"So you did." Ramiro's smile was an odd one. "As did I. We were both younger men then. We found our glory." He fell silent again, as he watched the valley below. Serafs toiled in the fields, digging and weeding; here and there, children pushed their way against the tide of stalks that towered over their heads, bending them wayward in their wake. "I do not want a war," Ramiro said at last. "I do not expect you to understand why."

Baredan froze under the heat of the rising sun. "If I do as you desire, you will take a small cadre of my men-my Tyran-and you will ride in haste and speed to the court of the Imperial Kings, holding a writ with my seal and my guarantee."

The General said nothing. He had made no formal request, but he acknowledged, by his silence, the perception of the Tyr'agnate.

"In the court, if all is as you hope, you will find the lone member of the Leonne clan still alive. And what will you have when you find him?" Ramiro turned from the fields below to face Baredan di'Navarre. "You will have the son of a concubine, raised to full clan status solely as a sop to the foreigners' idea of acceptable hostages. He will be no more than seventeen turnings, and over half of them will have been spent in the courts of the foreign Kings." His gaze was intent and unblinking. "And what will you do with such a boy?"

"He is less than one year off his manhood," Baredan replied through clenched teeth.

"Or many. He was not raised in the Dominion. Or are you naive enough to expect blood to run true?"

"If you are not inclined to aid me, then I ask that you do not impede."

"Which is why you came to Averda instead of pa.s.sing through Mancorvo."

"The Mancorvan border is almost impa.s.sable; you know that as well as I."

"Yes," Ramiro di'Callesta replied. "Or better." There was anger in the two words, but they did not rise to the surface. Old wounds, between these two Tyrs. "But you have not answered my question, Baredan-and I will not answer all of my questions for myself. If you find the boy, what will you do?"

"We don't even know if he's still alive," Baredan said softly.

"Not an answer, but I will tell you this: The boy, as of a threeday of hard riding, is still alive." Ramiro's smile was sharp as a knife's edge. "Although word is slow to escape the Tor Leonne, we have managed to ascertain one important fact: Alesso di'Marente has not dared to touch the Sun Sword." The smile was gone as quickly as it had come. "The boy?"

But Baredan was silent a moment as the full import of the Tyr's words took root. He had not thought to know the full truth one way or the other until he reached the foreign court. Hope caught in his throat a moment; he forced it down, down. Care was needed here. "I will carry word of the ma.s.sacre to Ser Valedan kai di'Leonne. By the law of " the Lord of the Sun, he is the Tyr. If he wills it, I will join his cause, and we will return to the Dominion."

"The army is Alesso's."

Baredan grimaced, but shrugged. "He does not control the whole of the army."

"The first and the second," Ramiro replied grimly. "The third was scattered across the Dominion on fool's errands. Those that cannot be turned will be easy fodder for the rest."

"It is not so easy to break an army as that. They were my men, and they will remain so."

At that, a brief, sharp smile touched the Tyr's lips. "Very well. So you think to stand against Alesso di'Marente with some part of the third?"

"Averda and Mancorvo have their cerdan."

Ramiro of Averda raised a peppered brow, and then, of all things, laughed. The wind carried the sound of his voice to the valley below where one or two of the serafs looked up, shielding their eyes against the rays of the rising sun. Seeing only two lone men, they went back to their travails without the proper obeisances.

"It may have escaped your attention, kai di'Navarre, but the cerdan of Averda and Mancorvo spend much of their time fighting each other. How do you propose to put two such men as Mareo and I upon the same side? I tell you now, he will not bend." The mirth was slow to fade, but when it did, it was gone. "No, the time has come for truth, and I will have it.

"What do you intend, Baredan?"

Say it, the General thought, staring into the valley as the wind whispered through the tall stalks below. He already knows. But he found it hard; he had not yet spoken the words aloud, and they were tainted everywhere with the feel of treason, of treachery.

No. The treachery was not his alone; the Lord's laws were clear. Ser Valedan kai di'Leonne awaited him in Essalieyan.

"I will ask the foreign Kings for aid," he said softly, so softly that he could barely hear the words. "If they offer it, we will ride to Annagar with an army to rival Alesso di'Marente's."

Ramiro's face was completely neutral as he listened to the General's quiet words. "You were wise indeed not to attempt such a pa.s.sage through Mancorvo. Three days hence, kai di'Navarre, you will ride North with my personal representative."

The General's eyes widened.

"You do not know the foreigners except by spy and diplomat; you do not speak their tongue well, and you do not understand their laws. We have personally negotiated the fees and taxes for the trade routes between Averda and the Kings' court; they know us, and we, them. My representatives have their trust-if such a thing is ever given. They have been," he added, with a slightly edged smile, "as you well know, a source of Averdan trade."

Baredan knew it; all of Annagar did. It was whispered- or, after drinking among the unwise, spoken out loud-that Tyr' agnate Ramiro di'Callesta paid the price of honor for the sake of money-and at that, foreign gold. "Come. The morning chimes are about to be sounded, and we are expected."

All things moved at Ramiro di'Callesta's command in the Terrean of Averda. Breeze carried the sonorous notes of the domo's silver bells.

Lord's light came in through the clear, clean gla.s.s, casting no obvious shadow. Beneath it, unfettered by the presence of human hands and human garb, the Sun Sword sat atop a golden bier, a curved perfect crescent of gleaming light. Layers of metal had been folded and kneaded together to produce its blade-but which metals, and by what process, no swordsmith in the Dominion could now say. The hand that had crafted this sword had crafted it in secrecy, and the secrets of its making had been taken into the Lady's darkness when he departed the Lord's dominion.

She knew the last time that she had seen this Sword worn-remembered clearly the last time that she had seen it drawn. Her wedding. She'd thought to see it carried, in time, by the children she would bear.

It was almost too much.

But no; no. She took a breath, a perfect breath. The Sword. There were always legends, and when they failed, histories. The people of the Dominion of Annagar knew these two things about the Sun Sword: that it could not be returned, unblooded, to its scabbard, and that it would not suffer the touch of one who was not of the clan Leonne while any son of that clan lived.

Fools believed it wholeheartedly; the wise demurred. But the Widan cautioned those who would test the truth of old histories to think carefully before they made their gamble. So other legends rose: that even the Widan, who crafted the light of the Lord into fire that could be held and thrown by mortal hands, feared the touch of the Sun Sword.

Serra Diora was not a fool, yet she was not counted among the wise. Sandalwood burned in the braziers set out at the foot of the stairs that led to the Sword, and she dutifully added a handful of sticks, kneeling and bowing forehead to ground twice, once to the east and once to the west. She drew her sari up from her back, arranging its folds so that it might cover her hair and obscure her face. Then she rose and began to mount those stairs. There were three, and upon each, she stopped to fuel the braziers and to bow. Then, the last time, she rose and took the final step. The Sword was but an arm's reach away.

Two scabbards lay before it.

The first was a work of its own: The sun in splendor rose in gold and pearl and amber, casting a long ray from the scabbard's mouth to its gold-tipped point. Diamonds glittered along its edge, and rubies; white fire and red heat. This was the scabbard the Tyr'agar wore during the Festival of the Sun, and it was by this scabbard that the Sun Sword was known to the clans-for the blade was not drawn unless the kai Leonne was foolish enough to join the Lord's challenge.

The second scabbard was an unadorned, black sheath, with a tip of the same metal as the blade. It was never used, but in it, the Sword had first arrived at the Tor. Or so legend said.

But Serra Diora knew better; she knew that this scabbard, this common, unworkmanly piece, was the sheath in which the Sun Sword rode to war.

"Na'dio," someone said softly.

Turning slowly, she met the gaze of Serra Teresa di'Marano. "Ona Teresa," she acknowledged carefully, turning her gaze once again to the sword.

"You were late in coming," Serra Teresa continued, although she did not approach the stairs. "And I thought I might find you here." When her niece did not answer, she frowned slightly. "Na'dio," she said again, and although the voice was still gentle and pleasing in tone, it was laced with command. "These are not the manners that I taught you. Come. The Pavilion of the Dawn is now free for our use; the party of the General has moved on."

In the shade provided by the pavilion, the two Serras sat. Their serafs attended them briefly, arranging cushions and pillows and the small blocks used for food and wine in silence. Then, having served, the eldest of Serra Teresa's serafs once again placed the samisen by her side. She nodded gracefully, and he responded with a perfect, deferential bow. Then, turning, he mutely ordered the serafs away.

The sun was a little too bright, and a little too high, but such was the price for retreating to the pavilion after the dawn hours; the Serras willingly paid it in return for the privacy it granted them.

They had met thus for three days, but on this third day, Serra Teresa did not pa.s.s the samisen to her niece. Instead, she settled it carefully upon her own lap, gazing down upon its still strings with a distance that music's contemplation seldom invoked.

"Ona Teresa?" Diora said softly, after some minutes had pa.s.sed in the silence of wind and flowers and rising sun.

"Hush, child," her aunt replied. Taking the samisen, she began to play.

Diora knew the accepted canon; her aunt played no pleasing melody, no proper lament, no summer meditation. Yet as the younger Serra listened, she heard the teasing of form and shape in the way Serra Teresa blended notes, one into the other, as if they were silk, and she a weaver. It had been long since she could sit thus, listening to a musician of such skill perform.

It did not last.

The music continued, but Serra Teresa's silent concentration did not. "Serra Diora," she said, the two words as distant as her expression.

Diora lifted her chin slightly, pulling both shoulders back. It was habit, and she corrected her posture at once, but not before her aunt had raised a dark brow reprimand-ingly. "Serra Teresa." The words were perfectly pitched; they carried to Serra Teresa, and no one else.

The woman playing the samisen smiled briefly, with perhaps a hint of pride in the younger woman's achievement. But they did not speak of these things, even in the hidden voice. "Tell me," she said, "of the Tor Leonne."

They could play games, and sometimes they did, for words were weapons, and the use of them was a skill to be honed in subtle conflict. But they knew each other's measure well; Serra Diora was silent for a full four minutes before she at last chose to speak.

"General Alesso di'Marente returned to the Tor Leonne six weeks ago. His presence here is not unusual, and preparations for the Festival of the Sun had already begun. He arrived with cerdan and serafs in numbers greater than even yours."

At this, Serra Teresa raised a brow. "Na'dio," she said softly, "It is almost vulgar to notice such things." The tone of her words held no sting-held, in fact, no remon-strative disapproval. Her fingers did not falter; the song filled the air as her niece continued to speak.

Diora smiled. "Yes, Ona Teresa. General Alesso di'Marente arrived at the Tor Leonne with many cerdan and many serafs in attendance."

"Better."

"General di'Navarre and General di'Valente arrived with their usual following. Widan Sendari arrived with Widan Antorio; they journeyed in haste."

"I believe I know Sendari's movements. Were there others of... interest?"

"I believe so, but I cannot say with certainty," Diora replied, her expression as remote as her aunt's, although she did not know it. "I had no word before the slaughter." Her eyes were wide as she spoke, unblinking in the brightness. Her hands lay perfectly cupped in her lap, but they were utterly still; she might have been a statue with moving lips. Stone. "They did not raise blade against me." No one must know how you feel.

Diora carved the words out of stone with effort, giving them no more power, and no less, than words of minor import held.

Music answered where Serra Teresa would not. Minutes pa.s.sed as the silence thinned, and although the distance remained upon Diora's face like a scar, she began to speak again. "Afterward, there was fire upon the lake. It burned for three days. General di'Marente called it a sign from the Lord. The Tor Leonne was closed at once; only those serafs and cerdan personally approved by the General have been allowed to leave or enter. Because it is, of course, a time of great trouble for the Dominion; there is no Tyr'agar. General di'Marente has begun a thorough search for the hands involved in the slaughter." Silence again, heavy with accusation.

"Very good, Na'dio." Serra Teresa's voice filled with the approval reserved for the young in the privacy of the harem, away from the eyes of men.

Diora should not have found it comforting. But she did; she did.

Her eyes were heavy with the weight of water's sting, and she looked across the short s.p.a.ce between herself and the woman who had been mother to her for most of her childhood. And she saw, for just a pa.s.sing second, a glimpse of sorrow so profound, and loss so new, that she fell suddenly silent, as if struck.

"Na'dio," Ona Teresa said, not masking her words, not struggling to hide what lay beneath them as Diora did.

"The Captain of the Tyran was found to be involved in the deaths-surviving serafs attested to the fact that the Tyran indeed were responsible for much of the slaughter. He was executed the morning after the a.s.sa.s.sination. Tyran Calevro di'Horaro, the second, now holds the t.i.tle until the Festival of the Sun."

Serra Teresa nodded. "That, I did not know." She gazed at the daughter she had never had. "Na'dio," she said. "There is more."

"There is always more," Diora replied. "The Festival of the Sun will be spa.r.s.ely attended this year."

The older woman smiled, and the smile was a broad one; were she less graceful, she might have laughed aloud. But she did not. "You tell me my own news," she said. "And by it, prove that there are no secrets in the Tor."

No secrets? There were always secrets. The Widan had taught her that and taught her well. "Serra Fiona en'Marano is most grateful that you arrived at the Tor. It has freed her to spend much needed time in preparation for the Festival of the Sun."

"Ah, yes," Serra Teresa said. "I had forgotten. General di'Marente has no wife."

Serra Teresa had a memory as sharp as the Sun Sword's edge. "The Radann are in their temple; they bespeak the Lord at the height of the sun. For the first time in many, many years, they may be called upon to choose the Tyr'agar."

"For the first time."

As one, both women turned a moment and looked to the North. To the North, where, beyond the plains and the valleys, their ancient enemy lay: Essalieyan.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Uth of Morel, 427 AA Essalieyan, Averalaan Aramarelas.

The city rose out of the sea mist like a nightmare.

Spires, tall and dark against the night sky, towered like the unnatural peaks of the Northern Wastes. The Wastes, she knew well. Empty, silent, cold; the great cats hunted there, where food seemed scarcest. The rocks were gray and brown and white, except in the brief, brief spring. She felt a keen desire to return to them.

But they would find her there; they would know where to look, and how to hunt.

"Kiriel," her companion said softly. Everything she did seemed soft, slight, cautious. "This is Averalaan."

Kiriel shrugged; her companion frowned. They had played this over and over until it seemed a

rote by which they were to learn-or teach-something.

They stood at the height of the sand hills on the bay, and watched as the sun rose slowly, burning away the dawn mist.

Evayne looked across the water to the isle, and then back. The young girl at her side, dark-haired and pale-skinned as any night creature, also stared, unblinking, at the length of bright ripples that played across the horizon, as if reaching out to touch them.

Kiriel.

She felt a pang that she had not thought to feel; of all of her people-and she thought of so many

of the path-chosen comrades as hers-Kiriel was the one she pitied least, and therefore felt most comfortable with.

But not this eve.

The girl who had escaped the City in the Northern Wastes was a wild creature, eyes reddened, cheeks flushed, hair a stream of shadow. There had