Part 5

The Silver Palace was strange to Princess Gabriele Basingame, returning to it after being away for over two months. She felt she was a different person now, and that she might be returning to a different place as well.

The journey home had been a trial. At first she'd feared that Jordan would rebuff her, or avoid her, or even be offensive, but he had not; evidently he considered the matter closed, and was ready for business as usual. Instead, it was she who avoided him, feeling that the chasm they had opened was too great. She felt her face burn every time she saw him. She had been far too forward, and had been rejected; she could not look at him without feeling the shame of that moment, and the anger. And when those feelings faded, there was only emptiness. Emptiness, and a vague sensation of being very tired. She wasn't sure, but she thought the anger might have been preferable.

The lessons had continued, but only sporadically; Jordan had with him the tesada, and was attempting to divine its use. Many of the soldiers, and not a few of the nobles, gathered round with suggestions and advice, or at least to watch. They seemed fascinated with the process, with the fact that Jordan seemed to be teaching himself to use the thing, a fact that Catheryne didn't understand at all. Either he could use it or he couldn't; what was the big deal? Nonetheless, the soldiers loved it, and by the time they reached the Silver City, he had sparred against some of them, and won a few times as well.

Temaile Daravon sneered, "You let your Lance learn to use a Summer weapon?"

To which Gabriele replied in full royal haughtiness, "That Summer weapon nearly took both of our lives. I think understanding its use might have some practical value."

Temaile sniffed. "My Lance and I were never threatened." Then she paraded off, before Catheryne could point out that, during the battle, they'd been safely ensconced in the royal lodges at Hope. Temaile was a snake and Catheryne well knew it, but it didn't keep her barbs from stinging.

When they returned they were paraded by the common folk, for word had been sent ahead of a great victory in the Spring Lands, and as usual the people seized upon any heroes they could. Men and women and children lined the streets to cheer and wave brightly colored cloth. Gabriele walked her horse between them, looking around her, saying nothing. Her father and the soldiers seemed proud of themselves, and well they should; and of course Marcus Demitri had no expression on his face at all. This time his face mirrored hers.

"Something ails you, my lady," he asked her.

She glanced over at him and then ignored him. There were more important things at stake.

She was realizing, perhaps for the first time, what it was she actually was.

It seemed like the whole city had turned out to meet them. They marched down the Silver Road, the main road that led directly to the palace (Why silver? Why did we have to make everything in this country silver?), a wide avenue well-paved with flat stone, broad and spacious, with a leafy shrub every fifty paces or so--again, an overt symbol of the nation's wealth, though the shrubs themselves did nothing in particular. Far in the distance the white stone walls of the palace glowed in the mid-day sun. It was the road visiting dignitaries took when they visited, and no expense had been spared to impress.

She was impressed.

This is what I will rule. All these people, all this land, all these places. This dignity. This loyalty. This nation.

And then, I have to be worthy of it. I have to make myself worthy of it. These people deserve no less.

She rode down the avenue, lost in her thoughts, the shouts of the people behind her.

In the Palace was uproar. There was the traditional fuss and scuffle and clutter as the Palace staff prepared to receive just under five thousand men, who must be housed for a short time while they were paid for their services, deactivated and sent home. But even under all that chaos, Catheryne quickly saw that something else was wrong. It was late evening before they could sit down with the Queen--a private audience, involving only the four of them--and get the whole story. It was a grim and startling one.

"It started several weeks after you left," Queen Meralina said. "The first report was from a grocer on Rose Street. He and his wife lived above the shop so there was no way anyone could have sneaked in. He lunched with them at the noon hour. But at about four of the clock he went up for a drink of water, and he found..." She shuddered.

"What," Father said, leaning forward. "What did he find?"

"His... His family," said Queen Meralina. "Or... What was left of them."

Silence covered the room like a shroud. Queen Meralina sagged back in her seat, her eyes squeezed closed, and Catheryne realized that, in the absence of her First Lance, she must have gone to investigate herself. Jordan's face was impassive, but she could tell he was listening to every word.

"What happened," Father said.

"The wife... Struggled, we think," said Queen Meralina. "There was blood on her fingernails but no marks on her body. And... Things were done to her... Sexually. Before she was killed."

"Did they find his spend," Jordan asked immediately. In his mind were wild ideas--obviously, he would have to consult with Moya Tilmitt, but it was possible there might be a way to trace a man through the leavings of his manhood. Things of the body were things of power, and dangerous in the wrong hands--even something as trivial as a man's spend.

"Not that anyone was aware of," said Queen Meralina. "And... There was blood everywhere. Some of the children... We... Well. They didn't find any knives. But the results were obvious."

Catheryne felt a chill down her spine. "What happened?"

"Catheryne, hush," said her father. He laid his hand on Queen Meralina's.

She didn't understand. What results? What obvious. "What happened?"

"They were chopped to pieces," Jordan said coldly.

... On second thought, perhaps she had been better off not knowing.

"And... This has happened more than once," Father said.

"The second was thirteen days ago," Queen Meralina said. "This time it was an innkeeper. No children, thank Kyrei, but the same... The same patterns. The husband downstairs. The cross on the door. The bite marks on the woman's... On her--"

"Hush," said Father. "No need. We will ask others."

"Others know," Catheryne asked.

"I hope so, because whatever is causing this, we need to stop it," Father said. "Your Majesty, with your permission, I would like to retain five hundred soldiers in the city until we have found this killer and stopped him."

"Are you sure it's a he," Catheryne said.

"Can you imagine a woman doing this," Jordan retorted.

"We're sure it's a man," said Queen Meralina. "The innkeeper's wife was slapped several times--on the face, on the rear. The handprint was too large to be anything but a man's. And he's been seen."

"How?" Catheryne said.

"The innkeeper's wife did not resist," said Queen Meralina. "We're pretty sure the grocer's wife put up a fight, but this woman did not. Her husband was downstairs tending the inn when he heard a piercing scream. When he came to investigate, the man was scrambling for his pants."

"So... She lived?" Catheryne said hopefully.

"No," said Queen Meralina. "The innkeeper says that he produced a knife and, before he could react, slit his wife's throat. Then he jumped out a window."

"Well, he might be dead then," Catheryne said hopefully.

"Only maybe," said Jordan. "People do strange things at times. Like sneak into a back room, kill some children, rape their mother, and escape without ever being noticed."

"But we know what he looks like," Father said.

"Yes," said Queen Meralina. "He is tall, and muscular, and has brown hair. The innkeeper said he was wearing dirty clothes, rags really, and smelled terribly. He could never make up his mind about the face, though--on one recollection it was horribly scarred and twisted, the next it was the face of a god."

Catheryne sat silent, suddenly wondering if what they were dealing with was entirely natural.

No, of course it wasn't. What natural man would sneak into a back room, kill some... She didn't want to think about it. Naming it gave it power, and she wanted it to have no power over her. All those things this man had done. And he had jumped out a window. Of course he was not entirely natural. What did she expect?

"And he is at large," Father said.

"Yes," Queen Meralina said.

"He's done it twice," said Father.

"Yes," said Queen Meralina.

"And may do it again," said Father.

"Yes," said Queen Meralina.

"We must stop him," said Father.

Queen Meralina looked at him. "Bold words, my lord. I wonder if we can."

When they had left the Queen's presence, Catheryne looked over at Jordan. "Do you think that relates to... To your... Situation?"

Jordan looked at her quizzically.

"To the people you want to find," Catheryne said. She kept her voice down. No need to let her father be aware of the whole thing.

"Oh," Jordan said. "No, I don't believe so. My..." He too glanced at Lord Basingame. "My situation involved poison. But no... Overt foul play."

"And you hope to find the people who did it," said Catheryne.

"I do not 'hope' to find them, my lady," said Jordan. "I will."

Catheryne rolled her eyes. "Fine. Suit yourself..."

"Master Demitri," said Father suddenly.

"Yes, my lord," Jordan said instantly.

Father turned, halting their progress. "Would it be possible to engage your Night Blade contacts in the pursuit of this mysterious foe?"

"It would, my lord," said Jordan, "but I don't know if they will be of any help." And then, hazarding a guess: "I certainly doubt the person you seek is among them. Very few people would have the money to hire a Night Blade to do what this person does; and those who do, would not set that person on an innkeeper's wife, when a common cutthroat can be had for a handful of silver."

Lord Basingame seemed disappointed. "Regardless, your Night Blades operate on, shall we say, the far side of the law. Their help--your help--may prove invaluable."

"I am yours to command, my lord," Jordan said, bowing. And it was evidently the right answer, for Lord Basingame nodded and continued on down the hall.

Catheryne looked at him. "You're going to be busy. Hunting down two criminals, teaching me to fight, attending court functions, training in magic... It'll be quite a life."

"Yes, well, my mother always said it was best to keep busy," said Jordan. She couldn't tell if he was conscious of the irony. With that, he bowed to her as she entered her rooms, and went to his own.

The next morning she saw the diffuse, cloudy sunlight and longed suddenly for the clear, soft warmth of the Spring Lands. Clouds there were rare, though she'd been told that, during the rains, there were clouds aplenty. She'd never gotten a chance to see rain there. It was something she wanted to see, if she could. She looked at the greyish walls around her, the pale bare dirt, the reddish colorings on everything, and longed suddenly for green, for any green, with an intensity that clenched at her throat and eyes.

Moya Tilmitt was very pleased to see them; he had warned them many times that they might die on their little jaunt, and evidently had rather expected them to. Well, if he did, Catheryne thought crossly, why didn't he teach us any spells that actually would have been useful out there? The fireblast she had used, and the ribbon of air, had come from some wellspring of unknown knowledge within her, as had that... That thing she had done, which had closed Jordan's wounds. She wondered what it was.

"Moya Tilmitt, I was wondering if you could identify a spell for me," she said suddenly.

They looked at her. Suddenly she became aware that Jordan had been in the process of asking Moya Tilmitt for a spell that would let them trace the unknown killer.

"I-- I'm sorry," she said, "I'll wait. I--"

"Humility in a princess is a rare thing indeed, and should be honored," said Jordan, bowing his head. "Please. Ask your question."

She ignored the tugging sensation that she was being mocked. "Moya Tilmitt, when Jordan was struck down--"

"When Jordan was what," Moya Tilmitt said.

"When he was slashed by that man's spear," Catheryne said.

"A tesada, not a spear," Jordan corrected.

"What's the difference, it's a blade on a pole," said Catheryne.

"The use is the difference," Jordan said. "Spears are meant to stab, they're a spike on a pole. A tesada can be used to slash. Try to use one as the other and you'll get yourself killed right quick."

"Yes, like you almost did," she retorted.

"Children!" said Moya Tilmitt sharply. He clapped his hands. "Enough. You can bicker later. Right now I'd like to answer Catheryne's question." He turned to her. "He was stabbed, you say?"

"That's what I'd say, but according to him he was slashed with it," Catheryne said.

"Was it a wound-deep," Moya Tilmitt said.

"Fairly," Jordan said. "To the side, here." He gestured with his hand, making a cutting motion across his left flank, below the ribs.

Moya Tilmitt went distinctly pale. "I... I see," he said. His eyes squeezed closed for a moment. "I..." He shook his head. "Excuse me, I... I have an aversion to blood-the sight of. It..."

"Many do," said Jordan. "It takes some time before most get over it."

"If you suffered such an injury-grievous, Master Demitri," said Moya Tilmitt, "it seems odd that you're standing-still-here."

"Yes, well, that was my question," Catheryne said. "When I saw him, I was still holding the Flow, and..." She described, as best she could, the sensation of what had happened, including the strangeness of Jordan's memory loss. "What was that, Moya Tilmitt? What exactly did I do?"

As she described it, Moya Tilmitt's eyes were wide. Now his mouth opened, but no sound came out. "I... You... Your Highness, that was a spell-difficult-extremely. It's a miracle you... Well, I mean, aside-totally from the possibility of scouring the Gift right out of yourself, you actually got it... If you'd done one-only thing wrong, you might have..." He gave himself a shake. "My lady, you must promise me never to use that spell again until I say you can. It is difficult-extremely and you could endanger yourself or anyone near you if you try it again."

"What was it," Catheryne asked again. She was not interested in being hedged.

"We call it rechaniye, the reversion, the turning-back," said Moya Tilmitt. "It... Returns the person on whom it is cast to a state-previous of being. In your case, it brought Master Demitri back to a state in which he had not been injured."

"Which is why I did not remember being struck by Gounold," Jordan said, making the obvious conclusion.

"Yes, precisely," said Moya Tilmitt. "As you can imagine, Master Demitri--and as you can attest, Your Grace--this is a difficult-very spell, requiring amounts-huge of the Flow. It is also powerful-very. Some say that it might hold the key to life-eternal, if one could successfully use it to return to one's youth."

"That would require a great deal of Flow indeed," said Catheryne. "I only turned Jordan back one minute."

They both glanced at her.

"I mean," she stammered. "Marcus Demitri."

Moya Tilmitt's eyebrows lifted. "I had not realized the two of you were becoming so... Familiar."

"Nor had I, to be certain," said Marcus.

"I, I'm sorry," said Catheryne. "I did not mean to--"

"Ah, be not worried," said Moya Tilmitt. "We are all friends here, are we not? My name-private is Jonathan, though people-few call me that." He smiled. "We all seem to like 'Kenneth' better. Jordan, what is the Princess's name-private?"

It could have been a gross insult, asking someone besides Catheryne herself to reveal her private name, but she saw that Moya Tilmitt was trying to even the score, so that neither of them had done something the other hadn't. And it had been a true embarrassment to slip like that. If she must be publicly shamed for her sins, then so be it.

"It is not my place to say, Moya Tilmitt," said Jordan. "I am Her Majesty's servant, at her disposal and for her use. But she is not mine, and it would be wrong of me to treat her as such."

Catheryne closed her eyes and tried to ignore the lash of his scorn.

Moya Tilmitt looked at Marcus Demitri--at Jordan--with new eyes. He does-truly care for her, doesn't he. She drops his secret-most-private as if it were a trinket, but he responds with respect and propriety. Most people would've at least slipped some sarcasm in there, but he said it with face-straight. What a First Lance she has chosen!

Jordan looked at Catheryne and tried not to think of things that would never be.

"Well," said Moya Tilmitt finally. "As to your spell, Your Grace. It is, to put it mildly, playing with fire. I don't advise you to try it again."

"A question, Moya," said Jordan. "When I woke up after she... 'Reverted' me... I was very dizzy, and quite nauseous. I fell back into unconsciousness again almost immediately. Which is why Princess Gabriele was able to tell everyone that I had been hit on the head. But why was I so sickened?"

Moya Tilmitt shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "That's just what happens when the spell is used." He laughed a little. "Everyone jokes that, even if someone were to de-age themselves successfully using it, they'd be sick for the rest of their lives until it was time to use it again."

Jordan's eyebrows bobbed, but he contented himself with a simple, "I think they're right."

"But we've gotten rather far afield here," said Moya Tilmitt. "Princess Gabriele, I must urge you not to--"

"It's Catheryne," she said.

Moya Tilmitt blinked his confusion.

"My private name," she said. "It's Catheryne."

She didn't look up, but she felt his eyes on her for long moments.

"Very well then," he said. "Catheryne. I must ask you not to--"

"Is that the only way mages have to heal people," Catheryne asked.

"It... No, it is not," said Moya Tilmitt. "There are ways-several, as a matter of fact. Some are harder than others. Some are more powerful than others. Why do you ask?"

"Can I learn them," Catheryne said.

"Well... Which ones," Moya Tilmitt asked.

"All of them," Catheryne said.

Moya Tilmitt looked at her for a moment.

"Oh my," he said. "I think we've found your Calling."

"My what?" Catheryne said, hearing the capitalized noun in his voice.

"We've found that--well, over the course of history, we've found that--that sometimes mages have a certain... Predilection, if you will. Spells-certain that call to them. Spells that they're naturally good at. Perhaps yours is healing."

"Nonsense," Catheryne said, "I just want to make sure my clumsy First Lance stays alive."

Moya Tilmitt laughed. Jordan didn't.

She hadn't meant to blurt that one out either. But now it was out in the open. So she rather privately thought of herself as a generous, caring person. Was that a crime?

"My lady," said Moya Tilmitt, "if it pleases you to learn, I shall be happy to teach you."

"Teach me," she said.

He did.

The afternoon's activities were displaced that day by a feast, in celebration of Lord Basingame's (and daughter's) triumphant return from the Spring Lands. So there was no exercise, no practice with Jordan; instead, an interminable time of waiting, as Nurse and a bunch of other ladies fussed over her, strapping onto her a dress that had been made specially for the occasion, arraying her hair and clothes and jewelry in the most appropriate and becoming way possible, and giving her so many warnings about disturbing them that she thought she would not be allowed to move, and probably would have to be carried immobile into the feasting hall. She thought it was ridiculous. What was the point of making someone look good if that person could not move? Perhaps it was part and parcel of being a princess.

See, she thought humorlessly, they never tell you about these things in the stories. It's always 'Princess Ella of the Ashes, who lived happily ever after.' None of this 'Sit still so that your earrings don't get caught on your dress and you tear a hole in both of them' business. It really was ridiculous.

Once she had gotten everyone to leave, she somehow levered herself out of the dress. The jewelry was easier to strip off, though some of the rings were so obnoxiously large that they made her fingers clumsy. Really. There's such thing as displaying wealth, and then there's such thing as being gaudy.

She padded over to the wardrobe in shift and bare feet. A lot of its contents just weren't appropriate: they were her everyday clothes, and though they were ornate by most people's standards, they were still what everyone had seen her wearing when she didn't care to look presentable. Everything else was like the mountain of rose and cream she had just managed to liberate herself from: far too large, far too stuffy, bearing more resemblance to a tablecloth than a dress.

Then, far in the back, she found a dress she'd never noticed before. At first she thought it was a shift, one with a very high neckline, but it was a pale off-blue in color, and her fingers brought back a slick sensation that hinted at something more elaborate. When she brought it out into the candlelight it shimmered and shone when viewed from different angles, turning nearly pearl-white. And when she put it on it also turned out to be more elaborate than she'd thought, with multiple layers and closures to create a form-fitting bodice that changed seamlessly to flowing skirts so light that they seemed to hang in the air when she moved. She was almost sure someone would disapprove--probably loudly--but she hoped enough other people would like it that the complaints would be drowned out.

She was struggling with one of the closures when Jordan came in. "Your Highness, you'll--"

She yelped in surprise. "Don't you ever knock?"

He looked at her in this new dress, his eyebrows raised, and then to the gown she was supposed to be wearing, still in a puddle on the floor, and then back to her. "The seamstresses will be pleased to see their handiwork displayed such. It is my understanding that they've worked on that dress without pause ever since we returned yesterday."

She felt a flush of shame--he was right, and it would be a cruel statement to make of their hard work. "Then I shall hug them and thank them."

His eyebrows bobbed again, though his expression never changed. "A hug, in public." It was very demonstrative; people would frown.

"Yes," she said. "One that I would not be able to give if I were wearing their dress, as it does not allow me to move."

She was still fumbling with the closure. "Here," he said, "let me help you with that." He put down the tesada, which he would bear over the course of the night, and came to help her.

When she turned around, she felt his breath on her neck and suppressed a shiver. It was uncomfortable to be this close to him. Uncomfortable, because she liked it, liked the gentle feeling of his hands at her back, the warmth of his proximity; liked it very much.

"Well," she said. "How do I look?"

She was a vision in aqua and turquoise, the sea and the sky given life. Her hair shone in the candlelight, and the color of the dress set off her eyes. The dress was demure in cut but conformed to her body in ways he hadn't thought possible, rendering a stylized, almost iconic vision of feminine form. Her eyes were steady on his.

"You look beautiful," he said truthfully.

She felt a spike of bitterness. "You aren't allowed to say that. Not if we're not to... To do..." She couldn't bring herself to say it. "That thing."

An unplanned burst of irritation: "Then you shouldn't have asked me."

She scowled at him. "Go down and tell them I'll be there shortly. I just have to put on my earrings." And do up her hair so that it wouldn't get in the way. And find some new ones that weren't jewels the size of a copper coin hanging by tiny threads of silver. Ridiculous. Purely ridiculous. One could snap and she'd never find it again.

Public opinion was indeed divided. Many regarded her with disdain, angry with the princess's evident unwillingness to stoop to publicly-accepted fashions. Others betrayed anxiety, which was the closest she would get to acceptance--she knew that the next time she saw them at a royal feast or private celebration, they would probably be wearing something similar, something unadorned and deceptively simple. These were the hangers-on, the flatterers, who would jump off the roof of the Palace if she did so first. By far, the anxiety outweighed the disdain, and she counted it as a victory.

The seamstresses' reactions were not what she expected. They seemed flattered and appropriately honored by her gratitude, but there was a gaping amazement behind their eyes, and no small amount of trepidation. She didn't understand it until Queen Meralina came and scooped her up, off to one side.

"Where did you get that?" she said.

Catheryne blinked. Her Majesty's face was severe, and yet troubled. "In... In my wardrobe. I've never seen it before, but... It was better than anything else available. Why?"

Queen Meralina closed her eyes for a moment. "I suppose it would end up there. Probably one of the servants... Well, she was shorter than you, you're almost as tall as your father, so I suppose most of it was gotten rid of somehow; how that one slipped by I haven't the slightest--"

"Whose," Catheryne asked, totally confused now. "Why was it in my wardrobe if it's not mine? Whose is it?"

"Your mother's," Queen Meralina said.

Catheryne glanced at Jordan. His face betrayed nothing, but he was watching and listening, a fact she found oddly comforting.

"She was wearing that very dress the night she and your father met," said Queen Meralina. "We were... Oh, I don't know. Eighteen, nineteen at the time? And of course people were getting on both of us for being unmarried, and not particularly interested in the opposite sex." A faint smile colored her face. "Doland always said he wasn't interested because he hadn't found the right person, and that he'd know when he saw her. Well, that night, Eleanor den Saulus walked in wearing just what you're wearing now, and when I looked at your father's face, I knew, and I could see that he knew too. And of course he had the Savior's own burden, trying to catch her attention from all those other men who flocked around her. But, a year later..." She smiled, gave a helpless shrug. "And two years after that, there you were. And when Eleanor died the servants probably saved most of her clothes in the hopes you could use them one day. Which is why you've got that now."

Catheryne looked out over the crowd. She could not see Lord Basingame anywhere. "Where is my father, anyhow?"

"Away." Queen Meralina smiled sadly. "He couldn't bear the sight of you."

"I must apologize to him," Catheryne said immediately. After all, this entire feast was because of his military success in the Spring Lands.

"No, let him be for a while," said Queen Meralina. "He has much to deal with right now. He's remembering the days when he was your age, when he met your mother, and remembering what it was like to lose her. And now he must face the idea of losing you. For you are your own woman now, and though you will always be his daughter, soon you'll no longer be his child." A bitter smile touched her lips. "Ironic, isn't it? Here we feast in honor of his military prowess, and yet at that very feast he is defeated... By a few yards of cloth."

It was with heavy heart that Princess Gabriele began to circulate among the assembled nobles. Some of the older ones, who had known the Lady Eleanor Basingame when she was alive, understood the conversation that must have gone on between the Lance-Princess and the Queen, and understood the Princess's consequently subdued mood. Others, who were closer to Catheryne's own age, did not understand at all.

Except for one.

They were in a knot of people when it happened. Jordan, absorbed in the conversation, didn't even see the person coming. The first he knew about it was when Catheryne was spun around and engulfed in a bear hug from beyond all time. The perpetrator was their age and a little shorter of stature, with reddish hair (an oddity, like Catheryne's, in a land of primarily ebon-haired people) and a rosy complexion. Her dress, a fountain of lace and frills, did nothing to flatter her rather heavy figure. But her smile was pure joy--and when Catheryne saw who it was, she embraced her like a sister.