Traitor's Moon

liked her, didn’t you, Uncle?”
    Alec smiled, guessing that she’d used the familiar term to coax him out of his brown study; she called him “Uncle” only in private now.
    Seregil shifted in his chair, clasping his hands over one updrawn knee. “Yes I did. She was queen when I came to Rhíminee, and did her best to find a place for me at court. It didn’t work out, of course, but I might never have met Nysander if not for her.” He sighed. “In a way, Idrilain
was
Skala to me. Now Phoria sits on the throne.”
    â€œDon’t you think she’ll rule well?” asked Beka.
    Seregil’s eyes met Alec’s, acknowledging shared secrets. Then he shrugged. “I suppose she’ll rule according to her nature.”
    The nature of the new queen proved to be a topic of prime interest to the Aurënfaie.
    Adzriel had arranged a receiving room for Klia just off the main hall, mixing Skalan and Aurënfaie trappings. A tripod of headless spear shafts supported Klia’s inverted shield. Censors clouded the air with the bittersweet vapors of myrrh and stop-blood weed, the soldier’s field herb. Delicate Aurënfaie scrolls hung beside the room’s three doors, painted with prayers directing the queen’s soul onward should she come to visit her daughter and forget how to move on. An Aurënfaie screen of thin parchment blocked the window, except for a small hole by which the khi could come and go.
    Another Aurënfaie touch was a small brazier by the door, where each guest cast a small bunch of cedar tips as they entered, an offering to the departed. The scent of it was said to be pleasing to the dead, but the living were soon well sick of it. By the end of each day a pall of smoke hung near the ceiling in a slow-roiling cloud. Theodor of it clung to clothing and hair and followed them to their beds at night.
    Sitting beside Klia each day, Seregil wondered what the dead queen would make of the conversation if she did choose to visit.
    Each visitor, regardless of clan or stance, began with the usual expressions of condolence but soon maneuvered their way to subtle inquiries about Phoria.
    Alec reported similar interest. Every member of the Skalan delegation, even the Urgazhi riders, were suddenly thought to be authorities on the new queen’s character. People who had not deigned to speak to Alec since his arrival now cornered him on the street. “What is this new queen like?” they all wanted to know. “What is her interest here? What does she want from Aurënen?”
    Braknil and Mercalle had the most to say in Phoria’s favor; they’d both fought beside her in their younger days and praised her bravery in glowing terms.
    Lacking Seregil’s connection to the royal family, Alec made himself useful helping Thero and Torsin greet their visitors in the hall and seeing that each dignitary was properly attended to as they waited for an audience with Klia.
    He was so occupied on the third day when Rhaish í Arlisandin and his young wife arrived. He withdrew as Torsin and the khirnari launched into a hushed discussion, but Amali followed him and laid a hand on his arm.
    â€œThere’s something I must share with you in private,” she murmured, casting a quick glance back at her husband.
    â€œCertainly, my lady.” Alec led her to an unused room just off the hall.
    As soon as he’d closed the door she strode to the far end, clasping her hands in obvious agitation. Alec folded his arms and waited. She hadn’t spoken directly to him more than twice since their arrival in Sarikali.
    â€œNyal í Nhekai advised me to speak with you,” she confided at last “He says you are a man of honor. I must ask that no matter what you say to the request I am about to make, what I say will go no further than this room. Can you give me your word on that?”
    â€œPerhaps it would be better if you spoke to someone with more authority,” Alec suggested, but she shook her head.
    â€œNo! Nyal said to speak only to you.”
    â€œYou have my word, my lady, as long as whatever you have to say doesn’t put me at odds with my loyalty to Princess Klia.”
    â€œLoyalty!” she exclaimed softly, wringing her hands. “You must be the judge of that, I suppose. Ulan í Sathil has summoned certain khirnari to meet with him tonight at his house. My husband is among those who will be