They almost always practiced in front of an audience. A scattering of soldiers, or underlords. Oll, whenever he could, for the fights gave him so much pleasure. Giddon, though he always seemed to grow grumpy as he watched and never stayed long. Even Helda came on occasion, the only woman who did, and sat with wide eyes that grew wider the longer she sat.

Randa did not come, which was pleasant. Katsa was glad of his tendency to keep her at arm’s length.

They ate together most days, after practicing. In her dining room, alone, or in Raffin’s workrooms with Raffin and Bann. Sometimes at a table Raffin had brought into Tealiff’s room. The grandfather was still very ill, but company seemed to cheer and strengthen him.

When they sat together talking, sometimes the silver and gold of Po’s eyes caught her off guard. She could not become used to his eyes; they muddled her. But she met them when he looked at her, and she forced herself to breathe and talk and not become overwhelmed. They were eyes, they were only his eyes, and she wasn’t a coward. And besides, she didn’t want to behave toward him as the entire court behaved toward her, avoiding her eyes, awkwardly, coldly. She didn’t want to do that to a friend.

He was a friend; and in the final few weeks of summer, for the first time in her life, Randa’s court became a place of contentment for Katsa. A place of good hard work and of friends. Oll’s spies moved steadily, learning what they could from their travels to Nander and Estill. The kingdoms, amazingly, were at peace. The heat and the closeness of the air seemed to bring a lull to Randa’s cruelty as well, or perhaps he was merely distracted by the flood of foods and wares that always washed into the city from every trade route at that time of year. Whatever the reason, Randa did not summon Katsa to perform any of his nasty errands. Katsa found herself daring to relax into summer’s end.

She never ran out of questions for Po.

“Where’d you get your name?” she asked him one day as they sat in the grandfather’s room, talking quietly so as not to wake him.

Po wound a cloth wrapped with ice around his shoulder. “Which one? I’ve got lots to choose from.”

Katsa reached across the table to help him tie the cloth tight. “Po. Does everyone call you that?”

“My brothers gave me that name when I was little. It’s a kind of tree in Lienid, the po tree. In autumn its leaves turn silver and gold. Inevitable nickname, I guess.”

Katsa broke a piece of bread. She wondered if the name had been given fondly, or if it had been an attempt by Po’s brothers to isolate him—to remind him always that he was a Graceling. She watched him pile his plate high with bread, meat, fruit, and cheese and smiled as the food began to disappear almost as fast as he’d piled it up. Katsa could eat a lot, but Po was something else altogether.