Laren was absolutely furious. Not necessarily with Karigan, although anyone else speaking to King Zachary in that manner would have been immediately clapped in irons, but with Zachary himself. Gods! What was she going to do with him! Only three days until he would be married to Lady Estora, and here he was trying to court one of her Riders! It had been a while since she had wanted to throttle him this badly. At least Karigan had kept her head and not made puppy eyes at the King, which would certainly have led to an outright refusal to marry. Now she was following Zachary down the luxurious corridors that led to his private apartments, trying to guess what he was thinking. She knew he was agitated, she could tell by the vigorous pace he was setting, and she had a fair idea what was occupying his mind.

"Leave us," he almost barked at the servants when they entered his study. Morris, the Weapon, was the last to leave to stand guard outside the door as the King collapsed into a chair and rubbed his hands over his brow. He looked almost wild with anxiety, and Laren, ever the big sister, was moved to pity, even though the rational side of her knew siding with him in this could mean disaster.

"I can't do it, Laren," he said after a few moments. "I can't go through with this." He looked close to tears.

Laren said nothing, unsure how to proceed.

"I didn't think it would be this hard, but faced now with the point of no return…" he glanced at the Rider Captain. "I can't stop thinking about her."

To hide the thin line her mouth had become, Laren went over to the cabinet where Zachary kept decanted brandy and glasses, and poured some before handing it to him. He took it almost numbly, lost in thought.

"Rider Sir G'ladheon," Laren ventured to guess.

"Use her name," Zachary insisted. "Please."

"Karigan," Laren said obediently, against her better judgement.

"Karigan," he repeated, swirling the brandy in his glass. It was of the finest quality, the tumber from the glassmakers of Oldbury Province, and the liquor from the oak barrels of Bairdly. Made by people with utmost love for their craft. It was a similar affection that flowered in Zachary's voice when he said the name of her Rider. Laren couldn't help but feel a certain amount of irritation towards whichever of the gods controlled Fate. Under any other circumstance, she might have been satisfied – if not entirely happy – to see Karigan and Zachary together. But these were troubled times; with the threat of Second Empire present at every turn, and the chance that Mornhavon the Black could return any day, the worst thing for the King to do would be to alienate the Eastern Lord Governors.

"I love her, Laren," Zachary said after a silence of several moments. The Rider Captain didn't need the use of her special ability to know he spoke the truth, but in this situation, truth was the opposite of what was needed. Laren needed to dissuade the king from foolish action before any such thought entered his head.

"What is the use of your love if she does not return it?" she asked, almost harshly.

"I know she does, I've seen it in her," replied Zachary, although the tone of his voice implied that it was more wishful thinking than known fact. Unfortunately, Laren knew it was true. "I just wish she would show it – some sign of affection to know my regard is requited."

So that was what he had been doing with Karigan in the throne room, trying to get her to show her true feelings for him. It had been a cunning tactic, but it infuriated Laren even more.

"She hasn't replied to your letters," she said by way of trying to impress upon him Karigan's lack of regard. She failed to mention that this was because she had burned every last one of them, both in the interests of the kingdom and to spare the feelings of one of her Riders. Karigan didn't need any reminders of what she could never have.

"I suppose not," the King said, his voice faint.

Laren pressed her advantage. "Zachary, there are so many things that would separate you even if we were not on the brink of what we now face," she said softly. She knelt down beside him and touched his arm. "As it is, Sacoridia cannot afford to be split by civil war. You've said yourself we need to present a united front when Mornhavon returns. Your marriage to Lady Estora will ensure the loyalty of Lord Coutre and the other eastern provinces."

"There has to be another way," he muttered.

"There isn't," she replied firmly.

Silence dampened Zachary's study. Eventually he rose, and, pleading tiredness, bade Laren to leave. She knew it was more that she had so strongly told him the exact opposite of what he had wanted to hear, and that already the resolution that had formed in his eyes at his final words was putting into gear his brilliant political mind, trying to find an escape clause somewhere. Failure wasn't a feeling Laren was comfortable with, much less the feeling that she had somehow made the situation worse. She offered up a quick prayer to Aeron before marching from the Royal Wing towards Rider barracks in the other side of the castle.

Alone at last, Zachary had room to break down completely. He felt more tired than he had ever been in his life, more tried and tortured. What he wanted was so near to him, separated by a mere few stone walls, and yet so far out of his reach that he might as well be trying to grasp at the stars. Why couldn't he have what he wanted, just for once, and Sacoridia be hanged? With time counting down to the wedding, he had become increasingly morose, and resigned to his fate.

"There must be a way," he repeated again to himself. The talk with Laren had given him new determination. He would find a way to break the wedding contract and still keep Lord Coutre's loyalty, or else be wed with the knowledge that he had gone down fighting. It was a grim ultimatum, but Zachary was in a corner, and this was the only way he could see of getting out of it.

All this time he had been pacing his inner chamber, and the walls were starting to close in. He couldn't think in this stifling place. Making the decision, he removed the silver fillet still resting on his amber hair, donned his blue longcoat, and swept out of his rooms. He followed no particular path, but let his feet go where they willed, always followed by Morris, and always trying to figure out a plan.

He had reached the other side of the castle by the time he saw something to make him pause. The sun shone lazily down on the courtyard below, and from his vantage point, Zachary saw something that could, with the right touches, kill his two birds with one stone.