His room was too sparsely decorated to be distracting. Jaron tugged on Imogen’s long braid, earning a light hearted smack.

He’d called for a meeting with his inner circle half an hour before, but hadn’t expected anyone to arrive early, not while the morning sun was still shoving its way across the horizon.

However, Tobias was standing before him. Quaking before him.

“I’m in a much better mood,” Jaron tugged on Imogen’s braid again, and managed to catch her hand. “Ha! Caught you!”

Imogen made a face, “Would you like a blue ribbon for that, love?”

“I would, actually. Give it to me now.”

Tobias coughed, “I, ah, I decided to let you rest before I told you what I found out.”

Saints, what had he asked during his feverish ramblings this time?

The events from the previous evening bled into a continuous stream. Checking on Feall, the blow to his leg, and then falling asleep in the physician’s chambers. Jaron tapped his knee. He and Imogen were discussing Mireldis Thay that morning. They’d figured out a link to her: Jolly.

“Is it- is she dead? Did Jolly have the information we wanted?” Jaron trailed his thumb over each of Imogen’s knuckles.

He could hear his own words echoing back at him, the unintelligible claims of fever and exhaustion. Jaron brushed a strand of hair away from Imogen's face, repeating the motion despite having tucked all of her stray hairs back into place. He'd had a suspicion about who Mireldis Thay was.

No, no.

He had several suspicions, ranging from Ayvar all the way down to Dawn of the Dragon's Keep.

Although the latter was seeming more and more unlikely with each passing day.

Tobias looked to Imogen, "I told Amarinda a few minutes ago, I didn't want either of you to be alarmed."

"Are you Mireldis Thay?" Jaron pressed a hand to his heart.

It was thumping too hard in his chest. Trying to escape.

Trying to find a safe place to rest. To let stone walls down and grow branches. Tree branches, specifically. Ones strong enough to climb and hide in.

Patience was a virtue Jaron never cared to master. His rabbit heart only proved that.

"Saints curse it all, stop hesitating and just tell me what you were able to find out," Jaron burst.

Imogen flinched.

"I, ah, well," Tobias scratched the back of his head, apparently finding his toes much more interesting than Jaron's frown. "I should warn you that Jolly's not afraid, or at least that's what he told me."

"This isn't about Jolly, it's about Mireldis Thay."

"But it is about Jolly, Jaron. And Feall. Everyone here has become a pawn and none of us caught it."

The rabbit thumping in Jaron's ribs wasn't easing. He tried to calm himself by pressing Imogen's fingers to his chin.

Pieces of a game.

Pawns.

Jaron had been a pawn before, and he had no intention of going back.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" He muttered.

"You were unconscious, Jaron, you wouldn't have been able to understand," Imogen's quiet reminder almost made his frustration melt.

"I haven't spoken with Feall," Tobias finally looked up. "He's still resting and it's cruel to try to force words from an injured man. We were fools to put pressure on Amarinda and not him. Ami's lived in Carthya for more than a decade, Feall hasn't."

There was a simple reason behind respecting Feall's privacy, and Jaron hated it. He hated that he'd been too trusting.

And yet, Feall had given them so many reasons to trust him.

"You still haven't told me what you found, Tobias."

Silence chills, even in the middle of summer. Jaron's room was far too cold, far too quiet.

"Jolly never gave Lady Thay's name outright," Tobias rolled his shoulders back, as if bracing himself for some sudden death at sharing his secret. "Instead, he informed me that Mireldis Thay has indeed been in Carthya this entire time, talking with us and earning our trust. She's been here the entire time, ever since Feall and King Oberson came to pay homage to you. And there's only one person I can think of that's been here, becoming friends with us."

The words were too frightening to say.

“Renlyn Karise,” Jaron frowned. “You mean to tell me Renlyn Karise is Mireldis Thay?”

Tobias nodded.

However, Imogen shook her head in disagreement. “That’s impossible, you know how much she and Feall get along with each other. Feall’s told us multiple times that the Faola attacking him had to be Mireldis Thay.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” said Jaron.

“How did Amarinda take it?” Imogen asked.

“Ah, she- she didn’t accept the news. She still hasn’t accepted the news. We agreed to think on the matter and discuss it once we’ve both sat with the information.”

Amarinda didn’t take the news well?

Could she  be blamed?

Renlyn Karise had a murderous stare and an ambiguous streak, but Jaron couldn’t picture her being bold enough to kick him and crawl back to the castle.

Though maybe he was wrong. He’d gambled on another person’s behavior before.

Playing the long game was something Jaron knew well. It took skill and foresight, both traits were something Renlyn needed to maintain a series of business ventures.

She’d tricked him into buying things, and now he’d trick her into revealing herself.

“I’ll handle it,” Jaron sat straight up, jostling Imogen in the process.

“Jaron, we’re here to help y-“ she began.

“Please tell me you didn’t invite her to the meeting,” said Tobias, pressing his hands to his forehead. “By the Saints, you invited her to the meeting.”

Yes, actually, Jaron did invite Renlyn.

But for a different reason than Tobias and Imogen expected.

Roden was among the first people to visit Jaron that morning, bringing news of the Faola’s escape with him. News of Regar helping with the escape. Jaron hid his disappointment with a cheeky grin and quick forgiveness.

In the end, Regar’s imprisonment would only help Jaron. He’d read a series of letters since Row and Regar came to Drylliad.

One could only see the same name so many times before noticing patterns.

If Jaron’s guess was correct, he’d give himself a medal.

“She holds valuable opinions once you get past her general unapproachability,” Jaron grinned.

“I don’t think we should be taking this so lightly,” said Tobias. He looked like a preening crow each time he patted down his deep green vest. “Your bruise runs too deep for jokes.”

“See, there’s a detail you forgot. Did you catch it, Imogen?”

The slight shake from Imogen’s head gave Jaron his answer.

He’d mulled over the prospect of catching Mireldis Thay for several days before cracking down and searching through books. When that didn’t help, Jaron turned to Kerwyn, who’d been present during King Eckbert’s search for a suitable bride. The search led Eckbert to Amarinda, in turn leading to a rush of Bymarian information.

Kerwyn knew little more than Jaron, but that was better than nothing. Kerwyn knew the names of all seventeen Bymarian noble lords, their five kingdom states, and their five lesser kings. Graer Thay was a staunch military leader, who’d left the keys to his kingdom state to his second wife.

Graer Thay vanished just before the Avenian war.

Queen Danika’s investigators should’ve been looking for two Thays, not one.

Tobias was rubbing his wrists, and glanced over his shoulder. Once he’d finished with his wrists, he tugged at his shirt’s collar. His odd ritual continued as he patted the hem of his vest.

“Jolly never gave you the actual name, Tobias, you made an assumption,” Jaron explained. “A very compelling assumption, yes, but believability doesn’t make something true.”

Tobias scowled, “You’re the one who asked me to be a spy! Let me stitch a person back together while you manage to topple entire regimes because you’re slippery enough.”

“We haven’t toppled a king recently,” Imogen tapped her chin. “We should add that to our future plans.”

“You’re right! We’ve focused too long on our own problems, it’s high time that we cause

problems for somebody else,” said Jaron. “Let’s practice on Tobias.”

“Jaron! I’m your friend, your doctor, your regent, and a member of your inner circle! That’s not a good idea!”

People often forgot how easy it was for Jaron to remember details.

Details like Roden rubbing his neck and Mott grabbing his side when a door shut loud enough.

Tobias’s little detail was much quieter than reaching for an invisible pain. He patted his clothes, his hair, his wrists.

Almost like he was checking to make sure that he was still alive.

The antidote for these bursts of eerie movement varied from person to person. With Imogen, Jaron reached for her hands. With Mott, it was holding a conversation.

With Tobias, it was merciless teasing to the point of a frustrated outburst.

“Let’s replace every single one of his left socks with socks that are two sizes too big,” Jaron gestured to Tobias’s boots. “Not too damaging, but enough to cause discomfort.”

“Don’t be cruel, he did do you a favor last night,” Imogen said.

Tobias opened his mouth to speak, but Jaron cut him off. “That’s why the socks will only be two sizes bigger instead of being made from woven metal.”

“Metal cloth is saved for gowns, not socks,” Tobias crossed his arms.

“They’ll make an exception for me.”

The door creaked open. Roden held a hand to his eyes, “Stop yelling, I haven’t eaten breakfast.”

“Didn’t I just see you?” Jaron frowned.

“I had an errand to run.”

“That’s what Fink’s for.”

“It wasn’t a Fink type of errand.”

Mott and Amarinda entered next, going their separate ways when Amarinda stood beside Tobias.

Amarinda’s frown, though small, couldn’t be missed.

Roden and Mott began dragging chairs to Jaron’s bedside as more people came. Imogen would sit on Jaron’s left, while Harlowe sat on his right.

Jaron took great care to instruct everyone to leave the seat nearest to the corner open for Renlyn.

It provided both privacy and openness.

The corner would feel like a hiding place despite having no cover.

Renlyn slipped into the room just before Harlowe with Fink serving as her escort. When Fink received his nod of approval from Mott, he crossed his legs and sat at the end of Jaron’s bed.

A good move; chairs weren’t always ideal.

There was never any rest for the weary. Despite the ache in his leg and Tobias’s insistence that he rested, Jaron had his trusted circle gathered around his bed. He’d made his decision regarding several situations.

Jaron held out a hand to Imogen. Her touch was almost enough to take the pain away.

“Let’s get this all out of the way,” he stretched his arms above his head. “I have every intention of yelling at Renlyn for putting up decorations while I was trying to recover.”

Renlyn only smirked.

Much had happened during the night, or at least that’s what Imogen told him as she helped him hobble back to his bed. Regar was in prison, the Faola who attacked Jaron escaped, and Lord Row was still waiting to know if Carthya would help Avenia.

“Shall we start with the happier business or get right to depressing ourselves?” Jaron leaned back against his pillows, eying the people around his bed.

Imogen, Amarinda, Mott, Tobias, Roden, Renlyn, Harlowe, Fink, and Kerwyn.

His greatest supporters.

Harlowe patted the papers in front of him, “I suppose the happier business, it’ll soften the difficulties to come.”

“I’ve done this in an unorthodox way,” Jaron said. “We can’t hesitate to help Avenia, not if we want to promote good relations. Lord Row requests a Carthyan presence in Isel, and it is what he’ll get. Harlowe, we will station soldiers in Libeth, and place Sir Alistair Derforgall in Isel.”

“Alistair’s a good choice,” Roden nodded.

“I know, it’s why he’s going to Isel. He has enough experience to be useful and enough smarts not to do something stupid.”

Amarinda’s back was as straight as a rod, “Lord Row will be pleased.”

He’d better be happy. Jaron didn’t want to throw out military assistance to every lord who threw himself at the king’s throne.

Renlyn raised her hand, and spoke when Jaron nodded to her. “I have several holdings in Isel that require protecting, I’ll likely hire an army should revolution break out, they’ll be there to assist Alistair.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” said Jaron.

“I’ll try to meet your expectations then.”

Was that really the face of a cold blooded killer?

Probably.

Jaron ran his thumb over Imogen’s fingers as Harlowe scribbled down Jaron’s decision on a piece of parchment.

“Speaking of foreign powers, what are we to do with King Oberson?” Kerwyn stroked his massive beard.

He looked like a philosopher of old.

“We can’t turn him away, it’s rude and I have no intention of making any new enemies,” Jaron gestured to his leg. “I already have one too sneaky to be caught.”

“It’s time you started taking soldiers with you when you leave the castle,” Mott said.

“For the first time, I think you might be right.”

Tobias’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, “Is it raining ducks outside? Are pigs flying? I never thought I’d see the day that Jaron agrees with Mott regarding his own safety.”

“And onto the next subject,” Jaron pointed a finger at Tobias; he’d get him back for that comment later. “Commander Regar is currently waiting on us to hear about his fate. Roden, would you mind explaining the situation from last night to us?”

Roden’s expression hardened. “Last night after the attack on Jaron, I tracked Regar to the Vaults. He’d already captured the Faola responsible for the attack, and chose to behave according to the old laws rather than turn the Faola over to the crown’s custody.”

“Odd,” Mott scowled. “And alarming.”

“Regar managed to help us get the Faola out of the Vaults,” Roden continued. “However, he claims to have slipped and he caught my shoulder for balance, allowing the Faola to escape. I doubt the Faola stuck around.”

“I think the Faola did stick around,” countered Tobias. “I think he’s still in the castle.”

“But why?” Fink scratched his nose. “You’d be an idiot to stick around a place where everyone wants you dead.”

Jaron cracked a sly grin, a faint memory of teasing Fink back at the pirates’ camp snatching his attention.

“The Faola likely has another goal they value more than their own life,” Renlyn clasped her hands in her lap. “Foolish from our perspective, yes, but to the Faola it must be important.”

“We’ll discuss the matter of the Faola later,” Jaron said. “Regar’s situation requires our attention for a moment.”

“Will you give him the punishment for treason?” Kerwyn leaned back in his chair.

“That’s not something to be taken lightly, and I won’t have somebody executed for treason based off of a stumble.”

“His stumble could cost you your life, my king.”

Jaron waved his hand, “Did you know you can rearrange the letters of certain words to form other words?”

“Jaron, please.”

“I’ve chosen to pardon Regar as a demonstration of kindness and also because I think he holds some use to us,” he said. Jaron squeezed Imogen’s hand, “Besides, it would be disrespectful to kill Lord Row’s hired commander after telling him we’ll give Avenia the aid she needs. You don’t make friends by giving them a prize and then breaking their foot.”

“We’re playing this game for friends now?” Renlyn arched an eyebrow.

“Yes, yes we are. Does that bother you, Lady Karise?”

“Not every friendship holds the best intentions, my king.”

Tobias plucked at his collar, his eyes glancing from Renlyn to Jaron without a hint of subtlety.

The trap had been set. Jaron kept his gaze locked on Renlyn. She didn’t seem like she’d run away, but he’d been wrong about her before.

“A bold claim, coming from a girl wearing a false name,” Jaron kept his voice even, kept his face almost icy. “The pattern was hard to follow, but it made sense. Lord Feall came here first, followed by Jolly, followed by you.”

Renlyn’s movement was slow. Too slow.

She had the speed of a predator tensing before a pounce.

“Just what are you suggesting, my lord?” Renlyn asked. Her eyebrows had risen and her mouth curled down. She was daring him.

Daring him to say the name.

“I’m suggesting that you’re Mireldis Thay,” Jaron forced a smile. “You sent Jolly here to gather intel on Lord Feall, you joined the Faola, and used that as a cover to kill him while still maintaining a comfortable life.”

The silence that followed rivaled the chilling, never ending void of a coffin.

Everyone looked to Renlyn, but she never looked away from Jaron.

“That poses a curious question,” Renlyn mused. “I’m not not Mireldis Thay, just as Princess Amarinda is not not Mireldis Thay. Are we all who we really say we are, your Majesty?”

“Answer the question,” Roden growled. He’d pushed his chair away from the bed, obviously preparing to apprehend Renlyn.

Mott had mimicked the motion.

“Ask it again, if you didn’t like what I said. Be more direct.”

Renlyn was pushing her limits on purpose, Jaron recognized the way she danced around the question. He inhaled, watching for any betrayal of emotion on her face.

All she did was stare at him.

“Are you Mireldis Thay, Lady Karise?” He asked. “Have you been lying to my face the entire time you’ve served my wife?”

“If you require me to be Mireldis Thay, then I am she.”

The answer wasn’t what Jaron wanted. It wasn’t what anyone wanted. Renlyn’s motives were clear at one point; serve the kingdom by being a companion to the queen. But now it wasn’t so easy.

Everyone flinched as Renlyn stood. She flashed a rare, glittering smile. “There is no need to escort me to the dungeons, I’m still a member of the nobility and I’m complying with your accusations. Captain Harlowe, Sir Fink, you can accompany me to my chambers.”

“Excuse me?” Jaron leaned forward. “Do you think this is funny, Lady Karise?”

“I do, actually, but I’m not here to cause a ruckus. Do enjoy Blackberry Night at my expense, King Jaron. May the festivities distract and guide you to the answer you seek.”

----------------------------------------------------------

Jaron almost felt guilty about locking Renlyn in her chambers when he saw the finished decorations for Blackberry Night.

Candles hung in perfect little cages, their light bouncing off of gilded plants. A faint sparkling dust tumbled from the ceiling. Every noble was dressed in shades of cream, gold, and pink.

Even Jaron conformed to the strict color code.

He’d given up fighting Mott about needing an escort, his argument fading to nothing after his inability to stand for more than ten minutes without needing a rest. Jaron agreed to let Mott keep an eye on him until Imogen came.

One of the best additions to the hall was a series of ivy covered trellises forming tiny square rooms. Jaron and Mott had managed to squeeze into one before a forbidden couple could take it. The ivy walls didn’t mask conversations, but it did manage to give Jaron a moment of privacy.

A moment to build walls to block prying eyes.

“That couch looks all too appealing,” Jaron noted, crushing his hand into a fist.

His leg didn’t control him.

“Sit down then,” Mott said. “You don’t want to collapse in front of everyone.”

Very true, unfortunately.

The great hall was packed with glittering doublets and wide gowns. Trying to get to the tables stacked with sweets would require military assistance.

Jaron stared at the couch. “Do you think I went too easy on Renlyn?”

Mott crossed his arms over his plain white shirt, obviously thinking of an answer. He shrugged.

“Maybe I was too hard.”

“I think it’s dangerous to assume things, Jaron. But that applies to all people, not just Renlyn.”

“Too many things make sense if she really were Mireldis Thay, but there’s still a few inconsistencies. It’s not quite perfected.”

“So tell me what you know, and we’ll figure it out together.”

“This is the longest you’ve been nice to me, Mott,” Jaron cracked a grin. “Is it because somebody kicked me?”

“Take a seat on the couch.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Jaron collapsed against the cushions, his leg sighing in relief.

The music playing, some Mendenwal styled waltz, still managed to be heard despite the hundreds of conversations all at once. Jaron tapped the beat of the waltz out on his leg.

Regar, Regar, Regar.

When rearranged, it posed a striking resemblance to another infamous name.

Jaron couldn’t keep his discovery to himself. If he was wrong, so be it, but the pattern was too clever to keep hidden.

“Did you know you can rearrange the letters of certain words to form other words?” Jaron asked, repeating the same phrase he’d used when meeting with his inner circle.

“Yes, you mentioned that,” Mott said. “What words have you created this time?”

“None, actually. I’m just thinking about false names. I lived with a stolen name for a good portion of my life, and I know how important it is to find a name that reminds you of who you are without letting other people know.”

“Are you still thinking about Mireldis Thay?”

Jaron nodded, “I think we’ve been focusing on the wrong Thay.”

Had it not been for the sudden hush falling over the crowd, Jaron would’ve thrown out his newest theory. But not with the quiet. Not where people could hear him and pass on the information.

It could wait.

The continued quiet was too loud to be ignored. Jaron forced himself off of the trellis, using Mott as a support to peek out of the trellis walled room.

Mott was there to push Jaron’s chin back up when his mouth fell open.

Amarinda and Imogen were walking down the stairs with their arms linked. Though Amarinda looked pleasant enough in her gold gown, Jaron had eyes only for Imogen.

“Get out of the way! That’s my wife!” Jaron hissed as he wormed through the crowd of nobles.

Imogen rivaled the spring sun. She was warm, inviting, and covered in only the calmest blooms. Pale pink fabric climbed her arms before vanishing into a pair of round sleeves and reemerging in the front panel of her gown. Tiny pearls had been strung into her hair.

He had every intention of freeing every single one.

“Sorry I’m late,” Imogen flashed an apologetic smile. “Plans changed.”

“I’m going to kiss you right now,” Jaron said.

“Oh, at least let me find my husband first,” groaned Amarinda.

“I think he’s nursing a head injury.”

Imogen laughed, “I haven’t seen him go that shade of red in too long.”

The musicians began to play again. Jaron did his best to fulfill his promise to kiss his wife, but Imogen’s dodging abilities were improving with time.

“No, I put paint on my lips and I refuse to be the girl with lip paint all over her chin,” Imogen put her hand over Jaron’s mouth.

His words were muffled. “You’re the queen, it’s different.”

“Lip paint is messy!”

“The messier the better!”

He’d get his kiss. Jaron knew he would.

Taking Imogen by the hand, Jaron led her to the center of the floor, not at all ashamed of holding her hand like a trophy.

“Are you sure you can dance?” Imogen asked.

“I’ll force myself through at least half of one, but I have other plans for this evening,” he said, nodding his head towards the trellis walled spaces.

Imogen snickered, and set her hand on Jaron’s shoulder as their dance began.

Every one of her features was as familiar as the back of his hand, but he never gave up the chance to study her face. The curve of her nose, the fullness of her bottom lip. Her springtime smile.

There could never be anyone else for him.

Only Imogen.

It was her hand that he reached for in the night to remind himself that he was safe. To remind himself that he’d found somebody who’d never abandon him in the name of peace. He reached for her when the pirate brand on his arm ached and when the past he shoved away couldn’t be shoved any longer.

The throbbing ache in his leg was slowly returning.

Her hand, still calloused from her years as a servant, was a perfect fit in his. If he held on just a little tighter, he could finish the dance.

King or not, Jaron refused to keep Imogen from being treated the way she deserved.

And meant ignoring the pain in his leg for the duration of a song.

“Do you want to-,” Imogen started.

Jaron shook his head, “I only want to be here with you. Tell me what you did today. During the afternoon. I didn’t get to see you.”

“I played with the kitten,” her smile brightened the room. “Amarinda tells me that if I keep giving treats for no reason, the kitten will get too fat to walk. She’d have to roll around.”

“I’d have a carriage made, one that can be pulled by a team of tiny rats. That way, Fink gets his rat, and your cat can get around.”

“But wouldn’t the cat eat the rats?”

“Nonsense, if the cat’s too fat to walk, it can’t catch anything.”

Imogen continued tracing her steps through her afternoon, explaining that the gown she wore wasn’t what she’d originally planned, but she’d felt a surge of spontaneity. The seed pearls in her hair were also a last minute add in.

Nobody could ever match Imogen.

Not her strength nor her undeniable ability to make everyone she met feel wanted.

It was still a struggle to accept that she’d chosen him out of every other man in Carthya.

He was silent when the song ended and Imogen helped him limp to the ivy guarded rooms. Words were hard to come by when both pain and burning devotion met to fight for control.

“Sit by me,” Jaron patted the couch cushion beside him, his smile was small, but he preferred it to a forced grimace of a grin. “I promise I won’t get lip paint on your chin.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to return to bed?” Imogen asked.

“I want to be with you.”

“And I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“It’s not so bad when you’re with me.”

Too much hid behind Jaron’s words. The pain in his leg would go away, and it would come back the next time he was kicked there. It came and went.

As did the pain of the past.