Imogen’s pulse raced as it always did now when Cededa offered to escort her through Tineroth, describing the city as it had once been—a thriving metropolis bursting with life and noise. Raised on Niamh’s colorful tales of her time in Berberi, she easily imagined similar scenes in ancient Tineroth. “Oh yes, please. I want to see the entire city before I leave.” She paused, caught by his first remark. “One of your wives? How many did you have?”

The idea didn’t surprise her so much as intrigue her. Niamh might have kept Imogen isolated from the wide world, but she didn’t keep her ignorant. While the kings of Berberi and Castagher married only one woman, there were other monarchs who married several, each occupying a position in the spousal hierarchy.

Cededa’s mouth, with its natural sneer, quirked into a brief smile. Imogen instinctively pulled away when he reached for her hand. He waited, palm turned up, until she entwined her fingers with his. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you. It’s been a long time since I’ve been a husband to anyone, and stone recalls better than I do the names of those I took to wife.”

He led her to the remains of a nave and a lone column, its top third broken off, but still standing. Cededa scrubbed away the layer of lichen from part of its surface to reveal symbols carved into the stone. Imogen recognized the similarity between the writing here and that on the bridge beneath the statues. Fascinating, and for her, unreadable.

Her companion traced one line of script with a fingertip. “A monk was assigned to record the names of the women I married. This is the architect’s daughter. All I remember of Elsida was fine skin and a crooked-tooth smile. She was my thirty-seventh wife, I think.” He shrugged at Imogen’s raised eyebrows. “I’ve lived a long time and married for many reasons; none for affection.” His gaze drifted, as if he looked inward at a memory long buried. “I remember Elsida’s father better. A man of vision who saw buildings as living beings. I think he left a small part of his soul in every temple and house he designed or built.”

Imogen surveyed the temple’s shattered shell and hugged herself. If the gods had any pity, they set free whatever lingering soul thread the architect had woven into his creation when it was destroyed. She hugged herself, chilled even in the city’s humid warmth. “What are the other names?” she asked.

Cededa’s gaze turned outward once more. He leaned closer and read the names aloud, pausing sometimes with furrowed brow as if trying to recall a long-dead wife’s face. His hand rested flat atop one name. “Helena. The most beautiful woman ever born. She bore me seven children.” He read more names, and Imogen counted sixty-two wives before he paused at the last name. She took a wary step back as his demeanor transformed, reminding her of their first encounter, when he threatened to cut her throat with his glaive.