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“Oh, y-yes,” Andry stuttered, finding his voice. He braced himself for another inquisition. “Yes, indeed, I’ve been asking around the barracks and the court. Sent some letters off as well,” he added, the half-truth tasting rotten. It was against the code of knights to lie, but with his mother in such a state, with suchthingsstill spilling forth on the horizon, finding another man to squire for was far from his mind.I have written letters, yes, but not seeking patronage.

Valeri drained her cup. “Anything promising?”

Quickly, Andry stood to prepare his mother another draft. He put his back to her so she would not see the falsehoods written on his face.I am no good at lying.

“A few,” he said, stirring honey. “Lord Konegin’s son just gained a knighthood and would be in need of a squire.”

“If memory serves, that boy is in need of far more,” Valeri muttered, giggling to herself.

Andry turned back to her with a wry smile. “Drink,” he said, nudging the cup into her hands. “The doctor is due to visit today. The Queen’s own.”

A strange look crossed Valeri’s face but quickly disappeared. “Oh, that isn’t necessary,” she sighed. “She need not fuss over me.”

Andry felt a twist of annoyance. He gently pushed the tea back to her mouth. Even as she swallowed, Andry heard the roughness in her throat. He braced himself for another coughing fit, but it never came. A stillness washed over her, and she fixed him with an odd stare.

“He’s university trained in Ibal,” he explained. The northern continent was not known for its skills in medicine. “Dr. Bahi isn’t another one of the foolish Gallish bloodletters or superstitious moon healers—”

Valeri waved a hand, suddenly sharp. Her eyes bored into his. “Why is the Queen of Galland bothering over me?”

“You were companion to her mother,” he offered, and almost winced.I’m not bending the truth so much as breaking it in half.“You knew her as a girl. Erida is a compassionate young woman.”

“You know the histories better than I do. Have you ever known a king or queen of Galland to be compassionate?” Valeri answered. Her eyes darted to the tapestries on the walls, to the sword and shield of his father, still hung on the stone. A great long scratch divided the shield in two, scarring the heraldry of Trelland’s blue star. It had not been earned in the training yard. “Was this shadow of the old empire forged from compassion, or from blood?”

Andry really did wince. The last thing he needed was to think of his father, broken on some field in Madrence, spent like an old coin. “Mother, please.”

But she stood, trembling, and Andry could not force her back down. The fire crackled at her back, turning her edges to ruby and gold.

“I came to the Royal Court of Ascal as a foreign bride, set apart from almost everyone around me by my skin and my voice. I have not remained here in high esteem by being foolish, and I will not see my son made a fool,” she said. Her hands met his cheeks, turning his face up to look at her. “What does Erida want from you?”

The breath caught in Andry’s throat. He hesitated, reluctant to put such a burden on an already burdened woman. Valeri stared down at him, the hearthfire in her eyes, and she was young again, vibrant, beautiful, impossible to deny.

Queen Erida had visited only a week ago, to pay her respects. And to quietly, carefully, and expertly try to pry from him any more details about the slaughter of the Companions. There was little more to say that did not concern a certain sword. And the whispers were clear as a bell.

Say nothing of the sword. Or face the ending of the world.

“She’s seen me twice now, and both times I told her as much as I’ve told you,” Andry said, his shoulders still raised in tension. He tried to force some of his mother’s own strength into himself. It felt as impossible as coaxing wet coals into flame. “What I saw in the mountains. What happened to Sir Grandel and the rest. The Spindle torn open, the army, Taristan and his wizard.” Her gaze narrowed. Andry ignored the sensation of being looked through, being read. “I told her of the Ward’s doom.”

“And she didn’t believe you.” It was not a question.

“I don’t know. I can’t say. Certainly she did not move to act.” He shook his head. “And so she spun the story of Jydi raiders, told the court it was an ambush. Everything she’s asked of me I’ve already given.”

Valeri’s grip on her son tightened.

“Does that include the sword you’ve hidden beneath my bed?” she murmured.

Andry jolted, looking to the door leading into her bedchamber. He grit his teeth, braced for the rush of whispers. But they never came.

With a soft pat, Valeri drew him back to her. “I am not foolish,madero.”

He clenched his jaw and took her hands. On shaking legs, Andry rose up, until he stood over her, taller by far. Whatever fear he felt in himself, curled deep in his belly, he saw reflected in her. He did not know what was worse to bear.

“I didn’t tell her about the Spindleblade. I didn’t tell anyone,” he swore, his voice low.

She huffed a dry scoff. “Not even me.”

Slowly, Andry pulled Valeri’s hands away, but kept her fingers in his own. They were so thin and small, wasting like the rest of her.

“It belonged to Cortael of Old Cor, the mortal of Spindleblood, a descendant of the empire fallen. He died in the mud with the rest of them, and the sword... it’s the only thing I managed to save.”