They looked beautiful, proud, and dangerous.

One of the young men glanced over at me and smiled as we entered the chambers. It was a friendly smile, and a clever one, too. He winked at me. His eyes were a deep, starry blue.

I took a step closer to Phèdre.

If she was perturbed by the Shahrizai, she gave no indication of it. We made our greetings to the Queen and Cruarch, and took our places standing beside their thrones. Joscelin, as the Queen's Champion, provided a note of quiet menace, vambraces glinting, his daggers at his belt and the hilt of his broadsword over his shoulder.

"My lord Duc." The Queen inclined her head. "I trust you know why I have summoned you here?"

"Your majesty, I do." Duc Faragon's voice was melodious and resonant. With a grace that belied his years, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head before Ysandre. As one, the other members of his kindred followed suit, the men kneeling, the women sinking into deep curtsies. "In the name of Blessed Elua and merciful Kushiel, House Shahrizai proclaims its absolute loyalty to the throne."

On the far side of the Queen, Barquiel L'Envers stirred. Several of the other peers assembled murmured. Ysandre glanced once at Drustan, then rested her chin in her hand and contemplated Duc Faragon and his entourage.

None of the Shahrizai moved.

"Very well," Ysandre said at length. The Duc rose, the others following. He met the Queen's gaze without fear. "Have you had any communication from your kinswoman, Melisande Shahrizai de la Courcel?"

"Yes," he said calmly. "Several times, over the years." He beckoned, and a woman came forward with a small packet of letters. "That is everything," Duc Faragon said. "There is no sedition in them."

"And the rest of you?" Ysandre raised her brows. "Are there any among you who possess any knowledge of your kinswoman's latest deeds?"

There was a faint rustling sound as they shook their heads in denial.

"We are at your service, majesty," Duc Faragon said. "We place ourselves before you, trusting to the wisdom of your justice."

Ysandre sighed. "What does the Cruarch say?" she asked Drustan.

"Alba's justice is more direct than that of Terre d'Ange." He smiled slightly. There was nothing reassuring about the expression. "Did I believe them, I would accept their oath of loyalty. Did I not"—he touched the hilt of the ceremonial sword at his belt—" they would not leave these chambers alive."

Someone drew in a sharp breath. Several of the Shahrizai raised their heads, eyes blazing. Not scared, I thought; angry. They had come in good faith. Still, members of the Queens Guard posted around the room took a watchful stance, and Joscelin's hands, resting on his dagger-hilts, twitched.

"Phèdre?" Ysandre glanced at her. "What does Kushiel's Chosen say of Kushiel's scions?"

Phèdre considered the Shahrizai. Some of them, the younger ones, the angry ones, returned her gaze with a hint of mocking challenge. Duc Faragon did not. He inclined his head to her, grave and respectful.

I thought about the diamond lying in her palm, the note.

I keep my promises.

"I would accept their oath, my lady," Phèdre said thoughtfully. "One at a time."

So it was that the members of House Shahrizai came forward, one by one, and swore oaths of loyalty to the throne. I watched them all, searching for the tell-tales of a lie, and knew Phèdre did the same.

There were none, and I was glad.

Afterward, Duc Faragon approached us, with several of the younger Shahrizai behind him. "Comtesse," he said courteously to Phèdre, and to Joscelin, "Messire Verreuil." To me, he gave the courtier's bow. "Prince Imriel."

I inclined my head. "Your grace."

"I have a favor to ask." He drew a breath, addressing Phèdre. "It is in the letters I gave to the Queen, but I do not ask for my kinswoman's sake alone. I ask for all our sakes, and the boy's."

Phèdre frowned. "Yes?"

"Let him know us," Duc Faragon said simply. "We are kin. Let him come to Kusheth for a summer to be fostered among the Shahrizai."

I felt a lurch of alarm in the pit of my stomach, mixed with a dark excitement that was unexpected. Behind the Duc, the young man who had winked at me nudged the young woman beside him and grinned.

"No." Phèdre's response was gentle, firm, and immediate. "Forgive me, your grace, but I cannot consent to that; nor, I think, would her majesty allow it."

"Then consider this." With a sweep of his arm, Faragon indicated the young Shahrizai nobles behind him. "Mavros, Baptiste, and Roshana are yet of an age to be fostered. It is why I brought them here. Will you consider extending the hospitality of Montrève to them for a summer?" He paused. "I do not request an offer of threefold honor. Only a chance for the boy to know his kin."

Phèdre looked at me.

I wished I knew what to say. A part of me wished to decline; another, to accede. I was afraid of the dark tide that stirred in me. I did not want any part of my mother's blood. And yet it called to me.

"I will consider it, your grace," Phèdre said formally. "Will that suffice?"

He smiled. "It will."

"Prince Imriel. "

The Queen's voice, cool and commanding, summoned us. Taking our leave of the Shahrizai, we approached the throne.

"When last we met," she said, "we spoke of duties. Now that this matter is settled, it is time to speak further."

I bowed. "Your majesty."

"You hold estates in title," she said, her violet gaze resting on me. "Estates which belonged to my great-uncle, Benedicte de la Courcel."

"So I understand, your majesty." I remembered the Salmon, and thinking about how the proceeds from those estates might purchase the spotted horse. In two years, that was as much consideration as I had given them. "I do not need them, if you wish to bequeath them elsewhere," I added honestly.

"No." Ysandre smiled. "I do not. But I think it would behoove you to make a tour of your holdings. It is important that they know you. And it is important that they understand the support of the Crown is behind you. To that end, I have asked the Royal Commander to prepare an escort. With, of course, the consultation of House Montrève."

I looked at Barquiel L'Envers with dismay.

He gave a short, wry bow.

It was in my heart to protest. In truth, I needed no estates. I was Imriel nó Montrève; Phèdre's heir, her adopted son. That was all I sought to be, all I wanted to be.

But it was not the hand I was dealt.

And there were such things as duty and honor.

I bowed to the Queen. "As her majesty bids," I murmured.

Chapter Five

So it was that we spent the balance of the summer of my fourteenth year touring my holdings in Terre d'Ange, rather than spending it as I would have chosen, hunting and fishing and hawking in Montrève. It was not ill done, I suppose. To my profound relief, while Barquiel L'Envers delegated a squadron to escort us, he didn't deign to accompany them. They were good men—Montrève's retainers ensured it, for Ti-Philippe maintained ties to the Royal Army—and seemed to welcome the light duty.

There were three estates, all told; two in L'Agnace, and one in Namarre. We visited HeuzÇ in L'Agnace first, where I admired the grain-fields and prize-winning cheeses, and from thence rode to Namarre.

Namarre was Naamah's territory. There was a shrine there, where the River Naamah rises from beneath the ground. Phèdre visited it upon our travels. It was sacred to the Servants of Naamah, and Joscelin and I were not allowed to enter.

She went.

What transpired there, I do not know; only that there was a brightness about her when she came back. Hugues sighed a great deal afterward, and wrote more of the abysmal poetry he dedicates to Phèdre, which we had ample time to hear him recite on the road.

We made our visit to the duchy of Barthelme, the largest of my holdings, where I discovered I was responsible for producing, among other things, a very fine red wine. All of the estates, truth be told, ran themselves. They had done so for many years, for my father had dwelled in La Serenissima until he died. The Queen had appointed wise seneschals.

They made their accounts to her factors, and those monies were held in trust. It was all very exacting. I shook the hands of the seneschals and they bowed, putting a face to the name, taking heed of the squadron of the Royal Army that stood behind me. At each estate, we spent a day or two touring the holdings and an evening exchanging social courtesies, and then rode onward.

The third estate we visited was different.

Lombelon, it was called. It was in L'Agnace, no more than a half-day's ride from the City of Elua, which was why we saved it for last. There was little more to it than a manor house and a handful of outlying orchards, but it bore a strange history. It had once belonged to my mother, who had inherited it upon the death of her first husband as part of his holdings. Some years later, she deeded it in turn to Isidore d'Aiglemort, the Camaeline traitor, doubtless as a gift to seal their alliance.

When d'Aiglemort betrayed the realm, his holdings were declared the property of the Crown. Ysandre bestowed Aiglemort itself on the Unforgiven, those Camaeline warriors who have dedicated themselves in perpetual penitence to defending the border of Terre d'Ange against the Skaldi. But the tiny holding of Lombelon she deeded to my father, Benedicte, as a gift upon his second marriage. Thus it came to me.

It was a pleasant place, dedicated to growing pears. We toured the pressing-yard, where they made perry cider, and then the distillery shed. That was where I first saw Maslin, though I did not know his name.

He was tending to the gleaming copper alembic that distilled Lombelon's perry cider into brandy. It was the rapt concentration with which he did it that I noticed; that, and the way a shaft of sunlight from the doorway caught his hair, a blond so pale it was silvery. But he averted his head and slipped away when we entered, and I thought nothing of it.

All of us endured a lengthy discourse on harvesting, pressing, and distillation techniques, for which we were rewarded with a sample of Lombelon's pear brandy. It was heady stuff. I sipped mine with care, while L'Envers' soldiers quaffed theirs with a good will. Afterward, the seneschal took us on a stroll through the closest orchard, boasting of the healthy crop. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of pears, alive with the drone of bees.

That was the second time I saw Maslin.

He was working in the orchard, wielding a wicked-looking pruning hook on a long shaft. It was one of the older trees, one the seneschal informed us they were trying to prompt to bear further fruit in the years to come. The silver-haired youth circled it, shirtless and barefoot, working the pruning hook with savage grace. Although the rapt look was gone from his face, as in the distillery shed, his focus was absolute. He assailed the highest branches, the muscles in his arms bunching and gliding with the effort. With each stroke, a flurry of twigs and green leaves descended, and his strokes were so fast and unerring, it was as though the tree shook itself, shedding a hail of detritus.

I envied him.

I envied his assurance of his place in the world, his height and broad-shouldered strength. I envied the simplicity of the task, and his utter concentration on it. I gauged him to be some two years older than me, and I envied that, too. I found myself lagging as the seneschal moved on without me, more than happy to have Phèdre's ear to bend. Our escort was scattered, Montrève's retainers and soldiers of the Royal Army wandering amid the orchard.

Within a few moments, the silver-haired youth sensed my presence. He lowered the pruning hook and fixed me with a dark-eyed stare. "What do you want?"

"Nothing." The surliness of his tone took me by surprise, but human nature is a peculiar thing. Because I had admired him, I wanted him to like me. I came forward, extending my hand. "I'm Imriel."

He didn't move. "I know who you are… Prince."

I felt a touch of unease, like a cold finger on my spine. "Then you have the advantage of me," I replied in a calm tone. "Will you give me your name and render us at quits?"

"Maslin." He spat the name. "Does it mean anything to you?"

"No." I shook my head, genuinely perplexed. "Should it?"

"It should." He smiled grimly and took a step forward. The pruning hook in his right hand cast a long shadow on the grass. "I had it from my father. It was his father's name."

In my mind, the pieces fell into place like a puzzle—the strange history of Lombelon, the genealogies of the peerage, the youth's pale hair. I had heard the stories of Isidore d'Aiglemort, the traitor-hero. Kilberhaar, the Skaldi called him; Silver-hair. Though my mother led him into treachery, he redeemed himself at the very end. It was he who slew Waldemar Selig on the battlefield of Troyes-le-Mont, though he got his death-wound doing it.

"You're Duc Isidore's son," I said.

"His bastard"

"There is no shame—" I began, bewildered.

"He would have acknowledged me!" Maslin shouted, cutting me off. The pruning hook lowered like a spear, aimed at my heart. "This was to have been mine, Lombelon, mine! But there was no time!"

"I'm sorry, Maslin." I took a step backward. "But it's nothing to do with me."

"Puling princeling." He spat on the ground. "My father died a hero. By what right do you, the son of a bitch-whore-traitor, lay claim to Lombelon?"

"By right of the Queen's will," I said coldly. I had no intention of defending my mother, but Maslin had succeeded in making me angry. My hand strayed to the hilt of my dagger. The pruning hook made a vicious weapon, but I reckoned I could throw faster than he could lunge. "Will you challenge it?"