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“Ah,” said Illvin sadly. “That would be Arhys’s downfall, wouldn’t it.”

“Perhaps. The Jokonans had realized how few were his numbers and were combining against him by then, anyway. But the freed demons are fled away in all directions; Joen did not recover any.”

“Alas that we do not have two more Arhyses to complete the task,” said Illvin. “Perhaps ordinary men must try now.” He hitched his shoulders and frowned.

Ista shook her head. “Joen has hurt us, and now we have hurt her back. But we have not defeated her. She still holds eleven sorcerers on her strings and an army barely scratched. She is in a rage; her assault will redouble, without mercy.”

Dy Cabon slumped on the parapet, thick shoulders bowed. “Then Arhys rode in vain. We are lost.”

“No. Arhys has won us everything. We have only to reach out our hands to collect it. You didn’t ask me what I did with Cattilara’s demon, Learned.”

His brows went up, and he turned toward her. “Did you not bind it in her, as before?”

“No.” Ista’s lips drew back on a smile that made him recoil. “I ate it.”

“What?”

“Don’t look at me; it’s your god’s metaphor. I have finally penetrated the mystery of the Bastard’s second kiss. I know how the saint of Rauma accomplished her task of booting demons out of the world and back to their holy commander. Because it seems the trick of it has now fallen to me. Arhys’s parting gift, or rather, something he made possible.” She shivered with a sorrow to which she dared not yet give way. “Illvin.”

Her voice was sharp, urgent; it jerked him from the grieving lassitude that seemed to be overtaking him, as he leaned all his weight on the wall and stared into nothing. He had lost, she reminded herself, a worrisome amount of his own blood in the past hour, for such an already-depleted man. Muddled with Cattilara’s, it was spread out in clotting pools across half the tower platform. His wounds had all closed as if they had never been, except for the row of scabbed needle holes bound with thread across his shoulder. He looked back at her and blinked owlishly.

“What is the swiftest, most efficient possible way by which I might come face-to-face with Joen?”

With unthinking brilliance, he replied simply, “Surrender.” Then stared at her aghast, and clapped his hand to his mouth as if a toad had just fallen from his lips.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I STA HAD JUST FINISHED WASHING, OR AT LEAST, CLEANING, HER body with a half cup of water and some rags when Liss returned to their chambers. She clutched a pile of white garments in her arms, pushing open the inner door with a twist of her hips. “These are the best Cattilara’s women could find in a hurry,” she announced.

“Good. Put them on the bed.” Ista closed the dirty black robe back about herself and came over to examine them. It had not been, by any definition, a bath, but at least the touch of her less-sticky skin against clean clothing might not feel like some violation. “How fares the marchess?”

“She is asleep now. Or unconscious. I really couldn’t be quite sure, looking at her. She was very pale and gray.”

“Just as well, either way. The blood she spent on the tower buys her a favor, perhaps, in this drained slumber.” Ista sorted through the piles. A linen shift the color of new cream, bordered with elaborate cutwork, looked as though it had a hem short enough that she would not trip over it. A delicate white overrobe, embroidered in shining white thread that lent it weight and swing, was a Bastard’s Day festival garment. The unknown needlewoman had somehow endowed the friezes of tiny dancing rats and crows with considerable charm. “Perfect,” Ista murmured, holding it up. The spark, she noticed, was gone from her left hand, though the frost mark on her skin remained.

“My lady, um . . . isn’t it a little provocative to place yourself in Quadrene hands wearing the Bastard’s own color?”

Ista smiled grimly. “Let them imagine so. Its real message is one I do not expect them to read. Haste, now. Tie the ribbons of the shift