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He shook his head. "I need to think. I need to work something out."

  Why were his eyes so uneasy? Why was he looking at the table and the floor, but never into her face?

  It was concern, for his father's sister. It was worry for the people he cared about. For that was his way, this Lienid. His friendship was true.

  He looked at her then. The smallest of smiles flickered across his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Don't feel too kindly toward me, Katsa. Neither of us is blameless as a friend."

  He left her then, to find Raffin. She stood and stared at the place where he'd just been. And tried to shake off the eerie sense that he had just answered something she'd thought, rather than something she'd said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  NOT THAT IT was the first time he'd left her with that feeling. Po had a way about him. He knew her opinions, sometimes, before she expressed them. He looked at her from across a table and knew she was angry, and why; or that she'd decided he was handsome.

  Raffin had told her she wasn't perceptive. Po was perceptive. And talkative. Perhaps that was why they got along so well. She didn't have to explain herself to Po, and he explained himself to her without her having to ask. She'd never known a person with whom she could communicate so freely—so unused was she to the phenomenon of friendship.

  She mused about this as the horses carried them west, until the hills began to even out and give way to great grassy flatlands, and the pleasure of smooth, hard riding distracted her. Giddon was in good humor, for this was his country. They would visit his estate on their way to one just beyond his. They would sleep in his castle, first on their outward journey and then again on their return. Giddon rode eagerly and fast, and though Katsa didn't relish his company, for once she couldn't complain of their pace.

  "It's a bit awkward, isn't it?" Oll said, when they stopped at midday to rest. "For the king to have asked you to punish your neighbor?"

  "It is awkward," Giddon said. "Lord Ellis is a good neighbor. I can't imagine what has possessed him to create this trouble with Randa."

  "Well, he's protecting his daughters," Oll said. "No man can fault him for that. It's Ellis's bad luck that it puts him at odds with the king."

  Randa had made a deal with a Nanderan underlord. The underlord couldn't attract a wife, because his holding was in the south-central region of Nander, directly in the path of Westeran and Estillan raiding parties. It was a dangerous place, especially for a woman. And it was a desolate holding, without even sufficient servants, for the raiders had killed and stolen so many. The underlord was desperate for a wife, so desperate that he was willing to forgo her dowry. King Randa had offered to take the trouble to find him a bride, on the condition that her dowry went to Randa.

  Lord Ellis had two daughters of marriageable age. Two daughters, and two very great dowries. Randa had ordered Ellis to choose which daughter he would prefer to send as a bride to Nander. "Choose the daughter who is stronger in spirit," Randa had written, "for it is not a match for the weakhearted."

  Lord Ellis had refused to choose either daughter. "Both of my daughters are strong in spirit," he wrote to the king, "but I will send neither to the wastelands of Nander. The king has greater power than any, but I do not think he has the power to force an unsuitable marriage for his own convenience."

  Katsa had gasped when Raffin told her what Lord Ellis said in his letter. He was a brave man, as brave as any Randa had come up against. Randa wanted Giddon to talk to Ellis, and if talk didn't work, he wanted Katsa to hurt Ellis—in the presence of his daughters, so that one of them would step forward and offer herself to the marriage to protect her father. Randa expected them to return to his court with one or the other of the daughters, and her dowry.

  "This is a gruesome task we're asked to perform," Oll said. "Even without Ellis being your neighbor, it's gruesome."

  "It is," Giddon said. "But I see no way around it."

  They sat on an outcropping of stone and ate bread and fruit. Katsa watched the long grass moving around them. The wind pushed it, attacked it, struck it in one place and then another. It rose and fell and rose again. It flowed, like water.

  "Is this what the sea is like?" Katsa asked, and they both turned to her, surprised. "Does the sea move the way this grass moves?"

  "It is like this, My Lady," Oll said, "but different. The sea makes rushing noises, and it's gray and cold. But it does move a bit like this."

  "I should like to see the sea," she said.

  Giddon's eyes on her were incredulous.

  "What? Is it such a strange thing to say?"

  "It's a strange thing for you to say." He shook his head. He gathered their bread and fruit, then rose. "The Lienid fighter is filling your mind with romantic notions." He went to his horse.

  She ignored him so that she didn't have to think about his own notions of romance or his suit or his jealousy. She rode hard across the flatlands, and imagined she rode across the sea.

  IT WAS MORE difficult to ignore the reality of Giddon once they'd reached his castle. The walls were great, gray, and impressive. The servants flowed into the sunny courtyard to greet their lord and bow to him, and he called them by name and asked after the grain in the storehouses, the castle, the bridge that was being repaired. He was king here, and she could see that he was comfortable with this, and that his servants were happy to see him.

  Giddon's servants were always attentive to Katsa, whenever she was at his court. They approached her to ask if she needed anything; they lit a fire for her and brought her water so she could wash. When she walked past them in the hallways, they greeted her. She wasn't treated this way anywhere else, not even in her own home. It occurred to her now that of course, Giddon had specifically ordered his servants to treat her like a lady—not to fear her, or if they did fear her, to pretend they didn't. All of this Giddon had done for her. She realized his servants must look upon her as their future mistress, for if all of Randa's court knew Giddon's feelings, then surely Giddon's servants had interpreted them as well.

  She didn't know how to be at Giddon's court now, realizing they all expected something of her she would never give. She thought they'd be relieved to know she wouldn't marry Giddon. They would exhale and smile, and prepare cheerfully for whatever kind, harmless lady was his second choice. But perhaps they only hoped for their lord what he hoped for himself.

  Giddon's hope bewildered her. She couldn't fathom his foolishness, to fall in love with her, and she still didn't entirely believe it to be true.

  OLL GREW increasingly morose about Lord Ellis.

  "It's a cruel task the king has asked us to perform," he said at dinner, in Giddon's private dining room, where the three of them ate with a pair of servants to attend to them. "I can't remember if he's ever asked us to perform a task so cruel."

  "He has," Giddon said, "and we've performed it. And you've never spoken like this before."

  "It just seems..." Oll broke off to stare absently at Giddon's walls, covered with rich tapestries in red and gold. "It just seems that this is a task the Council wouldn't condone. The Council would send someone to protect these daughters. From us."

  Giddon pushed potatoes onto his fork and chewed. He considered Oll's words. "We can't do any work for the Council," he said, "if we don't also follow Randa's commands. We're no use to anyone if we're sitting in the dungeons."

  "Yes," Oll said. "But still, it doesn't seem right."

  By the end of the meal, Giddon was as morose as Oll. Katsa watched Oll's craggy face and his unhappy eyes. She watched Giddon eating, his knife reflecting the gold and red of the walls as he cut his meat. His voice was low, and he sighed—they both sighed, Oll and Giddon, as they talked and ate.

  They didn't want to perform this task for Randa. As Katsa watched them and listened, the fingers of her mind began to open and reach around for some means by which they might thwart Randa's instructions.

  PO HAD SAID it was in her power to refuse Randa. And maybe it was in her power, as it was not
in Oll's or Giddon's, because Randa could punish them in ways he couldn't punish her. Could he punish her? He could use his entire army, perhaps, to force her into his dungeons. He could kill her. Not in a fight, but he could poison her, one night at dinner. If he thought her a danger, or didn't think her useful, he would certainly have her imprisoned or killed.

  And what if his anger, when she returned to court without Ellis's daughter, inflamed her own? What would happen at court, if she stood before Randa and felt an anger in her hands and feet she couldn't contain? What would she do?

  It didn't matter. When Katsa awoke the next morning in her comfortable bed in Giddon's castle, she knew it didn't matter what Randa might do to her, or what she might do to Randa. If she were forced to injure Lord Ellis today as Randa wished, it would set her into a rage. She sensed the rage building, just at the thought of it. Her rage if she hurt Lord Ellis would be no less catastrophic than her rage if she didn't and Randa retaliated. She would not do it. She wouldn't torture a man who was only trying to protect his children.

  She didn't know what would happen because of this. But she knew that today, she would hurt no one. She threw back her blankets and thought only of today.

  GIDDON AND OLL dragged their feet as they prepared their bags and their horses. "Perhaps we'll be able to talk him into an agreement," Giddon said, lamely. "Humph," was Oll's only response.

  Ellis's castle was a few short hours' ride distant. When they arrived, a steward showed them into the great library, where Ellis sat writing at a desk. The walls were lined with books, some so high they could only be reached by ladders made of fine dark wood that leaned against the shelves. Lord Ellis stood as they entered, his eyes bold and his chin high. He was a small man, with a thatch of black hair, and small fingers which he spread across the top of his desk.

  "I know why you're here, Giddon," he said.

  Giddon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "We wish to talk with you, Ellis, and with your daughters."

  "I will not bring my daughters into present company," Ellis said, his eyes flicking to Katsa. He didn't flinch under her gaze, and he went up another notch in her estimation.

  Now was the time for her to act. She counted three servants standing rigidly against the walls.

  "Lord Ellis," she said, "if you care at all for the safety of your servants, you'll send them from this room."

  Giddon glanced at her, surprise apparent on his face, for this was not their usual mode of operation. "Katsa—"

  "Don't waste my time, Lord Ellis," Katsa said. "I can remove them myself if you will not."

  Lord Ellis waved his men to the door. "Go," he said to them. "Go. Allow no one to enter. See to your duties."

  Their duties most likely involved removing the lord's daughters from the grounds immediately, if the daughters were even at home; Lord Ellis struck Katsa as the type to have prepared for this. When the door had closed, she held her hand up to silence Giddon. He shot her a look of puzzled irritation, which she ignored.

  "Lord Ellis," she said. "The king wishes us to talk you into sending one of your daughters to Nander. I imagine we're unlikely to succeed."

  Ellis's face was hard, and still he held her eyes. "Correct."

  Katsa nodded. "Very well. That failing, Randa wishes me to torture you until one of your daughters steps forward and offers herself to the marriage."

  Ellis's face didn't change. "I suspected as much."

  Giddon's voice was low. "Katsa, what are you doing?"

  "The king," Katsa said, and then she felt such a rush of blood to her head that she touched the desk to steady herself. "The king is just in some matters. In this matter, he is not. He wishes to bully you. But the king doesn't do his own bullying—he looks to me for that. And I—" Katsa felt strong suddenly. She pushed away from the desk and stood tall. "I won't do what Randa says. I won't compel you or your daughters to follow his command. My Lord, you may do what you will."

  The room was silent. Ellis's eyes were big with astonishment, and he leaned heavily on the desk now, as if danger had strengthened him before and its lack now made him weak. Beside Katsa, Giddon didn't seem to be breathing, and when she glanced at him, his mouth hung slightly ajar. Oll stood a little aside, his face kind and worried.

  "Well," Lord Ellis said. "This is quite a surprise, My Lady. I thank you, My Lady. Indeed, I can't thank you enough."

  Katsa didn't think a person should thank her for not causing pain. Causing joy was worthy of thanks, and causing pain worthy of disgust. Causing neither was neither, it was nothing, and nothing didn't warrant thanks.

  "You don't owe me gratitude," she said. "And I fear this won't put an end to your troubles with Randa."

  "Katsa." It was Oll. "Are you certain this is what you want?"

  "What will Randa do to you?" Giddon asked.

  "Whatever he does," Oll said, "we'll support you."

  "No," Katsa said. "You won't support me. I must be on my own in this. Randa must believe that you and Giddon tried to force me to follow his order, but couldn't." She wondered if she should injure them, to make it more convincing.

  "But we don't want to perform this task any more than you do," Giddon said. "It's our talk that propelled you to make this choice. We can't stand by and let you—"

  Katsa spoke deliberately. "If he knows you disobeyed him, he'll imprison you or kill you. He can't hurt me the way he can hurt you. I don't think his entire guard could capture me. And if they did, at least I don't have a holding that depends on me, as you do, Giddon. I don't have a wife, as you do, Oll."

  Giddon's face was dark. He opened his mouth to speak, but Katsa cut through his words. "You two are no use if you're in prison. Raffin needs you. Wherever I may be, I will need you."

  Giddon tried to speak. "I won't—"

  She would make him see this. She would cut through his obtuseness and make him see this. She slammed her hand on the desk so hard that papers cascaded onto the floor. "I'll kill the king," she said. "I'll kill the king, unless you both agree not to support me. This is my rebellion, and mine alone, and if you don't agree, I swear to you on my Grace I will murder the king."

  She didn't know if she would do it. But she knew she seemed wild enough for them to believe she would. She turned to Oll. "Say you agree."

  Oll cleared his throat. "It will be as you say, My Lady."

  She faced Giddon. "Giddon?"

  "I don't like it," he said.

  "Giddon—"

  "It will be as you say," he said, his eyes on the floor and his face red and gloomy.

  Katsa turned to Ellis. "Lord Ellis, if Randa learns that Captain Oll or Lord Giddon agreed to this willingly, I'll know that you spoke. I'll kill you. I'll kill your daughters. Do you understand?"

  "I understand, My Lady," Ellis said. "And again, I thank you."

  Something caught in her throat at this second thanks, when she'd threatened him so brutally. When you're a monster, she thought, you are thanked and praised for not behaving like a monster. She would like to restrain from cruelty and receive no admiration for it.

  "And now in this room, with only ourselves present," she said, "we'll work out the details of what we'll claim happened here today."

  THEY ATE DINNER in Giddon's dining room, in Giddon's castle, just as they had the night before. Giddon had given her permission to cut his neck with her knife, and Oll had allowed her to bruise his cheekbone. She would have done it without their permission, for she knew Randa would expect evidence of a scuffle. But Oll and Giddon had seen the wisdom of it; or perhaps they'd guessed she would do it whether or not they agreed. They'd stood still, and bravely. She hadn't enjoyed the task, but she'd caused them as little pain as her skill allowed.

  There was not much conversation at dinner. Katsa broke bread, chewed, and swallowed. She stared at the fork and knife in her hands. She stared at her silver goblet.

  "The Estillan lord," she said. The men's eyes jumped up from their plates. "The lord who took more lumber from Randa than he should h
ave. You remember him?"

  They nodded.

  "I didn't hurt him," she said. "That is, I knocked him unconscious. But I didn't injure him." She put her knife and fork down, and looked from Giddon to Oll. "I couldn't. He more than paid for his crime in gold. I couldn't hurt him."

  They watched her for a moment. Giddon's eyes dropped to his plate. Oll cleared his throat. "Perhaps the Council work has put us in touch with our better natures," he said.

  Katsa picked up her knife and fork, cut into her mutton, and thought about that. She knew her nature. She would recognize it if she came face-to-face with it. It would be a blue-eyed, green-eyed monster, wolflike and snarling. A vicious beast that struck out at friends in uncontrollable anger, a killer that offered itself as the vessel of the king's fury.

  But then, it was a strange monster, for beneath its exterior it was frightened and sickened by its own violence. It chastised itself for its savagery. And sometimes it had no heart for violence and rebelled against it utterly.

  A monster that refused, sometimes, to behave like a monster. When a monster stopped behaving like a monster, did it stop being a monster? Did it become something else?

  Perhaps she wouldn't recognize her own nature after all.

  There were too many questions, and too few answers, at this dinner table in Giddon's castle. She would like to be traveling with Raffin, or Po, rather than Oll and Giddon; they would have answers, of one kind or another.

  She must guard against using her Grace in anger. This was where her nature's struggle lay.

  ***

  AFTER DINNER, she went to Giddon's archery range, hoping the thunk of arrows into a target would calm her mind. There, he found her.

  She had wanted to be by herself. But when Giddon stepped out of the shadows, tall and quiet, she wished they were in a great hall with hundreds of people. A party even, she in a dress and horrible shoes. A dance. Any place other than alone with Giddon, where no one would stumble upon them and no one would interrupt.