Oh. Wait. There had been one, hadn’t there. Potentially. Ingrey’s heart seemed to halt. Might I have saved…?

He gulped back the unbearable realizations and stared at Cumril in a frustrated, hostile silence. Lewko’s silence was far less revealing. Their gazes crossed and clashed. Ingrey began to suspect he was not the only man here who preferred to collect the information first and dole it out at his discretion later. The divine rose abruptly to his feet.

“You had best come up with me to the temple now, Cumril, till I can make better arrangements for your safety. We will speak further on these matters.” In private hung unspoken.

Cumril nodded as if in understanding and clambered up as well. Ingrey gritted his teeth. Safety from what? Cumril’s demon reascending? Wencel? Nosy Temple inquirers? Ingrey? Aye, Lewko had damned well better protect Cumril from me.

He saw shepherd and lost sheep out the front door; Lewko bade him and Ijada farewell with a promise, or threat, to meet again soon. Now that they seemed to have emerged officially from the private conclave, the warden fell upon her charge and hustled her upstairs once more. Ijada, her face set with dark thought, did not resist.

Ingrey took the stairs two at a time to his room, there to shed his court finery for clothing he could better move in, which would not catch his blades. He had a visit to make, and without delay.

In the waning afternoon light, Ingrey made his way through the crooked streets of Kingstown. He wended past the old Rivermen’s Temple that served the folk of the dock quarter, then around the town hall and the street market in the square behind it. The market was closing down for the day, with only a few peddlers left under awnings or with their goods spread out on mats, sad leftover vegetables or fruits, wilting flowers, rejected leatherwork, picked-over piles of clothing new or used. He threaded his way upslope into the district of great houses nearest the King’s Hall, deliberately dodging over one street to avoid Hetwar’s mansion and the heightened chance of encountering men he knew.

Earl-ordainer Horseriver’s Easthome manse was a bride gift from Princess Fara, the cut-stone facade decorated with a frieze of bounding stags for the Stagthornes. Only the banner over the door displayed the running stallion above the rippling waters of the Lure, the badge of the old high kin that marked the earl as in residence.

In residence, but not yet at home, Ingrey shortly discovered from the liveried door guards. The earl and princess’s party had not yet returned from the interment and whatever funeral feast had followed in the hallow king’s hall. Ingrey encouraged the porter’s assumption that he bore some important message from Sealmaster Hetwar, letting himself be escorted to Wencel’s study, provided with a polite glass of wine, and left to wait.

He set the wine aside untasted and circled the room restlessly. Afternoon sun crept across thick carpets. The bookcases were but half-filled, mostly with dusty tomes that would seem to have been inherited with the house. The heavy, carved writing table was tidied and free of work in progress or correspondence; a promising drawer proved locked. Ingrey decided it was just as well, when only the barest sound of footsteps in the hall heralded the door opening on Wencel. This interview was likely to be difficult enough without his being caught reading the earl’s mail. Though he doubted Wencel would have been surprised.

The earl still wore the somber court garb Ingrey had seen him in at the funeral. He was shrugging out of his long coat as he shouldered through the door and shut it behind him. He folded the cloth over his arm and circled around Ingrey, who circled around him, each keeping a wary distance as though they were on two ends of a rope. The earl tossed the coat over a chair and half sat, half leaned against the writing table, motionless but not relaxed, not yielding any advantage of height or tension. His stare at Ingrey was speculative; his only greeting a murmured, “Well, well, well.”

Ingrey took up a careful position against the nearest bookcase, arms crossed. “So what did you see?”

“My senses were tightly furled, as they always must be when I risk contact with the Temple’s Sighted. But I hardly needed more; I could infer it all well enough. The Lord of Autumn could not have taken Boleso uncleansed, yet take him He did. There were but two men present who might have turned the task, and I knew it wasn’t me. Therefore. Your masteries proceed apace, shaman.” His slight bow might or might not have been mockery. “Had Fara known and been capable of understanding, I’m sure she would have thanked you, wolf-lord.”

Ingrey returned a nod equally balanced on the edge of irony. “It seems you are not my sole source of instruction after all. Horse-lord.”

“Oh, fine new friends you have—until They betray you. If the gods toy with you, cousin, it is for Their ends, not yours.”

“Still, it seems I might be gifted with the salvation of more than Boleso. I could rescue you from your secret burden, save you from your fear of Temple pyres. How if I attempt to relieve you of your spirit horse?” A safe offer; Ingrey suspected Wencel would rather be stripped of his skin.

Wencel’s lips curled up. “Alas, there is an impediment. I am not dead. Souls yet anchored to matter do not yield their loyal companions, any more than you could sing my life itself out of my body.” Ingrey wasn’t exactly sure what his expression revealed, but Wencel added, “Don’t believe me? Try it, then.”

Ingrey moistened his lips, half closed his eyes, and reached down. He lacked the floating glory of the god’s inspiration, but as it was the second trial, he might make up for it in confidence, he thought. He felt for that furled shadow within Wencel, extended his hand, and rumbled, “Come.”

It was like tugging on a mountain.

The shadow unfurled a little, but did not follow. Wencel’s brows rose in brief surprise, and he caught a breath. “Strong,” he allowed.

“But not strong enough,” Ingrey conceded in return.

“No.”

“Then you cannot cleanse me, either,” Ingrey followed this out.

“Not while you live, no.”

Ingrey felt his careful course between opposed sides, Wencel and the Temple, to be narrowing dangerously. And if he did not choose before he lost all turning room, he risked betraying both powers. It was surely better to have one powerful enemy and one powerful ally than two offended enemies. But which should be which? He drew a long breath. “I met an unexpected old acquaintance this afternoon. We had a long talk.”

Wencel lifted his chin in inquiry.

“Cumril. Remember him?”

A flare of nostrils and a sharp intake of breath. “Ah.”

“Coincidentally, he proved to be just the man you were looking for as well. Remember your insistence that Boleso must have suborned an illicit sorcerer? Cumril was the one. I’d missed encountering him at Boar’s Head, for he recognized and avoided me.”

Wencel’s eyes glittered with interest. “Not so coincidental as all that. Illicit sorcerers are few, and the Temple expends much effort toward making them even fewer. He, at least, was one Boleso might have heard about, and secretly sought.” He hesitated. “It must have been an interesting chat. Did Cumril survive it?”

“Temporarily.”

“Where is he now?”

“I can’t say.” Precisely.

“At some point very soon, I am going to grow tired enough to stop humoring you. It has been a long and most unpleasant day.”

“Very well, I shall come to the point. A question for you, Wencel. Why did you try to make me kill Ijada?” A shot not quite in the dark, but Ingrey held his breath to see what target it found.

Wencel grew perilously still, but for a slight flare of his eyes. “Where do you come by this conviction? Cumril? Not the most reliable of accusers.”