But it had happened before. It would probably happen again. What could she say? It had seemed like a good idea at the time? It had.

She took a deep breath. He wasn't dead; wasn't dying. Short of that, there was no point descending into guilt. It wouldn't do either of them any good. Later, maybe. When she had time. But it was tempting, that paralysis, that internal conflict. Tempting, because she had the choice of that and fear.

You're afraid of Avandar.

Big surprise. I've seen what he did. I know what he can do. How could I not be afraid of him? He was a monster.

Is he a monster now?

Yes. Yes. Maybe.

She wasn't the type of person who said "I can't judge." Judgment-her own-had saved not only her life but the lives of her den more times than she could count. She lived by that judgment, by that ability, and to set it aside was something she wasn't capable of.

What are you afraid of right now, d.a.m.nit?

Harder question. Because the fear wasn't a clean one; it was muddled. Muddy.

There was only one way to get clarity here.

Steeling herself, she reached out and touched him. Her right hand. To his right.

The trees vanished.

Pain did that.

She stood by the seawall, Avandar at her side; the night was moonless and dark.

At least, she thought it was the seawall; the ocean's voice was a crashing thunder, a horrible rumble of wave. No one with half a brain stood here in a storm; the water could easily crest the walls.

No. No, that was a comfortable thought. The truth followed quickly on its heels. That wasn't the ocean's voice. It was the thunder of a crowd. A mob, each voice subsumed by the whole, individual words lost to its shouting, its terrible anger.

She turned, clenching her hands into fists. One hand. The other couldn't quite close.

Of course it can't, idiot. It's holding Avandar.

She could see him clearly.

And after a moment, she could see some part of what he saw. Steel yourself was such a useless expression; all the steel in the world couldn't prevent her from blanching.

He gazed at her, almost unaware of her grip on his hand.

But his frown, while not the familiar one, was the first expression he offered her. There was something else in it, but it took her a moment to recognize it for what it was because she couldn't remember ever seeing it on his face before. Fear.

She even understood it.

"No," she said quickly, before he could speak. "No, I'm not dead. I'm not one of your dead."

She thought he would turn from her then. But his eyes remained fixed on her face.

"Avandar?"

He lifted his free hand and cupped her chin in it. She would have drawn away had they been in any other place. Had he looked at her in any other way.

But his face was rigid, and the hand beneath her chin was shaking. Not a lot, give him that, but it was the first time- The first time that she thought he needed her.

She stayed her ground.

"Avandar," she said. And then, after a long pause, "Viandaran."

"Lady."

Not the word she wanted, but it would do. She was surprised she could even hear it; the voices of the dead were so d.a.m.n loud.

"We can't stay here," she told him.

His eyes narrowed. She didn't much like the look.

"Viandaran," she said again. "They're already dead. The dead can't hurt you."

He laughed. "The dead," he said, the words soft, "are the only things that can hurt me. Have you forgotten, Lady? I cannot die. I will never die."

So much truth.

"Do you want to?"

"Can it be you do not know?" He turned from her then, releasing her chin, and his hand swept out in a grand gesture, encompa.s.sing the ghosts that she could hear, but could not see. "How else am I to escape the past, Lady? How else am I to know peace? Or can you grant me absolution from my sins?"

"Are they?" she shouted back; the voices, as if sensing the weakness in the Warlord, grew louder, grew frenzied. Or maybe it was her; maybe the frenzy was entirely contained.

"Are they?"

"Sins!"

He stopped then. His eyes were dark and clear.

Afraid to lose him, she continued. "You've walked darker roads than this. You've seen the dead before. Why are they stopping you now?"

"Should they not?" His voice was soft; deceptive. "If I am not mistaken, Lady, you met only one upon your road, and you could not continue. What might you do if faced with them?"

The curtain fell away. The darkness parted.

There was almost no distance between Jewel Markess ATerafin and the mob.

Her heart stopped. For just a moment, it stopped; her mouth was frozen, and her eyelids refused to budge.

What was the first comfort she offered her den? The past doesn't matter. But against such a past as this the words were a thin, fragile shield. She couldn't even lift it; couldn't offer it to him.

Even Haerrad, she thought, if he were forced to walk this road, wouldn't face what Avandar now faced. And Haerrad, she would leave to the wolves with a fierce joy. Could she do any less here? Could she?

No.

But she could not let go of his hand.

Was bitterly aware that had he injured any of hers, she wouldn't have come here; wouldn't have touched him; wouldn't have taken the risk.

And yet there were men, and women, and children, that he had hurt just as much; was she to forgive-and forget-those deaths, that pain, because he had never done anything to her?

"You understand," he said quietly. He started to pull his hand back, and she almost let him go.

"Yes," she told him. Because he had seen the truth and she didn't much feel like lying. "I do. But what you do here won't bring them back. And it won't give them peace."

"And your own dead?"

She shook her head. "He only . . . needed me . . . to acknowledge what I'd done. To understand it."

"You understood it already."

"Yes. And no. I . . . can ignore it. I have, for years. I've taken it out once or twice. I've used it against The Terafin, the only woman I've ever served, and ever want to. But I'm not ruled by it."

"But you are, Jewel."

Her name. She started to pull him away from the crowd, and he took a step as she pulled.

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Tell me how." Tell me how, she thought, as we get the h.e.l.l out of here.

She thought to make a pretense of listening, but she found the words compelling. Almost as if she actually cared what he thought, which was strange, given how much of her adult life had been spent convincing him that she didn't give a d.a.m.n.

"You let his death define you."

"G.o.ds, I hope not."

The corner of his lip turned up. It wasn't quite a smile.

"You let it rule what you will-and will not-do. Haerrad is a danger. Rymark is a danger. At the very least, those two would always be a threat. But while the others play their games of power, familiarize themselves with the a.s.sa.s.sins and the poisons that they will use in the war for the House, you hide. You caused the one death-and a death, in the end, that no one but you regrets-and having faced it, having paid no other price-"

"I paid a price," she said coldly. "And it's as much of a price as I'm willing-ever-to pay."

"And was it not a just death?"

"No."

"Did he not cost you at least one of the family that you so value?"

"Enough, Avandar."

"No. Not enough."

"If he had lived, he would have made no difference."

"Not to you. But to those who took your place in the twenty-fifth holding? Did you not, by his death, ease their future suffering?"

She was white now. "It wasn't a clean death."

"No. But in the end, clean or no, death is death." He turned away again.

She hadn't finished. "It makes a difference to me."

"Justice, in its rudimentary form, is a wergild. Justice, in the absence of a wergild, is an eye for an eye."

"Great. So we all walk around blind."

His brow rose as she spit.

"An eye for an eye," she continued, "makes me no better than Haerrad."

"Ah, but it does. You did not start the hostilities. It can be argued that you finished them."

"It's too easy to argue that," she snapped back. "It's just too d.a.m.n convenient."

"You don't trust yourself."

Not a question. She shrugged. Shoved hair out of her eyes. "Yes. Yes I do. And I want to continue to be able to trust myself. I want to know who I am. I want limits. I want rules."

"Why?"

"Because without them, I'm no better than-"

"Me?"

"Yes," she said, softly now. "Yes." She tugged at his hand.

"Is superiority so important?"

"Yes," she said again. A third time. "Because without trying to achieve it, what's the point? I know I'm not perfect. I'll never be perfect. But if I don't try to be as perfect as I can be, I might as well just be Haerrad.

"I met Carmenta tonight. But really, he was just me. Some part of me. I don't want to add to him. Not even for the House. I want . . ."

"You want what a child wants."

"Maybe. But it's my goal."

"And of me?"

"What?"