Dalmasca falls. Her father has signed the treaty--- but all Ashelia B’nargin Dalmasca can see is that the nation which bears her name and her father’s--- falls.

She is making ready to flee the palace, Vossler in tow; they have all but reached the teleport stone, and freedom, when---

A shimmering in the air, and they both draw steel in preference to being caught out---

The new arrivals have had the same idea; and she has just a moment to register the presence of a Judge with the half-dozen men--- when the seventh steps forward, and removes his helm.

For the first time in her life, she stands face to face with Vayne Solidor.

She does what any good daughter of Dalmasca would do: she spits at him, even as she raises her sword.

Vossler grabs her arm. "It’s six on one--- we must fall back---"

She tries to win her arm free.

Solidor speaks, as if none of this had happened, though she thinks she sees one eyebrow arch slightly. "How convenient," he says calmly, as if they faced each other in a drawing room instead of what should become a battlefield. "I come here seeking you, Your Majesty---" she starts at his use of what is, after all, now her proper title--- "and instead Your Majesty has most graciously chosen to find me. This saves time; and we have in truth not much of it to begin with."

"I would have thought a conqueror would have all the time in the world."

"A conqueror might; but I think to be somewhat else, betimes, Your Majesty." He looks at her seriously.

"What, then--- an assassin; you came seeking me to end Dalmasca’s line---" The rage she hadn’t known she was carrying in the numbness of her grief at the deaths of her father and husband bubbles up within her, spewing out at the man who is its author.

He shakes his head. "On the contrary--- I would help you ensure its preservation, and that of your kingdom---" he holds out a hand to her. "Come with me, Your Majesty, to a place of safety, that we may treat with at least somewhat more leisure--- though we have little enough regardless."

She stares at his hand as she would a viper. "And if I refuse?" Vossler’s hissed, "Majesty!" hits her ears; she holds up a hand for silence.

Vayne Solidor sighs; there is a hint of human exasperation in his mien that she hates to see. "Then you have my leave to go." He makes a gesture and his men step aside, though the Judge’s helm turns toward him, a hint of a speaking look hidden behind that fierce and impassive mask. "But know that if you do, your kingdom will fall, and become no more than a part of the Empire, as you have fought so hard to prevent--- and it will be by your doing."

"And if I join you?"

For some reason the words make his lip twitch up, just a bit. "Your Majesty, if you join me---" he stresses the word just slightly for some reason--- "then the next time you come to Dalmasca, it will be to resume your throne. What I offer is no less then Dalmasca’s freedom--- and a great deal more besides, if you will treat with me."

She stares at him. Her heart is burning with rage--- but his words have struck home.

And besides, if she goes with him, there’s always a chance that she can get a knife in his back, or his throat. "Very well," she says.

She ignores Vossler’s sigh of relief.

Vayne holds out his arm to her--- again, a gesture better suited to the drawing room than the battlefield, for all that his is the military genius that laid Nalbina and Dalmasca low. "Shall we?"

#

The shimmer from the teleport has hardly faded, leaving them in what is evidently his office, when he addresses himself to Vossler. "Captain--- Azelas, is it not?" Vossler starts at being so addressed. "Your queen and I have much to discuss that is best done in private; but I understand if you should fear for her safety---" one of the guards steps forward at a gesture from his master. "I believe Colonel Tarven here is about your size--- if you will don his arms and armor, you may take his place as my doorguard, and thus be in earshot of your queen should she have need of you."

Vossler looks at the colonel as Ashe had looked at Solidor’s hand. "I give you my word of honor," Solidor adds lowly, "that I mean her no harm---"

"A Solidor’s word of honor---" Ashe spits at him. "That’s worth not a pebble under my feet!"

For some reason, that actually makes him smile. "I see you and the Senate have a point of agreement," he says wryly, then, more softly--- "Judge Magister Drace, here, will stand surety with your captain, that my intentions are honorable."

Ashe starts to ask why she should take the word of one of Solidor’s lapdogs any more than she would his own--- then the Judge Magister steps forward and removes her helm.

Her helm; and that Solidor has brought a woman to stand surety for the proceedings at once convinces her that he speaks truth, and makes a horrible suspicion begin to bubble up in her mind. "Very well," she says, in clipped sharp tones, folding her arms across her chest. "Make haste, Vossler--- I would have this business concluded."

Vossler regards her dubiously, but does as bidden, and in no very long time, she and Vayne Solidor are alone.

"Your Majesty," he says, and bows to her. "I thank you for your trust."

"Do not thank me for what you do not have," she says shortly. "For what did you bring me here?"

"As I said, a proposition--- or rather," he adds wryly, "a proposal." Her suspicions swell like the wind in a sandstorm.

"Say on."

"Even as a child," he says, his voice almost too casual, "I wondered at your father’s choice to betroth you to Lord Rasler, and so set Nalbina and Dalmasca united against the Empire--- rather than to me, and make an alliance that would preserve their freedom." He looks at her directly, that blue-eyed gaze unsettling. "I would rectify that."

"You would marry me."

"Aye--- and for my groom-gift return your crown."

Ashe sorts thoughts fast. "You can do that?" She does not quite understand Archadian politics but she knows that he does not have quite the power that she or Rasler had: he cannot presume to inherit.

That gives both reason for his offer--- and reason why he cannot make it alone.

But he inclines his head. "I have some coin of influence that I can spend in the Senate---"

"And you would do it on Dalmasca’s behalf--- why? So you can wed your way to a crown instead of what you Archadians do?"

He laughs outright at that, unexpectedly. "Some would say the electoral process is even more whorish than what you describe. I would not expect to rule jointly with you---" He pauses. "I will admit that the Senate is like to look with favor upon my candidacy for the throne should it bring a union with Dalmasca’s--- but that is not my true goal."

"Then what is?"

He draws breath. "I have spoken of a groom-gift, but not a bride-gift."

"What is it I have that you Archadians have not already taken?" she spits.

"The Dusk Shard."

She stares at him; this is entirely unexpected. "Why?"

He clenches his fist. "As to the specifics--- believe that it would be safer for us both if we are wed before I speak further." She blinks in confusion--- then remembers her study of Archadian law: in his country, spouse may not testify against spouse.

"You’re planning a coup." It’s the only logical explanation.

He looks at her for a moment--- then laughs. It sounds rusty, as if he doesn’t do it that often, and he has laughed twice tonight. She wonders at it, assessing him as she would any opponent, for this is no less a battlefield than the one they left. "As a matter of fact, I am--- though not the kind you think; my father’s head is safe from my blade."

"As your brothers’ were not."

His gloved hands clench into fists. "That was at my father’s behest," he says sharply, and something in his tone tells her not to pursue it.

"And you had nothing to do with inspiring it," she can’t help but say anyway.

He looks at her sharply. "This is not to the point." He steps closer to her. "Your Majesty, believe me--- if I thought I could persuade the Senate, I would return your you throne with no talk of marriage, in exchange for the Dusk Shard alone--- it is only that they will want some manner of... assurance... of alliance."

"Of conquest," she says bitterly, though she is all too aware that her kingdom lies in his hands already.

No, she thinks suddenly. Dalmasca lies in Archadia’s hands now. The Emperor’s hands, or their Senate’s.

Vayne Solidor is asking her to put it in his hands instead.

"Not conquest," he says. "Freedom for your kingdom--- and perhaps--- far more than that," he adds, almost to himself.

She thinks quickly. Solidor--- the whole of House Solidor, but especially this one--- is reputed to be vicious, ruthless and clever, and his successes against her kingdom and Rasler’s bear that out.

And there is always the Dawn Shard. The Dawn Shard, that only she, in all the world, now knows exists, much less where to find it. She has a backup plan.

Not to mention that a knife in the back is easier to deliver when you sleep beside the intended recipient.

This gives her options.

She swallows the burning of hate and rage inside her--- she is a princess; no, she is a queen, and she knows her duty, though it burns as bitter as gall and acid.

A knife in the back, or the Dawn Shard and raise an army, she reminds herself. She has options, now. And she will sit Dalmasca’s throne, and use whatever influence she might have with her husband to hold Archadia at bay.

The thought of how such influence might be won turns her stomach; she and Rasler had been a love match for all it was arranged by their father’s, and touching this man of all of them would turn her stomach even if her beloved husband were colder in his grave than he yet is.

Perhaps this obsession of his with the Dusk Shard might give her some purchase, she consoles herself.

Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, for all her training in court politics, for his expression softens somewhat. "I am... aware that you and the late Lord Rasler were... more to each other than a marriage of political alliance," he says lowly. "I... shall not trespass upon your grief, nor your person--- though if you deem it expedient for Dalmasca’s heir to bear Solidor’s name, I find I’m sentimental enough to prefer that he or she also share Solidor’s blood." She hardly has time to realize that he has just given her blanket permission--- approval even--- to cuckold him, when he adds, "My brother’s hands are not stained with blood, nor will they be so if it is in my power; you might apply to him, when he is of age."

This is too much, after all that she has endured. "Then why not marry me off to your brother and have done with it--- or does that not suit your ambitions?"

His fists actually clench at that. "What you and Larsa might decide about Dalmasca’s heir--- when he is of age to do so--- is between the two of you. But I will not use my brother as a pawn." There is something rough and dangerous in his voice; for the first time, she sees what this man would be like on a battlefield that is fought with weapons other than words, and shivers at it. He sees it; swallows, and forces himself to relax with obvious effort, speaks more lightly. "For one thing, if it be possible, I would like for him to have the good fortune that Your Majesty enjoyed in her first marriage."

Oh, that shot tells, and for a moment, she wants to tell him that he’s overplayed his hand with that one.

But she knows what Rasler would tell her to do--- just as he once repudiated their marriage, which he had in truth desired, to force the hand of a conspiracy--- so he would tell her to do her duty now.

She takes a step to him, so close that she can feel the heat of his body against hers. "Very well," she says lowly. "I accept your... proposal. The Dusk Shard for Dalmasca’s crown, upon the day of our wedding."

He lets out a breath; she can feel the tension go out of his body. "I thank Your Majesty for the honor."

She snorts. "We’re affianced--- you needn’t ‘Majesty’ me." She’s needling him, gratuitously, taking out some of her frustrations this way. "I’m certainly not about to call you ‘my lord’."

"No, I shouldn’t think you would," he says wryly, and then, "Ashelia."

There is something so gentle in his tone, almost seductive, that she recoils from it instinctively, from the very pull of it. "Vayne." Her tone is more matter-of-fact.

"Well; I must go to the Senate with the happy news--- to ensure that it is so," Vayne adds sardonically. He pauses a moment. "The tradition in Archadia is to seal such--- agreements--- with a kiss."

It feels like he’s goading her in turn; she wants to tell him that if he tries she’ll slap him. Thinks that that’s the reaction he’s waiting for. "Well, get on with it, then," she says sharply, and tips her face up to him--- goading in turn.

He looks at her for an instant--- she thinks, with a hint of triumph, that she has managed to surprise him, and that that likely does not often happen to him.

Then he cups her cheek and bends to press his lips to hers.

She had expected--- well; she is not sure what she had expected, precisely, but it is not this: the light, soft touch of his mouth that is still firm against hers, serious and respectful. She has to fight the urge to break the contact at once, where she might have endured roughness or claiming or simple sloppiness--- might have endured the overtly unpleasant better than something that could almost be pleasant, if he were someone else, and she were.

He lingers about the touch for a moment--- she does not know Archadian customs, does not know whether it is a moment, or two, longer than is required or seemly--- then withdraws. "I thank you," he says, and there is something in that low voice that leaves her wondering, what for, exactly--- leaves her wondering about his reasons for this whole business. And if he mightn’t just have shown her a vulnerable side. A weak point that she can use.

He steps back, then, and is entirely business. "I shall to the Senate at once, then."

"At this hour?"

He smiles wryly. "They convened a special session--- they were waiting word from Dalmasca; that I can bring them happier news and more swiftly than they expected is to our advantage."

"You mean your advantage."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Are we not--- allies--- in this, Your Majesty?" she sucks in a breath. "If so, my advantage is yours." She takes that for a threat, or at least a warning, as to the reverse. He steps back further and bows to her. "By your leave---"

"You hardly need stand on ceremony with me," she all but snaps, unsettled by his excessive courtesy. "We’re affianced."

"Not until the Senate approves it," he says dryly, "but I take your point--- Ashelia." She fights a shiver again. "I shall ask Judge Drace to attend you and your Captain Azelas to suitable quarters."

She wants to ask if he’d prepared ahead of time--- then thinks that obvious; thinks as well: "And doubtless let your gaoler know that he can have back the cell you’d prepared for me if I refused, as well?"

He laughs outright at this; again, she thinks it’s a rare thing in him. "You already have the measure of me too well--- and I can also let him know he’s to leave the door latched on whoever does occupy it."

And with that astonishing comment, he bows himself out.

Left alone in the room, Ashe shivers; notices for the first time that the room is cold--- Archadia is a colder clime than Dalmasca, to be sure, as Archadian fashions which swathe the body from neck to toe attest, but she is not certain that’s all of it.

Vayne Solidor is a deeply unsettling man.

He is everything that Rasler was not, she finds herself thinking; and she is not sure whether that will be her saving grace or her undoing.