CHAPTER TWELVE
D uring the day, the Ruta Maestra was a wide road bordered by rich shops selling to the upper classes of Castellane. She was a beautiful aristocrat, draped in rich silk, toying with the diamonds at her throat. But at night, she doffed her furs and revealed herself as the pretender she was—a merchant’s daughter whose jewels were paste, with an ambitious gleam in her eye.
Kel and Conor rode together through the lights of the Broken Market, Conor on Asti and Kel on Asti’s brother, a roan gelding named Matix. Conor had his hood up, hiding his identity from the crowds. Occasionally, they passed the flare of a naphtha torch whose sudden illumination would reveal a portion of Conor’s face, and Kel would wonder how they did not know him, did not recognize him by the curve of his cheekbone or the sharp flash of his smile. He had the most recognizable face in Castellane, and yet it was as if he were invisible simply because he had donned a homespun linen cloak.
It was as if he had his own sort of amulet, Kel thought as they turned into the Temple District. Those who knew who Kel really was were not fooled; those who expected to see the Prince saw the Prince. It was, above all things, a game of expectations.
When they reached the Caravel, they dismounted, handing the reins of their horses to waiting grooms. As they went inside, Conor tossed his hood back, looked at Kel, and smiled.
Kel was not fooled by the ease of the smile. In theory, they were visiting the Caravel to celebrate with Falconet, who had made a great deal of money on a shipment of spices that had just come in. Three months ago, it was the sort of thing Conor wouldn’t have thought of missing. Tonight, Kel had had to cajole and press him out the door, telling him it would make Falconet furious if they made no appearance.
In truth, Kel cared little about whether Joss was furious or not; he was worried about Conor. When he had come back from the banquet last night, he had found Conor lying flat on one of the divans in their room, uncharacteristically silent. He had not asked Kel about the nobles, or Anjelica. He had been holding his arm as if it were injured, but he snapped at Kel for wanting to see it. And when Kel had asked him about Lin, Conor had only turned away, as if he did not want Kel to see his expression. It was unusual for Conor to conceal his feelings this way, but Kel already knew that when it came to Lin and Conor, everything was unusual.
Then Conor had woken up in the dead of night screaming—a mix of Castellani and Malgasi. Kel recognized some of the words. Atma az dóta. Fire and shadow.
He had gone over to sit on Conor’s bed, and Conor had rolled onto his back, looking up at Kel with wide gray eyes, as he had when he was a child. “You are the only one I trust,” he said, and when he fell asleep, he did it holding fast to Kel’s wrist.
Enough was enough, Kel thought. Joss’s party was a convenient excuse for a familiar kind of celebration. One that offered a chance to forget, if only for a night. He had talked Conor into it, and now here they were, having made their way into the crowded main room.
All the expected guests were here. Falconet reclined on a couch near the fireplace, his back to the bare chest of a handsome young blond man from Hanse. He was eating an apple. He grinned when he saw Kel and Conor and tossed it in Conor’s direction.
Kel’s arm shot out; he intercepted the apple automatically. Conor cast him an amused look.
Kel shrugged. I am the Prince’s shield; I stand between him and thrown fruit. He played it off by biting into the apple with a smirk at Joss.
Montfaucon had already approached them, Ciprian just behind him. “Conor,” he said. “What on earth’s going on with the art on the walls?”
Now Conor did grin. “Malgasi sent a gift in honor of my nuptials,” he said. “One of their most celebrated artists has rendered several portraits of me.”
“You didn’t give them to the Caravel,” said Kel. “Did you?”
“The Queen didn’t want them in the Palace.” Conor shrugged. In this case, Kel was on her side. The portraits of Conor were alarmingly like him, and showed him engaged in a variety of upsetting pursuits. Some illustrated him standing over the bodies of murdered Princesses with a satisfied look, while others featured him in compromising positions with an elephant that was clearly Sedai.
“Kellian.” A light tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw Alys Asper behind him. As always, she was a neat and elegant presence, her dark hair wound into an intricate braid atop her head. “Silla is upstairs, in the Ochre Room. She was hoping for a few moments with you.”
Kel hesitated.
“No hourglass,” said Alys. “I believe she only wants to talk.”
It was odd, Kel thought as he made his excuses to Conor—now involved in a game of Castles with Montfaucon—and headed up the stairs. He had not visited Silla for amorous purposes for a long time now, and given their last conversation, he had thought they were both at peace with it. Perhaps she had something else she wanted to discuss with him, though he couldn’t imagine what.
The Ochre Room was on the second floor, the door painted yellow to distinguish it from the other rooms along the corridor.
The door was unlocked, and Kel walked into the room, expecting to see Silla posed artfully on the gold-draped bed, her hair falling loose the way she knew he liked it. He was already preparing himself to tell her not tonight, and probably not ever again, when he was brought up short.
It was not Silla sitting there, hair loose, her expression a mix of determination and panic.
It was Antonetta Alleyne.
Automatically, Kel turned and closed the door behind him, sliding the bolt home. Then he turned around again. And stared at her.
Antonetta. Ana. She sat on the four-poster bed, wearing a silk dress the color of cream. Her skin looked pink beside it, or perhaps it was just that she had the sort of skin that flushed easily. Her cheeks were a dark pink as she met his gaze almost defiantly.
“Don’t blame Alys,” she said. “I told her my visit was a surprise for you. That you wouldn’t mind if we played a little joke.”
“I see,” Kel said. He had his doubts as to whether Alys would have believed that this was a lighthearted amusement; more likely, she’d put Antonetta’s desire for anonymity down to her position on the Hill. And surely that was part of it. “Antonetta, if you wanted to talk to me, you could have just summoned me to your house.”
“And have your visit reported to my mother?” Antonetta asked. “Certainly not. Besides, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
She rose to her feet. Light spilled over them both from a gold-shaded carcel lamp. The silk of her dress clung to her hips and followed the lines of her long legs down to the toes of her slippers. It was clear she was wearing no petticoats, nothing under the silk, so fine it seemed to melt against her skin. Kel could see the curves of her hips, her rounded thighs; heat flickered low in his belly, and he told himself not to be a fool.
Antonetta raised her chin. Her hair was loose, tumbling in curls around her face. Her cheeks looked flushed. “In a few weeks, I will be married to Artal Gremont,” she said. “He insists on the ceremony of First Night, and he will make it as unpleasant for me as possible. He will take enjoyment from that.”
Kel forced his hands not to curl into fists. “You know what I think. Refuse to marry him, Ana.”
“I cannot do that. And if that is all you have to say, then this will be a short conversation.”
“But he—”
“Is disgusting,” Antonetta said. “I know that. But I can endure it. I can endure much.” Unconsciously, her hand went to her throat, to toy with the locket there. “I only want your help.”
Kel knew he should leave. This was torture—for him at least, if not for them both. But he could not stop looking at her, could not stop wanting to be in the same room with her. To be closer than that. “Help you how?”
The flush on her cheeks darkened. “I don’t want Artal to be my first. I want it to be you.”
Kel caught his breath. He had fantasized—somewhat to his own shame—scenarios in which Antonetta said something like this, but he would never have imagined she really would. Yet as he stared at her, wordless, he knew that she meant it. He knew from the blush that spread across her face, from the way her teeth sank into her lower lip. Knew from the determination in her eyes.
There was a roaring in his ears, his blood beating hard in his veins. He wanted to go to her so badly it was blinding; he had never felt this, not even in those early days with Silla when he had known nothing else.
“I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t be your penance for marrying someone you can’t stand.”
Her hand fell from the locket. “But if you just knew why —”
“Then tell me,” he said. “Tell me why. If there’s a reason, give me the reason, Ana, because I need it. More than I ever thought I could.”
She didn’t reply. A moment later, he was at the door, hand on the latch. At last, from behind him, she said, “You are my first choice, Kellian, but not my only one. There are others I can ask.”
The roaring in his ears was deafening now. He had never understood what people meant when they said they saw red, but a scarlet mist seemed to pass in front of his eyes. He could hear Antonetta’s harsh breathing behind him as he removed his hand from the door and turned to face her.
Her lips were parted, her eyes very bright. One of the slim straps of her dress had fallen from her shoulder, baring the creamy skin there, the arching curve of her collarbone. He imagined kissing her there, at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and wondered what she would taste like. Sweet and amandine, like marzipan, or sharp and salty, like sweat and perfume?
He stalked across the room to her. He half expected her to flinch away, but she stood her ground, only tilting her head back to look up at him. Her pupils were the shape of hearts.
He said, “Tell me, then. What you want me to do.”
“I...” He didn’t think she could blush more, but it seemed she could. She said, “I told you. I want you to be my first.”
“Your first what?” He swayed a little toward her, held himself back. “Say the words, Antonetta. Tell me exactly what you want me to do. Or I won’t do it.”
“My first—” She caught her breath, widened her eyes. Looked at him hard. She said, “Touch me. Put your hands on my body.” She had bitten her lip; she licked the dent she’d made and said, “Make me like it.”
He laid his hands on her shoulders. Her skin, hot and bare, felt like satin; he traced his hands down her body, flat-palmed. Gliding over the silk she wore, over the curves of her breasts. The silk was like water, no barrier to the feel of her body. As her nipples hardened against his palms, he circled them with his fingers, teasing and touching until she cried out and pressed harder against him.
“Kiss me,” she whispered. “Kiss me properly.”
He knew he should hold himself back. Kiss her delicately, carefully. But no sooner had he pressed his mouth to hers than every shred of careful planning was torn away. She kissed him back eagerly, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he was lost—lost in the dark sharp pleasure of kissing her, the softness of her lips, the heated glide of her tongue into his mouth. He caught her in his arms, lifting her up off the floor, and carried her to the bed.
They were still kissing when they crashed onto the mattress, her hands gripping the lapels of his jacket now, tearing it off him. She yanked the hem of his shirt free from his trousers and slid her hands up his bare chest, sighing against his mouth as she explored him with her fingers.
He tore his mouth away from hers. Braced on one hand above her, he said raggedly, “Antonetta. What do you want now? Tell me.”
Her lips parted in surprise; they were red with kisses. His kisses. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to ask for. Only—” She lifted a hand to caress his cheek, her eyes dark with desire. “Don’t stop.”
He groaned and kissed her again, feverishly. Her hands stroked his back, and he wondered if she felt the scars there through the material of his shirt. But he was too dazed to wonder long; he sucked her lower lip, making her whimper, before kissing his way down her throat. It was the work of a moment to push down the straps of her dress, baring her beautiful breasts, high and round and tipped with stiff pink nipples.
She had gone still. “Kel...?” she whispered.
He wanted to tell her she was gorgeous, beautiful, perfect. But words seemed beyond him. As all the blood in his body seemed to rush downward, he closed his mouth around her nipple. She gave a small scream and arched up and toward him, wordlessly. Her fingers dug into his sides, her hips rising, grinding against his, sending sparks of blinding pleasure through his body.
When she begged him not to stop, he felt something expand inside his chest. A sense of pleasure in her pleasure, he thought, or a pride that he could please her; again, something he had never felt before. And as his hand glided downward, he prayed to any available God that what he had learned about pleasure in his life would not fail him now, when it mattered.
His hand glided over the curve of her belly, his fingers gathering the silk of her dress as they went, bunching it up around her waist. He felt her turn and twist under him, gasping as he circled her navel with his forefinger. The muscles in her stomach jumped under his hands, fluttering against his palm.
“Kel,” she whispered, almost tearfully. “Kel— Kel —”
His name in her mouth, the sound of her pleading with him, nearly undid him. He wanted to be inside her so badly it hurt. He shoved that thought back: It was impossible. Instead he let his hand travel, down and down, finding the softness of her inner thighs. He moved his lips to her throat; she was taut against him as his fingers found the heart of her. The heat of her there made him groan low in his throat; he began to circle his fingers, gently and then with a firmer pressure.
She was pressed tautly against him as he arched over her. He watched her face with a fascination as intense as any pleasure he’d ever felt as she flushed and whitened, her lips parting, her lashes beginning to flutter. She pressed up against his fingers, her body writhing under his, her hands gripping at the sheets of the bed so hard, he thought she might tear them.
Her eyes flew wide open; their gazes locked. He caught his breath as she trembled and cried out, her legs clamping tight around his hand. He could feel every spasm that rocked her and thought for a moment he might lose control of himself, so keenly did he feel every shock of her pleasure.
As the last shudder rippled through her, she went boneless against him. For a moment he just held her to him, marveling at the stillness that surrounded them, the quiet. Even though his body ached with unfulfilled desire, he thought he could lie like that all night.
Then she sat up. Her hair was a wild tangle of gold strands, sweat shimmering on her collarbone. He felt an overwhelming urge to lick her throat.
“I know there’s more than that,” she said. “What about you ?”
And she leaned down to kiss him. Caught by surprise, he hummed softly into the kiss, drawing her down against him. Half silk, half naked skin, she melted against him, her hand sliding along his belly, dipping down between his legs—
He sat up, almost hurling her off him. Rolling off the bed, he rose to his feet, though his whole body ached with want. He could barely look at her, with her dress rucked up to her thighs, her hair tumbled all around her shoulders, her lips swollen from kissing. She put a hand to her mouth.
“But, Kel,” she said, “I know—”
“That I didn’t make love to you—what was it you said?— properly ? You’re right. I can’t. I can’t be your First Night, Antonetta. Gremont has the right to have you checked by a doctor, to make sure you’re a virgin. And he probably will.”
She went white, as if Kel had slapped her.
Before he could say more, a series of knocks rattled the door on its hinges. “Kel Anjuman.” It was Hadja’s voice. “The Prince is looking for you.”
He looked at Antonetta. She was already straightening her dress. “You’d better go,” she said. “It’s Conor. It might be important.”
“It probably isn’t,” Kel said. The ache of desire was leaving him at least, replaced by a very different ache. “Antonetta—I am sorry I couldn’t give you what you wanted.”
She stood up and took a linen wrap from the ornate yellow-gold bedstand. She thrust her arms into it, flinging the fabric around herself, covering her body. “I asked for pleasure, and you gave me that,” she said. “I have never felt that sort of thing before. I probably never will again.”
“Antonetta—”
“Just go,” she said, turning away to gather the rest of her things. Her tone was clipped, final. Her mother’s voice, ordering him to stay away.
Kel went. He seized up his jacket on his way out of the room and was shoving his arms into the sleeves as he started downstairs. Not that he wanted to go downstairs; he wanted to go back to Antonetta and beg her—but for what? What could she give him? What could he give her, really? Not even his real name.
Halfway down the steps, he heard voices. Recognizing one, he froze, pressing himself back against the wall. A wave of nausea rolled over him. Gremont. The back of Kel’s neck prickled. Artal had been very clear he intended to take full advantage of the brothels of the Temple District, whether he was engaged or not, but that didn’t mean he’d look kindly on Antonetta being here. He’d be furious. Perhaps dangerously so.
“It’s a problem,” Gremont was saying. Kel crouched down, peering through the banister railings. He could see Gremont, all unwieldy shoulders in a gaudy doublet, standing on the next landing down with his arms crossed. Across from him was Falconet, looking harried. The amulet around Gremont’s neck looked even uglier in the bright stairway light. Kel couldn’t help but stare at it—it seemed such a small thing to be protecting Gremont from the wrath of so many people. Including himself.
“It is a problem that will take care of itself, Artal,” Joss said. “Honestly. I don’t see what the fuss is about.”
Gremont sneered. “Always angling for an advantage, aren’t you, Joss? The great problem solver, Joss Falconet.” He spat, narrowly missing Falconet’s boot. “Never mind. I’ll handle it myself.”
“Really,” said Joss. “What about Liorada?”
Kel pressed closer to the banister. Why were they discussing Antonetta’s mother?
But before Gremont could reply, a courtesan with a thick pile of dark hair and bright spots of rouge on her cheeks—Audeta, Kel thought—appeared on the landing. She was pouting.
“Artal,” she said, “I’ve been waiting for you for simply ages in the Persimmon Room. I’m going to start the hourglass whether you come or not.”
Good, Kel thought. Get him out of here, Audeta.
Gremont’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, Kel worried he was going to snap at Audeta, or worse, but a moment later he shrugged and grinned. “See you later, Falconet,” he said, and followed Audeta down the steps.
As soon as he was gone, Kel sprang to his feet and hurried downstairs. He passed Joss on the landing. The other man was looking thoughtful, almost inward, gazing into empty air. Kel almost slid past him without a greeting, but Joss started and seemed to wake as if from a dream.
He glanced at Kel, his expression no longer distant, but wry and amused as it always was. “Conor was looking for you,” he said. “Nothing important—he was hoping you’d join his Castles game with Montfaucon.” He grinned. “Hadja said you were with Silla,” he added. “I thought you’d tired of her.”
Kel muttered something noncommittal; he was glad Hadja was lying to protect Antonetta, but he felt weary of petty deceptions. He felt weary of everything but Antonetta; he still wanted her, wanted to return to her. Having kissed her, touched her, how could he be able to return to a life in which he could do none of those things?
From this vantage, he could see down into the great room, could see Conor sprawled on a couch, poking listlessly at a Castles board; could see the blond boy Joss had been leaning against now laughing with Ciprian Cabrol. All was as usual in the Caravel, he thought; only he had been changed.
The Broken Market was in full swing by the time Lin returned to the Sault. She had been out late, tending to a woman in the Warren who was slowly going blind. There was little medicine could do for her: The woman was a seamstress, and decades of sewing by inadequate candlelight had damaged her eyesight beyond repair. All Lin could do was beg her to stop sewing at night, which she knew was useless advice. Domna Bondion had three children and could barely feed them with the meager earnings from her sewing work as it was. She would continue to struggle until she was entirely blind.
The inability to help had left Lin in a state of frustration that did not subside when she reached home. Mez was guarding the gate and told her that the Exilarch was in the Shulamat gardens, “answering questions.” Offering judgment, more like, Lin thought crossly.
“Yes, and?” she snapped, leaving poor Mez to remind her that she’d asked him to let her know when the Exilarch presented himself to the public again. She apologized before rushing off to the Shulamat, determined to intercept Aron.
It was a warm evening, and the air in the gardens was redolent of flowers. To her surprise, she found the Exilarch perched on a bench, cross-legged, dressed casually in blue linen. He was surrounded by children: Scrubbed clean by their parents until they virtually shone, their familiar faces were upturned to Aron, their eyes wide and serious.
Some had been her patients; she had watched all of them grow up. She recognized Sania Dorin, Rahel’s smallest sister, whose ears had been so thoroughly washed that they were still pink. “I don’t see why girls can’t be Shomrim,” she was saying earnestly. “We’re better at climbing, and we pay attention to things.”
Aron, who had looked up briefly when Lin came into the garden, smiled. “I do not think it is officially forbidden,” he said, “or at least, I see no reason why it should be. I shall speak to the Maharam.”
A boy’s hand shot up. Lin knew him, too: little Kaleb Gorin, Mez’s cousin. “Why do the Rhadanites only go over the land and not over the sea?” he asked. “Are they afraid of being drowned?”
Aron looked up at Lin then. His bronze eyes gleamed as he said, “When the Goddess returns, it is said she will return in Dannemore. For this reason, the Ashkar never want to be too far away.”
Kaleb seemed satisfied with this answer, although a faint muttering was passing among the children. Finally, Dara Malke, one of the older girls, put her hand up and said, “Exilarch. Will something bad happen to us Ashkar here in Castellane, the way it happened in Malgasi?”
Lin felt the question like an arrow in her heart. It was so unfair, that Ashkar children should fear such things. She could hardly remember the day she herself had realized that to be an Ashkar was to always be unsafe; to belong nowhere outside the Sault, but to know that walls could not entirely protect you. All she knew was that it had been a very long time ago.
Aron leaned back on his hands. He looked calm as ever, but there was a flintiness in his eyes that suggested to Lin he shared her anger. He said, “Lin Caster is here. Perhaps she can best answer your question.”
Lin nearly jumped out of her skin. Oh for goodness’ sake. Why was he pressing this responsibility on her? Because you claim you are the Goddess, responsible for your people, said a small voice in the back of her mind.
Sixteen pairs of young eyes were trained on her expectantly. Lin said, “In Malgasi, there was no Counselor to the throne as we have here in Castellane. And so the Queen and King of Malgasi forgot the Ashkar were people just like them. But you should not worry,” she added. “We have Mayesh here, who is often in the Palace and can speak for us there. The King will not harm us. He would not want to lose his Counselor or his reputation for kindness.”
There was a long silence as the children regarded Lin thoughtfully. At last Kaleb put his hand up again and asked, turning back to Aron, “Why do boats float when they’re so heavy?”
A smile spread across Aron’s face. Lin did not hear his answer; she was too anxious about her own. If she had put the children’s minds at ease, she could not tell. They seemed the same mixture of somberness and giggling that they always were, even as Aron bid them goodbye and sent them back out to meet their parents in the Kathot.
“That was a good answer,” he said once he and Lin were alone in the garden. He stretched, flexing his long hands. They were freckled on the backs, and freckles showed, too, at the open neck of his shirt. A reminder that unlike the Maharam, he lived most of his life under the open sky, not inside temples and judgment halls.
“Do you get that question often? About Malgasi?” Lin asked.
“In every Sault, I am asked some version of it, and not always by children. In most Saults, there is no one like your grandfather—no representative of our people to speak to the highest power in the land.”
“So what do you usually say?”
“I speak of home,” he said. He sounded a little stiff; the ease with which he had spoken to the children was gone. She had never been alone with the Exilarch before, Lin realized. It had never occurred to her that it was even possible he might be awkward, or diffident. “How there are others who have their lands, their homes, and they look askance at us because they do not understand a people who have no home. The selfish among them will say in fear, ‘But these people have no home; surely they will try to take ours.’ And I tell them to remember that those people are wrong. That we do have a home, in each other. We make our homes within, and not without; that is how we are different.”
Lin was silent a moment. She could hear the dry scrape of the wind in the leaves. “That is very pretty,” she said, “but it is not a promise, is it? It does not say, You will be safe. ”
“Because I cannot promise they will be,” he said. “That is your task, Goddess.”
“Not mine alone,” she said. “The destiny given to the Exilarch is to walk beside the Goddess. To help her.”
“If she passes the test, yes.” His gaze was thoughtful. “Is that why you’ve come here? To speak to me about the testing?”
Lin shook her head. “No. I came because—well, you are a Rhadanite. Can you read their language?”
He looked surprised. Before he could say anything, Lin drew Fausten’s notes, much crumpled, from inside her jacket. She brought them to Aron where he sat on the bench.
“My parents were traders on the Gold Roads,” she said. “I think you knew that. And my brother is on the Roads now. I recognize this as the code of the Rhadanite traders, but I cannot read it myself. I never learned.”
Frowning, Aron took the papers from her. “Where did you get this?”
“In an old trunk of my parents’ things. Josit would be able to translate it for me, but he is far away. I have so little of my parents, I just hoped... well, that you could tell me what it says.”
He was silent, staring at the pages. Lin prayed quietly to herself that Fausten hadn’t made any notes that said things like, Today I have decided to poison the King. Surely a most excellent idea. She had no idea how she’d explain that to Aron Benjudah.
At last, he looked up at her; only then did she realize she was standing over him, looking down at his bent head as she twisted her hands together. She had not meant to come so close.
He said crisply, “I do not believe your parents wrote this. Nor do I understand why you think you must lie to get my assistance.”
Lin bit hard at the edge of her lip. Do not show him he frightens you. “Not every secret I know is a secret that is mine to tell.”
“You are a curious person, Lin Caster,” he said, folding the paper in his hand. “I was surprised by your answer to the child’s question. Benezar has always given me to understand that you did not like Mayesh’s job very much.”
“I have begun to understand, in these recent days,” Lin said, “that sometimes we are chosen to do things we do not wish to do, but that if we do not do them, there will be no one to take our place.”
“You ask two of the Three Questions,” Aron said, rising from the bench. In the pale moonlight, his hair and eyes seemed bleached to a lighter gold. “ If not now, when? If not me, who? ” His gaze swept over her, considering. “You are a conundrum. Those I have met before who laid claim to being the Goddess all sought attention and validation. You seem to dislike one and have no need of the other.”
“I recall the Third Question,” said Lin. “ All the world is a narrow bridge. How, then, to cross it without fear? ” She looked up at him; she’d nearly forgotten he was so tall. “I have no answer to that. I am often afraid. Even now, you make me afraid.”
“Do I?” His expression was stern, cool. Distant. “Lin Caster, I will translate these papers for you on one condition. I would like to join you on your physician’s rounds and observe your work.”
Lin frowned. She did not like the idea of letting Aron come with her on her rounds, but to push back would only make him suspicious when she had nothing to hide. And she did need that translation.
“Is this an order?” she asked.
“More an exchange,” said Aron. “But you may consider it an order from your Exilarch, if you wish.”
There was at least a symmetry to it, Lin thought as she left the garden. A tense and complicated symmetry, but there it was: She was under orders from two different Princes.