THE BROADSWORD cutting toward Cazio was moving almost too fast to see, and he suddenly understood the nasty grin on the monk's face. Cazio reacted from years of training, jabbing his lighter but longer weapon out in a stop-thrust that should have pierced the man's sword wrist. It didn't, though, because-impossibly-the monk checked his swing. He stepped back and regarded Cazio for a moment, just out of measure.

"Interesting," he said. "I've never met a swordsman like you. Are you from Safnia?"

"They have butchers in Safnia," Cazio panted, trying to both watch the man and check his peripheral vision. Sounds of battle were everywhere. "But the only swordsmen in the world come from Vitellio."

"I see." The fellow grinned again. "Vitellio. Home of the father Church."

The man had gray eyes, darkish skin, and an accent Cazio couldn't place.

"Tell me," the man went on. "Why do you follow this heretic queen, you a man from the very birthplace of our faith?"

"I like the color of her hair," Cazio replied, "and the sort of people she associates with."

"When I move next," the man warned, "you won't have time to see the cut that kills you. Lay down your arms and you will be well treated."

"I'm already well treated," Cazio replied.

"You know what I mean."

Cazio sighed and relaxed his guard.

"See there," the man said. "I knew you looked sensible."

Cazio nodded and lunged, throwing his front foot forward and pushing with the back.

The monk blurred toward him, and as Cazio let his lunge collapse into a forward duck, he felt hair shaved from the top of his head. The monk ran onto his rapier so hard that the hilt slammed into his solar plexus and the grip was wrenched from Cazio's hand. The monk fell, hit, rolled, and sprawled, eyes glazing and blood pumping.

"As long as I can draw you into attacking when and where I want," Cazio informed him, "I don't need to be able to see you."

The monk jerked his head in affirmation. Cazio could see that his spine was broken.

"Come get your sword," the monk suggested.

"No, I'll wait a moment," he replied.

"You don't have a moment," the man pointed out.

Cazio followed his gaze and saw that he didn't. Two of the man's brethren were rushing toward him.

Grimly, he started toward the fallen broadsword, only a yard away.

Then he felt something like a thousand spiders racing across his skin. His windpipe closed, and his heart shuddered, stopped, and started again, faster than before. He gasped and fell to one knee but fought back up.

But there was no need. His attackers were sprawled motionless on the ground, their corpses twisted unnaturally.

He turned and found Anne two kingsyards behind him. Her eyes were green ice, looking somewhere he couldn't see. Her body was taut beneath her black and ocher riding habit, like the string of a lute tightened almost to breaking.

She shifted her gaze to him, and his heart suddenly went strange again.

Then her face softened and she smiled, and he swallowed as the pain in his chest eased. He started to say something, but he saw she wasn't looking at him anymore but instead studying the grounds of the monastery.

"That's it, then," she said softly. "That's all of them."

"That's what we thought before," Cazio said, lifting himself to his feet. "Before these fellows came up from behind."

"True," Anne murmured. "I miss things still. They just arrived, I think-from the forest."

"And there could be more. Anne, you ought to get inside. Your Sefry can sweep the woods around."

She shot him a smile that he suddenly suspected was condescending. But then, she had just killed two men without touching them, and it wasn't the first time.

"You can still bleed," he pointed out. "An arrow can still kill you. I can't quite catch an arrow."

"True," Anne said. "Secure me. I am at your disposal."

The monastery Saint Eng stood on a small hill surrounded by wheat fields and pasture, save for one dark finger of forest that prodded up to it from the south. The clock tower of the town of Pale could be seen in the west, near the line of the same forest. It wasn't a big place, just a few out-buildings and barns scattered around a squat, squarish structure with a single rather inelegant tower rising from the southeast corner.

Before they had taken ten steps, five of Anne's cowled Sefry guard were with them, led by their amber-eyed captain, Cauth Versial.

"Majesty," Cauth said, taking a knee. "Apologies. They drew us away from you."

"It's nothing," Anne said. "You see my Cazio was able to handle it."

My Cazio? Why had she phrased it like that?

"Nevertheless," the Sefry said, "I shouldn't have left you with only one guard. But the inside of the monastery is secure now."

"Good," Anne replied. "We'll go there, then. And I think I'd like to dine."

"It's nearly that hour," the Sefry said. "I'll have something fetched."

By the next bell Cazio was sitting with Anne in a small room on the west side of the building. St. Abulo was driving the sun down the Hesper sky, but he still had a few bells to go this long summer day.

"I'll miss this," Anne sighed, gazing out the window and sipping her wine.

"Miss what?"

"These outings."

"Outings? You mean our fights with the Church?"

"Yes," she replied. "Just sitting on the throne is dull, and the details of war-well, the generals don't really need me to work those out. This feels real to me, Cazio. I can see the faces of those we rescue."

Cazio sniffed his wine, then raised it up.

"Az da Vereo," he toasted.

"Yes," Anne agreed. "To the real."

They drank.

"This is Vitellian," he murmured. "From the Tero Vaillamo region if I'm not very wrong."

Anne tilted her head. "Why does it matter? Wine is wine, isn't it?"

For a moment Cazio had no idea what to say. He'd known Anne for almost a year and been almost constantly at her side during that time. He'd formed a pretty good opinion of her and had certainly never suspected she was capable of what could even charitably only be called a moronic statement.

"I, ah, you're kidding with me," he finally managed.

"Well, there's red and white, I suppose," she went on. "But really, beyond that I've never been able to tell the difference."

Cazio blinked, then held up his cup. "You can't tell the difference between this and the frog blood we drank at that inn on the way here? You really can't?"

She shrugged and took a large swallow, then looked thoughtful.

"No," she said. "I like this, but I liked the 'frog blood,' too."

"It must be like being blind or deaf," Cazio said. "I…it's really absurd."

She pointed the index finger of the hand holding the glass at him. "That's just the sort of comment some queens might have your head struck off for," she said.

"Yes, well, I'd rather have it struck off if I couldn't discern Dacrumi da Pachio from Piss-of-the-Cat."

"But you can," Anne said, "or say you can, so best start walking backward now."

"My apologies," Cazio said. "It's just that this wine-" He tasted it again and dropped his eyelids. "Close your eyes," he said, "and taste it again."

He heard Anne sigh.

"It's five, maybe six years ago," he began. "The hills in the Tero Vaillamo are purple with the blooms of wild oregano and lavender; the juniper trees are swaying in a slight breeze. It's hot, and it hasn't rained in a month. The vines are heavy with little purple grapes so ripe that some have already begun to ferment. The familia is picking them, old men, young men, girls and boys, handling each grape like a little jewel, fruit from the same stock their grandparents and great-grandparents picked two hundred years ago and more. They put the grapes in a big vat, and as the afternoon cools, they feast on roast pork, they open last year's wine, and there's music while they smash the grapes with apple-wood pestles. They ferment it carefully, the way they've done it for centuries. They take their time, and the method never leaves the family. They let it ripen in a cellar, not too cool, not too hot. Perfect." He took another sip. "Taste. The oregano, the lavender, the juniper. The smoke is their cooking fire, where they roasted the boar for the vatting feast. The art, the care…"