Giddon was also thinking about Winterkeep, a Torlan nation halfway across the world. It had only been a few spare years since the currents of the Winter Sea had thrown a Torlan fishing vessel onto Pikkian shores, and everyone’s understanding of the world had grown.
Giddon’s continent was composed of nine countries—the Seven Nations, the Dells, and Pikkia. Torla was apparently composed of five: Winterkeep, Kamassar, Borza, Tevare, and Mantiper. Winterkeep was the closest Torlan nation to Monsea. This made Winterkeep the natural first destination for Bitterblue’s envoys, traders, and spies. The Seven Nations had Gracelings. The Dells and Pikkia had monsters, vibrantly colored and mesmerizing, who could numb your mind to their attack. But according to the reports, Winterkeep was a land of miracles. Keepish people spoke to telepathic sea creatures and kept telepathic foxes as pets. They flew across the sky in ships attached to balloons. Their government was a democratic republic composed of people who liked one another. They had an academy for young people, run by the same scholars who ran the government, and renowned all across Torla. They had advanced medicines and powerful fuels. They wanted to meet Monsea’s queen. Would she come?
For three or so years, Bitterblue had been receiving such letters. She and her friends had begun to learn the Keepish language—for a while, it had been a bit of a fad—and import Keepish goods. The silks of Winterkeep were bright and beautifully woven and their oils produced a clear, warm light. Winterkeep also had a vast range of teas that were medicinal or recreational, some merely delicious. The Torlan nations were close enough for trade, but seemed to have no thoughts of war. The Keepish were dark-haired like the Lienid, dark-eyed as well, with browner skin than anyone from Giddon’s continent. The Torlan continent had at least five languages and the Keepish were eager to communicate with their new neighbors across the sea. In Monsea, as in all Seven Nations, the native language was called Lingian, shortened from “Gracelingian.” At the request of the Keepish prime minister, Bitterblue had sent teachers to the Winterkeep Academy, to teach Lingian to the Keepish.
Everything had been exciting and hopeful. Until her envoy and one of her advisers had taken a pleasure cruise in the Brumal Sea and gone down with their ship. Before getting a chance to tell Bitterblue news about zilfium, apparently.
When Giddon reached Bitterblue’s court, he slid off his horse. A groom materialized, taking the responsibility of the animal away from him with such efficiency that he could have wept with relief. He dragged himself through the castle, down corridors, up staircases, talking to no one, looking at no one. He found his rooms, blundered inside, ignored the mountain of letters on the table, the cat on the armchair who shot him an aggrieved look. He was asleep before he’d even landed on the bed.
* * *
—
In early evening he woke, feeling like a new man. He glanced around for the cat. Lovejoy, the world’s oldest, scruffiest, and grouchiest animal, belonged to the royal librarian and always entered and exited Giddon’s rooms by his bathing room window. The window was five floors above the ground and the cat did a terrifying shimmying maneuver down the slope of a nearby roof in order to avail himself of it. The first time Giddon had seen the stupid cat half sliding, half barreling down the roof with legs akimbo like he was having a skiing accident, Giddon had yelled at him, then gone downstairs and yelled at the librarian, then determined to keep his window closed. But then Lovejoy had just come clunking against the closed window, the fur of his face and body pressed flat as he glared in at Giddon, outraged. Giddon, who’d been in the bath, had surrendered. He kept the window open now, and tried not to jump out of his shoes whenever the cat came flying in like a piece of mail through a mail chute.
Lovejoy was lying in the middle of the pile of letters on the table, blinking at Giddon.
“Did you miss me?” said Giddon.
Lovejoy stuck one foot in the air and bit his own bottom.
“I missed you too,” Giddon said. Then he pushed himself up and went to the bath.
* * *
—
Sometime later, his skin scrubbed white again, his dark hair combed, and his beard trimmed close, Giddon went searching for the queen.
He found her in her lower offices, standing beside her adviser Froggatt’s desk, looking over his shoulder, studying some papers with him. Small, gray-eyed, serious, her hair in its usual dark braids. Something inside Giddon relaxed and something else tightened.
She glanced up and her whole being brightened. “You’re back,” she said. “How was your trip?”
“It went well,” he said, then noticed a man at the far end of the room who was talking to two royal advisers. He was whip-thin, his light hair graying at the temples, his smile a humorless flash of teeth. His name was Lord Joff; he was from Estill’s south, near the tunnels; and he was one of the minor Estillan nobles who’d secretly sought the Council’s help deposing their king. And now he was one of many investing his personal fortune in the growth of Estill’s army, which kept expanding and strengthening. Recently Giddon had begun to wonder if liberating Estill from its king had been the Council’s first truly grave mistake. What if Estill retaliated against Bitterblue and Monsea for aiding the escape of its Gracelings?
Why was he here?
“That’s good,” said Bitterblue, who’d noticed Giddon’s fixation on Joff but wasn’t drawing attention to it. Then Joff glanced up. At the sight of Giddon, Joff’s eyes narrowed, pale blue chips of ice. Giddon stared back at him implacably.
“Giddon?” said Bitterblue.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked her.
The queen nodded at Froggatt, who was eyeing Giddon with displeasure. The advisers might not know all Giddon got up to, and they certainly didn’t know he was sneaking Estillan Gracelings across their borders, but they knew enough of the rumors about the Council to consider him an inappropriate friend for the queen. “Excuse us, Froggatt,” she said. “Giddon, come upstairs.”
She led the way up the spiral staircase to the castle’s highest tower, where she kept her private office. The light was always brilliant in this room, with windows facing every direction. Tonight, the western sky was painted with streaks of violet and orange.
“How are you really, Giddon?” said Bitterblue. “How were the tunnels? You look tired.”
“I’m fine, really, but why is that Estillan in your office?”
“I saw you trying to kill him with the power of your eyes,” said Bitterblue. “My advisers are harboring a delusion he’ll turn my head.”
“What?” said Giddon, honestly a little shocked. “They want you to marry a known Estillan revolutionary?”
“They want me to marry an Estillan noble with influence in the new Estillan government, which would make Estill our military ally.”