It was dustier than before. Now that he thought about it, he realized what the old man must have done. Because somewhere in his memories, he must hold Prudentia’s palace. And that suggested that if he spent too much time here, in Harmodius’s memories, he might-just possibly-be in danger of either becoming the old man or empowering some sort of simulacrum of him.
“Not what I’m here for,” he said.
He went and stood in front of the mirror.
In the reflection, he seemed to be wearing a ring of fire, and around his right ankle was a golden band. The band was joined to a chain.
“Son of a bitch,” he said.
Eventually, he must have slept, because he awoke, his eyes feeling as if they were made of parchment and his mouth dry and his head throbbing. He lay, listening to Toby lay things out on the chest at the foot of the bed, and then the scale of his disaster and the throbbing of his right leg coincided, and he rose into the chilly air, his mood already savage.
He dressed quickly, and Toby kept his head averted. The boy’s fear of him angered him further. He could sense his own failure to modify his temper.
At some remove, he didn’t care.
“Where’s Nell?” he asked.
“Stables, your grace.” Toby was not usually so formal. “Shall I send for her?”
“No,” the captain said. He sat and stewed. He knew what he had around his ankle, in the aethereal. He knew it was very powerful, and he suspected he knew where it came from.
Nell came in.
“Message for you, your grace,” she said.
Nell brought him a note, and he read it at his own table. His colour heightened and his face went blank.
“Wine,” he said.
It was early morning, and Toby frowned.
“I’m sorry, Toby, is there a problem?” Ser Gabriel asked in his most poisonous voice.
Toby glanced at Nell, who, having handed over the note, was busy sorting clean laundry in the press. Toby stood up straight. “I have hippocras,” he said, and went to the fire.
“I asked for wine,” the captain said. “Hippocras has all the spirit boiled out.”
“May I say-” Toby began with all the dignity a seventeen-year-old can muster.
Ser Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “No,” he said. “Your opinion is not required.”
Toby reached for a wine bottle, but Nell reached out and tipped it on the floor.
It smashed.
Before the pieces were done moving, the captain was out of his chair and had Nell by the throat. “I asked for wine,” he hissed. “Not adolescent criticism.”
She looked at him, eyes wide.
He let her go slowly.
Nell shook herself and glanced at Toby, who had his hand on his dagger.
The captain sighed-a long sigh, like the air hissing out of a dead man’s lungs. Without apology, he stepped out into the hall.
He didn’t slam the door.
He didn’t get a cup of wine, either.
Gabriel was almost insensible to the world around him as he stalked along the tower’s outer hall and down the winding stairs, so angry at himself that he could barely breathe. He walked through the great hall without acknowledging anyone, and brushed past his mother without a word.
She smiled.
He paid her no heed, but walked out into the muddy yard and collected his riding horse, saddled by a pair of frightened grooms, and mounted. His anger communicated itself instantly to the horse, who began to fidget.
“Perhaps if you were to hit it very hard,” came a soft voice from the gloom of the stable.
At the sound of her voice, his rage drained away, leaving him merely-deflated.
He turned the horse. The yard was almost empty, and his Morean page, Giorgos, was the only one of his own people in the stable.
“I got your note,” he said.
“And it lightened your mood?” Amicia said, emerging from the shadows with a palfrey’s reins in her right hand. “Shall we delight your lady mother by riding out into the spring sun?”
“Only if we come back with our clothes all muddy,” Ser Gabriel said. His breathing was coming short, as if he’d been in a fight. “I’m sorry that she used you for the griffon.” That wasn’t what he’d meant to say.
Amicia mounted, throwing her leg over the saddle like a man. It was neither ladylike nor elegant, although it did show a fine flash of leg. It reminded Ser Gabriel that Sister Amicia had not been raised a gentle, and was largely self-taught. At everything. Including the casting of complex sorceries.
“People will talk,” he said, trying to find a light-hearted note. “If we ride without an escort.”
“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” she said in passable Gallish.
They rode out into a brisk day, with a hint of old winter in every shadow and a kiss of spring in the bright sunshine. She wore her hood up until they were clear of the gates of the town, and then she threw it back, and her rich brown hair was blown free of her wimple in seconds by the stiff north wind. She caught the wimple before it whipped free, like a flag in a storm, and tucked it into her bosom.
She smiled. “Do you know how long those things take to sew?” she asked. “I can’t lose one.”
Ser Gabriel could not fail to meet her smile. “I see you are learning to embroider,” he said. “La Belle Soeur de Forêt Sauvage. Doesn’t it bore you?”
“Oh, no!” she said, with delight. “No, I relish it. It is like going to mass. So-calming. Time to think. I have done a great deal of thinking this winter-since I met your mother.”
Gabriel sighed. “Yes?” he asked. He noted, at some remove, that his hands were shaking.
She looked at him. “And you?”
He pursed his lips. “I have thought a great deal,” he said.
She laughed. “It is easy to plot and devise other people’s lives, is it not? So much easier than working on your own.” She turned her horse at a side road short of the bridge. “Come, Gabriel. We are going to talk about the rest of our lives.”
Gabriel reined in his horse. “Amicia,” he said. His voice rose in pitch.
She looked back. “Gabriel. Let us get this done.”
He sat, his horse unmoving. He was silent for so long that she had to wonder where his head was, and then he said, his voice strained, “I think you should just say it. I don’t need to ride off into the copse of woods to hear it.”
“On the highway?” she asked.
“Amicia,” he said, and he paused. He looked away.
She turned her horse back. “I don’t want to be interrupted,” she said.
Slowly, as if against his will, his horse followed hers.
They rode another league, until they came to a small chapel. It was not quite a ruin-the stones were green with moss, the roof of slate was still supported by its ancient wooden beams, but it sagged in the middle. The altar stone was still solid, and there were bunches of snowdrops on it. Inside, it was pleasant enough-brisk, but not wintry, and the odour of incense mixed with a flat mossy smell.
Gabriel saw to their horses and followed the nun into the chapel. At the door, he paused.
“I’m gathering that you are not bringing me here to succumb to my worldly advances,” he said.
“That sounds more like the man I knew at the siege,” she said. She went to the altar and kindled a small fire, lit two candles and placed them on the altar. Almost instantly, the candles made the small space seem dryer and more homey.
Then she drew a stool from behind the altar and sat. “I come here often,” she said. “The light is good.”
“And it is full of power,” he said.
“And God’s light,” she said.
Their eyes met. Hers were brown, and his were green, and each looked far too long, so that the silence grew uncomfortable, and then stretched to a flinching unease and through it.