sari; the same wind, beginning to end, touching them both in different ways.

"Serra Teresa," he said, knowing then that she was ensconced in a harem where the open sky did

not trouble her brow, "it would be my honor if you would choose to join me in the palace of the Imperial hostages."

"At the request of?"

"Marrana ATamalyn, of course." Men and women did not meet openly, and they did not meet

alone, when they were of a clan that ranked as high as Marano. But such was the way of people, great or small, that they found ways to meet that defied no rules, and broke all.

"I think," she replied, after a long moment, "that I would like that. But I think it unwise, Kallandras of Sen-niel, to meet under those auspices. I will be watching the ceremony from the Pavilion of the Moon, and after it is complete, and the dusk has given way to the Lady's dominion, I will retire to the Eastern temple. Meet me there, by the Fount of Contemplation."

It was not until after he was certain that she no longer listened that he laughed, thinking of the last fount, the last meeting beneath the face of the watching moon.

And then the laughter died abruptly as he thought about what she had-and had not-said. The Serra Teresa di'Marano was a woman of the clans before she was anything else; she would not betray her family, or her family's plan. But she had told him something, when she had decided to speak at all, although only when the music of her words had faded did he choose to understand it. He was being watched.

And if she knew, so intimately, the details of such a small meeting as his meeting with Marrana had been, then she was privy to the results of the surveillance itself, or some part of it.

Which told him much indeed.

Thank you, Serra, he said, but only to himself. This type of gift, by its very nature, demanded no recognition, allowed for no display of grat.i.tude.

"I do not understand," the Widan Sendari said-and the saying of those four words was no simple task for a man who wielded the Sword of Knowledge, "what your interest in this particular Northern minstrel is."

"No," Cortano replied quietly. "You do not."

The silence between them was the silence of struggle, common among the Widan, who disdained the more vulgar displays of conflict. Which was just as well; the open clash of the Sword of Knowledge was often deadly, and in a way that drew the unwanted attention of the clansmen.

At last, Cortano smiled thinly. "He is gifted, Sendari, in the way that the Northern minstrels sometimes are. He bears watching for this reason."

Sendari di'Marano was gracious enough to accept this concession for what it was; a peace offering-and a partial truth. More, he would not be trusted with; or so Cortano's neutral expression suggested. He did not know if the Sword's Edge was aware of the Serra Teresa's power; there should have been no chance whatever of that, but it seemed... odd that Cortano would ask Sendari to play the unwelcome part of spy at this time.

Or perhaps this was a test-another test. There had been so many of them, beneath Cortano's watchful eye.

"Very well," Sendari said quietly. "If you deem it necessary, he will be observed. But a question, Cortano, in return for the burden of the surveillance."

"Ask it."

"Is this at the behest of the Tyr'agar?"

The Sword's Edge smiled in a fashion that reminded Sendari, immediately, of his informal t.i.tle. "No." The finality of the single syllable stopped the questions that had already begun to follow. "And I have now told you more than I wished you to know. Give me no cause to regret it."

It was real.

The offer, its acceptance, its consequence.

She had known it, of course, from the moment the cerdan who bore her palanquin had crossed beneath the arched gate of the Tor Leonne proper. Had known it before that, when her father, stiff and gray as if he'd suffered a fatal wound, came to tell her how proud he was of the fact that his daughter, above all others in the Dominion, had been chosen worthy to wed the kai Leonne, his voice all the while carrying so much anger and apprehension that she thought even one untalented must be able to hear it.

And the arrival of the golden chains by which she might adorn herself, the sapphires and the emeralds, the rich, deep red of ruby and the sheen of opal-these, too, had made the reality of her future more solid.

It was as if each little detail had become one step in a path that led to the clan Leonne.

And the dress itself was the edge of the precipice. She saw it, as if from a great distance; saw it, as if it were a weighty stone that had been dropped into the center of a deep, still pool. Or of a deep, still harem. Her father's wives.

They could not believe the fall of the fabric itself, and long before Diora was allowed to stand- still and perfect upon a pedestal designed for dressmaking-the harem of Sendari di'Marano was a moving hush broken by little whispers and the awed gush of breath that knows the confinement of no words.

Illia spoke first, handling the garment with more care than she handled a babe. "I have never seen a dress so fine." It was true, but she spoke again, as if she knew the words were too meager for such a gift. "Look at the silk, Alana. Look at these-they're pearls. And here-" Silence again, as she lifted the hem of the dress to the light that came in from the open screens. That light was trapped by crystal, and cast against the walls and the mats of this most private room.

"Yes," the Serra Teresa said quietly, and they all turned at once at the sound of her voice. "They are diamonds from the Northern mines. A gift from the Imperial hostages to the woman who will one day be consort to the Tyr'agar himself."

Alana bowed, as did Illana; Illia dipped her body in a graceful bend at the waist, but she held the dress, and this was not so public an occasion that its safety was less important than her manners.

Only the Serra Fiona remained distant at the approach of the Serra Teresa.

"How do you know that they're real?" Illia asked, as much to break the uncomfortable silence as to satisfy her curiosity.

"I was there when Sendari grudgingly handed them, stone by stone, to the Radann kai el'Sol." Her smile was less than kind, but not less than perfect. "And the Radann kai el'Sol has Lambertan blood, even if he chose to forsake his clan's name to join the priesthood. Those stones are these stones." She crossed the room gracefully. "I am not certain which I prefer, the Northern glitter, or the Eastern pearl."

For the first time, the Serra Diora spoke. "You prefer the diamond," she said gravely, "because it is clear and hard and perfect; it will not break or crack with time, and in the light of the Lord's Sun, it shows its heart, and its heart is fire."

The Serra Teresa's dark brows rose in genuine surprise. "And you, Na'dio?"

"You tell me," she said.

"Na'dio." Alana's stern voice was not unlike the sound of a fist striking wood.

But the Serra Teresa seemed unperturbed by her niece's near sullen display. "You prefer the pearl, because it comes from the water, and its sheen is soft as silk; because each pearl comes from its sh.e.l.l, unique; because the pearl takes its sand and its salt and in the deep of a water that holds its mysteries from us, it makes a thing of beauty. You love the pearl because it is delicate."

"Yes."

"And that is the way of your blood, Diora di'Marano. That you love what is delicate. What you love, and what you are, these are different things. If you must chose what to be, learn from the diamond; the pearl will avail you nothing."

And then, to Diora's great surprise, the Serra Teresa bowed, as if in deep respect, and left the room. She did not wait to see the dress, or to see it fitted.

The General Alesso di'Marente did not trust the Sword of Knowledge. He trusted the Widan Sendari, but made of him an exception. Men who wielded the power of the mysteries were men who made of themselves daggers or blades-and at that, blades without hilts, without handles, things too dangerous to wield-and too tempting to permanently destroy.

They could not be tempted with lands and t.i.tles; not in the same way that true clansmen could. Their power, Sendari often said, was knowledge, and they bartered with it as if it were land. Or water. Or horses.

This was more true, he thought, of the Sword's Edge than it was of any other Widan.

But Alesso was curious. And because he was, he had accepted the offer extended him by Cortano di'Alexes, the man who, in Sendari's estimation, was the most powerful-and dangerous-of the Widan. To accept his offer, however, was a grueling affair. The sun was high, and hot, and there were no awnings beneath which a man might find shade in the open courtyard. There was also no fount, no water within easy reach, no cushions or mats upon which to rest.

There were no serafs in the courtyard, and the men who stood to either side of the open arch were armed only with the ruby-edged golden sword that marked them clearly as Widan. The man to the left was scarred by fire's hand, but the man to the right was as tall and proud as any warrior born; Alesso did not wish to try their temper-or his patience-by ignoring their decree.

And their decree was, ign.o.bly enough, that he must wait, without, like any common clansman. He waited, but his patience, such as it was, was completely destroyed by the exercise, and when at last the Widan Cortano di'Alexes emerged, in person, to greet him, he offered a brusque bow and no words at all.

Cortano raised a peppered brow. "It is... good of you to wait," he said, his expression completely neutral. "Yes," was the terse reply.

"I am about to make my rounds of the Tor Leonne, General. I would appreciate your company."

"You have it," Alesso said evenly, "for as long as your company interests me." Not an auspicious beginning.

But the sunlight in the harsh and austere courtyard gave way to the bower of trees meant to shield the inhabitants of the Tor from the sun's harsh heat, and as they approached the lake itself, a breeze blew across it, cool and fresh. The General won his war, and after a moment, sunlight glittering safely off the surface of rippling water, he spoke.

"We will, of course, be watched."

"Of course." The Widan shrugged. "But I know the Widan set to watch us, and I believe he will hear little enough of what is said."

"I see." Pause. "May I ask who that Widan is?"

"You may, but I will not answer. The ident.i.ty of a single capable Widan is not of concern to me today. Nor should it be of concern to you, General Alesso, unless what I have to say does not meet with your approval."

"A threat. How... unwise."

The Sword's Edge offered the General a rare smile. "I am seldom called unwise, General. It is almost amusing to hear the word and realize it is spoken to me." The smile dimmed. "Almost." He knelt, hiding his expression; his beard fell into the momentary lap his knees made as his hand reached for, and entered, the lake. He did not rise, however, but left his hand in the water as if it were a lily or an anchor.

"If you wished to wage war against the Empire," he said softly, "And I speak, of course, purely hypotheti-cally, what is the first step you would take?"

Alesso said nothing for a moment, thinking about the replies he could make. About the cost of those replies, if this conversation were, indeed, monitored by a Widan who reported to the Tyr'agar-or worse, by a Widan who might enable the Tyr'agar to listen. "I do not think," he said, distantly, "that I would wage war against the Empire."

"The clansmen desire it."

"The clansmen always desire it. For centuries, the demon Kings have ruled lands that are ours by right. For a decade now, they have ruled more, at great cost to us. But it was tried once. You must be aware of it, Cortano; you were a part of the failed mountain expedition."

"It was not a failure on our part," the Sword's Edge said, bridling as any clansman might. "But it was costly; the timing was poor. Many of the Widan perished in the crossing."

"And the Empire's mage-born scholars were a match for the Sword of Knowledge, battled-honed or no." An insult. A calculated insult.

The Sword's Edge kept his face turned toward a lake that moved just a little too much to reflect it. "True enough," he said at last, but coldly. "I ask you to think on this, then. If you were the Tyr'agar-if you could reach that high, and hold what you did reach-could you wage a war and win it?"

"I am not the Tyr'agar," Alesso said softly. "And I would not be one."

"Ah. Then I fear I have misjudged you. Of the three Generals, you were the only one that I felt had the steel necessary to replace the Leonne Tyr as ruler of the Dominion."

The silence that followed was the silence of shock; Alesso di'Marente held himself rigid a moment, his hand on the hilt of his half-drawn sword.

"You are not a child, General. Spoken blasphemy carries no weight unless it is heard, and the Lord of the Sun most certainly will not pluck the words and carry them to the waiting ear of his vengeful and petty Tyr." The Widan rose abruptly. "Do you think this is a test of loyalty? You are beyond those tests here. As am I. Markaso di'Leonne is a weak man, a weak Tyr; his bloodline has never been so diluted.

"Marente is not a strong clan. It would have been, under your rule."

"Enough. I've told you-I do not wish to be Tyr'agar." He paused, weighing his words, weighing the Widan's, coming up with no balance that could be easily read. At last, grudgingly, he said, "1 do not have the blood."

"You speak of the Sun Sword."

As it wasn't a question, Alesso did not trouble himself to answer. His hand did not leave his sword.

"Legend has it that the Sword itself will be true to the bloodline as long as the bloodline exists." It was Cor-tano's turn to pause, to weigh words; Alesso thought he saw the gathering of caution in the older man's face. Until he spoke. "But Leonne is a small clan. It has been harrowed by its own twice in the last three generations. It is not widespread, and the sons-there are few enough. Let us be plain, Alesso: If the clan is obliterated, the Sun Sword will take a new master."

"And you are certain of this?"

Cortano smiled softly. "The Widan specialize in the knowledge of the antiquities. I am as certain of this as I am of anything."

The sun across the water had never been so bright; the General covered his eyes and turned away from the lake. Then, slowly, his hand grew slack and fell to his side.

"It is not possible," he said. "We could take the Tor, with the right allies, but the strike would have to be quick and complete."

"It would have to be delivered without warning, yes."

"Let us speak then, in your precious hypotheticals. If we were to remove Leonne, the most likely outcome is that one of the Tyr'agnati would step in, after a brief and b.l.o.o.d.y war, to inherit the waters of Tor. I am not willing to risk the life I have for the benefit of another clan."

"No." Cortano shrugged. "And I am not willing to waste the life 1 have in the political machinations it would take to ensure your position over the waters. I will give you my support should you manage to secure that t.i.tle for yourself.

"But I have allies that would be interested in the ruler-ship of a military man, and it is for that reason alone that I have chosen to approach you. Of the three Generals, you are the only one who, in my opinion, has any chance at all of waging a successful war against the Empire.

"If you would agree to wage such a war, I am certain that they would provide you with the political aid you might require." And as he spoke these words, the Sword's Edge turned to face the General.

His eyes were as sharp and clear as blue diamonds, and as hard. "Make of this what you will, General Alesso di'Marente. But make your decision quickly."

"I will," the General replied, "make my decision in my own time. If I am to be Tyr'agar, I am to be a man who is not beholden to a Widan, be he Sword's Edge or designate."

Cortano nodded, expressionless.

The sun crept higher into a sky that was bounded by lake and mountain and endless blue, its light changing the shadows cast by two powerful men, alone, on the edge of the waters by which the ruler of the Dominion was known.

Sendari watched his daughter from the distance of years and a bitter fatigue. He knew her well enough to know that she was not happy-but happiness, as Alana was wont to say, was for children, and in a short time, the Serra Diora di'Marano would become the Serra Diora en'Leonne -the woman emerging from the child like a chrysalis. And what might he say to her then?

In the heat of the Emperal sun, he thought her fair and dark; the shape of her face reminded him, like a heart blow, of another face, on the verge of the same delicate balance between child and woman. Yet Alora had never seemed a child to him, no matter that she was sweet and joyful in her quiet, fierce way. He had seen, in his wife, the steel by which men were made great; it lay beneath the front of her heart, and it was unbreakable. But not, alas, invulnerable. Not immortal. Fiona did not come to him, and for this, he was glad. She did not relish the attention that was paid to Diora, and while she was happy enough to have his daughter finally leave the harem, she was obviously jealous of that daughter's destination. Women were such strange creatures, at times.

He found himself thinking this, while he, a man, was inexplicably drawn across the courtyard that separated him from the harem of wives made noisy by planning and apprehension, by the hope for joy and the fear of its failure.

He remembered his own wedding night; remembered the ceremony that was held before it. Blushed, to think of his daughter involved in such a human exercise. Froze, to think of what it might be, otherwise. She was not his to protect. The time for that had pa.s.sed.

The sun was sinking; this was the last day that Diora was to be di'Marano-his daughter, not the kai Leonne's wife. Did that not mean something? Did that not give him the right to be her father, this one last time? He opened his lips to speak, but the only word he could frame was a silent Na 'dio.

She looked up, met his eyes across the distance that he had closed, and was still closing, and bowed her head prettily. It was not what he desired. The moon was a madness that illuminated his thoughts, casting aside the heat of the blistering sun, the face of the warrior Lord.

He did not realize, until he came to stand before her, that he had come to her seeking, of all things, comfort. Did not realize how deep that need was until she spoke, and at that spoke a single, precious word. "Father."

Not a question. Not a plea. Not, he thought, a benediction. "Na'dio."

He opened his arms then, and in the light of the Lord's day, he held her tightly. She was restrained, well-trained; she held herself stiff a moment, but when he did not let go, she relaxed, returning his embrace as if she, and not he, were the parent who offered comfort.