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Moya Tilmitt had gotten into the habit of wearing a sword nowadays. It wasn't unknown, by any means; many men who lived in the Silver City had served in the Silver Guardsmen or the army at one point or another--which, in Eretria, was synonymous with having been to the Spring Lands--and they sometimes wore their weapons as a badge of honor. Others, mostly young men, wore them as a sign of defiance, as if daring some unwary passerby to challenge them to combat. And others wore them for reasons no one dared ask about. Kenneth Tilmitt thought he might be one of those people. In the five days since Jordan's nameday celebration he had walked the streets incessantly. Almost all of the other mages in the Silver City had left, heading out to Belgedrine or Temistoclelen or even Mortraveil, though it was on the other side of Gruenveldt; and those who remained wanted nothing to do with his search. So he walked alone. They still didn't have a face for this strange murderer, this intruder who had shattered the peace of the castle. They had only a glimpse into his heart... And the strange, gritty feeling of his holding of the Flow. "Mage-every," he had explained to the Queen, "has their own footprint-magical-unique. It can be sensed most easily when the mage is holding the Flow, but if you know what to look for, it is evident at times-all." "Meaning..." Queen Meralina had asked. "Meaning," he had answered, "that, now, I can find man-this for you. Right now." They had not answered. "By listening to the eddies of the Flow, I can trace signature-his-particular and find him. The waves of the Flow, when used, linger for days-several, and they will have signature-his. I can find them, and lead you to him." "How long will it take," Doland Basingame had asked. "That... I do not know. Please understand, this is not something we do often. Many of us live in--" No, no slips of the tongue. It would not do to reveal that secret yet. "--in proximity-close to other mages, so there are Flow-tracks around constantly, and sorting them out would be... Difficult. To say the least. That will not be a problem here, but I am... Out of practice." "We understand," Queen Meralina had said. "And we trust you, Master Tilmitt. We believe you will not fail us." But it had been five days--five days of wandering slowly up and down the streets of the Silver City, holding the Flow, feeling the echoes and waves and rebounds from the delicate traceries of old Flowpaths that still hung in the air. Five days... And nothing. Almost totally... Nothing. A few vagrant echoes, here and there... Nothing conclusive. Any lead he had found had melted away by the next day. But he had promised. And this was more important than his aching legs. So he walked. And he wandered. And though he wore a sword at his belt, and was the hunter, he felt no hurry to find his prey. For he felt, strangely, that it, too, was hunting him. Though Princess Gabriele and her First Lance, Marcus Demitri, had visited the Stelmarine estate every day, they had not yet seen Mistress Hester since the attack in the Palace. She was hiding, claimed the Lady Stelmarine; she did not want anyone to see her. The Lady Stelmarine had been distracted as she said this; she twisted a handkerchief throughout their conversations and seemed transfixed by a spot just above their right shoulders. More than once both Jordan and Catheryne caught themselves glancing behind them, wondering just what Davina's mother had seen. Lord Stelmarine had gone out to his manufacturies in the south of the city, leaving and returning when it was dark. Now it was the fifth day, and Mistress Hester had finally consented to be seen by those who were considered her best friends. "I warn you," Lady Stelmarine said, "It's not... It is... Discomforting." "We understand," said Catheryne. "We were there when the injuries were inflicted," Jordan said. "We have seen her at worse." "Yes..." said Lady Stelmarine. "Yes. This is... True." She knocked on the door. "Hester. They're here." "I changed my mind," came the answer, muffled by the door. "Tell them to go away." "They've been here every morning for the past five days, dear," said Lady Stelmarine. "I don't think that will work." "If I may, Lady Stelmarine," Catheryne said. "Davina! Do you remember when we were eleven, and we both got strung out on Jakob Purlaye, and there were a few days when we couldn't talk to each other?" There was a pause. "Yes." "And then we decided that nothing was going to get in the way of our friendship." There was a pause, as if Davina could see where this was going. "Yes." "I meant it then," Catheryne said. "And I mean it now." There was no answer for several seconds. "All right," said Davina. "Hold on." Jordan looked at Catheryne. "Jakob Purlaye," he said. Catheryne blushed. "We were eleven," she protested. "People change. He didn't seem like the kind of person to have children out of wedlock. ...With three different women." "My lady..." Jordan said. "You have terrible taste in men." "Ugh," she said, thinking of Paitr, "don't remind me." The Lady Stelmarine stifled a smile with her hand. "Okay," said Davina, her voice closer to the other side of the door. "I'm coming out. ...Are you sure about this?" "Davina, I came here to talk to my friend, not to a door," said Catheryne. "Oh all right," said Davina. The door opened. Catheryne had seen her friend's face bleeding and twisted, laid open by the claws of some magic they could not understand. And in the five days when Davina refused to see them, her imagination had brought up countless death's-head possibilities for what might have happened. A lot of them were the stuff of nightmares, more ghastly than was really realistic. And yet when the door opened, it took all her effort to control her expression. A thousand nightmares could be dispelled with the wave of a hand. Reality was not so easily dismissed. Her face was a mass of scar tissue. It twisted her lip, cut across the bridge of her nose, raked across her cheeks and forehead. Half of one eyebrow was quite a bit higher than the other half. Davina had been charitably called 'handsome' and maliciously a lot worse. Now there was no question about which side of the line she fell on. "There," said Davina saidly. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears glimmered. "I bet you rather talk to a door." Before Catheryne could respond, Jordan said, "It could be worse. At least you have a face." Catheryne stared at him, appalled. "It's the truth," he said. "Some lose noses or ears. Some lose limbs. Some lose life. It could have been worse." "I'd rather be dead," Davina muttered. "What am I going to do now. I'm ruined. No one wants to look at me, much less marry me." Jordan frowned. "There's more to life than that, you know." "But it's what I want, okay," Davina retorted. "That's all I want. That's all I ever wanted. A nice husband and some grandchildren for my dad. Now I'll never have that. And what else was there for me." What scared Catheryne most was not really that Davina was being so pessimistic. Considering the situation, that was to be expected. What scared Catheryne was Davina's anger. She had known this girl practically since infancy, but had only seen her get angry, really angry, once, perhaps twice, in her entire life. Davina's anger was disturbing. And frightening. She gave Lady Stelmarine a look. She nodded and left them in private. Davina's bedroom was not really meant for receiving guests; there were no chairs, or much of anything for that matter. Jordan stood near the door and the girls sat on the bed. Catheryne was glad she'd chosen to wear a light skirt. "I hate being a woman," Davina said. "Our lives are dictated for us. Go here. Do this. Think that. Say this. Marry this man. Don't marry that one. Have kids. What do we have to look forward to?" Catheryne opened her mouth... And closed it again. There wasn't a lot she could say, really. Hadn't she felt the shackles of her sex around her her entire life? Bad enough that Queen Meralina had failed to bear any children: now her First Lance's offspring was a girl! Girls couldn't do anything. They sat at home and embroidered while men went off and did the real work. And now one of them would be sitting on the throne. Never mind that she'd been chosen by the Queen; never mind that she'd been smarter and better than almost all of them during classes and lectures. There was still the matter of her breasts, and her eyes, and her long hair, and the flare of her hips and the narrows of her waist, and all the things those represented. "Now I'm depressed," Catheryne said. "Don't give me that kazrec," Davina snapped. "You're the princess. You've got nothing to worry about. You're-- You're bloody Ella of the Ashes, happy ending and everything. Whereas I've got this--" Her hands wormed over her face. "This--" "Me kazrec," Catheryne exclaimed. "Being a princess is not about kisses and rainbows! Who do I get to marry? Maybe Prince Telathandros from Cymerin. Or Lord MeGrevin, I hear he's looking for a new wife. My hand is a political asset and I have to use it as such. Happy ending? Not very likely! "And you-- What, you have to run the manufacturies? More likely your husband will do that. You watch after the children. I have to think about taxes and keeping the army fed and making sure Hope isn't overrun by the Summers and holding feasts for the public and a hundred other things. I'll have responsibilities over my head until the day I die." She sighed. "And what I want... Doesn't matter a whole lot. Because what others need... Is more important. I am the Queen of Eretria, both first and last." Davina looked at her. "It sounds like you don't want to be queen." "Who would," Catheryne said. "Only madwomen." Temaile Daravon, maybe. Oh, Kyrei's Light, it'd be so nice if she was just mad. "I have heard it said," Jordan said, his voice startling her, "that the person who most seeks power is the one who least ought to have it. ...And that, conversely, she who avoids it away would use it best." Catheryne gave him a rueful look. "Oh, well, that's reassuring. Condemned to a life of doing something I hate." "And that is why monarchs have First Lances," Jordan said. "To keep them in good spirits and with a positive mindset." "They can't do that if they're dead," Catheryne snapped. Jordan's face turned instantly cold. "Let's not start that." "What?" said Davina. "Oh, nothing," Catheryne said. "It's just my First Lance, who--" "Let's not start that," Jordan said. "Oh, is this the death wish thing?" said Davina. There was a moment's pause. "I think that's a really good way of phrasing it," said Catheryne finally. "But who's going to replace you," Davina asked Jordan. "There's no one in the kingdom who's really qualified. At least, that we know of." "He picked Paitr Domenicos," Catheryne said. "He did," Davina said, her eyes widening. "He... Jordan, that was not a very smart to do." "I don't want to talk about it!" Jordan said. Catheryne flopped back on the bed with a theatrical sigh, letting one of her arms fall to cover her eyes. "Oh, whyever not. Jordan, you can't go on pretending you never make mistakes and that you're some sort of... Some magical answer-person who always knows what to do or say. You made a mistake. You're human. That's not--" "Catheryne," Davina said. "That's not exactly an uncommon occurrence. Even for you. When are you going to be ready to--" "Catheryne," Davina said again, and this time Catheryne looked. Davina was pointing at Jordan. Jordan stood with head bowed, fists clenched, shaking. She couldn't see his face, but she didn't think he was angry. In fact, if she had to guess, she'd say he was... In pain. It was such a startling sight that she relented immediately. "I'm sorry. I-- I didn't mean to-- If you don't want to talk about it, we won't talk about it. I shouldn't--" "Catheryne," Davina murmured. "Leave him alone." Jordan ducked his head and tried to control the welter of emotions crashing over him. Rage, yes--rage at making such a mistake, at not realizing that Catheryne's feelings towards Paitr had cooled. It was a stupid thing to have done and he had no patience with stupidity in himself. But beyond that was... Confusion. Ambiguity. For the first time ever, he had something resembling a future in front of him. Was he being a fool, to throw it away? In that environment, Catheryne's goading, even unmalicious, was still dangerous. "Where were we?" Davina said. "...I don't know," Catheryne said. "Something about queens having a thousand responsibilities, and not liking the job at all, except for the opportunities it gives to annoy your First Lance," Jordan said. Catheryne rolled her eyes at him. Of course she liked to annoy him. Who wouldn't? "If this enlightening discussion is complete, milady, we do need to leave by four'o'clock," Jordan said. "He has an appointment," Catheryne explained to Davina. "Of the list of servants given to me," said Jordan, "I have succeeded in contacting two of them. One has moved away, another is dead, and the last I plan to catch today. And I believe that she will have the answers I seek." "Well," Davina sighed, "I suppose I can't stand in the way of justice." She stood. She followed them out to the foyer, where they checked the grandfather clock and confirmed that, yes, it was getting quite near to four in the afternoon. With Catheryne's apologies, they made ready to go. "How do I look," Davina asked suddenly. She smoothed her skirts self-consciously, squeezed her eyes closed, opened them again. "Tell me. Truthfully. How do I look?" They looked at her. Catheryne opened her mouth... And then closed it again, lost in a whirl of emotions. Poor Davina--to have this happen to her. Such a sweet, wonderful girl, whom nobody ever noticed because she didn't have the face and figure women wanted to have. And then some insane mage cast a spell and twisted her face forever. It should have happened to me. Men would've married me if I'd looked like a toad. It's not fair, not to her. It should've happened to me. Jordan stepped into the gap. "You're not exactly a painting by DeForeau, but it's not like you were before. And though face is different, the you inside is still the same--and if you think people called you 'friend' for your ravishing beauty instead of the kindness of your heart, then you're dumber than you look. So, in the end, I don't think much has changed for you at all." Davina's eyes closed again. Catheryne looked at Jordan with a sort of appalled respect. Blunt though he might be--very blunt--he had said everything that needed saying. "How do you feel?" Catheryne asked Davina. Davina was silent. "I don't know," she said. "But I don't feel like hiding in my room anymore." Catheryne reached over and hugged her. "You have a friend," she said. "Maybe only a princess, and maybe not a very good one, but you'll always have a friend in me." "And me as well," Jordan said behind her. They both stared at him in shock. "What," Jordan said. "Is it inappropriate somehow for me to make friends?" They stared at him again. Jordan gave them an exasperated shake of the head and went out the door. Catheryne sat alone in her room, thinking on the events of the day. Jordan was somewhere out in the Indistrict, hunting down the last of those five servants. He had insisted on going alone, so she had stayed at the Palace while he set off on foot. She had urged him to take a coach, or at least a horse, but he had stoutly resisted, maintaining that his own two feet were good enough. Now she was alone for the first time in what was getting close to a year--totally alone, with no one near, not even her First Lance, who was often near, out of sight but not out of mind. Alarmingly, she found herself feeling naked and rather vulnerable. Was this what it was going to be like, she asked herself in a moment of sudden lucidity. Would she find herself sitting here in this chair tomorrow, in a month, in five years--feeling that strange emptiness just over her shoulder, waiting for someone to return... And then Paitr would walk in, her replacement First Lance, nominated and confirmed by the original... He'd walk in, and somehow she knew that the emptiness would not be filled by his presence. It had been a rocky five days, to be certain. There were things they just didn't discuss. Jordan's impending death, and the passing of the Lancehood to Paitr, was one of them. The feelings between them were another. She wanted to be his friend, that was certain--maybe even more, maybe to be his closest friend, to thank him somehow for the steadiness of the past year, for the little courtesies she hadn't noticed because she was too busy thinking of him as some sort of cruel, heartless intruder--Heavens above, how had he managed? She had been awful to him in the beginning. It was a wonder he didn't hate her. At least she didn't hate him anymore. Far from it. Jordan might say whatever he wanted to, deny whatever he wanted to, but she knew, just knew, that he felt about her what she felt about him. Come to think of it, he hadn't exactly denied anything to her at all; he just hadn't confirmed it either. Hadn't said anything, one way or the other. Almost all their lessons had been suspended--Moya Tilmitt was out walking the streets, trying to find their mystery killer, and they'd spent hours every day at the Stelmarine residence, trying to get Davina to see them. And Jordan had dedicated the remainder of his time to hunting down those servants. The entire Palace was in an uproar about his announcement, with people denouncing him left and right, and others stepping up to defend him or to venerate Master Domenicos, and a few simply applying themselves to Catheryne herself, evidently in the hope of gaining her favor and getting a chance at her hand, or Lancehood, or both. A small but vocal segment of the population was clamoring for another Time of Trials. Jordan clearly wasn't trustworthy, they claimed, and any suggestions he made towards the passing-on of the Lancehood were just as suspect. Father was coming down hard on those ones. "Do they have any idea of the expense? The reason there's only one Trials every twenty or thirty years is because it practically takes that long to refill the coffers!" To which Catheryne had said, "So, tell them that if they want to sponsor the Time of Trials financially, you'll agree." Which made Father laugh, which was good; and he may have even taken her suggestion, too, because he was complaining about it less and less. The attacks on Catheryne herself were a little less easier to deal with. The monarch was linked to the land, and because Catheryne was coming into the heights of her power, many of the things that happened nowadays were laid at her feet. A banker, having made a good investment, might praise her; a farmer whose crops had been lost to an early freeze might profane her. Of course she had nothing to do with any of it whatsoever, but she knew that part of her fate as the future Queen was to be praised and blamed for every tiny thing that ever happened in her realm. But a traitorous First Lance was hardly tiny. Nor was the unprecedented rampage of a crazed murderer who, by chance, also happened to be a mage. There were whispers--she hadn't heard any of them herself but she knew they were there--that she was an unsuitable Princess-Heir, that a replacement ought to be found. Temaile Daravon, as the nearest blood relative, was the obvious choice. Catheryne was fairly sure that Temaile had not started these whispers and rumors herself; she was fairly sure she hadn't needed to. This sort of thing could bring down any monarch, even the most beloved President in Seneca, where, it was said, the Summers actually chose their leaders themselves. Catheryne didn't see how that would work. How did you know who was eligible to be chosen? What if someone said he wanted to try to be President but everybody ignored him? How did they find out what everyone wanted--did they send people around to ask them all individually? That could take months! But the Senecans made it work somehow, and more power to them, as far as Catheryne was concerned. She had other worries. Like these random threats that were shaking her future out from under her. Hadn't she just been saying how much she'd give not to be Princess? But the alternative was Temaile, wasn't it. And that was really all the answer she needed. Catheryne wasn't at all sure she'd make a good ruler, but she was sure Temaile wouldn't. And there was no way she could sit back and let her people be ruined by an overinflated bint with no sense of obligation. ...Hold on a second. " 'My' people," she wondered aloud. "They're not 'my' people. They don't want me, that's for certain. What makes them 'my' people?" Who, exactly, had staked a claim on whom? She had, she realized. It was she who wanted them. The Queen's voice drifted up out of the depths of memory. "Those who love the people," she had said, "will always find themselves prominent eventually, whether it be as king or as the mayer of the meanest village. Because the people know when someone will look out for them, will put their interests first. And if you are one of those people, they will love you in return." So, that was the answer then. Temaile loved... What? Power? Herself? But not the people, that was certain. She was looking for Ella of the ashes, she was looking for her happy ending. Whereas Catheryne herself... "Well," she said. "I wouldn't mind a happy ending either. But I know it won't come from the throne." "You are being trained in the ways of violence," Jordan had told her once about the silte. "But you have almost reached the point where you are dangerous, where you can fight and protect yourself. Now, you must begin to learn the opposite. Any fool can kill another human being. It happens all the time. Babies drown in bathtubs. Wives accidentally push their husbands down flights of stairs. Children find their father's knives, and before you know it, one of them is dead. What is difficult is to not kill, to take yourself and the other just to the brink of that point--and then hold back. You have learned the powers of death; now you must learn the powers of life." It was almost certain that Temaile didn't know that. Maybe she never would. So, that's my mission, then, she thought to herself. To take the throne... Not because I want it, but because others do, and they must not be allowed to have it. She felt a sense of peace, then, as if some long-forgotten question deep within her had finally been answered. There was a knocking at the door. "Jordan?" she said. "It's Paitr," came the muffled reply. Kazrec. She didn't want to see him. She didn't feel particularly safe around him anymore. But something had to be done. She needed to come clean about what had happened between them. About what had not happened between them. About what would not happen between them. About... All that stuff. She needed to face all of it and maybe now was as good a time as ever. I hope this doesn't turn out to be a mistake. Paitr came in. His clothing was strangely faded and wrinkled, as if he might have slept in it, and he was unshaven. She had never seen him look anything but immaculate. The wild look in his eyes didn't much help. "Gabriele," he said. "I'm... I'm here." "...Yes," she said, "I can see that." "I've... I've been waiting for your summons," he said. "But then I thought... But then I thought, Maybe she's too busy, and I had better come myself. So I, I did. Isn't it-- Isn't it the job of the First Lance to be prepared?" "Err, yes," she said. "Highly commendable." They blinked at each other for a moment. Catheryne fidgeted with her dress and tried to keep a neutral and pleasant expression on her face, as she had been taught. It was always best to accept people as they were, she had been told, to try to understand what made them the way they were, and help them from there--but, in a moment of unprecedented lucidity, she realized: ...He's gotten really weird. "I've been practicing my swordsmanship," said Paitr suddenly. "I know I'm-- I'm probably not as good as Master Marcus at handling my sword, but, I, I figured, if I practiced, I could learn." Then he blushed. "I, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-- Not that I'd know about how he handles his sword, you understand, but, I didn't-- You don't know how he handles his sword, do you?" Catheryne, who had taken the comment at face value before it had suddenly turned to innuendo, blinked at him. ...I think this was a mistake. "No," she said, "I have... No idea." Paitr was scowling and it was clear that telling him the truth would have been suicidal. "With his attitude, I doubt anyone has ever gotten close enough to him to find out." Which was, of course, the truth--she was pretty sure he'd never had a lover besides her. ...And maybe never would. In that moment she resolved to give herself to him, some time before he left to do his final thing. She didn't know what he'd think of her, but she was fairly sure he wouldn't turn her down. It would be her last gift to him; it would be the last thing she'd take from him. And she'd have one night, just one, with him, before... Paitr. Who was still talking. "I... I hope I didn't offend," he was saying. He ran a hand through his hair. "I thought I might have, because you, you never contacted me after Marcus's announcement, and, and after... Our time together." "Yes, that," she said. "Paitr, I--" "Gabriele, I want you to marry me," he said. "Soon. As soon as I'm invested as your First Lance." Now that she had no answer to. "You're the only one for me, Gabriele," he said. "Surely you can see that. I've been... I can't ever sleep, I toss and turn, I dream of you every moment I close my eyes. There's no one for me but you. And I know..." His voice shook with the intensity of his emotion; he seemed almost ready to weep. "I know you feel the same about me." She mastered her confusion and opened her mouth. "Paitr, I--" "Gabriele, please." He was begging her, he was actually begging her. "You must see it." She needed to burst his bubble somehow--he was far off in the clouds, floating on his own little world. But this was not the time or place. He'd gone insane, practically--insane over her. Insane because of her. (Really? I can do that to people? Did I accidentally use the Flow on him while we were... Doing things?) There would be no reasoning with him. So the best thing to do, as far as she was concerned, was to get him out of this room, give him some more distance, let him stop obsessing for a while. There would be no talking to him now, she could see that clearly. The best she could do was hope not to cause any further damage. This was a mistake. I shouldn't've let him in at all. "I'll think about it," she said. "Paitr, I promise I'll think about it, but surely you must see how... Sudden this is. I wasn't expecting it. Not at all." "Gabriele, you must see--" "I need some time to think, Paitr," she said. I wonder what his private name is. "Please, leave me alone for a while. I'll send you my answer when I'm ready." "Gabriele, you must see it." "And I'll try to, Paitr, but I can't--" "I can't live without you." "Paitr, what are you--" "I need you, Gabriele." "Paitr, please leave the room. You're--" "I need you." "Paitr." "You can't turn me away. Ignoring me, taunting me, flitting away-- Isn't this what you wanted? Give me what you want." "Paitr." "I need you." He grabbed her arms. "Paitr, let go of--" "Let me show you, Gabriele, let me show you." The rage in his eyes was palpable and she knew, suddenly, with that sinking feeling in her heart, that it had definitely been a mistake. He ripped her dress; he bruised her arms; his entry was painful and battering; his weight was heavy and savage over her, and she knew she didn't even dare scream. It was definitely a mistake. Most, very much, definitely... A mistake. And then, oddly: Jordan, wherever you are, I hope you're having more fun than I am. She squeezed her eyes closed against the sound of his frienzied grunting and prayed that, soon, it might end. It took Lord Meritoperol half an hour before he decided he could release Gloria Mechem from the kitchens. Jordan wasn't sure exactly what was being done in the kitchens--the Lord and Lady Meritoperol lived alone, their children having long grown up and moved into their own homes, and it was still several hours until the evening meal would be served. But then, maybe Lord Meritoperol was simply trying to make life hard for Jordan; he had been barely civil to him at the door. Maybe he was scared Jordan would think he had commissioned Jordan's father's death. Well, there was nothing to worry about. If Mechem could implicate Lord Meritoperol somehow, Jordan doubted he'd even get to speak to her; she'd probably be killed some time in the next thirty seconds, and a nervous apology made him. So the fact that he was going to get to talk to her seemed to clear her lord of any wrongdoing. Either that or Meritoperol was just plain stupid. But, after he had fidgeted and paced for a half hour, the woman was ushered in. Jordan didn't recognize her; but then, he had been six years old at the time, and not as keenly observant as he was today. He had changed a lot in ten years; this woman probably had too. Gloria Mechem was wide-eyed and her face was lined, her hair going to a continuous mane of grey. Her clothes were stained and rumpled--clearly she'd been busy in the kitchens. There was a flighty air to her, and Jordan knew he'd have to be careful. He could spook her at an instant if he wasn't careful. "When you're done, send her back to the kitchens," Lord Meritoperol said, his face rancorous. "And now if you'll excuse me, I have a great deal of business to attend to." Jordan wondered at his tone. Did Lord Meritoperol think this was supposed to be some surreptitious tryst? If so, why? "Please sit down," he said. Lord Meritoperol had furnished him with a small sitting room for the duration of this interview, and even a decanter of wine. "Something to drink?" Gloria Mechem looked back and forth, clearly totally lost. Jordan guessed it was understandable--how often did the nobles serve the servants?--but he wished she'd get over it and sit down. It would make everything a lot easier. "Mistress Mechem," he said. "I am Marcus Demitri, First Lance to Gabriele Basingame, the Princess-Heir of Eretria. I simply have a few questions to ask you about your service in the Royal Palace ten years ago. If you'd sit down..." Mechem did. "You're-- You'd be Corlan and Violet's son, then, aye?" "Yes, madam," he said. "That would be I." "Ah," said Mechem. "I see. Awful shame it was, my lord, your parents' deaths and all." "I agree," Jordan said shortly. He set two goblets out and sat down at the small table across from her. "Lady's Light," Mechem said, looking past him to a time he could not see. "I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was early morning, and we'd all just awakened and come up to the kitchens. Master Crechona, he came up to me and he says, 'Gloria, Gloria, did you hear? Master Demitri, he's dying.' " Jordan kept his face still with an effort. Tomas Crechona was the one servant out of the five he really wanted to talk to. Unfortunately, that would prove difficult, because Master Crechona was dead. Which was, of course, the primary reason why Jordan wanted so badly to speak to him. Dead men tell no tales, after all, and Jordan would have paid dearly to know exactly what stories Tomas Crechona had taken with him to the grave. Talking to his nearest associates would have to do. "Tomas was all broke up, he was," Gloria said. "Couldn't believe it. He said, it must be my fault, is what he said, and we all said, No, Tomas, it en't your fault, but he wouldn't believe us." Triumph flared in Jordan's veins. "Did he, now." "Aye, he wouldn't believe it at all. Took his own life not three weeks later, he did." Gloria Mechem sighed, a long, deep sound. "My Kyrei rest his soul, poor man." Jordan frowned. "Took his own life, you say." That wasn't matching up. "Aye, he did," Gloria Mechem said. "Had a wife, an kids, an everything--some of us en't lucky enough even to have that, Master Demitri, let me tell you--his wife come to me of two weeks later, she says, Gloria, he's been a'mopin around the apartment ever since, is what she says, You think there's anything we can do, you think there's anything we ought to do? Well, I tell you, if I knew something like that, I wouldn't be a servant anymore, let me tell you." "Why did he kill himself," Jordan asked. "Why-- 'cause of the guilt, o'course," Gloria Mechem said. "He blamed himself for your poor father's death, he did. He marched up and banged on the door, and he wept over that poor man, begged his forgiveness he did. Unfortunately, your poor papa was a bit too far gone't that point. Poor Tomas never did get forgiveness. Went to the priests and everything, but it just... Weighed on his heart. Is what it did." Jordan wasn't sure who had written the script for this encounter, but it was clearly not him. "Let's go back to the events of the night before," he said. "What exactly happened? What did we eat back then, what did we drink?" If his father was poisoned--and he was almost certain that was how it had happened--then it must have been delivered that night, for in the morning he'd already been too sick to ingest anything. It was clear Tomas Crechona was guilty. ...Though all this breast-beating and tearing out of hair was a bit strange, to be sure. What kind of man poisons another and then kills himself over it within a month? "Oh, well, I don't..." said Gloria Mechem, her leathery face creased in thought. "It's been nigh on ten year, Master Demitri, I hope you don't expect this little old woman to remember everything that happened." The poison had been delivered to his father alone; or else Jordan himself would have been dead too. "Did my father have anything that my mother and I didn't?" "Oh, well... 'Course he did," said Gloria Mechem. "He had a bit of something to drink with his meal; he always did. Your old mother never did let a drop of wine pass her lips, and you were just a young'un. If anyone ever had anything to drink in that family, it was your father." Ah-hah. "And what did he have to drink that night?" "Oh, it was..." said Gloria Mechem. "Oh, I can't recall. Oh, we was just talkin about it in the kitchens not an hour back! The master ordered it, you understand. And we was... We was talkin about... Oh, well, I shouldn't be sayin this aloud, I really shouldn't." "Say it," Jordan gritted, pushing down frustration with an effort. "Well, we was hopin it'd do wrong by the master, send him to bed with some trouble, if you understand." Gloria Mechem looked furtively about her, as if Lord Meritoperol was about to lunge out of the shadows and berate her for unfaithfulness to her lord. "So it's a drink that can cause stomach upset," Jordan said. "No, it's-- Oh! I remember it now!" she exclaimed. "What is it," Jordan said. "Tell me. What did he ask for?" "He asked for a glass of ennascintella!" Gloria Mechem proclaimed. Jordan felt a dropping sensation under him. "He did." "Yes, that was it exactly!" Gloria Mechem beamed like the sun. "Oh, looks like my old brain is still good for something! He loved that drink, your father did, on account of how they haven't got it in the Summerlands. (And let me tell you, what kind of benighted place doesn't have ennascintella to drink! My word!) But it was a special treat, y'see, since it's not easy to make." 'Not easy to make' was an understatement. Even the slightest error in the mixture of liquors, spices and vapors could turn it decidedly unhealthy. Some men claimed they could detect the differences between properly-mixed and badly-mixed ennascintella, but most of them were now in the earth, having proved with chilling finality that they had been lying. The liquor itself, of course, was worth it, but asking to drink it was taking your life in your hands. Many Night Blades had been known to make a fairly lucrative living just by mixing that drink. Many more were known to use it in their assassinations. Jordan could make it himself. ...And, at the moment, really thought he might need some. He said, "And the person who made it, was..." "Why, poor Tomas, of course," said Gloria Mechem. "He studied it hard and learned well, and he'd made it perhaps a hundred times and it'd only gone wrong but once or twice. This time... It went very wrong. And your poor father just happened to be the one imbibing it." Jordan felt the dropping feeling beneath him, magnified a hundredfold. "I see." "And that's why poor Tomas isn't with us today," said Gloria. "He loved your family, child. They were good to him--they were good to all of us--and he felt so responsible, so terrible, when he realized he'd done your father in. We tried to help him through it, but... I s'pose some things just can't be borne." Jordan felt the room spinning. "Well," Gloria said, rising. "If that's all, Master Demitri, I'd better get back to the kitchens. Lord Meritoperol'll have my head on his dinner plate tonight if that roast isn't ready..." Jordan forced himself back to some semblance of intelligence. "Yes, yes, that's... Thank you for your time, Lady Mechem." Gloria Mechem gave him a smile. "Now you do well, young man. Tragedy befalls us all sometimes, but what matters is that we get up and keep churning. You've a whole life ahead of you, and if I know one thing about your mother and father, it's that they would've wanted you to live it. Even if something happened to them, like it did here. So you don't go messing it up, young man." Jordan mumbled something patronizing and let her go. His mind whirled. He felt the abyss yawning under him. He wasn't sure what he was going to do now. She awoke at a knocking on her door. For a moment she wasn't at all sure where she was--but then she felt the rug under her back, the tatters of her dress, the fatigue of her body, and everything came back. "Milady?" came a voice from the other side of the door. Jordan's voice. "Milady?" "Jordan, uh..." she said. "Can you wait a moment? I..." How was she going to explain this? "If it has something to do with why I passed Paitr as I entered the Palace, milady, you needn't bother," Jordan's voice said. Oh, he... Well, that simplified things immensely. "Well, in that case, you might as well come in," she said. Jordan opened the door and came in. Catheryne knelt on the floor, presented in profile. Her dress was a wreckage that she held up with one arm. Her hair was a raving mess. The assault had left bruises, already turning dark, and he could see bite marks on her neck and breasts. Her eyes were enormous and the smile on her face was infinitely sad. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this," she said. Jordan felt faint. "You... He..." "We had a difference of opinion," she said softly. Confusions and visions whirled through his mind--what uncharted possibilities were hiding behind those words? "A... A permanent one, I hope," he said. "More or less," she said softly. For a moment there was only silence between them. He groped at his responsibilities blindly. How did you deal with this? No Night Blade training had ever covered that subject. "We... We need to get you cleaned up," he said. She smiled, shook her head. "Jordan, Jordan... How did I know you were going to say that." He felt his control shying under him like a skittish horse. "Well, we can't bloody well leave you like this!" "I know," she said, "I'm sorry, I don't know why everything seems funny to me right now. I--" She mustered her legs under her, but they were numb from lack of circulation and she fell back to the rug. "Here," he said, "let me carry you. You--" "No," she said, "no, I'll-- Give me your hand." Slowly, wobbling, she came to her knees; and then, ignoring the support of his hand, she got her feet under her and rose up. He had never been more in love with her than that moment. He sent for buckets of water and carried them himself; the servants were not to be let in under any circumstances. In the tiring, repetitive motions--carrying the brimming buckets of steaming water, careful not to spill any--he found some equilibrium again. It would have been so easy to just reduce to a shuddering hulk in a corner. She was sitting naked in the bathtub when he returned with the final bucket of water. He wondered why he should find this disturbing. It was a bathtub. What else would she do? He was on-edge, antsy, agitated; he felt like he might explode in any direction. Or maybe just lose his stomach. He grabbed the washcloth from her hands. "Here, let me." Her startled eyes threatened his stomach even more, which was, of course, highly counter-productive. "All right," she said. Catheryne closed her eyes and let his hands do their work. Baths were a once-a-month proposition in the best of times, even for a princess; she supposed it might be more often for those who lived closer to a river, but water had to be shipped to the Silver City by aqueduct, making cleanliness a luxury. And most of the time she had only herself to keep company with, not this strange boy-man with his gentle hands. "Paitr did this to you," Jordan said, his voice uncharacteristically tense. "And more," she said. "Don't worry, I'm not permanently injured." "You and he were together," Jordan said. She shrugged. "He forced me." "I'll kill him," Jordan said. She shook her head. "I don't think that'll be necessary." "It's either that or get married to him," he said, citing the traditional fate of rapists. "That won't happen," Catheryne said. "Father will be angry, but even then he wouldn't force me to marry someone I didn't want." "We can't just let him walk free!" Jordan growled. She looked at him, saw the tension in his jaw, the clench of his fist. "What about you," she said. "What?" he said. "We've spent all this time talking about me," she said, "but we haven't talked about what happened to you. What did you learn? Who's the culprit?" "The... The culprit is... No one," he said, and he could not conceal the anguish in his voice. "My father had a taste for ennascintella, and that night it... Just went wrong." "Really?" she said. "Yes," he said, "that's it. That's all." His fist pounded on the flared lip of the copper bathtub. "I didn't get a chance to question her further and really dig into Crechona's associates, but she probably wouldn't've remembered and there probably weren't any anyway. It's a straightforward case. Open and shut. It's no one's fault. It was an accident. It was just a plain and stupid accident!" His jaw clenched and his shoulders trembled. His face was a thunderhead. She reached out and he jerked back, unaccustomed to the touch; but then her arms went around him, and she drew him to her and held him with her wet arms as he shook and sobbed and cried out for the father and mother he had finally, irrevocably lost. When he was done, he wiped his face with his sleeve and said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't--" She smiled. "It's okay. My shoulder couldn't get much wetter anyway." She could see his face forming an apology before he even opened his mouth. "Catheryne, I--" She laid a finger across his lips. "Shh. It's all right. There's nothing standing between us, Jordan. Not anymore. You are who you are." His face twisted in displeasure. "Childish, sometimes." "As am I," she said. "But that never stopped you from loving me. And it hasn't stopped me from loving you either." She expected him to protest, but all he did was bow his head. "Jordan," she said. "I'm going to do something that, long ago, you said I shouldn't. But things have changed since then and I want you to tell me, truthfully, if you still think we shouldn't do it." She leaned over and kissed him. Softly, gently: the palest brush of lips against his. Jordan was silent for a long moment. "...Well?" said Catheryne. "I can't believe I'm actually thinking about this," he said, almost to himself. "I must be mad. What do I have left? Nothing. That thing which I gave my entire life to... Turned out to be false. It was wrong. It was hollow and empty and there was nothing there for me to find. And now you offer me..." He looked up. "Life. A purpose. A place of honor and dignity." "With me," she said. "As your First Lance. The general of your armies, your bodyguard, your closest confidante... And, if I understand your kiss correctly, as the man who will be near you for the rest of your life." "And you're actually debating whether to say yes?" she exclaimed. "Like I said," he said. "I must be mad." He turned his eyes to her. "Are you sure you want a madman at your side?" She smiled. "You're not a madman." "Catheryne, I just spent ten years of my life hunting for a villain that doesn't exist." "Maybe you're a little stupid sometimes," she said brightly, "but not especially mad." "It's funny," he said. "All my life I've thought about my parents, and what I could do for them, to make them rest easy. But... I never once thought about what they would've wanted. For me. And it took an old woman in the kitchens before I ever realized." "What would they have wanted?" she asked him. "To live," he said. "To have a future. To... Not waste my life in some futile..." His eyes squeezed closed. "Mother's Light, I was so stupid." "See," she said. "I told you." "Are you sure you want such a stupid person at your side, Catheryne?" he said. "I'm absolutely sure," she said. "If stupidity was a disqualifying factor, there'd be no one. So, when you're stupid, I'll hold you back. Just like you do to me." He looked at her then, with a strange light in his eyes. "You did hold me back," he said. "You saved me." "How so?" His hand touched her hair, timidly. "By giving me a reason to live." They kissed, her arms going around him, pulling him close; he touched her hair, her face, her back, as if he had never seen her before. The cloth of his shirt teased against her breasts, his arms brushed hers, and she drew him closer, wanting him all. She stood, wet and naked, glowing from the heat of the bath, and drew him with her; her hands lifted his shirt from his body and then divested him of his trousers. Soon he was as naked as she, and when he stepped in to her, she felt his sword erect and proud at her hip. She wanted him badly, she realized. The encounters with Paitr had been unsatisfying--to say the least--and her body ached with need. And even more than that: she wanted him. She wanted him to know that he was hers, that nothing stood between them any longer, that anything he wanted of her, she would give. The bed buoyed up under her, and she moaned her pleasure as he suckled at her breasts. She felt the warmth of his hand on her stomach, the warm suction of his mouth, and ran her hand through his hair, down his back, over the planes of his shoulders. His hand dipped lower, through the coarse thatch to the part in her hair, and strangely, suddenly, she felt a moment of discomfort--and then remembered Paitr, and decided that he would not stop her. He had done nothing good for her, and plenty of bad; but she would not let him ruin this thing, too. Jordan had other ideas. "Catheryne... Are you sure you--" She silenced him again with a finger across his lips. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. And I want you." "Yes," he said, "I had noticed." He felt the slippery wetness of her sheath, the inviting warmth. His finger slid inside her, and she gasped--it hurt, more than she expected it to. He looked down at her in concern. "If it hurts you, we won't do it." It was a statement of fact. "Then it's a good thing it doesn't," she said. That wasn't true, of course, but the pain was fading, and she thought she would be okay. And it'll be worth it anyway. His thumb found the little nub that was the center of her pleasure, and she moaned under his ministrations, her whole body moving unconsciously, pushing up to meet him, a fact he found incredibly arousing. She reached down to grasp his manhood and stroked it, caressed it, feeling the warmth and the softness of his skin, the little bumps and ridges and its slight curve. She looked up at him. His eyes were closed and the increase in his breathing almost imperceptible, but his mouth hung slightly open, and his raised eyebrows showed wide-eyed longing, and she knew he was just as needy as she. "Jordan..." she said, and drew him to her. He entered her slowly, poised above her, and she winced with the unexpected pain; but the pain faded quickly, willed away by the sight of his face, the unabashed need there, and the feeling of his sword within her, penetrating her, filling her in a way she had never imagined she could be filled until he had showed her, that very first time. There was nothing to compare with it. He was inside her, pressing up into her, slowly, spreading the walls of her sheath, filling her, until their hips touched and his eyes opened and she met his gaze. She leaned up and kissed him. They moved in a slow and steady rhythm, he sliding slowly in and out as she moved up to meet him. His body supported on his elbows hovered over her, enclosing her without pressing on her, and she drew him closer, one arm around his waist, the other at the back of his neck, urging him on. She felt him withdrawing, felt herself closing around him, clinging to him, and then the glorious fullness as he spread her walls with his return; she felt the tension in his shoulders as he strained above her; she felt his lips on hers, their tongues entwined; she heard his breath rushing, heard her own moans and gasps and sighs; she felt the thrilling sensations of him inside her, the racing waves of fire that spread throughout her body, drawing her on, building up within her. They didn't speak; they didn't need to. When he felt her tension, he knew she was close, and when she heard his sharp intake of breath, she knew where he had gone. Then she felt the first splash within her--his seed, gushing forth, clinging to her walls--and she too was gone, crying out her body's joy as they clenched and moaned and whispered and fell, together, down into the ashes of the fire. In the aftermath, she felt the trembling in his shoulders and arms, and drew him down, down, until he rested on her entirely, and she felt the pressure of his full weight on her body, pinning her down. And yet she did not feel trapped. Instead she wrapped her arms around him and held him close, and he panted and gasped and rested upon her as his breath slowly returned. He raised his head to look at her. "I... Should probably not lie here." "It is a little uncomfortable," she admitted. He lifted himself and rolled off (her sheath closing up around him, reaching after him, one final time), and she rolled up on her side and they faced each other on the bed. His hair was ruffled and his eyes were clear and calm. She had never loved him more than she did at that moment. "I guess we won't need Paitr to replace you," she said. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I suppose not, my lady." "Good," she giggled. "You're much better than he is in bed." He looked at her for a long moment. Then, strangely, timidly, a smile crept out onto his face. Halting, fleeting, barely there before it was gone. But it was a start. "What will we do about him," Jordan asked. "Nothing, I think," said Catheryne. "He made his mistake and he'll pay for it. People will know. They'll know from the way he acts, because he knows, and that guilt will mark him to all who know how to look." "But what of the people who don't know how to look," he asked. "Well, that's their problem," she said. "I can't protect everyone." He raised an eyebrow. "Your compassion is stunning." "All right, so I'm being a termazzo," she admitted. "But it's not like we can tell anyone. They'd make him marry me and I don't want that." "Would he want that?" "Who knows, but that hasn't ever stopped people before," she said. Which was the truth. As far as the old customs were concerned, rape led to marriage, no matter what the parties involved thought or felt about each other. "Of course..." she said. "We could head them off at the pass." "What do you mean?" "If we got married. You and I, I mean. Then they couldn't make him marry me, because I'd already have a husband." "This... Is true," he said, his eyebrows climbing into his hair. "So, what do you say," she asked, grinning. He blinked at her for a moment. Then: "My lady, it would be the honor of my life to be your husband. But... I don't think this is the proper time. Nor is Paitr the proper reason." She sighed. "You're probably right. I suppose I should avoid making plans when I'm feeling silly." "That might prove to be a wise thing, yes," he agreed. There was silence between them for a while. She stroked his chest with her hand, feeling the tiny hairs and the beat of his heart. "I suppose we should go," she said finally. "They'll have served supper a while ago already; I'm surprised no one's yet come to look for us." "Duty calls," he agreed. "How will..." She hesitated, looking for the right words. "How will we appear in public? I mean... Do we want to... Let people know about us?" He shrugged. "Your prerogative, my lady. After all, it's not my hand in marriage people will be seeking." "Except one." She sighed. "I wish we could stay here. For a long time. Maybe forever. I feel like... Things will change when we walk out that door, and maybe we won't be able to get them back." "As Kyrei wills, so will it be done." He reached out to touch her face; a timid, almost shy gesture. "But we will too, Catheryne. And we can make our happiness as well." She smiled and kissed him. They were just leaving when there came a knocking on the door. It was Moya Tilmitt, flustered, excited. "Your Highness. I came straight to you first because I could not find your father. I have news-great." "What is it," Catheryne said. "I found him," Moya Tilmitt said. "Found who," Catheryne said, "my father?" "No, no, not he," said Moya Tilmitt. "The killer." Savage hope spiraled in her breast. "Really? Where is he? Should we get him?" "That is... A touchy-slightly-more matter, Your Highness. It took me long-this to find him because I started in the Outdistrict first. I had hoped--wrongly, it is now clear--that he might be found somewhere in the poorer quarters." "Where is he," Jordan said, "where did you find him?" "He is residing currently," said Moya Tilmitt, "in the house of Lord Esten Daravon." Jordan and Catheryne looked at each other. "I should've known," Catheryne said. "On the contrary," said Jordan, "she went out of her way to hide the threat she posed." "That should've made me suspect." "Nonsense. Who could know to suspect this?" "But we have work to do," Catheryne said. "Looks like you may have some killing to do after all." Moya Tilmitt peered back and forth at them both. "What?" "Jordan and I are going," Catheryne said to him. "We're going in to Lord Daravon's place. We're going after our murderer. And we're going tonight. We're going now."
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