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deserted you. I am a weak man, my lady, but in my warnings at least I have served you well, and still try to do so. You are not safe on board this ship. Earl Aspitis is even worse than I guessed him to be. He is not just a gilded creature of Duke Benigaris’ court. He is a servant of Pr y rates.
    I have told you many lies, my lady, and there are also many truths that I have kept hidden. I cannot set all to right here. My fingers are tired already, my arms are sore. But I will tell you this: there is no one alive who knows the evil of the priest Pryrates better than I. There is no one alive who bears more responsibility for that evil, since I helped him become what he is.
    It is a long and complicated tale. Enough to say that I, to my eternal and horrible shame, gave Pryrates the key to a door he should never have opened. Worse, I did so even after I knew him for the ravening beast he is. I gave in to him because I was weak and frightened It is the worst thing I have ever done in a life of grievous errors.
    Believe me in this, lady. To my sorrow, I know our enemy well. I hope you will also believe me when I say that Aspitis does not only the bidding of his lord Benigaris, but the work of the red priest as well. It was common knowledge in Vinitta.
    You must escape. Perhaps Gan Itai can help you. Sadly, I do not think you will ever again go under such light guard as you did on Vinitta. My cowardly attempt at flight will assure that. I know not how or why, but I beg you to leave as soon as you can. Flee to the inn called Pelippa’s Bowl, in Kwanitupul. I believe Dinivan has sent others there, and perhaps they can help you escape to your uncle Josua.
    I must stop because I hurt. I will not ask you to forgive me. I have earned no forgiveness.
    A smear of blood had stained the edge of the parchment. Miriamele stared at it, her eyes blurring with tears, until someone knocked sharply on the door and her heart erupted into frenzied pounding. She crumpled the note in her palm even as the door swung open.
    “My sweet lady,” said grinning Aspitis, “why do you hide yourself down here in the dark? Come, let us walk on the deck.”
    The parchment seemed to burn her, as though she clutched a smoldering coal.
    “I . . . I do not feel well, my lord.” She shook her head, trying to hide her shortness of breath. “I will walk another time.”
    “Marya,” the earl chided, “I told you that it was your country openness that charmed me. What, are you becoming a moody court wench?” He reached her side in a long step. His hand trailed across her neck. “Come, it is no wonder you feel poorly, sitting in this dark room. You need air.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips below her ear. “Or perhaps you prefer it here, in the dark. Perhaps you are merely lonely?” His fingers dragged delicately across her throat, soft as spiderwebs on her skin.
    Miriamele stared at the candle. The flame danced before her, but all around it was sunken deep in shadow.

    The stained glass windows of the Hayholt’s throne room had been broken. Ragged curtains restrained the flurrying snow, but did not keep out the freezing air. Even Pryrates seemed to feel the cold: although he still went bareheaded, the king’s counselor was wearing red robes lined with fur.
    Alone of all the folk who came into the throne room, the king and his cupbearer did not seem to mind the chill air. Elias sat bare-armed and bare-footed on the Dragonbone Chair; but for the great scabbarded sword that hung from his belt, he was dressed as casually as if he lounged in his private chambers. The monk Hengfisk, the king’s silent page, wore a threadbare habit and his customary lunatic grin, and appeared no less comfortable than his master in the frosty hall.
    The High King slouched deep in the cage of dragon’s bones, chin on chest, peering out from beneath his eyebrows at Pryrates. In contrast to the black malachite statues which stood on each side of the throne, Elias’ skin