"Who," says Harrow the minute the question leaves Palamedes' mouth, only to stop short when he answers only a moment later. It is and isn't what she expects--and yet, somehow, it begins to explain something. Her jaw tightens, her fingers clenching against a sudden, instinctive urge to run from the threat her brother Lyctor--and quite possibly his passenger, a woman she had no right to call sister, had no right to call anything at all--had posed to her again and again. "The Saint of Duty," she says, through gritted teeth. "Ort--Gideon the First. She was his cavalier."

With the way Palamedes looks at her, his grey eyes still and thoughtful and brutal behind his glasses, Harrow's glad of the effort it took to keep herself calm in the sharing of those facts. Her lips thin. "Are we truly arguing semantics, Warden?"