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received strict religious instruction.
    Devera suppressed a small grimace. Faraday sounded a little too devout for her liking. Everyone at court genuinely feared the wrath of Artor, and most respected the Brother-Leader, but they generally only paid lip service to the Seneschal. Devotion to the Seneschal’s Way of the Plough was a trifle too peasantish for most court nobility—indeed, most Carlonites. Besides, many nobles resented the interference of the Seneschal in the political affairs of Achar. Faraday would have to drop the expressions of devoutness if she was to hold the interest of one of the better-looking courtiers. Devera assumed Earl Isend had brought Faraday to court and decked her out in such an exquisite dark-gold silk dress and fine pearls in order to find her a husband. Devera herself was betrothed to one of the younger sons of Baron Fulke and would be wedded within the month. She looked forward to the event with lustful impatience.
    Well, if Faraday was devout, then perhaps her father could arrange an audience with the Brother-Leader for her. Devera indicated the white-haired and stooped old man one place down from the king’s left hand. “Have you met the Brother-Leader yet, Faraday?”
    Faraday turned her gaze back towards the royal table and the leader of the Seneschal. He looked as noble as any other at the table with his well-groomed (and non-tonsured) hair, his gently waved and perfumed beard and rich clothes. He wore a massive emerald ring on his left hand, and wielded his napkin with as much grace as the king himself. He had a kindly, intelligent face, though he seemed preoccupied with some grave concern.
    “No.” Faraday hesitated a moment. “Does he come from the royal family itself, Devera?”
    Devera snorted behind her gravy-stained napkin. “Not he, Faraday. No, Brother-Leader Jayme comes from an undistinguished farming family somewhere in the depths of Arcness. Knowing that province, he probably has more than a passing knowledge of pigs, although he hides it well now. He was appointed chaplain to the royal household a few decades ago—that’s where he learned his manners. Jayme was…is…an ambitious man, and he learnt well at court. Well enough, I suppose, to be appointed Brother-Leader.”
    Faraday was dismayed at the sacrilegious way Devera talked about the Brother-Leader. “Devera, you must not speak ill of the Brother-Leader. The Brotherhood of the Seneschal elects the Brother-Leader—the royal household has no influence at all.”
    Artor! but the girl had a lot to learn about the intrigues of both court and Seneschal, Devera thought dryly, and decided to steer the conversation away from religious matters. “What do you think of King Priam, Faraday?”
    Faraday smiled and her face looked truly beautiful. “He’s handsome, Devera.” Her eyes twinkled impishly. “But such curls!”
    Devera laughed despite herself. Priam had inherited the regal good looks of his family as well as their magnificent dark auburn hair, but it really was a trifle ridiculous for a man in his late forties to continue to have his hair curled so tightly.
    “That must be his wife, Queen Judith.” Faraday indicated a woman of ethereal and fragile beauty sitting between Priam and the Brother-Leader. As they watched, Priam leaned over attentively and gave her the choicest meats from his own plate.
    “Yes. It’s so sad. They say that Priam loves her dearly, but that she cannot have children. Every year of their marriage but the past two she has fallen pregnant, only to lose the babe in the fourth or fifth month. Now, perhaps, she is too old.”
    Both girls fell silent for a few minutes as they contemplated this supreme tragedy. The primary purpose of any noblewoman was to bear her husband sons as quickly as possible. No matter the dowry, the connections or the beauty that a woman brought to her marriage bed, her life became meaningless if she could not produce heirs. Faraday picked up a piece of