“What?” asked Shan, baffled.
“Did you tell Berenene you were going to ask me to marry you?”
“Her Imperial Majesty? No. I didn’t want to come back to her in shame if you refused me.”
“Did you tell anyone?” Sandry asked. “Any of your friends at court?”
“Of course not. You know how they laugh at failure—”
“Is it their laughter you fear? Or the chance they might tell Berenene what you’re up to?” Sandry got to her feet, unweaving his bonds to the chair under him. “You’re so afraid of her, you sneak behind her back to even talk to me. I bet the next thing on your list was suggesting a nice, private wedding. Intimate, just a few friends, no fuss—maybe out in the country?”
“Assuredly out in the country,” murmured Ambros.
“And then we get to the business of baby-making, and return once I’d begun to show. Because you’d want to come back to Berenene only after there’s absolutely no way she can break the marriage without looking foolish. This is about her, not me. You want to throw it in her face that you could be politically powerful without her.”
“Sandry, you’re taking this all wrong,” protested Shan.
“Get out,” she said coolly. “Go on, stand up.” Carefully Shan stood, and dusted his backside. Sandry continued in an even tone, “When and if I marry, it will be to an honest man. Please go now, before I lose my temper.”
“My dear, think this over,” Shan said. “We could truly be happy together.”
“My temper is fraying, and so are your clothes,” she replied evenly. “Good-bye, Pershan fer Roth.”
Ambros opened the door. Shan risked a last look at Sandry, then fled. Ambros closed the door. “Will his clothes really come off?” he asked. He saw that Sandry was silently weeping. Walking over, he held her as he would one of his daughters. “He was unworthy of you, Cousin.”
“I just hate being made a fool of,” she explained.
“Love makes fools of us all, and desire does far worse,” Ambros explained. “Forget him. You deserve better, and you will find it.”
Sandry hugged him tightly, then pulled away, searching for her handkerchief. She blew her nose and said mournfully, “But he probably won’t be as handsome.”
Ambros chuckled. “He will be if you love him. Come along to supper. You’ll feel better for some beet soup.”
Tris stirred. It was near midnight. She remembered saying farewells to her friends earlier, though the spells and drugs the healers used to keep her still made her memory a bit fuzzy on exactly when. She knew she was not alone. There was a maid stitching by lamplight in one corner. From the way she jerked her thread through the cloth, she was angry. From the frequent glares she cast at the corner to the left, the cause was the person who huddled there.
“Zhegorz,” croaked Tris.
The man sat up. The maid put her sewing down and came to Tris’s side. “Viymese, I’m sorry, but he wouldn’t go away. Viymese Daja said to leave him be, but he’s been here for an hour at least—”
“Thank you,” Tris said, her voice still rough. “I needed to talk to him. I would like some cold water, if you don’t mind.”
The maid leaned down and whispered, “Are you certain? He is so very odd.”
A smile struggled on Tris’s battered face. “So am I. It’s all right.”
The maid left them, muttering. Zhegorz inched closer to the bed. “I was thinking,” he explained. “I ought to stay here. I’ll travel with you. They don’t need me, not even Viymese Daja—”
“Pavao,” Tris said rudely if softly. “They’re going to need you, heading south.”
“Need me.” For a moment, Zhegorz’s voice was so dry that he might well have been completely sane. “They need me? Viymese Tris, it’s clear the healers must take the magic off you. You’re starting to imagine things.”
“They need someone who can see and hear things on the wind,” Tris said. “I won’t be there to do that for them. That leaves you. You can warn them of danger they don’t expect.”
“But I can’t control it,” Zhegorz protested. “It comes and it goes!”
“You can control it more than you did,” Tris reminded him. “You have your ear beads and your spectacles. Any little bit of warning will help them. Please, Zhegorz.”
He shook his head.
Tris sighed. “Zhegorz, you’re a mage. What’s the point of being a mage if you don’t do something useful with your magic? Something most people can’t do for themselves?”
He stared at her, nonplussed. Tris met his eyes firmly.
Finally he mumbled, “I’m fit to work as a mage?”
Tris smiled and winced. “More fit than I am,” she reminded him. “Come on, old man. It’s time to go to work. Keep doing your exercises, mind. If you have questions, Daja or Briar or Sandry can send them on to me. May I count on you?”
He hung his head, trembling. “No one’s ever counted on me before, except to be crazy.”
Tris’s eyelids were fluttering. “Then this will be a new experience. That’s a good thing.” Her eyes closed. From her slow, deep breathing, she was asleep already.
Zhegorz gently patted her unsplinted arm. “I hope I don’t let you down,” he whispered.