At the thought of the Red Robes, he opened his eyes. He was lying in a dungeon cell and, like the wapiti, his arms and legs were at odd angles. The straw beneath him, what there was of it, smelled of urine and fear. He was lying here because of Elymas, his own stupidity, and the Shivelite girl.

Mirella.

She’d said her name was Mirella. He wouldn’t try to pronounced it now.

The King had called her to stand beside him during the questioning, and a wave of lust had hit him that left him weak in the knees. He’d taken a step back, ostensibly to give her more room, but really to get a hold of himself. He expected lust – if he wasn’t lusting after a woman, one was lusting after him – but not so strong and never in public.

He made sure to keep his distance after that, refusing to look at her.

Then, he’d seen her as he was being led out of the Great Throne Room by a side passage. A roomful of air and light, the King had said, with fresh rushes on the floor. And hadn’t there been mention of a bath? He thought to have her summoned, asking for her to be one of the bathing women, when he looked back and caught sight of her again. She was heading into the banquet hall, pushing against the crowd. She seemed to be trying to get to the gallery’s interior wall, where the banners were displayed. Her attempted her useless. The crowd absorbed her in its push to feast and he saw, rather than heard, a cry of frustration escape her mouth in protest.