The Chronicles of Tornor Trilogy: Watchtower, the Dancers of Arun, and the Northern Girl
Date: 2017-10-31 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: From a two-time winner of the World Fantasy Award, this epic trilogy is a “marvelous blend of fantasy [and] realism” (Marion Zimmer Bradley). Tornor is a land of warriors and lovers, a diverse place where devotion knows few bounds and honor stands strong in the face of adversity. Spread across generations, these three novels feature a trio of courageous heroes as they come of age in a magical world. In the World Fantasy Award–winning Watchtower , Tornor Keep is the legendary tower that protects the winter end of a summer land. But when Tornor is overrun by raiders, Prince Errel and the tenacio
Publisher: Open Road Media

The Chronicles of Tornor Trilogy

Watchtower, The Dancers of Arun, and The Northern Girl

Elizabeth A. Lynn

CONTENTS

Watchtower

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

The Dancers of Arun

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

The Northern Girl

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Appendixes

About the Author

Watchtower

The land of Arun is a fictional place, and its people, culture, and customs bear only inadvertent resemblance to people and histories of our world, with one exception. The art of the chearis, as it is described, resembles in some aspects the Japanese martial art aikido, created by Master Morihei Uyeshiba. This imitation is deliberate. Writers must write what they know. In gratitude for that knowledge, the author respectfully wishes to thank her teachers.

One

Tornor Keep was dead and burning.

Ryke's face was soot-stained, and his wrists were skinned raw where he had torn them twisting in his chains. His head ached. He was not sure of what he'd seen and not seen happen. He lay in the inner courtyard. He could see a plume of smoke from the outer wall, where Col Istor's sappers had breached it and pulled it down. He smelled the smoke of a nearer burning. Behind him, in the great hall, something was in flames.

Athor, lord of the Keep, was dead, long beard bloody from the wounds he'd taken. Ryke had seen him fall, and in the haze of the fight had expected Tornor castle and tower and walls to waver and fall with him in the shock ... But it had not happened. The walls were still there. All the men of Ryke's watch were dead. They lay outside the gates they had died defending, frozen into the uncaring snow. Ryke pictured the women from the village coming in spring to dig the bodies of their husbands and sons from the loosening ground.

He was light-headed. He curled into the stone, wondering how many other men of Tornor were still alive, and what Col Istor planned to do with them—with him. He had expected to die with the men of his watch. He still expected to die. He did not want to, but it was hard to summon up a will to live with Athor dead, with the balance broken, the order of things spoiled. He wondered if Col Istor had had him dragged inside and chained in order to make an example of him. The stone was rough beneath his cheek. He shivered. From somewhere in the great square Keep he heard the sound of chickens cackling, and the voices of the women rounding them up. The winter had just begun, two weeks back, and he was not yet cold-hardened. The second big snow had ceased that night. No, he thought muzzily, the snow stopped two nights ago...

Fitfully, between shivers, he slept. He woke trying to roll away. Someone had kicked him in the side.

He looked up. Framed against the blue winter sky, Col Istor stood over him: black hair, black beard, a fat swarthy southerner's face.

“We just got the fire out,” he said to Ryke casually, as if he were talking to a friend, not a chained and defeated enemy. “Those crazed people set the kitchen on fire rather than surrender.” He squatted. He wore mail and a long-sword. His iron helmet looked like an old pot. He smelled of ash. “You warm enough?"

“Too close!” said someone sharply from behind him.

“Shut up.” He was thick-shouldered, a bulky man. His dark eyes inspected Ryke as if the watch commander were a goat marked for slaughter. “You fight well,” he said. “You're not really hurt, are you? No wounds except that head knock. It saved your life. No broken bones. You're young. You're better off than your lord."

Slowly Ryke sat up. He considered hitting the man with the chain around his hands, but he did not have the strength left in his arms to swing the heavy iron cuffs. “Athor's dead."

Col Istor chuckled. “I don't mean the old one,” he said. “I mean the young one, the prince."

“Errel?” Ryke blinked. The smoke stung his eyes. He had not slept in two days, his head was thick. He scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed his face, trying to think. Errel, Athor's only son and heir, had been out hunting when Col and his soldiers appeared at the Keep five days ago. He had not come back. Athor and the commanders had assumed him safe. Ryke had hoped so, very much. “He's out of your reach."

“He's among us,” said Col Istor. Standing, he beckoned to the man at his back. “Get him on his feet."

That man stepped forward and dragged Ryke up. He had big ungentle hands. Ryke leaned against the wall until his legs stopped shaking. Col watched him with detached interest. The man did not look like a warlord. Everyone knew that war came from the north. It was born in rock, and it toughened in the constant strife, now at truce, between Arun and the country yet farther north, Anhard-over-mountain. Athor of Tornor, watchful for signs of the Anhard raiders, had paid no heed to the rumors that reached the Keep through the southern traders, about a mercenary chieftain rising out of the peaceful farms of Arun, the shining golden grainfields, the Galbareth. Yet this man had warred on wartrained Tornor in winter, and won.

“Bring him,” Col ordered.

They walked across the inner ward to the gate. Ryke had trouble in the slippery snow. The cold wind half revived him. Col's army was all around in the bright sunlight, cleaning up the castle. There was a line of corpses stacked against a wall. Most wore battle gear, but one still wore a leather cook's apron. There was no way to tell which of the cooks it was.

Once Ryke fell. They waited until he struggled up, and went on.

They went through the inner gatehouse, under the iron teeth of the portcullis. Guards stood at attention. Several of them wore spoil marked with the fire-emblem of Zilia Keep, the easternmost of the Keeps, three days ride from Tornor. Ryke did not know what had happened to Ocel, lord of that castle, and to his family. He had a big family. Probably they were dead. More guards swarmed in the outer ward, between the walls. One carried an armful of spent arrows. He held them by the quill end, spoiling the set of the fletch. Southerners knew naught of shooting. Ryke wondered if the Keep could have held out longer with more arrows. The Keep's fletchers had kept the castle supplied with hunting shafts. But since the making of the truce they had more or less ceased crafting war arrows.

He decided it would not have mattered.

Over the wall, Athor's banners snapped in the wind, a red eight-pointed star on a white-field. As Ryke watched, a small dark figure wormed up the pole and cut the banner down. Ryke looked away, aware that Col was watching him. The cuffs dragged painfully at his wrists. They walked along the south wall. The dog cage sat in the sun at the foot of the watchtower. It was a small stockade with a linen awning shading it. Athor had built it for his wolfhound bitch and her pups. There were no dogs in it now. Errel lay sprawled across the dung-spattered stone, covered by a filthy blanket. His face was blue with cold and cut up about the mouth. His eyes were closed. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest told Ryke that he was living.

“He doesn't look like much,” said the man whose name Ryke didn't know.

Col Istor said, “My men found him on the west road, heading toward Cloud Keep. He killed four of them with that long bow of his. But he's whipped now."

Ryke wanted to wrap both hands around Col's thick neck. “What do you want?” he asked.

Col Istor teetered, heel to toe, smiling, cheerful. He wore patterned leather and over it a linked mail vest. Beneath the leather the linen tails of his tunic flapped. The mail looked light and strong, as good as anything made by a northern smith. “I could kill him,” he said. “Or make him a servant. A pigherd. Or I could keep him alive in chains."

“What do you want, thief?” Ryke said.

The other man backhanded him across the face. The blow sent Ryke into the wall. His head spun, shot through with lights like arrows. He swallowed back sickness and stayed on his feet.

“Held, let be,” said Col Istor. The man so named stepped back obediently. Col glanced at the sky. “It's clear now,” he said. “Is it going to snow later?"

First they had been talking about Errel, now they were talking about the weather: it made no sense. “What—"

“Just answer me,” said the war chief. He laid his left hand on his scabbard, not in threat, but lightly, as if the feel of the sword in its sheath gave him comfort. The leather scabbard was metal-worked. The sword was probably of Tezeran steel, the best there was.

“In another four or five days. Sooner if the wind veers east."

“We'll have to get food from the village, but I don't want to starve people to feed the army. What kind of stores did Athor keep?"

“The storerooms are filled with grain and salted beef,” said Ryke. He sucked at his cheek, tasting blood. Held's blow had cut it. “It may not be sufficient. Athor counted on being able to feed two hundred men, plus staff. There are more of you.” He tried to keep his tone expressionless but did not quite succeed.

“It galls, doesn't it,” said Col. On the wall, the men were raising his standard: a red sword on black. Held wore the device on the right breast of his outershirt. “Look at me, Ryke."

Ryke met his eyes. The man had force.

“That's better. The army can eat light if it has to. How good is the river water?” He referred to the Rurian, the river that fell down the mountains west of the Keep. Joined by smaller streams, it broadened as it hurried south, and Ryke had heard that it flowed unbroken to the sea. It curved by Tornor almost close enough to brush the castle wall: it was the Keep's principal water source.

“It's snow water; it's pure,” Ryke said. “What is this?"

“You asked me what I wanted,” said Col Istor. “I want you. You know the Keep, the villages, the weather, the needs of the country. I want your service. In exchange for your loyalty, your princeling there stays alive and fed.” Both men turned to look at Errel through the spacing of the wooden palisade.

Ryke tried to ask himself what Athor would do. But Athor was dead as mutton and could not speak. “Suppose I say no,” he said.

Col Istor smiled. “You can watch while Held breaks his hands."

He said it in a normal tone, loud enough for Errel to hear if he could hear at all. The prince did not move. Ryke watched the lift and fall of his chest. He too must have been hit on the head. A man can die from a head blow. A man can die from cold. “How many watch commanders do you have?” be asked.

“Three,” said Col.

“Make it four."

Col tugged at his beard. “Four,” he said slowly. Beside him, Held stirred but did not speak.

Ryke said, “Get Errel out of the cage."

Col nodded at Held. The man unfastened the cage door. Seizing Errel by the feet, he dragged the long body out. Ryke went down on one knee. He almost fell; he steadied himself and held out both hands. A few soldiers, black-bearded, curious, stopped their work to watch. Col reached out and enclosed Ryke's hands in his own. Ryke licked his lips. He would not swear to Col Istor the oath he had sown at fifteen to Tornor's rightful lord. “I'll serve you,” he said, “with loyalty, as long as Errel's left alone and unharmed."

It sufficed. Col stepped back to let him stand. “Good,” he said. He swung toward Held. “Have him carried to the surgeon.” Held pointed at two of the watching soldiers. They came forward: one took Errel's shoulders, the other his limp feet. “Tell Gam and Onran to choose out men to make a fourth watch. You too.” Held nodded with reluctance. Col ignored it. He turned back to Ryke. “Come on,” he said. “We'll get the smith to strike those chains."

* * * *

When Ryke walked out of the smithy. Col was waiting for him. They strolled toward the barracks. Col said, “Your watch is like the other: that'll bring all of them down to just under a hundred men."

“How many did you come with?"

“Five hundred. We left fifty to hold Zilia Keep, and lost fifty in the fight.” Ryke stifled his pleasure at the news that Tornor had accounted for the loss of fifty of Col's men. He would have to keep such thoughts from his mind: he was Col's man now. “I'll announce a new guard schedule tonight at dinner. You'll have to keep the men working and in trim. In one or two months, after the worst of the snows, we'll send out parties to harass Cloud Keep. It won't stand when the time comes to fight."

Cloud Keep was ruled by Berent One-Eye, who'd lost his eye to a stone kicked up by a running horse in the last of the Anhard wars, nine years ago. Ryke wondered how Col knew that Cloud Keep was weak. He might have northerners—traitors, said his mind, and he forced the thought back—among his troops who would be able to tell him such things.

“And after Cloud Keep, Pel Keep?” he asked.

“Yes. That will be hardest. Harder than this was. Sironen's no fool. He'll be expecting me."

They passed the Yard. Despite the snow, there were men practicing, with knives and swords and axes: Col's men now. Every Keep on the mountain passes, every large village, every southern city down the Rurian to Kendra-on-the-Delta had a Yard. Every boy, from the time he reached thirteen, went through its gates each day to practice. Without this training Arun would long ago have been overrun by Anhard. Since the truce, Ryke had heard, the training in the southern Yards had grown lax. It was easy for the farmers to slacken. It was the Keeps that took the brunt of war.

They slowed to watch the men circling in combat. Once every Yard had had a Yardmaster, a man whose skill at war was unquestioned, whose responsibility it was to teach the boys and oversee practice. The custom had lapsed in Tornor. Col scanned the Yard from one side to the other. His bright eyes missed nothing. The two men nearest them swung at each other with wooden swords. “His guard's clumsy,” Col muttered. He shouted at the nearer man, who yelled back without turning and held his shield higher.

Col glanced back at the smith. “I did that,” he said.

“You were smith?"

“Yes. So was my father, and his father before him. We lived in Iste village. Have you heard of it?” Ryke shook his head. “It's a pinprick, near Lake Aruna on the Great South Road. I used to watch the lords of the Keeps ride back and forth between the mountains and Kendra-on-the-Delta, wanting to be with them, jealous of every horseboy on the line. I borrowed my name from it. That and my father's old battle-axe were the two things I took when I left home.” He stuck his thumbs in his belt. “The men may give you trouble, you being a northerner, and so late an enemy. Do what you must to keep them in order.” And I'll be watching to see how you handle them, his tone implied. He sauntered toward the great stone barracks. “They should be gathered by now.” Ryke, who had lived ten years in the building and knew every crack in its walls, followed.

A hundred men lounged in the southwest corner of the barracks: the cold corner, farthest from the kitchen chimneys. They rose as their chief entered. The smell of roast ham filled the room, leaking from the kitchen. Ryke's mouth watered. He felt himself the stranger. Fair-haired, fair-skinned, taller than the men, he stood out among them like a red fox in the snow. They eyed him warily. He wondered what Held had told them.

Col Istor said, “This is Ryke, late a commander of this Keep. He'll command this watch. His authority is equal to that of any other commander's.” He teetered, gazing at the silent soldiers. “Is that clear?” There was a grumbling assent. “That's all.” He turned toward the stairs. As he left, he flashed a yellow grin at Ryke.

Ryke folded his arms. The men were waiting for him to speak. Sunlight patterned the faded wall hangings. Grease from the sconced candles made the scenes of men at war almost unrecognizable. On the nearest panel, archers aimed their arrows at Anhard raiders. A sword slash marked where, in a silly drunken stupor, some soldier of the Keep had hacked at the Anhard warriors on the wall. Under the peaked shape of their helmets, the faces were pale blobs. Ryke surveyed the living soldiers standing in front of the painted ones. They had so recently been his foes ... Scattered through the swarthy faces he saw northerners. He did not know them: they were, he guessed, men of Zilia Keep who Col had bought or threatened or enticed to his service. No doubt one of them had told Col who Ryke was.

He walked down the row of pallets till he came to the innermost one. “I'll sleep here,” he said, and nudged the bundle of gear that lay on it to the floor. A rangy redhead stepped from the ranks. “What's your name?” said Ryke. This was the unofficial leader of the group.

“Vargo,” said the redhead. He had freckles on his face and on the backs of his hands. He wore an empty axe sheath on his left hip. He faced Ryke squarely. “That's my bed you took."

Ryke pointed to the pallet next to it. “No, that's yours. You're watch second."

A murmur of interest and surprise came from the observing soldiers. Vargo licked his lips, clearly puzzled, having suddenly been stripped of a cause to fight.

“Col will announce a new watch schedule at dinner. Assemble here before then for weapons inspection. You have the afternoon to polish your gear. I'll see what I can do to get us some extra blankets. Vargo, you stay; the rest of you are dismissed.” Slowly they dispersed out the door or to their pallets, moving in clumps to talk. He sat on the pallet. Vargo did the same. “You know them. Tell me about them: which are the slackers, and which cause trouble."

* * * *

Before dinner, Ryke had Vargo line the men up outside the barracks, in the courtyard. Scullions peered curiously through the kitchen windows. The men at the inner gatehouse turned to watch. Ryke walked slowly along the column, looking at weapons and at the men's eyes. One man slouched, leathers greasy, sword hilt untouched. His name was Ephrem; Vargo had warned Ryke that he might make trouble. He stared at Ryke. He was broad-shouldered and dark-eyed, squat as an ox. Ryke said, “You were in the barracks with the others. You heard the order."

The man glanced from side to side. “I was busy.” His stance challenged Ryke to react.

Ryke took a backward step. Ephrem relaxed. His shoulders slumped. Ryke pivoted and hit him crosswise on the left side of his jaw. Beneath his glove he gripped a smooth iron bolt, taken from the smithy. Ephrem's head snapped back. He slid two arm's lengths and landed, limp as a worm, on the cold courtyard floor.

Ryke went on. It took him a little time to complete his inspection. Ephrem was still out cold. “You and you.” Ryke pointed at random. “Take him to a bed.” The men jumped to drag Ephrem out of line. The scullions jeered at the unconscious man. The others stood. Ryke let them wait, feeling their temper as a man might feel the temper of a newly broken horse. A few turned to watch Ephrem being lugged into the barracks. He waited for them to face him. It grew very silent. A dog barked somewhere within the walls, a lonely cry. Ryke wondered if it was one of Athor's wolfhounds, looking for its master and not finding him. “Dismissed,” he said.

* * * *

Col announced the watches before the start of the meal.

Ryke shared the table with Col and the other commanders. Their table sat below the space, now bare, on which Athor's war banner had hung. The men were seated at long tables, three of them, which reached outward from the small head table like the three tines of a kitchen fork. Ryke's men had morning watch, sunrise till noon. The soldiers were hot with victory. Col had said the army could eat lean but he was not making them fast this night, their first in the castle they had labored to take. Kitchenboys staggered from the serving windows under great platters of food: slabs of bacon, goat, two whole sheep taken from the village, bread, cheese, sauces, potatoes, wine. The men toasted Col, the commanders, each other. They drank to their dead. They did not speak of Athor's two hundred dead, buried now in shallow pits outside the outer walls.

Ryke did not drink to the toasts.

The other commanders watched him: Onran stealthily, old Gam, the horse commander, with amusement, Held with grim mistrust. If Col saw it, he said nothing. At the foot of the hall, over the serving windows, hung pikes, axes, javelins, swords, helmets, shields with patterns of silver and gold, spoils taken over the years from the Anhard raiders who had come over the mountains to loot and had found themselves looted. Some of them were dark with rust. Ryke remembered the raid, nine years ago, in which Athor of Tornor had killed the chief of the raiders. It had happened the summer of his eighteenth year. Ryke carried a souvenir of that war, an Anhard skinning-knife. He had taken it off the body of a man he'd killed. He wore it in a sheath in his right boot.

Along the hall's side walls hung tapestries depicting the building of the Keep. They showed masons and master carpenters with their tools, men carting stone from a quarry, workmen digging the foundation pit, yet more stones on a raft floating downriver, down the snow-swollen Rurian. Ryke looked at the faded hangings so that he would not have to watch the southerners in their triumph. The room was hot and smoky. As the platters grew bare, Col rose. The men cheered him. He roared them to silence.

“You fight well and I'm proud of you,” he said. They pounded the tables. “Enough! Twenty-five men of each watch will return to Zilia Keep, to hold that Keep against rebellion. You'll leave tomorrow. Take what provisions you need from the kitchens here; you'll leave the villages alone as you travel. Those left here will dig in for the winter. I understand there are two or three months of cold yet due to this misbegotten country. We'll stay warm sweeping out the snow and raiding at Cloud Keep's border.” The men shouted. “Shut up. We'll not grow soft because we're stuck indoors. But we'll not grow bored, either. We'll live like lords. We'll bring women from the village.” They liked this, too. “They tell me there's a whole set of rooms for women in the apartments in the west wing, so you can stop fighting over the kitchen maids. And, just like the great houses in Kendra-on-the-Delta, Tornor Keep will have a cheari.” Ryke frowned. It was a word he did not know, out of the old southern tongue. “He's new to the game but he'll learn fast."

Ryke leaned to Gam. “What's a cheari?"

“It means jester, a fool,” said the horsemaster. Ryke nodded. It was southern custom, especially in the great city houses, he had heard, to dress a boy in paint and feathers and set him to tumbling for his supper. He leaned back in his chair. He was very tired, and the smoke and noise were starting to make his head ache. From beneath the table, a warm head pressed against his knee. He felt a sleek coat and silky ears. The dog nosed into his palm. He thought it was one of Athor's wolfhounds. He fed the beast tidbits from his plate.

Preoccupied, he barely noticed when the tumbler came from the kitchen doorway and began to do cartwheels at the foot of the tables. The tumbler was tall for a boy, and clumsy. They had dressed him in leggings trimmed with red velvet, but his chest and feet were bare. Someone tossed him a marrowbone. Pretending to be a dog, he held it in his teeth and ran around on hands and feet. “Good boy!” said Col. The tumbler barked. Laughing, the men tossed scraps. The youth gathered them up. Trotting like an animal, waving a willow switch like a tail, he came toward the high table. Ryke saw that he was no boy, but a man, muscled, lean, and bruised. His face was painted blue. The man passed him at a dogtrot, and Ryke saw that it was Errel. He did not believe it. He looked at Col Istor. The war chief was smiling, as at a well-played jest. Trembling, Ryke rose.

Col stood. So did Held. “Your oath, commander,” said Col. “He's alive and unharmed. Sit down.” Around them the noise continued unabated. None of the revellers had yet noticed that something was wrong. Col Istor's eyes were hard. “Sit down!” Ryke sat. He could not breathe. His head roiled with pain. He waited for the granite walls to shiver, to crack, but they did not.... Col's lips moved. Ryke stared at the woven figures on the walls. The taste of the food was like ash in his mouth. He heard nothing through the roaring in his skull.

Two

Four months after Athor's death, the north (excepting Pel Keep) lay solidly within Col Istor's grip and in the grip of winter.

Ryke was riding from the Keep to the village in which he had been born. Every third week or so he made this trip, acting as Col's agent and emissary. He wore his furred riding cloak and fur-lined boots over leather breeches and woolen hose. The ground was covered with old snow. It was crusty; the horse's hooves cut cleanly through it. Between the Keep and the town lay a stony, unfarmed waste. In summer grass grew between the boulders, and the children from the Keep brought the castle's herd of milk-goats there to graze, while they picked petals off the blue daisies. At one time the town had filled the space, attached to the Keep by stone walls, but the town had grown. The walls were broken down for building. Now only remnants remained of the original houses. Seen from the castle, the field seemed to have a grain, a pattern where the ancient streets once ran. But up close the pattern melted into a random jumble.

Athor's stores proved not to be enough to feed three hundred men, not counting the servants, the women, and the horses. Col had to requisition food from the village. He kept his word, not to starve the village to feed the army, but by law and custom, a percentage of the village harvest and herds belonged to the Keep and could be claimed by the lord of the Keep at any time. Ryke carried the tallies on his belt: so many hogs, so many sheep, so much grain, to be delivered to Tornor within a week, assuming the weather permitted it. In return for this, the men of the Keep hunted the wild goats and kept the flocks safe from badger, wolf, fox, and cat. Southerners hunted with pikes and slings, not bows. A week back the men of Gam's watch had followed a boar trail south, but they had lost it, to the chief cook's disappointment. He was a southerner, and had never had a chance to prepare boar.

The tallies, graven with signs (a sickle for grain, a horn for goats) and notched to indicate the number of bushels and beasts needed, clacked at Ryke's hip. Col had made the carvings himself. He had Ryke bring the message to the townsfolk that Errel lived. “Tell them his good health depends on their cooperation,” he said. “I don't want them to do anything stupid, like plan a rebellion.” He teetered, smiling, rocking heel to toe. Ryke had not bothered to point out that a village of mostly old men, striplings, children, and women would not plan rebellion in midwinter.

He entered the narrow familiar streets. They went up and down, following the contours of the land. From the hill he glimpsed the river. There were women in wool cloaks and hoods crouched at the banks, fishing through holes in the ice. He rode to the house of Sterret, the headman, to leave the tallies. As he entered the village proper, the dogs massed to bark at him. A woman's voice screeched them to silence. They were ribbed and lean as wolves. He rushed his horse at them to make them scatter. Athor's wolfhound bitch, which had somewhat adopted him, had followed him to the postern gate whining to go with him, but he had told the guards to keep her back. He was glad now that he had done so: the village dogs would have scented her a stranger and torn her to pieces.

Sterret was a wheelwright; his sons had learned the trade from him. (One of them had traveled south to Kendra-on-the-Delta; the old man heard from him once a year, in summer.) Their house was larger than some others, built of grey stone with a real chimney and ovens and a tile roof. Icicles hung from the protruding edges of the tile. It sat in the center of the town, adjacent to the market. Children, undeterred by the cold, ran in the streets ahead of Ryke's horse, clear voices calling, all the way to Sterret's gate. Ryke recalled playing the hiding game in and out the doorways of the houses till his cheeks numbed and his toes in their sheepskin boots turned stiff and blue.

Sterret came to his gate to receive the notched sticks, accompanied by his youngest son. He walked with a cane; he had served in the Anhard wars and been wounded in the hip. The metal tip of the cane drilled precise holes in the ground, as if a carpenter made them with an auger. He ran his thumb down the markings. “It will be done,” he said. “How is the prince?” A shutter opened. The smell of spiced sausage wafted from the kitchen. A woman looked out.

“Errel is well,” said Ryke.

“Tell him we do not forget,” said the boy, hot-eyed.

“I will tell him."

“Come,” said Sterret, to the younger of the two sons left to him. He had had six. He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. Using the child as support, the wheelwright limped inside his house. The shutter closed.

The houses grew smaller and poorer toward the edges of the village. Fewer had chimneys. Instead of tile, they were roofed with sod. Ryke dismounted outside a plain stone cottage. Smoke rose through a roofhole. He tied his reins around an iron ring set in a stone. The door opened. His mother, wrapped in wool, stood in the doorway. He bent to kiss her cheek. His youngest sister peeped from behind the door. He smelled oat mash. Shaking his cloak free of snow, Ryke waited for his mother to invite him in.

She sat him at the table and fed him: barley cake, sour beer. She walked from firepit to table to firepit, stooping, with the slow gait of a woman who has borne twelve children and lost seven of them. Four of them had died before Ryke was born. He stretched his feet to the fire. The snow ran off his boots and hissed into the flames. “Art thou well?” she asked.

“Yes. And thou?"

She gave the little girl a barley cake, pretending not to hear him. Her hair was grey, thick, and long, and she wore it braided, as befitted a married woman. The braid fell down her back beneath the brown cloth of her hood. He knew her age, vaguely; she was somewhere between forty-five and fifty. She looked older than a man of her years might. Women in the mountains aged faster than men.

“She has a cough,” said the girl-child. She kept a tight hand on her mother's apron.

“It's naught,” said his mother. “I caught a chill."

Ryke frowned. His father had died of a chill caught in summer after swimming in the river, an ill way for a fighting man to die. He had been one of Athor's watch seconds, and lived within the Keep much of the year. “Have you been to the healer?"

She pursed her lips, in the way that told him she would not speak more of it. Stubborn as winter, his father once said of her. She reached for her knitting. “Kepi will be prenticed to the healer in the spring."

Kepi was his middle sister. “How old is she now?"

“Nine."

“That's good.” Mountain villages valued their healers. The current village healer was an old woman named Otha. She had had a prentice, some eight years back, but the girl had run away, and she had refused to take another, causing the village a deal of worry. “How's Evion?” Evion was, excepting Ryke himself, the oldest boy. He was thirteen. In a happier time he would be in Tornor under the wing of his older brother, as kitchen or smith or stableboy.

“He's well. He spends his days with the men. I see little of him.” Her lips moved; she was counting. He waited for her to finish her row.

“And Becke?” Becke was the oldest sister, nineteen. She had two children. Her man had died under the wall of Tornor, his head split by a southern axe like a piece of dry kindling. She had lost the third babe out of the womb. His mother said nothing. Twice he had tried to talk with Becke, but she had kept within her house and refused to see him. “And thou, little one?” he teased, tugging his youngest sister's braids. She shrieked and, giggling, ran to the safety of the skirts. She was seven.

As he remounted he saw a cluster of boys eyeing him from the shelter of the carter's broad doorway. They turned their heads when they saw him looking. He did not know any of them. They wore thick sheepskin, turned inward against the cold. He wondered if they hated him because he was alive. He was alive for Errel's sake, for Tornor's sake. He gathered the reins in his gloved hands, and waved to the boys. It was not his fault that their fathers and brothers were dead.

Stony-eyed as the figures in the tapestries, they stared through him. One of them threw a rock—not at Ryke but up. It spiraled into the sky and fell slowly back. Landing on a roof, it clattered on the ice-sheathed tiles. The boys ran. Ryke urged the horse toward Tornor. Backed into the whitened hills, the village houses leaned into each other as if for warmth. The dogs barked. The oath to Athor and the oath he'd sworn to Col Istor gnawed at Ryke's heart.

* * * *

Four days after that visit to the village, he found out what it was that his mother had not wanted to tell him about his sister.

His men had the late watch, noon to sunset. Ryke was making the rounds of their posts. The courtyard rang to the sound of hammers: the men were building another table and two more benches. Wood shavings skittered over the stones. The sky was light, but the sun had fallen behind the walls, and the inner wall lay in shadow. Two boys ran into the great hall, one carrying a load of loose sticks, the other a sticky armful of torches, heads tarred. Lost in thought—a dream, of a summer when he had ridden with his father to the farm of a cousin at the very edge of the Galbareth; he remembered the hum of the wind over the flat land; his father had lifted him to his shoulders so that the child Ryke could see the ocean of grain, purpling in sunset—he came to the watchtower stairs and nearly knocked a woman down. Hastily he caught her, hand under her elbow, muttering apology. She wore her hair pinned on top of her head with a fishbone comb, southern fashion, but the way she moved and stood was familiar. She wore a gown of blue wool. The line of her jaw was his own. She averted her eyes and began to move around him. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Becke?"

She answered flatly out of the gloom. “It's me."

She was not dressed like a serving girl. “What are you—"

“I'm Keep's woman now,” she said defiantly.

“How long have you been here?"

“Three weeks.” She shifted under his hand. He let her go. He could just see her eyes, like sparks in the twilight: light brown, hazel, like his.

“Where are the children?"

“With Ana.” Ana was her neighbor. Ana's husband was the carter.

He did not know what to say to her. He did not know her very well. She had been eight when he left the village to live at the Keep, and from then on he saw her only in the summer and at the harvest. She had been a wild child. Sometimes they had been friends; more often they had fought. He wanted to say: What would Jebe think? But Jebe was her man who was dead, and of course if Jebe were alive she would not be here.

There was no shame to being Keep's woman, especially not for a widow, especially not in wartime when there were few men in the towns. If she bore a child, the child would be fostered in the village until it was old enough for the Keep to claim it back. Errel's mother had been Keep's woman.

Becke was young yet, clear-skinned and lovely. “Why didn't you tell me you were here?” he said.

“I didn't want to see you,” she said. Her tone was cold. She smelled of honeysuckle. Ryke guessed she had a ribbon or a sachet of the dried flowers woven into her hair. In the watchtower someone struck a light. “Let me by, brother. I'm waited for.” He moved to let her pass. Her skirts rustled against his legs. She went up the watchtower stair. He bowed his head. It shamed him to think of his sister in Col's bed. He wondered why Col had not taunted him with it. It could only be because he did not know. He could not even be angry. Women had to survive. Becke served the southerners, just as he did. He would have to put it from his mind, as he had learned to put so many things.

* * * *

He and Errel had arranged a way to meet; signaling to each other by means of a token, which passed from one to the other of them as if it were a love sign, carried by a friendly kitchenmaid.

They met on the wall of the Keep, above the great hall, standing shoulder to shoulder like two men on watch, bundled and hunched against the swirling snow. Errel asked how the village fared. Ryke told him. The prince's face was thin and hungry. He asked the questions Athor would have asked. Ryke remembered Errel the hunter, Errel the bowman, Errel watching at Athor's back, young and grave, as Ryke knelt and swore his father fealty ... Now he ate what he could scrounge from the table scraps and the cooks. Ryke leaned his elbows on the wall. Deep inside, where he hid it, rage burned. It warmed him. He spoke in measured tones of sheep and pigs, visioning for himself that privileged instant in which he closed his hands around Col Istor's throat.

“Sterret asks for you always. The villagers do not forget to whom they owe their first allegiance."

Errel's cheeks reddened. “For their own sake, I hope they offer Col no contest,” he said.

“They do not."

“I am glad to hear it. Do Col's men keep the hunting covenant?"

“Three of Onran's men brought a wolf in yesterday."

“That's good,” said Tornor's lord.

He wore an ancient fur-lined cape, stained boots too big for him, and no gloves. He did not look like a soldier. Col had made it clear to Ryke that he did not want them to meet, and this was the fourth such meeting in as many months that Ryke had dared to plan. “Are you fit, my prince?” Ryke said.

Errel chuckled. “Need you ask? I am fit enough to tumble for my dinner in the hall each night. Fit for what?"

“Would Col let you work in the stables—play stableboy—if you begged it of him?"

“He would like that, to have me beg him. But I doubt he would consent to let me trade my Jester's willow for a currycomb. He likes this jest too well."

Ryke could not understand how the prince could laugh. He wondered what Athor would think if he knew his son still lived, playing for his supper and his life like a dog trained to sit and speak. Athor would have raged. Athor's rages were famous. But Athor was dead. Errel pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders. His face was beardless, scraped clean for the paint Col made him wear. “I had a thought—” Ryke said.

“Tell it."

Ryke checked the length of the wall as far as the veiling snow permitted him to see it. No one was on it. Beneath them in the inner ward a shivering light-haired girl ran in haste toward the kitchen. She carried a brass bowl. Her bare feet left scant marks in the filmy snow. Ryke said, “I hid a pack with travel furs in a corner of the stable where not even old Gam could find it. If you can get there..."

Errel stared west into the stormy twilight, hands flat on the chilly stone of the embrasure. “That's not the way,” he said.

“Do you mean you don't want to escape?” The words rang loudly on the battlement.

“Softly,” Errel said. “The wind might drop.” They listened. No one came. The prince said, “I dream of escape. But though I play the fool, I have not turned into one. That's not the way to do it. That would leave you here, to face Col's fury. I will not agree to any plan that puts you at risk."

“One man moves quicker than two—"

“No. I don't want to hear any more about it.” He turned from a gust of wind to stare hard at Ryke, eyes like blue ice. “Oaths are binding in two directions, Ryke."

Ryke bowed his head. “Yes, prince."

The wind died. In the lull they heard the sound of steps coming their way. It was the guard. They flattened to the stone, and he walked by swathed in furs without seeing them. Ryke waited to speak until he could not hear the footsteps. “Do the Cards tell you aught, prince?” At Errel's request, he had thieved from the prince's old apartments his pack of the Cards of Fortune. Magic made Ryke unhappy. He did not like to believe that the future existed in little, in symbol, within a double handful of painted pictures. But Errel had skill with the Cards.

Errel said, “Suppose I said yes. You have no faith in the Cards."

“For a way out of here,” Ryke said, “I will trust every kind of magic there is, even the Cards."

They walked south. A light streamed from the window of the watchtower, dim through the falling snow. Col was there. Ryke's bitterness rose. Errel said, “Out of their presence it is not wise to speak of the Cards. They are old and powerful, and like many oldsters, they resent being talked about where they themselves cannot hear it."

Over the blow of the wind, they heard a powerful voice shouting in anger. “Held making rounds,” Ryke said.

Errel said, “Do you know what they call him in the kitchen? Col's dog."

Ryke wondered what Col Istor would make of the Cards. “He calls for you a lot lately,” he said, worrying at the source of bitterness as a dog worries a sore.

“It takes the men's minds off the scanty rations."

“Sironen will stop him,” Ryke said. “Sironen will stop him when he goes to take Pel Keep."

"Maiou."

The sound made Ryke jump like a nervous horse. Poking out of the fur of Errel's cloak was the tawny orange head of a kitten. “What—"

“I found her freezing on the stair. I'll take her to the kitchen, she can be kitchen cat."

"Maiou," said the kitten. It began to purr tempestuously. As if in answer to the minute noise, a growling screech lifted from beyond the castle wall. It wailed and fumed.

“Wildcat,” said Errel, with the interest of a hunter. “They don't often come this close."

“She must be hungry.” They both craned westward as the cat began to mourn again.

“Look.” Errel pointed. It was a rider, two riders, coming from between the grey rocks that hid the mouth of the west road. That road led to Cloud Keep, to Pel Keep, and followed to its end, to the Great Mountains that marked Arun's western border. There were no Keeps in the shadow of those peaks. None were needed. They rose ice-tipped, dark and sheer as a wall.

“Messengers,” said Ryke.

“I see them,” said Errel. “That's strange. It's unusual for one of the green clan to travel so far north. The last time they did so was to help make the Anhard peace."

“They follow war,” Ryke said. Squinting into the grey distance, he could just make out the flag the riders carried. A green one was for heralds, messengers, or truce. Under the wall, a voice shouted. Men gathered at the postern gate.

“Yes.” The kitten mewed again, and the Jester stroked it absently, eyes fixed on the small figures riding toward the castle.

“I must go,” Ryke said. “They'll be looking for me."

“Yes. You go."

Ryke frowned. By Col's order, his cheari was forbidden the walls. It would go ill with Errel if the guard found him. “You shouldn't stay here,” he said.

“I know,” said Errel. “I'll take the north staircase. You go ahead."

Ryke left him. He wondered what message could be traveling to Tornor in the winter, and from where. It would not be a threat, one did not send warning of war. It could be an offer, an alliance (from Cloud Keep?) a request...

Into his mind came a picture off one of the Cards, as he had seen them sliding through Errel's long fingers: a cloaked and hooded figure, in green, riding under a dark blue sky on a sorrel horse. The name of the Card was the messenger. His boots echoed on the slippery stone. He came to the north stair and hurried down it into the smoky warmth of the great hall. He heard his name. “I'm here,” he said. “Who wants me?"

“Col's calling for you,” said Vargo. “What's it all about?"

“I don't know."

His men crowded him. He could smell the ale on their breath. “Are we raiding Cloud Keep again?"

“I don't know.” He shook the snow from his cloak. Fastening it back, he stepped out of the hall into the inner ward. The wind was dropping. He pulled the hood around his face and strode toward the spiral staircase of the watchtower.

* * * *

Tornor Keep was a mole's warren of stairs and corridors. The original castle, like the line of the lords of Tornor, went back two hundred years, and the outer and inner walls, the barracks, and the great hall were still of the old stone, dark, rough granite out of the mountains. But the apartments, the storerooms, stable, Yard, smithy, the mill and the kitchen had been added to so many times that one could only guess at the original dimensions of the inner court. Morven, Athor's father, had added a laundry to the apartments, and Athor had repaired and enlarged the mill which straddled the Rurian just below the Keep. The apartments stood empty now, save for Col's living space and the comings and goings of the Keep's women. The men slept in the barracks, the servants slept in the kitchen, the cooks in tiny sleeping rooms in the storerooms. Ryke did not know which of Tornor's lords had built the watchtower. Legend said that he had ordered it built “so that he might see the Anhard raiders before their kings give the order to attack.” It was true that the windows only looked north. East, west, and south the tower was blind. Perhaps because of that, perhaps for other reasons, it had fallen into disuse. Athor had talked about having it boarded up, or even torn down.

But Col liked it. He had decided to hold all of his councils there, and had ordered it scoured clean, whitewashed, and rewindowed. Each of the new yellow panes had an iron frame that could be singly opened. Ryke climbed slowly. The long stair was ill-lit and wearisome. At last he neared the top of the stairway. He heard voices; chiefest in them, Col's. The man was pleased with something. The aura of his pleasure flowed down the stair like a brisk wind. A page, outside the door, bowed and pushed it open. Ryke stepped into the chamber of the tower.

The three other commanders were already there. Ryke nodded to them, and bowed to Col. “Ryke,” said the chief. “My fourth watch commander.” He showed teeth through his black beard. In honor to the visitors, he was wearing a tunic of fine purple wool and a sash of blue velvet in place of his usual leather and linen. He waved a hand at the messengers. They were dressed in thick travel furs. They stood with their backs to the fire. The wool lining of the furs gleamed green, the mark of their position and their neutrality. “Norres. Sorren."

Ryke nodded. Two slender beardless faces gazed at him assessingly. They're boys, he thought, and then looked more closely at their height and weight and at the way they stood, Norres’ left shoulder brushing Sorren's right, and at the way they wore the long daggers on their hips, ready to hand. They were not boys. Memory nudged him. A dark-skinned southern trader in the summer, following the river with a load of silks and spices, had stopped at Tornor and stayed up late, dicing with the watch, long after Athor retired to his bed. The trader had told stories. (They had not done him much good. He lost three rounds of dice and paid with a length of silk and a dozen peacock feathers before giving up the contest in disgust.) He told stories about the famous captain Ewain Med, and the tale of the outlawing of Raven Batto.

When he could not awe his listeners with stories of the city, he talked about the messengers. The green clan, he called them. They carried documents that no one else could be entrusted with. They couldn't be bribed. They wouldn't spy. The northerners, smiling, assured him that they knew all about the messenger folk. It had been they who carried the truce words between Anhard and Arun. Piqued, the trader whispered a tale of a man who sought to bribe two messengers to carry a lie. They skinned him, and nailed the skin to his front door. Pushed, he said their names. They were, Ryke thought, very like Norres and Sorren. He recalled another thing about the messengers in the trader's tale. They had been ghyas. The word was southern; it meant something like hermaphrodite. A ghya was half man, half woman, or else neither man nor woman, but a third thing. If you did not know, Ryke thought, such a one might look like a youth. He glanced away as he realized that he had been staring at the messengers. They did not seem to notice. He decided they were used to stares.

Col said, “They bring a truce offer from Berent One-Eye."

Berent One-Eye ruled Cloud Keep. Col had been sending raiding parties up to the wall of his castle for a month. The chief was smiling. Ryke guessed that he had expected the offer, perhaps counted on it.

“He'll send me a hostage, a younger son, to arrive within three weeks of my acceptance of truce."

Held rasped, “He's less a fool than I thought. He knows he'd lose a war with you."

It was truth. But Ryke pitied Berent, offering a son to stave off the army whose vanguard he expected to see at his front gate any day. He pulled at the ties of his cloak. The octagonal room was hot. Col had had the walls whitewashed with lime and covered with ancient tapestries from the apartments. On one wall, a man with a gilt-thread beard rallied his men. Ryke could almost hear him shout. Under the grime, his face reminded Ryke of Athor.

Onran said, “What if it's a trick? He might be lying."

“No,” said the messenger on the right, Norres. “He is not lying.” The ghya sounded amused.

“How can you be sure—” began Onran.

Col cut him off. “Onran jests,” he said. “Will you have some wine?” He tilted wine from a jug into two glasses. The messengers picked up the yellow crystal goblets and drank. Sorren's hood fell back, revealing shoulder length hair tied with a green ribbon and a skin as pale as any northerner's. Norres lifted a hand to his/her hood. They were both pale. Sorren had a puckered scar under the left eye.

Norres said, “I have never seen a room like this before."

Col said proudly, “You should see it in daylight.” He tapped the table on which the wine jug stood. “When we first came the windows were bare, the chimney blocked, the stairs so slimed that one could not climb them without peril.” He tugged on his beard. “One day I hope to see this Keep as fine as any of the great houses of the south."

You will not have that chance, Ryke thought. Sironen will stop you. He unclenched his fingers, which had bunched. Col went on talking. Ryke had rarely heard him so quick-tongued. “You'll join us for dinner. After the ride from Cloud Keep you must be hungry. There's not much luxury here but there'll be food enough, and wine, and entertainment."

“You are hospitable,” said Norres.

“I know what is due to messengers,” said Col. “Light!” The page scurried forward. “Show our guests to their rooms."

Norres said, “May we first visit the stable? It is our custom always to look after our horses."

“My horsemaster himself will take you there,” Col said. Gam bridled, momentarily annoyed at thus being assigned page duty.

“Thank you,” said Norres. The ghyas lifted their hoods over their heads and followed Gam. The page backed away, lantern swinging wildly. Col motioned to the child to shut the door.

When it closed, he turned on Onran. “Spare me your comments, boy, until these two are safely gone. It is ill luck to doubt the word of a messenger, and those two are more dangerous than most. I have had some experience with the green clan. I want no quarrels with them."

Onran muttered apology. He was the youngest of the commanders, twenty-two, brash, quick, well-liked by his men. “They give me the shudders,” he said. He reached for the wine jug.

Col twitched it from his grasp. “Keep it to yourself. And warn the men. I want no stupid jests tonight. We will discuss this later. You are dismissed.” There seemed nothing more to say. Onran's face was red. He stamped down the stairs. Ryke followed him into the cold, more slowly.

The steepness of the stair made talk impossible till they reached the courtyard. At the bottom tread they bunched together behind the page's lamp. Onran's face was stiff and sullen. “Give me that,” he said, grabbing for the light, but the boy eluded him and scampered back up the stair. He cursed.

Behind him, Held said sardonically, “Is your mouth cold?” Onran swore at him. Three abreast, they walked toward the barracks.

Onran said, “I was jesting. They took no offense."

“Lucky for you,” said Held. “If they wished to, they could skin you, and no one here could stop them. Privilege of the clan. It happened once, to some southern lord."

“What did he do?” Onran said.

“He tried to bribe a messenger to lie.” Held jerked a gloved thumb at the apartments. “I've heard, too, that it was those very ones."

“What do you know of them?” asked Onran, with a child's fascination.

“What everyone knows."

“They've no sex."

“I've heard that."

“And they fight like wolves of hell."

“And it costs the earth to hire them,” said Held. “That's how Col can be sure that Berent One-Eye means no trick by this truce. If he wanted to lie, he would send his own herald, not a messenger.” It was odd to get this much speech from Held. Ryke decided that pleasure at Onran's discomfiture had loosened the dour southerner's tongue.

Onran kicked at the flagstones. “I still think it could be a trick,” he muttered.

Ryke said, more to shake Held than because he thought it was true, “Perhaps he's subtler than you judge him.” Held cast him a venomous look.

Onran grinned. “Perhaps he owns a secret treasure."

“All these mountain Keeps are poor,” grated Held. “This thrice-damned winter sees to that."

All three glanced at the sky. The snow had stopped; clouds raced across the star patterns, pushed by a brisk west wind. Ryke said, “If you will stay here, Held, you must learn to like the winter."

“In a pig's ass,” said Held.

Onran changed the subject. “Col's pleased to have company."

Held's face smoothed, as it always did at the mention of his chief. “We'll feast tonight. I heard him giving orders to the cooks.” They had fallen into step with one another. The beat of their wooden boot soles echoed over the stone. Ryke thought with distaste of the dinner. He would have to be there. Col liked him to sit through Errel's foolery; it was his way of tightening the chain. There was no way for Ryke to turn traitor, to think traitor, with Errel prancing like a puppet to Col Istor's least whim.

Onran chuckled. “My men tell me Ryke's got a girl in the kitchen.” He poked Ryke's side with his elbow.

“Oh,” said Held, “surely a man of commander's rank can do better than the bed of some sluttish kitchen-maid."

It was meant to anger. But Ryke thought of Errel, and shrugged off the insult. “Till dinner,” he said to Onran, and strode ahead of the other men like a man on an errand. The servants were lighting the torches in the great hall.

Three

Three hundred people crowding the great hall made for heat and a rowdy evening.

The men of three watches faced off down the long sides of the four tables. Over their heads the torches in their wrought-iron sconces smoked and dripped ash on the floor. Col, his commanders, and his guests sat at the head table. The servers rushed between the serving window and the tables. The wood groaned with the weight of platters of hams, mutton, geese, pots of fresh eels drawn from the river, sauces, fruit preserves—the cooks had outdone themselves. Dogs prowled the benches, hoping for morsels. The room looked much as it had when Athor called for a feast—except that the men wore badges of red and black, and their faces were not the faces of the men Ryke had known since childhood, learned from, fought beside.

As a special treat, Col had invited the women from the apartments to join the meal. They sat on the benches with the soldiers. Ryke had watched them come into the hall; he did not think Becke was among them, but could not be certain. They had dressed for the occasion. They wore velvet and soft cotton and fine woolens and the glinting shimmer of silk. The finery made rough contrast to the soldiers’ homespun.

Ryke filled his plate with eels in wine, a dish he loved. But after the first few bites he had to push the laden bowl away. His stomach hurt. Against the dark wall of his inner vision he saw Errel's thin and hungry face. A worried serving girl bent over him. “Is it spoiled?” Her bright face reminded him of his sister Kepi. He smiled at her concern.

“No, it's fine. Just bring me a slice of ham, and a clean plate."

Ryke's men had the night watch, midnight to dawn. Keeping one ear cocked toward the conversation at the head table, he worked on setting up the watch order in his head. Col was in a good mood. He tossed pork bones to the dogs, teased the serving women, talked strategy with Onran (who blushed to be thus singled out by his chief, but managed not to make a fool of himself) and horsebreeding with Gam. He argued that the horses of the Asech tribes were stronger than the northern mountain breed. Gam contradicted him. He made sure both guests had enough to eat. Norres spoke for both the messengers throughout the meal.

When the wine grew low, Col ordered a cask of sweet wine to be brought from the cellar. “And bring the silver dishes,” he added. The wine steward bowed and brought three bowls full of sweet red wine. Col lifted his dish. On it in low relief was the figure of a goat running from an archer. “Fine work,” he said, running one finger along the chasing. “As good as any southern smith could make.” He touched the white silver as if it were alive, and Ryke remembered that he had been a smith's son.

At the close of the meal, the men pushed the benches back to stretch their legs. The women wiped their greasy hands on linens made steamy in the kitchen. Ryke looked for Becke, but did not see her. Col waited till the meat carcasses had been taken from the table, and then called for a second cask of sweet wine, and for desserts. The servers brought dishes filled with cream, honey, and ice.

“Where's my Fool?” said Col.

They brought the whole cask this time, dragging it into the hall on a wheeled cart. Errel was riding it. “You interrupted me,” he said haughtily to Col. He hopped off the cask, did a handstand, and whirled upright.

“What were you doing?"

“Pissing.” He leered, ducking the bread crust Col threw at him. He went round the tables flourishing his wand, tapping the men on the shoulder. “You, you, you, you, you...” As he slid by Ryke, he grimaced. Under the blue and white painted stripes, his face was taut and intense. He was wound as a spring. His bare feet made no sound on the stone. He cartwheeled into the lane between two tables and gestured, as if making a spell. “Yah!"

Ryke noticed with private amusement that not a few of the men leaned superstitiously away from the tapping willow stick. “What's this?” demanded Col. He had not been tapped.

“Ye shall all be unpricked,” intoned Errel.

Every head turned to the high table. The two ghyas smiled. The men at table roared with embarrassment and relief. The tapped men jeered or flushed.

“My cheari,” said Col to the messengers. “A southern custom.” His face was red. Ryke wondered what he would have done if the messengers had been offended. “He means no harm. Come here!” he called to Errel.

Errel leaped on the table. Moving with delicate steps, he walked between the mugs and plates, slashing with the willow wand at hands that reached to trip him. One man seized his ankle. The Jester tipped a bowl of ice into his lap. He reached the head table. He bowed to the messengers, and sank to a frog-crouch, arms dangling, in front of Col.

Ryke had to look away for a moment. He heard Held laugh meanly, and turned back. Col leaned both elbows on the table. For the occasion, Errel was wearing a ruffle round his neck. “You know Berent One-Eye,” said Col.

“Certainly,” said the Jester.

“Would he learn from me, and attack in winter?"

“Never,” said Errel, shaking his head till the bells rung on his cap. Ryke saw the men nearest the high table cock their heads to listen.

“How can you be sure?” said Col.

Errel said gravely, “Only the man with the soul of a wolf makes war in winter."

Col caught the ruff. “I make war in winter,” he said.

Errel seemed unperturbed by the big hand at his throat. “Berent One-Eye is a man of peace and honor.” He paused. “As a general, he'd make a better dogboy."

Col chuckled, and pushed. Errel leaped nimbly backward and landed on the floor. He disappeared. Suddenly a man in the middle of one of the tables yelled. “Goddamn it, he bit my foot!” The soldier howled. Errel popped up at another table, shaking his capped and belled head in a mime of injured innocence. Col grinned. Errel's tricks ranged from the merely silly to the near-insolent. The men sometimes swiped at him, but Col had given strict orders that no one could discipline his cheari save himself.

Glancing down the table, Ryke saw one of the women sitting frozen to the bench, lips pressed tight together, hands clasped in her lap. He knew her: name was Madi, and she came from the village. Her outrage gladdened his heart. He looked at the messengers in their green tunics and high boots, wondering if they knew who Errel was, and what they thought (if they did know) of the humiliating and dangerous charade he played. He wondered what they really were and if they were truly sexless. Maybe they were geldings. He had heard of such things happening to men in war. But there was no softness to them, such as one would expect to meet in a eunuch. They had the hard subtlety of marble.

Dessert eaten, the women retired to their chambers. The drinking began in earnest. Ryke watched his men. By Col's rule, the squad next on watch did not drink. In a lane between two tables, two men were wrestling. Dogs barked around them. Col shifted with irritation. One of the men, the more drunken, tripped and fell on his ass. He swore, and the men threw spoons at him.

Ryke stood. He went round the end of the table and booted the two drunks aside. “Clear me a bench,” he said. Freeing a bench, the men pushed it toward him. He sat cross-legged on the floor. “Arm wrestle,” he suggested, rolling up his right sleeve.

The men quieted. They loved contests. One of Onran's men swaggered forward. He was big in the belly. Onran called, “A jug says Scavat wins!"

“Two on Ryke!” called Vargo. Ryke grinned. He clasped the man's hand and tipped him over easily. Onran groaned.

“Next?” He took on two or three more. His reach and clear head gave him the advantage. His knuckles started to ache. He was ready to quit when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Col walked around the bench to sit opposite him. Ryke said, “My arm's tired."

“You've done no work,” said Col. “Anyone half sober could take those drunks.” He rolled up his right sleeve. “A fair fight, Ryke."

Silently the men gathered to watch, their eyes gleaming. “A fair fight,” Ryke repeated. He flexed his fingers a few times to ease the cramp, and set his elbow on the bench.

He still had reach, but Col had strength of shoulder. The man was broad as a bull. They clasped hands. Held counted for them. “Go!"

The muscles jumped in Col's arm as he drove Ryke's hand down. Ryke set his teeth against the grip and held his arm still, tipped but steady, unbending against Col's force. His only hope was to let the chief wear himself out. Sweat popped on his neck and forehead. It stung his eyes. Col had big hands. His dark eyes glittered. His lips pulled back from his teeth, giving him for a moment the look of the winter wolf. Ryke's neck ached. Col moved his arm a fraction. Ryke groaned and bent both hands back to where they'd been. He felt they had been hours at it. His fingers were being crushed. Col pushed. Ryke's arm angled slowly back.

Than the strength went from him. His knuckles hit the bench. He rolled against the floor. He lay and panted till his head cleared. He could hear Col panting too.

“A fair fight,” he said hoarsely.

The men cheered. Col flexed his right arm, and then rolled up his left sleeve. “Next?” he said, as had Ryke. Nobody moved. Ryke stood up. His men made a place for him on a bench. “Bunch of weaklings,” teased Col. “Bunch of women.” His soldiers laughed and agreed. They punched each other's shoulders and would not move.

Col glanced around. “Where's my cheari?” A bell sound answered him. He pointed to the stone. “Errel! Can you arm wrestle?"

Errel skipped into the U, bowed, lay down on his back and hoisted a leg.

“Sit up,” said Col.

The Jester rolled upright.

Col put his right arm on the bench. “My tired side,” he said. “Come play, Fool.” There was teasing cruelty in his tone.

Ryke leaned for a wine carafe. He poured himself a mug, heedless of rules, and tossed the sweet liquid back. It stung his throat. His sweat stank. He wiped his forehead. At least there could be no pretense that this was an honest fight.

Errel rolled up his sleeve. He was not a weak man, but his arm was thin beside Col's. They clasped hands. Col growled and thrust. Errel held him, muscles ridged. The men murmured surprise. “He's tired,” said Held of Col. The seconds beat out. Neither hand moved. Ryke knew Errel would not last. Col's lips thinned. He swore. Errel went over hard. Col smashed his hand against the floor. Ryke saw the prince's face twist at the impact. Col let him go. He tumbled backward and came up onto his knees, cradling his right hand in his left.

Col rose. “Wine."

Half a dozen hands reached to him. He took the nearest mug, drank, and tossed the dregs over Errel. “Not bad, princeling,” he said. “We'll try again sometime.” Then he wearied of the game. “It's growing late. Clear this out. Commanders, we meet in the watchtower.” He faced the two ghyas, sitting silent at the high table. “Guests, you are no doubt anxious to fulfill your errand. Please remain with us a little while longer, while we deliberate. I shall have an answer for you to take to Berent One-Eye within three days."

* * * *

Even in four months, some traditions had arisen phoenix-like out of the ashes of the old ones. The men dispersed under the eyes of the watch seconds; the watch commanders waited in the courtyard while the page with his bobbing lantern lighted Col up the tower stair. Held paced, restless. His men had the watch. Ryke leaned on the wall. His right arm ached. The muscles twitched. He heard the mutter of conversation as the soldiers strolled to the barracks. The lucky ones in the two day watches went to the women's apartments. A few walked arm and arm, content with each other. Southerners were more lax about such affections than northerners were wont to be, Ryke thought. Comradely devotion was all very well, but wars were fought with men, and it was the responsibility of a man to take a woman to bear him sons. In the hall the servants worked, scrubbing down the tables. In the kitchen, the cooks shouted at the scullions.

Ryke closed his eyes. With only a little work he could imagine himself thirteen again, brought to the Keep by his father. He had been awed and solemn in the face of all these giant men. He had been kitchenboy for a while. He cleaned his share of pots with soaps, sand, and vinegar, rubbing his hands raw, and after a few months, when they let him serve at table, he scuffled with the other boys for the privilege of serving the lord of the Keep. He wondered if the kitchenboys battled in the corners for the right to serve Col Istor.

He opened his eyes. Mocking memory, southern voices called across the courtyard. The page waved his light from the bottom step. In a line, Held first, slow Gam last, the commanders tramped to the tower. The page held the door for them. The room smelled of pine. Col stood by the fire. He wore brown wool over the purple tunic. An edge of purple showed at his throat. He was holding one of the crystal goblets in his hand. He turned it. It sparkled with the firelight as if made of diamond. The eight-sided chamber lit with tiny dancing points.

Reflections gleamed palely in the black windows, curving and changing in the places where the glass itself was runneled and streaked. Col put the goblet on the table. It became a cup of yellow glass, no more. He swung toward Gam. “Well, old man, what do you think I should do with this truce?"

Gam tugged at his grey beard. His men swore he clipped it short, like a horse's mane. Unmoved by the challenge, he said, “Take it. Berent will know you do not mean to keep it."

“What do you think?” Col said to Ryke.

Ryke looked at the man in the tapestry. He did look like Athor. “You would have heard if Berent had been hiring men. He hasn't. He has only a small army now."

“I can eat any army he has,” Col said. “But can I trust Berent's truce?” He laughed. “More to the point, is he fool enough to trust mine? Even Berent's not that stupid. He thinks to hold me off while he gathers men. What kind of an army can he hire and train in two months?"

“Is that when we take him?” said Onran eagerly.

Col shrugged. “Perhaps three months.” There was a block of cheese on the table, yellow as the goblet. He drew his knife from his bell and cut a strip from it. “Here,” he said, extending it to Ryke. Ryke took a bite. It was hard on the outside and smooth inside. His stomach contracted, reminding him he had had little dinner. It was cow's cheese, not the more familiar goat cheese. It was tasty. Col must have had it brought from the storeroom. Col cut another strip.

They ate the cheese. Finally Ryke said, “Berent's no fighter. Out of all the four Keeps, he was strongest to make the Anhard truce. Athor used to say—” he hesitated.

“Go on,” said Col.

“Athor said that Berent lost his heart when he lost his eye."

Col said, “I'll wager that, if he has the gold to pay the messengers a second fee, he sends them west."

“To Sironen?” said Onran.

“He makes a truce with me and at the same time he makes alliance with Pel Keep against the time I break that truce. He knows I will. He'd love to have Sironen do his fighting for him."

“Would he send north?” said Held.

“Ask aid of Anhard? I don't know,” said Col. “Would he, Ryke?"

It was the sort of scheme Held would think of, Ryke thought. He did not bother to hide the disgust in his voice. “Berent's a northerner; his line's held Cloud Keep for generations. He'd never ally with Anhard."

Held looked skeptical. But Col said, “You're one of them, you should know."

He lifted the goblet again. “Some trader brought this all the way from Kendra-on-the-Delta.” He looked at the dark windows. “Does spring never come to this land?"

You were not invited, Ryke thought. He bit his lip to hold the words back. Col grinned, as if he had guessed the thought. “It comes,” said Ryke. “Two months. Perhaps three months."

Held said something obscene about the quality of life of the north. Col looked at him. “I find such comments tiresome,” he said. Held stiffened as if the chief had struck him. “What do you think of them?” he went on, pointing down toward the apartments where the messengers were quartered.

Ryke shrugged. Gam said, “I liked it that they went to see their horses."

“Yes. They take pains. An admirable trait."

“You think they fuck boys?” Onran said to Held.

Held said, “I don't care if they fuck pigs.” Onran sniggered.

Col picked up a candle in a silver sconce. Leaning to the fire, he touched the wick to a coal. When he turned back he was smiling. “Maybe they do. I've heard of such.” The candle flame reflected in the window glass like the moon in the still water of a lake. He put the light on the table. “Differences make me curious. That's the difference between you and me.” He was speaking to all of them, speaking softly into the dark. “You should care. You should care."

* * * *

The Keep slept in the night watch.

Ryke moved methodically through the castle, making rounds. In his belt pouch he had tucked a piece of clean linen from the surgeon's stores. He walked along the outer walls, the inner walls, to the smithy, the barracks, the stable, the hall. He looked into the gatehouses. His men waved, muttered greetings. At the western gate they offered him a chance at dice, which he declined. Southerners played different rules; he did not know them. None were asleep. He had not thought they would be; in the cold it was harder to fall asleep on watch.

The night was moonless. He felt strange, fey. He crossed the courtyard a second time. Ghosts seemed to walk in his head: Athor's ghost, his father's ghost. He was ridden by his memories of men now dead. He was glad the moon was not full. At the full moon, the old tales said, spirits of the unquiet dead could rise and walk. For the first time in months Ryke wished for a woman, not in lust but in the need for comfort. He wondered what the women in the apartments would do if he went to them for comfort. Probably they thought him a traitor. Men were supposed to have more choice than women. He thought of Becke and then of Madi. He wondered if she, if they, would listen to him if he tried to explain how it was not always so.

The wind blew. Like some night creature caught in a trap, Col Istor's banner flapped on its pole. Ryke wondered where his wolfhound was. Sheltering, he hoped, in some warm and windless corner. He thrust his hands beneath his armpits to warm them. He entered the kitchen, nodding at the guard who stood there, and went toward the scullery. The kitchenboys huddled together in sleep like dogs in front of the ovens. He stepped over their legs. The iron pots on the walls vibrated softly.

The scullery smelled of grease and soap. With the connivance of the cooks, Errel turned it at night into a tiny rude bedchamber, with a straw pallet and a crate for a table. Ryke looked over the wooden barrier. Errel was awake. By the light of a stubby candle, he had laid out the Cards on the crate. They made a pattern. Ryke could see some of them. He knew their names: Death, the Wheel of Chance, the Dancer, the Stargazer.

He stepped over the barrier. On the wall, his shadow imitated him, grotesquely tall. He sat on the pallet. There was barely room for two of them in the cell. “Let me see your hand."

Errel held out his right hand. The middle finger was black and hugely swollen. It stuck out at an angle. “It's broken,” said the prince calmly.

“Can you move it at all?"

“No."

“It needs to be splinted.” Ryke peered around the littered scullery for a stray piece of wood.

“No,” said Errel. “If Col sees it splinted he might wonder who did it. He notices things like that. He has teased the cooks about feeding me too well: only teasing, but he means it. Suppose he asks who splinted the hand, whom shall I betray? He won't believe I could do it for myself."

“At least let me bandage it.” Ryke dug the clean linen from his pouch. “He can hardly object to that.” He took Errel's wrist between his knees. He wrapped the third finger to the ones on either side of it. Errel hissed with the pain.

“You—shouldn't—be—here,” he said.

“My men have the watch. I'm making rounds.” Ryke tied the last knot. “Is that too tight?"

“No.” Errel panted for a moment. “It's easier,” he said. With his left hand, he reached into a shadowy niche. He brought out a hunk of bread. He tore a piece from it and handed the rest to Ryke. “The last of my dinner. Have some. I ate like a lord tonight."

Col's brutality had not stripped the irony from his voice. Ryke bit into the bread. It was crusty and still warm. He heard the gurgle of liquid. Errel passed him a mug of wine.

Abruptly the prince said, “What are the messengers here for, Ryke?"

“They carry a truce offer from Berent One-Eye. In exchange for peace, he offers Col a younger son."

Errel turned his head to look at the pattern on the table. Ryke did not know what it told him. “I suppose he feels he has no choice,” said Errel. “But truce or no, Col will need to take Cloud Keep in the spring, before the men grow bored and stale.” One-handed, he swept the Cards into a pile. “Did you meet the messengers? Did you speak with them?"

“We met. We didn't talk. I learned their names."

“I know their names,” said Errel. “Norres and Sorren. The scullions have done naught all night but gossip about them. What did you think of them?"

Ryke shrugged, as he had when Col asked. “I hardly spoke with them. Only one of them talks. They seem much as other men."

Errel laughed, a soft sound, swiftly silenced. “Do they,” he said. He rose from the pallet. The candlelight showed dabs of paint still on his face. “Ryke, get up."

Ryke rose. Errel knelt. Lifting the pallet, he held it up with his shoulder and knee, reaching for something beneath it. The coarse dust made Ryke want to sneeze. He pinched his nose ferociously to halt the reflex. Errel drew a pouch from the floor. He let the pallet drop, and struggled to unknot the strings that closed the pouch, using his left hand and his teeth.

Ryke took it from him. “Prince, let me.” He held the pouch close to the candle. Through the soft skin—pigskin by the feel of it—he touched the distinctive shape of a ring. At last, the knots came loose. He thrust a finger into the bag's mouth. The ring rolled onto his knuckle. He withdrew it. It was a thick gold band crowned by a flat square ruby. The gem was carved with the eight-pointed star, the crest of the line of Tornor. Ryke had last seen it on Athor's hand. This is another, he thought, stupid in surprise. Athor lies under earth, and the ring he wore is buried with him.

But he knew that there was only one. The touch of the gold made him shudder.

Errel said, “Before they buried him they brought me to see his body. I took it from his hand. It was always loose, and after death a man shrivels...” Ryke held it out to him. “No, you take it."

Ryke did not want it. “Where?"

“To the messengers. Can you get to their rooms without being seen?"

“Of course."

“Show them the ring. They will know it. Tell them who you are. Ask them if they will help get us out of here."

“Why should they?"

“I knew them once. Sorren and Norres. I helped them. It's a chance, and they have horses. Ask them. Go to them.” The words whispered in the dark cell. They seemed to come out of the very stone itself. Ryke felt feverish. He closed his palm over the ring and dropped it into his breast pocket.

In the kitchen a sleeper whined. Ryke wondered if perhaps he and Errel and the whole great Keep were not together dreaming a fever dream, like the stories his mother told to quiet him when he was sick ... He said, “Prince, I'm gone."

Four

As he left the scullery and stepped into the inner ward, the night cold, like a grave wind, clawed at his shirt. Hand to his throat, he walked quickly across the court to the door that opened into the center of the apartments. The fever left him there. He leaned against the wood. The hard surface was steadying. He rested in the shadow, waiting to see if anyone had noticed him. A dog barked sleepily, not at him. Dust blew across the courtyard. He heard the sound of a blow—no, it was the noise of something falling. He imagined the guard on the wall above him fumbling in the darkness, his hands so chill that even in his felt-lined leather gloves he could not feel to grip a pike.

He looked up. The sky was clear. The mountains loomed to the north beyond the outer wall, lightless, impenetrable, and black. Over his head burned the two stars that men called the Eyes. Radiating out from them was the Tail, a sinuous starry track. The stories never said what creature, human, animal, or demonic, lived in the sky. Ryke thought it was a fish with silver spotted scales and teeth like a wolf. He had heard that in the south people read the future in the star patterns as Errel read it in the Cards. He wondered what names they gave the star pictures. Turning from the night, he ran his hand along the door, feeling for the bolt. He gasped as he stubbed his fingers on it. He drew it back. The door creaked. He slipped within and found the inside bolt. It stuck. Ryke forced it, afraid that someone would notice the door swinging free. Grudgingly it gave, easing into the rusty socket with a sound like a man with toothache. Again he waited to see if anyone had heard. No one came to look. He was invisible, a shadow roaming through a castle filled with ghosts. He laughed. The fever returned, flaring through his veins, persuasive as lust.

Col lived in the rooms that had been Athor's, closest to the hall: by tradition, those rooms were kept for the lord of the Keep. The women's rooms were in the south end of the apartments. The messengers had been given rooms midway in the corridor, where the traffic of men visiting the women would not disturb them. As he felt his way along the hallway lined with empty rooms, Ryke heard an occasional distant muffled laugh or yelp from out of the women's quarters. Doors swung disconsolately. The floorboards creaked. When Athor was alive he had filled even the unused chambers with life. Ryke looked into one room to see the leaping starlit body of a rat. He wished for a torch. The white-washed walls were icy cold. Here more than anywhere, ghosts shambled at his heels. He walked by memory and starlight.

Candlelight reflecting from a wall warned him he had found the visitors’ chambers. A page slumped on the floor outside the door, sleeping despite the chill. The door was ajar. Ryke leaned his weight on it slowly. It opened with a faint moan. The page did not wake. Ryke stepped past the sleeping child. Save for the red shimmer of coals in a brazier, the bedchamber was dark. He drew a breath to speak, and silently a hand leaped out of the night to catch him by the hair. It jerked his head back. He kept his balance with an effort. If he fell, the page might hear the noise and wake. “Friend!” he whispered.

He felt the cold caress of a knife on his throat.

“Don't move,” said a low voice. A candle lit, blinding him. “It's the commander Ryke."

He located himself. The speaking one stood in front of him, holding the candle: that was Norres. Beside him, then, holding his hair and the knife, was Sorren. He strained to see past the candle. “Look in the pocket over my heart.” Norres’ hand, deft as a pickpocket's, took the ring. It caught the light. The fingers in his hair jerked.

“How did you get this?” said Norres.

His eyes swam with involuntary tears. He struggled to keep his footing. “Errel sent me,” he said. “The prince."

Sorren released him. He leaned on the wall with the flat of one hand. He smoothed his hair. The messengers looked at each other. Norres stepped back from him, leaning to put the candle in a sconce. The light illumined, in fitful shivers, a bed, a chest with brass locks, the sleek edged point of an Anhard javelin in brackets on the wall. “We thought you were Col Istor's man,” said Norres.

“I serve him: I must. But I made oath first to Athor, lord of Tornor. My service was the price Col put on Errel's life.” They exchanged looks again. Except for that pale thin hair like northern grass, Ryke saw that they were not really lookalikes.

“How do we know Col Istor did not send you?” said Norres.

“Why would Col send me?"

“It has happened before,” said the ghya, “that a fool sought to trap a messenger into betraying neutrality."

Ryke said, “Col Istor is no fool. And I am not a trap. Errel sent me."

“What does the prince ask of us?"

“He asks if you will help us—him and me, the both—escape from Tornor."

There was no way back from here now that he had said it. He laced his hands together. Sorren sucked breath. “Damn.” The word rang oddly to his ears. It was melodic and high, a womanly voice, his mind told him. He squinted. Beneath the soft wool undertunic he saw the unmistakable curves of hip and breast. He was looking at a woman.

Norres said, “Don't stare, watch commander."

Sorren brushed a strand of hair off her face. The tunic's dull blue reflected the paler hue of her eyes. Norres’ eyes were grey as twilight. Sorren folded her arms across her breasts. “Let be, Norres,” she said. “We can take you with us when we leave,” she said to Ryke, “if you can get outside the walls."

Ryke was disconcerted. He had not expected her to continue talking. Now that he saw she was a woman, he could see nothing else. “You'll do it?"

Norres said, “We'll take you with us when we go. But we cannot take you far. The terms of our service demand that we return at once to Cloud Keep. We'll take you there."

Sorren brushed her hair back again. She wore the dagger on her right hip, like a short sword. He wondered if she had gotten the scar beneath her eye in battle. He had never met a woman who knew how to fight. “Who are you?” he said.

Norres said, “We're messengers, commander."

“But Errel said he knew you. Are you northeners?"

Norres frowned. Sorren answered. “We were northerners.” Her accent wavered between north and south so that he could not place it. The belt around her hips was worked in silver in the style of the mountain smiths. He could not see the dagger sheath.

“From Tornor?"

Norres said, “We have been here before.” The tone of the response warned Ryke that more questions were unwelcome. “We agree to what you ask. Leave us now. Be under the shadow of the watchtower the morning we depart, outside the outer wall, and when we ride from the Keep on the west road we will take you up behind us."

“Bring food if you can,” said Sorren. “The hunting is poor on the road. And travel furs; it will be cold in the pass.” Norres handed Ryke the ring. Sorren bent to the candle and blew it cold, to let him leave in darkness. The fire coals glowed like a red eye. A firm hand—Ryke did not know whose—guided him to the door. Head spinning with plans, he stepped over the soundly sleeping page. He had to go to the stable and get the travel pack he'd hidden. He weaved from side to side in the darkness. A rat chittered at him. He had not really expected them to say yes.

* * * *

He was not able to get back to speak with Errel until his third set of rounds.

It was an hour before dawn. There was an edge of light on the eastern sky, and the stars sank toward it, paling into sleep. His men were wakeful at their posts, grumbling at the cold. Ryke went to the stables. Digging the travel pack from its hiding place under a loose board, he took it with him. The guards paid no attention. The stableboys snored in the loft. The horses shifted in their stalls. He went to the kitchen. From the apartment in the storeroom light gleamed. The chief cook was awake and yelling at his assistant. Kitchen-boys and dogs lay in stupor under the warm mouths of the great brick ovens. Ryke tiptoed into the scullery. Errel sat up. “Ryke."

“It's me."

The prince's jaw glinted with golden stubble. His eyes were hollow; he looked as if he hadn't slept. “What did they say?” he asked.

“They said yes,” said Ryke. He held out the ring. “I'm sorry it took me so long to return.” He let the travel pack fall.

“No matter,” said Errel, automatically courteous. He reached his right hand for the ring, remembered, and held out his left. He looked over Ryke's shoulder, eyes unfocused. Ryke wondered what he was seeing. His lean face softened in relief and brimmed into a smile. His eyes were luminous. “I thought they would not refuse,” he said, stretching loose-armed to the growing day. “Thank you, Ryke. You did well.” Ryke did not know what to say. “How long before Col sends them back to Berent?"

“In three days, or less,” Ryke said.

“That is well,” said the prince. He glanced out the vertical slit that was the scullery window, as if the extremity of his longing could hasten the coming of the light.

Ryke said, “Did you know that one of them's a woman?"

Errel slanted a look up at him. He knelt to hide the ring beneath the bed. “I knew them as children,” he said. He laid the pallet down again. It was narrow as a plank, a servant's mat, coarsely covered with a piece of linen sacking.

“They lived in the Keep?"

“Sorren did. Norres did not."

“Why don't I remember them?"

“They left. It's a long story.” He sat on the pallet, bandaged hand resting in the palm of his good one. “How are we to meet them? I see you brought a travel pack."

Ryke explained.

“In the tower's shadow. Aye. Col will feast them in the hall before he sends them back. I'll hang about the kitchen while they eat. The cooks are used to it. I will find a way to get to the western gate when the horses are brought from the stable."

“I will meet you."

“I wish I had my bow.” Errel looked wistfully at his hand. “I doubt I could hold it now."

“I can try to get it,” said Ryke. “Col has it in the tower."

Errel smiled grimly. “Could I draw it, it might help to keep the pursuit from coming too close to us, if we are pursued. I almost wish we might be."

“Don't say that.” Ryke made the sign to avert ill luck.

Errel said, his voice rock certain, “If we once leave the walls, we shall not be caught again. I know."

The reference to the Cards made Ryke nervous. He glanced around the tiny space, but they were hidden wherever Errel kept them, in his shirt or under the bed.

The roosters were crowing from the corners of the outer walls. Dogs barked. It would soon be change of watch. In the kitchen, the scullions stirred. Ryke did not want them to see him. “Prince, I'd better go."

“Yes,” said Errel. He lay down in the bed and wrapped himself in the thin blanket. His eyelashes trembled. He looked tired, as he was, and very young.

* * * *

The next day, Ryke joined his men in the Yard.

When he was Athor's watch commander, Ryke had trained two hours a day, three days out of every week, enough to keep his breath steady and his belly flat. Being a big man, his strength and length of arm had given him some natural superiority, and he had learned to make good use of these gifts. He had never been able to call up the killing rage that substituted for skill in battle in other men. In Col's service, his training had grown infrequent. As he walked into the fenced-off fighting square, he felt puffy and tired.

The space echoed with the crack of wooden swords hitting each other. Ryke sifted through the pile of swords till he buckled on the stained leather leggings and breastplate. He did not bother to wear a helmet, but as he strode onto the court he noticed that most of the training men were wearing them. A head blow from a wooden blade could kill. He saw Vargo leaning on the fence and went to him. The freckled man was rubbing his right elbow. A wooden sword lay at his feet. Ryke picked it up, thinking it had been damaged and then put back, but it was whole. Like most of the practice swords it was nicked, and polished at the hilt end with sweat. It was of white oak, as was his. He rested it against the fence, point to the earth. “What happened?” he asked.

Vargo flexed his elbow. He wasn't wearing a helmet either. “I was clumsy,” said the second grumpily. “It's all right. My arm's numb.” He nudged the sword with a boot toe. “Damned unhandy things. Give me my axe."

“A man with any skill at all could split you with a sword before you got close enough to use that axe,” said Ryke.

“Then I have never fought a man with skill,” said Vargo, grinning. He swung his elbow in a circle, and swore.

“Maybe not,” said Ryke.

He worked apart from the others for a while, practicing strikes; slices and lunges and sweeps to take off a head or gut a belly through leather; pushing his muscles till they ached and creaked. Under the bright cold afternoon sky the sweat ran down his sides, soaking his clothing. The powdery ground, part sand, part snow, clutched at his feet.

When he had had enough of solitary practice, he returned to the equipment shed and dragged out a leather shield. Fastening it to his arm, he went to find a partner. He prowled the edge of the Yard. Ephrem and Kinnard hacked at each other in the shadow of the fence. Ephrem looked fresh, but Kinnard was clearly tiring. Ryke shouted to stop them. Kinnard breathed like a runner. “Rest,” Ryke told him. He lifted his sword. Ephrem smiled, without malice. He wore no shield.

“Ryke, do you want my helmet?” Kinnard called.

“No,” Ryke called back. He circled, trying to put the sun in Ephrem's face. Ephrem swung at him two-handed. Ryke parried the blow, sword on sword, feeling the shock of it shiver up his arm. Ephrem was strong, heavy-chested, as was Col. Under the round helm his face grew serious. He hacked out again. Ryke took the blow on his shield and swung at Ephrem's unprotected side. The southerner leaped back to let it slice harmlessly past him, and stepped in again with his great two-handed swing. Ryke wondered where he'd learned it. He parried it, and then another one, measuring the shorter man's timing. His hands stung. He let Ephrem back him up. Ephrem swung another time, and Ryke ducked. The wood whistled over him. He lunged at Ephrem, holding the sword in both hands, and heard the southerner gasp as the tip of it thudded into his breastplate. He staggered, chopped, and sat. Ryke leaned on his sword. His wrists hurt from having held it steady. Ephrem's chest heaved. “Are you all right?” Ryke asked.

“I can't get my breath.” Ephrem sat on the ground and huffed. Finally he got to his feet. He pulled the breastplate off and undid the laces of his shirt. There were purple lines on his brown chest where Ryke's blow had driven the edges of the leather plate into the skin.

“Put your shirt back on; you're sweating,” said Ryke. “Better let the surgeon check to see if you cracked a rib."

“It's all right,” said Ephrem. He swung his sword arm and grimaced.

“See the surgeon anyway,” Ryke said. Ephrem trudged away.

Kinnard looked apprehensive. He bit the end of his mustache. “You want a second bout?” he said, bravely lifting his sword.

“No,” said Ryke. His sword arm ached. He took the shield and wooden blade back to the shed, feeling moderately pleased with himself.

This night's dinner in the hall was simple and subdued compared to the previous evening's festivities. As if repenting for the eels and wine, the cook had made everything with onion. Ryke ate sparingly, having no wish to spend the night shuffling between his bed, the guard posts, and the toilets. The messengers sent word that they preferred to eat alone this night. Col told the servants to feed them in their chambers. He did not call for Errel. There were no fights.

At the close of the meal, he turned to his commanders. “Meet me in the apartments when you have seen to your men.” The commanders looked at one another, surprised. Held scowled, and went to make rounds. Gam stumped to the stables. Onran went to flirt with the kitchen maids and steal a slice of goose. Ryke stayed at table. The servants cleared around him. He did not understand why the messengers had not come to table. It disturbed him. Anything that might catch Col's attention disturbed him. The kitchenboys snuffed out the torches with their long-handled snuffers. The huge room darkened. The dogs gnawed at the stew bones. He felt warm breath and a cold nose on his leg. It was the black wolfhound. He stroked and scratched her, steeling himself to do the thing he did not want to do, which was to meet with Col Istor in the room that had been Athor's.

The dog trailed him across the court, but it would not follow into the apartments. It was only a hop from the hall to the north stairway. There was a page outside the door. Ryke hesitated. He did not want to enter the room. “Are they all there?” he said. The page shook his head. The heavy door was open a crack. The brass plating shone on its iron hinges. Ryke rubbed the smooth metal lightly. Generations of pages, he among them, had measured their height by the ornate brass, and polished it with their breath. He unloosed the lacing of his shirt and went in.

Col was standing at the fire. He looked irritated. Onran sat on a chest beneath a window hung with blue velvet. Held leaned on a wall. Gam was absent.

Ryke sat on a stool. The colors in the room had changed. Col had moved the big wardrobe with the carved doors, and had brought in a huge blackwood table. It was littered with sheets and scrolls of paper, the stuff of record keeping. Athor had preferred to leave the record keeping to Jaret the steward, who had died in the fighting. Col had no steward. Over the mantel hung a thing Ryke had never seen: a diamond-shaped shield, big enough to cover a man from neck to crotch, worked with gold, silver, and bronze to show a serpent eating its own tail. It was a symbol he had seen before on things of Anhard making, but never done so well. Beneath the plating, the shield itself was iron. He imagined a man in battle lugging it up a hill or dragging it in retreat. It looked unscored by blows, and he guessed it had been given to the Keep in earnest of some truce (long forged and long abandoned) by a ceremony-minded Anhard lord.

Gam strolled in. He smelled of the stable.

“Can we begin now?” Col said. He put his thumbs into his belt. “I want you to know that I am accepting Berent's truce offer and will keep truce until the spring."

Onran said, “Does that mean we can't continue raiding?"

“That is what it means,” said Col. “Officially speaking."

“Then how will we know Berent's strength?” objected the youngest commander.

Col smiled. “I'm no seer. But I think the territory around Cloud Keep will shortly suffer a plague of outlaws."

“Trappers might be better,” said Gam.

“Outlaws carry weapons,” said Col.

Onran and Held started to argue whether the outlaws should make day or night raids. Ryke let his attention wander. The room smelled of beeswax and dried jasmine. When Athor slept in it, it smelled of dog. The door to the sleeping room was open two handspans. A candle passed across the opening. A woman looked at the men. Her hair fell down her shoulders and her back in an amber curtain. It was Becke. Their eyes met. Unhastily, she drew back.

Col looked suddenly bored. He thumped the table to silence the argument. “That will do. Good night, commanders. We join at table tomorrow to feast our guests.” Ryke stood up. “Ryke, stay.” Surprised, Ryke tensed. He saw Held look from the doorway with a suspicious, jealous stare. Col motioned him away. The page closed the door.

“Come here,” Col said. Ryke approached the table. His heart hammered. He could not read Col's face. The messengers betrayed us, he thought. Slowly as he dared he let his right hand drop toward the short dagger in his belt.

“Can you read?” asked Col pleasantly.

The words were so unlike the ones he had expected that he had to repeat them to himself as if he had gone witless. “I can read runes,” he answered. He marveled that his voice did not shake. “Athor bade me learn when he made me watch second. I cannot read the southern script."

“Can you read these?” Col pushed a scroll across the table. Ryke spread it, holding it open with both hands. The dark lines wavered down the page. Some were so faded he could not make them out. The roll was dusty. Ryke squinted. The first letter of some lines was larger than the others.

“In the seventh year — something—reign, I think—of Kerwin, Lord of Tornor—something about Anhard—” The runes for K, L, and T had been filled in with gold ink.

“Who was Kerwin?"

“Athor's grandfather? Great-grandfather, maybe."

Col hooked a stool with his ankle and sat on it. “You know where I found these? In the watchtower. Mouse turds all over them."

“I didn't know they existed,” Ryke said. “What are they?"

“Histories! Records. Great houses keep them. The Med family in Kendra-on-the Delta has a room filled with them, and a woman whose work is to keep them clean."

“You lived in Kendra-on-the-Delta?"

“I served the Med family for five years,” Col said. “I led troops against the Asech.” Ryke nodded. He knew who they were: a strange people that lived south of the Galbareth in houses made of skin. “I rode with Ewain Med and with Raven Batto."

“Is that the man who was outlawed?” Ryke asked, remembering the story dimly.

“So the news even reached this place? Yes, that's the one. He killed a cousin of the Med family, which was stupid, because the Med family rules in Kendra-on-the-Delta. But that was ten years ago.” He walked to the window and opened a pane. “Do you know any music?” he said.

Startled, Ryke said, “No."

“That's too bad. In the south we sing a lot.” Softly, as if to the night, he said, “The hills and stars are my companions, and all I do, I do alone. Do you know that one?” Ryke shook his head. Col dropped the curtain. “The weather's still clear,” he said. “Will it hold?"

“Probably not. There's a wetness in the wind."

“And that means more snow, I suppose. I wish spring would come. Winter's no time to learn to love a land. For I am a stranger in an outland country,” he said. “That's the song.” He sat on the stool and laid one hand on the topmost scroll. “I want you to read these to me,” he said.

For a witless moment, Ryke almost answered, “But I'm leaving. He caught his breath. Heat rose in his face, and he cursed to himself. “I suppose I could,” he said, making the acquiescence grudging.

“If you won't, say so. I'll find someone else."

“I'll do it,” Ryke said. Col's dark eyes stared into his face. He wished the chief would look away. A log fell into the fire. He glanced down to the scroll beneath his elbow.

Col said, “Does that surprise you, Ryke? That I want to love this land?"

“Yes."

“If I don't, it will destroy me.” Ryke said nothing. “I suppose you would like that."

Embarrassed, Ryke shrugged. Col's hand lay before him, palm down. He had huge tendons; they stood up like roots out of shallow ground. Ryke heard a whisper of cloth and a clink of metal from within the sleeping room. He did not turn. The candlelight flickered on the Anhard shield. The serpent seemed to writhe. He tried to remember what Athor had hung over the mantel, and could not. They were Col's rooms now; there was nothing of Athor left in them. The knowledge made him angry and oddly desolate. “Is that all you want from me?” he said.

Col looked at him. “Thank you. Yes.” Ryke released the scroll. The thick paper curled, ends toward middle.

“Good night,” he said. He turned his back on the chief. As he passed the sleeping room door he glanced through it, but all he saw was the steady flame of the candle and the shadows of the hangings round the curtained bed.

Five

That night Ryke could not rest. He made his rounds assiduously. The weather held. Ill weather would both aid and hinder their escape; fine weather would aid pursuit. He did not know whether to curse it or bless it. At the main gatehouse the guards were discussing the ghyas’ (presumed) sexual habits. The barracks smelled most foully of onion. He walked the walls. From the turrets of the outer wall he looked down toward the village and the surrounding farms and fields. The wolfhound found him pacing the parapet and came to stalk beside him. He wondered whom she would find for company and comfort after he was gone.

On one round, on the pretext of checking the doors, he took a lantern with him. He walked through the apartments, swinging the feeble yellow light from side to side, till he came to the middle stair. He saw his own footprints in the gathered dust. He scuffed them over. At the bottom of the stair, he unbolted, went through, and then carefully bolted from the outside the telltale middle door.

By morning his eyes felt filled with sand. After change of watch he went into the hall. The serving window was up. Leaning near it, he drank three cups of thick mint tea. His mouth dried and his slack senses tautened.

He went over his preparations in his head. Errel had one travel pack. His own Ryke had hidden in a hole made by two crossed beams in the roof of the west postern gate. To it he had tied a child's-weight bow that he had found in the empty apartments. He had not been able to find arrows to fit it. In his right boot, as always, he carried the Anhard skinning-knife. He wished there were a way for him to take his sword.

“More?” said the serving girl. She leaned through the window to smile at him.

He handed back the cup. “That's enough.” The hall doors swung inward. Col, Held, Onran, Gam and the messengers entered. The girl skipped inside the kitchen to warn the cooks. The ghyas (it was easier to think of them as that than to remember that one of them was a woman) wore travel furs. Ryke walked to join them. The messengers did not look at him. Col sat. The servers arranged the platters in front of him.

Held was restless. Twice he rose to listen. “What's the matter with you?” asked Col.

“Something feels odd."

Ryke sweated. Held was the least imaginative of men. If he went into the kitchen he would see Errel.

“You're nervous as a woman,” said Gam. He was grumpy because Col had insisted he eat in the hall, not at the stable. He reached across Ryke to spear a bacon strip.

“I'll look around,” Ryke offered. Onran glanced up, astonished. It was Onran's watch. Ryke left the table quickly before Col could order him back. He stepped into the kitchen. Errel was not there. He went to the barracks and the stable. The ghyas’ horses—tough barrel-ribbed steppe horses with tails like brooms—stood waiting. A light east wind blew. Ryke crossed the inner ward to the main gate. The men at their posts at the gatehouse looked bored.

He returned to the hall. The maid was serving eggs and roe. “All's well,” he reported. He sat in his place while a server filled his plate. Col frowned, intuition roused. Ryke swallowed. He could scarcely taste the food. He wondered if Col could see the sheen of sweat he knew was on him.

Held said something soft to Onran. The young commander flared. He slapped the table. “There's naught amiss on my watch, damn you. Keep your tongue civil."

“Don't give me orders, stripling,” said Held.

Onran stood, sputtering. “You—!"

“Shut up,” said Col. His eyes flicked obsidian at his commanders. Held shut his lips tight. Onran's shoulders hunched and relaxed. The messengers ate. “Onran, sit.” Onran, scowling at Held, flung a leg over the bench. “Ryke.” Ryke jumped. “Was there anything amiss on your watch last night?"

“Naught save an excess of onion."

Col's lip twitched. “I shall have to speak to the cook.” He leaned both elbows on the table. The messengers pushed their plates aside. Ryke could not look at them. “You are no doubt anxious to complete your business,” he said.

Norres said, “It's a three-day ride to Cloud Keep."

“I wouldn't want Berent One-Eye to think I did not give his offer thought. My answer to him is, I accept his offer of a winter truce, and will treat his son as if he were my own. I will return the boy with proper escort after the second thaw. At that time the truce will end.” He spoke as if he had been making truce and breaking truce all his life.

“We bear witness,” said Norres. That was all there was to it. Ryke gazed at the tapestries opposite. The masons in the picture, at their eternal labor, did not look impressed.

Norres said, “Thank you for your hospitality."

Col grinned across the breakfast dishes. “I would not be found less generous than Berent.” He gestured to a kitchen-boy. “Go see that the messengers’ horses are ready."

Now, thought Ryke. His knees felt weak. Col stood. So did his commanders and guests. Norres and Sorren drew on their gloves. “See that the main gate is open,” Col said to Onran. As the young commander strode away, Col said to Held, “Don't ride him.” They strolled from the table. The kitchenboys rushed to collect the platters before the dogs got at them.

At the hall's tall entryway, Ryke said, “Excuse me.” Col nodded. Ryke crossed the courtyard. It took all of his will to keep himself from breaking into a run. The wind was rising; Col's banners snapped. He went through the inner wall to the outer postern gate. The guards were telling stories in the gatehouse. He reached up into the crossbeams for the travel pack. “Open the gate,” he said.

“What's that?” asked one of the men as he put his shoulder to the bar. The door opened inward. He backed up.

“It's for the messengers. Col's order.” His wet palms skidded on the leather straps. “Close up,” he said to the guards. He stepped into the light. Obediently they closed the door. He heard the bar thud. The watchtower's shadow streamed toward the road like a finger pointing to freedom. He walked into it and nearly fell over Errel. The prince crouched against the stone. He wore travel furs and over them the pack. There was a scrape on his cheek. The bandage on his hand was filthy.

Ryke dragged his furs from his pack, heart racing. “How did you get outside the wall?” he whispered.

“Climbed,” said Errel. He stood up. “Did you bring me a bow?"

Ryke twisted to stare at the rough-faced stone. “I didn't know you had that skill.” The outer wall was four times the height of a man. He pushed his arms through the slits in the cloak.

“Need teaches,” said Errel dryly. “I have it now."

Ryke took the bow from the pack, “I found this."

Errel turned it in his glove hands. “It might be the one I learned on,” he said. “Did you bring arrows?"

“I couldn't find them.” He heard the sound of hooves in snow. Clumsy in his haste, he strapped his limp pack to his back. In a moment, he thought, the guards will open the gate to see where I have gone ... He looked at Errel. The prince was turned away from him, bow in his left fist. The hoofbeats sounded nearer. The messengers rounded the corner, riding without haste along the curve of the road.

Ryke squinted. The snow was so bright it seemed polished. He shaded his eyes. The first messenger saw them. Ryke could not see which of them it was. He decided it was Sorren. She lifted a hand. “Hola!” she called. It was Sorren. Errel ran down the shadow of the watchtower to meet her as if it were a street. Ryke trembled, fearing to hear at any moment a shout from the wall.

No one shouted. No one was watching. Sorren aimed the horse at Errel. He ran three steps beside her, and then leaped. The horse bolted out of the shadow into the light. Norres entered the shadow. Ryke saw the arm outstretched for him. He grabbed it. He was hauled to the horse's back. “Go!” he pleaded.

“Hold my belt,” grunted Norres.

Ryke tucked his fingers into the tough leather. Norres leaned forward. They clattered over a bridge. The Rurian lay in sculpted ripples under it. The horse was moving easily under the double burden. Ryke risked a look behind. The Keep rose silently behind them. The road was empty. No one was following them. He wanted to shout with relief, until it came to him that he might never see the castle again.

Snow dropped on his neck from a swinging branch. The road went through a stand of evergreens. Ryke pulled a hand free and yanked his hood over his head. “How long will it take us to get to Cloud Keep?” he asked.

“Three days with two. Four with the four of us,” said Norres.

Sorren slowed. “Don't stop,” said Norres.

“There's no pursuit,” said Sorren. Errel turned around. Ryke grinned at him over Norres’ shoulder.

“Even so. We'll stop when we get to the fog."

Sorren nodded and urged her horse forward. Ryke kept on listening. There were men among Col's troops who knew this country better than he did. But there was no noise behind them. At last the scrubby trees thinned out. The road wound steeply up and seemed to end in a thick grey mist. They dismounted. “Watch your step,” Norres warned. They went slowly forward. The clouds closed in at their backs.

* * * *

Errel took the lead. Norres dropped back to listen for pursuers. The clouds drifted thickly over them. Fog dripped down the rocks. Errel led them smoothly. Ryke remembered that before the war the prince had been accustomed to hunt this country. He knew it at least as well as Col's raiders. In a few places the trail was so steep it was more like climbing than walking. Sorren walked between Ryke and Errel. It seemed like hours before they stopped. “Let's eat,” Errel said. They waited for Norres to come up with them. Ryke's legs ached. He had gotten soft. His back burned with weariness and tension.

They ate in a hollow off the trail. Col had supplied the messengers with food for the horses and for themselves. Ryke had packed both his and Errel's pack with strips of dried meat and cheese. Nevertheless, there was not enough food to keep four people going for four days. Errel said, “We shall have to hunt.” The little bow lay across his knees. He put it down and unwrapped the bandage on his hand. The bruise had subsided. He tried to move the middle finger, grimaced, and wrapped the hand again. He wore the ring of the lords of Tornor on his left hand.

Sorren stood up. “Let's go if we're going,” she said. She pulled her hood over her hair. Ryke clenched his teeth and rose. His thighs felt like lead. Errel went ahead. Sorren followed. Water droplets clung to the grey fur of her hood and glittered like the stone.

They went on. It grew colder; the wind cut at them like knives. Ryke's hands slipped on the rocks. He wondered if someone had made this path, or if it was natural, made by wind and water. His chest hurt. He caught himself panting. They stopped to rest to windward of some scrubby spruce. Errel hunkered down on his heels. Ryke leaned to see what he was doing. He was cutting at the low boughs of the tough little trees with his knife. “Arrows,” he said.

“What will you fletch them with?” Ryke asked.

“I'll find something.” He chopped at the stick, working awkwardly with his left hand.

They went on. Ryke wondered what had happened to the sun. He had lost all sense of direction save telling down from up. He got a fit of the shudders. “Here.” Sorren passed him a flask. Ryke took a long swallow. The drink burned his throat and warmed his stomach. He took some more. His shivering stopped. Respectfully he corked the flask and handed it back to Sorren. Life moved in him. He stamped his feet to make the blood go. Sorren's legs went up and down, up and down. They rested again. Ryke leaned back against the rock, hearing the fall of water somewhere, dreaming of summer, a hot sun, a blue sky, warm rain.

They stopped when the grey turned to darkness.

Ryke said, “Shouldn't we set a watch?"

“What for?” said Norres, coming up behind him.

“Pursuit."

The ghya laughed. “They won't chase us in the dark."

At the messenger's direction, Ryke and Errel took off their boots, washed their feet with snow, and rubbed them briskly until they were dry. “What for?” Ryke said.

“It keeps the feet from freezing,” Errel said. “It would be better if we had a fire,” he said sadly. “I don't suppose, in your travels, you learned the secret of burning snow, or rock."

Sorren looked up from cutting jerky into strips. “Alas, no."

They slept in a tiny cave, no more than a scoop in the rock. There was just enough room for the four of them. Norres and Sorren slept wrapped in one cloak, their arms about each other. Outside the shelter, the wind moaned.

In the middle of the night, Ryke roused. Errel was shivering. Ryke felt the shudders against his own backbone. He rolled over onto his other side. Putting an arm around the prince, he fit his chest to Errel's back and hugged him close, sharing his warmth. The shivers stopped. Errel's breathing evened. Ryke lay wakeful, listening to the wind. Finally the cold numbed him, and he drowsed into uneasy dreams.

In the morning he had to shake his left arm vigorously to bring feeling back into it.

* * * *

The second day was just like the first day, except they went down more than they went up.

Ryke's chest ceased to hurt. They rode part of the day. They came out of the fog onto a stony plain, dotted with scrubby trees, covered with ice-scummed snow. The clouds hovered over them like a giant's hand. The shaggy-coated horses moved stolidly across the steppe. They camped the second night in a stub-filled hollow. Norres lit a fire. The tree stubs hissed and smoked. The horses munched their feed. Men and beasts crowded close to the scanty heat. The clouds covered the stars. Norres passed the flask around. Ryke took a mouthful of the potent liquor, and rolled up in his cloak while his belly was still warm.

Errel sat up, bow and the two arrows he had made across his knees. He had fletched the arrows with a lock of Ryke's hair, stiffened by evergreen sap. The sap served as glue. Ryke rolled over at the bow's twang. “Did you get something?” he said. His mouth was muzzy with sleep.

“Missed.” In the last small flare of the fire, Errel's face looked cut out of stone. Ryke fell back to sleep.

In the morning there were chunks of meat searing on a fire. “What was it?"

“A yearling fox,” said Errel.

“I'm surprised it came near enough to be taken,” said Norres.

“It knew traps and trappers. Not hunters,” said Sorren. Her hair fell over her eyes. She brushed it back. For a moment Ryke saw the woman in the shape of her face, the lift of her cheekbones, the clear and beardless skin. Then it was gone. She was neuter, unknown, a ghya.

They rode the third day across the steppe. The mountains marched on their right. Toward evening the wind lifted and the cloud cover broke. The sun stained the sky red and purple. Errel and Sorren talked in low tones. Ryke could not hear what they said. As night came, they heard the lifted voices of wolves prowling south. The horses shifted nervously at the sounds, huddling side by side as the wind snapped and sang. Toward morning it rained. Ryke, Errel, and the ghyas rolled together to lie beneath the smelly shelter of their cloaks. They did not sleep. The rain pounded at them, runneling under their backs, soaking them from beneath. It ended with the dawn, and they rose wet and cursing. The sky was blue as a heron's wing. The clouds sped toward the dark humps of the western mountains. Norres pointed. “There's Cloud Keep."

It was a toy castle tucked between two hills. As they rode toward it, Ryke imagined the steppe in summer, a great open meadow covered with thigh-high grass, fragrant and warm as milk. The bleak space disturbed his mind. Smoke from housefires marked where a village lay to the south. He looked for birds, but saw none. The horses plodded. Up to the very gate of Cloud Keep, theirs were the only shadows.

They stopped just before Cloud Keep to give the horses rest. Ryke took his knife from its bootsheath and examined it for rust. The blade was clear and calm as water. He wrapped it again and stuck it in the sheath. Errel ran a finger along his bowstring. He had kept it dry by taking it from the bow and fastening it around his waist. “I've been thinking,” he said.

“Yes,” said Ryke.

“Berent will not necessarily be pleased by our arrival. It's within his right not to take us in."

“But where else can we go?” Ryke said. He swept a hand in a circle to the steppe. “He must."

“We will see what he does,” Errel said. He did not sound worried or angry, only thoughtful and a little curious.

Unlike Tornor, Cloud Keep had no tower. Its stones were smooth, unveined, and grey. At the gate of the Keep stood guards holding pikes. They wore Berent One-Eye's badge, the head of the mountain cat in gold silhouette on scarlet. They crossed their pikes as the horses walked up to them. Norres said, “We are the messengers returned from Tornor Keep. Let us pass. You know us."

The men eyed Errel and Ryke. “We know you,” said one. “We do not know these men."

Errel leaned down from his place behind Sorren. He held out his left hand with the ring on it. “Look here,” he said. “Do you know this crest?” The gatemen conferred. Then they signaled to the guards within, and the gate opened. The travelers rode into Cloud Keep. They dismounted. It was wonderful to be out of the wind. All the dogs in the Keep were barking. They looked toward the inner gatehouse. The sun blazed down at them without warmth.

Four men walked through the inner gate. The foremost of them wore a muslin patch over his left eye and a red wool gown. The others wore linen, mail, and leather. Their boots kicked up dust. Ryke felt uneasy. Berent was lean and grey, a dusty withered old man. His one eye turned to Errel.

“My lord of Tornor,” he said. “Welcome."

Six

“Your eye is good, my lord,” said Errel. He sounded amused.

Berent said, “You look like Athor."

“Do I?” They embraced lightly. Errel's boots squelched. Berent's robe was grease-stained. The jingling of the horses’ bridles was the loudest sound in the castle. The silence hurt Ryke's ears. Errel stepped back from Berent and turned to wave at Ryke. “This is Ryke. To keep me alive he became Col Istor's watch commander, but he remained loyal to me these four months, while Col Istor held me captive."

Berent looked at Ryke, cocking his head on one side like a bird. Ryke bowed. “My commanders,” said the old man, pointing to the three men. They bowed to Errel as Berent said their names. Two of them looked like him. Ryke judged them to be his sons. Perhaps the third one was, too. And there was yet another son who was to be sent to Col as hostage. Odd that such a dried-up stick of a man should have so many sons, when Athor, lusty and strong as he had been, had had just the one.

Berent One-Eye must have been strong once. But no longer, Ryke decided. He walked at Errel's heels, through the guard's door into the inner ward. The Keep had an incomplete, sleazy feel to it. One of the commanders said, with an air of doubt in his voice, “We heard that you were dead, my lord.” It gave Ryke a wrench to hear Errel being called that.

Errel said, “As you see, I am not.” They walked past the Yard and the barracks. There were no men circling in the Yard. Belatedly, a page came running from the stable to take their horses. Berent led the way to the great hall himself; not, Ryke thought, a task that the lord of a Keep should do. He saw few men, and most were servants, and those were old. They went into the hall. It was smaller than Tornor's hall, and smokier. The smoke rose to the ceiling and out a skylight. A fire burned in the massive square firepit. The room smelled of peat. As at Tornor, the walls were covered with cloth, some with pictures, most without. At one bare spot in the wall, iron hooks upheld a giant club with spikes thrusting wickedly out of it. It had the look of Anhard on it. Ryke tried to imagine the man whose weapon it had been. It looked too heavy for one man to lift.

He was sweating beneath his furs. A servant girl shuffled in with wine. Ryke sipped some. It made his stomach churn. He wanted bread and meat.

Norres gave Berent One-Eye Col Istor's message. “A winter truce,” said the old man. “That is good, though less than we had hoped."

The oldest-seeming of the commanders said, “No more than we could expect from a southerner and a thief.” Memory made Ryke grin. Once he had called Col that to his face.

Berent plucked at the sleeves of his robe. “This strife comes at an ill time,” he said peevishly. “Would that Athor of Tornor had not fallen!"

Errel said, “I wish that, very much.” He turned the light brass goblet in his fingers. “I thank you for your welcome, my lord. But I must ask you plainly, how firmly do you offer it? Col Istor is now your ally."

“Say, rather,” said Berent, “that there is truce between us which I am loth to break."

“If he asks for me, as he well may, you will be obliged to give me up to him, or break that truce."

“Were you pursued?” said one of the commanders.

“No,” said Ryke.

“But we may yet be,” said Errel. “My lord, please speak plainly. Will you shelter us or no?"

The commanders looked at their hands. Berent said, “Lung fever plagues my men. We are at half strength, and those that are left are trembling on their feet. Athor was my friend, my ally, but since you put it to the question I must answer you, I cannot grant you shelter for more than three days. Forgive the cruelty of my caution. I will give you horses, food, and weapons of your choice, but I cannot put my Keep in jeopardy for one man's sake."

“I had to ask, my lord,” said Errel. Ryke put his hands flat on the board. Three days was the shelter a Keep granted to any man, even an outlaw, in winter. Errel had tried to warn him that this would happen. Errel had guessed, or known, or seen it coming in the pattern of the Cards ... We shall have to go on, he thought. His whole body ached at the idea of more riding. We shall have to go on to Pel Keep.

If Berent were Athor—but Athor was dead. Anger rose in his heart, not for himself—who was he, a soldier, no one—but for Errel. He cleared his throat.

But Berent said, “My lord, the page will show you to your room.” They stood. The moment passed. They left the hall and went into the courtyard, through a door, and up a stair. The anger left him. He yawned till he could hardly see. He did not care what Berent did to him as long as he was going to be allowed to stop walking and sleep.

* * * *

Food revived him. They were brought to a room smaller than the rooms at Tornor. It had a fireplace and a scuttle filled with peat. Tubs of warm water and a tall pile of linen towels awaited them. In the luxury of safety, they pulled off boots, shirts, tunics, every stitch, and sat naked as babes in the warmth. There was a fresh layer of reeds on the wooden floor and a feather quilt on the huge bed. Errel wrapped himself in the billowing quilt.

He combed his hair with a wooden comb that he found in a chest. Ryke scrubbed himself with a brush. The water turned scummy with grease. He sat beside the tiled hearth and fed peat bricks to the flames until they roared. Errel was humming. Berent's words seemed not to have troubled him. Ryke looked for the resemblance to Athor that Berent had spoken of, but could not see it. A servant scratched at the door. He lugged in a tray with food. Errel ate steadily through it. Ryke stuffed himself with fresh-baked bread. The rich smell made him dizzy. He lay back on the bed, wondering where the ghyas were. Norres and Sorren. He reached a hand to the wall to steady himself. Under the painted hanging cloth, the wall was cold.

“No watch to stand tonight,” said Errel.

“No somersaults to turn,” said Ryke.

Errel stretched. “For I am a stranger in an outland country,” he sang. He had a clear tuneful voice.

“Don't sing that,” Ryke said, startled into protest. It was the song Col Istor liked. He hauled himself off the soft pillow-strewn bed and walked around the room. There was only one tapestry in the chamber—the one by the bed. It showed a hunting scene, a wolf at bay. The room was dark. Its two windows were mere arrow slits facing north, and they were both shuttered.

“What troubles you?” said Errel quietly.

“This—” Ryke flung a hand out. “Why did we come here?"

Errel answered, “We came because this is where Norres and Sorren had to come.” He smiled. “It's not perfect. But I find myself with no inclination to return to Tornor."

“No,” said Ryke. “Not without an army.” He knew what was niggling his peace. “I thought Berent would have some use for us. For me,” he amended. “Against Col. I want to fight him.” He walked to the fire screen. The clothes which hung on it were dry. He pulled them off and sorted them apart.

“Why?” said Errel.

Ryke held out the clothes to him. The prince made no move to take them. His blue gaze was suddenly compelling. Ryke shifted under it. He had thought the question rhetorical.

“Why?” said Errel again.

“He killed Athor."

Errel bowed his head. “A good reason,” he said after a moment. With his right hand, he turned the ruby ring around and around on his finger. His ribs were patterned with scars. Ryke wondered if any of them were of Col Istor's making. He thought, I would kill him anyway, my prince, for what he did to you. He could not say that. He remembered Col's words. I wish to learn to love this land. It will destroy you anyway, thief, he thought. It does not love you. The pleasure of fighting burned through him, and his right arm tensed as if he held a sword. He saw himself armed and armored, riding in the vanguard of Sironen's army.

He laid Errel's clothes on the bed. He pulled his tunic on over his head. “Do you think Sironen will take us in?” he asked.

Errel said, “I can't see why he wouldn't.” He picked up his shirt.

“I would hate to be Berent's watch commander."

“You think him coward?” said Errel.

“He doesn't want to fight. What hope has his Keep, with a lord who thinks like that?"

Errel's head popped out of his shirt. “You heard him say it yourself,” he said. “His men are dying of the lung sickness, and probably not only here but on the farms and in the village, too. The lord of a Keep has other things to consider besides war and its making."

The crisp tone stung. Ryke said, “The business of a Keep is war."

Errel did not answer him at once. The silence grew uncomfortable. Ryke wished for something to break it. He pulled his breeches on, and his boots. The leather felt brittle from the heat, and he looked in the chest for oil to grease it with. Finally he said, “I'm sorry, prince. I spoke out of turn."

Errel smiled oddly. “No. You didn't. But tell me, Ryke, do you know why Tornor Keep was founded?"

Ryke let the chest lid fall. There was no oil within. “Every farmboy knows the answer to that question, my prince,” he said. “The Keeps defend against Anhard."

“Of course,” said Errel. He leaned back into the down softness of the pillows. “But men built the Keeps. They didn't grow like the mountains. The architects and masons and carpenters who built the Keep came out of the south, and so did the gold and the cloth and the grain with which they were paid. The first Lord of Tornor was a southerner, a rebel out of a southern town, who was given the choice between death and exile to the mountains. He chose exile and the cold; he chose to raise his sons to love the mountains, and call the northland home, and despise the green soft hills of the south. Your father's father's father, two hundred years back, was a mason in Kendra-on-the-Delta. And mine—” Errel smiled—"was a rebellious younger son."

“Does it say that in the scrolls?"

“The scrolls?"

“The records in the tower. Col showed them to me."

“Were there records in the tower?” Errel fell silent. “I wish I had known,” he said sadly. “Jaret would have loved to see them. He knew all this history; he was a scholar."

Ryke swallowed. His mouth felt dry as his boots. Rising, he searched for something to drink. “A mason?"

Errel flapped one hand. “That was a guess. I don't know. He could have been anything, a carpenter, a soldier."

“A smith's son,” said Ryke. He found a ewer. He looked at his arms, at the fine gold hairs that crisscrossed them. Southerners were dark. He was not a southerner. Yet not all southerners were dark, nor were all northerners blond. Redheaded Vargo's skin was fair as his own. “I could be cousin to Col Istor."

“You could."

Ryke shook his head. Tornor was his home. He wished Errel had not told him how the Keep had come to be. It was just a story, he told himself; he didn't have to think about it. He lifted the pitcher to his lips. “Cousin, I will kill you,” he mumbled against the smooth mouth of the jug. The water was cool and sweet. The promise made him feel better. He glanced at Errel, but the prince had not heard the soft words. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, staring into the leaping fire.

* * * *

They were left solitary till the afternoon. Ryke catnapped, lying fully clothed on the woolen cover of the vast bed. It was lovely to wake and sleep and wake again out of the reach of the wind. A page came to get them. He had spiky light hair and pale blue eyes, pale as marshfire, and a thin clever face. “What's your name?” Ryke said to him.

“Ler, commander.” He brought Errel his cloak, and Ryke his, and held the door for them, leaning all his slight weight on it to keep it open. He took them to Berent's apartments. Berent was there with two of his three commanders. The room was hotter than the great hall; Ryke took his cloak off. The boy Ler lifted it from his arms and hung it on an iron hook. He had to stand on his toes to reach it.

“Get us wine,” said Berent. The boy slipped from the chamber and returned with wine and cups. He served Berent, then Errel, then the commanders. Berent watched as the child moved round the room from chair to chair. The lad was quick and graceful. The old man's face kindled with affection and pride. Ler came to stand beside his knee. Ryke wiped his face. The apartments were hung with cloth, and the air was thick and sultry. The chairs and stools were all of dark wood. They say old bones need heat, Ryke thought. He sipped the wine. It was warm.

Berent touched the boy on the shoulder. “That's sufficient,” he said. “Go thou. If I need thee, I will call."

As the boy left the room Errel murmured, “You are well-attended, my lord."

“Ler is my son,” said Berent. Ryke was startled. The boy looked to be no more than ten, and he knew that Berent's lady had died young. Some Keep's woman had borne the boy. “My lord, and commander, I know well that this truce Cloud Keep makes with Col Istor will last only as long as the southerner wishes it to last. Can you tell us aught which might strengthen our defense against him when he comes?"

Errel signed to Ryke.

“He has three hundred men at Tornor,” Ryke said, “and one hundred fifty more at Ziliz Keep. His men are expert in reconnaissance. He moves fast. His men hate the cold but they fight well, cold or no. It will be hard for them to keep a supply line open over the pass, especially in thaw when the streams rise."

The door opened swiftly. The third commander strode in with a muttered apology. Ler scampered in to serve him.

“How long before he comes?” asked Berent.

“Two or three months,” Ryke said.

Ler's eyes moved from face to face. The boy was missing nothing of the talk. Berent saw it and said sharply, “Go outside.” The child left.

“He is your pledge to Col,” said Errel gently.

“Aye,” said Berent. He folded his hands in his lap. Ten years back would have been in the middle of the Anhard war, Ryke thought. Berent would have had both his eyes.

Tav, the oldest son, said, “How does he think?"

Ryke frowned. He was better at answering questions about supplies.

Errel said, “He is ruthless and careful. His greatest flaw is that he tends to overlook the obvious.” He smiled with a corner of his mouth. “He should never, for example, have kept either Ryke or me alive."

“Let's be glad he did,” said Tav. Errel bowed slightly in response.

“What are his horses like?” asked the second son.

Ryke answered. “Well-kept and strong, but they're not mountain-bred. He'll have trouble with them on the plains. They'll tire."

“Have you bowmen?” asked Errel.

“We have some,” said Tav. “Not enough."

“If you put them in the cleft when he comes you might be able to hold him off for quite a while."

“We might,” said the second son doubtfully.

Berent tapped the arm of his chair. It was carved at the base with the snarling visage of a mountain lion. “In two months the wagons will come from the south. We will have grain and meat enough to withstand any siege."

“Col does not like to siege,” Ryke said. “He storms."

Berent thrust his maimed face forward like an angered bird. “Cloud Keep's wall has never been breached."

Errel said, “Nor, until he did it, had Tornor's."

Ryke squirmed surreptitiously on the hard wooden seat. He was sore from four days of riding and rock-climbing; he longed for a cushion.

Berent called, “Ler.” The boy came in. “Bring the commander a pillow."

Ryke flushed. Errel said, “Bring me one too, child.” Calmly he took it and pushed it behind his back.

Tav said, “I would send to Sironen."

Berent said, “I fight my own battles."

“Sironen has men to spare."

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said his father. “I have not the supplies to feed an extra watch."

“In the spring—"

“Who knows what will happen? Col Istor may attack Pel Keep first, choosing to fight Sironen when he himself is strongest.” Ler held out the cushion. Ryke took it. He smiled at the boy. Ler reminded him of someone, he could not think whom.

Tav said, “Surely if Tornor—I beg your pardon.” He hesitated, and continued, “If Col Istor had planned to attack Pel Keep before Cloud Keep, he would have mentioned it to his commanders.” He looked at Ryke.

Ryke said cautiously, “Col likes to keep his plans a secret, even from his commanders.” Ler sat cross-legged by a chair, clearly hoping his father would not notice him. Ryke realized whom the boy reminded him of; it was himself at thirteen. The boy wore a thick leather belt, a copy of his elders'. It had a round metal buckle and a sheath, but no knife. Ryke thought. If he is old enough to act as page for the lord of the Keep he should wear a knife.

* * * *

Later, under the heavy warmth of the feather-quilt, watching the fire dance in the grate, Ryke said into the darkness, “Did you mean what you said about Berent, my prince?” He rubbed his nose to warm it.

Beside him, Errel said, “What was it?” He sounded sleepy.

“That he would make a good dogsboy."

“No,” said Errel. “Why should I tell Col Istor the truth about the capabilities of a man he will have to fight?"

Ryke tugged the quilt higher on his chest. “I was wrong about him, I think,” he said. “I thought him fearful and weak."

“You no longer think him a coward? I'm sure he would be pleased with your change of heart.” The words fell crisply through the chill. Then Errel said, “Forgive my ill temper, Ryke. I'm sick of war talk."

Fighting is easier than talking about fighting, Ryke thought. He turned on his side and put his cheek in the pillow, trying to get his face warm. “Berent will lose,” he said.

“Yes."

“Why does he give his son into Col Istor's hands?"

Errel said, “Because he knows he will lose. I don't think he'll surrender; he has too much pride for that. When it comes time to fight, where is it safest for the boy to be? In Tornor."

“You said he had the soul of a wolf,” Ryke said. “What if Col threatened to kill the boy unless Cloud Keep surrendered? I would not want to be Berent then."

“I named Col wolf to tickle his vanity,” said Errel. “He is a man, no different than you or I.” He rolled over in the bed. His voice grew more distant. “Unless Berent breaks truce, Col will not hurt the boy.”

“He is ruthless, you said that, too—”

“Even wolves forbear to kill their rivals’ cubs."

* * * *

The next day Ryke went to the stables to choose horses. They stood tall, shaggy-maned in their winter coats. They snorted at him. He fed them fistsful of hay as he felt them over. A cat leaped disdainfully out of the hay pile. Stableboys trotted in and out, trying to look busy so that he would not ask them to do anything. He had nothing for them to do. He picked out a sturdy grey gelding for himself and a chestnut stallion for Errel. Errel had taken the small bow into the Yard to shoot. Some of Berent's men had joined him; Ryke heard his clear voice calling instructions.

Tav came into the stable. “I was looking for you,” he said. Ryke straightened. “Ah, did you pick the big one?” he said, running a hand down the grey's long jaw. The horse nudged him in the chest.

“Yes."

“He'll serve you well. I broke him myself,” said Tav.

“I'm sorry—"

“No. You'll need him more than I. I'm pleased to see him go.” He had a pleasant voice. He put an arm through Ryke's; his shoulder was thick with muscle beneath his woolen cloak. “Last night you said that Col Istor plans to disguise his men as outlaws. Come and tell me more.” Ryke cast back to the conversation in the watchtower. He had not really been a part of it.

* * * *

At dinner, in the hall, the talk was not of new wars but of old ones, of the war with Anhard-over-mountain, tales studded with the names of men now dead. Tav and Ashe, Berent's second son, fought over the battle in which Athor had killed the Anhard king. Ryke remembered waiting for the signal which brought the Keep's men into battle: the lifted battle staff. He remembered the heat ... Just before the signal was given, he had watched a bee foraging for honey in the cup of a blue daisy, its legs fat with pollen. He wondered if it had ever gotten back to the hive. “Do you remember?” Ashe said to Errel.

“Not well,” said Errel quietly. “I was fourteen. I was on the wall with the archers. I remember being very thirsty.” The old man nodded and said nothing. Ler stood at Berent's elbow, eyes flickering with excitement at the war talk.

Errel was eating with his left hand; he kept his right hidden in his lap. “Did you injure the hand again?” Ryke said across the board.

“No,” said Errel. “It hurts."

“It's only been six days since it broke."

“I know when it broke,” said Errel. He wrestled with a capon leg. “If I don't use it, it will stiffen."

“Quite right,” said Ashe.

“You could give it a bit more healing time,” Ryke said.

Errel held it out and flexed the fingers. The middle finger would not bend. “It's my hand,” said the prince with unusual irritation. “I can barely draw that damned child's bow."

“Enough to try anyone's temper,” said Tav. Ryke grunted. Norres and Sorren had not come to the meal; he wondered why not. Perhaps they had left. Their task was done.

“Are the messengers gone?” he said.

“They requested that we excuse them,” said Tav. “They are being served in their chambers."

Uncharitably Ryke thought, They were wiser than we, who sit here roasting to death. But he recalled that they had done the same at Tornor. One of the watch seconds began to tell the story of the man who had been nailed to the front door of his own house. Ryke found himself disbelieving it, though he had believed it before. Probably the ghyas had simply killed the man.

The moon, a gleaming crescent, floated on the peak of the western mountains. Errel and Ryke crossed the inner court to the apartments. The stars stood out against the winter black. Ryke shivered. The walls and shapes of the Keep were not those he knew. Even the ring of his boots on the courtyard's stones seemed subtly changed from the sound of the stones of Tornor. He felt lonely, even though he was safe, unwatched, among friends. “What is it?” said Errel softly.

He didn't know how to say it. “Nothing, my prince."

They had scarcely lit the candles in the sconces when someone rapped on the door. Ryke opened it. Norres and Sorren stood in the doorway. “We want to talk,” said Norres. Ryke backed away to let them in. He sent a page for wine. When it came, Ryke sent the page away and poured it himself.

Errel lifted his cup to the ghyas. “Neither Ryke nor I have had a chance to thank you properly,” he said.

Norres said, “We have been long indebted to you."

“You are no longer,” Errel said.

Sorren said, “We came to find out what you intend to do, now that you are homeless.” She leaned back in her chair, one arm across her lap, the other braced upon it, chin resting on the back of the lifted hand. Ryke found himself leaning forward to see her better. Her pale blue eyes were depthless as the sky. The man's tunic and breeches did not disguise her anymore. Her mouth was wide. He wondered what it would taste like ... Norres was looking at him, grey glance like the touch of a sword. If they were lovers, he thought, what did they do? He flushed. He was thinking such things because he had not been with a woman in a long time. Fumbling for the wooden wine cup, he lifted it to his lips and drank deeply. The wine was warm and cinnamon-scented, and very strong. The word she had said so calmly, homeless, reverberated in his head.

He put the cup down. “We ride to Pel Keep,” he said, not caring that he was speaking out of turn. He wiped his mouth with his hand.

Sorren looked at Errel. The prince said, “Where are you going now?"

“South,” said Norres.

“How do you decide where to travel?” Errel asked.

Sorren said, “We listen to the rumors in the villages and on the roads. We follow war, like the crows."

“A convenient occupation,” Ryke said.

“What do you mean?” said Sorren.

“There will always be war."

“Maybe. Maybe not,” she said. Ryke drank more wine. He realized he had not been even slightly drunk in five months.

“Always,” he said. He loosened his shirt. “Always."

“What war do you ride to now?” Errel said.

“No war,” said Norres. “We're tired. We're going home."

“Where is home?” said the prince.

Answering syllables pattered like rain. “Vanima."

Ryke laughed. The others looked at him. “There's no such place,” he said. His tongue was thick with wine. “It's a children's tale.” Vanima—it meant Van's Valley. It was a place in the western mountains, mythical and inaccessible, a place of always summer. He had loved such tales as a child. “It isn't real."

“It's real,” said Norres. “We've been there."

“Truly?” said Errel. “There is such a place? And is Van a real person?"

“Real as you are,” said Norres.

“Can you go back?” asked the prince. Ryke reflected, you never could, in the stories. Norres nodded. Ryke drank again, wondering about what was happening beyond the Keep, wondering what Col Istor was doing. The back of the wooden chair hurt his head. He wobbled up, senses swimming, and walked to the bed. “How long does it take to get there?” Errel said.

“Eight days’ ride from here,” said Norres.

“Ah,” said Errel. Ryke looked up. His heart thudded without reason.

“Come with us,” said Sorren.

Errel clasped his hands on his knee. “I have a war to fight."

“That war will not be fought for another three months, and what will you do in the meantime? Beat your head against Pel Keep's walls? Come with us.” Her voice was music. On the wall, the trapped wolf snarled at the hunters. Ryke lay back on the bed.

“Eight days’ ride?” Errel said.

“Yes."

“Are strangers welcome in the valley?"

Norres said, “They are when they arrive with friends."

Errel stooped over the bed. “Ryke."

“Uh."

“Shall we visit Vanima?"

Ryke grinned. It was pleasantly ridiculous to agree to step into a fiction. “I'll go anywhere,” he said recklessly. “West, south, anywhere.” The pillow was cool; he tucked his turning head under it. None of this was real. Behind, above, around him, voices murmured: summer, the land of summer, Vanima.

Seven

They left Cloud Keep at midmorning the next day.

Berent and his commanders said farewell to them at the Keep's main entrance. Berent thanked the ghyas for their help in obtaining the truce with Col Istor. He thanked Ryke for all the information he had revealed about the war chief's plans. Ryke bowed. Tav stepped up to clasp his hand and stroke the grey horse. “Good fortune on your travels,” he said.

“Thank you,” Ryke said. “'Ware outlaws."

“We shall,” promised Tav. The red horse, excited, spun in a circle, and Errel reined it in. Berent spoke softly to the prince. The old man had given them food, clothing, and weapons. Ryke touched the hilt of the dagger at his belt. The sheath bore Berent's crest: a mountain cat. Errel had a dagger and the little bow and a quiverful of goose-feather-fledged arrows. He supposed that Norres and Sorren had the weapons they had come with. They sat silently on their horses, enigmatic and unapproachable, cloaked in their difference. The outer gate opened. Errel pulled the chestnut into line. They rode from the Keep. The guards on the battlements lifted their bannered lances in salute.

The steppe stretched grimly out before them. Due south rose the smoke of a village's fires: they rode toward it. Ryke brought his horse next to Errel's. The stallion nipped at the grey.

“Berent didn't ask where we were going."

“Safer for him,” Errel said. “If Col Istor should have occasion to ask him if he saw us, he can truthfully say he harbored us for two nights, as is the custom, and then saw us gone, and that he doesn't know where we went."

“And then he can hope that Col believes him,” said Ryke.

They rode through a village. There were few people in the streets, and the windows of the houses were shuttered. Three women leaned on the wall of the well, talking. They looked at the riders incuriously. A pig ran out of an alley, pursued by a gaggle of children. The animal squealed at the horses in fury. The children shouted and flung themselves on it. Errel's horse bucked its hind legs in irritation, and he held it down one-handed, swearing at it. “Why did you pick me the one with the temper?” he said.

“I'm sorry, my prince,” said Ryke. He started to offer to exchange his grey for the chestnut, but thought better of it.

“Sorren says I will have to get used to being called just ‘Errel.’ There are no princes in the valley. Do you think you could try to do that?"

“No,” said Ryke.

Errel grinned. “You don't believe in Vanima,” he said.

“No, prince."

A chicken marched across the road. Errel's horse snorted. Errel called it names. Its ears pricked back. “Child of a mongrel donkey.” It tossed its head. “My father would have loved this horse,” said the prince. “He loved things he could subdue."

“He was a good man,” said Ryke.

“He was a good lord,” Errel said. “As a man, he was no better than any of us.” Ryke frowned. Errel had said just such a thing of Col. It irked him to think of Col Istor and Athor of Tornor ranked together. “Don't scowl at me. I loved him and admired him. But he was not a gentle man."

“I don't know what you mean,” Ryke said.

“Never mind."

They passed a bog. The houses of the village curved in a circle around it. Women in cloaks and boots chopped at the dark earth with spades. To Ryke's eye, the ground looked as cold and unyielding as the stone. They came out of the village. Before them lay the steppe, decorated with dirty white clusters of sheep and an occasional green pine thicket. Dogs barked rings around their charges. Ryke remembered watching the sheep as a boy, before he was old enough to go to Tornor. He had suffered through it, impatient to be older. He did not recall it with pleasure. He looked west. At the horizon lay a line of orange-gold hills, tipped with white, fading into distance. West was a road that went directly from Cloud Keep to Pel Keep: they were not on it. “How close will we come to the Galbareth?” he said, remembering the trip south with his father.

“I don't know."

“Close enough to see it?"

“I don't think so,” Errel said gently. “No."

They passed by another village. The steppe was so grazed down that they did not need to follow the road. The backs of the village houses looked like humpbacked men sitting in a row.

When he looked back, Cloud Keep had shrunk till it was almost indistinguishable from the rocks at its back. The sky had turned a bright portentous blue. Birds wheeled over them. Errel's chestnut scampered like a colt. Ryke's big grey plodded. Errel kicked the chestnut into a run and brought it back. “He'll do."

The first two nights they slept under trees, on pine needles. The trees dripped moisture. They lay quietly, unmolested by wolves, but Ryke woke and slept and woke again. The sound of the water disturbed him; it was nothing like the drip of fog over rock.

The following day the land turned a sly new green. The trees were tipped with red growth. Banks of snowdrops lay in the hollows of hills like the last remnants of winter. Ryke found himself twisting and turning on his horse's back, trying to see it all. They now rode due west, but still the line of mountains (orange in the morning, blue in the evening) grew no larger. “Wait,” said Sorren.

The road they followed was nothing more than a cart track. The day they saw the snowdrops they passed through two villages. The doors of the houses were open, and the aroma of baked bread steamed from the doorways. The lush scent made Ryke's stomach growl. In the meadows around the town the men and women were planting. They stooped over the turned fields, shoots in their hands, singing. They waved to the travelers.

That night they sheltered in a woodcutter's lean-to. Sorren went looking for a stream. She brought back two skins full of water and then disappeared again. Ryke walked downstream and came upon her scrubbing at something in the cold creek water. The sunset light was fast fading. He could not see what she was washing. There seemed to be a lot of them, all the same shape. She looked briefly at him. “Blood rags,” she said, seeing where his gaze went. “Was there something you wanted from me?"

“No,” he said. He went farther down stream and urinated against a bush. He went back along the stream, but she had finished and had gone on ahead of him.

There was a blackened ring of stone outside the lean-to. Norres built a fire in it. Errel went up the forested hillside. Ryke leaned against a fallen log. The firelight fingered the tree trunks. He heard the twang of the little bow. Errel came back with a hare. Ryke skinned and spitted it. Fat dripping from the carcass made the fire hiss and sputter. In three days of traveling the plain had turned to hills and the hills to meadow and forest so smoothly that he had not noticed it happening. “I don't understand where we are,” he said fretfully.

“Southwest of Tornor,” Sorren said. She sat beside Norres, her arm resting on Norres’ lap: an intimate gesture.

“We're riding to the valley between the Great Mountains and Galbareth,” said Norres.

“Can we see it from here?"

“Galbareth? No. We're too far from it,” said Sorren. She leaned forward, out of the circle of Norres’ arm. Smoothing a place in the dust, she picked up a twig. “Here's Tornor.” She made an X in the dust. “Here's the Rurian, flowing south from the mountains. Here's Kendra-on-the-Delta.” She drew a line and an X at its other end. “Here's Galbareth. Tezera City is here. Here's Lake Aruna, and here the line of the Great Mountains. We're here.” Another X. “Vanima lies five days south of where we are.” She drew another line at the bottom of the picture. “That's the ocean."

Errel grunted. “Have you been there?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Norres.

Ryke tried to see it as a bird might see it, small as this but alive, teeming with beasts to hunt and be hunted by.

“We traveled down Rurian when we left Tornor,” said Sorren, touching the map. “We went into Galbareth. The farm folk were friendly. We worked in the fields. After harvest we went back to the River Road. We went all the way to Mahita."

“Was it hard?” said Errel.

“Sometimes.” Sorren smiled at Norres. “But we were never sorry."

“Where is the Asech country?” Ryke asked.

Sorren made a smudge with her thumb between Galbareth and Kendra-on-the-Delta. “We never went there. The Asech tribes are not friendly to strangers."

“Why did you ask that?” said Errel.

“Col learned war in the Asech country, chasing the tribes."

“How do you know?"

“He told me."

“Ah."

Norres reached over Sorren's shoulder and rubbed the map out with a firm hand. “Let's sleep.” Sorren smiled, and rose. They stood side by side, shoulders touching, seeming twins, as they had that first time Ryke had seen them in the watchtower ... There was no difference in the shape of their bodies. Norres had taken off the fur-lined overshirt.

“But you are—” he bit his words silent. Linking hands, the two women walked into the woods. Ryke slid into his cloak. He felt tricked, and knew that was stupid. Norres’ sex had always been there for him to see. He wondered what had kept him from seeing it before. The women returned. He heard the sounds of bodies touching and shifting. He looked up, seeking sky. The tree tops joined like black lace overhead, trapping the crescent moon in their design.

“Good night,” said Errel.

“Good night,” Ryke said.

“Good night,” said a voice from the other side of the fire.

Then there was silence.

* * * *

At dawn, Errel read the Cards.

Crows sailed above them as he laid out the pattern on top of his cloak. The painted colors glittered. The crows swooped close, hoping that the Cards were something to eat. “These are the Cards of the past,” Errel said, touching them one by one with his left hand. His broken finger stuck out, away from the others. “The Demon is a portent of violence and domination.” Dressed in white with green flames around his head, the Demon grinned. “The Sun, reversed. The Lord, reversed. The Messenger.” He looked at Sorren. “That's you."

Sorren nodded.

“These are the Cards of the present. The Wheel of Chance. The Death card. That means transformation, a new way of thinking. The Wolf. The Stargazer, reversed. These are the Cards of the future. The Scholar, reversed. Unorthodox ideas. The Phoenix. One of us is going to be tested. The Weaver. A person of power. The Mirror, reversed. One of us is a pessimist. That's Ryke."

“I don't feel pessimistic."

“But you don't believe in the Cards,” said Errel. Still using his left hand he swept them into a pile.

“Change, unorthodox ideas, a test,” repeated Sorren. “Is that good?"

Errel shrugged.

“I can learn,” Ryke said. “I'm willing to learn.” He glanced at Norres. But she was scuffing her heel into the ashes of the fire and did not look at him.

He mounted the grey, angry. He told himself he had no reason to be angry, but the words did not stop the tightening in his chest. Errel could have told him what the ghyas were. Ryke wondered why he had not. Sorren sat her horse holding the rein of Norres’ bay. “When will we reach this magical valley of yours?” he asked.

“Five days more,” she said.

“Is it really summer there?"

“You'll see."

Errel said, “After a winter in Tornor, it feels like summer here.” He stretched contentedly. “Spring comes early in the south."

Sorren said, “Southerners say it comes late in the north.” Norres took the rein from her. “We'll stop tomorrow at a village. A friend of ours lives there.” She leaned low over her horse's neck to avoid the sweeping branches. They wove through the trees. The scent of early flowers rose around them. A butterfly fluttered over Ryke's head. Its wings were yellow with black markings. They went down a slope and up again and came out of the trees onto a grassy hillside. Their shadows pointed in front of them, toward the white-capped mountains.

All morning they rode west, keeping to the crest of the hills. Sheep grazed on the hillsides, tended by children and fuzzy dogs. In the valleys, the young shoots lay in the rich earth, soaking up the new sunlight. Blackbirds wheeled over the fields. The sun shimmered off their iridescent wings. Brightly colored pieces of cloth waved like banners from poles set at intervals in the fields. “What are those?” Errel asked.

“They keep the birds away,” said Sorren.

“That's a good idea,” Errel said.

They stopped for a midday meal beside a stream. Norres cut a willow switch and used a piece of thread from her shirt to tie a thorn to its end. She dug in the soft loam near the stream till she caught a worm. She dangled the baited thorn in the stream. Almost at once there was a flurry in the water, and the switch dipped. Drawing it toward her, she reached into the water. She brought out a fish by the tail. She did it four times, while Sorren build a fire. The fish were not much longer than Ryke's hand, with yellow skins that shimmered in the light like the blackbirds’ wings.

They ate everything of the fish except the fins and bones and eyes. “What are these fish called?” Errel asked.

“Yellowlings,” said Norres.

“Ah. I like this country,” said the prince.

Ryke looked west. He was astonished to see how big the mountains had grown. He looked south. Green hills spread with the shadows of the clouds fanned at his feet. He looked south, seeking a glimpse of Tornor's mountains, but could see only the hills through which they had been traveling. He had long since taken off his travel furs. “How far is the village we're going to?"

“Has it a name?” asked Errel.

“It's called Gerde's Spinney,” said Norres. “One day's ride."

Gerde's Spinney was a cluster of wooden houses lying in a valley. The hills above it were heavily forested. The land in the valley was cleared and plowed, and the villagers were planting. A herd of longhaired goats browsed in a meadow, watched by the inevitable dirty-faced child with a switch. As they rode toward the houses the child came bounding from the meadow, goats at her heels. Errel's chestnut shied. He pulled it back. The girl-child wore her hair in two long braids. She called a question to them, in speech so swift and thickly accented that Ryke could not understand it. Sorren answered. “We come to visit Chaya; we are her friends.” The child grinned, white teeth in a dark brown face, and scrambled back up the slope, goats all around her. She was no older than Ryke's youngest sister. Wearing breeches and a ragged shirt, she climbed as agilely as her whiskered charges. Ryke wondered how his family was faring.

The village was small, three streets one way, four another. An old man with a straw shade over his face slept in the marketplace beside the well. The houses were of wood, not stone. Their walls had been washed with some kind of red paint to keep them safe from water-rot. They were lower than the tall houses of the north, with steep eaves.

They stopped at a house apart from the others. Dye smells hung thick about it. The harsh steam raked Ryke's throat. He coughed. The door of the cottage opened, and a child came into the road. He was fair-skinned, comely, except that his right leg was withered. He leaned on a stick. He reached for the horses’ reins. Ryke hesitated to relinquish the grey. “I can hold him,” said the boy. Without a hint of mischief, the chestnut stallion followed him. Ryke let his own reins slide.

“Welcome,” said a woman's voice. Ryke turned to see her striding around the side of the house. “I saw you coming down the slope.” Her voice was deep and quick. “Ai, Sorren, Norres!” She opened her arms. The three women hugged in a circle. The stranger wore a hat of straw, and her clothes were scattered with spots of color, red and blue and purple and saffron. She was very tall, nearly as tall as Ryke.

Sorren said, “This is Chayatha. Chaya to her friends.” She indicated Errel and Ryke, saying their names. The woman nodded to them. She was dark as Col Istor. She took off her hat for a moment. She wore her hair in a braid coiled on the top of her head.

“What brings you on this road?” she said to Sorren.

Sorren grinned at her. “We go to the valley."

“Oh? And what of them?” Chayatha pointed her chin at the two men.

“They go with us,” said Sorren. “They are exiles. Van will take them in."

Ryke wondered what right this woman had to know who they were or where they went.

“Maybe. Go in the house.” She pushed Sorren's arm. “Emmlith will give you food. I have cloth in the pots and cannot leave it.” She loped round the side of the house again. Ryke scowled. He did not think it a friendly welcome.

The house was low and smokefilled. It smelled of sheepskin, wool, and dye. Its dimensions were deceptive; it was larger than it had seemed from outside. It had a brick hearth with a spit. Through an unshuttered window Ryke looked on the back of the house. He saw the steep roof of a chicken coop, and a pot the size of a bathing tub raised on stilts, with a fire burning under it. It was clay, Ryke thought, or tile, some substance that would not burn.

Emmlith served them goat cheese and ale. He swung easily about the room, using his cane as if it were an extra limb replacing the crippled one. Errel said, “What happened to your leg?"

“I was born so,” said the boy, uninterested. “Where did you come from?"

“North,” said Errel, “from the mountains."

Chayatha came in. “Emmlith, go watch the fires.” The boy limped out. Chayatha poured herself a mug of ale. The mug was painted with the figure of a dancer, black on red. “It's been a long time,” she said. “Too long. Three years. Last time we spoke, you were going south. I heard you joined the green clan."

Sorren stroked the green braid on her shirt front. “It was true, as you see. We have been messengers for two years."

“How did you get the green clan to accept you?"

Sorren grinned. “They think us ghyas. That was Van's idea for us, and it worked."

“And has it been what you desired?” said the dyer. Eyes bright, she looked from Norres to Sorren. “No, I think not. Ai, my poor friends, each loving what the other does not want. The road makes a weary compromise. How is it that you ride from the north in winter, traveling with two northerners?"

“We were south. But the green clan follows war,” said Norres. “There is war in the north."

Chayatha grimaced. “When is there not war in the north?"

Ryke said, before he could stop himself, “This war was made by southerners."

“Ryke,” said Errel, “we are guests.” But the dyer laughed.

“So speaks an exile, seeking someone to blame for misfortune. I know, I was one. Have some more ale.” She refilled Ryke's mug. “You've caught me at a busy time. The sheep were sheared, and the wool pressed and carded ten days ago. Since then, I have not stopped tending the fires.” She stretched and yawned, a gusty sigh.

“Then we will not stay long,” said Sorren. Ryke approved. He did not like the cottage. Chayatha puzzled him. Her speech was quick, too quick for a slow-thinking countrywoman. Perhaps she was from Mahita, where Sorren and Norres had met her. But if she was from Mahita, what was she doing here? She was farther from her home than he was.

Norres said, “What news from the south?"

“Nothing,” said Chayatha. Drawing the cheese in front of her, she cut herself a piece, pushing the knife outward with her thumb like a man. “It's too early for the traders. They'll be here in a month or so. They come across Galbareth crushing the grain with their laden wagons as if they were on the Great South Road itself.” She put the cheese knife on the table.

Norres said, “I wonder that the land allows it. Galbareth doesn't like strangers."

“What do you get from them?” asked Errel.

“Silks,” said Chayatha, “spices, oil, brass and copper.” She touched the copper-handled knife. “They buy our wool, cloth and thread. Especially now, they like the blue cloth."

Sorren chuckled. “I can tell you why that is. The traders tie bits of blue to their wagons and call themselves the blue clan. Truth!” she said at Chayatha's disbelieving look. “In Tezera they gather in a big hall and call themselves a guild, and make laws for each other. If one breaks the law, he is fined. They wear blue capes and hoods."

“Such nonsense!” said the dyer. “The green clan I know, the black clan I know, but what is this?” She scowled. Ryke remembered Jaret, who had taught him the runes and had worn a black hood sometimes. Errel had said that Jaret was a scholar.

“Times change,” said Errel.

“And not always for the better,” said the dyer darkly. But she glanced at Errel and then at Ryke, and her face lightened. “Ah, a mystery. Two travelers, fair-haired, with clothes out of the north, one with a ruby ring on his hand, keeping company with messengers. Who are you, strangers?"

Errel dropped his left hand to his lap. “My name is Errel."

“Chaya—” began Sorren.

“Nay, let him answer. He has a tongue. Errel. That is a good northern name. Why so shy? I am only a woman, and you are a soldier. Do you fear I shall hurt you? I shall trade secrets with you. I come from Kendra-on-the-Delta. I have lived in Vanima; I am Van's sister. There. Now, show me your ring."

“My prince,” said Ryke, and stopped, furious and ashamed of himself for having betrayed Errel's rank. He glared at Chayatha with mistrust, and then watched astonished as Errel reached his ringed hand across the table. Chayatha touched the sign of Tornor with one finger. The backs of her hands were stained and spotted.

“Ah,” she said. The sound hung in the air. Her dark, wide eyes seemed to lose their light. Ryke's skin prickled. Norres’ fingers sank into his arm. When he looked at her, she laid a finger to her lips.

“I see a place,” said Chayatha tonelessly. “I see a castle on a hill.” Her face twitched. “There is snow on the earth around the castle. The walls are built of black stone. I see a man in a tower. He is walking back and forth in front of a fire. I cannot see his face. I see a younger man on watch beneath the stairway. I see a woman in a red dress walking up to the man on watch. She has fair hair, where all the other folk I see are dark. I see—the tower fades. I see it from the doorway of a hut. An old woman stands in the doorway, leaning on the shoulder of a little girl. In the hut are herbs and spices and roots and drugs, a healer's stock. The hut fades. I see a castle; a tall old man with scars on his face talking to a young one who looks like him. That is—that is all.” She drew a deep sluggish breath.

Errel said, “Sironen has a scarred face.” Ryke thought, The man in the watchtower is Col. The woman in the red dress is Becke. He pictured her running up the stairs to Col Istor's bed.

“The healer's hut,” said Norres. “I have not thought of it in years. I wonder if old Otha still lives.” Putting her arm around the dyer's shoulder, she poured ale into a mug. “Drink."

Chaya groped for the mug. Her eyes looked odd. Ryke wondered if she knew what Col was doing, planning. He didn't understand what she had done. “What does your seeing mean?"

She shrugged. “I don't know. I see. You know. I saw what you wanted me to."

“Does that mean it isn't real? Is it a dream?"

“It's real enough. Don't ask me questions, I don't know the answers.” Ryke wanted to shake her. Perhaps Col had attacked Sironen. Why had Chayatha seen naught of Cloud Keep or of Berent? He did not dare to ask her. The stink of the cottage was making his nose itch. He stood.

“I'm going out,” he said.

Looming on the western horizon, the wall of mountains closed the vista. He still felt shut in. He paced in the narrow street. A horse complained. He went around the house to the shed and slid in among them, stroking them. Memories of Tornor writhed in his mind: of Tornor cold in winter, stark against a star-studded sky, grey rock in the green of spring, firm against the sudden unreliable warmth of summer, solid in the autumn rainstorms. The softness of this southern country disturbed him. He remembered how, on the visit to the grainfields long ago, he had wakened to hear the slush-slush of the wind in the grain. It was terrible at night, like a hundred dead men walking, and he had crawled to his father and thrust himself into the sleeping man's arms. He rested his cheek against the grey gelding's smooth flank, despising himself for the child's voice in his mind that whispered, I want to go home.

He left the shack. Errel hunkered down against the side of the house, under the slanting eaves. Ryke sat beside him. The prince was turning the ring around and around on his middle finger.

“What did that woman do?” Ryke said.

“She—saw Tornor.” Errel sighed. We look like two beggars in the dust, Ryke thought. “I have heard of people like that."

“Is it like the Cards?"

“No. The Cards are only an instrument, like the star-patterns or the stones and sticks that other folk use to make visible the harmonies and balance of the world. The information lies in them. We read it there, like weather-lore. Even a fool knows the signs for rain or frost. Anyone can use the Cards."

“Not I,” said Ryke.

“You will not, but you could learn. All it takes is the will to do so and knowledge of the shape of the tool; no different than learning to swing a sword. But Chaya's seeing is a gift you are born with, like sharp eyes or a long reach or a withered leg."

“A southern thing."

“You forget,” said Errel gently, “we were all southerners once."

I was never a southerner, Ryke thought; I am of the north, and I want to go back to it. “Why did she see Sironen?"

“I don't know,” said Errel.

A dog trotted out from between two houses, smelled the seated strangers, and began to bark. Errel groped left-handed for a stone. He threw it; the dog yelped as it struck, and slunk into the alley. Sorren and Norres came from the house. Sorren carried a pack; Norres a wineskin. “Chaya is tired from the far-seeing,” said Sorren. “She asks us to leave. She gave us some cheese and some ale. The prentice has gone to get the horses."

Errel said, “I am afraid our presence upset her."

“It was not you,” said Norres. “Chaya sees what people bring her, in their heads and in their hearts.” She looked pointedly at Sorren. “Whether they know it or not."

Sorren's chin went up. “That's not true,” she said. “I know what is in my heart. I have always known it.” Ryke looked to Errel for enlightenment. But the prince only shrugged. Emmlith brought the horses from the shed. The chestnut looked contented, his wildness gone. They rode. At the foot of the village Ryke looked back.

Silent on her hill, the goatgirl was watching them.

Eight

The coldness between Norres and Sorren lasted till evening. Their distance made Ryke uncomfortable. But in the morning he opened his eyes and saw them sleeping as they always did, arms about each other, wrapped in one cloak. It was his turn to see to the horses. He took his time, leaving Errel's chestnut for the last. The stallion danced in a circle, tossing its head away from the bit. Norres came to his aid. “Be still,” she said to the horse. Magically it grew mild in her hands, standing without fighting as Ryke saddled and bridled it. Ryke brought the horses into the clearing. Errel came from the stream, waterbags over his shoulders. He turned to thank Norres, but she had turned her back, busy, inaccessible.

“Four more days to ride,” said Errel.

“We turn south now,” said Sorren. She stamped on the fire ashes.

The country changed yet again. The shape of the hills hardened. The green diminished. They rode past upthrust granite and clefts of many-colored banded rock. The western mountains loomed on the right, their peaks touched with snow.

“There are high places where the snow never melts,” said Sorren, guiding her brown mare next to Ryke. She wore a gold-trimmed shirt that brightened the pale color of her hair and matched the smooth gold of her skin. She offered Ryke the winebag. He drank the sour ale. The air was thin, dry, and warm. Ryke wished he had a map in his head, as she did. He wanted to know where they were, where Tornor was, where the valley was. He handed back the wineskin.

Sorren said, “What do you think of the ride so far?"

Ryke shrugged. “I would rather not have had to make it.” That sounded churlish even to him. “It's not bad."

Sorren said gently, “I remember how it was to leave Tornor."

“But you wanted to leave."

“I wanted to stay, too. I hated it and loved it. And I was frightened; I was only fifteen and had never traveled farther than the village."

She sat the horse as if she had been born on it. Ryke wondered if she liked living a nomad's life, homeless as any street beggar in a southern city, following war. It was a lonely life for a man to lead; it seemed to Ryke an unnatural one for a woman. “When did you leave?” he asked.

“Eight years ago."

“How is it that I don't remember you?"

“Why should you remember one girl among so many? I remember you. You were in Stane's watch. You stood day guard outside the stable all one summer. Norres and I used to meet there. Your hair was lighter then."

Stane—he remembered him; a big man with fair hair and ruddy face—he had been four years in Stane's watch. In summer a post at the stable was like standing guard over a midden. “Why did you leave?"

“I had to,” Sorren said. “There was no one in Tornor who would let me do what I wanted to do. They wanted me to be Keep's woman, as my mother had been, and have children, and I wanted to live with Norres, and ride horses and fight. I would have stayed at Tornor if they had let me do that. I love the mountains. It makes me restless to be away from them.” They both looked west, toward the heights.

“Women don't fight."

“That was what they told me,” said Sorren. “So I ran away. They brought me back and I cried, and my mother yelled at me. She told me I was a fool, that if I did as I was told I might even marry well, because my father was lord of the Keep."

“You're Athor's daughter?” The gelding stumbled. Automatically Ryke pulled its head up. Sorren nodded. “Does Errel know it?"

“Oh, yes. He knew before I did. He was first to tell me. We played together, he and I. He showed me the things he learned in the Yard. It made him so angry when I could do everything he could do.” She chuckled. “But that was when we were much younger. When I became a woman he was the only person in the Keep I talked to. I told him about Norres."

Ryke bit his lip, afraid to speak and break the flow of speech. A bird called sharply from a bush.

“She was born in the Keep, too. But she was some soldier's child, and they sent her to be fostered in the village. They prenticed her to the healer. She hated healing: staying indoors and tending the pots. She ran away to the Keep and hid in the stable. She liked being with the animals. I always loved her. I planned ways for us to leave and not be found—but they were all flawed.” She sighed. “I suppose that was because I did not want to go. Norres was so patient. She never cried, even when Otha beat her to make her say where she had been hiding. She could have run but she refused to go until we could leave together. Errel found a way.” She brushed her hair back from her face. “He brought us boys’ clothes and took us out hunting on horses from Tornor stable, under the very noses of the guards.” She smiled at the memory. The eastern light glinted off her cheekbone. He wondered who had told the young prince that Athor had a daughter, and why he, Ryke, had never heard it. Sorren's hands were firm and sure on her horse's reins. Athor might have married her to one of Berent's sons.

“Would it have been so bad to marry and have children?” A picture came into his mind, at first he thought it was the Lady off the Cards, and then it turned into his sister Becke, going up the watchtower stairs in a red dress.

She did not answer him at once. Dropping the rein, she arched her spine and pushed her hair back with both hands. When she spoke her voice had flattened. “Is your mother alive?"

“Yes,” he answered.

“Mine is not. She was sixteen when she bore me. She died in childbirth the year I was eleven."

Even in the north there were teas women took which could halt the making of the child in the womb. He supposed it had been too late for such. He was a man; he knew little about those things. He said, “All women do it."

“What has that to do with me?” Sorren said fiercely. Touching her heels to the brown horse's flanks, she rode ahead, leaving Ryke alone, annoyed, and puzzled as to why she had spoken to him at all. The gelding stumbled again. Ryke halted it. There was a stone wedged into its left forefoot. He dug the stone out with his knife. When he remounted, he saw Norres and Sorren far ahead and Errel lagging, waiting for him. He urged the grey to a canter. He had not meant to anger her. He had spoken truth as he saw it.

When next they stopped to rest, he offered her some cheese from his pack.

“Thank you,” she said. “Have some ale.” She passed him the wineskin. He drank, and passed the skin to Errel. The sun was strong. There was a tinge of brown on the green tough grassy hills. A hunting hawk sailed the wind over their heads. The whole landscape seemed to tilt toward the mountains. The great peaks seemed, from where they sat now, to curve in, eastward, so that if they continued to ride due south they would halt at the mountains’ feet. If they rode farther south they would end in the sand of the Asech lands...

“Ryke."

“Uh.” Ryke sat up. He could not remember lying down. Errel grinned at him. He held the rein of the grey.

“Come on. You don't want to sleep here."

“I wasn't sleeping."

“What were you doing?"

“Dreaming,” Ryke said. He rubbed his eyes and took the grey's rein. The answer made perfect sense to him; it took some time before he worked out why it had made Errel laugh.

* * * *

Sunset of the eighth day they came to Vanima.

They turned west for the last time. They rode right at the mountains and the huge brown slabs seemed to slide apart for them, like the wooden puzzles that Ryke remembered playing with as a child ... You pushed the leaves of the puzzles to one side or another, looking for the heart of the toy, and when you found the center it was always empty. The sun shimmered on the brown rock. He was last in line. Errel was ahead of him. Norres and Sorren had disappeared around some corner or down some slope. Errel turned and waved. Ryke squinted. The stallion's head dipped; his hind-quarters bunched. Ryke kneed the grey. He came to the end of the path and looked down. The path widened. He was looking into a long green valley. He saw dark brown fields and the square corners of buildings. He eased his grip on the reins and let the horse pick its own way down the hillside.

Eyes dazzled with heat-shimmer, he realized that the snow-capped mountains had not moved. Vanima lay in a deep cleft of the foothills. The larger peaks floated against the western sky, no nearer, no farther away.

He looked for guards, and saw none. The mountains guard this place, he thought. That was fantasy. He looked for men with weapons, and saw men with hoes. He had never lived in a place without soldiers.

Errel, Norres, and Sorren stopped to wait for him. He hastened to join them. The men, working shiftless in the fields, waved. They went to the stables. The horses pushed eagerly for the water trough. A girl came out of the back and caught at the leads, talking to the thirsty animals with authority. She wore men's clothing, a shirt and cotton breeches. “We can leave our packs here,” said Sorren. She said to the girl, “Where's Van?"

The girl gestured with her thumb. “At the Yard."

They walked from the stable. Errel took a deep breath. “Even the colors of the mountains are different,” he said.

Ryke said, “Can anyone come here?"

Norres said, “You have to know where it is to find it."

Ryke counted twenty-odd houses fanning out from the center of the village, the well. They were made of some reddish wood. The Yard was big, too big for a small village, and it had no fence about it, only a low wooden railing over which a child could step. The ground was very dusty. Even this late in the day the place was bare, hot, and utterly shadeless. Men and women stood in a semicircle, watching one man throw a second man headfirst at the ground. At the last minute the thrown man's body made a wheel; he rolled and came up on his feet. A woman in the semicircle reached to steady him. The thrower said something to them all, and then came striding toward the newcomers.

“Well,” he said to Norres and Sorren, “you've come back."

He was Ryke's size, swarthy as Col Istor, a true southerner, and he moved like a cat, all lope and stretch and ripple under the skin. He had black eyes, very wide set. Like the girl in the stable, he wore cotton breeches, but his brown chest was bare. Dust caked his arms and shoulders. He was beardless. His hair was tricolored, black and red and blond, and he tied it off his forehead with a red length of cloth. Hands on his hips, he looked at Errel and Ryke. “What have you brought me?"

“This is Errel,” said Sorren. “This is Ryke. This is Van."

“What can you do?” Van said to Errel.

“I can shoot a bow. I can sing. I can tumble, a little. I can read the Cards of Fortune. I can climb."

Van nodded. “And you?” he said to Ryke.

“I lose wars,” said Ryke. “I can arm wrestle. I'm a good liar.” He saw Norres frown. He didn't care.

“Welcome to the valley,” Van said. “Can you work a field?"

Errel said, “We can learn."

“Good. Take them to Maranth,” he said to Sorren. “She'll find places for them to sleep and work for you all to do. It's warmer here than where you've been, by the look of you. We're in the middle of a heat wave. You'll have to find other clothes. Come to the Yard when you're ready to fight.” He turned back to the circle waiting for him.

Norres said to Ryke, “Do you usually insult your host?” Ryke shrugged. He waited for Errel to say something. The prince was not even looking at him. He was watching Van. The look on his face was disturbing.

“I'm not answerable to you,” said Ryke. “I told the truth."

Norres snorted. “What you do reflects on us,” she said.

Van threw a second man. He, too, turned his body into a wheel and landed upright. Ryke could not see what any of it had to do with fighting. He turned his back on the spectacle. “He reminds me of Col Istor,” he said.

The fields spread out from the village in a fan shape. Mannikins on stakes waved cloth arms in the breeze to keep the birds from the furrows. In the field nearest them the earth was dark from the blade of the plow, ready to be sown. Horses grazed in the fallow. One at least was a mare, heavy with foal. “What's that?” said the prince, pointing to a field which looked uncleared. Ryke shaded his eyes. The stalks did not have the look of weeds. They were planted in regular rows and grew thigh high.

Sorren said, “The winter planting."

“It looks like wheat,” said Errel.

“It is wheat. The ground is not so hard here, nor the winter so severe. Wheat planted in fall is harvested in summer,” said Sorren. “Oats are sowed in spring and harvested before the autumn rains, as in Tornor."

“Two plantings, two harvests,” murmured Errel.

“This is how the planting is done in Galbareth,” said Norres.

They walked down a street, the only street. The well stood in its center. The village looked deserted. No children hung about the buildings. There were no women with their spinning wheels sitting in the sun, exchanging stories—a familiar sight in Tornor village. Chickens cackled from a pen. Ryke glimpsed a stockade and smelled pig. A cat lazed on a roof, licking a paw, stopping now and then to stare with wide eyes into the street. They walked into a cottage. A woman sat at a table. A square window opened at her back. The room smelled of dust and ink and light.

There were chalk slates on the table, and parchment rolls. The woman looked up and leaped to her feet. She wore a blue and scarlet tunic, fringed with gold, and her hair was black as tar and springing loose from her head like a bush. She flung both arms around first Norres and then Sorren. “You've come back!” she said. Her voice was husky, reminding Ryke of Chayatha. On her wrists she wore circles of silver set with blue gems.

Sorren laughed. “Of course."

“Who are your friends?"

“Ryke and Errel. This is Maranth.” The woman smiled at them. Errel smiled back; Ryke saw that he had taken off the ring. Ryke tried to smile. He was suddenly exhausted. He wanted a meal, a bed, silence, no strangers to confront, the company of one face, no more. The cat oozed in the window, black fur shining like coal. Maranth petted it and it rubbed against her hand, eyes slitting with pleasure.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“South. North."

“East and west. I know. Who rules the city now?"

“The Med family,” said Norres.

Maranth merely nodded, as if the question and its answer were not important. But she did not immediately speak again. Ryke wondered why who ruled in Kendra-on-the-Delta mattered in Vanima. “Ai, wait until you see Amaranth; she's grown. She's already taller than I. I think she may rival Chayatha.” Her voice was quick as rain on hard ground.

“Is she well? Are you well?” said Sorren.

“We are all well. You come at a good time. It rained four days ago, and in another four it will be full moon.” Going to the other side of the table, she picked up a slate. Ryke saw that what he had thought were skirts were in fact trousers, slit and bloused. “Let me find you an empty house. The cottage with the blue shutters lies empty, will you take it?"

“Surely,” said Sorren. Maranth wrote on the slate. The letters curved and twisted; they looked all the same to Ryke.

“There's plenty of work to do so near to the planting. The fields grow boulders sooner than barley. Do you mind hauling rocks? I need another person to help build a water-break.” She looked at Ryke. He nodded, not sure if he was being asked or told.

Norres said. “You can put me with the goats."

“I was going to,” said Maranth. “Once they find out you are in the valley they will balk for anyone but you. Sorren, will you plow?” Sorren nodded. The cat walked across the slate. It sniffed at Norres. Maranth seized the animal around the middle and tossed it at the windowsill. “Out, beast!” she said. “How did you hurt your hand?” she asked Errel.

He smiled. “Wrestling."

“A one-handed man cannot hunt or cook or plow...” She pushed her fingers through her hair. She seemed at least as old as Ryke, but she moved with the liquid grace of a woman half her age. The bracelets jingled. Beyond the table with the slates he glimpsed the frame of a feather-quilted bed. A man's tunic hung on a hook in the wall. He wondered whose it was. It galled him to be taking orders from a woman.

It did not seem to bother Errel. “I can pull weeds,” he suggested.

Maranth grinned. “A good idea. We always need weed-pullers. I hope you can tell a weed from a wheat-stalk.” Wind riffled the parchments and the small woman held them down with both hands. “And the fee, if you have it,” she said.

Sorren took a pouch from her pocket. Untying the strings that held it closed, she counted coins into her hands. Some of them bore the fish-sign of Tezera, some the grain-sheath symbol of Shanan, and some were marked with symbols Ryke had never seen. They were mostly silver, a few copper. She handed them to Maranth. Taking them, Maranth put them into a wooden chest with metal bindings that sat behind the desk on a stool. She took an unmarked parchment. With practiced movements, she poured water from a brass jug onto an ink-stick in a dish. She rubbed the stick with the brush until the brush tip filled, and wrote on the parchment in the black ink. Over her head on the wall behind her hung a scroll in a wooden frame, with lines of writing on it. Ryke wondered what they said, and if she had made them.

“That is well. Later at dinner you must tell me all about your travels."

“And you shall tell us all the gossip of the valley,” said Sorren.

“I never gossip,” said Maranth, with mock dignity. “Ai, go away. Let me work."

They went to the street. The sky had darkened; the sun was nearly gone. The face of the mountains was dark brown. “Night comes early in the valley,” Errel said. From a pen behind a cottage Ryke heard the snoring grunt of pigs.

“Prince, are we to be farmers?” he said.

“My name is Errel,” said Errel, “and yes, we will be farmers here, and goatherds, and whatever is needed.” Ryke bowed his head, accepting it. He did not like it. He was a soldier. He felt penned in this village of strangers. The whole place seemed less than a quarter the size of his birth village outside Tornor. “Who is Maranth?” Errel said.

Sorren picked up a piece of straw from the ground. She plaited it in her fingers as they walked. “She's Van's lady. But if she hears you call her that she'll swear at you. She says: I belong to myself, no one else. She is the scribe and the steward of Vanima. She keeps the accounts. When the traders come to Gerde's Spinney she goes to bargain with them for the goods we need. Van calls her the Whip. He swears we would starve without her."

“Is that what the fee is for?” Errel said. “To pay the traders?” Sorren nodded. “You paid it for the four of us, didn't you. When I can, I will pay you back."

Everything was red about them: the mountains were red, the earth was red, the wood of the houses was red. Even the house roofs were red slate. They found the house with the blue shutters. It reminded Ryke of his mother's cottage. It had two rooms below separated by a wooden hinged screen, and stairs to a loft. Sorren and Norres went upstairs. The walls were bare. The grain of the wood made patterns like the current of a river. The house smelled of cedar. The bed in the sleeping chamber was soft and prickly with feathers. Pulling off his boots, Errel sank into it with a sigh of pleasure.

Ryke found tallow candles on the mantel, a chamber pot near the bed, a water jug stoppered with cork. There was a chest in the front room. He opened it. It held woolen blankets, a bolt of cloth, thread, a needle, an empty tinderbox, a belt with an iron buckle in the shape of a hand, a dagger hilt without a blade attached. Someone pounded on the door. Ryke opened it. The girl from the stable stood outside holding all their packs. He brought them in. Sorren ran downstairs. She had changed clothes. She wore a light blue tunic and soft brown cotton breeches. “Good,” she said seeing the packs.

Errel said, “Where can we get clothes like that?” She pointed to the chest. Ryke returned to it. He found several pairs of breeches and three shirts folded in the blankets. He stripped off his own leather and wool and put on the cotton. The fabric felt weightless on his skin, like a woman's touch.

He had to lay his belt aside. The cotton pants belted with a simple drawstring. The shirt was decorated with embroidery: the image of the sun. He traced its rays with his finger. Norres came downstairs. Ryke saw that she and Sorren wore boots of soft skin that came only to the top of the ankle. He went to the chest again and found three pairs of soft boots and one single leather boot without a mate. One set fit him, but none was long enough for Errel. The prince pulled on his big leather riding boots. “You can have others made,” said Sorren.

There was one chair in the front room. Ryke sat. This was journey's end ... His muscles twitched with fatigue. He had never been so far from the country of his birth before. He felt displaced.

Errel laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come."

Ryke made himself stand. “Where are we going?"

“To the refectory,” said Sorren. “Aren't you hungry?"

Ryke's stomach danced at the thought of food. They left the cottage. The light boots made him feel that he was walking off the earth.

For days they had eaten little but cheese and dried meat. The wind blowing down the street at them carried the smells of meat fresh-cooked, and baking bread. They passed the well. Light glistened from the windows of a building; soft light, not the hard bright light of torches. A spark winked in front of Ryke's face. He brushed at it. It winked again. “What the hell?” he said. He squinted into the blue dusk. It blinked in front of him, and he reached for it. It turned into an ash and skittered away.

Sorren laughed. “Firefly,” she said.

“What's that?"

“It's a flying thing that makes a fire in its tail and carries it around like a lantern."

Errel said, amused, “Better not try to catch it."

“I want to see it."

“Wait,” said Norres. She halted. They all stood still. The firefly circled around their heads, blinking. Norres extended one hand. Ryke held his breath as the fly hesitated, and then dropped to land on her knuckles. Its light pulsed and died, pulsed and died. “The fire's cold,” Norres said. She shook her fingers. The fire insect spread its wings and soared off.

“You can tame anything,” said Sorren softly.

The refectory's roof was steeply angled from the ridgepole. Inside, the beams were webbed with shadow. They were the same red wood as the houses. There were no weapons and no tapestries on the walls. A peat fire burned in a brick hearth. The soft light came from dishes of oil set out on the tables. Reeds textured the planks of the floor. The tables were long, with backless benches as at Tornor. At one end of the building there was a serving window. Everybody wore cotton and soft boots. Some had woolen cloaks over their arms. “Where do we sit?” said Errel.

“Anywhere,” said Sorren. She pointed to a bench. “Sit there. There's room for four. Norres and I will bring the food.” Ryke glanced around for a head table. There did not seem to be one. The table Sorren indicated was half empty. They sat down. A man near them looked up and smiled. Sorren and Norres came to the table, each with a platter. The platters held meat (pork and hare) and cheese and a tureen of whey-colored soup with herbs in it. Ryke sipped the soup. It was surprisingly tasty. There were mugs on the table and full pitchers of wine. He poured himself a mug and drank. It was not wine, but water. He drank anyway.

Errel had asked Sorren a question. He listened to the answer. “Everybody eats here. Everything we grow, we eat, or feed to the horses and chickens and pigs. And everybody takes a turn in the kitchen, doing some kind of work, cooking, cleaning, baking, slaughtering. We hunt, we fish. There are no servants in Vanima. Everyone works and learns the same."

“What do you learn?” said Errel.

Sorren said, “How to fight."

Farther down the bench from the man who had smiled, Ryke saw a woman with a baby at suck. She wore her hair in two long braids. He looked around. He saw the girl from the stable. He thought he saw one of the men from the Yard. The place confused him. People ate, or talked in low tones. There seemed to be no commanders, no distinctions of rank. One of the people at the serving window came around it and sat at a table, eating with the others. No one carried weapons. It was all wrong, and yet the feel of it was familiar, like a new shoe that has been made exactly to the pattern of an old one. It felt like a Keep.

He drank more water, wishing there was wine. Errel and Sorren talked. Three people walked through the door; a man, two women. The shorter woman was Maranth; he knew her by her hair. Someone waved to her, and she strode in that direction. The other woman and the man went to the serving window. Carrying platters, they came to the half empty bench. The man was Van. He sat without ceremony. The woman sat beside him and Ryke realized that she was just a girl. She had a great bush of hair like Maranth, held at the nape by a clip of leather, and a slim passionate face, vivid in the light from the oil dish. Like Van's, her hair was tricolored. He looked from one to the other. “Ryke,” said Van, pointing at him. “Errel. My daughter Amaranth."

There was bread on the table, too. Van tore a slice. He dipped the bread into the meat sauce. His motions were quick and neat, without waste. “Where are you sleeping?” he said.

“The cottage with the blue shutters,” said Sorren.

“Ah.” He drank. The others were silent, waiting for him to move or speak. His presence imposed a silence. The prince sat quietly, right hand cradled in his left, watching him. Ryke's nerves itched.

Rudely he thumped his elbows on the table, breaking the quiet. They all looked at him. He said to Van, “What is this place?"

Van stopped sopping his bread. His eyes were a brilliant black, like jet or the kind of veinless black marble that quarriers sometimes brought out of the mountains, or like the depths of night between the stars ... Ryke looked away. The back of his neck was cold. “Vanima,” said Van. “The land of summer."

“Where are you from?” said the girl across the table. Her eyes, too, were black, but they did not have Van's terrible springing power. Ryke glanced at Errel. The prince smiled at the girl.

“From the north,” he said,

“What happened there?” pressed the girl.

“A war."

“Did you lose it?” Errel nodded. “Who won it?"

“A southern thief,” Ryke said. He didn't want the prince to say more than that. He didn't want him to talk about Col Istor.

“Not all things out of the south are ill,” said Van. He leaned back a little, putting his face in shadow. It made him easier to look at. “You know the southern word chea?"

“No,” said Ryke.

“Yes,” said Errel. “It means—balance."

“Balance. Chea. Yes. Out of it comes the word cheari. You know that word?” Errel smiled. “It has been corrupted. It means juggler, fool. Once it meant something much more powerful."

“The dancer,” said Errel.

Van's eyebrows lifted. “You're a northerner,” he said. “How do you know that?"

“From the Cards of Fortune,” said Errel. “The first card, which has no number, is the Dancer. He is sometimes called the Fool. He stands at the center of all things."

“I didn't know that,” said Van. “I have heard of the Cards of Fortune, but I have never seen them. The southern scholars say that dance is sacred, because the dancer represents the chea, the balance of the world.” He put the tips of his fingers together, making a circle. “The symbol for that balance is the sphere, the whole.” He was talking directly to Errel, leaning toward the prince. At his elbow, the girl looked bored. “All things balance: night and day, the seasons, the patterns of the stars; all move in their circles, as do we, moving from birth to youth to age to death, whether we desire it or not. But just as the word cheari has corrupted to mean trickster, so do human beings corrupt the chea, destroy the circle and the balance."

“How?” said Errel.

“By killing. By making war. You asked me what this place is. This place restores the balance.” He grinned. “At least, that is my hope. I teach a way of fighting that does not break the balance because it does not kill."

Errel was nodding as if this speech made perfect sense to him. Ryke said, “What good is fighting if you can't win?"

“Who said you couldn't win?” said Van. “Skill lies in winning without killing.” His eyes glowed. “There's no skill in causing death."

The big shadowy room had stilled. At other tables men and women were nodding their heads. Ryke grew annoyed. There was no way to make war without killing. Van's talk of balance was all words. He imagined going to Col Istor and saying, Go home, you have broken the chea! The expression on Errel's face disturbed him. He looked seduced.

“I was a cheari for a little while,” the prince said softly. “I'd like to see what your chearis do."

Van nodded. “We'll show you,” he said, and rose.

He went toward the door, the girl in his wake. On the way to it he stopped several times, leaning to talk with one or another person. Ryke fought back his dislike for the man. Sorren and Norres left the table to bring the empty platters back to the serving window. Ryke edged closer to Errel. “Are you really thinking of staying here?” he said.

“For a little while,” said the prince. “You don't want to."

“I think I'm too old to learn new tricks,” Ryke said. “I was taught: When you fight, you kill."

Errel said, “I would not want you to do something against your nature. If you don't wish to stay here, go."

The soft permission was like a blow. “I swore an oath,” Ryke said.

“I'm curious,” said Errel. He leaned his chin on his clasped hands. The bandaged finger stuck out. “Aren't you?” Something burned at the edge of Ryke's field of vision. He couldn't tell if it were a shooting star or a firefly framed in the window. He gripped the table.

“No."

Nine

The meal was over. Norres and Sorren returned from the serving window. Errel rose. They went out the door. A cold wind blew down the tunnel of the street, cutting through the thin cotton of Ryke's clothing. He rubbed his arms, wishing he had brought a cloak. A lithe figure leaped by them: the girl Amaranth, wild-eyed and light-footed as a colt. They went to the blue-shuttered house. Errel lit the candles. Ryke found wood and laid a fire in the hearth. The room filled with the smell of pine. The two women went upstairs to the loft. Sorren called down, “Good night."

Ryke and Errel went to bed. Errel slept immediately. Ryke could not sleep. His muscles twitched. In the grate the sticks assumed the shapes of buildings. Twigs made a tower. Ryke wondered if the shape was an omen of Tornor. Lulled by the heat and Errel's steady breathing, he watched them fall into the fire.

At last he slept. He woke once in the night; the room had chilled. The fire was out. He fell asleep again. He dreamed. He was in a room. As is often true in dreams, he knew the room without being able to say where it was. He thought it might have been a room in Tornor. The room was hot. He went to the window to open the shutters. They stuck. He had to force the latch. At last one opened. There was a wolf's head in the window, glaring at him, teeth bared, dark eyes glittering. It began to climb in the window. He backed from it, feet moving terribly slowly, looking for a knife, an axe, his sword ... He could not find them. The wolf grew bigger. In the dream he yelled for help. He woke up, gasping. The blanket was over his face. No wonder he had had a bad dream. He pulled the wool out of his mouth and nose. It was morning. Sunlight striped the red wood of the walls. He lay quiescent while the sweat dried on his chest and hips. Errel slept beside him. The warm red room was like the heart of summer.

The house creaked. Norres and Sorren were awake; he could hear them walking above him. Someone ran down the stairs. He heard a door open. He heard the sound of water. His mouth was dry. He rolled from the bed carefully, so as not to wake the prince. His shirt and pants were on the floor. He dressed. There was a water jug and basin on the bedside table. He poured water from the jug into the basin and washed his face. The design on the stone was the same as the one embroidered on his shirt: the image of the rayed sun. He rinsed his mouth and spat. Errel rolled over. “Uh."

“Good morning,” Ryke said. Errel sat up. His hair was spikey. Ryke carried the basin full of dirty water to the door. A soft breeze trickled into the room when he opened it. He threw the water into the street. It glittered in the air like the eyes of his dream-wolf. Ryke brought the basin to the bed and refilled it with clean water. He wondered if the dream meant something.

Errel said, “Ryke, you do not have to do things for me. I am not a prince here, remember, and you are not, in any case, my servant."

“I don't mind,” Ryke said. If the dream meant something, Errel ought to know of it ... If the room were Tornor, then the wolf was Col Istor. Ryke decided he did not need to bother Errel to tell him that.

“Did you sleep well?” said Errel. He dunked his face in the basin.

“Yes,” Ryke said. Remembering there were no servants here, he shook the blankets out and hung them in the windows to air. Sorren waved to him from a rise behind the house. She was emptying the chamber pot.

The sky was gemlike: hard, clear, pure. Errel dressed. In the daylight his tall boots looked incongruous. Norres came downstairs. She was smiling. Her shirt was open at the throat. The soft material molded to her. She looked happy, younger, and untroubled. Ryke felt a stab of envy toward her joy. She lifted a hand in greeting and went outside. “Are you ready?” said Errel. “Let's go out."

The red slate roofs of the houses gleamed in the morning light. Already the fields had people in them. On one hill, spotted with stands of fir and cedar, Ryke saw the scattered sleek bodies of the piebald goats. They pushed among the trees, snatching at the low branches. “That's where I go,” said Norres, following his gaze. She kissed Sorren lightly on the lips. “Later, love.” Sorren led the two men toward the fields. A woman shouted to a horse. The planted fields were edged with marigolds to keep the insects off.

“How old is this place?” said Errel.

Sorren's brow lined for an instant. “Ten years,” she said. “I remember hearing Maranth say that she and Van came to the valley when Amaranth was four."

“It must have been lonely for a child,” said Errel.

“No lonelier than a Keep,” said Sorren. “But they were not alone for long, and there are other children here now."

It bothered Ryke that there were no guards posted to watch the trails along the mountainside. Anyone could come here. But he remembered what Norres had said; you would have to know the way. On the western horizon, an eagle skirted a precipice, sailing on a down-draft. Once more Ryke had the feeling that the mountains themselves were the valley's guard.

A sound penetrated his thoughts. Whap. Whap. He glanced around for the source of the noise. “Do you hear—?” he slapped his thigh with a cupped palm to imitate it.

“Yes—” Errel looked at Sorren. She grinned, and pointed to a red hill. Ryke squinted into the sunshine. He could not see what she was pointing at. Then he saw it: a building like a tower with a wheel on its turret. The wheel revolved. Its spokes were vanes. Whap, they said as they circled.

“It's a windmill,” said Sorren. “Vanima is short of streams, so the mill runs on the wind. If you ride into Galbareth you see them standing in rows on the horizon, like giants waving at each other. We need the mill to grind the grain."

“Wouldn't it break if the wind got too strong?” asked Errel.

“Yes. I don't know how to do it but there's a way to stop it from turning."

“Does it freeze in the rains?"

“No."

“Huh.” Errel watched the turning blades, hand shielding his eyes. “I'd like to see that."

They went into the field. The earth steamed. Errel worked his fingers. He had left the bandage off his hand. The broken finger was crooked. “Weeds for me,” he said cheerfully, and strode into the wheat field. The pale green stalks brushed his boots. He looked, Ryke thought, like any village fieldhand.

Sorren pointed up the slope. “I see Simmela with a pitch-fork,” she said. Ryke squinted into the sunlight. He saw two people digging. About five rows behind them a man guided two horses hitched to a wheeled blade.

The man behind the horses was named Dorian. He greeted Sorren as if she were an old friend. Ryke walked with him to where the people dug. Simmela, with the pitch-fork, was a woman. The man, Lamath, held a pointy-headed spade.

As the sun moved up the sky they walked ahead of the plow, digging out stones and boulders, piling them to the left, building neat cairns between the furrows. Lamath explained that the stones were left in the field to catch the water runoff when it rained. Insects scuttled over their feet. The sunlight thickened like water, till it seemed to Ryke they waded through the musty heat. Lamath and Simmela flipped the stones expertly from the earth. Dorian caught them and laid them ready for Ryke to pile. Below them Sorren talked to the horses. Ryke's back muscles burned as he bent, turned, lifted. His palms blistered. He started to fall behind the others. He forced himself to keep up with their pace.

Finally Lamath signaled for a rest. Simmela strolled back to the plow and returned with a laden waterskin. She offered it to Ryke. “You look as if you need it.” The water tasted faintly of leather. It was wonderful. While the bag passed round, Ryke tried to find the place where they had started. He was amazed at how far they'd come; across nearly a quarter of the field.

“Your nose is red,” said Lamath. Ryke rubbed his face. The skin was dry, hot, and tight. “Put some dirt on it,” the southerner advised.

At the next stop they drew straws to see who should go to the refectory and bring the lunch. Dorian lost. He loped toward the village. “Though really you can say he won,” said Simmela. “He gets to wash his face and drink as much as he wants."

Dorian returned with a basket. From it he produced a full waterbag, bread dripping honey, cheese, meats, dried fruit, and a sack filled with small hard sweet blueberries. They sat cross-legged in a circle on the hot earth with the basket in the middle, and ate. Simmela poured water on her head, slicking her hair to her face like an otter. “Aah.” The skin around her eyes crinkled with pleasure. Her eyes were dark blue, like the berries.

At noon, when the sun's heat was dizzying, they all stopped. Sorren unhooked the traces and brought the horses into shade. Sweat gleamed on their flanks. Lamath shouldered the spade. They walked out of the furrowed fields. In the fallow the grazing horses stood like stones, tails alone twitching. A hawk sailed in the hot sky. The windmill's blades turned in lazy rhythm. Whap. Whap. Ryke's back felt like wood. His hands stung. His face and arms were fiery. The crown of his head was too hot to touch.

Sorren came to walk beside him. She was as red as he. “Riding is ill preparation for plowing,” she said grimly. “You use none of the same muscles."

“Will there be more to do later?” Ryke's attempt to keep exhaustion from his voice did not quite succeed. Simmela heard.

She chuckled. “No. If we worked longer we would be too tired for the Yard. We did a lot today. Three days and the field will be ready for sowing, right on time."

“In time for what?"

She turned to look at him. “On time for the full moon.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “We sow the field in its light.” Ryke remembered stories he had heard of dead men walking out of the earth. Once he had heard Jaret speak of them. Fables, the old steward declared. Tales to frighten children. Perhaps they were. “The moonlight quickens and strengthens the seed,” said Simmela. “This is the custom all through Galbareth. They don't do this in the north?"

“No,” said Ryke.

“How strange,” she said.

Sorren said, “You don't know the north. It's not a country made for farming."

They halted at the well, and drank, and soaked their faces in the bucket. The cool liquid soothed Ryke's skin. He gulped water till his belly swelled. He wondered if Errel was still in the wheat field. Dorian said, “In Galbareth, the women weave hats of straw which the folk working in the fields wear on their heads. The sun is not so fierce here but perhaps there is a woman here whose fingers recall the skill and who would be willing to make one or two. A day in the sun counts nothing to me”—he extended a dark, ropy arm—“but fair skin burns more easily than brown.” He glanced from Sorren to Ryke.

“I can manage,” Ryke said.

Sorren sighed. “It's a good idea. Seven years ago, I wore such a hat to reap my first harvest in Galbareth.” She put her palm lightly to the top of her head. “By autumn harvest, my poor hair will be burned near white."

Ryke returned the dipper to its peg. “Is there only water to drink in the valley?” he said.

Lamath grinned. “Hard to get used to, isn't it? Van says fermented drink dulls the reflexes. After eight years without, I don't miss it."

Sorren said, “I didn't realize you have been here eight years.” She glanced at Ryke. “That's as much as Norres and I were gone from the north."

Lamath nodded proudly. “Saying it makes it seem long,” he said. “It hasn't been—but in the early years, there were days when I thought I could kill for a taste of wine."

From the well they walked to the blue-shuttered house. Lamath and Simmela strolled in front of them, heads together, arm in arm. The air within the house was close and unmoving. Errel sat in the chair. He had poured water into the stone basin, and was soaking his feet in it. His face was red, and his long hair tangled with wheat straw. He caught Ryke's eyes and laughed softly. “The southern sun is naught like the one we are used to, is it? Sorren, I think you might have warned us."

“How, warned you?” she said. “It has been three years since I worked a field. Truthfully, I forgot what it would be like."

“In Galbareth they live in the sun,” said Errel. He moved his feet in the basin and winced. “And we think farmers soft."

Sorren lay down on the floor. “I think I will stay here till dinner,” she said. “It will be hot as a fire in that loft."

Ryke took a pillow from the bed and brought it to her. “Thanks.” She stuck it under her head. This close to her he could see the fine smooth grain of her skin, delicate despite the flush of red that overlay it, and the tiny squint lines at the corner of her eyes, now creased with dirt. She smiled at him. “It's not Tornor, but it's not so bad, is it?” she said.

He shrugged. It made his shoulders hurt.

When Norres came in, she halted in the doorway with her hands on hips. Ryke lay on the bed; Errel was in the chair; Sorren lay supine on the floor. “What's the matter with you?” she said. She wore a wide-brimmed black felt hat.

Sorren lifted her head. “You stink of goat,” she said.

“Of course I do. This room looks like a battlefield. Are you all sick?"

Errel said, “Only a little sore."

Norres regarded them. Her lips twitched. “You do look red,” she said. “Wait here.” She went out the door again.

Sorren said, “I have no intention of moving."

Norres returned holding a clay pot. She knelt beside Sorren. Dipping her fingers in the pot, she spread white salve over Sorren's face and hands. “What is it?” asked Sorren, sitting up. The salve gave her face a masklike look.

“Burdock tea and beeswax,” said Norres. She brought the pot to Ryke. The goat smell hung on her hands and clothes. He took a dollop on his finger. The salve was cool and aromatic. “Good for burns and blisters."

Errel striped his face with white. “Where did you get it?"

“Van keeps a cupboard filled with such stuff. I took it.” She frowned at Errel's bare feet. “Tomorrow before you go to the fields put hemlock powder in your boots."

“I would as lief go barefoot to the fields,” said Errel.

“Do that, then, and poultice your feet with hemlock tonight. Van has some.” She took the pot back. “I'm going to bathe,” she said, and went out.

Slowly the salve drew the heat from Ryke's face. The sun was falling toward the mountains and the shadows were long in the room. Errel said, “So Van knows healing as well as fighting. He knows the old tongues, and their history ... What was his name before it was Van?"

Sorren looked at her hands. “I don't know,” she said.

Ryke thought, That's not true. She does know.

“Does he ever leave the valley?” Sorren shook her head. “Chayatha said she came from Kendra-on-the-Delta, and she is his sister. He could be a scholar of that city."

“Does it matter?” asked Sorren.

“No,” said Errel. “I simply wondered."

At dinner Maranth drew Norres and Sorren off. “Now you shall tell me all about your travels,” she said. Simmela and Lamath stopped to greet Ryke. As the people from the kitchen came to clear the tables, the girl Amaranth appeared at Errel's elbow. She wore a red cape with slits for sleeves.

“Come to the Yard,” she said.

“Why?” asked Ryke.

She turned a dark stare on him. “My father wants you to see a chearas.” She vanished into the shadows.

“What's a—what she said?"

“I'm not sure,” said Errel. “Save that it has something to do with chearis. Let's go.” He rose. Ryke grabbed a final handful of berries from the basket on the table and followed him to the street. The wind was as chilly as it had been the night before, and he was glad that he had remembered to bring his travel cloak. The gibbous moon bulged in the sky, bright as silver plate. Against the black silhouettes of the mountains, the village looked tiny. Ryke wondered how many people lived in it. He asked Errel, not expecting a response. “About a hundred,” said the prince. “But people come and go.” Sorren told him, Ryke thought. They went to the Yard. It was lighted by a ring of torches set on long stakes. The wind snapped the flames into sparks. People made a half circle in the dust. The torchlight falling on their faces made them all look alike. A woman in red silk waved to them. It was Maranth. They went to her. The silk made a sound as she moved. It reminded Ryke of the wind in the grain.

“Sit here,” she said, leading them to the front of the crescent. Five people stood in the patterned circle cast by the torchlight. Van was one. He too, wore red. We are audience, Ryke thought, for what? He sat. Maranth joined the five in the ring, making six.

Van stamped. The sound drew silence. He stamped again, in rhythm. Within the audience people began to clap, softly, picking up the beat. The six people made a circle, hands clasped, facing inward. They moved in it, all stepping alike. Ryke glimpsed Maranth smiling, Van intent, two men, two women. They spun, leaning backward, slow, fast, faster, and their joined hands opened. They whirled from each other. They made two chains and wove around each other, breaking and rejoining. They paired and moved around each other, feet beating out a design. They circled and turned and leaped, hair tossing in the torchlights. Sweat gleamed on their foreheads. Their boots made patterns and their hands made patterns and the hands clapped them into a circle and out again, till they seemed to give off sparks like the flames. They joined hands and whirled, fast, faster, and then stopped, stamping one, two! Ryke hadn't thought that it was possible to stop so completely in the midst of motion. One of the women bowed her head. Her arms trembled. Ryke realized that he was sweating into his fur, as hot as if he had been moving with the dancers. The circle broke. Everybody cheered.

Van loomed over them. Sweat dripped from his hair. “That is half of what we do,” he said. He stepped past them. Maranth took his arm. The other dancers were surrounded by people laughing and praising them and talking about the dance.

Sorren and Norres appeared at Errel's elbow. “What did you think?” said Sorren: She sounded exhilarated.

“It was beautiful,” said Errel.

It was, Ryke thought grudgingly. His eyes hurt. He rubbed the sweat from his face. He wondered what it had to do with fighting. It was beautiful but empty, empty as the words Van had spoken at last evening's dinner. The balance at Tornor had been broken, yes, and the way to restore it was to kill Col Istor and make Errel lord of the Keep.

“Ryke looks sour,” said Norres. “He didn't like it."

“It isn't that,” said Sorren. She thrust her arm through Norres'. “Ryke doesn't understand what it's for."

Shadows moved from pole to pole, sniffing out the torches. People moved, still talking, out of the starlit Yard. They talked about dancing and about the plowing. They all wore the same clothes. Ryke glimpsed the girl Amaranth beneath a torch. Sorren was right, he thought. He didn't understand the place.

* * * *

The next day it was just as hot.

Norres disappeared before they went to sleep, and brought back hemlock leaves and a metal pot in which to steep them. She made a thick tea and soaked a pair of linen hose in it. Then she cut the hose at midcalf and had Errel put them on. In the morning there were only a few tender spots on the soles of his feet. He thanked her gravely. They went out into the sun. At noon, as before, they broke off work and gathered at the well. Even Simmela grumbled about the heat. A few clouds floated out of the north. She lifted her face and shaded her eyes to watch them. “Good,” she said.

“What do they mean?” Ryke asked.

“They mean this heat will cool. Too much sun and the seed will bake in the soil. Now we must hope it does not cool enough to rain. If it rains the seed will rot."

“Too bad there's no weatherworker in Vanima,” he said.

She nodded. “It is too bad.” He hadn't expected her to take the comment seriously. In the village, folk jested of one another. Ah, you must be a weatherworker, but he had never heard of anyone who could truly move weather at will. Weather was fickle. It seemed as if it would be a tricky talent. He was a lot less tired than he had been the day before. He took a third dipperful of water, drank half, and splashed the rest on his face.

Sorren jogged his elbow. “Let's go to the Yard.” Ryke could think of no reason not to. They passed three people, two men and a woman up on a roof, eating blueberries, surrounded by piles of red slate. They waved. Sorren waved back.

“Are there many women in the valley?” Ryke asked.

“Why?” said Sorren.

“I was just wondering.” The black cat lolled on Maranth's doorstep. It swiveled its head to watch them pass.

“No,” said Sorren, “not unless things have changed, and from what I can see, they haven't. There are a few. Women do not learn about the valley, and even when they do, it's hard for them to come here. Most don't want to.” Ryke pursed his lips. That made sense to him. He couldn't see why any woman would want to learn to fight when she didn't have to. But he wasn't going to say this to Sorren.

There were thirty people in the Yard. Dust puffed in the hot, barren space. Some held wooden swords. No one wore armor. Paired, they circled; feinting, parrying, thrusting. From what Ryke could see of them, they were quick and good. More had short sticks, carved and weighted like knives. Ryke sucked his belly in reflexively. He hated knife fights, for all that his long arms made him practically invulnerable. Van strode from pair to pair. In one part of the Yard, away from the others, a group of six, two women, four men, were dancing. The steps were less mysterious seen in daylight, but they looked just as strenuous. The circling fighters wore boots. The dancers were barefoot. Sorren's body twitched. “I can't stand it,” she said. She stepped over the railing. Weaving through the moving bodies, she went to Van. He grinned and nodded.

Ryke watched her find a wooden knife and a hank of rag to tie her hair with. One member of a circling pair agreed to take a rest. She edged in sinuous as a snake, light on her feet as a milkweed pod. She was fighting with a man who was taller and heavier than she. But she was quicker. She tapped him when he least expected it. When he lunged she was not there. Once or twice her movements seemed slowed and uncertain, but that was because she was out of practice. Ryke was suddenly very glad that he had never had the urge to challenge the ghyas. Alone he might win, but if Norres fought like Sorren, together they would have killed him. Without knives, of course, it would be very different. Without a weapon to make close quarters dangerous, the bigger, stronger, or fresher man would win.

As if she had overheard his thought, Sorren said something to her partner. She left him for a moment. When she came back she was not carrying the wooden knife. Ryke craned his neck to see more clearly, but there were too many other people in his way. They circled. The man's knife hand moved in little thrusts, feints. Sorren turned with his motions, keeping one side and then the other facing him, swiveling her hips in a parody of the dancers to present him with a smaller target. Suddenly he thrust upward toward her belly.

She wasn't there. She had turned away. For a moment it looked as if she were turning her back to him. Ryke couldn't follow what happened next, but suddenly she had the knife and the man was face down in the dirt. Laughing, she nudged him gently with her foot. He stood. The left side of his face was streaked with dust.

That was a trick, Ryke thought. He rubbed his nose and realized that Errel was standing beside him. “Did you see that?” he said.

“Sorren? Yes."

“How did she do it?"

“I don't know,” said Errel.

“It was a trick. In a real fight she would have been spitted."

“No,” said Van. The big man had come up catlike on Ryke's left. He was bare-chested; there was a small dense patch of reddish hair on his chest. He stank, and his breeches were stiff with dirt and sweat. “It was no trick.” His size and his speech still reminded Ryke of Col. But his manner—there was something about him of Athor.

He said, “I don't believe it."

“Want to try?” Van reached a long arm out to one circling couple. They stopped at once. He gestured toward a knife and held it out, hilt first, to Ryke. “Here.” Ryke glanced at Errel, but the prince's face told him nothing. He stepped over the rail. His heart began to pump. He would have to make this very fast. He crouched a little. Van's dark eyes gleamed. They circled. Ryke chopped at Van's belly and chest, pushing the southerner around to face the sun. I know a few tricks myself, he thought. Suddenly he laughed distractingly and in the midst of the laughter, struck, angling the point of the wooden blade up for the rising thrust.

Van was not there. Hands gripped his shoulders and he was thrown back onto the ground. He landed jarringly on his spine. His head rang. The knife skittered from his fingers and went in among the feet of the watchers. Someone picked it up. He rose, puzzled and furious. He reached to grapple and Van evaded his arms and slapped him lightly across the face. The blow was enraging. He punched and felt his fist hit muscle hard as board. Van grunted, and hooked his neck with one arm. He thumped down on his back again. He got up and was thrown. Got up. Was thrown. He got his elbows into the ground. They stuck there. His vision was blurred. He couldn't breathe. People made a circle around him, whispering. They seemed very dark and tall against the sunlight.

Errel stooped close to him. “Come on.” He caught Ryke's hand and pulled up. Ryke stood, wavering, and leaned on him. His left ankle hurt sharply, not enough to be broken. His head buzzed. He let Errel lead him from the Yard.

He recognized the color and smell of the blue-shuttered house. He sat in the chair. Cool hands felt him. “Wiggle your left foot,” said Sorren's voice. He hadn't seen her. He wiggled his left foot. She probed his ribs. “Does this hurt anywhere?"

“No."

“Good, then nothing's broken.” There was a metallic taste in his mouth. She touched his head. He hissed. His neck burned. There was a whispered conference. “You want some water?"

“Yes."

Errel brought him water. He slurped it awkwardly, not wanting to lift his head. A door opened and closed. Errel took the mug away. Ryke gasped as different fingers hurt his head. “Damn it—"

“Shut up,” said a deep voice. The fingers probed his neck. “Let me have your head.” Ryke tried to relax his neck muscles. Very gently, the hands rolled his head around on his neck, first one way, then another. Suddenly they whipped his head all the way to the left, very fast. He yelled. His eyes watered with pain. He heard a crack. The pain subsided. The hands let go. Van came round to look at him. “Would you like to learn how to fall?” he inquired.

“Fuck you,” Ryke said.

“All right.” He blurred noiselessly away.

Ryke gathered breath and called to him. “Wait.” He came back. There were red hairs on his arms. His wrists were outsized for his hands; they were thick with muscle, big as fence posts. “I'd like to learn how to fall,” Ryke said.

Van smiled. “Good. Don't go to the field tomorrow. You can begin to train in the Yard.” He sounded much like a commander assigning a post. “You're going to feel when you wake as if a horse jumped on you. Show up anyway. Eat first, lightly. If you aren't there by noon, I'll come get you."

“Fuck you,” Ryke said again.

Van's voice was genial. “You don't say that to me outside this room.” He left. Ryke closed his eyes. He heard the sound of flints being struck, and looked. Sorren was kneeling by the hearth, a pile of rags beside her.

“What are you doing?” he said.

She answered without turning. “Making a fire to heat water for cloths for your neck."

Ryke rotated his head slowly. It still ached, but not the way it had. Sorren moved from the fire. The flames were almost invisible. They licked upward at a pot. Sorren stood in a patch of sunlight. This is your fault, he wanted to tell her. Angrily he said, “Where I come from, you fall when you're dead."

Her mouth twitched. “I come from where you come from, remember?"

“Armies don't fight like that."

“What good are armies?” she asked.

The question made no sense. He shook his head, and yelped at the pain. “I don't understand it,” he said, meaning her, meaning Van. She bent over the kettle. After a while she brought a cloth and draped it over the back of his neck. Water dripped down inside his shirt. The heat was soothing. “Thank you,” he said.

“You are welcome."

His back was sore where he had fallen on it. He could still feel Van's grip on his neck. He wondered what would have happened if he'd had a sword. He guessed it would have ended the same. Sorren took the cloth away and brought it to the fire. Ryke watched her move. She was light as the girl Amaranth. “I'm too old to learn new tricks,” he grumbled.

She thought this was funny; she laughed at him. “How old are you?"

“Twenty-seven."

Dryly she said, “You'll learn.” She dipped the cloth in the hot water and wrung it out.

“Why are you doing this for me?” he said.

“Why not?” She moved behind him. With gentle movements she laid the hot cloth across the back of his neck.

Ten

In the morning Ryke was indeed as sore as if he had been ridden.

The pigeons talked in the eaves. It was very pleasant just to lie in bed. Errel lay beside him, still asleep, head turned away from Ryke. Between the runneled scars, his back was pale and smooth as the bark of a silver beech. Ryke's elbow brushed the prince's spine; Errel made a slumbrous sound but did not wake.

Footsteps sounded overhead. Sorren and Norres came downstairs. Errel turned and stretched. He sat up, shaking the hair from his face. “How do you feel?” he said to Ryke.

“I'm all right.” Errel stood to use the chamber pot. Ryke pushed the coverlet back. His muscles creaked. His left ankle hurt. He forced himself to stand on it. Sorren looked round the edge of the wooden screen that hid the bed, grinned, and popped her head back out of sight.

“Tell me when you're dressed,” she called. Ryke felt for his clothes. The shirt and breeches that he had worn the day before were stiff with dirt.

“Wait,” said Errel. Wearing only breeches, he went round the screen. Ryke heard him unbolt and open the lid of the chest. He grabbed for the coverlet as Sorren pushed the screen aside.

“What are you doing?” She reached for the shirt with the embroidered sun on its back and for his filthy breeches. “Those are mine."

She put her hands on her hips. “Someone has to wash them. I'll go to the tubs while you're at the Yard.” She skipped from the chamber. Errel laid a clean pair of pants and a shirt on the bed.

Ryke scowled after Sorren. “You look like a Keep washerwoman!” he shouted. She was out of sight, but he heard her chuckle. He let go of the coverlet. He did not need to be reminded that he was bound to go to the Yard. He dressed. Errel had borrowed from somewhere a pair of soft boots. Sitting in the chair, he worked his feet into them. Ryke shook the blankets free of dirt and hung them out the window. The skin on the prince's face and arms had browned. Except for hair, Ryke thought, he looked like a southerner.

Sorren trundled out the doorway, arms full of laundry, calling good-byes over her shoulder. Ryke looked out the window at the brown and green landscape. The air was dry, and the colors rich and clear as if they had been painted on the hills. It looked nothing like the north. Ryke closed his eyes. He willed away the mountains. But when he opened his eyes, they were still there, drenched with sun. He ached for the delicate gleam of green leaves on the grey stone that meant spring in Tornor.

Turning from the window, he told himself not to be a fool. Errel finished lacing the boot ties. He stamped and stood. “That's better.” Pulling his hair free of his collar, he lifted a hand in farewell to Ryke. Ryke watched him go, thinking of the wolf-dream. Maybe I should tell him, he thought. He swept the two downstairs chambers with the straw broom that sat beside the hearth. Recalling Van's command, he ate sparingly. The sun made red patches on the rough-grained floor. He went to the Yard. As he was searching for Van, Maranth came up to him. Her hair was tied severely in one thick braid. She had taken her bracelets off. She had to tip her head back to talk to him. “I'm going to teach you how to fall,” she said. “Watch."

She fell backward, curled her body into a wheel, and came upright in one fluid motion.

“Did you see that?” she said.

“No."

She showed him again. “You have to tuck one leg and sit,” she said. He balanced on one leg. “Use your arms. Lean on this shoulder.” He sat, and could not get his legs over his head. “Kick harder.” He kicked, went over suddenly, and landed on his crossed legs in the dirt. “Better,” said Maranth. He tried again. “It's no more complicated than learning to walk, and any babe learns that.” He tried yet again. She showed him how to tilt his head to one side so that he did not hit it. At last he did it awkwardly but without mistake. She clapped her hands. “Good. That was right.” Patiently she drilled him. When he could fall backward and come up from kneeling or from standing, she showed him how to fall forward and rise unscathed. The dust packed into his beard. His face itched; he understood why most of the men in Vanima went clean-shaven. “Again,” she said. His mind went back to boyhood. He had learned to thrust, recover, parry, thrust with an old wooden sword in just this way, over and over, until his lungs hurt and his head ached from being clouted for mistakes. This was not much different.

Van walked over to watch him. Ryke clenched his teeth as he rolled in the dust and waited for the man to say anything. One word of disparagement, he thought, and I swear I'll kick his eyes out of his head. Somehow.

“Here,” said Van. He had held out his arm, curving it like a bow's crescent, elbow rotating outward, thumb pointing at the ground. “Try turning your arm like this. You may find it aids stability.” He did not stay to see if Ryke obeyed him, but walked to another part of the Yard where two men fought with wooden knives. Ryke tried curving his arm. It did help. Maranth appeared with a wooden knife in her fist.

“Now we shall have some fun,” she said.

She gave him the knife. The hilt was warm and polished with use and sweat. She faced him and told him to attack her. He did, thrusting lightly at her breasts. “Not like that,” she said with disgust. “A real attack.” He shrugged, feinted a few times, and lunged. Her hand closed on his wrist, and he felt her foot sweep his legs from under him as she jerked him forward. He flailed and fell on his face. Chagrined, he rose slowly. At least he had kept his grip on the knife. “Why didn't you roll forward?” she said. “Do it again.” He attacked her again, prepared to fall, and her hand came up and hit him in the face. He yelped and fell backward and returned gracelessly but competently to his feet. His head throbbed, and his nose stung. “That was better,” she said austerely. Her manner reminded Ryke of Jaret. “Do it again."

He attacked. She knocked him down. She worked him until he staggered. He forgot that she was a woman, weaker than he, smaller than he: she was a voice, a fist striking in the sunlight. When the sun was high and the Yard nearly shadowless, she told him he could go. At the other side of the Yard six dancers spun in a linked circle. In the house with the blue shutters he shucked his clothes and fell across the bed. He woke once, and felt the warmth of wool over his bare back. Someone had thrown a blanket over him.

* * * *

He woke a second time to find Errel gently shaking him. “Uh.” The prince's hair was damp; he had bathed. The sunset light stretched lean and red across the floor.

“Don't you want dinner?"

Ryke struggled up. His muscles were stiff. At the foot of the bed lay the clothes with the sun emblem, clean and smelling of ash soap. He put them on.

In the refectory, he passed the woman with the braids. She carried her baby on her back in a cloth sling. The child was plump as a capon; his arms and legs bobbed. “Hello,” she said. Ryke brought a tray of food from the serving window. He and Errel were nearly finished with the meal when Van left the table at which he had been sitting with Maranth and came to join them. He wore black and scarlet, and his hair was tied back with a silver clip in the shape of a running horse.

Ryke's shoulders tensed. The southerner laid one palm flat on the table. “Sore?” he said. The light from the oil lamp touched his face with gold like a mask. He smiled at Ryke.

“Some."

“Will you come to the Yard tomorrow?"

Ryke glanced at Errel. But the prince was simply listening, hands clasped on the table. The middle finger of his right hand stood away from the others. “Why should I?” said Ryke.

Van said, “Maranth taught you how to fall. I can teach you how to fight."

There was challenge in the words. Ryke scowled. He stared at Van. It was hard not to turn away from the gaze of those lucent, powerful eyes. “I'll come."

“Good.” He shifted his look to Errel. “You wanted to see what chearis do,” he said.

“Yes,” said Errel.

“And now you have seen."

“Yes,” said Errel. “I have.” If it was a struggle for him to look at Van, he was not showing it. “My curiosity is satisfied."

“Come to me when you want to learn more,” Van said. He lifted a hand and returned to his seat, moving with his graceful feline stride.

Ryke wondered what it was Van expected Errel to want to learn. “What does that mean?” he said.

Errel said, “It means Van hopes I will do what most of the folk who come to this valley do—give up my old life and learn to be a cheari."

“Does he think I'll do that?” Ryke demanded.

Errel laughed. “I doubt it,” he said, amused. “He's not blind."

Ryke nodded. He can see the northern blood in me, he thought. He must know that northerners don't renounce their trusts. He wondered how much Van did know of him and of the prince. Sorren or Norres might have told him who they were, and that they were in exile.

Across the room, someone began to sing in a clear tenor. “For I am a stranger in an outland country, I am an exile wherever I go; The hills and stars are my companions, And all I do, I do alone.” Music filled the shadowy hall. The words tore at Ryke's heart. He turned to Errel.

“My prince—” He hesitated. Errel was not looking at him. He sat on the bench, head bowed as if he had suddenly been turned to stone.

The singers ended the song and started another. Ryke said, “My prince, let's leave."

They returned to the cottage. The moon had risen above the mountains; it was a hairsbreadth from being full. Errel drew his clothes off. His face was taut with thought; Ryke wondered if he was thinking about Tornor.

He said, “Ryke, have you said aught to anyone here of who we are and where we come from? Have you spoken my name, or my rank?"

“No,” Ryke said. No one had asked him save the girl Amaranth, at table the first night.

“That's good,” said Errel. He pushed both hands through his hair. A shutter banged.

Ryke walked to the window to tighten the shutter latch. “Everyone can see we are northerners,” he said.

“That—yes.” Errel got into bed. “That's not important here, haven't you noticed? The people who live here seem to have given that name up.” The candle by the bedside flickered frantically and he shielded it with a cupped palm. His hand glowed. “As they must have given up family, friends, home, for a vision, a dream not of their making—” he stopped. “Are you going to stand by the window all night?"

Ryke rested uneasily. He wished that Errel had not spoken of dreams; he was afraid that he might dream of the wolf. He dozed, and jerked awake to see the moonlight questing across the floor like a tongue. At last he fell asleep, warmed by Errel's warmth against his side.

He woke into sunlight to find himself alone. Errel had risen, dressed, and left, moving so quietly in the red room that Ryke had not even felt him go.

* * * *

He dawdled. He took the pitcher to the well and returned with it to the house, wondering if the prince would come back. He went to the refectory. Errel was not there, of course. He was probably in the wheat field. Amaranth was swinging on a post. He thought of asking her if she'd seen the prince—she roamed the slopes like the wind, watching everyone, and he suspected she knew where everyone was—but she slid suddenly out the door. He heard her calling. “Diktaaa!” He went to the Yard. Maranth was not in the great dusty space. Ryke found a corner to himself. He practiced the rolls she'd taught him, watching other people out of the corner of his eye to make sure he was holding his arm right. He began to feel less awkward. Nearby, two small boys, wordless as puppies, tumbled in the dust in imitation of the adults. Ryke went forward and backward till his head spun. Rising from a forward roll, he found Van in front of him. The big man held a wooden knife.

He tossed it, caught it out of the air, and turned the point at Ryke. “Yai!"

The sound was a blow. Weaponless, Ryke crouched, weaving, turning himself into a small, moving target. He was outmatched; he knew it. Suddenly he was fifteen, back in Tornor's Yard, hearing in his mind the older men say, You can tell where the hands will go from the feet, you can tell where the mind is from the eyes. He tried to remember what Van had done with him when he had held the knife. He had no idea what it was. Van struck at him, a slow blow, and he stepped to one side and parried with his forearm, striking down. Van moved behind him, quick as light. He turned; the knife changed hands and leaped for his throat; he jumped back, his hands lifted, crossed to catch. It was a feint; too late he saw the hand drop. The knife point like a tooth raked his side. He was dead. If the knife had been steel he would have died.

Van said, “Hadril, come here.” The man so named had just stepped across the low barrier to the Yard. Immediately he came. Van gave him the knife. “Attack me,” he said. The boy (he looked no more than seventeen) obeyed, moving with light dancing steps. He feinted once and thrust in. Van stepped to the knife-hand side, put his right hand on the thrusting wrist and his left hand on Hadril's neck, and with a turning backward step, flung the other man down. Hadril rolled and came upright gripping the knife. “You see?"

“Not exactly,” said Ryke.

“Slower,” said Van, and Hadril repeated the thrust slowly, as if he were sleepwalking. Van counted as he moved to show Ryke the steps. Then he motioned Hadril to attack Ryke. Hadril grinned. At the end of the lunge Van had him stop as if he had been turned to stone, and told Ryke to move around him, counting. One: glide to the side; two: sweep the knife hand down; three: clasp the collar or the hair; four: bring the two hands down together and turn. When Ryke could do the steps from memory, Van told Hadril to attack him, slowly. He moved. Hadril fell, and the knife flew out of his hand. He came out of the fall and rose rubbing his neck. One of the playing boys scampered after the knife. “Not so hard,” said Van. “If he hadn't known how to fall, you might have snapped his neck."

“Sorry,” said Ryke.

“Do that until you don't have to think about it,” Van instructed. Hadril, smiling, took the knife from the waiting boy's hand. Van walked to another part of the Yard.

They did the steps over and over until the sun beat at their heads and made them stop. When Ryke forgot the steps, Hadril counted for him, voice deepening in unconscious imitation of Van. Van returned. He took the knife from Hadril and attacked Ryke, slowly, and let Ryke throw him. “Good,” he said, and gave Hadril the knife. “Go rest.” Ryke went to the well to wash. Sorren was there.

She smiled at him. “You've been training.” She carried a brown sack over one arm. It smelled of barley seed.

“Did you finish the washing?"

She punched his arm lightly. “Yes. Do you think I am so slothful as to take two whole days at it? I'm going mushrooming.” She waved the empty sack. “Up on the ridge. Want to come?"

He hesitated. He wanted to find Errel. That was stupid, senseless. If the prince needed him he would be told. He would not run after Errel like a child needing reassurance. “All right."

“Let's get another sack.” They went to the storeroom. The big white chambers were packed with supplies: wood, skins, furs, cloth. In one room sat the last of the winter food stores: flour, aged beans, potatoes dry as sticks. Ryke wondered what winter was like in the valley. He lifted the lid of a bin. It was empty, stinking of salt fish. He asked. “Easier than at Tornor,” Sorren said. “It snows less. The woods are always thick with game."

They climbed the valley's sloping side past the fields to the forest. The trees were mostly evergreen with some alders and white birches. They grew in rows, as if they had been planted like the wheat. They were covered with green cones like tiny sour apples. The ground was springy with layers upon layers of fallen needles. Sorren pointed at a cluster of mushrooms, their caps rose and white, thriving against the dark bole of a tree. “These are good,” she said. “Don't pick any that are green or pure white. They're poison.” Ryke twisted the soft stems from the bark, somewhat nervously. The trees grew straight as swords. From one great fir a garrison of squirrels watched him, tails fluffed. Sorren moved to another patch. Her fingers danced on the tree trunk. She was faster than he.

He found himself watching her surreptitiously. Sunlight touched her cheek, so angled that beneath the pine dust he saw the gold hairs glinting. The scar under her left eye was paler than the tanned skin around it. She looked like Errel. He had never seen it; he saw it now. She turned her head in his direction and he quickly felt for a mushroom. A derisive squirrel chattered in the tree crotch.

It was as if there was a man inside her. Perhaps there was; that might be the thing that made her seem unlike all the women he knew. He wondered if there was a man hidden inside all women. He thought of Norres, of Maranth, of Becke. He thought of his mother. If there was a man inside women, was there also a woman inside men?

“Ryke!” He turned. Sorren was grinning at him. She held up her sack; it was a quarter filled. “Lazy!” The squirrel spoke again. Her smile was light and as impersonal as flowing water. He reached for another mushroom.

At evening meal Errel was preoccupied and grim. Ryke tried to watch him without seeming to. But every once in a while he would look up to find the prince's gaze resting on him: a look oddly without warmth or anger, as if Ryke were a table or a tree. It made his skin prickle worse than the moonlight. The cold eyes lidded. In a moment they opened again, looking this time at Sorren.

“My prince, is something wrong?” Ryke asked.

“No,” said Errel, “I'm thinking."

They walked to the cottage. The valley dreamed in the blue dusk, its red-roofed houses and planted fields neat and formal as a tapestry. Within the cottage, Errel closed the shutters. Ryke knelt, tinderbox in hand, to make a fire. The door opened. “They are here!” said Sorren. She came into the room. “We saw you come in; why did you leave the refectory?"

Errel said, “Why should we have stayed?"

Sorren pushed a shutter open. Light streamed in, catching on the brass of the fireplace tongs, turning them silver. “The moon's up. It's time to make the sowing."

Ryke stilled his fingers on the flints. He did not want to go. His head danced with tales of ghosts. He looked at Errel. The prince's face was set, as if he knew already whose ghost was waiting for him.

“Take those off,” said Norres. Ryke jumped. She stood behind Sorren. He had not heard her step across the threshold.

“What?"

“Take your boots off."

Errel said, “This is a southern custom—is it needful that we be there?"

“Yes,” said Sorren. “Everyone in Vanima comes to the sowing."

Ryke saw the prince reach to his boots. He laid the flints down and fumbled with his own boot ties. His hands were stiff and clumsy. At last the boots came off.

Barefoot, he followed Sorren into the street. Errel walked behind him. The dust was cold. The full moon blazed above the toothy mountains. The valley was alive with light, and restless as a pregnant woman. A crowd had gathered at the big building abutting the refectory: the village storerooms. As Ryke reached the crowd someone stuffed a sack into his hands. It was filled with barley seed. He slung it onto his left shoulder. Simmela gestured to Van beneath the light of a hand-held torch. Nobody spoke, save once a child's voice cried shrilly and was swiftly hushed.

Ryke wanted to ask what to do, but the thick silence weighted his lips shut. Someone took his left hand; a second hand seized his right. He was caught. Linked, he climbed to the waiting field, part of a line. The earth pressed upward between his toes. The night birds called. When the villagers reached the field they freed each others’ hands. Their shadows fell northward as they weaved through the furrows. They stitched the earth with life. The peaks of the western mountain glittered like bone; snow hit by the moonlight. Van walked at the head of the line, holding the torch.

When all the seed was pressed into the soil, they joined hands a second time. Simmela shouted. The high wordless yell echoed like a falcon's scream from the nearer rocks. The hair on Ryke's arms lifted. His skin prickled. The wind went slush in the wheat. He trembled. He told himself not to be a fool, it was the wind, the wind only and he was cold ... Van lifted the torch in both hands, and brought it swinging down against the earth. Now there was no light at all but the light of stars and moon.

Ryke gathered his senses and made himself stop shaking. The line weaved down to the valley floor again. Once Ryke looked back. He caught his breath. Dark, misshapen figures loomed in the fields, ragged, skeletal guardians ... He remembered the cloth and straw mannequins. Laughter broke in his throat. He was afraid to laugh aloud. He coughed. The others had come in ahead of him. Errel sat in the chair, water basin at his feet. Sorren was lighting a candle at the hearth.

Errel said, without lifting his head. “Ryke, would you latch the door? One visitation is enough for any night.” Ryke pushed the iron pin through the bolt. Sorren took the candle to the stairs. As she mounted, the candle wick spurted fatly. The light flared off Errel's cheek. The prince lifted his head, frowning slightly. Ryke shivered. He had never seen Errel look so like to Athor.

Eleven

A changeling strangeness hovered around the house the next few days.

The day after the sowing, Ryke walked in to find Errel sitting tailor-fashion on the floor, dealing out the pattern of the Cards. He glanced round. “Go away,” he said. Ryke retreated. He had glimpsed two of the Cards: the Illusionist and the Demon. He did not want to see any more.

By the morning of the third day he was jumping at the fall of a shadow. He could not believe he was the only one to feel the change. Errel was silent; his face closed and harsh. Ryke hung the blankets out the window and swept the floor—his morning rituals. There was sand in his beard from the training in the Yard. His skin felt itchy and sore. He decided to shave. He searched through the chest till he found a razor with a bone handle and a silver-plated mirror. The mirror's frame was a woman's head: her face the handle, her streaming hair the sides. He stropped the blade on a piece of leather and mixed a bowl of soapsuds. He pulled at his face, peering into the glass.

He could hear Errel and Sorren talking outside. The ceiling creaked. Norres was upstairs. He gripped the razor and sliced. The cool blade scraped his skin. He swished the razor in the basin. Errel and Sorren came in. Sorren cackled. “Look at Ryke. He's turning himself into a southerner!” She grinned as she went up the stairs, chamber pot in hand.

A curl of soapsuds soured Ryke's tongue. He spat. “Oh, shut up.” Where his beard had been his skin was chalk white. It made him feel conspicuous. He wiped his face and tossed the soapy water out the window.

“Are you going to the Yard this morning?” Errel said.

Ryke turned. “Yes,” he said.

Some of the pinched look was gone from Errel's face, and his voice was gentle. “I would like to walk with you."

Sorren and Norres came down the stairs. Sorren brushed Ryke's arm in passing. “How are you getting along with Van?” she said.

“All right,” Ryke said.

“He'll work you till your feet fall off. If you want a change, come and fight with me today.” She grinned at him. Her hair was tied back with a red rag. A pulse lifted and fell in the suntanned hollow of her throat. Her shirt bore the brown embroidered figure of a running horse.

“I'd like to do that,” he said truthfully.

They went to the Yard. Sorren went to get a knife from the rack. Ryke watched as Van leaned over the barrier to talk to Errel. He waited for the cheari to call Maranth. But Van listened to whatever Errel said, and then beckoned him across the barrier to the dancers’ side of the Yard.

A hand grasped his wrist and his feet were swept out from under him. He gasped as he landed on his side in the dust.

Sorren loomed over him, arms akimbo, knife in her fist. She kicked his leg lightly. “Pay attention."

The next three days, Ryke trained with Sorren, and Errel worked among the dancers, learning their steps. “He takes to it well,” Sorren said once. Ryke was surprised. He had not noticed her watching the prince. She added, without any change in her tone, “I suppose that's because he's had practice in tumbling."

In the afternoons, Ryke, Sorren and Errel went to the wheat fields. The work no longer wore Ryke to tatters. Errel's hair was white from the sun. They made a rhythmic unit of motion in the furrows.

On the day of the quarter moon, it rained. They stayed in. They sat in the front room. The rain dripped from the eaves in a pewter curtain. Norres went out once, grumbling, to milk her goats. Sorren mended shirts. Ryke patched boots, using rawhide thread and a leathermaker's awl. His boots were worn over both big toes.

Errel rummaged in the chest. He brought from it the quiver and arrows that Berent One-Eye had given him.

Sorren said, “What are you going to do with those?"

Errel said, “Watch and learn.” Laying the arrows out in a circle, head toward him, he took the leather sheath off his axehead. The steel blade shone blue in the sunlight. With sharp measured strokes, he beheaded the arrows, severing the broadheads cleanly from the shafts. The axe blade made a straight clean line in the red floor planks.

“You'll leave splinters in the floor,” said Sorren.

“I'll rub wax into the wood,” Errel said.

Ryke's shoulders ached from sitting. He shook them loose. Errel set the arrowheads, one by one, to the side. The truncated arrow shafts looked deformed without their heads. The sight made Ryke's stomach queasy.

Errel slipped the sheath onto his axehead. He said to Ryke, “Is it all right with you if I use the razor?” He brought it from the mantel. Taking the arrows one by one into his lap, he stripped the quills from the shafts.

Sorren said, “I suppose you will get around to telling us what you're doing."

Errel said, “I heard Maranth complaining about the dearth of brush sticks. I thought I'd give her these to use."

Ryke's fingers slipped on the awl. He held it still. “Don't you think you're going to need arrows?” he said.

Errel's lips thinned. He was frowning over the razor. He stroked downward along the shaft in one smooth line. Lightly he picked the vane from the tiny attachment of the quill. “If I need more, I can make them.” He turned the shaft. “There are plenty of birch trees in the hills."

* * * *

The rain brought the fringed barley stalks lifting practically overnight from the sodden ground. It brightened the wheat to gold—and strengthened the roots of the weeds. The people of the valley swore.

“It's not fair,” said Simmela, swinging her hoe as if it were a scythe. “There are always more weeds than people."

The second day after the rain Ryke went late to the fields. He was at the very summit of the wheat field, chopping at the tenacious weeds with his hoe, when he heard the jingle of riders on the path. He straightened to welcome them, to call to them.

They came slowly down the slope, six of them, single file. The westering sun spilled light like water down the sides of a mountain peak; the eastern sky was a dark, placid blue. The horses looked weary. The foremost rider said, “Is this Van's Valley?” It was an odd question. It was more than an odd question. Ryke moved up the slope to them, tightening his grip on the hoe.

The foremost rider was a woman. He reached for her horse's bridle, and she swung a leg over and slid from its back. Her teeth gleamed like shell in her dark face. Her skin was so brown that it was almost black. She was narrow-cheeked, tall, and lean; she wore riding leathers and a broad-brimmed grey hat. Under the brim her hair curled round her head like tendrils. “My name's Domio,” she said. “This is Vanima, isn't it?"

At her back, one of the still mounted riders said, “It must be. It's where Osin said it would be."

“Be quiet,” she said. “Get off your horses. We look like the vanguard of an army up here on the slope.” They obeyed at once. Ryke wondered at her authority. The way she held herself reminded him of Sorren. Her horse snatched for the wheat. Imperturbably she held it back. “Osin sent us,” she said. “He is Yardmaster at Mahita. He trained us and told us how to get here. We carry greetings and messages from him to”—she closed her eyes and then opened them—“Maranth, Simmela, Chaya, and to Van—” she shaded her face with her hand. “May we enter?” The restless horses stamped.

He could not hold them on the hill staring into the sunset. “What are you?” he said.

“We are a chearas."

He showed her where to go along the ridge to find the path to the village. “Thank you,” she said, mounting. He did not wait to see how well she followed his directions. Hoe in hand, he hastened down the slope.

He caught Van just as the dancer was leaving the Yard. “Strangers coming,” he said. He pointed. “They say someone named Osin sent them from Mahita, and they have never been here before. Their leader is a woman named Domio. They call themselves a chearas."

Everyone in the Yard had gathered to listen. “Osin!” said someone. “I saw him in Mahita before I left it."

“If they have never been here how did they know the way?"

“How many of them did you say there were?” said Sorren.

“Six,” Ryke said.

Van silenced the talk. “Enough. Let us meet them.” He brushed the sand from his forearms. “Hadril, go get me a shirt, and tell Maranth to come, if she's in the house.” Hadril raced off. Surrounded by his dancers, Van strolled toward the well. “Ryke, you can put that hoe down.” He sounded neither worried nor surprised. Ryke grinned. He laid the hoe against the front wall of a house. He had been gripping it as if it were a pike.

The riders came into the street. The horses surged toward the smell of water. Ryke picked a splinter from his palm. Van took the shirt Hadril gave him. “Maranth?” he said. The boy shrugged. The sun brightened the faces of the riders to gold. Crickets screeched in the wheat. There were more people at the well than had been at the Yard, many more. Ryke's heart began to thump.

The riders dismounted. Their horses tugged them forward, wild to get to the water troughs. Uncertainly the riders held them back. “Let them drink,” Van said. Maranth came from the refectory. The strangers’ cloaks were dusty. One other of them was a woman; the rest were men. They wore hats of stiff felt, and pieces of red cloth on their arms like a badge. Their horses were of southern stock, sleeker and taller than steppe horses. They nosed at the troughs, tails switching. The riders pulled them back before they could drink too much.

Domio said, “Osin sent us from Mahita. We are a chearas.” Her black eyes flicked from face to face.

Van said, “Welcome to Vanima."

She caught her breath audibly. “You are Van?” The big man nodded. She swept the palms of her hands together in front of her chest, fingertips pointing outward, and bowed to him, a gesture Ryke had never seen. “Skayin,” she said. Her eyes glowed. “Osin sends you greetings, and hopes that you will accept us as a gift and a token of his respect. He is Yardmaster in Mahita now."

The people listening murmured. Sorren said softly in Ryke's ear, “When we were in Mahita there was no Yardmaster.” Maranth ducked under Ryke's arm and came to stand beside Van. Her silver bracelets glittered. Van said her name, and Domio greeted her from Osin. Maranth smiled broadly. Ryke glimpsed Errel standing apart from the others on the opposite side of the well.

“From Osin? Ai, welcome! You must be hungry; come and eat. Dikta, Amaranth, take their horses. Is Osin well? You must tell us everything. Why are you all standing about in the street like cows?” Effortlessly she drove them ahead of her to the hall.

The newcomers distributed themselves among the tables. The one at Ryke's table was named Lyrith: he was chunky and young and a little confused at being the center of so much attention. He turned from side to side to answer questions as he packed in food. He had the appetite of a young bull. “We rode upriver to Tezera, and across Galbareth. We left Mahita just after the full moon."

“Did the Asech bother you?"

“They sniffed at us outside the city gates, but when they saw we had no carts they left us alone."

“Who rules in the city?” asked Simmela.

“The Med family.” He dipped eager fingers into the stewpot. The back of his hand was blotched with freckles.

“Where did you sleep?” asked Orilys.

He grinned. “We slept in barns when we could. But mostly we slept on the road."

Sorren said softly, “While you were in Tezera, did you hear any news of the north, of the Keeps?"

Ryke leaned forward to hear the answer.

Lyrith groped for the water pitcher. “None I recall.” A hand fell on Ryke's shoulder. He looked up, to see Errel. He pushed against Sorren to give the prince table room. As they crushed together, Lyrith explained how Osin had come to be named Yardmaster in Mahita. “He challenged anybody in town to best him, and no one could do it. When he beat the head of the city guard they offered him the job and he wouldn't take it. They had to do something, so they made him Yardmaster."

“When was that?” asked Sorren.

Lyrith put a finger in his mouth and poked out a piece of gristle. “Two years ago."

The tide of speech rose and fell at the other tables as the same questions were asked and answered. Nearest to them, Van sat beside Domio. She had taken the grey hat off. Ryke saw his lips move. The dark woman smiled and touched the red scarf around her arm. Ryke wondered what she was telling him.

Errel's voice said in his ear, “What is this for?"

He had reached across the table to touch the cloth on Lyrith's arm. Shyly Lyrith said, “Osin said that since we were chearis, we should have an emblem, like the traders and scholars and messengers. He picked red for us to wear because, he said, Van wears a red scarf."

There was a silence. The shadows moved over suddenly thoughtful faces. Norres, on the other side of the table from Sorren, said, “Does that make us the red clan?"

Lyrith said, “I don't know."

After the meal they went to the Yard. The sky was pure as mountain water. The stars overarched the peaks in a great bridge. If it were solid, Ryke thought, a man might walk across it from one side of the world to the other. The people of Vanima staked the Yard with torches. The air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle. Domio drew her chearas into the center of the space. They danced; they ended the dance with a stamping, spinning circle and a full-throated shout that brought half the watchers to their feet.

It reminded Ryke of a battle yell.

“The red clan.” That was Sorren, at his elbow. “I like that.” Murmurs of assent rippled across the dark street. The crescent moon sat athwart the peaks like a hat. We've been gone from Tornor just short of a month, Ryke thought. We left on the night of the new moon.

“I don't,” said Van, somewhere behind them.

“I do,” said Maranth. “Isn't that what you want the chearis to become—a clan? That's what those strips of red cloth mean. We should all wear one."

“Everyone in the valley?” said Hadril.

“No,” said Maranth. “Not everyone here is a cheari."

Ryke surprised himself by saying aloud, “Maranth's right.” He knew he would never be a cheari. The dance was opaque to him. His body would not learn to mesh and blend with others'. But he could fall, he thought, and he had learned how to counter a blow without meeting it head on.

* * * *

The next day Maranth dragged the bolts of red cloth from the storeroom. Sitting in the sun by the refectory, she, Orilys, and Sorren cut and hemmed red strips for each cheari in the valley. Maranth tried to make Amaranth help, but the girl was having none of it. She pranced toward the stable, calling loudly for her friend.

Ryke, coming from the Yard at midday, heard them talking. “Don't scold her,” Sorren said.

“Why not?” said Maranth. “She won't sew, she won't scribe; she's no more help to me than one of the goats."

“Scolding sets her back up,” Sorren pointed out. “Wait. She'll come around."

Maranth snorted. “What will make her do that?"

“Something, or someone. I did.” Sorren smiled. “She reminds me of myself at her age. I was a wild child. Besides, consider who she is."

Maranth said. “She's my disobedient daughter."

“She's the daughter of two rebels,” said Sorren. A string twitched in Ryke's mind. He lingered at the well to listen. Their voices carried easily down the street. He leaned both elbows on the wet stones.

“I was not a rebel,” said Maranth.

“You followed Van into exile. Wouldn't your family have taken you back?"

Maranth laughed and turned a piece of cloth. “I didn't ask them."

Their voices dropped as Lyrith walked out the refectory door. Ryke strolled to the blue-shuttered cottage. Insects thrummed in the tall meadow grass. A bird called from a berry thicket, its song limited, clear, and precise. Errel sat in the chair.

In his left palm he was holding the ruby ring of Tornor.

When he saw Ryke, he closed his fingers loosely around it. “It is well with you, my friend?"

Ryke's neck prickled. He wanted to say ... He wanted to ask.... “I was just at the well,” he said instead.

“And?"

Ryke repeated what he had overheard.

Errel leaned forward, elbows on knees, tips of his fingers together, making a circle. It was Van's gesture. “What do you think it means?” he said.

Ryke scowled. He scratched his neck. “It fits something I once heard, but I can't remember what it was.” He stared around the cottage, as if something there might tell him.

Errel said, “Did you ever hear the story of the outlawing of Raven Batto?"

“Yes,” Ryke said. “I talked about it once, with Col—” He halted. “You think Van is Raven Batto?"

“It could be,” said Errel.

“Col knew him. He told me.” It seemed important; he didn't know why. The bird called again. Errel leaned back in the chair. Ryke shivered. I shouldn't have mentioned Col, he thought. The prince's eyes were bleak as blue stone.

Ryke went by himself to the field. He thought, What will you do if he decides to stay, and not to leave? It could happen. He had not wanted to see it or to admit it. He could go to the stable, take a horse, ride from the valley alone ... no one would stop him. And then what? The wind stroked his face like a hand. He was bound to Errel, as a river is bound to its rocks. He had shirked his morning shave. He touched his chin, feeling stubble.

The chearis coming from the Yard or from the field to the evening meal all wore strips of red cloth round their heads or arms or necks. Because of that, or perhaps because of the new people, the hall was festive and noisy. The two boys—Ryke now knew they were Lamath and Simmela's sons—played Catch Me in the aisles between the tables. Hadril sang. Amaranth, to tease her mother, climbed to a rafter and perched there, legs swinging. Maranth did not scold her.

After the evening meal the valley settled into a lazy, starlit silence. Ryke and Errel walked to the cottage behind Sorren and Norres. The two women leaned together, arms about each other. The air was sweet and warm as wool. Ryke looked for the moon, but it was not yet risen. Norres hummed. Ryke knew the song. He was glad she was not singing the words; he didn't want to hear them. Errel stepped lightly beside him. The prince was smiling. Ryke wanted to ask him how much longer they would stay in Vanima. His fingers itched for a real, not a wooden, sword. Twice he cleared his throat to speak. But he was afraid to ask. He was afraid of what Errel might choose to answer.

Norres stopped at the doorway. “Wait here,” she said. She went inside. In a few moments she came out with a blanket bundled in her arms. The cicadas shrilled in the fields. Sorren and Norres spread the blanket in the street in front of the house, and they all sat on it. Ryke took his boots off. A firefly came to investigate them, flying in erratic spirals.

Two shades drifted through the street, silent as smoke. It was Van and Domio. The dark woman had changed clothes to the dress of Vanima: a cotton shirt, drawstringed breeches. The breeches were too short for her and the cuffs rode up nearly to her knees. She was saying, “I think I'm going to like it here."

“Don't fall over us,” warned Sorren.

“We won't,” said Van. In the darkness his voice seemed deeper than usual. Ryke squinted, trying to see his face. He wondered what Van would do if asked: Are you Raven Batto? He decided he didn't need to find out. “What are you doing out here?"

“Enjoying the spring,” said Sorren.

“Ai, these northerners,” said the dancer. He sat on a corner of the blanket.

Sorren punched his shoulder. “You've never been north. What do you know? If you want to hear about the north, ask me, or Ryke or Norres or Errel. No, don't ask Errel or Norres. They don't like it. Ask Ryke or me."

“Didn't you like it?” Van said to Norres.

She said, “I hated it. It was cold and ugly and everyone always said no."

Errel said. “That's not a fair picture..."

Norres laughed. “No one said no to you."

There was a small silence. Sorren reached her hand out and stroked Norres’ shoulder. “That's over,” she said.

Domio stretched her long legs into the dust. She leaned back on her hands. Her teeth flashed white in her dark face. “In Tezera we heard there was war in the north,” she said.

Errel's head came up. Sorren turned. “But Lyrith said there was no news of the north,” she said.

Domio was scornful. “Lyrith wouldn't notice a war if they fought it under his nose."

“Whose war?” said Errel.

The tall woman frowned. Her broad brow furrowed to a V. “The Keeps were fighting. I don't remember names. Is there a Keep whose lord is one-eyed, an old man?"

“Yes,” said Errel. “Cloud Keep's lord is Berent One-Eye."

“Well, he's dead,” said the dancer. “The other one, the one he was fighting, killed him."

Ryke swallowed. Errel bowed his head. Emboldened, the firefly settled on the white fall of his hair. Softly the prince said, “I feared so."

* * * *

Ryke wondered why he felt no grief. He remembered Tav, whose horse he took, and the other brother whose name he couldn't recall. He remembered the boy Ler, who had served his father so deftly, wearing a belt with no knife. He wondered if Col had had the child killed to make up for having left Errel alive. He was no woman to weep aloud but his eyes were dry as bone.

“Col must have attacked Berent as soon as we left Cloud Keep. He probably used Berent's giving shelter to us as his excuse.” Errel's voice was raw. Yes, Ryke thought, feeling for his boots. It was the sort of thing Col would do.

A hand came out of the darkness and closed over his own. It was long and cool; it said, Be still. He sat, holding a boot. The firefly rose from Errel's hair. Van's deep voice said, “You could tell me what you're talking about."

Errel stood. The hand tightened. “Wait here,” said the prince. “I'll show you.” He went into the house. Ryke heard the noise of the chest lid hitting the wall. Something fell on the floor. Errel came back to the blanket. He held something out to Van. “Look—do you know what this is?"

It was the ring. Van took it. It glimmered as he held it in the scanty moonlight. “Yes,” he said. “It's the crest of Tornor Keep. How do you come by it?"

“It's mine,” said Errel.

The little hairs lifted on Ryke's arms. Van said, “You're lord of Tornor? To my knowledge, Tornor's lord is a man named Athor, somewhat older than you."

“Athor's dead,” said Errel. “I am his son."

Domio said, “Excuse me.” Tactfully she retreated. The familiar knot of pain clenched in Ryke's chest. He tried to picture Athor as he remembered him best, huge, golden, roaring with laughter, surrounded by men and dogs. The image was faded and silent. Ryke was frightened. He had loved the old lord like a father, more than he had loved his own father—why could he not remember him?

Errel gazed at the dark hills as if he could look through them. “My home is in the hands of a man named Col Istor. He came out of the south with an army at the very beginning of winter. He killed my father. He kept me alive and made me his jester. I wore paint and made him laugh. Ryke became his commander. We escaped to Cloud Keep, Berent One-Eye's domain, when Sorren and Norres came to Tornor. They'd come as messengers to arrange truce between Berent and Col."

“And you think Col used the escape to claim that Berent broke the truce. I heard.” Van shooed a gnat from his face. Heat lightning flickered in the north. A line of light limned the hills. He held the ring out on his palm. “Well, Errel of Tornor, what are you going to do?"

Errel said, “There's another Keep, Pel Keep, ruled by Sironen. He's a tough old man. He had a good army. Col will have to fight him. They may be fighting now. I should join him."

“There are horses in the stable,” Van said.

Still Errel did not take the ring. Ryke thought, Why are we sitting here? He started to stand. The hand closed on his wrist. A sudden gust of wind blew dust against his face. He coughed.

Errel said, “I don't want to."

There were beads of sweat around his hairline. The night leached the color from his eyes. He looked like a ghost. Steadily he said, “Tornor was never mine. It was my father's, and then it was Col's."

Ryke opened his mouth, to speak, to plead, to rage—and Van's brilliant gaze seared him. The words stopped of their own accord. The dancer tossed the ring in his hand and caught it. “You don't want it?"

“No,” said Errel.

“Then here.” Van held out the ring. “Take it. Take it!” Errel took it in his fingertips, as if it were a coal. “Now throw it away. Toss it into the street or into that bush.” He stabbed a finger toward the line of berry bushes beside the house. Ryke's heart thudded in his throat. Sweat rolled down his sides. He felt feverish, and deadly cold.

Errel's arm lifted. His muscles tightened. Then the breath heaved out of him in a great sigh. “I can't,” he said.

“You want Col Istor to have it?"

Errel shook his head.

“Then it's yours,” said Van.

Sorren lifted her hand from Ryke's wrist. It ached. He wondered if she had left a bruise. His shirt was wet. He smelled his own stink. The lightning broke again, closer. The wind skittered through the meadow. The tall grass rustled. Norres said calmly, “We should go in. It's going to storm."

Nobody moved. Van said, “I knew a man named Col once, ten years ago, in another life. He was a soldier, a smith's son, from a village near Tezera. A clever man; big shoulders, big hands, black hair and eyes."

“That's him,” Ryke said.

“I wouldn't want to fight a war with him,” said the dancer. “Not without knowing a trick or two."

Errel said, “I don't understand."

Van tapped the tips of his fingers together. “I have to talk to Maranth,” he said. He started to say more, and the thunder growled. He waited for it to stop. “I had a thought—would you object if, when you leave here, some of us went with you?"

Errel said, “I wouldn't object."

Ryke's left leg was numb. He rubbed his thumbs into the calf. The thunder spoke again. A hand touched his shoulder. He looked up. “Ryke,” said Errel, “I'm sorry. I should have told you."

He still looked like a wraith. But the hand on Ryke's shoulder was warm, strong, and real. “Prince,” he said, “you don't have to apologize to me.” It was all right; he would not have to ride north alone. Errel had not repudiated his oath.

Twelve

Amaranth appeared on the doorstep the next morning as Errel was emptying the pot. “Would you come to our house, please?” she said in one breath, and then bounded away.

Ryke glanced at Errel. The prince brought the pot inside and set it on the floor by the bed. He sat to pull on his boots. “I suppose we must."

Most of the night the rain had held off, but it had finally arrived just before cockcrow, falling with a great rumble and rush, saturating the ground, and leaving a morsel of water on each leaf, stem, and cobweb. The valley seemed covered with a fine net of light.

They walked to Van's cottage. Van sat on a stool. Maranth stood in the middle of the floor, arms akimbo. Her bracelets jangled. Her hair stood out from her face like a squirrel's brush. As Ryke and Errel walked across the threshold, she turned to glare at them. “For ten years we have been no farther from Vanima than Gerde's Spinney, and now we are to leave and fight someone else's war in the north."

Errel said, “I did not ask for company, lady.” He looked at Van and his eyebrows went up.

Maranth spoke before Van could answer. “I am going with you."

Ryke leaned on the wall. He had slept but he was not rested; he had dreamed about something, he did not know what. His mouth tasted ugly. Errel looked at Van as if he wanted to object. Van spread his hands. “I thought you'd better hear it yourself."

Errel said, “Do you agree?"

Maranth snorted.

Van said, “What I think doesn't matter a whit. You can argue if you like, but I doubt it will do you much good."

Maranth said, “It won't.” Her silken trousers swirled like skirts about her thighs. Perched on her slates, the black cat licked its paw. “Besides, you need me. Do you know what it is he wants to do?” she said to Errel.

“No,” said the prince, “save that it's a trick of some sort."

“That it is,” said Maranth. “I will let him tell you the details. But it needs a chearas to go to Tornor and dance for this man Col."

“A chearas,” said Errel.

Van put the tips of his fingers together. “From what you said of Col Istor, he'll welcome a troupe of dancers. We'll need a true chearas, three men, three women, and you will have to be one of them. The success of the trick depends on your knowledge of Tornor."

Errel frowned. “Col will know me."

The southerners looked at each other. Maranth said, “We can disguise you so he won't."

“Col has very sharp eyes,” said Errel dryly.

“I know Tornor,” Ryke said.

“Yes,” said Van, “but you are not a cheari.” Ryke wondered what the scheme was. Even disguised and part of a chearas, Errel would be in danger if he entered Tornor. Maranth was walking around the prince with a measuring eye, as if he were a pig she was about to kill.

“What good can a handful of people do against an army?” he said.

“We won't be alone,” said Van. He looked very pleased with himself. “You said there's an army at Pel Keep, right? We'll bring it with us."

His confidence made Ryke's spine hurt. He arched his back to relieve the spreading ache. He wanted to argue but he didn't know how. He thought, What if Sironen won't lend you his army? But he was afraid to say it; speaking it might make it happen. He thought, I am jealous of Van because he can help Errel and I cannot. He felt shamed and spiteful. The sunlight bounced off the script in the frame on the wall.

Maranth said, “Who will teach in the Yard when you are gone?"

“Reohan,” said Van. Reohan was one of the best and most tireless of the chearis. “The traders will be here soon. Who'll bargain with them?"

Maranth chuckled. “Simmela can go. She can take Amaranth with her, it's time she took over some of my tasks, made life easier for her failing, aged mother.” She drooped, pretending to be feeble with age, and then straightened, resilient and graceful as a young tree. “I'll take our riding leathers from the chest, chelito.” She marched to the back of the house.

Errel thrust both hands through his hair. “Skayin,” he said, “are you sure you want to do this?"

Van said, “I have reasons.” The words rapped out, short as a command. For a moment Ryke saw Van as he had been when he was Raven Batto, captain of the guard in Kendra-on-the-Delta. Rising, the dancer strode into a back chamber, and returned carrying a long parchment roll. He knelt on the floor to stretch it out. It was a map. Ryke put a toe on one corner. Dust flew up from the paper; it made him want to sneeze. Errel brought an ink-dish from the desk and put it on the third corner. He put his left hand on the fourth.

Van tapped the scroll. “North. South. East. West.” He laid a finger on humps that were supposed to be mountains. “We're here, as far as I have ever been able to determine.” He slid the finger north, toward Ryke. “Here's Pel Keep. Four days’ ride as the eagle flies, but it will probably take us five. It's hill country until you get to the steppe.” He spoke with authority. Ryke wondered if he had been there. But Sorren had said Van did not know the north. Jaret had talked with the same authority about history that had happened before he was born. Perhaps, Ryke thought, that voice was part of the training of the scholar.

He bent over the scroll. It was plain. There was no gold ink. The lines were grey in spots. Around the borders there were rows of southern script.

Errel said, “Does Maranth truly mean to come with us?"

“She doesn't say what she doesn't mean,” said Van.

“Who else should go?"

“We'll need six,” Van said.

Ryke said, “Sorren would go.” Van and Errel both looked at him in surprise. He flushed. He had not known he was going to speak—her name had just emerged from his mouth.

“Did she say so?” said the prince.

“No."

“Speak to her,” said Van.

“I will,” said Errel. He flexed his right hand. “It's a good idea. She knows Tornor.” He rose. The scroll curled where he'd been holding it. Walking to the window, he leaned on the sill. He was wearing the ring of Tornor on the middle finger of his left hand. “How much time before we leave?” he said to Van.

The dancer frowned. “We'll need some time to practice as a chearas,” he said. “Say, three or four days."

The black cat decided it wanted to go out. It leaped to the sill. Its tail batted Errel's chin. He made a grab for it but it slithered away. “Does anyone in Vanima have a hunting bow?” he asked.

Ryke stiffened.

Van said, “No. We try to keep weapons out of the valley."

Ryke licked his lips. He said, “There are old logs in the storeroom, prince."

Errel glanced at him. A smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Are there?"

They walked to the Yard: Van, Maranth, Ryke, and Errel. It buzzed with talk. Van shouted. “Listen!” His deep voice dominated the other sounds. “Shut up and listen.” The mutter quieted. The dancers and the folk in the fighting pairs crowded around him. He put his hands on his hips, surveying them all.

He said, “Give me a moment. This is hard to say.” The silence thickened. Ryke wished there were a wall he could lean on. Van said, “I'm leaving Vanima.” He held up both hands, palm out, as if to press back an outcry. No one spoke. The scent of honeysuckle drifted through the Yard, fragile as the winter's first snowflake.

“I'm going north. Maranth is going with me, and some others. We won't be gone long, two months at most.” He turned his head from side to side, seeking out faces. “The valley thrives. It's spring; not an ill time to be on the road. If we leave soon, we'll be back before the harvest.” His voice grew stronger. The people in the fields had stopped their work and were turning to look down at the Yard. Ryke had a sudden vision of Vanima at the center of the mountains, and the world stretching flat around it, like a stretched and flattened bowl.

Someone said, “Who will rule the Yard while you are gone?"

“Reohan,” said Van. Reohan lifted a hand in protest. Van looked at him with that kindling stare, and he gulped and was still.

“Where are you going?” said Hadril.

“North. You need know no more than that."

“What if you don't return?” said Lamath. Everyone gasped. Van put his hands on his hips and cocked his head.

“Do you think I won't?” he challenged. No one dared to answer. His voice gentled. “I might not. But I came to Vanima to teach, and if I don't come back, you know enough to teach each other. The art I made will live. It spreads without me, now.” He let his hands fall from his hips. “There, that's enough. Let's work. Hadril, get me a knife.” Hadril obeyed. A dancers’ circle formed. Orilys’ voice rose, shakily counting. Ryke stepped across the barrier quickly before someone beckoned him. He was not a cheari; he was not part of the dream. He didn't want to be. His dream was Errel lord of Tornor, and Col Istor dead. He went toward the toolshed for a hoe.

He stayed all day in the fields. He found himself enjoying the bite of the hoe against soil, the song of the insects in the wheat, the smell of earth, the heat, the sweat stinging salt on his lips, and the dirt. At dinner he was through before he realized that Errel had not come in after him, and in fact was nowhere in the refectory. He left the hall in a hurry. A hunting owl swooped past his ear. Light shone through the cracks in the blue shutters. Pushing open the door, Ryke smelled the fragrance of a peat-brick fire. Errel sat cross-legged beside the hearth. Two candles burned on the mantel. An oil dish on a stool puddled the floor with a circle of yellow light. The planks were littered with woodshavings. Axe in hand, Errel turned and turned a stave of wood, paring it thinner. To keep his hair from falling in his eyes, he had bound it with a rawhide thong. He held the axe in his right hand. The crooked finger did not seem to hamper it. At his feet Ryke glimpsed the serpentine waxed length of a linen bowstring.

Errel held the stave still for a moment; feeling some imperfection with the ball of his thumb. Ryke saw the line of the grain delineating sapwood from heartwood: the sapwood white, the heartwood auburn. He said, “I didn't know there was yew in these forests."

Errel said, “There must be. I found two logs of it in the storeroom. The first was wind-twisted, but this one's straight. It may not be any good. If it splits—” he pointed to the corner by the bed. Standing in it were four more staves. “I'll try one of those. They're hemlock.” He lifted the axe. It made a singing sound as it fell through the wood, sure as if it moved of itself.

It took one more day before the bow was done. Errel brought it to full draw; it did not split. He made a handgrip of buckskin for it, backed it in white vellum, and painted on either side of the grip the red eight-pointed star in a white field, badge of Tornor. Rubbed with boiled linseed oil, it shone and felt like silk. It stood beside the bed gleaming like a snake. Waking in the dark, Ryke imagined that he saw it move. But when he blinked he could see that it was just a staff of oiled wood.

The next day Errel brought a split of white birch from the storeroom and made ten arrows. He fletched them with turkey pinions. With a stiff tapered brush, borrowed from Maranth, and an ink stick, he sat in the noonday sun and marked the cock feather on each of the arrows.

At sunset he said, “Would you go with me to the stable? I want to set up a target."

Dikta hitched a plow horse to a cart. Ryke and Errel loaded the wagon with four tied hay butts. Ryke climbed to the carter's seat. “Where do you want to go?"

“Up the path to the mill,” directed Errel. Ryke clucked to the horse. The path showed the passage of other carts; it was covered with ruts. The bales bounced each time the wheels caught. Before they reached the mill Errel pointed to two tall beech trees, their copper leaves limp with the heat. Ryke backed the cart up to them and rolled the hay bales to the dirt. He propped the bales against the tree trunks.

Errel paced off his shooting length. He strung the bow, nocked an arrow, drew, and shot. The shaft spun in the air and whipped deep into the hay. He shot all ten. Ryke waited till the bow was unstrung before he stepped to the target. All the shafts had hit near the center, though none had come as close as the first. Ryke pulled them free. He had seen Errel shoot six arrows into a cluster so tight that you could not wedge a hand between the shafts.

* * * *

Chayatha arrived.

Ryke and Sorren were lying in the dip of a clovered slope. The dyer rode down the narrow path on a ribby piebald mare. The horse was blotched with black and red and white as if it, too, had been spotted with paints. “The traders must be here,” said Sorren. She sucked on her finger. “Damn all thorns.” They had been berry-picking, and she had stabbed her finger with a thorn. In revenge, she had eaten a quarter of the berries before bringing the sack to the kitchen. Her fingertips and lips were blue.

“Is it still bleeding?"

“No. It's stopped.” She lay back into the grass. “I ate so much I don't want to move."

“Now who's lazy,” said Ryke. She grinned sideways at him. She had a stain of blue on one cheek. “There won't be any berries in the north."

“I know,” she said. (That morning, in the back of the house, she had said, “Errel told me. We'll go with you.")

Someone was coming toward them. Ryke lifted on an elbow. It was Norres. Sorren sat up. She patted the ground beside her. “Come sit,” she invited.

Norres shook her head. “I thought you might want to come with me to greet Chayatha.” She looked at Ryke. Not you, said her eyes. Her grey stare made him uncomfortable. He looked away.

Sorren groaned. “I'm stuffed.” Wordlessly Norres turned. Sorren leaped to her feet. “Hey.” She caught up to the other woman. “That wasn't a no, love.” They went down the hill, Sorren's arm around Norres’ shoulders. Ryke lay back. All morning he had been thinking of Tornor, trying to see it clearly, and had found that he couldn't. He told himself not to let it trouble him. Tornor was there. But his inability to see it frightened him. It was as if the Keep and the north had grown suddenly mythical.

A grouse flew out of a thicket, squeaking fury. Someone else was climbing the hill. It was Hadril. He waved. Van, for reasons which he had not said, at least not where Ryke could hear them, had picked him to be the sixth member of the chearas. He was barefoot, shirtless, and dripping wet.

He fell into the grass with a satisfied grunt. “Uh."

Ryke couldn't help smiling. “What is it?"

“We've been dancing. And dancing. We just finished. I poured half the well on my head.” He rolled on his back. His arms and chest were covered with chill bumps. “Ah, the sun feels good.” He arched his hips, artless in pleasure as an animal.

Ryke felt a small knot of tension between his hips. He stared away from the boy. The clear voice said, “I don't believe I'm really going north. Ryke?” Ryke turned his head. Hadril was sitting up, knees to his chest. “I couldn't say this to anyone here,” Hadrill said shyly. “But I can tell you. I know it breaks the chea and I know it's wrong, but I want to see a war."

“You will,” Ryke said.

“Chayatha's here."

“Yes. I saw her."

“She's making Errel's hair red."

“What?"

“She said it would help to disguise him."

Ryke slammed a fist on the ground. “Stupid southerners.” There would be nothing more conspicuous in Tornor than a redhead. “Shit.” He rolled upright. The grouse bounced away from her nest again, yelling at him.

He trotted to Van and Maranth's cottage. Errel sat on a chair. He was wearing a bright red shirt. His hair had been cut short, and it stood out from his head in greasy spikes. The henna powder looked like green mud and smelled like alfalfa. Van, interested in everything, stood watching the smelly process. Ryke had forgotten how tall Chayatha was. It made it hard to fight with her. “Everyone will look at him,” he said.

“Yes,” said the dyer. “But they'll see his hair and his clothes, not his face. You see?"

Grudgingly Ryke decided that it made sense. “What if Col recognizes you?” he said to Van. “Or you?” he said to Sorren.

“He won't,” said Sorren. “My hair is longer. Besides, I'll be a woman, not a ghya. Norres won't talk very much, so he won't remember her voice. I'll do all the talking."

“You do anyway,” said Chayatha.

Amaranth came in. She wrinkled her nose. “It stinks in here. What are you doing?” Chayatha told her. She giggled. “What are you trying to disguise him as, a fire?"

Van, Maranth, Sorren, Norres, Hadril and Errel danced farewell to the valley that night in the Yard. The torches bled sparks into the moonless sky. Errel's copper hair changed him into something grotesque and exotic. Ryke fretted. He paced, too restless to sit with the others. The audience was as solemn as if someone had died.

“Read the Cards,” he said to Errel when they entered the cottage.

He waited for the prince to object, to laugh at him, to say: You don't believe in the Cards ... Errel opened the chest. He dug out the travel pack that he had carried from Tornor and took the Cards from it. They were wrapped in a length of red silk. He shuffled them. The backs were faded from handling. The picture on the back was the same on each Card: a red star on a white field. On some of the Cards the white was grey. Ryke wondered how old they were.

Errel laid out the pattern on the floor in front of the fireplace. The fire sprang in the hearth. Ryke stared at the pictures. He had never noticed before how beautiful they were. On the Messenger Card the horse seemed to move. He had no idea what he wanted the Cards to tell him. The Lord in the Card had a black wolfhound at his feet, like Athor's wolfhound bitch. It was carefully drawn, painstakingly drawn. They take pains. Col had said that, about Sorren and Norres. He would look for Col's face in the Cards.

“The Cards of the past,” said Errel. “The Lord, reversed. That means bondage or an inheritance lost, or both. The Wheel means chance, luck, or fate. The Messenger means new understanding, or new information, or help from an outside source. The Lady reversed means poverty, inaction, and war."

Col was in all of those Cards, Ryke thought. Grimly he said, “Go on."

Errel touched the next line of Cards. “The Stargazer. That means plans, or truth. The Illusionist means misunderstanding, fantasy, and self-deceit. The Sun means achievement of desires. Some part of our plan is based on fantasy, but not enough to turn them wrong. The Archer means a challenge accepted, a decision made.” He touched the final line. The Wolf leered from under his hand. There, thought Ryke, there was Col. “The Wolf. The Lovers. Appetite or passion may lead one of us to an unexpected choice. The Eagle. One of us will make a sacrifice. The Tower. The overthrow of present order."

The picture on the Tower was of a tall tower being struck by lightning, breaking, crumbling ... Ryke imagined it to be the watchtower at Tornor falling, carrying Col Istor with it to a certain burial. He thought, I don't want him to die that way. I want to kill him myself.

“Does that mean we'll win the war?” he asked.

Errel pushed the Cards back into a pile and trussed them with the silk. The fire glinted on the ruby ring. “It doesn't say that,” he said. He glanced toward the bow in the corner. Irony tinged his tone. “The Cards are rarely so—direct. It doesn't say we'll lose.” A spark leaped the fire screen and fell next to his hand. He licked his thumb and put it out.

* * * *

They left the valley at dawn.

Van woke them, tapping twice on the door. Errel rolled at once out of bed. Ryke wondered if he had been lying awake, waiting for the sign. He went naked up the stairs to the loft, calling softly to Norres and Sorren. An indistinct voice answered. “Down in a moment.” The pigeons spoke from the eaves in self-satisfied tones. Ryke scrubbed his face with his palms.

He pulled their travel packs and clothing from the chest. They dressed in wool and leather. The wool smelled of cedar. The clothing was stiff, scratchy, and hot. Ryke sat on the edge of the bed to wrestle with his riding boots. When he stood, the heels tilted him forward. He felt off balance. Errel wore the red shirt Maranth had given him. It was just a little too large. The red hair, cut short to his shoulders, made him seem a stranger. Ryke wondered if he would seem so to Col.

He splashed water on his face. He was sleepy. He had lain awake in the night, turning and turning the plan over in his mind, seeking the fantasy, the flaw. He couldn't bear the thought that something might go wrong. He thrust the shutter back. In the west the sky was black. Eastward, daylight flushed the peaks with gold. North one bright star shone like a beacon.

Norres and Sorren came downstairs. Sorren was smiling. Norres was silent, more remote than Ryke had ever seen her. Her eyes were steely and grim. Ryke remembered that night in Berent One-Eye's Keep when she first spoke of Vanima. She had called it home. He took the covers from the bed, knowing that he was doing it for the last time. Errel helped him hang them over the windowsill. Norres stood by the hearth, hands in her pockets. Sorren, frowning with impatience, watched. “You don't have to do that,” she said.

They walked to the refectory. Birds sang from the eaves and the thornbushes. The doors of the other cottages stood wide. People leaned in the doorways. “Good-bye,” they said softly, into the muted morning. “Good luck on your journey. Come back.” No one wept outright, but Ryke could hear the tears in some voices being firmly restrained. Dorian waved long-armed from a loft window. The wooden soles of their boots bit the dust of the street, leaving little half-moon tracks in their wake. Maranth's cat prowled, ears pricked, oblivious to the soft voices calling through the dawn. It was stalking a lizard.

Norres scooped it up. It wriggled and then settled into her hands to purr. She rubbed her face against its fur. It licked her chin. She dropped it. Chayatha stood by the well. She embraced Norres and then Sorren, and murmured something to them that Ryke could not hear. Then she turned to Errel. She whispered something. The prince nodded. Lastly she faced Ryke. Her tunic was spotted and colored and it smelted faintly of dye.

She peered at him. She was not wearing her hat. Her hair, like Van's, was tricolored, black and red and blond. She tapped him on the chest. Her finger was bony and hard. “At the end of the road you will find your heart's desire,” she said. “Be careful of what is in your heart.” The backs of his hands prickled. She reminded him suddenly of old Otha the healer, mumbling into her pots.

“Come on!” said Sorren. Turning from the well, they followed her to the refectory. Ryke looked back as he went through the door. Chayatha still stood by the well, watching them. He was glad it was too dark to see her eyes.

The folk in the kitchen had prepared food for them: cheese, dried meat, dried and fresh fruit, full waterskins. Maranth talked to Simmela in a corner, hands flying. Amaranth was there, solemn, silent. Ryke wondered if she was frightened at being left alone. He heard the sound of horses and glanced into the street. Dikta was leading a string of seven horses, saddled and bridled. Ryke recognized Errel's chestnut stallion fretting at the end of the line. Amaranth dived into her father's arms. He held her, talking softly, stroking her hair. Ryke went toward the horses, waterskin in hand. His riding clothes made him feel as if he were wearing a shell. He took the grey gelding's reins from Dikta. Hadril came from the refectory. His face brimmed with excitement. Ryke mounted. The chestnut wheeled in a circle. Errel cuffed it, and it snorted with surprise.

“Son of a mongrel donkey,” he said to it.

Van and Maranth came into the street. Their riding leathers were stained and patched and looked as if they had not been worn in a long time. They mounted. “Let's go,” said Van. He turned his horse—a dun stallion—toward the path. They went up. Ryke looked back once to the dark and dreaming fields. A hawk falling for the kill was the only sign of life.

Thirteen

Van led. The valley dropped swiftly behind them. It was chilly in the heights. At evening the fog streamed over the peaks. Ryke was glad of the wool against his skin.

They rode the first day through a wearisome maze of rocks. They halted in a sandy channel that looked as if it had been carved by some long-dry, ancient river. Errel found a dead tree. He pulled it from its niche. Ryke found a natural firepit and built a fire. They huddled round it. The dry wood burned swiftly. The fog lowered like a hand.

Maranth was shivering despite the heavy wool of her cloak. She said, “Is it going to be like this all the w-w-way north?"

“Not all the way,” said Errel. “It'll grow warmer when we leave the high places."

“Good,” said Maranth.

Ryke ached. He wondered if anything lived in the rocks. They looked as if someone had built them in layers, starting from the bottom and working to the top. They were all different colors. He tried to make himself sleepy by counting the striations. He lost count twice and had to start over. Sorren poked at the fire with a stick. She said, “There's a saying in the north: It's colder in the mountains because they reach closer to the night."

Maranth pulled her cloak tightly round her shoulders. Norres rose. She disappeared in the general direction of the horses. When she returned her arms were piled with fur. She had brought the fur cloaks out of the packs. “Sleep on these,” she said. “You'll be warm."

“Put one under you and one over you,” Sorren said.

Maranth rubbed her face into the long dark fur. “Ah.” She started to spread the cloaks out, and stopped. “Won't you want them?"

Sorren shook her head. “I'm not cold. I was born in the north."

Ryke rubbed his arms. He was cold. He watched Sorren and Norres roll together in one wool cloak. A mountain cat screamed, somewhere in the rocks. Hadril shivered. “It's all right,” he said to reassure the boy. “They won't come near the fire.” As if to taunt him, the cat screamed again. The horses whickered unhappily. Ryke glanced at Errel. “It's been a long winter,” he said. The prince nodded. His bow lay beside him, unstrung, but ready to hand.

“Let's sleep,” he said. “If it comes any closer the horses will warn us.” He wrapped his cloak loosely around himself. “Go to sleep,” he said to Hadril. The boy ducked his head under his hood and stretched his legs to the heat. The fire drove the fog back, so they lay in a clear space, but over them the peaks were covered. Ryke had a sudden vision of the cat, drawn by the heat and the smell of the living, padding soundlessly toward them.

Pulling the cloak tighter, he told himself not to be an idiot. He would not lie awake and imagine disaster like a witless child. He stared at the rock layers. That one was red, and that one the pink of fish flesh, newly hooked from the river, and that one pale yellow, like the belly of a frog...

He woke to a great noise. A horse was keening. A woman screamed, a yell of command or of warning, a cat snarled—he sprang away, fighting free of the wool cloak which had somehow entangled itself around his ankles. In the grey predawn light he saw the chestnut rearing, fighting the rope that held him tied to a stake, and a tawny missile which could only be the cat. It had found them after all. “Don't move!” Van roared at Norres, who was scrambling toward the horses. The bow twanged. The chestnut galloped down the trail, having snapped the rope—but the cat fell heavily to the ground, an arrow through its chest. It twitched and then lay still. Ryke was closest to it. He took a cautious step. It did not move. Its ears (which were notched and scarred) did not turn. He walked around it. Blood leaked from the wound in its chest and from its open mouth. It was gaunt with the winter's famine, and rank.

Hadril said softly, “It was hungry. It looks starved."

Errel said, coming up behind him, “Good thing it was or else my arrow might not have killed it.” He put a foot on the dead cat to brace himself, and yanked the arrow out. He held it up. The blunt point and half the shaft were smeared with hair and blood. “None of my shafts have heads. I didn't have time to put them on. I didn't think I'd be hunting anything bigger than an early woodchuck or a rabbit.” He looked calmly about for a tuft of grass on which to wipe the shaft.

Ryke went back to where he had been sleeping. He picked the cloak up from where he'd thrown it. His hands shook. The whole thing had happened so swiftly he'd had no time to react. Norres was soothing the terrified horses. Hadril, who had gone to catch the stallion, came pounding back up the path. “He won't come,” he reported.

“Leave him,” said Norres. “He'll follow us, and he'll come when he gets hungry. There's not enough grass around here for him. You'll have to double up,” she said to Errel.

“No matter."

“You can ride with me,” said Maranth. “I'm lightest."

“No,” Norres said. “Someone should double with Ryke. His grey's steady and it can take the weight."

Sorren, crouched on the ground rolling a fur cloak, grinned at Errel. “I'll double with Ryke, brother. You take my horse."

Ryke saw Van's eyebrows go up. The dancer said nothing. But as they led the horses from the pickets he murmured, “Brother? That says a lot."

Sorren smiled at him blandly. “Does it?"

Hadril circled around the body of the cat. “Shouldn't we take some meat?” he said, nudging it with the toe of his boot.

Norres said, “I doubt you could get a horse to carry it."

Errel took the rein of Sorren's brown mare. Ryke leaned down to help her swing behind him. She grinned and grasped his elbow. The grey barely moved beneath the extra burden. “Scoot forward,” she said. He moved up the grey's neck a handsbreadth. She pressed against him. Her hair tickled his neck. “All right."

Errel said, “It's probably diseased and too stringy to chew.” He mounted the mare. “Leave it. Something will eat it."

Maranth said, “It seems wasteful.” The cloud around them was growing lighter. Van was already on the trail. She shrugged, and clucked to her horse. Norres went next, then Errel, then Hadril. Ryke and Sorren went last, so as not to hold the others up when the gelding slowed. Behind them, the chestnut whickered. Ryke heard its hooves click against the echoing rock.

* * * *

By midday, they were out of the foothills. The clouds had lifted, and the sky was—not blue, but an odd color—a light pastel lavender, like the flower. Van brought out a map like the one he had unrolled on the floor of the cottage, but rougher and smaller, to explain where they were. Ryke's thighs still ached, but the rest of him was no longer sore. He asked Van where Chayatha's village was on the map. “I haven't got it marked,” Van said. “But I'd guess it's there.” He thumbed the scroll. “We're about two days west of it.” He put the map in his pack. They sat on a small rise. West and south of them rose the red hills. North, it was grey. East lay a flat dark shadow; Ryke thought perhaps it was forest.

Patches of green decorated the steppe: dwarf pines. A stain of smoke coiled the air, looking brown against the strange hue of the sky. “That must be a village,” said Errel. “Let's go there."

Sorren jerked a thumb toward the chestnut stallion. “You think you can catch that beast now?” The chestnut eyed them, and pawed at the hard ground.

“I'll get him,” Norres said. Rising, she walked toward the horse, talking softly. Its tail went up like a flag. It took two stiff-legged steps back from her, poised to run, eyes bright as a colt's, but she continued to talk to it, and after a while its tail dropped and it permitted her to take gentle hold of its lead rope.

Errel brought the saddle and bridle to it. “Thank you,” he said, catching at the rope. “Ho, you miserable monster. Hold still.” He rubbed its nose and then eased the bit into its mouth.

The smoke turned out to be not a village but an isolated farm. The farmhouse and barn were attached. They were stone, grey and old. The plowed fields glistened as if they harbored bits of cut coal; the stony soil, sliced by the plow, took on a gleaming iridescent edge. As they approached the farm a dog came baying round the back of the barn, tongue lolling. But it halted a respectful distance from the horses’ hooves.

A woman walked around the side of the house.

She was pale, stooped, and silent. “Here, Grip,” she called. The dog ran to her. Her gown and her hood were brown wool, and like a good northern wife, she wore her hair in one long braid. “Greetings,” she said, in the even accents of the north. She let her hood drop. She looked young, which meant, Ryke thought, that she was nearly a child. “Be you going to the town?"

Sorren answered. “Aye,” she said—the hard northern word, so different from the melodious southern Ai. “May we refill our waterskins at your well?” She pointed to the farmhouse, where a well's peaked roof lifted in the yard near a coop. The woman pursed her lips and then nodded. Ryke and Hadril dismounted.

The dog rumbled, the hair on his neck risen with menace. “Shut up,” the woman said. Four of the seven skins were empty. Hadril stared at the lonely buildings. As they neared the well, a shutter creaked. From within the farmhouse, an old face looked out. Ryke could not tell if its owner was man or woman. They heard the harried baaing of sheep.

“I hear sheep, I smell sheep, but I don't see sheep,” said the boy. He tasted the water. “It's good."

“The sheep must be in the barn."

Filled, the skins were heavy; they dragged at Ryke's arms. As they returned to the knot of horses on the road, Ryke heard the shutter swing closed behind them. As he passed Sorren and the woman he heard the wife say, “Dead? Be you sure?"

“I saw it,” said Sorren.

The woman clapped her hands and ran like a deer for the barn.

“What did you tell her?” said Maranth.

Sorren said, “That wildcat was living off the sheep. It killed three of their dogs. They heard it two nights ago and locked the sheep up. Her man went out hunting it. She's been waiting for him to come back. I told her we killed it and that it looked starved; for sure it had not eaten anything so big as a man."

Ryke laced the waterskin to the gelding's back. “Look!” said Hadril. They turned to see the sheep, freed, race like a white river to the steppe, followed by the barking dog.

They passed more farms. It had been raining; in places the plowed fields looked like squares of chopped black mud. The four northerners and Van rode with their hoods down, but Maranth and Hadril complained of the cold, and kept their hoods up. Where the land was unplowed it was green, not the heavy bright green of summer but a light evanescent spring green. Ryke sat the grey, contented. This was the way spring should look. Toward late afternoon, they reached a village. It had a smithy, a tanner, a butcher's, and a tiny cleared square of a Yard. Two boys within it hit at each other with wooden swords. Van went immediately to the gate of the Yard to watch.

The village headman came to talk to them. He kept eyeing Maranth. Politely he asked who they were and where they were going. It was clear they were not traders since they had no carts. He explained that the village had no inn, but there was a barn traditionally kept empty for the traders, with stalls for the horses and a firepit outside it and a wide sleeping loft ... “Thank you,” Errel said. They brought the horses to the barn and rubbed them down with straw.

Maranth said, “Why was the man staring at me, damn it? I behaved like a good northern woman and said nothing."

Errel laughed. “He's probably never seen anyone, especially a woman, so dark."

“How far is Pel Keep?” asked Van.

“Three days’ ride across the steppe,” Errel said. Ryke grinned into the gelding's mane. It wasn't far.

The barn was musty. Norres found a scuttle of firebricks, and they built a fire in the pit. Van asked what the bricks were made of. Ryke said, “Peat and dung.” Sorren begged a basin from a house. She filled it with water, and they all dipped their faces and their hands and lastly their feet into it. The sky turned peach and rose. Ryke propped his head on his hands, staring north, pretending to find the smudge of the northern mountains against the bare horizon.

The wind shifted. Smoke blew into his face. He coughed, and sat. Sorren handed him a piece of venison jerky, tough as bark.

Van said, “I wish this place had beds."

Maranth chuckled. “I remember when we left Kendra-on-the-Delta. We rode four days straight across the Asech country to Shanan, and I was so weary you had to tie me to my horse.” She reached out, barefoot, and kicked Van in the ribs. “My love, you've grown soft."

Van grimaced. “Have I?” He turned to Errel. “How did you tell the headman that we would repay the village for this hospitality?"

Errel said, “We don't turn travelers away in the north."

Van rose, eyes gleaming. “Maybe not. But the red clan pays its debts. Stand up."

The Yard was too small to hold the dancers and their audience. The headman led them to the village square. Ryke leaned against the well. He felt like a guard with nothing to guard against. The dancers consulted and then took their boots off. Someone lit a torch. Errel's hair shimmered, brilliant as sunset. They made the circle. Even Hadril looked weary with the long ride, but then Van stamped, and the beat waked them, stiffened them, and brought them spinning and alive. By the standards of Vanima the dance was simple, but these folk had never seen it before, or heard the word chearas. The dancers stamped and whirled and tossed their heads and bent their supple bodies. Awed whispers of pleasure and astonishment, small sounds, filled the twilit square when they stopped.

They returned to the field outside the barn. The headman came to the fire. He blinked into the smoke. “That was wonderful,” he said.

“Join us,” said Errel, patting the earth.

“No,” said the old man, “no. You must rest, you are tired. But I wanted to tell you—I wanted to say—I have not seen such a thing since I was a boy, smaller than my grandsons, and I saw the wild horse clans dancing in the steppe, in the sunlight.” He tugged on his beard. “Tell me again what you call yourselves?"

“We are the red clan,” Van said. “We are chearis—that means dancers—and all together we are a chearas."

“A southern thing. But you move like the wild horses.” He left, walking with small careful steps.

Ryke went to the well. He was tired of the taste of leather. He wanted a drink of springwater. A village cur, scenting a stranger, growled at him from a doorway. He bent for a stone and it cowered, ears flat against its lean yellow skull. A pebble clicked behind him. He turned. A shadow fell into step with him. It flicked its hood back and turned into Norres.

He worked the bucket handle. She steadied the rope. Over the dipper her eyes watched him, grey as pewter. The village smells eddied about them: grease and fat and the strong vinegar scent of the pale village wine. Ryke knew what it would taste like. His mouth watered.

He let the bucket stand and hung the dipper on its hook. Around the well the dirt was mud; their feet squelched in the soft ground. “Are you in love with Sorren?” Norres said.

The west wind riffled his hair. The cold water had made him cold. He started to pull up his hood. Norres’ hand darted forward and touched his wrist. “Answer me,” she said. “Don't hide."

He temporized. “I haven't touched her."

She laughed. “She wouldn't let you. I know that."

It was a stupid answer. It was not even what she had asked. “I love her, I think. I know she doesn't love me.” His tongue felt thick. He did not think very often about loving people. He had never learned to use the word right.

Norres’ right hand rested on her knife hilt. She measured him. “She trusts you, though,” she said. “Ryke, if you hurt her, I swear I'll kill you."

His hands were chilled. He thrust them under his armpits. “I wouldn't hurt her,” he said. Silently they walked back to the barn. The others had abandoned the fire. He climbed the ladder to the loft and immediately kicked someone. “Sorry,” he said. “I can't see.” He crawled over legs until he found an uninhabited patch of straw. A dog howled. He pictured it prowling round the guttering fire. He worked his boots off and thrust his feet into the warm hay. There was a tension in his throat. His eyes itched. He wondered what was wrong with him, and then felt the tears run under his eyelids. Shamed and startled, he bit at his forearm, tasting wool. It made him gag. He swallowed, holding back the sounds, hoping that no one in the cramped, closed loft could feel him cry.

* * * *

The second day on the steppe, Ryke saw the northern mountains.

They were grey and small on the horizon. They looked like cloud, only no cloud ever hung so low and lay so still. The sky was pale blue, clear as crystal. He shivered with delight. The gelding trotted, feeling his mood. He reined it back. Between where they rode and where the mountains sprang, the land was flat as a lake. Pale green grass sprouted from the level soil. In wet places the grass grew thicker, leavened by the fat-headed rushes that the villagers called babies'-brooms.

By the third day they were close enough to Pel Keep to see it. Against the dark mountains it rose like a fist. It was bigger than Tornor. From the foot of its outer walls to the top of its inner battlements, it was white, painted with limewash. It looked carved. The paint made it look all one piece. When they were near enough to see the guards on the battlement, a troop of horsemen trotted to meet them. The men were dressed for war in light mail and leather, helmets decorated with Sironen's badge, the triple spears, silver on black.

Van spoke to the guards. The troop captain did not know what a chearas was. Van said, “We entertain, like acrobats or jugglers."

“Where did you come from?"

“South,” Van said. The soldiers eyed the three women. One made his horse rear to catch Sorren's attention. She ignored him. Ryke tried to see the prince's face, but the cloak hood shadowed it. He looked at the sleek strong horses the guards rode, at their well-kept arms, and felt a rush of pleasure. Out of men like this war could be born.

A scout escorted them to the castle wall. He spoke to the gate guards. Maranth was tight-lipped, staring at the great building. The sun reflected hotly off the white paint. Ryke smelled smoke, and the acrid scent of heating iron. The grey's muscles were bunched. His knees were tight on its sides. He relaxed, and patted its arching neck. “Easy.” He looked up. Men with pikes looked down. He closed his eyes, imagining for a moment that this was Tornor.

The little gate opened. “Go in,” said the scout. Ryke let the others go ahead of him. Their shadows moved, sharp-edged against the bright stone. Men with tall pikes stood silent guard on the wall round the inner court. Four bored soldiers played a dice game in the arch. Stableboys came running for the horses. A page motioned to them to follow him. Ryke heard the sound of wood on wood. There were men in the Yard. Smoke rose from the kitchen chimney. A man in a leather apron screamed out a window at two small boys.

The travelers left their belongings with the horses, except for Errel's bow. The prince carried that himself. They went through the second gate into the inner court. The barracks overflowed with men. The smell of weapon grease hung everywhere. A man lounging outside the barracks wall saw the women and yipped. A dozen soldiers stuck their heads out of the upstairs windows. “Hello, darling!"

The apartments in Pel Keep were just like the ones in Tornor, except that the tapestries were clean. There were fresh rushes on the floor and a vase of flowers on a table. The smells of herbs and flowers made Ryke's nose itch. Maranth rubbed the hanging cloths with one hand. “This is fine work,” she said. Her voice was subdued. There were two large beds in the room. Ryke sat on one to take his boots off. Three servants dragged a tub of water through the door. Maranth waited till they left. She said, “Is Tornor like this? So dark, and everything made of stone?"

They washed their faces and hands and finally their feet. A servant girl entered to take the dirty towels, face avid with curiosity. Errel's red hair fascinated her. She looked him up and down. The page brought them a platter of cooked meats. The table held a brass ewer. Ryke sniffed it. It was filled with white wine. Ryke had not tasted wine in a month. He poured himself a cup. It was more bitter than he remembered it, and stronger. Hadril was staring at the pictures. There was a scene of a castle on the west wall, with Anhard foot soldiers attacking and men on horseback, swinging swords, beating them back. The northerners wore the badges of Pel Keep, carefully drawn. It should be Tornor, he thought. It will be Tornor.

He turned to talk to Sorren, but she was busy with Norres. Dogs barked in a flurry of excitement in the courtyard. A man shouted at them. Ryke wished that the chearas had been given a room that looked on the courtyard. He wanted to see what was happening. He sipped the wine.

Van said, “Ryke, don't just drink. Eat something.” Ryke went to the platter. Shyly Hadril, standing by it, offered him a slice of rib.

Leaning close, the boy whispered, “Before we fight, will I be able to get a sword?"

“Certainly,” Ryke said.

Someone knocked on the door and then opened it immediately.

It was a young man dressed in black and silver, with a stern, almost cruel face. His eyes rested on Errel for a long moment. It's the red hair, Ryke told himself, but his nerves quivered. “Welcome to Pel Keep,” he said. He wore the Keep badge on the right breast of his tunic. “I am Arno, the lord's fourth watch commander. The lord has instructed me to ask you if you will entertain us before the evening meal."

Van said, “That's what we came for."

Arno left. Maranth paced around the room. “Stuffy child,” she commented.

“We are going to dance, don't overeat,” Van warned his chearis. He sat on the other bed, one arm around Maranth. Her hair, unconfined, curled round her face and shoulders. Sorren sat in a chair plumped with cushions. She knuckled her eyes. She saw Ryke looking at her and spread her hands.

“The flowers make me sleepy,” she said.

The page came in, staggering under the weight of the packs. He removed the platter and returned to light candles. A knife swung on his left hip. It made Ryke think of Ler. He wondered how many men Sironen had, and if he had sent any of them to help Cloud Keep. He paced from one side of the room to the other. Sitting on the bed, Errel turned the ring on his hand. Ryke worked his shoulders to loosen them. Footsteps rushed by their door, and he half stood before he realized they had gone.

Hadril cracked his knuckles. “Please don't do that,” said Norres. The smell of cooked lamb made Ryke's mouth water. He went back and forth again.

Sorren threw a cushion at him. “Sit still!"

He lay flat on the floor in the fragrant reeds and put the cushion under his head.

* * * *

The walls of the Keep's great hall had been left dark. Torches flared in iron brackets, but their light went mostly upward toward the ceiling. Ryke, walking last, had the feeling that he was entering a cave. Men's voices boomed and echoed off the roof. There were five tables in the hall; six, counting the one on the dais. He glanced from side to side. Tall pale men lolled on the benches, arguing, talking, laughing. Dogs weaved around their sprawling legs.

Sironen sat at the raised table on a carved wooden chair. Over his head, on the black sparkling wall, were three gold spears. Ryke wondered if they had melted down coins to get the gold. It looked solid, not like leaf or plate. Sironen wore black and silver, like his men. His commanders sat on either side of him, and three women sat between them. The one on Sironen's left, Ryke guessed, was his lady. She wore a gown red as Errel's shirt, and her hair was piled elaborately on top of her head. Her face was white with powder. Ryke supposed she was beautiful. The other two women were younger and looked very like her. Sironen was older than Ryke's memory of him. His hair was grey. But he did not look the least enfeebled. His back was straight as the bole of an oak. He had a long red scar like a sword cut across his right cheek.

“So,” he said, “you are going to provide us with some southern entertainment. Do it."

“My lord,” said Van. Ryke stepped back. The chearas made their circle in the cleared space before the dais. Van stamped. He was wearing boots. The heels rang on the stone. The soldiers craned their heads to watch. A few left the tables. They clapped, picking up the beat. Van swung Maranth over his head. The men yelled. The dancers linked, turned, spun, leaped; Ryke's fingers tapped. The servants came crowding out of the kitchen corridor. The commanders grinned from the dais. The dancers’ cheeks were flushed. They finished the dance with a shout, and the soldiers stood, beating their palms on the tables. A coin clattered on the floor, and another, and more, until there was a ragged carpet of silver coin at the dancers’ feet. Sironen spoke to the servants. Two of them scurried in front of the table. They picked the coins off the slate and dumped them into a silver dish. One of them gave the dish to Van.

“Here,” said Sironen. He tossed something over the table. It gleamed round and gold in the air. Van caught it neatly. The soldiers cheered and stamped. “Make places for them, you slugs.” Eager hands reached out from the tables. “Bring them wine; that's thirsty work."

“Come on, man, have a seat,” said a fat man in a brown shirt, beckoning to Ryke. “You came in with them.” He pushed at the men on either side of him. They shifted to make space. “Hell, it makes me thirsty just to watch them move.” He smiled at Ryke. “My name's Torib, who're you? You look like a northerner."

“Ryke,” said Ryke.

“You talk like a northerner. Where're you from?"

“Near Tornor Keep,” Ryke said.

“Huh.” Torib reached out and caught a servant girl by her apron. “Sweetheart, I'm thirsty,” he said plaintively. “Bring us some wine.” He rubbed a hand on her hip as if she were a horse and pushed her from him. “Near Tornor? You know what's happened to Tornor?"

“I heard,” Ryke said.

“Aye. They say that southern bastard's tried to keep it quiet, but the news got out. Where you been living in the south?"

Ryke did not want to answer questions. The answers would mostly be lies ... “The mountains,” he said vaguely. “Where were you born?"

“Half a day's ride from these very gates,” said Torib. “Where's that damn girl? Ah, there she comes. My mother claimed she got me on a marsh demon, but she was a shepherd's daughter and liked to make herself important. Thank you, sweetheart,” he said to the girl. She twitched herself away from his hands and slid a pitcher of wine and a host of mugs onto the table. “Near Tornor, huh. Were you ever a soldier? You look like a soldier.” A servant put a plate of mutton in front of them.

Ryke swallowed. “I fought in the Anhard wars,” he said.

“Did you now? Cheers.” They bumped mugs. “Ah, that was one hell of a fight. You know, I was in the field when we killed that bastard chief of theirs. Saw Athor of Tornor drag him right off his horse.” He went on to tell the story with sound effects and gestures, barely stopping between bites.

After the meal, they returned to their chamber. Sorren sat in the cushioned chair. “I had to slam one man in the teeth for pinching me,” she said. “It's so long since I've been a woman in public, I forgot what it's like."

Ryke walked to the table. As he poured himself a mug of wine, Arno came in. “My father is very pleased with you,” he said. “He wants to know if you will stay a few more days."

Van and Errel exchanged glances. Errel said, “That depends.” Arno looked at him. His eyes narrowed. Ryke put the mug aside. Errel crossed the room and held something out to him. Ryke knew it was the ruby ring. “Will you give this to your lord and make sure that no other eyes see it?"

The watch commander frowned. “I am not accustomed to being a juggler's errand boy,” he said.

Errel's voice was smooth as wax. “Please do as I ask, commander. It matters."

Arno strutted out. Sorren snorted from the chair. “That peacock. Just think; if I'd stayed a dutiful daughter in Tornor, I might have had him for a husband!” She pulled her scarf off—each of the chearis had taken, during the dance, to imitating Van by wearing the red bands in their hair: only Errel could not, his hair was too short—and smiled across the room at Norres.

A servant brought in an iron dish on a tripod. It was filled with chunks of coal. He struck tinder to light it. Maranth stretched out her hands to the flames. She said, “My fingers are frozen."

Norres cocked her head. “Listen,” she said. They heard the sound of boots in the hall. “More than one,” she warned. Arno came in. The servant shrank toward the door. The watch commander wore a sword. So did the two soldiers at his back. They wore helmets and light armor. Ryke knelt, pretending to fiddle with his boot tie, feeling for the Anhard skinning-knife.

Arno said to Errel, “The lord Sironen wants to see you."

“I thought he might,” Errel said calmly. “Do you mind if I bring two friends, commander? I dislike going anywhere alone. It's a custom of mine."

Fourteen

The scent of flowers nearly overwhelmed them as they went through the halls.

A woman's voice called, bright and rich. They turned a corner and came upon her suddenly: a tall bony woman in a red gown, her vivid face covered with paint. Three maids followed her: one laden with dishes and vases, the others with sheaves of fresh reeds and flowers strewing petals underfoot and soaking through their aprons. The maids flattened into the wall to let the men pass, but the lady did not. She looked them up and down. She had light brown eyes. They were not large but they gazed out with an uncommon strength, reminding Ryke suddenly of Chayatha. Under that look, Arno grew several years younger. “Excuse us, lady,” he said.

“Such formal speech to talk to your mother,” she commented. He flushed. She picked a snowdrop petal from his shoulder. “Tell your father to look at those livestock lists if he wishes to supply his army,” she said. “Where are you taking these men?"

“To the lord's chamber,” Arno said. Ryke pinched his nose against the smell of the flowers. One of the maids smiled at him. Sironen's lady nodded to Errel and Van.

“You are welcome to the castle,” she said. “You dance well, very well."

Sironen's chamber was big, still, and stark. A meager fire burned in a toothy grate. It shone on a bed whose mattress looked no thicker than those in a barracks, save that it was not stuffed with straw. Sironen sat in a cushionless chair. Across his lap he held a naked sword. The walls were dark and hung with weapons: swords, pikes, javelins, some of Anhard make, others clearly not. A brindle mastiff slumbered by the fire, as close to the warmth as it could get. Skin fell in folds around its massive, elderly jaws. Arno went ahead of them into the room. The soldiers stayed outside, standing stiffy on either side of the door.

Sironen's voice was harsh in close quarters. “I wished to see the one with the ring,” he said.

Arno started to speak. Errel forestalled him. He said, “My lord, I hope you are not angry. I insisted that Van and Ryke come with me."

“You insisted?” said the old man. He glowered across the comfortless room. Ryke wondered if his lady ever slept with him. If she did, it wasn't here. There was no softness or grace in this chamber. “Who are you to insist?"

Errel pointed to the ring, where it rested in Sironen's upturned palm. “I am the man who owns that ring,” he said.

“The man who owns this ring is dead."

“My father is dead, my lord. But I am not dead, I assure you,” Errel said.

The scar on Sironen's face flushed scarlet. “Do you claim to be Errel of Tornor?"

“I am Errel of Tornor,” said the prince. “Who else would have that ring?"

“And who are they?” demanded the old lord, staring at Van and Ryke.

“They are enemies of Col Istor,” said Errel.

Sironen's right hand closed around the worked bronze and silver hilt of his sword. His voice rasped. “Forgive me if I doubt you. A month ago Col Istor accused Berent One-Eye of harboring his enemies, and attacked him. I sent one hundred men to Berent's aid under the command of Ter, my eldest son. He is dead. So are Berent and his sons. I am suspicious of strangers who come to my gates naming themselves enemies of Col Istor."

“I would be too,” said Errel. “I am sorry, my lord. I remember Ter. He was much my elder.” Ryke did not remember Ter at all. So many dead, he thought. Is this how we are meant to spend our lives? We fought Anhard—now we fight each other. He leaned on the wall. He wished Sironen would ask them to sit. The dark room made him nervous: the unadorned walls and the glint of light on metal made him think of a cell.

Sironen said, “You speak like a man of rank, at least."

Arno spoke. “I don't believe you. I knew Errel of Tornor. His hair was blond."

“So am I still blond,” Errel said. “Have you never heard of henna?” By the fire the mastiff groaned. Its legs twitched. It was dreaming of the hunt.

“Let me see the color of your hair,” said Sironen.

Errel walked to the old lord's side. Kneeling, he dropped his head, baring his neck like a man waiting for the axe. Sironen pushed his fingers through the red locks to expose the blond roots. “He is blond,” said the lord. “That part is true.” His hand fell away from Errel's head. The prince rose. “If you are Errel of Tornor,” Sironen said, “prove it to me by telling me something of your father that a stranger would not know."

Errel said, “What shall I tell you, my lord? That Athor had a hot temper or that he loved dogs? Any fool who served him half a month would know that.” He glanced at Arno. His mouth curved upward in a way Ryke knew. “I'll give you proof. Nine years ago, when the green clan came to Tornor to arrange the Anhard truce, you also came, with your sons. Ter stayed with you, but Arno and I were bored with the talk. We wandered off. One morning we fought, as children do, over a trifle, I don't remember what, perhaps Arno does. He won, so he might. We came back to the hall covered with dung from the stableyard.” Ryke smiled. He knew the story was true because he had been on duty outside the stable that day. He had separated the combatants.

Sironen looked at his son. “Is it so?"

Grudgingly Arno said, “Yes, sir."

Sironen fingered the sword. “Then I suppose I must believe you.” Rising, he slid the blade into its sheath. He held out the ring. Errel took it. Deliberately the old man reseated himself. “Wine,” he said to Arno. The commander moved into the shadows behind the chair. He returned with a silver goblet in each hand. He gave one to his father and the second to Errel. Sironen raised the cup. “Welcome, my lord of Tornor,” he said.

Errel said, “You do not sound overjoyed to see me, my lord."

“Oh, I am pleased that you are alive. But I confess I am curious to know where you have been this past month, and why you now reappear in the company of jugglers—and southerners.” He curled his mouth around the word as if it had a sour taste.

“Where I have been is my concern, my lord,” said Errel. “But let me introduce my friends. This is Ryke, who escaped with me from Tornor, and without whose help I would undoubtedly have died there.” Ryke bowed. “And this is Van. He brings us a way to defeat Col Istor."

Sironen looked grimly at Van. “Do you indeed?” The scar puckered at the corner of his mouth. “Then you must have wine as well. Serve them.” Coolly Arno poured wine into two more goblets. If he minded being told to do page duty, he didn't show it. Ryke waved away the wine. He saw a shape along the wall that looked like a stool. He went toward it. It was. He brought it to Errel.

“Thank you,” said the prince.

The dog woke with a snuffle. It lifted its head, yawning, and curled itself into an even tighter ball. Sironen gazed at it with something like tenderness. Then his face hardened. “Since the death of my son,” he said evenly, “I have thought much on how to kill that damned southerner. I have not yet found a way. He stays behind the walls of that castle. As far as we can tell he has three hundred men, all of them seasoned to war. I have four hundred. But I will not spend them trying to break stone. An army needs space in which to fight. Have you a means to lure the usurper from his stronghold?"

“No,” Errel said, “but we have a means to open its gates. The chearas—the dancers you saw tonight—will travel to Tornor. At the same time you will move your army to Cloud Keep. You will take it and secure it, so no warning can go from it to Tornor to tell Col Istor you are coming. When that's done, you will go to Tornor. The dancers will open the gates from inside to let the army in."

Arno said, “Col Istor left a hundred men at Cloud Keep."

“You have more,” said Van.

“If one of them gets free—"

Sironen interrupted his son. “That would be the task of the army, would it not? To make sure no one got free.” His lips parted in a swift feral grin. “I like it. It is the sort of plan Ter would think of. How much time will you need?"

At his back, Arno's thin face twisted.

“Eight days,” Errel said.

“Give me a day to hold a council. I must consult my commanders."

Women's voices weaved laughter through the bright cold corridors. Ryke wondered how his sister fared. A pulse beat in his neck. Soon he would see her again.

“I will give you war gear,” Sironen said.

“I won't need it,” said Errel. “I go to Tornor with the chearas. Ryke will ride with you. He knows armies. I am a hunter. My weapon is the bow."

“Dangerous for you."

“Not really,” Errel said. He ran his palms over his hair. “Col would recognize Errel the Jester, his captive. He won't know Errel the dancer with hair the color of a copper beech."

* * * *

Ryke did not attend Sironen's council. Errel went to part of it. When he returned to the chamber he said little, except to report that the commanders were agreed. Maranth said, “Good. I don't like this place."

“You'll like Tornor even less,” Norres said.

Sorren brushed her hair back from her face. “When do we leave?"

That evening Errel went to the smithy, to forge broadheads for his arrows. With the Keep's smith watching critically, he hammered out the heavy metal heads and wired them to the shafts himself. The chearis left the next day. Ryke went with Sironen and the commanders to see them off. It was cold, barely morning. The sky was dark. The travelers wore furs. They looked a lonely company. Ryke laid his cheek against Errel's. The prince had given him quiver, bow, and bowcase to take care of. “Eight days,” Errel murmured. His breath was warm on Ryke's ear.

“I'll be there."

Sorren took his place. Her cheeks were apple red. She put both arms around Ryke and hugged hard. “See you.” Behind her, Hadril was having trouble silencing his chattering teeth. Norres stood with the horses, her lean face grim. Sironen embraced Errel and raised a hand to the others in farewell and encouragement. Guards opened the postern gate. The chearas rode out. For a brief moment they were visible on the lightening eastern sky as silhouettes, and then the sullen darkness swelled and swallowed them.

The inner courtyard filled with beasts, carts, and men, as Sironen's army made ready to go to Cloud Keep. Smithy smells—grease, hot iron, steam, and the sweat of horses—overhung the Yard and barracks like a cloud. Every pore of the huge whitewashed building bristled with light. Ryke snatched a twist of bread from a platter. It was warm and tasted of poppy. His stomach rumbled. He slowed, letting the lord and the commanders get far ahead of him. It made him nervous to be among them without Errel.

It felt strange to be wearing a sword again. Sironen had given it to him. It balanced beautifully; it was Tezeran work, much finer than the one he'd left in Tornor. He went looking for Torib. He had attached himself to the fat man. He had been unsurprised to learn that Torib was watch second to the commander of the third watch.

“Ho,” said Torib. He was supervising the loading of the horses. “You ready to go?"

“I'm ready."

“Where's your horse?"

The grey was in the stable. It had been well cared for. Its coat was sleek; its hooves trimmed and oiled. Ryke saddled and bridled it and led it out. A servant walked by, barely able to see over a shapeless sack of millet or wheat or oats ... The horse stretched its neck. Ryke pulled it back. “Behave,” he told it. “You're already too fat.” In a dark corner of the Yard a girl and a young soldier kissed, hands moving desperately on each other's bodies. Ryke watched them dispassionately. He had said his good-byes.

At noon they left for Cloud Keep. Sironen sent a vanguard ahead, a squadron of grim silent men on swift horses, with orders to chase the woodcutters and shepherds to their huts. “What about the folk who aren't peat-spaders and shepherds?” Ryke asked.

Torib, at his elbow, drew an expressive thumb across his ample throat. “We don't want no warning going ahead of us,” he said.

The land jumbled. The road left the flat and curved up. It was fringed by pale green moss and rock. Once Ryke glimpsed Sironen framed in a far curve of the path. The lord rode a tall black horse.

It was impossible for four hundred men to make camp on the road. The order came snaking from the rider on the black horse: Keep going. Walk. The men slipped from their steeds. The fog blew past them. Ryke leaned on the grey gelding, sharing its warmth, breathing its breath. Still they walked. The warning came back: Trail steepens. Stay alert. A cat yowled in the crags. The horses shuddered. Torib slipped and fell flat. His horse, stumbling, kicked him. He swore. “You all right?” said Ryke. The second grunted and heaved himself up.

At noon they came to the steppe. They camped. No fires, said the voices. They were too far from Cloud Keep to be seen from its walls, but Sironen took no chances. They ate cold food. The vanguard returned and was replaced. The horses, fed and watered, rolled in the pale new grass, they were so pleased to be out of the rocks. Ryke slept. The first thing he'd done after feeding the grey was take his boots off. When he woke, his feet still tingled spasmodically.

They came to Cloud Keep in darkness.

It seemed to Ryke that they had been riding forever in the night. Sironen had set a brutal pace. They had stopped briefly, and then only because the horses needed rest. A dark regular bulge of rock northeast of them had to be the Keep. Torib had ridden forward for orders. Now he came back. “We go west,” he said. “In a line. Stay together and keep your tongues between your teeth!"

The vanguard had done its work. The steppe had never been so silent and vast. Ryke squinted. The moon had set ... It was near dawn. In the riding and riding he had lost track. He felt the gelding heave a great sigh between his legs. It was tired, tireder than he was. He smelled a familiar smell; it caught at the back of his throat. In the night someone had cornered a stray sheep. His mouth watered and he grinned in the darkness.

They were still quite far from the castle. The sky was streaked with light. The shape of men and horses grew clearer. Ryke saw what Sironen was doing. He was sending the army all around Cloud Keep in a huge half circle, cutting off the Keep from the steppe and from the roads, driving whoever might be caught in the circle back toward the castle. Torib's watch was part of the west wing. A turkey flew out of nowhere and fluttered almost between Ryke's horse's legs. The grey pranced and whinnied. Ryke gentled it. “Easy,” he whispered fiercely. “Be still. Be easy."

It seemed to take a long time for the army to position itself around the castle. Couriers trotted from one wing to the other. The men dismounted to rest their horses and accustom their legs to earth. Ryke watched the blob in the north where Cloud Keep was. Occasionally he saw torches glowing on the walls: they looked like minute bobbling lights. But there were no signs of alarm, no flares or noises. He unpacked his waterskin and took a mouthful of water. It took several sips before he could taste it; his mouth was very dry.

“Mount up.” His nerves were listening. They had him on the grey's back before his ears told him what he'd heard. His bladder ached and his stomach clenched like a fist. He ignored it and urged the horse forward. He could see the men on either side of him now. Torib was grinning, his long brown hair streaming back from his round face. Ryke felt for his shield. He hated it; it cumbered him, but he would need it if there were any bowmen within the castle walls. There might not be, he thought, reminding himself that they would be southerners. He leaned over the grey's neck. A pebble popped up and struck his cheek.

It hurt. He wiped it away. It left a smear on his glove. First blood. He could see the closing ring. Men shouted on the dark walls. Torches blossomed. Still Sironen's men were silent. Their horses galloped—Ryke swallowed. They were almost within arrow range.

But Sironen had bowmen too. The ring closed and they moved after it, shooting over the heads of their own men at the southern heads looking over the walls. “Dismount!” Ryke grabbed for his shield and sword. He heard a humming sound and jerked his shield up. So the southerners had learned something from the north. An arrow bounced off the tough leather, and another.

He heard the regular thudding sound of a ram. As he ran he wondered if Sironen had had it brought all the way from Pel Keep and if so how the men had carried it across the rocks ... That was impossible. They must have cut it while he slept. “Here!” Instinctively Ryke put his hands in front of his face. Wood smacked into his hands. It was a ladder. Grunting with effort, the men lifted the ladders against the sky and propped them on the stone of the outer wall. Torib grinned. “Wish me luck,” he called. “There's only a hundred of ‘em; they can't be everywhere!” He climbed. Ryke gripped the ladder's side. Men followed him, awkward on the rungs. The arrows had stopped. Ryke lowered his aching shield arm. Someone pushed him from behind. He went up the ladder. A man with a scraggly black beard sprang yelling to meet him at the top, waving a pike, and Ryke drew his sword and held it out. The southerner ran right onto it. His mouth gaped in surprise. Ryke yanked the sword free and hit him with the flat of it. He staggered away. A yell rose from beyond the wall. The sound of the ram had stopped. Ryke held his shield up against his own side's arrows and scurried along the top of the battlement. A great exaltation filled him. He swung his sword in a wide arc. He was invulnerable. Nothing could hurt him. Below him in the ward, Torib was yelling. Grinning, Ryke looked for a stair.

* * * *

The southerners fought like demons. But there were not enough of them for it to make a difference to the battle's end. Sironen ordered them chained and herded, under guard, into the outer ward. They looked a dispirited lot. Ryke scanned them for familiar faces but saw no one he knew. He was oddly glad of it.

He was not hurt. The battle lust had left him; he was tired. His arms ached. Torib had taken a shallow cut along his head, but that was all. “Bled like a pig!” he said in self-description. “Nearly killed me later—I couldn't see a thing. Blood all over my eyes!"

“Didn't keep you from finding the way to the women!” said someone.

Torib grinned. “I find my women by the smell."

“Was she willing?"

“After a month of these damned southerners, you know she was,” declared the fat man. He started to scratch his head and pulled his hand back in a hurry from the bandage. “But you know what I say—if you can't leave ‘em laughing, you can always leave ‘em crying.” The men guffawed at this wit. The laughter mingled with the cawing of the crows. They perched on the merlons, staring at the bodies of the dead, turning their sleek heads to look out of first one eye and then the other. Sironen's men roamed the corridors, looking for wine, food, and women. A few of them slept on or under the benches of the great hall. The wine and blood smells made Ryke's stomach leap. He raised a hand to Torib.

“I'll be back."

“Don't get lost!"

Ryke smiled with his face and went out of the castle to find his horse.

Someone had given orders; the horses were staked and grazing by the eastern wall. What dead there were had been piled together with cloaks thrown over them to protect them from the voracious birds. The cloaks were weighted with stones. Ryke checked the grey over and made sure his pack was untouched and that Errel's bow was safe in its case. It was. The sky was bright and clear. The dust from the ride had settled. Col Istor's pennants hung from the walls. Sironen's men had not gotten around to tearing them down. Some of the horses bore southern war gear—round unpeaked helmets and short-bladed swords—but generally there had been little looting. There was wailing in the women's quarters. But from this distance it almost looked as if nothing had happened.

He returned to the castle.

Sironen and his commanders were standing in the outer ward. The archers were picking up their arrows. The blood smell had thickened. Ryke stopped to catch his breath in the stench and heard the wet dreadful sound of someone breathing blood. He glanced at the gate, expecting to see litterbearers. No one was there. “Excuse me,” said an archer. Ryke stepped aside. He saw Sironen walking away in the middle of his men, and the line of corpses. Ryke's tired mind balked. What reason could Sironen have for chaining corpses? he thought, and then saw that the blood running from the bodies was bright and fresh. He remembered the old lord's feral grin. Of course Sironen did not want to leave his soldiers to guard southern captives. He needed all the men he could take with him to Tornor. It was simpler to cut their throats.

Dizzied, Ryke put out a hand. Time reeled backward. He shivered under an indifferent sky, and the corpses were his friends, the chains bound his own bloody wrists ... He fought himself to sense. He was in Cloud Keep, he was on the victor's side of this war. He was not in Tornor.

The dead eyes stared at him, mocking his horror. He told himself not to be a fool. But his skin was clammy with sweat and he could not stop the sickness shaking him. He ran for the gate. Under the disinterested gaze of the grazing horses he knelt, retching himself weak into a thorny tangle of brush.

* * * *

Six nights later, he knelt outside the walls of Tornor.

His knees hurt. He crouched in a pool of mud. His back hurt from stooping, and the cloth of his pants legs was soaked through.

He ran his hands along the quiver and bowcase to make sure they were still dry. A three-quarter moon gleamed over his shoulder. Behind him, Sironen's squadrons breathed. He could almost imagine that he heard them. But when he listened there was no sound. He was alone. Nothing disturbed the predawn silence, not a footfall, not a whinny nor the jangle of a shank. He couldn't believe that four hundred men could stay so still.

He numbered the gates in his mind. The west postern gatehouse. He touched it with one gloved hand. The east postern gatehouse. The two inner postern doors. The outer gate with its guardhouse which led into the outer ward. The inner gatehouse, barred by the portcullis. The door to the tower. How many gates could six people open before they were discovered? His legs trembled. He stood slowly to ease them. He leaned against the postern gate, willing it to open. Nothing happened. He lowered himself into the mud.

He heard the click of metal on wood. It could be a guard, he reminded himself, a pike striking a stone wall ... The postern gate opened. He froze. Errel looked out. His teeth flashed in the darkness, and he beckoned. Rising quickly, Ryke slid forward. His boots slipped on the wet ground. He staggered and nearly fell.

Errel seized his arm and pulled him inside the gatehouse. The little hut stank of wine, vomit, and wet wool. Ryke felt light-headed with relief. For six days (two days at Cloud Keep, four days coming across the hills) he had been envisioning Errel caught, imprisoned, dead. He gripped the prince hard. Errel's face was rough with hair; as part of his disguise, Ryke guessed, he had let his beard grow. “All's well?” he said. He had to clear his throat before he could talk.

“Yes. We danced tonight and the night before. He likes us."

There could be only one he in Tornor. “Damn him.” Ryke's eyes grew accustomed to the gatehouse darkness, and he saw the guards slumped on the floor, a pair of dice like white eyes at their feet. “Dead?"

“No.” Errel mimed a blow on the head. “Did you bring my bow?” Ryke handed him the bow and quiver, heavy with arrows. “Thanks. I gather Sironen took Cloud Keep."

“Yes,” Ryke said. He knew that Errel expected him to say more. He did not want to talk about it.

“Later,” said the prince. “Come on, we have to get the main inner gate. Do you remember how to raise the portcullis?"

“Yes,” Ryke said. He knew he sounded short. He felt Errel look at him. He could not say, Give me time to believe that I am truly here. He ran his fingers over the oaken beam of the gatehouse. Give me time to know that I am in Tornor.

Errel patted his lips to signal silence. They went out the back door of the gatehouse. There was a wan patch of moonlight between the inner and outer walls. The way to the inner ward was pitch-black and smelled of horse. Ryke kept thinking they were at the end of it. A dog barked, and his nerves jumped at the sound. Suddenly he was pinned to the stone. Light flashed on a knife blade. A hard forearm jammed in imminent threat against his throat.

Errel said, “It's us."

The knife disappeared. “Sorry,” said a deep voice. Van let him go. “Your timing is perfect. Did you bring my army?"

“It's outside,” Ryke said.

“The postern gates are open,” Van said. “We're ready to open the main one. Maranth?"

A hand lifted in the shadow. Ryke heard a soft husky chuckle. Ryke bit the inside of his cheek. There were usually four men on duty in the inner gatehouse. He knew Maranth was fast but he did not think she could take them alone. He drew breath to speak. Errel touched his shoulder. “Watch.” Ryke exhaled slowly. Maranth stepped into the waning moonlight. She wore the soft bloused trousers that looked at first like skirts.

She sauntered across the ward as if she were in Vanima. The gatehouse was blocky and imposing, with arrow slits for windows. Even the doors facing inward were reinforced with iron straps. Maranth rapped on the door, “Hello.” Her voice lilted into the swelling dawn. The peephole shutter rasped. “I can't sleep. I need someone to talk to, and my friends are all snoring silly. May I sit with you?” She pushed her heavy hair back with a sensual gesture. Her hips swayed. “I brought some wine.” She brought a leather wineskin from the folds of her shirt. The door unlatched. Two men looked out. She backed from the door, soundlessly beckoning. As if charmed, three men detached themselves from the gatehouse. Two reached for Maranth. The third prudently captured the wineskin from her hand.

Van said, “Yai!"

Norres, Sorren, and Hadril rose like wolves from the shadows. Maranth had both hands locked around one guard's throat. The others barely had time to look surprised. Sorren and Norres caught them as they fell. Hadril went into the gatehouse. “Come on!” said Van. He sprinted across the ward to the gatehouse. Ryke went after him. A light burned in the musty space. Over it, Hadril's face was set and pale. There was blood on his face. Behind him a man lay twisted on a bunk. “Are you hurt?” Van said. The youth shook his head. “Did you kill him?"

“I had to,” said Hadril.

“Now you know what it feels like,” said Van. He struck the boy lightly across the face. Hadril blinked. “Get hold of yourself."

A voice shouted from the battlement. “What's going on over there?” It sounded like Held. Ryke wondered who Col had appointed to take over his watch. Vargo, maybe. Sorren slithered into the gatehouse and closed the door behind her. Ryke heard the thud of the latch.

“Quick,” said Errel. Ryke groped for the ladder to the winch house. His glove caught on a nail and tore.

He mounted the ladder. At the last rung he looked down and saw the dead man on the bunk. The helmet had rolled from his head. His face was unnaturally white; white as new milk. His glazed eyes were wide in terror. His mouth was open but the sound he'd tried to make had died with him. Hadril's dagger had sliced him under the chin, and his throat cords had been severed by the stroke. A familiar sickness curled Ryke's gut. He tightened his hands and pushed up.

In the winch house he hesitated. The dimensions of the room were different than he recalled. He turned in a circle and barked a shin on the pulley. Running his hands along the machine, he found the spindle wheel. He tried to turn it. It groaned but would not move. Of course, he thought, it's locked.

He heard ragged barking, and yells. The sounds seemed to be heading toward the gatehouse. “Hurry!” cried a voice beneath him. Ryke unlocked the spindle. He pushed the wheel. It was tight.

A slender form surged up the ladder. “What are you waiting for?” said Sorren. She fit her hands over his. Together they pushed. The portcullis lifted. The noise was hideous, loud enough to wake the dead. When it stopped, Ryke could hear the ram drumming against the outer door. He heard the cracks, like stones falling from a great height, as the iron straps burst.

Sironen led his army through the shattered gate.

Fifteen

It was an ugly fight.

Sironen drove Col's men back into the barracks, ringed the barracks with his soldiers, and then set fire to the structure. The stone walls would not burn, but the beams and crosspieces flared and fell, trapping the southerners in a maze of timber. The stones grew hot as an oven. To prevent the flames from jumping to the kitchens the old lord kept a squad of men standing near with buckets.

Terrified horses screamed in the stable stalls. The men who had been on watch raced along the battlements, stalked by Pel Keep's soldiers. Ryke slid down the winch house ladder, Sorren behind him. There had been fighting in the gatehouse; more dead men lolled on the bunks. Errel and the chearis had vanished. Sorren started for the door. Ryke held her arm. “Wait.” He hunted through the death-crammed room till he found a loose sword.

Stray arrows littered the inner court. A man writhed on the ground in the gatehouse doorway, eyes wild with pain, holding a huge rent in his belly. He had two smashed hands. Ryke stepped over his legs. Sorren stopped. He saw her sword lift for the killing stroke. Smoke stung Ryke's eyes and nose. He looked for Sironen's banner and saw it in front of the great hall. “Come,” he said to Sorren.

A Pel Keep soldier ran by, leading a string of horses. One of them had a bleeding gash on its rump. A woman in a grey gown scuttled toward the gate, blond hair flying. Everyone in the castle seemed to be shouting. He heard a crash from the barracks and a cheer from Sironen's men. A small knot of soldiers, so grimed that Ryke could not see their badges, were fighting furiously in the middle of the Yard.

A black-haired man raced across the ward toward the tower stairs. It was Held. Ryke yelled wordlessly at him but the man did not seem to hear him. He looked unwounded. “Later for you,” Ryke called.

Metal clashed on metal. A southerner had jumped out of nowhere and attacked Sorren. Calmly the woman stood her ground, parrying his swings, letting him wear himself out. His armor was loose. It flapped like curtains. He swung two-handed. Ryke recognized the swing; it was Ephrem. Sorren dropped. The stroke whined in the air over her head. She leaped up and laid her sword with a surgeon's precision through Ephrem's ribs, angling upward for his heart.

He went down. The blade stuck in his chest. She put her foot on the body and jerked it free. Sironen's banner still waved over the hall. Ryke pointed at it. Sorren wiped her sword and ran ahead of him.

The sound of metal on metal was so loud it made Ryke's ears hurt. The big room hummed. Men seethed in long lines, hacking at each other with swords and axes, stabbing with spears and bright knives ... Death, they called. He gripped his sword. He smelled blood, and the smoke from the fires. His belly hurt. He did not want to go in there.

An axe sheared past his ear and he leaped away, swinging blindly in the direction it had come from. Flesh split under the sword. A man howled. Another man wearing Col's red and black badge rushed him, cursing and crying. He was in it; he could not get away. He planted his feet. He was in Tornor, he would not die here. He tensed his shoulders and sucked in great breaths of smoke-stained air, making a bright whirling circle of his sword.

He felt someone brace against his back. The press of battle sucked him in. Halfway across the room, a deep voice said in his ear, “Where is Col Istor?"

Hatred soared in him. That was what he had come to Tornor for, to kill Col and all his men, to free the land of him and all his works and ways and progeny ... “In the watchtower."

“How do we get there?” said Van.

Ryke bared his teeth. “Across the ward.” There was only one stair to the tower. No doubt Sironen would have it guarded—he pictured Col pacing in fury around the tiny room like a cornered rat. “Let's go.” He blinked the salt from his eyes. Van nodded. They edged toward the doors, back to back. Suddenly the room shivered, as if the floor had buckled. A wedge of men battered their way into the hall, tearing toward Sironen. The point of the wedge was Col. His men roared. Ryke saw Held behind his chief, spear in hand. Ryke lunged, trying to get to him to kill him.

Van swore and fell.

Back exposed, Ryke swung his sword two-handed. His lungs burned. He gulped air. He straddled Van. He could not stoop to see if the cheari was still alive. He couldn't leave him to get to Col. Something bit his left side. The blood smell made him stagger. He stepped on something soft. He hoped it wasn't Van. His head spun and buzzed. He wanted to lie down in the softness and sleep.

He felt the pain again in his side and knew he had been cut. It was his own blood he smelled. Raging, he lifted his head toward the light. He was almost close enough to Col to touch him. He heard Sironen yelling orders. He snarled at the man in black and silver who stepped in front of him. “Get out of my way!” He had to kill Col. He had promised to do it. The spears struck out. The soldier in front of him kneeled over.

Suddenly Held flung up one hand and fell like a dropped stone. An arrow stuck out of him. The trim white feathers glinted in the light. A second man fell. Ryke looked over his shoulder. Errel stood on a table. His face was smeared with soot. He was holding his great bow. He lifted it and shot. Another southerner fell. Errel picked Col's men away from him, one by one. For a moment there was near silence in the hall. In the quiet, Ryke heard the released joyful leaping of the thawed Rurian.

Shading his eyes with one broad hand. Col gazed across the room at Errel. His lips moved. Errel shot two shafts in succession. One went into Col's belly, the other into his neck. The southerner grimaced. Blood ran down his mail, coating it with red. He folded over slowly on top of his men.

* * * *

Van had taken a pike thrust through the large muscle of his left leg. The cut on Ryke's side was shallow. He wadded up a piece of cloth and stuck it against the wound under his leathers. His ears buzzed. He crouched. Van was sitting, pulling the cloth from his wound, swearing. “Help me up,” he said to Ryke.

“Better to wait for the surgeon."

“Damn you.” Van tried to lift himself and fell back.

“I can't help you up,” Ryke said. “I'm hurt."

“Then reach me a pike,” said the cheari. Ryke wished he would shut up. Sironen was roaring at a troop of men and he wanted to hear what he was saying. Something about the stables. Perhaps they had not got all the horses out of them. Perhaps they had burned. He held himself stiff. If he leaned he would touch the dead. Sunlight moved slowly downward over the dusty walls, brightening the faded colors of the tapestries.

Maranth waded through the carnage. She carried a waterskin. She held it first to Van's lips, then to Ryke's. Her hands had blood on them. “Are you hurt?” Van said.

“No.” She crossed her legs. “Sit still,” she said, laying a hand across her husband's forehead.

“Are the others—"

“Safe,” she said. Van sighed. He closed his right hand over hers.

The surgeon was plump and imperturbable. He made Ryke unlace his mail and his shirt. “That's not bad. Drink this.” He pushed a flask into Ryke's right hand. “Hold that arm still.” The drink was wine laced with honey. Ryke gagged. “Careful. Don't get sick.” Ryke felt something cold on his side.

“What's that?"

“A poultice to help the cut heal. Lift the other arm too, please.” The surgeon wound strips of linen around Ryke's ribs as he sat with both arms over his head. “Thank you. You can put them down.” He turned to Van. “What's this, hmm?” He clicked his tongue. In his shiny black and silver he reminded Ryke of a beetle clicking its wings. Ryke rubbed his mouth to keep from laughing. They teach them how to make that sound, he thought, when they take them as apprentices.

The surgeon made appreciative professional noises as he worked on Van's leg. He bathed it with hot water. Van's mouth twisted but he did not speak. Maranth stroked his hair. “It's a clean thrust,” said the fat man. “You're lucky. You'll walk on it."

Van said, “I'm a dancer."

“Dance on it, too, if you give it time to heal. If you walk too soon you'll open it. It's bled enough. Leave it be or it'll fester."

Over his head Maranth said, “Don't worry. If I have to, I'll tie him to a chair."

Ryke stood. The poultice numbed the pain of his side, and the bandage made him itch. He looked for his sword, found it, and slid it into the sheath. “I'll see you later,” he said to the chearis.

Maranth said, “We'll be right here.” Van said nothing. His breathing was faster than usual, and there was little color in his face. Ryke went out of the hall. A soldier limped by him, his left boot hanging in strips.

Crows wheeled in lazy circles over the castle. Smoke drifted upward from the ruined barracks. Most of the walls had fallen in. Men with buckets made a line from the well to one corner of the building where the ashes still smoldered. The wind shifted. Ryke smelled the sweet odor of burning meat.

He went to the watchtower stairs. Two silver-and-black-clad soldiers sat on the bottom step. “Sorry. No one goes up there."

“I'm not a looter."

“Prince's orders."

Ryke wondered which prince had ordered it, Errel or Sironen. He retreated. Useless to tell these men that he had wanted to look, not take.

He pulled off the leather breastplate. It was making him sweat. The sword dragged at his waist. He took it off and leaned it against the wall. He didn't need it. The wind shifted again, blowing from the west. He heard weeping. Warily he pushed open the red door to the apartments.

His foot struck something metal as he went in. He squinted down the dark hall. The thing glinted. He lowered himself carefully and picked it up. It was a woman's brooch in the shape of a daisy. He thought it was silver. He turned it in his fingers and let it drop.

No guards had been posted here. The rooms had been ransacked. Lengths of silk and velvet trained across the floor, mud-stained. Deep within the building he heard a man's voice. A door hung off its hinges. He looked in. A woman sat in the center of what had been a curtained bed. The curtains lay in heaps on the floor. The woman's breasts were bare. Her pale hair straggled across her face. Her eyes were swollen but she was not crying now. Ryke swallowed. The buzz had started in his head again. “I won't hurt you,” he said. She stared at him stonily. “I'm looking for my sister, Becke.” She seemed not to hear him. Finally she licked her lips.

“Fourth door,” she said.

“Thank you,” Ryke said. He went back into the hall. He counted four doors. Behind the third he heard small shrill pulses of noise; he couldn't tell if they were giggles or shrieks.

He opened the door of the fourth room. The blood smell made his nostrils curl. He took a step into it. Under the stench of death, he smelled the light mingled fragrances of honeysuckle and jasmine. The room was smashed, ugly. Becke lay in the bed, one arm outflung as if she were asleep. They had tucked a cover around her. Her hair trailed outside it. Her eyes looked past him. The brown locks reached to her knees. He hadn't known her hair had grown that long. From the outline of her body under the blue silks he could see what they had done to her. He wondered if the Pel Keep soldiers had known she was Col Istor's woman, his property, and killed her because of it. The other was unimportant. It happened to all women. In war you could not even call it rape.

He came out of the apartments and was face to face with Errel.

For a moment he did not know him. He started to walk around this red-haired stranger. He saw the bow and quiver and stopped. “Ryke.” The prince touched his shoulder. “Are you hurt?"

“My side. It's not bad."

A soldier in black and silver ran to Errel. “My lord."

“What is it?” said the prince.

“My lord Sironen wishes you to know they still hold the stables. He asks, Do you wish them burned out?"

“On no account!” said Errel sharply. “Tell him I'm coming.” He gripped Ryke's arm. “Come with me.” He was wearing the ruby ring on his left hand. There was a trace of soot on one side of his face, and his left eyebrow looked singed.

Gam and some men of his watch had barricaded themselves inside the stables. Sironen paced in front of the doors. The scar on his cheek throbbed redly. His men sat like hungry cats at all the doors and windows. Errel walked to Sironen. They spoke. The men watched, waiting to be told what to do. A few held torches.

“No,” said Errel. He shook his head emphatically. He strode in front of the shut doors and raised his voice. “You men! Col Istor is dead. The forces of Pel Keep hold this castle. If you come out and surrender you will be left unharmed. Otherwise, we'll starve you out."

The soldiers muttered. Clearly they wished to burn the holdouts. The wind skittered straws along the court. Errel glared at them, his eyes icy. The mutterings subsided. There was a babble of argument on the other side of the doors. Gam called, “Who do we surrender to?"

Errel answered. “To the lord of Tornor."

It took the men inside a long time to drag the sacks and bales away from the stable doors. Gam came out. He wore a round northern helmet and a striped horse blanket for a cape. His beard was straggly. “If I'm killed,” he said, “the others will close the doors again."

Errel stepped toward him. “Throw down your weapons."

Gam stared. “Oho,” he said. “I see. I know you. The jester."

Errel smiled grimly. “The cheari."

“Here.” The horse commander laid his sword and knife at Errel's feet. He knelt in the sunlight, palms in the dust.

“Get up,” Errel said. The old man stood. He was very bowlegged. “You can go."

The soldiers growled. Gam tugged at his beard. “You're freeing us?"

“You think I want you cluttering up the castle?” said Errel. “The gate is that way. You may leave. Take your men with you."

Gam gaped at him, incredulous. “Without a horse?"

Sironen laughed, a flat bark. The soldiers began to howl. Gam stumped back to the stable, disgust plain on every line of his face. In the midst of mirth the southerners came out of the stable, weapons dragging in the dirt. Bewildered, they gazed at their overcome conquerors. Wiping their eyes, the Pel Keep soldiers closed around them.

* * * *

After the bodies had been dragged outside the walls and pyres lit, Sironen sent his men to bivouac in the field under the command of the watch seconds. Errel, Ryke, the chearis, Sironen and his commanders, and Gam and his men stayed inside the Keep. Sironen had convinced Errel to make prisoners of the surviving southerners. “If they go outside these walls,” the old lord said, with his wolfish smile, “my men will kill them.” Errel told the southerners this. Then he ordered them to work. They shuffled from the well to the apartments bearing mops and buckets, guarded by a few bored soldiers. Sironen's men had thoughtfully spared the kitchen staff. As the noise of battle died away, they crept from storerooms, pantry, scullery.

Most of them knew Errel. The southerners looked wary. The northerners flung themselves at his feet. A few were weeping. He sent them back to the kitchen. “Evad, wait.” The scullion so named turned back, twisting his apron in his hands. “You can ride, can't you?” The boy nodded. “Ride to the village. Tell Sterret what's happened and ask him to come here and see me. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

“You'd best send a trooper with him,” said Sironen.

“No, he'll do it.” Errel smiled at the boy. Athor smiled at his soldiers like that, Ryke thought, and they loved him. “Sterret's his uncle. Won't you?"

“Yes, my lord.” He flushed with pride.

“Take one of the slower horses,” Errel said dryly. The boy bowed and loped to where the horses were tethered grazing outside the wall. Errel leaned on the table with both elbows, resting his chin in his hands. He had found clean clothes somewhere. They were too big for him. Ryke wondered if they were Col's. The tunic was purple. Col had a purple tunic. His eyes blurred and he rubbed them. He was very tired.

Sironen and his commanders talked about the hundred southerners still at Zilia Keep. A servant girl brought a jug of wine from the kitchen, and they passed it round the table as if they had not just fought a war. The setting sun turned the Anhard weapons on the walls scarlet. The chearis sat a little apart from the men, listening, not talking. Hadril had his head down in his arms. Sorren's head lay on Norren's shoulder.

“Excuse me, my lords.” Errel and Sironen both looked up. It was Torib. He stood in front of the table, one massive hand crooked around the thin shoulder of a small boy. “Thought you might want to see this. He says he's the son of Berent One-Eye.” The boy was thinner than Ryke remembered him. His tunic was ragged and filthy. But his hair was pale and spiky, and his eyes were pale blue, pale as marshfire ... Errel stretched a hand to him.

“Come here.” The child moved jerkily toward him. Errel nodded. “I remember you. Do you know me?"

“You changed your hair,” said the child.

“Yes,” Errel said. “It's confusing at first, isn't it?” Ler nodded. “Were you frightened when the fighting started?"

“Yes. But I was with him. He told me to go to the kitchen and hide in the pots, and not come out until the noise stopped. So I did."

“You were right to do that,” Errel said. “Are you hungry?"

“Yes, sir."

“Take him back to the kitchen,” Errel said, “and feed him.” Torib bowed. He reached for Ler and pulled the boy to him.

Sironen said, “Aren't you watch second? What are you doing away from bivouac?"

Torib's moon face creased in a bland smile. “Talking with the kitchen maids, my lord,” he said, “about supplies.” He bowed again and went toward the kitchen, still holding the boy. Ler walked stiffly, hands flat against his sides, his prior grace spoiled.

So Col had not killed the boy after all. Errel had been right. On the battlements Col's banners flapped like laundry on a line. But Becke was dead. Ryke's thoughts scuttled from that one like frogs from a snake. His mother would have to know. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. He would have to tell her; no one else could.

A servant brought out a platter of meat, steaming and brown, the sauce still bubbling. The men jostled forward, reaching with the tips of their knives.

Lune, Sironen's senior commander, said, “Perhaps we should send out a call for the green clan to deal with those men in Zilia Keep.” He waved his morsel of pig in front of his face to cool it.

The others chafed him. “Tired of fighting?"

“What do you think, my lord?” Lune leaned toward Errel. The meat dripped juice on the table.

The prince looked up. “That will be your decision to make,” he said. “Not mine."

Sironen said, “What?"

Errel clasped his hands in front of him on the wood. “I am not staying at Tornor."

A black dog stole slowly from the kitchen into the hall. Sironen's commanders looked at their lord, and then at each other. Arno said, “What did we fight this war for, then?"

“To rid yourselves of Col Istor,” said the prince. “You would have had to fight him sooner or later."

Sironen thrust his jaw out. “You are lord of Tornor."

Errel said, “Not if I give it up."

“To whom?” said Arno. Sorren's head lifted from Norres’ shoulder. Errel turned the ring on his finger around and around.

“My father had another child,” he said.

Sironen barked. He laid his hands flat on the table. “Athor was a man. He probably sired a dozen. What of it?"

Ryke shivered. The sweat was pouring off him. “A child fit to rule,” Errel said. “A child who is more of a warrior than I."

He had their attention. “Who?” demanded Arno.

Errel looked at the chearis. Sorren sat bolt upright. All the color had gone from her face. Beside her, Norres was as motionless as if she had been carved from stone. Her eyes were brilliant with tears. “Sister, will you take it?” Sorren nodded. Errel leaned the length of the table and dropped the ring into her palm.

Sironen's commanders cried out. At the perimeter of the ward, the captive southerners turned to look, leaning on their brooms and mops the way they were used to leaning on their swords. Arno stood. The silver on his badges glittered. He put his hands on his hips. “How can a woman rule a Keep?"

Sorren tilted her head to one side. She said, “You have seen me fight."

He flapped a contemptuous hand. “You can fight. Wolves fight. Dogs fight. Can you lead?"

It was a fair question, Ryke thought. Sorren's right hand fisted on the ring. “I have been a messenger,” she said, “a member of the green clan. Ask my brother, he will tell you.” The heads turned to him; Errel nodded. “Who are you to challenge me if the green clan takes me in?"

Lune pursed his lips.

Arno scowled. He seemed suddenly very young. “Women are to fuck and to bear men's children,” he said doggedly. “They are not supposed to command."

Sorren rose. Her eyes were smoky. “Little boy,” she said, “I will nail your ears to your head for that.” She stepped over the bench and glided toward him. He stared at her in astonishment and then realized that she was serious. He fell into a defensive crouch, feeling for the long knife at his belt. Their boots thudded on the stone floor. They circled. Sorren's hands were empty. Her face was taut and watchful. Arno drew his knife from the sheath. He held it clumsily, blade straight, all of his fingers wrapped tight around the bronze hilt. He struck at Sorren. She weaved away from the blade, dancing to his back with compelling grace. Van grunted approval. Arno whirled to find her, furious. She smiled sweetly at him and held up her hands as if to say, I can beat you bare-handed, boy. He sliced backhanded at her, a swordsman's stroke. She spun with the slash, leaped behind him, and brought him down on his back, her knee in his spine, his right arm stretched out across her other thigh. She bent his arm back. His hand opened. The knife rolled from his fingers. She picked it up. Her left arm tucked itself deeper into his throat. She drew his head back. His body arched. His heels scraped the stone. His left hand, strengthless, clawed at the choke. She let him go. He rolled onto his face, gasping. She stood, breathing hard. She walked to the table and put the ring onto the first finger of her left hand. “Tornor is mine,” she said.

* * * *

The next day, Sterret came to the Keep. He looked no different. The tip of his cane went tock, tock on the ground. He was so unchanged that it made Ryke realize for the first time how little time had passed since he and Errel had left Tornor. It was less than a month and a half. Yet in that time they had gone from winter to summer to winter again, juggling between north and south—and now it was spring in Tornor. The birds were nesting in the parapets, and in the grasses the horses pranced like colts. It seemed ironic. He had longed for this spring in Vanima.

He met Sterret beside the smashed gates. One of the soldiers took the old man's horse. “Good day,” he said, as if they were standing at the gate of his house. Ryke thought, Evad must have told him I survived. “Your mother greets you."

Ryke had to ask. “Is she well?"

Sterret was looking at the wreck of the barracks. “Yes,” he answered absently. “Quite well.” No doubt he was totting up in his mind the wood the Keep would need for rebuilding. “Is the prince well?"

“Yes,” Ryke said. His collar was crooked. He twitched it straight. He pointed toward the great hall. “We go there.” He shortened his stride to fit Sterret's pace. He was not going to tell the old headman that Errel was no longer prince, no longer lord of Tornor.

Sorren and Errel sat on a bench beneath the shining length of a pike. The head of the pike, below the blade, was shaped like the jaws of a dragon. He brought Sterret to them. He bowed to them both. He could not help it that his eyes went first to Errel. “My lady,” he said formally, “may I present Sterret, headman of Tornor village.” Sorren rose. Errel did not. Ryke left Sterret looking from one to the other of them in growing bewilderment.

He sat in the sunlight. He could hear Gam's voice across the ward, swearing at the stableboys. He told himself he would soon get used to southern faces wearing Tornor's badge. Sironen had offered to leave a small garrison of men at the Keep. “Torib here has volunteered to be acting commander until you wish to name other men."

Sorren's eyes had rested on Torib's unctuous smiling face. “Has that old man left yet?” she said. “The horsemaster?"

“You would hire southerners?” said Torib. “My lady, only consider—” He stopped at the look on her face.

“He fights for pay, does he not?” she said. “If he can fight for Col Istor, he can fight for me.” Sironen directed one of his men to find Gam and bring him to them. He came, still carrying a mop, bandy-legged and stooped. She folded her arms across her breasts and stared at him. He licked his lips. “Old man,” she said, “my name is Sorren. I am Athor's daughter and Errel's sister and this castle and its trust are now mine. I need commanders. Will you be one of them?"

His jaw dropped. His teeth were big and yellow, like a mule's. “Why should you want me?"

“You never did me any harm,” she had said, “and you know horses."

He had bowed awkwardly. The strings of the mop wet his feet. “At your service, my lady."

* * * *

“Ryke.” The soft voice cut like a knife across his memories. He jumped. She stood in front of him. She moved so quietly he hadn't heard her. He rose. He did not know what to call her. “I don't want to disturb you,” she said.

“You don't disturb me,” he said.

“May I sit?"

The question struck him as funny. There was no place in Tornor she could not sit. The very stones were hers. “Please,” he said. She folded down beside him, hair falling in a bright wing across her cheek, knees to her chin. She wore a silk tunic with pale green flowers embroidered on it, and men's breeches, and the red band of a cheari on her head. She brushed her hair back.

“This is a nice spot you picked."

“Yes."

She gazed over the inner ward. The black dog trotted across it. Ryke wondered if it were the black wolfhound. He whistled softly. It turned its head but did not come. It went purposefully toward the apartments. “I'm glad it's over,” she said. She gestured at the battered Keep. “So much hatred to fill one small space..."

“Is it over?” Ryke said.

Her face tightened. “It is for me.” She sat up. “Ryke, I have something to ask of you.” He waited. “This is hard to ask. I need strong men around me. Others will feel like that puppy Arno. They will doubt my ability to hold the Keep."

She wanted him as commander. He ran his hands over the warm gritty stones and waited for her to say it.

“Gam will be one watch commander. The lord Sironen has very kindly offered me any of his seconds—at my own choosing—to be second watch commander. It will not be Torib, you may be sure of that.” She grinned. “Norres will be my third.” He looked up quickly. She held his eyes for one long moment. “She has promised me that she will stay in Tornor at least a year.” Only the control in her voice displayed the depth of emotion that had prompted that promise. Ryke wondered if Norres would be man or woman to the men she commanded. Maybe she would turn back into a ghya. “Van will send me a Yardmaster from Vanima. I can make do with three watch commanders. Van tells me such a routine is common in the south."

“But I thought—” he checked it. His back was tense. He stretched to ease it. “What do you want of me?"

A black-haired kitchenmaid walked out of the kitchen door toward the postern gate. A beheaded chicken dangled from one hand, held casually by its legs. She was singing. The tune came faintly to Ryke's ears, borne on the fickle wind. He found himself fitting the words to it. I am a stranger in an outland country...

“I want you to go to Cloud Keep,” she said. “I want you to be regent for the boy Ler. He needs someone strong, and I need someone strong and loyal, both between me and Pel Keep. I don't entirely trust Sironen. You will have to levy troops from the villages and farms, and so will I, and they will all be too old or too green, but you will manage. The first thing we must do is call for the green clan to secure a peace among all the Keeps."

The woman went into the alley between the inner and outer ward. Ryke wondered if the chicken were for Torib. He brushed the stones again. He guessed that this had been one of the terms of Norres’ promise, that Sorren ask him to leave ... He could refuse. “I have to talk to Errel,” he said.

Sorren's voice was warm. “Of course."

As he passed the apartment door Norres came through it. She stood, hand on the bolt. She did not speak, and he could not think of anything to say to her. The black wolfhound came out. She closed the door behind it. He went on. He found Errel with Hadril and Van on the tower steps, like cats lazing in the sunlight. Van sat on the lowest step, leg stretched out on a cloth. His chest was bare. His cheeks were pebbly with a day's beard. Hadril sat on the second and Errel on the third step up. He wore the red band of the cheari around his arm. “Ho,” said Van. “Come sit."

“I thought Maranth was going to tie you to a chair."

“I'm healing well. Besides, we compromised. She swore not to yell at her and I swore not to yell at her and I swore I'd hop.” He poked Hadril's leg. “Move down one, chelito.” Hadril complied. Now the second step was vacant. Ryke went between Hadril and Van and sat on it.

He was terribly aware of Errel lolling on the step above him. A door banged in the apartments. Maranth strolled out. She had washed her hair; it radiated from her head in all directions. Ryke moved up one step. Hadril moved up. Maranth took his place next to Van. She narrowed her eyes dramatically at her husband. “I hopped,” he protested.

She relented. “I won't yell.” She leaned into his side. Their bodies fit—Ryke felt a stab of pain. It had nothing to do with the cut on his side. He had never found anyone to lean on like that.

He said over Hadril's shoulder, “What are you going to do now?"

Van said, “Wait for this damned hole to close.” He put his arm around Maranth's waist.

“And then?"

“Go back to the valley, of course.” He sounded surprised at the question. “What did you think I would do?"

The linen around Ryke's ribs itched. He would have to get the surgeon to change it. “You could go south,” he said. “The Keeps would speak for you. You could challenge the edict of exile. You could go home."

As he said it, he wondered if Van would be angry to have his true identity spoken of so lightly. Hadril might not know it. The big southerner twisted around. He didn't look angry. He said, “You misunderstand. I am going home."

Hadril took his shirt off. His bare shoulder rubbed Ryke's knee. “Are you going back, too?” Ryke said.

“Yes,” said the boy. He laid his shirt across his knees to fold it. “I don't like it in the north, it's too cold, and I hate wars.” His voice shook passionately. His vehemence made Ryke feel suddenly old.

His mouth was dry. He moistened it. “Prince—"

Errel's head turned toward him. “You should not call me that,” he said gently.

“Are you going too?"

“Yes,” Errel said. He leaned his elbows on his knees. Their shoulders touched.

“Why?"

Errel said, “You know why, Ryke. I'm like Hadril. I was happy in Vanima. I'm not happy fighting wars.” The breeze shifted, and Ryke smelled his scent, that unique odor that every human being carries with him from birth and does not change and is different for everyone. Ryke had breathed it, in their shared bed, many times. Errel had shaved, and the line of his jaw was smooth and polished. His skin was more gold than Sorren's. His hair just touched his shirt. His eyes were a deeper blue than hers. It was the likeness to Errel that Ryke loved in Sorren. His eyes blurred. He wondered if there were any way for him to explain that to Norres.

He said, “Sorren's asked me to go to Cloud Keep as regent for Ler."

The chearis were silent. Errel said in his formal tones, “She could not find an ally or a friend more loyal.” In his own voice he said, “I would like you to do that."

Hadril, head bowed, was busy picking a sliver out of his palm. Van and Maranth were absorbed in each other. Chayatha told me, Ryke thought. Be careful of what is in your heart. He had had his heart's desire—and lost it. He had not been careful enough.

He had thought she was making magic. An ant crawled over his forearm, a bit of grass in its jaws. He flicked it off. Two soldiers wandered out of the gatehouse. One of them pointed at the Yard.

Through the thick castle walls, Ryke heard the ancient music of the river as it curved close to the Keep, swollen with melting snow from the heights. He pictured it weaving among the rocks. It has no choices to make, he thought. The rocks make them. He listened to the limpid sounds. Maybe the river would tell him what to do. It seemed to be speaking, but the words were in a language he didn't know.

He pleaded in the only way he could. “I could go with you to Vanima."

“You are not a cheari."

His throat ached. “No."

“You swore an oath to my father,” Errel said. “I release you from it."

Ryke looked north, over the castle wall. The mountains’ sharp edges cut the sky, shredding the clouds into white ribbons. They passed over his head, going south. You cannot release me, he thought.

“Thank you, my prince."

He rose. The others made way for him. He stepped with care between their legs. Sorren was waiting for him inside the hall.

He went to give her his assent.

The Dancers of Arun

One

Kerris woke.

He stretched. He was stiff and cold. The pallet under him was thin and prickly; he had slept far from the chimneys, in the place nearest the door. The morning sun came through the high unpaned windows of the barracks, gilding the dirty tapestries into pale color, and the sky, through the narrow slits, was gray, distant, and chilly.

Swallowing, he tasted the salt of last night's pork. Beside him an off-watch guard thrashed, caught in an evil dream. Kerris tugged his boots on. The laces flapped. He tied them. The unyielding strings kept slipping from his hand. His fingers were cold.

He blew on them to warm them. His stump ached and he rubbed it. A dog barked. Someone shouted in the courtyard. Passing his hand through his tangled hair, Kerris rose and picked his way around huddled sleepers to the Keep kitchen.

A leather curtain separated kitchen and barracks, and through it he could hear people talking. He pushed it aside and went in. The room was hot. The oven fires had been lit. An hour-candle burned in a tiled niche. Apprentice cooks, hands covered with grease and flour, hurried past him. An assistant cook wearing a white cloth apron stood over a cutting board, slicing chunks of cold ham onto a silver platter. Paula stood beside the fireplace, holding out her hands to the blaze. Kerris went to her. Bending, he kissed the top of her head. “Good morning."

She peered up at him. He was a head taller than she was. She was wearing a thick brown shawl around her shoulders. “Kerris,” she said. She turned back to the pot. It held tea, honey, and milk in a great soup mixture. “Have some tea."

He looked through rows of tall glasses for a mug. “Cold this morning,” he said.

“Cold every damn morning.” She banged the ladle on the rim of the iron pot. “You'd never know it was spring."

Leaning by her, Kerris dunked the mug into the pot. He sipped the tea. It was hot and very sweet. “It's nearly summer,” he said. “The traders'll be here soon."

Her dark eyes glinted. She made a barracks gesture. “Summer,” she said, with a southerner's contempt for northern weather. “Those people upstairs awake yet?"

She meant the soldiers. She had been a soldier herself once, long ago, on the southern border. Kerris shook his head. “Just me."

A fair-haired kitchenmaid in a long linen skirt came from the storeroom. She was carrying a round of cheese. She smiled politely at Paula and with more warmth at the young cook. His hands at the board moved even faster. She did not look at Kerris. He had not expected her to. For all that he was of Tornor's ruling line, he was a scribe, a fit-taker, and a cripple, less important to the Keep than the least of its cooks.

Paula scowled. “You want more tea?” she said.

He wanted to tell her that it did not matter to him that the woman of the Keep ignored him. He was used to it. He preferred it to the ridicule he might have gotten—had gotten, more than once. To please her, he dipped his mug again in the amber syrup. An apprentice opened an oven door. The smell of baking bread filled the room.

The leather curtain flapped. The chief cook strutted in. He had great hairy arms like a smith, and no hair at all on his skull. The scullions (behind his back) called him the Egg. He was a superb cook and had a temper like a fox-bitch in heat, and he hated intruders in his kitchen. He glared at Kerris. “Out,” he said, fingering his square-bladed cleaver. The gesture was for show, but Kerris had no intention of challenging it. He rubbed Paula's shoulder.

“I'll see you later,” he said. He turned to go.

There was smoke in his eyes and a knife in his hand. He smelled scorched food and the heavy scent of new wine. He thought, End it quickly. He faked a stumble on a stool. His opponent grinned and stepped in for a killing thrust. Catching the thrusting arm, he looped the man's neck with his other arm and drew him helpless to the floor. A knife clattered down. Disdainfully a booted foot kicked it away. A woman screamed softly.

He stared into the man's red and terrified face. “I could break your neck,” he said. “Don't you know better than to fight a cheari?"

Ilene said, at his back, “They've burned our breakfast, Kel. Let's leave."

His vision blurred. He smelled bread. He was back. Paula stood in front of him, bristling like a mother cat protecting a kitten. The scullions were all watching. The chief cook was sputtering at the old woman. “I'll have no fits taken in my kitchen!"

Kerris said, “I'm all right."

Paula turned. Her eyes searched his face. He was sorry she had seen it. “It's nothing,” he said. He walked toward the entrance to the hall. The scullions murmured, clumped together like puppies. The Egg swore at them, and they hopped out of his way.

The great hall of Tornor was big enough to hold six hundred men without crowding. Kerris rested against a wall of it for a moment. As always after a fit, he felt just slightly disoriented. He leaned on a tapestry. It showed a scene from some old battle. Josen would know which one. Kerris did not.

The doors to the hall were open. Men from the barracks, rubbing sleep from their eyes, and men just off watch, bulky in their layers of wool and leather, were coming in. Dogs with sleek fur and pale narrow heads ran about and around them—wolfhounds, they were, though there were few wolves left on the steppe. A hunting party last fall had brought in one mangy yearling. They had hung the skin from the castle wall and all the small boys from Tornor village had come to stare at it.

Someone opened the leather curtain. The smell of fresh bread drifted into the hall. The men elbowed each other. Kerris’ appetite had gone. He walked down the lane beside one of the long tables and came face to face with the lord of the Keep.

He bowed. “Good morning, uncle,” he said.

Morven, the nineteenth lord of Tornor Keep, was brisk and stocky, with the bright yellow hair and pale complexion of his line. Kerris had not inherited it. “Good morning, nephew,” he said. “Did you wake as the watch changed?” Kerris nodded. Morven did not know (or pretended that he did not know) that Kerris sometimes slept in the barracks. “I wish my soldiers were as dedicated.” It was meant to be praise.

“Thank you.” Ousel, the second watch commander, strode up. Immediately Morven turned to speak with him. Kerris, dismissed, went on out of the hall. He thought, At least he has the decency not to laugh in my face.

Crossing the inner ward to the stair to the Recorder's Tower, he felt inside his skull for the skill that linked him with his brother. As ever, it eluded him. He could not make it work, any more than he could stop it.

In the shadow of the sundial a trio of children played the paper-scissors-rock game. Kerris slowed as he passed them. It was one of the few games he, the one-armed child, had been able to play, and he had gotten so adept at knowing what the others would choose that they had soon refused to play with him. The game dissolved into wrestling, with the biggest child, Morven's daughter Aret, on top. Kerris went on. He had never been very good at wrestling.

“Hello, Recorder."

A girl stood at the foot of the tower stair, her arms filled with laundry. She wore a red gown and a brown overtunic. Her cheeks were pocked with little scars. Her hair fell down her back. Kerris felt the nape of his neck redden. “Hello, Kili,” he said.

Two years ago she had approached him in the hall, brushing her breasts against him with a smile and a whispered question. “Would you like to ...?” No one had asked him before. He went with her to the laundry, clumsy and eager. They lay between the long wet washtubs, on the dirty sheets from the apartments. He was deeply grateful to her. Only one other person had ever touched him in that way. She had even pretended to be pleased with his efforts. Some weeks afterward he overheard her laughing about it with another girl, equating his lost limb and his sexual ability.

She thrust her hip against him. “How come I don't see you anymore?"

“I have work to do."

“That's too bad.” She strolled across the ward, hips swaying. The guards on the inner wall yipped appreciatively.

Kerris thought of Kel. He wondered where the chearas was, and what had happened to the red-faced man. No doubt the chearis were saddled and gone from the place. He could see them—tall Arillard, redheaded Riniard the newcomer, Jensie with the tri-colored hair.... He swore under his breath and pushed the thoughts away. They only made him unhappy.

He glanced across the courtyard. Kili had gone. The guards had turned back to their vigil. Kerris pictured a caravan bumping along the eastern road, blue flags flying, laden with silks and spices and wood and metal goods. The whole Keep was restless, waiting for the traders. The children played at caravans in their games.

He went up the spiral stair to the chamber at the tower's top.

The octagonal room was very old. It had been variously used: for storage, for defense, even for a council chamber when there was war in the north. It smelled of pine logs and ink. There were tapestries on its walls like the ones in the hall. The room held a clutter of furniture: two sleeping pallets, a big worktable, some stools, Josen's chair, and six cedar chests. Two of the chests held clothes. Four of them were brimful of old records.

A tall crock of choba oil stood in one corner. The rest of the Keep, even the lord's apartments, was lit by different kinds of candles, and the merchants did not bother to bring the heavy oil with them from the south. But Josen had ordered, and bought, on his own, the one crock. On dark winter days he poured oil into dishes, and fashioned wicks for them with wool yarn. He claimed the light from the oil was clearer and less smoky than the light from animal-fat candles. Kerris teased him with it, gently, in the evenings. “With the lamps lit, you can pretend, like Paula, that you're not really here."

“Unlike Paula,” the old man would answer, “I like it here."

Kerris pushed open the door with his shoulder. Josen stood at the window, sniffing the air. He had opened one of the windows and stood looking out the crack at the view. Kerris joined him. The watchtower had been built three hundred years back by Torrel, fourth lord of Tornor Keep, “so that he might see the Anhard raiders before their kings gave the order to attack.” There was no military use for a tower anymore; there had been peace between Arun and Anhard for a hundred years. But the windows had never been touched, except to have new glass placed in the frames. They still looked only north.

The mountains’ gray bulk dominated the landscape. The lower terraces of the peaks were stippled with green. Kerris had heard (from the merchants, who went everywhere) that in the west there were taller mountains, and that they were red, not gray. He doubted he would get to see them. The farthest he'd ever been across the steppe was half the distance to Cloud Keep.

He had been born in the south, in a small village south of the lower edge of Galbareth. Paula had told him that often enough. But he did not remember the south, nor the ride north, nor the raid on the caravan in which his mother had been killed. It was in that raid that the blow of a curved Asech blade had taken off his right arm just below the shoulder.

Josen's voice interrupted his reverie. “Summer's coming."

Kerris dragged his thoughts away from his lost past. “Paula doesn't think so,” he said.

“She's a southerner,” said Josen. “It's never hot enough here for them.” He was a northerner, but he knew the south well, having lived there many years. He glanced at Kerris. He was tall, but stoop-shouldered. His pale eyes were deep-set and very keen. He wore the clothes of his clan: a black robe of soft wool, with a hood that fell down his back. On his left fourth finger he wore a gold ring with an ebony stone. Only scholars and lords of households wore rings: lords to indicate their rulership, scholars to show that they carried no weapons. Josen was a member of the Scholars’ Guild. He had been sent to study in Kendra-on-the-Delta by Athor, Morven's father, and had returned to the Keep twenty-five years ago. “The traders are not here yet, I suppose."

“No."

Josen said something in the southern tongue.

“What is that?” inquired Kerris. He had been Josen's apprentice for five years, but he knew only a little of the old southern language.

“May they suffer seven years from piles,” said the old man. “I need ink!"

Kerris grinned. He and Josen shared working and sleeping space in the tower, and as much as the disparity of age and temperament allowed (Josen and Paula were about the same age) they were friends. “May they suffer from piles after they get here,” he suggested.

“Yes,” Josen agreed, “that's better."

He coughed, and pulled his wide sash more tightly around his waist. He said, “I didn't hear you come in at all, last night."

Kerris’ stump throbbed. “I slept in the barracks,” he said.

“In case the raiders come?” said Josen, voice tinged with gentle mockery. “Even were it to happen, Morven would not let you fight. You'd be sent to shelter in the storerooms with the old, the sick, and the children. Why bother?"

“I need to,” Kerris said. “I don't care what Morven thinks.” He walked to the oaken worktable. Josen had already laid out on it their day's work: a pile of ancient scrolls for himself, the monthly accounts for Kerris. The scrolls smelled musty. He pulled back the chair. “Shall we get to work?"

Josen shrugged. “As you wish,” he said. He crossed the little octagonal room. Kerris felt a twinge of remorse. He hadn't meant to put the old man off so harshly. He pulled Josen's cushioned chair out for him. Once—before he had Kerris to help him—Josen had done the day-to-day work, tallying accounts, keeping records. But Kerris did this now, and freed from those tasks the old scholar had chosen to set about a work more interesting: recopying the histories of Tornor off the ancient scrolls. Morven had no objections. He was even willing to pay for the fine-haired brushes and the expensive ink Josen required. (The ink Kerris used faded fast, but cost nothing. Kerris made it himself out of the ink sacs of the local river eels. Josen had taught him how to do that.) He glanced at the topmost scroll as Josen unrolled it. It glinted, here and there. Some of the letters had been painted with gold, and they shone through the dust.

The old northern runes (which were really a corruption of the southern runes, Josen said) went up and down on the scrolls. Kerris could not read them. Josen had taught him only the southern script. Everyone used it now. The old records in the Keeps were the only examples left of the northern script, and when these were all copied into the southern script then no one would remember that there even had been another way to write, except a few scholars like Josen.

Pretending that nothing had happened, Josen took his brushes from their wooden, felt-lined case.

Kerris cast about for a means to mend the breach.

“Josen?"

“Hmm?” said the old man.

“What history do you copy today?"

Josen looked pleased. The hurt left his face. He loved to talk about the histories. “The history of the eleventh lord of Tornor."

“Who was he?"

“His name was Kerwin,” Josen said, “like your father.” He closed the brush case and put it to one side. “Most of the record is taken up with accounts of battles with Anhard. Kerwin was killed in battle. It was a common death. The Truce wasn't signed until the reign of Athor, Kerwin's grandson."

Kerris said, “Was there ever a time when there were no battles?"

Josen frowned. “Tornor was built to be a fortress. But from Kerwin's reign to the reign of the Lady Sorren there is a gap in the scrolls."

Once Kerris had been under the illusion that it would be exciting to be in a war. He no longer thought so. “Was that the Lady Sorren who brought the chearis to Tornor?"

“There has been only one Sorren of Tornor,” Josen said.

Kerris nodded. He remembered. Josen had read him the history from the scroll. Sorren of Tornor had named a cheari as Yardmaster, and during her reign (and after it, during the reign of her daughter Norres), Tornor had been a gathering-place for chearis.

“Where did they come from?” he asked.

Josen scowled. “You know the legend. The chearis came from the west, from Vanima, the land of always summer."

“How did the Lady Sorren get them to Tornor?"

“It's not in the record,” said Josen. He snorted. “All the historians agree that the earliest chearis were southerners. Yet the legend of Vanima persists. Even now the chearis speak of it as if it were a real place.” He picked up his brush and pointed it at Kerris like a dagger. “It's very frustrating."

“What is?"

“That the records should be incomplete."

Kerris took a piece of paper from his own stack. The sheets were heavy and coarse, made of pressed linen scraps and river reeds. The gray tinge of it made him think of Paula. She was getting old. He hoped the incident in the kitchen had not troubled her too much. She worried about him.... She had brought him north after his mother's death, and though she never said it, he knew she had stayed in Tornor for his sake.

“Who was the first cheari?” he said.

Josen scratched his nose with the wooden end of his brush. “We don't know,” he said. “The chearis may—but they don't talk to scholars.” He grew severe. “Records that are not written are not to be trusted. Spoken histories are too easily distorted into legend and myth."

Kerris smiled. He had heard this lecture before.

“For example,” Josen said, “there is a passage in the history of the reign of the Lady Sorren that suggests she was a cheari. Later in the same scroll it also states she was a messenger, a member of the green clan."

“Couldn't she be both?” Kerris said.

“It's very unlikely.” Josen was stern. “Why should an heir of Tornor join the messenger clan? Some scribe was careless, and now we'll never know the truth of it—because an inattentive apprentice wrote a word wrong."

Kerris grinned at him. “If the black clan had its way, no one would do anything without writing it down."

“History is important,” the old man said.

“Yes,” Kerris agreed. Privately he wondered if anything would be done if the world worked Josen's way.

You will never make a scholar, said his inner voice.

Stubbornly he banished it. He would be a scribe, not a scholar, and keep the records when Josen could no longer see to keep them. He turned the tallies so that the signs all faced out. They were marked with the ancient signs: a sickle for grain, a horn for goats, a triple slash (signifying the three spikelets of the ear) for barley. The middle slash was longest. Picking up his pen, he drew a line down the center of the page. The familiar work absorbed him. The trouble smoothed from his face, and the ache drained from his stump.

* * * *

When the ink began to spatter on the page, he halted. He grimaced at the botched sheet with annoyance. It would all have to be done again. He checked the tip of the quill. As he thought, it needed trimming. Laying it down, he stretched his cramped fingers. The room was very light. On the wall opposite him, the tapestry's gold thread work was just visible. It showed a battle scene: a man with a gilt beard rallied his men. In the crannies of the tower, nesting pigeons called, flapping their wings.

“Josen."

The old man's head lifted. His hair stuck out from his skull like fine silk fringe. “Hmm?” It took a moment for his eyes to lose their glaze.

“Take a rest. My quill needs mending."

The scholar looked at the page he'd been copying. Gently he rolled it up again. He had started with the newest scrolls and was slowly working backwards. Some of the oldest records were so brittle that they fell apart to the touch. “Hmm.” He picked up the quill Kerris had been using and looked at the splayed end. “You need a new quill entirely,” he commented. He riffled the feathers. “Still, a rest is a good idea.” He rose from the chair. “Let's take a walk on the wall to stretch our legs."

Like the other Keeps on the northern border, Tornor Keep had been built to withstand attack. It had two walls around it, one inside the other. They were toothy, smoothfaced, and formidable. Inside the inner wall were the buildings of the Keep: the hall, the barracks, the stables and storerooms, the Yard, the smithy and the apartments. The top of it was a stone walkway with room for three men to walk abreast. The outer wall was lower than the inner wall, but it too had a walkway and it was equally thick and crenellated. Both walls were broken, at regular intervals, by arrow slits.

The watchtower rose from the southwest corner of the inner wall. Originally it had had only one entrance: the door in the inner ward at the base of the stair. But during the rule of the Lady Sorren a second door, leading to the rampart, had been added. In sunlight or strong torchlight the stone of the arch glittered with mica flecks, and it was evident that the doorway had been built at a later time than either the wall or the stair.

The guard on the stairway lifted a hand as they walked beneath the arch. “Hey, Kerris."

“Tryg.” Kerris smiled. Tryg was the son of Ousel's watch second. He was lithe and broad and he wore his hair in the old way, shoulder-length and unbound. He and Kerris had been best of friends when they were eight. They had shared a bed, playing at sex, as children do. “I skipped breakfast. Got any cheese?"

“Sure.” Tryg turned out his pockets. He had cheese, a sour apple, a shard of linty bread. “You can have it all."

He was always generous.... “Thanks,” Kerris said. He took the food. Josen was halfway to the guardhouse, his face a mask of abstraction. Kerris followed the old man, eating as he moved.

It was surely spring. The stones beside him were warm in the sunlight. A breeze flapped the banners. They bore the red eight-pointed star on a white field, for three hundred years the crest of the lords of Tornor. Guards leaned on the battlements, facing south, helmets off. The guard was largely ceremonial. There had been no war in the north for a hundred years. Young men from the villages came to the Keeps to learn to handle weapons. Those that liked the work went east or south, to join city guard troops in Tezera or Shanan or Mahita or Kendra-on-the-Delta. Once there, some turned merchant or courier. The remainder went back to their farms and herds. Only the old men stayed at Tornor.

Josen stopped to lean his elbows on the wall. Kerris halted beside him, licking the last bits of cheese from his palm. He heard the river music. Swollen by snow water from the mountains, the Rurian tossed and twisted in its banks. The water mill squatted beside it. Its wheel still turned, but most of the Keep's pressing and milling was done at the windmill, which was a bigger and newer building to the east of the Keep. In the field between the castle and the town, blue daisies trembled like flames.

For a moment Kerris permitted himself to think of Kel. Once, watching the tumble and sweat of practice in the Yard, taunted by some child his own age (it might even have been Tryg, but Kerris did not like to think that), he shouted that it didn't matter that he was one-armed. His brother was a cheari. They teased Kel's name from him and danced about him, mocking and vicious, calling him to fight like Kel, to dance like Kel. Since that afternoon he had coupled their names only in his mind. Paula and Josen knew, of course, and Morven. But Morven never spoke of it. Kerris did not think he cared. Morven had never met Kel, only heard of him. All Arun had heard of him. But the red clan rarely came north. It was a long journey across Galbareth to the Keeps.

Five years back a chearas had stopped at Tornor on its way from the Red Hills to Tezera. Kel had not been a part of it. They had danced in the Yard. Kerris remembered the searing, concentrated grace with which they turned and swayed and leaped. But it was not for another year that he began to experience the sudden, random moments in which he seemed to live in two bodies: his own, and his brother's. At first he had been terrified, understanding nothing, afraid that he was going mad. After a while he learned that the moments of rapport would not hurt him. They did not happen more than once every two to three weeks. When they happened in public he called them his fits.

He told Josen about them.

The old man listened gravely. “Are they painful?” he had asked.

“No."

“Unpleasant?"

Kerris tried to answer honestly. “N-no. Startling."

Josen sighed. “I'm sorry, Kerris,” he said. “I don't know what they are."

Kerris felt numb. He had always thought that Josen knew everything—well, nearly everything. Stories flashed through his mind. Perhaps he was being tormented by a ghost or a demon. It would not help to say such things to Josen. The old scholar did not believe in demons.

“What should I do?” he said.

Josen pulled on his sash. It was the gesture he made when he was embarrassed. “You could talk to the village healer."

Kerris was surprised. Usually Josen had few good words for the village healer—an old woman named Tath. She was known to be ill-tempered but herb-wise. No. He knew that Tath could offer him no remedy for what ailed him, and he was afraid of what she might say. She would only feed his fears. “She can cure lung fever,” he said, lifting his fore- and little fingers in a gesture he had learned from Paula. “Not this."

Josen did not ask him how he knew. (Kerris could not have told him.) He said, “If they don't hurt, don't worry about them. Let them come and let them go. They'll stop. And there is no need to resort to coarseness.” He spoke with an authority that Kerris had found very reassuring, at thirteen.

Perhaps he had been wrong, Kerris thought. Perhaps he should have talked to old Tath. He scratched his stump, which had begun to itch.

“What is it?” Josen said.

A child was crying, somewhere in the apartments, and Kerris found his thought checked by that high, angry scream. “I had a fit this morning, in the kitchen,” he said.

Josen pursed his lips. “Worrying about it?"

Kerris shook his head. “No. Just thinking."

“You know,” Josen said, “I know nothing of such things. But there may be people who do, in the cities."

Kerris laughed. “Forget it, Josen. I'm not likely to get to Tezera any time soon. Besides, I'm used to them; they don't trouble me.” To himself he said, They wouldn't trouble me if I knew what they were. But he did not want to be without them. In those brief moments of rapport he knew what it felt like to live in a body that had never been maimed.

Five years back, the year he turned twelve, Kerris had been summoned to Morven's rooms. He went eagerly. At twelve a child was counted ready to join the daily practice in the Yard, to begin to learn the skills that made him or her an adult—even a cheari. Tryg had already made passage to that world: his father had given him, according to tradition, a small but serviceable fighting knife. As Kerris walked into the lord's chamber, he could almost feel on his belt the knife he expected Morven to give him.

But Morven did not give him his knife. Instead, he said, “The Yard is not for you. It would waste the Yardmaster's time to try to teach you fighting skills, let alone make you a cheari. Son to my brother you are, and a home you will always have here, for his sake. But more”—looking at Kerris’ right shoulder, at the empty sleeve—“is out of your reach."

It had been Morven's idea to apprentice Kerris to Josen. It was a good idea, Kerris thought. It let him make a place.

Deep in his head a voice—his own—amended the thought. It was as good a place as any would ever be for him. He had learned to love the Keep, and the mountains that rose behind it like the spine of the earth. He loved the land in summer; he loved the steppe, windswept and thick with honey-colored grass. But it was not likely that he would ever get a chance to leave it. It was just as well he was comfortable in it.

He clapped Josen gently on the shoulder. “Come on, old man. Let's get back to work."

“Old man, indeed!” Josen pretended outrage. “Is this the respect you show your teacher? Speak well of me, or I shan't mend your quill."

Kerris grinned at him. “Yes, sir, beg pardon sir,” he gabbled.

“I need more ink, too,” said Josen, abandoning the play. “Blast those traders."

* * * *

That night, Kerris did not go to the barracks to sleep.

Josen, as usual, avoided the morning meal. In his view food was indecent before noon. Kerris waited until he was sure that the Egg had gone to his apartments before slipping round the kitchen curtain.

Paula sat by the fire. He kissed the top of her head. Her scalp showed pink through sparse gray curls.

“Huh.” Her fingers on the mug were red and swollen.

“Good morning."

“Is it?"

“Warmer today than yesterday,” he said. “You should try it."

“Huh.” The grumpy syllable conveyed her distrust of the north's feeble attempt at spring. “Where are you going?"

“The chicken run. I need quills.” He waited a bit, to show her that he was well. “See you later.” He ducked out through the scullery. As he crossed to the hen run, music came to his ears. He looked up. Idrith was playing his flute. The other guards were still, listening. The soft trills floated across the walls and the ward. Kerris sighed. Once he had thought he would like to learn to make music. But he had no voice to speak of—and there was no musical instrument he had ever seen or heard of that could be played with one hand.

The run smelled like a pasture. The hens paid no attention to him, but from the end of his tether the rooster watched suspiciously as Kerris hunted for quills.

“Be easy,” Kerris told the bright-eyed bird. “I'm not after your wives.” He found three white pinion feathers, and a gray goosetail feather that would suit. He brought them to Josen. The old man unearthed his penknife from the pile of papers on the table. It was a small sharp knife with a single edge, the brass handle shaped like a goat's head.

With short deft strokes, the old man shaped the nib. “How's the weather?” he asked.

“Warmer than yesterday."

“No sign of the traders?"

Kerris shook his head.

Josen muttered. He held the nib up to the light and scowled at it as if it were a trader. “I have been thinking,” he said.

“Yes?"

“About a letter I might write. To the head of the Scholars’ Guild in Kendra-on-the-Delta. It might read something like: Dear Sir, This is to introduce a worthy young clerk, named Kerris, nephew to Morven Lord of Tornor Keep, who was my apprentice and has been my colleague, in a manner of speaking, for two years. And so on.” The old man continued to hold the nib up, as if he were speaking to it. “What do you think of that?"

“I—I don't know."

“Well, think. And tell me when you have thought."

“Would the Scholars’ Guild be impressed by a letter like that?"

“They would be if I wrote it,” said Josen. “They might find a position for the bearer in, say, one of the great city houses, as clerk, or historian.” He flicked a look at Kerris. “If the bearer wanted such a position, that is."

Kerris’ stump ached. He touched the end of it, where the skin was thick and scarred. Paula had told him how they had had to sear it with the flat of a heated knife to stop the bleeding. “What great house would want me?” he said bleakly.

“Don't be a fool,” said Josen. “Tornor's not the world. Do you love it so well here that you would be anguished to leave?"

Kerris had no answer.

“Consider,” said the old man. “If you—"

From the wall, crisp and clear and light, a horn called.

Josen turned toward the sound. He put the knife and quill aside. Pah-pah-PAH, said the horn. Strangers approaching.

“At last,” said the old man. The courtyard echoed with the noise of running feet. The horn blew a second time, vibrant and variant.

Kerris translated the pattern into words automatically. The caller had added a phrase. Strangers on horses approaching from the west road.

“I should have run out of ink in four more days,” Josen said. He slipped the little knife into its sheath. “Shall we go out to the wall?"

They went to the stair. Tryg's voice floated up to them from the arch. “The caravans don't come on the west road,” he said. “It can't be the traders."

Morven was standing in the inner ward, frowning at the young guard's words. The ramparts were crowded with soldiers and stablehands, scullions and chambermaids. Morven looked impatient. Propriety demanded that he wait within the court. It did not befit the lord of the Keep to crane over his own walls.

The horn blew again. “It's a courier from Cloud Keep,” said a man's voice.

“Naw. It's a flock of sheep!” said another. Below the wall, the dogs were barking up a storm. “Hey, let someone else get a look, there."

Josen said, “Can you see anything?"

“Nothing but a lot of backs,” Kerris said. He was only a little taller than Josen. The horn blared its message at the day. Kerris took firm hold of a protruding bit of stone and hauled himself up within the nearest embrasure.

“Careful,” said Josen.

Kerris braced his feet against the crenel. He looked east. No wagons wallowed along the road. He looked west. He saw riders. He counted. There were seven of them, and one horse without a rider. The foremost rode a ways ahead, and sunlight reflected from his hair, which was thick blond and waist-length, and tied back with the red scarf of a cheari.

“What do you see?"

Josen's voice seemed to come from very far away. The folk on the wall exclaimed to each other. Kerris’ legs shook. He knew them: Jensie, Riniard beside her, Elli and Ilene like shadows, Calwin, sturdy and small, Arillard, silent and austere.... He sat down hard in the gap between the merlons. He knew them all.

“What is it?” said Josen.

“Hey, Kerris, say something,” urged Tryg.

They waited for him to answer. He lifted his chin. “It's a chearas."

There was no need for him to tell them which.

Two

Morven welcomed the chearis in the hall. Kerris watched from the tower window as they moved across the inner ward, walking with that unbelievable grace. They wore woolen tunics and supple riding pants under which the cloth of trousers showed, and tall riding boots.

In a little while a page came to the tower stairs. He bore a message: a summons for Kerris. As he walked across the court Kerris saw heads pop out of windows to stare at him. The guards on the battlement watched curiously.

Both hall doors were drawn back, flooding the hall with sunlight. The chearas stood at the head of the hall, near the commanders’ table. Temeth the Yardmaster, a hard faced, silent man whom Kerris did not know at all, save by sight, stood beside Morven.

Kerris bowed to his uncle. “You sent for me, sir."

The sunlight reflecting off the ancient tapestries seemed to flow toward Kel. The other chearis made a semicircle at his back.

“Yes,” said Morven. He rubbed his hands together, a gesture Kerris had never seen him make. “Come here, boy.” He never called Kerris “boy.” “It gives me great pleasure to be able to introduce you to your older brother. This is he,” he said to Kel.

Funny, Kerris thought, in all the times I've shared his thoughts I've never seen his face....

“You've grown since last I saw you,” said Kel.

His voice was lower and more melodious than Kerris had thought it. His eyes were gray. He was taller than Kerris, taller than Morven.

Kerris said, “I was younger then."

“You were a babe.” Kel stretched out a hand. “It's taken me a long time to come north, but I always meant to,” he said. “I've come to take you south with me, if you'll go. Will you?"

Kerris’ breath jumped in his throat. Wetting his lips, he looked at Morven. “My lord, have I your permission to leave?"

Morven smoothed the embroidered collar of his shirt. “You're not a child. I'll be loth to have you gone, of course. It may be difficult to replace you, we shall have to write to the Scholars’ Guild for a clerk—” He glanced at Kel and took a breath. “But brother is dearer than uncle. Certainly you may go."

Kel made a turning gesture of his outstretched hand and wrist. Kerris jumped as Riniard appeared at his side. “If you won't mind company,” said Riniard, “I'll help you pack."

“Now?” Kerris said.

“Now,” said the cheari.

Leaving Kel was like leaving the sun. Numbly Kerris led the way across the Keep to the tower stairs. Josen was not in the little room. Kerris wondered if he was still on the rampart.

Riniard glanced at the two beds and at the long table. “You live here?” he said.

“Yes,” Kerris said. “I'm a scribe."

Riniard moved around the chamber like a fox in a cage. He tapped the iron window frame with one fist. “I'd go mad here,” he said cheerfully. “Which is your bed?"

Kerris pointed to it. Riniard pulled the woolen blanket from the linen sheet. He knelt on the floor and folded it once the long way. “Bring a warm cloak,” he instructed. “Clothing, tinderbox and flints, any trinkets you want with you—"

Kerris’ cloak was in the cedar chest under the windows. He went to get it. The familiar smell of cedar dust made his throat ache. Holding the heavy lid with his shoulder, he turned over the clothes in the chest. He took out a second linen shirt, a wool tunic that Paula had made him, his sheepskin cloak, and his riding leathers. The rust-colored leathers were stiff from lack of use. “Are we leaving soon?” he asked, bringing tunic and cloak to Riniard.

Shaking the cloak out, Riniard rolled it deftly in the folds of the blanket. “Immediately,” he said.

“But—you'll stay to dance—"

“No,” said the redhead. He patted a fold of the blanket. “The day's young, and we've ground to cover. Sefer's waiting at Elath, and Kel's in a hurry.” He rolled the blanket into a tight wad. “Got a string?” Kerris found a leather lace. Riniard tied the blanket roll. He stood up, holding it under his arm. “Better put those on,” he said, nodding toward the leathers. Kerris obeyed, though he disliked dressing with anyone looking on. “Where's your knife?"

Kerris pushed the metal tang of the buckle into the belt hole with his thumb, and pulled the tongue of the belt through the metal loop. When he finished, he looked at Riniard. “I haven't one.” He steeled himself for a look of contempt, or pity.

Riniard simply lifted one auburn eyebrow. “Oh.” He turned toward the door. “Shall we go?” Kerris followed him. His heart was beating overfast, and the leathers flapped uncomfortably against his legs on the way down the stair.

Josen had vanished; he was not on the rampart. Paula was waiting for him in the inner ward. In the open air she seemed more frail than in the kitchen. Kerris put his arm around her shoulders and laid his lips against her cheek.

She pushed at him. "Chelito." Her voice was soft. “It's good you're going.” She passed a hand across his forehead. “You don't belong here, you never did. This is too cold a country."

He hugged her again. “Kerris,” murmured Riniard. Kerris lifted his head. Morven was coming from the hall. Behind him, walking in pairs like soldiers, came the chearis.

“I'll write to you,” he said to Paula.

“Hah,” she said. “You'll forget me—and you should. Don't write, boy. I can't see to read."

Kel said courteously to Morven, “Thank you for the provisions, my lord. I'm sorry we can't stay, but we're in a hurry."

“We are honored by even this short a visit,” said Morven. He nodded in a friendly way toward Kerris. “Good luck. If your brother sets too stiff a pace for you, come on back."

Kerris looked at Kel. His brother's lips twitched. “I'll moderate my pace,” he said. “You needn't worry, my lord."

“Your horses are at the gate,” Morven said.

The chearis made for the gate. Kerris glanced back at Paula. She sat like a cenotaph. Only her eyes lived. Go on, they said.

“You can ride, can't you?” Riniard said. He led Kerris to a glossy black mare. “This is Magrita. I trained her myself. She's part steppe horse and part desert breed: the best of both, I think. She's sweet as cream, aren't you, lady?” The mare's ears pricked forward intelligently. Kerris rubbed her jaw. She poked her nose into his palm. “She's quick, too,” said Riniard.

“I can ride,” Kerris said.

Riniard tied the blanket roll to the cantle of the saddle for him.

“Yo!” The cry and the sound of running feet whipped the chearis round. Tryg jogged up. “Excuse me,” he said. He extended both hands. “This is for Kerris, from Josen."

Kerris went to see what it was. It was a knife in a worked leather sheath. The chearis gathered to look at it. The hilt was dimpled bone. On it was carved the southern rune for the letter “K."

Kerris held it uncertainly. There was a loop on the open end of the sheath. Kel said, “It should be worn.” He held out a hand. “May I?” Kerris laid it in his palm. “Open your belt,” Kel said. As Kerris worked the belt and buckle apart, Kel drew the knife. Someone—perhaps Josen—had greased the leather. The blade slid out with deadly ease. It was patterned by the hammer and honed to a fine edge on both sides—bright, beautiful. Kel slipped the sheathed blade onto Kerris’ belt. He stepped back a pace to let Kerris do up the buckle.

Tryg was waiting. “Tell Josen my thanks,” Kerris said. He fingered the sheath. The weight of the knife hung strangely against his right thigh. He felt tears gather behind his eyelids.

“I will,” said Tryg. He smiled shyly. “Take care of yourself."

“I'll take care,” Kerris said. Tryg hesitated, and then took a step toward him. Quickly, they embraced. Tryg's hands were hard and his clothes smelled of saddle grease. He strode back under the gate. Kerris watched him disappear. When he turned to face the chearas, he felt shaken.

Kel touched his shoulder. It drew him momentarily into their circle. “Let's ride, chearis. I want to make Galbareth in seven days.” Kerris checked the length of the mare's stirrups. It looked right for him. Gripping the rein, he swung into the saddle. Magrita stood rock-still. He had expected her to try to sidle out from under him. He stroked her neck and told her she was a good girl.

“She is, isn't she,” said Riniard, pleased.

Kel rode a tall red stallion. He turned the horse's head at the gate. “Hey, Callito,” he said. The guards lifted their pikes in salute Kel waved. “Farewell the Keep,” he called. Kerris thought, I should say something. Nothing came to mind. He pressed his knees into Magrita's flanks. The chearis moved. As they swept under the arch of the outer wall, flags billowed in the wind. Kerris glanced up. Heads bobbed on the ramparts. The company reached the roadway. Dust spurted lightly beneath Magrita's nimble feet.

* * * *

The road was dusty and sunny, and ridged with old ruts. Kerris wet his lips as the shifting wind blew dust across them. There had been no rain for eight days; the grass along the road was brown and limp with the heat. They crossed the bridge over the Rurian. The horses’ hooves clattered on the wood. After the bridge the road curved left, following the curve of the river as it swung east. Kerris looked back. The Keep dominated the view. He looked west. Smoke from the fires of Tornor village rose into the air. Between the road and the village marched a dark bristly stand of dwarf pines.

Riniard had fallen back after the bridge crossing. He was riding beside Jensie, teasing her about something. Kerris heard her laugh. It was a beautiful laugh, like water running. Shyly he looked at the woman riding beside him now. She wore a yellow shirt. She saw his eyes on her and grinned. “Hi,” she said. “I'm Elli."

He almost said, I know. He caught himself. “You know my name."

“Yes,” she said. “This is Tula,” she added, patting the arching neck of her dun. “But don't feel disadvantaged. We don't know much about you Kel told us some, but even he doesn't know a lot.” She cocked her head to one side as she spoke. She was straight as a spear shaft in the saddle. Her skin was creamy brown. Her hair was curly and very black

Kerris thought, I know more about you than you do about me. He knew that she and Jensie had both joined the chearas a year ago, that Cal had been in it three years, that Jensie and Riniard were lovers, that Arillard and Ilene and Kel had fought together against the Asech, that Riniard was the newest of the chearis.

“We've been separated a long time,” he said.

“Kel said that. You were taken north when you were a baby, while he was fighting on the border, and you were there during the raids, and all the time he studied with Zayin.” Kerris did not know who Zayin was. “Your arm was taken off in an Asech raid, and you're sixteen? Seventeen?"

“Seventeen,” Kerris said. The casual reference to his deformity had made him tense. “How old are you?"

“Oh, I'm ancient. I'm twenty."

“That's not old,” called Riniard from behind her.

“Older than you, scamp!” she retorted.

“By a year, only a year!” Riniard said.

Talking was distracting; Kerris was just as pleased to let others do it. The dwarf pines dwindled at their backs, merging forest with village, village with hills. Now all he could see was steppe. It lay brown and barren on all sides. Except beside the river, the grass was nubby where the sheep had grazed it down. He smelled the earth smell. It was stronger than wine. Cicadas trilled in the grass. A hawk, wings spread, sailed the azure sky from east to west. The road coiled over the plain. They passed farmhouses, sheep, an occasional shepherd, but save for the soaring birds they were the only travelers. Steadily they moved over the flat brown world, attended by the wind and the light.

In late afternoon Kel called a halt. Kerris slid gratefully from Magrita's back. His thighs were sore, despite the protection of the leather, and his arm ached from the back of his neck to his fingertips. He sat in the tall pale grass, working his fingers to get them to uncramp.

Kel and Calwin took the horses to the river. The chearis sat in a circle. The insect murmur, which had paused, resumed.

“I've got blisters on my calluses,” said Jensie. She lay flat on her back, head resting in Riniard's lap.

“I've got calluses on my blisters,” said Elli.

“Complain, complain,” said Riniard, stroking Jensie's hair.

“I'm sick of sleeping in fields,” said Jensie. “I like beds."

Kel tramped from the river, Cal at his heels. “You can sleep in a bed when we get to Elath,” he said. His boots were muddy. He folded down between Ilene and Kerris. His shirt was open to mid-chest, and the sun glowed along the fine smooth line of his neck. “Here.” He tossed a pouch in Elli's lap.

She opened it. “Yum.” It was filled with strips of jerky. Taking two, she passed one to Kerris.

“Thanks,” he said. Slowly he chewed the salty, pungent meat.

A waterskin went round the circle. When it got to Kerris, it was half full. He lifted it to his lips. It wobbled. Kel steadied it for him. The liquid was tepid but sweet. He passed the skin to Elli.

She hefted it. “You are all pigs."

“There's more in the river,” said Riniard. She drank and made a sour face at him.

Arillard lay with his arm over his eyes. Elli poked his ribs, gently. “Hey, old man,” she said. “Water."

He stretched out a long arm for the skin and drank silently. He was hound-thin, the tallest of the chearis. There were streaks of gray in his long dark hair.

Cal tossed something—it looked like two bits of stone—into the air, and caught it in his palm. “Want to play?” he said to Elli.

She shrugged. “I'm not in the mood."

Kel said quietly in Kerris’ ear, “Are you very sore?"

“No."

“Good."

The music of the water seemed louder. Fumbling for the pack, Kerris took a second silver of dried meat. He sucked it pliant. The sun was warm, and the grass was softer than straw. He lay back, shading his eyes with his arm. He closed his eyes for a moment.... When he woke, Kel had vanished, and Elli was shaking him. “Wake up,” she said. “We have to go on."

He blinked. The sun had moved. His eyes felt crusty. He rubbed them. “I dozed off."

“You did that,” Elli said.

Riniard loomed over them. “Sluggards,” he said.

"Yai!" said Elli. Hooking her ankle around his, she jerked the redhead's leg out from under him. He fell. Kerris yanked his own legs back Twisting in air, Riniard landed on his side. His right arm slapped the ground. He bounded to his feet.

“Very neat,” he said.

“Bah,” said Elli. Standing, she extended one hand to Kerris. He gripped it. Her fingers were warm and strong. “Ready?” she said, and without waiting for his answer, pulled him up.

* * * *

They passed a crossroads and a village. Women with great woven baskets filled with clothes waved at them from the riverside. A cart went rattling by them, piled with peeled logs. The road widened. In places a rock fence separated it from fields and pastures. Kerris wondered where they were. The landscape was still bare, grassy and flat. He asked Elli, “Are we close to Galbareth?"

She shook her head. “Four more days."

They did not rest again. When they stopped, at sunset, Kerris was drooping with exhaustion. His head felt too heavy for his neck, and his back ached. Someone took Magrita's rein out of his tired fingers. He did not resist. Dimly he was aware of lights, people milling around him, the smell of food and of sheep. His boot struck a rock. He stumbled. A hand closed round his upper arm and kept him from falling. It was Kel. His brother released him and patted his shoulder. “Rest soon,” he said.

A dark-haired woman in coarse clothes came up to Kel. She bowed, palms pressed together in front of her chest. “May I speak with you for a moment, skayin?"

“You mistake,” Kel said gently. “I am no teacher. But certainly."

“We need to know how many you are and if there will be room for you in the hall."

“We are seven—no, eight,” Kel said. “How large is the hall? Show me.” He strode away.

Kerris leaned on a post. The cooking odors made his stomach curl. A dog rushed out of an alley to bark at the strangers. “Hey,” said Elli. “Are you all right?"

“Just tired,” Kerris mumbled. He straightened. The gray buildings were squat and ugly in the sunset light. “Where are we?"

“It's a town, called Brath. They're going to house us and feed us.” She flexed her head on her neck, and stretched her arms till her shoulders popped. A boy came running from the stable. Swerving to avoid the post, he brushed against Kerris. He backed off, eyes wide, mouthing apologies. Kerris thought, He must think I'm part of the chearas!

The hall was dark. It smelled faintly of wine. Kerris sat on a bench. A light flared near him; he shut his eyes. He felt the warmth of a body beside him suddenly and fingers poked him lightly in the ribs. “Hey,” Kel said. “Don't go to sleep. You'll miss the fun."

Kerris opened his eyes. Kel had taken off his chaps. “I'm awake."

His brother's long fingers closed softly around his forearm. “Look,” he said. He poised their hands side by side. “Look at the pattern.” Except for the scars and Kel's hugely thickened wrist, the hands matched, curve for curve, wrinkle for wrinkle, nail for nail.

“Yes,” said Kerris.

Kel let him go and leaned back against the wall. He looked pleased about something and not tired at all. “Elli,” he said. Elli glanced up. She was unlacing her riding leathers. “Do I look like Kerris?"

Elli put her head on one side. “You're taller. His hair is darker.” She scratched her nose. “But yes, you do look alike."

“But—” Kerris said. “I don't think so."

“Neither of us would be a proper judge,” said Kel. “You look like Mother."

“Our mother?"

“Yes. You were three when she died, but I was twelve, and I remember her very well. You have her eyes.” He rose. Elli copied him. “You have to watch now,” Kel said. Kerris turned his head, following Kel's passage, wondering what it was he had to watch.

The room seemed unaccountably filled with people. Candles burned in iron sconces, throwing shadows everywhere. There was a clear space in the center of the room. The chearis made their circle inside it. Stamp! A boot hit the ground. The floor shivered. Stamp! Kel loosed his hair. Stamp! It cascaded down his back in a gold drape. He touched Ilene. They clasped hands, broke apart, linked, broke, turned—each movement quick and precise as a sword cut, following the stamped-out beat. The other chearis followed, meeting, turning, joining, whirling, making a pattern, a chain of grace, brilliant as a tapestry. Kel linked with Elli, parted, linked with Riniard, fell back from him, met Ilene, followed her. Riniard spun in a fiery circle. Jensie and Elli mirrored each other's movements. Kel leaped between them. Elli linked with Arillard, Calwin teased Jensie to follow him around the swirling pattern, Riniard and Ilene and Kel met and played and leaped—whirled—pulsed—linked—broke—stamped together with a shout—and froze. They stood like statues, breathing hard, fingertips touching, faces and clothing wet with sweat.

All the hairs on Kerris’ neck were on end. He was standing. He couldn't remember getting up. The villagers were shouting and stamping their appreciation. The chearis smiled Kerris started toward them, and then sat down on the floor. His legs were suddenly shaky.

The crowd thinned as Kel strode through it. His fair skin gleamed with sweat. He put a hand on Kerris’ shoulder. “Did you like it?"

“Yes,” Kerris said. “Yes, I liked it."

Elli flung herself to the ground beside him. She was breathing in great panting breaths. “Short and sweet and oh, I'm tired,” she said. “What did you think, Kerris?"

Kel answered for him. “He's my brother; of course he liked it."

Shyly the villagers came in with plates of food: bread, berries, meat pies, cheese. The chearis crowded to the platters, fighting for the wine Kel said to Ilene, “That beat can go faster.” She bent her head. He drummed his fingers on the floor. Kerris listened to the laughter, awed by the chearis’ resilience. He did not comprehend how they could dance after having ridden the whole day over mountains and the steppe. Elli put a chunk of bread in his hand. He ate it without tasting it. His eyes felt filled with sand. He was drowning with weariness.

“Hey, Kel!” It was Riniard, calling over his head.

A hand cupped his chin and lifted it. He blinked into his brother's eyes.

“Tired?” Kel said softly.

“Yes I'm not used to riding.” Kel's hand was warm. He was not used to being touched, either, he thought, but Kel's hands on him felt right That was silly.

“You need to sleep. Elli, where did you put Kerris’ bedroll?"

“In the corner, there,” said Elli.

“Is it far?” he asked, like a child.

Kel chuckled. “No,” he said, kneeling. “Relax, and I'll take you to it."

An arm slid under his knees. A second arm curled round his shoulders. The world swung dizzyingly. “Hey,” he said.

“That's all,” said Kel. “Lie still, chelito.” Kerris lay quiet, warmed by the word of endearment.... Kel pulled his boots off, unlaced his chaps, slipped the knife from his belt. His blanket touched his chin. It smelled like Tornor. Fingers caressed his forehead. Sleep, they commanded. Kerris slept.

Three

Kerris was dreaming.

He dreamed that his brother had come to Tornor, and that he, Kerris, had gone with him, away from the Keep. In his dream a voice was singing. "I am a stranger in an outland country, I am an exile wherever I go...." The words broke off. Kerris opened his eyes. His clothes were sticky. He turned his head to one side, expecting to see Josen pottering about the tower room. Elli knelt beside him, rolling up her bedroll.

She grinned at him. “Remember us?"

“Uh.” He stretched. He ached terribly. “Wuh."

“It's morning. We'll be leaving in a while. Did you hear Ilene singing?"

“Yes.” Kerris propped himself up on his elbow. Riniard waved to him across the room. He was carrying two bedrolls, his own and Jensie's. He stumped out the door; Kerris heard him calling.

“Do you remember where you are?” Elli said gently.

“A town.” He sat up.

“Brath,” Elli said. “This is the village hall.” Kerris nodded. The benches had been pushed back to give the chearis sleeping space. The wooden walls were smooth with wear and age, and they shone like brass. The hall smelled of tallow and wine. “We danced here last night, remember?” Kerris remembered. It was not a dream, then. It was real. He caught his breath, speechless with delight and elation.

Jensie stuck her head through the doorway. “Food outside,” she said.

Elli tucked her bedroll under her arm. “I'll save you some.” She strode out. Kerris rubbed his face. A spotted cat sat on a bench, washing its face. Someone was still asleep, snoring softly into the folds of a bedroll. Kerris stared at the sleeper. He decided it was Cal. He looked again around the hall, half-expecting the amber walls to dissolve into Tornor's dark gray stone. He felt for his boots and touched the stiff leather of his belt. Lifting it, he felt the weight of the knife Josen had given him. It too was real, no dream. He fumbled it into place. He pulled on his boots and laced his leather chaps around his thighs. The cat leaped from the bench and padded over to Cal. It sniffed his hair. Kerris rolled his blanket into a clumsy ball. With the knife banging lightly against his right thigh, he went to join the chearas.

The chearis stood in their circle around a fire. A dark-haired woman stood with them. Kerris recognized her: she had spoken with Kel the previous night, bowing to him, calling him teacher, skayin. A short man with huge shoulders was talking with Kel. Sausages browned on wooden spits over the flames. Kerris’ stomach rumbled. He let his bedroll fall and pressed into the circle between Ilene and Elli.

The short man glanced at him for a moment. Kerris wondered who he was. He wore brown trousers and a cream-colored shirt. A knife swung from his belt. The sheath was worn with handling. The dark-haired woman wore trousers, too, and soft leather boots with no heels. Her face was calm and pleasant. Her gestures were graceful as she turned the spits.

Covertly, Kerris watched his brother. His hair was tied back with the red scarf, and his chin was newly shaven. His hands danced in the air. He mimed drawing a knife. The short man nodded. They were talking fighting, then, or weaponry.

Ilene said, “Kerris, is Calwin still asleep?"

“He was when I left,” Kerris said.

“I'll wake him,” Ilene said. She left the circle.

Kel looked up. “Kerris. Let me introduce you to our host.” Kel nodded at the dark-haired woman. “This is Sura, headwoman of Brath. This is Maroc, Yardmaster.” Kerris smiled politely at them, wondering why Kel bothered to introduce him. He was no cheari. “This is my brother."

Sura handed him a spit.

“Thank you,” he said. He saw Maroc's dark eyes move from his face to his empty sleeve. Quickly he bit into the sausage. The meat was hot and spicy. Grease ran down the spit and over his chin. “This is delicious,” he said.

Sura said, “We are honored by your pleasure. Your dance last night was beautiful."

Elli answered. “Thank you."

“Where do you go now?"

“South,” Elli said. “We'll cross Galbareth."

“Do you go by Tezera?"

“No. We'll swing west, around Lake Aruna."

The headwoman nodded. “I know that country."

“Do you know it well?” Elli asked.

“I was born on Lake Aruna.” She turned her head. Something winked in her hair. Kerris glimpsed a bronze pin in the shape of a feather. “Excuse me.” She left them.

Elli brushed Kerris’ arm. “Lake Aruna is beautiful,” she said. “Wait till you see it."

Kerris wondered how long it would take to get there. He ate the rest of the sausage. The spice in the meat made his eyes water.

Kel and the Yardmaster clasped hands. Two boys appeared, leading the chearis’ horses on a string. “Let's go,” said Kel. Picking up his bedroll, Kerris shook the dust from it. Elli mounted Tula and caught hold of Magrita's rein. The black mare stretched her nose toward Kerris and whickered. He scratched her jaw. Her coat shone; she looked vigorous and rested. Kerris fastened his bedroll to the saddle. Mounting, he took the rein from Elli. Sura waved from the steps of the hall. The villagers watched from their fields as the chearis rode past.

At the boundary marker of the town, Ilene started to sing again.

* * * *

They rode all morning. The countryside was steppe, bare and flat, broken by farms and barns and fields fenced with stone. Kerris’ spine hurt. He wondered what he would feel like after another whole day of riding.

He looked back. The mountains thrust gray peaks into the sky as if they made a wall around the world. Birds wheeled overhead. The sun was warm. He loosened the lacings of his tunic. Magrita's gait was gentle. Slowly he relaxed into the saddle.

"The hills and stars are my companions," Ilene sang. "And all I do, I do alone."

“Kerris,” said Elli.

“Hmm?"

“How does it feel, to be away from Tornor?"

He said, “It feels good."

They passed a cart loaded with sacks. The driver waved at the chearis. “May the peace of the chea be with you!” she called.

“And with you,” Kel called back. It was a greeting Kerris had never heard before.

The road grew wider. Parts of it were edged with brick. On one side of it lay fields of trellised vines. Kerris asked Elli what they were. “Grapes,” she said. On the other side of the road trees marched in orderly rows, their gnarled boughs thick with white blossoms. “Apple trees,” Elli said. Kerris breathed deeply. The blossoms’ scent lingered in the air, heady and strong as wine.

At midday they came to a river. It was shallow and swift. A broad, rutted path led to the water's edge. “This is the Narrows,” Kel said. “It's shallow here, we can ford it.” He led the chearas into the stream. The water was so clear that Kerris could see the bright red and amber stones on the river bottom. The water swirled in lacy ruffles around Magrita's hocks.

They rode up the steep bank. A tall peaked roof appeared ahead of them, and another, and more. Kerris smelled sheep. A cart wheeled by them, laden with bales from which came the unmistakable odor of undyed wool.

They had entered a village. The building with the tallest roof had a sign swinging from a post in front of it. The picture on the sign was of a messenger, dressed in the cloak and lined hood of the green clan. The sign's lettering read: The Green Man.

“It's an inn,” said Ilene. “Shall we stop?"

The inn's windows, blue glass set in diamond-shaped frames, sparkled. Riniard said, “They'd have ale."

“I smell onions,” Elli said.

Arillard said quietly, “Remember the last inn we stopped at, near Tornor."

“That was an oddity,” said Elli. “It wouldn't happen here. Folk in the south are used to us."

Kerris wondered what they were talking about. He glanced at Kel. His brother was frowning.

He remembered the heavy red face of the farmboy who had challenged him. His hands tightened on Callito's rein. “Maybe we shouldn't..."

Kerris’ vision blurred. He held hard to the pommel of his saddle, fighting the weakness that threatened to pitch him from Magrita's back. I thought it would stop, he thought. I want it to stop. Voices babbled at him. Magrita moved uneasily. He fumbled for the rein. The back of his neck was wet, and his head hurt as if it were about to split.

Two hands gripped his shoulders, hard. “Kerris. Kerris.” It was his brother's voice. The separation reestablished itself. He caught his breath and lifted his head.

Kel had muscled Callito next to Magrita. “It's all right,” he said. “It's over."

So Kel could feel it, too! Kerris pulled himself straight. He said, “I thought—when you came—it would end."

“That's not the way it works,” Kel said. “Do you know what it is?"

“No."

“It's called inspeech."

Behind him, Riniard said plaintively, “What is this?"

“Shush,” said Ilene.

Inspeech Kerris said the strange word to himself. “I—I never knew. Josen couldn't tell me what it was. He's a scholar."

Kel said, “He wouldn't know. The name is not well known. Have you ever heard of witches, or witch-gifts? Inspeech is a witch's skill. Our mother Alis had it. You have it from her. Don't be afraid of it."

His voice was gentle as if he were reassuring a child. “I'm not afraid,” Kerris said stiffly. “I was surprised."

“I've known for years you were an inspeaker,” Kel said. He grinned. “I remember the first time I felt you reach to me. I was making love. I was dumbfounded. I didn't know what had happened. Sefer had to tell me."

Kerris flushed. He had forgotten. He remembered now—lying in his bed in the watchtower, trembling in the aftermath of passion not his own, terrified and confused, not knowing what was happening to his mind or his body. Only later had he come to know that what he had experienced could be had another way, that it had nothing to do with the fits, or with Kel.... He grew conscious of the chearas overhearing every word. “Will it go away?” he said.

“It doesn't usually,” Kel said. “It's yours. You can use it or not, as you choose. When we get to Elath you'll understand more. I'll take you to the school."

“Am I—am I a witch?” Kerris said.

Kel patted his arm. “You are."

A dog wandered out to the porch of the inn. Baring its teeth at the strangers, it began to bark. A man with a soiled apron around his waist came out and kicked the animal solidly in the ribs. Yelping, it scrambled from the steps. The aproned man eyed the travelers, smiling broadly. “I've room for eight!” he called.

Ilene said, “Since we're here, let's stop."

“All right,” said Kel. He dismounted Kerris slid from Magrita's back to stand beside him. His spine ached, and his legs felt permanently bowed. Kel touched his shoulder. “Don't worry about it,” he said. “We'll talk later.” When there are not so many ears to listen, his tone implied.

“Yes,” Kerris said.

Kel looked him up and down. “Tired?"

Kerris straightened his back. “Not really,” he said.

Kel's nod was approving. “Morven underestimated your endurance."

As they walked toward the inn, Kerris grew aware that Riniard was looking at him oddly. So his friends in the Keep had looked at him, when they pranced off to join the fighting circles, and he could not.... Lifting his chin, he stared back at the redheaded cheari. Riniard looked away, blinking nervously.

I am a witch, Kerris thought.

The innkeeper came down the porch steps. He bowed with his palms pressed together. The top of his head was bald. Kerris thought of the Egg. Did all cooks lose their hair? “Welcome, chearis! You honor us.” A tall boy came round the corner of the house. “We will see to your horses. Come in.” He beckoned the chearas up the steps. The doors swung inward, hinges squeaking. The room was hot and noisy and smelled of onions. As the chearis walked in, there was a sudden lull in the talk.

The innkeeper covered it. “Welcome to The Green Man. You'll have heard of us on the road, we've a good name. Cora, bring ale!” he called. Kerris gazed curiously at the people at the tables. Dressed in traveling boots and cloaks, they looked very like the folk of Tornor village. The innkeeper led the chearis to a round table and brought chairs for them himself. An aproned girl—his daughter by the look of her—set a pitcher of foamy ale in the center of the table. The innkeeper brought mugs. Ilene poured. Kerris lifted his mug to his lips. The foam made his nose itch. The ale was tart and creamy. When he set the mug down, he found. Kel smiling at him across the table.

The smile emboldened him. “That man—at the inn. The one you fought."

“Yes?"

“Did you kill him?"

Kel shook his head. “No. Chearis don't kill."

The food was mutton and onions, served in a savory sauce. The chearis ate quickly. The innkeeper would not accept the coins Kel offered him for the meal. “We are honored by your visit. Come again,” he said.

As they rode from the inn, Kerris noticed a youth in the street staring after them, eyes bright with wonder. “Is it always like this?” he said to Elli. “People bowing, and not letting you pay for food?"

“It varies. In the cities folk are less awed by the red clan. And there are always those who think we deserve no honor at all, like that fool in the inn near Tornor, who thought that anyone could be a cheari."

“It wasn't always like this,” Ilene said, turning around. “Once dancers had little honor in Arun, and the Yards were only for combat. The chea was unknown, or forgotten. We were more intent upon killing than upon building and learning."

Kerris remembered the thick stone walls of Tornor, holed with arrow slits, and the faded legacy of the tapestries on the walls. “The killing stopped when the chearis came,” he said.

Arillard, at the back of the procession, lifted his voice. “Wars stopped,” he said. “The killing only lessened."

Elli said in an undertone to Kerris, “Arillard's family, his wife and children, were killed in an Asech raid ten years ago, near Shanan."

Kel said, “There are Anhard's soldiers in the city guard at Kendra-on-the-Delta."

“The truce between Anhard and Arun was not made by chearis,” said Arillard.

“But it was kept by chearis,” said Kel. “We fought Anhard for three hundred years."

“We have fought the Asech for at least that long"

“Border skirmishes,” Kel said “Caravan raids."

The exchange had the feel of an old disagreement. Neither man raised his voice. But Kerris sensed a tension in the chearas that had not been present a moment before.

Ilene said, “Kel holds with the scholars, who say wars ceased in Arun when the armies went home."

Arillard said, “I don't think such distinctions matter—especially not to the dead."

There was a little pause. Kel said, “We all have our dead."

Arillard was gazing down. Kerris could not see his face. He said, “That's true."

A butterfly with orange wings dipped across Magrita's withers and fluttered into the trees. Kerris thought of his own dead. He supposed he ought to hate the Asech for killing his mother. It was hard to hate a whole people, especially people he had never met.

“There are no more armies in Arun,” said Elli. “That dream held."

“Whose dream was it?” Kerris asked.

She hesitated, and then said, “We say it was the vision of the first cheari, that there would be no armies in Arun."

“Who was the first cheari?” He had asked the same question of Josen. He did not expect an answer.

To his astonishment, Elli looked at Ilene. “You tell him."

Ilene stroked the neck of her bay. “This is clan history,” she said. “We do not often tell it to outsiders. The first cheari was a warrior and a scholar. His family name has been lost, but we know that he came from Kendra-on-the-Delta."

If Josen could only hear this! Kerris thought.

“He made a home in the Red Hills, and built a village in a valley. The men and women he gathered to him became the first chearis. The valley took his name, and became Van's valley, Vanima."

“I thought it was legend!” Kerris said.

“No,” said Ilene “It's history. Before he died, Van named a successor, and she named hers, and so on. Zayin is sixth in succession to Van, and he still lives in the valley. I don't think he has ever left it. Kel and I trained under him for four years. He named us chearis."

A whip cracked behind them, and they moved to the roadside to let a wagon pass. Riniard said, “Are you still talking about the old man, Ilene? Give over!"

Ilene's lips pressed together. Kel frowned. Elli said, “Riniard's jealous, that's all. He didn't train with Zayin."

Kel said, “Perhaps so. Riniard, would you say that to Zayin's face?"

“Not likely,” said the redhead.

“Then don't say it to mine."

There was a small pause. Riniard muttered something that might have been I'm sorry. The wagon waddled by them, laden with barrels. The driver called greeting. “May the peace of the chea be on you!” A light wind riffled the trees and a petal floated to Kerris’ knee. I am a witch, he thought again. He reached out his forefinger and touched the fragile blossom.

At sunset they forded the second river. “This is Broad Rush,” Kel said. The water was indeed broad and swift and it looked very deep.

“Do we swim it here?” Kerris asked, trying not to show how nervous the prospect made him. The water had a flat green hue.

“We don't swim it at all,” said Kel. He pointed across the stream. In the red twilight Kerris had to squint. He saw what looked to be a man standing on a large flat rock.... The man waved and cried a cheerful halloo. The rock detached itself from the bank and became a boat, a barge. Swiftly the ferryman poled across the water and brought the barge neatly under the chearis’ noses. There were two ferrymen: a tall man and a boy. They were both barefoot. The barge was big, with sides to keep loose cargo from sliding. It was easily big enough for eight people and their horses. The ferrymen threw looped ropes over stumps to hold it fast against the bank.

“Hai, chearis,” said the man. He wore a dirty rag twisted around his hair. “You honor my barge."

“Can you take us all in one trip?” said Kel.

“Easily, easily. Hai, it's been busy this day. We took a whole caravan of the blue clan across on their way to the Keeps."

“That was yesterday, Pa,” said the boy.

“Was it? So it was. Ai, just bring the beasts on, steadily now."

The chearis dismounted. Kerris took firm hold on Magrita's rein. The wet rocking planks made him nervous. Ilene's bay did not want to move and had to be coaxed on. The barge smelled dank. The ferrymen pulled the ropes from the stumps and pushed off. Water leaked up through cracks in the flooring. Kerris wondered if the others could swim. He watched the dark water swirl past. From the middle of the river it looked much broader than it had looked from the bank. The ferryman talked about the caravan. Kerris wondered if it would eventually arrive in Tornor. He felt a little stab of homesickness for Josen, for Paula, for Tryg. Magrita nudged him, impatient to be away from this odd place, and he stroked her to quiet her. The barge scraped bottom. He tensed. They had reached the other side.

The far bank was steep; they led the horses off one by one onto a rickety wooden dock. It smelled rotten, and the planks were covered with moss.

Punctiliously Kel offered payment. The ferryman waved it away. “Na, na. It's bad luck. Peace to you!"

Night birds called from the fields. Kerris slumped over Magrita's neck, hoping they did not have far to go. The river noise faded. He smelled the perfume of the apple trees, stronger now than in daylight. He wondered why they were still riding in the near-dark. Ahead of him Kel and Ilene consulted in low tones.

Kel pointed. “This way,” he called, turning Callito off the path.

In a little while they were sharing food and water round a fire in some farmer's fallow field.

* * * *

“Fine silks, light silks, who'll buy my silks, scarlet ribbons, blue ribbons, gold thread, silver thread, light silks, fine silks, who'll buy, come buy..."

“Tough pots, see my pots, no scars, no stains, no dents, no cracks, copper pots, iron pots, stone pots, clay pots, come see..."

“Fresh fish, river fish, silverbacks, trout, carp, red eels, mudfish, fresh fish, come see, who'll buy my fish..."

“Fine ale, red wine, white wine, sweet wine, come taste, come smell, come see, fine pots, light silks, no stains, no scars, red eels, fresh fish, gold thread, come see, come taste, who'll buy..."

The crossroads was jammed. Kerris tightened his knees on Magrita's smooth sides. Everywhere he looked, and down the road as far as he could see, were caravans, with throngs of people ringing them round, and men and women shouting, each calling the virtues of their wares. The smell of fish frying steamed in the hot air, mingling with the scents of men and horses and wine. The caravans gleamed blue, their wood freshly painted, ribbons rippling in the breeze.

A woman tugged at Kerris’ foot. “Fine grapes, new grapes, pennies a bunch—” He shook his head and urged Magrita onward, trying to stay at Callito's back. He had never seen so many people in one place. He saw a tall man swinging a long bladed sword for an admiring crowd, a woman with bells on her wrists and ankles dancing on a piece of red cloth, a juggler spinning plates on sticks, a man with smoke, blue smoke, coming smoothly out of his mouth.... Callito paused. Kerris drew Magrita up beside the big red horse.

“Where are we?” he shouted.

Kel grinned. “This is the Tezera crossroads. That way”—he swung his arm east—“leads to the city. The whole Tezera road, from here to the city gates, is lined with traders and players of all sorts. Here.” He tossed a coin to a woman tending a stall. She flung something up to him. He caught it and passed it to Kerris.

It was a fruit of some kind, with a hard green rind around it. Kerris tore the rind away with his teeth. He sucked at the fruit. It was pulpy and tart. He spat a seed toward the ground.

Kel was watching him. “Like it?"

“Yes."

Kel bought a bag. “They're better than water when you're thirsty,” he said.

The merchants’ chants—"fine ale, white wine, come taste, red eels, no dents, fine silks, who'll buy” — made Kerris’ head rock. He sucked some more of the pulpy fruit through the hole in the rind. He looked around for the others. Ilene was behind him. Elli and Cal were watching the juggler. Riniard was over under a blue canopy, near the man with the smoke coming out of his mouth.

“What's that?” Kerris said, pointing toward the man with the sword. “What's he doing?"

Kel laughed. “He's showing off. He's from Anhard."

Magrita's ears went back and she snorted. Kerris grabbed the rein. A dark-haired woman with rings in her ears slid past. “Sorry,” she said. She wore a scarf of red and mottled gold around her neck. The scarf moved. It was a snake.

Kerris said, “That woman has a snake on her head."

“She's from one of the Asech tribes,” said Kel.

Kerris swung round to stare at the woman, but she had vanished. Involuntarily his left hand went to his stump. His rein lifted. Obedient to the signal, Magrita stood still. Kerris dropped his hand, but not before Kel turned and saw it.

He pointed in the direction the woman had taken. “There's an Asech tent over there. You can see the poles sticking out of the top.” His voice was casual but clear.

Kerris craned his head, but could not see through the press of riders. He was not sure what a tent looked like, anyway.

Kel went on. “The Asech live in tribes, in groups, and each group does what it wants. That woman comes from a tribe that trades with Tezera. They bring their goods all the way up the River Road in caravans, just like the traders. We've probably never had to fight them. I don't think they carry weapons. Then there are other tribes, who never come out of their hills except to make war."

Kerris’ mouth was dry. He licked his lips. “Their swords are curved,” he said.

“When they wear them, yes,” Kel said.

“How can we trade with them and fight them, too?” Paula had told him what the swords looked like, so different from the straight weapons of the north.

Kel said, “We trade with some of them. They do not know the chea. They are not one people, as we are."

“What do we sell them?” Kerris asked.

“Pots, cloth, choba oil, leather goods."

“What do they sell us?"

“Herbs, spices, dyes. Horses."

Kerris touched Magrita's neck. He remembered that Riniard had said she was part desert stock.

“You fought them,” he said to his brother.

“Yes,” Kel said. “I fought them six years ago, and ten years ago. I was in the border guard. Arillard was my captain."

“He hates them, doesn't he?"

“He tries not to,” said Kel.

“Do you hate them?"

Memory and pain moved in Kel's eyes. “I did,” he said. He looked at the place where Kerris’ right arm had been.

* * * *

Finally they left the crossroads. The chearis had scattered all over the market and it took some time for them to meet again. Jensie had bought a tunic with silver braid down the side seams. She insisted they stop while she put it away.

Kel sat Callito, frowning.

“Hey,” Ilene said, “what's wrong with you?"

“I want to reach Lake Aruna before nightfall,” he said.

“Well,” Ilene said, “you don't have to look so fierce about it.” Kel didn't answer her. Kerris wondered if their conversation about the Asech had anything to do with Kel's ill temper. When the chearas reformed into its lines, he fell back to ride with Elli. She looked at him curiously but did not speak.

They halted once to let the horses rest. The road remained crammed with travelers. Riniard walked back and forth, commenting on the passing scene, but the rest of the chearas was silent, affected by Kel's mood. Grim, he sat by the side of the road, plucking grass stems.

The sky turned bright blue. Clouds like feathers, tinged with lavender and rose, made translucent patterns on the horizon. The traffic halted altogether. “One side! One side!” voices bawled. The chearis pressed against each other.

“What is it?” said Elli.

Kerris turned from side to side. All he could see was a rocking sea of wagons and fluttering indigo ribbons. Kel's hand closed on his shoulder. Startled, Kerris looked up.

His brother's face was smooth, no longer troubled. “There,” he said. “See the green?” Kerris stared. He saw—or thought he saw—a green flag. Kel was taller than he and could see more. Suddenly the people ahead of him shifted. He saw a rider on a dark horse, wearing a green cloak, carrying a green banner.

“Yes."

“That's a messenger for the Council at Tezera from the Houses in Kendra-on-the-Delta."

With the passage of the courier, traffic began to move again. Kel patted Kerris’ wrist. “Ride with me.” Kerris moved Magrita up beside Callito. “Here.” Kel tossed him another of the hard green fruits.

Riniard pulled out of line. His horse went into a canter. “Meet you at the lake,” he shouted. A sunset haze shimmered in the west. Riniard's red hair blazed in the light. He disappeared around the road's curve. Kerris wondered how far they'd traveled that day. Ahead of them a yellow wagon pulled to the roadside. Children tumbled from it, shouting. Kerris patted Magrita's neck. Her proud head drooped.

“Will we camp soon?” he said.

Kel said, “We'll camp at the lake.” They plodded by another wagon. Somewhere out of sight, a woman was singing. Voices called to them, inviting and gay. Kerris saw flames, and smelled the distinctive odor of peat. The firelight reflecting off smiling faces made him aware of his own aches and pains. He straightened in the saddle. The sky was blazing red in the west.

“Soon,” Kel said, out of the dusk. They rounded a bend. Kerris gasped.

A sheet of gold spread out on their left, tranquil, unmarred, a brilliant glaze of fire reaching to the edge of the horizon and beyond.... Over it a few stars glowed. A crescent moon splayed its horns overhead. Elli exclaimed, an oath too faint to catch. Kerris closed his eyes. When he opened them, the lake was still there, no end to it. A heron called from somewhere. He looked at the horned moon. It too reflected flame: its configurations shone more copper than white.

Elli said, “That's worth coming all this way for."

Riniard said, “Well, you made it!” He swaggered out under the shade of one of the droopy trees that lined from the lakeshore. “I've found us a resting place.” Kerris dismounted. He felt Elli take his arm and turn him toward the water. Arillard was already kneeling beside a pile of sticks, hands busy with flint and wool. Ilene and Jensie rubbed the horses down. Sparks drifted in the night air. One fell past Kerris’ head, and he saw it was a winged creature with light in its tail. It spiraled slowly upward and vanished into the evening.

Kel passed the bag of fruit around. Kerris stretched his legs out toward the leaping flames. Ilene sat cross-legged, back straight, just touching the stump of a log. The sunset light gleamed off her brown skin like rain.

Riniard was laughing loudly, teasing Jensie about her shirt.

“Rini, will you shut up, please?” said Elli.

He frowned at her, sulky. “Why the hell should I?"

“Because I asked you to,” said Elli. “Be still, look at the lake."

Ilene said, “Feel the chea, Riniard. It lives here. You can talk to Jensie any time."

“If I can talk to Jensie any time then I can talk to her now,” said Riniard. He pulled Jensie into the crook of his arm. “Can't I, love?"

She brushed his lips with her hand. “We can talk later,” she said peaceably.

“Riniard.” There was an odd note in Kel's voice. It brought Kerris’ head up.

“What?"

Kel rose, and stepped around the fire to where Riniard sat. Suddenly there was tension in the air. Jensie pulled out of the crook of Riniard's arm. The heron called again, a screech like an ungreased iron hinge.... “Did you buy anything at the bazaar?” Kel said.

“Like what?” Riniard sounded sulky and defiant, like a child caught out in a lie. “Jen bought a shirt."

“You went ahead of us,” said Kel. “And you're talking too loud, and you're being quarrelsome.” In a movement too swift for Kerris to follow, Kel bent and when he straightened Riniard was standing, too, with both Kel's hands fisted in his shirt. “I can smell it. I thought I smelled it when we rode in but I wasn't sure.” He dropped his hands. Riniard staggered. “Your reflexes are slow and you can't keep your balance worth shit. You've been smoking heavenweed."

Riniard took a step backward. “Yes,” he said.

Kel hit him. The slap rocked Riniard's head back. He brought both hands up reflexively and Kel caught his wrists. “Rini, what's the matter with you? You promised you'd stop!"

“Let me go,” Riniard said. Kel let him go. Riniard sat down. After a moment he sighed and shook himself like a cat waking. He touched his cheek. “It's been six months,” he said, folding his arms around his drawn-up knees. “There's only us here, so I knew I couldn't get into any—trouble. It was only a little, Kel, there's no harm done."

“You broke a promise,” said Kel, standing over him, hands on hips.

Riniard scowled. “So I broke a promise. Have you never broken a promise?"

Ilene drew a quick breath. Kel glanced at her, and then at Kerris. “Yes,” he said softly. “I have.” He knelt beside Riniard. “Give it to me."

Riniard fumbled a packet out of a hip pocket. Kel tossed it on the fire. The flames flared crimson for an instant. A sweet, heavy smell filled the air. Riniard's face twisted for an instant, and then relaxed.

“Will you promise not to buy more?” said Kel.

Riniard looked down at the ground. “I promise not to buy more,” he said. He looked up “Kel, I'm sorry."

Kel ruffled the redhead's hair. “No matter.” He went back to where he had been sitting and pulled his blanket around him. “I'm going to sleep,” he announced. “I want to get an early start in the morning."

Kerris watched as the chearis settled themselves for sleep. The stars burned their patterns into the sky, the night was windless and warm. He had understood very little of the scene he'd just witnessed. What was heavenweed? He felt left out, isolated, a stranger.

He rolled over to his right side to find Elli watching him, the whites of her eyes brilliant as stars in the firelight. She lifted an inquiring eyebrow, and then jerked her head in the direction of the horses. In a moment, Kerris understood. He rose, and began to pick his way toward the silhouetted animals. Elli followed him.

They shared a drink of water from a waterskin. “What's heavenweed?” Kerris asked.

“It's leaves of a plant, like tea leaves, except that you don't drink it, you smoke it. You put it in a pipe or roll it in a paper and breathe it in."

“What does it do to you?"

“It's nice, sort of dreamy and pleasant. It does slow you down. Most chearis won't touch it, except at feasts or festivals. But it makes Riniard quarrelsome, mean as a snake. When he first rode with us, he would fight all the time, with anyone. The heavenweed does that to him. It's too bad, because he likes it. When he joined us, he swore not to smoke it. I guess it's hard, to give it up."

“I suppose,” Kerris said.

“Is that what was bothering you?” said Elli.

“Yes. Thank you."

She grinned. “No trouble.” They went back to the fire. Elli was quieter in the woods than he. He lay in the cocoon of blanket. He wondered what heavenweed tasted like. He wondered how Elli had known his feelings. He wondered what promise Kel had broken. He wondered if he could ask.

Josen, he thought, the world is wider than you ever told me it was. The thought left him just a little frightened. For a moment Tornor seemed a haven, a place of peace.... He could not go back, he knew that.

Away by the lake, a heron called, like a horn blaring a tuneless challenge into the darkness.

Four

At dawn the sky was gray as ice.

The lake was still, except at the shore, where it rippled lazily against the sandy bank. The air was moist and chill. There were dewdrops on Kerris’ blanket. He shook it awkwardly and folded it into a shapeless lump. He put on shirt, breeches, boots. He wrestled his wool tunic on over his head. The wool was damp and it stank. He ran his hand through his hair; it came away moist. His arms prickled with cold-bumps.

Elli came to the clearing. “Hey,” she said. Kerris blinked. She was stark naked. “Aren't you coming in the water?"

Now he heard the splashes and the laughter from the lakeside. “No. I can't swim.” It was not true; he could swim, though not well. He tugged a fold of the tunic straight.

“It's shallow. You can wade."

He hated taking his clothes off in front of strangers. “I just dressed. It's too much work to do it all again."

Disappointment was plain on her face. “As you like. Brr, it's too cold to stand around. I'm going in.” She whirled and ran toward the lake. Her hair blew back as she moved. Her body looked all of one piece, like something carved but living. She had a white line, a scar, on her right hip.

Kerris heard a monstrous splash, and Jensie laughing. His bladder was full. He unbuckled his belt and went around a tree to piss. As he came back to the clearing he glimpsed the swimmers. They had made a circle with Elli in the middle; they were playing some sort of game. Kel's hair was tied on top of his head in a knot. Jensie's was braided and tied with her red scarf. Elli lunged at Kel and he slid away from her, agile as a river eel. He was laughing. Elli fell flat on the water. The water leaped upward in a silver spray.

A twig snapped. Kerris turned swiftly. Cal was coming up behind him. They stood to watch the swimmers. Cal's dark thick hair was standing up on his head. He smoothed it down with both hands. “Foolishness,” he said. “If the chea had meant for us to swim, we would all have been born with gills."

The swimmers had ceased playing. Jensie was out of the water. Where her clothes had screened her from the sun, her skin was milk-white. It made the brown of her face and arms and throat darker. She had freckles across the tops of her breasts. She looked angry. Riniard called to her. She did not turn.

On the horizon the sun was showing over the rim of water, gilding it. Kel strode up the bank. He too looked all of a piece, and he moved like the wind. The rising sun turned the droplets on his shoulders to diamond. He stretched, long in the light. The muscles jumped in his thighs and across his groin. His body hair was thick there. Ilene came behind him and caught his wrists, pinning them behind his back. He took a step forward and then whirled. One hand was free. Ilene bent, anticipating the counter throw. Holding hands, they walked up the beach.

Kerris’ pulse jumped in his throat. He took a long deep breath, as if the sweet damp air by the lake had suddenly grown thin. His cheeks felt hot as wax.

At the clearing something was evidently amiss. Riniard was sulking. He saddled the horses, his face hang-dog, stealing looks at Jensie, who scowled and would not look his way.

As Jensie passed Kerris she put a hand flat on his chest. “Ride with me today,” she said.

“But—"

“Please."

He shrugged.

A light steam rose from the lake as they left it. They rode through a bed of feathery curling plants that Kerris had never seen before. They looked woven, like cobwebs or lace. He asked Jensie what they were called. “Ferns,” she said. “I don't know what kind."

“Thank you.” Kerris felt strange. He was very conscious of Riniard riding behind him.

Jensie said, “Can you really not swim?"

“Not very well."

“We'll teach you when we get to Elath."

We—that meant all of them. For a moment Kerris envied that easy “we” of the chearas. Jensie looked very young, scarcely old enough to be a cheari. “Have you been to Elath before?” he asked.

“Last year. We were there for the summer harvest. There were six of us then."

A red fox whisked across the path, brush tail flying. It grew hot. Kerris took off his tunic. “Where are we going today?” he said.

Jensie said, “Into Galbareth."

A rider cantered past them: a girl, black braids streaming behind, riding bareback on a big roan gelding. Voice a treble note, she called greeting to the chearas. The road lifted; they went up a gentle rise, and halted on the summit.

Kerris shivered with excitement. Before them lay the wide green and gold heartland of Arun, the Galbareth Fields, stretching like wings on each side of the Great River. He looked down. Haze overlay the grainfields. Angular roofs broke the stunning monotony of fields—barns, storerooms, stables, and homes. Far to the west, a windmill lifted stubby arms. The road wound into the dust and vanished in it.

Kel said, “Kerris, do you remember?"

“Remember?"

“You've seen it before."

“No,” Kerris said. “I have no memories of that journey."

Cal moved round the others to take a place in front, riding next to Kel. He lifted his voice so that they could all hear. “We have to stay together. It's easy to get lost in the grainfields. Riniard and I were born here, but the rest of you are strangers. Galbareth doesn't like strangers. Keep your horses from foraging, and do no hurt to beast or folk.” The chearis nodded gravely. Kerris looked behind. The mountains were gone. He felt a tremor of panic, as if the earth itself had trembled. Clenching his knees, he patted Magrita's arched neck.

“Why are we going this way?” he said to Jensie. “Why not stay by the river?"

“If we took the river way we'd have to dance at every village between Tezera and Elath. This is faster.” She sounded subdued. A light hum, barely audible, lifted out of the grainfields like a voice. Kerris thought, It's the wind in the wheat. Tall stalks on either side of the path sang and whispered. The wind bent them down in great rhythmic sweeps, like the strokes of a giant's hand.

“Let's go,” said Cal.

They descended into the gold ocean. The land seemed barely to notice them, yet Kerris had a sense that they were under scrutiny. In Tornor he had heard merchants talk of the Galbareth as if it were a living thing. He had not understood it. He did now. They passed horses, cropping grass in a field left bare. The animals lifted their heads and gazed after the riders with liquid eyes. Crows flew over them, and, higher in the indigo sky, hawks wheeled in deadly hunting circles. Colorful ribbons fluttered from poles. They passed two women, straw-hatted, gowned. The nearer of the two straightened to watch them go. Her face was sun-browned and her eyes were black as a crow's wing. She spoke no greeting.

Thunderheads began piling up in the west in the afternoon. The wind picked up. Slate gray and amethyst, the clouds rolled at them. The chearis halted to consult. Cal looked worried. “I doubt we'll find shelter,” he said. “Buildings in Galbareth have a habit of moving about, so that farms you thought were right at your elbow are two fields away."

“Perhaps the storm will rain itself out before it reaches us,” said Elli.

“We're riding into it,” Cal pointed out.

They went on. The sky darkened. Drops of rain oozed from the sky, as if squeezed through a cloth. Lightning leaped from cloud to cloud. The horses quivered at the approaching thunder. Kerris laced his tunic tight about his throat. The grain hissed, a frightening, malicious sound. Something scuttled across the roadway under the hooves of Jensie's steed. It bucked and she swore at it.

“Stop.” It was Ilene. She pointed southwest. “The wind bent the grain—I thought I saw a space. It could be a barn."

“It could be an illusion,” said Cal. He looked at Riniard. The redhead shrugged, biting his lower lip. “How far away was it?"

“Not far,” Ilene said. “There's a path to it.” She pointed to a break in the lines of wheat. A narrow path led to the right.

Cal, Kel, and Riniard talked. Finally, Cal led them off the main road to the narrower way. Roused, Galbareth spat dust at them, like an immense cat waked from sleep.

The horses balked, and had to be led. Single file they tramped through the grain. Dust flailed at their eyes and rasped in their throats. Lightning jumped over them. The very air smelled scorched and burned.

“Here!” called Calwin. Kerris led Magrita out of the punishing lash of stalks. He looked around for a barn, but there was no barn, only earth, and some scraps of wood heaped in a circular clearing.

The storm broke.

The rain was cold. They shivered under it. Kerris heard Jensie swear. He crouched beneath the wet. The world dissolved, changed, and blurred away. He was lost in a country he did not know, and the people around him were insubstantial as shadows, ghosts—strangers. He did not know them. He did not know where he was. He was small, and alone. The mountains had vanished and he was lost without them. His hand cramped painfully on Magrita's rein. He was afraid. He was afraid.

He heard his name being called, and ignored it. He did not know these people. He did not want to come out.

“Kerris!"

“What's wrong with him?"

“Kerris, listen.” He turned his face away. The voice followed him. Listen. It was Kel's voice, ringing inside his mind. It will pass. Don't fight it. We are here. You know us. We care about you, chelito, don't run from us. We're your friends.

Kel's hands were firm on his shoulders, holding him, and his voice was clear, inescapable, and unshakable as the mountains. Kerris’ vision blurred and cleared in waves. He waited for the waves to stop.

His mind felt bruised. He looked into his brother's face. “What—” His mouth was dry as the dust. The chearis ringed him, watchful and silent as cats.

“Get some water,” Kel said. Someone moved and came back with a waterskin. Kerris tried to hold it but his arm shook. Kel lifted it to his lips. The water smelled of leather. Kerris drank until his belly filled. Kel gave the waterskin to Elli. His left hand rested still on Kerris’ shoulder. “Better?” he said.

“Better. Yes.” Kerris could barely talk. His head throbbed. “I heard you—"

“Inspeech is not my skill,” Kel said, “but I have learned a little of it from Sefer and you have no barrier to keep me out. I hope I didn't hurt you, chelito."

Elli knelt. She put one hand on his knee. “Kerris, are you all right?"

It took effort for him to turn his head her way. His neck ached. His headache dulled. “I think so.” He looked at Kel again. “I was frightened,” he said.

“It's no big thing,” Kel said gently. “What frightened you?"

“The space...” He gestured toward the vast, fluid land. He tried to stand. Kel brought him upright with an arm around his back. His muscles creaked. The storm had stopped. The sky gleamed lavender and blue. The last of the thunderheads was hurrying ponderously east.

“We should have talked before,” Kel said. “How does your head feel?"

“Tired,” Kerris said. His hair and clothes were soaked. The seat of his pants was muddy.

“Can you ride?"

He lifted his chin, conscious of the chearis listening. “I can ride."

Kel smiled warmly at him. “Good.” He turned. “Cal, find us shelter. Kerris needs a roof over his head tonight, and we could all do with a bed."

“I'll try,” said Calwin. His hair was up on end again.

“I'm sorry—"

“No,” said Kel. “Don't say it.” His grip was a hug. “It's my fault, if anything. You should have been at Elath, among your own kind, five years ago. Come now, let's leave this place.” Letting Kerris go, he strode to Callito. Riniard was holding Magrita's rein. Kerris took it from him. The rain had washed the dust from the air, and the wheatfields steamed with a heavy, pleasant odor.

You should have been among your own kind five years ago.

Somewhere in the south he had family—even friends. His head throbbed. The edges of the world vibrated alarmingly. He wondered how far they would have to ride to shelter.

Not far. His brother's voice was gentle in his mind. Cal was leading the way back to the main road. Ribbons fluttered on a pole in the middle of a field. At the back of the line, Ilene was singing. Kerris touched his heels to Magrita's sides. The black mare quickened her pace.

* * * *

The village Cal found was small, smaller than Brath, and it appeared so suddenly out of the fields that Kerris imagined it had grown there in response to Kel's demand. As the chearas rode into it, Kerris picked out a stable, a pigpen, a well with a peaked wooden roof ... The buildings were of wood, too, but their roofs were thatch. He smelled chickens. He counted six houses and one building that looked as if it was used for storage. The rhythmic pounding of metal on metal betrayed a smithy. The street was largely empty. The ground was wet, puddled in places from the storm, but drying fast. Three women swayed by, with baskets on their heads, their backs straight as arrow shafts. They held the baskets easily in place with one hand. Their skirts fell to midcalf. One of the women wore sandals with leather laces that went up past her hem. The hem of all three skirts was trimmed in gold thread. The other two women were barefoot. The apparition of eight strangers in their midst seemed not to interest them at all. One woman turned her head, without breaking stride, to glance with casual curiosity at the chearas.

They halted in the middle of the street. “Where is the—” Elli began, and then fell silent, at Cal's gesture. A woman appeared on a doorstep, moving so quietly that Kerris was startled. She had a smooth, unlined face. Her hair was long and streaked with gray, and she wore it down her back, as young girls did at Tornor. A small colorful triangle of fabric was pinned to her hair. Her gown was brown and gold. She was barefoot, and the skin on her arms (which were also bare) was almost as dark as Elli's.

“I am—headwoman—of this village,” she said, hesitating over the word headwoman as if she did not use it often. “It's seldom we see travelers here, and more rare that those travelers are chearis. Where do you come from, and where do you go?"

“We are not lost, damisen,” said Cal. “We were caught in the storm, and we beg shelter."

“You are of us,” said the woman to him.

“I am. My village is east of the River.” He did not say its name, and she did not ask.

“And the rest?” She looked at each of them in turn. Her eyes were dark, like Paula's.

Kel said, “I am Kel of Elath."

“Ilene of Elath."

“Elli of Mahita."

The woman raised her hands. “That is enough.” Her eyes lingered on Kel. “From Elath—the witch town."

“Yes."

“How long do you wish to stay here?"

“One night,” Kel said.

“That is well. Wait a moment, if you please.” She returned to the house she had emerged from. In a little while she came out. She pointed across the square to a house that looked like all the others, except for a symbol on its door, a design of beads in a circle. “The place is vacant now, and you are welcome to stay in it,” she said.

Riniard muttered something. The woman looked at him, eyes narrowed. “You know what house that is?"

“Yes,” he said.

“You are of the fields."

“Ye, damisen,” said Riniard.

“Where is thy village?"

“In the west, damisen,” Riniard said.

The woman made a little gesture with her right hand. Riniard returned it. She nodded. “You are welcome,” she said. “Enter.” She opened the door. Kerris climbed wearily from Magrita's back, unlacing his bedroll.

“You may leave your mounts in our hands. Please put your boots on the left side of the hall. There is a place for them."

The hallway was dark and sweet-smelling as an herb garden. There were rushes on the floor. Obediently the chearis pulled their boots off and lined them up in the alcove on the left side of the hall. The circular symbol from the door was repeated on both walls of the hallway.

Riniard whispered something to Cal, who spread his hands. The redhead scowled. He looked unhappy. From the alcove the hall led to a room. One half of the room had pallets. The other held a brick stove, and a wooden tub.

“If you're hungry,” the woman said, “there is food in the refectory. That is the building across from this. If you need something, you may ask for me. My name is Tamis."

She left them. The door closed. With a sigh, Ilene began to strip off her clothes. Kerris counted the pallets. There were six. Riniard and Jensie would share, and two others ... He dropped his bedroll. He noticed a crock of choba oil under a window, with two shallow dishes beside it.

A knock sounded.

Kel opened the door. The woman handed him a bowl. “Be refreshed,” she said. Green stalks poked out of the bowl, their tops leafy, like ferns.

“What is this house?” Jensie said. She shook her hair out, and put her hands on her hips. “Does someone live here?"

“No,” said Cal. “This is the birthing house."

“A house for birthing?” Jensie turned in a circle. “It's pleasant,” she said. “Why does it bother you so much?” she said to Riniard.

He was taking off his tunic, and did not seem to hear.

She stepped in front of him. “Answer me."

“I thought you weren't talking to me,” he said.

“I'm talking to you now."

Riniard scowled. “In my village strangers are not permitted in the birthing house, especially not men.” He sat on a pallet.

Kel said, “Jen, let him be."

“But this house is not in use, or Tamis wouldn't have put us here. What difference does it make?"

Arillard said mildly, “It makes a difference to Riniard. Customs differ."

Ilene took off her shirt and threw it on the floor. “Must we quarrel?” she said.

“No,” Kel said. “Jensie, be still. Ilene, look.” He pushed the bowl at her.

She glanced at the leafy greenstuffs, and grinned. “Fetuch!” Choosing a stalk from the bowl, she took a bite of the leafless end. “Kerris, taste it."

Kerris sniffed. “What is it?"

Kel took a stalk and handed it to Kerris. “Have some."

Kerris nibbled the piece. The green weedy stuff crunched between his teeth. It was good, but odd. He took a second bite and gave the stalk to Kel. Sitting on the pallet, he took off his wet and muddy shirt. As he pulled his spare shirt from the bedroll, he realized that he had forgotten to bring a second pair of pants.

“Here,” said Elli. She threw a pair of cotton pants onto his lap. “Wear mine."

“Thanks.” He put the dry clothes on. It still made him feel strange to dress and undress in the presence of strangers, but he pretended not to care.

Cal gathered the muddy clothes and blankets into his arms. “Give them all to me, I'll wash them,” he said. Kerris felt his blanket and his wool tunic. They were both damp. He handed them to Cal. He lay down. His arm ached, and he was so worn he could barely keep his eyelids open.

The chearis wiped their weapons. Kel sheathed his knife and started to scrape his chaps clear of mud. Ilene sat beside him. “It'll be good to sleep on a bed,” she said. “This reminds me of home, you know."

Kel grunted.

“Don't look so sour. It's two days’ ride; we'll be there soon."

The warm clothes were gentle on Kerris’ bare skin. He smiled at the ceiling. He was very glad to be indoors.

Kel said, “I wish we were there now.” He sounded grim.

The scraper noise checked and resumed. “Why?"

Kerris closed his eyes. He didn't want to listen.

“I feel a break in the pattern,” Kel said. “Something's wrong."

Ilene said, “A big thing, or a small thing?"

“I. Don't. Know.” The words seemed to keep time to the scraping rhythm. Kerris put his arm over his eyes. “I. Don't. Know. What. It. Is."

* * * *

Just before sunset, Tamis came for them.

She brought them to the refectory, which turned out to be a common eating hall, like the hall at Tornor, attached to a kitchen. It had twenty round wooden tables in it. Shallow dishes filled with choba oil spread light across the tables. At the back of the hall was the serving window from the kitchen. Cal went to it. He brought back a platter heaped with food: soup, bread, cheese, ham, fetuch. There were long curling string-like things in the soup. Kerris did not know what they were. Softly, he asked Cal.

“They're made of wheat paste. They're called noodles."

The villagers paid little attention to their guests. Children ran up and down the long room, calling to one another. Kerris glimpsed a woman with smoke coming from her mouth. A sweet smell eddied through the hall.

“Hello."

Kerris looked around, and then down. A child stood at his knee, staring at him. He had a dark face, dark eyes, and long black hair which looked as if it had never been cut, or even combed.

“Hello,” Kerris said.

The boy's brown shirt was decorated with scarlet thread. “What's your name?” he said. He did not seem very old.

“Kerris."

He walked all around the table and returned to Kerris’ side. He tilted his head. “Where's your arm?"

Kerris’ skin prickled. He said, “It got cut off a long time ago, when I was a baby."

The child digested this. His forehead wrinkled. “Who did it?"

“It was an accident,” Kerris said.

“Did it hurt?"

“I don't know. I can't remember."

“Can I touch it?"

Elli, beside Kerris, took a breath.

Kerris said, “Surely.” Gently he turned on the stool and pushed his dangling right sleeve back with his left hand.

The child ran light fingers over the scarred end of the stump. He patted it. “Bye,” he said. At the other tables the adults were watching, faces impassive. Kerris let the sleeve drop.

Tamis came out of the shadows. “Are you comfortable?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” said Kel.

She ran a hand over the child's thick hair. “That is well. You must forgive our children; they see so few strangers. This is Pito, my sister's son.” She pushed him gently. “Go thou, chelito.” A woman's voice called and the boy ran toward it. “I have a favor to ask of you, chearis. This village is small, as you see, too small to have a Yard. We use our knives for skinning and cutting, and our young folk learn to milk and plant and weave, not fight. But some of them have ridden to other villages, to learn what they can about the chearis’ art. Would you speak with them?"

“We would be pleased to,” Kel said. He smiled. “We were all young once. Are they here? Ask them to join us."

The woman spoke rapidly in the old language. Nobody moved. Then slowly the young folk began to make their way to the chearis’ table. Kerris counted them, six, seven, eight, ten. Dark-eyed, with dark hair, they stood shyly in a clump. Two of the girls and three of the boys wore knives.

“You don't have to be afraid of us,” said Kel. “We won't bite."

Kerris watched them approach with a tightening feeling in his stomach. He did not want to sit while the chearis talked fighting.

Elli indicated the sheath of one of the knives. “That looks like Tezeran work,” she said. “Is the knife Tezeran, too?” The girl who wore it nodded. “So is mine.” She drew her own knife. Its blade glittered. “I got it from my mother when I was sixteen, a gift. It was made in Varin's smithy, though I doubt Varin himself ever touched it. Would you like to hold it?” She held it out, hilt foremost.

“Oh, yes,” the girl breathed.

“Let me see yours.” The girl drew her own knife. “Yes, that is a fine blade. You take good care of it, I see. Lay it on the table. Here.” The girl laid her own knife on the table and took Elli's from her hand. Arillard was showing one of the boys how to get out of a wrist grip. Jensie had taken off her scarf, and was demonstrating to three of the boys how she tied it.

Kel's hand fell on Kerris’ shoulder. “Come,” he whispered. He nodded toward the door. Awkwardly Kerris freed himself from the table.

As they walked from the refectory, an owl hooted. The fields rippled softly to the wind's caress. Kerris looked up. The crescent moon sailed the sky like a boat. He picked out the star-figures Josen had taught him to see: the red Eyes, the brilliant, curling Tail. He watched Kel out of the corner of one eye.

Kel said, quietly, “I didn't think you were comfortable in there. Did I do wrong?"

The question was disarming. Kerris’ stomach stopped tying itself into knots. “I wasn't. Thank you."

“Let's sit,” Kel suggested. He felt the grass. “It's dry.” They sat. The murmur of the voices in the refectory reached them, a wordless sound. Kel took something from his pocket. It was a wine bottle. He drank, and held it out. Kerris imitated him.

“Is your head still tired?” Kel asked.

“No.” Kerris handed back the wine. He wiped his mouth.

“Then speak to me,” said Kel. “Not with words. Use inspeech, as I did this afternoon."

“I don't know how,” said Kerris.

“Have more wine.” Kel shoved the bottle into his hand. Kerris drank. His throat tingled. “Now reach to me with your thought."

“I can't—"

“You can,” Kel said. He touched Kerris’ shoulder. “You've been doing it for four years, Kerris. Do it now. Try."

The wine burned in Kerris’ blood. He took a breath. He thought, What if my mind were a hand, how would I move it ... ? The sky blurred. The earth spun. He was suddenly inside Kel's head, looking out at a slim, dark-haired, one-armed stranger.... That's me! he thought, and at the same time felt the press of other thoughts, not his own—He did it; he's going to be good, as good as Sefer; how pleased Sef will be!—and the image of a slender, white-haired man with eyes like green ice played across his consciousness.

He shuddered, and went back into his own head with a jolt.

Kel was holding his shoulders. The wind on his cheek was warm. He leaned on his palm, waiting for the world to coalesce. It did. He looked into his brother's face. “Was that what you wanted?"

“That was exactly what I wanted,” said Kel. “You can do it deliberately, Kerris, it doesn't have to happen by accident! It's your gift, you can control it. I wanted to show you.” He dropped one hand, but kept the other on Kerris’ shoulder. “Are you angry with me? I didn't give you much time to think."

“No,” Kerris said. “I-I'm not angry. I'm surprised.” Elath is the witch town, he thought, and I am a witch. “Tell me again what it's called in Elath—my gift."

“Inspeech,” said Kel. He crossed his legs, tailor-fashion, and rested both hands in his lap.

“Can you do it?"

“No. I am a patterner."

“What's that?"

Kel's voice was soft. “To me, all acts are part of a pattern, in balance and in opposition, in flux and at rest, and there is no act to which I cannot see the right response, the move that completes the pattern. That's why I am a cheari. The scholars say the whole world dances, and the name of the dance is the chea. I see that dance, a bit. The whole pattern—that I can't see."

“Can anyone?” Kerris asked.

“Those who see into time are called foreseers. I foresee just enough so that where a man's knife will be in the next moment is made clear to me by where he is putting it now—” The starlight touched his waterfall of hair with silver. His arms went out in a flying dance, blocking, countering an imaginary thrust.

Kerris said, before his mind could stop his tongue, “What was the promise you didn't keep?"

Kel bowed his head over his suddenly stilled hands. “Can't you guess?"

“I don't want to guess."

“I was thirteen,” said Kel. He lifted the wine bottle to drink. His throat muscles moved in the light. “I promised our mother, the day the caravan left Elath for the north, that if anything happened to her or to our father, I would take care of you. Father was south of Shanan, fighting the Asech. I never saw him again. I joined the fight the next year. Word came finally from Tornor that the caravan had been trapped on its way north, that Mother was dead, but you were alive ... I should have gone then to Tornor and brought you back to Elath. I didn't. Even when you called to me four years ago, I delayed."

Kerris recalled the years of exile, the times of pain and frustration and contempt. He felt a rush of rage, like no anger he had ever felt. It streamed from him—and he felt it touch his brother's mind. Kel winced. At the same time, Kerris felt pain lance through his forehead. Chilled, Kerris caught the anger back. He hadn't known it could hurt. He would have to be careful...

Kel said, “You have the right to be angry, Kerris."

Kerris could almost hear Josen's voice. Let it come, and let it go, the old man said.

As he said it, fear closed round his heart like a fist.

His head blurred. Kel? he thought, and heard his brother answer—What is it? What's wrong? Terror whipped at his nerves, mingled with anger like his own, but not his own.... He pulled back into himself with all his force. The contact broke, like a string snapping. Someone in the village was young, angry, and afraid. He willed his eyes to focus. The grass prickled on his palm. He pushed to his feet, Kel with him. He sniffed the drifting scent of heavenweed across the road.

“Let's go back,” he said.

Five

They went into the hall. The adults had left, except for three old men blowing puffs of smoke at each other in the refectory's warmest corner. Kerris stretched to match his brother's stride. Cal, shirtless, was showing wristholds to a boy about his size. Elli and Arillard were demonstrating a turn in a dance. Ilene talked quietly to the oldest girl. Jensie was laughing, surrounded by three admiring boys. Her tricolored hair was a froth around her face. No one looked hurt, angry, threatened. Cautiously, Kerris extended his new sense into the dark. Through the laughter and delight in the room, the fear blazed like a beacon.

“Someone's in trouble,” he said to Kel.

“Here?"

“No, somewhere else, but close.” He wondered how he knew that it was close. It didn't matter; he knew.

Kel said, “You thought it was here and it isn't."

“Yes."

“Try to find it."

“How?"

“Reach out farther this time,” said Kel. “Don't be afraid. You can always come back, and it can't hurt. I'm with you."

The smell of heavenweed tickled his nose. He closed his eyes, willing away the noise and laughter. Kel's arm was round his shoulders, steadying him. He leaned against it. His concentration wavered; he forced it outward, like a mole nosing into a burrow....

The smell of heavenweed thickened. He stood in the starlight. His blade lay on the ground at his feet. His wrist was scratched. He swallowed, tasting his own fear. The man in front of him gestured with his knife. His voice was slurred; he sounded angry. “I'm not finished with you,” he said. “Pick it up.” His red hair fell in front of his eyes. With a scowl, he brushed it back.

Kerris came back into his own mind. The noise had stilled. The chearis were all watching him. “It's Riniard,” he said. “He's fighting someone."

Kel swore “I'll break his neck. By the chea, why couldn't one of you have kept an eye on him?” He glared at the chearis. They looked at one another and did not answer. Cal pulled his shirt on over his head. “Who's he fighting?"

“Some boy.” Kerris grabbed for the name. “Jerem."

The oldest girl said, “But Jerem never fights."

“You fight when you're attacked,” said Kel. He jerked his head toward the door. “Come, we have to find them."

A boy said, “Is Riniard the one with the red hair?"

“Yes,” said Jensie mournfully.

“He and Jerem went out together to work on knife technique. I think I know where they would be."

“Show us,” said Kel. At the other end of the hall, one of the old men giggled. “Quietly."

They went into the street. Kerris followed Kel. He was very conscious of the knife banging at his hip. Desperately he wished that he could use it. He had felt Jerem's fear, shared it, tasted it in his own mouth. He had been Jerem. The irony of it made him grimace. If he were truly Jerem, he would be dead, dead as mutton, dead as his dead mother.

“The rest of you wait here,” Kel said to the would-be chearis. “We'll be back soon. Which way?” he said to their guide.

The boy pointed south, into the grain. “There's a path,” he said. “It comes out in the pasture west of the old barn.” Wind bowed the fragrant wheat. Kerris shivered, feeling the brooding power of Galbareth around them. He wondered if the others felt it, too. He did not want to walk into the field.

Ilene said gently, “Take us there.” The boy nodded. He was barefoot. The moon silvered the tips of the wheat. The wind brushed the ears to sibilance. As they walked toward the grain, red eyes lifted in the darkness and vanished. Kel's fingers closed around Kerris’ wrist.

They plunged into the field.

They went in single file, the boy first, then Ilene, then Kel. The chearis moved as they always did, serene and silent as cats. Kerris stayed at Kel's heels, trying not to stumble. A foraging rabbit squeaked, unnerved by the invasion. The wheat sang. Kerris’ chest ached. A thought trickled through his skull, in a voice not his own: Don't be afraid. You're not alone. Kerris strained to see ahead of him. He saw the starlight on Kel's hair, and that was all.

They were out of the wheat. Kerris heard a rhythmic sound, whuf, whuf; the wind, he thought, and then he saw the two shadow figures circling and circling. The points of light that were the knife-blades gleamed. His throat contracted and he thought, Not the wind but breath. Kel let him go. He froze. The other chearis passed him with a rush.

Riniard heard them and turned, but Kel and Ilene were on him, bearing him down, pinning him to the cool, stubbled soil. He hit hard, and his breath rushed out with a sobbing sound. There was an abrupt, shocking silence.

“Make light,” said Ilene.

Kneeling, Arillard made a flame in his tinderbox. By its light Kerris saw Riniard on his back. Kel stood over him. The rage back of his eyes was bright as heated iron.

Cal and Jensie were both bending over the boy. He sat on the ground, holding his right arm. A knife lay at his feet. “It's just a scratch,” he said. His voice was high and young. “It's j-j-just a scratch."

Kel said to Ilene, “Keep him there.” He went to the boy's side. “You're Jerem.” He knelt. “My name is Kel."

Jensie used her own knife to slit the boy's torn sleeve from wrist to shoulder. “It is just a scratch,” she said.

“Ye, skayin,” said the boy.

“How old are you?” Kel said.

“Four-t-teen."

In the flickering pale light from the tinderbox, the blood on the boy's arm was a black line against his skin.

Kel picked up the knife. “This is a good blade,” he said, turning it in his fingers. Lightly he tucked it into the sheath at the boy's thigh. “Tell us what happened."

The boy said, “We came to t-t-train.” Jensie did something to his arm, and he gasped.

“I want to pad this,” Jensie said. “Have we cloth?"

“Go on,” Kel said to the boy. He took off his shirt and began to tear it into strips.

“We smoked some heavenweed. I had some with me. We started to fence—I don't know what happened. I must have said something stupid. He got angry."

“And yet you held him,” Kel said. “You did well.” He fed Jensie the strips. She folded two of them into pads and laid them across the wound, and tied two more strips across the pads. “Not many grown men could hold a cheari."

“I don't think he meant to hurt me,” Jerem said. The flame went out. In the darkness his voice continued, painfully clear. “I dropped my knife once. He made me pick it up."

Kel's bare shoulders lifted and fell. He rose. “Take him back to the house,” he said to Ilene, not looking at Riniard. “Can you stand?” he asked Jerem. The boy struggled to his feet, his arm puffed with its bandages. “Good. Cal, take him home. Tell his family we will provide whatever recompense they think is proper. Jensie, go with him."

Jensie's head jerked. “Why should I—” she stopped. “All right. Yes.” She did not look at Riniard, either. “My name is Jensie,” she said to Jerem cheerfully. “Jenézia, really, but no one calls me that but my mother.” She slipped her hand under his left shoulder. “Do we go this way?"

“Yes,” the boy said. He added, “My name is Jeremeth.” They started toward the path. Ilene had one hand on Riniard's shoulder, urging him up. He rose. For a moment they faced each other, boy and man.

Riniard bent down. When he straightened, he held his knife between his hands. He sheathed it. He said softly, “Jeremeth. I'm sorry I hurt you."

The boy swayed. Jensie tightened her hold on him. He stammered something too soft to hear. Ilene and Riniard disappeared between the wheat rows, and Jensie and Jeremeth followed them. Elli was talking to the boy who'd led them to the pasture. Still talking, she drew him to the path. A night bird made a weeping sound. Kerris heard a click from Arillard's tinderbox. The little flame showed Kel standing, looking at the earth. The wind played across his loosed hair. His muscles gleamed like polished stone. The flame blew out.

“Well,” said Arillard.

Kerris wondered if he should go, too.

“What do we do?” Kel said. He flung his hands out, palms turned up to the sky, poised as if he were dancing.

Arillard said, “What can we do?"

Kel dropped his hands and his voice went flat. “I can yell at him for breaking a promise, and for fighting as if he were a rocho, a thief, not a cheari."

“You've yelled at him before,” Arillard said. “We all have. Ilene is probably yelling at him now."

“I can beat him,” said Kel.

“Would it help?” Arillard said.

“He would remember it,” Kel said grimly. “And it would help relieve my temper.” His voice rose. “Arillard, he might have killed that child!"

Kerris turned to leave. “Kerris, don't go,” Kel called. He beckoned. Kerris went to him and Kel looped an arm about his shoulders. “What do you think?” he said.

Kerris remembered Jeremeth's terror. He temporized. “Riniard said he was sorry."

Kel said, “He was sorry last night, at the lake. What will he have to be sorry for next time, and the time after that, and the time after that?"

The wind sang in the grain. Arillard knelt. Slowly he filled his tinderbox with tufts of dry grass. “He was named cheari too young,” he said.

Kel's arm flexed. “I was cheari at twenty-two. Elli is twenty."

“You are you. Elli is Elli. Neither of you is Riniard."

Kel sighed. Leaving Kerris alone, he walked toward the black, silent barn, and back again. “I wish Sef were here,” he said.

Arillard said, “Kel, there are only two forks in this road. Either we keep Riniard with us, or we don't."

Kel's shoulders hunched. “Would you advise me to send him away?” he said.

Arillard said, “I would hate it."

“So would I,” Kel said. “He belongs with us. He makes the pattern right.” The light from the quarter moon fell on his face. There were tension lines around his mouth.

Spontaneously, Kerris reached out mentally to his brother. He recoiled from the mingled pain, fury, and helplessness.

They walked back through the field and across the square. Kel said nothing all the way, Arillard said only, “I wonder what the village will demand as recompense for the boy's wounding."

The door of the birthing house was open a crack. A candle burned in the hall alcove. They stopped to remove their boots. Kerris took a deep breath of the sweet herbal scent.

They entered the sleeping space. The double room seemed close and hot. Cal and Jensie had not yet returned. Ilene was standing by a window. As they came in, she cocked her head to one side and made a sour face. Elli sat on a pallet, sharpening her knife with quick strokes. Her face was grave. Riniard faced Ilene. The light from the oil dish at Elli's knee did not reach him: he looked like a shadow, or a ghost. The silence smouldered.

Arillard found a second candle. Stooping, he lit it at the flame of the dish and stuck it in a wall-sconce. Kerris looked at Riniard. The redhead was pale, and there were dark half moons under his eyes. He looked at Kel. “Well?” he said hoarsely. The misery in his voice and stance struck Kerris like a blow.

Wait! he sent to Kel. Then, focusing his strength on Riniard, he extended his mind past the outward play of feeling, sense, and thought to the hidden sentience below.

He felt shame, misery, defiance, and fear ... A sluggish, sullen knot, the fear snaked and twisted back upon itself. It's no good, I'll never be what they desire, I'm weak, unworthy of them, it hurts, I love them and it hurts, they'll have to send me away, they'll have to, better sooner than later, better now, better now, who are you??? get away from me, get out!

Kerris got out.

He leaned on the wall. His head ached, and his vision wavered familiarly. He reached for his brother, linked with him, and turned once more toward Riniard's mind. It was like going into a nest of snakes. Look, he said to Kel. He held them both there as long as he dared, and then pulled away from Riniard, and broke the link to Kel. His knees shook. He wondered if he was going to fall. An arm came out of nowhere and helped him to sit. Someone was sobbing. He waited for the world to cease whirling. The person on the other end of the arm was Elli. The person weeping—kneeling, head in shaking hands—was Riniard.

Kel went to him. “Riniard.” He caught the redhead's wrists and forced his hands down from his face. “Young fool.” Riniard would not look up. Kel stroked his hair. “Ilene, Elli, Arillard, help me.” Kerris felt Elli squeeze his hand, and leave him. The chearis gathered in a tight little circle with Riniard in the center. Steadily, Kel stroked Riniard's hair. “You're one of us, Red. You, yourself, not some imaginary person with all the virtues that we've never met and wouldn't know if we did meet him. We chose you. You hear me? We chose you. We love you. We won't send you away, Red, no matter what you do, unless you ask it. Do you, Riniard? Have you tired of us so soon?” His hand stopped its steady movement. “Tell us. Do you want to leave?"

“No,” Riniard whispered.

“Idiot,” Kel said. He cupped Riniard's chin in his hand. “Look at me.” Riniard lifted his head. His cheeks were wet. “You'll stay with us, because we want you, and love you. Next time you want some heavenweed, tell us! We'll stay with you and keep you out of trouble, and when your eyes close we'll put you to bed to sleep it off. All right?"

“All right,” Riniard said. His voice was shaky, but the color had come back to his face.

“And next time you try to start a fight, I'll beat you silly. You know I can."

Riniard assayed a smile. “You can. Any time."

Kerris crawled onto a pallet. His head had ceased to ache, but he still felt cold, and tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life. He rolled on his back. Cal and Jensie came through the arched doorway and stopped, both looking at the chearis surrounding Riniard. Kel said, “Comfort him, Jen.” His tall figure passed in front of the candle. He bent over Kerris. He, too, was tired, but the tension lines were gone from around his lips, and his eyes were tranquil, without rage. “That was a difficult thing you did,” he said quietly. “You did it well. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been here. I'm glad you are.” He went through the doorway and disappeared down the hall.

Elli sat down beside him. “Hey,” she said, “what did you do? I know you did something."

“I showed Kel what Riniard was feeling,” Kerris said.

Elli frowned. “I don't suppose you can explain it more,” she said.

“I would if I understood it.” The answer came out more sharply than he'd meant it to. He was too exhausted to apologize. His mind felt bruised, as it had the day before in the storm.

“Never mind,” said Elli. Lifting her arms, she slid her shirt over her head. “I probably couldn't understand it even if you could explain it. I don't always understand when Kel talks about patterns.” She lay down next to him. The edges of their pallets touched.

Jensie murmured from the corner, a soft, loving sound. Ilene stood, naked, and snuffed the ensconced candle with her fingers.

Elli said softly, so that only he could hear, “I won't keep you awake much longer. I just wanted to say—I like you. I liked the way you let that child touch you today. I like it that you helped Riniard. I like the way you're not afraid to ask for things.” Her hand crept across the pallet and clasped his palm. “I mean it."

He swallowed. “I like you."

“Don't forget to give me back my pants tomorrow."

“I won't forget."

Kel came back. He stepped around the pallets and spoke to someone Kerris couldn't see. “Move over.” Kerris heard the sound of shifting cloth. Then Elli blew on the oil dish, and there was only the soft sounds of breathing, and the wind in the grain, and the rhythmic cries of the lovers.

* * * *

The chearas was up at dawn.

Kel sent Calwin and Elli to the stable for the horses. “We'll find morning meal on the road,” he said. “We've trespassed enough on the goodwill of this village."

Sunlight patterned the walls of the birthing house. Kerris looked out the window. A man and woman walked toward the fields, carrying hoes. A child laughed somewhere in the square. Clouds billowed, chased by an eastward wind. A midden-smell blew across the square from the pasture. It was very peaceful.

Arillard said, “I wonder what they are likely to ask as payment for last night."

Kel reached for the straw broom in the corner. “We'll give it, whatever it is—as long as it doesn't delay us."

Jensie and Ilene shook the pallets clean. Kerris looked for a task. Riniard tapped his shoulder. “We can get the clothes,” he said. They stopped in the alcove for their boots and then went behind the birthing house to the drying line over which their cleaned, dry clothes were pinned. Slowly Kerris unpinned them from the hempen rope and piled them in Riniard's arms. They smelled of soap and sun.

Riniard said, “Last night—” Kerris waited. “I felt you in my head. That was real, wasn't it?"

“Yes,” Kerris said, “that was real."

“I felt Kel, too. It was terrible."

“I'm sorry if I hurt you,” Kerris said.

“You didn't, and if you had I would have deserved it,” Riniard said. He shifted the weight of the clothes. “I'm not angry. You helped me. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't done it. I just want to tell you that it was terrible.” He licked dry lips. Kerris remembered the first time he had touched Kel's mind. He had been terrified.

“I won't do it again,” he said, not sure if this was what Riniard wanted to hear. The redhead nodded. All the clothes and blankets were off the line. They walked back to the house. Riniard sorted out the clothes. Kerris took his pants and blanket from the pile. He rubbed his face against the fabric. There was so much about himself he didn't know. His stump itched. He scratched it. He didn't know the limits of this gift he had—inspeech—nor even where to learn them. Kel—he glanced across the room at his brother. Kel could not tell him. But surely he was not alone, there were others who could do what he did ... The image of a man with silver hair and green eyes shimmered in his skull. Sefer. He knew without knowing where the knowledge came from. Perhaps Kel had said it, or thought it. Sefer, at Elath, Kel's lover, was like him.

Cal and Elli came in. Cal said, “The horses are outside, and so is Tamis. She's waiting for us."

Elli crossed to Kerris’ side and began to roll up her blanket. “What are you scowling for?” she said.

“I didn't know I was,” Kerris said.

“Well, you are. Give me my pants."

Kerris took the borrowed pants off and pulled his clean ones on. “Where do we go today?” he said.

“Through Galbareth,” said Elli, twisting a tie around her blanket. She started to speak, and stopped. “We should reach Elath tomorrow.” She knotted the tie with exaggerated care.

Kerris balanced his own bedroll on his knee and tied the lace with his hand and his teeth. He picked the roll up. “What were you going to say?"

She sighed. “I was going to ask you if you were still afraid of Galbareth."

Kerris glanced out the window at the golden fields. He said truthfully, “I don't know."

He breathed deeply as they went through the long hallway. He wondered what herbs the villagers grew to make it smell so good. He had never smelled anything like it in Tornor. Tamis was waiting for them outside the door. Gathered in their semicircle, the chearis faced her. She wore gold and brown, and the gold-threaded triangle she had worn the day before. On her left wrist a copper bracelet caught the light and winked like a star.

“Damisen,” Kel said (he did not say the word as smoothly as had Cal and Riniard), “we regret the trouble we have brought upon this village. Tell us, please, how we may amend it."

The headwoman folded her arms under her breasts. “It is not great trouble,” she said. She looked at Riniard. “Though it may bring trouble to the one who made it. What comes to a cheari who mocks the chea?"

All the chearis stiffened. Riniard flushed red. Kel said, “That is our concern, damisen."

She inclined her head. “Jeremeth's wound is small. Our lehi, our healer, says it will mend in eight days. But for eight days Jeremeth must do a child's work. Therefore we ask that the eight of you take his place in our fields, and do his work for one day."

“But we—” Ilene bit her lip.

“Yes?” said Tamis. “You refuse?"

Ilene looked at Kel.

“No,” he said. “We do not refuse. It's fair. But we have a prior promise to keep, in Elath, and we cannot wait, not even for one day. Let us come back. Let us return when the harvest moon rides and the spring planting is ripe. We will work the harvest. That way both promises may be kept. We swear by the chea to return."

“Do you?” said Tamis. She gazed at each of them in turn. Kerris thought, I am not a cheari—but she was looking at him, eyes like the earth itself, without mercy or malice.... He bowed his head like the others. The horses snuffed the breeze, regarding the strange tableau with liquid eyes. Tamis moved gracefully to one side. She made a little gesture with her left hand. “That will suffice."

* * * *

With the sun streaming over their left shoulders, Cal led the chearis back on the road. Jensie and Riniard took the lead. They rode side by side, apart from the others, touching, talking, laughing aloud.

The other chearis did not talk much. The sense of Galbareth—the feel of a living presence in the grain and in the earth—kept them still. No one disturbed their passage. They rode like ghosts through a golden landscape. Home, Kerris thought. I'm going home. But the word did not touch him. Home was Tornor.

That night they camped in a barren field. The grass was scorched in places as if fire had passed, and where it was unscorched it was grazed to the stone. “No fire tonight,” Cal warned.

Elli spread her blanket. “Why not?"

Calwin plucked a tuft of grass and let it blow away on the wind. “There've been fires here before. The smallest spark might set it blazing. The wheat's as dry as bone."

“Smell the dust,” said Ilene.

Elli rubbed her hands together. “I can't smell anything but cowshit,” she said. “I'm cold."

Kerris said, “You want my sheepskin?"

She grinned. “No, that's all right."

Kel crouched at the edge of the circle, staring at the endless fence of grain. His hands moved, pushing at the earth, making hills and roads and ridges, a miniature world in the dust. A fox barked in the wheat. Kerris guessed he was thinking about Elath, worrying about Elath. Something's wrong ... I don't know what it is. He tried to find words to help his brother's mood. Nothing came. A scribe should be good with words, he thought.

Arillard seemed to be asleep already. Riniard and Jensie lay whispering lovers’ secrets under two cloaks. Kerris lay down, wishing for the warmth of a fire, wishing that at least the ground was softer. His spine ached. Suddenly Elli exploded at his elbow, “Ai, I'm sick of the fields! I want to see water and green hills again.” She wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and sat hidden in its folds, scowling like some crabbed and ancient woman.

Ilene said, “I want to see my family.” Her knife lay bared in her hand. She sat cross-legged. The rasp of the whetstone on the blade melded with the crickets’ whine. “I haven't seen my son in a year."

“You have a son?” Kerris said.

Her wide mouth curved. “His name's Borti. He's two. He lives with my mother and sister and my sister's children. Sometimes I worry that he'll forget me, he sees me so seldom. When he's old enough, if I haven't settled down to be Yardmaster in some village, I'll take him traveling with me."

“Where does he live?"

“In Elath, of course. I was born in Elath. You think only witches live there?"

“I didn't know,” he said.

“You don't remember it at all?” Ilene asked.

Kerris shook his head.

“It's a beautiful town,” said Ilene.

“Is it big?"

“It's bigger than Brath. Smaller than Kendra-on-the-Delta, or Tezera."

“Smaller than Mahita, too,” said Elli.

Riniard poked his head between the cloaks. His hair was tousled. “Elli compares all the places we go to Mahita,” he said.

“I have the proper respect for my birthplace,” Elli said.

“You weren't born in my village,” said Riniard. “Something for which you should give daily thanks."

Cal said, “If you like Mahita so well, Elli, why aren't you there, inside of marching around the countryside?"

Ilene chuckled. Elli rubbed her cheek with her hand. “Oh. You know. I like Mahita to go back to, the way Kel likes Elath. I get restless staying in one place."

Ilene said, “Zayin says, A true cheari is like a note of music: only happy in company with others of its kind and on the move."

“I'm not a piece of music,” said Riniard. “I'm a person."

Kel had not moved during this exchange. The moonlight touched his fair hair and his fair skin—he looked like stone, like a statue. Suddenly Kerris could not hold back. He reached out with his mind—and found himself sharing in a fierce and terrible longing, a desire so strong that the sweat prickled on his skin and the blood rushed to his head. He withdrew at once, shamed. He hadn't meant to pry. He felt a fool.

“Hey,” Ilene said. “Why so still?” Leaning back, she tweaked the sleeve of Kel's tunic.

He looked away from the dust. “I'm thinking,” he said.

She sheathed her knife and stood lithely. “I know what you are thinking, too,” she said. Crossing to him, she bent and whispered in his ear. He half-smiled. He ran his hands up her arms and drew her head to his, an easy, loving gesture. They kissed: a long kiss. “Come on,” she said, “get up. Walk with me."

Kel sighed and stood. Ilene took his hand. Hips brushing, they walked quietly towards the dark privacy of the furrows.

“Good,” said Arillard from the shadows.

Kerris watched them stride between two rows of grain, and disappear. His senses stirred, remembering the extraordinary beauty of Kel's naked body in the light, by the lake ... A sour voice in his mind commented, So much for a lover at Elath! He knew that was unfair. Chearis rarely stayed in one place for very long, and he'd never heard that their discipline insisted they stay celibate on the road. Kerris pulled his blanket tighter round his legs. What difference did it make that Kel and Ilene were lovers? It was none of his, Kerris', concern.

The answer filled his head. He can dance, and fight, and he has always had a home to go to, and someone waiting for him there. He is loved and beautiful. I am—the images of what he was seared his mind and he fought them away, praying that no one could see him, that Elli would not notice and ask him what was wrong ... Tears burned his eyelids. Setting his teeth against sound, he laid his cheek in the dirt.

* * * *

At midday the next day, they came to the end of Galbareth.

One moment they were riding between tall rows of grain and the next moment they were out of the grain, and in front of them the hills were green and soft, sprinkled with trees.

Kel whooped. He reined from the line and tore down the road, bending low over Callito's neck, urging the red stallion into a blistering gallop. Far away he slowed and came cantering back. His eyes, as he grinned at them all, beamed triumph. His hair had come loose. It tumbled down his back. “At last,” he said. He looked at Kerris. “We'll be in Elath before sunset,” he promised.

“Good,” Kerris said. It was hard to meet Kel's eyes. What, he thought, was there for him in Elath?

Kel said gently, “What's troubling you, chelito?"

The affectionate diminutive made Kerris angry. I'm not a child, he thought, knowing at the same time that he was being unfair again. He said stiffly, “It's nothing."

Ilene said, “He's nervous, that's what's troubling him, Kel. You'd be nervous too if you'd been shut up all your life behind the walls of some damned Keep!"

Kel nodded slowly, still watching Kerris, his eyes uncomfortably keen. “Is that it? You have family in Elath, Kerris. Cousins. Besides, you belong there—you have the inspeech. You won't feel out of place.” Then his own excitement overcame him. He brought Callito's head around in a standing leap. “Let's ride!” They followed him. Kerris’ anger dissipated. He gazed with pleasure at the green hillocks. Goats grazed on the slopes. The road wound up and down again through gentle valleys. Tall white flowers lined the sides of the path. From the summit of a hill they looked across a dell to another hill. Between them, in a sunlit cleft, rested the patterned streets and pastures of a village.

Kerris’ heart thumped. But they rode by it. Ilene was singing. "In sunlight we must part, my love, in starlight we may smile; The moon is shining bright, my love, O let me stay a while; Sing hey and a ho for lovers, sing hey for the setting sun, Sing hey for the girl who makes me smile when the harvest work is done!"

They stopped for a meal. Kel's impatience drove them back to the road. The meadow grass coarsened. Rocky outcroppings jutted over the path: huge blocks of weathered, angular stone. Kerris thought, There were mountains here once. The rocks were oddly impressive. They threw great shadows over the path, and once or twice Kerris thought he saw faces carved on them, eyes, nose, a mouth....

His mind twitched.

He felt it, and then felt it go.

He thought at first that he had imagined the sensation. His stump itched. He scratched it. Ahead of them the road curved and narrowed. He felt it again, a sting within his head, like someone plucking a string.

Kel? he thought hesitantly. Kel did not seem to hear him. Magrita sidled and shook her head at nothing. Kerris soothed her. His trepidation grew. The dark rocks made him nervous. He could not free himself from the feeling that there was something hidden nearby, waiting for them....

“Stand!"

The brusque command stopped them in mid-pace. Kerris looked up. A woman stood poised in a cleft in the granite. She held a strung bow, like a figure out of Tornor's tapestries. She wore coarse brown pants, boots to her knees, a leather tunic. Her face was heavy-featured, skin weathered and red. Her hair was black. She looked like a farmwoman, and not a young one. But she held the bow in sure hands, arrow loosely nocked.

“Kel,” she said. “Ilene. Welcome."

“Cleo?” Ilene said. “What the hell?"

The woman smiled grimly. “We guard the way to Elath.” A man's face peered over her shoulder. He lifted a hand in greeting to the chearas. “It's like old times."

“What is it?” said Kel. “What's happened?"

“War has happened,” said Cleo, “The Council will tell you all about it.” She unstrung her bow. “Go on. Go in."

Six

The town of Elath lay in a shallow bowl. The rocks fell away as the chearas rode up the final curve of the northern road. They looked down. Kerris’ hand ached, he was gripping the rein so hard. He flexed his fingers. He glimpsed silver-gray houses, a patchwork of pastures, gardens, and fields. Veins of blue water decorated the gold meadows. On the rim of the bowl, trees whose branches stood straight up against their trunks lined the horizon like fenceposts.

They went down toward the village. A woman waved from a meadow. She was shepherding a squawking flock of geese to a pond. “Eyah, Kel, Ilene,” she called. “It's well you've come, we can use you."

A bird with scarlet feathers darted under Magrita's nose and into a flowering beech tree. Kerris stared. He had never seen one like it. It strutted on the pendulous branch, brilliant and cocky. “Kerris!” said Kel. He beckoned. “Come up, come ride beside me.” Kerris clucked to the mare. Kel pointed to a gray peaked roof on the eastern side of the bowl. “That farm belongs to Ardith, our mother's brother. We have cousins there."

The road widened. It became a square, with posts for tying horses to, and a tiled trough. At one end of it sat a red brick building whose chimneys belched black smoke.

“What's that?” Kerris asked.

“That's the smithy."

They rode by a house with a sign swinging from it. The sign showed a painted picture of a shoe. A little farther on a tanner and a butcher shop leaned against each other. From the butcher's racks hung sides of lamb, beef, and pork, fish still in their glittering skins, two huge turkeys, a necklace of pigs’ feet, and strings of fat plucked quail.

The tanner's shop stank of boiling oak bark. Kel waved away the drifting steam. “Whew.” Magrita stepped fastidiously over the wagon ruts. There were a lot of them. “This is where the caravans come,” Kel said. People were poking out of windows, watching them. A few waved.

A man staggered by under the weight of a carp big as a baby. His shirt was slimed from holding it. Kel halted to let him cross the road.

Kerris asked, “Who rules in Elath?"

Kel smiled. “This is no Keep,” he said. “There's a Council."

“Like the Council of Houses in Kendra-on-the-Delta?"

“A little like that. It was patterned after that. But we are not so grand in Elath. Anyone who owns land can be on the Council here. There are no great families, as in the city."

They rode by a burned and blackened house. A voice shouted, the words muffled. Kel reined in.

A man walked around the charred boards. “Yai!” he said, holding a hand up, palm out.

“Yai,” responded Kei. “What happened, Emeth?"

The man grinned. It was not a nice grin. “We were raided."

Ilene leaned over the pommel of her saddle. “Anyone hurt?” she said.

“Noro was burned. She's healing.” He pointed his chin to the other side of the street. “The stove blew apart in Thiya's house.” Kerris looked. One of the houses had a wall made of two kinds of wood: the silver wood which seemed common, and a dark red wood. The red wood looked newly cut. Yellow curtains covered the windows. The red and silver made a strange pattern. “Killed him."

Ilene muttered an oath. “Anyone else?” she said.

“No,” said the man. He wore a blue shirt, and dark brown pants tied with a leather belt. His hair was braided like a woman's. “Your family is well."

“I thank the chea,” Ilene said. She gathered her reins in both hands. “Take Kerris to the school,” she said to Kel. “I will join you later. l want to see my son.” She urged the bay stallion out of line and into a side street.

Kel touched his heels to Callito's sides. Kerris wondered why he had not asked if Sefer had been hurt. If I had a lover I would ask, he thought. Yet another house sat scorched and soiled in the sunlight. Fresh boards lay on the ground in front of it next to a huge pile of soiled ropes. From the rear came the sound of hammers. Kel slowed but did not stop.

“Who lives there?” Kerris asked.

“Moro and Sevrith, and their children.” Between the beats of the hammer Kerris heard the shrilling of children's voices. “Moro is ropemaker for the village."

“How many people live here?” he asked.

“In Elath? Thrice five hundred."

It seemed a lot. It was nearly twice the number of folk in Tornor village.

Kel reined in abruptly. He pointed at a house. “The house you were born in stood there,” he said.

It was just a small silver cottage, with leather curtains at the windows. “That house—"

“No. That one is new. The other was destroyed in the war, ten years ago."

Kerris gazed at the cottage. Something—memory?—stirred in his head. The line of the street began to look familiar. He told himself that these were Kel's memories, not his own. His memories began with Tornor.

Kel said gently, “Kerris, you don't have to come with me to the school. Would you prefer to go to the farm? Ardith and Lea are anxious to meet you. I'll take you there."

“Would you rather I went there?” Kerris said.

“No,” said Kel. “I like your company, and I want Sef to meet you, and you him. But you must do what you want."

Kerris wondered if Sefer would like him. He gazed up the slope of the bowl to the farm Kel had pointed out to him. It seemed very remote. “I'll stay with you,” he said.

Behind them, Elli and Jensie were pointing out the village sights to Riniard, and Kerris remembered that the redhead, too, had not been here before. A brindle goat trotted across the road.

The street seemed to end in a forest. Kerris said, “Is the school a building?"

“Certainly it is,” Kel said. “It was Sefer's idea. We built it seven years ago.” He pointed into the trees. “You'll see it soon. Look for silver."

At the edge of the trees Kel dismounted. Kerris copied him. He thought he heard water. “Is there a river here?” he asked.

“There's a stream by the Tanjo,” Kel said. To the others he said, “Wait for us, we won't be long.” He gave Arillard Callito's rein. Kerris handed Magrita's to Elli. The word Tanjo puzzled him. It was a southern word: it meant a hall where apprentices were trained.

“Come,” said Kel.

The grove was dark and silent. Partway through it Kerris heard the music of water clearly. It reminded him of Tornor. He glimpsed a silver roof, silver walls. The water fell across a patterned barrier of rock in a steady, directed stream. Kel touched his shoulder. “Open your mind,” he said. Kerris took a breath. If my mind were a hand ... Slowly he slipped from the body's confines. He touched the mind of some scaly predator in the grove: it seethed with a cold ferocity. He left it quickly. He touched Kel's mind. It trembled with barely contained eagerness. He reached toward the silver building, wondering who was learning what within its walls.

He touched the mind of a stranger....

A boy sat in a corner. He was staring at a pale white surface. The surface danced with flecks of color. His mind ranged outward, toward the water sound amid the trees. He wrapped his thought about the water and scattered the current into a high, joyful mist, beading the cypress needles with wetness.

“See!"

"Good,” said a man's voice. “That was good, Korith."

Kerris blinked as the wet glory of the fountain leaped in his mind.

He put his hand to his cheek. His face was cool with the fountain's spray. He looked at the water, running once more in its accustomed grooves. “Did it—?"

“Yes,” said Kel. “It did."

Something shone blue in the grove. A man came running around the tree trunks. He was slim, tall, though not as tall as Kel. I know you, Kerris thought. His hair was white, held off his forehead by a blue band; his clothes were brown, trimmed with blue thread. His eyes were green. He came to Kel, and they embraced.

“Sef,” said Kel. “This is Kerris.” He drew the white-haired man around. “Kerris, this is Sefer."

“I'm glad to meet you,” Sefer said. It was he who had said, That was good, Korith. He was a fingers breadth taller than Kerris, no more. Their eyes met. Kerris’ skin prickled. He felt as if every thought in his skull, every hope, every desire lay bare to that intense green gaze. Frightened, he backed up.

Kel slipped his arm to his lover's waist. “Stop that,” he commanded. “He's not ready, Sef.” They kissed. Kerris turned his head away. It was like seeing two flames joining in the dark.

Sefer said, “It's good you're here, nika."

“So I've been told,” Kel said. He touched the hilt of his knife. “Cleo spoke of war."

“No,” Sefer said. “It isn't a war. Not yet."

“The others are waiting in the street. Can you leave the Tanjo?"

“I shouldn't,” Sefer murmured, “but Tamaris is there, so I suspect I shall be forgiven.” Kel stroked his lovers back with one hand. A flush of rose touched Sefer's pale skin. They strolled to the street. Kel shortened his stride to match his lovers. Kerris, behind them, felt his back muscles twitch.

Elli and Arillard greeted Sefer with laughter and ribald comments. Kel introduced Riniard. “It's good to meet you,” Sefer said. Riniard mumbled a greeting. He looked apprehensive. Leading the horses, the chearis walked south along the main road. They passed a Yard. Men and women sparred inside the fence. A few shouted greetings, but they did not break the fighting circles.

The stablemaster was waiting for them in the doorway of the horse barn. He was a big man, black and bearded, with spadelike hands and crooked teeth.

“Eyah, Kel. Glad to see you.” He grinned gap-toothed. “All of you. We've got a war on our hands, you hear?"

“We heard,” said Kel. “We're going to hear more."

“It's like the old days. Lalli, Sosha!” His shout brought a girl and a boy tumbling from the hayloft. They were dark as Ilene. “Take the chearis’ horses and rub ‘em down good, or I'll feed you to the bears.” The children seemed unimpressed. The girl made faces at him as she led Callito into a stall. “I won't keep you. Listen—I've got a horse can beat that big red one, Kel, you hear?"

Kel chuckled. “I doubt it."

“Give me a race and I'll prove it!” The man's raised voice shook the dust from the walls.

Kel patted the big man's arm. “Later, Tek."

* * * *

They went to a house. It was small, a cottage really, silver, surrounded by other houses. Its roof was slate. In the entrance hall there was a small alcove for boots and shoes.

Beyond the alcove was a long room. The floor was covered with fat red pillows and reed mats. The walls were hung with soft wool squares in many colors. A low table stood to one side, decorated with a copper vase filled with branching sprays of flowers. There were several chamber pots on the floor. In one corner stood a bright red washbasin on a carved wooden stand.

“Be at home,” said Sefer. “Are you hungry? The spring harvest is in; there's plenty of food."

Jensie unlaced her riding leathers. Tossing her bedroll into a corner, she put an arm around Riniard's waist, her thumb hooked into his belt loop. “I'd forgotten this place was so pleasant,” she said.

Kel grinned. “Nika, you know better than to ask that. Chearis are always hungry."

“Wait,” Sefer said. He disappeared through an arched doorway. He returned bearing a platter heaped with cheese and fruit, a flagon of wine, and a dish filled with fetuch. The dish was green with blue flowers. “Sit.” The chearis sat. Sefer put the tray on the table and went to the arch again.

“Where's Ilene?” he called.

“With her family,” Kel said.

Sefer brought in a cluster of copper cups. “Then you're six. No.” He smiled at Kerris. “Seven."

Elli picked up one of the cups. She held it to the light. It was dimpled, and engraved with a simple, flowing pattern of a horse's head that went all the way around the bowl. “This looks like Asech work,” she commented.

Sefer sat. “It is."

Arillard said, “We saw Asech traders bearing the snake sign at the Tezera crossroads."

Sefer said, “I will say it one more time. We are not at war with Asech.” He poured wine into a cup and passed it to Kel.

Kerris glanced at the placid room. The hangings on the walls reminded him of Tornor's tapestries. He ran his fingers along the braided mats. Sefer handed Cal a cup of wine. This is my birthplace, he thought. I was born in this valley, in a house like this one.... He closed his eyes, trying to summon a memory, one memory. Nothing happened. He had memories of cold and stone and ice. He had no memories of trees that grew in the shape of flames, of red birds, or of silver walls.

Kel said, “Tell us what is happening, then."

Sefer said, “We were raided, three nights ago, the night of the quarter moon. They came in the middle of the night—with torches.” He poured a third cup of wine and gave it to Arillard. The oldest cheari looked grim. Kerris had a sudden moment of vision. He saw the peaceful, sleeping streets lit by torch fire, saw horses rearing, smelled pitch, heard the shouts and the terrible crackle of flame eating at dry boards.... He shivered. Sefer put a wine cup in his hand.

Arillard said, “Isn't setting homes to the torch an act of war?"

“They carried weapons and did not use them,” said Sefer.

“So?” Cal said.

“So they did not wish to kill, only to frighten."

“Thiya was killed,” Kel said. “Emeth told us."

“Thiya was killed by accident, not design. They want something from us—something more than spoil."

“Who are they?” Kel said.

Sefer took a moment to answer. He sipped his wine. “We don't know."

Kel's head snapped around. He stared at his lover. “How can you not know?” he said.

“We know they are Asech, that's all,” Sefer said. “We could learn nothing from their minds, Kel. They were barriered. They are like us."

Cal said, “Witches?"

Sefer nodded, his green gaze enigmatic. “Just so."

“And you think they mean no harm?” said Elli.

“I didn't say that,” Sefer said.

There was silence. Kel murmured a question in which Kerris caught a name—Terézia. Sefer nodded. “Where is she?” asked the cheari.

“With the guard."

Arillard said, “The folk on guard—Cleo—and Tek at the stable spoke of war. So did Emeth."

Sefer turned the copper cup between his palms. “Most people will. It's simpler.” He put the cup down. “But we've sent riders south and west. No other towns have been attacked. Just Elath."

Arillard shook his head. “That makes no sense. How many raids have there been?"

“Just the one."

Kel growled. He looped his arm around Sefer's chest and fell back with him into a heap of pillows. “Damn the Asech and their raids,” he said. His hands moved on Sefer's hips. “I didn't come home to fight.” He leaned forward to touch his lips to the back of Sefer's neck.

Kerris looked at the mats on the floor. His body felt too hot for his clothes. A hand touched his knee. He looked up. Elli smiled at him.

Kel said, “If the raiders want something, nika, then they will have to come back to tell us what it is."

“Yes,” said Sefer.

“Do you want help? Guards on the roads? We are at your disposal."

Riniard set his cup down on the tray with a bang. “A fight!” At Kel's baleful look he put both hands up, palms out. “Don't glare at me like that, Kel. I'll be good.” He laughed uneasily. Kel did not drop his eyes. The room chilled into silence.

Kel said evenly, “We are chearis, not soldiers."

“I didn't mean it,” Riniard said.

Kel stood. “Then don't say it.” His gray gaze raked them all. “I want to see you all this afternoon in the fighting circles.” He clasped Sefer's hand and brought him upright in one smooth heave. “Dom a'leth,” he said. Let's go now.

“Please be comfortable,” Sefer said to the chearas. “This is your place.” He turned to Kel. The cheari put an arm around his shoulders. They walked to the end of the room and vanished.

Elli put her hands on her hips. She said to Riniard, “You have the brains of a cricket."

“I know,” the redhead said. “I really didn't mean it."

Arillard said, “You shouldn't say what you don't mean.” He still looked grim, but his voice was calm and sad. He began to pile the cups on the food tray.

“It's all right,” Jensie said. “Sef will smooth him down.” She put her arms around Riniard's waist and hugged him.

Steps creaked overhead. Kel and Sefer. Jensie and Riniard laid out their bedrolls side by side. Arillard said, “I'm going for a walk. Anyone want to come?” He gathered up the food tray and cups and delivered them to the pantry on the other side of the arch.

“Nope,” said Elli. The others shook their heads.

“See you at the Yard.” Arillard opened a door Kerris hadn't known was there. A heavy scent drifted into the room. He glimpsed sun on grass. A breeze touched his face, like a caress. A petal fell from the flower spray to the back of his wrist. He shook it off, and began the tedious work of unlacing his riding leathers.

Cal pulled a little bag from his pack. He upended it. A pair of bone dice tumbled over the mat. “Want to play?” he said to Elli.

She grinned, and seated herself opposite him. “I've been waiting for you to bring those out."

She looked different. Kerris puzzled out how. She had plaited her hair into tight thin braids, many of them, and tied them with bits of yellow silk. He hadn't seen her do it. It looked good.

Scooping up the dice, she tossed them in the air, caught them again. “What rules?"

Cal said, “Double sixes and no dead men."

“I accept.” She spun the dice to the mat. “Ha. Two and four, six doubled makes twelve. Your throw."

Kerris’ bladder twinged.

He rose. He didn't want to use a pot; there were too many people about. The breeze blew across his face. The mats pricked the soles of his feet. Quietly he went into the garden. It was warm. There was a rain barrel to the left of the door, and a green lawn ending in a tangle of berry bushes. A stone bench sat under a tree. The tree's leaves were smooth as wax, and its bole was scaly silver. Kerris pissed into a berry bush. He could see the wall of a building through the snaky, thorny runners. A mole run humped across a corner of the lawn.

He sat on the bench. He felt no kinship to the place; it was pleasant, but strange. He supposed he would get used to it. He would live with his mother's brother, work on a farm (what work a one-armed man could do), go to the Tanjo.... His stump ached. He rubbed it hard, forcing sensation from the scarred nerves. He wondered if his mother's brother Ardith was anything like Morven.

He ran a fingertip along the bench. There were pink veins in the white stone. A red bird, plumage bright as blood, flew past his head. It landed on a branch, balanced, and slipped within a bush. He saw the curving clutter of a nest. Scarlet flashed behind a screen of thorns.

“Aah!” The cry rang from the upper room of the house—deep, convulsive, ecstatic. Kerris caught his breath. He looked up.... It was not repeated. A curtain wavered over a frame.

It would be easy to reach through those windows. ... He heard it as if someone else had said it. It would be easy—his body heated, stiffened—to slide like a red bird (as if by accident) into his brother's head.... He trembled, remembering Kel naked in the amber light of morning.

He gripped the bench as hard as he could, until his fingers throbbed with pain. When he lifted his hand it was etched with the pattern of the stone.

* * * *

Elli dragged him from the garden.

“Come and watch,” she said.

“I've watched the fighting circles before,” he said.

“You've not seen us,” she pointed out. She gazed around the garden, grinning in high good humor. Kerris guessed she had won the dice game. Seizing his hand, she laced her fingers with his. “Come on, Kerris. You've seen us dance, now watch us fight. If you aren't there it won't be the same."

Like all Yards, the Yard at Elath was a dirt-packed square. A silver fence, waist-high, kept dogs and other animals out. It was ringed with people. The chearas stood in the center. The villagers made way for Elli. “Here,” she said, depositing him in the front rank of spectators. Crossing his legs, he sat, feeling conspicuous. She joined the chearis. They looked sleek and fierce, like animals. Ilene was with them. Kel had coiled his hair on top of his head.

At the southwest corner of the Yard stood a huge stone pillar. Kerris stared at it. The stone was smooth, not rough, and there was a suggestion of a face within it. It grew clearer the more he looked at it.

“Greetings,” said a voice in his ear. He turned his head. Sefer had come up on his left side.

“Hello,” Kerris said.

Sefer was wearing a different shirt. It had green braid along the collar. There was a purple love-bite on his neck that had not been there before. He looked happy. “Have you met your kinfolk yet?"

Kerris shook his head. “Kel said he would take me to them."

“They're here—your cousins are, at least,” Sefer said.

“I can wait,” Kerris said. Anger, or something like it, uncoiled within him. I don't want to like you, he thought. Don't try to make friends with me. He looked away, toward the pillar.

Suddenly he did not want to meet the extraordinary intensity of those wide green eyes.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing his chin at the pillar.

Sefer said, “We made it, at the Tanjo.” The implication—that it had not been made by hands—was plain. “We desired it to show the spirit of the chea. We call it the Guardian."

By now the Yard was crammed with people. But around the pillar there was a clear space. No one leaned upon it. Surely those hollows were eyes, and that curve a nose, that a mouth ... “What do you see?” Sefer said softly.

“A face...” It drew him. He could not turn his head. Taller than the human figures under it; it gazed across the Yard and out across the valley, glimmering with terrible, inhuman tranquillity. He could not believe that mere human beings had fashioned it out of common rock. In a moment it would begin to move...

A hand gripped his shoulder. Sefer said, “Kerris! Look at me!"

With great effort, he turned his head. His eyes burned. Sefer's pale face and white hair shimmered. “Look at the ground,” Sefer said. “Put your head down.” Kerris put his head on his knees. The world grew firm again. He lifted his head.

Sefer said gently, “It can be dangerous to look at the image for too long."

Kerris turned his hips so that he no longer faced the pillar.

“Thank you,” he said.

Sefer let him go. “They're ready,” he said. People in the back of the Yard, by the fence, were yelling at each other to sit down, be still, make room.

Kel's shout silenced them. “Yai!” The Yard grew still. Kel and Ilene were sparring: circle, kick, block, punch, glide aside—the practice blows that even Kerris knew (he'd seen them done a hundred times). But the chearis struck with dreadful speed, making a blur of hands and feet that Kerris could barely follow. Ilene kicked. Kel slid beneath the extended leg, rose, and flung Ilene backward. She rolled upright, breathing hard.

She bowed to Kel, and he to her. They separated. Kel beckoned to Riniard, Ilene to Calwin. Now there were four people to watch. Ilene hooked Cal's legs out from under him. He rolled backward and returned to the attack. Riniard sliced sideways at Kel and went flying over his hip. He hit the dusty ground with a thud.

The pairs bowed to each other. Riniard engaged Jensie. Cal took on Arillard. Ilene beckoned to Elli. Kel let them work together for a while and then joined them. They did not talk, though occasionally someone—it was hard to tell who—laughed or yelped.

“Yai!” The yell halted them. They made the circle, bowed, and separated. Ilene, Arillard, and Jensie walked to the weapons shed. They returned with nijis, the wooden practice knives. Again they made two pairs and one trio. The nijis were smooth, polished, yellow, nearly as long as the chearis’ real knives. Kerris wondered what wood they were made from. In Tornor nijis were made only of white oak.

He watched the patterns the chearis made. Circle. Strike. Parry. Step and throw. Their shirts were patched with sweat, and their skin caked with dust. Kel shouted. Ilene passed him her niji. Arillard gave his to Riniard. Elli took the third from Jensie.

Someone tapped Kerris on the back. He turned around. A woman handed him a waterskin. He drank and passed it on to Sefer. The shadow of the Guardian extended across the Yard. A cool wind blew across the space. Again the chearis exchanged their weapons.

Jensie blocked Kel's knife thrust, arms above her head. Her muscles shook with effort. She turned him and brought him to his knees, arms extended, one on his wrist, the other on his elbow. He signaled halt. The chearis brought the knives to the shed. Weaponless, they separated, walking casually past each other. “Is it over?” Kerris said to Sefer.

Sefer smiled. “Watch Kel,” he said.

The chearis walked. Kerris watched Kel. Nothing happened.... The spaces between them seemed to be getting smaller. Suddenly Kel kicked sideways at Ilene. Ilene blocked the kick with a lazy forearm. They passed each other, walking. Cal pinned Riniard's wrists from behind. Riniard whipped free. Arillard took a long step and swept Elli's legs from under her. They walked, and slowly the circle grew smaller. Ilene sparred with Elli. Kel threw Arillard. Jensie and Riniard allied to attack Cal. They separated, reformed, melted, converged, merged, switched. The circle shrank, until at last Kel was backed against the pillar, alone. Chopping, stabbing, using only his hands, he fended them off until they reached him, wrestled him down, and sat on him.

Sefer laughed. He stretched his arms above his head. “It always ends that way."

A small pack of worshipful children descended upon the chearis. Kerris stood up. His hips ached, and his legs were numb. He stamped, waiting for the prickles to stop. Kel was kneeling, talking to the children. They made a circle around him, like little chearis. Some of them might grow to be chearis, if they were strong and swift and singleminded, and remained whole, Kerris thought. Elli waved to him. He waved back. She walked across the square. Her arms, legs, face, clothes, and hair were thick with dirt, but the spring was still there in her step, in the tough long muscles of her thighs. “Did you like it?” she said. He nodded. “Good.” She brushed the top layer of dirt from her arms. “Look at me, I'm a mess!” She grinned through the dirt mask. “Walk with me."

“Where are you going?"

Elli shook her head to try to shake the dust from her hair. “To the baths,” she said.

* * * *

There was a bath-house at Tornor: it was a long, tiled room, containing laundry tubs that could be filled with heated water. The baths at Elath were different. They were two pools on a slope. A stream fed the topmost pool, and spilled from the lower edge of the bottom one.

Elli said, “You wash in the lower pool and rinse in the upper one."

Kerris stuck his hand into the water. It was icy.

Beside the upper pool was a clothesline upon which hung long robes of every color and size. Elli said, “When you finish bathing, you choose a robe. Of course, you can't keep it, you have to bring it back."

Beside the lower pool was a structure like a house. It seemed to have no corners.... It was covered with designs made of beads. Kerris remembered the bead design on the door of the house in Galbareth. He realized that the structure was made of skins on a wood frame. The breeze blew toward him. He smelled the pungent odor of human sweat.

“What's that?” he said.

Elli said, “The steam tent."

She stripped her filthy clothes and strode naked to the tent. As she pulled a flap aside, steam billowed from it. Ilene emerged. She ran across the ground and leaped into the bottom pool. She sank beneath the surface and bobbed up again, agile as a river eel. She stroked to the side of the pool. It was edged with stone. She took something from the stone and began to rub herself with it. Kerris went closer and saw that there were pots of soap all about the side of the pool.

Another woman came from the steam tent, followed by a dark-skinned man. They went to the top pool. The woman's belly was big with child. The man steadied her as she climbed over the slippery stones, and she laughed and said something to him that made him laugh. They ducked under the water, and then stood in the shallow end with their arms about each other.

Ilene said, “Kerris, don't you want to bathe?” She pointed to the tent. “Come with me. I'm going back there to sweat the soap off."

“No, thank you."

She left the pool. Elli arrived, her skin glistening. She leaped into the water, shouting like a child. Spray shot into the air. Kerris retreated from the edge. The other chearis approached. Sefer was with them, walking beside Kel. Kel took off his clothes. He kissed Sefer on the mouth before he went into the steam tent.

Jensie and Riniard coaxed Cal into the center of the lower pool. They shouted contrary instructions to him. Sputtering, he paddled, sank, and came up swearing.

Sefer strolled to Kerris’ side. “What are they doing?” he asked, amused.

“I think,” Kerris said, “they're trying to teach him to swim."

The chearis carried their filthy clothes back to Sefer's house. Elli put her arm through Kerris'. “Feel,” she said. He felt the fabric of her sleeve. It was velvet, in a sumptuous golden shade. Ilene's sister had come to the baths, bringing Ilene's little boy. He was dark and chubby. He waddled beside his mother, dark eyes wide. Kel was flushed and happy. He walked with Sefer. His hair bushed out from his face. He wore a dark blue silk robe with silver embroidery on the cuffs and the hem.

A woman strode by them, carrying a hoe over her shoulder. She stopped to speak with Sefer. The tip of the hoe glinted red in the sunset light, and Kerris saw that it was a steel spearhead. He glanced around the rim of the bowl in which the village lay. He could not see the guards hidden in the rocks and thickets, but he felt their presence ... He wondered if the Asech would attack tonight. The woman finished her speech with Sefer and moved away, steps light in the cool evening, her broad face flinty.

Elli said, “Kerris, I want to talk with you later."

“All right,” he said.

They ate evening meal at Sefer's house: hot bread with butter, cold pickled beans, strips of cheese, chunks of fish. Ilene fed Borti till he fell asleep in her arms. Next to the colorful luxury of the chearis’ bath-robes, Kerris felt drab and sticky. Two dishes filled with choba oil stood in the center of the table, throwing a soft patina over the room. A cricket chirp pulsed from near the stair. Kerris wondered where it was. Paula had told him that a cricket in the house meant good luck. The chearis lazed in the cushions.

“What news of the Asech?” Riniard asked. “Are they still there?"

“They're still there,” Sefer said.

Ilene rocked Borti. “You say the raiders mean to frighten, not to kill, Sef. I'll believe you for now, but it goes against my blood to let them camp so close to us and not even know exactly where they are, or how many."

“I know,” Sefer said. “We cannot help it."

Arillard picked his teeth with a fishbone. “In my troop on the border there was a scout so good that she could go into an Asech camp and count the feathers in the chief's horse's mane."

Cal said, “Since when do horses have feathers?"

Arillard grinned. “O ignorant one. The Asech braid their horses’ manes with feathers. Different feathers indicate different ranks."

“We can't all be aged and wise like you,” said Cal. He rolled swiftly away from Arillard's elbow.

Riniard frowned. “I don't understand why we know so little about the raiders. They're human; they ride horses, they leave tracks in the night. A good scout could find them."

Sefer said, “You forget—these Asech are witches. It's hard to take a witch by surprise."

Riniard sat up. “Send a witch, then!” He gestured in the lamplight. “If you find out where they are you can send out a troop to surround them."

“Idiot,” said Ilene. She kicked the redhead on the leg nearest her.

“Why?” said Riniard. “They can't be that strong. If they were strong they wouldn't need to threaten you."

Kel said softly, “A good point, Red."

Sefer said, “If they're afraid of us, they'll be extra-vigilant."

Riniard stabbed a finger into the air. “But why can't you use your witchcraft to attack them back!"

“Because our gifts come from the chea,” Sefer said, “and we will not use them to make war."

“Oh,” said Riniard. Deflated, he sank into the pillows and veiled his face in Jensie's hair. She tickled him and he scrambled from her reach.

Ilene said, “You know, Sef, I wonder if that's the right decision.” The cricket called in the wall. “I am not a witch, of course."

Kel sat in a dune of pillows, one hand linked with Sefer's. “Tomorrow,” he said, nodding to Kerris, “I'll take you to meet our cousins. They are anxious to know you."

Are they? Kerris thought. He leaned back against a bolster. Elli was watching him. He wondered what she wanted to speak with him about. His stump itched. He scratched it.

“Nika, is Kerris’ gift as strong as I think it is?” Kel said.

Sefer looked at Kerris across the fish bones. “Kerris is a very strong inspeaker."

Borti snored. Ilene gathered him up. Standing, she pulled a fold of her robe around him. “I'm going to my sisters,” she said. “Kel, don't forget—we are to teach tomorrow in the Yard."

“I won't forget,” Kel promised. Borti's head lolled on his mother's shoulder. Softly the chearas chorused goodnights.

Kel ran his hands over Sefer's ribs. “Let's go to bed,” he said. The gesture was loving, urgent, and erotic. Kerris flushed to the tips of his ears. He ducked his head, reaching for a mug of wine, to hide it.

Sefer rose. “Till morning,” he said. “Sleep well."

Arillard chuckled. “We'll sleep. You won't."

Sefer and Kel went to the stair. Despite himself, Kerris found himself listening for the rhythm of their steps—listening for the moment when the steps stopped. The bitter envious tears were welling into his eyes again. He sat by his pallet, tracing the cracks in the floor with his forefinger.

Elli's voice said quietly into his ear, “Kerris, will you talk with me now?"

She was holding an oil dish. Bending, she set it on the mat by his knee. He wanted to say No. Go away. But he couldn't. The steps on the floor overhead halted. He told himself not to think about them. A long-legged spider ran over his hand.

“What do you want to talk of?” he said.

“What are you thinking?"

He lifted his head. No one ever asked him that, except Josen. He rubbed his eyes. Elli sat cross-legged, velvet robe glowing, hands folded in her lap.

The wine loosened his tongue. “I was thinking about my brother. How different we are."

“You look alike."

He grimaced. “Not to me. I have this.” He tapped the stump. The tears returned. “He's a cheari, he has a lover, a home, all of you—” He paused. The room was so silent he was afraid the others were listening, but when he looked up he saw them by their bedrolls.

Elli said, “Have you never had a lover, Kerris?"

Kerris remembered Kili of Tornor, who had rolled with him in stained sheets. “I've had two lovers,” he said. “One slept with me out of curiosity.” He thought, with pain, of Tryg. “The second came to me out of pity. My best friends in Tornor were an old man and an old woman.” His heart insisted, They were good friends ... But it was too late to keep the loathing from his voice.

Elli said, “I would love you."

He stared at her, incredulous. She was mocking him; she did not mean it. His pulse beat in his throat. “Out of pity,” he said.

“No.” The light from the dish flecked her hair with gold. “I like you. You may have lost an arm but there's nothing else missing.” She grinned for a moment. Behind the smile, her eyes were grave and steady on his face.

He was shaken. “Chearis sleep with chearis. Riniard and Jensie, Kel and Ilene—"

“You're here."

“But I'm not one of you. I'm only here because of Kel.” He had neglected to breathe. He gulped air. Elli's fingers unlaced. She touched his hand.

“Do you know what your face says every time you look at him?” she said. “I do. I wasn't lying, Kerris. I would be your lover, and your friend, and not out of pity.” Her fingers on his skin burned like a brand. He knew what she was going to say before she spoke. “But it isn't me you want."

Kerris’ body flamed with heat. But his thoughts flowed, pure, clear, cool as a river ... No wonder he had had no true lovers. There was no lover who could compete with a dream. Waking and sleeping, from the day Morven forbade him the Yard, he had dreamed of his brother, until the night he had sought him out, across distance, through time, using a gift he still did not understand.

Through numb lips, he said, “It's funny, isn't it."

“Kerris—” Elli gripped his wrist hard enough to hurt. “Why do you hold back? Kel cares for you. At least you could say it—say something!"

He wondered if she'd lost all sense. He pointed upward.

“Oh—” she shrugged. “Sefer knows that Kel loves other people. He doesn't care. How could he? It makes no difference to what happens between them."

Arillard reached from his pallet to blow out the light. The room darkened. “Does everyone know?” Kerris said. “How I—that I—” Elli shrugged again. “Does Kel know?"

Elli said, “I don't think so.” She licked her thumb and forefinger.

Kerris did not think so either. For a moment the urge moved in him to be sure ... as if without volition, he reached into the dark house, seeking to touch his brother's mind.

And was stopped, by a seamless mental barrier. A thought came through it, a clear, compelling warning. Kerris’ head throbbed. He withdrew. The communication had not come from Kel. His skin prickled, recalling the intensity of Sefer's gaze at their first meeting. Sefer knows, he thought. He hated Sefer for that certain knowledge.

“Will you tell him?” he said.

Elli blew the last lamp out. She pinched the wick with damp fingers. “Not if you don't wish it."

“I thought there were no secrets in a chearas,” he said.

She answered, “I can keep silent.” Her tone was even and courteous. He considered what she had offered him, and was ashamed.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

She nodded. They sat in silence. The moon's glow ripened in the window. Night sounds filled the room: birds, crickets, the bark of a fox. A board creaked in the chamber over Kerris’ head. His raw nerves quivered. He said, “He wouldn't want me.” But he remembered what she had said. Kel cares for you.

Elli stood. Briskly she drew the gold velvet robe over her head. “Maybe not,” she said softly. She slid into her blankets. “There's one way to find out. Ask."

“l can't."

“Don't wait too long,” she said, as if he hadn't spoken. “If he doesn't know, he will. Your face will tell him.” Warm in the cool room, her fingers laced with his a moment. “He's a patterner, remember, and a cheari."

“I know what he is,” Kerris said.

She took her hand from his and rolled over on her stomach. Light from the lifting moon touched her skin. She muttered something—he could not hear the words.

The white crescent appeared over the windowsill. Kerris moved from its range. “What?"

Elli lifted her head from the pillow. She repeated the words. “He's not blind. He knows what you are, too."

Seven

When Kerris woke in the morning the chearis were scattered across the dim chamber, blanketed lumps, still sleeping. He had been awakened by the piercing warbles of the birds, so different from the pigeon noises of Tornor's flocks. He pulled on tunic and pants and went into the garden. The grass was thick with dew, chilling his bare feet. He rubbed his eyes and watched the red bird dart back and forth in the welling sunlight.

In a little while the others would rise. Kel would take him to his uncle's. He wondered again if this, his maternal uncle, was anything like Morven. He went back to the chamber and put on his boots. On impulse, he left the knife and sheath that Josen had given him by his bedroll. He had no use for it. He was not quite sure what he was doing. He didn't want to see his brother—and Sefer—not yet, not until he had time to think.... He was still bemused and a little tremulous from his talk with Elli.

He went into the street without looking at the upstairs windows of the house. He's not blind, said Elli in his memory. He knows what you are. Kerris rubbed his hands over his face, feeling stubble. He would need to shave soon. What am I, then? Kerris thought. I'm a scribe, a cripple, a witch.... A bird flew past his head. This one was blue with black bars on its wings.

He walked by the Yard. The top of the Guardian gleamed with the sunrise. He passed a well. He retraced his steps. Dipping up a bucketful of water, he rinsed his mouth and washed his dusty face.

When he lifted his head, he saw a woman at his elbow. Her hair was white: it sprang curling out of her head like unsheared wool, thick as northern fleece. She wore gold, edged with green. Her face was lapped with wrinkles.

“May the peace of the chea be with you,” she said.

“And with you,” he answered. He looked up the terraced slope of the valley, seeking the farm Kel had pointed out to him the day before. “Can you tell me which of the farms is Ardith's?"

The old woman put a surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder and turned him eastward. “Follow the line of white birches,” she said. “Ardith's farm is the one with the steepest roof."

“Thank you."

“You are welcome.” She had pale pink skin and a wide mouth. When she smiled, wrinkles rippled from her lips to the borders of her face. Her eyes were dark and very powerful. “My fingers are not as agile as they once were. Would you dip me a bucket?"

“Of course,” Kerris said. He lowered the bucket into the well and cranked it up again. He left it, brimming, in her weathered hands. Squinting, he strolled east. Paths tracked upward to the valley's rim. Cows grazed in unplanted fields. Groves of cypress, pine, and birch marked the farms’ borders. A good fifth of the fields were nubbly as a sheared sheep, showing where the winter wheat had been scythed. It was gathered and husked now, milled, packed into sacks, laid in the village storerooms. But elsewhere the grain grew tall, almost ripe, awaiting the autumn harvest.

A woman rode down the slope on the back of a piebald mare. Kerris caught, in the misty morning, the glint of metal. He could not tell if she was carrying a hoe or a spear.

The curve of the bowl made distances deceptive. The farms were bigger than they looked. Halfway up the slope Kerris passed a clear, shallow stream. It fed into a pond. In the pond's depths bright red fish swam in circles and figures through fronds of underwater greenery.

It was pleasant to be alone, unobserved except by an occasional stranger. It seemed easier to walk without the knife's weight bobbing at his thigh. The ground was moist and rich. It clung to the soles of his boots. He sniffed. The air smelled of cow dung, pinesap, and wet earth.

He saw a doe and two spotted fawns nibbling the new leaves of a birch tree, and stopped to watch them. There were few deer in the north. The doe's coat was red, like clay. The fawns’ legs were stick-thin as the bones of birds. He took a step in their direction. The doe saw him. Her tail flicked white as milk. She nudged the fawns ahead of her into the deeper recesses of the forest. This is home, Kerris thought. It did not seem as preposterous as it had the day before.

Through the sun-dazzle he glimpsed a man ahead of him. He was wearing brown, and a straw hat like the hats the women wore in Galbareth. Kerris caught up with him. He carried a brace of rabbits in a rope net. “I'm looking for Ardith's farm,” Kerris said.

The man said, “You've found it.” He had a good voice, calm, comfortable. “I'm Ardith.” He pushed his hat farther back on his forehead. Stout leather gloves poked from his belt. His hair was brown. His eyes were gray-brown, like rock. “You're Kerris, Alis’ son. Heard you'd come in with Kel. The children said they saw you at the Yard. Thought you'd be up here.” He gestured toward the slate-roofed farmhouse. “Come in. Lea wants to meet you."

“Thank you,” Kerris said.

“Thought Kel might come with you."

It took a moment before Kerris realized that he'd been asked a question. “I didn't wait,” he explained. “He was asleep when I left."

The farmhouse was built much like Sefer's cottage, but larger. Just inside the front entrance was a rack for boots and shoes. The downstairs chamber was wide and airy, floored with mats, strewn with thick cushions. In the center of the room was a low wooden table. There were soft leather curtains at the windows.

“You must meet the abu,” Ardith said. He led Kerris to the rear of the house. There was a brick hearth with an iron pot set in it, a pan rack, and a tiled stove. A chair with a striped blanket across it sat just in front of the hearth.

“Abu,” said Ardith. The blanket moved. There was someone beneath it. A head lifted from the colorful folds. An old woman gazed at Kerris. Her hair was white. The pink of her skull showed clearly through the strands. Her eyes were milky and bulbous. The blanket fell from her bent shoulders. Her lips curved. “Abu, this is Kerris-no-Alis. Reach your hand to her,” he murmured to Kerris. “She is blind and wishes to touch you. She is Lea's mother's mother.” Kerris held out his hand. The crone extended a hand from the blanket. She rested it in his. Her fingers were knobby and shrunken, and her nails were very long. She mumbled something. “She says she is glad you have come,” Ardith murmured. The dry hand was like a claw. She drew it back within the blanket and dropped her head. Gently Ardith adjusted the folds of the blanket around her shoulders.

“She built this house, she and the anu,” he said. “She remembers a time when all this valley was streams and trees."

Footsteps rang overhead. A tall, dark-haired woman sped through a suddenly twitched-aside curtain. “Nika,” she said, “Tazi is in the girls’ room and will not let me open the door!"

Ardith held out the rabbits. “I will see to her,” he said. “Lea—” but the woman was already coming toward Kerris, arms outstretched. Without hesitation, she put her arms around him and hugged him. She was tall as he. She wore dusty brown pants, and a cream-colored shirt embroidered with geometric patterns in threads of many different colors. Her hair was thick and flecked with gray.

Releasing him, she stepped back. “Ai,” she said, “you look just like Alis."

Kerris did not know what to say to this. Ardith laid the rabbits on the tile stove and went up the curving stairway.

“Have you met the abu?” said Lea.

“Yes,” Kerris said.

“She is my mother's mother, no kin to you,” Lea explained. “But she knew your mother's family.” She pointed at the table. “Please sit."

“Thank you,” Kerris said. He sat. Now that he was here he was not sure why he had come. He said diffidently, “Did you know my mother well?"

Lea said, “She was as close to me as my older sister would have been. We grew up together. I was eight when she had her first child. I thought all babies looked alike. It took having four of my own for me to learn otherwise."

The stairs shook. A small, sullen-faced girl raced down them. A door opened: Kerris glimpsed green plants in sedate rows. The girl skidded through the door. It slammed with an ear-shattering bang behind her. Lea sighed. Ardith came downstairs, fanning his face with his hat.

“That's Tazia,” Lea said. “She's my youngest. Meda, my oldest, is eighteen. Reo and Talith are between them.” She turned to her husband, “What is she angry about now, nika?"

“She wants to be with Meda."

“Yesterday she wanted to go with Reo to watch the chearas.” Lea lifted both hands toward the ceiling. “She is ours, I remember bearing her, but I never thought to have such a grudgeful child.” She laughed then. She had a deep and tuneful laugh. “Forgive us, Kerris. She is only eleven, and already the gift is strong in her. Did she say where she was going?"

Ardith was gutting the rabbits with swift, skillful motions, tossing the innards into a crock by the stove. “I told her to go to the Tanjo. Tamaris is there."

Lea said to Kerris, “When it first came, your gift must have been a trouble to you, so far from anyone who could tell you what it was."

The matter-of-factness of her tone made it hard for Kerris to answer. He thought of the curiosity, revulsion, and scorn with which the folk of the Keep had greeted his fits. He remembered how hard he had tried to make them go away. “Some,” he said.

“You are an inspeaker, aren't you, like Sefer,” she said. “That's good. He is a good teacher, I have heard."

Kerris said, “I know I have a lot to learn.” It came out stiff. A look that he could not interpret passed between Lea and Ardith.

Lea said, “I am sorry. We forget that outside Elath people do not speak easily of the witch-gifts.” She went to the pantry, and returned with the inevitable plate of fetuch. She laid one stalk in the old woman's hand before she put the food on the table.

Kerris wondered if mealtimes in the south were different from mealtimes in the north. Perhaps food was so abundant—in spring and summer, at least—that it could be freely offered to a guest at any time. In the north only the lords of the Keep offered food to a visitor without first counting stores. For politeness’ sake, he took a stalk of fetuch. The bowl it lay in caught his eye. It was of a rich orange color. He wondered who had made it. He had never seen clay work so fine, at Tornor.

He touched it. The glaze was smooth as water. “This is nice."

Lea reddened like a girl.

Ardith smiled. With quiet pride he said, “Lea made it."

“It's beautiful."

The door to the garden slammed open. Tazia stood in the door frame, her face contorted with fury. “I don't want to go to the Tanjo."

She wore brown, like her father. Thick black braids, tied with red silk, stuck out over her ears. She thrust her chin out, glaring. The curve of her small cheekbones copied, in little, the curves of Lea's broad face.

Lea said, “Tazi, don't make noise with the door."

Tazia stamped her foot. “But I want—"

Ardith said, “Tazia. That's enough."

She tilted her head to look at him, as if considering disputing the gentle command. Some of the anger went from her face. She looked at Kerris. “Who are you?"

Lea said, “You know very well who he is. He is your cousin Kerris, come from the north to live at Elath."

Kerris thought, Is that what I came for?

Tazia said, “Oh.” She scratched her chin, tapping her big toe on the matted floor. Her feet were very dirty. “You came with the chearas."

“Yes."

“Do you know my sister Meda?"

Ardith said, with patience, “There is no reason why Kerris should have met your sister."

“She is with the guards.” The small face scowled. The small fists knotted. “I want to go there."

Ardith squatted, as if to reason with the child. “You cannot. You are too young, you would be in the way."

“I could help,” Tazia asserted. “I'm strong. I can throw stones. See!” The sunset-colored plate lifted from the table and swooped like a bat to the silver beams of the chamber. Pieces of fetuch went flying to all the corners of the room. Kerris ducked as the plate sailed by his ear. Lea made a grab for it with both hands. Suddenly it ceased to move. It hung, quivering, aloft, and fell without shattering to the table. The fetuch stalks hopped from their corners and landed at Tazia's feet.

Ardith said, “Tazi, pick them up."

By the hearth, the abu lifted her head and cackled, a sound like stones tumbling.

Tazia looked stubborn.

“Take them to the well and wash them, and bring them back. You've done enough mischief for one morning.” The door at Tazia's back opened, though no one touched it. “When you've brought them back, you will go to the Tanjo."

Braids eloquently drooping, Tazia gathered the dusty stalks from the mats. She went through the door and it closed behind her. Lea picked up the orange bowl and ran her fingers over it. “It's not cracked.” She laughed. The merriment playing over her face strengthened her resemblance to her daughter. “I remember the time she tried to use the gift to milk the cows. Ai, that was funny!"

Kerris said, “She is a witch."

“She moves things with her mind, as you saw. She is surely her father's child. Thank the chea none of the others are so gifted. It came to her young. Usually a woman's gift does not come until she bleeds. Alis’ gift did not come till then."

The door opened. Tazia plodded in. She put the dripping stalks of fetuch in the orange bowl. Silently she went, closing the door. Suddenly it sprang open again. A pair of small fawn boots soared through the air and landed with a plop outside. The door shut. Lea laughed her lovely deep laugh. She rose. “Come,” she said. “You like my work. Let me show you my workroom."

Across the little garden (which was indeed an herb garden, steaming with mingled fragrances) stood a shed. Kerris guessed that it had once been a stable. A faint smell of horse lingered in it. The floor of the shed was covered with white dust. “Clay dust,” Lea said. “It's impossible to avoid.” Three barrels stood beneath the windows, each covered with a damp cloth. Lea lifted the cloths for Kerris to look. Each was filled with clay. The first clay was red, the second whitish, the third gray. Jars, plates, and bowls lined a shelf on the opposite side of the room.

Lea showed Kerris her worktable. “I mold the pots on the wheel.” She pointed to a potter's wheel in the corner. “I bake them in the kiln, the potter's oven. That is just behind this shed. If you like I'll show you. Then I decorate them.” She pointed to a score of little pots lined up along the worktable. “There are my paints: enamels, lacquers, and glazes. Some are powder and some liquid, some have glass in them. Some do not.” She lifted a blue jar and turned it for Kerris to see the pattern. It was covered with white flowers. “This design is made by painting around the flowers with the blue glaze and letting the clays natural white bake through."

“What do you do with them?"

“Trade them to my neighbors. I make most of the pots and plates for the village. The best of them I save and sell to the blue clan. There is one trader from Mahita who loves my flowered jars and will take almost anything I make. I get my glazes from him.” She showed him her worktools: brushes, metal pens, scrapers, tongs. Two unburned hour-candles rested in the window.

“Where do your designs come from?” Kerris asked.

She smiled. “Out of my head."

At the back of the worktable stood a chobata, its surface an ugly mud color. Kerris nodded to it. “Is that spoiled?"

Lea laughed. “No. It is ready for firing. When it comes out of the kiln it will be a brilliant red, and I will lacquer it with black."

“How did you learn to do this?"

“From my mother. Women in my family have always been potters.” They went behind the shed. Kerris admired the kiln. It was bigger than he had thought it would be, brick, with an arch through which logs could be fed. Lea opened the metal door to show him the shelf on which the pots rested. There were perhaps twenty pots on it. The earth beneath the shelf was littered with pink sherds. “All those need firing,” Lea said. She closed the door and pushed the metal bolt. “But I've been busy, and it's hard to find the peace of mind to work within the trouble."

“Tazia?” ventured Kerris.

“No. Tazi's my joy, even in mischief.” Lea's gentle voice took on an edge. “No, I mean the Asech raid."

In the garden, Lea bent over a tall plant with small blue flowers. She flicked a red-shelled insect from the serrated leaf. “I lost friends and family in the last raids,” she said. “Elath was attacked, you know. The raiders were beaten back, but we haven't forgotten. This isn't the first time we've had to rebuild our homes."

Kerris said, “Did you know my father?"

Lea turned over more leaves. She looked sideways at Kerris. “A little. He was everything that Alis was not. She was slim and dark and quiet. Ardith is like her. She tired quickly, because of the gift. Sometimes I thought she was quiet because she was an inspeaker ... I was dreadfully jealous of Kerwin.” She brought her hands together. “They met in Kendra-on-the-Delta. He was escorting his father, the lord, to the Council of the Cities, and needed a new cloak. She was walking in the market. It was a chance meeting. The old lord wasn't happy. He wanted Kerwin to make a city match, with a daughter of the great families, Med, Hok, Batto. But Kerwin was stubborn. He was tall—” her voice trailed off for a moment. “As I remember him, he was very much like Kel."

Kerris did not want to think about his brother. “How did my father die?” he said.

She lifted her thick, dark brows. “Don't you know?"

“They told me only that he was dead in the war. I never knew when, or how."

“He died on the border, a year after Alis was killed."

They walked back toward the house. At the last row of plants Kerris noticed an oddly shaped rock, partly overgrown with runners. He hunkered down to look at it further. The face, mouth, nose, eyes, of the Guardian, showed through a screen of white blossoms. He straightened hurriedly.

Lea said, “Don't worry. This one is flawed. That's why it's in the garden."

“How did it come here?” he asked.

“I made it,” she said.

“Did you?” He hunkered down again. Warily he touched the smooth face. At this distance he could see that it was clay, not stone. “Why?"

“Sefer wanted one for the Tanjo. I made several till I got it right. The others are in other people's homes. Lara—she is headwoman here, you may have met her—has one; so does Tamaris."

A bee lighted on one of the white blooms. Gently Kerris pulled his fingers back.

They returned to the house. Two boys stood over the iron pot. The lid lay on the stovetop. The rich odor of stew steamed upward toward the roof. Kerris’ mouth watered.

Lea grinned. She advanced toward the intent boys. Suddenly the pot lid rose from the stove and landed firmly on the pot. Ardith came down the last few steps of the stair. The boys spun around. The taller one said to his father, “We were only looking—” The smaller one laughed and stuck an elbow in his brother's ribs.

“You can't fool Poppa, don't you know that by now?” He looked at Kerris. He was dark, like his father. He wore dusty clothes, a leather belt with a knife on it, a straw hat. His feet were dirty as Tazia's. “I'm Reo,” he said. His voice was deep. Kerris realized that he was the older of the two. The other boy moved with the lanky carelessness of boyhood, and he wore no knife. “That's Talith."

“I'm Kerris,” Kerris said.

The younger boy turned. “Hello,” he said. His skin was redder than his brother's. “I saw you at the Yard yesterday.” His gaze slid uneasily over Kerris’ stump and returned to his face.

Ardith said, “I thought you were weeding."

Reo said, “You said you were coming right back.” Man and boy smiled at each other. Their smiles were remarkably similar. Kerris guessed that Reo was his father's favorite, as Talith was his mother's. Casually, the older boy leaned to the table and took a stalk of fetuch from the bowl. It twisted from his fingers and landed back in the bowl with a plop.

“I'll bring some with me,” said Ardith. “Get out of here.” Talith giggled and made a teasing face at Reo.

“Did you meet the baby?” said the younger boy.

“Don't call your sister names,” said Lea. “She was here earlier. She's at the Tanjo."

“Learning to throw rocks at the Asech. Pom!” Talith mimed aiming an invisible rock. Reo caught his brothers belt and pulled. Talith squawked and folded in the middle, and Reo towed him out.

Ardith said, “I should go back to the fields."

“Go, then,” said Lea.

“Care to come?” Ardith said to Kerris.

“If you like,” Kerris said.

Lea put her hand on the front of her husband's shirt. “Tell me where you'll be,” she said.

“In the wheat, on the high slope, mending a fence,” said Ardith. He touched his wife's cheek with one palm. “They won't come in the daytime, nika."

Lea's voice was bleak as the winter wind. “They have before."

* * * *

The broken fence was made of stone. Chest-high, it ran between the field of winter wheat and the pasturage where the black and white cows grazed, their heads all facing in one direction, their backs to the sun. A small pile of stones had spilled from the wall in one place and rolled a little down the slope. Kerris helped Ardith collect them. “The cows rub against the stones to scratch, and also because they want to get at the wheat,” the farmer explained. “The rubbing loosens the stones.” He picked up one stone, turned it, and laid it back on the wall.

“Can I help?” Kerris asked. The dark man shook his head. Carefully he replaced the spilled stones in the niches from which they'd fallen. A few of the rocks took some effort to lift. Ardith did not stop to put his gloves on. When he fit the heaviest one in, Kerris could see blood trickling from under a torn nail. Ardith sucked the cut clean.

“It's nothing,” he said.

“Couldn't you do that with your mind?” Kerris asked, shyly.

Ardith half-smiled. “Stones don't turn weightless if I lift them with my mind.” He pointed to the ground. A pebble spiraled up from the dust like a quail from its nest, hung in the air in front of Kerris’ nose, fell back. “That's easy. Heavy things are hard. They tire me."

They went down the slope again. The wheat ears lifted from the haulm, taller and more golden than the pale northern wheat. Creepers of blue flowers ran up the stems. The smell of cow dung fertilizing the plants was everywhere. Kerris said, “Could you really throw stones at the raiders?"

“I suppose,” Ardith said. “Stones, or a spear. But even Tazia knows we don't do that. It would be terrible to use the gifts of the chea to make war."

They joined the boys in the field. Ardith opened his sack and passed out pieces of fetuch. Both boys had taken off their tunics. Reo's chest was patched with clumps of hair. He grinned at Kerris. “Poppa dragged you into working, huh."

“I'll do whatever I can,” Kerris said.

“Tali,” said Ardith, “give Kerris your hoe and go get another.” Talith passed Kerris his hoe and danced off through the row.

“You know,” Reo said, “it will take him forever to get back here. He'll go and sit with Mother, or play in the stable."

“I know,” said Ardith. “Let him be, Re."

Kerris held the hoe uncomfortably against his side. There seemed to be no convenient place for him to brace it. The soil was rich and dark. He chopped at the roots of the weeds, imitating Reo's smooth steady motions. In Tornor at the harvest, when the guards of all the watches went back to their villages to help their families cut, sheaf, and stook the wheat, he had never done so. Sweat tracked down Reo's naked back. Kerris unlaced the throat of his shirt. He did not want to take it off, but already he felt the sweat starting under his arms. Reo whistled, one row away. The straw hat bobbed in the next row as Ardith bent and stroked, bent and stroked.

Talith returned with a short-handled hoe. He wriggled through the tall stalks and handed it to Kerris. “Mama said you might find this easier to use.” Kerris took it. It was easier. He looked down across the terraces to the peak of the farmhouse roof. Smoke curled from its chimney.

In the next row, Reo yipped. “Coney!” Kerris looked up in time to see a gray lop-eared shadow spurt right between the boy's spread legs.

At noon they went back to the farmhouse. The abu snored before the fire. Lea spread food for them: bread, cow cheese, sausage. Kerris’ arm and hand burned along the lines of the muscles. He ate slowly, savoring each bite. It seemed to him the field work was the hardest work he had ever done.

Talith said, “Kerris, what do people do in the north?"

Kerris smiled. “The same things people do in the south."

“Farm, you mean.” The tall boy sounded disappointed.

“Yes. Farm, and herd sheep and goats."

“Are there chickens, pigs, cows?"

“Chickens and pigs. No cows. There isn't enough for the cows to eat. The soil in the north is thinner, and harder."

“What did you do?” Reo asked.

“I was a scribe. I did accounts for the lord of the Keep. I copied records.” Both boys nodded, assimilating it.

“Are there wars in the north?” said Talith. He made a skewering motion with his breadcrust. “Pom! Uh!"

“There were once,” Kerris said. “We fought Anhard. But the Anhard folk come now just to trade."

Lea said, “Tali, it goes against the chea to speak of war as it were fun.” The afternoon was just as busy as the morning. Ardith, Reo, and Talith mended tack in the stable, mixed slop and fed it to a pen of spotted pigs, raked cow dung into piles in the pasture—Ardith explained that, mixed with weeds and chaff, it went on the fields—and (with the help of a stolid mule) dragged a fallen tree from a grove and chopped it into firewood. Most of the work took two hands. Kerris felt superfluous. He had never done any of it. He didn't know how. Ardith had to show him how to use an axe. He watched, and did what he was told.

At sunset work stopped. In the west the sky was fiery, in the east it darkened. Silhouetted cypresses stood like spikes along the rim of the bowl. The weeders sat on the farmhouse steps.

Softly, Ardith talked about his sister. “We were always close. The year she died the Asech were bold, raiding the roads as well as the villages. I didn't want Alis to leave Elath. But Kerwin insisted she go north, as much for your sake, Kerris, as for hers, and he wouldn't listen to the foreseer, who said that she ought not to go. He hired guards for the caravan, though—men and women from the city guard in Mahita who were willing to leave their own homes to travel north."

Paula had never said what town or city she came from. “Were they all from Mahita?” Kerris asked.

“I think so. A few of them were skuthi, deserters. But they swore loyalty to Kerwin and they kept their word."

Kerris said, “One of them carried me all the way to Tornor Keep."

“So we heard—but that was much later."

Kerris said, “When did you first hear of the attack?"

Ardith turned a stone between his thumb and forefinger. “There's a bond between siblings, witch-children, especially if one of them is an inspeaker. When the attack began Alis linked with me across the fields. I was here, standing guard on the rim as Meda is doing now. They tell me I fell, and would not speak for hours. I saw it through her eyes as it happened. And at the end I felt her die."

Fireflies drifted like small stars over the wheat. They went into the house. The room was warm, bright with the light from three oil dishes, and steamy with cooking smells. Tazia was home. They ate around the table. In the middle of the meal Meda returned. She was tall and slim and fierce. Greeting Kerris politely, she ate and then sat by the hearth, sharpening her spearheads. The abu snored.

“How is it out there?” Ardith said.

“Quiet, for now,” Meda answered.

Kerris leaned against the cushions, stomach filled with rabbit stew. He was feeling very content, when Reo approached him. “Cousin?"

He explained that a friend of his, from Elath, was in Kendra-on-the-Delta, apprenticed to a silversmith. “I wanted to write him a letter. I was going to ask Meritha to do it. She writes the records for the Council. But I thought—you might not mind—you could do it now."

“I don't mind,” Kerris said.

“Meritha is old, and her hand shakes."

“My hand won't shake,” Kerris said. He smiled, thinking of what Josen would have said to shaky lettering. “Can your friend read?"

“No. But he can ask someone to read it to him. I just want to say hello, and tell him I miss him."

“Do you have ink, and a quill, and something I can write on?” This proved more difficult. Tazia ran to the chicken coop to find a turkey feather for the quill. Lea suggested using one of her dark blue glazes. Meda contributed a piece of white cloth that she had been saving to embroider for a shirt panel. In the yard the sleepy chickens clucked their fury at the intrusion. Tazia came triumphantly in with two red tailfeathers clutched in a grubby fist.

Lea brought out a rag for Kerris to experiment with. Reo sharpened the quill point into a nib at Kerris’ direction. But the glaze would not sit on the point. In desperation, Kerris turned the feather around and used the vanes, as if they were a brush. The strokes showed thick and clear on the cloth. Reo cheered. “What do you want me to say?” Kerris asked. Even Meda ceased her work to watch. Talith, fascinated, leaned both his elbows on the table. Reo batted him back.

“You'll jiggle it,” he said.

“I will not!” Talith flushed with fury.

"For Dev-no-Demio, apprentice to Smith Tian, of Goldsmith's Alley, Kendra-on-the-Delta." Reo's voice softened and deepened. "From Reo of Elath."

“Wait a moment, let me catch up.” Using the feather end of the quill was more like painting than writing. “All right, go on."

"Dev—My cousin Kerris is writing this for me. He is from Tornor Keep. He came from the north with the chearas that my cousin Kel is in. We are all well. Your family is fine." He paused.

Ardith said, “Say nothing of the Asech raid. We don't want to alarm him—or anyone."

Reo nodded. "I went to your farm yesterday. Your spotted mare foaled a he-colt. It is white but I think it will be spotted when it grows up."

“I've only room for one more line,” Kerris said.

"I miss you. I wish you were not so far away." The boy's voice grew somber. “That's all,” he said.

Kerris put the quill down. He blew across the cloth. He wondered how long it would take the script to dry. “Tomorrow you can seal it with hot wax."

Ardith rose. “I'll take the abu to bed,” he said. Gently he tucked the folds of blanket close and picked the old woman out of her chair.

Lea said, “Maybe when Dev comes back to visit he'll bring the cloth with him, Meda, and you can still use it for a shirt."

Meda chuckled. “I can get more cloth."

Reo said, “He won't be coming back, not for a long time. He said so when he left."

Lea's lips pressed together. Meda cocked her head on one side as if she would say something, but didn't. Tazia seized the still wet quill and began to draw designs in blue on her shirt front. The leather curtains were still open. The air was warm. An herb smell came from the garden, and the smell of bread from the oven. I would have had a family like this, Kerris thought. If war hadn't happened, if my father had not sent us north, if the Asech hadn't raided the caravan, if my mother had not died...

He smelled a heavy, sweet scent, stronger than the bread, stronger than flowers: the scent of heavenweed.

“Here,” said Ardith. He held out a small wooden thing with a stem and a hollow and a coal glowing in the hollow. The scent came from there. Kerris had seen other such tools in the wagons of the southern traders at Tornor. Cautiously he held the thing at the tip of the stem, farthest from the dark bowl. The wood was warm.

“What do I do?” he said.

Talith giggled. Reo cuffed him. “Don't laugh at a guest,” he said. He sat next to Kerris. “Put the end in your mouth,” he said, “and breathe in, as if you were taking a breath of air. Hold it, and then let it out."

Kerris did as he was directed. The smoke was less pleasant in his lungs than it was to his nose. With effort, he did not choke. He remembered the name for the implement: it was a pipe.

“Now pass it,” said Reo.

Kerris passed the pipe to Lea. He waited for an effect. His eyes throbbed, and his fingers tingled.

“Do you like it?” said Reo.

“I guess."

The pipe returned to him. He took a second mouthful of the smoke.

“I used to smoke heaven with Dev,” said Reo. He let the blue smoke trickle from his nostrils.

Kerris’ mouth felt dry. “Is there wine?” he said.

“I'll get it,” said Reo. He went to the pantry alcove. Kerris studied his cousin as he went across the room. He wondered if Reo and Dev were lovers. He flexed his fingers. They still tingled. He felt infinitely older than the farmboy. He thought of Kel, with Sefer, and his heart contracted.

Lea said, “Kerris.” He looked up. She and Ardith were holding hands. They looked much younger than he knew they were. “Have you thought about where you are going to live, in Elath?"

“No."

Lea glanced at Ardith. He nodded. “You may live with us, if you like."

He knew they spoke it for his mother's sake, and in her memory. But he was touched by the offer. They need not have made it. “Thank you,” he said. His tongue felt thick. It had to be from the heavenweed. “I—I don't know—"

“Don't have to tell us now,” said Ardith. “The offer stands.” His eyes were warm. Kerris thought, He's nothing at all like Morven. He leaned into his cushions, feeling lazy and sad at the same time.

Tornor seemed very far away, farther than the bare measurements of distance and days. In his mind he could hear what Josen would say to this offer. You're wasted on a farm, Kerris. Go to Kendra-on-the-Delta. You are a scribe.

I am a witch, he said into his head, as if the old scholar could hear him. I have family here, and people who care for me. He heard Reo's feet against the dry mats. The face of the Guardian—serene, unfathomable—came into his mind. It made him think of Kel. He thought, Suppose I speak. He'll laugh. But he knew his brother would not laugh at him. He stared out the window at the star patterns. He was almost resolved to say to his kin, I'll stay, and we'll see what happens. He put up his hand to take the wineskin from the crook of Reo's arm.

And the stars exploded.

Eight

Fire—Fear—Fire—Fear—Fire — the words shrieked and stormed in Kerris’ mind. He was standing. He could not remember rising. Smoke and the smell of flaming oil were bitter in his nostrils. Lea was soothing Tazia, “Hush, babe, hush, chelito, it's well, it's well.” His head thrummed with the force of the warning. Sweat rolled down his sides. The message beat on. Fire—fear—fire —

“It's the raiders,” Ardith said. His voice was strained. “They're coming."

Reo's face went colorless. Kerris realized that he had not heard the warning, nor had Talith. Meda flashed by him, spear in hand. Ardith went up the stair with long strides. He returned carrying two belts with sheathed weapons hanging from them. One was a longsword. He gave Lea the other. It was a knife.

A horn blew. The notes were sharp and pure, the same melody that the horn might blow at Tornor to warn of attack. Pah-PAH, pah-PAH-pah.

Reo said, “Father, may I go with you?"

“No,” Ardith said. “If the raiders come this way there must be two people here, one to guard the children, one to carry the abu. If they come, get to the trees. Blow out the chobata. It will make the house harder to find.” He buckled the longsword on. Kerris watched. He had seen, at the Yard in Tornor, men and women train with the wooden swords, but he had never seen anyone wear a real one. Ardith saw his gaze and said, “I used a sword in the fight on the border."

They left the house. The horn still sounded, painfully clear. Ardith ran lightly down the path. The sword bounced, and he put a hand on the hilt to steady it. Kerris ran at his heels. He felt agile as a goat. He guessed that, too, came from the heavenweed. The light of the crescent moon made the dust glitter. The cypresses loomed over the path, dark, shadowy, and tall. Where the moonlight touched the birches they gleamed.

Kerris’ boots were not made for running. His left heel began to blister. He forced himself to stay beside his uncle, knowing that if he fell behind he could lose his way and blunder in among the trees. They ran to the village. Figures brushed by them, purposeful shadows, hurrying to posts. Ardith slowed as they entered the streets. Kerris dared to whisper. “Where are we going?"

“The smithy."

Weapons glinted in the dark. A woman gave orders in a quick fierce whisper. Kerris thought he saw Arillard running. Ardith seized his elbow. “Look,” he said. Kerris looked up.

Light flared on the rim of the bowl.

The raiders came. They spilled into the valley, shouting and screaming, torches burning in their hands. They did not stop at the farmhouses. They came straight for the village, howling like wolves in the chase. Torchlight glittered on their weapon-hilts. They bristled with metal. Their horses were huge and sleek. They wore gray-brown cloaks that waved into the wind and faded in the darkness to the color of earth. It made the riders harder to see.

Sparks leaped from the torches. Kerris backed against the wall of the smithy. He wished he had his knife. He tried to count the raiders. There did not seem to be very many of them. It would only take a few good archers, he thought savagely, to bring the horses down. On foot the raiders could easily be killed or captured.... Bloody images overwhelmed his thoughts. Horrified, he caught himself. War was vicious, ugly, a cruel occupation; it broke the chea—but he could not stop the images. The Asech dashed through the narrow village streets, shouting, circling, making their horses rear. The man on Kerris right muttered something, part oath, part plea.

He heard the crackle of flames. A house was burning. He pulled himself together, ready to run, but the men beside him made no move toward the fire. Kerris leaned his mouth to Ardith's ear. “That house—” he gestured.

Ardith said, “There are others there."

Suddenly the square in front of the smithy was filled with plunging horses. “Witch people!” It was a woman's voice. She urged her horse forward, and the other riders drew their steeds back to give her room. “Witch people, do you know us? We are the Asech, the desert riders. My name is Thera. I speak for my people."

The horses stamped and were stilled. The only sound in the space was a child sobbing somewhere in a house. The Asech swung their torches like flags. The man on Kerris’ right said, “O Guardian of the chea, curse them."

A woman moved out from the line of villagers. Her hair was white. Her long robe was gold. She moved with care, as if her hips pained her. Kerris recognized her.

She faced the woman on horseback. “I am Lara,” she said. “I am head of the Council of Elath."

There was a burst of speech among the riders. Thera leaned down. “Do you speak for your people?” she said.

“No one does that,” Lara said. “But if you wish to parley, you may speak to me."

Thera laughed. The torchlight showed her face, thin and bronzed. “We do not parley, old one. We command. We are the desert riders.” The boastful words had a ceremonial ring. “Look!” Thera flung an arm toward the slopes of the bowl. The villagers murmured and gripped their weapons. The fields were bright with pinpoints of yellow light: torches. “If you gainsay us we will burn your fields."

Lara said, “We see. Very well. We will use your language. What do you command of us?"

Thera said, “In the cities, even in the desert, they tell stories of the witches of Elath. They say you make water gush from stone. You hold fire in your bare hands, and take no hurt. You move rocks without touching them."

“We know these tales,” said Lara.

“Listen. We too, have power. We are witches. You know this, people of Elath. You have tried to touch our thoughts, and you have failed. Is this not true, old one?"

Again the crowd murmured. Again Lara lifted a hand. “It is true,” she said. “You have power. We feel it."

“You have a school in this village,” said the Asech woman, “where you teach your children to be witches. We have heard of this school in the desert. You teach your children to hold fire. We come to learn. Teach us to hold fire, people of Elath."

Lara said, “You have burned our homes. You threaten to burn our fields. Why should we teach you anything?"

Thera threw back her head, and yelled.

A horseman cantered forward, leading a second horse. Limp over the horse's saddle, tied, face down, lay a man. His red hair shone in the torchlight like spilled blood.

“He is young and fair,” said Thera. “Foolhardy, too, to approach an Asech camp alone. He will not tell us his name. He has courage. Who is he—a loved son? A father? A brother? We have him now. Do you wish him to remain unmaimed, unharmed? Then you will do as we say."

The burdened horse pranced a little. On its back, Riniard did not move. Lara's ancient face was impassive. The man on Kerris’ right was cursing again. The smoke from the torches made Kerris’ eyes tear. He lifted his hand to wipe the tears away.

“Each day you deny us,” Thera said, “something will be taken from him. Perhaps just a finger. Perhaps an eye."

A growl rose from the streets. “Barbarians!” called a voice.

Thera scowled. “We are the desert riders,” she said. “We do not live by city laws.” Her horse tossed its head. Its mane and tail were braided. There were feathers in the braid on the mane. Kerris wondered if they meant that Thera was a chief. Some of the other riders had feathers braided into their horses’ manes as well. Thera's horse tried to rear. Easily she held it down. Leaning forward, she patted its arched neck. With her glossy hair and sharp-boned features, she reminded Kerris of a bird, a hunting bird, a bird of prey.

The horseman leading the second horse said something brusque and angry to her. She replied in a soothing tone. The sound of the fire in the nearby street had lessened.

“Come to us in the sunlight,” Lara said. “Come tomorrow. We will teach you."

“If there is treachery our captive will suffer,” said Thera. She was now so close to Kerris that he could see the curved sword on her hip, and the fringe on her boots.

“There will be no treachery,” said Lara.

“We will come,” said Thera. “Expect us when you see us. It will be soon.” Her horse reared. “laah!” The riders swung their torches, yelling and shouting. They raced from the square to the road, riding hard, brilliant against the dark fields as a falling star against the sky. Kerris thought of Riniard. Perhaps the young cheari was already hurt. Bile came up in his throat. He swallowed.

His knees were unsteady. He leaned against the wall. Ardith was gone, vanished into the crowd. Kerris wondered where the chearas was. Everyone began to talk. A familiar voice rode the noise: Sefer. Kerris went toward him. He saw a brown face in the moonlight. It was Elli. He touched her shoulder. She whirled to face him, one hand fisted, the other holding her knife. “Did you see—?"

“I saw."

She sheathed her knife. “Poor Riniard,” she said.

Lara, Sefer, and three other Elath folk who Kerris did not know were standing together, listening to a woman in brown. She was holding a bow. Kerris remembered her: Cleo from the rocks over the road. Ilene stood at her elbow. Cleo said, “We let them through, as you directed, and counted them. We counted fifty-four, including the ones left on the rim. But there may be more. If they have the gift, they could bring an army through Arun and no one would notice till they had gone!"

“I know,” said Lara. She touched Cleo's face. “Daughter, you did well. Go back. Tell your troops that the Asech will return in daylight, and to let them through again."

“How many will there be?” said Cleo. “When will they come?"

“I don't know,” Lara said.

Kel appeared out of the darkness. “Elli,” he said. “Ilene. Come.” The other chearis were gathered behind him. He wore boots—not heeled riding boots, but tough-soled trail boots. His knife hung at his hip. His hair was braided and pinned to his head with an ebony comb.

The stink of the torches still soured the air. Elli said, “Where are we going?"

“To get Riniard back."

Cleo said, “Six of you?"

Kel looked at her. His eyes were granite. “That's right. We'll follow their trail to their camp.” He stared at Elli and Ilene. Wordlessly they moved to join the others. “We'll be back. It may take us a little while.” He turned. Kerris glimpsed Arillard's face. It was tense and troubled.

A man came up. “Lara, shall we—” he started to say, and then his voice trailed off. Uncertain, he glanced from Lara to Kel.

“Nika,” said Sefer. “No."

Kel turned. Sefer faced him. Kel walked to him. Sefer did not move. He tilted his head a fraction, to meet his lover's eyes. The noise of the street seemed to fade. Thoughtlessly, Kerris reached for his brother with his mind. It was like touching heated metal.

At his sides, Kel's hands fisted until the knuckles turned white.

He spun from the chearas and walked away. Elli said, “Should we—"

“No,” Sefer said. “He won't go."

* * * *

We should have attacked their camp."

“They could pick us off in the rocks."

“Not all of us, they couldn't. We should have fired their camps. The witches could have done it."

“We could do it now."

“They'd kill the redhead, or worse. I'll not be responsible for that."

“Damn them. Ten years ago we'd have attacked their camp and killed them in their beds, as they killed us."

The chearis walked silently through the streets to Sefer's cottage. Around them the villagers’ angry voices rose and fell. As they entered the long room, Jensie shivered and let out a cry.

Ilene went to her at once. “Ai, chelito, he will be all right. Don't think of it.” She put her arms around the girl's shaking form and drew her down into the cushions, rocking her as she had rocked her son.

“Soon?” said Elli to the darkness. “What does soon mean?” No one answered her. Calwin brought an oil dish from the table. The cricket whined from the stair.

Taking the tinderbox from his pack, Arillard lit a lamp. Kerris sat on his bedroll. His eyes ached from the smoke, and his left heel was raw.

Jensie lifted her face from Ilene's breasts. Anguish hollowed her face like age. “Why did Sefer stop us?"

“It was a stupid idea,” Ilene said gently. She stroked Jensie's hair. “If the Asech are witches, they would sense us coming. They would have hurt Riniard, perhaps killed him."

Jensie trembled again. Arillard said softly to Ilene, “You knew Sefer would stop him."

She turned her head to answer him. “Of course. Didn't you?"

Cal said, “The people in the street are angry. They might decide to do something stupid."

Ilene shook her head. “They won't."

Kerris wondered where Kel was. His heel stung. Rising, he limped to the pantry. He found a waterskin by feel. Moonlight through the window illuminated a row of plates and bowls. He took a bowl. With the waterskin under his arm, he went back to the chearis. He gave Elli the waterskin. When it came back to him it was less full by a good deal. He poured some water into the bowl and dipped his heel into it. The scent of the garden blew through the window curtains. His head felt thick and stuffy. Maybe Kel was with Sefer, he thought. Envy spurted in him. He told himself not to be a fool.... Jensie was weeping now. Ilene rocked her. The girl's misery clawed at him.

Elli said in his ear, “Kerris, where's Kel?"

“I don't know."

She sighed, and made a signal to Calwin. He rummaged in his pack and brought out the white dice. They hunched over the mat. “Mahita's rules,” Elli said. “Dead man throws again.” Cal nodded and flicked the dice across the mat.

“Four and three. Your throw."

Elli threw. “Three and three."

Over Jensie's head Ilene was frowning. “Arillard. Maybe you should go look for him."

Arillard said, “You heard Sefer. He won't go."

“I hate it when he goes off like that."

“He has to."

“I know."

“He always comes back."

“I always think—someday he won't."

Violent, ugly pictures cavorted through Kerris’ head. He saw the Asech camp in flames, he saw Thera ringed with archers, struck with arrows, screaming.... He shuddered. These were not his thoughts. He was taking them from other people's minds.

“Six and one,” said Elli.

The front door opened and closed. Everyone looked up except Jensie. A woman walked in. She surveyed them with her hands on her hips. She had a flat copper face, “Ilene,” she said, “where's Sef?"

Ilene shrugged.

“Out in the street somewhere,” said the woman, answering her own question. “And Kel?"

“Walking off a rage,” Ilene said.

“Ah. Well, if Sef comes in, tell him I'm here.” She walked across the room to the stair, head bowed, legs dragging in a flat, tired gait. She went upstairs. Kerris heard her moving overhead.

The pictures came back. He did not know what to do to make them stop. They came from his companions, from Elli and Arillard and Jensie, most of all from Jensie.... “Who's that?” he said, trying to distract himself.

Ilene answered. “Terézia. She's Sefer's housemate. She's in Cleo's troop. Cleo must have sent her in."

Kerris wondered if all inspeakers spent their days wrestling other people's thoughts and fears and dreams out of their heads. He hung from the horse so limp, like a corpse, maybe he's dead, maybe they lied to us, the murderers, O his bright hair, and his eyes were closed.... He forced the brutal litany away.

He rose. “I'm going into the garden."

Ilene said, “We should stay together."

“I won't go far.” He limped across the mats. The texture hurt his heel. The grass was cool, damp, and soothing. There was a scent of smoke in the breeze. He sat on the bench. He could still feel the thoughts of the people in the house. Ilene was worrying about Jensie, and about Kel. Jensie was tormenting herself with images of Riniard.

The breeze lifted bumps on his arm. He contemplated going back inside to fetch his tunic. The thoughts of the others wafted to him. Elli was dicing; part of her mind was on the game, part on Riniard.

Leaves rustled. Someone moved in the moonlight. Kerris leaped to his feet, his heart thumping.

“Kerris.” It was Kel. He crossed the garden in four strides. “What are you doing out here?"

“I got restless."

“Ah.” Kel turned toward the light-filled windows of the house. “Sef isn't there,” he said.

“No."

Kel's lips pressed together. “How's Jensie?"

“Ilene's comforting her."

“That's good. Where were you today?"

“With Ardith and Lea."

“If you'd waited I would have taken you there."

“I wanted to see if I could find it myself,” Kerris said.

Kel frowned. His hair was still pinned to his head. He looked sleek and fierce as a mountain cat. “Did you like Ardith and Lea?"

“Yes,” Kerris said. “They—they offered me a place to live."

“I thought they would,” Kel said. Suddenly he stepped forward, very close. He felt Kerris’ waist with his hands. His voice sharpened. “Why aren't you wearing your knife?"

“I took it off."

“I can see that. Why?"

“I can't use it,” Kerris said, “why should I wear it?” His voice lifted, and he realized that he was angry.... He saw Kel's mouth twist and straighten, and felt pain bore through his own temples, and knew that he had hurt him.

“I'm sorry,” he said, appalled. “I didn't mean it."

Kel looked gravely at him. His ringers brushed Kerris’ shoulder. “I wouldn't want anything to happen to you,” he said. “Kerris.” The word was a caress. “I'll teach you to use the knife."

“It's too late,” Kerris said.

“It's not too late. I know, this is my skill, remember? Trust it. Will you let me teach you to use the knife?"

Kerris couldn't breathe. In a voice that barely seemed his own, he said, “I would let you teach me anything."

Kel's fingers tightened on his shoulder, moved to his neck, cupped his chin. “Would you?” said the cheari. His thumb pressed against Kerris’ throat, over the racing pulse beat.

Daringly, Kerris put his arm around his brother's body. Kel's face bent to his. Their lips touched lightly. “Hmm.” The murmur was speculative. Gently Kel ran his fingers down Kerris’ ribs. Kerris stroked Kel's side. He felt awkward and clumsy. Kel's body was beautiful, strong, whole. His back was ridged with muscle.

Kel kissed him again, more firmly. His lips were cool. He tugged Kerris’ shirt free of the belt. He lifted his head. “I can't get to you with your clothes on."

Kerris took his shirt off. Kel stroked his ribs and his chest. He pulled his own shirt over his head. The moonlight turned his body white. “Touch me,” he said. Kerris did. “Lie down.” Kerris lay down on top of his clothes. Images of Tryg, of Kili, littered his mind. He thought, I'm a fool. This isn't going to work.

The grass tickled his back. He started to sit. “Kel, I—"

“Don't talk,” said Kel. He took off his pants. “Lie still. Let me."

He shook his head. His hair fell down and coursed over Kerris’ belly. Kerris shivered. He made himself touch Kel's shoulders, chest, his nipples.... They were tense. Kel lifted over his body blotting out the light. Kerris wished for two hands with which to hold him. He tried not to think of his stump, lying useless and ugly in the grass. He tangled his fingers in Kel's hair. Kel lowered himself between Kerris’ thighs. His body was powerful and warm and fluid as sunlight.

He shifted his weight. Now he was kneeling. “Stay right there,” he said. Kerris tried to laugh. Kel teased him, with hands and lips and tongue. His memories of Tryg dissolved. He arched his back. His breath clogged in his throat. He gasped for air. A convulsion of pleasure wrung his nerves like fire. He cried aloud at the burning, and dropped into the grass.

* * * *

When he opened his eyes, he could see the moon. His head lay on Kel's arm. “Awake?” said his brother.

“Yes."

“Are you cold?"

He would never be cold again. “No. You?"

“No."

He was still lying on his back. His thighs were wet, sticky. Kel was on his side. He ran his fingers over Kerris’ face. They smelled of sex. “You've been out here a long time. The others may come looking."

“I don't care,” Kerris said. “Let them.” Suddenly he thought—Kel might care, might not want the others—Sefer—to know.... “Do you?” he said.

“Care if they come looking? Don't be silly.” Kel trailed the tips of his fingers over Kerris’ thighs. Kerris jumped. “Was it your first time?” Kel asked gently.

“It was the first time like that,” Kerris said.

“Good.” Kel's tongue traced a pattern on his chest.

Kerris wrapped his hand in a lock of shining hair and tugged his brother's head up. “It wasn't much for you, was it?” he said.

In answer Kel's mouth came down hard on his. When he lifted his head, he said, “It was fine."

Kerris touched his lips. His mouth felt bruised, “Are the others awake?” he asked.

“The lamps are out. But you can tell that more easily than I, chelito."

That's true, Kerris thought. He reached to the house with his mind.

Jensie, mercifully, was asleep. Ilene and Elli were drowsing. Calwin was snoring, as usual. Arillard was awake. He touched a stranger and retreated quickly. That was Terézia. Sefer was not there. He said so.

Kel said, “He will be."

For the first time since he had entered Elath, Kerris thought of Sefer with no envy whatsoever. “You love him very much,” he said.

Kel nodded. His hair stroked Kerris chin. “We grew up together. We've been lovers since we were children—before we knew what sex was, or how to do it. We learned fast, though.” He laughed. “Sef's the only person in the world who can tell me what to do and make it stick. Except Zayin."

“Like tonight."

“Yes. He was right, of course. And if he hadn't stopped me I would never have come back to the house through the garden, hoping to sneak by Jensie—and look what I would have missed!” Bending, he ran his tongue over Kerris’ eyelids.

Night noises filled the garden: the rustling of hunting creatures, the call of an owl, the throbbing croak of a tree frog. Kerris felt the damp through his clothes. Reluctantly he stretched. His heel twinged. “Let's go inside."

Kel rolled upright. Kerris stood up more slowly. Kel put his hands out and laid them on Kerris’ shoulders. They kissed again, a soft kiss, without hurt.

Naked in the moonlight, they went to the house. Kel went upstairs. Kerris picked his way across the mats. He found his bedroll laid neatly next to Elli's. She lay on her side, head turned away, knees nearly to her chin. He dumped his soggy clothes on the floor and rolled up in the blanket. The wool was scratchy. The floor was firm beneath him, like an arm.

Smiling, he lay back into it.

Nine

He woke smiling.

Elli was sitting beside him, pulling on her clothes. Kerris reached for his crumpled shirt. There were grass stains on it. He scratched one with a fingernail. Elli's head popped through the neck of her tunic. He wondered if she knew. He put on the shirt. When he glanced at Elli, he found that she was grinning at him.

The ceiling creaked. Kerris tried to school his face to soberness. Anyone looking at him, he told himself, would think him mad, or sick. The steps moved down the stairs. He tried not to look toward them. He looked anyway. It was Terézia. “Good morning,” she said. “Sorry I was so short last night. I think I know you all, don't I, from last year—” She looked at Kerris. “I don't know you."

“I'm Kerris. Kel's brother."

“There's another one of us you haven't met,” said Ilene.

“Yes. I heard—the Asech took him. I'm sorry."

Jensie said softly, “His name is Riniard.” She gazed at her hands.

Ilene said, “Are you leaving, Terézia?"

“I'm going to Cleo's for morning meal, and to see that she is well. She was nearly dropping last night. Erith took over the watch, thank the chea. We didn't get much sleep on the rim."

Ilene said to Jensie, “Jen, are you hungry?” Jensie shook her head. Her face was haggard.

Ilene said, “I'd like to join you. I should return to my sister's.” Troubled, she looked at Jensie. Her hand moved to touch the younger woman's hair.

Jensie said, “Go. I'm fine.” Her voice was dull with pain.

“We'll know as soon as they have word of him,” Ilene said.

“Yes,” said Jensie. For a moment her eyes burned in her pale face, terrible to look at. She reached for the knife that lay, sheathed, to the right side of her bed, as if satisfying herself that it was still there.

Kerris stood to pull on his pants. He put weight on his blistered heel: it was tender, but clearly healing. He decided to go without boots until he could get some like Ardith's, low, with flat soles. He reached for his belt. Arillard was shaking Cal. Ilene folded the bedroll she had slept in: Riniard's bedroll. Jensie tied her scarf more tightly around her hair. Kerris raked his fingers over his head. Grass fell to the floor. It made him remember—his skin flushed, the palms of his hands grew damp, he told himself he was reacting like a child who had never made love before, and he could not help it, the reaction had nothing to do with thought.

Footsteps warned him. He sat down in a hurry and began to roll his blanket. Kel and Sefer came into the room. Despite himself, Kerris looked up. Kel was smiling directly at him, a smile so tender and clear that Kerris could only return it. It seemed shameful or cruel to be so happy in the midst of such painful uncertainty, but he couldn't help it.

Kel was dressed for the Yard, his hair coiled on top of his head. The red scarf of the cheari was braided into it. Sefer was wearing the clothes he had worn before, brown tunic, brown pants, with blue silk trim. He looked calm and rested. Kel went to Jensie and knelt beside her. Softly he said, “The sun is shining, Jen. Look at it."

Jensie raised her head. Her lips thinned in rage. “Can Riniard see it?” she said.

Kel laid something across her lap. “Here.” It was a red scarf. “The troop on watch brought it to Sef last night. He must have managed to drop it before or as they took him, hoping that someone would find it and bring it to us. That means that he was breathing, and thinking. Keep it for him."

Jensie touched the scarf with the very tips of her fingers. Then her hands fisted in it. Lifting it from her lap, she knotted it into her hair.

Ilene, standing by the door next to Terézia, said, “Kel, do we go to the Yard today?"

“We do."

“What if the Asech come?"

Sefer answered. “You'll hear of it. The inspeaker in Erith's troop will tell us of their approach.” He looked at Kerris. “Kerris, while the chearas works in the fighting circles, will you come to the Tanjo with me? It's time you learned your skills.” There was no tension in his voice, and no anger in his face.

Kerris recalled what Elli had said. Sefer knows that Kel loves other people. It makes no difference...

“I would like that,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his brother nod approval. “Do we go there now?"

“If you will,” Sefer said. “We don't know when the raiders will come back. It could happen any time. When they do, all lessons stop."

“I'm ready,” Kerris said. He stood.

Elli patted his leg. “See you later,” she murmured, tilting her face up to look at him.

Kel said, “Kerris, where's your knife?” Rising, he came striding across the room. “There it is. Elli, give it to me.” He pointed to the knife, which lay where Kerris had left it, near the wall. Elli made a long arm for the knife. She passed it to Kel.

“Open your belt,” he said. Kerris undid the buckle of his belt. Kel slid the sheathed knife onto it. His hands brushed Kerris’ waist and thigh. He did the buckle up. “I don't want you to leave the house without it on,” he said. “All right?” Kerris nodded. The light caresses made his heart shake in his chest. Kel kissed his forehead softly. “Go."

With some difficulty, Kerris walked to the anteroom. Sefer was doing up the laces of his sandals.

* * * *

In the street, Sefer said, “You look as if you'd been standing in a fire."

Kerris felt himself redden. They walked along the street. In a garden a woman stabbed at the earth with a short-handled hoe. They passed a house. “That's the house that was burned last night,” Sefer said. The burn marks were fresh in the wood.

A woman leaned from a window to call to Sefer. “What news of the raiders?"

“None yet,” he called.

“What if they don't come today?"

“If they don't come today we'll wait until tomorrow!"

Birds racketed within the furry branches of the cypress trees. “It goes away, you know,” Sefer said.

“What?"

Sefer looked sideways at Kerris. “That feeling of having been plunged into fire."

They passed the stables. Tek leaned in the doorway, shirtless. He held a length of iron chain in his powerful hands. “What news?” he rumbled.

“No news, Tek. We wait,” Sefer said.

The big man scowled. “Are you really going to teach those murderous folk the witch-gifts, Sef?"

“We will do what we must,” Sefer said.

“There are those who won't like it,” said the stablemaster. “They say, if you teach the Asech the witch-gifts we'll all be burned in our beds."

Sefer said, “That won't happen, I promise it.” He stopped, and laid a hand lightly on Tek's massive forearm. Tek chewed a corner of his mustache. Lalli dashed under his broad nose, a pink chunk of meat in one hand. He reached out a brawny arm and picked her up.

“What's that?” he demanded, balancing the girl on his palms.

“Pig's foot,” she said, and waved it under his nose.

Sefer and Kerris went on. Their shadows marched up the street ahead of them, the legs foreshortened like dwarves'.

In the Yard there were men and women in the fighting circles, fighting barehanded and with nijis. In one corner Kerris saw the upthrust length of a wooden sword. Emeth, the man whose house had been torched by the Asech, strolled among them, occasionally stopping someone in a circle. Kerris realized he was the Yardmaster. He lifted a hand to Sefer. “Is the chearas coming?” he called.

“It's right behind us,” Sefer answered.

“Any news of the Asech?"

Half the circling fighters stayed their blows to listen to the answer. Sefer simply shook his head.

At the foot of the street he laid his hand on Kerris’ shoulder to turn him toward the cypress grove. He dropped it at once, as if he knew that Kerris did not like strangers touching him, and Kerris thought, Maybe he does know.

“Kel said the school was your idea,” he said.

“I got it from something he said,” said Sefer.

“What?"

“He was home from Vanima; he had just been named cheari. I was lamenting that there was no place for witches to learn the gifts, as chearis can learn their gift.” He turned his palm up. “He told me to build one."

The trees’ scent was rich and tangy, like pine. Their trunks were thick with moss. The grove narrowed. It became a lane: fragrant, silent, and dark. The Tanjo's roof showed through the black tree trunks: it was peaked, and covered with silver-blue slate like fish scales. At the end of the lane lay a bright green sward, patterned with flowers. Around it the silver building made a U. The construction reminded Kerris of the Keep. In the center of the grass was a circle of white, pink-veined stones and in the circle sat a painted image of the Guardian.

Kerris was careful not to look at it directly.

Sefer said, “We put the Guardian here to remind us that our gifts come from the chea and must serve the chea's end."

Kerris said, “This reminds me of Tornor—the building around a court. But there are no gardens in Tornor.” Out of the corner of his averted eyes he could see it: two eyes, a nose, a smiling mouth.... He wondered what made it smile.

Sefer said, “They build this way in Kendra-on-the-Delta, with courtyards and gardens."

“Do you know the city?"

“I've been there,” Sefer said. “I don't like it. But my sister Keren lives there, with her family. She's a member of the black clan."

“My teacher in Tornor was a scholar."

“What is his name? My sister might have met him."

Kerris touched the stiff leather of his belt. “Josen. But he left the south twenty-five years ago."

“Then Keren wouldn't know him,” Sefer said.

They entered the Tanjo through a wooden door. The silver wood was carved with southern runes. Kerris wondered if Sefer had picked them. They read: Enter in peace, leave in harmony. The inside of the grooves, where the cutting blade had touched, shone red. There was an anteroom for footwear. Sefer laid his sandals down. A window with yellow glass in its frame shed light into the chamber.

Beyond the anteroom was a hallway. There were doors along one side of it.

Sefer opened one. “Go in."

Kerris went in. He found himself in a light, still space. Two of the walls were red wood. The outside one had a window paned with yellow glass. The two inner walls were white. He walked to the nearest and pushed at its surface. It was smooth and cool and it gave a little to his touch.

“It's paper,” Sefer said. “It comes from Kendra-on-the-Delta. It's very strong, made of wood shavings and silk. Stretched on frames, the paper makes screens of any size you want. They're so light that three people can carry them."

There were flecks of color in the screen, like the bits of colored silk that Elli tied her braids with. Kerris rubbed the ball of his thumb over them. He thought, Walls like this would never be practical in the north. It's too cold in a Keep.

He turned away from the paper walls. The room was floored with matting, like Sefer's house, and piled with cushions. In one corner there was a small wood table and a clay pitcher.

You belong here, he told himself. He was a witch, he was among family and friends in the village he'd been born in. He belonged where he was. He sat on a mat. “I'm ready,” he said.

Sefer sat opposite him, legs crossed tailor-fashion. “Tell me what you know of your gift,” he said.

“I know what to call it,” Kerris said. “It's called inspeech. A person who can do it is called an inspeaker."

Sefer smiled. “One can hear that you were trained by a scholar. Keren talks like that—very exact. What can you do with it?"

“I can—” Kerris paused. “I can touch other people's minds with my mind, so that I can know what they are thinking and feeling."

“Describe it,” Sefer said.

Kerris felt foolish, describing inspeech to Sefer, who already knew it well. “When it's strong,” he said doggedly, “I feel as if I were sharing the other person's body. When it's not strong I just hear their thoughts, as if I were listening to them."

“When did it start?” Sefer said.

Kerris felt himself color again. “I was thirteen. I was asleep. I touched Kel's mind. It woke me."

“Were you frightened?"

“Yes. I thought I was mad. It kept happening. I knew that I was doing it but I couldn't control it, either to make it happen or to make it stop. Finally I realized that it wouldn't hurt me."

“Did you know at once who the other person was?” Sefer asked.

“Not at once. But soon."

Sefer folded his hands in his lap. “You're not the first inspeaker to have wakened to a gift that way. That is a kin-link. It often happens between siblings when one is an inspeaker and the other has a different gift."

Kerris said, “It happened to my uncle and my mother."

“It happened to Keren and me,” Sefer said. He rubbed a hand across his cheek. “You don't remember your mother, do you?” Kerris shook his head. “Nor any of your life before you were brought to Tornor? I wonder why. Never mind, go on—was Kel the only person whose mind you linked with?"

“Yes—until he showed me that I could link with other people. He showed me how to control it. That was only a few days ago."

“And can you control it?” Sefer said.

Kerris remembered sitting in the house after the raid, feeling the chearis’ feelings, thinking the chearis’ thoughts. The memory was vivid and unpleasant. “Not entirely,” he answered.

“It will come,” Sefer assured him. He rose, circled the room, and returned to his cushion. “Let me tell what we know of the gifts,” he said. “We don't know exactly what they are, or why some people have them and some not. There are five kinds of witch-gifts that we know about—some say seven.” He held up a hand and ticked the gifts off on his fingers. “Mind-speech. Patterning and foreseeing. Some people claim that these are two separate gifts. Far-traveling. Far-traveling seems common. Many people do it in dreams. Weatherworking. Mind-lifting. Weatherworking is a kind of mind-lifting. Healing. Healing is very rare. There are only three healers now in Elath."

Kerris wondered who they were. He thought of a question that Josen would ask. “How long have people known about the gifts?"

“That depends what you mean by ‘known,'” Sefer said. “I asked Keren to look through the black clan's archives for stories about witches and witch-gifts."

“Were there any?"

“A few. I think there have always been witches in Arun. But until now witches have not themselves been sure of what they could do, and so did not use their gifts—or, if they did use them, kept such use a secret. From what Kel and Ilene tell me of the history of the red clan, I think that Van of Vanima was a patterner, maybe a foreseer. But there's no way to know. Even now there are scholars who claim that the gifts are mere trickery or superstition."

Kerris thought of Josen. “In the north only the very ignorant believe in witches."

Sefer smiled. “And they are right to do so, and the very wise are wrong."

A door opened and closed beyond the room. Someone called down the hallway.

Kerris said, “In Galbareth they call Elath the witch-town. They're afraid of the gifts."

Sefer sighed. “I know. Even Calwin, when he comes here, grows nervous. Some of the trading caravans won't stop here any more. But people fear new things. Even some of us.” A rueful look shadowed his face for a moment. “Keren is a patterner, like Kel. But she has chosen—like Kel—to limit the ground of her gift, to use it only to pore over dusty records, as Kel has chosen to use his patterning to dance, and fight, and nothing more."

“What would you want him to do with it?” Kerris asked.

“Oh—” Sefer scratched his chin. “To study. To learn. To explore! We know so little about this world. Think of what the gifts could show us! We might far-travel to the ends of the earth, to lands beyond Arun, beyond Anhard, beyond the ocean. There must be people there. We could speak with them. We might see into the future, and even into the past. We might learn to heal, not just fevers and wounds, but age, decay, and even death. Do the stars have a pattern, as the superstitious claim? We can learn it. The more we know, the greater grows our understanding of the chea, and the closer we come to the heart of harmony, to the order that underlies and infuses and springs like breath through all things. We made the Guardian to show us the chea. But we know too that it is imperfect. The gifts come from the chea—surely we are meant to use them!” His voice shivered like a horn calling an army to the field, and then softened. “We know so little. Imagine a time when messages fly from Tornor to Kendra-on-the-Delta, say, as easily as I speak with you, when crops do not fail, when rivers do not flood, when no one goes hungry—” He smiled. “Can you?"

“Not—not easily,” Kerris said.

“Ah, well. I cannot always see it either. But I hope that one day people will come to Elath to study the gifts as they now go to Tezera to learn blade-making, or Kendra-on-the-Delta to learn silk-weaving."

“Do the other teachers here feel as you do?” Kerris asked.

“More or less,” Sefer said. “We argue. Most people, like Keren or Kel or your uncle, are concerned with the practical aspects of the gifts, with making the gifts useful."

“How are they useful?” said Kerris.

“Surely you can see that,” Sefer said. He leaned both elbows into the cushions. His hair fell behind his shoulders. “Healing, weatherworking, being able to lift an object without touching it, truth-seeing—"

“What is that?"

“Knowing if someone is telling the truth, or not. Mind to mind cannot lie. It would be a valuable talent for a diplomat. Imagine if the Council of Cities, or the House Council in Kendra-on-the-Delta had an inspeaker in its pay, as it has guards and scribes."

It made sense. Kerris’ stump itched; he rubbed it lightly. He could feel the scars through his shirt sleeve. An inspeaker did not need two arms, only a mind. What would it be like, to possess a skill in which his deformity was no hindrance, none at all? As a scribe he would always need someone else around to mix his inks, sharpen his quills ... He said, “What do I need to learn?"

“You already know a great deal,” Sefer said. “Reach to me, Kerris."

Kerris started to do so. He had to shut his eyes. The sight of Sefer calmly watching him was a distraction. If my mind were a hand.... He extended his thought to the man in brown, expecting to be stopped, or warned away. Instead, he felt a subtle warmth, a welcoming. It drew him in. His sight dimmed, as he expected it to. His awareness of his body faded. It was like falling, no, like diving into a hole, a bright cool space.... He felt the welcome again, clear as song, and amusement, judgment—he is strong—compassion, curiosity, and over all of it an easy, confident, completely self-sufficient control. He touched memory. Images flicked across his consciousness: a field ready for harvest under a glassy sky, a woman's face, the taste of fetuch, Kel's smile, a line of song too brief to follow, the smell of smoke in winter, the curve of fingers around the weighted haft of a scythe....

He probed deeper. He felt the memory of pain—a childhood slight—and deeper still—a loss, a death—he retreated from that rush of grief. He could see himself, his body, slumped among the pillows. He directed Sefer's eyes to close. They did. He directed them to open, and they did. He wiggled the fingers of Sefer's left hand.

Enough, said Sefer. Your link with your own body is growing tenuous.

Slowly, Kerris withdrew. His own body was cold. His nerves felt numb. His eyes and mouth were dry. He breathed deeply. Feeling shimmered through him. He touched the mat, the soft wool of the pillows, the seam of his shirt. His mind was filled with light.

* * * *

Sefer brought him a drink in a glass goblet: water flavored with lemon. He sipped it cautiously. The lemon taste tingled on his tongue. Compared to what he had just done, the other times he had made use of inspeech were trivial. He wasn't sure he had done anything. Maybe Sefer had done it all.

He cleared his throat. “Did I do that?” he said.

Sefer nodded. “I simply let you in."

“What was it?"

“The deep-probe,” Sefer said. “It's not an act to undertake with impunity. If you're careless, you can hurt someone."

“I didn't—"

“You didn't,” Sefer said. “In fact, you did it very well. Your technique's a little clumsy, but as I said, you didn't hurt me. If you had, you would have felt it too. That's one of the properties of the gift that prevents misuse—it echoes—and when you are in pain, you can't use inspeech, except in reflex. That's the reason, if you over-use, you'll get a headache. The pain destroys your concentration and forces you to relax."

Kerris said, “I used to feel dizzy after linking with Kel. And my eyes hurt."

“Those are common effects,” Sefer said. He patted his stomach. “Some people get sick."

Kerris sipped the lemon-water. He was awed by the buoyant lucidity of Sefer's mind. “Thank you for trusting me,” he said.

Sefer said, “I have no reason not to trust you. You're not a cruel or violent person. I didn't think you would be careless."

“But I'm not—” Kerris thought of all the things he was not: not graceful, not skilled, not whole...

Sefer said, “Kerris, you're not a fool or a weakling. The folk of Tornor did you a wrong if they made you think that of yourself. You're competent and clever—and attractive. If you won't believe me—” his grin had a measure of pure mischief in it—"ask your brother.” He linked, a light firm touch, with Kerris, and fanned a succession of images through Kerris’ mind: Kel smiling, Kel naked, Kel striding across a room, hair like a fiery cloak down his sleek back....

Kerris shivered. “Don't."

The images stopped. “I'm sorry,” said Sefer gravely, but his eyes were amused. “I shouldn't tease you."

Sunlight through the glass window pane made a yellow stain on the white wall. Kerris wondered if Sefer had done that deliberately to disconcert him. Grimly he pulled a pillow over his lap. “Can I do that?” he said.

“Think pictures into someone else's mind? With training you can. What seems to come easiest to inspeakers is sensitivity to others’ feelings, and a kind of awareness we call the scan. It's like running your hand over materials, silk and wood and dirt, and feeling their differences, while the rest of your thought remains outside, detached—only instead of touching silk and dirt you are really touching someone's feelings with your mind."

“May I try it?"

“That's what we're doing here,” Sefer said. He made a beckoning gesture with his hand. “Go ahead."

Kerris extended his thought.

Sefer met him. Keep your touch light, he directed. Kerris touched the cool bright surface of the teacher's mind. Gingerly he made contact, drew back, made contact again—like a water spider on a puddle, he thought—he felt Sefer's laughter. It drew him. He felt the familiar dimming of his senses.

Is this right?

No, Sefer answered. Withdraw.

Kerris obeyed. “What did I do wrong?” he said.

Sefer rubbed his cheek. “It wasn't wrong, precisely,” he said. “Your sensitivity is acute. It draws you into other minds. Can you make a barrier?"

Kerris did not have to ask what it was. “I've never tried,” he said.

“Try."

“How do I do it?"

“Imagine a wall, an endless wall, between us. It has no cracks. It can be brick or stone, anything you like. It cannot be broken and it cannot be climbed. Think of that wall."

Kerris shut his eyes. He imagined a wall, gray like the stones of Tornor. The image wavered in his head as if he was looking at it through water. The effort made his head hurt. He stopped.

“Wait,” Sefer said. “Rest a bit. You'll get it. It isn't hard."

Kerris waited till his head stopped aching. He tried again. The image coalesced and shattered. He felt a sudden pain. “Unh."

Stop. Sefer's command rang through his skull. He tensed. The pain had frightened him. He opened his eyes. The silk flecks danced in the screen.

He rubbed his eyes. “That was wrong."

“It shouldn't have hurt,” said Sefer: “Nothing you do should hurt you.” He rose. “Come."

“Where?"

“We'll go outside and sit in the garden,” Sefer said. He began to stack the cushions in a neat line. “We can both do with a rest."

Kerris stood, pushing the pillow off his lap. When he took a step, his knees popped.

A plump man with broad features was standing in the hallway.

“Korith's looking for you, Sef,” he said. His hair was braided in one long braid down his back and tied with a silk ribbon. His shirt was rose silk. His hands were fat and soft.

“If you see him tell him I'm in the garden,” Sefer replied.

“Who is that?” Kerris asked, when the man was safely behind them.

“That's Dorin,” Sefer said. “He is a teacher here, a far-traveler. He can visit other places in thought.” He halted. “Are you hungry?"

“A little."

“Wait.” To Sefer's left was the arch of a doorway, partially concealed by a striped curtain. Sefer twitched it aside. He returned from whatever lay behind it with a flowered plate of fetuch.

* * * *

They sat on the grass just outside the ringed circle. Kerris kept his back to the image of the Guardian. He ate the fetuch; he was beginning to like the light, sweet taste. Sefer combed his hair off his forehead with his fingers. The silk on his shirt glittered like water in sun.

Kerris’ stomach rumbled. Embarrassed by his greed, he rolled on his belly. He put his elbow on the grass. A lizard rustled in the dirt.

Sefer pushed the plate at him. “There's plenty. Have more."

Kerris nibbled a second stalk.

“Skayin!” A boy moved from the Tanjo. Coming to Sefer's side, he crouched in the grass. He was slim and dark, with a thin, curious face. Reproachfully he said, “Where did you go? I went into all the rooms, looking for you."

He closed his fingers over Sefer's right sleeve. His pointed chin and high cheekbones reminded Kerris of the river otter. Sefer smiled at him. “Korith, this is Kerris, Kel's brother. Kerris, meet Korith. He can mind-lift, like Ardith and Tazia."

Korith smiled. “Hello,” he said.

Kerris recalled a fountain leaping into the cypress branches. “Hello,” he said.

“You're Tazia's cousin,” said the boy. He wrinkled his nose. “When I looked into that room, Tazia was throwing pillows."

“Was she alone?” Sefer asked.

“Oh, no. Tamaris was with her."

Sefer looked relieved. “Korith is also my nephew, and a nuisance,” he said. He riffled the boy's hair. “What did you want with me, chelito, that caused you to disturb the entire Tanjo?"

“I didn't,” said Korith, with dignity. “I was quiet. I looked for you yesterday but you were busy. I have been practicing all morning, by myself—and you are not busy now, are you?” He glanced from Sefer to Kerris. “I wouldn't want to interrupt you."

“Korith is learning to mind-lift over distance,” Sefer explained. “No, chelito, as you see, we are resting. How far did you reach this morning?"

The boy waggled his fingers. “To the ribbons on the pole in Oril's field!"

“That is very good,” Sefer said. “Your mother would be proud of you. Korith is Keren's middle child,” he said. “When she realized that he was a witch, she sent him here from the city."

Kerris said, “Do you like it?"

The dark boy smiled. “Oh, yes. I miss the city sometimes. I miss my mother.” His voice was wistful. “I'd like to see her."

Without meaning to, Kerris caught the feeling that radiated from the boy—pride, love, loneliness, fear (quickly suppressed), homesickness—and an image, of a quiet, plump woman with dark hair beaming at a shadowy figure that seemed to be Korith himself.... Korith seemed oblivious to Kerris’ presence. But Sefer was looking at him, as if he had sensed the contact being made. Kerris bit his lip. The little pain jolted him back inside his own head.

Sefer said, “Family is a net we are all part of. I miss Keren too, chelito. When the trouble is over, perhaps I'll leave Elath, and we'll ride to Kendra-on-the-Delta together."

A shadow fell across the grass. “You leave Elath? Not likely.” Kerris looked up, shielding his eyes. A woman stood over them, hands crossed beneath her breasts. Her hair was dark and long, and it made a cloud around her face. She wore a bright green gown, cinched at the waist with a copper belt.

Sefer said, “Kerris, this is Tamaris. She teaches mind-lift. She's also on the Council. How is Tazia, Tam?"

Tamaris said, “She's a little demon this morning. She threw a tantrum because I would not tell her she could go to the rim with Ardith. He was bringing supplies to the guards. I let her wear herself out; she's asleep. Are you stealing my students, Sef? I thought I would work the rest of the morning with Korith, and I find him here."

“I am not,” said Sefer. He freed his sleeve from Korith's grip. “Korith, go with Tamaris."

“But I want you to watch me!” the boy said imperatively.

Sefer sighed. “Very well, chelito. I am watching. Show me what you can do."

Korith closed his eyes. His thin nostrils flared. Kerris’ vision dimmed. He was looking at a field, at a wooden pole. The pole had ribbons tied round it. They hung motionless in the breezeless day. The grain stood in long rows, dreaming of sickles and ovens. Suddenly, the ribbons snapped and rustled. Four startled ravens sprang out of the grain. Warily they circled the dancing ribbons.

“See!” said Korith.

“Yes,” said Sefer, “I see. That's very good."

Tamaris said gently, “Korith, you must not be so insistent that people will think you rude."

“Was I?” said Korith. "Inanu,"—the word meant “uncle” in the southern tongue—"was I rude?"

Sefer did not answer. His eyes were glazed and lightless. His face twitched, like a man with a fever. His lips moved. “Yes,” he murmured, “Yes.” He drew a deep, sluggish breath. “I will tell her.” He tilted his face upward, toward the sunlit hills.

Ten

The hair lifted on the back of Kerris’ neck.

He looked at Tamaris. She was watching Sefer. Korith sat folded down on his knees, hands clasped in his lap. The pose changed him from otter to squirrel. Sefer muttered again. His vivid face was blank. “Sefer?” Kerris said. The inspeaker's head did not turn. Kerris reached for Sefer's shoulder, to wrest him from the seizure.

Tamaris’ fingers closed on his wrist. “Let him alone,” she said softly. Her hand was cool. “He's being spoken to."

Kerris thought, This is how I looked, in Tornor. His nerves jangled.

Sefer shuddered. His eyes focused. He put his hands to his cheeks as if they burned him, and then laid them in his lap. He cleared his throat. “That was Beria on the rim."

Kerris did not know who Beria was. “What did she say?” Tamaris said.

“A messenger came from the Asech. It was not the woman Thera but a man. He said his name was Nerim. He spoke with a heavy accent; Beria said it was difficult to understand him. He came with a green flag. He said the Asech will leave their camp tomorrow and come to the village. He asked that the message be passed to Lara."

Tamaris’ hands clenched on her gown. “How many will come? All of them? As many as came on the raid?"

“Beria didn't know."

“We must tell Dorin, and Kel."

“Yes,” said Sefer. Taking off his headband, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He stuffed the band into a pocket.

Kerris said, “Did the message say anything about Riniard?"

“No,” Sefer said.

Korith scrambled up. “I'll tell Lara,” he said, breathless, his dark eyes wide with excitement.

“No!” Sefer's swift syllable halted the boy in mid-leap. His face twisted in pain. So did Sefer's. He caught Korith in his arms and pulled the boy against him. “Ai, chelito, I hurt you. I'm sorry.” He stroked the boy's hair.

“It was only a little,” Korith said. He stood straight. “Shall I not tell Lara?"

“I will—or Tamaris."

“Can I tell somebody?"

Sefer looked at Tamaris. “You can go to the Yard and tell Kel,” he said. “But go quietly, chelito. Be discreet. Don't shout it."

Korith bounced with barely subdued delight. Whirling, he sped for the cypress grove.

Tamaris said, “What difference does it make, who knows?” She picked a stalk of fetuch from the plate and bit into it.

Sefer said, “There are still hotheads in this town who would like to attack the Asech. A message from their camp may act like salt on a wound."

“They couldn't find it,” Tamaris said. “An army of Asech might be marching to Elath from the desert, Sef, and not one of us would know it until they arrived. Their barriers are so strong, they might as well be invisible!"

Sefer stood up. “I know, Tam,” he said. “I've touched those barriers. It makes me wonder—"

“What?” she said.

“How have they been living, that they have learned to barrier so strongly—and have learned nothing else?"

“I don't know and I don't care,” said Tamaris.

“Ah.” Sefer glanced toward the white painted figure of the Guardian. “But we must care, Tam."

Tamaris’ tone grew dangerously soft. “Don't preach to me as if I were one of your students, Sefer of Elath!” She glared at him. He said nothing. Tamaris sighed. “Ai, you are right, of course.” She ran a hand down the crumpled fold of her dress. “Shall I speak to Dorin?"

“If you would."

She grinned. “Since you have sent my student running your errands, there is no reason why I should not do the same.” She spat out a morsel of fetuch and strolled toward the school, hips swaying.

A red bird with a beetle in its beak swooped over the garden. The sun flashed on its wings. Kerris said the first thing that came into his head. “Who is Beria?"

“Berénzia,” Sefer said. “She is an inspeaker.” He rubbed his chin. “I must give Lara the message. Do you want to come with me?"

“I don't want to be in your way,” Kerris said.

“You won't be,” Sefer said. He took a step, winced, stopped. He lifted one foot and picked a burr off the sole. “Wait a moment, while I get my sandals."

* * * *

After the bright garden, the cypress grove was fragrant and cool. The streets were hazy with dust. They passed a woman pulling onion bulbs from a garden. She wore a straw hat, like the women in Galbareth. A squat man staggered by under the weight of a water yoke. Two buckets hung from its arms, and water slopped from the sides of the buckets with every step he took. Red-faced, he grinned at Sefer. “Any news?” he asked.

Sefer shook his head.

Lara's house was near the well. On the door was a bronze knocker shaped like a bull's head, hanging by the horns. Sefer tapped with it on the wooden door. A small pink boy wearing no pants opened it. “Chelito,” Sefer said, “is thy abu at home?” The boy stuck his thumb in his mouth and stepped backward. Sefer gestured to Kerris to go in. There was an alcove for shoes. Sefer slipped off his sandals. The child toddled on ahead of them.

They followed the boy into a wide light room. Hangings like the ones in Sefer's cottage brightened the walls. Cushions covered the mats. A flowering vine poked through one of the windows. There was a screen, like the wall screens in the Tanjo, to one side of the room, and stairs at the back. The stairs creaked. A woman came down them. It was Lara. “May the peace of the chea be with you,” she said.

Sefer put his palms together and bowed to her. “And to you, lehi."

Lehi meant healer. Sefer had said that healing was a rare gift, that there were only three healers now in Elath. Kerris wondered if he should bow, too.

The old woman smiled at him. “Do you know the way now to Ardith's farm, Kerris?"

“Yes, lehi,” he said. “Thank you."

At the end of the room, near the stairs, was a niche in the wall. Inside the niche was a statue of the Guardian. Kerris turned his right shoulder to it.

“What brings you here, Sefer?” said the old woman.

“News from the rim,” Sefer said. “A message from Beria. The Asech will come tomorrow."

The boy child wandered in. Lara stroked his dark curly hair. He fisted his fat hands in her skirts. “So,” she said. “Who knows this?"

“Beria, and Erith, I'm sure. Tamaris, Kerris, and my nephew. They were with me when Berénzia spoke to me. I sent Korith to tell Kel. Tam will tell Dorin. No one else knows."

Lara fingered the boy's head. “Do you think to keep it secret?” she said. “You have lived in Elath thirty years, Sefer, you know you cannot hide things from this small a town."

“People are restive,” Sefer said. “I want no excursions into the rocks tonight, no daring young nitwits rushing off to spy on the Asech camp."

“Tell the steady ones,” Lara said. “Tell Ilene and Moro and Ardith, tell Hadril and Terézia and Dol. Tell them to watch and listen and stay alert. And then tell everybody exactly what you know. Otherwise there will be fifty rumors, each of them less true than the one before it, and the chea only knows what people will choose to believe."

Sefer smiled. “You are right, lehi."

The boy tugged at Lara's dress. Chuckling, she fished in the pocket of the skirt and took out a bit of apple. “Here, chelito.” The sound of a bell ringing halted her smile. “Excuse me,” she said. “That is Meritha calling; I must go to her."

The name was familiar. Reo had said it. Meritha was the Council record-keeper. Reo had said that she was old.

Sefer said, “Let me go, Lara. Why tire yourself going up and down stairs?” The bell rang again, a tinny sound.

Lara said sadly, “No, Sef. I thank you, but her mind wanders. A strange face might frighten her.” She walked to the stairway. She put a hand on the stair railing and hauled herself up to the first step. The bell rang a third time.

Sefer sat on a cushion. After a moment, Kerris sat beside him. “My cousin told me that Meritha is the Council scribe,” he said.

Sefer teased a bit of the mat with his toe. “She was,” he said. “She's very old. Old age is the one illness even a healer cannot cure."

“Kerris.” It was Lara's voice. She stood at the turn of the stairway. “Will you come up? Meritha would like to meet you."

Kerris’ spine prickled. He wanted to ask “Why?” and was afraid that if he did so Lara would think him rude.

She said, as if she had read his thought, “She knows you are a scribe. That's why."

Kerris followed Lara up the stair. The treads were not matted. The boards were worn and smooth. He entered Meritha's room at Lara's back. It was a small chamber. The pallet took up most of it. One side of the ceiling slanted in. The room smelled of urine and age. Meritha was sitting up in a bed. The look of her startled Kerris. She was a big woman; the flesh hung loosely on her, but her shoulders were broad, and her hands were huge. He had expected a little withered woman about the size of the abu.

“Come here,” she said. Her eyes were very bright, like glass. Her hair was iron-gray. The nail of her left little finger was very long. Kerris knew—Josen had told him—that scribes in Kendra-on-the-Delta grew one nail on purpose, for picking wax seals from letters. Her fingers twisted in the wool of her blanket. He knelt beside the pallet. She stared at his face, and at his stump, and back at his face again.

“Who are you?” she said.

Smoothly, Lara said, “Chelito, that is Kerris-no-Alis. You asked to see him."

The woman squeezed her eyes shut. “I did.” She licked her lips. They were cracked and red. “I did.” She lifted her hand. “Boy, look in the cupboard."

Kerris stiffened at being called “boy.” Reminding himself that this woman was sick, he turned to see what she was pointing at. Against the wall was a wooden cupboard. On top of it were a pitcher and a mug. The cupboard doors were closed by a metal bolt in the shape of a quill. He went to it and slid the bolt aside. The door swung outward. “Look on the top shelf,” Meritha said.

He had to kneel to see into the cupboard. It smelled of ink. The bottom shelf was strewn with odds and ends: twine, a cracked dish, rags. On the top shelf was a square package wrapped in linen. “Take the package,” said Meritha. Kerris fingered it, wondering what was in it. He took it. It was lighter than wood or clay. “Take it, take it!” called the sick woman. She pushed up in bed, leaning on one elbow. Her dry hair fell over her face.

Lara bent over her, speaking to her softly. “Go downstairs,” she said. Kerris moved to obey. The sick woman's pain probed at his head. Her voice lost its rough strength: she sounded like a little girl. Whose body is this they have locked me into, so feeble, so dry and still, I am not this, I am young and strong.... Larita, help me, I don't want to die!

Halfway down the stair Kerris’ knees started to wobble. He leaned against the wall to calm himself. His stomach was churning. He could not remember having been so close to death before. It hurt. Meritha's whine continued in his head. In the room downstairs, Sefer was waiting for him at the door. “Come on,” he said. “Our errand's done."

It took a little while before Kerris could talk. He was grateful for Sefer's silence. Finally his stomach ceased heaving. He settled the package more firmly in the crook of his arm.

“What is it?” Sefer said.

Kerris braced it on his hip. “I don't know. You open it.” The linen was very fine, fine as silk, and it was golden-yellow, the color of Kel's hair. Sefer unfolded the cloth. Within it was paper, smooth eggshell-colored paper, marked with the characteristic herringbone pattern that meant it had been made in Kendra-on-the-Delta.

* * * *

On the way to the cottage Sefer stopped at several houses, to tell the folk in them that the Asech would indeed be coming the next day, and to urge calm. Kerris trailed behind him, half-listening. Hadril, the cooper, volunteered to tell several other people, among them Ardith. Moro the ropemaker was not home, but his oldest son, a thickset boy who seemed about Kerris’ age, dragged Sefer into a corner to ask him, “Is it true the Asech are coming tonight?” The corner smelled of heavenweed.

“No,” Sefer said. “It's not true. They'll be coming tomorrow, in daylight, as they said, and we will teach them, Perin, not fight them."

Perin fingered his knife hilt. “I've heard other things,” he said darkly.

“So have I,” Sefer said. “They're not true."

Perin looked disappointed. “Is—is the cheari still alive?” His voice cracked on the last word.

“We don't know,” Sefer said.

Sefer's cottage was empty when they got there. Sefer said, “They must still be at the Yard."

Kerris nodded. He put the writing paper by his bedroll. There were things other than paper in the folds of yellow cloth: a quill with scarlet vanes, a stick of red wax, a cake of ink, a brush. Already a letter was forming in his mind. To Josen of the Black Clan, Recorder of Tornor Keep, from Kerris....

“Kerris."

“Hmm.” Kerris glanced up. Sefer was sitting in a patch of sunlight. He looked thoughtful.

“How do you feel?” he said. “Tired? Headache?"

“No.” Kerris fingered the soft brown brush fibers. He wondered what kind of hair it was. He thought badger.

Kerris. Please. Sefer's voice was curiously urgent. Reluctantly Kerris remembered that Sefer was his teacher and was owed more than ordinary courtesy. He laid the brush down.

“I'm sorry. I thought we were finished with lessons for the day."

“We will be if you're tired,” Sefer said.

“I'm not tired."

“Then I think we should take advantage of this privacy,” Sefer said. “In the garden—I felt you in Korith's mind."

“I didn't mean to do that,” Kerris said.

“I know,” Sefer said. “But you need to learn to barrier, soon, or that will keep happening and you won't be able to stop it.” Brusquely he thrust an image into Kerris’ mind, of a bright candle and a moth with green, lacy wings. “The emotions of people around you will draw you in.” The moth circled, circled, and dived into the licking flame.

Kerris winced. He thought briefly of Meritha. “That's unpleasant,” he said.

“Inspeakers grow more sensitive, not less,” Sefer said. “You're my student now. I don't want to be responsible for anything happening to you."

Inconsequentially, out of memory, Kerris heard the words of a song. Ilene had sung it. I am a stranger in an outland country, I am an exile wherever I go. He put the thoughts of Josen and letter writing from his mind. “You don't think it can wait?” he said.

Sefer said, “The Asech come tomorrow. I don't know what will happen then, except that I shall be busy."

“All right,” Kerris said. He remembered the pain he had felt trying to make the barrier before. He told himself that was a fluke and would not happen again. “What should I do?"

Sefer stretched his legs out. “I'm going to extend to you,” he said. “I want you to stop me by making the wall."

Kerris took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself in Tornor, standing in front of the stones of the inner ward.

His stump itched. He scratched it, trying to concentrate on the blackness behind his eyeballs. The wall trembled in his head. The back of his neck stung. His concentration fled. The wall dissolved as if it were made of sand.

He opened his eyes. “No good."

“Try again,” said Sefer.

Kerris closed his eyes and tried again. Patches of sweat formed under the arms of his shirt. His head began to ache. Nothing you do should hurt you. Sefer had said that. He decided to ignore the pain. The wall formed. It seemed clearer than before. He persevered. It broke apart with a snapping sound, scattering like shards of glass. A sharp pain shot through his skull. He could not quite control the cry. “Unh."

“You're hurt,” Sefer said.

“No."

Let me look.

Yes, come ahead, he said. I could hardly stop you, he added. He tensed at the touch of another mind. But Sefer's examination was brief and gentle and did not hurt. His concern was very plain. He did not conceal his thoughts or his feelings, and something else was plain. Kerris waited until the teacher withdrew before he faced him with it.

“You said you wouldn't want to be responsible for anything happening to me,” he said.

“Yes,” said Sefer.

“It isn't me you care about. It's Kel."

Sefer cocked his head to one side. His look was quizzical and direct. “I do care about you,” he said. “I care about all my students. If you were to be hurt, somehow, because I failed to teach you to barrier, Kel would be furious with me, and it's true, I don't want that to happen. But I promise you, Kerris, I would work just as hard to teach you if you were not Kel's brother. Reach to me, and see.” He made the little beckoning gesture with his left hand.

“No,” Kerris said. “No.” He felt ashamed of himself for having doubted.

Sefer said, “If you don't trust me, Kerris, we must stop."

“I trust you."

Sefer rose. He wandered to the window and stood pushing on the leather window curtain with one finger. “I want to try something,” he said.

Kerris turned to watch him. “What?"

The curtain swung rhythmically to the prodding hand. “I want to link with you, very tightly, in deep-probe, and while we're linked, I want to build the barrier for you. That way you can see how it's done, and how it feels."

Kerris’ stump itched. He scratched it. “Will it hurt?” he asked.

“It shouldn't. If it does, I'll break the link.” He hunkered down, back against wood, so that their eyes were on a level. His hands dangled between his knees. “Do you want to try it?"

“All right,” Kerris said.

He felt Sefer touch his mind. The teacher slipped into his head as easily as a fish slides through a current, swift-gliding, untrammeled.... Kerris remembered the red fish he had seen in the depths of the blue pond. Suddenly he was blind. His bones felt soft. He could not move. His head turned. Sefer had made his head turn. His eyelids shut. He was thrown back into his skull. Look, said Sefer's voice. Look. It was the only thing he could look at: a landscape, green and blue, grass and water.... A bird called, piercingly sweet. He looked down at the landscape, as if from the tower windows, and then, with no warning, he was standing in the grass. It reached to his knees, bowing under the wind's warm hand. He was standing on the steppe, looking out into a far country.

He saw the wall.

He was facing it. It was dark stone, higher than his head. He pointed at it. It vanished. He pointed again. It reappeared. This is yours. You made it, Sefer said. His feet slid forward. He was standing next to it. He put out his hand. Dark veins patterned the lumpy stone. He felt it. It was cold and hard. He felt Sefer slip away, gliding from the deep places of his mind as a fish glides to the surface of the water.... The wall trembled, shivered, and exploded. He screamed at the enormous, snapping pain.

He was wet. He knew that was impossible. He was in Elath, in Elath in Sefer's house. But part of him was elsewhere, lost, alone, a child surrounded by strangers. The world was colorless and frightening and he was bereft and hurt, so hurt....

Kerris! The mental shout resonated inside his skull.

He sobbed. He felt-saw-knew hands reach for him, immense hands, bruisingly strong. He was in Sefer's house. Sefer was holding him. He clung to the teacher. Gentle hands stroked his hair and back, a comfort without erotic content, firm as a mother's touch. “Here,” Sefer said. “Drink.” He held a glass to Kerris’ lips. Kerris swallowed. It was wine. It burned his tongue. He choked.

His head ached. He felt wretched, stupid, and incompetent. “I'm sorry,” he said. It came out a croak. Sefer held the glass to his lips again. He drank, and wiped his face with his sleeve. “I tried."

“I know you did. You don't need to be sorry.” Sefer put the glass to one side. “Kerris,” he said, “where were you?"

“I don't know."

“Why did you go there?"

Kerris’ sides were soaked with sweat. “I don't know."

Sefer gripped his shoulder. “Look at me,” he said. “I felt what you were feeling, the pain, and then the fear. What was that place, Kerris? Why did you go to it when the barrier broke?"

“I don't know,” Kerris said.

“I couldn't tell if it was fantasy or memory,” said the teacher. “Was it familiar?"

The tears came to Kerris’ eyes again. Leave me, he wanted to say, let me rest, but he knew Sefer was trying to help him. He remembered the incident in Galbareth, during the storm. “Yes. It happened before."

“How many times?"

“Once."

“When?"

Haltingly, Kerris told him. Sefer listened, and Kerris could sense his puzzlement. “I don't understand,” he said finally. “I know what must have happened. In the storm something frightened you, just as now the pain of the barrier breaking frightened you, and you retreated from both fears into the memory of an earlier fear, something that terrified you when you were a child. But I don't see why the barrier in your mind reminded you of the same terror as did a thunderstorm in Galbareth."

“I don't either.” Kerris leaned on his arm. The muscles trembled. This was worse than the incident in Galbareth. After that he had been able to walk, and even to ride.

“The barrier stayed intact until I told you to control it,” Sefer said.

“Yes,” Kerris said. He pulled his knees to his chest, laid his arm across them, and rested his chin on his arm.

Sefer crouched, head cocked, eyes speculative. “I wonder—” His voice trailed off.

Kerris remembered his skill and his strength. His mouth dried. He shivered. He said, pleading, “I—can't do that again."

Sefer blinked. He touched Kerris’ knee. “Kerris—do you think I want you hurt? You look as if you thought I would do something to you—as if you were an animal!"

His distress was almost palpable. Kerris felt ashamed: “No."

“I'll be back,” Sefer said. He went upstairs. Kerris heard him walking overhead. He came back with a blue wool blanket in his arms. He draped it around Kerris’ shoulders. It smelled of cedar and cinnamon. “Are you hungry? There's food."

“No,” Kerris said. He shifted. The knife in its sheath pressed against his right thigh.

Sefer picked up the glass and brought it to the kitchen. Kerris heard him moving restlessly in the small space. He said, “You don't have to stay with me. I'm all right."

“You're sure.” Sefer knelt beside him again. “Will you sleep?"

“I don't think so. I'm not sleepy."

Sefer made another circuit of the room. Kerris was sure he wanted to leave. His head smarted. He touched it with his fingertips. The hurt was all on the inside. He wriggled onto his left side. “You can leave me alone,” he repeated.

“All right.” Sefer went to the anteroom's arch. He hesitated there. “If you're sure there's nothing you need."

Kerris simply nodded. The sun tracked across the wall hangings. “Where are you going?” he asked.

Sefer's lips curved in the ghost of a smile. “To the Yard,” he said, “to talk to Kel."

* * * *

In the vacant house, the cricket spoke from under the stair. Its thin voice was derisive. You cannot do it, it said. Kerris ground his cheek against a pillow. The ache in his head was nothing to the ache in his heart. You'll never be an inspeaker, he told himself. His stump throbbed, reminding him of what he was.

The paper gleamed beside the bed. He stared at it. His eyes watered. Josen was right, he thought, I should have gone to Kendra-on-the-Delta. I could be a scribe. That's one skill I still have. He lay, watching the sunlight traverse the walls. The door sprang open. Footsteps vibrated the mats. He turned his head to see who it was.

It was Kel. His hair was wet and tousled. He wore a scarlet robe. He knelt at Kerris’ side. “Chelito?” He put both hands out and then drew back, as if afraid he might do damage.

Kerris struggled to sit. “You can touch me,” he said. “I won't break."

Kel held him. Strength flowed out of him, warming as a hot wind on a winter day. “Sef told me,” he said, into Kerris’ hair. Kerris wondered what Sefer had said to Kel, and Kel to him. He felt the pressure of Kel's thumb on the line of his jaw. Kel tipped his head up. His gray eyes were acute. “Chelito, I didn't bring you to Elath to be hurt!” His other hand roamed along Kerris’ sides as if feeling for broken bones.

Kerris swallowed. He was suddenly ashamed of his weakness. “I'm not hurt,” he said. He pulled himself a little way out of his brother's grip, to demonstrate that he could sit without support. “It wasn't Sefer's fault.” He heard himself defending Sefer to Kel, and thought, I'm a fool.

Kel said, “No. I know that.” He drew Kerris’ head up between his cool hands and kissed him on the lips.

The door opened again. Others entered: Arillard, Elli, Jensie at the very end. Kel dropped his hands, without haste. “Your timing stinks,” he said, not turning around.

“Tough,” said Elli. She wore the gold robe she had taken from the baths. She twirled a bunch of carrots in her hand. “Hey,” she said to Kerris, “we were worried about you."

Her concern made him feel good. “I'm here,” he said.

“I see you are.” She sauntered into the kitchen. “I hope you all want to eat. I'm cooking up a hurricane tonight."

Kerris said softly into his brother's ear, “What's a hurricane?"

Kel grinned. “A big wind.” He crossed his legs and pulled Kerris to him with one strong arm. “Where's Calwin?"

Arillard answered. “He's at the baths, fleecing the farmers of their silver. Ilene went to her sister's.” Jensie sat on her mat. Her tricolored hair had darkened with wet till it looked all one color. She fished a whetstone from her pack. Laying her knife on her lap, she began to hone it in a smooth, circular motion. The scrape of stone on steel made an insect drone.

Kerris’ taut nerves loosened. Elli whistled in the kitchen. “Where's Sefer?” he asked.

Kel's breath tickled the back of his neck. “Talking to people. He's afraid there may be trouble this night. He'll come in later.” If he was disappointed or angry, Kerris could not hear it in his voice.

“Oh."

“What kind of trouble?” Arillard said.

Kel said, “He's afraid some young fools may be getting together to attack the Asech camp."

Arillard said, “You'd think Riniard's example would dissuade them.” At the sound of Riniard's name, Jensie looked up. After a moment, she returned to her sharpening. Kerris wondered what would happen with her if Riniard died. He shivered.

“Who wants to shell nuts?” said Elli. She peered around the archway. “Lots of lazy people sitting around doing nothing."

Arillard stretched out a hand. “Give them to me.” She handed him a bowl and a nutcracker carved like a fish, with wide painted jaws. He put a nut between the jaws and squeezed. The shell cracked. He relaxed his hand and let the broken bits fall to the floor. The shelled nutmeat dropped in two pieces into his palm. He ate them. “Not bad."

Kel tapped the paper. “What's this?"

“Paper—writing paper—and ink, and a brush. I went to Lara's with Sefer, and Meritha gave them to me."

Kel said, “That's something I've always wished I could do."

“What?"

Arillard cracked another nut.

“Write. It's different when you have to ask someone else to do it."

“I guess it is,” Kerris said. It hadn't occurred to him that Kel couldn't write. He stretched gingerly. His head no longer felt as if it would fracture if he moved. “Let me up,” he said. His brother opened his arms at once. Letting the blanket fall, Kerris went into the kitchen.

His legs were steady under him. Elli saw him coming. She grinned at him. Sweat beaded her hairline. A pot shed barley-scented steam into the room. Kerris glanced around at the clutter of pans and bowls and jars and hanging spices.

“What are you looking for?” Elli said.

“Something to use for mixing."

She handed him a ragged spoon that looked as if a dog had mistaken it for dinner. He blew the dust from a dish with a nicked lip. “What's that for?” Elli asked.

“An ink bowl."

He filled it a quarter full with water and brought it back to the mat. Kel made room for him. “Tell me what you're doing."

“Making ink.” Crumbling the ink cake into the water, he stirred it free of lumps. It smelled of some heavy scent, honeysuckle, or jasmine. He spread a page of paper on the table and dipped the brush into the black liquid. The brown hairs swelled evenly. He wrote: To Josen of the Black Clan, Recorder of Tornor Keep, from Kerris of Elath, Greeting.

He read it aloud. Kel smiled, and his hand caressed Kerris’ shoulder. “Kerris of Elath."

He went down another line. I arrived in Elath three days ago. It was an interesting journey. We stayed in a village, Brath, and in fields, and in a second village in Galbareth, I never learned its name. We spent one night by Lake Aruna.

He read it aloud, and continued. I have met my mother's brother, Ardith, and his wife, Lea, and my cousins. I have worked in a field. I wrote a letter using a feather as a brush, a piece of shirt for paper, and lacquer for ink. This paper and ink and the brush were given we by Meritha. She is the village scribe.

He read it aloud, and blew on the ink to dry it, wishing he had sand. I hope you are well. Please give my love to Paula, and my regards to my uncle Morven. He hesitated and then added—and to my friend Tryg.

“Who is Paula?” demanded Kel.

“The woman who brought me to Tornor, after—after our mother died. The old woman I said farewell to."

“I remember,” Kel said. “I didn't realize ... And Tryg?"

“My friend. He brought me the knife."

“Shall I be jealous?” Kel said. Startled, Kerris looked at him. He was smiling. He ran his hands lightly along Kerris’ sides.

He rose. “I'm going upstairs a moment."

Kerris watched him walk across the sleeping room.

“Hey."

He jumped, and glanced up. Elli stood over him, holding a bowl. She passed it under his nose. It was piled with plums. Kerris took one. Gingerly he bit into the hard purple fruit. Its tartness puckered his mouth.

“Who'd you write to?"

He folded the letter into threes and put it to one side. He would seal it when the lamps were lit. She sat beside him. Her bare leg, under the gold cloth, stroked against his. He moved to give her room. “My old teacher, Josen."

The corners of her wide-lipped mouth curved. Wistfully she said, “I wish you were not so shy of me, Kerris."

He didn't know what to say. “I'll try not to be."

She smiled at him. “We can be friends, I think, if you'd like. Even if—” the smile turned to grin—"even if you don't want to sleep with me!"

The house door opened. Kerris turned gratefully toward it. His ears were burning. Someone whistled in the antechamber. Calwin came in. He was grinning. He tossed something into the air and caught it. Elli laughed. “A fish!” she said. “Alas for the poor farmers of Elath!"

“It isn't a fish,” Cal said. “It's something new.” He strolled into the chamber and dropped the coin into Elli's reaching palm. She held the shape to the light. The silver coins of Tezera were called “fish” because they were imprinted with that symbol. This coin was round and thin and flat like a fish, but it was not silver. It shimmered like a rainbow, in flowing, changing colors.

Elli turned it over. She flicked it with a fingernail, and then bit it. “It feels like shell. Why does it have a hole in its center?"

The stairs creaked. Kel came down. He had changed his clothes from the robe to breeches and gray tunic. His hair fell loose on his shoulders.

“It has a rune in it,” Elli said. “What does that mean?"

“Ask a scribe,” Arillard said.

“Look, Kerris.” Elli passed him the shining disc. “What rune is this?"

He held it up. It was light as shell, but clearly polished and fashioned. The rune looked carved. “It's a K,” he said.

Cal took it from his hand. “It's a coin. It's called bonta; it's worth half a fish. The Council of the Houses at Kendra-on-the-Delta had decreed that within the city limits all buying and selling must be done with these. They're made in the city. Traders must stop at the city gates and exchange their silver and copper coins for these before they can take their goods to market. When they leave they give them back, and get back metal coins. There are assayers’ tables set up at all the gates. They're overseen by the Sul Family."

“Let me see,” said Arillard. He leaned close to examine the coin. He handed it back to Cal, saying, “That'll net the Sul Family a pretty penny. They must take a percentage of every coin they change."

“What does bonta mean?” Elli said.

“Shell,” guessed Cal.

“Bone,” Kerris said.

Cal looked very pleased with himself. He pulled something from his pocket. It chinked, a duller sound than silver or copper. It was a string with four of the shell coins on it. “This is how they carry them in Kendra-on-the-Delta."

“You won all those?” Elli said. “For shame, Cal! What kind of return for hospitality is that?"

“May I see?” said Kel. Calwin brought him the string. He pushed them back and forth, handed them to Cal, and chuckled. “I wouldn't be surprised,” he said, “if the next time you play you lose those pretty things. There are people in Elath who can make your dice turn loops. Remember, this is the witch-town."

Cal strung the loose shell with the others and stuffed the string back in his pocket, looking disgruntled.

Elli leaned forward. She put her hand on Cal's knee. “Don't put the toys away,” she said sweetly. “Aren't you going to give me a chance to take them from you?"

Arillard leaned far forward and picked a plum from the bowl. His eyelids drooped. “He's probably too tired to play."

“I am not,” said Cal. He dragged the string from his left pocket and his dice from the right one.

“Oh,” Elli said, “let's eat first.” Rising, she went into the kitchen. The velvet robe trailed on the mats, making a slithering, reptilian sound.

She and Arillard brought food to the table: soup in wooden bowls, a second bowl of plums, fetuch, shelled walnuts, wine. Kel brought cups for the wine. They gathered round the table—all but Jensie.

Arillard said, “Jen, won't you eat?"

Mutely she shook her head.

Kel said, “Jen, sit with us, at least."

Jensie looked as if she would refuse that, too. But she rose, and came to sit stiffly between Arillard and Elli.

Kerris fit his fingers round the wooden bowl. He sipped the soup. It was flavorful, piquant with unfamiliar spices. There were carrots in it, and bits of meat—pork, he thought—and the soft flat strings of wheat paste which Calwin had told him were called noodles.

Arillard brought out his tinderbox and lit the lamps.

“He sleeps with that box, you know,” said Kel. His warm whisper tickled Kerris’ ear. “On the border we used to call him the fire-bringer.” His left hand caressed Kerris’ neck. The cricket belled in the stairwell.

“Remember,” said Cal, “the time in Shanan when he nearly set fire to the house? First time I ever saw you get blind drunk,” he said to Arillard.

“I remember the time you kicked a screen in, thinking it was a sheet someone had slung over a rafter,” said Arillard.

“Remember the night we danced for the Council of Houses in Kendra-on-the-Delta?"

“Tell that story,” said Cal. Kel and Elli told it. Kerris listened. Jensie did not speak but her head turned, listening, and once or twice she smiled. Kerris was no patterner, but as he heard the story to its end he sensed—as the melody of a song can sometimes be sensed from a few notes, carelessly whistled—the pattern of the chearas. They fit each other as a river fits its bed, or a sword its scabbard. Scholars said—Kerris had heard Josen say it—that the chea was not simply expressed by the chearis but also maintained by them, so that if the dancers of Arun ceased to dance, the world would break into discord. It would be terrible, Kerris thought, to lose this harmony, having had it. No wonder Riniard had feared that sundering. It would be worse than losing an arm.

He sipped his soup. The sense of pattern died. But he felt healed, made whole—as whole as he would ever be. For a moment he had seen the thing that holds the world together, and had felt himself a part of it, even he, who could not dance a step to save his life, and had never been within the fighting circles of the Yard.

Eleven

Sefer did not come in after evening meal; neither did Terézia. But sometime in the night they both returned, because in the morning when the chearis woke, they both came down the stairs. Terézia was first. She bent to take a piece of bread from the food platter Elli had put on the table. Her face was lined with fatigue, and she moved as if her legs were stiff.

Kel and Sefer followed her. Kel's chin was smooth; he had shaved. He was wearing his breeches and a butter-colored shirt with horn buttons on the collar and sleeves. Stick figures danced about the shirtfront in gold thread. He had one arm around Sefer's waist. Sefer, too, looked tired, but if anything had been wrong between the lovers, it had clearly been set right.

Kel flicked Kerris’ cheek with a finger as he passed him. “Did you sleep well?” He grinned at the chearas.

Calwin stood by the washbasin, peering into the shiny silver circlet of a mirror. “If anyone makes a sudden noise I'll probably cut my own throat."

“Promise?” said Elli. Cal glared at her as he dragged his knife from the sheath. She laughed, and did up the buckle of her belt. “I suppose I have to be content with winning all your money.” She patted her pockets. “I'm glad I don't have to shave,” she said to Kerris. “It must be a lot of trouble."

“It is for me.” He fingered his face. His cheeks were straggly with hair. He hated shaving himself; he always ended up cut. Josen had done it for him in Tornor.

“I can help you,” Elli offered. “Or you could grow a beard. You might look good.” Kerris touched his face again. He could not imagine himself with a beard. Beards were for old men. “You would!” she insisted. She grinned at him. In the night he had rolled against her, and they had awakened to find his back against her breasts, her arm curved protectively (and uncomfortably) over his head.

Today the Asech were coming. Kerris swallowed back anger and worry. He recalled the stink of pitch and horse-sweat, the jangle of bridles, the gloss of Riniard's hair dragging in the dust.... It did no good to worry. They would know Riniard's fate soon enough.

Ilene came in. She kissed Jensie tenderly and clapped Sefer on the shoulder. “I'm talked hoarse and my legs ache from climbing up and down in the dirt, but the town's quiet, quiet as a sleeping babe. I hope you all got more sleep than I did."

Arillard said, “What does the Council want us to do today, Sefer? No one will come to the Yard."

“You have your choice,” Sefer said. “You can do nothing. You can join Erith's troop on the rim. Or you can stay in town and help Cleo's troop maintain watch."

Elli said, “I'm going to bake today. And Cal is going to bring a lamb haunch back from the butcher's so that we can have stew tonight."

Both Arillard and Ilene looked at Kel. He shook his head. “I shall be with the teachers."

“Why?” said Ilene.

Wiping his face and sliding the knife into his scabbard, Cal sauntered from the wash basin. “How do I look?"

Elli made a rude noise. “Stunning."

Ilene walked to Kel and took him by the front of the shirt. “Why?” she said.

He covered her fingers with his. “Because of Riniard,” he said. “It's my right. And I am a patterner."

Ilene scowled. “I don't like it. I don't like it when you leave us."

Someone knocked on the front door. “Come!” Terézia called.

It opened; there was an odd scuffling noise. Ilene dropped her hand from Kel's and moved toward the antechamber. A strange man's voice spoke harshly. “Damn it, go in!"

The speaker came through the doorway. Kerris didn't know him; he was swarthy and heavyset, with thick curling gray hair and dark eyes. He had one blunt-fingered hand clamped hard on someone else's arm. He jerked. That person fell into the room. It was the boy, Perin. He looked terrified. “Good morning,” said the man.

“Good morning, Moro,” said Sefer.

Kerris could see the resemblance between the man and boy. “My idiot son, here”—Moro shook Perin's arm—“has something to tell you.” Perin was pale under his tan. His eyes flicked from side to side, watching the chearis. “The mighty tracker. Speak."

Perin looked at the mats.

Moro let him go. His fingers had left red marks on Perin's bare arm. He put his hands on his broad, belted hips. “For this I must disturb your rest,” he said. “I'll tell it, then."

“Two nights ago this boy of mine was smoking heavenweed by the stable when that redheaded cheari wandered past him.” Jensie's head jerked up. “They shared the pipe. The upshot of it was they decided to sneak by Cleo's troop and get as near to the Asech camp as they could.” Moro's voice lost its admonitory anger. He sounded now only troubled. He moistened his lips.

“They did that. Perin lost his nerve and ran back. Your friend kept going.” The ropemaker took a step closer to his frightened son. “I thought you should know, Kel. I—I'm sorry. I don't know who egged who on."

Jensie hissed. Ilene got her by the shoulders before she could move and pulled her backward. Nobody else said anything. Arillard coughed. Kel looked at the boy. “How old are you?” he asked.

“S-s-sixteen, skayin,” Perin managed.

“Old enough to remember the raids ten years ago,” Kel said.

Ilene said, “But not old enough to fear them."

“You did not lose family in those raids,” Kel said to Moro.

“Praise be to the chea, no,” said the big man.

Kel sighed. He held his hands in the air a moment and then let them drop. “What shall I say, Moro? Take him home and beat him, as I surely shall our redhead when he's back with us."

“Not if I reach him first,” said Ilene, kneeling beside the seated Jensie. Relief crossed Moro's face. Swiftly he hauled his son from the house. The door was not quite closed before they all heard his voice lift, and the clear sound of a slap.

Sefer said quietly, “That was well said, nika."

Kel said, “Am I to blame that boy for Riniard's foolishness?” He crossed to Jensie and knelt beside her. She was staring into her hands as if they had words graved on them. “We'll get him back, Jen.” She nodded at her fingers.

Kerris bent to take a strip of smoked fish. As he straightened, a voice range in his mind. Ware—Ware — The fish fell from his hand. Elli caught it before it hit the floor.

“What is it?” said Ilene.

“It's the Asech,” said Sefer.

* * * *

They went to the market square.

A crowd had gathered: perhaps two hundred people in all. Lara was there, in her gold gown, and Tamaris, and Dorin. The crowd parted for Kel and Sefer. The chearas, Kerris within it, trailed behind Kel.

The folk of Elath watched as the small band of Asech riders picked its way down the southern slope. There was an occasional muttered curse. The villagers were empty-handed—those that Kerris could see—but house doors and shop doors stood ajar along the main street, and faces looked out of the dark rooms, eyes grim and wary. Sunlight shafted on a knife hilt. A shadow stood by a tree trunk, holding an unstrung bow.

Kerris felt a moment's pity for the Asech. There were not very many of them. He saw Thera at their head, and a man whose face was vaguely familiar. He had blue stones in his ears. Kerris wondered what they felt, riding into a place where every hand desired to strike them.

They wore dun-colored cloaks with hoods folded back, and soft, fringed, high-topped skin boots. One of them was ancient, a woman. Aside from her and Thera the other riders were all men. Their hair was black and slick, their skin bronze. Under the robes they wore loose shirts and trousers, decorated with beads of many colors. The men's cheeks were scarred with knife cuts, and there were jewels in their ears, set in holes that pierced the lobes. Thera had gold rings in hers. Their leather belts were also ornamented with beadwork. They were doubly armed, with daggers and with curved scabbarded short swords.

The resentful muttering grew louder. Lara stopped it with one raised hand. The Asech paced down the street. Their horses were spirited and fine-boned, and the riders sat them as if glued to the saddle. Their harness was decorated with many colored beads. The riders’ glances flicked suspiciously from house to shop to house. Against the beauty of their mounts, they seemed worn and gaunt.

There were not as many of them as there had been in the night, Kerris thought. He wondered where the others were. They halted in front of Lara. Thera spoke. Her voice was just as arrogant as it had been. Kerris’ pity for the riders fled.

“We are here. Teach us."

Lara looked tranquilly into that fierce face. “First we must know how our brother fares."

“He lives."

“We would like to see him."

“No."

“Then how do we know he lives?"

“The desert riders do not lie!” Thera said.

The man with the blue stones in his ears turned his horse to speak to her and his voice rose in question. Her hands swept the air as she answered. Kerris remembered who he was. He had held the rein of the horse Riniard had been tied to. His cheeks were bare of scars, like Thera's. His black eyes raked with obvious hostility over the villagers.

His name seemed to be Barat. Thera spoke with him a little longer and then turned to Lara. “Today you will teach us—those who are here. Tomorrow more will come. They will bring a message to you from your brother, words only he could say. When all our people have been taught and have come back to our camp, we will let your brother go unhurt. I swear it in the name of my people, Li Omani.” She rested her hand on the feathers in her horse's mane.

Lara conferred with Tamaris. She said, “We accept your oath. If you mean it falsely, we will know. Mind to mind cannot lie."

Barat spat a query at Thera. She responded. Kerris wondered if he was the riders’ chief, and was telling her what to do. The horses stamped. They were not shod. Kerris glanced down the street. All he could see was people. There was even a small figure—a child, he guessed—perched on the peaked roof of the well.

Lara waited until the riders’ conversation ended. Then she said, “There is something you must know. Only a few of us are teachers. Teaching even one person is tiring. It exhausts teacher and student. We cannot, in one day, teach all of you."

Again Barat demanded a translation. Thera gave it to him. His scowl grew more fierce; he shook his head briskly. “Shai,” he repeated several times. Kerris wondered if it might be the Asech word for no. “Shai!"

The old woman spoke. Her voice was cracked and metallic, but Barat stilled at once. When the old woman finished speaking he jumped into speech. A second man said something from behind him. The horses switched their tails. Kerris shifted from one foot to the other. His stump itched. He scratched it. Listening to an argument he could not understand was tiring.

Barat stabbed his finger at the second man, and at a third, and a fourth. They dismounted. So did Thera. She was no taller than Elli. Barat joined her. He was not much bigger than she was. A shrill voice spoke. One of the standing men hastened to the old woman's side, and helped her carefully to the ground.

Thera patted her horse's nose. She looked reluctantly at Lara. “Will you teach six of us?"

“Yes,” Lara said, “we can do that."

“If we do not return tonight to our camp,” Thera said, “the hostage will die, in as slow and painful a way as we can devise."

The crowd muttered. Kerris heard the breath hiss through Elli's teeth. Arillard and Ilene were flanking Jensie: Kerris could not see her face. Kel's was impassive, immobile as stone. The Asech drew together. Barat's hand was on his sword hilt, and the sword was partway out of its sheath. “Be still,” said a voice, “be still.” Calming whispers rippled through the assembled villagers.

Thera spoke to Barat. The desert rider barked a command. As one, the remaining riders turned and raced for the rim, sleek and swift as hawks in the chase. They did not shout. The riderless horses surged forward. Their masters reined them in.

“Go to your homes,” said the quiet voices, “go, go.” Ilene's was one of them: so was Ardith's. The crowd moved away from the six Asech. Elli linked her fingers with Kerris as they stepped backward. Kel and Sefer talked, heads together. Sefer's hair fell about his face. Suddenly he looked up, right at Kerris, and beckoned.

“He's pointing at you,” Elli said. “Go.” She propelled him gently forward, with a push to the small of his back.

He went to Sefer's side. The teacher said to Kel, “Nika, let him make his own choice!” Kel's lips pressed together. Sefer turned to Kerris. “Kerris, I have a request to make of you. I want you with us, to make a group of six. There are six of them, and there ought to be six of us. You won't have to do anything."

Kerris’ heart thumped. “Why me?” Barat was staring at him behind Sefer's back. The air fumed with a strange pungency: the Asech scent.

“Because you're a scribe and can write it down later,” Kel said. His voice was tight. “That's what comes of having a scholar for a sister."

Kerris said, “You don't want me to do it."

Kel shrugged. “It's not my concern,” he said.

“I want to know what you think,” Kerris insisted.

“Chelito, you must do as you like."

Barat scowled. He growled to Thera.

“They're growing impatient,” said Sefer. “Kerris, if you're afraid of being drawn into the Asech thoughts, don't be. Their barriers are like iron.” His voice was persuasive. “Won't you join us?"

Now all the Asech were looking at him. They reminded Kerris of animals, wolves or hawks, things that hunt. “Yes,” he said. The morning sun heated the street. His feet were sweating in his tight boots.

He stole a glimpse of Kel. His brother's face was stony. But Kel had seen Kerris’ head turn. His taut mouth smoothed to a half-smile. Putting out an arm, he drew Kerris to him. Sefer gave a little nod. They walked to where the Asech stood. Barat stared at Kerris. Kerris pretended not to see it. He made his face like Kel's, and his chin stiff.

Barat snapped at Thera. She said, to Lara, “Who is the cripple?"

Kerris’ face flamed. Kel's fingers tightened on his arm.

Lara said, “He is one of us, that is enough. We have not asked who each one of you is."

Thera translated this. Barat frowned. But the old woman, who stood at his elbow, chuckled and bowed her head up and down. She patted Barat's arm. Unwillingly, it seemed, he ceased to frown. The three men he had chosen massed behind him, fanning out like the broad end of a wedge.

Lara said, “Will you leave your horses with us?"

Thera translated this for the others. They spoke among themselves. “Shai!” said Barat. He waved his hands in the air.

Thera said, “Our horses are our selves."

This made no sense to Kerris. Did the Asech think they were horses?

Sefer said, “We swear by the chea that we will not harm them. That oath is sacred to us."

Again the Asech spoke together. Thera said, “They are to be left here, not moved. But it would be a kindness if you would let them drink."

“We will."

Thera laid a hand on her horse's neck. She stroked it and murmured to it, leaning her face against it till they were nose to nose. The horse lipped her chin. Its ears pricked forward intelligently. She let its rein drop to the dust, and at once it bowed its head. “They agree,” she said.

Lara said, “We will go to the Tanjo: that is the school.” Barat, Thera, and the old woman walked beside her, Tamaris and Dorin behind them, the rest of the Asech behind them. Kerris glanced back. Lalli and Sosha were coming from the well, each carrying a bucket. Tek had appeared from the shadows. He was stroking one of the horses, fingering the beaded rein.

Kel, Sefer, and Kerris walked rearguard. They moved slowly, keeping to the pace of the old woman. Her hair was streaked white and gray like an owl's feathers. Alone of the Asech she wore no sword, but Kerris had seen the hilt of a dagger curving from her belt. Under the beaded hem of her trousers her feet were flat, wide, and bare.

The Asech did not like the cypress grove. They shuffled through it, looking up and around and back at the aloof black trees.

But in the garden before the Tanjo they smiled. The brilliant clumps of color against the lush green grass seemed to delight them.

Thera said, “It looks like the desert after the rain.” Her voice lost some of its arrogance. She cupped her hand against a flower's glowing petals. Barat prowled around the circle. He seemed unhappy. He spoke to one of the other men, one with red stones in his ear lobes, and jerked his head toward the image of the Guardian.

The other man asked Thera a question. The woman rider's brows drew together. She looked at the white image. “Is that—what is that?” she said.

Lara said, “That is a thing we made to remind us of the chea."

“Chea. I do not know that word."

“It is a word of the old tongue our people once spoke. It means harmony, balance, center."

The man with the red stones in his ear lobes spoke. “Chea—like cheari.” He bit his lip and then spoke in the desert tongue to Thera, hands moving as if he could not talk without them. She made assenting noises. The old woman said something, her voice jumping like some ancient musical instrument. She pointed—with her chin, not her finger, to the Guardian. To Kerris’ astonishment, the six desert riders faced the image, folded their hands up to their foreheads, and bowed. The crone twitched her cloak aside and curled into the grass. She spoke to Thera, who translated it.

“We will stay here."

Lara, Sefer, Dorin, and Tamaris all looked at each other. Thera saw the exchange and said, “We do not like houses that do not move.” Her hands described a pen.

They sat in two half circles, Asech on one side, the witches of Elath on the other. Lara told their names. “Lara, Sefer, Kel, Kerris, Tamaris, Dorin."

The simple naming seemed to disconcert the riders. Barat spoke to Thera. Then each of the riders said a name. “Thera."

“Barat."

“Jacob.” Jacob was taller than the others, slender, graceful.

“Nerim.” Nerim was dark. His eyes were black as tar. The scars on his cheeks were ridged and purple-brown; they ran from the outer corner of each eye diagonally to the chin.

“Khalad.” The stones in his ear were purple. A soft curly beard fringed his lips.

“Mirian."

Sefer leaned forward to Thera. “Are you the only one of your people who speaks our tongue?"

Nerim said, “I speak little.” He lifted his left hand with the thumb and forefinger close together. This was the man who had brought the message to Erith's troop.

Tamaris said, “Perhaps we should have wine."

Thera translated it. Khalad's face brightened. Mirian giggled. She mimed drinking with her cupped hands. Where age had softened Lara's pale face it had leaned and withered hers. Her skin was pulled right back against her sharp bones.

“Yes,” said Sefer. “Bring it, Tam."

Tamaris closed her eyes. A door opened and closed somewhere. A brightness gleamed in the air. It was a tall copper ewer. It came steadily through the garden as if invisible hands were holding it. A line of twelve copper cups bobbled in its wake. The Asech stared. The ewer landed in Tamaris’ hands. The cups landed beside Sefer. They rocked and fell over. Sefer gathered them up. Tamaris poured white wine from the ewer into a cup and handed it to Thera, who peered into the cup and then passed it to Barat, who passed it to Jacob. It went to Mirian. She waited for Tamaris to drink from her own cup. Then she sipped the wine, and smiled. “Wa'hai!” she said.

Thera said, “That means ‘good.’”

All the Asech took wine, except Barat, who folded his arms across his chest. Kerris took a swallow of it. It was astringent and dry, like a northern vintage.

Barat spoke through Thera. “Show me how to do that!” He pointed with his chin at the ewer.

Sefer said, “I'm not sure we can. Not everyone has that gift."

When Thera translated the answer, Barat scowled. He snarled a short sentence.

Thera said, “Barat wants me to remind you that the life of your brother depends on what you teach us."

Temperately Sefer answered, “We know. But we cannot change the truth. I can't do that.” He pointed at the ewer. “Only Tamaris can, of the six of us."

“Then she must teach,” said Thera.

“She can teach it, if you have that gift. If you don't, she cannot."

Thera repeated this in the Asech tongue. There was a brief altercation, a flurry of words, which Mirian resolved by cutting across the talk with a few shrill phrases.

Kerris wished he knew what they were saying to each other. He would have to guess, or more likely leave blank spaces on the page when he came to write it all down. He could just imagine what Josen would say about incomplete records.

He wondered if the Asech wrote things down, and what their writing looked like. The sun bounced off the yellow beads on their clothes. This close, the smell of them was strong. Except for the barefoot Mirian they wore flat-soled sandals that seemed to be made of rope. He wondered how they maneuvered on the slippery rocks of the rim, and if they had brought their tents with them.

Nerim spoke. He said, “I do that."

“Show us,” said Lara.

Nerim licked his lips. He stared at the cup in his hand. It trembled and then lifted straight up. He held it at the level of his eyes for a count of ten. Jacob's slim hand was there to catch it as it hit the grass. Khalad clapped Nerim on the shoulder. The dark man grinned.

“Yes,” said Tamaris. “You have the gift. We call it mind-lifting.” Under her clear tones Thera spoke in a whisper. “You can throw a stone with your mind, or hold fire or water."

“Show them,” Sefer said.

Tamaris held out her cupped palms. The air shimmered over her fingers, brightened, and burst into flame. She made a throwing motion. The fireball sailed upward and split into a storm of sparks.

Jacob made a noise in his throat. Barat drew a harsh breath. Nerim said, “I can cup throw. I can stone throw. I cannot other.” He mimed lifting a heavy weight.

“It takes practice,” said Tamaris. “Fire also takes practice. I make a shield with thought between my hands and the flame. It is difficult. Don't try it."

“It tire—I—it make tired.” said Nerim. He frowned and spoke to Thera. Jacob, beside him, played with the cup.

Thera said, “Nerim wants to know why when he uses his power it makes him tired."

“Because,” Tamaris said, “he is fighting himself. He is using his gift through a wall."

Again the Asech spoke among themselves. Kerris no longer found their smell unpleasant. Barat's voice was softer. In a wild, sullen way he was a handsome man. Kerris wondered why he had no scars. He shifted his legs and struck Dorin's wine cup. Wine dribbled into the grass. “Sorry."

“No matter,” said Dorin. He righted it. The liquid left a pale stain on the soft fabric of his shirt.

He wore no knife. Neither did Tamaris, or Lara, or Sefer. Sefer didn't need one—he could stop a blow in a man's mind before it reached the fingers. Tamaris didn't need one either. Kerris thought, If I could use my gift as Sefer can.... Thera was speaking. He listened.

“Teach me,” she said.

“What can you do?” Sefer said.

She hesitated. Her long callused fingers knotted together. “I can govern animals. I can sense great need. When I was small I could feel the thought of people near me. I cannot do that now."

Sefer said, “You have my gift: inspeech, the ability to speak mind to mind."

She thumped her hand on the grass. “I cannot do it anymore. I have tried."

“That is because you put a wall between you and other minds."

A red bird flew over the garden. The Asech all lifted their heads to look at it. Mirian's face turned like a flower to the sunlight. She lifted her hand and called something, musical as bird song. The red bird circled, banked, and came to rest on her yellow wrist. She held it there a moment, while its heartbeat shook the tiny body. Then she let it go. It flew straight up and raced for the trees. Nerim chuckled and spoke in a low tone. The old woman said something. Thera translated it. “Mirian wants to know what the wall you speak of is."

“Inspeakers construct a wall in their heads to protect themselves from other people's thoughts. Usually witches with other gifts”—Sefer gestured toward Tamaris—“don't need that wall. I have it.” He looked at Thera and then at Mirian. “You have it. It's that wall which keeps you safe. Your walls are very strong, people don't even see you, unless you want them to.” Thera nodded. “But you”—Sefer looked at Nerim—“also have a wall. Your gift is locked behind it. As long as you retain the wall, none of you will be free to use your gifts as they should be used."

Thera translated. Mirian's lined face grew grave. Thera said, “Mirian wants to know, if we break our walls how do we protect ourselves? They hunt us down like rats in the desert when they find us."

“Who hunts you down?” said Lara. “Not the folk of Arun!"

Mirian shook her head as this was repeated to her. She spoke. “No,” said Thera, eyes fixed on the old woman's face. “Our own."

Mirian went on speaking. Thera's voice took on a ritual rise and fall. “I was ten when my father broke his leg in three places. He was hunting, and he was two lengths from the camp. I felt his pain across the salt pans. I told my mother of it, and she rode out with a litter and a mule and dragged him back. They made me swear to tell no one of my knowledge, but you know how children are. When I perceived things I spoke of them to the other children. They grew afraid of me. At last the elders heard of it. They too feared me, they called me yamal, demon. They decreed that I be driven into the dunes to die."

She halted. “Aaah,” said the Asech voices.

Mirian rocked as she spoke. “My parents—may they be forever at peace!—hid me in a cave near the camp. For a year they brought me food and water in secret. One night they were seen. They were put to death—buried to their necks in sand, and left.” The old voice broke. Tamaris filled a cup with wine and put it into the ancient hands.

Mirian drank, and went on. “I felt it. I could not help them. The villagers hunted me, but I was fourteen and knew hiding places the hunters had never seen. I lived eating rats and snakes, and raiding the water bags from the herds. I was caught by two traders. They didn't know who or what I was. They raped me, and then got drunk, and fell asleep arguing over what to do with me. I rolled to the fire and burned the ropes off my wrists.” She flicked back the wide sleeves of her shirt. The inside of both her stick-thin arms were stitched with scars. “I took their waterbags and their two strongest horses, and rode east. In the middle of the great sand I found a camp, and people living there. Most of them are dead now. But they knew me—and I them. They were witch-folk, like me, shamed, deserted, driven from their tribes.” She pulled the hooded cloak over her head, keening. The shrill ululation raised the hairs on Kerris’ neck and spine.

Gently, Lara said, “Are you all outcasts?"

Thera's voice thickened. “They brand us now with the strokes of a heated knife before they drive us into the desert, so that we cannot join a caravan, or go to another tribe's camp. The strong ones wander until they find us. We live in a part of the desert that no one, not even hunters, comes to. When hunters do come”—her eyes burned, and her hands made a swift and murderous motion—“we kill. Our own we keep."

Sefer shook his head. “We pity you,” he said, “and we honor you for what you have endured. But if you let go of your walls you will be stronger. You will see and hear and lift. No one save yourselves will ever be able to touch you or hurt you again."

Thera spoke this to the others. Khalad nodded. Jacob said nothing. He rolled a cup in his palms. Mirian mumbled from beneath her hood. Only Barat seemed distressed. He spoke rapidly, stabbing his finger at Sefer as if it were a weapon.

The old woman put a stop to his tirade. “Shai!” Shaking back her hood, she pushed herself forward, into the center of the circle, and held out her hands to Sefer. Gently he twined her bony fingers in his own. She spoke.

Thera said, “Mirian says it has been many years since she let her mind free of the wall. But she says, if you will help her, she will try."

Sefer smiled. “Good. Good.” The old woman tilted her head to one side, as if she were trying to understand the unfamiliar language. There were great calluses on her palms. Her mouth tensed. She closed her eyes. Her mouth opened like a baby's. She shuddered. Her face relaxed. Tears welled beneath her eyes. Thera translated her slow whisper.

“I feel you. I feel you. I feel all of you.” She dropped her hands to her lap, and looked around at her companions. “No more children hunted like rats, branded like colts, no more. We will go to them, we will find them, we will bring them home. They cannot touch us, don't you see? No more, no more.” She lifted her hands in supplication. The grief in her face was terrible. Unchecked, pain surged from her thought. “O, for the dead, the many dead! O that my mother and father were still alive!"

...He was small. The thunder crashed about his ears. Rain soaked his clothes. The sky was a huge mottled wall of clouds. The rain had voices like birds. “Mama?” he said, and felt her arms go more tightly round him. The rhythm of the horse grew choppy. It was hard to breathe. He tried to poke his head out of the folds of cloak. The voices screamed. He pushed his fingers up and peeled the cloak from his face. Birdlike, inhuman, faces swooped out of the sky. The horse was running. He felt his mother's heartbeat pounding. He felt a jerk. The sky poured white water on him. There was a sharp pain through his right arm. He called upon his mother and felt her falling, bringing him with her. His head filled with pictures, bright faces—Kerwin, nika, never to see you again, Lea my friend, Kel my son, O my mother—howling with terror, he thrust against his mother's body. The ground shook. His arm hurt. His mind swelled with terror, pain, loss, dreadful loss, he could not stand it, he tried to hold it back. Something built—and—snapped—in his head. He screamed with the pain, but by then his mother's questing mind had left his and joined with her brother's, days away. He cowered in the white space, bereft, hurt, without recourse. “Oh, the babe!” Hands lifted him. “Ai, his arm!” He ignored the voice. He did not know it. The world was shadow and he was alone, surrounded by insubstantial strangers.

* * * *

Slowly he came back. “Kerris. Kerris.” Someone was calling him. It was a real sound. He moved. His muscles quivered. He smelled the sharp scent of crushed grass. He lay face down in it. He swallowed. His throat hurt; his mind hurt; he hurt all over, as if he had been beaten. He drew a deep breath. His ribs creaked.

“He's coming back.” The voice was Sefer's. An ant traveled past his nose, black legs stepping high. He tried to turn his head. The world wavered in and out of focus. He saw a swath of green, a blob of gray. “Kerris, do you want to sit?” He croaked. Hands raised him.

He saw the bird faces of his dream, brown, high-cheekboned, alien. His mind froze.

“Kerris.” Fingers bracketed his head. He looked into a face he knew: pale skin, pale hair, eyes like green lamps. “You're all right. Do you know me? Say my name."

“S-Sefer.” His mouth felt gluey.

“You're in the garden of the Tanjo at Elath. Kel's holding you. Nika, show him."

Hands touched him, stroked him. A warm tongue lingered on his throat. “Remember me?” The explicit caresses made him shiver. He turned his head. Thera, Barat, Jacob—there were the alien bird faces of his dream—the Asech.

He was dripping with sweat. His eyes stung. He wiped them with his sleeve. Barat clamored at Thera for explanation.

He had never been so deep into the memory before. He knew it was memory now, not fantasy. This was no place of his making. His mouth tasted of ash. Mother, he thought. O my mother....

Mirian's great eyes stared at him. He wondered how much of the reaction she had caught. “Were you there?” he said to Sefer. His voice rasped.

“Only at the very end,” Sefer said. “Can you talk about it?"

Kerris leaned his head against Kel's firm shoulder. “I was a baby. I was riding with my mother in the rain. I felt pain in my arm.” He touched his stump. (A voice whispered: Thera, telling the other Asech what he was saying.) “My mind filled with thoughts, not my thoughts, her thoughts....” He closed his eyes. He tried to find, in his head, his dead mother's face. “I tried to make them stop. It hurt.” He trembled, remembering the magnitude of that blow to his brain. “I was afraid.” He could not see her. He opened his eyes.

Sefer was nodding. “I felt the fear, and the wave of pain, the aftershock of the barrier breaking.” He covered Kerris’ fingers with his own. “It was memory, Kerris, a fourteen year old memory, a three-year-old's nightmare. When your mother died, she linked with you, just for an instant. I hope you can forgive her. She was wounded and couldn't help it. You tried to wall her out and were not strong enough. The barrier broke. It damaged you enough to blot out all memory of the event and your life before it. The rainstorm in Galbareth brought it partially back to you. So did my attempt to teach you to barrier. So did Mirian's pain."

Kerris licked his lips. “That's why I could not make the wall yesterday—"

“Yes,” Sefer said.

Lara said softly, “Could you feel the extent of the hurt, Sefer?"

“Not large,” Sefer said. “It has mostly repaired itself, over time."

“Kerris,” said Tamaris, “would you like some wine?” She passed him a goblet without waiting for his answer. His hand shook. Kel steadied it for him. He hurt, still.

Kel said in his ear, “Chelito, you don't have to stay here. Go back to the cottage."

Thera said to Sefer, “I do not understand one thing. This—your friend—was hurt because he has no wall?"

Sefer shook his head emphatically. “No. Because the—the piece of his mind that makes a wall was injured when he was a baby, and so he never learned to make one properly. He will."

Kerris drank the wine. It tasted flat. Barat was looking at him with contempt. He was not going to crawl off to rest like a child. “No. I'll stay.” Kel took the cup from his hand. You're sure? his eyes questioned. Kerris firmed his shoulders. He was weak but it would pass; it had before. He felt as if a storm had shaken him in wet, cold talons, and then left him on the earth, tattered but clean.

Barat asked Thera a question. She argued with him. He insisted. She looked at Kerris. “Barat would like to know what tribe the riders you saw came from."

So Thera, too, had seen the riders in his mind. Kerris felt Kel's muscles bunch. He answered, “I don't know."

She translated this. Barat scowled. He traced the bead patterns on his tunic with one finger. Thera said, “He wants to know what the bead marks on their clothing were. Such things are different from tribe to tribe."

Kerris said with careful clarity, “I was three years old, and hurt. Tell him I don't remember.” He was surprised to find that his fist was clenched. He loosened it. At his back, Kel was tense with rage.

Barat spoke flatly. Thera said, “Let us go on, then, with the teaching.” Khalad spoke. “Khalad says, What is my power?” Kel relaxed. Lara's face tilted skyward, as if there were something present in the warm sunlight that only she could see. Barat fingered the beads on his shirt.

“What can you do?” said Sefer.

“I dream,” said Khalad through Thera. “I dream of places I have not seen, never seen: I dream of gray mountains, and great houses of stone. I see them."

“Ah,” said Dorin, “You have my gift. You are a far-traveler."

Barat nudged Thera into speech. “Barat wants to know what use is dreaming, even of real mountains and real castles. Can Khalad fly there, like a bird?"

“Not as far as we know,” said Dorin placidly. “But the gift is a real one. Don't discount it because it has no present use."

“What is my power?” Jacob's question; Jacob's turn. “My tribe drove me out when I said the words that people spoke before they spoke them. But I cannot hear thought, like Thera or Mirian. I cannot throw stones. My dreams are ordinary."

Lara said, “Have you ever touched a wound and found it healed?"

“No."

“Can you call wind or weather?"

“No."

Kel said, “Have you any skill, special skill?"

Jacob sighed, and opened his hands with the gesture of a man letting sand run out of his fingers. But Nerim said, “He fight. And he ride anything. Mule, horse, devil—anything he ride."

Jacob demanded to know what his friend had said. When it was told him, he said a swift string of sounds to Thera. She relayed it. “Jacob says that is a thing he does with his body, not with his mind!"

“No,” said Kel. He rose. “It is a thing you do with your mind.” He stepped toward Jacob, moving with supple noiselessness. In a blur almost too swift to see, his hand jumped to his knife. Jacob flung upward, whipping his dagger free of his belt. Kel twisted from the hips, feet gliding over the grass, hair whipping with the motion. His left hand clamped on Jacob's right. The sky darkened. Jacob's feet left the earth. He hit the ground with a thump. Kel was standing. Jacob lay on his back, dark eyes wide, cloak spread like ashen wings beneath him. Kel was holding Jacob's knife.

* * * *

It had happened so quickly, no one else had time to move. Now, with a shout like a falcon's scream, Barat sprang to his feet and lunged, barehanded, at Kel.

Jacob shot upward. He stepped between them, calling on Nerim. Nerim jumped to help him, and together they wrestled Barat still. Jacob's face burned with wonder. Pulling Barat to the grass, he crouched at his knee, speaking earnestly. Barat pulled his clothes straight. He stared at Kel.

Jacob spoke to Thera. She said, “Jacob wishes to understand what you have showed him."

Kel said, “Tell him he has a gift. He is what we call a patterner. Tell him he will always be able to move first, quickest, to ride, to hunt, to dance, to find the pattern where everyone else sees chaos."

When Thera translated this, Nerim's face grew a broad grin. He pounded Jacob on the knee.

Jacob's face remained grave. Thera translated his sentence. “Jacob says, you are his master."

Kel put one arm around Sefer and one arm around Kerris. He was not even breathing hard. “Now I am. But my teacher was the finest in Arun, and I have had fifteen years to study my gift."

Lara said, “It is a matter of balance.” Thera translated this, and Jacob nodded respectfully.

Barat thumped the grass with a fist. He leaned forward. “Haraiya-na e'ka!” By now Kerris did not need Thera's soft translation; he had heard the words too many times. What is my power? The Asech was breathing swiftly from the tussle with Jacob. His right hand teased the dagger handle in his belt. It was bronze, in the shape of a horse's head, with a blue stone for the horse's eye. Thera put a hand on his arm. He barked brutally at her, and she jumped back. In a slightly milder tone he repeated his question. “Haraiya-na e'ka?"

“What can you do?” said Sefer. “Why did your tribe drive you out?"

Thera did not translate his words. She touched her cheek. “Barat did not—Barat was not driven from the tribe,” she said. “He chose to leave, for my sake."

Her voice took on the storytellers lilt. “I was three years a woman when my tribe banished me to the desert. Barat and I were”—she hesitated—“nahrebul. I do not know your word. We had been promised to each other. After the rain I was to leave my father's home and join his father's tent. For this my father had pledged ten goats and three of our horses, one a mare in foal.

“When the elders came to bind and brand me, I was in my father's tent, mixing wheatcake.” Her hands kneaded invisible dough. “My little sister warned me they were coming. I fled to Barat's tent. He stole two horses from his father's herd and we rode. After much wandering we found Li Omani, the Branded Ones. They knew me for what I was, though my cheeks were naked. They took us in.

“Because we of all Li Omani have no brands on our cheeks, we can enter villages without fear of being known as witches. Barat has worked as herder for caravans going to your cities. We have been to the market in Shanan. That is how I speak your tongue. Barat has remained with us when he did not have to.” She sat back and drew her hood down over her face, as if ashamed of having said so much.

Barat spoke to her but she shook her head and would not talk to him. Nerim finally had to tell him what she had said. A breeze brushed the cypress grove and made the flower stalks tremble. To his own surprise, Kerris found himself reaching to Sefer. What do you think his gift is?

I don't think he has one. Sefer's mental voice was grim.

Thera let her hood fall from her face. Sefer said, “I cannot tell what Barat's gift is. Ask him if he will let me touch his mind."

When Thera relayed the request, Barat scowled. “Shai!” He waved his hands and spoke angrily to Thera. There was a tinge of fear in his brusque voice.

“Barat says you did not ask that of anyone else."

“I touched Mirian's mind,” Sefer pointed out. Mirian looked up at her name. “No harm has come to her. It is the surest way of knowing what gift you possess."

“Shai!"

Thera put a hand on Barat's arm. He shook it off. His right hand clenched around the hilt of the knife. She pleaded. So did the others, hands moving. Kel's arm slipped from Kerris’ shoulders.

At last Barat yielded. He faced Sefer. “Makhe-na."

Sefer's eyes closed. After a moment he opened them and spoke to Thera. “You are shielding him.” Her eyebrows drew together. “You are keeping a wall around his mind. I cannot touch him. Let it go."

Her fingers moved on her lap, but whatever she was thinking of saying did not reach her lips. She bowed her head. Barat suddenly stiffened. His eyes glazed. He trembled, and then slumped. Sweat beaded his face. He moaned.

Thera gasped, and lifted his head to her lap. Lara said, “Don't worry. It will pass."

Barat shuddered. Sense came into his eyes. He moved his mouth. He spoke to Thera. She answered him. Abruptly he hauled himself upright. His hands gripped the earth. “Haraiya-na—” he coughed, halted, and continued. “Haraiya-na e'ka!"

Sefer shook his head. His eyes were eloquent. “You have no gift."

Barat did not wait for the translation. Snarling, he drew his knife.

Thera cried out. She caught his wrist. But it was Jacob and Nerim who together forced the curved blade back into the sheath. Barat shook with rage. He yelled at Sefer, who sat quietly listening to the harsh and incomprehensible tongue.

Mirian screeched. The shrill sound cut across Barat's raving, and silenced it. He answered her in a softer voice. Kel was watching. When Barat had drawn his knife he had leaned forward, ready to intervene. His hands rested easily on the soft grass. He was still as water, still as the mountain before it falls.

Barat's voice rose again. He argued with Mirian. Thera, listening, looked shocked. Kerris wondered why he was feeling none of Barat's anger. It was intense, and very close, and he was vulnerable.

He had no time to explore the thought. Barat was on his feet. He leveled a finger at Sefer and spoke two or three sentences, the words biting and filled with menace. He slapped a command at the others. The scarlet beads shone on his shirt like drops of fresh blood.

He whirled, cloak billowing, and strode into the trees. Khalad helped Mirian up. She shook her clothes in order, like an owl shaking its ruffled feathers into place. She spoke to Thera.

“Mirian says you are to ignore Barat's discourtesy."

Lara said, “What did he say?"

Thera moistened her lips. “He—he does not understand. He thinks that you can give him power, the power to speak mind to mind, the power to hold fire. He does not understand the power is in us."

They returned to the square where the Asech horses stood. Tek was seated nearby, peeling a willow stick in his huge hands. Lalli and Sosha were not in sight. He nodded to Lara. “There's one gone ahead.” Up the southern slope a light haze lifted, where Barat's horse had shipped up dust. “Movin’ like a hell-wolf."

“I hope you didn't try to stop him,” said Sefer.

“Me? I know when a man's in a hurry.” The Asech horses whinnied and pushed against their riders. “Those horses are like children. Look at ‘em.” He scratched the end of the willow stick into his beard, and lowered his voice. “Should I have stopped him, Sef?"

“No.” Sefer turned to Thera, who was fondling her horse. It was a dapple with a blaze down its forehead. “You must know now,” he said, “that you don't need the witches of Elath to teach you to use your powers. You five can show the others of you—those here and those still in the desert—how to dispel their walls. You do not have to hide. As long as you do not use your gifts for evil, you can be proud and fearless in what you are."

Her snapped up. “What may be evil for the witches of Elath may not be so for Li Omani. We are the desert riders. We do not live by city law."

Sefer shook his head. “The chea is not bound to place."

She frowned; her eyebrows drew together like dark wings on her high forehead. “Let us not talk of this.” Her fingers smoothed the dapple's mane. “Let us talk of tomorrow.” She hesitated. She rubbed her lips with one finger. “It may be true, as you say, that we do not need the witches of Elath. But what is learned today may be forgotten tomorrow. Let us see what happens. The teaching may be more difficult for us, or there may be others among us who have no power, like Barat.” Her feeling for the man who had chosen exile to be with her was plain on her face.

“We will await your message,” Sefer said.

Jacob and Nerim were hunched together, talking. Kerris couldn't see their faces, only their moving hands. The beadwork made a repeating triangle pattern up Nerim's sleeves. Suddenly Thera said, “Is there nothing you can do to help him?"

Sefer sighed. “We cannot make power where there is no power. Gifts come from the chea."

Thera's hands lifted. Mirian, mounted, shrilled a few words. The gesture died. Nerim and Jacob separated. Cloaks flaring, the Asech swung onto their horses and cantered south, up the slope, following in Barat's dusty wake.

Twelve

The five riders had barely disappeared over the slope when Moro the ropemaker stepped out of his house. He wore a short sword in a leather scabbard. “Well?” he said. Perin came out behind him. The boy walked as if his back hurt him. “What happened?"

“Let's wait,” Sefer said, “so that we don't have to say it two hundred times.” He beckoned to Tek. More people came out of their houses. Most came weaponless, but a few held knives, spears, and bows. Some came from the fields, hoes on their shoulders. They packed the market square. There was a clear space around Lara. Kerris edged into it. He wiped his sweating palm on his shirtfront. He was not used to so many people in one space. The swelling voices made him want to hide.

Kel muscled through the throng to the ropemaker's house. He spoke with Moro in the doorway and the big man beckoned him inside. Children circled through and around and under the legs of the adults, screaming as if the assembly were an entertainment devised for them to play in. Kel pulled back to where Tek and Sefer stood together. He was carrying a wooden box.

He set it down. Tek placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, and vaulted to the top of the box.

He shouted. The people in the square laughed. “Hey, Tek!” Eventually they grew still enough for him to shout the gabblers down. His voice was thunderous, loud enough to reach the edges of the square. Sefer fed him words. Tek said them. He told the restless people what had happened in the garden. He told about the branding, and the exile, and the hiding in caves. “Sefer says,” he roared to the silent multitude, “that might have been us, any of us, victim or hunter."

“We are not barbarians!” shouted a woman.

Sefer slapped the stablemaster's leg. “Let me get up there.” Tek jumped down and handed him up. He faced the crowd. “Then let us prove it!” he said. His voice was thinner than Tek's but it carried. “Show pity for these harried folk. I believe they mean us no further ill than what they have already done. Let them depart unmolested from our fields.” He jumped down. “Tell them that's enough, Tek. We'll know more tomorrow when they come back.” He coughed.

A hand seized Kerris’ elbow. “Kerris.” He turned as quickly as the crowd would let him. It was Jensie and Elli. Elli hugged him. He hugged back. In this press of people she was a welcome sight, even though some of the folk in the crowd were his kin, and she was not.

She grinned at him. “Hey."

Jensie said, “Kerris. What did they say of Riniard?"

“Nothing that you didn't hear.” He wished there were more he could tell her.

Tek was yelling that there was no more to know, until tomorrow. “Do we have to stay in the square?” said Elli.

The stablemaster climbed from the box holding his throat. “That's thirsty work, you hear?"

A wineskin passed over a string of heads and landed in Tek's lap. “I don't think we have to stay here,” Kerris said. He squinted at the shadows. Unbelievably, it looked to be not yet noon.

The chearas formed around him. Kel was busy elsewhere; he was standing beside Sefer, earnestly talking. As Kerris watched, he put both hands on Sefer's shoulders and shook the smaller man, not hard. Sefer leaned into him and nodded. They separated. Kel strode toward the chearis. The villagers moved out of his way. “I've sent Sef to sleep,” he said. He put one arm around Kerris’ waist.

Ilene said, “I should like to know how you managed that."

Kel said, “Told him if he wouldn't go I'd knock him out and carry him there."

“Here,” said Arillard. He held out one hand filled with cheese, and the other filled with strips of jerky. “I thought you'd be hungry."

“I'm more restless than hungry,” said Kel. “My muscles are all kinked.” But he took a strip of jerky. Kerris took some cheese. It was mild and soft as butter. He licked it from the tips of his fingers.

Jensie said, “Let's go to the Yard."

The crowd was beginning to break up around them. “All right,” said Kel. He stretched. “I'd like that.” He pulled Kerris in toward him. “Chelito, how do you feel?"

“I'm fine,” Kerris said.

Kel's fingers scratched the back of his neck. “No weakness? No headache?"

“No."

“Good,” Kel said. “Come to the Yard with us."

A horse had left a pile of yellow dung in the street. The chearis stepped around it. “Shouldn't I be writing down what just happened?” Kerris said.

“No,” said Elli. “Come with us.” Arillard was walking in front of her. She skipped forward and slapped him on the back. “Bribe Kerris to stay with us while we train."

Arillard, turning, held out a piece of dried beef. Kerris took it.

“Now you have to stay,” said Elli.

“Chelito, you can make your records tonight, or tomorrow. Stay with us now.” It was hard to resist that plea. Kerris bit into the jerky. It was tough as an old stick.

“All right."

“Your brother bribes easy,” said Arillard.

“I'll remember it,” said Kel.

“Kel,” said Arillard.

“Hmm."

“Do you trust their goodwill—these Asech?"

Kel said, “I concur with Sef's judgment, that they intend to leave peacefully. They've got what they came for. There's no reason for them to do us more harm."

Arillard glanced over his shoulder. His austere face was somber. “I hope you're right."

“So do I,” said Ilene.

Arillard stopped. “You know,” he said, looking at Kel, “were I younger, and more foolish, I might have done what Riniard did, that night. I contemplated it."

“Shall I be surprised?” said Kel. He touched Arillard's shoulder. “I'm not. And you didn't."

“I wanted them dead,” said Arillard. His thin mouth twisted. “I, a cheari, dedicated to harmony."

“Wanting isn't doing,” said Ilene.

But Arillard's race was stubborn with trouble. Sighing, he went forward.

Slanting a look at Kerris, Elli said softly, “What were they like?"

Kerris sought words. “They moved their hands when they talked,” he said.

Elli snorted. “That tells me a lot. Is the old woman their chief?"

“I don't know. I don't think so. I think Barat is."

“Which is Barat?” said Ilene.

“The man without the scars. He has blue stones in his ears."

Arillard said, “He's the one who rode away ahead of the others."

“Yes,” said Kel. “He's a firebrand.” He was coiling his hair on top of his head. “He's Thera's lover. When her tribe tried to brand her and toss her into the desert to die, he helped her escape and then went with her."

“Good for him!” said Elli. “I'd want someone to do that for me.” They turned the corner, and Kerris saw the top of the Guardian over the Yard fence.

The wide square space was empty. Kerris started toward a place out of the way, against the southern wall. Kel pulled him gently back. “Stay. Let me teach you to use the knife."

“Now?"

“Unless you're tired."

“I'm not tired,” Kerris said. “I—I don't want to waste your time."

Kel raised his eyebrows. “I don't believe it would be a waste of time."

“I'm less than a beginner."

Kel shook his head. “I thought you'd let me teach you anything,” he said.

There seemed to be nothing Kerris could say to that. “I will."

Arillard strolled from the equipment shed, each hand brandishing a yellow niji. Ilene was stretching her hamstrings, bending from the waist to touch her knees with her forehead, holding her ankles with her hands.

Kel took his shirt off and draped it over the fence. “I don't want to get it dirty."

Kerris fingered his own shirt. It was grass-stained. “Should I—?"

“You don't have to.” Kel sat on the dirt. Kerris copied him. “First we stretch,” he instructed. “Your muscles need to loosen.” He showed Kerris how to turn and twist. Ilene had finished her exercises and was sparring with Jensie. The girl's face was stone. In her mind she was fighting the Asech. Ilene chided her, reminding her it was only practice. Jensie's face did not change. “Now stand.” They did more exercises. Sweat trickled down inside Kerris’ shirt.

Kel went to the shed and brought back two nijis. He handled them carefully, as if they were real knives, keeping his fingers off the “blades.” He pointed the knife at the dirt and waited for his brother to tell him what to do.

Kel smiled at him. “We'll work slowly,” he said. “I know this is new to you. Show me how you hold your knife.” Kerris held the niji as he had seen others do it, blade upright, right at his waist.

“Yes,” Kel said. “Don't hold it so tightly. Point your forefinger. The grip should be firm but not so strong that your hand will cramp.” Stepping forward, he angled the blade more steeply upward. “Better. Relax your shoulders. You've got good muscles in your wrist and arm, let them do the work."

He stepped back. “Turn your hips, so that the target you present is smaller. Yes. Keep your right side turned away from me.” He brought his own niji up. Kerris faltered. “Don't freeze. You have a big advantage, chelito. All the fighters I know prefer to use their right hands, though some can switch.” His niji leaped from his right to his left hand, and returned. “It's hard to face a left-hand fighter. Now, circle."

Kerris shuffled left, remembering to keep his right side turned away from Kel. His palm was sweaty. He feared the niji would slip from his fingers. He tightened his grip. Kel shook his head. “No. Relax.” Kerris tried.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arillard sparring with Jensie. Calwin and Elli were practicing a dance step, arms linked. “Look at me,” said Kel. “Now, step in and cut me. Come on!"

Kerris stepped in with his left foot and aimed his niji at Kel's belly. Easily the cheari parried it. His left arm knocked the thrust to one side. At the same time, his right hand came up. “Keep moving,” he said. “Block the blow, your arm against my arm. Quickly. Try to make me face the sun. I'm going to come in again. Block me to the outside and go for my throat. Now leap back. Right. Don't stay within reach or I'll grab you with my right hand. Keep moving."

“What if you come high?” Kerris said, puffing.

“That's simpler. Duck and slam your knife into my gut. Let's try it.” The yellow niji leaped for Kerris’ throat.

Kerris ducked and lunged. The tip of the knife kissed Kel's rib as he skipped back. “Good. Don't stand still!"

Kerris’ fingers trembled. He let the knife fall. Kel scooped it up. Shoving it into his belt, he closed the other hand around Kerris’ wrist. “Chelito?"

“I—” Kerris licked his lips. “I never struck anyone before."

Kel stroked his back. “Never? Not even when you were small, over a place by the fire, or a favorite toy?"

“Oh. Yes. But never with a weapon, even a wooden one."

“May the chea grant that you never have to use a real one,” Kel said. “But if you do you'll do it right. If you ever need to stop again in practice, step backward and lay the knife on the ground, like this.” He demonstrated it, a long fluid step and a dip to touch his niji to the earth. His right knee just brushed the dirt.

Pulling the niji from his belt, he held it out, hilt foremost. “Take it. Next time a strike is made, don't stop."

They continued. Kerris’ chest began to burn. He panted for breath. Kel struck. He parried and cut upward, moving, swerving, keeping his hand loose on the wooden haft of the niji, keeping his shoulders down, trying to turn Kel so that the bigger man faced the sun.

Once he was late in stepping back. Kel's left hand sprang out and thumped his ribs. He kept moving. Kel smiled. The ache in Kerris’ chest began to dissolve. Breathing grew easier. “Faster,” said Kel. “You move too slow. I could kill you three times over. Good! Push me. Don't let me slow down. If I switch strikes on you”—he did so, the niji springing for Kerris’ neck—“you switch your technique.” Kerris ducked and sprang in. The niji grazed Kel's side, leaving a red scrape. “Yes. Don't stop."

They worked till Kerris started to stumble. His lungs hurt. Kel stepped back and knelt, letting the niji brush the Yard floor. Rising, he pried the niji from Kerris’ stiffened hand. Then he hugged him. He was not even breathing hard. The layer of sweat on his long torso made his body look polished. He ran his hands over Kerris’ ribs. One struck a sore spot. Kerris winced.

Kel pulled the shirt away. “Let me see.” A purple bruise marked where his niji had connected. “You didn't tell me."

“You said not to stop."

The others had at last worn Jensie out. She sat against the fence. Arillard and Elli were sparring half-heartedly in the shadow of the Guardian. A few of the ties around Elli's braids had worked loose.

“Let's go to the baths,” said Ilene.

* * * *

The baths were crowded. A gaggle of naked children played around one end of the upper pool. They danced up and down on the flat rocks and pushed each other into the water. At that end it was shallow. Elli raced for the steam tent, barely halting at the entrance flap to shed her clothes. The children splashed each other. The adults waved to the chearis. Tek stood in the middle of the lower pool. Soap foamed over his chest and groin and underarms, and down his massive legs. His hair stood out from his head in bushy spikes. His huge torso was covered with lumps and scars. He looked like an old tree.

Kerris stood by the poolside. It was muddy. Cal nudged him. “Why don't you go in?"

“Why don't you?"

The cheari showed his teeth. He danced away from the rocks. Elli sprinted from the steam tent. She dived into the lower pool, splashing Tek. He growled like a bear and lumbered after her. She chuckled and went under water, gliding like a fish through the depths, evading him easily.

She popped up at Kerris’ feet. “You should take your knife off if you're going to stand there,” she said. “You might slip."

“I won't slip,” Kerris said, But it seemed a good idea. “Where can I put it?” The mud sucked at his boots.

“I'll hold it for you,” Cal said. He leered at Elli. “Nyaa.” Kerris undid his belt and handed knife and belt to Cal, who twitched his fingers challengingly at Elli and wandered toward the steam tent.

Elli scooped soap from a pot and scrubbed her hair. She had freed it from the silken ties. She ducked under the water to let the soap float away, scrubbing vigorously with both hands. She bounced up blowing water. “I told you,” she said, putting a cold hand on Kerris’ bare calf, “you should come in."

“No, thank you.” But to please her, he took off his dirty boots and dangled his legs in the water. He had to set his teeth, not to yell. The water was icy, cold as the Rurian in spring thaw when it was swollen with mountain snow.

Her wide mouth twitched. He kicked water at her. She jumped back. Footsteps sounded in the grass behind him. “Watch!” Elli called. “Watch me.” She dived backward; long body arching back like a hoop, making almost no splash as she cleaved the water. Kerris leaned forward, wondering where she would come up.

Two golden arms wrapped around his waist and hurled him into the pool.

He grabbed for the edge as it flew past, but he landed nowhere near it. He shut his eyes. Water spurted into his nose. He sank like a stone. Coughing, he kicked and clawed his way to the surface. His clothes dragged at him. When he shook his hair out of his eyes, he found Elli an arm's length away, observing him happily. “I knew you could swim."

He lunged for her, scissoring his legs with all his strength. She yelped and dived away from his outstretched hand. He chased her to the shallow end of the pool. She crouched like a brown frog amid the children and croaked at him. The children, vastly pleased, grunted in imitation. The water did not seem quite so chilly. He splashed her. She splashed him. He tried to grab her leg. She dived underwater, circled round behind him, and pushed him over.

He leaned against the mossy rocks to pull off his clammy shirt. It stuck to him; he had to almost tear it to get it off. Elli looked him up and down, as if she had never seen his skin before. He covered his stump with his left hand.

She scowled. “Don't do that."

The children hushed, scenting a quarrel. They peered avidly over Elli's shoulder, all sizes, all colors, black like Ilene, brown like Elli, pale like Jensie, freckled like Riniard ... “It's not pretty."

She waded to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “It doesn't matter.” Her strong fingers nipped his flesh. “It's an arm, damn it, Kerris, that's all, just a piece of meat."

He wanted to believe her. He would believe her. Chill bumps sprang along his spine; he'd been standing too long without movement. Bending his knees, he flung himself toward her. Her eyes widened. He wrapped his arm around her and bore her down, holding his breath. The world turned liquid green, then black. Bubbles flew past his ears. He wrapped his legs around Elli's thighs. His pants flapped. Water streamed against his groin. Her nipples were hard as pebbles against his chest.

They went up. They burst through the surface, gulping air. Elli worked free of his hold and poured herself toward the deep end of the pool, swerving eel-like around the other bathers. She stayed there, laughing, till he came up, and then sank. Kerris filled his lungs and plunged to find her. She hovered fishlike beyond his groping hand, a dark blurred shape. His ears filled. He bounced up. Two strokes away, she surfaced, floating, her lean back arched, waiting for him.

At last the chill of the water wormed into his bones. He stroked into the shallow end and stood up, shaking. Elli rose behind him. She patted his hip. “You're turning blue."

They stepped out. Kel was waiting for them. His face was ruddy from the steam tent. He wore a black robe with red braid on the sleeves. His hair hung to his waist.

He handed Elli a towel and a silken yellow robe. “Cal asked me to tell you he took your knives and belts and clothing home."

“K-k-kind of him,” Kerris said. Water trickled down his thighs and calves and out the legs of his pants.

Kel draped a towel around his neck. “Take those off,” he said, nodding toward Kerris’ wet pants.

“Here?"

Elli snorted. She bowed her head to wring out her hair. “There's nothing everyone here hasn't seen already."

Kerris plucked at the drawstring knot. His fingers were chilled. Kel brushed his hand away. “I'll do it.” He took his time. His hands were warm. Their touch made Kerris shiver all over again.

The loosened pants slid down Kerris’ legs and fell in the mud. He stepped out of them. Elli nudged them with her toe. “Ech. Now one of us will have to wash them. Whose turn is it to do the laundry?” Picking up the wet, soiled cloth, she held it at arm's length.

“Yours, probably,” Kel said. “Give them to me, I'll carry them.” He took the pants from Elli, and with the other hand settled a robe over Kerris’ back. It was velvet, red as blood, with silver fish imprinted on it. Kerris thrust his arm through the sleeve. He held the robe closed. A silver sash trailed through three loops. One end of it was muddy. Elli gathered it up and tied it in a loose knot around his waist.

“Don't we look fine,” said Elli. “Like lords of the city.” She danced a little in the yellow silk. Kerris thought of Morven, stuck in a castle. He would not want to be Morven. “Where are Jen and Arillard and Ilene?"

“Gone ahead of us,” said Kel.

They strolled toward Sefer's cottage. The sun beat on Kerris’ back through the slippery velvet. After the ice-cold pool, the heat was delicious. “Why did you stay?” he asked his brother.

Kel stroked his spine. The cloth moved sensuously under his knowledgeable fingers. “It seemed fair,” he said. “I threw you in."

* * * *

When they reached the house, Kerris decided he was ravenous. He could barely wait for the evening meal. Ilene and Calwin shared the cooking chores. Elli coaxed Jensie to the table. She ate a little. Her head sagged; before the others had halfway finished, she had fallen fast asleep.

Kel picked her up and put her on her blanket. “Good,” he said. Easing the knife from her hip, he tucked the cloth around her.

Terézia came in. She went upstairs and then came down again. “Don't you want to eat?” Ilene called to her.

Terézia shook her head. “I ate at Cleo's.” A musical note trembled in the air, and another, and another. Kerris recognized the vibrant twang of a hand-harp.

“That's lovely,” said Elli.

Kerris waited for the small, bitter twinge in his chest, the envy he had always felt for two-handed people who could make music. It did not come.

Terézia sat cross-legged on a cushion. “Tell me what to play,” she said.

“Play the Riddle Song,” said Calwin.

Terézia played the Riddle Song.

“Play ‘I am a stranger,'” said Arillard.

It grew dark. Arillard lit the chobata. He laid one at Terézia's knee. “Beth, my wife, played the hand-harp,” he said.

Terézia said, “You told me, last year, when I was just learning it."

“You have a light hand—your touch reminds me of hers."

Kel and Elli cleared the table. When there was space on it to do so, Kerris laid out the paper Meritha had given him. He put an oil dish close by, but far enough from the striped pages so that the edges would not curl. He mixed his ink in the dish with the chipped lip.

In the midst of his preparations, Sefer wandered downstairs. He had slept through the meal. His face was puffy with sleep. He went into the kitchen.

Kerris ran the soft, springy hair of the brush over his mouth. The touch was faintly erotic. He started to dip the brush in the ink, and hesitated.

Sefer emerged from the kitchen with a goblet.

“Sefer?"

“What is it?” said the teacher.

“In Tornor's records there always is a line which dates the account—like, In the twentieth year of the reign of Morven, nineteenth Lord of Tornor—I don't know what to put."

“Hmm.” Sefer rubbed his chin. “Put the Council Year. Say, In the whatever year since the establishment of the Council of Houses in Kendra-on-the-Delta—I don't know what year it is. Arillard?"

Arillard lifted his head.

“What Council Year is this?” Sefer asked.

Arillard looked pensive. “The thirty—thirty-fourth."

“Will that do?"

It sounded good. Kerris dipped the brush in the ink. This is the record of certain events happening in the town of Elath, in the thirty-fourth year since the establishment of the Council of Houses in Kendra-on-the-Delta, as written by Kerris of Elath—he hesitated, and then wrote firmly, scribe. “What day did the Asech first appear?"

Sefer ran his thumbs across his eyelids. “On the first day of the quarter moon,” he said.

In the first month of summer, on the first day of the Quarter moon, Kerris wrote, people from the desert tribes called the Asech attacked the village of Elath—"Did they come from the south?"

“No,” said Sefer. “The first time they came from the north road."

— from the north. They burned the houses of—"Shall I say whose house was burned?"

“I suppose you should.” Sefer walked to the table. He stood looking over Kerris’ shoulder for a moment, and then sat. “Maybe it's not necessary. Say, three houses. You'd better say that Thiya was killed."

— three families. Thiya was killed. They returned three days later and burned another house, and took captive a visitor to the village, Riniard of the Galbareth, a cheari. Through their speaker, Thera, they threatened to kill the captive unless the witches of Elath taught them witch-gifts. It was known to the people of Elath that these Asech were possessed of some witch-skills. They called themselves Li Omani, The Branded Ones. Their chief appeared to be a man named Barat. The words were coming easily. He stopped to rest his fingers. His hand was tired from the day's training.

“Does my looking over your shoulder disturb you?” Sefer said. The light from the chobata lit the underside of his face, giving his skin a waxy, yellow cast.

“No."

Kel went upstairs. Terézia put away her hand-harp, to murmured thanks. The chearis went to bed. The oil was low in the chobata when Kerris finally finished. He had covered three pages and half of a fourth with writing.

He gave them to Sefer. The inspeaker received them gravely. “Thank you, Kerris."

Kerris shrugged. He was tempted to go back over it and put in the details he'd left out. He thought of what Josen would say if he could see it. “Inaccurate, sloppy, incomplete..."

* * * *

The night was warm. His bladder ached from sitting. He went outside and opened his clothes. He smelled the field-scents: hay, grass, cow dung, dust, horses, and the house scents—in a nearby kitchen someone was baking. The smell reminded him of Tornor's kitchen, and that of Paula. He remembered the letter to Josen, still unsealed, still beside his blanket. He would try to remember to seal it tomorrow.

A sleepy bird sang a two-note song within the convolutions of the hedge. The urine arched out of him in a fine high stream. He grinned and shook himself, did his clothes back together, and turned to leave.

Sefer was standing at the door. The light from the window shone on his hair, turning it phosphorescent.

He gestured toward the bench. “Sit with me."

Kerris sat on the cold stone.

“How was it at the Yard today?"

The moonglow was beginning to shine over the line of the rim. Kerris watched it deepen. “It went well."

Sefer said, “I was going to apologize to you, Kerris, for what you went through this morning. Had I known it was going to happen, I wouldn't have asked you to come with us."

“I know that,” Kerris said. A triangle of light showed over the jagged line of trees.

“But now I think it may have been for the best,” Sefer said. He put his hand on Kerris’ shoulder, turning him around a little. His face was indistinct; his eyes a shadowed, colorless glitter. “I am going to reach to you,” he said. “I want you to stop me."

Kerris had no time to argue. He felt Sefer extend to him, brush the surface of his thought, probe inward—Damn you, he thought, I can't keep you out! He couldn't tell if the glow against his eyes was Sefer's mind or the rising moon. He raised his hand, ready to slam it against the stone bench, to use the only weapon he knew he had: pain. His hand would not respond.

No, said Sefer, not that way.

His heart thundered. Suddenly something slipped in his head. It felt like a bolt sliding into a new-cut groove. His hand dropped. He barked his knuckles on the bench. The moonlight blazed in his eyes. There was nothing in his head, except his own thought.

He caught his breath. He knew what he had done without knowing how he'd done it. He was unhurt. He was free. He turned all the way around to Sefer. “What—” The teacher was bending over, holding his head. As Kerris moved he straightened. There were tears on his pale cheeks.

“I—I'm sorry,” Kerris said. “I didn't mean to hurt you.” His knuckles stung. He put his mouth to the scrapes.

“It will stop,” Sefer said evenly. He put his hands down. “I knew it might happen.” His lips curved. “You did it."

Kerris closed his eyes. He could sense-see-feel his wall: it was gray stone with flecks of mica in it, like the arch in Tornor's wall, and it shimmered like a reflection in glass. “Why now? Why not before?"

“Because of what happened today,” Sefer said. “In that moment of terror in the garden you reexperienced the time when you tried to make a wall and failed."

“Yes,” Kerris said. O my mother...

“But you also understood it, inside—you understood that though the child in you had been hurt, the adult was strong, and would not be. I felt your understanding. You locked it away from your surface mind, but I knew I could reach it if I went deep enough. When I touched it, you responded without thought, by reflex, as a true inspeaker learns to do. You thrust me out and made the wall."

It shimmered behind his eyes, unyielding as northern granite. There was a suggestion of grass at its foot, of sky above and behind it. Kerris wondered if Sefer had taken the image out of his thoughts or given it to him. He thought the first. The steppe had been his refuge, however flawed, for fourteen years. Sefer had never seen it.

It felt natural to him as the blood running in his skin. Already he was beginning to lose the memory of what it had felt like to be without it. “Now what can I do?” he said.

“Anything you like,” said Sefer.

“Shall I go to Kendra-on-the-Delta and hire myself out as a truth-finder?” He remembered his own bitter words to Josen. What great house would want me?

Sefer said, “You can. You can stay here and act as scribe. Elath will need one someday soon. You can even return to Tornor."

Kerris blinked. He hadn't thought—"No.” The words came unprompted. “No."

“You know what I would like. I'd like you to stay in Elath, and teach at the school."

“I'm not a teacher."

“You could learn. It's a skill."

The door to the garden opened. Kel leaned out, holding the doorposts with both hands. “What are you doing?” He walked toward them, slipped, and recovered. “You've been out here long enough to piss a river.” He put a proprietary hand on Sefer's neck. “Come in, nika."

Sefer said, “We've been talking."

Kel's hair was loose. He shook it back from his face. “Shall I go?"

Sefer raised his eyebrows at Kerris. “Have we done?"

The cold of the bench was making Kerris’ knees ache. “I think so."

“Then come inside.” Kel pulled Sefer up. He held him a moment and then pushed him gently at the door. “Don't slip,” he warned, “there's a mole run.” He tapped Kerris’ shoulder. “Chelito—"

“Yes?"

The half moon balanced on the rim of the valley, its convex edge just touching the trees. Like a boat on a river it slid up the starry sky. Kel said, “What are you thinking?"

“Why does everybody ask me that?"

“Who else asks you?"

“Elli. And Josen used to."

“Because,” Kel said, “your face gets a certain look to it."

“Like what?” Kerris said.

“Like a closed door."

Kerris wasn't sure he liked that. “I was thinking that the sky looks like a river.” He tipped his head back to look at the stars. Kel's fingertips caressed his neck.

“It looks more like the ocean to me,” said his brother.

“Have you seen the ocean?"

“Certainly,” said Kel. He mimed a shiver. “It's getting chilly, chelito. Come in. I'll tell you all about the ocean—tomorrow.” His smile flickered. Bending, he ran both thumbs up the inside muscles of Kerris’ thighs.

Thirteen

Just before dawn, Kerris had a dream.

He was standing beside a table in a vast, sunlit room. He was weeping, not in fear but in anger. There was something on the table he wanted, but the top was high above his head. He pounded a fist on the table leg. The act cost him his balance. He started to totter; he saw the matted floor rising to meet him. He wailed.

Suddenly he was lifted. A woman's face smiled at him. Her eyes and her hair were brown. She patted his cheeks with something soft. “Open!” she said. He opened his mouth. She popped a bit of honeycomb in it. “Such a greedy one for sweets,” she said. That was what he had wanted. The sweet taste burst against his tongue. She cradled him, chuckling. “Thou't'll grow so fat that we will stuff thee for dinner, like the goose!"

Her smile was loving. He pressed against her, feeling her heartbeat. Under the emerald silk of her shirt her breasts were soft and full.

Then the room began to darken, and he felt himself awakening from the dream and from childhood. “Mother!” he called. The word made no sound. She went. He stared at the woolen hanging on Sefer's wall. The tears ran along his nose. He laid his head on his arm.

The sky grew lighter. The others stirred. After a while, when the pain had dulled, he sat up. He brushed his hair from his eyes. The cocks of Elath crowed from their yards, chiding the laggard sun.

He stumbled into the kitchen and scrubbed his face with a soaked cloth until he was sure the tear stains were gone. There were steps overhead and on the stair, and the garden door opened and closed. Arillard came into the little room, tinderbox in hand.

The chearis were in evil moods. Jensie was clumsy, a rare thing in her. She knocked a water goblet off the table. It bounced on the mats and the water spilled into the tough bound straw.

“Hell."

Arillard said, “Better lift that mat."

Jensie grunted. Alli and Cal helped her wrestle the heavy straw pad on its edge. They leaned it against a wall. In the space left by its removal the bare floor was pale and dusty.

Kel came in from the garden. He looked tired and tense. He nodded at them all and went into the kitchen. He came out with a loaf of bread, a knife, and a butter crock. He tore the bread into slices.

“Talkative, aren't we,” said Ilene to the room.

Elli reached for the butter knife. Arillard shrugged. Kel sank to his heels beside the bare rectangle of floor.

Ilene put her hands on her hips. “What's the matter with you?” she said to him. “I heard you. You marched around half the night."

He slanted his head to look at her. “Something's wrong,” he said.

Jensie stared at him, eyes narrowed.

“A big thing or a small thing?” said Ilene.

“I can't tell,” said Kel.

Sefer descended the stairs with Kerris’ scrolls under his arm.

“Good morning,” he said. He lifted his eyebrows at the upended mat but made no comment.

“Sef, what's going to happen today?” said Arillard.

“I can't be sure,” Sefer said. “But we should receive a small delegation of the riders, to tell us they are leaving, and to make arrangements for Riniard's release."

Ilene said, “Kel's having premonitions."

Jensie's face had whitened. Suddenly kneeling, she grabbed Kel's wrists, knocking the bread from his hand. Two red spots on her cheekbones burned like coal. “It isn't Riniard,” she said. “Say it isn't Riniard!"

With a powerful swift motion Kel flipped his wrists through the junctions of her thumb and forefinger, and pinioned her in turn. “Don't, Jen,” he said. “Don't come apart. We need your strength."

She bowed her head. Ilene crouched beside her. She ran her hand up the girl's back. “Come with me to Kitha's. You can help me run after Borti. He's so active I wish I were twins."

“All right,” Jensie said. Kel let her go. Elli handed him the bread slice.

Kerris tugged his shirt on. He went to sit beside his brother.

“I had a dream this morning,” he said. “I dreamed I was a child. I was trying to get something, some food, from a table. A woman picked me up—” he hesitated. “I think it was Mother.” The word felt strange in his mouth. “She had brown hair, brown eyes ... She wore a green shirt."

“She had one,” said Kel. “With lace.” He drew a circle in the dust and rubbed it out. “Maybe you're getting your memories back, chelito."

Ware—Ware—Ware—by now the rhythm and feel of the alarum were familiar. Kerris stood. Kel rose more slowly. Arillard said, “Is it—?"

“Yes."

“Shall we come with you?” said Ilene.

Kel glanced at Sefer. “No need,” said the inspeaker.

Elli said, “I want to hear the arrangements for getting Riniard back."

“You'll hear them later,” said Kel. He dusted his palms together. The bite of temper in his voice made Kerris start.

* * * *

It was a blue, hot day. A scattering of clouds obscured the northern rim of the sky. The street was quiet, very different from the way it had been the day before. Tamaris, Dorin, and Lara stood in the square.

Two riders came under the rim of the bowl. Tek, a bulky shadow, leaned in the doorway of the butcher shop. Lepin, the smith, and Emeth the Yardmaster stood nearby. In the arch of Moro's doorway rested a tall man with a bow.

“Who's that?” Kerris asked Kel.

“That's Erith, the troop leader."

Kerris watched his brother. Kel seemed calmer now that he was out under the sky. He was wearing the shirt with the dancing figures. He walked with both hands stuffed into his breeches’ pockets. Sefer walked on his right.

The riders were Nerim and Jacob. They came slowly into the deserted square. Kerris could not help admiring the way they sat their horses. They rode the way Kel walked. Nerim was wearing his long cloak, and Kerris wondered why the riders wore cloaks in the day, when it was so warm. Jacob had taken his off; it lay across his horse's neck. The beadwork on his tunic showed plainly: it was in the shape of flowers. His hair was long and shining. Kerris thought maybe it was greased. It fell down his back in a kind of club.

Nerim was holding a green square of material on a stick. It was meant to be a courier's flag. When he reached where the teachers were waiting, he dismounted. He wet his lips nervously. Carefully he said, “I bring message from my people to witches."

Lara said, “The people of Elath hear you."

“Thera tell me. I am to say, they learn. We”—he tapped his own chest, waved at Jacob—“and others, we teach to make wall down. Is slow. They much afraid. Some very learn quickly."

Lara said, “I understand. You are teaching your own people to lower their walls so that they may use their gifts. That is good."

“Thera says, if all teach, we give back—” he hesitated, frowning, and then put his wrists together as if they were tied. “I forget word."

“Captive,” said Kel. “Hostage."

“Hostage. Yes. We give back tonight, at sun end. I have message from hos-hostage. To Kel?” He bit his lip. Kel lifted a hand to indicate himself. Kerris glanced at Jacob. The young desert rider was leaning forward, eyes on the cheari. “He say, Sorry. Very sorry."

“So he will be,” said Kel, “when I get my hands on him."

“He say”—Nerim's broad face twisted as he tried to remember the words—“Elli was right. I have brains of cricket."

Kel's face softened. He took his hands from his pockets. “Is he well? Not hurt?"

“Well, yes. We feed, he walk—” Nerim again mimed roped wrists.

“How will you give him back to us?” said Sefer.

“We go. He stay. We tie, not hard, he can break.” Nerim mimed ropes breaking apart. “He not far."

“You will leave him loosely tied so that once you have left he can break free and walk back to us."

“Yes."

Sefer's voice sounded softly in Kerris’ head. Does that seem good to you all?

Yes, Kerris answered. Tamaris nodded. Sefer nodded to Lara.

“We accept that,” Lara said.

Nerim turned to Jacob and spoke a string of words. The youthful desert rider swung from his horse. Kerris smelled the Asech body odor. Jacob's hands flexed once. His nails were pink against his brown skin. His hands were shapely and very long.

Nerim said, “This Jacob. You know. He ask, please, talk to one who fight. Kel?"

The Elath teachers all looked at Kel. He shrugged, turning both palms up.

Jacob spoke to Nerim. Nerim said, “He say, No fight. He speak peace."

Lara said, “This sounds like it is meant to be a private conversation."

On impulse, Kerris reached toward the silent desert rider. He sensed a jumble of thought, all unintelligible, mixed with a deep yearning.

Sefer said, “Nika, do you want to talk to him? He looks serious about something."

Jacob spoke again to Nerim. The older man stepped back to talk to him. He put his arm through Jacob's, an intimate gesture. Jacob bit his lip. Nerim looked unhappy. Jacob shrugged free of him, not petulantly, but sadly. He took a step toward Kel. He held both hands out, palms up. Then, very slowly, he drew his short sword and dagger. The blades gleamed in the sunlight. From the butcher's doorway, Tek grunted and came upright, hand poised on his own knife. Jacob bent and laid both blades in the dust.

Sefer said, “I think that is meant to impress you with his peaceful intentions, nika."

Kel said, “I'll talk to him.” He looked at Jacob. “Tell him to pick up his weapons."

Nerim spoke. A look of pure relief crossed Jacob's face. He wiped the blades meticulously on his cloak and returned them to their scabbards.

Kel said, “We can't talk in the street."

Tamaris said, “Why not go to the Tanjo?"

Kel considered. “I can't see why not. Sef—?” He glanced at his lover. “Will you come?"

Sefer looked grave. “I shouldn't, nika. I have half a town to talk to. People must be told what's happening, they'll have questions ... Take Kerris, if you think you'll need an inspeaker."

Kel touched Kerris’ shoulder. “Will you help, chelito?"

Kerris hadn't expected to be asked. “If you want me to."

Kel faced the two Asech. “We'll go to the school, where we were yesterday.” He beckoned to Tek. “Tek, can you see to the horses for a while?"

The burly stablemaster gestured assent. “Lalli, Sosha!” he yelled.

The two children popped around the corner of the butcher's as if they were on strings. Lalli ran to Jacob's horse's head. It was a spirited black horse with a white left forefoot; it reminded Kerris of Magrita. Nerim's horse was a roan. Sosha wound the reins around his hand. The roan swiped at him with a monster tongue.

* * * *

They sat in the grass by the statue of the Guardian. Jacob's thin face was tense. The bead flowers climbed around his chest and up his sleeves. Nerim said something to him in a reassuring tone. He did not look reassured.

Kerris wondered if the two men were lovers or only friends. He crossed his legs and sat. He felt awkward. He didn't know what Kel wanted him to do. Perhaps he was just there to be a second body, a number.

He looked around the brilliant garden. A shadow in the doorway of the big carved door caught his attention. He stared at it. It was falling the wrong way from the angle of the sun. He extended his mind.... He felt curiosity, excitement, a spurt of fear. Wait'll I tell Tazia!...

He grinned, and jogged Kel's elbow. “Kel. Look at the big door."

Kel squinted across the garden. The Asech turned. Kel lifted his voice. “Come out, you in hiding!"

Feet dragging, Korith came slowly across the grass. He made a wide circle around the riders. His eyes were big. He made a jerky bow to Kel. “Skayin. I was just—"

“Spying,” Kel finished. He frowned at the boy. Kerris made his own face stern. “You're Korith. Sefer's nephew.” Korith nodded. He was wearing brown. He looked more than ever like an otter. “Is that what you're supposed to be doing?” Korith shook his head. “Speak."

“No, skayin."

Kel's mouth twitched. “Well. Since you're here—” he gestured toward the desert riders. “This is Nerim. This is Jacob. Korith."

Nerim murmured something to Jacob. Both men smiled. They looked at the boy with friendly eyes.

“Now you've met two Asech raiders and can go to whatever you're supposed to be doing.” Red-cheeked, Korith turned to leave. “Wait.” The boy spun around. “You're a lifter, aren't you?"

“Yes, skayin."

“Can you lift a wine pitcher and four glasses from the pantry in the Tanjo?"

Korith gave a little hop. “I can. At least—” he looked toward the silver building, measuring it. “I think I can.” He scratched his knee. “But I might spill the wine."

Kel smiled at him. “Go and get it yourself. Bring it here. Make two trips if you have to."

Korith raced for the Tanjo.

Within a short time, he was back, carrying a pitcher of wine in both hands. Four yellow glass cups trailed in the air behind him. He lowered the pitcher to the ground in front of Kel. The cheari put out an arm. The cups jiggled in the air. Korith's thin face curled with effort. He lowered the glasses to the grass without a bump.

“Thank you,” Kel said. “That was very smooth.” He handed the cups around and poured a measure of the amber liquid into each cup. “Now, youngling, vanish."

Korith walked off obediently. As he reached the door he leaped into the air. Kerris heard him whoop.

The Asech laughed. Kel sipped his wine. “You can drink it,” he said to Nerim. “It's not poisoned.” Korith's appearance seemed to have restored his good humor. “Now, what have you to say to me?"

Nerim looked at Jacob. Jacob nodded forcefully. His bound hair danced a little on his back. Nerim said, “Jacob say, I fight. I ride. I have power, harai, power, like you. Your power”—he made a circle in the air with his arms—“great. My power small.” He made a circle with thumb and forefinger.

Kel interrupted him. “Say ‘gift,’ not ‘power.’”

“Gift,” repeated Nerim. He patted Jacob's knee. “He say, I want to learn. I want learn all, fight, ride, all. I want follow you.” He clasped his hands.

Kel put the cup he was holding down hard on the grass. “Say that last part again,” he invited.

“I want follow you.” Nerim's voice sounded hollow. Jacob watched Kel. Hope blazed on his thin strange face.

Kel said, “I'm honored. But I'm not a teacher. I'm a cheari. I travel, I dance. I teach only in the Yard."

Nerim repeated this to Jacob. Jacob whispered. He had not yet tasted the wine. Kerris wondered what Barat and the other riders thought of this desire. Maybe they didn't know of it.

He understood it. He tipped the glass a little and let the wine wet his lips. He pitied Jacob, and Nerim who clearly thought his friend was mad.

Nerim said, “Jacob say again, Please. He want follow to learn. He no trouble. He sleep with horse. He do anything, cook, make fire, wash."

Kerris said, “He wants to be your apprentice."

Kel frowned. “Chearis don't have apprentices! Besides, he can't be part of the chearas. No,” he said to Jacob. He shook his head. His hair swung like a curtain. “No."

Jacob's lips tightened. He spoke to Nerim. Nerim took a deep breath. “He say, He follow. No matter you say no. He go. You ride, you look back—” he waved his hand—"he always there. One day you say yes."

Kel stared levelly at the slender rider. Jacob did not flinch. “An Asech alone in Arun? Not able to speak our language? He'll get killed."

Nerim translated this. Jacob shook his head. His face was intransigent. “He say, No. If try kill, he fight."

Kel's shoulders jerked. “I don't want that responsibility!” he said.

Both men looked at him silently.

Kerris said, “I think you have it."

Kel stood in such haste that the glass fell. Wine ran out into the grass. He put his hands on his hips. “Tell your friend he's a fool,” he said. He closed a hand around Kerris’ wrist. “Come, chelito. This conversation's over."

He went through the grove and into the street at a near trot. In the sunlight he slowed. His eyes were angry. He worked his shoulders. “Now I'm hot,” he said.

Kerris said, “We could go to the baths."

“And cool down.” Kel scratched his chin. “No.” He tipped his head back, looking up the slope. “Are you busy, chelito?"

“Not if you want me."

Kel smiled. He slid his hand up inside the back of Kerris’ shirt. “I want you. Come with me.” He stroked Kerris’ shoulder blades. “There's a place I want to show you."

* * * *

They went up the eastern slope of the bowl. They passed houses, barns, sheds. They passed a pool with red fish swimming in the water. A horse's whinny cut the air. At the end of a pasture a prick-eared mare called to her white-coated foal. Birds exploded out of a wheatfield, chased by a running dog. The air was soft and humid.

They made a detour around nine white humps. “Hives,” said Kel.

“Who tends them?” Kerris asked. He jumped back as a bee flew by, almost brushing his nose.

“Cleo's the beekeeper.” Kel grinned. “Once when I was young and stupid I tried to raid a hive. I thought the bees would sting me to death. I saved myself by jumping in the pond. I almost drowned, I had to stay there so long. They stung my hands, my face, my eyes...."

A thorn hedge loomed in front of them, its branches thick with red berries. Kel reached among the thorns and picked a few. He gave them to Kerris. They were knobby, and sweet as new cream. Kel smiled at his face. “Good, aren't they. The birds get most of them."

They went into the forest. Tall cypress trees mingled with oak, birch, pine, hickory. Squirrels gibbered at the invasion. Kerris saw a red deer browsing in an alder thicket. “Where are we going?"

“Wait,” said Kel. “You'll see."

The trees thinned. The grass grew dark and coarse along the narrow path. “Here,” Kel said. He led the way into a round clearing. There was a circle of dark grass, and a pool. Stones ringed the water. They looked as if they had been put there, but grass grew up between in a way that showed they had been there a long time. Kerris walked around the pool. It was clear to the bottom. He could see the bare gold sand. He cupped up a sip of water. It was pure.

“What keeps the water fresh?” he said.

“Sef says there's a river that we can't see running on the bottom."

Kerris stared into the water. The golden sands did not seem to move.

The grass was checkered light and dark. A fallen log lay by the water, one end touching the ring of stones. It, too, had been there awhile; it was furry with moss. Kel sank into a patch of sunlit grass, long legs outstretched. He watched Kerris through half-closed eyelids. Kerris sat down beside him. The sun turned Kel's hair tawny. He looked like a sleeping mountain lion.

“This was our special place when we were young. Sef and I. We sat there the day I told him I had to be a cheari, the day he decided to make the school...."

“When did you know you were going to be a cheari?"

“Emeth told me. But I dithered. I loved Sefer, I wanted to stay with him always—I thought and said. I know better now. I love to travel, I get easily restless, and Sef's a stay-at-home."

“Did you see him when you stayed with Zayin?"

Kel half-smiled. He propped his head on his hand. “Once. I ran away the first year and came home. Ran all the way across Arun. When I went back Zayin beat me till I was raw. He was old, then, but he still had strength in his arm. I didn't care about the beating, so much, but he told me if I left again he would not let me back. I didn't leave again. I'd have cut my throat to stay with Zayin."

Kerris thought, That's how Jacob feels. But he didn't say it. He said, “You were going to tell me about the ocean."

Kel rolled on his back. “The ocean. Well, it looks like Lake Aruna, except it's always moving, up and back, taking the earth away with it. And there's no way to see to the other side."

“Can boats ride it?"

“A little ways. It's very strong. In the sailors’ bars in Kendra-on-the-Delta they sing songs about it, how terrible it is, how deadly. Ilene knows some of them. Sometimes a storm gathers over it and you'd think the world was about to shake apart with noise and rain and lightning."

“That's a hurricane."

“Right.” He moved his hand up and down Kerris’ back. “Kerris."

“Yes."

“What are you going to do?"

“What—"

“Are you going to stay here and teach in the school?” His hand moved in slow patterns.

“I don't know,” Kerris said.

“You can be scribe,” said Kel. “You can live with Lea and Ardith. They want you."

“Yes."

“Or—” Kel paused. “You can come with us. You can travel with the chearas.” He sat up and put his arm over Kerris’ shoulders. “We would like to have you, chelito. The pattern feels right when you're there."

“I'm not a cheari."

“No. But it wouldn't matter."

Kerris plucked a grass stem. It lay on his palm. He could barely feel its weight. He blew it away. I like you, said Elli in his memory. The pattern feels right when you're there, Kel had said. What would I do? he thought. What use would I be? None, said his inner voice bleakly. You would be a pet. You could write Kel's letters to Sefer, and share his bed, once in a while.

He bowed his head. “I don't think—no."

Kel said, “I didn't think you would."

“You didn't?” Kerris stared at him.

“No. Why should you? But I hoped you might. We'll miss you when we go."

“When will you go?"

Kel laughed. His arm tightened. “Not till harvest, when we'll have to go back to Galbareth and pay Riniard's debt for him. Not for a while."

“Why did Riniard do that?"

“Fight?"

“All of it."

Kel began to work his boots off. “He had a hard time of it when he was young. The folk of his village wanted him to settle down. He couldn't. He had to fight them to let him learn to dance, to leave the village, to go to Shanan.... It made him wild. It's difficult for him to do what other people want of him, even when he wants it too. He'll learn."

A bird called from the trees on a rising note.

“Tell me—” Kerris said.

“Yes?"

“Tell me about Mother."

Kel crossed his legs. “She was a small brown woman. I remember the year—I must have been around eleven—when I realized that I was tall as she was. She had gentle hands. She loved bright colors, reds, orange. She loved to see Father dressed in them, silk and velvet.... She used to come home tired all the time. I never understood why visiting other people made her tired, until I realized she was using her gift, mediating, mending quarrels. I remember when you were born.” He grinned. “I was ten. I wanted to know why you were so red and fat, and was so angry when they told me I had been redder and fatter!"

“Father—?"

“Father was tall and blond. They say I look like him. He loved to ride; he looked like an Asech on horseback. He used to make us things out of wood, toys and such. I remember he made us stick-puppets.” He waved an imaginary puppet in the air. “Mine was bald, and I liked it, but you cried when you saw yours, until Mother glued some yellow wool on it for hair. Do you remember?"

“No."

He wanted to remember. But common sense told him he could not force memory; it would come, probably when he least expected it. He closed his eyes, recalling the faint dream-taste of honey on his tongue.

Sefer might know how to wake memories, he thought.

Kel's fingers moved persuasively. “Chelito?"

“Yes..."

Kel took the red scarf from his hair, and shook his head. His hair uncoiled to his shoulders. He took off his shirt. Kerris watched him. This close, in the bright light of day, he could see scars, weals and scratches and nicks long-healed, along Kel's chest and ribs. He touched one with his thumb.

Kel felt for the buckle of Kerris’ belt. “Hold still,” he said. He undid Kerris’ clothes, and then his own. “Turn around."

They made love. The sunlight made Kerris shy, and Kel laughed at him. This time Kerris would not lie still, and when he had his breath back he teased his brother into lying down and letting himself be handled. Kel had to tell him what to do, a little, but he persisted, finding pleasure in giving pleasure, and had the satisfaction of feeling Kel tense and tremble with sensation. His hands flexed in Kerris’ hair; his hips lifted. He gasped, shook, and cried out.

They cleaned up with wisps of grass. When Kerris sat up to get his shirt, Kel held him. “No, wait. Let me look at you.” He sat back on his heels. After a moment, he put his fingers on the end of Kerris’ stump.

“Does that hurt?” he said.

“No. I don't feel it.” Kerris swallowed. “I wish you wouldn't."

“Why not?” said Kel. “It's a scar of war, chelito. I've seen worse.” He rubbed his thumb into the tissue. Kerris felt a tingle. “It doesn't disgust me, or make me not want to touch you.” He kept his hand there a little longer, and then took it away. He touched the spot on Kerris’ ribs where the niji had marked him. “How is that?"

“I forgot it."

* * * *

Hand in hand, they went back down the slope to the village.

Except for Calwin, the chearis were all in Sefer's house. “Where's Cal?” asked Kel.

“Can't you guess?” said Ilene. “He's dicing with Tek. Last time I looked he was winning."

Elli said, “I hope so.” She grinned from her bedroll. “I'm not going to ask what you've been doing."

“Very wise,” Kel said. He had tied his hair back with his scarf again. Jensie sat on a mat, shirtless, holding the shirt on her lap. She was sewing a rip, with scarlet thread and an iron needle. She had a horn thimble on the middle finger of her right hand. She looked good; better than she had since the night Riniard was taken captive.

Kel went into the kitchen, and came out chewing a piece of fetuch. “Where's Sef?"

“That woman, Thera, came and got him,” said Arillard.

“What?"

Arillard made a damping motion with his hands. “He said he's be back before sunset, and that you were not to worry."

“Was she alone?"

“I didn't see anyone with her."

Jensie said, “There are two other Asech in the village.” She bit off the end of her thread and held the mended shirt up, head tilted. “One of them's in the stable, playing toss-up with Cal and the stablemaster. They use straws for lots. I've seen it played in Shanan with stones.” Kerris wondered which of the desert riders that was. He decided it had to be Nerim.

“Where's the other one?” said Kel.

Ilene said, “He was hanging around the door a little while ago. I spoke to him—asked his name—but he just smiled."

Kel scowled. “His name is Jacob and he doesn't speak our tongue.” He sat down on a mat and reached for a cushion. “Why did Sef go with Thera?"

Ilene said, “I don't know, Kel, he didn't say. It had something to do with teaching. He said what Arillard told you."

“I don't like it."

“He must have had a good reason,” said Elli.

“I'm sure he had a reason he thought was good,” said Kel.

Ilene said, “Even if it was a bad reason, we couldn't have stopped him going."

Kel's shoulders hunched. But a smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “Neither could I. Sef does what he wants. He always has."

Arillard said, “What does the Asech want?"

“Which Asech?"

“Jacob."

“He wants to be my apprentice."

There was the sound of running feet in the street. Kel lifted his head. Ilene snorted. “That's silly."

Kerris found himself wanting to defend Jacob. “Not entirely,” he said. “He's a patterner—"

The door burst open.

A tattered figure stumbled in. He lifted his head. It was Riniard. Jensie shrieked. She dropped the shirt and sprang to him. He was breathing hard. He was bootless. A frayed rope trailed on the mat, and Kerris saw that his wrists were tied. “Barat!” he said. “Took Sefer. Hit him. Tied him..."

Ilene cried out. Kel went white.

He flung himself through the doorway. Riniard and Jensie got out of his way just in time. Blindly Kerris followed. Elli was on his heels. The dust was hot. He ran. Kel had turned down the street to the stable. They pounded past the Yard. People stared at them. Some shouted. Elli had gone ahead of him. His chest burned. The stable doors were wide. As he reached them he heard the sound of hooves and froze. Callito thundered past him, saddleless and bridleless. Kel leaned low over the big red horse's neck, urging him faster. Kerris went into the stable. He found Magrita in her stall and scrambled to her back. He wrapped his fingers in her mane and kicked his heels into her smooth sides.

She shot from the stable. Elli on Tula was half a length ahead of him, riding back toward the cottage. Kerris got to the house in time to see Kel erupt from it, with Riniard. Jacob was holding Callito. Kel swerved. Jacob cried shrilly and crumpled. Kel leaped onto Callito and drew Riniard behind him.

They rode up the slope to the rim. Kerris wondered why Riniard had not gone for the guard. The path was steep. Riniard gasped something. They were over the rim. Kerris heard a challenge, and Ilene's shouted response, “Stay back! Let us through!” Sun gleamed on spears and swords, but no one stopped them. They were into the forest. Suddenly Kel stopped. Callito whinnied protest as his head was dragged back. He kicked. Riniard grabbed at Kel's belt. Kel whirled the horse's head around.

Callito's mouth was foam-flecked. Kel grabbed Kerris. His lips were pulled back from his teeth. He said, “Find him. Kerris, find him.” His grip sent knots of pain up to Kerris’ shoulder.

“I can't if you hurt me,” Kerris said. Kel let go. Kerris was afraid to shut his eyes. If he did that he would fall. He tried to blank away Kel's face, the sweating, plunging steeds, his own fear...

He extended his thought, seeking Sefer.

He felt-saw-sensed the chearis, the horses, the bright ferocity of predators in the forest—he went farther. Things grew shadowy. Sefer's mind would blaze in the shadow like a torch. He could not feel it. He felt rage—a beast—no. It was human. He felt it swooping at them through the boulders and the towering pines. “I think I've found Barat,” he said.

“Can you guide us to him?” said Ilene.

“I'll try.” Kel backed Callito to let him go ahead. Kerris followed the pulsing beacon of emotion ... It was slow work. He could not hurry. The branches obscured his vision. He moved off the trail into the thick trees. They had to leave the horses. Kel was swearing in a soft, terrible voice.

The trees cleared. There was a three-sided tent, made of curved branches and a beaded skin, it looked like deerskin. The sun, a red ball, shone through the trees. Kerris had no memory of its descending. Smoke defaced the air. There was a scent of burning.

They ringed the tent. Twigs cracked under their feet. Suddenly, among the trees, a woman shouted. “Barat!” A shape dodged through the pines. “Kash'ai! Uchearis lek e'ka!” Kel cursed. The chearis turned to see her. Kerris glimpsed high cheekbones, smooth, unscarred, and knew it had to be Thera.

She vanished in the trees. A noise from the lean-to swiveled them around. Barat was standing in front of the tent. His knife was in his hand. Its edge was bloody. He stepped forward, and crouched, eyes flicking from one side to the other.

Kel gestured. The chearis went wide. Barat had to turn his head to see them. He snarled. His lean face was ugly with rage and hopelessness. Slowly Kel advanced on him. Their shadows streamed away from the setting sun, grotesque, hugely deformed.

Something rustled in the trees. Barat turned to face it. His hand moved in a blur. The knife left his hand, glittering and turning in mid-air, just as Kel flung himself across the clearing like a stone.

There was no fight. Barat fell. Ilene walked into the trees. Kerris heard her voice and moved toward it. She was kneeling cradling Thera in her arms. The horsehead hilt grew, like an obscene flower, from Thera's abdomen.

“Is he dead?” she whispered. Her voice was very weak. “I helped him, I am sorry. He wanted—so much—is he dead?” Kerris glanced at Barat's body. Kel had left it. His head lay at an impossible angle on his neck.

Thera said, “I see it in your thought. Mind to mind cannot lie—” She choked. Her eyes grew enormous. Blood stained her tunic over the wound, bright, fresh blood. She sighed, and went flaccid. Ilene laid her down, and pressed her eyelids closed over her sightless eyes.

Kerris ran to the tent.

Sefer lay inside it. He was facedown in the dirt. His hands and feet were tied. Near him was a pile of coals, still hot. There was a thin metal bar beside him. His bared back was covered with burn marks, some of them so deep the flesh was charred. His face was peaceful, almost smiling. He looked as if he were asleep, except for the great gash across his throat. Blood crusted the ground. There was no sound in the clearing but the wind, and the plangent ticking of cooling iron.

Kel touched the fair hair with a shaking hand. “Sef?” The hair stirred under his fingertips. “Nika?"

He waited for the dead man to answer, and his fingers moved over the still face as if he were blind.

He took a wavering step back. His eyes looked like marble in the dimness. He made a sound in his throat like the whimper of an animal. Then he ran, graceless, stumbling, to where Callito waited. Kerris heard the big horse whinny, and the rapid receding scrape of hooves on stone.

People came.

They broke apart the lean-to, and stamped the fire into ash, and kicked dirt over the blood. They took the bodies away. It grew dark, and cold. Kerris sat, arm around his knees. They leaned into one another, shivering. Ilene was weeping. So was Riniard. Arillard said, “We must go back.” Hands urged them up. Slowly they helped each other down the darkened path.

They rode into the village. Lara met them. They went to her house. Moonlight shone through the windows. The room got very cold. Arillard paced. Ilene sat right beside the door, huddled under a blanket like an old woman. Her head lifted at every sound. Kerris sat by the southern window. It looked to the rim. Once he saw a white-haired figure, and drew back, thinking it was Sefer's ghost, but it was only a man, a stranger, with the moonlight touching his hair. Once he saw a horseman silhouetted against the trees, tiny as an ant, but when he looked again the figure was gone.

Elli said, “Riniard, why did you come for us? Why didn't you go for the guard?"

Riniard roused himself. “I didn't think to,” he whispered.

Ilene said, “It would have made no difference. Barat would have killed him no matter who had come."

Kerris returned to his vigil. A line in the east delineated day.

Ilene rose from her place. She fisted her hand in Kerris’ shirt. “Come with me,” she said. Her breath was sour. “Come outside."

He went with her to the street. A dark plume of smoke simmered on the eastern horizon.

Arillard followed them.

“It's too long,” Ilene said. She looked at Arillard. “He's never been gone this long before."

“It's understandable,” said Arillard. The age lines showed clearly on his face for the first time. His eyes were reddened. “He's grieving."

“It's wrong,” Ilene said. “He's not whole without us. We're not whole without him. We're a chearas."

“He doesn't want us now,” Arillard said.

“He has to want us,” Ilene cried. “What if he doesn't come back?” She swept a hand at the circle of the rim. “He can't have gone far. He can't. Kerris. Kerris, you're his brother. Bring him back to us. Feel him. Find him."

Fourteen

He walked up the eastern slope of farmlands to the forest. The grass was wet and glittering. Within the trees the wind blew coldly at him. It smelled of pine. Needles sagged beneath his feet. Nesting birds peered from the cypress branches. He saw the lift of a barred tail as a raccoon scuttled through the grass ahead of him. Once he thought he saw red through the fencelike trees, and moved to intercept it, but stopped himself. He'd been seeing ghosts all night. He would not be drawn after shadows.

The circle looked the same as it had the day before. It was wet, cold, and quiet. Kerris stepped to the pool. It gleamed like the iris of an eye. The water was a jet mirror: Kerris saw himself, the trees, the round hole of the sky. He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the mirror. The reflection cracked; the pool rippled symmetrically. The ripples shimmered. He took a step. A twig snapped under his foot.

Hands brushed his shoulders. A strand of blond hair fell against his cheek. He turned. His brother stood there.

Kel looked close to collapse. Night, or grief, had drained him of strength. He was white. His eyes were gray smudges. He stared through Kerris, as though he had been blinded. Kerris put a hand on his chest. His heartbeat was rapid. He was shaking with fatigue.

Kerris drew him to the water. Gently he pressed his brother down on the fallen log. He worked his own shirt over his head and soaked it in the pool, and wrung it to dampness using hand and knees. The water ran down his legs. He pressed the shirt to Kel's forehead. Kel took it from him in both hands. He buried his face in the wet cloth. Water dripped behind his collar, under his shirt.

He shivered. He lifted his head. His eyes had focused. “It's day,” he said.

His voice was hoarse, as if he had forgotten how to speak. He gripped Kerris’ hand. “Yes,” Kerris said. “It is day."

Kel's mouth worked.

“Where were you?” Kerris said.

“I was with the Asech.” His clasp was numbing. “They wouldn't look at me. I watched beside Thera's body. They walked around me. I wondered—I thought I had turned into a ghost.” His voice cracked.

“You're not,” Kerris said. He tried fruitlessly to free his hand. After a moment, Kel opened his fingers. They had left white lines in Kerris’ skin.

“I'm not,” said Kel.

“No.” Kerris held the wrist up. “Ghosts can't do that."

“They can to other ghosts—"

“I'm not a ghost,” Kerris said. “I ought to know.” He stroked Kel's face. His brother's cheeks were cold as marble. Kel reached to him and touched him, as if making sure he was flesh. “We waited for you."

Kel shuddered. Sweat broke out on his forehead. “I rode around and around,” he whispered. His hands flexed.

“I saw you one time on the rim."

Kel's face was gray with agony. “Kerris!” He crumpled, folding like a child. Kerris braced himself to hold his brothers weight. Kel was trembling as though he would come apart.

“I'm here.” He stroked Kel's back. “I'm here."

“Don't go."

“I won't. Go on, weep."

He did, small in his chest, and then great sobs that fought their way through his tall frame as if they would break him apart. Kerris held him. He cried as if he had not wept all night. Sitting at Thera's bier, perhaps he had not. The dew dripped from the lowest branches of the trees. Birds came out to forage, pecking for worms in the grass. The sun rose. Kerris welcomed the heat, meager as it was, on his bare shoulders. Kel stopped weeping. He sat on the ground, curled like a baby, his head on Kerris’ knees. Kerris brushed his unbound hair. “Kel,” he said. “We have to go back."

Kel lifted his head. “Back,” he echoed.

“To the village."

A squirrel ran around the edge of the pool. Kel stared at it, as if he had never seen such a beast before. His face was red and swollen with tears. Kerris said, “Ilene will be frantic."

Kel's head swung to look at him. A smile—barely a smile—curved his lips. “She will,” he said. He leaned to the water and cupped up a handful, and sipped from his palm. “My throat hurts.” Slowly he stood. Kerris’ damp shirt slipped to the grass. Kel picked it up. Pursing his lips, he whistled, a two-note call. Callito's red head nosed through the trees.

Kel went to him and petted him. “He was very patient with me all night,” he said, over his shoulder. “He must have thought I was mad. I was, a little mad."

They walked down the slope. Callito plodded behind them. A shifting breeze fluttered the ribbons on their poles. Smoke drifted from the farmhouse chimneys. There was no one in the fields. Brown rabbits hopped unhindered through the snareless brush.

Kel gazed at the smoke. “The Asech burn their dead,” he said. His voice was charged with pain.

At the foot of the slope a group of people waited for them. It was the chearas. They gathered round Kel. Elli took Kerris’ shirt from his hand. Ilene put her arm around Kel's back.

He resisted the touch for a moment, and then relaxed into her embrace. He kept one hand round Kerris’ arm. “Where's Red?” he whispered.

Jensie said, “Sleeping. He's worn out."

Elli moved to Kerris’ right side. She touched his ribs. He jumped. Her eyes were big with fatigue. “Thank you,” she said.

Gently Kel freed himself from Ilene's arms. “Where are—where have they put us?"

Ilene said, “In Lara's house.” Kel nodded. He let his fingers slide from Kerris’ elbow. Quietly he hugged each of the chearis in turn. Kerris leaned wearily against Callito's flank. The big horse whickered. His coat was rough and warm.

The windows of the houses were shuttered. Shops sat silent and untended. They went to Lara's house. They halted at the stable. Calwin took Callito inside. As the big doors opened Kerris heard the sound of weeping. He glanced at Kel. Kel's face did not change, except that something moved behind his eyes. He touched Ilene. “Jacob?” he said.

“You broke his arm."

Lara's house was dark; the curtains were still drawn across the windows. The downstairs room was empty. Kel gazed around. Finally he turned to Jensie. “Riniard?” he said.

She spread her hands. “I don't know. He was here."

Ilene said, “He doesn't want to face you."

Kel licked his lips. “I'm thirsty."

Arillard went behind the screen and returned with a blue glass goblet. Kel took it in both hands. He tipped it almost to the dregs, and then checked, and handed it to Kerris. “You drink.” Kerris sipped the last few swallows up. Fatigue was stealing through his veins like a poison. He remembered that he hadn't slept.

Kel walked to the stair. He stood there, frozen, swaying lightly. Kerris handed the goblet to Arillard and went to see what he was looking at. It was the image of the Guardian. “Kel?"

Kel's face was fixed, and his eyes were dangerously blank.

“Kel.” Kerris got between his brother and the niche. “Come away.” He pushed Kel backward. For a moment he was afraid the cheari would fight him. Arillard crossed the floor to help him. Together they edged Kel away from the statue and down to the mats.

* * * *

They slept. The room grew hot and close. Kerris woke sweating. He did not know what had wakened him. He turned over. The mat scratched his bare spine. Lara was standing over them. In the hot dark room her eyes were luminous. Her gown was white with a brown pattern. Kel lifted on an elbow. Sun seeped through the edges of the windows, where the leather curtains did not quite cover them. Light like strings of yellow lace curved over the mats.

“Come,” she said.

They rose. Elli took her yellow shirt from her pack and handed it to Kerris. He put it on. It smelled of her. Ilene and Arillard were standing next to Kel. Calwin opened the front door. The sunlight was blinding. Kerris shut his eyes against the dazzle.

The street was black with people. Lara went out. The chearis followed her. A woman wailed from the throng. Kerris saw his brother tremble with the sound. Ilene went to take his arm but he shook her off. Slowly they paced down the street to Sefer's cottage. The front door was open. The inside of the house gaped, ominous as a cave. Kerris twisted to look behind. The people of Elath stood like an army, waiting.

Lara spoke. “People of Elath, brothers and sisters, friends. We are here to say farewell to Sefer. We had him with us for thirty-one years; now the earth will take him back. Who will carry him to rest?"

The people shifted. A man with salt-and-pepper hair pushed to the front of the procession. He wore green and gray. His face was red. Kerris didn't know him. He looked like a farmer. “I will. I was his teacher, though he soon surpassed me. I will carry him."

“That is one,” said Lara.

Terézia's came forward. Her back was stiff. She had her spear in her hand. “I will.” Her voice shook. She steadied it. “I was his friend. I will carry him."

“That is two,” Lara said.

“I will.” It was Kel. “I loved him. I will carry him."

“That is three,” Lara said.

A crow cawed from the cottage rooftop. A murmur rose from massed mourners. A voice shouted angrily. The crowd swayed and parted to reveal Nerim, dressed in his dun cloak. “Barbarian!” called someone. “Murderer!” Terézia's knuckles whitened on her spear. Nerim did not falter. He faced Lara. The dagger was gone from his belt and his scabbard was empty, limp at his side.

He said, “I carry. If you permit. My people—Li Omani—we grieve."

“No!” cried a score of voices. Nerim's eyelids flickered. He watched the crowd, face impassive.

“He has courage.” Elli's whisper tickled Kerris’ right ear.

Lara lifted both hands, palms to the angry people. Slowly they stilled. Kel stepped forward. Quietly he held his hand out to Nerim. “Come,” he said. Nerim stepped to him. Nerim reached up with his free hand and hid his face with his hood.

“That is four,” said Lara. “That is enough. Go in, bearers, and bring him out."

Terézia handed her spear to the man next to her. She stepped forward. She entered the house, followed by the gray-haired man, then Kel, and lastly Nerim. The darkness swallowed them. Kerris’ throat began to ache with tears. Feet shuffled in the entrance. Slowly the four bearers emerged into the light. Between them they bore a red plank, the sap still oozing from its ends. Sefer's body lay face up on the wood. The dead face had sallowed; the body looked heavy. A net of rope kept the corpse from sliding. The bearers held rope handles. The plank swayed as they walked.

The crowd opened. The bearers moved through the village. The weeping sounds grew louder. Kerris glimpsed Kel as the bearers went by: his face was pale as the dead man's. Tears were rolling down Terézia's face.

Elli gripped his forearm. “Look,” she said. “There's Riniard.” Kerris craned. Through the press he saw Ardith, with Tazia on his shoulders—there was Riniard. His face was blotched. Kerris looked for Jensie but could not see her. He had lost sight of Ilene and Arillard and Cal. He wondered if the Asech were gone, or if they waited in their camp for the return of Jacob and Nerim.

Like a great serpent the procession wound through the streets, Lara at its head, the bier behind her. The ground grew soft. Kerris’ knees ached. He forced himself not to slow down. He looked back once. The slope behind him was thick with people. Ahead of him an orchard gleamed, green and white. The bier stopped. The people fanned out among the blossom-laden trees.

Kerris saw Ilene carrying Borti in her arms. He jogged Elli's elbow. She looked in the direction of his pointing finger. “Yes,” she said. “I see.” People moved in front of them. Kerris lost sight of the bier. As politely as possible he edged forward. Lara was standing at the head of the corpse. The bearers had drawn back from it, all but Kel. He knelt, one hand extended, touching Sefer. Kerris pinched his nose. The heavy sweetness of the apple trees made him want to sneeze.

Lara lifted her hands. “Let the people who can come forward and make him a place to lie."

No one moved. Then, slowly, Tamaris walked forward. She held her hands out, palms to the ground. The earth twitched, Ardith joined her, with Tazia still on his shoulders. Korith marched to join them. His dark face was peaked with grief. More people came from the crowd. They made a circle around the bier. Kneeling, they joined hands. Kerris saw the earth lift and fracture. They were digging a place for Sefer's body. The earth rived under the pressure of their minds and a mound of dirt rose beside the corpse. Tamaris’ bronze face was still as a mask. Tazia's braids stood straight out from her head with the extremity of concentration.

Lara lifted her hands. “The place is made. We say farewell to our teacher, friend, lover, and brother, Sefer. We are joyful for the time he was with us; we grieve that it was short. Let us weep and laugh, think of him, comfort each other, and be at peace, in the name of the chea."

Tamaris’ shoulders hunched. Tazia's face strained with effort. The plank and its burden slid into the hole. The mound of dirt diminished. Kerris heard a soft drumming sound as the clods slid back into the closing grave.

The circle of people stood. “It is done,” said Lara. A moan shivered through the mourners. Kerris found himself weeping. A white fleck floated in front of his eyes. He looked up. The petals from the apple trees were falling like snow upon the people of the village. They made a smooth carpet over the brown grave.

Kerris looked for his brother. For an instant he feared Kel had vanished up the slope. Then he saw Ilene with her arms locked around him, He plucked at Elli's sleeve. “Wait,” she said. Arillard was coming toward them. Together they walked to Kel and Ilene. Calwin struggled out of the crowd with Jensie behind him. They closed the circle.

Kel's face was graven with lines, but his terrible pallor was gone. “I have to talk to Jacob,” he said.

“Do it tomorrow,” Ilene said.

“What should I do now?"

She took him by the elbows. “You'll lie in the sunlight, and cry, and laugh, and drink until you're drunk."

“Where's my brother?"

“I'm here,” Kerris said. Kel reached for him and pulled him close.

“Tell me again I'm not a ghost,” he said.

Kerris held out his wrist. The dusky bruises showed clearly against his lighter skin. “Ghosts don't leave marks.” Kel grasped the wrist, very gently.

“Did I—when did I do that?"

“This morning, by the pool."

“The pool.” Kel's eyes seemed to blind. “Yes."

Ilene shook him by the elbows. “Kel. Don't leave us."

He drew a breath, shuddered, and focused. “No.” He looked around the circle. “Where's Riniard?” He shook free of Ilene. His eyes fastened on Jensie's face. “Jen. You know.” She nodded. “Get him, bring him."

She bit her upper lip. “He doesn't want to, Kel."

Kel lifted his hands. “By the chea, he's one of us! Do I have to hunt him down through Galbareth? What's done is done, Jen. Bring him."

She nodded, and walked toward the trees. Her feet left a telltale path among the apple blossoms. When she returned, Riniard was beside her. He had not changed clothes, or washed. His hands were dirty. His hair was tied away from his face with a green ribbon; he was holding in his right hand the red scarf of the cheari.

He held it out to Kel. The left side of his face was discolored. His hand shook. Kerris felt Elli stir. The light laddered down through the tree branches, patterning Riniard's race.

Kel said, “Idiot.” Tossing back his hair, he strode to Riniard across the whitened grass. He caught the redhead by the shoulders. His fingers flexed, hard enough to hit bone. Riniard winced.

Kel spoke earnestly to him. Riniard's head bowed. His hand clenched on the red scarf. Ilene sighed. Riniard lifted his head. He was weeping. Kel cuffed him lightly on the right cheek. His voice was still too soft for anyone but Riniard to hear. Kel took the red scarf from Riniard's hand and tied it on his upper arm. The redhead straightened.

* * * *

They went to the clearing by the pool. Calwin and Ilene begged a skinful of wine from Ilene's sister. The sun was westering, falling obliquely through the cypresses and oaks. Insects whirred in the trees. The surface of the pool was bright as glass.

They passed the wineskin around and around the little circle. “I can't do this one-handed,” Kerris complained.

Elli said, “You hold it. I'll squirt.” Kerris leaned against a tree and aimed the wineskin at his mouth. He got a faceful of wine.

Wiping the cool stuff from his eyes, he glared at Elli. “You've had better ideas."

“Just hand it this way,” advised Arillard. “We want to drink it, not bathe in it.” On the other side of the circle, Kel and Ilene were sharing a blanket.

Elli lay down on the ground. “There's a stone in my back."

She arched upward. “There.” She flicked the rock into the pool. “I wish I had a pillow."

“Here.” Kerris patted his thigh.

“Thank you,” Wriggling over to him, she settled her head in his lap. “Hey, Riniard,” she called softly. The redhead looked up. He had washed in the pool; his face was no longer dirty. The swelling on his left jaw was diminishing into a purple bruise. “What did Kel say to you in the orchard?"

Arillard leaned forward to listen. Riniard's gaze swiveled to Kel, and back. “He said I couldn't run away. He said I was needed.” He sounded incredulous.

Jensie stretched from the shadows and caressed his hand. “It's true,” she said.

“It is true,” agreed Elli.

Riniard said, “I guess. I need you. I know that. But I think I would rather have had a beating."

Ilene's head jerked up. “You'll get that,” she said across the clearing. “As soon as the swelling on your face goes down. I promise you."

Arillard said, “You know, Red, I told Kel after you were captured, I might have done what you did."

Riniard said, “I wish I hadn't. Maybe if I hadn't”—he licked his lips—“Sefer might not—might be still—"

“No!” said Arillard sharply. A pulse beat in his neck. “Don't blame yourself. It wasn't you who killed him."

“Who else do I blame?” said Riniard.

“It wasn't anyone.” Arillard's voice grew rough. “It wasn't even that poor damned devil Barat."

The name hung ponderously in the air. Elli said, “You know, old man, that's the kindest thing I've ever heard you say about the Asech."

“That Barat was a poor damned devil?"

“No. That one of them was not to blame for a death."

Arillard rubbed his face with his hands. “The girl died, too,” he said. “Too many people died. A man can dwell on death too long.” He stared at the black circle of the pool.

The wind rasped across the tree branches. Kerris shivered at the eerie sound. Elli drew her knees to her chest. “It's getting cold.” She grinned at Kerris. “Is my head too heavy?"

“No."

The moon drove its white prow through the trees.

Jensie said, “We could gather sticks and build a fire."

“No,” said Elli and Riniard in unison. Kerris shivered again. The same image was in all of their minds.

It grew colder. “Arillard.” It was Kel. He was sitting up. His voice was unsteady. “Do you have tinder and flints with you?"

“Where else would they be?"

“Make a fire."

Riniard and Jensie gathered twigs and brush. Calwin cleared a space beside the pool and ringed it with wet stones. Arillard lit a fire in the rock-lined place. The pine needles hissed and snapped as the small flames reached them. In the sable mirror of the pool, a second fire flickered. The burning smell was clean and savory. Kerris glanced at Kel. He was lying on his back. Ilene was speaking to him. One arm hid his eyes.

The wineskin made another circle. Cal hefted it. “It's almost empty,” he said sadly. “We could get another."

“You're drunk enough,” said Arillard.

“I'm not drunk at all."

Kel and Ilene came from the darkness into the circle of the fire. “We're not going to get drunk,” said Kel. He sat heavily in the grass. Kerris couldn't tell if the glitter in his eyes was from tears or from the wine. “We're leaving tomorrow."

“We are?” said Elli. She sat up. “Where are we going?"

“Wherever it is,” said Ilene, “it can't be far."

“Why not?"

“Because we have to return to a village in Galbareth in time for the autumn harvest.” The wind snapped sparks out of the fire. An owl hooted in the woods.

Elli said dreamily. “We could go to Mahita.” The fire laid bands of copper across her hair. She patted Kerris’ knee. “You'll like Mahita, Kerris."

“We could go to Kendra-on-the-Delta,” said Ilene. “We could stop at Mahita and then ride on down the Great Road, beside the river."

Kel said, “We will. I have to go there."

Arillard said, “Why ‘have to,’ Kel?"

“Keren is there. Sefer's sister.” It was the first time since the day before that Kerris had heard him utter his dead lover's name.

There was silence. Kerris broke it. He said, “I'm not going to Mahita with you."

Elli turned to stare at him. The fire painted her face. “I thought—"

He rode over her; he had to. “I know what you thought.” They were all listening. “I'm not a cheari. I'm not one of you. I can't come. Elath is”—he took a breath—“Elath is my home, I was born here. I have family here.” He stared into the pattern of the fire so that he would not have to see Kel's eyes.

The fire stained the tree trunks orange. Kel said, “You must do what you wish, chelito.” The love-word tore like a claw into Kerris’ heart.

A twig snapped in Elli's hand. Jensie pointed upward to the bright belt of stars. “Look! A shooting star."

“I missed it,” said Riniard.

“I saw it,” said Elli. She slapped the ground. Pine needles scattered. “It's a good omen. Let's go to Mahita and ride down the river. Who's hogging the wine?"

They shared the final swallows between them. Ilene sang a children's song, a lullaby. It grew darker. The fire grew brighter. “I see shapes in the fire,” said Jensie. “I see a tree."

“I see a waterfall,” said Ilene.

Kerris saw a chearas, riding.

They slept. Kerris woke once, sensing dawn. In the distance roosters crowed the sun awake. He felt the chearas moving, talking. The trees loomed, dark against the lightening sky.

A hand touched his forehead. Sleep, Kerris. The words and the hand had weight. He sank into sleep beneath it.

* * * *

When he woke the birds were singing challenges across the treetops. The sky was hot and blue. He rolled over. The fire was cold, the ashes damp. Only the tracked-up earth and the lingering smell of wine showed that other people had been there most of the night.

They had left him the blanket. He sat up. He was wearing Elli's yellow shirt. His knife lay near him. He picked it up. He couldn't remember if he had taken it off, or if someone had had to take it off him.

They would be back, he told himself. He buckled the knife to his belt. They would ride back through Elath on their way into the Galbareth. They would dance in the Yard, and he would stand in the shadow of the Guardian to watch them. He might even lie again with Kel under the dark gaze of the pines.

He went down the slope to the village. The silver houses looked clean and stark against the golden fields. He passed the beehives. The mouth of one of them was black with bees. A woman waved at him. She wore a straw hat. She tipped it so that he could see her face. It was Cleo. “Good day,” she said.

A black and yellow bee zinged under his nose. He stepped back. “Good day. Are the desert riders gone, then?"

“They left yesterday,” she said. “There's two still in the village, the one whose arm Kel snapped and th’ other one.” She tilted her head toward the beehives. “You'd better go. In another minute they'll come out to find out who I'm talking to. Bees are jealous."

“Don't they ever sting you?” he asked.

She smiled. “Never.” She made a shooing motion with one hand. Remembering Kel's story, he hastened down the slope, out of stinging range.

He entered the market square.

He walked by the tanner's shop, the butcher's shop. Both had doors and windows opened wide. Inside the butcher's someone was sweeping. The door of the smithy, too, was open. So was the ropemaker's workshop. On the doorstep of the ropemaker's two women were bending: one held a broom, the other an open flour sack. Newly washed clothes flapped on lines.

The women waved at him.

He wandered by Lara's house. The door there, too, was wide open, propped with a heavy stone. Impulsively, he went in. All the mats were standing on end against the wall. Lara and a woman he did not know were sweeping.

Lara stopped when she saw him. She leaned on her broom. “Kerris. Good day. This is my daughter, Sorith. Sorith, this is Kerris-no-Alis."

Sorith smiled. She had a flat broad face like her mother's. Her hair was done up in a blue scarf. “I will ch-ch-check the bread,” she said. “Exc-c-cuse me.” She went behind the tall screen.

“Sorith made dough this morning, and it is rising,” said Lara.

The hangings were off the walls, too. The statue of the Guardian was gone from its niche. Kerris gestured at the broom and the walls. “What is this?” he asked, “All the doors..."

“We always do this,” Lara said, “when someone of Elath dies."

The word brought it back. Kerris’ throat stung. He said, “It doesn't seem possible."

“I know,” said the old woman. “There's no excuse for the young dying. Yet his death, too, is part of the harmony. I must believe that. He would."

The bare-bottomed boy child appeared in the garden door. “Wa?” he asked.

“Thy mother is in the kitchen, chelito,” Lara said. He toddled across the room toward the screen, gazing with marked interest at the auburn floor planks. Kerris guessed that he had never seen them. “Kerris, your pack is here."

“Thank you,” he said. He frowned, remembering that he had left the blanket up by the pool.

Abruptly his mind filled with Kel, images of Kel, memories of Kel, Kel loving him, Kel laughing, Kel in tears.... He closed his mind to the iniquitous pictures and waited stoically for them to stop.

“The paper Meritha gave to you is with it."

“Thank you,” he said again. And remembered to ask, “How is she, lehi?"

From the kitchen came a wail, and Sorith's voice speaking softly. “No better,” said Lara. “She's been the same for months. I don't think she will get much better, or much worse."

A fly buzzed across the long room. Kerris raised his hand to swat it. It looped toward the kitchen. “Lehi—” He was interrupted by the child's crow of delight.

“Yes,” she said.

“Why can't you heal her?"

She did not take offense at the question, as he had feared she would. She closed her eyes, opened them. “It's the people we love best that we cannot save,” she said.

Sorith came around the screen, carrying her son on her hip. Shyly she looked from Kerris to Lara. The tentative glance made her seem as much a child as her son. The boy slid down her skirt and trundled into the garden, thumb in his mouth. A bell rang.

“I'll g-g-go,” said Sorith.

Lara said, “No. She'll want me. She always does.” With the look of a soldier going to a war, she gave her daughter the broom.

Kerris went back to the street.

He was hunting for something. He didn't know what he was searching for. He found himself retracing a familiar path. The breeze blew through the cypresses. The dark lane leading to the Tanjo was like a tunnel. He stepped from it into the bright and fragrant garden. The sun bounced off the statue of the Guardian.

He let himself gaze at it, a bit at a time. It did not look as if human hands had fashioned it. It seemed elemental: a thing of wind, water, earth, or fire. It was not unpleasant to look at. He did not get dizzy. He looked at it for a long time, trying to recall why he had been afraid of it.

The sun spilled down the sides of the Tanjo. He heard Sefer saying, I'd like you to stay in Elath and teach at the school. If he stayed he could live with Lea and Ardith. There is a place for you here, he told himself.

Something glinted in the grass near his foot. He picked it up. It was a red bead. He rolled it in his fingers. A bird was singing in the cypresses. It was a silvery sound.

He had said to Elli, wanting it to be true: Elath is my home.

It offered him a place, a task, companions. But so had Tornor. He understood why the presence in the garden had withdrawn. He was not Sefer. He could not stay here. He dropped the red bead into the grass. The heart of it, for him, had gone.

Fifteen

He returned to Lara's.

At his re-entrance, Sorith vanished behind the screen that hid the kitchen.

“I've come for my pack,” Kerris said.

Searching amid the folded wall hangings, Lara found it and brought it to him. He unfastened the lacing that held it closed. The paper was inside it. So was his woolen shirt, one of his linen shirts but not the other, his cloak, tinderbox, and flints. His riding leathers were, no doubt, somewhere in Sefer's house. He decided to leave them there. He rolled the blanket again.

“Lehi,” he said, “I'm going to Mahita."

She nodded thrice. “We shall miss you."

“I'll come back. Elath is my home."

“Lea and Ardith will be sorry. They had hoped you would come to live with them."

“I'll talk to them,” he said. “They'll understand."

Her dark eyes seemed to stare as though she would see into the center of him. “May the peace of the chea ride with you, Kerris-no-Alis."

“And with you, lehi,” he said. At the door he hesitated, and then, turning, offered her a deep and heartfelt bow.

On the way to the farm he stopped by the pond to watch the red fish circling and circling. His eye followed the course of the stream that fed it, and he saw what he had not noticed before—the outline of a sluice. He gazed downstream and saw another. He wondered how many of the brooks and rivers that ran through Elath ran in created channels, past ponds dug to catch the spring runoff, regulated by gates. There was so much about the town he didn't know!

He passed the wood where he had seen the deer. It was empty now. He strode toward the peaked farmhouse roof. The sun was high. A red bird flew across his path and he watched it travel up, up, over the rim of the bowl. I'll follow soon, he thought after it.

By the time he reached the farmhouse he was sweating. The bowl held the heat of the day like a cup. The farmhouse door was open wide, and all the floor mats lay propped up on end outside. The abu's chair was in the open air; the old woman sat in it, blanket over her knees.

Kerris went to her. “Good morning, abu,” he said. “Do you remember me? I'm Kerris, Ardith's sister's son."

The ancient face turned up to him. The lids blinked over the milky eyes. The old fingers moved. Then the woman hunched back in her chair. It rocked slowly.

Dismissed, Kerris went toward the house door. Poles with clotheslines had been set up on the south side of the house, and blankets waved from them. Kerris peered into the house. Meda and Lea stood in the long room. Meda held a broom. Lea was stacking the cushions against the wall. Talith, on his knees beside the hearth, was sweeping ashes into a wooden bucket. Tazia was calling overhead, the words muffled by the ceiling. The table was up on end, and all the hangings had been pulled from the windows and walls.

“Kerris!” said Lea. “Come in. Leave your boots on, it doesn't matter.” She rose from her knees and came toward him, arms outstretched. He dropped his pack. She hugged him. There were streaks of dirt on her broad cheeks, and she smelled of dust and straw. Her smile was warm and welcoming. Kerris licked his lips. She let him go and turned to Talith. “Chelito, tell your father that Kerris is here."

“No—wait,” Kerris said, as Talith scrambled to his feet. “I—I didn't come to stay."

There was a small silence. Then Lea said, “Tell him anyway, Tali."

The door to the garden was open. The scent of herbs made Kerris’ nose twitch. “Come,” said Lea. She touched his arm. “Let's go into the air."

An interested cat sat in the middle of a row, nibbling at a broad-leaved bush. At their appearance its tail went up and it bounded for the shed. “Scat!” called Lea. They sat in the grass. Ardith's hat, and then Ardith, emerged round the corner of the small red building.

“So,” he said. He sat beside his wife.

Kerris said, “I came to say good-bye."

Ardith put his hand over his wife's. “I saw the chearas ride out this morning,” he said. “I thought, Kerris isn't with them. That must mean he's decided to stay in Elath."

“I was going to stay,” Kerris said. “But I went to the Tanjo, and looked at the Guardian, and I thought about it, and it seemed to me that—that I couldn't. You want me to stay. Sefer—Sefer wanted me to stay, and teach in the school. But—” This was harder to say than he had expected it to be. He hunted for the words.

“You don't want to,” said Lea.

He sensed her disappointment, and, without thinking about it, reached across the silence with his mind. Alis, she was thinking, he is so like Alis — and the image of a small, dark woman, hair in one long thick braid, wearing a green gown, stole through his head.... Was it her memory or his? Lea's troubled, loving face superimposed itself on the features of Alis of Elath. Kerris said, “I can't just be the person my teachers wanted me to be. I need to explore—to learn not only what I can do but what I want to do."

“If you're speaking of your gift,” said Ardith, “there is no place better to be than Elath. There are other inspeakers you can learn from."

“Yes,” Kerris said, “I know, but—” The red bird soared over the trees. He turned his head, following its passage. The cat mewed in the bushes. “I have to go."

Ardith said gently to Lea, “Nika, he's seventeen."

She sighed. “Yes,” she said, “and you cannot build fences around the young, it breaks their hearts....” She touched Kerris’ wrist. “Will you follow the chearas?"

“Yes. Kel wanted me to."

“You're not a cheari."

“No. I can't fight and I can't dance. But there must be something I can do for them.” He remembered a thing that Kel had said to him and repeated it. “The pattern feels right when I'm there."

“Who said so?” said Ardith.

“Kel."

The farmer pursed his lips. “Kel is a patterner. If he saw it, it must be so.” He stood. “Come. If you're going to catch them this day, you need to get started.” He held out both hands to Lea. She came up into his encircling arms. From them, she looked at Kerris.

“Will you come back?” she said.

“Sometime. I promise."

They went back into the house. Reo was standing by the clean hearth. His slim face held a questioning look. “Talith said you were here.” He gestured upward. “I was upstairs with Tazi."

“I came to say good-bye,” Kerris said. “I'm going to Mahita."

“Oh. I thought—” Reo scuffed a bare foot on the floorboards. “It doesn't matter,” he said, eyes on his mother's face. “I hope you have a good journey."

“Thank you."

“If,” said Reo, “you should happen to go farther south, to Kendra-on-the-Delta, and if you should happen to pass by Goldsmith's Alley, do you think you might stop a moment—"

“—and see your friend?” Kerris grinned. “I'll be glad to."

“Dev-no-Demio is his name, and he works for Smith Tian."

“I remember,” Kerris said. “I could even take him your letter."

“Oh, that's gone,” said Reo. “Poppa gave it to the chearas this morning."

Lea said, “Do you have everything you need? Clothes, food—"

“Yes,” he answered, though he had forgotten all about food. It didn't matter. He had to leave. He picked up his pack. “Farewell."

“Safe journey,” said Ardith. The breeze blew across the room, stirring dust. Kerris nodded to Meda. She lifted her broom to him in salute. Quickly he turned and made for the open door.

* * * *

He went to the stable. “Hello, pretty girl,” he said to Magrita, slipping into her box. She seemed pleased to see him, and not at all dismayed by the terrible ride he had pushed her to. She blew in his ear. The stable echoed. Almost all of the stalls were empty, now. He let her lick the salt from his palm.

Her tack, neatly polished, hung from a hook in the stall. Kerris wondered who had greased it, Lalli or Sosha. He left the stall and went deeper into the stable, looking for someone to help him. The straw rustled under his feet. He would have trouble saddling and bridling the restive mare by himself.

He went up and down the length of the barn without seeing either of the two children. He went to the back entrance. As he'd surmised, it led to a pasture. A big sorrel stallion galloped in play, but there were no people in it that he could see. He went back into the clean, untended horsebarn.

He was almost to Magrita's stall when he heard a cough. He turned. Nerim was standing at the door of one of the empty stalls. He was wearing plain clothes, a cotton shirt, breeches, the clothes of an Arun farmer. Behind him sat Jacob, on the floor of the stall. As Kerris looked at him he stood. He, too, was wearing other clothing. His left arm was held close to his body by a cloth. It was wound with linen, and set between two pieces of wood. The ends of the wood protruded from the linen binding. His fingers were free. Both men smiled hesitantly at Kerris. Jacob opened his mouth, glanced at Nerim, and said, clearly, “Good day."

“Hello,” Kerris said. There was a pallet in the empty stall, and a pack, and a blanket. “Are you staying here now?"

Jacob looked at Nerim. Nerim said, “We both stay. We sleep, help with horses, work—” he mimed raking straw. The sorrel horse, then, was Nerim's. Kerris wondered where Jacob's white-footed black was.

He peeped a little farther into the stall, and saw the Asech weapons, swords and knives, lying on the ground. “The others—Li Omani—left yesterday,” he said.

Nerim nodded. “They leave. We stay. He”—clapped Jacob's right shoulder—“heal, arm grow. It broke three.” He said this with gusto, as if he admired the blow that had done it. “When all heal, then we leave."

“Will you go back to the desert?"

“No,” said Nerim. “We go west. To fighting place. He say. Kel. Go to fighting place in mountain."

Kerris remembered Kel saying, I have to talk to Jacob. “He's sending you to Vanima?"

Jacob's dark eyes lit. “Vanima,” he said. “Zayin."

Nerim said, “He say, Jacob, you go learn. Be cheari. If you learn cheari, come find me."

Jacob said, “Zayin.” He burrowed into the stall, and reappeared with a piece of calfskin vellum. He unrolled it, with Nerim's help. On it in fine black lines, pen lines, was a map. Nerim pointed out Elath, Shanan, and the Red Hills. A broken line connected them, angling northwest on the parchment. Kerris wondered who had made it. It could not have been Kel. Maybe Ilene could draw. There were no runes on the page, just large black X's to mark the town, the city, and the valley.

With the air of a man absorbed in treasure, Jacob rolled the parchment carefully and hid it away.

“Are you going to be a cheari, too?” said Kerris to Nerim.

Nerim grimaced. “No. I no want. I not patterner. I help my friend."

“I see.” Down the hallway, Magrita whickered. “Well—would you like to help me saddle my horse? I can't do it alone."

“I do,” said Nerim with alacrity.

He rubbed Magrita's nose, talking to her softly in his own tongue. She accepted his presence in the stall without demur. He slipped the bit into her mouth, bridled her, blanketed and saddled her. The buckles seemed to close without being touched, the girth practically cinched itself. Kerris handed his pack to the Asech, and the lace practically whipped itself to the cantle.

“Thank you,” he said.

The rider smiled. “Where you go?"

“To Mahita."

“Ah. You go with them."

“Yes,” Kerris said. He took Magrita's rein. It occurred to him that he had no money, not a copper penny. He would have to fast on the road, or beg. He wondered how many days it took to get to Mahita. He had to go south, he knew that, and he could follow the river road.

He lifted a hand to Jacob as he left the stable. “Good luck.” He went through the doors with the mare behind him. Tek was just striding to the doors.

“Hey,” he rumbled. His muscles bulged his shirtsleeves. “You're late. The others left hours ago. They said you weren't going."

“I changed my mind,” Kerris said.

The stablemaster eyed him. “You know where they went?"

“Mahita."

“You know how to get there?"

“Go south."

“What you do is, you take the southern road out of here.” Tek pointed to the southern slope, where a brown ribbon snaked up to the rim and lost itself in the rocks. “You follow it. ‘Bout sundown you'll hit a fork, one goes due west, the other goes southeast. That's the one you want to take. The other goes to Shanan. The southeast fork takes you to the Great River.” He bit the end of his mustache. “You got food?” Kerris shook his head. “You wait.” He went into the stable, and came out with a pouch. He tied it to the cantle ring. “There's jerky there. It'll keep you going. From the fork to Mahita's just another day's ride."

“Thanks."

“You won't catch ‘em on the road. They're too far ahead of you. When you get to Mahita, best way to find ‘em is, ask at the stables.” He slapped Magrita's flank. “Mount up.” Kerris did so. “That stirrup's out.” He worked the strap to the right length. “You look like Kel, some, but you're shorter. Listen, you tell him from me, he still owes me a race! You hear?” His great voice lifted in a shout.

“I hear,” Kerris said. He lifted his hand, and touched his heels to the mare's sides. Magrita leaped for the road like an arrow from a bow.

* * * *

He had never been alone on a road. As he came up through the trees on the rim he drew a deep breath. The air was crisp, clean as salt. Beyond the settled bowl lay forest, meadows, streams, small farms, more towns. He had forgotten to ask Tek how he would know Mahita when he came to it.

Magrita settled into a brisk walk. There was a small well on her crest where a branch had lashed her. “Sorry, girl,” Kerris said to her. “I couldn't help it.” She swiveled her ears back at the sound.

There were sheep in a meadow. The heavy smell of wool made Kerris think of Tornor, so far behind him. He still had Josen's letter in his pack. He had to find a caravan to give it to. A stream paralleled the road for a while before it barged off into the woodsy hills. A white crane stood delicately on one leg at the little rivers edge. It fixed Kerris with a black, oblique stare. It held a struggling frog in its scissorlike yellow bill.

It grew hot. Kerris unlaced the throat of the yellow shirt. Wild beans grew along the roadside. He wondered if they were good to eat. He passed a house with a peaked roof. It was weathered and shaggy as an old mule. A black dog barked at him. In a field, two people worked among the tall rows of wheat. He could not see if they were men or women.

The road widened. Kerris saw smoke, and thatched roofs. He went up over a rise into a town. There was a small market square, hung with pennants, and a watering trough, and a well. “What town is this?” Kerris called to a passing woman. She shaded her eyes to look at him. She had a round doughy face, and round white arms. Her eyes were very blue; they looked like berries stuck in a cake.

“Warrin,” she said. “Warrintown."

The smell of baking bread wafted from open doorways. Kerris guessed it was baking day. The hot scent made his mouth water. He reined in at the southern edge of the hamlet and opened Tek's pouch. The jerky was beef, salt, and delicious. He ate two pieces. It was so tough that his jaws went numb. The sun blazed over him. He wished he had a hat to keep it off his head. Sweat trickled steadily from his hair. There were great wet patches under his stump and his arm.

A man with a straw hat was fishing at a stream. He lifted a hand in greeting. Kerris called, “Have you been here all day?"

The man was chewing a cattail stalk. He took it out of his mouth to answer. “I have."

“Did a chearas ride by here, early this morning?"

“They did."

“Thank you,” Kerris said. The man replaced the cattail stalk. “Is this water drinkable?"

The man removed the cattail stalk. “It is. But go on."

“Why?” Kerris asked.

The man tilted his head back so that he could look at Kerris. His eyes showed blank astonishment. “Because,” he said, “you'll scare the fish."

Kerris went on. Downstream he dismounted. The water skirled over the rocks. Magrita dipped her muzzle into the swift-running water. Kerris scooped water up in his hand and sucked it into his mouth. He had to do it several times. He wished he'd thought to ask Tek or Lara for a cup. It would make it easier to drink.

Magrita snatched at the roadside grass. He let her eat a bit. The sky was blue as flame. The half moon sat like a ghost on the eastern horizon.

He mounted. The color of the sky made him think of Sefer. He turned Magrita south again. He remembered the confident lucidity of Sefer's mind. He had not been old, thirty-one. Kerris flexed his thigh muscles. His legs were beginning to ache. The death still seemed impossible.

He thought of Thera, and then of Barat as he looked at the end, baleful and hopeless, more like an animal than a man. Thera had tried to help him, knowing it would not help. It is the people we love best that we cannot save. Kel had not saved Sefer. Kerwin of Tornor had not saved his wife. Alis of Elath had not saved her baby son.

His stump itched. Thoughtfully he scratched. Magrita slowed at the lifted rein. “That's not meant for you, girl,” he said to her. He felt a brief moment of pity for the Asech rider. He'd spent his life surrounded by people with two arms. He knew what it was like to lack.

The stream meandered back into the hills again. The road curved up, around, and over them. He saw another house with a thatched roof isolated in a little valley, surrounded by a small patchwork of fields. A mule kicked its heels in a pasture. A woman in a straw hat was digging roots from the ground with an iron spade.

He went through yet another town. This one was larger, and the road within its boundary stones was free from ruts and edged with brick. A cart stood in front of a shop. The cart was piled with cotton bales. The banner in front of the shop showed a piece of cloth being pierced by a giant metal needle. Inside the shop Kerris heard the clacking of a loom.

The sun fell toward the west. Magrita moved at her ready pace, no longer frisking but untired. Kerris’ thighs ached. In the bright dusk he saw a fox slipping through a meadow. Cicadas nittered at each other.

The Shanan crossroads reminded him of the Tezera crossroads. A few merchants were still calling out their wares to the travelers. Wagons lined the roadside. The sweet smell of heavenweed drifted from the rosy fires.

Kerris dismounted. As he led Magrita forward he counted eleven Asech tents. Lights shone behind blue glass. He smelled cooked meat, and wine. Some enterprising farmer had laid down hoe and scythe and built an inn at the crossroads, where wealthy folk could stable their horses and spend the night. Kerris led Magrita toward the building, hoping to find a water trough. It was there, near a score of ringed posts. Kerris let the mare drink her fill. From the trough he led her away from the inn, looking for a space by the roadside that was not taken by someone else's animals. Magrita would need to forage. He wondered how he could stable her in Mahita, without money. The smell of roasted fowl blew toward him. Near him, two men were dicing, calling numbers at each other: He rubbed his stump. He was feeling worn, and a little discouraged, and lonely. His stomach rumbled.

A clear voice lifted into the twilight, borne on the western wind. "In sunlight we must part, my love, in starlight we may smile; The moon is shining bright, my love, 0 let me stay awhile, Sing hey and ho for lovers, sing hey for the setting sun, Sing hey for the lad who makes me smile when the harvest work is done!" He knew the song. He turned in a circle, looking for the singer. His heart pulsed in his throat.

"We ride along the river, the moon is bright and fair, it shines on the fields and the cotton and on your golden hair, Sing hey and a ho for lovers, sing hey for the setting sun, Sing hey for the lad who makes me laugh when the harvest work is done!"

He saw the singer standing over a fire. She had pale skin, dark hair. It was not Ilene. She saw him looking at her, and raised one hand. “Ho! Traveler with the black mare! Do I know you?"

He approached the fire. There were other people sitting there. A caravan bulked behind them. “Excuse me,” he said. “I'm following some friends on the road, and one of them's a singer. I thought you might have been she."

“No.” Her face was kind. “I'm sorry. Where were they going? We may have seen them."

“Mahita."

Her forehead wrinkled. A man holding a meat skewer said, “That is south, Hetta."

“Oh. I'm sorry. We came from Tezera."

The meat aroma made Kerris’ stomach tighten. “Thank you,” he said. He led Magrita away from the tantalizing smells.

He found a place between two wagons. He spread his blanket on the grass. Magrita munched the green stalks happily. He unsaddled and bridled her as she ate. It took a long time. He plucked a handful of grass and rubbed her down.

He stretched out on the blanket after tethering Magrita to a nearby willow sapling. He put his head on the curve of the saddle. The stars arched like a bridge over the world. The campfire haze was thick. He smelled wine. He wondered where the chearas was, in what town or field.

* * * *

The bustle of wagons roused him. Shouting and calling, the travelers were getting ready to go their ways. The western road was dusty already. Kerris stood and stretched. Drivers swore at their horses and at each other. A mule escaped and cantered amid the wagons, with its owner running after it, waving a willow switch. Kerris rolled his bedroll. He went to find Magrita, dragging saddle and tack with him through the grass. She was waiting for him placidly, a strand of grass poking from her muzzle.

This time there was no one to help him. The buckles were damp and hard to manage, and there was no way to use his teeth on them. When he finished he was sweating.

The inn was emptying. In front of it, by the water trough, stood a tall man, surveying the crowd. His hair was light brown, and his eyes were gray as winter. He wore a patterned silk shirt and fine leathers. A red comb winked in his hair. His horse was a sleek gray stallion, fit for the lord of a Keep, its tack decorated with silver braid.

The innkeeper came out to talk with him, smiling and bowing. The tall man gave him a coin. It looked like gold. Kerris wondered who he was. A rich merchant, maybe, high in the Guild—or maybe, even, a member of one of Shanan's or Kendra-on-the-Delta's great houses.

He mounted and turned east. Magrita picked her way through the mesh of carts and travelers. Kerris passed Hetta, the woman from Tezera. She sat on a wagon seat, backing a pair of chestnut geldings with practiced skill.

Just before he reached the road proper, he saw a line of wagons with blue ribbons flying from their poles. A man in a blue cotton shirt was striding along them, giving orders. An irritated mule bared yellow teeth at a driver. It looked like the one Kerris had seen running loose. He wondered if the man in blue was the master of the caravan. He decided not to bother him. He lifted his hand to the mule driver. “Good day,” he called.

“Day,” snapped the driver. He cuffed the mule over the ears. “If you bite me, you lopsided monster, I'll beat your damn ribs in."

“Where are you going?” Kerris asked.

“North. Tezera."

“Can you take a letter north?"

The man swore at the mule again. “Third wagon from the top,” he said, not looking up. Kerris guided Magrita to the head of the line of wagons, and then went back to the third one. It was piled with wine barrels. A man sat on top of them, kicking his heels against the barrel sides, smoking a pipe.

“Good day,” Kerris said.

The man puffed. “Good day."

“Can you take a letter north to Tornor Keep?” Kerris said. He twisted on his saddle and hunted in his pack for the letter. It was curved but not crumpled. He passed his thumb over the wax seal.

“We go to Tezera,” said the man. His heels thunked the sides of the barrels. Plunk. Plunk. He held out a hand. “But there'll be someone in Tezera who's riding west."

Kerris put the letter in his hand. “How long will it take you to get to Tezera?” he said.

He shrugged. Plunk, went his heels. The pipe steamed. “Fifteen days."

Sixteen

He rounded the bend, and there was the river.

Kerris had thought it would be all one color, but it was many: brown near the banks, gray-green, blue, even red. It was much larger than the Rurian. He gazed across to its other side. He saw sheds, and fields covered with rows of flowered bushes. He could just make out the tiny figures of people walking through the planted rows.

He gazed along the near bank. The red in the water was sawdust. He sniffed. The wood smell lay heavy in the air. He rode a little further on and came upon a dock with logs stacked on it. The water was ruddy with sawdust. More logs floated obliquely downstream, like stitches in a swath of cloth.

South of the dock stood a big shed. A trail behind it snaked up into the forest. Two woodcutters swung axes at an immense log. They saw him, and straightened. Kerris called, “Is Mahita on this side of the river?"

“Both. There's a bridge."

“Thank you.” He clucked to Magrita. Her shoes clicked on the paved road. Carts rattled by him, laden with crates and barrels and sacks, sending loose chips of brick scuttling and flying. On his left, the river moved, gleaming like the back of a snake.

He watched the placid curves with pleasure. He found himself singing. In sunlight we must part, my love — He had no idea if the tune was right, and he didn't care. Neither did Magrita.

He rounded a long curve, and there was the town.

A wall of gray stone circled it, and fields of plants with yellow flowers surrounded it, lying almost flush to its gates. There was a clear space before the gateway. Guards walked the wall. Stalls with awnings lined the road before the gate, making a small market. Carts, mules, horses, and people on foot crammed into the lane. People shouted at each other. Kerris saw several Asech riders on their tall sleek horses caught within the press.

He hung back, a little frightened. A cart bustled past him and a waggoner shouted at him to get off the road. The rooftops of the town went on and on like a forest. He wondered how, amid the plethora of streets and buildings and people, he would be able to find the chearas.... He told himself not to be ridiculous. If he could find his brother across the whole of Arun, he could find him in a city. He urged Magrita forward. He rode past the stalls, not looking at the fruit and cheese and wine, trying not to smell the quail turning on their spits or the fish frying. The carts and riders and foot travelers resolved into a procession. He joined it. Whips cracked as the carters coaxed their teams forward. A somnolent guard outside the arched gate looked Kerris up and down and flicked his fingers to motion him inside.

The street smelled of cooking food and horses. A little beyond the gate the bustle diminished. Kerris craned from side to side, trying to see everywhere at once. This was nothing like Tornor, and nothing like Elath. Banners flapped everywhere, with pictures of shoes and bread and meat and butter, cloth and wine and candles, pots, pins, and nails.... The streets were brick. The buildings were part stone, part wood; some were tall, some boxy, and they leaned together like crates. On the street corner a woman with rings in her ears stood juggling six silver balls. She saw Kerris looking at her and grinned. The balls blurred through her nimble fingers.

She made a lazy, beckoning gesture with her head and started to walk away down the street, wide skirts swaying.

“I'm looking for stables,” Kerris called.

A passing waggoner answered him. “That way!” He pointed with his whip.

Kerris turned Magrita in the direction of the point. He glanced back. The woman stood watching him, hands still moving, crookedly smiling.

* * * *

The stable was huge; a broad, half-timber, half-brick structure. A long-legged girl ran from it as he dismounted. “Staying long?” she said. She spoke very fast.

“I don't know,” he said. His own speech seemed lethargic beside hers. “I was looking for some friends. You might know where they went—they came from the north, like me, only earlier."

“Wait.” She screamed into the depths of the stable. “Shay!” She waited, tapping her bare foot. “Shay!"

A second girl sauntered from the doors. “You want me?"

The first girl jerked her thumb backward at the newcomer. “You ask her. She was here this morning.” She reached for Magrita's rein.

Kerris held it. “Just a minute."

Shay strode up to him. She was short and dark, with great broad shoulders like a smith's. She wore her hair in a lot of little braids, like Elli. “Help you?"

“Did a chearas ride through this morning?"

Shay yawned. “Sure. They're going to dance at the East Yard, I heard ‘em talking. You know ‘em?"

Kerris nodded. The other girl said, “You gonna leave your mare here or not?"

“I don't know if I can,” Kerris said. “I don't have any money."

She shrugged. “You gonna get some?"

“Yes."

“Then we'll take the horse for you. If you don't pay after the first three days, we'll sell her tack.” She unlaced Kerris’ bedroll from the cantle, dumped it in the dirt, and twitched the rein from his hand. “Come on, pretty lady."

Shay grinned. Her teeth were yellow. “She won't sell your tack for five days."

Kerris said, “I'll be back before then.” He picked up the bedroll. “Where is the Yard?"

“The West Yard is that way, about four blocks. The East Yard is across the bridge. ‘Bout eight blocks from the bridge walking east, there's a big stone building, that's the Armory. The Yard is next to it."

“Thank you,” Kerris said.

“You from the north?” Her speech was slower than the other girl's, though not much.

“Yes."

“Tezera?” she guessed.

“Tornor Keep."

Shay grimaced. “That's a long way, I hear."

“It is."

“You hungry?"

Kerris smiled. “Does it show?"

She laughed. “Folk who come into town from far away are usually hungry.” She pointed south. “You go that way a block, you'll come to the Hall. It's run by the town. The food's plain but there's enough of it, and they'll serve travelers for free."

The Hall reminded him of the refectory at the nameless village in Galbareth. It had long wooden tables, and a serving window. A fat woman behind the window handed him a bowl and spoon and did not ask him for money. There was meat and fish and noodles in the soup. It smelled delicious. His mouth watered at the steam. The building was mostly empty, and he guessed he had come late or early. The kitchenfolk were talking, he could hear them amid the clatter of pots. They spoke fast. He thought of Paula. She had sounded like that once, he supposed. He wondered how long it had taken her to train herself to speak at the north's slower pace.

He had forgotten to ask Shay when the chearas planned to dance. He brought the bowl back to the serving window and laid it in the big tray. The fat woman did not look at him; she was talking. He went into the street. People streamed by him in two directions. He looked for the bridge and saw it suddenly, arching over the river. He couldn't see the water. The hubbub confused him. He tucked his bedroll under his arm and walked south. A woman strolled by him with a cat on her shoulder. A man trundled past, wheeling a barrow piled high with yellow fruit. One of the yellow globes bounced from the barrow and tumbled at Kerris feet. He picked it up and started to toss it back.

The barrowman shook his head. “Keep it!"

He looked in the window of a shop that sold spices. It was filled with jars of different colors. In one corner was a huge barrel, and a dipper on a string. A sign on the barrel said, “Salt.” A man ran the opposite way, carrying a long pole hung with fresh fish. Kerris tossed the fruit in the air. It was barely bruised. He bit into its soft, fuzzy rind. Sweet juice ran out of his mouth and down his chin.

He came to a Yard.

It was very large, almost as large as the courtyard of Tornor. He put his bedroll down between his feet and leaned his elbow on the fence. Two men sparred with pikes, hair flying in the exertion of their strokes. A dark woman bent and curved alone in a corner. The Yard seemed oddly empty for a place with so many people in it. He finished the fuzzy fruit. He tossed the fringed pit into the street. His eyes kept turning toward the children's circles.

He watched them tumble and wrestle, turn and thrust, weave and dance. A bittersweet taste rose in his throat.

“Something—?” A short, stocky man stood on the other side of the fence. The clatter of a cart passing over the brick had masked his steps.

“I was just looking,” Kerris said.

The man's eyes moved to Kerris’ sleeve and back to his face. “My name's Charin."

“Kerris."

“New in town?"

“Yes.” Something—perhaps the man's evident friendliness—made Kerris add, “I'm from the north."

“Ah.” There was a note of interest in the sound. “Now I would have known you're from the north. You talk like a northerner. And that sheath is mountain work. From Tezera?"

“Yes,” Kerris said.

Charin leaned his own elbow on the wall. He had wrists like a blacksmith's. His hair was short, braided onto his collar. “You traveling through, or staying awhile?"

“I don't know,” Kerris said. “I'm looking for some friends."

“Oh?"

“The chearas."

Charin nodded slowly. “I saw them this morning,” he said. Kerris tried not to show surprise. He had thought the man was just an idler, perhaps a member of the city guard, bound to train each day in the Yard, who decided to be friendly to a visitor and so evade practice. He had to be an instructor. “They stopped to say hello.” He glanced toward the children's circles. “Where in the north are you from?"

“Tornor Keep."

“Huh. Where'd you lose the arm?"

Kerris had never been asked so bluntly before. “In an Asech raid,” he said. “I was three."

“You were south, then,” said Charin. “The Asech never raided the Keeps. Too bad you had to end up there. Lousy, lonely place to live.” He grinned. “Give me people, lots of people, and a way to get away from them when I need to."

A flock of white birds soared over the Yard, mewing like cats. One of them had a piece of green rind in its beak. Charin was watching the Yard. Suddenly he called, “Gerri! Danu!"

In the children's circles, two small figures broke from the ring and came running. They both had knives. One of them was a boy, slender and tall, with brown hair and light blue eyes like pale silk. The other was a girl, equally slim, equally tall. Her eyes were a slightly darker shade of blue. She had long black hair.

Kerris stiffened. No instructor, he thought, got that kind of instant obedience.

“How long have you been practicing?” Charin said.

The girl glanced at the sun. “About two hours, skayin,” she said.

“I thought so. You're tiring. Go take a walk, the both of you. Gerri, tie your hair back. Long hair in a fight will get your throat cut, unless you're so good that it doesn't matter. You're not a cheari yet."

The girl caught at her thick loose hair and twisted it on top of her head. She pinned it there with a bone comb. “It fell."

“Tie it so it won't fall. Go."

They started to run to the gate. “Walk!” he called after them. Gerri looked back, grinning. They slowed to a walk, and strolled to the street, looking very sedate.

Kerris said, “They're twins?"

“Yes,” said Charin. “Gerri loves the Yard. For her the knife and the dance are fun, a delight, a game. One day she'll waken to the art of it.” He made a sunburst with spread fingers.

“And then?"

“And then she will start to be a cheari."

Charin's tone did not change. But Kerris felt a shadow in the words, a subtle and silent longing. “Was that what you wanted?” he asked. And could have bitten out his tongue. Even from a friend, which he was not, the question was both cruel and rude.

But the Yardmaster merely raised his thick dark eyebrows. “I didn't know it showed."

“I'm sorry,” Kerris said.

“I'll be walking to the East Yard to see the chearas in a little while. Would you like to come with me?"

Kerris said, “Thank you, yes. I would."

Charin nodded to him. “It's easy to get lost in a strange place. Excuse me.” He walked back toward the fighting circles, and Kerris could see now that he limped slightly on his right leg. Aside from that, he walked like a cheari, graceful, crisp, and perfectly controlled.

* * * *

Kerris walked.

He wanted to get away from the Yard. He was annoyed at himself. Two blocks into the big town's noise, a skein of melody stopped him in his tracks. It was not a human sound. He'd never heard anything like it: a soft, urgent, blurry wail. He followed it round a corner.

He came to an alley behind a shop. Within the alley he found a pile of rotting vegetables, a dog rooting in a crevice, and three children, sitting on a stack of dusty, broken bricks. A piece of ivy trailed up the wall behind them. The scent in the alley was pleasant, if steamy. He recognized two of the children at once: they were the twins, Gerri and Danu. They stood up, shielding the third child with their shoulders.

“I'm sorry,” Kerris said quickly. “I'll go away if you want me to. But I really like that sound—the music."

The children moved apart. “We thought you were Ree,” said Gerri. “He doesn't like Suya.” Suya was the third child. He was smaller than the twins, thin, dusky, and wary. His hair was black as Gerri's, but his skin was brown. His clothes were dusty, but then so were the twins'. His feet were bare. He looked older than the other children, and more ragged.

Kerris hunkered down in the dust. The dog came to sniff him. He pushed its muzzle away from his pack, knowing it would smell the jerky. “Git!” said Gerri. She bent to pick up a shard. The dog slunk away at the threat.

Gerri scowled. “It isn't fair. Even if it is the back of his old shop.” Suya muttered at her, and she stopped talking.

Kerris said, “Would you show me how you made that sound?"

Suya opened his hand. His fingernails were ragged, and dark with dirt. On his small palm sat a wooden box. It was long and narrow and there were holes in it. He lifted it to his mouth and blew. He ran it along his mouth, and the wail went higher. He moved it the other way, and the wail grew deep and sad. Kerris listened, fascinated. It sounded like a lot of voices all singing together in different keys, but it blended, somehow.

“What is it?” he asked.

Suya sat on the brick. “A sho."

“How does it work?"

The boy shrugged.

“Do it more."

He lifted it to his lips and played something slow and dreamy. Kerris closed his eyes, trying to remember where he had heard it. It was the lullaby Ilene sang. “Sleep my babe, sleep my child, nothing restless, nothing wild...” He sang it softly.

“That's nice,” he said.

Suya smiled.

Over Kerris’ head, a voice yelled, “Damn it!” A hard, dark face thrust through a square. The children jumped. Kerris grabbed Suya by one thin wrist as the boy made ready to run.

“I told you I didn't—” The man saw Kerris and the shout stopped. “Them kids botherin’ you?"

“No,” Kerris said, “I asked to hear the music."

“Huh. Music you calls it. Cat-talk I call it.” But the head popped back within the brick building.

Kerris dropped Suya's wrist. Gerri clapped her hands. “Now we can stay here!"

Suya stayed on his feet. “He beat me last time he found me sleeping here."

Kerris glanced around the alley. “You sleep here?"

Suya shrugged.

Gerri hissed. “He's no right to beat you. Uglyface Ree. He's no kin to you."

“I'd like to kill him,” said the boy evenly. “But I don't know how, and nobody will teach me."

Danu looked shocked. “You don't want to kill him,” he said. “Killing people breaks the chea. You want him to stop beating you.” Gerri nodded approval. But Suya looked at the dust.

A white bird slanted down into the alley. Its wings were like knives. It folded them neatly against its fat sleek body and pecked at the carrots and turnips. Kerris said, “What's that bird called?"

The children stared at him. Gerri finally answered. “A gull."

Kerris put his bedroll between his knees. “I'm from the north,” he said. “I've never been this far south before. Why do you have to sleep in the alley?"

Suya scrubbed his heel in the dust. “No kin."

“Are they dead?"

Suya shrugged again. “Don't know. Don't know who they are."

Kerris leaned back against the rough stone. It seemed impossible to him that a child would have no family, no kin.

Suya spoke. “My mother was Asech.” He turned his head, so that Kerris could see the fine holes in his small earlobes. “Don't know what happened to her. My father was a towny. Don't know him."

“Where do you live?” Kerris said.

“In the streets."

“Where do you eat?"

“They feed me sometimes, in the Hall. That's supposed to be for strangers, but they let me."

“How old are you?"

“Don't know.” The boy's stolid face darkened a little. “I think fourteen."

Kerris remembered a small boy that he had once known very well, watching his friends circle and thrust and parry and circle again in the Yard of Tornor. “That's not very fair,” he said.

Suya's thin shoulders twitched in that bitter, defensive shrug.

Kerris shook his head. “You need someone,” he said. “Some kin. If not a mother or father, then aunt or uncle, or brother.” He thought of how lonely his life would have been in Tornor without Paula, Josen, Tryg—even Morven. Even Kili.

Gerri said, “I tell him he should come to the Yard with me, and we'll show him how to beat Ree into splinters! But he won't come."

“Can't."

“Why not?” asked Kerris.

Suya kicked a bit of brick across the alley. The soles of his feet were dusty and looked hard as horn. “No knife.” He touched his belt, fingering the place a knife would hang. “Besides, they don't want me."

There was terrible isolation in that little sentence, and pain, and need. Kerris felt it touch the wall in his mind and fall away. It seemed unfair that he, of all people, had happened upon this child, he who was a stranger to this town and to the south. Suya was looking at him sullenly, as if angry that this stranger had broached his privacy, intruded into his hurt....

An idea niggled at Kerris’ mind.

“You want to go to the Yard?” he said slowly.

Suya nodded. “Can't,” he repeated.

Kerris stood, and the boy tensed. “You don't have to be afraid of me,” Kerris said. “If you want to go to the Yard, I'll help you."

Suya's dark eyes enlarged. “How?"

“I know the Yardmaster.” It was, he thought, a necessary lie. “I think I can talk him into letting you into the children's circles."

Suya's face tightened in suspicion. But Gerri let out a loud, exuberant whoop. She leaped abruptly to the alley floor. She seized Suya's shoulder. “Yes,” she coaxed, “It's a good idea. Charin's nice. He'll let you come to the Yard even if you don't have a knife!"

* * * *

It took a deal of persuasion before Suya was willing to leave the alley. Gerri and Danu did most of it. Kerris waited. He could not help thinking of Kel, remembering the night in the garden, the day by the pool ... He remembered Kel's description of their mother. “She used to come home tired all the time. I never understood why visiting people made her tired until I realized she was using her gift, mediating, mending quarrels.” The first thing he had ever done for the chearas was mend a quarrel.

Now what can I do?

Anything you like. He heard Sefer's voice, saying it. His throat prickled. Whatever he did, whatever he learned to do—Sefer would never know.

The Yard was empty. Charin was standing at the gate. He put up a hand when he saw Kerris walking toward him. “Get lost?” he called. “I was starting to wonder whether I should wait for you."

He was wearing Yard clothes: a thick shirt, breeches, boots. A wide leather belt cinched his waist. A short sword in a decorated scabbard hung at his left thigh. Outside the Yard he looked bigger than he had within it. Kerris felt Suya's steps begin to lag.

He laid his palm more firmly on the boy's bony shoulder. Gerri skipped ahead of them. Danu marched on Suya's other side. He had insisted on carrying Kerris’ bedroll.

Charin looked at the odd quartet. “What's this?” he said. He gazed at Suya.

Kerris said, “His name is Suya. He is part Asech and part of Arun, he tells me, but neither people will take him. He cannot come to the Yard because he is kinless, with no one to give him a knife. He sleeps in alleys and is beaten by shopkeepers. He's fourteen years old. It seems to me that this is no way for a person to have to live. A Keep would have treated him better."

Charin's face did not change. “Why do you bring him to me?” he said.

Kerris felt Suya stiffen. The boy cast one eloquent look upward. You see, said his eyes. You see? He started to twitch his shoulder out of Kerris’ grip.

Kerris held on. He extended his mind to the big man, brushing aside the surface resistance, feeling pride, love, pity, compassion — Delicately, he gathered his talents together. Then he sent his thought—like a beam of sunlight—playing over the Yardmaster's conscious mind. Because you are a decent man, he spoke, and because you know what it feels like to want and not to have, to desire and to be denied because of an accident, a flaw no fault of your own....

Yes, answered Charin, yes, I do know — and then his mind reacted to the invasion—Damn it, you have no right to walk into my mind like this! Get out. Get out! But Kerris was already out. He held onto Suya, watching the Yardmaster's great hands clench and open. The man's face had whitened, and his eyes were squeezed shut. He swayed a little. Finally, he opened his eyes and drew a deep breath.

He looked at Kerris, and then quickly away. His glance found Suya's face. He held out his right hand, palm up. “Come here."

The boy moved from under Kerris’ hand. He took a step forward.

“You want to learn to fight?"

Nod.

“You know who I am?"

“Yardmaster."

“Yes. If I say you may come to the Yard, then you may, and no one can keep you out. Do you get enough to eat?"

“Sometimes."

“Fighters must eat. I will talk to the cooks in the Hall. And you can sleep in the weapons shed. It's big enough to hold a pallet and it's out of the rain."

Gerri, at Charin's back, turned a joyful cartwheel. Her hair flopped from its hold; the comb clattered to the brick.

Without turning, Charin said, “Gerri, stop that."

She scooped the comb up and coiled her hair on her head.

Charin glanced again at Kerris. “You children get out of here,” he said. “You'll be late to watch the chearas."

“There'll be too many people,” said Danu mournfully. “They won't let us in."

“Have you never climbed a fence?"

Gerri seized Suya's hand. “Come on,” she said. “I know a back way. They won't ever see us.” Danu dropped Kerris’ bedroll at his feet. They scampered off, but Suya hung back to press something small, hard, and cool into the palm of Kerris’ hand.

Kerris gazed at it. It was the sho.

* * * *

He faced Charin. “I owe you an apology.” His fingers closed tightly on the music-maker. “There was no way to warn you."

“How did you do that?"

“I lived fourteen years in the north,” Kerris said. “But I was born in the witch-town, Elath."

The Yardmaster rubbed his shaven chin. “I see,” he said. He ran his hand over his hair. “I've never—no one ever—"

“I understand,” Kerris said. “I'm sorry.” He fingered the satiny wood of the sho. He could not believe Suya meant him to have it. “It seemed important."

“It must have.” Charin glanced at the angle of the sun. “We'd best hurry,” he said.

Kerris stuck the sho in his belt and picked up the bedroll. He tucked it under his arm again. Slowly they moved southeast, toward the river. Gulls flew over their heads, mewing as if requesting them to drop something to eat.

Charin said, “I had heard of such things. But I never—” Again he stroked his fingers over his dark hair.

“I won't do it again,” Kerris said. The words made him think of Riniard.

The bridge was wide enough for two carts to pass each other. It stood on four stone arches. It was built of gray stone, with dark lines curling and threading through it like veins in a leaf. Gulls hovered over it. Green stems grew up the arches. The river smelled of fish.

There were people fishing on both banks. Pole-barges and sailboats and rowboats moved along the flat green water. In the south a soft mist was rising. The sun was dropping westward. Lights spangled the streets of the quarter they had left and the quarter they were going to.

The east side of the city seemed softer, newer, less cramped. The streets were wider, and many of them had trees growing along them, shading the house doors. A street sweeper moved along the bricks, collecting the dung left by the horses. In one house people were singing, and Kerris heard through walls the soft sweet harmony of a flute. He took the sho from his belt and held it in his hand.

The East Yard was bigger than the West Yard. It had a wooden fence around it. A city guard at the gate was counting people as they walked in. Charin said, “Follow me.” He walked straight for the gate. Kerris grinned to see the people push out of his way.

His heart was thundering. He gripped the sho until its edges marked his hand, and kept at Charin's heels. The Yardmaster moved to the very front of the audience. Kerris saw a familiar face. It was the man he had seen at the inn at the Shanan crossroads. All around him came the rustle of silk and velvet. A woman in a crimson shirt stared at him, as if wondering who he was. She smelled of flowers. She saw him looking at her and smiled. The big space began to blaze with light as torches flared on their iron poles.

He saw them. They stood in a circle. Kel's shining hair swung long and loose, Ilene had threaded her scarf through her hair; it gleamed like a coronet. Elli was talking to Arillard. Jensie and Riniard stood side by side; Jensie's thumb was crooked through Riniard's belt loop. Calwin was kneeling, tightening a bootlace. His hair stood up on his head like brush bristles. Kerris trembled. He sat. He wanted to call to them—and he wanted, too, to wait, concealed, watching, as if they were strangers.

He brushed the sho against his lips. He was so close to them. They would see him, sooner or later. The crowd quieted. It didn't matter which. He leaned forward, resting his bedroll in his lap.

Kel's head lifted. His booted foot stamped to set the beat of the dance. The chearas moved.

The people murmured with pleasure. Kerris smiled. Joy sustained him. Later would do.

The Northern Girl

For Sonni

The author would like to thank the following people, without whose patient assistance this book would never have been finished: Jerry Jacks, Debbie Notkin, Charles N. Brown, Marta Randall, David Hartwell, Vonda N. McIntyre, and John Silbersack.

One

I hate you, Sorren thought at the ocean.

The summer air, heavy with salt, made her tired. The money bracelet which Arré had given her for shopping had left a red line on her arm. Behind her on the dock, the stink of fish steamed upward like smoke. Sails bobbed in the bay. An empty cart bounced by her, pulled by a weary gray mule. Flounder, she reminded herself. Flounder in four days.

She walked through the market, past vendors and shops and stalls, to the familiar slope of the hill. The ocean winked at her back, brassy as a plate. Shop banners hung limply in the windless morning. The cobbled streets were hot, but Sorren barely felt it through the tough calluses on her feet. By the time she reached the hilltop, she was plodding, and her cotton shirt stuck to her back and breasts.

She paused before the Med gate to gaze over the city. The red dome of the Tanjo shone at its heart. South the ocean seethed and glittered, speckled with the fishing fleet's yellow sails. East and west of the city lay the cotton fields. She could not see the pickers with their great sacks over their shoulders, but she knew they were there. North were the vineyards, out of which she had come seven years back. She had only gone back twice to visit, the first time to show off her new clothes, the second time for her mother's burial. She arrived too late, and said her farewells by the grave, trying to recall clearly what her mother had looked like. That had been four years ago. Now when she tried to, she could not even remember the outline of her mother's face.

The big blue building to the east, beside the river bank, was the hall of the Blue Clan. Blue banners waved before it, and from shops and stalls and carts small blue flags declared their owners to be members of the Guild in good standing. The carts that carried wine barrels from the Med vineyards to the city had blue streamers on them. Beyond the vineyards lay the Galbareth Fields, where the grain grew; beyond the grain lay the steppe—and the mountains. Sorren closed her eyes a moment, and they loomed in her mind, hard and gray and incorruptible, the way they sometimes loomed in her dreams.

But there were no mountains near Kendra-on-the-Delta. Sorren opened her eyes. The stone from which the Tanjo was built had come from the Red Hills, through Shanan and the Asech country, a long journey, days and days away.

She turned to the gate. The gate guard was watching her from his post near the shade of the kava fruit tree.

“Good day,” she said.

He grunted. His dark red shirt was damp with sweat. He had laid his spear down on the stone. She wondered what Paxe would say if she came suddenly from the Yard, and saw her guard without his spear.

“Hot,” she said.

“Yes,” said the guard.

The green peel of a kava fruit lay in the gutter like a piece of green cloth. All the guards ate the kava fruit when they were on gate duty, but this guard—he was young, with a small sandy mustache—had not yet learned to kick the peel out of sight. He was not going to open the gate for her, either. She reached to do it herself. He changed his mind and reached, too, and their fingers touched. His were sticky.

She walked through the iron gate. “Thank you,” she said.

He grunted again. The guards were never sure how to treat her. She was a bondservant, but half the time Arré treated her as if she were her daughter ... and there was Paxe.

The gate closed. She strolled across the courtyard. Flowers grew along the sides of the path, drooping in the heat. As always, the pattern of the courtyard tile intrigued her. She paced along one edge of the figure. The blue triangle on the red field was uneven. She wondered if the artist who had designed the courtyard had made it so deliberately.

As she got to the front door, it opened, and a man strode out. They bounced off each other. More for balance than for courtesy, Sorren went down on one knee.

His perfume was familiar. She squinted. It was indeed Isak. It was harvest month; why was he not at the vineyards, overseeing the picking? “I'm sorry, my lord,” she said.

He smiled at her. “Sorren.” His soft voice always reminded her of a cat's purr. He wasn't angry, of course. Isak never grew angry. “Be more careful, child. You would not wish to topple one of our august Council members, would you?"

“No,” she said.

“Of course not.” Brushing his ringed hand over her head, he strolled across the courtyard to the gate. Sorren rose. Her left knee hurt, and she rubbed it. Isak spoke a moment with the gate guard; the sunlight glistened on his blue silk tunic. She wondered if he was telling the man to pick up his spear.

His muscles had felt hard as tile under the shirt. Now Arré would be in a bad mood; she was always cranky after she talked to Isak.

She went into the house. It took a moment for her eyes to grow used to the darkness. The long, cool hall smelled of lilies. A lacquered vase of them stood on a little table beneath the statue of the Guardian. This statue was new; it had been made by the sculptor Ramath, the same sculptor who had directed the making of the big image in the Tanjo. Sorren bowed toward the image. Stone lips smiled at her. Stone eyes gleamed.

She wondered what had happened to the old statue. Surely, she thought, you could not break it, as you might break an old unwanted pot. That would be disrespectful to the chea. She listened for the sound of Arré's voice from the workroom. This morning Arré had planned to meet with her surveyors, to discuss their blueprints for enlarging some streets. But she heard nothing. She peered into the large parlor. Elith was there, dusting, mumbling to herself as she passed the cloth over the wall screens.

Elith was old, fat as a feather mattress, and deaf, but she had been Arré Med's mother's personal maid, and Arré kept her on. Sorren raised her voice. “Elith! Do you know where she is?"

The old woman turned slowly. “Kitchen."

Sorren went to the kitchen. All the windows and doors were open, with nets across them to keep out flies, but the big room was hot, hotter than the market. Arré was there, talking to the cook. She turned as Sorren entered. “Well? What did the fishmonger say?"

Sweat jumped on Sorren's upper lip; she rubbed it. “The fishmonger said that he could not get you perch, but he could get flounder."

“Flounder will do."

“That's what I told him."

“How do you want it fixed?” said the cook.

“I don't care. Not too spicy, that's all. Marti can't eat spiced meat."

Marti Hok was one of the Councillors. The flounder was for the Council meeting. The cook nodded and started calling to the apprentices. Sorren recalled her own time in the kitchen. She had hated it. Once she fainted, to everyone's disgust. The other scullions teased her for weeks for being afraid of blood, but it had not been the blood that had made her faint, but the heat. It was worse than the heat in the grapefields. Maybe it had been the heat and the smells combined. She was sensitive to smells, and there were always too many of them in the kitchen.... No wonder cooks threw things.

Arré was wearing white. It made her skin look darker than it was. The heat furled her hair into small curls. Her hair was almost as short as Paxe's, but the texture was different, and her curls were striped with gray. She jerked her head at Sorren. “Come,” she said, and marched out of the tiled kitchen. In the cooler corridor they both leaned on the wall.

Arré said, “I think it gets hotter every summer.” She squared her shoulders. Her eyes glinted upward. “I'm glad it's you doing the shopping, and not me."

Sorren grinned at the thought of Arré Med, Councillor of Kendra-on-the-Delta, head of the Med family, buying flounder on the docks.

“What are you smiling at?” said Arré irritably.

“I was thinking how surprised the fishmonger would be."

“Wipe your face,” said Arré. She started down the hall. “And don't laugh at me."

She was cranky. Sorren wiped her sleeve across her lip. Arré went into the small parlor. It was her workroom and sitting room. It faced south; by day its walls were bright, sundrenched. Its inner walls, like those of the large parlor, were made of screens. The outside wooden wall was hung with a woolen tapestry, all reds and blues. The dyes for the wool came from the Asech country; no other dyes made such brilliant and durable colors. The floor was wooden and unmatted. Sunlight fell in bright streaks across it. The lines of the grain gleamed. Arré sat in her cushioned chair. Sorren stood by the door. The older woman glanced at her. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to the footstool. “I need to talk.” Obediently Sorren sat. A lacquer table stood at the right side of the chair, its red and black surface shining in the sun. Against the wall, a glass-faced case held a rack of scrolls: the Med accounts. Once a month, a scribe came from the Black Clan—not a Scholar, they did not do such mundane work—and went over them for error, under Arré's watchful eyes. Arré had no steward; it seemed unnecessary in a household which consisted of herself and her servants. She did the bookkeeping.

“Did you see Isak?” she asked.

Sorren nodded. “We met at the gate.” Arré's face was taut, as it always was when she talked about her brother. Silver bracelets, two on each arm, clinked as she folded her hands in her lap. The largest bracelet had a blue jewel in it. “What did he want?"

Arré grimaced. “Whatever he can get."

“But it's harvest. He should be at the fields."

“Nonsense. Myra manages the vineyards better than he ever could, or cares to.” Myra was Isak's wife. “He asked to dance for the Councillors."

“Did you say yes?"

Arré's hands flew apart. They were big on her small frame, ungraceful, not pretty hands. Isak had pretty hands. “He's the finest dancer in the city—how could I refuse?"

Even Arré admitted that Isak could dance. It was his gift, his art, as administration was hers, and perhaps his passion, or one of them. He had been trained to it by Meredith of Shanan, who had been trained by Berenth of Shanan, who learned it from his mother Jenézia of Shanan, and she, every city child knew, had danced with Kel of Elath. It was his right to wear the shariza, the red scarf of the cheari, but, with greater delicacy than he usually showed, he chose not to. Sorren had asked him about it once. “The old chearis were trained in arms and in the warrior arts,” he said. “I am not."

“Why not?” she asked.

“War is uncivilized; you know that,” he had answered. “It's a crudity better left to soldiers. Besides, the wearing of blades is forbidden in Kendra-on-the-Delta."

But he danced the role of the warrior well enough. Sorren pattered her hands on her knees. “Does he want me to play for him?"

“Yes."

“We haven't had time to practice."

“It won't matter. Do something you both know. Anything."

Sorren had drummed for Isak for four years, the first year only at small parties, but the next year at the Festivals: Harvest Feast, Spring Feast, the Feast of the Founding of the City. “I guess...."

“It won't matter. He won't care what he does, as long as he can get near the meeting."

Isak's political ambitions and Arré's contempt for them were no secret in her household. But, Sorren thought, that isn't fair. Isak does care about his dancing. She had watched him practice for hours, while sweat poured from him and his lungs heaved for breath, till anyone with less discipline would have stopped, rested, poured water on his head, something. His muscles were like Paxe's, smooth and stretched, and he moved with the same kind of economy, but with more grace.

“What are you thinking about?” Arré demanded.

Sorren blushed. She did not want to say, of Paxe; it seemed crass. “Being graceful,” she said.

Arré Med laughed. “Never mind it,” she said. She was a small woman, built like Isak. Though the stool Sorren sat on was lower than Arré's chair, when Sorren straightened their eyes met on the level. “You don't need to be graceful. People notice you anyway."

Sorren said, “That's because I'm tall, and pale.” She frowned at her light skin. In the hottest sun, it refused to brown; instead, it turned an ugly and uncomfortable red. She touched her hair, which was long, and the color of wheat. “I would rather be dark, like Paxe."

“Dark is the fashion now,” said Arré. “But never regret your height. We small folk find other ways to make people notice us. Like Isak."

People always noticed Isak. If they didn't, he made them. He could turn heads in a crowd faster than anyone. But people noticed Arré, too.

“Will you need something new to wear?” Arré said.

“What?"

“When you play for Isak, at the Council meeting.” Arré tapped the chair arm. “Pay attention, child."

“I'm sorry,” Sorren said. Reminded, she slipped the money bracelet from her arm and held it out. Arré took it, her fingers automatically counting the remaining shell pieces. “No, I have enough clothes."

“If you want something, just ask.” Arré grinned like an urchin in a street fight. “Isak will pay for it."

A light tapping on the screen made her look around. Lalith stood in the doorway. She was thirteen, lithe and little and brown-skinned. Arré had picked her from the vineyards in the same way she had picked Sorren, and brought her to live and work in the house. “The cook sent me to bring you this,” she said. She held out a bowl.

“Well,” Arré said, “bring it here! What is it?” Lalith gave it to her. It was a dish of berries with sweet cream poured over them. Arré had a notorious sweet tooth. “Thank you, child."

“And this came.” Lalith extended a letter. The wax seal had a crest on it.

Arré ripped it open. She scanned the writing and her dark eyes frowned. “When did this come?” she said.

“Just now. A servant brought it.” Lalith shifted from one foot to the other.

“Bah.” Arré put the letter down on the lacquered table top. “From Boras Sul,” she said. “To inform me that he is ill and cannot come to the Council meeting, he regrets, thank you, my dear Arré.” She waved at Lalith to leave, and picked up the bowl of fruit. “He will send his son, who is even more of an idiot than he is. Bah."

Sorren said, “Maybe he is ill?"

“Maybe he eats too much,” Arré said contemptuously. Boras Sul was very fat.

Sorren ran a thumb along the smooth lacquer. “I can find out."

“The servants’ mail?” said Arré. Sorren nodded. “Don't bother. Save it for something important. Tell the cook that Boras will not be at the Council dinner. Go on. I don't need you."

The letter had brought back her ill temper. Sorren left her alone to work it out. She went to the kitchen to tell the cook. He was playing the pebble game across the cutting board with Kaleb, the night watch captain, Paxe's second-in-command. She watched the design form on the grid.

She told him about Boras Sul, and he shrugged. “Thought it was bad news,” he commented. “That's why I fixed the berries."

“I don't think it helped,” Sorren said.

“Too bad,” said the cook. Kaleb moved a pebble three spaces, and he scowled. “Don't lean on the board,” he said to Sorren.

She had not been leaning on the board. She wondered if Paxe had seen Isak arrive. She glanced at Kaleb. Like her, he was from outside the city; he was Asech, brown and high-cheekboned, with stones set in his ears. “Is the Yardmaster in the Yard?” she asked.

Without lifting his eyes from the board, he nodded.

* * * *

Outside the house, the heat fell on her again. She went swiftly through the rear courtyard. The tile here was a different pattern than in front of the house. The paths were lined with sour apple trees. She marched under the spreading, blossom-laden branches. There were petals scattered over the tiles. At the end of the row of trees, she balanced on one leg and picked the petals first off one, then off the other foot. Lalith swept the petaled tiles every morning, and three hours later they were pink again. She continued toward the Yard. The gate to it was on the other side, but she was not going in; she couldn't, not being a soldier. When she came to the high red wooden fence she pulled herself up and sat on the top.

From this vantage point she could see the whole Yard, from the gate to the weapons shed. There were perhaps twenty people in the Yard. They stood in a circle around a small moving human knot. The center of the knot was Paxe. Six guards ranged around her. They dived at her, and she dodged and waved and turned, throwing them easily, keeping two paces ahead of their steps, lunging at them to toss them when their tired steps slowed.

Paxe saw Sorren perched on the fence, and grinned, white teeth flashing, but she continued the demonstration without breaking stride. Finally she halted it with a shout. “Yai!” The watching guards drew close to listen. Her hands moved as she talked. She wore—they all wore—training clothes, the cotton shirt and drawstringed pants that reminded Sorren of Isak's practice uniform. She had said so once to him, and he explained that the old chearis had dressed like that, and the city guards continued the tradition without knowing where it came from.

“Are there any real chearis left?” she asked him.

A different man might have been insulted at the suggestion that he was not a real cheari. But Isak never got angry, and besides, he had said as much himself.

“Maybe,” he answered. “In the north, somewhere. Legend says that a scion of the line of Van of Vanima still lives in the Red Hills."

Sorren tingled. She remembered that her mother had told her stories about the magical valley, called Vanima, where no one was ever sick or cold or hungry, where it was always summer. “Is there such a place?” she asked Isak.

He had smiled that sardonic smile. “Legend says there is."

“But you don't believe it."

He shook his head. “No."

Sorren knew the story of the Red Clan. It had been told to her around the pickers’ campfires. Once the city Yards had been public places, where children went to learn the arts of fighting. The strongest, surest, most graceful of these children went on to learn to dance. Those who could both fight and dance were called chearis, and the best of these bound themselves into companies, joined by love and respect and skill. Each company was called a chearas. They traveled from village to town to city, from steppe to sea, dancing, teaching the weapons’ arts, and drawing the hearts of all who watched them, across the land of Arun, into harmony.

But as more people crowded into Kendra-on-the-Delta, the Council grew nervous; it banned the bearing of edged weapons and then the teaching of edged weapons within the city gates. Shanan Council of Houses followed suit. Finally even Tezera Council passed a Ban. The chearis, appalled at the abandonment of tradition, took their complaint to the Tanjo. The Council of Witches deliberated, and finally its chief, the L'hel, spoke. All things change, she had said. The chea manifests itself in peace. A ban on edged weapons will make the cities peaceful. Therefore, let the soldiers fight, and let the chearis dance. There is no more need for cityfolk, except those called to the guard, to learn fighting or weaponry.

Some chearis, like Meredith of Shanan, laid aside their knives, left the Yard, and taught the dance, as the witches commanded. Some joined the city guard, and taught the arts of spear and cudgel and empty-handed combat. These skills were permitted by the Councils to the guards, but to no others.

But most chearis, disbelieving, angry, and unwilling to change, left the cities.

“Where did they go?” Sorren asked first Isak, and then Paxe. The old history intrigued and enchanted her.

Isak said, “They went west, and north, looking, I suppose, for Vanima, where the Red Clan began."

Paxe said, “They went west."

“Then is there still a Red Clan?"

Paxe said, “Ask Isak Med. He could wear the shariza, if he wished."

And Isak said, “Ask Yardmaster Paxe."

But you could not push Paxe to talk when she would not. Sorren did not ask a second time. Instead, she assumed the answer: No. The Red Clan was no more. The thought made her sad. Though it was true, the city was peaceful. The guard troops kept order. Perhaps there were a few old chearis left, somewhere in Arun. But it seemed doubtful that they ever came within the city's borders.

Sorren gazed down into the Yard. Head cocked to one side, hands on her hips, Paxe was watching the practice. She was tall, broad-shouldered as any of her guards, a stern and striking figure. She wore her tight-curled hair very short against her head. Sorren shifted on her perch. The Yardmaster looked at her, smiled, and jerked her head in the direction of the cottage. Sorren grinned. Swinging her legs around, she jumped from the fence. The cottage—Paxe's cottage, where she lived with her son, Ricard—was around the east side of the Yard.

The cottage door was open. Ricard was there. Officially he lived there, but in fact he rarely slept in the cottage, preferring the homes and haunts of his friends. He was curled in the sunlight on the mats. He opened his eyes as Sorren blocked the light. Slowly he sat up. “What are you doing here?” he said.

She wanted to laugh at him and tell him not to be a fool, but he was only fourteen, and hated being laughed at. She went around him. Where Paxe had muscles, he had fat. He was always morose; had she been such a sullen child three years ago, Arré would probably have sent her back to the grapefields in disgust. She went into the kitchen. Paxe's gray cat was sleeping on the tile top of the stove. It opened one eye—it only had the one, the other had been clawed blind in a fight a year back—and made a chirruping sound of inquiry and welcome.

She stroked its thick soft fur. It was sleek and as well-exercised as Paxe herself. It purred in soft growling chirps. There was a peach lying nearby on a flowered plate; she picked it up. The smell made her mouth water. She bit it, feeling fuzz on her tongue. It was perfect, ripe and sweet.

Ricard had followed her. “That wasn't for you,” he said, grumpily but not seriously.

“Want some?” She held it out to him.

“Naw.” He scratched his chin, which was beginning to sprout with beard. His skin was lighter than his mother's. “Listen, I want to tell you something."

“Tell.” She stroked the cat, ate the peach, and listened. He told her a long, complicated story which seemed to be about a friend of his and a girl. She wondered if she was supposed to believe in the friend.

There was a sand-glass on the windowsill. She turned it over to watch the sand trickle from one compartment to the other. Ricard leaned over her. He was as tall as she, which meant he was almost as tall as Paxe. His voice stumbled. She glanced at him.

His lips were parted. He was looking down the open neck of her shirt.

They both lost the thread of his story at the same time. Ricard muttered something which Sorren couldn't catch.

Before she could swear at him, he backed away, whirled, and went into the front room. She heard Paxe's step.

“Where are you going?"

He mumbled. The cottage door banged.

“Sorren?"

Licking the tips of her fingers, Sorren laid the fringed peach pit back on the plate. “I'm in here."

Paxe walked into the kitchen. Her cream-colored shirt was patchy with sweat. “That Ricky,” she said. “He's gone out to spend my money. I never see him except when he needs cash; it's all he ever asks of me."

“He's just a little boy,” Sorren said. She opened her arms, and Paxe walked into them. Her body was hot and scented with dust. “Don't mind what he does.” Gently, she reached to stroke the back of Paxe's neck.

They went upstairs, to Paxe's over-sized, feather-quilted bed. Smiling, Paxe took off her clothes. She lay down, waiting for Sorren to join her. They rolled together, half loving, half wrestling. Curling in the lovers’ knot, they stroked and teased each other into shivering pleasure. Sorren's skin flushed with blood. She laid her head on Paxe's thigh. One hand cupped over Paxe's mound, she felt the pulse of pleasure leap, leap, and fade.

She ran her tongue over her lips, tasting Paxe.

Paxe's fingers reached for her. “Come here."

Sorren pulled herself up until she lay beside her lover on the pillow. She loved the way they fit together, like a thing and its shadow. Paxe turned on her side. Her right hand brushed Sorren's breast.

“I know why I love you,” she said. “You're the only woman around this house near my size."

Outside the house, a woman's voice began to sing. "In sunlight we must part, my love, in starlight we may smile; The moon is shining bright my love, O let me stay awhile...."

Sorren joined it. "Sing hey and a ho for lovers, sing hey for the setting sun, Sing hey for the girl who makes me smile when the harvest work is done!"

Sighing, Paxe arched her long body upward, and twisted herself on top of Sorren. “You can't sing, you know.” She bowed her head. Their lips met, and their tongues.

When they disengaged, Sorren said, “I know. That's why I play the drums.” She wriggled. “Get off."

“Why?"

“I have to go back to the house."

Paxe made a face. “I suppose I must.” She rolled over. Sitting, Sorren reached for her clothes.

As she drew on her pants, the mountain vision came upon her. She was a bird (though without form or weight) soaring over the steppe. She smelled the northern air, thin and clean and dry as bone, tasted it, felt her lungs labor for it. The sun was hot. The hills rose below her, brown and green and white. The white was sheep. They grazed placidly on the grass, as girls with sticks watched them. A river, blue as a ribbon, threaded a path toward a valley. Behind the river, the mountains stood. Within the cleft of the mountains, a tower lifted a gray spike to the sky.

* * * *

She returned to present time to find Paxe sitting beside her, her brow wrinkled. She lifted her palm to her lover's dark cheek. “I'm back."

Paxe sighed. “Where did you go this time?"

“Where I always go,” Sorren said. “The mountains."

She had been thirteen, riding a wagon back from the grapefields, her mother's meager belongings scattered on her lap, when the visions first possessed her. She was too numb to be frightened. But when they continued, she asked questions in the city, and found that this power to go places with her mind had a name. Far-traveling, it was called, and those to whom it came were automatically named members of the White Clan, and whatever their stations, had to leave their lives to come within the Tanjo and serve the chea....

It was an honored task and an honored title, that of witch. But Sorren did not want it. The witches frightened her. Stubbornly silent, Sorren kept her gift to herself. The only person she trusted enough to tell about it was Paxe.

Paxe said, when Sorren told her of the gift, “You should go to the Tanjo."

“I don't want to,” Sorren said. And Paxe accepted that. Arré, Sorren knew, never would; she cared too much for power to understand why someone might not want it.

“You might want to, someday,” Paxe said. Sorren nodded, but she doubted it. The witchfolk lived in the Tanjo, and only talked to each other. For Sorren, used to the hustle of the markets, it seemed too straight, too confined a life.

Besides, they would not want her in the Tanjo. She only saw one place. She saw the mountains, only the mountains. She saw them in spring, when the blue river leaped down the sloping hills like a freed hare, and in summer; she saw them in fall, when rain turned the valleys to marsh, and in winter. Always she saw the same vista: the fields, the river, and the castle with its one tall tower. In winter, the tower glittered with ice. It was a real place; Sorren was sure of that. Sometimes she approached the tower at dusk, close enough to see a light through its amber panes of glass.

She had described it all to Paxe, but the Yardmaster did not know it.

Sorren thought, someday, when my time is all my own, I will discover where it is, and go to it.

But her mother had bound her to the Med house for the traditional eight years, and the time of her release was still one long year away.

“Isak was at the house today,” she said.

“Oh?” Paxe reached for her clothes. “What did he want?"

“He wants to dance for the Council, when it meets."

Paxe twitched her shirt over her head. “Arré said yes, of course.” Sorren nodded. “I wonder what he's up to."

Her tone was thoughtful. “Why should he be up to anything?” Sorren said. She stroked Paxe's thigh. There was a long runneled scar across it, and she wondered for the hundredth time what had made it. She did not think it was a spear cut.

“Because,” said Paxe, “he hates her. I remember when Shana, Arré's mother, was alive, and Arré was learning to run the district from her. Isak hated her then, too."

From the Yard came the voice of Dis, the day watch second-in-command, calling orders to the guards. Paxe straightened. “I must go, chelito. I'll see you later.” She laid her lips against Sorren's hair for a moment, and then rose, teeth gleaming in her dark, stern face.

She went downstairs. Sorren sat quietly, listening to her steps. Paxe's bedroom was like Paxe herself, bold, clean, and beautiful. The floor was unmatted; the walls red wood, bare of tapestries. Sorren started to braid her hair, and then remembered that she had nothing to tie it with. Letting it dangle, she went downstairs.

As she strolled around the corner of the Yard toward the house, she saw Ricard waiting for her. Internally, she grinned as he fell into step. She waited for him to say something, but he said nothing, only frowned. Finally Sorren grew bored.

“Did you want to finish telling me that story?” she said.

His glance was resentful. “No.” Within the Yard, Paxe was instructing; her voice echoed through the fence planks. “What did you say to her?"

“To who?"

“To my mother."

She scratched her nose. “Nothing about you."

If anything, his face grew more sullen. But he managed a muttered “Thanks."

Sorren wondered why he stayed in the city if he so disliked it. “Ricard,” she asked, “have you ever wanted to leave here? To travel?"

He looked at her as if she had started speaking in the Asech tongue. “What difference would it make?” he said.

Sorren couldn't tell if that meant yes or no. Ricard wandered off, kicking at the tiles of the courtyard. She had heard Arré and Paxe arguing about him; Arré thought Paxe should send him north, to the vineyards. “Myra will put him to work,” said Arré. Sorren agreed. But Paxe did not want to.

Perhaps, Sorren thought, Ricard would be a nicer person if he had brothers or sisters. Paxe had had two children before him, but they had both died.

She went into the house through the kitchen door. Cook was gone. The apprentices crouched in a conspiratorial huddle. She smelled the sweet, distinct odor of heavenweed. They passed her the pipe as she angled by them, and she sucked on it slowly, breathing in the harsh narcotic smoke. She handed it to Lalith. It went around the circle and returned to her. She shook the pipe gently, to stir the flakes, and took one final puff.

Quietly she went upstairs. Her room was in the back of the house, near enough to Arré's so that she could hear the calling bell when Arré rang it. She had to pass Arré's chamber to get to it. If Arré's door was shut, it meant she did not want to be disturbed. Sorren hoped it was closed.

The heavenweed was making her hyperaware of her body. She slid her feet on the patterned carpet of the upstairs hallway. Arré's door was open, but only a crack.

In her room, she took her drums from their basket. They were wooden, with deerskin heads. She had first started drumming in the grapefields, on the hollow logs which the pickers dragged out at Harvest Festival. She wedged the drums between her knees. There was a worn spot on the left-hand drumhead. If she caught Isak at the right time, he would pay for a new one, and that would please Arré. She tapped the skins softly. Pah-pah-pah-dum-pah. She wondered which dance Isak would do for the Councillors. It would be something slow and subtle, with lots of little changes, not the flashy fast dances he did at festivals for the crowds.

Pah-pah-pah-dum-dum. The heavenweed made it hard to concentrate. Her fingers felt tingly. She liked heavenweed. Especially she liked smoking heavenweed with Paxe (though Paxe herself rarely smoked it; she claimed it made her sleepy) and then making love.

Pah-dum-pah-pah. Her muscles moved under her skin. She felt the slight constriction of the bondservant's bracelet that she wore high on her left arm. It was brass, with a pattern of blue and scarlet enameled triangles. She did not mind wearing it; the life she was living as a bondservant was much easier than the one she had been destined for, that of a migrant picker.

The small room held little that was hers. The drums were hers; Isak had, in a moment of generosity, given them to her. The clothes she wore, by custom, were her own. The items in the cedar chest—brush, comb, bronze mirror, gold chain, sandals—were hers. The Cards were hers. They lay beneath her pillow, in a wooden box. They were very old—she did not know how old—and had been designed for telling fortunes, for seeing into the future. They had been her mother's. There were twenty-two of them, all different, and she had given them names from the images. They were numbered, too. Sorren had learned to read numbers in the grapefields. One of them, the Dancer, had no number; the rest did, and she kept them in order in the wooden box, wrapped in a scrap of red silk.

Her fingers tapped the drumheads. Telling fortunes was contrary to the chea, the Tanjo said so. But Sorren was not troubled by that prohibition; she did not know how to use the Cards. She could not remember if her mother had. She wished she could remember all the stories her mother told; they might have explained where the Cards had come from, and how they worked. They even might have explained Sorren's visions.

She had thought of showing Arré the Cards. But if she showed Arré the Cards, she might have to tell Arré about the gift, and Arré would tell the witchfolk, and then Sorren would be forced to leave the Med house and live in the Tanjo and serve the chea, and be shut away from all her friends, especially Paxe, and never go to the mountains.

That would be awful. Her fingers danced on the drumheads. Pah-pah-pah, pah-pah-PAH. She would hate it; she would run away.

Two

Paxe's day began with the dawn. The birds woke her, and then the light, leaping through the eastern window. She lay in bed, not moving, sorting out the sensations of the morning. From the Med house she could hear the clatter and bustle as Toli, the kitchen apprentice, cleaned the ashes from the furnace beside the house and lit the new fire. The scents of pine and hemlock drifted on the wind. The breeze was moist and salty, blowing from the south. She stretched; her sinews creaked, and her joints popped softly. Lifting on her elbows, she cocked her head, listening for sounds from the lower room. But she heard nothing; Ricard had not slept in the cottage this night. She had not expected him to be there: on the rare occasions he deigned to use her house, he filled it full of heavenweed smoke, and she would have smelled it. Besides, she would have heard him stagger in.

She rose, and dressed. She was used to getting up early by now; she had been doing it all summer. The three Med commanders—Paxe, Kaleb, and Ivor—rotated from watch to watch four times a year, with the season's change. Day watch went from sunrise to midafternoon; late watch, Ivor's watch, went from afternoon to midnight, and night watch went from midnight to sunrise. The actual times of the watch were flexible, to allow for the variability of the seasons. Night watch was the most unpredictable and day watch the busiest of the three duties, and day watch was Paxe's current command.

Kaleb was waiting for her just within the Yard gate.

“Good morning,” he said.

She smiled at him. “Good morning.” They knew each other well. He had been her second-in-command for seven, and her friend for sixteen, years. After the death of her daughters in the plague, Shana Med, Arré Med's mother, had given Paxe permission to leave her post in the vineyards and travel. She journeyed west, to Shanan, and then farther still, across the Asech territory to Tor's Rest, a small village at the southernmost tip of the Red Hills.

She had stayed there two years. On the journey back she met Kaleb, and he followed her to the city and joined the Med guard at her recommendation. It was likely (though not certain) that he was Ricard's father.

“How went the night?” she asked.

Kaleb leaned on the Yard wall. “This district was quiet. There was trouble on the docks, but the Jalar guard broke it up."

Dock work was tedious and exhausting; sometimes the loaders and fisherfolk battled just for release. “Anyone injured?"

“Not really. There were a few cracked heads. The Jalar guards had to use their spearbutts."

That was usual. “Who started it?” Paxe asked.

“I don't know,” said Kaleb. “But rumor says Col Ismenin was in it."

He would not report rumor to her if he did not think it had some truth. “This isn't the first time that's been said,” she commented. The Ismenin brothers were known to be brawlers. She looked Kaleb up and down. His clothes were dusty. He was three years younger than she, and already there was gray in his hair, but he would never say he was tired. “Go to bed,” she said.

“I'm going."

She watched him leave the Yard. Ricard did not look like him, not really. She wondered where her son had spent the night. He played around the city half the day, spending her money and smoking heavenweed.... He was fifteen. At fifteen, she had been pregnant. Perhaps it was time for her to admit that he was no longer a child.

She began her exercises. Standing in the center of the wide, quiet space, she stretched her body in a circle, north, south, east, and west. She tended her muscles the way her guards tended their weapons, honing them, oiling them. Her frame was still as hard and slim as it had been when she was Sorren's age, but now she had to work to keep it so.

“Good morning, Yardmaster!” A handful of her guards came through the Yard gate. She waved a greeting. “Heard about the fight last night?"

That was Seth; he liked fighting. “I heard,” she said. “Were you in it?"

His chocolate face split in a smile. “Not me. I was home in bed."

“That's a wonder,” said Paxe.

Seth mimed astonishment.

“Don't give me that innocent look. I know you.” She had had to order him beaten twice, for fighting in the Yard. He threw his hands out, palms up, the picture of innocence, and she shrugged. The other guards jostled and teased him as they walked to the weapons shed. Paxe left them to train without her. This was the time of day when she normally made her rounds. She strolled to the Gate. The Med district was the most irregularly laid out of all the districts. It was shaped like a boot; the opening of the boot pointed south, and the toe east, and the heel of it came smack against the Northwest Gate. Paxe called it “the Med district,” but deep inside she thought of it as hers: her territory, her realm, her piece of the city.

She stopped at the Travelers’ Hall on Well Street to eat a morning meal. The cityfolk greeted her; travelers (who ate in the Hall for free) stared at her, obviously wondering who she was. She strolled through the Wine Market, picking her teeth free of sausage. In the Street of the Goldsmiths, she halted at a shop. The smith smiled and pulled out all his trays.

“Yardmaster Paxe, to what do we owe this pleasure? Is there something you would like? Just tell me."

Paxe looked at the lovely, expensive baubles. Once, years ago, she had purchased a bracelet at this shop for Arré. “I like it all, Tian, but I'm not going to buy it.” She tapped the tray. “Put ‘em back before the thieves get restless."

“With you standing here? Never.” But he put the trays in the shop. She walked south, to the Tanjo guardpost. The Med guard, a woman named Orilys, saluted her with a palms-together bow.

Four districts bordered the Tanjo precincts: Med, Minto, Isara, and Sul, and all four maintained a guard there. “How is it?” Paxe asked.

Orilys glanced at the Tanjo dome. Beyond the gate, the wide, white walkway shone in the sunlight. Near the entrance, an acolyte swept the already spotless pavement with a broom. A red bird skimmed over their heads, heading for its nest. A colony of them lived in the crannies of the building. “Quiet,” she said. “It's always quiet here."

The traffic at the Northwest Gate was normal. Paxe stood to watch it. The guards fidgeted, and she grinned at them, guessing she was interrupting their dice game. They would return to it the moment she left. A green-clad courier arrived at the Gate, and the guards held back a cart to let her come in first. Paxe wondered where she'd been, and what her message was. It was not urgent; if it had been, the messenger would have been on horseback. That was one of the privileges of the Green Clan; they could ride horses within the city gates.

A gaggle of children swarmed around her as she left the Gate. “Yardmaster!” they shouted, and she patted them—all the ones she could reach—and gave the oldest a bronze piece with instruction to buy them all some pears. They ran off, dodging the incoming carts.

On the way back to the hill, Paxe walked through Oil Street. It was so named because it had once been lined with choba trees, which bore the long yellow pods from which choba oil was pressed. A mill for processing the oil still stood at the end of the avenue. But the trees had been pinched until they ceased to bear, and had been cut down some years back. The mill sat deserted. The houses here were ramshackle and old. Hard-eyed men and sullen women watched her pass, and the ragamuffin children squatting in the gutters did not call to her. A goat wandered untethered in the road.

Her steps seemed to echo on the cracked, dry street, and over everything hung the sweetish heavy scent of heavenweed. A few of the gardens sprouted corn, but most of them were dry, the plants withered and lifeless. It was not a good place for a stranger to walk. Paxe wondered what would have happened if the choba trees had continued to bear fruit. But there were few productive choba trees left in the city; most of them had been cut down to make room for more houses. Choba oil came from the orchards of Shirasai. Tattered banners, marking vacant buildings where once there had been flourishing shops, flapped over her head. Skinny cats prowled through piles of rubbish. The desolation made her sad, and she told herself that every district had an Oil Street. Hers was no worse than most.

She approached the Yard from the rear. As she walked around the high red fence, she smelled heavenweed. Some of the off-duty guards had been smoking, she guessed. She hoped it was the off-duty guards, and not the ones whose watch it was: she had strictly forbidden her soldiers to smoke or drink on watch. The Yard sounded empty; there were none of the shouts and grunts of people training.

Quietly she went around to the gate. The guard was not at his post. She frowned. But the Yard was not, after all, empty: a small knot of people stood in a corner where the fence posts joined. She couldn't see what they were doing; they seemed to be looking at something. Evrith, the gate guard, was one of them.

She felt her temper rising. If they were smoking heavenweed in the Yard, she thought, she'd have the hide off them in strips! She strode through the gate. Suddenly, one of them—it was Seth—stepped to one side and raised both hands in the air. Paxe saw what they were looking at and her muscles clenched in shock: they were looking at the summer sunlight, pouring like water off the hard edge of a naked sword.

* * * *

At first, the guards did not see her walking toward them. When they did, they froze. She held out her right hand. “Give it here,” she said. Silently Seth laid the hilt in her palm. She wrapped both hands around it. It was bronze, with a decorative raised pattern that made the worn metal easier to hold.

Automatically her body recalled stance and balance: she advanced her right foot, and swung the blade. She'd learned to use one in Tor's Rest, from Tyré, who had claimed to have trained with Doménia, last of the line of Van of Vanima. She swung the sword again, and it sang as it cut the air.

Her guards were looking at her as if they had never seen her before.

“You didn't know I've used these,” she said. “Where did you get it?"

Evrith started to speak, and Seth elbowed him. “It's mine,” he said. “I bought it from a smith's son."

“Where did he get it?"

“Made it,” Seth said airily.

Paxe squinted at the single-edged blade. It was shorter than the one Tyré had taught her to use, but it looked just as old.

“Where's the sheath?” she asked.

Seth plucked it from the ground. She held out her hand for it, and he gave it to her. It was leather, old cracked leather. She scowled. The sword looked too used and too well-made to have been fashioned by some ambitious blacksmith's son.

Again Evrith started to speak. Fiercely, Seth said, “Shut your mouth!"

Paxe glanced sharply at him. He's lying, she thought. Insolently, he met the look, and her temper rose again. Sheathing the sword, she bent to put it down and then sprang up, snapping upright as a plucked bowstring leaps to place. She fisted her left hand in Seth's shirtfront and shook him till his eyes rolled, and when she finished shaking him, she slapped him. “That's for lying. Where did you get it?” She waited till he was about to speak and then hit him again, very hard.

Tears came to his eyes, and a name jolted out of him. “Lyrith!"

“Who does he fight for?” Paxe said.

“Ismeninas,” Seth muttered, swaying in her grasp.

Paxe let him go.

She picked up the sword again. “Would you care to have to account for your possession of an edged weapon in the Tanjo?” she said. Seth's face grayed. They all shook their heads. “Then I suggest you forget you ever saw or touched this.” She lifted the sword.

Evrith said, “Yes, Yardmaster.” They stepped out of her way as she turned to leave the Yard. As she passed around the outside of the fence, she smelled the heavenweed, still heavy in the air. The whole incident had taken almost no time at all.

She took the sword to her house and laid it upstairs, by the bed. The look of it disturbed her. What if Ricky came upstairs and saw the sword lying there? She went back down the stairs. Lifting the lid of her cedarwood chest, she nestled the blade in among the quilts and covered it until it was concealed by the folds. She would have to tell Arré about it, of course. Arré would want to know how it got into her hands, where it was from, who made it. She dug it out again and took it apart, as old Tyré had taught her.

On the tang she found scratched runes which were the maker's name. She puzzled over them, but the script was strange, and she gave up. Under the name was a little fish emblem; that told her enough. The sword had indeed come out of the north, from Tezera, and it was old. Rust streaked the steel. It had to have been made before the Ban.

She fitted it back together again. Even the discolored steel felt dangerous, both for what it was, and for what it meant. It was ni'chea. Edged weapons, so the witches said, shattered that harmony which drew people together in peace and made the land of Arun fruitful, it was forbidden to own them or use them in the city. The prohibition was not total, but the terms of the exceptions were clear and known to every child in the city streets—which only made the swords more fascinating, Paxe knew.

Her image of the Guardian sat in its niche in the wall. She rarely looked at it; it was part of her life, like her past. It was made of red stone, a rarity in Kendra-on-the-Delta: most of the statues in the city were made of clay, and were white. Kaleb had given it to her. The Asech were serious about symbols. Kaleb had not been back to the desert in ten years, but he still wore the token of the Rat Clan where it could not be seen, under his shirt.

Paxe gazed at the stylized face, wondering what to do. By law, she should bring the sword to the Tanjo, give it to the witches, and name Seth as its possessor. She wondered what they would do to Seth if she betrayed him to them. He could be banished from the city, whipped, fined, or worse. The last man to bring a sword into the city had had his right hand struck off.

Frowning, she returned the sword to the chest. Then she rose and left the house. Before she talked to anyone, Arré or the witches, she wanted to know exactly where the sword had come from.

She went down the hill to Spring Street, and there, turning east, she walked toward the river, toward the district which was named for and guarded by the Ismeninas.

* * * *

The Ismenin house was made of stone. It sat on a bluff, with its broad back to the river. It was new. The original Ismenin mansion, like the other great houses of the city, had been built of red cypress, that beautiful wood which had the property of silvering as it aged. It was Rath Ismenin, Ron Ismenin's grandfather, who had caused the stone house to be built. In the Council Year Ninety-Three, he and others traveled to Tezera, to discuss the effects of the Ban on commerce. Visiting the high families of Tezera, Rath Ismenin walked through marble halls for the first time. When he returned south, he ordered the Ismenin mansion razed to the earth, and built himself a house of white granite, with architects and masons hired from Tezera, under the shocked gaze of his neighbors.

The street on which the house stood was called, with characteristic city humor, Rath's Alley. The Yard was next to the house. Like the Med Yard, it was a fenced, dirt-filled square. Paxe strode briskly toward it.

A guard stood outside the tall iron gate. “Good morning,” Paxe said. “I want to see Yardmaster Dobrin.” Dobrin had been Yardmaster of the Ismenin Yard for fifteen years. He was a small, dark man, older than Paxe. She knew him—not well, but all the Yardmasters of Kendra-on-the-Delta knew each other.

The gate guard said, “I'm sorry. The Yardmaster is teaching now."

Paxe stepped back to see him clearly. He was young, with a silly little mustache on his upper lip; it looked like a caterpillar. “My name is Paxe,” she said. “I am Yardmaster of the Med Yard.” Expecting him to move, she stepped forward. Courtesy demanded that he let her in.

Licking dry lips, he held his spear like a bar across the gate. Gray and gold tassels hung below its point. “I'm sorry, Yardmaster,” he said. “No one is permitted to enter the Ismenin Yard who does not wear Ismenin colors."

Paxe had never heard of such an order. “Whose orders are those?” she said.

“Ron Ismenin's."

She looked him up and down, a measuring stare. He was sweating. They both knew how easy it would be for her to move him aside. She cocked her head, hearing the clash of wood striking wood and numbers being shouted ("One—and two—and three—and four!") through the gate. She said, “Tell Yardmaster Dobrin that I am here and wish to speak with him."

Gulls circled over her head, crying mockery. There were always gulls by the river. Hands on her hips, she stepped back to give the guard room to make up his mind what to do. If he refused to carry her message to Dobrin, she would go through him.

He swallowed. “Excuse me, Yardmaster,” he said. He pushed the bolt back and slipped through the door. She heard him bolt it from the other side. She stared at the gate, holding her temper.

In a very short while, the guard was back. She heard him slip the bolt. He did not come out; instead, he held the door open for her. “Excuse me,” he repeated.

She looked at him the way she would have looked at one of her own soldiers. “There are rust spots on your spearhead."

Within the Yard, the Ismenin soldiers were drawn up into two lines. The guards in the lines faced each other, making a row of pairs. They held wooden swords. Paxe watched quietly as they swung the swords up and down, halting at waist level on the downstroke. The presence of the guard at the gate should have forewarned her, she thought. A boy staggered by her, carrying a bucket. Setting the bucket down, he flung water on the blowing dust. The line of the swords arced upward. The soldiers pretended not to see her. One man caught her eye: he was tall, light-skinned, his hair was reddish brown, and he wore silks, not cotton. He had a gold ring on his right middle finger.

She wondered who he was. In the Med Yard no one, not even she, wore rings. He saw her watching him, and smiling, he lifted his weapon and brought it down in a clean, sharp cut. At the lowest point, his body clenched. His hands did not quiver.

“One—and two—and three—and four!” A woman's voice counted cadence. Paxe watched the redhead, and decided that he was probably one of the younger Ismenin brothers. She saw no live blades, anywhere. She waited, and after a while Dobrin appeared. He wore gray cottons, stained with sweat. There was more white in his mustache than she remembered, but apart from that, he looked as he always did.

“Welcome,” he said.

“Thank you for admitting me to your Yard,” Paxe said.

He scowled. His salt-and-pepper brows drew together. “You should not have been kept waiting. The order was not meant to apply to you."

The shadows of the wooden swords danced on the dust.

“I would like to speak with you alone, Dobrin."

“What of?” he said.

Paxe glanced at him. He was watching his soldiers, face impassive. She admired his composure. “Of a guard in your command,” she said. “Named Lyrith."

* * * *

Dobrin took her to his cottage. His home was even less cluttered than hers. He had never married, Paxe recalled, and perhaps that accounted for it; whatever children he might have fathered remained within their mother's house. The front room had no chairs, only cushions, and a low table on which rested a spray of pink blossoms in a copper bowl. The walls and floor were bare.

Paxe sat on a pillow. Dobrin went to the kitchen, and returned first with water and then with a dish of fetuch and a small lacquered jar filled with salt. They sprinkled salt on the crisp green stalks and ate them. The shared food had a pleasant sense of ritual. In a small niche on the eastern wall of the room sat a white clay image of the Guardian. Beneath it, on a shelf, sat a second spray of flowers. When they had eaten all the fetuch, Dobrin took the dish and salt jar back to the pantry. Returning, he seated himself on the pillow and folded his hands in his lap.

“It's been a long time,” he said, “since we shared a meal."

Paxe's mouth twitched. Six stalks of fetuch! “So that's how you stay so thin,” she said.

Dobrin smiled. “You wish to speak to me of Lyrith,” he prompted.

“Yes,” said Paxe. She could still hear the count from the Yard through Dobrin's window. She wished she were not facing the Guardian; the image seemed to watch her, seeing her thought before she spoke, as could the witches in the Tanjo, some of them.

“When I came back to my Yard from making rounds this morning,” she said, “I found one of my men with a sword. A live blade. I took it from him. I asked him where it came from. He confessed to me that Lyrith, of this house, gave it or sold it to him, I don't know which."

Dobrin said evenly, “I see. Was it marked?” he said.

“It had the fish emblem on the tang."

Dobrin's hands clenched, and relaxed. Rising, he went to the door and jerked it open, and his voice cut like a knife across the cadence of the count. “Gavriénna!"

The woman ceased counting. In a moment she appeared at the cottage door. “Yardmaster?"

Dobrin said grimly, “Bring me Lyrith."

The woman bowed and vanished. Paxe heard her shouting.

When she returned, she towed a young, dark-skinned man. Dobrin reseated himself and beckoned his soldiers inside. “Paxe-no-Tamaris, Yardmaster to Arré Med,” he said, indicating Paxe. “She comes to this Yard with an accusation. Lyrith, do you know a Med guard named—” he glanced at Paxe.

“Seth,” she said.

The man bit his lower lip. “Yes, Yardmaster."

“Did you sell or give to him a Tezeran sword?"

Lyrith looked at the ground. Gavriénna shook him. “Answer quickly!"

Lyrith said, “Yes, Yardmaster."

“Where did you get it?"

Lyrith gulped. “My cousin is a trader, Yardmaster. When we—when we began training with the wooden swords, I asked him to bring me one. He brought me two. Seth is bedmate to my sister; he saw them in the house and wanted one. I gave it to him."

“Even though, when we began training, you were warned that possession of live blades was and is forbidden."

“Yes, Yardmaster."

Dobrin leaned forward. “You have been forbidden to own a sword,” he said. “You have been forbidden to even talk about the training here. If word were to reach the Tanjo that there is a sword in your house, do you realize what could happen to you? You could be banished, your hand could be struck off! Yet you ask some trader to bring you a sword, as if you had never heard me say, You may not own a blade. Do you know what the witchfolk could do to you for this?"

He had not raised his voice. But Lyrith was gray, and sweating where he stood. “Yes, Yardmaster."

“You are a fool."

“Yes, Yardmaster."

“I shall not bother to report this to Ron Ismenin. Tomorrow you shall bring me this blade you have. And today at noon you shall go to the post; Gavriénna, ten strokes, and I want every guard in the Yard to witness it.” The watch commander nodded. “Get out of here."

“Come on, fool,” said Gavriénna . She jerked Lyrith from the cottage. Paxe glimpsed the man's face for a moment; he was near to tears. She could not tell if they were tears of shame or of relief.

“Are you satisfied?” said Dobrin, folding his hands again.

Paxe was silent. The count resumed. ("One—and two—and three—and four!")

“No,” she said finally. “No, I am not satisfied. Dobrin, why are you training with swords, when they are forbidden in the city?"

“Because I am Yardmaster,” said Dobrin. “I obey the house I serve."

“Even though you break the Ban?"

Dobrin leaned forward. “I do not break the Ban."

“Because you have no live blades? Don't play with me, I am not a magistrate. You are knowingly breaking the Ban. You know it, and Ron Ismenin knows it. Why else would you be telling your guards not to talk about their training, and why else would your lord have set a guard to keep strangers from your Yard gate?"

Dobrin said, “I am teaching the kyomos, Paxe, the short sword."

“Chea, what difference does it make, the word you use?"

“Do you know the exact words of the Ban?” Dobrin asked.

“No,” said Paxe. “I have not read it. But I know what it says, and so do you."

Dobrin said, “It is written in the old tongue. I don't know it, but it has been translated for me. It lists the weapons which are forbidden in the city. There are two words for ‘sword’ in the old language: one betokens the long blade, one a short blade with a single edge. The Ban never mentions this second weapon."

The blade she had taken from Seth was short, with a single edge. “Do you tell me that short swords are not covered by the intent of the Ban?"

Dobrin shook his head. “I would not tell you that. But I do tell you that short swords are not covered by the language of the Ban."

Paxe's throat began to ache. “Dobrin, we are not Scholars, you and I. We are Yardmasters. Our oath binds us to uphold the law. If we break the spirit of the Ban, we break the law—and more. We break the chea."

“Ah,” said Dobrin. “Do we?” He leaned forward, face suddenly passionate. “I think not, Paxe. No, listen to me. We cityfolk are taught from childhood to reverence the witchfolk, to believe that, because of their powers, they are closer to knowledge than the rest of us. What we are taught to forget is that they are simply men and women, like you and me. Whatever their powers, they are only human, and I don't believe that they know any more than you or I, or anyone, about law, or truth, or the chea. More, Paxe. I am no longer sure that the chea asks that we do one thing within the city Gates, and another outside them. Outside the city, folk may wear and use edged weapons, inside not, and the witchfolk claim the chea wills it so. Yet the sign of the chea's presence is prosperity and concord among peoples, and look—outside the city walls there is no discord. It's been a hundred years since there was war! If the Ban is so necessary to keeping Arun peaceful, why, without it, has the country prospered?” He rapped on the table for emphasis. She had always thought of him as taciturn, and his volubility surprised her. This was the only speech she had ever heard him make.

For a moment Paxe's mind wheeled back to the Red Hills, to Tor's Rest, to Tyré. The old cheari had hated the Ban. “It makes no sense,” he argued. “How can there be one chea for the cities and another for the Galbareth?” He was dead now; he had died in her arms, from a viper's bite so virulent that they had not had time to go for the Healer, three towns away. His death had broken Paxe's heart all over again.

“Then you believe the Ban—"

“Is human-made,” finished Dobrin. “Made by the witches. I suppose they thought they had good reason to make it, when they did. But the world changes."

("One—and two—and three—and four!")

The face of the Guardian smiled serenely across the room. Paxe's mouth was dry. She said, “I will have to tell Arré Med that you are teaching the short sword, Dobrin."

“I know that,” he said. “Think of what I have been saying to you, Paxe, about the chea."

Paxe rubbed the scar on her thigh. She could feel it through the coarse cloth of her pants. Tyré had given it to her, in training.

“Be assured,” she answered, “I will."

Three

The Council of Houses of Kendra-on-the-Delta met for the third time that year in the house of Arré Med, on the fifth night of the third week of the last month of summer, in the 146th year since the Council's founding.

Five families had seats on the Council. It had been three; it could be seven or nine. The odd number avoided deadlocks. The heads of the families, or their delegates, came to the meetings, which rotated each time from house to house in a set design.

Arré Med sat at the head of the table, facing the big double doors of the long parlor, as befitted her position as host. She was wearing new clothes in honor of the occasion; a skirt and tunic of blue and silver silk. She picked at her dessert, listening with half an ear to Boras Sul, who had changed his mind at the last minute and decided to come after all. He was describing a gold bowl which one of his pet traders had brought him from Tezera, and he was wearing red, which made him look even grosser than he was. Not for the first time, Arré decided that Boras was a tiresome, acquisitive fool.

They had started the meal early, and had been eating for—Arré glanced at the hour candle in its niche—almost two hours. The table was heaped with fishbones. Sorren stood by the door. She had directed the meal, the way the leader of a traveling show directs her acrobats and jugglers, and she had done it well. The Council officially began when the meal ended. Arré signaled Sorren to have the platters cleared from the table.

As the girl bent to take her dish, she said softly, “Is the scribe here?"

Sorren nodded. “She says. Will you please not keep her standing in the hall, because her knees hurt."

Arré chuckled. The scribe was—had been, for fifteen years—an irascible old woman named Azulith-no-Alis. “Get her a chair."

“I have."

“Good.” Arré relinquished her plate. “And my brother?"

“He arrived a few moments ago."

“Where did you put him?"

“In the little room off the hall."

“Fine. When we move to the chairs, bring glasses and two flasks of the northern wine.” Sorren dipped her head in a half bow.

“Arré, my dear, you set a superb table,” said Boras, settling back in his chair. It creaked. He waved one hand in the air, and then laid it delicately across his stomach. “I commend your cook."

Arré said, “I will be sure to tell him."

“I wonder—” Boras hesitated, in the manner of a man about to commit an indiscretion—"would you be willing to part with the recipe for the flounder?"

“I will have my cook copy it and send it to your kitchen,” Arré promised, offering up a smile of thanks to the ghost of her mother, Shana, who had taught her that people were so much easier to handle when their bellies were full.

“The Med table has always been excellent,” said Boras, pursuing his love with earnest single-mindedness.

“Thank you,” said Arré. Her neck was starting to ache from being polite, and she was terribly aware of Isak waiting in the nearby room.

She was tired. The day before (and the day before that, and three days before that) she had spent with her surveyors, who wanted to dig holes all over the district, like children in a mudpile, and could not seem to understand when she insisted that they present her with a systematic plan for the street enlargements they wanted to make. Today she'd visited the district court, slipping into the rear unannounced to listen to her judges. She wanted very much to sleep. It was too much to hope that the meeting would end early, of course. She had no business to declare to the Council, but someone would.

She glanced down the table. Marti Hok sat at the foot of the table, as was her right; she was the oldest of the Councillors. She was also the one with whom Arré most often allied in the voting. Beside her, to Arré's right, sat Kim Batto. His head was bent, and the light gleamed on his bald spot. Kim was fussy and often obstructive, but his house had strong ties to the White Clan and for that reason Kim was both important and dangerous. Cha Minto sat next to Kim, closest to Arré. Boras sat across from the other two men.

Cha Minto looked up from contemplating the grain of the table. “Thank you for dinner, Arré,” he said. He was the youngest of the Councillors, and normally he was laden with trivia, chatter, bits of gossip about this house or that. Arré wondered what was wrong, that he was so silent.

“You're welcome,” she said. “You're very quiet tonight."

“I'm sorry."

Arré snorted. “No one said you had to talk."

“I could always talk about the food,” he said, eyes on Boras.

She grinned at him. “Don't bother.” She dropped her voice. “Boras does enough of that, for two."

It was meant to make him laugh. But he simply smiled perfunctorily, and looked at his hands. She gave up. Marti Hok was smiling, as if she sensed Arré's impatience. She looks, Arré thought, like a fat spider. It was no insult—it was the image she used when she thought of herself; a thin, dark, swiftly moving insect, ignorable, until it bit you.

The oldest Councillor tapped the floor with her cane. Its silver head was cast in the shape of a phoenix. “Shall we begin?” she called.

“Let's,” said Kim.

Arré nodded. She gestured for Marti, as the eldest of the company, to rise first. At the other end of the parlor, a grouping of chairs sat beside the fireplace. The grate was empty, of course, though tongs and a tinderbox and a pile of seasoned birch logs sat nearby. The mantel of the fireplace had been freshly waxed, and the oak gleamed like silk. Two lamps with oilskin screens stood on the mantel, ready for lighting. A tall red lacquered vase filled with blue lilies rested in the arched hollow of the fireplace.

The Councillors made themselves comfortable. Sorren came in with a tray laden with glasses and the flasks of dry, amber wine. She handed each Councillor a wine glass. A scraping sound told Arré that the table they had just left was being moved against the wall to make room for Isak's dance. Azulith came in, and sat on the stool that had been placed for her at Arré's left. “Good evening,” she said cheerily. Boras pretended deafness; Kim gazed into space. Marti smiled.

“Good evening, Azulith. How are your knees?"

“Terrible. It's the damp off the water, my lady, that makes them ache.” Azulith settled her scroll case on her lap and took out her brush and ink stands.

“I know,” said Marti. “So do mine."

“Shall we start?” snapped Kim.

“My goodness,” said Marti, making her voice dulcet, “what are you in such a hurry about?"

Kim pursed his lips. To forestall what he might say, Arré said, “Sorren, close the doors."

Sorren drew the big double doors closed. Arré lifted the wine glass to her lips. She liked the smell of good wine, although she rarely drank more than one glass. Drink made her sleepy, and too much made her sick. Sorren came round to the hearth and lit the two chobata on the mantel. They glowed softly through their painted porcelain skins. Arré set her glass down on the table which Sorren had placed, for that purpose, at her elbow. “Who has something to declare?” she said.

These words officially opened the Council meeting.

Kim Batto crossed his legs beneath his black and scarlet robe. “I do,” he said.

Arré folded her hands in her lap. The Batto family and the Med family had a long history of enmity, going back two hundred years, to before the founding of the Council. Ewain Med, a captain of the city guard and the Med heir, had been killed by the eldest son of the Batto line, a man named Raven Batto. He had been outlawed, and with him, of her own desire and to her family's despair, had gone Maranth Med, next in line as heir to the Med house.

Tales of their travels to Anhard or to the Red Hills had persisted throughout Arun for years after their disappearance, but since they never returned to Kendra-on-the-Delta, no one had ever been certain where they had gone. The families had bickered and fought and blamed each other for the tragedy, until Lerril Hok brought them together again, some sixty years after the death of Ewain Med. The act had given the Hok house a reputation for peacemaking which they had never lost.

“The Council hears,” said Arré.

The scribe lifted her brush. The Councillors, even Boras Sul, leaned forward a little in their cushioned seats. Arré felt a flicker of excitement chase through her nerves.

“It concerns the trade in heavenweed. My guards tell me it has increased markedly lately, especially among the Asech youth."

The Batto family controlled trade with the Asech, whose merchants sold spices, beadwork, pottery, and dyes at all the city markets. For those goods, they received cloth, heavenweed, grain for their horses, and metal and leather goods. They still considered themselves desertfolk, but more and more of them were living in the city, or working in the cotton fields and vineyards. They had become a source of cheap labor, welcomed in times of prosperity, looked askance at in times of drought.

Arré said, “Are you making a complaint?"

“I am,” said Kim.

“Don't you tax the trade?” asked Marti Hok.

“Of course we tax the trade,” snapped Kim.

“Then the increased demand is making money for you. Don't complain."

Kim looked annoyed. “Marti, there are more important things than money. You miss the point. Have you noticed the effects of heavenweed on your servants, your dockworkers, even your guards? It makes them quarrelsome, and lazy. They stop wanting to work; they lie around all day and smoke, and at night they make trouble."

Marti said, “Heavenweed doesn't make people lazy, Kim. In case you hadn't noticed, people are lazy. And no, I can't say I've noticed any such effect among my guards, but then, my guards don't smoke on duty. Do yours?"

“Of course not!” Kim said.

Azulith said, “It's easy to say there are more important things than money when you have never lacked it."

“Azulith, be quiet,” said Arré automatically. “Marti, be serious."

“I am being serious,” said Marti. “Do you want to limit the trade, Kim?"

Kim frowned. “Well, I would not say that. It has occurred to me that more stringent controls might be in order. I might start by raising licensing fees. Fewer merchants would be able to afford it, and the trade might drop."

Marti said, “The Blue Clan would not like that. Also, raising fees will encourage people to buy from unlicensed merchants. You would not want to encourage that."

“No,” said Kim. “No, I wouldn't.” He sat back.

Arré said, “Cha, what do you think about the heavenweed trade?"

The young Councillor looked blankly at her. “I beg your pardon,” he said automatically. “I was not listening. I am sure Kim will do the right thing."

Kim looked torn between pleasure at the praise and annoyance at Cha's inattention.

Arré said, “Is there more to be said on this matter?"

No one spoke. Boras Sul coughed portentously. “I have something to declare."

Marti Hok sighed.

“The Council hears,” said Arré.

Boras wanted to talk about money. Since the thirty-fourth year of the founding of the Council, Kendra-on-the-Delta had used the polished shell pieces, the bontas, to buy and sell with, instead of gold and silver. Assayers sat at all eight city Gates, with weights and scales and measures. Merchants and travelers entering the city surrendered their metal coinage, and received bracelets of shells; when they left, they returned the remaining shell pieces and received back the equivalent in metal coinage, less the city's percentage, in exchange.

The Sul house licensed the assayers. They also oversaw the craftsfolk who cut and carved the pearly mussel shells out of which the bontas were made. The shells were cut in five sizes. The smallest counted least. Cityfolk called them “the bones.” The little one was called by some the wishbone, by some the fingerling. The others were known as deuces, treys, tetras, and quints, also called largos. The careful measurements and weighing of the metal currencies was vital to the city; when every township up the river could stamp a crest on a piece of copper and call it a coin, the making of the bones in Kendra-on-the-Delta acted as a stabilizing force to Arun's economy.

But lately. Boras explained, the assaying tables had been glutted with coins made of bronze. “Like throwing pebbles in the scale! Might as well take a piece of clay, cut a mark in it, and call it money."

He has a face like a bronze coin, Arré decided. Round and flat and just that color. He was glaring at them all as if he suspected them of having engineered the glut. “Waste of the assayers’ time!"

“Where do the coins come from?” asked Marti.

Boras scowled. “From Nuath."

Nuath was the largest of the towns on the river, after Mahita. Most of the grain for Kendra-on-the-Delta flowed first into Nuath, and then onto the great Blue Clan barges which carried it downstream. They must be doing well if they can afford a mint, she thought. Most of the towns on the river used coins from Shanan or Tezera.

“They have a face on them,” said Boras. “I'm told it's the face of the town banker. Calls himself a lord. Name's Tarn. Calls himself Tarn i Nuath."

Kim Batto said, “I know of him. He's a Ryth.” The Ryth house was a prominent Blue Clan family, with a branch in Kendra-on-the-Delta and another in Shanan. “He thinks he's noble because he has money. He's ambitious."

Marti smiled. “Who is not?"

Kim looked pious.

“Dangerous?” said Arré. Petty houses, especially those which controlled or could control a key point of the grain trade, could be dangerous.

“I think not,” said Kim.

Marti said idly, “How do you know of this man, Kim?"

Kim smiled. “I sell him pots,” he said.

Kim considered himself something of an expert on Asech pottery. People had been known to consult him from as far away as Shanan on the work of a particular tribe or potter. “Does he have taste?” asked Marti curiously.

Kim flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. “None at all, my dear Marti,” he said. “The man's a barbarian."

He sounded very smug. Arré found her fingers curling in irritation around each other. “Boras,” she said hastily—she was not going to be rude to Kim, it only made the meetings longer—"what do your assayers do about the bronze coins now?"

“Ignore them, mostly,” grumbled Boras. “Pass them through. Some of the city merchants will take them, and some won't. I don't like it, though. It undermines standards."

“You could set up separate tables for bronze coins,” said Arré.

“Too much trouble,” said Boras. “Besides, it would only encourage people to use them."

This was true, Arré thought. Occasionally even Boras showed flashes of intelligence.

Marti Hok said, “Why not do nothing? It doesn't sound serious yet. Tell the assayers to pass the bronze coins through without weighing them, and tell the city merchants that bronze coins cannot be used as payment for taxes or for any city services."

“Um,” said Boras.

“I like that,” said Kim.

Cha Minto merely nodded. Arré wondered how much of the talk he had heard. “I agree,” she said.

Sorren, unasked, circled round to the window and slid back the screen. It was still light out, but it was cooling. A damp breeze made the lilies tremble. Azulith worked her fingers to uncramp them; she had been writing steadily. Arré tipped her head back in her chair. It still ached. Isak. What did Isak want? There was no reason she could think of for him to desire to attend the Council this evening. She watched Sorren move around the room. If she had had children, her daughter or son would be doing what Sorren was doing now, serving wine, lighting lamps, as she, Arré, had done it for her mother. But she had never wanted to bear children.

She beckoned to Sorren. “Tell my brother we are ready. Fill the glasses before you leave.” Sorren brought the decanter around once more. When she left the room, Arré knocked on the arm of her chair.

“Councillors,” she said, “before our senses grow too dulled with wine to appreciate it, let me present you with a surprise."

* * * *

The double doors opened. Sorren entered, drums in hand. She wore black silk with gold edging; a gold chain gleamed around her throat, and the black tunic had red butterflies embroidered on it. Arré guessed that Isak had chosen her clothes, and nodded approval; his taste, as ever, was exquisite. Boras Sul gazed at the girl with suddenly gluttonous eyes.

Sorren sat on the carpeted floor and put her drums between her knees. Skillfully she began to tap a soft entering drumroll. Arré's heart jumped as she waited for Isak to appear.

Isak came through the doors.

He wore red and gold. He carried two huge fans that spread out from his supple wrists like wings. His long hair was pinned to the top of his head by a red lacquer comb. In the wide red sash gleamed the ornate hilt of the ceremonial knife that all dancers wore, recalling the time when dance was a warrior's art.

He lifted the fans, veiling his face. This dance had a story—they all did. Arré rarely bothered to follow the story. This one she knew, however: it was the Tale of the Enchanted Eagle. The drumming and the soft sounds of the silk moving eased her senses. She leaned back into the cushion of her chair and let her eyelids droop.

The drum tempo changed, quickened. She opened her eyes. Isak postured, arms extended like the eagle's wings. He turned his head from side to side, flick, flick, the way a bird would. He had darkened his skin with something. The tongue and straps of his sandals were beaded to give the illusion of taloned feet. He had even outlined his brows with black, and his eyes glowed like a bird's eyes, brilliant, impatient, and feral.

He shook his head, stamped, and turned. The comb fell from his hair. His hair washed down over his back. Now he was the Witch. He bent grotesquely. His face twisted into a mask of malice and mischief. The fans closed and became witch's wands.

The drum tempo grew martial. He straightened. The fans crossed and became a bow and arrow. Now he was the Hunter, young and eager, innocent as flame. The Hunter met the Witch, was tested, endured. At the end of the dance, the drumming lifted to a crescendo, and the dancer was an Eagle again.

Sorren rested her hands on her knees. Isak lowered the fans from his face and smiled. In the streets, Arré thought, they would be cheering and shouting. Even Azulith was still, tongue curbed, broad face rapt, ink and pages forgotten in the spell.

Rising, Sorren opened the doors. Isak swept through them, and she followed him. The Councillors sat for long minutes. Finally Cha Minto stirred in his seat. He said, “Arré, your brother has a gift."

Arré looked at him, surprised. Isak was a man for women, had his tastes changed? But no, Cha did not look like a man who had just watched a lover perform. Again she wondered what was wrong with him.

Marti Hok turned to Kim Batto. “Help me stand,” she commanded. He rose and assisted her to her feet. “Old bones,” she said. “If I sit in one spot too long, I have to be practically levered loose from it.” She hobbled around the edge of the parlor. Sorren came back to the room. She had changed her clothes; she was wearing the soft blue tunic and pants that Arré liked her servants to wear. She sidled to the open window. The cool sea mist, blowing from the south, feathered her hair to one side.

Boras heaved from his chair. “I've been sitting too long,” he said. “Excuse me.” He wobbled out the door. Cha Minto turned his wine glass in his fingers. Sorren brought the flask to him and refilled his glass.

Marti stopped beside Azulith's stool. “You write beautifully, ‘Zuli,” she said. She leaned one swollen hand on the woman's shoulder.

“Thank you, lady,” said the scribe. “The chea knows I've been doing it long enough. Twenty-eight years come the new moon."

“Who trained you?"

“Samia-no-Reo, lady."

“Ah,” said Marti. Samia-no-Reo had been one of the great scribes of the Black Clan. “I knew her, when I was a little girl. She used to tell me stories. You must be almost as old as I am, ‘Zuli."

“I'll be fifty-eight, harvesttime,” said the scribe.

“Have you children?"

“Six of them,” said the old woman.

Boras Sul came back. “Well,” he said, “what's next, eh?” He sat. Marti made her way back to her chair, and Sorren helped her into it; Arré sat a little straighter. Her neck was aching.

“I have something to declare,” said Cha Minto.

He had laid his glass aside, and sat with his fingertips together, a Scholar's gesture. It looked false on him. Arré thought of Isak, whose skill made all gestures look true. She wondered if he was still within the house, perhaps folding his clothes, those elegant dancer's robes, and waiting, impatient and feral, like the eagle.

For what was he waiting?

“The Council hears,” she said tautly.

Cha Minto cleared his throat. “It has been,” he began, “the custom of this Council to enlarge itself when families of the city grew strong enough and prosperous enough to deserve a place upon it. When the Council was first formed, its members were three, the Hok family, the Med family, and the Batto family. The Sul and Minto families were admitted to the Council in the Council Year Ninety-Six, that is, as you know, fifty years ago."

Boras Sul looked annoyed at the reminder that his family had not been one of the original Council members.

“Kendra-on-the-Delta has grown over those last fifty years. Truce and agreement was made with the Asech tribes, so that there has been peace between the people of Arun and the desert people."

That, Arré thought somewhat sourly, had more to do with the influence of the witchfolk over the credulous Asech than with the machinations of the Council.

Cha continued. “The trade with Anhard has increased."

That was true.

“The members of this Council should, I think, be proud of what they and their parents have accomplished."

Get to it, Arré thought.

“But, without minimizing the actions of the families whose representatives sit here now, much of that growth has been created by the actions of the families Jalar and Ismenin. I therefore propose that we invite those families to join our Council, making seven members."

He paused. The only sound in the room was the noise of the wind on the screen and the whisper of the scribe's brush.

Oh, that's clever, Arré thought, as the names sank in. The Hok family, Marti's family, was the oldest in the city, and Marti Hok's second child, a son, was married to the daughter of Meredith Jalar. The Jalaras ran the docks and the fishing fleet. The Ismeninas owned the mines. For years, Kendra-on-the-Delta had been dependent upon trade with Tezera for metal, particularly copper and iron. But the Ismenin family had found copper deposits in the hills east of the river, and iron in the Red Hills, west of Shanan. Iron and silver, copper and coal, flowed first through the hands of the Ismeninas, and then to the merchants and the markets of the city. They were a rough-and-tumble crew, rich, boisterous, and powerful.

Ron Ismenin and Isak Med were good, close friends.

She lifted her glass to her face and observed Cha Minto through its wavy blue crystal, wondering what he was doing, and if he even knew.

Marti Hok said, “The family Jalar has long deserved a place on the Council.” Boras Sul grunted agreement. Cha looked pleased. “However—” Cha's face grew wary—"I am not so sanguine about the Ismeninas."

Boras said, “They start brawls, that great bunch of boys, and they are all too young."

Cha Minto said, “Ron Ismenin is thirty-seven. And there are only four of them, Boras."

Boras purpled, until he looked like a turtle about to snap. Marti raised a hand. “There was a riot in the shipyards last week, Cha. The younger Ismenin brothers were right in the middle of it. They fight, they make trouble. That makes me uncomfortable. What if Ron Ismenin should drop dead? May the peace of the chea be with us all, I don't anticipate it—but I have no wish to be the eldest member of a Council of unruly children."

Kim Batto stroked his beard. “I think that is unfair, Marti,” he murmured.

Oho, Arré thought. Does that mean the White Clan looks favorably upon the Ismeninas?

Cha echoed him. “That is unfair. What if any of us drops dead? What if you die, or Arré, here?"

Boras Sul coughed. “This is premature talk,” he mumbled. “Even the witchfolk will not say when someone is about to die."

Marti Hok said, “Cha, that is very rude. Boras is quite right. If, may the chea spare me yet a few more years, if I should drop dead tomorrow, my eldest son Sironen is perfectly capable of taking my place on the Council, as he has in family business. If Arré dies, there is Isak. He is young, but he is an artist, and therefore civilized. The Ismeninas are not civilized.” She beckoned to Sorren to refill her wine.

Cha Minto looked as if someone had just dropped a bucket of sand on his head. Arré grinned. Marti's tongue had grown no duller as she aged. Even Kim Batto had his hand to his mouth, half concealing a broad smile.

“I apologize,” said Cha Minto. “I did not intend insult."

Kim dropped his hand. His voice was smooth. “I appreciate your arguments, Marti. I know Ron Ismenin somewhat. He is a reasonable man. The Jalaras are, of course, totally acceptable. I support Cha Minto in this matter, and am willing to attempt to deal with the Ismeninas."

“I'm not,” said Boras Sul. Sorren filled his glass a final time, and he ran his hand in an avuncular manner over her bare arm.

She took a hasty step back, and nearly knocked over the table at Cha Minto's elbow.

Arré said, “Careful, child.” She looked at Marti, remembering her own parents, unexpectedly dead in the plague that had gripped the city in Council Year 129. She had not wanted to be head of the household. But her mother had trained her well; she slipped into the vacancy with only a few mournful backward glances toward her lost freedom.

Marti said, “I agree that the Council should grow, as our city has enlarged. I approve the nomination of the Jalar house to membership. But until I see signs of sobriety from the Ismenin brothers, I will oppose that house's presence in our midst."

Azulith wrote furiously. Cha Minto said, “I think you are mistaken.” He was gripping the arms of his chair with such force that the knuckles whitened.

Arré said, “Cha, is there another house you might propose to make this an acceptable pairing?” There was one other house of stature, the Isaras, who controlled the choba oil trade. Cha shook his head. “Then I must say that I too find the Ismeninas—unpredictable. I agree with Marti."

The screen rattled, as the wind blew against its panels. The Councillors jumped at the sound, and Marti rubbed her hands together.

“Sorren,” said Arré, “close the window screen and lay a log in the grate."

Sorren slid the screen across the window. The breeze died. Moving the vase, she dragged the toothed grate into the center of the fireplace. Carefully, she built a firebed out of tinder and twigs. She struck flint—the tinder flared, licking at the dry logs’ scaly underbellies.

Arré stretched. Her clothes felt harsh and sticky. Cha Minto was looking at her, his mouth in a wry twist. Arré thought, If my brother Isak is using you, I feel sorry for you, my friend. “Cha,” she said.

His lips closed tight, and he turned his head, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Cha!"

He looked at her.

“Before you came here tonight, did you happen to mention the intent of your discussion to anyone? To Meredith Jalar, perhaps, or to Ron Ismenin?"

He said, “That would have been most improper."

Marti Hok said sharply, “I take it that answer means no."

“That is what it means,” he agreed.

Pulling herself from her chair, Marti stumped to the fire. “I get cold,” she remarked. She leaned on her cane, and Arré caught her breath. Marti looked feeble.

“Marti, are you well?” she said.

“Perfectly!” The old woman's eyes snapped. She glanced at Sorren, who knelt on the tiles, tongs in hand. “I would not be young again, I assure you, Arré. What's your name, girl?"

“Sorren, Lady."

Marti looked interested. “That's a northern name. Were you born in the north?"

“No, Lady,” Sorren said. She held the tongs angled in her hand like a spear. The light gleamed on her hair and pale skin as if she wore armor, and Arré thought, She looks barbaric, strange, like some warrior-woman drawn on an ancient pot. “I was born in the grapefields, I think."

“Your coloring's northern, too,” said Marti. “Do you know the story of Sorren, the Lady of Tornor?"

“No,” said the girl.

“It's a northern tale. I could tell it to you. It was Samia-no-Reo who first told it to me, when I was half your height. I did not grow much taller. Send her to me, Arré, and I will tell her the tale."

Arré felt a momentary twinge of jealousy. She did not want Marti Hok to be telling her bondservant stories. But then she shrugged. Marti had done her work on the Council for her. She deserved some thanks.

She turned her palms upward. The silver bracelets jingled on her wrists. “As long as you don't keep her from her work, Marti, you may tell her what you like."

Four

Pah-pah-pah-PAH.

Sorren hung the firetongs back on their hook. Arré and Marti talked above her. The knees of her pants grew hot with the flames; she barely felt it. Tornor. Where and what was Tornor? A trickle of sweat tickled the skin under her breasts, as the name rang like a note of music in her head.

She needed air, and space. Rising from the hearth, she sidled round the chairs to the doors. She slipped into the hall. Her cheeks were hot; she lifted her palms to them, to cool them. Through the crack in the doors she saw Boras Sul staring, and wondered if he was staring at her. She thought of several rude things she could never say to him.

Isak came from the room he had dressed in. His black hair was still pinned to his head with the red comb, but he carried his costumes—the Eagle's golden cloak, the Witch's rags, the Hunter's jeweled loincloth—carelessly over one arm, as if they were valueless. He stared at Sorren. “What's the matter with you?” he demanded.

Sorren dropped her hands. “I'm hot.” She hesitated, thinking suddenly, He was schooled; he might have heard of Tornor. But he would want to know why it mattered to her and she did not trust herself not to say too much to him.

“Is that all?” He was no longer looking at her; he was gazing at the double doors as if he could see through wood. “Sorren."

“Yes, my lord."

“In three weeks, there will be a party at the Ismenin house. I shall dance. Can you be there to drum?"

“I think so. Will you be dancing something new?"

“Something old. The Courtship."

That was a betrothal dance. Sorren wondered which of the Ismenin sons was getting married, and to whom. “I shall have to ask permission."

“From my sister.” He said the word “sister” as if it were coated with ash. He still looked at the doors. Sorren wondered what he thought was happening. She listened to the rise and fall of Arré's voice. Isak never questioned her about the meetings, although he knew she served at them. If he did, she would tell Arré, and probably he did not want Arré to know he cared enough to question servants.

He shifted the costumes from one arm to the other. “What are they doing in there?” he muttered.

“Being polite,” said Sorren. He shot her an icy look.

The doors opened all the way, and Azulith came out, carrying her scroll and brush cases. She smiled at Sorren and turned to go to the kitchen.

“Scribe!” said Isak. His soft voice cracked like a whip.

Startled, Azulith spun back, nearly dropping her brush case. “My lord?” she said.

Isak said, still softly, “I think I am due somewhat more respect than that."

Sorren blinked in surprise. Azulith had bad knees, everyone knew that. But there was nothing she could say. Angry, she stood silently by as Azulith went down on one painful knee.

“Thank you,” said Isak. “You may go.” Azulith rose with a grimace. Eyes eloquent with contempt and fury, she marched toward the back of the house. Isak did not seem to care.

Cha Minto stepped through the doors.

Isak's expressive shoulders tensed. The youngest Councillor shook his head from side to side. Sorren thought, Paxe was right. Isak was up to something, and had been disappointed. A fold of her shirt was out of place; she put it back, and looked up to see Boras Sul regarding her as if she were something to eat. Hastily she went down the hall to the wardrobe where the cloaks were hung. Boras Sul's servant came from the kitchen; she heard the fat man fussing at him. She waited as long as she dared, pretending to be busy with the cloaks, until she heard them leave.

She walked back to the doors carrying Marti Hok's cloak. Arré and Marti were talking just inside the parlor. Sorren waited for them to finish. Toli, from the kitchen, was putting the empty flasks and soiled glasses on a tray. Kim Batto, the prissy one, had gone. Sorren stroked Marti's cloak. It was fur, a soft white fur, too hot, she thought, for summer. The old woman turned and saw her holding it.

She smiled. “Let me have it, child."

Sorren settled the cloak on Marti's shoulders. Marti's skin was light brown, almost yellow, and soft with a thousand wrinkles. Her hair was white, and she wore it coiled on the crown of her head in a thick braid. She was stout and small, like Elith, but Sorren thought she was older than Elith: she had sons and daughters and grandchildren and maybe great-grandchildren.

The old woman looked up at her. “Child, you are too tall. Arré, how can you bear to have this young giant about you always?"

Arré said, “I like tall people, Marti."

“Yes. How old are you, child?"

“Seventeen, my lady,” said Sorren.

“You will not forget that you have promised to come to my house."

“Of course she will not forget,” said Arré. “Marti, it's nearly midnight, go away!"

Marti laughed. “I shall sit up half the night anyway, Arré. I sleep less and less each year. When I'm ninety I shall sit wakeful all night, like a featherless old owl in a tree, too weak to catch her own mice—and I shall be very, very wise."

Sorren grinned at this. Marti looked a little like an owl. She slid her hand in front of her face to hide her smile.

Arré said, “That may be. You are already too wise for your own good. But you're keeping me up, and I still sleep at night."

“Oh, very well, I shall leave you to your bed.” Marti nodded at Sorren. “Call my litter, please."

Sorren went into the courtyard. Under the torchlight she saw the cloth-covered hump of a litter. The four bearers were sitting beside it. She saw a light pass from hand to shadowy hand, and the scent of heavenweed drifted to her on the night wind.

She crossed the courtyard. As she reached the bearers, she saw that the door guard had joined them. He was one of the oldest guards. His name was Borti. Paxe grumbled about his age and slowness but somehow she never got around to telling him to turn in his badges. Sorren liked him; when she had first come to the city he had taken her all around the house on his back. He called her “Beanstalk” and she did not mind it. “She's ready,” she said to the bearers. They snuffed their smoke and uncoiled. One of them twitched the cloth from the litter and rolled it into a ball.

Sorren returned to the house to tell Marti Hok that her litter was ready. At that moment, Azulith came down the hall. There was grease about her plump mouth, and she carried, in addition to her scroll and brush cases, a small pouch. The smell of fish cake emanated from it. “Good night, Sorren,” she called over her shoulder.

“Good night,” said Sorren.

“Good night, Sorren,” said a familiar, mocking voice.

Sorren whirled. Isak stood in the doorway, with Cha Minto at his back.

She was still annoyed at him. “My lord,” she said. “I thought you'd gone."

“Not quite,” he said. Behind him, Cha Minto was pale, and she wondered if that pallor was Isak's fault. “Come to my house in ten days. We need to practice the Courtship."

Ten days was just past the Asech Festival of the Ox. “I will if I can, my lord,” she said.

He said, “Be sure you do.” Before she could respond—and what could she say?—the two men strolled together into the darkness. Marti Hok came to the front door, leaning heavily on her cane. Sorren pressed against the house wall to let her pass. The bearers assisted her into the litter and trotted off, the brass bells around their ankles sounding into the distance.

Arré came to the door. She sighed; she looked tired. “Close the door,” she ordered. “I want to go to bed."

Together, they went upstairs. Sorren trimmed and lit the bedroom lamp, while Arré undressed. (She did not like to be helped with that. When Sorren tried, she snapped, “I'm not decrepit!") Sorren poured a bowlful of water from the pitcher on the stand. It was scented with rose petals stripped from the garden. She brought the bowl to Arré, with a cloth. Arré wiped her face. She took off her bracelets, and Sorren laid them in their box. The box was wooden, carved with the triangle badge of the Med house. Arré had once told her it belonged to Arré's mother. It smelled musty. The little compartments were lined with amber velvet.

Arré sat on the bed, naked. “Did Boras bother you tonight?” she said suddenly.

Sorren went to the chest in which the quilts were kept. “A little."

“I'll tell him to stop,” said Arré. “He grows more mannerless the older he gets, and he never had many to start with. What did you think of the Council?"

Sorren said, “I mostly don't listen. I thought Isak's dance was perfect."

Arré scowled. “Did he speak to you when he was dressing, or after the dance?” She scratched her thigh, where an insect bite had raised a welt.

“Yes. He asked me to drum for him at a betrothal party at the Ismeninas."

Arré lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? Did he say whose?"

“No."

“When is it?"

“In three weeks."

“Rrmph.” Arré made a grumpy noise. Sorren folded the quilt around her. Arré put an arm across her face. “Leave the light."

Sorren tugged the quilt even at the corners. When she looked up, Arré was leaning on both elbows, watching her. “What is it?” said the older woman.

The word filled her mouth; she almost could not say it. She took a deep breath. “What's T-T-Tornor?"

“Why are you stammering?” said Arré. “It's a Keep on the northern border."

“What's a Keep?"

“A castle."

“Does it have a tower?"

Arré lay flat. “I've never been there, how would I know? Leave me now, child, I want to sleep."

Sorren picked up the bowl of dirtied water from the stand. “Good night. Sleep well."

Outside Arré's door, she listened. The noise of shuffling feet and wheezing breath warned her that Elith was wakeful. The old woman rose early and slept late, and she often wandered about the darkened house. Softly, Sorren went downstairs. From the noises she guessed that Elith was in the long parlor, and she whisked herself past the double doors before the old woman could see her. The kitchen was quiet. She dumped the dirty water out the nearest window. It would help the herb garden.

In her room, the window screen was open partway. The garden scent filled her nostrils. Through the gap she saw the waxing moon, white and brilliant, riding its river of stars.

Tor-nor. Sorren drummed the syllables lightly on the wall. Tor-nor Keep. Pah-pah-dum. In her experience, north meant the vineyards. But she knew that the river traveled through the vineyards and kept on going to the sea, and since it did not start in the vineyards then it must have come from somewhere else, and rivers, she had heard, started in the mountains.

There were mountains in the west; Paxe had been to them, though she almost never spoke of it. But there were also mountains in the north, and she thought these northern mountains were the mountains she saw. She ran her fingers through her hair. What if the castle with the tower, the substance of her vision, was indeed a Keep? She sat on the bed, fingers tapping. Perhaps her mother had named her “Sorren” for a reason, to say, “You are different. You come from elsewhere.” Sor-ren of Tor-nor. Pah-pah-a-dum-pah. In the fields picking grapes, she had dreamed of being something else, not a grapepicker, something wonderful, a princess, and she had gone with Arré happily, without a backward look, because secretly she believed that Arré would make her a princess. It seemed very silly now. But all children had such dreams.

It still might be true. She wanted it to be so. Even if she was not a princess, she wanted it to be so. She wondered what Paxe would say when told. If she went to the cottage now, right now—but Paxe might be asleep, and Ricard might be there. Sorren frowned out the window at the moon. She did not want to have to talk to Ricard.

There was a snarl, thick as glue, in one lock of her hair. She picked at it, trying to work it loose with her fingers. When it finally came free, she rummaged in the chest for the horn-backed brush that Arré had given her, and brushed her hair until it crackled.

As she laid the brush down, vision came upon her. Pictures rose behind her eyelids. The room went away; she saw the castle, and the tower. The buildings changed: shrank, or enlarged, as her ranging mind brought her farther from or closer to them. The stars made a bridge across the world. Torches flared on the battlements; the air was clean and dry and chilly. She hovered suddenly at the open window of the tower. A man—or boy, for he looked young—sat within the many-sided chamber. He held a pen in one hand. The other was not there—at all, Sorren realized. His right arm was gone, cut off at the shoulder. His embroidered sleeve hung empty.

The small face blurred. The vision faded. Sorren shivered. Cold bumps marched across her arms. Rising, she shut the open screen, and went downstairs to the kitchen. The moonlight silvered the pots, making them look like treasure. She went through the rear courtyard to Paxe's cottage. The door was unlocked; she pushed it open with a cautious hand. Ricard was not there. The cat, from its place on a cushion, lifted its narrow head to gaze at her.

Naked, she climbed into Paxe's bed. Strong arms reached to hold her. “Chelito,” murmured Paxe sleepily.

Sorren put her cheek against Paxe's breast. The shared bed was warm and safe and pleasant as a cave. Content, she pressed herself against Paxe's smooth skin.

They woke early, while the stars were still vivid in the sky, and made love. In the dim room, Sorren's hair crackled around her head like sparks from a bonfire. She described her vision, and then told Paxe what Marti Hok had said. “What do you think of that?"

The cat came in and rolled on its back, demanding to be stroked. Paxe rubbed its soft white belly fur with her toe. “It's interesting,” she said.

Sorren was disappointed. But there was a look in Paxe's face she had never seen before. The dawnlight, faint as a baby's breath, gleamed through the screens, giving the austere room the look of winter.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she said.

Paxe said, “Because I love you."

Sorren grinned. Lifting Paxe's hand, she put her tongue into the warm hollow of her lover's fist. “Someday I should like to crawl into bed with you and stay there the whole day."

Paxe laughed, “You'd wear me out,” she said, drawing her hand across Sorren's cheek.

The cat followed them down the stairs. Just inside the door, Paxe stooped to put on her sandals. She was wearing Yard clothes, coarse blue pants and a baggy white shirt. “Was Ricard here when you came in last night?” she asked.

“Nope,” said Sorren.

They kissed at the Yard gate. Sorren saw Kaleb out of the corner of her eye, standing in the Yard. He was waiting for them to say farewell so that he could make his report. He had been waiting since sunrise; Sorren hoped the night had gone smoothly. If there had been any trouble, Paxe would be angry at herself for having made him wait.

She dawdled in the garden, savoring the morning air. When she got to the house, Lalith waved to her from the kitchen. The brown girl was wearing her hair in her favorite style, with lots of little braids. They looked like spikes. She glanced toward the hour-candle. “She's asked for you twice already."

“Damn.” Sorren hurried. “Why didn't you come and get me?” she said over her shoulder to Lalith, who laughed. On her way up the stairs, Sorren grinned. If Lalith had come to the bedroom to tell Sorren that Arré wanted her, Paxe would probably have thrown the lamp at her head.

Arré was sitting on her rosewood stool. “Where have you been?” she snapped. She was wearing all her bracelets; they jangled as she moved. “When I need you, I want you here, not gallivanting around the city."

Sorren said, “I was at Paxe's cottage."

Arré glared at her. But after a moment her face softened. “Oh. Well. You're here now. Sit down, I hate it when you loom.” Sorren sat cross-legged on the soft wool rug. “Your hair is tangled."

Sorren blushed.

Arré frowned. She reached beside her, to the small table on which stood the lamp, her jewel box, and a small brown stone statue which Sorren thought was a dog but which Arré said was a seal. She stroked the seal's back. “Last night, you told me Isak asked you to drum at the betrothal of one of the Ismeninas."

“Yes."

“You're going shopping today.” This was not a question. Sorren went shopping every morning. “I want you to find out which one of the Ismenin boys is getting married, and to whom."

“I can do that,” Sorren said. She rather liked it when Arré asked her to find out things.

“Be discreet,” said Arré sharply. She held out a money bracelet. “Here."

Sorren took it and turned to leave.

“See if you can find some sweet berries,” Arré called after her. “Cook says we've almost used them up."

As Sorren went downstairs, she wondered why Arré asked her to find out about the Ismenin betrothal. Surely she had been invited. Maybe she simply wanted to know what they were saying in the market.

Lalith was waiting for her in the kitchen. “Well?” Sorren said.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Lamb and fish,” she chanted, “anise, cinnamon, and salt, carrots and onions, yellow apples, if there are any."

Choba oil, Sorren thought, and sweet berries. “Thank you,” she said. Some people in the market carried written lists. But Sorren could not write or read, so it all went into her head.

She walked down the hill reciting it to herself. It was cold in the valley by the river. The fog was in; it blanketed the river and the ocean, and dripped from the horses’ flanks and from the canvas market stalls. Some days it was so thick that it rolled over the whole city, even the hill, making old Elith's bones ache so that all she would do was sit around groaning with her feet in hot water, and that made Toli angry because it meant he had to feed the furnace twice a day.

Sorren didn't mind it; she walked through the damp mist smiling. She had six errands to run, not counting finding out about the Ismenin betrothal. She went first to the butcher's, liking it least. The stall was crowded, and she had to shout her order over the heads of smaller folk. She went next to the fishmonger's.

Thule hastened to her, rubbing his red chapped hands. “Did she like the fish?” he asked.

“She loved the fish."

He swelled with pride, as if he had caught them all himself. “Good, good. What can we do for the Med house this morning? More flounder? Hake? Sea bass?"

“Is Mirrim here?” asked Sorren. Mirrim was Thule's daughter, a thin, quiet woman who knew everything that happened or was about to happen in the city.

“Not today,” said Thule. “Halibut?"

“Let me look,” said Sorren. She could not tell one fish from another but she liked to look at them. Thule led her to the tubs, talking very fast, pointing out the fattest fish for her appraisal. The cart from the ice houses stood near the tubs, and the fish bounced and jumped as if they were still alive, though ice crystals clung to them. “Let's have some bass,” Sorren said. Math, Thule's middle son, climbed into the tub of sea bass, and with a big net ladled the beautiful brown and gold fish into a basket, to be delivered later to the Med cook.

The vegetable stalls were busy, and the spice shop was jammed with people ordering salt. Sorren recited her list to the clerks, and left. She stopped at the oilseller's in the Isara district to leave the weekly order for choba oil. The woman there was friendly and garrulous: she gossiped about the people whose stall abutted hers, about the Council, and about her own relatives. She told a funny, scurrilous story about three witches.

“Are Arré Med and her brother still fighting?” she asked.

“They don't fight,” said Sorren. “They just don't like each other.” The oilseller frowned, wanting something new.

She had not said anything about an Ismenin betrothal. Sorren frowned as she walked from the shop.

She went toward the Asech corner of the market. At one stall, an Asech woman was dancing with a snake, making it twine and slither around her naked breasts. She was graceful and demure as she coaxed the snake over her nipples. Two people sat at her feet; one playing a flute, the other that peculiar Asech instrument, the sho.

The fluteplayer caught Sorren's eye, and winked. She leaned against the wall, waiting for him to finish. His name was Simbaha, called Simmy, and the woman with the snake was his sister. Sorren had drummed for them once, at Harvest Festival.

When the performance ended, the spectators clapped. The snake hissed at the noise. Simmy came through the crowd with a basket. “Hey, Sorren."

“Isn't it cold for naked dancing?” Sorren said.

“I wouldn't know, I don't do it. Tani doesn't mind.” A woman tossed a bronze coin at the basket, and he swung it deftly. “Thank you, lady, may the Guardian smile upon you.” He moved the basket in a seductive circle. His flute, which he carried in a sling over his shoulder, was painted with flowers. “You going to play for Isak Med at the Festival this year?"

Sorren said, “I think so. Seen Jeshim lately?"

“That chaba'ck.” The word meant something horrible in the Asech tongue. “He's got a pitch in the Jalar district. Hey, I heard you were spoken for! Why're you looking for Jeshim?"

“I am spoken for,” Sorren said. “I just want to talk to him."

“Too bad,” said Simmy. “I like tall women."

Sorren waved good-bye to Tani, who was trying to tease the snake back into its pot. She walked south, toward the ocean. This was Jalar territory. Yellow streamers, token of the Jalar house, waved on poles; yellow-clad guards were everywhere. They looked tense, and Sorren wondered why. Carts clattered over the boardwalks. The yellow sails of the fishing fleet gleamed through the mist. Rings of seawrack on the pilings showed the high-tide mark. The water was low, but not as low as it could get. On the ebb tide when the moon was full, it seemed as if the whole ocean pulled away from the land, leaving the entire delta steaming and stinking, naked to a merciless sun.

Sorren walked up to a guard. “I'm looking for Jeshim the juggler."

“Near the slipway,” said the guard.

“Where's the slipway?"

“That way."

“That way” proved to be a maze of alleys. Finally Sorren circled around what seemed to be half a hundred warehouses, and came out facing the sea. Gulls swarmed overhead. In front of her there was a great scooped space in the mud, and, within the space, the ribs and planking of a ship. Men and women climbed over it, calling and making noises with their hammers. Smells smoked from it, the smells of tar and timber and heated metal. It was exciting. Sorren drew a deep breath.

She found Jeshim on the walkway. “Sorren!” He beamed. He was part Asech, and wore blue stones in his ears. “What a surprise. What brings you all the way from the hill?"

Sorren grinned. “I came to see you, of course."

The juggler sighed. “Ah, if only I could believe that.” He snaked his hand up her arm. “You know how I feel about you. But Yardmaster Paxe—” he coughed—"would chop me into bits and feed me to the clams if I touched you."

“You're right, she would,” Sorren said. She moved, and his hand dropped.

Jeshim shrugged. “Want some heavenweed?” He bent to his pack. From it he pulled a pipe with a bowl as big as her fist. He filled it, and brought out flints. His hands were scarred, as if from a hundred tiny bites, and she remembered that he threw knives, too.

Two guards at the tip of the boardwalk sniffed appreciatively as the heavensmoke blew toward them. “Can you smoke and juggle?” Sorren asked.

“Certainly,” said Jeshim. “I'm a much better juggler after I smoke than before.” He sucked at the pipe. “Ah.” He passed it to her, and she took a little bit. The heady drug made her ears buzz.

A step sounded on the boardwalk. “Smoking again, juggler?” said a hoarse voice. “Get out of my way.” A man in a gray cloak had come down the boardwalk and stood now facing Jeshim.

Jeshim laughed. “Drunk again, gimpy?” He brushed a speck from his sleeve. “What if I don't want to move?"

The man showed his teeth. “Showing off for your friend, aren't you. Move, or I'll move you."

“Not in front of the guards, you won't,” said Jeshim. But he stepped aside, just enough so that the man could go past him toward the boardwalk's tip. As he moved, his foot went out. The man tripped, swore, and recovered.

“Sorry,” Jeshim said. “An accident.” The man in gray went on, and the juggler laughed.

“Who's that?” said Sorren.

“That's the gimp."

The man in gray stopped just before the end of the walkway, and sat.

“What does he do?"

“He drinks. And he sits. He comes here every day. He likes watching them build the ship.” He sucked on the pipe again. “Forget him. I haven't seen you in a while, Sorren, what have you been doing?"

Sorren chose her words carefully. If she wanted information from Jeshim, she knew, she would first have to put him in her debt.

“The same old stuff,” she said. “Drumming now and then. Last night I drummed for Isak Med at the Council meeting. In a few weeks, I'm drumming at the Ismenin betrothal feast."

“Nice,” said Jeshim approvingly. “You'll eat well."

“I eat well now,” she said. “I heard that you were juggling there."

“At the Ismenin betrothal?” Jeshim's teeth shone yellow through his red-brown beard. “I wish it were true. Who told you?"

She had made it up. “I don't remember. Isn't it so?"

“Naw.” He held the pipe out to her, and she waved it away. He put it in his own mouth and sucked deeply. His chest swelled.

She said, “Maybe I can make it true. I can mention your name to Isak. That might help."

“If you would, I'd be very grateful. It might fill my flattened purse."

“Aren't you working Harvest Festival?"

“Of course,” said the juggler. “The scribe of the Blue Clan came to see me herself, to ask me to juggle in the Blue Clan tent. But that's five weeks from now."

Sorren counted on her fingers. “So it is.” She let her gaze wander. “Which of the Ismenin sons is getting married? I forget."

“Col,” said Jeshim. “He's the oldest, next to Ron."

“Who's he marrying?"

“Some Blue Clan bitch."

His eyes were half-closed against the smoke from the pipe. He knew she was pumping him: he had to. Sorren untied the knot of the bracelet and slipped a wishbone off her wrist. She dropped it in Jeshim's pack. His eyes opened. “Her name is Nathis Ryth."

She didn't know who Nathis Ryth was, but Arré would. “Are you making any money down here?” she said.

Jeshim smiled. He glanced at the pack at his feet. “It's no better or worse than any other corner of the city.” His voice had thickened and deepened; the heavenweed was starting to affect him. “Doesn't Isak Med know who is marrying who, up on the hill?"

The Ismeninas did not live on the hill, reflected Sorren. But she knew what the juggler meant. She said, “I don't ask Isak questions; he doesn't like it.” That was a lie—Isak loved to be asked things—but it sounded good.

Jeshim nodded, and slid his arm around her shoulders. “Be friendly, Sorren,” he said.

She peeled the fingers from her arm. “Jeshim, put your pipe away.” He peered at her resentfully as she rose and strolled toward the end of the boardwalk.

The ocean seethed, writhing through the fog like a great supple snake. She listened to the crash of the waves.

“Beautiful, isn't it,” said a voice. It was the man in gray.

“I guess,” said Sorren doubtfully. She found it frightening. “Are you a fisherman?"

The man laughed. “Do I look like a fisherman?"

Sorren looked at him. He was dark, and his face was odd, with broad cheekbones and forehead and a tight, narrow chin, as if he had been put together from pieces that did not match, like a child's wooden doll.

He was also very drunk; his brown eyes were not quite focused, and his breath was strong with wine. “No,” said Sorren. “You don't."

He wavered in place. “I know who you are,” he said. “Arré Med's bondservant. The northern girl."

“My name's Sorren."

“Kadra. Kadra-no-Ilézia."

Sorren blinked. It was a woman's name.

She took a closer look at Kadra, noting the curve of hips, and another curve under the gray cloak that might be breasts. “Sorry,” she said.

“It happens,” said Kadra enigmatically. “Ah, I'm drunk. You know him?” She jerked a thumb at the juggler.

“Yes. We're friends."

“Friends.” Kadra said the word as if she did not know what it meant. Yanking a silver flask from a pocket, she tipped it to her lips. A rivulet ran down her chin, and she wiped it away with the flat of one hand. “This isn't the Med hill. What are you doing here?"

Sorren bristled. “That's none of your concern."

Kadra gazed at her. “Maybe not. How kind of you to point it out."

Sorren flushed. “I didn't mean to be rude."

“How old are you?"

Sorren hated telling people how old she was. “Seventeen."

“A baby."

Sorren set her teeth to keep from answering. Kadra watched her, and then nodded, as if pleased. She lifted her flask toward her lips.

“Empty. Damn.” She shook it.

Sorren said, “Do you work on the docks?"

Kadra laughed, not mirthfully. “No.” She touched her cloak; it fell to one side, revealing a glint of metal beneath it. “I was a messenger."

Sorren looked hard at the cloak. Behind layers of grime, a hint of green gleamed through. The metal might have been a buckle or a button, but Sorren did not think it was.

Only messengers had the right to wear green out of doors. The color gave them passage through the streets before anyone else, even the rich in their litters. The folk of the Green Clan kept to themselves, but Sorren had met some of them on the hill. It was they who carried the Council's edicts or suggestions to the Councils of other cities, to the Asech tribes, and to Anhard.

“Were you sick?” she asked.

“I fell,” said Kadra, “and broke my hip. I can't ride."

“Were you a messenger a long time?"

“Ten years,” Kadra said. “Why?"

Sorren realized that she had been rude again. “I was just curious,” she said.

“Asking questions can get you into trouble."

“I was trying to be friendly—” but she was speaking to Kadra's back. The woman had brushed past her and was walking along the boardwalk toward the street. She limped on her left side. The idea that had been in the back of Sorren's mind came wiggling to the front. A messenger, she thought, would know about the north.

As Kadra passed Jeshim, he heaved himself to his feet. He ambled to Sorren and started to put his arms around her. She elbowed him, not hard.

“Oof!” He rubbed his ribs theatrically.

“Don't do that.” She watched Kadra limp between two buildings, and vanish. A messenger could tell her what roads to take north, and when it would be best to travel.

“Smoke some heavenweed with me."

“I can't, Jeshim. I have to go back to the house."

The juggler shrugged. Pulling three red balls from some pocket, he set them spinning in air. They seemed barely to touch his hands. “You had a lot to say to the gimp. Friend of yours?"

“No,” said Sorren. “We just met. But why do you call her ‘he'? She's a woman."

Jeshim grinned, behind the spinning balls. “Did the gimp say that?"

“Not exactly. She said—” She tried to remember Kadra's words.

“That's exactly right,” said Jeshim. “Because Kadra isn't exactly a woman, nor exactly a man, either. He's both, or neither, if you like that. He's a ghya. He's got both male parts and female parts.” He sounded pleased about it, or maybe it was just relief that he was whole.

“How do you know?” Sorren said.

“Everyone knows it. It's no secret.” He made the red balls disappear, and then pretended to pluck one out of his hair and another out of his mouth. “Hold still, there it is!” he said, reaching toward her.

“Don't!” She struck at his hand. The ball, jarred loose, fell to the planks of the boardwalk. Jeshim made a grab for it, but it rolled over the edge and landed on the mud.

“Damn! Now I have to get it.” He stared at her soulfully. “Come with me. You made it fall."

“It's your fault,” Sorren said. “You shouldn't grab me. I told you not to."

He sighed. “Sorren, you are unkind."

Grinning at him, she reached into his pack and drew out the bone she had given him. “Am I?"

He snatched it from her. “No, no, you are a most generous and loving girl. Come back and visit me again."

“I will,” she said. “I'm sorry about the ball, Jeshim."

“Oh, it's nothing.” He blew her a kiss, and she pretended to take it from the air and drop it down her shirt. Before he could come and put his arms around her again, she waved and walked back along the boardwalk to the warehouses. It grew hotter as she left the water's edge. By the time she reached the streets, her clothes were sticking to her. She smelled wine, and hesitated for a moment, fingering the bontas on her string, knowing that Arré would not be looking for her yet. To her right there was a tavern with a swinging sign painted with a picture of a silver fish. But she did not truly like wine. She would stop at one of the public wells for water before climbing the hill. She turned from the tavern and went on, knowing as she did that it was not thirst that had drawn her toward the tavern's door, but the thought that Kadra the ghya might be there.

Five

It took Sorren a longer time to get back to the Med house than she expected it to.

On the border between the Med and Minto districts, a crowd was gathered. At first she thought it was an accident, the way people were bunched together. “Stay back,” droned the guards.

“Is someone hurt?” she asked a woman next to her.

The woman turned huge brown eyes on her. “Oh, no,” she said, somewhat breathless from being squeezed on all four sides. “It's a Healing."

The guards were trying to keep a lane clear, but between that and ordering the people back from the Healer's canopy, they were very busy. Over the heads of the folk around her, Sorren could just see the tent. The sick were lining up around her, waving and calling in febrile voices to get the attention of the acolytes who stalked around the perimeter of the crowd. It took two witches to Heal, Sorren knew: one, a Truthfinder, to question, and the Healer to effect the change. Some people they could not help; the very old, the very young, the crippled or blind or deaf. Some people they would not help: people who were already getting well, for instance, and who wanted the prestige and excitement of having gone to a Healer. Once Elith had gone to a Healer's tent, complaining of shortness of breath. The Healer told her not to eat so much and sent her away.

At last, she wormed through the press to a clear space. Stretching her long legs, she hastened home. Borti was talking to the gate guard under the shade of the kava fruit tree. “What happened to you?” he said, looking her up and down.

Sorren smoothed her clothing. “I got caught in a Healing."

Arré was in the garden. She liked flowers. She knew nothing about growing them, but when she walked through the garden, she would reach out to touch the blossoms with an odd, endearing tenderness. “Did you get sweet berries?” she said, as Sorren approached.

Sorren sighed. She had meant to. “I forgot.” She took the bracelet from her arm. “But I did get the information you wanted."

“Go on."

“Col Ismenin is betrothed to Nathis Ryth, of the Blue Clan."

“Ryth,” repeated Arré. Her voice sharpened. “Are you sure?"

There was no reason for Jeshim to lie to her. “That's what I was told."

Arré stared at the wall of the house, with the light frown on her face that meant that she was thinking. Sorren said, “What does it mean?"

Arré said, “It's interesting."

“Why?"

Arré flicked a bee away from her hair. “You know the custom,” she said. “Folk may marry or not, but if a man and woman do not marry, the children are only hers, not his. He has no claim on them.” Sorren nodded to show she understood. Her mother had not married; she did not even know her father's name. It didn't matter. “If they do marry, the children belong to both, but they still bear the mother's name. If—let us pretend—I had married Boras Sul, he would have come to live here. His brother, Emrith, would be head of the Sul house. But our children would carry the Med name."

Sorren tried to imagine Arré marrying Boras Sul and having children by him. She failed. “I'm glad you didn't."

Arré sniffed. “There was never any question of it. However—the Ismeninas have always had a problem following custom. To be wealthy, it follows, a house must be rich in daughters. The Ismenin sons almost always breed males. If their sons marry into other high families, the children take the mother's name, not the father's. Now, custom can be circumvented in two ways. The first is by adopting female cousins, when they have them, into the main branch of the Ismeninas, and marrying their sons to them. The second is by making alliance with the Blue Clan. Ron Ismenin married a daughter of the Blue Clan house Holleth, and Karya Holleth agreed to give up her right to name her children with her family name."

“I understand,” said Sorren. She liked it when Arré thought aloud to her. “This is the same thing, isn't it?"

“I expect so,” said Arré. She tilted her head to one side.

“What does the Ryth house trade in?” asked Sorren.

Arré frowned. “Grain."

Sorren worked it out until she was sure she understood. Then she said, “Why are there no daughters born to the Ismeninas?"

Arré spread her hands. “The will of the chea, I suppose.” Her face glimmered with the sardonic look she always wore when speaking of the chea.

“There was a Healing happening on Apple Street when I passed there,” Sorren said.

But Arré was not interested in the Healing. “I wonder whose idea this was,” she said.

“The marriage?"

“Oh, that is clearly advantageous to both sides. The Ryth house gets a ruling-house connection and the Ismeninas strengthen their ties with the Blue Clan.” She frowned. “Their ties with the Blue Clan may even be a little stronger than I like. No, I meant my ignorance of the betrothal. I think I do know."

Sorren guessed what she meant from the look on her face. “Isak."

“It's likely. He is friends with Ron Ismenin. Indeed, he makes friends wherever he goes, my charming brother. At the Council meeting, I noticed that he and Cha were like this.” She crossed two fingers.

Sorren wriggled her toes in the cool grass. She remembered Cha Minto's face at Isak's shoulder. He had looked frightened, not charmed. She touched the bell of a lily; pollen came off on her fingers. “Isak's married,” she said.

“Yes,” said Arré, “so?"

“He lives in the Med house. His children bear the Med name."

Arré smiled. “That's easy to explain, child. Myra-no-Ivrénia is the daughter of Ivrénia Ishem of the Blue Clan. Isak married a merchant's daughter. The Ismeninas are not the only house in the city to bend custom."

* * * *

That night, Sorren dreamed again about the castle. It was a quick dream. She saw the tower and then the castle wall. There was someone standing on it. She wanted to see who. She woke abruptly when she tried, within the dream, to make herself move closer to the wall.

The dream made her think of Kadra. In the morning, she went to the cottage at sunrise, hoping Paxe would be there, but the Yardmaster was gone. Only the one-eyed cat purred around her ankles. There was no sign of Ricard.

She returned to the kitchen. As she made ready to go shopping, reciting the list of what she needed in her head, she asked the cook, “Have you ever met a ghya?"

He blew at her through his beard. “Ha. Someone's been telling you tales. There's no such thing, girl. Where'd you hear it?"

She shrugged. “Never mind.” She went from the kitchen before he could question her further.

The fog was in; vendors strolled the streets with bells on their carts. At the fruit stall, Sorren remembered to order a sack of sweet berries, and paid for them, and ordered that they be delivered at once. That would please Arré. Then she went looking for the slipway.

She got lost on the docks. The blank walls of the warehouses confused her. Finally, after wandering through narrow, muddy alleys that all looked alike, she saw a man writing in large letters on the wall, and went up to him. “I'm looking for the Jalar slipway."

He pointed down the street. His brown hands were white with chalk dust. “Follow that path and take the second right, you'll come to it."

“Thanks.” She looked at the wall. “What does that say?"

“Niké the Steersman fucks goats,” he said happily. “This is the fourth place I've put it.” He grinned and flourished the chalk.

Sorren followed his directions, wondering who Niké the Steersman was. When she came to the slipway she hesitated before stepping into the open. Jalar guards, lounging at the tip of the boardwalk, were wearing cloaks over their yellow shirts. The noises from the ship seemed more raucous than they had the day before.

Kadra sat like a lump of coal on the walkway, wrapped in her dark, dirty cloak. Jeshim wasn't there. Sorren wondered where he was. She went to Kadra. She had mud in her dark cropped hair, and Sorren thought, She must sleep on the beach. Her clothing smelled of seawater and wine.

The ghya looked up. “You again. Your friend's not here."

Sorren sat without being asked. The boardwalk planks were warm. She swung her legs over the side. “I came to talk to you, not Jeshim."

“To me.” Kadra scowled. “Did Norres send you?"

“No one sent me. I'm shopping—I mean, this is the time of day when I go shopping for the house. Nobody knows I'm here."

Kadra yawned. She rubbed the flat of one hand over her face. “What do you mean, you want to talk to me."

Sorren swallowed. “You were a messenger."

“Yes."

“Have you ever been north, to the Keeps?"

Kadra drew her knees up and laid her head down on them. “Many times."

Sorren let out a breath. She had been holding it. She'd been afraid—it was silly—that the Keeps no longer existed, that they were all empty, ruined, vanished, and that her dreams were of nothing, an illusion, the past. “Will you tell me about them?” she said. “How to get there, who lives there, what they look like—things like that?"

“You don't want me,” said Kadra. “You want a Scholar."

“No,” Sorren said. “Scholars know history. I want to know—real things,” she finished lamely.

“Why?” said the ghya.

Sorren had known she would ask. “Must I tell you?” she said.

“Yes,” said Kadra.

Sorren rubbed her palm across the flat, splintery planking. “They call me the northern girl,” she said. “My mother used to tell me stories—I want to go there, after I'm free."

A ripple of feeling, too swift to name, passed across Kadra's face. “When's that?” she said.

“In a year,” said Sorren. It felt like forever.

A tern with a black head landed on a piling. It picked its feet up, inspecting them, one after the other. Ruffling its feathers, it began to pick at its toes with its beak.

Kadra said, “I'll talk to you.” She rose. “Not here. If that pimp Jeshim comes back, he'll be offended if you don't talk to him."

“I don't want to talk to Jeshim,” Sorren agreed. “Where can we go?"

“Somewhere,” said the ghya, “where I can drink. You'll have to buy the wine."

They went to The Silver Fish. The tavern was dark and largely empty, and it smelled of the oil the street vendors fried their oysters in. They sat at a table in the back, near the kitchen entrance. The surface of the table was covered with nicks and scars. A woman in a leather apron brought Kadra wine in an amber-colored bottle. She raised her eyebrows at Sorren. “What'll you have?"

“I don't want anything,” Sorren said, working the smallest bonta from her string. She handed it to the woman, who shrugged and went back into the kitchen. Kadra put the bottle to her lips like a greedy baby. Sorren watched her swallow, frowning. “If you get too drunk,” she said, “you won't be able to talk."

Kadra set the bottle down. “That's my choice,” she said flatly. “You want me to do you a favor, you keep a sweet tongue in your head."

“Sorry,” Sorren said.

The ghya wiped her mouth. “You have any notion what a Keep is?"

“A castle."

“Yes.” Kadra's voice softened. “There are four of them—Pel Keep, Cloud Keep, Tornor Keep, and Zilia Keep. They were built hundreds of years ago, when Arun was at war with Anhard-over-Mountain. They sit on the steppe, with the mountains at their backs.... I don't know which you want to go to."

The sudden evocation of her vision made the hairs at the back of Sorren's neck tingle. “I don't know either,” she said. “What—” she hesitated, and then went on—"what do they look like?"

“They're stone,” said Kadra. “The stone's dark now, though on Pel Keep's walls there are patches of white. They used to cover the stones with limewash to protect them. South of the castles the land is flat, and bare except for the pine trees and the huts of the villagers. They say life hasn't changed there in a hundred years. More. Behind the castles the mountains stand like—like a barrier, as if the land ended there, and beyond it was nothing, a void.” She laughed. “It isn't, though."

“Yes,” said Sorren. “Yes."

Kadra looked at her oddly. “Have you been there, then?"

“No,” Sorren said. “Yes. In a dream.” Her cheeks felt flushed. “Does one of them have a tower?"

“A tower? I think one did, but it fell. I don't remember which."

“Are there wolves in the mountains?"

Kadra laughed. “I never met one.” Then her face grew serious. “But I've heard from travelers coming out of the north of strange sounds on the steppe. Perhaps there are wolves again."

“Are there eagles?” Sorren asked. “And archers?"

“Of course there are eagles, and people hunting them with bows and arrows. Why?"

Because of the Cards, Sorren thought. But she was not going to tell Kadra about the Cards. “No reason."

Kadra's eyes narrowed, and her hand curled around the bottle again. “Why aren't you drinking?"

“I don't want any, thank you."

“Manners.” The word was almost a sneer. “Manners and questions. Who taught you such fine manners?"

“Arré Med,” said Sorren.

“Huh,” said Kadra. She drank. “You know what they call her, and those like her, down here on the docks."

Sorren did know. “A swank."

“What's she like?"

Sorren frowned. How could she say what Arré was like? “She's been very kind to me,” she said.

The door opened, and two Jalar guards entered. They sat at a table in the front. With casual arrogance, they stared across the room. Sorren thought they looked overlong at her. There were no other bondservants that she could see in the tavern.

Her arms prickled, and she rubbed them. “I don't like it here,” she said.

“I hate it,” said Kadra. She drank again. “I hate cities. Soft places. Too many people and not enough room. Cramped little houses, cramped streets, cramped minds.” Her voice got loud.

The guards looked at them, with that suspicious look guards got. “That wasn't what I meant,” said Sorren. She tapped the table. “I don't like this place. Can we leave?” As she said it, she remembered that Kadra had been injured. Perhaps it hurt her to walk. But the ghya was already standing. Sorren followed her out. The woman in the leather apron watched them leave, framed like a statue in the open kitchen doorway.

Kadra angled toward the slipway. “Come with me,” she said. “Come look at the ship.” Sorren had little interest in the ship, but she went. They clambered down into the pit. The mud was cool, damp, and squishy.

As they reached it, Kadra began to cough, great hacking coughs that sounded as if they might split her chest. “Do you want to rest?” said Sorren. The ghya ignored her. Bales of wool lay scattered on the mud nearby. “What's the wool for?” Sorren said.

“Caulking,” said Kadra. “They dip the wool in molten wax and stuff lengths of it into the cracks between the planks."

The ship was much bigger than the fishing vessels; even Sorren, who knew nothing about boats, could see that. She stared at the great skeleton. “What's it for—the ship?"

“It's going south,” said Kadra. She waved one arm at the sea. “Away from land, away from cities, to find new countries.” She shaded her eyes. Shrouds of mist kept Sorren from seeing what the people on the ship were doing.

“Are they sailors?” she asked.

“No. They're carpenters, sailmakers, ropemakers. Most of them have never been out of sight of land in all their lives. They'll call for a crew when the ship is done."

“What if no one wants to go?"

Kadra smiled. “Someone will,” she said. The look she gave the ship was one of a lover to a beloved.

“You want to go!"

Kadra lurched to one side in the treacherous mud. Her dark face twisted with pain, or longing. “Yes. O Guardian, yes."

Sorren tried to imagine what it would be like to trust oneself to a small wooden box, floating in the midst of all that water. She shivered. “When will it go?"

“When it's finished."

“Whose is it?"

“Jalaras and Isaras."

Sorren wondered if Arré knew about this ship. “You want to leave the city, too,” she said to Kadra. “Is that why you said yes to me?"

Kadra sat in the mud. “That's right. I'll tell you the best route to take north, what clothes to wear, what villages to avoid. If I help you, maybe the Guardian will let me have a place on that ship."

Sorren said, “I didn't know you could bargain with the chea."

It was ill-spoken. Kadra said, “Are you a witch, that you know so much about the chea?"

“No. I'm sorry. I've angered you. I'll go.” Living with Arré had at least taught her when to retreat. She turned to leave the slipway.

Kadra called to her. “Wait!"

Sorren looked back. The ghya was holding out a hand. She trudged back.

Kadra said, “I said I'd help you. I will.” She thrust her palm upward. “In earnest of our agreement. Take it.” It was a shell. Sorren picked it from Kadra's palm. It was shaped like a teardrop. It was tiny, light as a bead, translucent pink, delicate as a piece of foam.

* * * *

Turning the shell in her fingers, Sorren climbed up the muddy bank to the beach. She looked back once, to see Kadra crouched on the muck beside the ship. Something about her posture made Sorren shiver. She ought to go to a Healer, she thought; she sounds sick. The bank steepened near the street, and she had to use her hands to balance. Her feet slipped in the litter of seaweed and broken shells.

As she trudged up the street, Ricard's dark face bobbed in front of her. She stopped, surprised and annoyed to see him. His eyes were bloodshot; his clothes dirty and reeking of heavenweed. He glared at her, chin thrust forward like a baby's pout. She tried to go around him, and he spread his arms out to hold her.

“What are you doing here?” she said. “You stink.” She made a face.

“I saw you,” he said.

She clenched her fingers on the shell, wondering what he meant. Saw her what? “Are you following me around?” She tried to push past him. He would not get out of her way.

“I saw you,” he said again.

She felt her temper beginning to climb. “Ricky, leave me alone."

“Saw you talking to that man."

Sorren resisted the urge to shout at him that Kadra was not a man. “Ricky, go away,” she said.

“I saw you,” he said, and fell on her.

At first, she thought he had simply overbalanced, and she struggled to hold him upright. He dragged her onto the stones. His hands plucked at her shirt. She shoved him. He was strong. Someone whistled, a piercing sound. Ricky breathed hotly into Sorren's face and she realized he was trying to kiss her. “You idiot!” she yelled at him, and bucked him off. He scrambled back to her, panting, and she swung a fist at his face. The cobblestones hurt her shoulderblades as he threw himself on her, bearing her back on the stone. “You stupid boy,” she said.

“I'm not a boy,” he grunted. He pinned her wrists and put a knee between her legs.

She heard noises, a crowd. Someone laughed. She twisted and turned, trying to free her hands, while Ricky breathed heavenscent into her face.

Then he was pulled off her. She sat up. Her elbows were scraped and stinging. Two Jalar guards were holding Ricky between them. His shirt was torn. She grinned with fury and pleasure at the sight and climbed slowly to her feet.

“Names?” said one of the guards.

She dusted her palms together. “Sorren-no-Kité, bondservant to Arré Med,” she said. She rubbed her side. It hurt. “This idiot is Ricard-no-Paxe, son to the Med Yardmaster."

The other guard, a big brawny man, shook Ricard by the collar. “What were you doing?” he inquired. Ricard scowled and would not answer. “Are you hurt?” the guard asked Sorren.

“No.” Suddenly, she remembered the shell. She had been holding it. “Oh, damn!” She felt her clothes, hoping it had gotten stuck in a fold. It had not. Probably it was crushed to powder. Her temper rose again. “Oh, damn, damn."

“What is it?"

“He made me drop something."

“This?” said the first guard, holding out the bracelet of shells.

“That, too,” said Sorren. She had not even felt it fall.

“You shouldn't play so rough,” said the guard.

Sorren glared at her. “Play! He attacked me! You think I like dust and sores? We weren't playing."

“Aw,” said Ricky, “don't listen to her. She's a cunt."

Sorren leaped at him. She wanted to scratch his face off; she wanted to break his head. She flailed at him. The two guards dropped Ricard's arms and reached for her. Ricky ran, slamming through the crowd which had gathered. The guards swore aloud, and the woman hit her. She had already stopped fighting. The woman wrenched her arm behind her back, making her helpless. Pain shot into her shoulder. Through clenched teeth, she said, “You don't have to do that."

They marched her all the way across the city and up the hill to the Med house. As they came to the gate, the woman dropped Sorren's arm. It was numb, and she shook it to make the feeling come back. The door guard stared. Elith answered the door. The fat old woman raised her eyebrows at Sorren, and then hurried to get Arré.

She came from the small parlor. “What happened?"

The woman guard started to speak. Sorren interrupted her. “It was Ricard. I was on the dock talking to a friend, and he saw me. He smelled of heavenweed. He jumped on me. I was fighting him off when they came. Ricky called me a cunt and I got mad and hit him and they grabbed me and he ran away.” She was trembling. Her back hurt and her arm hurt and she felt twelve again.

“Are you all right?” said Arré. “Did he hurt you?"

“No. He didn't hurt me."

“Well?” said Arré to the guards. They looked embarrassed.

“We didn't know who started it,” said the woman defensively.

“He did,” said Sorren. “He even knocked the bracelet off my arm.” Reminded, the guard extended the bracelet to Arré. She took it and laid it down.

“Thank you for acting so promptly to break up a fight,” she said to the guards. To Sorren she said, gently, “Why don't you clean up?"

Sorren went to the kitchen. She could hear Paxe in the Yard. The apprentices crowded around her, asking questions. She sank onto a stool. “I got jumped in the market,” she said.

“Who was it?” said Toli. “What'd you do?"

“I fought back.” She felt trembly, still.

The cook came round the chopping counter, holding his cleaver. “Did you get the orders in?"

“Yes.” She leaned her head on her hand. He gave her a clean, damp rag, and she wiped her face and then her elbows. Lalith brought her some tea. She slumped on the stool, sipping it. Lalith fingered the torn shirt.

“I'll mend this for you,” she offered.

Sorren shook her head. “I can do it.” The tea had honey in it. The sweet taste was very soothing. The cook glared at the apprentices and they got back to work, kneading dough, cutting up vegetables. Every time she looked at them they smiled. She could no longer hear Paxe's voice. She leaned on the cutting board. The kitchen warmth was delicious, like a feather quilt.

The door to the kitchen opened. Arré entered, followed by Paxe. She was sweaty from the Yard. Sorren guessed that Arré had told her. “It was Ricard?” she said. Lalith gasped. Everybody was watching her. She lifted Sorren's face between her palms, and touched, with her lips, a bruise that Sorren had not even realized was there. “Did he do that?"

Arré had her hands on her hips. “I told you,” she said. “He's too old to be hanging around here, begging money off you, working only when he feels like it. He needs to be responsible for something."

“He's still a boy,” said Paxe.

Arré's silver bracelets jangled. “He's a spoiled brat."

“Do the guards have him?"

“No. He ran away from them. Send him to the grapefields, Paxe."

“I'll talk to him about it,” Paxe said. Her hands moved caressingly on Sorren's shoulder.

“Don't talk to him!” Arré struck the counter with the flat of her hand. “Tell him, just tell him. You let him do what he wants too much, and look what he does.” She gestured at Sorren.

Sorren pictured Ricky in the grapefields. He was too lazy to be much use there. Thinking of him made her fists clench. She never wanted to see him again.

“You don't know anything about it,” said Paxe angrily to Arré. “You have no children."

“I can see what's in front of my eyes,” said Arré. “Some people can't."

The scullions, even the cook, had stopped work, and were listening avidly. “I don't give you advice on the Council,” retorted Paxe. “Don't give me advice on my son."

The quarrel proceeded over Sorren's head. The noise made her head ache. The heat of the kitchen had turned stifling. She felt suffocated. Her back hurt, her elbow hurt. She had lost the shell Kadra had given her; she had used Arré's money to buy wine for a drunk.... She shifted on the stool. Her throat hurt. Her eyes stung.

Like a baby, she burst into tears.

The quarrel stopped. Paxe put both arms around her. They went upstairs, to Sorren's bedroom, and Sorren curled on the bed and cried. Paxe sat beside her, stroking her, her fingers gentle. After a while, Sorren stopped crying. Her body felt heavy and stiff, as it did on the days of the month when she bled. “I feel silly,” she said. “I'm sleepy."

Paxe kissed her mouth. “You're not silly.” She stroked Sorren's hair back from her face. “Rest. You'll feel better later.” She rose. Sorren started to call out to her, to tell her that she had torn Ricard's shirt, but the Yardmaster was already through the door. Sighing, Sorren pillowed her head on the arm that did not ache.

Arré's door was open; Paxe knocked on it anyway.

Arré knew the knock. “Come in,” she called.

Paxe walked in.

“Is she all right?” Arré asked.

“She's sleeping.” The Yardmaster's tone of voice said, Don't talk about it.

Arré said gently, “She'll heal. Children heal fast, and she's still a child in some ways. She's not that much older than Ricard."

Paxe said, “She's a lot older than Ricard,” and Arré could hear her frustration and anger in the way she said her errant son's name.

Holding her hand out, she said, “Please don't fight with me, Paxe. I'm sorry I pushed you. Do whatever you think best with Ricky."

Paxe nodded. “I shall.” She sat on the rosewood stool. Her size made the furnishings of the room look small. Picking up the stone figurine on the table, she ran her fingers over it. “What's this supposed to be?” she said.

“A seal."

“It looks like a bear.” She set it down. “Arré, I didn't come to talk about Ricky, or Sorren.” Her face was stern, her back straight as a board. Arré leaned back on her bed pillows, fingering the tassels of the cover, as Paxe talked about walking into the Yard one morning after her rounds, and finding her guards looking at a sword.

Her hands sliced the air as she described the swordplay: forgetting that Arré had never used the weapon in her life, she told about taking the blade apart and what it told her. She was slim and tough as she had been thirteen years back, only her eyes and her hands had aged, and Arré stayed very still in her nest of cushions, feeling the old pull rise in her blood. If only, she thought, if only, if we could have stayed together—but it was too late for regrets. She listened intently as Paxe described her visit to the Ismenin Yard, and what she found there.

When Paxe mentioned the lines of soldiers with wooden swords, Arré felt a shiver down her back. No Yard taught the sword art. It was forbidden. “How has Ron Ismenin persuaded his soldiers to break the Ban?” she said. “I should think they would be terrified to touch even wooden weapons."

Paxe explained what Dobrin had said to her about the Ban and about the witches. Her voice was strained; it was evident that Dobrin's conversation had upset her. Arré nodded. It made sense to her; but then, she had never believed in the chea. She knew where the Ban had come from. It had been devised by the Council with the connivance of the White Clan to break the power of the Red Clan, which had grown much too strong for the Council's taste; and also, to end the drain on the city treasury which the metal trade was making. The demand for weaponry meant that a third of the city's funds were siphoned off to pay for metal and finished steel, and all that money went north, out of the hands of the city's rulers and merchants, to Tezera. The White Clan had supported it because it served their interests to dam the Red Clan's power.

Arré's grandmother, Tabitha Med, had helped create the Ban. By the time her granddaughter was born, there were no more chearis in the city. And now we have Isak, Arré thought, my dear, manipulative brother. I wonder how he managed to ensnare Cha Minto....

Paxe's voice broke sharply into her ruminations. “Arré, are you even hearing me?"

“I heard every word,” Arré said firmly.

“Was Dobrin telling me the truth?"

“About what?"

“About the short sword not being included in the Ban."

“I'm sure of it,” said Arré. “I have a copy of the Ban in my study, we could look at it, but I doubt it's necessary. A lie would be too easy to disprove."

Excited, she slid from the bed and walked to the window. The Ismenin family owned mines. It would be to their advantage if the Ban were to be lifted, or if they could arrange a way around it. When is a sword not a sword? she thought, and answered, when it's a short sword. Kendra-on-the-Delta was the largest concentrated market in the land of Arun, and what better things would there be to make with metal?

A thought struck her. She said, “When did this happen, Paxe?"

“Four days ago,” said Paxe.

"Four days ago? Before the Council meeting?” Paxe nodded. “Why did you wait so long to tell me?"

Paxe looked at her hands. “I needed to think about it."

“You should have told me! It's my job to think, not yours. If I had known this at the Council meeting—” What difference would it have made? she thought. No real difference. “Is it common knowledge in the city that the Ismeninas are teaching the short sword?"

Paxe shook her head. “No. They have a guard at the Yard gate, keeping everyone not wearing Ismenin colors out. Dobrin told the guards not to talk about it."

“You saw no real weapons."

“None, and Dobrin was very clear about that: the possession of live blades is forbidden to his soldiers."

“Lyrith had one."

“Lyrith got a whipping."

“But why train with wooden blades if you do not eventually plan to use real ones?” said Arré.

I wonder if the White Clan knows about this, she thought. They must not. Someone would have to tell them, and she did not think they would be pleased. She tried to imagine what the Ismeninas were doing. They might be hoping to stimulate a black-market trade. But that would be easy to stop; the first few people found with swords would lose their right hands, and the rest would get frightened. “What do you think the Ismeninas are doing?” she said to Paxe.

Paxe said, “I don't know. I know it's dangerous.” She stroked the sculpture, holding it between her big palms as if it were alive.

Arré snorted. “Of course it's dangerous!"

“What will you do?” said Paxe.

“Me? There's nothing I can do. For one thing—” she walked back to the bed and sat—"there's nothing in the Ban or in the Council ordinances to forbid the possession of wooden short swords."

Paxe frowned. “You can kill with a wooden sword, if you know how,” she said.

“Can you?” said Arré. “I didn't know that."

Could the Ismeninas be training a private army? Stranger things had happened. But there had been no armies in Arun for eighty years, and anyway she could not imagine what Ron Ismenin would get with a private army that he could not get by spending a little money. She sighed. “I must talk to the Council,” she said, meaning Marti Hok. Suddenly, she felt weary; hunger for something sweet gnawed her belly. She leaned on her cushions. Lines, a pattern of alliance, splayed through her thought. The Council ruled the city, but power existed beyond the formality of Council laws. She felt as if she, the Council, were being manipulated—by whom? Cha Minto? Bah. Isak? The Ismeninas?

“What should I do?” said Paxe.

She had almost forgotten Paxe was there.

She wanted to do something which would bother the Ismeninas. “Can you teach the sword?"

“Yes,” said Paxe. “I could. I can have a carpenter make wooden swords, sejis, and bring them to the Yard."

“Do so."

“Why?” Paxe sounded troubled.

Arré smiled at her. “Because the Ismeninas will not expect that. Do it, Paxe. There will be no trouble, unless and until the Council bans the short sword."

“Very well,” Paxe rose fluidly. She put the stone animal down on the lacquered table, and quietly walked out.

Arré reached from the bed. Picking up the stone thing—perhaps it was a bear, after all—she petted it, fingers finding the crevices and hollows that Paxe's warm hands had touched. She had bought the thing from an Asech peddler, years ago. She turned the figure in her palms, trying to remember the day. She had lived in this city, in this house, in this room, for eighteen years. She sniffed the house smell, a mixture of flower scents, food scents, human scents. She put the figure on the table. Sighing, she slipped to her knees and laid her cheek on the rosewood stool, trying to smell Paxe's scent through the scent of the wood. Foolish. She stood up. Her knees creaked. She was too old, to be feeling what she felt.

Was she jealous of Paxe and Sorren? A little, she thought. Pacing to the window, she unlatched the silk and paper screen and slid it back. Houses, streets, shops spread out before her like a tapestry. She watched a hawk wing north along the river, recalling afternoons when she had strolled along the river bank watching the barges pole downstream, with Paxe's arm around her shoulders.

Those had been happy years. She had been learning her trade, rulership; Paxe had been second-in-command of the guard. And Isak—Isak had been in Shanan, studying the dance. Did Isak know about the swords? she thought. He was Ron Ismenin's friend; he had to know. Of course, he would not tell her. She was his sister, whom he hated, and wanted to supplant or, at least, to equal. An image filled her gaze for a moment, of a boy, dark and thin and graceful as a cat, with brilliant dark eyes, crowing with delight as she tossed him in the air, his long hair swirling in the breeze. “Ré,” he had called her. “Ré, wait. Ré, can I come with you? Ré, I want to sit with you—” She had adored him, as had her mother and everyone who met him. When had his delight changed to jealousy? She could not remember, save that it must have happened early. At seven and eight, he had been sullen in her presence and lavish with attention to his mother, as if he thought loving would somehow change the fact that he was the younger of them, and not the heir. He had wept for Shana Med. Arré closed the window. But then he had gone to study with Meredith, and when he came back from Shanan he was brittle, hard as the surface of a chobata, and inaccessible, to Arré at least, as if he lived in the depths of a cave.

* * * *

It was well into the dinner hour when Sorren came from her room.

The lamplighters were calling their high-pitched signals to each other down the winding streets. On nights she had no guests—which was most nights—it was Arré's custom to eat her evening meal in her bedroom. She was lingering over dessert when Sorren came in. The scrape on the girl's forehead was puffy and red. “Sit down,” said Arré, ringing her bell for Lalith. “Did you put comfry on that bruise?"

“Yes.” Sorren sat on the stool. Lalith entered, and Arré ordered her to bring a second plate of food. “I'm not hungry."

“Nonsense,” said Arré. “You ought to be, after sleeping all day and fighting all morning."

Sorren touched the edges of the bruise with her fingers. Arré told herself that it looked worse than it really was. She herself bruised easily; the tiniest cuts took forever to heal. Sorren's skin was white, and all marks showed up strongly on it. She did look like a northerner; it was her coloring that had first drawn Arré's eyes to her, years ago in the vineyards: her hair the color of sunshine, and her eyes, which were blue as the trumpet-flowers which grew up the grapevines. When I was a little girl, Arré thought, I wanted to look like that.

Sorren said, “I didn't mean to sleep so long."

Arré smiled at her. “I'm not scolding you, child."

“I'm not a child.” The tall girl's back went as stiff as Paxe's could get.

“I know, I know,” said Arré gently. But she looked younger than seventeen, with her hair tousled from the pillow and her white eyelids heavy. “How do you feel?"

“I'm all right."

Lalith brought the food in. Sorren took the plate on her knees. She picked up a piece of ham. “I guess I am hungry,” she admitted. She glanced up shyly through her lashes. “Maybe it's the sea air. I was down by the docks when Ricard—saw me."

“Oh?"

“I was watching the ship; the one Isaras and Jalaras are building to go south."

Arré nodded. Edith Isara had told her about the ship, half mocking her own investment. “It will probably sink and never be heard from again,” she had said. “But who knows; it might come back with interesting news of other lands, strange places where gold and silver pour out of the very soil and jewels grow on trees."

“But I thought you wanted to go north,” Arré said.

She meant it teasingly, but Sorren blushed. “I do,” she said. “A—a friend was showing me the ship."

Arré licked her spoon. She said, “I don't blame you, for fighting with Ricard."

“I didn't want to!” Sorren said. “He made me!"

“I expect he did."

“What will happen when he comes home?"

“That's up to Paxe,” said Arré, thinking, I hope she has the sense to send the young lout to the vineyards. Looking at Sorren now, she saw a tall, golden-skinned girl who, she thought angrily, was worth two of Ricard.

Softly she asked, “Are you too bruised to drum?"

Sorren looked shocked. “Of course not!"

Good, thought Arré. She hesitated, considering her words. “When are you going to Isak's to practice?"

Thickly, through a second piece of ham, Sorren said, “In a week. If I may."

“You may,” Arré said. “I want you to do something for me when you go to Isak's.” She did not like using Sorren, but there was no other method she could use to find out what she needed to know. Isak talked to Sorren—not freely perhaps, but with less calculation than he talked with anyone else. “Tell Isak, if you can, that you have seen Paxe with a new thing in the Yard—a short sword. Ask him about it, and see what he says."

Sorren ate another strip of ham. The light from the chobata gleamed steadily on the fine smooth grain of her skin. She's lovely, Arré thought, with a pang, lovely as I never was, even when young.

“Does she really have a sword?” said Sorren. “I thought it was forbidden."

“It may be. We will see,” said Arré. She wondered how much Isak would read in Sorren's manner. She was not, by nature, deceptive.

“What if he asks me where she got it?"

“Tell him the truth; you don't know."

“What if he asks me why I am asking him?"

Arré smiled. “You know Isak, child. Tell him, because he knows everything that happens in the city."

Six

When Paxe woke in the morning, her bed was stained with blood.

Swearing, she leaped from the mattress and stripped it of its covering. It was not her time to bleed. She dumped covering and quilts in a heap on the floor and went to the basin to wipe her thighs and legs clean. Opening the chest at the foot of the bed, she took out her sponge, and, crouching, inserted it. Her back twinged. Scowling, she dressed, and stamped downstairs with the soiled linen in her arms. Against the waistband of her pants, she felt her belly's bloat.

It was cool out. Eastward, the sun touched the river, and the clouds caught the reflection so that they gleamed with the light. Paxe dumped the linens in the laundry. Her time had come early because she was worried, about Sorren, about Arré, about the city, and, most of all, about her son.

She wondered where he was. He had not come home; she hadn't expected him to; he was probably working up his courage to face her. Arré was right, she thought, I have been too soft with him. But after losing two, she had hugged the third to her, too tightly. She left the laundry. A boy wearing a Hok bond bracelet was coming up the walk. Paxe watched the gate guard speak to him, nod, and then open the gate.

She did her morning exercises with extra vigor. By the time the sun cleared the city's lower roofs, she was sweating. Guards wandered into the Yard, greeting her quietly. Kaleb was late. Wondering where he was, Paxe watched her soldiers pair for practice. Seth came in. “Good morning, Yardmaster,” he said. His voice was sullen. As punishment for having brought the sword into the Yard, Paxe had set him to cleaning all the weapons in the weapons shed, and the hair on his hands and forearms was matted with grease.

The guards squared off for pike drill. She watched them thrust and turn. Kaleb came in, moving so silently that only his shadow slanting on the hard dirt told her he was there.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning. How went the night?"

“More fighting on the docks."

She shook her head. “How bad was it?"

“Bad.” Rough-voiced with fatigue, he recited the tally: seven guards hurt, one stabbed in the stomach with a fisherman's dirk, two with scalp wounds from blows from a ship's spike. “They're in the Tanjo. The Healers say the stabbed one will recover, but one of the men with head wounds may not see again. Correo-no-Samantha is furious."

Correo was the Jalar Yardmaster. “I should think so,” Paxe said. She shuddered. If those had been her soldiers.... “Were the Ismenin brothers in it this time, too?"

Kaleb shrugged with his hands. “I don't know. The people caught by the Jalar guards were reluctant to say."

“I'll bet they were,” Paxe said. “You think they were paid?"

“It would need a Truthfinder to say that."

“It may come to that,” Paxe said. She cocked her head to one side, surveying Kaleb's dark, seamed face. “You look worn out, my friend."

“I am,” said Kaleb bluntly. The admission was unlike him, and it surprised her.

“Are you going home?” she asked.

“Yes.” Kaleb lived west of the hill, in a cottage near the Northwest Gate.

“I'll walk you home. I have something to tell you."

They strolled from the hill. Already the streets near the Gate were crammed with carts. The scent of trumpet-vines floated in the morning breeze, overlaid with the harsher smells of spice and fish and human labor. In the vineyards, Paxe remembered, trumpet-vines grew up the grapevines, so that at harvest it looked as if the grapes themselves bloomed with bright blue flowers.

She told Kaleb about Seth, the sword, her visit with Dobrin, and Arré's orders. He listened, one ear cocked toward her, walking with the peculiar gliding gait of one trained to walk on sand. “What do you think?” she asked him.

He made a soft sucking sound through his teeth. “What can I say? The Asech elders have never forbidden us weapons. But we respect the knowledge of the White Clan, and within the city, all desertfolk honor the Ban."

“Then you think I should not teach the sword?"

He shook his head—a learned gesture. The Asech did not do it. “Arré Med is a Councillor. She must have good reason for her order."

“Ye-e-e-s,” said Paxe. They had reached the cottage. “The news from the docks will not please her."

“There should be no more such news,” said Kaleb. “Correo is doubling the guard."

“Very wise,” said Paxe. She raised a hand. “I shall leave you here, my friend. Sleep well."

Kaleb caught her hands. “I heard about Ricard,” he said gently.

Paxe did not ask him how. He had his own sources of information.

“Have you seen him?” she said.

He shook his head. “No. But don't worry about him, Paxe. He comes of good stock. There's no malice in him."

To her astonishment, Paxe felt her eyes fill with tears. “Yes,” she said. “Well, if you see him, tell him to come home."

* * * *

Perrit the carpenter worked in the Hok district, across the city from the Med district, nearly an hour's walk. The sun, bowling swiftly up over the horizon, was beginning to heat the cobblestones. Paxe decided to break her routine and walk east. Her stomach rumbled, and she remembered she had not eaten. A boy strolled near, carrying a basket of cherries, and she hailed him. “What's your price?"

“I'm not selling, Yardmaster,” he said, eyes flicking nervously from side to side. “I'm taking them to my gran; I bought them at Seri's stall, it's that way, two blocks down—"

Paxe lifted a hand to halt his chatter. “All right, all right. Go on.” She turned down the Street of the Carders and crossed the line into the Minto district. At a stall near the Tanjo, she bought fish cakes; she talked a while with the vendor, and managed to wheedle him out of a glass of wine.

He told her all about the fight on the docks. “Forty people hurt!” he said, with relish and horror.

“Seven,” she said. “Only seven."

He seemed disappointed. She listened, as she walked, to the conversations of the passersby. They talked about the fights, and about the approaching Harvest Festival. Three times in the Minto district Paxe saw old men bending over straw patterns cast in the street. The patterns were thought to be able to tell the future. Fortunetelling was ni'chea; the White Clan had declared it so years back, but whenever events grew uncertain in the city, the strawcasters appeared.

The market seemed more crowded than usual, and dirtier, as if the street-sweepers had not been working. The heavenweed smell was thick. Once, at a busy street corner, Paxe thought she glimpsed her son. But when she reached the spot she thought he'd been, there was no one there who even looked like him.

A beggar brushed against her, whining, and she snarled at him. He backed away. Paxe tried to remember when the beggars had come. Most of them were fakes, and all were pickpockets. She strolled past the Hok Yard with her head cocked, half listening for a count ("One—two—three—four!") but heard only the usual grunts, thumps, and shuffling. The district guards, wearing the blue and white Hok badges, bowed to her.

When she entered the shop in Carpenters’ Row, Perrit was busy, bending over a piece of wood locked in a vise. She knew better than to disturb him. She leaned against the wall, just within the doorway, till one of his apprentices saw her and scurried to find a stool for her. She watched Perrit's hands work a gouge. The room smelled of cut wood and turpentine. Planks, all shapes, all kinds, all colors, were stacked everywhere.

Perrit put the gouge down and drew the wood from the vise. “Good day,” Paxe said.

Perrit nodded. He was dark-skinned as she, white-haired, old, but his shoulders were like the oak he worked with. “Yar'master Paxe,” he said, slurring over the sounds he could not say. His front three upper teeth were rotted from his jaw. “What we ‘o ‘or you?"

Because the city guards occasionally had to cope with drunken sailors or drunken countryfolk carrying smuggled weapons, Paxe taught her guards knife counters. For this training she used carved white oak blades, called nijis. Perrit's workshop supplied them to her and to two other Yards.

Paxe leaned forward, resting elbows on knees. “I need some training equipment."

Surprise danced over his dark face. “You shou'na."

Paxe chose her approach with care. “Perrit, does your memory go back before the Ban?"

Two boys marched by, with lengths of red cedar balanced on their shoulders. Grains of sawdust clung to their hair and clothes. Perrit said, “It ‘oes. I was boy o’ t'irteen when it was make. Why?"

“You're almost the only woodcarver I can think of in the city who might remember how to carve sejis."

The old man rubbed his beardless chin. “T'ere be ot'ers,” he said. “You nee’ some?"

He sounded neither shocked nor surprised. Paxe wanted to ask him which of his compatriots had made Dobrin's sejis, but she knew he would not tell her. “I need some. Say, twenty."

He nodded. “I make."

“Do it yourself,” she said. “Deliver them yourself, too."

He grunted. “I ‘on't nee’ you to tell me t'at. When you want?"

“How long will it take you?"

He calculated, staring into space. “T'ree week."

“That's time enough,” Paxe said. “You'll find the Med response will be—generous."

As she left the shop, her back twinged. She walked through the Isara district with her lower spine pulsing at every step. At the Tanjo gate, she stopped. Orilys bowed. “Yardmaster."

“How is it?"

“Quiet as ever."

Nothing stirred on the immaculate pavement. The acolytes kept the stones well-swept. On impulse, Paxe gestured. “Let me through.” Smiling, Orilys pulled the iron gate back.

It was dark in the red stone building. Slowly, Paxe's eyes adjusted to the dimness. When she could see, she put her palms together and bowed. The floor was tiled with blue and silver squares. The walls were bare of ornament. Light came from slits in the dome, and from the silver-filigreed lamps which hung overhead, affixed to the sloping wall by long chains and hooks. A soft warbling bespoke the presence of birds. Paxe stepped forward, and slipped off her sandals. The tiles were cold. She folded her arms across her breasts, and lifted her face upward, staring at the white pillar in the center of the room.

The stone was polished, toward the base, by the sweat and oil of fingers. The image of the Guardian, everyone knew, was only that, an image of a thing which did not exist—for the Guardian was not a real being, but itself a symbol of that mightier reality which scholars named the chea. But in the charged, heavy stillness, it was easy to forget that the Guardian was a symbol and its statue was only a piece of graven stone. O Guardian, said the people of the city; May the Guardian smile upon you, they called to one another. They kept statues of it in their homes, to which they bowed. Once, Paxe recalled, she too had come here, weeping for her children. She looked at the changeless, ageless alabaster. It was easy to see it as real, a being, stronger than she, wiser than she, not woman, not man, birthless and deathless, without the strains and scars that mark the passage of even the most fortunate of human lives.

Closing her eyes, Paxe said a brief, silent prayer into the secretive darkness, that no harm would come, through her, to the folk of the city she loved.

* * * *

As she reached the border of her district, Paxe began to feel uneasy. She knew better than to look openly around; instead, she slowed, turned into a few alleys, and then doubled back. Softly she slid into a shadowed doorway to wait. In a moment, her sharp ears caught the patter of bare feet over stone. A small figure with a basket was coming through the alley she had just left.

She grabbed him. “Taking them to your gran? You little liar!” She cuffed him, hard enough to sting. The basket slipped from his hands and fell unheeded to the street. He twisted in her grip. Paxe closed her hand over his thin arm. “Stand still!” She shook him. “You were following me."

Ragged and dark-skinned, like a hundred other denizens of the street, he glared at her.

“What's your name?” she demanded. “Where do you live?"

He shook his head, as if daring her to question him more hurtfully.

Paxe scowled. Then, struck by a sudden idea, she seized him by an arm and a leg and swung him upside down. He yelled; two coins, one dull and heavy, one bright, fell from his pockets. The bronze piece skipped twice and fell in the gutter. Paxe put her foot quickly over the bright carved bone.

“That's mine!” said the boy. She set him down, and he scrambled for the bronze piece.

“Tell me who gave it to you and you may have the bone,” Paxe said. The child's lower lip began to tremble. “Crying won't help."

The threatened tears receded. “I don't know his name,” said the boy.

“I don't believe you,” Paxe said.

“I don't!” His eyes watched her shrewdly. “He has red hair, though."

There are a lot of redheads in this city."

“He has three brothers, and they all have red hair, too."

Grinning, Paxe took her foot off the bone. “Unless you want a beating,” she said, “don't tell him I caught you.” She stepped back. Swift as a striking snake, the boy plucked the trey from the road and raced for the alley.

Forgoing rounds, Paxe went directly to the Med house. She went in the kitchen entrance. Toli was kneading dough on a bread board, singing a popular song. Lalith was shelling shrimps, and the translucent pink shells were scattered over the kitchen steps.

“Is Arré in her study?” Paxe asked.

Lalith put the shrimp bowl down, and wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes, Yardmaster, do you want me to announce you?"

Paxe smiled at the girl. “No, don't bother.” She hurried through the long kitchen. The oven was lit, and the heat made her cheeks prickle with sweat.

In the study, Arré was seated in her chair. A piece of paper lay in her lap; it was cream-colored, thick as calfskin, and sealed with a dollop of red wax. The seal was imprinted with the Med house's triangular seal. “Good morning,” Paxe said.

“Good morning,” said Arré.

Paxe sat on the stool. She could not help looking at the letter; it made an imposing packet on Arré's knees. She could not quite see the superscription. “What's that?"

Arré flicked the paper with one finger. “A letter to the Tanjo. From me,” she added.

Paxe was surprised. Arré, she knew, had little use for the White Clan. “About the swords?” she said.

“About the swords,” Arré confirmed. “The witchfolk need to know what the Ismeninas are doing. Whatever action the Council chooses to take about the swords will need the White Clan's approval."

“To whom will you send it?” Paxe said.

“To Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath,” Arré said, rolling the name on her tongue.

Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath was L'hel—chief—of Kendra-on-the-Delta's Council of Witches. Paxe remembered him from Festival ceremonies: a stocky man, with powerful shoulders and cornsilk hair. Three years ago, he had presided over Spring Festival. That year Ricky turned twelve, and Paxe brought him to the Tanjo for the Ceremony of Recognition. Paxe, like most who grew up outside the city, had never seen the ceremony; the witchfolk had created it to replace the tradition which had once been the mark of passage toward adulthood, the giving of the knife. In the ceremony, the twelve-year-olds were each presented to the L'hel, who brought them solemnly before the Guardian. Her impression of him then had been favorable; he had seemed both confident and gentle. Good, Paxe thought. He should know what to say to the Ismeninas.

She recalled Dobrin's impassioned speech about the witchfolk. “...Whatever their powers, they are only human...."

“You aren't pleased?” Arré said. “You're scowling. I thought you'd be pleased.” The sardonic note that crept out whenever she spoke of the witchfolk infused her voice.

“I'm pleased,” Paxe said.

Arré frowned. “I hope I won't have to go to the Tanjo."

Paxe decided to change the subject. “There was trouble on the docks last night. Seven hurt. It may have been instigated by the Ismeninas."

Arré said, “Ron had better do something about those brothers of his!” Then she stretched, and her voice turned wry. “I'm a fine one to talk."

“Isak doesn't fight,” said Paxe.

“I'd be happier if he did, at least I'd know what he's doing. He lives in his house, he dances, he visits, he does no work—what does he do with his mind?” Her voice rose in exasperation.

Paxe thought, She sounds like me, worrying about Ricard. She was sick of worrying about her son. “I went to Carpenters’ Row, and ordered twenty sejis, as you said to."

“Excellent."

“Arré—” Paxe hunted words. “If swords are returned to the city, more people could be hurt than seven. A sword is deadlier than a stick or a knife."

Arré spread her hands. “Have I said I want swords returned to the city? I have not."

“Then why order sejis?"

“Because it makes political sense,” Arré said. “The Ismeninas have them."

Paxe shook her head. Politics were not her concern. “I was followed to the carpenter's,” she said.

“By whom?"

“A child. I trapped him in an alley, and he admitted the Ismeninas had set him at my heels."

Arré snorted. “Idiots! Did they think you would not notice a follower?” She scratched her chin. “That's interesting, though, that they feel they must know where you go and who you see."

“Do you want me to chase him away?"

Arré pursed her lips. “No. Let him hang about. Let the Ismeninas think we are both stupid.” She lifted the sealed letter from her lap. There was a second letter beneath it, smaller, open. “Is Sorren back yet?"

“She's not in the kitchen,” Paxe said.

Arré tapped the second letter. “Marti sent an invitation to Sorren to visit her. She was quite taken with her."

“Sorren told me."

“Marti wants to tell her stories, all about the Keeps in the north. The other evening, Sorren asked me what a Keep was."

“Did you tell her?” Paxe said.

“I told her."

Paxe wondered if Sorren had told Arré about her visions. “She has dreams about the north,” she said. “She wants to go there when her time of service ends."

Arré said, “Children have all kinds of strange ambitions. She'll get over it."

Paxe shook her head. “I don't think so."

There was a small silence. Arré broke it. “Has Ricard come home yet?"

Paxe looked at her hands. “No.” A brittle buzz filled the room, as a fly swooped from the window and circled their heads.

Arré said gently, “I'm sorry if I talked out of turn."

Paxe knew she was referring to their arguments about Ricard. “You didn't,” she said wearily. “What you said was correct; I have spoiled him.” The ugly word seemed ominous.

Arré said firmly, “Paxe, don't trouble yourself so. He'll come back."

“I hope so,” Paxe said.

* * * *

Sorren was troubled.

She had found her way back to the slipway, this time without assistance. It had taken her a while; the fog was in. It swallowed the fishing boats, leaving them blind, and the docks resounded to the bellows of the conches, as each boat sounded a separate tone to warn away its sisters.

Jeshim was gone from the docks; gone, she guessed, to seek a warmer place. But—though she hunted everywhere, even going down to the mud for a look beneath the boardwalk—there was no sign of the ghya.

She went up on the boardwalk again. The Jalar guards were standing on the end. She walked toward them.

The wind blew scraps of their conversation toward her. “Stabbed,” said one. “Stuck in the gut like a pig.” They broke off when they saw her coming toward them, and one of them reached for his spear.

The other one caught his arm. “Looking for your friend?” he said.

“I'm looking for Kadra,” Sorren said, standing well away from them. She was not feeling particularly friendly to Jalar soldiers.

“Did you look under the walk?"

“Yes. She's not there."

“You might ask at The Fish."

It was a good idea. “Thank you,” Sorren said.

The tavern doors were closed against the chill, but when Sorren pushed them, they opened. The woman in the leather apron came from the kitchen. Her hands were soapy. “What is it?” she said.

“I'm looking for Kadra,” said Sorren.

“Huh,” said the woman. “That one. Try the street.” She went back to the rear of the inn.

Sorren scowled after her. That's no help, she thought. She went outside again. Then, because she had been taught to take commands literally when they did not make sense any other way, she walked around the inn.

The rear door was open; from it she could hear the banging of pots and a woman's voice, swearing. On the east wall of the half-timbered building, a bundle of rags caught her attention. They looked familiar. She approached them. They moved. She knelt. “Hey,” she said. She poked the cloth. The long bundle groaned, and an eye glared at her from the flapping fold of a hood.

“G'way,” said a voice.

It was Kadra.

Sorren turned back the cloak. The ghya's face was bruised on one side. Her left lower jaw looked swollen. Her clothes seemed surprisingly clean, but the space around her stank of stale wine and vomit.

“Can I help you?” Sorren asked.

“Get away from me,” mumbled the ghya. She moved her mouth as if it hurt her. With a shaking hand, she tried to pull the hood of the cloak back over her head.

“You don't want to do that,” said Sorren. “Do you need to be sick?” She pushed the cloak from Kadra's head.

“No!” Kadra said. She pushed upright. “I need to wash.” Her voice had gotten strong. “Since you won't go away, help me stand.” Sorren stood and held out a hand. Kadra grabbed it and hauled herself up, using the wall as well. “Guardian, my head.” She tugged her clothes into some pretense of order. “Wait here,” she said. She went toward the rear door of the inn, weaving a little. “Norres!"

A shriek answered her. It seemed to mean something. She staggered through the doorway. Sorren glanced around at the ghya's resting place. It was bare of all comfort; the only good thing about it was that it was protected by the surrounding buildings from the wind.

After a while, Kadra emerged from the inn. Her hair was dripping wet. With more steadiness, she walked to Sorren. “You're persistent,” she said. “How did you know where to find me?"

“That woman told me,” Sorren said, pointing at the inn's back door.

“She would. What do you want?"

Sorren said, “You said you'd teach me how to go north."

“Chea, so I did. Does that make you my keeper?” She hunkered down with her back to the brick and timber wall.

Her left lower jaw was definitely swollen. “Were you in a fight?” Sorren asked.

“There was some nonsense on the docks last night,” said the ghya. “I got trapped in someone else's quarrel."

A cart rumbled along a street on its way from a warehouse to the docks. Sorren said, “If you don't want me to come here, I won't. But I need to know where to meet you, and when. I can come in the mornings, after I finish shopping, but I can't come every day or someone will notice."

More carts followed the first one. Absently Kadra said, “They must be unloading a ship.” She rubbed her eyes. “You're serious about this, aren't you? You've got it all worked out. Where did you get that scrape?"

For a moment, Sorren had no idea what the ghya meant. Then she remembered the bruise on her forehead. “It's nothing,” she said. “A scuffle."

“Did you win?"

“I didn't lose."

“Do you know anything about fighting?"

Sorren shook her head. Servants did not learn such things. “I'm strong,” she said.

“Strength isn't enough,” said the ghya. “Can you hunt? Can you use a spear or a knife?"

Sorren shook her head.

“You'll need hunting skills when you go north,” said Kadra, “and a way to protect yourself. The folk of Galbareth will leave you alone, but after Lake Aruna, the roads get wild. It's not the kindest country for a solitary traveler."

“I just want to know how to get there,” Sorren said, trying not to sound impatient. It was growing near to noon, and she did not want Arré to need her and notice her absence.

“It would help if you had a map,” said Kadra.

Sorren had never seen a map. She knew what it would show her: the land, Arun, made small enough to fit upon a piece of parchment. She wondered if it would be possible for her to get one.

“You know where Plum Street is?” said Kadra.

“I can find it,” Sorren said.

“It's in the Batto district. An aunt of mine has a house there; I stay there sometimes. I'll meet you there next week, three hours after sunrise."

“What day?"

“Fourth day. She goes to the baths the fourth day of every week, in the morning, and stays there for two hours."

“How will I know the house?"

Kadra said, “Just ask for me. Ask anyone."

* * * *

She was hurrying up the hill when a voice hissed at her from a doorway. “Sorren.” She looked around, annoyed at being stopped. Was it Jeshim, chasing her? A shadow stretched across the street. “Sorren!"

It was Ricard. He was standing under a kava fruit tree. He looked exhausted, and worried, and young.

“Please,” he said.

She walked to where he would not have to shout at her. “What?"

“Sorren, I'm sorry,” he said. His voice was like a little boy's, wavering and high. She wondered if he were doing it on purpose. His clothes were filthy, and his shirt was still torn. “I am. I was so high I went a little crazy. I'm not high now. I haven't had a taste of heavenweed since I ran away from the guards."

It could be true. “What do you want?” Sorren said.

“Is my mother angry at me?"

“Probably,” Sorren said. “We didn't talk about it."

“Are you all right?” He looked anxiously at the bruise on her forehead.

“You couldn't hurt me,” she said. “Ricky, I'm going to the house now. If you want to talk to me, come along."

“I'm scared to go back,” he said.

It was as honest an answer as she had ever heard from him. “You'll have to, sooner or later,” she said. With some surprise, she realized that she was no longer angry at him. “I think you should go back."

He shuffled his feet. “Can I go with you?” he said.

“I said you could.” She wondered where he had last slept. He came out from under the tree. Carefully, he fell into step with her. It was odd to be walking with him like this. “Where have you been?” she asked.

He hunched his shoulders. “Running around. Running away.” He sighed. “At the docks."

“I'm surprised the Jalar guards didn't find you,” she said.

“I was upriver. Hok district. I saw her—my mother. I was hiding around the Hok Yard."

Sorren said, “It's not fair of you to trouble her. She has work to do."

He kicked a stone. “I don't mean to be a trouble. It just happens. I'm so stupid."

She could not help saying, “Just what I was thinking myself.” He glanced at her, and then away, and she felt ashamed for teasing him. Their strides matched as they climbed the hill. “What are you going to say?"

“What can I say?” he asked.

She shrugged.

As they neared the Med Yard, Sorren said, “She'll be busy now. She likes to teach, this time of day."

“I know,” he said. His shoulders hunched again. “I suppose I'd better wait for her in the house."

“Yes,” she said. She touched his sleeve. “Good luck."

He ducked his head. “Thanks.” She wondered what Paxe would say to him. He was too big to beat. She watched him go toward the cottage. Like a child, he dragged his feet, making shallow furrows over the dusty ground.

Lalith was waiting for her in the rear courtyard. She had pink petals all over her spiky hair. Her black eyes snapped with curiosity. “Wasn't that Ricard?"

Sorren nodded.

“How could you talk to him after what he did?"

Sorren sighed. “It was easy. I just opened my mouth.” Lalith giggled. “Where's Arré?"

“In the parlor.” They went into the house. Lalith went to the kitchen. Sorren went toward the parlor, wondering if Arré had missed her. She hoped not. The door was open, and she went in without bothering to knock, holding out her string of bontas.

Paxe was there.

Sorren immediately felt shy. She hated interrupting conversations, and she was never sure how to act toward Paxe and Arré together. The last time she had seen them, they had fought. She took a step back, thinking she could leave and return when their business was finished. Paxe turned and smiled at her.

“Come in,” said Arré, “don't hover. Where have you been?"

From the slant of the sunlight across the wooden floor, Sorren knew it was late. “Shopping,” she said.

“Shopping keeps you later each morning,” said Arré, holding out her hand for the string of bontas. Sorren dropped it into her palm.

“I met Ricky,” she said.

Paxe turned on the stool. “Where?"

“On the way. He came back with me. He's at the cottage."

Paxe rose. “I'd like to talk with him,” she said.

“Of course,” said Arré. “Go on.” Her bracelets jangled as she pointed at Sorren. “You go clean up. Put on a fresh shirt. I want you to take a message for me."

“Where?” Sorren asked.

“To the Tanjo."

Sorren froze. Arré went on. “And tomorrow you can go and hear stories about the north. An invitation arrived today for you from Marti Hok.” She stopped, and then said, “Well? Aren't you pleased?"

Sorren swallowed. She said, “I don't want to go to the Tanjo."

The room grew very quiet. In the stillness, the shouts of the guards in the Yard came clearly through the open windows. Sweat slicked Sorren's back. A hand brushed her from behind, and she jumped.

It was Paxe, still there.

Arré said, “What do you mean, you don't want to go to the Tanjo?"

Sorren said, “I—I'm afraid of them."

“Nonsense,” said Arré. “Go clean up."

Paxe said, “Arré, why don't you let me send a guard with the letter. It's more formal."

Arré scowled at her. “I thought you were going to talk to your son."

“I am.” Paxe didn't move. The older women looked at each other.

Arré sighed. “All right. Send a guard.” Paxe's hand withdrew from Sorren's hip, and she left the chamber. Sorren bit her lip and waited for Arré to ask her why she feared the witchfolk.

But Arré simply said, “What are you standing here for? Have you no work to do?” She flapped a hand in dismissal. Sorren left the room as if her feet had wings. Later, when she was sure that Arré was not annoyed at her, she would ask about the invitation from Marti Hok. She wondered what she should wear.

As she ran through the kitchen, Toll said, “What are you so happy for?"

“Tell you later,” she called over her shoulder. She ran to the cottage, to thank Paxe for her intervention.

But the cottage door was emphatically closed.

* * * *

The weather changed that evening. The wind, whipping out of the south, brought the fog streaming up the city streets in long feathery strings. At sunset, the trees were tossing as they did during the autumn rainstorms. Cold weather put the cook in high spirits; he sang as he worked. Lalith, for reasons of her own, set a place at the table in the big parlor. Sorren lit the chobatas and went to tell Arré that dinner was ready. The cook had outdone himself; he had made turtle eggs and baked shrimp and yellow apples in honey.

Arré stared at the display of dishes. “What's this for?” she said.

“He likes it when it isn't hot,” explained Sorren.

She had gone twice more to the cottage, but the door had been closed each time. She watched Arré eat, thinking of Marti Hok. When she brought the final dish from the kitchen, Ricard was standing in the hallway. He had cleaned up; his hair was damp, and he wore clean clothes. Sorren guessed that he had been at the baths. “What do you want?” she said.

“I want to speak to her."

“I'll ask.” Sorren brought the dessert, a frothy delicacy of cream and sherbet, to Arré's place, and took the cover off.

Arré smiled. “It looks wonderful."

“Ricard is in the hall. He wants to talk to you,” Sorren said.

Arré picked up her spoon. “Have him come in,” she said.

Sorren beckoned Ricky in. He sidled past her as if he were afraid or ashamed to touch her, and she wondered what Paxe had said to him. He looked chastened. Standing at the foot of the table, he cleared his throat and said, “Thank you for permitting me to disturb you, Lady.” It was the first formal speech Sorren had ever heard him make.

Arré ate some sherbet. “You have something to say to me?” she said. “Go on."

He wet his lips. “I have been living in a house on your land, and eating in your kitchens, and living off the money that you pay my mother for her work. The other day I did something very stupid.” He glanced at Sorren, and then away. “If I worked for you, and I did—what I did—then you could have me fined, or beaten, or whatever. If I were a child, then I could be punished like a child, by my mother. I can—my mother says I can be a child or I can be a man."

“Which do you want to be?” said Arré.

“Whichever keeps me out of trouble,” Ricky said.

“You should have thought of that before,” said Arré.

“I know. I didn't think."

“Well? Think now. Which will you be?"

“Is there a choice?” said Ricky. “I want to be a man."

Arré nodded. “Your mother asked you this."

“Yes."

“What did you tell her?"

“What I just told you."

“What did she say?"

Ricky wet his lips again. “She said I should come here, and tell you, and then do whatever you told me to do."

“Very well,” said Arré. She brandished her spoon. “I want you to go to the grapefields. You can leave tomorrow. I will write a letter for you to take with you. You will bring it to Myra-no-Ivrénia Med, and you will do as she directs, even if it means working the fields.” She paused. Ricard nodded. “Since it's harvest, it probably will. You'll earn a wage, like everyone else, and in six months, if you wish, you will be permitted to leave the fields and return here, and we will see what happens then. Between now and then, I want six months’ uncomplaining work from you. Do you understand?"

“Yes, Lady."

“Good. Go say good-bye to your mother.” She dipped her spoon into the sherbet. Ricard bowed, and left. The chobata flickered in the draft as the door opened and shut.

“What do you think of that?” said Arré.

Sorren returned to her place by the hearth. “I think it will be good for him to have to work."

Arré scowled. “No doubt.” She tapped her spoon on the plate. “But that's not what I meant. Will Paxe be angry at me for sending him away?"

Sorren considered it. It hadn't occurred to her that Paxe might want Ricky to go and still be angry. “I don't think so,” she said. “She couldn't do it. That's why she sent him to you."

Seven

The following morning was chill and fair. Sorren rose early. Before anything else, she reached under her pillow for the piece of paper from Marti Hok. Arré had given it to her the night before, admonishing her not to lose it. Her fingers touched the thick paper and she grinned. It was still there.

She dressed in the clothes nearest to hand, and went to take Arré her hot water. The jug was waiting for her. She filled it from the pipe, and then lugged it up the stairs. Moving as quietly as possible, she brought it into the bedroom, filled Arré's basin, and set the depleted jug beside the table. Arré kicked under her quilt and murmured something, but did not wake.

In the kitchen, Sorren found Lalith chopping fish cakes. “You have to do the shopping today,” Sorren said.

“What?” Lalith's braids quivered. “Why?"

“I'm going to Marti Hok's."

“Lady Fancy,” jeered Toli. “There's soot on your shirt, are you going like that?"

Sorren made the moon sign at him. “No. Lalli, it's easy. You know the shops; I've showed you. Tell the clerks, and they'll have everything delivered."

“Do I need a money string?” said Lalith.

“No. They can send the bill."

Toli said, “I'll go with you if you're scared to go alone."

Spine stiffening, the thirteen-year-old drew herself up. “I'm not scared. I can go."

Sorren went to the cottage. But it was empty, except for the cat. Thinking that Paxe might be in the Yard, she went to peer through the gate bars. Dis was showing a new guard how to counter a pike thrust. Borti, thumbs in his belt, was rocking on his heels just within the gate.

He came out to talk to her. “Hey, Beanstalk.” He winked. “Want a ride?"

Sorren pretended to be insulted. “I'm looking for the Yardmaster, and that's not my name, old man."

“Who're you calling an old man?"

“Your mustaches are gray,” she said, “and look at you. You're getting fat."

He slapped his paunch. “That's all muscle, girl!"

“Huh.” She tried to see around him into the Yard.

“She isn't in there."

“You know where she is?"

“She made rounds early. I think—” he tugged on his mustache—"I think she went to the Gate to say farewell to her son."

So Ricard was really going. “Thank you,” Sorren said. She leaned forward and kissed Borti's cheek. “You're a nice man, you know?"

She left him staring after her as if she had turned into a fish. She went through the kitchen, past the parlor. Elith caught her at the foot of the stairs. Her breath stank of garlic. The big parlor had a torn window screen, she said, and the lamps needed more oil.

“I ordered choba oil three days ago,” said Sorren. The old woman's mumblings made her impatient. “Tell Toli to fetch it for you from the storeroom."

She dressed in fresh clothes and knocked on Arré's door. “Come in,” Arré said. Sorren slipped in. Arré sat on the edge of her bed, putting on her bracelets. “Aha, let me see. Turn round. You look very nice, child."

“Thank you,” said Sorren. She glanced about the chamber. “Is there something I can do for you?"

Arré chuckled. “I won't detain you. Have you seen Paxe this morning?"

“She went to the Gate to say good-bye to Ricky."

“Ah. Very well, child, go on.” She waved both hands in a shooing motion. Habit made Sorren tug the corners of the coverlet as she passed it. She wanted to say something—do something—she didn't know what. Her feelings were all askew.

She went out the front door just as a boy in an acolyte's robe came through the gate. He looked very self-important. “I have a letter for the Lady Arré Med,” he announced, to her and to the courtyard, “from Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath.” Sorren's pulse raced as it always did at the mention of the White Clan.

“Inside,” she said, and stepped off the path to let him enter. He strode by her without thanks, as if deference were his due. This, she thought, was the answer to the letter she had refused to deliver.

* * * *

The Hok guards appeared to be expecting her.

She had brought the paper with her name on it to show them, but they didn't need it; they waved her up the path as soon as she said her name. She had put on sandals; they clicked on the tiles as she walked to the front door. The Hok house was huge, much larger than the Med house. It was built of silver cedar, and shaped like a U, with a large garden in the open courtyard. Trumpet-vines climbed up trellises and dangled from the peaked roof.

The Hok family lived all together. A girl in a white dress took Sorren to a blue tiled washroom so that she could rinse the dust from her hands and face, and then brought her to the alcove where she could leave her sandals. It was piled with at least a dozen pairs of sandals and shoes.

Marti Hok's chamber was wide and light, with windows all around it to let in the sunshine. Marti sat in the center of it, in a great wooden chair. The arms of the chair were carved like the heads of snakes.

“Come in, child,” said the old woman. “Let me look at you.” Sorren obeyed. She was glad she had put on clean clothes. “You look charming. Sit.” Sorren folded her legs beneath her and sat on the floor. The mats were woven of bright gold straw, and they were very soft and sweet-smelling. A child ran in, and then another. “These are my grandchildren,” said Marti proudly. Voices rang through the hallway; a third child ambled in. Sorren wondered how many grandchildren Marti Hok had—six, ten, dozens?

They tramped in and out of the chamber to show their grandmother live frogs, dead newts, sore knees, disagreements, uncertainties, treasures beyond price. The children—adults—looked in, asked an occasional question, said, “Don't annoy your grandmother."

Each time one of the Hok children entered, Sorren, mindful of propriety, went to one knee. A servant came in with bowls of sherbet for Marti and the visitor. Sorren stood, to take both bowls. “Sit!” said Marti Hok. “And stop getting up and down every time one of my daughters walks by. You are my guest, you are just Sorren, and I am just Marti. Get off the floor; sit on a pillow. I am pleased you could come."

Sorren grinned. “I like floors,” she said. She let the servant hand her the bowl.

“Then you should sit there. Would you like tea or wine or water?"

“I would like some wine,” Sorren said. “Thank you, La—Marti."

Marti told the servant to bring a glass of wine. Sorren spooned sherbet into her mouth. It tasted of raspberries; the flavor broke against her tongue like a bubble bursting. “This is good,” she said.

“It is good,” said Marti. “What do you think of this house?"

Sorren glanced around. The room smelled lovely; there were flowers in tall vases in every corner. The pillows were silk, stuffed with goosedown. In a wicker cage, hanging from a tall wooden pole, a lucky cricket sat singing. “I like it.” Cautiously, remembering her length of leg, she stretched out in the sunlight.

A girl-child with long black hair scooted into the room. “Abu, look!” She held out her cupped hands. Marti bent over them.

“Remarkable,” she said with conviction. “Where didst thou find it?"

“In the garden."

“Good. Take it outside and let it go. It needs light and air."

“But I want to keep it!” She opened the hands enough for Sorren to see a huge feathery orange butterfly, clinging to her palm.

“Thou cannot, it will die. Let it go, chelito."

The girl pouted. Marti fanned the butterfly's wings. “See, chelito. It is growing. It wishes to be free.” The orange wings were fluttering, trying to extend. “Let it go. It cannot live like the cricket, in a cage."

The girl sighed. “I want to keep it."

“There are some creatures thou cannot keep."

The girl went from the room, eyes fixed on the drying butterfly. In the next room, someone began to sing. “Hush-a-bye, sleep my child, nothing fearful, nothing wild, shall disturb thee, take thy rest, here against thy mother's breast. Hush-a-bye, go to sleep....” The song broke off.

Marti smiled. “That's my youngest daughter, Alanna. She's pregnant."

Sorren said, “How many do you have?"

“Grandchildren? Children? Three sons, four daughters. Only the Guardian knows how many granddaughters and grandsons; I surely don't keep track. Arré's house is not like this, is it?"

“Oh, no,” Sorren said. She spooned up the last of the sherbet, which was melting into a creamy red puddle in the dish. “It's much quieter."

“Too quiet,” said Marti Hok. “Arré burns too low. She's like a piece of coal, solitary on a grate. She needs people around her. She needs a lover."

“Arré?” said Sorren. She put the dish beside her. She could not imagine Arré with a lover.

“You think she's too old?” said Marti, amused. Her face crinkled into laughter. “Wait until you're forty, you'll know better."

“No,” Sorren protested, “I know—” After all, Paxe was nearly forty. But Paxe was Paxe.

“She should have had children, too,” said Marti. “But then, she has you.” She stretched out her hand for her cane, and rose. Sorren jumped up. “Come. We will go to the library."

The library of the Hok house reminded Sorren of Arré's study, except that, instead of only one scroll case against the wall, this room was filled with glass-faced cases lined with scrolls. There was a big wooden chair, twin to the one in Marti's chamber, behind an equally massive desk. Marti lowered herself into the chair. She said, waving her hand at the cases, “Have you ever seen so many pieces of paper in one place?"

Sorren shook her head. She eyed the cases, wondering what it would be like to dust them all.

“My grandfather, Mordith, was a Scholar. He collected all these scrolls. He would pay people to bring him old records and histories, the older the better. He used to read to me from them. Samia-no-Reo was his friend. She would come to visit, and they would sit poring over the records, tracing the course of this lord and that lord, happy as children. He never let the servants in here, he cared for everything himself."

“Is he dead?” said Sorren.

Marti laughed. “Quite dead. Were he alive, child, he would be very, very old."

Sorren felt foolish. Bending, she peered through the streaked glass into the case. “Is the story of Sorren in here?"

“Not in that one. Move two more cases down and bring me the leather binding with the papers in it.” Sorren opened the door to the case. Dust flew out. She sneezed.

The leather binding was rusty red, cracked, peeling, old. She carried it to the desk and laid it in front of Marti. The old woman touched the leather with careful hands. “I think this is the right one,” she said. She looked up. “Tornor. You know where it is?"

“In the north, in the mountains. It's a Keep."

“You know what a Keep is?"

“A castle."

“You know what a Keep is for?” said the old woman.

Sorren remembered what Kadra had said. They were built ... when Arun was at war with Anhard-over-Mountain, “For war,” she said.

“What do you know of war?” said Marti Hok.

“Nothing,” said Sorren, but she remembered stories she had heard around the campfires. “A little. My mother told me some, about a time when we fought the Asech folk. They came from the desert, burning and killing....” She shivered, remembering the firelight flickering off the faces of the old women in the fields, and their hard knobby hands moving in time to their words.

“I was told the same stories,” said Marti Hok softly. “My grandfather remembered it. He used to tell me tales of villages and fields aflame, and riders galloping out of the desert.... I had nightmares about my room burning, and me burning up with it, and I wept into my pillow, until my grandmother found me and made him stop the stories, and told me that the witches in the Tanjo had made peace with the Asech for all time, and that they would never let the city burn."

For a moment, Sorren saw in Marti Hok's face the little girl she had been, sixty years before. “Did you live in this house?” she said.

“This very house. Well. That time is gone, and will never come again, Guardian willing. I pray that war will ever be something you have no knowledge of. There is a time in our history that is called ‘the war years.’ At least, my grandfather taught me, that is how they name them in the north. The Keeps were built a long time ago, to protect the folk who lived on the steppe from the plundering of the Anhard raiders. We used to fight with Anhard the way we fought the Asech. But that war was over two hundred and fifty years ago."

“We trade with Anhard now,” Sorren said. She touched her arm. “In the fields, they used to tease my mother, saying that I might have Anhard blood."

“You might. They are fair, sometimes. But their skin is yellower than yours."

“My mother always said no, it wasn't so."

“Then it must not have been. Well—these records are from Tornor. Even two hundred and fifty years ago the Black Clan existed, and northern scholars kept records of the battles. My grandfather collected some of them."

She opened the leather binder. Sorren leaned over the table. For some reason, she had thought the records would have pictures in them, of women with swords, horsemen, castles, strange beasts, like the painted pictures on her Cards. She was disappointed: the yellow, brittle pages held no pictures, just long lines of writing going up and down the page. The ink was faded to gray.

“Can you read them?” she asked.

“Not those,” said Marti. She laid those pages aside. “But these I can.” Here the ink was clearer and the characters went from right to left across the page, the way they were supposed to. Reaching out, Sorren traced a piece of curling script with her finger, very lightly. Dust filmed her fingertip, and a tiny scrap of paper cracked beneath her touch and fell, like a petal, to the floor.

“This is the story of Sorren,” said Marti. She pointed to a block of writing. “This is the name: Sorren.” Sorren stared at her own name. “Here it appears again. Sorren. Sorren."

“Tell me the story."

Marti bent over the page. “I'll read it,” she said.

"This is a tale of courage and high adventure, having been copied by Elm, scribe to Berent, 22nd Lord of Tornor Keep, in the Council Year 89, in the third month of winter, the seventh year of the Lord Berent's reign." She stopped. “That year, the year 89, is the year the Tanjo upheld the Ban in Kendra-on-the-Delta."

“Oh,” said Sorren.

"This is being copied from a copy made in the year 32 by Josen, scribe to Morven, 19th Lord of Tornor Keep. She goes on to explain that the older record, which appears to have been copied from the original, had been damaged by fire. And it came to pass—she likes that kind of language—that in the twenty-fourth year of the reign of the Lord Athor, a warlord rose out of the southern villages, out of the village of Iste near the city of Tezera, and his name was Col, known as Col Istor. Out of his pride and without thought for the peoples of the land, this evil man gathered to him an army of malcontents and evildoers, and set out to make himself and his followers wealthy and great. I am not going to read it, it will take all day. It seems that Col Istor gathered an army from around Lake Aruna, and led them north to make war on the Keeps."

“Was this during the war years?” Sorren asked.

“No, that time was past. Arun and Anhard were at peace."

“Then why did Col I-I—"

“Istor."

“—Col Istor want to fight?"

“It doesn't say,” said Marti. “He was trained to war, he had fought the Asech in the south. Probably he was bored. He captured three of the four Keeps. In Tornor Keep, Athor had a daughter, Sorren, and a son, Errel. These two were made prisoner by Col Istor. They escaped—in winter. The story makes much of that, that it was winter. The snow drifts that season were of the height of a tall man, and the steel so cold that it froze the fingers to it, so that a man might grasp a sword hilt and come away without his skin. Ugh. They went south and west, and the story goes on to say that they came to the land of always summer, the magical valley, Vanima."

Sorren started. “It says that?"

“Yes.” Marti read. "It came to pass that as they drew near to Vanima, the mountains slid aside to permit them entrance, and closed behind them. Thus was the magical valley defended."

It did not sound real. Probably it wasn't real. “What else does it say?"

“It says that Errel and Sorren approached Van, its ruler, and asked for help. He told them he would help them against Col Istor, but that they would then have to pay a price."

“What was it?"

“He wouldn't tell them."

Sorren said, “That isn't fair!"

“No,” said Marti, “but it's very likely. Shall I continue?"

“Yes, please."

“They agreed, so he gathered his chearis and they traveled north to Tornor Keep. They stormed the castle and killed Col Istor and all his men. Then Van asked for payment.” Marti paused to turn a page. “His price for his help was that one of Athor's children had to come and live in the land of always summer, and never leave it. So the two children of Athor fought, to see which one of them would stay and which one would return to Vanima with Van and his chearis. Errel lost. Sorren became the Lady of Tornor Keep, and her daughter ruled Tornor after her, and hers after her. And so it came to pass that the line of Tornor Keep has continued even to this day."

...Even to this day.... Sorren sighed with pleasure. Kité had never told her that story. Probably she had not known it. She wondered what it would have been like, to fight a brother. Surely they would not have wanted to hurt each other.

“Did they look alike?” she asked.

“Sorren and Errel? It doesn't say,” said Marti. “Of Sorren it says, Her hair was pale as northern grass, and her eyes were blue as the sky in winter. Errel it doesn't describe at all. Oh, it also says that Sorren was tall.” The old woman smiled. “If you like, you may imagine that she looked like you."

Sorren nodded. “You said I had a northern look."

“You do,” said Marti. “Many of the northern folk are pale and light-eyed. Did you enjoy the story?"

“Yes, thank you.” Sorren wondered if her mother had heard the story sometime, perhaps when she was a child, and, remembering, chose to name her daughter after the northern warrior woman. “Could I hear more?"

Marti said, “Chea, girl, there are a half a hundred of them!” She shuffled the pages back into their original order. “Besides, child, the past is a trap, and you are too young to be caught by it. Wait until you are old and ugly and it is all you have left."

Sorren did not know what Marti meant. “I don't think you're ugly,” she said.

The old woman laughed. “I thank you.” She closed the red binder. “Put this back."

Sorren lifted the flaking leather case in her arms. A piece of paper slipped from the pages and fluttered to the floor.

“Wait,” said Marti. She nudged the scrap with her cane. “What's that?” Laying the binder back on the desk, Sorren picked up the paper. It had pictures on it. They were cramped ink drawings with borders around them, and writing underneath them. The pictures looked familiar, like something she had seen before.

“What is it?” Marti said, leaning forward.

“It fell out of the pages.” Sorren turned it over. There were more pictures on the back.

“Let me see,” commanded Marti. She took the paper delicately from Sorren's hand. "The Dreamer," she read. "A woman sleeping. A window overlooks her couch: through it we see two bright red stars. The Weaver is a woman in a green dress, seated at a loom. The Lady is a golden-haired woman, standing outdoors. She is smiling. What is this?"

Sorren said, “It's the Cards."

“What are you talking about?"

Sorren took the paper back. “The Lady. The Dreamer. This one is the Dancer."

“Let me see—” They bent over the page together. “Yes. You cannot read, child, how do you know the name?"

“My mother gave them to me. There are twenty-two of them. This big.” She made a rectangle with her hands to show the size. “They have pictures like this, only with colors, and more in the pictures. The Lady has a dog beside her."

Marti counted. “There are eight Cards pictured here. That is what you called them, Cards? Where are the rest?” She pulled the binder across the desk. “They must be here."

She opened the binder, and began to lift the pages from one pile to another. Sorren pounced on a second piece of paper. “This has eight more,” she said. Marti continued to lift the pages, and a third paper appeared. “This has the rest.” She recognized the pictures, crabbed and strange though they seemed. “The Tower, the Wheel, the Demon, Old Boney, Moon Lady, the Village."

“Let me see.” Marti peered at the pictures. “They have names, child. This one that you call Old Boney is Death. The one you call Moon Lady is the Moon, and the one you call the Village is the Sun."

Sorren said, “My mother never told me what to call them."

Marti leaned back in the chair. Her soft brown cheeks had darkened. “Do you know what you must have?” she said. “According to this paper,” she said, tapping it, “someone who is trained to it can tell the future with your Cards. You say your mother left them to you?"

“Yes."

“I wonder—” Marti laughed. “It must be so."

“What must be so?"

Marti touched the paper. “Once, those Cards were in the keeping of the ruling house of Tornor."

Sorren swallowed. She gazed at the pictures again. “They can't have been,” she said. “My Cards are newer than those drawings."

“Hmm.” Marti frowned. “Do your Cards have a pattern on the back?"

“No."

“Ah. It says here, the pattern on the back of the Cards was a red star on a white field. The badge of Tornor is a red, eight-pointed star on a white field. You must have a copy of the original deck.” Her face creased with amusement. “I wonder how your family got them. Could your mother use them?"

“I don't know,” Sorren said. “She died."

“Perhaps,” Marti said, “perhaps she could. Perhaps you have a right to your name. Perhaps, scores of years back, your family, your mother's line, was part of the ruling house of Tornor."

Sorren blinked. She did not know whether to laugh or weep. “My family?"

“Yes. Certainly. Such things are not given away.” Marti laughed. “Shall I tell you something else? The ruling house of Tornor was originally started by a rebellious scion of the Med house. You could be a distant, very, very, distant relative of Arré!"

Sorren wanted to pinch herself to make sure she was not asleep. She was really a northerner, born in the south but with the blood of the north running in her veins. She was even—no. She caught herself. She was no princess. She was a bondservant whose great-great-great-many times-great-grandmother might have been the younger sister of a noble house. “I wish I knew,” she said.

Marti Hok's face grew somber. “Don't let me confuse you,” she said gently. “It's only a fantasy, child."

From the corridor a voice called, “Mother?” A woman poked her head into the room. She was young, and very pregnant. “What on earth are you doing here?” she asked.

“What concern is that of yours?” said Marti. “I'm busy. Is it important? If not, go away and leave us alone."

“Whoops!” said the woman, and vanished. Marti laughed.

Sorren held the pictures. She had told herself it was only a story, about a dead princess. But now she felt as if the Lady of Tornor had reached out a dead hand and touched her, over centuries and centuries.... Perhaps she had had the Cards, once, touched them, dealt them, used them to see into the future. Did she see me? she thought. “Does Tornor have a tower?"

“A tower?” said Marti Hok, but she did not ask why. She drew the binder to her once again. “A tower. Tornor had a tower. Elin the scribe speaks of it, giving the date it was built. It looks north, she says, and has looked ever northward since its building, so that the many rulers of Tornor might have a place to stand to direct the battle against the Anhard raiders — one cannot direct a battle from a tower, but how would she know that? Silly woman."

“Do the other Keeps have towers?"

“No."

It was Tornor she had seen, Tornor she had traveled to in her far-seeing. Blood beat in her head, and the tower of the Keep, far away, rose again in her gaze.

Marti Hok said. “Sorren?"

Sorren swallowed. The image vanished. “Yes. I'm sorry, La—Marti. I was dreaming."

“Have I given you pleasure with my stories?"

“Oh, yes."

“That is well. You might do something for me, then, in exchange."

“Of course,” said Sorren.

Marti took the pieces of paper out of her hands. “I should like to see those Cards."

Sorren was silent. She could go to the house, get them, bring them back—but if she returned to the house on the hill, she would turn from Sorren the guest into Sorren the bondservant. Arré would find her an errand, Cook would find her an errand, there would be dinner to serve, laundry to wash, tasks to do.

Marti said softly, “Never mind, child."

Sorren said, looking at the old woman, “But I want to."

“When you can, you will. No, leave those—” as Sorren started to return the papers to the binder. “Someone else will do it. It seems I was right in naming you a northerner. Tell me, have you thought of going north when your time of service is over?"

Sorren thought of Kadra, and her visions. “Yes."

“You would go now, if you could,” said Marti. “I see it in your eyes; don't trouble to deny it.” She groped for her cane, and Sorren put it in her hand. “It's just as well you cannot leave now. You have a lover, I think? Yes, I remember, the Yardmaster. She cares for you. So does Arré, and you for her, a little, and that is important; she needs people about her who love her. You know her brother?"

The abrupt question confused Sorren. “Yes,” she said. “I drum for him."

“He is an evil man,” said Marti Hok. “I am old enough to know evil when I see it."

Sorren did not think that Isak was evil. Malicious, perhaps, even cruel, but not evil.

“You don't believe me?” said Marti. “Well, we shall see.” She set her cane firmly on the floor, and stood. “Meanwhile, you may practice patience by being cordial to an old lady for a while longer. Do you like flowers? Good. Come and walk with me in my garden."

Eight

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-tay-ha-ha-ha..." Strings of song echoed through the alleys. Paxe strolled through sunlight on her way to the Northwest Gate. It was the Festival of the Ox, an Asech feast. It went on for three days, while interesting smells floated from the Asech houses, and the women chanted in tones that went higher and higher before slurring into laughter. Men played music on reed flutes, and children ran about with clappers carved in the shape of oxen. It was the most important Asech feast, next to the Festival of the Horse, which was celebrated in the spring, after the sowing. Paxe found herself pacing in time to the strange music. A clear voice rose in song from a house and she saw a girl's frame silhouetted against a screen. "Ya-ha-ha-ha-tay ...” It made her think of Sorren.

She had not seen Sorren—except for the casual greetings she could not avoid—for four days. She wasn't angry with the girl, nor did she blame her for what her own fool of a son had done—but she just did not want to see her, for a while. The last four afternoons Sorren had come to sit patiently on the Yard fence, and Paxe had stayed with her soldiers, pretending not to notice the lithe golden figure perched on the wood.

Arré had noticed, and had said bluntly, yesterday morning, “Sorren's unhappy. I suppose you know that."

“I know."

“Are you going to do something about it?” Arré said.

“When I'm ready.” It sounded cruel. Arré shrugged.

“I think you're being foolish,” she said, and that was the end of it. Paxe hadn't meant to be cruel, but whenever she looked at Sorren, something held her back from stretching out her hand. She hoped that no one, besides Arré, had noticed.

Traffic at the Gate was slow; there was a line of carts waiting to come in. Paxe wondered what was holding up traffic. She looked around for the captain on duty. His name was Sereth; he was city-born.

“Where's Sereth?” she called to one of the other guards.

“Round the guardhouse!” called the guard.

“Yardmaster!” Paxe turned, to find Sereth waving at her from the side of the tall guardhouse wall. She waved back and worked her way across the cobblestoned street to him.

His thick, sandy hair was standing straight out from his head. “I have something to show you.” She followed him around the guardhouse to the small weapons shed in which the Gate guards kept their pikes and slings. He knelt beside a box and threw the lid open. “Look!"

Paxe knelt. The stamp on the outside of the box said it contained wool. She looked inside. There was a bolt of orange wool within the box, and something bright sticking out between the wool's soft folds. She reached in, feeling carefully along the fabric. Sereth grew impatient. Leaning over her shoulder, he pulled the wool back. The orange cloth concealed one—no, two, no, more than two—sheathed weapons. Swords.

Sereth hunkered down beside her. “There are seven knives and ten swords in that box. Vanesi the merchant brought them. She swears she had no idea they were there. She's in the guardhouse; we held her, thinking you might want to talk to her."

He was slightly breathless—with excitement, Paxe guessed. She wondered if he had ever seen a sword before. “Did you find other weapons amid her goods?"

“None. We took the caravan apart."

“Have you found any other weapons at all?"

“Not yet. We're double-checking all wagons, especially the ones from the north."

Paxe turned the first sword in her hands. It was bright and shiny, without stains or nicks or rust. “When was the last time someone tried to smuggle edged weapons into the city?” she said.

“Three years ago,” said Sereth promptly. “Ben-no-Shana brought two swords in through the West Gate. He had his right hand cut off."

Paxe rose, letting the sword fall back in the box. “I had forgotten his name,” she said. “You have a good memory, Sereth.” Sereth flushed with pleasure. “Bring me Vanesi."

The captain hurried off. He brought Vanesi from the guardhouse himself. The merchant strode from the building. Her red hair was curled in Tezeran fashion. She was wearing yellow silks and high-topped boots of brown leather. She saw Paxe and hastened toward her, outstripping Sereth. “Yardmaster Paxe!” She thrust her hands forward. “I assure you, I know nothing about weapons hidden in my wool."

“When did you first learn of it?” Paxe said.

“When your guards opened the box and found them. I am appalled by this, of course."

Paxe looked the merchant up and down. “Who could put weapons into your goods without you knowing, Vanesi?"

The woman sighed, and put both hands on her ample hips. “Anybody with a purse. Few of my folk are unbribable. There's petty pilfering on every journey, but this is the first time I have had someone put things into the boxes instead of taking them out. Yardmaster, you know me, I have been coming through this Gate for six years. I am a trader; why would I bring weapons into the city, risking fine, or banishment, or worse?"

Paxe scratched her chin. Someone outside the Gate was wrangling with a guard about the length of time entrance was taking, and Sereth hurried off to keep order.

“Vanesi, I do know you,” she said. “I'd like to believe you. Who's your caravan master?"

“Leth-no-Chayatha. He stays on Amber Street in the Minto district."

“I will see that he is questioned. The wool and the box it came in is yours, I suppose."

Vanesi scowled. “Unfortunately, I cannot deny it. My stamp is on the outside of the box."

“You know the law,” Paxe said. “I must report this."

“I know,” said Vanesi. “I expect to be summoned by my Clan. But may I go now? I live on Third Fountain Street, you know where it is."

Third Fountain Street was also in the Minto district. “If you're needed—"

“I will be reachable,” the merchant promised.

“You may go, then,” Paxe said. “I am sorry you were detained."

The fat merchant shrugged. “I've had worse treatment.” She marched away. Sereth came from the Gate; Paxe saw him gaze after Vanesi's retreating bulk.

“I don't think we need to hold her,” she said. “Send someone to Amber Street to question Leth-no-Chayatha, the caravan master. In fact—you do it."

“Gladly.” Sereth jerked his thumb at the Gate. “Do you want us to keep searching the caravans?"

“Yes, of course."

“It slows the line."

“Let it."

Sereth bowed, palms together. “Yardmaster.” He went off to inform his guards. Paxe felt momentarily sorry for the people at the end of the line, who might have to camp outside the walls when the Gates closed at sunset, but there was nothing else she could do. The shouts from the caravans had lessened; already the news was filtering beyond the city wall.

She cut short her rounds to return to the house; Arré would want to know this. As she reached the top of the hill, a voice hailed her. “Yardmaster!” She turned. It was Ivor, commander of the late watch. He was as dark as she, with a natty little beard and mustache of which he was quite proud. “Vain as a peacock,” his guards said; but they liked him, especially because he could beat them all at dice. He was a very good watch commander.

She waited for him to come to her, debating whether she should tell him about the smuggled swords, or wait until she had told Arré. She decided to wait. Ivor came up to her, dark face lined with anger and worry. “Yardmaster, I've lost a man."

“What do you mean? Who?"

“Seth,” said Ivor. “He's deserted."

Paxe scowled. “Are you sure?"

“He's definitely gone. No one's seen him since yesterday, and he didn't report for muster."

Seth had been in Ivor's command for two seasons. “Where do you think he's gone?” she said.

Ivor said, “He's a country boy. He might have gotten tired of shining pikes, and gone back to his village."

“Yes,” said Paxe, doubtfully. “Do you think he did?"

Ivor put his hands on his hips. “Actually, I doubt it. I never heard him speak of the country with anything but contempt. He likes the city too much to leave it. I'd bet he's still inside."

Paxe rubbed her nose. A fly buzzed at her, and she batted it absently. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a deserter. “Did he say anything to anyone?"

Ivor said, “He's been mouthing off since you set him on cleaning duty. But no, he said nothing to anyone about leaving."

Once out of her district it would be easy for him to evade capture, but it would not be so easy for him to find work. He'd end up in a laborer's job. “Send a notice to all the Yards and to the magistrates, Seth-no—"

“Lenia,” supplied Ivor.

“Seth-no-Lenia, deserted from his duty and his post, please notify the Yardmaster of the Med house if seen, reward will be paid for information leading to capture, blah, blah. Damn the man, why did he run? I would have released him. I've never kept a guard who didn't want to stay."

“There's more,” said Ivor grimly. “As far as I can tell, he walked off with the extra key to the weapons shed."

“Oh, damn,” said Paxe. “How the hell did he get it?"

Ivor looked wretched. “I gave it to him. He didn't return it."

It was clear she did not need to point out to him the foolishness of that act. After a moment, she said, “We'll have to get the lock changed. Find a locksmith, and put a guard at the shed—all we need is someone coming in and stealing half our equipment. Tell Kaleb to do the same."

She went into the house. “Arré,” she called, not troubling to be ceremonial.

Elith stuck her head through the doors of the large parlor and glared at her. “The Lady Arré is in her study,” she said.

Arré was sitting in her cushioned chair. “What brings you into the house with such a noise?” she said.

Paxe sat on the stool. “Listen,” she said, and proceeded to tell Arré about the smuggled swords.

Arré clasped her hands in her lap and bent her head, concentrating. When Paxe finished her recital, she said, “What order did you give your Gate captain?"

“I told him to search all the caravans as they arrive, without exception."

“That's good. Do you trust Vanesi? Do you think she told you the truth?"

Paxe rubbed her nose. “I think so,” she said. “But if you want to be sure, you can always call a Truthfinder."

Arré's hands unclasped. “I will tell the Tanjo about this myself,” she said. “But I don't want to bring in a Truthfinder if I can help it. Paxe, pass the word to the other Yardmasters that swords are being smuggled into the city through the Gates. Ask them to take the same precautions you are taking."

Paxe nodded. “Who do you think is bringing in the swords?” she said.

Arré said, “Were they new swords or old swords?"

“New,” said Paxe, wondering what difference it made.

“Ah,” said Arré. “Then I can guess who's bringing them in. The Ismeninas."

“How do you know?"

Arré held up one finger. “One. The Ismenin Yard is teaching sword techniques. Two. The Ismeninas own land to the west in which there are great iron deposits. Three. The Ismeninas own foundries and smithies in which new swords could be made. Four.” Four fingers waved in the air. “The sword your soldier had came from an Ismenin soldier."

Paxe frowned. “Why did you ask if they were new or old swords? What did it tell you?"

Arré said, “Because if they had been old swords, it's conceivable that someone else could be bringing them in. But only the Ismeninas would be bringing in new ones."

“The first sword was an old one."

“The Ismeninas must have brought some old swords from the north, to use as pattern for their smiths."

It sounded reasonable. Paxe could only think of one objection. “Dobrin said that possession of live blades was forbidden to his soldiers."

Arré said, gently, “He would say that anyway, Paxe. He must have been terrified that you would go straight to the Tanjo."

“No,” said Paxe. “He wasn't terrified. And he wouldn't lie to me. He is not that sort of man."

“Wouldn't he?” said Arré. “I don't know; I don't know him."

The cadence count ("One—and two—and three—and four!") echoed for a moment in Paxe's mind. She said, “The swords must be coming in through all the Gates, not just one."

“I will write letters to the heads of all the houses, and to the Blue Clan as well, informing them of this,” said Arré. “If I am right—and I think I am—the Ismeninas will be bringing the swords in on the river, on the barges and ore boats. They own the ore boats, after all."

“The Hok guards are supposed to keep an eye on the boats."

“And do they?” said Arré.

“They tend to let the Ismenin guards do most of the work."

“The Hok guards can do their share of work, for a change. And even Dobrin—ai, I'm sorry, Paxe, forget I said that—even the Ismeninas will have to order their river guards to search the barges. Is there any talk in the city about the training in the Ismenin Yard?"

“I've heard none,” said Paxe. “Dobrin told all his guards to say nothing.” She leaned forward. “Arré, why do the Ismeninas want swords in the city? What are they going to do?"

Arré said, “If I knew, I would tell you. I don't know. Shall I go to Ron Ismenin and ask him? He won't tell me.” She leaned her head against the chair back; the skin at the hollow of her throat flashed, startlingly white.

The sound of a flute came faintly into the room from outside. Over its notes, Paxe said, “Why did you tell me to order sejis, and teach the sword?"

“Because,” said Arré, “it gives the Ismeninas tremendous power in the city if their guards are the only ones in the city trained in sword technique."

The flute sound changed, as the flute player found a song she could play. Paxe cocked her head to one side to listen. I am a stranger in an outland country; I am an exile wherever I go....

She said, “In the west, they say that song was sung by the chearis as they left the cities."

Arré rubbed her eyes. “It's older than that.” She looked very tired.

Paxe said, “When are you going to the Tanjo?"

“In four days."

“That's the last day of summer."

“So it is.” She half smiled. “I hate the summer heat, but I always miss the season when it ends. Isn't that silly?"

“No,” said Paxe, “it's not silly.” She rested her hand on Arré's for a moment. It seemed strange to her, sometimes, that they had both grown into people with so many responsibilities, so much to concern and trouble them. She smiled, recalling other summers when they had worried less. They had walked in the gardens of the country house—the trees and hedges had been smaller then—and there had been no children to fight about (Ricard was a baby), no Isak to disturb Arré's sleep (he was in Shanan, earning the shariza), no swords, no smugglers—and no Sorren.

* * * *

Sorren was going to Kadra's.

The smells of kadashi and pitof, the spicy Asech breads, permeated the streets. Sorren squinted into the sunlight. She liked the Asech festivals; she liked the way they alternated with the city feasts: Winter Feast, the Spring Festival, the Feast of the Horse, the Feast of the Founding of the City, Midsummer Festival, the Festival of the Ox, Harvest Feast, and so on. “Ya-ha-ta-ha-tay,” sang a woman, and Sorren tapped her fingers on her thighs, drumming in and under and around the beat.

The only thing troubling her now was Paxe. Since Ricky's leaving, Paxe has grown silent and withdrawn from her. It hurt. She hoped it would be over soon. She had even asked the Yardmaster if Paxe was angry with her, and Paxe had said no. But she had not seemed to notice Sorren for the last four days when Sorren perched in her usual place on the Yard fence.

Plum Street was in the Batto district, in the northwest corner of the city, where the roads led inward from the Asech country. It was not a prosperous street: tiles dangled from the roofs, and the cottages were old, narrow, and unkempt. Sorren wondered how she would find Kadra's house. This was an Asech enclave, the smells alone told her, and many of the lintels sported the ox-sign in token of the festival.

A little girl wandered into the road. She was carrying two blocks of wood. Singing tunelessly, she banged them together. Sorren called to her. “Chelito,” she said, “dost thou know where lives Kadra the messenger?"

The child cocked her head at the tall stranger; gold hoops bobbed in her small brown earlobes as she nodded.

“Wilt thou show me?"

Again the rings bobbed.

The cottages at the far end of the alley were set back from the road, and between the houses and the streets sat patchy gardens. Some of them had heavenweed plants mixed in with the other herbs. The Asech child stopped in front of a house. “Bé,” she said, meaning “There.” There was no ox-sign on the lintel, and no music coming from inside.

“Kadra lives here?” said Sorren.

“Dosh.” That meant yes. Sorren squared her shoulders. She walked up to the cottage door. The Asech girl watched her. She knocked. No one came to the door. She knocked again.

“Bé!” called the girl. Sorren glanced back at her; she was pointing to a dirt path that went around the west side of the house, between it and the wall of the next cottage. Puzzled but willing, Sorren started around the side of the house. Halfway there, she remembered the girl and turned back to thank her, but the roadway was empty, and the child had disappeared.

Behind the house, there was bare ground, and a wooden hutch with a peaked roof. It smelled of goat, and something else. If there had been a goat in it, Sorren decided, it had long since eaten its way into someone else's garden. The something else—she went closer to the hutch. There was a leather bottle on the ground beside the hutch. “Kadra?” she said.

“Ya,” said Kadra's voice. Sorren went to the hutch. The ghya was sitting inside it, holding another bottle. She looked drunk.

The smells of goat and wine made Sorren's stomach lurch. “You're drunk,” she said.

“Ya."

“You were going to help me. You said so. How can you help me when you're drunk?” Disappointment and anger made Sorren's voice sharp. She turned to leave.

“Damn it, girl, come back here,” said the ghya. She rose from the hutch and stood swaying. She knuckled her eyes. “I thought you wouldn't come."

“I keep my promises,” Sorren said.

“Snippy, aren't you?” said Kadra. She folded back onto the ground. “Come here. I have something for you."

Reluctantly, Sorren went to her. The ghya picked a scroll from the filthy ground and handed it to her. She unrolled it gingerly. It showed a collection of lines with little marks beside them. “What is it?” she said.

“Guardian, girl, it's a map!” said the ghya. “I made it.” Sorren caught her breath. Kadra leaned close to her. “That's Kendra-on-the-Delta.” She pointed to a circle on the bottom portion of the map. “I put the ‘K’ rune on it, that's the symbol on the bones, look at the ones on your string, you'll see.” Her finger moved up the scroll. “This line is the river. This is Lake Aruna. Tezera is here, with the fish symbol next to it.” She pointed to each place as she named it. The flat squiggles looked like a child's drawing.

At the top of the map were little humps. Sorren pointed to them. “What are those?"

“Mountains,” said Kadra. “The Gray Hills, where the Keeps are."

Mountains, thought Sorren. Her fingers crooked as she leaned over the map. She imagined herself a bird, flying over Arun, the way she flew over the steppe in her dreams. This map could teach her every road, every bend, every curve of the river. She traced the line flowing north. “How do I go there?” she said.

The ghya plucked a straw from the hutch. Gently she touched it to the paper. “Here is the city, where we are. The road follows the river, so. To get to the Keeps one must ride to Tezera and then go northeast, to Zilia Keep, or northwest, to the others. Have you decided which Keep you're traveling to?"

“Tornor,” Sorren said.

“That's here.” Kadra brushed the straw to the page. “The road goes north beside this river, the Rurian. When will you go? I'll mark the route for you with the villages’ names."

“Next summer,” Sorren said.

“Fall would be better,” said the ghya. “It's hard to cross Galbareth in summer. The heat drains life. In fall the air is cooler, and the roads are not so dusty. The only problem then is to get to the north before it rains."

“What happens then?” asked Sorren.

“The steppe, the roads, everything turns to mud. The horses hate it."

Sorren had not thought about horses. “I can't ride."

“Then you'll walk,” said Kadra, “and it will take you even longer. If you have a little money, the traders might agree to let you ride in a wagon as far as Tezera."

Sorren swallowed. Kadra's words were building unpleasant pictures, of heat, and muddy roads, and strangers who might not be friendly. “How long will it take?"

“On foot the whole way? Two months, at least. If you ride with the caravans to Tezera, less. Say, two weeks to Tezera and another ten days from Tezera to Tornor. That's how long it would take you. A messenger, even on foot, could do it in less."

It was a long time. Sorren bit her lip.

“Having second thoughts?” said Kadra.

Sorren wanted to say, No, of course not. But it was silly to pretend to be stronger than she was. “Yes."

“Good,” said the ghya. “You should be.” Deftly she rolled and tied the map.

“I still want to go,” said Sorren.

“Do you.” Kadra's voice got that curiously flat tone. “Then you ought to think about having one of these.” She reached under her cloak, and with a motion that sent Sorren jumping back, drew her knife.

Knives could not be wholly banned from within the city gates; they were too useful. So the Council had enacted statutes spelling out exactly how long and wide the knives could be, and who could carry them, and where. Messengers were permitted to carry knives in the city, but they had to be within the legal limits. Kadra's knife was small and very thin. “It's single-edged,” said the ghya. She showed Sorren the hilt, which was metal inlaid with bone. The blade curved backward, and there was a mark scratched on it near the point which looked a little like a stylized horse's head.

Sorren said, “It looks sharp."

“It is,” said the ghya. “It's for stabbing, not slicing. I can get you one like it."

“No,” Sorren said at once. “No. I don't want it.” The rules against bondservants carrying even legal weapons were severe. “No."

“You'll need something,” Kadra said.

“No.” The whole talk of weapons made her tense. “I don't want anything."

“We'll see,” said Kadra. She tapped the map. “You want me to keep this? I'll mark it for you."

“Would you?"

“Isn't that what you want? Come back next week. I warn you, I'll be drunk as a pig and you'll have to rouse me again."

“Why?” said Sorren.

The ghya said bleakly, “As you once said to me—none of your concern."

She rose. She was not quite steady. She stank, she was dirty, her face was mottled yellow where the bruises from the fight she'd been in were taking a long time to heal—Sorren stood. “Will they take you on the ship if you're drunk?” she said.

Kadra hit her.

The blow knocked her sideways, almost, throwing her on top of the map. She caught her balance with both hands on the ground and scrambled out of reach. Kadra stood in the center of the path, staring at Sorren, her eyes stony, lips pulled back in rage from her teeth.

After a moment, her knotted hands relaxed. “I told you,” she said, “to watch your tongue."

Face burning, from shame and from the blow, Sorren said, “I'm sorry."

Kadra stepped from the path. “Get out."

Numbly Sorren went by her to the street. She hadn't expected Kadra to hit her; she hadn't known the ghya could move that fast. She didn't know why she had said what she had. Stupid, she told herself. You are stupid. Every time you speak to Kadra you end up saying something wrong!

Furious with herself, close to tears, she hastened toward the Med district. Part way there, she stopped to wash her face at the public well. The old men who sat about the well gossiping moved aside politely so that she could work the pump. The cool water felt delicious against her hot skin.

“So, my lord,” said a wonderful voice at her elbow, “how went your courier's meeting at Nuath?"

It was the name—Nuath—that made Sorren turn. Water dripped from her eyelashes as she glanced to see who was speaking. White flashed in her eyes; she caught her breath, and realized that a witch was gazing directly at her.

“The man's as stubborn as a mule!” said a male voice, answering. Sorren knew that voice well; she had heard it not so long ago in the Med parlor. The witch woman's companion was Kim Batto.

She bowed, palm to palm. She had never been this close to a witch before. “What lovely hair you have, child,” said the witch. She had a remarkable voice, low and musical and as enticing as honey. “You've been crying, have you not? Are you troubled? May I help?"

She was beautiful. Her dark hair fell around her gown like a black river through a field of daisies. Sorren tried to speak calmly. “I'm fine, damisen. I had a quarrel with a friend."

Kim Batto coughed. “I know this girl, lehi. She's the northern girl, bound to the Med house. Don't concern yourself; it's probably nothing."

“Pain is never nothing, my lord."

“She's not hurt! You can look at her and see that. What's the matter, Sorren?” he said in a loud voice, as if he were addressing a dog or a cow.

Sorren touched a knee to the earth, and stood. “My lord, I'm going home. I was shopping."

“There,” said Kim Batto triumphantly.

The Healer ignored him. “She is afraid,” she said. “I believe she is afraid of me.” She stretched out one hand. “Child, you needn't fear me. I am vowed to the chea, to harmony.” Her voice was seductive.

“Lehi, it's trivial!” said Kim Batto. He laid his hand on the witch's shoulder.

She whirled from beneath his grip. “My lord, I did not give you permission to touch me,” she said, clearly enough so that the old men around the well heard, and tittered. Kim Batto went scarlet. “Nor did I ask for your help.” She turned to Sorren again. “You called me ‘damisen'; that is a word of the old tongue. Where did you learn it, child?"

Sorren said hesitantly, “I was a picker, lehi. I learned it in the fields."

“You are a picker? Then why do I feel—” the witch broke off. Suddenly, Sorren felt—sensed—knew a touch, a presence, soft as spider web, strong as sunlight, inescapable as her own heartbeat. Her senses seemed to dim, and then flame more brightly. The wind struck her face; she smelled the scents of leather, sandalwood, linen, water. Unable to move, she endured the witch's entrance into the sanctuary of her skull.

The contact lasted for an instant, and then vanished. Released, Sorren cried out. Awkward as an infant, she bounced into Kim Batto, who swore. Catching her balance, she fled like a criminal from the scene of a crime, ducking through the mélange of shoppers, merchants, children, oxen and goats. At last, sobbing for breath, she reached the Med house. The gate guard stared at her in astonishment. “What's after you?"

She did not have the words to tell him.

“Go to hell!” She slammed through the gate before he could touch it. Paxe was in the Yard, she could hear her talking, giving instructions. It sounded as if she were teaching pike drill. Sorren started toward the cottage, and then halted. Paxe had not looked at her for four days. If she went to the cottage, Paxe might be angry. She could not bear that. If she went to the house, Arré might see her and want to know what was wrong, and then what would she say? Panting for breath, she stumbled into the garden and sat on the lawn.

Borti found her. As if she weighed nothing, he picked her up and took her around the back of the house, near the laundry. “Here.” He put a piece of fruit into her hands. “Eat.” She bit into it. The sweet juice made her gasp, it tasted so fine.

“How—"

“Ruath told me.” Ruath was the gate guard. “Said you looked as if a demon was chasing you."

“Oh."

“I told him I doubted that. But I thought I'd come and find you.” His deep voice grumbled on, like a lullaby. “You know you don't have to tell me anything, we're friends, right? But if you were running, you'd be hungry, so I brought some food, and thirsty.” He put a leather flask in her lap. “So I brought this as well."

Sorren took the cork from the flask—her fingers shook, but only a little—and tipped it to her lips. The wine was tart and powerful. She choked, recovered, and drank again. “Thanks."

“Nothing. You'd do the same for me, wouldn't you?"

“Yes,” she said. She smiled tremulously into his mustached face. There was white in them, but they were still long and luxuriously thick. “Except I don't think I could carry you."

He pursed his lips. “You'd do whatever you had to.” The certainty in his voice made her straighten. He clapped her hard on the back. “You're all right?"

“I'm all right."

Rescuing the flask from her lap, he corked it and stuffed it beneath his belt. “Then there's no more to be said. Better get in the house."

Nine

Isak was being Stallion.

Bare-chested, with a huge reed prick fastened to his waist, he pranced and played. Sorren made her fingers gallop. This was the third time they had gone over this particular section of the dance. She saw his hand move as he counted. His black hair tossed. It was loose, like a horse's mane.

The dance began with Peacock, strutting and posing, the male posturing for the female, and went on to Bear, trying to dance, lumbering about the circle of the stage. They had done that part. In the final part of the dance he became Swan, cold, graceful, regal. The Bear part was most difficult because it had two kinds of rhythm in it. Pah-pah-dum. Sorren watched Isak's shoulders sway in time to her drumbeats. Stallion exited. Isak turned his back to her; that meant he was offstage.

She kept drumming. Sweat slicked her breasts beneath her shirt. The rhythm softened, smoothed.... Isak nodded at her. He was ready. She began to play Swan's entrance. For this part of the dance, he wore a feather cloak, but he was not bothering with it now. His arms lifted, making wings.

He came on stage again, gliding now, his head thrown back, his neck somehow lengthened, at least it looked longer. It was the dancer's magic, to draw the viewer into illusion. This part went better when there was a fluteplayer. Pah. Pah. The Swan furled his wing around the lady Swan who, invisible, was the object of his attention, as was the Mare the Stallion's, the she-Bear the Bear's, the Peahen the Peacock's. Isak sank to the floor, holding his arms up so that the cloak would drape his face and body. Sorren tapped the final beats of the dance, and rested her hands.

“How does it look?” he said, working his shoulders and lowering his arms.

“It looks good,” said Sorren.

“Let's end, then,” he said. Striding to the door, the dancer thrust his head into the corridor. “Bring water!” He came back into the room and sat on the mats. “Sorren, I'm getting old."

He reached for a towel to rub his face and eyes. His muscles slid smoothly beneath his amber skin. Sorren grinned. He did not look old.

“You laugh,” he said. “How old are you now?"

“Seventeen."

“Guardian, you're an infant! I'm thirty-three, nearly twice your age."

“It doesn't show,” Sorren said.

Isak laughed. After a good practice, he laughed a lot. “Teneth!” he called. The door slid aside and a plump girl sidled in, carrying a tray with a pitcher of water and two goblets.

“Thank you,” said Sorren. She took the tray from the girl's hands. “I can pour."

“Let her,” said Isak. “She needs the exercise.” Sorren put the tray down. Teneth, blushing, poured water for Isak and then for Sorren.

“That's all,” said Isak dismissing the servant-girl with a gesture. He lifted the goblet to his lips and drank without stopping. He sprinkled the last few drops from the goblet onto his upturned face. “Aah."

Sorren loosened her drumskins. It had been a good practice. She sipped the water. The girl had flavored it with lemon. The last time she had come to this house a boy named Koré had served them. “What happened to Koré?” she said.

“He isn't here anymore."

Isak grew tired of people quickly; Koré was probably back in the grapefields. Sorren picked up the towel Isak had used and rubbed her hands and face. She wondered what he was like to keep house for.

He stretched his legs out flat on the mats and began to touch his head to his knees. Sorren had seen Paxe do that after a session in the Yard. It stretched the muscles; if she neglected it, she got cramps. “So,” he said, from his bent position, “how is my dear sister?"

“Arré Med is well."

His mouth turned up at the corners. He knew she hated to talk with him about Arré. Before he could say anything, she said, “How is your wife?"

“Quite well. She will be coming to the city for the Festival."

During the Festival, Myra and her children lived with Isak in this house. “And the children?"

“Well, I suppose. Myra would let me know if they had died."

He was like a mirror; you could never get anything from him but glitter and your own questions. Sorren rose. Her knees hurt from staying in the one position for so long. “When is the betrothal party, my lord?"

“In fourteen days."

“Do we need another practice session?"

“I don't know.” He lay on his back. “What do you think?"

“Whatever you like."

He laughed. “I don't think so. Today went well. The party begins an hour before noon, but you had better get there a bit early."

“All right.” Betrothal parties lasted until sunset, and often beyond. “Do you think the Ismeninas would like a juggler?” she asked, remembering Jeshim.

“They might,” said Isak. “Why, do you know one?"

“His name is Jeshim. He's part Asech. He juggles balls and plates, and he throws knives, too. He's very good."

“If you see him between now and then, tell him to come by and show me what he can do. Ron left the entertainment up to me."

“I'll tell him,” said Sorren. “Is there anything special you want me to wear?"

“Wear something good."

“I could wear the silk with the butterflies that I wore for the Council."

“Yes, do.” He flicked her knee with a finger. “You looked very nice that evening."

Sorren blushed. “Thank you."

She walked to the window. It overlooked a small garden: sunlight sparkled on the flowers, red and yellow tulips marching in sedate rows. Isak kept the garden and courtyard beautiful, but Sorren did not think he cared a whit for flowers; he simply liked to have beauty around him. Even in this room, which was only the practice chamber, the wall hangings were expensive silk, the cushions were stuffed with goosedown, and the chobatas were of the finest painted porcelain.

She took a deep breath and let it slowly out. She was nervous. Over morning meal Arré had said, “Don't forget to tell my brother about the sword!” A week ago, it had seemed easy to say yes to the telling of a little lie; now it did not look as simple. Isak was clever.

On the other hand, the lie was much more likely than it had been a week ago. Someone was smuggling swords into the city. The guards at all the Gates were searching the caravans for weapons, and everyone in the markets knew that they had so far uncovered more than thirty blades, in bales of cotton and bolts of wool, on timber barges and ore carts, in a grain sack, and even in a bundle from Tezera which contained children's toys.

Tomorrow Arré was going to the Tanjo to speak to the L'hel about the Ban. That, too, was common knowledge in the street. Sorren wondered if the Ban would be lifted. She doubted it, but if the Ban were lifted, the Red Clan might return to Kendra-on-the-Delta. She knew how unlikely that was but it was exciting to think so.

Isak was rubbing his hair with the towel. To the back of his neck, Sorren said, “My lord, can I ask you something?"

“Of course."

“This morning I saw Paxe training in the Yard with a sword."

He dropped the towel and turned to face her. His voice grew soft, like a cat's purr. “Really? How interesting."

“It worried me. I thought—I know someone has been bringing swords into the city, everyone knows that—I thought it was forbidden to have one."

“You should ask Paxe about that,” said Isak.

“I don't talk to her about such things,” said Sorren. It was true. She let her gaze wander to the wall hangings. They were in the Med colors, red and blue.

Isak pulled his hair behind his neck with one hand, feeling with the other for a clip. “Don't true lovers share everything?” He found the clip. “Why are you asking me?"

Sorren's heart beat faster. Because your sister told me to, she thought. “Because I thought you would know,” she answered.

Isak rubbed a hand along his shaven jaw. “It is illegal to have a long sword, a war sword. But there's never been a Council ruling on the short sword, the kyomos. Was this a short sword?"

“I don't know. I've never seen a long one."

He measured length and width with his hands. “About so by so."

“I couldn't tell. I was far away. I'm only a bondservant, so I'm not permitted inside the Yard."

Isak rose. “Have you and Paxe quarreled?” he said.

She looked down at him, astonished. “Why would you think that?"

“That scrape on your forehead."

Isak had sharp eyes. Sorren felt the bruise with her fingers. She had almost forgotten it was there. “That was Ricky,” she said.

“Who is Ricky?"

“A fool kid,” she said, “who knocked me down in the market a week ago."

“An admirer!” He cocked his head to one side, waiting to see how she would respond to his teasing. She wondered what he would say if he knew that Ricky was Paxe's son. He would make a joke of it. “I'm glad,” he said. “I would be desolate to hear that you and Paxe had quarreled."

He liked to say these sorts of things to her. Sorren reached to the tray. Pulling it toward her, she poured them both another glass of lemon-water. “Who's getting married?” she said, being casual.

“Col Ismenin is marrying Nathis Ryth, of the Blue Clan."

So Jeshim's information had been correct. Sorren drank. “So she will be an Ismenin daughter?” she said.

Isak's eyes narrowed. “As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, “no. The agreement is that he will be a Ryth. Why did you ask?"

“I was curious,” Sorren said, meeting his eyes. After a moment, he smiled.

“It is, after all, traditional,” he said. “The Ryth house is very pleased with their new son."

Sorren set her glass down. “I should go, my lord."

“I suppose you must. I will see you at the Ismenin house. Do give my regards to my dear sister."

“Yes, my lord."

“I presume she's still sleeping alone.” Sorren didn't answer. Isak went languidly on. “She needs a bedmate, I think, to keep her from getting old and ugly and bitter. I would recommend one for her, but I suspect our tastes don't coincide."

Sorren hated it when he talked in that tone about Arré. She looked over his shoulder at the wall hangings.

“You might look around for her,” Isak said, “since your taste in lovers appear to be the same as hers. You know that she and Paxe were bedmates?"

Sorren stared at him, shocked and stupid. “No,” she said.

“Thirteen years ago, when they were both young and ardent and beautiful.” He raised his voice. “Teneth! Bring me a clean shirt.” The plump girl hurried in with a blue shirt over her arm. It had the Med crest on it, in red and darker blue. He pulled the shirt over his head. Sorren moved away from the window, rubbing her arms. Her skin felt cold.

She went to the door, carrying her drums. Isak's face emerged from the shirt. He was smiling. “Good-bye, Sorren. I'll see you at the betrothal."

* * * *

She walked along the street with the drums hugged to her chest like a baby in arms. She pictured Paxe and Arré in the sunlight, walking through the garden under the sour apple trees, Arré's arm around Paxe's slim waist, Paxe's long arm around Arré's shoulders. It was easy for her to see Paxe young.

Thirteen years ago, she thought, I was a little girl of four.

“Hoy! Girl!” She turned. A girl with the browned face and straw hat of a grapepicker stood below her on the slope of the hill, holding a piece of paper in one dark and dirty hand.

“Yes?” she said.

“You serve the Med house?"

“Yes."

“You know the Yardmaster?"

Even more warily, Sorren said, “Yes."

The girl showed white teeth in a grin. “I was supposed to leave this at the Gate for her, but it took us so long to get inside that by the time we got through, the Gate Captain said she had gone.” She held out the paper. “Here, take it! It's a letter for her from her son."

Sorren took the paper from her fingers. “Thank you,” she said. “I'll give it to her.” The girl waved her hat and ran like a goat down the hill.

Sorren went to the Yard. Paxe was not there.

Holding the letter in front of her like a flag of truce, she went to the cottage and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” called Paxe. Sorren went in. Paxe sat cross-legged on the mat in front of her table. She had writing implements spread all over the table and all over the floor.

“What is it?” she said.

“It's a letter from Ricard,” Sorren said.

Paxe's face lit. “Give it to me,” she said. Sorren brought it to her and she tore it open. She read it, and her whole body seemed to smile. She put on her lap and held out her hand. Sorren went to her, and Paxe took her hand, turned it palm up, lifted it to her lips, and put her tongue into the hollow.

“You've been very patient with me,” she said. She touched the letter with her other hand. “Where did you get this?"

“A girl off a caravan gave it to me.” Sorren wanted to throw herself into Paxe's arms. She was still thinking of Isak. “What does it say?"

Paxe held it up. "To Paxe-no-Tamaris, Yardmaster to Arré Med, from her son Ricard, greeting. I can tell a scribe wrote this,” she added. "I am working in the fields. I am well. Celénia-no-Tazia is my field boss. The work is hard. I have learned to take grapes from the vine without bruising them. I am being paid four treys a week. Please send me a pair of soft boots or money for same. I miss you. I wish I were home. Your loving son, Ricard."

Sorren sniffed. “I could have told him the work is hard,” she said.

Paxe stroked her hair back from her face. “But you know he would never ask you."

So that was all right. Sorren sat on the mat, drums beside her. “What are you doing?” she asked, looking at the curling sheets of paper and the inkpot.

Paxe put the letter on the table and picked up a brush. “Day after tomorrow is the first day of autumn. I'm making a new watch schedule."

“Which watch will you take?"

“Night watch,” said Paxe.

Sorren sighed. “I never see you when you take night watch command."

“I know,” Paxe said. “I'm sorry, chelito. I have to."

“What else will change?"

“Kaleb will take late watch, and Ivor day watch. He's never commanded day watch before, so I'm making Borti his second-in-command."

Sorren grinned. “He'll like that."

“I know. I hope Ivor has the sense to listen to him. He may be old and lazy but he knows more about this city than any two other people.” Paxe stretched; her muscles showed beneath her shirt. “Where've you been today?"

“I practiced with Isak this morning,” Sorren said. She edged closer to Paxe along the mats.

“Was it a good practice?"

“Yes,” Sorren said. “But I hate Isak."

Paxe said, “Why do you hate Isak, chelito?” Her arm came around Sorren's shoulder, and Sorren leaned against it happily.

“He's a chaba'ck. He likes to hurt people."

Paxe's whole body went stiff. “Did he hurt you?” she said.

“He said something."

Paxe looked grim. “What did he say?"

“He told me—” Sorren gazed at the mats. Suddenly, it was not so easy to say. “He told me that you and Arré were lovers, a long time ago."

“Ah,” said the Yardmaster, and her fingers stroked Sorren's neck. “He wasn't even there. He was in Shanan, studying with Meredith.” She wound both arms around Sorren and pulled her close. Sorren smelled the ink on her hands. “You want me to tell you about it?"

“Yes, please,” Sorren said.

Paxe's breath moved in Sorren's hair. “I was second-in-command of the Med guard. Kemmeth-no-Vira was Yardmaster; he's dead now. I was twenty-four, Ricard was a baby, and Arré was thirty. It was three years after her mother's death, and she was learning how to be head of a house, and a Council member. She was much the way she is now—small and arrogant and wilful as a hurricane—and I—” Paxe hesitated—"I was a lot like you, in many ways. She needed someone to talk to, I liked to listen—"

“Was she beautiful?” Sorren said.

Paxe chuckled. “I would not say that. Enchanting. Infuriating. Not beautiful."

Sorren twined her fingers in her lover's hands. “You must have been beautiful."

“I doubt it,” Paxe said.

“What happened?"

“We were lovers for two years. Then we just grew apart."

Sorren frowned. “That doesn't tell me very much."

“It's been a long time,” Paxe said gently. “You know the silver bracelet with the blue stone that Arré wears?"

“Of course,” Sorren said, “it's her favorite."

“That was my gift."

“Oh.” Sorren contemplated that for a moment. “Are you sorry it's over?” she said, unable to keep the bite of jealousy from her voice.

Paxe's arms cinched her tight. “I have a lover,” she said.

They made love right there on the mats, and the woven pattern of the straw pressed itself into Paxe's bare shoulders.

After lovemaking, Sorren sat naked in the downstairs room and told Paxe about her visit to Marti Hok, about the story of Sorren of Tornor, and about the finding of the Cards. “It's true,” she said. “Marti Hok said so. I truly am a northern girl."

Paxe said, “Did you tell Marti Hok that you want to go north?"

Sorren gathered her hair into her hands to braid it. “She knew,” she said, and blushed, remembering that Marti Hok had known about Paxe as well. “She knows a lot.” She halted her braidmaking, recalling Marti's words. “She said that Isak is evil."

Paxe leaned back against a cushion. “Evil is a strong word."

“You said he was up to something,” Sorren pointed out.

“And so he is. You need a ribbon, chelito.” Rising, Paxe went upstairs. Sorren heard her in the bedroom. When she came back down, she held a strand of indigo ribbon.

She snaked it over the top of Sorren's head and down across her breasts. Sorren grabbed for it with one hand. “Don't. It tickles.” She tied the ribbon around the tip of the braid and pulled the knot tight. “What is he up to?"

“I don't know,” Paxe said. “Why was he so ready to make you unhappy, today? I thought he liked you."

“I think,” Sorren said, “it was because I asked him about the swords."

Paxe froze in the act of sitting. Slowly she lowered herself to the mat. “What about swords?” she said.

“Arré told me to tell him that I saw you in the Yard with a sword."

Paxe frowned. “What did he say?"

Sorren said, “He asked me if it was a short sword or a long sword. I said I didn't know, and he said that long swords are illegal but that the Council never ruled on the short sword. Was he telling the truth?"

Paxe was looking grim again. Sorren wondered for a moment if she should not have told her about Isak. But then she answered. “He was."

Sorren shook her head to test the braid. It switched like a horsetail. As she gazed at Paxe's frowning face, a suspicion struck her. “Paxe, do you have a sword?"

“Yes,” said Paxe. “It isn't mine; it came from one of my soldiers.” Her frown deepened. But Sorren wanted to shout. If swords returned to the city, maybe the Red Clan would, too!

“Can I see it?” she said.

Paxe looked up. “Why do you want to see it?"

Sorren remembered the faces of the storytellers around the pickers’ fires, and the way their eyes gleamed when they spoke of the chearis. “I—I've never seen a sword."

“Neither have most of the folk in this city,” said Paxe. “Have you ever seen a knife? I don't mean a kitchen knife, I mean a weapon."

Sorren thought of Jeshim's knives, and then of Kadra. Her face reddened. What would Paxe say if she knew about Kadra? “Yes."

“It looks like that,” said Paxe, “only longer."

Clearly, Paxe did not want to show her the weapon. Sorren tried not to look disappointed. “Is it one of those swords the smugglers are bringing in?” she asked.

Sharply, Paxe said, “How did you hear about those?"

“Is it secret? All the folk in the market are talking about it."

Paxe reached for her shirt. “Yes,” she said. “It's one of those."

Sorren wondered what Arré would say when she told her about Isak. Tomorrow Arré was going to the Tanjo.... “Do you think the witches will lift the Ban?” she said.

Paxe's face came through the shirt neck. “It hadn't occurred to me,” she said. She felt behind her on the mats for her pants. “I don't know."

Sorren wondered if she should tell Paxe about the lehi. But the memory made her stomach tense. “If the witches lift the Ban,” she said, “the Red Clan might return. I'd like that."

Paxe's hands clenched in her lap. Emotion flickered over her face like a flame. “Would you?” she said. “Why?"

Sorren said, “It would be exciting! The Yards would be open to everyone, the way it used to be, and the chearis would dance.... Nothing ever happens in the city now. Don't you think it would be exciting to have the chearis back again, dancing and teaching?"

Paxe said, “I knew a cheari once."

“What?” Sorren blinked. “You never told me—"

“He's dead now,” Paxe said. “I put him in the grave myself. He looked so small there.... I wrapped him in my own blanket. It was all I had to give him. He was so old, and so dried out from the fever—lifting him into the earth was like lifting a child."

Sorren swallowed. “You never told me,” she said, shaken by the upwelling grief in Paxe's face.

“No."

“What was his name?"

“Tyré."

* * * *

At dusk, the Yard gate shut. Paxe, drawing her cloak about her, glanced through the bars of the gate as she passed it, and the emptiness made her shiver, without reason. It was that in-between time of night; light lay in the western sky, but eastward stars were glittering. The moon had not yet risen; tonight it would not rise till after midnight. Along the avenues the lamplighters were calling: “Aahoo! Aahooo!"

Paxe passed a guardpost. Her silhouette was distinctive—"Damn it!” someone whispered, over the rattle of falling dice. She did not turn. Tonight she was not Paxe, the Med Yardmaster, but Donita, a farmer from outside the city. Kemmeth had taught her this trick. “Go sit in a tavern and listen,” he said, “and you'll learn more from the gossip than you'll ever hear on rounds."

The smells of onion and anise told Paxe she was passing an herb garden. Kneeling, she kneaded dirt between her palms until it ground into her pores and under her nails. A dog barked in the nearby cottage, and Donita the farmer scrambled up, hands realistically dirty, a stalk of anise between her teeth.

It was Sorren's talk of swords that made Paxe decide upon this action; that, and her memories of Tyré which would not let her rest. Tonight she needed noise and laughter and the speech of strangers. She passed The Cup, the biggest tavern in the district. Its doors were open, and through them drifted inviting sounds; laughter and the clink of glasses. Someone inside was playing a sho. But The Cup was well lighted and popular; someone in it would be sure to recognize the Med Yardmaster. It would not do for tonight. She turned north, knowing that Donita the farmer would stay near the Northwest Gate. Travelers tended to keep to the particular sections of the city in which their business got done. Sailors went to the dockside bars in the Jalar district; merchants and caravaners frequented the inns near the Blue Clan Hall.

Just west of Oil Street lay an alley called The Mouth. Few people lived there; it was lined with warehouses and some dirty shops. At the foot of the alley sat a bar called The Tongue. It was a squat building, half wood and half red brick. The door was open, and through it Paxe saw the mobile shadows of people, walking. Choba dishes, too shallow to be called lamps, hung from the ceiling on tarnished chains, and the scent of heavenweed coiled from the doorway and hung like smoke along the grimy walls.

Three people were playing the pebble game on the steps. Paxe strolled up to them. Without looking up, one of them made a gesture. “Go ‘round."

“I can't,” said Paxe. “No room."

They looked up. “Then go over, if you must,” said one, moving a leg a handsbreadth. Paxe turned sideways and stepped over the game. Deliberately she struck the edge of the board with her heel, knocking down pieces—"Clumsy,” muttered the player. Within the hood's shade, Paxe grinned. She knew two of the players, they both worked in a Med warehouse, and neither of them had recognized her.

It was hot in the tavern's common room. The smell of broiled fish came from the kitchen, mixed with the scent of wine. Unfastening her cloak, Paxe signaled a server to bring her a tankard. “Hot in here,” she remarked to the man nearest her.

He glanced at her and then away, uninterested. “Uh-huh."

A cluster of Asech in the corner were playing dice and smoking heavenweed. Smoke hung over their heads in a blue cloud. A noisier dice game was going on at a table near the kitchen. Paxe pushed her way to the table and joined the row of spectators. People talked over dice games. A big woman with tricolored hair was tossing the dice. She had more bontas in front of her than anyone else at the table. “Come baby, come sweetheart, come lovey,” she crooned into her cupped hands. “Eeyah!” She let them go. They bounced across the varnished top and stuck in a groove between planks. “Seven! Pay me!” She snapped her fingers at the other players. She had a scar running up one bare arm, and her brown eyes were shrewd and hard as glass. The other players grumbled, and one of them threw down three fingerlings and left the table. Another man immediately took his empty place.

“Heard about old Scivith?” said someone.

“What about him?” said the woman with the scar, shaking the dice.

“He ran off with a girl from Shanan. Took all the bones in the house. Beria's mad as a hornet."

“She's better off without him. Come baby, come lovey—” The dice rolled again. “Four.” She passed them on. “Your turn, Toby."

Toby lost. The dice went around the table. Someone else left, and Paxe took her place. The big woman smiled heartily at her. “A newcomer. Welcome to the table, friend. You know the rules? Evens lose, odds win, seven, nine, and eleven double the stake. The bet is three fingerlings."

“Thank you,” said Paxe, lengthening her syllables into a farmer's drawl. She reached into her pocket for her money string and laid three small bontas on the table.

The other players exchanged surreptitious smiles. “Where you from?” asked the big woman.

“The valley,” Paxe said vaguely.

The woman on Paxe's right thumped the table. “Quit yammering and play."

The dice went round. Paxe won a little; so did the big woman. No one else won anything. “My name's Annali,” said the big woman.

“Donita-no-Elli.” Elli was a common name.

“Been in town long?"

“I came in today.” Paxe watched the dice fall. They looked all right. But Annali did not. Paxe recognized the swindler's manner without ever having seen this particular swindler. She wondered if Annali worked alone or with a partner, and how long she had been milking this district. “Almost didn't make the closing. It took an hour to get through the Gate. They searched my wagon down to the axles. What were they looking for?"

Four or five voices told her. “Swords. Weapons."

“In my wagon?” Paxe looked shocked.

“In all the wagons,” said Toby. He leaned back in his chair. The server brought Paxe her tankard.

“A round for the table,” ordered the man standing behind Paxe. She maneuvered a look at him. He was small and thin, wearing baggy gray clothes. He did not look the sort of man with money to waste in a dice game, but he was watching the table avidly, fingers tapping his hips, thumbs tucked casually into his sturdy leather belt.

So he was the partner. Paxe wondered how much money she was going to have to lose to get the information she wanted. The scam had not been going on very long, she guessed, no more than a few weeks, or the guards would have tumbled to it. The game was honest until a stranger joined it, and then Annali switched the dice. If the stranger stayed sober, she simply lost. If she got drunk, sometimes she lost and sometimes she won, and then got robbed on the way home.

Paxe wondered if the other players pretended to themselves not to know what Annali was. Some of them might even be honest, or stupid. Annali threw the dice and lost. The big woman's hands were in constant motion. She gestured, she clapped, she rubbed them together.

One of the players was staring fixedly at Paxe. “You sure you know how to play this game?” he said. “I know some farmers who lost all their money playing dice."

Annali frowned at him. “Chano, how rude. You can see Donita knows how to play. Besides, we don't play like that. This is a friendly game.” Her smile at the man showed all her teeth. “Donita, what did you have in your wagon?"

“Corn, melons, cherries, and peaches."

“How are the melons this harvest?"

“Fat as a baby's bottom.” The dice came to Paxe. She tossed them and caught them again. She thought the weight was different but could not be sure. “I thought edged weapons were forbidden in the city,” she said.

“They are,” said the woman on her right. She yawned, gap-toothed. “But someone's bringin’ them in."

“Who?” said Paxe.

The woman shrugged. “No one knows."

“You gonna play?” said Toby to Paxe.

Paxe threw. “Nine! Pay up.” She gathered her bontas into stacks as the other players groaned.

Chano was down to one deuce. The dice came to him; he threw, and lost. Cursing softly, he stood, swaying like a sapling in the wind. “That's done me. Good night, all. Good night, farmer. Watch who you spend your time with.” He hiccoughed. A spectator slid into his seat as he staggered away.

“I seen a sword,” said the woman on Paxe's right.

Everyone looked up.

“My man brought it home from the river. Said someone there sold it to him. Said the metal wasn't very good. Hid it in the woodshed."

Paxe said, “The guards at the Gate told me to stay away from the river. They said people have been getting hurt there."

Toby grinned. “That's the Ismenin boys; they just like to play. Jalaras got no sense of humor.” Everybody guffawed. Toby threw and lost. “Damn, looks like luck's just not running my way."

The talk turned to the harvest. Paxe listened, pretending to drink. She wondered how many of the people in the tavern had seen a sword. Weapons were not real to cityfolk, she decided. The dice went round again. The pile of bones in front of Annali was bigger than ever. Paxe finished her wine and pretended to nearly knock the empty tankard down. “Whoo. I must be drunker than I thought I was.” She rubbed her temples with her fingers but made no move to leave.

“Another round for the table,” said the man she'd marked as Annali's accomplice.

“You get fights in this district, too?” Paxe asked. The man who had taken Chano's seat threw and lost.

“Here?” Toby laughed. “Not here. The captains would skin anyone who tried it. This is a quiet part of town. This game's the most exciting thing in it.” He slapped the table, and the bontas jumped. “This is the Med district, and Arré Med wants it that way. Quiet."

“Where are those swords going, then?” said Paxe.

“Guardian knows! Over to the river district, maybe, so that the Ismeninas can play with them."

The woman on Paxe's right said, “I heard the White Clan might say something about the swords."

“Maybe they will,” said Annali. “No one knows what the witchfolk will do. Toby, play."

Toby played and lost. “Fuck it.” He passed the dice to the woman on Paxe's right and glared at Annali. “Don't know what we got a Council for. Council could stop the sword trade if it wanted to. Witchfolk run this city now, and the Council's just for show. Babe at breast can see that.” The woman on Paxe's right threw the dice and won. “Fuck. Everyone wins but me."

“Patience is a virtue,” Annali said softly. She scooped the dice from the table and passed them to Paxe. Paxe fumbled and dropped them.

“My head hurts,” she complained.

“Looks like our farmer's gonna leave us,” said the man who had taken Chano's place.

Annali smiled. “Play one more round,” she said. Her voice was butter-smooth. “Last time lucky."

Paxe played one more round, and won. She slapped the table. “That's it. I'm getting out.” She shoveled her winnings into her pockets. Someone moved to take her chair. “Thank you all."

“Come back anytime,” said Toby, his good humor restored. The man she'd picked out as Annali's partner had vanished. Paxe weaved to the door, still pretending drunkenness, and noticed that the Asech dice game, too, had broken up.

The gamesters had left the tavern steps. Paxe stood in the road, breathing softly, and listening. She heard nothing except the tavern noise. She began to walk, taking big, unsteady strides. After a while, she heard the telltale tap of bootheels at her back.

She grinned into the darkness. Tyré's training had honed her skills to a sharpness that only the desert-born Asech could match. She led her shadower on for two more blocks and then melted into the night. Annali's accomplice wandered forward, and then began to search the gutters and doorways for his quarry, as Paxe sat on the roof of a shed, listening to him puff and grunt and swear. She slid from the roof and staggered beneath a lamp. He immediately saw her, and she led him into a cul-de-sac, her own mouth stretching with laughter as he tried to be secretive behind her back. Finally she stopped, swayed, and pretended to be sick. Abandoning caution, he loped forward, and Paxe bent backward, balancing on one hand and one leg, and swung her other leg like a scythe.

He went sprawling down. She jumped him and locked his elbows behind his back. He tried to break her hold by falling backward, and she tightened the grip and closed thumb and forefinger over his nose. “I'll snap it,” she said, twisting, and he whined and went limp. She put him belly down in the dirt and put her knee in the small of his back. “I could give you to the guard,” she said.

He breathed painfully.

“Who was the man who left the table early?"

“Chano. He's a pimp."

Paxe closed her hand around his windpipe. “Who is he?” she said, squeezing.

“Ah—don't!” he gasped. “He—he lives on Eel Street. He's a weaver."

“Why did he try to warn me?"

“Guardian, I don't know. I wish he hadn't."

“Don't blame him,” Paxe said. “I knew what was happening before I sat down."

She contemplated handing him to the guards, and decided not to. She was sure they would not stay in the district, not now. Besides—she smiled to herself—the little scuffle had made her feel good, and she could afford to be magnanimous. She let the thief rise to his knees. “Next time don't be so quick to follow a stranger,” she said. “Get out of here. Don't look behind you.” Shakily, he stood and then stepped away from her, carefully not turning. Silent as a ghost, Paxe followed him to the alley's exit, resisting with difficulty her impulse to at the last minute yell, “Boo!"

She was halfway home when she realized that she was again being followed.

It was not the thief, she was sure of that. Who was it? She doubled back to look, but the street was bare as a plucked field. She stood in a doorway, listening, but heard nothing. She walked from the doorstep and before she'd gone three blocks, heard the barest rhythmic whisper of cloth on the dirt. She froze in a pool of shadow. The sounds stopped.

Furious, she let herself in a gate, traversed a garden, and climbed a fence. The light had grown. She looked west. The moon, not quite full but nearly as bright as the harvest moon itself, was rising like a beacon over the line of the horizon. It gleamed on some white shells in the garden. Paxe picked up a shell and threw it into a nearby yard, starting a noise of chickens. A dog barked. A door banged. “Who's there!” Under the concealing shouts, Paxe drew her hood over her face and returned to the street.

In two more blocks, she heard her shadower. She did not stop to think. There was a grape trellis to hand; in four strides she was up it, and from it onto the slippery, slimy tiles of a roof. She lay flat, squinting over the edge, waiting for her shadower to come to find her. He did not. Grinning, she wriggled along the ridgepole to the other side of the house. The top of a rainbarrel made a convenient steppingstone to the ground. Taking her boots off, she hung them around her neck. She walked through a stand of kava trees, and emerged with her bare feet sticky from the fallen kavas. The only way her pursuer would catch her now was if he had the nose of a wolf.

On the Street of the Smiths, she heard the sound of footsteps.

She ran, silent as a deer on the desert, stretching her legs, feeling the wind beat at her face. He was good, very good, but now she was five blocks from home. She went into the public baths and out again. She ran through an alley, into the back door of a pipe den, and out the front door, while the drowsy patrons gaped at her. She climbed one fence and slid across a potter's clay pit, and climbed a second and came down into a rose bush. Thorns pricked her ankles. She went into a stable and shinnied out the window, as the mules and horses turned puzzled eyes in her direction, looking much like the people in the pipe den had. She went twice into the same alley and came out each time a different way, and then she stopped, and listened.

She heard footsteps.

Grinning, she went to meet them, plucking rose petals from her hair. A shadow detached itself from the night and met her. They embraced, breathing hard. “When did you know?” Kaleb said.

Paxe laughed, and lied, tucking her arm around his shoulders. His came around her waist. “I always knew."

They strolled up the street. Paxe's breathing evened. “I saw you in the tavern,” Kaleb said.

“I didn't see you. Were you playing dice, there in the corner?"

“Yes. What brought you there?"

“I wanted to hear the gossip."

“That's a good place to do it. What did you think of Annali?"

Paxe chuckled. “She's very good. How long has she been working this district?"

“Three weeks. You spoiled my plan. I was looking forward to cleaning them out."

“Ivor didn't spot them."

“No. He's young; he'll learn."

“Why did you let Annali and her friend go on for three weeks?” Paxe said.

Kaleb said, “I didn't know about them till three days ago. They're smart; they halt the game at change of watch."

“They know your reputation.” Paxe hugged him. “Guardian, that was fun."

“It was, wasn't it.” His tone was wistful.

“Kaleb, are you homesick?” They were two streets from the Med house. They walked beneath a lamp, and the lamplight shone on Kaleb's face, giving it a bronze glow. The red stones in his earlobes gleamed like drops of blood. Paxe halted, and turned Kaleb to face her. “Are you?"

“Sometimes,” he said. “When the wind blows off the sea, I get restless. This is a chilly town for a desert rider, and it's difficult to feel at home in a city without horses or a place to let them run."

Paxe had never been much of a rider. She put both hands on Kaleb's shoulders. “Do you want to leave?"

“No,” he said. “My home is here. I like my work. Besides, I would miss you."

She swallowed. She had feared suddenly that he would say yes. They walked a little further. “I wonder where Ivor is?” she said, and put her hand up to her face to hide a yawn.

“In the Yard,” said Kaleb. Suddenly, he stopped. “Paxe—when this is over, when the smuggling has ceased, after Festival—let's leave the city. We could go west, into my country, and ride, and hunt. My people would make us welcome."

The breeze blew through the kavas. Paxe sighed, remembering the brilliance of the stars in the desert, away from the fog and the city's dust. “For how long?” she said, tempted.

“For as long as Arré Med could spare us."

Paxe grimaced. “Arré would not want us to go at all.” But it could be managed, she thought; Sereth was competent, she could take him from the Gate and name him second, Ivor would play Yardmaster.... “We can't, Kaleb. Not now. Maybe in a year."

“I suppose.” He kissed her cheek. “Good night, my friend.” As he turned to go, the scent of heavenweed tickled her nostrils.

She went to her cottage. It felt very empty. The cushions were all over the place, and she straightened them. The lower room smelled of sex. Moonlight shone through the window screen, making a line of light on the wall. The house was cold. Her bed was cold; she sat on it, yawning. She played the chase that evening over in her head, wondering what Arré would say if she knew her commanders had gone capering over rooftops and in and out of bathhouses like children.

She pulled her clothes off, and hugged her pillow to her. It had been fun. So had her scuffle with Annali's little friend been fun. For a moment that night, though, Kaleb had frightened her. She did not want him to leave the city. She loved him; she needed him. Paxe's eyes stung. Tyré was dead, Ricard was gone, Arré was preoccupied and growing more inaccessible as she aged.... Paxe turned in bed, determined not to weep, not to pity herself, and not to think—how could she not think!—of Sorren.

Ten

Smoothing her clothing with one hand, Arré scowled at the litter. It sat in the front courtyard. Paxe stood at the front gate, waiting to see her off. She had ordered the Med flag tied to the litterpoles, so that everyone it passed would know who was inside it.... Arré wished she had not decided to take a litter. She detested them; they made every journey public. She was in good health, and it was ostentatious to ride. The only people who used litters, besides the old and sick, were wealthy city merchants who liked to display their lack of taste, or strangers who might otherwise get lost.

She was nervous, and it made her ill-tempered. She glanced at Sorren, who stood behind her, inside the hall. Something had happened to the child; it had put a hard edge to her voice and a fierceness in her laugh. She had reconciled with Paxe, or Paxe with her. That was good. The reconciliation had occurred soon after Sorren's return from Isak's house, and Arré wondered how much Sorren's new humor had to do with Isak.

Isak. All her thoughts returned to him. Her mind went around the patterns. Isak was allied to Ron Ismenin. Ron Ismenin was bringing swords into the city. Cha Minto was allied to Isak; he wanted the Ismeninas to have a Council seat. Kim Batto wanted the Ismeninas on the Council, and he was allied to the White Clan. The Ismeninas were stirring up fights in the Jalar district. One of the Ismenin brothers was planning to marry into the Ryth clan, and, for reasons Arré did not know, to become a member of that house. His inheritance portion went with him. Arré wondered why the Ismeninas would so easily agree to give up money. She was reasonably sure that it had nothing to do with tradition.

The letters she had sent to the heads of the great houses telling them about the swords had done their work; the city was humming like a wasps’ nest, as the innocent acted to stem the smuggling of blades and the guilty sought to conceal it. Paxe had reported that morning that the number of weapons found at the Gates had dropped. But that might mean the smugglers had found another way of bringing them in. Even if no new weapons were entering the city, the ones that had gotten past the guards were still inside—hidden by the Ismeninas, Arré guessed. Unless the Council ordered the Ismeninas to submit to a search of their property, all their property, Arré doubted that the weapons would be found.

And that, she was sure, the Council would not agree to do.

The Council, if it chose to, could announce that the Ban, despite its flawed construction, applied to short swords as well as long ones. But the Council's declaration would mean little without the support of the Tanjo. Arré frowned. Kim Batto had voted to put the Ismeninas on the Council, and he was the voice of the White Clan. Did that mean the White Clan was somehow allied to the Ismeninas? What if the White Clan wanted weapons returned to Kendra-on-the-Delta?

There was only one way to find out, and she was doing it. Her stomach ached, with the plaintive pain it reserved for telling her it wanted something sweet, but Arré ignored it. Sweets made her complacent, and for a meeting with the L'hel she wanted all her wits about her.

How had the White Clan—and the L'hel, its chief—come to have so much power in Arun? She wasn't sure. The Clan itself was only a hundred years old. They seemed like upstarts compared to the Med house, which could count its generations back five hundred years, to before the founding of the city. It was true that the country had enjoyed great prosperity and peace in those years. But why give the witchfolk credit for that? Arré thought. It's we, the wealthy families of the city, who have had to find ways to deal with increased trade and rising population. The witchfolk received the praise, but it was the ruling families whose shoulders bore the responsibility.

She looked at the angle of the sun on the courtyard tiles: it was time for her to be going. She nodded to Paxe, who signaled to the litter-bearers. They took their places at the litter poles. A line of polished spearheads marched to the Gate and stopped; it was her escort. Pushing the silk hangings aside, Arré entered the litter. No matter how they aired them out, the damned things seemed to stink. She tapped on the wall of the silk-paper box. The litter lurched, throwing her forward and then back, and she set her teeth, loathing the motion, the confinement, her helplessness....

“Yai!” said Paxe, her voice a muffled shout.

“Ho—and ho—and ho—and ho—” The litter bounced in time to rhythm as the bearers chanted softly. Arré clutched the cushion. Through the gap in the swaying curtain she saw her own gate, the kava tree, the escort moving backward—no, she was moving forward. The two lines of soldiers had split to let the litter fit between them. The litter tilted again, and Arré seized the cushions and swore under her breath. “Ho—” chanted the bearers, and flanked by guards, Arré rode away from her house, down the Med hill.

* * * *

The journey was mercifully brief.

The litter-bearers were careful, and when at last they set her down within the Tanjo precinct, Arré was so grateful to be stationary that she smiled at them and told the captain of the guard to give them a little more money. She was amazed to be on the ground all in one piece and without a bruise. With the guard behind her looking very formidable, she walked toward the Tanjo entrance. The great red building was imposing. She told herself not to be too impressed.

At the Tanjo door she hesitated, and as she waited a man came from it. She recognized him, and was jolted not to see him, but to see him here, now. It was Kim Batto.

“Arré!” He smiled. “You are expected. Go right in.” He stepped out of her path and strolled away. Thoughtfully she watched him. He hadn't brought a guard, and he had taken pains to let her know he knew what she was doing there.... It was a good way to make himself look important. She caught one of her guards making the moon horns at Kim's retreating form, and suppressed a smile.

“Thank you, Captain,” she said. “I expect to see you in an hour."

The wide white pavement was very clean. Arré watched the guard march away. Then, turning, she went through the Tanjo door. It was dim inside. Stolidly the Guardian stared down at her, at the other people in the red room, at the city, at the world.... It was only a statue. She stared at it grimly, refusing to succumb to the lure of awe and worship. It was only a statue. She had one like it in her front hall, made by the same sculptor. It was only a statue.

Someone whispered her name; she had been recognized. Two women kneeling near the statue's base were staring at her. They blushed as she looked at them, but continued to whisper to each other. She put her hands together in the posture of supplication and bowed, hating the political necessity which made her do so.

“Arré Med.” This was not a whisper. An acolyte approached her.

“Yes?"

“Please come this way.” He beckoned, and she followed him.

He took her around the statue to a door dimly remembered from the last time she had met with Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath. The blue tiles which formed an archway over it matched the blue tiles on the floor. The door was a screen, easily opened. The acolyte gestured for her to precede him. She stepped through into a similarly tiled hallway.

“You are Arré Med,” said the woman standing there. She had an extraordinary voice, deep and husky. Her face was smooth and sensuous beneath a heavy drape of long black hair. The hem of her white gown brushed the patterned tiles. “You are welcome to the Tanjo. I am Senta-no-Jorith."

She said her name as if she expected Arré to know her. Her poise and graceful bearing made the older woman feel awkward. It was a feeling Arré was used to and she waited for it to pass.

“Please come with me,” Senta said. The hallway was short and it ended at an archway which opened directly onto a sunny courtyard.

In the middle of the courtyard was a grassy garden filled with flowers, a pool with red fish swimming in it, and a bench. Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath was sitting on the bench. He stood when Arré appeared. He was much as she remembered him: dark-skinned (though not as dark as she) light-haired, with dark blue eyes, and scars across both cheeks. He wore white silks. A gold ring with a white stone ornamented the middle finger of his left hand. He was stocky, with a wrestler's broad shoulders, and he was only a little taller than she was.

“It's a pleasure to see you again, Arré Med,” he said. His voice was pleasant. “Please sit.” He pointed to one end of the stone bench.

Arré sat. “Thank you, L'hel,” she said. With a swirl of his robes, Jerrin sat opposite her. The black-haired woman, graceful as an acrobat, sat at his feet, hands folded in her lap. Her robes were dazzlingly white against the green.

“I told my guards to return for me in one hour,” Arré said.

“I am sure we will have our business done within that time,” said Jerrin. “May I offer you refreshment? Wine? Water? Tea?"

“Wine,” she said. She expected him to call for a servant. Instead, he simply glanced toward the red stone building. Arré heard the sound of a screen sliding on its runner. A blue crystal ewer and three blue cups floated from the building and, as if invisible hands held them up, sailed across the sun-filled courtyard and deposited themselves at the L'hel's feet. Senta picked up the ewer and poured wine into the cups. She handed one to the L'hel and one to Arré.

Arré took it firmly in both hands. “I didn't know you could do that,” she said.

“My gift is lifting,” Jerrin said. “And since I thought it best that we speak in private, I arranged to have wine set out beforehand."

“Can you lift anything?” Arré asked. The cup was light.

“Heavy objects are more difficult,” he said. “I could not lift this bench. I might be able to lift you from it."

Arré managed not to reach out and clutch the edge of the bench. “You needn't demonstrate,” she said.

He laughed. “I won't. Within these walls, everyone has seen such tricks; it's refreshing to talk to someone to whom they are still impressive.” His voice grew self-deprecating. “I was showing off, I'm afraid."

Arré smiled, and sipped her wine. It was very tasty. She said so.

“From the Med vineyards,” Jerrin said.

She nodded her appreciation. She recognized the wine; it was not cheap. Nor were the goblets and pitcher, nor the silks the witches wore, nor the gold on Jerrin's finger, nor the blue and silver tiles that made such lovely patterns on the Tanjo floors. The White Clan paid for part of this with money given it by the city, apportioned from city taxes. The rest of its money came from other sources; from the Blue Clan, from the craftsguilds, and of course, from the grateful populace of Arun.

She smoothed her silks. The fine feel of the fabric gave her pleasure and reassurance. She had left off her bracelets when dressing this morning, thinking that the L'hel might find them frivolous, and she missed them. She wondered who Senta-no-Jorith was, and why she was present at this discussion. She decided to begin it, obliquely.

“The harvest is excellent this year, my managers tell me, L'hel. It would be a shame if Harvest Festival were to be spoiled by the presence of edged weapons."

“Please,” he said, “call me Jerrin. Titles are formal, and we are not strangers, therefore we do not have to be formal. You are right, it would be a terrible shame. We must hope it does not happen. The Guardian has blessed us this year; the harvest is indeed abundant, and the Festival will no doubt be crowded. I plan to be there myself, to open it with the Invocation. I know the Blue Clan and the Guilds have arranged the usual entertainment for the people. I understand your brother is to dance—?"

Arré tensed. “My brother dances every year."

“He is very good,” said the L'hel.

Even Arré did not like hearing her brother patronized by Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath. “He is more than very good,” she said tartly. “He has the right to wear the shariza, which no other dancer in this city has."

“Indeed,” said Jerrin. “You praise him, yet I believe you do not get along."

“That is correct,” said Arré. Witches knew everything, some people said. Arré doubted this, but she was sure that Kim Batto had told the L'hel everything he knew, thought, or suspected about the Med family, including that sister and brother detested each other, and that Isak had never adjusted to the fact that Arré, not he, had stepped into their dead mother's shoes.

“It is a matter of some concern to me,” said Jerrin gravely, “that families, particularly noble families, should not be at odds with one another."

“Oh?” said Arré.

“For instance,” Jerrin went on, “I understand that you object to the seating of the Jalar house and the Ismenin house on the Council. May I know why?"

“It is not customary for Council business to be discussed outside the Council,” said Arré.

Jerrin smiled. “But you can tell me,” he said, his voice smooth as cream. “Unless you prefer that I hear it from Kim Batto—?"

Arré folded her hands. Her buttocks ached, and she found herself wishing for a cushion, and shade. “I have no objections to the membership of the Jalaras on the Council,” she said. “I object to the Ismeninas, because they are young and ambitious and cannot be trusted."

The L'hel pursed his lips. “It might be easier to control them on the Council."

“I have no guarantee of that,” Arré pointed out, “and it gives them access to power they do not now possess. I think they and the city are better off without it."

The woman at Jerrin's feet said softly, “Why do you think the Ismeninas are not to be trusted, Arré Med?"

Arré turned the faceted cup between her palms. “Because I believe they are responsible for the presence of swords in the city."

“Have you proof?” said Senta.

“No,” said Arré. “But consider. One. The Ismeninas own the iron deposits which were found west of Shanan. Two. The Ismenin Yard is teaching sword techniques. Three. The Ismenin brothers like to fight. This is well known in the city. They are not a peaceful family."

“I know all this,” said Jerrin. “I also know that the Ismeninas are not the only family to teach the sword. At least one other noble house has plans to do so.” He smiled.

“I admit it,” said Arré. “However, I am sure you can see why. I would be pleased to cancel my order to my Yardmaster if Ron Ismenin were to interrupt his Yard's training."

“I doubt he will,” said Jerrin.

“But,” Arré said, “I did not come here to accuse the Ismeninas of anything, though it must sound like it. I came to ask the Tanjo and the White Clan what the White Clan plans to do about the swords in the city."

“What the White Clan will do?” said Senta. “Or what the White Clan would like to see the Council do?"

“The Council would not presume to dictate to the White Clan,” said Arré. “Will the White Clan dictate to the Council?'

“No,” said Senta. “But if the White Clan had a position on the Council, the two could act as one."

Arré had not expected the conversation to turn to this, but the arguments against it were burned into her mind. “There are two good reasons why the Council refuses to give the White Clan a place on it. The first is the matter of function. The White Clan heals, makes weather, and speaks the truth: those are its functions, which the Council cannot duplicate. The Council rules. That is its function, which the White Clan cannot duplicate. Second; if the Council admits the White Clan to membership, it would have to admit the Black Clan and the Blue Clan, and I suppose the Green Clan as well."

“What about the Red Clan?” said Jerrin.

“There is no Red Clan."

Jerrin lifted his cup. “Your second argument is more valid than your first,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Arré said.

“You are correct to say that if the Council admitted the White Clan to membership, it might also be expected to admit the other Clans, which would make ruling that much more difficult. However, no individual member of the Council rules the city. The Council as a whole does so. Thus, to admit the White Clan to membership would give the White Clan no more power to rule the city than has any individual house."

“Ruling is a charge upon the noble houses of the city,” Arré said. “We are trained to it. We have experience."

“I am also trained to it,” Jerrin said. “I rule the Tanjo."

“If you were a member of the Council, who would rule the Tanjo?” Arré said.

“But I would not want to be a member of the Council,” said Jerrin. “As you might say, that is not the L'hel's function."

Arré waited, until it grew clear that he was not going to go on without coaxing. “Who, then, would the White Clan propose to be its member on the Council?"

“A Truthfinder,” said Jerrin.

Diplomacy, Arré thought grimly, is not a matter for truth. “No. When it becomes necessary for the Council to have proof of the Ismeninas’ actions, proof will be found. This is an internal matter."

“Then why did you write to tell me about it?” he said.

“Because bringing weapons into the city is not only against city law, but, by the terms of the Ban, it is ni'chea,” said Arré. “Also—I thought you would want to know."

Jerrin smiled. The silence deepened. Arré's stomach rumbled; it was begging for a sweet. She drank a little wine to calm it. She wondered if Ron Ismenin ever sat here. “Have you considered,” she said, “that you have a moral authority the Council lacks? You might, if you chose, approach the Ismeninas directly and suggest to them that bringing swords into the city is an unwise move."

“I might,” said Jerrin, “if the Ismeninas had ever asked for my opinion. But Ron Ismenin has never spoken to me."

How convenient, Arré thought. But Kim Batto talks to you, and Kim Batto supports the Ismeninas.... Jerrin's indigo eyes were fixed on her face, and she had the uneasy feeling that he knew her thought.

“Are you a Truthfinder?” she asked.

He looked startled, and his eyes slid from hers. “Me? No, I am a mindlifter. Witches usually only have one talent. I have no access to your mind, and if I did, I would not use it. That would be discourteous."

“And you are not discourteous.” She wondered if she could believe him. “How old are you, may I ask?"

He touched his fine silky hair. “Forty-seven. I was named L'hel at thirty-nine."

“Is it a lifetime office?"

“It can be. There are three L'helis; one here, one in Tezera, and one in Shanan. The other two are much older than I am.” He turned his cup in his hand, and the ring on his finger caught and reflected the light. “In my case, I think it will not be. I grow tired."

She did not believe him. He was winding her about with charm, like a spider winding silk around a victim. Openness could be a deceit; she had used it so, and knew the tactic. “Where did the scars on your face come from?” she said. “They look regular, as if they were put there deliberately."

“They were.” Jerrin brushed his left cheek with his hand. “The Asech made them; they mark their witchfolk that way. The scars were once marks of shame but now are badges of honor."

“You are not Asech, why do you have them?"

“I lived with the Asech witches for two years."

“What do Asech witches do?"

“Heal,” he said, “make weather, and tell the truth. They also serve to keep the tribes in touch with one another. Sending a courier across the desert is slow, and not always safe. Sending a thought is faster."

Arré drained her cup. Talk made her thirsty. She lifted it. “May I trouble you for more wine?"

He floated the cup from her hands and refilled it without touching it. Watching the pitcher lift and pour all by itself gave her an eerie feeling, as if the objects in the garden, the flowers, the bench, the stones, the gliding fish, were sentient and could listen and maybe talk.

“Thank you,” she said. “May we talk further about swords?” Jerrin inclined his head, agreeing. “They say witches know everything that happens in the city. Were you aware that the Ismeninas have been smuggling swords through the Gates, and that they have been teaching swordplay to their soldiers?"

Senta answered. “We knew this."

“And you let it continue?"

“What would you like us to do?” said Jerrin.

“Declare the Ismeninas ni'chea,” suggested Arré.

Jerrin chuckled. “That would tear the city apart."

“Declare swords ni'chea."

“We have. The Ban exists."

“Short swords are not covered by the Ban, and the Ismeninas are bringing in short swords!"

“Let the Council state that short swords are covered by the Ban, and they will be,” said Jerrin.

“Will the White Clan support the Council?"

Jerrin's voice was silken. “The Council rules. The White Clan heals, makes weather, and speaks truth. Does the Council depend on the White Clan's support?"

Arré gripped the crystal cup so tightly that she feared it would shatter. “In this matter, yes."

There was silence: an angry silence on Arré's part. She had been pushed to an admission she had not wanted to make. The quiet was broken by a bird's loud singing. A red bird swooped from the sky, to land at Senta's feet. She smiled at it and held out an elegant hand. Ruffling its feathers, it flew from the grass to her wrist and perched there as she stroked it gently with one finger. “This is Leeka,” she said. “For two seasons now, she and her mate have built their nest in the Tanjo dome.” Her voice was warm. Arré glanced toward the L'hel, and froze. He was staring at the two, woman and bird, with rage in his face. He saw Arré looking at him, and smoothed it away at once, but not fast enough. She wondered what he could possibly object to in Senta's affection for the dove. She had seen that look before, on her brother's face; it betokened injured pride, and bitter jealousy. She rubbed her arms, which felt suddenly chilled, despite the hot sun.

Senta flicked her fingers upward. “Go, Leeka,” she said. The bird soared into the air.

“Arré Med,” said Jerrin, “have you ever heard of foreseeing?"

Now what? Arré thought. “I know it is a witch-gift."

“Do you know how it works?” Arré shook her head. “Witches who can see things before they happen are called foreseers. It is an uncertain gift; we do not understand it yet, and so, when we see things, we don't know if the things we see are going to happen, or may be going to happen."

“How can you—” Arré scowled. The future was the time that had not happened yet, how could it exist to be “seen"? It made no sense to her. “Why do you tell me this?” she said.

“Our foreseers have seen a time when people in Kendra-on-the-Delta battle in the streets, with swords.” Arré caught her breath and he lifted a hand to keep her silent. “We see another time when short swords are banned in the city by order of the Council. We see another time when the city is filled with strangers who come from ships like our fishing boats but bigger, much bigger, sailing out of the south, strange men and women who wear odd clothes and cannot speak our language, and we see another when ships come from the south bearing warriors who enter the city and pull down the walls, and burn the houses of the people."

Arré shivered. Automatically her hand made the “avert” sign. “Are any of these futures going to happen?"

“We do not know,” said Jerrin. “Perhaps none of them will. I tell you this not so that it may frighten you but that it may teach you a lesson that we in the Tanjo have learned. It is not an easy one but it is simple. Do nothing."

Arré gazed into the depths of her cup, thinking: Is this the advice you give to Kim Batto?

“And,” continued Jerrin, “when next the White Clan requests membership on the Council, do not refuse it."

“I am only one vote on the Council, L'hel; I do not make that decision."

“But you are its strongest voice,” said Senta. “Boras Sul is not worth mentioning, Cha Minto is—biddable, shall we say, and Marti Hok is old."

“You don't mention Kim."

“Kim Batto will do as I—as we—tell him,” said the woman. Her eyes lifted to Arré's; they were black as the bird's, and opaque as stone.

Steps rustled in the grass. A dark boy in a short white gown approached the bench. “Excuse me, L'hel, Lehi, but the Lady Arré's escort is within the Gate, and they wish to know where she is."

“As you can see, Niko, she is here,” said Senta. She reached to take one of Arré's hands in both of hers. “Tell them she is sitting in the garden, enjoying the sun, and that she will come presently."

The acolyte bowed and scurried away. Arré took her hand back. Steadily she eyed the white-gowned woman. “You are a Healer,” she said.

Senta nodded. “I have that gift. I am also a Truthfinder."

Jerrin said, “Senta. See the Lady Arré to the Gate."

Senta rose. “L'hel,” she murmured, and bowed. Arré stood. Her knees crackled, and her back hurt. Senta led the way through the pillared, tiled hallway to the domed building. Within the dome, she turned to face the statue of the Guardian and bowed, long hair dipping to the tile, her body strong and graceful as a willow. The statue smiled enigmatically upon them both.

The guard troop was drawn up in two lines before the Gate. Arré started toward it; Senta put a hand on her arm. “Arré Med,” she said, “I have a favor to ask you. You have a bondservant in your employ, a girl of northern birth. Her hair is gold. You know the girl I mean?"

“Yes."

“I should like to speak to her. I mean her no harm, I assure you. Will you send her to me?"

Arré's thoughts jumbled. What could a Truthfinder want with Sorren? “She will not want to come,” she said. “She fears the Tanjo."

“I know,” said Senta. She bent her head close to Arré's ear. “She is right to fear some of us. And wrong to fear others."

She's not talking about Sorren, Arré thought. “Who is it right to fear?” she murmured.

“Power is dangerous,” said Senta. “Fear who needs it most.” She smiled, as if she had just said something trivial. “The L'hel is your enemy, Arré Med.” In the depths of those remarkable eyes, something glittered—truth? Arré thought. “Farewell.” Turning, she nodded at the soldiers, and walked with long, graceful strides back toward the Tanjo dome.

Eleven

Arré's stomach churned.

Is that so, she thought. But the warning shook her. What had she done to incur the enmity of the L'hel? And why should she trust Senta-no-Jorith, who appeared to be no more than the L'hel's mouthpiece? She squinted toward the dome, but the Truthfinder had vanished.

A man's voice said, from above her head: “Lady?"

She looked up. The guard captain loomed above her. She scowled. “What do you want?"

He took a step back. “We are ready to escort you home,” he said.

“Thank you,” Arré said. She contemplated walking. But it would take too long, and Paxe would be rightfully furious if she did it. “Call me a litter.” He bowed and whistled between his teeth.

“Be sure it's clean,” she snapped at him, and he bowed again. The litter appeared, blue flags flying, on the other side of the Gate. Arré climbed into it, ignoring the captain's outstretched arm. She wondered what her mother would have said to the L'hel. It helped her to think of her mother. Shana Med had never been afraid of anything, including the ugly plague that killed her.

The litter heeled suddenly, tossing her against its wall, and then stopped. The captain came to the side of it and extended his arm to help her out. Arré climbed down without using it. “Thank you, Captain,” she said. “Please tell the Yardmaster that I want to see her.” She went into the house; Elith was mumbling to herself in the hall, and Arré thought impatiently, She's getting senile. I should send her to the grapefields; she could sit in the sunlight, and talk to herself, and die in peace.

“Bring me some food,” she snapped at the old woman. Elith blinked. “Go tell Cook I want some berries and cream.” She went into her study. The sun glistened on the silvery cedar floor, on the bright tapestries, on the glass of the record case. Arré sat on her chair and kicked off her shoes. Leaning back luxuriously into the cushions, she thought, I am a spider, and this is my web.

It was childish, but the impudent image made her feel better.

Her stomach sizzled with hunger, and she patted it. “Patience,” she said.

“Patience is a virtue,” said Paxe from the doorway.

Arré grinned at her. “Who said that?"

“A woman I met last night.” The Yardmaster's broad mouth turned up at the corners. “She was a thief. Firth said you wanted to see me."

“I did. Sit down.” Arré pointed at the stool, and Paxe sat. “How long ago did you order those sejis?"

“A week ago,” said Paxe.

“How long before we get them?"

“Perrit said three weeks. He often delivers early, but I don't know that he will this time. Say, twelve days."

“I want them now,” Arré said. “Offer him double pay to get them done. I want the Med Yard training in the use of the short sword, and I want Med soldiers to be proficient in their use by Festival."

Paxe's brow furrowed. “Proficient?” she repeated. “It can't be done. It's less than four weeks to Festival."

“I know when Festival is! I want as many of my guards to know swordplay as possible by that time. Get them good enough so that they can hold swords and look convincing and not cut each others’ silly heads off. Can you do that?"

The door opened, and Lalith came in, carrying a blue bowl with cherries in it. Arré took it from her. “Is Sorren back from shopping yet?” she asked.

The pigtailed girl shook her head. “No, Lady,"

“When she comes in, tell her I want to see her."

“Yes, Lady,” said Lalith. She shot a curious glance at Paxe, and left. Arré ate a spoonful of berries. The sweet strong flavor made her sigh with pleasure.

She looked sidelong at Paxe. The Yardmaster was frowning, thinking, no doubt, about the swords. Should I tell her what happened at the Tanjo? thought Arré. She trusts the White Clan. The L'hel's venality will break her heart.

“Where are those swords that came through the Gate?” she said.

“The ones we found are in the Gate guardhouse, locked up."

“Bring them here,” said Arré. “Bring them to the Yard."

Paxe nodded.

“Does Ron Ismenin still have that child following you around the city?"

Paxe smiled. “When I let him."

“Can you find me someone—not a child—whom you trust, to follow Kim Batto?"

Paxe scratched her chin. “Yes,” she said. “I think so. Double pay?"

“Whatever you think is fair,” Arré said, “but I want him followed everywhere, even at night."

“Why?” asked Paxe.

Arré drew a breath. “Let's just say,” she said carefully, “that I don't believe our Kim is as pious as he appears to be."

Paxe stiffened. “You think he is involved with the Ismeninas?"

“He may be."

“The Tanjo thinks very highly of him, it's said."

“I know that,” said Arré. “I just want to make sure. When you arrange matters with your spy, tell her to report directly to me."

“As you wish,” said Paxe. “Anything else?"

“No.” As Paxe rose, Arré said, “Have you heard from your son?"

Paxe smiled. “Yesterday,” she said. “A letter came with one of the caravans. He's fine. He wants me to send him boots."

“That's good,” said Arré. “I'm glad he's well.” Paxe left. Arré put her feet up on the stool, wondering about Kim Batto, and about Sorren, and why Senta-no-Jorith could possibly want to see her.

* * * *

Sorren was at a wedding celebration.

Tani, the snake-dancer, was getting married. The actual ceremony hadn't happened yet, and would not happen until Tani returned to her tribe. The man she was marrying was still in the desert. Tani was happy because she liked the man. Simmy was happy because Tani was not going back to the desert to live; part of the wedding agreement was that the husband-to-be agreed to move to Kendra-on-the-Delta after the wedding. Tani's snakes were happy because they had been fed to the point of somnolence.

The celebration had started in the Isara market, but after a while it grew raucous, and Simmy suggested that they move to his cottage before the Isara guards came around to break them up. It was a tiny place; it smelled of goatskin and heavenweed and the strong, hot spices the Asech used in cooking. Sorren sat on a cushion, drumming. Simmy played the flute. Sothri and Tani were dancing, twining scarves around their breasts and bellies in slow erotic motion, while Nerim, their young partner, stood in the doorway, mouth against the boxlike shape of a sho.

Asech drums were flatter than the drums Sorren was used to, and they were usually played with sticks. But Sorren had discarded the sticks. Their sound was more tinny than her drums, less resonant, more of a rattle. It didn't matter. The music of the sho was wild and strange and it tingled in her blood like wine; she thumped the drum with both hands, while Simmy's flute went up and down the scale. Everyone in the crowded room was smoking heavenweed and swaying from side to side. Tani and Sothri chanted; it sounded like the Festival chants, but faster. Soon the chant had words in it, and the men joined in, shouting and laughing. Tani's face began to redden. From the few words Sorren could catch she knew it was a very bawdy song.

“You know what it says?” said an insinuating voice. An arm came around Sorren's shoulders. It was Jeshim, breathing heavenweed. “It says, As the stallion, rearing, calls for the mare; So do I, rearing, call for my love."

“Huh,” said Sorren.

“And how are you, my sweet drummer?"

“I'm not your drummer, Jeshim, and I'm fine.” She wriggled her shoulders to make him drop his arm. He didn't seem to want to. His fingers cupped her breast. “Jeshim, if you hold me, I can't play.” She stopped drumming. Simmy took the flute from his mouth and scowled at Jeshim. Jeshim shrugged and took his hand away.

“Where's the food?” yelled someone. Tani and Sothri went into Simmy's tiny pantry and returned with platters piled with Asech delicacies: seed-cakes and little balls of lamb meat dipped in batter and other things that Sorren didn't know. Tani put the tray in front of her. She took a seed-cake.

Jeshim took a long thin strip of meat and popped it into his mouth with evident relish. “What is that?” Sorren asked.

He grinned. “Lizard.” She pulled her hand back quickly from the tray. “Guardian, girl, I'm only fooling."

She didn't believe him. It probably was lizard. She took another seed-cake. “I have a message for you from Isak Med,” she said. Maybe if she gave him good news, he would leave her alone.

“What?"

“If you want to juggle at the Ismenin betrothal, go see him."

"Wa'hai!" Jeshim bounced to his feet. Then he leaned down to kiss Sorren exuberantly on the cheek. “O most lovely one, I am in your debt.” He wormed his way into the kitchen and came back with a wineskin. “Here, want some?” He held it out to her; Sorren shook her head.

It was nice to be able to spend a little time at a party. Arré was at the Tanjo, and had not expected to leave it before noon. Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta ... She hit the drum. Her own shoulders were swaying. Nerim was watching her; Sorren smiled at him, and he blushed all over his face, and turned his head away. He looked like Ricard, only more pleasant. His shyness was attractive. She pounded the drum until her fingers stung.

When she left, Simmy followed her out to the street to bid her farewell and thank her for playing.

“Thank you for asking me. I would have brought a gift if I had known.” The Asech at the party had brought gifts—pots and leather goods and pieces of jewelry.

“Don't worry about it. Your presence was gift enough.” He glanced at the sky. “You won't get into trouble, will you?"

“No, it's all right, I have time this morning."

“I'm sorry about Jeshim.” His voice was grim. “I didn't invite him, but he's hard to keep out."

Sorren walked home with the Asech songs pounding in her head. When she entered the kitchen, Lalith said, “Arré wants you.” She wrinkled her nose. “You smell funny. Where have you been?"

“At an Asech wedding feast,” Sorren said. “I ate lizard."

Lalith's eyes got huge. Grinning, Sorren went to the parlor. “Where have you been?” said Arré, in much the same tone as Lalith.

Sorren sat on the stool. “A party. I drummed. An Asech party."

Arré made a rude noise. “I never get to go to parties in the middle of the day."

Her voice was sharp—was she in a good mood or a bad mood?

“Whose party was it?"

“A snake-dancer's,” said Sorren. She wondered how the meeting with the L'hel had gone. She had been afraid for days that Arré would command her to go to the Tanjo with her, and that morning she had deliberately left the house early and stayed away late so that she would be out of the way.

Arré's right hand reached to touch the bracelets which normally reposed on her left wrist. They were not there. She looked at her hands. “Now, why did I—oh.” She smiled. “I was wondering why I left the bracelets off this morning. It was because I didn't want to seem frivolous. Frivolous! Bah.” She snorted. “Go get them for me, child."

Sorren went upstairs to the bedroom. Picking the bracelets from their box, she brought them to Arré, who fitted them over her hands. Her fingers lingered on the one with the jewel, the one that Paxe had given her.

“Sit down, child,” she said. Sorren sat, wondering if something was wrong. Arré tilted her head to one side. “Tell me,” she said, “why would a Truthfinder want to see you?"

Sorren grew cold. “I—I don't know,” she said.

“Have you ever met one?"

“Once. In the market."

“What did she look like?"

“She—she had black hair, and a beautiful voice. She was walking with Kim Batto."

“Senta,” said Arré. “What did she say to you?"

“She—I was upset, and she asked me why I was crying. She frightened me. I ran away."

“Have you always feared the witchfolk?” said Arré. “I remember you would not go to the Tanjo with my letter to the L'hel—Sorren, stop shaking!"

“I can't,” Sorren said.

Arré reached forward and took her hands. “You can,” she said firmly. “Sorren, the witchfolk may be strange but they have never done hurt that I know of. Why should you fear them? Is there something you have or do that they have forbidden?"

Sorren swallowed. This was worse than she had thought it would be. She did not dare tell Arré about her visions; Arré would surely want her to go to the Tanjo.

But she did have something she could show Arré: the Cards. She said, “I—I'll show you. I have to go upstairs."

“Go,” said Arré, releasing her.

She carried the box downstairs and laid it in Arré's lap. “That's why,” she said.

Arré opened the box and took out the Cards. Gently she unwrapped the red silk and, lifting the first Card, turned it over to the picture. Her eyebrows lifted. “Huh.” She turned over the second Card, the Weaver. “What are they?"

“My mother left them to me,” Sorren said. “They're from the north. They're fortunetelling Cards."

Arré turned over the third Card, of the woman sleeping. “What do you mean, they're from the north?"

Sorren explained about finding the images of the Cards in Marti Hok's grandfather's records. “They're from Tornor Keep,” she said. Tornor. The word still felt strange in her mouth.

Arré stroked the painted pictures lightly, the way she touched the flowers in her garden. “They are beautiful,” she said. “Why did you never show them to me before?"

Sorren bowed her head. “I thought you might take them away. It's against the chea to have them."

“Because they are fortunetelling Cards? But they're yours, child, they're an inheritance.” She laid them back in the box and folded the red silk over them. “Can you use them?"

“No. I left the grapefields—and then, my mother died. She never showed me how."

Arré sighed. “That was my fault,” she said. “I took you away.” She held the box in both hands. “I think you should learn to use them."

“How?” said Sorren.

“I don't know.” Arré put the lid back on the box and handed them to Sorren. “Put them away, child."

Sorren took the Cards upstairs.

When she returned to the parlor, Arré had taken out her writing materials and was writing a letter. Sorren watched the pen flow across the page. Arré finished the letter, which was very short, and sprinkled it with sand. “I told the Truthfinder I would send you to her,” she said. “However, you know how forgetful I am.” Arré never forgot anything. “I must have forgotten to tell you."

Sorren said, “Won't she be angry?"

“Possibly. I don't care, nor should you. You are my bondservant, and under my protection. But you had better avoid both Healings and the Tanjo for a while."

“I do anyway,” Sorren said.

“Did you finish your shopping?” said Arré.

“Yes."

“Is the house clean? The laundry done?” Sorren nodded. “Good.” Arré folded the letter and sealed it with the Med stamp on red wax. “Then you may take this to Marti Hok."

But Marti Hok was not home. The Hok guards remembered Sorren, and passed her through to the front door without even asking to see the Med seal on the letter. The door was opened by the girl in the white dress. “I have a letter from the Lady Arré Med to the Lady Marti,” Sorren said. “Is she at home?"

The girl made an apologetic face. “She's at the docks with her son. Is it urgent? I can have the letter taken to her by a guard."

“I don't think so,” said Sorren. Arré had not said it was urgent.

“Yona, what is it?” called a woman's voice. A door in the interior of the house shut, and a woman came into the hallway. She wore a soft silver gown that belled out over her obviously pregnant body. The girl and Sorren both bowed.

“She has a—"

“I have a—"

They both stopped at once. Alanna Hok laughed. “One at a time,” she said, taking the letter from Sorren's hand. “What's this? Oh, I see. I'll put it on Mother's desk.” She had a round pleasant face, and her hair fell in soft brown curls around it. Her back was swayed slightly forward as she tried to balance the weight of the baby inside her. “I remember you—the northern girl. Tell Arré Med that Mother will get the letter this evening. It must be important if she sent you.” She flicked the stiff paper back and forth like a fan. “Do you know what's in it?"

“No, Lady,” said Sorren. She thought she did, but Arré would not thank her to talk about it, even to a member of the Hok family. Alanna fanned herself idly, and Sorren smelled in the light breeze the sandalwood scent she used on her hair. She bowed again. “I will give Arré Med your message."

That night she could not get to sleep. Restless, she lay in her bed twitching like a fish on a hook, trying to think of nothing. At last she sat up. Feeling by the bed for her tinderbox, she made a flame and touched it to the wick of her candle. Her shadow blossomed on the wall. She took the Cards from beneath her pillow and held them in her hands.

She picked up the first Card, the Dancer, and laid it on her lap. Beautiful and joyful, he smiled from the painted scene as if he were alive. She wondered if he was supposed to be a cheari. She poured them all onto her lap and picked up a second at random: the Sun. It showed a farmland scene, a barn, a field, and people dancing. She picked another: the Rider. The Rider's cloak was green. Was she supposed to be Kadra? Sorren looked closely at the painted figure to see if it bore a face she knew, but the face was too small to see. She picked another Card: the Lady. In the picture, she had golden hair. Sorren wondered if, in the fortune she could not read, the Lady was supposed to be her mother. The Wolf glared at her from the pack. The malice in its red eyes was terrible. The Juggler made her think of Jeshim, and then of Isak. She picked up the Phoenix. This, she thought, was the most beautiful of the Cards; the bird's wings, through the fire, gleamed with rainbow colors.

This was silly. She had no idea what the Cards meant, and all her staring at them would not help. She piled them up again, ignoring their usual order, and returned them to the box. Throwing back her quilt, she went to the window. The waning moon looked as if it were diving toward the sea.

She found herself aching for a vision. But perversely, nothing happened. The world stayed stable and secure about her. Sighing, she returned to her bed, wishing that she knew where Toli kept his heavenweed pouch. Smoking alone was no fun, but at least the drug would help her to get to sleep.

* * * *

On the morning of the watch change, Paxe had a headache.

She rubbed her temple. The ache had started in the night, and though it had diminished, it was still there, wriggling and probing, like a worm in her head. She told herself it would go away as soon as she stopped being idle. She went outside. Ivor, standing in the Yard, hands on his hips, flashed her a joyful grin. She beckoned to him, and he strode happily to her side.

“Yardmaster, thank you for naming me to this watch. I'll do my best, I promise you."

“I know you will,” she said. “Don't let Borti bully you; he'll try to."

“I won't."

“But don't try to do everything yourself, either. Day watch is hard, because there's a lot to keep track of, but I wouldn't have put you here if I didn't trust your good sense and your ability."

Ivor's eyes shone at her words. “Thank you,” he said.

“Have you made rounds yet?"

I was just about to."

“When you go to the Gate, tell Sereth to load those swords we took on a wagon and deliver them here. Arré Med wants them stored in the weapons shed."

“I will."

“Has the lock been changed yet?"

“The locksmith's coming this afternoon."

“Good.” Her temple throbbed, and she resisted the urge to rub it. “I'll see you later."

He bowed, and with a jaunty step, went back through the Yard gate.

She went the shortest route possible to the Hok district. As she passed the Tanjo, she realized that her muscles were cramping with tension. She shook her arms, hard, to make them relax. The guards at the precinct border bowed to her. The Hok district was busy; people and carts crammed the streets shouting at each other, all in a hurry. They looked at Paxe and got swiftly and quietly out of her way. She went to Perrit's workshop. The old man was in the back of the shop, showing a new apprentice how to use a hammer. “See t'ose mark?” he said, pointing at a plank laid across two sawhorses. “We call t'em owl eyes. T'ey happen when you hold t'hammer too loose or too tight.” He picked up the hammer and struck the nail cleanly. “T'hammer bounce when you hit because you hold it too har'. When I hit, I hit only nail. No bounce.” He gave the girl the hammer. “You try."

Paxe interrupted the lesson. “Perrit,” she said, “I need to talk to you."

He frowned. “A moment, Yar’ master."

“Now."

“You try,” said Perrit to the girl. “I be back.” Frowning, he walked to Paxe's side. “What is it?"

“I need those sejis."

He shook his head. “I can't ‘o it."

“Double pay?"

He tilted his head to look at her. She saw the question coming. “Don't ask,” she said. “You don't want to know. How soon can I have them?"

“Ten more ‘ay. No sooner."

“Do it. Ivor-no-Akia is day watch commander; he will show you where to put them if I am not available.” Behind them, the apprentice swung gingerly at the mauled piece of wood.

She went back to the Med district the same route, her feet finding the path automatically. A block from the Tanjo she noticed a small, familiar face behind her. She doubled back, and caught the ragged boy as he was coming through the alley, looking for her in doorways. She picked him up and shook him till he quivered, terrified. “You tell Ron Ismenin,” she said through her teeth, “that if I see you again behind me I'm going to throw you in the river, and that goes for anyone else he tries to get to follow me!” He trembled in her grip, and she scowled at him, her rage only half pretense. Her head throbbed. She left him on the road like a discarded shoe; when she looked back to check on him, she saw no trace of him. She continued on toward the hill, a little ashamed of her ferocity.

Jenith-no-Terézia was a small brown woman. Paxe had known her for years. She had been a worker on the estate at the grapefields during the years when Paxe was a guard there, and had come to the city about the same time Paxe did. She was now a head worker in one of the Med warehouses. Paxe found her inspecting a leaking wine barrel and swearing murder at the cooper who'd made it. “Look at that!” she said, pointing to the puddle of red beneath the cask. “Some son of a mongrel donkey used green wood in this thing, and it shrank before we got the wine in! Damn it. May the winter demons carry him off, the man who made it.” She grinned at Paxe. “Yardmaster. What brings you here—thirst?"

“No. Have you got anyone who can watch over things while you come out for a while?"

“Sure.” She went and found her second, and gave him some brief orders. “Let's go. I'm curious as a virgin in an orgy."

Paxe laughed, and took her to The Cup. The folk in the kitchen recognized them both. They brought Paxe wine and would not take her money. Jenith ordered water.

“Don't you drink?” said Paxe.

“Chea, I don't have to! The fumes in that place send me reeling home at the day's end. Tell me how you are! I don't see you often enough, you busy woman. Tell me, does Kaleb still work for the Med Yard? A lovely man.” She smiled. “How is your son?"

“In the grapefields,” said Paxe. She sipped the wine. “Working."

“Good. My daughters are there, too. I told them they could come to the city when they had enough money not to need mine for a year."

Jenith's daughters had been born about the same time as Paxe's. Paxe remembered the four children playing together in the courtyard of the estate house. “Are they well?"

“Well enough,” said Jenith. “What can I do for you, Paxe?"

“Not for me,” said Paxe. “For Arré Med. Jen, can you still vanish in the city?"

Jenith grinned. “I haven't tried in a while. But I suppose I could.” She was Asech, and had been brought up for her first twelve years in the desert. “Why?"

“Arré Med needs that talent. She will pay you double whatever you're making now to follow someone around the city and tell her where he goes."

“For double pay I'd strip and dance naked in a nest of snakes,” said Jenith, “Who do I follow?"

“Kim Batto."

Jenith pursed her lips. But she did not ask why. She drank her water, hiding her face behind the cup. Putting the thick clay mug down, she said, “All right. Shem can handle the warehouse for a while. How long is this going to go on, and can I get someone to help me if I need to?"

“You can get someone to help you, but you pay her,” said Paxe. “As for how long—” She frowned. Arré hadn't said. She'd have to guess. “It ought to be over by Festival."

“When do I start?"

“As soon as you can. Report to Arré Med every three days, unless she tells you differently."

Jenith nodded. She leaned closer, her voice dropping. “Paxe—what did the L'hel say to Arré Med yesterday, about the smuggled swords?"

“I don't know,” said Paxe. “She didn't tell me."

Jenith drew a little circle on the table with one finger. “They're saying in the streets that the Tanjo is going to lift the Ban, and that the Red Clan will come back."

Paxe lifted her cup. “I haven't heard that,” she said, lying a little. Sorren had said it too. What if it were right? she thought. A spark of anger burned in her as she thought of Tyré, exiled from his city, unwilling to teach a truncated art, hating the witchfolk, hating the Ban.

“And another thing,” said Jenith. She dropped her voice even lower. “They say the Ismenin Yard is teaching swordplay to its soldiers! I asked an Ismenin guard and he said it was a lie, but they have a guard on their gate now so that no one can look in. Do you think it could be true?"

Paxe was tempted to say, yes, it's true. But something—loyalty to Dobrin, perhaps—held her back. She wondered how long it would take for the rumor to sweep the city. Why, she thought, had Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath not banned short swords at once? Maybe he would; maybe the White Clan was waiting for the Council to act. She wished Arré had told her something. Jenith was watching her, eyes anxious. Paxe shook her head and said, “I don't know anything about that, Jen."

She decided to go back to the cottage, to sleep. Perhaps sleep would ease the headache that rode her forehead like a burning coal. As she passed the Yard gate, she glanced in to see who was there. A stranger knelt beside the door of the weapons’ shed—the locksmith, she thought, but remembering Seth, she crossed the Yard to make sure. He was a little man, with tufts of black hair on his head that stuck out every which way; they made him look as if he had the mange. He scrambled respectfully to his feet as she peered over his shoulder.

He had the old lock on the ground. “Go on with what you're doing,” she said. “If the watch commander hasn't come back when you're done, give the key to the gate guard.” He bowed. She walked across the Yard, aware that her guards were slowing their training pace to stare at her. She wondered what she looked like.

A noise from the street made her turn; it was the sound of bells, mingling with the chant of litter-bearers. She got to the corner in time to see an empty litter vanish down the slope of the hill. She went to the gate guard. “Who was in the litter?” she asked.

“The Lady Marti Hok, Yardmaster,” he said.

Paxe nodded. Of course, she thought, Arré would call upon Marti for counsel. She went to her house, feeling her muscles ache. The cat cried at her ankles: she scooped it up, rubbing it under the chin until it purred and stretched in her hands like wax, paws in the air. Its body vibrated with pleasure. “Come on, kit,” she said to it, and dropped it on the floor. It blinked its one eye at her, and yawned. “Let's sleep.” It licked one paw, and then, tail waving like a flag, padded up the stairs behind her as she went to her bed.

Twelve

“Do nothing,” said Marti Hok. “What interesting advice!"

She sat with Arré in the bright, fragrant study. All the window screens were open, and the flower scents were drifting upward into the little room. Arré's letter had said, “Come as soon as you can,” and Marti had taken it literally, canceling two other appointments to come to the Med house. She and Arré had eaten morning meal together in the parlor, while Arré told her the details of her conversation at the Tanjo. She sat now in a cushioned chair, sipping rose tea from a green-glazed cup.

“So Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath thinks I am too old to matter?” she said.

“And Boras is too stupid,” said Arré.

Marti scowled. “Well, I am old, and Boras is stupid, but he is not so stupid nor I so old that we cannot discern a threat when we encounter one.” She made a sour face. “Faugh. ‘Do nothing.’ The White Clan would love that.” Her dark eyes under their yellow lids were as hard as Senta-no-Jorith's had been, and her voice rasped with anger and scorn. “What fools they must think us, Arré!"

Arré grinned. Marti was as bracing as a dip in the cold pool after a sojourn in the hot room of the baths. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said.

“Your letter said ‘Important,'” said Marti. She glanced around the study. “Have I ever told you how much I like this room?” she said. “Your mother used it as her study, too. She had a yellow rug on the floor."

“Yes,” said Arré, “it's in my bedroom."

“Do you remember her?"

“Yes,” Arré said.

Marti smiled. “I intend my children to remember me. The old lady—I can hear them say it—the old lady wouldn't have done that. They say it now when they think I'm not listening: ‘The old lady wouldn't do that, and she won't let you do it either!'” She leaned back in her chair.

The teacups had red and blue fish painted within their bowls. The fish reminded Arré of the Tanjo. She had told Marti everything, except the Truthfinder's parting words. They had frightened her; they still frightened her. But they had nothing to do with swords, or the Ismeninas, and besides, she did not even know if they were true. Truthfinders did not lie, it was said. But it was also believed that the L'hel was an honest man. If he thinks to terrify me with his tame Truthfinder, Arré thought, he will be disappointed.

“Well,” Marti said, “what are we going to do about this nonsense, Arré? Do nothing, and give the city into the White Clan's rule?"

“No,” Arré said firmly, “we are not."

Sorren had filled a tall vase with lilacs and put it on the lacquer table that morning before she went shopping; the bright blue spears were reflected from the black lacquer, as was the red vase. Med colors, thought Arré. She touched the petals of one flower. This is the way it was before the Council, she thought, when first one House and then another ruled the city, “Should we call Boras Sul into this discussion?” she said. He was their ally, after all.

Marti raised her eyebrows. “Do you really want Boras here?” she said. “He will fidget and mumble and fall asleep, and be shocked at all he hears without offering one useful idea—besides, I don't think he has any, any more, or if he does they are all about food. No, Arré, I think we should not call Boras."

Arré grinned. “We might call Meredith Jalar and Edith Isara."

“They are not on the Council."

“Yet,” said Arré. “It is true that the Batto House is as old as the Med House and almost as old as the Hok, but right now I would rather have Meredith Jalar on the Council than Kim Batto."

“Oh, I agree,” said Marti. “Kim is going to be very sorry when this is over, I think. I agree with you; he must be the link between the Tanjo and the Ismeninas. Pompous man that he is, he is going to be lucky to come out of this situation with a whole skin. But he is only a little, little problem.” She held her hands in the air. “We have two big ones. Ron Ismenin and the swords are one. The White Clan's ambitions are the other. Each believes it is using the other to get what it wants. Imagine a skein of wool. It has two ends but only one piece. If you pull either end, the skein unravels. What we must do here is decide which end we want to pull."

“I wish you had been with me at the Tanjo,” said Arré.

Marti sipped her tea. “I am sure I would have handled it no better. Arré, don't underestimate your strengths, or overestimate theirs. They must be vulnerable—we all are. I, for example, am subject to colds."

Arré began to laugh. “Marti, you are irrepressible,” she said.

“So I should hope,” said the old woman. “Now that I have made you laugh, shall we get on with this Council of two? You have had time to think about it all, while I have not. Tell me what you have considered."

“Well,” Arré said, “I have considered giving the L'hel what he wants."

“A vote on the Council."

“Yes. But we would stipulate that the White Clan member could not be a Truthfinder."

“And how would you know the witch's gift?"

“Ask for a demonstration,” said Arré. “Witches have only one gift."

“Who told you?"

“The L'hel—but I think it's true."

“It doesn't matter,” said Marti. “We cannot give in to the White Clan. If we give them the vote because they force us to it, our power is negligible; we are an impotent and useless body, and sooner or later someone will come and sweep us away.” She made a sweeping gesture with one hand.

“That time may be upon us,” Arré said.

“I think not. But that is surely the basis of the L'hel's threat, that through silence he will permit Ron Ismenin to do what he likes, whatever the Council desires or decides. Shall we approach the problem from the other end? It may prove easier. How many swords are there now in the city?"

“We stopped thirty-five of them at the Gates, and those are locked up in the guardhouses,” Arré said. “As for the rest—I think we can assume we caught most of them after we started looking, but we have no idea how many got through before we started looking."

“And Ron Ismenin has them,” said Marti. “Might they be enough to equip a guard troop?"

“They might be. I thought of that."

The old woman shot her a shrewd look. “Is that why you instructed your Yardmaster to order sejis, last week?"

Arré smiled. “What do you know about that?"

“Nothing stays secret in this city,” said Marti. She scowled into her teacup. “What good is it going to do Ron Ismenin to build an army? This city has too many people in it to rule by martial law."

“Do you want more tea?” said Arré. She reached to ring the bell for Lalith.

“No,” said Marti. “Why are the fish in this cup blue and red?"

“Because the Med colors are blue and red,” said Arré. “I have six like that one."

“But I've never seen a blue fish,” said the old woman.

“Nor I have. Maybe the maker of the cup has."

“Humph.” Marti considered that. “I think the painter was just being inventive. I am glad you ordered your Yardmaster to find someone to follow Kim, by the way. That was inventive."

“It was not my idea,” Arré said. “Ron Ismenin thought of it first. He sent some poor child to follow my Yardmaster."

Marti said slowly, “I don't think it was Ron Ismenin's idea, Arré."

“Oh?"

“I think it was your brother's,” said Marti. Her voice was gentle, and very firm. “He is friends with Ron Ismenin. I have watched your brother over the years. Your brother is a predator. Cha Minto is a polite and decent man—what was the word you said the L'hel used; ah, yes, biddable—Cha is biddable, and your brother has trapped him into something. I saw them together at the Council meeting. Did you think Cha was happy? He was not; he was angry and frightened and he did not know what to do to free himself from the trap. I feel very sorry for Cha."

Your brother is a predator.... The words made Arré shiver. “So do I,” she said. She remembered Isak as the Enchanted Eagle, eyes burning with the eagle's passion. What, she thought sadly, happened to my baby brother?

She said, “I can do nothing with Isak."

Marti said, “He is your heir, is he not?"

“Yes,” Arré said, “and after him, his children. He has three; the oldest is Riat, he is eight."

“Which does he resemble, father or mother?"

“He looks like his father,” Arré said, “but he has his mother's sense and her sweetness."

“His mother is an Ishem, is she not?” said Marti. “A good choice.” She looked into her cup again. “I will have more tea now, Arré."

Arré rang her bell, and Lalith came in. Bowing, she took Marti's cup and returned it to her, refilled. “Bring me wine,” Arré said, and when the wine was brought, she took a large, reckless swig.

“What do you think of the Ismenin betrothal?” said Marti.

“I was about to ask you that.” The wine warmed her belly. She drank again.

“You know, of course,” Marti said, “that Col Ismenin is giving up his name and that Nathis Ryth is the daughter of the head of the Council of Nuath, the man whose face is on the bronze coins."

This was news. “I did not know that,” said Arré.

“I have spoken to my caravan masters of him,” said Marti. “They say he keeps a private army. They also say that his coins are accepted along most of the river towns."

“What does he do with this army?” said Arré.

“Nothing. It's very small. But swindlers and thieves stay well clear of Nuath, preferring to go hungry rather than be caught by the Ryth soldiers. It is said they are very efficient."

“So are our city guards efficient.” Arré turned her bracelets on her wrists. “And Kendra-on-the-Delta has no need for a private army, no matter what is done upriver. If Ron Ismenin thinks it does he is mistaken. Perhaps he ought to live in Nuath, and be a Ryth.” A thought struck her. “Is this Blue Clan barbarian coming to the betrothal?"

“I imagine so,” said Marti. “Do you wish to speak with him about his relative-to-be's conduct? I will stand beside you, and look forbidding."

Arré smiled. “I cannot go,” she said. “I was not invited."

Marti grasped the head of her cane in both hands. “What? That's ridiculous. Isak is dancing—"

“Oh, I know that,” said Arré. “Sorren is drumming for him. My servants are more in demand that I am; I have said it before.” The wine glowed in her belly. The outrage in Marti's face made her want to laugh.

Marti thumped the tip of her cane on the floor. “You will go."

“Will I?"

“Naturally you will! Can't you see how foolish Ron Ismenin will look? He can hardly turn you away at the door."

Arré tried to imagine Ron Ismenin telling her to go home. “No.” She began to grin. “Marti, you are a demon.” What would Isak do when she walked into the party? “I will go."

Marti looked smug. “So Sorren is drumming at the party. They will do The Courtship, of course. She is a lovely child, Arré; well-mannered, charming, everything one could wish for."

“I know,” Arré said. “I could not be prouder of her if she were my own daughter.” The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment, like smoke.

Marti sighed. “Swords, Arré.” Her voice was somber. “Swords, and the Ismeninas’ ambitions.... What are we going to do about them? Do you have a plan? For though you called me here for advice, I will tell you truthfully, I have none."

Arré said, “I think I do.” She wondered what Marti would think if she told her about the times the Tanjo's foreseers had “seen,” in which all the things that happened contradicted one another, and still existed, somehow, to be “seen.” Which is true? she thought. The one in which people of this city battle each other in the streets with swords? The one in which the Council bans the kyomos? The one in which the city burns? Yet another? To which future will my acts contribute?

It did not matter.

She touched the flower with her fingertips. A petal detached itself, and fluttered to her lap. “My plan,” she said, “is one which will, I hope, precipitate whatever action Ron Ismenin is planning to take with his hidden swords. It could be dangerous. But if it works, it will insure two things. One: that his plans will be rushed, and hence ill-made, and two: that by his actions he will condemn himself in such a way that the L'hel cannot support him."

Marti folded her hands in her lap. “Tell me,” she said.

* * * *

When Sorren returned that afternoon from shopping, she found Elith screaming, Lalith in tears, and Arré irritable, sleepy, and drunk.

“What's wrong?” she said to the old woman in the hallway. But Elith, redfaced, was busy scolding Lalith. Sorren caught Arré's name in the tirade, and went gingerly to the study. There were two empty carafes on the lacquered table. Sorren sniffed them, and wrinkled her nose at the smell.

Arré sat in her chair, scowling. Her hair was wild.

“What happened?” Sorren said. She had never known Arré to drink enough to be more than tipsy.

“Nothing,” said Arré.

Elith appeared at the door. “No more!” she said, shaking her finger at Arré. She reminded Sorren of a hen with its feathers ruffed in anger.

“I'll drink if I want to drink!” Arré shouted back, and hiccoughed.

“Why do you want to?” Sorren said. But Arré simply stuck out her chin and glowered, looking very much like a stubborn child.

Elith said, “I leave the house for a few hours, only a few hours, and this is what I get when I come back!"

Sorren went to her. The old woman smelled of jasmine soap; she had been to visit her friend the soapmaker. “Why are you so angry?” she said.

Elith sniffed. “No one listens to me.” Her voice grew into its familiar whine.

Arré said, “I don't want to hear it.” She hiccoughed again, and licked her lips. Her voice was slow, almost stuporous. “I'm thirsty."

“You can't have any more,” said Elith.

Arré raised one hand and flung the glass. It bounced off the wall, leaving a tear in the screen, and shattered on the floor.

Sorren went to the kitchen. She found a mug and a pitcher; filling the pitcher with water, she put both on a tray. Lalith was sitting on the steps, snuffling into a rag. Her cheeks were streaked with stains. Sorren said, “Lalli, why did you bring her all that wine?"

Lalith said, “She asked for it! What else could I do?"

“Nothing,” said Sorren. She wondered if Arré had drank enough to be sick. She hoped not. “She broke a glass,” she said. “Better come clean it up."

Picking up the tray with both hands, she brought it to the study. Elith was still in the doorway; Sorren had to squeeze past her. She put the tray on the table, poured water, and handed Arré the glass. Arré drank from it eagerly. Her face was flushed. “Good,” she whispered. She slumped deeper into the chair, and her eyes closed.

Sorren sat on the stool. Lalith crept in with a broom and a damp cloth.

“Wouldn't you like to go to bed?” said Sorren softly. There was no answer. “Lalli, get the cook,” she said.

“I knew this would happen,” proclaimed Elith from the doorway.

Sorren felt her temper rising. “Instead of saying I told you so, you could get her bed ready."

But Elith muttered something and refused to budge. The cook looked in the room. “What's this?” he said, and made a face. “Oh.” He approached Arré and with a gentle, deft motion, lifted her closed eyelid. She opened her mouth, breathing heavily, but did not move. “You take her feet,” he said to Sorren. Stooping, he put his long arms under Arré's shoulders. Between them, they carried her out of the study and up the stairs.

Sorren filled a basin with cool water and brought it to the bedside. She wondered what had happened to make Arré drink so much. She sponged Arré's face, which was scaly and dry. Arré was breathing loudly now, and her breath was sweet as new milk. Suddenly, Sorren shivered, and the cloth dropped from her hand. Arré was often tired but she was never sick. What if she had some illness, a fever, the lung fever, even? What if she was sick enough to die?

She put the basin on the floor and leaped for the door. Arré muttered, and extended one hand into the air. Sorren went back to the bed. “Arré?” she said.

“Uh,” said Arré. She opened one eye. “Sorren. Don’ go."

Sorren sat down again. “How do you feel?” she said.

“Thirsty."

* * * *

That evening, Paxe came to the house. It was just sunset. Lalith brought her upstairs. She was wearing her boots with the wooden heels, which made her even taller than she was. Sorren was very glad to see her. Arré was awake; she had been waking and sleeping at intervals all afternoon. She was sitting up, propped against cushions. She opened her eyes as Paxe sat down.

“Ah. You.” She struggled to sit upright. “Did—did you get the sejis?"

Paxe said, “I could not get them sooner than ten days from now. Will it do?"

“It will have to,” said Arré. “And the spy?"

Sorren thought, What spy? She took a step nearer the bed.

“Her name is Jenith. She used to work in the grapefields."

Arré licked her lips. “Thirsty,” she whispered.

The water pitcher and glass were at Paxe's feet. Bending, she poured water and held the glass to Arré's mouth. Arré gulped feverishly, and then let her head fall back on the pillow. She looked at Sorren. “Cloth."

Kneeling, Sorren dipped the cloth in the basin. She laid it gently across Arré's forehead. Water ran down her neck.

“What are they saying in the city about the swords?"

“Not much, yet,” said Paxe.

“And about Ron Ismenin?"

“There are rumors that the Ismenin Yard is teaching the sword. But the Yard denies it."

Arré nodded. The cloth slid from her forehead, and Paxe caught it. She dipped it in the basin herself, and laid it gently back on Arré's forehead. “Of course,” said Arré. “They have to say that. Ron Ismenin is being very careful. He does not want to alarm people, or make them think he is doing anything ni'chea. Well, next time some one asks you, tell them what you know. Don’ say you know it, say you have heard it. Say you've heard that the Ismeninas are training with the short sword, the kyomos."

Sorren said, “Are they?” She had not heard this before. Paxe had said nothing to her about it.

“Yes,” said Arré, “they are."

“Does Isak know?"

Arré smiled. “Isak knows all about it. He is friend to Ron Ismenin.” Her eyes suddenly filled with a drunk's easy tears. “My little brother. Ré, he used to call me. Ré. You can say, too, that the Tanjo does not approve of this, but is waiting for the Council meeting in two months, because at that meeting the Council intends to ex-ex-extend the Ban to short swords. You can say how lucky you think Ron Ismenin is that training with the short sword has not been declared ni'chea.” She waved her hands in the air. “Tell everybody. Let the whole city know."

Paxe caught her hands and held them, gently. “Arré, is it true?” she said.

Arré said, “Does it matter? People will believe it, anyway."

Paxe said, “I want to know."

Arré said, “A part of it is. That's enough, isn't it, Paxe—part truths? Ron Ismenin will think he knows wh-wh-which part is true and which not, but it will make him very unhappy, it will burn and prickle and fester in his soul until he no longer knows who or what to believe—” She hiccoughed. “The bed is going around."

Paxe said suddenly, “Arré, what did the L'hel say he would do about the swords?"

Arré shook her head. The cloth fell onto the quilt. “Oh, no,” she muttered, “you don't trap me like that.” She closed her eyes, sighed, and seemed to sleep.

Paxe stood. Her eyes were troubled. “Has she been like this all day?"

“Since I came back from shopping. I found Elith yelling at Lalli, and her drunk in the study. She drank two carafes of wine."

Paxe scowled. “She shouldn't drink. She knows that.” She laid her hand against Arré's cheek. Arré did not stir. Despite herself, Sorren reached for her lover's hand.

“How sick is she?” she said. The words made her throat hurt.

Paxe said, “Not sick enough to die.” She put her arm around Sorren, and hugged her gently. “Don't worry, chelito."

Heavy steps and harsh breathing in the hallway warned them, and they moved apart as Elith came to the door. “How is she?” said the old woman.

“Asleep,” said Paxe.

Elith said, “Her mother went like this."

The words chilled Sorren to the bone. But Paxe said, “Shana Med died of the plague!"

“Ai, yes,” said Elith, “but it was this that killed her, as it took her mother before her.” The old woman's voice took on a keening sound. “I have nursed three generations of the Med house, and I know the weakness of the line. The Healer told me. It is a sickness; it makes the muscles limp and the mouth dry and the breath sweet. She has it, as her mother had it, as her children would have had it.” She caught her breath. “I have seen it; I know."

“Enough,” said Paxe. She took two strides to the door, seized the old woman by the shoulders, and pushed her into the hall. Then she came back to the bed. Again she stooped and felt Arré's forehead. “Elith is an old crow,” she said. “She's not that sick. But she needs to be watched."

Sorren swallowed. “I'll stay with her."

“If you need help, leave a message with the gate guard. He knows how to find me."

Sorren said, “I will."

When Paxe left, Sorren went to her room. She dragged her quilt and pillows into Arré's chamber. The candle flickered over the small sleeping form. She did not want Arré to die. She sat beside the bed, listening to Arré's steady, stertorous breathing, and wild thoughts swirled in her head. Maybe Arré's illness was meant as a sign for her, maybe it would cease if she went to the Tanjo, told them what she was, gave up her dreams and became a witch.... But she knew better. You could not bargain with the chea. She had said so to Kadra herself.

* * * *

Arré slept for two days.

Sorren stayed by the bed as much as she could. Lalith did the shopping; Toli, the cleaning. The guards were simply told that Arré was not well, and that she did not want callers. Paxe came upstairs every few hours. But she said only that if Arré's breathing did not change and she was neither too cold nor too hot, then they should let her alone, and let her wake by herself. What if she doesn't? Sorren thought; but she did not say it. Saying it made it too real.

The second day, Jenith was among the callers.

Sorren did not know her, but she recognized the woman's name. She went to the gate herself. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but Arré Med can't see you now. Can you come back?"

“I'll come back,” said the dark woman. She smelled of wine and heavenweed. “Make sure you tell her that I came."

The third morning, Arré woke.

She was very weak; Sorren had to help her to the chamber pot. She did not believe it when Sorren told her how long she had slept. “Two days and nights? That's not possible.” But the sweat-soaked bedclothes helped to convince her. “I want a bath, and breakfast,” she said. She sniffed. “Guardian, open the window!"

Sorren pushed the screens to one side. “I was afraid you'd catch cold,” she said.

Arré was looking at the nest of blankets on the floor. “Who's been staying here? You?” Sorren nodded. Arré touched her arm. “Thank you, child,” she said. “I frightened you, didn't I. I frightened myself.” She ran her hands through her hair. “Faugh. I'm hollow as an empty jug, and I stink worse than any goat."

After bathing in hot water, she insisted on being helped downstairs to her study. “I have work to do. Who came while I was asleep?"

“Jenith was here,” said Sorren.

“Jenith—ah, the spy. When will she come back?” Sorren shrugged. “Why don't you know?"

As if to make up for two days of silence, she was irritable as a trapped bee.

Finally Sorren said to Cook, “I'm going to do the shopping. Tell Lalith to answer the bell, if it rings.” It was the fourth day of the week, and she wanted to go to Kadra's. She sped through the shopping, praying that the ghya would still be at the house.... She would go to the dock to find her, if she had to. But Kadra was there, sitting in the goat hutch, map on her lap.

“You're late,” she said.

“Arré needed me."

“Huh.” The ghya coughed. “Here.” She put the map into Sorren's hand. “I marked your route. The circles are villages. The blue crosses are where the merchants stop. You may be able to find some friendly trader who'll let you ride a wagon. The big red mark is over Elath, the witch town. The fastest route takes you to the east bank of Lake Aruna, right under the Tezeran city wall. A few traders go from Tezera to the Keeps, and you may be able to coax a ride to Tornor from one of them. Otherwise, you'll have to walk or buy a mule. The country's marshy there, where the rivers meet."

She named the villages. “Terzi, Mahita, Warrintown, Elath, Shonet, Sharon, now you're in the Galbareth, Nuath—"

“Stop,” Sorren said. Her head was spinning from the litany. “Go slower.” Kadra repeated the names, more slowly, and Sorren said them after her, pointing to each circle on the map.

“You'll know Mahita because it's bigger than the others and it sits on both sides of the river, with a bridge crossing from side to side. In Shonet, there are great heavenweed fields, you can smell them half a day from town.” Her wine-scented breath was warm on Sorren's cheek. “People don't ride through Shonet, they float.” She broke off speaking to cough. Her face reddened, and she put both forearms over her stomach.

“Do you want some water?” said Sorren, half rising. There was a water barrel beside the house.

“No. Sit there,” rasped the ghya. She struggled, and the spasms subsided. “Near the Tezera road, there are plenty of inns. You'll have no trouble finding food. After Nuath—” she pointed to the map—"comes Yfarra. The riverfolk live there. Then Morriton, Septh, and Kup-on-the-Marsh. Then Tezera."

Sorren repeated the names.

“Your memory's good,” said Kadra.

“Thank you,” Sorren said.

Leaning over the map, she said the names to herself, trying to make them stick in her mind. Terzi, Mahita, Warrintown, the witch-town to which she would not go, Sharon, Shonet—no, that was wrong, it was Shonet, then Sharon. The strong animal smell in the debris of the pen was making her dizzy. But there was no shade in the space behind the house except in the goat hutch.

Kadra coughed again. When the fit was over, she said in a hoarse voice, “What do you know abut the Ismenin Yard teaching forbidden weapons?"

Sorren said, “Why should I know anything?"

The ghya said, “Because Arré Med talks to you, girl, that's why. Don't play stupid. Is it true?"

Terzi, Mahita, Warrintown, the witch-town, Shonet, Sharon, Nuath. Yfarra. She drummed it on her knee. “I don't know,” she answered, remembering Arré's instructions, to talk. “But I've heard it in the market."

“Well, don't say if you don't want to,” said Kadra.

“What do you think about it?” Sorren asked.

“What do I care?” said the ghya. “I'm leaving—one way or another."

Drawing her knife from the sheath in her belt, she began to pare her nails with it. The nail of her little finger on her right hand was long, like a scribe's. She trimmed the others short. “You ought to have a knife,” she said again. “Something."

“No.” Sorren frowned. Terzi, Mahita, Warrintown, the witch-town, Shonet —

“A bow then, to hunt with. Guardian, girl, you're planning to go on foot into a countryside you don't know—what if you get lost? What will you eat? Berries and nuts, like the chipmunks? What if you get hurt, or you drink bad water and fall ill?"

“I'll make traps."

“Traps don't always catch anything. Can you throw stones and hit what you aim at?"

“Not very well."

“You need a bow and arrows. I can get one for you, and I know a place you can practice. You're a northerner—the skill's in your blood. You ought to learn it."

The skill's in your blood—Sorren's imagination stirred. She remembered the Card, the woman drawing a bow silhouetted against the crescent moon. The Archer had gold hair, like her hair. “Bondservants can't have weapons."

“I'll keep it for you."

“It's ni'chea. What if someone saw me practicing?"

“They won't,” said Kadra. “I know a perfect place. But even if they do, you're wrong. Bows and arrows are ni'chea only if the arrows have iron points. I'll make you arrows with blunt points. They're better for small game, anyway."

“Can you make arrows?” Sorren said. “I didn't know that."

Kadra grinned, not nicely. “Spare me the list of things that you don't know.” She coughed again, bending double, and spat in the dirt. “Cursed city air,” she muttered.

It's not the air that makes you cough, Sorren thought, it's the drink—but she did not say it. Warrintown, the witch-town, Shonet, Sharon, Nuath, Yfarra, Morriton, Septh, and Something-on-the-Marsh. Kup. Paxe had a sword, which was ni'chea, why should she not have a bow?

She crooked her arms, trying to remember from the Card of the Archer how one held it. Kadra chuckled. “Want to try it?"

Sorren glanced sideways at her. “I suppose I do."

“Good,” said the ghya. “Meet me here next week and I'll have it for you. Stand up; let me see how tall you are.” Obediently, Sorren scrambled up. She was taller than anything in the scrubby yard except the house itself, and it made her feel large and clumsy, as usual. Kadra rose. “Hold still,” she directed, and proceeded to measure Sorren from feet to armpit with her hands, as if Sorren were a horse. “All right.” She sat. Sorren reseated herself on the ground.

“Why did you do that?” she asked.

“The bowyer needs to know your height to make the bow."

“How long will it be?"

“When you stand with the lower tip on the ground, the upper should touch your armpit. I'll tell her to make yours shorter; a short bow's best for hunting, because it doesn't snag on the brush."

Timidly, Sorren said, “I can't pay for it until Festival. Arré usually gives me a money string then."

Kadra scowled, as if mention of money made her angry. “Never mind. The bowyer owes me a favor. It won't cost me; why should it cost you?"

Sorren had the uneasy feeling that she was lying. But she was not about to say so. She ran the string of names out in her head—Warrintown, Elath, Shonet, Sharon—"What should I wear to travel in?"

“Sturdy stuff,” said the ghya. “Boots, and a cloak, and warm clothes for cold weather."

“But I'm going in the summer,” objected Sorren.

“It gets cold in the north at night, even in summertime."

Sharon, Nuath, Yfarra, Morriton, Kup-on-the-Marsh. “How much money will I need?"

Kadra shrugged. “How much will you have?"

“I don't know,” Sorren said. Part of the bondservant's agreement stated that there was money set aside for her, which would be given her when her time of service ended. Arré would know. She wondered if Arré would be feeling better when she got back to the house. “What's happening with the ship?” she asked. “Is it finished yet?"

The look of longing came over Kadra's face. “The hull and keel are finished. The lower decks are done, and they're working on the upper deck. When it's laid, the carpenters will come aboard to make cabins. Ten days ago, they brought the masts downriver. It may even be ready to sail by Festival."

“What's it called?” asked Sorren. Even ships, she thought, must have names.

“A name in the old tongue,” Kadra said. “It means ‘starfinder.’ Starfinder—Ilnalamaré."

Thirteen

The sejis arrived at the Med Yard on the sixth day of the first week of autumn, four days earlier than Perrit said they would.

Paxe was sleeping when a hand on her naked shoulder brought her striking up from the pillow. She had been dreaming about the Red Hills. She recognized Kaleb even as her hand sliced for his throat, and grimaced apology as he jumped swiftly out of range.

“Sorry."

“You wanted to be told when the sejis arrived,” he said.

She rubbed her eyes. “They're here so soon? Perrit's a marvel.” The sky gleamed hot blue through the window. “How has the day gone?” she asked.

“Quiet, so far,” said Kaleb.

Rising, Paxe walked to the wash basin and rinsed her face. “Did Perrit bring the swords himself?"

Kaleb nodded. “He's downstairs in the weapons shed, putting them away."

They went to the weapons shed. Perrit had bullied one of late watch guards, Sekki, into helping him. He grumbled at Paxe as she ducked under the shed's low lintel, “I knew you wou'na have racks."

She glanced quickly to the back, to be sure that the live blades which had been brought from the Gate guardhouse were stowed out of sight. But they were securely covered by silk and canvas. She gazed at the shed walls. Perrit had made racks for the sejis to lie on. She took a wooden blade from the rack and ran her thumb along the wood. “White oak,” she said.

“O’ course."

The finish was like satin. She held the blade on her palm, feeling the balance. “They're beautiful, Perrit. Thank you. No one in the city could have done this work but you."

“Wait till Arré Med see t’ bill.” He grew suddenly shy. “My wagon's here.” He left the shed and walked quickly across the Yard, a small, squat man with immense shoulders. Kaleb closed the shed door and locked it. The metallic sound was harsh in the silence.

Sekki bowed. “Excuse me, Captain, Yardmaster.” She walked toward the gate.

Kaleb said, “The news of the Ismenin Yard teaching the short sword is everywhere around the city."

“I will tell Arré Med."

Kaleb said, “Paxe, does Ivor know that you intend to teach the short sword?"

Paxe said, “I haven't told him."

“Then he doesn't know.” Kaleb rubbed his chin. “He may have trouble accepting it. He's city-born and -bred. To him, a sword in the city is ni'chea, whatever its length."

That night, Paxe made her rounds in the darkness as she had been wont to do in the daylight, from post to post, past the Travelers’ Hall, through Wine Street, along the Street of the Goldsmiths. At the Tanjo guardpost, she halted. The dome sat outlined by stars in the clear night. A light shone from the entrance, and a second light gleamed from the apartments behind the great red structure. “Who lives there?” she asked, and guessed the answer before it came.

“Those are the rooms of the L'hel."

At sunrise, she went to the Yard to give Ivor the report. As always, he looked fresh and dapper as a dancer, his hair in a topknot, his clothes washed and scented with lavender. “Come to the cottage,” she said.

He followed her to the cottage. “Sit,” she said, gesturing to the mats. He seated himself cross-legged on the mat beside the table. Paxe sat opposite him.

“Is something wrong?” he said.

She folded her hands on her lap, wondering how best to say it. Better to be blunt, she thought. “Ivor,” she said, “have you ever used a sword?"

His face changed subtly. “No, Yardmaster."

“Why do you look at me like that?"

He touched his face with the fingertips of one hand. “I don't know what my face looks like."

“You have heard the rumors that have been filling the city?"

“About the Ismenin soldiers learning the short sword? Of course."

“They are true,” said Paxe.

Ivor bowed his head. She wondered if it was so that she could not see his face. He glanced up again. “The swords that were smuggled into the city—the ones we found, at any rate, were short swords."

“Have you ever seen a sword other than those?” Paxe said. He shook his head. “Then how do you know that?"

He fidgeted with his mustache. “Borti told me. He said it might be important."

“It is important. Short swords are not covered by the Ban. That's why the Ismeninas are not afraid to teach them. Days ago Arré Med went to the Tanjo, to talk with the L'hel about the swords in the city. I don't know what they said to one another; she didn't tell me. But short swords are still not covered by the Ban. And we, too, are going to teach it to our soldiers."

“How?” said the captain.

“With sejis. Wooden swords. They've been made already; they're in the weapons shed.” Paxe took the key to the shed from her pocket and laid it on the table. Ivor picked it up. “Arré Med desires the guard to have a decent familiarity with the weapons by Harvest Festival."

Ivor swallowed. “Yardmaster,” he began, and stopped.

“Say it,” Paxe said.

“All my life I have been told that swords within the city walls is ni'chea."

Paxe looked at her hands and found that her fists were clenched. She opened them. “If they were ni'chea, don't you think the White Clan would have spoken by now?"

“I suppose so,” he said. “But—Yardmaster, have you ever walked across ground that looked and seemed solid, only to have it quiver and shake under your weight like the sand beneath the tides? You tell me short swords are not ni'chea, and my stomach feels the ground give under my feet."

“I know,” Paxe said. “I feel it too. But I am the Med Yardmaster, and those are my instructions from Arré Med, to teach the sword. All I need to know—all you need to know, Captain—is that it is not illegal."

He bowed from his seated position, palms together, and then rose fluidly. He started toward the door.

“Wait!"

He turned. “Yardmaster.” His face was stone.

“You have not heard my report,” she said.

“Yardmaster."

“It was quiet.” Too damn quiet, she thought. He was still watching her with eyes like agate, and she wanted to smack his head, hard, or else put her arms about him, whatever might thaw that frozen expression. “The guards at the baths found two men sleeping near the furnace and sent them to one of the travelers’ shelters. Two drunks had a fight on the Batto district border and the Batto guards broke it up. A woman was found ill on Oil Street and one of the guards delivered her to the Tanjo—” She made him listen to the recitation, watching his eyes slowly change, and see her. When she finished, her right temple was throbbing as if someone had struck her. But Ivor no longer looked as if his blood had changed to ice.

He bowed. “Is there more, Yardmaster?"

She wondered if she should tell him about the shadower Arré had had her find for Kim Batto. But no, that was none of his business, and it would only upset him further to know it. Whatever balance he had found was precarious, and till it was strengthened she did not want to impair it. “Nothing, Captain. Dismissed."

* * * *

Two hours before sunset, the Yard was full. When Paxe came from the cottage, she counted forty people inside the fence. Most of the day watch was there, and the tension of suppressed excitement was stifling, like the pressure of air before a rainstorm. She wondered how the word had gone around so quickly.

Some of the soldiers had formed fighting circles. But when Paxe stepped into the Yard, the circles broke apart. The guards all turned to watch her. The door to the weapons shed was, of course, locked. She caught Kaleb's eye; he crossed to her side. “There are not enough sejis for all of them,” she said. “Who ordered this?"

“Not I.” He fished the shed key from his pocket. She opened the shed; the sejis lay on their racks. Paxe lifted one, then a second from its place. She gave one to Kaleb.

“Remember?” she said. “It's been a long time since the desert."

His teeth flashed in the shadowy hut. “I remember."

As they stepped into the sunlight, the waiting guards drew a collective breath. Paxe pointed at random. “You. Stand outside the Yard gate. No one not wearing Med colors is to enter."

Disappointment surged across the face of the soldier she had picked, but he bowed without speaking and went to the gate.

Paxe pivoted to face Kaleb. “Let's show them something,” she said. “Slowly."

He dipped the point of the wooden blade in salute and fell into stance. She struck at him, and he countered. She struck a second time, and he countered again and then struck at her, making her leap out of range. The strokes of defense and attack made a pattern which they both knew: this was a naïga, a prescribed series of thrusts and parries, which she had learned from Tyré and taught to Kaleb in the desert. This particular naïga had twenty-five steps.

Slice, slice, thrust, parry, backstep, cut at the legs. As she moved, her chest tightened; she was breathing wrong. She forced the air out with her strokes. Huff. Huff. At the fourteenth step in the dance, Kaleb faltered, and she leaped inside his guard and bore his sword hand to the side and away and threw him, with a motion that left her in possession of his sword. He rolled and came up standing just out of her reach.

Kneeling, Paxe slid his sword toward him, hilt first. He scooped it up, careful not to touch the edge with his fingers.

Paxe said, to a silence so thick she could almost smell it: “The first rule of sword practice is to treat the wooden sword as if it were not wooden, but steel. Never touch the point or the edge of the blade with your hand. Never play with it, nor permit others to play with it around you."

The soldiers drew closer. A few nodded. She went on. “This sword is a kyomos, a short sword. It is not covered by the Ban and is therefore legal to use. However—” she paused, gathering their attention to focus—"at present, use of the short sword, like use of a spear, is reserved for properly trained guards, and must be confined to the Yard. Any soldier of mine who takes a blade—” she tapped the seji so that they would be sure to understand she meant even a wooden one—"beyond these walls will be punished and that transgression will be reported to the Tanjo."

More nods. She grinned, and dropped the formal manner. “You got that? Good. No talk about them either, you donkeys; to your mothers or your bedmates or even to each other outside the fence. What we do in here is our concern. If you're asked, look innocent. The asker won't believe you but it doesn't matter. Now—” She picked four soldiers from the circle and told them to take the sejis from the weapons shed and hand them out. “There won't be enough for you all. Don't worry about it. No!” This to Kepi, who had wrapped her fingers around the blade above the hilt. “You just lost four fingers from your left hand. Drop the blade.” Scarlet, Kepi dropped the seji on the dirt. “Now go and stand against the wall. Kinith, you pick it up.” Kneeling, Kinith grasped the seji as he had seen her do, fingers around the hilt.

“Have any of you ever used a blade?” she said.

Four voices murmured assent. “Fine. You're instructors. Don't get puffy about it. All right, those with the sejis stand in two facing lines. Hold the sword out, so.” They copied her stance. “Right foot forward. Right hand first on the hilt, like holding the spear but close together. Get those shoulders down. Hands level with your waist. Your grip should be firm but light.” Laying her sword down, she checked the four “instructors” to make sure they did, indeed, know what they were doing. The guards without swords watched jealously. “Yes. All right, you four give up your blades. Go and check stances. No, that's not how you pick it up! One knee down and back straight so that you can look around you, idiot.” She imitated the man who had bent from the waist to pick up the sword. “Best way I can think of to get stabbed in the rump. Go stand next to Kepi."

She taught them the first stroke, the downward slice forward. In a little while, the Yard rang with a count. ("One—and two—and three—and four!") A light breeze from the south cooled the space, but even with it, soon she and Kaleb and all the guards were sweating. “Tighten your butt muscles at the end of your swing, but keep your hands and shoulders limber. The stroke should be firm. Don't let the point dip. If the blade wiggles as you strike, your grip is wrong, probably too tight. And one—and two—and three—and four. And one—and two—and three—and four. First line, lay your swords down, kneeling, assholes, yes, that's right. Back up. You ten, step forward and take them. Why are you holding the blade above the hilt? Idiot. Against the fence. You, pick it up. And one—and two—and three—and four."

By the end of two hours, all the guards, including the man at the gate and the ones who spent most of the time by the fence, had a chance to learn the naïga's first three steps. Paxe called them all together and repeated her warnings to them before she let them go. Kaleb supervised the return of the sejis to the shed.

He came to stand beside her. “What do you think?” she asked him.

He nodded. “They'll do."

“As long as they don't talk about it.” She stretched, feeling her joints pop. Her muscles were sore and tense. She touched Kaleb's arm. “Train with me for a bit. Empty-hand."

He grinned, and shifted his weight. “Yai!” She reached for him and he spun around her. They struck and countered and threw each other to the ground, and Paxe's muscles loosened. At last she signaled halt. Her hair and clothing were caked with dust.

“Ah, that's better,” she said. “I feel more like a human being."

Kaleb said cheerfully, “You smell like a donkey."

“Wretch. Is that how you speak to your commander?” She grinned. “Guardian, I do, don't I. I'd better bathe. Give me the shed key."

He handed her the heavy key. “When do you plan to hold a second session with the swords,” he said, “one that the late watch can attend?"

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Paxe said, “before watch change."

* * * *

Two days later, Paxe walked into the Yard at midnight to receive Kaleb's report, and found two men waiting for her: Kaleb, and Sereth, the day Gate Captain.

The Yard was empty, except for those two. She nodded greeting to them, wondering what Sereth was doing there. Since watch reassignment, she had not seen him at all. He had not come to the sword training, but she assumed it was not because he was shirking but because he was exhausted after a day on the Gate. Kaleb, too, looked weary. But he also looked annoyed.

“How was the day?” she said.

“I've had better,” Kaleb answered. He gave her a brief report, and then pointed his chin at Sereth. “Your Gate Captain, here, desires to have speech with you. He refuses to talk to me, or to Ivor."

Sereth shifted from one foot to the other. “Yardmaster,” he said, “I know it's unusual but I do have reason."

“You'd better,” Paxe said. All complaints or suggestions from the captains were supposed to go first to their watch commanders or to Kaleb. Sereth's thick sandy hair was sticking out from his head, as it did when he was alarmed. “Well,” she said, “let's go to the cottage."

The house was dark. Paxe reached for tinder and flint and lit a lamp. As the room brightened, Sereth said, “Yardmaster, please forgive me for coming to you in this fashion."

Paxe said, “It's not I who should forgive you, but Ivor and Kaleb. You insult them when you disregard their authority in this way."

“I mean no insult, truly,” said Sereth. “Only, this is important!"

Kaleb's brows drew together.

Paxe said coldly, “You are impertinent and tactless, Captain. Sit down. What's this about?"

Sereth seated himself. Kaleb loomed ominously at his shoulder. “It's about Leth-no-Chayatha,” he said.

“Vanesi's caravan master."

“Yes. You told me to question him, about the swords."

“And you did."

“And I did, and he knew nothing, he swore it, by the Guardian, on his mother's grave, by all the demons of winter, he knew nothing.” Sereth frowned. “I didn't believe him. Something in his manner—but the Blue Clan would not let a Truthfinder be called, and I didn't think I was going to get anywhere by asking him the same questions over and over again. He kept repeating his answers. So I stopped."

“When did you stop questioning him?” asked Kaleb.

“The last day of the Feast of the Ox,” said Sereth. “I stopped but I kept an eye on him.” He paused, then stuck his jaw out stubbornly and continued. “I asked my second to cover for me a few times so that I could leave my post, and I asked some friends on the late and night watches to help me."

“Go on,” said Paxe grimly.

“The night of the half moon—three days ago—he left his house and went to a place he'd never gone before. The other days he spent doing mostly the same things: going to taverns and over to Sellers’ Alley."

“Did you follow him there, too?” said Kaleb, his voice dripping sarcasm.

“Yes. But I stayed in the shadows, and I don't think he saw me. He's got a fine body—” Sereth's teeth flashed—"and I guess he likes making money with it. Anyway, he went to this house, and when he came out he had a lot of money. He spent it on clothes and jewelry and gambling in the taverns and he's been eating in places a caravan master can't usually afford."

“He got paid for something,” said Paxe. “All right, Sereth, what house did he visit?"

“Isak Med's,” said Sereth.

Paxe blinked. Isak. Arré had suspected Isak of having something to do with the swords. “What do you think happened at that house?” she said.

“I'm sure he got paid for something,” said Sereth, obviously trying not to sound surprised at the question. “I thought—well, it seemed likely that it has something to do with the swords."

“Why?” said Kaleb. But the concentration in his dark face showed that he was taking Sereth's story seriously at last.

Sereth said, “Because the Ismenin Yard is teaching the short sword; has been, since before we found the swords in Vanesi's wagon. And Isak Med and Ron Ismenin are friends."

Paxe said, leaning forward, “How do you know when the Ismenin Yard started teaching?"

Sereth said, “My sister's son's father has a brother who is a guard there. He got drunk three nights ago, and told me."

So Dobrin's rules for secrecy were breaking down at last. With rumors flying about the city like bats, the Ismenin soldiers must be feeling that it doesn't matter who they talk to, Paxe thought. She nodded at Sereth. “You are right,” she said, “and you were correct to come to me about it. I take back my harsh words."

“Unfortunately,” Kaleb put in, hunkering down beside Sereth, “nothing you've said is evidence of a crime. So a man has money. So what? Would you like to go in front of a Med district magistrate and bring a charge against Isak Med?"

Sereth ran his fingers through his hair. “Of course not. But I thought, if Leth were to be talked to—” He glanced at Paxe, hopeful and uncertain. “You're more forceful than I am, Yardmaster. He might tell you what he wouldn't tell me."

At his side, Kaleb gave a low chuckle. “Paxe, he wants you to beat it out of the man."

“It wouldn't have to be that,” Sereth said hastily. “Only—he's very vain."

Kaleb's teeth gleamed. “Threaten to cut his nose off."

“Wait a minute,” said Paxe. “Just wait. I am not going to go chasing Vanesi's caravan master around Kendra-on-the-Delta with a carving knife."

Sereth bounced a little on the mat. “You don't have to. I know where he is. He went to the public baths this afternoon. Right now, he's in a pipe den in the Batto district. It's called the House of Pleasant Dreams and it's in the Street of the Whispers. He's planning to be there until two hours after midnight, and then he's going to Sellers’ Alley."

Kaleb said, “I know that pipe den."

The light from the chobata lit his face; his weariness seemed to have fallen from him like a discarded shirt. “The owner's Asech; his name's Skandar. I know him. He wouldn't object if we wanted to speak privately with one of his patrons, as long as we didn't wake the others up.... He has private rooms, also."

Sereth beamed at the watch commander's words.

Paxe said, “Well, you're convinced.” She rose, and walked around the room. The statue of the Guardian, in its place, seemed to watch her, and for a moment, it almost seemed to move.

“All right,” she said finally, “let's try it.” She wondered what Arré would say if Paxe brought her evidence proving that Isak Med was directly involved with smuggling swords.

* * * *

Sereth accompanied them to the pipe den, of course. The two men waited in the Yard while Paxe summoned Dis, her watch second, and instructed her to make rounds in Paxe's place. Dis was a stolid, dependable woman, and a grandmother with six grandchildren at last count. “Whatever you're doing,” she said, “have fun."

The farther south they walked, the thicker the fog. It smelled of fish. “Down by the docks, it must be thick enough to swim in,” said Sereth.

Kaleb said, “I can't swim."

Paxe glanced at him. His face was somber. She tripped him. He took two quick steps forward and whirled on his toes.

“What are you so gloomy about?” she demanded. “A while ago, you were all joyful, now you're down a well!"

“I was thinking,” said Kaleb.

“What were you thinking?"

“How to talk to Leth-no-Chayatha.” His grin grew wolfish.

Paxe frowned. “He won't take much persuading,” she said. “He's going to be cloud-high on heavenweed."

“True,” said Kaleb. “Very true."

They were challenged three times before they reached the Street of the Whispers, twice by Med guards and once by a Batto guard. The damp streets seemed to mute their steps. Kaleb, of course, was noiseless, and Sereth glanced at him enviously three or four times, and finally asked, “How can you move so silently?"

“Training,” said Kaleb. “Practice. I was brought up in the desert, and learned to approach rats so silently that I could take them with my bare hands."

Sereth flicked an unbelieving look at Paxe. “It's true,” she said. “I've seen him do it.” Drops of mist rolled down her collar, and she thrust her hands in her pockets and cursed to herself, wishing she had remembered to wear her cloak with the hood.

The mist made the gray pitted streets gleam black in the lamplight. They passed few others: some late-night carousers, who barely knew it was raining, a girl let out late from her shift at a tavern, an old man plodding homeward beside a droop-eared donkey; appearing and then vanishing in the mist like ghosts. Many of the taverns they passed seemed half empty, and a few, that looked as if they ought to be open, were barred closed.

They came to the Street of the Whispers. “Why do they call it that?” Paxe asked.

Sereth answered, “Because there's a spot on the street, they say, where, if you stand there, you can hear every word anyone else is saying anywhere on the block. I've never found it."

“Have you tried?” asked Kaleb.

Sereth shrugged. “Once or twice."

They were two blocks from the House of Pleasant Dreams. Already Paxe could smell the strong, sweet scent of the drug. The heavenweed smoked in the pipe dens was a lot stronger than the kind one could find on the streets. Paxe preferred heavenweed as an intoxicant to wine, because it heightened the senses in a way she liked.

But she had stopped smoking heavenweed when Ricky had started to do nothing else. She wondered how he was, and if he had received the boots she'd sent him.

“Here,” said the Gate Captain. “Here we are."

The house was long and low, built like a warehouse, with few windows. A banner flapped on a pole above the door. On it was a painted picture of a clay pipe and the serrated-edged leaf of the heavenweed plant. Under the picture was written: The House of Pleasant Dreams, in faded letters. The heavenscent was overpowering. “In this place,” said Sereth, “even the mice are high."

He mimicked an intoxicated mouse. Paxe chuckled, and jerked her head toward the door. “Come on, actor."

“Let me talk to Skandar,” said Kaleb. Paxe nodded. They pushed open the door.

The long room was in shadow: choba dishes on small tables sent tongues of light over the dreamy faces of the smokers. The room was hot and stuffy. The heat came from braziers standing at intervals in the corridor; smokers tended to feel chill more quickly than other people. The room was broken up into smaller rooms by half-screens, no higher than the height of a tall man, which gave the illusion of privacy. Voices murmured from the cubicles; laughter sounded from the back of the house. The air was heavy with heavenweed; almost at once, Paxe felt her body beginning to respond to the drug's allure. That, too, she told herself, was an illusion.

A man hurried to them down the corridor. He had a typical Asech face, dark, narrow, bronze, with blue jewels glinting in his earlobes. Kaleb went forward to talk to him and they had a whispered conversation. Kaleb came back to them. “Leth-no-Chayatha is in a back booth, high as the Tanjo dome. Skandar says he can put us in a back room and then bring the man to us, but he requests us, please, to keep this quiet, or it will disturb his customers."

“How much?” said Paxe, feeling for her money string.

“A trey."

Paxe worked the bonta from her pocket and gave it to Kaleb, who gave it to Skandar. They followed the man past the booths to another wooden door. Here the rooms were solider, walled in wood. There were cushions on the mats and a table to lean on. Paxe took off her shoes and sat on a cushion. Sereth thrust his hands through his hair until it looked like a scrub-brush. She hit his leg to get his attention. “Sit down."

He sat. Kaleb leaned on the doorframe. In a moment, they heard a voice. “That's Leth,” said Sereth. “Chea, he's high.” The mumbled words were thick as glue.

Kaleb said, “When he walks in, I'll bring him down. Yardmaster, you hold his arms and shoulders. Sereth, get his legs. We'd better have something to stuff in his mouth."

Paxe said, “Use his shirt. You're going to strip him."

Kaleb said, “Good idea."

“Where should I—” Sereth began.

“There!” said Paxe, pointing to the end of the table nearest the door. Sereth scrambled to it. The door opened and a man walked in. “Now what's this?” he said, peering forward into the dim space.

Kaleb reached out, spun him, and threw him backward over the table in one crisp economical motion. Sereth grabbed his feet. Paxe locked his arms behind his head, immobilizing his torso. As his back hit the table, he cried out in pain. Kneeling, Kaleb caught his shirt in one strong hand and ripped downward. It came free, and he thrust the back of it into Leth's open mouth before the caravan master realized what was happening. As the cloth filled his mouth, he started to struggle, trying to buck and roll free of his captors. Kaleb put a hand on his throat, finger and thumb on each of the big arteries, and applied pressure. Leth gasped, and his eyes started to glaze.

Kaleb took his hand away. “If you yell, no one can hear you,” he said. His hand snaked to his boot and came up with a knife. Sereth's eyes widened, and he glanced at Paxe, who shrugged. “All we want are the answers to some questions. You tell us, we go away. You don't tell us, we hurt you. Understand?"

Comprehension and the drug struggled in Leth's blue eyes. He tried to speak through the gag. Kaleb smiled, and laid the tip of the knife tenderly against the man's dark belly. “Don't yell,” he said, and pulled the soggy gag out.

“Who the hell are—” Kaleb put the gag back over the man's mouth, but did not force it in.

“That's none of your concern, my friend. Now, here's the first question.” He dug the knife in a little. Blood trickled down Leth's belly. He sucked in his breath to escape the probing steel, and Paxe pulled down on his arms, forcing his back to arch upward. Kaleb lifted the knife. “Who paid you to put the kyomos into Vanesi's caravan?"

He lifted the gag. Leth said, in a choked voice, “I didn't, I didn't. You've got the wrong—"

“Person,” said Kaleb, clapping the gag back on. “You don't think I mean it. Hold him.” Lightly, he began to draw the knife along the man's muscular torso, from nipples to belly button, making one line, two, three—He stopped and reached into his pocket. He held up a bag. Paxe recognized it. It was the bag she kept salt in; Kaleb had taken it from her kitchen. She had not even seen him go there.

“Salt,” he said. He laid the knife down and began to open the bag, slowly, drawing it out. Paxe looked at Sereth. The younger guard was pale, his lips tight together. Leth was trying to writhe free again and she clamped down hard on his arms. The salt would hurt but it would not damage. She only hoped that he was not too high to feel it.

Kaleb had the bag open. Casually, he pinched salt between thumb and finger and dusted it over the wounds. Leth squealed, through the gag, and tried to break free, but Sereth and Paxe held him fast. Tears rolled from his eyes. Kaleb waited until the man stopped fighting, and lifted the gag. “Who paid you to put the kyomos into Vanesi's caravan?” he said.

“Minto,” said Leth. “The Lord Cha Minto."

“He's lying,” said Sereth instantly. “He went nowhere near the Minto house."

“I'm not lying, I swear it—” Leth's voice rose. Kaleb stuffed the gag in his mouth and leaned on it. With his left hand he rolled Leth's trouser waist down over the man's hips to just above the genitals.

He picked up the knife.

“Wait,” said Paxe. Leth had, indeed, a nice body; trim and tight and sleek as a wildcat's. “Lift the gag.” Kaleb obeyed. “Tell me,” Paxe said, “who handed you the money."

“Isak Med,” said Leth.

“Where?"

“At his house. But he told me it was Minto money, that he was just the paymaster."

“Do you believe him?” said Kaleb. “If not—” He lifted the knife.

“I swear it's true,” said Leth, and his voice broke. “Please—"

“Shut up,” said Paxe. There was no reason for him to be making it up. Of course, Isak might have told him to say it, if asked. It was just the sort of thing Isak would do.

“Make sure,” she said to Kaleb, and tightened her hold. Kaleb nodded, his face resolute. Paxe looked away; so did Sereth.

Nothing that followed was pleasant. But at last, Kaleb lifted the knife and said, “I think he's honest.” Through the gag, Leth sobbed, more in fear and humiliation than in pain. Kaleb drew the pants up over the cuts, trying not to scrape them. Leth had stuck to the story; that Isak Med had told him, casually, offhandedly, that he was paymaster for Cha Minto.

“One other thing,” said Paxe. Kaleb lifted the gag. Leth gazed at her with swollen eyes. “Where did you get the swords from?"

“They were delivered to us just outside Mahita. I put them in the boxes."

“How did you know where to get paid?"

“I got a message."

“Weren't you afraid of the Ban?” asked Paxe.

Leth shrugged, and winced. Paxe scowled, and he flinched away from her. “I thought—if the Minto house was bringing in the swords, it had to be all right,” he said timidly.

Kaleb snorted. “Did you think that before or after you got paid?"

Somewhere in the den a woman's voice sighed aloud, in fear or pleasure—it was impossible to say. Paxe felt lightheaded from the omnipresent smoke. Cha Minto, she thought, and Isak? She would not have thought Cha Minto capable of it—he had always seemed to her to be rather a simpleton—but if Isak had manipulated him into it—yes, she could believe it.

“Why did you agree to it?” she asked.

“For the money,” said Leth-no-Chayatha, his voice a shade puzzled.

Paxe sighed, and released her grip on his arms. “All right."

Sereth let go of Leth's feet. He sat up, moving with care, and lifted himself from the table to the mat. Absently, Kaleb moved back to give him room. “Can I go?” Leth said humbly, to the second.

Kaleb looked at Paxe. His knife was still in his hand. “May he?"

“Yes, let him go. Give him his shirt.” Sereth fished it from the floor and handed it to him. It was tattered, damp with saliva, and looked like a rag.

“Don't go shouting to the housetops that you were questioned at knifepoint about swords,” Paxe said, “or you may find yourself in a guardhouse. Until the Council says otherwise, bringing swords into the city is still unlawful. There'll be someone watching you until you leave. When are you going north?"

“After Festival,” said Leth.

“Make sure you do go,” said Paxe. She stared hard at him, and filled her voice with menace. “You got off very easily, you know. It could have been worse. It still can be, if you open your mouth."

Leth shivered. “I won't say anything."

“See that you don't. You sit here. We'll leave.” She rose. Sereth stood, stretching his cramped arms. Kaleb swept the bag of salt from the table, and standing, made his knife disappear.

They put their boots back on, and went to the front of the pipe den. Skandar came from a room. “How have you left him?” he whispered.

“Whole,” said Kaleb, “but shaken. Thanks, my friend. Your service won't be forgotten."

“No trouble.” He ushered them outside.

Paxe sighed as the cool, foggy air swirled round them. Her head ached; she told herself it was from the smoke in the pipe den. She clapped Kaleb on the shoulder.

“Thanks. I couldn't have done that,” she said.

Sereth shuddered. “Nor could I."

Kaleb shrugged with his hands. “Here.” He handed Paxe the bag of salt. She put it in her pocket. The wind swept from the south, sending leaves rustling and knocking unlatched window screens against their frames.

Sereth said, “Shall I find someone to watch him?"

Paxe smiled. “No. But let him think you have. You know where he lives; you might wander by it sometime when he's there, to let him see you. You were wise to come to me about it."

Sereth tried to hide his grin of delight. “Now where are we going?” he said.

“You are going to your beds,” said Paxe. “And I to work.” And in the morning, she thought, I will talk with Arré. They walked slowly east and north, three ghosts, appearing and vanishing in the mournful darkness.

Fourteen

“Cha Minto?” said Arré. “Are you sure?"

“I'm sure,” said Paxe.

They sat in the little parlor. Arré was waiting for Jenith, and for Morin, the tailor. In the early morning hours, the east wind had risen and blown across the city, sending the fog scudding west. The sun sat over an ocean sparkling like silver, and the sky was clear and blue and hot.

Arré had not been prepared for Paxe's tale, but the news that Cha Minto had paid for the smuggling of the swords into the city did not surprise her. “So that's what was wrong with him at the Council meeting.” She turned the bracelets on her left arm. “I don't suppose I want to know exactly how you obtained this information."

“No,” said Paxe, “you don't. But I guarantee you my informant believes it."

Arré wondered how Isak had enticed Cha Minto into this scheme. Were they lovers? she wondered. Somehow she did not think so. Her mouth was dry; she reached to the carafe of water that sat on the lacquer table and poured a second glass. Ever since her sickness, she had been taken, off and on, with a raging thirst.

Paxe's eyes followed her movements. “Arré, are you recovered?” she said.

“I seem to be,” said Arré. “I've had no wine since that night.” It was still difficult for her to believe that she'd slept for two days. “What are they saying in the city, now, about Ron Ismenin and the swords?"

“The news that the Ismenin Yard is teaching swordplay is all over the city."

“Are people connecting the Ismeninas with the smuggled swords?"

Paxe rubbed her chin. “Not yet. Oh, a few have. It's strange, Arré. Weapons just don't seem real to the city-born. They talk about them but they don't think about them."

“How are your soldiers reacting to the sword training?"

“They love it. But even they don't see swords as real, as tools that can maim or kill."

“I hope they never do,” Arré said softly.

Paxe said, “Do you think there's a chance of it?"

Arré sighed. “I told you once, I don't know what Ron Ismenin plans. Maybe you can find out. Ask your friend Dobrin."

She had meant it half seriously. But Paxe's eyes narrowed, and then she nodded. “I may,” she said.

Lalith tapped on the doorjamb. “Lady?"

“Yes, child, what is it?"

“Jenith is here to see you."

“Good.” Arré set the glass down on the table.

Paxe rose. “I'll leave you to talk.” She stretched her long arms above her head. “Guardian, I'm tired.” She strode out. She halted a moment in the corridor to talk to Jenith: Arré heard their voices, Paxe's deep, the stranger's higher but husky. Then Jenith came into the parlor. She was small and dark, with an attractive, weathered face and gold rings in both her ears.

“Lady.” She bowed, and looked about her with frank appreciation. “This is nice. I like the little lamps."

“Thank you,” said Arré, amused and charmed. The lamps were white porcelain, the finest made in all of Arun; on them an artist had painted grapes still on the vine, in tribute to that source of Med wealth. The colors were fresh and luminous. “So do I. Please sit.” She pointed to the stool.

Jenith sat. “Do you mind if I smoke?"

“No.” Arré watched, fascinated, as Jenith drew a pipe and a little kid pouch from a pocket in her robe. She filled the pipe from the pouch with a green herb, then drew tinder and flint from the same place, and lit the pipe.

“Ah.” She tipped her head back and opened her mouth. A ring of soft gray smoke floated toward the ceiling. “That's better."

Arré had never seen anyone blow smoke rings before. She watched, fascinated, as the gray rings floated from the woman's mouth and headed toward the ceiling. Before they got there, they dissipated, and Arré wondered what it would be like if they hung together; she imagined a ceiling lined with hovering gray rings.

“Want some?” said Jenith, waving the pipe at her.

“No, thank you,” said Arré. The scent of heavenweed filled the sunny chamber. “I'm sorry I was sick before, when you came."

“Ho, were you sick? They didn't tell me; they just said, come back. I would have come back the next day but that was the day the courier left town and of course I followed him."

“Left town,” said Arré. “Kim Batto left town?"

“No. But his messenger did.” Jenith pointed the stem of the pipe at Arré. “You know, Lady, your instructions weren't very good. Paxe said I was to follow Kim Batto, but you don't really want to know where Kim Batto goes every day, do you? Oh, I can tell you that. What you want to know is what he's doing."

Arré raised her eyebrows. “Go on,” she said.

“A moment. Excuse me.” Jenith took out a stick and poked at her pipe. She sucked it hard, until smoke came from the bowl in a thin steady stream.

“Anyway, I started by following Kim Batto, as I was told. First day last week I don't know what he did; I wasn't watching then; Paxe only came to see me that afternoon. Second day he went to the market and to the Tanjo. Third day he went to the baths, and then to the tailor, where he picked out fabric for some new clothes to wear to the Ismenin betrothal."

“How do you know what the clothes were for?” demanded Arré.

“I talked to the tailor. He's a neighbor of Shem, my second in the warehouse. He didn't know why I wanted to know."

“I see,” said Arré. “Go on."

“Fourth day—” Jenith paused to blow a fat smoke ring—"fourth day he spent the morning in his house. I talked to one of the kitchen boys and found out that he was writing, and swearing a lot. That afternoon a courier came to the house, not a messenger but a guard wearing riding clothes. I got curious. I found a friend and told him to stay at the house and watch what the Batto lord did, and then I followed the courier. He left the house with a bag under his arm, and went to the stables to rent a horse. I know someone in the Med district stable, so I borrowed a horse and followed. He took the river road. He put the bag and what was in it in his saddlebag, and whenever he stopped to eat, he took it with him, so I guessed it was important. He went to Mahita the first night, and I stayed in the inn with him, but he slept with the bag in his bed. In Warrintown and Elath, he did the same. In Elath, he talked to a girl at the Travelers’ Hall and told her he was going to Nuath.” She blew another smoke ring. Arré sat, entranced by the recital.

“On the road between Elath and Shonet, he got careless, or cocky. He left the bag in the stable when he went to an inn to eat. ‘Course, he didn't know I was there. He did the same thing that night. So I went into the stable with a big rolled-up kava leaf, the biggest I could find, tied with a bit of string, and I put it in the bag, and I took out what was there.” Reaching into her capacious robe, she withdrew a white scroll, sealed with the Batto crest, the running horse. “Then I rode as fast as I could back. It would have been impossible on the horse he was riding, but I was on an Asech horse, so it took me half the time to get back that it had taken him to go. Even if he discovered the leaf in the morning, he won't be back for two more days."

Arré took the scroll in both hands. “You astound me,” she managed.

Jenith smiled. “It was easy,” she said smugly. “The guard was a fool not to see me. I'd've seen me. But then, after he started smoking heavenweed on the road, he'd not have noticed a pig if it had crawled into his bed."

Arré opened the scroll.

She scanned it quickly, automatically translating its formal language in her mind. It was to the Lord Tarn i Nuath Ryth, of the town of Nuath. It confirmed an agreement between Tarn i Nuath Ryth and Kim Batto “in recognition of mutual interest” and contained vague allusions to grain prices which might be lowered in response to the rendering of service having to do with the Council of Houses of Kendra-on-the-Delta. What, she thought, was going on? She had expected Jenith to provide her with some evidence of the link between Ron Ismenin and the Tanjo, not evidence of what appeared to be a treaty between Kim Batto and some upriver, Blue Clan barbarian!

She re-read the scroll. It told her no more the second reading. She wondered what the “services” (carefully unspecified in the scroll) were going to be. There were not, she thought tartly, going to be any such services done. The making of treaties by individual houses (except in the traditional way, by marriage) with other houses or clans was strictly forbidden. She grinned at the thought of what Kim Batto would do when his courier returned to say he had gotten as far as Shonet—or Sharon, or even Nuath—when he noticed the scroll was missing.

Jenith said, “Was it something you wanted?"

Arré looked up. “It was certainly something I wanted,” she said. “I hadn't anticipated it, that's all, and I'm not sure what it is. I must owe you some money.” She went to her chest, hesitated, and then pulled out two tetras. She brought them to the small dark woman. “Is this sufficient?” she asked. “You must have had some traveling expenses."

“It covers them,” said Jenith. “I didn't have many; I borrowed a horse, and I slept in the stables.” She lifted her pipe from the lacquer table. “Do you want me to keep on at it, Lady?"

“I do,” said Arré. “At least for another four days, till the Ismenin betrothal."

Jenith's capable hands hid the coins amid her robes. Her hair was pitch-black and scented with jasmine, and she wore a copper talisman with the figure of an ox on it around her neck.

“Don't those rings hurt?” Arré said, gesturing to the gold rings in Jenith's ears.

“Naw,” said the Asech woman. “My aunt made the holes with a pin, when I was just a babe. My daughters have them, too."

“You have children?"

“Three of them; two girls and a son."

“How old are you?” Arré asked.

“Forty,” said Jenith. She smiled. “I've worked for the Med house since I was twelve; in the fields, in the winery, and now in the warehouse."

Forty, thought Arré. Jenith was only four years younger than she. “Thank you for your service to my house,” she said.

Jenith nodded. “You pay well. Good day to you, Lady.” She marched out.

Borrowed a horse and slept in the stables, Arré thought; I could not do that. I couldn't've done it twenty years ago. The knowledge left her somewhat bemused.

* * * *

That afternoon, Paxe went to talk to Dobrin.

She had planned to sleep until it was time for her to teach the first sword class. But she had not been able to sleep. At last, she had risen from her bed and opened the lid to the cedar chest.

She took the sword from it, and laid it to one side. Then she reached into the chest for the things she knew were there, though she had not seen them in sixteen years. She found the clove oil first; she unstoppered the bottle to smell the oil. It still smelled usable. The powder was in a little box with its brush. She took it out. Last, her fingers encountered the piece of faded red cloth that she had brought back with her from the Red Hills. She lifted it from the depths of the chest and laid it across her knees.

Tyré had worn it. Dying, he had taken it from his arm and put it in her hand: his shariza, emblem of the cheari, given to him fifty years before by Doménia. Paxe tried to tell him she had no right to it, but he had not listened.

She stroked it. It smelled of cedar. She had never worn it and she was not going to wear it now, but she had needed to look at it.

She fixed her eyes on the red stone image of the Guardian. But nothing happened, no sense of relief or surcease of worry. She told herself that it was only a statue, and that the chea did not always speak. Rising, she wound the sturdy length of cloth around the base of the statue. Then she returned to her place and cleaned the northern sword.

When she finished with it, she put it back in the chest and left the house. The Ismenin mansion sat in massive splendor on its hillside; she climbed to it, wondering as she passed the gate what it would be like to live in. Damp, probably.

She walked to the Yard. The Yard gate had been replaced. No longer was it of iron, with bars that could be seen between if there were not a guard in front of it. The new gate was of red cedar planks, with a heavy latch, and it stood taller than she, tall as the top of the fence. The guard in front of it (a different man than had been there before) saw her and stiffened to attention, his spear horizontal, barring the door.

“Tell your Yardmaster that Paxe-no-Tamaris is here, and would like to speak to him,” Paxe said.

He bowed. “If you will excuse me, Yardmaster—” Unlatching the heavy gate, he slipped within, holding it closed to prevent her from seeing anything. She listened to the cadence count floating over the walls until the guard came back. “The Yardmaster asks you to go around the Yard to his house."

“Thank you,” Paxe said. She went round the Yard; the count grew louder. ("One—and two—and three—and four!") The river gulls hooted over her head.

The door to the cottage was open. She went in. Dobrin sat cross-legged behind his table. A spray of yellow blossoms sat in a copper bowl on the table, and a second branch stood under the statue of the Guardian. Instead of fetuch, there were apple slices in a plain blue bowl.

Taking her boots off, Paxe set them in the alcove by the door and walked across the mats to the waiting cushion.

They ate the apple slices.

Dobrin said, “It's good to see you again."

Paxe said, “You know where I live."

“Yes.” He sounded apologetic. “I've been busy—and you're on night watch now, are you not? I don't want to interrupt your sleep."

Paxe smiled. “How goes your training?"

“Well,” said Dobrin, “and yours?"

She had assumed he knew. “Adequately,” she answered. “We've not had the sejis very long."

“Do you find the city-bred soldiers do worse or better at handling the blades?” he asked.

She scratched her chin. “About as well as the country-born—except that they forget to treat the wood as if it were steel. They don't think of them as swords; they think of them as sticks."

“Yes,” said Dobrin, “I noticed that, too."

Paxe said, “Where did you get your weapons training, Dobrin?"

“From a woman named Sithi, in the Galbareth. She was quite old. She had trained with a chearas for a while, before the Ban, but did not herself have the shariza. Why?"

Paxe touched the soft yellow petals with one finger. They were butterweed blossoms; they grew all over the delta, and had almost no fragrance. “I've been thinking,” she said, “about what you said to me of the witchfolk, and about other things.... Dobrin, do you trust Ron Ismenin?"

Stiffly, he said, “I don't know what you mean."

Paxe scowled. “Dammit, man, don't play the fool with me. We are colleagues, if not friends. You know what the Ismeninas have been doing; smuggling edged weapons in through the Gates. Where are they, in your weapons shed? Hidden in the house somewhere?” She discovered, to her astonishment, a great desire to shout at him. With effort, she kept her voice down. “What is Ron Ismenin planning to do with those blades?"

To her amazement, Dobrin smiled. He said, “I understand your suspicion, Paxe. But you are wrong."

“About what am I wrong?"

“It is true, the swords are here. But their smuggling was not arranged by the Ismeninas. Ron Ismenin has sworn it to me, and I believe him. It was another man's idea."

Isak's? thought Paxe. Cha Minto's? “Whose?” she asked.

“I don't know."

“What does Ron plan to do with them, now that he has them?"

“Nothing,” said Dobrin. He held up a hand. “Nothing, until the Council meets after Festival. At that time, he tells me, he will approach the Council to suggest that short swords be once again permitted in the city, to the guard only, of course."

“And the White Clan?” Paxe said. “How do they come into this?"

Dobrin looked surprised. “In no way. The Ismenin house has no dealings with the Tanjo. My lord feels as I do about the witchfolk. He reverences the chea, but neither consults nor trusts the witches."

I rather doubt, Paxe thought, that Ron Ismenin has reverence for anything but his own wants. “What if you are wrong?” she said, leaning forward, and found that her voice was shaking.

Dobrin said gently, “But I am not wrong, Paxe.” He laid both hands flat on the table. “I know the Ismeninas. I have served them for years, I was Colin Ismenin's Yardmaster, and I even knew old Rath Ismenin those few years before he died. The Ismeninas have always looked to what will serve the city."

“And themselves,” said Paxe.

“Is the Med house any different? Do you think Arré Med does anything without first considering the interests of her house?"

It was a fair question. “No,” said Paxe.

Dobrin nodded. “Believe me,” he said earnestly. “If I thought Ron Ismenin was doing aught to harm the city, I would not remain his Yardmaster. On my skill as a swordsman, I swear it."

There was little more Paxe could say. “May you never have cause to regret your oath,” she said.

“You will see,” said Dobrin, “that my trust is not misplaced."

* * * *

“Loose!” said Kadra.

Sorren let go of the bowstring. The arrow wobbled off the bow, skidded toward the target, and careened into a thornbush, leaving a gouge on the ground.

“Again,” said Kadra. “Nock.” Sorren lowered the bow to her waist, and, turning it horizontal, laid an arrow on the string. Her left arm ached, and she wanted to rub it. But the ache, Kadra said, meant that she was holding the bow too tightly, not that she was tired. Carefully, she relaxed her tense grip on the bow.

“Aim.” Lifting the bow, she drew back the string, bending her elbow as Kadra had showed her, until the string touched the middle of her chin. She looked at the target, trying to find its middle. It was hard to see the middle of a hay bale.

“Loose.” She opened her fingers. This time the arrow hit the edge of the target, stuck a moment, and then bounced off, to lie in the ground beside the tied bales. Sorren glanced at the dirt beside her right leg. She had four more arrows.

“Nock,” said Kadra. “You're doing well. Aim. Don't look at the arrow, look at the target. It doesn't move. Keep your shoulders down. Loose."

They were in a paddock in the Batto district, streets and streets away from Plum Street. Horses and mules grazed in a pasture behind them. Blue flies buzzed frantically around the animals, the hay bales, and them; the ground was covered with old and new dung balls. It was hot, and Sorren wondered irritably how long they had been there. It felt like forever, though it was probably no more than an hour or two.

Tammo slouched up behind her; she did not turn around, but she could hear him and smell him. He shuffled, as if his feet were too heavy to lift off the ground. He asked Kadra a question in a whining voice, and she said something to him gently. Tammo was simple; his task was to keep the pastures free of dung pats, a never-ending task which he did not seem to mind, though it would drive a child crazy. But Tammo was not a child; he was grown, with heavy muscular arms and straight black hair that fell in tangles over his brawny shoulders.

He was fascinated by Sorren, by her fair hair and skin. When Kadra first brought her to the paddock, he had reached out to stroke her. She stepped back in alarm. “Let him,” the ghya said, “he won't hurt you. He's just curious.” So Sorren stood still while Tammo ran his fingers through her hair as though she were a horse. But after that he had, indeed, let her alone.

“Nock,” said Kadra. Sorren reached for one of her remaining arrows. Sweat stung her eyes. She took her hand from the arrow and wiped them. Archers had to see. She took the arrow up again, being careful not to crush the feathers. “Aim. Loose.” This time the arrow flew right to the target and stuck there, quivering. “Good!” said Kadra, and Tammo let out a funny high-pitched crow.

Sorren flexed her fingers around the bow's center. The bow was made of wood and horn; it came up to her breasts when she put one end of it on the ground, and its tips were curved like wings. It was not hard to pull; Kadra said it was too light for her, in fact, but that it was better for her to have a light bow than one whose pull was too strong for her. The arrows were cedarwood, fletched with gray turkey feathers. The bowstring was silk. “Nock,” said Kadra. She had been standing just behind Sorren's left shoulder the entire time. “Aim. Don't squeeze your fingers together. Loose."

There was one more arrow sticking in the ground. Sorren sighed and reached for it. It had a blunt point, which meant that it was not an edged weapon, but when she thought about the fact that she was using a bow within the city walls, her heart began to pound. “Nock,” said Kadra. Blunt points, she had said, were better for small animals than real arrowheads, because they stunned, so that the animal fell over. (Of course, that meant you had to sometimes kill it after you found it. Sorren didn't like to consider that. She disliked the smell of blood.) “Aim. Loose.” The arrow flew true to the target and stuck there. Sorren grinned.

“Unstring your bow,” said Kadra. Sorren stopped grinning. This was hard, even though she had been shown how to do it, and had done it twenty times. Bracing the bow against her foot arch, she held the bow steady with her right hand and flexed the bow away from her with her left, sliding the bowstring out of the groove. If she did it wrong, the bow would pop back and hit her. It came out easily. She laid the bow down. The inside of her left arm, below the elbow, stung, despite the cloth Kadra had told her to wrap around it, and the fingers of her right hand below the first knuckle were scraped and sore.

“Here,” said Kadra, holding out her silver flask. Sorren took it and tipped it to her lips. The strong wine made her choke. She took one small sip and handed the flask back; Kadra drank it down as if it were water. “Guardian, that's good,” she said. “Go get your arrows."

There were seven arrows in the target—one in the center—six on the ground in front of the target, and two in the thornbush. Sorren found a long stick and dragged them out. Her shoulders ached, and she worked them up and down as she had seen Paxe do after training. She wished she'd worn sandals to the field; not because of the thorns but because of the horseshit that lay everywhere.

She brought the arrows to Kadra. The ghya looked them over carefully, inspecting them for cracks. She found none. She offered Sorren the flask again. “No, thank you,” Sorren said. Kadra drank. The sun glittered on the silver surface. “Where did you get it?” she said. “It's beautiful."

“It was a gift from a house whose messages I carried in Tezera.” Kadra coughed, and put the flask away. She was not wearing her cloak, and the shape of her breasts showed clearly under her thin linen shirt.

“Shall I set the arrows up again?” Sorren asked.

“No,” said Kadra, “that's enough for today. How do you feel?"

“My back hurts."

“You're using new muscles. Don't let it trouble you. You're very good with that bow, you know that?” The ghya smiled, a real smile, without the sardonic glint that Sorren had come to expect. “It must be the northern blood in you."

“Thank you,” Sorren said.

She picked up the bow. Her arms were red; the sun had burned them. They would be painful tonight. She would have to brew some tea for compresses. A fly lit on her knee and she swatted it away.

Kadra said, “I still think you ought to have a knife."

“I don't want a knife,” said Sorren.

“I'm not talking about a weapon! Guardian, girl, you can't travel without a knife. What are you going to gut fish with, your teeth? And an axe wouldn't hurt either. You'll need it when you have to build a fire."

Sorren said, “I'll think about it. I'm not leaving for another year.” She held up the bow. “What shall I do with this?"

“Leave it here. Tammo knows where to hide it. Next week, we'll come and shoot some more.” Tammo heard his name and shuffled over. Kadra said, “Tammo, put the bow and arrows away where no one can find them, all right?"

“Aaah, aah,” he said, waving his hands toward the barn.

“Yes, good. We'll come back.” Kadra patted his shoulder. “You've been very helpful, Tammo, very good."

“Aaah!” He beamed, and did a strange, antic dance. “Aaah!"

They left the pasture with Tammo looking after them and waving his arms. “Who is he?” Sorren asked.

Kadra laughed. “He's my brother. My mother was unlucky in her children. She bore two freaks and that was enough. The next time she got pregnant she took a potion.” She laughed again. “How do you like archery?"

Sorren shrugged. “I like it, I guess."

“Shooting a hay bale is easy. Next time, I'll bring a target that moves, so you can see what it feels like to aim at something that isn't standing still."

“A live thing?"

“No. You'll see. But you'll have to shoot live things eventually, Sorren."

“I'd rather set traps."

“Traps don't always work. Believe me, I know.” They came to the alley leading to the street. Garbage was piled at one end of it; corncobs and kava rind and pottery shards. At the entrance to the street, Kadra stopped, swaying, her face suddenly losing color. Thrusting a hand out, she leaned against the brick wall.

“What is it?” asked Sorren, alarmed. “Can I help?"

“Don't crowd me,” snarled the ghya, and Sorren stepped back. Kadra continued to breathe deeply. Finally she straightened, and took her braced hand off the wall.

“I don't like to be touched,” she said.

Sorren put her hands behind her back. “Sorry."

“I know,” said the ghya, “you were trying to help. I don't want help."

Two women walking arm in arm passed them, and the nearest wrinkled her nose and said something in an undertone to her friend.

Sorren gazed at her muck-coated feet. “I can't go back to the house like this,” she said. “Is there a bathhouse near?"

“Down this street and turn left."

“Will you come with me?"

“I'll walk you there,” said the ghya, “but I won't come in. I bathe in private.” Where, her tone implied, no one but me can see.

Sorren wondered what Kadra would do if they—whoever “they” were—did not take her on the ship. The ghya's drinking (and her manners) were surely enough to keep her off. Twice the ghya stopped and held on to the nearest wall, right arm over her stomach as if she had cramps, and Sorren wondered what she would do if she collapsed. But each time she straightened. They reached the red brick archway leading into the bathhouse. A statue of the Guardian sat just outside the entrance. Under the statue was a heavy, long-necked jar into which bath patrons were expected to put money.

Sorren bowed to the statue. Kadra did not.

Sorren wondered if she really had time to bathe. She had the feeling—it was probably silly—that Arré had begun to watch her, to notice when she left the house and what time she came back. But this morning Arré was busy with the tailor. Glancing at Kadra, she worked a wishbone off her string and dropped it into the jar's wide mouth. “You should come with me,” she said.

“Why?” the ghya flared, suddenly, brutally. “So you can see what's really under the clothes? Thank you, no.” She turned and walked away before Sorren had a chance to say, no, I didn't mean that—oh, damn, Sorren thought. She started to run after Kadra, and then stopped. The ghya would probably just tell her to go away. She would wait a week. Perhaps in a week Kadra would have had time to cool off.

Every district of the city had a public bath. They had been built by the city after the plague years. They were paid for by tax money. The first room of every bathhouse was the changing room. It was a small room, usually lighted by a skylight, and lined with shelves. An attendant sat in it, ostensibly to guard people's belongings and give out balls of soap, but really to make sure that no one who shouldn't entered the baths. Some people were not permitted in the public baths: women during their blood-time, people with rashes or skin eruptions, and anyone with an open wound.

Sorren had just finished her blood-time. She went blithely into the changing room. The attendant at the Batto baths that day was an old woman, bent over and nearly bald. One of her shoulders was higher than the other.

“Want a robe, my sweet?” She pointed to the racks of cotton bathrobes, all in bright designs.

“No, thank you,” said Sorren, peeling off her pants and shirt and bundling them into a cubbyhole. She put the money string and her bondservant's bracelet on top of them.

The attendant looked at her with lascivious appreciation as she freed her hair. “Ah, you're lovely,” she said. Her nose wrinkled. “What's that smell?"

Sorren glanced at the mud caked on her legs. “Shit,” she said. “I was in a pasture."

The attendant clucked between her teeth. “That'll have to be all washed up, ugh.” She pressed a ball of soap into Sorren's palm. Sorren sniffed it; it was scented with mint. “Go right in, dearie. Hot room to the right, fountains and warm pool to the left, cold pool in the back."

The corridor to the bath chambers was tiled in white and yellow tiles. At the end of the hall, Sorren turned left, to the fountains. There were two of them, with water that ran continually from a pipe in the ceiling into the bowls of the fountains and over them onto the grated floor. The water came from the river, and was heated as it passed the furnace. There were wooden benches around the fountains for people to sit on as they washed. Three women sat there now, talking with great gestures to one another. Sponges littered the floor; by the near fountain, an old man solemnly washed his toes. A little girl, pert as a chipmunk, played beneath the second fountain's spill.

Sorren picked up a sponge. Standing beside the fountain, she cleaned herself with the sponge and water to get off the surface dirt, and then soaped her whole body, starting with the pubic hair.

Her left arm and her right hand stung with the soap, but the sponge felt good, like a big friendly hand moving over her flesh. When she was all clean, she went to the warm pool. It was right beside the wash-room. People came to the warm pool to sit, to relax and soak and talk with their friends. The cold pool, beyond it, could be entered from both the warm pool and the hot room. The hot room was heated by hot stones. It, too, had benches to sit on. The benches were set up in terraced rows; the lower benches were cooler, and it was customary for people to sit first on the lower benches and work their way up to the hot ones. Sorren glanced at her reddened arms. She liked the hot room, but the heat would sting her sunburn.

She slid into the water of the warm pool, and her hair billowed out like kelp. Arching her back, letting her nipples poke above the water. She wondered idly what Kadra really looked like. It could not be anything too strange. How could anyone have a cock and balls and woman's parts?

After the wonderful feel of the bath, her clothes felt dirty and smelly and sticky. Gritting her teeth, she dressed in them anyway. She left her hair unbound, so that it could dry as she walked. She counted the bontas on the money string; they were all there.

The attendant saw her counting, and bridled. “Think I'm a thief?” she said.

“No, mother, but your back might have been turned for a moment."

“Mother?” The oldster showed her few remaining teeth. “I'm not your mother, dearie, not with that white skin and bright hair.” She brandished her thin black arms. “Besides, I'm too old, or you're too young. Grandmother, maybe. You look like a lady I knew, a long time ago, in the Galbareth. Ah, now, she was a pretty one."

* * * *

Refreshed, Sorren ducked through the archway and came out upon the street. The sun fell full upon her head, and she ran her fingers through her hair, separating the strands. Squinting, she hoped that Arré was still occupied with the tailor. She strolled north, searching for a street that ran from the Batto district to the Med district, and found one: the Street of the Tortoise.

She began to sing, very softly. "Where did they go, the ones who were chosen? Where did they ride, the dancers so strong? With their long blades sharp, and their long hair flowing. Where did they go, what is their song."

From somewhere in front of her came a cadenced chant. “Ho—ho, and—ho—ho, and—ho—” It was not a litter-bearers’ chant. Ahead of her, people were backing up against shop windows and entrances, the way they did for caravans. Sorren stepped back, and someone's elbow pressed into her stomach. People shouted from up ahead. A hot wind seemed to blow down the suddenly frozen street, and a horse whinnied, a musical sound like the challenge of a horn.

Like an apparition out of the past, soldiers came down the street. They wore leather and steel, and carried tall pikes on their shoulders. Their faces were obscured by helmets with tall gold plumes upon them. The chant came from them; they marched in time to it, in four straight columns, their arms swinging, their booted feet lifting to the chant. In their midst rode a man on a black horse, and he too wore armor. On his lap he held a naked sword blade. Empty scabbards swung at the marching soldiers’ sides.

They went down the Street of the Tortoise toward the middle of the Batto district. As they vanished, the astounded watchers poured into the streets. “They're from Tezera!” cried one woman, pounding her fist on a gatepost. Others insisted the soldiers were from Shanan or Mahita or Shirasai.

Sorren went home. As she passed the Northwest Gate, she saw a huge crowd gathered round it, and the folk from the public stables leading riderless horses. The horses’ harnesses were richly decorated with feathers and silver clasps. By the time she reached the Med gate, the news had raced ahead of her. “Heard about the soldiers?” said the dung collector by his cart.

Sorren shouted as she turned into the gate, “I saw them!” She wondered if they were really from Tezera. They seemed like beings out of the past, not chearis but like chearis. She felt that she had conjured them up with the words of her song.

She went breathless into the little parlor, and stopped short. Paxe was there. Arré looked at Sorren, and her mouth quirked. “You saw the soldiers,” she said. “I can tell by the shine in your eyes.” She turned back to Paxe. “Go on."

“They're from Nuath,” said the black woman. “The Lord Tarn i Nuath Ryth brought them with him; they're his escort, he says, to the betrothal of his daughter. Kim Batto met him at the Northwest Gate."

“The Lord Tarn i Nuath Ryth!” Arré sounded half amused, half angry. “The effrontery of the man! And he has it wrong, it ought to be Tarn-no-something Ryth i Nuath. What was his mother's name, I wonder, and why does he discard it? How many soldiers did he have with him?"

“Forty,” said Paxe. Her clothes were wrinkled, and Sorren guessed that she had been asleep when the messenger from the Gate had come to find her. “They gave up their horses and their swords at the Gate. He insisted on retaining his. He said—not to me, I was not there, but to my day watch commander—‘I will sit outside the city wall, I and all my soldiers, and no one will get in or out this Gate until I am permitted to enter the city on horseback, with my sword.’”

Arré snorted. “He would have held up traffic as far north as Nuath!"

“That is why Ivor finally decided to let him in."

“Oh, it was the right decision. Kim Batto met him?” She grinned her urchin grin. “I wish I'd been there to see it. How was it explained? It should have been Ron Ismenin."

“Ron Ismenin was delayed,” said Paxe. “He sent a message. As I was leaving, Col Ismenin arrived, so everything was proper. Tarn i Nuath Ryth is staying at the Batto house; it has more room than the Ismenin house. That's probably true; the Ismeninas have a houseful of their Blue Clan relatives."

“And the woman for whom all this has happened, where is she?"

“When I left the Gate, her litter was just entering."

Arré looked at Sorren. “What did you think of them?” she said.

Sorren cast about for an answer. All she could think of was the way they looked. “They had gold feathers on their helmets, and tall boots, up to the knee."

Arré said sarcastically, “They must have been hot, riding through the valley. Well, this is all very interesting. Tomorrow at the Ismenin house should be even more exciting. Double the watch on the Batto border,” she said to Paxe, “until these folk have gone back to where they came from."

Paxe nodded, and left.

Arré said, “Did you get caught in the crowd? Is that where you've been?"

“Yes,” said Sorren. “Did you get your clothes?"

“The tailor will bring them back this evening.” Arré tilted her head to one side. Sorren tensed. “There is something on your bed for you, go look at it."

Sorren went upstairs. In the doorway of her room, she halted, gaping. A silk tunic and matching pants lay spread across the coverlet. They were blue, with scarlet braid on the cuffs and collar. She knelt and ran a hand over the fabric. It was heavy silk, twice as fine as anything she had ever owned. The sleeves were wide and full, like the mouths of bells, but they stopped at the elbow. She rubbed the cloth on her cheek, loving the feel of it. She held the tunic up to her chest.

She ran downstairs again. Arré was sitting in her chair. “Do you like it?” she said, smiling. “There's this, too.” She held out her hand; in it was a thing that glittered. Sorren took it. It was a comb, the kind that Isak sometimes wore when he performed. It was red, with lapis lazuli inlay.

“It's beautiful.” Sorren knelt by the chair, holding the comb in both hands. She could not even guess what comb and clothes were worth. “They're too fine for me."

“Don't be silly,” said Arré, “You will look splendid in them, and why should you not have expensive clothes for such an occasion?"

“What are you wearing?"

“A gown. You will see it tonight.” She stroked Sorren's hair. “You smell of mint."

“I was at the baths."

“I see,” said Arré. She rubbed her chin. “I don't want to know what your secret is, child. But—do you have another lover?"

“Another—” Sorren wanted to laugh. Was this why Arré had been watching her? “Oh, no. Nothing like that."

“Good. Paxe would mind, I think, though she might not say so. She has lost a son; it would trouble her to lose you, too."

“But Ricard wrote to her,” Sorren said, “and I'm not going anywhere.” Yet, she thought, thinking of Kadra and the bow and the map ... yet.

“Are you all well?” she asked.

“Never better,” Arré answered. “I must simply remember not to drink at the party."

Fifteen

The Ismenin house was even grander than the Hok house.

The walkway to the front gate of the big white house was lined with kava fruit trees. As Sorren came up the path, with her drums under one arm and her fine new clothes in the other, a butterfly spiraled from a tree branch to cling, for a moment, to her hair. She shook it gently off. The air was filled with kava scent and cooking smells, as the Ismenin kitchens prepared for the party. The guard at the iron fence surrounding the courtyard had, flatteringly, recognized Sorren and let her through, with the instruction that she should go around to the side entrance. But it was obvious that the guard at the steps did not know her. He glared at her suspiciously as she approached him.

“I'm drumming at the party,” she said, showing her drums.

He jerked his thumb at a path that headed off at an angle from the courtyard. “Kitchen door.” He was wearing armor: a helmet, a leather and metal breastplate, and his sandal straps were wide and studded on the outside with metal. He looked very uncomfortable.

The kitchen at the Ismenin house was not much different than at the Med house, only bigger. The chief cook was a thin dark woman. Almost as tall as Sorren, darker even than Paxe, she spoke in choppy ferocious sentences to the six or seven assistants and apprentices who whirled about her. Slabs of raw fish sat on the boards, their odor overwhelming any other smells.

It was the chief cook who noticed Sorren first. “Yes?” she said.

“I'm drumming at the party,” Sorren said. “The guard told me to come here."

The cook raised her voice. “Tokki!"

“Yo!” called a voice outside the kitchen, and a second person entered the kitchen. Sorren blinked. This person was tall and thin and black-skinned—and a man, she realized, staring at Tokki's hips and hands and at his dark brown curly beard.

He beckoned to her. “Are you going to stand there forever, girl? Come on.” Sorren picked her way across the kitchen to him, feeling hostile. She hated being called girl. As she reached him, he said, “What's your name?"

“Sorren."

“Sorren. Well, you can stop wondering. We're twins, Tekka and I. She's cook and I'm steward. You're Isak Med's drummer, aren't you? He said you'd be here early.” He was hurrying her quickly down a hallway; he took even longer steps then she did, and it was a new sensation to have to lengthen and not shorten her steps to someone else's. “Whoa, stop.” She had started to outpace him. “Put your sandals here."

“Here” was a big alcove, almost a room, off the corridor. Sorren slipped off her sandals and put them on a shelf, wondering if she was going to have to go barefoot through the house. So far she had seen no mats on the stone floor.

Tokki pointed to a box. “There are shoes in there. Find a pair that fits you."

Sorren looked into the box: it was filled with all sizes of shoes. Each pair was tied together by a ribbon. They all looked alike: yellow and gray, the Ismenin colors. She hunted for a pair her size, found one that looked right, tried them on, wiggled her toes.... “These'll do,” she said.

Tokki pulled up his pants legs to show her that he, too, was wearing them. “Guests get them, too.” Taking her elbow, he guided her into another hallway. This was carpeted, with thick wool carpet in a bright geometric pattern in red and black. It matched the corridor's wall hangings. Tokki opened a door. All the doors in the house seemed to be wood, not screen, so that you had to pull them open and push them closed. “You can change here. The grand parlor is that way, that's where all the guests will come. The piss-room is that way—” He pointed to a door on the far side of the room. “I'll come warn you when the entertainment is about to start. Don't worry, you're not first. Are you hungry?” Sorren nodded. “You'll get food. Don't wander around; you're sure to get lost. This house is very confusing.” He smiled at her, showing white teeth, and left. The room was as big as the little parlor in the Med house. The walls were stone, the floor was stone, even the ceilings were stone. The floor had a tan rug on it, and the walls were obscured by thick tan hangings.

There was a long, low, cushioned seat against one wall. Sorren sat on it, wondering if she was to spend the whole of the party, when she was not drumming, locked in this room. She kicked the divan with her heel. It would be very dull. She wondered how many people there were in the house. The Ismenin family was large, and like the Hok family, they all lived together, but unlike in the Hok house, she did not feel welcome, or warm, or like anything but a servant. She listened, but the stone walls and the fabric that covered them muffled most sounds. A wagon could be going past the door this instant, she thought, I wouldn't know. What if Tornor was like this, she thought, all isolated and quiet and cold.

At that moment, the door opened and Jeshim pranced in.

He carried a long box in his arms, and a shapeless bag dangled over his back. He swept across the room and plumped the box down on the seat beside her. “Sorren, my lovely girl, how are you? Isn't this a marvel? And I owe it all to you.” He swept her a bow. “Thanks. How do I look?"

He was dressed in a long red and orange gown with bright blue splotches on it. The red and brown matched his beard.

“You're noticeable,” she said.

“I think so.” He opened the box. In it were his knives. They gleamed against the dark felt that lined the box. He drew a finger lovingly along one bright blade. “Oh, you beauties. Aren't they pretty?"

Sorren did not think they were pretty. “What's in the bag?” she asked.

He hauled it to the seat of the divan. Undoing the neck, he held it out to her. “My juggling balls.” She glanced inside. There were close to twenty balls in the bag.

“Can you juggle that many?"

“No. But I always bring extras. I'm a professional, whatever I do.” He let his left eyelid descend in a slow wink. “Remember that."

“What's the rest of the entertainment? Do you know?"

“A mime. You remember Saëdi? He was at last year's Harvest Festival. Three musicians. Me, then a break, then you and Isak Med."

“What musicians?"

“I don't remember.” He sat on the divan and put his arm around her shoulders. His beard tickled her chin. He smelled of heavenweed. “Want to smoke?"

“No.” She stood up. “And I don't want you to keep touching me, Jeshim. I don't like it."

He shrugged. “I was only trying to be friendly.” He smiled slyly at her. “How do you like Kadra? Tell me, what's he look like stripped? I never saw him without that cloak."

She stared at him, astonished and angry. “What do you mean?"

“Oh, come on, honey,” he said, looking up at her with a leer. “You've been seeing him; half the city knows it. What's it like, fucking a ghya?"

Cold bumps rippled over Sorren's arms. “I'm not,” she said.

Jeshim took a knife from the open box and dug at a callus on his palm. “Anything you say. I was just asking."

She snatched the knife from his hand. “You listen to me,” she said, holding the knife low and flat, the way she had seen Paxe hold a niji. “Maybe you don't have friends, so you don't understand that you can like a person and not go to bed. But Kadra and I are friends, and I don't want to hear any more talk like that."

She was shaking, she was so angry. Jeshim didn't move for a moment. Then he extended his palm to her. “Sorren, give me that knife,” he said softly.

She wrapped her fingers around it more firmly. It was tiny, smaller than a kitchen cleaver, and not frightening at all. “Are you going to leave me alone?"

“Give me the knife. Or I'll hurt you."

“You won't,” she said.

“Don't try me.” She felt him tensing to strike at her and stepped back, out of range. Suddenly, a hand dug into her shoulder, stopping her retreat and making her gasp with pain.

“That will do,” said a voice—Isak's voice. He took his hand from her shoulder and walked into the space between her and Jeshim. “I don't care what started it, but it stops now. Sorren—” he fixed his dark eyes on her—"put that knife down on the floor. Now."

She knelt, and laid the knife down at arm's length. He knelt and picked it up, and gave it to Jeshim. “Juggler, put that box away."

The room seemed smaller with him in it. Sorren stood up, rubbing her shoulder.

Isak smiled amiably at her. “Well, how are you, child?"

She wondered if he had forgotten what he'd said to her last time they met. “I'm all right."

He gestured at Jeshim, and his tone grew teasing. “I thought you were friends. Friends don't fight, do they? You looked as if you were ready to cut his throat."

“I just want him to keep his hands off me,” Sorren said.

“Juggler, keep your hands off her. And your tongue. My bag's in the hallway; get it.” Jeshim, chastened and silent, went to do as he was told.

Isak sat on the divan, pushing aside the knife-filled box. “How is my dear sister?” he said, tilting his head to one side. He was dressed in walking clothes, but his hair was coiled on top of his head, pomaded and scented, so that he smelled like a garden.

Arré had said, that morning, “You may tell Isak anything he likes, except that I am coming to this party. If he asks you that, lie."

“She's better,” Sorren said.

“I hear she was sick. I'm so sorry. I would have come to visit, but sick people are so easily exhausted.” He saw her drums, and found the clothing lying beside them. “What's this? New clothes?"

“Yes. Arré got them for me."

He held them up. “Very nice."

Jeshim struggled in from the corridor with a huge bag in both arms. “Guardian, what's in it?” he said.

“Costumes,” said Isak. He undid the lacing and took out the Stallion's straw prick.

Jeshim chuckled and took it up.

He pretended to tie it around his thighs. “Wouldn't mind one of those.” His mouth curved lewdly. “Got any more?"

“No,” said Isak.

His tone was chilling. Jeshim dropped the prick beside the bag and scooped up his own bag from the floor. “Excuse me,” he said.

Isak smiled. He looked again at Sorren. “So my dear sister sent you here all prepared. How sweet. Was she sick?"

“Yes,” said Sorren. She worked her fingers; the anger had drained from her, but it had left her tense and sticky beneath her clothes.

Isak opened the bag again, and took out his face paints. He had several different kinds of paint in little enameled boxes. “With what?” he said.

Sorren tapped her fingers up and down her thighs. “She drank too much."

Isak's mouth quirked. He took out the brushes he used to paint his face and smoothed their glossy tips. “It's ironic, isn't it? The Med fortune was and continues to be made by our vineyards and our wineries, and my dear sister can't drink the stuff."

Suddenly, the door to the room opened, and people poured in. A gray-and-yellow-clad servant carried in a platter of food. Saëdi the mime walked in, and his narrow brown face turned with an artist's interest from Isak (to whom he bowed) to Jeshim to Sorren. Three women in silver robes carrying long wooden flutes came in and instantly sat in a corner and began to play, trills and runs and bits and pieces of street tunes. Sorren's stomach rumbled. She went to the tray, which sat on the floor, and picked over the cheese and fruits and little sausages until she found the noodle pies.

She ate six of these. When she looked up from the tray, Isak was watching her. He had a brush in his hand and a brass mirror on his knees.

She blushed for her gluttony. “My lord, do you want some?"

“No. I ate.” He beckoned. “Come here."

She crossed to his side. He pulled her face nearer to his. “Hold still. Close your mouth.” She put her lips together and in a moment felt the light shivery kiss of the brush on her face. It skirted her eyes, and then withdrew. “Look.” Isak turned the mirror so that she could see. She found herself regarding—herself, yes, but a self with thick black eyebrows and languorous eyes. She put up a hand to touch the strange black lines and he pushed her hand away.

“Leave it; it looks good. You can take it off after you've drummed.” He cocked his head. “The guests must be arriving. Hurry up, dress, child. There will be a little food, then entertainment, then more food, and then the ceremony."

Sorren listened, and heard the soft din of people all talking at once in a large room. “Aren't you going?” she asked.

Isak shook his head. “After the performance, never before; it spoils the mood.” He began to strip. Sorren pulled her shirt over her head. Somehow, in the week and a half since she had last seen him, her hatred of him had vanished, to be replaced by the odd camaraderie that, mixed with respect and a little fear, she had always felt. She watched him dress in Peacock's harness and feathers, admiring the way his muscles twisted under his skin, the grace of his lithe torso.... Across the room, Saëdi was staring too.

Suddenly, a sound split the air, silencing the musicians and freezing everyone in the room into immobility, even Isak. One of the musicians dropped her flute. It was a horn blast, like the sound of the ships’ conches in fog, but louder, and much wilder.

“What the fuck—” said Jeshim.

Isak laughed, and picked up the little mirror which had slid from his knees. “That,” he said dryly, “is Tarn Ryth."

“The man with the soldiers,” said Sorren.

“The man with the soldiers,” agreed Isak. “Did you see them march into town yesterday? What did you think?"

Sorren smoothed the silk on her lap, remembering her own reactions upon seeing the soldiers. She had thought of the chearis. But now, after seeing the house guard close up, in that ridiculous armor, she thought, the chearis were not like that. Isak is more like a real cheari than that man on the horse.

“I think they're silly,” she said.

Isak chuckled. “So do I,” he answered, setting the feathered crown of the Peacock on his head.

The door opened. Cha Minto walked in. “Isak!” His voice was high and strange. “She's here! She came!"

“What are you talking about?” said Isak, lowering the brush with which he was painting long thick eyebrows on his forehead.

Cha Minto—he looked very fine, in pale green silk—said, “Your sister is at the door."

Isak paled.

The color flowed out of his face and into his hands, which had locked together on the mirror. He squeezed it as if he wanted to break it.... When he spoke his voice was icy. “What did Ron do?"

“He's letting her in, of course. What else can he do?"

“Nothing,” said Isak. His color was coming back, a little at a time. “Nothing. All right. Go be pleasant. No,” he said sharply, as the other man started to speak, “I can't come, look at how I'm dressed! Go."

Cha Minto went. Isak looked at Sorren. She swallowed. Her hands were cold. There was no warmth in his eyes; no feeling, none of the humor they had just shared.... She fumbled with the tunic and at last got it over her head. As it slid to her shoulders, Isak said softly, “You knew she was coming."

Sorren nodded. Her mouth was dry as caked mud.

“Would you have told me if I asked you?” he said.

She licked her lips, discovered that she couldn't speak, and shook her head. In his corner, Jeshim dropped a ball. It bounced over her foot.

Isak nodded, once. “Put your pants on,” he said, and rose, a jeweled and splendid fantasy, the image of an avian prince.

* * * *

Arré Med was having a good time.

The look on Cha Minto's face—and his immediate departure for the interior of the house—and the look on Ron Ismenin's, when he realized that, under no circumstances, could he find any excuse at all for having her kept out—were balm to her soul. She accepted Ron Ismenin's stuttering greeting with a smile, and then stood back to let Marti Hok (older than she, infirm, and eldest of the Council) enter the mansion. The guard at the front door, with his armor and the beads of sweat dotting his brow, amused her. Cha Minto amused her. The blank looks on the faces of the more sensitive guests, who knew that something was amiss but had no idea what, made her want to laugh out loud.

She marched up to Kim Batto, who was chatting with a merchant. “Good day,” she said to him. His back was to her; he turned, and she had the pleasure of seeing his jaw drop. “I know, you thought I wasn't coming. Sorry to disappoint you. How did your courier enjoy his little ride north?” Leaving him gaping, she moved on to greet Edith Isara and her tall daughters. The house, she admitted to herself, looked and smelled entrancing. The Ismeninas had spared no expense in their desire to satisfy, entertain, and please their guests. A long table with prepared meats, honeyed fruits, and other delicacies ran the width of the great parlor. The room was filled with fresh-cut lilies. Standing lamps with scented oils lit the rather gloomy chamber, and mirrors, both silver and bronze, hanging on the walls, reflected back more light. Arré caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, and nodded at her image. The gown—which was red and long—was very becoming, and she was wearing, in addition to her silver bracelets, one immense sapphire, which lay across her throat in its silver setting like a great indigo eye.

She had bought the sapphire that morning at Smith Tian's. It was ostentatious, but so was this whole event. She wondered where Isak was: dressing, probably. She picked up a seaweed ball and ate it. In one corner of the parlor stood a huge knot of people, and she guessed that Tarn i Nuath Ryth was in the middle of it. He was the most interesting event to happen to Kendra-on-the-Delta since the Ban. He was the reason she'd purchased the sapphire, besides the fact that it was beautiful. She wanted to talk to him, and to do that for long she would have to hold his attention. Barbarians, whether from outside Arun or from within it, were notoriously fond of jewels.

Cha Minto had returned. She went to him. “Good day, Cha."

He avoided her eyes. “Good day, Arré. This is an impressive spread, isn't it?"

“Introduce me to Tarn i Nuath Ryth."

He took her arm. “Look, the musicians are here!” He turned her so that she could see the three fluteplayers in their gauze gowns. “Shall we go and listen to them?"

“No,” she said. “I can always ask someone else, Cha. You're being a fool, you know. Did my brother tell you to keep me away from him?” She took her arm out of his hold.

Helpless, he simply stared at her. The musicians began to play, a light dancing melody that made the more musically inclined guests bob their heads. “That's lovely music,” said Arré. “Are you going to do as I ask?"

“I can't,” said Cha. His eyes looked panicked.

“Don't, then. But when your servitude to my brother's plots begins to gall, come to me."

Karya Holleth Ismenin appeared at her elbow. “Arré, good morning. Isn't it a lovely day for a betrothal? It's been a long time since you were last here, may I show you the rest of the house? It's much changed."

“Thank you,” Arré said. “Another time, Karya. Right now I want to talk to Tarn i Nuath Ryth. Will you introduce us?"

Karya said desperately, “Oh, he is not all that interesting, I assure you. Look at the musicians, aren't they talented?"

“Undoubtedly,” said Arré. “Excuse me.” She sidled past Karya and walked toward the corner.

Kim Batto intercepted her. “Arré, I should like to know the meaning of what you said to me when you walked in."

She looked him up and down, noting the sheen of sweat on his brow, and wondering if his bald spot was sweating, too. “You know what I meant,” she said. “I know about the paper you sent north, and what it said, and I know, too, that it didn't arrive. Would you like the Council to know you have been making your own treaties with other clans? I doubt they would approve. I may tell them, if you keep getting in my way.” Her temper was beginning to rise.

Suddenly, a bell rang. Everyone quieted. Unobtrusively, the servants had been filling the room with soft folding calfskin stools for people to rest on. The musicians began to play a fanfare. The crowd in the corner grew silent, and the people on the rim of it sat down. Arré glimpsed a brown-haired man with a big beard, wearing a brilliant yellow tunic and a black kilt. Gold chains, many of them, hung around his neck.

Kim slipped his arm through hers as she started to move. “Listen to the music,” he urged. “That's the music for the mime. You must see him.” He sat, carrying her with him. Short of screaming or hitting him there was nothing she could do about it, and, smoldering, Arré let herself be seated on the stool. The mime appeared from behind a curtain. He was slight and slim and remarkably fluid. He mimed, quickly, a woman combing her hair at a mirror, an old man washing clothes in a river, a sailor climbing rigging, a man in Sellers’ Alley (this was daring) waiting for a lover, and a bored soldier on watch, trying not to fall asleep, keeping an eye out for her captain. He was very good. Arré found herself laughing despite her fury. He then did a longer piece about a drunk attempting to urinate. Laughter filled the room, as he pretended to have lost his prick, and went around the bedroom searching for it, chamber pot in hand. Finally he lost the chamber pot and ended by pissing out the window, onto the head of an irate passerby.

“Isn't he wonderful!” said Karya Holleth Ismenin. She leaned forward to tap Arré on the shoulder. “Isn't he good?"

“Brilliant,” said Arré, noting that Ron Ismenin now stood between her and the corner.

The mime finished, bowed, and went back behind the curtain. The musicians began again.

Arré was tempted to ask Karya Holleth Ismenin why she, Arré, had not been invited to the betrothal celebration, just to hear what she would say. But that would be both cruel and crass. She smiled at Kim. “I'm hungry. Shall we go to the tables?"

“I'll bring you a plate,” said Karya, rising hurriedly. “Don't move.” She rustled to the tables.

“'Don't move’ appears to be the theme of this gathering,” murmured Arré to Kim. “You shall have to let me up eventually, you know."

He pretended not to hear her. “I am looking forward to your brother's dance,” he said.

“Oh, so am I,” said Arré. She wanted to see Isak when he saw her. His face would show nothing of his chagrin—he was, after all, a dancer and knew how to disguise his feelings until even he did not know he had them—but his body would give him away. She wondered what he said to Sorren when he learned she was present. She hoped he had not been too angry.

“Here we are!” said Karya. She laid a heaped plate across Arré's knees: on it were ten or twelve different things, fish cakes and little pastries and noodle pies and seaweed balls and fruits in slices.... Arré ate another seaweed ball. The musicians played a funny little tune and a man in red and orange and blue leaped into the chamber. Balls whirled around his head. He counted softly to himself as he balanced first on one leg, then on the other. Sliding behind the curtain, he reappeared with a handful of knives, little ones. He started to juggle them. The musicians stopped playing and everyone grew silent, leaning forward on their stools to watch the blades flicker through the air like pennies.... Arré found that she was holding her breath. Slowly she let it out.

“Let me see those!” boomed a voice. Everyone jumped, and the juggler dropped a knife. It tumbled to the carpet at his feet. The man in yellow and black strode across the chamber, one hand outstretched. “Give me that.” He plucked a knife from the juggler's hand, and touched the point of it with his thumb. “Hunh. It's sharp. But that's no way to treat a knife. They aren't toys.” His arm swung overhead, and a glittering object hurtled through the air. Someone shouted. The thrown knife landed in one of the Ismeninas’ fine wooden doors.

Karya Ismenin shuddered. “That barbarian!” she said.

The juggler said, “You throw well for an amateur.” Coolly, he selected one of the knives in his hand, and threw it in the same direction. It landed quivering in the wood, a handsbreadth from the first one.

Ron Ismenin quietly walked across the room and pulled both knives from the door. “You will frighten the guests, Tarn,” he said. “Perhaps this could be saved for later?” He gave the juggler both knives. “Thank you, that was remarkable.” He turned to the company. “The meal is ready, friends. Shall we proceed to it?” He gestured to a servant, who opened the doors to the dining room. Long tables with benches stood laden with food. The musicians started to play again and everyone got up.

The meal seemed interminable. Kim Batto and Karya Ismenin maneuvered Arré into a seat as far as possible from Tarn i Nuath Ryth, with nothing to do except talk to them and eat. She spoke with them as little as possible and ate as little as she could. She drank no wine, though Karya said over and over again that it was Med wine and how tasty it was. Normally, in events of this kind, there was a lull between the meal and the next stage of the party, but she had the feeling that this time there would be no lull. She wished she could make one. Finally the meal ended, and everyone drifted into the parlor again. The stools were still there but the table with the food had vanished; instead, a wooden platform had been brought in. It was a stage for Isak.

Arré caught her first sight of the rest of the Ryth clan: they were gathered around Tarn i Nuath Ryth, talking to him, laughing with him, telling stories.... Was it to protect him from people (like herself) that they were there, or was it to protect the company from him, she wondered. Nathis Ryth and Col Ismenin, of course, had not yet emerged. They would not join the company until just before the ceremony. Now, she thought, I have to do it now. After the ceremony, they will hustle him out.

She smiled at Kim, who was still sticking to her like a lover. “I must speak with Marti,” she said.

“I'll come with you,” he said promptly. Marti was sitting with her children about her, very much the matriarch. As they walked to her, Arré saw Boras Sul roaming the chamber, looking sad. Probably he was still hungry, she thought in disgust. The embroidered slippers they had been given as they came in the house whispered on the carpet. Marti's children—what lovely manners they had—stood at her approach.

“What a nice party,” said Marti. She pointed to the stool beside her. “Arré, won't you sit down? The meal was wonderful."

“But long,” Arré said grimly. “Marti, I have a fancy to meet Tarn i Nuath Ryth, but I keep getting distracted. Will you lend me your well-known imperturbability?"

Marti seized her silver cane in both hands and heaved herself up. “Of course.” She smiled at Kim Batto, who looked as if a bird had just shat on his pate, and put her arm through Arré's. “I have not met him, either. Shall we?"

There was no way for Kim or Karya or Cha or Ron Ismenin to stop them. Marti Hok was the eldest member of the Council. They strolled across the chamber, toward the assembled Ryth clan, who melted away without comment. Kim Batto accompanied them halfway across the room and then murmured something and went away. The bearded man watched their advance with unabashed curiosity.

Ron Ismenin came to his side. “Tarn i Nuath Ryth,” he said, “may I present to you the Lady Marti Hok and the Lady Arré Med? Ladies, this is Tarn i Nuath Ryth, from the town of Nuath."

The bearded man said, “The Lord Tarn i Nuath Ryth.” He inclined his head in the bow of equals. “I am honored to meet you both.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Arré. “Forgive me, Lady, but I had heard you were not coming. Indeed, I heard that you looked with great disfavor upon this betrothal."

He can talk, at any rate, Arré thought. He sounds quite intelligent. “You were misinformed,” she said. “It is very pleasant to meet you—I have heard a great deal about you.” Casually, she let her fingers stroke the sapphire.

He looked at it, and then at her face. “With your permission, Lady?” he said to Marti Hok. “Arré Med, we should talk to each other."

“I would like that,” Arré said. “Now and in private?"

“Certainly."

Ron Ismenin said, “We are about to begin the dancing, my friends."

Tarn looked at him. “Tell them to wait till we get back,” he said.

He led her through the halls and chambers of the Ismenin house as if he had grown up in it. “You know this house well,” she said.

He skirted a startled servant. “I do. My house in Nuath is very like it."

He opened a door and gestured her to go first. She walked out into the air, and caught her breath. They looked upon the delta, and beyond it, the ocean. It was the middle of the afternoon: the heat was at its peak, and the sun, shining upon the infinity of water, turned it every color, green and red and blue and silver and orange.... It looked like rucked and rumpled velvet. Below them on the river, the barges swarmed, tiny as toys.

“Guardian, how wonderful,” she said involuntarily.

Tarn i Nuath Ryth nodded his appreciation. “It is. You have a beautiful city.” He sounded regretful.

“If you like it so much, why don't you live here?” she said. “Your own clan would surely welcome you."

He smiled. “I have a house. A family. Children. Besides, Arré Med, there is as much likelihood of my moving to the city as there is of you moving upriver."

The gold chains glittered on his chest. Arré leaned on the balcony railing. “Why?"

He leaned beside her. “Because I am a lord there. In Nuath. Here I am an upstart, a merchant, a barbarian. I was born upriver; I know it well, and it knows me. I am not going to exchange what I have built for the privilege of being related to the Ismeninas."

“Did Ron Ismenin tell you I would not be at this party?” she said. He nodded. “That's because I was not invited. He did not want me here. They have been keeping me from you for the last four hours. What else did they tell you about me?"

“That you were obstructive, that you despised merchants, that you preferred the past to the present, that you were jealous of the privilege of governance and refused to share it—"

“Stop,” said Arré. She opened her fingers, which were gripping the iron circlet of the railing.

He tangled fingers in the longest chain and looked at her from his greater height. “False?” he said.

“Not true.” She scratched her nose. “I am jealous of the privilege of governance, but that is because I think I do it well. I do not prefer the past to the present. I do not despise merchants. I don't think I am obstructive, but that always depends—"

“On who wants to get where,” he finished. “Yes. Then why have you refused to support the membership of the Blue Clan on the Council?"

“I haven't been asked to support or reject it,” said Arré slowly. “I have rejected the membership of the White Clan on the Council."

A gull swooped by them, imploring sustenance. Tarn i Nuath Ryth reached into a pocket and brought out a handful of seaweed balls, one of which he tossed to the gull. He ate one, and offered a third to Arré. She shook her head.

“They told me you had refused to grant membership to the Blue Clan."

“It has not come up,” said Arré. “Not in the last ten meetings."

“Would you support it?” he said.

“I don't know. I would listen to the arguments.” She put her hand on his arm. “You puzzle me, Tarn i Nuath Ryth."

“To my friends I am Tarn Ryth, or Tarn."

“Tarn. You speak like a man of schooling, of breeding. Yet you throw knives in a betrothal party, you ride a horse through the streets, you bring soldiers and weapons into the city—"

He laughed. “Chea, woman, I threw that knife because I was bored out of my mind, as you would have been if you had to listen to my cousins rattling and whispering. As for the horse and the soldiers—I am a lord in my own territory. If the Lord Santh of Anhard rode to the city, would you tell him to get off his horse? I don't think so."

“Are you not being—forgive me—a little presumptuous? I realize you are a power in Nuath—"

“You don't know what you are talking about,” he said flatly. “I am not ‘a power.’ I am the power. From Shonet to Septh, the river is mine. Every barge pays my tolls, every tollhouse pays my taxes, with money that has my face on it. My soldiers keep the country free of thieves and evildoers. The aqueducts and irrigation sluices are built by my builders. The wagons ride over my roads."

Arré was silent. Finally she said, “I do not doubt you. But how is it I do not know of this?"

“How would you know?” he said. “Your money comes from your vineyards, which are well south of my borders. You pay my taxes without knowing it, through the Blue Clan. Every time a Med wagon rolls north, say, to Tezera, laden with wine for that city, the Blue Clan family whose wagon it really is pays toll to me, and you are charged accordingly for that service. You don't leave the city, though I understand your brother does. The same goes for the houses whose fortunes are built through the sea. Now, Ron Ismenin, he deals with me all the time. I buy ore from him. In return, well, his brother is marrying my daughter."

“And Kim Batto?"

“He has been my voice on the Council—I thought."

“He has not,” Arré said firmly. “I will swear it by any oath you choose. No mention of the Blue Clan has been made in the Council. Guardian, don't you think if it had, it would be in the reports of each meeting, which are a matter of public record? There is one in the Black Clan archives, and another in the Blue Clan hall."

“I see.” He took another seaweed ball from his pocket and chewed it reflectively. “These are good, you know? We do not have them upriver. Maybe we can get them. So you say you would support the Blue Clan's membership on the Council."

“I don't say that. Don't put words in my mouth. I said I'd listen. What have you to do, by the way, with swords in the city?"

If she had thought to surprise or shake him, she was disappointed. He scratched his beard. “Nothing. Oh, I have heard about the Ismeninas training their soldiers in sword techniques. I know nothing more than that. Though I think it a good idea."

“Do you? Why?"

He snorted. “Your ancestors would not have asked that."

“But I have said,” Arré said, “that I do not prefer the past to the present."

He grinned. “Ah, you are quick. You have twice the brains of that skimpy Batto person, and you smell better. Look. Civilization is a building, like this house.” He thumped his fist on the iron balcony, which creaked. Arré repressed the urge to step back from it. “The foundation of the house is the oldest thing built, but it is also the strongest, because it carries the rest. When it is weak, the house crumbles. Our foundation—the foundation of Arun—is not weak. Many things make it up: our noble families, the wealth of our cities, the fertility of our soil and the beauty of our lavish rivers, without which the soil would crack and blow away, our songs, our dances, our truths, our trust in the chea—and our weapons skills are part of it! Without our courage and skill in weapons, Anhard would have run over us four hundred years ago. You say you refused membership on the Council to the White Clan. I agree with that. The witchfolk are useful but no more useful than farmers or merchants—or soldiers. Peace is valuable, necessary, longed for—but not at the expense of digging out a cornerstone of our foundation and tossing it away. The Ban was wrong, Arré Med. A country needs its warriors. I am not talking about armies. The Ban was wrong, and the witches were wrong. They should—you should—never have driven the chearis away."

His passion was impressive. The hairs on the back of Arré's neck lifted at his eloquence. She said, defensively, “People still learn sword arts outside the cities, don't they?"

“No, why should they? Arun is at peace. They don't need to. The chearis gave them a reason to: any child, anywhere, if she were good enough, quick enough, graceful, and disciplined, could be a cheari. But when you forbade the chearis the cities, you destroyed them, you cut them off from their greatest audience. The city—” he waved his arm at the river, its docks, its barges, its people—"you have always lived here, so you do not know what it means for a boy from the Galbareth to come to the city. The city is the center of all that is alive and exciting and different and creative. The chearis—well, it's said they came from the Red Hills. Maybe. Maybe. But—” his hands lifted in the air—"the city is a fountain. Water feeds it from all over Arun, and it sends its life-giving spray back all over Arun.” His hands made a great circle in the air, being a fountain.

Arré felt battered, beaten, drenched, drowned. He folded his hands across his chest, watching her with intensity. She rubbed her hands across her face. “Tarn Ryth,” she said, “you are extraordinary."

He bowed, and stayed silent.

“I—I need to consider what you have said. Your ideas—” she hesitated; chea, where did the man get them? she thought—"astound me. I have no idea if I can trust you."

He grinned and was silent.

“But if you are what you seem to be—and I have not decided what that is and I do not want you to tell me!—then let me say, we are not enemies."

“Are we friends?"

“I don't know."

Meditatively he said, “I think we could be friends. That is, if you could bring yourself to be friends with a barbarian from upriver."

“If Kim Batto can,” Arré said, “I can."

“Kim Batto—” his face twisted, as if he smelled something rotten—"is a chaba'ck."

“What does that mean?” asked Arré.

He grinned again. The smile through his great beard made him look like a bandit or a river pirate. “A pimp,” he answered.

Arré laughed. “He is a pimp,” she said. “But it is you who are having secret dealings with him, not I."

He stroked his beard. “If you know of them, they are not secret, are they?"

“Tell me,” she said, “what do you hold over Cha Minto?"

“I do not know him,” Tarn said. “Should I?"

She did not know whether to believe him or not. The door to the balcony opened and a woman's face looked around the door. It was Karya Ismenin. “Excuse me,” she said, with extraordinary timidity for a woman in her own house, “but the dancing is about to begin—"

“We'll come in a moment, thank you,” said Tarn. Karya vanished. He caught Arré watching him and smiled sourly. “You think I have no manners? You think I am a barbarian? So do they. I merely live up to their expectations."

“They are your hosts."

He shrugged. “They are getting what they want, an alliance with the man who controls the river. Col Ismenin is a puppy, but when I've finished with him, he won't be."

“What must your daughter be like!” Arré marveled.

His face kindled. “She is a wonder. Wait until you meet her. Shall we go and see this famous dancer brother of yours?"

She turned her bracelets on her wrists. “Do you know Isak?"

“I met him last night, at the Batto house. He was very quiet."

The sun, moving west, was beginning to leave the balcony some shade. Arré stepped to the railing again. She beckoned to Tarn, and he came to stand beside her. She pointed down, to a barge heaped with grain sacks. “Is that yours?” she said.

He smiled. “Uh-huh. And that one, and that one, and that one....” He pointed them out to her.

She nodded. “I understand why the Ismeninas need you,” she said. “But I do not understand why you need the Ismeninas."

“Metal,” he said. “Their mines are very close. The Tezeran mines are far away, and most of those have been dug at until they're empty."

“The Ismenin iron deposits are in the Red Hills, near Shanan, which is farther from Nuath then Tezera,” she said.

He blinked at her. “You are well-informed.” He tangled his left hand in his longest necklace. “Hmm. Well, there is another reason. It will seem silly to you.” He glanced sideways at her.

“Try me,” she said encouragingly.

“I was born in Nuath. I came to the city when I was a child, on a visit. I came down the river.... I was ten, or so. I am forty-seven now. Old Rath Ismenin's house was fifteen years old, and a magnificent thing. I saw it from the river, at sunrise, with the sun breaking off these white walls—I was almost blinded by the glory. It seemed to me then that the Ismeninas must be the wisest, strongest, finest family in the city, to have such a house.” He stroked the white marble side of the building. “When I built my house in Nuath, I sent for the plans of this one and made my architects and builders copy it as best they could. That is how I know my way around it. And when Ron Ismenin came to me to suggest the marriage—how could I refuse? Nathis wanted it.” He smiled. “And there were good economic reasons for it."

A breeze blew at them from the river. Out on the ocean, a light blue mist was forming. How long had they been talking—an hour? More? The Ismeninas, Arré thought, must be frantic.

She laid a hand on Tarn Ryth's bare arm.

“Come,” she said. “Let's go inside."

Sixteen

Isak's dance was breathtaking.

Arré saw little of it. She sat beside Marti Hok in the large parlor, thinking, thinking.... Whenever she glanced up from the carpet, she saw Tarn Ryth looking at her. The drumming went on until she seemed to feel it in her bloodstream, like a fever. Sorren's hands moved so fast they could not be seen. She looked lovely, with the silk gleaming round her pale face and the hair piled on her head like burnished gold wires, infinitely flexible. Arré caught sight of Boras Sul's face. He was gazing at the girl as if she were a dish of food—say, berries topped with cream.

Isak's jeweled loincloth shimmered as he moved. He was Swan now, regal and seductive. This part showed off his body best of all. The third Ismenin brother, Berd, was staring at the dancer, lips parted, eyes shining. His wife, beside him, looked resigned to her husband's open adoration. Isak's hair, on top of his head, made his long slim neck looked even longer than it was. The dance was (supposedly) the dance the male swan performs to lure the female, and it was erotic without ever being vulgar (as was the dance of the Stallion) or comic (as was Bear). The drumming crescendoed as Isak whirled, back arching, in what seemed to be an impossible position, and then it softened, smoothed, rippled outward, and the ecstatic Swan furled his graceful wings and glided, with elegant hauteur, from the stage.

Everybody breathed again. Berd Ismenin smiled wryly and patted his wife's hand. There was a smattering of applause from the Ryth family, which stopped when they realized no one else was clapping. True art was best appreciated in silence. A few people stood to smooth their clothing or order drinks from the servants. Marti Hok left the room on the arm of her son, Sironen.

Now would come the ceremony. Arré wished she could leave. Rituals bored her. On the other hand, she wanted to see Nathis Ryth. In the rear of the chamber, there was a sudden commotion. Arré turned to see what it was.

Soldiers—wearing the yellow and black of Nuath and holding drawn swords in their hands—were filing in.

Tarn Ryth's voice cut smoothly through the hubbub. “Friends, family, guests,” he said, standing. “Please don't be alarmed. This is entertainment, that's all, nothing to frighten you. If the servants will remove the stage—” he looked at Ron Ismenin, who after a moment of total immobility gave hurried orders to the servants—"my guards have prepared a treat for you. The swords they carry are wooden, and may be freely handled, but that must wait until after the show. Please sit down.” So compelling was his manner that everyone, even Ron Ismenin, sat. The soldiers walked to the front of the chamber and stood in two lines, facing each other, with their swords out in front of them, each facing pair of weapons barely touching at the tip. “Dennis, my son, will explain to you what you are about to see."

Tarn sat down, and the man on the left-hand end of the line with his back to the audience turned around. He looked like Tarn. “We will show you three things, family and guests,” he said, his voice a light copy of Tarn's resonant tones. “First, you will see the warm-up strokes that every guard does in training. This is the simplest exercise there is. Then you will see the first naïga, that is also a training exercise which two people do, consisting of specific strikes and parries. Lastly, you will see a real bout between two soldiers, with wooden blades of course.” He stepped back into line. The soldiers tensed. “One—and two—and three—and four! One—and two—and three—and four!” The blades sliced down and sprang up again with the count.

With each stroke, the guards stepped forward; with each retraction, back. The floor shook. Arré watched the soldiers’ faces. They were young and intense and wholly concentrated. Their precision was very beautiful. “Yai!” Dennis Ryth's shout halted them. They bowed to each other, to their audience, and to him, and then marched around the open space, to seat themselves around the edge of it. Dennis stood where he was, to the very left of the chamber.

“Now the naïga.” He barked two names and two of the guards rose from their seated positions and entered the space. They bowed to the audience and then to each other. One of them was a woman; her breasts showed clearly under the cotton of her tunic. She had a broad face and brown hair with streaks of gold through it. The guard facing her was older than she was, a man, with a heavy yellow beard. He had the pale, somewhat yellow cast to his skin that suggested he had Anhard blood.

“Yai!” said Dennis, and the two lifted their swords. “Ha!” The blades whistled through the air. Everyone jumped. Arré closed her fingers on the hard wood seat of her chair. The strokes—going for the head, the legs, the belly—looked terribly real. The fighters breathed in great deep puffs, huff, huff. They stamped and leaped and attacked and retreated.... Arré began to see form through the apparent formlessness. Certain strokes and parries reappeared. Just as she was beginning to see the pattern, Dennis shouted, and it was over.

Col Ismenin had appeared in the chamber; he was sitting beside his brother, smiling a bit nervously. Arré turned around, but if Nathis Ryth had come in, she was hidden among the myriad Ryth cousins. The two guards marched to their places. Dennis shouted again, and another guard rose from the circle.

Dennis strode inside it to face him.

They bowed to the audience and to each other. Then, without a sound, Dennis attacked. The crack of blade on blade made everyone start. Arré remembered what Paxe had said. “You can kill with a wooden sword, if you know how.” These blows looked as if they could kill. If one of them slipped, she thought, if one parry came too late—she glanced at Tarn Ryth. He was smiling, leaning back against the cushions, seemingly unworried. His left hand toyed with the chain around his neck.

She had no skill to see which man was the better swordsman. They advanced and backed and turned in the circle. Once in a while, a heel came dangerously close to stepping on the seated men and women guards, but no one moved, not a handsbreadth; they remained impassive and disciplined. Suddenly, Dennis Ryth knocked the other man's sword to one side and lunged forward. The tip of his wooden sword halted a knuckle-length away from the man's unprotected throat.

The man dropped his sword. One of the guards caught it. Then Dennis lowered his to his side. Both men bowed, to the audience and then to each other.

Tarn Ryth rose from his seat. “We hope you have enjoyed this demonstration,” he said blandly. Oh, yes, Arré thought. The faces of the watching guests reflected shock, appreciation, and not a little fear. You have indeed demonstrated your power, Tarn Ryth, and I, for one, am very, very impressed.

“I like to think my guards are skilled,” continued Tarn, “though of course, their skills do not compare with the skills of the chearis that were. I have one more surprise for you.” He grinned. “In case you have not noticed, I enjoy surprises. I should like to present to you—” he paused, and the woman guard who had performed in the naïga rose and came to stand beside him—"my daughter, Nathis-no-Iryllen Ryth."

Col Ismenin grinned from his seat. Nathis Ryth smiled. Boras Sul said, “What?” very loudly. Then Col Ismenin rose and stood beside his betrothed.

The ceremony did not last long. From the way Nathis Ryth and Col Ismenin looked at each other, Arré could see that though the match might not be a love match, neither party had any regrets. Nathis Ryth was not beautiful but she was well-made and healthy and would have no trouble bearing children. The terms of the betrothal were of course not stated aloud but Arré could guess at some of them and knew at least one of them: Col Ismenin agreed to give up his family name and become Col Ismenin Ryth, and his wealth (whatever portion of the family fortune he was entitled to) went with him to Nuath.

The ceremony closed with Tarn Ryth saying, “And you must all come to Nuath for the wedding.” Not likely, thought Arré. The wedding was traditionally held three months after the betrothal, and a journey upriver at the end of autumn, in the rains, would be unpleasant at best. She stretched, and found Tarn Ryth at her elbow.

He extended a hand to help her up, which she ignored. “How did you like my entertainment?” he said proudly.

“Very much,” said Arré. She cocked her head. “Tell me,” she said softly, “was the fight staged, too?"

He laughed, and bent his head to hers. “Of course,” he said in a rumbled whisper. “Do you think I'd risk my son just for a game?"

“No,” Arré said. “In fact, I would say you don't take many risks."

He straightened. “You are right,” he said. His hand toyed with his chain.

The farewells were being said. Tarn Ryth said, “I must join my cousins and my new relatives now."

“I would not keep you from them,” said Arré, and saw him grin. “You have been frank with me: may I ask yet another question?"

“Ask,” he said.

“Have you made marriage plans for your son?"

He nodded appreciatively. “Not yet. I have approached the ruling house of one of the northern Keeps. An alliance north would certainly be useful to me. On the other hand, the Isara house of this city boasts of four daughters."

“Would you wish your son to become an Isara?"

He tangled a hand in his neck chains. “No. But if the Isara could see beyond tradition, they might be willing for an Isara daughter to become a Ryth...."

Arré frowned. She did not particularly approve of that. “When do you leave to return to Nuath?"

“Almost at once. Day after tomorrow.” He smiled grimly. “I shall spend the next two days avoiding the company of Kim Batto."

“It was most instructive to talk to you."

“I hoped you'd find it so.” His huge hand closed over hers, dwarfing it. “You have said we are not enemies, Arré Med,” he said. “I hope you meant it. I am a bad enemy. On the other hand—” he smiled, like a pirate—"I make a very good friend. Farewell.” He released her hand and strolled off, cleaving through the people like a ship under full sail.

* * * *

Arré went to find Marti Hok. The old woman was in the Ismenin courtyard, looking at the flowers. “I shall have to ask Ron Ismenin who does his gardening,” she commented. She leaned on her cane with both hands. “You spent a long time with that man."

“It was worth it,” Arré said. “He is—quite remarkable."

Kim Batto, gown flapping, walked across the granite flagstones to them. “Arré,” he began, “I think you had better listen to me."

“I think I had better not,” Arré said. “You will lie to me, as you lied to Tarn.” His eyes widened. “Did you think you were using him? You are a fool, Kim Batto, a worse fool than Boras. Go away."

He backed from her as if she had suddenly turned into a bear or a snake. Marti Hok said, “That was wonderful. Will you tell me what has happened? I detest ignorance, especially my own."

Arré said crisply, “Kim Batto has been playing a game with us. He has told Tarn Ryth that we have refused to permit the Blue Clan on the Council, thus maneuvering Tarn into making alliances with separate houses of the city, namely the Batto and Ismenin houses."

“But who is the man, and why should Kim Batto and Ron Ismenin care what he does?” demanded Marti.

Arré told her. “All the grain supply to Kendra-on-the-Delta passes through his hands. He has drawn the cities of the river together, making of them a little district of Arun, like our city districts. He has money, a lot of money, and influence, and military skill, as he took pains to show us."

“What does he want?"

“To be treated as a ruler, as an equal of any member of a noble house."

“Indeed,” said Marti, and her eyes narrowed. “Arré, can you possibly support this man's ambition? He is a barbarian! If once we show weakness to him, we are lost. He can extort anything he wishes from us by threatening the grain supply."

“He can do that now,” Arré pointed out. “He does not threaten."

“Then what do you call that performance in the parlor?” said Marti. “Entertainment, indeed."

“I do call it entertainment,” said Arré firmly. “I think the Council could do worse than consider an alliance with Tarn Ryth."

“And, doing that, how do we avoid listening to the Ismeninas?” said Marti.

Arré scowled. “I don't know. But Marti, I would rather know what Ron Ismenin is doing than not know."

“Do you think Tarn Ryth will tell you?"

“I think he might."

Sironen Hok strolled to his mother's side. “The litter is here, Mother,” he said. “Lady Arré. You look beautiful."

He was a handsome man himself, with a fine thick black mustache and a firm, sensual mouth. He was also married, with five children, and quite faithful to his wife. “Thank you,” Arré said.

“He is so tactful,” said Marti. “That is his way of telling me we must go home. Well, Arré, was it worth coming to, this party?"

“Most definitely,” Arré said, “I enjoyed myself tremendously and you are a wicked old woman."

Marti chuckled, and whispered, “I practice.” Her son rolled his eyes expressively and tucked his hand through her arm.

“Wait,” Marti said. “Arré. Send that Sorren child to me this week."

Arré smiled. “With so many grandchildren of your own blood, Marti, I fail to see why you need a stranger to tell stories to. But I shall do as you ask, of course."

“Mother, come.” Sironen tightened his grip on his mother's arm.

“You see how they treat me,” said Marti cheerfully. She kissed Arré's cheek. “I am coming, my dear."

Grinning, Arré watched them go. Her own litter was somewhere out in the street with the others, but she felt no desire to go to it. A tall spear of purple lilac caught her eye, and she stooped to smell it.

When she straightened, Cha Minto was beside her. He looked very unhappy. He said, “Arré—I just want you to know that what I did was not done out of malice. I—I had to do it. At least, I thought I did."

Arré was torn between pity for his distress and contempt for his weakness. “Cha, we cannot talk here,” she said. “Come and see me."

He wet his lips to answer. At that moment, a soft voice said, “My dear sister. Did you enjoy the dance?"

It was Isak. His face was still painted with the outline of the Swan's feathers. He wore street clothes, and under them his muscles showed, hard as metal, tensile as wax. He put his arm through Cha's, holding the other man to him like a lover. “You had a lot to say to our merchant guest. Did you find him cultured?"

Arré said, “We talked politics, not art. Did you find him cultured when you met him last night?"

“He did not talk to me,” Isak said. “I am not the head of my house. Did you enjoy the dance?"

“Yes,” she said. “You always dance well. Isak, why did you tell Ron Ismenin to keep me out?"

“To irritate you.” said Isak, smiling. “And because I felt that Kim Batto's games might be spoiled if you had an opportunity to speak directly to Tarn Ryth. You managed, of course. How resourceful you are. Poor Kim looks like a drowned hen."

Yes, thought Arré, that is the end of this alliance. I shall have to tell Jenith to return to her job at the warehouse. “Did Ron know what Kim Batto was doing?” she said.

Isak said, “Ask him, my dear."

“Did the L'hel?"

The dancer shrugged. “I don't know. I have as few dealings with the Tanjo as possible; it is the one thing you and I agree on. Cha—” his voice grew barbed—"come with me. I have something to show you."

“You interrupted us,” Arré said tartly.

“I know,” said Isak. Locking his hand through Cha Minto's elbow, he dragged the weaker man away.

Arré went to find her litter. She located it by the red and blue streamers on the poles. Sorren sat beside it, holding her drums and her new clothes.

“The dance was beautiful,” Arré said to her. “You looked lovely.” Sorren smiled faintly and did not speak. She looked haggard. “Come, ride in the litter with me."

Sorren said, “I can walk."

“I know you can walk! Get in.” Sorren sighed. Rising, she entered the litter. Arré followed her, and the bearers stood. The girl's long legs crammed the tiny aisle between the two seats, and she drew them up beneath her. Arré thumped on the side of the box, and the litter lurched up and forward.

“Well?” Arré said, “what happened?"

Sorren rubbed her face with her hands. She was still wearing her hair in its coil, and the lapis lazuli comb winked and shone in the smelly box. “Isak knows I lied to him,” she said.

“Was he very angry?” Arré said gently.

Sorren dropped her hands in her lap, and nodded. “He didn't say so. But I know he was."

“He doesn't have to say it. His body speaks for him. Child, you needn't drum for him again. He can get another drummer for the Festival."

Sorren bit her lip. “He probably will. He won't want to see me again. But—I like drumming for him!” The last sentence was a wail. Arré reached across the tiny space and took hold of one of Sorren's hands. The girl gulped, and breathed hard. “Marti Hok was right, I think. He is evil."

“When did she tell you that?” asked Arré.

“When I went to her house."

Arré was reminded of Marti's last request. “Would you like to go see her again?"

Sorren said, “Oh, yes.” Some of her usual animation returned to her face. “May I? She wants to see my Cards."

“Certainly, she must see them.” Arré let go of Sorren's hand. Briskly, she said, “And you must not let Isak distress you. He is not worth your pain.” My little brother, she thought. I suppose he loved me once.

But the pleasure in Sorren's face vanished at the mention of Isak. She bowed her head.

Arré hunted for something to distract the girl. “Sing something,” she said.

Sorren's head came up. “I can't sing."

“I can,” said Arré. “Sing, and I will help you."

Automatically, Sorren drew her drums into her lap. “Anything?” she said. Arré nodded, hoping the girl would not choose something too ribald.

The litter swayed as the bearers climbed the hill. Sorren sang softly:

"Where did they go, the ones who were chosen? Where did they ride, the dancers so strong?"

It was a song Arré knew; she joined in, thinking of Tarn Ryth, of his children, and of his visions. "With their long blades sharp, and their long hair flowing, Where did they go, what is their song."

* * * *

The next afternoon, Jenith came to the Med house. She sat in Arré's study and blew smoke rings and talked about Tarn Ryth. “He's camped with his soldiers in the Batto Yard,” she said, “and the servants say that he and Kim Batto are not talking to each other.” Sorren saw Arré's wide grin as she went down the hall.

The following day was laundry day. Sorren and Lalith soaked and scrubbed all the household clothes (even the cook's aprons) and hung them out to dry in the rear courtyard. Arré left the house early. (She always did, on laundry day. She said the smell of soap made her gag.) There was a well at the south end of the district that people complained was bad, and she had gone to look at it. Sorren was feeling virtuous. She sauntered down the hill with the box of Cards in her hands. There were piles of froth in all the alleys; it seemed as if the whole city were doing its laundry. The smell of roasting walnuts filled the air. She loped across the Minto district to the Hok district, following the Street of the Weavers into Lerril's Street. Someday she would ask Arré who Lerril was.

Tomorrow she was going to the pasture in the Batto district to shoot more arrows. She flexed her hands, feeling the muscles move under her skin. In her room, where no one could see, she had been exercising her arms and shoulders the way Paxe did, lifting herself from the floor while keeping her body straight. The first time she'd tried it, her arms had collapsed after five upward pushes, but this morning she had done ten.

The Hok guards waved her into the house without question, and she was ushered to Marti Hok's room like a real visitor. Marti was sitting with a pile of scrolls on her lap, and she looked very tired. As Sorren entered, she smiled and put the scrolls on the little table at her elbow.

Sorren said, “I can come another day if you're busy, Lady."

“Marti. No, I asked you, remember? Did you bring the Cards?"

Sorren held the box out.

“Good.” Marti took it from her. Sorren sat on the mats. A girl in white brought a tray of sherbet, lemon sherbet this time, with honey swirled in it. Marti took all the Cards from the box and looked at each Card. “These are very beautiful,” she said. “Were they in order when you got them?"

“Yes. The Dancer first, and then the Weaver, the Sleeping Woman, the Lady—"

“Yes, I see.” Marti shuffled through the Cards, putting them in order, and then handed them to Sorren. “Let's go to the library, shall we? You can bring your sherbet."

They walked to the library. On the way, the girl-child who had wanted to keep the butterfly ran out of a room. “Abu, where are you going?” she said.

“To the library, sticky-hands, where thou canst not come."

“I'm going to the water,” said the girl, puffing out her chest. “Da is taking me to see the ships!"

The library was just as Sorren remembered it, and she said so.

“Of course, child,” said Marti, sitting in the big wood chair. “No one comes here but I. Do you remember which case holds the red binder?"

Sorren pointed. “Thy memory is better than mine,” the old woman muttered. “Take it out."

Sorren laid it on the desk. The brittle paper flaked on her fingers, though she touched it as lightly as she could. She recognized her own name, and pointed to it. “That is my name?"

“Yes. That tall letter is an ‘S’ character. This is the story I read you before. Now, what did I do with those papers? Ah. Here.” She lifted the small pieces of paper from the binder. “Now, you hold the Cards while I read the names. Let us see if you have the complete deck, or if there are more you do not have. The Dancer. The Weaver. The Dreamer, yes, that one. The Lady. The Lord. The Scholar; that is the man in the black robe, of course. The Lovers. The Archer.” Sorren drew that Card out with a sudden jolt of recognition. “The Messenger. The Horseman. Surely these are from the north, child. Look how in that one it is snowing, and in that the man is riding across the steppe."

“Have you been there?"

“To the steppe? No. But I have heard it described. Great plains, going on and on endlessly until they reach the mountains. A desolate countryside. The Stargazer. That is the woman in blue. The Illusionist.” Marti looked at the paper and then at the Card. “How interesting. The man in the Card is wearing the same color clothing as did the juggler at the Ismenin betrothal."

Sorren looked at the Card again. Marti was right, except that Jeshim had worn no ruff.

“The Eagle,” said Marti. “No, the Wolf, then the Eagle. The Phoenix. The Mirror. Look how cleverly that is painted. If there were no number on the Card, you would not know which way to hold it. The Tower. The Wheel. The Demon. What an ugly creature that is. Death. The Moon. The Sun.” She paused. “Is that all of them?"

“That's all,” said Sorren.

She had spread them out across the dark wooden table, in two lines of eleven.

“Look at the detail,” said Marti, marveling. “Look how the picture shows the tree on the tapestry that the Weaver is weaving, and the faces of the people trapped in the spokes of the wheel. And you cannot use them?"

“No."

“A pity."

“But it is ni'chea to use them."

Marti snorted. “No, it is jealousy on the part of the White Clan that made them declare strawcasting and stargazing and the other seeing arts ni'chea."

Sorren wondered how that could be true. Surely it was weakness that made people jealous, not strength.

“Arré said I should learn to use them, but she could not tell me how."

Marti nodded. “I agree,” she said. She touched the Card of the Scholar with one finger. “The Black Clan might have the knowledge of their use locked somewhere in their archives. But even if they did, I doubt they would share it with you. They would probably try to take the Cards away from you."

“But the Cards are mine!” Sorren said. She reached to them, ready to gather them up.

“Of course they are. I am not going to take them from you.” She leaned on one hand, gazing at the pictures. “The White Clan would know. You might ask them."

Sorren bit her lip. “I can't."

Marti smoothed the sleeves of her pale cream-colored jacket. “I don't see why not,” she said. “The L'hel may be venal, but not every witch is. You might have to swear not to use them, but a promise is only as binding as you believe it is. They might want to take them from you, but you are bonded to the Med house and they would have to ask Arré's permission to do anything, and I am sure Arré would tell them to let you keep them. Why, then, can you not ask them?"

“I can't!"

“Tell me why not,” said Marti.

Sorren told her.

Midway through the telling, Marti began to smile. When Sorren finished, she reached out and took the girl's hands in her own. “You have never told Arré this, have you?” she said. Sorren shook her head. Her throat was dry. She had never told anyone, except Paxe. “And this is your reason for not taking the Cards to the witchfolk, because you are afraid that they will force you to stay in the Tanjo, and become a witch, and never leave the city?” Her fingers were warm. “You poor child. Sorren, you cannot be forced to do anything you do not desire to do! You are a witch, yes. But there is no way, no way you can be made to exercise your talent, your far-traveling, if you don't want to use it. Tanjo means school; that is what it is, a school. I think you should go to the Tanjo, tell them what you are, and let them teach you. You may find that, after all, you don't wish to go north."

“No,” said Sorren. “I want to go."

“I assure you,” said Marti, “they would not keep you. They can't."

Sorren gazed at painted pictures. You tell me, she thought. Tell me what will happen if I do it. But the Cards remained mute. Her hands were shaking, and she clenched them at her sides. The thought of going to the Tanjo terrified her. But what if Marti Hok was right? She thought of Sorren the warrior, the princess, Sorren who looked like her, Sorren whose name and (perhaps) blood she carried. What would that Sorren have done?

She would have gone wherever she wished, and no one would have dared to touch her.

But I am not that Sorren, she thought.

Marti said gently, “Sorren, why have you never talked to Arré of this? I am sure you have not, because I know she would have told you the same thing."

Sorren rubbed her cheek. It was hard to explain. “She would have wanted me to go,” she said.

“She would never force you to."

“No. But she would talk about it and ask about it and make me feel foolish if I chose not to."

Marti nodded. “That is true,” she said gravely. “Arré does not seek power, but when it is offered her she takes it, and she would not understand your not taking it. But what does your lover, the Yardmaster, say?"

“I haven't asked her,” said Sorren.

“Why not?” said Marti. “She is a wise woman; she must be, to have Arré's trust. Perhaps you should."

* * * *

It was good advice. Sorren thought about it on her way up the hill. As she reached the Yard, she glanced through the gate bars to see if Paxe was there. The guards were training with their new wooden weapons, but Paxe was not among them. Sorren hesitated, and then went to the cottage. She knocked on the door very softly. If no one answered, she would leave.

“A moment,” called Paxe's voice. Footsteps strode across the mats and the door opened. Paxe looked out, face stern. “Oh,” she said, “it's you. Come in."

Sorren said, “If you're busy—"

“If I'm busy, I say so,” said the Yardmaster. “Come.” She stepped back. Sorren went into the cottage, carrying the Cards. She sat on the mats; Paxe threw her a cushion and she put it under her buttocks. She put the box of Cards beside the table.

“I haven't seen you in a long time,” she said to her lover.

“I'm on night watch,” Paxe said. “And you've been busy. Whenever I see you, you're on your way down the street."

Sorren started to say, Arré keeps me busy—but the words stuck in her throat. It was not Arré who kept her busy. She remembered Arré asking her if she had another lover. Did Paxe think she had another lover? She looked hard at the older woman, seeing the new lines of worry on her face. She seemed thinner, too. That could be from the sword practice, but it could be from a question she did not want to ask. When Paxe was angry or upset or troubled about something, she did not speak of it: she worked.

Sorren said, “I've missed you."

The Yardmaster held out a hand. “Then why are you all the way over there, where I can't reach you? Come here."

Sorren moved. They hugged lightly. “That's better,” whispered Paxe. She traced Sorren's eyes with her tongue. “Is something troubling you, chelito?"

Sorren put her head into the hollow of Paxe's shoulder. “There's something I have to tell you,” she said.

“Tell me,” said Paxe. She twined her fingers in Sorren's hair.

“You remember weeks ago, at the Council meeting, when Isak first asked me to drum for the betrothal?"

“I remember,” said Paxe.

She was not going to think about Isak. “Well, the next morning, Arré asked me to find out for her who the Ismenin boy was marrying."

“Was she surprised when you told her?"

“Yes—but that's not what I want to tell you. I asked Jeshim, the juggler. He was on the Jalar slipway, juggling for the sailors and fishermen. Anyway, I met this—this person on the docks. Her name is Kadra. She told me she had been a messenger, and then she hurt her leg and couldn't ride."

“Kadra. Does she live in this district?"

“No, in the Jalar district—sort of. I talked to her. She's a mapmaker. I asked her if she had heard of Tornor, and she said yes. She said she'd make me a map, to show me the towns I would have to go to, and the roads...."

Paxe said, “How long has it been since she was hurt? They've changed."

“I don't know,” Sorren said. “She never told me. A long time, I think.” She pulled herself out of Paxe's embrace. “If you keep asking me questions, I'll never tell it right,” she said.

“I'm sorry,” Paxe said. She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. “I just like to hold you."

“Hold me after. Kadra—Kadra's strange. She's a drunk. I've never seen anybody who could drink so much and still stay on her feet. She was a messenger until she hurt her hip, falling. She wants to go on the ship—the Ilnalamaré.” She said the strange word carefully, so as not to miss a syllable.

“What ship?” said Paxe. Sorren told her about the ship. She shook her head. “The things I don't know about this city. Now I've interrupted you again. Go on."

“Kadra's been marking the map for me, and she's named me all the towns between here and Tezera. I know them, all the names, I mean."

“Really? Show me."

“Terzi, Mahita, Warrintown, Elath—I'm not going to Elath—Shonet, Sharon, Nuath, Yfarra, Morriton, Septh, Kup-on-the-Marsh, Tezera."

“Very good,” said the Yardmaster.

Sorren took a breath. “There's more.” There was a loose straw on the mat; she teased it with her fingers to make it break off. “Kadra's teaching me the bow."

Paxe's back straightened. “Whose idea was that?” she said.

“Hers. She said I have to learn to hunt if I'm going to go north alone.” The stubborn straw finally came loose in her hand. She lifted her head to meet Paxe's eyes. “I know it's unlawful for me to learn a weapon art, but I just want to learn how to shoot animals, fish, nothing more."

Paxe shook her head. “Chelito, you're taking a chance,” she said gently. “Where are you learning this?"

“In a pasture in the Batto district. The bow is hidden. I was there this week and I'll go next week, and the week after that, and the week after that, until the ship leaves."

“Then what will you do?"

“I don't know,” Sorren said.

Paxe said abruptly, “Bring it here.” She rose suddenly. “I'll keep it for you, in my chest.” She pointed with her chin to the carved wooden chest. “I'll set up a target in the Yard for you to practice with. What are you shooting at now?"

“Hay bales. I'm not very good.” Sorren's pulse leaped in her throat. “Do you mean it?"

“I don't say what I don't mean,” said Paxe. She half smiled. “Chelito, you've grown."

“My clothes all fit."

“That's not what I mean.” She came across the floor and, leaning, fitted her mouth to Sorren's. They kissed, bodies making a circle of light and dark in the sunlit cottage. Paxe was the first to move her head. “Chea,” she whispered, “I'm going to miss you when you go north."

“I'm not going for a year,” Sorren said.

“It'll take me a year to get used to it,” said the Yardmaster. “Come, I want to show you something.” She brought Sorren to the chest. The carvings on the lid were in the shape of a great tree with spreading branches. Birds peered out of the branches, and the brass clasp on the chest was shaped like a bird, with great extended wings.

Paxe opened the chest and took out a sword.

It was spotted with rust, but the edge looked sharp, and the hilt and the piece of metal that protected the user's hand were bright and shiny. Paxe lifted the scabbard from the chest as well. “It's very old,” she said. “I don't have it in the scabbard because the scabbard is so worn that the leather's falling apart. The silk keeps it safe.” She held the blade to the light. “You wanted to see it,” she said. “Would you like to touch it?"

Sorren nodded. “Hold your palms out, flat,” said Paxe. Sorren obeyed, and Paxe laid the sword across her palms. It was not as heavy as she'd thought. Paxe took it back. “Do you want to grip it?"

“May I?"

“Put your right hand on the hilt."

Sorren reached her right hand out. Paxe was holding the hilt in her left hand. Sorren closed her fingers around the hilt and Paxe took her hand away. Sorren tightened her fingers. “Is it—is it old?” she said.

“Very old,” said Paxe gravely.

Sorren wondered if it had ever killed. The thought made her shiver. She closed her eyes, willing herself north with all her strength, as if the presence of the sword made a magic that would help her be there.

She was there. She was the bird, flying over the mountains—except these were not her mountains, not the great gray hills she had come to know. These were red. They reminded her of the Tanjo, except where the Tanjo stone was shaped and polished, this stone was rough and scoured by wind and rain and frost. There was snow on the peaks. Sorren-the-bird swooped lower and realized it was summer. She glimpsed green, houses, a windmill—she was riding the currents between two tall ranges, and below was a village.

She dropped lower, until she was hovering above the village. Slowly she drifted, invisible as music, down what seemed to be the main street of the village. At one point was a large dirt square—a Yard, she thought—with people in it.

They were speaking to each other, but their accents were strange; she could not understand them. Some of them had weapons, wooden knives of the type she had seen Paxe use with her soldiers. One man stood out. He was in the center of the space, with his hands on his hips, a teacher's pose, she thought. His hair was tricolored, and he tied it back from his forehead with a red scarf—a shariza, thought Sorren—and then the vision snapped.

She returned to the present to find that Paxe had taken the blade from her hand. Her knees buckled, and the Yardmaster caught her and lowered her gently to the floor. “What did you see?” she said. “The Keep?"

“No.” Sorren swallowed. Her throat and lungs ached, as if she had truly been breathing the air of the mountains. “No. Mountains—but different mountains. Red ones.” She described them.

Paxe listened, her arms around Sorren. “It sounds like the Red Hills,” she murmured as Sorren described the color and height of the snow-capped ranges. “What else did you see, chelito?"

Sorren said, “A place. A village in the mountains. And a man, teaching in a Yard. He wore a shariza.” Again she closed her eyes, trying to dredge detail from her memory. “He wore clothes like the ones you wear in the Yard, and his shirt had a pattern on it, a running horse—like the Batto crest."

“What was he teaching?"

“I saw wooden knives.” She struggled to call it back, frightened at the same time that she would turn again into Sorren-the-bird. “I've never seen this place before. What made me go there? What do you think it was?"

Paxe said, “I don't know. It could have been anywhere in the Red Hills—Tor's Rest, perhaps. Even Vanima."

Sorren jerked around. “Vanima?"

Paxe half smiled. “I didn't mean it, chelito. I think the sword took you somewhere it's been, but I can't guess where."

“I did see a cheari."

“Probably you did,” Paxe said. She slid her thumb down Sorren's spine. “But there's no way you can know for sure."

Unless I ask the witchfolk, Sorren thought.

Lifting the sword from the mats, Paxe wrapped it in silk and laid it in the chest. Sorren watched the practiced motion. Paxe had known a cheari once. A question leaped to her lips. She hesitated, and then said, “Do you think there are any left?"

Paxe understood. “No,” she said. “I hope not. The world has passed them by. It's changed."

No, Sorren thought, and her hands clenched. It hasn't changed that much!

She picked up the Cards from where she had put them, near the table. “I brought them to Marti Hok; she wanted to see them,” she explained.

“What did she think of them?” Paxe asked.

“She said I should go to the Tanjo and learn to be a witch. She said they could teach me how to use the Cards."

“Do you want to?” said Paxe.

I don't want to go to the Tanjo, Sorren thought. But what if everything Marti said was true? She remembered the moment in the street, when the black-haired witch had—touched her. She shivered with the memory. It hadn't really hurt. What if she took the Cards to the Tanjo? Fortunetelling was ni'chea; they might take the Cards away. But what if they didn't; what if they taught her how to see what was to come? It might not be so terrible to be one of them.

“What would you do?” she said.

“Were I you?” said Paxe. “I would go."

“And if I do go, and become a witch,” Sorren said, “will you still be my love?"

Paxe's mouth twisted, as if the words hurt. Crossing the space between them, she bent and kissed the top of Sorren's head. Her voice husked as she answered, “I will love you always, wherever you go."

* * * *

Arré went to bed early. The excursion to the well had tired her; she did not eat, much to the cook's disgust. Climbing to her chamber, she leaned heavily on Sorren's arm. “Did Marti like your Cards?” she asked from her bed. Sorren nodded. “Good."

After putting Arré to sleep—like a worn and cranky child, she insisted on talking until she fell asleep in mid-sentence—Sorren went to her room. But the silence disturbed her. She was restless, too restless to sleep, but she did not want to drum. She went downstairs to the little parlor. Elith waddled in and noticed her. “What are you doing here?” said the old woman. “Go, go.” She made shooing motions with both hands. It was futile to argue; Sorren left. She went into the kitchen. Toli was cleaning a sturgeon for breakfast, the fish smell made her flinch.

Finally she went outside. The sky was moonless; the crescent moon that had roamed the afternoon sky was down beneath the world. Sorren walked through the rear courtyard. The tiles were cold on her bare feet. If she went to the Tanjo.... The thought dried her mouth. She walked to the Yard fence and passed a hand over a plank. If she was truly a witch.... She bit her lip and continued to walk, fingers trailing lightly on the wood.

She walked by the Yard gate, and stopped. Someone was in there. The sound of heavy, deliberate breathing reached her across the fenced-in space, as even as the sound of the sea. She looked through the gate and her heart pounded. Paxe stood in the Yard. That tall silhouette was unmistakable. She held a sword as if she faced an enemy, and she was moving a swift pattern, back plumbline straight. Sorren curled her hands around the chill bars of the gate and stayed very still. The sword gleamed; it was metal, not wood.

Paxe had not seen her. The Yardmaster wore the clothes she usually wore on watch, but in the starlit night she seemed more like a shade than a human being. Her movements reminded Sorren of Isak's movements in the dance, but where Isak was graceful, Paxe was deadly. Suddenly, Isak seemed like a child, playing at art. This is the true art, Sorren thought. Her eyes began to ache, and she blinked to ease them. In the blur, Paxe's outline changed, and Sorren saw not Paxe, but the teacher of her vision.... She blinked again, and saw her lover. This was a Paxe Sorren did not know, perhaps had never known. The girl shivered. And, tall and slim and deadly, Paxe danced; thrusting, leaping, thrusting again, a dark and fluid shadow against the pattern of stars, the whites of her eyes glittering like quartz.

Seventeen

The fourth day of the week, Sorren went to the house on Plum Street to meet Kadra.

Now that she had told Paxe about Kadra and about the bow, Sorren found it easier to simply do her work and leave the house. Elith grumbled, but as long as Sorren did the shopping and the cleaning, she could not complain. Arré did not seem to mind.

On Plum Street, the Asech children were playing Catch Me in among the houses and gardens. Sorren looked for the girl with the blocks who had first directed her to the goat hutch, but could not find her. All the children, with their dark eyes and brown skins and narrow faces, looked alike.

Kadra was not in the goat hutch. Sorren looked everywhere behind the house. She even went to the windows and put her face against the screen, trying to see through the silk-flecked paper, but saw nothing. She called. Only the high laughter of the children answered her. Finally she left Plum Street and went to the pasture.

Tammo was delighted to see her. He went at once to the place where the bow and arrows were hidden and pulled them out. “No, Tammo, I'm not going to shoot today,” Sorren said. His face wrinkled in disappointment. “Tammo, have you seen Kadra?” He whined, and wriggled, and then shook his head. “You haven't seen Kadra, Tammo?” He waved his hands in the air emphatically. “If you see her, tell her Sorren is looking for her. Sorren. Can you remember that?” The child-man nodded and waved his hands. “Sorren,” she repeated, and picked her way across the littered pasture.

She no longer had to ask directions to the Jalar slipway. Hurrying across the city, she strode through the Sul district to The Silver Fish. Shards of blue glass from the front casement glittered on the cobbles like the lapis lazuli of her comb, and the tavern's heavy swinging door had been torn right off its hinges. A man festooned with carpenter's tools was measuring the casement. “What happened?” she said.

He grunted. “Some fool of a wagon driver tried to drive along the street and rammed into the building. Door gone, windows gone. Norres is so mad she's pickled.” Sorren could hear the tavern owner screaming within the inn. Turning from the refuse, she walked toward the pier, glad that she had worn her sandals. A dog growled at her from a doorway, and she shied a pebble at it.

The guards in yellow let her stand on the pier for a long time. She gazed at the ship. It looked finished. The sides sloped smoothly up to the deck. The stern was square, the bow pointed. Three tall masts towered in the air. Ropes hung all over them, and there were more ropes coiled all over the ship. Where the sides of the ship curved inward, at bow and stern, cabins had been built, and in several places on the deck there were square holes with covers beside them. Ladders slanted down into the darkness. The deck was white, and so were the ship's sides, and the cabins were yellow. As Sorren watched, a black and white cat marched across the deck, agile as an acrobat amid the clutter of ropes and rolled canvas and boxes.

“Can I go down there?” she asked. The mud seemed deserted. But Kadra might be there, near the ship she loved. The guards frowned but waved her on, and she scudded down the slope of the slipway in a clatter of pebbles.

Near the ship, the stink of fresh paint almost overcame the sea smell. Clay pots peppered the beach at odd angles. In places the shifting mud had thrown the pots to one side. A red-shelled crab waved its claws at her defiantly from a pot rim. She went to the next one; not even a crab greeted her.

She called, her voice mingling with the ocean's. “Kadra!” No one answered. At last she gave up, and climbed back to the street. She went to the inn. Two women were maneuvering a plank through the doorway; Sorren waited until they were inside, and then followed them.

Hammering sounds were coming from the kitchen. Norres stood in the middle of the tavern's common room, arms akimbo, telling the carpenters that if they wasted any more time she was not going to pay them. Her staccato voice, like rain, beat on Sorren's ears. The tavern owner saw Sorren watching and swung around. “What d'you want?"

“I'm looking for Kadra,” Sorren said. “We were supposed to meet today, at a house on Plum Street. But she wasn't there."

Norres glared. Her hair was ragged and short; it barely touched her shoulders. “I don't know where that one is."

“When did you last see her?"

“Two days ago, drunk.” She swung on the carpenters again. “And you'll pay for the beer you're drinking, too. D'you think it's free?"

Sorren tried again. “Don't you want to know where she is?"

“Why should I?” snapped Norres.

“I thought—"

“I don't care what you thought,” said the innkeeper. She looked Sorren up and down. “Gawky, aren't you."

“No,” Sorren said. “I'm not gawky, I'm tall. And I want to find Kadra. She's sick. She could be sick, somewhere in the city, lying in the road—"

Norres’ eyes fastened on hers. She had green eyes, green as jade, and smoky. Quietly she said, “I know that. And I've learned not to see, over the years."

“Years?"

“Eight years we've been lovers. You wouldn't know. That one never says. Eight years—and I've watched the drinking and the fighting, knowing that someday they'll come to me and say, ‘You know Kadrano-Ilézia, the ghya. Better come to the guardhouse, there's a body you might want.’ When a person wants death as much as that one does there's little to do to keep her from it. I've done my best. But after a while, you just give up."

Sorren felt as if she had suddenly stepped into a morass. “I don't understand,” she said.

“No, how should you?” said Norres, and Sorren saw that her incredible eyes were filled with tears. “Go home, girl, to wherever your home is, and find your lover and hold her, and be happy. Did you look by the ship?” Sorren nodded. “So did I, last night. Did you go to Tammo's?"

“Yes."

“I couldn't. But if that one was dead, I think I'd know.” Scowling, she dashed the tears from her eyes. “Ai, now you've made me weep, and I swore to give up weeping for that one. Get out of here, girl. You're in the way."

At that moment, they heard the conches blowing.

“But there's no fog—” said one of the carpenters.

“That's the danger signal!” said Norres. “Fire or flood or fight.” She cocked her head. “Where's it coming from?"

“North,” said the carpenter.

“No, west,” said the other.

* * * *

Sorren said, “I'd better go.” She slipped out the door, listening to the bellowing horns. Slowly she began to trot north, across the Jalar district into Isara territory. An Isara guard ran across her path, carrying a pike and a sling with three weighted balls on it, for throwing. She yelled something incomprehensible as she raced by.

As Sorren turned into the Avenue of the Pines, she heard the conches blowing. “Awoo,” they howled, like wolves across the plains. “Aawhooo!” A man loped by, carrying a piece of wood with iron nails sticking out of it. He saw her and yelled wordlessly, and swung the makeshift club over his head in a circle, but did not stop. Frightened but determined, Sorren left the avenue and headed toward the Tanjo. She heard a dull roar, like the sound of the sea in a rainstorm. She froze, heart thumping, trying to decide where it came from so that she could go the other way.

As she hesitated, it caught up with her. Suddenly the street was filled with people, all shouting. She saw a man with a knife, and another man trying to wrest it from his hands. There was blood on their clothes. A woman crouched in a doorway, gripping the bottom of a broken bottle.

“Jalar—Jalar—Jalar—Jalar—” The chant came from the south. “I—sar—a, I—sar—a—” Sorren looked for a place to hide. All the people in front of her ran backward with a rush, and she had to run with them or be trampled. There was a scream as somebody fell. A knife flashed, then another. The Jalar guards were trying to drive the people into the Isara guards, and the people were fighting back. Under and around and over the din, the conches blew. Get off the streets! they said.

Sorren's throat felt as if she had been breathing sand. She backed into a shallow doorway, and realized that it was the doorway where the woman with the bottle had crouched. Sorren looked around for her but she was nowhere to be seen. A woman in a Jalar guard tunic ran past, limping. Blood streamed down her leg.

The street seemed clear. Sorren stepped from the doorway, trembling. Suddenly, it filled again. People spilled into the alley like water pouring into a tide pool. Sorren pressed into the doorway. A woman tumbled backward out of the knot of people fighting, and her head hit at Sorren's feet, an ugly, pulpy sound. She did not move. Sorren stretched her hand out and touched the woman's mouth, and felt nothing. The pale face stared upward, unseeing. Sorren fisted her hand in the woman's shirt and tried to drag her into the shelter of the doorway. The head bumped on the stones.

She let go. More chanting echoed down the street, coming from the north. She heard marching. “Is—men—in, Is—men—in!” Soldiers in gold and gray, the Ismenin colors, blocked the mouth of the street. They held swords in front of them. Slowly they began to march forward, toward the brawlers.

Sorren flattened into the hard wood of the door. She watched the swords advance. The soldiers’ faces were set, intransigent. A man tried to club at one of them; the sword slashed his throat. He rolled away, with blood running down his chest and back. A small dark man appeared to be giving the orders. She turned her face away so that she would not see a sword coming at her. The street shook. Then they were past her, leaving the smashed and sodden dead behind.

She crawled into the street. The conches had ceased; there was no sound from the city. It took her a long time to pull the dead woman's body into the doorway. Her hands and arms shook, and she wept. When she finished, there was red on her hands. A door opened, across the street, and a man looked out. When he saw her, he shut it quickly. She wondered who lived behind it, and if they were home, and if they had known she was there. Dragging herself up, she made herself walk past one dead body, then another. The sound of the wind blowing up the avenues, sharp and fresh as pain, seemed to her to be the sound of the city, crying.

* * * *

The din had stopped.

Arré stood beside the window of the parlor, waiting for the messengers that Paxe had sent to return.

Her stomach churned with tension. The first guard had reported breathlessly that the Jalar and Ismenin guards were fighting with live swords in the city streets. The next guard said no, it was not that; a fight had broken out in the Jalar docks and the Isara and Jalar guards had together been unable to halt it. “If the Ismenin soldiers hadn't come, it could have spread into the Hok district and maybe even farther.!"

“I doubt it,” Arré said. But the sound of the conches frightened her. The last time the conches had been blown a fire had threatened to engulf half the Sul district, and it had taken the combined forces of three districts and the mindlifters from the Tanjo to extinguish it. In the kitchen, the apprentices were chattering about the fight. Arré's nerves screamed. She wanted a drink. She clenched her fists and walked back and forth across the parlor. I should have known, she thought, and was answered, Don't be silly, how could you have known? Are you omniscient, can you see into the future? Such things happen.

I do not believe this fight just “happened,” she thought, and no, I am not omniscient. Nevertheless, I should have known.

Paxe came in. She was wearing armor, overlapping scales of leather and steel, and carrying a pike. “Twenty-two dead,” she said softly. “They are clearing the streets now."

Arré groaned. Last report had said twelve dead, why was twenty-two so much worse than twelve? “Is Sorren back yet?” she said.

“Not yet,” said Paxe.

Lalith came in, eyes bright. “Two more responses, one from Boras Sul, one from Kim Batto,” she said. “They both say they will come. The cook wants to know what he should fix for dinner."

“I'm not hungry,” said Arré Lalith bowed and went out.

Paxe said, “It's better to eat."

Arré said, “The dead don't eat."

Paxe shook her head. “Arré, you are not responsible."

“I feel responsible."

“Feelings are not fact."

“And patience is a virtue,” snapped Arré, turning from the window. “Don't cant at me. Have your guards managed to get one of those swords, yet?"

“Not yet."

“I want one. And I want someone, anyone, Paxe, who saw this riot start. It can be someone who was in it, who fought in it, I don't care, I want her. Get her for me."

“I will. Be patient.” Paxe's calm was infuriating. The Yardmaster went to the doorway, called for Lalith, and gave her instructions. Then she came back into the parlor.

She leaned her pike casually inside the door. The cook came in. He put his hands on his hips. “What do you mean, you won't eat?” he said. “You'll get sick.” Lalith slid through the doorway with a bowl of apples on her palms, and he gaped at her.

“Go away,” Paxe said to him. He reared his head back, offended. “Make food. She'll eat it."

The scent of the apples made Arré's mouth water. She said, between her teeth, “Don't talk about me as if I were invisible!"

Lalith put the bowl on the table, bowed, and left the room. Paxe picked up an apple and turned it in her palms. Sorren walked in. Paxe put the apple down.

Arré said, “Where the hell have you been? The Council meets tonight, here!"

Sorren went to the bowl of apples. “I was there,” she said softly.

Her face was pinched and white. Arré went to her. She was hunting intently through the bowl of apples as if it were the most important thing in the room. She picked a soft yellow apple from the bowl, and cupped it in her hands. There was red around her nails, and dirt on her clothes, and her eyes were odd.

“You were where?” said Arré.

“At the fight. I saw it."

Arré grew cold. “What were you doing there?"

“I was on the docks. I heard the conches—” She bit into the apple and began to shake. Her mouth worked. “I hid in a doorway. A woman died in front of me. Her head was all soft, like mud.” She swallowed, shaking.

Paxe took the apple from her hand. “Go and wash,” she said crisply. Over her shoulder to Arré, she said, “Best to keep her occupied.” To Sorren she said, “There's a Council tonight, and you will be needed. Lalith!” It was her Yard voice. Lalith shot into the room as if kicked from behind. “Take Sorren to the laundry and help her get clean. Stay with her."

“But—the kitchen—"

“Go,” said Paxe. She pushed Sorren's shoulder. The blond girl went out. Arré looked at Paxe and saw that she was trembling with fury. “If something had happened to her—” the Yardmaster said.

“Nothing did,” Arré said. Paxe took a deep breath and calmed herself, but her eyes were obsidian.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor; both women turned. A guard came to the doorway, holding a sword. “You wanted this, Yardmaster."

Paxe took it from him. “Thank you. Dismissed.” He bowed and clumped away. “Look, Arré.” Paxe held the blade to the light; sun shimmered on the steel. Arré shuddered, wondering if it had killed anyone.

“Where did it come from?” she said. “Can you tell?"

Paxe nodded. “This is Ismenin smithwork. The steel is lighter than Tezeran steel. This is one of the swords Cha Minto brought east."

“If it was Cha Minto,” said Arré.

Paxe said, “Leth-no-Chayatha was not lying, Arré."

“Oh, I believe you.” But I know Cha Minto, Arré thought, and even with Isak's connivance, I cannot believe he has anything to do with the presence of swords in the city. It has to have been the Ismeninas. “Would you swear to the origin of the sword?” she asked.

“In the Tanjo,” said Paxe.

Arré's eyes stung. I shall have to tell her, she thought. “Paxe—” She drew a deep breath —

Paxe interrupted her. “I know what you're about to suggest,” she said. “You're about to say that Dobrin lied to me. Don't say it."

Arré sighed. “No,” she said, “that is not what I was about to say. If you say Dobrin was telling you truth, I must believe you. I do not know the man. Only—someone might have lied to him."

Paxe frowned. “Y-y-yes. But he was so certain, Arré."

Arré said, “Tonight, after the meeting, I will speak to Cha Minto. I will tell him what you have told me about the swords, and his part in it. Do you wish to be here?"

“Yes,” said the Yardmaster. “Is that possible?"

“It can be arranged,” Arré said.

Paxe sighted down the sword edge. “I would like that,” she said softly. She reached for the pike. “I must put this away. If you want me, I will be in the laundry for a few moments, and then down the hill, near the Tanjo guardhouse. The gate guard will know where to find me.” She edged sideways out the door, carrying a weapon in each hand. Arré's throat ached; she wanted to weep. We shouldn't have waited, she thought; we should have searched the Ismenin Yard and taken the swords from it, we should have stopped the sword training the week it started, twenty-two dead, I should have known, I should have been able to avert it, damn Ron Ismenin; O mother, I should have known....

* * * *

When Paxe got to the laundry, after putting the weapons within the Yard gate, Sorren was alone. She was drying her hair with a towel, and the strands ran like spun gold between her palms and the cloth. The laundry was dingy; once it had been painted bright saffron, but over the years, steam from the tubs had peeled the paint from the walls. Sorren's pale skin was scarlet. As Paxe entered, she dropped the towel and ran like a deer between the tubs.

“You'll scratch yourself,” Paxe said, holding her gently off from the armor.

“I don't care,” said Sorren.

Paxe glanced around the damp building. “Where's Lalith? I told her to stay with you."

Sorren said, “Cook needed her, so I told her to go. I'm all right."

“Are you?"

“Yes,” said Sorren. With her hair slicked back across her forehead, she looked like a pale and furless seal. Paxe stroked her face.

“Did you come here naked?"

“No. Lalith took my dirty clothes and brought me clean ones.” Collecting the clean clothes from a hook, she put them on. She pulled the drawstring of the trousers tight. “Paxe, what made it happen?"

Paxe said, “I don't know, chelito.” But I can guess, she thought. Ron Ismenin made it happen. She thought of Dobrin, with heartache.

Sorren wound her hair around her hands and twisted it, like cloth. Water dripped on the floor. “Is there really a Council tonight?” she asked.

“Arré said so,” said Paxe, envying the resilience of youth. They forget so quickly, she thought; horror passes through their minds like a bad dream. “Will you feel well enough to serve?"

Sorren frowned. “I'm not a child.” She held her hands out in front of her, scrutinizing them, knuckles, nails, palms. Paxe looked at her quizzically and she blushed. “They were bloody."

Paxe took the immaculate hands in hers, and kissed them. “If you had been hurt—” She could not complete the sentence. She had a brief, harrowing vision of Sorren sprawled lifeless in the street. A terrible anger surged through her muscles, shivering her like a leaf.

Sorren said, “Paxe?"

“Never mind,” Paxe said. “Chelito, I'm on duty; I must go.” She pushed the laundry door open. They went outside. The breeze felt cool after the steamy heat.

The west was turning lavender, as the falling sun hastened in its flight to the mountains. Paxe drew Sorren to her and kissed her mouth. The girl's lips were soft, and they tasted of soap. “Drink some wine before you sleep tonight,” she suggested.

“I'd rather smoke heavenweed,” said Sorren. They walked toward the house.

“Yardmaster!"

Paxe turned. Sekki was hastening to her across the courtyard. “Yardmaster, we found him."

“Who?” said Paxe.

“The one you wanted. Someone who saw the fight start. He's a fisherman. He saw everything begin, he says, and ran when the guards came. He hid in a privy. He stinks to the moon but he's willing to talk."

“Where is he?” said Paxe.

“In the Yard. Kaleb's got him."

Paxe said, “I'll come right away."

The fisherman's name was Luki. He was young, a scant sixteen, with an adult's breadth of shoulder and the bow-legged stance of one who spends most of his time braced against a boat's pitch and roll.

They took him to the laundry and cleaned him up, but he still stank. It was Paxe's idea to have Arré talk to him in the kitchen. After some prodding, he admitted shyly that he had not eaten since the dawn. Paxe cut him some bread and cheese. Arré sat on a stool, he sat on another, holding bread in one hand and cheese in the other and taking alternate bites.

He wore the coarse cotton clothes of a poor man, and his arms and hands were covered with scars—"From th’ skinnin’ knives,” he said, when Arré asked what made them. He started out slowly, obviously in awe of her and somewhat frightened of Paxe, who was a head taller than he. But in a short while, the story took him, and he forgot his listeners.

“I was comin’ off the ship—we had a load of spot fish an’ the’ cap'n wants ‘em put in the tubs so we can run to the outer banks, it was a real good haul, they were near leapin’ into the nets—an’ I saw a crowd o’ dockies—what you call dock workers, m'lady—all standin’ about in a circle, laughin’ and pointin'. I went to see what was they laughin’ about. What it was, they tied Granny Cat in one of her own nets, bein’ funny they thinks."

“Who is Granny Cat?” asked Arré.

“She's an old woman mends nets for the fishers. She's a bit silly, you know, but she can still tie nets with the best of ‘em, my ma says.... She was mad as fire, spittin’ and yellin’ and clawing at them through the net, and they was all laughin’ and pointin’ and some was pokin’ at her to make her madder the way you might poke a dog to tease it.... I wouldn't even poke a dog. They wasn't all dockies, neither, some o’ them was swanks—"

“What's a swank?” said Arré.

He grinned shyly. “You're a swank, m'lady. The housefolk."

Arré nodded. “Go on,” she said gently. “Who were these swanks?"

“Ismeninas,” he said succinctly. “The two young ones."

“How many dock workers were there in the circle?” said Paxe softly.

“Oh, maybe fifteen. But there was plenty of ‘em just standin’ ‘round watchin'. An’ then the res’ of the crew comes up. Medi, she's the second mate, she sees what's doin’ and goes storming out there, bein’ as Granny Cat is some kind of aunt of hers, and she starts yellin'. So they start to tie her up, too, in one o’ Granny's trawl nets, an’ she starts to fight with ‘em, and then the rest of the crew sees it and they all pile in."

“Who drew the first weapon?” said Paxe.

“Medi pulled her dirk to cut the net off Granny, and someone got in the way. She didn't mean to cut him. Then the crew o’ the Eel hears the noise—the Eel's in dock while they scrape her—and they come fallin’ out. Then the Jalar guards was all over an’ I ran.” He shivered. “I saw m’ cousin get stabbed across the throat. The blood—I'm a coward about blood, m'lady, I can't help it, it makes me go all sick and queasy. I ran clear off the dock, and stayed there. When I came out, there was two folk dead and three more bloodied like fightin’ seal—Medi was one o’ them, and her face was all slashed—"

Paxe said, “That's enough.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Where do you live?"

“Jalar district. Sam Street."

“Can you go home, or will the Jalar guards pick you up?"

“Dunno.” He hunched his shoulders.

“I'll send a guard with you,” said Paxe. “Here.” She laid a largo in his hands. He gazed at it, unbelieving.

“Jus’ for talkin'?” he said.

“That's right. And for not talking about this,” said Arré. “Forget you ever saw this house."

He grinned slyly. “What house?” He ran his thick fingers over the bonta. “I never held one o’ these before.” He rose, and bowed awkwardly. “I won't say nothin', m'lady."

* * * *

He followed Paxe to the door; Arré heard her hail a guard. Then she came back in and stood with her hands on her hips. “It was the Ismeninas,” she said.

Arré nodded. “I thought it would be.” She rose. “The Ismenin soldiers had to know that the riot was happening. They were there, ready, and armed. The only way they could have known it was happening so quickly was if they knew before it started, which meant they had to start it—” She found herself calling down old curses on Ron Ismenin in her mind; may your harvest fail and your seed be barren, may the winter demons devour your soul....

“Will Ron Ismenin be coming to the Council?” said Paxe.

“No,” said Arré. Not now or ever, she thought. Her stomach lurched at the picture of the woman on the dock, face bloodied “like fightin’ seal."

The cook tramped back in. He sniffed. “Stinks,” he said.

“Never mind,” said Arré.

“Don't blame me if the food smells strange.” He began to chop meat with great sweeping strokes of his cleaver.

Arré went to her study and sank into her chair with knees that shook. Lalith entered. “The Lady Marti Hok says she will attend the Council meeting, Lady."

“Good,” said Arré. “Let me know when Cha Minto responds."

At last, the vivid images faded from her mind. She called Lalith to find out what the cook was fixing.

“Soup, Lady."

“Bring me some."

Lalith returned with a bowl filled with pea soup. It smelled wonderful. “Where is Sorren?” Arré asked.

“Dressing, Lady. Do you need her?"

“No. Later I will."

All through dinner, guards came to the door with news. There were, on final count, twenty-three dead and forty-one wounded. Of the dead, six were Jalar guards. Seven Isara guards and three Hok guards were hurt badly. If the Ismenin Yard had casualties, it was not admitting them; after clearing the streets, the Ismenin soldiers returned to their posts and, armor and swords out of sight, resumed their normal duties. Someone, in the confusion of the day, tried to start a fire in the Isara district, but the Isara guards put it out and arrested the man, who was nearly killed on the way to the guardhouse by his infuriated neighbors. Besides the deaths, there was property damage: slashed and broken screens, torn nets, overturned barrows. There were also complaints of theft; in the aftermath of the riot, the abandoned streets became a target for half the city's thieves. Forty-three people were arrested. It seemed likely that there had been more involved in the riot, (near one hundred, Paxe said) but the others had melted away, into alleys and gardens and houses and pastures. The men and women arrested were staying stubbornly silent, but Arré thought that their silence would last no more than three or four days, until the core of them realized that no one was going to break or buy them from the guardhouse. Then they would begin to talk.

* * * *

Marti Hok was the first to arrive. Arré met her at the front door, and kissed her. “My dear,” said the old woman tremulously, “what a terrible thing."

“Come.” Arré brought her to the big parlor and settled her in a chair. She had ordered the wine to be heated. She rang for it now, and Sorren came in with a tray. She brought Marti a mug of steaming wine, and questioned Arré with her eyebrows and a pointing finger. Arré sighed. She wanted wine. “Tea."

Cha Minto and Kim Batto entered together. Arré gazed at Cha with contempt, and at Kim with venom. Welcome to my web, she thought. Cha was nervous and silent. He took the mug Sorren brought him in both hands, and drank half the wine straight down, ignoring its heat.

Kim was more deliberate. He settled himself in his armchair before speaking. “Marti, I understand that three of your guards were injured in this incident. I am so sorry."

“Thank you,” said Marti. “That is kind of you."

Boras Sul came through the doors. “Terrible!” he exclaimed. “Shocking!” He sank into a chair. “Ghastly!"

Marti said, “Boras, can you only say one word at a time?"

He gazed at her with an injured expression. “I—"

“Because if you cannot speak in sentences, I beg you to be quiet."

He flushed an unlovely red, and took the wine from Sorren's hands without seeing her. “Very sorry,” he said stiffly.

Kim said, “Our scribe is not here?"

“She will be,” said Arré. “Patience is a virtue, Kim."

Sorren brought Arré her tea in a cup with the red and blue fish. The fishtails swirled in the ceramic sea. They reminded Arré of dancers. We are all dancers, she thought, especially Isak, who is not here tonight. And Ron Ismenin. But this is my house, and I will contrive this dance. She sipped the tea. Sorren had dropped honey in it, and the sweet taste was soothing. The lamp flames flickered in their painted prisons as the south wind rattled the window screens.

Azulith came in. In subdued silence, she seated herself at Arré's left, and set up her brushes and ink. Arré waited until she had the first scroll in her lap.

“Councillors,” she said, “I have something to declare. I wish to discuss the manufacture, smuggling, and use of the short sword, the kyomos, by the Ismeninas."

Kim Batto said, “Is that really the question before us? I beg to differ with you, Arré. I believe that the event that brings us here tonight has less to do with the presence of short swords in the city than it does with who keeps order in the city streets. It is clear to me that the Jalar soldiers failed badly in their attempt to keep the riot from spreading. I think the Ismenin house deserves, not censure, but commendation for having sent their soldiers so promptly to the aid of the Jalar guards."

Kim Batto being pompous, Arré thought, would set even a ceramic fish's teeth on edge. She wondered if he had helped to plan the riot. She doubted it. She imagined Isak and Ron Ismenin together working out the movements of the troops the way Isak arranged the steps of his dances.

Marti Hok said, “Kim, do you really want to discuss order in the city?"

Kim twisted in his chair to face the old woman. “I don't know what you mean by that tone."

“The riot started in the shipyards, Jalar territory. It spread to my district when the rioters fled from the pikes of the Jalar guards. What prompted the Ismenin soldiers to come to the ‘aid’ of the Jalaras, as you put it? Did they ask for help? I do not think so."

Kim Batto said angrily, “Perhaps they should have! I have no idea why the Ismeninas were there when they were needed, but I think it was lucky that they were."

Marti smoothed her sleeves. “I doubt that luck had anything to do with it."

Boras Sul, with one of his rare flashes of intelligence, said, “How did they know there was going to be a fight, eh?"

Cha Minto was so pallid as to be almost white. He said, “You think the Ismeninas knew about the fight before it happened?"

Arré said, “Cha, I think they planned it. But that should come as no surprise to you."

He shook his head; his hands trembled. “I did not know,” he stammered. “How could I know?"

Could he really have been so oblivious? thought Arré.

Marti Hok lost her temper. “Cha, don't be more of a dolt than you are!” she said, “Who gave you those words to say?” She mimicked him savagely. “Why would anyone do that? For power! You are near forty and you cannot see the strongest motive of all at work? Arré, explain it to him."

Arré said, “It was the swords that cleared the streets, yes. But the Ismeninas knew about the fight; perhaps hired the people who began it. Kim, here, is the Ismenin voice on the Council.” Kim started to protest and she rode over him. “It is the Ismenin wish to create a market in the city for the short sword. This incident was staged, to make it look as if the sword is needed to keep order in the city."

Kim said, sulkily, “You have no proof of any of that, Arré."

Marti said, “We have no proof of your involvement. But twelve of the rioters are in the Hok guardhouses, not the Ismenin guardhouses, and though the ones in the Ismenin guardhouses will no doubt stay silent, the ones in my guardhouses will speak, or I do not know my Yardmaster. Three Hok guards were injured, as you pointed out, in the fight.” She clutched her cane, as angry as Arré had ever seen her. “They will speak."

Kim's manner lost some of its assurance. He gulped his wine. “Since when is creating a market a crime, Marti? If it is, then Arré Med must answer for the drunks and derelicts that haunt the wine shops, and we must all claim responsibility for the heavenweed addicts."

“Perhaps we must,” Arré said. “There were twenty-three people killed in Kendra-on-the-Delta today. If people die to serve someone else's political ambition, then I believe that ambition to be a gross and evil thing. At best, we must call it a mistake. If we are no better than our ancestors who used the sword, then we should go back to killing people by planning and fighting wars. War at least is an open evil.” Her voice shook, and she stopped speaking, astonished at her own passion. “I didn't know I was going to say that,” she said.

Marti raised her wine mug in silent commendation. But Kim said, with fury. “You are a fine one to talk, Arré Med. Your own Yard is training in the kyomos."

“And how did you learn that?” murmured Arré. “From Ron Ismenin, or from the Tanjo?"

Cha said loudly, “What of the Tanjo?"

“Nothing,” said Kim coldly. “Arré was joking."

Arré said, “There is nothing about this that I find funny, Kim. And you are quite wrong about the absence of proof of my charges. There is proof. I can put my hands on it.” She stared hard at him. If you fight me, Kim Batto, she thought, I will make public here and now your dealings with the Nuathan.

The message seemed to reach him; his lips tightened, and he stared hard into his cup.

Marti Hok said, “What is your proposal, Arré?"

The room seemed to contract. Arré said, “I propose that this Council officially ban the making, import, and use of the kyomos, the short sword, in Kendra-on-the-Delta. I further propose that the Ismenin family be censured for having brought the sword into the city, and fined for the entire amount of the damage done in today's riot.” Marti Hok nodded. “I also suggest that at the next meeting of the Council, next month, we consider extending the Ban to the kyomos. Considering today's events, I feel sure that the Tanjo will support it."

“I agree,” said Marti.

“So do I,” said Boras. “Shocking."

Since three votes were all that were needed to pass Arré's resolution, neither Kim nor Cha spoke. Kim looked shrunken, like a bladder with the air pricked from it.

“I will ask you all to leave now,” Arré said. “I'm tired."

Azulith was first to rise. She packed up her cases in silence, bowed to the Councillors, and shuffled from the chamber. Kim stamped out without farewells. Boras mumbled something about the wine and left in the care of his servant. Sorren brought Marti's cloak to her.

Marti said, “Arré, do you still think that this Council should treat with Tarn i Nuath Ryth as an equal? He is a man who delights in weaponry. We would have more blood in the streets."

“That's exactly what we would not have,” Arré said. “Tarn Ryth is open about his weapons.” Cha Minto was fumbling with the slits of his cloak like a man struck blind. Arré touched his arm. “Cha. Will you stay a moment?"

His eyes were pits. “I—I should go—Arré—you remember what I told you at the betrothal—"

“Before Isak dragged you away? I remember. Do you remember what I said? You should have come to me.” Pity stirred in her for him; he looked so desperate. “Stay,” she said gently. “Stay and we will talk."

She walked Marti to the litter. The horned moon sat over the ocean like a boat. As they reached the foggy courtyard, the thoughts that had been burning in her since she first heard the toll of the dead burst from her lips. “Marti—did we make this happen, with our rumors and our plans? Suppose we had left Ron Ismenin alone, might not the city be at peace tonight?"

Marti shook her head. “No.” Behind her, the bells jangled as the litter-bearers rose to their feet. “No, my dear, we did not make this happen. We did not bring swords into the city. What if this had taken place at Festival, Arré? I think that was when it was planned for. More would be dead, and in the outcry of horror it is possible that the Ismeninas would be looked upon as saviors.” She laid her cheek against Arré's for a moment. “I think it is very likely that in doing what we did, we saved some lives."

Eighteen

Arré listened to the diminishing sound of the bells. When she could hear them no longer, she walked across the courtyard to where the gate guard stood, leaning on his pike. The scent of fallen kava fruit blew toward her in the mist. Autumn is here, she thought. “Idrith,” she said.

The guard came to attention. “My lady."

“The Yardmaster said that you would know where she is. Would you send for her, please?"

He pursed his mustached lip and whistled, a two-note, piercing call. In a moment, the same call was repeated, farther away. “That's the signal, my lady,” he explained. “She'll come when she hears it."

“Thank you,” said Arré. She went into the house. Sorren was standing in the hall. “What are you doing, hanging about?” said Arré. “Go to sleep."

“Cha Minto is still here."

“I know that! Bring a pitcher of tea to the parlor and then leave us. Do you think I cannot pour a cup of tea? Who do you think served at the Council meetings when my mother was alive? I did, when they were here."

“I know,” Sorren said. “You've told me."

“Go,” Arré said. “I can't make you, you're too big."

Sorren smiled. “I'm going.” She walked toward the kitchen. Arré returned to the large parlor. Cha Minto sat huddled in his armchair like a little boy anticipating punishment. Arré brought the lamp from the mantel and set it on the table between them. Sorren opened the door with her shoulder and came in with a tray. She put it on the table.

“Thank you,” Arré said. “Leave the door open when you go out.” Sorren nodded, and put her fist to her mouth to hide a yawn.

Arré poured the tea, watching the black leaves swirl to the bottom. Cha Minto leaned from the armchair and took the nearest. “Marti was right, wasn't she?” he said. His face twisted. “I have been rather a dolt."

“A dupe,” said Arré. She cocked her head, hearing footsteps. Like a large shadow Paxe slipped through the open door of the parlor. Soundless as a shadow, she went behind Cha's chair, and vanished. “For how long has my brother been treating you as if you were his property, Cha?"

He rubbed his eyes. “Does it look like that?"

“Yes."

“It didn't start like that."

“When did it start?"

“Around Midsummer Festival, I guess. I watched him dance. After the dance, I went up to him, just to say—you know, the things one says. How beautiful I thought it was. He—he was charming to me. Witty, complimentary—how can I describe it?"

“You don't have to,” Arré said dryly. “I know Isak. Go on."

Something creaked in the big dark room; the wind on the screens, or Paxe, stretching in her concealment. Arré tensed, but Cha did not seem to hear it. “He invited me to his house. I reciprocated. We talked. It was pleasant."

“What did you talk about?” said Arré.

“You, mostly. Not at first. But after a while, the talk was all about you.” He flushed. “I—I'm sorry. But I must say I believed most of it; that you were jealous of Isak's beauty and talents, that you gave him only nominal responsibility, that you ran everything, even the grapefields, and that even though he was your heir, you told him nothing of what was happening at the Council, nor asked his opinion or advice—"

Arré drank, and watched the tea leaves settle again. “Some of that is true,” she said. “I don't invite Isak to the Council, nor ask his opinion. I don't trust him. As for the grapefields—he hates them. His wife runs them. And I suppose I am jealous of his beauty. But I would not let that jealousy interfere with my judgment.” I don't think I would, she amended privately. I hope I would not. “So you became friends."

“We became friends."

“Lovers?"

Cha shook his head. “No. Oh, I will admit it crossed my mind—but no.” He hunched forward in his chair. Arré sipped her tea, savoring the sweet minty flavor.

“And then what happened,” she prompted.

“I lent him money,” said Cha.

Arré's eyebrows lifted. “There is no reason for my brother to be short of money,” she said.

“He told me a long story—I won't repeat it. It had you at the center of it. It was not a lot of money."

“How much?"

Cha looked wretched. “Four hundred largos,” he said.

“I would call that a lot of money,” said Arré. “Guardian, Cha, one of my guards might earn half that in a year! Was it a personal loan?"

“Yes. But Isak insisted we sign a note for it. I barely looked at it."

“And then what happened,” said Arré.

“Then the Council meeting happened,” said Cha. He rubbed his eyes again. “Isak came to visit me beforehand. He started talking about a proposal to admit the Jalaras and Ismeninas to membership. I was stunned that he knew about it. I told him I could not talk Council business with him—and then I asked him who had told him about the proposal. He said Ron Ismenin had. I said: Who would make it? He laughed, and said: I would! I told him not to be ridiculous, that I thought the Ismeninas were irresponsible. He changed the subject, and started telling me all about the swords the Ismeninas were bringing into the city. When I expressed my horror, he said not to worry, that the Ban did not apply to short swords. I asked him how he knew all this, and he said he had helped Ron Ismenin to plan it, and had contributed part of the money to pay for the smuggling.” The words, which had been flooding from him, dammed suddenly.

“Yes,” said Arré, “go on."

“I asked him—I was angry, outraged—how he could afford to lend Ron Ismenin money when he had just borrowed from me. He smiled, and took out the note, and made me read it. It said, For the transport of short swords to Kendra-on-the-Delta. And there was my signature and seal at the bottom!” Cha's voice broke.

“Drink your tea,” murmured Arré. He gulped it back. She refilled the cup. “That must have been terrible for you."

Cha's mouth twisted. “I don't deserve your sympathy, Arré. I would rather you named me the fool I was. I didn't know what to do. I said no one would believe it. He pointed to my signature and said that everyone would believe it. He said, moreover, that the smugglers as they were paid were being told it was my money. I told him a Truthfinder would be able to tell what had happened, and he laughed, and said that the Tanjo knew all about the smuggling, and that the White Clan had its own bets to place. He made me believe that somehow he, or Ron Ismenin, had subverted the White Clan."

Arré listened for some rustle of reaction from Paxe. She heard nothing. Her heart was beating like Sorren's drum. She leaned back in her chair and sipped her tea, forcing herself to be still, to breathe, to relax.

“So you made the proposal to the Council,” she said.

“I did. And then, at the betrothal, I simply could not stand it anymore, and I tried to tell you—"

“And Isak stopped you."

Cha whispered, “Perhaps I should not be my house's representative. I could give it up. Gwyneth could do it."

Gwyneth was his sister and his heir. Arré thought, she would probably do no worse.

But there was no guarantee she would do better. Arré made her voice sharp. “Self-pity will get you nowhere, Cha. I see no reason why you should abdicate your position. Use your sense, man. You were trapped, but you are not trapped now. You do not have to support the Ismeninas. If Kim should bring the proposal up at the next Council—” she paused—"well, I doubt he will, but if he does, you can vote against it, if that is what you want to do. And if Isak threatens to use your note against you, tell him you will go to a Truthfinder, and don't let him scare you with what he says about the Tanjo."

“It was a lie, then?” said Cha eagerly. “He sounded so certain."

Arré took a deep breath. “No, it was not a lie, exactly. The L'hel, and Senta-no-Jorith, his Truthfinder, and maybe others of the White Clan, have known from the beginning about the smuggling. They tried to use the presence of the swords to extort a membership in the Council—the L'hel said to me, the Tanjo would support the Council's extending the Ban to short swords if the Council admitted the White Clan to membership. Kim Batto has been the link between the L'hel and the Ismeninas; he sees them both."

“So that is what you meant,” said Cha, “when you asked Kim if he had learned about the Med Yard training from the Tanjo."

“That is what I meant,” Arré said.

Her arms were knobby with cold bumps; the evening had grown chilly. Arré thought, I should have asked Sorren to make a fire before I sent her to bed. The waxing moon, riding the horizon, shone its silver beams into the chamber. Arré looked behind Cha's chair. Paxe's shadow lay long on the carpet. Arré tried to see her face but could not find it. She turned back to Cha.

“Go home, Cha,” she said gently. “Go home, and don't worry. It will be resolved.” The platitude made her flinch. “Do you wish an escort? I will have one of my guards walk with you."

He shook his head. “I am not a child, to start at shadows,” he said, and added wryly, “I make big mistakes, when I make them. I see shadows and think they are the sun.” He rose. “I should have come to you."

“I understand why you didn't,” she said.

She walked him to the gate. The damp made her shiver. He walked through it, and then turned back to say, “Why do you think Kim will not bring up the proposal a second time, Arré? Has he said so?"

“No,” said Arré. “I just think he will not."

“There's something you will not tell me,” said Cha. “Well, you're right not to tell me.” He squared his shoulders and walked off, and the mist swallowed him.

His disappearance gave Arré a sudden start of panic. Even his footsteps, muffled by the wet, could not be distinguished from the other night sounds. She turned to the guard. “Send someone after him."

“My lady?"

“He has no escort. Send someone after him, and tell them not to let themselves be seen. I want to be sure he gets home safely, after what happened in the city today."

The guard pursed his lips, but he was not about to argue with her. He gave a three-toned whistle. In a few moments, a hooded figure came up the hill. They talked; the figure nodded, and walked east, toward the Minto district.

“Hani will follow him, my lady,” said the guard. “Nothing'll bother him."

“Thank you.” Shivering with the chill, she hurried inside.

Elith stood there. “Foolishness,” she muttered, shutting the door. She started to lock it.

“Wait,” said Arré. She hurried into the parlor. The moon shone directly through the window, silvering the porcelain chobatas on the mantel, the brass tongs by the fireplace, the gray wood of the big carved doors.... Arré went to the armchair Cha had vacated, expecting to see Paxe sitting in it. It was empty.

Elith stood in the doorway. “Who are you looking for?” she said. “There's no one here. I'll lock up."

“Wait!” said Arré. Lifting the chobata on the table, she took it into the corner where she had last seen Paxe's shadow. “Paxe?” she said.

But there was no one in the corner—nor in the hall, nor, when she looked, in the kitchen. Paxe had gone.

* * * *

The Tanjo dome shone in the dying moonlight. Paxe stood just outside the gate. The wind tugged her hair like a peevish child, calling her to go indoors, it was cold out.... She did not feel the cold. The chill moonlight fell across the country, from the choba groves of Shirasai to the western mountains. In Tor's Rest, she thought, Tyré's grave lies bathed in moonlight. The granite flagstones of the Tanjo courtyard glittered like water. What if she were a bird flying over Arun, what would she see? Towns and farms, travelers huddled around guttering fires ... The wind tugged at her again, flapping her cloak, and she laid her cheek against the gate's iron bars and whispered to it, “Go away."

A boot clicked on stone. “Is someone there?” The figure came nearer; it was a Med guard. “Yardmaster, let me open the gate."

“No,” said Paxe, “I'm leaving.” The guard stared after her; she glanced back to see his pale silly face like a little moon in the darkness. I must sound very strange, she thought, or look very strange. Or both.

She walked south, to the mouth of the boot that was her district, and back around the Batto border. The guards saluted her but did not speak. Maybe they were ghosts. She caught herself thinking it and told herself not to be a fool. She turned down the Street of Small Pears, and the next post she passed, she hailed it. “How goes the night?"

“Quiet,” said Nekko, a tall dark woman who at twilight was sometimes mistaken for Paxe, and Paxe for her.

She walked up Broad Row, the street between the Batto and Med districts. It extended almost the entire length of the border. She walked to the Northwest Gate. The city wall sat solidly in the incantatory moonlight; a small figure, dwarfed by the masonry about him, paced slowly up and back the gatehouse wall. The flickering light of a brazier illuminated his face a moment as he halted to warm his hands. He turned his back on warmth and resumed walking. Outside the wall, a dog howled.

She rounded the toe of the boot. Passing a Minto guardpost she saw a lantern swinging from a moving hand; Darin-no-Sara, the Minto Yardmaster, was making her night rounds, going north, toward the Gate. Paxe stayed in the shadows until Darin passed her. She was walking slowly—how long had it been since she left Arré's parlor? An hour? The light had been growing increasingly dim. She glanced over her shoulder but could not see the shape of the moon, only the glow shining on the horizon. It was past midnight, then. Leaves rustled in the wind beneath her feet. The fog blew from the south and tore itself to shreds against the Tanjo dome. A watcher standing on the docks in this weather would see a wall of cloud reaching into nowhere, and no stars.

By dawn, she had gone five times around the district. At sunrise, she returned to the Yard to exchange her command. If she looked or sounded odd, Ivor chose not to remark upon it. The sun rose like a great blind eagle out of its nest in the fog.

She was weary; she wanted to go home, and sleep. But she couldn't, not yet; she had an errand to do. She crossed the Minto district (past Three Fountain Street, where Vanesi the merchant stayed when she was in the city) into Ismenin territory.

There were no signs here of the carnage of the day before. All was peaceful. The fisherfolk stood by the river, watching their lines; barges piled with grain sacks sat at their moorings, tugged by the current and the great river's tide. Smoke and cooking odors streamed from the houses as the people of the district woke to go about their business, and the smell of roasting nuts began to steal through the alleys. The Ismenin Yard was filled with people; behind the tall red fence, Paxe heard them shouting an exercise count ("One—two; one—two!") A woman in Asech robes strode west with a net of snails over her shoulder; snails, Paxe remembered, were an Asech delicacy.

She did not bother to stop at the gate. She went around the Yard to Dobrin's cottage. The curtains were drawn (she had expected that) but the door, unexpectedly, was wide open, and all the mats lay in the dirt in front of the cottage.

It was the custom in the Galbareth, when someone died, for the mats to be picked up and the houses all through the village to be swept and cleaned ... Dobrin came from the Galbareth.... Snail-like, the thoughts crept into Paxe's mind. She gasped, as if someone had struck her from behind, and then started to run.

She skidded into Dobrin's cottage without taking her boots off. The table stood on end; the statue of the Guardian lay on its side, and the petaled branches lay ground into the floorboards. The room was not empty. Gavriénna, the watch second, stood in the middle of the chamber. There were tears on her cheeks.

She said, “He said you would come. Here.” She held something out; a letter. Paxe took it.

“Is he dead?” she said.

Gavriénna shook her head. “Gone. The letter will tell you.” She walked outside. Paxe opened the letter.

Paxe, it read. You were right. I was wrong. I have done my duty to the house I served, and now I am leaving. I shall go into the Galbareth, and be a farmer, and lay my weapons aside. I have asked Gavriénna to take my place as Yardmaster; please help her, if you can bring yourself to do so. She was innocent of the Ismenin intentions, as I was. Farewell, friend. Dobrin.

* * * *

Arré sat in her workroom.

She had not slept well that night. By the time Sorren brought the hot wash water to her bedroom, she was awake, sitting on her bed. Now she was trying, not very successfully, to read the plans the surveyors had sent her by courier that morning—as if she did not have more important things to think about! She tossed the scrolls from her; they landed on the floor and curled like leaves. Lalith, entering with a bowl of fish cakes, regarded them with trepidation, as if the papers had teeth.

“Lady, do you want me to pick those up?” she said.

“No. Leave them.” Lalith shrugged, handed her the bowl, and left. Arré nibbled a fish cake and scowled at the floor. She wanted to talk to Paxe—not that she had anything to say, what could she say?—just to be sure that she was all right.

Sorren tapped on the doorjamb.

“Come in,” said Arré. “Pick up those scrolls for me, please."

Sorren scooped the scrolls up and put them on the table. “I'm going shopping,” she said.

Arré gestured toward the chest. “You know where the money strings are. Help yourself."

Sorren went to the chest. Lifting a string out, she closed the lid and stood by the chest, running the string through her fingers. The bontas clinked.

“Have you seen Paxe this morning?” Arré asked. The girl shook her head. There were dark circles under her eyes; they showed up like bruises on her pale complexion. She didn't sleep well, either, Arré thought. None of us did.

“Where are you going to shop?” she asked.

“Where I usually shop,” said the girl. “The river markets."

“Hok district. Good. I want you to take a good look and tell me how extensive the damage is. You can go to the Isara and Jalar districts, too."

Sorren nodded. She moistened her lips. “Could the witches have stopped the fight yesterday?” she said.

“I don't see how,” Arré said. “Short of throwing themselves in front of the rioters, and that might not have worked."

“What if they had known about it beforehand?"

“Then I suppose they could have said something—but how could they have known about it beforehand if it did not happen?” Arré remembered the story the L'hel had told her in the Tanjo, of the various futures the Tanjo seers had seen. She wondered if this was one of them. “I don't know, child. You could go and ask them,” she added, gently, so that Sorren would not feel her fear was being made fun of.

Sorren simply nodded. Sliding the money bracelet over her arm, she left the chamber. “Don't forget to order sweet berries!” Arré called after her. Lifting the scrolls from the table, she unrolled them across her knees. They were not too bad.

Lalith spoke from the doorway. “Lady, the Yardmaster is here and would like to see you."

Arré started, and the plans slid to the floor. “Tell her to come in, and pick those up, please.” Lalith looked at her as if she were mad, and put the papers on the table. She went to the hall; Arré heard murmured words, and then Paxe's firm step. She came into the room with both hands wedged into her pockets. Arré tilted her head to look at her. She looked tired, and her boots were caked with mud.

“Was it a quiet night?” Arré said.

Paxe nodded. “Dobrin's gone. He left me a letter."

“The Ismenin Yardmaster? What do you mean, gone?"

“He's gone back to the Galbareth to be a farmer. Gavriénna-no-Nusuth is the new Ismenin Yardmaster.” Her voice was bleak with grief. Arré hunted frantically for words.

“What a waste,” she said.

Paxe nodded. “I met Sorren on the way here; she said you asked for me."

“Of course I asked for you!” Arré said. She held out her hand. “After last night—Paxe, please sit down."

Paxe shook her head. “No. I want to sleep."

Arré sighed. “I wish I could comfort you,” she said sadly. Where had her skill in words gone? She rubbed her eyes. “You know,” she said slowly, feeling her way like a sailor walking a spar, “you know I do not believe in the chea. But if it exists, if there is indeed some great harmony to which we all dance—its existence does not depend on the honor, or lack of it, of the White Clan."

Paxe did not respond at once. But after a while, she said, “Yes. You are right.” Suddenly, she stepped beside the chair, and, bending, laid her cheek against Arré's. “Arré—why did you wait all this time to tell me about the L'hel's treachery?"

Arré said steadily, “Because I am a coward, Paxe. I did try once, yesterday, but you thought I wanted to say something else, and I couldn't, I couldn't speak. Fault me for it, if you will."

“I do, a little,” whispered Paxe in her ear. “But I am equally to blame, for not listening.” She straightened and went from the room before Arré could call her. Arré lifted her hand to her cheek. She did not know if she had said the right thing or the wrong thing. After a point, she told herself, the words do not matter. What matters is the trust. Her stomach rumbled, wanting cream and berries and honey.

She could not think about the plans. Rising, she went down the hall to the kitchen and into the rear courtyard. The trees arched overhead, leafy and full. Little sour apples dangled from the branches, but Arré was not tall enough to reach them, and besides, they tasted terrible. She walked into the garden. The flowers stood like pikes, orderly. The last bees of summer buzzed at the dry blossoms. She bent, passing her hand over the grass; the texture was drier. The year was ending. Soon the rain would beat the leaves from the trees and the scentless heads from the flower stalks, and the city would celebrate. She imagined the L'hel raising his fine, strong voice to thank the Guardian for the year's bounty....

Her fists clenched. Had he known Ron Ismenin's plan?

She paced along the flower beds. There was no way she could touch him; the Council had no authority over the White Clan. But she could insure that he did not get what he wanted: a Truthfinder on the Council. And Isak? she thought. What do I do about Isak?

Maybe, she thought, maybe it is my fault that he is what he is, a liar, and irresponsible. I have not treated him as my heir. I attended Council meetings when I was seventeen; maybe I should do for him what my mother did for me, let him be present, if only to listen. Maybe because I do not trust him, he does what he does. Were I to invite him to the Council, ask his advice, give him the power he so desperately desires, might he not grow, and change?

I should give him a taste of what I do daily; let him govern the district for a month or two. He would find there's nothing exciting in sewers and petty theft and ditch digging.

And you, Arré Med—where would you go? she thought. To the vineyards, to keep company with Myra? You would be bored to tears by three days in the vineyards.

Where, then?

It came to her; she grinned. Walking briskly through the courtyard, she halted in the kitchen to ask Lalith to bring her a dish of water, before going on to her workroom.

She knew where she could go. Had she not been invited? She laid her writing materials out on the table, and, dipping brush in ink, wrote: From the Lady Arré Med, Kendra-on-the-Delta, to the Lord Tarn i Nuath Ryth, Greetings....

* * * *

Sorren went to market.

Walking through the avenues in the Hok district, she saw the scars of destruction left by the riot: smashed screens, broken glass, and the less overt effects: the sad-faced men and women, the guards’ angry mutters. Thrice she passed houses in which the curtains were down and the windows back. She could hear weeping through the wide open doors. In places the streets were wet, where the sweepers had scrubbed blood from the stones.

In one tangled garden, three children were playing. One of them had a stick and was chopping at the others with it, as if it were a sword. Sorren wanted to scream at them, to tell them that swords were not toys—but then a man came out of the cottage's rear door and saw them, and started shouting. She went to the fishmonger's. Thule was there, his red face redder than usual. He took her fish order listlessly. “What's wrong?” she asked.

“Soketh was caught in the riot,” he said. Soketh was Mirrim's husband. “The Healer at the Tanjo says he may lose an arm."

Going back to the hill past the Tanjo, she saw the families of those who had been hurt patiently waiting to hear when mother or father or uncle would be coming back. The question she had asked Arré thudded through her head. Surely, she thought, surely the witches would have found a way to halt the riot, if they had known.

You might have known, whispered a voice in her head. The Cards might have told you, had you been able to read them.

But I don't know how to read them, she answered.

The witchfolk could have told you. You should have brought them the Cards, weeks ago.

They would have taken the Cards away.

You don't know that. Perhaps they would have taught you how to use them. You, Sorren of the fields, might have been the key to the Tanjo's knowledge of the future. But they did not know about the riot to stop it, and now twenty-three people are dead, and Mirrim's husband may lose an arm.

“No!” she said, aloud. A few people turned to gaze at her, and then looked away. It isn't my fault, she stormed silently. You cannot say it's my fault.

But the nagging voice would not stay silent as she returned to the hill.

She went into the house. Arré was writing. The statue of the Guardian in the hallway caught her eye, and she went to it. The black vase on the table beneath it held white and purple blossoms: garden-lace, and autumn roses.

She stared at the carved face. Are you speaking to me? she thought. She waited for it to answer. But the eyes did not look at her, beneath graven lids, and the stone lips did not open.

At last, she went upstairs and got the Cards from under her pillow. These are mine, she thought. The witches cannot have them; they are mine, my inheritance. That was Arré's word. My mother gave them to me, and hers to her, and hers to her.... She imagined a line of women, some tall, some short, some fair, some dark, passing the Cards on to daughters and sons. She wondered how far back the line went. She gripped the box so strongly that the edges hurt her hand. Perhaps it was the ghosts of those women who spoke to her now. If you cannot use the Cards, you should not have them, said the interior voice. You have no right to them. You must either give them up or learn to use them.

Step by reluctant step, she walked out of the house toward the Tanjo.

The guard on duty at the Tanjo gate did not even question her. “That way,” he said, pointing to the attentive throng. Walking across the white pavement to where the acolytes stood, keeping people back, she reminded herself of what Marti Hok had said, that the witches could not force her to do anything she did not want to do. She whispered excuses to the others as she pushed through the crowd. An acolyte with skin so dark it looked painted thrust a hand out to keep her from going any further.

“Name of the person,” he said.

“What?"

“Name of the person you want to inquire about."

“I don't want to inquire about anyone,” Sorren said. “A Truthfinder told me to come and see her."

“Really?” he drawled. “Which one?"

“I don't know her name. She has long black hair and a beautiful voice."

His eyebrows climbed his forehead. “What would the L'hel's Truthfinder want with you?"

His disbelief made her temper flare. “Why don't you go and ask her?"

He snorted. “Fine fool I'd be. She's Healing."

“You'll look a worse fool if you don't let me in,” Sorren said. “Tell her that Sorren of Arré Med's house has come.” She turned so that he could see the bonding bracelet on her left arm. “Or do you think she won't mind if she finds out that you've been keeping me waiting?"

He scratched his chin. “Wait,” he said gruffly. “I'll be back.” Robe flapping around his legs, he went toward the dome. Sorren cradled the box in her arms. Her throat was dry. The people near her stared, and some whispered. Sooner than she had expected, the acolyte was back. He beckoned to her. “Come."

“How come she gets to go in?” called a stout woman with a tattered straw hat on her head. “I been waiting since sunup."

The acolyte answered. “A lehi wants her."

She followed him, expecting to have to walk through the Tanjo. She had been in it only three times, and the thought of going inside the dark, incense-scented place made her shiver. But the acolyte steered her around the outside of the building. They went in a door, crossed a blue-tiled hall, and came out inside a garden. “These are the apartments,” he explained. “All the witches, even the L'hel, live here."

The garden was lovely, with high banks of flowers and a shallow pool in which Sorren saw red fish swimming back and forth. A pink granite bench stood below the flower beds. She held the box, and waited. A door opened in the side of the building, and the Truthfinder came out.

The acolyte bowed low. Sorren bowed, too.

“Thank you, Jomi,” the witch said, her voice melodic and seductive. “You may go."

The acolyte left. The Truthfinder sat on the bench. “So you came at last,” she said. “I have been hoping you would conquer your fears enough to come to me. I asked Arré Med to send you, but evidently she chose not to. Your name is Sorren, I know. Do you know mine? It is Senta. Senta-no-Jorith.” She tilted her head to one side. “What brings you here today, child?"

Sorren licked her lips. How to explain the internal turmoil that had driven her here? She held out the box. “I had to,” she said. “I had to bring you these. Marti Hok said you would teach me to use them."

“So,” Senta said, “you have spoken of me to Marti Hok?” She did not sound displeased. She took the box in both hands. Sorren waited for her to open it, but she did not. “How is the Med house, child, in the aftermath of these sad events?"

Sorren guessed that she meant: How is Arré Med? “Angry,” she said.

Senta grimaced. “She should be. Ron Ismenin is a fool. Has the Council met already?” Sorren nodded. “Don't worry, I won't ask you what was said.” She opened the box and turned over the first Card, the Dancer. “Oh, my.” Gently she laid that Card on her lap and took out the second and the third.... “Where did you get these?"

Sorren said, “They belonged to my mother, Kité. She left them to me."

“They are beautiful,” said the Truthfinder. “They are for seeing the future, are they not? One lays them into a pattern?” She swept her hand in a half circle.

“I think so,” Sorren said.

Senta nodded firmly. Her hair dipped over her face. It was glossy as a raven's wing. “I wonder what this means. Sorren—” she looked up—"you know you are a witch, do you not? That afternoon we met beside the well, when I walked with Kim Batto, I touched you, and you felt it. Was that why you ran away?"

Sorren nodded. Her heart was pounding in her chest and throat.

“How old are you?” the witch said.

“Seventeen. I'll be eighteen in the spring."

“How old were you when your mother died?"

“Thirteen."

“And when did you first feel the gift in you?"

“The day I came back to the city from my mother's burial,” Sorren said.

“Was your mother a witch?"

“I don't know,” Sorren said.

“Did you ever see her use the Cards?"

Sorren shook her head. “No."

Senta said, “Let me tell you right away, Sorren-no-Kité, that I cannot help you learn your witch-gift. You are not an inspeaker—what you call a Truthfinder. You are, I think, a far-traveler. Tell me, do you ever have visions, or vivid dreams, of places you have never seen?"

Sorren said, “Yes. I see a Keep in the north, named Tornor. I want to go there, after I am free."

Senta looked pleased. “Then you have already explored your gift! Why did you not come to the Tanjo before?"

Sorren said, “I don't want to be a witch."

“It is not a thing you make a choice about,” said the Truthfinder. “Any more than you can choose not to be tall.” She stroked her white gown. “But I assure you, it is not so bad."

Marti Hok had said they could not keep her. “I want to go north."

“North, east, west—who would stop you? Go where you choose."

“But—if I am a witch, mustn't I stay here?"

“In the Tanjo? In Kendra-on-the-Delta? Sorren, you will do what you wish with your gift. I would hope that, once you learn it, you will stay here, or, since you wish to go north, perhaps go to the Tanjo in Tezera. But that's up to you."

Sorren swallowed. “Promise,” she said, knowing it was childish but needing to hear it said.

Instantly, Senta said, “I swear by the chea that whether you learn your gift or no, you may do what you like, where you like.” She brushed her hair back from her face, smiling. “Are you satisfied?"

Sorren nodded. She was still frightened, but less.

Senta said meditatively, “I was a fisherwoman's daughter when I began to hear other people's thoughts with my mind. I was terrified. No one in my family was a witch, I thought. I finally told my mother and she, clever woman, brought me to the Tanjo. Once a year, I go back to my village on the coast and go fishing with the folk of my family, so that I will not forget what the day-to-day life of my sisters and brothers is like.... Sometimes I miss it.” She half turned on the bench, looking toward a door. In a moment, it opened, and a man came out. He was brown and small, like an acrobat. “This is Rinti,” said Senta. “He is a far-traveler."

Rinti wore bright blue beads in a chain around his neck, and he bounced when he walked. He rubbed his hands together in a way that Sorren found unpleasant. “What's this, what's this?” he said.

“This is Sorren,” said Senta, “who may be one of us. She is bondservant to Arré Med, and I think she is a far-traveler."

“Ho.” Rinti grinned. His teeth were big, and very crooked. “Really. Do you see places, girl?"

Sorren was getting tired of being called “girl.” She said tightly, “My name is Sorren."

Rinti stared at her, and then laughed. “I beg your pardon.” He sat unceremoniously on the grass. He smelled of garlic. “Sorren. Do you see places?"

“Sometimes."

“Tell me about them."

“I see the steppe—sometimes it's green, and sometimes brown, and sometimes covered with snow—I see the mountains—"

“What do they look like?” said Rinti.

“Gray. Icy. There are trails through them. Goats live in the crags. The streams are very cold...."

“Go on,” said Rinti. “What else do you see?"

“The castle."

“What does it look like?"

“It changes,” Sorren said. “Sometimes it looks very old and broken, and sometimes new."

“Do you see people?"

“Not often. I saw a man with one arm writing in the tower. I saw a cheari.” That was different, but she did not feel like going into detail. The questions were making her uncomfortable.

“How do you get there?” said Rinti.

“I just do. In dreams, or when I am awake."

Rinti frowned. “You don't need to touch an object to go there?"

“No. Once—” she was thinking of the sword—"I did. But I didn't go to the castle that time."

“When you travel, are the seasons you see the same as the present season?"

Senta said, “In fall, do you see the castle in fall, and so on?"

“Sometimes, sometimes not."

Rinti nodded. “Go now,” he said.

Sorren didn't understand. Was he telling her to leave? She looked at Senta. The Truthfinder said, “He wants you to travel, Sorren, so that he may link with you and follow you. Can you take your mind to Tornor when there are other people about?"

“I don't know,” Sorren said. “I've never tried."

“Try,” said Rinti. “Here.” He swept the box of Cards from Senta's lap and deposited it in Sorren's. “Do it now."

His brusqueness offended her; she wanted to balk, like a stubborn mule. But Senta nodded at her, encouragingly. “Go ahead,” she said, aloud, and then her voice said, in Sorren's mind, Do you still distrust us, Sorren? Mind to mind cannot lie. You are one of us; in no way would we trap you or trick you or hurt you. The soft words held the unmistakable ring of truth. Sorren laid her hands on the box, and thought of Tornor, the castle walls like armor against the gray northern sky....

The garden dissolved. She hovered over a bed. In it a woman lay; her hair was white as milk, with streaks through it of a darker color which showed that it had once been gold. On each side of the bed another woman sat: one was young, with amber hair; the second woman's face was hidden from Sorren's eyes, but her hair too was white, and her hands were gnarled and old. The younger woman was weeping, and the woman in the bed patted her hand. Then she tried to pull a ring from her finger, but her joints were so swollen she could not take it off. Suddenly, Sorren saw that there was a fourth person in the room, a man. His hair was tawny, streaked with silver, and his face was lined like an autumn leaf. Gently he reached forward to help the woman in the bed take the ring off....

“Sorren!” For a moment, Sorren could not tell if the voice was coming from inside or outside the dream. “Sorren!"

The vision vanished.

She blinked. She looked at Senta. “I went,” she said.

“What did you see?” said the witch.

“A woman in a bed, and two other women, and a man—” She described the vision slowly. Senta looked at Rinti, who was twisting his beads in both hands.

“What's the matter?” she asked. He scowled ferociously.

“Don't know. I tried to link and follow her, but it was like running into a wall. The link severed. She was gone—but damned if I know where it was."

“I told you,” said Sorren. “It's Tornor Keep."

“Try again,” said Senta. “Try somewhere else. Give her your beads."

“What?” Rinti covered the beads protectively with one hand.

“Rinti, let her hold the beads,” said Senta. “She can use them to travel."

Rinti played with the catch of the beads. “I won't hurt them,” said Sorren. He let her hold them with some reluctance. She wondered if they would really take her somewhere. The sword had—why not little blue stones? She ran her fingers over them lightly, and closed her eyes.

...She was in a field. The corn was all around her, towering over her head. She lifted from it, Sorren-the-bird, and found herself looking down on a great rolling plain, covered with gold. Below her was a tiny house with a white roof, and a windmill beside it. The mill turned lazily in the sunlight. In one corner of the sky, the crescent moon floated like a wraith. Suddenly, a little boy ran from the house, running into the corn as if a demon were chasing him, only he looked glad, not afraid. She swooped lower, to try to see what he was so happy about, and the corn and house and boy went away....

She blinked. “I'm back,” she said.

Rinti slammed his hands on the grass. “Damn. It happened again.” He took the beads back. “Where did you go? Describe it."

“It was a farm. There was corn all around. I saw a boy—” She described him, his clothes, his hair. Midway through the description Rinti held up a hand.

“Stop,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “I don't know how you did that—but that was me you saw."

“What?” said Senta. “Are you—"

“Sure? I'm sure. I remember the day. I was running because my mother had just told me we were going to Shanan to see my father. I ran and ran until I fell down. I was wearing the beads. Guardian, Senta, no wonder I can't follow her! The girl isn't far-traveling, she's seeing. But she's not seeing the future, she's seeing the past. It isn't I who should be here, it's Tukath!"

A red bird flew down from the Tanjo dome and came to rest on Senta's shoulder. “Not now, Leeka,” she said. With a mournful toot, the bird flew away. “I have never heard of such a thing,” she said. “A far-traveler who travels to the past."

“She isn't a far-traveler. If she were, I would be able to go with her. She's a seer."

Sorren scowled. She hated being talked about. Senta said, “Sorren, forgive us. But you are—or rather, your gift is—like nothing we've encountered before. Have you ever had the feeling that you knew what was going to happen, and had it come true?"

“No,” said Sorren.

“No premonitions of pleasure or disaster?"

“No."

“Definitely we should ask Tukath if he has ever heard of this.” Senta rose.

Rinti scrambled up from the grass. “Come on,” he said.

Sorren folded her arms. “Where are we going?” She was not an acolyte and she was not going to be pushed and prodded and taken places. “Who is Tukath?"

Senta said, “Tukath-no-Amani is our seer, and very wise. If you are a seer, he will know it. Will you come meet him?” She held out her hands. “You are free to leave anytime, Sorren. But if you wish to learn to use your Cards, you should stay."

Nineteen

Tukath-no-Amani lived in a room in the back of the Tanjo. The blue-tiled hall was clean and quiet and reminded Sorren a little of the Ismenin house. She could not imagine feeling at home there but she was no longer frightened; mostly, she was curious, wondering how many people lived there. She had no idea how many witches there were in Kendra-on-the-Delta.

The halls smelled of some faint scent she could not place. Senta strode on ahead of her, while Rinti jogged beside. “How old are you?” he said.

“Seventeen."

“How long have you lived in the city?"

“Seven years."

“Did the gift come to you about the time your blood-time started?"

Sorren looked down at him, astonished. She had thought only women talked about the blood-time. “Yes."

“Why didn't you come here sooner, then!” he almost shouted at her.

Senta turned, long hair flying like a black cloud. “Rinti, let the girl alone. Her reasons are her own affair."

Rinti scowled at the rebuke. Sorren said, “What difference would it make?"

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean, what difference? You have a gift none of us has ever seen before. You see into the past. Think how valuable such a gift would be, developed. You could go back through the history of Arun, tell us what really happened, show us the mysteries we do not know. From you we could learn how the first Teacher died. No record of it was ever made."

“Who was he, and what did he teach?” asked Sorren.

“He built the first Tanjo in Elath,” said Rinti reverentially, “and his name was Sefer. You could see the old wars, see how they happened, so that we can be certain to avoid them. You could see your family; would you like that?"

Sorren swallowed. “Could I see the Red Clan?"

“Certainly. Why would you want to?"

“I—just want to know where they went."

“They died, my dear,” said Rinti. His sandals, which were loose, flapped on the tiles. “They died."

“Here is Tukath's room,” said Senta. She slid the door back, and gestured to Sorren. “Go on, Sorren. Go in."

Sorren went in. The room was screen on all four sides. As Sorren entered, a white cat which was sprawled on the tiled floor leaped up and stalked under a table. A man at the table looked up and smiled. He wore the white robe with the hood; beneath it his hair showed silver-black. On the table in front of him lay a piece of clear glass, curved in a strange way, and several jars, and some pieces of fine cloth. He looked at Senta and moved his fingers in a signal.

“Tukath is deaf,” said Senta, in her wonderful voice. “He has been deaf from childhood. He knows how to speak but because the sounds he makes are so unpleasant, he prefers not to. He has developed a sign language which we here in the Tanjo know and use. With me he can speak directly, since I can hear his thoughts in my head, and he mine in his, but for you I must translate. If you can, imagine that he can hear you, and speak to him as if he could. I will tell him what you are saying and he will speak to me."

Sorren looked at the table and the glass. “What are you doing?” she said.

Tukath beamed. He picked up the glass and showed her that both of its sides were curved. Senta said softly, “This glass can make small things appear large. Tukath has made it and is polishing it so that the image is as perfect as it can be."

“What kinds of small things?” said Sorren.

The inventor beckoned her to look. He held the lens against something on the table. Sorren bent down. At first, she could not see anything, but as Tukath moved the lens slowly up and down, a blur appeared to her vision, sharpened—she caught his wrist to hold it steady. Now she could see the thing clearly: it was milky-white, with a great curved tip like a monstrous horn. “What is it?” she said, awed.

Tukath took the lens away and beckoned her to look. She could not even see what she had been staring at. He laughed without sound, and, picking up something, held it close to her eye. It was a piece of the sheath around a cat's claw.

“Tukath wants to know if you have ever looked at stones underwater, and then lifted them through to the air and found them to be smaller than they seemed."

“Yes."

“The glass works in the same way. The surface of the water is curved, too, just a little, enough to distort what we see."

Rinti said, “This is a marvel but it gets us no closer to what we need to know. Tukath, listen to what this girl does. She sees backward! Senta thought she was a far-traveler but I have tried to follow her and absolutely can't, it's like trying to see through fog. I'm sure she's not a far-traveler because she doesn't use a link, she just goes. Go with her and see if I'm right."

Tukath looked at Sorren with question in his eyes.

“Tukath wants to know if you are too tired to try one more time."

“I'm not tired at all,” said Sorren.

“There's another thing,” muttered Rinti. “Why isn't she tired? She ought to be a little tired."

“Tukath says he is ready to link with you whenever you are ready to go."

“All right,” Sorren said. “Shall I hold something?"

“No,” said Rinti. “Do it without. If you can do it without you are not far-traveling."

Sorren stared at the lens.... The chamber went away. She hovered over a stream. A little boy knelt beside the stream, his small face intent. He was looking at something. Sorren went lower to see what it was. It was a leaf, with a drop of water on it. He was looking at the veins of the leaf through the water drop. He opened his mouth and went, “Huh, huh!” It was a sound of triumph.

Then she was back, and Tukath was staring at her, eyes wide in wonder. He lifted his hand, pointed to the lens, and then, slowly, to himself.

Sorren understood. She had seen him. He was the small boy at the side of the creek. Beside her, Rinti was dancing, hopping from one foot to the other in excitement. “Did you follow her?” he shouted. The seer nodded. He grinned. “See, I told you,” he said to Senta, “she is a seer. But she sees the past!"

“I think you are right,” said Senta. She laid a hand on Sorren's shoulder. “Child, do you understand what this means? You have a rare gift. Tukath says he has never heard of a seer going into the past. You must come to the Tanjo, truly you must. We need to understand this thing."

Sorren stiffened. “You said I could go."

The Truthfinder dropped her hand. “I did, and you may. But Sorren, think what you will be giving up if you leave. Oh, you may go and come back, but think. The place you have seen in your dreams, Tornor—it is still there, certainly, but it is nothing like what you have seen in your visions. All that is in the past. You cannot go there."

Sorren knew it was true. Tukath was watching her, nodding to emphasize the Truthfinder's words. She wondered who the people she had seen were, the three women, the man with one arm, the many others she had seen over the years.... She squared her shoulders. “I still want to go,” she said. Rinti groaned and thrust his hands through his hair.

Senta nodded. “I thought you would,” she said. “But if you change your mind, Sorren the aftseer, come back to us. The door will always be open."

It seemed like a farewell. Rinti was shaking his head and making noises under his breath. “What about my Cards?” Sorren asked. She picked them up from where she had placed them, on the table.

Tukath's long, delicate fingers took them. He glanced at Senta for explanation. Meaning passed between them. Then the inventor opened the box and looked through the Cards. He stopped at the picture of the Stargazer and again at the picture of the Wheel. “What do you know about these Cards?” Senta said.

“They're old,” said Sorren. “They're from Tornor. Marti Hok has pictures of them in her records. My mother had them and she knew how to use them, but I cannot. I want to know how."

Tukath folded the silk around the Cards and laid them in the box. He pushed it across the table to Sorren, and his pale, lined face was suddenly sad. Senta said, “Tukath says the Cards are indeed fortunetelling Cards, Cards to see the future with. He says he can feel the pull of them in his mind. But he does not think they will work for you, or if they do, they will never be able to tell you the future. For you they will only tell the past."

Even Rinti was silent. In the quiet, Sorren could hear the singing of the Tanjo birds, and she suddenly realized that Tukath, with all his power, could not, just as he could not hear Senta's beautiful voice, or the sound of water racing through the gutters after the rains, or the wind in the trees, or even his cat.

She pushed the Cards at him. “You have them,” she said. “You can use them. I can't."

But the seer shook his head and slid them gently back to her. “Tukath says, they're yours, even if you do not wish to use them. If you choose to give them up, it should be for your own purposes, not another's."

Sorren took the Cards. “Thank you,” she said to Tukath. “Thank you for telling me about my gift."

The seer lifted a finger. “Tukath says, Be careful."

“About what?” Sorren asked.

“The past is calling you, surely, and it is a seductive call. Do not be trapped by it."

Marti Hok had said something like that, once. “Then am I not to use my gift?” Sorren said.

“Use it, use it,” muttered Rinti.

“Use it as you like,” said Senta. “But do not fill your life with it. Remember, the past is gone, and it cannot come back. Even if you want it to."

Rinti said, “Why does she not get tired? She should be tired after her journeys."

Senta looked at Tukath for the answer. “Because,” she relayed, “she is traveling in the past. The past is frozen, unchangeable; hence it presents no resistance."

“Then I can use the Cards to go to Tornor whenever I like!” Sorren said. “I don't have to wait for a vision."

“You don't have to,” said Senta for the seer. “But perhaps you should. It is not wise to overuse a gift. They have been known to fade. And when you come close to the place of your dreams, Sorren, do not be surprised if the gift diminishes, even vanishes entirely. The nearer you are in this world to the object of your sight, the less of it you will be able to see. This is true of the future; it must be true of the past."

“Why?” said Sorren.

“We don't know,” said Rinti. “Come to Elath, and help us find out."

But Sorren did not want to go to Elath. She shook her head at the insistent witch. “No.” She looked at Senta. “I want to leave now.” Tukath smiled at her, gray eyes warm.

“Well,” said a strong voice, “what's this?"

Everybody turned. All three witches bowed. Tukath covered his lens with one long hand. Kneel, Senta hissed in Sorren's mind. She dropped to one knee, and lifted her head to find a man with fair hair and broad shoulders gazing at her. He wore a long white robe. A white pearl dangled from a chain around his neck.

“Who is this?” he said.

“A servant of Arré Med's,” said Senta. “She came to us with a deck of fortunetelling Cards. Knowing they are ni'chea, she desires us to have them.” Give them to me, she said. Leave them with me and I will get them back to you.

“A servant of Arré Med's? How convenient,” said the man. “Stand up, girl."

Sorren rose, and passed the Cards to the Truthfinder.

“You look intelligent,” said the man. “Can you remember a simple message?"

His tone made the muscles in Sorren's back knot. “Yes, my lord,” she said, knowing that one did not call witches “my lord,” but not knowing what else to call him.

“I am the L'hel, girl. I have a message for your mistress. Tell her that our war is not over, that she has merely won a skirmish. Say it.” Sorren said it. “Good. Tell her also that it is always regrettable when lives are lost. But it is not always possible to choose one's tools."

She repeated it.

“Excellent,” said the L'hel. He gazed at the other witches. “Lehi, there is Healing to be done, and your services will be needed."

“Yes, L'hel,” said Senta, her lovely voice submissive. He turned and left. The three witches exchanged glances. Sorren leaned on the table. Marti Hok had said the L'hel was venal. Sorren did not know what the word meant, but it sounded cruel.

Senta put a hand on her arm. “Sorren,” she said, “I will take you out. Let me keep the Cards; he may want to see them later, and I cannot say I destroyed them. I will get them back to you, I promise. Come.” She was moving as she spoke.

Sorren turned once in the doorway to say farewell to Tukath, but the inventor was bending again over his bit of glass, and did not see her. She followed Senta through the blue-tiled hall to the little door which led to the garden, and through the garden to the street.

The sun glistened on the white pavement. The sun was strong; Sorren shielded her eyes.

Senta laid both hands lightly on her shoulders. “Sorren, may I burden you with a second message?” she said. “This one is also to your mistress."

“Yes,” Sorren said.

“Thank you. When you give Arré Med the L'hel's message, tell her also that I was with you, and heard it. And tell her this from me.” She paused. “Tell her that the L'hel's ambitions are shared, by some at Elath, and by others. She will soon be approached to approve them. Tell her to be strong, and tell her, if she has people she trusts outside the city, to warn them. She will know what to warn them of."

* * * *

Arré was in the study when Sorren returned. The letter to Tarn Ryth, sealed, sat on the table, and she had decided to ask Jenith if she would deliver it to the Nuathan ruler. She heard Sorren come down the hall and stop. A tapping made her lift her head. “What is it?” she said.

Sorren said, “I have a message for you from the Tanjo."

Arré's eyebrows went up. “From the Tanjo?” she said, amazed. “What were you doing at the Tanjo?"

“I went there, with my Cards."

“You went there?” Arré said. Sorren nodded. There was no terror in her face; she looked calm and collected and determined.

“What did you do?” Arré said.

“I spoke with the Truthfinder, Senta,” said Sorren. “And with two other witches. They were kind to me."

“Did they show you how to use the Cards?” Arré said.

Sorren frowned faintly. “Yes and no. My—my gift looks to the past, not to the future, so I cannot read the patterns of the Cards."

Arré said, “So you left them."

“Senta will bring them back. She said so. I have a message for you from her and from the L'hel."

A chill lifted the hairs on Arré's neck. “Give them to me."

Sorren repeated them, first the L'hel's, and then Senta's. The L'hel's message brought Arré from her chair, too angry even to speak. So the L'hel thought that the deaths of twenty-three citizens was “regrettable,” did he?

Rage flowed through her, swifter than the blood beneath her skin, and she felt herself darkening with anger. “That—that monster!” she said.

“Is he?” said Sorren.

“Oh, he is,” said Arré.

But the second message cooled the anger quickly. “Did the Truthfinder say who she wanted me to warn?” Arré asked.

“No. People you trust, she said, outside the city."

Tarn Ryth, Arré thought. Yet what can I tell him? “Thank you, child,” she said absently to Sorren, who bowed and vanished. Perhaps I should wait until I am “approached.” She wondered who would approach her—the L'hel? Kim Batto? Both? The L'hel could not be happy with Kim Batto. Nor could he have been pleased by the news that his puppet, Ron Ismenin, had been formally censured and fined by the Council.

She did not have to wait long to learn the L'hel's mind. The next afternoon, Kim Batto came to the Med house. Sorren announced him. Arré regarded Kim coldly. She had not forgiven him for his part in the killings; she thought perhaps she never would. “I shall not offer you a chair because I don't want you to stay,” she said, and had the pleasure of seeing him flush.

“I bring you a message from the L'hel,” he said.

“Do you find it an interesting occupation, being messenger?” she inquired.

His lips clamped together as he strove not to answer her. She decided to stop baiting him, and folded her hands.

“Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath would like to see you,” he said.

“I will not go to the Tanjo,” Arré said.

“He will come here."

Arré wondered if she dared refuse. She thought that would be too open a challenge. “When?” she said.

Kim named a day in the next week.

“I accept,” Arré said. “Let it be the afternoon. A visit from him in the morning would sour the rest of the day."

* * * *

The day the L'hel arrived, it was raining slightly. He came in a litter, escorted by a brace of acolytes. Arré watched from the study window as he emerged from the litter and strolled bareheaded along the path. Hearing the front door open, she went swiftly to her chair. A second armchair had been set up facing it, and a long table formed a barricade between them. The study door slid aside. Jerrin stood framed in the doorway. Actor, Arré thought contemptuously. He made a fine picture. She took a breath—he was imposing—and said, “Welcome, L'hel."

Smiling, he crossed to her and seated himself in the cushioned armchair. The air around him seemed to shimmer faintly. The shimmer faded, leaving Arré wondering if she had imagined it, but as Jerrin's robes swirled she saw that the white silks were dry as glass, unspeckled by the rain. She clenched her hands, and then released them so abruptly that her bracelets clinked.

“May I offer you refreshment?” she said. “Wine? Tea? Water?"

“Wine,” he said. Arré rang the bell on the table. Lalith stuck her head through the doorway.

“Bring a carafe of wine for the L'hel, and water for me."

The scars on his cheeks creased. “You won't drink what I drink, is that it?"

“No,” Arré said, “that is not it. I have given up wine. It makes me sick."

“Have you consulted a Healer?"

Arré said, “No. But others of my family have. It is not an ill that can be cured."

“That is unfortunately true of other ills besides the ones of the body,” Jerrin said softly.

Lalith came in with a tray. She looked awed and frightened. As she knelt to put the tray on the table, her hands trembled. Jerrin, leaning forward, caught the tray from her hands and set it down. He smiled at the girl warmly. “Thank you, child.” Lalith rose. Eyes glowing at the words of thanks, she marched out. Once again, Arré had to admit the man had charm.

She took her glass of water from the tray and drank. Her stomach twisted around the cool liquid. Jerrin poured wine into his glass and copied her. “Let us drink to our fair city,” he said, in that eloquent, measured voice, “that she may soon recover from her ills."

Arré set her glass down with a thump. “Ills which you are, in large part, responsible for!” she said.

The L'hel spread his hands. “That is unjust,” he said. “I assure you, Arré Med, I had no idea that Ron Ismenin was going to plan so destructive an approach to power. I do not support it, and I agree wholly with the Council's judgment upon him."

This was not at all what Arré had expected him to say. “Kim Batto voted against it,” she said.

“Kim Batto takes too much upon himself,” said the L'hel dryly. His tone cheered Arré considerably.

“He does tend to overreach himself,” she said. She could not help the sarcasm that crept into her tone. “I am glad that the Tanjo approves the Council actions."

Jerrin ignored it. He glanced around the study. Toli had lit a fire in the hearth that morning, and the pine logs had given the room a pleasant smell. “This is a lovely room,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Arré. She took a sip of water. “If you are not here to convey the Tanjo's disapproval of the Council's action, L'hel, then why are you here?"

Jerrin leaned back in his chair. “To make a compact with you, Arré Med."

“To make a tool of me, you mean,” she said.

He frowned. “That was a message framed in anger,” he said. “I regret it. It seems clear that neither of us wishes to turn this city into a battleground for our ambitions. I offer you a partnership, Arré Med. The old order of governance in Arun is changing—must change, for change is the essence of life. New forces are arising to the north, and this city must be strong to meet them. I think you have such strength, and I think you know that I do. You run the Council—but it is to me, to the Tanjo, that the people of the city look for guidance. Together, we might make a great power.” He was leaning forward now, his blue eyes blazing into hers with almost physical force. “If we do not, then someone else will. Do you wish to see this city governed by such as Kim Batto and Ron Ismenin? Or see it fall into the hands of Tarn Ryth?” He said the name with a sneer behind it. “Time moves in a circle, Arré Med, but it is never the same circle.” His blunt left hand, with the gold ring on it, described a spiral in the air. “A chance once missed never returns."

Arré swallowed. “If you speak of the White Clan seat on the Council—"

“I do not! That is unimportant. If it comes, that is well, but can you not see, Arré Med, that the Council is doomed! All the old forms and orders are changing, must change, and we must change with them. The Council has served its purpose. Now a new time comes. Join me in fashioning that time, Arré Med. Better that we should be allies than opponents. Please believe me, I have nothing but the good of the city in mind. It is not just Kendra-on-the-Delta that I am concerned for, but all the land of Arun. This land has functioned like an island for centuries. It is time now for us—for Arun—to reach out, to become the heart of something bigger than ever has been dreamed of before. It has already begun. The Isara ship is part of it. So is the founding of Shirasai and the alliance with the Asech. They, too, are part of Arun, though they know it not.” He drew a breath. “This, too, our seers have seen."

Arré said, “But you told me that the Tanjo seers see different futures."

“Yes. But knowing that the one we wish to come is in fact possible, we can work and plan for it with hope."

He was eloquent. Despite herself, Arré found herself moved by his words. She leaned back in her chair, deliberately putting space between them. Some of what he said reminded her of Tarn. Indeed, she thought, they are very alike. She was impressed that he could so humble himself as to come here and ask for her help. “Do the L'helis of the other cities feel as you do?” she said.

He flapped a hand. “I have not discussed it with them. They, like most who hold power in Arun, cling to the old forms. They would keep each city, each region, separate from the other, autonomous and isolated, connected only by trade."

“And you?” Arré asked.

His voice strengthened. “I see it united, brought together, made whole."

“Whom do you see governing that whole?"

“I do not know,” he said. “That choice may not be in human hands."

Arré said, “Could it be you?"

“If the chea wills.” He spread his arms, as if embracing the possibility, and then closed his hands together on his lap. “Or you."

Arré felt trapped in her chair, pinned to it. Rising, she slid between the table and chair and walked round the back of it. She leaned on the wooden rim. Governing a city was one thing, she thought. But how could one person govern Arun? “I have enough trouble running one district of Kendra-on-the-Delta."

“You underestimate yourself,” Jerrin said.

Arré closed her eyes, trying to feel her way into the picture the L'hel's words drew. She wondered how this dream of a country united under one ruler would come about. By force? It would not be easy to persuade the individual city councils to relinquish power. “Have you shared this vision with Kim Batto?” she said.

The L'hel snorted. “Kim Batto is weak, and a fool."

“That does not answer me."

Jerrin frowned. “Yes,” he said, biting off the word. “We spoke of it, at a time when I thought better of him than I now do. The next thing I knew, he was off making a private alliance with that northern barbarian.” Scorn infused his words. His face hardened. Arré nodded slowly. She wondered: was that the choice? Did the future demand that she align herself with Tarn Ryth or with Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath? She measured Jerrin with her eyes. She did not need a Truthfinder's gift to see the depth of his desire for power. He was hungry for it, lustful as a hunting wolf. There was no warmth in him, no compassion, and no room for equals. He had come to make a compact, he said, but what he had truly come for was to make her his creature: a thing that would do his work and would not break, like Ron Ismenin or Kim Batto.

She rested both forearms on the back of the chair. “L'hel, you are wasting your time."

He met her eyes, and she felt the strength of malice in him. “How so?"

“I will not join you."

“Then you are a fool,” he said.

“Then I am a fool.” Straightening, she came round the chair and stooped to the table. She rang the bell. “What you do, you do without me."

He stared at her, and then rising, pointed a finger at her glass. “A time will come when you will wish you chose otherwise,” he said. He clenched his fist, and the glass shattered. The pieces flew; a few of them embedded themselves in the fabric of his chair. The water puddled on the table and dripped slowly to the floor. “You will be less to me than this glass.” Lalith appeared in the doorway, and stared in surprise at the scattered shards of crystal.

“The L'hel is leaving,” whispered Arré. He turned and followed the girl. She watched him go. Her skin felt icy cold, and her hands were trembling. Gathering strength, she reached with both hands to the L'hel's glass and lifted it to her lips. The wine burned her stomach. For an instant, she felt compassion for Kim Batto, who had trapped himself between the rock that was Tarn Ryth and the hammer that was the L'hel. The litter bells jangled. She put the glass down. She wished with painful intensity that she had someone now to run to, to be held by, to hide behind: a friend, a sister, a lover....

She took a step, and her foot crunched a piece of glass. She was not alone. She had Marti Hok. She had Paxe. She had poor Cha Minto, who at least might learn from his mistakes. She even had an ally within the Tanjo: Senta, the Truthfinder, whose warning had proved accurate. It was clear that she would have to trust the Truthfinder, despite her dislike of the Tanjo.

Lalith came to the doorway with a brush in her hand. “Lady, shall I—"

“Yes,” Arré said. She went to the record case and pulled out her writing materials. Sitting in her chair, she tugged the lacquered table close to her and began again to write: From the Lady Arré Med, Kendra-on-the-Delta, to the Lord Tarn i Nuath Ryth....

* * * *

The week before Festival, the watches grew frenetic. Paxe transferred four night guards to the day and late watches, leaving her with only twelve soldiers under her command, the bare minimum for her district. Night watch hours lengthened as sunrise grew later. The guards grew tired, and Paxe went from post to post, relieving those who needed it so that they could go into the guardhouse, eat, perhaps nap.

She was standing watch on Jasmine Street, at the border of the Sul district, when she heard the whistle call that meant the Yardmaster was needed on the hill. Quickly, she went to the guardhouse and shook the drowsy guard awake. “I've got to leave.” Praying there was no emergency, she loped north.

It took her half an hour to get there. A torch was lit in the Yard. She went through the gate and found Idrella, the gate guard, waiting for her.

“Who's on the gate?” she said.

“I called Rak over from Oil Street.” She lifted the torch from its pole and led Paxe to the weapons shed. The door had gouge marks around the lock. Paxe rattled it. It was intact. “Look,” said Idrella. She walked around the shed to its one small window. The thick opaque glass had been broken inward. There were footmarks in the dust.

“I heard noise, and came to look. I got here just in time to see someone running. Whoever it was scaled the fence as I arrived; I saw a leg vanishing over the top. No way to tell who it was, or if she got in."

Paxe felt for the weapons shed key. “Let's look,” she said. Opening the shed, she ducked under the lintel. Idrella handed her the torch. Holding it at arm's length to keep from losing her eyebrows, Paxe edged toward the back of the shed. The pikes, normally kept in orderly rows along the sides of the shed, were tumbled so that she had to step over them. “Someone was in here,” she said.

The smell of grease tickled her nostrils. She took another step into the small crammed shed and halted, as the torch glinted off metal. “Oh, damn,” she said.

“What is it?” said Idrella.

Paxe knelt. “Someone's been at the swords.” The silk lay in disarray on the hard earthen floor. Slowly she counted the swords, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen—there were supposed to be fifteen. Of the thirty-five swords that had come through all the Gates, the Med Yard had—was supposed to have—fifteen of them, the Hok Yard six, the Minto Yard ten, and the Sul Yard four.

There were only fourteen swords. She held the torch out, looking into the cobwebbed corners, hoping that the thief might have dropped it in flight. But nothing shone out of the darkness. She backed out. Handing the torch to Idrella to hold, she shut and locked the door.

Idrella said, “I'm sorry, Yardmaster."

“You can't be everywhere,” Paxe said. “Give me the torch a moment.” She took it to the garden shed where Toli kept his tools, found a board and a hammer and some long iron nails, and brought them back. She hammered the board across the open window. “We'll have to call the glazier to put a new window in,” she said.

A light trembled in the kitchen and Toli called, “Who's there?"

“It's me,” Paxe said. “Never mind.” She walked around the inside of the Yard, just in case the thief had not in fact gotten out and was hiding somewhere, but the big quiet space was empty.

She wondered who the thief was. It took nerve to break that window, she thought. It might have been anyone who saw the wagon with the swords arrive from the Gate, and guessed what was in it.... But it bothered her, and not only because it meant that a live blade was loose in the city, in her district. It seemed too big a risk to take for something that could not be openly used, that had to be hidden from family and neighbors.

The following evening, she went to the house at dinnertime to tell Arré about the theft.

They had eaten early. Paxe went upstairs, to find Arré sitting on the bed. She had just bathed, and her short hair was clumped in tight curls; they were almost as tight as Paxe's. She was sipping tea. “I've turned into a tea drinker,” she said, and sent Sorren for a second cup.

Paxe watched the tall girl leave the room. Something was troubling her; Paxe wondered what it was. Arré coughed, and she turned her attention to the matter at hand. “I've stopped the sword training classes, as you ordered,” she said.

“Good,” said Arré.

I miss them, thought the Yardmaster. But she did not say it. “So have the Ismeninas."

“So I would hope.” Arré leaned back on her pillows. “Ron Ismenin may have to melt his swords down and sell the metal to pay the fine the Council levied on him."

Sorren came in with a green cup in her hand. She gave it to Paxe. “Thank you,” Paxe said.

“Shall I bring anything else?” said the girl to Arré.

“No, that's all. Leave us.” Sorren left. Arré turned the cup between her palms. “The L'hel was here last week,” she said.

Paxe said, “I know. The gate guard told me."

Arré said, “He asked me if I wished to join him in uniting the country, making it one thing, under one rulership."

“What did you say?” Paxe said.

“I said no. The land of Arun may unite, or not, I don't know. My concern is the city. I might even wish to see it united. But the L'hel wants to do it now, in his lifetime, and he wants to be its ruler. I told him that I would not work with him."

Paxe nodded. The thought of the L'hel—what he was, what he could do—sickened and angered her. She did not want to talk about it.

Arré said, “Have you heard from your son?"

“Not since I sent him boots. The scribe must be busy now, writing Festival greetings for everyone in the fields. I'm not worried.” It wasn't true, she was worried, but only a little. She would always worry about him. She put her cup down. “Something happened last night that you should know about, Arré.” Hands on her knees, she told Arré about the theft.

Arré scowled. “Drink your tea,” she said. Paxe picked up the cup from the table and sipped the bitter liquid. She didn't really like tea, unless it had honey in it. “What have you done?"

“Put up notices across the district with a reward for information, and had the window of the shed boarded up from inside."

Arré nodded. “It can't stay hidden for long. The thief will show it to a friend and boast, and next day you'll hear all about it."

“I hope so."

There was a little pause. Then Arré said, “I'm glad you came tonight. I've been meaning to talk to you about my brother. I want advice."

Paxe shifted on the stool. She hated giving advice, and what could she say to Arré about Isak that Arré did not know? “What about him?"

Arré said, “I'm thinking of going away for a while."

The stone figurine that looked like a bear sat on the table. Paxe put down her teacup. Picking up the statue, she stroked the cool stone. “Where?"

“Upriver. Last week I wrote to Tarn Ryth, to tell him the result of the Council meeting, and some other things, and to ask him if I might visit him. He desires my political support. We got along rather well at the betrothal party, and he is too powerful to be ignored. I received his answer this morning."

“That was fast,” Paxe said. Normally it took at least eight days for a letter to go and come back between Kendra-on-the-Delta and Nuath. “What did he say?"

Arré smiled. “A lot of things. He said Ron Ismenin was a fool and a knave for arranging the riot. He said we should throw Kim Batto off the Council. He told me to beware of the L'hel; it did not need telling.” The smile grew to her urchin grin. “He said yes, of course I might come, and stay as long or as little as I like, and he would take me fishing. I've never been fishing."

Paxe said softly, “You like the man, don't you."

Arré shot her an oblique glance. “Yes. I do."

“When would you go?"

“After Festival."

Paxe gazed at her steadily. “And who would rule in your stead?"

Arré looked at her hands. “I thought of asking Isak to be my steward."

“Why?"

Arré sighed. She turned her cup between her palms. “Because—because some of the things Cha Minto said the other night were true. I haven't given Isak much responsibility. I've never asked his advice, or invited him to attend Council meetings.... He is my brother. It may be—” she paused—"it may be in some sense my fault that he is conspiring with the Ismeninas and playing nasty games with Cha Minto. Perhaps none of these things would have happened if I had treated him as what he is, my heir."

Paxe said, “It is your privilege to do that, of course."

Arré put her cup down. “Must you be formal with me, Paxe? I want to know what you think."

Paxe sighed. She put the figurine on the table. “I think Isak hates,” she said. “I don't think you can change that."

Arré grimaced. Inconsequentially she said, “Do you remember him when he was small, Paxe? He was a beautiful child. If I did go, and name him steward, would you serve him?"

The lamplight trembled in her hair; the gray tips were turning silver. Paxe said, “I serve the Med house."

“You would do it,” murmured Arré, “but you would hate it.” She leaned back in her cushions. “So would I; I would worry every moment of my absence. Nevertheless, I think I will do it."

“You must do as you think best,” said Paxe.

* * * *

Sorren was worried about Kadra.

It was easier to think about Kadra—where was she, what was wrong?—than to think about the Tanjo. Nevertheless, it was not Kadra that she first thought of when Lalith came to her bedroom to say, “There's someone here to see you. She's at the kitchen door."

Sorren leaped from the bed, tumbling her drums from her lap. “I'm coming.” She wondered if it was a messenger from Senta, bringing back her Cards. She hurried downstairs, nearly tripping on the last step. Toli said, “You have strange visitors,” and jerked a thumb toward the rear courtyard.

It was Kadra. She was sitting on the tiles. She was very pale, and her eyes were closed. Frightened, Sorren knelt beside her. As her knee touched the tile, Kadra's eyes opened. She coughed, and said, with familiar acerbity, “Don't look at me as if I were a sick cow!"

Sorren sighed. “I was worried about you."

“I know. Norres told me. Did you think I'd run off with your map?"

“I wasn't thinking about it at all,” Sorren said.

“Well, I didn't.” She moved, grimaced, and flipped the fold of cloak covering her lap to one side. “Took me long enough to do it, I wouldn't want it to be wasted. Here it is."

Sorren took the paper cylinder in both hands. Unrolling it, she traced the route north with her eyes, saying the names of the villages in her mind. She knew them all. When she got to Tornor, she grinned. Instead of writing, which she couldn't read, Kadra had drawn for her in red ink a castle with a tower. Beside the tower was a red, eight-pointed star.

Carefully, she rolled the precious paper up. “Thank you,” she said.

“Here,” said the ghya. “Tie it.” She pulled a ribbon from her belt. It was bright green, messengers’ color, and the sight of it made Sorren feel strange. Taking it from Kadra's hand, she tied the scroll.

“Is your bow still at the pasture?” she said.

“I guess,” said Sorren. She had not been there in nearly two weeks.

“Haven't you been practicing?"

“I've been busy,” Sorren said defensively, “and when I looked for you, I couldn't find you. I was afraid you were in the fight."

“I was."

“Were you hurt?"

Kadra shook her head. “I got hit in the stomach with a pike butt."

“I was in it, too,” Sorren said.

“Were you?” said the ghya. “What were you doing?"

“Mostly hiding.” Sorren told what she had seen. The fear and horror had diminished to where she no longer felt sick, telling it. Kadra listened and nodded.

“Glad you got away,” she said. “A lot didn't.” She coughed. “I came to say good-bye."

“Good-bye?"

“Damn it, girl, are you an echo today? I'm going on the ship. I got my papers this morning."

“But what—are you going to be a sailor?"

Kadra laughed, and coughed. “I'm a mapmaker. They'll need my skills, to map the new lands they find."

Of course. “But how can you go? You—” Sorren broke off, remembering how the ghya hated to be fussed over.

“Oh, I'll go. One way or the other. But I probably won't see you again. I've got some things for you, little things. They're at the inn. Listen, the ship leaves the day after Festival. Will you be there? If you come to the dock you may even be able to see me board. I shall look for you. Will you do it?"

“Of course I'll do it,” said Sorren. “But won't you be at the inn? I can come and say good-bye to you beforehand."

“Maybe I will, maybe I won't,” said Kadra. She rose; as she straightened, Sorren saw her put a hand to her right side. She took a limping step. “All your friends are watching me from the kitchen windows. What will they think?"

“I don't know and I don't care,” said Sorren. “Have you eaten? There's fish cakes in the kitchen, I can get some for you."

Kadra laughed, but the laugh ended in a terrible spasm of coughing. Finally she hawked and spat into a flowerbed. “I'm fine,” she said, wiping her lips with her hand. “I'll look for you when the ship leaves, remember. With the tide, the day after Festival.” She lifted one hand in farewell and limped slowly away, toward the street.

Toli leaned out of the window. “Psst!” he said. “Who was that?"

“I'm not going to tell you,” Sorren said. “Leave me alone."

Twenty

In the courtyard, Arré and Myra Med were talking. Sorren stuck her head into the kitchen. Lalith grinned at her amid the litter of pots and pans. “We're leaving now,” Sorren said. “See you later!” She hurried down the hall, past the parlor, which was strewn with the leftovers of dinner: fishbones and clam shells and peach pits and kava rinds.

There were two litters in the front courtyard. It was a perfect night for Festival. The witchfolk had promised good weather and they had kept their promise: after days of heat and mist the fog had withdrawn to the south. The twilight bristled with excitement; crowds of people swirled up and down the dusky, glittering streets, talking and laughing and singing together. The sky was clear, spangled with uncountable stars.

Isak's two youngest children were scrambling in and out of first one and then the other litter, shouting. Sorren had forgotten how noisy young children could be. Riat, the eight-year-old, the oldest and the heir, stood beside his mother, looking grave and adult in his new silk clothing. Sorren took a deep breath. Her feet twitched to be moving. She went over the preparations in her mind. There were blankets in each litter. Myra and Arré each had cloaks. The lead litter held a basket of food; she hoped there was enough of it. She bit her lip, wondering if Arré and Myra were ready to leave. She rather liked Myra Med, who was a buxom, pleasant woman with a kind manner and a great deal of sense. She rarely hurried, and she was in no hurry now, standing on the steps, talking to Arré about the administration of the vineyards.

Sorren glanced around for Paxe. The Yardmaster had come in earlier to speak with Arré about the details of the watch. But she had vanished, which was not surprising; the night watch had twice the number of people on it than was usual, and she had to keep an eye on all of them. Kaleb stood at the gate, swinging a lantern in one hand, talking to the litter-bearers, and Sorren heard a chinking sound as bontas changed hands. The gate guard shifted his feet, looking bored.

Arré looked very fine tonight, in a red tunic and trousers. She had washed her hair and scented it with jasmine, and it stood out from her head in soft curls like a peacock's crown. Myra wore dark, dark green, so dark it was almost blue. She and Arré got along perfectly as long as they did not spend too much time together. The day and evening of Festival “is about as much as I can stand,” Arré had said that morning. “She talks about the harvest and about her children, and after a while I want to run screaming from the chamber.” A piercing sound came from the second litter, and everybody jumped. The little girl (who was three) was sitting in it, blowing a reed whistle.

Sorren went to the litter and leaned in the entrance. “Why don't you wait to blow that until we get to the park?” she said. The girl smiled sweetly and shook her head. Sorren plucked the whistle from her hand and brought it to Myra.

“Thank you,” said Myra, and continued to talk. Inside the litter, the girl howled. Finally she realized that no one would come to her; she clambered from the litter and ran to her mother's side. “You can have the whistle back when we get to the park,” said Myra calmly. “Stop sniffling."

“Shall we go?” said Arré.

That afternoon they had all gone to the Tanjo precincts, to hear the L'hel invoke the Guardian's blessing and favor upon the land and upon the city. All that afternoon, tents had been going up in every district. The Blue Clan tent, in the Ismenin district, was the biggest, but the Jalar pavilion was the finest and most gaudy. Twelve days after the riot there were no signs of damage in the Jalar district, except in the places where walls and windows and screens had had to be replaced. The Med pavilion sat in the park at the foot of the hill. It was red with blue triangles on it, and was big enough, Arré said, to hold several thousand people. Arré had spent the last four days at the park, watching the engineers decide where the pavilion would be, and arguing with them about it. Two great pits had been dug for garbage, and two roads had been smoothed into the bare ground, and great tubs of water had been set near the site, in case there was a fire. One year there had been a fire in the Sul district, and the pavilion burned, and many people were hurt. Now all the districts took precautions.

Sorren thought it was a wonder there were not more fires. All the street lamps were lit, and all the house lanterns, and people walked about with candles until moonrise. “Here,” said Arré, thrusting the cloaks at her. “Are you sure you know where we're going to be?"

“By the big trees. I'll find you. There's a guard there, right?"

Arré scowled. “I wish it were over,” she said. “Are you sorry not to be drumming this year?"

Sorren sighed. “A little."

Isak had engaged another drummer for his dance this year. Sorren had expected him to do so, after the betrothal, but it still felt strange to be a spectator and not a performer.

“Don't think about it,” said Arré. She went headfirst into the litter. Myra smiled at Sorren and followed her.

In the second litter, the three-year-old was screaming, “Want go Mama!” Sorren hoisted her from the litter and carried her to her mother's arms.

“Be hush,” said Myra, rocking her.

“Me, too,” said Kathi, the middle child, starting to climb from the litter. Riat sighed and folded his arms in lordly disdain.

“No,” said Sorren. “You stay there, or I'll make you stay in the house with Lalli and wash all the pots.” That silenced her. The litter-bearers took their places. In no time at all the litters vanished down the hill, bells tinkling. Sorren waved at Kaleb and went after them at a slower pace, carrying the cloaks in her arms.

* * * *

The street din was tremendous. At every corner, it seemed, a little performance was happening. There were jugglers everywhere, tossing pears and apples, sickles and spoons; there were dancers and mimes, there were tumblers standing on their heads and on each other's shoulders, there were people selling fish cakes and noodle pies and heavenweed and wine. Children rode their parents’ backs, wide-eyed at the spectacle; men and women in headbands and doisse and in the flowing robes of the Asech clumped on the corners watching the performers. An old man was telling fortunes in the middle of the street. The smell of roasted quail drifted from a vendor's barrow. There were guards everywhere, watching for thieves, for Festival was a pickpocket's holiday. They stole purses; many carried sharp knives with which to cut the strings of carelessly handled money bracelets. Sorren's bracelet (it was truly her own, Arré had given it to her as a Festival gift) reposed securely in the pocket of her pants. It had one of each kind of bonta on it, except a largo.

Sorren kept an eye out for friends as she strolled. Tani and Simmy and Nessim would be in the Isara district most likely, and Jeshim—who was not a friend anymore—was juggling at the Blue Clan tent. But people she knew from the markets might come around; it was traditional for people to go all over the city, from district to district, looking into every tent.

Clouds of heavenweed smoke eddied around the lanterns, and people carried wineskins over their shoulders. A hand snaked in front of Sorren's nose with a pipe in its grip. She glanced down. An Asech boy grinned at her. She sucked on it; before she had time to say “Thank you,” he was gone. The drug made her limbs tingle pleasantly. The full moon's glow was spreading into the sky. Sorren did not know which she liked more, this feast, or Spring Festival, when people danced in long snaky lines through the streets carrying torches. In the grapefields, she remembered, they danced through the fields over the sown seed, pounding it into the earth with their bare feet.

She entered the park. The night watch guards were all about. Children tumbled everywhere, cavorting like puppies. Sorren looked for the big tree. It was near the tent, but not too close to the pits, which stank, or to the roads, which were dusty.

She saw it, and started toward it. Suddenly, everybody shouted. The moon was rising. It came up almost directly south; it was yellow as a daisy's heart, and huge, and bright enough to see colors by. People jumped and stamped and yelled. Sorren tossed her head back and cried, “Yip-yip-yip-yip!” It was the pickers’ call. Half a hundred voices answered her. She hugged the cloaks and shivered with excitement at the joyous sounds.

She weaved through the throng to the tree. The three-year-old was blowing her whistle with great solemnity, marching up and down as if she were leading a band. Arré was sitting on a blanket, the open basket beside her. She was munching a seaweed ball. “Sit.” She pointed to the blanket. Sorren sat, feeling shy. Myra was telling Kathi all about the Festival, what it celebrated, how old it was, and so forth.

The guard near the tree was showing Riat his pike. Sorren lay back on the blanket with her head pillowed on one arm and watched the moon rise. It whitened as it went higher in the sky, but it was still huge and brilliant and beautiful. The three-year-old grew bored with her whistle and came to sit beside her mother. She looked like Myra, with brown hair and skin, and light eyes.

Sorren wondered where Paxe was. Technically, the Yardmaster was not on duty until midnight but in fact she was here, somewhere in the crowd, making sure that everything ran smoothly.

“Sorren!"

She jumped. Riat was at her elbow. “You startled me, chelito. What is it?"

“I want to go see Papa. Will you take me?"

The year before, he had come to the little tents where the performers dressed to see his father before the performance. “Ask your mother,” Sorren said.

Riat went to Myra's side and whispered urgently. He came bounding back to Sorren. “She says I can go.” He seized Sorren's hand. “Will you take me?” He smiled trustingly at her. His dark eyes reminded her of Isak. She did not want to, but there was no one else to do it. She glanced at Arré, who spread her hands.

“Come on.” She started to walk toward the big tent.

Kathi set up a jealous wail. Myra took her in her arms and fed her a seaweed ball. Riat raced ahead of Sorren to the tent. He was like a little Isak, all dash and fire, but without Isak's cruelties. The guards at the pavilion looked at them sharply, and she turned so that they could see her bondservant's bracelet.

At the entrance to the little tents, they were stopped. “Sorry, no one goes in there but performers."

“But he's Isak Med's son,” she said. Riat bounced up and down on the end of her hand.

The guard frowned. “I got orders,” she said.

“Papa!” shrieked Riat. Sorren looked up, to see Isak sauntering around the corner of the pavilion. Riat tugged free of her and ran to his father, who picked him up and swung him in the air.

He settled the boy on his hip. “What are you doing here, eh?” There was true affection in his voice. Sorren stared at the ground. He strolled up to her. “And Sorren. My wife and sister are here, then."

“Yes, my lord."

“Papa, I want to see the fire-eaters, will you take me, please?"

“I'll take you. Sorren.” She looked up. Isak was smiling at her. “I forgive you,” he said. “I wish you were drumming for me instead of Itaka, but it's too late now."

Damn him, she thought, he always knew what to say to bring her back. “My lord, I wish I were, too."

The moonlight glittered on his sequined cloths. He held Riat firmly. “I'll take Riat with me. You needn't stay.” Riat gazed at his father with worshipful eyes. “You might return for him in a bit."

“I will, my lord."

“So formal!” he said teasingly. He tousled his son's curly hair. “Come on, youngling.” The boy slid to the ground and pranced in Isak's wake to the little tent.

He would get tired of the boy quickly, she knew, but it gave her a few moments to be by herself. She strolled around the park. The guard who had stopped her before nodded to her. The moonlight made all the colors into pastels. She wandered into the tent; it was as thick with people as a honeycomb with bees. On the big stage, two women tumbled while a third played a wooden flute.

She heard Paxe's name from behind her, and turned. Two Med guards stood by one of the tent supports, talking. They were swearing praisefully about Paxe. “Handle one of those blades as if it were wood and she'll take your fuckin’ ears off. Tough as a smith, she is.” They saw Sorren listening and shut their mouths. She grinned at them.

She went back into the park. She crossed her arms on her chest, covering the enameled bondservant's bracelet with her cupped palm. Now she was nobody, anybody, a stranger. She went by a vendor selling pigsfeet. She felt in her pocket for a deuce, and gave it to him. He gave her four fingerlings and a pigsfoot. It was hot; she juggled it from one hand to the other until it cooled off.

She went back toward the little tents. A man in red and orange and blue loped by her. They recognized each other at the same time. He spun around.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

Jeshim grinned. “Talking to me again, are you?” He reached forward and, before she could stop him, pretended to pull a red ball out of her left ear. “Oh, things. I'm off now. Come and see me."

She frowned after him. She had no intention of going to see him. She bit into the pork; the juice ran down her chin.

Riat was with Isak in the little tent, watching the dancer make up his face in front of a silver mirror. The tent was hot with candles. Isak's robes were green and gold and patterned like a serpent's scales: he was dancing the Serpent and the Wise Witch. He drew lines around his eyes to make them stand out. Sorren's fingers tapped on her thighs as she recalled the beat of the dance. Riat's mouth was open in wonder at his father's transformation.

Itaka sat in the corner, practicing the rhythm of the dance. She smiled at him, wishing she could steal his place. “How much longer?” said Isak.

Sorren glanced at the hour candle to the right of the mirror. “Half an hour."

“Ah. Take this imp off my hands."

“Riat. Come now, your papa's busy."

“I want to watch,” protested the boy. But he let Sorren detach him from his stool.

“Can you find your way back to the big tree by yourself?” she asked him.

He puffed his chest at her and strutted. “Of course!"

“Why don't you go and tell your mother that your papa is almost ready to dance? She might like to watch him.” The boy tossed his head like a colt and galloped off.

Isak grinned at her in the mirror. “You've a way with kids. Why don't you find a man, and have some?"

She laughed. “Arré wouldn't like it."

It was the wrong thing to say. She wished futilely that she could call it back.

But Isak simply smiled. “Are my dear sister's wishes so important to you, then?” he said.

She said, “Of course."

“Of course. Now, I have never had that problem.” He drew a final line across his face, and put the brush down. “Tell me, do you think she will come to watch me dance?"

The question was rhetorical; they both knew she would not.

* * * *

She went into the pavilion. The three tumblers were lighting the torches around the stage, making an act of it, riding each others’ shoulders and clowning, pretending to lose their balance, drop each other, and fall off. People were whispering Isak's name. A hand thrust into Sorren's; she looked down. It was Riat. “They're coming, I found them,” he said. Sorren turned, wondering if Arré had decided to come after all. But no; “they” meant Myra and the two little ones—and Paxe. Sorren's heart thumped. Paxe was carrying the three-year-old.

Riat was looking at Paxe with some of the same reverence he reserved for his father. She was wearing the Med colors, and high soft boots. She looked very splendid. Paxe saw his gaze, and grinned. “Sorren, will you hold the baby?” she said. Sorren took the baby from her, and she picked Riat up in two hands and threw him onto her shoulders. Myra was holding Kathi. “There, now you can see,” said Paxe.

Myra said graciously, “Yardmaster, you mustn't let my children keep you from your duties."

Paxe said, “They won't, my lady; they give me an excuse to watch the dancing.” And to see you, her eyes said to Sorren. She moved so that their arms brushed each other. Around them, the crowd had recognized her and was keeping its distance. “We can go closer if you wish."

“This is fine,” said Myra. She saw her son's face, and smiled. “Well, perhaps a little closer.” Paxe stepped forward, and people moved out of her way. Sorren followed, shifting the three-year-old from one arm to the other. The little girl had grown sleepy. She laid her head on Sorren's breast. Sorren rocked her gently. She was very nice, Sorren thought, when she wasn't yelling; plump and soft and sweet-smelling. She rubbed her cheek gently against the child's neck.

Now the tumblers were tossing flaming torches at each other, pretending to drop them, while the crowd went Oooh. Sweat coated Sorren's sides. She shifted the baby to the other side, canting her hip to take the child's weight. Itaka walked onto the stage. Everybody cheered.

Riat leaned to talk to his mother. “Papa's coming!"

“Oh, how nice,” said Myra. “Kathi, Papa's coming soon. Don't pull my hair, chelito.” Riat was bouncing up and down on Paxe's shoulders, both arms windmilling in his excitement.

Isak came onto the stage.

He had whitened a ring around his eyes, to make them stand out. His robes gleamed like the Serpent's scales. The drummer was a pounder; pom-pom, pom-pom. After the first burst of cheering, the crowd had grown silent, awed by the dancer's magic. Isak was the Serpent; sinuous, subtle, and brutal. He hissed, and the people in the front row stepped back. Sorren shuddered at his artistry. He glided behind the screen, and when he came out he was wearing a white robe over the green and gold costume. Now he was the Wise Witch. Slowly the story unfolded. The Serpent coveted the Witch's wisdom. He came to her cottage and danced about the house. She did not know he was there. She mixed a potion in her cauldron, and when she was not looking, he glided inside and lay down beside the cauldron. When it was all mixed, she tasted it. The Serpent lay in wait for her to look away. (By now, the children in the audience were crying, “Watch out!” while their parents tried to hush them up.) The Witch left the house, and the Serpent reared up, ready to steal the potion. The Witch came back and found him with it. The drumming reached a crescendo. She made a spell, and the great beast cowered, belly to the ground, and crawled out, unable to stand, armless and legless.

At the Serpent's punishment, the children cheered. Isak came from behind the screen, first as the Serpent and then as the Witch. Sorren went “Yip-yip-yip!” and he looked toward her, and smiled.

“He is good, isn't he?” said Myra, her voice soft and sad and lonely. She misses him, Sorren thought. She must love him.

“The crowd thinks so,” said Paxe. Reaching over her head, she swung Riat down. “I'm sorry, chelito, I must go.” She looked toward Sorren and smiled. Sorren mouthed a kiss at her.

“Will he do another dance?” said Riat. “I want to see it!"

“No,” said Sorren. “He always does just one."

They went back to the tree. Arré smiled at them. “Well?” she said.

Myra sat beside her. “The people liked it,” she said. “I hope you were not too bored out here. Your Yardmaster was very kind; she came and stood with us while we watched the dance."

Riat said, “Can I go and see Papa again?"

Myra took the three-year-old from Sorren's arms and settled her in the blanket. “The children miss him, you know,” she said to Arré.

“I'm sure they do,” Arré said gently. “Sorren, would you take the boy back behind the tent?"

Sorren bowed, and beckoned to Riat. “Come on,” she said.

If anything, the crowd was getting louder. It took them a long time to work their way back to the pavilion. Riat stayed close to Sorren, a little frightened by the mass of strangers, all taller than he. They stopped a while to watch a woman with a snake. The snake had green scales. “Like Papa,” Riat pointed out.

“Not as big,” said Sorren, which made him laugh. The dancer was not as agile as Tani.

As they went on, Riat said, “Is my father a good dancer, Sorren?” The note of love in his voice was so naked, it was painful.

“The best,” Sorren said firmly.

Riat repeated it to himself all the way across the park; “The best, the best."

They came around the corner of the pavilion and were face to face with Borti. He greeted Sorren with a smile and a hug. “How are you, girl?"

She was delighted to see him. Now that he was Ivor's second he was never around the house. “I'm well."

“Come with me,” he whispered. He took her behind a tent. Riat tagged after her. “Look what I've got.” He had some heavenweed in a water pipe. He handed it to her.

“You shouldn't have this—what if Paxe sees you?” she said, but she took a pull at the pipe anyway. The water bubbled.

“She won't. Don't worry about it.” He sucked on the pipe, filling his big chest. “That should have been you up there, drumming for Isak Med, not that other fellow."

Riat's head turned at the mention of his father. “I'm going to find Papa,” he said. Before she could grab him, he set off, running lightly over the trampled grass.

“Oh, hell,” said Sorren. She pushed the pipe into Borti's hands. “I have to go after him."

“Who is he?” said the old guard.

“Isak Med's son, you fool."

“Then he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself."

He was probably right. “He's my responsibility. What if he gets lost?"

“It's light. He'll find his mother."

“I'd better look for him."

* * * *

She called him as she walked. “Riat. Riat!” In the babble of people about her, she could barely hear her own voice. She went to Isak's tent, but it was empty. The costumes hung on hooks in a corner. Her heart began to beat painfully hard. Nothing ever happened to children—but what if something did? He could fall into the garbage pit, he could eat something bad and get sick, he could get bitten by a dog or kicked by a mule.... “Riat!” Only her own voice answered her.

She would have to tell the guards soon if she did not find him—and Arré, and Isak. Guardian, she said in her head, help me find him. She wanted to weep, and knew it was the heavenweed. She stopped one of the tumblers. “Have you seen a little boy, about this high, wearing blue silk?"

“No, sorry."

“If you do, will you grab him and take him to a Med guard?"

“Sure. Is he yours?"

“In a way. Riat!” she called.

She could not find him anywhere. She combed through the pavilion, looking on the stage, under the stage, in every corner and fold of cloth. She thought of the snake dancer and raced outside to look for her. Guardian, let him be there.... She pushed her way to the front of the snake dancer's audience. Riat was not there. She swore, trying to keep panic down, and forced her way out of the circle, ignoring the caustic comments directed at her back.

A silken voice said, “Troubled again, Sorren?"

Sorren whirled. Senta the Truthfinder was standing beside her. She had put her white robe aside, and her clothes were ordinary: a red cotton tunic, dark pants, boots. But there was no mistaking her voice, or the fall of hair that gleamed like ebony in the moonlight.

She smiled. “Why so astonished? Even witchfolk enjoy festival. I come to tell you; your Cards are in your house. I left them with an old fat woman who wheezed at me. I instructed her to put them with your belongings. What's the matter?” Her voice grew very gentle. “Perhaps I can help."

Sorren said, “I'm looking for someone, lehi."

“We are colleagues, are we not? Call me Senta. For whom do you search?"

“A little boy in blue. He's lost. He's—he's Isak Med's son."

“He was in your charge, and you lost him? That is ill. Would he stay here, or might he wander from the park?"

“I don't know. No, I think he would stay here."

“Then let me see if I can find him. Be still.” Her brows drew together. “Ah. Yes. There he is, by the tents.” She drew a sharp breath. “I would go very quietly and carefully there, Sorren the aftseer. Isak Med is occupied, and he will not take kindly to interruption."

Sorren's knees felt weak with relief. She went down on one knee. “Thank you, lehi."

Senta pulled her upright. “Don't thank me, child, just go, but quietly, quietly. And remember me to your mistress."

Now why—but she did not have time to wonder. Remembering the Truthfinder's admonition to go quietly, Sorren hurried to the rear of the pavilion.

The grass was taller here, less trampled; a small child could easily lie in it and be lost to sight. “Riat!” she called softly. She walked around the first tent, and the second. “Riat?” Thinking she heard a giggle, she turned—but saw nothing. “Riat, please,” she said. It was hard to distinguish shapes from shadows; moonlight dappled the grass and the tentfolds with streaks of silver.

Suddenly, a man strode from the second tent. He was tall; as the moonlight broke over his hair, it gleamed red. Despite his swift stride, there was something furtive in his manner. Without thinking, Sorren shrank against the tent side, where the varnish of moonlight confused the eye.

He looked all around in one swift gesture, and then twitched the hood of the cloak over his face and walked away. The cloak had no insignia on it. But in the moment he turned her way Sorren had seen his face clearly, and known him. It was Ron Ismenin.

Sorren almost forgot her worry over Riat in surprise. What would the head of Ismenin house be doing here, in the heart of the Med district? A rustle in the darkness recalled her errand to her. “Riat!” she said, and pounced.

Her fingers closed over a fold of cloth.

Chagrined, she rose. But now she did hear a giggle, dear in the silence. “Riat, come here at once,” she said, still softly.

A voice spoke from within the tent. “That's a lot of money, my lord. You must want your sister dead very badly."

Sorren turned around, as Isak's voice answered, half amused, half threatening: “That's right. Badly enough to pay for it—and if it's botched, to pay someone else to find you."

“Oh, I won't botch it,” said the second speaker confidently. “I have my own score to settle with the Med house. You want it tonight?"

“It's a good time; the guard is busy. You know who your accomplice is—the juggler."

“Say ‘partner,’ my lord. It sounds better.” There was a chink of coin. “Nuathan money, my lord?"

“You want to have to stop at the gate to change your bontas?"

“No."

“Then don't ask stupid questions. You have weapons?"

“I have a sword. Stolen from the Med Yard just this week."

Isak chuckled. “Ai, I like that. Your partner—” the light voice grew ironic—"will get you both out of the city before the alarm is raised. Do you mind the Asech?"

“I can stand them."

“You'll live with them for a while, until I'm named to succeed her. Then you'll come back to the city."

“I may not, my lord.” The other man's voice was dry.

“Suit yourself."

“Papa!” cried Riat. He leaped from the grass. Sorren saw him silhouetted against the moonlight as he sprang through the entrance to the tent. “Papa, can I go, too? I like the Asech!"

Within the tent, both men exclaimed. Isak said, “Riat, what are you doing here?"

“Hiding from Sorren. I wanted to find you. Papa, there's a lady with a snake out there who looks like you!"

The other man said, “Sorren—who the hell's that?"

“Watch your mouth,” said Isak. “She's my ex-drummer, my sister's servant. The northern girl."

“Ah. The Yardmaster's doxy. I'll go look.” Sorren loosed her hold on the tent and dropped flat, into the grass. She squirmed as close to the tent as she dared and pulled the loose cloth over her. A man came out of the tent and walked all around it.

His boots crunched on the pebbles a handsbreath from her chin. She held her breath. “I don't see her,” he called. He went back inside the tent. Instantly, Sorren rolled away from the tent and scrambled to the shadow cast by the one next to it. She was shaking.

She drew breaths until the trembling stopped. If I had my bow ... she thought. But she did not have her bow. Rising, she stepped firmly forward, and called, “Riat!"

Riat crowed from within the tent. The entrance flap opened outward and two men walked into the moonlight. One of them was Isak, his son in his arms. The second man swung around the tent and disappeared toward the pavilion. His walk looked familiar, but that was all she could see of him. “The Yardmaster's doxy,” he had called her. She made herself pretend not to have noticed him, but her heart seemed to stick in her throat as Isak strolled toward her.

He was wearing soft blue cottons, and his face was bare of paint. He was smiling faintly. “Riat,” he said, “it isn't kind of you to worry Sorren. She's responsible for you.” He put the boy on the grass.

“Papa, who was that man?” said Riat.

“Someone I know. Don't worry about him.” He looked at Sorren over the child's dark head, and she steeled herself to meet his eyes.

“My lord, he terrified me. I've been looking for him for nearly an hour.” Her voice shook, despite her care. Would he notice it?

“Have you?” Isak put a hand on his son's shoulder. “Riat, that was ill-done. Apologize to Sorren for making her worry."

“I'm sorry,” said Riat. “Papa, come and see the lady!"

“No. Sorren, what did you think of the dance?"

“It was beautiful,” Sorren said. “But your drummer was too loud."

“I know,” said Isak. “It should have been you. Where are you going now?"

She reached a hand to Riat. Mischievously, he skipped away from her. “I'm going to take this imp back to his mother, if he'll let me."

“He'll let you.” Isak's hand shot out and caught his son's wrist. “You come with me, youngling.” They walked away, toward the tent mouth. Sorren put her palms to her cheeks. She was icy and feverish all at once.

She tried to think who the man could be. Someone she knew—or who knew her. She knew who the Juggler had to be—Jeshim. That was easy. Isak was talking to the boy softly; Riat nodded his head. He was probably telling the boy not to say anything about “the man” to his mother. Guardian, be with me now. She had to get back, to find Paxe. Isak and Riat returned.

“Here you are,” said Isak. “Chelito, I'll see you tomorrow.” He smiled again at Sorren and strolled away.

“Good-bye, Papa,” called Riat. He looked as if he wanted to run after Isak, and Sorren caught his shirt. “I won't run. Let me go.” She let him go. He stood staring after his father. “I have a secret,” he said with jealous pride.

“Well, don't tell me what it is,” said Sorren. She picked him up and put him on her shoulders. He wound his fingers in her hair.

“Giddap, horse!” he commanded. She let him pretend she was a horse, and loped through the park toward the tree, looking for Med guards. Her heart drummed in her chest. Her knees felt weak. She told herself there were too many people about, that nothing would happen in the park.

The baby was crying. Myra walked up and down, joggling her. Sorren put Riat down. “Where've you been?” said Arré crossly.

Riat said, “I ran away. I saw a lady with a snake, and Papa!"

Sorren said, “He ran away from me, and it took me a long time to find him."

“I'm tired,” said Arré. “Go get the litters, child. Myra, I'll drop you at Isak's house."

Myra nodded. “Riat, it was very naughty of you to run away so long."

Kathi was asleep, curled on the blanket with her whistle in her fist. She looked like Arré, sleeping. Sorren went to the entrance to the park to get the litters. She had to find Paxe. She saw a Med guard and seized his shirt. “Where's the Yardmaster?” He shrugged. “Please, it's important. Arré Med wants her."

His expression altered. “Why didn't you say so?” He gave a two-note whistle. In a moment, it was repeated from the direction of the pavilion. “She's that way,” he said, pointing.

“Thank you,” said Sorren. She watched, waiting for the crowd to part, for Paxe to walk through it.... Her breath rasped in her throat. The words she had heard in the tent were burned into her memory like a brand. “You have a good memory,” said Kadra's voice in her head.

“Well, there she is!” said the guard in her ear. Sorren blinked. Paxe was walking toward her, smiling and brisk.

Guardian, let her know what to do, Sorren thought, and then her self-control shattered. With a sob, she flung herself into Paxe's arms.

Twenty-One

“I don't believe you,” said Arré.

Paxe said nothing. Arré walked from wall to wall in the darkened bedroom, sliding her fingers over the screens and holding on to the furniture with unsteady hands. Sounds of revelry blew up from the street on the night wind. Paxe waited for Arré to stop moving. She could hear the soft pah-pah-dum of Sorren's drumming, coming not from her room but from the head of the stair. In the kitchen, Lalith was scrubbing the already clean pots. Arré walked to the window. The screen was open, looking on the garden. Paxe went to her and put both arms around her. Arré was shaking. The moonlight poured down upon her rigid face.

“I'm all right,” she muttered, resting her forehead against Paxe's breast. “And I do believe you.” She sucked a deep lungful of air. “My little brother. My murderous, stupid little brother. What do I do now? What have you done?"

She was coming out of her shock. Paxe pulled her away from the window. “Sorren is playing the drums on the stairway where she can keep an eye on the front door. Lalith is in the kitchen, making noise. The kitchen door is barred from the inside. The guards—what few of them are still around the house—are in their usual places."

“Do they know? Have you told them?"

“No. I had to tell you first. Give me half an hour and I'll have a fence of bodies about this house.” Arré's heartbeat was rapid as a bird's. Paxe turned her face up and kissed her gently. Her mouth was salty; she had been crying so softly that Paxe had not heard it. “Nika, don't,” said Paxe. “Nothing will happen to you, I swear it."

“I can't help it.” Pulling herself lightly from Paxe's embrace, Arré walked around the room again. “I didn't know you could pay people to kill."

“What do you think an army is?” said Paxe. She rubbed her hands over her face. Her skin felt tight. “You can pay people to do anything."

Arré said, “That's not what an army is.” She turned around. “Can you pay people to do anything? Can you pay them to be loyal—to love you?"

“No,” Paxe said. “Not that."

The revelers had stopped beneath the window to argue where they would go next. Stand there and fight, thought Paxe. Go ahead. But the proximity of the big house made them nervous, and they staggered away, still talking. Pah-pah-dum. That was Sorren, on the stairs. After that first fit of tears, she had grown calm and thoughtful—it was she who had suggested getting Lalith to make noise in the kitchen.

Arré said, “How many of them will there be?"

“We know of two, the knife thrower and one other. There might be more."

“I don't want any of the household hurt."

Paxe said, “Someone has to stop them, Arré."

“Can we frighten them away?"

“And have them try again, some other night, or day? You want to live your life looking over your shoulder?” The words rang loudly in the still house. Sorren's thumping halted, and then resumed.

“If they are going to kill me tonight, they'll have to come to this room,” Arré said. “Can we let them come into the house, and capture them when they get here?"

“You want to trap them in the act."

“Yes. And I want them alive, so that they can say who hired them."

Paxe turned it over in her mind. “I think it can be done,” she said. “But you must make me a promise."

“What?"

“That you will leave it to me to decide how it is to be done, and that if I tell you to do something, you will do as I say."

Arré laughed shakily. “It's hard for me to do things any way but my own."

“I know how you are."

“I promise,” said Arré. “Though I reserve the right to carp afterward."

“You would anyway."

Arré sat on the bed. A shaft of moonlight fell across her hands as she twisted and turned her bracelets. “I suppose I shall not go north after all."

“I think not,” Paxe said. “Your brother isn't fit to rule, Arré. His mind is poisoned."

Arré tried to smile, and shivered instead. “Tarn Ryth will be disappointed."

“I think he'll understand when he learns why you stayed."

Arré thumped her fist on the bed. “No one is to know! I want this to be private, Paxe. Shall I tell the whole city that my brother is trying to kill me?"

“I will keep it as quiet as I can,” said Paxe. “And I will try to see to it that no one is hurt. No one should know, except you and me, and Sorren, and the people you choose to tell."

“And the Truthfinder,” said Arré. “I wonder—” But she left the sentence unfinished. “And my brother."

* * * *

Paxe sent Arré down the hall with Sorren to Sorren's bedroom. “You are not to come out until I come for you,” she instructed them. “Even if you hear noise, stay still. Don't talk above a whisper."

Sorren said, “Should I pretend to be here, or to be gone?"

“Be here."

“Should I play the drums?"

“Do you, at night?"

Sorren blushed pink. “Sometimes. I try to do it quietly."

Paxe smiled at her. “Then play for a little while, and then stop."

She went about Arré's bedroom, arranging the room to her satisfaction. She put the stool in front of the door, where anyone entering might trip over it. Then she went to the kitchen. Lalith was a tiny pigtailed shadow in the moonlight.

“My arms are tired,” she complained. Fretfully, she kicked a pot.

Paxe said, “I'm going out. I want you to make noise a little while longer, and then go to your bed, and stay there. Leave this door—” she gestured to the kitchen door—"unbarred, and then don't get up for anything until I tell you you may. You understand?"

Lalith's eyes were wide as plates. “What are we doing?” she said.

“Never mind now. You'll hear later.” Paxe walked around the room, piling pots in strategic places under the windows. They looked too small for anyone to climb through, but it was better to be safe. Lalith watched her, sporting a disapproving frown.

“That's not where they go,” she said.

“Leave them,” Paxe said. “They can go back in the morning.” She tugged gently on one of Lalith's ebony braids. “Remember, to bed, and no noise.” She went back into the front room, through the two parlors. The moonlight reflected off the tall glass of the scroll case, and in it she saw the room, herself, printed on the image of the rolled-up scrolls.

Then, as she had every night since change of watch, she went out to walk her district.

The night was still brilliant, but in the south the fog was clumping thicker and thicker. Little clouds scudded like birds across the star-wreathed sky. The door guard under the kava fruit tree was a shadow, the tree a thicker shadow. She made herself walk slowly, evenly, the way she always did. Late-night celebrants staggered from a nearby alley and trudged up the hill, laughing. As they passed the house, they quieted, warning each other owlishly not to disturb Arré Med. She pressed against the garden wall; they went by her without seeing her. They smelled of heavenweed and cheap wine. She went east, into the toe of the boot, and then north, along the border of the Minto district. She walked past a corner that should have held a guard. It was empty. Where was he? She cocked her head, listening, and heard nothing, no raised voices, no sounds of argument, no footsteps.

She located him in a thicket, smoking heavenweed, hands cupped around the glowing bowl of the pipe. Quietly, she came upon him from behind. Catching him at both elbows, she dug her strong fingers into the nerve. The pipe pitched from his shocked hands. Bracing herself, she lifted him out of the air and slammed him, hard, down on the street. The jolt jarred him from toes to crown. “Five strokes if I find you smoking again,” she whispered into his ear.

He staggered as he turned to face her. “Yardmaster—"

“Don't make excuses. Get back to your place.” He stiffened, and went to the corner. She hunted until she found the fallen pipe. Picking it up, she threw it with all her strength; it gleamed in the moonlight for a moment before it clattered down into someone's garden.

Outside the Tanjo, she stopped, as was her custom, to exchange words with the guard there. The red dome's edges looked as if they were cut out of paper. A shadow of a bird cut across the face of the full moon. “They're restless,” said the guard. “Hear them cooing? The light keeps them awake.” She looked for the lights in the L'hel's chambers but they were dark. Again she wondered why the Truthfinder had warned Sorren to go quietly to the tents. The warning had probably saved Arré's—and possibly Sorren's—life.

Paxe wondered if Isak would have killed the girl right then, had he thought she'd heard his deadly intrigue. Perhaps he would not have done it with his son looking on, but surely he would have done it. She turned north. She hesitated at the park, and then went on. By now Lalith would have ceased making her racket in the kitchen.

She completed her circuit swiftly. Her muscles felt stiff; she had been on duty a long time, since the pavilion had gone up, and she was very weary. She waved to the gate guard and spoke loudly, hoping that it would be heard. “I'm going to be in my cottage for a bit. Wake me if you need me."

Before she went to her cottage, she made one brief stop at the Yard. The moon threw her shadow in sharp relief on the walls. Then she went to her cottage. The cat greeted her with a puzzled “Merow,” and she stroked it until it purred. She went up to her bedroom and lit the lamp, hoping that the killers were outside and would see the light and think she was making ready for bed. She walked across the chamber, clattered the basin and the pot, made the noises they would expect to hear, and finally blew the lamp out.

Then she lay down on the bed in the uncertain moonlight, and made herself lie still.

Sweat ran from her. She was afraid. She tried to guess at how many there would be; two, three, four, five? They have to come tonight, she thought. O Guardian, let them come tonight. Arré will never consent to live behind an army, always guarded, always frightened.... She listened for the sound of Sorren's drum, but could not hear it. She was too far from the house to hear it, anyway. Her bed felt as if it had rocks in it, and she forced herself to lie still, watching the moonlight travel over the floorboards. Let them come tonight. She felt herself growing chilly and she began to exercise, flexing her muscles, keeping them warm for the work that lay ahead.

* * * *

In a little while, she heard a distant clamor. She had expected it, though she did not know what it was, a staged quarrel, a pretended theft, a distraction to call the attention of the guards. Flexing fingers, thighs, and neck, she rose from the bed. Silently, she went downstairs. Opening the cedar chest, she took out the northern sword. She had managed to get most of the rust off. Light gleamed on the newly polished edge. She imagined Tyré watching her from wherever he was, and tried to silence her mind, in case his soul was calling to her—but she heard only the silence and her own thunderous heartbeat. Nothing spoke to her across the desolate plain of death.

She put the sword into its sheath, and, holding it firmly against her, she opened the cottage door. The moon sailed in a web of cloud. She waited until its vast light faded, and then, closing the door, she ran across the courtyard to the rear of the house. The eave of the roof cast a great shadow over the entrance. The pots sat on the kitchen floor where Lalith had left them. Paxe piled them in front of the door so that its opening would knock them down. Then, leaving it unbarred, she climbed the stairs to Arré's bedroom and lay down on the bed.

They came in the back door as she meant them to, and fell over the pots, giving her the warning she had hoped for. Rising, she unsheathed the sword. They were coming down the hall to the stairs, coming fast; she heard a voice, and the sound of something falling. She wondered what it was. She was not angry yet. She prayed for anger as another might pray for peace—Guardian, make me angry—she kicked the sheath under the bed and tried to conjure up past hurts, old hates, anything to start the necessary, killing rage.

They came upstairs. They were wearing boots, and she counted every step. One man whispered, she couldn't hear the words, but the voice sounded familiar. The blood pulsed in her veins. They came closer, and she flattened herself against the wall, counting—one, two, three, four; four to kill one small woman, she thought, and the red anger began to rise in her head like a fire, as she had prayed and hoped it would, otherwise they might kill her—they came through the door, one, two, three, the fourth outside, and she leaped at them and ran the first one through the throat as he lunged with his drawn knife toward the empty bed.

He fell across it in a gurgle of blood. Paxe jerked the sword from his body and swung at the second man. He tried to beat her blade away; she swung back under his stroke and cut him across the belly, feeling the blade slide on the ribs. He screamed like a pig and folded over with his hands clutching the wound. The fourth man leaped into the room. The lamp tottered on its base and fell from the table, spilling oil over the floor. She recognized him. It was Seth. He grinned at her across the room. “I thought it was you, you cunt,” he said. He was holding a sword. Paxe recognized it; three nights ago it had been in her weapons shed. The other man was holding a long knife by the point. “Hold off, partner. I want this one."

“Do you?” said Paxe. Pointing the sword at them, she circled to the bedroom door and knocked it closed. “Well then, come on."

The knife thrower held back as Seth lunged for her. He sliced at her, tearing through a screen. She ducked under the blow and felt it whistle over her head. She stabbed upward at Seth but he evaded it, scrambling to the other side of the bed. Now the dead man on the bed lay between them.

“Now!” called Seth. The knife thrower swung. Paxe saw the knife come glittering through the air. It hit her in the upper arm; the pain seared through the flesh. She grunted and then closed her mind to it. As the knife thrower felt for his second blade, she stabbed him. He screamed. “Damn you,” said Seth. Her feet slipped in the oil as he swung at her, and her sword fell from her grip. The slice missed. His own feet slid and he overbalanced, his sword waving wildly. She caught his wrist with her left hand, ignoring the pain that wrung a cry from her lips, his elbow with her right, and forced him backward against the wooden wall.

They struggled. He snarled at her. She brought her knee up between his legs as hard as she could, and he shrieked. The sword dropped from his hand. She let him fall to his knees, and then, with a brutal twist, broke his right elbow. He collapsed, unconscious, or near to it. The room door opened. Sorren was standing in the doorway, holding a candle in her left hand and a monstrous kitchen cleaver in her right. Paxe leaned on the wall and swore at her. “I told you not to leave your room!"

“I had to,” said Sorren. She held the lamp up. Orange shadows wrestled with the moonlight. Her eyes went from one to the other of the motionless men. “Are they dead?"

“Three of them are."

“Is Jeshim there?"

“The juggler? That he is."

Her guards came leaping up the stairs, now fully aroused. “Yardmaster, what—” Paxe picked up the sword. She glanced at Seth, who was moaning, hands between his knees.

“Get the bodies out of here. Mind that lamp!” she warned Sorren. “There's oil all over the floor."

Reaction hit her. The pain from her arm rocked her where she stood. The corpses’ feet bumped on the stairs as the guards carried them out. She felt Sorren move aside. The light swung in a circle—"You're hurt,” said Arré. She stood in front of Paxe, peering into her face. “There's blood on your shirt. Do you have to stand there, or can you walk?"

“I can walk,” said Paxe. She let them lead her down the hall to Sorren's room. She dropped on the bed and laid the sword at her feet. The house was noisy with people; Lalith, Toli, the outraged and angry cook.

Sorren went to get water. Arré sat on the bed beside Paxe, an arm around her waist. “Who were they?” she said.

“The juggler, Jeshim, the one who threw the knives at the betrothal party,” said Paxe. “Seth, a guard who ran away. Two others. I don't know them."

“Are any of them alive?"

“Seth is. You said you needed one.” The blood was running down her arm. “Get me a pad.” Arré looked around, and then took her own shirt off and thrust it at Paxe.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

“I can't tell.” She pressed the shirt against the slice, and swore. “Serves me right,” she muttered. She had been stupid, she should not have given them that chance to rush her. “Five years ago, they never would have touched me."

The cook came in, carrying a basin of water. Lalith pattered behind him with a white cloth. “Let me see that,” he said to Arré. Obligingly, she moved from the bed. He sat down, laying the basin on the floor. “Fine mess that is,” he said to Paxe, plucking Arré's shirt from the wound. “Put that here,” he said to Lalith, pointing his chin at his own knees. Lalith laid the cloth down and unlapped the sides; in it was a bag of green powder and thread and a long curved needle. “Where are those cloths I told Toli to bring?” Lalith scampered out the door, returning a moment later with an armful of strips of cloth.

Dipping a cloth in the water, he cleaned the blood away from the gash. Paxe set her teeth against the heat. “Needs stitching,” he said.

Arré said, “Can you do it?"

“No different than stitching up a goose.” He peered into Paxe's face. “Lalith, does that numbskull Toli have any heavenweed?” She nodded. “Bring it, and a pipe."

Lalith soon came back, with a clay pipe filled with the strong greenish drug. Sorren lit the pipe and held it to Paxe's lips. She took the smoke gratefully into her lungs and leaned back against the wall, while the cook cleaned and powdered and finally stitched the long ugly gash. “The knife should have stayed in the wound,” Cook muttered.

“He was moving when he threw it, and so was I. It spoiled his throw.” Paxe grinned. She was floating now. “He was aiming for my heart, or my throat."

Cook tied a final neat knot in the strip of cloth that held the bandage on. “You could take that to a Healer,” he said.

“I may” said Paxe. “Thanks. Neat job."

“Easier than it looks,” he said, suddenly embarrassed. “I'll make you broth for the next few days.” He gathered up the basin and the bloody cloths and needle. His eye found the cleaver. “What's that doing here?” He jerked his head at Lalith. “Come on, it's over.” He tramped down the hall, his big feet shaking the floor. The room seemed to sway ... Paxe smiled. That was the effect of the heavenweed.

Sorren said, “Is it over?"

Arré said, “No. Only this part is over.” She picked Paxe's right hand from her lap, and kissed it. “I don't know what to say to thank you."

“You asked me to do it,” said Paxe. She straightened. Pain shot through her left arm, and the floating sensation receded some. One of her guards was standing in the doorway and she said, “Yes?"

“My lady,” said the guard. Arré looked up. “My lady, I'm sorry—will you come?"

“What?” said Arré. She looked at Paxe. They all followed the guard down the stairs.

Someone had lit the lamps. By the light they could see Elith lying half in, half out of the doorway to the large parlor. The guards had covered her with an ancient blanket. It smelled of the stable. Paxe knelt beside the old woman. The guard drew back the cloth from her face, and Paxe touched the dry lips. The old woman's eyes were glazed and still. She lifted the flaccid weight of one fat hand.

“She must have heard them come in, and gone to see what it was,” said the guard. “She never had a chance."

I forgot, thought Paxe. She stood, feeling sick. I forgot to warn her.

“I forgot,” said Arré. “She wanders—wandered at night. I didn't think of her. Why didn't I think of her?” Her face twisted with sudden tears. The guard drew the cover over the dead woman's body.

Paxe put her hand on Arré's arm. “It was my fault,” she said. “It was my job. Blame me.” Arré gulped like a child, and was silent.

“It was Isak's fault,” said Sorren suddenly. “Blame Isak."

Arré looked up. “Yes,” she said. “Isak. Where is that man, the one who lived?"

“In the guardhouse."

“Take—take Elith's body away. Bring him here.” She tugged one of the big armchairs nearer the lamp, and sat in it. “Paxe, can you stay? Sorren, bring me wine."

“Should you?” said Sorren.

“Guardian, girl, just a little. Have some yourself, too.” She tilted her head. “Paxe, do you know him?"

“I know him,” said Paxe grimly.

They brought Seth into the parlor. Paxe saw to her satisfaction that he was having considerable trouble walking. Someone had bound a rough pad around his elbow with cloth and twine. Sorren brought two glasses of wine, one for Arré, one for herself. Seth stared at Arré; he could not seem to keep his eyes away from her bare breasts. Paxe said to Sorren, “Get a shirt.” Walking to Seth, she closed her right hand over his hair. Very softly, with her face quite close to his, she said, “You can be dead very soon. Remember it.” His face grayed, and his eyes contracted. She let him go, and stepped back. Her arm throbbed, but the heavenweed kept the pain from being too real.

Arré said, “You were a guard of mine, the Yardmaster says. Why did you leave?"

“I didn't like the way I was treated,” he said, looking at his feet. Sorren brought Arré a shirt. It was huge, one of hers.

“I couldn't get into your room,” she said. “The oil—Toli's cleaning it up."

Arré put the shirt on. “How did my brother find you?” she said.

He rubbed his chin with his good hand. “I found him. I heard he didn't like you much. I thought he'd take me on."

“And did he?” said Paxe.

“I've been working for him for nearly a month."

“That's why we couldn't find you,” said Paxe.

Arré said, “After you'd killed me, what were you supposed to do?"

“Run,” said Seth. “To the Asech country. The juggler was going to arrange that part."

“Who were the others?” said Paxe.

Seth started to shrug and thought better of it. “Oil Street thugs,” he said.

Arré sipped her wine. “You know what can happen to you now,” she said.

Seth drew his thumb across his throat in the universal gesture.

“Yes,” said Arré. “But I'm not going to do that. I'm going to keep you alive so that you can speak against him. After that, we'll see.” She beckoned to the guards to take him, and looked at Paxe. “You could sit down,” she said. Sorren leaped to one of the armchairs and turned it so that it faced Arré's. Paxe sat. The cushion felt so good that she was afraid she might fall asleep right there.

She moved her injured arm so that the pain would keep her awake.

Arré rubbed her eyes. “Now what?” she said.

Paxe said, “Let me go get him."

Arré said, “He's a member of a noble house. You need a Council order or he doesn't have to come.” She had not needed to be told who Paxe meant by “he."

A spurt of some of the rage that had possessed Paxe in the bedroom made her shiver. “I would like to see him try to fight me,” she said harshly. “Arm or no arm."

Arré said, “No. He—Myra is there. And the children."

The sky was paling in the east. Beneath the windows, the rumble of carts began. “He doesn't have to know,” Paxe pointed out. “If his plan had succeeded, wouldn't I be going now to his house, to tell him of your death and ask him what to do? Let him think it worked, until I get him outside his house."

Arré pulled Sorren's shirt around her as though it were a blanket. “All right,” she said. “Do it like that."

“Good,” said Paxe. She ached, and wished that she did not have to move. Sighing, she made a conscious effort, and rose.

“What will you do to him?” Sorren said.

“I don't know,” said Arré.

“And to Ron Ismenin?"

“Ron Ismenin?” said Arré. “What of him?"

“He was there,” said the girl. “I saw him leave the tent before I heard the voices. He didn't see me."

“Ron Ismenin,” said Arré. “That—that—” words failed her. She worked one of her silver bracelets—the big one, with the blue stone—over her knuckles, and handed it to Sorren. “Here, child, take this with you: it will get you through the guards. Go to the Hok district, and bring me Marti Hok."

* * * *

An hour later, Arré faced her brother across the little parlor.

She was not alone with him: Paxe and another guard were present. Arré's knees were shaking, and she firmed them with an effort. My little brother, she thought. She gazed at him, trying to find in his handsome, evil face the face of the little boy she had played with and loved. She kept seeing Riat in him. He was hastily dressed, without the jewels he usually wore; Paxe had told him that she was dead, and he had pulled on the clothes to hand and left his house, leaving Myra and the children sleeping in peace and ignorance. He rubbed his wrists with an absent gesture, his eyes never leaving hers, and she saw the red marks of a rope on them. Paxe said that he had not fought; why had she bound him?

“Well?” he said, and she wondered what it meant to him to see her alive and know his plot had failed.

“Why?” she asked him. “Why that way?"

“It was a last resort,” he said. “I would never have done it if you had agreed to accept the Ismeninas on the Council."

“They knew of it, then?"

“Not precisely,” he said. “They paid for it without knowing what it was they paid for. At some later time, I might have told them, of course."

It was the same tactic he had used with Cha Minto. “How did you get Ron Ismenin to give you money?"

“We made a bet,” Isak said blandly, “and he lost."

“What was the bet about?"

“Something trivial."

She doubted it. But she could—and would—deal with Ron Ismenin later. “Should the Council have disrupted the city, to serve your ambitions?"

A smile flickered across his face. “You have never understood,” he said.

For a moment, in her weariness and pain, Arré hated him. He was always beautiful; quicker than she, softer than she, graceful and illusive as moonlight. Then hatred died, and she was only weary. She spread her hands. “Explain to me, then."

“I suppose I might as well. What if it had been you in my place, sister; confined to the country, to overseeing the harvest, to raising children and vines—would you be content with that life, Arré?"

In the garden, a bird trilled. Someone—Lalith?—tiptoed past the parlor door. “I don't know,” Arré said. “No, I doubt I would have been content, Isak. But I would have tried to do it as best I could!"

He said, “I did. It was like living in a cage."

Arré said, “There are people in this city who would give their souls for such a cage!"

“They're fools.” He reached a hand toward her. Paxe moved sharply, and he drew it back. “Arré, you cannot blame me for desiring power."

“I blame you for trying to take it by killing me."

“If you had given it to me another way, perhaps I wouldn't have tried to have you killed."

“So you admit it,” she said.

He shrugged, a beautiful dancer's motion that rippled over hands, arms, neck, shoulders. “I understand you have two witnesses.” Arré nodded. “I am a realist; why should I deny it? But you have only yourself to blame for it."

Arré shook her head. “Isak, you are not going to convince me to blame myself for your ambition. Why not lay the blame upon our parents, who begot me first?"

“Oh,” he said, “I do."

She did not want to stand any longer. Her chair stood at her side; she sank into it, and looked up at Isak. “Now what am I to do with you?” she said.

He smiled. “I know what I would do were I in your place."

“What?"

He drew his thumb across his throat from ear to ear. Paxe, her eyes on Arré's face, nodded her agreement.

“No,” said Arré. “I don't want you dead, though people keep telling me I should."

His eyes narrowed.

“But I don't want you here, in Kendra-on-the-Delta. You'll scheme and pry and trouble me."

“If I—"

“Give your word? I don't trust your word.” She watched the sunlight sift through the window, wondering when Marti would come. “I want you gone."

Isak said, “An order for exile must be signed by every Council member."

“It will be. At sunset today, your outlawry will be proclaimed, you will be stripped of rank, and taken outside the city Gates. I don't care what direction you travel in. The vineyards are no longer yours; I will give them to whomever I decide should have them."

He swallowed. “And Myra?” he said. “And the children? Shall they be outlaws?"

“Would Myra follow you?"

He shook his head. “No. Why should she? It's a hard life without a roof, without friends, without money. I don't want my children to live like that."

Arré turned her bracelets on her wrists. He wants me to give Myra the vineyards, she thought. “You know you will not be permitted to see her. If you are found on Med land, the Med soldiers will hunt you like a wolf."

He smiled. “There are no wolves in the grapefields, Arré. Myra's ambitions are less exalted than mine. She would rather live in comfort without me then follow me through the wild."

“Where will you go?"

He spread his hands. “Not upriver. Tarn Ryth will not want me on his lands. And not the Galbareth, I would die of boredom. Shirasai, perhaps, or farther. There are other lands."

“Anhard?” said Arré.

“Too cold."

He was taking it well. Perhaps he was counting on Cha Minto or Ron Ismenin to send him money. She didn't care. She hadn't slept in more hours than she cared to count, her eyes felt like sand, her mouth like wax, and she was very, very tired. “As long as you are out of Kendra-on-the-Delta, I don't care where you go. Take him.” Paxe stepped forward and seized his arm. For a moment, all his muscles stiffened, and then he smiled, and relaxed, and let her take him. Arré closed her eyes. She suddenly could not bear to watch him walk away.

* * * *

When she opened them, Marti Hok was standing in the door. The old woman limped to her and laid a hand on her hair. “When Sorren came for me this morning,” she said, “I was awake. I wake early; I lie in bed listening to the birds and to the merchants passing through the streets on the way to their shops. When Sorren asked me to come to the house, I did not think, something is wrong. I thought, how original of Arré, a morning party. I was charmed."

“And then she told you."

“And then she told me,” agreed the old woman. “My dear, I am sorry."

Arré nodded. Reaching for the bell, she rang for Lalith. Sorren came in. “Tell Toli to bring in another chair.” She rose. “Sit, Marti. You are older."

“But I suspect you are the more tired,” Marti said. Nevertheless, she sat. Toli, his eyes still crusty with sleep, brought a chair from the big parlor. Arré sat in it.

“Do you want tea?” she said.

“I do."

Arré rang again. Sorren came in, her hair half braided. “Bring tea, child."

The tea was brought, and they sat sipping it. Arré yawned. Marti said, “What do you want me to do, Arré?"

Arré said, “Two things. I want you to help me obtain the Councillors’ signatures on an exile order for my brother."

Marti sighed. “Have you talked to him? What does he say?"

“He is unrepentant."

Marti shook her head, not in negation but in sorrow. “I will help you, of course. What of Myra and the children?"

“I shall give Myra the vineyards. Riat is still my heir."

“I approve,” said Marti. “And the second thing?"

“I want you to be present when I speak with Ron Ismenin."

Marti said slowly, “Did he know of this?"

Arré said, “He paid for it. Isak says he did not know what he was paying for."

Marti snorted. “Ron Ismenin is stupid but I cannot imagine him paying for something without knowing what it was."

“Nor can I,” Arré said. “But only he and Isak know the truth."

Grimly, Marti said, “I would be pleased to be present when you speak with him."

Sorren tapped on the door jamb. Arré looked up. “Come in, child,” she said.

The tall girl entered. Her braid was coiled on top of her head, held there by the lapis lazuli comb. Her eyes were red, and Arré wondered if she had been weeping for Isak. She dropped her knee to Marti Hok and then faced Arré. “May I go down to the docks?” she said.

“Down to the docks? Why?"

“The ship is leaving today, and I promised a friend that I would go to the dock to see it leave. She's on it."

“The ship—oh, the Isara ship. Who is your friend?"

“Her name is Kadra. She's a mapmaker."

The thought of the Isara ship made Arré think of the L'hel. Could he have known of the plot? Could Kim Batto have known? Perhaps she could find a way to ask Senta-no-Jorith about that. She scowled at the floor, and glanced up to find Sorren waiting patiently for her answer.

“I'm sorry, child. I was thinking. Yes, you may go. Promises should be kept. Do you know when the ship leaves?"

Sorren shook her head.

“High tide today is four hours before noon,” said Marti Hok. “The ship will leave on the rising tide."

Arré grunted. “How do you know that?"

Marti said, “Arré, don't be silly. My district borders the delta; of course I know the tides. So do half the folk of this city."

“Yes,” said Arré, “I suppose they do."

She could not help thinking of Isak. She wondered if they had bound him when they returned him to his cell. “Ron Ismenin,” she muttered, and seized a piece of paper. “Please come to my house the first hour before noon today."

“It sounds like a magistrate's summons,” said Marti.

“I mean it to.” He would come; she was sure of it. She thrust it at Sorren. “Give this to a guard to deliver to the Ismenin house."

Sorren bowed.

“Go, go!” Arré ordered. The tall girl turned and vanished through the doorway. Arré heard her stop and speak to the guard.

Marti leaned forward. The sunlight gleamed on her hair. “Arré,” she said, her voice somber, “let that girl go."

Arré was still thinking of Ron Ismenin. After she spoke with him, she would write to Tarn Ryth again. “What?” she said. “I did!"

“No,” said Marti. “Let her leave. Can't you see—she's grown, she's ready? She longs to go north—oh, yes, she told me. You know it, too. How much longer is she bound to you?"

For a moment, Arré could not recall. “A year, I think,” she said. “Yes, a year."

“Give her the year. If for nothing else, then for her service to you this night; she has earned her freedom.” Marti lifted her teacup to her lips. Arré remembered the longlegged, tawny child she had first noticed in the grapefields, bending over weeds. It's true, she thought. She is grown. The child is gone.

Twenty-Two

Ilnalamaré was leaving.

She sat upright on the slipway, great angled timbers holding her balanced, while the friendly tide swirled around her bow. A work crew stood by, waiting to pull the timbers free of her with ropes. In the water, two sturdy boats waited to haul her into deep water; they were linked to the larger ship by lines ending in claw-shaped hooks. Sorren squinted into the sunlight. Her eyes hurt, and her mouth was fuzzy with lack of sleep. She wondered if they had told Myra yet what Isak had done. The whole of the events of the night seemed like a bad dream which she had not had to go to sleep to remember.

She had expected there to be a crowd on the boardwalk. More guards than usual paced the street. As she approached the walk, a guard signaled her to halt. “You can't go there,” he said.

“Why not?"

“It's reserved.” He stepped aside a moment to let her see. A small group of richly clad people stood at the walkway's tip; she recognized Edith Isara.

“Can I go down to the shore?” she said.

He glanced from one side to the other, and then shrugged. “You didn't ask me. I didn't see you."

“Thanks."

As Sorren slithered down the pebbly bank, a noise began. It froze her. “Awhoo! Aawhoo!” The alarm! she thought, in useless panic. But the work crew lounging in the mud merely pulled on their gloves and looked toward the ship. From this perspective Sorren could see again how big it was. But compared to the ocean, it was no bigger than a toy, no bigger than a floating chip of wood.

“Awhoo!” The sound came again, from the south.

“It's the fishin’ boats,” said a man. He was sitting in the shade cast by the boardwalk. Sorren shielded her eyes. Twenty or so people stood or sat along the walkway's length. “They'm greetin’ they new sister.” He turned his head, hawked, and spat into the mud.

“Is all the crew on board?” Sorren said.

“Ya. You know someone?"

She nodded. He jerked his thumb toward the others. “So do they. So do I."

Around the ship's white hull, the tide was sliding up. Sorren sat in the mud beside the friendly man. He smelled of fish. She listened to the people telling stories about the ship's building and its captain. Her name was Ruth-no-Tania. She had been raised west of the city, in a fishing village, and had been at sea, as deckhand, mate, and skipper, for sixteen years. She was one of the most respected shipmasters in Kendra-on-the-Delta, and when Edith Isara had first conceived of the ship, it was to Ruth-no-Tania she went, before anyone.

“How old is she?” said Sorren, imagining a strong, lean woman with iron-gray hair.

The fisherman told her, leaning sideways again to spit. He had a huge purple birthmark in the shape of a hand on his left thigh. “Thirty-one."

More people came down the bank and settled into the shade. Sorren drew her legs up and put her head on her knees. A girl in a ragged shirt said, “I think they'll go west."

“East,” said someone else.

“South, into the mist.” They argued desultorily. Someone passed a waterskin; it landed in Sorren's hands, and she drank gratefully. The strong smell of unwashed bodies was making her queasy. She wished she could get higher. Kadra would never see her here; never know. She wondered where Norres was. Suddenly, a shiver went through the little crowd, and everyone stood up. Sorren craned her neck like a seabird, as people around her went “Aah!"

“I see Jemmy!” cried the girl in the ragged shirt. She waved both hands frantically.

“There she rides!"

“She's lifting!"

The lines linking the ships tightened. The rowers in the small boats strained at their oars. The work crew began to walk backward, pulling the propping timbers from the big ship's sides.... Suddenly, with a great shudder and a jet of spray, Ilnalamaré slid into the ocean. The yellow-sailed fishing boats blew their conches again, and the muddy hollow beneath the boardwalk struts resounded to cheers.

A small boat cleaved to the white ship's side. A rope dangled from the larger ship's deck down to the small one. A figure in blue caught it and climbed it, hand over hand. Sails blossomed from the spars; they, too, with blue, a deep indigo, nearly purple. The fisherman beside Sorren said, “Them'll fade. Two months in the sun and salt and they be the color of wheat."

“Kadra,” whispered Sorren. “Safe journey—” The words stuck. There was a great surge forward, as people ran toward the hole where the ship had been to pick up bits of wood, scraps of sailcloth, nails, pieces of net, anything from the ship before it, too, floated out on the tide. Sorren stayed where she was. The east wind belled the sails and she saw the white ship turn to catch the breeze. She glimpsed a carving on the bow; it was a great-beaked bird, like the Eagle, fierce and strong and powerful enough to fly day and night across the world. She hoped it would be strong enough to guide the ship to land, and then to turn around and bring it safely home.

“Good-bye,” she said, more to the ship than to her friend. She had already said farewell to Kadra. Recalling the ghya's instructions, she turned her back on the scrambling people and climbed the bank to the street. When she turned once more to look at the ship, it had grown noticeably smaller. She saw the guard who had let her go onto the beach, and waved her thanks at him.

The inn's new door was propped back with a stone, leaving the common room open to the sun. She stepped inside. The room was empty. “Hello?” she called. Nothing answered. She called again. The kitchen door slid back. Norres stood there.

“Oh,” she said, “it's you. She said you would come."

Her voice was dull, and her face was gaunt. Sorren wondered if she was sick. “Are you all right?” she said.

Norres ignored the question. She pointed behind her. “Through that door,” she said, “in the storeroom through the kitchen. She's there."

“Who's there?” said Sorren.

“Kadra."

Sorren blinked. “What?"

“Go look yourself,” said Norres. Slowly, Sorren walked past her, into the kitchen. A girl scrubbing an oven did not even glance up as she walked by. The kitchen smelled of grease and fish. Dried herbs dangled from the roof beams. Sorren looked for a storeroom, and saw a door standing half ajar in the rear of the kitchen. She went to it. Pushing the door open the whole way, she stepped into a dim and musty room.

She thought it was a storeroom; it had shelves and bins and tall jars standing about on the floor. It was lighted by one netted window. In the light, she saw a pallet, raised off the floor slightly, and a human form on the pallet, covered by a sheet. She went to it. The face was not covered. It was Kadra.

“But—she was going on the ship,” Sorren whispered.

“That one was never going on the ship,” said Norres from the doorway. “You heard the cough. The drink and the fighting and the sleeping in the road and on the beach killed that one, just as it was supposed to. I said, Come sleep in the inn. ‘No.’ Come sleep in my house. ‘No.’ So I learned not to ask. The ship—the ship was a dream, girl. Maybe you believed it. That one never did. Here.” She walked to a shelf. “These things are for you. That one said I was to see that you got them."

Sorren said, “When did she die?"

“This morning, before dawn. Hurry up, take your leave. I'll make the grave when you go.” She left abruptly. Sorren stepped closer to the bed. Kadra looked peaceful. Sorren wondered where Norres would bury her. You were supposed to tell a magistrate when someone died, so that they could come and examine the body and make sure the person had not died of plague.

“I thought—” Sorren stopped, and swallowed. Why was she speaking to the dead? She looked down at the corpse's face. The skin was beginning to lose its moisture, it was stretched tight over the bones, and the room smelled strange. Sorren reached out and laid her fingers lightly on the yellowish lips. The sheet hung loosely over the body. It was just a body now, the soul was gone, wandering wherever souls went. Soon the wrappers would come and wrap the body in strips of coarse linen and put it in the earth. Sorren slid her hand to the sheet. What if she rolled it back? No one was there to watch her. She had never seen Kadra naked in life. She would never get another chance to discover what made a person a ghya.

As she stood there, the tears spilled. She lifted her hand. “Damn you!” she cried. The earthen walls absorbed her shout and did not even give back an echo. “Why?” The dead ghya's chin jutted at her. A thread round her head held her jaw closed. She could not say in death what she had chosen not to say in life. Sorren lifted her hand and rubbed her eyes till they smarted. “Go with the ship,” she said to the dead. Perhaps the soul lingered, and would hear her. “Go with the ship, and bring it home."

She went to the shelf Norres had pointed out at her. A leather case lay on it, like a flute case, but much longer. She opened it. Her bow and ten arrows lay inside it. Beside the case was the silver flask, and the curved knife, and, folded small, the patched and ragged messenger's cloak.

She took the bow case from the shelf. The leather was supple as cloth and inlaid with a design of flowers. She hesitated, and then picked up the sheathed knife and the flask. Lifting the cloak from the shelf, she shook it out and wrapped flask and knife within it. No one would stop her for the cloak. If some guard asked her what was in the case, she would say she was carrying it to the hill for Paxe.

Cradling the cloak and case in her arms, she walked into the common room, leaving the door as she had found it.

Norres was swabbing the tables. She saw Sorren and nodded. “That one said you were going north,” she said. “I wish you safe journey."

“Thank you,” said Sorren. She hesitated, and then walked to the street. The wind rattled the pebbles over the cobblestones. She looked toward the ocean—the ship was there, sailing south, small now as a child's toy.

As she passed the courtyard in front of the house, she saw that Marti Hok's litter had vanished. Another litter, with blue and red streamers on the poles, sat in the dust of the street. The gate guard was peeling a kava fruit. The green rind curled around his forearm like Tani's tame snake.

She went to him. “Whose litter is that?” she asked.

“Myra Ishem Med's,” he answered. “She's seeing her husband."

“Is the Yardmaster about?"

“In her cottage. Captain Ivor's got the watch command.” He had the over-bright gaze of a man who has been awake too long. Sorren wondered if they all looked like that. She flexed her fingers and walked toward the cottage, hoping that Paxe was asleep.

She pushed the cottage door open very softly. The sunlight gleamed on the straw. The cushions lay in ordered piles. Beside the chest an oily rag lay where Paxe had dropped it. Sorren put the cloak and the bow-case down beside it. She heard a thump from the kitchen, and the one-eyed cat sauntered into the room and came to rub its head against her leg. She stroked it, listening. After a while, she heard Paxe breathing, and the soft interruption of a snore.

She wanted to tell Paxe about Kadra—but not now; not yet. She gave the cat's head one last caress. Carefully, she left the cottage. She went into the house through the kitchen door. The cook was there alone. “Here,” he said as she passed him, and held out a piece of kava fruit. She ate it absently, leaning on the cutting board. Litter bells jangled faintly from the front of the house, and she went to the corridor to see who it was. The front door opened and she heard a woman's voice and then the sound of Marti Hok's cane. She stayed in the doorway to listen as the old woman moved down the hall.

She finished the slice of fruit and wiped her hands on a rag. As she passed the study she saw Marti Hok give Arré a paper. She slowed her step to listen.

“Kim signed it without an argument,” said the old woman. “Something has changed that man; he looks defeated. Boras was outraged—mostly that I would dare to wake him before noon. Cha Minto did not want to see me. When I told him what had happened, he wept. His tears, at least, are on the document. I brought one copy to the Black Clan and told the scribes I wanted copies enough to post in every district, by sunset."

So others had wept for Isak too, Sorren thought. The stairs creaked as she went up them and she remembered sitting in the thick darkness on the top step, weeping, drumming her practice rhythms over and over again.

* * * *

Ron Ismenin arrived at the Med house at the first hour before noon. He came on foot, not in a litter. Arré had given orders that he be shown to the small parlor, where she and Marti awaited him. Lalith announced him, and he entered the chamber with long impatient strides, as if he were walking across a street.

Arré clasped her hands in her lap. She always forgot how fair the Ismeninas were. Ron Ismenin was as light-skinned as Sorren. He was dressed in his house colors, gold and gray, and he wore a huge gold ring on his right hand. He looked wary and annoyed.

“Ladies,” he said curtly, inclining his head in the bow of equals. He glanced around for a chair, saw none, and frowned. “I hope this is important; I have work to do. I do not appreciate receiving invitations that sound like orders."

Arré said, “It is important, and you didn't have to come, you know."

Stiffly, he said, “I assumed this was Council business."

“Part of it is,” Arré said. Her eyes felt gummy, and her mouth was thick as felt. Marti sat like a statue in her chair. Only her eyes shone. “You must excuse my shortness. Last night, four men entered this house and tried to kill me."

Ron Ismenin's long jaw dropped. “What?” His light blue eyes did not meet hers. Arré watched his gaze skitter from one corner of the room to the other. He coughed to clear his throat. “I'm glad to see that they did not succeed."

Arré thought coldly, He's no actor. “You don't ask who they were,” she said.

“Who were they?"

“Thugs,” said Arré, “hired by my brother, Isak. One of them is in prison; the others are dead. My brother is in captivity, and the Council has ordered him exiled from the city. The sentence will be carried out at sunset. I thought you might want to know before the notices go up on the street corners."

Ron Ismenin's face paled so that his freckles seemed to burn. “That's—that's dreadful,” he muttered.

“Which,” said Marti Hok softly, “is more dreadful: the attempt on Arré's life or Isak Med's banishment?"

“The attempted killing, of course.” Again he looked for a chair. “I—I cannot quite believe it."

Arré said evenly, “You are a liar, Ron Ismenin. You knew about it."

He took a step backward. “You're mad!” he said. “How would I know of such a thing?"

Arré ticked the sentences off her fingers. “One. You gave Isak the money with which he paid the assassins; he says so. Two. You were seen in the park last night. Three. One of the killers was the juggler who entertained at your brother's betrothal feast. Four. Another used a sword made in the Ismenin smithies, brought to the city by your contrivance. All the evidence points to you."

Ron Ismenin swallowed, and his throat moved beneath the collar. “You cannot prove I knew about the act,” he whispered. “I didn't.” His voice rose. “I didn't!"

He is a coward, Arré thought. She wondered if Tarn Ryth knew it. She rang the bell, gazing at him, and did not trouble to hide her contempt. Lalith came to the door. “Tell Toli to bring another chair."

The kitchen apprentice staggered through the doorway with one of the parlor armchairs, and set it beside Ron Ismenin.

“You may sit,” said Marti Hok.

Slowly, Ron sat. He was fighting visibly to regain his composure. He took a deep breath, and blew it out. “I cannot believe you mean to outlaw your own brother, Arré Med."

Fool, Arré thought. “It's done."

The color had come back to Ron's cheeks. “It must be convenient to have the Council in your pocket,” he said. “But I do not think you will find it easy to do the same to me."

Arré made her voice languid, though her muscles were tense as steel. “I would not try. The Councillors agree that you are something of a fool, to let Isak play you like a drum, but we prefer dealing with you to dealing with your younger brothers."

He scowled at the insult, but Arré saw his shoulders relax. “Did you invite me here to tell me what you are not going to do?"

As if in counterpoint to the question, the sound of the flute floated through the doorway. I am a stranger in an outland country; I am an exile wherever I go.... Arré shivered. She would never be able to hear that song without thinking of Isak. Sweat rolled down her temples, and the sun glinted off the glass of the scroll case into her eyes. She moved her head. “Do you gamble, Ron Ismenin?” she said.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I'm not a gamester,” he answered.

“But you've been known to place a bet,” Arré said.

“Yes."

“Has it ever occurred to you that politics is like a game?"

She saw him stiffen. “No."

“Then think on it,” Arré said. She leaned forward. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marti Hok nod slightly. “It is like a game, Ron Ismenin, and the stake in this game is power. But this game is complex, and in it you have already made two major errors. Twenty-three lives were lost this year because of your ambition. You are a tool, Ismenin. You have been used by my brother, by Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath, even by Tarn Ryth. You know little about politics and nothing about power.” His face had gone chalk white with rage. Arré smiled. “You are angry now. But I assure you, I speak truth. It is only because you have lost your stake, and are not now a danger, that you are here, and not in prison. Do you wish to keep what you have, Ismenin? Then leave the game. A smart gambler knows when to pull his bones from the pot."

Ron Ismenin glared at her. “That's street talk,” he said.

“So it is,” Arré agreed. “The choice is yours, my lord. Pull, or go hungry."

His chest heaved as he looked from Arré to Marti. Finally he rose. “I pull,” he said, and whirling, went through the door, nearly knocking the screen from its track. Arré exhaled. She was dizzy from tension.

Then she said, “Did I do well?"

Marti Hok smiled, and picked up her teacup from the lacquer table. “My dear, your mother could not have done it better,” she said. “You did better than ‘well.’ You were magnificent."

* * * *

At sunset, Paxe took Isak Med to the Northwest Gate.

She did not have to; Kaleb had made it very clear that he would gladly execute the exile order. But Paxe had insisted that he wake her. He came upstairs to do so. From the bedroom doorway he called her name, but she had already heard him and started to rise. Her arm pained her and she grimaced as she leaned on it.

Kaleb stepped forward. “Let me look at it."

She shook her head. “It's all right."

He scowled at her. “Stubborn woman. You're not twenty now, you know."

“Cook sewed it. Let it be.” She swung the arm, testing its range of motion. It hurt but that was to be expected, and the hurt was clean, with none of the unpleasant dry burning that would mean the wound was infected.

Through her window, she could see the lavender sky; it was streaked with orange like a summer rose. The moon, with just an edge dulled, swept blazing out of the sea. “How is he?” Paxe asked. “Have you seen him?"

“The prisoner, you mean? He's fine. His wife brought him some gold, and Arré Med said to let him keep it."

“Are the notices up?"

Kaleb shook his head. “Not yet."

Paxe went to the basin and splashed her face with the tepid water. Then she looked through her chest for a shirt without insignia. “Does the Gate Captain know we're coming?” she said.

“Yes. There'll be no questions asked.” Kaleb was edgy; Paxe could see it in the restless way his hands moved.

As they went downstairs, she said to his back, “What's the matter?"

He flicked a dark look up at her without missing a step. “I don't understand why we're doing this,” he said.

“Doing what?"

“Letting him live,” said the Asech. “If it were my decision—"

“But it isn't,” Paxe said. “Nor mine, either. It's Arré Med's."

She understood what Kaleb was feeling about Isak. The Asech tribes were organized around family; such treachery as Isak had shown toward Arré was only handled one way according to the desert codes. She remembered Isak's sleek, feigned horror as she woke him from sleep in the early morning and a part of her, too, wished for his death. But killing was not the way. She imagined Jerrin-no-Dovria i Elath saying it in his persuasive, resonant voice. Listening to him make the Invocation to the Guardian at the Festival, she had felt sorrow and a stinging contempt. What happened, she wondered, after the body's death, to the soul of one who so perverted the chea?

She went by the chest, and stopped. A gray bundle and a leather case lay beside it. Kneeling, she pulled the case flap open. Inside it was an unstrung bow and a cluster of arrows.

“Turning archer?” Kaleb said.

She closed the case and rose. “No."

They went down the hill to the guardpost. The guard at the jail snapped rigid when she saw them. “Yardmaster. Commander."

“How's your captive?” Paxe said, taking the jail key from the woman's hand.

“Very quiet. His wife was here earlier, but she's gone now."

Paxe inserted the key in the lock and turned it. It made a grating noise; the door opened, and the smell of old wine, shit, and vomit leaked out.

Deliberately, Paxe had put Isak in one of the small cells which were attached to each guardpost. The buildings were no more than brick sheds. They were not designed for comfort; they had no water and no light. For a chamber pot there was a hole in the earthen floor. Straw and a coarse blanket made the only bed.

“Out,” said Paxe.

Isak came out, squinting. His face looked pinched and tired. Paxe wondered if he had rested.

“Good evening, Yardmaster,” he said.

His voice was flat; the bravado gone. Paxe tossed the key to her guard, who shut the door. “Give him his money,” she said.

Kaleb pulled a small pouch from his belt. From the way he handled it, Paxe saw that it was heavy. Isak brought both hands up to take it. He had no choice; they were linked together by a loose rope around both elbows and a tight one around both wrists.

“Thank you,” he said. He glanced at his hands. “Could I be freed now?"

“At the Gate,” said Paxe.

She glanced at Kaleb, expecting him to leave. He didn't move. “Commander,” she said, “I don't want to keep you from your duties."

His face was impassive. “I'm coming with you."

Paxe stiffened. “Kaleb—"

Quietly, he shook his head. Isak, missing nothing, chuckled. Imrath, the late watch guard, was studiously looking the other way.

Paxe found her fists tightening. Pain ran like a flame up her injured arm. She swore and relaxed her hands. The pain faded to an ache. She gripped Isak's arm with her right hand. “Walk,” she said. Obediently, he moved. They walked north, arm in arm, as close as lovers; Paxe could smell the stench of the jail on Isak's clothes. Noiseless as ever, Kaleb paced on Isak's right. After a while, Paxe grinned at him.

“I could order you beaten for insubordination,” she said.

He smiled. “You won't,” he said. “I'm a watch commander. Besides—who would you get to do it?"

A chestnut vendor swaggered past them, and the smell of roasting nuts filled the air. Isak sniffed. “I shall miss that,” he said.

Paxe frowned. She wanted to tell him not to talk. But that seemed cruel.

The traffic thickened; they were coming to the Gate. Paxe had never realized how short a walk it was. A runner weaved between the carts, his arms filled with paper, and she wondered if he carried the exile order. Behind them, the sun still lingered, but ahead of them the sky had darkened to blue. The traffic flowed inward, as people from outside the city pushed to get inside before the Gate closed.

Paxe could feel Isak's tension through her grip on his arm. He was looking from side to side. Was he looking for someone? she thought. Some accomplice, who might help him? But as she watched his head turn, she decided, no, he was not looking for anyone. He was looking at the city.

“Yardmaster,” he said abruptly. “Please. Can we stop?"

“Why?” said Kaleb sharply.

But Paxe halted. “You hold him,” she said. Kaleb caught Isak's right arm. She flexed her fingers. Isak looked at the crowd. A tall Asech woman led a string of goats through the Gate; she caught sight of Kaleb and shouted something in the Asech tongue.

He called back in the same language, and the woman grinned. “You know her?” Isak said.

“We're of the same tribe,” answered Kaleb.

A pack of children chased each other around the side of the guardhouse. Isak squared his shoulders. “Yardmaster,” he said, in the same abrupt tone, “would you carry a message for me, to Sorren?"

Paxe took hold of his arm again to start them walking. “That depends,” she said.

“Oh, she'll want to hear it,” said the dancer. “Tell her I'm sorry she was part of this. And tell her she's a much better drummer than Itaka."

Paxe nodded. “And to your sister?” she said suddenly.

Isak smiled sardonically. “I have nothing to say to Arré Med that was not said last night."

“I see,” said Paxe.

Kaleb muttered something under his breath.

They were nearly to the gatehouse. The guards were letting the last few travelers through. The Gate Captain saw them and pointed to the little Gate. It stood a slight distance from the main entrance and was not strictly a Gate at all, but a door, wide enough for one person, much too narrow for a horse or cart.

Decades ago, the city had used the little passage to send scouts into territory held by the Asech. Before Paxe's time, it had fallen into disuse, and its hinges had been allowed to rust. Paxe's predecessor Kemmeth had ordered it repaired, and by Paxe's order the hinges were kept oiled. It even had its own grate which the guards lowered every once in a while for cleaning, though normally it remained up.

“Good idea,” Paxe said to Kaleb. “Yours?” He raised one shoulder in the Asech gesture of embarrassment. A guard detached himself from the main Gate and strode to the little entrance. Kaleb joined him; together they pulled the door inward and propped it open with a stone, just wide enough for a slender man to slide through.

Outside the wall lay the caravans of the folk who had come too late to enter the city. Cooking smells rose from braziers and campfires. A band of gray cloud patterned the horizon, and above it the northern stars glittered. Isak's breathing grew swift and shallow as he gazed into the darkness.

“Loose him,” Paxe said.

Kaleb bent, and came upright holding his knife. He sliced through Isak's ropes with an upward cutting motion. They fell to the dirt. Isak rubbed his hands. “That's better.” He put the pouch of gold in his pocket. At their backs, the assayers were closing their tables. The wind shifted, bringing them the scent of the stables; Paxe heard the high wailing of the lamplighters’ calls.

In the mingled torch and moonlight, Isak's face was pale and determined. He drew his shirt collar about his neck. Then, as if he were about to perform, he loosed his hair. It fell about his shoulders in a black cloud. “Good evening, Captains,” he said, and the lilt was back in his voice. He gazed at the starry sky. “It's a fine night for walking."

In three long gliding strides, he was through the door. Bending, Kaleb put his knife in his boot sheath. The guard kicked the stone from the door and shut it.

Paxe shivered. Kaleb linked his left arm through her good one, and they leaned together in the darkness. After a while, she rested her head against his. “It's a fine night for walking,” she said. “Let's go home."

* * * *

Sorren woke late.

The smell of food, rising up the stairs from the kitchen, made her stomach growl. She sat up slowly. She could not remember falling asleep. She had dreamed, but, staring at the dark behind the silk-flecked windows, she could not recall them. Her clothes were sticky; she wriggled out of them and found fresh ones in the darkness. She wondered who else was awake in the house. It was odd to be dressing, combing her hair, sniffing food: so much had happened in one day that she felt as if everything should be changed.

Her hand encountered the box of Cards beside the bed. She touched it, wondering. Somewhere in the pattern of the Cards, were she to lay it out, was everything that had happened since sunrise of the day before; the Festival, Isak's treachery, Paxe's wounding, the edict of banishment. Where would he go? She rubbed one finger along the box's corner. Even Kadra's death and the launching of the ship might be somewhere in the Cards.

In the kitchen, she found the cook playing the pebble game with Kaleb. It was late watch; she wondered what he was doing there. Perhaps he had come in for warmth. Toli was carving a goose under the cook's watchful eye. “Slugabed,” he said to her.

“Shut up,” said the cook, moving a pebble. “We're all tired."

Sorren wanted to ask Kaleb about Isak. Instead, she said to Toli, “Is Marti Hok still here?"

He shook his head. “She went home. But the Yardmaster's in the study.” He smirked at her.

“Oh."

Kaleb moved a pebble and took four of the cook's stones off the board. “Game,” he said. “Sorren, the Yardmaster has a message for you."

“For me?” Sorren snatched a piece of goose from under Toli's knife. “Thank you.” Nibbling bits of goose, she loped to the study.

The door was closed. Before knocking, she licked the juice from her fingers. She tapped on the study door; Arré called, “Come in!” She pushed the screen to one side and entered. The room was warm; the porcelain lamps on the mantel were lit, and by their light she saw Arré in her armchair, and Paxe, booted feet stretching across the floor. A teapot stood between them on the lacquered table.

Paxe looked rested; there was a clean bandage on her arm. She tilted her head as Sorren came in, and smiled. But the smile was odd. Sorren tensed. “Yardmaster,” she said, “K-K-Kaleb—Captain Kaleb—said you had a message for me."

Arré held out her hand. “Come here, child,” she said. She patted the side of her chair. Sorren curled up with her legs crossed. “Do you know that you are still wearing my bracelet?"

Sorren looked at her own wrists with astonishment. There was no bracelet—"Oh.” She ran her right hand up over her left elbow. She had pushed the silver bracelet up against the other, and forgotten it. She started to take it off.

“No,” Arré said, “keep it. I want you to have it. It's a gift."

“But—” Sorren looked from Arré to Paxe.

Paxe said softly, “Keep it."

Sorren slid the bracelet down to her wrist and stared at it. Its thick silver was tarnished with wear. The blue stone gleamed in its setting. “Thank you,” she said. She rubbed the stone with the ball of her thumb.

Arré said suddenly, “Isak's gone, Sorren. Paxe took him to the Gate at sunset. He's now an outlaw in the city."

Sorren swallowed. “Forever?"

“Forever,” said Arré.

“Alone?"

“Alone. He did not want company. Myra said farewell to him. I let her give him gold."

Sorren shuddered. It seemed cruel to thrust someone outside the city, just like that. But then she remembered the men on the stair, and Elith. “Where will he go?” she said. “North?"

Paxe stirred in her chair.

Arré shrugged. “East, perhaps, to Shirasai. Or that may be what he wanted me to think. I don't know. I have written a letter to Tarn Ryth of Nuath, letting him know of the exile order and asking him to keep watch. If Isak is seen around Nuath, I shall hear about it.” She leaned her head back.

Lalith came to the door. “Lady, do you want your meal now?” she said.

“In a moment,” Arré said. “I'll ring.” Lalith bowed and withdrew.

Paxe cleared her throat. “Isak asked me to give you a message."

The hairs on the back of Sorren's neck curled.

“He said to tell you, He's sorry you were part of this, and that you are a much better drummer than Itaka."

Sorren bit her lip. “That was kind of him,” she said. She wondered if he had sent Arré a message too.

There was a little silence. It was broken by the sound of Toli's flute, running up and down the scales. Arré said, in a voice from which warmth had fled, “Sorren, go and stop him. I don't want music."

Sorren leaped up. Racing down the hall, she skidded into the kitchen, avoiding the cook's elbow by a hairsbreadth. She yanked the flute from Toli's lips.

“Hey!” he said. “What are you doing?"

“Arré said to stop you. She doesn't want to hear music."

He looked hurt. “She's never said so before,” he grumbled, but the cook frowned with such ferocity that he winced, and grabbed for the instrument's velvet case. “Tell her the goose is drying,” he warned. The smell of it made Sorren's stomach sizzle. Sneaking a hand under the cloth that covered it, she stole a second piece and ate it on the way back to the study.

Crossing the room, she saw herself reflected in the scroll case: a ghostly figure superimposed over the landscape of chairs and tables and tapestries. The tension in the room was stronger than ever. Was Arré angry at her? She could not think what she had done. Troubled, she returned to her place by Arré's chair. The lamplight touched the older woman's hair with silver. In the other chair, Paxe was nearly invisible, eyes closed, a dark and brooding shadow.

Arré put her hand on Sorren's left shoulder. Then she let it slide to the bonding bracelet, and fumbled with the catch. It sprang open; the bracelet fell off. It clattered on the floor. Arré said, “Sorren of the vineyards, I hereby release you from your service to me. You are no longer bound to me or to my house. Your time of service is over. You are free to go."

Free—what was free? Sorren could not speak. She stared at the bonding bracelet. Reaching out, she picked it up, turning it between her hands. The red and blue triangles shimmered. She flipped the catch with her finger. It looked broken.

“Why?” she said.

“Because it's time,” said Arré. She leaned forward. “You are welcome to remain in my service, if you wish—but as paid servant, not as bondservant. There is money waiting for you. Or you may go to the vineyards. I will give you a horse."

Sorren touched the pale ring of flesh on her upper arm. “I can't ride,” she said. She looked at Paxe. The Yardmaster's eyes were open. “I don't want to go to the vineyards."

Closing her eyes, she saw before her the map that Kadra had made her, with the line of her journey laid out. At the end of it was Tornor. She could no more not go there then she could cease to dream, or to speak, or to love. Rising, she went to Paxe, and knelt beside her chair. The Yardmaster leaned over her; her eyes glittered with unshed tears. Sorren put her hand out; Paxe clasped it and brought it to her lips. Her breath was warm. “Chelito.” Gently, she laid her other hand on Sorren's hair.

Sorren leaned against her, careful of the bandaged arm.

She said, “Will you come with me to the mountains?"

Arré stirred, and did not speak. She looked away from Paxe.

Paxe said, “I made my trip to the mountains years ago, chelito.” She looked over Sorren's head at Arré. “I will miss you, with every breath I draw. But—my son is here; my responsibilities are here; my friends are here. I don't want to leave Kendra-on-the-Delta.” The lamplight illuminated the curve of her face. “My journey is made; yours is beginning. This is your starting place. But this is my home."

Twenty-Three

The city walls were behind her now.

The bright autumn sunlight cast her shadow to the left. Tall one, small one, Sorren thought, looking from her own laden shadow to the smaller one of Jenith. Through the hanging branches of the willow trees, the river glistened to her right. The bargefolk were out on the river—she could hear them, exchanging stories, news, greetings. On the other side of the river lay the cotton fields, white with bolls still. The pickers moved through them, carrying their sacks. Sorren wondered if they had heard the news about Isak Med.

She shifted the pack straps on her shoulders. Her bow case and arrows bumped at her right hip. It was three days since Isak's exile. Myra Ishem Med was still in Kendra-on-the Delta. Sorren remembered the rumors she had heard, that Isak Med, despite the exile order, was still in the city. But she knew it was not true. She wondered where he was. It was strange to think of him as just another traveler, somewhere on the roads. When she thought of Elith, she still grew angry at him. But when she thought of him, Isak the dancer, her feelings of anger faded, giving place, even now, to admiration and sorrow and to still another emotion which, she realized, was simple pity.

“Hungry yet?” said Jenith.

“No. Are you?"

“No.” Jenith whistled softly. Arré had asked her to carry word of Isak's banishment to the vineyards, and Jenith had assented happily for the chance to see her daughters. She strolled at Sorren's side, a small pack slung from her shoulder, seemingly tireless.

Sorren recalled the moment she had walked through the Northwest Gate. She had expected it to feel portentous. But it had not. Stealthily she glanced back over her shoulder, but there were too many carts and horses and travelers on the road. All she could see between her and the city was dust.

She thought of Paxe, and a little pain thudded in her heart. They had said farewell that night. Paxe would not come to the Gate with her; she did not want to make a spectacle of herself before her soldiers. “Besides,” she said into Sorren's hair, “I hate prolonged good-byes.” Her parting gift to Sorren had been practical: ten hunting arrows with broadhead points. Arré's gift had been similarly useful: she had given Sorren boots. She had said farewell that morning almost casually. At the last minute, she held out a letter and asked Sorren to deliver it to Tarn Ryth of Nuath.

“If you don't go to Nuath,” she said, “give it to a caravan going north.” But when she turned away, Sorren saw the glitter of tears on her cheeks.

Seven Asech riders trotted past them. One of them saw Jenith and called a greeting in the Asech tongue. She said something back, and they laughed.

Sorren said, “Do you mind very much not riding?"

Jenith shrugged. “Arré Med asked me to walk, so I walk. Don't concern yourself."

At midday, they halted by the roadside. The grass was dry and fragrant. Jenith drank from her waterskin and leaned back, looking as fresh as she had at sunrise. Sorren sat heavily, grateful for the pause. Her stomach fizzed, warning her that it needed attention, and she drew the sticks of jerky from her pack.

Her fingers slid over the cool hardness of the flask. She thought of Kadra. She wondered where the Ilnalamaré was now. “Have you ever been on the ocean?” she said to Jenith.

The Asech woman shuddered. “No, and I don't want to,” she said, grimacing. “It moves too much. I like surfaces that stay put beneath me.” Her brown hand reached out and eloquently patted the dry brown earth.

A woman rode by on a small red mare. The turn of her head made Sorren think of Paxe. She wondered what the Yardmaster was doing now. Sleeping, perhaps, in the hard low bed, the one-eyed cat beside her. Or teaching in the Yard.... The thrust of memory was like a physical pain. Sorren wound her fingers in a grass stem and pulled, hard. The tall stem gave and she tumbled back onto her elbow.

“We should go,” Jenith said.

They walked. Sorren's legs began to ache. Her feet felt fine; she had spent the last two days tramping about the city, breaking in the boots. But her calves ached. She closed her mind to the hurt and concentrated on the sights and sounds and smells of the road: the caravans passing, the barns and fields, the hot sweet smells of harvest, the cicadas hidden in the grasses, singing. Jenith glided smoothly beside her, hands at her sides, a straw between her teeth. “When were you last in the grapefields?” the Asech woman asked.

“When my mother died, four years ago,” Sorren said. “Why—is it different?"

Jenith shook her head. The rings in her ears caught the light and glittered. “Naw,” she said. “It'll never change."

* * * *

It was the smell Sorren remembered first: the strong, heady smell of the grapes. She sniffed. “I think—we're close, aren't we?"

“We're there,” said Jenith. She pointed her chin toward the west. “You know a grapevine when you see it?” Sorren squinted into the reddening sunlight. She saw deep furrows and tall green plants wrapped about wooden trellises. The plants were set in the rows at an angle to the road, and she remembered—how had she remembered it, after all these years of absence?—that the grapes were sweetest when they caught the full strength of the southwest light.

Jenith pointed across the field to a peaked roof half hidden by vine leaves. “That's a treading shed,” she commented.

Sorren shifted her pack. “Is this all Med land?"

Jenith spread her hands; the Asech way of nodding.

At a gap between the furrows, they turned from the road. “Where are we going?” Sorren said.

“To find my daughters,” said Jenith. “They'll be with the work crew.” Sorren gazed over the silent fields. As far as she could see, there were vines.

She followed Jenith through the maze of furrows and ditches. Beneath her boots, the earth was crumbly. The grapevines brushed her chin. She forced her mind back, trying to remember back seven years, to a time when she had been much smaller.... I was smaller than the vines, she thought. Dimly she recalled tugging at weed stalks. She had worn a straw hat—her hand touched her hair—a straw hat with a blue band on it!

“There's the house,” Jenith said.

Sorren saw the gleam of cedar planks in the distance. Isak's house, she thought, and corrected herself; it was not Isak's any longer. Suddenly she stiffened, listening. Pah-pah, pah-dum-pah. The drum sounds spoke into the sunset. Pah-pah-dum. Her fingers tapped the rhythm on her thigh. It was the pickers’ drums, spreading the news of their arrival.

“They'll be waitin’ for us,” Jenith said. She pointed. “This way now.” Sorren followed her, and the drum beats went on, blending with the wind and the sounds of the insects, until Sorren imagined that she could feel the pounding through the soles of her boots.

Suddenly the vines cut off. They were in a pickers’ clearing; a small circle of tents and shacks. Smoke from a fire blew in their direction, smelling of roasted corn. People sat around the fire in a semi-circle. Slowly Sorren followed Jenith toward them. The drums had stopped.

“Come on!” That was Jenith, telling her to hurry.

“Coming,” Sorren answered. She gazed at the shacks. Dark-skinned people watched her from the narrow doorways. Many of the women had gold rings in their ears. Their faces were secretive, impassive, but Sorren sensed their thoughts as if she had a Truthfinder's skill.... Stranger, they said to her. You are a stranger, not one of us.

Defiantly, Sorren squared her shoulders and marched to the fire.

A woman raised a hand. “I am Nado,” she said. “Be welcome."

“Thank you,” Sorren said, sitting beside Jenith. Even seated, she was taller than anyone in the circle by half a head.

Nado said, “Jenith says you were once of the fields."

Sorren slipped her pack from her shoulders. Drawing up one leg, she dug her knuckles into her aching calf. “I was."

“You were born here?"

“Yes. My mother was a picker. She died four years ago. For the last seven years, I have been bondservant in the city to Arré Med."

Nado clapped her hands softly. “Ai, you are that child. I remember. I knew your mother. You look like her, but taller."

“You knew her—well?” Sorren leaned forward. It had not occurred to her that anyone in the fields would remember her or her mother.

“No, not well,” said Nado. “She was always—different."

Sorren thought, I should ask about the Cards. But then she might have to take them out. She did not want to do that. Suddenly, Jenith leaped to her feet, as voices called out of the furrows.

“Iaaah!"

“Yip-yip-yip-yip!” she answered. Two women strode into the clearing. Jenith beamed, and went to meet them. She brought them to the fire. They were brown and sturdy, and they looked like her; the elder was named Jezi, the younger, Aisha. Aisha wore gold rings in her ears, like her mother, but Jezi's left earlobe was missing, and if there was a hole in her right ear, it had closed over. Their shirts had bead circles sewed on the front and sleeves.

“Greetings,” they said together, and then laughed, showing white teeth. Aisha made a hand signal.

Jezi said, “I will talk.” She grinned. “We would be pleased if you would accept our hospitality for as many nights as you wish to stay with us.” Aisha poked her and said something in the Asech speech, and the older sister shook her head, no. “Our tent is not far from here."

“Thank you,” Sorren said. “I would like that."

Nado clapped her hands. “Wa'hai,” she said. “Now, the meal is ready. We will eat; and after you will tell us your news."

The rest of the pickers gathered around the fire. The food was simple: corn, roasted in the hot earth near the firepit, strips of goat's meat, slabs of melon, wine. There were no plates and no knives with which to eat, and the meat came out of a common pot; you dipped your fingers in and took what you wanted. There was butter for the corn and honey for the melon. Most of the talk around the fire was in the Asech tongue. Jenith sat with her daughters; she looked very pleased with them. Sorren ate slowly. Her legs throbbed, and her eyes were heavy with weariness: it's the traveling, she told herself. All too soon, they were finished with the food.

“Now,” said Nado, as around them the picker children scurried, collecting the cobs and gristle to feed the pigs. “What have you to tell us?” And Jenith told them; that Isak Med had paid four men to kill his sister, that he was now an outlaw, that Myra Ishem Med was in Kendra-on-the-Delta and would be returning, in a few more days, to the grapefields.

Sorren did not join in the telling. She had taken her boots off, and sat, yawning. In the darkness, she did not look so much like a stranger, she thought. Jenith waved her hands as she talked. On the other side of the fire, the log drums waited. When the talking was over, they would speak.

“Excuse me,” a man's voice said, and a shadow stooped beside her. Automatically Sorren moved over to give the newcomer room.

“Sorren?” he said.

She stared at him. The fireglow bounced off his face. “Ricky?” she said. “It is you?"

“Yes—I hope you don't mind.” His voice had deepened. “I won't stay. I heard the drums and thought I'd come to the telling. I didn't know the messenger would be you."

“It isn't. Jenith's the messenger."

He settled beside her. She saw the glint of red in his ears and realized that he had gotten his ears pierced. She waited for him to question her. But he did not; he sat quietly, listening to Jenith weave the story of Isak's treachery.

At last, Jenith fell silent, and folded her hands in her lap. Nado said a few words in the Asech tongue. The pickers moved from the fire, some to their tents, others to the waiting drums.

Ricky said, “Are you going back to the city?"

“No,” Sorren said, “I'm going north."

She saw him nod. He seemed leaner, more muscular. He licked his lips, and asked diffidently, “Is my mother well?"

Sorren took a breath. “Yes. Her arm was hurt in the fight, but it's healing."

“What fight?"

“The fight with the assassins. She captured them."

Of course she had to tell him everything.

The telling took longer than she thought it would; when it was done, she could scarcely keep awake. Ricard walked with her to Jenith's daughters’ tent. He had changed; the sullenness she remembered was gone. At the tent entrance, he mumbled something at her, before ducking into the darkness. It sounded like: “Safe journey."

Yawning so hard that her jaws cracked, Sorren went into the tent. It was just big enough for four. Sorren took the gray cloak from her pack, and wedged the pack into a corner. Kneeling, she spread the cloak out, putting a layer of cloth between herself and the ground. Jenith brought out her pipe. She held it up; Sorren shook her head. “I don't need it,” she said. “I'm already dreaming."

“Sweet dreams,” Jenith said. She said something in the Asech tongue to Aisha, and the younger woman, giggling, brought Sorren a blanket.

“This is enough for me,” Sorren said, patting the cloak. But Aisha simply dumped the blanket at her feet and went back to her pallet.

“Thank you,” Sorren said. Lying down, she wrapped the blanket around her and put her head on her boots. A patch of blue sky glowed in the space between the tent poles, and the smoke from Jenith's pipe rose toward it in a steady stream.

The drums spoke.

“Are you comfortable?” said Jenith gently.

“Yes,” Sorren said, “I'm fine."

Jenith yawned. “I wonder where Isak Med is tonight?” she said.

She would not think of Isak.... Instead, she wondered if Arré had gone to bed yet. Lalith would have to do for her the things Sorren was used to doing. The cook would need another scullion, someone new to keep Toli company.... Paxe would be asleep, perhaps alone, perhaps with someone else.... Her eyes stung. She turned over, back to the sky, and rested her head on her arm. She could not go back to Kendra-on-the-Delta now, she thought. There was no place for her to return to.

* * * *

In the morning, she thanked Jenith's daughters for their hospitality. To Jenith she said, “How far is it to Nuath?"

“A week and a half,” said the Asech. “Six days to the Shanan crossroads, and six more to Nuath from there."

The first day was not so bad. She walked on the side of the road, watching the carts pass. At sunset, she came to Terzi, but she did not go in; instead, she did as she saw many travelers doing; she made a stone ring and built a campfire. The pickers had insisted on giving her food: corn, goat jerky. She sat beside the fire and ate it, and drank water from the silver flask. She thought about taking her drums from her pack. But here in the open the drum sound would be barely noticeable. Realizing that, she decided to sing. She sang all the love songs she could remember. She started to sing “I am a stranger” and halted, thinking of Arré and Isak.

The second day grew more difficult. The fields unrolled in front of her, featureless as Kadra's map. Carts and horses clattered by her, raising dust. At midday she finished off the last of the jerky. The sky was blue, with mushroom puffs of clouds in the distance, the fields were brown, and no one seemed to notice her, one small traveler alone on the highway.... She was bored.

That evening she shot a coney for dinner. She skinned and gutted it, using Kadra's knife. Frugality made her scrape the fur clean and tack it down to dry away from the fire; the meat she sliced, seared, and ate. A berry bush provided her with a savory dressing. It had only taken her the one shot to kill the coney, and she was proud of it. It was that pride that made her take her drums out. I killed a rabbit, she pounded. Pah-pah-pah-dum-pah. She made a little song of it, imitating the rabbit's scurry and the thump of the arrow. Behind her the river sang its deeper music. At last, she burrowed into a nest in the dry grass and rolled the cloak about her, listening to the crickets and the water, wishing she had someone to talk to.

Midday of the third day, she reached Mahita. Her pulse quickened as she approached it: here was a real town, not a village. The hubbub outside the Gates drew her. She wanted to go in.

But there was nothing she needed from the markets. If she entered Mahita, she would only waste time. Sternly, she forced herself to skirt the roads that led to the Gates. That night she slept by the roadside again. Lying wakeful, she watched the embers of her fire glow, and thought of Kadra. The ghya would have been proud of the way she had learned to make a fire, to hunt, to live off the land.

It took her four more days to reach the Shanan crossroads. When she got there, it was raining. The intersection was really a small town in itself: it had a stable, a baths, eleven taverns, and a market where travelers could purchase food and supplies and even horses. Sorren used some of her money to buy a straw hat, a parasol, and a string of smoked fish. Past the Shanan crossroads, the landscape altered. Though the road still went beside the river, the fields had humped themselves up into brown hills. Fat sheep grazed on the hillsides, and low stone walls separated the farmers’ fields from each other. Slat-armed windmills turned on almost every rise.

Her map told her that she would be coming up soon to the road that led to Elath. As she watched the hawks hunting through the harvested fields, she wondered: Should she go to Elath? Should she not go to Elath? She was a witch, one of them, and a freewoman, no bondservant. They would not keep her if she chose to leave them. Curiosity stirred in her. She wondered what the town looked like, who lived in it—only witches?—what the Tanjo—the first Tanjo, Rinti had said—looked like. She imagined it of stone, twice as big as the one in Kendra-on-the-Delta. Suppose she went there: how long would they want her to stay? Two weeks, three weeks, a month.... She turned the silver bracelet on her wrist, caught herself doing it, and giggled.

If she stayed in Elath for any length of time, it would be winter in the north, too late to travel. She would have to delay the rest of journey until the spring. She did not want to do that. And anyway—what did Elath have for her? They would turn her into Sorren the aftseer. But she did not want to spend her life traveling through visions of the past; she wanted to go to Tornor.

Senta's voice, saying Tukath's words, spoke in the back of her mind. One cannot so easily give up a gift.

Outside Shonet she saw her first armed patrol of soldiers. They rode in a group of six; on their shoulders they bore gold and black badges, and they carried swords on scabbards on their backs. Sorren wondered if they would stop her. If they did, she planned to show them Arré's letter. But they rode past her with barely a glance. Later that day, she passed a second patrol. Their captain, whose helmet bore a gold plume, was listening to the master of a Blue Clan caravan.

As she neared Nuath, the road widened. At one point, it ran beneath an aqueduct. An hour's walk from the city Gates, the traffic clogged. Word filtered back that soldiers had blocked the road. Sorren learned from the comments of the travelers around her that this was a not infrequent occurrence; once or twice a week, the soldiers would stop every traveler on road and ask where each was going and coming from. The rest of the time they seemed content to make only random checks.

When she got to where the soldiers stood, she was holding the letter in her hand. “Name?” asked a fat, mustached man. He reminded her of Borti.

“Sorren-no-Kité."

“Starting point?"

“Kendra-on-the-Delta."

“Destination?"

“Nuath."

“For what purpose?” the soldier droned.

She extended the letter. He was looking beyond her and did not see it. “Business, pleasure, family concerns—"

“This is why,” Sorren said, waving the letter under his nose.

“Huh?” He looked at it. His eyes narrowed. “Uh.” He stepped back and nudged the guard behind him. They spoke in whispers. The second guard put two fingers in his mouth and whistled a shrill call. A woman wearing a plumed helmet strolled to the wooden barrier. She had light hair, and the yellowish cast of face of one of Anhard blood. At Sorren's back, someone yelled.

“Hey, what's holdin’ up the line?"

“Move it!"

The woman in the helmet ignored the shouts. “What is it?” she said. The soldiers showed her the letter. She turned it, looking at the superscription, and then looked at Sorren. “When did you leave Kendra-on-the-Delta?” she said.

“Thirteen days ago,” Sorren answered.

She nodded. “Pitor!” she called. Down the row of soldiers, a man turned. “Take this girl to the Lord Tarn Ryth's house."

They put her up behind the soldier. “Wrap your arms around my waist,” he said. He was young, with a cheerful smile. He wore a badge on his right shoulder, and an axe at his hip, but no armor and no sword. He rode a chestnut gelding which made small work of the extra weight. “My name's Pitor-no-Ellita.” he said.

“Sorren,” said Sorren.

“You must be important, hey?” He slanted a look back at her. “Never mind, I'm fishing. Ever been to Nuath before?"

“No,” Sorren said.

* * * *

From the outside, Nuath reminded her of Kendra-on-the-Delta. It was a city, not a town. Dark stone walls made a defensive ring around it. Within the city streets, though, Sorren could see the differences between them. Kendra-on-the-Delta smelled of fish and salt; Nuath smelled of iron and meat and horses. The houses were of stone, not wood, and their windows were thick, opaque glass, not screen. All the soldiers carried swords, and Sorren saw many people openly wearing sheathed knives on their belts.

The people looked different, too. They were taller and broader than the folk of the south. Many of them were fair-skinned, with yellow or russet hair, and Sorren, for the first time in her life, began to feel inconspicuous.

Approaching the lord's house from the front, Sorren wondered for a moment if she had stepped into the past. The house was big and white and it overlooked the river. “Grand, isn't it?” said Pitor, seeing her face. When the great front doors opened, she half expected to see Tokki the steward. But the inside of the Ryth house was nothing like the Ismenin house: bright hanging lamps lit the wide stone halls; fur rugs covered the floor, and the walls were hung with immense pictorial tapestries. Scented braziers warmed the hallway.

A woman in a yellow dress greeted Sorren at the door.

“Welcome to Nuath!” she said. “My name is Widra; I am the steward of the house. The Lord Tarn i Nuath Ryth is occupied now but as soon as he is free, he will see you; meanwhile, he has instructed me to offer you food, clean clothes, and, if you wish it, a bath."

“I wish it,” Sorren said. Her last bath had been in Kendra-on-the-Delta, and the grease of the journey caked her skin. The woman brought her to an inside chamber; in it was a tub filled with hot water, a table piled with food, and a canopied bed.

“If you need anything, ring the bell, and someone will come,” she said. She closed the door. Sorren took her pack off. Stripping, she sighed as she entered the water. A ball of orange-scented soap sat waiting for her. She lay in the wooden tub while the dirt of the road floated from her hair and skin; when she stepped from it, the skin on her fingers was wrinkled and white. She dried herself in a towel bigger than she was, and dressed in the clothes she found lying on the bed. They were practical, traveling clothes; brown quilted pants, a blue wool tunic, light, fur-lined boots.

The food was strange to her southern eyes: there was fish, of course, but there was also much more meat than she was used to, and vegetables that she had never seen before. Experimentally, she picked at them. She had barely cleaned her hands when Widra opened the door. “The Lord Tarn Ryth will see you now,” she said. Sorren followed her down a hallway to another chamber, holding her letter. “Go in,” said the steward, and Sorren walked in alone to what she realized was Tarn Ryth's study. It was lined with scroll cases, many more than in the Hok library. Tarn Ryth was standing in the center of it, waiting for her. He was bigger than she remembered; with his big curling beard and the gold splendor of his clothing, he looked like more than the lord of a city. Not knowing what else to do, Sorren went to one knee before him, and was astonished when he caught her under the elbow and stood her upright.

His teeth glinted through his massive beard. “We are not so ceremonial yet as you southerners,” he said. “You have a letter for me?"

“Yes, my lord,” she said, holding it out.

He took it from her hand and ripped the seal with his thumb. “Huh,” he said, eyes going across the page. “Ho.” His eyes narrowed. At the end of it he grinned. “Do you know what this letter says?” he asked, looking up.

“No, my lord,” said Sorren.

“It informs me of Isak Med's exile—and other things. When did you leave Kendra-on-the-Delta?"

“Three days after Isak's banishment, my lord."

“On foot all the way?"

“Yes."

His lips pursed, but he did not ask her why. Instead—"Tell me how Arré Med is,” he said. “Was she badly grieved by her brother's action? Is she recovered? Is she well? Has she had aught to do with the L'hel since she wrote to me?"

Answering his questions took several hours. At last, satisfied, he said, “I shall write to her this evening, and send the letter on the morrow. Shall I give her your greeting?"

“That would be very kind of you, my lord."

His deep voice grew gentle. “You love her, do you not."

Sorren nodded.

“She asks me, in this letter, to offer you whatever you need. She says that she looks upon you as the daughter she does not have."

Sorren was silent. Arré had never said that to her, not in words. Finally she said, “My lord, I have money. I will buy what I need in the market."

He snorted. “Will you at least take a horse from my stable?"

“No, my lord. I'm not comfortable on horseback. I would rather walk."

He tugged at his beard. “She said you would say that. But—” he leveled a finger at her—"you will take the clothes you now wear with you, as a gift. You will need them soon; the weather is harsher here than what you are used to. And you will stay in this house tonight. You will be better served here than at some tavern."

Sorren bowed her head. “Thank you, my lord."

“For what purpose do you go north, Sorren?” he asked.

“My—my family came from the north, my lord."

He moved restlessly; the light from the hanging candles glittered off his gilded clothes. “Where in the north?"

She did not want to tell him. “A Keep. Tornor."

“Indeed.” His eyes narrowed. “I have had some dealings with the folk at Tornor. They are—independent. But admirable. I wonder: would you take a message to Tornor Keep for me?"

“A letter, my lord?"

“No, not a letter. Simply convey my greetings to the Lady Merith, Tornor's ruler. And—” he held up one hand, to emphasize the next part of the message—"my son, Dennis’ greetings, to her daughter. That is all. Can you remember it?"

“Your greetings to the Lady Merith; your son Dennis’ greetings to her daughter,” Sorren said.

“Thank you.” He touched a bell hanging on a cord. In a moment, Widra appeared at the doorway.

* * * *

In the market the following morning, Sorren bought an axe, travel furs, a sharpening stone for her knife, and a sliver of lodestone. The purchases took almost a third of the money she had with her. Strolling through the market, she saw a statue of the Guardian. It looked like a soldier, with a helmet on its head, and a carved stone sword at the foot of block, where its feet would be. The image disturbed her, and she went quickly by it.

From Nuath she walked to Yfarra, to Morriton, to Septh. Thrice she was stopped by the patrols. After the third time, she unfolded the stained messengers’ cloak from her pack and wore it over her travel furs. To her delight and astonishment, the patrols passed her through without question. In Septh she spent more money, and bought passage to Lake Aruna from the riverfolk clan that poled up and down the river on their long, high-sided barges. They asked her where she was going, and she told them, “North."

“'Ware outlaws,” they told her. The word made her think of Isak.

“What outlaws?” she asked, and they explained that lately, in the last few years, bands of outlawed men had started to roam the countryside above Tezera, stealing sheep from the villages, robbing unwary travelers, and raiding the occasional late autumn caravan.

“They won't trouble her,” said the second-in-command of the barge, a man named Rok. “She's armed."

“Don't they carry weapons?” Sorren said. The thought of meeting an armed band of robbers frightened her.

But the captain of the barge, a woman named Tovi, shook her head and spat over the side. “Naw. Who'd sell them weapons, when the next day they might come in and cut your throat?"

“They might steal them,” Sorren said.

Tovi shook her head. “From where?” she said quietly. “Except for the swords Tarn Ryth's soldiers carry—"

“And our knives—” Rok interjected.

“And our knives,” said Tovi—"except for those, there are no weapons left in the north."

Sorren promised to be careful. By Lake Aruna she hunted in the moonlight, and shared her meal with a passing fisherwoman. The land grew marshy and treacherous, even near the road. Geese darkened the air above the marshes, flying in low monotonous circles. With her axe, Sorren cut herself a staff. She kept a wary eye out for outlaws, but saw none. Above Tezera, she traveled for three days with a trader who was going to Zilia Keep. He let her off where the road forked. Her road lay northwest; he was going northeast.

Now she was almost there. The straps of her pack cut into her shoulders, and her calves ached, as they had not since below the Galbareth; for two days she had been walking uphill, through a country strewn with stones. Ahead of her, the mountains cut the sky like knives. The days were short and sullen, and even at noon the sun only rose a little way over the peaks. The crescent moon sat in the west. Sorren trudged over the savannah. Four days back, it had snowed. Sorren had never seen snow, and the shimmering white lamina enchanted her, until she tried to travel through it, and discovered that it was both wet and cold. The next day in the dawnlight she saw her first gray fox. She thought it was a wolf and froze, heart racing, until she saw that it was small, with a fox's muzzle and a wide, brush-like tail. A red tongue lolled between its jaws. It stood poised beside a boulder until the wind shifted. The next night the temperature dropped to colder than anything she had ever experienced: she burrowed among fallen pine boughs like an animal, as her breath froze, turned icy, and fell.

Ahead of her stood a cluster of dwarf pines; she planned to stop and rest within its shelter. The night before, she had slept in a woodcutter's hut. He had found her walking and offered her a ride in his wagon. It had been hard for them to understand each other, for she still spoke in the swift accents of the city, and his was a slow, thick speech, buttery and soft. She asked him if he knew where Tornor Keep was, and finally understood his answers to mean that it was one day's journey. He let her stay the night; she slept on the floor, beside his fire. That morning he gave her some strips of dried meat. She left him her rabbit skin, hoping he would find a use for it. The meat was a greater gift than he knew, for she was down to two hunting arrows.

In the shelter of the copse, the wind grew less bitter. Gratefully, Sorren shrugged out of her pack. Feeling in it for the silver flask, she dragged the cork from the top with her teeth and drank a mouthful of water. She took a strip of meat out and chewed it, relishing the taste on her tongue. She smelled her own stink. She wondered what it would be like to bathe again. The last few nights, she had dreamed of hot water, hot food, hot weather. She swallowed, letting a sliver of meat slide down her chilled throat.

Something moved in the pines: a bird, perhaps, or a weasel. Sorren watched curiously, wondering if it would show itself, but it had seen her head lift, and vanished into nest or burrow. She worked her pack onto her shoulders again. She took a breath of the cold, dry air: it smelled of pine, and rock, and silence. Ahead of her, the mountains waited.

Boots crackling on the frostbitten earth, she moved from the copse, narrowing her eyes against the glare.

Twenty-Four

At midday, Sorren came to Tornor.

Stark against the icy landscape, the castle glowered at the day. It was larger than the Tanjo, larger than the Ismenin house. The plain before it was covered with patchy snow and seeded with round, smooth stones, as if a giant had tried to use the barren land to plant a second mountain range.

Sorren picked her way among the stones, staff in hand. The castle enlarged as she drew closer. She saw the gate of the outer wall, broken, and a flag flying from the battlement, showing a red, eight-pointed star on a white field. Tornor. Unfastening the ties of her hood, she pushed it back, ignoring the bitter wind, looking for the stuff of her visions: guards, sheep, the tower. Where was the watchtower? She could not see it. She gazed until her eyes teared.

A fat string of smoke steamed upward from the castle. Grasping her staff, Sorren headed for the wreckage of the gate. She crossed the wooden bridge spanning the frozen river. Its planks were coated with ice, and she had to use her staff. In the center of the bridge she stopped to gaze downward at the river. The ice over it was hard, lumpy, and discolored, but through it Sorren saw the living water running, black and pulsing with life, running the way she had come, through the Tezeran marshes, through Galbareth, past hills and orchards and cotton, into the southern sea.

She moved closer to the gate.

“Halt!” a voice cried.

Sorren stopped moving. Slowly, she scanned the entrance, trying to see the person who'd spoken. A figure rose out of the jumble of stone around the broken gate. As it came nearer, Sorren saw that it was a boy. He was slender, his fair skin reddened by the weather, and his eyes were blue, blue as lapis lazuli, blue as the stone in her bracelet. His hair was a tangled mane. He wore furs with the skin side out. His hands were gloved, and empty.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Where are you going?"

“My name is Sorren,” she said. “I come from the south."

“I can see that,” he said. “Your boots are Nuathan. Are you a messenger?"

Sorren thought of the message she carried in her head from Tarn Ryth. “Yes."

“I thought so. Are you alone?"

Sorren grinned, and pointed a thumb at the tracks she had left on the field. “Do you see anyone else?"

He chuckled. “No.” He combed his hair with both hands. Sorren wondered how old he was—she guessed eleven or twelve, no older. “Can you use that?” he asked, pointing to her bow.

She nodded. The wind snapped, and she shivered as the warmth began to leave her muscles. “Are you the guard of the castle?” she said.

He grinned in turn, delighted. “Yes! Sometimes,” he amended. “Have you seen my sister? She's riding."

“I haven't seen anyone,” Sorren said.

“Lauf is with her. Come this way,” he said, beckoning. “The gate's up.” Sorren followed him, stepping cautiously around the detritus of the broken gate; bits of wood and rusted pieces of iron.

Even doorless, the arch in the outer wall was formidable. “My mother's in the ward,” the boy said. He strode toward the inner gate. It was flanked by two small gatehouses. The gate had rusted up, and it reminded Sorren, as she passed beneath it, of a mouth, filled with jagged, iron-tipped teeth.

She followed her small guide into the inner ward. A woman was sweeping the courtyard. The boy loped toward her. “Mother!” He whispered urgently in her ear. She picked up her broom, and stepped around her pile of leaves and dung pats toward Sorren. She was small herself, her body thickened by quilted cottons and a fur vest. She had a broad face, pale skin, pale eyes.

I should speak, Sorren thought. I am the stranger.

“Greetings,” said the woman. “Welcome to Tornor Keep."

She had a pleasant, throaty voice. Her hair was long and light brown, and she wore it unbraided, tucked between the back of her vest and her shirt.

“It is an ill season for traveling in the north."

“I know,” Sorren said. “When I left the south, it was summer."

“You come from the south?"

Sorren leaned on her staff. “From Kendra-on-the-Delta,” she said. The boy's mouth opened in surprise.

“You didn't tell me that!” he said.

“Ryke,” said the woman, with gentle reproof, “it is ill-mannered of you not to let her tell her own tale."

The boy blushed berry-red.

“Did you come on foot?” said the woman.

“Mostly,” Sorren said. “Sometimes I rode in carts. I've been mostly on foot since Lake Aruna.” The wind blew, nudging the pile of leaves.

“And what is your destination?” said the woman.

“Here,” Sorren said. “Tornor Keep.” She let her eyes look away from her interlocutor to the courtyard. It was empty, empty as a shell when the sea creature has found another home. The banner flapped against the wall with a sound like mourning.

“Few travelers from the south choose to come this far north,” the woman said. She leaned her broom against the wall. “Ryke, go tell Meg that we have a guest. And ask Innis to heat some water.” The boy nodded and loped away. The woman gazed after him, her face suddenly soft.

She coughed; a harsh sound in the Keep's stillness. “What is your name, traveler?"

“Sorren-no-Kité."

The woman's brows went up. The gesture reminded Sorren of Arré. “Sorren. That is a famous name; famous in Tornor, at least. Forgotten, perhaps, elsewhere. Like Tornor."

Sorren said, “I didn't forget."

“Many have,” said the woman gravely. “After all, what is a Keep with naught to guard? There is no garrison here. It's been a long time since the north has held anything that Arun needs, or wants. Though that may change,” she added cryptically. “My son said you bear a message."

“Yes,” Sorren said. “It is from Tarn Ryth of Nuath, for the Lady Merith.” She glanced toward the inner buildings, wondering where in them the Lady of Tornor lived. She pictured her as a small, pale woman, sheltering somewhere behind the thick walls.

The woman smiled. The creases deepened around her eyes. “I am Merith."

Sorren gaped. “I thought you were a servant!"

The Lady of Tornor laughed. “Because I wield a broom? I work here. Everyone works, here.” She picked up the broom, and Sorren noticed for the first time the ring she wore on her left hand. It was a deep red jewel set in a band of yellow metal, and it looked very old.

Sorren put her palms together, and bowed. “My lady,” she said.

Merith coughed again, a wet and tearing sound. It reminded Sorren of Kadra. “Come inside,” she said. “Come inside, and you may talk to me. I suppose I must hear your message. I'm curious to know what brings you here from Kendra-on-the-Delta. I'm sure it was not so that you could bear a message from Tarn Ryth."

* * * *

Staff in hand, Sorren followed the Lady of Tornor across the courtyard. To her left rose dark stone buildings, checkered with shuttered windows. A few of the shutters were ajar. More hung loose, twisting in the wind, scraping the stone. Directly ahead of her rose a hall. To her right lay a well, and another building which, Sorren guessed, had once been a smithy. She could not tell what it was used for now. Beside the smithy there was an open space. The Yard, she thought. No footprints disturbed its dust. Smoke rose from the building to the right of the hall. She stared at the inner wall, wondering how old it was. Kendra-on-the-Delta was older than the Keeps, she knew, but the homes and shops and halls in Kendra-on-the-Delta had been rebuilt a hundred times. Wood rotted or burned; screens tore; bricks crumbled. The walls of Tornor were older than anything left standing in the south.

She sensed the weight of the past in the granite, saw it in the dark, implacable stone. My kin walked here, she thought. They entered the great hall. The windows of the hall were narrow, letting in scant light, but she could see the high arching beams of the ceiling, and the lines of the monstrous hearth, and the tapestries. They were grime-encrusted, weighted with the dirt of centuries: here a horse reared, nostrils flaring; there a man's arm lifted, brandishing a scarcely discernible sword.

A fire bloomed in the hearth. Merith walked toward it, boot heels echoing on the stone floor. In front of the hearth, before the hearthledge, there was a long table. An old man stood beside the table, setting out crockery. His back was twisted, so that one shoulder was higher than the other, and his hands were gnarled and knobby. He looked at the two women from under massive gray eyebrows.

Merith said, “This is Sark, Tornor's steward."

The old man grunted. It might have been a greeting. “That girl is still out,” he said in a deep grumble.

Merith's lips tightened.

Sark gazed at Sorren, taking his time. “Where didst tha come from?"

“Kendra-on-the-Delta."

“Thou't'll need a wash."

“That's being attended to,” said Merith impatiently. “Tell Meg to hurry with the food.” The old man snorted. Laying a dish down, he walked toward the kitchen. “You may take your pack off, Sorren,” said Merith, sitting on one of the long benches. Sorren leaned her staff against the table and loosened the straps of her pack. She let it slide as she sat. Taking her gloves off, she rubbed her face with both hands. The heat from the fire reached her, making her shiver.

This desolate place was not what she had dreamed of. She had pictured Tornor as a little city, bustling and busy. Closing her eyes, as weariness seeped through her bones, she tried to summon up a dream, any dream. Surely here, in the heart of Tornor, a vision would come. But nothing happened; the reality—the cold, the dirt, the lifelessness—obliterated her link with the past. What am I doing here? Sorren thought. Why did I come here? Painfully, she found herself thinking of Paxe, listening for Paxe's step, waiting to see her come around the corner.... But Paxe was not here. Paxe would not be here.

She lifted her head, fighting back tears. Merith was watching her. “I can see that you are tired,” said Tornor's ruler.

Sorren nodded without answering. Merith, too, looked tired. Her eyes radiated wrinkles; not the lines of age but the deeper ones of worry and work. She unfastened the vest, and Sorren saw patches on her quilted shirt. The table was seamed with nicks and dents. The plates and dishes were metal, but so discolored that Sorren had to look hard to see that there was a pattern under the tarnish. She traced the relief with her thumbs, and found first an animal—a goat, she thought, since it had horns—and then a hunter, carrying a bow in one hand.

“How old are these?” she asked.

“Two, three hundred years?” said Merith. “I don't know. The records are gone; they were destroyed when the tower fell."

“When did the tower fall? How? Why?"

“It was years ago,” said Merith. “Forty years ago, perhaps. I was a child. I was told the wind blew it down. But that cannot have been true. It must have been the cold, cracking the stones."

“What happened to it?"

“The stones were carted to the village, and used for building. The records—” she paused—"many were burned. Some were taken south to be sold. The Scholars’ Guild in Tezera bought many."

Remembering the records in Marti Hok's study, Sorren felt a pang of guilt. She told herself not to be a fool. She had not sold those records to Marti Hok's grandfather. “Why were the records sold?"

Merith's look grew quizzical. “For money, of course,” she said. She waved a hand at the hall. “Can you not see, Sorren—Tornor is poor. Once most of the wool in Arun came out of the north. But the herds have moved west, and east, and south. The Anhard traders no longer come by Tornor. They prefer the lower passes near Pel and Zilia Keeps. During the War Years, the Keeps never had to pay for meat or grain or cloth or leather—now the villages provide for us, not out of gratitude but out of charity. I am the twenty-fifth ruler of Tornor, and perhaps the last. Tornor is a ruin. Would you bequeath a ruin to your children?” Her voice rose, and echoed in the hall.

Sorren cupped the silver bowl in her palms. “I don't know,” she said. “My mother was a grapepicker. When she died, she left me a shirt and an old straw hat, and a box of Cards."

A door opened at the kitchen end of the hall, and a woman entered. She was carrying a platter of food. Sorren's stomach growled at the smell of meat. The woman brought the platter to the table and thumped it down in front of Merith. She was short and stout, with muscles like a dockworker's. She wore a stained leather apron. “There's not enough fresh meat,” she announced. “We shall have to ask for something from the village."

Merith said, “Sorren, this is Meg. Sorren came from the south."

“Huh,” said Meg. “She got here just in time, then. There'll be snow in two days."

“How can you tell?” Sorren asked.

“From the smell o’ the sky. I was born here."

Sorren said, “I was born in a vineyard, I think. But my family came from Tornor."

“I'm not surprised,” said Meg. “I can tell Sark to kill one of the pigs,” she said to Merith.

“Do that,” said Merith. There was a carafe of wine on the platter, and three goblets. She poured wine into two, and pushed one at Sorren.

Sorren took a sip. It was white wine, harsh as winter, but it left a glow on her tongue and in her stomach. The goblets were yellow crystal. Merith spooned meat into her dish. Sorren ate some; it was spicy, peppery. “It's good,” she said.

Meg was standing at the table, brawny arms folded across her chest. She nodded. “Of course it is,” she said. She marched off.

Merith said, “Meg and I are the same age. We grew up together. She brought both my children out of my womb.” She wiped her mouth with a cloth. “I suppose I must hear your message."

Sorren said, “It is greetings, for you from the Lord Tarn Ryth, and the greetings of his son, Dennis, to your daughter."

Merith frowned. “How did you come to be Tarn Ryth's messenger? There is a Green Clan Hall in Nuath."

“I was coming here anyway, and I had brought him a message, from Arré Med."

“Arré Med—aye, the Med family in Kendra-on-the-Delta. It was a rebel of that family who built Tornor Keep.” She smiled at Sorren. “You are shocked that I must think to recognize the name? Tornor is isolated, Sorren-no-Kité. I have been to Tezera, to Nuath twice, but never south of Nuath, and no one in this household has ever been to Kendra-on-the-Delta."

“How many are there in the household?” Sorren asked.

“Ten,” said Merith. “Counting the horses. Myself, Ryke and Kedéra, Sark, Meg, Juli, who helps Meg, Innis, Meg's sister's daughter, who cleans, and Embri, who lives over the stable. Once a year, my sister comes to visit us from Elath."

“Your sister is a witch?"

“Aye. Thirty years Miella has lived in the witch town. She is a weatherworker."

Ryke raced into the hall from the kitchen. “Sark says I can help him kill the pig!” he said.

“Come here,” said his mother. He went to her side. She smoothed his hair with her palm. “Mind you do as he says."

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. The moment she lifted her hand he leaped toward the door.

“How old is he?” Sorren asked, when he was well out of earshot.

“Eleven."

“He does not seem to mind the isolation."

“No. He spends much time in the village. It is Kedéra who suffers most. She is—discontent. I do not know what would make her happy.” Merith's voice grew soft, until Sorren could hardly hear her.

She ate more of the meat. It had a strange taste to it, as if it were almost, but not quite, spoiled. Arré would never eat spoiled meat. She saw the castle suddenly through Arré's eyes, as a vast cold comfortless relic. Arré would never stay in such a place.

“Why are you here?” she said.

Merith said, “Because I was born here, and this is my charge.” Her voice grew brisk. “Why are you here? Your mother was a grape picker but your family came from Tornor, you said. How do you know that?"

Sorren put her elbows on the table. As simply as she could, she told of her visions, of her visits with Marti Hok and with the witches, and of her own resolution to come north when her time of service ended.

Merith listened, and sipped her wine. When Sorren fell silent, she said, “It is like a story of legend.” She half-smiled. “Were it truly legend, I would now be making a speech, welcoming a long lost daughter to her home. But there is not much welcome here. I am afraid your visions have deceived you, as such things are wont to do. Whatever you are looking for—glory, heroism—are no longer here, if they ever were, which I doubt."

Sorren said, “But I wasn't looking for glory.” She ran a thumb over the tarnished bowl, wondering if her namesake had ever sat on this bench or held this bowl in her hands.

“May I see your Cards?” said Merith.

Sorren felt strangely reluctant to bring them out. But she dug into her pack and set the box on the table. Merith took the lid off, and peeled the silk from the Dancer. As she gazed as it, her face softened, as it had when she looked at her son. “Yes,” she said. She lifted the Dancer to stare at the Card beneath it. “The colors—how fresh they seem. How old did you say they are?"

“I don't know,” said Sorren. “Old."

Merith coughed, and cupped the box in her hands. “Strange to think of such flimsy bits of parchment having the power to cause visions.” She glanced sideways at Sorren. “Have you had any visions since you stepped beneath the gate?"

“No,” Sorren said. “The witchfolk said that might happen."

“And you cannot read them at all?"

“No."

“Then they are not much use, are they?” said Merith. She coughed again. “If they had been left to me,” she said, “I would have sold them."

Sorren was horrified. “Why?"

“What good are they?” said Merith. Her voice grew strident with pain. “Can they feed a hungry child, or mend a broken leg, or save a man from drowning? And if they had been left to me and I could not sell them, I would burn them.” Her face set, she stared at the tapestries with their faded glitter. “The past is a hobble, a chain. Better to forget it, and start fresh if you can. I would haul those tapestries down and burn them, too, if they were not needed to keep the room warm!” She thrust the box into Sorren's hands.

A horse whinnied from the direction of the courtyard. Sorren heard the jingle of harness, and the sound of hooves on pavement. A youthful voice shouted, “Hoy! Embri!” Someone ran across the courtyard. A dog barked.

Merith folded her hands in her lap. “Kedéra is home."

* * * *

The door opened. Sorren felt a little shock run through her nerves, as if someone had pinched her. Kedéra stood framed in the doorway. She was small, like her mother, and fair-haired, like her brother; she wore stained riding leathers, and a fur vest over a coarse brown tunic, and russet boots. She strode toward the table, moving lightly, like a dancer. Merith watched her coming with a set, unyielding face.

She said, “Kedi, this is Sorren-no-Kité. She comes from the south. Sorren, this is my daughter, Kedéra."

“Greetings,” said Sorren.

“Hello,” said Kedéra. “Welcome to Tornor Keep.” Her face was narrower than her mother's.

“Sorren comes from Kendra-on-the-Delta,” said Merith. “She bears a message for you from Dennis Ryth of Nuath."

Kedéra scowled. “I don't want to hear it.” Her voice was hostile and passionate. She sat on the bench beside Sorren, swung her legs beneath the table and reached for the wine carafe. Pouring wine, she gazed defiantly at her mother. “I know what it is."

Merith said, with an undertone of anger, “It is greetings, that's all."

Kedéra put the carafe down heavily. “I don't want greetings from Dennis Ryth. I don't want anything from Dennis Ryth.” She scowled, and her gray eyes seemed to darken. She yanked a piece of meat from the platter. A few drops of sauce spattered the wood.

Merith said, “That is no way to speak to a messenger. And your manners are disgusting."

Something's wrong here, Sorren thought. The words had held rancor. Kedéra flushed. Merith sighed, and her expression softened. “We must not quarrel in front of our guest,” she said.

“No,” said Kedéra.

Her hair was cut short; it just brushed the nape of her neck. It looked sleek and soft as feathers. Sorren wondered what it would feel like to touch.

“Why do you look at me like that?” Kedéra said.

Sorren realized that she was staring. Embarrassed and confused, she said, “You look like someone I know.” Now why did I say that? she thought. It isn't so.

A black shadow came slinking to the girl's side. It was a dog. Sorren stiffened; she was not overly fond of dogs, and this one was lean and hungry-seeming, with scarred ears and long, curved claws. “What kind of dog is that?” she asked.

The dog's claws clicked on the stone. “A wolfhound,” said Kedéra. “His name is Lauf.” She fondled the narrow head with casual authority. “Tell me about your journey,” she said. “How long did it take you?"

“A month and a half,” Sorren said.

“Riding?"

Sorren grinned. “Walking."

Kedéra's eyes widened. Her lashes were very fair, but long. Their length made her face look fragile. “That's a long way. Were you alone?"

“Not at first. But after."

“I'd like to do that,” Kedéra said. She shot a look at her mother. “Make a journey like that, someday."

“Where would you go?” asked Sorren.

Kedéra's chin jutted defiantly. “West. To the mountains."

Merith said dryly, “You would do better to go south, to Nuath.” She rose, and slipped from the bench. “Sorren, I am sure your bathwater is hot. Let me show you to your chamber."

Kedéra said, “I'll take you!"

“No!” said Merith sharply. “You shall help Meg in the kitchen while Juli and Innis bring the bathwater."

Kedéra caught her breath, and her fair skin went from red to white. The tension in the great hall grew thick enough to touch. Sorren said quickly, before Kedéra could speak, “In Kendra-on-the-Delta, I was a bondservant."

The girl checked whatever she had been about to say. “I thought you were a messenger,” she said.

“No. Not really. I carried a message because I was asked to do it. But I was trained to shop and wash and work in a kitchen."

“I hate it,” said Kedéra.

“So did I,” said Sorren. “But I did it. If you will come to my chamber after I bathe, I can tell you more about my travels."

Kedéra picked up one of the silver bowls and put it on the platter. “Thank you,” she said. “I'd like that.” She nested the second bowl on top of the first.

* * * *

As they walked from the hall, Merith murmured, “Thank you. That was very diplomatic of you.” It was clear that she did not believe that Sorren had been a servant. She coughed again, a grim sound, and thrust her fingers through her hair in a gesture like her daughter's.

They walked into the courtyard. The cold struck Sorren's face and hands and throat. Her pack seemed heavier in her hand than it had on her back. Light angled steeply over the inner wall. Sorren measured it with her eyes; it was four times her height. Even in summer, she thought, it must grow dark early within the Keep. In the shadow of the wall, the air was colder. Merith went ahead of Sorren to open the door to the apartments. The corridor was narrow, dark, and smelled old.

A candle in a wall sconce sent a weak flame over the passageway. By its light, Sorren glimpsed the coarse sacking that hung from the walls of the passage. Straw crunched underfoot.

Merith said, “These used to be the servants’ rooms. But with so few people here, it seemed foolish for Sark and Meg and Juli to sleep here, and for Kedi and me to sleep elsewhere.” She ran her hand along the sill of a shuttered window, and held up a candle. She touched its wick to the flame of the one in the sconce.

They went up a stair. Sorren sneezed twice; the corners of the treads and the threadbare sacks that lined the walls were coated with dust. Once her bow caught in a fold of cloth. Gently, she freed it. Something scuttled at her feet. “Mice,” said Merith apologetically.

It was warmer in the upstairs. Merith pushed open the door to a room. Light from several thick candles brightened it. “The sleeping room is there,” Merith said, pointing to another door in the far wall of the chamber. Sorren let her pack fall. The room smelled of wax and of something softer, a perfume. It held a great dark wooden wardrobe, two chests, a wooden chair, a firescreen, a footstool, a table.... Sorren watched Merith straighten the pillows on the chair, and realized that this was not a guest room.

“This is your room, isn't it?” she said.

Merith said, “The guest chamber is so dusty...."

Sorren wondered if there was a guest chamber. “I won't take your room,” she said. “Where would you sleep?"

“With Kedéra."

“Then I shall do that.” Sorren lifted the pack again. “Where does she sleep? Show me."

Kedéra's chamber was across the hall from Merith's. It held similar furnishings: a wardrobe, a chair, a table. Through the open door of the sleeping room Sorren saw the shadowy hangings of a great curtained bed. A tall silver candlestick stood on the table, and Merith fitted her candle into it. Light glinted off an object on the tabletop. Sorren picked it up; it was a silver brooch, shaped like a daisy. The touch of hands—over how many years, Sorren thought—had worn the curving petals smooth as silk.

“Juli! Innis!” called Merith. Sorren heard the sound of feet on the stairway. Two women appeared in the hall, carrying between them a brass kettle. It swung ponderously, suspended from a wooden yoke. They turned sideways, bringing the kettle to the hearth. One of them—she was stocky and silent and looked like Meg—knelt beside the hearth and lit a fire. The flames caught with a gasp. The other woman brought in towels, a soapball, a wooden dipper, and a flat porcelain basin and put them beside the kettle.

Sorren realized that, in order to get clean, she had to strip, stand in the basin, and pour the heated water from the kettle over herself with the dipper.

“Juli will stay and help you,” said Merith. Juli grinned. She had fair hair and pale coloring—northern coloring, Sorren thought, and she put her pack down once more. Merith hesitated, and then left with Innis. Sorren took her furs off, slowly, waiting for the room to get warm. A chewed bone lay beside the fire. There was a piece of braided harness on the wardrobe knob, and a thin riding whip draped over the chair.

She could not help thinking, with longing, of the baths in Kendra-on-the-Delta. With a sigh, she swept the whip off the chair and sat down to work her boots off. Then she peeled her layers of clothing off and stepped into the basin. Juli took the lid from the kettle; steam filled the room. Lifting the dipper, Juli poured water down her back. It trickled down her belly and breasts. She lathered herself all over with the coarse, unperfumed soap, and then knelt on the hard porcelain and closed her eyes. Juli rinsed the soap from her head. “Chea, that's good,” Sorren said, sighing with pleasure as the heat flushed her clean skin.

Juli touched her upper left arm. “What's that?” she said.

It took Sorren a moment to understand the question. “It's the mark of a bonding bracelet. I was a bondservant until a little while ago."

Juli pursed her lips. “We don't do that in the north,” she said. She sounded disapproving. She put a towel in Sorren's arms. “Better move to the fire, or you'll chill.” Sorren moved closer to the fire, rubbing herself briskly with the towel. The warmth was making her sleepy. She reached for her pack; there were clean clothes in it, beneath everything else, saved for this moment. She put them on. Juli wiped the floor where water had splashed on the stone.

“I never heard they wore such in Nuath,” she remarked.

She was talking about the bonding bracelet. “I don't know if they do,” Sorren said. The silver bracelet Arré had given her had fallen to the bottom of the pack. She plucked it out and worked it over her knuckles. “I only passed through Nuath."

“Did you meet the lord?"

“You mean Tarn Ryth? Yes. I delivered a message from him to your lady."

Juli nodded; her blond braids swung. “That would be about the betrothal."

“What betrothal?"

“The one of our girl to the lord's son,” Juli said. Dumping the soiled cloths in the basin, she rose to her feet.

“Wait.” Sorren stretched out a hand. “Tell me of this betrothal."

Juli settled the basin against her hip. “The lord wants his son to wed our Kedi. She is to go and live in Nuath, in that big stone house they say he has. In exchange, the Ryth lord will send masons and smiths and horsemen and guards to Tornor, and it will be rich again.” She jerked a thumb at the kettle. “I'll get Innis and we'll take that away.” She left. Sorren picked up the towel. So that was what Tarn Ryth's message said, she thought. A shutter banged in the wind. Sorren rubbed the dampness from her hair. She wondered what Arré would say to Tarn Ryth's scheme. If Kedéra married Dennis Ryth, Ryke would inherit Tornor. Prosperity would return to the Keep. And Kedéra—Sorren scowled. Kedéra was a child.

What, she wondered, did Tarn Ryth want with Tornor?

Arré would know. Vigorously, she massaged her hair. She wondered if Arré had knowledge of Tarn Ryth's plan. Perhaps she could contrive to send a message south. She rose from the chair, took too long a step, and banged her hip against the table. “Damn!"

Juli's voice called from the corridor, “Can we come in?"

“Come,” called Sorren. The two women entered. They went to the hearth and put their shoulders beneath the yoke that held the kettle. When they straightened, it swung ponderously between them. Matching strides, they walked to the door.

Sorren said, “What do you think of these betrothal plans?"

Juli said, “The chea should be praised. All those new folk coming north will bring work to the village."

“Does Kedéra want to be wed?"

Juli snorted. “She's a babe. She wants to ride and play with her dog. Who would not want to be wed to a lord, and living in a fine house?"

Innis said, “I would not."

“You!” Juli was contemptuous. “What do you know of life? You've never been past the peat bogs. I've been to Nuath, and it's a fine place. Go on, move your big feet out that door."

Innis moved. Juli nudged the door closed with her hip. The open door had chilled the room. Sorren hunkered down beside the fire, bending her head toward the blaze. A thump at the door made her turn. “Come in,” she said.

The door opened. Kedéra stood there. The black hound leaned against her leg. “I didn't want to disturb you,” she said.

“This is your room,” Sorren said, and realized that her voice was not entirely steady. “You must come and go as you like."

Kedéra did not seem to notice the quaver. “You said you'd tell me about your travels,” she explained.

Sorren felt a moment of panic. What could she say to this girl? She was a picker's daughter, a bondservant, no more. She felt cloddish, stupid, a huge clumsy intruder. “There's not much to tell,” she said. Her words had deserted her.

Kedéra picked the whip from the floor, and curled it round her fingers. “Would you like to see my horse?” she said.

“Certainly,” said Sorren. She reached for her boots.

“I'll help you,” Kedéra said. She reached down, fitting her hands between Sorren's on the boot's rim. Sorren almost let go. The light contact made her heart leap in her chest as if she had touched a fire-eel.

Guardian, she thought, what's happening to me?

Kedéra seemed not to have noticed. “I'll do it!” Sorren said. Kedéra let go. Stupid, Sorren thought, now she thinks you're angry at her! She jammed her foot into the second boot, and stood.

Kedéra had picked up her bow. Gently she limned the outer edge with her fingertips. “This is beautiful,” she said. “Did you make it?"

“No,” Sorren said. “A—a friend had it made for me. Can you shoot?"

Kedéra frowned. “No. My mother does not wish me to learn; she says women do not need such skills.” Her smoke-gray eyes gleamed suddenly. “Can you ride?"

Sorren reached for her cloak. “No."

Twenty-Five

The stable was warm and aromatic; it smelled of hay and horses. There was one horse standing in the boxlike stall, and one brown mule. Kedéra brought Sorren to the horsebox. “This is Lightfoot,” she said. “She's mine.” She caressed the horse's glossy jaw. “Touch her. She won't hurt you."

Sorren put out a tentative hand and let the mare smell her. The breath was warm on her palm. Kedéra grinned. Slipping into the box, she hugged the mare around the neck. “Isn't she beautiful?"

To Sorren's eyes she simply looked big, though even Sorren could see the ways she differed from southern horses. She was smaller, and rounder, and her gray coat was shaggy. “What kind of horse is she?” she asked.

Kedéra slid fearlessly beneath the mare's belly. “She's a mix. She's part Asech and part northern breed, out of the old Anhard stock.” She lifted her palm to the mare's muzzle; it had a carrot on it. The mare lipped it and began to chew noisily, blowing carrot chips over Kedéra's hair. The girl swung casually back under the mare's belly and leaned on the door. She looked at home, happy, and not fragile at all.

A sharp-faced youth with red hair came down the passage, arms full of harness. He nodded to Kedéra. “That's Embri,” Kedéra said. She tilted her head. “You don't like horses, do you?"

Sorren said, “I've never had a chance to get to know them.” She thought of the ride in Nuath. The soldier who had taken her to the Ryth mansion—what was his name ...? Pitor, that was it. “Have you been riding long?"

“Since I was six,” said Kedéra. “My father taught me."

“Is he dead?” Sorren asked gently.

“He died six years ago,” Kedéra said. Her voice was even. “I was ten."

“I never knew my father,” said Sorren. “My mother died when I was thirteen."

Kedéra said, with sympathy, “Have you been alone since then?"

Sorren thought of Arré, and of Paxe. “No,” she answered. “I was not alone."

They walked from the stable into the courtyard. The sky was blue; in the west, a few stars glimmered. Eastward clouds moved steadily forward. In the north, the mountains made a shadow on the sky. The moon was down beyond the curve of the world. Ryke came galloping out of the twilight, bright hair flying, clutching Sorren's staff to his chest. It was longer than he was. “Do you want this?” he said hopefully.

* * * *

Sorren smiled at him. “You can keep it for me, until I need it."

“When will you need it?"

“When I decide to travel."

“When will that be?"

Sorren tucked her hands inside her cloak. “I don't know,” she said.

Satisfied, Ryke whirled the staff above his head and careened out of sight. Kedéra said, “Why did you come here?"

Sorren drew a deep breath. Her chest felt tight. “I had dreams,” she said. “Dreams about the mountains and about Tornor Keep. But now I'm not sure why I was led here, if I was led. My dreams have gone."

Kedéra hunched her shoulders into the russet fur of her vest. “I have dreams, too,” she said. “I dream of mountains—not these mountains, but taller, redder ones. I dream of a valley, and people living there. I dream I see them dancing, and that I am with them."

Sorren said, “I know that dream."

Kedéra swung in a circle, arms open to the sky. “I thought you did,” she said. She stopped, and looked toward the windows of the apartments, where a dim light sifted through the shutters. “My mother wants me to marry Dennis Ryth, and leave my dreams behind. But I won't."

She sounded clear and determined. Sorren was glad for the darkness that hid her face. Her emotions battered her like contrary winds. She wanted to protect Kedéra—from Tarn Ryth, from Dennis Ryth, from Merith—and she wanted to run away, run from this turmoil that was seething in her bones.

“What will happen to Tornor,” she said, “if you do not marry Dennis Ryth?"

Kedéra crossed her arms on her chest. “My mother will never forgive me,” she answered.

That was not what I meant, Sorren started to say, and then realized that Kedéra had answered in the only way she could. She did not care about Tornor, the Keep. She cared for her family.

Slowly, they walked to the apartments. Lauf was waiting for them inside the chamber door. His tail thumped when he saw Kedéra. But it ceased thumping at Sorren's entrance; his ears went back, and he rose, growling. Kedéra roughed his ears, and the growl died. “He hates it when I share my bed,” she explained.

The fire in the hearth had burned to embers, and the room was cold. Sorren took her cloak off. Juli came to the door, carrying a cloth in which two bricks nestled. Kedéra took the candle and they went into the sleeping chamber. Sorren started to follow them. The wolfhound growled, deep in his throat.

Sorren knelt, extending a hand. “Lauf,” she said, “I mean her no harm. Be friends.” But the dog stiffened, and his lips pulled back from his teeth. Kedéra came from the inner chamber, with Juli at her heels.

“Juli says she knows where there are clothes that will fit you,” she said. “You'll need them.” She hesitated. “I can lend you a sleeping gown."

A gown for sleeping in? “I don't need it,” Sorren said.

Juli went out, and returned with a bucket. There was a tall, three-legged brazier at the foot of the curtained bed; she poured coals from the bucket to the well of the brazier. Kedéra pointed her finger at the dog. “Lauf, stay,” she said gently. Putting his head on his paws, Lauf watched his mistress with wide eyes. “Come,” she said to Sorren. They went into the sleeping chamber. Juli had gotten the coals lit in the brazier, and heat seeped through its iron grate. A candle burned in a wall sconce. It was a small room. A washstand with a basin and chamberpot stood in one corner; in another stood a tall pole with wooden hooks radiating from it. Kedéra hung her vest from one of the hooks.

Juli tugged back the curtains at the foot of the vast bed. It was piled with quilts, and was so high off the floor that there were, Sorren saw, little steps on one side of it. Juli walked around it shaking the curtains. There was a shutter set high in the wall; through it Sorren could see a sliver of sky. In Kendra-on-the-Delta, the lamplighters would be finishing their rounds. Arré would be finishing her dinner. Paxe would be—she shut off the images abruptly, angry at herself. She realized that she was alone in the sleeping chamber. Juli was gone; Kedéra was in the outer chamber, whispering to Lauf.

She sat on the bed. It dipped beneath her weight. She took off her cloak and boots and let them fall to the floor. The room suddenly felt icy. Methodically, Sorren removed tunic, pants, undertunic, socks, undergarments, and hung them on the pole. Then she climbed into the bed. It took her a moment to find where the quilts parted. She slid downward, wrapping the coverlets around her, feeling with her toes for the warmth at the foot....

“You're quick,” said Kedéra. Sorren looked out from the nest she had made in the quilts. Kedéra stood naked by the clothes’ pole. Her skin was white where the sun had not marked it. Gold hair powdered her breasts, grew thicker on her belly, and fleecy between her thighs. She lifted a brass snuffer from a hook on the wall and snuffed the candle. Now the only light in the room was the light from the brazier. She climbed into bed. Sorren's palms were sweaty. The linens whispered as Kedéra curled between them.

“Am I crowding you?” she said.

“No,” said Sorren. Her mind was filled with the image of Kedéra naked. She lay very still in bed.

“Good night.” Kedéra tugged the curtains closed, shutting out even the glow from the brazier.

The air grew heavy, motionless, and very dark.

* * * *

In the morning, it was snowing.

Lauf woke them, whining outside the curtains. Kedéra leaped out of bed to reassure him and use the chamberpot. Sorren listened with half an ear to the sounds. She was stiff, as if she had not rested, but she knew she had slept. If she had dreamed, she could not remember it. It was very dark in the curtained bed. She stretched, easing her muscles. The curtains opened, and Kedéra's grinning face appeared in the gap. “Are you awake?” she said.

“I'm awake."

“Juli's bringing tea.” She vanished, and Sorren heard the noise of the shutter being opened. Light brightened the sleeping room. Cold air washed in, and Sorren hugged the quilts to her shoulders. The light was gray, unwelcoming, and flat.

Steps sounded in the outer chamber, and Sorren heard Juli's voice. Kedéra exclaimed. The odor of fresh-baked bread wafted through the curtains. Sorren's mouth watered. Heedless of the cold, she lifted on an elbow and pulled back the curtain near her. Through the arched doorway, she saw Juli with a tray on which stood a teapot, mugs, and a dish of biscuits. Kedéra was standing with Juli, wearing a red robe trimmed with white fur. Her arms were heaped with what seemed to be clothes.

She turned and saw Sorren. “Look!” She came to the bed and dumped the clothes at the foot. “These are for you.” She laughed. “Some of them are men's, but not all of them.” She stroked the topmost garment, a tunic made of blue velvet. “Such fine work.” She lifted the tunic up. It was trimmed at collar and cuffs with heavy lace, and smelled of cedar. “She got it out of the chests in the apartments.” Letting the tunic fall, she pulled the curtains back the rest of the way. “Come and have tea.” She thrust an arm into the heaped clothing and pulled out something long and purple. “This is a robe, I think. Yes.” She held it against her. It fell around her feet in soft folds.

She laughed. “It'll fit you.” She laid it on top of the pile and went into the outer chamber. Sorren climbed from the bed. Cold bumps sprang forth on her arms and breasts. She wriggled into the robe, breathing cedar.... It was wool, and very warm.

She wondered who had worn it last as she walked into the outer chamber. Juli had gone, leaving the tray. A fire bloomed in the hearth; Kedéra knelt beside it, poking it with tongs. Lauf lay next to her. He lifted his head as Sorren entered, but did not growl.

“I poured tea for you,” said Kedéra.

“Thank you,” said Sorren. She picked up the steamy mug. It was brown, earth-colored, and so was the tea. Its strong bitter taste made her eyes water, but it was warming. She glanced toward the shutter of the window, which was ajar, and saw the flakes of snow drifting toward the ground.

She went to the window. The snow made a smooth blanket over the world. It covered the outer ward, lined the top of the outer wall.... “Look,” said Kedéra. She laid one hand on Sorren's shoulder, and pointed with the other. “See that road? That leads west."

“To Cloud Keep,” said Sorren, remembering her map.

The pressure of Kedéra's fingers lifted. “Yes. And Pel Keep, beyond that. And the western mountains."

Sorren turned to look at her. She was smiling; her eyes were wide, and luminous.

She went to the tray and took a biscuit. “Did you dream?” she said.

“No,” said Sorren.

“I did,” said Kedéra. But she did not go on. Instead—"Tell me about the south,” she said.

Sorren took a biscuit. “What do you want to know?"

“What do people do?"

“They farm,” Sorren said, “and fish, and build. They spin silk."

“We weave wool,” said Kedéra.

“They work metals and clay."

“Do they dance?” said Kedéra.

“Some. The Asech dance with snakes. And the city-born become acrobats and tumblers and a few of them, the highborn, learn the true dance. I was a drummer for a dancer."

“Who was she?” asked Kedéra.

“He. Isak Med. He is gone from the city now. Banished.” Even now, even here, it was hard for her to speak of Isak. She could not use the ugly word, outlawed.

Kedéra said, “You were a bondservant, now you are a messenger; you have been a drummer, you are a witch—is there anything you can't do?"

Sorren grinned. “Sing,” she said. “And ride a horse. And read and write,” she added.

They finished the biscuits. Kedéra flung back the quilts to air the bed. Lauf paced from Kedéra's knee to the door. “He's restless,” she said. “He wants to run.” She dressed, and they went into the inner ward. Lauf writhed like a puppy in the powdery snow. Sorren tilted her head to the sky. The snowflakes rained down like icy feathers. She reached out a hand to try to catch one, but they evaded her. She opened her mouth, wondering what they would taste like.... Her breath clouded the air, melting them. One flake brushed her lip; she licked the place. The snow had no taste. Obscurely disappointed, she turned to find Kedéra.

Sark, Ryke, Kedéra, and Merith stood by the inner gate. The brown mule stood stolidly beside them, hitched to what seemed to be a cart. As Sorren neared them, she saw that the cart had no wheels; instead, it had smooth flat pieces of wood that curved upward at the tips. She said softly into Kedéra's ear, “What's that?"

Kedéra said, “A sled."

Merith smiled at Sorren. “Did you sleep well?” she said. “Were you warm enough?"

“Yes, thank you,” said Sorren.

“It must be difficult for you to stand the cold, coming from the south,” Merith said graciously.

But I am not a southerner, Sorren thought, and I have winter in my blood. “Not really,” she said to Merith. “I feel right at home."

Merith's smile soured a little. She turned to Sark and her son. “Give my regards to Varin when you reach the village. Ask if they can spare us some fish."

“Fish?” said Sorren.

Kedéra said, “In winter, we fish through the ice."

Sorren thought, I'd like to see that. Sark slapped the mule's rump. “Ya!” he said. The mule snorted and moved. The sled ran smoothly over the fallen snow. How sensible, Sorren thought. Lauf followed it beneath the outer gate. Kedéra called to him; he barked once and then trotted back into the courtyard, holding something between his jaws.

She coaxed the object from him. “It's a quail.” She turned the small brown body in her hands. It was stiff, its feathers covered with a net of ice crystal. “There's no blood on it,” she said, “It must have died from the cold."

“Or from sickness,” said Merith.

Kedéra's fingers probed. “It has a broken wing. I can feel where the bone is split. It couldn't fly to find food; that's what killed it, Mother. I'll take it to Meg; she'll put it in the soup pot.” She snapped her fingers. “Come, Lauf.” She loped off with the dog frisking at her heels.

Sorren said, “What are Sark and Ryke bringing back on the sled?"

“Wood,” said Merith. “And fish, I hope."

Sorren said. “I can hunt. That will bring in some fresh meat."

Merith coughed. “Thank you,” she said. “It's kind of you to offer. But if you delay your return to Nuath, you will be forced to spend the winter here."

“But—” Sorren began. She hesitated, thinking back to all she had told Merith the day before. She had not said outright that she planned to stay in Tornor. Did Merith want her to leave? “I had not intended to go back to Nuath."

Merith crossed her arms over her chest. “But you must return,” she said. “There is barely enough food here to feed the household now. Besides, you are a messenger. You cannot stay locked in Tornor all the winter."

“I am not a messenger,” Sorren said.

“You brought me a message,” Merith said. “If you wish to do Tornor a service, you may carry a message to Tarn Ryth from me. Tell him I would look more kindly upon his greetings if they were accompanied by substance—like grain, and cloth.” She turned to walk to the apartments.

Do your daughter's wishes mean nothing, then? Sorren thought. “My lady,” she said, “what do you want?"

Merith said, her voice brittle as the snow, “I want Tornor Keep to survive. I want the villagers to prosper. I want Tarn Ryth to send goods and gold and soldiers north, and for this to happen, Kedéra must wed Dennis Ryth."

“Can you not make a treaty with Tarn Ryth for these things?"

“No,” Merith said. “The Council of Houses in Tezera would object to any treaty I made with Tarn Ryth. But if Dennis Ryth and Kedéra wed, they cannot object if Tarn Ryth sends guards and supplies to Tornor Keep."

“Will they not help you?"

“The nobles of Tezera?” Merith laughed. “Shall I go to them and beg? I would rather starve. Tarn Ryth came to me.” The snow covered her brown hair with a web of white. Sorren saw her as she would be in twenty years, small and pale and white-haired and bitter. She suddenly saw why Tarn Ryth wanted Tornor. His power came from the river, but his control of the river halted at the borders of Septh. His patrols stopped there. If he could possess Tornor, he would control the river above and below Tezera, which would give him great power. If he tried to take Tornor by force, the Tezeran Council would object, and there might be war. But the Council could not object to that most traditional of alliances, a wedding.

It made a pattern. Sorren swallowed. It was so easy to see, once you knew where to look. Living with Arré Med for seven years, she had learned some of Arré's skills. But Arré was far away, and could not help her now. “Can the other Keeps assist you in your need?” she asked.

Merith had reached the door of the apartments. “They are in like case,” she said. “It is said that Lord Meth of Zilia Keep has made a separate treaty with Anhard. But I will not believe it.” She glanced into the courtyard. Kedéra was coming toward them. “We will speak no further of this,” she said.

Kedéra said, “Meg was pleased. She gave Lauf a bone."

Merith said, “I have weaving to do. Will you come and help me, Kedi?"

Kedéra thrust her hands through her hair. “I wanted to show Sorren the castle,” she said. “Can you spare me for an hour?"

Merith shrugged. “I suppose I can.” She went into the apartments. Sorren and Kedéra stood alone. Kedéra's eyes were bright as a child's.

“What do you want to show me?” Sorren said.

Kedéra pulled the fur vest closer around her neck. “I thought you might want to take a walk on the wall."

Sorren said, “I'd prefer to be indoors."

Kedéra looked disappointed. “We could look at the apartments,” she said. She pointed to the larger building. “I know the way in."

“Let's do that,” Sorren agreed.

* * * *

They went inside through the door Merith had used. But instead of turning right and going up a stairway, Kedéra turned left. Almost at once, Sorren was aware of the cold. She crossed her arms across her chest, holding in warmth. Kedéra said, “We never come here.” She pointed to the walls, bare of tapestries. “Mother had us move the hangings into the servants’ chambers, all that could be moved."

A stairway appeared in the shadowy passage, rising into darkness. Sorren sniffed. A scent hung about the walls. She wondered if age had a smell. Kedéra crouched, hands busy. Sorren heard the clash of flints on each other. Kedéra rose with the stump of a candle in one hand. “Come on,” she said.

“Wait,” Sorren said. “What's down here?” As she gazed along the passageway, she could see the indentation in the smooth stone of the hall that meant there were doors.

“Storerooms,” said Kedéra. “They're empty now.” She touched Sorren's arm. “Come."

“Were they always storerooms?” Sorren persisted. She followed Kedéra up the stairway. The wooden treads creaked beneath her boots with a noise like laughter. The candle bobbed ahead of her, a small pool of light in a vast darkness. Sorren felt the hairs on her neck stir, and told herself not to be a fool. Nothing could hurt her in these empty rooms.

“No,” Kedéra said. “I think not. People lived there once. But when there was no more fighting, Tornor began to empty, and the people who were left looked for the warmest places to live. It's always warmer upstairs.” She held the candle high suddenly. An iron shape leaped out at them. It was a wall sconce in the shape of a fish. As Sorren gazed at it, she remembered what Marti Hok had told her, about the rebel from Kendra-on-the-Delta who had been banished by his city and sent north, to thrive or die in the wilderness. He had built Tornor. She wondered if he had told his smiths to make him sconces in the shape of fishes, and what they thought of that. For a moment, a picture slid into her mind, so vivid that she thought at first she was aftseeing, of a man drawing fish over and over again on a piece of parchment, trying to make them look like the fish he knew, the dwellers of the ocean. She blinked. The mouth of the fish gaped upward; the tail curved into the wall. She went to her toes, reaching, and touched it. Her fingers came away slippery with dust. She sniffed them. That was what she smelled: the dust.

There were ghosts here, she thought. No wonder her own ghosts had not followed her here. She trailed her hand along the ancient wall.

“Come on,” Kedéra said impatiently.

The upstairs corridor was lighter than the one downstairs. The doors hung slightly ajar. Light came through them. Kedéra put her shoulder to one massive slab of wood, and pushed. “Look,” she said. Sorren went a few steps into the room. A great bed took up most of the space in it. It was made of some heavy dark wood. Velvet hangings, pulled from their support, lay draped across it. A washstand and basin stood near it. At its foot was a chest with the lid up. A brass ewer stood on a small table. Wax coated the floor near the bed. “Whoever lived here was careless with candles,” Kedéra said.

A shutter banged. Sorren jumped at the noise. She gazed at the bed, wondering who had slept there, and if, in her visions, she had ever seen her. The brass ewer caught her eye; its maker had hammered out a tree on its side. She stepped to the table and picked the pitcher up. It was cold. She tipped it, half expected water to trickle out, but all that emerged was a sprinkling of soft gray dust.

She put the ewer down. “Let's go elsewhere,” she said.

“All right,” said Kedéra. They went into the next room. Here the bed was missing. “My bed came from here,” Kedéra explained. The next room was larger, and it had a separate sleeping chamber. A tapestry on the wall over the washstand showed a picture of a girl reaching across a wall. The picture was inexpert; the stitching sloppy, and Kedéra said, “Some child made that."

“Maybe,” Sorren said. Or a woman, she thought, bored and inexpert with her needle, expressing her longing for the south in the only way she could.... Why the south? Sorren thought. The faded color disturbed her. Suddenly, she wanted to see no more. “I'm cold,” she said. She rubbed her arms with her hands. “I want to be warm."

Kedéra grinned. “We'll go bother Meg."

They ran down the stairs, across the courtyard, and into the kitchen. It was steamy and huge and it smelled wonderful. Meg stood in front of the huge open hearth, peering into a pot, brandishing a spice jar. As Kedéra and Sorren entered, she whirled, frowning. “I told you—” She stopped. “Oh. I thought you were Embri.” Kedéra went to her and kissed her cheek. “I know you, you want something from me. Those cakes on the shelf are for the big meal."

“We don't want cakes,” Kedéra said loftily. She collapsed onto a stool. “Sorren wants to get warm, and this is the warmest place in the castle."

“And the busiest. How am I to work with you underfoot?” Meg gave the stew in the pot an officious stir. “Here, you stir this.” She put the spice jar on its shelf. Sorren wondered what the Med cook would think of this kitchen. It was much bigger than his. Great hooks hung from the wooden beams; she wondered what they usually held—spices, meat, pots, and pans? Kedéra stirred the pot. She dipped up a taste.

“Needs more salt,” she murmured.

Meg said, “Do I need you to tell me how to cook?” She scowled. “Wait until you live in Nuath; you can order your kitchen to your heart's content."

Kedéra stopped stirring. “I am not going to live in Nuath,” she said quietly.

“Humph,” said Meg.

The change in temperature had brought cold bumps springing up on Sorren's arms. She moved closer to the fire. Kedéra's face was set and still. Suddenly, she let the dipper fall. “I'm going to the wall,” she said. She looked at Sorren. “Coming?"

Sorren nodded, with some reluctance; she had just gotten warm. Kedéra pointed to a stair leading up along the bulk of the chimney. “Watch your step,” she said.

The stair was narrow but it did not creak. At the top was a door. “It used to be barred,” Kedéra said, touching the iron brace where the bar would have been. “I made Sark take it off.” She pushed at the door. It opened; cold air and soft powdery snow scudded in. She thrust at it and it fell back. “Come on.” She climbed three more steps. Sorren followed. Snow whipped at her face. She wondered what to do about the door.... “Leave it,” said Kedéra.

Snow swirled in their faces. Sorren put her hands beneath her cloak. Head down, blind, she followed Kedéra. Suddenly, the wind dropped. She looked up. They were in the shadow of a block of stone. Before them stretched the inner wall.

It was taller than the outer wall: massive, dark, imposing. Sorren tried to imagine climbing it, and failed. Kedéra stepped from the shelter into another blast of wind. They were on the east side of the Keep, the cold side where the wind swept in across the steppe.... Kedéra halted again, breathing heavily. Sorren took a deep breath; the chill cut her chest like a knife thrust. “Why do you come here?” she said, trying not to shiver.

Kedéra said, “So I can see.” She leaned against the wall, ice crystals glittering on her cheeks—no. She was crying. Sorren put both hands on her shoulders and discovered that she was shivering, too.

“It's too cold to be up here,” she said.

Kedéra nodded. “Let's go to the gatehouse stair.” Without waiting for Sorren's answer, she started off. Their boots echoed on the stone walkway. They turned the corner; the wind now blew at their backs, tugging at their clothing.

Kedéra stopped at one of the openings in the wall. They gazed south, at the field below the castle. It was white, unstained, its purity broken only by the wooden bridge and the dark irregular track of the river. As they watched, a mule pulling a loaded sled broke from beneath the trees and rattled across the field. Sark was riding the back of the load; Ryke was sitting on the mule, leaning forward, face against its neck. Sark was shouting. “They're coming awfully fast,” said Kedéra, puzzled. As she spoke, Ryke slapped the mule's rump with a switch. The laboring animal stretched its neck and moved even faster.

They were nearing the bridge. Suddenly, a rider galloped from the trees—and another, and another. “What—” said Sorren, but she said it to Kedéra's back. Kedéra was running. The gatehouse loomed in front of them. Kedéra dived inside it. Sorren followed as swiftly as she could. She glimpsed a great wheel with a rope around it. Kedéra was sliding down a ladder, her feet barely touching the rungs. Sorren climbed after her and caught her in the dark of the gatehouse. “What is it?” she said.

Kedéra flung open the door and sprinted into the ward. Panting, she said, “Outlaws!"

Sorren grabbed her. “Where are you going?” she demanded. Kedéra shook free of the grip.

“To the stable. Get your bow!” She bolted toward the stable. Lauf bounded out of nowhere and raced at her heels. Sorren ran toward the apartments. The snowflakes spiraled past her in their inexorable flight to earth.... She heard distant shouts, and a shriek of terror that seemed to burst from the earth—the mule, she thought. She pounded up the stair, passing Merith. Merith's eyes were wide, and her broad face was chalky.

She took the narrow steps two at a time. In the courtyard, Lauf was barking, deep, furious barks. She burst into Kedéra's chamber. There was the bow, bowstring wrapped about it, leaning against the wall; she snatched it. She whirled in a circle, heart surging in her chest, seeking the quiver. There it was. She seized it. There were two arrows left. She thought of Paxe, who had given her the arrows—the thought was like a prayer. Guardian, I don't want to kill, she thought, but as she thought it she was running down to the courtyard. The snow had thickened. She saw Embri running toward the gate, clutching a pitchfork. The gray horse shot from the stable with Kedéra on her back. The girl beckoned, leaning, one arm extended, legs wrapped tightly around the cavorting, bridleless mare. I can't, Sorren thought in panic, but she slung the quiver onto her shoulder and put out an arm. Kedéra grabbed it.

“Hold my waist!” she shouted. The mare stamped as Sorren scrambled to a seat on her back. This is crazy, she thought; what can we do against armed men? But the mare plunged forward, with a jar that almost unseated her. She gripped Kedéra's waist with one arm and her bow with the other. The hood of her cloak fell back in the wind, and her hair streamed out, blowing like a banner.

The riders had made a ring around the laden mule. Sark was flailing at them with a piece of wood. Ryke, still seated on the mule, swung Sorren's staff like a cudgel. Sorren counted, three, four, six men, on skinny horses. She wondered why they lingered, why they did not take the mule and run, and realized that they were not armed. Lauf streaked at Lightfoot's side, belling his rage. Even the mule was striking out with teeth and forefeet.

She had not strung the bow, and that took two hands. Chea....! The word was prayer. She leaned against Kedéra, feeling their pulses rock in unison, and fumbled with the waxed string, feeling for the tip of the bow. She bent it against the inside of her thigh, stretched, and slid the loop of the string into the notch—it held. She felt Kedéra draw an immense lungful of air. Then she screamed; a high shout that seemed to rise from her core. The mare leaped forward. Kedéra leaned until her cheek touched the mare's crest. She was whispering to the mare, guiding her with hands and knees and thighs, keeping her steady.... Sorren gripped the bow and reached for an arrow. She looked up and saw the faces of outlaws; beneath their shaggy fur hats their eyes were wide and fearful. Run, she thought at them. Run!

They ran. She saw them scatter—all but one, who had his hand on the bridle of the mule. He had turned her half toward the trees. Ryke sprang at him from a snowdrift, and the outlaw's booted foot struck him in the ribs. He crumpled. Sorren drew the bow. Her hands were numb; she could barely feel the arrow.

She shot. The arrow wobbled in the gusting wind, and fell with a clatter to the bridge planks. But the outlaw dropped the rein and kicked his horse toward the trees. His hat flew off. Lauf sprang at it, barking. Kedéra shouted in triumph and brought the mare to a skidding halt. Sorren grabbed for a hold but her fingers would not grip. I knew this was stupid, she thought, as the ground came to meet her. She curled her arms around her head, letting the bow drop. Powdery snow geysered as she struck the ground. “Unh.” Her ribs and side felt hammered. She lifted her head. Kedéra wheeled the mare around and leaped to the earth.

“Are you hurt?” she said. Her hands felt Sorren's back and neck, patting, poking. Her breath clouded the air. “Sorren, talk!"

“I'm not hurt,” Sorren said. Gritting her teeth, she sat. A fall from the back of a horse was not so bad. “How's your brother?"

Ryke said, above her, “I'm fine!” He waved the cudgel. “He kicked me; did you see that, Kedi?"

“I saw,” said Kedéra. She scooped Sorren's bow from the snow, and laid it across her knees.

“You looked like—like—” Words failed the boy. “Like soldiers!” he said. He looked worshipfully at Sorren. “I didn't know you could shoot an arrow from horseback."

“Neither did I,” Sorren said. She wondered what the outlaws had thought when two women, one waving a bow, one shouting at the top of her lungs, bore down upon them. Her side ached horribly. I didn't have to kill anyone, she thought. Thank the chea, I didn't have to kill.... She wondered what she would have done if the outlaws had been armed. Died, probably, she thought.

Kedéra said, “They've never done that before. Attacked us, I mean. They steal sheep from the village sometimes.” At her back, Sark was soothing the mule. Some of the wood had fallen into the snow. Kedéra lifted one end of a log. “Help me,” she said.

Sorren bent—it hurt—and lifted the other end. They tossed the log onto the sled. Embri arrived, pitchfork in hand. He bent to help. Quickly, they loaded it and urged the mule forward. Sorren glanced back at the trees, but there was no sign of the marauders; resistance had cowed them. Lauf trotted by the sled with the fur hat between his jaws. Kedéra walked beside the mare, patting and praising her. They trudged through the drifting snow while the wind bit their cheeks, making its own music. Under the gate, Merith waited. Ryke ran ahead of them into her arms.

* * * *

They gathered in the hall. Ryke, swinging his cudgel, was inclined to be boastful, until Sark spoke sharply to him and made him sit down. Sorren went to the fire and warmed her hands. Kedéra came to stand next to her.

“Who were they?” Sorren said.

“Who?"

“The outlaws."

Kedéra frowned. “Outlaws—are outlaws. Their villages make them leave. Some are thieves. They live on the steppe, in the little round stone huts the peat spaders build. They raid the villages for sheep. They've never attacked the Keep before."

Sorren remembered their pallid faces. “They must be hungry,” she said. It hurt her to think of people living like that. “They should go to the city and find work."

Merith said, “Life in Tezera is not easy, when you're used to the steppe.” She stroked Ryke's hair until he jerked away, irritated.

“Now what will they do?” Sorren said, not expecting an answer.

Sark said, “Steal a sheep.” He leaned heavily on the table. Sorren wondered if he was feeling ill.

Merith said sharply, “Sark, are you tired?"

“Na.” But his head drooped.

Kedéra went to him. “Of course you're tired,” she said. “Why don't you go and sit on a stool in the kitchen, and rest?” She coaxed the old man from the bench and walked him to the kitchen. She came back with a tray bearing goblets and a wine carafe. “Meg will make him rest,” she said.

Juli served the meal. “You should have shot them all,” she said belligerently. “Thieves and villains, they are."

Kedéra said, “They're just cold, and hungry."

“Then they should find some honest work to do."

Merith said, “There is no work.” She looked at her daughter. “Nor will there be, unless things change."

Kedéra stiffened. “I don't want to talk about it now,” she said.

Merith said, “We must.” Two red spots, like fever, lit her cheeks. “Kedi—” her voice grew pleading—"these folk are our charge. Even the outlaws. We must find a way to help them, to ease the poverty that makes them steal."

Kedéra shook her head. To break the tension, Sorren reached for the wine carafe and filled the goblets all around. This was the northern wine that Arré served to the Council. She wondered if Arré knew it came from Tornor. She wished Arré were here. She would know what to do for Tornor. She did not believe in insurmountabilities. If there was no evident solution, she would invent one.

She sipped the wine, thinking of Arré. Smooth as music, an idea came to her—no, she thought. That would—she would—She wondered if the wine was making her drunk.

“My lady,” she said, “can you see no other course to save the folk of Tornor, but for Kedéra to wed Dennis Ryth?"

Merith said, “I cannot.” She put her spoon down beside her plate. “Kedi—"

“I will not marry Dennis Ryth,” said Kedéra. “I am of age, and it is my choice."

“Do you care nothing, then,” her mother said, voice lifting, “for me, for your brother, for your heritage? What will you do? Run away to the west, like a child chasing sparrows with a handful of rock salt, while Tornor decays into rubble?"

At Kedéra's feet, Lauf raised his head and growled. Kedéra bit her lip. “Hush, Lauf,” she said. She turned the wine goblet in her hand. “I do care,” she said. “But I do not wish to marry Dennis Ryth, and I am not a child."

Sorren stared at the hall's patterned walls. The tapestries seemed to wink at her, as if she and they were in complicity. “Others share Tornor's heritage,” she said.

Merith said, “I told you, the other Keeps are in like case."

“I didn't mean the other Keeps,” Sorren said. She leaned her elbows on the table. “I mean the Med house in the south. That house built Tornor Keep. I know the ties have long been lost. But if Arré Med knew your plight, she would want to help you."

Merith said angrily, “I will not ask charity of the south!"

“It would not be charity,” Sorren said. “I know Arré Med. She cares deeply for her house, and she has just lost a brother. The Council outlawed him. Only ignorance parts her from you. In Kendra-on-the-Delta they think the Keeps are empty."

Her words echoed off the remorseless stone. She watched Merith's face. “And so they will be,” said Merith, “if we receive no help.” The rage had left her voice, and only pain remained. She stretched her hand to her daughter. “I don't want you to marry Dennis Ryth against your will."

Kedéra slipped from the bench and went round the table to her mother's side. She put her arms around Merith. “I am glad,” she whispered, “because I cannot. Mother, listen to Sorren. She knows more of the world than you or I."

Sorren wanted to laugh. She knew the world—she, the picker's daughter, the northern girl? “Arré Med has strong ties with Tarn Ryth,” she said. “If she were to assist you, Tarn Ryth would not be offended. He might find a way to send his soldiers to Tornor anyway, with Arré Med's consent. After all, she cannot do it. It's too far."

She pictured Paxe in the snow. Paxe would hate it here, she thought.

“And how do I establish contact with the Lady Arré?” said Merith.

Sorren's heart began to race. “Write to her,” she said. “Recall the ancient tie. Tell her of your need."

“She will refuse,” Merith insisted. “Why should she help us, who cannot repay the debt?"

Sorren said, “We all have debts.” She thought of Paxe, of Kadra, of Isak. “I think she will not refuse.” Merith frowned. She does not believe me, Sorren thought. Chea.... She hunted for other words. Perhaps she should tell Merith about the L'hel. But Merith was not Arré; it would only make her uncertain to hear of the L'hel's ambitions. She laid her palms flat on the table, as if she could draw Merith's trust out of the wood, or the stone, or the silent earth.

The feel of the table made her memory wheel back to another table, in a silent room. She rose. “I'll be back.” She went into the courtyard. What had Tukath told her? Give up the Cards for your own purposes. She walked through the swirling snow to the door of the apartments, and up the stairs to Kedéra's chamber. She took the box of Cards from her pack. She closed her eyes, waiting for the world to blur, for the tapestried walls to vanish.... But nothing happened. The Cards stayed dumb. This was home to them, these walls, this silence. Here they did not need to speak.

She brought them to the hall. Merith and Kedéra were sitting side by side, hands clasped. She held out the box. “Here."

Merith said, “What do you want me to do with those?"

“What you like,” said Sorren. “They are no use to me here. Sell them, if you wish. Marti Hok of the Hok house in Kendra-on-the-Delta would buy them from you. Sell them to Tarn Ryth.” She laid the box on the table. Merith freed her hand and picked it up. Kedéra glanced at Sorren, question in her eyes, and Sorren shook her head, hoping that Kedéra would stay still, ask nothing, make no demand.

Merith frowned. Then her face smoothed. Gently, she held the box out to Sorren. “No. I will not take them. I appreciate your giving them to me. But they are part of Tornor's heritage, and they did not travel across the world with you to be sold. You said they gave you visions."

“Not any more,” said Sorren.

“But they did. They may again. Vision is too uncommon to be sold. I would rather—” she turned her head from side to side, looking at the walls—"strip the gold thread from the tapestries, and sell it. We may have to do that, when winter passes, and the traders return."

Kedéra said, “Mother, write to Arré Med."

Merith sighed. She touched her daughter's cheek with a knuckle. “Stubborn. The folk of our line are always stubborn.” She looked at Sorren. “As you are, messenger. Meg said you were a northerner, and she was right. If I write it, will you take my letter to Arré Med?"

* * * *

Kedéra gasped. “But—” Her eyes sought Sorren's. I thought you would go west with me, they said.

Sorren's heart clenched in her chest. She did not want to. What if she met Paxe; what could they say? The smell of the ocean rose like a ghost in her mind. Moist and salt, it called to her. “I will take it if you write it,” she said. “And if you can find no other messenger."

“That seems fair,” said Merith. She pushed her plate away, and stood. “I have weaving to do this afternoon. Kedéra, will you help?"

Kedéra said, “Yes. In a moment."

Merith said, “I shall be in the storeroom, winding wool.” She walked out. Juli came from the kitchen and began to clear the plates. She was whistling. Sorren knew the tune; it was the song that Arré could not bear. I am a stranger in an outland country.... It made her think of Isak, and of Kadra. Perhaps Kadra's bequeathing her the cloak had been an omen. Perhaps she was doomed to wander, making other people's journeys, carrying other people's messages.

Kedéra touched her arm. “Sorren?"

She roused herself. “I'm here.” Her head felt heavy. “Walk with me,” she said. Kedéra nodded. They strolled toward the entrance to the hall. Lauf woke, whined, and bounded to Kedéra's side. She stroked his ears.

“Good dog,” she said lovingly, “Outlaw-chasing dog."

The snow was still falling, but lightly now through the gray afternoon light. Sorren clutched the box in one hand. “I don't want to go south,” she whispered to the castle.

It did not answer. Perhaps it had never really felt her presence, or noticed her visitations. She was less to it than the river. When the thaws came, the river went south. She remembered the faces of the outlaws. Desperation, not evil, had driven them. The order they knew had failed them. She could not hate them. She wondered if they would be back, and if so, when. Perhaps the gate could be mended.

She felt pulled in two, torn as she had never been in Kendra-on-the-Delta. She wanted to stay in Tornor, and—she smiled to herself—she wanted to go with Kedéra, wherever Kedéra went.

Kedéra said, “Sorren?"

“I'm here."

“I'll teach you to ride if you'll teach me to shoot."

Sorren looked at her. The snow glittered in her hair. I was wrong, Sorren thought. She looks like no one. She is herself, unique. “And if I must go south?” she said.

Kedéra said, “Then I'll go with you."

She might have been talking about a ride to the village. “You don't know what you're talking about!” Sorren said, and blinked. She sounded like Kadra. How childish she must have seemed to Kadra, with her schemes and plans and certainties. There were no certainties, she thought. Only the past is certain, and the past is dead.

Kedéra was watching her with that fervent look. It made her tingle. She reached with her free hand and brushed the melting snow from Kedéra's hair. It was flyaway, feathery, soft as sunlight, delicate as cobweb or milkweed.

Kedéra turned her head swiftly, and her lips brushed Sorren's hand. “You look unhappy,” she said. “I don't want you to be unhappy."

A growl interrupted them. They looked down. Lauf was glaring upward, legs stiff.

Kedéra laughed. “He's jealous!"

He has cause, Sorren thought. She wondered how far the western mountains really were, and if, in some forgotten valley, chearis danced. Or was that, too, in the past? “Better teach him not to growl at me,” she said.

Kedéra seized Lauf's collar. “Lauf, listen. This is Sorren. She is my friend, you stupid dog, and I will not have you growling at her. She is not going to go away. She belongs here, and you'd better get used to that.” Her voice lifted, ringing off the stones. “Her name is Sorren. Can you learn that? Sorren. Sorren."

Appendixes

I

Pronunciation

Most proper nouns and words of two syllables are pronounced with the primary stress on the first syllable: Árun, Sórren, níji. Exceptions, like Arré and Koré, are marked. Nouns of three syllables—sharíza, chelíto — are pronounced with the accent on the middle syllable, as shown above. Proper nouns of three syllables—Tázia, Méredith, Ísmenin—should be stressed on the first syllable, with some exceptions, e.g. Tezéra, Arúna, which have primary stress on the middle syllable. Longer names, such as Berénzia and Terézia, are accented.

The plural is usually formed by adding s to the word, as in seji, sejis; cheari, chearis; and occasionally by adding as, as in Jalar, Jalaras. When the word ends in se or in as, as in doisse, chearas, the same word is both singular and plural.

The sounds of the language are much like those of English. A is pronounced like the a in father, except when it appears as the first syllable of a word, e.g. Arun, Alis, where it is pronounced like the a in act. E is pronounced like the e in set, except when it is the first syllable of a word, e.g. Elath, where it is pronounced like the e in equal. I is pronounced somewhere between the i of big and a long English e; o is pronounced like the o in over. U is pronounced like the u in run. Y is pronounced like the i in if, as in Lyrith, except in those cases where there is an unvoiced terminal e, e.g. Ryke: it is then pronounced to rhyme with tyke. The th sound, as in Sereth, Thule, is pronounced like the th in the English path.

A major exception to the above rules is the word chearas, which is stressed on the first, not the middle syllable, e.g. chéaras. Cheari and chearis, however, follow common usage.

II

The Cards of Fortune

0 The Dancer: is the Card with no number. Description: A young man wearing only a loincloth. His left foot is off the ground. His hair is gold and very long. His eyes are gray. He is beardless. Behind his head the sky is dark blue. A crescent moon ascends. His expression is joyous and transcendent.

1 The Weaver: is a woman in a green dress, seated at a loom. Her hair is dark and long and hangs unbraided down her back. She is framed in a window. She holds the shuttle in one hand. The picture on her tapestry is of a blossoming tree.

2 The Dreamer: is a woman sleeping. A window overlooks her couch: through it we see two bright red stars. She lies on her back with her hands folded on the coverlet. Her hair is bright gold and long.

3 The Lady: is a golden-haired woman standing outdoors. It is day. In the distance we see fields, a barn, an orchard. She carries a sheaf of flowers. A sleek white greyhound stands beside her. She is smiling.

4 The Lord: is a stern-faced man seated on a high-backed wooden chair. He wears red and silver. His eyes are blue; his hair is gold. He wears a ruby ring on his right hand. A black wolfhound lies beside his booted feet.

5 The Scholar: is a man in a black-cowled robe edged with silver. He stands beside a table; one hand rests on a stack of parchment. Most of his face is hidden in the shadow of his hood.

6 The Lovers: are a man and a woman holding hands over a wall. The wall is covered with ivy and blue flowers.

7 The Archer: is a woman wearing only a loincloth. The crescent moon is at her back. She stands in profile, drawing a bow. Her hair streams out behind her; it is gold.

8 The Messenger: is a cloaked and hooded figure, in green, riding a sorrel horse across snow. It cannot be seen if the figure is a man or a woman. The sky is clear and dark blue.

9 The Horseman: is a man riding across the steppe on a black horse. The man's hair is gold and streams behind him, as does the mane of the horse. The steppe grass is pale green. The horse is without saddle or bridle.

10 The Stargazer: is a woman standing on a balcony. She is looking up at the stars. Her hair is dark. Her eyes are gray. She wears a blue gown. In the foreground stands a table with the suggestion of the two curling ends of a scroll. Her face is stern and unsmiling.

11 The Illusionist: is a young man dressed in red and orange, standing on one foot. He is smiling. He is juggling a number of brightly colored balls. He wears a blue ruff around his neck.

12 The Wolf: shows the head and shoulders of a gray wolf. Its lips are pulled back: it is snarling. Its fangs are long and yellow. Its eyes are red.

13 The Eagle: shows an eagle soaring over a precipice. Its talons are extended as if to strike. The tips of its feathers are gleaming white. Behind it the sky is dark blue. The rocks are red with the sunset.

14 The Phoenix: shows the phoenix perched unharmed in the midst of a fire. We see it in profile. Its wings and plumage are of myriad colors.

15 The Mirror: shows a landscape of a house, trees, and a lake in which the landscape is perfectly reflected so that one cannot tell which is the real and which the mirrored scene. There are no human figures in this Card.

16 The Tower: shows a tall stone tower in the act of splitting apart. It has been struck by lightning. Very far beneath it, there are running people and horses.

17 The Wheel: shows a great circle with eight spokes. Within each space between the spokes are people, all different, some men, some women, all ages from infant to crone, pressing against the spokes as if they want to get out of the space.

18 The Demon: is a monstrous semihuman form. He has scales and horns. He is naked: his body is green. He has a barbed tail. He has fangs and is grinning.

19 Death: is a human skeleton standing in a cornfield. The skeleton has red eyes. The sky is gray, as at twilight.

20 The Moon: shows a full moon rising over water. A woman stands at the water's edge, both hands uplifted to the rising moon. Her back is toward us. Her hair is pale and long. A black cat sits at her feet.

21 The Sun: shows a circle of people with their hands linked. The number varies: sometimes there are six, sometimes more, but there are always at least three men and three women, counting male and female children. Behind them we see a barn, a mill, a herd of goats. A bright sun illumines the landscape. The hair of the women is bound with flowers.

III

Chronology of Arun

Year 1: Founding of Kendra-on-the-Delta

Year 32: Founding of Shanan

Year 56: Founding of Tezera

Year 60: First major raid into Arun by Anhard forces

Year 77: Building of Cloud Keep

Year 82: Terenth Med attempts to overthrow the rule of his sister Berénzia in Kendra-on-the-Delta. He is exiled to the north.

Year 84: Tornor Keep begun

Year 85: Tornor Keep completed; Terenth Med is named 1st Lord of Tornor Keep.

Year 121-123: Pel Keep built

Year 140-142: Zilia Keep built

Year 166: Erection of the watchtower at Tornor Keep

Year 245: Col of Iste born

Year 247: Raven Batto born in Kendra-on-the-Delta

Kerwin, 11th Lord of Tornor, dies.

Morven is named 12th Lord of Tornor.

Year 263: Ryke of Tornor born

Year 266: Norres of Tornor village is born.

Morven dies. Athor is named 13th Lord of Tornor.

Year 267: Errel, Athor's son, is born.

Sorren, Athor's daughter, is born.

Year 280: Raven Batto kills Ewain Med in Kendra-on-the-Delta. He is banished.

Year 281: Founding of Vanima

Truce signed between Anhard and Arun

Year 290: Col Istor invades the north.

Athor dies.

WATCHTOWER

Year 322: Death of Sorren, Lady of Tornor

Year 376: Establishment of the Council of Houses in Kendra-on-the-Delta (Council Year One)

Year 380: Marriage of Kerwin of Tornor and Alis of Elath

Year 383: Kel of Elath is born.

Year 390: Morven is named 19th Lord of Tornor.

Year 393: Kerris of Elath is born.

Year 396: Alis of Elath dies. Kerris is maimed by Asech raiders.

Year 398: Kel goes to Vanima.

Year 400: First Asech raid on Elath

Year 404: Second Asech raid on Elath

Year 405: Kel is named cheari by Zayin.

Year 406: Kerris links with Kel for the first time.

Year 410: THE DANCERS OF ARUN

Year 425: Establishment of the White Clan

Year 435: Building of the Tanjo in Kendra-on-the-Delta

Year 437: Truce with Asech tribes is arranged by the witches.

Year 442: Founding of Shirasai

Year 459: Marti Hok is born.

Year 464: Edged weapons are banned from Kendra-on-the-Delta.

Year 465: The Ban is upheld by the witches.

Year 468: The Ban extends to Shanan and Tezera.

Year 472: Sul and Minto Houses are admitted to the Council

Year 478: Arré Med is born.

Year 485: Paxe-no-Tamaris born

Year 489: Isak Med is born.

Year 501: Paxe gives birth to a daughter.

Year 503: Paxe gives birth to a second daughter.

Year 504: Plague in Kendra-on-the-Delta

Paxe's daughters die. Paxe goes to Tor's Rest.

Year 505: Plague continues. Shana Med dies. Arré Med becomes head of the Med house and a member of the Council.

Year 506: Paxe returns.

Year 508: Ricard is born.

Year 509-11: Arré and Paxe are lovers.

Year 512: Isak Med receives the shariza.

Paxe is named Yardmaster.

Year 513: Isak Med marries Myra-no-Ivrénia.

Year 514: Kadra-no-Ilézia is maimed by a fall.

Year 515: Arré brings Sorren to Kendra-on-the-Delta.

Year 520: Paxe and Sorren become lovers.

Year 522: THE NORTHERN GIRL

The choice of a Year 1 is arbitrary; no such dating system occurred in Arun. In the north, events were dated by the year of the local ruler's reign; in the south, the dating system varied from town to town and city to city. The scholars of the Black Clan maintained a separate dating system for their records, but this was of no use in day-to-day affairs, since the Black Clan considered such things secret, and guarded its records jealously.

In Kendra-on-the-Delta, a common system of dating began when the Council was formed. Shanan, Tezera, and Shirasai adopted the system established in Kendra-on-the-Delta. In the Galbareth and in the mountain villages, weather, local events, and the richness or poverty of the harvest distinguished one year from another.

The folk who came from Anhard to trade or settle adopted Arun's customs while they were within her borders. The Asech tribes did not, but since they kept no written records (preferring oral history which they could embellish), their methods of dating are irrelevant to this story.

About the Author

Elizabeth A. Lynn won two World Fantasy Awards in one year, for her novel Watchtower and the short story “The Woman Who Loved the Moon.” She is also the author of The Dancers of Arun, The Northern Girl, A Different Light, The Sardonyx Net, Dragon’s Winter, Dragon’s Treasure, and the short fiction collection The Woman Who Loved the Moon and Other Stories. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and teaches martial arts.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Watchtower copyright 1979 by Elizabeth A. Lynn

The Dancers of Arun copyright © 1979 by Elizabeth A. Lynn

The Northern Girl copyright © 1980 by Elizabeth A. Lynn

Cover design by Amanda Shaffer

ISBN: 978-1-5040-4891-0

This edition published in 2017 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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