All That's Glory Shines
                         Prologue
             927, Age of Ascent, High Summer
    "Laerfren, Lord of Light, if you are not displeased 
with me, if I have not misused this power you gave me, 
then answer me one question, I pray."
    His breath lofted in a cold cloud before him, even 
though it was the height of summer and the warm light of 
the aqua and golden moons poured through the windows, with 
the red-white winter one, Salsi, banished to a safe 
distance. It was the power of this ritual that was making 
it so. He had called on the fire of the stars, and they 
were answering him.
    With them came the coldness of the blackest depths of 
space, the spirit-void that lay between the lords and 
ladies of the Elwens, unimaginable distance filled with 
blackness and bleakness and death, anathema to everything 
Elwen.
    Herran Turnlong, Councilmaster of Rowan, did not 
flinch from the cold, did not look up or stir as he 
carefully asked the question he was required to ask by 
tradition. He had come through so much worse than this, 
not least to be kneeling here. This was the night before 
his wedding, and he was not afraid.
    No fear at all, except what the answer to this 
question might be.
    "My Lord Laerfren, is there any flaw in my soul, any 
crack, that will prevent my marriage to Tandra from being 
a happy one?"
    For a long moment, there was silence, and the cold 
that deepened until Herran wondered if he was ever going 
to feel starlight, or just the depth of the spirit-void. 
Then a brilliant shaft of silver light stabbed into the 
floor in front of him, and he dared to lift his head, 
staring out the windows of the small star-chapel in which 
he knelt.
    The clouds that had covered the stars when he came 
into the chapel were gone. Pure, radiant, they stared down 
in uncompromising, lucid beauty.
    Herran felt relief flood him. If he got no more answer 
than this, it was enough. The sudden appearance of the 
stars could, at the least, portend nothing evil, he 
thought with a small shiver, his only concession to the 
still-growing cold, a cold that raising his body 
temperature with magic would do nothing to defeat.
    Then the light touched him, and the world briefly fled 
from him.
    He found himself gazing at a vision he had seen many 
times- in dream, in nightmare, in memory. He had seen it 
for the first time more than two hundred years ago, when 
he was undertaking the vision test to become a Council 
member. He had not thought that it was possible to ever 
see it as a threat. But now, he saw how it could be.
    His sigh was loud in the silent and empty chapel, and 
he dipped his head.
    "I understand."
    The vision was gone- the vision of a burning emerald 
valley, brighter and more beautiful than anything that 
could exist in reality. Inside the valley was a silver 
city that burned the same color, with the same ruthless 
clarity. It was a vision of his city Rowan, as she could 
be, as he strove to make her.
    He had known that there might be times when the vision 
would come between him and Tandra. He had chosen duty over 
love once, or thought he had, and she did not want him to 
do the same again. 
    At the same time, she might have to do so herself, 
Captain of the Guards as she was. And while she might not 
like it, she understood the necessity. She certainly was 
not willing to see him abandon the Councilmastery for love 
of her.
    Once, he would have. But now...
    He shook his head, telling himself to forget something 
they both accepted however uncomfortably it hovered 
between them, and stood, ready to begin the next part of 
the ritual. He began to pace slowly back and forth across 
the chapel, his head tilted back, relaxed, his eyes 
closed.
    He could almost feel the darkness watching him, 
waiting to see what he would do next.
    Waiting...
    Into it, he cast the questions, though really this was 
more meditation than asking of a higher power for 
guidance. Was there anything in his soul that might harm 
Tandra? Anything he should strive to control, to change, 
to tame? Anything he could do something about without 
killing parts of himself?
    Now that he thought about it, relaxed his mind and 
resolved to accept the truth no matter how much it hurt, 
he could think of things he had done that had hurt her in 
the past, things that had nothing to do with his duty to 
Rowan.
    She had been hurt when he had written songs for her, 
about her, or simply about Rowan and other things he 
loved, and then not shared them with her. She understood 
how difficult singing was for him, how he considered it a 
nearly unforgivable exposure of his soul, but she did want 
him to share songs with her, if he could do it. He had 
felt able to do it before. Simply too cowardly to broach 
the subject.
    He could change that. He could share the twenty or so 
songs he had written that she had never heard him sing. 
And he could do it for no reason other than their 
enjoyment, not simply to heal a grief or wound as he did 
at all other times.
    She had been furious that he would not tell her when 
his life was in danger, and refuse her protection when she 
knew it was. Herran grinned wryly to himself. Of course, 
considering the way she indignantly refused protection 
when her own life was in danger, her complaint lost a 
little on the grounds of hypocrisy.
    His smile faded into a sigh. Just a year past, with an 
act that had struck many of them as courage though him as 
the only sensible thing to do, he had won the hearts of 
his people. No longer did they see him only as a competent 
ruler they could not be bothered to depose because he did 
the things they did not want to do. Now they respected 
him, if not loved him. He treasured their loyalty because 
it was not blind. He hated to ask for their protection, 
because it seemed too much like something that a ruler 
taking his people for granted would do.
    But if it was for Tandra's sake...
    Yes, he could.
    And the final thing that he knew infuriated her more 
than anything...
    This time, the truth that came pouring into his mind 
as soon as he was ready shocked him.
    There was nothing that he could do about that.
    Herran's eyes snapped open, and he stared into the 
darkness. The clouds covered the stars again, but he could 
still feel the cold, and almost thought he could feel the 
black stars, which because of his land Elwen birth he 
could not see, sneering mockingly at him. His breath was 
loud in the stillness.
    He reached quietly outwards, through the shining net 
that bound him to the lives of all Rowanians, almost a 
million land Elwens and a few curalli, all tied to him, 
all tracked by him. He would know in an instant if any of 
them died; he would feel the pain of their deaths himself. 
And those that had died since a celestial dragon tied him 
to the pattern were represented as blank and wailing holes 
in the tender strands.
    He closed his eyes and blinked back tears.
    She knew that he felt pain from it, but she did not 
know that he was in constant pain from it, all the time. 
What could she do if she knew? There was nothing that 
could stop this, that could untie him. And it was another 
thing that made him truly Rowan's lord, that made it less 
likely that anyone else could grip the city and shove her 
into becoming something other than the radiant vision he 
had seen.
    He could not tell her.
    The simple fact of the matter was that she could not 
understand.
    But she would think she understood, and she would 
worry about him even more than she already did. Somehow, 
she had made her peace, as had he, with the fact that as 
Councilmaster of Rowan, his life was in danger every 
minute of every day. But to know that he was suffering, 
mentally bleeding, as well...
    Herran shook his head decisively. No, he would not 
tell her.
    That decided, he turned back and walked to the small 
altar stone. Stars never demanded sacrifice. Herran knelt, 
placed his hands on the edge, and bowed his head, as he 
sent his mind ranging on its final quest of the night.
    Children... children...
    It was the duty of a husband-to-be to try to envision 
his children this night, to tell in advance if bearing 
them would endanger his wife. Many Elwen families did not 
have children, and this- along with the fact that they 
lived thousands of years and needed a check of some sort 
on the birth of children- was the reason why.
    He reached. Not quite knowing what he was doing, for 
there was much that he did not understand about his gift, 
he touched the outer edges of the net of Rowanian life 
where birth spun new strands and new life, and wondered 
if, standing there in his mind, he could see his own 
children being born.
    And then, doubled vision overtook him.
    He could see two things. In one vision, he could see 
Tandra, her face clear and sharp as it had never been in 
his mind, standing, smiling, with two blurred figures 
before her. He could not see the faces or the sexes of the 
children, but he knew they were healthy. He felt joy flood 
him.
    But the other...
    There was thick and suffocating darkness in the other 
half of the vision, blacker than the darkness of the 
spirit-void, so mocking that the voices of the dark 
starfolk would have fallen silent before it. Herran shook 
his head, trying to shake one image or the other. Joy and 
fear mingled in him, and he wanted to know the truth, 
whichever one it was.
    And then he was quiet, and still, realizing they were 
both true, and he thought he understood.
    At last the vision faded, and he opened his eyes. 
Slanting, forerunning pools of gold huddled on the chapel 
floor. The sun was rising.
    Herran shook his head slowly, helplessly, as he rose 
to his feet. That was something else he could try to tell 
Tandra, knowing all the while that she would not 
understand. But she had had dreams and visions of her own, 
and hopefully they would be happier than his.
    If the joyous half of his image meant what he thought 
it did, then she would have more happiness. He was sure of 
it.
    He smiled faintly and cast a glance around the chapel, 
one more time, before he turned and left it. He did pause 
a moment in the sunlight, to let it banish the cold, and 
stare out the window, dreaming. The dawn had already 
banished the stars from the sky.
    He staggered briefly as a duel came to completion and 
one of his people took a sword through the gut.
    Then he shook his head, sent the dark thoughts the way 
of the stars, and went forth to wed his beloved.




                        Chapter 1
                          Prani
             1089, Age of Ascent, Late Winter
    "The word pran can mean many things in the Primal 
Tongue, but two meanings are preeminent. The word means 
'joke' or 'trick,' in most contexts. The difficulty in 
translating the ancient texts where it was used lies 
chiefly in determining if the author means that the pran 
was a simple, harmless joke between friends, or a 
deceitful trick, played as part of the Game, vastin, 
intrigue."
    -From Vleini Emer Ko Call Rat Meluv, Or Strange And 
Beautiful Words In The Primal Tongue, attributed to the 
elven sage Alirnden Mireluvi.

    Herran sighed loudly as he finished eating the last of 
the bread. "I'm sure the butter is harmless," he said to 
the overprotective- as far as he was concerned- guard who 
hovered at his shoulder. "They tried it yesterday. They 
won't try the same trick two days in a row."
    "You do not know that, my lord."
    "I should," Herran countered in irritation. "I am the 
one who knows the minds of my enemies. Who predicted they 
would enforce the second threat they sent me, rather than 
the first?"
    Daemon flushed at the rebuke, the most response he 
ever showed. He folded his arms and turned his back a 
little, though he still watched every bite of fruit his 
lord ate, to make sure that he did not try to take some of 
the butter Daemon was sure was poisoned.
    "It was poisoned yesterday," Herran muttered under his 
breath, but not quite loud enough for Daemon to hear. The 
guard would think it childish, and he was already feeling 
his lord's irritation through the bloodvow bond between 
them in any case, Herran was quite sure.
    He ate a few indifferent bites of fruit and meat, 
swallowing the food rather than tasting it. He glared out 
the window at the white sky. He knew his mood was more 
than half-petulant, but, by all the stars, he had grown to 
hate winter of late. Though it had only endured two 
months, it seemed as though it had been forever since he 
had eaten fresh fruit.
    He could acquire fruit if he truly wanted it, but it 
would be magically grown, and even that growth forced by 
the earth-mages. And he could not taste that without 
feeling as if he wanted to vomit. His link to the land 
that he bore as Lord Turnlong ensured that he could gain 
nourishment only from natural fruit. He could eat it 
dried, as he did this morning, but he would not like it 
nearly as much, nor take any pleasure from it.
    Herran closed his eyes and shook his head, wondering 
if something else had been poisoned after all. His 
thoughts were rambling, drifting in all directions. Of 
course, he had had no sleep for almost three nights, 
attending as he was to a mixture of disputes between his 
tenants on his Claimed land and a sudden rash of duels 
that had broken out in the city. They always did this time 
of year, as the bored young hotheads grew frustrated with 
the difficulties of pursuing crafts or patrolling in the 
deep snows that came about once a dance.
    Never before, though, had one been coupled with the 
other.
    Shaking his head in disgust and frustration, Herran 
nearly missed the soft tap of the messenger on the door, 
asking for entrance. He lifted his head, eyes narrowed 
slightly, and said softly, "What is it?"
    "A message from the Lady Tandra, my lord," said the 
soft voice. "She asks that you attend her at once, or the 
moment that your duties permit."
    Herran smiled wryly. That last was a phrase that 
Tandra had only begun to attach to her messages in the 
last few years, as they became even more comfortable where 
the bounds of duty lay, and the bounds of love.
    "I will come." He came to his feet, glancing at 
Daemon. "Would you like to come with me, or would you 
prefer to stay here and examine the butter for flakes of 
silver unicorn horn?"
    Unshakable in his dignity, Daemon shook his head. "You 
will need a guard on the ride through the city. Never once 
have you gone on a crossing where something did not 
happen. Not once."
    "I will be traveling by ward."
    Daemon frowned at him. "You are growing too dependent 
on them, my lord. You will become vulnerable to attack 
through them if you continue, even as Quirrin is."
    Herran shrugged. "Until that day, I will use them. 
They are still the swiftest means I have of getting there, 
and it must be something very important, or she simply 
would have sent a mental message."
    Daemon nodded reluctantly, and moved with his lord to 
the corner of the room where the ward keyed to Tandra's 
presence, that would take Herran to her side at once, lay. 
Herran lifted a hand, and blue light took form out of air, 
the hissing, shimmering line of it settling into his hand 
and coiling there, as alert and beautiful as a cobra on 
the verge of striking. 
    He had barely opened his mouth to speak the word that 
would trigger it, though, when there came another knock on 
the door, this one not nearly as deferential.
    Herran narrowed his eyes again. "Come," he said in a 
disgusted tone, dropping the ward back into non-existence 
and dismissing the guardian wards on the door with a 
slight gesture of one hand. He could not recognize all 
Rowanians from the pattern of their life-threads, but he 
could recognize those he felt most often, those most 
familiar, and he had once fought side by side with this 
man on an almost daily basis. He knew him, though Rai 
Leaflaughter had changed past almost all recognition.
    They all had.
    Rai stepped through the door and bowed to him. "My 
lord," he said casually, with the cool, emotionless mask 
so unnatural for a land Elwen, that nevertheless betrayed 
a touch of condescension in his eyes. Influenced by 
Herran's example, more and more of the Rowanians ignored 
the Laws banning open portrayal of emotion, and even Rai 
had some of that now, though he was still colder than 
anyone else Herran knew.
    "Yes." Herran did not move, merely gazing at Rai and 
waiting for him to make the point.
    "My lord," said Rai, with another bow that Herran was 
sure was designed to make him wait, and with a gesture of 
the hand that had been turned to silver by an efgoan's 
gaze, which Herran was sure was designed to try and awaken 
that old guilt. "I wish to ask for your judgment on a 
small matter."
    "Yes?" Even the Leaflaughter lord had his pride, and 
could be stung to defend it. Expecting a formal 
announcement of a duel, Herran was caught by surprise when 
Rai actually broached his point.
    "I have a daughter, Lexia."
    "I know," said Herran, trying to conceal his distaste. 
Collected, calm, devoted to the Goddess Suulta and the 
ancient forms, Lexia was perhaps the one person in Rowan 
Herran found more distasteful than her father. Even as a 
five-year-old girl she had unnerved him, and she would now 
be- he did some swift mental math- almost three hundred, 
at the youngest. Who knew what she might have become?
    "I understand that you have knowledge few possess of 
the current scion of Deerfriend," said Rai, his scarlet 
eyes burning. "Tell me. Do you think that he would obey 
his father were Alicalor Deerfriend to accept a betrothal 
to Lexia on his behalf?"
    Herran could not help himself; once past his initial 
shock, for formal betrothals were usually used only to 
confirm the choice of two young Elwens who had already 
made up their minds, he burst out laughing. "Keren 
Deerfriend?" he choked. "Do you seriously believe that 
such a one as he would accept such a one as Lexia? Anyone 
else could have told you he would not."
    "I fail to see, my lord, what makes my daughter so 
objectionable."
    "Her very nature," said Herran bluntly. "Keren is 
wildfire, my lord. Now that I have managed, with the help 
of allies, to stop the slave trade from bypassing Rowan, 
he ranges farther afield than ever, looking for trains to 
strike and slaves to free. He will not accept one who 
adheres to the laws of Rowan in letter as well as spirit, 
one who was the scion of a great slave-trading family not 
so long ago."
    Rai's lips narrowed for a moment before relaxing, not 
least because Herran's speech contained several insults. 
He did not respond to any of them beyond that small 
gesture, unless a certain tightness in his voice could be 
counted. "My lord, I would have wished for a better 
answer. But I think you are right, and are, at the least, 
being honest with me."
    "I am," said Herran, bluntly again. "Keren's foster 
brother, Sodiest Lafoxbane, has, several times, associated 
with your daughter socially, and you might ask if she 
fancies him."
    Rai tilted his head. "His blood is unimpeachable, of 
course. But Keren's is rather more so. He is the grandson 
of Eleriad, after all," he finished, in the tones of one 
making an indisputable point. He named Eleriad Deerfriend, 
who had been Lady of Rowan and the greatest Councilmaster 
in memory, until she had died in the War of Acceptance 
against the humans.
    "And Alicalor is her son," Herran retorted. "That has 
not saved him. Look at what he has become, my lord, and 
tell me that it does not cause you to turn your eyes aside 
in shame."
    Rai's eyes turned aside even as he spoke. He grimaced, 
shrugged, and said, "I wanted your honest opinion, and you 
have given it to me."
    "Good," said Herran, and turned away, waiting until 
Rai was out of the room before he grasped the ward and 
spoke the word that commanded it, the name of a dead 
friend. "Helena."
    There was a brilliant, sparkling burst of light, and 
blue brilliance surrounded them, filled the world. Herran 
felt himself moving, though he stood still; flying through 
space and falling at the same time. 
    Then with a shuddering jolt, the world came back into 
focus around him, and he stood on the grass of the Guards' 
compound just inside the Swan Gate of Rowan.
    He ignored the immediate convergence of the Guards on 
them for a moment to look at Daemon, whose diamond eyes 
were narrowed slightly. The Councilmaster, with his 
people's facility for sensing emotion, could feel the pain 
around him, harder and crueler than the jewels those eyes 
resembled. "I am sorry," he said. "I would not have made 
her name the trigger, had I thought about it."
    Daemon shook his head. "It was not you who caused her 
death, my lord," he said simply. "I remember who it was."
    He fell silent, but Herran could hear the words that 
he did not speak. He remembered every day of his life. And 
every day of his life, he lived in quiet knowledge of the 
vengeance he would someday take, all the sweeter for the 
wait.
    Herran admired and respected that patience in him, a 
quality that he possessed himself, and that almost no one 
else could understand.
    Then the Guards arrived, and began to fuss around him 
at once. He was less important to them as the 
Councilmaster than he was as the husband of their Captain, 
because their first loyalty was to her rather than the 
Council. All of them objected in turn when he objected to 
the coddling they offered him, saying that Tandra would 
kill them one by one if he was hurt while on ground under 
their patrol.
    Herran always laughed it off, but there were days when 
he believed it.
    This was not one of them, though. Whatever news Tandra 
had called him here to receive, it was joyous, he thought 
as he saw the smile on her face. She was striding through 
the crowd to reach him, the Guards parting before her as 
the air parts before a dragon in flight.
    Herran could not help smiling as he looked at her; he 
never could, not since their wedding. Angry, mournful, 
elated, or in love, every expression on her face was the 
reflection of a spirit as pure in essence as silver, as 
untouched and unsullied. It was for that that he loved 
her, he thought as she reached him and they embraced 
briefly but intently.
    "What is it, love?" he breathed into her ear, and she 
rewarded him with a smile that he could feel as her lips 
moved gently over his face. When she stepped back, she did 
not leave the circle of his arms, instead staring at him 
and continuing to smile.
    "Well?" he prompted, expecting to hear that perhaps 
one of the outlaw leaders who harried Rowan, leaders 
Tandra had been tracking almost as long as she had been 
Captain, had been brought down at last.
    She shook her head, and then laughed and buried her 
head in his chest. Her orange hair mingled with his gold 
while she murmured words he could not believe at first, so 
desperately did he want them to be true.
    He caught her chin in one hand. "What?"
    "You heard me, Herran." Her smile widened, and her 
eyes sparkled with a joy that he had never seen before. "I 
am pregnant."
    The Guards, who seemed to have known or suspected 
something like this already and had been fighting back 
smiles, burst into laughter. Herran was sure that it was 
the look on his face that was causing it, or the way that 
he promptly hugged her again, letting some of the love 
that they shared only in private out into the open.
    "How long?" he breathed, again into her hair. He could 
not gather the strength to lift his head or raise his 
voice to a louder pitch.
    Her arms curved around his waist, tight and smug, just 
like her voice. "A month," she said. "Or two dances. I can 
feel our child's mind. That can happen between two and 
three dances."
    "Tandra," said Herran again, knowing at once when they 
must have conceived the child. A brilliant, star-stricken 
night, when they had had nothing else on their minds for 
once, and it had not been a night stolen from duty. "I- am 
happy."
    She smiled at him, knowing the profound joy those 
simple words hid, though she was not so sensitive to 
emotions as he. She raised a hand and gently caressed his 
cheek, continuing to smile into his eyes. "I cannot tell- 
male or female- at the moment," she continued. "It will 
take another few months before that becomes apparent."
    "I do not care."
    Tandra chuckled. "I know."
    The radiance shining from her eyes was also in her 
voice, and Herran thought it no wonder. She had once told 
him that nothing would ever give her as much joy as 
holding a child of her own blood in her arms, and so many 
things had seemed to prevent that for so long- not least 
the danger they faced every day, and a vow, now long- 
forgotten, that Herran had sworn to never wed- that the 
exaltation of this moment would be heightened.
    Herran at last looked up from the private joy he and 
his wife shared to notice Daemon's sincere and wide smile. 
"Congratulations, my lady," he said, extending his hand to 
Tandra, who clasped it as one warrior would take another 
warrior's hand and murmured her thanks. He turned his eyes 
on his lord. "My lord."
    "Thank you," Herran said in return. He closed his eyes 
and laughed then, not caring who heard. By all the stars, 
he had not known that he could ever know this much joy, 
nor this much peace.
    The Guards closed around Tandra then, almost tearing 
her from his arms in their eagerness to ask her what the 
child's mind felt like, to try reaching it for themselves, 
to offer remedies that would ease the pain of pregnancy, 
and to tease her about everything from being unable to 
tell if she carried a son or daughter to names for the 
child when it was born. Herran knew that the serious 
expression on Tandra's face as she considered some of 
their truly horrible concoctions was only for the benefit 
of her followers. At least, he hoped so.
    "You could name her Chemilli," Daemon offered at his 
shoulder.
    Herran darted a mock glare at him, and received a 
hesitant look in return, as though his guard, having dared 
to make the joke, now feared it would be turned back on 
him. Herran shook his head and reassured him with a smile 
that it was all right to joke about it, though once he 
would have found the words so painful that he could hardly 
draw breath.
    Yes, they had indeed all changed.
    "What makes you so sure that we will have a daughter?" 
he asked instead, changing the subject.
    "I am not certain, of course," said Daemon, in that 
same tone, the only difference from his normal one being 
the gleam in his eyes. "But I would certainly hope that 
the Captain would bear a daughter with all her glory and 
grace and strength, rather than a son, who would be more 
likely to share the unfortunate attributes of his father."
    Herran smiled. "And, of course, those attributes are 
so unfortunate that you would not be willing to let me 
cross the city by myself," he said, gently mocking the 
guard, who flushed and responded. It was a long moment 
before anyone, Guard or Councilmaster, looked up from the 
joking to note that someone else approached them, someone 
who had once belonged in the Guards' compound but had not 
for years now.
    Keesa Firehair.
    Herran narrowed his eyes as he contemplated her. 
Something was wrong, and it was not only the crystal gift, 
the way he had of reading someone else's emotions and 
pairing that with logic and knowledge to figure out what 
he would do next, telling him that. Keesa's face was 
flushed and hectic, as he had seen it before only in 
battle, but it was painfully obvious that she had not come 
here for that. She bore no weapon, and the silver chain 
around her neck that marked her as a Councilwoman of Rowan 
glittered in prominence on her tunic, where normally it 
was hidden beneath her shirt.
    She, like Rai, had once been his patrol comrade and 
friend, but that had changed with the end of the patrol 
and his alliance with the curalli, the shadowed Elwens, 
normally the mortal enemies of his people. Keesa hated the 
shadowed Elwens with a fierce, bitter hatred. She would 
not condone bringing them inside the gates of Rowan, as 
Herran was trying to do, or any of the other reforms that 
Herran put forward, which she was sure were all designed 
to advance that goal. She had voted against him almost 
from the beginning.
    And the fact that now she was looking at Tandra, whom 
she also had cause to hate...
    Keesa would have been Captain of the Guards had it not 
been for the fact that she had been Chosen to the Council. 
And that had come only after Tandra, the only Guard who 
had ever defeated her in battle, proved herself Keesa's 
better in other ways as well.
    Herran started to move, but he knew he was already too 
late, held away from his lady by the press of the crowd 
surrounding them. He could do noting but wait and watch 
for Keesa to issue her challenge.
    She did, bowing smoothly from the waist to Tandra, who 
regarded her with all the wariness that Herran could have 
hoped she would use, and then said in a loud voice, "My 
lady! I bear word of a challenge that I am sure you would 
like to hear of."
    "Speak," said Tandra. She had little patience for 
Keesa in the first place, and the Councilwoman not 
addressing her by her proper title would only deep and 
embitter the wound. 
    Keesa nodded, her violently red hair stirring around 
her shoulders. "My lady, I came here this morning because  
I heard that two of your Guards intend to kill you. I 
thought you should know."
    "Who?" Tandra said, in a voice that said she would not 
mistrust anyone without more proof than Keesa had offered.
    "My lady, I do not know." Keesa widened her eyes in a 
very bad innocent act. "If I knew, I would have arrested 
them myself and saved you the trouble." She paused, giving 
Tandra a sly look from lowered golden eyes. "Of course, 
tell me whom you suspect and I will still do so. My lady." 
Her eyes flared with a dangerous mixture of bloodlust and 
hilarity.
    Tandra's face closed. She would take the risk of 
looking like a reckless fool before her Guards before she 
would show any doubt of their faith, and Herran knew it. 
He could hear no hint of a lie in Keesa's voice, and he 
lifted his voice to cry out in warning.
    The words never made it past his lips.
    More swiftly than he would have thought they could 
move, three of the Guards standing near him broke away and 
surrounded him. As he was accompanied only by Daemon, they 
had no trouble doing so. One of them pressed his knife to 
Herran's throat, while the other two held longer blades 
out before them, pointed towards Tandra, able to reverse 
direction in a moment if his wife tried anything hasty.
    Keesa laughed softly, and almost drunkenly. Herran 
refused to look at her, or to show any fear to the man 
holding the knife at his throat. Surprise showed briefly, 
before a mask of indifference dropped and the man asked 
Tandra if she was willing to bargain for her husband's 
life.
    Tandra's voice was steady. "I will not bargain for 
anything. Let him go."
    "What assurance do we have that you will not kill us?" 
asked the speaker.
    "You do not," said Tandra, looking at him with an 
expressionless frankness that could have put the most 
fanatic practitioner of the Laws to shame. "You have 
served under me for two decades, Verinan. You should know 
that you will die from this, no matter what you do."
    "Only one Elwen need die out of this," said Verinan, 
unflinching. "And that is one I cannot imagine you would 
be anxious to keep alive, with the Lord Herran dead."
    Every muscle in Tandra's body locked tight. She did 
not move, slowly breathing in and out instead.
    "Tandra, love," said Herran quietly. A hasty move of 
any kind, a show of outrage, could be as deadly as her 
running in and trying to free him. "Please, listen to me. 
Do nothing. Stay still. I will be able to-"
    "No."
    The knife moved, from his throat to his brow. The man 
held it steady there as he said, "One more word from him, 
and I will drive it through here. It will not be a throat 
wound, that you might still save him from, but damage to 
the brain. And that will not be so easily healed as you 
think it might be."
    Herran closed his eyes. He did not have to test 
Verinan's resolve to know the same would be true if he 
tried mental communication with Tandra. He stayed still 
and silent, listening rather than looking. He did not 
think he could bear to see the look of torment on Tandra's 
face.
    "What is it you want?" she said at last.
    Herran was perhaps the only one there who would 
recognize that tone. She was not bargaining, not about to 
give in. She was delaying them while the final movements 
of a dance came to completion.
    She already had something planned.
    He smiled, though he did not think any of his captors, 
or the watchers, would know what to make of it. He was not 
dead, and she would not be forced to give anything up that 
she did not wish to give anything up. He knew her well 
enough to know that.
    He waited, in close-eyed, softly smiling confidence, 
for the answer.
    "You cannot fight to lead us if you are encumbered 
with a child," said Verinan flatly. "There are ways to rid 
yourself of it. Do so, Captain."
    "Why?"
    "You are our leader," said the man. His breath 
whispering across Herran's face was warm and not entirely 
steady, but it held none of the scents of wine or drugs 
that Herran had expected to find. The man's courage was 
his own, and Herran had to admire him for that despite the 
sheer sickness of what he was requesting. "You have to be 
willing and able to fight at any time, to lead us into 
war. That means that you cannot be pregnant. You must shed 
the burden of this child before it fatally encumbers you. 
We would kill your husband as well, so that never again 
could he get you with child, but we know that would 
destroy you. The loss of this child will not."
    She had a plan. Herran did not move, though there were 
things he could have done. This was a challenge to 
Tandra's direct authority, and she needed to settle such 
things for herself.
    "You know nothing," she said after a moment, her voice 
so thick with contempt that Herran would have thought her 
accusers would be gagged on it.
    "No, my lady," said Verinan. "We do not. We do not 
know why you should have chosen to tie yourself to husband 
and burden in your belly when you could have held glory 
among us. But we will end at least one of those burdens in 
this moment."
    "And how do you propose that I do this, without giving 
myself pain?"
    "Two ways," said Verinan. "There are drugs that we can 
provide you, or magic-"
    "No."
    Verinan paused a moment, then shrugged, but Herran 
thought he was taken aback. "Very well. Then fight us, 
until the child dies from the exertion. I have fought 
pregnant women before, and I know the places to strike, as 
do my fellows. That will give you pain, but one of us will 
grip your mind in the moment, and it will not be for 
long."
    "You suggest the death of my child will not cause me 
pain?" Tandra asked, and at the tone in her voice, Herran 
had to open his eyes, had to look at her. She was grave 
and straight, seeming almost too slender for the authority 
she bore, her eyes gleaming like the sun on the end of a 
sword-blade. Her hair flamed as well, a brilliant beacon 
against white sky and silver snow.
    "I do not suggest that, lady." Verinan's voice was 
low, and, ridiculously, respectful. "But you chose this 
post knowing full well where the responsibilities lay. You 
knew what it meant. You knew that you would have to be 
ready for battle at any and all times. And, in a few 
months, you will not be able to battle, with this child 
growing inside you. Waiting to shed it will be dangerous. 
We waited only confirmation of the child's impending birth 
before we moved."
    "You want me to fight you."
    "Yes."
    "The three of you." Tandra's gaze rose to meet the 
eyes of the other two Guards, who dropped their heads in 
their haste to look away from her.
    "Yes."
    "Then I will," said Tandra quietly, and Herran knew 
that was her plan.
    For a moment, he wanted to cry out in wild, 
instinctive protest. Tandra would be hard-pressed to 
battle three, as any Elwen fighter would, and at least one 
of them was a psychic assaulter; Verinan had implied that 
when he suggested they could seize her mind. Tandra would 
be fighting powers of mental magic she did not understand, 
had never been exposed to.
    She would be doing it carrying their child, whose mind 
she could feel, whose loss could kill her.
    Herran forced himself, working against the pressure of 
lungs that literally did not want to move, to breathe. He 
could do this. He could trust her enough not to interfere, 
to suffer through this thinking she must know what she was 
doing or she would never be risking the life of the child 
she bore.
    She never would. He knew that. That could mean only 
that this plan had some contingency he could not know 
about it, that would prevent the battle from being a risk 
to the child.
    But plans could always go wrong.
    No. He would not think that. He breathed, forced lungs 
to move and chest to heave, forced himself to think of the 
strength present in her face and form, in the nimble hands 
that pulled her blade from her belt and swung it in a 
dizzyingly deceptive arc, rather than the weakness 
symbolized by one point in her belly. He kept his eyes on 
her and her alone as they made him swear an oath on the 
stars not to interfere, and then moved forward, all three 
of them, to engage her.
    Keesa's hands were clasped, and her eyes were shining. 
Herran found himself disgusted. No matter how fascinating 
she found displays of swordsmanship, surely she could do 
more than feel bloodlust when the life of an unborn child 
was in danger?
    But it was not in danger. He had to keep reminding 
himself of that. He took his eyes back to Tandra and held 
them there.
    The sun was approaching noon, and though the light was 
not very bright at this time of year, especially compared 
to the pallor of the sky, it did outline everything in 
merciless brilliance, without shadows. Herran watched with 
nothing clouding his eyes as the four circled each other, 
their chests moving in slight, controlled rhythms and the 
light catching on the clouds of steam that drifted up 
before their faces.
    Herran closed his eyes and hoped quietly that it would 
be enough, then opened them again at the scream of steel 
and the startled curse from Verinan.
    Too swiftly to be seen, Tandra had leaped forward and 
snared the blade of his straight sword in her own slightly 
curving one, throwing her weight to the side and twisting. 
Her feet had remained perfectly braced, while Verinan had 
slipped in the wet slush that was all that remained of a 
light snowfall in the Guards' compound and fallen on his 
back. He glared, and gaped, at the swords poised in the 
air above him.
    Tandra gave him that frozen moment, and no more, and 
then twisted away again as the other two sprang at her 
like members of a wolf pack. They too slipped, falling a 
little short. Tandra whirled and kept her balance as she 
threw Verinan's sword at them, forcing them to duck.
    She did not fall.
    Moving slowly, gracefully, as though this were a dance 
and she would not give up her partner, she speared one of 
the men through the shoulder. He shouted something and 
convulsed, slipping to the ground and letting go of his 
sword to clasp the wound's spray of stinging, scalding 
silver blood.
    The other one came from behind, blade seeking to find 
a home in Tandra's spine.
    Tandra vaulted over the shoulder of the man in front 
of her, even though the motion tugged him down halfway 
through and brought her sprawling in the snow for the 
first time, belly up. Her opponent's sword still cut empty 
air, and she still came up wild-eyed, her hands spread and 
her snarl like that of a wild thing.
    Her rage exploded in flame that seared out of her in a 
blinding wave, searing the air and the sight of all those 
watching, and making snow leap and fall back from her in 
an enormous, hissing explosion.
    The man attacking her fell back, stunned. If he was 
the psychic assaulter, he would now be trying to reach 
through the pain of blinded eyes and burned face and hands 
to find his victim's mind. And through the tests he 
himself had endured when Quirrin had tried to introduce 
him to that particular discipline, before deciding at last 
that it was wrong for his spirit, Herran knew how hard it 
was to concentrate on the mental world with pain plaguing 
in the physical one.
    He looked at Verinan, who was climbing back to his 
feet, and retrieving his sword with a look of quiet, rapt 
fury in his eyes.
    This was not a trial, a test, or a demonstration. This 
was not even an attempt at making Tandra shed her child. 
This was an assassination attempt.
    He could only hope that she had recognized it as such, 
and that she would hold true to the rule that she had 
obeyed all her life so far, and which she drummed into her 
Guards the moment they joined her ranks: always fight as 
if it were to the death. You never know when it might be.
    He could feel the burning flare of anger and hatred 
slicing the air from Verinan's direction, and hoped the 
man would not think to use his own magic. The fact that he 
was coming up behind Tandra as she wounded the man on the 
ground further was worry enough in itself.
    But he had sworn by the stars and on pain of her 
displeasure not to interfere. He could not even shout 
warning. He only stood quiet and furious, more angry than 
worried, waiting for Tandra to realize the truth and the 
threat.
    She did.
    She spun like a cat whose tail has been stepped on, 
her hands wide and her face contorted. She lashed once 
with fire, and Verinan fell. But he had thought to shield 
his face with the sword's raised guard, and the guard at 
Tandra's feet with the sword-wound in his shoulder was 
trying to summon lightning, to aid his comrade who had not 
been blinded.
    They closed on her both at once, in a movement so neat 
they must have planned it. Still, Herran did not like to 
think what plan could have endured unchanged past the 
throes of magic and blind hatred. 
    And, more, to what power these men owed their loyalty.
    The lightning bolt did not hit Tandra, but it struck 
close enough to distract her, and warn her that one of her 
enemies possessed a dangerous command of his magic and 
enough disregard for the Laws to use it. While she turned 
to deal with him, Verinan sprang ahead, the sword held 
before him. Herran did not think that Tandra knew he was 
not blind.
    Held by trust and the oath, he stayed silent.
    She hated to be protected. She always insisted that 
she could handle her own defense.
    Now was the time to see if she was correct. Herran 
only hoped that her life would not be lost in the proving, 
especially if the proving was wrong.
    No, it could not be.
    Tandra leaped upward, just as he had seen her do in 
the fight that had led her to best Keesa and become the 
old Captain's choice to take over her post when she 
retired. She was not as far gone in madness and anger as 
she seemed. Folded to protect her belly from any strikes 
below, she struck down with her sword as Verinan moved 
below her.
    It was a perfect move, a perfect judgment of her 
opponent's momentum and speed.
    The sword took Verinan in the back of the neck, 
impelled by speed and gravity and Tandra's weight as she 
settled on the body of the collapsing man. He was dead in 
an instant, Herran knew. The sword blossomed out of a long 
tear in his chest on the other side that no Elwen could 
have possibly survived. Tandra knelt there for a moment, 
catching her breath.
    She could afford to. The other guards were, 
respectively, stumbling around moaning about blindness and 
the failure of trust, and pinned under Verinan's 
collapsing weight and about to go into shock or 
unconscious from loss of blood. She looked up at last, and 
her voice snapped against the soul of the man she had 
blinded like a whip against bare flesh.
    "Tell me what happened, Younor. Your life is forfeit 
already, but I would know what happened." Words as coldly 
perfect as her sword-blade. She had once told Herran that 
being like this horrified her, that she could not stand 
having to be so merciless even with her enemies, but being 
so meant that another challenge and another opportunity 
for lost mercy was that more unlikely to happen. Herran, 
who did not have even that strength and had spared more 
enemies than he could count, admired her for it."
    "My- my lady-" He was stammering, and forgot to call 
her by her proper title. Herran could see the flame in 
Tandra's eyes as she considered contesting this, and then 
let it pass.
    "What was it?"
    "My lady," said Younor, and stopped yet again. Tandra 
waited in motionless patience atop the corpse of a man who 
had tried to kill her, and the blinded Guard broke into 
babbling. "My lady, he convinced us that you were not the 
most worthy leader of the Guards, that there was one who 
would do better."
    "Really." Tandra did not even have to ask the name. It 
was a foregone conclusion that the man, sobbing now in 
grief and remorse even though he could shed no tears, 
would give it to her.
    "The Lady Keesa Firehair."
    Herran nearly snapped his neck, so swiftly did he turn 
to stare at Keesa, who shrugged and chuckled and spread 
her hands as if uncomfortable with the attention.
    "I think I was right," she said softly. "Any woman who 
would slay Guards who have served her loyally, who truly 
only moved against her because she is no longer fit for 
the post, does not deserve the post."
    Tandra turned and raked her with a gaze that made the 
Councilwoman flush and clap a hand to her belt, where no 
sword hung.
    "Be silent," said Tandra. "There are only two people 
here who know what it is like to decide life and death for 
others, and you are not one of them." Turning her back on 
the Councilwoman as if she had ceased to exist, she 
addressed Younor. "You told me freely, and are sorry for 
the abrogation of your loyalty. I am minded to let you 
live to undergo trial. We shall see if the Council will 
perhaps judge you more fairly."
    "No." Younor sank to his knees, bowing his head. "No, 
Captain. Execute me now. No Councilman could judge me any 
more fairly than you have done, and-" He lifted his head, 
turning eyes scarred blind in the direction of Keesa's 
scent and voice. "I would not have it said that I served 
the Council more than I have already."
    Keesa went more still than Herran would have expected 
at that statement, staring at him. But if Younor had 
something more to say, then it would die with him. He had 
already turned back to Tandra, and she had assumed that 
air that meant she would grant his request. There was a 
softening in her eyes for the first time. She might have 
less compassion than Herran did for those who had tried to 
kill her, but she admired, as he did, all truly honorable 
enemies.
    "Very well," she said, and then almost gently slid her 
sword through his throat, ending him in a manner less 
ceremonial but infinitely less painful than attempting to 
chop off his heart.
    He collapsed to the ground, an expression that was not 
quite a smile on his face. Death had taken him before he 
could fully form the smile. Tandra turned away from him, 
as quietly and thoroughly as if he had never existed, 
either, and looked at the man pinned beneath Verinan's 
corpse for a long moment. Herran could only guess at the 
private sadness in her eyes when she turned to look up at 
him.
    "My lord?"
    "Yes?" Herran said at once, moving to her, mindful of 
the need that she would have to clasp his wrist and make 
sure that he was real and unharmed. And she did do that, 
but only briefly, giving him a swift squeeze with that 
hand and then letting go.
    "Will you take this man- his name is Liraron, and I 
regret to say that I do not know his surname- to the 
Council building, and confine him there until he can speak 
to the Council in his trial?"
    "Of course." Herran bent to shove Verinan's burning 
corpse from Liraron's body, and Daemon helped him shoulder 
it. While the guard was helping to settle the weight, 
Herran felt another light clasp on his wrist, and looked 
up to see Tandra beaming down at him. 
    "Our child could not have a better father, or one more 
versed in the ways of trust and love," she said, softly 
enough that no one else could hear. Her hand gave him 
another soft squeeze, and she bent so that her hair swept 
his forehead in a gesture more intimate than a kiss.
    "Thank you," he said quietly, and then turned and 
stood to perform his own duty.
    "My lady," he said to Keesa. "You will come with me."
    "I have done nothing wrong," said Keesa. "You have the 
word of only a dying man, and a comment that could have 
meant anything from me-"
    Herran said nothing, only looked at her, but he did 
let down his emotional barriers enough that Keesa could 
feel the full force of his cold rage glowing through his 
pyrite eyes. Here, in this arena, he could gain justice 
for his family. The word burned in him as it had not done 
in centuries, since his mother and grandfather had fallen 
in battle and his father and grandmother had withdrawn 
beyond reach.
    This woman had tried to harm them.
    Keesa rocked back a step, and her face blanched. If he 
had screamed, shouted, even with his eyes, she would have 
answered; she knew all about the ways of burning tempers. 
But she did not know, and could not understand, the fury 
cold as steel that glowed in Herran's eyes and turned them 
to metal.
    "I will come," she said, in a flat and nerveless 
voice.
    "Good." Herran turned his back, and he and Daemon and 
the two prisoners began the transition back to the Council 
building, on foot this time, because four was too much for 
a ward to bear at once.
----------------------------------------------------------
    It had occurred simply to prove Daemon right, of 
course. Herran would not have put it past the guard to 
have arranged it himself, he thought with a small smile as 
he watched the cut clean a final time. The dagger that had 
struck him from one of the high balconies had been coated 
with poison, and one could never be too careful. 
    "I told you-"
    "That I can never cross the city without mishap," said 
Herran, finally giving way to laughter as he bound the cut 
with a clean strip of the bandages that he had on hand at 
all times. The cut was high on a shoulder, and would not, 
really, deeply inconvenience him. "I know. Are you sure 
this was not a training exercise?"
    Daemon was not amused. "My lord, we could not catch 
the one who threw the dagger."
    "Of course not." Herran remained amused, certain life 
was doing no more than pursue its normal course. Most of 
those who had tried to assassinate Rowan's Councilmaster 
down the years had gotten away.
    "My lord, this is not funny," said the guard, his 
diamond eyes wide and hard.
    "It is," said Herran. "You have at least shaken me out 
of the mood I was in this morning, if that is good enough. 
Now, leave me. I have things that I must do that will 
require privacy."
    Daemon stared at him. "Sleeping," he said flatly, and 
it was not a question.
    Herran shrugged. "There are more important things to 
do." All weariness had fled from him. With the shock of 
the attack, the joy of Tandra's news and her defeat of her 
attackers, and the importance of the two prisoners- one 
still unconscious in the cells, the other confined firmly 
but courteously to her quarters- he did indeed have more 
important things to do. Daemon would not approve of all of 
them, and that meant that Daemon did not need to know all 
of them.
    "My lord-"
    "Daemon," said Herran, in a tone the guard knew better 
than to question, before the guard could use a tone the 
Councilmaster could not question. His friend scowled and 
left the room more silently than wind.
    Herran waited until he felt the wards engage again on 
the door, sure proof that it was locked and no one was 
standing outside it, and then rose and went to his desk. 
The chair there was comfortable enough for his physical 
body while he went hunting with his mind.
    He reached out, finding the first man he was concerned 
with almost at once.
    ^My lord.^ The mental voice of the shadowed Elwen 
Master of Discipline came through his mind as both 
courteous and cautious. ^I had not thought to be speaking 
to you so soon.^
    ^So soon?^
    ^My daughter will be returning from Carmai soon, and I 
would like you to give her a formal welcome.^
    Herran smiled. This was a test of his strength, again. 
They were constant, part of the truth of having an 
alliance with the curalli. ^I will be honored to welcome 
her in every way I can, my lord. In fact, it will fit in 
rather nicely with one of my plans, one I intend to speak 
to you about.^
    ^Which is?^
    ^Concerning curalli coming into Rowan openly, without 
fear of persecution.^
    Silence, and then Kerlinde laughed, a sound with glee 
in it and yet not enough to give anything away. ^Have you 
taken the place of the Lady now, my lord? For, in truth, I 
do not see how you can weave such a miracle without being 
one of the dark starfolk.^
    ^I can do so,^ said Herran. ^Corandra's coming will 
give me the lever I need, if you will give your consent 
and she hers.^
    ^Free from persecution?^
    ^I do not know if it will be simply any shadowed 
Elwen. I will begin with small quotas of merchants to sell 
curalli products at first, and from that point on, I will 
take it as it shines.^
    ^My lord, you must at least have some dark starlight 
in your veins. Do tell me that you have curalli blood?^ 
Kerlinde asked, in what sounded like an honestly hopeful 
voice.
    Herran smiled. ^You would not want to think of such a 
one as I being land Elwen?^
    ^I am glad that you are my ally.^
    That was praise, for the curalli and given in such 
rare openness that Herran laughed.
    He swiftly sobered. ^Does this mean that you will 
represent my plan to the others? I would gather them in 
full council, but I am bound to stay here for now. The 
most bitter enemy of your kind's entrance into Rowan has 
endangered Tandra, and I think it will be some time before 
I am finished dealing with her.^
    ^Keesa Firehair?^
    ^Yes,^ said Herran, a little surprised. Keesa usually 
acted a little better in restraining her than to shout in 
public, and he had not realized that the reports he 
regularly gave the School Master of Council activity were 
detailed enough for him to sort out that one name as a 
threat above all the others.
    ^Then I understand,^ said Kerlinde. ^I will carry the 
message, and gladly, and I will make sure the others know 
who it is.^
    His voice carried some remnant of a private grief to 
settle with the Lady of Firehair, and Herran did not ask. 
He did not want to become embroiled in more things than he 
already was at the moment. ^Thank you, my lord. I will 
welcome your daughter when she comes.^
    ^Thank you.^
    And then he was gone, and Herran, shaking his head and 
smiling once more at how much a conversation with someone 
whose darkness was visible could reassure him, turned to 
the next problem.
    "Korredian."
    The commander of his personal guards, bound to him by 
a bloodvow as Daemon was, knocked on the door a few 
moments after the speaking of his name, but made no move 
to enter, listening through the door and the bond.
    "Go the cells, and fetch out the prisoner- Liraron- 
whom we captured today. Bring him here if he is awake. If 
he is not, then have the healers tend to him, and go for 
the Councilwoman Keesa Firehair."
    "My lord." A bow that Herran knew was there even if he 
could not see it though the door, and he was gone. Herran 
settled back to wait, wondering if it would help to have 
Tandra there, and then discarding the idea. He knew that 
it would not help, would cause her more pain and probably 
the Guard as well.
    He was somewhat relieved, therefore, when Korredian 
came back with Keesa instead of Liraron. He clapped the 
wards to stillness when the names were announced, and rose 
to his feet as she was led in, though not in any courtesy 
that she would mistake for the real thing. 
    Keesa smiled as she stepped inside and made a show of 
looking around, though she had seen the Councilmaster's 
offices more times than almost any other Council member, 
from the days when she had been a sometime ally. "These 
are much nicer than mine," she said, with a smile and a 
glance at Herran. "Let it never be said that you do not 
keep your comforts. Indeed, you do."
    Herran ignored the barb. He thought he knew what lay 
at the root of her strange, giddy, almost drunken 
behavior, and how to stop it. He leaned forward to her, 
motioning Korredian, a dark-haired, dark-eyed southerner, 
out of the room as he did so. The guard commander 
hesitated, and then went, seeming more than a little 
reluctant.
    "Wine?"
    "Please." Keesa smirked at him. "I would, if I am 
permitted, my lord, add to my earlier remark about your 
comforts. There are none that you neglect, including 
courtesy to a guest."
    "That has been a discomfort more often than not," said 
Herran, as he filled the wineglass with his own hands and 
held it out to her, noting the way her eyes flashed and 
widening in delight at the action. Oh, yes, he had read 
her correctly. "With you, for example, it will be so. I 
find that I cannot have much sympathy for the woman who 
attacked my wife and child."
    "You cannot prove that I had anything to do with it," 
said Keesa. "That man was accusing me because he believed 
it to be true, not because it necessarily was." She 
accepted the wineglass and started to sit down, and then 
realized that to do so would be to breach the courtesy 
Herran had established and offer him good opportunity to 
strike her with the poisoned barbs of his words. She could 
not sit as long as he remained standing. A faint, 
disconcerted look crossed her face, and then a happy 
smile. "Do you think that you can prove it?" she mused, 
sipping the wine and looking at him.
    She had learned to thrive on intrigue as she once had 
only on open warfare, Herran thought with a kind of 
distant pity, but that did not mean that she was any 
better at it. "My lady," he said with formal politeness, 
"I know the full scope of your ambitions."
    Keesa threw back her head and burst into peals of 
delighted laughter. "You do not!" she said, when she 
finished. "No one could know the full scope of them. You 
would kill me if you did know." She took another sip, 
smirking at him the while, openly taunting him.
    Herran raised his eyebrows and sat at last, she 
following him at once. Her legs must be more tired than 
they looked, he thought with a smile that he concealed at 
once. He knew the cause of their weakness, as well. "I 
would not," he said. "I kill no one who can serve the city 
of Rowan, even if that service is not originally what he 
or she thought it would be."
    "I serve the city of Rowan every waking moment," said 
Keesa, suddenly serious. "I would die in her defense. I 
would give my soul for her."
    "And that is where you falter," Herran murmured. "Even 
I would not give up that much. No Elwen should ever give 
up his or her soul."
    "Will you scorch me with your philosophy now?" Keesa 
looked at him with scorn. Her hand that held the wineglass 
shook a little, but she seemed unaware of that. She 
paused. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" she said with 
sudden suspicion.
    Herran laughed lightly and drank his own wine. "Are 
you satisfied now?"
    "Yes," she said, and then smiled at him. "Herran," she 
said soothingly. "It was just a joke that I meant to play 
on her. I did not know they would try to kill her. I 
approached the three who muttered the loudest and 
suggested they try the Captain's strength, in response to 
an insult she paid me a month ago. I did not know they 
would turn it into something more deadly than that, I 
swear," she repeated.
    Herran almost snorted. "A joke?" was all he said, 
raising his eyebrows again.
    "Yes, a joke."
    "A joke." With no change in expression, he was pinning 
her to the seat. "You threaten the lives of my wife and 
child, and tell me it was a joke?"
    Keesa blinked. She could have met hot rage, mocked him 
with her own temper until the conflict became armed 
violence, which she would win easily. Herran knew that, 
had seen it before. But she was unprepared to deal with 
the cold rage of his line, which all the Turnlongs back to 
the days of the first great one who had borne that name 
had possessed.
    "I would execute you," said Herran quietly, into the 
silence, "if I thought that Rowan could spare any Council 
member. I would do it, Keesa."
    Breath whistled through her lungs as she closed her 
eyes. "I know," she whispered. "I am sorry. I should not 
have used surrogates."
    "You wanted to see how well the Lady Tandra fought 
before challenging her to a duel," said Herran, in 
absolute quiet.
    Her golden eyes snapped open, searing him in their 
shock.
    "I am the Councilmaster of Rowan, Keesa," he said 
softly, holding her eyes and trying not to be amused at 
her expression, but failing quickly. "I do know the ways 
of the Game."
    Her expression turned at last to pure fear. "And what 
will you do should I challenge your wife to a duel?" she 
said softly.
    "Do it according to the accepted customs and rules, 
and I will do nothing," said Herran. "This is her choice, 
her decision to refuse it or not, to pay redress for the 
insult or not."
    "Her choice..."
    "Yes," said Herran, not liking the tone in her soft 
voice, but unable to disagree with it. It was indeed 
Tandra's choice. "Fight again with surrogates, or try to 
kill her, and I will do something that I would never have 
thought I could do to you before this moment."
    Her eyes narrowed, her head cocked, but she did not 
ask what the thing was, as almost anyone else would have 
done. Almost anyone else did not have her reckless 
courage, bordering on madness at times. "What has changed, 
Herran?"
    "You threatened the lives of my family, Keesa."
    Unnerved, she shivered and bowed her head, looking 
away from him. Herran smiled. She looked up to see the 
smile, and then away again with a sick, pale expression 
that made her look almost fragile.
    "I will see that smile in my nightmares from now on," 
she said faintly.
    "Good," said Herran gently. "As it should be. I wanted 
you to know, Keesa, that I will hunt you down and kill you 
like the mad animal you would be if you tried to harm my 
family again. But I would prefer to make sure that it does 
not happen again. Therefore, I will ask that you swear an 
oath on the stars before you leave this room. No more 
assassination attempts on her."
    Keesa looked up at him. "What means have you to make 
me swear this oath?"
    Herran said nothing, but merely waited. Keesa looked 
at him for long moments in growing uneasiness, but nothing 
happened. She made no move for a weapon, and neither did 
he.
    Then her eyes widened, and she clapped a hand to her 
belly, doubling over and cursing in a long, sobbing stream 
of dark words before the pain growing within her, ripping 
her bowels apart, possessed her completely and left her 
unable to speak.
    Herran spoke calmly into the shattering silence more 
frightening than a scream. "I did put a poison in the 
wine, Keesa. A two-part poison, one that I happen to have 
an immunity to." He studied her critically as she bent. "I 
do have the antidote. I will give it to you when you swear 
the oath never to harm my family."
    She tried to speak, fell silent.
    "The poison lodges in your bowels like a stone," said 
Herran, quietly. "Then it begins to grow. It will rip its 
way through your belly soon if you do not swear by the 
stars that you will never attack my wife and the child she 
carries again."
    Keesa opened her mouth in something that might have 
been a scream, a curse, agreement, or anything else. The 
pain overwhelmed her again, and she fell on the couch, 
writhing like a snake, her hands clasped over her belly. 
Sweat sheened her, ran down her face like rain or tears, 
and her mouth framed soundless, helpless movements that 
begged for help.
    "If the oath truly matters to you, then overcome the 
pain and speak it," said Herran. "That is the only way I 
will know that you mean it."
    Keesa tried, could not.
    Rowan's Councilmaster waited, cold, wrapped around by 
the blazing silent silver of his rage, wanting to make 
sure that Keesa knew the stakes. He would let her die 
before he would take the chance that his love would be 
attacked by assassins again, or in such a way that would 
make her lose the child.
    Keesa breathed quick and loud for a moment, then found 
her voice.
    "I swear- by the stars- to never start an attack for 
the precise purpose of killing your family."
    Herran rose leisurely to his feet, and tipped the wine 
in his glass down her throat, ignoring the way she fought 
him.
    Almost at once, as she swallowed, the spasms eased, 
and the nasty ripples of skin on her abdomen subsided. She 
doubled over for a long moment, even so, panting and 
glaring at him. Then she rose to her feet and raked sweaty 
red hair out of her eyes, not actually daring to meet his 
calm, cool gaze.
    "You- bastard."
    "In what way?"
    "The antidote was in your wine the entire time."
    Herran sighed. "No. It is the same poison. Ingesting 
one glass of it causes the symptoms that you experienced. 
Did you see me pour from a different carafe?" He paused, 
looked at her face locked in stubborn disbelief, and then 
shrugged. "I truly am immune to the poison, and it does 
not matter how much I drink. I gave you just a little 
more, and the pain subsided. I know that you will have a 
little discomfort for a few days, but after that it will 
truly be gone."
    "It is magical," said Keesa flatly. "It has to be."
    Herran met her gaze, and nodded.
    Keesa shivered, spat as if she could taste the wine 
upon her tongue, and then reeled to the door. Speaking 
harshly to the wood, she said, "You have convinced me. 
There is no way that I can threaten you, no way I can 
strike against you."
    "And you are not invulnerable," said Herran. "Find 
some way to break the oath, and I can kindle the pain in 
your belly again, more quickly than thinking. And as you 
do not know the name of the poison or even what this wine 
is called, you cannot find the other part of the poison in 
time to stop it."
    Keesa only stared at him for long moments before 
bowing her head and moving to the door, looking wearier 
and older than she had before this confrontation. Herran 
unlocked the wards for her and listened and felt as her 
footsteps faded.
    Then he turned his attention to the bloodvow 
connecting him to Korredian.
    "Yes, my lord?"
    Herran smiled. This was not telepathy. It sounded as 
if Korredian stood in the room with him, his voice 
speaking from empty air, though the Councilmaster would be 
the only one who could hear it. "The prisoner. Are the 
healers still tending him?"
    "Yes, my lord. He has lost more blood than was 
originally thought, and he may not live." Though there was 
no trace of worry for the man in Korredian's voice, the 
fact that he voiced such thoughts at all, mere 
assumptions, showed that he was concerned.
    Herran sighed. "I will come, if you think it will 
help-"
    "No, my lord," said Korredian. "I do not think it 
will. His spirit, the healers say, knows what it has done 
and is trying to flee from the shame of facing you. He 
will only flee further from the sound of your voice. The 
choice to return, if it is made at all, must be made on 
his own, without any outside influence."
    Herran nodded shortly, knowing Korredian would sense 
the movement even if he could not see it. "Very well. I 
have another task for you, the moment you feel you can be 
spared from the prisoner's bedside. I want a close watch 
kept over Lady Keesa."
    There was silence, and then Korredian said, "What of 
her guards, my lord? Keesa's own will sense any watch we 
put over her, at least for the moment. It pains me to 
admit it, but we are still training the recruits who 
replaced our soldiers from the last attack."
    Herran nodded, managing not to wince at the memory of 
the magical attack last dance that had killed nine of the 
bodyguards accompanying him. With his ability to sense 
magic, not unlike his ability to sense Rowanians, he had 
escaped, but they had insisted on defending him, and he 
had not been able to drag them away. "I understand. Call 
on the Prison guards working in my name if you must."
    "My lord, they grow more untrustworthy as time goes on 
and Quirrin has more chance of discovering them-"
    Herran interrupted again. "I know. But in this case, 
there is little choice. The Councilwoman was the one who 
persuaded the Guards to attack my wife, and while she 
claims it was a joke, I cannot help thinking it was a move 
in the Game. She now plans to challenge the Lady Tandra to 
a duel herself, and I cannot forbid either of them that. 
But I fear there may be more to it than that. I would like 
to know where she goes, and anyone unusual that she speaks 
to."
    "Of course, my lord. Should we set a protective watch 
over the Lady Tandra, as well?"
    "Her Guards will protect her well enough. And she 
would kill me if she knew that I was doing something like 
that," said Herran, faintly amused.
    His bloodsworn guard's silence was an answer, of 
sorts. Herran narrowed his eyes, and responded with a snap 
of authority that he rarely used in his voice, the kind 
Korredian could no more refuse than Daemon would. "No."
    "My lord, she deserves some kind of protection, as 
does your daughter-"
    "Daemon has infected you as well, I see."
    Korredian ignored his lord's acerbic humor. "If we 
place her under protection, all of us would sleep the 
easier, and she could not say the order came from you, 
because it would not."
    "I would know," said Herran. And here it was, an 
excess that he knew he should have curbed before now, save  
that there had been no such evident demonstration of its 
power before. "Besides, Korredian, need I remind you that 
the loyalty of the Councilmaster's personal guards is to 
Rowan and the office of the Councilmaster, not to the 
blood or the soul of the Councilmaster himself?"
    Silence.
    "Korredian..."
    "My loyalty is personal, my lord. I will fall on my 
sword if you command me to."
    Herran shook his head helplessly. Sometimes he thought 
the offer to do just that sprang from the same root as the 
knowledge that he would never command anyone who served 
him to do such a thing. "If you decide to do it, then be 
warned that I will not support you in the face of her 
anger. I cannot rule your actions as a free Elwen, but I 
will not support them."
    There was silence again, this time with a decidedly 
smug factor to it. Herran shook his head again and 
finished, "That will be all, Korredian."
    "Yes, my lord."
    The link finished, Herran hesitated, then closed his 
eyes. There really was no more pressing business for the 
moment, and he could feel weariness creeping back, slyly 
testing the edges of his endurance.
    Before it could claim him as helpless prey, he closed 
his eyes and fell into the darkness.
----------------------------------------------------------
    He was awakened by a frantic mental call from Tandra 
that he did not even question, instead standing and going 
to the ward, speaking Helena's name, and appearing at her 
side in a wash of blue light.
    The first thing he felt was Tandra's hand on his arm, 
clutching until she pressed tendon to bone and he grunted 
in pain, but the first thing he saw was Keesa's flushed, 
triumphant face.
    "You heard me, my lady," she said, her voice smooth 
with false honey. "You have heard the terms of my 
challenge, and you cannot refuse them."
    "Tandra, what-?" he began.
    His wife looked up at him, her eyes shining with fear 
for the first time he could remember, and said in a softly 
forceful voice, "The Lady Keesa Firehair has challenged me 
to an Arbleronwa."
    Herran's eyes snapped at once to Keesa, understanding 
why she had thought Tandra's factor of choice so important 
earlier.
    She had called her with the duel form that could not 
be refused; the very name meant "irrefutable." Tandra 
would be fighting, encumbered with their unborn child, and 
she had no choice about answering. He looked into Keesa's 
eyes, and found there the mad, open-mouthed, tongue- 
lolling laughter of a hyena, hungry for blood and the 
killing of helpless animals.
    "You see," she said, "the challenge is properly 
registered with the master torturer."
    Nothing could change it now.
    Herran knew the truth before he asked, but he looked 
into his wife's eyes, saw the despair and the need there, 
and asked in any case.
    She closed her eyes and answered without looking at 
him. "Bluedance. The first day of summer."
    When she would be six months pregnant, and utterly 
unable to fight.
    Herran looked back at Keesa. "I thought you incapable 
of playing the Game," he said, in grudging compliment that 
had nothing of admiration in it. "I was wrong." He snapped 
his head in a slow, small bow.
    "It is simple," said Keesa, eying him with the lazy 
enjoyment of a hyena closing on a downed and helpless 
animal. "The Captaincy will be vacant if she refuses, and 
vacant if she does not. Or her womb will be." She 
shrugged, tilted her head and made an expressive move with 
shoulders and eyebrows.
    "You do have the coldest heart of any Elwen I have 
met," said Tandra, her dignity restored.
    Keesa's face flushed in panic, and she turned and 
strode away without a word. Tandra looked puzzled for only 
a moment before the look in her eyes hardened, and she 
turned to look at him.
    "I will not give up." Her voice was polished iron. 
"Not either this child, this Captaincy, or this life. I 
promise you."
    Then she bowed her head. "But I will need help."
    Herran could do nothing but hold her, listen to her 
heartbeat and the heartbeat of their unborn child, and 
nod.
    Burning in his own heart, though, was a cold star.
    Keesa did not know what she had awakened.




                        Chapter 2
                   Student And Teacher
    "Rekwa'ticaticyu tasadal faithan." (You cannot cage a 
dragon forever).
    -Elwen Proverb.

    Herran met Keren's eyes. "You would not object to 
doing this for me, then?" he asked, studying the younger 
Elwen closely. Keren was only nearing his sixth hundredth 
year, but he was already as reckless as only an older 
Elwen with far more experience would have a right to be. 
Herran hated to ask this of him, as it would add to the 
risk, but if he was willing...
    "Of course not," said Keren. "You have given me too 
much, my lord, for me to ever object." He made a small 
gesture, and the fire burning in the hearth sprang up 
again. He seemed to delight in using emotional magic even 
when it was not necessary, when he could have easily let 
the fire die down, as neither one of them was cold. He 
looked back at Herran, the firelight catching on the 
unusual gold flecks scattered through his black eyes like 
suns glowing in space. "I would be honored to do this 
thing for you."
    "If you are sure..."
    "I am," Keren cut in briskly. "It is the kind of work 
for which I was born."
    Herran smiled. Only Keren could make that sound like 
something more than a declaration of blind faith in fate, 
and more like a declaration of blind faith in himself. 
"Thank you, my friend. The debts that I owe seem to 
continue increasing."
    "Well, yes," Keren agreed with a sudden smile that 
could have been called impish by someone less generous 
than Herran was inclined to be with the young Deerfriend 
heir. "Killing the slave trade near Rowan deprived me of 
the pleasure of killing slavers, for example."
    "You were supposed to be killing for justice, not for 
sport."
    "They scream so entertainingly." Wildfire glowed in 
the dark-bright eyes for a moment before they vanished as 
he bowed his head in mock humility. "I was having fun 
whether or not I wished to have it."
    "I see."
    Herran would have said something else, to move the 
conversation in a more normal direction- they rarely got a 
chance to speak these days, as Herran had his duties and 
Keren had his raids far from Rowan- when the door opened, 
and a man that Herran had known too well ever to like 
stepped into the room.
    Herran regarded him with steady pity. Alicalor 
Deerfriend, once a hero of the war against the humans and 
a member of the Council who had served with quiet and 
steady dignity even if he had been unable to assume the 
Councilmaster's seat, now was little more than a man 
bewildered by his children and trying to tend the 
Deerfriend lands with an appalling lack of competence, 
immersed in studying how to control the earth magic rather 
than actually controlling it.
    Keren turned, casually, seeming to think it might be 
one of his sisters or his mother, with whom he was on 
fairly good, if shaky, terms. He saw the man within the 
door and coiled at once, his lips peeling back from his 
teeth and his eyes darkening until the golden suns were 
almost swept under in a flood of rage. The air turned 
thick and hot with the hatred that flowed between father 
and son.
    Alicalor, with hair and eyes the color of his son's 
but without anything like the spirit that animated Keren's 
features and made him the object of some envious comment 
among the Elwens his own age, reacted in much the same 
way. "Well," he said. "I thought that you would be far 
from here, chasing honest Elwens down and slaughtering 
them as you usually do."
    "And I thought you would be far from here," said 
Keren, "drinking and trying to understand why the earth 
refuses to obey you, drunken sot that you usually are." 
His breath hissed between his teeth, quickening, and his 
eyes darkened even further. His hands cramped on the arms 
of the chair and he looked as if he might spring forward, 
like a cat, to grip his father's throat in his teeth and 
tear it out.
    "My lords-"
    Alicalor spared Herran a disinterested glare, before 
returning his attention to his son. "I know that you are 
not too old for discipline."
    Herran looked back at Keren just in time to see the 
change begin.
    This change was one that he had never seen overcome 
the young Elwen before, though he had heard rumors of it 
and seen flashes once or twice. Keren's eyes were utterly 
black now, with no sign of gold, and his cheeks were the 
brilliant silver of his hair. He did not move; Herran 
could not hear him breathing or his heart beating. He 
stared at his father in unblinking silence, everything 
about him still.
    He would kill his father. He hovered on the brink of 
an explosion that would destroy him and Alicalor and 
everything in his path. Unstoppable as a natural disaster, 
he faced the father who had beaten him before until he 
almost died and had permanent scars and badly healed 
bones, and had confined him to his room for decades, and 
he stared.
    The rage coming from him was overwhelming, filling the 
room like thick black smoke.
    Herran remained still. There was nothing he could do, 
and not only because his duty as Councilmaster was to 
refrain from interfering in temviaq, blood feud between 
members of the same family. Any move he made was likely to 
trigger the wildfire.
    Keren took one deep breath, and then another. The fire 
in his eyes was awesome and utterly humbling to behold. He 
had more command of his gifts of emotional magic than even 
Herran, who had tried to obey the Laws forbidding its use 
at least a few times in his life. Keren could not obey 
them. He was not made, as he would say, to obey them. He 
could destroy them both, in this mood, without even moving 
a muscle.
    Which lent his enraged stillness all the more impact.
    Then he turned, rose to his feet, and went to the door 
of the room. He paused in the doorway, looking out the 
ladder that led from the belly of the stag that formed the 
Deerfriend home to the ground, and spoke in clipped tones 
that bore little relation to the voice most Elwens would 
have used in this situation.
    "Name Sodiest your heir if you like, father. I care 
not. Not any more." He did risk one glance over his 
shoulder that made Herran recoil, so certain was he that 
lightning would snap from those gold-flecked black eyes. 
Yes, he could see the gold flecks again, he realized with 
a strong rush of relief. "There is nothing that you can to 
do to hurt me any more."
    He began to climb down the ladder to the ground, his 
movements the quick and sure ones he had perfected 
climbing to the high ground for his raids.
    Alicalor stared after him for a moment before seeming 
to notice Herran's presence in the room. He stared, then 
flushed. "My lord," he said quietly. "Forgive me. I am 
afraid that my son sets the room afire no matter what I 
say or do." Exasperation glowed openly on a face more 
accustomed to the cool reserve of the Laws, and in front 
of one of those who had the power to bring him to trial 
for the breaking of those Laws, further evidence of just 
how upset he was.
    "I require no apology for his behavior, my lord," said 
Herran quietly.
    It took Alicalor only a moment to grasp the 
implications. No matter that he stank of wine; he was 
still a Councilman, and no stranger to the Game. His face 
drained of blood. "My lord?" he whispered, as he took a 
seat on the couch across from Herran, avoiding the place 
where his son had been sitting by design more unconscious 
than conscious, Herran was sure.
    "I have heard nothing of any arrangement being made to 
leave the Deerfriend lands to someone not of Deerfriend 
blood," said Herran softly.
    "The Councilmaster cannot-"
    "Interfere in inheritance," said Herran. "Of course 
not. But I speak to you now not as a Councilmaster, but as 
another lord of the high blood, and one who knows what 
rewards the link to the earth promises, as well as the 
price that it exacts. Why do you think that the lands will 
not welcome Keren? He has a strong share of the earth 
magic, as well as a natural talent for leadership." He had 
seen the way both trees and Elwens bent towards the young 
Deerfriend no matter where he walked.
    "I cannot leave the lands to one who does not want 
them," said Alicalor, with a sudden and rare flash of 
honest bitterness.
    All Herran could do was stare at him, wondering if 
Keren's objections were the same as his own and wishing 
that his father had been forced to acknowledge his own 
protests as it seemed that Alicalor was forced to 
acknowledge his son's.
    "He does not," said Alicalor, bowing his head. "The 
earth magic is not like any other form of power, as well 
you know. Here, desire not to wield it will only interfere 
with the smooth progression of everyday life, instead of 
setting necessary checks on the power. I know that much, 
even if I cannot wield it so well and have never really 
felt anything but desire for it."
    "Yes..."
    "And Keren desires his freedom and his fire," said 
Alicalor. Wine forcing him to honesty or not, Herran 
sensed that he was hearing the truth. "What can I do, in 
truth, but let him go? He promises no threat to the lands, 
and no threat can compel him. And he cannot be tied with 
bonds of guilt, as I know that your father tied you, and 
neither with bonds of compassion. All his compassion is 
given to the plight of slaves and others who have had 
their freedom reft away from them, and he does not know 
the meaning or name of guilt."
    Herran closed his eyes and shuddered. That last 
sentence did bear something dark, something more akin to 
the side of the man he knew: what kind of man would 
actually wish his son to learn to suffer pain and guilt, 
simply to prove a point?
    "And your daughters?" he asked, quietly and pointedly. 
If Alicalor would not be made to see sense in the matter 
of his son- that only kindness in turn could bring him to 
kindness, that matching fire with fire only worsened the 
matter- then there was nothing else he could do.
    "Lomona has too much power as a mage, and the people 
would never accept her." Alicalor fell silent, biting his 
lip and staring out the window, his hand clenching as if 
on a flask that was not there, as if he would raise it to 
his lips.
    "And Kalupa?"
    Alicalor shook his head violently.
    "Why not?"
    Alicalor closed his eyes in torment. "Because she is 
too much like her grandmother," he whispered in anguish. 
"She must serve on the Council, or she will never be 
happy. And I love her too much to not let her go to the 
one thing that will make her happy."
    "But you do not care that much about your son."
    Alicalor's head jerked up at his merciless words, the 
black-gold eyes flying wide. "What makes him happy is fire 
and destruction!"
    "No," said Herran softly. "What makes him happy is 
fighting, my lord, and I think we can all be grateful that 
he has chosen to turn his anger against a deserving 
target."
    "Deserving? Many of those who died were innocent 
merchants or guards, only on the trip to deliver the cargo 
or safeguard it-"
    Herran said nothing, but some shift in his eyes or 
stance, or even the emotions flowing from him that 
Alicalor's dampened senses must have picked up, reminded 
the former Councilman that this was the Councilmaster who 
had ended all slavery in the area by main force, and 
started a war with the southern city of Palm over this 
very issue.
    He bowed his head, swallowed hard, and put his hands 
over his face.
    On the wake of the words he had just spoken, another 
young man came into the room.
    Herran glared at him. This was Sodiest Lafoxbane, 
Keren's hated foster brother and the admitted probable 
heir of Alicalor Deerfriend. The calm, glossy black eyes, 
the pulled-back, severely-bound purple hair, and the 
completely emotionless features represented everything 
that Keren hated about the Laws, and had come to represent 
much the same thing to Herran as well. Though his hatred 
was not as intensely personal as his friend's, he had 
taken too much delight in seeing Keren defeat Sodiest- 
several times- in sword-dances before the whole of Rowan 
for it not to be hatred.
    Sodiest paused, staring at him, and then told his 
foster father, "My lord, I will be going to the market 
shortly. Is there anything I should bring back, anything 
that would be of use?"
    "Parchment, ink, and dried fruit," said Alicalor in 
disinterest, his head still bowed.
    Sodiest took a moment to study Herran, his head tilted 
to one side, and in that time yet another member of the 
Deerfriend family entered the room. Though he had only 
seen her a few times before and had never been introduced, 
Herran knew this had to be Kalupa Deerfriend. Her face was 
too open and friendly to be her emotionless sister 
Lomona's, and Lomona was said to have hair the color of 
the sunlight she was named for besides. This woman's hair 
was silver, her eyes the soft color of rowan berries.