and the rest of the jailers had assembled to escort the prisoners to the queen. There had been no more time to convince Teleus. Quickly, Costis had repeated the phrase in archaic and translated it into the demotic. He had no idea if Teleus knew any archaic or if he would be able to remember an unfamiliar sequence of sounds at a moment like this. Costis had no idea why this phrase, the invocation of Hephestia used in the spring festival in Eddis, might remind the queen of past mistakes. He only knew that the king had promised that it would. All Costis could do was follow the prisoners and their keepers and then step away as the prisoners were led into the throne room. He would wait until he knew if his friend was going to die. If Aris was sentenced to die, Costis wouldn’t leave him.

On her throne, Attolia held every eye. The empty throne beside her, which she had occupied only a few short months before, might have been invisible, might never have existed, for all of its significance to the people in her presence.

She looked down at the men before her. Only Teleus could speak for them. He looked from left to right like a man hesitating before he chooses his way. Then he raised his face to the queen. “Oxe Harbrea Sacrus Vax Dragga Onus Savonus Sophos At Ere.”

The room darkened as a sudden morning draft swept through the open windows near the ceiling and blew through the chandeliers, guttering their flames. In the flickering light, the queen seemed to swell with rage, seemed to burn with it like a flame, simultaneously motionless and ceaselessly moving. The fabric of her robe wrinkled across her knees very slightly as the hands holding it clenched into fists. Costis drew a breath, sucking at air that seemed too solid to inhale.

“What?” said the queen, daring him to repeat it.

“We invoke the Great Goddess in our hour of need for her wisdom and her mercy,” Teleus said in the demotic.

“Ere translates as love, a rather ruthless love, not mercy, Teleus. The Great Goddess of Eddis is not known for her mercy.”