"Isn't that what you just told me?"

"No. I chose to take the fight to Anne because I know where she is. The others I cannot find. But they must seek her out, too, and they will, because they cannot see each other. Anne is queen of Crotheny-she is in Crotheny. Prescience can't find her, but spies can. She's visible every day."

"But if Anne knew," Neil said. "If she knew, she would not do-not seize this throne you speak of."

"She won't have a choice when the time comes. She will have to take the power or die. I do not think she will choose to die. Nonetheless, I have tried to contact her. I've sent coven-trained, first to tell her these things, later to assassinate her. None ever made it near her. She has a great many protectors who have no wish to see her refuse this power."

"The Sefry."

"Them, yes. But there are others, with different goals."

"But you must have sent your brother to Saint Cer. He and his men tried to murder Anne then."

She shook her head. "I had nothing to do with that. The Dunmrogh boy betrayed her there to your uncle, who was in fact working with my father."

"Is Robert here?"

"Yes."

He digested that for a moment. "Is my queen safe?"

"You mean Muriele now. Yes and no. Safe for the moment. But safe here, in Hansa? Not remotely."

She held Neil's gaze so long that his scalp began to prickle, but she finally looked away again.

"We've spoken enough for now," she said. "A longer talk will raise suspicions, and to be frank, I haven't decided what to do with you." She picked up her mask. "I'm sorry I can't offer you better accommodations, but that, too, would attract attention."

"I have to try to help my queen," he said. "You know that."

"I do," she said softly. "I'll do what I can to help Muriele."

"And Anne?"

But Brinna didn't reply. She just replaced the mask on her face.

"Why do you wear that?" he asked.

"I spoke of a higher calling," she murmured. "Perhaps I will tell you about that one day."

She turned and left through the same concealed panel, and a few moments later guards appeared and returned him to his cell.

Muriele sipped wine and leaned on the timeworn balustrade of a stone balcony. Below her, a stream coursed noisily through a narrow white-walled gorge very pleasantly grown in hemlock, spruce, and everic. The balcony supporting her was carved from the living rock of the ravine.

"Who made this place?" she asked Berimund as he joined her.

"I don't know," he replied. "I'm told that the style of the carving resembles that of the Unselthiuzangardis, the, ah, 'Wicked Kingdoms.'"

"That was during what we called the Warlock Wars."

"That's right," he said. "Anyway, I believe it was probably the refuge of a sorcerer or perhaps the secret dwelling of his mistress. My wulfbrothars and I found it when we were in farunya."

"Farunya? That's this province?"

He looked at her blankly a minute, then laughed. "No," he said. "Farunya-that's when boys who are almost old enough to be men band together and wander, hunt outlaws, pick fights with hill tribes. My wulfbrothars and I went out for years, went all the way into Zhuzhturi. When we returned-those of us who returned-we were made men and warriors. Any boy who hopes to fight in a hansa must go in farunya first."

"You lost friends?"

"There were forty of us to start with. Thirty-two came back. Not bad considering some of the fights we got into." He grinned. "Those were good times. And that's how I know my brothers won't betray me. We were forged into men together. It's a strong bond."

The thing about betrayal, Muriele thought, is that only someone you trust can really betray you.

She didn't say it, though. If Berimund was wrong, he was wrong. Her saying something wouldn't serve any purpose.

"So, this place," the prince went on. "We spotted it from down there. Took us five days to find the entrance above. We came back later and furnished it. We swore to keep its location secret."

"That's why you blindfolded me."

"Jah. Even then, I had to put it to a vote with my men."

"I'm flattered they allowed it." She let her gaze drift back down to the river. "So what now?"

"We wait for my father to calm down," he said.

"And if he doesn't?"

"In that case, we'll have to wait until he dies, I think."

"Well," Muriele said, "at least there's wine."

Neil lay in the dark, wondering if he was going mad, wondering how long he had been there. He thought he probably slept a lot, but the distinction between sleep and waking was starting to blur. His only indication of the time was when they brought his food, but he was always a little hungry, so he wasn't sure if he was being fed twice a day, once a day, or once every two days.

He tried to think about mountain pasture and wide blue sky, but instead his mind kept replaying just a few things.

Had the entire embassy really been a sham, a disguise for assassination? Would Anne really have ordered that? Would Muriele have been part of it?

Maybe, maybe. Queens were forced to do that sometimes, weren't they? It was childish to think otherwise.

But Anne had insisted he go along. Did she know? Know that he knew Brinna? Did she think that he would kill her if Alis failed?

Should he, if he got the chance? Could he, if it was his queen's wish? After all, it was his fault that Hansa even had a Hellrune.

And the thing that kept burning up through everything else was the memory of his kiss with her out in the marshes around Paldh, the touch of her lips and the sweet gift of her against him.

Someone was humming a weird little song. Fingers traced along Neil's bare spine, up to his shoulder, along his ruined sword arm, back up around the edge of his ear. He smiled and rolled that way.

Hazel eyes gazed down from a delicate face framed in dark tresses. She had a sad little smile on her lips.

"Fastia," he gasped, his heart thundering.

"I know you," the ghost sighed. "I remember you."

Neil tried to sit up but found that he couldn't. His body seemed impossibly tired and heavy.

"I kissed you once, too."

"I'm sorry, Fastia," he whispered.

"Why? For kissing?"

"No."

"I'm almost gone," she said. "The river is taking me. Whoever you are, I've almost forgotten you. If you ever wronged me, it's in the water now."

"I love you."

"You love her."

"Yes," he said, miserably.

She stroked his cheek. "No need for that," she said.

"Did she bring you here?" he asked.

"No. She's like a doorway, and through her I saw you. You drew me here."

"I do love you."

"I'm glad I was loved," she said. She closed her eyes. "Something is coming," she said. "You need to go back. I wanted to tell you that."

She bent and brought her lips to his, and he felt a tickle. Then she began singing in a language he didn't know. He found himself wanting to sing it as well, to leave his flesh and join Fastia. But the song faded, and her with it, until she was gone.

He started and was awake.

Footsteps. Someone was coming. It didn't sound like the jailer.

It wasn't; it was four guards. They didn't say anything, and he didn't ask them anything; he just let them lead him out of the hole and back up into the halls. They took him back to the chamber where he'd seen Brinna and left him there alone.

He was wondering what to do, when the small door opened and the girl came in with a pitcher and filled an alabaster washbasin.

"My lady asks that you bathe yourself," she said in Hanzish. Her eyes were darting, fearful, not like the last time.

"I'm to leave you alone while you do so. Fresh clothes are there." She pointed to some garments folded on the chair he'd sat in before, then exited the way she had come.

He stripped off his filthy weeds and scrubbed himself from head to toe. A bath would have been better, but when he was done, he felt so much more human that it was shocking. When he was dry, he slipped on the hose, breeches, and shirt that had been provided and stood waiting, enjoying the ability to straighten his limbs, back, and neck all at the same time.