The magus straightened. “Hespira?” he said, puzzled. “I don’t know Hespira. Is she the goddess of the temple?” He had seen under the vines the shattered ruins of a temple.

Eddis shook her head. Eugenides had stretched out on his back and closed his eyes. “Hespira’s mother planted the vines that destroyed the temple,” said Eddis.

“A rival goddess?” the magus asked.

“A mortal woman,” Eddis answered as she settled herself on the moss and opened the saddlebag. “The goddess Meridite abducted her daughter.”

“Is there a story that goes with this?”

“Oh, yes,” said Eddis.

The magus glanced over at Eugenides, who opened his eyes long enough to say flatly, “Don’t look at me. I’ve retired from storytelling.”

“Eugenides, sit up and eat, and don’t be cross,” said Eddis.

“Am I cross?” Eugenides asked.

“Yes,” said Eddis. “Magus, don’t sit there. Sit on this side.” She pointed to a place on the moss, and the magus sat, seeing no difference between it and the place he had chosen himself.

“She wants the commander to have a good shot at you,” Eugenides pointed out with a touch of malice. He was still lying down, and his eyes were closed. The magus looked up to the rim of the valley to see the commander and several of his soldiers standing with their feet squarely planted and their crossbows trained on him. Two others were circling the rim of the valley in order to have the magus in their sights from the far side. The magus glanced at Eugenides. He hadn’t needed to look to know they were there.

“I only want the commander not to worry himself,” said Eddis calmly. “He will fret if I am between him and the magus.” The queen hadn’t looked up to the hillside either.

“What about the magus fretting?” Eugenides asked, and Eddis lifted her head from the package she was unwrapping to look at her guest.

“Don’t be alarmed,” she reassured him. “They are only being cautious, not bloodthirsty.”

“It would be one way to prove your loyalty to your king,” Eugenides said.

“A fatal way,” observed the magus.

“True, but they can’t be too careful,” said Eugenides. “It might be worth it to you to clear your name. Did you miss the subtle negotiations at the edge of the valley? The commander didn’t want to be left behind. He didn’t want the queen alone in the valley with you.”

The magus had heard the exchange without understanding its significance. He pointed out what was obvious to him: “But we aren’t alone.” Eugenides lay on the moss less than a man’s-length away.

“You may as well be. I never would have been considered a match for a soldier of your reputation,” said Eugenides. Unspoken was the assumption that he was no longer a match for anyone. There was a dryness to his words that was almost, but not quite, bitterness.

The queen explained. She spoke quietly, but her words had sharp edges nonetheless. “In his life Eugenides has gone to great lengths to portray himself as a noncombatant, so people assume he is. He has to live with the fruits of his labors and sometimes finds them unsweet. Sit up and eat,” she said to her Thief, and this time he levered himself into a sitting position.

He ate with his left hand. The hook on the end of his arm lay at rest in his lap.

“When do you wear the hook and when do you wear the false hand?” the magus asked with a straightforwardness that surprised the queen.

“The hand is less noticeable,” Eugenides answered, unoffended. “But the hook has a number of uses, and the false hand isn’t good for anything. So I teeter between vanity and function.”

“And when you stop teetering, where will you be?” the magus asked.

Eugenides shrugged. “In the madhouse…or maybe in a nice home in the suburbs, keeping books.”

The magus suspected that the very blandness of his voice covered over some ugliness the way a covering of leaves can hide a pit trap. The magus didn’t risk falling. He changed the subject.

“Would you tell me the story of Hespira?” he asked Eddis.

Before she answered, Eddis looked up to check the position of the sun. “I’ll tell it to you if you like. We have the time. Eugenides, if you are going to lie down again, put your head on my knee.”

The magus lifted his eyebrows. The queen noticed that he raised both at the same time. Eugenides had lately taken to raising just one when he was being amused, and she wondered whom he was copying. Eugenides rested his head on her lap. Pensively she tried to brush away the crease between his brows. She knew the magus wondered at his bad temper.

“We are sending a message to the queen of Attolia,” she explained, speaking to the magus though she continued to look down at Eugenides. “My guards will see how fond I have grown of my Thief, and gossip. The gossip will carry to Attolian spies, who will report to Relius, Attolia’s master of spies, and he will carry the news to her.”

“Her secretary of the archives,” murmured the magus.

“Hmm?” asked the queen.

“Secretary of the archives, Relius. Master of spies is so—”

“Accurate?”

“Overly direct,” said the magus.

Eddis laughed.

“Attolia has been unaware of Eugenides’s activity?” asked the magus.

“As has Sounis,” said the queen, “until now.”

“And what has happened to change that, if I may ask? I had a most relaxing stay in your lodge, but not an informative one.”

“Yes, I didn’t know you had an interest in botany,” said Eddis.

“I don’t really. I have a friend who does. He isn’t well enough to travel and relies on acquaintances to send him samples and drawings. And how is your war progressing?” he asked, declining to be sidetracked by scholarly inquiry.

Eddis smiled. “Seeing himself betrayed by Attolia, Sounis has been most kind in relieving the strain of Attolia’s embargo on Eddis. We have received several shipments of grain and other necessities in exchange for a promised delivery of cannon, which I regret to say we are going to be unable to deliver.”

“So you turn a two-way war into a three-way one?”

“A war we would lose to a war we might survive.”

“Why not take Sounis as an ally against Attolia and fight a war you might win?” the magus asked.

“Because as an ally Sounis would expect to bring his army across Eddis, and that will never happen while I reign,” said Eddis with absolute conviction.

“I see,” said the magus. “And for the duration of this war…?” he asked.

“You will be a prisoner in Eddis,” said the queen. “I am sorry. We will try to make you comfortable.”

The magus bowed his head politely.

“The goddess Meridite had a son by a blacksmith. You know Meridite?”

“Yes,” said the magus.

“Good,” said the queen, and began her story.

The goddess Meridite had a son by a blacksmith. It was an unusual union, and some say that she was tricked into it by the other gods, but whatever she thought of the father, she seemed fond of the son. His name was Horreon, and she watched over him as he grew up. The blacksmith had no wife, and so father and son lived alone, and Meridite visited from time to time to see how the boy was growing. He worked by his father’s side, learning his trade from a very early age. He had a gift, no doubt from his mother. Everything he made was the finest of its kind. When he was young, he made horseshoes lighter and stronger than anyone else’s. His blades were sharper; his swords never broke.