"There's nothing dishonorable between Amali and me, I give you that on my honor. Now come, you must get up and move before your muscles stiffen any more. I expect it will hurt."

Getting out of bed proved to be the worst of it. With Nyal's assistance and considerable cursing, Seregil managed to slip on a loose robe and stagger woozily around the room several times. On one pass he caught sight of himself in the mirror and cringed—eyes too large, skin too pale, expression too nakedly helpless to be the infamous Rhiminee Cat, No, here was the frightened, shame-laden young exile come home again.

"I can walk by myself," he growled, and pulled away from Nyal only to find that he couldn't, not by a long shot.

Nyal caught him as he staggered. "That's enough for now. Come, you can do with some fresh air."

Seregil surrendered himself back into the man's capable hands

and was soon settled more or less comfortably in a sunny back corner of the balcony. Nyal was just tucking a blanket around him when a brisk knock sounded at the door.

Nyal went to answer it, but it was Mydri who returned. Seregil hastily checked the neck of his robe, hoping no telltale marks showed. It was a futile effort.

"A fever, is it?" she said, glowering down at him. "What were you thinking, Seregil?"

"What did Alec tell you?"

"He didn't have to tell me anything. I could see it in his face. You should tell that boy not to bother lying; he's got no skill for it."

He does when he wants to, Seregil thought. "If you're here to scold me—"

"Scold you?" Mydri's eyebrows arched higher, the way they always had when she was truly angry. "You're not a child anymore, or so I'm told. Do you have any idea what it would do to the negotiations if word got out that a member of Klia's delegation had been attacked by a Haman? Nazien is already expressing admiration for Klia—"

" Who said anything about the Haman? ?

Her hand moved so fast it took him a second to register that he'd been slapped, and hard enough to make his eyes water and his ears ring. Then she was bending over him again, poking him painfully in the chest with one finger.

"Don't compound your stupidity with a lie, little brother! Did you think such a hollow act would make anything right? Did you think at all, or just hare off blindly like you always did? Have you changed so little?"

The words hurt far more than the blow. He probably hadn't changed all that much, though he knew better than to say so just now.

"Does anyone else know?" he asked dully.

"Officially? No one. Who would strut around bragging of breaking Aura's sacred peace? But there have been whispers. You must be at the Iia'sidra tomorrow, and you'd damn well better look like you've been ill!"

"That shouldn't be a problem."

For a moment he thought she was going to hit him again. Sparing him a last disgusted glare, she swept out. He braced to hear the door slam in her wake, but she refrained. Mustn't give the servants anything to talk about.

He pressed his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes, concentrating on the sounds of the birds and breeze and people passing by along the street below. The brash of cool fingers against his cheek a moment later startled him badly. He thought Nyal had gone when his sister had arrived, but here he was again, studying him with unwelcome concern.

"Are people so eager to hit you back in Skala?" the man asked, examining whatever new mark Mydri had left.

Seregil should have been angry at the intrusion, but suddenly he was too tired, too sick.

"Now and then," he replied, closing his eyes again. "But there it's usually strangers."

20 THE PASSING OF IDRILAIN

Midnight was long past by the time Korathan reached Phoria's camp. He'd outdistanced his escort some miles back, pressing on alone in the vain hope of catching his mother's dying words.

The pickets recognized his shouted greeting and cleared out of the road without challenge. Thundering into camp, he reined in at the tent showing his mother's banner, scattering a crowd of servants and officers gathered there.

Inside, the heavy odor of death assailed him.

Tonight only Phoria and a wizened drysian attended the queen. His sister's back was to him as he entered, but the drysian's solemn face told him that his mother was already dead.

"You're too late," Phoria informed him tersely.

From the state of her uniform, he guessed she'd been called in off the battlefield, too. Her cheeks were dry, her face composed, but Korathan sensed a terrible anger just held in cheek.

"Your messenger was delayed by an ambush," he replied, throwing off his cloak. Joining her beside the narrow field bed, he looked down at the wasted corpse that had been their mother.

The drysian had already begun the final ministrations for the pyre. Idrilain was dressed in her scarred field armor beneath the lavish burial cloak. That would please her, he thought, wondering if these considerations were Phoria's doing or the servants'. The strap of her war helm was cinched tight to hold her jaw shut, and her dimmed eyes were pressed open for the soul's journey. Her ravaged face had regained a certain dignity in death, but he saw traces of blood and dried spittle crusting her colorless lips.

"She died hard?" he asked.

"She fought it to the end," replied the drysian, close to tears.

"Astellus carry you soft, and Sakor light your way home, my Mother," he murmured hoarsely, covering Idrilain's cold hands with his own. "Did she speak much before she went?"

"She had little breath for talking," Phoria told him, turning abruptly and stalking out. "All she said was, 'Klia must not fail. »

Korathan shook his head, knowing better than anyone the pain Phoria's anger hid. He'd watched for years in silence as the gulf between queen and heir had widened while Idrilain and Klia drew ever closer. Loyal to both, he had been able to comfort neither. Phoria had never spoken of what caused the final rift between herself and their mother, not even to him.

Whatever it was, you are queen now, my sister, my twin.

Leaving the drysian to complete his task, Korathan walked slowly to Phoria's tent. As he approached, he heard her voice raised sharply. A moment later Magyana emerged hastily from the doorway.

Seeing Korathan, she gave him a respectful bow, murmuring, "My sympathies, dear Prince. Your mother will be sorely missed."

Korathan nodded and continued in.

He found Phoria sitting at her campaign table, greying hair loose about her shoulders. Her soiled tunic and mail lay in a heap beside her chair. Without looking up from the map before her, she said tonelessly, "I'm appointing you as my vicegerent, Kor. I want you in Rhiminee. The situation here is too dire for me to leave the field, so we'll hold the coronation tomorrow as soon as you round up the necessary priests. My field wizard will officiate."

"Organeus?" Korathan took a seat across from her. "It's customary for the former queen's wizard to officiate. That would be—"

"Magyana. Yes, I know." Phoria looked up at last, pale eyes flashing dangerously. "But only because Nysander died. Who was she before that but a wanderer who spent more time in foreign lands than in her own? And what did she do while she served Mother except convince her to become dependent on foreigners?"

"The mission to Aurenen, you mean?"

Phoria let out an inelegant snort. "The queen's not cold an hour and Magyana is in here badgering me for a pledge to continue with Idrilain's plan! Nysander would have been no different, I suppose. Meddlers all, these old wizards. They've forgotten their place."

"What did you tell her?" Korathan asked quickly, hoping to circumvent another tirade.