“Andjen Thomlinson,” the royal scribe declared at one point, ebullient and expansive, “you will make a fine new Lord of Rhyndweir.”
Thom instantly went still. “It wasn’t ever my intention to become Lord of Rhyndweir,” he answered at once.
“Perhaps not your intention, but quite possibly your destiny,” Questor chimed in. “Rhyndweir needs a master, and you are next in line and the logical choice. More to the point, I think Abernathy is right. You are most suited to the task.”
“But there is still so much work to be done here,” Thom objected.
“Thom, you can still supervise that work,” Mistaya cut in quickly. “Why not? Father will give you authorization; I will ask him myself. You can bring all the help you need from the Greensward and send those dreadful Throg Monkeys back to wherever they came from.”
Everyone but Thom thought this a grand idea, and in the end he promised to sleep on it.
“And you, Mistaya,” Questor said. “Will you continue to work here with Thom?”
She knew what Thom wanted her to say, but she wasn’t yet sure of her own wishes, so she shook her head and shrugged. “Like Thom, I have to sleep on it. I also have to go back to Sterling Silver and straighten things out with my parents. They may not want me coming back.”
So they talked on through the meal, agreeing that the best thing for The Frog was to have him transported back to Rhyndweir and placed somewhere in a park where those who chose to do so could visit him at their leisure. Perhaps to comment on how much better behaved he was now than before, Abernathy observed. Perhaps to provide recalcitrant children with an object lesson on what could happen if you were not a good person, Questor added.
After dinner was over, Questor took Mistaya aside, putting his hands on her shoulders as he faced her. “I want you to know how proud I am of you. Well, how proud we both are, Abernathy and I. You have conducted yourself with courage and demonstrated both wisdom and determination. You stayed when you could have left—when I told you to leave, in fact—and you were right to do so. Had you followed my advice and not discovered what Crabbit and Pinch were up to, we all might have found ourselves in a much more dangerous situation down the road. And your father would have been in considerable peril as a result. The trap set for him on his arrival was cunningly conceived and well hidden. He might not have been able to avoid it, even with the help of the Paladin.”
“What sort of trap was it?” she pressed him quickly.
“The sort I don’t care to talk about.”
“But shouldn’t I know?”
Questor shook his head. “What you need to know is that the disappearance of the man who contrived it effectively put an end to its usage. Your father is safe now, and he can thank you for that.”
She frowned. “You won’t tell me?”
“I won’t tell him, either. But I will tell him that you helped save him from his enemies and that no blame should attach to your behavior during these last few weeks. I will tell him you are every inch a true Princess of Landover.”
Then he kissed her on the forehead. “Mistaya Holiday, I do believe you are growing up.”
Several days later, she was back home. The walls of Libiris were continuing to heal, the books were safely back in place, and the library would soon be under new management that Questor had promised he would personally arrange. The demons of Abaddon were shut away again, perhaps without fully understanding what had happened to derail their plan, but that was their problem. Laphroig’s spy at Sterling Silver had been rooted out, a cook’s assistant with ambitions for advancement whose reach exceeded his grasp. An irate Parsnip, in ways that the kobold would not discuss and summarily dismissed when questioned, had disciplined him. All was right with the world, and there had been no reason to stay longer at a place she still didn’t much care for, so off Mistaya had gone.
Now she was sitting with her father on the south lawn at the edge of the castle walls, enjoying the sunlight and the sweet smell of lilies wafting on the summer breeze. She had told him everything by then—well, almost everything; there were one or two things she was keeping to herself—and to her surprise he had not scolded or criticized her for anything she had done. Not even for running away. Not even for trying to hide from him. Not even for worrying her mother and himself to the point of distraction.
“I’m mostly just glad you’re back,” he said when she asked if he was mad at her. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
She was both relieved and pleased. She had no desire to engage in another confrontation with him. While she had been in
