"I am repairing to the Red Library," announced Medeoan to her ladies. "Let the commander of the House Guard attend me there."

She whisked out of her apartments in their untrustworthy company, silently planning her escape.

The Red Library was housed in a much smaller chamber than the Imperial Library that stood beside the god house. Its chamber was a blunt wedge lined with oaken shelves. Pillars of garnet-colored marble stood between them. Three arched windows overlooked the courtyard and let in the summer daylight. The ceiling had been painted with a replica of the astrologer's chart that was supposed to have predicted Medeoan's grandmother's rise to empress, and the floor was inlaid with stars in colored woods.

Like the room that held the Portrait, the Red Library was a place she could enter alone without arousing suspicion. Here she could study in private among the grimoires, the books of shadows, the manuals of necromancy, and the ancient scrolls that the Isavaltan court sorcerers had collected or captured down the years.

Medeoan lifted a particular volume from the shelves. It was bound in white leather edged in blue ink. She laid it gently on one of the oaken tables. She had studied this book for months, with Avanasy at her shoulder. It was a book of spells that might be worked in cloth and thread. She began to turn the vellum pages, scanning the thick black lettering and the precise drawings for the one she needed.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Come," called Medeoan, hastily shutting the book.

A man in the blue coat and gilded armor of the house guard marched into the room. One sweep of his eyes took in her solitary presence and at once he reverenced, not merely the soldier's bow from the waist, but the full reverence to the imperial presence, down on both knees, his head bowed before her.

Medeoan rose. This was the man she had ordered the commander to find. As he was, however, she could see nothing of him but a pair of broad shoulders under his uniform coat and his bowed back. "Captain Peshek," she said.

"Imperial Majesty," he replied in acknowledgment, but without looking up, as was proper.

It was a propriety that did not help her at all now. She needed to see this man's eyes. She needed some hint as to how to judge him. "Stand up, Captain. Look at me."

Captain Peshek hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, and then did as he was bidden. He had a good face under his helmet, Medeoan decided. It was lined by smiles as well as by wind and weather, and his eyes were open and cheerful. But handsome looks could blind the observer. She knew that too well now.

She did not have time to hedge or to engage in any sort of verbal dance. "You are a friend of Lord Avanasy's, I believe."

Would he admit it? His whole face went wary. "Yes, Imperial Majesty."

"Still? Despite his exile?"

He might well be answering for his position, if not his life, and the way he pulled himself to attention said he knew that. Would he deny the friendship in hopes of saving himself? Or would he acknowledge it and accept the consequences of his honesty?

"Yes, Imperial Majesty," said Captain Peshek.

He said it without flinching or hesitation. Medeoan felt at least some of her knotted muscles loosen. "I know he trusted you."

Peshek said nothing. He just stood at rigid attention, his eyes straight ahead, waiting for orders, like the soldier he was.

"Because of that, I also will trust you."

Peshek laid his hand over his heart. "I live to serve, Imperial Majesty."

Now she had to speak the words out loud, and once the words left her, it all became real and she could not explain away what had happened anymore. Medeoan clasped her hands in front of her to keep them from trembling.

"I am in danger, Captain Peshek."

That startled him. He stared at her, confusion giving way rapidly to anger in his eyes. "How, Majesty? From who? I'll have ..."

Medeoan shook her head. "I can't tell you that. The less you know ... it's my own fault ... I ..." She pulled herself together. "Do you know where Lord Avanasy is?"

For the first time, Peshek hesitated. Why would he not? She had decided to trust him, but who was she? The one who had exiled Avanasy, who would have had him killed if she had caught him. Peshek had to decide how far he trusted her.

In the end, Peshek shook his head. "No, Imperial Majesty. I don't know where he is. I'm sorry," he said and Medeoan judged his regret to be sincere.

Medeoan bit her lip. "He told you nothing of where he planned to go?"

"No, Imperial Majesty."

"I see." Medeoan circled the reading table. It had been a slim hope, but it had been all she had. The white grimoire lay on the table's polished surface, looking no more nor less dangerous than any other history or poem. Yet, in there lay her salvation, her promise of life. For that promise, however, she must ask for a sacrifice.

And you must do this now. You have only three days. In three days the household moved to the summer palace of Vaknevos. In three days she would be constantly in Kacha's company while they traveled, and her hopes for escape would come to nothing. That thought sent a chill through her bones.

Medeoan steeled herself. "Captain," she said as firmly as she could manage. "I need for you to bring me a girl, a drab, one newly brought into service, if possible. This must be done quietly. The Mistress of the House must not know." No one must know. There must be no rumor, no gossip that can reach my husband's ears before I can have all my answers ready for him.

Medeoan watched the question "Why?" form in Peshek's eyes, but he did not speak it. Instead, it seemed to Medeoan that he turned his mind to the logistics of his assignment. Peshek, she knew, had lived in Vyshtavos for almost as long as she had. He was familiar with its ways, in some areas more familiar with them than she, whose provinces were only great apartments and grand halls.

"The Mistress of the House spends the first part of every day in her pantry reviewing the inventories," said Captain Peshek, again laying his hand again over his heart. "If that meets with Her Imperial Majesty's approval, I shall bring the girl then."

"In the morning, in two days' time," said Medeoan. "I will be walking by the canal. Bring her to me then. I remind you once more, this must be done quietly. No one must know."

"Imperial Majesty." Peshek pulled himself up to a posture of formal attention in acknowledgment of her orders.

Medeoan opened her mouth. She wanted to say something of her fear, of her fledgling plans. She wanted so much to have another heart beside her, as she thought she had with Kacha, and as she truly had with Avanasy. But Peshek, for all she must trust him, was not Avanasy, and would never be. So, all she said was, "Thank you, Captain Peshek. You may go."

This time, he gave her the soldier's reverence, a deep bow with his hand over his heart. But he did not leave at once. "Imperial Majesty?"

"Yes, Captain?" Medeoan rested her fingertips on the reading table, as if she might need to steady herself.

Peshek ventured a glance toward her face, but quickly recovered his discipline and dropped his gaze again. "You may also trust Keeper Bakhar. He too is a friend of Lord Avanasy's."

Bakhar. Thank goodness. I don't know if I could bear it if the attendant of the gods turned against me.

A thought struck her. Peshek would be a great help, but he could not provide all she needed. Nor could Keeper Bakhar. There would have to be a third. "What of the lord sorcerer?"

Captain Peshek shifted his weight. "Understand, Majesty, I am only a soldier, an unimportant member of the guard ..."

"I understand, Captain." Medeoan felt tired. She did not want to have to ask these questions.

"I do know Keeper Bakhar believes him to be loyal to you," finished Peshek quickly.

"Thank you, Captain," she said again, and again he reverenced. This time, however, he turned smartly on his heel and left, as protocol dictated.

Just this once, let me have judged a man rightly. Medeoan bowed her head. I cannot do this alone.

Two days. Only two days, and yet all of two days. It was just one more space of time to endure, she tried to tell herself. She had endured more and for longer than this, playing her part as required. She could do anything for just two days.

Kacha held himself still while his waiting gentlemen stripped the heavy Isavaltan finery from him, replacing it with a linen nightshirt and a plain, if voluminous, indigo velvet robe. The formal reception and subsequent feast for the new ambassador had lasted until well after dark, but he was not yet tired, which was just as well. There was more work to be done tonight.

On the whole, the reception had gone well. As Yamuna had predicted, Uncle Samudra had sent Girilal to act as the new ambassador. Girilal was a concession to old wounds at court, as he was known to have disapproved of the disruption of the succession Samudra had initiated. This disapproval could be worked on much more easily than Tanmay's loyalties. It had been a constant struggle to keep Tanmay from realizing that Harshul, Kacha's bound-sorcerer and Uncle Samudra's spy, had not reached Isavalta alive. That was not a report which could be permitted to reach the Pearl Throne.

Soon Kacha would find time to be alone with Girilal. He would make the new ambassador understand the situation here in Isavalta, and show him all the benefit his plans would bring to Hastinapura, including restoring the rightful line of succession. Ambassador Girilal would see the truth, and Kacha felt sure it would not take him long to do so.

Despite Kacha's confidence in his new ambassador, worry still gnawed at him. Medeoan had been too quiet, too with-drawn, this evening, as if she had something on her mind. But she had confided nothing to him. He must have this matter, whatever it might be, out of her soon. If she was ceasing to speak her whole mind to him, it might be the first sign she was slipping from his control, as Yamuna had said she might. If that were so, he would need to make use of the artifact Yamuna's magic and his bribery had ferreted out. The best time for that would be during the change of households, a time at which the empress could become ill for so many different reasons, and during which the fewest number of people would have their eyes on her.

It must be done, Yamuna's voice had whispered to him. It is better that it be done sooner. You have done well in cementing your alliances, my prince. The lies are in place, and her power wanes. It is better it be done before she realizes what she has lost and struggles to regain it.

Kacha waved his man away and tied the sash on his night robe himself. He did not wish to dispute Yamuna, who had been so right about so much, but Kacha wondered if Yamuna realized how frequently the rulers of Isavalta appeared in the public eye. Matters here were not as they were at home, where that which was most precious was most carefully concealed and protected. Here, the reasons for the empress remaining confined were far fewer and would be examined much more closely. Here, many different sorcerers would be working to find the cure for any "illness" which struck, as opposed to just one bound-sorcerer. Kacha was not certain Yamuna believed how close they had come to failure with the old emperor and empress. The court sorcerers and Medeoan had almost saved them, even at the bitter end. He had felt Yamuna's workings strain to hold against all the efforts of the Isavaltan magicians.

They would have to tread very carefully with Medeoan, and haste would only make the path more difficult to navigate.

Kacha turned to his manservant. "I've a mind to visit my lady wife. You may retire. I doubt your services will be required again tonight."

The man was, of course, far too disciplined to so much as smile at that. He bowed low with his palms over his eyes, following the custom of Hastinapura. Kacha touched the man's head as he passed, giving his approval with that gesture for the man, and the other servants, to be about their business. He crossed the cold, stone apartment to the connecting door, knocked once and entered his wife's chamber.

The flock of ladies surrounding Medeoan was on its feet and performing deeply respectful reverences as soon as he appeared. Medeoan herself sat by the fire, her head bent and her hand busy at some task he could not see. She did not look up as he entered.

"Beloved?" he inquired, as he moved softly forward. The worry that had touched him earlier drew closer.

Then, he felt the tingling in his right hand, and behind his right eye. Fear settled over him. Whatever Medeoan did, there was magic to it. She sat deep in concentration over some spell. As he approached, he could see she worked with a pair of weaving cards; thin, square pieces of wood with holes in their corners through which threads could be strung to make a small hand loom. The threads in question were very fine and glittered silver and gold in the firelight. As her hands manipulated the threads, her breath labored in her throat. This working was taking its toll on her strength.

What are you doing, Medeoan? thought Kacha as he sank into the chair beside her. The ladies, receiving no orders, rose from their reverences and set to the night's business of readying their mistress's bed. Kacha caught the lady Chekhania's eye, questioning. She replied with a small shake of her head. Whatever Medeoan did, his best spy among the ladies knew nothing of it.

Medeoan must have become aware of his presence because her breathing gradually eased, as did the uncomfortable tingling in Kacha's hand and eye. At last, her hands stilled their weaving and she lowered her work, looking up to smile at him.

"Forgive me, beloved," she said, dabbing at the sheen of perspiration that covered her brow. "I am at a working here."

"I guessed as much." Kacha leaned close. His right hand twitched. She was weaving a golden band, about an inch across, shot through with silver. "What is this you are making, beloved?"

"Remember how I said I was thinking about how to be more certain of the loyalties of the lords master?" Medeoan fingered her work. She had not even completed four inches of whatever it was she labored over. "When it is done, this will be a girdle which will help us in those determinations."

"Really?" Kacha felt a stab of foreboding in the back of his right eye. "How will it work?"

"At midsummer, when the new appointments are named, the loyalty oaths are renewed. We will declare that each lord master who takes the oath must wear the girdle as he does." Medeoan touched the piece of weaving again, as if to check for flaws. "If one is not sincere, the girdle will slip off his waist." Her smile grew arch. "Am I not clever? Is it not a good notion?"

Clever enough to be truly dangerous, if only you knew it. "An excellent notion, beloved," he said, both surprised and pleased that she should have thought of such a thing. "But will not such an open display of your power make your lords master nervous? You have said to me that they are not pleased at the thought they will be ruled over by a sorcerer."

"They are not pleased that they will be ruled over by a man of Hastinapura either." An unfamiliar note crept into Medeoan's voice. For a moment, she sounded fierce. "But that is who has been set over them, and we must make sure that they know we are secure in our rule, and that there is no deceiving us."

Kacha found himself answering her smile easily. Perhaps his earlier fears had been unfounded. That would be as well. Despite Yamuna's counsel of the need to hold her harmless, having Medeoan whole and articulate at his side would cause much less gossip and speculation than having her mute and bewildered. "The midsummer appointments will thus allow us to take even better measure of our allies than I had thought."

"Yes. No one will be able to hide from us," she said firmly, laying her hand over his. "You always know what to say. You will be able to find us some way to explain this so the lords master will not be too disturbed."

"I will set my mind to it," he assured her, stroking her arm lightly. "But it is late. Shall we go to bed, you and I? We could discuss that, and many other things."

Medeoan sighed and rubbed her eyes. "You must forgive me, beloved. This is a difficult sorcery. It will leave me profoundly weary. I wish to have it finished before we leave for Vaknevos, so that I am not overtaxed and a nuisance on the journey." She shook her head ruefully. "And if I am too often absent before the day itself, there will be talk we do not want."

"All of this is well thought of. I will leave you to your work." Kacha stood, and a new possibility occurred to him. "Shall I make your excuses to the ambassador tomorrow?"

At that, Medeoan looked deeply relieved. "Yes. Please. I am sure you can open whatever negotiations are required."

Excellent, thought Kacha to himself. This would mean he could easily interview Girilal in private, and ascertain how best to approach him concerning the ultimate plans for Isavalta.

And perhaps now would be a good time to return to another matter.

"Beloved," he said, letting his fingertips linger over hers. "While you are of mind to discuss the security of our rule, I would ask if you have reconsidered recalling Avanasy."

Medeoan turned her face away, her cheeks turning red. "Do you still believe ..."

"I believe that while he is alive, he is a danger to you, my love. He knows your powers so well, he held your confidence for so long ... who can say what he is doing with that knowledge? Beloved ..." He touched her cheek, turning her back toward him. Her eyes were damp and her mouth was set in an unusually stern line. "It is only when he is secured under the hand of those we know are loyal that you will be safe from him."

And only when he is dead we will truly be sure of him, added Kacha to himself.

Medeoan took his hand, pressing it against her cheek. "Very well, husband," she whispered.

Kacha smiled broadly and drew her to him, kissing her long and deeply. She clung to him with the desperate strength that possessed her when she gave in to him on some matter that pained her.

He disengaged her gently, keeping hold of both her hands. "Shall I give the orders?" he asked gently.

She shook her head. "I will see to it. This was my doing, let mine be the undoing."

"I am as one of your guard." Kacha rose and gave her a soldier's reverence. "I live only to serve you."

"I thought you lived to love me." Medeoan pushed out her lower lip petulantly.

Knowing his part well, Kacha kissed that lip. "That as well. I shall seek my lonely bed this night, and let you get on with your good work." He kissed her forehead for good measure, and left.

So, wife, you have bought yourself some time. Kacha paused by the door and looked back at Medeoan, who had already reclaimed her weaving. And you have bought it for me as well. I thank you for both.

But watch her, cautioned the voice that never seemed to leave the back of his mind. Now more than ever, watch her closely. That girdle she weaves might be used as easily against you as against any.

I've thought of that, answered Kacha silently. It could also easily be taken from her to be my own tool when I bind her thoughts forever.

In the morning, the household of Vyshtavos began in earnest to prepare itself for the annual move to the summer palace. Legions of scullions and house servants were loaded onto wagons under the watchful eye of the aides to the Mistress of the House. They were then sent to assist the workers already there in opening and preparing Vaknevos. Half of Medeoan's ladies and half of Kacha's gentlemen were sent ahead in barges to make sure the imperial needs would be met without awkwardness or delay once the move was completed. Those who remained were doubly busy, not only in seeing to their masters, but in supervising the organizing and packing necessary for removing the imperial couple to the summer palace, and for securing the belongings, furnishings and necessaries that must be left behind over the summer.

Dispatches had to be written, inventories had to be reviewed, orders and letters had to be conveyed to various parties. There was almost none among the council and the high household who did not need to be spoken to.

A thing Medeoan was counting on. She was being watched, she was sure of it. Even when Kacha left her side to attend his own duties, she felt eyes staring at the back of her neck, reading over her shoulder, straining to catch every nuance of her work.

Could he tell what she truly did? Could Yamuna's hand and Yamuna's eye discern so much?

I am only tired, she tried to tell herself. The working has been hard and slow, and that is what has me worried.

The girdle was complete and lay in the basket with her sewing. Fatigue weighed Medeoan down. She had slept for only a handful of hours during the past two days, and it was only the thrumming of her nerves that kept her moving.

She had brought her entourage out onto the banks of the canal this morning by declaring that she and her ladies required some fresh air after all their time shut up indoors like bees trapped in their hive. Now, they sat in the willow grove, underneath the canopy that had been set up for them, their sewing on their laps and plates of white breads and fresh fruits before them. The birds sang and the wind blew fresh and strong across the grasses bringing them all the scents of early summer, and Medeoan could enjoy none of it.

Where is Peshek? she kept thinking as she stared at the linen in her lap. Where is he?

Unable to sit still any longer, Medeoan rose and began to stroll as calmly as she was able down the bank. The shadows of the willows played across her skin. Chekhania followed behind her in decorous silence. Beyond hearing the rustle of her skirts and her footsteps on the grass, Medeoan felt her there. She was watching Medeoan carefully, surely looking for something to report to Kacha.