Afterward, it left me melancholy.

I never showed it to the girls I bedded, although some of them sensed it. With them, I was ever courteous and respectful. If they wanted for naught, I made them pretty gifts. If they had need of aught—for some of the crofters' families were impoverished—I made discreet inquiries and tried to see to what was needed. Still, it did naught to assuage the black mood that sometimes befell me after love-making.

Eamonn always knew.

We spoke seldom of it, but I could tell. Betimes, he would seek to lift my spirits through his own ebullience; at others, he merely left me to brood in peace. And at other times, he would goad me into sparring with him. Being evenly matched, we honed our skills against one another.

It was good to have a friend.

He still yearned for a bout with Joscelin; a real bout, steel on steel. Throughout the summer, Eamonn begged and wheedled, until at last, Joscelin assented. They fought in the inner courtyard, with all of Montrève turned out to watch. When Joscelin appeared wearing only his daggers, Eamonn was sore disappointed.

"You promised me a real bout!" he said, aggrieved. "Where is your sword?"

Joscelin caught my eye and gave his half-smile. "I was trained as a Cassiline Brother, Prince Eamonn. We draw our swords only to kill. I will not draw mine against you, even in sport." He set himself, drawing both daggers and bowing, vambraces crossed. "Try me."

It went fast; impossibly fast.

Eamonn charged with a shout. It was the same attack he had used against me in our first bout, buckler high and sword low; but Joscelin was prepared for it. However ill-suited the Cassiline style might be to a formal battlefield, Joscelin had learned to adapt it to a thousand situations. There were few warriors in any discipline who have fought so many battles as he, for such deadly stakes. He caught the tip of Eamonn's blade on the quillons of his right-hand dagger and turned it aside with a twist of his wrist. In one deft step, he slid inside Eamonn's guard, his left arm forcing away the thrusting shield. He hooked his right foot behind Eamonn's heel and shoved hard.

Clattering to the ground, Eamonn fell onto his back.

I grimaced at the impact, and tried to memorize the sequence Joscelin had used to get inside his guard so effortlessly.

Joscelin lowered one knee on Eamonn's chest, both daggers at his throat. He looked mildly down at his conquest. "Are you satisfied, Prince of the Dalriada?"

"Dagda Mor!" Eamonn gasped, laughing. "Oh, aye! Let me up!"

Altogether, we gave Phèdre a fearful headache.

There were other times, though. Eamonn was sincere in his desire to study at the University of Tiberium. And in truth, he had a keen intellect, albeit limited in its tutoring. So it was that Phèdre found ways to teach us both. Of her own accord, she taught Eamonn the rudiments of the Caerdicci language. And once it was done, she discerned those elements of scholarship that most interested Eamonn—the dissertations of the philosophers—and set us both to studying them, working to translate their theses from Caerdicci into D'Angeline, and thence to discussing them.

For Eamonn, it came hard. He stewed over his translations, mumbling to himself in a mix of D'Angeline and Eiran, struggling with the Caerdicci. I grew envious, watching the way Phèdre hovered over him, murmuring advice, guiding and aiding him. Yet once he grasped the ideas at stake, his mind ran apace of mine, overtaking it. And for some perverse reason, it galled me to see him grapple so eagerly with the questions that haunted me in my darkest hours.

"What does it mean to be good, Imri?" Eamonn's grey-green eyes glowed. "You and I, we have cause to wonder! What is the pursuit of goodness? Is it pleasure? Is it honor? Is it justice? Where does the true essence of goodness lie?"

"I don't know," I muttered, wishing I did.

"Well, then!" Eamonn clapped his hands. "That's what we must determine, isn't it?"

"I suppose," I muttered.

"These are fine questions to ask," Phèdre said gently to me. "Philosophers have debated them for many centuries."

I glared at her. "Is that what your beloved Anafiel Delaunay learned at the University?" I asked in retort. "For it seems to me he learned somewhat more. Yet not even you can say where he learned the arts of covertcy."

"No." Her dark eyes were clear, save for the floating mote of Kushiel's Dart. "He kept his secrets. And he died too young." Her mouth quirked. "How could he have guessed? To me, he ever seemed a man grown, and wise with it. And yet, I realize now, he was scarce older than I am now when he bought my marque. He must have believed he would live forever."

"He used you grievously," I commented. "Was that goodness at work?"

Phèdre's gaze deepened. "Anafiel Delaunay didn't shape my nature, he merely turned it to a purpose. Even so, I think he did not do it lightly. He had a sense of what would be needful," she mused. "The question is, who taught it to him?"

"Someone in Tiberium," Eamonn observed helpfully. "I will ask when I go there in the spring."

Phèdre laughed. "I hope you find an answer!"

I didn't like to think about Eamonn leaving next spring. Already, I knew I would miss him. And I envied his freedom. Although he would not gain his majority until this winter, the Dalriada reckoned him a man grown. He had no obligations or responsibilities. His mother was content to send him off with a fistful of gold, free to wander the world, trusting him to make his way back home, older and wiser.

By contrast, I chafed at my own restraints.

Outside of Montrève, I wasn't allowed to go anywhere without an armed escort. In the early days, with assassination attempts in Khebbel-im-Akkad fresh in my mind, it had seemed a sensible precaution. Now it seemed unnecessary. After all, no one in Terre d'Ange had tried to kill me. My mother had vanished without a trace, and the peers of the realm were beginning to forget her existence. Barquiel L'Envers wouldn't mind if I fell into a hole and broke my neck, but he didn't appear willing to do the job himself.

Summer ended too soon.

I was in two minds regarding our return to the City. A part of me looked forward to it; and a part of me mourned the further loss of freedom. At least in Montrève, I was free to roam within the borders of the estate. In the City, I would be kept on a shorter leash.

Still, there was nothing to be done about it. Summer gave way to autumn, and we returned to the City of Elua. To no one's surprise, Gilot decided to stay in Montrève. The rest of us went back.

One always supposes that life elsewhere stands still in one's absence, but it doesn't.

Things had changed.

For one thing, Alais had grown. It took me by surprise. Over the course of the summer, my irrepressible little cousin had become a gawky girl of twelve, with dark scowling brows and a nose that seemed too large for her face. Although she was still slight, she seemed all sharp elbows and knees, limbs akimbo.

Colts' Years, I thought.

For the first time, she greeted me with shy reserve. The only familiar element was the wolfhound Celeste, beating her tail on the marble floor.

"It's good to see you, villain," I said, hugging Alais despite her reluctance.

She drew away. "Don't call me that! It's silly."

I hunkered down on my heels, scratching Celeste's ears. "What's wrong with silliness? It's only because I like you, Alais. I thought we were friends, you and I."

"She's not a child, you know," said a familiar voice. "Don't treat her like one."

I looked up at Sidonie. She stood behind her sister, her hands resting on Alais' shoulders. For all the coolness in her voice, her face held an expression of fierce defiancé. Her liquid dark eyes smoldered in her delicate face. Sidonie, too, had grown. Unlike Alais, she had done so with effortless grace. It seemed unfair.

I stood and bowed. "My greetings, Dauphine. I meant no offense."

"Then give none," she retorted.

I caught Eamonn's eye and grimaced. He grinned and came over to us, uttering a few florid phrases in Eiran, then translating them for their benefit. It made Alais laugh, almost like her usual self, and even Sidonie smiled.

And so the moment passed.

But there were other moments.

The Game of Courtship had carried on without me. Reuniting with my friends, I was hard put to keep pace with the gossip. Some players had left the field, like Raul L'Envers y Aragon. It was rumored he would return in the spring, but he was wintering in Amílcar this year. I will own, I was not sorry for it. Though I had come to like him well enough, I would not miss the Lady Nicola. But there were other players, too; new players. Many I did not know. Others, I did. One was my cousin Roshana Shahrizai, who had come to winter in the City.

Another, I would never have expected.

"The new lieutenant in the Queen's Guard?" Julien Trente fanned himself in jest. "Name of Elua! He's got the look of a chained leopard. A few more like him, and I'll enlist in her majesty's service."

"It is your birthright," his sister Colette reminded him. "Mayhap you ought to."

"It's a stepping-stone," he said peaceably. "Ysandre rewarded Father generously for her service, and rightfully so. Our family has risen high in the Queen's regard. For you and me, he wants somewhat more. But you've got to own, Maslin de Lombelon has a… certain appeal."

I gaped at the name, dumbstruck.

"Wasn't Lombelon one of your holdings?" Colette asked me curiously. "I seem to remember hearing Father say somewhat about it years ago."

"Yes." With an effort, I collected myself. "I gave it to him."

"To Maslin?" Her brows arched. "Why on earth?"

"I thought he wanted it," I murmured.

Already there were stories about him. Upon attaining his majority, he had entrusted Lombelon to its old seneschal's care and left to take service in the Queen's Guard. He had arrived, ill-mannered and untaught in the ways of swordsmanship, and demanded an appointment with Diderot Duval, the Captain of the Queen's Guard. Upon ascertaining his background, Captain Duval put Maslin to the test, setting him against one of his best swordsmen. They all laughed at Maslin's untutored stance, and Captain Duval promised him a lieutenancy if he won.

He did.

Remembering his skill with a pruning hook, I wasn't surprised. After all, he was Isidore d'Aiglemort's son. Captain Duval kept his word. And all summer, Maslin had set himself to mastering the sword and the arts of diplomacy and command with dedicated ferocity. If he was not exactly well-liked, he was admired. And out of some whim, Barquiel L'Envers had taken a liking to him, and was rumored to be highly supportive of Maslin's career.

I met him in the Hall of Games.

It was an awkward moment. There was a quarrel over a game of piquet, with accusations of cheating hurled on both sides. I was no part of it, but I was near. Indeed, I was backing away when I literally bumped into Maslin. As the lieutenant on Palace duty, he was sending his men to escort the quarreling Azzallese lordlings from the Hall.

I turned around with an apology on my lips. Seeing him, it faltered.

"Maslin!" I said stupidly.

"Prince Imriel." He bowed, crisp and correct. Only a flicker of his lids betrayed any emotion. "I beg your pardon."

"No, it was my fault." Why was I always jostling people in the damned Hall of Games? Discomfited, I stared at him. With his pale blond hair and his fine-honed features, he looked splendid in the deep blue uniform of the Queen's Guard, his doublet adorned with the swan badge of House Courcel and the silver braid of his office. But there was a restless glitter in his dark eyes that belied his courtly appearance. I understood what Julien had meant about the leopard. "Why?" I asked Maslin, not bothering to frame the question.

He understood. "It wasn't enough," he said, then paused. His voice roughened. Only slightly, but I, who had been taught by Phèdre to notice such things, heard it. "You made it small."

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Maslin—"

His shoulders squared, and he looked past me toward the yet unsettled quarrel. "Forgive me, your highness. I have a job to do."

"Who was that!" Eamonn asked cheerfully, forging a path toward me.

"Someone I knew, once, a little bit." I slapped his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

I told him about it that night, though. Since we had returned to the City, Eamonn and I shared my room in the townhouse. The oil lamp on the stand burned low while I sought to explain myself. Lying in the adjacent bed, Eamonn listened without comment, his arms folded behind his head. In the guttering light, his face looked strange and shadowed. He did not speak until I had finished.

"You were trying to do a good thing," he said softly. "How can that be wrong?"

I sighed. "But for what reason, Eamonn? For whose benefit? His, or mine?"

"Does it matter?" he asked.

"I think it does." I plucked at my bedsheets. "Phèdre tried to warn me that he might hate me for it. And I thought I understood. But what did I do? I took a thing he cherished, and I disposed of it as carelessly as though it held no worth. I made it small in his eyes."

"No," Eamonn said simply. "He did."

"I don't understand," I said.

"Imriel." He propped himself on one arm. "You D'Angelines, you are so quick to speak of love. Do you even know what it means?" He shook his head. "If he had truly loved this place… what is it called? Lomblon? Nothing could have made it small in his eyes. No," he continued thoughtfully. "I know. I hear what your friends say about me, about the Dalriada. I'm a barbarian, aye? Rough and uncouth." He laughed deep in his chest, sounding like his father. "Do you think it makes me love my home the less? My mother, my family, my people?"