The sound of Phèdre's voice made me startle. Curled into the corner of her couch, she regarded me with bright amusement, then nodded toward the door.

"Go," she said. "Off to the stables with you. You're not fit for conversation."

Not needing to be told twice, I went.

In the stables, I found the Bastard stamping and tossing in his new stall, churning the sweet-smelling straw. Gilot hung on the half-door of the stall, watching and admiring, while the stable-keeper Benoit cursed and wrapped a bandage around his left hand.

"Careful, highness," he said. "He's a hellion."

I approached the door. The Bastard ceased his stamping and stood, eyeing me. Gilot nudged me with his elbow. "Want to go for a ride?"

"Just the two of us?" I knew Phèdre and Joscelin would disapprove.

Gilot shrugged. "A quick one, eh? Just to try his paces."

I took on look at the Bastard, who pricked his ears at me. "All right. Let's do it."

He was docile enough while being saddled, but when I swung astride him and took up the reins, I could feel him quivering with tension. Gilot rode a tall, rangy bay gelding that he favored. We jogged into the courtyard. With a dubious look on his face, Benoit opened the gates.

"Go!" Gilot shouted.

I gave the Bastard his head. He sprang forward, bursting off his haunches, hooves clattering on the paving-stones. I laughed like an idiot, exhilarated. It was a foolish thing to do; I knew it, and knew it at the time. And yet it was thrilling. Together, Gilot and I raced like madmen through the City of Elua, reckless and swift. For all his unruly temperament, the Bastard had a gait as smooth as silk. Gilot's bay mount caught a taste of the Bastard's fervor, and together they were like swallows on the wing. We crossed the arched bridge over the AvilineRiver, heading for Night's Doorstep. Pedestrians scattered before us and carriage-horses reared in their traces, alarmed.

Here and there, people shouted, waving to us.

I heard my name. "Im-ri-el! Prince Imriel!"

It felt good, bringing a fierce grin to my lips.

In Night's Doorstep, we halted. Gilot's mount was lathered and blown. The Bastard arched his neck and pranced, huffing. He was not even tired. The spotted horses of Aragon were known for their endurance.

"Come on." Gilot raked a hand through wind-tangled brown curls, then patted the money-pouch that hung from his belt. "We need to breathe them a spell; or at least I do. I'll stand you a round at the Cockerel, Imri."

"You said a short ride," I reminded him.

"I know." He grinned at me. "But you looked like you needed a bit of an escape, and I've heard the Lady Phèdre herself say none of her household would ever come to harm at the Cockerel. If you're scared, we can head back."

It stung my pride. "I'm not scared?"

"Come on, then."

Inside the Cockerel, there was a great deal of shouting. I whispered a word to Gilot, promising restitution, and he stood a round for the inn. Here they remember Hyacinthe, the Prince of Travellers, who became the Master of the Straits.

"Ah, my prince!" A barrel-shaped man came toward me, weeping openly, arms outstretched. "You came! You remember!"

"Emile," I said, exhaling his name as he embraced me hard. "Yes, of course."

"A gadjo pearl," he said, taking my chin in his thick fingers. "A gadjo pearl!"

A foaming tankard of ale was placed before me. I drank it down and wiped my lips. Afterward, more came. I was not sure who purchased it; Emile, mayhap. It was strong ale, and more than I was wont to drink. We toasted Hyacinthe, and Emile coaxed me to tell the story of the breaking of his curse to a rapt audience. After that, the story of the fete that Phèdre threw in Night's Doorstep to celebrate his return was rehashed with great relish by the patrons there.

By the time Gilot and I left, I was unsteady on my feet. I tried three times to put my foot in the stirrup, missing twice. The Bastard rolled his white-rimmed eyes at me. "Hup!" someone said, giving my buttocks a boost, and there I was, astride.

"Home," I said firmly, peering at Gilot. "Do you want to race?"

"Name of Elua!" Gilot looked pale. "I'm an idiot. Her ladyship will have my hide."

"All right, then." I was weaving in the saddle. "We'll race."

I put my heels to the Bastard's flanks, and he sprang forward like an arrow shot from a bow. I crouched low over his neck, laughing. His mane stung my cheeks. In the gloaming twilight, we raced through the streets. I could hear Gilot thundering behind me, trying in vain to catch us, his voice raised in a fading shout.

"Imri! Imri, stop!"

I didn't, not until I came within a hairsbreadth of running down a party of young nobles on the outskirts of Night's Doorstep. One of the women cried out in fear. The Bastard shied hard, flinging me onto his neck, then reared, hooves flailing the air. I managed to keep my seat and fought to regain his head.

"Fool boy!" A young lord in russet velvet scowled and drew his sword. "I've half a mind to lesson you with the flat of my blade!"

I felt chilled and very sober. "My lord, forgive me. I was careless."

He pointed at the paving-stones with the tip of his sword. "Apologize on your knees, whelp."

I heard an echo of the Mahrkagir's commands in his voice, and felt the shadow of Daršanga fall over me. I sat very still in the saddle, and the Bastard stood motionless beneath me, ears pricked and attentive. "No," I said softly. "I apologize, my lord, most sincerely. But I will not kneel."

"Oh, you will—" he began.

"Imriel!" Gilot burst upon us in a rattling clamor. Without an instant's hesitation, he drew his sword, pointing it at the angry lord. "Messire, drop your sword! Now!"

After a pause, the lord obeyed. His blade fell with a clatter. "Your highness," he said stiffly. "I pray your pardon. I did not know you in this light."

"It's all right," I said, embarrassed. "The fault was mine, truly."

"It certainly was," Gilot muttered.

Even so, they bowed to me as protocol dictated. We took our leave, riding at a sedate pace. I felt a thorough idiot. I stole a chastened glance at Gilot.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That was foolish."

"No," he said, "I was foolish. It was an ill-advised excursion, and I hold myself to blame." In the dim light, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Though I will say, you've got a wild streak in you, my prince. You and your spotted horse both."

"He's something, isn't he?" I patted the Bastard's neck. "Gilot… I'll keep this quiet if you will. If I go back through the garrison door, they don't have to know how long we were gone."

He looked sidelong at me. "Are you trying to save me trouble?"

"Yes," I said honestly.

"You shouldn't." Gilot's jaw set in a hard line. "I deserve it. I deserve to be dismissed."

"I'd rather you weren't," I said. "And I don't want to have to explain it to Katherine."

At that, he sighed. "Katherine!"

I put out my hand. "It's agreed, then?"

Gilot looked at my hand for a long moment. "All right," he said, clasping it. "Agreed."

At the townhouse, we found Benoit in a state of guilt-ridden agitation. It took no coaxing to enlist his aid in keeping quiet about our absence. Once the horses were stabled, we slipped into the garrison quarters where Gilot and Ti-Philippe and the others were lodged. I often spent time there visiting with them, and no one would think anything strange in it.

Still, I entered the townhouse warily, moving in silence.

I needn't have worried. Although the Lady Nicola had left, Phèdre and Joscelin were still in the salon, enjoying a rare moment of privacy. I heard their voices, low and murmuring, and stole toward the doorway.

"Do you think you will see her?" Joscelin asked. He was reclining on one of the couches, unusually relaxed, idly stroking Phèdre's hair as she leaned against him.

I stood in the shadows and watched.

"I don't know." Phèdre's voice was low. "After Daršanga…" She shook her head. "Ah, love! I've forfeited the right to ask you to endure aught else."

"Oh, will you make me the villain, then?" Joscelin asked dryly, winding a lock of her hair in his fingers. "Don't, Phèdre. I made my peace with it long ago. I survived Daršanga, though it nearly destroyed me. And for three years you have trod on eggshells because of it, attempting to protect me from what I know full well. I am telling you, Nicola is far easier to bear."

"Joscelin." She breathed his name, lowering her head to kiss him. I drew back into the shadows. "You're sure?"

I could not see him when he replied, but his voice was breathless and half-laughing. "Sure? I stand at the crossroads and choose, again and again. How can you ask?"

She answered him without words. I would have left then, save that I heard my name when Phèdre did speak.

"It's not only you," she murmured. "It's Imri."

"Yes," Joscelin said. "I know." I peered around the doorway. He had both hands sunk deep into her hair, and was gazing up at her. "Would you live a lie for his sake, love, and pretend to be somewhat you are not? Because I do not believe, in the end, he would thank you for it."

I did leave, then. I stole away and returned, making a noisy, cheerful entrance. I caught them out, flushed and laughing. D'Angelines are not shy in matters of love. If I had not eavesdropped on them, it would have been nothing more than one of those silly, joyous moments such as may occur in a small household.

And insofar as they knew, it wasn't.

"Imriel, my love." Phèdre smiled at me, running her fingers through her disheveled hair. "Did you have a pleasant time gloating over your new gift?"

"Yes, thank you." I smiled back at her, and lied. "Very pleasant."

Any other time, I suspect she would have known it; but I had caught her in a moment of distraction. And it was Phèdre herself who taught me the nine tell-tales of a lie. As well as she knows them, she was not terribly good at dissembling.

I learned that evening that I was.

Chapter Fifteen

There was some gossip at Court, though not as much as I expected. Once again, it seemed I was the last to learn what every other living soul in Terre d'Ange had known. The Lady Nicola had been more than a favorite patron. Phèdre had given her a lover's token long ago. It was something Naamah's Servants did on occasion, exalting a favorite from the status of patron to lover. It was the only time Phèdre had ever done so. No one expected her to do aught else but resume the liaison. They were more interested in whether or not she would return to Naamah's Service, a matter on which Phèdre had remained silent.

Still, letters bearing offers came every week.

There was nothing strange in it. In Terre d'Ange, such liaisons were commonplace. Blessed Elua was free from jealousy, and we strive to emulate his example. Betimes we fail, being mortal and weak, but we strive.

I knew this. It was part of my earliest teaching in the Sanctuary: Elua's precept, Love as thou wilt. And yet, I struggled with it. All that I had learned in childhood, I had unlearned under the Mahrkagir's tutelage. I had been so proud of the understanding I had gained during my reading of The Journey of Naamah. And though I could cling to it in my thoughts, in my heart it slipped away from me the first time Phèdre returned home from a liaison with the Lady Nicola.

It was the way she looked.

I used to see it in the zenana, when the Mahrkagir sent her back, at once pain-stiff and languid. A part of her went away at those times to a place where almost no one could follow. I hated it then, and I hated it now. I could not even wholly say why.

"Are you all right?" Joscelin took her cloak. He had remained at the townhouse while Ti-Philippe escorted her, but he made himself greet her upon her return.

"Yes." Phèdre smiled up at him. Her dark, wide-set eyes were soft and unfocused with the aftermath of desire, the scarlet mote floating in the left. When she shrugged out of her cloak, one sleeve of her gown fell back, revealing a rope-burn on one slender wrist. "Fine."

He exhaled hard. "Good."

"Are you?" she asked him.

"Nearly." Joscelin traced a line on her cheek beneath her dart-stricken eye. "Very nearly." He nodded toward the stairs. "Go on, Clory's drawn you a bath."

I got out of the way fast, and stayed out of her way. I could not help it. Something in me shrank from seeing her thus. A bright mirror, Mavros had called her; but Phèdre was a dark mirror, too, as surely as the Shahrazai. And although I scarce admitted it to myself, I was afraid of what I might see in it. It was easier to hate it.

It was a piece of irony that she warned me of it herself. It was a day etched on my heart, one of the happiest I had ever known. We were aboard a ship sailing from Iskandria to La Serenissima when Phèdre granted my heart's desire and told me that she and Joscelin meant to adopt me into their household. I remembered the warning she gave, taking my hand, revealing the underside of my wrist where the blue veins throbbed, pulsing with the blood of Kushiel's lineage.

Betimes you will despise me, like you did in Daršanga.

I had denied it with all the fervor of my eleven-year-old soul. Now, four years later, it was true, and I had to learn to live with it. In some ways, it was a matter of honor.