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and every detail of its mosaic floor had been exhausted, Elienne investigated the dais. Up and down twenty-five marble steps went the steward at her heels, his breath by now a stertorous wheeze.
    Elienne failed to notice his distress. She plied him steadily with questions, then abandoned the dais and went on light feet straight to the staircase that led to the upper galleries. The steward balked and parked his bulk against the banister.
    “Missy,” he gasped. “No more steps.”
    Elienne turned in mid-flight and gave him a round-eyed look. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m quite carried away. I’ve never in my whole life seen the equal of the craftsmanship in this room.”
    She paused to gaze wistfully upward. “Mightn’t I just take a look? You can always call if the Select wish me back. I’ll come straight down.”
    “Very well.” The steward grumbled to himself and took a seat on the bottom step. Elienne could not leave without tripping over him. She would be secure enough, and his responsibilities did not include guard duty.
    Elienne ran briskly up the remainder of the flight. She toured the upper gallery in a methodical fashion that had little to do with her earlier display of false curiosity. She covered all three levels from end to end, thoroughly, until she was satisfied that no other entry was possible except by way of the stair. Then she leaned with artful recklessness over the topmost railing and shouted down to the steward.
    “There are soft chairs up here. Would you mind if I did my waiting sitting down?”
    The steward nodded immediate assent, as much to get her away from the overhang as any other reason. He settled more comfortably on his step, relieved Elienne had at last decided to stay quietly in one place. No meeting of Pendaire’s Select had ever been brief; this one was unlikely to differ.
    Elienne chose a railing seat that offered an unobstructed view of the lower floor. Until her opposition elected to reveal its plot there was no way to gauge the extent of her personal peril. She dared not let the first move surprise her. Nor could she depend on Kennaird and Taroith for shelter against harm. Trathmere’s fall had shown how easily the best defenses could crumble. If she lost the Prince, her fate might be worse than any she would have suffered in Khadrach hands.
    Elienne pulled forth the thick gold chain that hung beneath the neck of her gown. The mirrowstone dropped, warm and weighty, into her palm. For a long, still interval, she held it without seeking the image contained by the jewel’s depths. After fourteen hours in Pendaire, this would be her first, unhurried glimpse of the man she had promised to marry.
    Carefully, Elienne tilted the gem. The clear, reflective surface became immediately congested and dark. Set like yellowed ivory against a field of black, she saw a man’s face, lit by the dribbled stalk of a half-spent candle. A tangle of brown hair arched over one ear. The long, spidery lines of shadow cast across cheek and brow lent an impression more sinister than neglect. Garend had said the Prince was drunk. Puzzled, Elienne wondered why no servants attended his Grace’s comfort until the effect of the spirits wore off.
    Elienne bent closer. The planes of Darion’s nose, forehead, and chin had the spare grace of a draftsman’s sketch, but there all semblance of harmony ended. The mouth drooped open, slack as the empty pouch of a forester’s pack. A small scar bisected the jawline, stark as an ink line against the pale, dry skin drawn taut against a lean framework of bone. The Prince was obviously ill.
    Elienne frowned. Often she had sat with Cinndel’s younger brother when the aftermath of his carousing had laid him low. The face she remembered had always been flushed and sweating. Whatever held Darion under certainly was not drink.
    And in a palace as richly adorned as Pendaire’s, she doubted whether the dim, drab place where Darion lay was anywhere near the royal