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In the morning, Princess Gabriele found that she was sore down below. No one had told her to expect this. But she clung to it; it was perhaps the only certain thing in her life. The previous night, after the womanhood ceremony, had been a blur. The bloody sheet, evidence of her passing girlhood, had been presented publicly, much as the sign of her first menses had; there had been a long, ritualized ceremony, in which Queen Meralina officially invested her as heir-apparent to the throne of Eretria. She had been half-asleep throughout all of it, her body evidently exhausted by the outpouring of energy during the womanhood ceremony. And when she could be bothered to be awakened, her thoughts whirled chaotically around the idea of one man. Marcus Demitri, private name Jordan. First Lance to Princess-Heir Gabriele Basingame of Eretria. There were many surprises to that man. He had said more than she expected, with greater candor. There was a certain wisdom to him. And he had performed admirably last night--more than admirably. She didn't think there were many men in the Silver City who could have bested him. Though probably many that she might have liked better personally. It was clear that they had picked well, in any case: if he put his mind to it, he could clearly do anything. But who was he? The Lady Violet Demitri had always been a frail woman. Catheryne did not remember much of her, as she had been only six when the woman died. But she had never been well-liked among the nobility of Eretria: too delicate, too squeamish, too reserved; and, it had been whispered, too impaired; she might have been one of the 'slower' children all women eventually heard about and viewed with some mixture of pity and despair. What if I were to give birth to such an... Impaired child? And with her less-capable intellect had come a delicate constitution; many an event at the Royal Court had brought her to a faint. And Catheryne vaguely remembered her husband--what had his name been? Corlan?--Corlan Demitri, a lord by marriage if not by breeding, who had always been there to catch her when she fell. Like all good Winters, Catheryne had never understood why the Lady Violet would marry a Summer savage. Now, thinking of the need to have someone standing by at all times, she thought she understood. She remembered him vaguely: a tall, well-built man, but gentle, with an air of constant smiles about him; his skin a warm brown, his hair brassy. She had never spoken to him unless compelled to do so. Now, with the vantage of years, she saw that she had been wrong to do so. Summers were terrible, monstrous people, it was true, but surely not all of them; there must be exceptions. After all, if all Summers really did eat their newborn children, how would the race perpetuate? Perhaps Corlan Demitri had been one of the civilized ones. (Clearly he had not eaten his child.) Now it was too late to know. Their marriage had been intensely private, but whispers around the palace suggested that their only child, Marcus, had been born less than nine months after the wedding. The two were rarely seen in public, even more rarely seen apart. The young Demitri made no appearance at all until the age of five, when he was already a precocious learner. Catheryne peered through the dim mists of memory: had he ever smiled then? He might have. Once upon a time. But only a few months later, Corlan Demitri was dead, under suspicious circumstances that no one cared to investigate; when Marcus was six, his mother finished wasting away and joined her husband in the hereafter. And the boy had not been known to smile again. He had always been smart, but now he grew unpleasant; impatient, direct, sarcastic, forgoing the usual polite and flowery language of the court. He seemed to know everything and did not hide that fact behind modesty. He made no new friends and lost old ones. When, at the age of eleven, he disappeared--now she knew he had gone to train with the Night Blades--no one had been sorry to see him go. But who was he? It was the decision to train with the Night Blades that was most curious. He had gone voluntarily, this was certain. For a fee--for an exorbitant fee--the Night Blades would train anyone, though they admitted candidly that all the money in the world could not teach a man who lacked the aptitude and skills necessary to be a good fighter. The ones with the money, perhaps knowing this, instead sent their personal soldiers or bodyguards. Others had been known to be kidnapped for training, but they were not allowed to go free, so Marcus could not be one of them. Any trained and blooded Night Blade was allowed to go his own way (or her, for female assassins, while rare, were not unknown), but must return, as compelled by their loyalty oath, when ordered to by the High Mark. (In Marcus's case, this would have to be dealt with; a First Lance could not have divided loyalties.) Catheryne knew all this because it was common knowledge; because the Night Blades would talk, quite readily, about themselves, their training and their profession when asked to. It was this willingness to divulge their own secrets that was, perhaps, the most alarming thing about them; it was as if they had nothing to fear. And one of them was now her First Lance. Catheryne realized in those moments that she would be remembered in the Court Histories as either the most well-protected Queen of Eretria, or the most stupid. Nurse knocked on the door. "Milady? It's quite late, milady, nine o'th' clock. You've much to do today." And then the voice of her First Lance: "If you don't come out, we'll have to come in and make sure you've not been harmed during the night." What would her future be like, with Marcus Demitri as her First Lance? She supposed she would soon find out. After all, it was no longer a question for speculation. It wasn't her future anymore. It was now. Usually she would spend mornings in education--being tutored in a variety of subjects by a variety of people, mostly Queen Meralina's retainers or her father's. There was a great deal to know when one was to be a queen. But as she ate her breakfast a messenger came from her father, with news. The Princess-Heir being an important part of Eretrian national identity, the Queen's throne room had, and had always had, a smaller, lesser throne to one side, reserved for the Princess-Heir. Catheryne had been told that it was a lesson in humility: that the queen could never look over her shoulder but that she would see her replacement, standing by; in the distance, true, but not that far off. It provided the Princess-Heir with plenty of practical experience in the runnings of the court, of the state, of the nation. And it was a reminder to the Queen that what she did now would have repercussions later--and to the Princess, who was obliged to speak her mind if asked to do so, or if the Queen's judgment seemed erroneous. She called her First Lance over. "No lessons today." Marcus looked at the sheet of paper; she spun it around so that he could see it normally, but from the movement of his eyes, she thought he might have read it upside-down. "The throne room?" "All morning," she groaned. "Listening to boring reports and petitions and complaints." "It could be worse," he said, expressionless. "The Queen sits there all day." Yes, but the Queen isn't sore from last night, Catheryne thought extraneously. And so it was that Princess Gabriele Basingame sat in the throne room for the first time. Her father, as befitting the First Lance of Eretria, stood to the left of and slightly behind the Silver Throne, his hands clasped behind his back; further behind and to the right was Catheryne's smaller throne. Its seat was cushioned, but that was not enough to dull its sharp edges and painfully straight back. It was gold, for some reason, not silver. And she was almost scared to touch the chair at all, for fear of damaging any of its gilding or enamels or inset jewels, which looked all well and good from where the Queen's subjects would stand, but on closer inspection appeared to be held in place with spit and beeswax. It would be a fine spectacle if she were to destroy the throne in front of some snot-nosed lordling come to complain about a broken fence. All in all, this was not a seat for slumping in. Posture was all well and good, of course, but her deportment tutors had probably never had to sit in a deathtrap chair for hours on end. Jordan assessed the situation and took up a parallel position to Lord Basingame, but on the right side of the Princess's throne instead of the left. Instantly he knew he had guessed well: his booted feet found worn depressions in the carpet, the footprints of a thousand other First Lances who had once stood where he stood now. The chamberlain's voice rang: "Presenting, to Queen Meralina, the Jewel of the Rose Crown, the Flame of the Silver Halls: Master James Rademacher, of the Outdistrict of the Silver City, with a petition of law against..." Catheryne had been roused at nine in the morning and had assumed the throne a half hour later. At half past noon, the queen called a short pause in the audiences while she and hers were served lunch. Catheryne felt that she had been there for at least twelve hours by that point, and was thankful that, in the afternoon, she would return to her normal activities. The next audience, the Queen declared, would be the last of the morning. And so Catheryne was surprised to see the man who walked in. "Presenting..." The chamberlain's voice hitched for a moment. "Erm. Excuse me, Your Majesty. Presenting, the Chosen of Kyrei, Heir to the Ebbs and Tides of Magic, Mage Kenneth Tilmitt. Err. Of Seneca." Catheryne had to consciously prevent a double take as the man walked in. From Seneca? It was known that Kenneth Tilmitt was one of those fearful creatures who walked on the whispers of magic, but he was also a Summer? He was not as dark of skin as most Summers, but there were dark Winters, perhaps he had managed to pass himself off as one. But wouldn't his actions, his lack of breeding, his manners have given him away? Oh, to be sure, Seneca was the least uncivilized of those nations, but that was like saying that a rabid dog was less dangerous than a rabid wolf. And this man had sponsored her First Lance? And her father had let him? Catheryne could not see the queen--she was blocked by her monstrous throne--but she thought, from what she could see of her father's back, that he seemed nervous and uncertain. She risked breaking protocol for a glance at Jordan. He seemed calm and unconcerned. Master Tilmitt bowed to them in turn. "My Lord Basingame. Princess. My Lord Lance." Then, to Catheryne's surprise, he went to one knee before the throne. "Your Majesty." "Rise, Master Tilmitt," the Queen said, a trace of amusement in her voice. "Forgive us if we offend, but it is rare to meet a Summer with such courtly manners." "Your Majesty honors me," Master Tilmitt said. "It is a function-perhaps of the times. We have less of kings and queens in Summerside--it's towards-more presidents and ministers now--and thus we are afforded less chance to practice." There was polite laughter all around. "What brings you here, then, Master Tilmitt," the Queen asked. "We trust you have not been harassed on behalf of your... Persuasion." "On the contrary, no," Master Tilmitt said. "I have been treated-kindly-very here--" His Summer accent was grating, Gabriele thought, but not impossible to decipher. "--or, at the least-very, been-simply left in peace. Nonetheless, it is my... Persuasion, as you put it, that brings me here this morning." There was a slight hesitation on the Queen's part, but Catheryne was fairly sure everyone heard it. "Speak." "Over the course of the Trials," Master Tilmitt said, "it has come to my attention that several of the Silver Court are... Heir to the talents which I possess." Catheryne stared. There were mages here in the Palace. Mages. "What concern is that of ours," Queen Meralina asked, her voice markedly colder. "Well, you see," said Master Tilmitt carefully, clearly aware of the precarious ground he trod on. "There are, of mages, two kinds. Some can be taught merely the Gift--taught to touch the Flow, and mold it and shape it to their will. But others, as we say it, have the spark--it is not that they can channel the Flow, it is that they will. Inevitably. The two of your court who have the Gift also have the spark; and, for reasons-obvious, it is dangerous for them to go untrained." "What concern is that of ours," Queen Meralina said again. "Take them, as you do the other children you steal, and train them." If Kenneth Tilmitt was offended by the suggestion (not entirely untrue) that mages stole children from their homes, he did not show it. "I would, Your Majesty, but it would be..." He racked his brain for an appropriate word. It was hard to explain the delicate nuances of the situation. Certainly it was best for the young ones to be trained in the wild, in solitude, away from the prejudices of parents and neighbors and friends, but in this case, such a thing could not be done. "It would be inappropriate. To say the least. The two I refer to are sitting and standing just behind you." Queen Meralina and Lord Basingame looked over their left shoulders simultaneously. Behind them, they saw nothing. Then, again in tandem, they looked over their right shoulders, where they saw the two to whom Tilmitt was referring: the Princess-Heir Gabriele Basingame, and her First Lance Marcus Demitri. Catheryne saw her father's eyes widen, saw the Queen's eyes widen, felt her mouth fall open in defiance of all propriety. Me. He means me. He's saying I... He's saying I have the... The Queen turned her head away and was again swallowed by the back of the throne. When she spoke again, her voice was heavy. "We understand." "I am sorry to bring this news to you, Your Majesty," Master Tilmitt said, his voice genuinely contrite. "I can understand what distress must accompany it. But we of my persuasion have a saying: 'As Kyrei wills, so will--' " "Yes, I am aware of your saying, thank you," said the Queen, forgetting the royal we in the intensity of the moment. It was hardly unique to the mages. Catheryne felt numb lips, her own, moving in the shape of the phrase: As Kyrei wills, so will it be done. Marcus Demitri, First Lance to the Princess-Heir of Eretria, looked without moving his head at his charge. Gabriele was slumped over, despite the seeming impossibility of such in a seat like hers, and her face was empty, her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed shocked. He thought that he didn't blame her. There was little that startled him, nowadays, but he knew the news would have felled a lesser man. Ahead, Lord Basingame's back seemed gaunt. "So what do you suggest," Queen Meralina said. "We have many teachers for many things here, but not for this." "Actually, Your Highness..." said Master Tilmitt. "You do." There was silence for a moment. Jordan wished that the twin thrones weren't blocking his view. "Can you teach them," Queen Meralina asked. "Out of all the mages here in the Silver City," Master Tilmitt said, "I believe I am qualified-most. I must warn you, however, that I have taught before never, though I remember a deal great of what my teachers said to me. If you like, I can send word to... Others of my kind, and we can ask that someone qualified-more be sent." "No, then the word will get out," Lord Basingame said. "We cannot keep this secret," Queen Meralina said to him. "No, My Lady, we cannot," Lord Basingame said, "but we can at least control the manner in which the information is released, and make it work for us instead of against us." Kenneth Tilmitt did not mention the ways in which he could have sent a message that no one would intercept. This, among other things, changed the balance of the future irrevocably. In part, he thought that the Queen and her lance would be offended by the offer; but he also looked forward to a chance to teach; he thought he might be good at it. And a certain part of him wanted nothing more than to have a chance to speak, at some length, to the two young ones sitting and standing at the smaller throne. There was something truly interesting about those two; something he wanted to know for himself. "It would take any teacher at least a month to get here, Your Majesty," he said now. "There are things-many, things-basic, which mage-any is competent to teach. If you like, I can begin instruction on things-these. And, if you like, you may observe me and decide whether I am competent at my task." The Queen and her First Lance exchanged glances. They had never been the closest of friends, but after a lifetime in each other's company, there were many things they did not need to say aloud to each other anymore. "We find that acceptable," the Queen said. "I shall have Princess Gabriele's master tutor consult you on scheduling appropriate times. He will also observe. It is true that he knows nothing of magic, but he knows some things about teaching." "I welcome his patronage, Your Majesty," said Master Tilmitt, "and any advice he would like to give." The audience adjourned, and Catheryne had to submit to the indignity of being jostled on the elbow by her First Lance before she would notice. "I'm a..." she whispered. "I'm a..." "You're the Princess-Heir and you're hungry," said Jordan firmly. "And it's time for lunch." He steered her out of the room. Sometimes, he knew, rulers became too preoccupied to look out for themselves. That was what First Lances were for. The next morning, the audience session went without the Princess and her First Lance, though it was customary for the heir to be in attendance for at least some part of the day. However, neither Gabriele Basingame nor Marcus Demitri was the least usual. For one, both were mages. "The thing-first I'd like to explain," said Kenneth Tilmitt. "I know there's talk about mages being to the spirit of creation contrary, being the subjects of Loduur, and so on. I want you to forget all that. It'll interfere with your ability to learn to control the Flow; and besides, it's not true." Marcus Demitri nodded. "The next thing," said Kenneth Tilmitt. "I don't know what's said about magic here among the Giftless, but the Flow is dangerous. Being irresponsible with it can lead to injury or even death to you or anyone near you. You'll feel-eventually and be-eventually confident enough to experiment on your own, and I'll let you, but for now, it's imperative that you don't touch the Flow at all unless I am nearby." Marcus nodded. "And finally," said Kenneth Tilmitt. "The--" He frowned. "Your Highness?" Princess Gabriele stared mutely into space. "She's been like this all morning," said Marcus expressionlessly. "Maybe it's something she ate." "No, it's not," Master Tilmitt said. "Let me talk to her... Your Highness? Princess Gabriele?" She didn't respond, and Marcus wasn't sure if she had heard or not. "...My Lady, I understand how you feel," Master Tilmitt said. "It was a shock to me as well. My family..." He paused for a moment. "...Were not understanding. I've not spoken to them in years. If not for... A good friend, who came with me to learn the tides of the Flow, I would have been lost. Your father is understanding-more-much, and you have a companion-loyal who will not forsake you." There was a silence as he grappled for some next progression of speech. Then Princess Gabriele's eyes flickered, and she spoke. "I don't want it," she said. "Your gift." "Few of us did, in the beginning," said Master Tilmitt. "But we learned to love it. And, my lady: it is not gift-mine. It is yours. You cannot deny who you are. You are Princess Gabriele Talleyrand, Lance-heir to the throne of Eretria; you are loved-well by the people. And you are also a mage." Seizing on an inspiration: "Think of the possibilities that opens, for your kingdom. Mages provide services and options that no other people can. What could Eretria accomplish with Gifted and Giftless working side by side?" "Can we get on with this," Marcus said. "Please, Master Demitri," Master Tilmitt said. "Have patience. My lady," he said, turning to Princess Gabriele again. "There are those of us who have renounced the Flow, and who live their lives as the Giftless do. They are few, but they do exist. And should you desire, you may live your life this way. But that cannot be now, for you must be trained. You have the spark, and it is unsafe to let you wander free until you have conquered the flames." Princess Gabriele's eyes turned to him. "What will happen if I do wander off anyway?" Master Tilmitt's face turned stony. "Then, there will be pain and suffering. If untrained, those with the spark inevitably... Well, we call it a 'bloom,' but regardless, it involves the mage-untrained touching the Flow--uncontrolled, unrealizing. Almost inevitably, someone gets hurt. Those who are particularly strong in the Flow... They have been known to kill. The untrained dies-inevitably-almost as well. "That will happen to you if you do not learn to control your power. And it will happen soon, within the next few years probably, certainly before you turn twenty. You will be dead, and, if you are strong in the Flow, others near you will be injured-gravely." For the first time, her face showed animation. "What do you mean, 'strong in the Flow'? I thought every mage had the same abilities." "You see? How wise is that," Marcus cut in. "You make judgments without knowing all the facts. I thought you were educated." "Ignore him," Master Tilmitt said to the princess, "he seems to have gotten up on the side-wrong of the bed this morning," and such was his seriousness that she burst out laughing. "In answer to your question," said Master Tilmitt. "Not all mages have the power-same. Some can handle more of the Flow than others; and their waves are more powerful." "I thought... Well. I suppose I am wrong," said Princess Gabriele. "In the tale of Ella-of-the-ashes, the naya just snaps her fingers and turns the mice into horses. I guess... That was what I expected." Master Tilmitt smiled. "As your wise First Lance suggested, it is better to make judgments after you have heard all there is to hear." "How does the Flow work, anyway," Princess Gabriele asked, interested despite herself. "The Flow is simply what we call the power-magic that comes from the Golden Dome," said Master Tilmitt. "It comes from the mountain?" said Princess Gabriele. "But that's hundreds of miles from here." "It comes from the mountain," Master Tilmitt agreed. "But it comes through the water." Princess Gabriele was silent, mulling it over in her mind. The Golden Dome was the source of all water: everybody knew that. Water flowed freely down its slopes and into the Great Lake below; then it left the lake, winding down rivers that coursed through every corner of the world. Rain was an unknown phenomenon, except in the Spring Lands; without those rivers of water, there would be no life. And now, to find out that... "That is part of why we call it the Flow," said Master Tilmitt. "Because it does flow, from river-every in this land. We dip into the rivers of power to work our spells and waves." Marcus's mind picked up an inconsistency. "Does it actually deplete water?" "Yes," said Master Tilmitt, "and if there is no water nearby, you will never be able to use magic. Furthermore, the farther away you are from water, the less you can draw and the weaker your spells. Here in the Silver City, on the banks of the Connaight, that's not so much of a problem; but there are places where water is far away." "Do all mages live on the banks of the Great Lake, then," Marcus asked, jumping to the obvious conclusion. "No," said Master Tilmitt, "actually, we tend to live farther out, at the mid latitudes. Near the Lake itself is too populous." "So... Drawing on the Flow is like scooping out a handful of water from a river," Princess Gabriele asked. "No," said Master Tilmitt, "no, it is... Definitely not. It... How do I explain. You've seen the stewards tap a new cask of ale, haven't you?" "Yes," said Gabriele. "And you've seen the way it pours out," said Master Tilmitt. Gabriele giggled. "The over-butler would have the man's head if he allowed that to happen." "Yes, well," said Master Tilmitt. "Imagine that happening to a cask the size of this palace." Gabriele blinked, her mind at work. "And imagine that you are standing under the spill, letting it pour down on you," said Master Tilmitt. "Why, I..." said Gabriele. Such a thing had never been known to happen before, of course, and water was scarce enough that bathing more than once a month was a luxury for many people, herself included. "I think... I think I would be washed away." "That is the reason-other we call it the Flow," said Master Tilmitt. Gabriele was silent. "It diminishes with distance," Master Tilmitt said, "but you never forget how dangerous it is. Every time you touch the Flow, it's a battle: first to get enough of it to do what you want; then to avoid getting too much." "What happens if you get too much," Gabriele said. "You die," said Master Tilmitt. "Or you flood yourself away: you're struck dumb for the rest of your life, alive but unconscious, unresponding, unfeeling. Or you simply wash the Gift out of you. That's been known to happen before too." "You can lose the Gift?" Gabriele asked. "Yes, if you're not careful," said Master Tilmitt. "What happens then," Gabriele asked. Perhaps she thought she had found a way out. "People generally die," Master Tilmitt said flatly. "Not all at once, certainly... But, those who have touched the Flow, generally find themselves unable to do without it. The Flow is life. Water is life." Gabriele frowned. "I don't understand. How could it be so important?" Master Tilmitt smiled. "You'll see." He spread his hand before them, palm up, and suddenly a small flame burned atop it. Gabriele froze, her skin tingling. That was... Fire. In his hand. "Now tell me, young master, young mistress," said Master Tilmitt formally. "Do either of you feel a sensation-tingling on your skin?" "No," said Marcus, shaking his head. Gabriele said nothing. "But..." said Marcus. "You look different. As though..." "As though seen through glass," Master Tilmitt said. "Yes," Marcus said, "something like that. It's gone now." "Hmm," said Master Tilmitt. "That's interesting. Most people normally feel the Flow before they see it." "That's supposed to happen?" Marcus said. "It is indeed," said Master Tilmitt. "Out in the Sanctuaries, you'll feel that on your skin every minute of the day. --Hmm. That's troublesome. Without that background of mages around, it'll be hard to learn some of the skills-finer... I suppose we'll find some way around it. We could always visit the Sanctuaries. All right, never mind, I was thinking out loud. Now, let's try that again..." So it went, for an intolerably long time. By the time the lesson ended for lunch, she was sweating. Marcus had reported, faithfully, every time he got the tingle (every now and then) and every time he saw the strange distortion (far less frequent). She had kept her mouth shut, though she knew Master Tilmitt would have been pleased with her: she had felt the Flow almost twice as often as Marcus had, and even seen the strange distortion a few times, which was like looking through glass, only stranger, for she felt that she could see him more clearly, not less... And then they stopped, and Marcus said, "Thank you, Master Tilmitt," and Master Tilmitt said, "You're welcome, and thank you both for being such students-patient," with a look at her as if he knew everything she had not said. "And, please," he added. "'Master' Tilmitt. So formal. Call me 'Moya.' That's what my teacher asked me to call him." "As you wish, Moya Tilmitt," said Marcus, bowing. And then he gave her a look as if he too knew everything she had not said! It was thoroughly humiliating. "I don't know why I bother," she mumbled into her bread. Marcus, somehow, heard. "I don't either. Why fight against what you have to be." ...Whatever under Kyrei's wide sky that meant. After lunch was even stranger. Before she could ask what was going to happen next (her daily schedule, delivered via Nurse, had been rather vague), Marcus told her to follow him and simply marched off. Without even checking to see if she was following. She was tempted to simply wander off somewhere else, but it probably wouldn't be worth the trouble. He led her to one of the rooms in the outer ring of the Palace, where the lords and soldiers and servants were quartered. Was this his room? No, of course not, the Princess's Lance had his own suite near her father's (and her's). Then what were they doing here? The room was almost totally devoid of furniture or decoration; even the customary rugs were rolled up against the wall. The stone floor was cold under her feet. The only furniture, a large table against the wall that held the door, was covered with a variety of weapons. Gabriele blinked; in her puzzlement she lapsed unintentionally into the tongue of the commoners. "Idungeddit." "It has become clear to me that you are not mentally fit for running the kingdom," Marcus said. Gabriele stared at him. It was the most outrageous conversation starter she had ever heard, and she almost forgot to be offended. "What do you mean by that?" "Exactly what I said," said Marcus. "You are not mentally fit to run the kingdom." "How can you say that," said Gabriele. "I've always gotten high marks in my studies. I've always learned what I was taught. I know everything I need to." "Yes, you do," said Marcus. "You have a very good brain, Your Highness, but you do not have a well-trained mind. You are flighty. You are spoiled and have no taste for things you dislike. You allow your emotions, particularly your fears, to dominate your life. These are not the qualities of a monarch." She said nothing. She wasn't even sure what it was he was alleging. Did she do... All that stuff he'd said? She'd never noticed before, one way or the other. "And, perhaps most importantly..." said Marcus. "You do not know how to fight." Her indignance resurged. "And I need to know how to do that?" "Yes." "Well, then. What do I have you around for?" "To protect you, of course. But there will inevitably be things I cannot save you from." The certainty in his voice chilled her. "And what we are here to teach you is not necessarily to be an assassin, or a gladiator, or even a soldier. You are here to learn to focus. Martial arts are simply the vehicle through which you will learn it. Instead, it could be magic. It could be running footraces. It could be embroidery." "So why aren't you teaching me to embroider," she asked caustically. "I did suggest that, but your father preferred this solution," Marcus said, deadpan. "He seemed to think it more practical." She wished he would at least quirk an eyebrow--it would make it easier to decide whether he was joking or not. "So my father approves of this," Gabriele said, feeling one last hope die in her chest. "Yes, he does," said Marcus. "Like you he does believe it may be somewhat redundant--after all, with myself nearby, nothing should ever get near you--but he approved of the effort nonetheless." Such ego, to say that with a straight face. Did he really believe he was that capable? More importantly, did her father believe that? "Besides," said Marcus. "Your father has a thought to take you campaigning, and it'd be over-foolish to venture out untrained." Gabriele stared at him, astonished. "Are you serious? Did-- Did my father actually say such a thing, or are you only twisting my rope?" A military campaign was something for a son to do, not a daughter--certainly not a Princess-heir. "Your father, wise man he is, believes that you should see to your own eyes the truth of war," Marcus said blandly. Her mind made instant leapfrogs. War would be a certain part of her reign, as it had always been; the Spring Lands were among the most fertile places on Teris, and also the most contested. Many a man had spilled his blood trying to take a bit of territory from the Summers; and then had come his family, to till the earth, to reap the crops, and be killed in turn when the savage Summers invaded again. There was not enough for all, it was as simple as that; and Winterside and Summerside, though crop-bearing lands, were nowhere near as fertile; each bushel of grain had to be coaxed out of the earth through pain and toil and hard labor, unlike the Spring Lands where (it was said) a single seed of grain would blossom into a field overnight. If there were things her father wanted her to see with her own eyes, war would indeed be one of the most practical. As opposed to embroidery, she thought dryly. And--though she dared not admit it--a part of her leaped to go. She had been protected and closeted for so long; and always among the nobles and lords there was talk of the superior race of men, and of how a woman could not take care of herself--why, even the Queen herself must have a constant bodyguard, a companion and helper and advisor; and who could he be, but a man? She had listened to it, for it was a woman's place to listen; and kept her peace, though it rankled. Here, then, was a chance to prove them wrong--a chance such as none of the fairer sex had had before. And then there were the Spring Lands themselves. The crown Queen Meralina wore was the Rose Crown, and one of her formal titles was the Blossom of Eretria (though it had fallen into disuse of late, as Queen Meralina was about as similar to a flower as was, for instance, Marcus Demitri). Most royalty and a number of the houses kept themselves affiliated with flowers as well. There was one simple reason for this: flowers came but once a year, with the spring planting time, and then faded; there was not water enough to maintain them, as the crops had best come first. Only the kings and queens of the land could afford to have flowers, and the Royal Rose Gardens here in the Silver Palace were an enduring and potent symbol of the family's wealth, despite the fact that the gardens themselves consisted of approximately five rose bushes which the royal gardeners were occasionally able to coax flowers from. There was only one place, it was said, where the land was green and where flowers grew freely: the Spring Lands. No one in their right mind would give up the chance to go. But it would be unseemly to sound too eager. "Well... If I must, then. It would indeed be folly to go unschooled." "Do you accept this course, then," he asked. She took in the look in his eyes, the strange intensity of his expression. "Should I be wary?" A chuckle broke out across his face, but did not reach his eyes. "Wisely asked, Your Highness." He thought for a moment. "No, you should not be wary, for you are my charge and I'd not see you hurt. But if you agree, there's no turning back. It will be hard, milady, and you will be challenged. But if you say No, then it shall not happen." She blinked, startled. This was more generosity from him than she had expected. "Even if my father wishes it?" "I can no more make you do something you do not wish to, as you could do the same to me," he said. And that was a depth of respect from him as well. She didn't believe anyone could make him do something. If someone stabbed him through the heart when he wasn't done, he'd probably just keep going. "All right then," she said. "I accept your tutelage, Master Demitri." Inside half an hour she had already had cause to regret her words. And they had barely started. "What is all this..." she panted. "Stretching? What does it matter to an attacker whether I can spread my legs to the side and touch my toes?" Not that she could spread her legs like that; the best she could accomplish was roughly a right angle. And then there was the matter of how exposed it made her pubic area feel. She had been strangely conscious of it ever since her womanhood ceremony. Or maybe it was simply because, of the three people in the world who had ever seen that place, he was the only one who wasn't one of her parents. "What does it matter?" he said. "Not a great deal. But you are not in shape, Your Highness, you have spent too much time in palace hallways allowing your body to rot. Your health is the foundation of your life. Guard it carefully." The only consolation was that he went through most of the muscle-yanking calisthenics with her. And even that wasn't much of a consolation, because of course he could touch his toes with his legs far out. Not that they were straight out in a line the way he had said they should be. But how did he manage that? Weren't a man's chingawas extremely sensitive? She couldn't see how he had avoided squashing them. (Why am I thinking of his chingawas anyhow? He is certainly not thinking of mine.) After that torturous half an hour, they began. He brought her the silte, the curved knives every Eretrian child learned a little of the use of, at least for fun. There was something of a game built up around them, and she had been quite proficient in dueling with wooden ones as a child, once even winning the palace tournament when she was eight. The ones she held now were perhaps exactly the ones she had used then. "These?" she said. They seemed strangely unglamorous, especially considering the tabletop covered in weapons. She had hoped for something a bit more... Esoteric. What was the point of having a Night Blade for a teacher if all she was going to learn were the things everyone knew? "Do you know their use already," he said. "Well-- Some, surely. I used these when I was a girl. I won a tournament." "Good, then you have something of the skills you need. But I have seen the pathetic dance they make out of these things for the children, and I assure you, it will not be enough." "How... How could they not be enough?" she said. He gave her a glittering look and then reached over and grabbed his own pair. "Show me," he said. She took the blades into their appropriate hands. The straight-backed one, the refta, went in the right hand, she had been told; its point was optimized for stabbing, though it retained its curved cutting edge. And the sacta had a spur at the back, for catching an opponent's blade in. The proper application of both blades was critical to the sport. Marcus stood two paces away, his blades in hand. "You're using the wrong hands," she said. He had the stabbing blade in his left hand. He shrugged. "You're using the wrong hands," she said again, feeling a jolt of irritation. What was the point if he wasn't going to play by the rules? "Make me change them," he said. She sighed. She tucked the refta under one arm and went to him. The sacta in his left hand flashed out. She felt the wooden edge resting against her neck. Marcus raised an eyebrow. She stepped back, plucked the wooden sword from his hand, and held it out to him, hilt-first. With an annoyed look he accepted it with his left hand. By the time she had resumed her place, two paces away, he had switched them again. "Look, is this going to continue," she asked. "I don't know," he asked. "Is it?" "Are you going to play by the rules," she asked. "I hadn't been aware we were playing," he said. "If we're not playing, why aren't we just using real swords?" "Because your head would be on the floor now," he said. He would be obtuse. "All right. Fine. Keep your hands. Let's try it. But remember I haven't done this in a few years." His eyebrows raised in an expression she didn't entirely like. They drifted towards each other, their blades held in ready position; she held her curved sacta in front of her, ready to feint or parry with; the refte she held edge-on, poised to take advantage of momentary weakness. She felt her body relaxing into half-remembered stances and poise. She could do this. He slashed out with his sacta, the one held in the wrong hand. Confidently, she moved hers up to catch his blade in the hook. But his sacta twisted in mid-motion, as if he were trying to hook hers... And the spurs interlocked. Then he twisted, and the sword was torn out of her hands. Yelping, she back-stepped, jabbing out with the refta. But he parried her hasty attack, and in an instant, the sacta was at her throat yet again. "That--" She gaped. "That wasn't fair!" " 'All's fair when blades and hearts are bare,' " he quoted. She shoved him away bare-handed. Making fun of her like this, instead of teaching her. "This isn't just a game, you know!" "I'm glad we agree on that," he said. "Aren't you supposed to be teaching me?" she retorted. "From the looks of things, I am," he said. "What did I do?" "You cheated!" " 'All's fair in--' " "All right, fine, shut up." She shoved him again and bent to retrieve her sacta. "Let's try again." This time she was more cautious. She had more of a measure of him now and didn't intend to be blindsided again. But there was no stopping him. He had been instant death with a sword in the Trials and, in retrospect, she didn't see why she'd expected the change in weapons to slow him down. He came in confident and snakestrike-quick and within five seconds there was imaginary steel lodged between her ribs. "Don't tell me that was cheating," he said, his face inches from hers. "I told you to go easy on me!" she said, frustrated. "Yes, thank you for telling me your weaknesses," he said. "They proved easy to exploit." "That's not fair!" she shouted, shoving him away again. He let a single raised eyebrow speak for him. "Yes," she gritted, "thank you for not--saying that." He stood there with a quizzical look on his face, and she had the feeling that he was mocking her behind that unreadable mask of his. "Now," he said. "If you'd care to calm down, would you like me to explain to you why you lost?" "No," she spat, "I'd like to hack you to bits with these, even though they're made out of wood." A strangely twisted grin crossed his face. "My liege lady, you are welcome to try." She stared at him for a moment. He was infuriating. And the tone of his voice... Did he actually want her to hit him? Why had he liked that statement? She let the wooden practice weapons drop. "Tell me." "The only mistake you made," he said, "was in assuming this was a game." "Yes, you said that before," she said. "And you didn't listen before," he countered. "Perhaps this time you will." "All right," she grumped, "so it isn't a game..." Wait a one. "...Isn't it? I mean, I'm not trying to actually kill you or anything." His eyes closed for a moment; she could see movement behind the lids. "All right," he agreed, opening them, "if that is the criterion you judge by, then, yes, it was a game. But what else made it a game?" She opened her mouth. She closed her mouth. She blinked at him. "You took it as if it was play," he said. "You took it as if it were a game." "And how should I have taken it," she retorted. "As if I were trying to kill you," he said. She blinked at him. "We are not learning a sport, Catheryne," he said quietly, the suddenness of her private name jolting her awake. "We are not learning some cute thing for children. We are learning a method with which to defend ourselves against those who would try to harm us. If someone--a Summer, say, or an assassin from one of Queen Meralina's relatives--had attacked you, you would not have been frivolous. And nor should you be frivolous when training yourself for such an eventuality." She felt her cheeks heat. Somehow his quiet, unemotional discourse was more shaming than any amount of yelling would have been. "It's all right for you not to have known," he said. "There's no reason you should have known. Up until now, it has always been a game. But now you know that it's not." His fairness was both warming and condescending. She gave him an exasperated look. "Couldn't you have just told me beforehand?" His gaze was steady. "Would you have believed me?" She glared at him. Of course she would have. She would have... ...Not believed him. Of course not. He was right: it had always been a game to her. She hadn't realized it could be any other way. "Fine," she said. "But you still cheated." "Of course I did," he said scornfully. "They say 'All's fair when blades are bare,' and they mean it. If that assassin comes tomorrow, my lady, which is more important: that you are just and fair to him? Or that you live?" And there was that brusqueness that made him so popular with the ladies. "Just show me what you did that yanked the sacta out of my hand." And she thought to herself, looking at him: Is that what you become when you take everything seriously? That night, Gabriele found herself at an impasse. It was a custom of the court that the Princess-Heir visit with other high-born ladies and damsels over a late supper; the custom had been started by some Princess-Heir or other, and had simply not ended. Supposedly it was a practical method of feeling out the possibilities of political, economic or military alliance, but Gabriele thought it a lot of nonsense. She didn't have particularly high hopes for the meals themselves: they were long and formal and boring, and though she was ostensibly the guest of honor, the home advantage still went to the hostess. To make matters worse, only one young noble lady had extended an invitation this evening: Mistress Temaile Daravon, heiress of course to the Lord Daravon, whose grandfather had won fame, fortune and a nobility in the Spring Lands. She was by far the least tolerable of the scionesses of the noble houses. She and hers had always been snide, jeering and extremely uncomfortable to converse with; and, perhaps because the line was barely fifty years old, they were always looking for some advantage to increase their already-considerable standing with. And of course, to make things worse, young Mistress Daravon was not totally of that blood: she was, in fact, the daughter (purely illegitimate) of the Throne Queen Meralina's late husband, King-Consort Aaron. (Jokes circulated endlessly about just how much wine the Lady Daravon had had to slip him in order to do the deed--or, for that matter, how much she had needed to down herself.) In short, it was widely known among certain circles that Mistress Temaile Daravon was considered to be the most appropriate heir to the throne, and was considered so by none other than... Mistress Temaile Daravon. It was into this viper's nest that Gabriele must venture. The only alternative was to stay home that evening. That was, to be sure, the preferable option; but it would not look good at all to the highborn families if she were to be reclusive on the first-ever day of her eligibility for visiting. She sighed. "Lord Demitri?" He was at her side immediately. "Yes, my lady?" "We will to the Lord Daravon's estate this evening, to accept Mistress Daravon's invitation. Is thirty minutes enough time for you to be ready?" "Five or less, Your Highness," he said smoothly. She stifled impatience. He must always insist on showing off. It would take her at least half an hour to strap herself into (and be strapped into, by Nurse) any garment even vaguely appropriate for the occasion. For that matter... "Please send for my nurse, then, Master Demitri. We will leave as soon as possible." The Noble Houses were just that: houses, estates really, whose worth and size varied by their proximity to the Royal Palace. No one remembered who had built them, though each successive resident added or subtracted to each residence as he or she desired. No House ever actually owned their estate, merely had the use of them, but they were traded among the Houses on a fairly regular basis, with each House seeking an estate that fit its needs and desire for prestige. Each house's social standing varied, in part, by the residence they occupied, and no wise House would ever step down into a more-remote estate unless they had to. Of course, some did, either forced from the heights by misfortune or simple choosing to retire; but for the most part, a House only moved down when another House offered them such a compelling bargain that it was worth the loss of social rank. And he who could bargain his way into a more exclusive residence was clearly a man on the make, for a great deal of gold would be necessary to make such a persuasion. Consequently it was with some chagrin that Lady Gabriele Basingame, Princess-Heir to the Throne of Eretria, discovered that her primary rival lived practically at her doorstep. "But, it figures, I guess," she murmured to herself. "They're so desperate for any advantage, of course they'll move to a closer spot the instant they have the chance..." "I'm surprised your father wasn't invited with us," said Marcus. "That's not really the point of these things," said Gabriele. "We're expected to begin making our own alliances and connections at this point. And also to show how, you know, we're very much in service of the people." "The presence of the Princess-Heir is what they're looking for." "Yes, exactly." "Interesting." He paused. "What exactly is required of me at these things?" She frowned, thinking. There were always proper customs and traditions to observe, but they were at the front door and this was no time for a full lesson. But she could provide a short primer. Without being denigrating. Unlike a certain companion she might mention. "Well, it's probably okay that you don't have table manners down yet." A flicker of an image of Temaile's face: "She'll probably just laugh. As to the rest... It'll be obvious." Marcus Demitri thought that the most insufficient lesson on etiquette he had ever received. However, she might be right: for all their talk of blue blood and proper breeding, nobles did most things the way everyone else did. Aside from table manners, at least. He remembered the bewildering array of utensils he had been given just to have a bowl of soup and a sandwich for lunch. Some of them had been recognizable. Some of them had been recognizable as useful weapons. Most had been incomprehensible. But if this Mistress Temaile Daravon really was going to laugh at his confusion, that was fine with him. Ridicule was just another mask to hide behind. The door opened before them. It was a young woman, or perhaps an older girl--she shape of her face and body, the drape of her gown, made it impossible to tell, made her seem as though caught in some stasis between the two. She was taller than either of them, and her face could be charitably called handsome: it was fleshy and puffy, and seemed strangely frozen; it was as if some sculptor, picking her features out of a ball of clay, had wandered off before finishing, leaving a great deal of excess material around the cheekbones and forehead and chin. The train of her gown was long, and it was adorned by so much lace that Marcus wondered how she was able to move around. "Your Majesty!" cried Mistress Temaile Daravon, which was not strictly necessary as Gabriele had not yet been crowned. She curtsied neatly in that abomination of a dress. "You honor my house! Come in! Please, come in!" Gabriele wondered where the servants were; there should have at least been a butler standing nearby, but the great entry foyer was empty, save for the dim flicker of distant candles, and the three of them. She wondered where Temaile got off in calling this her house, since her father was still alive. And she wondered at the train of that dress. It was customary that none have a longer train than the Queen or, in her absence, the Princess-Heir; and Gabriele had worn none at all, for ease of travel, and she was sure Temaile would have predicted that. The length of the train could be nothing more than a calculated slight. Marcus eyed the shadows, which could hide an army of assailants. The sword he wore was purely ceremonial, and he doubted it could actually be used. He made a mental note to find himself a replacement as quickly as possible. Mistress Temaile led them down the richly-paneled hallways to the inner dining room. Here, finally, was some sign of servantry, in the form of an under-butler (to judge by his youth and garb) and a couple of household attendants, though Gabriele still wondered where the Lord and Lady Daravon were. Normally the parents were present, though they tended to stay out of the conversation. Their absence was highly irregular. Gabriele wondered what it boded. Besides the two kitchen servitors and the butler, there was another man present. He was dressed fashionably, though his coat was to the far side of showy, and like Marcus, he wore a sword at his hip, its hilt and scabbard covered thick with gems and gold. His eyes were half closed and his face held a constant, enigmatic smile. Gabriele noted the build of his features: bluff and thick-browed, with a beak-like nose. Clearly not of noble breeding. Marcus gave him one look and not another thought; his coat was so constricting that he would never be a credible threat, and he didn't think that sword would be worth much either. Both found him vaguely familiar. Marcus placed him first: he had seen the man before, in fact not all that long ago, though he had not learned his name. Gabriele recognized him an moment later, by his demeanor and posture: he was a copy of the man who trailed her. As Marcus guarded her, so did this man guard the Mistress Temaile. It was as if Temaile was saying: Anything the Princess Gabriele can do, I can do too. And, as with the train, I can do better. Strange, they both thought. Strange. Without introducing the man, Temaile sat at the head of the table, with her warder at her right hand; Gabriele, as appropriate for a Princess-Heir on these outings, took her seat at the foot, and Marcus, with a quick glance, sat also at her right hand. The twenty feet of table between the two parties remained empty. "I must thank you again, Your Majesty, for honoring my house and my table," said Temaile, her voice ringing oddly in the empty room. "Highness, please," said Gabriele, keeping discomfort from her face with an effort. "I am not yet crowned." "Yes, Highness, of course," Temaile oozed. "Forgive me, so thoughtless. It must be a terrible burden, Your Highness, living in anticipation of the crown. Surely only women of a certain caliber would be its equal." And thus the veiled slights begin, Gabriele thought. "It has... Had its challenges, to be sure." Only six hours ago she'd been straining under Marcus's tutelage, trying to unlearn everything she had ever learned about the silta. If that wasn't a challenge, nothing was. "I'm sure the adventures have only begun, though." "And Master Demitri!" Temaile exclaimed. "Coming back from the dead, as you did, and winning the competition--Oh, excuse me, of course you weren't dead, I'm sorry. I do let my mouth run away from me sometimes. It's quite ridiculous. But you must understand, after you disappeared from the Court and were never heard from again, we all... We feared the worst." "You honor me, my lady," said Marcus, inclining his head in a bow. "It warms my heart to know that I was the concern of the court, even if only for a moment." "Oh, surely for longer, Master Demitri, surely for longer!" Marcus only inclined his head again. "But, do tell," said Temaile. "Where have indeed you been, Master Demitri? Surely not the Halls of the Dead, for 'tis said that no one yet returns from there." She gave a glib little laugh. "But I am sure you have been to many fantastical places in your journey." "Only one," said Marcus expressionlessly. "And where, pray tell?" said Temaile. Gabriele realized what he was going to say. She wished desperately that she could shoot the message out through her eyes: No! They'll use it against me! Don't tell them now! But she couldn't project it; and if it was written in her eyes, he did not look. "Pelanha, my lady," said Marcus. Temaile rocked back in her seat. The man beside her paled, and his smile faded into a brittle look. Gabriele stifled a sigh. He'd said it. A temporary victory, First Lance, but not an important one. Now she'll tell everybody. As my father said: We can make this work for us, make it a statement of power instead of desperation. Now it will work for Temaile instead. Marcus glanced at her then, and though his features did not move, he seemed to deflate a little. "Well, that..." said Temaile. "That certainly explains why you won the Trials, I suppose." Marcus's eyes lit upon the man at the far end of the table. "Yes, speaking of that," he said. "Last I saw you, good sir, I didn't catch your name." "You've met this man before?" Gabriele asked, astounded. Temaile's eyes glittered, and Marcus knew the princess had lost yet another point in her eyes. "Yes, Your Highness," he said, to make the best of a bad situation. She should never have asked so bluntly. "As have you. We both saw this man last at the Trials." "And what was he doing at the Trials," Gabriele asked, still lost, but unknowingly setting him up exactly as he'd hoped. "Why, competing there, Your Highness," Marcus said. Gabriele kept her face turned towards him, but he saw her gaze sliding, peeking at the man from the corners. What she saw made her eyes widen. The man's gaze was dark and leaden. He seemed not half as self-contented as before. "I see," she said, storing the information away for future reference. Now was not the time to pursue further. "That is very interesting." Marcus controlled impatience: her noncommittal words had left him no further avenue of conversational attack. The arrival of the first courses of the meal, however, gave him one last opening. "Ho, good sir," he called down the table. "'Twould be improper to dine with you, not knowing your name." The man's face was frozen for a moment. "David," he said finally. His voice was dark and rough. "David Alckerson." Marcus raised a wineglass in a toast, allowing himself a smile of grim victory. "Good health to you, Master Alckerson." Gabriele ate mechanically, surveyed the information her First Lance had served up for her. She wished he hadn't pressed the point; the man could have been coaxed into revealing his name without realizing it, which would have been a victory of subtlety indeed. But now she had it, and it was pointless to cry over spilled milk. Especially when the results were almost as useful. Here was Temaile, who had always thought highly of herself; and now here was Temaile's bodyguard, someone closer to her than the average enforcer. He acted and was treated as if he were Temaile's First Lance; and he had competed in the Trials, and lost. Lost to the man sitting at her right hand. She wondered, vaguely, when he had been disqualified--and why. Marcus was remembering more of the man; strangely, his name had unlocked the floodgates of his memory, though as part of the rules of the Trial no candidate had known the name of any other. His languid motions and sleepy, lidded eyes had given him an air of supreme confidence, but his skills had never been up to par; he had been disqualified after the first round of trials, where Marcus had survived all five. He had watched David Alckerson compete and never been impressed. He wondered what Mistress Daravon saw in him. Gabriele was wondering the same thing. "Mistress Temaile, I don't mean to pry, but I don't recall ever seeing Master Alckerson here before. Is he a new addition to the staff?" Only once the words were out of her mouth did she realize she should have said 'serving staff.' It wasn't that she was incapable of being insulting, it was simply that she didn't have the presence of mind for it. Temaile's eyes flickered between David Alckerson to Gabriele. "No," she said after a moment. "He has been with the family for some years now, actually." "I see," said Gabriele mildly, hoping Marcus would take the hint. He didn't. "Then he must not have been aware of the rules." He leaned forward, as if to spear home his point. "It's against the rules for a servant of any house to compete in the Trials. What exactly would you have done, Mistress Temaile, had he won?" He glanced back at Princess Gabriele and was rather surprised to see her glaring at him. What, had he done something wrong? But her attention focused at the other end of the table before he could pursue further. "Why," said Mistress Temaile breezily. "I would have released him from my service, of course." This time Marcus checked with his princess before opening his mouth. She was glaring at him out of the corner of her eye. He kept his silence. Temaile took another bite of food. Good, Gabriele thought to herself. Let her think that one passed us by. Let us not draw attention to how she said that she would have let him go, not her father. Nonetheless, there was more fishing to be done. "What service does Master Alckerson offer you, Mistress Temaile?" "Oh, many," Temaile gushed. "He is well-schooled with a sword--" Marcus stifled a snort of disgust. "--and very well educated. He discourses fluently on any number of subjects. Why, he even fetches things, if asked nicely. He is a very valuable member of the household." Marcus opened his mouth again--Gabriele held her breath, hoping he was not about to ask the obvious question of why Temaile Daravon would have been willing to give up this 'valuable member of the household' to her. He did not. "Where and by whom was he trained, Mistress Temaile? As you have discovered, my training was, shall we say... Unorthodox. If it prove lacking, I should like to know who to consult." Temaile's eye took on a slightly condescending cast. "Well," she said. "I'm sure your training has been more than sufficient, Master Demitri. Of course, we cannot all have the best." Gabriele glanced at Marcus and saw the same dull gleam of victory she felt in her own heart. Let her think that if she wishes, they agreed. "In answer to your question, Master Demitri," said Temaile. "My man Alckerson was tutored in affairs of state by Master Gabriel Hanlon; and in the sword by Captain Jared Greenwald, formerly of the Silver Guardsmen." Gabriele could see the names meant nothing to Marcus. They meant something to her. Neither had particularly good reputations; there was a reason Master Greenwald was a former Silver Guardsman. If that is what Temaile considers the best, I may be able to rest easy. "It must have been at great expense that he was educated," she said aloud. "Oh, no, actually, none at all," said Temaile airily, "he was educated before he came into our service." Both of them picked it up: with the family for some years, but educated before joining their service? Educated starting at the age of eight, the formal end of childhood in Eretria, and completed perhaps at thirteen or fourteen--educated before joining the family, but with them for some years? Gabriele was content to rest with this information, but, glancing at her First Lance, she found him glaring at him. What, had she done something wrong? His brows bobbed imperceptibly: Go on, he seemed to be saying. "I... I'm sorry, I..." she sputtered. "I don't understand." Marcus concealed impatience. He would take it. "Nor do I, Mistress Temaile. If his education was not scripted to your needs, why did you take him into your service? He must have been a burden for some time before he learned the family's ways." "Oh, he was, he was," Temaile said. "But his qualities made up for it. He is, after all, a very faithful companion." She was becoming careless. It was time to strike. "And this is something you value. Not just money to hold the servants to you, but also loyalty." Temaile turned innocent eyes. "Of course, Your Highness. Who would not loyalty value?" "And, if I may ask, is there a reason why his loyalty is so important," Gabriele said. "Of course." Temaile laid the statement down as if playing a masterful trump card. "He is my First Lance." Gabriele let her eyes pop open, though she was anything but startled. Marcus, picking up on the cue, put up a surprisingly convincing facade of confusion. "Pardon me, Mistress Temaile, but... I was under the impression that only the Princess-Heir has a First Lance." "This is true," Temaile agreed. "This is true. But it is always wise to be prepared. I am next in line for the throne, you see." She seemed disappointed when they did not react. Perhaps she had forgotten who she was in line behind. "So, the title is..." Marcus said, allowing the statement to hang. "Purely informal, of course," Temaile said, obligingly answering his question. "But, should something happen to you, my dear Princess--Kyrei forfend--should something happen, I thought it... Simply wise. To be prepared. Since I am, of course, the daughter of the King. And one day, Princess, I might have to shoulder the same burden you carry now." Gabriele and Marcus exchanged glances. "She's careless," he said to her as they rode home in the carriage. "If that's the caliber of political infighting you'll face, you should have no trouble." "The way she talked about being next in line for the throne," Gabriele said reflectively. "One would almost think she was planning something." She'd meant it as a joke. Marcus clearly did not agree. "A distinct possibility. We should inform your father." Gabriele turned to him, scandalized. "We will do no such thing! She wouldn't dare! Maybe among the Summers that sort of thing is allowable, but here in the Winterlands we are civilized! There is no... Plotting, there are no accidents, there are no dirty tricks!" "That is what you think, Your Highness," said Marcus with chilling certainty. She rounded on him. "And another thing. We have got to work out a system." "I don't know," Marcus said dryly, "what we did tonight seemed to work well." "There is such thing as subtlety, you know," Gabriele said, glaring. "Not everything needs to be an instant victory. Sometimes it's best to keep things in reserve, to save them for later, when they'll have greater effect." "There's such thing as not going far enough," he returned. "You're willing to sit back with little bits and pieces instead of going for the really big prize." "We can always go back and talk to her again," Gabriele said, though she dreaded the idea. "We have time." "What if she realizes she's said too much and isn't as communicative next time?" he snapped. "What if your pushing makes her realize she said too much?" she retorted. They glared at each other. "Right," he said. "We need to work out a system." "It'd be easier if you would follow my lead," she said, suddenly weary. Why couldn't she have gotten a lance who'd just do what was asked? How about someone meek? Mild? Retiring? Not this sarcastic spitfire who had far too much mind of his own. "I think we've already established that your lead is not entirely trustworthy," he returned. "Then what do you suggest?" she burst out. "That we work out a system," he said. "Among the Night Blades, there are certain hand signs, certain gestures, certain words that have common meanings among us all. In this way we can communicate even in public places without being intercepted." It was a good idea, all things considered. "Let's do it," she said. It was more time they'd have to spend together; between fighting, and these new codes, and magic--which she had forgotten to check if Temaile knew about--it looked like they would be spending a lot of time together. "We'll see if they can outmaneuver us once we're done." "You do realize that the other Houses probably have their own systems in place," said Marcus, dampening her enthusiasm for a moment. "But ours will be better." She blinked at him. "You're confident." "Why shouldn't I be? According to the Trials, I'm the best." The smile he gave her was somehow not reassuring. She sighed. He never seemed wrong somehow. There was such thing as modesty, of course, but he certainly wasn't the sort to brag. And why not be confident? He was the best. The best, certainly. But good? "If that David Alckerson is her First Lance..." she said. "Do you suppose that means they... They..." Jangi was the slang term, with the upturned e added for the present-tense infinitive (they jangié) and jangéat to describe the people who did it, but that was in the vulgar; a woman might slap you for saying it in her presence. Somehow she couldn't get over that--wasn't there another way to say it? She certainly couldn't think of any. "Are they making the beast with two backs," Marcus said, finishing the question for her. She wondered how he could say that without blushing. "A distinct possibility. We'll keep our eyes open." "To see if they're jangéis," she blurted out, scandalized. Were they going to have to spy on Temaile in her bedroom? He quirked an eyebrow. "Why, Your Grace. Such language." "Shut up, bacagne," she snarled. She was a woman now, and she would swear if she wanted to. This time his eyebrows seemed distinctly amused. "In answer to your question," he said. "There are signs when two are lovers. I'll teach you to pick up on them. We won't have to sneak into their chambers or anything of the sort." "I never for a moment imagined we'd have to," she said primly. She hoped she'd gotten away with it. "Well," she said finally. "It wasn't too much of a disaster. We got some good information and we didn't give away that much of it. It could have been worse. It could have been much worse." Marcus said nothing. "But I wonder what it means," she said. "She was able to stop all the other Houses from sending out invitations." Marcus looked up. "It was abnormal?" "Of course it was," Gabriele said. "It was the first night of my visits. It's a huge boost to the House who is visited first. There should have been invitations from all of them, major, minor or otherwise." "But there wasn't," said Marcus. "There was only the one, from House Daravon." "Which means," Gabriele said tightly, "that Temaile's family has so much influence that they were able to 'convince' the other Houses not to issue an invitation." Suddenly her prospects looked grim. "Not necessarily," said Marcus. "They may simply have a way to influence the invitations themselves." Gabriele stared at him, perplexed. "What, like... The paper on which they're written?" "Perhaps," said Marcus. "Paper can be enchanted by mages, after all. I don't know how such a spell would work, but it seems to me that if we can think of it, someone could make it." Gabriele shuddered. "If Temaile has the loyalty of a mage, we're in deeper trouble than I thought." "Then it will please you to remember that it is highly unlikely she has such loyalties," he said. "It is far more likely that she simply controls the messengers." "But each house employs their own messengers," said Gabriele. "It would be impossible for her to have sway over all the Houses. There are more than fifty. If she did... Why, she might as well just have told them not to write. And we're back where we began." "Then it is unlikely that she can influence the Houses' messengers," said Marcus. Gabriele thought for a moment. She wasn't controlling the messengers... She wasn't controlling the messages... What was left? The answer was chilling. "Someone in the Palace is in her pay." "Precisely," Marcus said. "We have to do something!" she exclaimed. "Impossible. Every House probably has at least one Palace servant in their pay. Temaile's is simply in an advantageous position in that he or she reads your mail. But if you were to move against that person--if you could ferret them out--you would probably cause an uprising among the other Houses. They would feel threatened, you see. A servant in their employ is one of the things that makes them feel safe; it is security, like a sword poised at your neck. If you attempt to remove the sword..." Gabriele's eyes squeezed shut. "It's not fair. I don't have any swords at their necks." "On the contrary," said Marcus. "You do. This is a monarchy. When you ascend to the throne, your word shall be law, and aside from overthrow, there is no way for them to remove you." "Yes, but that doesn't mean I'm not supposed to listen to them," Gabriele said. "Listen to them, yes. Any wise monarch listens to her people. But follow their suggestions? No, you have no obligation to do that." "But I won't have that sword until Queen Meralina dies," said Gabriele. "Yes, but you have others," said Marcus. "As I recall, we were just arguing about the acquisition and use of some of them." He was right. All the information they had gathered on Temaile--her foppish imitation First Lance; her overweening pride--were weapons like any other. She felt ashamed that she should have forgotten... And angry, irrationally angry at Marcus, for telling her what she should have already known. She remembered the talk: with such a First Lance, we won't need a queen. It certainly seemed to be coming true. It had been a day of defeats all around: failures at magic, at facing up to her true self; failures at fighting, at the transitions of mind and heart necessary to win; failures at politics, at the wisdom to know what she needed and the craftiness to get it, at the queen's burden of being respected and loved. And it was only the second day. Is there nothing I do right, she asked the silent moon. As usual, it gave her no answer.
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