“He’s loyal to the Realm?” Isana asked.

Aria took a slow breath. “He’s… loyal to the concept of loyalty,” she said finally.

“I’m not sure I see the distinction.”

“Raucus believes that every High Lord does, and should, owe fealty to the First Lord,” Aria said. “He can’t stand power-seekers like the Aquitaines, Rhodes, and Kalarus, and he will scrupulously adhere to what he sees as the ideal for how a High Lord should behave-but he detests Gaius. He’d rather gouge out his own eyes than show the least amount of voluntary personal respect for the man currently wearing the Crown, as opposed to the respect due the Crown itself.”

“Why?” Isana asked. “Not that Gaius hasn’t done a number of things to earn enemies in his time-but why Raucus?”

“He and Septimus were close when they were young,” Aria said. “Inseparable, really, after a year or so of initial difficulties. After Septimus died, Raucus stopped attending Wintersend, stopped writing to the Citadel, and refused to answer any letters from the First Lord directly.”

Isana felt her eyes widen. Septimus had not truly died in battle with the Marat, as the Realm at large had been led to believe. He had been killed during the battle as a result of the actions of a group of Citizens, a conspiracy of crafters powerful enough to neutralize Septimus’s furies and leave him vulnerable to the barbarians. In fact, the successful attempt had not been the first but merely the last in a series of half a dozen such incidents. Isana knew that Septimus had believed that he had puzzled out who were the ones behind the conspiracy-and that he had been in the process of gathering evidence when he died.

If Raucus had been close friends with Septimus, it was possible that her late husband had shared what he knew with the then-young lord of Antillus. “Great furies,” Isana breathed. “He knows something.”

Aria arched a red-gold eyebrow. “Knows something? What do you mean?”

Isana shook her head quickly. “Nothing, nothing.” She gave Aria a quick, apologetic smile. “Nothing I can share at the moment.”

Aria opened her mouth in a silent “ah” and nodded. She frowned and gathered her own cloak closer to her body. “Always so cold up at the Wall.”

Isana looked out the window, to see the Shieldwall, an enormous construction of dark stone, perhaps twenty yards below them. It was early evening, and a circle of lights marked a landing space on the wall. The countryside around, blanketed in snow, glowed with the eerie half-light of winter.

“Tell me this, Aria,” Isana said. “In your judgment-is he a good man?”

Aria blinked at Isana. She hesitated for several seconds, as if wrestling with a concept she had never encountered. “I…” She spread her hands helplessly. “I’m not sure how to answer. There have been days when I haven’t been proud of the things I’ve needed to do for the sake of duty.”

Isana smiled faintly. “I’ve had days like that as well,” she said quietly. “And it doesn’t change anything or make the question invalid. Ask your heart. Is he a good man?”

Lady Placida regarded Isana slowly for a moment, before a rather worn half smile appeared on her mouth, along with a sardonic little chuckle. “For a High Lord. Yes. He’s bullheaded and arrogant, his ego is bloated to the size of a mountain, he’s headstrong, often inconsiderate, more than occasionally rude, intolerant to anyone he doesn’t respect, and short-tempered with anyone who challenges him. And underneath all that-there’s more of the same, only better cured.” She shook her head. “But beneath that, yes. I sent my own sons to Antillus to train under him when they came of age. That is how much I trust Antillus Raucus.”

Isana smiled at her, and said, “Thank you, Aria. That’s encouraging. Perhaps we have a chance to make something work out after all.”

“Perhaps you didn’t listen to most of what I just said,” Aria replied, her tone dry.

The coach settled down with a gentle bump, and the winds died down. A second later, a Legion band began playing the Crown Anthem.

Isana grimaced.

“It is traditional,” Aria murmured.

“Yes, yes.” Isana sighed. “But the tune is ghastly. It sounds like a sick gargant dying. What precisely qualifies it to be the Crown Anthem?”

“Tradition,” Aria replied promptly.

“And tradition alone, apparently,” Isana said. “Though perhaps my taste in music is simply… uneducated.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Aria said. “I am well versed in several musical traditions, and assure you that the Crown Anthem is perfectly hideous.”

Araris, who had sat silent and motionless through most of the trip-asleep, actually, though he’d dozed with that catlike lightness that could have come instantly to waking, had the need arose, opened his eyes as the Knights who had borne the air coach came to the door and opened it. “Ladies,” he murmured. “If you will excuse me.” He exited the coach first-as he insisted upon doing every time, these days-and a moment later leaned his head back inside and extended his hand to Isana. “Very well, ladies.”

Isana took Araris’s hand and left the coach, emerging into, not the light of furylamps, but instead raw torchlight atop the wall. It was far dimmer and, somehow, more primal than the tiny, clean, blue-white furylamps inside the wind coach. Red light and shadow lay heavily over everything, and she found herself instinctively becoming more wary of her surroundings.

Standing atop the Shieldwall was, Isana realized, more like standing upon a road or bridge than any building-or more accurately, like standing in the square of a small town. The wall was fifty feet wide, and a number of structures existed atop the Wall, within sight of where the cart had landed, framed by four towers that rose up from the Wall, standard Aleran ramparts rising another twenty feet above the surface of the already-towering Wall. Several knee-high stone walls rose up here and there around them, and Isana realized that they must be guard-walls around stairwells that sank down into the structure of the Wall itself. A moment’s estimate showed Isana that the area of the Wall they stood upon could have contained enough structures to comprise a town.

That might, she supposed, do something to explain the number of legionares assembled to meet the coach, despite the late hour. There was the better part of two full cohorts-or, she supposed the Legion’s Prime Cohort-turned out in ranks in front of the coach, while at least five times as many legionares were obviously on duty within sight of her position, on guard upon the battlements at the edges of the Wall, at each level of the ramparts, and at lighted positions up and down the length of the Wall, to either horizon, as far as she could see.

Every legionare’s breastplate bore the three scarlet diagonal bars of the Legions of Antillus-though upon several helmets and shields, Isana saw a more graphic representation of the heraldic design, evidently painted on by individual legionares: three ragged, bloody wounds, as if torn by the claws of one of the massive northern bears.

A man in the finer breastplate and elaborate helmet of a Tribune stepped forward and saluted. He was tall, clean-cut, and looked every inch the professional soldier. “Your Highness, Your Grace. On behalf of my lord, His Grace, Antillus Raucus, welcome to the Wall. My name is Tribune Garius.”

Isana inclined her head to him. The chill in the air made her shiver despite the warmer clothes and heavier cloak she had worn. “Thank you, Tribune.”

“May I ask, Tribune,” Aria said, “why Lord Antillus is not here to greet us personally?”

“He regrets that his duties prevented him from being here,” the man said smoothly.

“Duties?” Aria asked.

Garius stared at her levelly, his gaze unwavering, and gestured toward the southern side of the wall. “See for yourself, Your Grace.”