“Bastard,” she said flatly. It was a naming, not a greeting. I wondered if that word would ever lose its sting with me.
“Serene,” I said, as tonelessly as I could manage.
“You did not die in the Mountains.”
“No. I did not.”
Still she stood there, blocking my way. Very quietly she said, “I know what you did. I know what you are.”
Inside, I was quivering like a rabbit. I told myself it was probably taking every bit of Skill strength she had to impose this fear on me. I told myself that it was not my true emotion, but only what her Skill suggested I should feel. I forced words from my throat.
“I, too, know what I am. I am a King’s Man.”
“You are no kind of a man at all,” she asserted calmly. She smiled up at me. “Someday everyone will know that.”
Fear feels remarkably like fear, regardless of the source. I stood, making no response. Eventually, she stepped aside to allow me to pass. I made a small victory of that, though in retrospect there was little else she could have done. I went to ready things for my trip to Beams, suddenly glad to leave the Keep for a few days.
I have no good memories of that errand.. I met Virago, for she was herself a guest at Ripplekeep while I was there doing my scribe tasks. She was as Shrewd had described her, a handsome woman, well muscled, who moved lithe as a little hunting cat. She wore the vitality of her health like a glamour. All eyes followed her when she was in a room. Her chastity challenged every male who followed her. Even I felt myself drawn to her, and agonized about my task.