The Keeper paused, two swishing steps toward the gantry. ‘I cannot speak for her thoughts, Gods rest her, but her suicide would suggest that she was not.’

Tarfel rocked in his seat, as if with a roll of muscular spasm. ‘My mother died in childbirth—’

‘Your mother died three summers after your birth, in a fall from her tower window. Surely you have some memory of her?’ Tarfel stared back, mute, blank. ‘I understand that this information was suppressed – her servants went to the tomb alongside her – but you must have heard rumours since? Mine were not the only spies in your father’s court.’ The Keeper shuffled on toward the gantry, leaving the prince stricken on the cushions, his eyes filling with tears.

‘You see?’ Chel heard Loveless mutter to Foss. ‘It was about sex. It’s always about sex.’ She turned to leave, and Foss went with her.

On the gantry, at the balustrade, stood an odd device, a long, wide tube of brass or burnished metal on a multi-legged stand, pointing out over the plateau toward the mountain pass. Kosh was on it immediately, inspecting, scrutinising. Matil was beside her, murmuring something of rock crystals and convex ground glass, before the Keeper swept her away with a fierce glance. She barked at the flunky beside the device, who responded with stammering unease.

‘Your brother’s army has refused our request to depart,’ the Keeper announced. Matil looked pained at the news. ‘They are, once again, demanding you, highness. Have you a wish to go to them?’

Tarfel stood, alone, in the archway, eyes red and stung with tears, hand still sticky with fruit juice. He shook his head.

The Keeper nodded, then barked another command at the flunkies. Matil took a step toward her mother, then stopped and turned away, shame-faced. Above them, signalling flags rolled from the tower, great splashes of coloured silk, bold and patterned. Red had primacy once more. Beyond the balustrade, over the lower buildings of the city, the walls, the gorge, the camp-stuffed plateau, Chel could make out the hazy tips of the fortress towers, their own signal flags bare specks against the sun-washed stone.

Chel sidled close to the prince, mindful of his fragility.

‘Don’t worry, Tarf,’ he said, ‘she might be old but she has no way of knowing—’

‘I remember her, Vedren.’ He was still holding the plum stone, turning it over and over in his palm. ‘I remember … love. Kindness. Sadness. A presence, golden and wonderful. Then a terrible absence. I remember it, but until now I had no measure, no means. I remember her.’ He looked up, meeting Chel’s gaze with fearful melancholy, a raw longing that made Chel’s soul ache. ‘What do I do? What can I do?’ He swallowed. ‘Does my brother know? Why did he never tell me? Am I so little a part of my family?’