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did, he flushed. “I am sorry. It is my duty, my lady.”
    “I know,” I said. “Shall we go?”

Ninety-One
    WE TRAVELLED to the Palace in one of the royal carriages, the Courcel arms on the side. Two guards rode with us inside, and the rest provided a mounted escort. The curtains were drawn. Outside, on the streets, I heard nothing but the usual idle curiosity, passers-by pausing to bow or curtsy, speculating on what royal guest or family member rode within.
    That ended when we reached the Palace.
    I didn’t mind, for myself. I have been a Servant of Naamah for many years now, and I am accustomed to stares and murmurs. And Joscelin ... Joscelin had endured it before. My heart bled for Imriel.
    Ysandre was done with secrecy, that much was obvious. We walked the wide, gracious halls of the Palace openly, flanked by her Guard. Six of them surrounded Imriel, hands on hilts, tense and alert; the others kept a close eye on Joscelin and me, several paces behind. All I could see of Imri was that his back was very straight, and he did not look to either side.
    In the countryside, he had gone unrecognized. Not in the City of Elua, and least of all in the Royal Palace. Strolling nobles stopped and stared. One woman clutched the lapdog she carried so hard it yelped in protest. A lordling’s attendant bolted down a side corridor-headed, I guessed, for the Hall of Games, where guests of the Palace were apt to while away the hours.
    The halls grew lined with spectators, and an undercurrent of venom ran through their whispers. It seemed a very long walk to the throne-room, where we were at last admitted. The doors were closed behind us, the spectators turned away.
    Two more squadrons of the Queen’s Guard lined the walls, standing at attention. At the far end was Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d’Ange, seated in majesty. When I’d seen her thus before, it was as an attendant at her side. She wore a gown of deep violet adorned with a jeweled girdle, and a heavy cloak of forest green, lined with cloth-of-gold. Her fair hair was elaborately dressed, bound with a simple gold fillet. On her left hand stood Duc Barquiel L’Envers, handsome and inscrutable; at her right were her daughters, Sidonie and Alais. They had grown since I’d seen them.
    A family affair, then; and one of state, for I recognized a handful of other nobles in attendance, members of Parliament. This was meant to be witnessed.
    A short distance into the room, Joscelin and I were made to halt, while Imriel was led to approach the throne. No one spoke. Ysandre waited gravely, watching him approach. She had waited for this moment for a very long time. The guards led him to the foot of the throne and stepped away, leaving him alone before her. Imriel gave a rigid bow.
    “Imriel de la Courcel,” Ysandre said, and smiled, her features transforming. “Welcome home.” Rising from her throne, she descended the step to lay her hands on his shoulders. “We have waited a long time to welcome you to your family, cousin.”
    “Thank you, your majesty.” He got the words out without a tremor, and I was proud. Ysandre turned to face her watching kin and peers, one hand still on Imri’s shoulder.
    “This is Imriel de la Courcel, Prince of the Blood, son of my great-uncle Prince Benedicte de la Courcel and Melisande Shahrizai of Kusheth,” she said firmly. “In the sight of all here assembled, we do acknowledge him and his ancestral claims, and declare him innocent of all crimes committed by his family. Is it heard and witnessed?”
    A dozen voices replied more or less in unison, “It is heard and witnessed.”
    I watched their faces as they responded. Most were schooled to neutrality under the Queen’s scrutiny; Barquiel L’Envers looked amused. Amaury Trente was there, and his expression was stony. The Lady Denise Grosmaine, who was Secretary of the Presence and attended all formal functions with the Queen to record what transpired, might have had a hint of kindness on her face. Sidonie, the young Dauphine, regarded Imriel with her mother’s cool gravity, and none of the underlying warmth. Only Princess Alais, the younger daughter, considered him with frank curiosity, intrigued by the notion of a new cousin near enough in age to be a brother to her.
    “We are pleased.” Ysandre inclined her head. “Remember it well, and welcome him into your hearts, as we welcome him to ours. And,” she added, “let it also be known: A crime against Prince Imriel