"The skrii—? The knife?" Jarl choked. "You mean—it was you who gave it, not the Malya—?"
"Who else?" she shrugged, and her contempt bit like the telonium blade's own razor edge. "Did you think I'd shame myself, beating a prisoner before my father's men, without reason?"
Jarl rocked. "But why—?"
Once more, Ylana's slim shoulders lifted. She smoothed her hair, with elaborate deliberation. "You were too closely guarded for me to reach you in your cell. But it came to me that if I made a show of hate, I could trick my father into bringing you to the great hall so I could confront you before all, at the banquet. The beating—it was the only way I could devise to pass the skrii on to you."
Jarl studied her. But her eyes were clear, her smooth face guileless. The shadow of a smile played about her mouth.
He frowned and gestured helplessly. "Does not even a woman need some reason....?"
"I had a reason," she said, and of a sudden she was no longer smiling. "I had so great a reason...."
Abruptly, half-turning, she broke off. Her eyes left Jarl's, and he saw that her hands had tightened to white-knuckled fists. Her breasts rose and fell too fast beneath the tunic.
He waited, not speaking.
Still looking away, her voice the barest whisper, she said, "I learned the truth at last, Jarl Corvett...."