“What do you need, dear?” Tia-Lia leaned forward too. “Tell me . . .”

But the woman only shook her head—slowly, as if it were a great weight to move. Then she lifted her hand and held it trembling in the air.

“She wants the bowl of water,” said Lillia.

“I think you’re right.” The bowl was moved closer, and the Sither-woman lowered her hand into it, then lifted it out, the whole operation so achingly slow that it was all Lillia could do not to help her. Then the long fingers reached out toward the stool beside the bed. Slowly she traced a shape on the seat, the water gleaming in the late-afternoon sunlight. As Lillia and Aunt Tia-Lia stared at it, the door opened.

“Do you have the water?” her auntie asked without looking.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Thelía—I did not know water was wanted.”

Tia-Lia looked up in surprise. “Brother Etan! I was told you were gone down to the city.”

“I was, Lady Thelía. I was searching for a few herbs that might prove useful. Last time I came here, she told me she was poisoned—that was very clear. I have brought back Harchan dittany and some refined oil of rue.”

“I do not think either of those will help, I’m sorry to say. Look, she has drawn something with her finger, the poor creature,” said Aunt Tia-Lia. “It was all she could manage.” The Sither woman’s eyes had fallen closed again, and her hand had drooped, her arm now hanging off the edge of the bed, even that very small effort an exhausting one. “I looked in on her last night and she seemed to be sleeping peacefully.”

Etan moved around the bed so he could examine the seat of the wooden stool. “What she’s drawn—is it a heart?”

“I don’t know what else it could be. Perhaps she wishes us to find a herb with heart-shaped leaves?” Thelía pursed her lips. “I must think. Perhaps there is something in one of my husband’s books—”

The maid Tabata now reappeared, weighed down by a sloshing bucket that she had to carry with both hands, which had clearly made it awkward to climb the stairs, because she was all a-sweat. “I think I might be about to have a fit,” she announced in a mournful voice. “I banged my leg terribly on the way up.”

Tia-Lia nodded in an offhand way. “Bless you, how sad. Leave that bucket here—yes, and the cloth—and you may go sit and nurse your wounds. If you have a fit, be sure to let me know.”

When the maid had gone off—rather happily and briskly for someone with a banged knee, Lillia thought—her aunt and the monk mopped the Sither-woman’s brow and limbs. When they had finished the task and arranged the blankets over her slender body once more, Thelía said, “Brother Etan, will you go to our rooms and get my husband’s book, the Sovran Remedies—oh, and now that I think of it, also my copy of Patillan. We may find our heart-shaped herb there.”

“But how do we know she is even right about poison, Lady Thelía? This morning she was raving about mountains walking!”

“We don’t even know why she is here, Etan,” Aunt Tia-Lia said—Lillia thought she sounded a bit cross. “Why balk at anything which might be of help? We must try our best to save her.”

“Of course—she is one of God’s creatures, I am sure, regardless of what some think.”

“Not just that, you silly man.” Now her aunt turned, and her expression seemed a mixture of amusement and irritation. “Can you imagine what my husband will think if we let a living Sitha die before he has even had a chance to see her? Tiamak will be broken-hearted. You recall what happened with the hedgehog, do you not? And that beast was ancient, snappish, and only had three legs. Still, when it perished he was miserable from St. Tunath’s Day all the way to the following spring.” She made a wry face. “Not that I am saying that this is the same. Poor woman.”

“You make a good point, my lady.” Brother Etan stood. “I will go and fetch the books.”

He gave Lillia a worried smile as he squeezed past her in the doorway. Lillia thought the monk might be a little frightened of Aunt Tia-Lia.

The Lord Chancellor had far too many things that needed his attention to be idling at the window in this fashion, but it was hard to pull himself away. Below him, fishing boats dotted the Kynslagh like water-beetles, and when the wind changed direction he could hear the fishermen calling—not their words, but just the soft rasp of their voices as they shouted to each other, boat to boat. The sun was still two hours or more from noon, but clouds had rolled across the sky and the water was shiny gray, like a pewter plate.

Pasevalles stifled a brief tug of selfishness: he would regret having to give this view back to Eolair when the Lord Steward returned. The window in his own chamber was largely blocked by the bulk of Holy Tree Tower. He liked to stand on top of the tower, but being so close to its walls left only a confining, prisoning view that made his heart heavy, a scene as dark as judgment, as punishment.

Do not be distracted, he scolded himself. Froye needs an answer.

He turned from the window with regret, but returned to the desk and the latest letter from his informant at the Nabbanai court and began to read it a second time.

My dear sir, you cannot know how it pains me to say so, but I would not be performing my duty to your kindness if I did not inform you that things are very dangerous right now in this country.

The duke’s brother Drusis, as you know, has made the grasslanders’ attacks on Nabbanai settlements into a cause of reproach. He rails against his brother’s laxity at every meeting of the Dominiate. The conflict has caused great unrest, not only in the mansions of the nobles, but even down in the streets among the merchants, workers, and the poor, so that it sometimes seems people here can talk of nothing else.

And Drusis is not entirely wrong, good my lord, to warn of the dangers of this enemy. The folk of Nabban have always feared and detested the Thrithings-men, who have no fixed homes, no villages or farms, and are little better than savages. And it is true that horsemen have increased their raids of late. In the last half a year they have struck several times, burning crops and villages and attacking the tenants of the lords who own great houses along the border. This is nothing new, although the murderousness of the raids seems to be increasing. God grant we have no war with them, because the Thrithings-men are many and they are fearsome fighters, although ill-organized. They fight as a disorderly rabble, fierce when they are winning, but prone to dispersal and retreat when they suffer a setback, which is why, for all their numbers, that Nabban and Erkynland have been able to keep them penned on the grasslands all these years.

Yet although they remain a great threat, it is not the horsemen that provoke my letter to you, but rather the duke’s brother. Drusis, despite the backing of several of the eastern and northern lords in the Dominiate, has been balked to this point in his struggle with Duke Saluceris by his lack of support among the nobles whose holdings are far from the Thrithings borderlands. His attempts to force his brother into action have therefore always failed.

Of late this has changed. Drusis has recently made a powerful ally, linking his fortune to the Ingadarine House, who, as you know, have long been the second most powerful family in Nabban after the Duke’s own Benidrivine House. Drusis and Dallo Ingadaris have met many times, and it is whispered that soon Earl Dallo will announce that Drusis will marry his daughter.

I express no disapproval of House Ingadaris, of course. I know our High Queen Miriamele traces half her blood to that family, and Saluceris himself carries their blood in his veins as well. But those were days when the two houses were closely linked, which is no longer true. More and more over the last years, they have found themselves at odds, and it is no secret that Dallo Ingadaris wishes the Dominiate, where he is strong, to have a greater say over Nabban’s government. That can only happen if Duke Saluceris is weakened, and that is the reason, of course, that Dallo has shown favor to Drusis by offering him his daughter Turia . . .