As always, though, he schooled himself to forgive, for her malice had been the result of systematic brainwashing and emotional abuse by her foster parents—agents of the futurian enemies of the royal family who sought to forge Finister into a weapon to be used against the Crown and its main support, the Gallowglass family, and had succeeded far too well—but Cordelia and Geoffrey had been proof against her plots, and Gregory, though he had fallen in love with her, had still managed to defend himself against her. Gwen, seeing his despair and knowing how deeply her execution would scar him, had examined the woman's mind in depth, seen the sweet child buried under all the machinations, found the kernel of goodness that could be nourished into health, and in a marathon, exhausting night of telepathic psychotherapy, had healed her well enough to let her see the world as it really was, to cast off the false personality her tormentors had grafted onto her and, at last, discovered the name given her as a baby—Allouette.

Gregory knew it would be a life's work helping her to develop her own true personality, but had already made great strides—so great that she had finally been willing to wed him publicly, even side by side with his brother and sister, instead of being forever content with the quiet, almost furtive, ceremony performed by a monk in a tiny village.

Trying to put the thought aside as unworthy, Rod looked around at the assemblage gathered in the cathedral, what he could see of it from the rear. The nobility of Gramarye filled the pews—with one very notable absence. Sadness tugged at him.

Gwen noticed. "What sorrow?"

"That the whole family isn't here," Rod said. "Alain's uncle and cousin should be watching him marry."

"Aye, but an attainted traitor cannot come nigh the Crown." The thought was the one shadow on a glorious day.