The Widan Cortano di'Alexes was not a friend.

It had been Cortano who, at the test of the Sword, had come closest to killing Sendari, and the spiderweb of milky white that lay across his hands was a gift of that meeting. Spells of defense were a subtle and tricky thing; offense was easy. But the Widan-Designate Sendari di'Marano had a subtle mind.

It was a dangerous game, to show superior power to a man who held power-but if a Widan did not show it, in one area or another, he did not cross the bridge; the wind consumed him, and the test of the Sword proved fatal.

He still bore scars, hidden beneath the folds of his robe; unexposed to the sun's glare, they faded slowly with the years. And they reminded him, always, that Cortano was not a man to be trusted.

If any man of power was.

"Sendari."

"Cortano." The younger man bowed, feeling his age as a lack of experience and wisdom. Feeling very much the apprentice. It was only Cortano di'Alexes who had this effect on him now; the rest, the winds had taken.

The chamber, usually full of the followers of the Sword of Knowledge, was conspicuously empty; a foolish man might have blamed that emptiness on the hour, for the Widan were known to study late into the Lady's night, and sleep long through the Lord's day.

Sendari was not a foolish man. As he rose from his bow, he examined Cortano's face. White hair framed it, and white hair fell in a spill from his chin down his chest. Only the heart of the beard itself was dark, a hint of its youthful glory. His eyes, that disturbing blue that seemed uncannily like the open sky, were unblinking. And narrowed.

"Sendari," the Sword's Edge said again. He sat on a chair, rather than the cushions that were laid about the room for the comfort of the Widan; Sendari was obliged to stand, a position which was generally reserved for inferiors.

He stood, with what grace he could muster.

"What happened this morning?"

"The Festival opened," was Sendari's neutral reply.

"Yes. I was there."

Silence.

Cortano frowned. "Sendari, your daughter sang the lay of the Sun Sword."

The Widan nodded.

"Why?"

"This may surprise you, Cortano," Sendari's reply was cool, "but my time here has not been

spent attending to the needs of a single child in my harem. The girl was chosen for the Festival by Alesso, Garrardi, and Lorenza; she was approved with undue haste by the kai el'Sol. I was not consulted." He let his anger show; it was genuine enough. "I did not consider intervention either wise or necessary."

"Cleverly put," was Cortano's soft reply. He paused. "And with a single song, she has declared to the clansmen of Annagar-to those clansmen who made the trek or were allowed to make it- that it was Leonne who fought for justice. They will all be thinking that it was Alesso di'Marente who ended that fight. And they will be watchful now, where they might have been lulled.

"You argued for her life the night the clan Leonne perished."

"Yes."

"She is a threat to us."

"She is a girl."

The blue eyes had never been so piercing; Sendari felt as if he were standing beneath the open

sky, bearing the brunt of the Lord's judgment. And who was the Lord to judge him? "If you fear her, Cortano, kill her yourself. I am not beholden to you; I do not serve you; I am not required to take your orders."

"I do not fear her, Sendari. I fear your attachment to her."

Sendari said nothing.

"Very well. If you will have it so. You will pay the price of her game if it becomes costly."

The Widan Sendari shrugged. "I was under the impression that we were to speak about matters of the Court, not matters of the Tor."

"You were correct." Cortano rose. "You are to take this word to the General: Isladar says the Lord had confirmed his initial estimate. By the Festival of the Moon the forces of the Shining Court will be at our disposal." Neither man mentioned the last war that had been called after the close of the Lady's Festival. "Regardless, Isladar does not wish the influence of the Radann to hold sway; we have given him our word that the Radann are in hand. Therefore, we will keep the Radann intact until such a time as he has tendered his troops."

Cortano was the man who had introduced the younger Alesso to the Shining Court; to the kinlords, Etridian, a.s.sarak, Isladar; to the Allasakari, the men who became vessels for the shadows that without exception devoured them from within.

He had no wife, no heirs, no attachments; it made him a formidable opponent. No one crossed him; not even the Tyr'agar spoke against him. Cortano made it easy. He was not a man who desired power in its own right; not a man who desired a dynasty and the place such a bloodline would give him in history. He had serafs, but they did not speak; he had no concubines.

The Radann thought he was touched by the Lord of Night; they watched him like circling hawks. But although their accusations held a profound truth, they saw nothing.

Because the Widan Cortano was the first Widan in more than a hundred years who had the power of sword-flight: He could vanish from a place and appear a hundred-a thousand-miles away, with no one the wiser for it.

What does the Court offer you? It was a question that both he and Alesso had asked themselves- and each other-time and again. No easy answer came; in fact, no answer at all.

"I will carry word," Sendari said, "to the General Alesso di'Marente. Is that all?"

"No. I have carefully considered your report, and I believe that I know what the source of the power within the Radann temple is. I will have it removed today."

Sendari's nod was cool. "You... breached the barrier?"

Cortano smiled. He did not answer, and the lack of answer was not lost upon the younger man.

"One more thing."

Sendari stifled his anger, muting his expression, forcing it into neutrality.

"If your daughter sings that lay again, I will be forced to kill her."

The Serra Teresa regarded her brother in the silence of the early morn. The sun had not yet

reached full height, and at the Pavilion of the Dawn, the serafs and attendants struggled with cushions, with instruments, with goblets of sweet water. They made little noise in the sweet coolness of the morning breeze as it swept in across the waters of the Tor, yet their steps seemed light and easy under the glare of the Lord's notice.

Because the Serra Diora di'Marano filled the valley with the beguilement of her voice. She had sung for two hours, the songs sweetly chosen paeans to a young girl's love.

And her heart was behind them, as it had been behind the song that had broken night's light; Teresa could hear the emotion reverberate recklessly in each word, each pause, each drawn breath.

"Teresa," Sendari said, making a command of the name.

She had expected no less. Ramdan followed her, holding a flat, large cloth between her exposed

face and the Lord's light. Sendari gestured him away, and after a moment, she allowed her favorite seraf to be dismissed.

"She has drawn Cortano's attention," Sendari said, without preamble.

His sister could have chosen to feign ignorance; she could have dissembled; she could have

shown fear-for he knew her well enough to know that the fear was suddenly there. But she was Teresa; she did not disappoint him. "It was unavoidable."

"He will kill her yet," Sendari said quietly.

She met his eyes then, her gaze unflinching-as masculine a gaze as Alesso's when Alesso's

anger was both great and quiet. The darkness of her eyes was not a cool one, although her expression did not change at all.

"You are Widan, Sendari."

Angered, he said, "And what does that mean?"

"It means," the Serra Teresa said coolly, "that you place too much value upon the word of a Widan." She turned at that moment, and they saw the Radann kai el'Sol bow, from the kneeling position, to the dais upon which Diora sat.

"And you place too much value upon the interference of the Radann."

"Not the Radann kai el'Sol," she replied, lifting a fan and spreading its delicate ivory leaves. "He will not survive the Festival's end unless Alesso is more of a fool than he appears."

Silence. Sendari's anger was sudden, but it was not for public consumption. "The Serra Teresa is perceptive, as always."

"Our mother's gift." She pointed with the fan, tracing a graceful arc in the air. "Ah, see? They've come to pay their respects."

Tight-lipped, Sendari di'Marano watched as his oldest friend crossed the Pavilion of the Dawn, and was unexpectedly stopped by the Radann. His sister's smile, he noted, was quite cold. "If he will not survive," she said, and he knew by the timbre of her voice that she used the voice, "he will make certain that for this three-day, Alesso feels his power." She turned to look at him, and their eyes met like the clash of swords.

"Widan Cortano is Widan," she told him. "As are you. What you are to each other, I have never attempted to understand. I have seen a man killed by the fire, and by the wind; both deaths at Cortano's command. I understand why you respect him. But although Cortano has the power of the Sword, Alesso has the power of the armies. Never in the history of the Dominion have the clansmen chosen to follow the Widan. The Radann, yes, although I fear this is not their season. Ah, that is a fine gesture." Sunlight glinted off the leaves of wet lilies as the General Alesso di'Marente laid them before the feet of Diora's attendant-Mia, Teresa thought, from the perfect grace of movement that followed as the woman carefully swept them up and offered them to Diora. "He could have offered gold or jewels, but they are to cold for such a day as this."

"Cortano is not a threat to be lightly dismissed."

"He is not a threat to be dismissed at all. And I have not dismissed him. What you cannot protect, my brother, I believe the General can." Her voice was ice; the sun did not touch it, or her, as she spoke.

For a moment, he could see the blood on her hands as clearly as if they were still wet.

Alora.

She saw understanding in his eyes; knew by his silence that he would not reply. "We both gave her our word," she said coldly. And that was accusation enough. Before it, he could say nothing at all.

While his daughter received honors and glory above all women, Sendari di'Marano retreated into the privacy of his chambers, hating the very touch of the open sky.

Thinking, and hating the thought, that he should have allowed Alesso to kill Diora when the opportunity had presented itself.

The first day pa.s.sed in a blur of faces.

Diora sat beneath the gold-fringed canopy that declared her the property of the Lord. To either side were Illia and Alana, the two women she had chosen to attend her on this day; before them stood the Radann Fredero kai el'Sol and the Radann Marakas par el'Sol; to her left and right, Radann who served. She thought one of them to be in the pay of the Radann Peder par el'Sol, for his tone of voice changed when that man came to pay his respects, but it was not her position to offer advice to the Radann. Nor would it ever be; she was, after all, a woman, and women did not serve the Lord. But the Lord's servants might serve her three days longer. Just three days, and then she could rest.

Her fingers were tingling from the exertion of playing the samisen, but the instrument was both her shield and her love, and she was loath to put it aside.

And because she was so loath, she had it in her lap when the Radann came, carrying between them a limp and obviously injured woman.

Illia en'Marano gasped and lowered her face at once; Alana drew a thick breath and turned to her mistress. Her mistress was frozen, her fingers pressed tight against the strings, blessed strings, of the samisen.

"What is this?" The kai el'Sol said, stepping forward with a very real anger. "Larant-what have you done?"

The Radann Larant el'Sol met the kai el'Sol with a grim and level stare. Not, Diora thought, a friend. "This- this woman-was found in the temple of the Radann." He caught her chin and forced her face up.

Diora already knew who she would see. Nose broken, lips swollen, eyes darkened-the peculiarly striking but plain face of the woman who had visited her the evening before was almost gone. But her eyes, dark and bright, were the same eyes, and they met Diora's grimly. Fearfully.

Serra Diora di'Marano sat in stiff and heavy silence, her knees pressed together, her chin held as high as she dared hold it. She did not breathe.

"A-a woman? In the temple?"

She would never have thought that a Lambertan would be so skillful a liar. Or perhaps it was not a lie; there was an unmuted horror in the voice that he gave to the Radann, an outrage, an anger. Were they disappointed? She thought that at least one of them was.

"Radann Peder par el'Sol suggested that we make an example of her," the Radann Larant el'Sol said. "The magnitude of the crime demanded your attention. We apologize," he added, with a regret that was only insincere if one knew how to listen, "for disturbing the Consort."

Diora knew how to listen. She knew that to be the perfect Serra was to look away, as Illia en'Marano had done. She looked, but not away; instead, her eyes hugged the curve of the Radann kai el'Sol's shoulders. They were tense; even stiff. She thought for a moment that he might ruin everything, throw himself upon the fires of an angry Lord. Thought it, and was glad.

But then he spoke. "Have her displayed by the gates, where the clansmen may see her."

"Kai el'Sol. Should we-"

"No," he said. "If she survives the attention of the clansmen, and their righteous anger, for the three days, let it be a sign that the Lord knows mercy. If she does not, she is not to be given to earth; burn her and let the wind scatter her unblessed ashes."

"Kai el'Sol."

"And Larant?"

"Yes, kai?"

"If you approach the Consort's Pavilion with such ugliness one more time before the Festival is