“The third of the new waxing.”

Grigor frowned. He had thought it the second. The Deceiver awaited him; in less than a day he would journey to the Underrealm to face whatever eternal fate Bian had chosen for him. And he fretted over losing count of the days. Was it mere vanity to worry now for the soundness of his mind?

“That’s all?” the Qirsi asked. “Just a simple inquiry about the day? A moment ago you jested bravely; now you can’t find your tongue. Is it the prospect of your death that gives you such pause?”

Grigor looked away, saying nothing.

“Surely you expected this.”

“As I told you that first night, Minister, I didn’t poison anyone. I suppose I trusted that Ean would save me from an unjust death. It would seem that my faith was misplaced.”

“It’s a terrible thing to face death in the absence of one’s faith.”

He faced the door again, searching the white face for some sign that he was being mocked. Seeing none, he finally stood.

“I’m innocent, Minister. You must believe me. I have never shied from raising my sword to strike at my enemies, nor have I ever lied about doing so. For this reason I have long been hated and feared throughout the kingdom. You know this. And I am telling you now, I did not do this thing. I have been betrayed by my own brother, who poisoned the queen and her guests and deflected blame to me. He admitted as much to me that very night.”

“Ah, yes,” Pronjed said, obviously unconvinced. “I had heard that you were blaming Lord Renbrere for this. I found it interesting that you chose to blame the Fool. Henthas would have seemed a much better choice.”

“This is not a ruse, you idiot!” he said, straining against his chains. “Numar poisoned the wine! He seeks the regency, and when the time comes, he plans to kill the girl!”

“I see. And he saw fit to tell you all of this?”

Grigor closed his eyes, his entire body sagging. The Fool. It was almost funny. His one consolation was that House Solkara would prevail. He wouldn’t live to see it, but all Aneira would suffer for taking Numar too lightly. Just as he had. “Yes, he told me. He knew there was no danger in it.” He opened his eyes once more. “So, I’m to be hanged?”

“Hanged, drawn, and quartered. Your head will be impaled on a pike, and left in plain sight on the east wall of the castle. The pieces of your body will be carried by four horsemen to the far corners of the kingdom and left for the ravens and dogs and vultures to eat. In this way, Queen Chofya hopes to show all Aneirans what becomes of traitors.” He spoke the words in a flat voice, reciting them as a new adherent in the cloisters might his litany. “Because you have been a duke in this house, however briefly, and because you were brother to her king, the queen has mercifully offered to grant you a final meal of your choosing. You can make your request now or speak to one of the guards later. Don’t wait too long, however. The kitchen will need some time.”

His stomach felt like a river stone, cold and hard. He wondered if he would ever be hungry again, then nearly laughed aloud, realizing with the certainty of the damned that he would not. An instant later he was blinking back hot tears, wincing at the pain of ironies that cut too deep.

This is what it’s h’te to face death.

“I don’t care what I eat,” he said. “But I want a change of clothes and a basin of water in which to wash. My death may be a spectacle for the people of Solkara, but I’ll not walk to the gallows looking like a common brigand. As you say, I was duke of Solkara, and before that a marquess.”

Pronjed considered this a moment, before nodding. “I’ll have to ask the queen, of course. But it seems to me a reasonable request. I’ll advise her to grant it.”

It was a small kindness, but when one’s life was reduced to a matter of hours and moments, even the simplest courtesies carried some weight.

“My thanks, Minister.”

The Qirsi turned, as if to leave.

“Minister, wait,” he called. He wasn’t certain how to ask the question that burned within, nor was he confident that Pronjed, who was facing him again, waiting, would be willing to answer. But in the end his curiosity proved more powerful than these other concerns. “How many died that night?”

The man’s expression hardened, and for several moments Gngor thought that Pronjed would rail at him rather than offering any response.

“I guess there’s no harm in telling you,” he finally said, his tone icy. “Perhaps you’ll even be disappointed. You killed five, two Eandi, three Qirsi.”

“The two Eandi, they were dukes?”

Pronjed nodded. “Tounstrel and Noltierre.”

Vidor and Bertin. Along with Chago of Bistari, who, rumor had it, died at the hands of Solkaran assassins, these two had been Carden’s most stubborn opponents; no doubt they would have given the kingdom’s new regent much trouble, had they lived. Numar had accomplished so much in that one night, perhaps even more than he knew.

“I can’t tell if you’re pleased or disappointed.”

“I’m neither,” Grigor said. “I’ve told you: I didn’t poison anyone, so I have no stake in who lived and who died.”

The Qirsi smiled thinly. “An assassin couldn’t have said it any better. You tell me that you didn’t poison them, yet you care nothing for the lives lost, nor do you take any satisfaction in knowing that we saved a good number.”

Maybe he should have argued. There might have been some small chance that a sign of compassion now could still save him from execution. But he was beyond caring. The Fool had won, the queen and dukes had long seen him as ruthless and cruel; Numar had merely given them further reason to see him as such. Like any good swordsman, his brother had taken Grigor’s greatest strength-his fearsome reputation-and turned it to his own advantage.

“You’re right, Minister. I don’t care about the lives lost or saved. I’m to be killed myself in the morning. I asked out of curiosity, nothing more.” He turned his face away. Had he been free to turn his back on the door, he would have done so. “Now leave me. I grow tired of your company and your judgment.”

He expected the Qirsi to say something more, to level one last verbal blow at his heart. All he heard, however, was the scrape of the man’s boot as he turned to go and the slow retreat of his footsteps as he descended the tower stairs.

The yellow-haired guard entered the chamber and placed a small plate of food and a cup of water on the floor at Grigor’s feet. Grigor didn’t look at him, nor did he stoop to eat. He would have liked to ask the man to return and allow him a moment at one of the windows. He cared nothing for the cold anymore, but he would dearly have liked to see the sky and clouds, to feel the cool, clean touch of a snow-laden wind. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak, and he had no confidence that the soldier would do as he asked.

He merely stood there, held by his chains, staring at the stone floor, his eyes wandering the seams between the stones. He didn’t actually think about dying, though the fact of his impending death was never far from his thoughts. Rather, he thought of his father and mother, of his childhood spent chasing after Carden and the older boy’s friends, of being bullied by them until he cried, only to find himself visiting the same cruelties on Henthas and Numar a short time later. He thought of his wife and his many mistresses, and he thought of his sons, who fought among themselves just as he and his brothers once had. He had sent word to Renbrere that they were not to come here, not even to see him die. But, he now realized, a part of him had hoped they would come anyway, just so that he could see them one last time. Others wouldn’t believe in his innocence, but perhaps they would have.

Mostly though, he thought of nothing at all. He just listened to the sounds of the castle. The sharp crack of wooden swords as soldiers trained in the ward below the prison tower; the whistle of the wind as it swept through the ramparts above his chamber; the distant echo of the bells tolling in the city, marking the slow, inexorable march of time toward his hanging.