This was a difficulty indeed. Standing in the deep twilight by the road, Klimun racked his brains for a story to tell. Perhaps there was a shrewish wife who wanted him home. Perhaps she didn’t know he’d left and he must make it back to his farm before she was undeceived. At all cost, he must think of a reason not to go back to the prince. He didn’t notice that since they had paused to look for the old woman’s coins, the evening had grown not darker, but brighter. The moon had come up, it had cleared the horizon behind him, but Klimun didn’t see it, and he never thought of the bargain he had made with the goddess of the moon.

“Phresine,” said Eugenides, looking uncomfortable. “I should have stipulated a story with a happy ending. I don’t like this one. Tell me a different one.”

Phresine ignored him. The king set his jaw, but he listened.

Now, Gerosthenes, standing with the amphora in his arms, was facing the horizon where the moon had crept into the sky. He remembered Klimun’s promise, but what could he do? Klimun had gathered himself to speak. His mouth was open, and the words were on their way from heart to tongue. Gerosthenes could hardly shout, “My prince, don’t lie.” Horrified, he knew there was nothing he could say.

“Phresine…” The king looked genuinely unhappy. Costis didn’t believe for a moment there had ever been a real Klimun, or a real Gerosthenes. He looked at Phresine for some understanding of the king’s distress, but Phresine was looking into space and seemed unaware of the king’s unhappiness.

“So,” she said, “Gerosthenes hit Klimun over the head with the amphora.”

“Ha,” the king snorted in relief. Phresine affected not to notice this any more than his earlier distress. She continued.

Well, this was a surprise to more people than Klimun. It was the Prince Atos himself who nudged his horse forward from the back of the group of horsemen and asked why Klimun’s friend had wasted an amphora of their best wine on Klimun’s head.

Klimun was wondering that himself. He looked at Gerosthenes, who looked at the moon. Klimun followed his gaze and turned to see the moon over his shoulder.

“I see that you are enlightened,” said the young prince. “Do please enlighten us as well.”

Seeing no other choice before him, Klimun did so. “My friend has most earnestly recommended that I remember a vow I have taken never to lie by moonlight, and to tell you truthfully that I am Klimun, Basileus of Kathodicia, that I came here in secret to see the new prince of this city and judge him by his behavior among his people.”

“And what was your judgment?” the young prince asked.

“You are proud, but fair, and I do not think you are a warmonger.”

“I’m flattered,” said the prince.

“You may be flattered, but I am no flatterer,” said Klimun, “at least not by moonlight.”

“Then I think you are what my father said I should value above all others, a man I can trust, and we should be allies,” said the prince.

“Then I would be both flattered and honored,” said Klimun, “but I am not sure that I am worthy of your trust.” Humbly he turned to the old woman, still standing nearby, and said, “Goddess, I have broken my promise to you. If not for the action of my friend, I would have lied. I believe your olives and my city are forfeit,” he said sadly.

“You told no lie,” said the goddess, for goddess she was, as both Gerosthenes and Klimun had realized.

“But I would have lied.”

“Your friend prevented you.”

“Yes.” Klimun agreed, but saw only that he had been tried and found wanting.

“If you were not the man you promised to be, all these years, he would not have been your friend, here in your moment of need. I do not think the moonlight has uncovered anything it should not have seen,” she said gravely, and then she was gone, leaving Klimun very relieved and a group of horsemen awaiting an explanation.

“Thank you, Phresine,” said the king, humbly.

“Thank me by eating some more soup and sleeping for a while.”

“Will there be poppy juice in it?”

Phresine shook her head.

“Good. My wife and I agreed that only my wine was to be poisoned.”

Phresine went to fetch him more soup.

By the time the king had eaten a little, he admitted he was tired and slept again. Costis was grateful. In the late afternoon, the queen came to sit with the king and sent Costis to the guardroom. Teleus arrived with the change of the guard and told Costis he could go.

The air was heavy as Costis crossed the large open courtyard behind the public rooms of the palace. Costis stifled a yawn, surprised at how tired he could feel after doing nothing all day. From the courtyard, he cut through the breezeway that connected the front part of the palace to the complicated collection of buildings that made up the residential portion of the palace for the court. There was a passage at the east end that bypassed the public rooms and led to a terrace. From the terrace, one could go by steep staircases down to the barracks and the training grounds of the Royal Guard.

Sleepy and hot, he stepped around the broken pieces of several roof tiles that must have fallen from somewhere high above the terrace. There was a crash like a crockery jar exploding behind him, and he jumped forward out of the way of the next batch of tiles that slid down. He looked back at the mess on the terrace, thought longingly of an afternoon nap, and went instead to report the fall to the palace secretary in charge of roofs.

Thoroughly awake after that, and hungry, he headed for the mess hall. The guard who had sat at his left earlier in the day was sitting at a table alone, and he waved for Costis to join him. Costis, after pouring himself a glass of wine, did so.

Domisidon, sitting nearby, looked up, saw Costis, and said, “The king’s lapdog arrives.”

The guard beside Costis laughed, then stopped. “I’m sorry, Costis, it isn’t your fault. What happens to you now, do you know?”

Costis thought. “I have no idea. I was pretty much done being a fake lieutenant. I thought they might farm me out to a border fort—maybe when Prokep came down from the north. I guess that might still happen.”

“But you’ve saved the king’s life?”

“Not really,” said Costis. “He mostly did that himself.”

“Of course. I forgot.”

They thumped him on the shoulder and elbowed him good-naturedly. But there was something behind the good nature, not condescension, commiseration perhaps. He didn’t want to ask outright what they meant by their pity. He was afraid he knew the answer, and he didn’t like it. Costis excused himself and went to look for Aristogiton.

In the night, Relius woke, gripped by sudden terror. The infirmary around him was dark, the high ceilings lost beyond the glimmer of the night candle by his bed, the heavy air around him silent. Under the light pressure of the sheet and thin blanket, he was rigid with fear, and he had to close his eyes to fight the impulse to thrash his way free of the covers, of the bed, and of the infirmary. There was no escape, no hope of escape. It was an emotion beyond rational thought, and not until the king spoke did Relius realize he was not alone.

“It’s the dog watch of the night,” the king said softly.