I growl deep in my throat as Theron enters the tent too.
“I’m sure they’re discussing how best to proceed with the Tadil’s spoils,” Theron guesses, moving to stand beside me. He tips his head at his men. “No trouble here.”
The soldiers hesitate, clearly unconvinced, but Theron is their prince. They back out of the tent as Theron tucks his hand around my waist. The chill of magic palpitates through me, only marred now—I shouldn’t need someone from another land to sweep to my rescue. Especially to fend off the very men who are supposed to be protecting us.
“Thank you for interceding, Prince Theron,” Sir offers.
Theron bobs his head. “No need to thank me. You should be allowed to gather in your own kingdom without Cordellan interference.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Don’t let your father hear you say that.”
That makes Theron tighten his grip on me, drawing me closer in a protective lurch. “My father hears whatever he wants to hear,” he says. “What were you discussing, though?”
Sir steps closer. My eyes flick to the side, noting Finn and Greer striding down the road, most likely heading to freshen up so as not to appear travel worn.
“We were discussing only—”
But whatever lie Sir might have been about to tell proves unnecessary. Theron unwinds himself from me and snatches the tapestry from the table.
“Ventralli?” he asks. “Why do you have this?”
Of course he would know where the tapestry is from. His mother was the aunt of the current Ventrallan king—Theron’s room in Bithai is stuffed with paintings, masks, and other treasures from his Ventrallan side.
I glance at Sir, who holds my gaze. The same emotion coats everyone else—Dendera watches me, Alysson grips the edge of the table. All waiting for my response.
All wanting me to lie.
Finn and Greer’s journey was supposed to be secret, one frail act of Winter in the face of Cordell’s occupation. Proof that we could do something, be something, on our own.
But lying to Theron . . .
Sir’s jaw tightens when I hang silent for a beat too long. “The rubble of Gaos,” he says. “We found it in the buildings.”
I don’t realize until the words leave his lips that Theron might find out the truth anyway—if Giselle and Raelyn welcomed Finn and Greer, news will spread. Noam will eventually hear that his Rhythm brethren had Winterian visitors.
I choke, but the lie has been told. Backtracking now would only look worse—wouldn’t it? I can’t very well ask Sir’s opinion on this—besides, he’s the one who lied. Maybe . . . it’s okay.
No. It isn’t okay. But I don’t know how a queen would make this okay.
“It’s beautiful.” Theron runs his fingers down the threads. “A Winter–Spring battle?”
He looks at me, expectant.
I actually manage a chuckle. “You’re asking me? You’re the one with Ventrallan blood.”
Theron cocks a grin. “Ah, but I’d hoped some of me had rubbed off on you by now.”
My cheeks heat, egged on by the group of my advisors still watching us, by the way Theron straightens, tilting his head to me. I can’t tell if he knows Sir lied—all I can see is the look he gets whenever something artistic is around, a softening at his edges. Seeing him like this is such a nice change from his recent tension, balancing on the edge of fear and memories, that I almost miss where else I’ve seen it before.
I jolt with realization. It’s exactly how he looked at me on the fields outside of Gaos, and every time he wants to kiss me—like I’m a work of art he’s trying to interpret.
My heart thumps so loudly I’m sure he can hear. If we were standing in his room, he the prince of Cordell, myself a soldier of Winter, I would have swooned without another thought.
But I look around the tent, at Sir, Dendera, Alysson. Even Conall, Garrigan, and Nessa. They all look at me with similar gazes—like they’ve only ever known me as the queen of Winter, a figure owed reverence and worship.
I’m not a work of art or even worthy of their reverence. I’m someone who just helped lie to one of her closest friends.
This is what Winter needs. This is who Winter needs me to be.
I hate who I am now.
A deep rumble bubbles up through the earth. The vibration catches me off guard, numbness washing over me while the world quivers in a violent cacophony of tremors and belching thuds. A few abrupt seconds and it all drops as still and quiet as if nothing happened.
But something happened. Something that makes the families of the miners, still in the square, scream in terror, knowing what that noise and sensation means:
A cave-in.
Clarity hardens every nerve and I launch away from the table. My skirt tangles around my legs until I bundle it and push faster, but just as I angle across the square, someone grabs me.
“My queen!” Sir’s voice is his familiar tone of command. “You can’t—”
“There are miners down there,” I shout back. I can still feel the tremors in my legs. The people around me rush toward the mine entrance too, crowding against Cordellan soldiers who fight to keep them in the square until decisions can be made. “My people. I’m the only one who can heal them, and I won’t let them stay down there!”
I knew we shouldn’t have opened this mine. And now, if some of my people have died because of Noam’s insistence on searching for something we will never find—I’ll kill him.