From the doorway, Estie saw a chamber only slightly larger than a cell in her father’s dungeon. It was certainly as austere as a cell. Apart from the old man sitting up in his bed, the only sign that the room had an occupant was a clean cassock and belt-rope hanging from a hook on one wall. The single stool looked lonely, an unwanted luxury. Glancing around in the light of the lamp over the bed, Estie was relieved to see another door at the back of the cell. It suggested that Third Father’s severity did not require him to live without a bathing room.

Contrary to his usual practice, the old monk raised his eyes to Estie’s face. As if he had forgotten her deafness, he spoke.

Quickly, Crayn gestured:

—He says, You have come, Queen. That is good. Will you enter? Will you sit?

Shaking off a flustered moment, Estie took the stool, moved it to the side of the bed, and seated herself. It was low: she had to look up to meet his gaze. That suited her. He would not be able to avoid her eyes without turning away. She did not want him to hide himself from her—and she did not mean to hide from him.

Fifth Daughter stood behind the Queen. Commander Crayn remained in the doorway.

The lamp above and behind the old man left shadows on his face. His cheeks looked hollowed out by age and illness. His eyes seemed sunken in their sockets. Yet he did not evade her concern. Taking her hand, he wrote:

—You did not come seeking my counsel, Queen. That, also, is good. I have none. You have gone beyond me.

She had no idea what he saw in her. Carefully, she replied, “I cannot say how deeply I value your life, Father. I came because I want to see you.” She paused to swallow. “And because I need to express my regret.”

He managed a frail shrug.

—You have no fault to regret. I tried to stop Tak Biondi. The cost is mine to bear.

Shaking her head, Estie replied, “Not that, Father. Of course, I am sorry that you were hurt. But what I regret is—” Even now, she found the truth difficult to confess. “I regret my ignorance. Magister Avail offered to teach me. I refused.

“I was afraid, Father. I feared the harm that I had already done.” She had seen Apprentice Travail’s ears bleeding. “I feared that the King—” No. She had to face this. “That my husband misunderstood my cry. And my deafness, Father. I took it as a kind of death. I was not brave enough to learn more.

“Your wound is the result. And Tak Biondi’s death. My ignorance killed him, Father. He might have told us more of Rile’s plans. That loss is my doing.

“I regret my cowardice, Father.”