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In the morning, Princess Gabriele found that she was sore down below. No one had told her to expect this. But she clung to it; it was perhaps the only certain thing in her life.

The previous night, after the womanhood ceremony, had been a blur. The bloody sheet, evidence of her passing girlhood, had been presented publicly, much as the sign of her first menses had; there had been a long, ritualized ceremony, in which Queen Meralina officially invested her as heir-apparent to the throne of Eretria. She had been half-asleep throughout all of it, her body evidently exhausted by the outpouring of energy during the womanhood ceremony. And when she could be bothered to be awakened, her thoughts whirled chaotically around the idea of one man.

Marcus Demitri, private name Jordan. First Lance to Princess-Heir Gabriele Basingame of Eretria.

There were many surprises to that man. He had said more than she expected, with greater candor. There was a certain wisdom to him. And he had performed admirably last night--more than admirably. She didn't think there were many men in the Silver City who could have bested him. Though probably many that she might have liked better personally.

It was clear that they had picked well, in any case: if he put his mind to it, he could clearly do anything.

But who was he?

The Lady Violet Demitri had always been a frail woman. Catheryne did not remember much of her, as she had been only six when the woman died. But she had never been well-liked among the nobility of Eretria: too delicate, too squeamish, too reserved; and, it had been whispered, too impaired; she might have been one of the 'slower' children all women eventually heard about and viewed with some mixture of pity and despair. What if I were to give birth to such an... Impaired child? And with her less-capable intellect had come a delicate constitution; many an event at the Royal Court had brought her to a faint. And Catheryne vaguely remembered her husband--what had his name been? Corlan?--Corlan Demitri, a lord by marriage if not by breeding, who had always been there to catch her when she fell.

Like all good Winters, Catheryne had never understood why the Lady Violet would marry a Summer savage. Now, thinking of the need to have someone standing by at all times, she thought she understood.

She remembered him vaguely: a tall, well-built man, but gentle, with an air of constant smiles about him; his skin a warm brown, his hair brassy. She had never spoken to him unless compelled to do so. Now, with the vantage of years, she saw that she had been wrong to do so. Summers were terrible, monstrous people, it was true, but surely not all of them; there must be exceptions. After all, if all Summers really did eat their newborn children, how would the race perpetuate? Perhaps Corlan Demitri had been one of the civilized ones. (Clearly he had not eaten his child.) Now it was too late to know.

Their marriage had been intensely private, but whispers around the palace suggested that their only child, Marcus, had been born less than nine months after the wedding. The two were rarely seen in public, even more rarely seen apart. The young Demitri made no appearance at all until the age of five, when he was already a precocious learner. Catheryne peered through the dim mists of memory: had he ever smiled then? He might have. Once upon a time.

But only a few months later, Corlan Demitri was dead, under suspicious circumstances that no one cared to investigate; when Marcus was six, his mother finished wasting away and joined her husband in the hereafter. And the boy had not been known to smile again.

He had always been smart, but now he grew unpleasant; impatient, direct, sarcastic, forgoing the usual polite and flowery language of the court. He seemed to know everything and did not hide that fact behind modesty. He made no new friends and lost old ones. When, at the age of eleven, he disappeared--now she knew he had gone to train with the Night Blades--no one had been sorry to see him go.

But who was he?

It was the decision to train with the Night Blades that was most curious. He had gone voluntarily, this was certain. For a fee--for an exorbitant fee--the Night Blades would train anyone, though they admitted candidly that all the money in the world could not teach a man who lacked the aptitude and skills necessary to be a good fighter. The ones with the money, perhaps knowing this, instead sent their personal soldiers or bodyguards. Others had been known to be kidnapped for training, but they were not allowed to go free, so Marcus could not be one of them. Any trained and blooded Night Blade was allowed to go his own way (or her, for female assassins, while rare, were not unknown), but must return, as compelled by their loyalty oath, when ordered to by the High Mark. (In Marcus's case, this would have to be dealt with; a First Lance could not have divided loyalties.) Catheryne knew all this because it was common knowledge; because the Night Blades would talk, quite readily, about themselves, their training and their profession when asked to. It was this willingness to divulge their own secrets that was, perhaps, the most alarming thing about them; it was as if they had nothing to fear.

And one of them was now her First Lance.

Catheryne realized in those moments that she would be remembered in the Court Histories as either the most well-protected Queen of Eretria, or the most stupid.

Nurse knocked on the door. "Milady? It's quite late, milady, nine o'th' clock. You've much to do today."

And then the voice of her First Lance: "If you don't come out, we'll have to come in and make sure you've not been harmed during the night."

What would her future be like, with Marcus Demitri as her First Lance?

She supposed she would soon find out. After all, it was no longer a question for speculation. It wasn't her future anymore. It was now.

Usually she would spend mornings in education--being tutored in a variety of subjects by a variety of people, mostly Queen Meralina's retainers or her father's. There was a great deal to know when one was to be a queen. But as she ate her breakfast a messenger came from her father, with news.

The Princess-Heir being an important part of Eretrian national identity, the Queen's throne room had, and had always had, a smaller, lesser throne to one side, reserved for the Princess-Heir. Catheryne had been told that it was a lesson in humility: that the queen could never look over her shoulder but that she would see her replacement, standing by; in the distance, true, but not that far off. It provided the Princess-Heir with plenty of practical experience in the runnings of the court, of the state, of the nation. And it was a reminder to the Queen that what she did now would have repercussions later--and to the Princess, who was obliged to speak her mind if asked to do so, or if the Queen's judgment seemed erroneous.

She called her First Lance over. "No lessons today."

Marcus looked at the sheet of paper; she spun it around so that he could see it normally, but from the movement of his eyes, she thought he might have read it upside-down. "The throne room?"

"All morning," she groaned. "Listening to boring reports and petitions and complaints."

"It could be worse," he said, expressionless. "The Queen sits there all day."

Yes, but the Queen isn't sore from last night, Catheryne thought extraneously.

And so it was that Princess Gabriele Basingame sat in the throne room for the first time. Her father, as befitting the First Lance of Eretria, stood to the left of and slightly behind the Silver Throne, his hands clasped behind his back; further behind and to the right was Catheryne's smaller throne. Its seat was cushioned, but that was not enough to dull its sharp edges and painfully straight back. It was gold, for some reason, not silver. And she was almost scared to touch the chair at all, for fear of damaging any of its gilding or enamels or inset jewels, which looked all well and good from where the Queen's subjects would stand, but on closer inspection appeared to be held in place with spit and beeswax. It would be a fine spectacle if she were to destroy the throne in front of some snot-nosed lordling come to complain about a broken fence. All in all, this was not a seat for slumping in. Posture was all well and good, of course, but her deportment tutors had probably never had to sit in a deathtrap chair for hours on end.

Jordan assessed the situation and took up a parallel position to Lord Basingame, but on the right side of the Princess's throne instead of the left. Instantly he knew he had guessed well: his booted feet found worn depressions in the carpet, the footprints of a thousand other First Lances who had once stood where he stood now.

The chamberlain's voice rang: "Presenting, to Queen Meralina, the Jewel of the Rose Crown, the Flame of the Silver Halls: Master James Rademacher, of the Outdistrict of the Silver City, with a petition of law against..."

Catheryne had been roused at nine in the morning and had assumed the throne a half hour later. At half past noon, the queen called a short pause in the audiences while she and hers were served lunch. Catheryne felt that she had been there for at least twelve hours by that point, and was thankful that, in the afternoon, she would return to her normal activities. The next audience, the Queen declared, would be the last of the morning.

And so Catheryne was surprised to see the man who walked in.

"Presenting..." The chamberlain's voice hitched for a moment. "Erm. Excuse me, Your Majesty. Presenting, the Chosen of Kyrei, Heir to the Ebbs and Tides of Magic, Mage Kenneth Tilmitt. Err. Of Seneca."

Catheryne had to consciously prevent a double take as the man walked in. From Seneca? It was known that Kenneth Tilmitt was one of those fearful creatures who walked on the whispers of magic, but he was also a Summer? He was not as dark of skin as most Summers, but there were dark Winters, perhaps he had managed to pass himself off as one. But wouldn't his actions, his lack of breeding, his manners have given him away? Oh, to be sure, Seneca was the least uncivilized of those nations, but that was like saying that a rabid dog was less dangerous than a rabid wolf. And this man had sponsored her First Lance? And her father had let him?

Catheryne could not see the queen--she was blocked by her monstrous throne--but she thought, from what she could see of her father's back, that he seemed nervous and uncertain. She risked breaking protocol for a glance at Jordan. He seemed calm and unconcerned.

Master Tilmitt bowed to them in turn. "My Lord Basingame. Princess. My Lord Lance." Then, to Catheryne's surprise, he went to one knee before the throne. "Your Majesty."

"Rise, Master Tilmitt," the Queen said, a trace of amusement in her voice. "Forgive us if we offend, but it is rare to meet a Summer with such courtly manners."

"Your Majesty honors me," Master Tilmitt said. "It is a function-perhaps of the times. We have less of kings and queens in Summerside--it's towards-more presidents and ministers now--and thus we are afforded less chance to practice."

There was polite laughter all around.

"What brings you here, then, Master Tilmitt," the Queen asked. "We trust you have not been harassed on behalf of your... Persuasion."

"On the contrary, no," Master Tilmitt said. "I have been treated-kindly-very here--" His Summer accent was grating, Gabriele thought, but not impossible to decipher. "--or, at the least-very, been-simply left in peace. Nonetheless, it is my... Persuasion, as you put it, that brings me here this morning."

There was a slight hesitation on the Queen's part, but Catheryne was fairly sure everyone heard it. "Speak."

"Over the course of the Trials," Master Tilmitt said, "it has come to my attention that several of the Silver Court are... Heir to the talents which I possess."

Catheryne stared. There were mages here in the Palace. Mages.

"What concern is that of ours," Queen Meralina asked, her voice markedly colder.

"Well, you see," said Master Tilmitt carefully, clearly aware of the precarious ground he trod on. "There are, of mages, two kinds. Some can be taught merely the Gift--taught to touch the Flow, and mold it and shape it to their will. But others, as we say it, have the spark--it is not that they can channel the Flow, it is that they will. Inevitably. The two of your court who have the Gift also have the spark; and, for reasons-obvious, it is dangerous for them to go untrained."

"What concern is that of ours," Queen Meralina said again. "Take them, as you do the other children you steal, and train them."

If Kenneth Tilmitt was offended by the suggestion (not entirely untrue) that mages stole children from their homes, he did not show it. "I would, Your Majesty, but it would be..." He racked his brain for an appropriate word. It was hard to explain the delicate nuances of the situation. Certainly it was best for the young ones to be trained in the wild, in solitude, away from the prejudices of parents and neighbors and friends, but in this case, such a thing could not be done. "It would be inappropriate. To say the least. The two I refer to are sitting and standing just behind you."

Queen Meralina and Lord Basingame looked over their left shoulders simultaneously. Behind them, they saw nothing. Then, again in tandem, they looked over their right shoulders, where they saw the two to whom Tilmitt was referring: the Princess-Heir Gabriele Basingame, and her First Lance Marcus Demitri.

Catheryne saw her father's eyes widen, saw the Queen's eyes widen, felt her mouth fall open in defiance of all propriety. Me. He means me. He's saying I... He's saying I have the...

The Queen turned her head away and was again swallowed by the back of the throne. When she spoke again, her voice was heavy. "We understand."

"I am sorry to bring this news to you, Your Majesty," Master Tilmitt said, his voice genuinely contrite. "I can understand what distress must accompany it. But we of my persuasion have a saying: 'As Kyrei wills, so will--' "

"Yes, I am aware of your saying, thank you," said the Queen, forgetting the royal we in the intensity of the moment. It was hardly unique to the mages. Catheryne felt numb lips, her own, moving in the shape of the phrase: As Kyrei wills, so will it be done.

Marcus Demitri, First Lance to the Princess-Heir of Eretria, looked without moving his head at his charge. Gabriele was slumped over, despite the seeming impossibility of such in a seat like hers, and her face was empty, her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed shocked. He thought that he didn't blame her. There was little that startled him, nowadays, but he knew the news would have felled a lesser man. Ahead, Lord Basingame's back seemed gaunt.

"So what do you suggest," Queen Meralina said. "We have many teachers for many things here, but not for this."

"Actually, Your Highness..." said Master Tilmitt. "You do."

There was silence for a moment. Jordan wished that the twin thrones weren't blocking his view.

"Can you teach them," Queen Meralina asked.

"Out of all the mages here in the Silver City," Master Tilmitt said, "I believe I am qualified-most. I must warn you, however, that I have taught before never, though I remember a deal great of what my teachers said to me. If you like, I can send word to... Others of my kind, and we can ask that someone qualified-more be sent."

"No, then the word will get out," Lord Basingame said.

"We cannot keep this secret," Queen Meralina said to him.

"No, My Lady, we cannot," Lord Basingame said, "but we can at least control the manner in which the information is released, and make it work for us instead of against us."

Kenneth Tilmitt did not mention the ways in which he could have sent a message that no one would intercept. This, among other things, changed the balance of the future irrevocably. In part, he thought that the Queen and her lance would be offended by the offer; but he also looked forward to a chance to teach; he thought he might be good at it. And a certain part of him wanted nothing more than to have a chance to speak, at some length, to the two young ones sitting and standing at the smaller throne. There was something truly interesting about those two; something he wanted to know for himself.

"It would take any teacher at least a month to get here, Your Majesty," he said now. "There are things-many, things-basic, which mage-any is competent to teach. If you like, I can begin instruction on things-these. And, if you like, you may observe me and decide whether I am competent at my task."

The Queen and her First Lance exchanged glances. They had never been the closest of friends, but after a lifetime in each other's company, there were many things they did not need to say aloud to each other anymore.

"We find that acceptable," the Queen said. "I shall have Princess Gabriele's master tutor consult you on scheduling appropriate times. He will also observe. It is true that he knows nothing of magic, but he knows some things about teaching."

"I welcome his patronage, Your Majesty," said Master Tilmitt, "and any advice he would like to give."

The audience adjourned, and Catheryne had to submit to the indignity of being jostled on the elbow by her First Lance before she would notice. "I'm a..." she whispered. "I'm a..."

"You're the Princess-Heir and you're hungry," said Jordan firmly. "And it's time for lunch." He steered her out of the room. Sometimes, he knew, rulers became too preoccupied to look out for themselves. That was what First Lances were for.

The next morning, the audience session went without the Princess and her First Lance, though it was customary for the heir to be in attendance for at least some part of the day. However, neither Gabriele Basingame nor Marcus Demitri was the least usual.

For one, both were mages.

"The thing-first I'd like to explain," said Kenneth Tilmitt. "I know there's talk about mages being to the spirit of creation contrary, being the subjects of Loduur, and so on. I want you to forget all that. It'll interfere with your ability to learn to control the Flow; and besides, it's not true."

Marcus Demitri nodded.

"The next thing," said Kenneth Tilmitt. "I don't know what's said about magic here among the Giftless, but the Flow is dangerous. Being irresponsible with it can lead to injury or even death to you or anyone near you. You'll feel-eventually and be-eventually confident enough to experiment on your own, and I'll let you, but for now, it's imperative that you don't touch the Flow at all unless I am nearby."

Marcus nodded.

"And finally," said Kenneth Tilmitt. "The--" He frowned. "Your Highness?"

Princess Gabriele stared mutely into space.

"She's been like this all morning," said Marcus expressionlessly. "Maybe it's something she ate."

"No, it's not," Master Tilmitt said. "Let me talk to her... Your Highness? Princess Gabriele?"

She didn't respond, and Marcus wasn't sure if she had heard or not.

"... My Lady, I understand how you feel," Master Tilmitt said. "It was a shock to me as well. My family..." He paused for a moment. "... Were not understanding. I've not spoken to them in years. If not for... A good friend, who came with me to learn the tides of the Flow, I would have been lost. Your father is understanding-more-much, and you have a companion-loyal who will not forsake you."

There was a silence as he grappled for some next progression of speech. Then Princess Gabriele's eyes flickered, and she spoke.

"I don't want it," she said. "Your gift."

"Few of us did, in the beginning," said Master Tilmitt. "But we learned to love it. And, my lady: it is not gift-mine. It is yours. You cannot deny who you are. You are Princess Gabriele Talleyrand, Lance-heir to the throne of Eretria; you are loved-well by the people. And you are also a mage." Seizing on an inspiration: "Think of the possibilities that opens, for your kingdom. Mages provide services and options that no other people can. What could Eretria accomplish with Gifted and Giftless working side by side?"

"Can we get on with this," Marcus said.

"Please, Master Demitri," Master Tilmitt said. "Have patience. My lady," he said, turning to Princess Gabriele again. "There are those of us who have renounced the Flow, and who live their lives as the Giftless do. They are few, but they do exist. And should you desire, you may live your life this way. But that cannot be now, for you must be trained. You have the spark, and it is unsafe to let you wander free until you have conquered the flames."

Princess Gabriele's eyes turned to him. "What will happen if I do wander off anyway?"

Master Tilmitt's face turned stony. "Then, there will be pain and suffering. If untrained, those with the spark inevitably... Well, we call it a 'bloom, ' but regardless, it involves the mage-untrained touching the Flow--uncontrolled, unrealizing. Almost inevitably, someone gets hurt. Those who are particularly strong in the Flow... They have been known to kill. The untrained dies-inevitably-almost as well.

"That will happen to you if you do not learn to control your power. And it will happen soon, within the next few years probably, certainly before you turn twenty. You will be dead, and, if you are strong in the Flow, others near you will be injured-gravely."

For the first time, her face showed animation. "What do you mean, 'strong in the Flow'? I thought every mage had the same abilities."

"You see? How wise is that," Marcus cut in. "You make judgments without knowing all the facts. I thought you were educated."

"Ignore him," Master Tilmitt said to the princess, "he seems to have gotten up on the side-wrong of the bed this morning," and such was his seriousness that she burst out laughing.

"In answer to your question," said Master Tilmitt. "Not all mages have the power-same. Some can handle more of the Flow than others; and their waves are more powerful."

"I thought... Well. I suppose I am wrong," said Princess Gabriele. "In the tale of Ella-of-the-ashes, the naya just snaps her fingers and turns the mice into horses. I guess... That was what I expected."

Master Tilmitt smiled. "As your wise First Lance suggested, it is better to make judgments after you have heard all there is to hear."

"How does the Flow work, anyway," Princess Gabriele asked, interested despite herself.

"The Flow is simply what we call the power-magic that comes from the Golden Dome," said Master Tilmitt.

"It comes from the mountain?" said Princess Gabriele. "But that's hundreds of miles from here."

"It comes from the mountain," Master Tilmitt agreed. "But it comes through the water."

Princess Gabriele was silent, mulling it over in her mind. The Golden Dome was the source of all water: everybody knew that. Water flowed freely down its slopes and into the Great Lake below; then it left the lake, winding down rivers that coursed through every corner of the world. Rain was an unknown phenomenon, except in the Spring Lands; without those rivers of water, there would be no life. And now, to find out that...

"That is part of why we call it the Flow," said Master Tilmitt. "Because it does flow, from river-every in this land. We dip into the rivers of power to work our spells and waves."

Marcus's mind picked up an inconsistency. "Does it actually deplete water?"

"Yes," said Master Tilmitt, "and if there is no water nearby, you will never be able to use magic. Furthermore, the farther away you are from water, the less you can draw and the weaker your spells. Here in the Silver City, on the banks of the Connaight, that's not so much of a problem; but there are places where water is far away."

"Do all mages live on the banks of the Great Lake, then," Marcus asked, jumping to the obvious conclusion.

"No," said Master Tilmitt, "actually, we tend to live farther out, at the mid latitudes. Near the Lake itself is too populous."

"So... Drawing on the Flow is like scooping out a handful of water from a river," Princess Gabriele asked.

"No," said Master Tilmitt, "no, it is... Definitely not. It... How do I explain. You've seen the stewards tap a new cask of ale, haven't you?"

"Yes," said Gabriele.

"And you've seen the way it pours out," said Master Tilmitt.

Gabriele giggled. "The over-butler would have the man's head if he allowed that to happen."

"Yes, well," said Master Tilmitt. "Imagine that happening to a cask the size of this palace."

Gabriele blinked, her mind at work.

"And imagine that you are standing under the spill, letting it pour down on you," said Master Tilmitt.

"Why, I..." said Gabriele. Such a thing had never been known to happen before, of course, and water was scarce enough that bathing more than once a month was a luxury for many people, herself included. "I think... I think I would be washed away."

"That is the reason-other we call it the Flow," said Master Tilmitt.

Gabriele was silent.

"It diminishes with distance," Master Tilmitt said, "but you never forget how dangerous it is. Every time you touch the Flow, it's a battle: first to get enough of it to do what you want; then to avoid getting too much."

"What happens if you get too much," Gabriele said.

"You die," said Master Tilmitt. "Or you flood yourself away: you're struck dumb for the rest of your life, alive but unconscious, unresponding, unfeeling. Or you simply wash the Gift out of you. That's been known to happen before too."

"You can lose the Gift?" Gabriele asked.

"Yes, if you're not careful," said Master Tilmitt.

"What happens then," Gabriele asked. Perhaps she thought she had found a way out.

"People generally die," Master Tilmitt said flatly. "Not all at once, certainly... But, those who have touched the Flow, generally find themselves unable to do without it. The Flow is life. Water is life."

Gabriele frowned. "I don't understand. How could it be so important?"

Master Tilmitt smiled. "You'll see."

He spread his hand before them, palm up, and suddenly a small flame burned atop it. Gabriele froze, her skin tingling. That was... Fire. In his hand.

"Now tell me, young master, young mistress," said Master Tilmitt formally. "Do either of you feel a sensation-tingling on your skin?"

"No," said Marcus, shaking his head.

Gabriele said nothing.

"But..." said Marcus. "You look different. As though..."

"As though seen through glass," Master Tilmitt said.

"Yes," Marcus said, "something like that. It's gone now."

"Hmm," said Master Tilmitt. "That's interesting. Most people normally feel the Flow before they see it."

"That's supposed to happen?" Marcus said.

"It is indeed," said Master Tilmitt. "Out in the Sanctuaries, you'll feel that on your skin every minute of the day. --Hmm. That's troublesome. Without that background of mages around, it'll be hard to learn some of the skills-finer... I suppose we'll find some way around it. We could always visit the Sanctuaries. All right, never mind, I was thinking out loud. Now, let's try that again..."

So it went, for an intolerably long time. By the time the lesson ended for lunch, she was sweating. Marcus had reported, faithfully, every time he got the tingle (every now and then) and every time he saw the strange distortion (far less frequent). She had kept her mouth shut, though she knew Master Tilmitt would have been pleased with her: she had felt the Flow almost twice as often as Marcus had, and even seen the strange distortion a few times, which was like looking through glass, only stranger, for she felt that she could see him more clearly, not less...

And then they stopped, and Marcus said, "Thank you, Master Tilmitt," and Master Tilmitt said, "You're welcome, and thank you both for being such students-patient," with a look at her as if he knew everything she had not said.

"And, please," he added. "'Master' Tilmitt. So formal. Call me 'Moya.' That's what my teacher asked me to call him."

"As you wish, Moya Tilmitt," said Marcus, bowing. And then he gave her a look as if he too knew everything she had not said! It was thoroughly humiliating.

"I don't know why I bother," she mumbled into her bread.

Marcus, somehow, heard. "I don't either. Why fight against what you have to be."

... Whatever under Kyrei's wide sky that meant.

After lunch was even stranger. Before she could ask what was going to happen next (her daily schedule, delivered via Nurse, had been rather vague), Marcus told her to follow him and simply marched off. Without even checking to see if she was following.

She was tempted to simply wander off somewhere else, but it probably wouldn't be worth the trouble.

He led her to one of the rooms in the outer ring of the Palace, where the lords and soldiers and servants were quartered. Was this his room? No, of course not, the Princess's Lance had his own suite near her father's (and her's). Then what were they doing here?