"They lie buried beneath the dirt in a mound outside the Tor Leonne where any seraf can walk with impunity." She paused. "I heard rumors that serafs had, indeed, begun digging."

On another day, Serra Teresa would give a lecture on a true Serra's ability to rise above common rumor and gossip. "What oaths, Diora?" Serra Teresa whispered. "What oaths did you swear?"

Diora lifted a hand; three rings caught the light and sent it scattering as if it were dangerous. "They were private oaths, Serra; I took a vow upon it. I will not allow you to force me to break that vow." She turned her unblinking, defiant gaze upon the most dangerous woman in Annagar, and she waited.

Quiet reigned beneath the open sky. Then, gently, Serra Teresa took the samisen from her niece's lap. "Na'dio," she said, as she began to play the Water's song, "do not wear the rings upon your fingers."

Diora did not reply, but she folded her hands delicately in her lap.

"If you will allow me, we might make a chain for them, and if not a chain, we might braid them into your hair. But they are not fit for your station."

"I have no station."

"You are the daughter of Widan Sendari par di'Marano- and if he has his way, my dear, you will be Serra Diora Maria di 'Sendari."

The birth of a clan. Diora understood all then.

Serra Teresa caught Diora's hands, unsettling the samisen to do so.

But Diora was stone. She had to be.

"It is not a woman's world, Diora. Do not seek to play a man's game in it."

"Yes, Ona Teresa."

A lone Serra sat unattended in the Pavilion of the Dawn beneath a sky of dusk and coming shadow. If serafs attended her at all, they were hidden in the confines of the pavilion, that they might not be an unnecessary distraction. The woman's dark hair caught the fading sun's light, as did the sheen of her silks. Her hands were smooth and unadorned-almost a child's, they seemed so soft and perfect.

Yet it was not the sight of her which had drawn General Alesso from his steps across the breadth of the Tor Leonne; no, it was the song which she pulled from the mournful strings of the samisen that lay perfectly balanced in her lap. Such a voice as she sang with, Alesso had never heard, and he felt, with each word, each syllable, that he was the gong being struck, and struck again.

The serafs at his back knelt noisily against the gra.s.s and dirt, bowing their heads at the heels of his boots. They even started to speak, to ask him what he desired, but they were well-enough trained to fall silent immediately at his gesture-which was good as he did not feel the desire to replace them.

Minutes he stood thus, listening, straining in dusk's light to see enough of the young woman's face to know her. Then, at last, he turned to the serafs who groveled beneath him. "That Serra," he asked softly, "who is she?"

Silence, and then a young woman raised her forehead. "It is-it is the Serra Diora en- di'Marano." She swallowed, but the General had already returned to his contemplation of the sweetest song in the Tor-perhaps in the Dominion itself.

When at last-almost an hour later-the music faded for the final time, the stars were gathered brightly above in a deep, clear sky.

So it was that General Alesso heard for the first time the song of Serra Diora, and he came away with a profound and uneasy understanding of why she was called the Flower of the Dominion. He did not speak of her song, but he did not forget it. He would never forget it.

The Widan Sendari rose to greet Serra Teresa, leaving behind his serafs, his attendant wife, and his work.

"Serra Teresa," he said, catching both of her hands in his and pressing them tightly. "It was good of you to come so quickly at my summons."

Serra Teresa curtsied deeply and perfectly, bending at the knees as if this simple movement were an art. "Our brother has graciously allowed me to pa.s.s from the capital to aid you in a most trying time."

"He has, has he?" The Widan's bark of laughter was short and sharp. "Ah, well. Adano will have Marano; he is kai, after all; I am par. Will he have you, Serra Teresa?"

"That is a matter," Serra Teresa replied quietly and meekly, "for the Sers of the clan to decide. I will, of course, abide by their decision."

"Of course." Sendari's face darkened a moment. "Fiona, take the serafs and leave us for a moment. I will join you in your chambers."

The young wife made haste to bow, not so much out of fear for her husband's displeasure, but out of fear for Serra Teresa's disapproval. For Serra Teresa embodied the art of the feminine graces, enough so that she recognized instantly where they were lacking.

Serra Teresa stood in compliant silence while the room was made, by each departure, a more secluded, a more private, s.p.a.ce. Food and wine were left behind by the serafs who were most accustomed to dealing with the Widan's requests, but the screens were pulled fast, and oils were left in full lamps, in case the darkness came unexpectedly upon the two.

"Sit, Teresa," Sendari said. "Sit and tell me the news."

"As I said, Adano was willing to part with me for the moment. But he was only barely willing; things have become... difficult." She paused, then reached out for the delicate stem of a silver goblet. "Sendari?"

"Not for the moment, Teresa. What do you mean, difficult?"

She took a breath, and let it out at once. "News has traveled, Sendari. If you will forgive me, I must be blunt. Tyr'agnate Mareo kai di'Lamberto will not be attending the Festival of the Sun, as previously planned. Nor, I believe, will Tyr'agnate Ramiro kai di'Callesta."

"They must have been turned back on the roads," the Widan said softly.

"They were, as you know, already in transit with most of their court. Turning back was difficult, and rumor has it that it was not done without some cost and some... fear." Very, very few were the Tyr'agnati, in the history of the Dominion of Annagar, who had refused the trek to the Tor Leonne-or the Tor Paravo before it-for the Festival of the Sun. Not and survived. "Impossible."

Serra Teresa nodded her head in acquiescence to the wisdom of the Widan. "As you say, Widan Sendari."

"Teresa, do not play these games with me. Not now."

"Very well, Sendari-but remember, it is at your command."

His smile was bitter indeed.

"I know the truth of di'Lamberto's refusal because 1 was there. Both I, and Adano, had gratefully accepted the request to accompany Mareo di'Lamberto as part of his court at the Festival of the Sun. We were on the road. We turned back." She paused. "Ramiro di'Callesta is far more cunning, and it may be that he will absorb this news and seek power in the Tor Leonne-but I fear that he may well feel that power, if it is here, will be his to lose, not to gain. He was not, after all, offered prior warning."

Sendari's face went completely slack as he stared into the surface of the sweet, dark wine, seeing perhaps a reflection, perhaps a crimson spill. "We expected some news to escape," he said at last. "The slaughter of a clan-even one so small and self-contained as Leonne- does not pa.s.s without comment."

"It is not just news of the Tyr's death, nor even the death of his kai. It is not of the slaughter of his children, nor even the slaughter of their wives, and their children." Widan Sendari said nothing, but when Serra Teresa wordlessly offered him the goblet again, he accepted it. "More than that," he said softly. "No one has left the grounds. No seraf, no cerdan-and no member of any of the clans. No message was delivered by magic; the Sword's Edge himself made it impossible with the aid of his allies." His eyes became cold points, and his voice was sharp but completely even. Thus did a Widan gird for battle. "What news was carried?"

"The news that the Tyran betrayed their Tyr at the behest of General Alesso."

That news. To di'Lamberto-a clan known for its love of, its loyalty to, honor. Mareo di'Lamberto was not a political creature-in fact, if he'd been a man with lesser territory and a smaller army, he might have been called a fool. He would, without thought, turn back in disgust, Festival or no. Consequences or no. "No more?"

"It was enough." She paused. "And Adano is still alive."

If Adano was alive, no mention of the treachery of clan di'Marano had pa.s.sed through the Tor. Sendari rose, the lines of his face hardening further into anger. "Baredan," he said icily. "General Baredan di'Navarre."

"I believe that it was, indeed, the General," Serra Teresa said. "Of the three, he has always been the eagle."

"Where was he traveling?"

"To Averda, although that is only a guess."

"Then you do not know for certain of Ramiro's refusal?"

She did not dignify the question with a response. The moment stretched, and when it was broken, it was broken by the Widan.

"Thank you, Serra," he told her quietly. It was a dismissal, but it did not anger her; she knew where he was going-and why.

But she was Serra Teresa. "Widan," she said, as he reached the screen. He paused, unused to interruption of any sort, from anyone, be they man, woman, or seraf.

"Yes, Serra Teresa?"

"She is Alora's daughter. In every respect."

His brows gathered a moment before it became clear to him who she spoke of. Diora.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

st of Morel, 427 AA Essalieyan, Avantari, the Palace of the Twin Kings.

Midnight.

The moon, full, hovered above the bay with a clear and watchful eye. Sea salt was in the air, carried by a breeze both high and warm through the streets of Averalaan Ara-marelas. The stars were glittering, the sky clear; there was no sign of thunderstorm across the perfect horizon.

Yet it was the lightning strike that woke Valedan di'Leonne as he lay sleeping in the open s.p.a.ces of the Arannan Halls. Something heavy fell across his legs and convulsed there, writhing. A man.

A dead man.

He woke with a cry, or he would have-the shock was so complete he could force no breath from his lips. Instead, he threw himself off his sleeping cushions, pulling his legs and thighs out from beneath whatever- whoever-it was that had fallen so heavily.

"Valedan," a voice said in the darkness. "Do not move."

He didn't recognize the speaker, and he could not have said why, later, he felt compelled to obey her-but he did as she commanded, locking his knees rigidly to stop their shaking. A ring of pale orange light, an inch wider than his feet on all sides, appeared across the ground.

Fire consumed the cushions that had been his sleep's comfort for the last eight months as the dead man rose, limned in red, red light.

Valedan found his voice.

The creature's lidless eyes flickered over Valedan a moment as the young man stood frozen ten feet away. But when he spoke, it was not to the boy. It was to the shadows.

"Do not interfere in what is not your concern, and you may be spared."

"And are the half-named kin to decide what is, and what is not, my concern?"

Fire flared, the heat almost scorching. Valedan crossed his forearms in front of his face as the intensity almost forced him back. But he did not move. He did not lift his feet. Because he knew, without knowing how, that to lift his feet was to die here, consumed by flames as hot as, or hotter than this. Having seen the cushions, he had no illusions whatever about how long he would last.

"You know the kin," the creature said, as the last of its human seeming melted away. Great wings unfurled, uncomfortable beneath the ten-foot ceilings; long, obsidian arms glittered in the unnatural light of fire. Horns, black as pitch, and pale, long teeth filled out the contours of its face. The creature gestured for light, and it came; the room was harshly illuminated.

"Yes." Bereft of shadows, a small figure in robes the color of midnight nodded her hooded head.

"Then know this. You will not be killed by half-named kin. Be honored."

The woman lifted her hands to her face and pulled the folds of her hood down. Her hair was dark, and her skin very pale; her eyes were an unnatural shade that glittered no less dangerously than the demon's teeth. "I will not," she said gravely, "do you the honor of dying. Please forgive my manners."

Almost casually, the creature bent down and lifted a slab of rock with one crooked talon. Shattered bits of stone scattered across the floor as he gingerly balanced it a moment in the flat of his hand. It was half a good man's height and width.

Lightning struck again, and this time Valedan could see the source of it clearly: the hands of the robed woman. He began to murmur a prayer to the Lady; it was the Lord's time soon, but it did no harm to whisper Her name in the darkness. Valedan had no more time to react; the stone shattered, as if it were gla.s.s or crystal. Sharp shards of rock flew in all directions. Not a single one of them hit.

"Very good," the creature said, its voice growing deeper and heavier by the word. "If I had the time to play, little human, I would take it. But duty calls." He turned, pivoting neatly on feet that should have been far too large for such a delicate maneuver, and sent a stream of liquid fire from his fingertips. To Valedan. Lady, he thought, numb.

But the fire split, pa.s.sing around him in a narrow, narrow circle-a circle that gleamed momentarily orange in the bright light. Where the fire struck rock, rock melted. Valedan had never seen such a working as this, although he had met mages and the barely remembered Widan in his time.

The woman was chanting softly. "I am impressed."

"It's easy to impress a demon," another voice said, coming out of nowhere. "They're such arrogant creatures they expect so little."

Ebony muscles caught rivulets of fire as the creature pivoted again, moving almost faster than the eye.

But not faster than the blade that left the hand of the slender, blond man who stood in the arch of the open window, insect net in pieces in his left hand.

The death roar of the demon literally shook the halls- more so because, until the creature tried to remove the blade from his chest and failed, it did not realize that it was a death roar. But blue-andgold light lanced up wherever the haft or the blade of the knife came in contact with ebony flesh, and in the end, the fire that had been its mantle was guttered.

Only when the last of the twitching had pa.s.sed did the woman look up to meet the eyes of the fair-haired man. "You took your time."

"It is not so easy as all that to steal weapons from the Astari on a moment's notice," the man replied coolly. "You might have come to me sooner."

"If I had the choice," she said pertly, turning to face Valedan, "I'm not certain I would ever come to you at all." Then she gave a low bow. "I don't believe you've met me before, Valedan di'Leonne. But I know of you. I am Evayne a'Nolan, and in return for this eve's work, I ask a favor."

He owed her his life. And because he was young, he said, "Anything."

But the man in darker clothing removed the ties that bound his hair so tightly, freeing coiling strands of gold and silver. Only then did Valedan recognize him: Kallan-dras of Senniel, the favored bard in Queen Siodonay's court. "Be careful what you promise her," he told Valedan softly. "She will collect without mercy."

st of Morel, 427 AA Annagar, The Tor Leonne Widan Sendari di'Marano was not pleased; that much was clear by the tight set of his lips. If one was not familiar with him, one might be able to lose sight of it in the length of dark beard, the dignity of the Sword of Knowledge.

General Alesso di'Marente had known the Widan for almost twenty years; he could not ignore the slight furrows in brow and the corners of dark eyes. "Widan Sendari?"

"General di'Marente." The Widan bowed formally- too formally. "I request a private audience."

"I see." Turning, the General spoke two words. Serafs and cerdan alike vanished behind the screens as if they were mice. "This is important." It was not a question. "Yes. And private."

"Sendari-" The word, terse, was cut off by a tightening of lips identical to the Widan's. "Very well." With a curt wave, the four Tyran who stood at the corners of the room were also dismissed. They sheathed their weapons in perfect unison, and bowed to the man at the room's center.

Silence held a moment as Alesso di'Marente rose to greet his ally. "Speak," he said, his voice low with warning.

"It might interest you to know that Lamberto-and possibly Callesta-will not be attending the Festival of the Sun at the Tor Leonne this year."

The expression upon the General's face became guarded. "What do you mean?"