"Little King, you don't know what you ask."

"Will you do it?"

"Don't come to me and blame me, Little King. Love the child if you want, and let him love you, it's nothing to me, all one to me." She turned her face to the wall.

"A child must know his father if he's to be happy."

"I have no doubt of it. Only this, Little King: He'll eat no food but what he draws from my breast. And he'll never have a name."

That was wrong; it could not be. To have no name is to have no self, Orem knew that. "I command you to give him a name."

"You command easily now, don't you? Like a child, not guessing at the price of things. See how well your old commands have worked, before you try any others."

"Name him."

"Youth," she answered, smiling and amused.

"That's not a name."

"Nor is Beauty. But it's more name than he could earn in all his life."

"Youth, then. And I'll be free with him."

"Oh, you're a delicious fool. I've kept the three most marvelous fools in all the world with me for all these years, but you, the best of all, the Sisters saved you for the last. You will have all the time you want with the boy, all the time you can possibly use is yours. May it bring you joy."

The boy reached up and clutched at Orem's nose and laughed.

"Did you hear? Already he laughed!" And Orem couldn't help but laugh in turn. "That's the way it is with a twelve-month child," Queen Beauty said.

Orem did not see it; but I believe that every word he said was pain to Beauty, made plain to Beauty how much he already loved the child, and how little love he had for her. It could not have surprised her, but it could hurt no less for all that.

"Give me the boy," she said. "He needs to eat."

"Youth," said Orem to the child, who smiled. He handed the infant to Beauty, and this time the child needed no guidance to the nipple. Beauty looked up at Orem with eyes strangely timid, like a doe's. She looked innocent and sweet, but Orem was not deceived. "Beauty," he said, "how did you escape the pain of this, when you didn't give it to me?"

"Does it matter?"

"Tell me. I command it."

Studying his face, she said, "You commanded me to give the pain away; you didn't say to whom."

That was true, he realized. The second time, when she obeyed him, he had not said she had to give it to him. "But who else would willingly take it?"

"The woman who of all women could not bear to see this body torn asunder. The woman whose face this really is."

Orem stared at her stupidly. Who else's face was it, if not Beauty's? Orem had never known that Beauty wore a borrowed shape. But knowing that, it was not hard to know who it was who truly owned that face.

"Weasel," Orem whispered. "You gave the pain to her."

"We always shared my pains anyway," Beauty said. "It seemed only fair. She had had the use of this body during her perfect childhood—we agreed that it was fair she suffer some of the pain of its adulthood." Beauty smiled lovingly at Orem. "And pleasure, too. I made sure she felt half the pleasure of our wedding night, Little King. I wanted her to remember what it felt like to be unfaithful to her beloved husband."

"Her husband?" Orem had not known that Weasel had a husband.

"What a fool," Beauty said. "Her husband, the King! Palicrovol meant to make her Queen in my place. Why else do you think I've kept her here? Weasel is Enziquelvinisensee Evelvenin, the Flower Princess. She wanted my place, so I've taken hers. Inside her perfect body. Well, her perfect body just went through a birthing that could have killed it. But thanks to you, her perfect body didn't have to bear the pain, or heal from the injury. Too bad for the imperfect flesh she actually dwells in, though. That may well die." Orem had not realized until then Beauty's perfect malice. "It's you deserves her face," he whispered.

He thought back to Dobbick in the House of God, who taught him that King Palicrovol brought his own suffering upon himself. "But she did nothing to you," Orem said.

"She took my place," said Beauty. "For whatever reason, I care not: she took my place in this Palace, and she pays for it."

(That argument should be familiar to you, Palicrovol. He took my place in the Palace, you said, and so he must pay. Do you then admit that Beauty was just when she punished the bride you brought from Onologasenweev?)

"I see now," Beauty said. "I see now." And her face became dark.

"What do you see?" asked Orem, afraid that she saw what he really was.

"I see that she has taken my place again."

"Yes! She's bearing the pain of the birth of your child."

"Once again she has my husband's love."

Orem looked at her in disbelief. "For a year you've despised me. How can you be jealous of a

thing you threw away!" And then he lied quite cruelly to her, thinking he was telling her the truth. "I never loved you."

She cried out against his words. "You worshipped me!"

"Name of God, woman! I hate you more than any living soul, if you are alive, if you have a soul. You're three hundred years old and you have no more love in you than a mantis for her mate, and you never—you never—"

"I never what?"

"You never took me to your bed again."

"If you wanted me, boy, why didn't you come to me and ask?"

"You would have laughed at me."

"Yes," she said. "I laugh at all the weak things of the world. And when you leave me now, and

go to Weasel Sootmouth, and comfort her, I will lie here laughing." "Laugh at me all you like." He turned to go. "But I won't be laughing at you."

"At me."

He turned back to look at her. "You aren't one of the weak things of the world."

She smiled viciously. "Not for long, anyway. Not once I've finished what I began with you."

Orem was sure she was hinting at his death.

"Sing to me, Little King. Sing to me a song from the House of God. Surely they taught you songs in the House of God."

He sang the first thing that came into his mind. It was Halfpriest Dobbick's favorite passage in

the Second Song.

God surely sees your sins, my love,

The blackness of your heart, my love.

He weighs them with your suffering.

Which is the lesser part, my love?

"Again," she said.

And when he had sung it twice, she made him sing it again, and again, and again, as she rocked back and forth, suckling their son. Despite his hatred for her, Orem had never seen a thing that pleased him so much: his baby drawing from his wife's breast, as the grain drew life from the soil. He loved his son instinctively, the way Avonap loved his sons and his fields. He regretted every word he had said that might cause her to kill him sooner, and deprive him of an hour he might have had with Youth.

At last she did not murmur "Again" when he finished the song. "Forgive me," he whispered to her. But she was asleep, and did not hear him.

So he left her, and went to find Weasel, who had born Beauty's pain at his command.

The Healing of Weasel Sootmouth

"You can't come in," said the servants standing guard at Weasel's door.

Orem pushed past them. Weasel lay delirious on the bed, crying out and weeping, calling now on Beauty, now on Palicrovol, and now and then on Orem, too. He thought that meant she loved him

as she loved Palicrovol, though in fact she was crying out to save him, not for him to save her.

He questioned the doctors gathered at her bed. "We can find no cause for the pain," they said.

"Treat her," Orem said, "as if she had just given birth to a twelve-month child. Treat her as if the birthing broke her loins apart and tore her flesh."

Orem watched when he could bear it, sat by Weasel and held her hand when he could not. She knew nothing of his presence, only cried out with pain and delirium. At last the doctors finished all that