I could not fit what he had done with either what I knew of the Fool or what I knew of Lord Golden. It was the act of this Amber, a person I knew not at all.

Hence I did not truly know him at all. And never had.

And with that, I unwillingly knew I had worked my way down to the deepest source of my injury. To discover that the truest friend I had ever had was actually a stranger was like a knife in my heart. He was another abandonment, a missed step in the dark, and a false promise of warmth and companionship. I shook my head to myself. “Idiot,” I said quietly. “You are alone. Best get used to it.” But without thinking, I reached toward where there had once been comfort.

And in the next instant, I missed Nighteyes with a terrible physical clenching in my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut, and then walked two more steps and sat down on the little bench outside the spyhole to the Narcheska’s apartments. I blinked, denying the stinging boy’s tears that clung to my eyelashes. Alone. It always came back to alone. It was like a contagion that had clung to me since my mother had lacked the courage to defy her father and keep me, and since my father had abandoned his crown and holdings rather than own up to me.

I leaned my forehead against the cold stone, forcing control onto myself. I steadied my breathing, and then became aware of faint voices through the wall. I sighed deeply. Then, as much to retreat from my own life as for any other reason, I set my eye to the spyhole and listened.

The Narcheska sat on a low stool in the middle of the room. She was weeping silently as she clasped her elbows and rocked back and forth. Tears had tracked down her face and dripped from her chin and they still squeezed out from her closed eyes. A wet blanket shawled her shoulders. She held herself in such silence amidst her pain that I wondered if she had just endured some punishment from her father or Peottre.

But even as I wondered, Peottre came into the room. A tight little whimper burst from her at the sight of him. His jaw was clenched, and at the sound, his face went tighter and whiter. He carried his cloak, but it was bundled to serve as a sack. He hurried to Elliania’s side and set the laden cloak on the floor before her. Kneeling, he took her by the shoulders to get her attention. “Which one is it?” he asked her in a low voice.

She gasped in a breath, and spoke with an effort. “The green serpent. I think.” Another breath. “I cannot tell. When he burns, he burns so hot that the others seem to burn, too.” And then she lifted her hand to her mouth and bit down on the meat on her thumb. Hard.

“No!” Peottre exclaimed. He caught up the dripping hem of the blanket, folded it twice, and offered it to her. He had to shake her hand free of her jaws. Then, eyes closed, she clamped her teeth on the blanket edge. I saw the clearly demarcated prints of her teeth on her hand as it fell away to her side. “I am sorry I took so long. I had to go secretly, so no one would mark what I did and ask questions. And I wanted it fresh and clean. Come, turn this way, into the light,” he told her. Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her so that her back was toward me. She let the wet blanket fall from her shoulders.

She was stripped to the waist above doeskin trousers. From shoulder to waist, she was tattooed. That was shocking enough to me, but the markings were like none I had ever seen. I knew that the Outislanders tattooed themselves, to show clan and claim victories and even to show the status of a woman, with marks for marriages and for children. But those were like the clan tattoo on Peottre’s brow, a simple pattern of blue marks.

Elliania’s tattoos were nothing like that. I’d never seen anything to compare to them. They were beautiful, the colors brilliant, the designs sharp and clear. The colors had a sparkling metallic quality to them, reflecting the lamplight like a polished blade. The creatures that sprawled and twined on her shoulders and spine and down her ribs gleamed and glis-tened. And one, an exquisite green serpent that began at the nape of her neck and meandered down her back amongst the others, stood out puffily, like a fresh burn blister. It was oddly lovely, for it gave the impression the creature was trapped just below her skin, like a butterfly trying to break free from its chrysalis. At the sight of it, Peottre gave a sharp exclamation of sympathy. He opened the bundled cloak at his feet to reveal a mound of fresh, white snow. He cupped a handful of it, and then held it to the serpent’s head. To my horror, I heard a sizzling like a quenched blade. The snow melted immediately, to run down her spine in a narrow rivulet. Elliania cried out at the touch, but the sound was both shock and relief.

“Here,” Peottre said gruffly. “A moment.” He spread his cloak out and then pushed the snow out into an even layer on it. “Lie down here,” he instructed her, and helped her from the stool. He eased her back on the bed of snow and she whimpered as it quenched the burning. I could see her face now, and the sweat that ran from her brow as well as the tears that still flowed down her face. She lay still, eyes closed, her new breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath she took. After a few moments, she began to shiver, but she did not roll away from the snow. Peottre had taken the discarded blanket and was wetting it fresh with water from a pitcher. He brought it back to her and set it by her side. “I’m going out for more snow,” he told her. “If that melts and stops soothing your back, try this blanket. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”