"Queen's Guard," came the muffled reply.

Ti-Philippe put his eye to the partition, then stepped back, nodding grimly. "There's an entire squadron on your doorstep, my lady."

I sighed. "Admit them."

There were twenty of them, polished sword-hilts at their sides, boots gleaming, in surcoats of deep blue with the swan of House Courcel worked large in silver embroidery. The lieutenant bowed to me. "Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève?"

"Yes," I said, feeling tired and travel-worn.

"By order of her majesty Queen Ysandre de la Courcel, you are remanded into my custody," he announced in formal tones. "I am or dered to bring you, Messire Joscelin Verreuil and your young . . . com panion ... to the presence of the throne. Immediately." Something flickered in his expression and he added in a different voice, "I am sorry, my lady."

"I understand," I said. "May we have a few moments to change out of this attire? We've ridden hard these last days."

The lieutenant paused, then shook his head. "My orders were to bring you immediately."

I inclined my head. "I will get the boy."

Out of their sight, I hurried to my bedchamber and fetched a couple of other things as well, overturning the trunk Hugues had brought there and turning the neatly preserved order of my quarters into complete disarray. One item, I stowed in the travelling purse that still hung from my girdle; the other, I tucked under one arm. That done, I went to the kitchen to find Imriel.

He was in Eugenie's custody, his face closed and wary.

"The Queen sent an escort," I said. "She requests our presence."

"Do we have to go?"

I nodded. "Do you remember what to say?"

"I remember." Imriel swallowed. "And I'm . . . I'm sorry I caused you so much trouble."

"Don't be." Touching his cheek, I smiled at him. "It was our choice, you know that. And if you hadn't gone with us ... like as not, I'd still be trying to sweet-talk the women of Tisaar—or at best, pounding on that temple door on Kapporeth, begging the priest to let me in. Re member that?" Too tense to reply, he nodded. "Good," I said. "Just don't scream like that today. I don't think it will have a good effect on Ysandre de la Courcel."

It made him laugh, as I had intended, and he looked less appre hensive as we went to meet the Queen's Guard, at least until they bowed to him.

"Prince Imriel de la Courcel," the lieutenant greeted him, straightening. The genuine courtesy he had shown me had vanished at the sight of Imriel. His face was composed in a formal mask, only a slight twitch at the corner of one eye betraying a hint of disturbance. "I bring you glad greetings from your kinswoman, her majesty Queen Ysandre de la Courcel."

"Thank you." Imriel studied the man's twitch.

"My lords, my lady, you will come with us, if you please," the lieutenant said, attempting to ignore Imri's scrutiny. He put up one hand as Joscelin moved forward. "Forgive me, Messire Verreuil, but you may not bear weapons into the presence of the Queen. Your arms must stay."

Joscelin raised his brows. "I have dispensation from her majesty herself."

"Not any more."

Someone among the Queen's Guard murmured, watching Joscelin methodically disarm. They knew the legend. He did it without com plaint, and Hugues stepped forward to accept his well-worn gear with reverence.

"May I ask what you carry, my lady?" The lieutenant indicated the coffer under my arm.

"Rocks and metal," I said, "wrought in a pleasing form."

He made me show him anyway, and when I did, he flushed. "I am sorry. It is my duty, my lady."

"I know," I said. "Shall we go?"

NINETY-ONE

WE TRAVELLED to the Palace in one of the royal carriages, the Courcel arms on the side. Two guards rode with us inside, and the rest provided a mounted escort. The curtains were drawn. Outside, on the streets, I heard nothing but the usual idle curiosity, passers-by pausing to bow or curtsy, speculating on what royal guest or family member rode within.That ended when we reached the Palace.

I didn't mind, for myself. I have been a Servant of Naamah for many years now, and I am accustomed to stares and murmurs. And Joscelin . . . Joscelin had endured it before. My heart bled for Imriel.

Ysandre was done with secrecy, that much was obvious. We walked the wide, gracious halls of the Palace openly, flanked by her Guard. Six of them surrounded Imriel, hands on hilts, tense and alert; the others kept a close eye on Joscelin and me, several paces behind. All I could see of Imri was that his back was very straight, and he did not look to either side.

In the countryside, he had gone unrecognized. Not in the City of Elua, and least of all in the Royal Palace. Strolling nobles stopped and stared. One woman clutched the lapdog she carried so hard it yelped in protest. A lordling's attendant bolted down a side corridor—headed, I guessed, for the Hall of Games, where guests of the Palace were apt to while away the hours.

The halls grew lined with spectators, and an undercurrent of venom ran through their whispers. It seemed a very long walk to the throne- room, where we were at last admitted. The doors were closed behind us, the spectators turned away.

Two more squadrons of the Queen's Guard lined the walls, standing at attention. At the far end was Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange, seated in majesty. When I'd seen her thus before, it was as an attendant at her side. She wore a gown of deep violet adorned with a jeweled girdle, and a heavy cloak of forest green, lined with cloth-of-gold. Her fair hair was elaborately dressed, bound with a simple gold fillet. On her left hand stood Duc Barquiel L'Envers, handsome and inscrutable; at her right were her daughters, Sidonie and Alais. They had grown since I'd seen them.

A family affair, then; and one of state, for I recognized a handful of other nobles in attendance, members of Parliament. This was meant to be witnessed.

A short distance into the room, Joscelin and I were made to halt, while Imriel was led to approach the throne. No one spoke. Ysandre waited gravely, watching him approach. She had waited for this moment for a very long time. The guards led him to the foot of the throne and stepped away, leaving him alone before her. Imriel gave a rigid bow.

"Imriel de la Courcel," Ysandre said, and smiled, her features trans forming. "Welcome home." Rising from her throne, she descended the step to lay her hands on his shoulders. "We have waited a long time to welcome you to your family, cousin."

"Thank you, your majesty." He got the words out without a tremor, and I was proud. Ysandre turned to face her watching kin and peers, one hand still on Imri's shoulder.

"This is Imriel de la Courcel, Prince of the Blood, son of my great-uncle Prince Benedicte de la Courcel and Melisande Shahrizai of Kusheth," she said firmly. "In the sight of all here assembled, we do acknowledge him and his ancestral claims, and declare him innocent of all crimes committed by his family. Is it heard and witnessed?"

A dozen voices replied more or less in unison, "It is heard and witnessed."

I watched their faces as they responded. Most were schooled to neutrality under the Queen's scrutiny; Barquiel L'Envers looked amused. Amaury Trente was there, and his expression was stony. The Lady Denise Grosmaine, who was Secretary of the Presence and at tended all formal functions with the Queen to record what transpired, might have had a hint of kindness on her face. Sidonie, the young Dauphine, regarded Imriel with her mother's cool gravity, and none of the underlying warmth. Only Princess Alais, the younger daughter, con sidered him with frank curiosity, intrigued by the notion of a new cousin near enough in age to be a brother to her.

"We are pleased." Ysandre inclined her head. "Remember it well, and welcome him into your hearts, as we welcome him to ours. And," she added, "let it also be known: A crime against Prince Imriel will be considered a crime against House Courcel."

"So don't assassinate the little bugger," Barquiel L'Envers mur mured.

Someone gasped

Someone loosed a hysterical laugh.

I do not know, to this day, if L'Envers intended the remark to be audible. He spoke under his breath, but the acoustics in the throne-room are outstanding, designed by Siovalese engineers. Surely Barquiel L'Envers knew it. He may have done it for spite, or for a whim; he may have had a deeper purpose in mind. I cannot say.

Ysandre turned pale with anger. She would have turned on him then and there if Imriel hadn't spoken. It wasn't how we had planned it, but he had his mother's fine sense of opportunity and timing.

"Your majesty!" His high, clear voice rang in the throne room. "An offer of two-fold honor has been made. I beg your permission to accept it."

It is the ritual statement that offers negotiations for formal adoptive fosterage among D'Angeline peers—honor upon the House that offers, honor upon the House that accepts.

Ysandre stared at Imriel, as did everyone else. "What?"

"Your majesty," I called, stepping forward and ignoring the guards, who looked uncertainly at one another and eyed Joscelin warily. Even unarmed, they feared his reputation. I made a deep curtsy to Ysandre. "Your majesty, on behalf of House Montrève, I make the offer of twofold honor in the name of Imriel de la Courcel."

"House Montrève?" Ysandre asked in disbelief. "Surely you jest."

I shook my head. "No, your majesty. I am in deadly earnest."

Barquiel L'Envers laughed out loud; after that, it was quiet.

In the silence, Ysandre breathed slowly and deeply, struggling to control her temper. When she spoke, her voice was even. "House Mon trève, if I am not mistaken, consists of one highly priced Servant of Naamah, a defrocked Cassiline Brother and a handful of eccentric re tainers. Even if you were not— " her tone rose sharply " —in danger of being accused of treason for having abducted a member of my household, a Prince of the Blood, against my explicit wishes and exposing him to untold danger, what possible merit would there be for House Courcel, inheritors of the D'Angeline throne, kindred by marriage to the Cruarch of Alba and the Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad, in accepting your offer?" She drew near, frowning with genuine perplexity. "Have you gone mad in your travels? What possible honor can there be in such an exchange? Phèdre, what on earth makes you think I would ever agree to this?"