“But—”

“Alexeika, you did not. Whatever wrong you think you committed is forgiven.” “No!” she said sharply. “I don’t want forgiveness. I know what I am, sire. A petty, cruel barbarian of the mountains. I tried to keep you from saving her.” He stared at her gravely. “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter why!” she cried. “Not now. Please give me leave to go.”

“You will stay,” he commanded, “until you tell me why you acted as you did.” She whirled around and began to walk in a small circle, her back rigid and stiff. “Tell me,” he insisted.

“Because I hate her!” she cried as though goaded too far. “I am jealous of her, and each time your majesty’s gaze goes to her, I feel sick inside.” “If you truly hated her you would not have fought to protect her during the battle. You would not have held the Chalice to her lips and coaxed her to drink the waters that healed her.” He met her eyes with compassion. “In fact, you could not have even held the Chalice at all, had you been guilty of all that you claim. It would have burned you.”