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almost always did。 Before it ended they were both asleep。 She dreamt； lying in Aurelian's arms； of arrows； though； and heard； in her dream； Rudel Correze's laughter in a garden。
In the morning she would waken with sunlight in the window to find Aurelian gone。 Sprawled across the other bed； snoring and sodden； still in his boots and clothes； would be Remy of Orreze。 Lisseut would hesitate only a moment； then； offering devout and genuinely grateful thanks to Rian and Corannos both； she would take the basin of water Aurelian had thoughtfully filled for her before he left； and empty it over the sleeping； fair…haired troubadour who'd been her first lover。 Then she would flee through the door and down the stairs； leaving his shrieks of outrage behind to awaken all those who yet slumbered in The Liensenne on a bright Midsummer's Day。 She would feel much； much better after that。
Every second or third year； in the absence of war or plague； it had been the custom of Guibor IV； count of Arbonne； to spend Midsummer Night in Tavernel at the Carnival； in homage to the goddess and to affirm for his people in the south that he was ever mindful of his duties to them and of the importance of the sea to Arbonne。 Once； when young； he had even essayed the Boats and Rings on the river； plucking three garlands before missing the fourth and dousing himself in the river； to emerge with the booming good…natured laughter that was a part of why his country loved him。
On those nights； Signe de Barbentain reflected； lying in a room in the temple of Rian with a small fire to take away the chill that afflicted her now； even in summer； she'd had no concerns about the ancient saying in Tavernel that it was unlucky to lie alone on Midsummer Eve。 She had lain with her husband； and the wild sounds outside had seemed part of a fabric of enchantment in the dark。
Tonight； though； she was alone and feeling afraid。 Not for herself； her own summons to Rian would e when it came； and was unlikely to lie far off。 She had long since e to terms with that。 Her fear was for the land； for the dangerous rush of events that seemed to be gathering speed all around them。
New parts to the pattern had been discovered tonight and； starkly awake； looking at the flickering shapes that fire and guttering candle cast on the walls of her room； the countess of Arbonne tried again to deal with these new things。 Gorhaut was ing south。 There could be no honest denial of that truth any longer。 Roban； the chancellor； had flatly predicted it the very same day word of the Treaty of Iersen Bridge had e to Barbentain。 And now there was this purposeful； extravagant payment made for the death of Bertran de Talair。 He might indeed have died tonight； Signe thought； suppressing a shiver。 Had the clouds not e when they did； or had Beatritz not been in Tavernel and the bearded coran； Blaise； not known the arrow and the assassin； and so guessed the presence of syvaren on the head； Bertran could so easily have died； leaving Talair without a proper heir and Arbonne without a man it needed desperately。
And that same Gorhaut coran； Blaise； was a matter unto himself。 For the fiftieth time； or the hundredth； Signe tried to weigh risks and gains in this gamble that Beatritz and Bertran had jointly undertaken in trying to bind Galbert de Garsenc's younger son to their cause。 Roban had wanted nothing to do with it； had stalked grimly about the perimeter of the council room when the matter was first raised。 She couldn't really blame him； Beatritz and Bertran； so unlike each other in most ways； yet shared a confidence in their own judgment and a penchant for taking risks that could be quite unnerving at times。
Blaise de Garsenc wasn't the kind of man she'd been led to expect； either。 Rumour had told of a hardened mercenary； with a reputation won in the tournaments and the wars of the six countries over many years。 According to Roban； she herself had presented the man with a laurel at the Autumn Fair in Lussan six years past； she didn't remember。 It was hard to remember all the young men now。 They seemed to remain as young as ever while she grew older all the time。
This man wasn't the grim northern warrior she'd anticipated。 He had anger in him； yes； and easy enough to see； but he was clever； and more bitter than anything else； she judged。 He had clearly been hurt in Portezza before he came here； there were rumours about that as well。 They were probably true。 Well； he would not be the first young man whose heart had been left lying on the carpet outside Lucianna Delonghi's bedchamber door； and he was not going to be the last。
In the darkness； Signe rubbed her aching fingers together under the bedcovers； she always seemed to be cold these days。 In her time； all the young men had fallen in love with her in that same way。 She had known how to deal with it； though。 How to deny them the grace they had to be denied while leaving them their pride and even binding them more closely to her…and so； more importantly； to Guibor and the causes of Arbonne in the world。 There was an art to the rituals of courtly love； and a purpose。 She knew： she was the one who had defined and shaped both the purpose and the art。
Thirty years ago there might have been arts she would have practised to bind this Gorhaut coran to her。 Not now； though； those were the tools and contrivances of younger women and； she judged…and her judgment was extremely good in these matters…with a different man。 Not so soon after Lucianna Delonghi was done with him would Blaise of Gorhaut tread the path a woman's allure offered or besought。
Which left anger and hatred as the emotions they could most easily invoke； neither of which came readily to her hand； either long ago in her youth or now； with Guibor gone and the world a sad and empty place。 It fell not neatly to her to invoke a son's hatred of his father to achieve her own ends； however desperately needful those ends might be。
And yet。 And yet the man had spoken the words himself； with none of them to goad or induce them： What else would you have me do ？ Ride home in fell wrath and declare myself the true king of Gorhaut？
He hadn't meant it； hadn't known he might even possibly mean it； but the pain of Iersen Bridge was so raw in him； and so was his knowledge of his father's designs。 Most of the world that mattered knew that Galbert de Garsenc's younger son had left Gorhaut denouncing the treaty his father had devised。
It might be possible。 It might indeed be barely possible to find a rift here to widen north of the mountains in Gorhaut。 She felt old though； and tired。 She wished she could sleep。 She didn't want to deal with matters of war。 She wanted music and what warmth the sun could offer as summer ripened the vines。 She wanted the gentler warmth of memories。
There came a very quiet tapping at her door。 Only one person she could think of would be knocking here this late at night。
〃e in；〃 she said。 The fire and the single taper were still burning。 By the flickering of their light she saw her last living child open and then close the door behind her； entering the room in a pale night…robe； with a sure tread that belied her blindnes