With a mental jerk, she pushed the images away and stared dismayed at the ceiling. What are you doing? she asked herself. And answered that it was only fantasy. Dangerous fantasy, she replied. This man loves you, wants you. Controls you. If you weaken, he'll have you. You'll never get away.

"Then dream of Curtis," she murmured aloud. "Of sweet Curtis, who was so good, so-innocent." She chuckled. "And had such marvelous staying power."

But this far from Ferny Cove or Oz, to daydream of Curtis was to abrade old wounds. She drank half the wine before she slept.

15: Mariil

They slept in-at least Varia did-had a late breakfast and a later start. Apparently Cyncaidh did not intend to gallop home like an eager schoolboy. They rode through wild and rocky forest for more than three hours when the road-a good road for such wild country-brought them to an extensive opening with farms. Halfway across it stood a building, almost a palace, half seen through shade trees. Cyncaidh pulled aside and turned. "Aaerodh Manor," he said pointing.

His words, his gesture, were for the whole party, but it seemed to Varia he'd addressed mainly her. She was impressed with the size of it, not entirely favorably. To her, a house so large could hardly seem like home. But it may to him, she thought. And I'm not going to live there.

As they rode on, it held her attention. At least it was handsome, she told herself. Not like the square gray Tudor castles and manors she'd seen pictures of in books, nor the homes of royalty in the Rude Lands. Its designer had been an artist, with a sense of proportion and grace. The walls were white marble, while the roofs were tiled, some green, some red, others blue, their colors saturated. She wondered how often it required cleaning.

Perhaps most interesting, it had no defensive wall, though as they neared it, she could see a tall fence of ornamental black iron pales surrounding the grounds. But the gatehouse, she discovered, had no guards, and the gate was open. They entered, and a graveled lane led them across a green lawn, with flowerbeds, shrubs, and scattered groups of trees. Their approach had been seen, for a major domo met them at the broad steps, a tall, big-framed, uniformed ylf who'd reached the time of decline, his face and figure aging. Nonetheless he shared a strong embrace with the Cyncaidh.

Cyncaidh stepped back. "It's very good to see you again, Ahain."

"We've been waiting for the day, Your Excellency."

"How is Mariil?" Cyncaidh spoke with concern.

"Well enough to have visitors, sir. I have no doubt that seeing you"-his glance shifted to Varia then-"and you, my lady, will be better for her than anything else."

"Good," Cyncaidh said. "I'd been afraid. Is she available now?"

"Yes sir. Your messenger arrived last evening before she slept, and her ladyship's been up for some time. She's breakfasted, and waiting for you in her suite I believe."

His mother, Varia thought, and in her decline, obviously. Why would she be pleased to see me?

Cyncaidh turned to her. "Varia," he said, "come with me. I want you to meet my wife."

Bewildered, Varia followed him up stairs she was scarcely aware of, and down a hall she hardly saw. He knocked at a door, which opened almost at once. An ylvin nurse let them in, and they followed her onto a deck where a woman sat in the sun, withered and frail on a lounge seat, wrapped in a robe against a breeze that felt balmy to Varia. It seemed to her that Mariil must have been lovely, a decade earlier.

But if her old body was frail, Mariil's spirit showed strong and clear in her aura, which was not depressed by her physical decline. And her ylvin eyes were unclouded; Varia felt thoroughly evaluated by them. "Welcome to Aaerodh Manor," the old woman said. "I'm glad to have you here."

"Thank you. Why?"

The old woman chuckled drily. "Why indeed? I saw strength and endurance in you before you spoke. And the ability to learn, and grow in wisdom. They aren't the same thing, those last two, you know. And I see decency, and an honesty that includes self-honesty. Is that enough for you?"

"Do you see information too? Your husband says he's interested in knowledge he thinks I have. He may overestimate me. I spent more than twenty years on Farside, and I've only been back about sixteen months, most of it as his prisoner or the Dynast's. It may not take long to learn all I know of the Sisterhood, beyond what I suppose you know already."

"Indeed. That's the least of my interest." She turned to Cyncaidh. "Raien, I have questions to ask you. Before we talk to A'duaill. You'll want lunch first, though, I suppose."

"That's right. I'll come again afterward."

Kissing Mariil's dry lips then, he left with Varia, neither of them saying anything, and took her to a study, where he rang a bell. A half-ylf answered, the second steward, and Cyncaidh told him to guide his guest through the book shelves which covered one wall. "I'll be back for you when lunch is ready," he told her. "I need to be sure my men are properly settled."

Varia watched him leave. Don't try to figure it out, girl, she told herself. There's too much you don't know. Just pay attention. It'll sort out for you.

After lunch, Varia was taken to Connir A'duaill, who stood as they entered. The interrogator?, she wondered. A'duaill looked as young as most ylver-yet didn't, the difference lying in his aura, and in eyes that felt as if they'd seen everything, or near enough. She had no doubt he was a master magician like Sarkia; it fitted both his aura and eyes. Though he could hardly be as old as the Dynast.

The room had no window; that troubled Varia at once. Light came from a skylight shaft and several oil lamps. And the doors were thick; she could scream herself hoarse without anyone hearing.

On the other hand, the appointments were more or less aesthetic, not threatening at all. There were no straps or ties on the table, no whips or tongs or pan of coals, no Xader or Corgan. Besides herself there were only A'duaill and Cyncaidh, and an ylvin scribe with stacked vellum, and a row of sharpened graphite sticks wrapped in paper-effectively pencils.

Musing, she'd hardly heard Cyncaidh's introductions; hadn't even caught the scribe's name. When he'd finished, he looked at A'duaill. "I presume I'm to go now."

"If you please, Your Excellency." A'duaill turned to Varia as if he'd sensed the flash of fear that came despite herself. And said the right thing: "You'll not be harmed, physically or in spirit. That's not something we do here, and in any case we value you for much more than whatever knowledge you may have."

That again. She peered closely at him. "Then why no windows? I could scream myself to death in here without being heard."

"Ah. It's not to keep sounds in, but out. Sounds and more than sounds would hamper what I do here." He turned to Cyncaidh, who hadn't left yet. "Your Excellency."

Cyncaidh nodded to A'duaill, then to Varia, and left. When the door had closed, A'duaill motioned to an upholstered chair across the table from himself. "If you please, my lady." When she was seated, he took the plain wooden chair across from her.

"Why do you call me 'my lady'?" Varia asked.

"It's a matter of status and courtesy. You're the Cyncaidh's guest."

"Why am I his guest? Beyond whatever information you may get from me."

"My lady, much will be made clear to you after this interrogation's over, I'm sure. I hope to complete it this afternoon," he added pointedly. "And when I've questioned you, I promise to receive your questions in turn. Tomorrow, if you'd like. Now, was your lunch adequate?"

She looked curiously at him. "More than adequate."