He smiled. “I thought I’d find you reading.”

“I fell asleep.” Irritation flashed, briefly felt, quickly swaddled and stilled.

“I beg your pardon. The negotiations went longer than I expected. Now I must beg your pardon again, for I’m expected at the feast. The king has a short temper, and it’s best if when he’s drinking there’s someone close by who can, as they say, temper his outbursts. If you’re hungry, you can take a meal in a private chamber.”

“Nay,” the voice said, “I’ll come with you.”

Did lust glint in his gaze? Desire, surely; he could not disguise that, although he frowned reticently enough. “If you wish for other clothing, something more suitable, I can see that it is provided.”

The touch of silk pooled along her skin like the caress of a hand. Memory flashed, sharp and bitter: his fingers in her hair.

“No,” she blurted out although another word rose like bile in her throat: Yes. “I’ll stay as I am.” The quiver settled comfortably against her back as she stood to face him. These paltry things that were hers—tunic and leggings, quiver and bow, the gold torque and lapis lazuli ring. She had to cling to them, although she didn’t know why. He nodded thoughtfully, intrigued by something—her paltry belongings, or her stumbling words. He wore his presbyter’s robes again, a fall of pale silk, not a stark white but gently shaded with the tone of ivory, like the moon’s gleam.

“You’re beautiful,” she said, the words just popping out. But it was true, after all. Wasn’t it? Some things were true whether you wanted them to be or not.

He flushed, turning aside so that she could see only his profile. “Liath,” he said, faltering, a man in the grip of strong emotion. What he wanted to say next would not come out. He was ashamed or bashful, startled or modest; impossible to tell. Finally he shook his head as if to shake it off. “The king waits. I must go.” He extended a hand to her, thought better of it, and pulled it back as a fist to his body.

They went, walking side by side but an arm’s length apart.

The king’s feasting hall was twice the size of any she’d seen before. It was built all of stone, and in the ancient Dariyan style, or perhaps it was an ancient hall still in good enough condition to be used for state occasions. Tapestries and curtains covered the walls, making it gold and red, all ablaze, the colors of fire.

She remembered fire. None burned here. Except for the lamps, she had not seen flame at all, not a single fire or hearth. But of course it was warmer in Aosta, all year round. Perhaps they didn’t need so many fires. It still seemed strange.

The king sat at the high table, up on a dais, with his best companions surrounding him and Hugh at his right hand. John Ironhead, king of Aosta, had the loudest laugh, and the bluntest voice, and the coarsest eyes, of any man there. He wore an iron crown, perhaps in mockery of his position, knowing as everyone did how he’d come by it—with the sword, not through blood right. Perhaps he wore it to remind people of his power. He had captured Queen Adelheid’s treasure, and the one who held the royal treasure had enough gold to do as he wished.

“He’d have preferred to capture Queen Adelheid’s other treasure,” said the man Liath sat beside at table. He snickered. “But he couldn’t lay his hands on her. That’s why he wears the iron crown. He doesn’t possess the royal crowns or seals. She got away with them.”

“How can he rule here, if he possesses none of the seals of regnancy?” asked Liath. Hugh sat at her left, and this Aostan duke to her right.

The Aostan duke snorted. “He has two thousand Arethousan and Nakrian mercenaries in the city, and fifty noble children as hostages.” He gestured toward a lower table where children of varying ages sat in anxious silence as they ate the food brought to them. One among them, a light-haired girl no more than thirteen, was brought forward to sit at Ironhead’s left hand. The king plied her with wine, fondling her shoulder, and she had a glazed look on her face as she slid helplessly toward hysteria. She was in his power, and she knew it, and he, knowing it as well, savored it.

Liath looked away quickly, only to find Hugh watching her. He offered her wine from his cup. She shook her head numbly and turned back to her other companion.

“The Holy Mother crowned Ironhead, confirmed him as king,” added the Aostan duke. “How can we go against her word?”

“Isn’t the Holy Mother dying?”

“So she is, may God have mercy upon her. The illness came on suddenly. Some have whispered she’s being poisoned.”