Avarlon, now quickened with child, made her way through the garden toward the temple to attend the observance of the solstice. The morning was bright, and Sol warmed the stones beneath her sandals and the air lay thick with the scent of summer’s full bloom. She stopped at the fountain to breathe it in and to admire the flourishing of color.

  Yet as she stood, another scent crept beneath the fragrant air, sharp and acrid, perhaps carried from the tannery or the gutters. The garden swam before her, blending the colors within her vision. She bent to retch, but a faintness took hold and she fell down onto her knees, hands clutching the low stone wall of the fountain. Her sickness deepened and her breathing thinned.

  Fia, too, was making her way toward the ceremony and marked Avarlon’s wavering. And when Avarlon’s handmaiden cried out, the regent stepped forth to intervene, scolding the maiden.

  “Peace,” Fia snapped as she came upon them. “Thou wilt summon spectacle and gossip.”

  She knelt down beside Avarlon and placed a steadying hand upon her back to comfort her while she caught her breath.

  “There, child. It is the bearing-sickness. Thou must carry a son, I warrant.” She glanced to her guard who stepped forth. “Raise her gently. We will not have this made a spectacle. She’ll come with me.”

  Fia’s chamber lay far from the council halls, high in the wide tower where a narrow balcony overlooked the gardens and a tall southern window gazed out over the gates of the city. It was a room shaped not by regent power but by years of watchfulness and quiet grief. Widowed these seventeen summers, Fia had spent long hours at the window and balcony, observing the rhythms of the city— those who came, and those who departed, and how the shadows lengthened across the serenity of the garden at dusk.

  The plaster walls bore faded tapestries, their colors softened by time. Thick, old blankets lay folded upon a bench, their tartan weaves coarse and strong. Upon the table stood a modest bouquet: crimson dragon’s tail bound with the pearl petals of gillyflower still yielding their lush scent. Rosemary lingered in the air as well, carried between the open window and the balcony beyond.

  The guard set Avarlon into an upholstered chair near the cold hearth, body limp and weary. Fia dismissed him and her maid. She drew a chair from the table and seated herself across from Avarlon as the door closed. The two were alone.

  “Breathe,” Fia urged softly. “Thou art safe from wagging tongues in here.”

  Avarlon’s breath steadied. Only when color returned to her face did Fia speak again.

  “Hast thou been sleeping?”

  “Little, my Lady,” Avarlon confessed. “I dream and then I wake with sickness.”

  “What dreams visit thee?”

  “Dreams of water, of floating,” Avarlon answered. “A calm pool. Then the child comes easy. Then the pool becomes a river… and the river a torrent.”

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  Fia took Avarlon’s hand and held it, firm and warm.

  “When a woman bears life,” she said, “she bears dread alongside it. Men do not know the watching... the waiting... the long vigil of fear for the child they bear.”

  Avarlon’s throat tightened. She had feared and avoided Fia since her wedding day, uncertain of what the regent suspected, and more uncertain how one careless word might betray her. Fia, sensing Avarlon’s unease, mostly spoke. She asked of sickness, of appetite, of the child’s stirring. Then unprompted, she spoke of her firstborn.

  “Ceryd kicked as if he would tear free months too soon. I was so ill with the bearing-sickness, sick beyond measure. I could scarce take more than an apple and a wafer each day for what seemed like months. When he finally came, he was relentless. Always hungry. I could not keep him sated, nor could even the nurses.”

  She paused to ward off the sadness for her dead son that took hold of her in that moment.

  “What was Cerenid like?” Avarlon asked.

  “He was the opposite of Ceryd. Sleepy. Frail. A meek little cry. We had to coax him to nurse. At times, we did not think he would survive the winter. Yet he did.”

  The servant knocked and Fia bid her to enter. She set rosewater on the table and poured them each a cup, then left. Avarlon sipped from the copper cup as Fia’s gaze drifted into her own memories.

  “I never dreamt Cerenid would be rex,” she confided. “He inherited none of his father’s fire. His brother was his champion, his shield.” Her eyes lowered. “And now he is gone. And with treachery twice upon him, I fear my gentler son may be broken beyond mending.”

  “I fear,” Avarlon said, then she lowered her eyes as if she had not intended to speak.

  “There is no use in fear, child,” Fia said, smoothing Avarlon’s hand. “What will be will be. Thy son— and I am certain it will be a son— will be born strong.”

  Compelled to speak by Fia’s openness, Avarlon continued, “I… I fear more than that.”

  “What else, dear?”

  She hesitated. Then, because the room felt safe, and because the hand at hers was steady, she answered.

  “I… I fear that my husband will not return.”

  “Do not think of that,” Fia said softly, still softly stroking her fair hand. “Gedain is strong. He’s a warrior. He will return, with Menek in chains cursing the march to his justice. They are likely coming down off the mountain as we speak.”

  Avarlon continued. “I… I believe Una doubts his honour.”

  “Una doubts everyone, dear. She has no children of her own to worry her, so she fills her mind with all the possibilities.” Fia paused to drink from her cup. “Do not fear. Gedain is like a nephew to me… or like an adopted son, even. Do not trouble thyself with Una. Her nature is suspicion.”

  When Avarlon’s strength had fully returned, Fia helped her to her feet and walked her to the door. She spoke once more before committing her to the guard, lightly, as though it were nothing more than idle concern.

  “When last thou sawest him,” she said, “did he seem fearful of his charge?”

  Avarlon smiled faintly. “No, my Lady. He seemed eager.”

  Fia inclined her head.

  When Avarlon was gone, Fia’s servant lingered.

  “Shall I summon Una, my Lady?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  She went to the southern window and gazed out toward the gate, where once she had stood and watched the bodies of both husband and son borne home beneath shrouds. Her eyes followed the road as it unwound through the fields and vanished into the forested hills. Tracing farther up their wooded folds, they yielded at last unto the dragon’s teeth of the distant granite peaks, their crowns yet covered in gleaming snow. She drew a slow breath, and with it the final warmth passed from her countenance.