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his problem, except she’d been kinder to him than Lokeen, and he felt he owed her something. Kindness in this castle always came with a cost. Maria had not yet made known to him what she expected in return.
    “Now tell that other king how archaic and useless that handfasting thing is. Appeal to his sense of logic and justice so he’ll do away with the ritual. It’s useless and interferes with . . . with . . .”
    “Interferes with the lives and plans of the couple: not married but unable to marry anyone else . . .” Robb finished for him. That might be the truth, but Lokeen was only thinking that Ariiell’s handfasting interfered with
his
plans, no one else’s.
    Robb looked at the original letter again while magic still colored his vision. The sharp pen lines, formed with a delicate pressure, had not been written by Lord Laislac. That man, Robb knew, could barely read and write, and when he signed his name, the letters came out fat, with extra globs of half-dried ink distorting the letters. No, Ariiell had written the letter herself and signed her father’s name. Ariiell broke the marriage treaty her father had arranged without asking his permission. She wouldn’t likely enter into another.
    In the moons since Robb had left Coronnan and the University, something must have happened for Ariiell to regain her sanity and her freedom. He knew nothing. He’d gathered gossip from his guards about Amazonia and Lokeen’s precarious position on the throne, but he’d heard nothing about his native land. Or his wife and children. He didn’t even know if Jaylor and Glenndon had succeeded in the chore they’d needed his help with.
    Anything outside of Amazonia held no meaning for the locals. They barely acknowledged the existence of the other city-states up and down the coast of the Big Continent—Mabastion they called it. “My fortress” in one of the ancient tongues.
    Depression sank deep into his gut again, making his bones ache and his head spin. Even the slight hope that this letter might win him his freedom vanished.
    Biting his lower lip in pain and exhaustion, he completed the letter, sanded it, and handed it to Lokeen for signature, a seal, and direction.
    He finished the water in his cup down to the last drop, wishing for more.
    Maria appeared at his side. “You’ll have more in your room,” she said quietly. Hardly an elongated syllable or twisting of any of the words.
    He nodded at her subtle reminder that he was still a prisoner and needed to return to his cell. A new cell atop a narrow tower with windows to let in bright sunlight and fresh air. Far above any ley lines that might lurk on the surface of the land. Devoid of any magic anywhere.
    How had Samlan worked any magic while here?
    Oh, yes, Robb now knew that his kidnapper was the rogue magician who had wormed his way into Lokeen’s confidence, becoming a trusted adviser and then ambassador to Coronnan. He’d been in and out of the castle for ten years before staying full-time for a few moons after his exile from the Circle of Magicians. But then he’d disappeared from Amazonia as cleanly as he had from the University.
    Maria led the way, slowly, masking her own pain with dignity. When they reached the winding tower steps that led to Robb’s new prison—light and aboveground, but still a guarded cell—she paused and took a deep breath, in preparation for the abuse her twisted leg must endure to climb. But climb she must. ’Twas her responsibility as chatelaine to escort him to and from his room, as if he were an honored guest instead of a prisoner—or hostage.
    Robb offered her his arm.
    She shot him an offended glare.
    “No offense meant, my lady. Simply a gentleman offering a lady his arm as escort.” He bowed slightly—something he hadn’t done for Lokeen.
    Maria nodded and slipped her tiny hand around his forearm. Neither of them mentioned how heavily she leaned on him. But he noticed the look of gratitude in her eyes when