Seb just shook his head and took another sip of wine. A big sip, truth be told, and then he changed the subject. "Speaking of which, how is young Koric doing?"

  "Like a fish discovering water, the Abbot says. It’ll probably be safe for him to return home come spring, but I don’t think he will. I suspect that this is his home now."

  "He’s turned into Brother Col. I warned you."

  Tymon frowned. "That was a warning? Oh, I see. You think that’s a bad thing."

  Seb smiled. "Oh, not really, if scholarship is indeed his true calling. I’m all for everyone finding the work suited to them. Though I must say doing the same hasn’t really made me happy. Or you, come to that."

  Tymon sat on a cushioned stool near the window. Seb had lit the fire so he could open the shutters; beyond the weak glow of fire and candle the night sky over the mountains was alive with stars.

  "It’s not about happiness, Seb," he said. "I once thought that. Happiness, or at least satisfaction. Contentment. Now I don’t know what finding one’s work really means. I just know it has to be done. The alternative is worse."

  "How so?"

  "How not? A vague sense of life wasting away. Discontent for no reason. Unease for no reason. It’s a shadowy sort of life, Seb. Hardly worth the bother."

  Seb smiled grimly. "Whereas we sense, not ourselves, but time wasting away because there’s never enough of it. Discontent because there so much to do that it can never be done. Unease for good and sufficient reasons, but unease nevertheless. Isn’t it exactly the same?"

  Tymon looked at the stars. "It’s all the difference in the world."

  §

  Galan and Ashesa were finally alone. There were guards at the door to the princess’s new quarters, but they were out of both sight and hearing on the other side of two feet of tightly mortared stone. Ashesa sat primly in an ornate wooden chair and toyed with the needlework in her lap; Galan paced. Once he sat down for a moment on the edge of Ashesa’s bed, suddenly seemed to realize just where he was, got up and began to pace again. Ashesa was the first to break the silence.

  "What did you tell them?"

  Galan kept pacing. "Just that you needed confinement for your own protection. Molikan had no reason to suspect anything else ." Galan thought of something, then. It made him stop pacing and stand in one place for a change. "You knew I didn’t tell them the truth."

  Ashesa shrugged. "No, I didn’t know," she said, remembering something Tymon had said to her on their parting ... when? It seemed like years and yet not nearly long enough. "I wondered. If you had told them, your options would suddenly be very limited."

  "Meaning that once I had told Tals and Molikan, and well, anyone, what you told me, I’d have been within my rights to have you executed?" The word seemed to pain him. Ashesa could have sworn that he’d actually winced when he’d said it.

  He really is a dear, she thought, and wondered if that was good or bad.

  Ashesa put the needlework down. "Meaning," she said, "that you’d have had to do something. Execution, the dungeon, torture, something. Honor demands it, and ‘A king without honor is a king without a shield.’ That is to say, he doesn’t rule for long." She smiled a little sadly. "I’m sorry, Galan. Not for what I did, because I still think it was the right thing, but for what it’s done to you."

  Galan’s voice was full of anguish. "Ashesa, why did you tell me this?"

  She met his gaze. "I had to. Lady Margate once told me that there were good secrets and bad secrets. This was a bad one. For myself I could live with it; in truth I’d intended to. Except...." She stopped.

  "Except what?" Galan said, not sure he wanted to hear but unable not to listen. He felt numb.

  "Except suddenly it was no longer just me. It was ‘us.’ And this secret would have been poison, Galan. I couldn’t have borne it. I’ll bear your hate, if that’s all you have for me now. I couldn’t have borne your love if you hadn’t known, Galan. It would have crushed me."

  The prince thought of something else. "Did your father know? Did he talk of Alliance and all the while he ...?" Galan couldn’t finish.

  Ashesa reddened. "Of course not! Only you and I know."

  "And Tymon the Black. And Tymon's associate." Galan sat down on the bed, since it was the only other place to sit, and this time he didn’t get up.

  "What do I do now?" he said the words aloud, but he wasn’t talking to anyone in particular.

  Ashesa considered. Her voice sounded flat and lifeless, even to her own ears. "You can execute me, though if you choose that route I could demand a Judiciary Combat and champion and the delays would be substantial. You can slit my throat here and now and avoid all that if you’re keen to." She paused, considering further. "You can throw me in the dungeon and take revenge for your brother with whatever instruments of torture appeal to you. You can denounce me and send me back to Father in disgrace."

  "Any one of which leads to a state of hostility if not outright war with Morushe," Galan said. "Some more quickly than others."

  Ashesa shrugged. "More than likely."

  "You say it so calmly, Ashesa," Galan said numbly. "As if it were no more than moves on a chess board. This is your life we’re talking about! Doesn’t it matter to you?"

  She nodded. "Mine and, sadly, many others. So a more important question right now might be this: Does it still matter to you?"

  "No. Yes . . . oh, damn all I don’t know!" His hands clenched into fists.

  She nodded sadly. "I suppose I should be grateful for your hesitation. That’s something, I guess, so fair enough—come back when you’ve had a chance to think; there’s still a little time before you have to depart for Tonara and your coronation. I’ll be here, obviously." She picked up the needlework again, regarded it with some distaste. "Margy was always after me to learn these activities suitable to a princess. This may be my last chance."

  §

  Tals found Galan standing on the parapet of the highest tower in Molikan’s castle. "You shouldn’t be here alone, Highness," he said. "These are dangerous times."

  Galan nodded. "I don’t think I’d realized just how dangerous."

  "You’re not speaking of the Kor, Highness," Tals said, and waited.

  Galan stared off into the distance. "Tals, you are probably the most discreet man I have ever met, and that includes your late Master, rest his good soul. If there’s something you want to ask me, ask."

  "You’ve ordered the Princess of Morsushe confined."

  "Yes."

  "For her own protection,’ Molikan says. I don’t understand; is the princess in some danger?"

  Galan thought about it. "Yes, and more than a little."

  "May I ask the cause?"

  Galan looked back out over the parapet. "You may ask, but I’m afraid this may be one matter I have to sort out on my own."

  Tals looked unhappy. "Highness, I think you know my loyalty to your House. Your word is Law to me."

  Galan sighed. "And yet?"

  Tals took a breath and overcame his hesitation. "And yet every act has consequences, and that of royalty more than most. King Macol will find out about this sooner or later and I am sure he will not be happy."

  Galan nodded. "I’ve been thinking about that myself. Accepting on my word that the princess must remain confined for the moment and I have more than sufficient reason to do so, what can we do to contain the damage? In this I will welcome your help."

  Was that relief Galan saw on the young man’s face? More than likely, Galan thought, when he considered how his actions must appear to the counselor. More likely Tals’ suspicions ranged from uncontrollable lust to pure madness, both extremes to which royalty seemed prone on occasion. Galan knew his actions in all other matters from then on had to be above reproach, if he was to keep Tals at his side.

  Tals, for his part, seemed more at ease now with a scheme to occupy him. "From what members of Ashesa’s escort have told me, Macol may be unhappy already. It seems the princess left Morushe without his knowledge or consent, adding a bit of plausibility to what you told Duke Molikan. So what if we send word to King Macol that Ashesa is safe and that you have taken her under your protection, say, to prevent any further rashness? Macol certainly knows her potential in that regard."

  Galan smiled grimly. "He does indeed."

  "We can word our communications so that he would infer that her confinement would only be until what time you can arrange for her proper return. Which, with the coronation so close at hand and other pressing matters, might be somewhat delayed." Tals raised an eyebrow. "Since our relations with Morushe are currently good there’s no reason for Macol to suspect otherwise. It might buy you some time to resolve whatever this problem is. I hope that’s enough."

  Galan nodded appreciatively. "It might at that. As for the rest, well, I hope so too."

  "I’ll have the document prepared for your seal immediately." Tals turned to go, then hesitated. "One more thing, Highness."

  "Yes?"

  "Since there will be a delay, Macol might want to send one of Ashesa’s maids or such to attend her. We should probably suggest as much ourselves."

  Galan considered. "I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, that might be a wise touch, showing concern for her comfort. See to it."

  "As you will, Highness."

  Tals bowed low and left Galan there. The prince knew his counselor’s brain must be whirling with the possibilities and potential meanings of Galan’s actions, but that could not be helped. The one thing on Galan’s mind was and remained the problem of just what he was going to do about Ashesa. Galan knew he didn’t have a great deal of time to solve that particular puzzle. Then again, he wasn’t sure if all the time in Creation would be enough.

  §

  "How did he know?!"

  Duke Laras sat on the parapet staring out over Deepwater Bay, but his attention came back to the same question over and again, like a vessel caught in a whirlpool. Vor saw the potential destruction ahead and tried to change the course.

  "You’re assuming someone betrayed you," he said.

  Laras blinked. "Didn’t you say as much? What else? My child, Vor! My own home!"

  Vor sighed. "Well, then. I would guess the man you’re looking for would be me."

  Laras stopped. "If that was meant to be a joke, Vors, it was a damned poor one."

  "I crave your pardon, but if what you say is correct then there is little alternative. There were three guards on the hallway at all times that day, in four watches, and all within sight of the others. I can see one guard being corrupted, but the entire watch? Plus the fact that Lytea’s nurse was taken with the flux the day before and was either in her own bed or the garderobe all the while. It was I who took Lytea her meals when your Lady was occupied elsewhere; It was I who told her a story and sang to her. And it was I who found the note. What other conclusion is there?"

  Laras didn’t speak for several long moments. "Just one," he finally sighed. "I was mistaken."

  Vor bowed. "I would not be the first to say so, Your Grace. I hoped that would be you. In either case, I did the same when I said we were betrayed. That’s what I thought as well, but now I don’t think so. This magician clearly has other sources."

  "That still leaves the question of how Galan knew; though it seems I may have misjudged him in more ways than one. Wasn’t it Tymon the Black who slew his brother?"

  "So it is told, Your Grace, though Tymon himself was supposed to be dead, so our information may be incomplete. Regardless, if Tymon the Black is alive and working for the Crown, then there is little mystery to the rest. No doubt this magician divined your intent in some mystical fashion and moved to protect his patron. I sensed sorcery in this from the start."

  "I’m so used to seeing intrigue sometimes I think I’ve forgotten to stop. Mostly a good thing. Perhaps not always. I’ll consider it."

  "What is your wish, Your Grace?"

  "My wish is that it had been a traitor—not you, Vor, but someone. Now I must confess myself at a loss. We must assume that Galan knows everything; he may not move against me until after the coronation, but we’d be foolish to assume he won’t do so. Nor can I move against him either openly or by assassination unless I’m prepared to risk my Lady and my child. I am not so prepared, Vor."

  "You could throw yourself on the mercy of House Kotara."

  Laras smiled grimly. "I’m not prepared to do that, either."

  Vor nodded. "Good, since it would serve only to humiliate you and force Galan to act sooner than he may intend, if indeed he intends to move against you at all. Perhaps the notion is not as foolish as you believe."

  Laras frowned. "If? How can he not?"

  "Your Grace, how can he without irrefutable proof, which I submit he does not have? We have been very careful in all regards: no written messages, none but you and myself aware of the entire plan. Those few others who knew of it at all are dead at the Kor river. The surviving mercenaries, if any, did not know who hired them. None would be fool enough to admit to a deliberate attack on the Crown Prince of Borasur in either case; it would be his own neck on the block."

  "But Galan knows. He must."

  Vor nodded. "More than likely. How? Through an association with Tymon the Black! If he moves against you we simply reveal the message threatening your family; easy enough to arrange. So what if it damns you as well? It would make no difference to your situation and compromise his beyond repair. The King of Borasur in league with Tymon the Black? All noble houses would turn on him like wolves on a lame deer."

  Laras whistled in appreciation. "Vor, you astonish me. Yet the message does not really prove any association; we merely infer one."

  "True, but so will every other Lord in the realm. The seed would be there and, believe me, Your Grace—it would sprout. I’d see to it. No, the more I consider this the more I believe Galan dare not move against you directly. He will have to try other means."

  Laras looked up. "An assassin?"

  "That would be my guess. Or have his lapdog magician do the deed himself. That concerns me most, Your Grace. We already guard you better than any man in Borasur including the Prince. But magic? I have no experience. I don’t know anyone who might, at the level of Tymon the Black. Which leaves but one option if we are to preserve your House."

  Laras rubbed his temples. "My head hurts, Vor. Be blunt."

  "We must kill Tymon the Black. Only then can I guarantee you and your family’s safety. I fear no conventional assassin. This man I fear a great deal."

  Laras looked at him. "I know, which is why this pains me to say this: it would have to be you, Vor. You know I dare send no one else."

  Vor bowed. "I know. And I hoped for nothing else. It will be difficult, Your Grace, but I have a knack for doing what must be done."

  "What can I do to help?"

  "You must attend the Coronation." Vor raised his hand to forestall whatever the duke meant to say. "I know how you feel; I share it. Yet you must; to do anything else may play into Galan’s hands. Make all proper show and obeisance; give Galan no public excuse nor anyone else cause to question your loyalty."

  "There is wisdom in that, of course. Do not concern yourself, Vor." the duke hesitated, then amended, "Friend. I will do what I must."

  Vor bowed low. "As will I."

  §

  There always came a point in a king’s reign when, despite armies or servants and subjects, knights and nobles, you had to take matters into your own hands. King Macol of Morushe knew that this was one of those times. There was no one he could send to do what he had to do now. He was still a little flushed from the long climb; the cell was in the highest tower of his palace. He dismissed the guards one by one as he passed them, until he came to the final short corridor and stood there alone. He unlocked the cell door with an ancient iron key, black and cold as the way he felt. He hesitated at the door and then knocked loudly.

  "Come in, Your Majesty. The turning of the key was quite herald enough."

  Macol found Lady Margate sitting by the only window in her cell, calmly using the fading afternoon light to illumine a square of tapestry as she plied her needle. Macol stood by the door. Lady Margate stood up to curtsey, and the king waved her back to her seat.

  If ever an artist wished to capture the essence of patience, he could do worse than paint Lady Margate sewing.

  Her patience was only one of many things Macol admired about the Lady Margate, though sometimes he had to wonder if hers was the patience of the saint or the spider.

  "How did you know it was me?"

  "I heard you puffing. Most of your guards are more used to climbing the stairs." She paused. "Majesty, I feel awkward sitting in your presence. Perhaps you would care to sit? There’s nothing but the one other stool, I’m afraid."

  "It will do." Macol lowered himself carefully. The stool was adequate to his bulk, though only barely. "We are quite alone, Margy. I want to talk to you."

  "I am my king’s prisoner. You may do with me as you like."

  Macol turned even redder, though that hardly seemed possible. "I’m not here as your king! I’m here as Ashesa’s father. And it’s your own fault, you know."

  "That you are Ashesa’s father?" she asked mildly. Her attention seemed to be focused on her sewing again, to Macol’s considerable annoyance.

  "You know my meaning perfectly well, Lady Margate. You put yourself in this tower as much as I did. If you hadn’t helped my daughter slip away like that—"

  "She’d have done it on her own, alone, and likely be in more trouble than she is already. I understand your anger, Majesty, but if I’d informed you of her plans maybe you would have caught her in time, maybe not. At best she’d be sitting where I am now, since if her mind was made up there’d be no other way to hold her."

  Macol sighed. "I dare say," he stopped, as a new thought came to his attention. "What did you mean, ‘more trouble’? You think there’s more to this than foolish impulse?"

  Lady Margate looked up from her sewing and met his gaze squarely. "Don’t you?"

  A look passed between them. Something of understanding and familiarity, of time and shared burdens. Macol put his head in his hands. "I wouldn’t tell just anyone this, Margy, but Galan’s message concerns me. I’ve written and received enough diplomatic meanderings to know when I’m being misdirected. I’d hoped his natural honesty would have lasted longer."

 

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