“That is not your concern, Majesty.” If Lylin had felt any chagrin earlier, it was gone now. “I have been faithful to you, and to your people, and to Belleger. I am also faithful to the choices of my people. Where my encounter with Prince Jaspid is concerned, there was no conflict between my commitments.”

“That is an answer,” retorted Queen Estie, “not an explanation. I crave understanding.”

“It is not mine to give,” said Lylin without hesitation. A moment later, however, she added, “But I see your dilemma. In my own way, I share it. I must ask you to trust me.

“Your best course, Queen, is to tell me what you know. I have been away a long time. I have my own decisions to make, and what I have learned is too scant to guide me. To have come so far, you must have left the Open Hand before Master Ungabwey attempted the Realm’s Edge. What else can you impart? Has the war begun? Is there fighting in the Bay of Lights?”

Estie did not know how to respond. Her impatience was like flame: it threatened to set her on fire. She had been sitting in her carriage too long with nothing to think about except what she did not have. But she had spent enough time with Lylin to know that her frustration would have no effect. The devotee of Spirit would shed it the way her robe shed water and blood.

Did Lylin want news? She must have already talked to someone. How else could she know about Set Ungabwey’s purpose?

When Queen Estie did not answer, Lylin asked a different question. “Or tell me of your journey. Has it been uneventful? Has anything happened that troubles you?”

Abruptly, the woman inquired, “What path has Magister Facile chosen? If she remains with Belleger’s King, her Decimate will be precious.”

That query stung Estie. It reopened her grief. The devotee and the Magister had seemed to be friends. Certainly, they had been familiar with each other. And Lylin was still a human woman despite the severity of her skills and devotions. Surely she had a right to know—

Instead of answering, Queen Estie turned to the monk.

“Will you advise me, Father?” The tightness in her throat betrayed her vexation. “She has done many things for me, but her other deeds baffle me. What should I tell her?”

“Advise you, Queen?” asked the old man, musing. “You do not need any counsel I can offer. The Cult of the Many does not judge. We are not wise enough. For that reason, it often appears that we do not choose.

“But we do choose. We would serve no purpose otherwise. An honest question deserves an honest answer. I will say this. We of the Cult serve in ways unlike those of the most holy devotees. Our choices do not resemble theirs. When I look at any devotee, however, I see fidelity.”