Stewards agonized over planning twelve days of feasting for two thousand guests, and appropriate largess for the population of Capharna and surrounding villages, lest they starve when everything was appropriated for palace use. Herds of goats, sheep, pigs, and cattle, and flocks of every kind of fowl had been imported, along with enough fodder to fatten them over the winter months.

Tailors and seamstresses had been working on robes and gowns for a year or more. Aleksander was fitted for a robe studded with pearls enough to ransom all of Ezzaria, and I saw the designs for a diamond neck piece that would crush a smaller man with its weight.

Yet even with all the year's preparation, the palace was in frenzy. The Emperor's rooms must be painted and refitted, the guest quarters freshened, and accommodations found for those guests who could not fit even in so expansive a hostel as the Derzhi Summer Palace.

Gifts arrived from everywhere: jewels, statuary, boxes of ivory and jade, finely wrought knives, swords, and bows, jeweled headpieces and mail shirts, horses, fighting c.o.c.ks, perfumes, exotic birds. Though still protesting that he had no belief in sorcery, the Prince had me examine every one of them for enchantments. Since my "cure" of his bedroom malady, he seemed to have confidence in my advising. I found nothing, but as no further disturbances occurred, he seemed to think I was doing a good job.

Much as I wished it, I could not forget about the demon.

The Khelid had left Capharna for a visit to Pamifour, but he was due to return for the dakrah feast. Though I told myself not to worry about it-a mountain could fall on him or an earthquake open the earth to swallow him-my bones told me otherwise. We had not seen the last of him.

As if there weren't enough complications to the whole matter of the dakrah, Aleksander decided that he needed a new sword to carry on the anointing day. Though the gift swords were elaborately decorated and enormously expensive, none of them was the excellent weapon the Prince fancied proper for an Emperor-to-be of a warrior race.

"Demyon of Avenkhar forged my last blade," he said to some friends one morning in his chambers. "He's the finest swordsmith in the Empire."

"Why not have Demyon make you another?" asked Nevari, slurping loudly at a gla.s.s of wine. Lord Nevari was the squint-eyed dandy who had been with Aleksander and Vanye at the slave auction. He always looked as if he had just sniffed a dead body.

Aleksander was watching me unpack a crate of amethyst-encrusted gold goblets, but nothing grabbed his attention like idiotic suggestions. "Are you an entire imbecile, Nevari? There are only three weeks until the ceremony, and it would take Demyon most of that time to make a decent sword. He swears that no other forge will work a blade as does his own. He could hardly come here to fit it to my hand and go back to finish it, nor could I go there and try it, and still get back here in time."

"Couldn't you send the order by messenger bird? I ordered this sword from Zhagad, and was quite pleased with the result. I saw no need to be there while they were making it." He pulled out a thick bronze weapon with a hilt so ornately wrought, so encrusted with jewels, and so immensely heavy it would have made a far better bludgeon.

Aleksander rolled his eyes at the other three young men in the room and thumped a finger on Nevari's slightly flat head. "Your sword is a wh.o.r.e's bauble, Nevari. How did you ever earn your warrior's braid? Did your father hire mercenaries to set up a battle for you? Ahh! I see, I've guessed it!"

"Certainly not!" spluttered the young man clad in pink satin, his face the very color of his tunic. His companions covered their mouths to hide their smirking.

"Learn from me, if your head can comprehend it. No true warrior could carry a blade not made to fit his hand and balanced to suit his style and pleasure.

Not all of us are satisfied with swords so heavy they drag the ground."

The dim young man held his ridiculous weapon high where the candlelight caught it, and wrinkled his brow seriously at the sparkling toy. "But it looks well, don't you think, Aleksander? How can you bear such plain work as you carry? Yours might be the sword of a drudge soldier. An Emperor's sword should be even finer than mine."

But Aleksander wasn't listening to Nevari. He was staring down at his scabbard, discarded on a round, marble-topped table. Suddenly he whirled about. "Seyonne!"

I set down my work and bowed. "My lord?"

"Has there been any word from my uncle?"

"No, my lord. Not since the last from Zhagad." That was the three-line message in which the old man had submitted to Aleksander's scheme to keep him away from Capharna for the Dar Heged.

Your Highness, Your word is my command. The Lady Lydia will be provided for. I will see you in Capharna, when my duty is done in Avenkhar.

Dmitri Aleksander had taken no pleasure from that note, and no triumph. "We'll mend," he had said to himself after hearing it. "We'll mend."

"Dmitri has surely gone to Avenkhar by now. He knows every strength and weakness of my hand, and exactly what design suits me best. Who better to judge Demyon's work than the finest swordsman ever to carry a blade? It will only delay his return a bit longer. If he comes by the Jybbar Pa.s.s, he'll be here well before the ceremonies begin."

I was immediately set to writing at the cherry wood desk.

Dmitri, As you are yet annoyed with me, I might as well get your blood boiling one more time. It will keep you warm as you come over the Jybbar to Capharna.

I've decided on a new sword for the dakrah. You will command Dem-yon to drop everything he's doing to make a sword fit for his Crown Prince-a warrior's blade, not some ceremonial toy. The finished blade should be two mezzits longer than the last one he made for me, as you and I discussed last summer, but I expect the balance and the edge to be just as perfect. As for the hilt, Demyon knows my taste. I require only that it bear the graven device of the Derzhi lion and the falcon of our House. I trust you to judge it fit, Uncle, and to bring it in all haste from Avenkhar for the opening of the dakrah. Send me word that you will see to this commission.

Zander The Prince had me post the letter via messenger bird to Avenkhar, then he fussed and fidgeted for four days until a message came in reply.

Your Highness, Your sword will be satisfactory. The Lady Lydia is on her way. Three weeks and I will be in Capharna. Dmitri.

Aleksander shook his head at the message. "I suppose I must be ready for your thrashing, likai," he said. Then, with an unaccustomed wistfulness, he added, "Why is your head so hard?"

Likai. That explained a great deal about Aleksander and Dmitri. A likai was a Derzhi warrior's tutor, the master of his apprenticeship in the art of war.

Though it was unusual for a likai to be a relative, I should have guessed it. Ivan would not have allowed his son's training to be handled by just anyone. What was more unusual was that they had apparently come out of it without being mortal enemies. A good likai was a hard taskmaster-and I surmised that Dmitri was good at it. Inevitably these thoughts of mentors and students led me back to Llyr, and I returned to my work cursing all Derzhi.

The only preparation for the dakrah Aleksander found amusing was hiring entertainers. Five householders were given the duty of designing entertainments for every day and night of the celebration, and there was a constant flow of musicians and dancers, jugglers and magicians streaming into Capharna, vying for the lucrative contracts. The householders would screen the applicants, then send any who seemed likely to the Prince for final judgment. The Prince was, of course, not at all shy about expressing his preferences.

"You sound like screeching geese."

"Your mewling makes me vomit."

"You are an offense to Athos. Isn't there some G.o.d of music to throttle this woman?"

One after another the unsatisfactory aspirants slunk away. The Prince told a Basranni lore master that she could not show her face in Capharna or Zhagad for ten years. He kicked a dark-skinned Hollenni singer in the backside, just as the man reached an emotional crescendo. The singer's eyes popped open and the poor man almost swallowed his tongue.

"Seyonne, write a proclamation that Hollenni are not permitted to sing Derzhi love songs. Their s...o...b..ring sentiment degrades our traditions."

I wanted to tell him that perhaps the emotion had something to do with the fact that Hollenni couples were pledged at birth and never had an opportunity to challenge their tribal matchmaker's choice. When Hollenni sang of unre- quited love and the sorrows of impossible joining, they knew what they were talking about. But I refrained.

At the end of the long day of unsatisfactory auditions, a lute player tw.a.n.ged an off-key string in the middle of an otherwise decent performance.

Aleksander leaped from his chair, grabbed the instrument, and smashed it over the unlucky musician's head. The devastated man fled from the palace music room weeping.

"Well, what are you looking at?" The Prince caught me before I could drop my eyes.

"I'm looking at nothing, my lord."

"You see? Again, you're not saying what's truly in your mind. This past fortnight it's been worse than ever. What are you brooding about?"

"I think of nothing but doing your will, Your Highness."

"There. Clearly a lie. Tell me the truth or I'll have you flogged. It's been too long since you've had a lash, so you'd best make me believe you. You're useful, but not indispensable."

I was sitting on a high stool at a clerk's desk, staring down at my bony, ink- stained fingers that had once held a Luthen mirror, and such a great weariness overcame me that I could not retreat behind my usual barricades of words.

"I was thinking that the lute player's family is going to starve, because his instrument, which is his livelihood, is now destroyed."

"Ah, he probably has a bag of gold sewn into his cloak. Or does your Ezzarian magic tell you other?"

"No, my lord. It is only my eyes tell me. He is Thrid and therefore he has traveled a month to get here and must travel a month to get home, yet he has holes in the soles of his shoes. The five tattoos on his left arm tell me he has five children, yet he wears no ivory. A Thrid who has sold his last ivory talisman has no legacy for his children. Therefore he has nothing and his family will starve, for what merchant or farmer will have mercy on a Thrid, who are hated and despised by every race?" I let far too much bitterness leak out with my words.

"What's the matter with you today, Seyonne? What care have you for a Thrid?

He has no slave rings. Thrid soldiers were in the vanguard when we took Ezzaria."

I believed I had controlled my anger about Llyr's death. But after the endless day watching Aleksander's boorish behavior, I could not check my tongue when he goaded me.

"He is a living, breathing being, my lord. He has hands and voice to do you honor, and a soul to worship his G.o.ds and bring good into the world. You have destroyed him because you are bored."

"How dare you speak to me thus?"

It was one of the most difficult battles I had ever fought to abandon my stool, force myself to my knees, and will my tongue to obey. "I do only as you command, my lord." I was shaking in rage. Never had I been so close to losing control of myself, and from the corner of one eye, I saw Aleksander's fist clench and jerk, ready to lay me flat. I prayed for him to do it before I made matters worse. But all he said was, "Get out. And bring a civil tongue tomorrow or you'll have no hands with which to write."

All that evening as I worked at Fendular's drudgery, I d.a.m.ned myself for a fool. Stupid. Stupid to let him goad you into words from your heart. If you once let a trickle past the dam, how long will it be until you loose the flood?

I hoped the Prince would forget the incident. He was quick in his humors.

Quick to anger. Quick to strike. Quick to forget. I thought of him as a dangerous child, and had come to believe it was the source of his deepest difficulties with people. He could not understand long-standing or deep-held grievances, and found any reminder of them irritating or insulting. He truly believed that the Mezzrahn lords would love him again and send their sons to be his n.o.ble attendants and warrior companions. Indeed those who had suffered from his violent and thoughtless tempers or his childish, humiliating insults put on the face required before the man who would one day control their destiny. But I saw their expressions when Aleksander was not looking, and I did not believe they forgot.

Unfortunately, Aleksander did not forget my rash words. On the next morning I sat again at my high writing stool in the vast cavern of the gilded music room. The giant open hearth in the middle of the room was producing very little heat, and the Prince slouched in his cushioned chair beside it, staring at me sourly while he listened to more aspiring entertainers. For an hour nothing would please him. But as the day progressed, three performers were fortunate. The first played the mellanghar, the low-droning pipes of the Derzhi, in such fashion that he could have had the giant stone lions of Zhagad fawning at his feet. A lissome, sloe-eyed Manga-nar dancer merited not only a contract, but also an escort into the living quarters of the palace, where I had no doubt she would be made other unrefusable offers on the Prince's behalf.

Also approved was a storyteller who made the well-lit, chilly room seem dark and hot with a tale of a warrior venturing Druya the bull G.o.d's cave.

But about midday a skinny Thrid juggler, performing a daring trick, missed a catch and came near bashing Aleksander in the head with a large wooden ball.

It was not a good week for Thrid. The lanky, hollow-cheeked young man prostrated himself in abject terror. When the roaring Prince picked up the man's bag of implements and aimed it at the hearth fire, I quickly averted my face. Aleksander must have changed his mind then, for the heavy bag nearly knocked me off my stool.

"Hie, Thrid," said Aleksander, poking at the man with his foot. "Up with you and show me the soles of your boots."

The poor, gaping fellow could scarcely stand for his knees knocking together so wildly.

"Hmm. No holes. And show me your left arm. One child. And three of your ivory baubles about your neck. What say, Seyonne? May I thrash him without your disapproval?"

"You may do as you please as always and forever, Your Highness. Your will is sacred to all who live in the sunlight of the Derzhi Empire." I stared at the blank paper on my writing desk as I recited the required words.

"Begone, Thrid, and learn your trade before you appear before your prince.

Lucky for you someone else offends me more than you."

I've seen few men move faster than did the Thrid juggler. He didn't even take his bag.

I held my hands close to my chest as if I could protect them from Aleksander's wrath. It gave me great satisfaction that they were not trembling when he pulled one away from me and examined it.

"Flogging would not change your thoughts, would it, Ez-zarian? Nor even if I made good my threat and cut this hand from your body? And do not dare give me your, 'You may do as you please, my lord.'"

"Such a punishment would not make me other than I am," I said, "unless I went mad from it, which is a likely result. But then, of course, I could be of no use to you."

"Can I believe a woman-ruled barbarian has no fear of my knife?" He pulled the aforementioned weapon and drew its tip across my wrist, leaving a thin thread of blood welling from the taut skin.

What made me decide to tell him the truth? Perhaps I had given up. Perhaps Llyr had left me in such despair I could no longer reason. Perhaps I had not the boy's courage to put a knife in my belly, and so I would force Aleksander to do it forme.

I looked directly into his face. "I am indeed afraid, Your Highness. Every moment of my existence carries such a burden of terror you could not imagine it. I fear I have no soul. I fear there are no G.o.ds. I fear there is no meaning to the pain I have known. I fear I have lost the capacity to love another human being or ever to see goodness in one. Among such fears as these, my lord, there is little room for you."

There was no one near us. The room was quite large and the householders were cowering by the doors awaiting a signal that they should send in another candidate.

"I can make you fear me," said Aleksander, with the quiet, deadly calm I had only seen once before-as he planned Lord Sierge's execution.

"No, my Lord. You cannot."

I felt the searing heat of his wrath as plainly as if the sun had fallen from the sky onto my head. And because I thought the end had come, and I wished to look upon the soul of my executioner, I shifted my senses and searched deep in the amber eyes ... and found something I had never expected to find.

A glint of silver, shimmering in the silence. . . a frosty moment of heart- stopping clarity . . . a thousand possible outcomes and one ... Oh, G.o.ds have mercy, so brilliant was the light, my inner sight grew dim, blinded by its glory.

Impossible! Not a Derzhi! Not one who had likely slain hundreds of men and women incapable of doing him harm, hundreds more who had committed no offense but standing between him and the object of his desires. Not the representative of everything I detested about the world. How could the G.o.ds play so vile a joke? I had lost my skill. It had been too long. My extra senses were not fed with melydda, nor had I ever been a Seer. It was as if I had discovered that somewhere in the bowels of a rotting, maggot-infested corpse lay a pearl of perfection that would ransom the world.

I groaned aloud in desperate denial. I jammed the heels of my hands into my eyes, but the blaze of light was still burned into my vision, like the afterimage when you glance into the sun.

"What in the name of Athos is wrong with you?"

His irritation scarcely penetrated the peripheries of my other senses. The senses that could show me the traces of demons. The same senses that could show me the feadnach, the mark that revealed a soul of destiny, a soul of possibility, raw material that could be cut and shaped by time and fate into something of magnificence ... a soul that must be preserved at the cost of my life. My slave's chains were as nothing to this new-forged tether that bound me to Aleksander, for in the moment I discovered the luminous possibilities hidden in his depths, I exposed the irrefusable burden hidden in my own. My Warden's oath. For so long I had believed it buried in the rain that was my soul, just another sc.r.a.p in the rabble of honor and dignity, love and friendship and purpose. But that moment of my seeing was like the sweep of a giant's hand, removing the debris to reveal that the foundation still held. My oath was the core of my being, the single principle I would not compromise, the point of honor I could never yield. It committed me to do everything in my power to frustrate the purposes of demons, and it demanded that I do everything in my power to protect and nurture those who carried the feadnach-to protect and nurture Aleksander, Prince of the Derzhi.

Chapter II.

"What's wrong with you? You look as if I've already killed you. Is it some enchantment?"

"Enchantment. . . yes . . . makes me talk wildly ... nightmares ..." I wanted to scream. To weep. To strangle someone. Curse my infernal pride. Why had I been so bent on taking his full measure? Only one trained to read souls as I had been could see the feadnach-perhaps one in a thousand even among my own people. I waved my hands before my face as if to clear away a tangle of cobwebs. "My lord, forgive anything untoward I may have said in these past days. I was seeking enchantments ... to protect you ... and this is a very complex working ... and only now ... only now have I come to my senses."

"Curse your lying tongue!" He grabbed my shoulders and shook me until my bones rattled, as if truth would fall out of my mouth and bounce onto the floor at his feet.

Perhaps he was not going to kill me, but I was saved from finding out by a shout from across the room.

"Your Highness! News! Ill news!" Mikael, the gaunt palace guard captain, was running toward us, his footsteps ringing on the sand-red tiles. A disheveled man followed him, more slowly, but with true urgency in his weary steps.

"Your Highness, a thousand pardons for the interruption," said the tall soldier, flicking a curious glance my way. "But we knew you would wish to hear Hugert's tale immediately." He gestured toward the messenger.

The grizzled man, whose padded layers of wool and leather were stained and worn, genuflected heavily and began a harrowing tale of a town ravaged and set afire by a party of bandits.

What citizens survived were left freezing and without food in the dreadful weather.

I stepped away from Aleksander and began to pack my writing materials into their case. My hands, so steady in my mad confrontation with the Prince, were shaking so fiercely I could scarcely stopper the ink. I could not fathom what I was to do. How could I protect one who would likely kill me once he had a moment to do it? How could I nurture one who owned me, who considered me of no more value than a chair or a footstool? It was absurd. No oath could compel the impossible. I wrenched my mind from my madness and commanded it to stay on my task and nothing else.

Just go. Just do. What comes, comes. You will survive it or not.

But my well-worn chant did not work. It was no longer just about me. The instant of my seeing had crumbled my isolation as quickly and effectively as the Derzhi had overrun Ezzaria.

"Prince Aleksander, I demand an explanation!"