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the marriage had been a love match between the duke’s lands and the Royal Treasury, but Iya thought otherwise.
    The couple lived at the grand castle at Atyion whenRhius was not serving at court. When Ariani became pregnant, however, they had taken up residence at Ero, in her house beside the Old Palace.
    Iya guessed that the choice was the king’s rather than hers, and Ariani had confirmed her suspicions during their visit that summer.
    “May Illior and Dalna grant us a son,” Ariani had whispered as she and Iya sat together in the garden court of her house, hands pressed to her swelling belly.
    As a child Ariani had adored her handsome older brother, who’d been more like a father to her. Now she understood all too well that she lived at his whim; in these uncertain times, any girl claiming Ghërilain’s blood posed a threat to the new male succession, should the Illioran faction fight to reestablish the sacred authority of Afra.
    With every new bout of plague or famine, the whispers of doubt grew stronger.
    I n a darkened side street outside the Palatine gate Iya cloaked herself and Lhel in invisibility, and Arkoniel approached the guards as if alone.
    There were still a great many people abroad at this hour, but the sergeant-at-arms took special note of the silver amulet Arkoniel wore and called him aside.
    “What’s your business here so late, Wizard?”
    “I’m expected. I’ve come to visit my patron, Duke Rhius.”
    “Your name?”
    “Arkoniel of Rhemair.”
    A scribe noted this down on a wax tablet and Arkoniel strolled on into the labyrinth of houses and gardens that ringed this side of the Palatine. To the right loomed the great bulk of the New Palace, which Queen Agnalain had begun and her son was finishing. To the left lay the rambling bulk of the Old Palace.
    Iya’s magic was so strong that even he couldn’t tell ifshe and the witch were still with him, but he didn’t dare turn or whisper to them.
    Ariani’s fine house stood surrounded by its own walls and courtyards; Arkoniel entered by the front gate and barred it behind him as soon as he felt Iya’s touch on his arm. He looked around nervously, half expecting to find the King’s Guard lurking behind the bare trees and statuary in the shadowed garden, or the familiar faces of the duke’s personal guard. But there was no one here, not even a watchman or porter. The garden was silent, the air heavy with the scent of some last hardy bloom of autumn.
    Iya and the witch reappeared beside him and together they headed across the courtyard toward the arched entrance. They hadn’t gone three steps when a horned owl swooped down and pounced on a young rat not ten feet from where they stood. Flapping for balance, it dispatched the squeaking rodent, then looked up at them with eyes like gold sester coins. Such birds were not uncommon in the city, but Arkoniel felt a thrill of awe; owls were the messengers of Illior.
    “A favorable omen,” Iya murmured as it flapped away, leaving the dead rat behind.
    The duke’s steward, Mynir, answered her knock. A thin, solemn, stoop-shouldered old fellow, he’d always reminded Arkoniel of a cricket. He was one of the few who would help carry his master’s burden in the years to come.
    “Thank the Maker!” the old man whispered, grasping Iya’s hand. “The duke is half out of his mind—” He broke off at the sight of Lhel.
    Arkoniel could guess the man’s thoughts: witch, unclean, handler of the dead, a necromancer who called up demons and ghosts.
    Iya touched his shoulder. “It’s all right, Mynir, your master knows. Where is he?”
    “Upstairs, Mistress. I’ll fetch him.”
    Iya held him a moment longer. “And Captain Tharin?”Tharin, the nobleman in charge of Rhius’ guard, was seldom far from the duke’s side. Illior had not spoken for him, but Iya and Rhius had not discussed how he was to be kept away from this night’s business.
    “The duke sent him and the men to Atyion for the rents.”