Hwilli kissed him as eagerly, as passionately as she always did, yet as he walked away, he found himself wondering if Gerontos was truly unfit to fight, or if she merely preferred having him stay in the fortress. Don’t be a fool! he told himself. You’ve not seen one thing to make you jealous, not one! Besides, he asked himself, what if I die in battle one fine day? He decided that he’d rather have Gerontos take Hwilli than any other man and put the matter out of his mind.

hwilli hated seeing Rhodorix ride out on patrol, simply because she was terrified that he’d be killed—not an unreasonable fear, given the times. Since she had learned the basic principles of dweomer fast and easily, Master Jantalaber had begun teaching her how to scry, a skill she found elusive. The master would place a pair of objects on a table in the chamber next to hers. Since she knew what the table looked like, she could first imagine it and then try to see what lay upon it, but the image of the table in her mind stayed stubbornly empty, a memory only.

When, however, she tried using Rhodorix as the subject of her exercises in the craft, she at last had some success. Now and then she caught a glimpse of him, riding on a snowy road or giving his horse a nosebag of grain. The glimpses were short and generally murky, but at least she knew that he was still alive.

“This is extremely interesting,” Jantalaber said. “Your people scry more easily when some feeling lies behind the attempt. It’s just the opposite with us.”

“Well,” Hwilli said, “it’s true for me, at least. I don’t know if it would apply to everyone.”

Jantalaber laughed and nodded. “Right you are,” he said. “I was rushing toward a conclusion that might not exist. However, let’s abandon the table exercise. From now on, try to see your horsemaster or someone else you know, Nalla, perhaps.”

“Or my mother?”

Jantalaber’s cat-slit eyes went wide with surprise. “Is she still—” he caught himself. “Is she still with us?”

“No, she was sent to Rinbaladelan with the rest of the cattle.”

Jantalaber winced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But she’ll be safer there than anywhere else in the princedoms.”

“That’s true. My apologies, Master.” Hwilli could hear her voice begin to clog with tears. She coughed, sniffled, and managed to clear it. “I just worry so.”

“Alas, that’s appropriate enough.” He shook his head and sighed. “But, yes, by all means see if you can see your mother.”

It took Hwilli several days of trying, in short bursts of work, but at length she did catch glimpses of Gertha. Dressed in clean blue linen, she sat in a cushioned chair by a window. She was pale and thin, far too thin. No doubt the long walk south had exhausted her. She held a bowl of what seemed to be dried fruit. As Hwilli watched, she took a piece out and began to eat carefully on the side of her mouth that still had teeth. Hwilli caught a glimpse of a painted wall behind her. Shame made her wince and lose the vision; she’d misjudged the People down in the south badly, apparently, when she’d thought they would treat refugees like cattle.