Part Two

SAINTS AND SINNERS

SIXTEEN

Richius Vantran, sometimes called the Jackal of Nar, stood on the wall walk of Falindar's eastern guard tower, contemplating the milling hordes circling his mountain home. On his back sat Shani, his two-year-old daughter, her legs dangling around his neck, her little hands supporting herself with tufts of her father's hair. A handful of blue-jacketed Triin warriors flanked them, equally intrigued by the forces gathering below, chattering anxiously among themselves while their leader, Lucyler of Falindar, stood white-knuckled on the stone battlement. The sun was coming up over Tatterak, revealing the totality of their predicament. Lucyler whistled through his teeth as he counted up the warriors preparing to scale the road toward the citadel. There was only one way up to the mountain palace, a wide avenue cut into the rocky hill toward Falindar's gates. The gates were flanked by two silver guard towers. Like the eastern tower holding Richius and Lucyler, its westerly sister was similarly crowded with fighting men—Triin warriors in the indigo garb of Tatterak.

Each guard tower held forty men, Falindar's first line of defense against the besiegers wheeling below. Arrows and javelins poked through loopholes in the towers, and along the wall walks paced more warriors, bowmen with full quivers and jiiktars, the uncanny dual-bladed swords of the Triin, on their backs. Their white faces reflected their apprehension; their white hair stirred in the morning breeze. And Richius Vantran, who stood out among them like a fly in amber, kept his own broadsword beside him on the wall, waiting for the onslaught he knew was coming.

Dyana, Richius' wife, stood beside him on the walk. She had her arms folded defiantly over her chest and a long stiletto in her belt. It was the thirty-fifth day of the siege, and Dyana had grown accustomed to the relentless attacks. She no longer feared for herself, but rather for the others on the wall, chief of which was her husband. She feared for Shani, too, and the dearth of milk the protracted siege would eventually bring. So far Falindar had weathered the siege with remarkable resilience. They had been prepared and their foresight had paid off, but despite the long days out in the elements, despite their susceptibility to disease, their attackers betrayed no hints of cracking. They would continue to fight, Richius knew, until they were dead or Falindar fell. And there were still many weeks ahead before either happened.

"See there, Shani," whispered Richius. He pointed down the wide road leading to the base of Falindar's mountain. At least 1200 warriors were camped there, waiting on horseback or on foot, milling around their pavilions and siege engines. Richius had never showed Shani Praxtin-Tar's warriors before, but the two-year-old had known something was wrong. She could hear the weekly battles, even locked safely in the cellars with the rest of Falindar's children. Today, before another of Praxtin-Tar's assaults, before Shani was stowed away like jarred apples, Richius wanted her to see what all the fighting was about. And Shani, who was like her mother in so many ways, wasn't frightened by the tattooed warriors surrounding her home. Rather, she was indignant. She was old enough now to kick a ball and talk in short sentences, and she had no problem showing her disdain for the cellars.

Richius was proud of her.

"Praxtin-Tar," he said. "Down there."

"Richius, please." Dyana reached out to take Shani from him. "I have to get her down to the cellars."

"In a minute," said Richius. Far below, the 1200 warriors looked like insects readying to climb an anthill. They didn't bother trying to surprise Falindar the way they had Kes, conquering Ishia's unsuspecting forces in a week. Falindar was too tall and too well-prepared for that. They merely mounted their horses and pulled up their siege machines, and threw themselves against the citadel's unrelenting stone, dying for the glory of Praxtin-Tar.

"That's what we're fighting," Richius said to his daughter. "That's all the noise you hear. All right?"

"All right," said Shani. She spoke in Naren, her father's native tongue, one that he had been determined to teach her.

"Don't be afraid," Richius urged her. "They can't beat us, Shani. I won't let them."

"No," Shani agreed. She banged a hand against his head for emphasis. All the warriors along the walk laughed. Shani had become something of a mascot to them. Some had families of their own in the citadel, others had come to defend Falindar when Praxtin-Tar's warriors started rolling through Tatterak.

But they all had one thing in common—they were besieged. Imprisoned in the splendid palace where food and water were rationed and each day brought a new threat from below; they had nonetheless defended the citadel with ferocity. It was as if a glamour had touched them, some magic that kept their hearts stout and their courage cresting when it should have shriveled. None of them complained or questioned the orders of Lucyler, the citadel's master.

They were as dutiful to Lucyler as they had been to Kronin, their first master, and Richius didn't doubt their willingness to die defending the palace.

Richius was part of Falindar now. It had been his home for more than two years. At last, he had grown attached to it. He wouldn't let Praxtin-Tar and his fanatics take Falindar, not after all he'd been through. He had already lost one home. He refused to lose another. So he had set about turning the beautiful palace into a fortress, constructing battlements on the balconies and wooden hoardings over the stone walls to repel escalading marauders. Superstructures of brick had been built on every spire, crenellations of alternating defenses for archers and lance-men. Now there were ballistae on the twin guard towers and atop every wall, great crossbow-like javelin launchers. There were loops of rope called crows dangling down from the defensive walls ready to hook unsuspecting besiegers or to cripple their siege ladders, and pots of boiling oils stood bubbling at key junctures. Wooden polearms for toppling climbers lined the wall walks bolstered by hundreds of axes and farm implements that could easily shatter the rungs of the poorly-made ladders.

As he looked over their defenses, Richius smiled. Praxtin-Tar had assembled quite an army, but Richius was a Naren. He knew castles and siege warfare, and he was confident that the nearly impregnable Falindar would withstand the warlord's bombardment. Praxtin-Tar had spent the last month sending wave after wave of his men against the citadel, only to be repelled by the superior positions of Lucyler's troops. There were hundreds of dead Reen-men outside the walls now, all wearing the black sash of their territory and all bearing the same detestable raven tattoo on their cheeks. With their crazed attacks and appalling disregard for death, they reminded Richius of the men of the Dring Valley, those foolishly valiant warriors who would have followed Voris anywhere, even to their own graves. These were madmen, waging a misguided holy war for their master. Once again the canker of Triin politics had surfaced. Once again the Triin were at war. The peace brokered by Tharn and carried on by Lucyler was shattered into a million argumentative factions. Lucel-Lor was once more the killing ground it had been for a thousand years.

"Let me take her below now, Richius," said Dyana. "I'll keep her safe."

"Yes, get rid of the little one," echoed Lucyler. His hard grey eyes were fixed on Praxtin-Tar's warriors. "I don't want her here when they start coming up the road."

Richius stooped so that Dyana could take Shani from his back. His daughter squealed a little at Dyana's touch, knowing that her mother would take her down to the cellars. They would be safe there, at least for a time, away from any arrows or missiles that the warlord's catapults heaved over the walls. Lately, Praxtin-Tar had been tossing all manner of things into the courtyard, including severed heads and the carcasses of slaughtered cattle.

These things were meant to intimidate, to frighten the women and children and spread disease. Faced with the nearly impossible task of taking Falindar, the warlord still hoped they would surrender.

Not likely, thought Richius. He leaned over and gave Shani a kiss, then looked at Dyana. He could tell his wife wanted to remain on the wall, to take up a bow or one of his ballistae, but she wasn't just a wife. She was a mother, too, and her duty now was to Shani.

"Be good, little one," said Richius. "Don't give your mother any trouble."

Shani scowled, then grabbed up a handful of Dyana's dress. Dyana held her fast.

"Be careful," she whispered. Then she glanced at Lucyler. "You too, Lucyler."

The master of Falindar nodded. "Get below."

Apprehension seemed to fill Lucyler. Dyana traded kisses with Richius, then made her way off the wall walk and down the stairway of the guard tower, disappearing through a trapdoor. Richius watched her go, certain she would be safe. Praxtin-Tar had catapults and twice as many troops as the defenders of Falindar, but he still had only one way up to the mountain palace. That meant he was vulnerable.

Richius took a step toward Lucyler, gauging his old friend's mood. Lucyler looked older than he had before. Two years as master of Falindar had cut deep lines into his face and hollowed circles under his eyes. Once glossy hair now dangled limply around his shoulders. Lucyler had done his best to keep the peace. Without wanting to, he had picked up the mantle left by Tharn and tried to make it his own, struggling to maintain the stability for which Tharn had died. But he wasn't Tharn. Praxtin-Tar and the other Triin warlords had followed Tharn because he had been special, touched by heaven. Lucyler simply wasn't enough to fill that space.

"What do you think?" asked the Triin softly. He never took his eyes off the milling warriors.

"They'll attack," said Richius. He pointed toward the western flank of Praxtin-Tar's army. "Look. They've got a new engine."

"I see it," replied Lucyler. The warlord's latest catapult was bigger than the others, made from local tree timbers. This one looked almost sixty feet tall.

To Richius' eye, it was more like one of Nar's deadly trebuchets than the primitive, smaller catapults the warlord had previously constructed, and Richius wondered how Praxtin-Tar had come upon the design. It was rumored that Praxtin-Tar kept a Naren slave, a soldier that he had captured in the war with the Empire. Praxtin-Tar himself had not denied the rumor. Now, staring at the hauntingly familiar catapult, Richius was unnerved. He guessed its range at about 300 yards. That meant Praxtin-Tar wouldn't have to get the weapon too close to Falindar to breach its walls. It could easily be fired from the roadway.

"That weapon is dangerous," said Lucyler. "They will put shields around it.

We will not be able to reach their crews with our arrows."

"Maybe not," agreed Richius. "But Falindar is solid. Let's see what that thing can do before we start worrying. If we have to, we can send a sally out after it."

Lucyler laughed. "Oh yes? Who will be mad enough to lead that raid, my friend? You?"

The tone of his friend's voice made Richius bristle. "I'm just saying if we have to," he countered. "And it won't be easy for Praxtin-Tar to use it. It can't reach us from down there, and if he tries to bring it up, he'll have to bring ammunition with it. That's going to be heavy work. He won't be able to get more than a few shots off at a time."

Lucyler finally looked away from the warriors, staring at Richius questioningly. "You are too confident. We're trapped in here. Or don't you know that?"

"And he's trapped out there. He's got a whole army to feed, and he's out in the elements."

"It is spring," observed Lucyler sourly.

"It doesn't matter. He's already endured a month of it. He'll have to do something before too many of his warriors start grumbling or someone comes to help us. We're stronger, Lucyler. Don't forget that."

"No one will help us." Lucyler turned away again, not hiding his bitterness.

So far, none of the other Triin warlords had come to Falindar's rescue. They were all too afraid of Praxtin-Tar, or too caught up in their own squabbles to spare warriors for the citadel. Even Karlaz of the lions had abandoned them, leaving the Iron Mountains with his great cats to return to his far-off home in Chandakkar. For a year and a half he had guarded Lucel-Lor from the Narens, but Karlaz had been sickened by the fighting among the other warlords, and neither Richius nor Lucyler blamed him for leaving. But it meant that they were alone in their struggle against the warlord from Reen. This time, no one would help them.

At the last count, there were some 600 warriors inside Falindar and another hundred or so farmers and peasants from the surrounding countryside.

Praxtin-Tar hadn't bothered hiding his forces as he rode into Tatterak. He had made it very plain to Lucyler that he intended to take the citadel for himself.

Richius was sure that Lucyler's defiance only enraged the warlord. Patience was the cornerstone of siege warfare, but that was a virtue Praxtin-Tar didn't possess. It could take months, even years, to bring a stronghold like Falindar to its knees, but Praxtin-Tar had shown himself to be a sloppy tactician, too driven to simply wait out a war of attrition. Soon, Richius knew, he would force his warriors into an all-out assault against Falindar—a move that would destroy him.

"Let him come," Richius said. "Let's provoke him into a fight. He'll exhaust himself. He'll just keep battering his head against our walls until there's nothing left of him."

Lucyler shook his head. "If he comes to talk I will listen."

There were indications from the goings-on below that Praxtin-Tar might first send a herald up the mountain road. There was too much order down at their camp. The warlord usually sent his men charging up the road, but not this morning. This morning his 1200 madmen were eerily quiet.

"If he comes it will be to demand surrender," Richius pointed out. "He won't discuss peace with you."

"Because he hates me."

"Not just you," said Richius. "He hates everything now."

Praxtin-Tar was Drol, just as Tharn had been. But Praxtin-Tar had never been devout until he'd heard the words of Tharn and seen his touch of heaven.

Now the warlord was a zealot. Obsessed with his newfound religion, he had conquered Kes because it was a Drol holy place. He had killed the warlord Ishia in the middle of a peace conference, setting his severed head on a pole for all to see.

Then he had marched for Falindar.

"We must resist him, Lucyler," said Richius. "Goad him into fighting." He gestured to the land around them. Tatterak was a rocky, barren place, and Falindar itself overlooked the sea, protected on its northern face by a sheer cliff diving down to the ocean. "Look around. There's nowhere for him to go.

Sooner or later he will deplete himself."

"Before we do?" observed the Triin. "We'll run out of everything eventually too, just like Praxtin-Tar."

"We've filled the granaries and the water tanks," countered Richius. "We've got plenty of food. Weapons too, and good men to wield them." He put a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "Resist him, Lucyler. Please."

Lucyler smiled weakly. "What else can I do? I'll never give him Falindar."

Richius grinned. He hadn't wanted this fight, but it had been forced on him.

He had spent his life avoiding war, yet it always pulled at his sleeve, dragging him in. So far, war had cost him a father and a slew of good friends. It had even cost him a kingdom. And it had almost cost him Dyana. Scars, both real and imagined, were an indelible part of his body and mind. He had prayed for peace, and all he had to show for his efforts was a legacy of dead bodies and a horde of warriors at his doorstep. Richius Vantran picked up the hilt of his broadsword and leaned against it.

"They'll come at us where they think we're weakest," he decided. Falindar had its main guard gates, the two silver towers they currently occupied, and five other spires that reached into the clouds. But surrounding most of it was a wall that sealed the rest of the citadel off from its outer courtyard. The yard itself was teeming with men ready to defend the keep. Praxtin-Tar could search endlessly for a weak spot and never find one.

Which was why the warlord had built the trebuchet, Richius surmised. If he couldn't find a weak point, he would make one on his own. He would try to punch a hole through Falindar's walls, using rocks and whatever missiles he could load into the weapon's armature.

"I wish we had a flame cannon," mused Richius. "That would make short work of his catapult."

"I wish we had a hundred more men," replied Lucyler anxiously. Siege warfare had a way of playing with men's minds. Even disciplined minds like Lucyler's could break from the strain. A lucky shot from that new catapult or a group of determined sappers, those foolhardy besiegers who tried to bore holes under Falindar's walls, might quickly change the balance.

But Richius didn't let himself be afraid. His wife and daughter were in the citadel. For him, failure just wasn't an option.

Far below the silver spires of Falindar, at the base of the citadel's formidable mountain, Praxtin-Tar knelt alone in his pavilion, ritualistically praying to his Drol gods. Lorris and Pris, the sibling deities of his sect, were silent today, just as they had always been, and Praxtin-Tar gnashed his teeth in frustration wondering what he was doing wrong. The Drol gods spoke very seldom and only then to the most devout of their followers. They had spoken to Tharn. Through Tharn they had proven that they lived and held sway, and that there was a life after this one. To Praxtin-Tar, they had opened the door to heaven.

And then they had abruptly shut it.

The death of Tharn had once again blinded Praxtin-Tar to the glories of heaven, but he had already seen the truth, and he was determined to reclaim it.

He would pray mightily until the brother and sister gods reappeared, and he would fight. If it meant reclaiming the glory of Tharn, he would lay siege to a thousand Falindars.

Praxtin-Tar kept his eyes closed as he prayed, reciting the words with practiced ease, exactly how Tharn himself would have spoken them. He had studied the texts of the Drol cunning-men and committed them to memory, and he was especially proud of himself for this, for none of his warriors seemed able to remember so many prayers with such clarity. Truly, he was a good Drol. But the warlord of Reen refused to smile. Self-pride was sinful.

And Lorris had been a warrior in life. Surely the god of war had no use for humor. As for his sister, the proper Triin woman Pris, she was the goddess of peace and love. She was Praxtin-Tar's feminine side, supposedly, but that was irksome to him. It was the one aspect of his chosen religion that eluded him, for he was a man of great renown in battle and the ways of women remained a mystery.

Before him, two candles burned on a makeshift altar. Praxtin-Tar opened his eyes and looked at them. He blew out the left candle first, as was the custom, and then the right, careful to remember all he had taught himself. Then he bowed his head twice to each candle, the representatives of the holy twins.

The warlord of Reen drew a breath. He was almost ready. But the silence of his patrons irritated him. He wanted them to be pleased with him. He had reclaimed Kes for them, the ancient site of Lorris' suicide, and he had taken up the cause of Tharn, so that his light would not diminish. Yet still Lorris and Pris shunned him, and it wounded Praxtin-Tar.

"What I want," he whispered, "is what Tharn took with him when he left us."

A palpable silence answered him, the only reply he ever heard from his gods. For a long moment Praxtin-Tar remained kneeling. Outside, 1200

warriors of Reen were waiting for him to emerge from his pavilion eager to once again throw themselves at Falindar. They had marched with him under his raven banner from Reen to Kes and then to Tatterak, capturing slaves and proclaiming his glory, believing in his mission to free Lucel-Lor from pretenders like Ishia. But Ishia hadn't been a problem. His mountain keep at Kes had fallen in a week. Falindar, however, was a different sort of challenge.

Falindar was taller, and within her walls were warriors of equal zeal to his own.

Lucyler wasn't Tharn, but he did possess some of Tharn's charisma. Men followed him. Like they followed his friend, the Jackal.

The warlord slowly rose, then saw a shadow darkening the flap of his pavilion. His son, Crinion, stood in the threshold watching his father.

Praxtin-Tar's offspring was tall, like himself, and bore the same raven tattoo on his cheek as all the warriors of Reen. For them, the raven was a spiritual symbol. It represented the other side of life, the great beyond.

Sometimes, it symbolized death. Crinion's face bore the tattoo well. He was a handsome young man, well-muscled and proportioned, and when he wore his grey battle jacket he left it open a little, revealing a hairless white chest.

"You are done with your prayers?" asked Crinion.

"I am done," replied Praxtin-Tar. Near the altar was a copper basin filled with clear rainwater. The warlord dipped his hands into the basin, careful always to observe all the Drol stringencies, then daintily picked up the plain white towel hanging on a nearby hook. He dried his hands starting with the fingertips and working his way to the palms, left hand first, then the right. A Drol's hands had to be clean before battle, and always before and after prayer.

The liturgy books said so. Praxtin-Tar observed every small ritual perfectly.

"The trebuchet is ready," said Crinion. "The men are ready, too."

"That is fine," replied Praxtin-Tar. "I, however, am not." Near the altar was Praxtin-Tar's jiiktar. He had blessed the weapon during his prayers, infusing it with the power of Lorris. Crinion had a jiiktar, too, which he wore on his back in the warrior fashion. On the other side of the altar, hanging from a rack in the perfect shape of a man, was Praxtin-Tar's armor. It was a simple design, mostly, with very few details, save for a pair of crimson ribbons wrapped around the elbow joints and an inlay of wolf's teeth in its breastplate.

Balancing atop the armor was the elaborate helmet with two ivory horns and a crown of metal. A carved faceplate showed off a grimacing demon's facade, and along the back of the helmet dangled a slew of raven feathers, draping down like hair.

"You will help me dress," Praxtin-Tar directed. His son came forward. This was part of the warlord's ritual, and Praxtin-Tar enjoyed having Crinion share it. Crinion was his only living son. His wife back in Reen had borne him two sons, but the other had been sickly and had died at an early age. Other than Crinion, Praxtin-Tar had only daughters now. They were precious to him, too, but in times of battle they were no substitute for sons.

Crinion started with the greaves, working his way up his father's body, taking the bamboo armor off its rack a piece at a time and working the laces until Praxtin-Tar's entire frame was covered in the articulated vestments.

Finally, after the half-fingered gauntlets went on, Crinion plucked up the helmet and held it out for his father. Praxtin-Tar took the helm but did not place it atop his head. Instead, he rested it in the crux of his arm, letting the raven feathers drape around him. Crinion picked up the jiiktar, fixed it to his father's back, then stepped away to observe his handiwork. The expression on his face told Praxtin-Tar how formidable he looked.

"Now I am ready," declared the warlord. "Let us go."

His son led him out of the pavilion and into his encampment where hundreds of warriors on horseback and on foot awaited him, their jiiktars and bows at the ready. Horses clopped at the earth, eager for the fight, and children ran excitedly through the throng, all of them boys as yet too young to fight but old enough to help their elders with the chores and preparations.

When they saw their warlord emerge from his tent, a rousing cheer went up.

Praxtin-Tar felt himself color. Now, he was indeed ready for battle.

"There," said Crinion, pointing off toward the war machine they had built. It stood nearly sixty feet tall, a collection of timbers and ropes with a counterbalanced arm that could heave a boulder against Falindar. Next to the weapon, anxiously awaiting the approval of his master, stood Rook. The Naren rubbed his filthy hands together nervously when he saw Crinion point at him. With his rat-like face and pink Naren flesh, he was detestable to Praxtin-Tar, but he had also been a valuable slave, and the warlord was always grateful that he had captured the man and let him live. Once, before his enslavement, Rook had been a man of rank in Nar's imperial army, a legionnaire as they were called. Now he was a chittering fool. Living among a superior race had turned him into a weakling. He wore his clothes like rags, never washing them, and his stench was unbearable, especially on hot days.

With summer coming, Praxtin-Tar dreaded his company.

With Crinion on his heels, the warlord strode over to the siege engine. Rook bowed. There was a crew of slaves and warriors with him, all enlisted to help Rook employ the weapon. Its shadow drenched Praxtin-Tar as he approached, and the warlord gazed up at it, impressed by the thing the Naren had constructed. Despite their barbarity, there were some things the Empire was good at. Weapons were one of them.

"We ride," Praxtin-Tar told his slave. "You will get this monstrosity in place. I want Lucyler and his Naren to see it."

"Yes, Praxtin-Tar," agreed Rook.

"You will make it work," said Crinion threateningly.

"It will work, Crinion, I promise," swore the slave. He looked over his creation, licking his lips. It was very different from the simple catapults they had been employing, much taller and of a foreign design. It also took twice as many men to crew it. The heft of its missiles meant even more manpower, just to get the rocks in place. Thankfully, Tatterak had no shortage of rocks.

Praxtin-Tar nodded approvingly. This time, Lucyler would fear him.

"This is good," he said simply. "I am pleased with it."

Rook smiled, showing a mouthful of broken teeth. Praxtin-Tar glared at the pathetic creature, who was not a man at all but a hybrid of worm and skunk.

"Get it into place, savage," the warlord ordered. "I will ride up to Falindar. I have a message for Lucyler, and I want him to see it."

Without another word, Praxtin-Tar turned from the Naren, striding off toward his waiting warhorse. Like its master, the horse was outfitted with bamboo armor that matched the warlord's. A boy held the beast's reins ready, handing them to Praxtin-Tar when he approached. Crinion's own horse was nearby, in a company of mounted warriors, all in the grey jackets of the clan.

They watched the warlord of Reen mount his stallion in a single graceful arc and place the elaborate helmet upon his head. For Praxtin-Tar, the world narrowed down to two thin eye slits.

"For Falindar!" he shouted, then hurried his horse up the road toward the citadel.

On the eastern guard tower, Richius and Lucyler watched as a column of horse soldiers began ascending the long road to Falindar. At the head of their ranks was Praxtin-Tar, unmistakable in his fearsome armor, a jiiktar on his back. He rode with at least thirty warriors, all on horseback, all garbed in grey with their white hair in long ponytails. Behind them came another column, this one lumbering. The giant trebuchet was slowly being dragged up the mountain road, a collection of slaves captured from Kes toiling to bring the weapon aloft. Archers and jiiktar-men came in their wake bearing mantlets for their protection; wide, freestanding shields with loopholes cut in them for archery.

Along the wall walk, Lucyler's men steeled themselves, disconcerted at the sight.

"Look," said Lucyler. "Praxtin-Tar comes to talk."

"Of our surrender, no doubt," quipped Richius. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword. It was a giant blade, too big for him really, but it was good for the bloody work he would do today.

"We will let him come," said Lucyler, "and hear his words."

The archers nearby on the tower lowered their weapons, heeding Lucyler's order. Richius held his breath, watching as Praxtin-Tar pranced forward, heedless of the danger posed by the defending bowmen. He wondered if there was anything in the world the warlord feared.

Lucyler had no illusions about the outcome of the discussions. Already he had ordered his men to get ready for the battle. Fires had been lit under the urns of oil, bringing them to a scalding boil, and along the lengths of every wall Falindar's warriors chaffed for war, their jiiktars and arrows sharp and eager. Near Richius, two of his ballistae were manned and armed, fixed with stout javelins. A single shot from one of the huge crossbows could easily reach Praxtin-Tar, skewering him and three of his entourage.

When Praxtin-Tar had finally crested the slope, he stopped some twenty yards from Falindar's brass gates. Demon-masked, he stared up at Lucyler and Richius, then gestured to them contemptuously, obviously laughing behind his helmet. Richius stood beside Lucyler, straightening proudly in the face of Praxtin-Tar's disdain.

"Lucyler of Falindar," boomed Praxtin-Tar. "You still hide behind your Jackal, I see."

Lucyler laughed. "Why don't you come and take him from me?"

"I intend to, Pretender," the warlord called back. "Today." He gestured toward the towering trebuchet being dragged up the road. "Do you see it, Lucyler? That is your doom!"

Richius leaned over the wall. "Go to hell!"

Crinion, Praxtin-Tar's son, shook his fist. It had been spoken in Naren, so neither of them had understood, but the meaning was plain.

"Today you die, Jackal!" hollered Crinion. "And your whore wife, too!"

Praxtin-Tar whirled on his son, rebuking him angrily. Praxtin-Tar was never one to insult a woman. According to Lucyler, the warlord of Reen was an enigma. Striving for the approval of the gods, he fought on a level above pettiness. None of this meant that Praxtin-Tar wasn't ruthless, though, so Richius held up his broadsword for Crinion to see, waving it above his head.

"You and me, Crinion," he shouted in Triin. "Just come and get me!"

Crinion bristled but said nothing. Praxtin-Tar shook his helmeted head in exasperation.

"Enough," he demanded. "I am here to speak with you, Lucyler."

"I am listening," said Lucyler.

The warlord spread out his hands in mock friendship. "You should surrender. You see what you are up against? I have a weapon such as the Jackal himself might build. In time I will breach your walls. You know I will."

Lucyler sighed, and Richius could tell he was disappointed by Praxtin-Tar's demand. It was nothing but the same tired rhetoric. For a moment, a glint of hopelessness flashed in Lucyler's eyes. But then his old defiance came roaring back.

"Is that all?" he growled. "You waste your breath, Praxtin-Tar. You should save it for fighting."

"I am not a butcher," Praxtin-Tar declared. "Surrender now and you will be spared. But if you make me come in there after you . . ."

"Come if you can," challenged Lucyler. The master of Falindar turned his back on Praxtin-Tar. He gave Richius a playful wink.

"Die then!" cried Praxtin-Tar. With a jerk of his reins he whirled his horse about, raising his hands toward his gathering troops. Crinion and the others lifted their jiiktars, trilling out a savage war whoop. Praxtin-Tar seemed to feed on their energy. He stood up in his saddle, took his own weapon off his back, and gave the order to attack. Like a thunder-head rolling off the horizon, his 1200 warriors raced in, swarming toward Falindar in a sea of grey jackets and flashing metal.

"Let's get him this time," growled Richius. As the warlord's forces approached, he shoved aside the warrior manning the nearest ballista, taking careful aim with the giant crossbow. Behind Praxtin-Tar was Crinion, waving and shouting, whipping up the bloodlust of his men. Lucyler gave the order to fire. All along the twin guard towers arrows launched from their bows, screaming across the yardage toward the besiegers. Richius bit his lip, focused on Praxtin-Tar, then firmly squeezed the balista's trigger. The man-size javelin sprinted forward, propelled by the taut skeins. It raced toward Praxtin-Tar, slamming into a nearby warrior and ripping through him. Barely slowed, the javelin skewered three more men before stopping inside the belly of a horse.

"Damn it!" Richius cursed. Praxtin-Tar turned to glare at him, unscathed.

The ballista crew hurried another javelin into the weapon, but it was too late.

Praxtin-Tar was already surrounded by onrushing troops. They brought ladders and mantlets with them, bows strung taut and arrows stuffed with quivers, and the horsemen galloped around the outer walls of the citadel, raising up a thundering chorus.

"All right, then," said Richius. He picked up his bow from its place on the wall and drew an arrow from the ammunition racks on the catwalk. "Come and get it!"

Next to him, Lucyler plied his bow with inhuman speed pumping shafts into the swarm of warriors. The ballistae flanking them fired ceaselessly, sending out their missiles, and the noise of battle climbed into the air like the roar of a forest fire, shaking the catwalks and the very foundations of Falindar.

Praxtin-Tar galloped among his men waving his jiiktar as arrows showered down around him. His warriors were inundating the battlefield now, setting up their freestanding shields and returning the fire of Falindar's bowmen. Rook's huge catapult continued to rumble forward. It was almost in position. The hundred slaves who bore the weapon grunted as they fought to get their burden ready. Storms of arrows fell on them, killing one after another, but Praxtin-Tar knew there weren't enough arrows in all of Falindar to stop his new weapon. Slaves were cheap, and when one fell another took his place, for the warlord had given his slaves a bleak choice—they could die like men on the battlefield, or die in agony at the hands of a torturer.

A stray arrow glanced off Praxtin-Tar's armor but he ignored it, hurrying toward the catapult. Rook and the Triin crew were there making ready as the weapon was positioned. Huge boulders that had been dragged up the road in vine slings waited next to the catapult. According to Rook, they could be loaded into the firing armature by means of a pulley apparatus built into the weapon. The Naren design was ingenious, and Praxtin-Tar was eager to see it put to work. He galloped up in front of Rook.

"Fire the weapon!" he ordered.

Rook didn't bother looking up. He was working feverishly with his crew, shouting orders and checking mechanisms.

"It's almost ready," he told the warlord. "But we have to load the rock."

Praxtin-Tar snorted impatiently, looking back toward Falindar. In the brief minutes since the battle had begun, most of his men had already made it on to the battlefield and were crowding around the citadel, fighting for a foothold.

The warriors inside the walls kept them at bay, and already there were casualties from their arrows and javelins. Crinion was at the head of a column, shouting like his father as he urged his warriors forward. Praxtin-Tar was proud of his son. He was fearless, and the men respected him. Someday, he would make a fine warlord.

"Hurry now," grumbled Praxtin-Tar. He watched as the slaves and warriors worked the winches and pulleys of the trebuchet, hoisting up one of the huge rocks and trying to finesse it into the weapon's armature. At the end of the arm was a catapult cup. Larger than most, it could hold a boulder many times the size of the smaller catapults. The rock they had chosen for their first missile was half as tall as Praxtin-Tar, with jagged edges chiseled roughly into a ball.

Under the irascible gaze of his master, Rook worked diligently to get the boulder into the cup, and when it was finally positioned he loosened the vine netting around it and took a step back.

"It's ready," he said simply.

"Fire it then," snapped the warlord.

"At what?"

"Anything! I just want to see the thing work!"

Rook nodded and gibbered something to his crew in poorly-phrased Triin.

In two years he had learned quite a bit, but his accent was still atrociously Naren. Praxtin-Tar hadn't supposed the weapon would be very accurate. In fact, Rook had warned him it wouldn't be, but its pay-load was heavy enough to damage anything it hit, and if it hit the guard towers . . .

"Fire the cursed thing," rumbled the warlord.

"It takes time, Master," pleaded the slave. "It is almost ready."

When the counterbalance was positioned and all the mechanisms shook with the strain, Rook politely shooed his master away from the weapon, explaining that it would be dangerous to be so near. But they had erected shields around the weapon to try and stave off the arrows from Falindar, and Praxtin-Tar felt safer close to the weapon than out in the open, so he refused to leave. He also refused to let Rook leave, making sure that the man fired the weapon himself.

There was a wooden lever on the right side of the trebuchet. Rook and his assistants approached it warily. Rook put both hands around the lever. The siege machine groaned with the strain.

"Do it," spat Praxtin-Tar.

With the help of his fellow slaves, Rook pulled the lever. Instantly the counterbalance fell forward, jerking the swing arm up in a rush of air. The boulder catapulted into the sky. The giant machine screamed as its timbers shook. The missile was away. Praxtin-Tar gazed up in disbelief, watching as the hulk of granite sailed effortlessly through the air streaking toward the walls of Falindar.

Richius heard the crack before he saw the boulder arcing skyward. Stunned, he lowered his bow and watched the rock approaching like a shooting star.

Next to him, Lucyler and the others stood in open shock, bracing themselves for the coming impact. "Oh, my God . . ."

The boulder reached the top of its arc, hung frozen in the sky for the smallest instant, then descended toward the citadel. From the height of its trajectory and the speed of its approach, Richius could tell that this new weapon had a greater range than any of the warlord's other catapults. When it looked like the missile might just strike the guard tower, he decided to duck.

"Here it comes!" Lucyler shouted, dropping to the deck and frantically ordering his men down. The meteor sailed overhead, nearly grazing the top of the tower, then collided with a concussive boom in the outer yard, sending up an explosion of slate and gravel. An unlucky cart was splintered and the boulder rolled on until at last it crashed against one of the spire walls, cracking it. Remarkably, no one had been harmed by the missile, and the miracle of it made Richius' breath catch. He stood up dumbly and stared into the courtyard, stupefied at the size of the boulder. "We will not be so lucky next time," warned Lucyler. "Look!" Richius gazed out over the battlefield.

Praxtin-Tar's men were carefully lowering another rock into the weapon. Even from a distance, Richius could see the weapon crew making adjustments to the machine, gauging their range and accuracy.

"Son of a bitch," Richius muttered. Again he picked up his bow and began firing into the crowds. The ladder-men were racing forward, hoping to get a foothold on the walls. Lucyler's warriors made ready with polearms along the length of the battlements, ready to repel the escalade. "We'll have to take it out," cried Richius.

"We cannot," spat Lucyler. "Not from here. It is too far." The twang of the ballistae rang in Richius' ears. He knew Lucyler was right. There was no way to leave Falindar and sally out to destroy the catapult. The idea was suicidal, but the weapon itself was murderous. Soon the crew of the trebuchet would learn the azimuth and range. They would hammer the citadel's walls until they shattered. Then they would swarm inside. A wave of anxiety washed over Richius. It didn't seem right that anyone should be able to tear down Falindar.

"I won't let him," he muttered. "Not today, and not tomorrow." He threw down his bow and went back to the nearest ballista. The Triin warriors working the weapon stepped aside. A javelin had already been fixed into its stock, poised for firing. The Jackal of Nar closed one eye, aimed at a thicket of warriors, and squeezed the trigger.

An explosion of bodies ripped around Praxtin-Tar as a javelin shot across the field, homing for the trebuchet and slicing through the unarmored flesh of his men. The warlord, still on his horse, grinned happily beneath his helmet.

He could see Richius Vantran atop the guard tower vainly trying to reach him with the spears. But he would fail, Praxtin-Tar knew, because today he had Lorris on his side.

His son galloped up to him. Crinion's ponytail was spattered with blood, but the young man was uninjured and wore the same expression as his father.

They were doing well. Their warriors were getting the galleries into position against the citadel's walls. The wooden canopies would protect their men against attacks from above, shielding them like little houses from the projectiles of their enemies. Then the sappers, as Rook called them, could get to work again, trying to bore a single hole in Falindar's thick stone. So far, their attempts had failed. But Praxtin-Tar had a premonition of victory today.

"It works!" declared Crinion proudly. He brought his horse to a halt next to his father's, admiring the tall siege machine. Rook and the other slaves had finally lowered another boulder into the mechanism and were preparing to fire.

The Naren checked the coordinates, making little adjustments that the warlord didn't understand. Another javelin whistled past, sailing harmlessly away from them. Vantran's aim was getting sloppy. Praxtin-Tar looked at his son.

"Let us finish the Jackal now, yes?"

"Yes."

Praxtin-Tar glared at Rook. "Hit the guard tower this time," he demanded.

"I will try," came Rook's reply as he feverishly tightened splines and checked mechanisms. When he was satisfied with his adjustments, he rubbed his hands together and nodded. "It's ready. Get back."

Once again Praxtin-Tar refused to move. More arrows slammed into the shields around him as the defenders realized the trebuchet was about to fire.

Praxtin-Tar ignored it. He was wrapped in a shield from heaven. Crinion, who never showed fear around his father, stayed near him, ignoring the catapult's groans as it prepared to launch. Every timber of its construction shuddered under its own tremendous strain. The boulder trembled and the swing arm seemed to sing, and Praxtin-Tar eyed the weapon suspiciously, uncertain of its soundness.

"Rook . . ."

The Naren reached for the firing lever. When he did, a single supporting strand of rope snapped from the swing arm, followed in fast succession by a dozen more. Rook stumbled backward, aghast, as every spline in the weapon suddenly tore from the strain. The engine shook, rumbled as if in pain, then promptly exploded in a shower of splinters. Praxtin-Tar felt a storm of wooden needles pelt his armor. Beneath him, his horse cried out then buckled under his weight. Men shouted in pain, scrambling away from the sudden storm with bloodied shards of wood in their backs. As Praxtin-Tar fell to the ground he saw Crinion beside him, unconscious.

"No!"

The warlord scrambled to his knees beside his fallen son. He tore off his helmet and threw it down, gingerly cradling Crinion in his arms. Little daggers of wood peppered Crinion's body like a pin cushion; he was oozing blood from a hundred different wounds. Along his head ran a crimson gash from crown to cheek, littered with dirt and bits of broken timber. Praxtin-Tar felt his world collapse. He put his ear to his son's lips and sensed the faintest flow of breath.

"Master!" cried Rook, scurrying out of the carnage. Remarkably, he was unscathed; the explosion had blown out to a single side. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened!"

Praxtin-Tar's rage boiled over. "Look at my son! You have killed him!"

"No," insisted Rook. He pointed down at Crinion's chest, which rose and fell with staggered breaths. "He lives! Dear God, I swear this wasn't my fault!"

"Do not ever swear to your God around me, worm!" raged the warlord. He got to his feet with Crinion in his arms, looking around in confusion. The battle raged on. From Falindar's guard towers he could see Lucyler and the Jackal staring at him in disbelief. He couldn't continue fighting, not with Crinion so badly wounded. Crinion needed care, and for that he had to be taken to the camp.

"What now, my lord?" asked a young warrior anxiously. A jiiktar dangled in his hands. A group of his brethren were gathering, mute with confusion around the remains of the trebuchet.

Praxtin-Tar simply couldn't speak. He looked up to heaven, heard the sounds of arrows in the air, and wondered why Lorris and Pris hated him.

Richius stared in disbelief. Amazingly, Praxtin-Tar was leaving the battlefield. He had someone in his arms; Crinion, Richius supposed. And the trebuchet was gone. It had simply exploded. Richius began laughing, and his giddiness became a contagion, so that soon all the men along the wall walk were laughing, too. Suddenly leaderless, Praxtin-Tar's men began breaking off their attack. They abandoned their attempts at escalade, leaving behind their ladders and slowly started pulling back their galleries and mantlets. Chaos reigned on the field. The arrow fire from the besiegers slackened as they retreated, and Lucyler's men pressed their advantage, pumping bolts and javelins after their fleeing attackers.

"Look at that!" Richius cheered. "They're running away!"

Lucyler was less enthusiastic. "They will be back."

"Lucyler, come on." Richius gave his comrade a good-natured slap on the back. "We've won the day!"

The Triin shrugged. "For how long? We may have killed Crinion, Richius.

What do you think Praxtin-Tar will do now?"

"It doesn't matter," Richius insisted. "That trebuchet he built is in pieces, and if Crinion is dead, well then I say good riddance. For God's sake, we've won, Lucyler. Be happy!"

"Yes," agreed Lucyler. Then he laughed shortly, shaking his head "Yes, I am happy."

Richius lowered his bow, setting it down on the wall walk, and made for the tower's stairway. "I have to go find Dyana," he explained before disappearing down the trapdoor. Inside the tower, men were surging up and down the steps slapping each other and smiling. Hands reached out offering congratulations, but Richius returned the good humor with short replies, for he was in a hurry to find his wife and daughter.

Once outside, he looked across the outer courtyard and saw the women and children emerging from the main keep. They blinked as they stepped out into the light. Children dashed across the yard to their fathers and brothers on the wall while the women simply slumped in relief that the siege had broken off so quickly. Richius searched the swelling throngs for Dyana. A wave got her attention, and she began hurrying toward him, little Shani toddling next to her, her short legs hurrying to keep up. Dyana's face lit at the sight of Richius.

Each time she went down into the cellars, she had confessed, she wondered what she would find when she reemerged. Today, at least, her fears had been allayed.

"I told you!" Richius called. He laughed and crossed the distance between them, sweeping up Dyana in one arm and kissing her cheek. "We've beaten them back!"

Dyana looked around in puzzlement. "Already?"

Richius scooped up Shani, holding her high and smiling at her. "That's it little one. No more cellar for you today!"

"What happened, Richius?" asked Dyana. "All I heard was a blast. Did they fire their weapon?"

"They did." Richius gestured over his shoulder to where the first and only projectile had landed, scraping a huge gash from the earth. "Just once. Then the trebuchet blew apart."

Shani squealed in delight. Richius lowered her to the ground, keeping hold of her hand. He led her and Dyana toward the massive rock in the courtyard.

A curious crowd was already gathering around it.

"The weapon exploded from the strain," Richius tried to explain. "It's all pressure and counterweights. If it's not built right, well . . ."

"But why did he retreat?" Dyana persisted. "I do not understand."

"His son, Crinion," said Richius. "When the weapon blew, it must have wounded him. We saw Praxtin-Tar carry him off. The other warriors won't fight, not without their leader."

"I see," whispered Dyana, her face darkening. "Then they will be back."

"Oh, now you sound like Lucyler!"

"They will be back, Richius," Dyana insisted. "We are still not safe."

"We're safe for the day. That's all any of us can ask." But Dyana's words made him squeeze Shani's hand a little tighter. Praxtin-Tar would return. And when he did, his heart would be full of vengeance.

SEVENTEEN

That night, after the wounded had been attended to and the meager damage done to Falindar repaired, Richius went in search of Lucyler. He had already taken a late supper with Dyana and Shani, and after his wife had put their daughter to bed Richius began to feel restless. Still buoyed from the morning's victory, he wanted to plan their next strategy. With the trebuchet destroyed and Crinion wounded, Praxtin-Tar would have to devise a new way of taking the citadel. Richius suspected he would try again soon.

After searching Falindar's dining hall and making a sweep of the outer ward, Richius decided Lucyler was probably alone, either in his private chambers or his office on the ground floor. As the office was closest, he went there first and discovered Lucyler leaning back in his chair, his nose buried in one of the room's many books. The chamber door was slightly ajar. Richius poked his head inside. Just when he thought Lucyler hadn't seen him, his friend spoke.

"I can hear you."

Richius pushed the door open. "Good ears."

"I was expecting you, actually." Lucyler's face remained hidden behind the book.

"Oh?" asked Richius, stepping inside. Quietly he closed the door behind him. "I ate alone with Dyana and Shani. Were you looking for me?"

"No." At last Lucyler lowered the book. "I just thought you would want to talk."

Richius noticed his friend's bloodshot eyes. There was a half-empty bottle of tokka on the desk, a fiery Triin liquor that Richius had always despised. A single cup stood next to the bottle. "Lucyler, are you drunk?"

The Triin smiled. "Maybe just a little." He put the book down on the desk.

"You are as predictable as the sunrise, Richius. Every time we fight Praxtin-Tar you want to talk about it."

"At least I don't get drunk after every battle. What's the matter with you, Lucyler?"

Lucyler didn't answer, nor did he look at Richius. Instead he put his feet up on the desk, ignoring the way his boots scuffed the expensive wood. Once, the tiny chamber had belonged to Tharn. It had been the Drol leader's study, a place where he could lock himself away and pore over the many texts he had collected. The dusty manuscripts still lined every inch of the walls, crammed tight into bookcases and strewn in crooked piles along the floor. Lucyler did a poor job of keeping the room in order. Beside the cup and bottle on his desk lay stacks of paper and dried out inkwells, unread correspondences in yellow envelopes, and trinkets given to him over the past two years from grateful peasants in Tatterak. Among the folk of Tatterak, Lucyler was beloved. So why did he hate himself?

"I checked the guard towers and the eastern wall," said Richius, hoping to stir Lucyler's interest. "Everything seems quiet. No trouble."

"Fine."

Richius frowned. "Aren't you going to check for yourself? Or are you just going to sit there feeling sorry for yourself?"

The insult didn't rouse Lucyler. He absently tucked an errant lock of hair behind his ear, and nodded at the book on the desk. "Know what that is?" he asked.

"No idea," said Richius. He picked up the book and examined it. A journal, probably. As he riffled through the pages he realized that the writings were in Triin. He laid the book back down. Though he could speak Triin with reasonable fluency, he had never really learned how to decipher their written words. Still, he didn't have to wonder who had composed the journal.

"It belonged to Tharn," Lucyler confirmed. "I have been reading it." His expression soured. "I was hoping to learn something useful."

"And did you?"

"Let me read you something," Lucyler said, then retrieved the journal and began searching through the pages. When he found the passage he wanted, he cleared his throat.

"We are still on the road to Chandakkar," he began, "and the dread of it is endless. It is hot, and I feel like I am dying. There are hazards here, too. I can hear them at night. We are without allies, and I have never felt so alone. Often, I think of Dyana to pass the time, and I wish she were here to comfort me.

She is a good woman, and I miss her."

Hearing the old words made Richius bristle. He didn't like being reminded that Dyana had been wedded before, even to someone as beneficent as Tharn.

"So?" he asked sharply. "What's the point?"

"Let me skip ahead," said Lucyler. He went on, reading, "Falindar has become precious to me, and I did not realize it until now. I had never thought to love an object so dearly, but it is my home now and I must protect it. I must never let it fall to the Narens, or see it scarred by war. While there is breath in me, I will fight for her."

Lucyler slowly closed the book and slid it across the desk, almost pushing it over the edge. His eyes flicked up, looking at Richius. There was an awful silence that bespoke his misery. Richius put down the tokka bottle, trying hard to smile.

"You won't lose Falindar," he said softly. "If that's what has you worried, don't be."

"Home," Lucyler whispered. He looked around the room. "Tharn was a prisoner down in the catacombs before ever becoming the citadel's master.

Yet he thought of this as home. I have spent most of my life here, Richius. To me, this really is home. If I lose it . . ."

"You won't," repeated Richius. "But you need some of Tharn's faith, Lucyler. It isn't good for you to lock yourself up in here. The others need to see you. If you don't believe, then they won't either."

The Triin reached out for the bottle of liquor, pouring himself a cupful, but he didn't drink. He merely rolled the cup pensively between his palms, staring at his reflection in its contents. There was a shroud of self-loathing around Lucyler tonight. He had been grim ever since the siege began. Or more precisely, since the fiasco at Kes. Richius took a chair from the corner of the room. Like everything else in the chamber, it was covered with books and assorted papers. He cleared it off, dragged it to the desk, and sat down in front of Lucyler, close enough so that his friend couldn't ignore him.

"Why are you afraid?" he asked. "Don't you know we have the advantage?"

Lucyler looked at him sharply. "You are the only one that seems to believe that, Richius."

"Am I? Praxtin-Tar doesn't have a roof over his head, or stores of food or water. Hell, he doesn't even have his catapult anymore. All he has is manpower."

"Yes, about twice as much as we do," grumbled Lucyler. "Why do you forget that?"

They were arguing in circles again, and it really wasn't why Richius had come. He took the cup from Lucyler's hands and said, "I want you to talk to me. You're feeling guilty about what's happened."

"Really. How perceptive of you."

"But it's not your fault."

Lucyler laughed. "Of course it is. I should have foreseen this. Like a fool I went to Kes, trying to talk peace. I trusted Praxtin-Tar." He shook his head ruefully. "Lorris and Pris, I am truly stupid. I saw what Praxtin-Tar was like. I saw the madness in his eyes and I ignored it. So please, Richius, do not try to ease my guilt. I like it. It keeps me company."

Richius picked up Tharn's journal again. "Didn't Tharn once tell you that Praxtin-Tar could be trusted? Didn't he say he would be loyal to you?"

"That was a long time ago," countered Lucyler, "when Tharn was alive. And he did not know he would be dying, or what Praxtin-Tar would become."

Richius nodded. They all knew how Tharn's death had affected the warlord.

Once he had merely been a dictator, content with ruling Reen. But Tharn's magic had changed all that. Seeing Tharn's powers, his "touch of heaven,"

had turned Praxtin-Tar into a true believer. Now he was the holy man's self-appointed successor, determined to reopen the heavenly door Tharn's death had closed. Some said Praxtin-Tar wanted power, that he wanted to wield the same arcane abilities as Tharn and take all of Lucel-Lor for himself.

But Richius knew better than to believe that. Lucyler had indeed met with Praxtin-Tar in Kes, and he had seen the warlord's pain. Praxtin-Tar was on a crusade. To him, this was a holy war.

"He wants to know the gods," said Lucyler. "He wants to see them again, like he did when Tharn was alive. And he will not stop until he takes Falindar, that much I know. We may never defeat him. That is the terror of it. Can you not see, Richius? I cannot lose Falindar. It is a bastion now, the last safe place in Lucel-Lor."

"That's a bit dramatic."

"It is not. This is all that is left of Tharn's dream. And it is my home." The Triin's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "It is your home, too."

The observation made Richius blink. "True," he admitted. "I am at home here now."

Lucyler beamed. "Yes. You are happy now, I can tell. You were never happy before."

"Yes, I was," Richius insisted. "I've always been happy."

"You have always been a worrisome fishwife," laughed Lucyler, "carrying on, complaining. Never satisfied with what you have. But you have changed.

Tell me, do you think about Aramoor anymore?"

Richius grimaced. "Lucyler . . ."

"Please," Lucyler implored. "It is important to me. Are you as contented in Falindar as you seem? Or do you still think about Aramoor? You never talk about it anymore."

"What's the point? Aramoor is lost to me. I know that now."

"Do you?"

"Why the interrogation? I told you the truth, so let's leave it at that."

"So this is your home, then?"

"Yes!"

Lucyler sat back. "Then you can see why I am so upset, and why you should be, too. If we lose Falindar, we lose more than just our lives. We lose our homes—again."

The logic was painfully accurate. Aramoor had been taken from him, and it had taken two years to recover from that loss. He still wasn't fully mended, but at least he had stilled the unrelenting ghosts of his past. Pining for his homeland had only brought him misery.

"I think about Aramoor more than you know," Richius confessed.

"Sometimes I wish that I could take Shani there, just to see it. It's part of me, and I guess it will be forever. But this is my home now. I've learned that, at least."

"So we must both fight to protect her," said Lucyler.

"That's right. And you have to stop feeling guilty about the siege. Agreed?"

Lucyler took a final drink from his cup. "Agreed." He capped the tokka bottle, pushing it aside. "So what do we do now? Wait for Praxtin-Tar to come again?"

"That's all we can do, I think. Eventually he'll exhaust himself. He has to."

"That might be a very long wait," observed Lucyler. "Especially if Crinion dies."

Richius considered going for the tokka bottle himself. If Crinion did die, Praxtin-Tar's desire for vengeance would be limitless.

For Praxtin-Tar, the darkest place in the world was within his private pavilion, standing vigil over his wounded son. It was late, and the candles on the altar flickered in an invisible breeze, throwing grotesque shadows on the fabric walls. Crinion was laid on a bed of blankets stripped to the waist and bandaged. Using his collection of hooked knives, the healer Valtuvus had managed to pull most of the shards of wood from Crinion's body, and now Crinion's chest was covered with blood and stitchings. Alone in the tent, Praxtin-Tar knelt in prayer over his only son. Crinion was still unconscious, and Valtuvus doubted he would ever wake up. The healer had told Praxtin-Tar that the young man's wounds were extensive, and that whatever had hit his head had damaged his brain, perhaps irreparably. Now Crinion lay in a mute sleep, not stirring, barely breathing.

"Lorris, hear me," the warlord pleaded. "Pris, I beg you. Heal my son. He cannot die . . ."

As always, Lorris and Pris were silent, and Praxtin-Tar felt frustrated tears squeeze from his eyes. It made no sense that his prayers went unanswered—not now, when so much was clearly at stake. Crinion was a good son, a true Drol, and the twin gods had no right to feign deafness.

"No right," Praxtin-Tar growled, his eyes opening. He stretched out his arms, balled his hands into fists, and cried out, "Do you hear me? You have no right! I am Praxtin-Tar!"

Praxtin-Tar heard his own name ring in his ears. He slumped. Even Crinion couldn't hear him, and he was right here next to him, as weak as the day he was born. A crushing loneliness fell upon the warlord. The touch of his wife would have been welcome now, or the laughter of his daughters. Anything but the empty rasping of Crinion's breath. The day had started off so promisingly.

Crinion had been vital and alive, and Rook's cursed weapon was to have won the battle. The thought of the Naren made Praxtin-Tar seethe.

"It should have been him," he said.

If Crinion didn't recover, it would be, he decided. He would kill the Naren if Crinion died, punishing him for building such a shoddy device. Praxtin-Tar's body shook with rage, and he had to put a hand to his forehead to calm himself. His mind swam with nausea, and he realized that he hadn't eaten since the dawn. He needed nourishment. But who would look after Crinion? He didn't really trust Valtuvus, not with something so important. The warlord decided to forego his meal, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"I will guard you," he whispered. "The raven will not come."

He reached out and touched Crinion's hair. It was bone-white, like all Triin hair, and as silky as rose petals. Being so close to his son, Praxtin-Tar realized how fair he was, and not just because his skin was Triin white, but because his bones were perfect and his face was sculptured. Crinion was handsome, something Praxtin-Tar had never been.

"Do not leave me," he pleaded. "I cannot lose another son. Do you hear? I cannot bear it."

Crinion answered with an unconscious flutter of his eyelids, and the warlord wondered if his son could hear him.

"Yes, you can," he decided. "You will not die."

More slight stirring. Praxtin-Tar smiled. Crinion was strong, because he had the warlord's blood and because there was important work to be done. They were both committed, father and son, to seeing Tharn's legacy continue.

"Such a sight can change a man forever," he told his son. "Do I know if I am appointed by Lorris to carry on? I do not. But there is so much for me to learn. The gods are real, Crinion. I know that now. And I want to see them again."

Praxtin-Tar stopped stroking Crinion's head. He looked around to assure himself no one was listening, then bent forward a little and continued his confession.

This was his rage, his fixation. That it should make him murderous didn't matter to Praxtin-Tar any longer. He was a warlord, after all. His mission was far more grave than the lives of Lord Ishia or a hundred slaves from Kes.

Tharn himself had killed to open the gates of heaven. Perhaps that was the price. Maybe Lorris needed blood to be assuaged.

Fine, then, thought Praxtin-Tar. They will open the gates of heaven to me, or I will force them open.

Falindar couldn't stand against him forever. And once he had Falindar . . .

What then?

The warlord frowned. Even now, a month into his siege, he didn't know what to expect from a victory. Falindar had been Tharn's home. In a sense, it was a conduit to heaven, the long-time seat of Triin power. Sooner or later, Praxtin-Tar supposed, his fickle gods would have to notice him. He had already won Kes for them, though apparently they had turned up their noses at that prize. But surely they couldn't deny Falindar. With its peerless spires of brass and silver, Falindar was the jewel of Lucel-Lor. Conquering her would be Praxtin-Tar's greatest achievement, and when he won her, he would dare the gods to ignore him. "Someday, Crinion," he vowed.

"Master?" came a voice.

Praxtin-Tar sat up at the intrusion. To his huge surprise he saw Rook standing in the threshold of his tent. The Naren's expression was white and fearful.

"You come here?" spat Praxtin-Tar. "You dare disgrace this place with your presence?"

Rook stepped into the pavilion, holding up his hands. "Forgive me, Master.

I only came to check on you." His eyes flicked nervously to where Crinion lay. "How fares your son?"

"No thanks to you, he lives. Be glad for it. If he dies, you will follow him."

"I swear to you, Master, I had no idea this would happen."

"You made the weapon. You said it was ready. So you will pay if my son dies. I have been sitting here thinking of ways to kill you. Would you like to hear some of my ideas?"

The Naren was ashen.

"I am thinking of impaling you," Praxtin-Tar continued. "Maybe lowering you onto a stake very slowly, and watching while the other side comes out your mouth."

"My God . . ."

"Your God?" Praxtin-Tar erupted. "Your Naren fable does not exist! Do not speak of him to me."

"Forgive me, Master. I meant no disrespect. Only . . ."

"What?"

"Well, if the boy lives—"

"He will live!"

"Of course," Rook corrected hastily. "Rather, when he is well again, he will look to you for guidance. He will expect to be avenged for what has happened to him." The Naren swallowed nervously. "He will want to kill me."

Praxtin-Tar could barely contain his disgust. "You have come to seek my protection? While my son lies dying? Filthy, filthy creature . . ."

"Master, I had nothing to do with this! I only did as you asked. I did my best to build the weapon, but I am not an engineer. I am only a soldier."

"You are only a slave, Rook," retorted the warlord. He stood up, towering over the Naren. "I have made my decision. You should pray to your nonexistent God for Crinion's recovery, because if he dies, I will put you to the stake."

"And if he lives? What happens to me then?"

"He will want his revenge," the warlord agreed. "But not on you."

"I don't understand."

Praxtin-Tar pointed in the direction of the citadel. "He will want to take Falindar. That will be the only way to amend this disgrace. And for that I need you." The warlord turned away from Rook and stood over his son. Crinion hadn't moved a muscle since those first tentative stirrings, and Valtuvus had warned that infection might set in. Out here in the middle of nowhere, infection could swat a man like an insect.

"I will not let him die," vowed Praxtin-Tar. "Crinion will live, and when he awakens we will take Falindar."

"And you need me for that?" asked Rook hopefully.

"Indeed." The warlord regarded him coldly. "You are going to build me another weapon."

"Oh, no, Master," Rook said. "That is not possible . . ."

"I saw what it can do. You will build it, and build it better than the last one.

You will build it while Crinion recovers, so that it will be ready when he awakens for battle."

"Master, please," begged the Naren. "I cannot do this. The last trebuchet was my best effort. I used all my knowledge. It failed because I don't know what I'm doing!"

Praxtin-Tar waved off his pleas. Two years ago, he had spared Rook's life because it had amused him to have a Naren slave, and because Rook had promised he would be useful. He had knowledge of Naren weapons, he had claimed.

"You were a legionnaire," flared the warlord. "You told me you could help me win battles."

"Yes," Rook sputtered. "But . . ."

"Build me another trebuchet. Make it sound and powerful, and have it ready when my son recovers. Remember the stake, Rook."

Rook took one final look at Crinion, then offered his master a bow before retreating from the tent. Praxtin-Tar was glad to see him go. He was a disgusting creature, like all Narens, and his devotion to their false religion sickened the warlord. When would the world beyond the mountains realize the truth? Or would they always walk in darkness?

But then he realized that Rook was only a man, and that men had to search the darkness for the truth. Rook was pathetic, certainly. One could, however, learn something from the slave.

"I am walking in darkness, too," Praxtin-Tar whispered. "Always searching .

. ."

Looking for answers had become a way of life for Praxtin-Tar. Sometimes it was wearying. The warlord of Reen sat down beside his son, ignoring his hunger, and once again began to pray.

EIGHTEEN

When Alazrian and Jahl Rob finally emerged from the Iron Mountains, the first thing they saw was Ackle-Nye. The city of beggars stood at the end of the Saccenne Run, a burned-out husk of a metropolis, bearing the scars of war and neglect. Once she had been an impressive city, a hub of commerce and the gateway to Lucel-Lor, the first stop for soldiers and merchants from the Empire. She had been constructed years ago during the early reign of Arkus, designed in part by Naren engineers eager to make their mark on Triin land. With her ruined arches and collapsed roofs, Ackle-Nye looked like the casualty of a great urban war. Yet even in ruins she was impressive. Alazrian had read about Ackle-Nye and had heard his Uncle Blackwood Gayle speak of her, but nothing had prepared him for this sight. As his horse emerged from the confines of the mountain pass, his eyes widened in astonishment, beholding the forbidding beauty of the dead city.

"God in heaven," breathed Jahl Rob. He brought his exhausted mount to a stop. "Will you look at that?"

There in the terminus of the Saccenne Run the two travellers paused, surveying the twisted city in the distance. Ackle-Nye was a weird amalgamation of familiar architecture and arcane design. Informal Triin structures of tattered paper and wood stood abreast of conical Naren spires, all crumbling, and half the city was encased in a wall lined with defensive crenellations. It was mid-afternoon and the sun baked the landscape. The shadows of the Iron Mountains seemed to reach for the broken city with dark hands. The strange marriage of Naren and Triin carried over to every small detail. Alazrian didn't know how to react. He was glad to be out of the run, but the city of beggars didn't precisely welcome them, either.

"There's the river," Jahl Rob noted, pointing ahead. They had known the river would be waiting for them, and the sight of the clear water was tantalizing. According to what little they knew of this area, the river was called the Sheaze. Fed from the ice caps of the Iron Mountains, the river swelled its banks. A small bridge spanned the waterway, leading to Ackle-Nye. To Alazrian's eye, the bridge looked surprisingly new against the backdrop of the ancient city.

"See anyone?" Alazrian asked. He hooded his eyes to block out the sun.

There might have been movement in Ackle-Nye's trash-filled avenues, but he couldn't quite tell. And he certainly didn't see any lions.

"Ackle-Nye is probably abandoned," said Jahl Rob. He had already told Alazrian what little he knew about the place; that it had once been a thriving mercantile hold and that it had wound up the last battlefield in the Triin war.

Here was where the Triin had finally pushed out the last of the Naren invaders.

That had been two years ago, but Ackle-Nye hadn't given over her memories to time. Every city wall bore the scars of conflict.

"There could still be Triin here," said Alazrian hopefully. "It's still standing, after all. And there's the river."

The priest nodded, but there was apprehension in his manner. "If so, they won't be pleased to see us. Keep your wits about you, boy."

"We can go around it," Alazrian suggested. "Give our horses a rest first, fill up our water skins, and be on our way."

"No," said Jahl Rob. "Anyone in the city is bound to spot us, and we can't avoid the Triin forever." He looked at Alazrian. "That's what we came here for, isn't it? To find Triin?"

"Yes," replied Alazrian, mustering up his courage.

But Jahl Rob didn't urge his horse forward. Instead he dismounted, taking the reins in his hands and spying his surroundings with a trained eye. It had been days since they had left the priest's mountain home, leaving behind the other Saints and the relative protection of the keep. So far, they had seen nothing remarkable on their journey—only the occasional hawk and rodent that haunted the run. There had been no Triin, no lions guarding Lucel-Lor; nothing even remotely dangerous. Jahl Rob didn't talk much, but Alazrian liked the enigmatic priest. He was kind, though mistrustful of Alazrian's magic, and it gave Alazrian a sense of security to know that a man so handy with a bow was nearby. Now, however, in the shadow of Ackle-Nye, Jahl Rob grew pensive. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders as if he were cold, cocking his head to listen. The sound of the river filled their ears.

"It's quiet," mused the priest.

A nervousness in his stomach threatened to empty Alazrian's breakfast, and despite the Triin blood running through his veins, he suddenly had no desire to meet his kinsmen. According to his Uncle Blackwood, Triin were warlike and bloodthirsty, with a fiery hatred of Narens. "They'll cut your heart out and serve it up for dinner," Blackwood Gayle had told him once, pointing at the scar ruining his face as evidence.

"Are we going in?" asked Alazrian. "If there are people in the city, they might have some food. I wouldn't mind a good meal, would you?"

"From what I've heard about Triin, we'll be the meal."

Alazrian frowned, and Jahl, realizing what he'd said, grimaced. "No cause for that, boy. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," said Alazrian. So far, Jahl Rob hadn't really warmed to him, and for some reason that irked Alazrian. It was one thing to be afraid of his gifts. That was normal, and Alazrian didn't understand them either. But having Triin blood didn't seem a good enough reason to shun someone.

"You're right about one thing," said Jahl Rob at last. "We're not getting any closer standing here." He took one last look around, then mounted his horse again. Before urging the beast on, he turned to Alazrian and said, "You ready to deliver that message of yours?"

"I think so."

"Then let's go."

The Aramoorian urged his horse on, steering the beast toward the narrow bridge. Alazrian followed, his eyes fixed on the river and the city beyond.

According to legend, the city of beggars had earned its nickname from the countless Triin refugees that had flooded the city during the long war with the Empire. Most had come looking for passage to Nar, a sad dream that never became real for any of them. Ackle-Nye had been a Naren stronghold, the only place of imperial influence in all of Lucel-Lor, and the Triin who had come to the city had been desperate to escape the fighting and famine ravaging their land. As Alazrian rode warily toward the bridge, he thought about Ackle-Nye's long, sad history, and because his father had been Triin he felt an odd affection for the place. Eventually, the Triin had vanquished the Narens. But seeing bleak Ackle-Nye, with all its crumbling architecture, made Alazrian wonder if the struggle had been worth it.

"They fought here," Alazrian said. "To push out the Narens."

Jahl Rob nodded. "A worthy cause."

Alazrian chuckled. "You would think so."

"Men aren't born to be slaves, Alazrian," said the priest sharply. "Your real father would have taught you that, I'd bet."

When at last they reached the bridge, Jahl Rob stopped again before crossing. Rob studied it with care, gazing out over its span toward the city.

Ackle-Nye was closer now, and both of them could see its narrow avenues more clearly. There was movement in the streets. Alarmed, Alazrian turned to his companion.

"Triin?"

Rob nodded. "What else? You don't happen to speak any of their language, do you?"

"I told you, I've spent my whole life in Talistan. I don't know any more about the Triin than you do." Then he shrugged, adding, "Except what I've studied about them. I tried to find out about my father when I was in the Black City. I read some books. Nothing that will help us here, though."

"Pity," sighed Rob. "Come on, then."

With his bow on his back, Jahl Rob moved his mount onto the bridge and over the rushing waters of the Sheaze. Alazrian hurried after him. Once over the bridge, they took to the path leading straight ahead, and as they neared Ackle-Nye the city of beggars began to swallow them in its shadow and stink.

There was an acrid odor to the place, a perpetual smell of burning. There were three tall towers placed in a triangular pattern around the city all identically cylindrical with battlements along their tops and big cutouts of glassless windows like the arrow holes in a castle—only much larger. The towers dominated Ackle-Nye's crooked skyline.

Attack towers, Alazrian realized. Similar ones stood on the outskirts of the capital, armed with flame cannons to repel assaults. Such an assault had never come to the Black City, but Alazrian supposed their smaller counterparts here in Ackle-Nye had seen action. Each tower bore the remnants of back-blasts, sooty deposits that had built up from the use of their cannons. As they got closer to the city, they could see that the towers weren't the only things that had burned. So had the smaller buildings in the city center, some so badly gutted as to be falling in on themselves. Around the ruined structures were people. Each had white hair and white skin the likes of which Alazrian had never seen, and he knew from their unmistakable pallor that these were Triin.

"They don't see us yet," Alazrian whispered.

"Oh yes they do," said Rob. He gestured with his chin toward the south side of the city. "Look."

A group of riders were coming to meet them, emerging out of a crumbled archway. All were Triin, with white unkempt hair billowing out behind them and tattered clothes that hung loosely about their bodies, making them seem wraith-like and insubstantial. They wore strange weapons on their backs, like spears with long curved blades on both ends. Alazrian quickly counted up their numbers. There were six of them—a good many more than Jahl Rob could deal with alone.

"Don't be afraid," Rob told Alazrian. "And don't look threatening."

As they moved into the city, the six Triin horseman rode to intercept them.

Jahl Rob stopped his horse. Alazrian did the same, waiting while the priest held up his hands to the approaching Triin. The Triin didn't seem like soldiers, but as they drew near two of them took the weapon off their backs. Their entire company slowed a little as they came closer, warily surveying Alazrian and Rob. One took the lead, a smaller man than the rest, the only one in familiar clothing, for along with his Triin trousers and shirt he wore a black jacket cut in the Naren style. When he came even closer, Alazrian realized that it was the jacket of a Naren legionnaire. It was threadbare and filthy, but it was unmistakable from its design and insignia.

"I thought you said they'd be refugees," said Alazrian.

Rob shrugged. "I don't know what they are."

The priest straightened in his saddle, prepared to greet the Triin. Alazrian struck a similar pose. The Triin riders spied them up and down, the one in the lead seeming most alarmed. With his Naren jacket and Triin skin he was a strange sight, both frightening and comical. He pulled ahead of his companions, then stopped his horse a few yards away. His column halted behind him. Alazrian was about to say something, but Jahl Rob quickly put out a hand to silence him. For a long moment the two groups stared at each other. Finally, the Triin in the lead spoke.

"Nar," he said. "You are Nar."

Rob and Alazrian traded surprised glances.

"Yes," said Rob quickly. "That's right. We're Narens. How do you—"

"I speak in Nar," the Triin interrupted. He continued studying them. With a wave he beckoned his fellows forward. Confused, Alazrian returned their gaze, wondering if he should speak. But Jahl Rob did the talking.

"We are from Nar," he repeated. "From Aramoor, across the mountains."

He pointed to the rocky cliffs behind them. "Mountains? You see? That's where we came from."

The Triin in the Naren jacket nodded. "I know mountains. I know Aramoor.

Why?"

Alazrian understood the question. "Why have we come, you mean?"

The Triin scrutinized Alazrian. His eyes were golden-grey, bright and intelligent. Alazrian had never seen such an astonishing creature in his life.

"Yes," replied the Triin. "Why?"

Rob hesitated before answering, and Alazrian knew that the priest was wondering how much to disclose. So far, the Triin weren't at all what they'd expected. Alazrian looked at Rob, shrugging. He didn't know what to say either.

"Where are the lions?" asked Rob finally.

All the Triin began to murmur. Their leader narrowed his gaze on Rob distrustfully. "Why have you come?" he asked again. "For lions?"

"Who are you?" Rob asked. He was growing annoyed and wanted some answers of his own. "What's your name?"

Again the company of Triin whispered to themselves. Only the one in the Naren jacket seemed to speak the imperial tongue. "Mord is my name," he said simply.

"Mord," repeated Jahl Rob with a smile. "I am Jahl Rob of Aramoor. This is Alazrian."

Alazrian attempted a friendly face. "Hello."

"A long way is Aramoor," said Mord. "Tell me why. For lions?"

"Are there any here?" asked Rob. "In the city, I mean?"

"No," said Mord flatly. "No lions here."

It was hard to tell if he was lying, but Jahl Rob didn't push him. Instead the priest put up his hands, demonstrating that he was no threat to the Triin, and said, "We're just travellers. We don't want any trouble with you or anyone else. Please believe that."

"You bring weapons," said Mord, pointing to Jahl's bow. "You come to fight? Fighting men?"

"No, we're not fighting men," said Alazrian. "We're travellers. We're just . .

." He paused, considering his words. "Looking for someone."

"Who is in the city?" asked Rob. "Are there many living here? Triin, like yourselves?"

Mord nodded. "Triin, yes. Many like us. None like you."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," grumbled Alazrian. "Look, please try to understand. We're travellers from the Empire, and we're looking for someone.

All we want is to rest in your city."

Mord shook his head. "Tell us why you have come," he insisted. "I am to bring answers back."

"Back?" asked Rob. "Back to who?"

"Falger," replied Mord. "The one."

Alazrian understood. "Your ruler? Your . . . leader, yes? Is that who Falger is?"

"Falger leads us." Mord smiled at Alazrian. "You understand me."

Rob chuckled. "Oh, he understands you. But these others, they don't speak Naren?"

"No," said Mord. "Only I."

"And Falger? Does he speak Naren?"

"Falger does not speak in Nar. Some Triin do, like I. Learned before the war. I am to take you for Falger. He has seen you."

"Seen us?" asked Alazrian. "How?"

Mord gestured over his shoulder, pointing to the city's towers. "There. We were sent. Falger fears you."

"Do not fear us," Rob said. "Please believe me, we're not here for trouble."

"Just you?" Mord asked. "Or more?"

"No," replied Alazrian quickly. "There are no more Narens coming. We came alone. Just take us to Falger."

"I am here for that," said the Triin. He turned his horse around and started trotting back toward Ackle-Nye.

The other Triin waited for Jahl Rob and Alazrian to follow after Mord, then fell in behind them, surrounding them as they rode toward the city. Together they rode along the dusty avenue toward Ackle-Nye while the high sun beat down. Except for the Sheaze River, Lucel-Lor seemed a bleak and barren place. Beyond the city rolled an expanse of nothingness, a hardscrabble plain that swallowed up the snaking river and went on endlessly to the horizon where it terminated in a range of hills an incalculable distance away. The sight of the terrain disheartened Alazrian. He wished that he had brought a map along, or at least some books about Lucel-Lor to tell him what to expect, but the only books he knew were a lifetime away, hidden in the shelves of Nar's library. So Alazrian took a breath, steeling himself, and let Mord lead them into the city of beggars.

At the outskirts of the city, the same acrid stink that had already greeted them now rose up in a palpable wave, pouring out of the filthy streets to choke them. Alazrian and Rob both put a hand to their mouths to ward off the stench and looked through the broken archway to the city. Every foot of road was strewn with debris; broken glass and twisted metal and crumpled balls of paper that bounced through the streets like tumbleweeds. The once-proud buildings had fallen in upon themselves, either leaning or entirely collapsed, while their smaller siblings, the simple houses and structures built by Triin, were barely recognizable, routed by fire and standing like mute skeletons.

Occasionally, what looked like a skull or bleached bone occupied a dark corner, gnawed clean by the rats that scurried between the crevices.

"God Almighty," whispered Rob.

"Unbelievable," said Alazrian. "It's hard to imagine anyone living here."

If Mord heard them, he did not acknowledge it. The Triin merely kept his pace as he led them into the center of the city, straight for one of the attack towers Alazrian had seen from the bridge. And as they reached the heart of Ackle-Nye, more of the desperate-looking Triin were evident, peeking out of broken windows or simply stopping in the streets to gape at them. None of them bore weapons, but all shared the same wasted appearance, dressed in rags or in mismatched Naren remnants like Mord, their white hair laced with the filth of the city.

"Quite a place you have, Mord," said Rob dryly. "Maybe get a fountain, a few sunflowers; it could really be a paradise."

"What we have is what we have," Mord replied, never turning his head.

"And you of Nar have fault."

"This isn't our fault," said Alazrian. "We had nothing to do with it."

"Aramoor, you said," snapped Mord. "Aramoor fighting men."

"But not us," Alazrian pointed out. "We didn't—"

"Don't argue with him," said Rob. He put out a hand, trying to settle Alazrian down. "We'll explain it when we meet his ruler. Mord, how much farther to Falger?"

Mord pointed at the attack tower looming just ahead. "Falger."

"Falger lives in the tower?" Alazrian asked. It suddenly made sense. The towers were relatively intact, the best strongholds in the city, and afforded an easy view of the surrounding area. "Why does he want to see us?"

"Falger has questions," replied Mord. He guided the band to the tower, which now rose up high above them, greeting them with a spiky portcullis.

The iron grate had been lifted. A few other Triin milled around the entrance, along with some horses, but none of these threatened the Narens as they approached. One hastened up to Mord, stopped his horse and spoke to the man.

"Down," directed Mord. He slid off his horse and let the Triin who had greeted him take the reins. When Rob and Alazrian didn't dismount, he repeated, "Down. Falger is here."

Rob complied, urging Alazrian off his horse. Both men stood uneasily, not wanting to surrender their horses. Mord sensed their trepidation and tried to put them at ease.

"Your horses. Worry not for them."

Alazrian peered through the portcullis. The interior of the tower was lit by torches and had a surprising number of doors and corridors, like a tall, cone-shaped castle. There were men and women inside, and even a handful of children, who giggled and pointed at Alazrian when they noticed him. Alazrian made a funny face at them and waved. His antics elicited happy squeals.

"Let's give them the horses," he suggested. "I don't think they'll harm us."

Rob handed his mount over to one of the Triin, saying to Mord, "Tell him not to take anything out of the packs, you hear? If he does, I'll know it.

Stealing is a sin. Now, take us to Falger."

Mord straightened his Naren jacket. "Falger is waiting," he said stiffly, then disappeared into the gateway. Alazrian and Rob followed, and Alazrian was struck by the strangeness of being inside again. It had been many days since he had entered anything but a cave, and the warmth from the torches comforted him. Jahl Rob, too, looked pleased. The priest rubbed his hands together, blowing into them the way he did when he was nervous or excited.

He even returned some of the children's smiles. Ahead, the most prominent feature of the tower beckoned—a wide staircase spiraling upward along the rounded walls of the tower. Mord took the first two stairs, waved at them to follow, then began climbing.

"I wonder how high up this Falger is," said Rob. "I'm too tired for all this climbing."

But he let his complaints end there, trailing Mord up the staircase with Alazrian. Sconces of Naren iron lined the walls, guiding them by the burning light of torches, and because the staircase was wide enough to accommodate many at once, other Triin men and women passed them along the way, offering suspicious looks and holding their children tighter. Alazrian smiled at each of them. There was so much he wanted to know about them.

Alazrian noticed Jahl Rob grinning at him. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing," shrugged Rob. But the grin didn't leave his face.

Finally, after passing several levels and corridors, they came to what surely was the topmost floor of the tower. The stairway ended suddenly, spilling them out into a gigantic, circular room. A plethora of windows greeted them, most shuttered closed but some with their shutters open, letting sunlight flood the chamber. Alazrian and Rob both stopped. It seemed they could see all of Lucel-Lor sprawled at their feet, and yet the view itself was only part of the picture. At the far end of the chamber, in what would have been a corner had the room had sides, stood a man of about Jahl Rob's age, surrounded by children who quit chattering when they noticed the foreigners. The object of their attention, a long, silver telescope on a tripod, stood near one of the windows, this one far more giant than the others and open to the sky. And next to that, shaped like the telescope but a hundred times larger, stood a flame cannon. Alazrian flinched at the sight of the weapon, then stared at the man and children, at the collection of Naren artifacts standing on shelves and hanging on walls and collected in orderly piles across the stone floor. There were books, weapons, helmets, and uniforms with bright ribbons, neatly arranged or folded in stockpiles. The man beside the telescope stepped forward, shooing the children back, then leaned against the rear of the flame cannon, studying them curiously.

"Falger?" Alazrian whispered.

Jahl Rob didn't answer. And Mord, who wouldn't answer either, strode over to the man with the telescope and began speaking in Triin, pointing at Alazrian and the priest and embellishing his tale with hand motions. The man nodded.

He had a congenial look about him, and the way the children played around his legs put Alazrian at ease. His face was weathered but his clothes were clean and well-maintained. Like Mord, he wore a jacket of the Naren military, marking him falsely as a colonel, and he kept the buttons polished to a brassy sheen. His hair was Triin white but not as long as that of the other men, and it was combed and carefully kept free of debris. The children had stopped fussing with the telescope, fascinated by the foreign visitors. When Mord finally finished talking, the man nodded again and stepped forward.

"Falger," he said in a thick accent. He tapped his chest lightly with both hands. "Falger."

Alazrian's hope sagged. "That's all he speaks? Just his name?"

"He speaks Triin," countered Mord. "That is enough."

Falger looked them up and down. "Oonal benagra voo?"

Rob glanced between Alazrian and Mord. "What did he say?"

"Why are you here?" translated Mord.

Alazrian groaned at the same old question. "Explain to him that we're looking for someone, Mord. Please. Like we told you before."

"Already told him," said Mord. "Falger wants more. He saw you with the seeing glass. He wants to know why you are here, who you look for."

"Seeing glass?" puzzled Alazrian. "You mean the telescope?" He took a step toward the window where the telescope rested. It was actually a gun port for the huge cannon, but the weapon was obviously too heavy to move and the opening made an excellent viewing platform. As Alazrian went toward the children, Falger moved to stop him, then abruptly changed his mind, letting him pass. Alazrian smiled. "Thank you," he said. "Mord, how do I say thank you in Triin?"

"Say shay sar. Falger will understand."

"Shay sar, Falger," said Alazrian.

The Triin leader nodded, a tiny smile tugging at his face. He let Alazrian go to the children and squat down next to them, greeting them in Naren. The children laughed, unafraid, and reached out to touch his face.

"What are they doing up here?" he asked. "What is this place?"

"Yes, tell us," added Rob. "What are all these . . . things?"

Mord didn't reply before first translating for Falger. The Triin leader answered in his own tongue, motioning toward the different items. When he pointed at the telescope, he beamed.

"This place is for safety," translated Mord. "All the Nar things are kept here.

Things from the war. And the little ones like it. They like the seeing glass, so Falger brings them here."

Alazrian rose and studied the telescope. Like very few things in Ackle-Nye, it was in nearly perfect condition, lovingly polished and clean, and the children were careful with it, obviously realizing its value. But the other things in the room were a mystery to Alazrian. He looked around, puzzled why Falger and his people would save so much junk. Even the flame cannon was an immensely dangerous thing to preserve. It was one of the large-bore guns, easily capable of reaching the outskirts of the city. From what Alazrian knew about Naren weaponry, hearing a cannon detonate was like hearing the doom of the world.

"I think you're right, Jahl," he said. "From the looks of them, they're refugees. But I don't know why they have all this stuff. They've got a cannon and swords, even uniforms. It looks like an armory."

"Armory," Mord parroted. "Yes, armory. Weapons for us." "Why?"

pressed Rob. "Why do you need weapons?" "You ask many questions," said Mord. "But you are here to answer." "We've already told you why we are here," said Rob. "We're looking for someone." "Who?"

The priest glanced at Alazrian. Obviously, he wasn't going to divulge the boy's secret without permission. Alazrian bit his lip. He didn't even know who these people were, and their collection of Naren weapons unnerved him.

Falger stared at Alazrian inquisitively, waiting for an answer. Even the children watched him. Jahl Rob saw his alarm and rescued him.

"First tell us who you are," the priest insisted. "What are you doing here?

We had heard that Ackle-Nye was deserted, abandoned after the war. How did you get here?"

Falger listened while Mord translated the questions, nodding as he did so and never taking his eyes off Rob and Alazrian. The children gathered around him now somewhat alarmed by the priest's tone. When Mord had finished, Falger raised his eyebrows and sighed.

"Naren," he said, shaking his head. "Min tarka g'ja bin tha." Rob looked at Mord.

"Falger says that we have always feared Narens. You are no good.

Dangerous. He does not welcome you."

"Really," said Rob. "He said all that, did he?" Mord frowned. "Mostly, yes."

"Nonsense." The priest turned and spoke directly to Falger, putting out his hands in friendship. "Falger, I don't speak your language. But look at us.

We're no threat to you. We are travellers, that's all. All we want from you is a place to rest, maybe some food . . ." "And a map," chimed Alazrian. "If they have one." "Yes, a map," Rob agreed. With both hands he reached out for Falger, taking his milky-white hand and clasping it warmly. Surprisingly, Falger did not pull away. "Friends," Jahl Rob assured him. "Not enemies. Can you understand that?"

The Triin leader regarded Jahl Rob oddly, yet still he did not pull his hand away. He began to speak. Mord translated.

"Falger understands your words of friendship. But he is afraid. You have come alone, yes?"

"Yes," said Rob quickly. "No one is following us." Mord continued translating. "You are the first from Nar in years. We feared your coming. With lions gone, you came."

"Lions gone," mused Alazrian. "That's why you're afraid? Because the lions aren't here to protect you anymore?"

"Yes," said Mord, speaking for himself now. "No more lions. They went home." He swept his arm across the chamber. "This is protection now. All we have."

Alazrian was fascinated. "Protection from Nar?"

"And from Triin," replied Mord. Falger shot him an irritated glare, wanting to understand what was being said. Mord paused to translate it all for his leader. While he spoke, Alazrian walked over to stand beside Jahl Rob. The priest and the Triin had broken their clasp and now Rob stood unmoving, waiting for Falger's reaction.

Finally, Mord said, "You are not safe here. You should go."

Rob shook his head. "We're not afraid of you. We don't believe you'll harm us."

"Not us," corrected Mord. He pointed out all the weapons in the room, then brought his hand to rest on the cannon. "We are here because we chose this.

We are free here. Not all Lucel-Lor is like this. Dangerous. For you, especially. We cannot protect you."

It was all a jumble to Alazrian, who tried to fit together the fractured pieces but couldn't quite make a picture from them. What were Falger and the others afraid of?

"We don't ask your protection," he said. "Just let us go on our way."

"No, Alazrian," said Rob. "I want to know what they're afraid of. Mord, tell us. Why do you have all these weapons here? The cannon—does it still work?"

"All the cannons work," said Mord. "Little fuel, but they protect us. If we need them, they are here."

"Need them for what?" Alazrian asked, exasperated. "Tell me what's going on. If we're going to ride into danger we should know about it."

Mord turned to his leader and explained the boy's words. As usual, Falger nodded and stroked his chin. Then Mord began speaking. He told them that they were indeed refugees, gathered from all parts of Lucel-Lor to live in peace away from the warlords. The warlords, Alazrian knew, were the men who ruled the different territories of Lucel-Lor. Many of them were ruthless, supposedly, and Mord did nothing to change that opinion. Falger had come to the city two years ago before the Drol had won their war against the Narens.

Like the rest of them, Falger had come looking for a better life, but there was none here. So he decided to build one.

"So Falger is like a warlord here?" Alazrian asked. "Ackle-Nye is his territory now?"

Mord looked scandalized. "Not warlord," he insisted.

"Sorry," said Alazrian. "I didn't mean offense. I'm just trying to understand.

You said that Falger came here two years ago, but that can't be. Ackle-Nye was taken by Naren troops led by . . ."

He stopped himself. It had been his uncle, Blackwood Gayle, that had retaken Ackle-Nye from the Triin. Thankfully, Mord hadn't noticed.

"I mean, there were imperial troops here. That's where all this stuff came from, right?"

Falger nodded, as if understanding. "Nar stuff," he managed to say, then smiled at his own command of the language. Apparently, he'd learned something from Mord. They all had, probably. Alazrian knew there were many Triin who spoke the language of Nar. Before the war, trade between the two lands had been common.

"So?" Jahl Rob asked. "How did he survive?"

"Falger fled Ackle-Nye. He came back when Nar lost war." Mord looked at his leader proudly. "Falger leads here now. But not warlord. Good man.

Protects us."

"Yes," said Rob. "But what does he protect you from?"

"And where are the lions?" added Alazrian. "We expected to find them in the mountains."

"Lions are gone," said Mord. "Went back to Chandakkar, back to their home." His expression dimmed a little. "No more protection from Nar. More like you will come now."

"They won't," Jahl Rob assured him. "No one in Nar is interested in Lucel-Lor anymore. That emperor is dead."

"Ah, Arkus," said Mord knowingly. "Dead. Good."

"I agree," said Rob. "Though our new emperor isn't much better." He stole a glance at Alazrian, who froze. "Still, you aren't threatened by Nar anymore.

No one is coming after you. Nar is . . ." The priest shrugged sadly. ". . . in bad shape. No one is interested in making war on Lucel-Lor anymore."

Mord seemed heartened by the answer, which he quickly passed on to Falger. In turn the Triin leader raised his eyebrows, obviously pleased by the news. But they weren't really safe, Alazrian knew, because they had mentioned a different threat.

"Who else are you afraid of?" Alazrian asked. "Is it Triin?"

"Triin, yes," replied Mord. "Praxtin-Tar."

"Praxtin-Tar," repeated Falger. He spit the word out like a curse.

"Praxtin-Tar do hekka ji'envai!"

"Praxtin-Tar is warlord of Reen," explained Mord. "At war with everyone.

No one safe. Here we protect ourselves from him."

In twisted Naren, he went on to say how Praxtin-Tar was a Drol, which Alazrian already understood, and how the warlord had been conquering Lucel-Lor, spreading his ideals. But when Mord claimed that Praxtin-Tar was a devotee of Tharn, Alazrian's heart iced over. Even Jahl Rob was stunned.

"I see," said the priest, looking at Alazrian for a guidance the boy couldn't provide. "Well, this Praxtin-Tar sounds like a terror. We shall certainly avoid him. Tell us, where is Praxtin-Tar now?" "In the place of Triin power," replied Mord. "In Falindar."

"Sweet Almighty," said Jahl Rob. "Falindar? The Falindar?"

"There is only one Falindar."

"Yes," growled Rob. "Where Richius Vantran is, right?"

"Jahl, don't . . .!" Alazrian exclaimed.

"It doesn't matter now, boy," snapped Rob. "I'm sorry, but we have to know the truth." The priest turned to Mord and Falger while the children huddled again around Falger's legs. Rob fought to control himself, taking a deep breath before saying, "You know Richius Vantran, yes? You've heard that name?"

"Kalak," said Falger. "Vantran Kalak!" He began talking too fast for even Mord to interpret, repeating the word "kalak," occasionally peppering it with

"Falindar." Alazrian tried to follow his meaning. Obviously, Falger knew Vantran well, or at least his name.

"What's he saying?" Alazrian asked. "Mord, explain."

"Kalak is Vantran," said Mord. "Jackal."

Rob folded his arms. "Jackal. Precisely right."

"Kalak is in Falindar, surrounded by Praxtin-Tar and his warriors," said Mord. "Under . . ." He groped for the word. "Under . . ."

"Siege?" supplied Rob. "Great. Vantran is under siege in Falindar. Damn it .

. ."

"But he's alive?" asked Alazrian. "You know he is there?"

Mord shrugged. "Maybe alive, maybe dead. But Kalak is in Falindar."

"Falindar," agreed Falger. "Kalak . . ."

Alazrian approached him, sensing his sadness. "What is it?" he asked.

"What's wrong?"

Falger's smile was crooked. He shook his head, refusing to answer. But Alazrian felt his pain.

"Tell us what's wrong," he said. "You know something about Vantran . . .

er, Kalak, I mean?"

The Triin leader nodded, then answered Alazrian in a confessional voice.

Alazrian didn't understand a word of it, but he didn't look away, either.

Instead he simply let Falger talk. Finally, when he was done, he waved his hand absently at Mord, signaling him to translate.

"There is a woman Vantran married," said Mord. "Her name is Dyana."

"Yes," said Jahl Rob. "Yes, I know of this. Vantran left Aramoor for her."

"She belonged to Tharn. Now she lives in Falindar with Kalak." The Triin put a friendly hand on Falger's shoulder. "Falger knew her. Came together to Ackle-Nye, they did. Were close."

"Lovers?" asked Rob.

Mord shook his head. "Friends. Just that. Falger misses her."

"Apparently," said Alazrian. His kinship with Falger was growing by the moment. If he could have, he would have touched the Triin and taken away his pain—but his gift didn't work that way. Falger sank down onto the floor with the children. At once they swarmed around him like a protective cloak.

"You have come for Vantran," Mord guessed. "So you are in danger.

Falindar is dangerous."

Falger looked up and asked a question.

"He wants to know why you are looking for Kalak. Kalak is outlaw in Nar.

Will you take him back with you? Are you angry with him?"

The expression on Rob's face was fierce. "Angry? No, we're not angry. We need him for something else. We need his help in Aramoor."

As Mord explained, Falger listened. The children continued to flock around him, protecting him from some unseen threat. Alazrian fell to one knee before the refugee leader.

"It's very important that we get to Kalak," he said. "Please, Falger, if you can tell us the way, give us a map, anything. We must go."

Falger sighed. "Praxtin-Tar."

"I know. But we don't have a choice. There's a lot at stake here, too much to explain. To be honest, I don't understand it all myself. I'm just delivering a message, really. But it's important. Can you understand that?"

Falger looked hard at Alazrian and for a moment they shared an instant of perfect clarity, like there was no barrier at all between them, not language or distance or race. For the first time in his life, Alazrian felt a real connection with his Triin blood.

"This woman Dyana was your friend," he said. "I will take a message to her from you. I'll tell her that I've seen you, and that you are well. Shall I do that for you, Falger?"

Mord explained. Falger nodded eagerly, a smile on his face.

"What about a map?" Rob asked. "And food. We can use that, as well.

Anything that might help us get there."

"Maybe we should take one of their flame cannons," joked Alazrian. "We'll probably need it against this Praxtin-Tar."

Mord repeated their words to Falger, who listened before rising to his feet.

He addressed Alazrian directly when he spoke, ignoring Jahl Rob completely.

"Falger says that you are welcome to rest here," Mord told him. "When you are ready, he will have a map for you. There is not much food, but it is yours to share."

Alazrian bowed to Falger. "Thank you, Falger," he said. "Shay sar."

Even Jahl Rob had learned a bit of Triin. The Aramoorian smiled at their hosts repeating Alazrian's words. "Shay sar, Falger," he said. "We are grateful."

Mord led them away from Falger and the children, promising them a hot meal and a warm place to sleep. Alazrian followed Mord out of the chamber, stealing one last look at the Triin who had somehow awakened his blood.

NINETEEN

Blair Kasrin slept alone in the cold sheets of his cot, dreaming bad dreams.

For many weeks he had sailed with the crew of the Dread Sovereign, heading for Casarhoon and his meeting with Admiral Nicabar, and because he was drawing near his destination, Kasrin was afraid. His fears preyed upon him while he slept, making him toss fitfully. And as so often happens in dreams, the nightmare was a separate reality, as substantial to him as the waking world.

In his dream Kasrin was a young man standing at the docks of the Black City. Barely fifteen, Kasrin's face was smooth, without the stubble he always wore now, and his eyes were bright and eager as he watched the flagship of the admiral at anchor. It was the Fearless, though it shouldn't have been, because the Fearless wouldn't be built for years. Yet the dream continued, and young Kasrin stared in amazement at the vessel and wished that it was his, and that the hero who captained the vessel might notice him someday. She was a proud vessel, the Fearless, awesome to behold, with her shining guns and perfect lines. Young Blair Kasrin wanted her, or one just like her for his own . . .

The years skipped ahead suddenly and Captain Kasrin was older, aboard the ship he had wished for in his youth—his own Dread Sovereign. She was a beautiful ship, but Kasrin only noticed her grace for a moment. Explosions ripped all around him. Kasrin realized he was in Liss again. On the prow of the Sovereign, he and Laney were shouting orders to the men, bringing their batteries to bear against an undefended coastal village. Behind them roared the Fearless, firing with her giant cannons, scorching the earth and blowing it apart in chunks. Kasrin could hear screams over the detonations, and the wailing of children. There were no schooners here, no defenders of any kind, and the carnage ate at Kasrin's conscience.

"We have to stop!" he shouted in his dream. "They're civilians!"

Kasrin had relived this nightmare a dozen times. The familiarity of it wakened part of his mind, and he realized that he was dreaming. Now he watched it unfold like a play, dreading the inevitable conclusion. The Kasrin of the dream kept shouting, shaking, but was too afraid to order the bombardment stopped because his hero was out there, judging him.

"Have to stop," he muttered. Laney walked off suddenly, shaking his head.

Impotently Kasrin raised his spyglass and peered out at the village. The Sovereign continued to fire. Through the glass Kasrin saw men and women, their homes and clothing aflame. He watched in horror until a little girl wandered into his view. She was bewildered, shouting something he couldn't hear, and when the Sovereign fired again she looked straight ahead, staring at Kasrin in the spyglass until her face was torn away in the strafing . . .

Kasrin bolted up in bed, his chest drenched in sweat. The image of the girl hung in his mind for a moment, then slowly faded into blackness. But when he closed his eyes again she reappeared, and no amount of grief could erase her.

"Oh, help me . . ."

He sank his head into his hands and almost wept, but there were no more tears for the girl or her village, because they had been depleted long ago; Kasrin was empty of everything but revulsion. Tonight, shivering and alone in his cabin, he hated himself more than anything. Even more than Nicabar.

Kasrin drew the sheets closer, trying to stave off the chill that had seized him.

His teeth chattered and perspiration dripped from his forehead. He leaned back, sure he would never be rid of the girl.

"Stop haunting me," he whispered. "Please . . ."

Could she hear him? Did Lissens go to the same heaven as Naren sailors?

Kasrin didn't think so. The place he was going—the place he deserved—was the same hell as Nicabar's, because if God was just he could never overlook such crimes, not even if the sinner was repentant. And Kasrin had repented.

He had prayed for forgiveness, begging God to remove the girl's indelible image. Yet even now she remained his dark companion, silently torturing him night after night.

Slowly he brought his feet over the mattress and sat brooding on the edge of his bunk. Through his tiny porthole he saw only darkness, so he knew that it was nighttime. The realization put him at ease. In the morning they would be approaching Casarhoon. They would see the first hint of it with the dawn, and that meant seeing Nicabar again. Kasrin sighed. It had been a long time, and Nicabar could still intimidate him. That was why his nightmares had become so regular again, so vivid. It was like he could smell Nicabar across the ocean, the stench like poison, but also intoxicating. Much as he hated his old teacher, Kasrin still admired him. Every ribbon on his chest had been earned through valor and bravery. And, admittedly, butchery.

"Some men are butchers and others aren't," Kasrin told himself, paraphrasing something Nicabar had told him after his exile.

Some men are brave and others aren't; that was Nicabar's version. Kasrin wondered if the admiral still thought him a coward, or if time had mellowed him. According to Biagio, Nicabar still took his life-sustaining drug. If anything, Nicabar was probably worse, and that was a hard thing to imagine.

Then Kasrin thought about Jelena, and his pulse steadied. The Lissen queen had a fair face. Summoning a picture of it always made him smile. He tried it now, banishing the face of the little girl and replacing it with Jelena's.

Something about Jelena put him at ease. She was young and beautiful, of course, but that wasn't it, not precisely. She was also a Lissen. And her willingness to help in his crusade relieved Kasrin's guilt. How old was she? he wondered. How old would the little village girl be now? There was an age discrepancy surely, yet the girl was very much like the child queen. Seeing Jelena was like seeing the village girl alive again.

"Oh, now you're really dreaming," he scolded himself. He laughed, shaking his head. He had been smitten by Jelena, and everyone on board knew it—especially Laney, who teased his captain about it at every opportunity.

Kasrin looked down at his bare feet and wriggled his toes. He wouldn't be getting any more sleep tonight, so he decided to go above and check their progress. Laney would be up there, and Kasrin craved the company. So he rose from the bed and dressed, toweling off his sweaty face with his shirt tails and running a metal comb through his hair to look presentable. When he was satisfied, he pulled on his boots and went above. Nighttime was all around him. As he stepped up off the ladder he caught a glimpse of Laney leisurely coiling a length of rope. Moonlight on the water had caught his attention and he stared at it as he worked, lost in a fugue. Kasrin strode up to his friend, standing behind him for a long moment before speaking.

"Hello."

Laney jumped, dropping the rope. "God, you startled me!" He stooped to retrieve the coil and started wrapping it again in a circle. "You could have pitched me overboard," he snapped. "What are you doing up, anyway? I told you I'd take the watch."

Kasrin shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

"You're afraid?"

"Yes, and if you had any brains you'd be afraid with me."

"Who said I'm not?"

Kasrin looked around the deck, spying the tall masts and the sails full of wind. All was quiet but for the relentless crash of surf against their keel.

Darkness enveloped the vessel, broken only by moonlight.

"We're close to Casarhoon," said Kasrin absently. "Close to Nicabar."

"Yes." The first officer finished coiling his rope and hooked it on a peg in the railing. "Close enough to smell him, you might say."

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing. Do you think he'll believe me?"

Laney sighed. "I really don't know, Blair. You've got that map from Jelena, and we're all backing you up. But whether or not Nicabar sees through you . .

." His voice trailed off.

"I know what you mean." The captain of the Sovereign looked over the waves. "God, I'm afraid of him," he said. "I always have been. It's like wanting the approval of a father who beats you. No matter how many times he takes that strap out, all you want is his love."

"Don't let him frighten you," urged Laney. "Remember what he is."

My hero, thought Kasrin blackly. But no, that was a long time ago. "He's a butcher and a madman," he declared. "And I won't let him ruin me again."

At the southernmost tip of the Naren Empire, on a peninsula fed by trade winds and blue water, stood Gorgotor Fortress, guardian of the principality of Casarhoon. Built decades ago overlooking the sea, the fortress protected the important spice and slave routes and stood watch over the timeless tropical territory. From its stone buttresses the chain of islands and chop of whitecaps could easily be seen for miles, stretching out endlessly and dotted with trading vessels busy with imperial commerce. And it had been like this for years, because Casarhoon was immutable. There was an element of eternity mortared into the brown bricks and the swaying palms. Casarhoon had been a rock-steady part of the Empire since the ascension of Arkus of Nar. Its spices and fruits had fed the continent and its fortress had stood guard over her southern flank, a great, bronze giant waiting to crush invaders.

But invaders had never come to Casarhoon, and that didn't surprise Danar Nicabar. The principality was a tempting target, but Gorgotor Fortress was a powerful deterrent. With her thick walls and watchtowers filled with fighting men, the fortress was nearly impregnable, lined with cannons on her battlements—the old-fashioned ball-and-powder kind favored by the Lissens.

To say that Gorgotor Fortress was ugly was to be kind. She was monstrous to behold, and her perch on the sea cliff made her seem perpetually on the verge of toppling. The fortress would never topple, though. Even the flame cannons of his own ship, now at anchor on the sea, couldn't penetrate her walls. She would stand forever, safeguarding the southern Empire.

All these things Admiral Nicabar considered as he walked across the battlement on his way to his meeting. Casarhoon's warm sun played across his face and a gentle breeze caressed him, as warm as the fingers of a woman.

For Nicabar, who was continuously cold from the drugs, Casarhoon was a dream. The temperature never dipped below balmy comfort, nor did the winds ever blow too fiercely. As he walked Nicabar wondered if he might retire here someday and bask in its warmth forever. He paused for a moment on the wall, staring out over the sea. Not far ahead, the Fearless bobbed at anchor, surrounded by a dozen smaller warships. Black City had come to the rendezvous, as had the cruiser Angel of Death. Both flanked the giant dreadnought, dwarfed by her. Their combined firepower was half that of the Fearless alone, yet they were no less beautiful to Nicabar. A long time ago, this was why he had become a sailor. Casarhoon was exotic and fierce and made his blood rush, and the sight of so many warships put a powerful spring into his step. He was Admiral of the Black Fleet—this fleet.

It was smaller than he'd hoped, though. The Shark hadn't come, nor had Intruder or Notorious. Nicabar supposed they simply hadn't been able to get away. The orders he had given for this rendezvous had been flexible, for he knew that Liss was still on the move and he couldn't leave all of Nar unprotected. He had done that once, and the results had been disastrous. Liss had gained ground during his exile on Crote, and it had taken all of the past year to win back waters that were supposed to be their own. Nicabar had hoped for at least two dozen ships to reach Casarhoon. Sadly, he had barely half that many—not enough to take on Liss. Plus there were rumblings.

Nicabar had reached Casarhoon over a week ago, and as his fellow captains arrived they did so with suspicion. They had guessed at his goals, and none of them seemed to be supporting him. They were saying he was too ambitious, whispering that the drug had warped him. None of them shared his zeal for conquering Liss, and that disappointed Nicabar. Today, he hoped to change their minds.

They must listen, he told himself, gazing out over the little armada. He was very high up on the wall and the air was heady. A nervous flutter moved through him and he crushed it instantly. Now was no time to be anxious. His captains were waiting. They had gathered in the council chamber at his order, and Nicabar knew convincing them would be difficult, especially since he had no real plan.

Someone was coming toward him. Nicabar glimpsed the figure from the corner of his eye, expecting it to be one of Prince Galto's soldiers. The prince had graciously granted use of the fortress for Nicabar's secret summit, and his dark-skinned troops were everywhere. But it wasn't a Casarhian that greeted the admiral. It was Blasco, Nicabar's captain. The officer stopped a few paces from his superior, squinting in the sunlight.

"Admiral? The others are ready. They're waiting for you, as ordered."

Nicabar didn't answer right away. The meager turnout had put his plans in peril. He couldn't attack Liss now, that's what they would say. They would try to take away his only chance at victory. L'Rago of the Infamous would probably agree with him, and that gave him some ease, but Gark from Black City and Amado of the Angel would oppose him. He needed a consensus, and he didn't know how to get it.

"Admiral?" pressed Blasco. "Shall I tell them you're on your way?"

Nicabar squared his soldiers. "Yes. I'll be there in a moment."

"Very good, sir." Blasco turned and strode off toward the council chamber.

Nicabar licked dry lips. A moment was all he needed, so he took a breath, held it for a moment, then followed Blasco, fixing his face with confidence.

Brashness was what his captains expected of him. He wanted to fill the room with it.

The grand turret of the council chamber overlooked the ocean. At its entrance stood two Casarhian soldiers, their dark skin glistening as if oiled.

They stepped aside dutifully as Nicabar approached. For the duration of his visit, Nicabar would be their lord and master. Gorgotor Fortress had a commander, but he was a relatively low-ranking man compared to the Admiral of the Black Fleet, and he wasn't from the Naren capital. Prince Galto himself was in his palace at Fa, far removed from the fortress and the secret meeting.

So Nicabar essentially had the fortress to himself, and he liked the gravity that gave him. When he walked past the soldiers, he entered a round chamber filled with men in uniforms. The room smelled of tobacco and wine, and he squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Voices hushed as he stepped inside, and Nicabar saw a host of familiar faces staring at him over a gigantic table of carved ash. Most sat back comfortably with crystal goblets in their hands, sampling the fine wines Prince Galto had provided for the summit, and others sucked on pipes, appreciating Casarhoon's legendary tobacco. They were captains, mostly, and their lieutenants sat with them or stood nearby, and all of them paused when Nicabar entered. The admiral stopped a few paces into the room, frowning at them. Realizing they had offended him, they all hurried to stand.

"Admiral Nicabar," announced Captain Blasco. A chorus of polite applause followed. Captain L'Rago of the Infamous led the acclaim, clapping louder than anyone. He was a young man for such a high rank and reminded the admiral a bit of Blair Kasrin, except that L'Rago wasn't squeamish. His men called him the Executioner, an apt title for the captain who had butchered more Lissens than Nicabar himself.

Nicabar didn't smile at their applause, but merely lifted up a hand to silence them. "Be seated," he commanded. One by one the Naren captains took their seats. A handful of slaves drifted through the room pouring wine and lighting pipes. They were all women, a touch Nicabar himself had ordered. He had hoped the dark-skinned beauties would put his officers in a compliant mood.

And Nicabar himself had an eye for the breed. He whose skin was pale loved their caramel flesh and hair. As he strode across the room toward the head of the table, he smiled at a particularly comely girl, noting her for later.

Captain Blasco showed Nicabar to his chair, the largest and most splendid in the room. There was a goblet of wine already poured for him, and an unlit pipe. There was also a map behind his seat, pinned to the wall like a tapestry.

It showed Casarhoon and its proximity to Liss, with little painted pins to show the various ship movements. The pin for the Fearless was big and black.

Nicabar noted the map with satisfaction, then sat down. He steepled his hands on the table and offered his captains a small smile.

"It is a pleasure to see you all again," he told them. "I've missed you. Thank you for coming."

Captain Gark of the dreadnought Black City, who had been the last to arrive, tapped his hand approvingly on the table. "You honor us by your summons, Admiral," he said. "Do not thank us for doing our duty."

You're a sly one, Gark, thought Nicabar. The first to speak favor was always the first to speak ill. Nicabar cast Gark a warm grin.

"You had the longest trip, my friend," he said. "Tell me—how was the journey?"

"Well enough," replied Gark. "I welcome the warm seas. Casarhoon is a good place for a rendezvous, no matter the reason."

The other captains laughed. Captain Kelara of the Unstoppable even raised his glass in tribute. A few of his fellows drank to the toast, but Nicabar never touched his wine.

"And Karva?" he asked Gark. "How goes your mission there? What word of Liss in those waters?"

Gark shifted uncomfortably. "Spotty sightings, mostly. The Lissens haven't been sailing that far north lately. I think they're concentrating around Crote."

"Just so," said Nicabar. "Thank you for making my point, Gark. The Lissens are concentrating around Crote, that's what all intelligence has indicated. Even now I am weeks from Nar City, and it is the same as when I left—Lissens around Crote, massing for an invasion that will never come. And isn't that just perfect?"

When no one answered, L'Rago spoke. "It's a golden opportunity. We must seize it."

The captains around the table began averting their eyes. A low murmur bubbled up. Kelara of the cruiser Unstoppable, who had only recently been promoted, shook his head slightly at the statement, but he did not look away from Nicabar.

"Kelara?" probed Nicabar. "Speak freely."

"Is that it, Admiral?" asked the captain. He was a stout man, just older than L'Rago but with none of his ruthlessness or guile. Nicabar had expected him to be direct. "Is that why you've summoned us here?"

"L'Rago has read my mind, I'm afraid," admitted Nicabar. "Why else would I have called this summit? We have an opportunity to make a difference. I think we should take it."

"Exactly what opportunity would that be, Admiral?" challenged Kelara.

"Liss, Captain," said Nicabar plainly. "That's the only reason we're here."

He rose from his seat and pointed out the Hundred Isles on the map, determined to make his point. He traced his fingers along the map, showing them Liss and Casarhoon, and indicating the concentration of Lissen schooners around Crote. This was their weakness, Nicabar explained, a gaffe that had left their homeland more vulnerable than it had been in years.

Casarhoon had been relatively quiet, Nicabar reminded them. He told them how the Fearless had not encountered a single Lissen vessel when she'd arrived in these waters. To Nicabar, that meant only one thing.

"The Hundred Isles are weak," he said. "Unprotected, except for their land troops, and we all know how few of them they have. Their harbors are still probably in disrepair, and their gun emplacements have most likely been stripped to outfit their schooners."

"How can you know?" asked one of the officers. This time it was Amado, commander of the Angel of Death. When he spoke he emitted a peculiar whistle through his teeth, and the sound of it made his protest all the more annoying. Amado was a fine tactitian but too conservative. It had lost him more than one battle against Liss. "We don't have any reliable intelligence about Liss anymore, not since the Roshann have been so busy on the mainland. And Biagio hasn't been forthcoming."

The invocation of his old friend's name made Nicabar bristle. He'd been thinking a lot about Biagio lately.

"We don't need the Roshann to tell us what is so obvious," Nicabar said.

"We've all seen the patterns. Crote is where the Lissens have concentrated their forces. They've been expecting an invasion, thinking we're going to retake Biagio's island for him. Well, we're not going to do that. I'm not going to let this chance slip away."

"All right," challenged Gark. "You want to invade Liss." He looked around the table wryly. "Do you see enough captains here to make your plan work, sir? There are a dozen ships at anchor outside."

"And only four of them are dreadnoughts," added Amado.

"One of those is the Fearless," Nicabar reminded them.

Gark smiled. "Forgive me, Admiral, but I'm curious to know how we're supposed to do this. Please tell us your strategy."

Before Nicabar could answer, L'Rago jumped into the fray like a loyal dog.

"Haven't you been listening, Gark? Liss is weak. If we pick the right spot, we can hammer ourselves a foothold."

"And then what?" Gark retorted. "We don't have the manpower to sustain a landing, or the ships for a blockade."

L'Rago shook his head disgustedly. "You're a coward, Gark."

"You dare say that?" Gark's pasty face reddened. "I'm the only one looking out for us. I want assurances, but you're too eager to start killing again."

"Friends . . ." Nicabar put up both hands. "Please stop. Remember who you are. You are the cream; you have risen to the top. And now you are all here, on the brink of glory. How can I make you see that?"

"Very simply," said Captain Feliks. His vessel was the Colossus, one of the three other dreadnoughts that had come to join the Fearless. The Colossus had been the largest ship in the fleet before the Fearless was constructed, and that made her one of the oldest. Nicabar was glad Feliks had made the rendezvous, but he wondered about the warship's viability. She had been a ship of the line for a long time, maybe too long, and there had been talk of her retirement before the recent flare-ups with Liss. Still, Feliks was a thoughtful man and wouldn't jump to conclusions.

"Tell me, my friend," urged Nicabar. "I value your council. What can I do to prove myself to you?"

The old captain glowed at his admiral's deference. "Just tell us how to succeed," he said. "We all know you. You're a great man. None of us question your abilities. Tell us your plan, and we will follow it."

The familiar nervousness squirmed in Nicabar again. The truth was he didn't have a plan, not anymore. He had expected far more ships to arrive for the rendezvous, enough for a blockade perhaps, or to take and hold one of the Lissen islands. Since only a dozen ships had shown, neither option was feasible now. Nor had Nicabar found his secret waterway—the one goal that eluded him for a decade. He decided to be honest with his captains.

"I don't have a plan, Feliks," he said carefully. "Not anymore. I called this meeting because I don't want this chance to slip away. Eventually, Queen Jelena will realize we're not going to attack Crote. She'll fortify Liss again, and we won't be able to stop her." Absently he drummed his fingers on the table.

"Liss is our greatest challenge. We might never get a chance like this again."

"I agree," said L'Rago. His smile sharpened. "Liss has embarrassed us long enough. It's time we took the battle to them, instead of just defending ourselves. I for one will gladly sail for the Hundred Isles, alone if I have to."

Captain Amado rolled his eyes. "You go ahead and do that, L'Rago, and the Lissens will take the Infamous apart."

"I'm not afraid," said L'Rago. "Unlike you."

"Let me correct you, boy," snapped Amado. "It isn't fear you're seeing, it's common sense. Not all of us have your gift for idiocy."

"And not all of us have the same desire for revenge," said Gark. "Forgive me, Admiral, but I must say this. This plan of yours is . . ." He searched for the right word. "What?" demanded Nicabar. Gark settled on a safe description. "Unsound." "Nonexistent, even," said Amado.

"Let me explain," Nicabar interrupted, sure that he was losing them. "I admit, there are fewer ships than I would have liked. But we still have an opportunity here."

"Admiral, please," Gark implored. "May I speak freely?" "Go ahead."

The captain of the Black City leaned forward. "In all honesty, this is your obsession, not ours. L'Rago agrees with you because he is young and stupid, but the rest of us can't possibly go along with this. You're proposing to attack Liss with only a handful of ships—" "We can get more," rumbled Nicabar. "I can order it." "Yes, you can. But how many more? If you recall all the ships you need for an invasion, you'll leave the Empire vulnerable. You'll attack Liss only to lose part of Dahaar, or maybe even the harbors of the capital. And all because you have a vendetta."

"It's not just my vendetta," said Nicabar. "It's yours as well. Or at least it should be." He glanced around at the frightened faces. "Can any of you tell me that you don't owe Liss a thousand deaths? Or are you all like Gark here, willing to swallow the shame of the last twelve years? Twelve years! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does," said Feliks. "But maybe not as much as it does to you." Feliks' tone was nonjudgmental, even warm. He had a longstanding friendship with Nicabar and was always willing to use it in arguments. "Sir, some of us have been talking. We're concerned." "About what?"

"About you, and your obsession with Liss. It's not healthy for you to be so fixated on them. We're at war with them, true. But that doesn't mean we have to take every risk. That's vengeance, Admiral, not tactics." Nicabar could barely believe it. The gall was astonishing, even from an old mate like Feliks.

The admiral looked around the table and saw a dozen sheepish faces silently agreeing with the captain. Only L'Rago looked disgusted. Nicabar leaned back in his chair.

"I can order it," he said simply. "If I say invade, then invade you shall."

Feliks nodded. "That is true. But I don't think you would ever be so unwise, my friend. This idea of yours is folly. You don't even have a plan . . ."

"But Liss is weak . . ."

"I know," said Feliks. "But this is not the time. Later, perhaps, when we've secured the waters around the Empire, then you can bring in more ships. We can blockade Liss again, and you can talk to Biagio about providing troops."

"I cannot!" Nicabar roared. He brought a fist down on the table, shaking all the goblets. "Biagio is too weak to help us. He has no influence with the army anymore. And what you're talking about would take too much time. Liss will be ready for us by then." Nicabar stopped himself. His head was pounding and his eyes hurt, and he knew it was the aftereffects of his drug treatments, which had been more painful than usual lately. His blue eyes blazing, he turned to Feliks. "We ignore this chance at our peril, Captain. We must strike now, before Jelena knows what we have planned."

Feliks was rueful. "I'm sorry, Admiral, but I cannot agree with you."

"Please, Admiral," urged Gark. "Think on what Feliks has told you. Might he not be right? Might your obsession be clouding your thinking? A little, perhaps?"

Nicabar leaned back. In mere moments, his captains had scuttled him. And the worst part was that they were right. He knew that desire wasn't enough to win Liss. He needed ships, many more than the few now in Casarhoon. And he needed devoted men to captain them. Just now he had neither, and it deflated him. Once again, Liss had bested him. And they hadn't even fired a shot.

"I cannot accept this," he told them. "I want options. You've all come this far, and I won't let it be for nothing. More ships may yet arrive. We will wait.

In the meantime, you will all come up with ideas." Nicabar rose, pushing back his chair. "I am disappointed in you," he told them. He didn't even bother excluding L'Rago. "Cowards, every one of you."

With their eyes on his back, Nicabar stormed out of the council chamber, leaving a wake of shocked silence behind him. His heart was racing as he stepped out into the sunlight, and he cast his face heavenward, letting the sun work on him. A pounding headache thumped in his skull and the pressure in his eyeballs was unbearable, and it was all because of his galloping rage.

Lately, it had been sickening him, making him ill. If he didn't learn to control it

. . .

"Admiral?" called a distant voice. "Admiral Nicabar?"

Nicabar opened his eyes. Lieutenant Varin was approaching, jogging up to him anxiously. There were two other officers from the Fearless with him, both sharing his waylaid expression. Because Varin rarely got excited, Nicabar's interest was piqued.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

Varin came to a skidding halt in front of him. "The Dread Sovereign, Admiral," said Varin breathlessly. "She's here!"

"What?" Nicabar turned and peered toward the ocean. Out on the water, near the other gathered warships, came a ship he hadn't noticed before, sailing toward the rest of them and flying the black flag of Nar from her mainmast.

The smallest dreadnought in the Black Fleet was unmistakable in her graceful canter and snarling dragon figurehead. Even from such a distance Nicabar knew her.

"I don't believe it," he whispered. "My God, Kasrin. I was just thinking about you . . ."

Gorgotor Fortress, that impressive mass of mortar and palm logs, rose above Kasrin as he stepped out of his launch. It had been many months since he had been to Casarhoon, and the sight of the fortress tossed a shadow on his courage. In his hands he held his captain's brief, a leather case used by officers to carry important papers like maps and rutters. The hand that held the case trembled a little; Kasrin fought to still it. He hadn't eaten but his stomach churned threateningly, and when Laney called from the rowboat to wish him luck, Kasrin hardly heard it. The wet sand of the beach sucked at his boots, and for a moment he was frozen, mesmerized by the fortress and unable to move. Not far ahead, a dozen Casarhian soldiers waited for him by a stout spiked gate, wearing curved swords. No one had come out to greet him, and Kasrin didn't know how to take that signal. Surely Nicabar knew he was here. The Fearless was at anchor out on the sea. So was the Black City. And Angel of Death. And Iron Duke. His peers would be waiting for him.

"Blair?" called Laney from the launch. "You all right?"

Kasrin nodded but did not turn around. "Fine," he said absently. A crowd was gathering on the fortress walls to gape at him. Most of these were soldiers from Casarhoon, but peppering the scene were familiar Naren faces. One of them was Gark. The dreadnought captain stared down at him, astonished.

Kasrin didn't wave at his old comrade. Nor did Gark wave at him.

"I can come with you," Laney reminded him. "Why not let me?"

Kasrin shook his head. "No. Nicabar knows I'm here. And he won't want to talk to anyone but me."

"Then I'll wait here," Laney said stubbornly.

Kasrin turned and smiled grimly. The men that had rowed him ashore offered him encouraging nods. "Go back to the Sovereign," he ordered. "I might be a while. Nicabar will probably want me to spend the night. We have a lot to catch up on, I'm afraid."

His friend agreed reluctantly, and Kasrin faced the fortress again. Steeling himself, he went toward the waiting soldiers, his cape blowing in the breeze.

The soldiers around the gate waited for him, refusing even to step out and greet him. Apparently, news of his treason was widespread, reaching even Casarhoon. Kasrin adopted a stony expression, ignoring the gibes and mumbles from the walls above.

"I am Captain Kasrin of the Black Fleet vessel Dread Sovereign," he said.

"I'm here to see Admiral Nicabar."

One of the soldiers smirked. "The admiral is waiting for you, Captain."

"Take me to him," snapped Kasrin. "Now."

The soldiers complied. They led Kasrin away from the gate and up a stone staircase along the wall in the opposite direction from the gathered Naren officers. Kasrin relaxed. He had guessed that Nicabar wouldn't want the others to be part of their meeting. So far, he had been correct. If everything else went smoothly . . .

Stop, he chided himself. Don't get cocky.

The soldiers led Kasrin through the halls of the fortress, across a wall with a view to the ocean, and through a courtyard filled with armaments and horse tack. There were smaller buildings strewn throughout the yard, stables and lodgings and the usual accoutrements of a fortress, and occasionally someone would pause to stare. Kasrin ignored the looks. He let the soldiers take him through the fortress until at last they were on the opposite side from where they started, on the fortress's northern facade. Here the sound of the sea died to a distant murmur, and the view was of palm trees and narrow, unpaved roadways. A tower stood watch over the northern cape, erect and foreboding.

There were no guns peeking from it, only windows of stained glass and ornamental gargoyles perching on eves. Though he had never spent any time in this particular tower, Kasrin recognized it.

The church.

Most castles of scale had one, and the folk of Casarhoon were a religious breed. They had heard and obeyed the word of Nar's dead Bishop Herrith, and now they were zealots, just as he had been. It was a good place for a meeting, though, quiet and away from prying eyes, so Kasrin went willingly.

Still clutching his leather case, he removed his triangular hat when he entered the tower. The soldiers who had escorted him waited in the threshold. Kasrin let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Ahead of him was a long aisle with rows of pews on both sides. An altar beckoned in the distance, lit by waving candlelight. A single figure sat in the front-most pew.

"There," said a soldier tersely. Then he abruptly stepped out of the tower and closed the great doors. Sunlight poured through the stained glass windows animating their meticulous scenes. The candles wavered hypnotically, but there was no one else in the chamber, not a single priest or acolyte to lead the parishioner in prayer—because it wasn't a parishioner.

Kasrin knew exactly who it was who could cast such a chiseled, unmistakable outline.

"I knew you'd come back," rang the voice. "I knew it."

Kasrin stood very still. Fear coiled around him, making it hard to speak.

"Your timing is excellent, Kasrin," said Nicabar. His words filled the chamber like the voice of God. "I'm wondering why you planned it this way."

"I knew you'd be here," replied Kasrin. "So I came."

The figure stood up, blocking out the candlelight. He turned and stared down the aisle, lighting the way with his fiery blue eyes. Nicabar was as huge as ever, his hair cropped short around his head as though a sculptor had carved him out of granite. The sight of him was withering. He wore a uniform of naval blue with black and gold sporting his many ribbons. When he saw Kasrin, he did not smile.

"Can you imagine my surprise when I saw the Dread Sovereign approaching? It was pure vindication, Kasrin."

Kasrin didn't reply.

"Come forward, Captain," ordered Nicabar.

Kasrin took off his cape and laid it across one of the pews with his hat, then went down the aisle like a bride to face his nemesis. He kept the all-important case in his hands, and noticed with satisfaction as Nicabar's eyes flicked to it.

The admiral waited patiently. Neither angry nor pleased, he simply stood blocking the altar until Kasrin was finally face to face with him. Then, with a reverence that turned his stomach, Kasrin dropped to one knee and bowed.

"My Lord Admiral," he said, "I have returned."

His eyes on Nicabar's feet, Kasrin stayed that way for a long moment, knowing Nicabar relished his debasement. He waited for the hammer-blow of a fist, but instead felt the admiral's freezing hand on top of his head, stroking his hair.

"Rise," commanded Nicabar.

Kasrin rose. He looked straight into those unnatural eyes and was instantly lost in them.

"Thank you, sir," he said shakily. "I . . . I thank you for seeing me."

"Why are you here?" Nicabar asked. "For my forgiveness?"

"Yes, sir. And more." Kasrin held up the leather case. "I have a gift for you."

"Not yet, Kasrin. You can't buy my pardon so easily."

"If the admiral would let me explain what I've brought—"

"Quiet," barked Nicabar. "Let me look at you."

Kasrin remained very still as Nicabar circled, slowly skimming his eyes over every inch of him. Kasrin had expected the admiral to be furious, but Nicabar's control was maddening.

"You look terrible," declared Nicabar. "You've been drinking too much and eating too little. Sit down."

Kasrin sat down in the front pew, laying his case next to him. Nicabar remained standing, an advantage that made him seem as tall as the tower. He glowered down at Kasrin contemptibly.

"Look at you," he sneered. "You're skin and bones. You've grown too fond of the rum. I can smell it on you."

"I'm sorry—"

"Shut up." The admiral sneered at Kasrin. "Is this what living in that rat hole did to you? Don't you know how to shave anymore? And your uniform is filthy."

Kasrin held his tongue. The stubble of his beard had been mere laziness, but the uniform was Nicabar's fault. No one was supplying the Sovereign's crew with anything these days.

"I wonder," Nicabar continued. "Do you still have your Black Cross? Or did you sell it to pay for whores?"

"I still have it, sir," said Kasrin. The Black Cross was the highest medal in the Naren navy, and Nicabar had struck it for Kasrin personally. Kasrin had earned it during the Criisian campaign, when that tiny queendom had thought of seceding from the Empire. The Dread Sovereign had been the only warship near Criisian waters. Kasrin had opened fire on their ports, wasting them. He had been young then, and eager to please his hero. It was a stupid move that he'd long regretted. "I'm very proud of my Black Cross," he lied. "I would never part with it."

"Indeed? Am I supposed to be pleased about that? After all you've done to me?"

"Sir—"

"Am I supposed to greet you like a son? Is that what you expect me to do?"

Kasrin was speechless. Nicabar's face was scarlet and his eyes sparked with rage. His hands shook at his side, and the veins on his neck bulged. He took a long breath to calm himself, barely able to contain his fury.

"Look at me," he spat. "Look what you've brought me to. You've driven me insane, Kasrin." The admiral turned his face away, leaning against the opposite pew. "You betrayed me."

"I'm sorry," said Kasrin softly, and this time he wasn't lying. He had never seen Nicabar so broken, and all his old feelings for his hero bubbled up again, making him ashamed. He had never wanted to betray Nicabar. "Sir, forgive me."

"I could have killed you," Nicabar whispered. "I could have executed you for treason and mutiny." He looked at Kasrin, his expression ragged. "Do you know how many officers begged me to kill you, Kasrin? Do you know that even now L'Rago offered to murder you when you came ashore? But I said no. You always meant too much to me. You think I was harsh sending you to that village? I wasn't. I was merciful."

The words were too much for Kasrin, who looked away, ashamed and hating himself. He realized that perhaps he shouldn't have come to Casarhoon at all, that his feelings for this man were still too powerful. There was love in his maddened voice, the kind of affection Kasrin had always longed for, and now to plot his doom seemed despicable.

"You overwhelm me," said Kasrin, his voice breaking. "I never meant to hurt you, or disgrace you in any way. But what I did, I did from misguided conscience."

"Now you admit you were wrong."

"Yes," said Kasrin. "I was wrong. I know that now." With his last ounce of pride, he added, "I want to join you again."

The smile on Nicabar's face lit the chamber. "I was right about you. I knew you'd come back. You couldn't stay away from the sea and the action, because you're too much like me. It's in your blood. You see the truth, don't you, Kasrin?"

"I don't understand, sir."

"About Liss. I knew exile in that village would give you time to see the truth.

That's why you're here. You knew I was rendezvousing with the others, didn't you? How?"

"I'm still a captain," said Kasrin evasively. "I have ways of finding things out. When I learned you were planning an attack on Liss, I knew I had to join you." He feigned his most sincere expression. "I have something for you, Admiral." He patted his leather case. "I think you'll be pleased."

"Yes, what is that?"

"First, tell me something. How are your plans for Liss going? Have you agreed on a strategy?"

"No," said Nicabar. "Those cowards are as bad as you were. They're afraid." Then he grinned sardonically. "But you were never really a coward, were you, Kasrin? Not really, not in your heart. That's why you've come back to me."

"So you have no plans for Liss?"

"Not yet, but I will. With you on my side now, I'm sure we can defeat them." He reached out and placed a cold hand on Kasrin's shoulder. "You've made me happy, Kasrin. I'm glad you returned."

"You honor me," Kasrin lied. Though part of him still idolized Nicabar, he could see the madness in his every move. "We will take Liss, this time, sir.

And to prove myself to you, I've brought something special."

"Well, open it up. Let's have a look."

Kasrin undid the ties of the case and carefully opened it. Inside was the usual collection of captain's things—a few charts, some compass headings on scribbled notes, but beneath it all was the paper that Jelena had drawn up for him—the map of the Serpent's Strand. Kasrin could see Nicabar frown inquisitively as he pulled the map from the case. He rose from the pew with the map in his hands and walked over to the altar, telling Nicabar to follow him, then moved some of the candles aside and spread out the map.

"What is it?"

"Your dream, sir," said Kasrin. "Your secret passage."

Admiral Nicabar reached out for the map, brushing his fingertips over the inked headings and landmarks. The map showed the Hundred Isles of Liss in a way neither seamen had seen before—in great detail, with all its many tributaries revealed. Nicabar caught his breath, unable to speak. He glanced up at Kasrin, his face ashen.

"How . . .?"

"You're pleased," said Kasrin. "I can tell you are."

"Where did you get this?" asked Nicabar. "How did you find it?"

"It was drawn for me, by a captured Lissen. Look here." Kasrin traced his finger over the map, showing the particular waterway Jelena had revealed to him. According to the queen, it truly was one of Liss' great secrets. "This waterway is called the Serpent's Strand. It's very narrow, but it's deep. Deep enough for the Fearless, even. It leads south, straight to one of Liss' main islands, called Karalon."

"Dear God." Nicabar caressed the parchment lovingly. "It's beautiful. It's . .

."

"It's all true," said Kasrin, smiling proudly. "Do you like it?"

"I can hardly believe what I'm seeing," said the admiral. "You got this from a Lissen, you say? How?"

"I knew you wanted a way into Liss. So when we set sail for Casarhoon we went looking for a Lissen schooner. It wasn't long before we encountered one, not far from the coast of Crote." He became grim. "I put the crew overboard one by one. When that didn't work I took a knife to one of the mates. He cooperated once I cut his fingers off."

"You did that?"

Kasrin shrugged. "Left hand only. He still needed his right hand to draw."

Nicabar laughed, pleased at the news. "Oh, you've done well, Kasrin! I'm proud of you."

"Are you?" asked Kasrin. "I want you to be. I've changed, sir, I swear it. I thought if I could prove it to you . . ."

"You have, Captain, a thousandfold!" The admiral put an arm around Kasrin. It was like being squeezed by a cobra. "This is wonderful news. Now I can take this map to those other cowards and show them what we can do!"

"The others? Oh, no, sir. I don't think that would be wise."

"What? Why not?"

Kasrin said it just like he'd practiced. "Well, you see the Serpent's Strand is very narrow." He showed this to Nicabar on the map. "It's a long way through the strand to Karalon. There's a lot of opportunity to be spotted before reaching the island and taking it. And there's no room to turn around. We can get in, but we can't get out if something goes wrong, not before reaching the island so we can loop around it. It will be like a bottleneck if we go with too many ships. We'd be trapped in there."

"But no one would be expecting us," said Nicabar. "With more ships we can protect ourselves."

"I'm sorry, Admiral, but I don't agree," said Kasrin. He had expected Nicabar's argument and was prepared for it. "The Fearless is too big to keep a secret, and if they do start firing on us from these hills . . ." he showed Nicabar the tall canyons lining the strand, ". . . we won't be able to fire back.

Not without risking damage to our own ships."

Nicabar stroked his chin. "Goddamn, this is a tight one you've brought me, Kasrin. What are you suggesting?"

"I saw maybe a dozen ships at anchor here, am I right?"

"Yes. That's all of them, I'm sorry to say."

"Well, look, then." Kasrin referred to the map again. "The Serpent's Strand is part of an estuary. That's how we'll be getting in. We'll have to ride the high tide, which will let us drift south. Now with only the Fearless and the Sovereign, we can make it to Karalon. We can take the island by ourselves."

"What for? What's on Karalon?"

"Ah, that's the best part," said Kasrin with a devil's grin. "A training base.

Not just for sailors, mind you, but for ground troops. The same type of troops they used to take Crote. If we can take the island, we can wipe them out."

"What makes you think we can take the island? If it's a training base, then surely they have guns protecting it."

"No, no guns. No cannons, no defenses of any kind, because they don't expect an attack. And with all those green troops as our hostages, right under the nose of our flame cannons . . . well, just think about it."

Nicabar did. It was a cruel plan, and because it involved the deaths of thousand of Lissens, he was drawn to it. Knowing he had the admiral in his palm, Kasrin decided to close his fist.

"It can work," he urged. "If we just take in two ships, we can make that island our own, hold it hostage and bring Liss to its knees. Then Black City and the other ships can come in on the next tide. They'll be stationed offshore, waiting." Kasrin paused as though this was the most important thing in the world to him. "What do you say, Admiral? Will you do it? Will you let me come with you?"

Nicabar's eyes became shrewd slivers. "This means a lot to you, eh?"

"Yes," said Kasrin. "It does."

"Why?"

Kasrin told him what he wanted to hear. "Because I was wrong. And because I'm a Captain of the Black Fleet. I don't like people saying I'm a coward, Admiral. I'm not a coward. Now I want to prove it. Not only to you but to all those others who are jeering at me, even as we speak. That's why I came back. That's why I got this map for you. Please don't turn me away."

A great, warm smile split Nicabar's face. He put his arms around Kasrin, embracing him.

"Good work, my friend," he said. "I'm proud of you." Kasrin stood there in Nicabar's embrace, unable to return the affection or even taste the slightest sweetness of victory. Now he would lure his old hero to his death. And though it was richly deserved, Kasrin had never felt more like a traitor.

TWENTY

On Casadah, the highest Drol holy day, Lucel-Lor became a vastly different place. No one warred on this day of peace, especially not Praxtin-Tar.

Casadah was the great celebration of Spring, a time to honor Lorris and Pris.

Food and drinks were liberally dispensed, and the cunning-men—the Drol priests—walked from town to town proclaiming the goodness of the gods and the bounty of heaven. Children wove ceremonial wreaths and women wore dresses of the brightest fabric to mirror the world coming into bloom, and every territory of Lucel-Lor, no matter the beliefs of its warlord, enjoyed the celebration.

For Richius Vantran, who was neither Drol nor Triin, the holy day was a time for relaxing. This was his third Casadah since coming to Lucel-Lor, and each one was better than its predecessor. Though today he was under siege from the forces of Praxtin-Tar, Richius was determined to enjoy the day and not spoil it for Shani. His daughter was two years old now, old enough to start understanding things about her background and culture. She was growing up quickly, just like the other children trapped in Falindar. Despite the warriors waiting outside, Richius wanted desperately for her to have a normal life.

In the center of Falindar's great hall, where the walls sparkled silver and bronze and the ceiling soared high as the sky, Richius sat cross-legged, bouncing Shani in his lap. Next to him sat Dyana, beautiful in emerald, her eyes soft as she listened to Lucyler's speech. A crowd had gathered in the hall, a mix of warriors and women and the farmers who had come to the citadel for sanctuary. Children sat with their parents, hushed at the sound of Lucyler's voice. It was already noon but the fun of Casadah didn't really begin until the ceremonial blessing. Lucyler, hardly religious at all, glowed merrily as he addressed the gathering. For the first time in weeks, he seemed genuinely happy. Richius leaned over to Dyana and gave her a kiss.

"Look at him," he told his wife. "He looks great, doesn't he?"

Dyana took his hand. She was happy, too, not just because it was Casadah, but because of the peace Praxtin-Tar had promised for the day. "He is wonderful," she agreed. "The children love him."

That much was obvious. The children of Falindar had taken to Lucyler like a father, even more than they had to Tharn himself. Lucyler was their hero, their savior.

Presently, Lucyler was telling them the story of Lorris and Pris. It was a tale recited every Casadah, in every town and village of Lucel-Lor, and it spoke of the deities and how they had once been mortal before their tragic ends.

Lucyler looked like an actor on the dais.

" . . . but the evil Pradu had deceived Lorris," thundered Lucyler. "He wasn't Vikryn at all!"

Richius loved the tale, and so hung on every word just like one of the children, eager for the gruesome ending where Pris died in the city of Toor, and Lorris, overcome with grief, tossed himself from the towers of Kes. That part always elicited cries from the crowd, and this time, with Lucyler's grand delivery, the reaction was deafening. All around the hall children squealed in delighted horror. Lucyler hung his head in sorrow for the dead siblings, then brightened and told them how Lorris and Pris had been taken into heaven by Vikryn, their patron, and how they were given immortality. They were gods now, Lucyler explained, and they were very real.

"Tharn showed us that," said Lucyler to the crowd. "He proved to us that the gods exist. I believed nothing before meeting Tharn, but now I know that there is something more than all of this." He swept his arm across the chamber.

Richius smiled. Perhaps Lucyler had taken their talk to heart. He did seem better—much better, really—and the way he held the crowd in thrall made Richius proud. They had been through a lot together, had fought and watched comrades die, and it had forged a strange bond between them. Now they were under siege, and Lucyler had become a leader.

"What are you thinking about, Richius?" asked Dyana. "You are staring at Lucyler like one of these children."

Richius chuckled. "Am I? I'm just happy, I suppose."

"Me too," said Dyana. Then her face darkened. "But tomorrow is another day. It is hard to forget, even for the little ones. I—"

"Shhh," urged Richius, putting a finger to her lips. "Not today." He cocked his chin at Shani, still in his lap. "Look at her. Look how happy she is."

Dyana nodded. "Yes." She reached out and took her daughter's hand. "You like this story, Shani? You like hearing about Lorris and Pris?"

"Like Pris best," said Shani predictably. "Father speak, too?"

"No, not me," said Richius, laughing. "This is a Triin day, Shani. I'm not Triin."

"Naren," said Shani, crinkling her nose. Richius didn't know what to make of the expression.

"You should speak, Richius," urged Dyana.

"No, thanks." Richius put his hands under Shani's arms and lifted her up to face him. "You don't want to hear me talk, do you, Shani?"

"Talk of Nar!" chirped the girl. "Aramoor!"

Now it was Dyana that frowned. "No, but you could talk about being here, Richius. The people admire you like they do Lucyler. You make them feel safe." Playfully she poked his ribs. "Yes?"

Richius almost blushed. "That's very nice," he said, "but I still don't want to get up and talk."

"Oh, you should, Kalak," said a voice. It was Lifki, one of the workers who was seated behind them. Lifki was a silversmith who had been employed at the citadel since the time of the Daegog. His family sat with him, a wife and three teenagers, all of whom nodded. "You should listen to Dyana, Kalak; she is right. All these people admire you." Lifki nudged the man next to him. "I am right, yes, Lang?"

Lang hadn't been listening, but when Lifki explained it to him the Triin warrior agreed. "Yes," he declared. He clapped his hands together, urging Richius up. "Speak to us, Kalak. Let us all see you."

"No, I can't—"

"Richius?" called Lucyler. From up on his dais the Master of Falindar had seen the commotion building in the front row of his audience. Now he stared down at Richius with laughing eyes, suddenly making him the center of attention. "You have something to say?"

Flushed with embarrassment, Richius said, "No. I'm sorry, Lucyler. Just go on."

But they were all looking at him now, and Lucyler wasn't about to let him off so easily. Dyana was laughing with a hand over her mouth, while Lifki and Lang kept clapping, urging Richius to his feet.

"Go on, Richius," prompted Dyana. "It is Casadah! Go up and say something."

"Say what? What do you want me to tell them?"

"Tell them how happy you are today."

"Oh, that's silly . . ."

Lucyler stepped to the edge of the dais, grinning down at them mischievously. "The great Kalak should address us," he said. He raised his hands to the crowd. "Yes?"

A happy chorus rose up. Richius felt blood rush to his face. He gave Dyana a dirty look.

"Thanks a lot," he whispered. Dyana wouldn't stop laughing.

"You will be fine," she told him. "Now go; speak to us."

Handing Shani to Dyana, Richius got to his feet before the crowd. He turned to face them and saw a sea of people, far more numerous than they had seemed from his place on the floor. They waved and cheered when they saw him, and for the first time Richius felt the adoration Dyana had told him about.

It was powerful, and when he heard the word Kalak run through the crowd he did not cringe. Once that name had been a hated insult, but no longer. Now he was Kalak. The Jackal.

"Hello, my friends," he said awkwardly. Old men and young women tossed him encouraging smiles, and children cooed excitedly. "Uh, happy Casadah to all of you. I want to thank you. I—"

"Come up here, Richius!" urged Lucyler. His Triin friend stretched down a hand, offering to pull him onto the dais. The dais was just a handful of planks hammered together for the occasion, but it had been covered with bright cloth and looked impressive. So impressive that it intimidated Richius.

"I'm fine right here," he told Lucyler in a low grumble.

"Nonsense." Lucyler jumped down off the dais, taking Richius by the shoulders and pushing him toward the makeshift stage. Goaded on by a hundred voices, Richius climbed onto the dais and looked out over the gathering. His mouth dried up.

"Yes, well," he began woodenly. He spoke in Triin, which made his delivery all the worse. "I really do not know what to say."

"Kalak!" cried a boy happily from across the hall. Richius laughed at his echoing cry, feeling like an actor on stage in the Black City. He glanced down and saw Dyana looking up at him proudly. In her lap sat Shani, her eyes full of wonder as she saw her father on the dais. Suddenly Richius knew what to say.

"I am very lucky to be here with all of you," he told the crowd. "I am luckier still that you have accepted me. When I first came here, I hated it. I was trapped, and I felt like I had lost my home. You all know about Aramoor, and what happened there. I lost a lot. I thought I had lost everything, really. But you have all made me feel at home here in Falindar. You are all my family now."

"Kafife," shouted Dyana. "Remember, Richius?"

Richius remembered perfectly. It was the Triin word for family, and she had taught it to him. He smiled at her warmly. Then he straightened, saying, "Some of you think I still miss Aramoor, and you are right. But some of you also think I plan on leaving here someday, and that you are wrong about. This is my home now. This is where my family is, and all my friends." He laughed.

"So do not keep asking me when I am going to leave, all right? I am not going anywhere."

The crowd loved this, some rising to their feet. With one voice they shouted their adoration for Kalak, the Jackal of Nar. Richius watched the crowd, giddy with their affection, and when he gazed down at Dyana he saw that she was staring at him in astonishment, her lips slightly parted as if shocked by what she'd heard. Richius looked at her inquisitively, but she merely shook her head.

"Uhm, I do not know what else to say," he told the gathering. "Except one more thing. We are all afraid of Praxtin-Tar and his army. I too am afraid. But we are strong here in Falindar, and Praxtin-Tar is weak. He might not look it, but he is. Right now he is out in the cold, alone with no one to help him. And we are in here." He clasped his hands together firmly. "Together."

At the base of the stage, Lucyler nodded solemnly. He climbed back onto the dais and embraced Richius, kissing his cheek. "Perfect, my friend," he whispered. "Perfect . . ." Richius gave the group a final wave, then jumped down from the dais, relieved to be masked again in the crowd. Shani rushed up and wrapped herself around his legs. Proudly he dipped down and picked her up, pleased with himself.

"So?" he asked her. "How was that?"

"Good!" she answered, then buried her head against his neck. Richius sat down again with Shani in his arms. After two years as an outsider, they really did like him, and the realization lifted a great weight from his shoulders. He glanced at Dyana, who was still looking at him with the same disquietude.

"What is it?" he asked. She smiled, but said nothing. "Dyana, why are you looking at me like that?" "Do you not know?" "I don't," said Richius. "Tell me."

Dyana looked away, glancing down at the carpeted floor. "For two years I have waited for you to say those words, Richius. I have waited and hoped but I never heard them. Not until today."

Richius understood her perfectly. Shifting a little closer, he put a hand on her leg.

"I just hope you mean it this time," she said sadly. "This time you will keep your promise, yes? No more going away?"

It was the easiest promise in the world to make. Aramoor wasn't his anymore, and never would be. "I promise," he said. "This is home now, Dyana."

For the first time in their lives together, Dyana seemed to believe his promise. Her eyes lit up and her white face glowed, and Richius knew there was nothing on earth that could pull him away again.

Praxtin-Tar stood at the edge of his encampment, watching the trio of riders approaching. It was well past noon and the warlord was impatient, for he had sent out his warriors hours ago. Crinion still lay ill. Five days had passed since his wounding, and he had shown little improvement. Though he had awakened briefly, the many punctures in his body weren't healing, and Valtuvus claimed that infections were setting in. Soon they might kill the young man, and there was nothing the healer could do to stop it. Valtuvus had tried his herbal remedies and leeches, had soaked the wounds in extracts and even made Crinion sip leopard's milk, but all these so-called remedies had been in vain.

Crinion was worsening. Today, on Casadah, not even the prayers of his father could help him. Crinion needed the prayers of someone with more authority, someone with the ear of Lorris and Pris.

Now the cunning-man approached the encampment. Led by two of the warlord's raven-tattooed men, the priest sat atop a plain brown pony, resplendent in his traditional saffron robes. His face betrayed his anger at being summoned to the camp, and when his eyes met the warlord's, they soured. Praxtin-Tar crossed his arms over his chest. Willing or not, the cunning-man had come, and the warlord was grateful.

"Come ahead," he ordered.

His warriors brought the priest to the edge of the camp where Praxtin-Tar waited. A scowl painted the cunning-man's face. He did not dismount with the warriors, but instead stayed on his pony, glaring at Praxtin-Tar. Praxtin-Tar put his hands up in friendship.

"You will not be harmed," he promised. "But I had to bring you here. I have need of you."

"My village needs me today, Warlord," said the cunning-man. "It is Casadah. Or have you forgotten?"

Praxtin-Tar struggled to be civil. "My calendar is the same as yours, priest.

But my son is ill and needs prayers. Were I not so desperate—"

"I have come because I have no choice," the priest interrupted. "My village fears your vengeance. That is the only reason, Praxtin-Tar. You shame Casadah by sending for me like this."

"Will you help or not?" asked Praxtin-Tar.

"I am here, am I not?"

"Then tutor me some other time, priest. My son has grave need of you."

Praxtin-Tar went to the priest's pony and took its reins. "Get down."

The cunning-man did as ordered, careful of his saffron robes as he slid down from the beast's back. There was no saddle on the horse, only a plain blanket. Praxtin-Tar recognized the pattern. It had been made in Taragiza, a distant village. So far Praxtin-Tar's army had ignored the folk of Taragiza, but if the priest failed, that might change. The warlord handed the pony off to one of the waiting warriors.

"What is your name?" he asked the priest.

"Nagrah."

Praxtin-Tar considered the man. "You are very young, Nagrah. How long have you been a cunning-man?"

"Why should that matter?"

The warlord couldn't answer the question. Perhaps it didn't matter at all.

"Will you do your best for me, Nagrah? For my son?"

"I will pray," replied the man. Surprisingly, his face softened. "I am commanded to do so by my gods. Crinion is his name, yes?"

"Yes," said Praxtin-Tar. "He is very ill. He—"

"Your men have explained it to me," interrupted the priest. "Take me to him, and I will pray. But I warn you, Praxtin-Tar—Lorris and Pris have already heard your prayers. If they ignore you, that is their choice."

"Not good enough," rumbled the warlord. "That is why you are here, cunning-man. They will not ignore you. Come."

He stormed into the heart of the camp where all his men were celebrating Casadah. Fires had been lit and the smell of roasting meats drifted high into the mountain air. Even the slaves sang and played instruments, happy for a day of rest and respite from the whip. Only Rook, the Naren, was hard at work. Praxtin-Tar saw him in the distance, surrounded by a pile of freshly cut timbers. He had a tool in his mouth and a length of rope in his hands, and what little of the new trebuchet he had so far constructed stood in a malformed pile next to him. Praxtin-Tar tried to ignore the Naren, hoping that Nagrah wouldn't notice him. He wanted the priest focused on his prayer, not asking questions about the siege. Thankfully, Nagrah followed him like a dutiful dog, saying nothing as they plunged deeper into the encampment. At last Praxtin-Tar's pavilion rose up ahead of them. A warrior stood guard outside the tent. When he saw his master approaching, he dropped to one knee.

"He is the same, Praxtin-Tar," the warrior said without being asked.

"Inside," the warlord told Nagrah. He led him through the tent flap and into the darkened pavilion, which smelled of sweet herbs and incense and the unmistakable smack of illness. Pillows lined the canvas floor and candles burned on the altar, all in vain appeasement of the deaf gods. Near the altar lay Crinion, his head cradled on a pillow of vermilion silk. He looked drawn and ragged, and his body was covered in fresh bandages. Over him hovered Valtuvus. The healer was blotting Crinion's forehead with a towel, soaking up the perspiration from the young man's fever. Valtuvus gave Praxtin-Tar a worried look when he stepped inside.

"Is that your priest?" he asked.

"My name is Nagrah," said the cunning-man. He went to Crinion and bent over him, studying his face and body and gently probing the tender skin.

Praxtin-Tar drifted closer. He saw real concern on Nagrah's face.

"He sleeps now but he is no better," said Valtuvus. "I am sorry, Praxtin-Tar, but there is little I can do for him."

"He grows weaker by the day," whispered Praxtin-Tar. "Cunning-man, you will pray for him."

"Prayers will not heal his infections," countered Valtuvus. "Only rest can do that, and the will of his own body."

"But he was up," Praxtin-Tar protested. "He was speaking. You saw, Valtuvus. He was becoming well again."

Valtuvus was merciless. "He was not. He awoke from his sleep because his head wound had improved. I am not worried about that anymore. It is the other damage that is ruining him." The healer brushed his hand lightly over Crinion's body. Except for the bandages and blankets, Crinion remained naked. "I have seen infections like this. Look how the fever holds him."

"Why does he sleep so?" asked Nagrah.

"Weakness. The body fights to live, but it is diseased." Valtuvus pointed out the many contusions on Crinion's torso, the myriad of pus-covered sores.

"See there? That is filth. All of the dirt and debris from the explosion. It is in his body now. I cannot remove it."

Praxtin-Tar took hold of Nagrah's arm. "Lorris and Pris must hear you," he commanded. "You are a cunning-man. They will not ignore you. You must make them listen."

Nagrah roughly pulled his arm away. "I do not command the gods, Warlord," he said. "Nor do you."

Rebuked, Praxtin-Tar stepped back. "Tell them about my son," he implored. "Tell them he is too young to die. Tell them that he serves them, as I serve them."

"Serve them," Nagrah scoffed. "You dishonor them just by being here. You are a cancer, Praxtin-Tar, a disgrace. Now go." He turned away from the warlord and knelt down in front of Crinion. "The healer, too."