The banquet ran late as most banquets tend to do. He tried to escape to the balcony as he had done before, but they even followed him there. He finally managed to excuse himself, saying that he had an important meeting in the morning. Of course, that was a lie, but it would give the nobles something to worry over.

He made his way back to his room, his footsteps echoing in the long hallway. Although there were no windows, the cold somehow seeped through the thick limestone walls. King Louka III, the grandfather of King Maxime, had been a great patron of the arts, and most of the paintings in the palace were commissioned by him. They hung in gilded frames, and the many rendered eyes of royalty and paladins seemed to follow him as he walked past them. He suppressed a shudder and tried to think about other things.

The nobles at the banquet had spoken with an intensity that he hadn’t experienced before. But experience with nobility was one thing he had in spades. He nodded, laughed politely, and gave vague promises that promised nothing. Somehow, he had managed to make it through the night without making any commitments. But that couldn’t last. They were right – he would need their supplies eventually.

When he had fought for King Maxime’s wars, he had only himself to worry about. And if he was assigned to fight under an army, he was always treated well. That was no longer the case. He was to be a commander, and his status as a paladin would only draw ire.

Many of the nobles had been gracious to him tonight. But how many of them were genuine? Which ones made promises that they didn’t intend to keep? Some of them would be happy to see a paladin fail at command. “See?” they’d jeer. “This is why paladins should just do as they’re told.”

He had led only twice, and those had been shallow experiences. He had been more of the strategist than the commander at the Battle of Wetshard. Sir Narcisse and Lady Amandine had also helped him delegate the work. As for the other time…well, he didn’t want to think about Magerra.

He frowned when he entered his room. Someone had slid a piece of folded parchment through the gap in his door. It had no seal or emblem to identify the sender, and the note was written in a rough scrawl.

Sir Roel,

Tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock, come alone to the palace gardens and tell no one of your whereabouts. There is a pavilion in the far east corner. You will know it by the grove of yew trees that stand beside it. Lay your sword down by the trees before entering the pavilion. If you do not do as instructed, your secret will be exposed.

He felt a wave of dizziness. He had many secrets, but the most recent one came to mind. Had someone seen him preparing the corpse? Or had someone been eavesdropping when Lady Cleo had confronted him? Or was it Lady Cleo herself who had exposed him? She was supported by Duke Donat and the Brisbois family; they stood to gain from blackmailing him.

He slowly peered out of his door. The wording of the message had been vague, and it was possible that someone was nearby to gauge his reaction. He saw and heard no one, but that didn’t mean anything. He closed the door and locked it with the deadbolt.

What about the people he had met at the banquet? Duke Octave didn’t seem like the type to furtively send messages like this, but he was still a possible suspect. Duke Alan was more likely. Duke Thierry didn’t seem too interested in political maneuvers, but he had never let his guard down around the young man.

Perhaps the timing was important. He had been at the banquet for about three hours. If it were one of the dukes, they’d have to send a servant to deliver the note. But why was it necessary to conceal their identity?

He wanted to believe that he was overthinking it, but he read the message over and over. Whoever had written it had poor penmanship – some of the letters were capitalized for no discernible reason. The parchment itself was dark and coarse, not the kind that high nobility would use. Regardless, it was undeniable: this was a threat, and the only thing he could do was go and see how it played out.

He took off his armor and tucked his sheathed sword in the little crack between the bedpost and the wall. It was a precaution as pointless as his sword’s blade, but having it nearby made him feel more relieved all the same.

He closed his eyes, but he already knew sleep wouldn’t be coming for him anytime soon.

The morning came without warning. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but he must’ve. He felt no drowsiness, only alertness. It wasn’t on a bloody battlefield, but this was the first battle he would have to face as commander. If they wanted to harm his reputation or blackmail him, he had to be prepared.

The message said he was to place his sword underneath the yew trees. He couldn’t understand what they were trying to accomplish in disarming him. They should know that the Lord’s Favor was enough of a weapon. What did they fear from Durendal?

Regardless, he would be armed. His bulky armor did have some utility. He had concealed daggers underneath his shoulder plates and his greaves. It was very unlikely that there’d be violence, especially in a place like the palace gardens, but one could never be sure. Paranoia was a weapon, both for him and the opponent, and he could feel the sharp edge of it pressing against his temples.

After putting his armor on and eating a small breakfast of white bread and bacon, he made his way to the gardens twenty minutes before the appointed time. He’d be late if he weren’t mindful of the time. The gardens were a verdant maze of hedges and shrubs and bushes. It was the passion project of Queen Grania, King Maxime’s wife and a foreign princess who barely spoke Calcais, the native language of Calorin.

A lonely woman, she was known as the Lost Queen. She spent more time with her plants than people. He had only seen her a few times at ceremonies but had never heard her speak. Queen Grania had died shortly before her husband, and it was whispered that if one came early enough on a foggy morning, when the dew still clung to the leaves and the world was but a thin veil between the living and the dead, the queen’s ghost could be found tending to her plants with a sad smile on her face.

A shallow creek of clear blue looped through the entire garden, and he used it to navigate his way through the all-too-similar greenery. Aside from the birds that flocked to the trees, he only saw the occasional gardener and small greenhouses with padlocked doors. There were rare plants from all across the world in the gardens, and certain parts had been sectioned off and entrusted to only a select few gardeners. The herbalist had told him that, and on numerous occasions, she had expressed her desire to visit.

The pavilion was made of birchwood, and its stark whiteness seemed almost hostile in the despondent queen’s garden of green. Beside it stood a cluster of yew trees. They, too, seemed out-of-place, but only because whoever had planted them had positioned them poorly. Some stood too close from each other, and some too far.

There were several servants standing beside the single round table in the pavilion, but he ignored them. The person who had called him was sitting down with a bright smile on her face and an ornate pewter cup in one hand.

“Sir Roel,” Princess Caroline called out. “I’m so glad you were able to make it.”