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waited in the king’s private sitting room in the royal apartments. The draperies were drawn against the still-bright sky, but open casements admitted both cool air and the sounds of laughter and dance music rising from the gardens. Risalla had changed into a summer nightrobe of fine primrose-colored lawn and reclined on a cushioned couch. The hypnagogic draft prepared by Vra-Stergos, which she had swallowed only a few minutes earlier, was already making her drowsy.
    “I still don’t see why this examination is necessary.” The queen did not bother to hide her resentment. “You required no such thing of me when I was pregnant with the other children.”
    “Ullanoth has fashioned a new spell,” Conrig prevaricated. “It will not only tell us the sex of our new child, but also whether or not it has talent.”
    “Talent!” R’isalla’s tone was uncommonly peevish as she drifted between wakefulness and sleep and her usual invincible self-control dissolved. “What does it matter if this babe shares poor Bramlow’s arcane abilities? You have your precious heir to the throne in Orrion, and there is always Coro in case… in case…” Her eyes closed, but she gave a start and was wide awake again. “In case of misfortune—
    may heaven forfend, I don’t see why I must sleep during this procedure, either. Why shouldn’t I know what Ullanoth does to me and to the child in my womb? I hate the notion of her casting a spell on us! I hate her, God forgive me, though I truly know not why.”
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    May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon
    Her vehemence startled Conrig. He was fairly certain that she was unaware of the long-standing liaison between him and the sorceress, and the queen’s temperament was ordinarily so coolly dutiful and tranquil that she seemed as incapable of jealousy as she was of sexual passion. In contrast to his mercurial first wife Maudrayne Northkeep, whom Conrig had adored until he came to believe that she could not give him children, Risalla Mallburn kept close custody of her emotions. It had never occurred to him to ask if she loved him; he deemed it sufficient that she was gently mannered, reasonably attractive, intelligent, fertile, and a princess royal of Cathra’s traditional antagonist, the vassal nation of Didion.
    “The Conjure-Queen will do nothing to outrage your dignity,” Conrig reassured her. “She will only look at the child in a special way, without even touching you.”
    “I still hate being in her power. Helpless.”
    “Perhaps it’s your Didionite heritage that makes you uneasy. You have a natural distrust of magic, owing to your people’s hostility to the sorcerers of neighboring Moss. And it’s only natural that you should still resent Ullanoth’s role in Didion’s… submission to the Sovereignty.”
    “Our defeat!” Risalla sighed and her eyes slowly closed again. “To say nothing of the shame that most of our warriors died not in honest battle, but as the prey of bloodsucking tiny monsters, commanded by your good friend, the Conjure-Queen. All Didion knows that she invoked the Beaconfolk as well as the spunkies to ensure your victory. And so do many of your own nobles, here in Cathra. They believe you are in league with the Lights.”
    “Madam, you don’t know what you’re saying.” He tried to speak calmly— for, after all, she was hardly conscious and Gossy had assured him that she would remember none of this tomorrow.
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    Yet he had no doubt that Risalla spoke now from deep conviction, freed by the alchymical potion from the constraint of prudence that usually governed her tongue. It was no surprise to Conrig that the barbarous
    Didionites should believe him to be in thrall to Beaconfolk magic. But if it were true that his own people gave serious credence to the notion…
    “Who among the Cathran nobility has