"The ollamh refused to, but the Cruarch spoke of them," I said. "To Talorcan."

They exchanged another round of glances. "The Cruarch has a country to rule," Urist said firmly, "and Talorcan is his heir. There are matters that must be addressed. But among ourselves, we do not speak of them."

"The bear-witches still have the power to curse," Kinadius muttered. "At least the women do. Shrivel your loins, they will."

"Or make 'em burn," another offered. Someone laughed.

"Aye, and change shape in the middle of the act and devour you whole!" Deordivus poked a finger at me. "Starting with your manhood. You stay away from 'em, Prince."

Another jug of ale arrived, and with it came Emile to ply me to tell him about the siege of Lucca. So the conversation turned, and I was obliged to tell the tale. The Cruithne had not heard it-I had not spoken overmuch of it in public-and they listened with interest as I told of arriving in the city of Lucca to celebrate the wedding of my friend Lucius Tadius, only to find the bride kidnapped and, within a day, the city besieged by her captor.

They nodded when I described how Lucius came to be inhabited by the spirit of his dead great-grandfather, the warlord Gallus Tadius, who organized the defense of the city. Such tales were not strange in Alba, where a woman might eat of a salmon and give birth to a bard.

When it came to the battle, I made much of Eamonn's role. In truth, it needed no exaggeration-Gallus Tadius had appointed him the captain of our squadron, and Eamonn had acquitted himself with honor. But he was a prince of the Dalriada, of the folk of the Fhalair Ban, and it pleased the Cruithne to hear it. The Dalriada were a sovereign folk unto themselves, immigrants from the island of Eire who maintained a foothold on the far western shores of Alba, but there was a long history of alliance between the Cruithne and the Dalriada.

They were pleased by my deeds, too. "You're not so green as I reckoned!" Deordivus slapped my shoulder. "You're owed your first warrior's markings, Prince. Or at least once you're wed and dedicated as one of us."

"Oh?" I said.

"Right here." Kinadius touched the center of his brow, which bore an elaborate design of an inverted crescent containing trefoil circles, pierced from below by a V-shaped symbol. "The warrior's shield and spear."

"Ah, no!" I gazed at him in dismay.

"Do you not wish to declare kinship with the Cullach Gorrym?" He grinned. "They'll look a treat with your big blue eyes."

"You are jesting?" I asked.

They laughed. "Not really," Urist added.

"I'll think on it," I muttered, and beckoned for more ale.

At any rate, the evening ended amicably and they seemed to like me better for it by the time it was over. We rode back toward the Palace together, and Deordivus began teaching me the rudiments of a Cruithne drinking-song. When I made to part company with them and head for the townhouse, Kinadius insisted on escorting me.

"Drustan would expect us to do it for Talorcan," he said to Urist. "If Imriel is to be a Prince of Alba, should we not treat him as one?"

The older man's face was unreadable in the starlight. "As you will."

"Come, then." Kinadius blew out his breath in a plume of frost and gave me a sidelong look. "Let's race. Unless you're scared?"

"Care to wager?" I asked.

It wasn't a wild race. I'd done that once with Gilot and nearly run down a party of merry-makers, and it was early enough that folk were still abroad, torch-escorted carriages clopping along the streets. We rode vigorously, though, weaving in and out among them. I kept the Bastard well in hand. He was quick and surefooted and fearless, and I'd ridden him almost blind in the darkest nights of Lucca. I could have won handily, but I was mindful of what Phedre had taught me of diplomacy, and I let Kinadius draw abreast of us at the end.

"Well run!" he said cheerfully. "At least Dorelei's wedding a man knows how to sit a horse."

"You're fond of her," I said.

Kinadius nodded. "We grew up in the same household. I'd thought to court her myself one day."

I didn't know what to say, so I said, "I'm sorry."

"Ah, no!" He shook his head. " 'Tis for the best, and those of us who are the Cruarch's men know it. I bear you no ill will."

"My thanks." I put out my hand.

He clasped it firmly "You'll be mindful of what we said tonight?"

"About the warrior's markings?" I grimaced. "Oh, yes."

"Not that." Kinadius smiled, but only faintly. "I was jesting, you know. Urist holds to the old ways more than some of us. No, I meant the other thing." He squeezed my hand, cutting me off when I opened my mouth, then leaned over in the saddle, speaking in a low tone. "They sacrificed their diadh-anam. That's why the ollamh will not speak of them."

"Their what?" I asked, bewildered.

He let go my hand and placed two fingers over his lips, shaking his head once more. "I've said too much. Ill luck. Good night, Prince!"

I watched him take his leave, then shouted for Benoit to open the gate. He came out grumbling and sleepy-eyed to admit me, then led the Bastard into the stables. I went inside the townhouse and found Phedre still awake in her study.

"Hello, love." She set a paperweight on the scroll she was studying and lifted her chin when I leaned down to kiss her cheek. "You smell like the bottom of an ale-barrel. Did you learn aught tonight?"

"Mayhap." I sat cross-legged at her feet. "What's a diadh-anam?"

Phedre's beautiful lips moved soundlessly, shaping the word. I gazed up at her face and watched her search her memory. She had studied Cruithne as a child, long before it was commonplace in Terre d'Ange. Anafiel Delaunay, who had been her lord and master, had taught her. As it transpired, he'd been a man much ahead of his time. "God-soul?" she hazarded at length. "I don't know, love; it's not a word I've heard before. Why?"

"Because whatever it is, the Maghuin Dhonn sacrificed theirs," I said. "Phedre ...I'm not so sure what I've gotten myself into with Alba."

"Nor am I," she said softly. "But we will find out."

I leaned my head on her knee, as I had done since I was a child. She stroked my hair with gentle fingers. It wasn't the same; it never would be. But it was enough, and I could endure it.

"I don't want to leave you," I whispered.

"I know." Her voice broke. "Imri-"

I bowed my head, resting my brow on one upbent knee. Unwanted desires racked me; my own, the echo of my mother's words. "You know I have to?"

"Yes."

It was implicit; there was a compact between us. I could not stay in this place. I had debts of honor to fulfill and desires that would never be sated. The kind of love with which the gods had blessed Phedre and Joscelin wasn't destined to be mine. But if I couldn't be happy, truly happy, I could at least try to be good. I sighed, straightened, and stood. "Tell me what you learn?"

"Always." Phedre's dark eyes were grave. "And you?"

"Yes," I promised. "Always."

Chapter Six.

"Behold!" Mavros flung up his arms. "Bryony House." Even from the courtyard, it stood in marked contrast to Alyssum. It was a grand structure, three stories high, with steep gables. Every window was ablaze with light, and the mullions were adorned with ornate reliefs of bryony vine. When the door opened, laughter and music and the rattle of dice spilled out.We were ushered into the receiving salon, which was modeled after the Hall of Games in the Palace. A throng of D'Angeline nobles played at games of chance and skill-dice, cards, rhythmomachy, and other, more obscure games. The atmosphere was sharp and charged.

"Lord Mavros!" A tall woman with black hair piled in a high coronet greeted us with a curtsy. Her black gown was cut low in the back, showing off her marque. Delicate tendrils of bryony climbed her spine, sprouting pale flowers above the spade-shaped leaves. "It's been too long." She straightened and appraised me with unabashedly calculating eyes. "Prince Imriel. Welcome to Bryony, your highness."

"Imri, this is the Dowayne, Janelle no Bryony," Mavros said. "Watch your purse."

She tapped his arm with a folded fan. "Never wager what you can't afford to lose, for Naamah will take all you have and more. What are you after, you naughty child?"

Mavros smiled lazily. "Tokens."

On the Longest Night, there are two fetes of note in the City of Elua. One was at the Palace, and the other was held at Cereus House, first among the Thirteen. It is a night Naamah's Servants celebrate among themselves, and no one, not even a Prince of the Blood, may attend without a token.

"Is that so?" Her wide mouth curled. "And what do you offer for them?"

Mavros spread his arms. "What would you wager?"

"A challenge!" Janelle no Bryony flung back her head. "Let's put it to the crowd, shall we?" She gestured toward the corner, and an attendant there struck a massive bronze gong. The sound reverberated and an expectant hush followed. "A challenge!" she repeated. "Lord Mavros Shahrizai and Prince Imriel de la Courcel come begging a wager for tokens! How shall we judge them worthy?"

"Mavros," I muttered under my breath.

He nudged me. "Hush. You wanted this."

True and not true. I had argued that we bypass Balm House, next in the alphabet, for I had already been there and experienced Naamah's healing grace. But I didn't understand what gambit Mavros was playing, and whatever it was, it had me on edge.

Patrons shouted out suggestions, profane and amusing and vile. Janelle no Bryony listened, nodding, until she heard one that took her fancy echoed a number of times. "The hourglass?" she murmured. "That would suit. Indeed, so well that I'll take the challenge myself. And I shall choose the contestant." She pointed at me. "Are you minded to accept, your highness? If you lose, I win a forfeit of my choosing."

"I'm sorry," I said, feeling foolish. "I don't understand."

" 'Tis a simple matter, sweet prince." Janelle stepped close to me, caressing my cheek. Her grey eyes shone. "I seek to please you in the time allotted," she breathed in my ear, making the hair at the nape of my neck stand on end. "And you seek to outwait me. Will you play?"

"Here?" I glanced at the avid crowd. "I think not."

"No, no, I'll not put you on display." She pointed toward the second story, where a specially constructed chamber overhung the balcony, lined with silk curtains. "There."

Behind her, Mavros was shaking his head in warning, looking dubious. Elua knows what he had expected, but it seemed he didn't like the odds of this wager the Dowayne had conceived. But I thought about Claudia Fulvia and what she had made me endure, and I smiled at Janelle. "All right," I said lightly. "Why not?"

"Oh, very good!" Her nails trailed down my throat and over my chest. "Come."

It was something, it seemed, for the Dowayne of Bryony House to take on a challenge personally. She led me up the sweeping staircase while the throng cheered and laid wagers. From what I could hear, none or few of them favored me. We entered the dais chamber, strewn with cushions and hung with fretted lamps. A pair of adepts closed the drapes behind us, and Janelle opened those facing the salon. Below us, the crowd milled.

"Bring the hourglass!" she called.

A bare-chested male adept with the Bryony mark brought forth a tall, slender hourglass capped with silver at both ends and wreathed in trailing vine. The crowd parted to make a space for him.

Janelle no Bryony raised her hand. "Let it begin!" The adept overturned his hourglass. Sand began to trickle through its narrow neck. Janelle closed the drapes and turned to me, letting her gown slip from her shoulders. Her skin was white in the lamplight, and there was rouge on the nipples of her high, firm breasts. I swallowed at the sight. "You were unwise, sweet prince," she said, her voice soft and mocking. "Have you not heard the first rule of Bryony House's patrons? Never wager against its Dowayne. I will enjoy choosing a forfeit."

I wanted her, badly. But I didn't much like her. I bared my teeth at her in a cold smile. "A Dowayne should gauge her patrons better, my lady."

"Defiance!" One eyebrow arched. "This will be fun."

All of Naamah's Servants are adept in her arts. As the crowd below chanted and clapped to mark the passage of time, Janelle sank gracefully to her knees before me. Her hot breath penetrated through my breeches. My phallus leapt in response, stiffening.

I stared at the draped ceiling.

The Dowayne of Bryony House performed the languisement on me. She did it with excruciating skill. I could feel the muscles of her cheeks and throat milking my phallus. I thought of Claudia and nearly lost all control. No. So I did the only thing left to me and thought of Daranga.

It went on for a long time. The unseen crowd's roar grew louder, clapping turning to stamping. I felt her hands, growing urgent, cupping my testes, squeezing and rolling them; her urgent finger probing my anus. My body went rigid with shock and pleasure, and I overrode it.

"Duzhmata," I whispered. "Duzhushta, duzhvarshta."

Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.

The gong sounded and the crowd of patrons erupted in cheers, demanding to know the outcome. On her knees, Janelle released me. She bowed her head for a moment, then gazed up at me, and there was no mockery in her face, only puzzlement. "Why are you crying?"

I rubbed away the tears with the heel of my hand. "I told you. You should gauge your patrons better." I pulled up my breeches and fastened them. My arousal had faded, leaving behind a dull, unfulfilled ache. I extended my hand to her, then retrieved her gown. "Here."

She dressed without comment and made to draw back the drapes, then paused. "Tell me, highness. Was the victory worth the cost?"

I thought about it. "Probably not."

Janelle no Bryony inclined her head. "Well, then."

With that, she opened the drapes and presented me to the shouting throng, sinking low in an elaborate curtsy of acknowledgment and defeat. I looked down at their upturned faces and listened to the sound of my name being chanted. Wagers were settled, coins changing hands. Mavros, his cupped hands overflowing, winked up at me. Janelle fished a pair of ivory tokens from her purse and tossed them to him, and the crowd roared some more before turning to other pursuits and fresh pleasures, fueled by avarice and desire.

Afterward, during the carriage ride homeward, I was quiet. Mavros hummed to himself in contentment, dividing our spoils. "Here." He poured a handful of coins into my lap, making a point of showing me the ivory token. "Mind you don't lose this."

I tucked my share away. "I didn't think you'd wager on me."

"Ah, well." He shrugged. "You're a stubborn one. I know that much about you."

"Too stubborn, mayhap," I mused.

"Mayhap." Mavros considered me. "Imri, listen. I was all for this idea. After two Houses, I'm not so sure. Me, I can find pleasure in anything, but you've got a way of battering yourself to pieces against your own desires."

"You know why," I murmured.

"I do." He nodded. "Some of it, at any rate. But listen, beneath the trappings of pleasure, these are Servants of Naamah, sworn to her service. When we indulge ourselves in the Night Court, we make reverence to Naamah in the ways we like best. When you choose instead to wrestle with your own despite, you do Naamah a disservice."

I looked away, knowing Mavros was right. "What would you have me do?"

"Stop picking at scars," he said laconically. "Scratch the itch."

"Easier said than done," I said.

He shrugged again. "You asked."

I thought about his words in the days that followed, and we didn't visit any more Houses. I went instead to the Temple of Naamah, to make an offering and beg forgiveness lest I had offended. To my surprise and pleasure, Phedre and Joscelin elected to accompany me.