The Keeper

The court of Emberhollow did not bow when Ilse entered the throne room. They inclined their heads, precisely one inch, which the Lady Seneschal later explained was the exact angle of respect owed to a monarch who was not expected to live very long.

The throne itself was carved from a single piece of obsidian. It was cold, which surprised her, and far too big, and when she sat on it her feet did not reach the floor.

“Your Majesty will receive the petitions of the southern provinces,” announced a herald.

Ilse had never heard of the southern provinces. She listened anyway. She listened to farmers whose fields had turned to glass and merchants whose caravans had vanished on the Obsidian Road and a very old man who wanted permission to marry a woman he had been in love with for fifty years.

She gave him permission. The court made a small, disapproving sound, like a kettle deciding whether to boil.

Afterwards, in the corridor, the woman in the grey cloak fell into step beside her. “That was unwise,” she said.

“He was happy.”

“He was a test.” The woman stopped at a window overlooking the smoking mountain. “Every one of them was a test. Half this court wants to know if you are kind, and the other half wants to know if kindness can be used against you.”

“And which half are you?”

For the first time, the woman smiled. “I’m the half,” she said, “that wants you to live long enough to find out.”