Taristan said nothing, his own goblet undisturbed and filled to the brim. He contemplated it but did not drink. Erida wished she could crack his head open and peer inside. An impossible want, largely because any blow would probably glance right off his skull, thanks to the blessings of his demon lord. She would have to be direct instead. It made her skin crawl.

“Will you visit tonight?” she asked quietly, hating herself for being so blatant. It’s not like me to maneuver so poorly.

And it was not like Taristan to flinch. His eyes snapped to hers, his teeth parted to draw a surprised breath.

“I prefer to go where I am wanted,” he finally said, searching her face.

Erida nearly laughed. She had never heard anything so strange. And yet . . . it made her wonder. She could still feel his hands in her hair, his nails along her scalp. The drag of his fingers over her collarbone as he disheveled her shift, pushing her to sit on a rumpled bed. The heat in her cheeks burned again and words escaped her, any response dying in her throat. This time, she found she could not turn away, hooked to his gaze as though a Spindle burned within it, gold and glimmering, undeniable.

The Queen of Galland drew a fortifying breath, settling her mind.

“The sea fills with monsters, the hills with skeletons, the river with blood. Our strength is growing, Taristan,” she said, imagining each. Taristan did the same, his brow furrowing as he licked his lips. “An empire is within our grasp.”

“For Him,” her husband answered. Suddenly their fingers were closer on the tabletop, though her hand had not moved. “And for us.”

When the wizard slunk into the hall, Erida wanted to hurl her goblet at his little white head. He festered in his red robes, hands wringing as he hastened past the crowded tables.

Taristan broke their stare, sensing Ronin, and moved to stand.

Only to look up at Konegin instead, looming over them. Her royal cousin motioned for two more goblets of wine, the smile beneath his mustache weak and forced. He dipped his head. For once there was no circlet, not even a jeweled chain hanging from shoulder to shoulder. He seemed smaller than his usual self.

Perhaps, for all his blustering, war does not agree with him, Erida thought, relishing the idea. It agrees with me fine.

“Your Majesty,” he said, easing into a shallow but steady bow. “So many of our noble friends have made toasts here tonight, in honor of the Queen and her army, as well as our victory today.”

A cheer went up among the tables as men jumped to their feet, banging their cups. They swallowed up Ronin, obscuring his red robes and white face.

“I thought it fitting I make another, to His Royal Highness, the prince consort,” Konegin continued, his hand extended. A servant in reversed livery, green lion on gold, pressed an ornate chalice into his hand, the brim spilling with deep, red wine.

The servant then offered the same to Taristan, who took it with an obliging scowl, his lips curled over his teeth in a frightful attempt at a smile. A woman with less restraint would have howled with laughter, but Erida contained herself.

“To Prince Taristan of Old Cor, husband to our beloved queen, father to the future of Galland. The son and sire of empires!” Konegin shouted, raising his cup to the room. Then, with a leering grin, he looked back at Erida’s consort, blue eyes sparkling. Like a man dying of thirst, he gulped at his wine.

“To Taristan!” rippled out among the crowd, Ronin still livid among them.

Erida reached for her own glass, tipping it to her husband in amusement. “To Taristan,” she echoed, drinking deeply.

The Corborn man kept his grasp tight on the chalice, his fingers working up the stem of the intricate metalwork.

Erida’s smile weakened, her delight dulled by exasperation. Is he really going to embarrass us both? Now? Over nothing? She almost kicked him under the table. Drink, you fool.

To her relief, Taristan relented, as if this were some battle to be sacrificed.

Lord Konegin beamed, showing wine-stained teeth, the liquid still dripping in his mustache.

Taristan forced down a healthy swallow and pushed back his chair, rising to his full height. They were nearly the same size, though Konegin was older, gone to fat around his middle. They glared at each other, like a pair of archers trading arrows.

Her instincts flared. Something was not right.

In the crowd, Ronin shoved his way forward, knocking noblemen aside. A few balked while the rest watched the scene at the high table, their voices falling into silence.

“Taristan?” the Queen said, putting down her glass. It echoed too loudly for a feasting hall.

Her husband didn’t react. Instead he put out his hand, the chalice gripped in his fingers. “Share in this with me, my lord,” he said. Torchlight gleamed on the cup and in the wine, shining a dim and syrupy red.

Konegin snorted, shoving his own cup back to his servant. The one in the reversed livery. His own man, Erida knew, feeling a wave of cold settle over her limbs.

“I’ve had my fill, Taristan,” he answered, still smiling with red teeth. “So have you.”

“Very well,” Taristan answered, knocking back the rest of the chalice, the wine running over his chin and chest, never blinking, never breaking his gaze on Konegin’s face.

Beneath his mustache, her cousin’s smile fell.

“What are you?” hissed from his mouth.

Erida leapt to her feet, the pieces snapping together in her head. Treason. Betrayal. Poison. She knocked the cup from her husband’s hands and pointed to her royal cousin, her fingers shaking. “Arrest him,” she blurted out, nearly a scream. “Take Lord Konegin into custody—put him in chains.”

The lord quivered, still watching Taristan, his face torn between confusion and dread. “What are you?” he said again, stepping off the dais.

“Arrest him!” Erida shouted, and the hall exploded into noise. “He has tried to poison the prince!”

Her knights surged, eager to obey, even if the orders bewildered them. Konegin was beloved by many, a potential king to a young, untested queen. He had supporters among the nobles, many in the hall. Many in the army. Erida felt her knees tremble as he plunged into the crowd, his own entourage following him quickly. Even his idiot son managed to flee, scurrying after his father as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Poison, she thought again, coming back to herself.

There was a warmth beneath her hand, another around her back. She tore herself from the disarray of the feasting hall to look down, to her own fingers flush against Taristan’s coat, pressing firmly into his chest. She blinked, dumbfounded. It was his arm around her waist, keeping her close.