There was shouting, somewhere, and the muffled sounds of footsteps racing through the long grass toward us. We both ignored it, staring at one another. Maslin was breathing hard, his bare chest heaving. He wiped the back of his free hand over his brow, leaving a dark smudge.

"Will you?" I repeated.

"No." Gritting his teeth, he put up his impromptu weapon. "Not here, princeling, not now. But one day, when we are men, there will be a reckoning. I mean to make something of myself. And you will rue the day I do."

I nodded. "So be it, if it must. But I do not seek your enmity."

"No?" His mouth twisted. "Nonetheless, it is yours."

My escort arrived in belated, thunderous array, swords drawn, clad in the livery of Courcel and Montrève. The seneschal of Lombelon lumbered in their wake, puffing. There was nothing to be seen by then. Only two youths, conversing beneath a pear tree. I made light of the exchange, and we moved onward.

Phèdre knew, of course.

There was little that escaped her attention. Still, she was angry at herself for being careless, and I found myself reluctant to discuss it. I begged her not to speak to the Royal Army Captain of it, reckoning it not worth his trouble. In that, she acceded, saying only a quiet word to Joscelin and Ti-Philippe. We did not speak of it that day, not until the next day, as we rode toward the City and she drew the details of the encounter from me.

"Isidore's son," she murmured. "I wonder who his mother is."

"I don't know." I shook my head. "It didn't seem prudent to ask."

"D'Aiglemort was reckoned a hero until he turned," Ti-Philippe commented. "There's any number of L'Agnacite lasses might have lit candles to Eisheth on his behalf."

Gilot laughed. "You ought to know, chevalier!"

At that, Phèdre smiled. There are a good many children in the area surrounding Montrève who bear a certain resemblance to the last of Phèdre's Boys, although not so many in the years since Ti-Philippe took up with Hugues. "Well, Isidore d'Aiglemort didn't strike me as a man given to casual dalliance. There must have been somewhat in it if he was willing to acknowledge Maslin as his heir, at least to Lombelon."

"There's always somewhat in it, my lady!" Ti-Philippe sounded aggrieved. "You of all people should know."

Joscelin cleared his throat.

"Well, yes." Phèdre glanced at her Cassiline consort with amusement. "But betimes more than others."

Despite all the years they have been together, Phèdre and Joscelin have never wed; nor, I think, will they. He was her consort, declared and acknowledged, but he did not share her title. It had to do with the vows he swore as a Cassiline Brother. Although he had broken all of them save one—the one that mattered most—he would not exchange them for the vows of marriage. There was somewhat in it that his sense of honor could not abide. This, Phèdre understood in him.

"Well, that's true enough," Ti-Philippe said, mollified. "Still, whoever the lad's mother was, why blame Imriel? No one forced d'Aiglemort's hand to treason. He was offered a gambit to seize the throne from a young, untried Queen, and he took it."

I was silent, listening to them argue the matter with half an ear. I understood full well why Maslin of Lombelon hated me. We were both the sons of treasonous parents. The difference was that he was landless and poor, laboring in the orchards that would have been his inheritance, while I strolled through them and claimed ownership; a Prince of the Blood, clad in silk and velvet, with the Queen's Champion and a squadron of the Royal Army at my side.

"He's bitter," I said aloud. "Do you blame him?"

Phèdre gave me one of her deep looks. "For being bitter, no. For drawing a weapon on you, yes."

I shrugged. "A pruning hook."

"You can do a lot of damage with a pruning hook," Hugues offered cheerfully, "I could."

"But he didn't," I pointed out.

I thought about it for the remainder of the journey. Once we were within the walls of the City, we dismissed our Royal Army escort. I thanked the men by name, having memorized them as Phèdre had taught me to do, and gave a purse to the Captain to share among them. They saluted me with a good will, and I was glad of that, at least. Any tales they carried to Barquiel L'Envers would be benign. I'd always gotten on well with soldiers, given half a chance.

Therein lay the challenge.

I thought more about Maslin.

He might be a friend, if he knew me. If he gave me a half a chance. Why it mattered, I could not say, except that we shared the heritage of a tainted lineage. And because I had envied him; admired him. He could not know that in some ways, I would gladly trade places with him; that I would happily surrender my claim to Lombelon and the other estates in exchange for the childhood I had lost in Daršanga.

For two days, I mooned around the townhouse, fretting and neglecting my studies, until I came to a decision. When I did, I went to find Phèdre.

She was in her bathing-room, which was the one altar to sheer luxury that she maintains in her household. I paused and would have gone away without knocking, but Eugenie's niece Clory opened the door, her hands glistening with oil.

"Imri." Phèdre's voice, coming from beyond the door, was mild. "Will you out with it now, or later? 'Tis yours to choose, love."

The mingled scent of lavender and mint made me wrinkle my nose. "Now?"

"Come in, then."

I entered and took a seat on the low stool there, hooking my heels over the last rung and propping my chin on my fists. The bathing-room was warm and humid. Candles flickered, burning low in waxen pools. Phèdre lay on the cushioned massage-table, draped only in a short length of finespun linen. Her head was pillowed on her arms. She looked heavy-lidded, languid and indolent, which would have deceived anyone who did not know her.

"Is it Maslin?" she asked.

I nodded. "Do you promise you won't laugh at me?"

"Yes," Phèdre said. "Do you want Clory to leave?"

"No, that's all right." I shook my head. Among those who served in Phèdre's household, discretion was paramount. Women know how to keep secrets. I learned that in the zenana. "I don't mind."

Clory, resuming her duties as masseuse, clicked her tongue against her teeth; doubtless responding to some slight tension in Phèdre's body. She had trained at Balm House, and she took a great deal of pride in her skills. It was soothing to watch. In the warm candlelight, Phèdre's skin glowed like new cream, the black lines and crimson accents of her marque in stark contrast. I perched on my stool in silence, watching Clory's strong, clever hands at work, while Phèdre watched me, patient and waiting.

At last I met her eyes. "I want to give him Lombelon."

Phèdre folded her hands beneath her chin. She didn't look surprised. "You know his claim will have to be substantiated."

"Yes." I took a deep breath. "I know. Do you doubt it?"

"No." She smiled wryly. "Not really. He looks like d'Aiglemort."

I watched a candle gutter and die. "Could you see to it, then? That part?"

"Yes." She shifted one shoulder. Clory halted and, without a word, went to wash her hands in the basin. Wiping them dry, she picked up Phèdre's silk robe, spreading it open and obscuring my view. With the ease of long practice, Phèdre stood and slid into it, knotting the sash. "Thank you, Clory."

"Always, my lady." Clory's smile was warm. As she left, she touched my shoulder lightly with one fragrant, oil-scented hand. "Young highness."

When she had gone, Phèdre sat cross-legged on the thick cushions of the table. She arranged the graceful folds of her robe, studying me. "Why, love?"

"Because I don't need it." I picked at some pooled wax with my thumbnail. "I don't even want it. And if it was meant to be his—it's not fair, that's all." I lifted my chin. "That's a good thing, isn't it? To set right something that's wrong?"

"In theory, yes," she said. "It doesn't always work as simply as it ought. For one thing, the Queen may not approve."

I frowned. "But it's my decision, isn't it?"

"Yes." Phèdre twisted her damp hair into a coil, smiling with a trace of rue. "And mine, since you've not reached your majority."

"She'll be angry ax you." I hadn't thought of that.

"No more than usual." A flicker of genuine amusement crossed her features. "I was thinking of you, love. Ysandre does not like to have her generosity rebuked. And then there is Maslin."

I found her jeweled hairpins and handed them to her. "What of him?"

"He may not be grateful," she said. "He may even be angry."

It made no sense, and I felt my frown deepen. "Why would he? He loves Lombelon, I could see it. And it's nothing to me."

"You answer your own question," Phèdre said softly, affixing her hairpins.

I sat and thought about it until I came to understand how Maslin of Lombelon might hate me for giving him his heart's desire. For caring so little that I could afford to toss it to him as a sop, the least of my undeserved holdings. How my careless charity might be a hateful reminder of the disparity in our status. How he might hate me for being forever in my debt, and how his pride would gall him at the sight of me.

"Do you see, Imri?" Phèdre asked after a while.

I nodded.

"Do you still want him to have it?"

"Yes." I rubbed my eyes with the heel of one hand. "It's still the right thing to do, isn't it?" I blinked at her, clearing my stinging eyes. "Isn't it?"

Phèdre shook her head and slid from the table. "Come here," she said, opening her arms. I walked into her embrace, resting my chin on her silk-clad shoulder. I had grown tall enough to do that now. She hugged me hard, kissing my temple. "Yes."

After a moment, I freed myself. "Phèdre? What would you have done?"

"Me?" One corner of her mouth curved upward. "Ah, well, love… remind me, sometime, to tell you the story behind Favrielle nó Eglantine and her notorious ill-temper."

I smiled at her. "Joscelin told me that one."

She ruffled my hair. "Then you know."

Chapter Six

In the months that followed, the matter was slowly concluded. Phèdre sent Ti-Philippe to make discreet inquiries in the area of Lombelon, where he learned that Maslin's mother was one Anne Livet. Her father, who had died some years ago, had been the master gardener in d'Aiglemort's day. The dalliance had been an earnest one, well-known by the L'Agnacite folk in the area, and d'Aiglemort had claimed the child in the womb. No one doubted that he would have acknowledged Maslin had he lived to see his birth.

Autumn came, and Drustan the Cruarch sailed back to Alba. Phèdre sought a private audience with the Queen to discuss the matter. What she said, I do not know, but if Ysandre was angry or hurt, she held her tongue.

I had to sign the deed before the Chancellor of the Exchequer, sealing it with the stamp of the signet ring Ysandre had given unto my possession after we returned from Jebe-Barkal, with the swan insignia of House Courcel. It felt very strange. Phèdre signed it, too, pressing the seal of Montrève with its crescent moon and mountain crag below mine. When it was done, the Chancellor wrote out a fair copy, signing and stamping it with his own seal. This he gave to me. One way or another, it was mine to deliver.

I agonized over the decision. How to do it? A courier would be impersonal; and yet, if there was hatred in Maslin's eyes, I wouldn't have to see it. And yet, if he were pleased—if he were willing to accept the gesture in the spirit of goodwill and kinship I intended it—I would miss that, too. I would miss that half a chance to befriend the only person I had met who labored under a burden of unwanted heritage similar to mine.

It was Alais who forced the matter, although not, in the end, who decided it.

"You're not paying attention," she said, rapping the back of my hand with the fan of cards she held. "I played trumps, Imriel! You're not paying attention at all." She paused. "Will you tell me why?"

I raked one hand through my hair. In truth, I didn't mind these days, when the Queen bade me to Court and decreed the scions of House Courcel must further their acquaintance. I was fond of Alais, and Sidonie—well, Sidonie left us well enough alone, content to read a book while Alais and I played cards under the watchful eyes of the Queen's Guard.

"I'm sorry," I said to Alais. "I was thinking of somewhat else."

"Yes," she said impatiently, "I know. What?"

I told her, then; a shortened version, one fit for a child. Alais listened gravely. She could be serious, when she wished; sometimes she had dreams that came true. That came from Drustan's side and his mother's blood.

"I think you should tell him yourself," she said. "It's nice, what you're doing. What are you afraid of?"

I explained, as best I could. Alais knew a good deal of what I had endured—Ysandre did not want her daughters sheltered from knowledge of the world's ills, and Alais had heard it long ago. But she was born of a love-match, and young, and it was hard for her to understand.

"Well, I think he should be happy," she said.

"Yes," I said. "But we do not always do what we should."