Illyra’s musings stopped short when she caught sight of a familiar figure passing under the West Gate. Dubro-and though she herself had told him to seek out Walegrin her heart began to pound. Once or twice- when she’d been a child and the blacksmith her protector, not her hus- band-she’d run away from him, but never in recent years. Until now. She scooted behind a water cart, crouching over her basket, pretending to examine its contents.
She waited, cried, and thought of Cha-bos who hadn’t known how to count to one hundred. When her tears had dried she decided it was safe. She headed in the direction she was now facing-to the back corner of the palace, past the ornate gate where priests and gods made their com- munion with temporal authority.
The palace stoneyard was here, ready for the next round of palatial repairs, and the huge water cisterns to sustain the inner fortress in times of siege. Though far from lost-she could still see the water cart-Illyra had entered unfamiliar territory and did not know the name of the little gate she discovered there. Or even if it was a deliberate gate and not one of Molin Torchholder’s bright ideas. It seemed, judging by the dust, to be the main conduit between the work gangs and the palace.
“Hey, sweetheart, got anything in there for me?” a half-naked roustabout called from farther down the path.
“No, just my own meal.”
“You’re sure? A pretty little piece like you shouldn’t be out here eating alone . . .”
Illyra understood, then, what he had in mind. She blushed radiantly;