CASSIA DRANK HER WINE slowly, letting the heady, spiced vintage warm her. She judged that she had half of
her drink left, to match the half of Lady Hadrian’s gathering still to come. More than one goblet would
appear excessive for someone in Cassia’s position.
A flagon of this in her own room before bed would serve her well. She ought to sleep while she
waited to hear Perita take her noisy leave. But during the past eight nights that Cassia had continued to
meet with Lio, she never could seem to find rest before she slipped out to the grounds. Nor after they
spoke, for that matter, if she got back to her rooms with any time to spare before dawn.
Lio’s revelations were well worth the lost sleep. The extraordinary details he shared about his
world were beyond Tenebrans’ wildest imaginings, because they were the opposite of everything
Tenebrans imagined about Hesperines.
Even so, this exhaustion setting in upon Cassia was cause for concern. She could not afford to be
less alert. She made a point to pay attention now.
Lady Hadrian’s loom clacked and whisked, and her tapestry took shape as she and the young
women she had gathered about her wove a conversation with their voices. They decorated here and
there with laughter at each other’s jests. Cassia watched for loose threads: evaded questions or bitter
gazes that came out only when the others weren’t looking.
Cassia’s function was to sit and be a grateful recipient of generosity and, fortunately, not to assist
in the construction of the masterpiece Lady Hadrian had been working on all year. It was the duty of
the free lords’ untarnished daughters to praise the design, make suggestions as to colors, or hand
threads to the lady. Confident in his purpose, Knight sat poised and quiet beside Cassia’s chair and
shed on Lady Hadrian’s rug. There was no one with whom Cassia would rather sit and be ignored.
She sipped her wine and listened.
“Oh, how I wish Aurelio would perform here!” Lady Biata moaned.
“Aurelio?” Lady Nivalis shook her head. “He would never come to Tenebra. He only performs for
the most sophisticated courts in Cordium.”
“Why should only vain, greedy princes get to hear his songs?” Lady Biata pouted. “Surely we
fearless Tenebrans are worthier of the great Aurelio. If the king invited him...”
Lady Dalia sighed. “Nay, when you are the greatest living minstrel, you may refuse whomever you
choose.”
“They say his hair is as golden as his voice, and his face as beautiful as his songs.” Lady Biata
fanned herself with one hand, her third goblet of wine in the other.
“No, no, he is Cordian,” Lady Dalia protested with a smile. “I am sure he has raven-black hair,
burnished olive skin, and eyes so dark you could lose your way in them.”
“He’s probably ugly,” Lady Nivalis declared, “and all the tales about his divine music a lot of
Cordian exaggeration.”
Lady Dalia’s eyes sparkled. “Well, if he is as homely as a fencepost, no one gives it a thought. Not
when his fingers are so nimble.” She cleared her throat. “On the lute strings.”
There came a titter of laughter and a few anxious glances at Lady Hadrian to see if she noticed or
disapproved of the suggestive remarks.
Their hostess wove serenely on. “No one shall ever convince me a musician is more agile than a
warrior. Only a man who is skilled with his sword can impress me.”
Lady Hadrian’s entourage let out a tide of delighted laughter, then gossiped thoroughly about the
minstrel’s exploits—musical ones, of course—and how they compared to those of beloved Tenebran
tournament champions. The young women lauded the competitors loyal to Lord Hadrian’s faction,
while Lord Titus’s supporters became targets for veiled insults regarding their manhood, or lack
thereof. Only Lord Flavian was never mentioned, for no one could deny Lord Titus’s son was the
paragon of young Tenebran manhood, but nor could they exalt him in the Hadrian residence.
The ladies must do their part to carry on the oldest, bitterest feud in the history of Tenebran noble
families, now that the lords could no longer perpetuate it by the sword. The king had succeeded in
forcing the men off the battlefield, but he had yet to conquer the women’s weaving rooms.
Cassia had observed time and again that Lady Hadrian caught the thread of every innuendo in her
reach, whether about the size of a minstrel’s flute or the size of a rival free lord’s army. Why did she
spend so much time on these weavers who were still learning to keep up with her? Lady Hadrian’s
position was secure; she could get what she wanted without coddling the daughters of her husband’s
supporters. She was not prone to vanity and did not require the flattery of younger women to know her
own worth.
A tangle in the conversation made the laughter fade. All the good humor was gone from Lady
Dalia’s gaze. “Surely not, Bee. Please say it is only a rumor.”
Now the focus of everyone’s attention, Lady Biata drew herself up like a bird ready to preen.
“Well, it is a rumor, but is it not one that should concern us? If frost fever has begun to afflict outlying
villages in the east, then how long before it reaches us here?”
“It should indeed concern us. Rumors are often the only warning we get before the fever strikes.”
Lady Nivalis’s hands knotted around the stem of her goblet. “We would have done well to heed them
last time.”
“We shall be better prepared if it ever happens again.” Lady Dalia put a hand on Lady Nivalis’s
arm. “But I’m sure the illness will stay far away from us. No one need worry but the outlaws and
beastmen who run wild in the east.”
Lady Biata nodded. “Perhaps it is a blessing to rid us of the unholy.”
“Or just a lot of heartless gossip.” Lady Nivalis looked away.
How many younger siblings had she had? Three, Cassia recalled, all under the age of ten. Until the
last outbreak of the fever.
Lady Hadrian observed this exchange, lips pursed, her fingers never wavering in their guidance of
the weft. “Let us either lay this terrible rumor to rest or establish its credence. If we can do neither,
let us speak no more of such a painful subject.” Her head turned slightly, and Cassia realized their
hostess’s gaze was upon her. “Lady Cassia, I know you can assist us in this. Perhaps the mages of
Kyria have word from their sisters in remote areas. Have they given any indication they fear an
epidemic may be encroaching on us?”
“They have said nothing about an outbreak of frost fever, my lady,” Cassia lied.
“Perhaps they would not speak of it, to avoid creating panic,” Lady Biata said to Lady Hadrian.
“Naturally the mages would seek to protect us,” Lady Hadrian soothed. “They would not speak of
it hastily, but they would act well ahead of time to be prepared for such a threat. Lady Cassia, have
the temple mages harvested a winter crop of rimelace? Or made medicine from any stores they might
have from previous years?”
No untruth required this time. “No, my lady.”
“There now.” Lady Hadrian’s smile returned, creasing its customary paths around her lips and
eyes. “Lady Cassia devotes her time to the goddess in the mages’ gardens nearly every day. She
would know if anything was amiss. Thank you, my dear.”
“I am happy to reassure you.”
“Oh, your wine grows cool,” Lady Hadrian surmised, turning her smile on one of her
handmaidens. “Minica, such good news warrants a full glass.”
Cassia spent the rest of the afternoon draining her goblet and hoping she would be awake enough
to go out again that night. She was sure she missed a few implications that would have been as useful
to her as her knowledge of the seamstress’s son. Cassia really must not become careless.
Lio presented a great inconvenience, robbing her of sleep and distracting her thoughts. But the
words he gave her each night were worth even more than those spoken to the rhythm of the loom.