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gaze. More so than she had felt under her mother’s hand, she felt like a pawn, a piece to be moved about by de la Mare’s hand, a piece to gain power. Her eye roved over the territories with their strange names. And how, precisely, did she fit into this chess game? He wanted her to marry him—to what purpose? To fix for himself an heir? She shuddered.
    “I think that I have an inkling why,” she replied.
    He said warmly, “That is my girl. Margaret,” he mused, and frowned thoughtfully to himself. “It is a good name—a strong name, respectable, well-fitted to a Queen of the Mares.” He was quiet for a while, presumably listening to his own thoughts which stayed hidden behind the motionlessness of his eyes. Presently he said, in a tone altogether different, “They have set me at a foolish wager, but I will play the game. They cannot be without their Overlord for long, and they will soon see reason. You,” he turned to her, “will help them see reason.”
    “Who is this that I am enlightening?” asked Margaret delicately.
    His fingers snapped against the map again. The candlelight danced wildly on the glass as the picture rocked under the force of his blow. “Capys my cousin and Darkling, ever bedfellows in their schemes, Thrasymene and her triumvirate sisters—I might have picked a wife from one of them, the cows!—the Lord of Orzelon-gang and all his countless provinces. All their territories, provinces, duchies, estates and all their petty lords—you will show them reason. You, my dear, for there is a woman’s cunning which no man can play at.” He smiled a devil’s smile. “They wanted me to play their game, not knowing what pieces I brought to the table.”
    If she looked at that map another minute Margaret thought she would hit the bottom of de la Mare’s glass and dash the contents up into his face. She turned away, content with the image of his fine face drenched in brandy. She tried to breathe evenly and pace out her thoughts as she walked the length of the room. De la Mare remained by the picture as if knowing she needed to think. It worried her that he did not follow: she felt as if she were still walking into his hand.
    Passing another picture she glanced up, catching a glimpse of de la Mare’s distant reflection in it. He was leaning against the table, glass in hand, gazing at the map with a grim countenance. He is being elusive . Get the truth out of him, even if it takes you all night. How long , she wondered, looking to the window, will this moon-dusk last?
    “De la Mare,” she said, turning.
    “Rupert.”
    She pursed her lips. “Rupert, what is the game that you are playing? What is at stake? What are you after? What stands in your way? I will do nothing until I know.”
    “Hmm!” he purred, pushing off from the table. His thin-set lips had curled into a smile. With a little sidewise gesture he slid himself onto the corner of the table, perched an inch or two above the floor, foot swinging idly. “The stakes are these: that one must be Overlord of Plenilune. And the game is that I will be he.”
    She watched his glass resting on his knee, swinging to his motion, casting wild amber light.
    “I am best suited to the task. The Overlords have time out of mind come down out of the House of Marenové; we are bred to it, raised with the shadow of its mantle across our shoulders. Now on the eve of my taking office Capys would dare to sow dissension among the ranks and declare me unfit by my arts to rule—as if they did not know that the men of Marenové have always tossed magic from their fingertips as a child might toss away so many pebbles.” His voice grew hard and hateful. “Capys adjourned the gathering, and when they returned had made up their minds that I must fix for myself a wife, and prove that I had some humanity to my soul before I could rule.”
    Margaret laughed softly, bitterly. “You are fit to be a king,” she said, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. “But you