"I have not," Berimund replied.

"Haven't you?"

"I just said that I have not," Berimund gritted out.

The old king straightened a bit. "Very well," he said. "Then you take her to Wothensaiw and strike off her head for me."

Berimund went pale. "Father, no."

"You are my son and my subject," Marcomir said. "As neither can you refuse me."

She actually heard him swallow. "Father, you're angry now. Take some time-"

"Berimund, before the Ansus and all my men, do this or you are not my son."

"It's not right, and you know it."

"I am king. What I say is right."

Muriele felt the tightness in her chest and realized her breath had been caught there for a while. As she let it out, she seemed to be drifting away with it, watching it all from above.

Berimund's head bent and then nodded.

When he looked up, his eyes were brimming. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Berimund-"

"Hush, Majesty."

As they led her off, she saw Robert moving his lips, perhaps taunting her, perhaps trying to tell her something. Either way, the glee on his face was obvious.

Neil and Alis were escorted back to Berimund's "rooms," where they were free to wander in what amounted to a small mansion. He walked about restlessly, learning the floor plan, finding the ways in and out.

Worrying about Muriele.

Alis had managed to charm one of the retainers into giving her an extended tour of the castle. He would rather remain here, where he could greet the queen when she returned.

Of course, it might be days. He wished he could have gone.

He found a window facing east and watched the Donau flow toward the sea.

Night came, and he reluctantly took to his bed.

As the door burst open, Neil was already on his feet and reaching for Battlehound. He shook back the Queryen webs from his eyes, trying to remember where he was and who might be coming at him with blinding lanterns.

"Lay your arms down," a voice commanded. "In the name of Marcomir, king of Hansa, give up that sword."

Neil hesitated. There were a lot of them. He had slept in his gambeson, which would afford a little protection, but he couldn't see how they were armored.

"I am Queen Muriele's man," he said. "I am here on embassy and claim the rights that come with that."

"You've no such rights, not anymore," the man behind the lanterns said. "Give up that weapon and come with us."

"I will see my queen first."

"She isn't here," the man replied.

Neil charged.

Something heavy came from behind the light and smacked him on the side of the head. He stumbled, and hands gripped his sword arm. He swung his left fist and connected with someone and was rewarded by a grunt. Then they were all over him, punching, pummeling, kicking. His hands were lashed behind his back, a blindfold was tied on his face, and they dragged him from the room and through the castle for what seemed like an infinity. Then they were out of doors for a while, then back inside, in a place where the air felt very heavy. He was finally pushed roughly to the ground and heard the slamming of a metal gate. The floor smelled like urine.

He lay there for a bit and then started working at the bonds. It didn't take much. They had gone on quickly and sloppily, and he'd kept tense as possible while they had tied them. Once they were off, he removed the blindfold.

It didn't help much. It was still utterly dark.

By feel he discovered that he was in a stone cell barely large enough to lie down in and not quite tall enough to stand in.

His heart picked up a bit. He'd grown up on the moors and mountains and open sea. Even spacious rooms with no windows made him feel trapped.

This-this would drive him mad right quickly.

He lay back down so that he couldn't feel any of the walls and tried to imagine he was on the deck of a ship, with the clouds rolling overhead.

He wasn't sure how long it was before he heard footsteps. He both fastened on them and tried not to hope. What hope was there? That Alis had followed, killed whatever guards there were, and was ready to spirit him to safety?

Then he heard a feminine voice, and the ridiculous hope suddenly found roots.

It wasn't Alis, of course, but a large gray-haired woman dressed in a peculiar black robe. Four other women in similar habit and a large man who stank as much as the floor accompanied her.

"I am Walzamerka Gautisdautar, the king's inquisitor," she said. "You will not struggle. You will answer my questions. If you want any answers at all, if you want to live until tomorrow, you will hang on my every word, as if I were the mother who gave you life, for I am surely the one who can take it away."

"I'm at your mercy," Neil said. "Only tell me how my queen is."

"Your queen has been kidnapped," the woman said. "We are searching for her now."

"Kidnapped?"

"Yes, by Prince Berimund, if you can believe it."

"They were going hunting-"

"Indeed. Instead he abducted her. Do you have any idea why?"

"None. It makes no sense to me."

"To me, either." She paused. "You should know we've captured your little coven-trained spy, as well."

Neil didn't say anything to that.

"Very well," Walzamerka said. "Come along and mind your manners."

The inquisitor led him down past a line of cells like his, up some stairs, and into a long, narrow hallway. Then they went up two minor staircases and finally ascended a long winding one, so he reckoned he was in one of the towers.

They emerged at last into a room lit with gentle candlelight. He blinked, and for a moment he felt a strange movement of time, as if he had gone back months and was waking on a certain ship. The chamber was warm, wood-paneled, and close, the light dim and golden.

A woman stood there, clothed in a black gown. She wore an ivory mask that did not cover her mouth. Her hands were alabaster; her white hair was fine and came only as low as her throat.

And he knew her.

"Sir Neil," the woman said in her familiar, throaty voice.

"Take a knee, Sir Neil," the inquisitor said. "Take a knee before Her Highness, the Princess Brinna Marcomirsdautar Fram Reiksbaurg."

CHAPTER TWO

ROMMER ENSGRIFT backed away from Mery, who watched him go without much expression.

"A word outside," the thin, almost skeletal leic muttered to Leoff.

He followed obediently. Once on the stoop, Ensgrift mopped his forehead with a rag.

"I've heard stories," he said, his voice quivering. "Maryspellen. But I never thought there could be any truth."

Leoff couldn't think of anything to say or do until the leic composed himself, which he did in a moment.

"She's half-alive," he said.

"Half-alive," Leoff said, repeating the nonsensical phrase.

"Auy. Her heart beats, but very slowly. Her blood crawls through her veins. She should never be able to walk or talk like that, but she does, and I can only think that is because she is half-animated by something else, something other than breath."

"Something else?"

"I don't know. I set bones and give herbs for the gout; I don't deal with things like this. A demon? A ghost? This is for a sacritor, not me."

Leoff flinched. For years he hadn't had much interest in the organized Church. Since being tortured by one of its praifecs, he hadn't had any use for it at all. Even if he did, given the present climate in the holy institution, they more likely than not would burn her immediately. If he could even find a sacritor, which in Crotheny wasn't an easy thing these days, given the queen's ban on them.

"Isn't there anything you can suggest?" he asked.

The old fellow shook his head. "There's nothing natural about this. I can't see that anything good can come from it."