“Would you care to explain what happened to her?”

The windowpanes shook under Gregor’s wrath. Aldor cringed as his friend stared icy death at him—just as he’d expected, news about the attempt on the ambassador’s life had reached the duke’s ears when he got to Gorf. Worse, rumor had embellished the story with a number of extraneous details, even as the truth of the matter was bad enough for Gregor. Aldor took the brunt of young Voldhard’s explosive temper as was usually the case, having sent away the other witnesses to the event ahead of time.

The silence hung thick in the castle Shrine.

“What happened to Irital?” Gregor asked again.

The baron looked steadily at the duke.

“There was an attempt made to kill the ambassador and me. Whoever did it waited for the moment when we were dining together.”

“So, why didn’t anything happen to you?” Gregor barked, throwing caution to the winds and hurling his friend against a wall. A nearby nun jumped at the sound of the yelling, threw a handful of small candles right at the feet of the statue of Gillenai, and hurried away.

“Completely by accident,” the baron replied with a pained grimace. “They changed out my food at the last moment.”

“I put you in charge of her! I trusted you!”

“Are you sending me to the executioner right now or would you like me to finish the story?” Aldor sighed. Sometimes, unmitigated gall was all that would bring his friend to his senses.

A reasonable expression returned to Gregor’s face. He let the baron go.

“I’m sorry. I should have been ready for something like this to happen. Curses! What was I thinking? Have you been able to figure anything out about who might have done it?”

Aldor breathed out noisily and held his breath. A dull pain was shooting through his back.

“There isn’t much to say. The second poisoned dish, the one I was supposed to eat, killed two refugee boys. The cook gave it to them out of the goodness of his heart.”

Voldhard turned and stared at the narrow stained-glass window.

“Curses, Aldor… They could have killed me, could have done it at any moment in Missolen. You and Rhinhilda tried to warn Irital and me, but I wouldn’t listen, and she was the one to suffer. I was too careless. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s just strange that it happened so quickly,” Aldor said. “When we were attacked, you were probably halfway home, so somebody knew Irital was here. And they knew how much you care about her. It was a warning, Gregor.”

“They could have outpaced us. Any Gatson or Ennian ship would run circles around our fastest tub. Everyone knows our Highligland sailors are terrible, and the spy could’ve already been in the castle. He may have just been waiting for the signal to act.”

The baron went over to the altar and lit a slender candle.

“I was able to learn something. The poison they used to try to kill the ambassador and me is called Drinna’s Blessing, and it’s Ennian.”

Gregor tensed and slowly turned to look at his friend.

“Are you sure?”

“Most likely. There aren’t any other options.”

Aldor carefully placed his candle in a low candleholder at the foot of the statue and made the divine sign over himself. The duke’s eyes darkened; his jaw tightened.

“My cousin Demos is half-Ennian,” he said. “His mother is from an ancient family with a lot of influence in their magistrate.”

“I already thought about the Flavieses,” Aldor replied with a thoughtful nod. “But that’s strange. The Burned Lord is said to be a skilled politician, so I wouldn’t think he’d pull a dirty trick like that.”

“Maybe he just didn’t need to be delicate this time?”

The baron sighed and lowered himself onto a bench.

“Even so, it’s hard to believe. Why would Demos want to get rid of me and Lady Irital? With all due respect, we’re not a threat to him; you are. If that were the case, he would have come after you, which makes this look more like a provocation. Maybe someone wants to push the two of you apart. But why?”

Gregor paced the room nervously, glancing at the altar as he did.

“I’m not sure, my friend. I’m not sure. Guessing already has me worked up,” he replied, finally coming to rest on the bench next to the baron. “This trip really did me in. Curse me, Aldor, but I’ve had to go up against a crowd of savage Runds, and I survived. I was tortured with fire and beaten, and I survived. After everything that happened in the Order, I’d think I wouldn’t be afraid of anything, but Missolen was worse than a horde of barbarians. I really didn’t know what I was getting myself into.”

The baron shrugged, his eyes still on the statue in front of the altar.

“You’re used to honest battles with simple weapons. No wonder politics knocked you for a loop. But if you want my opinion, I think you’re off to a good start—you came back alive.” Aldor ran his fingers through his hair and massaged the back of his head. “And hey, you had every right to do that to me. I should have called for help right away, the way you said, even if I don’t think Artanna could have saved us from the poison.”

“You have everyone who had access to the food?”

“Of course. But I’d still rather leave the interrogations to a professional, and we don’t have any of those.”

“In that case, find me a good torturer, the kind that can stay on someone who’s guilty for days.”

“I’m in the process.” The baron unhooked the massive ring of keys on his belt and held it out to Voldhard. “Here, I don’t need these anymore.”

The duke shook his head.

“Keep them. You did good work managing the castle, and you’re the most responsible person I know. I want you to stay close to me. And that’s especially true right now, with the Runds breathing down our necks, and the imperial elite playing their dirty tricks.”

“You finally figured out that I’m a terrible fighter and gave me something to do that I’m good at?” Aldor asked with a smile.

“This is a challenge, and I need to understand how best to use the talents of the people around me. There’s only one person I can trust to manage Ellisdor, and I trust him completely. You, Archchancellor Aldor den Grauer. From now on, that’s your title. Tomorrow, you’ll get a great seal and take up your new chambers—I want you to be my eyes and ears. Gather information no matter the cost, cover my back, and protect my weaknesses. You know me better than anyone in the castle, so you’re more than capable of carrying that load.”

The baron said nothing for a few seconds, not believing his own ears.

“Not everyone is going to like the news,” he said when he finally mastered his emotions.

“What does that matter?”

“But I’m just…”

“A landless baron? I’ll make you a count if that will help you feel more confident in yourself. You swore fealty to me, you’ve done your duty beautifully, and you’ve never asked for anything in return. But I do always remember everything you’ve done for me, and I know how to show appreciation.”

Aldor shook his head, still not believing his friend’s decision.

“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to keep my title,” he said, eyes dropping in embarrassment. “My appointment will cause some…consternation as it is.”

“As you wish,” replied Voldhard as he clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Archchancellor. And now, take me to Irital.”

***

Brother Aristid kept his vigil at the head of the ambassador’s bed. The monk’s long, greasy hair was combed smoothly back and gathered in a ponytail, while the skirt of his once-white robe was stained with dirt from the road. One hand worked its way down a long string of beads; the other held a book open. Seeing the visitors step in, the monk pulled himself away from his prayers and smiled amiably.

“Allow me to introduce Brother Aristid to you, Your Grace,” Aldor announced ceremoniously. “We are in his debt for saving Lady Irital’s life.”

The monk put his book aside and stood up to greet the duke.

“I am immensely happy to meet you, Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “May you be blessed by the Keeper.”

The duke looked around, paused for a second when he caught a glimpse of his beloved’s golden hair lying on the pillow, and replied to Aristid.

“I cannot find words to express my gratitude. If there’s anything I can do for you, simply ask. Gold, an offering for the temple, whatever you would like…”

“I’ve already spent many years following the path of poverty, Your Grace,” the monk replied as he fingered the silver disk hanging around his neck. “Nothing gives me more pleasure than to help the suffering, for that is what Gillenai has for us to do. Allow me to stay near this woman, and nobody will touch her life. I will be at ease if I can watch over her.”

“Of course,” Gregor nodded. “Still, I am in your debt.”

“In that case, give your praise to the Keeper and pray to him with all your heart. I need nothing. Good deeds are not done in search of payment—that is a step in the Way we should all be following.” The monk spread his arms, and the metal balls in his rosary clacked together.

Gregor turned to look at Irital as she slept.

“Will she regain consciousness soon?”

Brother Aristid shrugged.

“It’s difficult to say. She could wake up tomorrow, or it could be in a few days. The only way she’ll recover completely is if she has absolute peace and quiet, though that day is, in fact, imminent. Her Grace’s breathing is regular, her heartbeat is mild, and her color is starting to return. By the grace of the Keeper, she will rejoin us.”

“I hope so,” Aldor said quietly.

The monk closed his eyes and picked his book back up.

“It’s time for the afternoon prayers. I will pray for Your Grace’s health.”