The Born Queen

Prologue Four Brief Tales

A shriek of pain lifted into the pearl-colored sky and hung on the wind above Tarnshead like a seabird. Roger Harriot didn’t turn; he’d heard plenty of screams this morning and would hear quite a few more before the day was done. Instead he focused his regard on the landscape, of which the west tower of Fiderech castle afforded an expansive view. The head itself was off to the west, presently on his left hand. Stacks of white stone jutted up through emerald grass, standing high enough to obscure the sea beyond, although as they slouched north toward town, the gray-green waves became visible. Along that slope, wind-gnarled trees reached their branches all in the same direction, as if to snatch some unseen prize from the air. From those twisty boughs hung strange fruit. He wondered if he would have been able to tell what they were if he did not already know.

Probably.

“Not everyone has the stomach for torture,” a voice informed him. He recognized it as belonging to Sacritor Praecum, whose attish this was.

“I find it dreary,” Roger replied, letting his gaze drift across the village with its neat little houses, gardens, and ropewalk. Ships’ masts swayed gently behind the roofs.

“Dreary?”

“And tedious, and unproductive,” he added. “I doubt very much it accomplishes anything.”

“Many have confessed and turned back to the true path,” Praecum objected.

“I’m more than familiar with torture,” Roger told him. “Under the iron, men will confess to things they have not done.” He turned a wan smile toward the sacritor. “Indeed, I’ve found that the sins admitted by the victim are usually first in the guilty hearts of their interrogators.”

“Now, see here—” the sacritor began, but Roger waved him off.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said. “It’s a general observation.”

“I can’t believe a knight of the Church could have such views. You seem almost to question the resacaratum itself.”

“Not at all,” Roger replied. “The cancer of heresy infects every city, town, village, and household. Evil walks abroad in daylight and does not bother to wear a disguise. No, this world must be made pure again, as it was in the days of the Sacaratum.”

“Then—”

“My comment was about torture. It doesn’t work. The confessions it yields are untrustworthy, and the epiphanies it inspires are insincere.”

“Then how would you have us proceed?”

Roger pointed toward the headland. “Most of those you question will end there, swinging by their necks.”

“The unrepentant, yes.”

“Best skip straight to the hanging. The ‘repentant’ are liars, and those innocents we execute will be rewarded by the saints in the cities of the dead.”

He could feel the sacritor stiffen. “Have you come to replace me? Are the patiri not pleased with our work?”

“No,” Roger said. “My opinions are my own and not popular. The patiri—like you—enjoy torture, and it will continue. My task here is of another nature.”

He turned his gaze to the southeast, where a light saffron road vanished into forested hills.

“Out of curiosity,” Roger asked, “how many have you hung?”

“Thirty-one,” Praecum replied. “And besides these behind us, twenty-six more await proving. And there will be more, I think.”

“So many heretics from such a small village.”

“The countryside is worse. Nearly every farm-and-woodwife practices shinecraft of some sort. Under your method, I should kill everyone in the attish.”

“Once an arm has gangrene,” Roger said, “you cannot cure it in spots. It must be cut off.”

He turned to regard the whimpering man behind him. Roger first had seen him as a strong, stocky fellow with ruddy windburned cheeks and challenging blue eyes. Now he was something of a sack, and his gaze pleaded only for that dark boat ride at the border of the world. He was tied to a wooden pillar set in a socket in the stone of the tower, his arms chained above him. Six other pillars held as many more prisoners, stripped and waiting their turn in the spring breeze.

“Why do you do your work up here rather than in the dungeons?” Roger wondered.

The sacritor straightened a little and firmed his chin. “Because I believe there is a point to this. In the dungeons they contemplate their sins and yearn for sunlight until they wonder if they really remember what it looked like. Then I bring them here, where they can see the beauty of the world: the sea, the sun, the grass—”

“And the fate that awaits them,” Harriot said, glancing at the gallow trees.

“That, too,” Praecum admitted. “I want them to learn to love the saints again, to return to them in their hearts.”

“You filthy whoreson,” the man on the pillar sobbed. “You vicious little sceat. What you did to my poor little Maola…” He shuddered off into sobs.

“Your wife was a shinecrafter,” Praecum said.

“She was never,” the man croaked. “She was never.”

“She admitted to tying Hynthia knots for sailors,” he shot back.

“Saint Hynthia,” the victim sighed. His energy seemed to be ebbing as quickly as he had found it. “There is no Saint Hynthia,” the sacritor said.

Roger tried to bite back a laugh, then thought better of it and let it go.

The sacritor nodded in satisfaction. “You see?” he said. “This is Roger Harriot, knight of the Church, an educated man.”

“Indeed,” Roger said, his mind changed again by the sacritor’s smugness. “I’m educated enough to—on occasion—consult the Tafles Nomens, one of the three books available in every attish.”

“The Tafles Nomens?”

“The largest volume in your library. The one on the lectern in the corner with the thick coat of dust on it.”

“I fail to see—”

“Hynthia is one of the forty-eight aspects of Saint Sefrus,” Roger said. “An obscure one, I’ll grant you. But I seem to recall that one ties knots to her.”

Praecum opened his mouth in protest, closed it, then opened it again.

“Saint Sefrus is male,” he finally said.

Roger wagged a finger at him. “You’re guessing that, based on the Vitellian ending. You’ve no idea who Saint Sefrus was, do you?”

“I…there are a lot of saints.”

“Yes. Thousands. Which is why I should wonder that you didn’t bother to check the book to see if Hynthia was a saint before you started accusing her followers as shinecrafters.”

“She gave sailors knots and told them to untie them if they needed wind,” Praecum said desperately. “That reeks of shinecraft.”

Roger cleared his throat. “And Ghial,” he quoted, “the Queen, said to Saint Merinero, ‘Take you this linen strand and bind a knot in the name of Sephrus, and when you are becalmed, release the wind by untying it.’”

He smiled. “That’s from the Sacred Annals of Saint Merinero. Was he a heretic?”

The sacritor pursed his lips and fidgeted. “I read the Life of Merinero,” he said. “I don’t remember that.” “The Life of Merinero is a paragraph in the Sahtii Bivii,” Roger said. “The Annal is a book of seven hundred pages.”

“Well, then I can hardly be expected—”

“Tell me. I’ve noticed you’ve a chapel for Mannad, Lir, and Netuno. How many sailors make their offerings there before going out to sea?”

“Few to none,” Praecum exploded. “They prefer their sea witches. For twenty years they’ve spurned—” He broke off, his face red, his eyes bugging halfway from their sockets.

“Truth?” Roger asked mildly.

“I have done what I thought best. What the saints wished of me.”

“So you have,” Roger replied. “And that clearly is neither here nor there as concerns the truth.” “Then you have come to, to…” His eyes were watery, and he was trembling.

Roger rolled his eyes. “I don’t care about you, or this poor bastard’s wife, or whether every person you’ve hanged was innocent. The fact that you’re an ignorant butcher is the reason I’m here, but not for any of the reasons you fear.”

“Then why, for pity’s sake?”

“Wait, and I promise you will see.”

A bell later, his promise was kept.

They came from the south, as Harriot reckoned. There were around half a hundred of them, most in the dark orange tabards of the Royal Light Horse, riding boldly out of the forest and up to the gates of the castle. As they drew nearer, he saw that ten of them wore the full lord’s plate of knights. There was a single unarmored fellow appareled in the Vitellian manner, complete with broad-brimmed hat. Next to him was the most singular of the riders, a slight figure in a breastplate, with short red hair. At first he thought the person a page or squire, but then, to his delight, he realized who it actually was. I was right, he thought, trying not to feel smug.

“It appears Queen Anne herself has come to pay you a visit,” he told the sacritor.

“Heresy,” the sacritor muttered. “There is no Queen Anne.”

“The Comven crowned her,” Harriot pointed out.

“The Church does not recognize her authority,” Praecum countered.

“I’ll enjoy hearing you tell her that,” Harriot replied. “You and your fifteen men.”

“Up there,” a clear feminine voice shouted. “Is one of you the sacritor of this attish?”

“I am,” Praecum replied.

From his vantage, Harriot couldn’t make out much about her features, but even so he felt a wintry chill, and her eyes seemed somehow dark.

“M—Majesty,” the sacritor said. “If you wait but a moment, I can offer you the humble hospitality of my poor attish.”

“No,” the woman replied. “Wait where you are. Send someone down to show us the way up.”

Praecum nodded nervously at one of his men, then began rubbing his hands nervously.

“That was a quick change of mind,” Harriot observed.

“As you said, we’re outnumbered.”

“Not if the saints are on our side,” Harriot replied.

“Do you mock me?”

“Not at all.”

The sacritor shook his head. “What can she want here?”

“You haven’t heard about Plinse, Nurthwys, and Saeham?”

“Towns in Newland. What about them?”

“You’ve really no better ear for news than that?”

“I have been quite occupied here, sir.”

“So it appears.”

“What do you mean?”

Harriot heard clattering on the stairs.

“I think you’ll find out in a moment,” he remarked. “Here they come.”

Harriot had never met Anne Dare, but he knew quite a bit about her. She was seventeen, the youngest daughter of the late William II. Reports by Praefec Hespero and others described her as selfish and willful, intelligent but uninterested in using her intelligence, least of all for politics, for which she had no inclination whatsoever. She had vanished from sight around a year earlier, only to turn up at the Coven Saint Dare, where she was being trained in the arts of the Dark Lady.

Now it seemed she took a great deal of interest in politics. Perhaps it was the slaughter of her sisters and father that had spurred it, or the numerous attempts on her own life. Perhaps it was something the sisters of Saint Cer had done to her.

Whatever the case, this was not the girl he had read about.

He hadn’t expected freckles, although he knew she was fair-skinned and red-haired, and those things usually went together. Her nose was large and arched enough that if it were a bit bigger, one might call it a beak, but somehow it fit pleasantly below her sea-green eyes, and though she wasn’t classically beautiful like her mother, there was an appeal about her.

She focused her gaze on Praecum. She didn’t say anything, but the young man at her side placed his hand on the hilt of his rapier.

“Her Majesty, Anne I of Crotheny,” he said.

Praecum hesitated, then went down on his knee, followed by his men. Harriot followed suit.

“Rise,” Anne said. Her gaze wandered over the tortured souls on the rooftop.

“Release these people,” she said. “See that they are treated for their sufferings.”

Several of her men broke away from her group and began to do that.

“Majesty—”

“Sacritor,” Anne said. “These people are my subjects. Mine. My subjects are not detained, tortured, or murdered without my consent. I do not remember you asking my consent.”

“Majesty, my instructions come from z’Irbina and the Fratrex Prismo, as you must know.”

“Z’Irbina is in Vitellio,” she replied. “This is Hornladh, in the Empire of Crotheny, and I am its empress.” “Surely, Majesty, the holy Church is above temporal rulers.”

“Not in Crotheny,” she said. “Not according to my father, not according to me.”

The sacritor lowered his head. “I am a servant of the Church, Majesty.”

“That’s immaterial to me. You are accused of torture, murder, and treason. We will try you tomorrow.” “As you tried the sacritors of Plinse, Nurthwys, and Saeham?”

Her gaze switched to him, and he felt another, deeper chill. There was still something of a girl in there, but there was something else, too, something very dangerous.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Sir Roger Harriot,” he replied. “Knight of the Church, in service to His Grace Supernnirus Abullo.” “I see. Sent by z’Irbina to aid in this butchery?”

“No, Majesty,” he replied. “That’s not my business here.”

“What is your business, then?”

“I and forty-nine other knights of the Church were called to aid His Majesty Robert in keeping the peace.”

“Yes,” Anne said. “I remember now. We were wondering what happened to you.”

“We got word that things had changed in Eslen.”

“And so they did,” Anne replied. “The usurper is fled, and I have taken the throne my father meant me to have.” She smiled thinly. “Did you think you would be unwelcome?”

“That occurred to my liege,” Harriot admitted.

“Have your companions returned to z’Irbina, then?”

“No, Majesty. We have been waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you.”

Her eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t say anything.

“You’re an unusual queen,” Harriot went on. “You personally led the invasion of Eslen castle. Since taking the crown, you have managed a number of these visits to interfere with the resacaratum. We thought that given your pattern, our friend Praecum here would eventually prove irresistible.” “Well, you were right about that,” Anne said. “So this was all a trap, then.”

“Yes, Majesty. And now you are surrounded. I urge you to surrender to my custody, and I promise you will not be harmed.”

“Not until I’ve been convicted of shinecraft, you mean?”

“That I cannot speak to.”

Praecum had regained a little color. “You were serious, Sir Harriot! The saints are with us. Forty-nine knights—”

“Each with a guard of ten, all mounted,” Harriot finished.

“That makes…” Praecum’s lips moved silently. “Five hundred.”

“Yes,” Harriot replied.

Anne smiled. “How convenient that I brought two thousand, then.”

Harriot felt his heart all but stop in his chest.

“Majesty?”

“This was indeed a trap, Sir Harriot,” she said. Something tightened around her eyes, and then she reached forward so that the heel of her hand came against his forehead.

He felt the bones in his skin go suddenly heavy and febrile. He fell to his knees, but she did not release the contact. His skin everywhere stung, his lungs seemed full of flies. And in his head…

He saw St. Abulo’s host in their camp, waiting for the morning, some sleeping, some on watch. He seemed to be one of the watchmen, suddenly crushed by this same black torpor, and he watched, uncaring, as nimble shadows slipped into the camp, slitting the throats of the sleeping and waking alike. Some woke and managed to fight, but it wasn’t long before all five hundred were dead. The eyes he watched through dimmed, and he felt himself dragged along as if by a swift river, and screamed…

He came back to the sunlight gasping, watching the distant corpses swinging from their branches. His breeches were wet.

He looked up at the queen, and her smile broadened into a terrible thing.

“Now about your surrender,” she said.

Harriot summoned a dogged reserve of will. “Do you understand what you’ve done?” He gasped. “The full wrath of the Church will fall on you now. There will be holy war.”

“Let z’Irbina come,” she replied. “I have seen enough of their work. Let them come and receive the justice they deserve.”

Harriot steadied his breath and felt his fever fade. “That’s bold talk,” he said. “How is the Hansan fleet?” “Encamped along our coast, as you must know,” Anne replied.

“And you truly believe you can fight Hansa and the holy Church?”

Her gaze intensified, and he flinched. It took all he had in him not to cower.

“What do you think?” she asked softly.

I think you are mad, he silently opined, but he could not say it.

She nodded, as if she had heard him, anyway. “I’ve a mind to let you return to z’Irbina,” she said. “So you can tell them what was done and said here. And let me add this: From this moment, all servants of the Church in z’Irbina shall either renounce their allegiance to that corrupt institution or leave our borders within the nineday. Beyond that time, any churchman, regardless of rank, will be arrested, imprisoned, and tried for treason against the empire. Is this clear enough for you to repeat, Sir Roger?”

“Very clear, Majesty,” he husked.

“Very well. Go. As you’ve pointed out, I’ve other things to attend to now.”

They let him keep his horse and arms. He went to the camp and found the bodies where they had fallen, most still in their blankets. The field was thick with ravens, and the clouds threatened rain. Roger sat there for a few moments as the earth seemed to tilt. He didn’t know if Anne really understood what would happen now; even he couldn’t imagine the full scope of the slaughter that was now inevitable. The five hundred who had died here weren’t even a start.

His footsteps rang on the red marble, drifted up into the great dark hollow of the Caillo Vaillaimo, and came back to him like whispers from death.

I am come, they seemed to say.

Death walked with him, but fear came creeping behind.

Be still, he told himself. Be still. You are Marché Hespero, praifec of Crotheny. You are the son of Ispure of the Curnaxii. You are worthy.

“The holiest of holies,” the man a step behind him and to his left breathed.

Hespero glanced at him and saw that his gaze was wandering around the arching buttresses, the thousands of niches with their gilded saints.

“That?” Hespero waved at the architecture. “Are you talking about the building, Brother Helm?” “The Caillo Vaillaimo,” Helm replied. “Our most perfect temple.”

Hespero felt his brow pinch in a frown. He heard Sir Eldon, on his right, sigh, but the other six men in his entourage remained silent.

“You’ve learned nothing,” he told Helm.

“Your grace?” the brother asked, his voice sounding chastised but puzzled.

“Hush now. Be silent as we approach his eminence.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Hespero waved him off. Brother Helm’s mistake was a common one. The building had been built to impress, and it did, but in the end the structure was only a symbol. The real holy of holies was underneath the red marble and ancient foundations. He could feel it as he never had before with each touch of his foot against the stone: aching, awful power that made his bones feel burnt and his flesh rotten. His mouth tasted of soot and decay.

But Helm couldn’t feel that, could he? Death wasn’t with Helm.

On down the sacristy hall they went, but before they reached the grand nave, their guide led them to a side passage and up a staircase into the prayer halls with their writing lecterns and smell of lead, then around a corner, past the lesser scriftorium. He realized with a chill that they were making their way to the private suites of the Fratrex Prismo, but not by the most direct route.

“There’s no one here,” Brother Helm whispered. He had noticed it, too. “The corridors are all empty.” “Quite,” Sir Eldon agreed.

Their escort didn’t glance back, but he surely had heard. Not that it mattered.

He’d been in this part of the Caillo only once, very long ago, when Niro Pihatur had been the Fratrex Prismo.

He thought he knew where they were going.

They came into a lozenge-shaped room, ostensibly a chapel to Lady Lasa; her winged and wreathed statue stood at the far end, smiling a knowing smile. At the moment, however, the place was filled not with worshippers but with Mamres monks. They were armed, and not with ceremonial weapons. At their head stood a figure in dark indigo robes and a black three-cornered hat that somewhat resembled a crown.

“Brother Mylton,” Hespero said, favoring the man with a short bow.

“I am a tribiceros now,” the cleric corrected.

“Yes, I see the hat,” Hespero said. “But you are still a brother, like all of us.”

Mylton smiled indulgently. His bulging eyes and narrow face had always made Hespero think of some sort of rodent. The hat didn’t really change the impression.

“You will submit to blindfolding, all of you,” Mylton said.

“Of course,” Hespero replied.

As the monks knotted darkness to his face, Hespero felt the floor beneath him thin even further, and his body shivered as if aching to tear itself into pieces.

Someone took him firmly by the arm.

“Step down,” a voice he did not know whispered.

He did, once, twice, thrice. In the end, he counted eighty-four steps, just as he had the last time. Then there was turning this way and that in air that tasted stale, until at last they stopped and the blindfolds were removed.

Perhaps they don’t plan to kill us, a small part of Hespero thought as his eyes adjusted to his new surroundings. Why bother keeping the way secret if we’re never coming out?

But another part of him knew that was stupid. It was ritual. Any intelligent, attentive person—and certainly any initiate of Decmanus, for instance—would be able to find his way back here, blindfolded or not. Only initiates and sacrifices made this journey to the place beneath, to the real Caillo Vaillaimo. He began picking out details in the guttering light of the torches that plenished two score wall sockets. The chamber was carved into the living stone the temple was built upon, its natural sandy hue made orange by the firelight. Rows of semicircular benches climbed before him, but all were empty save for three seats raised up at the back and the throne behind them. Two of the three were occupied by the other two tribiceri, and as Hespero watched, Mylton completed their number.

The Fratrex Prismo sat the throne, of course.

“Where are we?” Brother Helm asked.

“The Obfuscate Senaz of the Hierovasi,” Hespero replied.

The Fratrex Prismo suddenly raised his voice:

Commenumus

Pispis post oraumus

Ehtrad ezois verus Taces est.

“Izic deivumus,” the others chorused, and Hespero realized with faint surprise that he had responded along with everyone else.

Well, he had been in the Church a long while. Much of what he did was reflex.

Niro Fabulo had been in the clergy longer than Hespero. The Fratrex Prismo was almost eighty. The hair streaming from beneath the black-and-gold crown was white, and his eyes, once blue, had been bleached to tinted ice. He had an arched Vitellian nose and a persistent tick in his sagging left cheek. “Well,” Fabulo said, almost sighing. “You surprise me, Hespero.”

“How so, your grace?”

“You’ve delivered yourself here after all of your crimes. I thought I would have to have you brought in by the ear.”

“You don’t know me very well, then,” Hespero said.

“Don’t be impertinent,” Fabulo snapped. He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll never know what Niro Lucio saw in you, I really won’t. I know you took your vows together, but that was more than thirty years ago.”

“I don’t understand what you’re implying,” Hespero said.

“When you left the college, you went off to some tiny attish in the Bairghs and distinguished yourself in no way whatever. But Lucio stayed here and rose in rank. When he was lustrated as praifec, he called for you. He swayed the senaz to make you amplulo of Crotheny and later praifec.”

“I’m flattered you know so much about me.”

“What I know does not flatter you,” he snapped. “And yet I knew Lucio. He was loyal, above all loyal to the Church. He was not one who usually counted friendship toward a qualification. I wonder if something more than friendship did not prompt your rise in position.”

“Does my record since that time suggest I was unqualified?”

Niro Fabulo shook his head. “No, indeed. You have been exemplary in every way, or at least that is what the record reflects. Until the last year or so, that is, and there things go very wrong. Shall I catalogue your major failures?”

“If it pleases you, your grace.”

“It does not, but I shall do so.” He leaned forward.

“You failed to stop William from naming his daughters as heirs. You promised to manage that mistake, yet again you failed. Not only is one of the daughters still alive, she now sits the throne. Now, that in itself is enough failure for a lifetime, Hespero. You failed to quicken the faneways of the shrouded lords in the King’s Forest. And despite all of this”—he mopped his brow with his sleeve—“despite all of this, my predecessor, your dear friend Lucio, entrusted you with the arrow of Aitas in order to slay the Briar King. This also you failed to do, and now the arrow is lost to us.”

Hespero started to retort to that last accusation, but thought better of it. What was the point? It was mostly true, especially as concerned Anne. He could only blame himself for choosing such unstable allies in the matter. The faneways were of little consequence, really, and Lucio had known that.

But Lucio was dead, most probably at the hand of the man now accusing him. Niro Fabulo didn’t begin to understand Hespero’s real failure.

“Finally,” the prismo concluded, “you took cowardly flight from your post in Eslen.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. In what month do your reports have that happening?

“Just after Yule.”

“That was when King Robert was on the throne and months before Anne raised her army. What do you imagine I was fleeing?”

“You left no explanation of your whereabouts,” Fabulo said. “What are we to assume?”

“Does it matter?” Hespero asked, his voice sounding eerily calm and uncustomarily blunt in his own ears. “You’ve murdered Lucio, and now you’re purging his friends. I’m one of them. Why all this talk?” “Lucio was a fool,” Fabulo said. “Lucio never really understood the prophecies or what must be done now. He was too much of the past. But I think you and he were up to something. And I rather want to know what that was.”

“A failure like me? What could I be up to?” Hespero asked.

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Fabulo said.

Hespero felt his throat go dry, and for an instant the words stuck in his throat, coming out as a sort of gasp.

“What?” the prismo demanded.

Hespero took a deep breath and raised his head.

“You are going to find out,” he repeated, clearly this time. “But not the way you’d like.”

Hespero saw Fabulo’s brow descend and his mouth open to speak.

I am Hespero, he thought. He clenched his teeth, then relaxed and let the incantation come.

“Shadowed saints who walk all ways, know all fanes. Be with me.”

He let the cold waters beneath the world rush in through his feet, and they went numb, followed quickly by his legs, crotch, and belly. He felt his heart stop, and he knew he did not have long. Then the numbness reached his head, and the voices around him dropped away. He could still see, but the figures before him appeared tiny, the torches like little brass jewels. He felt hollowed and stretched by the power of the fane beneath him.

What was he doing? Who was he? Faces were fading in his mind. He glanced at the man beside him and could not remember his name. The place itself no longer seemed familiar.

Now he felt a current tug; the tide had come into him, and now it was going out. When it went, it would take him with it.

Unless…

There was an “unless,” but he couldn’t remember what it was. But he did see something across the unfamiliar space, something his eye told him was the shape of a man but was also something else. It was a river, a stream, a swift bright current. It was beautiful, and he reached for it like a man dying of thirst. Everything else was paling. The spring was too far away, and the pull inside him was so strong. He realized he had stopped breathing, and suddenly he no longer cared. He could rest, forget, sleep. No. I am still Marché Hespero. Son of…

He couldn’t recall. With an inchoate cry, he flung himself at the effulgent waters, and something in him reached farther than his paralyzed body, and he felt the stream that wasn’t a stream with fingers that weren’t fingers, and he drew it into him as if drinking. The separation of his soul and corpse eased, and he drank deeper, opening himself completely as everything faded into black.

Impossible, someone seemed to say.

Hespero felt his grin, a grim crescent slicing through two worlds.

Impossible. You have not walked the faneway. Only I…

“You’re right,” Hespero said. “But I am attuned to it.”

Not as I am.

Hespero suddenly felt the chill replaced by fever, and his body stiffened, then began to dissolve. “No,” he gritted.

Yes. You surprised me…

“Yes,” Hespero gasped.

But I am the more powerful here.

Hespero clenched his fists, but the strain tore his fingers loose from his hands. An instant later his shoulders sagged, and both arms dropped off.

No.

His spine wobbled and then began to crumble, and his torso almost gently collapsed as his knees dissolved. His body broke apart, the black current towing the pieces away.

Shivering with fear, Hespero renewed his grasp on the brightness even as he began to stretch thinner and thinner, becoming a stream himself.

“Here,” a voice suddenly said. He couldn’t see anything, but he suddenly felt something shivery and hot. “I remember,” he murmured. “I remember this.”

“Then hurry. You will soon forget.”

The voice was right, for even as Hespero struck with the thing, he was no longer sure what he was doing, or why, or—

Something like a scream, and then, and then…

Revelation.

Images came first, fractured and whole. Scents, textures, pain and pleasure, the stuff of matter, the stuff of life but peeled off of life, adrift.

But no longer adrift. In him, now.

The first came from Fabulo: fear and exhilaration. Yes, it had been murder, Lucio’s death, subtle poison, but then, it was all too fast, a life falling backward, flashes jumping out. The electric tingle of the faneway of Saint Diuvo, the stroke of a woman’s fingers, running through a field of tall wheat, the tap of his head on the cold marble of a chapel in z’Espino, shivering, hot, confused in chaffing blankets, the softness of linen, wonder, a face that was the universe, the sweet scent of mother’s milk, pain, light…

And then, for a long while, Hespero could not think at all as the well of knowledge opened, filled him, and—just as he thought he could endure no more—closed.

Something spasmed, and he felt his fingernails biting into his palms, a painful vise on each arm, and in his chest a terrible shuddering.

My heart, he thought. My heart.

It shuddered again, and his chest felt crushed.

Then a thump, pause, thump-thump, pause, thump.

And the agony eased to hurt, then relief. Gasping, he opened his eyes.

“You did it,” Sir Eldon said. The knight was holding him up by his left arm. Brother Helm had the right. He fought his gaze up the tiers of benches. Niro Fabulo slumped in his chair, eyes wide, skin already turning blue.

Mylton was just turning from the dead prismo, his jaw dropping.

“How?” he asked.

“The saints rejected him,” Hespero wheezed. “They chose me.”

“But you haven’t walked the faneway,” Mylton objected. “How could you use the holy source?”

“The saints make their will known through me directly,” Hespero asserted.

“That’s impossible.”

“It is a fact,” Hespero managed. “You all saw. You must have felt.”

“Yes,” another of the tribiceri—L’Ossel—said. “Don’t you see? Don’t you remember? It’s true. The prophecy says, ‘and he will draw the power of Saint Diuvo, although he has not walked in his steps.’” A general murmur went up from what had been a stunned silence.

“He is the real Fratrex Prismo,” L’Ossel went on. “He is the one meant to lead us in the final days.” Hespero rallied what little remained of his strength and shook himself free of the supporting hands. “I will not brook doubt,” he said. “Time is short, and too much has to be done. If anyone else would challenge me, let it be now.”

He lifted his chin. Against all odds, he had survived both the fane and Fabulo. He had nothing left now. If even the weakest of them challenged him, it was all over.

But instead, they all went to their knees.

And a few days later, he was titled Fratrex Prismo Niro Marco.

It had a nice ring to it.

Stephen snapped awake, his heart thundering in his chest.

“What?” he gasped.

But no one answered. Something had awakened him—something loud, or bright, or painful—except that he couldn’t quite remember whether it had been a sound, a light, or a feeling. Had it been in the waking world or across the night divide? His scalp and palms tingled, and he felt like an insect mired in molasses. Then the wind came in the open window, cool and clean, and the liminal moment faded.

He pressed the page of the book he’d been studying, realizing that he’d literally fallen asleep with his nose in it, and, as the waking terror faded, felt like chuckling at himself. What would Zemlé say? She would make some joke about him being obsessed, but she understood. He tucked a ribbon to mark his place in the tome, then regarded the sheet of lead next to it with its faded engravings. It was the epistle, the letter that had led him to this place. Although he had translated the cipher it was written in long before, he felt something basic was escaping him, hidden in the text, some clue to the secret for which he was searching.

He rose and went to the east window and then paused. Hadn’t he left it shuttered?

A glance around the room revealed no intruder or any place that might conceal one. It was an open, airy space, carved of living stone but with enormous windows for each direction of the wind, hung with framed crystal thicker than the length of his thumb. Closed, they were translucent, suffusing the chamber with ample pleasant light during the day, but open, they offered a rare view. So far as he could tell, this was the highest room in the vast complex of caves and tunnels that riddled Witchhorn Mountain, hollowed out from a spindly upthrust on the east side of the peak the Aitivar—the inhabitants of the place—called the Khelan, or “spit.” He didn’t know what they called this upper room, but he’d named it the aerie. Sunrises were splendid from there, pulling above the jagged peaks of the Bairghs, and he fancied on a clear day he could see almost to the Midenlands south and as far east as the inlet of Dephis, because at times he thought he saw the liquid shimmer of a great water, although that could well be a trick of the light.

He shrugged. He must have left it unlatched, and the wind had blown it open.

It was dusk now, and the Witchhorn cast its long shadow out toward the blue haze of the horizon. North and south of the mountain’s umbra, the pikes and ridges burned orange, and a few stars were furtively appearing in the deep of the sky.

He savored a long, happy breath and put his palms on the marble sill, leaning forward a bit.

It was as if he had placed his hands on a hot stove, and he yelped from the pain and surprise. He stumbled back, staring at his hands in shock.

In a few heartbeats he began to calm down. The stone hadn’t been hot enough to burn his skin from such a brief contact; it had been mostly the surprise. He ventured back and touched the sill again. It was still very warm.

He felt the near wall, but it was as cool as the evening air.

He glanced around uneasily. What was going on? Had he unwittingly triggered some ancient Sefry shinecraft? Were volcanic vapors rising through the mountain? Curious, he continued along the wall toward the next window, then the next. There wasn’t anything unusual there, but when he came to the stone stair that descended farther into the mountain, he found the banister unusually warm, too. He went back to the eastern window, knelt, and touched the floor. There it was, a warm spot. And a little more than a kingsyard farther there was another—a trail of them, leading to the steps…

His scalp was tingling now.

What had come through here? What had walked past him as he slept?

Now he wished he hadn’t wanted to be alone and had allowed some of the Aitivar to accompany him. Whatever it was, it had ignored him when he was at his most vulnerable. Surely it wouldn’t hurt him now. He strained his saint-blessed senses. He didn’t hear anything, but there was a faint scent a little like burning pine, but with a musky, animal component, too.

He looked back out the window, examining the drop that stayed sheer for two hundred kingsyards. Whatever had come, it must have flown.

He glanced back at the stair, and then he remembered. Zemlé was down there where whatever it was had gone. Maybe it had left him alone because he was asleep, but if she was awake…

He suddenly heard dogs barking—Zemlé’s hounds—and everything went pale.

He wasn’t a fighter by nature, but he wished he had thought to carry a weapon: a knife, at the very least. Swearing that from now on he would do so, he grabbed his lantern and started down the stairs.

The dogs suddenly stopped barking.

The aerie wasn’t the only chamber in the Khelan. The whole thing was rather like a small castle or mansion or, perhaps more aptly, a wizard’s tower. Fifty-seven steps brought him to the next chamber, which he and Zemlé had dubbed the Warlock’s Bedroom. It was carved in a high vault, and although there were no windows as such, numerous long shafts brought light in from different directions, depending on the time of day, offering not only illumination but also a rough sort of clock.

The scent was stronger on the stairway, cloying in his nostrils, and when he burst into the chamber, he had the start of a good panic. Zemlé’s three great beasts were at the far end of the room, facing the hall where the stair continued down. They weren’t making a sound, but the hair on their necks was up. “Zemlé!”

He could see her on the bed, one bare leg thrown out from beneath the quilt. She wasn’t moving, and she didn’t respond to his shout. He raced to her side.

“Zemlé,” he repeated, shaking her.

Her lids fluttered open. “Stephen?” Then her brows dropped. “Stephen, what’s wrong?”

Gasping for breath, he sat on the bed.

Zemlé sat up, reaching for his arm. “What?”

“Nothing, I—I think something came through here. I was afraid it might have hurt you. Didn’t you hear the dogs?”

“They started up,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes. “They do that. This place spooks them.” Then her vision seemed to clear. “Something?”

“I’ve no idea. I fell asleep, upstairs—”

“Nose in your book.”

He stopped. “You came up?”

“I guessed. If you’d gone to sleep on purpose, I rather think you would have come down here with me.” She shrugged. “Or do I flatter myself?”

“Ah, no, you don’t.”

“But go on.”

“The, umm, the window ledge was hot.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Hot?”

“I mean really hot. Burning, almost. And the banister of the stairs and the floor, in places, as if something really blistering walked through.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve no idea. But what with all of the greffyns and utins and waurms and generally ancient nasties I’ve seen lately, it might be anything. A salamandra, maybe.”

She stroked his arm. “Well, it didn’t hurt you and it didn’t hurt me, did it? Or even the dogs. So maybe it’s a friendly burning-invisible thing.”

“Maybe. Or maybe friendly like Fend.”

“Fend hasn’t made the slightest false move,” she pointed out.

“He tried to kill me.”

“I mean since he became the Blood Knight and swore himself to your service.”

“Well, right, but…he will, mark my words. Anyway, it’s been less than a month. He’s up to something.” She shrugged. “Do you want to keep trailing this beastie of yours? I can get dressed.”

He blinked, suddenly understanding that in sitting up she hadn’t brought the covers with her and was quite nude.

“That’s something I’d hate to ask,” he murmured.

“And generally untypical of men,” she replied.

“Still…”

“Just wait.” She swung her slim legs off the bed and stepped onto the floor, crossing a few paces to a dressing gown that lay rumpled there. As she slid it over her head and her white body vanished into it, he felt a strong stirring. Why should it be more erotic for her to dress than the opposite? But there it was, a fact.

He shook that off. She pulled on her buskins, and together they set off in search of the apparition, the dogs padding silently behind. Stephen wondered if she even believed him or if she was just being as deferential to him as the Aitivar and Fend appeared to be. He hoped not; he had been attracted by her strong and independent spirit, not her pliancy. In fact, she had been very much in control of the relationship in the beginning. Now, it sometimes almost felt that he was. It was as worrying as any other unfamiliar thing, especially considering the reverence with which the Aitivar seemed to treat him. “Seemed,” because they had brought him here by force, and he hadn’t forgotten that.

But there hadn’t been anything like that since. His word was law, and so far as he could tell, no part of the mountain was off limits.

Except the parts he couldn’t find.

“What’s wrong?”

It was disconcerting how well Zemlé could read his mood.

“Watch your step,” he muttered, “not me.”

“Come on. You’re distracted.”

“I’m just wondering again why the Aitivar don’t know where the Alq is,” Stephen said. “It’s supposed to be the heart, the treasury of this place, and no one can point me toward it despite the fact that that’s what I came here to find.”

“Well, treasuries are usually hidden or well guarded or both,” she pointed out. “And the Aitivar were latecomers here, too.”

“I know,” he said.

They’d reached the next landing and a series of galleries that might have once been ballrooms or banquet halls, so grand were they.

He listened, but his once supernatural hearing had been damaged by an explosion a few months before. He could still hear better than the average mortal, though, and now he didn’t notice anything out of place. Feeling about, he couldn’t detect any warm spots, either.

“Well, it could have gone ten ways from here,” he said. “Maybe I should just alert the guard.” “That’s what they’re for,” Zemlé said.

He nodded. “I’ll find them; they’re just another flight down. Maybe they even saw it. You go on back up.”

She smiled. “Fine. I’ve a mind to undress again. Will you be joining me?”

Stephen hesitated.

She rolled her eyes. “We’ll find the Alq, Stephen. As you said, it’s been less than a month. You spent all last night reading. Spend another night so, and I’ll begin to doubt my charms.”

“It’s just—it’s urgent. The Revesturi expect I can find the knowledge here to keep the world from ending. That’s a bit of a responsibility. And now this…intruder.”

She smiled and partly opened her dressing gown.

“Life is short,” she said. “You’ll find it. It’s your destiny. So come to bed.”

Stephen felt his face burning.

“I’ll be right up,” he said.

Leovigild Ackenzal eased back onto a cushion of warm clover and closed his eyes against the sun. He drew a deep breath of bloom-sweet air and let the solar heat press gently on him. His thoughts began to lose their sense as the dreams hiding in the green began to tiptoe into his head.

A thaurnharp began sounding a delicate melody that blended with the birdsong and bee buzzes of the afternoon.

“What tune is that?” a familiar voice softly asked, startling him.

“She’s improvising,” he murmured.

“It sounds a little sad.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Everything she plays these days is sad.”

Warm, supple fingers wrapped around his own stiff and ruined digits. He opened his eyes and turned his head so that he could see Areana’s red-gold hair and dark-jeweled orbits.

“I didn’t hear you come up,” he told her.

“Bare feet don’t make much sound on clover, do they?”

“Especially feet as dainty as yours,” he replied.

“Oh, hush. You don’t have to win me anymore.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “I’d like to win you again every day.”

“Well, that’s nice,” she said. “Good husband talk. We’ll see if you feel that way in ten years as opposed to ten days.”

“It’s my fondest wish to find out. And again in twenty, thirty—”

She cupped her hand over his mouth. “Hush, I said.”

She looked around the glade. “I’m going to start calling this your solar. You always want to be in the sunlight these days.”

Don’t you? he wanted to ask. She had spent months in the dungeons, just as he had. And just as he had, she had heard—

No. He didn’t want to remember.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to remind you. I just—I wonder what you will do when winter comes.”

He shrugged. “It’s not here yet, and I can’t stop it coming. We’ll see.”

She smiled, but he felt it turn in him.

“Maybe I can write a bright music.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve ruined your nap.”

You have, he thought, his bitterness growing. And why carp about winter?

“Still,” she went on, her tone changing, “all you do is nap, it seems.”

He sat up, feeling his breath begin to fire. “How do you—”

And then a bee stung him. The pain was very simple, very direct, and he found himself on his feet howling, swatting at the air, which was alive with the swarming insects.

He understood now. The pain of the sting had wakened his sense.

“Mery,” he shouted, striding toward the girl where she sat with her little thaurnharp.

“Mery, quit that.”

But she kept playing until Leoff reached down and stopped her hands. They felt cold.

“Mery, it’s hurting us.”

She didn’t look up at first but continued to study the keyboard.

“It doesn’t hurt me,” she said.

“I know,” he said softly.

She looked up then, and his chest tightened.

Mery was a slight girl; she looked younger than her eight winters. From a distance she might be five or six.

But she wasn’t at a distance now. Her eyes had been azure when they had met. They were still blue, but they seemed filmed over somehow, sometimes vacant, sometimes sharp with subtle pain a child her age should not know. Up close, Mery might be a hundred.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What were you trying to do there?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He knelt and stroked her hair.

“Robert won’t find us again.”

“He took it with him,” Mery said, her voice just audible. “He tricked you into writing it, and he took it with him.”

“It’s all right,” Leoff said.

“It’s not,” Mery replied. “It’s not. When he plays it, I can hear it.”

The hairs went up on Leoff’s neck. “What?”

“He doesn’t play it well,” she whispered. “But now he has someone else to do it. I can hear it.” Leoff glanced over at Areana. She hadn’t said anything, but tears were running quietly down her face. “I thought you would fix it,” Mery said. “Now I see you can’t.”

“Mery…”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I understand.”

She lifted the thaurnharp off her lap, took it by its carry strap, and stood up.

“I’ll play someplace else,” she said.

“Mery, please don’t go,” Areana said.

But the girl already was trudging off.

Leoff watched her leave and sighed. “She expects me to do something,” he said.

“She expects too much,” she said.

He shook his head. “We were there, but she played it. I used her—”

“To save our lives,” his wife gently reminded him.

“I’m not sure I saved hers,” he said. “I thought she would get better, but she’s slipping away, Rey. It’s worse every day.”

She nodded. “Yah.”

“I should go after her.”

“She wants to be alone right now,” Areana said. “I think you’d better let her. She was a solitary sort of person even before.”

“Yes.”

“Stay here. Rest. I need to go to the market to gather a few things for dinner. I’ll see if I can find something Mery might like. A ribbon or some drop.”

Ribbons and candy won’t help, he thought, but he smiled and gave her a kiss.

“I am a lucky man,” he managed.

“We all are lucky,” Areana said. “Even Mery. We have each other.”

“I’m not certain about that,” Leoff said.

Areana frowned. “What can you mean?”

“I had a letter yesterday from Lord Edwin Graham. Mery’s mother was his sister.”

“They mean to take her away? But the duke put her in our charge.”

“I’m not sure what he wants,” Leoff replied. “He’s sending his wife here to tell us. She’ll arrive on Thonsdagh.”

Lady Teris Graham was tall, taller than Leoff. She had unsettling sea-green eyes and a face spotted by rusty freckles, which made her dark, nearly black hair somehow surprising. Her face was strong-boned and long like her body, and she had come in a dark green and black traveling gown that looked expensive. She had two servants and two bodyguards with her, which also spoke of money. She was younger than he had expected. Areana had seated her in their small parlor, which up until then they really hadn’t used for anything. Then she went for tea while the lady sized up Leoff.

“You’re the man that wrote that sinfonia?” she said at last. “The one that started the riot in Glastir?” “Yes,” Leoff confirmed. “I’m afraid so.”

“And the other thing, the play that the people liked so well?” The way she said “people” made it clear that it wasn’t a term that included everyone—not, for instance, herself.

“Yes, lady.”

“Yes,” she repeated drily.

Areana arrived with the tea, and they sat sipping it in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. “How well did you know my sister-in-law?” Lady Graham asked abruptly.

Leoff practically could feel Areana stiffen and a warmth flush his face.

To his surprise, the lady laughed. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Yes, Ambria was a generous soul in some ways.”

Leoff nodded, not knowing what to say, his mind suddenly filled with the sensations of that night, the warmth of Ambria’s skin…

And, a few days later, her pitiful murdered gaze.

“Not to the point,” Lady Graham said, shrugging. “The thing now is what’s to be done with Mery.” “I think she should stay with us,” Leoff said.

“Personally, I’m inclined to agree with you,” the lady said. “I’ve no use for another brat underfoot. It’s bad enough taking her brother in, but we’ll soon have him married off. Still, she is William’s bastard, and she is family, so my husband has other thoughts on the matter.”

“She’s safe here,” Areana said. “And she’s still heir.”

“And you will be her parents?”

“Yes,” Leoff said.

“In fact, perhaps. But technically, hasn’t Duke Artwair made her his ward?”

“That’s true,” Leoff said.

“One would imagine Artwair would have reason for doing that. And for giving you this lovely house on the grounds of his even more lovely estate.”

“My husband and the duke are friends,” Areana said. “The house was a wedding gift.”

“I’m sure it was,” Lady Graham sighed. “But he’s also keeping her close.” She looked up sharply. “What’s wrong with the girl, by the by? I’ve heard some very strange stories. Something about a music that kills?”

Leoff pursed his lips. The story had gotten around, somehow, but he didn’t know if he should confirm it. “They say that Prince Robert forced you to write a melody that slays anyone who hears it, and that Mery played it and did not die,” she amplified.

When he didn’t react to that, she sighed and signaled for her maidservant, who produced a folded paper sealed with wax.

He took the proffered document and found Artwair’s seal on it. He broke it and read the contents. Dear Friend, feel free to relate any and all particulars concerning Mery to Lady Teris Graham. She deserves to know the facts of the matter, and I trust her to be discreet.

—A.

Leoff looked up, feeling abashed. “Sorry, lady,” he said.

“Your discretion does you credit. But do go on.”

“It’s as you said, except that Robert did not commission the piece. He wanted—or claimed to want—another singspell, one that would counteract my earlier work and make him popular with the people again. I think he always knew I would try to kill him.”

“Ah. He tricked you into writing it. But it didn’t kill him because he’s already dead.”

“Something like that. But it slew everyone else in the room.”

“Except you and your bride here—and Mery.”

“The music advances,” Leoff said. “It’s not a single sound but a progression that leads toward death. The last chord kills, but only if the entire piece is heard. I taught Mery and Areana a counterchord to hum to dilute the effect. We almost died, anyway. And Mery—she was playing the hammarharp, so she got the worst of it.”

“Yes, I suppose she did.” Lady Graham leaned back and had another sip of tea. “What do you suppose Robert will do with the music?”

“Something very bad,” Leoff said.

“I’m trying to imagine. A band of pipers marching across the battlefield? A choir of trumpets, and everyone on the defending wall dropping dead?”

“It’s not impossible,” Leoff replied, feeling sick. “Hard to coordinate, but someone skilled enough in arranging and composing could do it.”

“Someone like yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re here, so well protected. Maybe Artwair has commissioned you to write the piece again.”

“I won’t. He knows that. He knows I would die first.”

“But Mery might remember it?”

“No.”

“She is a prodigy.”

“No,” he repeated, almost shouting.

“Not even to save Crotheny?”

“You stay away from her,” he snapped.

Lady Graham nodded and drank a bit more tea. “What about your counterchord? Could you compose a music to neutralize whatever Robert may be up to? If he is up to anything other than his own amusement?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Have you tried?”

I don’t want to be tricked again. He wanted to shout. I don’t want to be used again.

“You let something terrible into the world, Leovigild Ackenzal. You’re responsible for that.”

“Who are you?” Areana asked suddenly. “You didn’t come here to talk about the custody of Mery.” The lady smiled. “I admit to practicing a bit of deception,” she replied. “But I’ve come here to tell you certain things and to perhaps give you a bit of a slap in the face.”

“Who are you?” Areana repeated, looking askance at the lady’s armed guard.

“Hush, child, so I can tell your husband something important.”

“Don’t speak to her like that,” Leoff said.

The lady set her cup down. “Don’t you wonder why, since the days of the Black Jester, no one has ever discovered what you discovered?”

“Robert placed certain books at my disposal.”

“Yes, my point. There are books! They describe armies being slain by choirs of eunuchs and water organs. They explain how the modes function. These books are well known to scholars. Do you think in all of this time no one else with the talent to do so has attempted what you did?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Leoff admitted.

“It didn’t happen because it wasn’t possible,” Graham, or whoever she was, said. “The music you created can only exist when the law of death is broken, as it was during the reign of the Black Jester. As it is now.”

“The law of death?”

“The thing that separates life from death, that makes them different states.”

“Robert!” Leoff exploded.

“Robert wasn’t the first, but before him the law was only compromised. His return from death was the breaking point, and once broken, the law is more easily violated again and again, until the boundary between quick and dead is entirely gone. And when that happens—well, that’s the end of us all. Imagine the law as like a dike, holding back deadly waters. When it’s first compromised, there’s just a small leak. Left alone, the hole gets wider no matter what. But when vandals start poking at it with shovels, it widens very quickly, and eventually the whole thing collapses.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“Well, you might put a small hole in a dike to run a water mill, yes? And you turn a profit and need a bigger mill, a larger stream of water? There is great power in violating the law of death. Robert can be stabbed in the heart and keep walking. You can write a sinfonia that murders, and that’s only the start. As the law grows weaker, those who break it grow stronger. This is especially true now, as other powers of destruction are waxing.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Your music made the hole, so to speak, considerably wider.”

“But what can I do? How was the law of death mended before?”

She smiled. “I’ve no idea. But consider the possibility that if the right song can weaken the law—” “Then another might strengthen it,” Areana finished.

The lady stood. “Precisely.”

“Wait,” Leoff said. “That’s not nearly enough. Why should I even believe any of this?”

“Because you do.”

“No. I’ve been duped before. I’m not off on another fool’s errand that might make everything worse.” “If that’s true, there is no hope,” the lady replied. “In any event, I’ve said what I came to say.” “Wait a moment.”

“No, I shan’t. Good luck to you.”

And despite his further protests, she left, mounted her carriage, and was gone, leaving Leoff and Areana staring after her.

“Artwair knew she was coming,” Areana said. “Perhaps he can shed some light on this.”

Leoff nodded and absently realized he still had the duke’s letter in his hand. He held it up, and blinked. What had earlier appeared to be Artwair’s seal was only an unmarked dab of wax.