Philomena sulked until the boy strode into the room. “Gerick, my darling boy. Have you come to brighten your poor mama’s day?”

Philomena didn’t wait for an answer, and the boy didn’t seem inclined to provide one. I didn’t think his answer would be to his mother’s liking anyway. His thin face was contemptuous and aloof, and I would have thought he cared about nothing in the world, except that he so studiously avoided looking at me. Though I stood in a direct line with the door, he proceeded directly to his mother’s bedside and allowed her to peck him on the cheek.

“Gerick, this woman has brought you something that belongs to you. She insists on giving it directly to you, as is her right, but Mama must keep it for you until you come of age.”

The boy turned to me and bowed politely, his eyes devoid of emotion, even curiosity. I waited for Philomena to make a proper introduction, but she said nothing more. So I motioned for the boy to join me on a settle padded with thin red velvet cushions. He positioned himself, stiff as a starched collar, in the farthest corner of the bench.

“I was with your father when he died,” I said. The boy’s eyes grew large, their chilly disdain melted in an instant. “I want to tell you something of that day…”

I had prepared carefully what I would tell him of the strange, fog-bound cavern hidden in the snowy peaks of the Dorian Wall, and of the cruel, empty-eyed warriors who had sought to ensure their dominion over the Four Realms as well as their own far-distant lands by luring the finest swordsman in Leire, the King’s Champion, to fight the Prince of Avonar. I told the story sparingly, so that all I spoke was truth, yet withholding the parts a child could not understand or that it would be dangerous for him to hear. The boy’s attention did not waver through all my telling.

“… And so, you see, they never intended for your father to win the match. They made him confused and angry and didn’t tell him what they planned, for the Prince was pledged not to slay anyone from our lands. It was a most sacred vow that his ancestors had made, and the wicked men wanted to corrupt the Prince. But despite their tricks, your father discovered how he’d been deceived, and he refused to fight the Prince any longer. He told the evil men that there was no honor for King Evard in the match.”

Now came the most difficult part to explain. I dared not touch on the subjects of sorcery and enchantment and D’Arnath’s magical Bridge that linked our world to the world called Gondai and its royal city of Avonar. How could I explain that a soulless warrior Zhid had raised his fist and with terrible enchantments had driven Tomas to madness so that he impaled himself on D’Natheil’s sword? How could anyone, adult or child, comprehend that Prince D’Natheil was truly my husband, Karon, who had once let himself be burned to death rather than betray his Healer’s principles?

“These men were so wicked,” I said, “and their leader so lacking in honor and truth, that they drove your father to fight once more. It was difficult-impossible-for him to see in the fog and the dim light, and when he charged, thinking to slay the evil warriors, he ran right onto the Prince’s sword. The Prince was furious at what the wicked men had done, and he fought the villains until they could do no further harm. The Prince and I tried our best to save your father, but his wounds were terrible, and we could not, I held your father in my arms, and he told me he didn’t suffer. And then he spoke of you.”

The boy’s great eyes were shining, flecks of blue and amber in their rich brown depths, displaying a child’s pain that tugged at my heart no matter my disinterest or resentment. I was pleased that Tomas’s son mourned him. It should be so.

“He said that you were fair and had his looks, and so you do. And he said you were intelligent and opinionated, and that he wanted very much to tell you what a fine son you were. He was very proud of you.”

The boy took a shallow breath with the slightest trace of a quiver in it.

“He died in my arms soon after that. I buried him by that lonely lake with a sword in his hands as was proper for the King’s Champion. When you’re older, if you wish it, I’ll take you there.”

From a green silk bag much like the gray one I had given Philomena, I drew the heavy gold ring with the crest of the four Guardian Rings on it, and I placed it in the boy’s hand. “This is yours now. When the time comes, wear it with the dignity of your father and grandfather. They were not perfect men, but they always did what they thought was right. Great responsibilities come with such a fine thing as this, and you must learn of them as your father would wish.” But, of course, as I watched the boy wrap his slender fingers about the ring so tightly that his knuckles turned white, I wondered who would teach him. Not his mother or her aunt or her fluttering maids.

The child looked up at me as if seeing me for the first time. His voice was no more than a whisper. “Who are you?”

“My name is Seri. I’m your father’s sister. That would make me your aunt, I suppose.”

I thought I was prepared for whatever his reaction might be to the story I had told him, whether childish tears or controlled sorrow, confusion, or the more common disinterest of an aristocratic child whose parent was preoccupied with great events, but Gerick caught me entirely by surprise.

“The witch!” he screamed, as he jumped up and ran to his mother’s bed. “How dare you come here! How dare you speak of my father! He banished you from Comigor for your crimes. You’re supposed to be dead. Mama, make her go away!” Never had I heard such abject terror. Beasts of earth and sky, what had they told him?

“Hush, Gerick,” said Philomena, nudging him aside and smoothing the bedclothes he had rumpled. “Calm yourself. She’s leaving right away. Now, give me the ring before you drop it.”

The boy clung to the red coverlet, shaking and completely drained of color. His voice had faded to a whisper. “Go away. You shouldn’t be here. Go away. Go away.”

Philomena’s aunt looked triumphant.

I didn’t know quite what to do. Controlled retreat seemed best. “I am certainly not a witch, and the last thing in the world I would want is to harm an intelligent boy such as yourself. Your father and I were strangers for many years, believing terrible things of each other, but by the time he died, we had learned the truth-that the evils in our lives were done by the wicked men who killed him. All was made right between us then, and that’s why he sent me to you. But I know it’s complicated. I hope that as you learn more about me, you’ll not be afraid. And if there comes a time when you would like me to tell you more about your father, what he was like when he was your age, what things he liked to play and do, I’ll come back here and do so. For now, I’ll leave as you’ve asked.”

They must have filled the child with all the worst teaching about sorcery. Even so, I would never have expected Tomas’s child to be so dreadfully afraid. I nodded to Philomena, who was paying more attention to the signet ring than to her trembling child, and left the room. A wide-eyed Nancy stood outside the doorway. Unhappy, unsatisfied, I asked her to bring my cloak and summon my driver. It was certainly not my place to comfort the boy.

As I descended the stairs, I met a small party coming up. Nellia was leading a gentleman so formidable in appearance that you could never mistake him once you’d met. His dark curly hair and tangled eyebrows were streaked with gray, but his cheerful, intelligent black eyes, giant nose, and drooping earlobes, heavy with dark hair, had changed not a whit since the last time I’d seen him.

“Lady Seriana, have you met the physician Ren Wesley?” asked the housekeeper.

“Indeed so,” I said. “Though it was many years ago.”

“My lady!” said the gentleman, his bow only half obscuring his surprise. “I never would have thought to find you here. I was not even sure- Well, it is a considerable pleasure to see you in good health.”

Ren Wesley had once been my dinner partner at the home of a mutual acquaintance. The animated conversation with the well-read physician had turned a dreary prospect into a stimulating evening. On the day of Karon’s trial the sight of the renowned physician among the spectators had prompted me to argue that a healer’s skills were not usually considered evil, but rather marvelous and praiseworthy.

“I’m surprised to find you here also, sir, a full day’s journey from Montevial. My sister-in-law is fortunate to have such skill at her call.”

“Her Grace is difficult to refuse,” said the physician. “And, indeed, she is in need of care.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “May I ask-I never expected to have the opportunity-but I would very much appreciate a few words with you once I’ve seen to the duchess.”

“I was just leaving.”

“Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that. I assumed-hoped- that you might be here to care for the young duke while his mother is unable to do so.” The physician’s broad face creased into a disappointed frown, and he lowered his voice. “The boy is in desperate need of some looking after, especially since his father’s death. You’ve seen it, have you not-how troubled he is?”

“I’ve only met the boy today.”

Philomena’s aunt appeared at the top of the stair. “Sir physician, your dallying is insupportable. The duchess awaits.”

Ren Wesley called up to her. “Madam, I have journeyed for most of a day to wait upon the good lady. Inform Her Grace that a portly old man, stiff from a long carriage ride, does not move so quickly up the stairs as sylphlike creatures such as yourself. Only a moment more and I shall be at her side.” His scowl gave way to a raised eyebrow and a twinkle in the eye as soon as he turned back to me. “I would speak to you on the boy’s behalf, my lady. Now, if no other time is available.”

Unlike my nephew, I had never been the master of my own curiosity. “You should go up,” I said. “I can postpone my departure for a little while. I’ll be in the music room.”

“Thank you, my lady. I will rejoin you as speedily as may be.”

I sent word to Renald that our departure was delayed and returned to the music room. Sadly, this room was more neglected than the library, cobwebs draped over a standing harp as if the spiders were trying to add new strings to it. I straightened the portrait of my mother that hung over the hearth. My fragile, lovely mother had brought music and grace to this musty warriors’ haven. She had been afraid of war and hated talk of it. When she had died so young-I was but nine years old-people had said that life as a Leiran warrior’s wife had been too harsh for her. I had vowed to be stronger. Strange how things work out.