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dangerously. And I feared that I lacked the wit to fathom her.
Certainly I lacked the experience to walk unscathed through the mazes she built
for the bafflement of her antagonists.
    In such
matters, she was ably aided by Mage Scour. He served her, it was said, because
she put her nearly limitless wealth at his disposal, enabling him to pursue his
experiments and researches wherever he willed. And it was also said that he
came here this night prepared by what he had learned to alter the entire order
of the realm.
    Ryzel
had scoffed at that rumour, but in a way which conveyed uncertainty. The
casting of images of what was Real was a known art, varying only according to
the skill, dedication and inborn capacity of the Mage. But Magic itself
remained a mystery, transcending that which was known, mortal, or tangible. And
the rumours surrounding Scour claimed that he had gone beyond images of the
Real into Magic itself.
    I felt
myself more a lost girl than a lady of state as I drew near to Queen Damia and
her retinue.
    Her
smile was as brilliant as one of the chandeliers— so brilliant that it made me
feel the fault of manners was mine rather than hers when she declined to accept
my hand. But the gracious sound of her voice—as haunting as a flute—covered the
social awkwardness of her refusal. “Lady,” she said sweetly, “I have seen the
portraits of your line which hang in the gallery of the manor. Surely no paint
which is not itself Real can hope to portray the virility of the Regals. But
the painting of your grandmother well becomes her—or so I have heard from
those who knew the mother of the Phoenix-Regal. You are very like her. Your
dress is so simple and charming, it displays you to perfection.”
    As she
spoke, I found myself watching the movement of her décolletage as if I were a
man. It was an effective sight; I was so taken by it that a moment passed
before I grasped that I had been insulted in several ways at once.
    “You
flatter me, my lady,” I replied, schooling myself to calmness so that I would
not redden before the guests of the manor. “I have seen my grandmother’s
portrait often. She was altogether handsomer than I am.” Then the success of my
efforts gave me enough reassurance to return her compliment. “In any case, all
beauty vanishes when Queen Damia appears.”
    A small
quirk twitched the corner of her soft mouth; but whether it indicated pleasure
or vexation, I could not tell. Yet my response sufficed to make her change her
ground. “Lady,” she said smoothly, “it ill becomes me to discuss the business
of the Three Kingdoms upon such a festive occasion—but the need of my subjects
compels me to speak. The next Regal simply must re-examine the pricing
structure of Lodan woods against the ores and gems of Nabal and the foods of
Canna. In particular, our mahogany is scarce, and growing scarcer. We must have
a higher return for it, before we sink into poverty.”
    To
follow her cost me an effort of will—and of haste. With the same words, she
prepared for any outcome to my test. If my Ascension to the Seat succeeded, she
would turn to me sweetly and say, “May we now discuss the price of Lodan mahogany,
my lady?” And at the same time she contrived to suggest to all who heard us
that the next Regal would be none other than Queen Damia herself.
    I could
not match her in such conversation. To escape her—and also to show her that I
was not swayed—I attempted a laugh. To my ears, it sounded somewhat brittle.
But perhaps it did not entirely fail.
    “Surely
you jest, my lady of Lodan. Your people will never know want while you have
jewels to sell for their succour.”
    From
the gathering, I heard a muffled exclamation, a low titter, whisperings of
surprise or approbation. With that for victory, I turned away.
    But I
felt little victory. As I turned, I saw clearly Mage Scour’s sharp face. He was
grinning as if he had the taste of my downfall in his mouth.
    To his
credit, Ryzel allowed