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Time passed, and gradually Gabriele Basingame became used to her life. There were flare-ups with Marcus--there were always flare-ups with Marcus--but that was to be expected. The rest of her life was proceeding apace. The invitations to dine had flooded in on the second night, proving that, whatever control Temaile Daravon's family had over the invitations, it was nowhere near absolute. A number of the other Houses had aspirations to the throne, but none of them were as arrogant as Temaile; and some of the Houses had none whatsoever, and were supportive of the current line. Gabriele found this refreshing. She and Marcus had developed a system of gestures and words, but were finding them increasingly unnecessary--partially because Gabriele, if she could, would always pick the non-combative Houses to dine at; but also because they were becoming adept at reading each others' expressions. It was a bit strange to her, to be able to predict his thoughts and wishes like that. She was becoming increasingly skilled in the use of the Flow. It was hard for her, often hard, to clear her mind and open herself to the Flow, though she felt it at all times, like something just past the corner of her eye, something lurking over her shoulder. That was a bit difficult of a thing to accept and open herself to! But when (or if) she had managed to clear her mind, the Flow just... Flowed. It sang, it rippled, it danced at her whim. Moya Tilmitt was quoted as saying he couldn't be happier with her progress and abilities. The same could not be said of her ability with the silte. She was athletic and adept at the correct motions, with a natural bodily discipline; Marcus had taught her a number of 'flourishes,' a series of movements intended to simulate a defense against several assailants, and she was very good at them. But when he attacked her in the sparring ring, she had a tendency to freeze up. Whatever it was she had in her, it clearly wasn't trustworthy in the event of a direct assault. Marcus said nothing, but she had a hunch that he was frustrated with her inability to respond. What surprised her more than anything else was that he hadn't said anything to her father. Or, if he had, it clearly hadn't communicated the depth of his misgivings, because here they were now, one of only a few noble scions venturing out with the soldiers, going on campaign in the Moonside Spring Lands. "Now, don't let your guard down," her father said, tightening the saddle on his horse--another sign of wealth and royalty; the animals, domesticated from unicorns only eight hundred years ago, remained difficult to breed in captivity. "We're venturing into a war zone here. And in wars, there are no rules. The enemy will kill you on sight." "So I should stay hidden, right," Gabriele said in an effort to lighten the mood. Father leaned down. "I'm being serious, sanina." A fleeting expression crossed his face. "Sanina. You're not exactly a child of six anymore, to be called that. My little girl." Gabriele smiled, not sure how to react. "My daughter," he said. "A battlefield is one of the best places to get killed. And the entire Spring Lands are a giant battlefield. You must always assume that there are enemies at every step. Trust no one." "Well, I wouldn't trust a Summer in any case," said Gabriele. Father's face closed, and he said, "Not all enemies are Summers, daughter." The words troubled her, even as they started out, with her father at the head of the column as befitted a general. She and Jordan were about a quarter of the way down the line, also on horses. It was Gabriele's first time riding and she was having trouble finding some sort of comfortable rhythm. If Marcus was having the same trouble, he wasn't showing it. "It sounds as if..." said Gabriele. "It sounds as if Father's implying that some enemies are Winters." "Your father's not implying that, he's saying it straight out," said Marcus flatly, and she felt again the hot lash of his scorn. "I hope it doesn't surprise you, because I'd heard you were smart." Gabriele looked up the line, where Temaile Daravon and her lackey David Alckerson were consorting (civilly or otherwise) with her father. "No, I guess it doesn't." "Not all the world is kindness and light, Catheryne Basingame," said Marcus, and she jolted to hear her private name. "That, in part, is what you are coming to the Spring Lands to learn." She stared after him in vexation long after he had gone. The journey to the Spring Lands itself was fairly uneventful. Within seven days they had passed out of Eretria itself and crossed into Cymerin, which was farther from home than Gabriele had ever been from home; but she was expecting to see strange, grand new sights, and she was disappointed. All of the houses looked the same, and all the people looked the same and sounded the same. It was almost as if she hadn't left at all. In another twenty days, they had passed out of Cymerin, and were on their way to the Spring Lands. Of course, those twenty days held their own surprises. She had long gotten past being saddle-sore by the time they arrived at the Palace of the Winds, long gotten over the monotony of seeing what felt like the same houses, the same people, the same countryside. If she had only learned one thing on this trip, it was just how much land was in a kingdom, and how many people. But now they were in Mar Greveldo, the capital city of the nation of Cymerin, and Father was here to pay his respects to the Corinth and Mananse, the strange dual monarchs of the Cymerine, and thank them for allowing him to travel with armed soldiers through their countryside. Cymerin and Eretria had long enjoyed peaceful relations, but the balance of power was far from equal--for one, Cymerin on its shortest dimension was twice the breadth of Eretria's longest dimension--and besides, as Father said, it was only polite to be neighborly. He brought her and Marcus with him, of course. He was not Queen Meralina's co-king, nor would Marcus be hers, but there was plenty to learn by watching the Corinth and the Mananse work. After all, like any partnership, they had their rough spots, and the balance of power between them was never quite equal, with each seeking to outmaneuver the other; but there were times and subjects on which they agreed. The dual monarchs ruled for life. Several years ago the old Mananse, a queen, had died; and now her young son, Telathandros, sat on that throne; opposite him on the throne of the Corinth was a woman at least ten years Father's senior, Queen Jilandal. It was as mismatched a pairing as Gabriele could imagine. King Telathandros, only a few years older than Gabriele herself, was bounding with energy and boyish enthusiasm, and Queen Jilandral was genial and welcoming; but when she introduced her own daughter and heir, an unmarried woman at least ten years older than Telathandros, Gabriele knew that she could not be pleased with her young co-ruler. For the most part their personalities simply seemed at odds: Telathandros speaking out of turn and on the most irrelevant of subjects; Jilandral displaying an increasingly chill propriety as the audience wore on. "We thank you," Father said eventually, bowing, as the audience came to an end. Gabriele and Marcus imitated him hastily. "You have shown us great trust in allowing us passage through your lands, Your Graces, and we have nothing but thanks for you in our hearts." "We hear your thanks and honor them," said Queen Jilandal formally. "It brightens our hearts to know that our neighbors in Eretria are--" "You know, we should get married," said King Telathandros suddenly. All eyes in the chamber turned to him as one. He was totally serious. His clothes fit perfectly, but Gabriele could not shake the feeling that they were about five sizes too large for him, as were the crown and scepter--a child, dressed up in his father's clothes, play-acting in an imaginary world. "We should," said King Telathandros again. "It would be a great alliance to wed Cymerin and Eretria together." With a start, Gabriele realized that he was talking to her. "My gracious co-ruler, the King Telathandros, is learning the rules of politics," said Queen Jilandral, "and that, sometimes, simply wanting a thing is not reason enough to have it." The tone of her voice suggested that she had said this many, many times. "Well, it's better than that one girl Lord Pleistnen tried to set me up with," said King Telathandros. "She was about eleven." "I should like to remind my gracious co-ruler, the King Telathandros, that 'that one girl' is, in fact, the daughter of Lord Pleistnen, and that House Pleistnen is one of the most powerful of the houses in Winterdom," said Queen Jilandral. "There is no need to snub her or her House." "But wouldn't it be better to marry someone I'd actually want to lay with," said King Telathandros, the coarseness of the statement coming out so matter-of-fact that Gabriele gaped. "And isn't a political alliance outside the nation a better thing than one inside? Who knows when she'll have children--" He waved his hand vaguely in Gabriele's direction. "--Who knows when I'll have children. Our heirs may not have this opportunity. But there will always be Masters and Mistresses Pleistnen." "My gracious co-ruler, the King Telathandros..." Queen Jilandal's eyebrows climbed. "Does indeed have a point." "You know I always do, old grandmother," said King Telathandros, with a bright grin, and the title was confusing to Gabriele until she realized it was a term of endearment. And she suddenly realized depth of respect and affection between these two unlikely rulers. It was an odd question in itself, as well. If King Telathandros were to marry her... Well, she didn't think he would be a very appropriate husband, on a personal level--oh, why lie to herself, she didn't like him; she thought he was a child. But he and the Corinth had already proved that appearances were deceiving. So if they were to marry... Well, where would they live? She had no replacement, whereas he could rely on the Corinth; would they live in the Silver Palace, in Eretria? Or would they stay in Cymerin?--which after all was a much larger country with proportionally larger problems. But she could not bear to leave her nation like that; how would she govern? By messenger? By pigeon? It was an interesting mental dilemma that she never quite worked out. Well, if I can't figure out a solution, she thought humorlessly, I suppose we won't be getting married. Another surprise was the way the soldiers took to her use of the silte. Marcus, of course, had demanded she continue her practice as they traveled; the exercise would be good for her, he said, and after the first day of sitting in the saddle all day, she absolutely agreed, no matter how sore her legs were when she tried to dismount the first time. She did not have the wooden ones anymore; now she had the real objects, cold steel, and Marcus was also teaching her the ways of their care and maintenance. He sparred with her sometimes, using a sword--a real one, as hers were. That frightened her even more than the sparring did: what if he were to slip, or have an accident? She might be permanently injured. She might die! And this of course did not help her fighting skills very much. So wrapped up in fear was she that she never noticed that Marcus's blade never did slip, that any and all injuries sustained were from her lack of control and finesse. Marcus did not tell her that he would not have given her the real weapons if he didn't consider himself up to the challenge of preventing or avoiding bodily injury to either of them; nor did he reveal how many more accidental close calls he avoided by skill of his body and muscles. What he wanted to do was encourage her, to draw her out, to raise her confidence in her abilities; it would never do to admit that she was, in fact, making errors to the left and to the right. The soldiers came through in this regard. They cheered for her, they encouraged her, and at times their sparring efforts became almost spectator events. The soldiers were always firmly on Gabriele's side, for which Marcus blessed them; it gave her heart to hear their confidence in her. And whenever she slipped or made an accident, they cheered, applauding every slight victory she made over him. Her father had, of course, always been popular with them, and now she was the first princess who had ever shown inclination or ability to learn and live as the common soldier had, and they loved her for it. Marcus simply hoped she would soon learn to control herself more; one nick or cut every few days wasn't a lot, but they added up, and it was becoming an irritating experience just to wear clothes. Mistress Temaile Daravon and her so-called "First Lance" never attended these sparring competitions, seeming to disdain the use of weapons, though both wore them. In fact, for the most part, they kept to themselves at all times, not socializing with the soldiers at all and rarely with any of the other noble scions, including Gabriele herself. This surprised her; with the Princess-Heir so close at hand for so long, it would have been the logical time to cultivate a friendship, or even exploit whatever domination Temaile had shown earlier and keep all the others away. But for the most part Gabriele found herself talking to the soldiers, or to the other scions (Master Kingsford Jaine and Master George Talten) and their retainers. Interestingly enough, speculation about Master Alckerson's position in the Daravon household was one of the favorite gossips of the trip; evidently Temaile wasn't being forthcoming about her "preparations." Another surprise to Gabriele was her First Lance's reception among the house scions. Both Master Jaine and Master Talten, rather haughty boys some years older, now beginning to take on more central roles in their Houses, on the verge of marriage... Both of these men showed him respect, talking to him in the casual way that friends did, and to Gabriele's astonishment he did them the courtesy of at least being polite to them (something he had not yet mastered in dealing with her). Of course he would never fraternize, but this didn't seem to bother them, and while he didn't encourage their friendship he did not discourage it either. It was inexplicable to her. There were times when she despaired of ever managing her duty. Here was her First Lance, the most gruff and overbearing man in existence... And he was winning friends. He was popular with the Houses, he was popular with the soldiers. He always seemed to be right. He had to teach her things, not the other way around. Really, what was the point? Of the two of them, one was clearly unnecessary. And it wasn't him. Of course, she said nothing of these things, and if anyone noticed her frustrations, they didn't comment. In this way the days passed, and eventually the army (for that's what it was, by Eretrian standards at least) reached the Spring Lands. Gabriele's first indication of it was when there began to be strange tufts of things on the ground. It was yellow and crunched under her boots and the horses' hooves. "What is it," she asked Marcus. Both of them were walking, leading their horses; it was something she had taken to because Marcus did it to avoid the monotony of constant riding, not to mention the cramps and pains at the end of the day; she had been walking more and more frequently, and now she could match the soldiers' pace without getting short of breath. (She had no idea how much this pleased Marcus; her general physical condition was something he had long worried over.) And so she was on foot when they first encountered that bizarre frondy yellow stuff that crunched underfoot. Marcus didn't know what it was, but a passing soldier did. "It's grass, milady," he said. "G... Grass?" she said, stumbling over the unfamiliar word. "Aye, milady. 'Tis a plant, that grows from the ground, like wheat." "Is it food," Gabriele asked. "No," he said, "'tis just... There." "And it's yellow," she asked. "I thought plants were green. Even wheat is green when it first grows." "Ah, well," he said. "This'un's all dead, milady. Hasn't gotten enough water." "Well, why didn't someone water it, then," she said. It only made sense. In the Winterlands, if you didn't water a plant--if you didn't go and get water for it and deliberately ensure it was properly hydrated--a plant died. The soldier chuckled. "Why, no one waters these plants, milady. 'cept the rain, of course." Gabriele's eyes widened. She had heard of rain, of course, but she'd never believed it was anything other than some wild storyteller's embellishment. Water that fell from the sky? Actual water? Where did the water come from? Who put it there? Why was it falling from the sky? Who would waste water like that? "There, up ahead, milady," said the soldier, pointing. "The land is green. And it's all grass." Gabriele squinted. She'd figured it was simply a wheat field in its spring growth. Whoever heard of a plant that stayed green for more than a month or so? "Don't they plant crops here?" she asked. "Aye, of course they do," said the soldier. "But first they have to clear out that stuff." He nodded at the wide plains of green. "I tell you, milady: a man's seen such a sight as this... Well. He can never go back. My wife says, Why do you want to move out, we've such a nice life here, what's in the Spring Lands that we don't have here. And how do I tell her..." A strange, flickering smile crossed his face. "It's green." By the time the sun set, they had reached the wide swathes of 'grass.' And it was, indeed, green. Gabriele was up late that night. All the soldiers and her father were already asleep, but she sat on a rise a little distance away from the camp, looking out by moonlight at the sight of a landscape covered in rampant waves of grass. It was a thing unknown to her, that vegetation could be so widespread. How much food did this represent? How many unknown edibles lurked among these numberless blades of grass? Food and its availability (or lack) represented wealth in these lands, because food also represented water, and water was that one thing everybody lacked. Two more days of travel took them to Eretria's single colony, known only as Hope, where food was grown and shipped back home. The nation, Father explained, had outgrown itself and its land; if Hope should ever fall or be destroyed, Eretrian citizens would starve. Consequently it was garrisoned and protected at all times; Father was here to investigate, to raid some of the Summer settlements and put the fear of Kyrei into them, and to rotate the garrison, replacing the men who were here with the men he had brought; in six months he would come back and do the whole thing over again. The town of Hope was not built out of stone, the way the Silver City was; instead, the people used mud to build their houses, mud that was mixed with dead yellowed blades of grass and then shaped into bricks. Gabriele eyed it all dubiously, but not as warily as did Temaile Daravon, who seemed to expect the entire town would come crashing down at the slightest misstep. But Father went right in as if it were all as solid as stone, and after a moment's hesitation Marcus did too, so what choice did Gabriele have. The garrison commander, Lord Kyle Nelsen, was obviously pleased to see Father, for he would come home with them, as would his men. But he would have the garrison for a few more days, as Father took the new men out to get a feel for the lay of the land. All of the noble scions except for Mistress Daravon went with him. It was a relatively quiet exercise, at least from Gabriele's perspective; if there were military actions, she never noticed them, because she was too busy staring at the proliferation of life in the Spring Lands. She wasn't sure what the Summers had, but in Winterdom the only animals seen on a regular basis were a few types of birds and some of the small feline predators that had evolved to take them; there were also unicorns and fenrir, but they were seen quite rarely. Here, there were more birds and small cats than she could count, and others besides that she had never heard of, had never dreamed could exist. One that walked on four legs but was heavy and wide-set, with wide broad withers and thick, shaggy fur and a large horn jutting from its lower lip. Another was like a horse but had the longest neck she had ever seen, and drooping ears and pale grey stripes. She wouldn't believe how tall it was until one of the soldiers had walked out to stand next to it. It was five times as tall as he was. "Why is it like that?" she said. "So that it can eat the leaves of trees," said Father. "...'Trees'?" said Gabriele. And thereafter followed another round of gaping. She had not known that a plant could get that big. There was so much she didn't know. Only once was she involved in a military action. It was chancy and surprising. She, with Marcus hovering near her as always, was standing in the shade of a tree which dominated a hill, its branches blocking out the life-giving sun; she watched the grass, watched it wave in the wind. It was mesmerizing in its way, the shifting and sliding. And as it happened she was looking in the right place at the right time to see some peculiar new sliding and shifting. "Marcus, there's people in the grass," she said, pointing. Marcus gave it a scant glance. "Nonsense, it's just the wind." "No, it's not the wind, I'm sure of it. I've been watching the wind for days and days. That's not it." He fixed her with a look. "Do you really have that little to occupy yourself with?" "Marcus, I'm sure of it," she said. He frowned. "Go take a look," she said. The rustles in the grass were pretty far off, but he should be able to make it there and back. Instead, he reached up and grabbed one of the low hanging branches of the tree and pulled himself up. "Marcus!" she cried, scandalized. "You can't get up there!" He peered down at her. "Who says I can't? And keep your voice down. If it really is people, they'll hear you, and--" He looked up. For a moment he said nothing. "It really is people." His voice was inflectionless. "What?" she said. "How do you know?" "Because they heard you, and are coming this way," he said. Blood froze in her heart. "What if... What if they're Summers?" He frowned. "Get up here," he said. "Get up in the tree." "What?" "Grab hold of the branch, swing your legs up, and climb. We can't run, because they'll see us just as well as we saw them. Hurry. We don't have much time." "But what if they see us in the tree?" she said. "Like they've got any idea on the proper uses of trees," he snorted. "Hurry. They're definitely coming this way." It took her three tries to swing herself up atop the tree branch, and even then there was a wild, scary moment as she dangled, one leg hooked around the branch, the other swinging wildly, her divided skirts flailing. Marcus reached down and yanked, and up she came, gasping, her sides and stomach burning from the unaccustomed exertion. But even then they weren't done. "Higher," he said, "keep climbing," but at least the branches were closer together, more at waist height. They perched precariously, peering down through a tangled net of branches. Gabriele heard blood pounding in her ears, felt it thundering in her chest. She felt a tingle on her skin and suddenly realized she held the Flow, though she couldn't recall opening herself to it. Marcus gave her a glance, and then she felt the parallel tingle, saw the strange warping of the air, as he too summoned the Flow. Poised, tense, they waited. Rustlings in the grass preceded the entrance of five men. They had bronze skin and bronze hair; their clothes were earth tones. Definitely not Winters. Marcus glanced at her again, and she felt a strange tingle of approval in the back of her head. "Whare they gone," one of the Summers said. "I dusn' know," a second replied. Gabriele wanted to ask why they spoke so strangely, but one look at Marcus's tightly-compressed mouth convinced her not to. "I seen 'em there a minute ago, they isn't there anymore," said the first Summer. A new voice spoke. "You and yore 'eagle eyes,' Gordon Cullum." Even through the yowling accent Gabriele heard derision, and, even more, the heady weight of authority. The speaker stalked into view: neatly trimmed, grey-haired, with a sash around his shoulders. "I isn't believing any reports you sends my way, may Loduur strikes me if I does." Gabriele shuddered. Of course she'd heard that Summers worshipped only Loduur, the God of Chaos, but she'd never believed it until that very moment. Marcus waved his hand at her four times before she recognized one of their surreptitious signals: Intriguing. Bears investigation. What did he mean? That normally meant they'd heard something that should be pursued? What had they heard from here in the tree? "We's heading back to camp. Reinforcements hours is away, jes the five of us, and we goes off on a wild goose-chase 'cause Master Cullum here hear a girl voice." Spitting vitriol: "You sure you ain't been away from your momma too long, boy?" Laughter from the soldiers. Then the hissing of grass. Then silence. Marcus signaled for her to stay in the tree and dropped down. After a moment he nodded to himself, suggesting all was clear, but he neglected to help her down and she almost hurt herself on the landing. "Come on," he said. "Let's follow them." "What?" she said. "That man was some sort of leader," said Marcus. "I'd stake my life on it. One of their generals. At least some sort of noble. You saw his sword, you saw his clothes. And you heard him, he's all alone. If we follow him back to his camp, we can kill him." "We are not following him back!" Gabriele said. "You don't have to," said Marcus. "But I am. Head back to your father if you want. But it'd be better if we both came. That way, if something happens, you'll know what happened and can explain to your father why you need a new First Lance." The thought chilled her. "But what if they get me," she said. "They won't." "That's easy to say now," she sneered. "All war is risk, Majesty." The scorn in his voice mirrored the Summer general's. "Are you worthy of your throne? Or are you going to go home and crawl under your bed?" Well, how exactly was a princess supposed to respond to that? It took them twenty minutes to shadow the five men back to their hiding place, which was a clearing near a small river-fed pond. Gabriele released the Flow before three minutes had passed; she couldn't keep control of it and walk at the same time. Marcus, she noticed belatedly, had done the same thing. They were near a river and the pounding of the Flow against her was just too much to handle. She hoped she wouldn't be called upon to produce a spell any time soon; she imagined herself crumpling, smushed to a small puddle by some unseen force; or her head popping off her neck, spinning away. Strangely, these ideas carried no emotion for her; they simply might happen, or they might not. She kept one hand near the silte in their sheaths at the small of her back. Now those she was worried about. After a few minutes of observation, Marcus signaled them back, relying on the wind-shifting grass to cover the sound of their retreat. "Good," he said, "we'll head back and tell your father. I'm sure he'll want to take advantage of this situation." His prediction proved true; Lord Basingame marshaled a team of fifty soldiers without even asking for the details. He wanted them as they traveled, though. Marcus reported, quickly and concisely, the circumstances of their encounter. "Your daughter has a sharp eye, my lord. If she hadn't insisted on investigating, we might have been captured or killed." Father beamed at her: "That's my girl." But what really surprised Gabriele was the fact that Marcus praised her at all. To her recollection, it was the first time he'd ever had anything nice to say about her. The battle, if it could be called that, was short and fast. One of Father's men was wounded, and a small detail rushed him back to Hope for medical attention; in exchange, all five Summer men were killed. Father brought her down to the camp after the dust had died down. He led her straight to the man Marcus had diagnosed as a noble. "Gabriele, do you know who this is?" Father couldn't seem to contain his excitement. "This is Lord Tor Gounold, one of the greatest generals of Rascine. He's been causing trouble both Moonside and Sunside for the past eight years. And now he's dead. Because of you, my dear girl! Because of you!" Gabriele opened her mouth to point out that, if Marcus had not insisted that this man was just as important as Father said he was, they never would have followed him; but words knotted in her throat. The man--General Tor Gounold--lay on his back, his sightless eyes wide to the sky. His throat was open, there was blood pooling under his back; she could see the rent in his stomach, his clothes beginning to turn black with drying blood, coils of greyish intestines spilling out. Two hours ago he had been alive and cursing one of his soldiers--what was his name? Gordon Cullum?--for chasing after shadows. Now one of those shadows had killed him. A shadow named Gabriele. She turned away. Did he have a wife? Children? Would someone mourn him when he failed to return? Not just for the loss of, supposedly, a brilliant general; would anyone mourn him for the loss of his person? For a booming voice, for gentle hands ruffling silky hair on a head that reached only to his waist, for piggy-back rides and bedtime stories? For the loss of a thousand years of accumulated mannerisms, of quirks and foibles, of the easy intimacy that comes only with a lifetime of companionship? Would someone miss him? Marcus's voice was ringing in her ears. "My lord, I will take her back to camp. It may be wisest to conclude your business quickly; remember that Lord Gounold was awaiting reinforcements. Yes, we would appreciate an escort. Good sirs, if you would follow me..." She at least managed to make it out of sight of her father before she covered the grass with her lunch. Afterwards, one of the soldiers passed her a water bottle and she drank fervently, even wasting a bit of it to the earth to swish her mouth out. The soldiers seemed sympathetic. " 'Tis hard, the first time, milady," they said. "Hits you right... Right there. But ye can't afford to think on it. He'd've killed you 'thout a second thought, had he the chance. Best that he be killed instead, aye?" Marcus said nothing. That night she didn't want to eat. The soldiers cheered and celebrated, and so many of them came by to congratulate her that she couldn't bear to stay among them. She slipped away while they caroused, seeking a hilltop as always, but this time the grass gave her no peace. She felt as though a million accusing eyes were watching her. She tried to hide her tears when Marcus came up, and she wasn't sure that she succeeded. "You should come back down," he said. "It's not safe to be alone out here." "I donwannabe anywhere near there." "Then you should have informed me you were leaving," he retorted. "If something had happened to you, your father would have had my head." "Nothing's going to happen," she snapped. "There's no one out here." "Yes," he said. "Just like nothing was going to happen this afternoon. And no one was out there." "Go away!" she cried. "Leave me alone!" In answer, he sat down next to her. His eyes were unreadable in the moonlight. It was pointless to get up and leave; he'd just follow her. She didn't want to deal with it. She didn't want to deal with any of it. Strangely, he spoke. "I understand we're beginning our trip home tomorrow," he said. "That's right, we are," she said. "We'll pick up the garrison at Hope and heading back." "Have you... Enjoyed your stay here, Your Highness?" The words were so bizarre, so haltingly delivered, that she stared at him. "What are you, an innkeeper?" "If you like," he said scathingly, "I'll stop trying to distract you from your thoughts, Your Majesty." It was amazing how he could turn a friendly, thoughtful gesture into such a mockery. "In point of fact, I have very much enjoyed my time here," she said primly. "It is always nice to see the world, and discover what other people take for granted." "I do not think you will ever take this--" His hand encompassed the rustling waves of grass. "--for granted, Your Highness." "True, probably not," she said. "Have you ever been here before?" "No, my lady," he said. "When I crossed into Summerside to go to Pelanha, it was by boat, and we traveled by night. This environment is quite new to me, Your Highness." "Must we be so formal," she said, frustrated. "You don't have to call me that." "What would my lady prefer I call her?" Debate warred within her: it would be perfectly acceptable to ask him to call her Gabriele, but suddenly she wanted to shove him off-balance. She had been teetering ever since she'd seen those five distant shapes in the grass. Let someone else be discomfited for once. "Catheryne," she said. "Call me Catheryne." It worked; there was no mistaking it. The shock in his eyes was quickly concealed, but evident if you knew where to look. "As you wish, your... Catheryne." "And I shall call you Jordan," she said, cementing the bargain before he could back out. "I think that's a bit more appropriate." "As you wish, yo--Catheryne." She concealed a grim smile. Finally, she wasn't the only one reeling. "So, Jordan. Tell me. How did you feel the first time you killed someone?" It was an even more brazen question than her demand that he use her private name, but this time he didn't flicker an eyelid. She felt a moment's brief irritation. "Well," he said, consulting his inner resources. "It was... About two years ago. I was fulfilling a contract for the Night Blades. I'd been asked to kill the lord of the minor House Tremaiyne in Grunveld. It was a silly contract--something about a jilted lover, a young girl of a major House with clearly more gold than sense. Purely extra-marital, you understand; this fellow was well-married and had two children. But... I am hired to do the deed, not question it." "And you did it," she said, fascinated despite herself. He shrugged. "I was paid." "What was it like?" she asked. He sunk back into the river of memory. "It was... A fairly small manor just outside Gemoyne, Grunveld's capitol. Not very well guarded, to be certain, and the few men on duty weren't really expecting anyone. I slipped in. I opened a window and climbed through. Inside all was dark; the servants were abed, and the children, and the wife." He spoke without consciousness now, lost in his own recollections. "They were sleeping in the same bed, these two. The husband and the wife. I don't know if that's normal among the noble Houses; I know some sleep apart." "It depends," Catheryne said. "Some marriages among the Noble Houses are... Politically convenient. Some aren't." She swallowed. What would it take to drive a blade into a man who was sleeping next to his wife? Could she do it? How had Marcus--Jordan done it? "What did... What did you do?" Jordan closed his eyes for a moment. "I went back to one of the childrens' rooms," he said. "There was a cup of water nearby, that I splashed on his face. He spluttered and screamed. When the wife got up to look... I slipped past her." A strange look crossed his face. "He hadn't even woken up." Catheryne was speechless. How much trouble had he gone through--risking detection, capture, death--to do... What? To get the woman out of bed, she realized, so that she wouldn't wake up in the morning next to a corpse, a corpse in a pool of blood, a corpse that had the night before been her husband. That was why he had done it; it was the only possible reason. He could have done it silently and slipped out without waking her. He could have killed them both. But he had lured her away to spare her the worst of the pain. "Then you left?" she said. "Yes," he said. "After leaving something behind." "What?" He drew a breath; something akin to amusement crossed his face: humor, sadness; regret. "When the young woman hired me, I asked her if there was a specific weapon she wanted the job done with. Now obviously she hadn't thought that far. It's something we ask each customer--they go scrabbling around for a weapon, they pick it up... Half of them change their minds. This girl, though..." His eyebrows went up. "She... Had quite a number of ideas. She called in some of the servants to help her decide. Eventually she settled on this giant battle-axe about two feet taller than you are." "Did you use it?" "Of course not. I left it in the stables of her father's house. But while she was digging that thing out, I took something from her desk: the seal she used for signing letters." Catheryne felt her eyebrows climbing. Each noble House had their own sigil, of course, and in the major houses sometimes each member took their own as well. The seal was a potent item: since it was pressed into the hot wax used to glue letters closed, it was essentially the only proof that any given person was actually who they said they were. Being entrusted with a family's or person's seal was one of the highest measures of confidence and trust. Conversely, stealing one... "You left it on his body," she said. His eyes closed for a moment, and she thought she saw pride on his face for a fleeting instant. "That... Must have caused quite some furor," she said. "The young lady was hanged," he said. She thought she remembered hearing something about the incident. Of course, so many wild stories came out of Grunveld that she probably hadn't paid it any mind. "Her family lost some standing, but they had had no quarrel with House Tremoyne, and they were mostly believed when they said their daughter had been acting independently. I believe their oldest son is getting married to one of the King's daughters soon." "That's... Quite a story," she said faintly. "Distrust me if you want, Catheryne, but I tell you nothing but the truth," Jordan said quietly. She said nothing. It was such a different story than she had expected. It was... Well, what had she expected? A thrilling chase, maybe, or a heart-pounding tale of creeping through silent corridors, stealing in under the noses of a thousand guards. Not this... This innocuous invasion, this strange tale of turnabout compassion, the adulterous man an innocent victim of hatred and justice. "How do you feel," he asked. "I keep thinking about his family," she blurted out. He said nothing, his eyes steady. "I think he had children," she said. The words poured out of her. Her imagination had taken flight and now it was taking control of her mouth. She saw the way the Summer general's eyes lit with joy at the sight of his family, the way that absurd mustache curved into a smile. "An older one, about eight years old, a girl. And a younger boy. Six. He's just started to pick up his daddy's sword. He wants to know how to use it. And the girl is good at embroidery. She... She uses it to focus. She uses it to learn discipline. Jordan, they don't have a father anymore." He said nothing, his eyes steady. "We're alike, Jordan," she said. "We had to harm some children to learn what death really is." "To experience it first-hand," he corrected. "We've both had some prior experience with death. Your mother. My parents." "Yes, but, that was different," she said. "That wasn't by anything we did." "No, but we learned it all the same," he said quietly. She looked at him then, suddenly cognizant of the places in which their paths had paralleled. "Your mother died only a few months before mine." "Yes," he said. "They were... They were friends, as I recall. Your mother came to visit once." "I remember," she said. "Your mother looked so... Pale. Fragile. Like a ghost. Like she might just... Drift away all of a sudden." "That's basically what she did," said Jordan. "And you..." She giggled. "You were so serious, Jordan, you bowed us in and you said, 'My lady, my mother is not well, but if you wish to see her, she would be honored by your presence.' You were so serious, Jordan." "And you were so childish," he said. "You made so much noise that your mother yelled at you to stop." Before she could begin to feel offended, he added: "And my mother said to let you continue. She said... She said: 'It's been so long since we've heard laughter in these rooms. It's a blessed sound to hear.'" "That must have been your fault," she said, giggling again. "You soak up humor and don't let it out, Jordan, you're like an... An anti-humor or something." He shrugged again, and she had the strangest sense that he was proud of being accused as such. She stared at him, memories flooding back into her, suddenly realizing how much their paths had intertwined. "Who are you, Jordan? Where did you come from?" "According to some accounts, a stork dropped me down the chimney," he said, struggling to mask his discomfort. There was a directness in her stare that he found disconcerting. Normally there were layers of distance on her--of clothes, of formality, of the dignity and burden of being called princess. All of that seemed to be gone now. He didn't know whether to be alarmed or not. "What brings you into my life now, of all times," she asked, leaning forward. It was such a strange question, but what choice had he but to answer. "Ability, I believe... And being at the right place at the right time. And a certain amount of luck." It wasn't the answer she was looking for, he could see that. "Why do you ask?" "Oh... No reason." She was becoming uncomfortably close; he could feel her breath on his face, see the faint pattern of freckles across her cheeks. Her eyes were the depthless blue of the Great Lake. Desire flamed under him. He still had not allowed himself to admit how attractive he found her. "It just seems to me... That we are much closer... Than I had thought." Her lips met his, petal-soft. Emotions rioted within him and it was all he could do not to vomit from sheer nervousness. When she withdrew, her eyes were strange. "I... Your Highness, I... Maybe we shouldn't do this." "What?" she said. "Why? Why not?" Because I don't deserve you! Because I'm going to die and you're going to need a new First Lance and oh Kyrei above what I would give for just one moment with you-- He squelched the panicked yelping. "Isn't it the duty of the Queen and the First Lance to be close," she demanded. "My lady... If that is all that drives you, then we should desist right now," he said. I can't believe I'm turning her down. If I really am the best for the job, then this kingdom is in dire straits indeed. "That is no reason to... To attempt such familiarity." There was no more polite way to say it. That's no reason to jangié, was the most straightforward phrasing, but hardly the most politic. She shoved him away, making a frustrated noise. "I feel like million eyes are watching me again." He frowned. "That's not a normal sensation." "What's normal," she grumped. "I'm here on this hilltop and I've just tried to kiss a marble statue that talks like a man. I shouldn't--" There was a sudden yell, and a hissing from the grass. And suddenly, the grass evolved men. Jordan caught a fleeting glimpse of bronze hair and bronze skin, but in the moonlight he couldn't be sure. Bared blades were all he really needed to see, however. And he had no sword of his own; he had unbuckled it to eat supper--careless, careless--and failed to put it on. That wasn't going to stop him. He rose to meet the first man head-on; taking a long step inside his guard, his hand met blade at the unbeveled base, where there was no edge; a wrenching yank, and the sword went spiraling away. He punched hard to the gut, and the man's latest meal came surging back up; another blow to the solar plexus knocked the wind out of him. He gasped and immediately started choking on his own vomit. The other two were far too close. Praying for luck, he took a flying leap and succeeded in knocking one of them off their feet. He had no time to see what Gabriele was doing and frankly didn't care; this was combat, and she'd be a liability. The third man stepped in, sword raised to strike, and Jordan snapped his elbow up into his chin. A punch to the throat and cartilage crunched. This fellow was done for; he might still be able to fight now, but he'd never be able to breathe. He grabbed the sword out of numb hands. "Catheryne," he said. "Run back to camp. Warn your father." "I-- I--" she said. "GO!" He turned to meet the second man in a clash of steel. Catheryne ran, plowing into the camp. She had only time to shout: "Father, they're attacking!" Then another roar descended from the grass, preceding a wave of armed men. Father's sword whipped free of its scabbard. "Protect Gabriele! Repel invaders!" Around her, men rose from their suppers and rushed to meet the attackers. She stood in the center of a chaotic madness of flashing blades, yells, rustling grass, all lit by moon and firelight. "Gabriele," her father said. "Find somewhere to hide." "I... Where..." There were men on all sides; she could see that they had laid an ambush, that they were hemmed in. "Where do I--" "Find somewhere to hide," her father grated. And then the enemy was upon him. The first overhead strike he parried, and his blade slashed in lightning-quick to sever the man's neck from his shoulders. The next he met with a knife in his left hand--a sacta, she noticed belatedly--and trapped the blade as she herself had been taught to do, his sword jabbing out. But this one was canny, and he yanked himself to one side, avoiding the stab. He pulled his sword free and raised to strike again--and Father shoved in with the sacta, lodging it between the man's ribs. Another stab finished him off, and Father applied his boot to yank the sacta free. "Gabriele, why are you still standing there? Go!" Jordan was at her side suddenly. "Come. Let's find you a safe hiding spot." "No..." said Catheryne distantly. The fighting around her had faded to a distant roar; she felt dizzy, as if the entire world were spinning about her, a carousel of metal and blood. "I can... I can fight." "If by 'fight' you mean 'die,' yes, you can. Now come." She turned to him. Suddenly she noticed blood on his face, leaking from a cut at his left temple. "You're..." "Never mind that," he said. "Come on." Some of the Summer attackers had been beaten off, but some of the Winter defenders had been lost as well. The wounded were gathering or being gathered at the center of the circle, which was slowly closing as men on both sides fell. There was nowhere for them to escape from; they would be noticed, and detained. "Then we stand," Jordan said. "We... We what," Catheryne asked, not entirely sure what he meant. "We fight," Jordan said. "And either win or die with your father's men." "I... I vote for winning," Catheryne said. Jordan frowned over at her. He reached behind her and pressed the silte into her hands. "You've been trained with these. Use them. We--" And then there was no conversation between them, as a sudden new wave of attackers pressed into the men near them, and Jordan lunged forward to contribute with his sword. Catheryne stared at the objects in her hand. Use them? What were these things? Oh goodness--that one looked sharp. She might hurt somebody with them if she wasn't careful. Jordan was side-by-side with the soldiers, fighting, when the unexpected happened: a spear-butt, or what looked like one in the split second he saw it, arced out of the night and smashed into his temple. It was dark-colored wood, which was why he had not seen it. Then his head hit the ground and he saw nothing at all. Catheryne was shaken from her reverie by a triumphant yell. "Ah-ha! A noble-born girl! Just as they's said!" She looked up. It was a swaggering Summer man holding a black-handled spear; she couldn't tell, but the handle appeared to be wood. The spear's blade was curved wickedly like that of her own sacta. The man was flanked by two other soldiers. Her father's men and Jordan were nowhere to be seen. The Summer man was tall and well-groomed. His eyes burned her skin. "So Gordon Cullum were right after all," he said. "He said to me he said, 'My Lord... 'Twere a girl. 'Twere a Winter girl that brung this death down upon yore father.' And then he died, he did, and that were the end of Gordon Cullum. But I still live, and now that I am Lord Kellon Gounold, I will avenge my father's death!" Catheryne stared at him, her mind a shocked buzz. Dimly she heard a voice in the back of her head: I seem to have been wrong about the children's ages... "Wesker," said Gounold. He nodded towards her with his chin. "Bring her here." One of the two soldiers stepped forward. He was tall and wide-set, heavily muscular, and moved with a languid smoothness; his half-closed eyes seemed sleepy. "Unharmed," Gounold added. "I'd like to... Have a little time with her." Catheryne knew the stories of what happened between victorious men and conquered women. She raised the silte she still held in both hands, hands that trembled now. "Mmmm," rumbled the man. "She gonner make a fight of it, milord." "Deal with it, Wesker," said Gounold, his voice heavy with contempt. "Deal with it." Wesker's sword hissed free of its scabbard. "Right." His blade was almost too fast to see. It darted here and there, flickering in front of her eyes--and suddenly there was a stinging feeling on her right shoulder, and the refta dropped from nerveless fingers and a trickle of blood ran down her sleeve. Wesker's face lit with an eerie smile. "Ye likes that, young missy?" Frantically Catheryne grappled for the Flow. Wesker's clothes burst into sudden argent flame. He screamed. Catheryne barely knew her own body. In one flowing movement she scooped up the refta, surged forward, stabbed him with it and sliced across his throat with the sacta. His scream broke to an agonized gurgle and he fell, blood and flames fountaining from his body. Catheryne stepped back. Her own sleeves, she noticed belatedly, were not even singed. The feeling of Flow brought Jordan to full consciousness. Raising his head, he saw the man fall, burning and bleeding; he saw blood dripping from Catheryne's weapons, and from her stance, from the burn of Flow around her, knew instantly what had happened. He smiled to himself. Maybe she could be trained after all. "A... A..." Gounold babbled. "A witch!" Reckless courage bubbled from Catheryne's mouth. "A witch indeed, little kovro, and I'll be the death of you if you take one step closer." Anger kindled in Lord Gounold's eyes. "Maybe, young sinivru, but not if I'm the death of you first!" Jordan rose from the ground like an eagle launching. In a moment his sword was poking out of the other soldier's chest. Lord Gounold didn't notice: he was advancing on Catheryne. Jordan's sword was stuck in the man's corpse. He fumbled for the one the soldier himself had been holding. "Stop, on pain of death!" Lord Gounold took one look: obviously a threat, but still weaponless as yet. Before him was Catheryne: a tempting target, probably easy to subdue. And he could dispatch her without harming her seriously... Or, at least, without harming his ability to have a little fun with her afterwards. He stepped in. Jordan abandoned the sword and threw himself at Gounold. The spear blade swung in. Courage flooded out of Catheryne like a dropped bucket of water. Something remained--she raised the sacta and caught his blade. But he yanked and twisted the spear haft in his hands, and her weapon flew out of her grasp. He brought the spear-butt up between her legs, smashing into her groin area--not as painful as when used against a man, but still enough to bring tears to her eyes. Then he jabbed her in the chest, sending her tumbling to the ground vomiting. Then he set his feet and turned--pivoted on his feet--changing direction instantly--so that the blade of his spear was now in the direction his eyes were facing. Which was, coincidentally, also the angle from which Jordan was approaching. Jordan threw himself sideways. Time slowed. Seconds were as hours. The blade grazed his chest, slicing open his shirt. Jordan tumbled and skidded backwards. Before Gounold could pursue, he tossed himself over into a backwards roll and gained his feet. Gounold looked him over: short and compact, barely a man; quick, but probably lacking in strength. And his youth was an easy disadvantage to believe in. "Gets out of my way, little boy. A battlefield are no place for playing." Jordan advanced slowly, pretending he wasn't interested in the sword dropped by the man Catheryne had killed. "If you want her..." He gestured with a toss of his head. "You'll have to go through me." Gounold gave them a glance. Catheryne was still doubled over, moaning in pain, one hand on her stomach and the other between her legs. She was beautiful, to be sure; the spun-gold hair was rare on Winters, but not unattractive, especially to a Summer; it made an interesting contrast with her pale skin, which was totally unknown in the Summerlands. And then here was this boy, not much taller than she, quick and dangerous, dark of hair and eye. "What, then? Are she yore jangéa? Does she lets you warm her bed?" "She is my liege lady," Jordan bit out. "It is my sworn duty to protect her and I'll not have her harmed by a swaggering kovro such as you." Gounold gave him a ghastly smile. "You speaks large words for such a small child. I think I hears yore mommy coming. She wash yore mouth out with soap if she hear you speak like that..." Except that he stopped on "she" and lunged in, spearpoint first. Jordan was waiting. He scooped, rolled to one side, filled his hand with the reassuring solidness of the dead man's sword. By the time he regained his feet it was too late to strike for a hamstring; Gounold was whirling, the spearblade singing as it sliced through the air. It was an even match. Jordan was far quicker, but Gounold taller, and his weapon longer; he could keep Jordan at arm's length, preventing him from using his speed against him. If Gounold had not been using that curve-bladed spear, the story might have been very different. Jordan wasn't even sure what it was; he'd never seen anything like it. Though he'd heard tales, and rumors. Supposedly, the great hero, the Savior, Coren Agano, had used a similar weapon before taking up the Blade of Suns; but all knowledge of that weapon was lost now, except for its name: in times of old, it had been called the tesada. Blade met blade, edge met flat, haft met flat. Nothing was conclusive. They circled, probing. "You are skilled with that weapon," Jordan said. A quarterstaff was one thing, but Gounold used his weapon in a shifting blur, using it as both staff and spear, varying his handholds to both swing, spin and stab. "Where did you get it?" Gounold ignored the question. "Skilled indeed. And soon it bring yore death!" He stabbed out, the curved spearhead streaking towards Jordan. Jordan leaned to one side, perilously balanced, and brought his sword around to deliver a strike to Gounold's unprotected body. But Gounold swing his own weapon--flat, sideways, the haft only--and Jordan tumbled, knocked off-balance. He kicked out, trying to keep the other man from pursuing. "Is that what you calls fighting," Gounold said. "I has to say, little boy, I not impressed. You--" Jordan grabbed desperately for the Flow. His concentration was shaky and shallow, and the fire that engulfed Gounold's coat was so weak that he had was able to ignore the threat entirely when Jordan lunged at him, his sword cleaving down, trying to break the spear haft. It didn't work--it clanged off--fell from his nerveless fingers. Undaunted, Jordan grabbed again, shoving down--and this time Gounold lost the spear as well. Then there was kicking, and grabbing, and hands groping desperately; and when they separated, Gounold's coat had puttered out, and they were holding each other's weapons. Jordan felt the slick smoothness of handholds on the shaft, the perfect, almost giddy balance of shaft and blade. For the first time he noticed that the spear-butt thickened a little bit, providing a counterbalance. He thought he might be able to use it. Gounold proved him wrong. His new sword flickered and spun, almost impossible to follow in the chaotic light of the fire. Jordan knew he had no chance. He set himself and waited for an opening. One arrived. Gounold's ceaseless probing suddenly ceased--and Jordan flung the spearblade out, it seeming to sail on under its own power, seeking flesh. Jordan was fast--faster than his opponent anticipated. He took a deep groove to the left shoulder. But Gounold saw the opening as well, and took it. His own blade flashed out--and Jordan felt pain, spearing pain, as it sliced deep into his torso. His knees buckled. Blackness took him. "Hmm, well then," said Lord Gounold, flicking blood from his sword with a quick flip of the wrist. "If this are the kind of fighters Winter are producing, I suppose I isn't concerned for--" Then his eyes opened wide. Then his body slid from his hips. Catheryne wasn't entirely sure what she'd done; as far as she could tell, the Flow had compressed the air around her into a layer the thickness of paper, with a razor-sharp edge to boot. After that little miracle, propelling the filament through Gounold's body hadn't been hard at all. But... What had it been? Lord Kellon Gounold's arms still flailed. Blood was gushing from his severed waist in copious amounts, but his sword still waved. Catheryne stepped on the blade, breaking it--he almost yanked her off her feet, tugging at it, but she managed to catch herself with a foot on his chest (blood squirted, intestines spilled out). Then she drove the refta into his heart. He jerked once and then was still. This time, she decided, she was quite satisfied to see death at her hands. Jordan lay on his back, his eyes squeezed closed, breathing shallow, face pale and clammy. The blood from his side didn't seem like very much, but she could barely tell, and his sweaty face and cooling skin didn't reassure her at all. "Help!" she shouted, "Help!--" But the sounds of battle still raged nearby, and she didn't think anyone had heard her. She stared down at him, tears threatening unheeded. What was she going to do? What was she-- She only realized she held the Flow when she saw its pale tendrils begin to cover him. It poured through her in vast amounts, more than she had ever held before. She stared, watching as some unknown part of her wove the strands, doing things she hadn't known she could do, hadn't known were possible--what was it doing? The wound was closing. It didn't seem to be healing itself, but rather being sealed, being removed-- Now his skin was unbroken. Now the rent in his shirt was gone. Now his eyes were open--confused, curious. "Your Highness?" he said. "What's wrong? Where is the enemy? Are you-- ...Why am I lying down?" She was too confused to understand what was going on. "You were hit," she said. "I... I did something to..." He sat up. "Where's-- My goodness, who did that to him? Your Highness, are you--" Then his face paled and one hand went to his temple. "Oh, my--" Then he fell down again. "Help!" she said again. What was wrong with him now? The world seemed full of confusion, of flickering ghosts whirling around her. "Help--" "Gabriele? Gabriele!" A voice drifted through the gloom. It preceded her father. His coat was torn and his left arm hung limply at his side, but the blood on his sword, and the men following him, spoke of victory. "Gabriele! There you are! What's been--" "He's hurt!" she said. "He's hurt! We have to get him back! He's been hurt and maybe he's going to die but we have to get him--" "I'm not hurt," Marcus said, sitting up, "nothing's wrong with--" He saw the two halves of Gounold and blinked. "Who did that to him? Certainly not me..." The Flow left her, dwindling out as her strength failed; suddenly she felt as if she weighed a thousand tons. She was tired--she was exhausted. Unconsciousness beckoned, and she had only time to hear her father's concerned cry before she went willingly into its arms. When Marcus awoke, he was surprised to find himself in a room; when he'd gone down, there'd been no civilization in sight. He was in a bed, too, the sheets clean and crisp around him. When he saw Princess Gabriele in a chair beside him, however, things fell into place. She seemed to be sleeping, but as he stirred, her eyes opened. "Jordan," she said, "Jordan, you're-- Awake." "It appears so, Your Highness," he said. His voice rasped and croaked. She gave him a glass of water from the bedside table, holding it to his lips as he drank. Then she stood. "I'm going to go tell the others. They've been wanting to see you." As she left, Jordan gave the situation a hasty inspection: he was naked in a bed, he didn't feel especially well, and he was about to be bombarded by an unknown number of spectators. This didn't look entirely good. 'They' turned out to be Lord Basingame, several of his soldiers and the noble scions that had come along for the adventure. Master Talten had a bandage wrapped around his head, covering an ear that Jordan later learned was missing entirely, a testament to the fierceness of the engagement--and also to Master Talten's skill, that he had left only his ear on the field of battle, whereas his opponent had left his life. It amused Jordan to see Mistress Daravon hanging onto Master Talten's arm, evidently quite impressed with him now that he had been blooded in battle; and it amused Jordan to see David Alckerson's ill-concealed glower. "What happened," Jordan asked, forestalling any attempts to laud him. "The last thing I remember was confronting that Summer man. And then I woke up." Catheryne winced to herself. None of the soldiers knew what had happened, and only her father would have reason to suspect the use of magic. But this story would confuse everyone. "You were hit on the head," she said quickly. "That's all that happened. Just a hit on the head." Jordan nodded, and saw Lord Basingame doing the same. He understood. Catheryne still wanted to keep a low profile. "Do you know who that was, whom you fought," Lord Basingame asked. Jordan shook his head. To his knowledge, the man had never spoken his name. "It was Kellon Gounold, the son of the general we slew earlier that day," said Lord Basingame. "He identified himself to my daughter, and even if not--" He glanced in the corner, where the dark-hafted spear was propped. "--that tesada proved it. He's known throughout the world for its use." "Why is it here," Jordan asked. Lord Basingame laughed. "Why, Master Demitri, you wouldn't let go of it!" "What happened, then," Jordan said. "Is he dead?" Lord Basingame smiled, glowing with unmistakable pride. "My daughter brought an end to the Gounold line that day. She killed both father and son." Jordan nodded. "You did well, my lady." Gabriele colored significantly. "And you as well, young sir," said Lord Basingame. "If not for you, Gabriele would have undoubtedly met a tragic end. But you saved her, and she you, and now you are both alive and the Summers have lost a potent line. And now, you are awake, and as soon as you are ready, we may begin the return to Eretria." "I am ready at any time, my lord," said Jordan. "Then we'll leave in the morning," said Lord Basingame. "To give you a bit of time to rest. It would have been a shame to lose you, Master Demitri." "It would have been a shame to be lost, my lord," said Jordan evenly. "Come," said Lord Basingame to his retinue. "We'd best let young Master Demitri get some rest. And we must prepare for the journey." "Thank you for your visit, Lord Basingame," said Jordan formally. "Come, Gabriele; come, all of you," said Lord Basingame. "Let's--" "Actually," said Catheryne. "I'd like to... If..." She glanced at Jordan. "If it's all right with you. I'd like to stay for a moment." And thus was Lord Basingame and his entire retinue treated to the rare sight of Marcus Demitri disconcerted, even if he only showed it for a second. "Yes, that... That would be all right," he said, and he was the master of the situation once more. When everyone had gone she sat in the chair again and regarded him silently. She didn't seem to be searching for words or waiting for him to speak, she was simply staring at him. He wondered if she was trying to unnerve him. He wondered if she could tell he already had. He was weak, and shaken; his duties had nearly gone to disaster in the blink of an eye, his blade had failed him, and the one magic he had wrought had gone nowhere. It could have been an unmigitated catastrophe... But it had not been, which was, perhaps, a measure of their skills, and their training. Nonetheless, it had come close. And it irritated him to be so easily shaken. Finally she said, "I am glad to see you are well." "As well as could be expected," he said. "Your Highness, I do not mean to be rude, but we can talk on the voyage home. If there is nothing pressing..." She forced herself not to take insult. It was not his place to dismiss her like that. But he was injured, and eager to return home, and she had not exactly been the most effective of conversational partners, and... Oh, Kyrei's Light, was he really that desperate for her to leave? She forced words from her mouth; they tumbled like rocks. "No, I... There is something. I..." She expected impatience, annoyance. Instead he settled and beckoned only with receptive silence. "I wanted to... Apologize. For... For my inappropriate behavior. That night. I..." She fought down embarrassment. Maybe the blow to his head had erased his memory? Such things had been known to happen before. "I should not have..." With a convulsive effort, she expelled it all: "I should not have kissed you and I apologize." There. She'd said it. And now, as a bonus, she could also truthfully claim that she had already been the most embarrassed she would ever be. How highly practical this First Lance of hers was turning out to be. He looked at her expressionlessly for a moment. Then, surprisingly, a smile crossed his face--an actual, true smile, even if only present for a moment. "My lady, you have no need to apologize. A kiss from you is a gift to be cherished." "But..." It took a conscious effort to keep her jaw from dropping open in mid-sentence. A long aahhhh was not a word, after all. "But you said that... You said that we shouldn't do it." The old persona seemed to descend over him like a blanket. "That is true. That is very true, Your Highness. But that does not make it any less a gift." Inside, he churned: fear, frustration, sadness. A gift indeed; especially to me, my lady, who shall know no woman in his life, especially not one as desirable as you are. For an instant he felt, remembered, relived the touch of her lips, and desire flamed through him. She was not only beautiful, but canny, and wise, and brave; there were few men in Eretria who were her equal, and none better. Such a woman was far beyond what he might ever have chosen for himself. "Then why did you say... That we should not?" She was glad he had not asked her to explain herself, because she could not, not in the slightest. All she knew was that, as they had talked, she had listened and heard him and felt, inexplicably, that here was someone to learn about, here was someone to understand, here was someone to keep near her. And then, looking at his face... It certainly hadn't been her idea! But it had come upon her, the idea, and once she had thought it, it had been impossible to resist. And she wasn't ready to admit to herself--not quite yet ready--how much she had liked it. He closed his eyes for a moment. If ever there was a chance to establish anything more than a working relationship with his princess, now was the time--and yet he must throw it all away. If there was any greater test of his resolve than this moment, he could not think of it. And hoped, fervently, never to encounter it. "Because... Because I am not the right one for you, my lady," he said finally. It was not what she was expecting. "What do you mean?" "You would..." His eyes went cold. "You would find me unacceptable." His presumption was maddening. "Don't you think I should be allowed to decide that for myself?" "You should," he said, "and will if you like, but I assure you, you will find--" "How do you know?" she retorted. "What makes you so sure you know everything? Ooo, I'm Marcus Demitri, I'm the smartest man in the world, ooo pay attention to me, I know so much stuff I'm practically a god--" "My lady in less than year I will be dead." It came out as one long word, spat like dislodged tooth. She jolted back. His eyes fastened onto her, like the stare of the sun. "I am... On a mission. When I was a child, my parents were killed. My father met his end under very suspicious circumstances and my mother followed him. Now that I have the chance, I intend to find the people who did this, and kill them. I hope that I will succeed, but there is no guarantee. I don't even know if I will live." She gaped at him. Was that really what drove him? Was this the source of his unshakeable calm? It must be comforting, she realized dimly, to know your own fate--to know where your life would take you, and when. Hers seemed to be careening out of control this very second. "And... This is what my First Lance intends to do," she said. "That is indeed his intention," said Marcus. "And so... The entire reason you competed in the Trials..." she said bitterly. "And went through all this trouble... Was so that you could get your revenge." "No," he said, "no. I have sought my family's murderers for fifteen years and I will not stop now. But I have also taken an oath to protect you, and I will not abandon that. I will make sure, before I..." He searched for a polite analogy. "Leave... That you are provided for. We will find you a replacement. And I will ensure that you can take care of yourself. I am not ignorant of responsibility." "And that's all you want from life," she said. "That's all. Just... Death. To kill those who wronged you, and be killed by them. No future. No prospects. No... No respect, no praise, no friends. No family. No wife, no children. No love. Only... Only death." "Yes." He heard the word tumble from his own mouth without having consciously placed it there. Well, then. He seemed to have committed himself. "That is what I seek." It was, after all. Wasn't it? What about me, she wanted to scream. "Well," she said instead. "Fine then. Such an irresponsible First Lance I would be glad to be rid of anyway." They looked at each other, feeling hurt cascading down inside themselves, feeling the sinking weight of the things they had hoped to hear. Not the person I wanted, as it turns out. Not that person at all. And yet... "I will let you rest," she said. "If you are well in the morning, we will probably depart." "As Her Majesty wishes," he said, inclining his head. Princess Gabriele Basingame made it to her own room before the first tears managed to escape her. But she stared out the window, unheeding, and they dried cold and stiff on her cheeks.
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