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Just before leaving for the Tournament of Loigh to do Silvester’s bidding, I met the Garra—not yet Lady d’Abella—for the first time at Murwood End.

There had been some talk among the Legion of bringing her into the fold, but none could justify it while keeping their oath. But now that her husband is among the very few outsiders that are aware . . .

Throughout the meal, I say little and glance at Hilla even less. Still mortified at what I’d almost done, not for breaking a vow I had not taken, but for telling a woman she had just become a widow and then, mere seconds later, attempting to take advantage of her pain.

The meal passes without incident as I consider how best to appease Silvester on the morrow. He’ll know it has been two days since I arrived at the capital. I’d planned to go to him today but worried I’d have been forced to remain at his side, and there had been much to do here before the king’s meeting.

“Father Aiken?”

It seems Hilla had been attempting to gain my attention.

“Lady Aedre has asked to speak with me in private. She will escort me back to my chamber.”

The lady was not asking, but if she had been, I would not have encouraged such a meeting. The two women had spoken throughout the meal, and by the looks Lady Aedre had been giving Hilla, my guess is that she senses something. Or perhaps her husband said more than he should have.

Either way, I like it not.

But she is no longer my captive. And is nothing to me, really, but a woman who, after tomorrow, I will likely never see again. King Galfrid has secured her passage to Breywood in two days’ time.

I stand and take Hilla’s hand in mine as she rises. Ignoring the jolt of awareness that passes between us, I return to my seat and watch as the two women walk away. Straining to hear their words, a different type of awareness makes the hairs on my neck stand as I read Lady Aedre’s lips.

“You have been chosen.”

22

Hilla

“Chosen?”

Following the very beautiful Lady Aedre from the hall, my instinct that she is a friend and not foe, we walk through corridors lit only by torches that line the walls, until we come to a closed door.

“Our own quarters are so far away, but this will suffice.” She opens the door.

I gasp at the colors inside. “Tis a miniature version of the great hall.”

Tapestries line the walls, the candlelight in Lady Aedre’s hand the only source of light until she moves from table to table, at least four of which she’s reached already, lighting candles on each one.

“Tis called the small hall. Used by the Curia when they are not meeting with the king.”

That the lady is able to come into this chamber, even given her husband’s position, says much about her status here at court.

“Come,” she says. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

I do sit then, the velvet-cushioned high-back chair scraping the stone flooring.

“I apologize for all the mystery surrounding my request,” she begins. “And for the requests I am about to make.”

I stare blankly at the woman, who reaches out her hands, palms facing upward.

“Will you give me your hands, Lady Hilla?” Before I can say yea or nay, she adds, “I am a Garra.”

I’m unable to hold back my surprise at the revelation.

A Garra.

So few of them remain on the Isle, and even fewer who practice openly. My mother had a special affinity for the women healers, and their teachings, but even so I’ve met only one in my entire life.

“A Garra,” I repeat. Unlike most healers, the Garra specialize in matters of the heart and all those afflictions and blessings that arise from it. From love to childbirth, they are also said to harness special powers that, to some, seem unnatural. To others, miraculous. “I did not know.”