The people all stopped what they were doing and bowed as Berimund passed. They continued on as the square narrowed back to a street, and moments later they were crossing one of the bridges, the center one, in fact. The river was active with boats of all sorts but mostly barges and medium craft with triangular sails. Neil wondered what defenses he didn't see in the waters below: chains, probably, or catches that could be raised to hold an enemy to be bombarded from the bridge.

There was nothing like Thornrath or the fastness here, but Neil had to admit that the town was well made. He could only hope the Hansan army hadn't been built by the same architects.

Muriele's chest felt tight as they crossed the Donau. She was well and truly here now. Berimund had been willing to let her return home. Why hadn't she? Once it had been made clear to her that Marcomir had lost any sense of tradition and honor, why had she continued? True, Berimund had promised her protection, but did that really mean anything?

Marcomir must know that keeping her hostage wouldn't deter Anne. Robert had had her hostage, and Anne had attacked Eslen anyway. Everyone knew that story by now.

She was proud of Anne in a way that she had never imagined. Who could have ever foreseen her returning with such strength and character? Who could have imagined her as queen? But the changes in Anne that had made all that possible also made her very little like the daughter Muriele knew. Anne was distant, surrounded by her Sefry and the Vitellian swordsman, by warriors who loved her. She had become strange, inward, always listening to voices no one else could hear. There was even, at times, something a little frightening about her.

"What is it?" Alis asked.

Muriele looked up, realizing that instead of taking in the fresh sights of Kaithbaurg, she had been staring at her reins.

"I was just thinking what a relief it was, at first, to have the crown off my head," she said.

"You mean when Anne took it?"

"No, actually when Robert took it. True, I was a prisoner, but that relieved me of any chance of making bad choices. Nothing was my fault anymore."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it."

"I'm just wondering if I've done it again."

"You think you came here to be imprisoned?

Muriele looked up, but Berimund was ahead, explaining his city to Neil, and the other riders were giving the two women plenty of space.

"Anne sent me here, Alis."

Alis frowned. "The embassy was your idea."

"So I thought. But when I went to her about it, she already seemed to know. She tried to hide it, but she knew. One of her visions, I suppose. And she was very particular that I bring you and Neil along."

"I would have been with you anyway."

"But not Sir Neil. He should still be recovering."

"Interesting," Alis said. "I wonder what she expects us to do."

"We shouldn't talk about this," Muriele said, remembering that there were monks who could hear a cricket chirp a hundred miles away. Maybe that was why they had been given the space to talk, so that they would. "It's probably nothing."

"Probably," Alis said. "I think you're worried over nothing. It will be much more dangerous to talk in the castle."

"I know. How much do you know about the castle?"

"I know it's called Kunijosrohsn."

"I mean, was it constructed like Eslen? In the particulars of the walls, I mean?"

Alis shook her head slightly, showing that she understood the reference to Eslen's secret passages. "I don't know. Most of it is much younger than Eslen. I don't think the same, ah, architects were involved. But I can't be certain."

"Well, let's hope we know why we're here when the time comes."

"You came here to try to make peace," Alis said. "Remember?"

"And I will try, earnestly. But I no longer have much hope."

"The war is only just starting. Things will change when one side or the other begins to have an advantage. Then you will be Crotheny's voice here."

"That's true. Of course, the last war with Hansa went on for ten years."

"Well, let's hope the food here is good, then."

The Kunijosrohsn was something of a surprise, and even Muriele, who did not have the eye of a military man, could see that it hadn't been built for serious defense. It was rather like a large manse, rectangular in shape, four stories high, and hollowed out by an immense inner courtyard. There were a few towers, but they looked more decorative than useful.

Men took their horses, and Berimund escorted them into the interior, down a series of halls, and up three flights of stairs so that Muriele was certain they were bound for one of the towers. Instead, they were shown into a large suite of rooms with large windows, elegantly appointed.

"Majesty, if this suits you, these will be your rooms."

Muriele peered out the window. She had a beautiful view of the east side of the city, the winding Donau, and the plain beyond.

"It suits me very well," she said. "Thank you, Prince."

"I'll send some servants for you to choose from. I hope after you've had some time to freshen up, you'll join me at my table tonight."

"I accept your invitation," she said. "I wonder if your father will be there."

"I'm going to talk to him now," Berimund replied.

"I would like to speak to him at his earliest convenience."

"Of course, Majesty. I will so inform him."

But when they arrived in Berimund's dining hall a few bells later, Marcomir wasn't there.

Muriele stood politely as she was introduced to a dozen Hansan lords and their ladies standing at the long oaken table. None of them seemed to be above the rank of greft, and they all seemed about the same age as Berimund.

The hall itself was roomy and candle-lit, hung with tapestries of hunting scenes. Two white staghounds prowled hopefully around the table, and beyond all of that she could see the open door of the kitchen and several servants bustling about. Woodsmoke hung in the air, along with delicious odors, familiar and strange.

Mead was brought, which Muriele thought too sweet, followed by some pears and unfamiliar berries that were excellent.

Berimund rose and said something in Hanzish, and all the lords came to their feet. Berimund lifted his goblet and tilted it toward Muriele. Muriele remained seated. She hadn't retained a lot from her childhood tutoring, but the various etiquettes of the civilized nations had remained with her.

"To Queen Muriele of Crotheny, a matchless beauty. The saints keep you hale and happy. Whairnei!"

"Whairnei!" they all repeated, and, after drinking, took their seats.

"You are all far too kind," Muriele said, relieved that the toast was short. She wondered how many more she would have to endure.

Fifteen during the first course, as it turned out.

Meat came out next: roasted venison with what she thought was a cherry sauce, suckling pig with leek puree, fried hare in some sort of plum sauce, lamb-and-cheese pie, and a second pie of apples, quinces, and beef.

"Prince Berimund," Muriele asked as she finished cleaning a venison rib and tossed it to one of the hounds, "I wonder if you gave your father my message."

"I did, Majesty."

"And?"

Berimund reddened slightly. "He apologizes that he didn't find it convenient to come tonight."

"But tomorrow?"

"Not tomorrow."

"Is the war keeping him so busy?"

"No, Majesty. He, ah-he's going hunting."

Muriele felt her blood-and the mead mixing in it-rise hot up her neck to her ears. "I see," she said.

"We will find some entertainment for you, I promise."

"I'm sure. What news is there of the war?"

Berimund stopped with a knife full of food halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"The war. You said it's started. What news have you?"

"I really don't think I can make Your Majesty privy-"