Fulmo set his big pack by the main door. The wardens chose beds in an array that surrounded the prince. Elen set her pack on an empty bed in the back, then went into the washroom. First, she filled a big water kettle and set it on the hearth to heat. As she was filling the two wash basins with cold water, Kem came in and began washing. In the other room, the haunt was engaging the wardens and Luviara in a discussion, or perhaps Gesavura’alalin was keeping them busy so she could have a moment alone with Kem. Surely that was wishful thinking on her part.

“Kem,” she began in a soft voice, surprised at how nervous she was to speak to a child she knew so well and had loved for all his life.

He kept his back turned, shoulders tight, jaw tense, and finished washing his hands. Just when she thought he was going to stalk out without speaking to her, he got the belligerent tilt to his chin that always presaged him starting a fight with his mother.

He turned on her, hands clenched. “You and Mama said my father was dead.”

She swallowed, then answered, “Dead to us.”

“Is that how you excuse lying to me my whole life?” When his voice dropped into a flat whisper, it meant he was really angry. “When were you going to tell me? Or were you ever going to tell me?”

She looked him in the eye. “Your mother couldn’t talk about it. She got the shakes even to think about it, or about him. So I followed her lead.”

“What about after she died? What about then?” The pitch of his tone heightened. His cheeks flushed as he trembled in the grip of rage, he who had trained himself to control his reactions because his mother had never been able to control her own.

What could Elen even say?

“I was wrong. I know that. I got in the habit of not saying anything, all those years, and it had been so long, and I thought I would think of a better way later.”

He tugged at his mother’s ribbon, which he still wore, then pinched his lips together and lifted his chin in challenge. “Is there anything else you should have told me and didn’t?”

She hesitated, rubbing her arm. He saw her hesitation. He knew her too well, and he was a smart, observant boy.

“Fuck you.”

He stalked out of the washroom, leaving her with the basins of cold water and a lamp whose wick had started to gutter. She poured more oil into the lamp to steady the flame, but that was all she could manage. Instead, she sat in the corner, cleaning her boots, the most calming task she knew. The others came in, washed, and left without speaking to her.

Last came Luviara, who said, “Deputy Courier, are you coming to the dining hall?”