The Thousand Names

Chapter Sixteen

MARCUS

As the Colonials settled down in Ashe-Katarion, Janus asked Marcus to come up with a detail of twenty men he thought he could trust to keep a secret.

Marcus was tempted to reply that twenty men could keep a secret only if you sank nineteen of them in the river, and even then you’d have to keep an eye on the last one. He was also strongly tempted to tell Janus to take a flying leap into the Great Desol. Adrecht was still unconscious in the cutter’s tents with a high fever, and the battered Old Colonials had barely finished sorting themselves out and counting the dead. You couldn’t say that sort of thing to a colonel, however, so Marcus rounded up Fitz, Senior Sergeant Argot, and a squad he thought he could rely on not to ask too many questions, and followed Janus to Monument Hill.

That was the Vordanai name for it, of course. The center of Ashe-Katarion was a double-humped hillock, tailing off rapidly into the harbor. One crest bore the Palace itself, while the other, surrounded by a second, lower wall, was the traditional domain of the priesthood. It comprised a square mile or so of ancient, rambling sandstone buildings, courtyards adorned with statues, and occasional gardens and orchards. Towering above all of these, their long black shadows cutting over the wall and into the city, were the huge black obelisks that Marcus tended to think of as the Forest of Divine Cocks.

On arriving at the elaborately carved sacred gates, Marcus was surprised to see that the hill’s buildings seemed more or less intact. He’d pictured a smoking ruin, Divine Cocks pulled down onto the temples they’d decorated and everything that would burn put to the torch. Apparently, the masters of the Redemption hadn’t been certain enough of their support among the populace to make such a visible gesture against tradition. It was midmorning, and the shadows of the obelisks still threw their irregular striped pattern across the streets of the lower city. Past the gate, courtyards that had once bustled stood empty and silent. The massive brazier in front of the Temple of the Eternal Flame was cold and dark, and Marcus could see that the painted sandstone walls of the nearest buildings had been defaced by great cracks and slathered with graffiti, mostly the ubiquitous squat V of the Redeemers.

Janus paused at the gateway. He paced, unable to contain his energy, and his deep gray eyes were never still. After a moment he turned to look at Marcus and his soldiers, and apparently reached some sort of decision.

“You want to know what we’re doing here,” he said, his gaze lingering on Marcus in particular. “I wish I could tell you, but I am enjoined to silence on the matter. I can say that I am following an express royal command, and that I am humbled by the trust placed in me by His Majesty. This morning, I am sharing this trust with all of you. I ask only that you follow me, obey orders, and keep silent as to anything you may see.” The colonel paused. “Anyone who feels himself unworthy of His Majesty’s trust may step away now, and I will forget you were ever here.”

There was a long pause. After a moment, Senior Sergeant Jeffery Argot raised a hand like a boy in class. Marcus cringed, but Janus nodded to him, unperturbed.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“This trust,” he said. “Is it likely to involve any fighting?”

There were a few mutters from the rest. The men were armed, but they were all Old Colonials, and they knew the inside of the hill was a nightmare of stone buildings and warren-like alleys.

Janus smiled. “No, Sergeant. At this point the opposition consists of a few elderly women. The worst you’ll face today is a bit of manual labor.”

Argot nodded. “Fair enough. I guess I can keep my mouth shut.”

A few of the others nodded agreement. Marcus gave them an appraising look, but said nothing.

“Follow me, then,” Janus said. “Do nothing until I say.”

He strode confidently through the gate, and Marcus and the soldiers followed. It was deathly quiet on the hill. The whole city had seemed unnaturally silent, residents cowering and barring the doors against a relative handful of Vordanai, but walking through the streets Marcus had still been able to feel the eyes on him. Here the silence was the quiet of the grave.

The layout of the hill was a haphazard maze, but Janus led the way without hesitation, cutting through narrow passageways and across flagstone courtyards. They passed the base of one of the ubiquitous obelisks, a four-sided spike reaching a hundred feet into the air. A few of the men stared up at it, and under ordinary circumstances Marcus would have expected a rude comment or two, but there was an air about the hill now that weighed against flippancy. Abandoned, it possessed a quiet aura of sanctity that it had never had in bustling life, as though they had walked into a gigantic sepulcher.

They were nearing the center when Janus found what he was looking for. He quickened his steps in the direction of a small building, barely bigger than a farm shed, with sandstone walls and a slate roof. The doorway was tiny, barely big enough for a grown man to fit through, and it was blocked by a sun-bleached wooden door. On each side of it stood a crude statue, worn away by the years to smooth-faced mannequins only just recognizable as human.

It was not a building Marcus had ever seen before. He glanced questioningly at Fitz, who raised one eyebrow and shook his head. The Khandarai had a great many gods, and Marcus certainly wouldn’t claim to know them all, but he was familiar with the major divinities. This had the look of a shrine to a minor deity, albeit an ancient one. What does he expect to find here?

The colonel went to the door and, to Marcus’ surprise, knocked. There was a long moment of silence.

“What do you want?” The voice from inside was a woman’s, dusty-dry and ancient-sounding. She spoke in Khandarai. Among the soldiers, Marcus guessed, only he and Fitz understood.

“We would like to come in,” Janus said. The colonel used the politest form the language allowed, accent perfect as always. “If you would open the door, I would be grateful.”

Another, longer silence. Then the crone said, “There is nothing inside for you.”

“Nevertheless,” Janus said.

When there was no response, he straightened up.

“If you do not open the door,” he said, still pleasant and polite, “these men will break it down.”

Marcus could hear mutterings from inside, in at least two voices. The door swung inward.

The inside of the little shrine was a single room. At one end was an altar, a long, flat stone resting on two blocks, adorned with a clay statue of a fat-bellied woman. Lamps burned on either side of the idol. Other than that, there was no furniture, just a few ragged rugs spread across the stone floor. The crone, withered and bent-backed, stood protectively in front of the altar, while off to one side a much younger woman in a plain brown robe knelt as though in prayer.

Janus crossed the room, his step still jaunty, but there was a certain amount of muttering from the rankers. Marcus caught a couple of superstitious double-circle gestures, traditional for warding off evil. There were no windows, and the doorway was shadowed by one of the larger buildings, so the inside of the little shrine flickered yellow in the glow of the two lamps.

“Good day,” Janus said to the crone. “I am Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran.”

“There is nothing for you here,” the old woman repeated. “You can see that now. Go away.”

“I would like you to show me the entrance,” the colonel said, still smiling.

The old woman glared at him, but said nothing.

“This does not need to be difficult,” he said. “I know the yod-naath is here. Show me the way in.”

“There is no such thing,” the woman said stoutly.

“As you like.” Janus turned back to his men. “Restrain the women and move the altar.”

Marcus snapped a salute and told a pair of soldiers to take hold of the two women, pulling them to the far end of the shrine. Four more men took hold of the altar stone and lifted it with a chorus of grunts. The lamplight flickered as they maneuvered it carefully out of the way and set it down against the wall. At the last moment, one of the men lost his grip, and one corner of the heavy weight crashed against the floor loudly. The fat-woman statue toppled and shattered into ceramic shards, a cloud of fine dust rising from her innards and filling the room with a sweet, pungent smell.

Two more men shifted the blocks that had held the altar up. The young woman had her eyes closed, her mouth moving silently, but the crone watched Janus’ every move like a snake. The colonel smiled at her and walked to where the altar had been. He brought one foot down sharply, and the stone underneath gave a hollow boom. The soldiers grinned.

“As I suspected,” Janus said, stepping aside. “If you would, Sergeant?”

Marcus beckoned Argot forward. The stone was flush with those around it, offering no obvious handholds, so the sergeant shrugged and reversed his musket. Two sharp blows were enough to crack the thin slate, sending fragments of it tumbling into the hollow space underneath.

The young woman let out a long moan, jerking against the guards who held her arms. The old priestess merely redoubled her glare. Janus ignored both, stepping to the edge of the newly revealed hole and peering into the darkness.

“There appears to be only a short drop,” he said. “I will proceed alone for the moment. Wait here.”

“Sir,” Marcus said, “we have no idea what’s down there, or how far it may extend. Please wait until we can be sure it’s safe.”

Janus gave a tight smile. “I have a fairly good idea what’s down there, Captain. But if you’re worried about my safety, you may accompany me. Is that acceptable?”

It wasn’t, by Marcus’ lights, but he couldn’t back down now. He accepted a musket from the sergeant, checked that it was loaded, and picked up one of the oil lamps from the altar. In passing, he said to Fitz, “If we’re not back in an hour, go and get two companies and tear this place apart.”

Fitz nodded almost imperceptibly. Marcus tucked the weapon under one arm, set the lamp on the lip of the gap, and dropped into darkness. As Janus had said, it wasn’t far, and when he stood from his crouch his eyes were only a foot below the floor of the shrine. Janus handed down the flickering lamp, which illuminated the contours of the underground space, and Marcus was reassured to see that it was more of a basement than a cave. There was a small circular space opening onto the mouth of a corridor, which extended beyond the range of the lamplight.

Janus landed nimbly beside him, raising a puff of ancient dust. Marcus handed him the lamp, to leave his own hands free to hold the musket.

“I doubt you’ll be needing that,” Janus said.

“I hope not,” Marcus said. He was having visions of an underground sanctum, packed with knife-wielding fanatics eager to defend their sacred temples to the death. One musket ball would not be much help, in that case, but the loaded weapon still gave him some comfort.

“As you like.” Janus raised the lamp, peered down the corridor, then set off with a confident step. Marcus fell in behind him.

It was a longer walk than he’d anticipated. The faint glow filtering down from the entrance was soon lost to sight behind a gentle curve, and only the narrow circle of lamplight was visible. Ancient stone unrolled in front of them and vanished behind. The air smelled dry, dusty, and dead.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what you expect to find,” Marcus said, to break the silence.

“When I first arrived,” Janus said, “I told you that I thought Orlanko had some reason to be interested in Khandar. That he’s sent his people here looking for something.”

Marcus had almost forgotten that conversation. He nodded hesitantly. “What about it? You think it’s here?”

“I wasn’t certain until we found the tunnel,” Janus said. “But now. . yes.”

“What could be down here that’s so important?”

Janus stopped, setting the lamp to swinging on its handle. Their shadows danced against the walls.

“You were raised in the Free Church, were you not, Captain?” he said.

Marcus nodded. “Though I was never what you might call religious. I mean-”

Janus held up a hand to stop him. “Did you ever hear the story of the Demon King?”

That rang a very distant bell, but Marcus couldn’t bring it to mind. He shook his head.

“It’s part of the apocrypha of the early Church,” Janus said. “The story goes that back in the days of Saint Ligamenti, during the Holy Wars, there was a sorcerer in the east who had carved himself out a kingdom. He called himself the Demon King, or at least that is the only way he’s referred to in surviving records. He used his magic to break every army sent against him, and kept all the surrounding lands in terror. Eventually, the other kings asked the Church to intervene, and the Pontifex of the Black led a Holy War against him.”

“I think I remember,” Marcus said, poking through ancient, musty memories of sitting beside his parents in a splintery wooden pew. “The evil king was defeated, but he escaped the Black Priests, and fled with all his treasures across the ocean. That’s where the Demon Sea gets its name.” He stopped. “You’re not serious.”

Janus only smiled.

“But. .” Marcus groped for words. “That was a thousand years ago. And, anyway, it’s just a fairy tale! Like Gregor and the hundred bandits, or Hugh and the giant.”

“There’s often more truth in fairy tales than you might think,” Janus said. “Not the literal truth, of course. But they represent a sort of folk memory, which at the root sometimes refers to real events. When added to historical evidence. .” He shrugged. “As to whether there was a Demon King, I couldn’t say. But the Pontifex of the Black did lead a Holy War in the east in the third century, and there are too many stories of his enemies sailing off over the southern horizon for it to be mere coincidence.”

“That doesn’t mean they came here. Khandar was only discovered two hundred years ago!”

“Two hundred and twenty-four,” Janus corrected. “But that’s the whole point, really. Cultural studies from those first few expeditions found little coincidences they couldn’t explain between the Khandarai culture and ours. Bits of language, symbols-” He caught Marcus’ look and shrugged. “Most scholars dismiss the idea, but I’ve reviewed the evidence for myself. Someone from the continent was here long before Captain Vahkerson ‘discovered’ the place.”

“So that’s what you think the Last Duke is looking for? Some kind of. . of treasure?” It sounded like the plot of a bad penny opera-some vast storeroom of ancient loot, dug up by the intrepid hero while he rescued his true love. What does that make me? The comic sidekick?

“In a way.” Janus started walking again, and Marcus hurried to catch up. “If you’re expecting a mountain of gold, however, you may be disappointed.”

“Then what’s down here?”

“You’ll see. Ah.” Ahead, the lamplight showed a wooden door set into the rock. “This should be it. We’re right underneath the very top of the sacred hill now. Above us is the Temple of the Heavens United.”

That was the largest and most impressive of the hill’s monuments, a huge sandstone palace covered in grotesque, weathered statues representing hundreds of gods. Marcus had even been inside once, accompanying the prince. There hadn’t been much to look at except for more statues and hundreds of supplicating Khandarai, though the sheer size of the pillared hall had been impressive.

“They cut this underneath the temple?”

“It’s more likely that they built the temple on top of it.” Janus took hold of the ring on the door and gave it a tug. Slowly, groaning with the rust of centuries, it swung outward, revealing a dark space beyond.

Marcus was about to propose a bit of caution, but before he could speak Janus rushed eagerly inside. With his musket ready to hand, Marcus followed. In the light of the oil lamp, the chamber was revealed to be a rough, eight-sided space, with a domed ceiling and crude stone walls. There were no furnishings of any kind, and no decorations. Marcus could see nothing to distinguish this place from the corridor they’d come through to get here. He looked questioningly at Janus.

The colonel stood frozen in the center of the room, his face as slack as if he’d been slapped. His lips worked soundlessly.

“Sir?” Marcus prompted, after a moment.

“It’s not here.”

“What’s not here? What are we looking for?”

“It’s not here!” Janus’ voice rose from a whisper to a shout. He spun on his heel and ran back to the corridor. Marcus hurried after him.

He’d gotten a glimpse, in the flickering lamplight, of his superior’s face. So far in their association, Marcus had never seen the colonel lose his temper. He’d started to wonder, in fact, if the man was even capable of anger. Now that question was answered. Janus’ delicate features had been twisted into an almost unrecognizable snarl, and his great gray eyes seemed to glow from within with an awful light.

Marcus was out of breath by the time they pounded down the tunnel and reached the little shrine. He called out to the soldiers above to help them up, but before anyone could move the colonel caught the lip of the hole on a jump and hauled himself up. Argot hurriedly leaned down and extended a hand to Marcus, who handed the musket up and levered himself out of the hole, panting.

“What have you done with them?”

Janus’ voice was cold and precise again, but there was a dangerous edge to it that Marcus had never heard before, not even in battle. He raised his head and saw the colonel confronting the ancient priestess, who was held from the sides by two nervous-looking soldiers.

“Taken it beyond your reach,” the old woman said, her head raised in defiance. “Raschem.”

There was a frozen, silent moment. Janus’ hands tightened into fists, and he turned to the younger priestess, who cowered as best she could in the grip of her captors.

“Tell me where you have taken the Thousand Names,” he snapped.

The woman babbled something, her Khandarai too fast for Marcus to parse. It was apparently not what Janus wanted, however, because he stepped closer to her and growled, “Tell me, or-”

“Leave her be,” said the old woman. “She knows nothing.”

“And you do?”

“Only that Mother will not be found by the likes of you.”

Janus pressed his lips together. Then, speaking in Vordanai for the first time since he’d left the tunnel, he said, “Sergeant Argot, give me your knife, please.”

The soldiers, unable to follow the Khandarai, had watched this exchange with increasing puzzlement. Now Argot started and said, “My knife?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Janus’ eyes never left the old woman.

Argot glanced at Marcus, but the colonel’s voice cracked like a whip.

“Now, Sergeant.”

“Yessir!”

Argot drew a big skinning knife from a sheath at his belt, reversed it, and handed it to Janus. The colonel took it, hefted it thoughtfully, and looked at the old woman.

“Do what you like,” the priestess said. “It will not avail you.”

Marcus had finally caught his breath.

“Sir,” he said. When that drew no response, he added, “Janus.”

Janus blinked, then looked at Marcus. “Yes, Captain?”

“I just-” Marcus realized he had no idea what he wanted to say, except that he would rather not watch his commanding officer slice an old woman to ribbons. “I don’t think she knows, sir. Look at her.”

There was a long pause.

“No,” Janus said quietly. “I suppose not. If she did, they would not have left her behind.” He flipped the knife around deftly and handed it back to Argot. “Still, she may know something useful. Take them back to the Palace, both of them. The prince has people who specialize in this sort of thing.”

Marcus swallowed. But an order was an order. And even if he’d wanted to object, the colonel was already stalking toward the door.

WINTER

The big square in front of the barracks of the Heavenly Guard dwarfed the handful of blue-uniformed soldiers drilling in it. It had been built to allow the entire troop to parade at once, back in the days when the Guard had been an actual fighting formation instead of a sinecure for idiot sons of important families and worn-down servants. Sitting on the stone steps leading up from the packed-dirt field to the barracks building, Winter could see a half dozen companies going through their drills, but they filled barely a quarter of the space. It felt oddly disrespectful, like doing jumping jacks in a temple.

The Seventh Company was out there with the rest, going through the Manual of Arms and some standard evolutions. Winter would just as soon have let them rest, after everything they’d been through, but Graff had insisted that maintaining at least a bit of daily drill was important to morale. On reflection, Winter could see the point of this; the exercises were a touchstone, and they kept the soldiers from dwelling on those they had lost.

Winter had assigned Bobby to lead the drills today, partly so she herself could sit in the shade but mostly so she could keep an eye on the corporal. To all outward appearances, Bobby had recovered completely from the wound that she-it still felt odd to think of Bobby as “she,” even in the privacy of her own skull-had suffered in the charge against the Auxiliaries at Turalin. Close observation, however, revealed that something had changed. She didn’t seem to be in pain or short of breath, but she would occasionally stare distractedly into space until some sound from the men returned her attention to the here and now.

“Is something wrong with her?”

Winter looked up at the sound of Feor’s voice. The Khandarai girl had changed into a fresh wrap and wound a long white cloth around her broken arm, keeping it pinned at her side. Her hair, dark and straight, was tied in a simple tail.

“Be careful what you say, even in Khandarai.” Winter glanced around, but just now the two of them were alone on the steps, and none of the Vordanai on the field were close enough to overhear.

“My apologies,” Feor said. “You were staring at the corporal. Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” Winter said. “He seems okay, but he’s acting a bit. . oddly.”

“I am not surprised. Obv-scar-iot should have been bound to one of the sahl-irusk, someone trained to it from girlhood. I did not know if it would accept. . him.” Feor sat down next to Winter on the sun-warmed stone, balancing carefully with her good arm. “Naath are unpredictable things. Mother would say that they have a temper.”

“Is it. . are they living things, then?”

“Not as you and I are alive, perhaps, but yes, in their own way.”

“If they have tempers, do they think?”

Feor shook her head. “Think, no. They have desires. Not quite as a human has desires, but more in the manner a tree desires water and will push a taproot through flagstones to get it. It is a part of their basic nature.” She sighed. “Or so we believe. Mother says that we used to understand them better. Much has been lost to time.”

Winter’s eyes continued to follow Bobby. She leaned back against the step behind her. “I still can hardly believe I’m having this conversation.”

“Why?”

Winter glanced at Feor, wondering if that had been a joke, but the girl’s face was entirely serious. She took a couple of moments to compose her reply.

“If I told anyone in Vordan what you did that day,” she said eventually, “they wouldn’t believe a word of it.” Actually, she privately thought they would believe it, if she told them it had happened to a friend of a friend of hers in Khandar. People seemed to be willing to swallow any story provided it was thirdhand and a long way off. “They-we, I suppose I should say-don’t believe in. . sorcery, or demons, or whatever you want to call it.”

“A naath is not a demon,” Feor said patiently.

“Regardless.” Winter felt a little defensive. “I didn’t think most Khandarai believed in naathem, either.”

“They might not expect to see one,” Feor said, “but that is not the same as believing they do not exist. After all, it is the same with the gods.” She frowned. “But I do not understand. I thought your holy book spoke of these things. Your Black Priests dedicate their lives to rooting them out. How, then, can you not believe in them?”

Winter thought about starting with the fact that the Priests of the Black had been out of business for a good hundred years now, but decided to start with something more basic. “Do you know the story of Karis the Savior?”

“No. Your Captain Vahkerson gave me a copy of the Wisdoms, but my Vordanai is not yet up to the task.” Feor had taken to learning Vordanai with the same quiet determination with which she approached everything, and the sight of her face screwed up in earnest concentration always made Winter grin.

“The story goes,” Winter began, adopting the language of half-remembered sermons from her childhood and parsing it inexpertly into Khandarai, “that there was once a time when men were so evil, so prone to consorting with demons and practicing sorcery, that the Lord Almighty decided to destroy them. He sent a great monster, the Beast of Judgment, to scourge mankind from the world. As the destruction began, God heard many prayers to halt it, but the hearts of all of those who begged for mercy were tainted, and He turned a deaf ear. When He heard Karis’ prayer, though, He found his heart was pure, and the Lord agreed to give mankind a chance. Karis walked up to the Beast without fear and banished it with a word. He said that the Lord had spared humanity, but only temporarily, unless men could be persuaded to change their ways. The people who listened to him went on to found the Elysian Church, and as you say, they dedicated themselves to hunting down demons and sorcerers.”

Feor, somewhat to Winter’s surprise, seemed genuinely interested. “But you said they don’t believe in those things.”

“Karis lived more than a thousand years ago. This is the Year of His Grace twelve hundred and eight, so it’s been that long since God agreed to spare mankind.” A thought occurred to her. “Maybe the Black Priests got the job done and wiped out all the demons. In any case, by a couple of hundred years ago they were more in the business of putting heretics on trial and interfering in politics. A bit like your Redeemers, really.”

“Not so awful, I hope,” Feor murmured.

“I wouldn’t know. The King of Vordan got fed up with it and threw them out. Ever since, there’s been the Sworn Church, ruled from Elysium, and the Free Churches, which don’t have to swear fealty to anyone. Vordan is a Free Church country. Maybe they take all the sorcery in the Wisdoms seriously up in Murnsk or Borel, but in Vordan. .” She shook her head. “Our priest explained to me that it was all a metaphor. The demons stood for the evil that men do to one another, and what the Wisdoms really meant was that we should all be nice to each other.” Winter glanced sidelong at Feor. “I thought there was something fishy about that at the time.”

“What are ‘Borel’ and ‘Murnsk’?”

“Other kingdoms,” Winter said, aware of her acutely limited knowledge. “Well, Murnsk is an empire, I think. There’s the Six Cities League, too, and. .”

She trailed off. Feor was staring out at the drilling troops, but her eyes were sparkling with unshed tears.

“I will need to learn these things, I suppose,” the girl said dully, “if I am to live there.”

“Live there?” Winter said, confused. “I thought you wanted to find your Mother here in Ashe-Katarion.”

“She would not have me,” Feor said, very quietly. “Not now. I have bound my naath to a raschem. This is heresy.”

“You think she’d exile you?”

“I hope she will. She may wish to kill me instead.”

“What kind of a mother murders her children?”

“My life is hers to begin with,” Feor said. “If she wishes to take it, that is her right.”

“Well, you’ll always have a place with us.” And, Winter privately resolved, if “Mother” decides Feor needs to die, she’ll have to go through me. “What about Bobby?”

“He will be safe, I think. To interfere with a naath, once bound, would itself be heresy.”

Winter nodded grimly and looked back at the field. The drills were ending, and Bobby was re-forming the troops to march back to the barracks. Her face was drawn with exhaustion, and Winter wondered if she’d been sleeping.

“We have to tell her,” she said. “I don’t know how much she remembers, but she knows something happened.” She could scarcely miss the fact that a palm-sized patch of her skin had turned to something closer to marble than flesh.

Feor sighed. “You have to tell her.” She paused, concentrating, and switched languages. “Me. . Vordanai. . not. . good. . sufficient.”

“You still need to be there,” Winter said. “She may have questions I can’t answer.”

“Are you going to tell her that you know her secret?”

“I think I have to,” Winter said. “Graff knows as well, so we can’t keep Bobby in the dark that the truth has gotten out. I think we can trust Graff to keep his mouth shut, but. .”

“And what about yours?”

Now it was Winter’s turn to fall silent. That was the real question, and she didn’t have a good answer. She was still having a hard time coming to grips with the fact that Feor knew, and had known for some time. No matter how many times the Khandarai girl had insisted it was some supernatural naathem sense that had told her, Winter couldn’t help but feel like there was some flaw in her disguise. What if they all know, and they’re just laughing at me behind my back? That was ridiculous, of course-Davis, for one, would never settle for quiet mockery when there was a chance to push someone in the mud and kick them while they were down.

“You don’t trust Bobby?” Feor asked.

“No, not that,” Winter said. “God, if there’s anyone I can trust, it’d be her. And you, of course. It’s just. .”

“Just?”

“It’s been two years.” Winter drew her knees to her chest. “I feel like I’d nearly convinced myself.”