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to Mal, respectful or encouraging, then turned away.
    T HE SUN WAS dropping again toward twilight when Mal stepped back into fresh air. Without the wind to shed the perfume, the scent of near-­blooming roses was overpowering and poignant. He’d grown up alongside the rose hedges, been pricked and bled by many a thorn. He’d helped his mother harvest the petals for rose oil, and in the fall he’d collected rosehips for the apothecary’s healing teas as well as the poultice his father preferred for gout.
    He stopped in to check on the horses, and was pleased and unsurprised to find the two geldings scrubbed down, put away, and happily picking through alfalfa. The bay nickered in welcome, while Liam’s chestnut rolled an unfriendly eye. The boy left in charge of the horses was dozing on a straw bale, snugged tight under a horse blanket, snoring. Mal ruffled the bay’s mane, then left the animals to their supper.
    The bailey was little different than he remembered. The high walls stood straight and strong, braced by crawling roses. New oyster had been recently spread; the white shells were still more whole than crushed. Mal scooped a small valve from the ground, rubbing the shell between thumb and forefinger. He took the keepsake with him across the courtyard and around the tower, past the shuttered blacksmith and deserted market.
    Selkirk’s westmost wall broke form and reached outward toward the sea, like the stem of a harvest gourd, following the shape of the coast. The sound of wave against rock grew loud as Mal approached the west gate, and the creak and groan of tall ships anchored beyond.
    Selkirk’s temple clung like a mollusk against the southwest curve of the battlements, a narrow half spire of graystone bent drunkenly over the battlements, then rising yet again. The temple was cleared of vegetation, gray against green. Square, barred windows kept watch over bailey and coast.
    A young priest sat on the threshold, robes pulled around bony knees. His yellow eyes widened at Mal’s approach. He hopped to his feet, bowing at the waist.
    â€œLord Vocent,” he said. “You’ve come. Her ladyship’s inside, my lord. In the highest chapel. You’ll be well received, my lord. You’ve been missed.”
    Mal nodded, sketched the expected sigil from breastbone to groin and shoulder to shoulder, then entered the temple. He had to stand for a heartbeat in the dim, smoky chill, waiting for his eyes to adjust to candlelight. Striped squares of twilight fell through the windows, illuminating the curving stairway that spiraled from floor to battlements. Sweet grass smoldered in a wide brazier bolted to the center of the graystone floor.
    Mal conjured mage-­light. He followed the globe up the spiral stairway, purposefully scuffing his sandals against stone, knowing the light and the noise would provide his mother the warning she needed.
    She stood waiting for him at the top of the spiral, framed in a single wide window. Beyond and below, Selkirk’s pier crawled with seamen tending sleeping ships, stowing barrels and bundles before true dark.
    â€œYou’re too late,” Lady Selkirk said. “He’s gone.”
    Mal gritted his teeth. The climb from bailey to high temple had never winded him as a child, but his lungs were not what they had been before the agraine , and he hated that he was near to panting. He hid his labored breathing behind a tight smile.
    â€œIf your priests couldn’t save him, Mother, I’d be of little use. I’m sorry.”
    She wasn’t fooled by his sympathy, and she was quick enough to note the rise and fall of his chest, clever enough not to remark upon it, and unkind enough to let pity show on her face.
    â€œHe didn’t mean to be saved,” she said. “He’d determined to die. But he wanted to see you before he passed; see the boy as a man. Recognize his lad in the king’s most beloved.”
    The