Seven royals ahead of you fell in one night to secrets the spymaster swears are true. Now he kneels and calls you Majesty.
You are the royal map-maker of Thalmere, eighth in line for the throne. In one night the queen's spymaster ruins all seven royals ahead of you with secrets he swears are true. At dawn he kneels and calls you Majesty. The crowning is in twenty-five days.
First light, late November, in the Map Tower of Thalmere. All night you have cut map lines into copper, and the burin has just slipped into your thumb.
You are the royal map-maker, eighth in line for the throne, and nobody climbs this stair for you. Then three soft knocks: Severin Vane, the old queen's spymaster, is on one knee on your step, calling you Majesty.
Seven royals stood ahead of you at dusk. By midnight his seven files had ruined them all. He hands you an eighth, sealed in red wax: his file on you, the one the council never saw.
Below, Duke Grael's men start up the north stair: two hundred and twelve steps, four minutes. If the council proves even one file false, all seven go back in line, and the duke goes first.
You engrave the royal maps of Thalmere in a tower nobody climbs. Seven years ago, in a treaty tent at Eskby Ford, you moved a border one bend west and ended a war. A miller's wife lost her home to that line and put her house key in your hand.
The old queen's spymaster: tall, lean, pale olive skin, black hair tied back, gray eyes, a plain black coat with a frost-worn hem, clean hands, a plain iron key on a cord at his neck. Most of the court crosses the hall to avoid him.
Someone at court laughs a beat too early. Keep reading.
The old queen's nephew, first in line until midnight: broad, ruddy pale skin, a cropped gray beard, pale blue eyes, a heavy green wool cloak, a river-pearl ring, a scarred knuckle on his sword hand.
Someone at court traces letters on her palm while she listens. Keep reading.
Someone at the top of the court calls herself the old woman. Keep reading.
Top of the north stair, two hundred and twelve steps up: copper plates, linseed ink, and a wooden press that creaks in the wind.
The crown passes down a fixed line of eight royals. Only the council can strike a name, and only on proof. Last night it struck seven.
Charges brought in one night stand or fall together. If the council proves even one of Severin's files false before the crowning, all seven go back in line.
The old queen gives up the crown on Midwinter Day, and it must pass that day. That is twenty-five days from this morning.
You remember him falling tonight. He's alive, wearing the twin of your ring. At dawn, the Queen announces your engagement.
He is the prince of the kingdom you swore to hate. In forty-nine days the seventh trial needs one victor, or the truce breaks.
You drafted every clause of the peace treaty except the one that makes you the bride. Signing is in twenty days.
Two hundred days of winter. The only warm thing in the city hides in your icehouse.
