Estie’s tone sharpened. “Did Oblique send him?”

“He did not say so.”

She wanted to groan. She could not imagine anything that would blunt the teeth of her dilemma. Nevertheless she replied, “Invite him in.” Her voice seemed to come from a distant room. “Let him explain himself.”

The Commander gave her a hard look. As if what he saw satisfied him, he nodded. Rising to his feet, he addressed the man outside.

“We do not know you, sir, but you are welcome here. Please enter. Share our meal if you have not eaten. And tell us your name. Queen Estie will hear you.”

Cautiously, the man came in. He did not presume to sit. Clearing his throat, he offered, “Queen.” Awkwardly, he bowed. “Commander.” He bowed again. “I am Apprentice Travail.”

Estie needed a moment to recognize the name. Then she had it: Apprentice Travail, Magister Facile’s lover before she had come to Belleger. He had been her only link to the Repository while she had aged and he had remained young. Until he had been poisoned—

That blow had broken the old sorceress. The prospect of never seeing him alive again had impelled her to abandon Belleger when King Bifalt needed her most. But Travail had survived. A different kind of blow had killed her.

Caught by what she knew about him, Queen Estie roused herself to look at the Apprentice more closely.

He wore a plain brown robe like the garb of the monks, but he did not resemble them in other ways. The physicians and shamans may have spared him the full weight of his years, but they had not shielded him from the costs of prolonged strain: the disciplined, desperate, endless effort to hear only one voice when thousands or tens of thousands clamored for his attention. While Magister Facile lived, his dedication must have kept him sane. But it had also worn galls as deep as cuts across his forehead, around his eyes, down both sides of his mouth. Now he looked like a man who had just left his sickbed. He made no attempt to conceal his trembling.

Estie saw a piercing woe in his soft eyes. But she also saw courage and kindness as well, the kind of love that would have transformed her if her husband had been capable of it.

Compelled by the debt she owed Magister Facile, Queen Estie rose from her chair. “Apprentice.” She felt too weak to answer his bow. “Please be seated. We have food and water. Or wine.” By increments, she began to remember who she was. “I grieve for your loss. I knew Magister Facile. On one occasion, she saved my life. At other times, she was my friend.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” murmured Travail. “You are gracious. But you have your own dismay to consider. I did not come to impose mine.”

“Then sit, please,” replied Estie. “Hear me a moment longer. Then I will hear you.”