The first hours after Velka rode for Stonepass tasted of ink and nerves. I stood at my balcony in the half-light, watching her party become pinpoints on the road, and wondered how a heart could feel both hollow and overfull. Then the palace rooster crowed horribly off-key, as usual and reality barged back in wearing yesterday's jam stains.
There would be no heroic dash to the border for me. My battlefield today was parchment, protocol, and the courtiers who made poisoned roses look cuddly.
I reached the Small Council chamber just as Lord Vastrid self-appointed Champion of Traditional Misery was explaining why my concessions to Sable constituted treason, a bad seasonal omen, and possibly an affront to the gods of accountancy.
"Your Highness has flung open the gates to chaos," he declared, moustache trembling like an aggravated ferret. "First tariffs, next the throne!"
