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ifluously written letters they would carry。 The gifts would be elaborate； that was the way of things。 The speeches would be eloquent and courteous。 The demands in the letters would be unveiled and coldly precise； and backed by ultimatums that left nothing to the imagination。
Rosala wondered whether she should take ship for the east to release Arbonne from the burden of her presence。 If somewhere in one of the fabled courts of magic in those far lands she might find a home for herself and Cadar。 Another illusion； that。 She knew the tales of what happened to fair…skinned women in the courts and bazaars of those lands of spice and silk。 She knew what happened to their male children。
She could hear music； a murmur of voices and laughter spiralling up the stairwell from the great hall below。 She couldn't remember the last time she'd heard laughter that didn't carry an edge of malice。 They had told her that the music tonight； by a young man from Orreze； would be of a very high order。 She knew she would be wele if she went downstairs。 She still felt tired； though； and extremely tender； not ready for the demands of public spaces。 Privacy was a rare thing in her world； something to be valued as much as any other gift they had offered her here in Barbentain。
She sat down carefully in a recessed window seat to listen。 The stone bench was cushioned； for which she was grateful。 She reached over and unlatched the window。 It was of stained glass； etched wonderfully with the image of a green island in the sea。 The breeze came in； and through the window she could see the unfiltered light of the blue moon。 They called it Riannon here for the goddess； not Escoran for the god。 Because of that difference； she reflected； Arbonne was to be destroyed。
After a moment she rejected the thought： too simple an argument and conclusion。 Nothing was that simple in the world。
She could hear the river running below in the darkness； making a soft； continuous murmur beneath the singing of the joglar。 It was cool tonight on the isle of Barbentain； Rosala wrapped the woolen robe they had given her more closely about herself。 The fresh air revived her； though； and brought back with its clarity the reassuring awareness that she had； by ing here； done all she could do for Cadar。 The next moves； in the larger game； were not hers to make。 The scale of her own life had suddenly bee much smaller； focused on a heartbeat。 She felt an urge…and almost laughed at herself…to go back up the corridor to look in upon his sleep again。 It was strange how swiftly； how pletely； love could re…enter one's world。
The last person she had loved was her father； and he had died by Iersen Bridge almost two years ago。 Her mother had gone before him； in the last plague year。 Her brother Fulk elicited no real intensities of emotion； nor did she in him； Rosala knew。 He would not lead the pursuit to bring her back； but neither would he speak up to stay it。 He was a good steward of Savaric； though； and she respected him for that。 The Savaric lands were terribly exposed now； wide open to raids from Valensa across the newly drawn border of the Iersen River。 If the treaty ever ceased to hold they would be vulnerable to even more than that。
It wouldn't hold； Fulk had told her last year during one of the rare times when they were both at Cortil。 Truces like this one never did； but lands lost for long enough were likely to be lost forever。 He had said it quietly； for her ears alone。 Not for cautious Fulk de Savaric the openly critical talk of a powerful lord； with a new king on the throne。 Their father would have been loud in his denunciations； Rosala knew； whatever the consequences。
As Blaise de Garsenc had been before he left； both the first time and then again a year later； after his abortive return home。
Thoughts of Blaise were difficult。 He was here in Lussan she now knew； with the duke of Talair。 It would be easy to see him； to send a message as clear or cryptic as she wanted it to be。 She wondered if he'd yet learned she was in the castle。 The priestesses had told her the whole fair was gossiping about the high…born lady from Gorhaut who'd been brought to the temple so near to giving birth。 Othon； she had thought ruefully： he would have been constitutionally incapable of not telling the tale； nor had she really any right to have expected him to withhold it。
Blaise had never been the sort to listen to gossip； though； and En Bertran de Talair had sworn an oath not to tell him until she was ready。 It was even probable…a sharp； new thought…that Blaise hadn't even known she was with child。 There had been no munication at all since the night he'd gone away for the second time。
Rosala remembered that night。 Sitting beside an open window in Arbonne with the murmuring river below and music wafting up the stairwell； she went back in her mind's eye to that wintry darkness； the stars lost and a storm wind howling； lashing snow and ice in rattling sheets against the windows of Garsenc Castle。 She had listened to the father and the sons curse each other； heard the unforgivable names spoken； the vile things said； savagely wounding； more bitter than the night。 She had wept silently； utterly ignored in her seat by the fire； ashamed of her own weakness； wanting so much to be gone from the room； from the tangled； savaged hatreds of the Garsenc men； but unable to leave without Ranald's permission and unwilling to draw attention to herself by speaking。 The father would turn on her she knew； viciously； the moment he remembered she was there。
Numb with cold beside the guttering fire none of them had bothered to tend； the servants having prudently absented themselves； Rosala had felt the cold tears on her cheeks and heard her brother…in…law； reaching some final apex of his fury； denounce his father and brother in a voice raw with anguish before he stormed from the room and the castle into the wild night： naming the one man as a traitor to Gorhaut； obscenely unworthy of the god； and the other as a drunkard and a coward。 She had agreed with both assessments； even as she wept。 He was a cold； hard； bitter man； Blaise de Garsenc； with no grace or kindness ever shown to her at all； but he was right； he was so right about the other two。
She remembered lying awake in her bed that night when they finally retired。 Ranald in the connecting room had dropped into a snoring slumber she could hear through the closed door。 He spoke to himself in the night sometimes； crying out in grief like a child in the darkness of his dreams。 In the first months of their marriage she had tried to fort him at such times； she didn't do that any more。 Chilled and afraid； listening to the mad keening of the wind； she had waited； listening for the sound of Blaise ing back for his gear before leaving。 When he did； when she heard his booted tread in the hallway； she had risen from her bed and gone to his room； her own feet bare on the bitter stones。
He had been packing a saddle…bag by candlelight when she walked in。 She did not knock on the door。 There was snow on his clothing； ice clumped in the tawny hair and beard。 She had been clad in nothing but her sleeping…gown； her fair hair let down about her shoulders for the night。 He would never have seen her hair down before。 They had looked at each other for a frozen moment； silent within the midnight silence of the castle； then Rosala had said； softly； not to be heard at all outside this room； outside the small space of this single candle's glow； 〃Will you not love me once？ Only once before you go？〃
And Blaise had crossed the room and lifted her in his arms and laid her down upon his bed； with her bright yellow hair spread out upon his pillow and her gown slipping with a rustle of sound above her waist as she raised her hips to let him move it so； and he had blown out the one candle and removed his wet clothing and taken her in darkness before he left his home again； taken her in silence； in rage and bitterness； and in the endless bone…deep anguish she knew he lived with because of his own lack of power。 There had been no love that she could name in the room with the two of them； none at all。
And it had not mattered。
She had known what would be the things that might bring him to touch her that night； what would drive him； and she had not cared。 Whatever it takes； she had thought in her own cold bed； summoning courage to her as from a far…off place while she waited for him to return。 Whatever would bring him to take her for at least the one time。
And in his room later； in that darkness； with the unholy wind raging beyond the walls； the same thought again： she would accept and wele…her hands grappling him hard to her； feeling him beginning to thrust with urgency； hearing the quickening pace of his breathing…whatever might bring him to give her the child Ranald could not。
He spoke her name once； after。 She would remember that。
She did remember it； sitting in the window seat in Barbentain。 Curiously； it had e to matter。 Not so much for herself…she was not a woman who nurtured such illusions…but for Cadar。 Rational or not； it somehow seemed important to her now that at her child's conception that one spoken link between the two of them had been made manifest。 It was an irony of sorts that it was the man who had done so； her own single…minded need had precluded such a reaching out。 She wondered what the priestesses of the goddess would say about that； what their teaching would be。 What happened； in their doctrine； when Corannos and Rian came together in love…if they did？ She knew almost nothing about the rituals of worship here in Arbonne； only the twisted versions of them uttered with loathing in Gorhaut by the brethren of the god。 She wondered if she would be here long enough to learn the truth。
There were footsteps in the corridor behind her。 The wet…nurse； she thought； quickly concerned。 She was about to lean out from the window seat but the steps halted just before where she sat； and Rosala heard a woman's voice she did not know； and then a man's。 She remained motionless in the shadows of the alcove and realized； after a moment； that the voices were speaking of murder。
〃It is to be done neatly and in silence；〃 the woman said nervously in accented Arbonnais。 〃She told me to say as much。〃
〃I tend not to make a great deal of noise with a blade；〃 the man answered； amused。 His voice was deep and assured。
〃You do not understand。 This must not be traced to her。 The body will have to be disposed of； and no one the wiser。 She said it would be best if he didn't even see you； lest he cry out。〃
〃Ah。 She will be keeping him occupied？ Oblivious to all else in the world？ Does this sort of thing excite her？ Will I have other duties； after？〃
〃You need not be vulgar；〃 the woman said primly。
The man laughed softly。 〃Fear not。 I will only follow your mistress's lead。 If she wants to taste blood she will have to ask。 He must see me； though； or there is no point in this。 He must know who is killing him。〃
〃He might call for help。 We cannot allow…〃
〃He will not。 This is not a man inclined to call for help。 And there will not be very much time； I promise you。 e； which door？ There is a ghost to be assuaged； and I have tarried。〃
They went by her then； shadows behind them and then before as they passed under the wall torch in the empty corridor。 Rosala shrank back against the window。 The joglar in the great hall below was singing of endless love and unrequited desire。 Neither the man nor the woman turned as they went by。 She knew neither of them。 At a doorway a little distance down their footsteps stopped。 Holding her breath； Rosala leaned out slightly。 She saw the man smile then and draw a knife from his belt。 He opened the door and slipped inside； moving with silent； feline grace。 The door closed behind him。 There came no sound at all from within the room。 The woman hesitated for a moment and Rosala saw her make a quick； warding sign before hurrying along the corridor and down another flight of stairs at the far end。
It was silent in the hallway； save for the distant voice of the singer drifting up from below； mournful and melodious。 Rosala brought her hands up to her face。 There was a horror a