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womb, which the demon Markwart had so violated, taking her child from her, stilling the heartbeat that had found such rhythm with her own.
    Now they were fighting again, and in her time of grieving, Pony could not bring herself to believe that it would ever end. Without that optimism, that flicker of hope, how could she leap out of bed with excitement to attend to another of theso-called important meetings?
    She did manage to rise, wash, and dress, though, for the sake of brothers Braumin, Dellman, Castinagis, and Viscenti, who had stood strong beside her and Elbryan in their time of need, who had refused to turn against them despite their own imprisonment and the threat of torturous deaths at the hands of Markwart. She had to do it for Brother Romeo Mullahy, who had leaped from the blessed plateau at the Barbacan to his death rather than surrender to Markwart. She had to do it for Avelyn, for the Church he had envisioned—even though she was certain it would never come to fruition.
    Her responsibilities enabled her to put one foot in front of the other along the corridors of St. Precious.
    When she turned the last corner into the hallway that ran in front of the meeting room, she came upon another whose stride, markedly different from her own, was full of eagerness and strength.
    “Greetings, Jilseponie,” Duke Kalas said, edging to walk close to her side. “I would have thought that you would have been inside with the brothers long before this, preparing for the King’s visit.”
    “I have spoken with Brother Braumin many times,” Pony casually replied, her reference to Braumin only—and not the higher-ranking monks, particularly Abbot Je’howith—speaking volumes about her stance on the present issues.
    Kalas remained quiet; the only sound in the corridor was the soft padding of Pony’s light shoes and the hard clacking of Kalas’ military boots.
    Before they reached the door, the Duke strode ahead of her and then turned back so that she had to look at him. “A difficult fight on yesterday’s morn,” he said.
    Pony chuckled at his abrupt subject change. “Not so, I would think,” she replied, “since so few were wounded.”
    “A testament to the power of the Allheart Brigade,” the proud Kalas quickly added. “The powries were many and were eager for battle, but our precision formations and practiced coordination cut their ranks asunder and sent them running.”
    Pony nodded despite her nagging suspicions. She had no hard proof, after all, to dispute the Duke’s words.
    Kalas moved in front of her and forced her to stop abruptly. “I was pleased to see you on the wall when I rode back into Palmaris,” he said, staring at her intently. “It is good that you should witness such a spectacle as the Allheart Brigade in these troubled times, that you might gain confidence that we, you and I, are fighting the same enemies.”
    It took all of Pony’s considerable composure not to laugh in the man’s face. He was making a play for her—oh, not for the present—for he, like everyone else, understood that she, less than four months widowed, was still grieving for Elbryan. No, Kalas was being far more subtle and polite. He was sowing seeds—she saw it so clearly. In truth, such occasions had become quite common. She was able to easily put aside her vanity and harbor no illusions that her beauty and charm werewinning the hearts of the visiting nobles of Danube’s court. She knew she was a beautiful woman, but so were many of those who had followed the King and his court to Palmaris, courtesans well versed in the arts of seduction. Pony understood the truth behind Kalas’ words. She was an important figure now, with more potential for power within Church or State than any other woman in the kingdom, including Delenia, the abbess of St. Gwendolyn, the highest-ranking woman in the Abellican Church. Pony had been tentatively offered the highest position in the Order by several of the monks in Palmaris and