He declined and stood waiting.
Anne said, “What is your name, Monsieur?”
He held his body stiff, as though braced for a blow. “Highness, I was born Julien Moreau. But when I was at court, I was a diviner called Miravi.”
“At what court?”
“At the court of His Majesty King Philip, called the Fair.”
Murmurs throughout the listening room. Anne said, “King Philip the Fair died long ago.”
“Yes,” said Moreau, in a frayed voice. “But it was long ago when I rode away from Paris to seek my fortune in the forest of Brocéliande.”
“How do we know you are not lying?” De Rieux demanded. The others of Anne’s council exchanged glances.
“You have no way to know,” said Moreau. “But I am not.”
Anne’s education had included the history of courts and courtiers. “Miravi disappeared,” she said slowly.
“Yes.” Moreau’s voice was bitter.
De Rieux cried, “You have not one proof!”
“There might be one,” said Anne. To Moreau she added, “You say you were a diviner. Can you prove yourself in divination?”
“I can.” He straightened his back. His eyes were full of torment, but there was no fear in them.
She said, “You understand that in order to be tested in divination, you will be sent to the Guild? That they have their own justice for men who profess gifts they have not? If you fail, you will be put to torment and then death.”
He smiled just a little, strong teeth incongruous between his cracked lips. Anne frowned. But he said only, “I understand.”
Another murmur went round the room, scented heads put together to whisper.
Anne said, “Very well.” She could not decipher the look in his eyes. “You say you passed those years in the Lost Lands. Tell us of them.”
His gaze rested abstractedly on the window behind her, as though he could peer through into a different day. “I only recall setting out. I was once the finest diviner in Europe, but I wanted more. Our chronicles spoke of gifts beyond divination. That it was possible not just to see the world, as diviners do, but to alter how other men perceive it. This skill was called enchantment. And some went even further. Some could alter the materialfactsof the world without use of the hands or voice or any skill of the mortal body. This art was called sorcery. But all men said that the learning of these arts was possible only in the court of the korriganed, deep in the Lost Lands. They said that once there was a guild of sorcerers at Keris, the city by the sea, where men rode the waves on dragon-back.” Distant longing in his chalky face. He swayed a little, standing, seemed like to collapse. “But Keris is gone.”
Exasperated with his pride, Anne said, “A chair for this gentleman.” To Calyx, she murmured, beneath the servants bustling withthe chair, “Are there chronicles in the Guild that tell of such things? Enchantment and sorcery?”
“Only in the manner of a wonder tale, Highness,” he murmured back. “They are not admitted as fact.”
Moreau had been forcibly put in the chair and given spiced wine. Anne waited until he had a little color back and then said, “You set out to learn these arts for yourself?”
His voice was bitter, and he held the remainder of his wine between his hands, not drinking. “I had a fine journey from Paris in spring. The orchards were in bloom. I remember it well.”
“And then?”
“I rode into the wood. That is the last thing I remember.” Grief in his voice. “I saw you, Highness. You told me the year and I knew what had happened. I suppose I was tricked by the korriganed, so I would not remember anything. But I was there, I could swear I was there. You said it is fourteen ninety; it is two hundred years, then, since I rode away. Two hundred years, where else could I have been?”
Anne wondered if he was sane, if he could possibly be telling the truth.
Moreau went on, “No. I do remember one thing.” The court hushed itself. Moreau’s gaze turned inward. The wine cup sagged in his hands. “Perhaps the korriganed cast me forth from their halls for this purpose, to tell you, Highness. I know not. I have nothing else.” He stared into his sloshing cup, and then he raised his head and met her eyes. His were tawny, a rare color. Almost unnatural.
Henri was drawing up tensely now, fixed in alertness. Anne said, “What purpose?”
“It is a message.”
“Tell us.”
