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M IKAEN RY M ASSIF cradled his queen across his lap. He kept her feverish body wrapped in velvet and held her close as brutal gusts buffeted the royal barge. The wyndship’s outer armor rattled under the assault, setting his teeth to aching. The noise cut through the roar of the craft’s forge-engines, all stoked to a full blaze, as the ship raced across the rolling hills of the Brau e lands.

Trying his best to ignore it all, he placed his hand upon the damp brow of his beloved. He felt the fiery heat burning within, a deadly pyre slowly consuming her.

She moaned at his touch. Her eyelids fluttered open, looking upon him beseechingly. His heart ached at the misery he read there. She reached toward his face.

He pulled back, shying from her palm lest her finger brush aside the silver mask that shielded half his countenance. Already suffering, she did not need to look upon the scarred ruins of his face beneath. Even after a year, he could barely stomach his own visage.

“Myella, rest.” He caught her hand and folded it back under the velvet blanket. “We’ll be back in Highmount by Eventoll’s last bell.”

“Olia… Othan…” she whispered.

“With the maids. The children are safe.”

She stared at him, silently asking what she feared to put into words.

“They show no illness. No fever,” Mikaen assured her. “They appear unharmed.”

With a weak sigh, Myella sagged in his embrace, her lids slipping closed again.

Mikaen took solace in offering her this small comfort.

He brushed a lock of damp hair from her brow and kissed her gently. He felt the burn of her skin under his lips. “Rest, my love.”

A light rap on the cabin door drew his attention. A pang of irritation spiked through him. He slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb Myella. He pulled a fold of velvet over her swollen belly, protecting the child inside.

Seven months along…

He knew what this meant. This illness risked more than the life of his queen. He prayed for mercy, resting a palm over the growing babe.

I cannot lose you, too.

Unable to do more, he tightened a fist and headed to the door. With each step, fury narrowed his vision and squeezed his chest. He yanked open the door to find the only man who would dare disturb him during this painful time.

Thoryn vy Brenn—captain of his Silvergard—bowed his head. Even in such a posture, the knight towered over Mikaen. He came in full armor, its silvery polish reflecting the lamplight. He carried a plumed helmet under one arm.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Thoryn stated stiffly.

As the captain straightened, anger darkened his crimson features. Like that of all Vyrllian knights, his skin had been tattooed a ruddy hue, meant to mark their full-blooded status and to terrorize enemies. In addition, black ink etched half his face, forming the sun and crown of the Massif family crest. All nine members of the king’s elite Silvergard wore this inked emblem, mimicking the sigil sculpted into Mikaen’s silver mask, honoring their wounded king.

“What is it, Thoryn?”

“Your Majesty, we’ve just received a skrycrow from the Carcassa ranchhold.” The captain lifted a curled scroll. “They’ve discovered the poisoner.”

Mikaen pushed Thoryn out into the hallway, then followed and closed the door behind them. Myella did not need to hear this.

“So it is indeed a poisoning?” Mikaen said.

Thoryn acknowledged this with a nod. “Surely meant for your lips, not the queen’s.”

Mikaen’s anger could not be constrained by the walls of the narrow passageway. He shoved past Thoryn and stalked toward the doors to the open middeck, drawing the captain with him.

Mikaen pushed out into the winds. He took in deep draughts of the cold air. The gasbag overhead shook and strained against its draft-iron cables. The rumbling roar of the forges matched his mood.

He crossed to a rail and gripped it hard to anchor him against the storms within and without. He turned to Thoryn as the knight joined him. Mikaen trusted Thoryn above all others. The vy-knight had briefly served as his liege general, but Mikaen had requested Thoryn return to his side, tolerating no others to be so close.

“Tell me, Thoryn. Who would dare attack in such a cowardly manner?”

“The true villain remains unknown. But in tossing the kitchens—where last night’s repast was prepared—a vial of rykin was discovered buried among the spices and salts.”

Mikaen turned to Thoryn. “Rykin?”

“A toxin derived from a fungus that only grows in the forests of the Myre Drysh.”

Mikaen’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the rail hard. “A forest that lies within the Southern Klashe…”

Thoryn nodded at the implication. “A kitchen whelp had been instructed to add the poison to the spiced wine served after dinner. He had been told it was merely a drab of pennyroyal and honey, a mulling preferred by the royal family.”

Mikaen closed his eyes. He had never developed a taste for spiced wines, a brew unique to the Brau e lands. He remembered leaving his glass untouched, but to Myella, it had been a taste of home.

“Who tricked this whelp into such a murderous act?”

Thoryn grimaced. “We cannot know. The boy had barely begun to speak when he started to thrash and convulse, his face going blue. He died without another word.”

Mikaen understood. “Someone poisoned the poisoner.”

“So it would seem. All in attendance are being put to the question. But many had been in contact with the boy, both before and during the interrogation. It was all chaotic. We may never know who in that household is a traitor to the crown.”

“Still, we know who ultimately wielded that hand.” Mikaen fixed Thoryn with a hard look. “It must be spies of the Southern Klashe. Likely guided by the empress herself… or by my brother.”

“We will continue to root out the truth,” Thoryn promised.

“And what of Myella? Is there a cure for what afflicts her?”

Thoryn stared down at his boots. “There are remedies that can stave off death, but only for a time. Perhaps days, maybe weeks. Ultimately it will kill. There is no cure. I’ve already dispatched skrycrows to Highmount. To rally physiks and alchymists. We’ll do all we can, but doom is certain.”

Mikaen remained silent. His next words were nearly lost to the wind. “If we attempt to stave off death, will Myella suffer?”

Thoryn swallowed hard, which was answer enough.

Mikaen asked the more difficult question. “The child she carries… can the queen be made to live long enough for the babe to grow further, to afford us the time to cut the child from her womb before she expires?”

“It will take a physik to best answer that,” Thoryn admitted with a wounded look. “But there is hope that a child in the womb might resist this poison.”

Mikaen straightened, drawing hope where he could. Clearly, Thoryn had already taken this detail into consideration.

“Rykin is said to attack the lungs, to slowly destroy the lining and tissues.” Thoryn glanced toward the forecastle. “An infant in the womb, with lungs barely formed, might be spared. But know this, it will be torturous for the queen to endure such a path to the child’s salvation.”

Mikaen remembered the agony in Myella’s eyes when she had inquired about Olia and Othan. “The queen would do anything to save the child she carries.”

I know this with certainty.

Thoryn lowered his gaze, plainly recognizing this truth, too. The knight slid a hand down the rail, as if to console Mikaen. But he pulled away. At this moment, any attempt at solace sickened him. He needed to be steadfast and resolute.

The child must live.

Thoryn withdrew his hand. “With your leave, I’ll dispatch another crow to express this intent, to ready Highmount.”

Mikaen dismissed him with a wave. As Thoryn headed off, Mikaen remained at the rail, needing a moment to himself. He trembled at what lay ahead. He reached to the pocket inside his royal doublet and slipped out the stoppered ampoule of poison.

The Iflelen Shrive who had secured the rykin had promised the babe would be safe. The poisoning would cost only the life of his queen. Such a tragedy would rally the people of Hálendii, who had been growing more vocal in their protests to his reign. Worst of all, the tides had been steadily turning against the growing threat of war. Even Kanthe’s name had been rumored to be whispered among the discontented.

Mikaen tightened his grip on the vial.

That must end.

None would deny a grieving king, one fiery in his heartache and fury. With the Southern Klashe—and especially his brother—accused of murdering the queen in such a cowardly manner, the drums of war would beat harder.

Mikaen pictured Myella’s sweet countenance. He loved her with all his heart, as she did him. But her martyrdom would serve the kingdom far better than her life.

For the sake of Hálendii, for the sake of her king, for the sake of their children…

Myella must be sacrificed.

He opened his fingers and let the poisonous vial roll from his palm and fall into the mists below.

Still, fury throttled him. He pictured the Iflelen Shrive who had secured the poison, who promised only one would die.

Not two, not his unborn child.

He stared south, toward Highmount. He imagined the one-eyed necromancer hidden deep in his Shrivenkeep lair, buried amidst his foul arkana. Of late, the bastard seldom showed his face to the sun. With Mikaen’s attention turned to war, the Shrive had receded deep into the shadows, lost in his own machinations, pursuing black alchymies known only to the Iflelen, those who worshipped the viperous god, Lord ? reyk.

Even when Mikaen had summoned the Shrive to his private chambers and set him upon this poisonous task, the man had scarcely paid him any heed, his gaze a thousand leagues off. Yet, in the end, the venomous ampoules had been delivered, along with the assurance that the king’s unborn child would survive.

This had better prove true, Wryth.

Mikaen cast a scowl south, plagued by a nagging concern. He pictured that thousand-league stare from the one-eyed bastard.

What has you so preoccupied, Wryth? What holds your attention more than a kingdom at war?

Suddenly suspicious, Mikaen pushed from the rail and headed toward the forecastle door.

By all the gods, I will find out.