Bram covered his father's hand with his own. "Will you stay for the trial?"
"I'll stay," Orrin said. "I didn't raise you to face collars alone."
---
Tilda found him in the herb garden after dark, where Yarrow had parked her with a basket and a glare that meant *you are safe and you will pretend to weed*.
She was nineteen, freckled, with hay-colored hair always escaping its braid and a way of standing that suggested she had never been taught to shrink. When she saw Bram she dropped the basket and punched his arm hard enough to mean affection.
"You absolute disaster," she whispered. "I waved you in. I thought you'd get a signature and a heel of bread. Next thing I hear, half the yard thinks you hexed a wyvern."
"I touched its nose."
"Oh, well then." She rolled her eyes, then sobered. "Yarrow told me enough. Not the royal part—she said if I knew the royal part I'd talk in my sleep and get us both killed. She told me you're in danger because you matter suddenly, and I'm in the garden because I matter to you. Which is flattering and terrifying."
"I'm sorry," Bram said.
"Don't be sorry. Be careful." Tilda glanced toward the dark walls. "Soldiers aren't monsters, Bram. Most of them are tired. But tired men follow orders, and orders come from people like Vaunt who sleep well. If something goes wrong at dawn, don't look at me like I can save you with a pitchfork. Look at the princess. She's the one with levers."
"She's using me."
"Everyone uses everyone," Tilda said. "The question is whether you get a say in the shape of it." She hesitated, then hugged him quickly, fiercely. "I liked you better when your biggest problem was a mare that wouldn't lift her hoof."
"I liked me better then too."
When she left, the garden smelled of rosemary and night damp. Bram sat on the low wall and tried to practice breathing like a person who would have to speak tomorrow in front of dukes.