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Elua’s name is the matter with him?” I muttered.
    “A lifetime of plans gone awry.” Sidonie watched him. “You missed the last one. He’d hoped to convince Mother that I should wed his youngest son.”
    “What?”
    “Oh, yes.” She nodded. “To forge a great alliance with Khebbel-im-Akkad. Truth be told, I don’t think the Lugal would consider sending one of his heirs to Terre d’Ange for aught less.”
    “What did your mother say?” I asked.
    Sidonie smiled faintly. “She told him he forged a great alliance with Khebbel-im-Akkad when he wed his only daughter to the Khalif’s son, and if he thought the realm would stand for her half-Cruithne heir wedding a half-Akkadian prince, he’d lost his wits.” She gave me a wry glance. “At least no one questions the purity of your bloodline.”
    “Generations of incest,” Mavros said cheerfully, approaching us with our cousin Roshana beside him. “At least on House Shahrizai’s side. Nice to see you’re carrying on the tradition.”
    “I’m glad you’re pleased,” I said.
    In truth, Sidonie and I weren’t all that closely related. My father had been her great-granduncle, brother of King Ganelon de la Courcel. It made us first cousins, I supposed, but there were two generations between us.
    Of course, it was also true that my father had gotten me late in life, embittered by a lifetime of intrigue in La Serenissima, obsessed with the idea of putting a pure-blooded D’Angeline on the throne, and seduced by my mother’s wiles. When I was a babe, he and my mother had been part of a plot to assassinate Ysandre. It very nearly worked, too; it would have, had it not been for Phèdre and Joscelin.
    Strange to think, if it had worked, I would likely have inherited the throne by now. I would be the King of Terre d’Ange, and Sidonie would never have been born. The thought made me shiver.
    Small wonder half the realm mistrusted me.
    Sidonie touched my arm. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
    I nodded. “I think that would be wise.”
    The crowds had thinned enough for us to make our way out of the throne hall, escorted by guards and accompanied by a small entourage. We adjourned to one of the smaller salons in the Palace, used for private fêtes. Sidonie looked pale. I would rather have spent this moment alone with her, and I daresay she felt the same, but those who had supported us publicly risked the Queen’s displeasure. It would have been ungracious to dismiss them as mere props. I sent one of the Palace understewards to fetch wine and refreshments.
    “So . . . are we celebrating?” Julien Trente asked uncertainly after the wine had been poured.
    I shrugged. “We’re not lamenting.”
    “What happens now?” Mavros perched on the arm of a couch, swinging one leg. “Do you pack your trunks and head off to La Serenissima to follow your vanished mother’s seven-year-old trail?”
    “No.” Sidonie’s voice was fierce. She drank half the contents of her winecup, her color returning. “Not now. Not yet. Not after two years of fear and uncertainty, wondering if Imriel was alive or dead.”
    “What, then?” Roshana asked mildly.
    “My thought is this.” I glanced at Phèdre. “I mean to write to the Master of the Straits and beseech his aid. He can search for her in his sea-mirror. If she is anywhere on D’Angeline or Alban soil, he will find her.”
    Mavros blinked in surprise. “You think he’ll do it?”
    “Oh, yes.” Phèdre answered his question, and well she might. The Master of the Straits, the waters that divided Alba and Terre d’Ange, could cause the waves to rise and lightning to strike at his command. He had also once been a Tsingano lad named Hyacinthe and her dearest friend. Like me, he owed her a debt he could never repay. “I am quite sure of it.”
    “Do you think she is ?” Roshana asked.
    “It’s possible.” I smiled wistfully. “Alba, I doubt, but mayhap Terre d’Ange. Of a surety, it would make matters a great