It was here, in this shadowed nave, that the answer lay. Beneath him lay the crypt where the counts of Lavas slumbered in death, although their souls had surely ascended to the Chamber of Light. Here in the aisle of the nave rested the last of the line of the elder Charles.

What had he been hiding?

Sorrow whoofed softly, and in answer Alain heard the skittering of mice near St. Lavrentius’ altar as they scattered into their hideyholes. Once he and Lackling had knelt in that chapel at this very same time of year; Lackling had wept when one trusting little creature had crept into his hand and let him stroke its soft coat. Now, all rustling and scratching ceased.

The door opened, and a man—face shadowed by the daylight behind him—entered alone.

“You are come,” the man said, more in sadness than in anger, yet there was anger as well, throttled by the stink of fear. The door closed behind him, and he halted. “Take it! Take it! It has rotted in my hands!”

“I pray you, Lord Geoffrey. Sit, if you will. I have not come here to take anything from you that is yours by right.”

Geoffrey choked down a sob of fury, but he did not move. “You have outwitted me at every turn! Was it nothing but a dumb show that you turned up here babbling and dancing? Did you mean to tempt me to do what I did, and thus discredit myself by making me seem a cruel and bitter man? By making me seem afraid of you?”

“Are you afraid?”

“I am always afraid!” he roared. The hounds barked, first Sorrow and then Rage, and he took a step back. “They still guard you, then, those beasts.”

“Sorrow and Rage are my faithful companions.”

“What do you want? Why have you come back?”

“I came because Chatelaine Dhuoda asked me to return to Lavas Holding with her. Before that, I lived quietly over the winter by Osna Sound, recovering from the injuries that plagued me and the wound in my heart.”

“Dhuoda is a traitor!”

“Is she?”

“No! No!” He began to pace along the entryway, falling out of sight behind a square pillar only to reappear at the wall, where he spun and strode back the other way. The walls trapped him. He could only turn, and turn again. “She told me straight out she meant to go. She is my kinswoman. She has the right to question me.”

He halted, facing the aisle. His face was pale and anguished, his hands clenched.

“Was Lavastine your father?” His voice scraped out the question. He bowed his head an instant, then raised it defiantly.

Rage turned to face him but did not otherwise move. Sorrow remained seated, snuffling at Terror’s stone hindquarters as if seeking a scent.

Alain rose as well. He kept one hand on Lavastine’s quiet hand, feeling the swell and hollow of knuckles and the intricate ridge of a petrified ring caught forever on the right forefinger. The gem, too, had gone to stone. He could not recall what color it had been.