He shrugged. “Wichman will complain, as he has always done, but he will not challenge your right to the ducal seat or mine to place you there. As for the other two—in truth, Theo, what does it matter what they say?”

“They will run to Conrad for his support. They’ve threatened to before.”

“Let them. How can those two help Conrad? Can you imagine him suffering their bickering and whining?”

“If he sees advantage in it, yes.”

“A prince without a retinue is no prince,” he countered. “Sophie and Imma bring him nothing.”

“Except a claim—an excuse—to restore them to the place you have usurped from them. An excuse to march his army into Wendar.”

“Is Conrad so ambitious?”

“Yes. He married Tallia. She has a claim to Wendar as well as to Varre. A claim as strong as yours, now that I think on it. Stronger, many would say.”

“I can fill up an army with weak-minded fools and whining cowards, but that doesn’t mean I can win a battle with them. Let Sophie and Imma run to Conrad if they wish. He is welcome to them. I suppose Wichman is too closely related for the church to approve of a marriage between you and him.”

“Wichman! Spare me that! He’s a beast.”

He was taken aback by her anger, which flooded forth so unexpectedly. “Nay, I meant it only as a jest—”

“I know. But you have spoken a truth despite yourself. The wars have killed all our men, and the rest are married.”

“It’s true the matter of a husband is a difficult one, but there must be a man sufficient to your needs and of suitable birth who can be found.”

“A faint promise,” she observed. “More whisper than shout.”

He shrugged. “A realistic one. Do you accept, Theophanu?”

She fell silent, lips closed, eyes cast down, that veil of secrecy smoothing her features once again. Behind the altar, each set on a tripod, three lamps burned steadily: one in the guise of a lion with flame flaring from its eyes and mane, one in the form of an eagle with fire snapping out of holes opening along the sweep of its wings, and the third in the shape of a dragon with head flung back and fire breathing from its jaws.

“Saony,” she said, tasting the word, testing its flavor. “Yes. I will be duchess of Saony. That, at least, is something.”

2

LIATH knew Sanglant would pray until dawn. He had told her he meant to do so. Sleep eluded her. She did not wish to return to the distant tent out where the woods would creak and rattle all night. Not even the company of Eagles tempted her. This night, Sanglant wanted to be alone as he prayed for his father’s soul, and she did not want to stray far from him.

She stuffed two unlit candles into her sleeve as she left in procession with the rest of the mob, whose noise was for once muted by the solemnity of the occasion. Long ago she had learned how to fade into the background so others did not notice her. She slid smoothly from one group of mourners to the next until she came around past the necessarium and found a solitary path that led back into Quedlinhame’s compound. She remembered the ground plan of the institution perfectly, of course. It was easy to find a shadowed corner and wait there for an hour or more as folk went to their beds and the readers settled to their night’s round of prayer in the Lady’s chapel. When she was sure she was alone, she lit one candle, which she would not have needed had there been even a slip of moon visible, and made her way to the library.