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Bron Wynngarde leaned against the counter of the apothecary's that earned his living. Business had been brisk recently, what with the bizarre murders around the Silver City; folk from all over the place were coming to buy talismans, potions, dried flower petals (very expensive, those), even tiny mirrors (all the average citizen could afford)--whatever they thought would ward off evil. The talk, the whispers really, in the back alleys, behind closed doors, was of a man who could leap walls in a single bound, who could walk in your shadow without you noticing, who could even slip into a dark corner, a shadowed dead-end alleyway, and reappear elsewhere in the blink of an eye. A man... Or maybe something else. Bron Wynngarde didn't fear these things, for he had seen and learned much in his years. There were bizarre creatures out in the wilds, aye, surely--those odd things in the Spring Lands; and closer to home you had the unicorns and the wolfen. But he had proven himself a master to them. And he knew every threat that man could bring. No, he didn't fear these stories and legends. There were other things that worried him. For instance, people coming into his shop. The two that entered now, setting off the little metal wind chime he had suspended over the door (Light, but how he jumped every time it rang!), didn't seem anything special on first inspection. True, the girl had blond hair, not a usual thing at all in these lands, but there were always strangenesses to behold. One of Bron Wynngarde's own chingawas hung quite a bit lower than the other, the left one specifically. That was odd, true, but worth commenting on? Probably not. So with the girl's hair. The fact that it was a boy and a girl together--also not worth noticing. They looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, which was about the age the young folk would start noticing each other; in a few years they'd probably be married, maybe even to each other. And of course an apothecary's shop sold certain somethings, things to keep illicit trysts from bearing illicit fruit, if you would. That was probably what these two were here for. The boy, with his dark hair and driving eyes, he was clearly setting the pace; the girl seemed particularly fidgety--looking about distrustfully, as if anything might leap out of the shadows and attack her. Maybe that evil guy who had killed the innkeeper's wife. Now they were under the threshold; now they were within his door. When they were outside he could fear them all he wanted; but now they were under his roof, and Bron Wynngarde knew he could take them. He was tall and imposing, a long-healed knife wound had left a vicious-looking scar down the left side of his face (thankfully he had not lost the eye), and more of his bulk was muscle than most people expected. Besides, it was his shop. These two didn't know about the countermeasures he'd planted. No one did. Or, at least, anyone who learned about them, never lived to tell others. "My good sir, my good mistress," he said. "Welcome. Lorden Taylor at your service." "Hello, master Taylor," said the boy. It would have been appropriate for him to state his name at this point, so that they might conduct their business no longer strangers, but he remained silent, as did his lady. Well, stranger things had happened. Perhaps these two were just security-conscious. "What can I do for you two this good day?" "Yes," said the boy, leaning in, "I was wondering if you had anything that would allow my lover and I to retain some... Peace of mind." Bron was impressed with the boy's composure--he didn't flinch or blush when he said that. Neither, for that matter, did the girl show any sign of embarrassment, though she was still rather pale and wide-eyed. Which, Bron admitted, was fairly normal when young women met him for the first time. "I believe I can accommodate you," said Bron, turning to the shelves behind him. "Was there anything particular you had in mind?" "Oh, I don't know," said the boy breezily. "Nothing that would leave red, I suppose. And nothing visible under the moon, you understand. We, ah..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "She likes the open air." Bron's hand found the hidden tripwires beneath the second shelf. Slowly, without moving any other part of his body, he turned his head. The boy was leaning forward, his elbows on the counter, his face totally absent of the humor in his voice. One of his hands, his left, clasped his right forearm innocuously--well, one had to do something with that hand. The other arm stood almost straight up, and his two smallest fingers were curled back, leaving only pointer and middle finger erect. The boy's eyes were calm. "Hail and well met, bladesman," said Bron. "Hail," said the boy. "I've heard rumors," said Bron. "One of our number, that left Pelanha and went to the Silver City, to compete in the Trials. You'd be he, I suppose." "The same," said the boy. Bron released the tripwires. He gave the boy the two-fingered salute of the Night Blades--right elbow at chest level, arm straight up. "Bron Wynngarde." "Marcus Demitri," said Marcus. "Hail," said Bron again. Then, "Your Highness." Princess Gabriele nodded. "Master Wynngarde." No wonder she had been nervous. She must have known coming in. "I have to say, boy," Bron said, "if this is official business, I don't know why you couldn't accomplish the matter yourself. I wasn't there for your training--I been here nigh on ten years now--but I heard stories. Said you're the best there ever was." Marcus's face took a sardonic grimace. "They would say that about me. No, I've come on behest of the Queen." "Really," said Bron with undisguised delight. "The Queen Herself stoops to our level. We'll add that name to the Golden Tablet. Who's the mark?" Marcus spoke before Gabriele could protest. "No mark. Instead, we're curious." "Aye. About what?" "I'm sure you've heard the tales," said Marcus. "An innkeeper's wife. A jeweler's wife." "Aye," said Bron. "Those." "Any ideas?" Marcus said. "Not as I've heard," Bron said. "Same old chatter. Old wives. You know the way." "Well I do," Marcus said. "One day it's a rogue fenrir, next it's the Savior come back. And on the third it's both at once." "Don't forget Loduur Himself, take flesh an' walk the earth," Bron said. Marcus made a humorless laugh. "Aye, that too." "They've talked," said Bron. "Everyone talks. The pubs, the inns, the markets, it's all ye hear about. But not of it's worth repeating." "If ye hear anything that is worth repeating..." Marcus said. "Pass it on, if ye please? And to the others of our brethren as well, both give and take." "Aye, I will," said Bron, agreeing to spread the word. "Ye've a message drop?" "No, not yet," Marcus said. "'least, none we could all get to. I can't exactly waltz out of the Palace on a whim." "Well, I could always waltz in," Bron laughed. Princess Gabriele laughed too. "I'm sure the guardsmen would love that." She was thinking in particular of his face, villainously scarred as it was; it was almost certain they'd toss him out on his badanck if he asked for an audience with anybody, much less the First Lance to the Princess-Heir. Bron fixed her with a dark gaze. "I wasn't plannin' on letting them catch me, your Highness." Her mirth sunk like blood from a wound. Strangely, her First Lance interceded. "Please, bladesman. She's new to our ways." "I see," said Bron, filing that tidbit away for future reference. "I apologize, my lady." This Night Blade seemed to be getting awfully close to his charge. It was something to look out for. "Oh," said Marcus. "There's another thing I wanted to talk to you about." "What can I do ye, bladesman?" Marcus leaned over the counter again. "About ten years ago... My father died." Again his poise impressed Bron, whatever vestigial emotions this had left him were entirely absent from his face. "He was a strong man--it was my mother's constitution we always minded--but he was also a Summer, in the deeps of the Winterlands." "Ye suspect foul play," said Bron. "I want to see if I can figure out who did it," said Marcus. "And apply a certain amount of righteous justice," Bron asked. Marcus didn't answer. "And Her Highness approves of this?" Bron said. "Her Highness," said Marcus with cold certainty, "was not present for this conversation." Bron's eyebrows went up. "Is that a fact now?" "Perhaps," said Princess Gabriele, "more to say that she'd rather pretend she wasn't present for it. My First Lance has made up his mind and he will not be dissuaded." She looked away as she said this, crossing her arms. Bron Wynngarde made another mental note for himself. "Well, if it's the names ye want, I'll see if I can find 'em. I make no guarantees, ye understand--it's been ten years, and you were but a lad at the time--but if it c'n be done by a one such as we, then done it'll be. If they were Palace servants, it'll be a bit easier; they keep papers on their folk, you know. Matter of fact if you could get me in to see them, it'd make my job much easier." "I'll see what I can do," Marcus said. "In your debt, bladesman," said Bron. "As I in yours," said Marcus, giving the ritual response. "Where's your drop?" "Couple blocks down," said Bron, "a section of plate stone that fell out of the tanner's shop." "Leave messages there if anything reaches you," said Marcus. "I'll find some way to come out and check it. Shouldn't be too hard to slip the guards if necessary." "Aye, probably not," said Bron, smiling. Princess Gabriele frowned at this assessment of her father's security. "You'll pass the word on," Marcus said. "Aye, that I will," said Bron. "In the meanwhile, can I interest you in anything? I've some marvelous poisons straight from Brinccatera that'll add a little bite to your blade." "No, thank you," said Marcus, "but I'll be sure to look you up if we have to deal with anyone discreetly." This time Princess Gabriele did not laugh. Perhaps she had realized that they were serious. "Oh," said Bron. "If we find this fellow, do you want us to take him?" Marcus thought for a moment. "No," he said finally, "I do not. Just pass on his identity and location and we'll take him ourselves." "Why so interested?" Bron said. "'twouldn't be right for a First Lance to bloody his hands all up." "Yes," said Marcus, "but I'm not sure you can take him." Bron laughed. "Oh, an' I suppose you can?" "More likely than you," Marcus said. "Kyrei's Light, boy! You've got some-- Some-- Hahahahaha! 'More likely'n not,' he says, hahaha! Why, boy! What've you got that we haven't?" He heard rustling behind him and spun. It was only a packet of contraceptives on the shelf behind him, a cloth bag containing sword-sheathes made out of pig intestine. But it didn't fall. Instead, it drifted up into the air, and then over the counter, and finally into Marcus Demitri's outstretched hand. Bron stared, aghast. "That's what I thought," Marcus said. "Bladesman, believe me, I would not deprive you of an honorable mark. But I'd also rather not see you laid out dead." "Kyrei's Light," Bron whispered. "Magic." "Aye, that it is," said Marcus. He tossed two copper coins onto the counter. "Gaa! What is-- Wait. You actually wanted those?" said Bron. Marcus guided Princess Gabriele out the door. "And not a copper more, you thieving... Thief!" he yelled. "Why, if I set the Guardsmen on you it'd... It'd serve you right!" The door slammed shut in a tinkle of metal chimes. Bron heard the pointing and the laughter outside. He smiled to himself. Quite a man, that young Marcus Demitri. Catching a phantom-man, making First Lance, and now it appeared he'd made a jangéa out of the Princess. He'd spread the word around; oh, certainly he would. "Why did you get those," Catheryne said. Her face was still red. A more public exit she could not have imagined, and with Jordan holding those... Those things, to boot. With a woman on his arm, the conclusion every bystander had drawn was obvious. "It's not like you'll need them." "No," said Jordan, "but Moya Tilmitt might, if he wants to perfect his divination spell." It had worked last night, but not particularly well. And one always needed raw material to test on. "Yes, but, then we'd... have to get someone to use those," she said. "I'm sure we could manage that," he said. She felt something twitching in her face. "That's... Jordan, you are the most unbelievable person I have ever met. You actually want to give those to somebody and say, 'Here, take these, but give them back when you're done'?" "If you're squeamish, you don't have to touch them," he said mildly. The image of herself gingerly holding one of those sheaths--wet, dangling, limp--flashed through her head. She felt clawing nausea. "Jordan, I think conversation should be kept to an absolute minimum today until after I have had a chance to eat my lunch!" "As Your Majesty commands," he said. Moya Tilmitt was scarcely more appreciative. "Jordan..." he said. "I... Really don't think that's appropriate." Thank Kyrei. Catheryne had been starting to believe she might be the only sane person left in the Silver City. "We can't exactly ask for them back when they've been... Used." "Well, then, you could use them," Jordan said. "And then try the spell again." Moya Tilmitt's eyebrows went up, and he seemed to be actually considering this option. "No," he said finally, "I don't... Think the spell would work on... On myself." Nonetheless, he had considered it, a thought that filled Catheryne with despair. "Well, then, what am I going to do with these," Jordan growled, waving the packet of sword-sheathes. "I wouldn't've wasted two coppers on them if I'd known." "Two coppers?" Moya Tilmitt said. "That was cheap-rather. At places-other they cost five." "Why don't you just use them," Catheryne suggested. Jordan snorted. "Sure. Precisely. I'll use them. And today rain will fall." Rain was a thing that had not ever happened in recorded history, except in the Spring Lands, which was why people used that expression in that way. "Jordan, that does seem pessimistic-unduly," said Moya Tilmitt. "I'm sure someone in this palace would care to lie with you." "About as likely as someone in this palace lying with you," Jordan retorted. "I beg your pardon!" Moya Tilmitt drew himself up. "I resent that statement! Why, no number-small of women in this palace have suggested to me that they might find me attractive! Just the day-past, some--" "Then you take them," Jordan snapped, holding out the packet. "I-- I--" said Moya Tilmitt. Then his face fell and he stared at the floor. "I'm lonely-very here." "Look, I'll take them," Catheryne snapped, fed up with their bickering. "I'll burn them or something at the soonest opportunity." "You owe me two coppers," Jordan said. "Oh!" she said, and hit him in the face with them. And it was in this manner that she still had the packet of five sheathes stuffed into an inner pocket of her dress when night came and it was time for her to visit one of the noble houses. She only realized it as she was hunched at her desk, tapping an invitation against her teeth (a dreadful waste of paper; she stopped once she realized she was doing it). She was facing a dilemma. Mistress Hester Stelmarine had, of course, sent an invitation. It was the only proper thing to do for a young woman who had just arrived home from a finishing school--after all, who better to show off one's new manners to than the princess herself? And Catheryne would have gladly gone, if not for the other invitation that had arrived, the one she was currently tapping against her teeth. The name on the front said "Master Paitr Domenicos." There was no denying that she wanted to see him again. He was handsome, he was... Well, he was handsome. There was no denying that. And he was friendly, too--with people like Jordan around, she needed as much of that as possible. And... Well, she wanted to see him again. He made her knees weak in a way no one ever had. But that left Davina alone, which she felt bad about. Davina was her best friend and they hadn't seen each other in close to a year. It wasn't that she didn't want to go visit with her; it was that she wanted to visit with Master Domenicos... More. Then she had a brilliant idea. "Master Demitri," she called. "Have the stables ready two identical carriages--not the normal royal one, but the lesser ones for the ministers or something. They will depart at the same time." "Who'll be in them?" "You and I, of course." "Why two?" "Why, so we can go to different places, of course." "I don't understand." "I have decided that, tonight, I will accept invitations to two noble houses, not just one. One carriage shall carry me to one of them, and the other shall take you to the other." "Where does yours take you," he asked. "To the Domenicos estate," she said. "And mine?" "To Mistress Stelmarine's, of course," she said, smiling. He said nothing for a long moment, and she was beginning to wonder what was going on when she realized that, actually, he was in shock. It was simply that he would not let his mouth drop open and his eyes bug out like any civilized person. "My lady, I refuse," he said. "Nonsense," she said, "it's a perfect idea. Anyone who's watching the stables will see two minister's coaches leaving, but not my royal coach. They'll assume I'm not visiting anyone. Or, if they follow the two actual coaches, they'll assume I'm visiting with Mistress Hester, because if a minister were to visit with either of those two houses, of course it would be with the Domenicoses. No one will ever know where I've gone, unless Master Paitr spreads the word himself. Which I may allow him to. That'll teach them." "My lady, I refuse," he said. "Why so," she asked. "Mistress Hester is a perfectly lovely person, I should think you'd welcome the chance to spend time with someone actually civilized. You might learn a thing or two from her about what it means to be a friend." "My lady, I refuse," he said. She turned to him. "Master Demitri, I am your princess and the heir to the throne. Do not make me order you." His eyes were steel. "I make you order me." She heaved a theatrical sigh. "Fine... Master Demitri, I order you to do what I have told you to. Take the second carriage and visit with Mistress Hester in my stead." His glare would have frozen the sun. "If something happens to you while I am not there, I will repeat this conversation to your father, word for word, and we will see what he says to you then." She glared at him. "You wouldn't dare." "Master Demitri," he said, "have the stables ready two identical carriages not the normal royal one but the lesser ones for the ministers or something they will depart at the same time who'll be in them you and I of course why--" "All right thank you very much," she gritted. "Ask the maids to come in. It's time for me to get dressed." "Enjoy that," he snarled, and slammed out. "I will!" she shouted. When they did, she discovered the package--she was taking off her dress when the weight of it brushed against her skin, and she suddenly remembered it was there. For a second she felt hot slashes of panic--what would they say? The Princess-Heir, with sheathes in her dress! My my!--until she realized that she could drop the dress right there and no one would notice; they wouldn't pay it any attention, much less anything under it. But what about after she left, when they came back to clean up? They'd pick up the dress; they'd see. And she couldn't hide it anywhere in the room; they might likewise find it. The only answer, then, was to take it with her. The package rode high on the front of her hip and, though she could tell no one would see it--no one did, not even Jordan--she still felt terribly exposed. "Your Majesty," said Jordan as they prepared to mount into their separate coaches. "I must protest one more time. I cannot in good conscience let you attempt this... This thing... Without warning you that I think it is dangerous and a bad idea." "I appreciate your concern," she said, "and I thank you for it. But Mistress Hester is one of my closest friends, and I feel I owe her something. Besides, Master Domenicos has spent a good deal of time in the Spring Lands; if something should happen, I think he will be sufficient." Inside the coach she had to keep herself from bouncing up and down. I'm going to see him I'm going to see him! Mistress Hester Stelmarine, for obvious reasons, was quite surprised at the guest--singular, not plural--who arrived on her doorstep, but she hid it well. "Why, Master Demitri! What brings you here? And without a princess holding your leash." From another mouth this might have been offensive, but Hester Stelmarine delivered it with such a bright smile that Jordan saw there was no reason--or point--in being insulted. "My mistress bade me come here," he said. "She is... Visiting with another, at present, but wished that I should come and express her regrets that she could not on this night spend time with you." Mistress Hester laughed and rolled her eyes. "So formal. Well, come in, come in!" The inside of the house was well-lit and cheerful, which Jordan found himself contrasting with the Daravon residence. This house was in pastels--light greens and pinks and sky blues and pale yellows--and gave a pleasing effect. Hester Stelmarine herself was dressed in pleasing turquoises and beiges, a fairly old-fashioned gown in lace and frills that nonetheless flattered her wider figure. Her parents, presumably the Lord and Lady Stelmarine, were standing off to one side with wide eyes, clearly having been expecting the princess. "I shouldn't stay long," said Jordan. "Her Highness is..." Well, probably best not to say where she was. "Without my protection, and if something should happen to her--" "Oh, don't worry so much," said Mistress Hester, laughing. "She's probably with that chap, uh, what's his name, Paitr Domino? Domenici? Delmoria? Well, whatever his name is. He'd just come back from the Border Wars, isn't that right? I'm sure he's an able swordsman then, or he'd've come back in a box." "That is exactly what Her Majesty said," Jordan said. "Then we're both either clearly very smart or clearly very stupid," said Mistress Hester pleasantly. "Well, don't just stand there, come in! I've been dying to meet the person who's taking up all of Catheryne's time." "Her Majesty's time?" Jordan said. "Well, yes," said Mistress Hester, "the fighting, the exercise, the campaigns--I can't believe you've actually got her up and moving about, I must say, Master Demitri--I mean, neither of us were exactly the athletic type, as I'm sure you can see--" She laughed. "--but I was getting worried about her. She'd start to show it, just as surely as I have, and it'd ruin her once she realized. Now it won't happen at all. You have my applause, Master Demitri." "Yes, but fat lot of good it'll do if someone sneaks up on her while she's talking to Paitr Domenicos," Jordan said. "True," said Mistress Hester, "but if you've done all you can, then you've done all you can. You're not Kyrei, Master Demitri, you don't see everything." Jordan stared at her. It was such a foreign concept to him that he wasn't sure he even understood it. Of course he had to see everything. How else was he going to prevent another disaster? Her father spoke. "Hester... I don't mean to be a nag, but... Is this wise? You know what he is." "And what is that, Father," she replied. "A Night Blade," said her mother. "And... And one of those Gifty people." "Oh," said Hester, "that's true." She turned to him. "You aren't planning on murdering us while we sleep, are you? Or cursing us with crossed eyes with the rest of our lives?" "The first one only Her Highness could command me to do," Jordan said. "I leave it up to you to decide whether she would. As to the second, I don't know how. If such a curse does exist, my teacher hasn't taught it to me yet." "Oh," said Hester, "that's too bad, I thought it might actually be rather funny. Does Catheryne know?" she asked hopefully. "Hester," said her father. "I don't think you're being serious about this. This man is dangerous, and yet you blithely invite him into our house?" "Papa, you know Catheryne," said Mistress Hester. "She would never put her trust in anyone bad like that." "Yes," said her father, "but people can be deceived." "Yes, and that's what I'm here for," said Mistress Hester pleasantly. "Come in, Master Demitri, and sit down." Without waiting for his answer she went down the hallway, clearly expecting them to follow. "I don't think we're going to win this," said her mother to her father. "Is this a common occurrence," Jordan asked them. "Not all that often," said her father. "Or, if you look at it another way, far too often." He sighed. "Well. May we offer you the hospitality of the household?" When Paitr Domenicos opened the door, the first thing he said was, "That's not safe." "What isn't?" Catheryne asked lightly. "For you to be out in public without your man Marcus," said Paitr. "What if something should happen to you?" "Why, you'd protect me, of course," Catheryne said lightly. Paitr rolled his eyes. "Fat chance of that. He's a much better swordsman than I am, I can see that. If it came down to me, I have to say, I wouldn't be able to guarantee your public safety, your Highness." "Well, then," she said. "All the more reason for you to invite me in." His eyebrows jumped and he grinned. His parents bade them polite greetings and appropriate formalities, and then retreated, leaving the two of them at, not a giant feasting table like at the Daravon residence, but something much smaller. She was glad she had not brought Jordan; it would have been uncomfortably cramped with the three of them. In a glass vase on the table was a rose made of silk, but so realistic-looking that at first she stared. "So, where is your minder, anyhow," Paitr asked. "I sent him away," she said, giggling. "I-- Do you know Mistress Hester Stelmarine? Ah, yes. She's an old friend of mine. She returned from the Helenes Miine Finishing School only a few days ago, and I had meant to visit with her tonight. So I sent--" Jordan, she almost said. "Master Demitri there instead." "I see," said Paitr. "And... Why did you not go to her then?" "Because... An invitation arrived that I couldn't refuse," she said, giggling. The light in his eyes changed, and with a sudden burst of objective clarity she realized just how forward she was being--from a verbal standpoint she was practically throwing herself at him, even as she sat demurely in her chair opposite him, her face tilted modestly downward, giving him her silver-blue eyes through her banks of hair. And she could see his face--she could see it ever so clearly--and she knew intrigued he was. Then it died and he laughed and said, "You flatter me, your Highness, to find me so unrefusable. But I'm sure you see handsome men every day." "Well, yes, that's true," she said, feeling the weights and pressures of sudden self-consciousness, like a second skin all around her. "But you cannot deny that you are more handsome than most." He dismissed it with a wave. "An accident, surely. It could have been me, it could have been anyone." "It could have," she said. "But it wasn't anyone. It was you." He tried to smile that one off as well, but her intensity was hard to deny. "I... Suppose so." There was a bit of an awkward silence while they fumbled over salads and forks. Catheryne seized her goblet and took a gulp of wine--it was more potent than she'd expected. "So... They tell me you've got some special gift or something," he said finally. Oh. That. "Yeah, that's what they tell me too," she said, hoping for a lighter tone. "It's not..." He finally looked up. "It's not dangerous, is it?" Oh. That. "Paitr... No, it's not dangerous. Well--yes, it is, that's why I'm learning to control it. But that's the point. I have learned to control it. I'm not going to burn this house down around your ears or anything." "Well, I hope not, the house is made of stone," he said, smiling. Smiling a little too much. "Look, Paitr. Do you remember the first time you held a sword? I'm sure your father or your teacher or whoever told you, 'Be careful, you could hurt somebody with that. And you probably did hurt somebody with it, eventually, if only by accident. Why? Because you were learning. "Well, I was born with the sword in me. It's not something I picked up, it's something I just came with. It was part of the deal. And so I'm learning to use it. Just the same way you learned to use a sword." "Yes, but..." Now his smile was genuine, if troubled. "It's the hurting-somebody-by-accident thing I'm worried about." Oh. That. "Paitr, I don't go flirting with magic like that. I leave the sword in its sheath. I don't just... Walk around waving the Flow around in my spare time. I assure you, accidents aren't likely." "Hmm," he said, "yes, I suppose so." She shifted a little bit, and the package of... Things Jordan had bought shifted against her skin. Suddenly she realized the incredible double meaning of everything she'd said just tonight, and focused on her salad so that she couldn't see her face burn. "Well," he said, smiling faintly. "I'm sure you're good with your... Particular sword." She decided that responding in kind would be a little too far over the line. They picked at their food in silence. "So," Mistress Hester said. "What made you want to be a Night Blade?" "...What?" said Jordan. "I mean, why did you do it," Mistress Hester. "I mean, when a boy's asked what he wants to be when he grows up, he usually says, A general, or A Silver Guardsman, or even King of Eretria--but, generally, he doesn't say, I want to be a Night Blade." "Or, if he does," added her father, "he probably doesn't say it for long." His wife smiled. "'Up to your room right now, young man! And no supper for you!'" Jordan felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. This family's friendliness was contagious. When Hester's parents, introduced to him as the Lord Darren and the Lady Martina Stelmarine, had insisted on staying, he hadn't been sure what he'd been in store for. Parents, in his experience at least, were a hampering factor--these young scions, chafing under what they perceived as the tyrannical rule of their progenitors, would keep their mouths shut, holding back, not saying what they meant. Though unsettling, the interview with Temaile Daravon had been desperately enlightening--she had felt free to say whatever she wanted, and had done so. Few visits had been as unencumbered. But in contrast, the Lord and Lady Stelmarine pitched into the banter, laughing about each other as often as they did about their daughter and even himself; and Mistress Hester did not seem discomfited by their presence. For a moment he thought back to his own parents, long-gone and faded, and wondered if he had ever shared anything like this with them. "So, what took you to Pelanha," Mistress Hester asked. He thought of his parents again, but this time the thought was not pleasant. Hester saw. "If you don't wish to talk about it, Master Demitri, I understand. It's probably not something I should even be asking about." "I am not offended, Mistress Hester--" "Davina, please," she said, smiling. "Call me Davina." "...Da-Davina. No, I'm not offended. It is..." They wouldn't understand why it saddened him to answer unless he had already answered. "I believe that my parents were murdered, and I went to Pelanha to train myself so that I could avenge them." "I... I see," said Mistress Hester. "Well," said the Lady Stelmarine. "This is pleasant talk for the dinner table." "It's something I've grown up with," said Jordan. "I... I rarely think about it, now. They died when I was a child, I barely remember their faces, much less... Anything about them. But sometimes... I wish I... I wish I'd had the chance for a normal life." The Stelmarines stared at him. Jordan was too busy to notice: he was staring at himself. What's gotten into me?? "I'm sorry," he said, "I-- I'm not usually this..." He couldn't even say the words: they had to say them for him. "Open?" Hester offered. "Unguarded?" said Lord Stelmarine. Jordan nodded wordlessly. "Well," said Lord Stelmarine after a moment. "I don't know about my wife and daughter, but I feel rather honored to be the recipient of such trust, Master Demitri." "As do I," said Lady Stelmarine. "And I want you to know, Master Demitri, that we will hold your words in highest confidence. None shall hear of this conversation from our lips if you do not wish it." Mistress Hester had other ideas. "You should talk to Catheryne. I know she feels the same way. I mean, you can imagine... Poor girl, with no mother, and her father out in the Spring Lands four months a year. There's a lot she doesn't tell people, Master Demitri, but if you talk to her and you're willing to listen, I'm sure she'll open up to you." Jordan nodded. "All she needs is someone to treat her like an actual human being for once," Davina said artlessly. "Not just a princess, but a real person." "I think I know what you mean, Mistress Davina." She laughed. "Mistress, now! Why always so formal with you! Let me be just Davina to you, and to me, you can just be... Well, whatever you want me to call you. Fish Head, perhaps." "It's not formality," he said. "It's out of respect. For teaching me everything you've learned in less than a minute. That's a boon I can never repay." "So perhaps not Mistress, then, but Teacher," Davina smiled. "Moya," suggested Lord Stelmarine. "No, that's for a man," his wife scolded. "For her it'd be naya." "Naya Stelmarine," said her father. "My daughter the teacher. And if you can keep doing that less-than-a-minute trick, you should hire yourself out as a tutor. Do you have any idea how much money we could make?" Davina laughed. Later, after the meal was over, he felt bad about leaving, and so didn't protest as much as he should have when she asked him to stay longer. "Catheryne's fine, I'm sure. Besides, she won't thank you for barging in on her, I'm sure of that. Stay and chat for a little while." Jordan was bemused. "About what?" "About anything!" said Davina brightly. She sat down in an upholstered armchair. "For instance, let's talk about our favorite person in the whole wide world." "And who exactly is that," Jordan asked. "Catheryne. Obviously." She stuck her tongue out at him. Jordan covered nervousness by selecting his own armchair to perch on. "So, what would you like to talk about concerning Catheryne," Davina said. Jordan counseled his features to stillness. "There does seem to be a great deal to cover." "True, some," said Davina easily. "When did this magic thing happen? I grew up with her, but I never saw any signs that this might happen. --Well, not that I'd know anything about what a budding mage looks like, but, you'd think I'd have noticed something." "I never noticed anything either," said Jordan, "and I turned out to have the Gift too, so I suppose it's undetectable. I had no idea, and neither did Catheryne. But, by some chance, my sponsor in the Trials happened to be... A mage. And he knew. He could tell, I think, just by getting close to us." "How did he tell you," Davina asked. "He actually came in and asked for an audience," said Jordan. "He could've approached us privately, but I think he declared it publicly on purpose. I think he felt there was no reason to hide." Davina nodded. "I guess he would." "And I think it set the tone for... For all the lessons, for the way everything's unfolded since then," Jordan said. "By coming in and making sure that Lord Basingame knew, that Her Majesty knew, Moya Tilmitt just sort of... Kept it from being a secret. It isn't something any of us can use against each other. And I think he made it that way on purpose." Davina shook her head. "I think that was the best thing he could've done. For Catheryne, at least. She's grown up always feeling so... Removed from everyone. She was the daughter of the First Lance and the most likely candidate for becoming Princess-Heir--and yet she was surrounded by all these people who doubted her or wanted that position for themselves. Temaile Daravon, for instance." Davina combed hair from her face reflexively. "I think she started feeling... Different. Like there was something that set her apart from everyone else." "Well, there was," Jordan said. "Yes, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing," said Davina. "She doesn't have any friends, did you know that? Except me, and now you." Jordan frowned. "I'm not sure I qualify as a friend." "Yes, you," Davina said. "She trusts you and she cares about you. I'm the only other person in her life we could say that about. Have you ever seen her talk to someone willingly? I know I haven't." "She doesn't exactly talk to me willingly either," Jordan said. "Yes, about that," said Davina. "How do you feel about her, Marcus?" Jordan blinked at her. "...Feel?" he said. "Of course," Davina said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "What comes to mind when you think about her? Annoyance? Affection? Antipathy?" She grinned. "Look at me, I get to use all those big words my tutors taught me. Antagonism? Arrogance? Ambidexterity? Oh wait, that's not right." Jordan looked at her blankly. "All right, let's start from the beginning, do you like her or dislike her?" "I..." His feelings crystallized under him and he looked up. "I've never had anything but respect for Catheryne. I think she's a fine girl. She's very smart and very brave, and she'll make a good queen, and one day she'll make some man very happy." "But not you," Davina said. "Well..." He hesitated, then let it out. "I've come to avenge my parents. And... I don't think it's a process I'll survive." "Perhaps," Davina said, "perhaps not. You went to the Night Blades because they're the best, Master Demitri--and yet you seriously expect that whoever went after your parents are better?" It was a frightening thought. He'd known--he'd always known--that he'd avenge his parents, and die in the attempt; and for ten years he'd driven himself, mind and body, towards that goal. But what if he... Didn't? What if he lived? ...What would he do then? "But that's neither here nor there," said Davina. "We were talking about whether you like Catheryne. And you haven't given me a straight answer." "Yes I have," Jordan protested. "I told you that I admire her and respect her and--" "Synonyms." Davina dispelled them with a wave of her hand. "(Ooh, there's another big word. Mistress Tilladerna would be so proud of me!) Where was I. Synonyms. Master Demitri, there's no need to be reticent here. Go ahead and say it. You're friendly towards her. You like her." Jordan blinked once. "Yes," he said. "I like her." Davina settled back. "But why is that important?" he said. "To make sure there's a good relationship between the Queen and her First Lance, so that the nation will benefit? That doesn't matter. I'll be dead inside a year. She'll have to pick a new one." "No," said Davina. "Not that. Not that at all." "Then what?" Jordan said. Davina looked at him for a long moment. "You say that you like her, Marcus. Well, if you haven't noticed, she likes you too. You're her friend, you're her confidant, her bodyguard--as unlikely as it seems, you have actually become her First Lance, in truth as well as duty. She wants your approval, just as you want hers. She wants your friendship, just as you want hers. And you need to know that." "Why?" "So that you can decide whether to be her friend or not," Davina said. "Because she's lonely--she always has been--and though I love her like a sister, there are things in her life that I will never understand. What it's like to lose a parent, for instance. And what it's like to be set apart from the rest of the world, to be, or to think, you are so different from everyone else that the gulf cannot be bridged. These are things I don't know. You know them. And you can be the best friend she's ever had." She smiled. "And, let's face it. You think she's attractive." "Who wouldn't," Jordan said. "And, Marcus, I can't be sure, but... I think it's returned." He said nothing. "You have a chance here, Marcus. One that other men would kill to have. What you do with it is up to you. I just want to make sure you know you have it." She smiled again. "And don't hesitate to come chat again if you need advice." "I won't... Davina. And please... Call me Jordan." "If you insist, Jordan." She smiled. "If you insist." "I'm sorry about the food," Paitr said. "Why, what was wrong with it," Catheryne asked. "Well... It probably wasn't the quality you're used to," Paitr said. "Nothing wrong with that," Catheryne said. "A little variety is nice." The meal over, they sat in repose in a sitting room (What an obvious name, Catheryne thought), involved in idle conversation. Catheryne supposed that Jordan would've gone back to the Palace in a snit by now, but she was enjoying herself too much to go home now. The wine wasn't helping. It had been an excellent vintage, whatever it was. Now she felt pleasantly relaxed and not particularly interested in moving--especially because, every time she looked over, she could see Paitr's face in the firelight, his bronzed visage and the flickering light in his eyes. It was a nice thing to see, to put it mildly. "Besides," she said ingeniously, "my father says that we should always be aware of those who have things worse off than we are, and give thanks that we were lucky enough not to be like them." She colored. "Not that you-- Not that I'm saying that-- Oh, dear. I-- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-- Uh, I must have had more wine than I thought." Paitr laughed. "No offense was given, Your Highness." Catheryne slumped back, relieved. "I must say, Your Highness," said Paitr, "the firelight does wonderful things for your complexion. You are always beautiful, of course, but... Now, even more so." She smiled, glad that the firelight probably covered the warmth on her face. "Thank you, Master Domenicos. And I must say, you are not so unpleasant to look upon yourself." He shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. "You flatter me, my lady." "I do no such thing," she said, sitting up. "You are very... You are a very good ma-- A very well-- A good well-- A. A, um. Oh dear." He smiled--it was unfair, for him to smile like that; her wits were addled quite enough already, thank you--and moved to sit on the couch beside her. "You've had a lot to drink." "Not that much, not that much at all," she protested, not caring too much that she was lying. "Besides. I'm a big girl now. I can handle myself in public. I'm sure you can, too." She looked at him. "Am I right?" A smile tugged at his mouth. "I... I suppose I could, but... I doubt it would be appropriate." "--Kyrei's Hand, everything I say tonight just goes absolutely wrong," she realized. He smiled. "I'm sure we all have our off-days." "No, but," she said. "This is what I'm talking about. This is what I mean. When I say that you're nice to look at. Master Domenicos, I'm sure you're presented with this often--with girls and women tripping over their tongues when you are nearby. It's because you're so handsome to look at. Women take one look at you and they lose everything. And... That includes me." Now she felt strangely naked. He looked at her for a moment. "Well, I'm... Flattered, my lady Gabriele, to be sure," he said. "But... Don't you realize that, sometimes, much the same happens because of you?" Now she felt merely self-conscious. "Well, clearly, everyone else manages to hide it a lot better than I do. I open my mouth and bedroom talk comes out. Whereas you are... Very calm. Very collected." He smiled at her then, and when he kissed her it was like everything she had ever wanted had come to her at once. They sprawled out on the couch, he leaning over her so that she couldn't see his incredible face anymore. Her dexterity seemed magically restored and her hands roamed his body, feeling the strong muscles of his back and arms. She felt his kisses pattering over her neck--odd, but pleasurable; and today she was in a state to accept anything. Absolutely anything: his gentle kiss, now increasingly urgent; his hands caressing her arms, and now her abdomen, and then--oh blessed wonder--her breasts... Just for a moment, for an enticing, heart-thundering moment only, before descending back down to her stomach, to... His hands encountered a lump beneath her dress. "My goodness. What's this?" Catheryne giggled. "What, what's so funny," Paitr asked. "I haven't discovered some odd birth defect that you ambush everyone with, have I?" The whole situation was so silly that it took her a moment to get herself under control. Then she reached into the inner pocket and pulled out the packet of sheathes. His eyes widened. Catheryne giggled again. Everything seemed, suddenly, very silly to her. "Don't ask how I got them. Or, maybe, do ask, it's funny. But, um. I have them. Heeheehee. Maybe, um. Maybe Kyrei knew that, that I'd need them." She beamed up at him, feeling both silly and the most brilliant person in the world. "Mmm," he murmured, smiling, bending down to her. "Very wise. Very wise indeed..." His hand took the packet from hers, but she had a feeling she'd see them again soon. In front of the fire they undressed each other, slowly, their fingers roaming each other's bodies, exploring these bounteous territories for the first time. His hands caressed her curves and swells, the soft places of her woman-ness; hers found the scars of battle, the hard planes of muscles, the solid warmth of his body. And he laid her on the rug before the fireplace and took her right there. His hands coursed over her curves, tweaking her nipples; her breath rose, and she could not believe how ready she was for him. And when his member, encased in a sheath now, slid into her, it felt different--slicker, smoother--but still good. Still just as good. For long moments there was only breathing, and the gorgeous, thrilling feelings as he rocked in and out of her, and his chest against hers, his arms parallel to her flanks, her hands on his back pressing him to her; then he groaned and stiffened, and she knew he must have reached his peak. She tightened her hold on him, but the vagrant thought pulsed through her head: Is that all there is? "Oh... Oh... Oh Gabriele... Oh..." Jordan would have done more. She pushed the thought away. "Oh Gabriele I love you," he gasped. And that was a different feeling entirely. One that she liked--very, very much. Moya Tilmitt looked astonished when she knocked on his door down in the servants' quarters, but between her dreamy smile and the used sheath she held out, it was quite clear what had happened. He accepted it without comment, proffering her only a bittersweet smile. But Jordan saw, too; and no amount of training could keep the dismay from his face. It was very late at night when the special servant returned. Temaile Daravon tapped her foot impatiently, pacing back and forth by the servants' door. These lower-class mules--did they have no sense of manners? A woman ought to be abed by now, snug under the covers, possibly with a man to warm her, not skulking in the servants' quarters hoping none of them would get up to relieve themselves and see her. This was really ridiculous. "Where is he," she muttered. "Probably gotten lost," David said, "all's the better for us. You know how he is." He had never been comfortable with their special servant, which made Temaile question why they'd ever chosen him in the first place. But he was right about one thing: Besson Telocuse came and went by his own schedule, by his own whims. He wasn't right in his own head, that was certain, and expecting him to conform to any normal schedule was like expecting the sun not to rise. "He'll be here," she said. "Better if he didn't," David muttered. "Better if he wanders off into the Wilds and gets killed by a fenrir. Or gored by a unicorn. Much better." "Mikael," she said sternly, using his private name to jolt him, "that's uncharitable." "He's dangerous, he is," said David. "You know it. You saw what he did with your own eyes. What if someone sees him coming here? That'd be the end of it. We'd be dead. Or worse." "Mikael," she hissed. "No one will see him coming. You know what he does. The only way anyone could possibly know about our involvement in this, is if they heard about it from your big mouth." She purged irritation with an effort. "Come, my love. He'll arrive shortly. And then we'll go to bed. And, if you're a good boy... There'll be a reward there for you." He brightened. When he looked away she let her disgust show on her face. What was the point?--she was surrounded by morons. None of them seemed to even suspect she was manipulating them, diverting them, redirecting them; certainly they never realized just how easy it was for her. At times she felt like the only person with any sense whatsoever--a lone pillar of intelligence, surrounded by fields of bumbling idiocy. No one knew what she knew, or could do what she did. Not David Alckerson; not her father; not Besson Telocuse. And certainly not that imitation princess Gabriele. There was a knocking on the door. Telocuse looked miserable. Several days' growth of beard and the dark circles of sleep deprivation could not disguise the grief in his face. "Mistress, I--" "Come in, hurry," she said. "No, I am not fit to set foot under your roof." Tears coursed down his face. "I am unclean. I--" Loduur's eyes, not this again! "Master Telocuse, stop sniveling and come inside! What if somebody sees you!" As always, survival won, and he stepped in. The door swung shut behind him, locked. "Where have you been," said Temaile. "You weren't here when Master Alckerson and I returned two days ago." "I... I did what you said, Mistress Temaile," said Telocuse. "I waited for a few days after you left, and then went out to the markets in the Outdistrict. And... I saw a woman. She was beautiful, she was very... And... You said to do whatever I wanted, so I... Followed her, and..." "You did the bad thing," Temaile said. "No," Telocuse said. "No?" Temaile asked. If he hadn't, this whole plan was for naught. "I did it three times," he said. It wasn't hard to act astonished; the plan was succeeding, much better than she'd ever anticipated. "You... You did." "I did," Telocuse sobbed. "I... I went into their houses and I--" "Telocuse, that is wonderful news--" she began. "I snuck up on them," said Telocuse, tears now profuse on his cheeks, "and when they--" "Telocuse!" she shouted. The last thing she needed was some gibbering, sniveling servant. "Stop it right now!" Suddenly something yanked her back and slammed her against the wall. She could not move against the invisible bonds, and her feet did not touch the floor. Her servant glared at her, his eyes burning. "I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you! I--" He took a step forward, and only then seemed to notice the sword blade across his throat. Temaile smiled to herself. Ah, yes: that was why they had chosen David. Because, unlike most of his contemporaries, he was not frightened of magic. And, even when Telocuse had used it against Temaile, David had kept his cool and responded the way he was trained to. Her father had come across Telocuse some years after Temaile was born. Telocuse was a beggar, and clearly of feeble mind, since no beggar was ever born with brains, else they'd not be beggars, now would they? But Telocuse had lived and begged near the Daravons for most of his life, and now, seeing the Lord Daravon himself for the first time, had hastened to ask the man a question. Of course, Father had ignored him. It was only when the doors and wheels came off the carriages that he had listened. And, thank Kyrei, Father had had the sense not to kill off this rogue mage--self-trained, totally, and hardly sure of his gifts, but still a resource. Now Telocuse was a servant in their household. And Temaile could do with him whatever she pleased. The invisible grip released her, and her feet hit the floor with a thump. Telocuse was shaking. "Look at you," she said. "You're a disgrace. So unclean, you say, so holy, not fit to set foot into my house--and then you use this, this magic, this Flow. In my house. You use it on me! You are a liar, a hypocrite. You are unclean." "I'm sorry, Mistress Temaile," he blubbered, nearly incomprehensible under the intensity of his shivering tears. "You are not worthy of your gift," she said--the finishing blow, for he was reduced to silence, though the tears did not stop. "I want you to go to the priests," she said. "They'll bless you. They'll pray to the Goddess on your behalf. And you must also be worthy of your gifts. Do you know how?" "By... By not using them again," said Telocuse. "Wrong," said Temaile. "Have you already forgotten everything I have told you, Telocuse? It has only been two months, I know you're smarter than that. Tell me. Tell me what I have told you." Miserably, Telocuse recited. " 'The Gift of magic is a gift from the Goddess Kyrei. But those who have it are unclean and unsanctified, for it is not right for a mortal to have the powers of a god.' " Temaile nodded. "Continue." "'So, to be holy, the Gifted must abandon their mortal self,'" said Telocuse. "'They must come from manhood to godhood. And the way to do that is...'" His voice faltered, failed. It always did, at this part. Temaile spoke for him. "The way to become a god is to do what a god does." Telocuse was silent. "Use your powers. Use your Gift. Fool the puling giftless; smash them, destroy them. Give life to those women with your seed. Take their lives with your hands. For gods create, and gods destroy; and if you create, and destroy, you shall become a god." And I shall be the only woman who has ever tamed one. And when I unleash my god upon that pathetic excuse for a princess Gabriele, we shall see how she acts then. "Go to your room, Telocuse," said Temaile. "In the morning, seek the priests. And think on what I have said." Telocuse bumbled down the hall. "You do realize that Princess Gabriele and Master Demitri are both mages as well," David said from her elbow. "Kazrec," she retorted. "It's a lie. That fop Lord Basingame just wants his child to seem dangerous and untouchable. If they have the Gift, I'm a Summer." David chuckled. "Kazrec, as you say, my lady." And then of course she had to endure his snufflings and pawings and humpings before he would shut up and go to sleep. The things she did for her people. If anyone knew, they would declare her a saint.
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