He reached his hand up to his scratches. In the strangeness of being sent to the mother of the heir, he had forgotten them. “Oh! Nothing of import, Your Highness. An ill woman I was treating became confused and violent.”

She gave him a shrewd look, perhaps guessing that Pasevalles’ absence might have something to do with the patient in question. “I’ll have one of my ladies tend those, by your leave.”

“Oh, they are truly nothing to worry about.”

“Still.” She signaled to a dark-haired woman, who put down her sewing and left the room. “Begga is skilled in healing—she trained with a northern valada-woman. Ah, here is the wine.”

As the young woman brought in the tray, cups, and ewer, then filled them, Etan watched the princess. Poised and upright in her dark green gown, Idela had beautifully smooth, pale skin, and delicate hands and wrists to go with her slender, pretty face. A sprinkling of freckles on her nose and bosom had been obscured by powder, but the heat of the day rendered the disguise less effective.

Etan realized he was staring at the creamy expanse of flesh above her bodice and felt himself flush. Idela gave no sign she had noticed, except what might have been the wisp of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

“Let us drink the health of the king and queen,” she said.

“And their safe return.” Etan took what he hoped was a dignified sip, and was astonished at how many flavors he could taste. This was certainly not the sour stuff he and his brothers drank at the refectory table on feast nights, nor the over-sweetened Nabbanai sack he had occasionally shared at the archbishop’s table. He took another, longer swallow.

“Ah, here is Begga,” the princess said. “Loosen your cowl, Brother. It is a privilege to give aid to a man of God.”

Already the young Rimmerswoman was running her cool fingers on his cheek, gently touching the long scratches. To cover a new rush of heat to his face, Etan took another drink. “My lady is too kind.”

“Nonsense. I wish we could help Lord Pasevalles as well. You said he has had a wearying day.”

“I think every day for him is wearying, Highness. His responsibilities are great, especially in the absence of the king and queen.”

“Ah, yes. I miss them both so.” She sipped from her own cup, and her tongue came out for a moment to take a drop left on her lower lip. When she noticed him looking, she smiled shyly. The young Rimmerswoman was rubbing something onto Etan’s cheek, and the sting was strangely mixed with a growing chill where the skin had been scraped. “And my dear son Morgan, of course,” Idela said. “God grant that he comes back safe as well.”

“We all keep him in our prayers, Highness. Always. And your daughter, too. Surely it is some comfort to have Princess Lillia with you.”

“Lillia? Yes, certainly.” But this seemed to distract her. “May I ask you a question, Brother? Do you know Lord Pasevalles well?”

“Well? I would not say so, Highness. I sometimes help him with some minor matters.” But as he said it, Etan thought that sounded small and foolish, as though he were the sweeper of the Lord Chancellor’s chambers. “I have some gift with numbers and letters. Lord Chamberlain Jeremias calls on me from time to time as well.”

“I am certain he does. A man of learning is a jewel whose sparkle pleases many, even if he belongs only to God.” She smiled, and this time it was full and broad. “Tell me a little about Pasevalles, though. He is always so busy; I have scarcely had a chance to speak with him in all the years I have been here. I’m told he is a very good man.”

“Oh, yes, Highness. So everyone says, and so I have found it myself.” He thought of the events of only an hour past, Pasevalles struggling to preserve the life of a woman that some would look on as a treacherous, uncanny danger, no matter the fondness the royal couple were said to have for the Sithi. “He is a good man.”

“But his life, it has been hard, has it not? I have heard stories.”

“I do not know the tales, Highness,” he said with less than complete candor. Etan was beginning to feel as though something was going on that he did not understand, and he also realized that the wine had gone to his head, making everything in the room seem to bend toward him, including Princess Idela’s fine green eyes, fixed attentively on his. Also, the dark-haired woman Begga was still dabbing soothing unguent on his face, a strange mixture of pain and pleasure which made Etan shiver. “Truly, my lady, I am a dull tool to discover the lord steward’s history. I can claim no special knowledge, except of his kindness.” He forced himself to sit straighter. Begga at last ended her ministrations, and at a signal from her mistress, packed up her jars and took her basket out of the room. “But it is op . . . opportune that you mention history.” He swallowed the last of his wine without thinking, then suppressed a wince when the princess directed that it be filled again. Etan swore to himself he would drink no more, no matter how good it was. God hates drunkards, he reminded himself, because they make themselves beasts in His eyes, rejecting His most precious gifts. “Lord Pasevalles tells me that you have some books of your late husband’s and seek some advice on their worth.”

She looked amused by his attempt to rally himself. “Ah, you are a dutiful servant of your lords, both temporal and divine, Brother Etan.”

While he picked his way through this compliment, she rose and, with a gesture he did not see, dismissed her maids from the room. “Come with me then, Brother. I see that you are one of those excellent, frustrating men who cannot rest while a task remains undone. No wonder you are one of God’s chosen workers.”

He wished it were entirely so, but he felt uncomfortably certain the faint sheen of perspiration on Princess Idela’s breastbone and the sway of her walk as she led him into the next room would never so easily distract a soul whose only thought was to serve God.

Frailty, thou art Man, he told himself, quoting St. Agar. Distraction, thou art Woman. To his dismay, he discovered he was still carrying his recently filled wine cup.

“In here, Brother,” she said. “I had a few of the newer ones brought to me. In my husband’s old chamber, his study, there are dozens more, many of them close to ruin simply from age, and I feared to move them. But I would also like to keep at least a few to remember my dear John Josua.”

“Of course, Lady.” He could not help noticing that none of the ladies-in-waiting had followed them into the intimate chamber, clearly the princess’s dressing-room, as the one table held a standing mirror and an array of jewelry boxes. The room was paneled in velvet, so that it felt as though he was being cradled in soft gloves.

His face felt warm again. He started to take another sip, then thought better of it.

“There.” She gestured to a chest set against the wall, with a woven Hernystiri blanket thrown over it, perhaps so it could be used as a seat. “Please see if any of them should be given to the great library Lord Tiamak is building in my husband’s name. I know nothing of such things, and can read scarcely any of them. Most are in Nabbanai, but some are in writing such as I have never seen.” She shuddered. “I told my dear John Josua he closed himself too much away in dark rooms with old words. But it was his joy, God preserve him.”

“God preserve him,” Etan echoed, then knelt down beside the chest. He was finding himself a bit clumsy; it took him long moments to fold the cloth neatly and set it aside, and his fumbling movements were made worse by the knowledge that the slender princess was standing behind him, watching. He worked the clasp open and lifted the lid.

The chest was indeed full of books, a dozen or more, although at first glance he saw nothing much older than perhaps a century or two, and most were much more recent, a random assembly of history and old romances from what he could see, Anitulles’ Battles, The Tales of Sir Emettin, and others just as unexceptional. Etan himself owned a well-thumbed copy of A True History of the Erkynlandish People, and while it was nothing like this edition, bound in calfskin and its pages copiously illustrated, the words were no different. Thus the great truth first proposed by Vaxo of Harcha: “Even the rich and noble cannot read words that have not been written, and the poor man who can read may sup on those that are written just as well as a prince . . .”