"I will not dishonor her," the General said, almost awkward.

Sendari shrugged. "Alesso, leave it be. You are right; I cannot think clearly where she is

concerned. She is-she is much like her mother before her."

The General's silence was less complex, but longer. At last he said, "What will Isladar do?"

"Nothing. He will take word back to a.s.sarak. In fact, I believe he will enjoy that, although I

cannot say for certain. They are not allies."

"The kin cannot form alliances."

Sendari laughed. "And what are we, Alesso?"

"p.a.w.ns." The General's smile was a gleam. "But we need them."

"For now, yes. And later?"

"Later, Sendari, we will form a different alliance, with another enemy. Why do you think they want this war, the Shining Court? Because they have already faced the Empire once."

Sendari lifted a hand, calling for quiet in a silence made of magic and intensity. "Yes. Do not underestimate the Northerners. And do not underestimate the Lord of Night."

"Sendari-"

"We do not know what occurred in Averalaan; not well. We know of the three weeks, and we know of the shadow that rose from the heart of the old city. But the shadow's grip was a poor one; the sea winds blew it away in the dawn of their First Day.

"This time, Alesso, the shadow's grip is not so poor or so uncertain."

"And how do you know so much, Sendari, when you speak so little?"

"I see it," the Widan said, his eyes taking on the half-vacant look of a man staring into the ephemera of his past, "in Cortano's face. I hear it in Isladar's word. I know it by the fact that the kinlords and their servants are growing both in strength and in number. If you know how to look, you can distinguish between even the imps."

"We plan to make use of the kin."

"And they, of us. But the game is growing dangerous if a.s.sarak feels he can make a point of rulership," he paused to touch the bruises across his throat, "with impunity."

They had chosen their course; there was no turning aside. Nor would Sendari have requested it. But although it was the Festival of the Sun, they thought of the Lord of Night, wondering when his reach had grown so long.

The night was cool, and the breeze was silent beside the waters of the Tor Leonne.

The Radann kai el'Sol found dressing almost painful- but not nearly so much as the servitor Jevri did. For Jevri was almost an Artisan, and the Radann kai el'Sol was not the demure and graceful clanswoman for whom his designs had been intended. He was a man, with a man's impatience for purity of detail, and had he been any other man, Jevri would have given up in quiet disgust two hours past. Had he been any other man, the servitor would have given up in noisy disgust one hour past. And this servitor had been raised seraf and trained in a powerful clan's house.

But they had been together a long time, these two. Jevri held the needle between his lips as he paused to inspect the detail of his work in the poor light. Of course it would be poor light; the Radann kai el'Sol was expected to greet the dawn. And the most annoying thing about such a meeting was that he would greet the dawn in the same fine but serviceable robes that he had greeted Jevri wearing.

The needle p.r.i.c.ked the old man's lip, drawing both blood and a curse.

He had been given to Fredero on a whim, a request made, gently and firmly, by the kai el'Sol's mother of her husband, the Tyr'agnate of Mancorvo, a mere week before he left the fold of clan Lamberto forever, choosing the halls of the Lord's Service over the halls of his blood kin. The Tyr'agnate had not been happy with his choice- but then, what man would see his family forsaken, even if the cause be as n.o.ble a cause as the Lord's service?-but he had granted his wife's wish.

Fredero was ever the stoic, and Jevri, the dutiful seraf. But both men could not help but think the change in station inappropriate, for Jevri was not the seraf to serve the harsh and spare Radann.

Oh, he worked.

When Fredero came to tell him that he was to be given his freedom, Jevri acquiesced, as ordered. When he in turn offered his service to the Radann as servitor, Fredero accepted without question. Such had been the Serra Car-latta's will, and Fredero had rarely argued with his mother's wisdom.

Beadwork caught the lamplight; trailed down the edge of a knife and a needle; softened the sheen of crushed silk. Darkness brought a subtle beauty to the light.

And the clansmen were not known for either their subtlety or their appreciation of subtlety. At least, the clansmen of honor were not. Among these, Lamberto was first.

How had it started? Fredero had learned to fight. He was not a small man, and not a fool for all that he chose to wear honor's righteous face. He understood cunning and deceit; he merely chose not to practice either. Jevri saw in this man, daily, a man worthy of a seraf's service. Even the best of the serafs.

But it was not in combat in the service of the Lord that the kai el'Sol was to distinguish himself, for the Radann were all well-versed in the arts of war, and to compare a kill-and the Imperial war provided many-in a roomful of warriors was no way to set oneself apart from the rest of the Radann.

He took care to adjust the inner straps of the headdress that the Radann kai el'Sol would wear. He took less care when offering the Radann kai el'Sol directions on how best to stand-with straight shoulders, for one-while it was being fitted.

This finery was reserved for the height of the moment: the declaration of the winner of the Lord's test. Rumors and money were exchanged with equal facility as the servitors and the cerdan played their favorites from among the five who were to meet for the final time in the sun's heat. Jevri's coin had never been added to that game, although this one year he had been sorely tempted to place his bet upon the Tyr'agnate; the man fought like one sun-maddened.

And if Jevri was almost willing to be parted from his coin, it meant he would earn little for it; he was not a man given to games of chance.

No, it was certainty that he valued. He let the hem of the robe fall away and ran a hand across his weary eyes.

"We're not finished yet," he told the kai el'Sol.

"Jevri-"

"No. It must be perfect today."

Their eyes met; they both glanced away like shy children, not turned blades. Oh, they knew how to argue, at times like this, when no one was there to witness such impropriety. But not today.

Jevri knelt at the hem of the kai el'Sol and found his needle. The beadwork had already been glued into place, but he had had to be certain that the fall was perfect before he fastened with thread and needle these little repositories of sunlight.

He understood the importance of light at the Festival of the Sun.

For a long time-many years-he had tried to understand the puzzle of the Serra Carlatta's choice, for he knew, with some piqued pride, that he had been among the most favored of her serafs; certainly, the one most envied her by other Serras. In the meantime, he had cooked, swept, cleaned, and mended as the Radann Fredero el'Sol required, puzzling, always puzzling.

Until the morning that he saw his first Festival at his Ser's side. Others had eyes for the clansmen, for the combat, for the Serras, the wine, the food, and the Sun Sword. He had eyes for only one thing: the raiment that the Lord's Consort wore. It was splendid in its fashion, a work that was almost-almost-art.

And seeing it, he knew that he could better it, given only time and the proper materials. He had never made a dress so fine, although he was well capable of it, for such a dress was beyond ostentatious; only here, only upon this platform, in this company, could a Serra-the choice of the particular Serra did not concern him-truly shine, wife to the Lord for the Festival's stay. Oh, it was selfish, and he knew it. And he wondered, as his heart raced, if the Serra Car-latta understood what she had given him to. Because it was the Radann who decided what dress and what style was appropriate for the Lord's Consort.

It was important; it was so important that he had had to strain and work to prevent himself from blurting it like a common market seraf to his clansmen. But he did wait. And after the Festival's end, he asked for the only favor that he had ever asked. Asked with humility, as befit his station. Asked with grace. Asked with a plea that, try as he might, he could not keep out of his voice.

"Jevri, I am not a rich man. To do as you ask-to get you the material you require-would beggar me. And for what? A woman's dress!"

He had not said no.

Jevri had one weapon left him; he used it now. "Fredero, please."

Silence-a long, almost uncomfortable one. Two men, separated by birth and experience, and bound together by birth and experience, waited to see who would break it.

It was, of course, the Radann Fredero el'Sol. "This must be important. I've known you all my life, and you've never once called me by my adult name."

"I will never ask you for anything else again."

"Don't say that."

But he hadn't. Asked for anything, and certainly not anything as important.

He made his dress, scrimping and saving where he could without injuring the whole-this perfect, singular garment, this creation for the Lord's glory. And just under one year later, fingers near bleeding and eyes reddened by sleep's lack, he presented the garment to the Radann Fredero el'Sol, who in turn presented it to the Lord's Consort.

And the Lord's Consort wore the dress in marvel, in wonder, and in perfect glory, when she was presented to the clansmen. And to the first among clansmen: the Tyr'agar Markaso kai di'Leonne.

The Radann had never seen such an expression cross the Tyr'agar's face. But the Serra who had been chosen Consort was his eldest daughter, and she looked-she looked a thing beyond man, the very Consort made flesh for the Lord's Festival. He had-he, a clansman-reached out to touch the fabric of her skirt, where no other man would have dared, to sully it by giving it the feel of reality. But the wonder remained, and the smile that crept up the left corner of his mouth-for that was where his smile always started-was both reward for Jevri, and reward for his master.

Jevri made every dress for every Festival from that day on. And with each Festival, he outdid himself in the name of, and service of, the Radann Fredero el'Sol. The Radann Fredero par el'Sol. And the Radann Fredero kai el'Sol.

"Jevri?"

But he had never, before this day, given more than a cursory nod to the garments of the Radann.

"Jevri?"

He swore softly, swore to the seraf's G.o.d, swore at the seraf's G.o.d. His fingers were bleeding in the uneven light.

"Jevri, get help."

"No."

"Why? You've had help before." Fredero craned his neck to the side and down, attempting to catch a glimpse of his shadowed servant. "It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be finished."

Jevri started to argue and then looked at the flickering lamp; the oil was low. Had he truly been so long at so little? He stared down at his hands, shadows welled in the curves time had worn there revealing more than they concealed: He was not a young man, nor even one in the midst of life.

Age settled around his shoulders with a grip that could not be shaken. Nor would be.

"Yes," he told the kai el'Sol, urging his hands on but watching the progress of bent fingers as if they belonged to someone else.

"Good. I'll-"

"It has to be finished. By me."

"Jevri-"

Jevri had never been good with words, although he knew how to listen to nuance. He knew that

among the women and the wives there were things that could be asked, and things that must never be questioned. As a seraf in service to the Serra Carlatta, he had had less chance to observe the way the men spoke, but he knew, nonetheless, that there were things that could never be said, fears that had no natural expression. Not to a man of the clans. Not to Fredero par di'Lamberto. "Fredero. Please."

Silence, always this pause, this uneasiness. Anger would have been a welcome visitor, but between them there was none; not this eve. Nor was there fear, although fear sheltered in different places behind each man's words. There was resignation, a search for, and abandoning of, a dozen different phrases.

"What will you do?" The kai el'Sol said awkwardly.

"I? I will not serve the Radann par el'Sol, no matter what mantle he wears."

"Jevri-"

"I am not a seraf," the older man replied serenely. "And the choice will, this time, be fully my

own."

"I see." Silence. "But have you-"

"Kai el'Sol, I will not speak of it. I will not think of it until it is time. You can worry if you like,"

he added tartly.

"Why thank you."

There was much that was familiar in the pa.s.sage of time; the slow change in the tinge of the sky's

hue; the lowering of the oil that somehow held the Lord's fire in the darkness of night, although it was liquid; the lengthening of shadows and the flickering of vision that accompanied sleep's lack.

But although he had often labored well into the Lady's hours, Jevri el'Sol, born kep'Lamberto, found no comfort in the task, for it was the first, and it was the last, and he knew that when the rays of Sun touched the farthest walls, the robes would not be all that he had hoped for.

He prayed to the Lady for strength and time.

But it was the Lord who answered, pushing the curtain of night away as was his right on this, the longest day of the year.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.