The old sorceress muttered a curse under her breath. “For the obvious reason. He holds them in contempt. If they are frightened, they will scatter in all directions. Or they will follow anyone—or any priest—who offers to lead them. Like sheep.”

For her own sake, Estie had caused Bifalt too much pain. Her desire to defend him now took the form of anger.

“Then find another word, Magister. They cannot both be arrogant, the librarian and King Bifalt. If his people are sheep, the King is their shepherd. They do not serve him. He serves them. Magister Marrow serves only his books. At the same time, he expects service from people who cannot refuse him. He does not care who is harmed by his demands.”

In the obscurity, Magister Facile seemed to gather her outrage for a blistering retort. But then she caught herself—or the accuracy of Estie’s response caught her. Sagging back against the cushions, she sighed, “Ah, Travail. What would you say if you heard me? I am an old woman, sick with age and ire. Others are able to care for you. I am not. And the librarian does not. He thinks only of his enemy.”

Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, she turned her face to the wall.

In an instant, Estie regretted her anger. Yes, Facile had manipulated her when she went to confront her father; but Estie had pardoned her long ago. Hoping that the woman would hear her, she said softly, “Forgive me, Magister. I should not have spoken as I did. You have earned more respect. The King takes too much on himself. If that is not arrogance, it is a kind of pride.”

A kind that would not be satisfied until it killed him.

After a long pause, Third Father breathed, “There, Queen. That is one of your strengths. You have others.” His tone quavered with age, not with pain. If he had been hurt as badly as anyone—as badly as King Bifalt and Queen Estie—as badly as Magister Facile—he had made his peace. “If he lives, the King will learn to prize them all. Then he will surpass himself yet again.”

In the dusk of the unlit carriage, the monk resumed his meditative pose. So softly that Estie barely heard him, he murmured, “Thank you, Magister.”

For a long moment, the Queen sat like a woman with her mouth full of questions which she had suddenly forgotten. Something had passed between her companions that she did not understand. Was Third Father grateful that the sorceress had charged Bifalt with arrogance? Were they pleased by her instant defense of her husband? Or did they want her to recognize that she too was arrogant, both like and unlike her husband?