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had not yet reached current histories in our studies, and I was careful to keep that knowledge from him.”
    So the boy had truly grown up unfettered and free, believing himself a true orphan, Elua’s child, attuned only to the gentle rhythms of life and worship within this sheltered valley. I sighed. Somehow it made my task all the more poignant. “When would you have told him?”
    “Sixteen.” The priest watched me. “That was the age on which we had agreed.”
    Sixteen. It seemed a long way off. “Brother Selbert,” I said, gathering my thoughts. “I am sorry to put you through this once more, but if I might speak to the other clergy and your wards-most especially the children-it would be helpful.”
    “Yes, of course.” He rose, smoothing his robes, then hesitated. “You never said if it was the Queen who sent you.”
    “The Queen,” I said, “is aware of my visit. But, no. It was Melisande.”

Sixteen
    THE shadows in the valley grew long, we watched the children herd the goats down from the mountain. Once, there had been five; now, only four. They travelled in pairs, a brown-robed acolyte with both groups as they emerged from invisible plateaus to converge upon the narrow trail. Their voices rose clear and high-pitched in the thin air. The shaggy goats, brown and white with bells strung about their necks, wound their way down the track, picking their way surely on cloven hooves while the children scrambled behind, scarcely less agile. They fanned out as they reached bottom, long sticks in hand, prodding and deftly herding their charges across the wooden bridge that arched over the river. The acolytes followed behind at a slower pace, serene and watchful.
    “And this is how it was the day Imriel disappeared?” I asked Brother Selbert.
    “No,” he said quietly. “Not entirely. We let the children go on their own, then, and the older ones might go alone, if they wished, to seek higher pasturage. Now, we forbid them to leave one another’s sight, and an acolyte travels always with each group.”
    I raised my eyebrows. “Imriel would have been considered one of the older children?”
    The priest’s high, austere cheekbones flushed with color. “He ... not exactly. But he was impulsive. Cadmar and Beryl are the eldest.”
    I picked them out by sight as they eased the milling goats into their paddock. A tall lad with hair that shone like flame in the slanting sunlight, and a dark-haired girl garlanded with flowers. The other two were younger, a boy and a girl who looked to be about the ages of Ysandre’s daughters.
    “Treat them gently, my lady Phèdre,” Brother Selbert said. “Imri’s disappearance frightened them badly, all the more so when Melisande’s men came asking harsh questions.” He watched gravely as they filed inside the sanctuary walls, laughing and chattering. “You see Honore,” he said, pointing to the youngest girl, no more than six. “For a month, she refused to tend to the goats, for fear that whatever took Imriel would take her. And Cadmar... he puts on a brave face, but he will go near neither cave nor crag, staying only to the center of the trail. Ti-Michel has only just stopped waking in the middle of the night, crying for Imri, and Beryl, ah.” He sighed. “Beryl blames Elua for letting it happen. I worry about her the most.”
    “You should tell them,” Joscelin said shortly. “Tell them the truth. Fear and lies fester in darkness. The truth may wound, but it cuts clean.”
    “Mayhap you have the right of it, Cassiel’s servant,” the priest murmured. “I will think on it. Come, we will assemble for dinner.”
    In the Sanctuary of Elua, meals were a common affair, held in the great hall with its high stone arches. It was simple fare, but good-a pottage of lentils and onions, stewed greens and fish caught fresh in the river, with brown bread smeared with sharp goat’s-milk cheese. The acolytes, of whom there were half a dozen, took turns at cooking and whatever chores were needful. Brother Selbert dined at a table with eight others, priests and priestesses alike, ranging from an elderly woman with a face so kind it made one ache to lay one’s head in her lap to a young man whose vows had scarce left his lips.
    Throughout the course of the evening, I spoke to all of them, and learned nothing of merit. I learned that Imriel had been a beautiful child, with blue-black hair and skin like ivory, eyes a deep and starry blue; his mother’s son, though no