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 have. 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.

“You’re shooting arrows at a target in the dark,” Giddon said.

She lowered her bow. She supposed this was one of his criticisms. “Yes,” she said, for she could think of no other response.

“Are you as good a shot in the dark as you are in the light?”

“Yes,” she said, and he smiled, which made her nervous. If he was going to be pleasant, then she feared where this was heading; she would much prefer him to be arrogant and critical, and unpleasant, if they must be alone together.