"To what purpose?" He turned as Ambrose set a covered pitcher of heated water down on the table beside the washbasin. Sanglant thanked the man. He was attentive to his servants. He knew their names and their histories and their skills and, it sometimes seemed, their sins. Ambrose poured. Sanglant washed his hands and face and accepted a cloth to dry himself. "Best march to Varre early in the season, before they expect me."

"If your aunt has spoken in their favor, might she not already have sent word of your intentions to them?"

"She may have. Hesitation still does not serve me well. Conrad and Sabella gain the longer I wait."

"Do they want Wendar, or only Varre?"

"Does it matter?" His expression dismayed her. He was Henry's son. She must not forget that. Henry had ruled Wendar and Varre as had his father and grandfather before him. His heir must not lose what Henry had held so dear.

"What if there is a battle?" she asked.

He shook his head as Robert and Theodulf brought his under-tunic, leggings, and fine wool outer tunic. The dazzling blue seemed to shine in the dim room, which was lightened only by one burning lamp and the misty gray light, seen through the single open window, that heralded the coming day.

"Conrad does not want to fight me. His position remains strong as duke of Wayland. It is only Sabella who goads him on, if I am any judge of the matter. She eats at her bitterness. That is all that sustains her."

"Fierce words. Are you sure?"

He lifted both hands. "I cannot answer so many questions for which there is no good answer. You know that. Do what you must, and catch up to me quickly." He caught her shoulders, kissed her, and released her. "Go, before I change my mind. I have not forgotten about the galla we met upon the road. I also have in mind these stories of Lost Ones attacking helpless folk out in isolated villages and farmsteads."

"Do not forget bandits," she said, piqued by his strange mood. Anyway, she was scared, not for herself but for him. Yet this one thing she could not bring herself to say to him: Do not die, my love. Only do not die, and I will be content.

"Bandits are the least of it. Yet you are armed and shielded by a power I cannot match. Do not fear to use it, if you must." He touched her on the arm, frowned at her, brushed a lock of black hair out of his eyes, and let her go. She blinked back tears, picked up her saddlebags, sword belt, and quiver, and left him.

Sickness dwelt in the pit of her stomach, a fear that made her heavy and weary and nauseated. This tangle had grown into an

impossible maze.