“Help me. I don’t know how to love an infant who is mine.”

  “And do I?” Weasel asked. “You’re a strange sort of man, Little King.” She looked away from him, thought for a little while. “The Queen could not require me to obey you. But neither does she forbid it.” It was all the answer Orem was likely to get. Weasel was tired; he left her so she could sleep again.

  Outside Weasel’s room Urubugala and Craven waited.

  “She’ll be fine,” Orem said. “She should sleep.

  “The Queen,” Urubugala said, “has been harvested.

  “Your son?” asked Craven.

  “I have commanded the Queen to let me be his father in life as well as in conception.”

  Urubugala narrowed his eyes, then turned a somersault and laughed. “He dances, he dances, our Little King dances!

  Orem was irritated for a moment; the fool could be tiresome. But then he remembered who they were.

  “Sleeve,” Orem said.

  The fool stopped laughing. And instead of his white eyes rolling and looking mad in his black face, there was suddenly the majesty of a man who had known all the wisdom in the world and lost it.

  “Zymas,” Orem said, and it was the old soldier’s turn to bring back a memory of himself as he ought to be. Not that he gained any strength to his frail body, but he stood a little straighter, as if to show that he knew how a strong young man should stand.

  “I never thought,” said Zymas.

  “To hear, to hear—” said Sleeve.

  “That name,” Zymas finished.

  And then, as abruptly, they forgot again. Or rather, were forced to forget, for suddenly Zymas winced with pain and bent at the waist; his eyes went a bit vacuous and teary. And Sleeve was Urubugala again, laughing and dancing on his knees on the floor, crying out, “Who is the magical leper who cleans us with his tongue? He puts our names in picture frames and paints them out with dung!”

  The Queen was still listening, always listening. And when Weasel awoke again, would she remember that Orem had spoken her name? Or would the Queen take that, too? He hated her then, worse than ever before; she had suffered terribly once, as a child, but surely she had had her vengeance now. Surely that was enough.

  “How long will the Queen keep doing this to you?” Orem asked.

  Craven just nodded his head in the sleepy way that empty old people do, and Urubugala made an elaborate bow that ended in his falling on his nose. “I wish the Queen would do to me what the Queen has done to you,” he said, and then laughed maniacally. But now that Beauty has done her duty, it’s cock-a-doodle-doo.

  Orem turned away from Urubugala and watched Craven as the old general walked slowly, delicately down the hall. It was an odd sort of shuffle he did, and it seemed to be in rhythm to Urubu gala’s cackling laugh, as if they were performing a sad little show and Orem was the only audience. Except, of course, the Queen, who saw it all.

  Craven carefully opened a door and passed through it; feebly it closed behind him.

  And then Orem found himself in Urubugala’s grip. The fool gripped him by the shoulders, then by the neck, pulled him down despite Orem’s instinctive resistance, and when the fool’s mouth was at Orem’s ear, he whispered, almost silently, “What are you waiting for? Fool!”

  With that the fool released him and scampered away, laughing madly.

  What happens now, Orem wondered. What does Urubugala-Sleeve want me to do?

  And what does Queen Beauty know? How is she toying with me? Why am I still alive?

  “Queen Beauty,” he whispered, “how long will I live?”

  But there came no answer. For when he was alone, and there was no one nearby so she could see through the other’s eyes and hear through the other’s ears, Queen Beauty could not see Orem, could not hear his words, and could not see that she could not see.

  Orem went up to the Queen’s room. Servants bustled in the long hall outside. “Where is my son, Youth?” Orem asked.

  They led him to a cradle where the child lay. A day old, and he seemed to recognize his father. Impossible, of course. Yet he had lain twelve months in the womb: anything could be possible. Orem touched the soft clean skin of the cheek that only hours ago had been bloody and red; the child caught his finger and smiled. The fingers were tiny, the nails as remarkable as fine ivory miniatures. “Who are you?” Orem asked his son in awe. “Where did you come from?” And he answered his question to himself. From me. You came from me. Your mother carried you in her belly, but I planted you there, I am the source of you, and you are the river that flows from my fountain. When I am dead to serve the Queen’s purposes, Youth, you will be me forever.

  Orem held Youth in his arms in the garden, letting sunlight fall on his face for the first time. It was morning, it was warm, and last night Orem had not gone out to undo the Queen’s magic; he had not remembered to do it and did not know why he had forgotten that they were at war. The only reasons he could think of were the child in his arms and the woman who walked to him across the broad lawn from the palace.

  “Weasel,” Orem said as she came closer. For a moment he saw how ugly she was, and wondered that he could have thought yesterday that he loved her. Then he pushed away the unworthy thought, and forced himself to remember his love for her. It was not hard. But it made him ashamed that he could still think less of her because of the shape the Queen had given her.

  “Little King,” she answered, with a smile that twisted her mouth. Orem refused to see how the smile distorted her features even worse than usual. The Queen has no spells that can touch me, Orem told himself. Why then does Weasels ugliness strike me with such force today?

  “Would you like to see my son?”

  Orem held him out to her, but Weasel shook her head and backed away. Tm forbidden to touch him, Little King. The child is not mine.”

  Orem was angry. “Your pain bought his life.”

  She shook her head. “Only one woman may he love. Its the Queen’s word. He can only suck from her breast; he can turn his face only to her for light and life.” Then Weasel smiled again. Orem winced inwardly at what it did to her face in the harsh sunlight. “Thank you for being kind to me yesterday.” There was an eagerness in her voice that made Orem uneasy. And his unease made him hate himself, for he recognized it for what it was—fear that she had understood his commitment to her and meant to hold him to it.

  That was why he blurted out what he had not meant to say. “Weasel,” he said, “I love you.” He had to say it now, say it plainly, or he was afraid he would retreat from it, forget what he had seen in her yesterday.

  Weasel looked at him—tenderly? It was hard to tell. Softly, anyway. “How sweet of you to say it,” she said. “I’m glad were friends.”

  Orem was surprised at the mildness of her response. She must have misunderstood, he thought. “I mean I love you. The Queen may be my wife, but everything that I should feel for her, I feel for you.”

  She had misunderstood. Now she suddenly turned away, touching one hand to her mouth in a clumsy gesture that would have been lovely in a woman more beautiful than she. Orem felt a thrill of pleasure at the gift he was giving her—she must have thought no man would ever love her, and here he was, giving her what she had never thought to have again.

  She turned back to him. There were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Little King,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

  It was not the response Orem had expected.

  “Little King, don’t you understand? You’re sweet and well-meaning and good and I love you dearly, but you’re a child to me. How can I help but feel that way? My story began three centuries ago. I’ve lived more lifetimes than you have decades. I’m sorry that you love me. Forgive me that I can’t love you the same way.”

  Orem looked at her blindly, stupidly. It had not occurred to him that this ugly woman would not be grateful for his love, would not return it instantly. Suddenly he saw himself again as he should have remembered that he was: a boy, seventeen now, but still a boy who should be on a farm, not in a palace; how could this woman who had been loved by King Palicrovol ever think of loving him? Just because her body was ugly now did not mean that she had forgotten who she was: the daughter of a king in her own land. And as to her ugliness—didn’t she see the Queen every day, reminding her of what her real shape was?

  She must have seen some of the pain he felt; she reached out and touched his arm. She was still weeping, and a tear fell on Orem’s hand. “Oh, Little King, I never meant to hurt you. There’s pain enough ahead of you without my adding to it now.” And she turned and fled from him, running with her awkward, uneven gait back to the palace.

  Orem stood with Youth in his arms. He felt another tear on his hand, and saw one hit the baby’s face. Not Weasel’s tears—his own. A moment ago he had had to force himself to remember his love for Weasel; now he was lost, confused, for suddenly he loved her more than he had ever loved her, now that she was impossible for him to attain; now that his love for her seemed hopeless and childish, he longed more desperately for her, and the pain seemed more than he could bear.

  He sat in the grass, rocking his son in his arms. The child smiled at him, and reached up and touched his cheek, accidentally taking a tear onto his tiny hand. Surely it was an accident. And yet Youth took the tear-touched hand and put it in his mouth and sucked.

  And Orem found a bitter satisfaction that despite the Queen’s command, Youth had taken nourishment from someone other than Beauty. It might be salt instead of milk, but when the child had tasted it, he laughed. It was an impossible sound from an infant so newly born; but in a garden that never knew a season except summer, it did not seem odd to Orem. It was comforting, and he kissed the child and laughed with him, and Orem belonged to his son from that day.

  That night, however, Youth was not with him, and when Orem went to bed all the day’s pain came back to him. The ugliest woman in the world, who still could not bring herself to love this contemptible Little King; the beautiful Queen who had made love to him once in order to conceive a child and had never since come to his bed; the wizard trapped as fool in his pupils court, who was impatient for Orem to do something that Orem did not understand. I was brought to his palace to die, he thought, and they kill me bit by bit before a drop of my blood is spilled.

  And tonight he did not forget to do his work against the Queen.

  He found Palicrovol easily, and as easily undid all her magic around him. The great King was camped west of Waterskeep. Was he heading for Holy Bend and Sturks, to continue gathering his army? Orem thought not. It was time, surely, with the Little King on Palicrovol’s throne and a child born to Queen Beauty, time for King Palicrovol to turn south. The town of Pry would be his destination, and from there he would cross the tongue of the hills with his army and come down to Hart’s Hope through the High Road and the Back Gate. It was time for King Palicrovol to challenge the Queen.

  And time, therefore, for Orem to challenge her, too. He did not range far afield, making her blind in odd places throughout Burland. There was no need, now—already there were a hundred holes in her Searching Eye that she hadn’t the strength or time to mend. Now, when he had freed Palicrovol of the Queens interference, Orem turned inward and came to Hart’s Hope.

  He ranged through the city all that night until nearly dawn, his thirst draining the Searching Eye from all the streets, all the twisting paths. And still he was not finished. He could sense the Queen trying to re-establish her Searching Eye in her own city, felt the anger of it, felt her searching in vain for him, for the source of his power. He was not ready for sleep: for now he brought his gift within the castle walls; he drained the magic from Corner Castle and the Old Castle, from the Water House and the Gaols, from the Taxhouse and the Baths.

  And then he ranged within the palace itself. The Queen’s sight was turned outward, to her city, to her castle. So Orem easily found the spells that surrounded Urubugala; he tasted them, and they seemed undiminished; he drank them deep, and still the spells were strong. What a binding the Queen had put on this wizard—and still he had had the strength to speak clearly to Orem several times. Orem kept drinking, and at last the wizard was free enough to free himself, shattering what spells were left.

  Orem was still not. finished. He found Craven, who was not half so firmly bound; he undid the magic that bound the man. And now the two strongest men in the Queens own palace were free, the one with magic and the other with his young, strong body. Let her cope with that, if she could.

  Still, he had one more task. The spells that tied Weasel to her ugliness were still firm. Orem searched and found her and almost freed her, too. But he could not. He remembered Weasel’s pity of him today; it was not for spite that he did not free her, he told himself. It was because the Queen would only bind her again, and he did not want her to suffer the pain of having been free and being bound again. That was why.

  Not for spite, he told himself. Not because I’m hurt. Not because I want to hurt her. And he cried himself to sleep in the dawn, as the Queen’s guards fought off the powerful soldier who furiously cried that he would kill the Queen himself; as the Queen battled silently with a vengeful wizard who, after all, knew everything she knew and had only been bound in the first place because he had never dreamed she would pay the terrible price of the only magic that could defeat him.

  The Queen won her battles that night. Urubugala and Craven were re-enslaved to her. But it was at a cost. For that night the spells on Palicrovol were not relaid, and the King woke in the morning in the freshness of his power, and he turned to his most trusted soldiers who surrounded him day and night and he said, “This morning my wizards and my priests tell me that the Queen sees and hears nothing. This morning we have hope. This morning we turn south. We will face the Queen within the month, face her and win.” He did not raise his voice, or try to inspire these men to do battle for him. These were the men who had faced the Queen’s terror before and stood through it. They touched their swords; they tightened their belts; they said little, but their silence was eloquent with grim determination. They had faced the worst thing in the world before and withstood it; now they were going back to face it again, and this time they meant to do more than just survive.

  Orem awoke at noon, and when he had eaten, he went to the Queen’s room and took Youth from her. The child was suckling at her breast, but she willingly gave the infant to Orem. Then she lay back and slept instantly. Orem stood and looked at her for a long time before he left. The first mark of his power had been made on her body. There were lines around her eyes, and dark under them; she was haggard and drawn, and her beauty was fading. I will suck you dry, he said. You will pay a dear price for my blood.

  The Queen had lost much of her strength, and she did not try to reestablish her power over Palicrovol. Instead, she withdrew into her chambers. All she did, it seemed, was nurse Youth and maintain her Searching Eye within the palace and the castle. Even Harts Hope itself was free of her gaze for the first time in three centuries.

  Night after night, Orem challenged her. He did not free Urubugala or Craven again, but he undid much of her other work. And he was surprised to find how little of it she re-established. The water in the Baths did not rise as clean from the spring; and as the season moved into autumn, the leaves began to go gold and red in the palace park. The servants whispered, and fewer of the nobility came to amuse themselves at the palace. The workers in government were haunted by rumors—that the King had a wizard that was Beauty’s match and more than match, that the Queen’s power was waning before their eyes. Some, sensing a shift in the balance of power in Burland, fled Hart’s Hope secretly and made their way to the King, who welcomed them but did not trust them. Most stayed, but they were not at ease. The Queen’s Searching Eye did not follow Palicrovol anymore; instead, spies from her Guard went out searching for his troops, reporting every day what they had seen. Every day Palicrovol’s army came closer; every day it became more maddening that the Queen stayed hidden in her chambers and did not come out and give direction or make decisions or even punish the rumormongers. Unease turned to anxiety, and anxiety to fear, and still she did nothing. She merely nursed her child, slept, and mended every night what Orem ripped apart within the palace walls. And those few who saw her marveled at how old she seemed to be. A young girl for three centuries, she at last was showing signs of her life, and the face that was replacing the young one she stole from Enziquelvinisensee Evelvenin was not a kind one. It was bitter, dark, and full of fears that had so long been with her that they had turned to a hateful kind of courage.

  And day after day, Orem took Youth from her and played with the boy in the park. He was drawing more than nourishment from his mother’s breasts: he was scarcely six weeks old when he began to crawl; already he babbled and tried to say words. “It’s a miracle,” the servants said to the Little King. Miracle it might be, and strange it might be, Orem thought, but it did no harm to the boy. He was a good child, a loving child, a responsive child, and Orem loved him more and more. There were games they played, silly infant games that left them both giddy with laughter; games that were the brightest part of Orem’s life.

  They were playing Touch-the-Nose when Weasel came to Orem in the park. The leaves were heavy red and orange, but the afternoon was still bright and warm.

  “Little King,” she said.

  Orem thought of ignoring her, but could not. It would not do to childishly let her know how much he still hurt.

  “Little King, please. You mustn’t refuse to speak with me.”

  “I’m glad to talk to you,” Orem said, thinking he was doing a good job of sounding cheerful.

  “Little King, I have to talk to you about King Palicrovol.”

  “He’s coming,” Orem said, and he bent suddenly to Youth and said, “Bubble bubble bubble.” The baby laughed madly and said, “Buh buh buh buh!”

  “He’s only two weeks away. In a day or two he comes to Pry, and then it’s either a week to get boats to come quickly downriver, or two weeks bringing his army over the hills.”