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you’ve heard the whispers questioning my fitness to rule. Do you agree with them?”
    This question startled Matteo, and the answer that came to mind stunned him. Zalathorm waited for him to speak, studying him with eyes that needed no magic to measure a man.
    “I’m not sure,” Matteo said at last.
    Zalathorm nodded. “Therein lays the answer to your question. An older, wiser jordain would have told me what he thought I wished to hear.”
    “If I offend, I beg pardon,” Matteo began.
    The king cut him off with an upraised hand. “If you apologize for each outbreak of candor, we’ll have little time to speak of other matters. Honesty is a laudable trait, but let’s agree now that it’s best appreciated long after the advice is given.”
    This blunt speech conjured in Matteo’s mind an image of Tzigone’s pert face, her expressive mouth twisted in exasperation at his inability to add “interesting color” to the truth, her big brown eyes cast skyward. Matteo swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and banished the wistful smile from his lips.
    “Perhaps you disagree?” the king inquired. “Not at all, sire,” he said, inclining his head in a small, respectful bow. “Indeed, I have heard that sentiment expressed before.”
    By highsun, all the petitioners had been heard. The street song dimmed to a somnolent murmur as the residents of Halarahh sought shelter from the midday heat. Sunsleep hours were both custom and necessity in this sultry land.
    The king and his counselor, however, did not take time to rest. Matteo followed Zalathorm through a maze of corridors and up winding stairs, past armed guards and magical wards guarding the high tower where Queen Beatrix was imprisoned.
    Her small chamber was comfortably appointed but as starkly white as a greenmage’s infirmary. The walls were freshly whitewashed and the carpet quilted from thick pelts of lambskin. White satin cushions heaped the bed, and a long settee had been covered in white-embroidered silk. Here sat Beatrix in profound stillness, immobile as the metal constructs that had been her passion and her downfall.
    Despite her captivity, the queen was gorgeously gowned in white satin and cloth-of-silver. An elaborate wig of white and silver curls framed a face as pale as porcelain. Her dark eyes were kohl-rimmed and enormous, startling against the unnatural pallor.
    Zalathorm stooped to kiss the snowy cheek. “You are well, my lady?”
    After a moment, she responded with a faint nod.
    The king sat down beside her and took one of her small, still hands in his. “You are here by my command. In this I had no choice. But I believe nothing that has been said of you.”
    The queen lifted her eyes, not quite meeting Zalathorm’s gaze. Though she stared blankly past his shoulder, she lifted her free hand and gently touched his cheek. Overcome, Zalathorm captured the small hand and pressed it to his lips.
    Though loath to intrude, Matteo stepped forward. “My lady, do you remember Kiva visiting you, taking away the clockwork creatures?”
    “Kiva,” Beatrix repeated. Matteo might have taken this response for a simple echo but for the uncharacteristically grim note that had entered the queen’s voice.
    Matteo crouched down so his eyes were level with hers. “You are accused of conspiring with Kiva, and building the clockwork creatures on her command. Were you enchanted?”
    “Not by Kiva.”
    Matteo and Zalathorm exchanged puzzled glances. The queen seemed unusually lucid, but this pronouncement was unexpected. “By whom, then?”
    “Not who.” A cloud passed over Beatrix’s face, dulling the faint light in her eyes. She withdrew her hands from the king’s grasp and folded them in her pristine lap.
    “If not whom,” Matteo persisted, “then what?”
    A hint of animation returned to her painted face, and she glanced toward him. “Yes.”
    “Yes?”
    “Yes. What?”
    Matteo puzzled this over. The light broke suddenly. “You were not enchanted