“He is yours no longer. You will be given to Mudlic in—”

“No!” Vika wailed. She ran at Alexeika, only to be dragged back, slapped, and taken away.

Alexeika listened to Vika’s sobbing for a long time. Then there was silence, and Vika came no more to torment her. For a while, Alexeika sat there, deserted and still tied, while the paints dried on her body and the cool breeze made her shiver despite the sunlight. Finally the mamsas returned, looking flustered, and resumed their work. But their attention had been affected. They painted more rapidly, with less care now. Alexeika’s skin crawled, but she could tell the spellcasting was less potent than it had been at first.

She smiled in her heart, hoping Vika caused even more trouble.  In the evening, as one by one the campfires were extinguished, Alexeika bided her time. She had been working on loosening the bars of her cage ever since learning what was to be her fate. Each night, as soon as the camp bedded down and the last sounds faded and grew quiet, the mamsa on duty would fall asleep.  Alexeika would go to work, turning the bar back and forth. Tonight it was very loose, loose enough to pull free. She knew she could wriggle out through the narrow space.

Her heart beat with feverish impatience. She wanted to go now, to flee. But she forced herself to wait. This was her only chance. She must not ruin it with haste.

She waited, her skin itching beneath her robe, knowing that Holoc would steal forth in the darkness to stand at her cage as he always did. What a fool he was, wanting her but afraid of her. She was no demon, but she had no intention of letting anyone in camp know that. In her heart, she made herself despise him, telling herself he was no man if he needed his grandmother to make a lust spell for him.

For half the night, she waited, agonized by fear, caution, and impatience.

Holoc did not come.

She saw a light burning in his tent for a long time, but he never emerged.  Alexeika knew the spell must be nearly overwhelming him. Perhaps he did not trust himself to come near her tonight. Perhaps the sheda did not allow it.  In the quiet, she listened to the distant buzz of insects in the brush. She saw the stars come out, cold and twinkling in the black sky. She listened to the soft moans of a man and woman together, and frowned in resistance. There was no burn in her skin tonight, as the mamsa had said there would be. She was too afraid.

Finally, silence lay over the camp like a blanket. Her guard slept. Holoc’s light went out.

It was time.

The air felt bitterly cold, blowing off the snowy peak of the Bald Giant.  Alexeika blew on her half-frozen fingers, then reached out and pulled the loose bar away. Laying it down carefully on the dusty ground, she held her breath and slithered out of the cage.

Crouching low, she paused to listen. The mamsa’s breathing remained hoarse and steady.

Alexeika knew where the other sentries were posted. The horses moved about sleepily, and she froze anew.

Nothing else stirred.

She crept away from the stone outcropping. The best way to avoid the sentries was to cut straight through the center of camp. Though her heart lifted to her throat, she took that route. Her feet wanted to fly, but she knew better than to run.

She forced herself to go slowly, silently. Barely did she breathe, that the air might not be disturbed around her. Her foot stumbled against a stone, and she looked down in the darkness, realizing she had disturbed the ini circle around the large Adauri stone.

Satisfaction touched her heart. She hesitated, then crouched down and swiftly pulled the other stones out of place. She took the robe of yellow and blue stripes from atop the Adauri stone, crumpled it in her hands, dropped it on the ground, and walked over it.

Across the camp, she edged between two tents, skirted the silent looms where the cloth in progress popped and billowed softly on its frame. She listened to a man’s snoring and crept onward.

When she was clear of the tents, she hesitated yet again, still resisting the urge to plunge recklessly into the ravine.

She had to go slowly. She had to make sure she knew where all the sentries were.  So she waited. No sound or whiff of rancid beyar grease came to her. She knew she must be upwind of them, but she heard them, one by one, as they shifted position and stamped their feet against the cold.

Now.

Crouching low, she moved to the top of the ravine. A whiff of decay came to her nostrils. This was where the Grethori threw their trash, offal, and the bodies of their dead victims. She would have to climb down through that.  It did not matter. The stink would help hide her trail.

Carefully she lowered herself over the edge. Down she climbed into the thicket and briers. In the darkness, it was impossible to see where she was going. She moved by feel and stealth, trying to make as little noise as possible.  And all the while, she was so tense her muscles ached. She expected the outcry of discovery at any moment, with the chase to follow, and then capture.  But the mamsa on guard did not awaken and find her gone. The sentries did not hear her cautious progress through the brush and undergrowth that choked the ravine. She clambered over one of the corpses, nearly gagging on the stench, and refused to imagine what she touched.

A stone dislodged beneath her foot and went rolling down the hillside ahead of her. It clattered and tumbled loudly, and Alexeika froze there. Suddenly she was breathing hard. Her hands were sweaty, and she could not think or move.  She stayed crouched there in the brush, her hair snagging on twigs, and moaned softly in the back of her throat.

No shout came from the top of the ravine, however. After a few moments, the night sounds of insects came back. A little creature rustled in the leaves. The breeze sighed through the trees.

She managed to stop shaking and forced herself to continue.  Near the bottom of the ravine a small stream gurgled over the stones. The scent and sound of the water refreshed her. Quickly she knelt at its edge and cupped her hands in the icy liquid to drink.

She would walk down the stream the rest of the way to the bottom of the mountain. By morning, she would be well away from here, and almost impossible to track. She swore to not let them find her.

Karstok was where she meant to go. If she kept up her strength and managed to keep herself fed, she thought she could reach the town before snows blanketed these mountains. Down in the lower lands, she would have little trouble finding a place for herself. Even if she had to work as a serf, she would do it until her fortunes turned again.

For the first time, she allowed herself to feel a tiny sliver of hope. She’d escaped, against the odds. She was free, and soon she would be safe.  Suddenly something wet and slippery touched the back of her neck.  She jumped and floundered into the stream, nearly falling as she did so, and struggled to whirl around. Her involuntary scream stayed trapped in her throat, for the thing that grabbed her snaked a wet arm around her throat and squeezed hard.

“Now you will never be his,” Vika’s voice whispered in her ear. “I will make sure of that tonight, when I slit your throat and drink your blood.” Alexeika shuddered as Vika’s arm tightened across her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Her senses were spinning, and her struggles only made it worse.  “We are promised, Holoc and I,” Vika whispered, squeezing even harder so that Alexeika’s ears roared. “With your demon blood in me, the sheda’s spell can still be made. I will bear the dragon-child, not you!”

Alexeika tugged at Vika’s arm with both hands, but the Grethori girl was stronger than her slenderness would have indicated. When she pressed the merciless cold metal of a dagger blade against Alexeika’s throat, Alexeika stood horrified and frozen in Vika’s arms, certain she’d drawn her final breath.  Far away at Savroix, Lady Pheresa du Lindier was perched on a cushion at the rear of the Countess Lalieux’s sitting room. Just last week, the countess had become the king’s sole mistress. Her older rival had left the palace in a huff and flurry, trailing mountains of baggage and, it was whispered, half the furnishings in her wing of the palace. Consequently, Lalieux’s position at court had grown very powerful. Although as a member of the royal family Pheresa was not supposed to recognize the king’s mistresses, she no longer had a choice. It was poor strategy to make enemies among those in power.  Today, Pheresa had accepted the countess’s invitation. She had come reluctantly, hoping she would not land herself in some wanton orgy.  But it was only a staid gathering of ladies listening to a concert of lute players.

Trying to stifle her yawns, Pheresa turned her gaze away from the trio of female musicians. One of them was Sofia, newly married and now the Baroness de Briard.  Pheresa could not help but remember Sofia as the wanton, mischievous girl she’d seen cavorting in the gardens on many occasions; it was hard to watch her now attempting to be a grand lady of married status without thinking of all her previous exploits. Still, at this court respectability could be established in a day if fashion decreed it. Pheresa still believed in honor and proper behavior, though perhaps her presence here in Lalieux’s company, she realized, indicated otherwise.

Turning hot-faced, she wished she hadn’t come.

Plinking on their lutes, the ladies sang in sweet harmony, making the audience of court women coo with admiration behind their fans. Pheresa’s mind, however, could not stay on the melodies. It was far too preoccupied with her troubles.  She wore her finest gown today, one of mushroom-colored silk embroidered with silver threads and tiny pearls. A cap sewn all over with pearls and crystal beads was fitted atop her thick reddish-gold tresses. Her fan was made of dyed ivory, and intricately carved. It was very old and valuable, having belonged to Pheresa’s grandmother. She was dressed this way because Prince Gavril had returned three days ago, to much fanfare and pomp, and she believed—nay, hoped—that today at last he would send for her.

Yesterday evening, she had seen him at the dancing following the nightly banquet. The festivities were merry indeed, enlivened by the prince’s presence.  How gracefully he moved, how quickly he learned the new dance steps which had become fashionable while he was away. When he threw back his head and laughed, the tenor sound of his voice rang through her like a bell.  He had grown into a stunningly handsome young man, broad of shoulder and tall.  He wore a thin mustache now, making him look even older. His hair shone in the candlelight like gilt, and his dark blue eyes flashed with wit and high spirits.  They had passed over her without recognition, however, as she’d sat grouped with other young maidens of the court.

Her disappointment haunted her still. She had joined in the dancing when given the opportunity, but by then Prince Gavril had gone to chat with other young men his age. His back was to the dancing the whole time she and Lord Fantil were on the floor. Gavril never saw how gracefully she could execute the spinnade or the gliande in the hands of her partner.

Fantil, of course, understood everything. His cynical eyes gleamed at her as she pivoted before him. “He doesn’t remember you at all, does he, little dove?” Her eyes flashed to hide her disappointment. “Why should he? I have not seen him in years.”

But her bravado was all a facade, and Fantil only laughed at her.  Since this morning, everyone had been gossiping about how Gavril had ignored her. Humiliation almost kept Pheresa locked in her room, but she came forth at last, dressed in her best, and determined to let no one see how hurt she was.  Life was perilous at court for someone like herself, with high hopes and higher ambitions, but no real position of power. There were factions who supported her as the future queen, but others sought to trip her into making some fatal mistake that would force the king to banish her from court. Thus far, she’d avoided most of the pitfalls. But her nerves were stretched to the breaking point, and this afternoon as she sat at the concert, pretending to enjoy the music, her mind was racing and her emotions were chaotic. She’d been here for months—niece of the king, yet a nobody who was by turns laughed at, ignored, or pitied. Thus far, she’d endured the waiting by telling herself that once Gavril returned everything would change.

It hadn’t. He didn’t even know her.

In the back of her mind she could hear her mother’s furious voice, castigating her for failure. In her mind’s eye she could see her father’s cynical look of disappointment. Rank, position, and achievement meant everything to her parents.  They did not permit failure. The idea of returning home to their country estate unchosen and humiliated filled Pheresa with distress. She curled her slender hands into tight fists in her lap and vowed, as she had sworn last night in her prayers, that she would make the prince notice her.

That was why she had dressed so resplendently today. Pretend a thing was, and sometimes you could bring it to pass. Or so she had been taught by old Nyswan, her childhood tutor. She dressed as though Gavril had already spoken to her of betrothal. Emulating her mother’s regal carriage, she held her head erect and made her eyes look proud.

And if perhaps there was more anger and simmering disappointment flashing in the depths of her gaze than happiness, it hardly mattered. She did not look defeated. By midday, her ploy had begun to bear fruit with some of the courtiers. Already a rumor had been started, and while this pleased Pheresa, it also worried her. From what she knew of Gavril, he did not like to have his hand forced. He might reject her now out of sheer stubbornness.  But better to be rejected than simply ignored. That was what mortified her so deeply. She was not some nameless country maid of indifferent lineage with unfounded hopes. She had been brought here to become his bride, if he would have her. The least he could do was speak to her for a few minutes. If they did not suit each other, well and good, and no blame to anyone. But his indifference wounded her feminine vanity and undermined what self-confidence she possessed.  He was acting discourteous and cruel by subjecting her to the mockery of the courtiers.

She wished he could be more like his father. Despite his many faults, King Verence was a kind and courteous man. Because he was so pressed by the demands of state, he was inclined to be self-indulgent and forgetful of others. He abhorred unpleasantness and went out of his way to avoid confrontations and quarrels. It was said by some, quietly, that Verence was a better man than he was a king. His heart was too generous and forgiving. He overlooked too many faults in too many men, his own son among them.

But however rude he might be, Gavril was so very handsome. When she thought of him, her anger melted. All her life she’d heard what a fine-looking boy he was.  But she had not expected to find him grown and manly and this magnificent.  Seeing him last night had filled her breast with inner tumult. She’d hardly been able to tear her gaze away from him. Pheresa always kept a cool head, but since last night she’d been awash with dreams and fantasies. If only his eyes would turn to her. If only he would actually look at her and see her.  Now, at the concert in the countess’s chambers, Pheresa’s emotions overtook her.  Suddenly breathless, she dropped her gaze to where her hands trembled in her lap. Did she love him already? How could she? She felt ill inside, but that was only nerves. Or perhaps she was simply exhausted from so many festivities. She must steady herself, must not grow sickly. She knew the importance of keeping her courage here under the scrutiny of so many. For even at this moment, Lady Esteline—her court chaperone, but no friend—was staring at her.  The woman’s mouth curved in a small, malicious smile, and Pheresa felt herself blush.

The music stopped at that moment, mercifully, and she applauded with the others.  Her back was aching from sitting so erect on the uncomfortable cushion, but Pheresa did not slouch, ever.

A rustle came from the rear of the room. A servant in the king’s livery had entered. He crept quietly forward through the throng of seated ladies, carrying his cap in his hand.

Pheresa’s heart leaped wildly in her chest. A king’s footman. Surely it was a message at last.

But she forced herself to sit still, to pretend indifference. After all, how many times had she watched a footman pass her on his way to summon someone else?  She no longer allowed herself to hope for anything. But just the same, as she lowered her eyes and pretended to pick at the carving on her fan, her heart was pounding hard and fast.

Let this be my summons at last, she prayed.

A touch on her shoulder made her look up.

The footman was bending over her. She met his eyes; he bowed low to her.

“My lady,” he murmured softly, “your presence is requested at once.” There was silence in the room. They all heard him say it. Everyone now turned to stare at her.

Tremendous relief, hope, and joy poured over Pheresa in a wave. This was one of the king’s footmen, not Gavril’s, but surely the king would not send for her today if it were not significant. The eyes of the women around her held bold speculation and envy, and Pheresa let herself believe the moment had finally come.

She wanted to jump to her feet, but instead she rose in a fluid motion and followed the servant out with no expression on her face.  She had been taught how to walk gracefully and with exquisite poise. Only the iciness in her veins and the pulse pounding madly in her throat belied the outer calm she exhibited. After all, she was long skilled at maintaining her composure. As a child, she had been poked daily at dinner with a meat skewer.  Her mother, Princess Dianthelle, would lean toward her, poking even harder while she whispered, “Show nothing of what you feel, Pheresa. Show nothing!” Such training had been harsh, but it served her well during these difficult days at court. She relied on it now as she walked past Lady Esteline and went out the door.

She was glad she’d worn her best dress today. Her instincts for survival had not failed her after all. Today her life was changing forever. She sensed it, and her steps quickened until she was almost crowding the footman’s heels.  As she walked down the long galleries and corridors of the palace and neared the chambers of state, more courtiers thronged the passageways. Some of them stopped talking among themselves to stare as she walked past them regally, her head held high. A few of them bowed to her.

Pheresa’s eyes flicked right and left to these few individuals. Her quick and intelligent mind made note of their faces so that she would remember them later.  They wanted to be her allies, and she needed as many as she could get.  In her wake arose a buzz of speculative conversation, and her heart sang with pride and anticipation.

Then the footman turned aside and led her down a lesser passageway. He stopped before a door and tapped three times.

A muffled voice responded, and the door swung inward. The footman bowed to Pheresa.

Frowning a little, for this was unexpected, she walked past him. On the other side of the threshold, she saw a man in church livery. He handed the king’s footman a purse of money. She heard the coins clink inside it as the footman tucked it away.

Before Pheresa could turn back, he was gone and the door was being shut behind her.

Alarm touched her. The exchange had been so deft and quick it was over almost before she knew what had happened. Now she found herself inside a small, sumptuously appointed antechamber. There were many such rooms off the main galleries, rooms where important personages waited in private for audiences with the king.

Pheresa looked at the man in church livery. He had the closed, secretive face of a servant. His eyes held infinite knowledge, but indifference to it all. His expression told her nothing. In silence he gestured for her to advance into the room. Fearing abduction, Pheresa wanted to flee, but the man was between her and the door. She had no choice but to go in the direction he bade her.  Smelling of incense, the air was sultry and too warm. Heavy draperies shrouded the windows, closing out all sunlight and requiring candles to be lit. They burned in generous groups in each corner of the room, casting forth clear, yellow light.

At first she thought no one else was there, but then a movement caught her darting gaze and she realized a man was standing in the shadows near the draperies. Her breath caught. She thought it might be Gavril, using subterfuge to gain them privacy, and her fright left her. He turned and walked toward her, his feet soundless on the thick carpets.

As he came into the light, he was revealed to be not Gavril at all, but instead a short man, immensely fat, with a neck that bulged and rolled above his tunic collar. His vestments reached to the floor and were snowy white, except for the embroidered sash of yellow binding his ample girth. He wore heavy rings, one of which had a seal. A Circle set with immense round diamonds hung on a gold chain around his neck, flashing and glittering on his chest. His face was broad and fleshy, his lips thick and red. He wore a small, gray goatee on his chin which ill-suited him. His dark eyes, almost buried in layers of fat, held rapier intelligence.

She had never been introduced to this man, but she knew instantly who he was.

With a gasp, she curtsied low. “Cardinal Noncire,” she whispered.  Halting before her, he briefly placed his hand atop her beaded cap in benevolence. “Lady Pheresa,” he murmured.

His voice was incredibly rich of timbre, deep and warm and vibrant. It amazed her that a man of such physical ugliness could have been blessed with such a voice. Could she have closed her eyes and imagined him, he would have been tall, fit, young, and manly, a knight of valor and fighting prowess, a man to follow to the ends of the earth.

Her fancies startled her, and she dismissed them in swift shame. This was a cardinal. It was improper to indulge in such frivolous thoughts about him. In her mind, she begged pardon from Saint Tomias, and rose from her curtsy with her face aflame and her thoughts chaotic.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” Noncire said.

She frowned slightly. “I thought I was obeying a summons from the king.”

“Ah.” Noncire’s fleshy lips twitched in what might have been a smile.

“Discretion is useful, my dear.”

She did not like for him to call her that. Cardinal or not, he was a prince of the church only. He had been born the younger son of a chevard, and was not her equal. But she curbed her annoyance, reminding herself that his power was great, perhaps greater than she knew.

“What do you wish from me?” she asked.

“Such impatience!” He held up his thick hand. “Please seat yourself, Lady Pheresa, that we may talk in comfort.”

She did not like his mannerisms. His deep voice was almost hypnotic, inducing within her the desire to obey him. Frowning, she steeled herself against his influence and chose a chair different from the one he’d selected for her.  The cardinal’s expression did not change. Once she was seated, he lowered his bulk ponderously onto a chair, which creaked beneath his weight.  “Better,” he said with a sigh of relief, and fixed his tiny eyes on her. “You are young and impatient. We will not parry with each other. For what purpose have you joined Lalieux’s set?”

Pheresa blinked, surprised by such a direct attack. “I...” “Come, my dear, do not attempt to dissemble with me. I am far more clever than you.”

“Then you must already know my reasons,” she retorted angrily, “and I need not waste your time by repeating them.”

Anger flashed in his small eyes, and for a moment she was frightened by her own temerity. He could destroy her, she knew. All he had to do was lay accusations against her, and she would be banished from court immediately.  “That reply was unwise, Lady Pheresa,” he said after a long moment of silence.

“I am not your enemy. You do not want to make me into one.” “Forgive me,” she said with a gasp, trying to rein in her temper. When she was queen, he could do less against her. But right now, she was nothing. She must remember that. She must govern herself more carefully.  “Lalieux is pretty and extends considerable influence over the king in private,” the cardinal said. “She has no influence politically. Why, after all this time, have you suddenly joined forces with her?”

“I haven’t,” Pheresa said, wondering if her simple attendance at a concert had caused all this concern. “I wanted to hear the music. I had no other invitation for the day.”

He sat back in his chair, making it creak again, and Pheresa felt new shame steal through her heart. She resented having to make such an admission to anyone. It revealed how pathetically lonely she was here at Savroix, how isolated she really was.

“But you will now accept her other invitations,” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“You will. To refuse is to snub her and perhaps annoy the king.” Pheresa opened her mouth to defend herself, but shut it again in silence. She had been raised not to offer excuses. She realized how foolish her little act of rebellion had been. Every action at court carried ramifications. Intrigue was rampant here. Interpretations of behavior and words grew complex far beyond their original intention.

“Thank you for advising me,” she said at last, her voice tight and small. “I didn’t think—” “I am not advising you,” he broke in curtly. “I advise the prince.” Her eyes flashed up to meet his. With sudden insight, she said, “Have you instructed him to avoid me?”

A tinge of red appeared in the cardinal’s face. “You are either a very brave young woman or a complete fool,” he said softly.

Pheresa gripped her hands together to hide their trembling and forced herself to meet his gaze steadily. “You have chosen against me, and told him so,” she said after a moment. “I see.”

For a moment she was intensely angry, but she also realized the futility of trying to combat Noncire’s powerful influence.

“My efforts are for naught, then,” she said.

“He has gone hunting for the day,” Noncire said. “Tomorrow he will be allowed to compete in the final rounds of jousting. Then will he go to his investiture into knighthood. He has no time to stand about and gaze at you. Your finery is a bold but wasted effort. The rumor it’s caused is like a summer weed. It will be gone by tomorrow when no announcement of betrothal is made. You will wish you’d never started anything so foolish.”

Anger and embarrassment mingled inside her. She hated being so transparent to him.

The cardinal pulled himself ponderously to his feet and stood over her, dominating her with his bulk and disdain. “My momentary concern was for naught,” he announced. “You are no intriguer, no meddler. You are simply a vapid girl, with little brain and no character. Your show of spirit is foolish indeed, and reveals how insubstantial you are. Trying to catch Gavril’s eye with this gown is a trick we might expect of some little servant girl. You are not worthy to become Princess of the Realm. You are not worthy of him.” Noncire turned from her and waddled away. Clearly the interview was over.  Humiliated and furious, Pheresa rose to her feet. She glared at Noncire’s back, wanting to hurl invective at him. But there was nothing she could say to refute his cruel words. He’d spoken lies, of course. He was not as clever a man as he thought he was, for she was neither foolish, nor characterless, nor stupid, nor a trickster. But she would not dignify his insults with denials.  Drawing in a sharp breath, she said softly, “I threaten you somehow. How is that, lord cardinal? Is it that you fear I might supersede you in the prince’s affections? That he might grow to listen more to his betrothed than to his tutor? That he might become a man, and be no longer a boy under your instruction?”

The cardinal’s shoulders stiffened. He turned around to confront her, his face dark with arrested anger.

She looked at him with her head high and her eyes bright with defiance, and said, “We could have been allies, you and I. Instead, you choose to make us enemies.”

He snorted. “Your words are empty, girl. You will never win him.”

“Nay, sir. ‘Tis I who am to be won,” she replied. Her voice shook, angering her.

She wanted to it be strong in this argument. “Here at court, I am not popular,

for all the maidens at Savroix see themselves as my competitors. But the people

want me at Gavril’s side—”

“The people!” Noncire said with scorn.

“As does the king.”

His beady eyes flashed, but he said nothing.

Ah, she thought, so you do not quite speak in the same tone about his majesty.  “If I go unchosen by Gavril,” she said, keeping her voice as brave as she could, “then my father will wed me to a suitor from another realm, forging an alliance that may be to Mandria’s cost.”

Noncire stared at her. “Is that a threat, Lady Pheresa?” She had made an enemy of him, she realized. But there’d never been any real chance of his becoming anything else. “I would not presume to threaten you, lord cardinal,” she replied demurely, but with steel in her voice. “I am not that foolish.”

“What would you call it, then?” he asked furiously. “If not a threat, what?”

“A statement of speculation,” she replied.

“You cannot win Gavril’s love,” he told her. “That is a woman’s ploy, to entrap a man through his senses, but it will not work.”

“I do not seek Gavril’s love,” she said. “I prefer his respect and his courtesy.  Do you judge me cheap, lord cardinal? This is a matter of state, of creating a union deemed best for the realm and its future. I can see that, even if you do think me vapid and lacking in character. I had supposed you, as a man of such intellect and power, would also understand something so basically political.”