Queen Makhi set down her wine and poured herself a glass of water instead. She needed a clear head for what was to come. Her nursemaid had once told her that she’d been meant to be a twin, that her brother had been brought into the world stillborn. “You ate his strength,” she’d whispered, and even then, Makhi had known that she would one day be a queen. What might have happened had her brother been born? Who might Makhi have been?
It made no difference now.
Ravka’s king was still very much alive.
And so was her sister.
This was bad. But Queen Makhi couldn’t be sure of how bad. Did Nikolai Lantsov know of the plot against him? Had Mayu lost her nerve and told Princess Ehri of the true plan? No. It couldn’t be. She refused to believe it. The bond of the kebben was too strong for that.
“This invitation feels like a trap,” she said.
“Most marriages are.”
“Spare me your wit, Yerwei. If King Nikolai knows—”
“What can the king prove?”
“Ehri might have much to say. Depending on what she knows.”
“Your sister is a gentle soul. She would never believe you capable of such subterfuge, and she would certainly never speak against you.”
Makhi swatted the invitation. “Then explain this!”
“Perhaps she fell in love. I hear the king is quite charming.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
Princess Ehri had taken Mayu’s place in the Tavgharad. Mayu had masqueraded as Princess Ehri. Mayu’s task was to get close to King Nikolai, murder him, then take her own life. As far as Princess Ehri knew, that would be the end of it. But in the invasion that would ensue, lives would invariably be lost, and the Tavgharad had orders to make sure Ehri was one of the casualties. They had been assigned to Ehri’s household, but they followed the queen’s orders alone. Makhi’s ministers would never know of the plan she had put into place. So what had gone wrong?
“You must attend this wedding,” Yerwei lectured. “All of your ministers will expect it. This is the realization of their plans for peace. They think you should be thrilled.”
“Did I not seem thrilled enough for your liking?”
“You were as you always were, a perfect queen. Only I saw the signs.”
“Men who see too much have a way of losing their eyes.”
“And queens who trust too little have a way of losing their thrones.”
Makhi’s head snapped around. “What do you mean by that?”
Only Yerwei knew the truth—and not just the details of her plan to murder the Ravkan king and her own sister. He had served as personal physician to her mother and her grandmother. He had been a witness on her mother’s deathbed when Queen Keyen Kir-Taban, Born of Heaven, had chosen Ehri as her heir instead of Makhi. It was the right of a Taban queen to choose her successor, but it was almost always the oldest daughter. It had been that way for hundreds of years. Makhi was meant to be queen. She had been born for it, raised for it. She was as strong as a member of the Tavgharad, a skilled horsewoman, a brilliant strategist, cunning as a spider. And yet. Her mother had chosen Ehri. Soft, sweet, beloved Ehri, whom the people adored.
“Promise me,” her mother had said. “Promise me you will abide by my wishes. Swear it on the Six Soldiers.”
“I promise,” Makhi had whispered.
Yerwei had heard it all. He was her mother’s longest-serving adviser, so old Makhi had no idea how many years he’d been on this earth. He never seemed to age. She’d looked to him, to his watery eyes in his wizened face, wondering if he’d told her mother of the work they’d pursued together, the secret experiments, the birth of the khergud program. All of that would end with Ehri on the throne.
“But Ehri does not want to rule—” Makhi had attempted.
“Only because she has always assumed you would.”
Makhi had taken her mother’s hand in hers. “But I should. I have studied. I have trained.”
“And yet no lesson has ever taught you kindness. No tutor has ever taught you mercy. You have a heart hungry for war and I do not know why.”
“It is the falcon’s heart,” Makhi had said proudly. “The heart of the Han.”
“It is the falcon’s will. That is a different thing. Swear to me that you will do this. You are a Taban. We want what the country needs, and this nation needs Ehri.”
Makhi had not wept or argued; she’d only given her vow.
Then her mother had breathed her last. Makhi said her prayers to the Six Soldiers, lit candles for the fallen Taban queens. She’d tidied her hair and brushed her hands over the silk of her robes. She would have to wear blue soon, the color of mourning. And she had so much to mourn—the loss of her mother, the loss of her crown.