She frowned. “This isn’t a reception. We’re—”

“Ah, look! I hear the first guests arriving.” Gavril patted her hand. “How pretty you look, my dear. That gown is much more becoming than what you’ve been wearing. As soon as we are wed, you must make an effort to keep up with fashions, even set them. Learn to do better, Pheresa. I consider attire important.”

She wanted to scream at him, but he wouldn’t have understood. The emptiness in his eyes made her despair. She had never felt more helpless or alone. With all her heart she wished she could turn back time to that night of the Harvest Ball at Savroix, when Dain had humbly offered her his heart. Enslaved to duty and responsibilities, she’d turned away from him to accept Gavril’s offer instead.  What a fine bargain she’d made. Gavril, so arrogant and heartless; Gavril, who hadn’t given her a second’s consideration until he saw that Dain wanted her;

Gavril, who had told her he would marry her provided she kept her place and never interfered with his rule. She’d wanted a kingdom. She’d wanted everything but love, and now she had nothing but a madman and a nightmare.  At the door came the babble of voices. Titters of laughter rang out, for the Netheran courtiers had arrived. Swathed in furs and dusted with the snow that was falling outside, the queen and her companions entered the gallery while Mradvior bowed to them in welcome.

“My queen, lords, and ladies,” he said cheerily. “For your amusement, I present a tableau . . . Behold the court of Savroix.”

Little dogs costumed as courtiers came trotting out to surround Pheresa and Gavril. They yapped at her, and one of them urinated on the floor. The people laughed.

Gavril bowed to them grandly. “You are hereby made welcome,” he proclaimed.  They laughed again, some applauding. Queen Neaglis—a lean, intense woman with black eyes set narrowly above a thin, pointed nose—gazed around at the tawdry, dirty room in disgust. When her eyes fell on Pheresa and Gavril, however, she smiled.

Dressed in magnificent brown velvet trimmed in lyng fur with tippets of islean, and carrying a matching muff over one arm, she walked forward with her ladies in waiting.

Embarrassment filled Pheresa and she wished she could do something, anything to drive these visitors away. Her helpless immobility so enraged her that she prayed to Thod for the ability to hurl this filthy piece of needlework at the nearest sneering face. Trapped and humiliated, she was forced to sit there while the queen approached her.

Still smiling with amused contempt, Queen Neaglis stared first at Gavril, then at Pheresa. One of her gloved hands made a little gesture, and her ladies in waiting gave mock curtsies to the Mandrian prince and his lady.  Mradvior hovered at her elbow. “Your majesty, I present Prince Gavril of Mandria.”

Gavril stood up and bowed to the queen. “I am honored, your majesty. May I present my intended bride, Lady Pheresa du Lindier.” The queen’s dark eyes were very cold. Stripping off her gloves and giving them to a companion to hold, she glanced at Mradvior. “Quite amusing, my lord.” He smiled back in gratification. “Thank you. ‘Twas but a simple idea to while away a dreary afternoon. Yes, yes, a simple idea.”

Giggling, the queen’s ladies swarmed about Pheresa, touching her hair and fingering her fake jewels. “Lord Mradvior!” they called out. “Is it true she cannot move?”

“Very true,” he replied.

A queer, tingling sensation swept over Pheresa. For an instant she felt peculiar, in a way she could not describe. The room, the staring people, all seemed to fade for a moment. She heard something, a murmur like song or voices.  Her gaze shifted up toward the globes of king’s glass, but it was not their song she heard.

The air overhead seemed to shimmer, and to her astonishment a hazy little cloud appeared. She saw a vapor forming itself into a girl’s face, oval and lean with prominent cheekbones and blue-gray eyes. Amazed, Pheresa could not tear her gaze away. What was this vision? she wondered. What did it mean?  And then another face appeared next to the first one. Pheresa recognized Dain as clearly as though he were actually in the room. She grew faint, her temples pounding, and momentarily forgot how to breathe. Before she could cry out to him, the vision faded away. She went on staring upward, hoping he would reappear, but he did not. Tears welled in her eyes.

Dain, she thought, aching to be rescued. Where was he now? Why had he left?  Gavril had said Dain’s selfishness and impatience drove him away, but she did not believe Dain had willingly abandoned her, not after his promises to see her healed.

Unlike Gavril, Dain was no liar. She supposed that Gavril had driven him away.  Yet just now, she’d seen him. Was he searching for her? Was this vision some kind of message he was sending to her? A message of hope? A message to hang on?  If only Dain would come.

Or perhaps she was only hallucinating, going slowly mad in her despair.

Sometimes Master Vlana’s potions were too strong and played tricks on her mind.

“How queer and demented she looks,” one of the ladies in waiting remarked.

“Perhaps they are both insane.”

Emboldened by Pheresa’s silence, one of the women pulled her hair in a series of sharp tugs. The other one pushed her sideways in her chair, then pulled her upright again.

The queen laughed at these antics and reached out to pinch her quite hard.  It took every ounce of willpower Pheresa possessed not to wince or show the slightest flicker of pain. Nor was there any use in hoping Gavril would defend her. Oblivious to what the queen and her ladies were doing, or to how the other courtiers stared and pointed at him with snickers, Gavril had wandered off, caressing the hilt of Tanengard and mumbling to himself.  There had been a time, when they first embarked on the journey to Grov, when Gavril would have leaped to her defense. He’d been afire with zeal to save her.  She’d delighted in his kindness, his brief visits, his apparent worry on her behalf. Like a fool, she’d told herself this illness was worthwhile if it made him love her.

But in truth she had no lover here, no defender, no champion. Gavril—always concerned most with himself—had stood over her encasement one night when she was suffering from fever and, thinking her unconscious, had sneered at her, revealing his true feelings of disgust and impatience. He’d spewed out how tired he was of caring for her. He could have gone home had it not been for her. He could have turned his armed forces against Klad and conquered it if not for her.  He could have been out searching for the Chalice with Dain if not for her. She was a burden to him, and he wished he’d never offered her marriage. He wished she would die.

And now he’d gone mad; whether his wits could be restored she did not know. She hardly cared. At present he was of no use to her at all.  But if he chose to wander in his mind and thus evade the indignities heaped on them by their captors, Pheresa had no intention of doing the same. Seeing Dain again, even if it had been her own imagination at work, renewed her spirits. She believed that Dain, had he been imprisoned here, would have found a way to defy his tormentors. Well, then, why should she do less?

Her fingers moved slowly across the needlework in her lap, and pulled out the rusted needle that had been left in the stained cloth. Gripping the needle between thumb and forefinger, Pheresa managed to quirk her lips in a small, brief smile.

“Will your majesty take my hand and warm my fingers?” she asked sweetly.  The ladies in waiting giggled, and others—hearing Pheresa speak to their queen—clustered around.

“She can talk,” a man said in amazement. “Did you hear her speak Netheran?”

“I didn’t know she could talk,” a woman said. “How is this so, count?” Ignoring the comments, Pheresa kept her gaze on Queen Neaglis. The woman’s cruel eyes made her shiver, but Pheresa did not back down. “Please, your majesty,” she said softly. “Take my hand. Let a Netheran queen feel the clasp of one who will now never rule Mandria.”

Laughter and approval rippled around the crowd. “This is better than a puppet show, Mradvior,” someone said.

The queen, urged on by her companions, smirked and reached down to curl her perfumed hand around Pheresa’s. Swiftly, with all the scant strength she possessed, Pheresa stabbed the needle in Neaglis’s finger hard enough to draw blood.

The queen jerked back with a scream, and tiny drops of blood splattered on the floor while the costumed dogs yapped and milled around.  “Get out!” Pheresa said, her soft voice vehement with rage. “You Netheran swine have betrayed us, but you will not make us into puppets to play with. Get out!” With her black eyes narrowed in rage, Queen Neaglis slapped Pheresa hard, knocking her from her chair. Pheresa could not catch her fall. Her head thudded on the floor so hard the world swam dizzily about her. In a haze she heard the queen screaming, then a jeweled slipper trod on Pheresa’s hand, bringing sharp pain.

“Mandrian cow!” the queen choked out. “Your defiance will cost you dearly.” Pheresa could not pull away, and the queen’s foot grated on the delicate bones in her hand. Clamping her lips shut, Pheresa refused to cry out in pain.  “Mradvior, you fool!” Neaglis was shouting. “She has attacked my royal person.

She should die for it. Your sword, man! Your sword!”