Some perverse part of his mind - he supplies 'all of it, then?' mentally on reflex - refuses to let go of the knowledge that Sparhawk saw fit to share with him. He avoids it; he works, he travels, he busies himself with acquiring the odd gift for those of his acquaintance who celebrate this winter holiday he keeps hearing about, and those he just likes well enough to give things. He spends his hours with books at Candice's feet and he does anything else but think of it - and yet.

And yet it nags at the very edge of his consciousness, not allowing him to ignore it, to forget it. It refuses to be forgotten, though it serves him no real purpose to know. What can he do now?

The worst part, of course, isn't just the understanding of how he was used. How Zalasta barely had to manipulate him, how all he needed was the pathway that he'd walk of his own volition. How the worst downfall the Pandions have known, the most defining moments in his life, were nothing more than moves on a chessboard he couldn't see he was standing on. The knight, yes, isn't that funny.

No, the worst part is that he can't just be disgusted at what Zalasta wanted; he can't just be angry and bitter and riddled with familiar guilt all anew. All of that is true, but it's not all. No, no - it's an affront to his ego. To have all his achievements weighed and measured and reduced to-

Martel throws the quillpen down on his desk and pushes back, furious and ashamed.