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What more does the Emperor know of my plans, and Taristan’s?

“If he makes it back to Bhur,” she murmured, meeting Taristan’s gaze, “I fear we might find an army of the Countless at the city gates.”

To her chagrin, her husband snarled in frustration. “I care little for the politics of the Ward. It means less every day.”

On the divan, Erida clenched her good hand. Her wound throbbedpainfully, made worse by the rising beat of her heart. She met Lady Harrsing’s eyes, the pair of them exchanging frustrated glances.

“Excuse us, Bella,” she said through tight teeth.

Lady Harrsing knew better than to argue, and waved the rest of the fluttering maids away with her. Her cane echoed as she paced across the cathedral floor, leaving Taristan and Erida alone at the center.

It was not privacy, but it was the best Erida could hope for at the moment. Golden armor flashed at the corner of her eye, the remains of her Lionguard posted around the hall.

Erida looked away from them to the grand altar of the Konrada, magnificent in marble and gilding. She remembered what it felt like to stand there, before the faces of the gods, a veil on her head, a sword in her hand, with Taristan beside her. She did not love him then, when she pledged her life to his own. She had no idea what path lay before her, what fate was already made.

Her right hand lay curled in her lap now, half-covered in bandages. A little blood had already begun to seep through, staining everything around it.

“The last time you and I were here, we held the marriage sword between us,” she said.

Taristan’s face went stone-blank in his usual way. It was his shield and crutch, Erida knew. After a childhood like his own, abandoned to the world, his emotions were always a burden. Always a weakness.

“Good that I am not a man,” she continued. “I will never hold a sword again.”

One of his fingers twitched at his side, the only indication of Taristan’s discomfort.

“Your heart is sword enough,” he ground out, his eyes on her face.

She stared back at him, trying to glimpse behind the wall he builtso terribly high. Something hid within him, something she could not yet grasp.

“Lord Thornwall commanded the city be locked down,” he added, taking on a more serious air. “Every gate, the ports. And they have quelled the fire in Fleethaven. We were lucky, he says.”

Erida blew out a pained sigh. She wanted nothing more than for her husband to sit, to feel his closeness and warmth in the cold cathedral. But the eyes of so many were too difficult to ignore. Like him, she put up the usual wall, receding behind her court mask.

She straightened instead, sitting on the divan as she would her throne. Her body screamed in protest, but she did her best to ignore it.

“He raised the port chain,” she said. “They will be rats in a trap, then.” Her heart dropped. “If they have not escaped already. Those two are slippery as eels.”

“Erida.”

His low whisper stopped her short, softer than she knew Taristan to be. He looked down on her, frozen to the spot, his expression still veiled. But there was a chink in the armor, a flash of something deeper still.

Not the red sheen of What Waits. Taristan’s eyes were still black all the way through. His own.

They welled with pain.

“Taristan” was all she could think to reply, her own whisper weak and measured.

The breath he drew went ragged through clenched teeth, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the open collar of his shirt. His white veins stood out against pale skin, made worse by the cut along his collarbone. Erida stared at his wounds as he stared at her own. Realization dawned slowly, and her breath hitched in her chest.

She remembered her fear that morning when he told her of hiswounds. Of the Spindle lost, a gift taken away. He was vulnerable, and it terrified her.

She saw the same terror in him now.For me.His eyes traced her wounded hand, then the ash clinging to her smooth skin. Erida felt her heart break for him, knowing how great his fear must be if she could see it.

Taristan had only ever known her as a queen, surrounded by guards, impervious on a throne. Her armor was meant for show, not function, her weaponry made of gilt and not steel. She led an army but never in battle, lived in an army camp but never unguarded, never in harm’s way. Her wars were waged from the throne, not the battlefield.

Until today.

Slowly, she reached out for him, taking his wrist in her good hand. His pulse thrummed hard against her touch.