1

“Faster, Ylo!” Maya urged. “Make horse go faster!”

She sat on Ylo’s lap, jiggling the reins ferociously. As the traces were firmly gripped in Ylo’s strong hands, also, the big gray was probably unaware of the divided leadership. It certainly did not care. It plodded doggedly, not even flickering its ears, stoically fulfilling the role the Gods had assigned it. Every second day it would haul some traveler’s rig up the hill. The next day it would haul another one down. Nothing about that to puzzle a horse. Not even Ylo’s skills would make it go any faster, either, even had he wanted it to.

Huddled in the fur cloak she had not worn in months, Eshiala watched the byplay with heavenly contentment. She, at least, was in no hurry. Days like these could go on forever and she would never tire of them. For the last hour the road had been winding gently upward through a dense mist, so that almost nothing was visible except the well-fitted stones of the road itself, built centuries ago by the legions and still in perfect order. Wiry grass along the verge glistened with dampness and a few ghostly bushes lurked beyond that like predatory wraiths in the fog. Once in a while now she glimpsed ragged remains of the winter’s snow. Summer came late to the highlands of the Qoble Range.

“You promised me beautiful scenery when we reached the pass,” she teased.

Ylo flashed her a smile. They stopped her heart, those smiles of his, those bright dark eyes, those long lashes. He could say more with a smile than all the poems of all the poets of the Impire. “I said you had never seen anything like the view up here. Well, you still haven’t, have you?”

“True!” She laughed.

“And admit it, you are floating in clouds, yes?”

“Yes!” she said. “Very true.”

“Well, then!”

“Faster!” Maya demanded.

“Poor old horse!” Ylo said sternly. “He’s having to pull all of us up this great, long hill. He’s working very hard. He’s an old, old horse, that’s why his hair’s turned all white. You ought to get out and walk, so he doesn’t have to work so hard, you great heavy lump!”

That was a mistake. Maya decided she did want to get out and walk, and argued when he would not let her. She was very good at arguing. At times she behaved as if she was the rightful-born impress of Pandemia—which she was, even if Pandemia was no more aware of that than the child herself. How about a birthday party, Ylo suggested, and a cake with two and a half candles . . .

They had seen very little traffic all morning, but now hooves clanked on the stones behind, coming fast. Eshiala turned and peered back through the little window. In a moment a ghostly rider materialized out of the mist, gray on gray, solidifying into color as he approached, scarlet cloak and gold-plumed hat. He swung out to pass the phaeton without slowing down, cantering on ahead, fading as swiftly as he had come, the cloud soon muffling the sound. He had been an Imperial courier, and the fact that he had been only cantering, not galloping, showed how hard the hill was on horses.

She stole a glance at Ylo and thought she detected a hint of a frown. A hint of danger? She said nothing. Something had worried him back at the inn that morning, although he had denied it. She thought he had recognized someone. She would not pry. She would let nothing ruffle her happiness.

It would end soon enough. In a day or two they would be in Gaaze, and what happened then she dared not think.

She was in love, hopelessly in love. Twenty years old, a widow with a child, and she was as heartsick as an adolescent.

However guilty she felt that she should have found such happiness through Shandie’s death, the world turned for her with the beating of Ylo’s heart. She would lie at night with her head on his chest, listening to that solid, comforting beat.

He was a hero. The army had voted him honors no signifer had received since the previous dynasty. He was a duke by right, although not in law. Shandie had admitted that he had never had a more honest, hardworking aide than Ylo. He was even-tempered, everlasting fun, and good company. He was blindingly handsome, blessed with a perfect complexion very rare for an imp. He was tireless in bed, enormously virile and skilled, able to coax rapture from her body as a musician could pluck music from a lute.

He was a notorious rake, as faithless as a weasel.

She had known. She had let him steal her heart, knowing he would break it. He had not broken it yet. He had done what he set out to do—he had taught her what lovemaking should be, and he had brought her safely to Qoble. In another week or so they would arrive at Gaaze, and then the long journey would be over and Ylo would leave her. That had been the bargain, although never put into words.

No, she was in no hurry.

“Aha!” Ylo said. Shadowy buildings were congealing out of the fog. There was a seasonal post at the top of the pass, where weary horses could be replaced. Tomorrow, doubtless, the old gray would plod its way down again, to one side or the other, pulling some other vehicle.

“You go back to your mother now, Princess.” He passed Maya across.

“Do you suppose the food is edible here?” Eshiala asked, adjusting her too-heavy daughter on her lap.

“Probably nothing much. Why don’t you buy a snack while I’m changing horses, and we’ll eat by the roadside somewhere.” He pulled his hat brim down to shield his face.

That was an odd gesture for Ylo, who was well aware of his good looks. It was as if he was frightened of being recognized.