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pretended to be intently
interested in the boots he was trying on. He tried not to appear to be
eavesdropping.
    “Tol is grievously ill,” she whispered.
    “What may I do?” Nilrem patted her knee gently. “I have
several potions that will ease his pain.”
    Ardra squeezed the gnarled hand on her knee. She nodded, and
for a moment her head bowed. “I accept with my deepest thanks. The healer has
been unable to give him ease.”
    “Done.” Nilrem rose. He opened a wooden cask and withdrew a
stoppered stone bottle. He tapped a small pile of yellow powder into a square
of cloth and folded it as if it held gold dust. “Here.” He handed the parcel to
Ardra. “Four grains only in clear water as he needs it. Allow him to decide
when he needs more. Twice as much…is fatal.”
    Ardra opened her cloak, and Lien saw an embroidered gown in
a deep green. He thought she could be Robin Hood’s mate, all garbed in shades
of green as she was. She tucked the package into a leather purse hanging from a
belt at her waist.
    “It is not just for Tol’s ease I have come. He sent me with
grave news to impart.”
    Lien settled on one pair of boots and realized he had no
socks. There seemed to be nothing resembling socks here. With a sigh, he
wrapped some strips of fabric about his feet and became aware that Ardra was
watching him most intently.
    The boots were stiff brown leather, without the distinction
of being a left or a right, but fit him well enough with the cloth wrappings.
He imagined that if he walked far, he’d have horrendous blisters. Where was Dr.
Scholls when you needed him? As he contemplated the sorry and not very clean
robe he was wearing, Nilrem and Ardra continued their hushed conversation, but
she kept glancing at him, worry etched on her face. Lien decided to fake sleep.
He groaned as he tried to shift his feet onto the pallet. The heavy boots
defeated him. He settled for falling diagonally across the straw mattress and
watching through half-closed eyes.
    “What other matter brings you here?” Nilrem asked Ardra.
    “Samoht is camped on the border. Did you know?” Ardra leaned
forward and knotted her hands into tightly clenched fists.
    Nilrem followed her gaze but shrugged. “Is he? Alone?”
    “Nay! He comes with an army.” She began to pace and wring
her hands. “Oh, ‘tis said he comes to await the birth of his first child.” Her
tone was sneering. “His Selaw mate was not good enough to dwell in his Tolemac
palace. Nay, she must be returned to her mother in Selaw once she was breeding.
He treated her like a mare, taken to stud. I despise the man!”
    Lien wanted to rub his aching temples, but bruises prevented
him—and would alert her that he was awake.
    She planted herself before him. “I know you are listening.”
    He opened his eyes. She was very close and practically
quivering with emotion. “Is Samoht your master?” she spat out. “You bear his
symbol. He comes to take my lands, my fortress. Some say he covets me as well.”
Her head bowed. No color rose on her cheeks, but he sensed she was deeply
mortified. Then he saw a single tear run down her cheek. “He could not even
wait for Tol’s death to come.”
    “Samoht? Tol?” Lien struggled up on his elbow. What had he
landed in?
    Nilrem took a deep breath and answered for her. “Tol is
Ardra’s lifemate. He is ill.”
    Nilrem’s tone said it all. Tol’s illness was terminal, Lien
interpreted. “Can’t you heal him?”
    Nilrem caught his eye and gave one quick shake of his head.
If Ardra caught the gesture, she did not react. “What else may I do for you?”
Nilrem took Ardra’s hand and gently rubbed it between his. “I am at your
service.”
    She looked up. As Lien watched, she visibly gathered herself
and took a deep breath. “I cannot lose the fortress, Nilrem. I cannot.”
    “Tradition will not allow you to rule, my child.” He patted
her hand. Lien winced at the patronizing gesture.
    “Tradition!” Staring up at her