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tribute. Ilbran said softly to her, “Your niece has brought us luck.”
    “Hold your tongue, son,” she whispered back, smiling.
    But the next day, there was no talk of luck. Ilbran sailed out early and returned late, and brought back nothing to show for it. That evening, he watched as his mother patiently fed broth to the girl, spoonful by spoonful. She swallowed obediently enough if the spoon was put in her mouth, but she gave no other sign of awareness.
    “How long will this last?” he asked. “And what will we do, when we decide that we can keep her no longer?”
    Hammel raised his head and looked appraisingly at his son. “Verthan’s father lived for thirty years unknowing, after thieves struck him on the head, and then he woke, and spoke to his daughter thinking she was his wife who had been dead those twenty years.”
    “There is neither kin nor covenant to bind us. Are we, am I to keep her for thirty years?” He left unspoken the unforgivable words. Am I to have another burden on me all my life? The mere thought appalled him. He had never belittled his father before, even in thought.
    “Son, hold your tongue,” Hammel said. “It has not been thirty years, nor yet thirty days. What would you do, return her helpless to her family’s murderers? Hand her over to the butchers for a few coins?”
    “She is one of the lords of the land. We owe them nothing,” he said, but already his momentary rebellion was dying down. He reached out and stroked her silver hair, which had not curled even though it had been cut short. It was hard to believe that she was rightful ruler of this wide land. And what ailed her? No blow to her head, or she could not have run so far and hid so well.
    Her mouth opened, a little whimper, a tiny thread of sound. “Nane?” It caught their attention more surely than the roar of a sea-courser would have done. Then she tried to sit up, stared around her, and screamed, again and again.
    Kare took three quick steps to where she lay, and knelt beside her, holding her tight in her strong arms, rocking her and murmuring gentle wordlessness. The girl clung to her, sobbing, “Nane, Nane.” Presently she looked around her, a wide half-focused stare like a new-born baby. Ilbran met her eyes. He had been right. They were gray as the clouds that hide the sun.
    Her sobbing died, and she pulled herself free of Kare’s arms. “Where … am … I?” She spoke the words as though each one was a battle and a victory.
    Hammel answered her gently. “You are safe. In the city still, but safe. I am Hammel Rotefil Mareefile, and my wife Kare Ilessesfil Karefile, and my son Ilbran.”
    “I … am … Andiene Rejin Mareja.” She looked amazed to hear her voice speak her own name. After a moment’s silence, she added, “Unless Ranes Reji, my father, still lives?”
    “He does not. Welcome, Andiene, to our home.”
    She looked at him angrily. “Why do you not rise? Why do you not name me my rightful title?”
    “I cannot rise, Rejin.”
    Her eyes widened in shock and she flushed red. “Furthermore,” he went on, “you would be wise not to insist on royal privileges. An uncrowned queen is not safe, nor are those who shelter her. You are proscribed throughout the city.”
    “I know. I know. They killed all but me. I thought I dreamed.” The words came haltingly to her, but they waited patiently for her to speak. She shook her head as though to clear it of the fumes of some drug. “I thought I dreamed … There was a dragon. He spoke to me, and called me … promised me revenge. Gray, on the high cliffs above the fog.”
    “That was a dream, child.” Hammel held up a hand to stop her from saying more. “No, child. Think what the city folk would think if they heard us saying ‘My lady,’ or ‘Rejin,’ and making obeisance. Habits are easy to make and hard to break. For as long as you are here, you are Rile, my wife’s brother’s daughter, spoken to as to any other child.”
    She frowned,