“Clouded?” Leesha asked. “What does that mean?”
“It means too many divergences for the future to be assured,” Amanvah said. “Too many plots and wills with an interest in the outcome. He is not safe. This much I can see.”
“He’s locked in a tower three hundred feet off the ground, in one of the most well guarded and warded places in the world,” Leesha said.
“Pfagh!” Amanvah said. “Your greenland defenses are pathetic. Any Watcher in Krasia could get to him. Surely his enemies here can manage.”
She shook her head. “I should have had Coliv kill this Goldentone weeks ago, whatever my husband’s wishes.”
“Don’t second-guess yourself,” Leesha said. “Likely it would have been no better. You’re playing at politics you don’t understand.”
Amanvah shrugged. “Blood politics never change, mistress. When someone tries to kill you and fails, you see they never have another chance.”
“It will be the courts that kill Rojer, now,” Leesha said.
Amanvah nodded. “And I expect they would have been more likely to rule in our favor if we were back amongst your tribe.”
Leesha couldn’t argue that, but there was something else in Amanvah’s aura. Not deception, but … “There’s more you’re not telling me.”
Amanvah laughed. “Of course! Why should I trust you any more than these other greenlanders?”
Ungrateful witch. “What have I ever done to earn your mistrust, Amanvah vah Ahmann?” Leesha asked in Krasian. “What makes you continue to dishonor me, when I have been nothing but honest?”
“Have you?” Amanvah asked. “Whom do you carry in your womb, mistress? My sibling, or the next Duke of Angiers?”
Leesha looked at her curiously. “Your dice told you Rhinebeck cannot be cured,” she guessed.
“You would know for yourself, if you had examined his seed,” Amanvah said.
“I did,” Leesha said.
Amanvah’s veil hid her smile, but it was clear upon her aura. “Did you watch the heasah take the sample, or did you trust in her word?”
Leesha started, nearly spilling her tea. She quickly set it down, getting to her feet. “Please excuse me.”
Amanvah nodded her dismissal. “Of course.”
Wonda and the guardswomen nearly had to trot to keep up with Leesha as she strode through the halls of the palace, first to her own rooms for a proper vial, and then on to the duchess’ chambers.
One of Melny’s handmaidens answered the door, ushering Leesha in to the duchess’ private chambers.
“Is there something I can do for you, mistress?” Melny asked when they were alone. Ostensibly, she was the most powerful woman in Angiers, but in practice she was nearly as submissive to Leesha as she was to Araine.
Leesha produced the warded glass vial. “I may be on to a cure, but I need you to procure something for me, quietly.”
Rojer sat atop the desk in his cell, which he had dragged to the window so he could look out over the city as he played a mournful tune on his fiddle.
He wondered if folk below could hear him. He hoped so, for what was a jongleur without an audience? Even if he could not see them, let them hear his pain.
It wasn’t as if there was much else to do by moonlight. The Tenders had given him no lamps, and the warded mask that let him see in darkness was back in his chambers where Amanvah no doubt paced.
It wasn’t as if he could demand so much as a candle. Who would he ask? He’d had no more visitors, save whatever nameless acolyte shoved the trays under his door, or took away the empty ones he shoved back. The food was simple fare, but it was nourishing enough.
The window was small—enough for him to put his head out, but not so much as a shoulder in addition. Not that it mattered. Even if he could fit through the tiny aperture, there was nothing below but air. The four towers looked down a sheer three hundred feet.
But anything was better than staring at the walls of his cell, and the view really was spectacular, all Angiers spreading out below him. He watched the flashes of energy light the town as wind demons skittered off the wardnet, and played for Amanvah.
Perhaps the Angierians could hear him and perhaps not, but he knew Amanvah was listening. He played his longing for her, his sorrow, and his fears for Sikvah. His pride and his love. His hope and passion. All the things he had tried to whisper into the hora, but words had failed him.
Music never did.
“Husband.”
The bow skittered off the fiddle strings. Rojer was silent, looking around, wondering if he had imagined it. Had Amanvah found a way to speak through the chinrest as well as hear?
“H-hello?” he whispered to it tentatively.
But then a hand appeared, gripping the windowsill, and Rojer fell back with a shriek, tumbling right off the table. The breath was knocked from him as he hit the floor, but years of training took over, and he was rolling the moment he hit, coming into a crouch several feet from the window.
Sikvah peered at him through the tiny aperture. She wore her black headwrap and white veil, but her eyes were unmistakable. “Do not be alarmed, husband. It is only me.”
Memories flashed before Rojer’s eyes. Sikvah crushing Sali’s throat. Sikvah shattering the guard’s spine. Sikvah breaking Abrum’s neck.
“You have never been ‘only’ anything, wife,” Rojer said. “Though it seems I didn’t know it by half.”
“You are right to be upset, husband,” Sikvah said. “I have kept secrets from you, though not of my own volition. The Damajah herself commanded that I and my spear sisters keep secret our nature.”
“Amanvah knew,” Rojer said.
“She and no other in the North,” Sikvah said. “We are blood of the Deliverer. She is dama blood. I am Sharum.”
“What are you?” Rojer asked.
“I am your jiwah,” she said. “I beg of you, husband, if you believe nothing else I say, believe that. You are my light and my love, and if the Evejah did not forbid it, I would kill myself for how I have shamed you.”
“That isn’t enough,” Rojer said, crossing his arms. “If you want me to trust you again, I need to know everything.”
“Of course, husband,” Sikvah said. She sounded relieved, as if he were letting her off easy. And perhaps he was. Her entire meek persona had been an act. Who was to say her relief wasn’t as well?
Part of him didn’t care. Sikvah had shown him nothing but devotion since they took their vows. Even her killing was for him, and for all that had happened, Rojer could not bring himself to take it back. Somewhere, Jaycob’s spirit was resting, his killers given justice at last.
“May I enter?” Sikvah asked. “I promise to answer your every question in honesty and in sincerity.”
In sincerity? Rojer wondered. Or insincerity? It could have been either.
He looked at the tiny window doubtfully. “How are you planning to do that?”
The corners of Sikvah’s eyes crinkled in a smile as she stuck her head through. She twisted and her hand appeared, snaking into the room to push against the wall.
There was a pop that made Rojer flinch, and her shoulder was through. Rojer had seen a great many contortionist acts in the Jongleurs’ Guild, but never anything like this. She was like a mouse squeezing through a one-inch crack under the door.