“That’s what I thought she meant.” Mar hung her head so as not to meet the Tarkina’s eye. Zelianora hadn’t seemed like one of those lecturing grown-ups who pointed out the obvious as though it was wisdom’s best pearl. She twisted her mouth to one side. Must come from being a parent.

“We have a saying in my homeland: ‘there is more than sand in the desert.’ Dhulyn Wolfshead may tell you she is not angry with you, and it could be so. It could be herself she is angry with, and in her strict honor, she refuses to be angry with you.” Zelianora lifted her hand and sat back in her chair. “But I don’t believe it. I was one of those watching, and I saw her face when she told us you were with Dal-eDal. The Wolfshead was happier to know you safe with him than she should have been, seeing you are no Brother of hers. Somehow during that journey through the mountains I have heard of, she grew to trust you. It’s hard to sleep with someone you don’t trust.”

“We only lay together for warmth.”

“Lie down together, yes. Even with your arms about one another, with certainty. Even guards traveling with prisoners have been known to do this, when it was their duty to return alive. But sleep? With the prisoner unbound? No, my dear.” Zelianora shook her head, and Mar glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “Mercenary Brothers would never have fallen asleep in the arms of someone they did not trust.”

“So I did betray her, and she knows it.” Mar took another deep breath. “Why do I feel better?”

“Well, it seems you are important to her, after all. And since she is angry with you, whether she believes it or not, it will be possible for her to forgive you.” The Tarkina stood. “If we all live long enough.”

Mar stood up, too, smiling for what felt like the first time in days. “Then we’ll just have to live long enough.”

Gundaron selected another waxed strand of cotton and held it up into the shaft of sunlight that hung, warm and bright, from an opening high in the wall across from his bench. He threaded it through the finest curved bone needle in the sewing kit Alkoryn Pantherclaw had given him. These weren’t the best bookbinding tools he’d ever seen, but he’d been taught at his Valdomar Library to make use of materials at hand when a book needed to be mended. He’d no idea where this quantity of paper, cut and folded to table-volume size, had come from, but no one here in Mercenary House had the knowledge or skill to turn the paper into a proper book. And Alkoryn wanted one to make a portable set of maps. This was good useful work, Gun knew, tapping together the first bundle of sheets… only not needed, or important, or even wanted particularly urgently. Except as a way to keep him out from underfoot, while the real work was done. Now that he’d told them what he knew, given them his warning, there wouldn’t be anywhere he was really needed, or wanted. Not after what he’d done.

He sighed, letting his hands fall into his lap, the pages slipping from slack fingers. Neither he nor Mar was considered physically dangerous to anyone here, that was obvious enough from the way they were treated, but he didn’t miss the point that they’d been put into the one chamber that was, for the sake of the Tarkina, constantly guarded. So he and Mar could be watched at the same time, with no wasted effort.

Zelianora Tarkina had been pleasant to Mar, asking for her help with tutoring the Tarkin-to-be, but with him the Berdanan princess was distantly polite, like an upper Scholar whose classes you were not yet a part of.

Gun told himself he was happy that Mar was being accepted more easily. After all, she’d only been tricked and lured into a mistake in judgment-a mistake, what’s more, she’d set out immediately to correct as soon as she had learned of it. It was obvious to everyone, even to himself, finally, that what he’d done was far worse. He hadn’t set out to betray or destroy anyone, but he’d ended up betraying and destroying everyone.

Even himself. There was no doubt in his own mind who was to blame. How many times had he been told while still in his Library not to become too focused, too narrow in his methods and his theories? Too sure of himself and his abilities? To do his best to keep the greater whole always in view? In his zeal to track down the ancient Shpadrajha, and connect them with the modern Espadryni, he’d done a good job of forgetting that particular lesson, and making himself an easy tool for-he shivered. For Beslyn-Tor. For the Green Shadow.

He picked up the pages and rescued the needle from where it had fallen into the crack between two flagstones and found himself staring at the bone implement’s sharp point, wondering how large a hole it would make in a vein. There were other needles in the kit. How large a hole would he need?

He gripped the needle fiercely, eyes shut. He might as well stop playacting. He was too big a coward to solve his problems that way.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to hold a needle?” Mar’s head popped up over the ladder from the lower level of caves.

“What are you looking so cheerful about?” Gun pushed the needle carefully through the scrap of soft cloth that held its brothers.

“The Tarkina says that Dhulyn Wolfshead will probably forgive me.”

“May the Caids continue to smile on you.” Gun was sorry as soon as the words left his lips, even before her face fell. He knew he should be happy for her, but…

“I’m sorry,” he said, shifting over on the bench and indicating the space next to him. “I mean it, I really am happy for you. It’s just hard to tell you so when I’m feeling so sorry for myself.”

“Well, if you know you’re feeling sorry for yourself, you’re already well on the path to recovery.”

“If you’d like to stop talking like someone’s nurse, maybe you could actually be of some use.”

“Or I could go and find better company if you can’t be civil.”

Gun took a deeper breath, let it out slowly. “I’m sorry, really, I am.”

“Yes, you’ve said that,” Mar said dryly, but Gun looked up in time to catch the sparkle in her eyes before she turned her head. “You know it isn’t me you need to apologize to-well, yes, it is, and I forgive you, just don’t do it again-but there are others who need your apology. For… what happened, I mean.”

“You mean for helping a madman hunt down and destroy innocent people?” Gun waved away her protest. “I knew what you meant.” He squinted up at the lowering sun. No one seemed interested in accepting his apologies anyway. “I am sorry,” he finally said. “But who am I going to tell?” Certainly not the Marked he’d help find and turn over to the Green Shadow.

To his surprise, Mar was actually considering his question seriously, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. He was even more surprised when her brow cleared and she smiled.

“Tell the Tarkina.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. She’s the representative here of the Tarkin, or I suppose Bet-oTeb is, really, but she’s still so young. Tell them both. Tell them… tell them everything.” Gun looked away; he knew she meant his Mark. “Ask them what you can do to make amends. You can help them, you know.”

“They won’t care. They don’t trust me.”

“Give them a reason to.”

Gun sighed. Isn’t that what Parno had said? He looked up to find Mar watching him, her eyes warm, but the corners of her mouth turned down. He found himself sitting up very straight. He thought he had faced what he was capable of when he admitted to himself what he’d done in helping Lok-iKol. But like the Wolfshead, he’d been hiding a part of himself that could be useful. A part that could help.

“Mar, you’re wonderful.”

“Did I help?” She was smiling, her dark blue eyes shining.

Gun took her by the shoulders, spilling the papers to the ground, and kissed her on the mouth.