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you do if Deveron does discover that your former wife is alive, and has a son?”
    “That… can be decided later. But I believe there’s only one solution to the problem.”
    “For the love of God, Con, tell me you would not—”
    The king cut off his brother’s horrified protest. “Say no more! This rumor may prove to be entirely false. We will not discuss the fate of the Princess Dowager now.”
    “As you please, sire.”
    Conrig said, “I gave Snudge permission to leave Gala Blenholme and visit his new estate following his initiation ceremony. He said he’d ride out at once. You must bespeak him, ordering his return.”
    “Very well. I’ll take care of it as soon as we finish here.” Stergos threw off his vestment hood.
    “We should delay no longer bespeaking the Conjure-Queen.”
    “Do it then,” Conrig said.
    The Royal Alchymist let his head sink into his hands and called out silently on the wind. After a few minutes had passed, he opened his eyes and said, “She will make an attempt to Send immediately.”
    They waited, straining their ears, fearing the sound of approaching steps from the room where Risalla lay, but hearing only the distant sounds of music and revelry outside in the gardens. At length Conrig leapt to his feet.
    “I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going in there—”
    “That won’t be necessary.”
    The sweet woodsy scent of vetiver wafted into the room. A silhouette was standing in front of the tall, undraped window, completely enveloped in a deep green cloak. Ullanoth’s Sending had flashed into existence with no warning. A hand, pale as milk and wearing a ring of carved moonstone on one long, graceful finger, emerged from the folds of cloth and extended itself towards Conrig.
    He hastened to take the hand, brushing the back of it with his lips. He carefully avoided any contact with the ring, which was a powerful sigil named Weathermaker. “Gracious Queen, welcome.”
    Ullanoth of Moss unfastened her cloak and handed it to the High King as though he were a simple lackey. Except for the purplish shadows about her eyes, her face was as lovely as ever, framed by shimmering long hair that mimicked the pearly interior of certain seashells. Her gown was the same unadorned green samite as her cape, and her belt was gold, with a hanging purse.
    Around her neck hung a golden chain with a curiously carved small translucent pendant that glowed in the dim room like wan foxfire—the Great Stone named Sender, the third major sigil that she owned. Its power, invoked only at the cost of terrible pain now that her debt to the Lights was so heavy, enabled Ullanoth to inhabit a magical simulacrum of her natural body, in which her soul might travel anywhere in the world while her true flesh lay senseless. The Sending was no vaporous ghost, but rather a warm and solid replica with a full palette of physical sensation, able to carry from its point of origin all clothing and other accoutrements worn or held by the original. It could not, however, draw sustenance from food or drink at its destination, nor could it carry back any foreign object. And if the Sending remained in existence for more than a few hours, the true body would begin to deteriorate mortally.
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    May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon
    There was another important limitation to the Sending that only the most advanced arcane practitioners were aware of: it could materialize only near a talented person, from whom it drew magical substantiation.
    “Then Risalla’s unborn child is free of talent!” Conrig cried joyously.
    Ullanoth nodded. “Yes. Tonight, I’ve used Vra-Stergos as my substantiator. Let us go to your wife now and determine whether the babe is male or female.”
    The three of them went into the room where Risalla lay, but after a few suspenseful moments Ullanoth stepped