"There, see? Now you know every thing."

He gave a little sigh. "Do you ever think about what's happening - out there? Back at home? What would you be doing right now?"

Leaning my head back against the wood railing, I tracked my thoughts back to the city. It seemed unreal, no more than the dream I'd just had and couldn't remember. "It's almost midwinter," I said, my voice thin and thready in the flickering candlelight. "I guess we'd be getting ready for the last of the street fairs and river festivals before every thing closes for the Holy Nights of Marau."

"Tell me about them," he said. "I was officially banished from Gerse when I was nine. I haven't been back since."

Something about that made my throat feel tight. Not to ever go back to Gerse? I'd thought I was used to that idea. I closed my eyes and recalled aloud how the twisted cobblestone streets filled up with crowds in ornate, fanciful masks, and the boats on the three rivers lit up with paper lanterns like huge fireflies.

"That sounds pretty," he said softly. "Tell me more about the rivers."

I told him what I remembered, about how the Big Silver rose and fell with the tides; and Wierolf asked about the locks on the Oss that moved great ships in and out of the city. When I described our rainy winters, he wanted to know if the main streets were ever impa.s.sible because of mud. And when I talked about walking along the great wall that surrounded the city, he inquired about the gates and the watchtowers.

I hesitated; something in the questions he asked me was shifting away from casual conversation. The city wouldn't have changed much in twenty-two years - but Bardolph hadn't barred Wierolf from Gerse because he didn't want the prince to see the festivals. I rose and crossed the room, where he could see me without straining, and drew a great ring on the wall with my finger, pointing to places as I spoke.

"Gerse's wall has seven gates," I said. "They lead into different areas of the city. The Oss Gate, here, on the northwest side, for boats. It's always heavily guarded, but they never close it. The Harvest Gate, what locals call the Green Gate, is open sunrise to sunset. The Green Gate road goes almost straight through Gerse, right to Hanivard Palace, if you can clear the market traffic. . . ."

I glanced at him through a strand of my hair that had come loose. He was watching my hand, though a fine sweat had broken out on his forehead. "Go on," he said.

And I continued, explaining to Prince Wierolf exactly how he might breach my city, should he ever decide to bring an army marching on Hanivard.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

The prince finally fell into a light but peaceful sleep, and Yselle came to fetch me, ordering me to Lady Lyll's quarters, where a scalding-hot bath had been drawn up in the dressing room. As the steam drifted into the wan morning light, I scowled into the water and imagined blurting every thing out, just to see what Lyll would do. What's with the guns in the wine cellar? Ever plan to let the prince out of that little cell? Do you know that Daul hates you? Was your husband the Traitor of Kalorjn?

I gave the water a frustrated splash. She might not even know the answer to that last one; I remembered that she hadn't even married Antoch until after the war. Back at Favom Court, Morva had told me their marriage was "His Majesty's doing." The idea that Lyll could have married the traitor without realizing it made the hot steamy air hard to breathe.

When Lyll returned, she had a fresh white shift and a clean kirtle draped over her arm. Mine had gotten covered with Wierolf's blood. As she sat beside the bath, I saw in her face a reflection of all my own thoughts. I braced my legs against the copper wall of the tub to stop from sinking below the water.

Lyll fussed a little, testing the bathwater, refolding the shift, adding a few drops of oil to the tub. Finally she looked at me gravely. "Thank you for your a.s.sistance last night, Celyn."

"Last night, milady?" I said, and for a wild moment even I wasn't sure what I was doing. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. I was with Lady Merista all evening, as you know. We were abed early, but milady woke in the night with a cough. Yselle brought us some mead to soothe her throat."

The edge of Lady Lyll's lip twitched as she watched me, her expression shifting slightly.

"And I am certain you will find no one to dispute that account. I remember the hours quite clearly, in fact."

Lyll eased back into her chair. "And how fares my daughter this morning, Lady Celyn?"

"Very much improved," I said smoothly. "I'm certain she'll be able to make her morning ride with her lord father."

"I see," said Lyll. After a long pause, she added, "Has my daughter suffered many such episodes?"

I nodded carefully. "And it would not surprise me should she suffer them again in future."

"Celyn -" She braced the heel of her hand against her forehead. "He has demanded that you be allowed to continue to visit him. But by all the G.o.ds, please use discretion. I cannot overstate the delicacy of our situation here. You know we are expecting a representative of the king for Meri's kernja-velde, and I hope I don't have to tell you how critical it is that our - guest remain anonymous and invisible. Everything depends on him, Celyn."

Her words gave me a chill despite the steamy water. "I understand, your ladyship."

Lyll watched me one long, hard moment, then gave me one of her crisp nods as she rose from the stool. "Thank you, Celyn," she said - and, inexplicably, I wanted to hear that warm low voice speak my real name.

I climbed out of the tub, and Lyll left me to towel off and get dressed in private. Her dressing room was a snug, warm s.p.a.ce with paneled walls and no windows, filled with cabinets and chests and lovely little ladies' things. I pulled open a drawer in the dressing table, look ing for a hairbrush, and saw a tiny face looking back at me. I dipped my fingers inside and retrieved two miniature portraits, carefully set in delicate bejeweled frames. One was of a boy who could be Meri's twin - round-faced and pale, solemn. The other was of a much younger child, scarcely more than a baby, done up in a brocaded frock and posed stiffly, a golden rod clutched in chubby fists.

Lady Lyll returned just then, and I started, questions poking at me from all directions. Lyll, a shadow crossing her face, smiled faintly. "Those are Meri's brothers." She gingerly took the miniatures from me. "My sons from my first marriage, Ralth and Sandur."

"Where are they now?"

"With their father," she said, and I was surprised. "It's all right. When I was very young, my parents married me to a n.o.bleman who had more ambition than virtue. Our families were not rich, and he was the younger son; at the time neither of us expected to make any better match. He and I got along; by all accounts it should have been a successful marriage. I bore him two healthy, beautiful boys, a feat I have not been able to replicate for Antoch. And then his brother died, and suddenly he stood in line to inherit not only his own family's estate, but that of his brother's betrothed - and she was wealthy. He cast me aside, and that was that."

"But you were married to him."

She smiled bitterly. "Not anymore. Not under Bardolph's new decree that only marriages performed in a Celyst temple were valid. My family had let him persuade us to be married by a priest of Mend-kaal. At the time I thought it was quaint, perhaps even a little romantic. But one swipe of Bardolph's green pen, and suddenly I had never been a wife, and my sons were b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Why aren't they with you now?"

Her lip twisted in a way that was not quite pleasant. "His new wife proved . . . disappointing in that regard, and after a time, my former husband agreed to legitimize his sons - if I surrendered any claim to them." She sighed, stroking the face of her older son. "I had lived two hard years in my father's house with two small boys who hated me for leaving their father. At the time it seemed like the right thing to do. I haven't seen them since. Meri has never met them."

I watched her soft pale hand draw circles on the face of her boy, and I wanted to squeeze her hand or hug her or something. "I'm sorry," I said - because I couldn't think of anything else, and because it was true.

"It was a long time ago," she said, her voice suddenly brisk. She placed the portraits back inside the drawer and snapped it shut. "Let's get you dressed."

But I watched her out of the corner of my eye, and I wondered. I remembered something else Morva had said, back at Favom Court, about Lady Lyll's children being taken away from her, for being married to a rebel. Well, she had some of the details wrong, but the gist right. It seemed to explain a great many things about Lady Lyllace Nemair.

I was a little surprised that Lyll didn't keep me close the next few days, but she had an injured prince to tend and must have decided against a repeat per for mance of our late-night drama. It was just as well; I didn't know what I would do with both of them there and conscious together. So I wandered a little aimlessly through the halls of the Lodge, trying to remember what it was like when I'd first arrived here last month - when carpeted corridors and rich mountain breakfasts were enough excitement for one lost Gersin thief.

Before Daul came and spoiled all of it.

Late one morning I found myself peering between the half-open Armory doors, where Daul and Antoch usually fenced. Curiously, Antoch sat alone there now, leaning back in the bench before a blazing fire. Before I thought about what I was doing, I slipped inside.

Crossing from shadow to shadow across the long cold floor, I took the s.p.a.ce in, liking it less and less the longer I was here, with the suspended weapons and the Spear-Bearers guarding the fire. Bryn Shaer had been built for defense, and this was a room for war. Had the last Sarist conspirators planned their rebellion in this room? Or maybe Bryn Shaer was still a property of the Crown then, and in this very room, from that same scarred bench where Antoch slumped before the fire, the king's generals had studied their maps and pointed their fingers and wiped an entire religion from the face of Llyvraneth.

No, I thought, someone had helped them do that.

"Celyn, my girl!" Antoch rose at the sight of me, and pulled me into a huge embrace. "Have a seat. Will you take wine?"

I shook my head.

"Miserable morning," he said cheerfully. "What have my girls found to do with themselves today in all this snow? I see one's here to keep an old soldier company, but what about the others?" He waved me to the chair across from him.

"I believe Lady Merista and Phandre are trying on their gowns for the kernja-velde this morning."

"And not Celyn?"

"No, milord. Her ladyship had need of me this morning." The lie came easily.

"Good, good. And how are you getting along, then? The other girls treating you well?"

"Meri is, of course, milord."

He gave a little chuckle. "No answer about Phandre, I see. Well, we try to be fond of her. Old family friends and all. I know Lyll worries what will become of her - always scheming, my lady wife. But I've told her the Sethe always land right-side up." He shuffled the papers before him on the table, and I leaned in slightly for a look. There was a map of Llyvraneth - old and well-worn, a crack at one edge where it had been folded instead of rolled. The ink had nearly rubbed away in parts, but I could still make out the name scribed over a green plain on the coast of Kellespau. Kalorjn.

Was that why Antoch sat here so often? The Spear-Bearers were the handmaidens of Zet, her loyal guard. They were said to hunt down traitors, harrying them with their dogs and spears until the end of days. Was Antoch waiting for those guardians of loyalty to step away from that hearth and strike him down? I stared at the leaping flames on their bare marble shoulders, their carved quivers. Maybe the arrow ring that Daul and the avalanche victims wore did have something to do with the war, after all. Perhaps all the survivors of Kalorjn had them. Maybe Antoch had one himself. A token of commitment, Daul had said. To the Sarist cause? But that didn't make any sense; why wear Zet's symbol, then? And why would Daul be wearing his now, when he had so clearly thrown off his Sarist leanings? Pox. None of this made any sense.

"Did your people fight in the war, Celyn?"

I looked up at this unexpected question. What was likely to be useful here? "My father. But -" I ducked my head as if embarra.s.sed. "Milord, he named me Celyn and sent me to the Celystra."

"Ah. There were decent men on both sides in that war. Just remember that. A lot of losses on both sides too." He sighed heavily. "d.a.m.nable world that makes a thing like war the only answer to a problem."

The Spear Maidens staring down on me, I found myself in complete agreement. "He never spoke about it, though."

"It was a dark time. We all did things we're not proud of - necessary things, but ones we don't like to remember nonetheless."

I held my breath. "What sort of things?"

Antoch gave me a soft look. "I'm sure your father served honorably, Celyn. But war casts a long shadow, and sometimes you're trapped under it for years after." His voice changed as he touched the map with his blocky fingers. "I made a mistake eighteen years ago. At the time it seemed like the right decision, the only way to save some good people's lives, but -" He shook his head. "I've been trying to undo it ever since, but it never seems like enough."

I felt my pulse quicken. "A mistake, your lordship?"

Antoch rolled the wine around the bottom of his goblet. "It's a sorry matter, to be defined by the worst thing you've ever done." He was looking into the fiery distance, the spears glowing in the strange uneven light. "I let down a lot of good friends."

Was he about to confess? I leaned forward. "At - at Kalorjn?" I said softly.

He looked up sharply, but his broad, bearded face softened. "Listen to me ramble on," he said. "A lot of nonsense for young ears, when you should be enjoying yourself. Don't let my lady wife work you to death, my girl. You make sure your own gown is just as splendid as the others'. And if it's not, you'd better report to me."

Antoch's words echoed and rumbled as I sped down the hall, no clear destination in mind. I made a mistake eigh teen years ago. I let down a lot of good friends. Daul was right. Antoch was every thing he said. A traitor.

And why did that bother me? I wasn't even born eigh teen years ago. How could it possibly matter to me whether Antoch Nemair or Eptin Cwalo or - or Marlytt - was the Traitor of Kalorjn?

But I knew why. And the knowing sent me running down the long soft halls of the Lodge, where every paneled wall and hanging tapestry hid another secret. Where people smiled while they twisted knives, and n.o.body - not even me - was what they said.

When I'd run myself out, I was only half surprised to find myself standing outside the prince's chamber door. There was nothing he could do for me - but something about him felt simple, uncomplicated. Which made no sense at all, because he was the most dangerous person here.

Wierolf was sitting up in bed, looking a little healthier. Instinctively I laid a hand on his forehead, checked his bandage, helped him into a clean shirt, happy to have something besides my own gnawing thoughts to focus on.

"Are you going to read my water too?" he asked with a grimace as I eased him back against his pillows.

"Keep it up," I warned, and he forced out a laugh.

"You look worried," he said.

"And you look . . . annoyed. Your Highness."

"I'm going mad in here," he said. "Do you know how I spent the morning? Counting the ceiling tiles. Seventy-four times. At this point I think I'd even take you cleaning my wound again, just for the novelty."

That coaxed a grin from me. I knew how he felt - to be accustomed to a life of running and climbing and danger, and then be shut up tight in some castle, with nothing to do but sit, while the world closed in all around you. I settled down beside him on the floor - wearing a groove in the stone by now - and leaned my head back against the frame of the bed, looking at the well-accounted-for ceiling tiles.

I might be the only Gersin thief ever to make friends with one of the royal family of Llyvraneth. It was a heady thought, one that made me alternately want to throw back my head and laugh . . . or shiver with fear.

"Celyn, honestly - you look like you'll unravel if somebody gives a tug on the wrong thread. What's wrong?" He watched me carefully, and I could see him measuring his words, calculating and wary. "Does it have something to do with me?"

"No." Not really. I'm not sure. But then, before I could think better of it, I blurted out, "Did you know your uncle put a price on your head?"

His eyes widened, and he was silent a long moment. Finally he said, "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but it's still a bit of a shock to actually hear it out loud."

We sat in silence for a bit while Wierolf took this in. "I can't really remember anything about the men who attacked me." His voice sounded weary. "I would hope I'd recognize them - but I don't know. Were they my friends? Strangers?" He gave his head a frustrated shake.

"I think we can safely say they weren't your friends." My hands tucked inside my heavy sleeves, I fingered the rings I'd taken from the avalanche victims, which I'd been carrying around with me like a sort of strange talisman. "Do you think someone at Bryn Shaer might try to claim the bounty, if they knew you were here?"

"Well, how much was it?"

Ridiculously I found this funny, and though I clamped a hand over my mouth, a laugh escaped through my nose as a very un-n.o.blike snort. Wierolf watched me patiently, his mouth twitching. "That's nice. Should I be watching my back for you?"

"I'll be good," I promised, glad he'd stopped me when he had.

I could see the prince run through the roster of Bryn Shaer's guests in his mind, but he finally shook his head. "I don't think the people you've mentioned would sell me out - but I'm not sure of anything anymore. Those families were loyal during the last war," he said. "But that might not mean anything now."

I looked at him. "They weren't all loyal."

He held my gaze. "You think Lady Lyllace might be hiding me from Lord Antoch."

Not even sure myself, I just looked back, fingernails in my mouth. The prince lay back heavily in the bed, panting slightly from the effort.

"I've got to stop coming in here and scaring you to death with bad news," I said, checking his forehead for fever. "You'll have to find another hobby. Do you have any pastimes that don't involve you nearly getting killed?"

He didn't laugh, but he looked almost wistful. "I actually used to be a pa.s.sable carver," he said. "I made a set of chessmen for my father once. I was proud of those."

"We've got rocks in abundance," I said. "Why don't you see if they'll bring you the supplies to do that, then?"

Wierolf looked straight at me. His eyes were clear and bright and very serious. "And do you think Lady Nemair will give me a knife?"

I looked at him a long, long moment, weighty silence filling up the s.p.a.ce between us.

"I think you should find out," I finally said.

Before I could learn whether or not His Highness was successful in coaxing a weapon from his host (captor?), I had another encounter with Daul. I had not seen him - alone - since the night he'd accused Lord Antoch of treachery, and I wasn't happy that it was looking likely that he was right. He cornered me after a busy dinner, when everyone had a.s.sembled in the Round Court for games and music. Marlytt was teaching a new dance to Meri and Phandre, while Lords Cardom and Sposa looked on. I was trying to sneak across the room before I could get pulled into the demonstration, when Daul slipped up beside me and pushed me into the hall. I didn't have the energy to struggle.

"Enjoying your holiday?" The words were friendly, but the tone was icy and hard.

"Terribly. It's always such a delight to be s...o...b..und with a madman. I can't think why I haven't made this trip before."