Vani shared a cup with the steward, but since there was no lady to serve them, Beltan and Falken got their own cups. The party ate largely in silence, commenting only on the quality of the food. When the meal was finished, the earl initiated conversation, although they stayed close to polite topics-mostly the weather in Embarr compared to that in the south-and for that Grace was grateful. The earl seemed glad for their company, and he laughed often, a sound Grace found compelling.

"Forgive me if I offend, my lord," Falken said. "But I'm surprised to see so few at your table. Should not a keep of this consequence have a larger household?" The bard's gaze lingered on the empty place setting for a moment.

"Indeed, it should," Elwarrd said, a grimness stealing into his expression. "These days, my court is all but gone."

"Gone where, my lord?" Grace asked without thinking.

"To Barrsunder, my lady, by order of King Sorrin."

"And how is the king?" Falken said. His words were measured and carefully weighted, and Grace understood his intent.

So did Elwarrd. "I see you know something of King Sorrin's condition."

"A little," Falken said. "It's been nearly a year since I last saw him."

The earl sighed. "Then his condition is far more dire than you remember. They say he'll do anything to keep death at bay."

"Why?" Vani said. "Is this king of yours ill?"

Elwarrd met her gaze. "Not in body, my lady."

Grace remembered meeting the King of Embarr at the Council the previous Midwinter. Sorrin had been gaunt and hunched, old before his years. His gaze had usually been keen as a knife, but sometimes a lost and haunted look had stolen into it. Durge had told her that Sorrin had been growing increasingly fearful of his own death, as if it lurked just over his shoulder.

"Sorrin's actions are a mystery to his subjects these days," Elwarrd said. "But he is not mad. Or at least, not mad in all regards, for he's surrounded himself with a loyal faction of powerful men, and any who might question the king are afraid to stand against them."

Beltan refilled his own wine cup. "But for what reason did he call your courtiers to Barrsunder?"

"For protection," Elwarrd said. "By the reports I've heard, he's taken to disguising himself as a common man in an effort to hide from death. He believes that having more people in Castle Barrsunder will somehow help him. It makes no sense."

Grace circled the wine cup with her hands. "No, it's completely logical. He's afraid he's being hunted, so he's hiding himself in a crowd. It's highly adaptive behavior. It's called the selfish herd theory, and biologists on-" Realizing she was about to bring up things she really didn't want to try explaining, she hastily took a sip of wine.

"So you have no one left in your court?" Falken said.

"Just myself, Leweth, and the servants. And there are the serfs who work my lands. You'll not have seen the village coming from the beach. It lies just over the next rise. But no one else is left in Seawatch. All of my knights have gone to Barrsunder, and their wives and children with them."

"Couldn't they have refused?" Vani asked.

Elwarrd gave her a stern look. "To refuse the order of the king is treason, my lady, punishable by death. Sorrin has ordered all of his knights to Embarr. Any who have not yet gone to him have either already been drawn and quartered or will be the next time they set foot in Embarr."

His words sickened Grace, and she wished she hadn't eaten so much.

"But what of you, my lord?" Falken said. "Why have you not traveled to Barrsunder with the other knights?"

For the first time that evening, a crack showed in Elwarrd's demeanor. His right hand twitched into a fist on the table. "I am an earl, my lord. That is my birthright." It seemed his gaze flicked upward, toward the gallery above the hall. Then he looked directly at Falken. "But knighthood is an honor granted by the king, and I am not a knight of Embarr. That is the only reason I am still here in Seawatch. Otherwise, you would have found this keep empty."

They stared at the lord in silence. Slowly, as if only by great will, Elwarrd unclenched his hand.

"You must be weary after your travails," he said, his voice gentler. "Leweth will take you to your chambers now."

And with that, supper was over. The travelers rose, bowed and curtsied, and murmured their thanks to the earl. Leweth bid them to follow him to their rooms.

As they left the hall, Grace stole a glance at the gallery, where it seemed Elwarrd had gazed a moment ago. The gallery was a railed wooden platform above the hall. During feasts, minstrels might sit there to fill the hall with music, but now the gallery was silent, filled only with shadows.

One of those shadows moved.

Grace's heart leaped into her throat. It seemed a figure moved in the dimness of the gallery, a figure draped all in black. She started to reach out with the Touch, to sense if someone-or something-was there. However, Leweth gently touched her elbow, guiding her through the doors of the hall, and the threads of the spell slipped through her hand.

By the next morning, all of them had a fever.

Beltan was the worst. Falken knocked on the door of Grace and Vani's chamber just after dawn. He described the knight's symptoms, and at once Grace marched to the room shared by the men, still clad in her nightgown. Beltan lay in his bed, cheeks flushed, skin dewy with sweat.

"I'm fine," he said, when Grace began to examine him, but the credibility of his protest was significantly damaged by the fit of coughing the words induced.

Grace sat Beltan up, lifted his tunic, and listened against his back while he breathed. She laid him down again, then reached out with the Touch, using the power of the Weirding to gaze deep into the knight's body. What she saw confirmed her diagnosis.

Grace opened her eyes. "You've developed a slight secondary infection in your bronchi-that's the source of your fever- and the inflammation is causing you to cough."

Beltan stared at her without comprehension. Not that this should surprise her. No one on Eldh knew what a bacterium was, and Grace had never had a chance to discuss the finer points of modern medicine with her friends.

"There's a sickness in your lungs," she said, this time trying to use terms the knight would understand. "It's common after inhaling water, like we all did yesterday. And right now it's not a major worry. But if you don't rest, the sickness could grow worse and cause your lungs to fill up with fluid, making it hard to breathe."

Beltan grunted. "You mean wet lung. Why didn't you just say so, Grace? No wonder it feels like a horse is sitting on my chest." He lay back down.

"You're going to have to take it easy," Grace said. "I'll try to see if I can make some medicines. In the meantime, you shouldn't exert yourself. And at no time should you go outside. The cold will aggravate your lungs."

Falken glanced at her. "For how long?"

Grace understood his meaning. The bard was anxious to continue their journey north. However, Grace knew they couldn't rush this. Hurrying to Toringarth wouldn't accomplish much if they all died of pneumonia on the way.

"Until he's better," she said. "I'd say a week at most. As long as he stays quiet."

Falken's look was grim, but he nodded. It was over a month until Midwinter; they had plenty of time to get to Toringarth and then to the Black Tower. Or at least they could hope so.

With the Touch, Grace examined all of them in turn. It turned out Vani was nearly as sick as the knight, and a far worse patient.

"Surely you don't expect me to simply sit here in this room and do nothing," the T'gol said, her golden eyes hot with outrage.

Grace gave a tight smile. "Actually, that's exactly what I expect you to do."

"You cannot give me orders. I am a daughter of the blood of the royal house of Morindu."

"Then that makes us both the heirs to monarchies that don't exist anymore," Grace said. "And since you're just the princess of a nonexistent city, and I'm the queen of a nonexistent kingdom, I'm pretty sure I outrank you. Falken?"

The bard rubbed his chin. "I think she's right, Vani."

By her expression, the T'gol didn't accept their reasoning, but a fit of coughing prevented any further argument.

Grace turned her attention to herself and Falken. She was sick, but not to the same degree as Beltan and Vani. There was only a slight inflammation in her lungs, and her temp was barely elevated. She would be fine in a day or two, as long as she didn't exert herself.

Grace knew there was really no point in checking Falken- the bard was immortal, after all-but just to be thorough she used the Touch to gaze into his chest.

Her eyes snapped open. "You're sick, Falken."

The bard frowned at her. "That's impossible."

Grace examined him more closely, listening to his chest, touching him lightly as she shut her eyes and examined his silver-blue life thread. At last she opened her eyes again. There was no denying it.

"It's a mild case," she said. "You're certainly not as sick as Beltan or Vani, or even me. But you have a slight infection in your lungs. A fever, I mean."

Beltan propped himself up on his elbow in bed, green eyes curious. "I didn't think you could get sick, Falken."

"Neither did I." The bard gazed down at his right hand. He had removed the bandages, and his silver fingers gleamed in the gray light that filtered through the window. "Then again, this is the first time in seven centuries that I've nearly drowned, so I suppose anything's possible."

Grace returned to her room and changed into her borrowed gown, then helped Vani struggle into her own. Almost fondly Grace remembered the first time she had tried to don a gown like this in Calavere. It had nearly suffocated her before Aryn had come to her rescue.

Just as Grace finished adjusting Vani's gown, a knock came at the chamber door. It was the steward, bearing a tray for their breakfast. Over his shoulder, Grace saw a serving maid delivering a similar tray to Falken and Beltan's room. She invited Leweth in, and he set the tray down. There was oat porridge, dried fruit, cream, and- thank the gods of this world-a pot of blistering hot maddok.

Warming her hands around a cup of the rich, slightly bitter drink, Grace asked if she might talk to the earl that morning.

"I'm afraid Lord Elwarrd is not available for an audience today," Leweth said with an expression of sincere regret. "There are matters that demand his attention. However, he asked me to beg your forgiveness for this rudeness, and he requests your presence at table this evening."

"Of course," Grace said. "We would be honored."

Leweth was obviously relieved by her words. Grace wondered where Elwarrd could be; a steady drizzle fell from heavy clouds. Then again, in Embarr, she supposed this passed for a pleasant day.

"If you'll forgive my asking," Leweth said, "what was it you needed to see the lord about, my lady?"

Grace described her need for herbs and a mortar and pestle in order to make medicines.

The steward clasped his hands together, his expression worried. "It's no wonder you've all taken ill. The sea is deathly cold. I'm sure my lord will want all of you to rest here until you're well. I'll do my best to see to your requests, my lady. There is a woman in the kitchens who has some knowledge of herbs and their names. If you describe what you need, she should be able to find the things for me."

Grace described the herbs she needed as clearly as she could. She would rather have written it all down, but Leweth seemed to listen carefully, and he repeated her words back to her verbatim. Besides, she doubted a kitchen wife would be literate enough to read her ingredient list.

To her surprise, Leweth returned not much more than an hour later, bearing a pot of sweet oil-which Vani had requested-and all of the herbs Grace had described. The herbs were old, and had lost some of their potency, but they would do. Grace thanked the steward, and he bowed and hurried away.

Since Grace and Vani's chamber was larger and less prone to drafts, Grace asked Beltan and Falken to spend the day there.

"Is that an order or a request?" Beltan asked.

Grace smiled pleasantly. "It can be either one you like, as long as you do what I say."

"I think this whole queen thing is starting to go to her head," the knight grumbled, as Falken helped him stand.

As the drizzle continued outside, they passed the hours close to the fire. Beltan lay in the bed, and Grace forbade him to leave, save when returning to his room to use the chamber-pot became a necessity. With meticulous care, Vani wiped her black garb clean with a damp cloth, then rubbed oil into the leather as it dried in the warmth of the fire, working it with her hands so that it remained supple.

Falken borrowed a bit of Vani's oil for his lute. He rubbed it into the wood with his hand, then tested the instrument. Its case must have been watertight, for the lute was in fine condition, and Falken strummed the strings, filling the chamber with quiet melodies.

Grace spent her time carefully grinding herbs with the pestle in the brass mortar and measuring the resulting powders onto scraps of parchment, which she folded to keep the contents from spilling. After hours of it her arm and back ached from working the pestle, but she had a week's worth of medicine for them all.

At midday, a servingwoman came to the door with a tray of bread, cold meat, and a cheese for their dinner. She was a short, stooped woman with a dirty, fearful face. Grace sighed; she had met few servants on this world who weren't terrified of her.

And why shouldn't they be, Grace? You're royalty. You could have them punished on a whim. Even put to death.

Only she wouldn't. And if somehow, by some strange twist of fate, she ever did find herself a queen with subjects, her first task as a ruler would be to find a way to make sure not one single person in her castle feared her. Maybe it would mean she wouldn't be a very effective monarch, but that seemed by far the better alternative.

Grace asked the servingwoman for a pot of hot water, and this was quickly brought. Grace emptied a packet of the herbal powder into each of four cups and poured hot water, letting the herbs steep to make a tea. She made the others take a cup.

"Is it supposed to taste like horse dung?" Falken said, his expression at once curious and repulsed. "Or is that just a happy coincidence?"

"That's how you know it's working." Grace forced herself not to grimace as she drank her own cup.

"I rather like it," Vani said, taking a sip.

"How can you possibly like it?" Beltan groaned from the bed. "I think this stuff is going to kill me."

The T'gol's eyes flashed. "That's how."

Grace had had quite enough of that. "All of you be quiet and drink," she said in what she hoped was a queenly voice. It must have been, for all of them obeyed.

Grace had remembered her herb lore well, for the medicine seemed to make all of them feel better, which in turn significantly reduced the level of general crabbiness in the room. As the gray afternoon drizzled away outside the window, they spoke in quiet voices.

"I suppose there's no chance they survived," Grace said. "Magard and his crew, I mean."

Falken met her gaze. "I'm afraid not, Grace. You heard what Elwarrd said. Except for the beach where we washed up, the coast around here is nothing but rocks and cliffs. And there's no way off the beach except the trail that leads to this keep. If Magard or any of his sailors survived the shipwreck, they would have found their way here by now."

Grace nodded. She hadn't been looking for false hope, only confirmation. She thought of Captain Magard's rough humor and sly winks, and of his mad plan to sail around the world he believed to be round. Now he'd never get the chance to find out he was right. A tight ball formed in Grace's throat.

"So why us?" Beltan said. "Doesn't it seem awfully lucky that the four of us washed up on the beach and no one else?"

Vani shrugged. "Luck is simply an act of Fate we are not expecting."

Grace took a sip of maddok. Despite Vani's invocation of Fate, Beltan's words disturbed her. She thought back to the shipwreck. Everything had happened so quickly. There was the horrible noise of the ship cracking apart, the brutal shock of plunging into frigid water, and the darkness closing in as she sank downward. And then...

"Did anyone else see a light?" Grace said. "In the water, after the ship went down?"

The others looked at her, expressions curious, and Grace explained what she had seen as she sank beneath the waves: the light that had encapsulated her, lifting her to the surface, and the shining face she thought she had glimpsed. Falken and Vani shook their heads; both had lost consciousness in the water, and the next thing they knew had awakened on the beach. However, Beltan seemed to remember something.

"It was just before everything went dark," the knight said, peeling an apple with a dagger. "It wasn't a light, though. It was more like a feeling of suddenly being...safe. And there was a sound. It was beautiful, almost like music. But even I know that's impossible. You can't hear music in the ocean."

"I don't mean to discount your words, Grace," Falken said. "Or yours, Beltan. But the mind can play tricks on you in dire situations like that."

Grace had to agree; no doubt she had been hallucinating. But it was nice to know she wasn't the only one.

After that, conversation turned to their host, with whom none of them could find fault. While the rules of hospitality had required him to take them in, he could have given them a cold room and a loaf of stale bread and have fulfilled his duty. Instead he had treated them with nothing but deference, even though as far as he knew they were only a band of free traders.

Falken strummed a chord on his lute. "Elwarrd seems like a good man."

"And he's very handsome," Grace said, only realizing she had spoken the words aloud when she saw that everyone was staring at her. She fumbled for something else to say, hoping her cheeks weren't as red as they felt. "But what do you think he meant, when he said he wasn't a knight of Embarr? I thought all earls were knights. Like Durge."