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clusters of young boys and their school masters, before he spied Javan sitting on a bench in the window alcove across the room, next to a grisaille window which looked out onto the winter-dead garden. A large tree just outside the window cast an eerie network of shadows upon the prince and the young man who knelt motionless at his feet. The man’s back was to Jebediah, but his dark red hair and Healer’s green robe proclaimed him to be Tavis O’Neill, the very person with whom Jebediah had hoped to speak.
    The pair did not appear to notice his approach. It was not until Jebediah reached the window alcove and mounted the two steep steps that Javan looked up and frowned. Now Jebediah could see the reason for Tavis’s stance; the boy’s deformed right foot was cradled in his cupped hands, its specially constructed boot stripped off and laid aside so that the Healer might work. Tavis was massaging the foot very gently, his eyes half-closed in trancing, obviously in his Healing mode, but it was evident from Javan’s occasional grimaces that something was amiss.
    Cautiously Jebediah moved closer, not wishing to disturb the Healer’s concentration, but he was unable to see precisely what Tavis was doing.
    â€œIs anything wrong, Your Highness?” he asked in a quiet voice.
    Javan’s face flushed red, and Tavis started and then recovered, covering the deformed foot beneath his hands with a casual gesture which was not lost on Jebediah. He did not turn toward the earl marshal.
    â€œMy Lord Marshal,” Tavis said softly. “What brings you to the royal schoolroom?”
    â€œConcern for Their Highnesses,” Jebediah replied. “It appears that my concern is well founded. What are you doing?”
    â€œHis Highness’s tutors are not always gentle in their training, my lord,” Tavis murmured, still not turning toward the grand master. “This morning’s training was particularly brutal.”
    â€œBrutal?”
    Tavis pivoted on his haunches, his face almost white with fury. “Yes, brutal! They made him walk a five-mile march this morning in the snow, wearing full mail and carrying an adult-weight sword and shield. He finished,” he said, fiercely proud, “and not far behind his brothers, either—but this is the price he had to pay. And I have already eased much of the hurt!”
    As he spoke, he raised the foot he had been cradling and glared at Jebediah in challenge. The marshal, finally gaining a clear look, had to exert great control not to flinch openly.
    The boy’s right foot was raw and angry-looking, where it was not purpling with bruises, the pale skin chafed badly all around the thick, misshapen ankle. The other foot was also chafed and red, though not as severely. Beside Tavis on the wide windowsill, Jebediah could see a basin of water and several damp towels, a glass vial containing what looked like soothing oil.
    â€œWho is responsible for this?” Jebediah asked, his voice deadly calm and even.
    â€œIt was—”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” Javan interjected, cutting Tavis off before he could say a name. “If I’m going to be a warrior, I have to be tough. I have to be able to keep up with the others. I have to be able to lead them. I’m going to show them that I can.”
    â€œSheer physical ability is not the only requisite for leadership, my prince,” Jebediah said, biting off a harsher comment he had been going to make about whoever had been responsible. “Who has told you that it was?”
    Javan stiffened, his lower lip quivering a little in his indignation. “If I am possibly to rule after my brother Alroy, I must be strong. Do you think they will allow another weakling to sit on the throne? Gwynedd needs a warrior king.”
    â€œGwynedd needs a king who is wise,” Jebediah countered. “If he also happens to be a warrior, that is fine. But it is not required. Your