Out in the corridor, the first rush of shock had hit Estie physically. The second was emotional. Sitting in her chair, she filled a goblet with wine and drank it without noticing that her hands shook. She was not aware of herself. Her mind was an empty sheet of parchment marked only by the curse of her inheritance.

Her talent was Magister Avail’s. Magister Oblique had sent him to tell her so. His deafness was the cost of his sorcery. He could speak to anyone anywhere, but he could not hear a person standing right in front of him.

She wanted to wail. At one time, she had wished for the ability to cast her voice into distant minds. Now she recognized the folly of that desire.

If she chose her gift, she would never hear Bifalt’s voice again. If she refused it, she would have nothing to offer anyone.

Time may have passed. She was vaguely surprised to find Commander Crayn kneeling beside her chair. “Majesty,” he said softly. “Estie. I understand as well as I can. It is not enough. Help me understand better.”

Estie blinked. Her gaze wandered to her hands. Without realizing it, she had emptied her goblet. She did not know what she would say until she heard herself.

“I do not understand. My gift is a curse.” It was worse than her worst fears. “That I understand. But how will deafness cut me off from myself?”

She meant, Can you help me?

Crayn had vowed to protect her. Abruptly, he rose to his feet and stood over her as if he were on guard. She expected him to be kind. Instead, he was stern.

“You are not Magister Avail. He is not Amika’s Queen. You do not know who and what he was before he became a sorcerer. His power hurts him deeply. I cannot doubt that. If you accept it, yours will hurt you as well. But will your pain be like his? I do not think so. You are not him. You will not be cut off from yourself unless you allow it.”

Estie did not believe him. But perhaps she did not need to believe. Perhaps it sufficed that he did.

Numb and empty, she sat where she was for a long time. The first time that Crayn went to answer the door, he returned with a fresh meal and a flask of water. The second time, he closed the door and turned to face her.

“Majesty,” he said carefully, “you have a visitor.”

She did not know how to respond. Eventually, she managed to ask, “Who?”

“I do not know him. A young man—well, younger than I am. His tale is written on his face. It is not a happy one. He did not give his name.”

She tried to muster a little attention. “Did you ask him what he wants?”

Crayn hesitated, then said, “He hopes that he can ease you.”