“A third party, my Lady? …Playing you and Anselm off of one another?” Rain’s expression was equal parts alarm and incredulity.

“Offered as pure speculation,” she said, “but he seemed fairly convinced of it.”

“And he asked you not to tell me?”

The Lady nodded, turning to gaze through the nearest of Rain’s office windows. “Or his own daughter. With assurances, of course, that he fears only our misplaced trust in others.”

“Well…I am saddened by his assessment of my judgment. Will you be informing Piper of this as well?”

“Not yet,” she sighed. “I would be more inclined to involve her if she weren’t already so…involved. Given the role those geist stones played in all of this, I cannot as easily dismiss his concerns in her case.” She shrugged. “He can’t have failed to notice, however, that I did not agree to his request—any more than I can imagine he truly expected me to. Had I brought him something of such dire portent, we both knew he’d have taken it straight to his own chancellor, or that chancellor needs replacing. What he didn’t know about, of course, was our intention to rescue the girl, which is why I felt that you must hear of this immediately.”

“Well…yes, if you think he may be correct,” said Rain. “To be candid, my Lady, I’ve still found no credible approach to such a rescue anyway. What vanishingly small intelligence I have suggests that she may be hidden in Anselm’s own house. But he keeps a tiny staff, by design, so we’ve no one placed there to provide us better information, much less any tangible assistance. And now, if some third player really were plotting, as the River King suggests, to set the two of us falsely at odds…” He shook his head, and began to pace around the desk. “Given the note left on her bedroom wall, it does seem very strange to me that no contact has been attempted yet with the Clarke boy or his family. Why dangle such a garish overture, only to do nothing?” He turned to her, frowning. “Unless the whole thing really were intended just to precipitate some further crisis between ourselves and Anselm. If we made some blind attempt upon his keep, only to discover that he has no more idea where she is than we do, who then would seem the criminals?”

“So any plans for rescue must be suspended until it’s clearer what strings are being pulled by whom, and why,” said The Lady, “which I am still relying upon you to discover as quickly as possible, Chancellor. …I assume my inquiry has been sent to the Archivist?”

“Yes, my Lady. Within minutes of yesterday’s…discussion.” Rain’s face was as placid as ever, but his voice concealed none of the discomfort he clearly still felt about that ‘discussion,’ or about what questions she might have for the Archivist that could possibly be worth the risk of questions asked her in return. “I’ve had no response yet,” Rain added, “but any light he could shed on this matter would, of course, be extremely useful. Did the River King voice any theories about who this third party may be, or what they might be after?”

And here was the next blind inflection point. She could simply tell him what the River King had made of Rhymer, or…she could confide the cascade of even more disquieting speculation his assertions had aroused. As Rain waited with increasingly visible unease, she wondered how much of her newfound fear could be shared without compromising the silence imposed on her by the Powers, still assuming, for now, that it was really they who had imposed it. “When I had finished explaining Rhymer as we’d agreed to,” she said at last, “the River King asked how I could still mock his suggestion of some third party at work.”

It took Rain a moment to sort the implications, and then he looked as if he weren’t sure it was permissible to laugh. “He thinks an Andinol boy is pulling our strings?”

She nodded without amusement.

“The Andinol boy we spent a year training just to hide from the consummate schemer he now manipulates?” Rain pressed, clearly still waiting for some punch line that escaped him.

“Yes,” she said. “Who hides so effectively from you and me now too—though it seems he’s here still, somewhere practically beneath our noses; clearly saw our urgent letter somewhere after all, yet still chooses to remain silent; has delivered to his friends a potentially devastating exposé of everything we urged him to conceal, and happened to be right there at the center of events, throwing geist stones at the flood, undetected by any of our kind, as our Ashilm was being stolen mere blocks away—by someone.” She had told Rain nothing yet about the two dead guardsmen. That still seemed more the River King’s news to disclose or withhold—and unnecessary right now anyway given the many other mysteries that had unfolded all at once in that flooded mile or two.

She let him think it through—as she’d been doing—and saw Rain’s skepticism waver. But he shook his head. “He’d need skills equal to or better than our best; skills he showed no sign of, ever, and could not possess in any case. In the end, my Lady, he is Andinol.”

“We’re certain of that?”

Rain stared at her, clearly unsure of whether she was joking. “My Lady, we both spent several years in close proximity to the boy and his bewildered helplessness. We watched him struggle through his training with the Stbrich family.”

“Not half the struggle we’d expected, as I recall.”

“Well, all right, he proved…receptive to the task…precocious even, for one of his kind, but had he been one of ours, more than minutes in his presence should have revealed that. The mental noise alone—”

“—can be tamed, as we ourselves trained him to do—assuming such training was ever needed to begin with.”

“He dreamed at night, my Lady! Dreams witnessed on more than one occasion.”

“As they might be witnessed in either of Mikayl’s sons, should they allow it.”

“You think him a half-breed, Lady? Even if that were so—and I must ask again, where are the signs of it?—this is the boy who saved your daughter’s life—and depended utterly on our care and protection for more than two years—which we gave him to unprecedented excess. Why should he turn on us now? What cause have we given him?”

“We took his life away, to start with. Does he not complain about the cost of hiding—right at the beginning of his tell-all? Who can say which of us he may blame for all of that?”

“As I recall, my Lady, he despaired completely of that life, and begged you to exchange it for some other—or so he reports, and you told me at the time.”

“Having no idea it might really happen,” any more than I did, she added silently, “as he also points out—repeatedly—in that document.”

Rain gazed at her in obvious consternation. “Lady, if I may ask it, what has really convinced you so suddenly of…such an unlikely seeming proposition?”

And here, again, lay the great frustration that had shaped her life these ten long years. The answer to his question—to so many questions—was readily available, if she were just allowed to speak it. But she saw no way to answer without pointing Rain right toward the secrets she’d been commanded to ‘tell no living soul’—though she longed to, more than ever now.

Until last night, she had assumed that Powers beyond her were responsible for all of this. If Jordan’s inexplicable prophecy hadn’t proven that, Rhymer’s impossible change later that same night had seemed to. She had also assumed the boy was merely tangent to some larger plan those Powers were pursuing, since he himself seemed so confused and helpless. Then the River King had argued for this ‘third party’ plot of which Rhymer might be part…and everything had shifted in her mind—was still shifting—in terrifying ways. Tonight we forge. Tonight we plant. Tonight we mend the hole… If this had all been part of some plan of the Powers, where was its result? Tonight, they’d said. It had been ten years now. Nothing had happened that night but Matthew Rhymer. Ten years later she saw no holes mended; if anything, the holes in everything around her were just growing wider.

The assumption that her private household should be unbreachable by any others of her kind didn’t prove it was. And she herself had not actually been present to see these Powers work Rhymer’s change. Once her horror at the existence of his manifesto had subsided, she had searched it desperately for any description of what he had experienced in those moments, or who had been present—hoping for exoneration without any breach of silence on her part at all. Hope of exactly such information from him had been more than half her reason for the ill-fated attempt to search Rhymer out again. But even the boy’s confessional had him merely gone to sleep an injured man, and woken up a boy—still presumably at her behest. And far worse, Rhymer’s account of that dreadful night had ended with his assertion of a comment she had no memory of making: ‘If this does not turn out as you imagine, remember that I warned against it.’ A damning line that seemed to prove the decision and the act of transformation had been hers. Had the boy simply misremembered? She knew memory played such tricks—particularly with moments of trauma. But, if not, then why would he have fabricated such a remark—except to damage her? …Or, it suddenly occurred to her to wonder, had Jordan’s ventriloquists used even her own mouth that night somehow?

For whatever reason, she had never thought before last night about how much more plausibly a grown man’s body might simply have been replaced with a normal, healthy boy during her brief absence from that alleyway. A boy carefully trained to ape the memories of that older man—just as Rain and Mikayl’s sons had trained Rhymer to edit those same memories out again. What if the ‘helpless child’ who’d chosen Matthew Rhymer, of all possible monikers, had not just been tangential to some greater plan at all? What if he had been the plan, himself—right from the start? What had she allowed into her realm, her home, her daughter’s life and her own?

But none of this did she dare say to Rain. Not before first proving that these new suspicions weren’t just dark fantasies themselves. One did not even contemplate defiance of the greater Powers without inviting disaster.

“My Lady?” Rain said. “If my questions trespass on some matter you’d prefer not to—”

“I’ve a thousand reasons for this admittedly strange concern, Chancellor, which I haven’t anything like sufficient energy or patience now to catalogue for you. For the sake of argument, let us just accept my premise, hypothetically, and leap to the question which concerns me most.”

“Of course.”

“The River King wonders if Rhymer might have become someone’s tool after vanishing. I now wonder if he might have been so right from the start.”

“You mean—even before he was…changed?”

“Yes.” Now it was her turn to pace. “How did a fifty-year-old Andinol man just happen to be passing that of all alleyways at such an hour to begin with, much less at the very moment my daughter needed rescuing?”

“He…explains all that, I think, right at the beginning of—”

“For whose benefit?” she interjected. “Who’s to say that document speaks true just because it wasn’t sent to us? In fact, who’s to say we weren’t its intended recipients all along?”

“Then why send it to them—and insist they hide it from—”

“Who has it now, Chancellor? And how did it come into our possession?” Rain just stared at her. “We have Rhymer’s tale at all,” she said, “because his former best friend just happened to be drowning in the middle of an unnatural flood—which Anselm still disclaims responsibility for, by the way, however he may let the small folk celebrate his authorship—surrounded by an army of River Folk, who were summoned by means of geist stones he just happened to possess. And look! This literary time bomb comes up in that very same net! Given this remarkable string of beads, it seems almost inevitable that the document would come to us before long, does it not? So, I ask again, who was this tale really written for?”

“Forgive me, Lady, but that string of beads seems much too remarkable to have been arranged by anyone, however brilliant. Just to orchestrate the first few lines of such a play, he’d have needed both foresight and control not only of the man who rescued Piper, but of both her and Anselm’s troll as well to have them all where and as they were. To have arranged that flood, and everything that came of it… I cannot credit even Anselm with sufficient skill to pull that many strings at once. There is such a thing as chance. And Rhymer’s memoir contains no smallest indication I can see of any…” He trailed off abruptly, his gaze turning inward.

“What is it?” she asked.

“How much of it have you read, my Lady?” he replied.

“I had very little time before my visit with the River King. I set it down just after his account of Piper’s ill-advised gift. Only a few hours sleep separate my return from last night’s meeting and this one. I assume you have read farther?”

“I’m well into his time with the Stbrich family, and…I must admit, I’ve been disturbed to notice more than one description of seemingly chance encounters with people who were clearly of our kind, but in places where it seemed they shouldn’t be, or engaged in conversations with him that seem…unlikely at best. While I’ve still seen nothing to suggest he was knowingly aware of, much less serving, some third party, these encounters…could, perhaps, have been early moves in…some recruitment effort.”

There it was again. Unlikely conversations… Like the strange comment Rhymer had attributed to her as they’d parted in the alleyway. Just how many people had been dummies for this mysterious ventriloquist—and what was its interest in Rhymer?

“Such as?” she asked, braced to hear the proof she had been dreading.

“The first example appears hardly more than—”

They were interrupted by a soft knock at Rain’s closed office door.

“What is it?” Rain called out.

“I’m here as requested, Chancellor,” came a muffled reply.

“About what?” he asked irritably. “I’m quite busy, and recall making no requests.”

“I was told here, or at whatever place I wished; it mattered not to The Lady,” said the voice. “Those were my precise instructions.”

With an apologetic glance at The Lady, Rain strode to the door in even greater agitation. But, as his hand fell upon the doorknob, he seemed to freeze. “Oh! Oh dear!” He turned to her in what seemed almost a panic. “My Lady, I believe your answer from the Archivist has arrived.”

It took a second to make sense of the statement, then she raised a hand to her mouth in dismay. She had expected a great deal more warning. “Well, let him in!”

Rain pulled the door open to reveal, not the man they had expected, but a liveried servant, nondescript, clearly female, and completely unfamiliar to her.

“May I come in then?” the young woman asked politely.

“…You are…whom?” Rain asked.

“Really, Chancellor?” She offered him a bemused smile. “Well, I do admire caution. An increasingly rare virtue lately; wouldn’t you agree?” She stepped in without further invitation. When he just continued staring at her, she said, “Best, perhaps, to close the door now?”

Rain blinked, and pushed it almost gently shut behind her. By the time he turned back around, it was a bear of a man, his lined and weathered face half hidden behind a graying, bushy beard and a thick wavy tumble of long, somewhat darker hair, who now stood before them in a tattered and disheveled robe of office. The Archivist was not a man to think about new clothing more than once or twice a century.

Rain bowed immediately, and The Lady curtsied, as even she must do before the Archivist, who turned to smile again at Rain.

“A pleasure to see you, Chancellor.”

“Your presence honors us deeply, sir,” Rain said, eyes cast at the floor. “Thank you so much for coming. I will leave you and The Lady to your business now, of course.” He reached for the doorknob once again.

“But, this is your office, Chancellor! I hesitate to chase you out of it.”

“You are entirely welcome here, sir. As it happens, I was just off on urgent business elsewhere.” He began pulling the door open. “Please, make yourselves comfortable—for as long as you wish, of course. I will see that you are undisturbed. Thank you again, sir. An honor.” He bowed a second time as he backed through the doorway. “Thank you,” he reiterated, pulling the door shut between them.

The Archivist turned to face The Lady with a wry expression. “So few people seem to think I’ve any interest beyond inconvenient questions anymore. Especially people with heads stuffed full of secrets. As if I hadn’t any thirst at all for simple company or social graces.”

He seemed in quite a jolly mood, though whether that meant good or ill for her was hard to tell. “You’ve taken us rather by surprise, sir, not that I’m complaining. I’m deeply relieved to see you, in fact.”

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “one of you is better than none.”

“May I ask about the, uh, masquerade, sir?”

He looked nonplussed. “Both your chancellor’s message and the manner of its delivery suggested considerable concern for discretion. Did you want everyone to know I’d come?”

She bit the inside of her lip, suppressing a blush. She really had expected time to prepare for this encounter, and did not believe for a minute he’d deprived her of it accidentally.

“So then…” He came past her to sit down in one of the two leather upholstered chairs before Rain’s desk. “What shall we talk about?”

She sat down in the other. “The list has grown, I fear, since Rain’s inquiry was sent.”

“He did not actually say anything at all about what you wished to discuss.”

She nodded, apologetically. “I did not tell him.”

“Intriguing. What’s first then?”

An important question, that. The outcome of this exchange must be made as unavoidable as it must also seem unintended—which meant starting with some topic worthy of such audience, yet unrelated to its real purpose. The River King had inadvertently been very helpful there. But all the pieces after that must line up perfectly in ways amenable to the strict and complicated rules defining any conversation with the Archivist.

He was allowed to initiate nothing, only to respond, and then only to precisely what had been said or asked of him—no more, no less. He could ask no substantive questions of his own unless invited to by someone present, and even then, only to clarify some point already raised. Nor could he offer advice of any kind, even if asked to.

He was allowed some limited control: the right to silence, for one, under any circumstance; and he could refuse anyone’s request to speak with him—even The Lady’s. Lying to him was forbidden and carried dreadful penalties for anyone stupid enough to try. Though he did not literally know everything, he knew so much more than anyone else could hope to that it came to much the same thing. Knowing and preserving every story—without altering or steering any of them—was his all-consuming mandate. Among a people so profoundly immersed in illusion, someone had to know the truth, if it were knowable, and be equipped to spot any lie, no matter how convincing. The realm’s whole viability depended on this.

He was nearly a thousand years old—twice the age most of their kind had any hope of seeing—and had served the realm as Archivist since long before The Lady’s mother had moved it to this continent from Europe. Even so, The Lady herself was not likely to outlive him by long, if at all. Measures to increase longevity, forbidden or simply too difficult and expensive for most others, were allowed him without cost. The chances that he would be unaware of, much less fooled by anything she did here were virtually null. The chance of fooling any of the actual Powers was nonexistent. But fooling anyone was not her purpose here. Not exactly, anyway.

“I fear the realm is threatened, sir, and my rule endangered. Alarming mysteries assail us from a growing multitude of directions, some of which, at least, I hope you can shed light on.”

He nodded, but said nothing. She knew the rules of engagement here better than anyone but himself. This was hardly their first conversation—even of the current century.

“Was the recent storm an unnatural act of power?” she began.

His brows rose. “I’d assumed that fact clear even to our toddlers.”

“Of course, sir. But there are occasions when common and obvious wisdom proves mistaken nonetheless. I felt it best to make sure.”

He nodded. “Caution is wise, as I so recently observed.”

“Was Anselm responsible for that storm?” The Lady asked next. If anyone in the realm might know for sure, it would be this man.

“The question can be answered in too many ways, my Lady.”

Hmmm… “Did that storm result from song cast personally by Anselm?”

“I do not believe so.”

“Really! Then whose… Did Anselm order someone else to craft such song?”

The Archivist looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. “I do not believe so.”

She had expected these questions to be perfunctory; mere preamble to the real substance of her inquiry. Now she was…confused. “Am I still asking the question…incorrectly?”

He considered this. “A different frame may, of course, produce different results.”

She pursed her lips. She couldn’t ask him what the proper frame might be. Any answer to that question would constitute advice, which he was forbidden to give. There’d be no point in asking whether Anselm had wanted the event to happen. He had clearly relished it—which proved nothing about culpability. She decided to let the matter go for now. She had more important questions, whose answers might unlock the right approach to this one.

“During the Saddle flood, one of our Ashilm warehouses was robbed of all its contents. Are you aware of this?”

“I am.”

Of course he was. It wasn’t worth further distraction to ask how. “Was Anselm responsible for that theft?”

“I am in possession of no evidence to that effect, my Lady.”

The trend emerging here was not what she’d expected. Had the River King been right? “Are you in possession of evidence pointing to some other culprit?”

“That question can be answered in too many ways as well, my Lady.”

“I have recently been alerted to a rumor that some unknown individual or cabal may be working covertly to foment increased conflict between Anselm and myself. Are you in possession of evidence that supports that notion?”

His gaze grew sharper. One corner of his mouth rose slowly into a crooked smile. “That might explain a great many things, in fact.”

She stared back at him, unsure of what she had just heard. “Are you suggesting that it might be true?”

“Poorly framed, my Lady. Almost anything might be true. And I am not permitted to ‘suggest.’”

“Is the rumor true, sir?” she asked, struggling to edit the impatience from her voice.

“I don’t know.”

Now her brows rose—and kept rising. Had she truly just told the Archivist something of which he’d been completely unaware? If so, it was the first time she had ever heard of such a thing. Or was the River King’s hunch so completely baseless that there’d just never been anything for the Archivist to have known about? ‘This might explain many things’ hardly sounded like dismissal. She wanted very badly—might even need—to know what things those were, but she could fire questions in the dark forever without chancing to aim true, and she had nothing like such time. She’d be lucky to enjoy another thirty minutes of the Archivist’s morning. She’d been lucky he had come at all. And then she realized her chance had just arrived—so much sooner and more simply than she had imagined.

“Sir, I’ve turned to you because I feel a knife pointed at my back, somewhere in the darkness. In fact, I fear the blade already thrown. But every effort to discover its location, its direction or speed, simply leaves me more uncertain. None of your answers so far—to what I’d thought the simplest questions—have produced the answers I’d expected. You surely know a great many things which might equip me to identify this threat and fend it off, but I’m less certain now of what I’m looking for than when we began, and fear to lose this moment without having found a single proper question, much less the answers that I need.”

The Archivist looked puzzled, even sympathetic, turning his palms up helplessly. “Lady, you know best of any that I may not advise you, or offer any answer not precisely asked for.”

“I do,” she said, sadly. She looked down and sighed, making no effort, for once, to disguise the weariness and anxiety that she had always been required to mask—even from her daughter. Let him think her desperate beyond all caution, and interpret what came next in light of that. “But I am allowed to invite your questions, am I not?”

He sat up and stared at her, his brows arched almost comically. “My Lady?”

“I fear that caution is a virtue I no longer feel able to afford. I’ll learn far more, much faster, from your questions than I will from mine, I think. At this moment, that may be worth…any price. Ask your questions well, sir, and I will answer truthfully.” They both understood the bargain she was making. It bent no letter of the law, if being, perhaps, not quite so faithful to its spirit. Her hopes now hung on two questions. Would he allow it? And would he ask the questions she expected of him?

As he sat in pensive silence, studying her, she let all her glamours go—for the first time, even in her sleep, since she had been a girl. She sat before him now in the simple linen shift she really wore, allowing him the sight of all that five hundred years and more had done to the flesh still hanging from her frail bones for all her own advantages and potent songs to slow the price of time. She was not here to hide.

To her great surprise, he did the same.

Suddenly, his reed-thin, nut-brown limbs and withered torso were a gnarled jumble of dry kindling in the chair. He wore nothing now except a knee-length pair of muslin breeches. His hairless head seemed over-large, his face the wrinkled visage of a starving child. The weight of sadness and acceptance in his large, dark, rheumy eyes made her close her own against the threat of tears. She had intended to convey the depth of her sincerity and need—perhaps to shock him into acquiescence. She had not expected this reciprocation. Such mutual exposure was…rarer than eclipse among their kind…as intimate as sex and as innocent as childhood. She had not anticipated…could never have imagined…

“As you know, my Lady,” croaked the pile of kindling before her, “I am required by law to make sure you understand the limits and potential costs of this exchange.”

She nodded, reopening her eyes and forcing herself to confront that withered gaze. Upon reflection, he looked…somewhat better than she’d have expected. “I know the rules, sir.”

He nodded slowly. “Nonetheless, I am required to explain, before we seal this agreement, that you may not leave any question I might ask unanswered, nor respond with anything you know to be misleading or untrue, on pain of being deprived of song forever, and banishment thereafter. Nor may I ask you any question not clearly pertinent to clarification of questions or statements you have already voiced, and may continue voicing throughout this exchange.” He was trying, she realized, to make very sure she understood her path here. Kind of him, though quite unnecessary. “Do you understand all I have said?”

“I do,” she replied.

“And you still wish to grant me power of questioning?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, my Lady.” He gave her a fragile smile. “I have long wondered when this day would come.”

I had never imagined it could, she thought.

“In regard to your questions of Anselm’s involvement, and the possibilities of some other conspiracy, I must ask first why, for the past three weeks, covert functionaries of this realm’s three greatest powers have circled ’round an Andinol boy named Dustin Clarke like flies around a rotten pudding. Is he the Andinol boy that Anselm has long accused you of harboring for some illicit purpose seven to ten years ago?”

And here we go, she thought with mixed relief and dread. “He is not.”

He gazed at her, then nodded. “In regard to the same topic, do you know who Matthew Rhymer is?”

Well, he wasn’t going to beat around the bush—not that she’d expected him to. But she mustn’t seem too quick or comfortable in answering. That could only spoil any hope of ambiguity about what was happening here. “I suspect you already know the answer to that question, sir.”

“That is not an answer, Lady.”

“No, sir. I apologize. Matthew Rhymer is the boy that Anselm has accused me of harboring in some nefarious way.”

“He does exist then.”

“How long have you known, sir?”

He gave her the slightest ghost of another smile. “Very nearly from the start.”

She had more or less assumed so, for as long. But it settled her somehow to know for sure. “How did you learn of him?” she asked.

His smile became a grin. “Do you truly imagine, Lady, that a lad brought to your keep wrapped in open combat and an accidental death would escape my notice—or that the stories you put out to cover that misstep would confuse an Archivist?”

“No, sir. I guess I didn’t.”

“Let us not waste time then. Where did this boy come from?”

And here was the moment she’d been aiming for—and dreading. He doubtless knew the facile answers they’d been giving to that question when they’d had to, just as fully as he’d known the rest. But they both knew as well that those answers weren’t true. “With profound respect, and sincere apologies, I am forbidden to answer that question, sir.”

The pile of kindling straightened so abruptly that she half expected it to clatter. He stared at her with eyes gone wide. “That is not an answer,” he said sharply.

“It is the only honest answer I am free to give you, sir.”

To this, he said nothing—only went on staring at her as the chancellor’s office clock ticked suddenly more loudly. “I may do no more favors for The Lady of this realm than I may do for the meanest of its citizens. You understand this.” It was not a question.

“I do, and ask you to bend nothing for me. I am forbidden to answer this question. That is an answer, and it is true. My life and rule are in your hands.”

His head tilted. “Why did you shelter Matthew Rhymer?”

“I am not permitted to answer that question either, sir.”

He shook his head, in clear confusion now. “Who forbids or permits the ruler of this entire realm from anything at all, much less from answering a question of the Archivist’s?”

“I am forbidden to answer that question too.”

The Archivist’s mouth fell open in astonishment, then snapped shut again. It was anger she saw blooming on that wizened face now. She had hoped—foolishly, it seemed—that this might work. Now she wondered if she would survive it. Not that she saw, even now, any better hope of dealing with this matter once it escaped containment, as she had no doubt it would soon.

“Why have you done this?” the Archivist demanded.

“Just as I said, to acquire information I can’t know to ask for,” she replied. “Will you really not ask me any useful questions at all, given what I’ve clearly paid to hear them?”

“What good can any answers you might glean do, if I am forced to condemn you before the arbiters? Have you no appreciation of the trust I’ve placed in you?” In a blink, the pile of human kindling became once again the bearded bear who had first joined her here.

She flinched away from the sudden resumption of his glamours, as if from a slap. The retraction of his trust—the jarring severance of…what they had shared—cause her almost physical pain; an exotic new variety of grief. Nonetheless, she remained as she was: visible and vulnerable. “I do appreciate it, sir, deeply and completely; as my current state should evidence.” She struggled to keep her voice from shaking. “Do you understand what I entrusted you with in electing to invite your questions?” She straightened her ancient spine, and leaned forward to gaze straight into his eyes. “You have known me since my birth, honored Archivist. Look as deeply as such knowledge and your skills allow, and find any trace of falsehood when I tell you that I am not trying to protect the boy, my household, or myself. I would surrender my throne if that were all it took to give you better answers. I’d have been overjoyed to give them to my chancellor, or even my own daughter, many years ago. But I am truly not permitted to.”

“You are not permitted not to!” he shouted—more in anguish than in anger, she now saw. He’d not come here thinking to destroy her—clearly still wanted not to, very badly.

Did he think that was what she wanted? What she had entrapped him into doing for some reason? “Two truths, incompatible, yet occupying the same space,” she said sadly. “Who should better understand how frequently that happens than you must, sir? …So, what am I to do?” She leaned back, waiting for an answer he could not provide without having offered her ‘advice.’ Cat got your tongue? she thought. Constraints of some kind hover over all of us. She could only hope it did, at least, turn out to have been some actual Power who had brought her to this end, not just a clever charlatan.

He leaned toward her anxiously. “One last time, my Lady, I beg you to provide some answer. Any tiny fragment of the truth would be sufficient to satisfy the law.”

“And I can only answer, once again, that I am truthfully forbidden to give any living soul the answers you have asked for.”

For a moment, he continued staring at her. Then shook his head with an expression of transparent grief, got slowly to his feet, and went to stand before a window with his back to her.

She had tried. What better choice had she possessed?

The silence stretched. And stretched—until she saw him stiffen, and heard his sharp intake of breath. He turned to stare at her again, his head tilted, his eyes as bright and fierce as a hawk’s. “Can that be it?” he asked, so softly that she wasn’t sure which of them he was addressing. “My Lady, how well do you recall the ballad of Cethalia’s Doom?”

In her all but naked state, The Lady’s whole attention was required for a moment just to monitor and manage her face, her mind, her body, her breathing and even her pulse, lest her triumph and relief reveal themselves in any way. Cethalia had been Lady of an ancient realm, who chose to disregard a Power’s instructions, for what seemed the best of reasons. Her entire kingdom had paid the dreadful price of that misjudgment. “Well…somewhat, sir. What person of my age, or yours, would not? Has that some bearing on these matters?”

“You tell me,” he replied, his voice fiercer than his eyes. “A simple yes or no will do.”

She stared at him in hopefully convincing imitation of confusion, then shook her head. “If so, I cannot see what it might be.”

He looked hard at her for another moment, then smiled grimly. “I see. …Of course you can’t.” He shook his head, just slightly, and came striding back to take his seat again. “I see now what you’ve done—and very skillfully. A dreadful risk to take, if a maneuver worthy of your station. I just can’t see why you’ve done it.”

“Sir, I have no idea what—”

He cut her off with an impatient wave. “As I cannot be allowed to see, or even admit to seeing. I understand that now, and will respect the fact until this matter has had time to clarify itself before deciding what to do. For now, my Lady, your silence is still safe with me.”

She dared not even thank him, for fear of all that might imply.

As their silence stretched again, she saw his gaze turn inward as a troubled expression bloomed slowly on his face. “My Lady…have you any curiosity about what I might say to you if I were free to speak?”

“Of course!”

He looked at her, uncomfortably, but said nothing more.

“Oh, forgive me. Sir, what would you say to me if you were free to speak?”

His eyes slid away from her. “I would tell you that the gift of…your disclosure…what we just…” He shook his head, as if impatient with himself, and looked back at her intently. “What we have shared, and the honor you continue to extend, is of no small consequence to me. But…I fear that it has unsettled me so greatly that...”

“I’m sorry, sir.” She reached inward to rebuild what she had set aside. “Have I—”

“No! Please!” He raised a hand to stop her. “Thank you for asking, but I meant no complaint! Only to confess that the…power of this moment seems to have distracted me so badly that…I am not certain whether I’ve properly conformed to the boundaries law requires of me.”

“How so, sir? Nothing in our conversation seemed amiss to me.”

“Except the fact that I’ve inserted so much of…myself into it,” he said sadly.

She looked back at him, filled with yet another kind of heartbreak at the fact that…just becoming visible to one another—for a moment—might violate the law they’d both spent their lives defending. Given all that hung upon such formal interviews, the Archivist was bound by oath to remain a function, not a man: not present to the exchanges he officiated, but for the execution of his task. But, for those few minutes, he had been more present to her—and she to him—than either of them had likely been to…anyone at all. In centuries.

“People such as we…” Her throat cramped closed painfully around the words, their intention smothered by her reflexive, internal censor. For people like themselves, emotional display of any kind was fraught with exaggerated meaning—and potential consequence—far beyond their own intent, whatever that might be. She reached again for her discarded glamours, and stepped back into the lovely fortress, bristling with its spires and gilded weaponry, from which she piloted the world—while keeping it at bay. Centuries ago, when she’d been just a child in her mother’s European garden, she had eaten something growing there because she thought it beautiful. She’d learned two things that day: that poison could be wrapped in beauty, and how the use of purgatives made one feel: just as it felt now to don ‘The Lady’ once again, though now, like then, the pain was unavoidable.

“People such as we,” she said more steadily, in possession—or denial—of herself again, depending on perspective, “are still people, sir, whatever we or others may wish. I can recall no lapse on your part, and if you can, I beg you not to tell me, so that I may still deny it under oath, if ever I’m required to.”

This elicited a wan smile from the Archivist. “I cannot actually recall now…precisely what I may have asked or said for some time here.” He hung his head. “And that remark, itself, was not permitted, any more than this one is. If ever I am asked about it under oath…” he shrugged, “you understand that I will have no choice but to disclose my failure today in full.”

“As The Lady of this realm, I thank and honor you for that, Archivist. The realm is balanced upon your integrity, and please believe your sacrifice is recognized by me. But I must also warn you now that if I am ever asked to testify against you in regard to this grave dereliction, I intend to lie in any way required to see you exonerated.” She smiled at him prettily. “I tell you this in hopes it will equip you to be certain you are elsewhere when it happens.”

A single bark of bitten-off laughter escaped him before his face grew sad again. “This whole encounter is a scandal, Lady. I fear I have not helped you much by coming here, and hope with all my heart that I am never asked about it—anywhere for any reason.”

“As do I,” she conceded. “But, whatever you may think, your presence here has been a comfort to me.” She rose from her chair to go look out of a window lest the Archivist feel pressured to contrive some reply. “So, are we finished then?”

“There is still the matter of ‘more useful questions,’ I believe. You invited me to ask them, and there are still things I would know, if you’ll allow it. We would resume careful observance of the proper forms, of course.”

“Of course,” she said, returning to her chair. “What harm can there be left to do? Lay on, Macduff.”

He gave her a dubious look. “This part should pose no mortal threat, my Lady.” He looked pensively away, then asked, “In regard to the rumor you raised earlier, does ‘the green flame’ conjure any meaning or memory for you?”

“…No. Is that…an object of some kind?”

He shook his head. “It is just a phrase I’ve heard from time to time in passing, here and there out in the world of late.”

“What meaning does it have for you, sir?”

“It seems associated with a place, or perhaps…a philosophy of some kind. You are certain you have never heard it uttered?”

She thought long and hard. “Never that I can recall. I shall listen for it now, of course.”

He nodded. “On the same topic, has the name ‘Jack the Candle’ any meaning?”

“No,” she said, sure she would remember anything so colorful. “Who is that?”

“Someone I’ve heard mentioned in tandem with references to the green flame. You’re certain no one has ever spoken this name in your hearing either?”

She shook her head. “Have you some reason to expect that someone would have?”

“…No, Lady. I just saw no reason to pass up this…rather singular opportunity to ask.”

The pause preceding his answer had been so brief that she’d have thought nothing of it in any normal conversation. Here, however, it seemed full of portent. If he had expected her to recognize these names for some reason, could he have chosen to withhold that fact—despite her question? She didn’t think so. Not according to the rules—unless her framing of it had provided him an out. “Have you any suspicions about who Jack the Candle is?”

“Sadly, it’s not yet even clear to me whether it is the name of a living person or just some figure from obscure folktales I’ve never happened to encounter.” He paused again, his expression pensive. “In regard to your inquiries about Anselm’s role in all of this, Lady, have you any idea why a man named Jonah, who seems exceptionally lowly, may have been a rather privileged guest at Anselm’s home these past few weeks?”

“I have not. Do you know anything more?”

“He was overheard bragging just last night, at a very humble dining establishment down in the Saddle, about the delicacies he’d been fed there. He did seem convincingly familiar with the usual contents of Anselm’s table.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of any of it, I assure you, sir—though I will bring this to Rain’s immediate attention as well.”

“As you wish, my Lady.”

His pause was very long this time. He seemed to study her, looking anxious and unsure.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“There is a great deal wrong, my Lady, everywhere, at any given moment. Have you some more useful question for me?”

It seemed a rather rude response, but he did not look scornful or impatient. He seemed… What question would he find useful? But, of course, he’d already shown her how to solve this problem. “Sir, what would you say to me right now, if you were free to speak?”

“I might ask when you last saw your son, my Lady?”

“Kobahl?” She was not quite able to cover her surprise this time. What had her son to do with this—or with the Archivist? Their agreement still in play, she was required to answer honestly. “As it happens, sir, I saw my son last night. May I inquire why you ask this?”

“I ask because I wish to say that I have had the pleasure of observing him on numerous occasions recently, my Lady, given his conspicuous station in the world, and find him quite impressive. I particularly admire his interest in, and respect for, the common people of his father’s realm. He spends a great deal of time among them, and seems to understand their lives and concerns…so much more deeply and…take them so much more seriously than so many of his more privileged peers do. I think he shows promise to be one of this realm’s more memorable rulers, when his time arrives. It is fortunate that his formation has been so well seen to.”

High praise from one of the realm’s most powerful men. And she certainly agreed with all of it. But…what was it doing here, in this conversation? Why did this expression of esteem for her son leave her feeling…so chilled? “Is there…some other question here, sir? What are you suggesting?”

His expression softened. “Again, I am not permitted ‘suggest,’ Lady. I just wished to acknowledge what a treasure your son is. Was it his father then, who introduced you to this rumor of conspiracy, while you were visiting your son last night?”

“Yes,” she said, feeling more out of her depth with every sentence.

The Archivist nodded to himself. “I am relieved to hear it.”

“Relieved…in what way, sir?”

“Oh, just to know the River King is not unaware of this possibility as he strives to untangle the deaths of his two guardsmen.”

She was, once again, not much surprised he knew already. “You do not know who killed them, then?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. But the River King’s concern is…growing on me.”

Which said what about her fears regarding Rhymer? “Then the times are far more perilous than I had imagined, sir.”

“In regard to which,” he said, “I would ask you one last question, Lady.”

“Yes?”

“What things might come of love neglected?”

This…in regard to perilous times? Whatever that connection was, she felt he must have stretched it to the breaking point. But then, what boundaries had not been pushed to breaking here this morning? “You’ve lost me now, entirely, sir. I…do not understand the question well enough to answer.”

His face grew sad. “That is my fear, precisely.”

“Please explain yourself.”

He leaned toward her earnestly. “In times as full of threat as these appear to be, my Lady, a great deal may rest on how well we are able to keep those who matter most in focus and in close proximity. Treasure attracts all manner of attention, and may be stolen far more easily than one supposes—as illustrated by your empty warehouse in the Saddle.”

She sat gaping at him. “Are you…giving me advice, sir?”

“By all the Powers, no,” he said, climbing to his feet again. “Just explaining myself—as you asked me to, did you not?”

She stood as well, as he turned to face the office doorway with a look of something like regret. “I’ve a great deal more business to attend to now than I did an hour ago, I fear. It’s been a…fascinating conversation. The most interesting I’ve had in…well, many centuries.” He turned back to face her, then looked down, struggling, she realized, to maintain his composure. A moment later, he looked up again, right into her eyes. “It is a rare and humbling gift, my Lady, to be seen at all, much less accepted.”

She understood him all too clearly this time, and dropped into a curtsy far deeper than etiquette required, just to break their gaze. When she rose, he was already at the doorway.

“Good luck, my Lady.” He gave her a crooked grin. “I look forward to our next encounter. In another hundred years.”

“With any luck,” she said as he stepped out into the hallway, a plain, liveried serving girl again, and closed the door behind him.

When the sound of footsteps down the hall had ceased, she turned and dropped back into the chair in front of Rain’s desk before her legs gave out. It had worked. If you lie to none, but of our part, you tell no living soul. Be that what they’d meant or not, it was what they’d said, and she’d come close to losing everything she had and was to meet their terms precisely, neither telling him a single lie, nor any word of their part—whoever they might still really prove to be.

Now, if Anselm had her called to trial—as she expected he would do before much longer—the Archivist would understand what she had never told him, and so be able to defend her under oath against all that Anselm would claim revealed by this supposed miracle of hers. Whether the Archivist would choose to do so, she could neither control, nor predict, but at least there was some possibility of hope where there’d been none before.

Now all that remained for her to do was solve the other hundred puzzles that still swirled about that one. Jack the Candle? Jonah, and a green flame?

What things might come of love neglected?

Who could have imagined they would end up playing the same game with one another? But, while the Archivist had clearly solved her riddle, she had not solved his.

What love? What neglect? What had he been trying to make her see—without ever having told her to, of course? …He was right. What a scandal this would set ablaze, if it ever came to light, though there was nothing to be done about that now but hope it never did.

END OF SEASON ONE.

EPISODE 53 WILL KICK OFF SEASON TWO OF ‘TWICE’ ON JULY 1O, 2020.

LOTS MORE ADVENTURE TO COME! SEE YOU IN JULY!