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rival for the throne? Though if that fool thought anyone would support him in a power-drive—he who came from traitor stock—if he thought anyone would stand by him if by some wild mischance he came to rule, or prefer his bluster to her subtlety . . .
    Charailis smiled coldly. But then, slowly, the smile faded, leaving her face bleak as she considered the years, the long, weary years behind her, before her . . . Boredom was the crudest threat to one untouched by time. Oh, there were some, she knew, who claimed to savor every moment of life, like elderly Sharailan, who never seemed to weary of the intricacies of law and politics, or those others who jumped delightedly from interest to interest, announcing to one and all that even with their lengthy Faerie spans there could never be enough time to learn all there was to be learned, do all there was to be done.
    “Fools,” Charailis whispered bitterly. “Self-deluding fools.”
    She had done so many things in her life already, though she was hardly old by Faerie terms, played so many roles. But it was all in vain. No matter what she did, there was still the emptiness, the hopelessness, waiting for the moment when the thrill of new, of unexpected, was gone.
    Charailis bit her lip. If it was only now, belatedly, that the idea had struck her to vie for a crown, for the heady new challenge of royal power that just might stave off the emptiness for a time, that didn’t mean she wasn’t totally determined. To escape that emptiness, she would do whatever she must. Including destroying anyone who blocked her path. Especially you, she warned Ereledan silently.

    ###

    Strangling, smothering, Hauberin clawed his frantic way up from darkness and—
    Awoke. He twisted free of the cocoon of blankets, sitting up in his perspiration-soaked bed, alone, shaking. Gradually the bedchamber took on reality about him, chairs, tables, lovely silken tapestries, comforting him that, yes, it had been only a dream.
    Only another dream.
    Only another time of broken sleep and little rest—Powers, oh, Powers.
    Hauberin sat for a time, head in hands, trying to steady his breathing. How many foul nights did this make? So far, he had covered this . . . weakness well. No one at court suspected the truth. He had managed to keep Ereledan and Charailis ready at each other’s throats and away from his own, with each blaming the other for whatever went wrong. He had even had the satisfaction of seeing a prediction he’d made come true: quarrelers Lietlal and Ethenial, the date come round for their duel, had begged off, both pleading, a bit too coincidentally, incapacitating illness.
    Hauberin smiled faintly. That had made Sharailan regard his prince with new respect! And as for his ever more darkly circled eyes and gradually increasing slips of logic, why, the nobles all believed them the signs of a man deeply engrossed in magical research. (Commendable, they murmured, citing that expanded wheat-fertility spell as evidence, shows that despite his unfortunately mixed blood, he takes his Faerie heritage seriously.) The prince hadn’t said anything to dissuade them.
    Powers, if they learn I can’t even deal with dreams . . .
    Hauberin rubbed his burning eyes with the heels of his hands. He didn’t dare return to sleep (to the darkness, to the dream . . .), but his body was crying out for rest. At last, reluctantly, he murmured the words of a fatigue-banishing spell and waited tensely for it to take effect. But too many uses of the spell in too short a time had weakened its effect on him; instead of a rush of new energy, all Hauberin felt was the slightest lifting of his fatigue. It would have to be enough.
    And what was he going to do when the spell stopped having any effect at all?
    No. He wouldn’t think of that.
    The prince slipped from his bed, flinging on the first clothes that came to hand, and set out to wander the palace halls yet again. Black of hair, clothes, cloak, he was very nearly invisible in