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The Silver Palace was strange to Princess Gabriele Basingame, returning to it after being away for over two months. She felt she was a different person now, and that she might be returning to a different place as well. The journey home had been a trial. At first she'd feared that Jordan would rebuff her, or avoid her, or even be offensive, but he had not; evidently he considered the matter closed, and was ready for business as usual. Instead, it was she who avoided him, feeling that the chasm they had opened was too great. She felt her face burn every time she saw him. She had been far too forward, and had been rejected; she could not look at him without feeling the shame of that moment, and the anger. And when those feelings faded, there was only emptiness. Emptiness, and a vague sensation of being very tired. She wasn't sure, but she thought the anger might have been preferable. The lessons had continued, but only sporadically; Jordan had with him the tesada, and was attempting to divine its use. Many of the soldiers, and not a few of the nobles, gathered round with suggestions and advice, or at least to watch. They seemed fascinated with the process, with the fact that Jordan seemed to be teaching himself to use the thing, a fact that Catheryne didn't understand at all. Either he could use it or he couldn't; what was the big deal? Nonetheless, the soldiers loved it, and by the time they reached the Silver City, he had sparred against some of them, and won a few times as well. Temaile Daravon sneered, "You let your Lance learn to use a Summer weapon?" To which Gabriele replied in full royal haughtiness, "That Summer weapon nearly took both of our lives. I think understanding its use might have some practical value." Temaile sniffed. "My Lance and I were never threatened." Then she paraded off, before Catheryne could point out that, during the battle, they'd been safely ensconced in the royal lodges at Hope. Temaile was a snake and Catheryne well knew it, but it didn't keep her barbs from stinging. When they returned they were paraded by the common folk, for word had been sent ahead of a great victory in the Spring Lands, and as usual the people seized upon any heroes they could. Men and women and children lined the streets to cheer and wave brightly colored cloth. Gabriele walked her horse between them, looking around her, saying nothing. Her father and the soldiers seemed proud of themselves, and well they should; and of course Marcus Demitri had no expression on his face at all. This time his face mirrored hers. "Something ails you, my lady," he asked her. She glanced over at him and then ignored him. There were more important things at stake. She was realizing, perhaps for the first time, what it was she actually was. It seemed like the whole city had turned out to meet them. They marched down the Silver Road, the main road that led directly to the palace (Why silver? Why did we have to make everything in this country silver?), a wide avenue well-paved with flat stone, broad and spacious, with a leafy shrub every fifty paces or so--again, an overt symbol of the nation's wealth, though the shrubs themselves did nothing in particular. Far in the distance the white stone walls of the palace glowed in the mid-day sun. It was the road visiting dignitaries took when they visited, and no expense had been spared to impress. She was impressed. This is what I will rule. All these people, all this land, all these places. This dignity. This loyalty. This nation. And then, I have to be worthy of it. I have to make myself worthy of it. These people deserve no less. She rode down the avenue, lost in her thoughts, the shouts of the people behind her. In the Palace was uproar. There was the traditional fuss and scuffle and clutter as the Palace staff prepared to receive just under five thousand men, who must be housed for a short time while they were paid for their services, deactivated and sent home. But even under all that chaos, Catheryne quickly saw that something else was wrong. It was late evening before they could sit down with the Queen--a private audience, involving only the four of them--and get the whole story. It was a grim and startling one. "It started several weeks after you left," Queen Meralina said. "The first report was from a grocer on Rose Street. He and his wife lived above the shop so there was no way anyone could have sneaked in. He lunched with them at the noon hour. But at about four of the clock he went up for a drink of water, and he found..." She shuddered. "What," Father said, leaning forward. "What did he find?" "His... His family," said Queen Meralina. "Or... What was left of them." Silence covered the room like a shroud. Queen Meralina sagged back in her seat, her eyes squeezed closed, and Catheryne realized that, in the absence of her First Lance, she must have gone to investigate herself. Jordan's face was impassive, but she could tell he was listening to every word. "What happened," Father said. "The wife... Struggled, we think," said Queen Meralina. "There was blood on her fingernails but no marks on her body. And... Things were done to her... Sexually. Before she was killed." "Did they find his spend," Jordan asked immediately. In his mind were wild ideas--obviously, he would have to consult with Moya Tilmitt, but it was possible there might be a way to trace a man through the leavings of his manhood. Things of the body were things of power, and dangerous in the wrong hands--even something as trivial as a man's spend. "Not that anyone was aware of," said Queen Meralina. "And... There was blood everywhere. Some of the children... We... Well. They didn't find any knives. But the results were obvious." Catheryne felt a chill down her spine. "What happened?" "Catheryne, hush," said her father. He laid his hand on Queen Meralina's. She didn't understand. What results? What obvious. "What happened?" "They were chopped to pieces," Jordan said coldly. ...On second thought, perhaps she had been better off not knowing. "And... This has happened more than once," Father said. "The second was thirteen days ago," Queen Meralina said. "This time it was an innkeeper. No children, thank Kyrei, but the same... The same patterns. The husband downstairs. The cross on the door. The bite marks on the woman's... On her--" "Hush," said Father. "No need. We will ask others." "Others know," Catheryne asked. "I hope so, because whatever is causing this, we need to stop it," Father said. "Your Majesty, with your permission, I would like to retain five hundred soldiers in the city until we have found this killer and stopped him." "Are you sure it's a he," Catheryne said. "Can you imagine a woman doing this," Jordan retorted. "We're sure it's a man," said Queen Meralina. "The innkeeper's wife was slapped several times--on the face, on the rear. The handprint was too large to be anything but a man's. And he's been seen." "How?" Catheryne said. "The innkeeper's wife did not resist," said Queen Meralina. "We're pretty sure the grocer's wife put up a fight, but this woman did not. Her husband was downstairs tending the inn when he heard a piercing scream. When he came to investigate, the man was scrambling for his pants." "So... She lived?" Catheryne said hopefully. "No," said Queen Meralina. "The innkeeper says that he produced a knife and, before he could react, slit his wife's throat. Then he jumped out a window." "Well, he might be dead then," Catheryne said hopefully. "Only maybe," said Jordan. "People do strange things at times. Like sneak into a back room, kill some children, rape their mother, and escape without ever being noticed." "But we know what he looks like," Father said. "Yes," said Queen Meralina. "He is tall, and muscular, and has brown hair. The innkeeper said he was wearing dirty clothes, rags really, and smelled terribly. He could never make up his mind about the face, though--on one recollection it was horribly scarred and twisted, the next it was the face of a god." Catheryne sat silent, suddenly wondering if what they were dealing with was entirely natural. No, of course it wasn't. What natural man would sneak into a back room, kill some... She didn't want to think about it. Naming it gave it power, and she wanted it to have no power over her. All those things this man had done. And he had jumped out a window. Of course he was not entirely natural. What did she expect? "And he is at large," Father said. "Yes," Queen Meralina said. "He's done it twice," said Father. "Yes," said Queen Meralina. "And may do it again," said Father. "Yes," said Queen Meralina. "We must stop him," said Father. Queen Meralina looked at him. "Bold words, my lord. I wonder if we can." When they had left the Queen's presence, Catheryne looked over at Jordan. "Do you think that relates to... To your... Situation?" Jordan looked at her quizzically. "To the people you want to find," Catheryne said. She kept her voice down. No need to let her father be aware of the whole thing. "Oh," Jordan said. "No, I don't believe so. My..." He too glanced at Lord Basingame. "My situation involved poison. But no... Overt foul play." "And you hope to find the people who did it," said Catheryne. "I do not 'hope' to find them, my lady," said Jordan. "I will." Catheryne rolled her eyes. "Fine. Suit yourself..." "Master Demitri," said Father suddenly. "Yes, my lord," Jordan said instantly. Father turned, halting their progress. "Would it be possible to engage your Night Blade contacts in the pursuit of this mysterious foe?" "It would, my lord," said Jordan, "but I don't know if they will be of any help." And then, hazarding a guess: "I certainly doubt the person you seek is among them. Very few people would have the money to hire a Night Blade to do what this person does; and those who do, would not set that person on an innkeeper's wife, when a common cutthroat can be had for a handful of silver." Lord Basingame seemed disappointed. "Regardless, your Night Blades operate on, shall we say, the far side of the law. Their help--your help--may prove invaluable." "I am yours to command, my lord," Jordan said, bowing. And it was evidently the right answer, for Lord Basingame nodded and continued on down the hall. Catheryne looked at him. "You're going to be busy. Hunting down two criminals, teaching me to fight, attending court functions, training in magic... It'll be quite a life." "Yes, well, my mother always said it was best to keep busy," said Jordan. She couldn't tell if he was conscious of the irony. With that, he bowed to her as she entered her rooms, and went to his own. The next morning she saw the diffuse, cloudy sunlight and longed suddenly for the clear, soft warmth of the Spring Lands. Clouds there were rare, though she'd been told that, during the rains, there were clouds aplenty. She'd never gotten a chance to see rain there. It was something she wanted to see, if she could. She looked at the greyish walls around her, the pale bare dirt, the reddish colorings on everything, and longed suddenly for green, for any green, with an intensity that clenched at her throat and eyes. Moya Tilmitt was very pleased to see them; he had warned them many times that they might die on their little jaunt, and evidently had rather expected them to. Well, if he did, Catheryne thought crossly, why didn't he teach us any spells that actually would have been useful out there? The fireblast she had used, and the ribbon of air, had come from some wellspring of unknown knowledge within her, as had that... That thing she had done, which had closed Jordan's wounds. She wondered what it was. "Moya Tilmitt, I was wondering if you could identify a spell for me," she said suddenly. They looked at her. Suddenly she became aware that Jordan had been in the process of asking Moya Tilmitt for a spell that would let them trace the unknown killer. "I-- I'm sorry," she said, "I'll wait. I--" "Humility in a princess is a rare thing indeed, and should be honored," said Jordan, bowing his head. "Please. Ask your question." She ignored the tugging sensation that she was being mocked. "Moya Tilmitt, when Marcus was struck down--" "When Marcus was what," Moya Tilmitt said. "When he was slashed by that man's spear," Catheryne said. "A tesada, not a spear," Jordan corrected. "What's the difference, it's a blade on a pole," said Catheryne. "The use is the difference," Jordan said. "Spears are meant to stab, they're a spike on a pole. A tesada can be used to slash. Try to use one as the other and you'll get yourself killed right quick." "Yes, like you almost did," she retorted. "Children!" said Moya Tilmitt sharply. He clapped his hands. "Enough. You can bicker later. Right now I'd like to answer Mistress Gabriele's question." He turned to her. "He was stabbed, you say?" "That's what I'd say, but according to him he was slashed with it," Catheryne said. "Was it a wound-deep," Moya Tilmitt said. "Fairly," Jordan said. "To the side, here." He gestured with his hand, making a cutting motion across his left flank, below the ribs. Moya Tilmitt went distinctly pale. "I... I see," he said. His eyes squeezed closed for a moment. "I..." He shook his head. "Excuse me, I... I have an aversion to blood-the sight of. It..." "Many do," said Jordan. "It takes some time before most get over it." "If you suffered such an injury-grievous, Master Demitri," said Moya Tilmitt, "it seems odd that you're standing-still-here." "Yes, well, that was my question," Catheryne said. "When I saw him, I was still holding the Flow, and..." She described, as best she could, the sensation of what had happened, including the strangeness of Jordan's memory loss. "What was that, Moya Tilmitt? What exactly did I do?" As she described it, Moya Tilmitt's eyes were wide. Now his mouth opened, but no sound came out. "I... You... Your Highness, that was a spell-difficult-extremely. It's a miracle you... Well, I mean, aside-totally from the possibility of scouring the Gift right out of yourself, you actually got it... If you'd done one-only thing wrong, you might have..." He gave himself a shake. "My lady, you must promise me never to use that spell again until I say you can. It is difficult-extremely and you could endanger yourself or anyone near you if you try it again." "What was it," Catheryne asked again. She was not interested in being hedged. "We call it rechaniye, the reversion, the turning-back," said Moya Tilmitt. "It... Returns the person on whom it is cast to a state-previous of being. In your case, it brought Master Demitri back to a state in which he had not been injured." "Which is why I did not remember being struck by Gounold," Jordan said, making the obvious conclusion. "Yes, precisely," said Moya Tilmitt. "As you can imagine, Master Demitri--and as you can attest, Your Grace--this is a difficult-very spell, requiring amounts-huge of the Flow. It is also powerful-very. Some say that it might hold the key to life-eternal, if one could successfully use it to return to one's youth." "That would require a great deal of Flow indeed," said Catheryne. "I only turned Jordan back one minute." They both glanced at her. "I mean," she stammered. "Marcus Demitri." Moya Tilmitt's eyebrows lifted. "I had not realized the two of you were becoming so... Familiar." "Nor had I, to be certain," said Marcus. "I, I'm sorry," said Catheryne. "I did not mean to--" "Ah, be not worried," said Moya Tilmitt. "We are all friends here, are we not? My name-private is Jonathan, though people-few call me that." He smiled. "We all seem to like-better 'Kenneth.' Jordan, what is the Princess's name-private?" It could have been a gross insult, asking someone besides Catheryne herself to reveal her private name, but she saw that Moya Tilmitt was trying to even the score, so that neither of them had done something the other hadn't. And it had been a true embarrassment to slip like that. If she must be publicly shamed for her sins, then so be it. "It is not my place to say, Moya Tilmitt," said Jordan. "I am Her Majesty's servant, at her disposal and for her use. But she is not mine, and it would be wrong of me to treat her as such." Catheryne closed her eyes and tried to ignore the lash of his scorn. Moya Tilmitt looked at Marcus Demitri--at Jordan--with new eyes. He does-truly care for her, doesn't he. She drops his secret-most-private as if it were a trinket, but he responds with respect and propriety. Most people would've at least slipped some sarcasm in there, but he said it with face-straight. What a First Lance she has chosen! Jordan looked at Catheryne and tried not to think of things that would never be. "Well," said Moya Tilmitt finally. "As to your spell, Your Grace. It is, to put it mildly, playing with fire. I don't advise you to try it again." "A question, Moya," said Jordan. "When I woke up after she... 'Reverted' me... I was very dizzy, and quite nauseous. I fell back into unconsciousness again almost immediately. Which is why Princess Gabriele was able to tell everyone that I had been hit on the head. But why was I so sickened?" Moya Tilmitt shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "That's just what happens when the spell is used." He laughed a little. "Everyone jokes that, even if someone were to de-age themselves successfully using it, they'd be sick for the rest of their lives until it was time to use it again." Jordan's eyebrows bobbed, but he contented himself with a simple, "I think they're right." "But we've gotten rather far afield here," said Moya Tilmitt. "Princess Gabriele, I must urge you not to--" "It's Catheryne," she said. Moya Tilmitt blinked his confusion. "My private name," she said. "It's Catheryne." She didn't look up, but she felt his eyes on her for long moments. "Very well then," he said. "Catheryne. I must ask you not to--" "Is that the only way mages have to heal people," Catheryne asked. "It... No, it is not," said Moya Tilmitt. "There are ways-several, as a matter of fact. Some are harder than others. Some are more powerful than others. Why do you ask?" "Can I learn them," Catheryne said. "Well... Which ones," Moya Tilmitt asked. "All of them," Catheryne said. Moya Tilmitt looked at her for a moment. "Oh my," he said. "I think we've found your Calling." "My what?" Catheryne said, hearing the capitalized noun in his voice. "We've found that--well, over the course of history, we've found that--that sometimes mages have a certain... Predilection, if you will. Spells-certain that call to them. Spells that they're naturally good at. Perhaps yours is healing." "Nonsense," Catheryne said, "I just want to make sure my clumsy First Lance stays alive." Moya Tilmitt laughed. Jordan didn't. She hadn't meant to blurt that one out either. But now it was out in the open. So she rather privately thought of herself as a generous, caring person. Was that a crime? "My lady," said Moya Tilmitt, "if it pleases you to learn, I shall be happy to teach you." "Teach me," she said. He did. The afternoon's activities were displaced that day by a feast, in celebration of Lord Basingame's (and daughter's) triumphant return from the Spring Lands. So there was no exercise, no practice with Jordan; instead, an interminable time of waiting, as Nurse and a bunch of other ladies fussed over her, strapping onto her a dress that had been made specially for the occasion, arraying her hair and clothes and jewelry in the most appropriate and becoming way possible, and giving her so many warnings about disturbing them that she thought she would not be allowed to move, and probably would have to be carried immobile into the feasting hall. She thought it was ridiculous. What was the point of making someone look good if that person could not move? Perhaps it was part and parcel of being a princess. See, she thought humorlessly, they never tell you about these things in the stories. It's always 'Princess Ella of the Ashes, who lived happily ever after.' None of this 'Sit still so that your earrings don't get caught on your dress and you tear a hole in both of them' business. It really was ridiculous. Once she had gotten everyone to leave, she somehow levered herself out of the dress. The jewelry was easier to strip off, though some of the rings were so obnoxiously large that they made her fingers clumsy. Really. There's such thing as displaying wealth, and then there's such thing as being gaudy. She padded over to the wardrobe in shift and bare feet. A lot of its contents just weren't appropriate: they were her everyday clothes, and though they were ornate by most people's standards, they were still what everyone had seen her wearing when she didn't care to look presentable. Everything else was like the mountain of rose and cream she had just managed to liberate herself from: far too large, far too stuffy, bearing more resemblance to a tablecloth than a dress. Then, far in the back, she found a dress she'd never noticed before. At first she thought it was a shift, one with a very high neckline, but it was a pale off-blue in color, and her fingers brought back a slick sensation that hinted at something more elaborate. When she brought it out into the candlelight it shimmered and shone when viewed from different angles, turning nearly pearl-white. And when she put it on it also turned out to be more elaborate than she'd thought, with multiple layers and closures to create a form-fitting bodice that changed seamlessly to flowing skirts so light that they seemed to hang in the air when she moved. She was almost sure someone would disapprove--probably loudly--but she hoped enough other people would like it that the complaints would be drowned out. She was struggling with one of the closures when Jordan came in. "Your Highness, you'll--" She yelped in surprise. "Don't you ever knock?" He looked at her in this new dress, his eyebrows raised, and then to the gown she was supposed to be wearing, still in a puddle on the floor, and then back to her. "The seamstresses will be pleased to see their handiwork displayed such. It is my understanding that they've worked on that dress without pause ever since we returned yesterday." She felt a flush of shame--he was right, and it would be a cruel statement to make of their hard work. "Then I shall hug them and thank them." His eyebrows bobbed again, though his expression never changed. "A hug, in public." It was very demonstrative; people would frown. "Yes," she said. "One that I would not be able to give if I were wearing their dress, as it does not allow me to move." She was still fumbling with the closure. "Here," he said, "let me help you with that." He put down the tesada, which he would bear over the course of the night, and came to help her. When she turned around, she felt his breath on her neck and suppressed a shiver. It was uncomfortable to be this close to him. Uncomfortable, because she liked it, liked the gentle feeling of his hands at her back, the warmth of his proximity; liked it very much. "Well," she said. "How do I look?" She was a vision in aqua and turquoise, the sea and the sky given life. Her hair shone in the candlelight, and the color of the dress set off her eyes. The dress was demure in cut but conformed to her body in ways he hadn't thought possible, rendering a stylized, almost iconic vision of feminine form. Her eyes were steady on his. "You look beautiful," he said truthfully. She felt a spike of bitterness. "You aren't allowed to say that. Not if we're not to... To do..." She couldn't bring herself to say it. "That thing." An unplanned burst of irritation: "Then you shouldn't have asked me." She scowled at him. "Go down and tell them I'll be there shortly. I just have to put on my earrings." And do up her hair so that it wouldn't get in the way. And find some new ones that weren't jewels the size of a copper coin hanging by tiny threads of silver. Ridiculous. Purely ridiculous. One could snap and she'd never find it again. Public opinion was indeed divided. Many regarded her with disdain, angry with the princess's evident unwillingness to stoop to publicly-accepted fashions. Others betrayed anxiety, which was the closest she would get to acceptance--she knew that the next time she saw them at a royal feast or private celebration, they would probably be wearing something similar, something unadorned and deceptively simple. These were the hangers-on, the flatterers, who would jump off the roof of the Palace if she did so first. By far, the anxiety outweighed the disdain, and she counted it as a victory. The seamstresses' reactions were not what she expected. They seemed flattered and appropriately honored by her gratitude, but there was a gaping amazement behind their eyes, and no small amount of trepidation. She didn't understand it until Queen Meralina came and scooped her up, off to one side. "Where did you get that?" she said. Catheryne blinked. Her Majesty's face was severe, and yet troubled. "In... In my wardrobe. I've never seen it before, but... It was better than anything else available. Why?" Queen Meralina closed her eyes for a moment. "I suppose it would end up there. Probably one of the servants... Well, she was shorter than you, you're almost as tall as your father, so I suppose most of it was gotten rid of somehow; how that one slipped by I haven't the slightest--" "Whose," Catheryne asked, totally confused now. "Why was it in my wardrobe if it's not mine? Whose is it?" "Your mother's," Queen Meralina said. Catheryne glanced at Jordan. His face betrayed nothing, but he was watching and listening, a fact she found oddly comforting. "She was wearing that very dress the night she and your father met," said Queen Meralina. "We were... Oh, I don't know. Eighteen, nineteen at the time? And of course people were getting on both of us for being unmarried, and not particularly interested in the opposite sex." A faint smile colored her face. "Doland always said he wasn't interested because he hadn't found the right person, and that he'd know when he saw her. Well, that night, Eleanor den Saulus walked in wearing just what you're wearing now, and when I looked at your father's face, I knew, and I could see that he knew too. And of course he had the Savior's own burden, trying to catch her attention from all those other men who flocked around her. But, a year later..." She smiled, gave a helpless shrug. "And two years after that, there you were. And when Eleanor died the servants probably saved most of her clothes in the hopes you could use them one day. Which is why you've got that now." Catheryne looked out over the crowd. She could not see Lord Basingame anywhere. "Where is my father, anyhow?" "Away." Queen Meralina smiled sadly. "He couldn't bear the sight of you." "I must apologize to him," Catheryne said immediately. After all, this entire feast was because of his military success in the Spring Lands. "No, let him be for a while," said Queen Meralina. "He has much to deal with right now. He's remembering the days when he was your age, when he met your mother, and remembering what it was like to lose her. And now he must face the idea of losing you. For you are your own woman now, and though you will always be his daughter, soon you'll no longer be his child." A bitter smile touched her lips. "Ironic, isn't it? Here we feast in honor of his military prowess, and yet at that very feast he is defeated... By a few yards of cloth." It was with heavy heart that Princess Gabriele began to circulate among the assembled nobles. Some of the older ones, who had known the Lady Eleanor Basingame when she was alive, understood the conversation that must have gone on between the Lance-Princess and the Queen, and understood the Princess's consequently subdued mood. Others, who were closer to Catheryne's own age, did not understand at all. Except for one. They were in a knot of people when it happened. Jordan, absorbed in the conversation, didn't even see the person coming. The first he knew about it was when Catheryne was spun around and engulfed in a bear hug from beyond all time. The perpetrator was their age and a little shorter of stature, with reddish hair (an oddity, like Catheryne's, in a land of primarily ebon-haired people) and a rosy complexion. Her dress, a fountain of lace and frills, did nothing to flatter her rather heavy figure. But her smile was pure joy--and when Catheryne saw who it was, she embraced her like a sister. "Gabriele! I understand they've named you princess-heir. Congratulations, my love, I'm sure you'll be wonderful at it. And what is it you're wearing, it looks marvelous on you!" Her cheer was infectious, and Catheryne could say, "It was my mother's," without feeling the same pulse of guilt that had struck her every time someone else mentioned it. "And you! Looks like that terrible convent did nothing for your figure." "Oh, well, you know," said the other girl. "All that exercise and running around and things. You know how it is." She looked over at Jordan. "Is that Marcus Demitri? I heard he was dead?" "He's not, he's my First Lance," Catheryne said. "He went off for a while. Like you did." "Yes, but I doubt he went off to some finishing school where he learned to sit around and look pretty," the girl said, laughing. Catheryne laughed too. "Marcus, this is my friend, Mistress Hester Stelmarine. Mistress Hester, this is my First Lance, Master Marcus Demitri." Jordan bowed. "A pleasure, my lady." The neutral expression never left his face. Mistress Hester smiled. "Mistress, please. I'm only a Lady when my mother dies or I get married, and if it please Kyrei, may those days be far off." "As you wish, Mistress," said Jordan. Mistress Hester laughed. "Wherever he went, they appear to have trained him well. So docile! Are you certain he can fight?" "I'm sorry," said Catheryne to her former conversational partners, "but I haven't seen Mistress Hester in some time and I'd really like to catch up with her. If you'd excuse me... You too, Master Demitri, actually. No, I'm certain I'll be safe. There are soldiers everywhere." "That wouldn't stop someone who knew what he was doing," said Jordan flatly. "Jordan, please," she said, stepping closer. "Just for a few moments. If something happens, you can tell them truthfully that you warned me, but I insisted. It won't be your fault." His look was strangely angry. "Has it possibly not occurred to you, milady, that if something happened to you, I would be upset not because I had failed my duty, but because I had lost someone near to me?" It was such a startling suggestion. She covered it in blithe humor. "Someone dear to you? Why, Master Demitri, I had no idea you made friends!" Now his face was plainly venomous. He marched off without another word. Mistress Hester looked over. "Seems like a very peaceful partnership." "Oh, you have no idea, Davina," said Catheryne. "I just... Sometimes it..." Her eyes squeezed shut. "Ergh." "Now now, Catheryne," said Mistress Hester. "Anger is highly unbecoming in a princess. It mottles the complexion, and gives rise to unsightly wrinkles. You see how useful are the things I learned at that school, and how lucky you are that I'm here to pass them on." Catheryne looked at her friend. Her friend was smiling and her eyes were merry. Catheryne smiled too. "You have no idea how happy I am to have you back, Davina. I haven't had anyone to talk to for years." "Well, then, you'd better talk my ear off before we have to sit down and eat," said Davina. "What's been going on? Tell me everything." Catheryne did. And there wasn't nearly enough time to explain it all before the feast was called, for so much had happened in the eight months Davina had been away. But Catheryne was able to touch on the basics, most of which revolved around her new First Lance--his Night Blade training, his performance at the Trials, his insistence on training her to fight, the strange silences and awkward communication. She didn't tell her about the campaign in the Spring Lands, for this feast was to honor that campaign and the story would undoubtedly be told. She didn't tell her about the lessons from Moya Tilmitt either, because she simply wasn't sure how the knowledge would be received. And she didn't say anything about the conflict Jordan ignited within her, but Davina picked up on it anyway. "There's more," she said as they parted, "there's more you haven't said about him. There's something about him that has caught your fancy." Catheryne colored. "What makes you say that." "Well, because you've spent all this time talking about him!" Davina said, smiling to take the sting out of the comment. "When a woman talks about a man that much, there's a reason." "Is that what you learned at your fancy school," Catheryne asked crossly. Davina laughed. "Among other things." And then the banquet hall was opened, and there was the flurry of seating, the confusion of finding her seat among the bobbles and traffic of a thousand other people sorting themselves out by rank. Queen Meralina of course sat at the head of the royal table, and her father was at the Queen's right hand, and Catheryne at his right hand and Jordan across from her with the tesada propped against the table to his left. The seat at the queen's left was unfilled, in honor of the deceased King Aaron and the Lady Eleanor. Mistress Hester was somewhere at another table; they were far past childhood, when seating was determined by friendships and not social and political standing. And it was with some dismay that Catheryne looked across and saw that the seat to Jordan's right was filled by none other than Mistress Temaile Daravon, with her preposterous lance David Alckerson to right hand. But, of course, it was to be expected, for this feast was to honor those who had gone on campaign, and the scioness of the Daravon line had indeed gone. But they took no part in the fighting, she thought darkly. They were safe and sound in the town of Hope, while Master George Talten, down near the foot of the table, blooded his sword and lost his ear. And yet they reap the honors, for their standing alone. Her father looked at her. "Hello, Catheryne." "Hello, father," she said, looking back. There was a strange light in his eyes--partially sadness, partially pride; and partially something she could not define at all. "You look beautiful. Your... I'm sure your mother would have wanted you to wear that. If she were here." "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to... To cause problems. I had no idea that-- It was in my wardrobe, so I just assumed it was mine--" "It's all right, Catheryne," he said. "It's all right. You draw every eye in that dress, and rightfully so." "That," said Jordan distinctly, "is what I tried to tell her. But she refused to believe me." Father looked at him, and though his eyebrows registered surprise, his face hardly changed. Then a wan smile broke out. "There, you see, Catheryne. Even your own First Lance thinks you look beautiful. And how can we discount his opinion?" Catheryne laughed weakly with the rest of them. Any excuse to laugh; any excuse to break the dreadful melancholy in her father's face. Any excuse... One that Jordan had given? Would the man ever fail to surprise? "Ah, milady," Temaile Daravon was saying. There had been silence for a moment among the royal party and she must have decided to jump in. "That is a beautiful dress. It suits you... Quite well. After all, one must always embrace one's differences, and attempt to stand out. Must one not?" All the back-alley whispers swarmed through the sound of Temaile's voice--about the dire necessity of appointing a lance-princess, about how unpopular her father was, about the strangeness of the Demitri boy--and Catheryne snapped, perhaps more sharply than necessary, "Sometimes the only way to break stagnation is to take a different path." Though she did not speak loudly, her voice must have carried, because eyes turned towards her from all around the room. Over Jordan's shoulder she saw Davina's concerned gaze--and then, to her surprise, Moya Tilmitt's; he was at that table as well, two seats closer to the head. She wondered why he had been invited, and placed in a position of such relative power. Then the man next to her chuckled. "Truly a maverick. Perhaps some independence will prove welcome on the throne." Catheryne turned to look at him--she didn't recognize his voice--and was suddenly glad she was sitting down. In profile he was shatteringly handsome: a hawk's nose, perfect lips, strong jawline, and eyes that seemed to burn with intensity. His dark hair was bound in a tail at the nape of his neck and reached to his shoulder blades. He sat resplendent in the dark gray of the Silver Guardsmen, his sword belt hanging from one of the knobs of the chair. When he turned, she saw a thin scar across his brows, cutting diagonally from left to right. When he spoke, his voice was a clear, sprightly tenor. "Certainly one with experience on the front lines of battle would be appreciated." "I... I suppose... It would," said Catheryne, not entirely sure what she was agreeing to, but knowing that she was being talked at and that it would probably be appropriate to respond. Temaile Daravon looked from Catheryne to the new man with undisguised delight. Jordan kept his thoughts from his face. "I mean, too many wars result when monarchs just send out their armies without realizing what they're sending them into, or what war is even about," said the man. "You've seen it--up close and personal. You know what it means to fight and die on the battlefield. When you're queen, you won't spend your army's lives lightly." "Yes, that's... That's very true," said Catheryne, feeling more at her wits now. The shock had worn off and she was no longer staring at a man who looked like a god; now she was instead conversing with him. "I take it you were on station in the Spring Lands," Jordan said suddenly. "Why yes, yes I was," said the man pleasantly. "How did you know?" "Because this feast is to honor those who fought there, but if you'd departed with us, you'd still be there." "Very sharp, Master Demitri, very sharp," said the man, nodding appreciatively. "I was indeed on-station. I came with you as a scout and happened to help defend Lord Basingame from some more... Aggressive Summer soldiers that night." He shrugged. "I suppose he remembered me." Jordan struggled to hold onto dislike. The man was friendly and personable and it was hard to be hostile to him. Glancing at Catheryne, fortunately, provided all the impetus he needed. "Then I suppose you won't find it objectible to tell us your name," Jordan said, hinting broadly. "Oh! How careless of me!" said the man, putting a hand to his brow. "I'm terribly sorry. You see, having grown up here in the court, I feel that I know all of you rather well, so it-- I'm sorry. Let's start over." He extended his hand. "Hello, I'm Paitr Domenicos, it's a pleasure to meet you." Jordan shook it. "Marcus Demitri, Master Paitr. A pleasure to meet you as well." Where Temaile's politeness had been overly showy, Paitr's came as a sign of humility. It was becoming very, very hard to dislike him, and Jordan suddenly wondered if he should simply not bother. True, he did not at all like the way Princess Gabriele was gaping at him, but he didn't sense any duplicity; he could at least be trusted. When Temaile took his hand it only reinforced the point. Jordan was fairly sure Paitr saw how she made a show of politeness, but if he did, he kept it to himself. Finally it was Princess Gabriele's turn, but instead of shaking her hand, he kissed it. Jordan felt an instant return of dislike. When the meal had finished, Queen Meralina and Lord Basingame stood, and the room quieted down. "As you know," said Queen Meralina, "recently our First Lance, Lord Basingame, led an expedition to the Spring Lands to relieve the soldiers garrisoned at our colony, Hope. Since our successor, Princess Gabriele, has recently come into her womanhood and has gained her own First Lance, Master Marcus Demitri, he accompanied Lord Basingame to the Spring Lands. What was unprecedented was that Princess Gabriele also went. In the annals of our history very few Princesses and Queens have ever visited the Spring Lands, and even fewer have campaigned there. We are gathered here tonight to celebrate that bravery." She applauded, and without fail those in the room joined her. When quiet had been restored, she continued. "But we are also here to celebrate an unprecedented military victory as well, for while campaigning in the Spring Lands, something truly unexpected occurred. Since we have but heard of it at second hand, perhaps Lord Basingame would like to explain." She turned to her First Lance and bowed. Father took up the story. "When I bring soldiers up to relieve the garrison, I prefer to take them on march for a few days, to get a feel for the lay of the land. The Spring Lands, despite their benign name, are a war zone; we fight daily with the Summers for control of it, and sometimes our Winter allies aren't especially friendly either. Any towns or settlements that are there today may not be tomorrow. Imagine what can change in six months. So we go out scouting. Master Demitri, my daughter and most of the other scions joined us. "While exploring the Spring Lands, Princess Gabriele and Master Demitri were almost ambushed by a small force of Summer men; only their quick thinking kept them from discovery. Master Demitri, being well-trained at war, recognized one of the five men: Lord Tor Gounold of Quintaln, one of the foremost generals of the Summer nations." "Come now, Lord Basingame. A general?" someone chortled. "Those Summer barbarians don't even have leaders. And even if they do, the best they can do is to get all their men to run in one direction." There was laughter. "Believe that if you want," Jordan said, and the steel of his voice brought silence to the room. "Barbarians or not, Lord Mertanne, those 'savages' brought death to your son two years ago," said Father. Evidently he had seen who had spoken out; Catheryne, still sitting down, had no idea. "And to a good many men that day, despite fighting outnumbered." "Lord Basingame. They are savages, aren't they?" This time it was a woman, sounding hopeful. "I mean, Kyrei knows we've all lost loved ones in the Spring Lands, but every now and then someone is lost to the wild animals too. They are simply uncivilized brutes, isn't that true?" There was a silence, and Catheryne recognized how her father had been maneuvered into a corner. It had been easy, very easy, to imagine the Summers as soulless, evil demons, spawn of Loduur, ready to boil up out of their burning lands and conquer all of Winterdom. It had been easy... Until she saw a general lying on his back under the cruel son, and heard on the wind the cries of his family. Now to her mind, their barbarianism or lack thereof was purely secondary--the Summers were still human, still people, and that was all that mattered. She suspected her father felt the same way. But she also knew just how unpopular their opinion would be, should one of them say it out loud. Even Queen Meralina might disagree. Father said, "I wouldn't know one way or another, madam. I've never known one for longer than it took to spit him on my sword." There was laughter and appreciative nodding--that's the way to deal with those Summers. Jordan caught her eye, and she saw that he, too, had noticed how neatly her father had answered the question without really saying what he felt. She did not see Paitr Domenicos, nodding his agreement as well. "To return to the story," said Father. "My daughter and her First Lance discovered that one of their five would-be assailants was a general--or perhaps not, if the Summers don't have generals. Regardless, he was giving orders and the other men were following them. It was clear that the Summers held this man in high esteem, whether or not he was actually a general. They tracked this man back to his camp, where he and the other four men were alone, and then returned to me. We were able to dispatch Lord Gounold quite easily." Catheryne found it ironic that the nobles assembled in this banquet hall would question whether the Summers had generals--but not whether they had lords. "Excuse me, General Basingame, I have a question," someone else said. "How did your man Marcus know enough to tell a Summer general from any other old officer? I mean, from a distance they must all look pretty much alike, and in a group of five you couldn't tell a general from a lieutenant." Without waiting for Father's summons, Jordan stood up and addressed the man directly. "For one, his sword. The scabbard was decorated well with gold and jewels, but the sword itself was completely unadorned, and, in fact, looked rather worn from use. A new recruit would wear a sword that is decorated but impossible to use. A front-line commander would wear a plain but functional sword, no decorations whatsoever, the better with which to keep himself alive. The contrast, then, suggests someone who has proved himself in combat, but presently has less need to do so. Also, his clothing, particularly the sash he wore around his shoulders. Summers use a series of chevrons to denote rank, with pattern, color and design determining nuances, but in general, the more a man has, the higher ranked he is. This man had more than four of them. But we only knew his actual identity after he was laid out on the ground." The man replied, "General Basingame, I must say, Master Demitri is very well trained. Where did he study? I'd like to send my sons there." Catheryne, Jordan and Lord Basingame traded glances. This was not public knowledge. Catheryne wasn't sure even Queen Meralina knew. "The parties in question prefer to keep their identities secret," said Father. "You'll have to talk to Master Demitri on a personal basis." "Master Basingame, isn't it true that Marcus Demitri was trained in Pelanha, by the Night Blades," Temaile Daravon asked in a loud, carrying voice. The murmuring started up almost immediately. Queen Meralina stared. It was the first time Catheryne had ever seen Jordan look unsure of himself. Father was providing no guidance; clearly, he was trying to figure out how Temaile had come to know this. Catheryne stood up. "He was indeed trained by the Night Blades. That means he's the best there is. It is why he won the Trials, and why we chose him. He is, indeed, dangerous. But he is dangerous on our behalf, and at our direction." "Yes, but for how long," someone asked. "For as long as they keep paying him," someone else snickered, and there was cruel laughter. "A Night Blade's word is his life," Jordan said, and again his voice brought silence. "When you hire us, what assurance do you have that we will do what you pay us to? And yet people hire us, again and again, for when we say we will do something, we do it. Money is secondary; money is what you give us because you value our services. You could give or be asked to give other things; I understand that one of our number once requested his employer's daughter's hand in marriage. But if a Night Blade swears--as I have sworn--that his charge will come to no harm, then he will not go back on his word." "And if not for Master Demitri's Night Blade training," said Father, "tonight's feast might instead be a banquet of mourning. For the Summers quickly discovered what we had done, and that night, they attacked us in force. Lord Gounold's son, Kellon, led them, and attacked Princess Gabriele personally, while I and my soldiers were defending ourselves against his men. If Master Demitri had not been there, she almost certainly would have been slain." He nodded to Marcus, who took up the tesada and held it aloft. "This is Kellon Gounold's weapon, which was taken from him when he died. It has taken the lives of many a Winter, and now it is ours, that we may turn its blade back on its former owners. We are here in celebration of this victory." "What happened?" "Tell us what happened!" "Tell us, Princess Gabriele, tell us!" The cries were thick and loud. The danger, the excitement--that was what they wanted to know. Father shrugged, smiled, gestured for her to stand up. "They..." She faced the crowded room, her first public speech as a princess--her first public speech in any capacity whatsoever. "When they came, my father told me to go away, to run and hide somewhere. Master Demitri has been training me in the use of the silte, but we all knew I wasn't very good--" "The silte?" someone said. "Those are toys. Those are a game. You can't use those in a fight." "You can use anything in a fight," Jordan said without standing up. "If someone attacks you right now and all you have is your fork, do you use it?" There was objectionable muttering. "I think Master Demitri had a very good idea in teaching Princess Gabriele the silte," said Father. "They may be a game today, but once upon a time--not too very long ago--they were actually used in combat, both on the battlefield and in duels. And Gabriele was fairly good at the game in her youth." "Which she proved on the battlefield," Jordan said. "Nonsense," Catheryne said, coloring, "you had to--" "You got one before I did," Jordan retorted, which was true. "What happened?" asked Paitr Domenicos. "He... He hit Master Demitri on the head, I think, and knocked him out. Then he came with two other men. He told one of them to... To subdue me. Because he... Wanted to 'have a little fun' with me." There were gasps and muttered imprecations across the room. "So I... Killed him," said Catheryne. Now there were cheers. "Marcus woke up then, and got the other man, but Gounold hit me with the blunt end of his tesada, and they fought. Then he managed to stab Jordan, but I got him from behind." There was cheering, but Temaile Daravon said, "Not exactly a fair fight, was it? Two on one, and you attacking from behind?" Jordan said, "Milady, in a fight, those who play fair, often find themselves feeding the worms." "Feeding the-- I don't understand," said Temaile. "What do worms eat?" Paitr Domenicos leaned over helpfully. "He means they end up dead." "--Oh. I-- Oh, I see what he-- Oh, eew! Disgusting!" "Thank you," said Jordan tartly. "I have a question, though," said Paitr. "You say that Master Demitri was hit, but he seemed in fair condition when you all returned to Hope. In fact, he didn't seem to have any injuries on him whatsoever." Catheryne froze. Oh, of all the questions he could have asked! As one, she and Jordan looked at her father. Lord Basingame fidgeted. He looked at the Queen. "I think it's time." "I think this is a bad time. Too many shocks too quickly are bad for the people." "Too many shocks are bad for the people. Better they all come at once." Queen Meralina closed her eyes, drew a breath. "She's your daughter, Simon. I leave it to you." Catheryne wondered who Simon was--and then realized that it was her father's private name, something not even Catheryne herself knew. Lord Basingame turned to the people. "This brings us to our final announcement of the night. It has come to our attention recently that... That both my daughter and her First Lance are in possession of certain talents which will undoubtedly prove useful in the future. We have already seen one of their uses: when Marcus was injured, Gabriele was able to use her ability to tend to his wounds. We have learned..." Despite all his effort, he was unable to keep weight and emphasis out of the final word. "...that both Princess Gabriele and Marcus Demitri are able to use magic." The silence that followed was absolute. Catheryne looked down at the table to avoid anyone's eyes. The plates were, of course, fine china, made locally in Eretria--she was told that Eretrian china was rather well-regarded in the Winterlands. The plates were decorated in red and gold scrolling, not silver (for perhaps the first time ever). Of the plates she could see, two still had food on them. One was her own. The other, curiously, was Jordan's. When she met his eyes, she felt as if his gaze was a hand on her own, supporting her, steadying her. "And that... Freak is going to be our queen??" Temaile shrieked. "That 'freak' is going to be our queen, and that cannot be changed now, so it might be smart to get used to the idea," Paitr Domenicos said. "That 'freak' can hear every word you say, so you might want to watch your tongue," Catheryne snapped, and there was laughter. But the murmuring remained. "Friends! Hear me!" said a new voice. Moya Tilmitt stood up. "I am Kenneth Tilmitt. I too have the Gift, and I was appointed to be a teacher to both Princess Gabriele and Master Demitri, to teach them to control their powers. This has been going on for some time, you see. It would not have been safe to let them go untrained." Catheryne noticed his fidgeting, the way he fumbled with his clothes, and suddenly realized how hard public speaking was for him. Nevertheless, he plowed on. "For some months now I have had the chance to interact with both the Princess-Heir and her First Lance on a basis both professional and personal. And it is my pleasure to report that, if they are the future of this nation, then the future looks bright indeed. Despite my Gift and the nature-dubious of what I teach them, they have been students-respectful and -attentive. They are friends-good with each other, something that is held in regard-high here, as I recall. And though they have powers that are difficult to understand, neither is the type to use them for gain-persona. No, you have nothing to fear from your Princess-Heir or her First Lance." "No, it's people like you to look out for!" someone shouted, and there was a chorus of agreement. "Excuse me," said Catheryne loudly. "I think that's unfair. Moya Tilmitt for his part has been nothing but sensitive and respectful of the situation. It was he who told us that we have the Gift, but instead of using that knowledge for personal and public gain, he approached us in private and explained the situation. He has had patience with us even when we have not been the best of students. And though he may be one of the Gifted, he is every bit as civilized as anyone here. I don't think it's fair to judge him on the basis of only one trait, that he happens to be a mage." There was no answer. She heard stubbornness in the silence. "Jordan," she hissed, "help me out here." He looked up at her. Shrugged. "I don't think we can win this one." "That's beside the point. I need your support here." "My lady, I don't think it's prudent to stand up and publicly declare myself in support of some dying cause. At least one of us must maintain--" Whatever cutting sarcasm he was about to employ was interrupted by the slamming of the main doors. It was one of the Palace servants, and from the look on her face, she was terrified. "Your Majesty! Your Majesty! There's a... Thing in the back rooms!" "A... 'Thing'?" said the Queen. "Child, you're going to have to be a little more descriptive than that--" "Someone is... Someone's been..." The woman trailed off into silence, her mouth quivering, tears coursing unheeded down her cheeks. She stared up at the queen with huge eyes. Father leapt into action. "Master Demitri, come with me. Your Majesty, stay here where it's safe--" "I am Queen, and this is my palace," said Queen Meralina. "I'll not be cowed by some unknown phenomenon. I shall come too." "You are Queen, and this is your palace," Father retorted. "You must be protected." "I'm going," Catheryne said. "There," the Queen cried, pointing, "there. If she's going, I'm going." "Catheryne," Father growled. "That was not the most appropriate--" "You forget," she said, "that I have certain talents that some in this room are not privy to." Father growled again. "Well, in that case, we might as well just ask--" "Moya Tilmitt," Jordan called. "Your assistance may--" Moya Tilmitt bowed, already at their side. "I am at your command, your Highnesses, now and as before." "Everybody," Queen Meralina called, "everybody. Please stay here. Please stay until we can discover--" But it was too late. The assembled banqueters were in milling motion, and already some of the younger ones had begun to trickle out the door, interested in seeing what it was that had so terrified the servant girl. And now there was no chance of restoring order. "Come on," said the Queen. "We can't stop them, but maybe we can beat them there." With the obviously-frightened servant girl in the lead, they trooped out. Before Catheryne could even notice, Temaile Daravon and her man David had fallen in with them, not to mention Paitr Domenicos, calmly buckling his sword belt on. Catheryne at least felt safer; between him, her father and Jordan, there was probably nothing that could harm them. At least, not in this constricted space. Jordan and Lord Basingame caught each other checking and double-checking each doorway as they passed. It was slowing them down and wasting effort. Finally Lord Basingame said, "You take that side, I'll take this side," and Jordan agreed. Now they walked faster, both under a decreased workload and with increased confidence in their counterpart. The room the servant girl led them to was dark, all candles extinguished. She felt a tingling on her skin, and heard Moya Tilmitt speak a word; then the candles burst to life. And then they saw. The woman had been pretty once--long, well-kept hair, fine large breasts--but now there was nothing human. Shreds of the royal serving livery still clung to her limbs, but that was all there was to mark her. The face was gone, a bloody wreckage, as was the throat--not slit but entirely gone, torn right out. Blood was everywhere; Jordan and Lord Basingame recognized the distinctive spray of arterial flow. The room reeked of it. Dimly, through the roaring of her ears, she heard Temaile violently emptying her stomach. "Who turned out the candles," Queen Meralina asked numbly. She may have been asking the servant girl, but Jordan answered. "Whoever did this." He pointed to the floor, and to a series of boot prints. "He walked to each candle in turn, and then..." The tracks led to a window. Presently, it was closed. Woodenly, Lord Basingame walked to the window (obliterating some of the tracks; Jordan bit back an exasperated comment) and looked out of it. He must not have seen anything, for he sighed and turned away. "Who..." Catheryne whispered. "Who..." "Bite marks," Jordan said, pointing. And indeed, there were bite marks across the woman's breasts, on her arms, her stomach, even on that most private area. The woman's pubic fur was relatively dense; now some of it was torn out. In passing, she wondered if she would ever look like that--right now all she herself had were wisps--and if something could be done about it; it was not exactly attractive. But not tearing it out like that. That would undoubtedly be painful. Bite marks. Something registered from information learned previously, learned years ago--learned yesterday. "You think it's--" Jordan stared for a moment. "Moya Tilmitt," he said. And then, sharper, "Moya Tilmitt." Tilmitt jolted. "Uh. Oh. Uh." He looked dangerously pale. "Yes, Jordan." "Is there a way to trace a man through the residue he leaves when coupling," Jordan asked. "Is there anything we can learn about him. We have reason to believe that the man who did this, has done it before. And for obvious reasons, we do not want him to do it again. Can he be tracked?" "Uh..." said Moya Tilmitt. "Well... Normally these things are done with blood, and... Well, we learn things-different about them than who they are, I mean... Generally, if you've got the man's blood, or his spend, you kind of already know who he-- I think it could be-- No, if you did it with a sweep-inverse it would-- Excuse me, let me think." "Hurry," said Jordan, and Moya Tilmitt nodded, but now he was lost in the intricacies of the Flow and some of the color had returned to his face. Jordan decided that he would be all right. Queen Meralina was holding the servant girl in her arms. The girl wept into the queen's shoulder, and the queen stroked her hair, murmuring soothing nothings. The queen was childless. Jordan wondered where she had learned it. Lord Basingame was pacing around the body, further scuffling with the tracks in the blood on the floor. Now he bent down, somehow confronting that ruin of a face, cratered red, white where the bone showed through, white where one of the eyes had been. He reached out. "We need to figure out who she is. That might help. We need to--" "We need to leave the body alone," Jordan said. "For the moment at least. Until we have learned everything we can from it as it is right now." Catheryne's father looked at him, and Jordan could see the doubt; but evidently he decided to place his trust in Jordan's criminal background, and straightened up again. Kyrei forbid he should ever find out that I'm winging it, just the same way he is. That left Catheryne as the only person still dominated by the spectre of what had happened here. "My lady," he said. "Your Highness. You need to say something." "...I... I... What?" she said. He gestured. Temaile and David Alckerson and Paitr Domenicos and Hester Stelmarine stood staring mutely into the room, and behind them servants, nobles, people from the banquet hall. They were waiting for some sign of leadership. "You need to say something to them." "What do I... What do I say to them, Jordan!" He suppressed a wince at the unlicensed use of his private name. It couldn't be helped. "You tell them that everything's under control," Jordan said. "That everything's fine and we're working on the problem. And maybe that the dessert courses are ready." "But everything's not under control," Catheryne said. "We don't know who did this, we don't know why, and we don't know if we can find out." "But they don't need to know that." Surprisingly, the words came from Paitr Domenicos. "My lady, sometimes lies are preferable to the truth. Especially in conditions like this. And besides--" He looked around the room. "You have the best people in the Palace working on the problem right now. If they can't solve it, it can't be solved, and no one would fault you for having confidence in them." Some would, thought Jordan, but he kept it to himself. "You're... You're right," said Catheryne. "You're absolutely right, Paitr. Thank you." Paitr blushed and smiled. "Oh no. Don't thank me. I just work here." Jordan schooled his face to stillness from long practice. You're absolutely right, Paitr. Thank you Paitr. Paitr. Not Jordan. "Excuse me. Excuse me, please. Everybody. Everybody. The situation is under control. We don't yet know quite what happened, but we're investigating to the best of our ability and we expect to have some answers soon. Now, if you all could please return to the banquet hall, so that we have some room to work. I'm sure the cooks will have the dessert courses ready as well. So, if you could please..." They did. "That was well done," Paitr said, bending near. "I saw how you took charge and just... Made sure everyone was at their best self. You held it together when it looked like everything might fall apart. Night Blade or not, they made a good choice when they picked you." "Thank you," Jordan said emotionlessly, "I'm glad someone thinks so." You're absolutely right, Paitr. Thank you Paitr. Blasted fool. There were some things even Night Blades couldn't deal with. Jordan knew he had just met one of them. Its name was jealousy. Now it was late, closer probably to the dawn of a new day than the close of the old, but Catheryne had often been told that the lot of a queen is to rise before her people and sleep after them, and now she believed it. Moya Tilmitt had needed their help--their help! A couple of untrained amateurs!--to create his divination spell, the end result being that they had mostly just stood around holding the Flow, doing nothing, an activity that in itself was exhausting. She felt aches and tremors in muscles she didn't know she had. And now they were discussing the results, which were not what they expected. "You say that the spell told you that he's getting stronger?" the Queen said. "No, that's not it," said Moya Tilmitt. "I said that the spell told me he thinks he's getting stronger." "The spell told you what he thinks?" Queen Meralina said. "Well, I was hoping for maybe a picture or something," said Moya Tilmitt, "but you have to understand that the spell we used, to my knowledge, has never been done before in the history of time-recorded. On top of that, nuances-tiny-little in the waveforms or the structure-harmonic can alter-totally the way a spell works. Weave a spell one way, and you get a fire-ball. Change just one arc-little of the structure and you get a handful of cotton-balls. All things considered, I'm pleased-simply it worked as well as it did." "Cotton balls, you say?" said Father. "Would you like me to demonstrate," said Moya Tilmitt. "It's actually a party trick-quite good." "No, that's... Really all right, thank you," said Father. "This is far too strange for little old me," said Queen Meralina without a trace of irony. "We're not any better off," Catheryne said. "Moya Tilmitt has not yet touched on the conjuring of cotton balls," Jordan said, keeping a straight face. "All right, so," said Father. "The spell didn't tell you what you expected it to, but it told you something. What did it tell you?" "Well," said Moya Tilmitt. "I designed the spell to look into the perpetrator's heart, which, I thought, would be the place-best to find his identity. It succeeded in looking, but his heart was the place-wrong to check, because what I got instead were his emotions." "And they were?" Father said. "Confusion," said Moya Tilmitt. "Anger. Fear. But also, a sense of triumph. He had attacked-successfully the Palace-Royal and done, I quote, the bad thing, and then managed to escape again, even after being discovered. He thought he'd accomplished something significant--which, to be frank, I think he has a right to feel--but he also felt that this excursion-particular would make him stronger." "Stronger?" said Father. "Stronger how?" "I don't know," said Moya Tilmitt. "Physically? Mentally? Spiritually? Grammatically? That seems to cover all the bases." "No, you forgot his bladder and bowel functions," said Jordan. "Those may need strengthening as well." Catheryne squeezed her eyes shut. "Marcus, is that really necessary?" "All I know," said Moya Tilmitt, "is that, as far as he's concerned, doing 'the bad thing' will make him stronger. Which is why he's done it three times already. And doesn't plan to stop." There was silence. "That's nonsense," said the Queen. "It won't actually make him stronger. ...Will it?" "He thinks it will," said Moya Tilmitt. "And he'll keep doing it." "And who knows," said Father. "Maybe it might. He didn't bring a weapon this time, or if he did he didn't use it. But the woman's arm was broken. And... And her throat... I had one of my best men take a look at it. Jordan agrees. They both think he tore her throat out with his teeth." Catheryne's stomach gave a lurch. "There's another thing," Jordan said. "One I just noticed. He's moving up the chain." "What do you mean?" Catheryne said. "The first one was a grocer, in the Outdistrict as I recall. Not a very affluent man by any means. The next was an inn, in the Middistrict. That man was somewhat richer. Now, he takes a serving woman from the Royal Palace. He's getting closer and closer to sources of power." Catheryne was chilled. "He may start after noblewomen next." "Or royalty," said Jordan. Here, in the heart of the palace, with four of the people she trusted most in all the world, Catheryne felt very small and very alone. "We have got to stop him," said the Queen. "And we can," said Father. "Now we know where he might strike next." "Oh, good show," said Queen Meralina bitterly. "There's only, what, like, a hundred noble Houses total? Counting servants and liege-men and all, that's only eight or ten thousand people to keep our eyes on." "Better than the whole city," Father said. "And how do we even know he'll strike there?" the Queen said. "How do we know this prediction is even accurate?" "We don't," said Father. "But sometimes in war you move on a hunch and a ghost of a rumor. Sometimes you must take risks." "Why am I even considering this," Queen Meralina said. "That's why I have a First Lance. To handle the military for me." "But this isn't the military anymore," said Father. "This involves the people. And that's why First Lances have queens: to handle the people for me." Queen Meralina gave him a glowering look. "I have faith in you, Sharine," said Father. "You are the Queen of Eretria. You can do it. And there is no one else who can." Catheryne gaped. In one day she had learned the two most preciously-guarded private names in all of Eretria. Queen Meralina closed her eyes. "Lord Basingame, deploy your soldiers throughout the Inner District. Use your discretion. Make sure every noble house knows that your soldiers are available, and make them aware of the gravity of the situation. If possible." She made an unladylike snort. "Summer savages, indeed. You know what they say about the snowgrain fields are always greener. "Master Tilmitt, if possible, I'd like you to investigate the situation using your... Particular contacts." Moya Tilmitt nodded. "Princess Gabriele, I'd like your First Lance to do the same. But I can't command him, since he's your First Lance, so I'm asking you instead. And Doland, you have tasks already. "This is a significant crisis, and I need all of you to do your best. If we fail, people we know, or even one of us, may die. Get to it, people." Then she turned to Father. "There, how did I do?" "A smashing success," said Father, smiling. "Don't show it to the soldiers or they may promote you in my place." Queen Meralina smiled happily, and even giggled a little; and the smile transformed her face, and in that new alien visage Catheryne saw some of the girl she must once have been, a girl who laughed and smiled, whose face was not yet careworn, lined with worry. A girl who fit the name of Sharine. "All right, then," said the Queen. "That's all. Thank you all for your time." "What now," Catheryne said. "Sleep," Jordan said. "For a long, long time. It has been a very long day." And it had, and she stumbled and nearly fell as exhaustion came down on her like a hammer. But she lay awake in bed for long hours, staring at the ceiling, the shadows of lamps and moon and stars slanting through the windows, feeling thoughts whirl through her head. Somebody, maybe... Somebody, maybe, wants me dead.
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