Ruth had lost track of the number of times it had been said. She sat, with Randolph and Ted, back on the floor of Claudia’s diamond-paned sun porch, because it was cleaner there, and warmer, and because they hoped the windows might still show them something useful. Andrew was ostensibly exploring the rest of the house, also in search of something useful. He had not ranted anymore; he had not even asked quietly for some explanation. Perhaps the King and the dead children had told him something. Ruth was glad to be out of his presence. She thought his docility in the face of such discoveries boded no good.

Randolph had not finished his sentence. Ruth decided to sum up for him. “She’s about five hundred years old,” she said, “infinitely accomplished in Sorcery, marvelous wise in the ways of the unicorns, and bears a grudge against the Hidden Land and everyone in it that you never have explained properly but that we will grant to be weighty. What else?”

“She’s not Andrew’s sister,” said Randolph.

“Unless Andrew’s not Andrew,” said Ted.

“He might really have been the villain all along,” said Ruth, cheered. Then she scowled. “But I doubt it. He rings true, if you know what I mean. There was always something sleek and odd about Claudia, but Andrew I believed in.”

“Yes, so did I.” Ted pushed the thick hair out of his eyes. “So Andrew’s just one more victim.”

“Well, he might still be a spy for the Dragon King.”

“Okay, leave him on the suspected list. Back to Claudia. Randolph, if she’s so old and has such great sorcerous knowledge, why’d she have to apprentice herself to Fence and Meredith?”

“Her knowledge is of the Red School, now dispersed,” said Randolph. “Each school hath its secrets that the others know not. One of the dearest goals of Heathwill Library is to abolish this secrecy, but they have not achieved it yet. Also, there surfaceth from time to time new knowledge; easier to pry it from some teacher of the art than to seek it out laboriously oneself.”

Ruth looked at him. There was an edge of malice and disillusion in his voice that you had to expect, but that disturbed her just the same. Randolph and Claudia had kept company for almost a year; he had presumably been fond of her, and he was no doubt thinking now of all she had pried out of him: not only the knowledge, but the trust, the time, the confidences which remembering would scald the heart once he knew to whom he had so blithely given them. Damn Claudia, thought Ruth.

“Why did she lock Belaparthalion up in a golden globe?” said Ted.

“He’s a protector of the Hidden Land, with Chryse, against the Outside Powers, and what other capricious forces may measure a ladder ’gainst our bulwarks.”

“But she didn’t lock Chryse up somewhere?” said Ruth.

“Who can say?” said Randolph.

“Well, she hadn’t, as of our bargaining for Ted’s life.”

“Melanie is an old enemy of the unicorns,” said Randolph. “And the unicorn is cannier than the dragon.”

“That’s what’s been bothering me!” exclaimed Ruth, smacking her hand down on Claudia’s hardwood floor. “I thought Melanie was dead. I thought Belaparthalion killed her because she broke her word to Shan.”

“Oh, he did burn her house and she inside,” said Randolph. “So the story goeth in some quarters that he did kill her. But look you, Melanie’s original crime was that she did conspire in the death of a unicorn, and that meaneth immortality. She’ll die when she wills it, and the Lords of the Dead will have her.”

“Oh, splendid,” said Ruth. “Why—”

Randolph held up a long hand, smiling. The smile did not reach his eyes with their dark circles underneath, nor his voice. “Ask not me,” he said. “These answers will come only from Claudia.”

“How do you propose to find her?” said Ruth.

“Why should you want to find her?” said Ted. “Why should she want to answer any questions from us, and how could we make her?”

“For the first,” said Randolph, still smiling, and in a lighter voice, “these events tend all to a purpose; and when it is accomplished, she will find us. For the second, I give less than the scrapings of an indifferent banquet for what she wants; and for the third, th’event will show us.”

“You’re just giving in?” said Ted.

“She will not come out,” said Randolph. “We must needs walk in where we may find her.”

“If the purpose is to kill us all,” said Ted, hollowly, “won’t the opportunity for questions come too late?”

“If that is the purpose, aye. But I think ’tis not so. She’ll want a fate that hath some relish in’t.”

He sounded as if he were talking about a recipe, not his own fate. “How can you sit there and say things like that?” said Ruth.

Randolph looked at her. She could not tell if he was trying to frame his answer properly, or only to decide whether to answer at all. She remembered what Fence had said to Ted, in response to a similar question: “What is the matter with you? We will do our best in the battle, and live or die as it falls to us.”

But Randolph, when he answered her, did not quite say that. “I do not hold my life,” he said, “at a pin’s fee. As for yours, my dear children, I hold them something higher. But that, see you not, shall serve very well.”

Ruth had some trouble catching her breath. “Don’t you dare sacrifice yourself for us,” she said at last, in rising tones. “We’re not your dear children! And what the hell good do you think our lives would be to us without—” She stopped, horrified. Ted was staring at her. Randolph merely looked resigned; he either had not understood or didn’t care.

“Isn’t this a little premature?” said Ted, also rather breathlessly. “Let’s just wait ’til we get there.”

“Get where?” snapped Ruth, venting her anxiety and all the hideousness of her new discovery on her cousin’s innocent head, and feeling a fresh flood of irritation because she could not keep herself from doing it.

“We have an embassy to accomplish,” said Ted.

“Andrew doesn’t look in any case to accomplish anything,” said Ruth. “Lady Ruth must have been a—” She stopped for the third time. “Boil my brains!” she said. “Boil them and mash them and serve them up for turnips, for it’s damned well all they’re good for!”

Randolph actually laughed, which was perhaps more alarming than everything else. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said. “She’s naught to me; but do you school yourself in Andrew’s hearing.”

“Was she ever anything to you?” asked Ruth; and wished she had stopped for a fourth time, before she ever started the question.

Randolph said, “What was she to me in thy game?”

Ruth was so relieved to be spared any direct consequences of her own question that she answered at once. “Not a great deal,” she said. “We didn’t pay much attention to that part of it. The romances were just flourishes that we put in because they’re expected in stories.”

“I thought,” said Ted, “that Lord Randolph had a soft spot for Lady Ruth that he didn’t indulge because he thought it would be better if she married Edward.”

“As well he did not,” said Randolph, apparently exclusively to Ted, “for she was not what she seemed.”

That was an uncomfortable remark, thought Ruth, no matter how you interpreted it. “If this discussion isn’t going to get us anywhere,” she said, “why don’t we go see how Andrew’s doing?”

Ted and Randolph got up promptly. They all went upstairs, past the three landings and their little square windows, each having a border in red stained glass alternating with clear and with an occasional clump of grapes or wildflowers, to the wide hallway lined with open doors on the fourth floor.

In this house, those open doors led to rooms full of books. In the largest of these, they found Andrew, leaning on the window frame as if he would have liked to climb out and fall four stories. Randolph thumped the woodwork and Andrew turned around.

“What have you found?” said Ted. Andrew gestured at the table, which was covered with coarse paper densely written over. “Melanie’s journals,” he said.

Ruth noticed that he did not call her Claudia. Maybe he was good at facing facts, once you had put them where he would have to notice them or fall over them.

“Have you read anything useful?” said Ted.

He walked into the room; Ruth and Randolph followed. Randolph sat down on a red velvet sofa with its arms carved like dragon’s heads. Ruth wished she could see a good honest lion, or even a griffin, for a change. She looked at the sofa again, and perched herself on a ladder probably intended for reaching the upper bookshelves. Andrew was still leaning in the window, which was convenient, thought Ruth, because it meant his face was in shadow.

Randolph pulled out the grapefruit-like object they had used to light their way to this house, and said to it, “Strike a light or light a lantern.” It lit up, and the gray, neglected room was suddenly warm and pleasant, as if the writer had just stepped out for a cup of tea.

Ruth, startled into a burst of laughter, completed the quotation. “Something I have hold of has no head!”

“Oh, no,” said Ted, laughing too. “I hope that hasn’t happened here.”

“It had a happy ending,” said Ruth.

“More of your fictions?” said Andrew.

“How do you know about that?” said Ted.

“She hath writ much of them, and of you,” said Andrew. “It seems that you are ignorant and presumptuous, but not evil.”

“But the fictions?” said Ted.

“The idea did give Melanie some little trouble,” said Andrew. “But she did gnaw at the nut till it did crack for her.”

Ruth marveled at how dryly he spoke. He sounded like Patrick expounding materialism; except that Patrick loved materialism, and Andrew must hate what he was saying. But he had come to understand it in the few hours he had been in this room. And after that display in the land of the dead, you could not accuse him of having no feelings. You had to admire him.

He said, “This is the way of things. Both your fictions, and all our sorceries, have their origins in the same impulses: the desire to make things; the lie told not to scape consequences, but as its own art. Now in your country, these impulses do grow to fictions; but in ours, mark you, they do grow to sorcery.” Andrew made a sound that was probably supposed to be a chuckle. “We know our wizards young, by the greatness of their falsehoods. Wherein we who call them liars only have our excuse.”

“That seems very odd to me,” said Ruth, taking refuge from her thoughts in this theoretical discussion. “Don’t children play games of make-believe? And how do you ever teach them anything, if everything you make up has to come true?”

“It has not so,” said Andrew. “The games of children trouble no one; they may have the strength, but they have not the skill. As indeed the five of you had not the skill, though Melanie saith, you had the strength of five Shans amongst you. You troubled her sleep for ten long years fore she did see that you were not within the boundaries of the world.”

“And Melanie, I suppose, had the skill,” said Ted.

“Wait a moment,” said Ruth. “I still don’t understand. Does everybody who pretends as a child grow up to be a wizard?”

“No,” said Andrew. “Some cease to make believe; some make little tales; but all the great ones do turn to wizardry. All our great tales are true.”

“Wizards made them happen by making them up?” said Ruth. A voice in her mind that was not Lady Ruth’s said to her, Poetry makes nothing happen.

“Wizards do make them happen by living them,” said Andrew. “And do write them down afterward. Also—” He hesitated, and said, “I do not well understand this. Melanie did believe that your play-makers, your poets, did make some events to happen, long ago; but that in the end the Outside Powers did appoint the unicorns guardians, that not every tale should burst in and jostle with every other. And she did believe that the unicorns do suggest the tales to the minds of wizards and plain folk here, who do then choose them, or not, as they will. And what Melanie did was to take from them their means of choosing.”

“And how do we come into all this?” asked Ruth, with a sinking stomach.

“I do not well understand that either,” said Andrew. He looked, furthermore, as if he didn’t want to. But he went doggedly on. “Think on this. In the natural way of things, tales made by thy poets do present themselves herein; the unicorns do choose or banish them; any with an ear to hear may choose or banish them from’s own life. But Melanie did turn all these matters upsodown; she did present the history of the Hidden Land to your several minds; and you did choose or banish, and add your own embellishment, which did in the ordinary way return to us, to choose or banish as we did wish, according to our several natures, our inclinations, and the keenness of our inward ears.”

“Jesus!” said Ted.

“Don’t swear,” said Ruth. “All right, I guess I’ll accept that for now. But why did she do it?”

“I have said before,” said Randolph from the depths of the sofa. “We can but ask her.”

“Can but ask is easily said,” said Andrew.

“I’m glad somebody here has some sense,” said Ruth, frowning at Randolph’s long form sunk in the red cushions. With his coloring, and more especially with the spectacular lack of it that had afflicted him since the King died, he looked better in red than in blue.

“There’s sense,” said Randolph, without rancor, “and there’s authority.”

“Which, in this matter,” said Andrew, pushing himself away from the window, “is still mine. We’ve tarried enough. The court of the Dragon King awaiteth us.”

“It’ll be dark in an hour,” said Ruth. Randolph had closed his eyes, as if to show that, whoever’s authority Andrew thought he was challenging, it wasn’t his. His lashes were longer than hers, blast him. She turned quickly to Andrew, who didn’t look very healthy either. “Why don’t we get some rest and have an early start in the morning?”

There was a difficult silence. Then, “Practical as ever,” said Andrew, with no particular expression; and walked out of the room.

Ruth waited for his footsteps on the bare boards to die away. Then she sat down on the floor. “Whew!” she said.

“That,” said Randolph, “was the triumph of sense o’er pride. Do you give him the credit for’t, an he chide in the morning.”

“I will so,” said Ruth. She leaned her head against the arm of the sofa and closed her eyes. “Is anybody hungry?”

“The first rule of erratic travel,” said Randolph, drowsily, “is this: eat when you may.”

Ruth stood up. “Well, come on, then,” she said to his recumbent form. “Or shall we come and drop it into your mouth?”

“I thank you,” said Randolph, sitting up hastily and looking as if he had managed to make himself dizzy, “not with our rations.”

“We could find some nice worms,” said Ruth, tartly.

Ted was staring at her. She said, “Let’s to the oatcake, then,” bolted precipitately out of the room, and dived into the first open door she saw. She heard the rest of them, a few moments later, clatter downstairs. This room was the double of the one she and Ted and Randolph had had their conference in, back in the Secret Country. Ruth sat down in one of the carved chairs, on a gold cushion, and pressed her fists to her eyes.

What was the matter with her? No; she knew that. But why did she have to act this way about it? Ruth the contained and careful, whose father called her Elinor after the character in Sense and Sensibility who embodied the first of those traits. Ruth thought she would like to die. “Oh, you would not,” she said to herself. “Think of where you’d end up. Well, at least you couldn’t make a fool of yourself down there. My God, I’ve got to travel with those people for another week. I can’t stand it.” Men have died from time to time, said the voice, and worms have eaten them; but not for love.

“Who asked you!” yelled Ruth.

She jumped to her feet and paced furiously around the red and gold rag rug, trying not to think, trying to think of something else. The odious voice said musically, Sing we for love and idleness, / Naught else is worth the having. / Though I have been in many a land, / There is naught else in living.

“Irresponsible hedonist,” said Ruth, breathlessly.

The voice continued unperturbed. And I would rather have my sweet, / Though rose-leaves die of grieving, / Than do high deeds in Hungary / To pass all men’s believing.

It had drowned the sound of footsteps on the bare wooden floor of the hall. Ruth heard only the first step in the room itself, before the newcomer trod on the carpet and stood still. She flung herself around. It was Ted. Ruth was enormously relieved, and even more enormously disappointed.

“Ruthie?” said Ted. “What’s the matter?”

“I,” said Ruth, between her teeth, “am a jerk and an idiot.”

“What?”

“Everybody is a jerk and an idiot at sixteen,” Ruth explained to him. “I expected it. I figured I could confine it to a diary, or writing bad poetry. My God, how does anybody survive to be twenty?”

“Slow down,” said Ted, painstakingly. “Have you remembered something vital, or what?”

“No,” said Ruth, wildly. “I’ve forgotten something basic. I’m too young for this. I don’t want this to happen. My God,” said Ruth, taking Ted by his wool-clad shoulders and shaking him, “no wonder teenage girls are pregnant all over the place.”

Ted’s face arrested her. He put both his hands, which were exceedingly cold, over hers, and said, “Say it again. Slowly.”

“No, it’s okay,” said Ruth. “Or at least, it isn’t, but—forget all that. Never mind.”

“Okay, fine,” said Ted. “Come on down to dinner.”

“Oh, no,” said Ruth, retreating from him. “I’m not going down there.”

“What in the hell is the matter?”

“If you tell anybody I’ll kill you.”

“On my honor,” said Ted.

Ruth looked at him.

“As crowned King of the Hidden Land, may any pain you care to name come upon me sevenfold if ever I reveal this secret without your express permission what the bloody hell is wrong, Ruth?”

“I’m in love with Randolph.”

Ted’s jaw dropped. Then he looked as if he were going to laugh, and Ruth prepared to hit him. Then a reflective look came over his face; and then he looked at her as if he were really seeing her, and said, “That’s bad. I’m sorry.”

“How would you know?” snapped Ruth, ungratefully.

“Remember I told you Edward was in love with Lady Ruth?”

“It’s monstrous,” said Ruth. “How can anybody stand it?”

“Well, it had its moments,” said Ted; his straightforward blue gaze altered momentarily, and became disconcerting. Then he rubbed his eyes and said, “Or at least, it would have if I’d been Edward.”

“It doesn’t have any God damn moments at all,” said Ruth.

Ted looked at her thoughtfully. “I know what’s the matter with you,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Well, please enlighten me.”

“I didn’t know love made people sarcastic.”

“I’m sorry. What is it that’s the matter with me?”

“Remember right after we got here, when we were trying to figure out what was happening, and Patrick came up with all his theories about mass telepathic hallucinations?”

“I try very hard to forget it,” said Ruth, despite herself, “but go on.”

“And you told Patrick he was crazy, and he said, all right, you could explain it, then. And you said you didn’t want to explain it; you wanted to know what to do about it.”

“Well?”

“Well, you want to know what to do about being in love with Randolph. And you don’t know; and I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to do anything about it,” said Ruth. “First love is a mistake; you just have to get over it. Nobody as idiotic as I am could possibly make a decision like that and get it right. I refuse. I don’t want to do anything about it. But I keep doing things about it. I keep saying stupid things. Did you hear me in there? That was flirting. That was despicable. ”

“Do you want not to be in love with him?”

“Of course I—shit,” said Ruth, for the second time in her life; and said it again, three times. The voice said implacably, Let me not to the marriage of true minds / Admit impediments.

“I thought so,” said Ted. “Now come on down to dinner.”

“Are you crazy?”

“You can’t stay up here. Ruthie, look. Randolph probably didn’t even notice. He’s falling asleep on his feet.”

“This,” said Ruth, after a pause to examine her feelings, “is abominable. Am I relieved that he didn’t notice? No.”

“He’s going to notice, if you don’t come downstairs,” said Ted, “and that will be worse. Just keep your mouth shut. I’ll kick you if I think you’re going to say something stupid.”

“That’s a splendid idea,” said Ruth. “I’ll have two broken ankles before we get out of the house in the morning.”

But she followed him downstairs.

They had eaten their supper, such as it was, at teatime, and gone to bed at suppertime, so they were able to make such an early start that even Andrew didn’t complain. There was a line of red on the western horizon; the morning star glared at them like the beacon of a lighthouse; the huddled mountains were dark. It was chilly.

Randolph took the lead, without consulting anybody. Ted was so sleepy that it was not until the sun had risen and transformed the fantastic landscape of dawn into something more ordinary that he realized how far they had come. The mountains were gone. They were in a hilly country pocked with little lakes, riding on a good road under a sky filled with birds. There was a tower on almost every hill, and the rolling country was crossed like a chessboard with the lumpy white lines of drystone walls. It was a much homier and pleasanter-looking place than the Hidden Land; but something about it made Ted nervous.

He persuaded the mare to move up next to Ruth’s horse. “What’s wrong with this place?” he said.

Ruth looked at him out of the corner of her eye, her wild hair blowing. “There’s something paranoid about those towers.”

“At least nobody’s shooting arrows out of them,” said Ted.

Not long after, they overtook another party traveling in the same direction, a party cumbered with wagons, whose outriders, their plain cloaks abandoned in the warm morning, could clearly be seen to be wearing tunics appliquéd with the running fox of High Castle.

Stephen, Dittany, Jerome, Julian; the four they had left behind when they went to brave the Gray Lake. Ted had completely forgotten about them. What prior arrangements, what arcane communications, what good planning or timing had brought about this rendezvous, he neither knew nor cared. The remote voice that was not Edward’s said, Why, what a king is this!

And that, of course, was fair. He ought to care. Ted smiled at the four of them and let the chatter of reunion divide around him and flow on behind. Not only did he not care, but nobody had consulted him. Randolph, of course, had known all along that he was not the true heir; although for the beginning of the journey he had treated him as a proper king-in-training. Andrew had never had a high opinion of Edward, and now knew that Ted had not even Edward’s claim to authority. This was a bad precedent; as was the fact that Ted didn’t want to think about it.

The reassembled embassy to the Dragon King rode on down the good, broad road. Ted made himself think about it. If the Lords of the Dead had been doing their jobs, instead of gallivanting about nobody knew where, Edward might even now be restored to his rightful place. Ted would be able to drop back and be a piece of baggage. He didn’t like that thought as much as he would have expected.

Nor did he like at all the thought of, sometime today, or tomorrow, or when they arrived at the house of the Dragon King and began their work, asserting what authority he had. It had probably not occurred to Andrew yet, among all the shocks recently administered to him, that he had in sober fact sworn Edward Carroll an oath that must be honored. Ted did not relish reminding him of it; but Ted’s oath too would have to be kept: to deal lightly in the exercise of his privileges and straitly in the fulfillment of his obligations; to reward valor with honor, service with service, oath-breaking with vengeance.

All right, thought Ted. All right. But not just yet.

They reached the dwelling of the Dragon King just before sunset. It sat in the middle of a flat sheet of water. The water was a blinding gold on the right-hand side where the departing sun laid a path of light across, and dark green on the other. The castle was not the gray-white of High Castle’s alternating walls, but a smooth, pure, unnatural white. And it was enormous. It was probably, thought Ted, smaller than High Castle. But High Castle was a hodgepodge, and only its inmost structure had been seriously intended as a fortress. This castle had been built all of a piece. Where High Castle rambled, this one was perfectly symmetrical. It had an eight-sided curtain wall that bristled with towers, each matched by its fellow on the opposite side. There were four drum towers, each with its own small turret towers sprouting from it; two massive D-shaped towers; dusky blue slate roofs capping the outer towers and sunk behind the crenellations of the inner ones. Ted could not begin, from this distance and in the flat red light of sunset, to tell how big it was.

Edward said, It is sixty feet to the top of the towers, and twenty-seven to the top of the outer wall, but forty to the top of the inner. A hundred archers could hold this place against any force thou shalt name for longer than thou or I have lived.

Ted recognized the enthusiasm of a genuine obsession. Thanks, he said inwardly. For the first time, he respected the Dragon King, and feared him, instead of taking on trust Fence and Randolph’s—and the game’s—assessment. Then he said, Edward? Is that you? And Edward, for the first time, answered him and said, Aye.

How comes this communion of thought? asked Ted. Ask Melanie, when you meet her, said Edward.

Andrew’s voice calling, “Edward!” startled Ted and sent Edward back to wherever he had come from.

Ted rode forward and joined Andrew.

“Here’s a party to ask our business,” said Andrew. “’Twere best I spoke with them, but you must be near at hand.”

“As you will,” said Ted.

As it turned out, he did not have to say anything, though he did sustain a number of alert and curious glances; not from the herald himself, who confined his attention to Andrew, but from both the soldiers and the horses that made up the herald’s escort. The herald challenged them courteously enough, and on being informed that King Edward of the Hidden Land had ridden forth for the sole purpose of showering his brother monarch the Dragon King with diverse rich presents, and to consult with him touching the future of their several states, the herald of the Dragon King invited them to slake their weariness and hunger, and have audience of the Dragon King the following morning.

After an impressive progress through several layers of fortifications, past a number of very grim-looking guards, during all of which time Edward poured into Ted’s ears a hundred details of the castle’s structure and defenses, they were relieved of their horses and guided across the soft grass of the inner bailey to the left-hand D-shaped tower. They trailed, all eight of them, bedraggled, behind the gorgeously dressed herald, through a sort of storeroom smelling strongly of cheese and smoked meat, up a narrow winding stair, and into a large room lit by a good fire.

The herald said something gracious; Andrew answered him properly; the herald departed, closing behind him the heavy door to the staircase. Ted sat down on his bedroll. The dragging tiredness was still with him. Randolph looked beat too; he was leaning on the doorpost with his eyes closed. Ruth sat down on the four-poster bed. It was Andrew who found a taper, lit it from the fire, and walked from sconce to sconce, setting the fat red candles to burn.

It was a beautiful room. The walls were plastered and painted with deep, clear colors; hunting scenes, mostly, and landscapes. The arch of the window was filled with stone tracery. The floor was tiled in blue and rust. So was the fireplace. Ted began to feel that perhaps High Castle was a little rustic, a little haphazard, a little neglected.

“Now,” said Andrew, blowing out his taper, replacing it, and sitting down in one of the chairs by the fire, “let’s have it clear how we’ll conduct this embassy.”

Ruth stood up. Randolph pushed himself away from the door and walked to the center of the room. He looked down at Ted, and then at the empty chair.

“Yours,” said Ted.

Randolph sat down across from Andrew and said, “We made all clear in council. What would you now?”

“In the light of all the knowledge I have gained, by your most gracious provision,” said Andrew, “stands it not upon us to alter the terms of this embassy?”

“In what regard?” said Randolph. Ted saw that he was perturbed, but did not intend to waste his energy, or perhaps give Andrew any satisfaction, by raising his voice.

“In several,” said Andrew. “First, neither the true King nor a suitable Regent of the Hidden Land is present in this party.”

Ruth made an abrupt movement; Ted looked at her, and their crossed glances said to each other, here it comes. Andrew’s eyes were bright on Randolph. Randolph only leaned his head back in the luxurious chair and said, “Neither imputation is fair.”

“Look you,” said Andrew, closing his hands on the arms of his chair. “I have promised King William to hold my tongue, and by that word will I abide. But I have not promised to sit idle while such as you do finish the wreck of my country.”

“Ted,” said Randolph, still quietly, “hath sworn the oath of kingship.” Andrew let his breath out scornfully and brought his fists down on his knees. “And you,” said Randolph, in a stronger voice, “did swear to him, in his own name that is in truth Edward, truth and faith would you bear unto him, against all manner of folk.”

“What,” said Andrew, and his voice was now quieter than Randolph’s, “shall my word be more to me, my lord counselor, than was yours to you?”

Ruth jumped to her feet and plunged across the room; Ted reached up and grabbed hard at her skirt, and she came down on her knees beside him and was silent. Ted heard a dog barking in the courtyard, and a bucket being lowered down a well, and, faintly, the lapping of lake water against the outer walls.

“If it be not more to you than that,” said Randolph, “by what right do you assume the power of this embassy?”

“What would you have altered, Andrew?” said Ruth, so placidly that Ted stared at her.

“I would alter the whole tune of this approach,” said Andrew. “Let our note be not chastisement, but true alliance.”

“Shan’s mercy, against what?” said Randolph, furiously, jerking his head up and coming half out of his chair. “E’en granting we might trust this adder to bite some other breast than ours, what neighbor doth threaten us save this alone? Against what scatheless state doth Dragon King spout mischief, save ours? Hateth he the Outer Isles? Do the Cavernous Domains trouble his sleep? Doth he agitate him what danger awaiteth in the Dubious Hills? What double-directed malice is there, to unite us?”

“Melanie’s,” said Andrew.

Randolph fell back into the chair as if somebody had pushed him, clutched his head in both hands, and began to laugh. Andrew sat stony-faced, waiting for him to stop. Ted, since nobody else seemed likely to enlighten him, looked at Ruth and discovered that she, too, was laughing.

“Andrew,” said Randolph, gasping. “My lord. That is excellently well reasoned, with every fact that lards it false as hemp nettle to the ropemaker. Melanie did serve the Dragon King in her youth; over the continuance of that service did she fall out so fatally with Shan. Why should she quit him now, or he believe her aught but his good friend?”

“Magic may be true,” said Andrew, “and wizards yet be false.”

Randolph pushed his hand back over his hair and said, “Andrew. You cannot unravel these matters in the space of a night, or of a year. Keep this embassy in its intended form. If later it seems good to you that we and the Dragon King make common cause ’gainst Melanie, then make your case with true tales, and it shall be heard by whate’er King we have.”

“That’s a pretty speech,” said Andrew, “but how if there be no time? She hath her agents in every corner of our councils; she’s killed our royal children and our King; within a year, shall not this canker swallow us?”

“This canker will swallow us tomorrow an you represent us to the Dragon King as Melanie’s enemies.”

“Or as her victims?” said Andrew.

“We’re not her victims save we make us so,” said Randolph.

“What!” said Andrew. “The blame so ready to hand, and you’ll fling it not at her? Your deed was not her doing; you were not helpless in your own despite?”

“Andrew,” said Ted, desperately, “by your oath I do abjure you, abide by the agreed terms of this embassy and admit no other matter to it.”

“I hear you,” said Andrew.

That was not an acquiescence. Ted took a deep breath, and the door opened. A fresh-faced girl in a black dress said, “My lords and ladies, you are bid to supper.”