Carroway looked at her with a pained expression. "The usual penalty for high treason is hanging, or if the king feels theatrical, beheading. Throw in adultery with the queen, and there's precedent for being drawn and quartered." Impelled to move, he stood and began to pace once more. "If Tris decides to spare my life, the next possibility is confinement in one of the citadels of the Sisterhood, forced to take vows to the Lady, that sort of thing. If I were to be locked away at Westmarch, I might not mind too much-they had some Keepers there who were fine musicians-except that confinement traditionally includes castration, to make the point." He grimaced. "Not a pleasant thought."
Carroway turned away from Macaria, unable to watch the expression on her face. "Exile has its own set of complications. It would depend on how clearly the king let his displeasure be known. Out of the seven kingdoms, Tris is related by blood, marriage or alliance to five of them. Nargi and Trevath are hardly prospects," he said distastefully. "No other court would welcome me if it would sour relationships with Margolan. Neither would the most powerful nobles. That would leave the lesser houses, the ones that would be unlikely to be noticed by the crown, or the inns. I'd be playing for dinner and a place in the stable, but I might keep body and soul together."
There was another option, one he would not speak aloud. While they might not offer me a bard's position, there'd be more than a few of the nobility who would welcome me via the back entrance, trading shelter for… favors. Lady Nadine wasn't the first to offer, just the most
aggressive. It would keep a roof over my head-at least while my looks last. Sweet Chenne! Am I reduced to whoring already?
Macaria slipped up behind him and put her arms around him. Carroway stiffened at her touch. "We've talked about it, the others and I. Paiva, Bandele, Tadghe and Halik all agree that if you're exiled, we'll go with you. We stand a better chance together." She rested her cheek against his back, and Carroway closed his eyes. Please don't say you love me. Not now. I don't think I could bear it. He used all of his acting skill to keep his face neutral as he turned, gently disengaging from her embrace.
"What would that serve? Without me, you all get promoted," he said, although his smile was lopsided. "You have the talent to become the new master bard. Your music has real magic. And now, you've become the queen's protector. It's the access and the position you've always wanted. I'll manage."
"Kiara thinks it's a plot," Macaria blurted. Carroway listened intently as Macaria told him about the most recent attack. "There's no doubt that blocking the flue was intended to kill. And it might have succeeded, if Kiara hadn't sat up late with Cerise in Cerise's rooms. Cerise always sleeps with the windows open-must have ice for blood," Macaria chuckled, although her eyes were bright with tears. "I'm glad you're all right."
"Alle's going to see about inviting Kiara to Lady Eadoin's manor for a while. She says it might be easier to protect her there."
"That's an excellent idea. Eadoin might also be able to find out who's behind the rumors." "Alle's already working on it," Macaria replied.
Carroway took her hand. "That's your first priority: protect Kiara and the heir. Compared to that, nothing else matters-certainly not a bard, in the grand scheme of history." "Since I first came to court, I've heard you talk about Tris. King Martris," Macaria said evenly. "And since he took the throne, you've told us all how fair he is, how important justice is to him, what a good king he is. If all that's true, then I can't believe he'll just toss you away. You saved his life when the coup happened, and you protected him time and again on the road."
Carroway smiled sadly. "That's what you do for your king," he said quietly. "And, friendship aside, I was honored to do it. The sacrifices usually don't work the other way around." Macaria set her jaw and her eyes flashed. "He slipped into Nargi to rescue Jonmarc
Vahanian."
Carroway sighed. "Tris wasn't king then. Now, the kingdom is depending on him. There are risks he can't afford to take." Although he longed to take her in his arms and hold her until his fears calmed, banishment placed that choice even further out of reach. "You'd better be getting back to the palace," he said. "And while I like the company, please be careful. You don't want people to say you're carrying messages from the queen to her imprisoned lover." Macaria swallowed hard and nodded. "I thought about that. I'll be careful. I promise. But I had to come."
"I'm glad you did. Thank the others for me. And please, send my deepest apologies to Kiara. I'd never do anything to harm her, or Tris."
"She knows. We all know that." Macaria threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. He let the moment sear into his memory, recalling the press of her body against his, the scent of her hair, the feel of her hands on his back. "There has to be a way out of this," she whispered. "There just has to be."
Gently, Carroway disentangled himself before his composure crumbled. "Maybe. But there's a reason so many of the true ballads have sad endings." He shook his head before she could say anything. "You'd better be getting back," he repeated, surprised that his voice was steady. "It means a lot that you came."
Macaria nodded. She grabbed her cloak and wrapped it around herself, pausing to look back at him, before she slipped out of the door. Carroway poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle that was sent with his dinner, and was not surprised that his hands were shaking. Dying young and tragically is the surest way to eternal fame, he thought. Maybe I'll be remembered after all.
Chapter Five
Kiara, my love.
I worry because there's been no word from you. I search Crevan's packages, and find only the dull documents that require my signature. Sadly, even my magic can't reach as far as Shekerishet, or I'd ask the ghosts for news of how you fare. I'm worried that you're not well, that the pregnancy has made you sick. And, if the king dare admit it, I'm terribly homesick. Please ease my mind and send just a short letter. Any news from home would be happier than what surrounds me on the battlefield.
I don't dare tell you all I would like to share. We've made gains, but there have been costly setbacks. Ban's been badly wounded. Tarq betrayed us. Progress is slow. Because of the damage to the Flow, magic is more wild and brittle than I've ever seen it. I've never held much with charms and offerings for luck, but if you're so inclined, the men and I would be grateful. Senne tells me all this is to be expected from a siege. I hate this war, and long for it to be over, so that we can all, by the Lady's grace, return home. I await your letters more than you can imagine. Love, Tris
King Martris Drayke of Margolan shivered, wrapping his cloak tightly around him. Outside, the winter wind howled, whipping against the sides of the campaign tent so that a flurry of snow burst from beneath the tent flap. Coalan, the king's valet, added more fuel to the small brazier that struggled to warm the tent. Tris noticed that Coalan was wearing all of the clothing he owned, plus several new pieces he had scrounged from the camp. Even so, his nose and cheeks were red with cold.
"You're sure there were no other packets from Crevan than this?" Tris asked, shaking the pouch for the fifth time, only to find it empty. Coalan shook his head. "Nothing."
Tris sighed. It was cold enough that he needed to warm the ink to keep it from congealing before he could sign the stack of petitions and proclamations his seneschal had sent with the
supply wagon. Most of them were meaningless outside of the court's bureaucracy. Here in the field, early in the third month of a winter siege, little of the pomp and intrigue of court held any meaning. Tris signed the documents and replaced them in the courier pouch along with the sealed letter. "I can hope," Tris murmured.