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I took her by the shoulders. “What can I do to get the two of you out of there?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Well, think!” Fear made my voice sharp.

“Let go of me!” She fought my hold, managing to free one hand and slap at my shoulder. When I adjusted my grip, her gaze fell on my gloved right hand. Suddenly, she stopped fighting. “You’re still hurt.”

An understatement. “Hurt” was a weak word invented by someone who didn’t know the first thing about pain. But agony? That one worked. Excruciating? Another winner.

I released her, then held my right hand level before her eyes. Tiny tendrils of smoke wafted from the black velvet. The fabric was undeniably ostentatious, but it was the softest the palace glovemaker had come up with. I felt ridiculous wearing one fucking glove, but I could now state with hard-earned experience that two were worse.

Fuck.

Given’s gaze followed the trail of smoke. “Does it pain you?”

“What do you think?”

All traces of softness fled her expression. “I didn’t put the dagger under your pillow,” she snapped.

“I believe you.”

She frowned. “You do?”

I lowered my hand—and ignored the blistering agony that moved under my skin like lava. “I don’t know that I ever believed you put it there,” I said. “But you kept it a secret.” I started to rake a hand through my hair, realized I wore the stupid glove, and lowered my arm with a curse. “You should have told me about farseeing to Sithistra.”

“You would have declared war on my brother. You would have killed Rowena.” She paled. “Did you kill Rowena?”

“No.”

Her shoulders sagged with obvious relief. Then her gaze sharpened. “Because you can’t find her?”

“I have bigger problems right now.”

She pointed at me. “You always do that! When you don’t want to answer a question, you change the subject or make some pithy remark.”

“You don’t think getting you and Varick out of demon-infested Vai Seren is a bigger problem than some human spy?”

“You just did it again.”

I almost smiled. Few people dared to call me on my bullshit. Varick was one. And now Given. My wife. I’d messed up with both of them. I’d messed up everything.

Given stared, waiting for my pithy reply. But I didn’t have one. I had nothing at the moment because I’d thrown it away. I took in her ragged hair and tired eyes. Her bruised chin and dirt-coated gown. She was still so lovely. Dust couldn’t dim her beauty.

“I’m sorry,” I said through a tight throat. “You and Varick are in Eldenvalla because of me. I drove you from Nor Doru.”

Silence stretched. I waited for her to respond. For her eyes to tear up and her face to crumple. Aching hand or not, I was prepared to fold her into my arms just as soon as she threw herself into them.

When she remained quiet, I said, “I just apologized.”

“I heard you. You’re sorry you believed the prophecy forced you to lure me into marriage so I could sleep with Varick and give you an elven-born child to throw into the Rift.”

“That’s—” I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t understand the kind of pressure I’m under.” I turned, flinging an arm toward the massive stone table behind me. Some long-dead ancestor had built it, commissioning every sculptor in Nor Doru to carve a perfect map of Ter Isir. The Rift carved a jagged furrow across the stone, dividing north from south. Wesyfedd nestled among a nest of cast iron trees.

She peered past my arm. “It’s a map,” she said stiffly.

“Look more closely.” I went to the table and pointed at an iron marker cast as a night-blooming rose. I pointed out another…and another. “All the places the Deepnight is disappearing.”

She flicked her gaze to me. “Varick told me the canopy is failing.” Her mouth tightened. “The night we fled the dungeon you lied about having.”