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am a messenger of that peace.”
    “Yes, yes, yes…” The young prince waved aside the argument as casually as he might have swatted at a fly. “Magister business, I’m sure, and I won’t poke into it, but you will excuse me if trusting you about my person comes hard. Most of your countrymen would as soon stick a knife in my back as measure my pulse, I’m sure you know that.”
    As would I , Colivar thought, but as you said, this is Magister business .
    “I have told him nothing of your situation, Highness.” Ramirus’ tone was the very essence of formality. “I did not wish to prejudice his inspection.”
    “Yes, well. My father trusts you. He knows the customs of Magisters better than I, so I will respect that. So.” He looked up at Colivar. His eyes were a pale blue, clear in color, but the whites were faintly bloodshot; the color of sleeplessness. “What do you need from me, Magister? I warn you I’ve been poked and prodded by the best; you’ll be hard pressed to come up with anything new.”
    “A few questions first. May I?” he asked, indicating a chair near the young man. He knew Ramirus was glaring at him as he sat down, but that was his problem. Colivar hadn’t come many hundreds of miles to play standing courtier to the son of his country’s great enemy. In Farah’s domain he sat when he wanted to; he would not honor an enemy prince with greater courtesy than he offered his own.
    “Tell me of your symptoms first,” he said quietly. And he settled in to listen not only to the young prince’s words, but to the shadow play of memory behind them.
    The young man nodded. His expression made it clear that he had told this tale many times and was wearying of the repetition. “It began a year ago, nearly to the day. I had just returned from riding. Suddenly there was a terrible weakness… that is the only way I can describe it. Like nothing I had ever felt before.” He paused. “My father was most upset. He called in Master Ramirus to look at me, but by then it was as if nothing had ever happened. My strength had returned in full, and the Magis-ter said there was no sign of any illness or bodily damage to correct.”
    “Tell me about the weakness,” Colivar directed.
    The prince drew in a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “It was as if, all of a sudden, I was very tired. Not only in my limbs, but in my very soul. Not that I lacked strength per se, but that I lacked the desire to use it. I know that seems strange. It is difficult to describe, especially now, after so much time has passed. But that is how I recall the sensation.”
    “There was a servant who gave me a flagon of ale. I remember holding it, and being unable to bring it to my lips. Not that it was too heavy. It was too… pointless.”
    Colivar’s expression grew progressively darker as the story was told. “Go on,” he said quietly.
    “That was all that happened the first time. Father made some offerings at the temple to assuage any gods that might be displeased with me, and said not to worry about it otherwise.”
    “But it happened again.”
    He nodded. “Yes. It was not nearly as dramatic, the second time… or the third.” He sighed heavily. “These days I do not recover so quickly. The spells of weakness, the days of normal strength… they bleed one into the other, till I cannot rightly sense the border between the two. Sometimes the sun shines in my soul, and all seems well with the world. Sometimes… sometimes I cannot get out of bed. And I wonder if the day will come when I truly will never rise from it again.”
    Colivar could feel Ramirus’ eyes upon him. He pointedly did not look up to meet them.
    “Others have said it is the Wasting,” the prince offered. He managed to say the word without fear, which said much for his courage. The mere name of that terrible illness would have most men wetting their beds.
    “It may be that.” Colivar kept his tone noncommital, his own emotions under lock and key.