But when G.o.ds and demiG.o.ds fight, Chert reminded himself, an ordinary man is lucky if he can stay alive at all. an ordinary man is lucky if he can stay alive at all. He said a prayer to the Earth Elders and struck out for the grounds behind the temple and the path to the Cascade Stair. He said a prayer to the Earth Elders and struck out for the grounds behind the temple and the path to the Cascade Stair.

It took him the better part of the morning to make his way up the long, circuitous route to the Silk Door and the outskirts of Funderling Town. The roads were quite deserted. He walked down the broad expanse of Ore Street and saw not a single worker returning from a job in the outer tunnels, no women coming back from the drying caverns or peddlers with handcarts trying to find a last customer before the midday meal. Were all his neighbors really so frightened? Chert thought that was strange when the fighting itself was so far away.

He stopped at the Salt Pool to have a look around but saw no one, not even little Boulder, and he began to wonder if he even wanted to travel through Funderling Town itself. What was going on here? From what Opal had told him, a tennight or so ago things had been mostly unchanged, the numbers reduced but the life of the town going on much as normal.

He found a lamplighter asleep sitting up in a back alley off Gem Street on the outskirts of the guildhall district. Chert shook him awake.

"What goes here?" he asked as the fellow sputtered his excuses. "Quiet! I don't care what you were doing! What goes here? Where is everybody?"

The lamplighter, who had by now realized he was in no immediate danger, beckoned Chert down beside him. "The question is, what are you you doing, mate? Have you got permission? A Guild pa.s.s to be out at this time of the day?" doing, mate? Have you got permission? A Guild pa.s.s to be out at this time of the day?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Since the Big Folk came-didn't you know? n.o.body can be in the streets of the town unless they have permission from the Guild."

"Hold on! The Big Folk? What What Big Folk?" Big Folk?"

The man did not much want to talk, but he also clearly didn't want Chert making a loud fuss, either. He explained quickly that when the southerners' boats had caught fire in the bay (the first of this astonishing news Chert had heard) and newly arrived Syannese soldiers had unexpectedly conquered the outer keep, some of Hendon Tolly's still-loyal soldiers, led by Durstin Crowel, had forced their way in through the Funderling Gate. When the Highwardens and other Funderling leaders had protested they had been imprisoned in their own guildhall.

Chert's plan to find a sympathetic Highwarden who would grant him the Astion to complete his project had just become immeasurably harder, if not absolutely impossible. There was only one other way to achieve his aims, one he had briefly considered and then discarded as too dangerous, but he saw little choice now.

As Chert sat considering this wretched news, the lamplighter seized the chance to make his escape. Chert didn't try to stop him-he had far too much to consider already. Should he try to find someone trustworthy among his own folk, navigate his way through all the inevitable fear and mistrust under very the nose of Durstin Crowel and his bullies? Or should he try to make his way out the gate of Funderling Town into the aboveground castle in search of another very particular kind of help? But even if he found his way out, the second idea would still be a long shot.

It seems I have become the master of unlikely schemes, he reflected.

It hurt to think and Chert had already spent many hours walking. He was exhausted and hungry; if he was going to be killed, he decided, it might as well happen now when he already felt wretched. He got up and made his way down Gem Street as inconspicuously as he could. The stone trees and their many carved residents looked down on him from the famous ceiling as he made his way toward the Funderling Gate.

The familiar outlines of the gate looked very different now, even from a distance. Certainly, the array of guards, their tent, and the barricades of broken stone they had put up made it clear that the purpose of the gate had become less that of ceremonial transition and more that of keeping some people out and other people in.

At least a dozen guards from the castle waited there, dug in well back from the opening to the outer keep. Chert could hear the reason for their caution-cannon fire, not frequent, but enough to make him wonder whether he shouldn't turn around and go back. But who was firing at whom? Was it the Xixians, still trying to break the defenders' spirits? Or maybe those same defenders were shooting back at the Xixians, or maybe even at some Qar, if any of the fairy folk had ventured back aboveground.

It is a play, he thought. But not a comedy like the sort Chaven has told me about, with disguised princesses and runaway lovers. This is one of those great epics of disaster that he likes so much, with shouting and b.l.o.o.d.y bandages and kettledrums for gunfire. The kind you're always grateful are happening to someone else. But not a comedy like the sort Chaven has told me about, with disguised princesses and runaway lovers. This is one of those great epics of disaster that he likes so much, with shouting and b.l.o.o.d.y bandages and kettledrums for gunfire. The kind you're always grateful are happening to someone else.

Chert crept a little closer to the gate. Despite the noises of destruction from beyond the cavern's mouth, the guards were still going about their business of denying exit to the ragtag crowd of Funderlings begging for their attention.

"I told told you little rats, only Guild work gangs go through," growled one of the guards, a man whose greasy face and bad temper suggested he had been interrupted in the middle of his meal. "n.o.body else." you little rats, only Guild work gangs go through," growled one of the guards, a man whose greasy face and bad temper suggested he had been interrupted in the middle of his meal. "n.o.body else."

"But two of our folk came back injured from working on the old walls this morning," shouted a man at the back. "They will need replacements."

"Then they will choose them when they come back tonight," the shiny-faced guard declared. "What are you in such haste about? Don't you like living in New Graylock?" He laughed and looked around to share the joke with his comrades. "New Graylock, eh?" He turned back to the supplicants. "Now p.i.s.s off, or we'll give you little naturals a spanking you won't like."

The crowd of Funderlings groaned and grumbled but showed no immediate signs of dispersing. Chert felt like groaning, too. How was he to get past this guard post? It was as hopeless as trying to find a sympathetic Highwarden who still had the authority to grant him an Astion.

Outside the cannons began to bark again. Chert was about to retreat to a safer spot and consider what he might do next when something abruptly smashed against the outside of the cavern with a crash so thunderously loud that it made his earlier thought of kettledrums seem childish. Half the opening came down in a moment, huge shards of stone flattening the makeshift guard post, crushing the tent and anyone still inside. Fragments spun through the air, knocking down other soldiers and Funderlings. Those of Chert's people who had not been badly harmed immediately picked themselves up and fled deeper into the safety of the cavern entrance. Clouds of dust hung in the air, but Chert could see the guard who had spoken only a moment before, now bloodied and lying in a strew of rubble, twitching feebly.

Now or never, he thought. The Elders have shown me the way, I hope. The Elders have shown me the way, I hope.

Of course, it could also have been that the Elders were showing him which way not not to go: the devastation was astounding. The front of the gateway cavern had become a chaos of broken stone and swirling dust, and the cannons were still crashing outside. to go: the devastation was astounding. The front of the gateway cavern had become a chaos of broken stone and swirling dust, and the cannons were still crashing outside.

Chert ducked his head and ran forward, stumbling over loose rocks. He had to step over a body buried under shattered stone, pale skin smeared with dirt and blood. He could not even tell if it was a Funderling or one of Durstin Crowel's guards.

When he got out into the open, he kept his head down. The cannonball had struck the facing of the ancient cliff above the entrance to Funderling Town, just beneath the high, pale wall of the inner keep. The dust thrown up by the bombardment was nearly as thick here as inside the gate, but Chert was still struck by the sudden immensity of having sky over his head again for the first time since he and Flint had gone to the Drying Shed.

I can only pray to the Elders that the Rooftoppers will . . .

His thought went unfinished.

"Here he is!" cried a loud, unfamiliar voice, then someone pushed him to the ground from behind and yanked off his pack. "Got him." A moment later, with Chert still pressed facedown against the stones, his captor pulled something like a sack over him. A few jerks as it was made tight, then a moment later he was lifted up and carried away at a fast, bouncing pace.

"Let me go!" he said. "You don't understand! I have something important to do-lives are at stake . . . !"

"Shut your mouth and keep it shut," growled his captor, and thumped the sack so hard against something that the little man's teeth rattled. Chert didn't try to speak again.

32.

A Coin to Pay the Pa.s.sage "After Zmeos ate his eggs and porridge, he sat back in his chair. The Orphan quietly played his flute until the G.o.d fell asleep, still holding the great disk of the sun in his lap ..."

-from "A Child's Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven"

RAFE COULD NOT HAVE been happier. His seventeenth Year-Moot had finally come and his father, the headman of the Hull-Sc.r.a.pes-the-Sand clan, had given him beautiful black Sealskin Sealskin to be his own. Rafe had long dreamed of this day-the day he could finally earn the necklace of a man! No longer would even his most impressive feats be undercut by the scornful words, "He still paddles his father's boat." to be his own. Rafe had long dreamed of this day-the day he could finally earn the necklace of a man! No longer would even his most impressive feats be undercut by the scornful words, "He still paddles his father's boat."

He had already made a name for himself, not just as a fisherman but also as a warrior. Had he not been one of the first to take fire to the ships of the southerners? Had he not braved the terrors of the Old Ones more than once, landing right on the Porcupine's doorstep as he conveyed n.o.bility back and forth from the Mount? Now Sealskin Sealskin was his at last. All the years of his childhood, he had dreamed of this day, keeping her always waterproof and slippery as an eel by painting and repainting her hull with pitch. And most important, all that he earned now would no longer go into his father's great jar. He would have his own jar, and soon enough his own house. Then he would take Ena away from her brute of a father and make her his wife. When they had enough money, they would marry and he would never again have to listen to any voice except hers and the ocean's. was his at last. All the years of his childhood, he had dreamed of this day, keeping her always waterproof and slippery as an eel by painting and repainting her hull with pitch. And most important, all that he earned now would no longer go into his father's great jar. He would have his own jar, and soon enough his own house. Then he would take Ena away from her brute of a father and make her his wife. When they had enough money, they would marry and he would never again have to listen to any voice except hers and the ocean's.

He slipped out through the secret way that led from the Western Lagoon and out to the sea road to Egye-Var's Shoulder-M'Helan's Rock as the drylanders called it-but Rafe did not plan to go anywhere near the Drying Shed nor any other part of the island. Clan curfew was an hour gone, and the last thing Rafe needed was to get into trouble again his first night as a man. He didn't think his father Mackel would go so far as to take Sealskin Sealskin back-he would be reluctant to shame the clan that badly in front of his rival Turley Longfingers and the Sunset-Tide folk at the Little Moot-but Rafe knew the old man would probably be very rigorous with whatever punishment he chose instead, which almost certainly meant a beating. Rafe didn't want another beating. So although his heart felt as full as a bellied sail, he would not be singing or cutting capers on this, his first voyage with his own boat. back-he would be reluctant to shame the clan that badly in front of his rival Turley Longfingers and the Sunset-Tide folk at the Little Moot-but Rafe knew the old man would probably be very rigorous with whatever punishment he chose instead, which almost certainly meant a beating. Rafe didn't want another beating. So although his heart felt as full as a bellied sail, he would not be singing or cutting capers on this, his first voyage with his own boat.

The southern ships had stopped burning, although many of the floating wrecks still leaked smoke into the dawn sky. Rafe swung widely around one of them, trying to decide whether it was one of those onto which he himself had thrown spears wrapped in flaming rags. He had never done anything more exciting in his life (except perhaps for some of the things he and Ena had got up to) and still could not quite believe he had even been allowed to do such a thing. But the Skimmer clan leaders, those stodgy old fellows like Turley Back-on-Next-Year's-Tide, had suddenly changed: a single mysterious audience with some of the Old Ones and they had become warriors. Who would ever have guessed? Rafe had asked his father several times what had changed things so, but all Mackel would tell him was: "They have reached out a hand. We are forgiven." When he asked, "Forgiven of what?" his father had told him to shut his blowhole and go catch some fish.

But what did such things matter anyway? No matter who won this war, it meant nothing to Rafe. If he had to, he would pack up all his belongings, set Ena on Sealskin Sealskin's bench, and together they would paddle away somewhere else, upcoast or down. Perhaps it was time for the Ocean Lord's folk to return to the Vuttish Islands? He and his sweetheart could surely find a deserted skerry and live out their lives there in happy solitude . . .

Musing on this and other fantasies, Rafe guided his boat in and out among the flotsam of the burned ships, looking for things to salvage. He had discovered a floating cask of southern honey this way the night before, the wood only lightly singed and the insides still protected by wax and cotton cloth, a find that had delighted his father who said he could get several silver coins for it at the least. In fact, Rafe felt sure that the goodwill caused by that discovery was why Mackel had finally told him the boat was his. Reminded of his good fortune, he patted Sealskin Sealskin's strong but delicate frame. The next cask of honey would be for Rafe himself to sell. Perhaps he could buy Ena a wedding necklace.

He pa.s.sed through the ghost fleet and made a wide swing along the coast below the Marrinswalk headlands. The sun was coming up soon, and he knew he should not be staying out so long. Daylight would make it harder to sneak back in. He supposed he could pretend to have fallen asleep in the boat shed while cleaning Sealskin Sealskin. He had certainly done it enough times in his youth.

Rafe's planning was interrupted by something moving on the sh.o.r.e. He stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing-something tall that stood almost at the waterline and was shrouded in cloth that whipped fitfully in the freshening breeze. What was it? Some bit of useful wreckage that had floated ash.o.r.e and that another scavenger had found and might be coming back for? Was that why it was covered by that tattered cloak? Did someone really think that was enough to claim it as their own?

Rafe swung his bow toward the shallows until he could not get any closer and still remain in the boat. The thing standing where the water splashed up onto the rocky strand was man-shaped, although still motionless but for the ragged, windblown cloth that covered it. Was it a statue? Or had some lonely wanderer died here, so slowly that he had remained standing? Rafe had found corpses on the beach before, most of them drowned, but others as unmarked as though they had come to such a lonely spot just to die. He had never found one still standing. A superst.i.tious shiver went through him.

Then the figure turned.

Rafe gasped and paddled the boat back from the sh.o.r.e. It had been the movement of something that ived-something that stood on this lonely stretch of sh.o.r.e by choice.

Even as he stared, the figure slowly lifted one hand and beckoned to him. Rafe could only stare. The thing raised its arm higher and made a gesture that was broader but still stiff, as though the creature in the billowing cloak was very old or very weak. There was no question that it was gesturing at him.

"What do you want?" Rafe called. "If you value your life, don't you meddle with me! I'll break your pate for a laugh!"

The figure only beckoned to him again. Rafe's curiosity began to get the better of him. He plied his oar deftly and shot closer. As his boat bobbed beneath him, he examined this apparition, or at least what little he could see of it. The stranger wore a dark, hooded robe, ragged on the edges, which covered his face, and his hands appeared to be bandaged in old, dirty bits of linen so that no skin showed. Again, a shiver of dislike pa.s.sed through Rafe. The boom of the surf died down for a moment, and he could finally hear the stranger's voice, or at least a rasp of loud breathing. It was a disturbing sound, but it proved that the creature was no ghost.

"What do you want of me?" he asked again.

Rafe could only see the faint gleam of the stranger's eyes as he pointed to Rafe's boat, then slowly extended his bandaged hand toward the castle in the middle of the bay. The meaning was quite clear.

"You want me . . . to take you there?" He laughed and hoped it sounded braver to the stranger than it did to him. "Are you joking, man? Why should I take you across the water? If you are a spy for the southerners, you can't be a very good one, with your bandages and your gloomy looks-like something out of a Kerneia parade!"

The man only pointed again.

"I asked you why? Why should I?"

The hooded stranger lowered his hand. After a moment he began to fumble with the knot of his robe. Rafe decided he did not want to see what was under this creature's cloak and began to back-paddle his boat to put a little more distance between them, but the specter was having trouble getting the robe untied. Rafe stopped and floated, paddle dripping in the air. What was this absurd creature doing?

The stranger finally succeeded in opening the knot of his cloth belt, but instead of stripping off the cloak he only pulled something out of the knot and held it up in the thin but growing dawn light, pushing it in Rafe's direction as if to hand it to him across the distance. Rafe could only stare. It was a gold piece as big as a bull squid's eye.

"You're saying you want to give me that," he said at last. Even to his own ears, he sounded a bit breathless. "To take you over to the castle. Over there." He pointed. The cloaked figure did not nod or say anything, but thrust the coin toward him again. "Very well then, if you say so. But, remember-I have a knife!" He reached down and lifted his fish-gutter. "So don't try anything or you'll regret it."

It took no little time to get the stranger into the boat. The man was crippled or at least he moved that way, with limbs that seemed stiff and brittle as icicles, but Rafe managed to get him seated on the bench at last and then took the gold. The man's bandaged hands were filthy, but the coin itself was shiny, real, and very beautiful. Payment made, the stranger promptly lowered his chin to his chest so that his hood covered his head completely, and then seemed to sleep.

Rafe paddled hard, trying to get back before the sun rose too high above the hills. He would have to find a place to let off this rich madman, then hurry home. Of course, even if his father found out and gave him a whipping, Rafe didn't much care-he was rich himself now. He could buy Ena not only a necklace but also the grandest dress the lagoon had ever seen, with more sh.e.l.ls on it than there were stars in the night sky.

It was strange how the hours crawled past when your freedom had been taken. Qinnitan was realizing that she had been some sort of prisoner for much of her life, first in the Hive, although they had treated her kindly, then in the Seclusion. Finally, after one brief, heady taste of freedom in Hierosol, she had been recaptured by the monster Daikonas Vo. She had then managed to escape even him, but it seemed the G.o.ds themselves did not want her to be free, so here she sat, despite all her efforts, bravery, and sacrifice, the doomed prisoner of the world's most dangerous madman.

She shifted, trying to find a less painful position. With her arms tied behind her back, there was no such thing as comfortable. Around her, the High Priest's lackeys came and went, paying no more attention to Qinnitan in her cage than if she was a piece of furniture or the remains of a meal.

No, she thought, like a sacrificial animal like a sacrificial animal. The knowledge of her suffering was far less important to them than her place in the upcoming ritual.

But what what upcoming ritual? What did the autarch plan for her and for poor Olin, the northern king? She had listened carefully to every word uttered in her vicinity, especially by that bloated old monster Panhyssir, but she still had no real idea what the autarch planned. upcoming ritual? What did the autarch plan for her and for poor Olin, the northern king? She had listened carefully to every word uttered in her vicinity, especially by that bloated old monster Panhyssir, but she still had no real idea what the autarch planned.

Despite her determination to say nothing, she couldn't help letting out a moan of despair as the priests' potion began to act. Oh, sweet honey of Nushash, here it came again-that horrible burning crackle running from her head to her tail, like a bolt of slow lightning. In her memory the stuff Panyhyssir called "Sun's Blood" had become only another indignity of her time in the Seclusion, but now she was forced to experience again how truly vile it made her feel, the terrible thoughts it put into her head. She could feel her mouth force itself open in a silent scream, feel her fingers curling and cramping until she could no longer keep her tattered robe wrapped around her. Qinnitan perceived herself crumpling to the floor as if she observed it from a great distance, then she watched the world turn sideways and disappear into the blackness of her closed lids.

Boom. Boom Boom. Boom Boom.

It was the slow throb of her own blood, the hot red river that, thanks to the priests' potions, now mimicked the G.o.d's own holy ichor. She could feel it moving sluggishly through her body, filling her as melted silver might fill an intricate mold, until everything that was Qinnitan-shaped had grown turgid and trembling, poured full of the deadly, exalted Sun's Blood.

And now something in the darkness became aware of her. It did not rise up so much as it uncloaked itself, and that cloak was the darkness in which the thing lived, just as a great whalefish lived in water or a monstrous thunderstorm lived in the sky. It was too big to live-it didn't make sense!-but at the same time she felt she understood it, almost was was it. . . . it. . . .

But the more Qinnitan felt of its monstrous, cold interest, the more terrified she became. It drew nearer, and its very presence made her ripple and spread like an oil stain-any closer and she would surely come apart! But it did come closer, and suddenly Qinnitan understood that the G.o.d-thing wanted something from her-something she had not felt before. Always, she had sensed its predatory interest as just that, as something hunting, with herself as the hapless prey, trussed and left to the mercies of this merciless thing. Now, she realized with a quite different sort of horror that it didn't want to devour her, not in any ordinary sense. This impossible thing wanted to use use her, to inhabit her so that it could cross the void and return to the land of the waking and the living. her, to inhabit her so that it could cross the void and return to the land of the waking and the living.

Qinnitan knew she would never survive sharing her place in the world with something so powerful and uncaring-every moment it lived inside her would burn part of the real Qinnitan away. But that was exactly why they fed her the Sun's Blood, she realized: to prepare her as a vessel for the G.o.d, to make her a more hospitable home for this hideous presence which had not walked the earth for thousands of years. And she could do nothing to stop it. When midnight came, either she or King Olin would be offered up as a sh.e.l.l for this dreadful thing to inhabit.

Shrieking without sound, Qinnitan began to swim up through the blackness, desperate to escape. Patient as death itself, the thing let her go; after all, it only had a short time to wait before it would get everything it wanted.

Hands quickly but efficiently tied behind his back and a sack pulled over his head, Chert now was hurried across uneven ground. Cannon fire still boomed above his head but it was growing a little fainter. From the sound of the sea, he guessed he was being forced toward the North Lagoon. The men who had captured him spoke little among themselves, and although they did not spare him any kindness, they were no rougher than they needed to be, which made him decide with a sinking heart that they must be soldiers. That meant they were Tollys' men, and the swiftness with which they had grabbed and captured him suggested he had been recognized.

He staggered and nearly fell again as he understood that he might never see Opal again, or Flint, or Funderling Town. If he was to be executed, he might never see anything again but the inside of this noisome sack. . . .

Chert stopped and planted his feet. "I won't go any farther until you tell me where you're taking me," he said, ashamed to hear how his voice quavered. "If I'm to be killed, at least tell me why. At least tell me who my murderers are."

"Keep moving, half-size," growled one of the men and gave him a shove in the back that sent Chert staggering forward once more. The man had an accent Chert couldn't place-perhaps he was a Kracian mercenary. Chert had heard rumors Hendon Tolly had been looking for help abroad since it became clear the Qar were headed toward Southmarch.

At last he was pushed into a doorway, feet crunching across a floor made of strewn rushes, then rough hands grabbed his shoulders and forced him down onto a stool. An instant later the sack was yanked from him. When he had finished blinking, he looked at the strange figure in the chair opposite. At first the armor made him think it was a man, a young one from the look of his face, but he realized a moment later it was a woman looking him up and down with calm interest, her golden hair cut short and her serious face smeared with dirt in what Chert could not help thinking was a most unfeminine way.

"Only one?" the woman asked. Chert was certain he had seen her before somewhere. "All that time and you only brought back one? What if he doesn't know?"

"None were coming out!" protested one of the men, whose accent was less p.r.o.nounced than the others'. "You saw it, High . . . I mean, my lady. Tolly's men have it sewed up tight, and they were keeping them all inside today. But just now someone dropped a cannonball on the Kallikans' front porch and this one hurried out, so we grabbed him."

"Funderlings. Here, in Southmarch, they are called 'Funderlings,' Stephanas, not 'Kallikans.' " She turned back to examine Chert once more. "Don't be afraid," she said. "I hope they didn't treat you roughly. They are rough men, but I told them to be careful."

"They did not hurt me . . . but I can't say I was given much choice about coming."

"No, you weren't. Because I need your help and I need it badly."

And then he knew her, at once and in a rush, and the words came out without any further thought from him. "Fracture and Fissure! Whatever you want, Princess Briony. I am at your service. It is good to see you back in your home again."

Her eyes narrowed. "It is not my home again-not yet. Who are you?"

"Chert of the Blue Quartz. We met once before, on the day your brother killed the wyvern. You . . . you nearly ran me over with your horse."

"Merciful Zoria, I remember! That was you?" She laughed, and for an instant was once more the young girl he had seen that day. "Do you really mean that you will help me?"

He shrugged. "Of course. Your father is our king, Highness. Is he coming back, too?"

The girl's mouth set in a grim line. "If I have any say about it. But just now he is somewhere beneath our feet, a prisoner of the Xixians."

Chert's stomach lurched, and he had to suppress a groan. "I know too much about the Xixians already, Highness! They have pushed down past Funderling Town and are chewing their way into our sacred Mysteries like worms through an apple. I will be happy to help strike a blow at those southerners-just tell me what I can do for you." But even as he spoke these brave words, he could hear Opal's voice in his head: "Stop showing off for the Big Folk, Chert Blue Quartz. You have work of your own to do and time is dripping away!" "Stop showing off for the Big Folk, Chert Blue Quartz. You have work of your own to do and time is dripping away!"

"Well, these men and I are not fighting the Xixians just yet. ..." The princess looked as though she wished it was otherwise. "My enemy is closer to hand-Hendon Tolly. But the prince of Syan and I cannot get our soldiers into the inner keep because the walls are too strong. I am kept at bay by my family's own castle!" Her laugh was sour.

"And what can I do?" he asked, but he was beginning to see the shape of things.

"I wanted a Funderling, Chert-any Funderling. I did not know it would be you. I need a way to get into the inner keep, and quickly." She fixed him with a surprisingly sharp, hard stare. "You see, I've learned things. I am not such a simple creature as I was when last I lived here. I met the Kallikans of Tessis, your relatives, and found that they keep secrets from their monarchs. I'm sure your folk have secrets they have kept from my family, too."