"We can use all the help we can get," said Klia. "For now, however, let's keep the darkness away and speak of happier things."

As the evening progressed and the turab flowed, conversation turned to reminiscences of Seregil's childhood exploits. Kheeta i Branin figured in a good many of these tales, and Alec was surprised to learn that the man was actually a few years older than Seregil. Seregil had moved to Kheeta's couch to share some story, and Alec studied the pair and those around them, trying yet again to get his mind around the long 'faie life span that he himself shared. Adzriel and her husband, he knew, were in their twelfth decade, a youthful prime among the Aurenfaie. The oldest guest, a Gedre named Corim, was in his third century and looked no older than Micum Cavish, at least at first glance.

It s the eyes, Alec thought. There was a stillness in the eyes of the older 'faire, as if the knowledge and wisdom of their long lives left its mark there—one that Kheeta did not yet show. Seregil, though—he had old eyes in a young face, as if he'd seen too much too soon.

And so he has, just in the time I've known him, Alec reflected. By the time they'd met, Seregil had already lived a human lifetime and seen a human generation age and die. He'd made a name for himself while the friends of his youth were still finishing out their long childhoods. Seeing him here, among his own kind, Alec realized for the first time just how young his friend actually was. What did his own people see when they looked at Seregil?

Or at me?

Seregil threw his head back, laughing, and for a moment he looked as innocent as Kheeta. It was good to see him like that, but Alec couldn't keep away the darker thought that this was how he might have been if he'd never gone to Skala.

"You're as solemn as Aura's owl, and as quiet," Mydri observed, sitting down next to him and taking his hand.

"I'm still trying to believe I'm really here," Alec replied.

"So am I," she said, and another of those unexpectedly warm smiles softened her stern features.

"Can the ban of exile ever be lifted?" Alec asked, keeping his voice low.

Mydri sighed. "It happens, especially with one so young. Still, it would take a petition from the Haman khirnari to begin the debate, and that doesn't seem very likely. The Haman are an honorable people, but they are proud in a way that breeds bitterness. Old Nazien is no exception. He still grieves at the loss of his grandson and resents Seregil's return."

"By the Light, you're a grim pair," Seregil called over, and Alec realized that he was drunk, a rarity for Seregil.

"Are we?" Mydri shot back, a gleam of challenge in her eyes. "Tell me, Alec, does Seregil still have his fine singing voice?"

"As fine as any bard's," Alec told her, giving Seregil a teasing wink.

"Sing for us, tali!" Adzriel urged, overhearing. At her signal, a servant came forward with something large and flat wrapped in patterned silk and placed it in Seregil's hands.

He unwrapped it with a knowing smile. It was a harp, its dark wood polished with use.

"We kept it for you, all these years," Mydri told him as he settled it against his chest and ran his fingers across the strings.

He plucked out a simple tune that drew tearful smiles from his sisters, then moved on to a complex tune, fingers flying across the strings as melody followed melody. Even drunk and out of practice, he played beautifully.

After a moment he paused, then began the exile's lament he'd sung the first time he'd spoken to Alec of Aurenen.

My love is wrapped in a cloak of flowing green

and wears the moon for a crown. And all around has chains of flowing silver.

Her mirrors reflect the sky. O, to roam your flowing cloak of green

under the light of the ever-crowning moon.

Will I ever drink of your chains of flowing silver and drift once more across your mirrors of the sky?

"A bard's voice, indeed," said Saaban, dabbing at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. "With such power to move the emotions, I hope you know happier tunes."

"A few," Seregil said. "Alec, give us the harmony on 'Fair Rises My Lover.' "

The Skalan song was warmly received, and more instruments appeared as if on cue.

"Where's Urien?" Seregil demanded, squinting out into the garden at the soldiers. "Someone give that boy a lute!"

This broke through the Urgazhi's reticence. The young rider's friends all but carried the blushing musician forward, demanding favorite ballads as if they were at a crossroads tavern.

"For the pride of the decuria, rider!" Mercalle ordered with mock severity.

Urien accepted an Aurenfaie lute and smoothed an admiring hand over its round back.

"For the pride of the turma," he said, striking a chord. "This is from before my time with the Urgazhi."

Ghost wolves they call us, and Ghost Wolves we are. Drawn to the enemy by a plague star Fighting and burning, deep in their lines Our Captain was fearless, we followed behind.

Death and dark magic, demons she faced, Under the black sun, in that dread lonely place. The black shields of Plenimar, rank upon rank Until their Duke Mardus, in his blood sank .

Alec watched in dismay as Seregil's smile froze and Thero went pale. One of several ballads that extolled the Urgazhi's early exploits, this one spoke of Nysander's death. Fortunately, Beka caught on at once.

"Enough, enough!" she begged, masking her concern with a comic grimace. "By the Four, Urien, of all the grim, threadbare ballads to choose! Give us 'Illior's Face Upon the Waters' to honor our good hosts."

The chagrined rider nodded and commenced the tune, playing each flourish flawlessly. Seregil moved to sit by Alec again.

"You looked as. if you'd seen a ghost. Are you all right?" he whispered, as if the previous song had not affected him.

Alec nodded.

The song ended and Kheeta held a harp out to Klia.

"What about you, my lady? "

"Oh, no! I have the voice of a crow. Thero, didn't I hear you sing a passable ballad after our victory at Two Horse Crossing?"

"I'd had a bit more to drink then, my lady," the wizard replied, thin cheeks coloring as all eyes turned his way.

"Don't be shy!" Sergeant Braknil called out. "We heard you sing sober aboard the Zyria."

"All the same, perhaps our hosts would prefer a small demonstration of Third Oreska magic? " Thero countered.

"Very well," laughed Mydri.

Thero produced a pouch of fine white sand and sprinkled it in a circle on the ground in front of the couches. Using his crystal wand, he wove a series of glowing sigils over it. Instead of the tidy configurations he usually produced, however, they swelled and bulged, then exploded with enough force to scatter the sand and knock wine cups in all directions. Thero dropped the wand with a startled yelp and stuck his fingers in his mouth.

Alec stifled a laugh; the normally reserved wizard looked like a cat that had just slipped on a patch of ice, chagrined and determined to regain his dignity before anyone noticed. Seregil shook with silent laughter beside him.

"My apologies!" Thero exclaimed in dismay. "I—I can't imagine what happened."

"The fault is mine. I should have warned you," Adzriel assured him, clearly fighting down a smile of her own. "Magic must be performed with great care here. The power of Sarikali feeds into our own, making magic sometimes unpredictable. All the more so in your case, evidently."

"So I see." Thero retrieved his wand and tucked it in his belt. After a moment's thought, he sprinkled more sand and tried the spell again, drawing the sigils with his fingers this time. The patterns hung in the air a few inches above the ground, then coalesced into a flat disk of silvery light as big around as a serving platter. He added another sigil, and the smooth surface took on a mottled array of sun-washed colors, then resolved itself into a miniature city set high above a miniature harbor.

"How wonderful!" exclaimed Amali, leaning forward to admire his creation. "What place is it?"

"Rhiminee, my lady," he replied.

"That sprawling black-and-grey monstrosity is the queen's Palace, my home," Klia remarked dryly. "While this lovely white structure over here, the one with the sparkling dome and towers, is the Oreska House."

"I visited it during my time in Rhiminee," said Adzriel. "As I recall, the wizards of Skala were originally scattered around your land, some solitary, others serving various noble houses."

"Yes, my lady; what we called the Second Oreska. After the old capital, Ero, was destroyed, Queen Tamir founded Rhiminee and forged an alliance with the greatest wizards of her day, the Third Oreska. They helped build her city and other wonders; in return she gifted them with her patronage and the land for the Oreska House."

"Then it is true that those among you with magic are kept apart from others?" an Akhendi asked.

"No, not at all," Thero replied. "It's just that we are so different by virtue of that magic and its effect on us—life spans comparable to your own, and the barrenness that is its price—that it was good to have a haven, a place where we could live and share our learning among ourselves. Wizards are not required to live there, but many choose to. I spent most of my life there, in the tower of my master, Nysander i Azusthra. Wizards are highly honored in Skala, I assure you."

"Yet do you not find it sad, to be cut off from the natural flow of life among your own kind?" the same Akhendi asked.

Thero considered this and shrugged. "No, not really. I've never known any other life."

"Rhaish and I visited your city as boys," Riagil i Molan told Klia. "We went to attend the wedding of Corruth i Glamien to your ancestress, Idrilain the First. We were taken to visit this Oreska House of yours. Rhaish, do you recall that wizard who did tricks for us?"

"Oriena, I think her name was," the Akhendi khirnari replied. "It was a beautiful place, with gardens where it was always springtime, and a great mosaic on the floor showing Aura's dragon. The queen's Palace was much darker, with thick walls like a fortress."

"Which only goes to prove that my ancestor, Queen Tamir, should have included more wizards among her builders," Klia said, smiling.

"I should like to see this Third Oreska," said Amali.

"With pleasure, my lady, though it is a less happy place now than it once was." Thero uttered a quick command, and the city's image was replaced with a view of the Oreska gardens. A few robed

figures were visible there, but the place looked strangely deserted. The scene shifted, and Alec recognized the view of the central atrium from the balcony by Nysander's tower door. Sections of the dragon mosaic still showed the damage caused by the attack of Mardus and his necromancers. Here, too, there were fewer people than Alec remembered from his time there,

"This is how it looks now?" Seregil asked softly.

"Yes." Thero changed the image again, showing them Seregil's Wheel Street villa.

"My Skalan home," Seregil said with a hint of irony.

What would they see if Thero conjured up their true home? Alec wondered. Was the blackened cellar hole still there, or had some new establishment been built over the ruins?

"I know a similar magic," said Saaban. A servant brought him a large silver basin mounted on a tripod. Filling it with water, he blew gently across it. Ripples ridged the surface for an instant, then cleared, leaving in their wake a view of green forests below snowcapped peaks. On a hill overlooking a broad lake lay a white sprawl of interconnected stone buildings similar to the khirnari's house at Gedre, but much larger and more elaborate. A town spread down the hill from it to the water's edge. At the forest's edge, a pillared temple stood in a grove of white birches, its domed roof gleaming in the brilliant sunlight that bathed the scene.

"Bokthersa!" breathed Seregil. "I've forgotten so much."

The image faded and more turab was poured. Seregil drank deeply.

"We saw a bit of Akhendi magic as we passed through your fai'thast, Khirnari," Klia told Rhaish i Arlisandin, holding up her left wrist to show him the carved leaf hanging there.

"They're periapts, aren't they?" asked Thero, who wore a similar one.

"Very good," the khirnari said, acknowledging him with a nod. "It is the knots as much as the amulet itself that hold the magic. Either by itself does not work."

"I'd like to learn how they're made, if that's allowed. We have nothing quite like them in Skala."

"But of course! It's quite a common skill among my folk, though some are better at it than others." Rhaish turned to his wife. "Talia, you have a way with such things. Have you the makings with you?"

"I'm never without them." Amali moved to sit next to the wizard and produced a hank of thin leather laces from a purse at her belt. "It's simply a matter of knowing the patterns," she explained. With

one smooth gesture, she pulled the laces through her hand and produced a short band of intricate weave, far more complex than any the Skalans had seen so far. "The second pass sets the amulet, according to the needs of the intended wearer." She took out a small pouch and spilled a collection of little wooden carvings onto her lap. She gazed at Thero a moment, then chose a simple, tapered plaque carved with an eye symbol. "For wisdom," she told him, setting the charm into the weave and tying it around his wrist.

"One can never have enough of that," laughed Klia.

Amali quickly created another and presented it to her, this one with a bird charm very similar to ones Alec and Torsin wore. "It's just a simple binding spell. It warns if someone is ill-wishing you."

"I've found those to be of use many times," Torsin remarked, showing her his. "I only wish the Oreska wizards had the knack for them."

"Can you tell me what these are?" asked Klia, showing her the carved leaf charm and another made from an acorn strung on a few twisted strands. "I couldn't understand a word of what the woman who made them said."

Amali examined them and smiled. "These are more trinkets or luck pieces than charms, but given with a loving heart. The leaf is for good health; the acorn symbolizes a fertile womb."

"I'll take the health, but I'd best save this other for later." Klia untied the acorn charm and tucked it away.

"And you say this magic is possessed only by Akhendi?" asked Thero, examining a charm on his own wrist with interest.

"Others can sometimes learn a few tricks, but it's our clan's gift— magic using knots, weaving, or bindings." Amali handed him a few laces. "Care to try?"

"But how?" he asked.

"Just think of someone here and will the laces to weave for them."

After several unsuccessful tries, Thero managed to knot two strands into an uneven tangle.

Rhaish chuckled. "Well, perhaps with practice. Allow me to show you something rather more sophisticated."

He walked down into the garden and returned with a handful of flowering vines. Taking a gold ring from his finger, he threaded some of the vine through it, then pressed both between his hands. The vine turned to geld before their eyes, each delicate blossom and leaf gleaming like fine jeweler's work. Rhaish wove it into a wreath and presented it to Klia.

"It's lovely!" she exclaimed, placing it on her head. "How wonderful it must be, to create such beauty with such ease."

"Ah, but nothing is ever as easy as it seems. The real magic is in hiding the effort."

The conversation rambled on over the wine, as if they'd all gathered for an evening of simple pleasure. Presently, however, Klia gently brought them back to business.

"Honored friends, Lord Torsin i Xandus had describe to me his impressions of the Iia'sidra's stand regarding our arrival. I would be most interested to hear your thoughts."

Adzriel tapped a long finger against her chin as she considered the question, and Alec was again struck by the strong resemblance she bore to her brother.

"It's too soon to tell," she replied. "While you may be certain of the support of Bokthersa and Akhendi, or the opposition of Viresse, there are still many who remain undecided. Your goal is to gain aide for your embattled country. Yet what you ask requires us to violate the Edict of Separation, thus embroiling you unwittingly in a debate that has been festering here for years."

"It doesn't have to," Klia countered. "One more open port— that's all we're asking for."

"One port or a dozen; it's all the same," said Riagil. "The Khatme and their supporters want to bar all foreigners from Aurenen soil. Then you have the Viresse; Ulan i Sathil will oppose any change that challenges his monopoly on northern shipping."

"And those who have come to rely on his good favor to market their own wares are being cowed with subtleties not to oppose him," the Akhendi khirnari added, his face darkening with anger. "Whatever you do, never underestimate Ulan i Sathil."

"I remember him well, from the negotiations with the Zengati," said Seregil. "He could charm the stones from the earth, but behind that silky manner lurks the will and the patience of a dragon."

"I've come up against that will many times over the years," Torsin said with a rueful chuckle.

"Who are his surest allies?" asked Thero.

Adzriel shrugged expressively. "Golinil and Lhapnos, without question. Golinil because of blood ties."

"And Lhapnos because they stand to lose valuable trade routes if Gedre opens and northern goods no longer must be shipped down Lhapnos's great river and up the coast to Viresse instead of the short way over our mountains," Rhaish i Arlisandin added.

"That is true, but I still say it is the Edict itself which creates the greatest opposition," said Mydri.

"But that came about because of the murder of Lord Corruth,

didn't it?" asked Alec. "Seregil and I proved who killed him. Hasn't honor—atui—been served?"

She shook her head sadly. "That was not the reason for the Edict, only the catalyst. From the time of the first contact between the Tir and the Aurenfaie, many of our race have resisted mingling with Tir of any sort. For some it is a matter of atui. Others, like the Khatme, claim it is the will of Aura. What it comes down to, however, is the simple drive to preserve our kind."

"Against the making of ya'shel like me, you mean?" said Alec.

"Yes, Alec i Amasa. As much as you resemble the 'faie, the years run differently in your blood—it shows already in the fact that you are almost man-grown at nineteen. That will slow as you get older, but look at Seregil, and Kheeta; three times your age, but not so far ahead. You are neither Aurenfaie nor Tirfaie, but a mingling of both. There are those who feel that more is lost than gained by such a breeding.

"But I think it's the Skalan wizards who concern them most of all," she went on, looking at Thero. "The wizards of Skala call themselves the Third Oreska. The First Oreska is my own race. The mingling of blood gave your people magic, but it also changed that magic over the years. The barrenness of your kind is only part of that change. You can move objects, even people, over great distances, some of you, and read thoughts, a practice strictly forbidden here. You have lost the power of healing, as well." Mydri touched the marks on her cheeks. "This is left to priests of other gods."

"The drysians," Seregil said.

"Yes, the drysians. The only vestiges of that gift seem to exist among the Plenimarans, who took the gift of Aura and mingled it with the black cults of Seriamaius to create necromancy, the perversion of healing."

"This was all being debated generations ago," Adzriel explained. "Corruth's disappearance was only the final puff of wind that caused the smoldering tinder to ignite. Our people still trade with lands to the south and west of Aurenen. The reason they were not included in the ban is that there is no magic among the ya'shel bred of their kind."

Thero blinked in surprise. "No magic?"

"None that they did not already possess," Saaban amended. "Thus, the existence of the Third Oreska itself remains an impediment in the minds of some, no matter how persuasive your argument. But to answer your original question, those who stand now against you are Viresse, Golinil, Lhapnos, and Khatme, four of the Eleven already."

"What about Ra'basi?" asked Alec, thinking of Nyal. "They border Viresse to the south, don't they?"

"Moriel a Moriel has not stated her clan's position openly, nor have the Haman, for whom the opening of Gedre would almost certainly work to advantage. They have withheld support out of loyalty to their allies in Lhapnos."

"And to spite Bokthersa," Seregil said quietly.

Saaban nodded. "That, as well. Ill will still clouds their judgment. The Silmai, Datsia, and Bry'kha are also elusive; as far west as they are, with trade to the west and south and blood ties mostly among themselves, they have little to gain or lose."

"Who among those three has the most influence?" asked Klia.

"Brythir i Nien of Silmai is the Elder of the Iia'sidra, greatly respected by all," said Mydri, and others nodded agreement around the circle.

"Then perhaps Aura is smiling on our endeavors, after all," said Klia. "We dine with him tomorrow."

The gathering moved indoors as the night air cooled. Alec overheard Thero, Mydri, and Saaban comparing spells and would have joined them, but found himself cornered by a succession of well-intentioned Bokthersans. Across the room, Seregil was just visible in a small crowd of well-wishers.

On his own for the moment, Alec soon gave up trying to keep track of the intricate family connections each new acquaintance listed off to him.

"If the ban of exile is ever lifted, you can be initiated into our clan as his talimenios, you know," a woman informed him in the course of one such conversation.

"That would be a great honor. I was also hoping to trace who my mother's people were."

The faces around him grew solemn. "Not to know your family line, that is a great tragedy," the woman said, patting his hand kindly.

"How long have you been talimenios?" asked Kheeta, coming over to join them.

"Two years," Alec told him, watching for a reaction.

But Kheeta merely nodded approvingly as he looked across at Seregil. "It's good to see him happy at last."

"Where are Seregil's other sisters?"

Kheeta made a sour face. "Adzriel brought only Bokthersans who accept Seregil's return. Don't be misled by what you see here.

There are a great many who don't. Shalar and Ilina count themselves among that group. I suppose it's understandable with Shalar; she was in love with a Haman and the match was forbidden after— well, the trouble. As for Ilina, she and Seregil were closest in age, but they never got on."

More discord; no wonder Seregil never spoke of his past.

"What about Saaban? Seregil didn't know that he'd married Adzriel, but he seems quite happy with her choice."

"They knew one another before Seregil was sent away. Saaban and Adzriel have been friends for years. He's a man of great honor and intelligence, as well as possessing a keen gift for magic."

"He's a wizard, you mean?"

"As I understand your use of the word, yes. Quite a good one."

Alec was just beginning to mull over the possibilities this new insight presented when they were interrupted again and he was drawn away to answer the same few questions over and over: No, he had no memory of the Hazadrielfaie; yes, Seregil was a great man in Skala; yes, he was happy to be in Aurenen; no, he'd never seen any place like Sarikali. He was scanning the room for escape routes when he felt a hand on his arm.

"Come with me. There's something I need to do and I need your help," Seregil whispered, guiding him through a doorway and up a back staircase.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."-

Seregil smelled strongly of turab, but his steps were steadier than Alec would have expected. They climbed three sets of stairs, pausing on each level to inspect a room or two. Seregil could usually be counted on to hold forth at length, telling him more than anyone needed to know about the history of a place or thing. Tonight, however, he said nothing, just stopped to touch an object here and there, reacquainting himself with the place.

Alec had a talent for silence. Hands clasped behind his back, he followed Seregil down a winding third-floor corridor. Plain wooden doors opened off the passage at irregular intervals, each one no different from the last as far as he could tell. A small village could easily have put up in the place, or an entire clan.

Seregil halted in front of a door next to a sharp turning of the passage. He knocked, then lifted the latch and slipped into the darkened room.

It had been a long time since they'd burgled a house, but Alec automatically took stock of the place: no light, no smell of hearth or

candle smoke, no coverlet on the bed. The room was a safe one, not in use.

"Over here."

Alec heard the creak of hinges, then saw Seregil's lean form framed against an arch of night sky across the room. Drunk or not, he could move silently when he chose.

The arch let onto a small balcony overlooking the guest house.

"That's our room," Seregil told him, pointing out a window there.

"And this room was yours."

"Ah, yes. I told you, didn't I?" Seregil leaned on the stone parapet, face inscrutable in the moonlight.

"This is where you sat listening to the city dream," Alec murmured.

"I did considerable dreaming of my own. Wait here." Seregil went back inside and returned with a dusty feather tick from the bed. Wadding it against the wall, he sat down and reached for Alec, pulling him down between his legs with his back to Seregil's chest.

"There." He nuzzled Alec's cheek, holding him close. "Here's one dream come to pass, anyway. Aura knows, nothing else has turned out the way I thought it would."

Alec leaned back against him, enjoying their shared heat. "What else did you dream about, sitting here?"

"That I'd leave Bokthersa and travel."

"Like Nyal."

Alec felt rather than heard Seregil's ironic chuckle. "I suppose so. I'd live among foreign people, immerse myself in their ways for years and years, but always return here, and to Bokthersa."

"What would you do on your travels?"

"Just—search. For places no Aurenfaie had seen, for people I'd never meet by remaining at home. My uncle always said there's a reason for every gift. My skills with languages and fighting—he guessed that all added up to someone who was meant to wander. Looking back now, I suppose deep down I was hoping I'd find a place where I was something more than my father's greatest disappointment."

Alec considered this in silence for a moment. "It's difficult for you, isn't it? Being here, the way things are."

"Yes."

How could a single quiet word convey such pain, such longing?

"What else did you wish for, sitting here?" Alec asked quickly, knowing there was nothing he could do to assuage that wound; better just to move on.

A hand slid slowly under his jaw, cupping his cheek as lips

brushed his cheek. The touch spread a tingle of anticipation down his whole right side.

"This, tali. You," Seregil said, breath warm on his skin. "I couldn't see your face back then, but it was you I dreamed of. I've had so many lovers—dozens, hundreds maybe. But not one of them—" He broke off. "I can't explain it. I think some part of me recognized you that first night we met, battered and filthy as you were."

"In that distant foreign land." Alec turned to meet the next kiss with one of his own. How long before someone missed them and came looking?

Time enough. .

But Seregil only pulled him closer, cradling him without any of the usual playful groping that preceded their lovemaking. They sat like that for some time, until Alec finally realized that this was what Seregil had come here for.

They fell silent again, and Alec felt himself slipping into a doze. He snapped awake again when Seregil shifted his legs.

"Well, I suppose we should go back down," Seregil said.

Alec rose awkwardly, still sleep dazed. The night air felt cold against his right side where he'd lain against him. The sudden loss of physical contact left him disoriented and a little melancholy, as if he'd absorbed Seregil's sorrow through his skin.

Seregil was looking at the guest house again. "Thank you, tali. Now when I look over here from there, I can remember this as more than just a place that isn't mine anymore."

They replaced the tick and were almost out the door when Seregil paused and turned back, muttering something to himself.

"What is it?" asked Alec.

Instead of answering, Seregil pulled the bedstead to one side and disappeared behind it.

Alec heard the scrape of stone against stone, followed by a triumphant cackle. Seregil popped into view again, holding up a grappling hook and rope.

"Where did that come from?" Alec asked, amused by his friend's obvious delight.

"Come see for yourself."

Alec climbed onto the dusty bed and peered over the edge. Seregil had pried up one of the polished stone floor tiles, revealing a dark space underneath.

"Did you make that hole?"

"No, and I wasn't the first to use it, either. The grapple was mine,

a later addition, and this." He lifted out a clear quartz crystal as long as his palm. "I found the loose tile by accident. These other things were already here. Treasures." A pretty box of Aurenfaie inlay work followed the crystal, and inside Alec found a child's necklace of red and blue beads and a falcon's skull. Seregil placed a painted wooden dragon with gilded wings beside it, then a small portrait of an Aurenfaie couple painted on ivory. Finally, with great care, he lifted out a fragile wooden doll. Its large black eyes and full-lipped mouth were painted on, but the hair was real—long, tightly curled ringlets of shining black.

"By the Four!" Alec touched a finger reverently to the hair. "Do you think this is Bash'wai?"

Still kneeling behind the bed, Seregil touched each object with obvious affection and nodded. "The doll is, and perhaps the necklace."

"And you never told anyone?"

"Just you." Seregil carefully replaced everything except the grapple. "It wouldn't have been special if anyone else had known."

Standing, he tilted Alec a crooked grin. "And you know how good I am at keeping secrets."

Alec uncoiled the grapple rope. It was still supple, and knotted every few feet for climbing. "It's too short to reach the ground."

"I'm disappointed in you, tali," Seregil chided, carrying it out to the balcony. With one easy toss, he threw the hook up and secured it on the edge of the roof above. Giving Alec a parting wink, he shimmied up and out of sight.

Knowing that he'd just been issued a challenge, Alec followed and found Seregil waiting for him in the large colos there.

"I used to sneak out of my room this way, then use the back stairs over there to get out of the house. Or Kheeta and I would meet up here and trade sweets we'd nicked from the kitchen. Later on it was beer, or turab. Actually, it's a wonder I didn't break my neck one of those nights on the way back down." He looked around a moment, then laughed outright. "One time six of us were up here, pissed as newts, when our lookout heard my father on his way up. We all went down the rope that night and hid out in my room until dawn."

Alec smiled but couldn't quite suppress another jealous pang, especially at the mention of Kheeta. Tagging along after his nomadic father most of his life, Alec hadn't had a real home or many friends. Thoughts of the rhui'auros flashed to mind, and he silently vowed that before this journey was over, he was going to learn whatever he could of his own missing past.

Seregil must have sensed this roil of emotion, for suddenly he was close beside Alec again, pressing a turab-scented kiss to his. lips. "It's one of the few memories I have now that doesn't hurt," he offered.

"Shall we go down the same way we came up?" Alec asked, passing it off lightly.

"Why not? We're practically sober."

Back on the balcony, Seregil gave the rope a neat flick that unseated the hook. Coiling it up again, he returned the grapple to its hiding place with the other toys.

"Leaving it for the next child who discovers your secret cache?" Alec asked.

"It seems only right." Seregil set the tile back in place and pushed the leg of the bed over it. "It's good to know something around here hasn't changed."

Alec pondered the toys hidden in the dark as they returned to the gathering. Somehow, they seemed to fit into the strange, complex mosaic of Seregil's life, a tiny model of the treasure-strewn and equally hidden rooms they'd shared at the Cockerel, or the unexpected bits of his own past that Seregil doled out like precious relics.

Or perhaps precious wasn't the right term.

It's one of the few memories I have now that doesn't hurt.

You never told anyone?

Just you.

How many times had someone looked at him in surprise when he'd mentioned something Seregil had shared with him? He told you about that?

Humbled by this realization, he steered Seregil back to Kheeta and went off to find Beka.

12

The Great Game Begins

The first round of negotiations began the next morning, and from the outset Seregil could see that it was going to be a laborious process.

The Iia'sidra met in a stone pavilion overlooking the great pool at the center of the city. The original builder's purpose for the broad, octagonal building was not known; inside, it was one huge, two-story chamber with a sweeping stone gallery. A temple, perhaps, although no one knew what gods the Bash'wai had worshiped. The eleven principal khirnari were already seated in open booths arranged around the hall's central circle. The khirnari and their chief advisers sat in front; scribes, kin, and servants of various sorts were allotted seats behind them. Outside the circle and in the gallery above, members of the numerous minor clans had their own hierarchy. They might not vote in the Iia'sidra, but they did have a voice.

Seated with Alec just behind Klia in the Skalan booth, Seregil gazed around the vaulted chamber, studying faces. He'd wondered how he would feel, attending the Iia'sidra for the first time as an adult. As he caught sight of Adzriel and her small entourage he decided the experience was not an altogether pleasant one. Saaban, who also acted as adviser, sat at Adzriel's right, Mydri

on her left. Seregil would have held a rightful place there, too. Instead, he sat on the opposite side of the council circle, wearing the clothes and speaking the words of strangers. Better not to dwell on that, he told himself sternly. He'd put himself here; now there was work to be done, honorable work for an honorable cause.

Klia had once again displayed a considerable talent for appearances. Today she'd ridden to the council hall in full dress uniform, with two decuria for escort. Torsin and Thero flanked her like some living tableau of aged wisdom and youthful intellect. Anyone expecting a supplicant from a dying nation was in for quite a surprise.

When everyone had settled, a woman stepped forward and struck a hollow silver staff against the floor. Its solemn chime reverberated around the stone chamber, commanding silence.

"Let no person forget that we stand in Sarikali, the living heart of Aurenen," she announced. "Stand in Aura's sight and speak the truth."

She struck the chime again and withdrew to a small platform. Brythir i Nien rose first to speak.

"Brothers and sisters of the Iia'sidra, and all people of Aura in this place," he began. "Klia a Idrilain, Princess of Skala, seeks audience today. Are there any who object to her presence, or that of her ministers?"

There was a weighty pause; then the khirnari of Haman, Lhapnos, and Golinil rose as one.

"We object to the presence of the exile, Seregil of Rhiminee," stated Galmyn i Nemius.

Alec and Thero both shot Seregil worried glances, but he'd expected as much.

"Your objections are noted," Brythir i Nien told the dissenters. "Any others? Very well, then. Klia a Idrilain, you may speak."

Klia rose and made the assembly a dignified bow. "Honored Khirnari and people of Aurenen, I come before you today as a representative of my mother, Queen Idrilain. From her I bear greetings and a proposition.

"As you know, Plenimar is once more making war against Skala and our ally, Mycena. From your own agents we also know that they have courted the favor of your own enemy, Zengat. Aurenen has fought with us against Plenimar before. I stand before you today as a warrior who has faced this aggressor in the field, and they are as mighty now as in the days of the Great War.

"Already our trade routes with the northlands have been cut off. Mycena will almost surely fall. We Skalans are great warriors, yet

without allies or supplies, how long can we stand come winter? If Plenimar lays claim to the Three Lands and their territories, how long will it be before their fleets and those of the Zengati pirates mass along your coast?

"Our two races stood against Plenimar through the dark days of the Great War. For many years we mixed our blood and called each other kin. In the face of this new crisis, Queen Idrilain proposes a renewed alliance between our two lands for our mutual defense and benefit."

Galmyn i Nemius of Lhapnos was the first to respond. "You speak of supplies, Klia a Idrilain. You already have these from us, do you not? Aurenfaie goods are still carried north from Viresse by Tirfaie ships."

"But few of them are Skalan ships these days," she replied. "Few of our vessels can reach Viresse, and fewer still return. Plenimaran ships lurk behind every island. They attack without provocation, pillage the cargoes, kill the crew, and send the ships to the bottom of the Osiat Sea. Then they sail back to trade at your port. And their reach is growing. My own ship was attacked no more than a day's voyage from Gedre."

"What would you have of us, then?" asked the Khatme, Lhaar a Iriel.

Klia motioned to Lord Torsin. "The list, please."

The envoy stepped forward and unrolled a parchment. Clearing his throat, he read: "Queen Idrilain asks first that the Iia'sidra Council grant Skala a second open port, Gedre, and leave to mass ships there and in the Ea'malie Islands for no longer than the duration of the present conflict. In return, she pledges increased payments for Aurenfaie horses, grain, and weapons.

"In addition, the queen proposes a military alliance for the mutual benefit and defense of our two lands. She asks that you commit to a levy of Aurenfaie warships, soldiers, and wizards, with her pledge in kind to provide the same in the event that Aurenen is attacked."

"A hollow pledge, from a land that cannot even defend itself," observed a Haman. Torsin pressed on as if he hadn't heard.

"Finally, she earnestly desires to reestablish the accord that once existed between our two peoples. In this dark time, she prays that the Iia'sidra will honor the call of blood to blood and once again treat Skala as her friend and ally."

Nazien i Hari was on his feet before Torsin finished rolling up his scroll. "Are the memories of the Tir so short, Torsin i Xandus?" he

demanded. "Has your queen forgotten what sundered our peoples in the first place? I am not the only one present today who is old enough to recall the outcry of your people against Corruth i Glamien when he married the first Idrilain, or how he disappeared immediately after her death—murdered by Skalans. Adzriel a Illia, how can you support those who ask us to embrace the murderers of your own kinsman?"

"Are the Skalans a single clan, that the action of one member brings shame to all?" Adzriel replied. "The Exile, once my brother, stands among us now in part due to his role in solving the mystery of Corruth's disappearance. Thanks to his efforts, the bones of my kinsman lie in Bokthersa at last, and the clan of those who killed him has suffered disgrace and punishment. Atui had been served."

"Ah, yes!" sneered Nazien. "And what an advantageous discovery that was. It occurs to me that we have only the word of his murderers that the bundle of charred bones we saw was that of Corruth. What proof has been offered?"

"Proof enough for his kinswoman, the queen," Klia retorted. "Proof enough for me, who saw the body before it was burned. And proof remains. Seregil, if you would?"

Steeling himself, Seregil rose and faced Nazien. "Khirnari, did you know Corruth i Glamien well?"

"I did," Nazien snapped, then added pointedly, "in the days long before discord sundered the bonds of friendship between Haman and Bokthersa."

Thanks so much for bringing that up here, Seregil thought. But strike a bruise often enough and it goes numb.

"Then you would recognize this, Khirnari." He pulled out the ring and carried it slowly around the circle for inspection.

Nazien's face darkened with suspicion as it came round to him. "This was Corruth's," he grudgingly acknowledged.

"I removed this and the consort's seal ring from the hand of his intact corpse before it was burned," Seregil told him, looking the man squarely in the eye. "As Princess Klia has stated, she herself saw the body." When all had seen and acknowledged the ring, he returned to his seat.

"The murder of Corruth is the concern of Bokthersa and the Skalan queen, not of this assembly," Elos i Orian of Golinil argued impatiently. "What Princess Klia has just proposed challenges the Edict of Separation. For more than two centuries we have lived peacefully within our own borders, trading with whom we choose without allowing foreigners and barbarians to roam our soil."

"Trading with whom Viresse chooses, you should say!" Rhaish i Arlisandin burst out angrily, prompting a groundswell murmur of agreement from many of the minor clans sitting in the outer circle. "It's all well and good for you eastern clans—you do not have to cart your goods past the ports you once used, and you profit from those who must. When is the last time the markets of Akhendi or Ptalos saw Tirfaie goods and gold? Not since your Edict of Separation closed its hold about our throats!"

"Perhaps Viresse would prefer to see Skala fall?" Iriel a Kasrai of Bry'kha suggested. "After all, it has always been a shorter voyage to Benshal than to Rhiminee!"

Ulan i Sathil remained conspicuously silent as the others of the council warmed to the familiar fight; evidently the khirnari of the Viresse knew when to let others fight his battles for him.

"There's your strongest adversary," Seregil told Klia, letting the surrounding uproar cover his words.

Klia glanced in Ulan's direction and smiled. "Yes, I can see that. I want to know this man better."

Silmai was the wealthiest of the western clans, and Brythir i Nien had spared nothing in the name of hospitality. Tense as he was from the day's business and the prospect of the evening still ahead, Seregil felt something loosen a little in his chest as he and the others entered the rooftop garden Brythir i Nien had prepared for them.

Flowering plants and trees in huge carved urns were thickly banked around three sides of the roofline, screening the rest of the city from view except for the broad avenue below, which had been cordoned off for displays of horsemanship. Bright silk banners and prayer kites rustled softly in the evening breeze overhead. In water-bowls decorated with sea creatures, tiny silver ships carried candles and smoking cones of incense on their decks. The sen'gai of the Datsians and Bry'khans who'd already arrived added to the illusion that they'd all been transported to Silmai itself.

"I thought the Haman were to be here?" Alec whispered, scanning the crowd warily.

"Not here yet. Or perhaps my presence scared them off?" "Nazien i Hari doesn't strike me as someone easily frightened." Dressed in a sen'gai and flowing festival robe of Silmai turquoise, Brythir i Nien leaned on the arm of a dark-eyed young woman as he welcomed Klia and her party.

"You honor our household with your presence," he said as he gently urged a little girl in a colorful embroidered tunic forward. The child bowed and presented Klia with a pair of heavy gold and turquoise bracelets. Watching her place them on her wrists with the Gedre bracelets and Akhendi charms, Seregil wondered if such gifts didn't eventually burden the arms. It was unlikely he'd ever find out for himself.

"I'm told that you have an uncommonly fine appreciation of horses," Brythir went on, giving Klia a knowing smile. "You ride a Silmai black, I understand?"

"The finest mount I've ever owned, Khirnari," she replied. "He's carried me through many a battle between here and Mycena."

"How I should like to show you the great horselands of my fai'thast. Our herds cover the hills."

"If my time here in Sarikali is productive, perhaps you shall," Klia replied with a subtle smile.

The old man recognized the unspoken implication. Offering her his frail arm, he gave her a mischievous wink that belied his years as he led her into the garden. "I believe tonight's entertainment will be very much to your liking, my dear."

"I understand Nazien i Hari will be joining us," said Klia. "Is he an ally of yours?"

The old man patted her hand as if she were one of his granddaughters. "We are friends, he and I, and I hope to make him one of yours. This Edict has worn sorely on me over the years, much as I loved Corruth i Glamien. He was a nephew of mine, you know. No, we Silmai are travelers, sailors, the best traders in Aurenen. We don't like being told where we may go and where we may not. How I miss lovely Rhiminee atop her high cliffs!"

"Your garden makes me long for the western coast," Seregil remarked as he and the others trailed along beside them. "I almost expect to see the green Zengati Sea shining beyond the rooftops."

Brythir clasped Seregil's arm for a moment with one frail hand. "Life is long, child of Aura. Perhaps one day you will see it again."

Surprised, Seregil bowed to the old man before moving on into the garden.

"That's encouraging!" Alec whispered.

"Or politic," Seregil muttered back.

His reception was somewhat cooler among the other guests. Datsia, Bry'kha, Ptalos, Ameni, Koramia—these clans had all supported his father's efforts with the Zengat, and thereby lost the most

through Seregil's crime. He approached them with cautious civility and was greeted with the same by most, if only for the sake of Brythir's hospitality, or perhaps their interest in Alec.

If the weight of being a novelty was wearing on his companion, Alec gave no sign. Despite their long absence from the salons of Rhiminee, the lessons Alec had learned there still served him well. Modest, quiet, quick to smile, he moved among the guests as easily as water among stones. Trailing in his wake, Seregil watched with a mix of pride and amusement as various guests clasped Alec's hand a moment too long, or let their gaze wander a little too freely.

Stepping back, Seregil imagined seeing his friend, his talimenios, through their eyes: a slender, golden-haired young ya'shel utterly unconscious of his own appeal. It wasn't just his looks that struck people, either. Alec had a gift for listening to people, a way of focusing on whomever he was conversing with that made them feel like they were the most interesting person in the room. It didn't matter if that person was a tavern slopper or a lord, Alec had the touch.

Pride gave way to a wave of sensual hunger, reminding him that they hadn't done much more than fall asleep together since Gedre, and that it had been lean times for almost two weeks before that. Alec looked his way just then and smiled. Seregil hid his own grin behind the rim of a wine cup, suddenly glad of his full-skirted Skalan coat. Talimenios could be a tricky thing in public.

The tenor of the gathering changed subtly with the arrival of the Haman. Keeping to the background, Seregil watched as Klia greeted Nazien i Hari and his entourage. Surprisingly, the man greeted her cordially, clasping her hands and presenting her with a ring from his own finger. She did the same, and the two fell into conversation as Brythir looked on benevolently.

"What do you think of that?" Alec exclaimed softly, coming up behind him.

"Interesting. Perhaps even encouraging. After all, it's me the Haman hate, not Skala. Why don't you wander over for a listen?"

"Ah, there you are!" Klia smiled as Alec joined her. "Khirnari, I don't think you've met my aide, Alec i Amasa? "

"How do you do, honored sir?" Alec said with a bow.

"I have heard of him," Nazien replied, suddenly cool. Clearly, the man knew who he was and detested him on principle. With a single, subtle glance, the Haman dismissed him as thoroughly as if he'd

ceased to exist. More amazing still, Klia seemed not to have noticed the slight.

Alec stepped back a pace, feeling as if the breath had suddenly been sucked from his lungs. It was his Watcher training that kept him there with Klia, listening, when every instinct counseled a hasty retreat.

So he hovered, studying the faces of the Haman beneath their yellow-and-black sen'gai as he pretended to listen to a nearby conversation. There were twelve Haman with Nazien—six men, six women, most of them close kin with the same dark, sharp eyes as their khirnari. Most chose to consider Alec invisible, though one, a broad-shouldered man with a dragon bite on his chin, spared Alec a challenging glare.

Alec was about to go when Nazien mentioned something about the Edict.

"It is a complex matter," the khirnari was saying to Klia. "You must understand, there was a great deal more to it than Corruth's disappearance. The exodus of the Hazadrielfaie centuries before was still fresh in the minds of our people—the terrible loss."

Alec inched closer; this was in line with what Adzriel had told them the night before.

"Then, as trade grew with the Three Lands, we watched as more 'faie disappeared to northern lands, mingling their blood with the Tir," Nazien continued. "Many of our clan mingled with yours, losing their ties with their own kind."

"Then you feel a 'faie belongs in Aurenen and nowhere else?" asked Klia.

"It is a common sentiment," Nazien replied. "Perhaps it is difficult for a Tirfaie to understand, as you find those like yourselves wherever you travel. We are a race apart, unique to this land. We are long-lived, it is true, but we are also, in Aura's great wisdom, slow to breed. I do not say that our lives are more sacred to us than those of the Tir are to you, but our attitude toward such things as war and murder is one of greater horror. I think you will be hard-pressed to convince any khirnari to send their people off to die in your war."

"And yet if you would only allow those who wish to go," Klia countered. "You must not underestimate our own love of life. Every day I am here more of my people die for want of the help you could so easily give. It is not honor we fight for, but our very lives."

"Be that as it may—"

They were interrupted by a call to the banquet. The light was failing

quickly now, and torches were lit around the garden and in the street below. Klia and Nazien went to join their host. Alec moved off, looking for Seregil.

"Well?" asked Seregil as they took their seats on a couch near Klia's.

Alec shrugged, still smarting from the Haman's treatment. "Just more politics."

The entertainment began with the feast. A horn sounded and a dozen riders on Silmai blacks appeared from around the corner of a distant building. The horses' harnesses and girth straps were hung with tinkling gold and turquoise ornaments, and their streaming white manes and tails shone like combed milkweed silk.

The riders, men and women both, were equally exotic. Their long hair was bound tightly back into a club at the back of their necks, and each wore a silver crescent of Aura on their brow. The men wore short kilts dyed the turquoise blue of their clan and tightly belted with gold. The women wore tunics of similar design.

"They're ya'shel, too, aren't they?" Alec asked, pointing out several riders with golden-tan skin and curling black hair.

"Yes. Some Zengati blood, I'd say," Seregil told him.

Riding bareback at breakneck speeds, the performers leaped from one mount to another and rode standing on their horses' backs, their oiled limbs shining in the firelight. As one, they clapped their hands, and swirling masses of colored lights unfurled from their fingertips like banners, then were woven into patterns by the intricate drills they executed. The Skalans clapped and cheered. Standing guard behind Klia, Beka's riders cheered the loudest of all.

When the performers had finished and retired, a single rider took the field. Dressed like the others, he cantered out and saluted his audience, gripping his mount's sides with long, lean-muscled legs. His skin was a golden tan, his hair a cascade of long black curls.

"My youngest grandson, Taanil i Khormai," Brythir announced, beaming at Klia.

"And the banquet's main course, I suspect," murmured Seregil, nudging Alec with his elbow.

As Taanil set off on his first circuit of the grassy riding area, the khirnari leaned closer to Klia. "The skills of my grandson are not limited to riding. He is a fearless sailor, and a student of languages. He speaks your tongue quite flawlessly, I'm told. He would welcome the opportunity to converse with you."

I'll bet, thought Seregil, grinning behind his wine cup.

Coming down the field at a gallop, Taanil gripped his mount's girth strap and vaulted from side to side over its back, then went into a handstand, his lean body straight as a spear. The sight drew more than a few admiring sounds from the Skalan contingent.

The young Silmai joined Klia on her couch after his ride and charmed them all with his tales of sea trade and horsemanship.

When he left to perform again, Klia leaned over to Seregil and whispered. "Am I being courted?"

Seregil gave her a wink. "There's more than one way to forge an alliance. Marrying off a youngest grandson is a small price to pay for a new trade ally, wouldn't you say?"

"Are you saying I'm being offered second-rate goods?"

Seregil raised an eyebrow. "I certainly wouldn't call Taanil second rate. What I meant is that they wouldn't be losing a potential khirnari if he left."

Klia chuckled at this. "I don't think they have much to worry about on that score, but I suppose I can bear his company while we're here." She winked. "After all, we do need the horses."

13

Guides

Alec woke the following morning to find Seregil standing over him, dressed from head to foot in black: black leather breeches, black boots, long black velvet coat slashed with black silk. Above his gold badge of office, Corruth's ruby ring glowed on its silver chain. The overall effect was rather sinister. Seregil looked grim and tired.

"You were restless last night," Alec complained, yawning.

"I had that dream again, the one I had in the mountains."

"About going home?"

"If that's what it is." He sat down on the edge of the bed and laced his fingers together around one up-drawn knee.

Alec reached up to touch the Akhendi charm still braided into Seregil's hair. "It must be a true one, with this to guard your dreams."

Seregil gave a noncommittal shrug. "I think you'll be of more use behind the scenes today."

Changing the subject again, are you? Alec thought resignedly. Giving up for now, he settled back against the bolsters. "Where should I start?"

"You should learn your way around the city. I've asked Kheeta to guide you until you

get used to the place. It's too easy to get lost when it's empty like this."

"How very tactful of you, Lord Seregil." Alec's sense of direction had a disconcerting way of deserting him in cities.

"Familiarize yourself with the area, make friends, keep your ears open." Leaning over, he ruffled Alec's already disheveled hair. "Look as simple and harmless as you can, even around our supporters. Sooner or later someone will let slip some interesting bit of information."

Alec affected a look of wide-eyed innocence and Seregil laughed.

"Perfect! And to think you used to say I'd never make an actor of you."

"What about that?" Alec said, pointing at the ring.

Glancing down in surprise, Seregil dropped it inside the neck of his coat, then headed for the door.

"Idrilain wouldn't have given it to you if she didn't think you were worthy of wearing it," Alec called after him.

Seregil gave him a last, thoughtful look and shook his head. "Good hunting, tali. Kheeta's waiting."

Alec lay back, thinking about the ring and wondering whose approval Seregil awaited. The Iia'sidra's? Adzriel's? The Haman's?

"Oh, well," he muttered, rolling out of bed. "At least I've got something to do today."

He washed with cold water from the pitcher and dressed for riding. He left his sword belt hanging with Seregil's over the bedpost. Most of the Aurenfaie he'd seen went unarmed except for belt knives. In the event of trouble, he always had the slender dagger in his boot. Their tool rolls were still hidden away for now, as well. According to Seregil, there were few locks in Sarikali, and most of those were magical in nature. That fact aside, it certainly wouldn't do for erstwhile diplomats to be caught carrying such a fine collection of lock picks.

Instead, he slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder and headed down in search of breakfast.

A cook gave him a pocket breakfast and news that Klia and the others had already left for the Iia'sidra. In the stable yard, he found Windrunner saddled next to another Aurenfaie mount. "Feels like rain today, I'd say," Rhylin observed, on duty there.

Alec studied the hazy sky and nodded. The breeze had dropped and the clouds were already darkening ominously. "Have you seen Kheeta?"

"He went back to his room for something. He asked that you wait here."

The sound of voices drew Alec into the stable, where he found one of Mercalle's dispatch riders and her Akhendi guides trying to argue about liniments in two broken languages.

"Heading north?" he asked Ileah.

She patted the large pouch slung over her shoulder. "Maybe I can come by a few fancy dragon marks like yours along the way. Any letters you want carried to Rhiminee?"

"Not today. How long do you reckon it takes to get a message back through?"

"Less time than it took us to get here. We'll push harder over the unguarded sections of the pass, and we'll have fresh horses all along the way, compliments of our Akhendi friends."

"Good morning, Alec i Amasa!" said Kheeta, the fringed ends of his green sen'gai flying about his shoulders as he hurried in. "I'm to show you around, I'm told."

"Let us know if you find any decent taverns in this ghost city," Ileah implored.

"I wouldn't mind finding something like that myself," Alec admitted. "Where do we start, Kheeta?"

The Bokthersan grinned. "Why, at the Vhadasoori, of course."

Cloud shadows scudded across their path as they set off along the turf-muted avenue leading back to the center of the city.

It felt less deserted today. Riders galloped past, and there were people in the streets. Marketplaces had been set up at crossroads, with goods being sold on blankets or out of the backs of carts. Most of the people Alec saw looked like servants and attendants. Clearly, it took a sizable population behind the scenes to maintain the banquets and bathhouses that helped court alliances.

"It's difficult to believe a city like this just stands empty most of the time," Alec remarked.

"Not quite empty," said Kheeta. "There are the Bash'wai, and the rhui'auros. But as you say, Sarikali belongs mostly to itself and its ghosts. We are merely occasional lodgers, coming here for festivals, or to settle clan disputes on neutral ground."

He pointed to a stag's skull set on a post beside the street. It was painted red, with silvered horns. "See that. It's a boundary marker for Bokthersa tupa. And that white hand with the black symbol on the palm painted on the wall across the street marks the tupa of Akhendi."

"Are people very territorial here?" Given the chances that he'd be nightrunning here sooner or later, it was a good idea to know the local customs.

"It depends on who is involved, I suppose. Violence is forbidden, but trespassers can be made to feel quite unwelcome. I stay clear of Haman tupa and you and your companions will do well to do the same, especially when you're alone. The Khatme aren't much for visitors, either."

At the Vhadasoori they left their horses outside the circle of stones and entered on foot. Alec paused beside one of the monolithic figures, pressing a palm to its rough surface. He half expected to feel some magical vibration, but the stone was silent beneath the cool morning dew.

"You did not have a proper welcome the other day," Kheeta said, going to the moon-shaped chalice that still stood on its pillar. "All who come to Sarikali drink from the Cup of Aura."

"Is it left here all the time?" Alec asked, surprised.

"Of course." Kheeta dipped up water from the pool and presented it to him.

Alec took it in both hands. The narrow alabaster bowl was perfectly smooth, its silver base untarnished.

"Is it magical?" he asked.

The Bokthersan shrugged. "Everything is magical in some way, even if we cannot perceive it."

He drank deeply, then handed it back to Kheeta. "Don't you have any thieves here in Aurenen? "

"In Aurenen? Of course. But not here."

A city without locks and without footpads and thieves? Alec thought skeptically. That would be magic indeed.

They spent the rest of the morning exploring. There were hundreds of tupas, counting those of the lesser clans, so Alec concentrated on those of the Eleven for the moment. Kheeta was a talkative guide, pointing out clan marker and points of interest. One hulking dark structure looked very much like another until he named it as a temple or meeting place.

Alec found himself studying his companion as well. "Does Seregil seem much changed to you?" he asked at last.

Kheeta sighed. "Yes, especially when he's dealing with the Iia'sidra or your princess. Then again, when he looks at you, or makes a joke, I see the same old haba."

"I heard Adzriel call him that," Alec said, pouncing on the unfamiliar word. "Is it like 'tali'?"

Kheeta chuckled. "No, haba are small black—" He paused, searching for the Skalan word. "Squirrels? Yes, squirrels, that live in the western forests. They're everywhere in Bokthersa, feisty little creatures that can chew their way into the tightest bale, or will steal the bread from your hand when you're not looking. Seregil could climb like a haba, and fight like one when pushed to it. He was always trying to prove himself, that one."

"To his father?"

"You've heard about that, have you?"

"A bit." Alec tried not to sound too eager. This wasn't the sort of information he'd been sent to gather, but he wasn't about to let the opportunity pass.

"Well, you've met Mydri, so you can see the difference. Seregil and Adzriel were the only ones of the four who took after their mother. Perhaps things might have been different for Seregil if she'd lived." Kheeta paused, frowning at some unpleasant memory. "There are those in the family who say it was Korit's guilt that kept father and son at odds."

"Guilt? For what?"

"For Illia's death in childbirth. Most Aurenfaie women bear only one or two children, but Korit i Solun wanted a son to carry his name. Illia obliged him out of love, having daughter after daughter until she was past her prime. The last birthing was too much for her, or at least that's how I've heard it.

"The raising of Seregil fell to Adzriel, and a good thing, too. What finally happened with that bastard Ilar—" Kheeta spat vehemently over his horse's flank. "Well, there are those who laid the blame as much on his father as on Seregil. I tried to tell Seregil as much last night, but he won't listen."

"I know what you mean. It's best to leave certain subjects alone."

"And yet he became a great hero in Skala." Kheeta's admiration and affection for Seregil was evident. "And you, as well, from what I hear?"

"We got through some bad times with whole skins," Alec replied vaguely, not in the mood to extol their exploits like some bard's tale.

He was spared the trouble. As they came around a corner, they saw a woman dressed in a red robe and bulbous black hat standing in the shadowed doorway of a temple, apparently in the midst of an animated conversation with someone inside. As they drew closer, Alec could make out complicated patterns of black lines covering the woman's hands.

"What clan is she?"

"No clan. That's a rhui'auros. They give up their clan when they enter the Nha'mahat" Kheeta told him, making a sign of some sort in her direction.

Before Alec could ask what a nha'mahat was he came abreast of the rhui'auros and saw that she was talking to empty air.

"Bash'wai," Kheeta said, noting Alec's surprise.

A chill ran up Alec's spine as he looked back at the empty doorway. "The rhui'auros can see them?"

"Some do. Or claim to. They have some strange ways, and what they say is not always what they mean."

"They lie?"

"No, but they are often—obscure."

"I'll keep that in mind when we visit them. Seregil hasn't had a free moment since we—"

Kheeta stared at him. "Seregil spoke of going there?"

Alec thought back to that odd, tense conversation back in Ardinlee. Seregil hadn't spoken of the rhui'auros since.

"You mustn't ever ask him to go there," Kheeta warned.

"Why?"

"If he's not told you, then it's not for me to say."

"Kheeta, please," Alec urged. "Most of what I know about Seregil I've learned from other people. He gives away so little about himself, even now."

"I shouldn't have spoken. It's for him to tell you that tale, or not."

Being close-mouthed and stubborn must be a Bokthersan trait, Alec thought, as they rode on in silence.

"Come," Kheeta said at last, relenting a bit. "I can show you where to find them for yourself."

Leaving the more populated tupas behind, they rode to a quarter at the southern edge of the city. The buildings here were overgrown and crumbling, the streets choked in places with tall grass and wild-

flowers. Weeds had claimed the courtyards. For all its strangeness, however, it appeared to be a popular destination; people strolled the ruined streets in pairs and small groups. Dragonlings, the first Alec had seen since they'd left the mountains, were as plentiful as grasshoppers, basking on the tops of walls like lizards or fluttering among the flowering vines with the sparrows and hummingbirds.

This place felt different, as well, the magic stronger and more unsettling.

"This is called the Haunted City," Kheeta explained. "It's believed that the veil between ourselves and the Bash'wai is thinnest here. The Nha'mahat lies just outside the city."

They rode past the last of the crumbling houses and out into the open. On a rise just ahead stood the most bizarre-looking structure Alec had seen here yet. It was a huge tower of sorts, built in a series of square tiers that diminished in size as they went up. It was topped with a large colos and Alec could see people moving in the archways there. Although different in design from anything he had seen in Sarikali, it was made of the same dark stone and had the same grown-from-the-earth look. Behind it, the white vapor of a hot spring billowed up, roiling on the slight breeze.

"The Nha'mahat," Kheeta said, dismounting well away from the building. "We'll go on foot. Be careful not to step on the little dragons. They're thick here."

Alec kept a nervous eye on the ground as he followed.

The ground level was bordered by a covered arcade. Prayer kites hung from the pillars, some new, some faded and tattered.

Entering, Alec saw that the walkways were lined with trays of food: fruit, boiled grains dyed yellow and red, and milk. Fingerlings seemed to be the main beneficiary of this bounty; masses of the little creatures vied for a meal under the watchful eye of several robed rhui'auros.

Strolling around to the back of the building, Alec saw that the ground fell away sharply. The vapor he'd seen issued from the dark mouth of a grotto beneath the tower. Steam belched from it like smoke from a forge. More rose in wisps from the stream that flowed down among the stones below.

Something happened to him here, Alec thought, suddenly picturing a much younger Seregil being dragged into the darkness below.

"Would you like to go in?" asked Kheeta, leading him back toward a doorway.

A gust of cold wind whipped across the open plain, carrying the first spattering of rain. Alec shivered. "No. Not yet."

If Kheeta sensed his sudden discomfort, he choose not to pry. "Suit yourself," he said amiably. "Since we have to go back through the Haunted City, how do you like ghost stories?"

The gash Beka had gotten during the sea battle was healing, but she still suffered from sudden headaches. The brewing storm had brought on another, and by midmorning its effects must have shown, for Klia sent her home with strict orders to rest.

Returning to the barracks alone, she retreated to her room and exchanged her uniform for a light shirt and tunic. Stretched out on the bed, she settled one arm over her eyes and lay listening to the soft clatter of gaming stones in the next room. She was drifting on the edge of sleep when she caught Nyal's voice outside. She hadn't exactly been avoiding him these past few days, she just hadn't had time to deal with the silly flux of emotions he provoked in her. The approach of booted feet warned that there was no avoiding it now except to plead illness. Not wanting to be caught at a disadvantage, she sat up quickly on the narrow bed, then choked down the wave of nausea the sudden move cost her.

"It's Nyal," Urien announced, peeking in around the door. "He's brought you something for your head."

"Did he?" How in Bilairy's name had he known she was ill?

To her horror, he entered carrying a little nosegay of flowers. What were the others going to make of that?

"I heard you were feeling unwell," he said. Instead of the flowers, however, he held out a flask. "I've picked up a fair bit of herb lore in my travels. This decoction works well for pains in the head."

"And those? " Beka asked with a wry grin, pointing to the flowers.

He passed her those as well, as if they'd been an afterthought. "I don't know all their names in Skalan. I thought you might wish to know what was in it."

Beka bent over the flowers, hoping he wouldn't notice her guilty blush. Bringing you flowers, was he? And why are you so damned disappointed? "I recognize a few of them. The little white ones are feverfew, and these branch tips are from a willow." She pinched a thick, dark green leaf, then took a nibble. "And this is mountain cress. I haven't seen these others before."

Nyal knelt in front of her and pushed her hair back to inspect the scabbed cut on her brow. "This is healing well."

"The Cavishes are a hardheaded bunch," Beka told him, pulling back from the light brush of his fingers against her face. Opening the

flask, she took a swig and grimaced. There was honey in the mix, but not enough to mask the underlying bitterness.

"I didn't see any wormwood in that bouquet of yours," she sputtered.

He laughed. "That's the little pink blossom we call 'mouse ears.' " He poured a cup of water and handed it to her. "My mother used to hold my nose when she dosed me. I'll sit with you a moment until we see if it's going to do its work."

An awkward silence ensued. Beka wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but not with him sitting there. The little room was stuffy; she could feel sweat trickling down her chest and back and regretted putting on the tunic.

After a few moments, however, she realized that the throbbing behind her eyes was nearly gone.

"That's quite a brew!" she said, sniffing the flask again. "I wouldn't mind keeping some of this on hand for the others. Sergeant Braknil does most of our healing for us in the field when there isn't a drysian handy."

"I'll see he gets the recipe." Nyal rose to go, then paused, eyeing her critically. "The air is so still today, perhaps a walk would do you good. I could show you some more of the city before the rain comes. There's so much you haven't seen yet."

It would have been a simple matter to plead illness. Instead, she smoothed her hair back and followed him out, telling herself that as the head of Klia's bodyguard, it was her duty to learn the lay of the land. In case of trouble.

They set off on foot as thunder wandered ever closer across the valley. Nyal headed south, pointing out tupas of various lesser clans as they went. He seemed to know a bit about all of them and shared a few amusing stories along the way. As they passed the outskirts of Akhendi tupa, she was tempted to ask more about the khirnari's wife but resisted the urge.

Most of the city was uninhabited, and the further they got from the center of it, the more overgrown the streets became. The grass grew longer here, and mud swallows had built nests in the corners of open windows.

One place looked very much like another to Beka, but Nyal seemed to have a particular destination in mind. This turned out to be a deserted neighborhood in the southern part of the city, one more silent and peculiar than any she'd seen so far.

"Here's a place I think you'll enjoy," he announced at last, leading her into a broad thoroughfare where scrubby bushes were taking back the open spaces.

She glanced around nervously. "I thought I'd gotten used to the feel of Sarikali, but this is different. Stronger."

"We call it the Haunted City," Nyal replied. "The magic works differently here. Can you feel it?"

"I feel something." Whether it was the magic of the place, the impending storm, or the way his arm occasionally brushed hers as they walked, she suddenly felt hot and restless. Pausing, she pulled the tunic off over her head, caring little that the loose linen shirt underneath was stained with sweat and metal tarnish. Tugging it free of her breeches, she undid the neck lacings to let the quickening breeze cool her skin. Like most of her female riders, she didn't bother with binding her breasts when not in the field. Glancing his way, she saw an enigmatic smile on his lips and knew that she had his attention. Alone with him here, she had to admit at last that she liked it.

"This is a very special place," he continued. "The Bash'wai who lived here simply walked away one day, leaving everything they owned behind."

They entered one of the houses and passed through an empty gallery to a fountain court. A stone table near the leaf-choked basin was set for six, complete with cups and cracked plates of fine red porcelain. A tarnished silver pitcher stood in the center, its interior still stained with the wine that had dried away countless years before. Beyond the courtyard lay a bedchamber. The furnishings were rotted with age, but a carved wooden tray on a chest still held a collection of gold jewelry, as if the woman who'd owned them had just taken them off before her bath.

"Why haven't thieves carried all this away?" Beka asked, picking up a brooch.

"No one dares rob the dead. One of my aunts loves to tell the story of a woman who found a ring here that was so beautiful she couldn't resist taking it. Her clan went home soon after and almost immediately she began to suffer nightmares. They became so powerful and terrifying that at last she threw the ring into a river. When she returned to Sarikali the following year, that ring was lying exactly where she'd found it."

Returning the brooch to the tray, Beka gave him a look of mock disapproval. "I think you brought me here to scare me, Ra'basi."

Nyal took her hand in his, stroking it with long fingers. "And why should I attempt such a thing with a brave Skalan captain?"

His touch sent a sensuous tingle up her arm, stronger than before.

"To test my bravery, perhaps?" she teased. "Or to create the opportunity to offer comfort?"

Looking into those clear hazel eyes, she felt another jolt of sensual anticipation; there was no mistaking the passion kindling there, or the open affection. It would be so easy to close the distance between her lips and his, she thought, as if gauging an arrow's flight. Without further thought, she kissed him.

She'd wanted this—wanted him—from the instant she'd laid eyes on him at Gedre. Now she let her hands roam, greedily exploring the hard, responsive body pressed to hers. His mouth was as sweet as she'd imagined, and when he pulled her close she buried her fingers in his hair, nipping his lower lip.

His hands slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, encircling her bare waist above her sword belt, working their way slowly higher.

"Lovely one, beautiful Tir," he murmured against her ear.

"Don't." She tensed and took a step back. Other lovers had used such blandishments and she'd let them pass; from Nyal they were unbearable.

"What is it?" he asked, concerned by the sudden shift. "Are you a virgin, or do you distrust me?"

Beka laughed in spite of the hot, resentful ache in her belly—or perhaps because of it. "I'm no virgin. But I'm not beautiful either, and don't need to fancy myself so. I'd rather we just be honest with each other, if it's all the same to you."

He stared at her in amazement. "Anyone who claims you are not beautiful is a fool. The first time I looked into your eyes I saw it, yet you have been denying it since we met."

He took her hand again. "I apologize for the clumsiness of my persistence, but I swear I will continue to say so until you believe me. You're unlike any woman I've ever met."

Trapped between doubt and arousal, Beka froze, unable to reply.

Misreading her hesitation, he brought her hand to his lips. "At least allow me to call you 'friend.' I promised your almost-brother I would never bring dishonor on you. I keep my word."

Perhaps he'd meant the gesture to be a chaste one; the warmth of his lips on her palm sent a wave of raw desire spiraling through her. Suddenly the light brush of her shirt against her skin was too much to bear. Freeing one hand, she pulled the shirt off, letting it drop to the dusty floor at her feet. Nyal's lips parted in a sigh as he traced the scars on her arms, chest, and side. "A true warrior."

"All my wounds are in the front," Beka managed, trying to sound flippant but shivering at the hot-and-cold touch of his fingers across her skin. By the time he reached her shoulders and breasts she was trembling.

"I like your spots," he murmured, bending to kiss her shoulder.

"Freckles," she corrected breathlessly, tugging up his tunic.

"Ah, yes. Freckles." He paused long enough to help her with his clothes, then pulled her close again. "So exotic."

That's a first, she thought, too far gone in the feel of his body warm against hers to care. His fingers traced burning patterns across her skin wherever he touched her, the sensation unlike anything she'd ever felt. Pulling back a little, she asked in wonder, "Are you using magic on me, Ra'basi?"

The hazel eyes widened, then tilted up at the corners as he laughed. The rich vibration of it against her chest and belly was a new and unprecedented pleasure.

"Magic?" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "By the Light, what sort of dolts have you let make love to you?"

Beka's laughter echoed around the ruined room as she pulled him closer. "Educate me!"

Nyal's expert tutelage lasted well over an hour, Beka guessed, seeing how the shadows had crept closer to where they lay. When it was over she was a good deal wiser, and happier than she'd been in recent memory.

The bed had proved too rickety, so they'd made do with a pallet of clothing on the floor. Unsnarling her breeches from the tangled mass, she reluctantly pulled them on, then leaned down to give her new lover a lingering kiss. Outside, thunder rumbled heavily in the distance.

Nyal's flushed face reflected her own elation. "Beautiful Tir," he said, gazing up at her.

"Beautiful Aurenfaie," she replied in his own language, no longer contesting his opinion.

"I did not think you would have me. Do all Tir hold back so?"

Beka considered this. "I have duties. What my heart and body want aren't what my head thinks I should do. And—"

"And?" he asked when she looked away.

"And I'm a little afraid of what you make me feel, afraid because I know it won't last. I lost someone, too. He died. Was killed." Beka closed her eyes against sorrow long denied. "He was a warrior, an officer in my regiment. I didn't have long with him, but we cared a great deal for each other. The pain I felt when he died was ..." She stopped again, searching for words that wouldn't sound too cold but not finding them. "It was a

distraction. I can't allow that sort of thing, not when I have people depending on me to lead them."

Nyal stroked her face until she opened her eyes again. "I won't hurt you, Beka Cavish, or cause you any distraction if it's in my power to avoid it. What we do—" He grinned, waving a hand around at the disordered room. "We are two friends sharing a gift of Aura. There's no pain from that. Whether you're here or in Skala, we are friends."

"Friends," Beka agreed, even as the little voice from her heart taunted, Too late, too late!

"It's early yet," she said, rising. "Show me more of your city. Seems I have an unquenchable appetite for wonders today."

Nyal sprawled limply and let out a comic groan. "Warrior women!"

They were nearly dressed when something he'd said earlier suddenly struck her. Turning to Nyal, she raised an eyebrow and demanded, "When exactly did you and my 'almost-brother' discuss what to do with me?"

Beka's sudden appearance in the doorway of one of the ruined houses startled Kheeta as much as it did Alec.

"Aura's Fingers!" the Bokthersan laughed, reining in. "That's the first red-haired Bash'wai I've ever seen."

Beka froze for a moment, face reddening behind her freckles. An instant later Nyal stepped from the shadows behind her.

"Well, well, Captain," Alec said in Skalan, grinning mercilessly as he took in their disheveled hair and dust-streaked clothing. "Out reconnoitering?"

"I'm off duty," she retorted, and something in the look she gave him warned against further teasing.

"Have you shown her the House of Pillars yet?" Kheeta asked, apparently oblivious to the situation, or why his innocent question should draw such a loud and poorly suppressed snort of laughter from Alec.

"We were just heading there," Nyal replied, fighting to keep a straight face. "Why don't you come along with us?"

"Yes, do come!" Beka said, walking up to Alec and grasping his stirrup. In a low voice, she added, "You can keep a closer eye on me that way, Almost-Brother."

Alec winced. Damn you, Nyal!

The house in question lay several streets away. Thunder cracked

again, much closer now, and a sudden gust of wind blew their hair into their eyes.

"There it is," Kheeta said, pointing out a sprawling, open-sided structure through the gloom. Just then the skies opened up in earnest. Lightning bleached the air white for an instant, then darkness closed down around them with a deafening roll of thunder. Gripping the reins of their nervous mounts, Alec and Kheeta dashed toward shelter through the pelting rain with Beka and Nyal close behind.

The House of Pillars was a pavillion with a flat, tiled roof set on ranks of tall, evenly spaced black columns. Shreds of faded cloth hung here and there, suggesting that walls of a sort had been created by hanging tapestries between the columns.

"Looks like we'll be here awhile," said Beka, raising her voice to be heard over the downpour.

A damp wind swept through the outer columns, and they retreated farther to avoid the soaking rain that blew in with it. Alec reached inside his coat for the lightstone in his tool roll, then remembered he'd left both back at his room. Kheeta and Nyal flicked their fingers, and small globes of light snapped into being at their tips.

"What was this place?" asked Alec, speaking Skalan for Beka's benefit.

"A summer retreat," said Nyal. "It gets terribly hot here in summer. The roof makes shade and there are bathing pools further in."

Occasional flashes from outside threw bars of light and shadow across their path as they walked deeper into the forest of pillars.

Alec had assumed they had the place to themselves, but soon heard the sound of water splashing and the echo of voices from somewhere ahead of them.

Emerging into a large chamber, they came to a large round bathing pool fed by underground springs. Channels fanned out from it to smaller pools and what appeared to have been water gardens or fish pools.

A few dozen people were swimming naked in the large pool. Others sat nearby playing some kind of game by the light of hovering light orbs. Alec noted with a twinge of unease that most of those who were dressed wore the sen'gai of Haman or Lhapnos. Judging by their age and clothes, they were young retainers of those delegations, taking their ease while their elders attended the council.

Nyal approached them with his usual openness, but Kheeta hung back warily.

"Nyal i Nhekai!" called a Lhapnosan youth. "It's been too long since I've seen you, my friend. Come join us."

His welcoming smile died, however, at sight of Alec and the others. Getting to his feet, the Lhapnosan let one hand rest near the hilt of the knife in his belt. Several of his companions did the same.

"But I forgot," he said, eyes narrowing. "You're not keeping the best company these days."

"He certainly isn't," one of the swimmers remarked, climbing from the pool. He strode up to them, his face set in a disdainful frown.

Alec tensed, recognizing him by the dragon bite on his chin. This was no servant. He'd been with the Haman khirnari last night at the Silmai banquet.

The Haman stood a moment, eyeing them with distaste. "A Bokthersan, a Tirfaie." His gaze came to rest on Alec. "And the Exile's garshil ke 'menios."

Alec understood only half the phrase—garshil meant "mongrel"—but that and the Haman's tone left no doubt that it was a calculated insult.

"This is Emiel i Moranthi of Haman, the khirnari's nephew," Nyal warned in Skalan.

"I know who he is," said Alec, keeping his tone neutral, as if he hadn't understood the insult.

Kheeta had no such reservations. "You should choose your words more carefully, Emiel i Moranthi!" he snarled, stepping closer.

Alec laid a hand on his arm, then said in Aurenfaie, "He can use what words he likes. It's of no concern to me."

His antagonist's eyes narrowed; none of the Haman had bothered chatting with him the night before and no doubt assumed he did not speak their language.

"What's going on?" Beka muttered, sensing trouble.

"Just a few insults between clans," Alec said evenly. "Best to walk away."

"Yes," Nyal agreed, no longer smiling as he urged the glowering Kheeta back the way they'd come. But Beka was still eyeing the naked man.

"It was nothing," Alec repeated firmly, snagging her by the sleeve and following.

"What's the matter, too frightened to join us?" Emiel jeered.

It was Alec who wheeled around and, against all better judgment, strode back to face him. With the same bravado he'd once used staring down back-alley toughs, he crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side, slowly scanning Emiel from head to foot until his would-be adversary shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

"No," Alec replied at last, raising his voice for all to hear. "I see nothing here that frightens me."

He sensed the attack coming and jumped back as Emiel lunged for him. The Hainan's companions caught at him, dragging him back. Alec felt hands on his arms, too, but shook them off, needing no restraint. Somewhere behind him, Beka was cursing pungently in two languages as Kheeta restrained her.

"Remember where you are, all of you," Nyal warned, shouldering in between them.

Emiel hissed softly between clenched teeth, but fell back. "Thank you, my friend," he sneered, though his gaze never left Alec. "Thank you for not letting me soil my hands with this little garshil ke'menios."

With that, he sauntered back toward the pool.

"Come away," Nyal urged.

The skin between his shoulder blades prickled and he tensed, expecting any moment for the Haman to change their minds and renew the fight. Aside from a few jeers and muttered insults, however, the defenders of the pool let them go in peace.

"What was that he called you?" Beka asked again as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Nothing that matters."

"Oh, I can see that! What did he say?" Beka demanded.

"I didn't get all of it."

"He called you a mongrel boy whore," Kheeta growled.

Alec could feel his face burning and was glad of the shadows.

"I've been called worse," he lied. "Let it go, Beka. The last thing Klia needs is the head of her bodyguard getting into a brawl."

"Bilairy's Balls! That filthy son of a—"

"Please, Beka, you mustn't say such things aloud. Not here," said Nyal. "Emiel's behavior is understandable. Seregil murdered his kinsman, and by our reckoning, Alec is kin to Seregil. Surely it's not so different among your own people?"

"Back home you can knock somebody's teeth in without starting a war," she snapped.

Nyal shook his head. "What a place this Skala must be."

Alec caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye just then and slowed, peering into the darkness between the pillars. Perhaps the Haman hadn't been put off so easily after all. He caught a hint of an unfamiliar scent, heavy with musk and spice. Then it was gone.

"What is it?" Beka asked softly.

"Nothing," he said, though instinct warned otherwise.

Outside, it was raining harder than ever. Curtains of mist anchored the clouds to the rooftops.

"Perhaps you should ride back with us," Kheeta suggested.

"I suppose so," Beka agreed. Accepting the Bokthersan's outstretched hand, she swung easily up behind him.

Alec kicked a stirrup free for Nyal. The Ra'basi reached to accept a hand up, then stopped to examine the Akhendi charm dangling from Alec's wrist. The little bird carving had turned black.

"What happened to it?" Alec asked, peering at it in surprise. A tiny crack he hadn't noticed before marred the tip of one wing.

"It's a warning charm. Emiel ill-wished you," Nyal explained.

"A waste of good magic, if you ask me," Kheeta muttered. "It takes no magic to read the heart of a Haman."

Alec pulled out his dagger, intending to cut the charm free and toss it into the bushes.

"Don't," Nyal said, staying his hand. "It can be restored so long as you don't destroy the knots."

"I don't want Seregil seeing this. He'll know something happened and I hate lying to him."

"Give it to me, then," the Ra'basi offered. "I'll get one of the Akhendi to fix it for you."

Alec plucked the lacings free and handed it to him. "I want your word, all of you, that Seregil won't hear about this. He has enough to worry about."

"Are you sure that's wise, Alec?" asked Kheeta. "He's not a child."

"No, but he does have a temper. The Haman insulted me to get at him. I'm not going to play their game for them."

"I'm not so sure," Beka said, more concerned than angry now. "You keep your distance from them, especially if you're alone. That was more than bluff and bluster just now."

"Don't worry," Alec said, forcing a grin. "If there's one thing I've learned from Seregil, it's how to avoid people."

14

Mysteries

Thero envied Beka the headache that had released her from the day's duties. As negotiations rambled on, the wizard grew increasingly restless. Most of the day's speeches were hollow posturing, currying favor with one side or the other. Stories and grievances from centuries past were trotted out and argued. Apparently there was no shame in napping during these interludes; a number of onlookers up in the gallery were snoring audibly.

Thunderstorms descended on the city soon after midday, throwing the Iia'sidra chamber into lamp-lit gloom. Cold winds swept in through the windows, carrying rain and leaves. At times thunder drowned the voice of the speaker on the floor.

Chin on hand, Thero watched the lightning illuminate rippling sheets of rain lashing down outside. It brought back memories of his apprentice days in Nysander's tower. Sitting at the window of his chamber on summer afternoons, he'd watched the barbed white bolts spike down over the harbor and dreamed of capturing that power, channeling it through his hands. To control something that could destroy you in an instant—the thought had made his pulse race. One day he'd blurted out his idea to Nysander, asking if it could be done.

The older wizard had merely given him a look of kindly forbearance and asked, "If you could control it, dear boy, would it be as beautiful?"

The response had seemed nonsensical to him at the time, he thought sadly.

An especially long, bright flash lit the Iia'sidra just then, transforming the window he'd been staring at into an oblong of weird blue-white brilliance. Thero saw the black outline of a woman framed there, as if in a doorway.

The window went dark again, and a clap of thunder shook the building, driving in a fresh gust of wind. The figure had been no fleeting vision, however. A young rhui'auros stood there, resting one hand lightly against the stone frame as she stared across the chamber at him. Her lips moved and he heard a voice whisper in his mind, Come to us afterward, my brother. It is time.

Before Thero could even nod, she had faded away in a blur of color.

Thankfully, the council adjourned early that day. Thero doubted he could have told anyone what had been said. Following Klia and the others out into the storm, he found the woman waiting for him by his horse. She was very young, with grey-green eyes that seemed overly large beneath her ridiculous hat. Her soaked robe clung to her thin frame like a wrinkled second skin, and the wind had whipped her wet hair into lank strands against her cheeks. She should have been shivering, but she wasn't.

Klia gave her a surprised glance.

"With your permission, my lady, I would like to visit the rhui'auros," he explained.

"In this weather?" Klia asked, then shrugged. "Take care. I'll need you first thing tomorrow."

Thero's strange companion did not speak as they set out, nor would she accept his cloak or an offer to ride. He was soon glad to have a guide. In this weather, one broad, deserted street looked no different from another.

Reaching the Nha'mahat at last, the girl motioned for him to dismount, then led him by the hand along a well-worn path to the cave beneath the tower. Clouds of vapor issued from the low opening, crawling low across the ground to disappear in wisps on the wind. Mineral secretions coated the rock here, white and yellows shot through with wavering bands of black. Untold pairs of feet had worn a smooth path inside.

A sudden rush of wonder brought a lump to Thero's throat as he followed it into the large natural chamber beyond. If Nysander had been correct, this was the very womb of mysteries, the source of the magic that had come to his own people through the blood of Aurenen.

The place was humid and primitive, its rough walls unaltered except for a few scattered lamps and a broad staircase that curved like a ram's horn at the center of the room, its even stonework out of place in such a setting. Light shone down from some upper room, and Thero smelled the sweet reek of incense as they passed. Down here there was nothing of ritual or decoration. Steam curled up from a network of fissures and small pools in the floor. Rhui'auros and 'faie moved among the shadows, quiet as ghosts.

The girl gave him no time to get his bearings but continued down one of several passageways that branched off from the main chamber. There were no lamps here and she did not strike a light. The darkness posed no problem for Thero, either; when his eyes failed other senses took over, showing him his surroundings in muted shapes of black and grey. Was this a test, he wondered, or did she simply assume that, sharing a similar magic, Tir wizards could see in the dark?

Sweltering air closed in around them as they went on, and Thero was aware of the downward slant of the tunnel floor beneath his feet. Small, hive-shaped structures stood here and there along the way, large enough to hold a person or two. Brushing his fingers across one as he passed, he felt thick, sodden wool. Leather flaps covered a small door and an opening at its top.

"Dhima, for meditation," she told him, speaking at last. "You may use them whenever you like."

Evidently this was not the point of the current expedition. The passage took a sharp jog to the right and the air grew cooler, the way more steep and narrow. There were no dhima here.

In places they had to duck their heads as the overhanging stone dipped low. In others, they grasped thick ropes strung through metal eyelets driven into the stone, lowering themselves over short drops. He lost track of time in the darkness, but the feeling of magical energy grew stronger with every step.

At last they reached level ground again, and Thero heard a sound like wind in branches. After a few yards the tunnel curved again, and suddenly he was blinking in the relative brightness of clear moonlight. Looking around in surprise, he saw that they were standing at the edge of a forest clearing under a clear night sky. The

ground sloped gently to the edge of a glassy black pool. The crescent moon's reflection floated motionless on its still surface, undisturbed by any ripple.

The light grew brighter as he stood there. Looking around, he could find no sign of his guide, but the pool was now surrounded by a great throng. Those he could make out wore the robes and hats of the rhui'auros. He knew by the lifting of the hair on his arms that at least some of them were spirits, though one looked as solid as another, even the ones with the curling black hair and dark skin of Bash'wai. Beyond them, in the thick, night-black forest, something moved—many creatures, and large ones.

"Welcome, Thero son of Nysander, wizard of the Third Oreska," a deep voice rumbled from the darkness. "Do you know where you are?"

Caught off guard by the misnomer, it took Thero a moment to grasp the question. As soon as he did, however, he knew the answer.

"The Vhadasoori pool, Honored One," he replied in an awed whisper. How he knew it was a mystery—there was no sign of the statues, much less the city itself, but the magic that radiated from the black water was unmistakable.

"You see with the eyes of a rhui'auros, Nysander's son."

The girl who had been his guide stepped from the crowd and offered him a cup fashioned from a hollow tusk. It was as long as his forearm and wrapped in an intricate binding of leather thongs that formed handles on either side. Grasping these, Thero closed his eyes and drank deeply. Beneath his fingers, the cup vibrated with the touch of a thousand hands.

When he looked up again, he and the girl were alone in the clearing. Her face no longer looked so young, and her eyes were flat disks of gold.

"We are the First Oreska," she told him. "We are your forebears, your history, Wizard. In you we see our future, as you perceive your past in us. The dance goes on, and your kind will be made whole."

"I don't understand," he said.

"It is the will of Aura, Thero son of Nysander son of Arkoniel son of Iya daughter of Agazhar, of the line of Aura."

Gentle, unseen hands loosened the fastenings of Thero's garments and they fell away, shoes and all. A will other than his own guided him to the water's edge, and on, until he was up to his neck in the pool. The water was winter cold, so cold it robbed the breath from his lungs and burned his skin like fire. Turning back toward

shore, he was surprised to see himself still standing there beside the woman. Then he was dragged under.

The water closed over him, filling his eyes and nose and mouth, and then his lungs, yet he felt no discomfort, no panic. Lost in the formless dark, he floated, waiting. And remembering. The night they'd slept by the dragon pool in Akhendi he'd dreamed of this place and of drowning. The dream itself had raveled to mere fragments since then, yet it resonated with the same surety he'd felt when he'd named this place as the Vhadasoori.

"What is the purpose of magic, Thero son of Nysander?" the deep voice asked.

"To serve, to know—" Thero was unsure whether he spoke aloud or only thought the words; it made no difference, for the other heard him.

"No, little brother, you are wrong. What is the purpose of magic, son of Nysander?"

"To create?"

"No, little brother. What is the purpose of magic, son of Nysander?"

The darkness pushed in on him. He felt the pressure of it in his lungs, smothering him. The first cold stab of fear hit him then, but he forced himself to remain still. "I don't know," he replied, humbled.

"You do, son of Nysander."

Son of Nysander. Sparks danced in front of his sightless eyes, but Thero held on to the image of his first mentor, the plain, good-humored man he'd too often underestimated. He recalled with shame his own arrogance and how it had blinded him to Nysander's wisdom until it was too late to honor it. He recalled the bitterness he'd felt when Nysander kept him from spells his skill could master but his empty heart could not wisely employ. For an instant he heard his old teacher's voice, patiently explaining, "The purpose of magic is not to replace human endeavor but to aid it." How many times had he said that over the years? How many times had Thero ignored the importance of the words?

The crescent moon wavered into view in front of him, dancing gently over the water's surface far above. Still mired in darkness, Thero felt the power of it breaking in on him, and his mouth stretched wide with joy.

"Balance!"

Like a cork buoy suddenly released, he shot to the surface, shattering the moon's reflection.

"Balance!" he shouted up at it.

"Yes," the voice said approvingly. "Nysander understood better

than any Tir the role of Aura's gifts. We waited for him to come to us, but it was not to be. The task falls to you."

What task? Thero wondered with a thrill of excitement.

"Balance was lost long ago between your people and our own, between the Tir and the Light. Light balances darkness. Silence balances sound. Death balances life. The Aurenfaie preserve the old ways; your kind, left to dance alone for a time, have forged the new."

Thero reached a tentative foot down and found solid ground in easy reach. Wading from the pool, he walked to the lone figure awaiting him, an ancient Bash'wai woman. Her face and skin were black in the moonlight, her hair silver.

Thero fell to his knees in front of her. "Is that why Klia was allowed to come here, and at this time? Did you make this happen?"

"Make?" She chuckled, and her voice was deep, too large for such a frail frame. She stroked his head like a child's. "No, little brother, we only dance the dance with whatever steps we can manage."

Confused, Thero pressed a hand over his eyes, then looked up again. "You said the wizards of Skala would be made whole. What does that mean?"

But the Bash'wai was gone. In her place sat a large dragonling with golden eyes. Before Thero could do more than register its presence, it darted forward between his bare thighs and bit him on the scrotum. Leaping up with a panicked shout, he felt his head connect with something hard and the moon spun away like a dropped ring.

When Thero came to again, he was sprawled facedown and fully clothed just inside the mouth of a tunnel leading off from the main cavern beneath the Nha'mahat.

A vision! he thought in dazed wonder. He shifted to stand up, then pressed flat again, squeezing his eyes shut as fiery talons of pain tightened around his balls. The memory of Alec's bitten earlobe, swelled three times its normal size, presented itself ungraciously, and he let out a groan.

The sound of movement against stone made him open his eyes again. Through a haze of pain, he saw a seated figure uncoil itself from the nearby shadows and resolve into his young guide.

"Lissik." She held a flask down for him to see before disappearing behind him.

A mark of honor, they call these bites! he thought helplessly as

she went about her ministrations. If I survive long enough to heal, how am I ever going to show it off?

People came and went around him. If the sight of a Skalan wizard cackling hysterically on the ground with his robe tucked up around his waist struck any of them as odd, none were so ungracious as to say so in his hearing.

15

Discomfort

Where's Thero?" Alec wondered aloud as they set off for a banquet in Bry'kha tupa that evening. "Gone to visit the rhui'auros," Klia told him. "I'd expected him back by now."

The rain had slacked off to a warm, sullen drizzle. Everyone rode with hoods pulled up, in little clumps behind Klia and Torsin. Alec and Seregil brought up the rear, the closest semblance of privacy they'd had all day. Seizing the opportunity, Alec confided his encounter with Beka and Nyal in the Haunted City.

Seregil took the news more calmly than he'd expected. "According to Thero, Queen Idrilain herself encourages such unions as part of the mission," he said quietly.

Alec glanced around at their Urgazhi escort. "What? Marrying her soldiers off to Aurenfaie?"

Seregil smirked. "I don't think marriage is a priority, but one of the goals of our current mission is to get a healthy infusion of Aurenfaie blood to renew that stock."

"Yes, but—! You mean she hoped Beka and her female riders would come home pregnant?" Alec exclaimed. "I thought they got drummed out for that?"

"The rules have been relaxed for the time being. No one is talking openly about it, but

Thero heard rumors that a bounty has even been offered. I suppose the men are free to bring home any Aurenfaie bride who'll have them, too."

"Bilairy's Balls, Seregil, that's coldhearted, turning the best turma in Skala into breeding stock!"

"When it comes to the survival of a nation, there's not much that's considered beyond the pale. It's not even that unusual. Remember my sojourn among the Dravnians? I kept up my duties as guest, so to speak. Who knows how many of my own offspring are toddling around somewhere up in the Asheks as we speak?"

Alec raised an eyebrow at this. "You're joking."

"I'm not. As for our current situation, it's all for the greater glory of Skala, which makes it honorable enough. How patriotic are you feeling these days?"

Alec ignored the jibe, but found himself watching the Urgazhi more closely during the banquet that followed.

Seregil was eating breakfast with Klia and Torsin in the hall early the next morning when Thero came shuffling in. His face was grey and he held himself as if his insides were made of glass and poorly packed.

"By the Light!" Torsin exclaimed. "My dear Thero, shall I send for a healer?"

"I'm fine, my lord, just a bit under the weather," Thero replied, coming to a halt behind an empty chair and grasping the back of it.

"You're not fine," Klia retorted, turning to look at him.

"It could be river fever," Seregil offered, suspecting it was no such thing. "I'll send for Mydri."

"No!" Thero said quickly. "No, that's not necessary. It's just a slight distemper. It will pass."

"Nonsense. Take him back to his room, Seregil," Klia ordered.

Thero's skin felt hot and clammy, and he leaned heavily on Seregil's arm as he limped back upstairs. Reaching his room, he laid down but refused to undress.

Seregil stood over him, frowning. "So, what happened?"

Thero closed his eyes and ran a hand over his unshaven cheek. "A dragon bit me."

"Bilairy's Balls, Thero! Where in Sarikali did you find one big enough to make you this sick?"

The wizard managed a sickly smile. "Where do you think?"

"Ah, of course. You'd better let me have a look."

"I've used lissik on it already."

"Lissik won't do for large bites. Come on now, where is it? Arm? Leg?"

With a sigh, Thero pulled up the front of his robe.

Seregil's eyes widened. "You said Alec's ear looked like a grape when he got bitten by that little one. This looks more like—"

"I know what it looks like!" Thero snarled, covering himself.

"This needs attention. I'll get something from Mydri. No one has to know the details."

"Thank you," Thero rasped, staring up at the ceiling.

Seregil shook his head. "You know, I've never heard of anyone getting bitten on the—"

"It was an accident. Just go!" Thero pleaded.

An accident? Seregil thought, hurrying next door. Not if the rhui'auros had anything to do with it.

To his considerable relief, Mydri asked few questions. He described the injury in general terms, and she mixed several infusions and a bowl of poultice. Eyeing the latter, Seregil hoped Thero was up to treating himself.

16

An Evening's Entertainment

Thero kept to his bed through the next day. Having been bitten himself, Alec couldn't share Seregil's amused attitude and was happy enough to keep Thero's secret. He was thankful when Klia decided that he was of more use wandering at large than at the Iia'sidra. Aurenfaie deliberation was conducted at a glacial pace, every issue seemingly tied to centuries of history and precedent. Except for occasional visits to stay abreast of developments, he found other ways to occupy himself.

As a result, he saw little of Seregil during the day, and the evenings were taken up by a seemingly endless number of banquets with clans major and minor, each fraught with unspoken undercurrents of influence and will.

When they finally did reach their room again, sometimes only a few hours before dawn, Seregil either fell asleep immediately or disappeared up to the colos to pace in the dark. Alec had seen enough already to know the rejection Seregil faced each day. In public, all but a few avowed friends kept their distance. Members of the Haman clan made no secret of their animosity. As always, however, Seregil preferred to battle his demons alone. Alec's love might be welcome; his concern was not. Adzriel noted her brother's withdrawal

one night during a visit with Klia, and Alec's muted pain. Putting an arm about his shoulders, she hugged him and whispered, "The bond is there, tali. For now, let it be enough. When he's ready he will come to you."

Alec had no choice but to heed her advice. Fortunately, he had work of his own to do. As he became more familiar with his surroundings, he went more often alone and soon formed a few alliances of his own—and among the class he'd always been most at home with.

While the Iia'sidra and influential clan members spent their days in solemn debate, the lesser members of the various households frequented the city's makeshift taverns and gaming houses. Alec's bow was as good as a letter of introduction in such company. Unlike Seregil, most Aurenfaie were consummate archers and loved to argue makes and weights as much as any northland hunter. Some favored longbows; others carried gracefully reflexed masterpieces of wood and horn. But none had seen anything quite like his Black Radly, and curiosity almost always led to friendly shooting contests.

Alec had fashioned a few shatta from Skalan coins, and these were much sought after, but he generally won more than he lost and he soon had a respectable collection dangling from his quiver strap.

Such pastimes bore other fruit, giving him access to that most useful of resources, the careless chatter servants exchange out of their masters' hearing. Gossip was gold to any spy, and Alec quietly took note. In this way, he learned that the Khatme khirnari, Lhaar a Iriel, had taken an interest in Klia's occasional evening rides with the young Silmai horseman, Taanil i Khormai. Alec even managed to sow a few rumors about that himself, though the truth was that Klia found the man something of a bore.

Alec also picked up reliable rumors that the khirnari of several key minor clans supposedly aligned with friendly Datsia had been seen visiting Ra'basi tupa under cover of night.

Perhaps his most important discovery, however, was that the khirnari of Lhapnos had quarreled with his supposed ally, Nazien i Hari, over support for Skala, and that several of the Haman's own people had taken the Lhapnosan's side. Principal among the dissenters was Alec's nemesis, Emiel i Moranthi.

"This is a new development," Lord Torsin remarked as Alec made his nightly report to Klia.

The princess gave Alec a wink. "You see, my lord? I told you he'd earn his keep."

Their tenth night in Sarikali brought a welcome respite. For the first time since their arrival they had no outside obligations, and Klia sent word for the evening meal to be a simple, communal affair in the main hall.

Alec was in the stable yard passing the time with some of Braknil's men when Seregil returned from the Iia'sidra alone.

"Had a good day, did you, my lord?" Minal called out.

"Not especially," Seregil snapped, not slowing as he disappeared into the house.

With an inward sigh, Alec followed him up to their chamber.

"Aura's Fingers, I was never meant to be a diplomat!" Seregil burst out as soon as they were alone. A button flew across the room as he yanked off his coat. He flung it into a corner and the sweat-soaked shirt beneath quickly followed. Grabbing the ewer from the wash-stand, he stalked out onto the balcony and emptied it over his head.

"You might have been a bit more pleasant to poor Minal," Alec chided, leaning against the doorframe. "He thinks a lot of you, you know."

Ignoring him, Seregil slicked the water from his eyes and pushed past him into the room. "No matter what Klia or Torsin says, someone manages to twist it around into a threat. 'We need iron.' 'Oh, no, you want to colonize the Asheks!' 'Let us use a northern port.' 'You would steal Ra'basi's trade routes?'

"Ulan i Sathil is the worst, though he seldom speaks. Oh, no! He just sits there, smiling as if he agrees with everything we say. Then, with a single well-chosen comment, he throws everyone into an uproar again and sits back to watch the fun. Later, you see him gathering the uncertain ones around him, whispering and wagging his finger. Bilairy's Balls, the man's smooth. I wish to hell he was on our side."

"What can you do?"

Seregil snorted. "If it were up to me, I'd challenge the whole damn lot of them to a horse race and settle the matter! It's been done before, you know. What are you laughing at?"

"You. You're raving. And dripping." Alec tossed him a cloth from the washstand.

Seregil gave him an apologetic grin as he toweled off. "And how did you do today? Anything new?"

"No. It seems I've gleaned all I can among the friendlier folk, and

I still haven't found a way to wiggle in among the Haman or Khatme." He decided not to share how often his presence had drawn challenging stares and whispers of "garshil" in certain quarters. "In Rhiminee, all I had to do was change clothes and blend into the crowd. Here they mark me as outlander and guard their words. I think it's time I did a little nightrunning."

"I've broached the subject to Klia but she says to wait, honorable woman that she is. Be patient, tali."

"You counseling patience? That's a first!"

"Only because I don't see any other choice just now," Seregil admitted. "At least we have a night off. However shall we pass the time?"

Most of the others were already seated by the time they came downstairs for supper. Long tables had been set up, Skalan style, in the main hall, and Beka waved them over to seats at the end of Klia's table.

"I wondered where she'd gotten off to all day," Seregil muttered, seeing Nyal at her side.

"Behave yourself," Alec warned.

"You can thank your captain for the fine desserts and cheese we're having tonight," Nyal announced as they sat down.

"Me?" Beka laughed. "He got word yesterday of a trader's caravan coming in from Datsia. We met it outside the city and haggled the best pickings out of them before anyone else was the wiser. You've never tasted such honey, Alec!"

"I thought you looked like you'd found something sweet," Seregil remarked blandly.

Alec used Thero's fortuitous arrival to mask the kick he dealt him under the table.

Klia stood and raised her wine cup, as if they were all comrades in a plain soldier's mess. "We've no priests among us, so I'll do the honors. By Sakor's Flame and Illior's Light. May they smile on our endeavors here." Turning, she sprinkled a few drops on the floor as a libation, then took a long drink. The others did the same.

"What's the word at the Iia'sidra, Commander?" Zir called from the next table. "Should we keep our packs tight, or settle in?"

Klia grimaced. "Given our reception so far, Corporal, I'd say you might as well get comfortable. Time seems to mean a great deal less to the 'faie than to us." She paused, saluting Seregil and Alec with her cup. "Present company excepted, of course."

Seregil returned the salute with an ironic chuckle. "If I ever had any Aurenfaie patience, I've long since lost it."

The windows and doors had been thrown open to let in the soft breeze; evening birdsong provided the meal's music as the shadows crept slowly across the floor. The only discordant notes were Torsin's occasional fits of coughing.

"He's getting worse," Thero murmured, watching the envoy dab at his lips with a stained napkin. "He won't admit it, of course— claims it's the climate here."

"Could it be that fever you had?" Beka asked.

Thero looked blank for an instant, then shook his head. "No, not that. I can see a darkness hovering about his chest."

"Will he survive the negotiations?" asked Alec, gazing over at the old man with concern.

"By the Light, the last thing we need is him dying in the midst of all this," muttered Seregil.

"Why wouldn't he let his niece come in his place?" Beka whispered. "Lady Melessandra knows as much of the 'faie as he does."

"This is the crowning achievement of a long and distinguished career," Seregil replied. "I suppose he couldn't bear not to see it through to its conclusion."

As the meal ended Klia wandered down to their end of the table. "We've been given the luxury of doing nothing tonight, my friends. Kheeta i Branin says the colos offers a pleasant view of the sunset. Anyone care to join us?"

"We'll make an Aurenfaie of you yet, my lady," Seregil said, rising to accompany her.

"Good. You and Alec can be our minstrels for the evening."

"If you will excuse me, my lady, I must retire early," Torsin said, still seated.

Klia laid a hand on the old man's shoulder. "Of course. Rest well, my friend."

Servants carried wine, cakes, and cushions up to the colos. Seregil made a quick detour to their room for his harp. By the time he joined the others, they'd settled in to enjoy the cool of the evening. The lingering green glow of sunset was fading quickly on the western horizon. To the east, a ruddy full moon was already rising over the city.

He and Alec were laughingly given the place of honor across from Klia. Beka and Nyal sprawled on the floor near the door, their backs to the wall.

A sudden lump rose in Seregil's throat as he struck the first notes

of "Softly Across the Water"; from where he sat he could see the colos on Adzriel's house, where he'd played for his family on so many evenings like this. Before he could halt or falter, Alec took up the melody, catching his eye with a small, questioning lift of an eyebrow. Fighting off the unexpected rush of sadness, Seregil focused all his attention on the intricate fingering of the song and came in with harmony on the refrain with the others, letting their voices cover any lingering unsteadiness in his own.

It still amused Alec to find himself consorting with royalty. Not so long ago he'd thought it a treat to sit next to a smoking hearth in some filthy tavern, back in the days when the 'faie were still, creatures of legend rather than his own kin.

Seregil cheered up as the evening wore on, and the two of them acquitted themselves admirably as minstrels. When their throats went dry, Thero took over with a pretty collection of illusions he'd picked up in his travels with Magyana.

"The wine's run low," Kheeta announced at last.

"I'll lend a hand," Alec offered, wishing his bladder felt as light as his head. He and Kheeta gathered the empty jugs and made their way downstairs toward the servant's stair at the end of the second-floor corridor. This took them past Torsin's chamber, and Alec saw that the door was slightly ajar. The room beyond was dark. Poor old fellow, he thought, gently pulling the latch shut. He must have been sicker than he let on to retire this early.

"She's a great lady, your princess," Kheeta observed warmly as they headed down to the kitchen. He'd had his share of the wine and was slurring his words a little. "It's sad..."

"What's sad?"

"That the 'faie blood has run so thin in her," the Bokthersan replied with a sigh. "You don't understand yet how fortunate you are, being ya'shel. Just you wait a few hundred years."

The cooks had propped the kitchen door open to catch the breeze from the yard. Passing it, Alec caught sight of a cloaked figure hurrying out the postern gate. Something in the sloped set of the man's shoulders made him pause; a familiar, muffled cough made him thrust the still empty wine jugs into his companion's arms and follow.

"Where are you going?" Kheeta called after him.

"I need some air." Alec sprinted across the yard before the other man could question him.

The guards by the watch fire took no more notice of him than they had of Torsin. Why worry about one of their own going out when it was folk creeping in they were set to guard against? Outside the gate Alec paused, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. A cough nearby guided him to the left.

He'd acted on pure instinct until now, but suddenly he felt rather foolish ghosting along after Klia's most trusted adviser as if he were a Plenimaran spy. What was he going to tell her when he got back, or say to Torsin if the old man caught him tailing along behind him? As if in answer, a large owl—the first he'd seen since they'd left Akhendi—glided past, flying in the same direction Torsin had gone.

I can claim I had an omen, he thought.

Ill or not, Torsin moved as if he had a purpose more serious than taking the night air. The taverns were busier than ever, and music seemed to come from all directions. Aurenfaie were out in pairs and groups, enjoying the night. He stopped now and then to exchange a greeting with some person he knew but didn't linger to chat.

Leaving Bokthersa tupa, he led Alec down a succession of streets that took them past boundary markers of Akhendi and Haman. When he slowed at last, Alec's heart sank. This street was marked with the moon symbol of Khatme. Thankfully, there were fewer folk abroad here, but Alec was careful to keep to the shadows of doorways and alleys. He wasn't nightrunning, he told himself, hoping he never had to justify that to anyone else. He was just keeping an eye on an ailing old man.

Torsin stopped at an imposing house Alec guessed rightly to be the house of Lhaar a Iriel. A brief slice of candle glow from inside illuminated the old man's face as he entered, and Alec was close enough to read what looked like resignation on Torsin's haggard features.

There were no obvious ways into the house, even for Alec. The well-guarded villas of Rhiminee possessed a comforting symmetry of design by comparison. There might be walls to climb, dogs to avoid or charm his way past, but you could almost always find some aperture to wiggle through if you knew your business. Here there were only barred doors and windows out of reach.

He was further stymied by the fact that this building, whatever it was, abutted several others, all of which presented equally blank faces. He was about to give up when he caught the sound of several voices somewhere overhead.

Looking up, he made out the dark jut of a balcony. The voices

were too soft for him to catch the gist of the conversation, but the erratic punctuation of Torsin's coughing left no doubt in Alec's mind that he'd found his man again.

There were at least two others with him, a man and a woman— Lhaar a Iriel herself, perhaps.

The conference did not last long. The unseen conspirators soon disappeared back into the house. Alec waited a few minutes to see if they'd return, then headed back to the front of the building to wait.

Torsin emerged a few minutes later, but not alone. A man walked with him for several minutes before turning in the opposite direction.

Alec was still trying to decide which one to follow when a familiar shape emerged from the shadows beside him.

"Seregil?"

"You take Torsin; I'll follow this other fellow. Watch out for Khatme along the way. You won't be welcome here." With that, Seregil disappeared as quickly as he'd come.

Torsin led Alec straight back to their own door, the front one this time. After exchanging a few words with the sentries, he went inside.

Looking up at the colos, Alec saw lights still burning there. Not knowing what excuses had been made for his absence or Seregil's, he went in through the stable yard and up the back stair. Halfway up, he heard Klia's voice, and Torsin's.

"I thought you'd turned in already," Klia said.

"A short walk in the night air helps me sleep," Torsin replied. No mention of where he'd been.

Alec waited until he heard two doors close, then continued on to his chamber and settled in to wait for Seregil so they could get their stories straight. That seemed a safe enough plan, far more attractive than being the one to tell Klia that her trusted minister has just been consorting with their opposition behind her back.

Seregil's man was not wearing a sen'gai, but he guessed from the cut of his tunic that he was from one of the eastern clans. He was soon proven right. The man led him to the house of Ulan i Sathil.

Lurking in a nearby doorway, Seregil pondered the possible connections. Intractable Khatme and worldly Viresse; the two clans were divided as much by their ideology as they were by the spur of mountains that lay between their ancestral lands. The only uniting factor he knew of was their opposition to the Skalan treaty.

The greater question was whether Torsin knew of the connection.

He returned to the guest house to find the colos dark, the music stilled. Entering by the back gate, he found Korandor and Nikides on guard duty.

"Has anyone else come or gone this way tonight, Corporal?" he asked.

"Just Lord Torsin, my lord," Nikides replied. "He left a while back and we haven't seen him since."

"I thought he'd turned in for the night."

"Couldn't sleep, he said. Now, I say night air's the worst thing for weak lungs, but there's no telling these nobles anything—begging your pardon, my lord."

Seregil gave the man a knowing wink and continued on as if he'd just been out on a constitutional of his own.

He found Alec pacing impatiently in their room, every lamp blazing. Shadows still clung in the corners, resisting his superstitious efforts to banish them.

"Seems they can't carry on without us." Seregil grinned, pointing up toward the abandoned colos.

"Klia came down about half an hour ago," Alec told him, coming to a rest in the center of the room. "What did they say when I didn't come back?"

"Kheeta had some story about you feeling your wine, but he slipped me the nod. What happened?"

Alec shrugged. "Luck in the shadows, if you can call it that. I just happened to be there when Torsin left. He came straight back here from Khatme tupa after I saw you. Klia met him in the passage as he came up."

"Did she know where he'd been?"

"I couldn't tell. What about your man?"

"Care to guess?"

"Viresse?"

"Smart boy. Too bad we don't know what was said either place."

"Then you didn't learn anything, either." Alec sank into a chair by the hearth. "What do you suppose Torsin was up to?"

"The queen's business, I hope," Seregil replied doubtfully, sprawling in the chair opposite.

"Do we tell Klia?"

Seregil closed his eyes and massaged the lids. "That's the real question, isn't it? I doubt that spying on our own people was quite what she had in mind when she invited us along." . "Maybe not, but she did say she was worried that he might be too sympathetic to Viresse. This proves it."

"It proves nothing, except that he and someone with connections to Ulan i Sathil met at the house of Lhaar a Iriel."

"So, what do we do? "

Seregil shrugged. "Bide our time a little longer, and keep our eyes open."

17

Alec Keeps Busy

Bide our time. To Alec, it seemed all they'd done since they arrived was wait, held impotent by the strictures of diplomacy and the plodding pace of Aurenfaie debate. The last thing he felt like doing was biding his time now that something interesting had finally happened.

He rose early the next morning and took himself out for a dawn ride around the city walls. The distant hills floated like islands above the thick mist rising from the rivers. The bleat of sheep and goats came from closer by. Reaching the Nha'mahat, he stopped to exchange greetings with a rhui'auros who was setting out fresh offerings for the dragons. At this hour the little creatures fluttered in swarms thick as spring swallows, circling the tower. Others scrabbled over the bowls in the arcade. Several lit on Alec and he froze, not relishing the thought of another painful bite, no matter how auspicious the marks might be.

Riding back through the Haunted City he passed the House of Pillars and was surprised to see Nyal's horse, a black gelding with three white stockings, grazing there next to a sturdy white palfrey. Alec had an

eye for horses and recognized this little mare as the mount Lady Amali had ridden over the mountains from Gedre.

If it hadn't been for Beka, he might have ridden on. Instead, he tethered Windrunner out of sight and hurried inside.

Voices echoed from several directions, and he set off following those that sounded most promising to the pools at the center of the sprawling place. At last, he found his way to a small, weed-grown court some distance further on, where the comforting rise and fall of a man's voice sounded a counterpoint to a woman's soft weeping. Creeping closer, Alec slipped behind a tattered tapestry that still hung near the courtyard's edge and peered out through a hole.

Amali sat on the edge of an empty fountain, her face in her hands. Nyal stood over her, stroking her hair gently.

"Forgive me," Amali said through her fingers. "But who else could I turn to? Who else would understand?"

Nyal drew her close, and for an instant Alec scarcely recognized him. The Ra'basi's handsome face was suffused with an anger Alec had never seen in him before. When he spoke again, his voice was almost too low to hear. Alec could make out only the words "hurt you."

Amali raised her tear-stained face and clasped his hands beseechingly. "No! No, you must never think such a thing! He's in such distress at times I hardly know him. Word came that another village near the Khatme border has been abandoned. It's as if Akhendi is dying, too!"

Nyal murmured something and she shook her head again. "He cannot. The people would not hear of it. He won't abandon them!"

Nyal pulled away and walked off a few steps, clearly agitated. "Then what is it you want of me?"

"I don't know!" She reached out to him. "Only—I needed to know you are still my friend, someone I can open my heart to. I'm so alone there!"

"It's where you chose to be," Nyal retorted bitterly, then relented as she dissolved into tears again.

"I am your friend, your dear friend," he assured her, gathering her close and rocking her gently. "You can always come to me, talia. Always. Just give me this much: Do you ever regret your decision? Even just a little?"

"You mustn't ask me that," she sobbed, clinging to him. "Never, never, never! Rhaish is my life. If only I could make him well."

Amali could not see the despair that filled Nyal's eyes at her words, but Alec could. Ashamed of his eavesdropping, he waited until the pair had gone, then set off for home.

Seregil and the others had left for the Iia'sidra by the time Alec arrived. He checked at their room, in case Seregil had left any last-minute instructions, but found nothing. On his way down to the kitchen for breakfast, however, he found himself pausing outside Torsin's door, his heart beating just a little too fast. It seemed to be his day for opportunities; the door was ajar again.

The envoy's strange behavior the previous night was too much to ignore, given Seregil's concerns about the man's loyalties. And this—the open door was just too tempting to pass unexplored.

With a last guilty glance around and a quick prayer to Illior, he slipped inside and closed the door.

Torsin's room was a large one, with an alcove at the far side. A desk stood beneath a window there, dispatch box, writing materials, and a few sealed parchments arranged neatly on its polished top. The room was furnished with the usual accoutrements: gauze-hung bed, a washstand, clothes chests, all made in the simple Aurenfaie style— pale woods and clean, sweeping lines accented with darker inlay.

Feeling guiltier by the moment, he worked quickly, examining the desk and its contents, the clothes chests, and the walls behind the hangings, but found nothing of note. Everything was meticulous, orderly.

Picking up a daybook from a stand by the bed, he found a terse but detailed record of each day's developments written in Torsin's precise script. The first entry was dated three months earlier. As he moved to put it back it fell open to more recent entries, one dating a week or so before Klia's arrival in Gedre. The handwriting was still recognizable, but the letters were not as clearly formed, and words occasionally strayed from the careful lines or were marred by blots and smudges.

That's his illness doing that. Alec paged back through the book, trying to gauge how long Torsin had been failing, but was interrupted by the sound of brisk footsteps from the corridor.

Aurenfaie beds were low-slung affairs, yet he managed to wedge himself out of sight under it without too much trouble. It wasn't until he was hidden that he realized he was still clutching the book.

The latch lifted and he held his breath, watching from beneath the edge of the coverlet as the door swung open and a pair of boot-clad feet—a woman's, by the size—strode across the room to the desk. It was Mercalle; he recognized her limp. He heard the small squeak of the dispatch box's lid and the unmistakable rustle of parchments.

Turning his head, he looked out under the other side of the bed and could see the bottom of a dispatch pouch hanging against her thigh.

Seems I'm the only spy here, after all, he thought, letting out a pent-up breath when she'd gone out. She'd simply come to collect the day's dispatches.

He remained where he was a moment, and opened the daybook again. The first sign of weakness in Torsin's handwriting appeared several weeks before Klia's arrival. Pondering this, he turned to the latest entry, a summary of the previous day's debate.

U.S. remains subtle, letting the L. raise opposition—

Alec allowed himself a wry smirk. What had he expected? "Met with the Viresse. Plotted against the princess "?

His current position afforded him a different perspective on the room. From here, he could see the careful polish on the row of shoes lined up next to a clothes chest, and the crisply folded pleats in the hem of a robe hanging on the wall.

One glance into a person's private rooms will tell you more about him than an hour's conversation, Seregil had once told him. Alec had found the statement amusing at the time, considering the source; any space Seregil inhabited was soon in complete disarray. Torsin's room, on the other hand, shouted order. Everything was in its place, with nothing extraneous in evidence.

As he slid out from under the bed he noticed a flash of red in the ashes on the hearth, just beneath the metal bars of the grate. If he'd been standing, he'd have missed it.

Crawling over, he saw it was the half-charred remains of a small silk tassel, dark red with a few blue threads mixed in. He doubted Torsin owned a garment with such embellishments, but they were common enough on Aurenfaie clothing, edging cloaks and tunics.

And sen'gai.

He gingerly plucked it out, heart racing again. It was the right size and colors to have come from the edge of a Viresse head cloth. Someone had meant to destroy it, but it had fallen through the grate before the fire had completely consumed it.

No chance of it being missed, then, he reasoned, tucking it into the wallet at his belt.

He spent the rest of the morning loitering about the edges of Khatme tupa in hopes of striking up a profitable conversation.

Skilled as he usually was at such ploys, he had no luck here. Unwelcoming stares and whispers of "garshil" warned him off whenever he ventured too deeply into the area.

Perhaps I used up all my luck this morning, he thought, frustrated.

The few outlying streets he did manage to explore had none of the usual gathering spots. Unfriendly tattooed faces peered at him from windows and balconies, then disappeared from view. No one, it seemed, had time to drink or game here. Or perhaps, insular as they were, their taverns were located deeper in the tupa, far from prying impure eyes.

As midday approached he gave up and started for home. It took only a few turnings, however, to realize that he had once again gotten himself lost.

"Illior's Fingers!" he muttered, scowling as he scanned the anonymous walls and doorways.

"Blaspheming won't get you free, half-breed. You must use the Lightbearer's true name here."

A Khatme woman stepped into view a few yards away, her tattooed face impassive beneath her bulging red-and-black sen'gai. She wore none of the usual heavy jewelry Alec associated with the clan, but her tunic was stitched with rows of silver, pomegranate-shaped beads.

"I meant no disrespect," Alec replied. "And you can spare yourself the effort of magic; I get lost on my own without any help."

"I've been watching you all morning, half-breed. What is it you want here?"

"I was just curious."

"You're lying, half-breed."

Do the Khatme read thoughts after all, or do I just look as guilty as I feel? Putting on the bravest face he could, he replied. "My apologies, Khatme. It's a practice we Tir have when what we are doing is none of another person's business."

"There's an etiquette to duplicity, then? How interesting."

Alec thought he saw a hint of a smile shift the black tracery covering one cheek. "You say you've been watching me, yet I haven't seen you," he countered. "Were you spying on me?"

"Were you spying on Lord Torsin when he came here at our khirnari's request last night, half-breed?"

There was no use dissembling. "That doesn't concern you. And my name is Alec i Amasa, not half-breed."

"I know. Retrace your steps." Before he could respond, she was gone, disappearing like smoke on the air.

"Retrace my steps?" Alec grumbled. "What else have I been doing?"

This time, however, it worked and he found himself back in familiar territory, near the Iia'sidra chamber. Having nothing better to do, he went in and settled in an inconspicuous corner, watching faces. He watched Torsin's most closely of all.

He managed to catch Seregil's attention when the council adjourned for the midday meal. Motioning him outside, Alec walked him quickly into an empty side street.

"Find out anything in Khatme tupa?" Seregil asked hopefully.

"Well, no. Not there." Steeling himself, Alec plunged into a hurried account of his findings in Torsin's room, what he'd seen between Nyal and Amali momentarily forgotten.

Seregil stared a him incredulously, then whispered, "You burgled Torsin's room? Bilairy's Balls, didn't I tell you to wait?"

"Yes, and if I'd listened to you we wouldn't have this, would we?" Alec showed him the Viresse tassel. "What's the matter with you? A member of Klia's own delegation sneaks out to talk to the enemy and you say wait? Back in Rhiminee you'd have been in there last night yourself!"

Seregil glared at him a moment, then shook his head. "It's not the same here. This isn't the Plenimarans we're dealing with. The Aurenfaie are Skala's allies in spirit if not in actual fact. It's not as if they're likely to be plotting her assassination. And Torsin?"

"But this could be the proof Klia was looking for, about his divided loyalty."

"I've been thinking about that. It's not sympathy that would make Torsin court Ulan's favor. He's worried that we could lose all by offending the Viresse: not get Gedre, and lose our port in Viresse in the bargain. Still, if he did go behind her back to do it—?"

"How did he seem at the Iia'sidra?"

"Any guilty glances or secret nods exchanged, you mean?" Seregil asked with a crooked grin. "None that I saw. The one possibility we haven't considered is that he was acting on Klia's behalf, and that it's the rest of us who aren't supposed to know."

"Well, that brings us right back to my original question. What do we do?"

Seregil shrugged. "We're Watchers. We'll watch."

"Speaking of watching people, I saw Nyal and Amali together again early this morning."

"Oh?" This clearly piqued Seregil's interest. "What were they up to?"

"She was upset about her husband and it was Nyal she turned to."

"They were lovers once. Clearly there's still a bond there," said Seregil. "What was it she was upset about?"

"I didn't hear everything, but it sounded like this debate is taking a toll on Rhaish."

Seregil frowned. "That's not good. We need him strong. Do you think Amali and Nyal are still secretly lovers?"

Alec thought back over the morning's scene: Amali clinging to the tall Ra'basi, the anger he'd seen in the man's face at the mere hint of abuse. "I don't know."

"I think it's time we found out, and not just for Klia's sake. Let's see if Adzriel knows more than she's been letting on."

They found Adzriel sitting with Saaban in her colos.

"Nyal and Amali?" Saaban chuckled when Seregil broached the subject. "Have you two been gossiping in the taverns?"

"Not exactly," Seregil hedged. "I've heard a few rumors, and Nyal's been showing a lot of attention to Beka Cavish; if he's leading her on, I mean to take steps."

"They were lovers before her marriage to Rhaish i Arlisandin," Adzriel said. "A sad story, the stuff of ballads."

"What happened?"

Adzriel shrugged. "She chose duty over love, I suppose, marrying the khirnari of her clan rather than an outsider. But I know she's grown to love Rhaish dearly; it's Nyal who carries the pain of that decision. He strikes me as the sort of man who does not stop loving even when his love is turned away. Perhaps Beka can heal his heart."

"Just so long as he doesn't break hers in the process. Rhaish is getting long in years. Is he well?"

"I've been wondering that myself. He doesn't seem himself; the strain of the negotiations, no doubt."

"He's known more than his share of sorrows, too," said Saaban. "He's seen two wives die, one barren, one in childbed, along with the child. Now Amali carries their first child. That's bad enough by itself, but to be khirnari and watch your people suffer as his do—I can only imagine how much this business weighs on his mind. I suspect Amali wanted nothing more from Nyal than a shoulder to cry on."

"Try as I may to dislike the man, I hear nothing but good spoken of him," Seregil muttered as they walked back to their room.