"No, no," the arilac said. "He can't know you've seen something unless you react to it."

"Then what use to see it?"

"It can inform your strategy."

Anne rolled her eyes. "Yes, poorly. Suppose I predict an army coming down the Dew River, and Artwair diverts troops to stop them, and instead the army never marches east but comes here instead?"

"You will find you can rarely see more than a nineday or so when specifics are involved. Visions of the far future are usually vague as to when and how they will happen. The h.e.l.lrune's is limited in the same way, and he is not here, Anne. His shadow is still in Hansa. It takes a rider to bring information from him, a rider that may or may not arrive and will always be late. You're closer to where the war is being fought now. And now you know to be cautious."

Anne nodded. "Very well. But first I must see what the Church is up to on our southern border and what danger I've put Cazio and Austra in." She straightened her spine.

"I'm not afraid of you," she told the arilac.

"I never said you were."

"Oh, I was," she admitted. "But no longer. From now on I expect you to tell me everything I need to know. Do you understand? I don't want to be hit from behind again."

"Very well, Anne."

"Call me 'Majesty.'"

"When you are my my queen, I shall. But that time is not come. And I'm not afraid of you, either." queen, I shall. But that time is not come. And I'm not afraid of you, either."

She watched the t.i.tanic stones of the citadel crack and felt herself like fingers wedged there, tearing at it. The doors were like burning brands, but she pulled, and everything in her seemed next to snapping. In an instant she brimmed with the most profound happiness she had ever known as everything slowed to almost stopping, and the magicked metal rang as it tore, and the power of chaos collapsed before her. She felt the slow burning fire of ten thousand lives bent against her-creatures so much of the master's that even now, when their liberation was at hand, they still fought to remain slaves.

But now they cringed as the citadel lay open and the powers that kept her at bay disintegrated.

She had known the power before, but never like this. Gone were her reservations, gone her fears. She was pure and simple, an arrow already loosed from its string, a storm striking a port, unstoppable, not in need of stopping.

Every weakness purged.

She laughed, and they died, either quenched by her will or gutted by her warriors, her beautiful, lovely warriors. And everything they were and might have been flowed from them and came back, and she knew she finally sat the sedos throne...

"It was worse this time, wasn't it?" Emily asked.

Anne held back from throttling the girl over the inanity of the question, but only barely. Instead she took deep breaths and more of the Sefry tea.

"Is there anything I can do, Majesty?"

Yes, jump out the window, Anne thought. Anne thought.

"Hush, Emily," she said instead. "I'm not myself."

But maybe she was exactly herself. They had wanted her to take on the responsibility? Fine, she had. Now that she was queen, she would be queen, the queen they all deserved.

Emily backed away and didn't say anything.

A bell later Anne no longer felt as if a bed of ants had invaded her head.

"It's getting so easy," she told Nerenai. "I think of what I want to see, and I see it, or something to do with it. But then, the dreams. The clearer my visions come, the worse my Black Marys are. Is that the way it's supposed to be?"

"I think it must just be the price," the Sefry said. "You've separated the visions from the dreams, but they flow from the same source."

"I have to be able to tell them apart."

"True, for now. But when you are strong enough, you won't have to keep them apart. It will all be one."

Anne remembered standing before the gates as they shattered, the liberation of it, the joy.

"I hope so," she sighed. "Send Emily back in, will you? I want to apologize to her."

"She's just outside," Nerenai said. "With her brother. He's come to see you."

"All right," Anne said. "I'll see him."

The earl stepped through a moment later, Emily tugging at his hand. He was in a new-looking deep red doublet and black hose.

"Good of you to come, Cape Chavel," she said.

"Majesty," he said, bowing.

"Emily, my apologies for earlier. "

"It's nothing, Majesty," Emily said. "It's your dreams, I know. I'm just here to serve you."

Anne nodded. "Cape Chavel, I don't think I've thanked you for saving my life."

"I'm glad you haven't," he replied. "It would only embarra.s.s me. Especially as it was your saint gifts that got most of us out of there alive."

"Well, you'll have to be embarra.s.sed. Thank you."

He actually blushed. He was a funny fellow, a bit like Sir Neil but a bit like Cazio as well.

Cazio. She had seen him free, with z'Acatto, but Dunmrogh fallen. And Hespero-but that part had been unclear. In fact, any vision concerning the praifec was unclear.

"How are you feeling?" the earl asked.

"Better. The leic will let me walk in a day or two. Nothing too badly hurt inside, I suppose."

"I'm relieved," the young man said. "Very relieved, in fact. I've seen such wounds before, and they are usually, ah, worse."

That gave her a bit of a pause. It had been rather bad, hadn't it? The shaft had been half in her. She had seen bodies cut open before. How could it have missed all of that? She should have died, shouldn't she?

She remembered the knight who wouldn't die, the one Cazio had been able to stop only by hacking the body into individual pieces. She remembered the other one in the wood near Dunmrogh.

And her uncle Robert, whose blood was no longer quick but who walked and did his evil anyway.

Oh, saints, she thought. she thought. What have I become? What have I become?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE S SINGING D DEAD.

LEOFF STARED at the blank parchment, terrified. at the blank parchment, terrified.

It was not the sort of thing that usually frightened him.

Since childhood he had been able to hear music in his head: not just music he had experienced but music he imagined. Not only melodies but harmony lines, counterpoint, chords. He could compose a sinfonia for fifty instruments and hear each individual voice. Writing it down was an afterthought, a convenience, a way to share his music with the less fortunate.

But now he feared the music lurking in his skull. Every time he tried to think about the forbidden modes he had rediscovered while he was Robert's captive, he felt ill. How could he find an antidote when he couldn't face the disease?

"I saw my mother last night," a soft voice behind him said.

Startled, he turned to find Mery watching him from a few paces away.

"Did you?" he asked. Mery's mother was dead, of course, but one saw the dead now and then.

"In the well," she confirmed. "The old well in the back garden."

"You shouldn't be playing around there," he said. "It's dangerous."

"I wasn't playing," the girl said softly.

Of course you weren't, he thought sadly. he thought sadly. You never play anymore. You never play anymore.

Not that she ever had, much, but there once had been something of a little girl about her.

"Did your mother say anything?"

"She said she was sorry," Mery said. "She said she's been forgetting things."

"She must have loved you very much to come see you," he said.

"It's easier for them now," she said. "The music makes it easier."

"The music we made together? For Prince Robert?"

She nodded. "But they're singing it now, over there."

"The dead?"

"They sing and sing and don't even know they're doing it."

Leoff rubbed his mess of a hand against his forehead. "They're singing it," he muttered. "What is happening?"

"Why does it make you sad that the ghosts are singing?"

"It doesn't," he said gently. "Not in and of itself. But the song is bad, I think." He held up his hands. "Do you remember when I could play hammarharp with these?"

"Yes," she said. "The praifec had your hands broken."

"Right," Leoff said, shying from the memory of that pain. "And for a long time they didn't heal, but now they have. Something in the world is broken: The thing that separates life from death. Our song made it worse, and I think their their song-what you hear them singing-is song-what you hear them singing-is keeping keeping it worse. Preventing things from healing." it worse. Preventing things from healing."

"Your hands didn't heal right," she said. "You still can't play hammarharp."

"That's true," he conceded.

"What if the world heals, but not right?"

"I don't know," Leoff sighed.

She looked at the blank paper. "Is that what you're trying to do? Make music that will heal things?"

"Yes," he said.

"Will it heal me?"

"I hope so."

She walked over and leaned against him. "I'm sad, Leoff," she confided. "I'm always sad."

"I know," he replied.

"I wish I could help you, but every time I try to play something, I hurt people."

"I know."

"I sing for the ghosts, though, and sometimes play for them very quietly, when no one is around. Like at the well."

"Does that make you happy?"

"No. But it makes me feel a better kind of sad."

Rain had washed Haundwarpen that morning and left it smelling new, as if its cobbles and bricks had been laid that morning. It was a neat little town anyway, but today it almost looked like something that had been painted, so fresh were the yellow and rust trims on the houses, the blue sky held in street puddles, the copper roof of the clock tower. Artwair's estate was only a short walk from town, and Leoff enjoyed going there, especially with Areana, who despite having grown up five leagues away in Wistbirm, seemed to know everyone. He liked to watch her haggle for fruit, fish, and meat and knew by the curve and tautness of her neck when she was about to settle.

He enjoyed the details of the place, the door knockers in the shapes of fish and flowers and especially hands, the weather vanes on the rooftops, some shaped like banners, others like cranes or dragons, but especially hands.