The private bedchamber of King Alden the Fourth was vast, shadowy, and suffocatingly warm. Thick velvet tapestries depicting the ancient stag hunts of the First Dynasty covered the limestone walls from floor to ceiling, muffling all sound from the churning city below. A great stone hearth roared with dry birch logs. It filled the room with the dry, pine-scented smell of wood smoke, mingled with the bitter fragrance of steeped willow-bark tea and vinegar compresses.
The climb through the long halls of the High Citadel had been eerily deserted. The grand gallery, usually swarming with titled suitors, foreign ambassadors, and perfumed heralds, stood empty save for discarded documents, overturned footstools, and the wax drippings of burned-out sconces. Courtiers who had spent thirty winters flattering Duke Varis had packed their silver plate into private carriages and fled toward their country estates the moment news of the exchequer freeze reached the terrace.
“Look at the gold-trimmed mirrors, Tomas,” Hester Quill had remarked as they climbed the grand stairs. “Three hundred courtiers drew royal pensions from the water tolls every quarter. When the gold stops flowing, they vanish like river foam. Not one of them stayed to change the King’s linen.”
Chief Justice Lord Maren had walked beside them, his ivory mallet tucked into his sash. “For thirty winters, I watched those men whisper into the ears of young princes. They told them that the people below the hill were beasts of burden, fit only to be snapped like sheep in spring. Tonight…
