Trust the Lady. Trust the Lady. He whispered some incoherent prayers, and slowly regained control of himself. If She had brought him this far for some purpose, surely She would not abandon him now.

A new horrible thought occurred to him, as he told Umegat's sermon over in his mind. If the goddess only entered the world by Cazaril renouncing his will on Her behalf, could wanting desperately to live, an act of will if ever there was one, be enough to exclude Her, and Her miracle? Her protective encapsulation might pop like a soap bubble, releasing a paradox of death and damnation... Following this logic loop around and around was enough to keep him awake for hours, as the night slowly wore itself out. The square of his chamber's window was growing faintly gray before he dropped again into blessed unconsciousness.

SO IT WAS THAT, FLANKED BY HIS GHOSTLY OUTRIDERS, he climbed the stairs late the following morning to his office antechamber. He felt stupid and eroded from lack of sleep, and he looked forward without enthusiasm to a week's worth of neglected correspondence and bookkeeping, dropped in disordered piles on his desk from the hour of Iselle's disastrous betrothal.

He found his ladies up betimes. In the sitting room just past the frontier of his office, all his good new schoolroom maps were spread out on a table. Iselle leaned on her hands, staring down at them. Betriz, her arms folded under her breasts, stood watching over her shoulder and frowning. Both young women, and Nan dy Vrit, who sat sewing, wore the blacks and lavenders of strict formal court mourning, a prudent dissimulation of which Cazaril approved.

As he entered, he saw next to Iselle's hand a scattering of paper scraps with scribbled lists, some items scratched through, some circled or ticked with checks. Iselle scowled and pointed to a spot on the map marked with a sturdy hat pin, and said over her shoulder to her handmaiden, "But that's no better than—" She broke off when she saw Cazaril. The dark, invisible cloak still clung about her; only an occasional faint thread of blue light still glinted in its sluggish folds. The ghost-blobs veered violently away from it and, only partly to Cazaril's relief, vanished from his second sight.

"Are you all right, Lord Caz?" Iselle inquired, looking at him with her brows drawing down. "You don't look well."

Cazaril bowed greeting. "My apologies for absenting myself yesterday, Royesse. I was taken with a... a colic. It has mostly passed off now."

Nan dy Vrit, from her seat in the corner, looked up from her sewing with an unfriendly stare to remark, "The chamber woman had it that you were taken with a bad head from drinking and carousing with the stable grooms. She said she saw you come in so drunk after Lord Dondo's funeral you could barely stagger."

Conscious of Betriz's unhappy scrutiny, he said apologetically, "Drinking yes; carousing, no. It won't happen again, milady." He added a little dryly, "It didn't answer anyway."

"It's a scandal to the royesse, that her secretary be seen so inebriated that he—"

"Hush, Nan," Iselle interrupted this lecture impatiently. "Leave be."

"What's this, Royesse?" Cazaril gestured at the pin-studded map.

Iselle drew a long breath. "I've thought it through. I've been thinking for days. As long as I remain unwed, plots will swirl about me. I don't doubt dy Jironal will produce some other candidate to try to bind me and Teidez to his clan. And other factions—now it's revealed that Orico would willingly bestow me on a lesser lord, every lesser lord in Chalion will begin badgering him for my hand. My only defense, my only certain refuge, is if I am married already. And not to a lesser lord."

Cazaril's brows rose. "I confess, Royesse, my own thoughts have been running something along those lines."

"And swiftly, swiftly, Cazaril. Before they can come up with someone even more disgusting than Dondo." Her voice was edged with stress.

"Even our dear chancellor must find that a daunting challenge," he murmured diffidently, and had the satisfaction of drawing a brief bark of laughter from her. He pursed his lips. "The need is great, I grant you, but the danger is not so instantly pressing as all that. Dy Jironal himself will block the lesser lords for you, I am sure. Your first line of defense must be to block dy Jironal's next candidate. Although, thinking over his family, it's not clear to me who he can offer up. His sons are both married, or he might have put forth one of them in place of Dondo. Or offered himself, were he not wed."

"Wives die," said Betriz darkly. "Sometimes, they even die conveniently."

Cazaril shook his head. "Dy Jironal has planned his family alliances with care. His daughters-in-law—his wife, too—are his links to some of the greatest families in Chalion, the daughters and sisters of powerful provincars. I don't say he wouldn't seize a vacancy, but he dare not be seen or even suspected of creating one. And his grandsons are toddlers. No, dy Jironal must play a waiting game."

"What about his nephews?" said Betriz.

Cazaril, after a pause for thought, shook his head again. "Too loose a connection, not controlled enough. He desires a subordinate, not a rival."

"I decline," said Iselle through her teeth, "to wait a decade to be wed to a boy fifteen years younger than I am."

Cazaril glanced involuntarily at Lady Betriz. He himself was fifteen years older than—he thrust the discouraging thought from his mind. The evil barrier between them now was less surmountable than merely that of youth versus age. Life does not wed death.

"We've placed a pin in the map for every unwed ruler or heir we can think of between here and Darthaca," said Betriz.

Cazaril advanced and looked over the map. "What, even the Roknari princedoms?"

"I wanted to be complete," said Iselle. "Without them, well... there weren't very many choices. I admit, I don't much like the idea of a Roknari prince. Leaving aside their horrid squared-off religion, their custom of choosing as heir any son at all, whether of true wife or concubine, makes it nearly impossible to tell if one is wedding a future ruler or a future drone."

"Or a future corpse," said Cazaril. "Half the victories Chalion ever gained over the Roknari were the result of some embittered failed candidate stabbing his princely half brother in the back."

"But that leaves only four true Quintarians of rank," put in Betriz. "The roya of Brajar, Bergon of Ibra, and the twin sons of the high march of Yiss just across the Darthacan border. Who are twelve years old."

"Not impossible," said Iselle judiciously, "but March dy Yiss would have no natural reason to ally with Teidez, later, against the Roknari. He shares no borders with the princedoms and does not suffer from their depredations. And he pays fealty to Darthaca, who has no interest in seeing a strong, united alliance of Ibran states arise to put an end to the perpetual war in the north."

Cazaril was pleased to hear his own analysis coming back to him in the royesse's mouth; she'd paid more attention during her geography lessons than he'd thought. He smiled encouragingly.

"And besides," Iselle added crossly, "Yiss has no coastline either." Her hand drifted unhappily across the map to the east. "My cousin the roya of Brajar is quite old, and they say is grown too sodden with drink to ride to war. And his grandson is too young."

"Brajar does have good ports," said Betriz. She added more dubiously, although in the tone of one pointing out an advantage, "I suppose he wouldn't live very long."

"Yes, but what help could I be to Teidez as a mere dowager royina? It's not as though I might tell a, a stepgrandson how to deploy his troops!" Iselle's hand trailed back to the opposite coast. "And the Fox of Ibra's eldest son is married, and his younger not the heir, and the country is convulsed with civil strife."

"Not anymore," said Cazaril abruptly. "Did no one tell you the news that came yesterday from Ibra? The Heir is dead. Struck down in South Ibra—the coughing fever. No one doubts that young Royse Bergon will take his place. He's been loyal to his father throughout the whole mess."

Iselle turned her head and stared at him, her eyes widening. "Really... ! How old is Bergon, again? Fifteen, was he not?"

"He must be rising sixteen now, Royesse."

"Better than fifty-seven!" Her fingers walked lightly up the coast of Ibra along the string of maritime cities to the great port of Zagosur, where they stopped, resting upon a certain pin with a carved mother-of-pearl head. "What do you know of Royse Bergon, Cazaril? Is he well-favored? Did you ever see him when you were in Ibra?"

"Not with my own eyes. They say he's a handsome boy."

Iselle shrugged impatiently. "All royses are always described as handsome, unless they're absolutely grotesque. Then it's said they have character."

"I believe Bergon to be reasonably athletic, which argues for at least a pleasantly healthy appearance. They say he has been trained at seamanship." Cazaril saw the glow of youthful enthusiasm starting in her eyes, and felt constrained to add, "But your brother Orico has been at this half war with the roya of Ibra for the past seven years. The Fox has no love for Chalion."

Iselle pressed her hands together. "But what better way to end a war than with a marriage treaty?"

"Chancellor dy Jironal is bound to oppose it. Quite aside from wanting you for his own family connection, he wants Teidez to have no ally, now or in the future, stronger than himself."

"By that reasoning, he must oppose any good match I can suggest." Iselle leaned over the map again, her hand sweeping in a long arc encompassing Chalion and Ibra both—two-thirds of the lands between the seas. "But if I could bring Teidez and Bergon together..." Her palm pressed flat and slowly slid along the north coast across the five Roknari princedoms; pins popped from the paper and scattered. "Yes," she breathed. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw tightened. When she again looked up at Cazaril, her eyes were blazing. "I shall put it to my brother Orico at once, before dy Jironal returns. If I can get his word on it, publicly declared, surely even dy Jironal cannot make him take it back?"

"Think it through first, Royesse. Think of all the issues. One drawback is surely the ghastly father-in-law." Cazaril's brow wrinkled. "Though I suppose time will remove him. And if anyone is capable of overcoming his emotions in favor of policy, it's the old Fox."

She turned from the table to pace hastily back and forth across the chamber, heavy skirts swishing. Her dark aura clung about her.

Royina Sara shared the vilest dregs of Orico's curse; she must presumably have entered into it upon her marriage to the roya. If Iselle married out of Chalion, would she shed her curse reciprocally, leaving it behind? Was this a way for her to escape the geas? His rising excitement was cut by caution. Or would the Golden General's old dark destiny follow her across the borders to her new country? He must consult with Umegat, and soon.

Iselle stopped and stared out the window embrasure where she had sat to endure Dondo's hideous wooing. Her eyes narrowed. At last she said decisively, "I must try. I cannot, will not, leave my fate to drift downstream to another disastrous falls and make no push to steer it. I will petition my royal brother, and at once."

She wheeled for the door and beckoned sharply, like a general urging on his troops. "Betriz, Cazaril, attend upon me!"

After some time casting about the Zangre they ran Orico to earth, to Cazaril's surprise, in Royina Sara's chambers on the top floor of Ias's Tower. The roya and royina were seated at a small table by a window, playing at blocks-and-dodges together. The simple game, with its carved board and colored marbles, seemed a pastime for children or convalescents, not for the greatest lord and lady in the land... not that Orico could be mistaken for a well man by any experienced eye. The royal couple's eerie shadows seemed merely a redundant underscore to their weary sadness. They played not for idleness, Cazaril realized, but for distraction, diversion from the fear and woe that hedged them all around.

Cazaril was taken aback by Sara's garb. Instead of the black-and-lavender court mourning that Orico wore, she was dressed all in white, the festival garb of the Bastard's Day, that intercalary holiday inserted every two years after Mother's Midsummer to prevent the calendar's precessing from its proper seasons. The bleached linens were far too light for this weather, and she huddled into a large puffy white wool shawl to combat the chill. She looked dark and thin and sallow in the pale wrappings. Withal, it was an even more edged insult than the colorful gowns and robes she'd hastily donned for Dondo's funeral. Cazaril wondered if she meant to wear the Bastard's whites for the whole period of mourning. And if dy Jironal would dare protest.

Iselle curtseyed to her royal brother and sister-in-law, and stood before Orico with eyes bright, hands clasped before her in an attitude of demure femininity belied by the steel in her spine. Cazaril and Lady Betriz, flanking her, also made their courtesies. Orico, turning from the game table, acknowledged his sister's greeting. He adjusted his paunch in his lap and eyed her uneasily. On closer view, Cazaril could see where his tailor had added a matched panel of lavender brocade beneath the arms to enlarge his tunic's girth, and the slight discoloration where the sleeve seams had been picked out and resewn. Royina Sara gathered her shawl and withdrew a little into the window seat.

With the barest preamble, Iselle launched into her plea for the roya to open formal negotiations with Ibra for the hand of the Royse Bergon. She emphasized the opportunity to make a bid for peace, thus repairing the breach created by Orico's ill-fated support of the late Heir, for surely neither Chalion nor exhausted Ibra were prepared to continue the conflict now. She pointed out how appropriate a match in age and rank Bergon was for her own years and station, and the advantage to Orico—she diplomatically did not add and then Teidez—in future years to have a relative and ally in Ibra's court. She painted a vivid word-picture of the harassment from lesser lords of Chalion vying for her hand that Orico might neatly sidestep by this ploy, a bit of eloquence that caused the roya to vent a wistful sigh.

Nonetheless, Orico began his expected equivocation by seizing on this last point. "But Iselle, your mourning protects you for a time. Not even Martou—I mean, Martou won't insult the memory of his brother by marrying off Dondo's bereaved fiancée over his hot ashes."

Iselle snorted at the bereaved. "Dondo's ashes will chill soon enough, and what then? Orico, you will never again force me to a husband without my assent—my prior assent, obtained beforehand. I won't let you."

"No, no," Orico agreed hastily, waving his hands. "That... that was a mistake, I see it now. I'm sorry."

Now, there's an understatement...

"I did not mean to insult you, dear sister, or, or the gods." Orico glanced around a little vaguely, as though afraid an offended god might pounce upon him out of some astral ambuscade at any moment. "I meant well, for you and for Chalion."

Belatedly, it dawned upon Cazaril that while no one at court but himself and Umegat knew just whose prayers had hurried Dondo... well, not out of the world, but out of his life—all knew that the royesse had been praying for rescue. None, Cazaril thought, suspected or accused her of working death magic—of course, neither did they suspect or accuse him—nevertheless, Iselle was here, and Dondo was gone. Every thinking courtier must be unnerved by Dondo's mysterious death, and some more than a little.

"No marriage shall be offered to you in future without your prior accordance," said Orico, with uncharacteristic firmness. "That, I promise you upon my own head and crown."