There was a reason for my choice. The Cynic's lamp was a symbol of the Unseen Guild, and I was minded to serve notice that I knew it. I'd been caught up in my Alban studies and personal affairs, but I hadn't put the Guild altogether out of mind. It would be interesting to see if anyone reacted to the sign of the lamp. There was a risk, but not a great one. The Guild knew I was aware of its existence; they had sought to recruit me in Tiberium through Claudia Fulvia. In the end, I had refused. Still, I was curious to know if it operated within Terre d'Ange.

We hadn't learned much since my return. Ti-Philippe had paid a visit to the Academy of Medicine in Marsilikos and brought back a copy of the system of notation devised by a long-ago priest of Asclepius who lost his vision; a complicated series of notches and strokes intended to be read by touch. Members of the Guild used it for secret communication. My mysterious protector Canis had given me a clay medallion in Tiberium that bore the Cynic's lamp on its face and a hidden message etched on its edges. It was mere chance—and Gilot's ill luck—that had led me to the temple of Asclepius, where a priest told me its meaning.

Do no harm.

The chirurgeon's credo, the Guild's warning. It was Claudia who confessed that it meant a member of the Guild had placed me under his or her protection. The medallion was gone—I'd crushed it to bits in a fit of anger—but I had made a sketch of it, and I intended to have a silversmith craft its likeness.

Exactly why, I couldn't say, except that it was an unresolved mystery. I wanted to know. The Guild had done a good job of shrouding itself in secrecy. Like the folk of Alba, they left no written trail. Still, there was a human trail, and one never knew what inadvertent reaction one might provoke.

The same held true for Alba.

I hadn't forgotten about Alais' Maghuin Dhonn. I didn't broach the subject again with Firdha—her withering glare stilled my tongue—but there were other Cruithne in the City of Elua. Not many, truth be told; the Albans preferred their green isle to our white-walled city. Still, there was the honor guard.

Drustan had left half a dozen of his men to serve as Firdha's honor guard while the esteemed ollamh tutored his daughter. They were all proven warriors among the Cullach Gorrym, and they made for a striking sight when one came upon them in the Palace, their faces etched with woad tattoos.

I made it a point to seek out their company. At first they were reticent in my presence, until I had the very good idea of convincing them to accompany me to Night's Doorstep. There was a tavern called the Cockerel there, and it had a long history. It was a Tsingani place, mostly, although young D'Angeline nobles still went there to fancy they were living dangerously. There was no danger for me. It was the place where Hyacinthe had told fortunes when he was still the merry young Tsingano half-breed I knew only from stories, and not the fearsome figure I had met. I had told the story of freeing the Master of the Straits from his curse there more times than I could remember. The owner Emile had been his friend, and he would defend to the death any member of Phèdre's household for what she had done.

"My prince!" he roared when we entered. "Our gadjo pearl!”

I suffered his embrace, which rivaled Eamonn's for bone-cracking strength. The Cruithne grinned. "Emile," I wheezed. "These are the Cruarch's men.”

"Ah!" He let me go and clapped his meaty hands. "Ale! Ale for the Cruarch's men!”

There was ale, then, and a great deal of it. Emile and I toasted to Drustan and then to Hyacinthe, and the Cruithne drank, too. Other toasts followed, and I made a point of offering a toast to Dorelei, my bride-to-be.

"You are a lucky man, you know." Kinadius, the youngest of them, studied me. "You do know this, yes?”

"Yes," I said honestly. It was true, in its own way. "I do.”

They exchanged glances among themselves. "Few of your countrymen would feel the same," murmured their leader, Urist. He was old enough to have fought at Drustan's side in the war of the Skaldi invasion, and I understood the Cruarch regarded him highly.

I shrugged. "There are always those who fear change. Is it not the same in Alba?”

"A great deal of change has come swiftly to Alba." Urist took a deep draught of ale. "Some think too swiftly, yes.”

"The Maghuin Dhonn?" I asked.

Kinadius, startled, dropped his tankard. Several of the Cruithne cursed and leapt up to avoid the spreading pool of ale, and a barkeep hurried over with a rag. Urist folded his arms and stared at me. His features were hard to discern in the intricate patterns of blue woad that made a mask of his face, but his eyes were as black as stones. "What do you know of them?”

"Only the name.”

"It's ill luck to speak it." Kinadius shivered.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because they did a very bad thing long ago, and brought shame upon themselves and upon Alba." Urist's unblinking eyes held mine. "We do not speak of it. We do not speak of them.”

"The ollamh refused to, but the Cruarch spoke of them," I said. "To Talorcan.”

They exchanged another round of glances. "The Cruarch has a country to rule," Urist said firmly, "and Talorcan is his heir. There are matters that must be addressed. But among ourselves, we do not speak of them.”

"The bear-witches still have the power to curse," Kinadius muttered. "At least the women do. Shrivel your loins, they will.”

"Or make 'em burn," another offered. Someone laughed.

"Aye, and change shape in the middle of the act and devour you whole!" Deordivus poked a finger at me. "Starting with your manhood. You stay away from 'em, Prince.”

Another jug of ale arrived, and with it came Emile to ply me to tell him about the siege of Lucca. So the conversation turned, and I was obliged to tell the tale. The Cruithne had not heard it—I had not spoken overmuch of it in public—and they listened with interest as I told of arriving in the city of Lucca to celebrate the wedding of my friend Lucius Tadius, only to find the bride kidnapped and, within a day, the city besieged by her captor.

They nodded when I described how Lucius came to be inhabited by the spirit of his dead great-grandfather, the warlord Gallus Tadius, who organized the defense of the city. Such tales were not strange in Alba, where a woman might eat of a salmon and give birth to a bard.

When it came to the battle, I made much of Eamonn's role. In truth, it needed no exaggeration—Gallus Tadius had appointed him the captain of our squadron, and Eamonn had acquitted himself with honor. But he was a prince of the Dalriada, of the folk of the Fhalair Ban, and it pleased the Cruithne to hear it. The Dalriada were a sovereign folk unto themselves, immigrants from the island of Eire who maintained a foothold on the far western shores of Alba, but there was a long history of alliance between the Cruithne and the Dalriada.

They were pleased by my deeds, too. "You're not so green as I reckoned!" Deordivus slapped my shoulder. "You're owed your first warrior's markings, Prince. Or at least once you're wed and dedicated as one of us.”

"Oh?" I said.

"Right here." Kinadius touched the center of his brow, which bore an elaborate design of an inverted crescent containing trefoil circles, pierced from below by a V-shaped symbol. "The warrior's shield and spear.”

"Ah, no!" I gazed at him in dismay.

"Do you not wish to declare kinship with the Cullach Gorrym?" He grinned. "They'll look a treat with your big blue eyes.”

"You are jesting?" I asked.

They laughed. "Not really," Urist added.

"I'll think on it," I muttered, and beckoned for more ale.

At any rate, the evening ended amicably and they seemed to like me better for it by the time it was over. We rode back toward the Palace together, and Deordivus began teaching me the rudiments of a Cruithne drinking-song. When I made to part company with them and head for the townhouse, Kinadius insisted on escorting me.

"Drustan would expect us to do it for Talorcan," he said to Urist. "If Imriel is to be a Prince of Alba, should we not treat him as one?”

The older man's face was unreadable in the starlight. "As you will.”

"Come, then." Kinadius blew out his breath in a plume of frost and gave me a sidelong look. "Let's race. Unless you're scared?”

"Care to wager?" I asked.

It wasn't a wild race. I'd done that once with Gilot and nearly run down a party of merry-makers, and it was early enough that folk were still abroad, torch-escorted carriages clopping along the streets. We rode vigorously, though, weaving in and out among them. I kept the Bastard well in hand. He was quick and surefooted and fearless, and I'd ridden him almost blind in the darkest nights of Lucca. I could have won handily, but I was mindful of what Phèdre had taught me of diplomacy, and I let Kinadius draw abreast of us at the end.

"Well run!" he said cheerfully. "At least Dorelei's wedding a man knows how to sit a horse.”

"You're fond of her," I said.

Kinadius nodded. "We grew up in the same household. I'd thought to court her myself one day.”

I didn't know what to say, so I said, "I'm sorry.”

"Ah, no!" He shook his head. " 'Tis for the best, and those of us who are the Cruarch's men know it. I bear you no ill will.”

"My thanks." I put out my hand.

He clasped it firmly "You'll be mindful of what we said tonight?”

"About the warrior's markings?" I grimaced. "Oh, yes.”

"Not that." Kinadius smiled, but only faintly. "I was jesting, you know. Urist holds to the old ways more than some of us. No, I meant the other thing." He squeezed my hand, cutting me off when I opened my mouth, then leaned over in the saddle, speaking in a low tone. "They sacrificed their diadh-anam. That's why the ollamh will not speak of them.”

"Their what?" I asked, bewildered.

He let go my hand and placed two fingers over his lips, shaking his head once more. "I've said too much. Ill luck. Good night, Prince!”

I watched him take his leave, then shouted for Benoit to open the gate. He came out grumbling and sleepy-eyed to admit me, then led the Bastard into the stables. I went inside the townhouse and found Phèdre still awake in her study.

"Hello, love." She set a paperweight on the scroll she was studying and lifted her chin when I leaned down to kiss her cheek. "You smell like the bottom of an ale-barrel. Did you learn aught tonight?”

"Mayhap." I sat cross-legged at her feet. "What's a diadh-anam?”

Phèdre's beautiful lips moved soundlessly, shaping the word. I gazed up at her face and watched her search her memory. She had studied Cruithne as a child, long before it was commonplace in Terre d'Ange. Anafiel Delaunay, who had been her lord and master, had taught her. As it transpired, he'd been a man much ahead of his time. "God-soul?" she hazarded at length. "I don't know, love; it's not a word I've heard before. Why?”

"Because whatever it is, the Maghuin Dhonn sacrificed theirs," I said. "Phèdre …I'm not so sure what I've gotten myself into with Alba.”

"Nor am I," she said softly. "But we will find out.”

I leaned my head on her knee, as I had done since I was a child. She stroked my hair with gentle fingers. It wasn't the same; it never would be. But it was enough, and I could endure it.

"I don't want to leave you," I whispered.

"I know." Her voice broke. "Imri—”

I bowed my head, resting my brow on one upbent knee. Unwanted desires racked me; my own, the echo of my mother's words. "You know I have to?”

"Yes.”

It was implicit; there was a compact between us. I could not stay in this place. I had debts of honor to fulfill and desires that would never be sated. The kind of love with which the gods had blessed Phèdre and Joscelin wasn't destined to be mine. But if I couldn't be happy, truly happy, I could at least try to be good. I sighed, straightened, and stood. "Tell me what you learn?”

"Always." Phèdre's dark eyes were grave. "And you?”

"Yes," I promised. "Always.”

Chapter Six

"Behold!" Mavros flung up his arms. "Bryony House." Even from the courtyard, it stood in marked contrast to Alyssum. It was a grand structure, three stories high, with steep gables. Every window was ablaze with light, and the mullions were adorned with ornate reliefs of bryony vine. When the door opened, laughter and music and the rattle of dice spilled out.We were ushered into the receiving salon, which was modeled after the Hall of Games in the Palace. A throng of D'Angeline nobles played at games of chance and skill—dice, cards, rhythmomachy, and other, more obscure games. The atmosphere was sharp and charged.

"Lord Mavros!" A tall woman with black hair piled in a high coronet greeted us with a curtsy. Her black gown was cut low in the back, showing off her marque. Delicate tendrils of bryony climbed her spine, sprouting pale flowers above the spade-shaped leaves. "It's been too long." She straightened and appraised me with unabashedly calculating eyes. "Prince Imriel. Welcome to Bryony, your highness.”

"Imri, this is the Dowayne, Janelle nó Bryony," Mavros said. "Watch your purse.”

She tapped his arm with a folded fan. "Never wager what you can't afford to lose, for Naamah will take all you have and more. What are you after, you naughty child?”