Glory To Behold
                         Prologue
             926, Age of Ascent, Late Spring
    Herran Turnlong shook his head. "No, my lord. Healing 
even a crack is not such a simple matter. It takes time, 
and patience, and a dedication to making that, at least in 
mind if not in heart, one's primary goal."
    His visitor sighed and shifted in his seat, though 
Herran thought it was unlikely he was finding it 
uncomfortable. "It is as I feared," he admitted. "My 
people are intent on reclaiming the Falchian Plains, but 
not as intent as a land Elwen can be, I fear."
    "You need not fear anything," Herran soothed him. "I 
am sure that your people are simply unused to wielding 
magic like this, and will learn in time."
    Elshar, Lord of Deathwield Klaina, and, through that, 
lord of most of the death Elwens who remained in the 
world, smiled. "Kind words, my lord," he murmured, raising 
empty air to his lips. The real Elshar, wherever he was, 
was most likely drinking water or wine. This phantasm of 
himself that he had sent by means of the Altan to converse 
with Herran mimicked the original faithfully in almost all 
ways, though it did not convey the overpowering sense of 
awe that Herran knew he should be feeling in the presence 
of one of the most powerful mages on the continent. "I 
wish that I could believe them completely."
    "Someday your people will learn the earth magic, my 
lord," said Herran, "and completely. It merely takes 
time."
    Elshar nodded, and turned his head to look briefly 
around the room in which they sat, seemingly with the 
intention of changing the subject. His brilliant green 
eyes, burning like a cat's against his dark skin, fired as 
he gazed at some of the older books in the room. "Do you 
ever think that some of this knowledge could be unlocked 
and shared with the rest of the world, my lord?" he said 
in a soft voice. "No need to keep it locked away. I think 
some of the excesses of your people could be healed if you 
did something like that." Mischief flared in his eyes as 
he glanced at Herran.
    But behind the mischief was seriousness, and it was 
that that Herran answered. "My lord, I understand that 
there are books, especially of prophecies, that you keep 
locked away from all but the nobles of Deathwield Klaina, 
whom you trust to read and understand them."
    Elshar looked disconcerted. He made as if to ask how  
Herran had found that out, and then fell silent. He was 
not going to ask such an obvious question, and one that he 
knew Herran would not answer; he was a more skilled 
Gameplayer than that.
    Herran went ahead and told him. "I have magic of my 
own, my lord."
    Elshar bowed his head. "You must," he murmured, his 
eyes beginning to shine again. "Spies, most likely. It 
seems that I must root them out."
    Herran smiled. He had played the Game almost every day 
of his life for over two hundred years now- not nearly as 
long as Elshar had been playing it, of course, but long 
enough to teach him some tricks that not everyone knew. 
And especially not powerful mages, who sometimes thought 
that everything could be accomplished by magic alone.
    And he had an ally that he would defy anyone to 
defeat, when the proper mood took that ally and he 
actually helped him. Quirrin Shennalor, master torturer of 
Rowan and commander of her spies, for the most part, as 
well, could hide people in plain sight in the Klaina, or 
even turn a death Elwen.
    After a moment or two of staring at him, Elshar let it 
go. "I would be most interested if you would teach me the 
spell that holds this library away from the rest of the 
world in a world of its own," he said, again staring 
intently at the Councilmaster.
    Again, Herran had to refuse him, but at least this 
time the could do it honestly. "My lord, I am sorry. I did 
not establish this spell, and I do not know what it is. I 
only know how to enter."
    "Ah."
    They were silent for another moment or two. Meeting 
with Elshar, Herran did not feel as if he must play the 
Game, most of the time. He felt as though he were relaxing 
with someone who had no real interest in seizing Rowan 
away from him or harming her, mostly because his own lands 
lay on the other side of the continent. Paradoxically, he 
was also with someone as powerful as himself, who 
understood the peculiar burden of bearing power.
    Herran stiffened suddenly, and glanced over his 
shoulder.
    "What is it?" Elshar asked quietly, and a snake came 
from thin air to coil around his wrist. Even this mere 
sending could summon pure and powerful magic, and Herran 
pitied anyone trying to attack him.
    "I am not sure," said Herran quietly. "A ward just 
told me the spell surrounding the library has been 
breached, and yet it would also usually grant me a sight 
of the one who has managed to enter. There is none. That 
must mean that he moved very quickly away from the point 
of entry- faster than an Elwen should have been able to 
move." He stood, and snapped his fingers.
    One of the books on the shelf nearest him left that 
shelf and came to hover at his shoulders. It was a thick 
tome bound in gray leather, with no title on the spine, 
and smears of old blood on the pages.
    Herran started as a small shaped abruptly skimmed into  
his field of vision, and turned sharply towards it, 
thinking even as he did so that it was an arrow or dart 
and that he was too late.
    But it was not.
    It was a small bird, a dove perhaps, made of pure 
light. It hovered over him, wings fanning as hard as a 
real bird's would to keep it in place, and it uttered a 
soft chirp from the small, rounded beak. All the details 
were clear and foggy at once, showing as if through a mist 
and then fading away again.
    Herran lifted a hand, and it streaked down to crouch 
on his shoulder. Herran was uneasy having it there, but he 
had no choice. The messenger-bird would not deliver its 
message unless it was touching the one the message was 
destined for. And there could be little doubt that it was 
destined for him.
    Though how the sender had known of the library's 
existence was a mystery.
    The bird opened its mouth and began to sing. Herran 
knew he was the only one who could hear the words in that 
beautiful, chiming music. "My lord, this is a message from 
the Lady Omella Miadi, Councilmaster of the City of Palm. 
From her hand, greetings, this twenty-fourth day of 
Baimver, in the light of Takon and Lureth."
    The message had been written just a few hours ago... 
Herran inclined his head. "I am listening." The birds also 
required some sort of response.
    Inwardly, he wondered what could be so urgent. A 
request for help of some kind?
    "My lord," said the bird, "I accuse you of making an 
assault upon the freedom of all Free Ones, and I demand a 
reckoning and account for your actions."
    Herran almost choked. He had not heard the name "Free 
Ones" for his people in long years, and the fact that she 
used it now must be to make some kind of point, though he 
could not imagine what the point must be. "What is it you 
accuse me of?"
    "You have interfered with our right to traffic and 
trade as we wish, made an attempt to extend Rowan's power 
into areas that have never been hers, and acted as arbiter 
over the lesser races."
    Herran's eyes hardened. He was willing enough to admit 
that accusation was true, but that did not mean he was 
about to stop. Not when accused by someone he had never 
seen, who had not the slightest spark of Elwenity in her 
if she would try to stop this.
    "I will never rest until I have stopped our shameful 
traffic in slaves." His words were clipped and to the 
point. "I will never rest until the freedom is back in the 
world for the four-legged races, and other races of 
Elwens, and humans, as well as the Free Ones."
    "What care you for the fate of humans?"
    Herran hissed between his teeth and flung the dove 
into the air. "You have my answer," he told the hovering 
bird. "Go."
    It streaked away, turning into a nimbus of light.
    Elshar was staring at him curiously as he sat down 
again. "Bad news?"
    Herran's smiled grimly, and shook his head.




                        Chapter 1
                        Bluedance
         926, Age of Ascent, First Day of Summer
    "Contrary to the ramblings of many, it is possible to 
enjoy pure joy in this world. Dancing is a form of it..."
    -Found in Toa Yulimao Anderian, or The Wisdom of 
Anderian.

    "The Lord Herran Turnlong!"
    Herran rolled his eyes, even as he smiled. It had been 
ridiculous to think he could enter the hall unobserved and 
unremarked, but he had hoped...
    He shook his head and moved a little further in, 
nodding to those who nodded, bowing to those who bowed, 
returning every courtesy equally and not demanding it from 
those who looked inclined to protest.
    "My lord," said Daemon in his ear in protest, after he 
bowed very low to a drunken Councilwoman who merely stared 
at him sourly, swaying a little on her feet. "She will 
remember that in the morning."
    Herran turned his head to study the guard 
affectionately. "Only after the pounding has faded," he 
said calmly. "And even then she will think it a dream. She 
will never believe that the Councilmaster would sink to 
games of mockery so childishly simple."
    Daemon shook his head, his diamond eyes glowing with 
mild reproof, but he was smiling.
    Herran moved a little further into the hall, drawing 
smiles from most of those about him, mostly through the 
shoulders or over the heads of the ring of guards who 
moved with him in perfect harmony and balance. Only those 
who knew him best dared approach him, for they were the 
only ones the guards would part for, and no one wished the 
embarrassment of standing there as though they really were 
assassins with knives and not allowed to meet the 
Councilmaster.
    Herran did not wish such embarrassment for anyone, not 
this night of all nights.
    It was Bluedance, the first day of summer, the 
celebration of the turning of the sky from springtime 
green to summer blue. It was a joyous night, the only 
seasonal celebration at which wine would be encouraged to 
flow and lovers to find beds together. Herran's Games 
tonight would be tinged with that same edge of richness, 
and he did not plan on having to avoid assassins as part 
of them.
    The guards- both the ones who surrounded him and the 
ones who moved through and mingled with the crowd- did 
their work well. Daemon had only to snap his eyes at a 
young woman in a dark silver gown who was staring intently 
at Herran, and a young man in the dress of a minor family 
came to partner her, grinning and sweeping aside her 
protests even as he deftly took away the poisoned blade 
she had been concealing under the gown.
    And the young man who had been offering a glass of 
wine for the Councilmaster to try- well, he had not been 
offering it yet, but he had been glimpsed pouring 
something yellow and powdery into it- was accidentally 
jostled from two directions at once, one breaking the 
glass and the other taking the cerinya away from him. He 
clapped a hand to his side, found it gone, and went as 
pale as a ghost. He whirled around, staring, but he had 
never even seen the woman who struck him from behind. And 
the theft was not exactly one that he had cause to 
complain to the Councilmaster, or any of the relevant 
authorities, about.
    "My lord!"
    Coming towards him was someone Herran did know well, 
and the guards parted. Smiling in delight, Herran captured 
the Councilwoman's hand and bowed over it.
    "A pleasure, as always, my lady," he murmured.
    Keesa Firehair laughed. She was clad in a tunic and 
hosen of extremely deep green that showed off her 
extremely red hair like a flame burning deep in the middle 
of a forest. "Thank you," she said, dipping her head and 
peering up at him under her eyelashes. The gesture was a 
child's artless one, indicating that she had not used it 
often. Normally, she was as straightforward as the blade 
at her side, and refused to play Games of any kind. But 
she usually made an exception for Bluedance, and she was 
doing it yet again, it seemed. "You do flatter me too much 
sometimes."
    Herran smiled. "Nothing is too much for one of my 
oldest friends."
    Keesa smiled. "No, I would think not. Now, I really 
must move on."
    "So soon?" Herran asked, not having to fake his 
distress. He so rarely speak to Keesa without the 
constraints of one thing or another these days that he 
would have enjoyed talking about nothing at all, perhaps 
recalling memories of the days when they had patrolled 
together to keep Rowan's borders free from the threat of 
the shadowed Elwens.
    "Oh, there are others who are anxious to speak to you! 
I cannot take up so much of your time, when we know each 
other so well. And-" Keesa fell silent, staring pointedly 
at the betrothal collar around his neck.
    Herran chuckled under his breath. "I have not seen her 
yet this dance," he admitted.
    "She has seen you," said Keesa dryly. "And noted who 
you are with, I am sure."
    "She isn't like that, Keesa."
    "Then I am misreading the message in her dress," said 
Keesa in a fussy voice. "But I do not think I am. Women 
are more sensitive to the emotions of other women then a 
man can ever be." She patted Herran's arm, looking at him 
with what might have been an expression of pity. "I wish 
you good luck, my friend, and joy of the night."
    And she sailed away, her red hair and shockingly tall 
figure lost surprisingly quickly in the crowd.
    Herran shook his head, turning away from her 
retreating back to meet Daemon's eyes. "I am not sure 
exactly what she wanted," he confessed.
    Daemon smiled. "To speak with you, lord. But she knows 
that now is not the time or the place."
    "And why not?" The clear, cold voice came from not far 
away. Herran sighed and turned his head, making a little 
gesture for the guards, who were standing fast, to let the 
man through.
    "Rai."
    "Herran," said the man who had once been one of his 
closest friends, as well as Keesa's, using a lack of 
formality only because Herran had used it with him. His 
scarlet eyes were as calm, as steady, as without warmth, 
as his voice. His long white hair had been bound behind 
him in a mess of braids that rivaled the hair of most of 
the women in the room. Rai Leaflaughter's face was as 
still and smooth as always, the face of someone born into 
the Laws that forbade open expression of emotion in 
public, the Laws Herran had never been able to follow.
    That was what had ended their friendship, at the last. 
Rai loved Rowan. Herran loved the city, and, more, the 
vision of her he carried in his heart and head.
    "Was there something you wished to speak to me about?" 
Herran asked, taking care to make his face and tone as 
expressionless as Rai's when the Leaflaughter lord merely 
studied him and said nothing more.
    Rai shook his head. "I had thought that you wished to 
speak to someone about- old memories. Old days. I am here, 
if you wish to."
    Herran inclined his head, giving the shadow of a smile 
that was permitted at an unwitting irony. "For the past, 
always, you are there, my lord," he agreed.
    Rai was still for a moment. Herran rarely brought up 
their friendship. Then he made a short, sharp gesture, 
unusually violent for him, and turned away.
    "Excuse me, if you will, my lord. I should find my 
daughter."
    "Of course. Only right and proper."
    Rai would have glared if he knew how, Herran thought, 
but the Councilmaster firmly believed that he had been 
born with all his emotions chained inside of him. One more 
bow, and he began to move away into the crowd, his eyes 
and head moving in a restless search.
    "He won't have trouble finding his daughter," said 
Daemon in a low voice. "She's only ever in one place."
    "I know. Regrettable, though I suppose he would 
approve of him as a match for Lexia."
    "True."
    Herran stood watching Rai disappear for a few moments, 
and by the time he turned around again, someone he truly 
wished to see had come up to him. Herran felt his face 
relax at once. and he held out a hand.
    The guards had let Keren Deerfriend inside the 
protective ring to see him without having to be told. 
Everyone knew the young, rebellious son of the former 
Councilman Alicalor, most on sight- his shining silver 
hair and distinctive black-gold eyes marked him out- and 
knew that Herran trusted him with his life. Keren was 
dedicated to attacking slave caravans and killing the 
slavers, to the point where he risked his own life and 
called on the dubious allies he had made openly, without 
caring who noticed him.
    Herran admired such courage. He wished he had more of 
it himself.
    Keren looked a little askance at the men and women who 
surrounded the Councilmaster, then asked Herran if they 
could be trusted with a simple lift of his eyebrows. The 
Councilmaster, trying to control his amusement at the 
thought that Keren was beginning to care about such 
things. Once, he would have been so convinced of the 
righteousness of their cause that he would simply have 
started talking as thought no one in sight could possibly 
disagree with what he was saying.
    But there were some who did disagree...
    Herran felt his lips thin as he remembered Omella 
Miadi's message, and he almost missed the first eager 
words Keren babbled.
    "My lord, I think I have thought of a new way to take 
some of the slave caravans, or at least achieved it." His 
eyes shone. "It is less bloody than the other ways, which 
makes me think you would approve of it."
    Herran smiled. He disapproved of the killing of land 
Elwens by other land Elwens on principle, even though 
another part of him thought that the slavers deserved 
whatever they got. It was probably that part of him that 
the people like the Lady Miadi objected to, he thought 
with a small chuckle.
    "What way is this?"
    "The reputation that my band has achieved is 
sufficient now to send them running, in most cases, 
without a fight," said Keren simply. "Especially if I use 
the standard of my grandmother..."
    Herran's eyes widened. "I salute your cleverness, my 
friend," he said with a low bow. "The Running Stag was 
known for death in her time. And with her grandson known 
to stand for different things while having the same 
determination to win, by killing if need be..."
    "Exactly," said Keren with a happy smile. "Exactly. I 
can make them run, I think, and abandon the cages, while 
using the archers I employ to make them think there are 
more of us than there really are."
    "A variation on a patrol technique," said Herran, 
without thinking.
    "Is it?" Keren looked disappointed. "I thought it 
original."
    "It is, mostly," Herran reassured him. "We were always 
prepared to enter full battle when we used it, in case the 
bluff did not work."
    "I am, as well," Keren quickly assured him. "But- 
killing my own kind is beginning to pall." His gaze fell 
away, and his lips tightened. "I know that they deserve no 
better, that they stain the name of our race by remaining 
alive. But still, I would like there to be some other 
choice. I would like to leave them alive and let them 
consider the wisdom of their choices." His lips widened 
into a bright grin. "And to spread the glory and the 
terror of my name, of course."
    "Of course," Herran echoed, with a smile for the young 
Deerfriend. At times, he could seem as purely wildfire as 
Keesa was, without the complicated depths that most Elwens 
had. It was good to see him display a flash of doubt and 
rational thought now and again.
    But equally good to see him committed to his cause, 
Herran felt. There were not enough people who opposed the 
most barbaric crime that any Elwen could commit, in his 
opinion. Most of them seemed to feel that it had nothing 
to do with them, or else actually provided them money and 
some convenience, and Herran would have given much to see 
that attitude destroyed.
    Keren felt the same way, and to a man who had had many 
allies betray him or die because of him, that was somewhat 
comforting.
    Keren bowed suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "My lord, if 
you will excuse me...?" he said, a little too loudly, his 
eyes glaring over Herran's shoulder at someone approaching 
from behind.
    Herran could not help turning to see who it was, even 
though he knew Keren wished he would not. He saw a tall 
young woman with long silver hair and pale orange eyes the 
color of rowan berries. He did not know her, but she must 
be Keren's sister or cousin, by the Deerfriend look to her 
face.
    "Of course."
    Keren stalked over to meet the young woman, and they 
began a conversation in heated but lowered voices in which 
the name of Alicalor, the father whom Keren hated and 
despised, was the only understandable word. Shaking his 
head, and signaling his guards to follow him, Herran 
turned his back on the argument and walked away. It was 
really none of his business.
    So it went, brief meetings with both those who merely 
wanted to offer pleasantries and not discuss business on 
the night of Bluedance, and with those who saw this as the 
perfect time to discuss business. Herran received both 
with exquisite courtesy, and, by the time the stars were 
an hour from midnight, had sent a few more slave caravans 
to their dooms and heard several petitions from those who 
were wandering if they might Claim land from him or leave 
their own land to live on his. Herran granted almost all 
of those. He was in a generous mood tonight, and it had 
nothing to do with the fact that things, with the 
exception of Omella Miadi's mysterious message, had gone 
well for him lately.
    It had something to do with the subject of the fanfare 
that gusted through the hall sometime after midnight, 
though.
    Herran turned at once, not caring what eyes followed 
his movement. Everyone knew to whom he was betrothed now, 
who had given him the collar with the prancing dragon that 
he wore around his neck, and who wore a piece of his own 
soul forged by a darkness Elwen into the shape of a collar 
around her own neck.
    "The Lady Tandra Leafflower!"
    It was strange to hear her addressed by the courteous 
and generic title, and by her surname, when normally she 
kept herself beyond both....
    Herran's thought lost coherence when he saw her.
    Stars!
    She was beautiful. She was beyond beautiful. Something 
in his heart broke when he saw her. It was almost unfair 
that anything mortal should be this lovely, and he 
imagined that everyone who gazed on her was thinking the 
same, and that made him thrill with pride and rage, at the 
same time.
    She walked between her own complement of guards, most 
of whom she knew more intimately than he knew most of his. 
She was the Captain of the city Guards, after all, and 
they would spare no effort to protect the woman who had 
led them for just a little over a hundred years. The light 
flashed off the lifted blades around her, but it was 
nothing compared to the living starlight that had come to 
rest in her face.
    Part of it was the gown that she was clad in, of 
course, the white gown that bound her shoulders and fell 
shining to her hips, where it was gathered again and then 
fell outward again, into a shimmering train. White, 
trimmed with black, dark ribbons that complemented her 
eyes glimmering over her shoulders and around her bodice 
and edging her hips and arms. She wore the fierce, 
brilliant colors of the soul-collar well even with that; 
their casting of faint gold and green and blue and silver 
shoulders on her shoulders did not detract at all from the 
brilliance that was all her own. And a shining, simple 
pendant of onyx, with markings on it that he could not 
read from this distance, only made it all the better.
    Herran closed his eyes, and understood what Keesa had 
meant now. Tandra was clad like this for a very specific 
reason, and it might well be that she would be jealous of 
any woman near him, though...
    He opened his eyes and continued to look, unable to 
deny himself the sight of her for that long.
    Her burning orange hair fanned slightly as it flowed 
down her neck, not bound in a battle-braid for once. For a 
month or more she had been growing her hair out; now he 
knew why. Shining black ornaments were bound into that as 
well, like clouds against the sunset light, seeming simple 
disks of ebony from this distance, smaller cousins of the 
one she wore around her neck. They shimmered and gave off 
a faint sound, like bells but not quite, whenever she 
moved.
    And her eyes...
    Fire they were, and yet they did not burn, did not 
consume. Like the stars, he finally decided, though that 
was a compliment that every Elwen bard had given every man 
or woman loved as long as the stars had shone. Like the 
stars, that flared forever and yet did not go out until 
long beyond an Elwen lifetime, that burned without 
kindling and burned only themselves. Like the stars.
    And, like all Elwens since the stars had shone, he 
found himself drawn towards the starlight. He was walking 
towards her before he realized what he was doing, his hand 
held out.
    Her eyes were blazing as she regarded him, and he 
thought it was with her own glory until he reached her. 
Then she placed her hand in his, and whispered in his ear, 
"You are beautiful."
    Was he? At the moment, Herran could not even remember 
the colors that he had chosen to wear. He could not glance 
down to look, either. His eyes were all for her, drinking 
in the memory of her light and holding it fast. If he 
blinked, it might vanish, or at least not be the same, as 
no two patterns of cloud and star- and moonlight were 
never the same, night after night.
    "I love you," he said.
    Her smile flashed, radiant and teasing. "That is your 
first greeting, my lord? Not to wish me joy of the summer, 
not to mourn the death of the spring, not to commend me to 
the stars? Simply to tell me something I know already?"
    Herran intended some teasing comment in return, 
something about his changing the salutation if she was 
displeased by it, but he could not hold the expression. "I 
love you," he said again.
    Something moved in her eyes, and for a moment the 
glitter in her gaze was not all from starlight, or 
reflected light either. "The same, my lord," she 
whispered, her grip on his hand tightening as she leaned 
forward to kiss him chastely on the cheek, her hair 
swinging forward to strike him lightly on the face and 
hide her own. "The same."
    Herran raised her clasped hand to his lips and kissed 
her fingers, felt her shiver, and at last drew back. 
Tandra had told him this night would be special.
    He had not realized how much she meant that.
    He smiled at her and gestured to one of the far tables 
laden with wine, food, and desserts that he thought she 
might consent to eat this night, even though she had no 
great fondness for sweet things normally. "Would you like 
me to bring you something?"
    "I would rather walk with you."
    She took his arm, forcing her Guards to merge with his 
in one great circle that trailed them both, rather than 
leave either of them behind. Their eyes looked on each 
other's, and the journey to the tables seemed to take less 
time than Herran had thought it would, or should. He 
glanced reluctantly at the food, then decided that he 
could still have the fun of bringing her something to eat, 
even though he wanted nothing.
    He smiled into her eyes again. "What would you like, 
my lady?"
    Tandra paused a moment, and her lips curved as she 
stared at the tables. Then she said, "Well, I do not see 
the wine I would favor most here, but ar'dain would do, I 
think." She made a seemingly careless gesture at the rich 
red wine.
    Herran fetched a glass of wine, trying not to be 
amused at her words. The fact that her favorite wine was 
"not here" could only mean one thing.
    She wished they had glimmering blue cuivsi, the 
lovers' wine- it had another name, that one being from the 
southern lands where Tandra had been born, but Herran had 
long ago given up trying to remember it- with them, to 
drink and use to bind them together. Not that they needed 
to be bound together any more tightly than they already 
were, if half of what he thought he was feeling this night 
was real.
    And if she felt it as well.
    He turned around with the wine, meet her gaze, and 
decided there could be no doubt that she felt the same 
thing. He gave her the glass of wine, wrapping her fingers 
around it, and did not let go of her hand when the 
watching eyes would have dictated it would be politic to 
do so.
    "What are you doing?" she murmured, through lips still 
set in a smile. Or perhaps she really was smiling as she 
whispered. She freed her hand and took a long drink, red 
wine almost slopping onto the front of her white gown. 
Herran held his breath for a long moment. He would not 
like to see that ruined.
    But the danger was past, and she had asked him a 
question. He met her eyes squarely, smiled, and put a hand 
on her shoulder as he leaned over to whisper in her ear, 
absently feeling her shudder beneath his touch.
    "Do you see anyone else here obeying the Laws 
tonight?"
    "No, but-"
    "And they are not betrothed, only lovers," Herran 
continued inexorably. "We have the sanction of custom and 
tradition as well as our wills." He extended his hand to 
her, well-aware that she faltered in part because of what 
she saw in his eyes, and loving it. "I think that no one 
will care if we take this chance to say and do what we 
wish to say and do."
    For a moment, she was still, and he wondered if he was 
assuming too much from the way she was dressed and the 
things she had said in the days before this night. Then 
she nodded, and gave a small smile.
    And, reaching up, she loosed the chain of black disks 
from her hair.
    Herran caught his breath as it fell free, a gesture of 
trust that few who did not fight every day for the city's 
sake would understand. Tandra felt safe enough here with 
him to trust that someone would not grab her hair, wrap it 
around her throat, and try to strangle her with it.
    And, too, she was saying that this was something 
special for her, and that she wanted him to see her like 
this, as he never had before.
    "Tandra..." His breath stalled on her name.
    She smiled, finished the wine, and started to set the 
glass down, but one of the Guards, always willing 
servants, caught it. She smiled a thank=-you that might 
have made Herran jealous had he not known better, and then 
turned her eyes back to him, imperiously extending a hand 
for his.
    "My lord?"
    Herran reminded himself that he could breathe around 
her, that his lungs would still work. He lightly gripped 
her upper arms and led her out to dance to the music 
without a word being spoken.
    The music was light now, graceful, not really the kind 
of song that most Elwens would prefer to dance rather than 
listen to. But that was all right. In fact, it was just 
the kind of music that Herran wanted, giving him time to 
breathe in her scent and recover from the effects of her 
daring.
    And wonder at his own.
    Her sweet smile when he met her eyes told him that it 
was all right, but he could still hardly believe that he 
had done it. She had gone for years, they both had, with 
no more intimate gesture than a kiss. And those in 
themselves were powerful enough that he had thought 
himself content to wait, and her as well. He had thought 
that she did not desire any more.
    Desire.
    That was what burned and flamed in her eyes now, what 
he could feel with the full force of his awakened land 
Elwen senses, and which he could hardly believe that he 
had set burning.
    That she might desire him...
    He was what he was, and Tandra knew almost all of it. 
Knew of the Elwens who had died for him, knew that he had 
loved and the love had not ended happily, knew that at 
times his dedication to things like ending slavery and the 
Laws threatened to eclipse even his love for her. She knew 
it, and was willing to risk it, willing to love him 
because of it.
    In spite of it.
    He found his head bending, not for a kiss, but simply 
to study her the more closely, to make sure that a woman 
who was willing to take that risk was real. She smiled at 
him, the starlight in her eyes shining.
    Real.
    He touched the hand that rested on his shoulder, a 
gesture of hope and trust and love, and she responded with 
a smile that would have had him answering any question she 
asked in the next instant truthfully.
    And then she did ask him something.
    "Herran?"
    "What?"
    "I- can't tell, because I can't feel emotions as well 
as you can." Herr brow worked into a frown, as thought she 
would never have believed that that could bother her so 
much. "So, tell me. Are you feeling the same things that I 
am in this moment?"
    Herran stared at her. He could feel the burning pulse 
that emanated from her, like a great heartbeat of fire. 
Could she not feel the answer from him? How could she not 
know?
    But even the thought that she did know, and was just 
asking for reassurance, which was possible...
    He drew her in close, and placed a soft kiss on her 
brow. It was chaste, and yet it burned them both to the 
point where they gasped aloud. Herran shook his head, 
dazed, for a moment, and then said, "Do you feel the truth 
now?"
    He caught something hidden in her eyes before she 
nodded. She did know- she had probably known before she 
asked him the question- but she wanted and needed 
something else from him.
    She did want him to show her.
    Just for the fun that the showing would be for her. 
    For both of them, actually.
    Herran smiled and began to stroke the nearest, softest 
strands of her hair, those that framed her face and had 
not grown out as quickly as the others, idly. She looked 
up at him, and Herran smiled lazily and wound them a 
little more around his fingers.
    The touch was hardly present, but he knew she would 
feel it. Her eyes closed, and she murmured something that 
he could not hear.
    "What?"
    She shook her head, and, without opening her eyes, 
tilted her head so that he would go on stroking her hair 
with that feather-light touch.
    Herran did. Had she not known that his hand was there, 
he liked to think, she could not have told that it was. He 
was gentle, kissing the air as softly as he could with his 
fingertips, careful never to have a knot of it caught 
around his fingers when they changed direction suddenly.
    Her eyes fell open, and he saw something shining in 
their depths again, something new, before they closed 
again as if she were slipping into sleep.
    She had guessed at the slow seduction that he was 
performing for her.
    And she loved it.
    Herran smiled and stepped back, a little, allowing 
himself and Tandra time to breathe a little clean air and 
think about what they were doing. But Tandra's hand closed 
on his almost at once, and she pulled him back towards her 
with a small smile and a little flirtatious grin that said 
she was not ready to think about it, not yet. Her smile 
clouded the beginnings of the rational thought that was 
forming in his mind, and Herran found himself moving on to 
the next step of the seduction as though he had planned 
it, even though he had not.
    "I think that you are starlight tonight," he murmured 
in her ear.
    "Starlight?" There was a sound of surprise in her 
voice, but also of amusement, fascination. She did not yet 
know what he was doing with this movement of the Game, 
even though she could guess. 
    "Yes, starlight. Pure and burning radiance, clean and 
cool at the same time that you are warm, drawing all eyes 
to you and yet above every eye that gazes at you."
    She drew in a breath, and then said, "Not above all 
eyes."
    Herran amended his statement smoothly, but with what 
he knew was a certain arrogance. "Yes, I think that you 
are right. You are above almost all eyes, and the pair 
that can see you as you really are belong only to one 
man."
    "That is so," she sighed, her breathing quickening a 
little.
    Herran leaned forward to whisper in her ear, enjoying 
the way she jumped a little at first, and then settled it 
as if she had been expecting, even wanting, him to do it. 
"I have never known you to agree to anything so easily, my 
lady. If I did not know better, I would say that my 
flattery is winning you over."
    She pulled her head back, and black eyes ablaze and 
alive with passion found his and looked. "I think that you 
see the sense of flattery," she said, in a voice that was 
little short of a purr. "I think that you would do well to 
continue."
    "Really?" Herran asked in surprise that was largely 
pretended, though not all so, and pleasure that was pure 
and unfeigned.
    "Of course! You have a poet's tongue, and so seldom do 
you put it to its rightful use-"
    "I think that we disagree as to the nature of its 
rightful use, my lady."
    "What could be more rightful than speaking my name in 
the tones that you use when you want to flatter me, then 
speaking words that describe my face and my spirit in the 
terms of the stars, than-"
    "I can think of several more uses that may not be more 
rightful, my lady, but would, I should think, prove more 
interesting. At least, for me."
    He could feel a fit of trembling break out in her, 
even though he continued to hold only her upper arms, and 
drew her close, looping an arm around her shoulders and 
pulling her in until their bodies touched. "Are you cold?" 
he asked solicitously.
    "You know better than that, Herran." Her hands closed 
on his shoulders and tightened convulsively. "You have 
always known better than that."
    "Always?"
    "You planned this," she accused him. "You have always 
known what you could do to me if you really tried, if you 
really focused your attention on me."
    Herran was quiet. She would sense the lie if he agreed 
with her, but if he told the truth, she might be hurt. He 
sensed that, even though he did not really understand the 
reason why.
    "I love you," she sighed, leaning her head against his 
shoulder. "But it is very strange."
    At once, Herran stepped gently away from her. "If you 
would rather that I did not," he said, "I can understand 
that."
    "Did I say that I did not like it?" she murmured, 
pulling him back towards her at once. "It is just very 
strange, and now I think that it should not be. We should 
have done this more often. And now that we have made the 
decision to do so, I do not want you to stop. I would kill 
you if you did."
    Herran smiled, feeling fire flickering behind his eyes 
and in his smile. "Are you sure that you want to 
continue?" he asked, his voice deepening a little and his 
hand rising to skim across the delicate skin at the side 
of her head, near her temple.
    "I just said that."
    "All right."
    Tandra bristled a little at the amusement in his 
voice. "You have never flirted for that long before," she 
accused him. "How can you think that it will be that good, 
that I would ask you to stop?"
    "Remember that I am good at playing the Game. And 
flirting is another kind of Game."
    "Oh, really? If you think of it that way, then we are 
already treading the steps of the wrong dance."
    "No," said Herran. "I am not thinking of anything else 
this evening. This evening, Tandra, you are the object of 
my full admiration and attention."
    "You could make that sound dangerous," she murmured, 
hooding her eyes and staring up at him speculatively.
    "Of course," he said, a smile darting across his face, 
and it was self-satisfied despite all his attempts to 
prevent that. "I could make almost anything sound 
dangerous, Tandra, and I intend to remind you of that, as 
often as I am able."
    "A challenge." He could feel her eyes sparking without 
even meeting her gaze. "I do enjoy those, as you well 
know."
    "Why do you think I proposed it?" Herran spun her a 
short ways away from him, even though the song was a slow 
and rippling melody now that did not demand that of him. 
"I want you to enjoy yourself, Tandra. That is first on my 
list."
    "And second?"
    "My own pleasure." He smiled at her and saw her flush, 
just from the smile.
    "All right," she said faintly. "I accept that you can 
make dancing and words dangerous. But I am sure there are 
some things that you cannot turn into your own little 
flirting Game."
    "Name one."
    "I think- one of them would be-"
    "I am waiting."
    "Speaking my name."
    Herran started to protest that that would qualify as 
words, but then decided against it. If she was going to 
make it that easy, then he was not going to complain. This 
was one game, as in the real Game of intrigue and 
deception, that fairness did not matter.
    "Tandra."
    He saw her start, and stare at him. He had whispered 
it, but clearly enough that she could hear him, even 
though she now stood three feet away. She was looking at 
him as though trying to figure out what his purpose in 
saying it that normally was.
    "Tandra."
    To contrast with this way, of course.
    Her eyes softened and darkened, though it seemed that 
was not possible given their color and the dark flame of 
desire burning in them already, at the sound of his voice. 
She gasped a little, and Herran leaned forward, a serious 
expression on his face as though he was going to discuss 
Council business.
    She was the only one who would be able to see the 
sparkle in his eyes, which was meant only for her in any 
case.
    "Beloved," he whispered, and this time let his breath 
gust over her ear again.
    "Not- fair," she gasped, letting her eyes fall shut 
and her head fall back. "You are touching me, and that is 
not my name-"
    "Isn't it?" he asked her as he stepped back and let 
his fingers run down her arm to clasp her wrist, rather 
than simply letting go and then reclaiming it again, as 
anyone not trying to seduce her would have done, as he had 
done more times than he cared to count. "And who said 
anything about fair?"
    "I- Herran, I-"
    Her voice on his name was doing almost the same thing 
to him, but he was better at hiding his emotions from her 
than she was at hiding them from him, and as she had 
already admitted, her skill in reading emotions was less 
than his.
    "Shhhh," he murmured into her ear, his mouth lightly 
grazing it. "It's all right."
    He felt her shudder again, and pulled away, to stare 
into her eyes in amusement. "I never imagined that 
something I could say, or do, could affect you in this 
way," he murmured.
    "I would never have thought that you had that little 
imagination," she answered, opening her eyes again to 
stare at him.
    Herran smiled, more fully than he had anticipated 
doing this evening. What he had told her was true; he had 
come here hoping they could enjoy themselves, but he had 
not planned this out in advance. It was not something that 
could be planned out in advance. She had to show herself 
willing to be seduced.
    And she was.
    He could see that from the look in her eyes, and her 
flushed cheeks, almost as bright as the glittering blood 
that flowed in her veins or the glittering starlight in 
the skies, if nothing else.
    "Is there anything else that you would like to 
challenge me to do?" he asked, his hand slipping down to 
cradle her waist.
    "I suppose- getting another glass of wine for me would 
be- out of the question?"
    "I can do that," said Herran, and then gave her a low 
bow. "Though, of course, I dislike being away from you 
that long."
    "You mean it."
    "You know me, Tandra. How many times have I said 
things I did not mean?"
    For a moment, her eyes turned serious, and she said, 
"Every time that you called me beloved, and then did not 
follow through, did not give me the gifts that I was more 
than ready to receive."
    "Ah," said Herran, with a slight, second bow, "but  
then, I did not mean the name in the way that I thought I 
meant it, and that you thought I meant it. Now it is real, 
and I will never say anything that I do not mean to you 
again."
    He looked up, and added, in a gentle tone that he knew 
would disarm her completely, "Besides, is it my fault that 
the word did not mean what it should mean? Blame the 
language as it was constructed in the ancient days, when 
they did not dream that their children would give birth to 
a daughter like you."
    "And I do not even have to ask which aspect of me you 
mean, for I know that you mean all of them," she said, 
with a soft smile for him. 
    "Thank you for that glittering observation," he said, 
with another bow.
    "You are not the only one who can possess a poet's 
tongue when she puts her mind to it." Tandra turned away 
with a flourish of her hair. "Now, if you do not mind, you 
were going to fetch me a glass of wine?"
    Herran smiled at her back, and let his hand clasp her 
shoulder in what anyone else would have perceived as a 
clasp of comradeship and support, but which he knew would 
do something quite different to her. "Of course," he said, 
ignoring her soft gasp as if he could not hear it. He had 
long known what she would feel when he touched her- she 
could not conceal it from someone who could read emotions- 
but he had never thought that using it in the way he had 
dreamed of could be this effective.
    He wandered away, knowing that she had turned and was 
watching him. The knowledge affected him as well, but he 
was better about hiding it, as Tandra had all but accused 
him.
    He suspected that, when he returned, she would 
challenge him a little more, try to make that assertion a 
little less true than it was right at the moment.
    He fetched a glass of the rich red ar'dain- not one 
for himself, because he drank rarely and did not hold it 
well when he did- and turned to smile at the man who stood 
beside him.
    "There is a fine selection of wines here tonight, is 
there not?"
    The man blinked, a little disconcerted, and then 
smiled. He had pale violet eyes, pale cheeks, pale skin, 
pale almost everything, except perhaps his hair. That, 
Herran could not see because it was bound into place under 
a darker cowl that was traditional wear for men at 
Bluedance. Herran, though, was not wearing one, and 
neither were most of the other men.
    "Do I know you, my lord?" he asked. "I have the 
feeling that I should, but I do not."
    "Only as well as you would know anyone else you were 
planning to kill," said Herran in a conversational tone of 
voice.
    The man stared at him, showing no reaction either on 
his face or to Herran's emotional senses. "You must have 
me mistaken with someone else, my lord," he said, 
stammering badly. "I would never intend such a thing to 
you, if I only knew who you were."
    "I am sure that I could have you confused with a great 
deal many other people," said Herran, with a soft sigh. 
"There are so many others who wish to kill me- so many 
enemies- that I often lose track of them myself."
    "Enemies?"
    "Yes," said Herran. "Your act is very good, by the 
way, but I am very acquainted with the spell that permits 
you to lie without it being heard as a lie. I daresay that 
I could smell it fifteen feet away in a crowded room." 
Then he blinked and inclined his head with a smile of 
faint surprise. "In fact, I rather believe that I just 
did."
    The man's face was pale now, even though it was almost 
impossible to tell the difference from his normal 
coloration.
    "My- my lord?"
    "Yes, of course," said Herran, nodding. Then he looked 
down at the ar'dain in his hand. "And I rather believe 
that you just put something in my wine."
    Relief flooded the man's face as he was accused of a 
crime he could honestly deny. "My lord? I am not-"
    Herran staggered, tipping the glass to the floor in a 
shattering of sparkling shards and wine. "My fault," he 
said, and stooped to clean it up. The assassin stood there 
in bewilderment, watching him and not really knowing what 
to make of this.
    Or what to do about it.
    Herran gave him an answer to that.
    It was such a simple matter to palm a shard of glass 
that Herran was rather surprised that it was not more 
detectable by magic. Of course, the assassin would be 
wearing magic- or simply using his senses- to determine 
that his prey carried no steel blades. But he would not 
smell the bone blades that Herran wore in his boots.
    Or a shard of glass amidst all the rest.
    Herran reached across to the assassin's left ankle and 
cut the tendon with a casual movement. The man slumped 
forward, and the Lord of Rowan was there to catch him, and 
to soothe him as he tried to babble something. 
    "Oh, of course, the poor fellow, he's so drunk that he 
can't walk. Daemon, will you take charge of him?" he 
asked, calling the guard over.
    The assassin's face paled at the sight of Daemon's 
indigo hair and diamond eyes, recognizable features but 
not well-known ones, and that was the last clue that 
Herran needed about who had sent him.
    "My lord," said Daemon, and accepted his helpless, 
staggering burden with a small bow.
    "See that he reaches a safe place."
    "Of course."
    Herran fetched another glass of the red wine and made 
his way back across the floor towards Tandra, strutting a 
little, purely for enjoyment. 
    For her enjoyment, more particularly.
    "What is this?" she asked, when he showed her the 
blood-stained shard of glass as well as the glass that he 
had fetched for her.
    "A knife for you, my lady," he said, smiling into her 
eyes. "A gift."
    "A gift," she repeated in a flat voice, turning the 
shard over in her hands.
    "You have given me blades before," he said. "Am I not 
allowed to return the gesture?"
    "Herran-"
    "Of course I am," he said, folding her fingers 
delicately over the glass shard. "Keep it. I would like it 
if you did."
    She smiled at that, and tucked the thing away, and he 
knew that his guess had been correct. She was tired of his 
having all the fun or of having all the fun, one way or 
the other, depending on how one defined it. She was going 
to try the challenge, and he hoped that she would be up to 
it.
    "I would like to do things that you would like," she 
said, tilting her head to meet his eyes. "At least, more 
of them than I do do."
    "Want advice?" he asked, as he gave her the wine and 
brushed his fingers lightly across hers in a brief, 
skirling pattern before his hand returned to its rightful 
place in her hair.
    "Very much."
    "Just be here," he murmured into her ear. "Just be as 
you are. You are the most beautiful woman here, the most 
beautiful woman in the world, and you should never let 
anyone else tell you otherwise. That would please me, as 
well, if you would make and keep that promise." He smiled 
into her ear.
    "This isn't the Game, Herran."
    "I know." He drew away a little and smiled into her 
eyes. "I don't have to play it for Rowan's sake. Only for 
your own."
    "That wasn't what I meant," she said, lifting her 
hands until they rested on his shoulders, balancing even 
the glass of wine there."What I meant was that you do not 
have to win."
    "Either way this Game goes, it will mean winning for 
me," he said, with a smile that he knew would make her 
tremble. His crystal gift, his ability to combine his 
logic and his reading of emotions, was working now, and he 
knew what he had to do next. He lowered his head to give 
her another chaste kiss, but this time he gave it to her 
on the lips.
    He could count, could remember, all the times that he 
had kissed her there, and he knew she would try to make 
this one the least chaste of them all. But he pulled away 
the moment she did.
    "But I would like to try to win," he whispered, laying 
a hand across her mouth and smiling away her protests 
without even hearing them.
    "Try?"
    "Yes, of course," said Herran, and smiled at her 
again. His face was beginning to ache, but that hardly 
mattered; with all luck, it would hurt much more before 
this night was through. "That would mean that you were 
fighting back, of course."
    "Would it?"
    Herran saw something in her eyes that he had never 
seen before. Something glimmering brighter than, and then 
eclipsing, the light that had been burning in her eyes 
thus far. Something that told him she was resolving to use 
a different kind and different set of weapons than her 
beloved blades.
    Her hand came to rest on his cheek, half-curled, and 
then the fingers came to rest lightly on his betrothal 
collar and tugged.
    "Take it off."
    He blinked at her. His crystal gift had failed him. He 
could not tell what she was about to do.
    "Take it off."
    He saw the questions in her eyes that his hesitancy 
was beginning to form, and he did not want them to take 
root and bloom. He unhooked the collar from around his 
neck, unfastening the striking dragon of the clasp, and 
gave it to her.
    She took it, and smoothed the silver for a moment 
before marching towards the musicians, her stride firm and 
in no way hampered by the gown. Herran smiled. He had 
known that had to be less tight at the hips than it 
looked. Tandra would not tolerate anything that limited 
her ability to move.
    "Herran."
    Herran turned in surprise to see someone standing 
behind him he had not expected to see, given that she was 
a woman and Tandra had been driving all others out of his 
mind and area all evening.
    "This will not take more than a moment," said the 
Councilwoman Duanni, with an apologetic bow. "But I was 
wondering if you had heard the news about the dolphins in 
the River Acrad?" Her fingers touched the leaping dolphin 
that hung from one ear, an ornament that she wore almost 
all the time. Her changeable gray eyes sought Herran's, 
and she smiled.
    "Of course," said Herran. "They are approaching closer 
and closer to shore, with every day that passes. But I do 
not think that we need to fear them. That is only a silly 
superstition, that they are bad luck to ships."
    "Not only bad luck to ships, it is said, but to any 
Elwen who sees them."
    "Dolphins live for only a few years," said Herran, 
suddenly grave. "And do not remember much. What has been 
mere centuries for us has been lifetimes for them. I do 
not think that we need fear anything from them."
    "If you are sure..."
    "Duanni," said Herran gently. "It is not like you to 
doubt yourself."
    "Not myself," said Duanni. "But others are easier to 
doubt."
    Herran smiled. "I think we may safely welcome this 
one, this once. I do not think the flood will become an 
intrusion. If something happens, then we can do what we 
must. Recommend a hunt, retaliate in some way, do 
something. But I do not think the need for a punitive 
strike will become great."
    Duanni nodded, and then turned and drifted away before 
Tandra could notice her.
    Herran stared after her, frowning and shaking his 
head. He had known Duanni for almost forty years now, 
though only for the last twenty-eight or so had he known 
her well. He thought that she could never abandon her 
cause to bring other races- in this case, humans, or the 
half-human diplomat that the kingdom of Carmai had sent- 
inside the gates of Rowan.
    But what he told her was true. It had not even been a 
single Elwen generation since the great War of Acceptance 
between the Elwens and humans, but at least thirty-five 
generations of humans had been born, lived, borne their 
children, and died.
    He thought they could safely be invited inside Rowan, 
for all that they had tried to commit genocide on his 
people once.
    He turned to find Tandra beside him, and noted her 
smile almost at once, and thoughts of the things he had 
been thinking tumbled from his head. "What did you do?" he 
asked, gesturing to the musicians, at the same moment as 
she shook her head in a denial of answering any questions, 
and the harpist struck a single rippling chord from his 
instrument.
    Herran recognized the beginning of the song at once, 
and his eyes widened. He stared at Tandra, and she 
extended her hand, smiling at him, her eyes ablaze with a 
light that made his breath catch suddenly in his throat, 
and his hand rise slowly to take hers, moving as if of its 
own will.
    "I think," she said softly, "that we can play the 
parts well enough."
    "I think so, as well."
    "Good." Tandra inclined her head and smiled at him 
from the lowered lashes. "Though, as you said so 
eloquently earlier, all the praises our language can sing 
are not the equal of what we are."
    "You are arrogant."
    "Realistic," Tandra corrected, and then the sweeping 
notes of the song began, and those couples who wished to 
re-enact the old story began to rush onto the dance floor, 
and Tandra drew him along with her.
    It was the story of Ice Deerfriend, and his wife, Star 
Wester, and the tradition of the betrothal collar that 
together they had created.
    Herran was sure that he could remember all the words, 
but he so rarely sang, and when he did it was a private 
thing, usually shared only with Tandra, or, more often, 
with no one at all.      
    But he could trust her enough to sing in front of all 
these people, if she wanted him to.
    And he had to admit that his voice was better than 
hers, and yet she had dared to pick up the first notes, 
Star's part, and even sang them confidently, with barely 
noticeable tension.

    "Why do you assume that because you have slain
     The dragon that taught me the meaning of pain
     That you have a right to my freedom and heart?
     I chose long ago to be set apart."

    She looked expectantly at him, and Herran, after a 
moment's hesitation, took up the part of Ice, his rich, 
silvery voice surprising shocked looks from many of those 
who had not known that his grandmother's gift of song had 
been passed on to him.
    Or even that his grandmother had possessed a gift of 
song.

    "Do you assume that the dragon is dead,
     Flayed from his scales and from his head,
     Merely because I loved you, and decided to marry?
     My lady, that takes more pride than even I carry!"

    She smiled at him, and sang the next words, softly, in 
a descending scale.

    "I do not assume that, or assume anything.
     I now only that we stand in a charred ring
     Of trees that before the dragon came were green,
     And because of you again will be bright-seen."

    His turn.

    "Thank you, my lady, for that grudging praise,
     A reward on this most trying and endless of days.
     I ask for your heart if you give it; not as a price.
     There has already been too much of brave sacrifice."

    Their voices blended in the verses after that, 
wheeling around each other like the stars in the sky; when 
the other was singing, Tandra or Herran would hum 
wordlessly, sing softly, in the same language of joy that 
Elwens use to sing to the stars.
    No one else was even pretending to dance now.

    "I will give you my heart, but there must be a gift
     That will, as the dragon cannot, from the earth lift
     My grieving spirits. Vengeance is an empty thing.
     Or so I think, here in the ruined, burn‚d tree-ring."

    "My lady, there is nothing more sacred than mingling
     Elwen souls like the stars in the sky singing.
     And yet neither of us can sing now, empty as we are.
     Let us not lift our voices and call on the stars."

    "Then what are we to call upon? Something must be
     More sacred to us than starlight. Is it being free?
     Is surrendering something so precious and deep
     Worth the joining that into both souls will creep?"

    "My lady, it must be, or I think we are lost,
     For long ago my soul, like the glass-bonded frost,
     Became bound to yours, in strange shining places,
     Even as the frost, looking in, has ferns and faces."

    "Then let it be so, my lord, let it be then so!
     Let us join our souls, and forevermore as one go.
     And as sign of possession, no matter how small,
     The collar shall mark us for once and for all."

    Tandra lifted the collar, and showed it to him, even 
as she spun in a circle to show it to everyone. Then she 
came up to him, holding it an inch from his neck as he 
sang the next words.

    "My lady, more than even the starlight, and more
     Than the freedom of my soul your soul I adore.
     And what we can be together- I will wear the mark
     Of your ownership through sunlight and dark."

    She snapped the collar around his neck, smiling into 
his eyes as she sang the last words.

    "No starlight can as your eyes so brilliant be.
     No more fair can ever shine the oldest tree.
     No more can I love you, nor can you love me.
     And no more can I have complete freedom gladly."

    The collar finally settled into place. Herran flinched 
a little as some of the skin of his neck caught in the 
clasp, at least until Tandra reached up and smoothed it 
down, her eyes never leaving his.
    She had won.
    She had him, in that moment, ready to do anything, to 
follow her anywhere, even to become lovers that very night 
if she so desired. He would do anything to keep that light 
shining in her eyes, that knowledge that she had won one 
of the deepest battles.
    He had sworn, since he had spent much of his life in 
unwilling bondage of one sort or another, that he would be 
slave to no one, ever again. And yet he had given his 
freedom into her hands, had agreed to wear a collar, 
ancient symbol of slavery, and had trusted her to take it 
away and give it back again.
    But he would not let her know that she had won. That 
would take away all the fun that he was having with his 
seduction, and let her know too soon. He would just have 
to let her figure it out for herself.
    He smiled at her, ignoring the cheers that erupted all 
around them, and then knelt at her feet. She stared down 
at him, and tried to say something, but he did not give 
her the chance. All the wildly cheering crowd hushed in 
anticipation of what he would say or do next.
    What he did was begin to sing, but this time only for 
her, unconscious of his audience, not caring in the least 
who heard him. He knew whom he meant to hear him, whom he 
wanted to hear him, and that was enough.

    "Oh lady, will you come dance with me tonight?
     The trees are tall, and the moons are bright.
     Green are the leaves that sing songs to me,
     Sweet as the song I am singing to thee.

    "Oh do not turn your face away, shy, coy.
     Do not spurn me as but a boy.
     Try to remember the long hours we shared,
     The looks, and the kisses we stole when we dared.

    "True, you are as far above me and my little song
     As the soaring eagle is above the swan. 
     But swans never sing but when they die,
     And right now my serenade fills the sky.

    "And perhaps it is so; perhaps death as come
     To claim a heart dying of love. And my lips, numb
     Until this moment, spill their song on the air.
     Oh will you come dance, while the leaves are fair?

    "Will you come dance, and tell me your heart?
     You have ensnared mine by some divine art.
     But lady and love, mortal or divine,
     Whatever thou art, I am totally thine."

    He had won.
    The balance tilted the other way, and he saw the 
glittering tears spring to her lashes as she bowed her 
head in acknowledgment of the victory, clasping his 
outstretched hands to pull him to his feet. Her face was 
wet with the tears as she kissed him, and then said in his 
ear, "I do not think that dancing will do for what I want 
to do tonight."
    "What, beloved?" he murmured.
    She took a few deep, formless breaths, and then said, 
"I think we should-"
    And the spell was broken by the appearance of someone 
else.
    "Herran. Tandra. How nice to find you here. I did not 
look to see you before this evening was out." A delicate 
pause. "It is nice, on occasion, to have one's 
expectations foiled, though it is not something that I 
would wish to have happen all the time."
    Herran took a deep breath and promised himself that he 
would not try to kill him, that trying to kill him was 
what this madman would want. He turned around with a smile 
that he knew would match his enemy's.
    "Fair-day, Quirrin. I thought that you would not have 
the courage to approach me. I am glad to see that I was 
wrong."
    Quirrin Shennalor, master torturer and justice master 
of Rowan, raised a gentle eyebrow in inquiry. "And why 
would I not have the courage?" he asked quietly. "That 
seems unlike me."
    Herran took a moment to study him before replying. His 
red-brown hair was flattened neatly, as it had not been in 
years, and his silver eyes shone against the blue-gray of 
the tunic and hosen he wore. He looked perfectly normal, 
especially without the badge of his office that was the 
only way most people knew him. He could have been standing 
there when the assassin approached Herran, and the 
Councilmaster would have noted his presence from the 
corner of his eye but would not have paid it any special 
or specific attention.
    "Do you think it good manners to send an assassin to 
kill a man, and then approach him as if nothing were 
wrong?" he asked. "And, whatever else you were, you were 
always the soul of manners."
    Quirrin blinked, then smiled. "I am impressed, my 
lord," he said with a bow. "I truly did think that the man 
was drunk."
    Tandra broke in, staring intently at Herran. "That 
bloody shard of glass you gave me," she said. "Herran, 
then was it-"
    "Yes."
    She narrowed her eyes at his sharp tone, and Herran 
sighed. Quirrin was ruining the rapport that had taken so 
long to rise between them, which was of course precisely 
as he wanted. He did not want Herran to gain that strength 
that would come from having a lover, someone bonded to him 
in that way.
    "I thought that tonight was not to be about business?" 
she said in a dangerously quiet tone.
    "It was not to be," Herran agreed. "I chose to face 
this man only because he came to kill me, and to disable 
him and send him away for questioning so that he would not 
get in our way." He turned to face her, gazing into her 
dark eyes.
    "Do not believe him, Tandra," said Quirrin gently. 
"This is the way it has been and always will be. He will 
always be Councilmaster, even in your arms, even in your 
bed if you make it it that far. He is the Councilmaster, 
and there are things that he cannot put off dealing with, 
even for you."
    Herran glanced at Tandra, sighing, seeing the truth in 
that.
    But it had not affected her the way he thought it 
would, the way Quirrin thought it would. For all the far- 
reaching sight of his gaze, the master torturer was blind 
in some essential ways, and sharing his eyes- as Herran 
could not help but do to a certain extent, as he was 
Quirrin's disciple and most favored student- had its 
disadvantages as well as advantages.
    "If you think that will drive him away from me, think 
again about it, and then let me tell you what new 
conclusions you have come to," said Tandra, and then 
turned her back on Quirrin, nodding to Herran with her 
eyes fixed on his.
    "Come walk with me for a moment, and then you can come 
back and speak to the master torturer alone, as I know 
that you long to do," she said, with gentle sarcasm in the 
last part of the statement.
    Herran nodded, looked at Quirrin, and said, "If my 
lord will forgive me?"
    "Of course-"
    But they were gone before he could say something that 
would be appropriately sarcastic.
    Herran looked down at the top of Tandra's head and 
struggled to think of something that would recapture the 
mood. But it would not be recaptured, and after a moment 
he gave up trying, with a small sigh. After all, if he did 
do it, they would only have to give it up again when they 
separated, and he did not think that he could bear to give 
it up again.
    Either he must keep it calm and rational, or they 
would end up sharing a bed, and this was not the night for 
that. Not yet.
    "I am sorry," he said quietly, and she nodded. She 
knew that he was apologizing for keeping the assassination 
attempt for her, and not for Quirrin's interruption, which 
he could have done nothing about.
    "I know," she said. "I think that I will retire now." 
She smiled up into his eyes. "It is almost dawn, and I 
will never have more fun in the remaining hours than I 
have had in the rest of this night."
    With a little start, Herran looked out the windows of 
the hall and realized that it was almost dawn. He had 
forgotten how short the summer nights were; he almost 
always did, he thought with a small smile and a shake of 
his head.
    "It was fun for you, then?"
    "Of course! Was it not for you?" He could see her eyes 
widen a little with the anticipation of hurtful words, and 
he moved quickly to forestall the hurt that was growing in 
her eyes.
    "No," he said. "It was. I merely wanted to make sure 
that you enjoyed yourself, that I did not pass any line or 
press too far, too soon."
    "You did not," said Tandra. "I would almost have 
preferred that you did, to these endless years of waiting- 
and another night."
    Herran stopped, turning to look at her, lifting a hand 
to stroke her hair as he stared into her eyes. "I am 
sorry," he said, and this time the apology was on an 
entirely different matter, something that they could do 
nothing about but which was his fault. Sharing a bed 
simply was not as important to him as it was to her, and 
never would be.
    She met his eyes for a moment, and then ducked her 
head and smiled a little. "I know," she said quietly. "I 
am hoping that someday I can show you how wrong you are, 
though. I do rather look forward to that."
    "When we can, my lady. When we can."
    Their hands found each other, in a clasp more intimate 
than a kiss. But this evening, Tandra shook back her hair 
and looked up at him, her face calm and grave and quiet, 
her eyes asking for something that he could give her, and 
only he could give her.
    Herran bowed his head, and brushed his lips against 
hers.
    They had been lovers in all but body for this night, 
lovers even in name, for everyone watching them had known 
what was happening. The least he could do was leave her as 
if they were lovers, give her the kind of salute that a 
man gave a woman instead of the kind that a friend gave a 
friend, or a Councilmaster gave the Captain of the city 
Guards.
    It did not turn as passionate and uncontrollable as he 
had thought it might, to his intense relief. She submitted 
at last to the gentle pull away that he was doing, and 
smiled, a little regretfully, as she reached up to touch 
his mouth.
    "I will always love the way that you do that," she 
said to him.
    "Do what?"
    She shook her head and moved towards the doors, not 
waiting for him to follow.
    He could not.
    He watched her for a moment, and then turned back to 
see what Quirrin had wanted with him.
----------------------------------------------------------
    It was dawn, and Herran stood outside the doors of the 
hall with a foul taste in his mouth. It was no more than 
he might have expected after a lengthy conversation with 
Quirrin, but it still infuriated him, and he wished it 
would depart.
    He wished that he could depart. But it was the duty of 
the Councilmaster to stand by the doors and courteously 
wish everyone who was departing a happy Bluedance, and he 
had not noticed the exodus begin, engaged ion the usual 
verbal duel with the Councilmaster. That meant that he 
owed extra courtesy to those who were leaving now, when 
they might reasonably be expected to leave.
    He bowed his head to one of the Councilwomen, Ariawen, 
who was only on the Council because none of the Chosen 
whom she had competed against were very good, and found 
himself facing someone he had not seen in several days, 
and then had left at peace. Now he looked highly agitated, 
and Herran frowned before he remembered whom he was 
speaking to.
    "My lord?" he asked, smoothing his features. Incara 
did not really believe in the Laws that restricted free 
expression of emotion in Rowan, but for a priest of the 
White Lady to be seen speaking with someone whose attitude 
on the matter was more widely known could be cause for 
scandal. Incara would have to try to appear as what 
everyone thought he was, and Herran would have to try to 
make the effort and appear polite.
    "Yes, my lord," said the young priest, with a bow, 
smoothing his own emotion from his face. "There was 
something that I meant to speak to you about, and now is 
as good a time as any other."
    "Speak, Incara," said Herran, with a faint frown that 
he could not control. The priest could not keep the tone 
of his voice from becoming worried, and that meant that 
something was indeed moving, something about which Herran 
should be worried.
    "I will," he said, but made a little gesture to 
indicate they should move away from the main mass of 
people. Herran nodded and did so, then turned to look at 
him expectantly.
    Incara glanced in several directions, then leaned 
close to Herran's ear and did his best to discover the 
tone of voice lower than a whisper. "My lord, I have been 
learning things about the Councilmaster of Palm, Omella 
Miadi, that disturb me greatly."
    Herran felt a small chill travel down his spine. He 
had not asked Incara to look into the matter of the 
Councilmaster who had challenged him with that personal 
message; he had simply hinted that there were matters in 
the south that Incara, as a priest of Suulta, could learn 
of more easily than he could. The Church's influence, and 
the influence of the Laws and the White Lady, was greater 
there than in the north, or, indeed, than almost anything 
in the north.
    "What about her?"
    "She is a powerful mage, my lord, and of no great 
family or renown."
    Herran felt his frown deepen. Though land Elwens 
almost had to accept the fact that they had been born with 
certain powers, they did not have to like it, and their 
watch on those born with more than the normal share of 
magic, or with unusual gifts- mages- had increased ever 
since the Laws made open displays of emotional magic rare 
and dangerous. For no one ever to have heard of Omella 
meant that she had become Councilmaster, and a mage, even 
though she had not passed through the accepted schools and 
rigorous training and had not received the license she 
would need.
    "Are you sure of this?"
    "As sure as I can be, given that almost no one knows 
anything about her." Incara's voice was frustrated. 
    Herran blinked, focused on the young priest, and 
realized that he was almost trembling with frustration and 
fear. "Do not worry," he said, reaching out to clasp his 
shoulder.
    "Do not?"
    "No. I am hovering on the brink of being at odds with 
her, but no more than that. I am hoping that the matters 
between us can be settled peacefully, instead of with war 
that will involve both our cities."
    "It is not even that, my lord."
    "What is it?"
    "Cortellan."
    Herran closed his eyes and sighed. He had known for 
some time now that he would have to confront that powerful 
priest of Suulta, but he had hoped that it could wait a 
little while. It seemed that it could not.
    "You think that he has something to do with this, or 
will have?"
    "I will think about it more, but I think so, yes," 
said Incara. "I have heard him speak her name more than 
once as someone he could respect and admire, one of the 
few secular leaders that he could. I think it would take 
him some doing to admit it, but I suspect that he has 
written her letters urging her to come north for a visit 
to the Temple."
    Herran smiled at that, distracted for a moment. For 
all that the Faith was stronger in the south than the 
north, the Temple of Rowan was still the wonder of his 
people. This was the place where they had lived longer 
than any other, a valley in the midst of a land that 
responded to them, an entire country attuned to the land 
Elwens and to all that was bright and beautiful in their 
spirits. The High Priest of Oak, and others on down, made 
regular pilgrimages here.
    "My lord?"
    Herran shook himself a little as he realized that 
Incara was staring hopefully at him. "Your pardon, my 
lord," he said as he awakened. "I was daydreaming for a 
moment, amused by something."
    "What will we do?"
    "Try, if you can, to learn why Omella Miadi and 
Cortellan are such good friends," he instructed. "And I 
will prepare myself to meet her on the battlefield, if it 
comes to that."
    "Do you think it will?"
    Herran let out a breath. Incara was concerned, and not 
only as a priest of the Lady of Peace determined to 
prevent war.
    "I do not think so," he said at last. "But I want to 
make sure that we are ready even so. One can never be too 
ready for war."
    "That is the truth."
    Incara stood there a moment longer, as though thinking 
that Herran would have another task for him, and then 
slipped quietly away as the Councilmaster bowed his head 
and seemed to be lost in thought.
    Herran was not. He was merely remembering the last 
time that Rowan had truly gone to war, against the humans 
in the War of Acceptance. It had been centuries long, evil 
and destructive and everything else war really was that 
bards tried to disguise. Herran had ought in it, including 
the Battle of Esshellen.
    He sighed and closed his eyes at the thought of that, 
and then turned away from the hall and towards his own 
home. It had been long since he had slept in his own bed, 
and he planned to do so this morning. There would be other 
celebrations of Bluedance today, including quiet prayer 
sessions when the Council members withdrew to their own 
homes, and no Council business.
    He would use it to sleep, as he had no family to pray 
with and no Goddess, or even stars, really, to pray to. He 
could think of no better use for it than that.
    He was already half-asleep by the time that he reached 
the Turnlong estates, and he cast himself into the bed 
without undressing, even though he knew the clothes would 
stink of sweat in a few hours. He was that tired, even 
though just a short while ago he had been ready to dance 
for hours and bid farewell to every Elwen in Rowan if that 
was what it took.
    It came from being a patrol leader, he thought wryly 
in the moments before he snuffed the lamps burning in his 
mind. He could move from battle-readiness to snatching all 
the sleep he could in a moment, and could do the same 
thing, though with a different effect and purpose, in the 
life he now lived.
    He awakened some hours later, stiff and aching, his 
throat raw. He rolled over to sit up, and pressed 
trembling hands against his head.
    "Another dream," he whispered, as though someone were 
in the room to hear him.
    If Quirrin had not interrupted, there might have been, 
but he tried not to think about that. There was no use in 
thinking about what might have been, but now never would 
be.
    He licked his lips, and tried to dismiss the feeling 
that there was more to this dream than his usual nightmare 
about the Battle of Esshellen, which was certainly 
deserving of a nightmare. He sat there for a long moment 
thinking about it.
    Then he rose from his bed and began to prepare for a 
ride.




                        Chapter 2
                   The Leaping Dolphin
    "The difference between Elwens and most other races is 
that Elwens know not only what they believe, but why they 
believe it. There can be no other reason why a race so 
dedicated to the principles of passion, war, and chaos has 
produced so few fanatics."
    -The elven historian Somoth Hanani.

    Herran's mare snorted and shifted restlessly. Herran 
patted her quiet for the fiftieth time and smiled down at 
her, running his hand through her mane.
    "Funny," he remarked, so quietly that not even the 
horse could hear him; her ears did not prick at the sound 
of his voice, at any rate. "I would think that I would 
feel free, without the net of wards and guards that I 
usually complain of to confine me. But I feel exposed and 
unsafe, instead." He looked cautiously over his shoulder 
and patted the mare again, grimacing as he felt sweat on 
her. He had ridden her too fast to get here, afraid that 
he would be late-
    And instead, the man he was here to escort was not yet 
here.
    "Here" was a small place, a grove of hylea trees with 
sunlight turned almost green by the full leaves slanting 
through and shining on the brilliant floor of the forest. 
Herran had chosen it because the small tributary that the 
diplomat from Carmai would be coming down earthed on a 
path not far from it, and because it was unmistakable. 
Nowhere else that Herran had ever seen did scratchweed, a 
briar as common as the dandelion though considerably more 
dangerous, bear glowing white flowers that had to have 
been given to it by magic.
    A large scratchweed bush grew right beside the path. 
He had to see it when he acme.
    If he came.
    Herran tried to quell his doubts, and the mare tossed 
her head and snorted again, causing him to smile. She had 
doubts enough for the both of them. She was the latest in 
a long line of horses that he had ridden, and the most 
skeptical of them all.
    Herran stroked her neck, and then turned sharply as 
the birdsong behind him died away and something rustled in 
the bushes, wondering if the diplomat had chosen to 
approach by a different route. Perhaps he feared a trap; 
though Herran would not try to trap him, he did not know 
that.
    He saw nothing there, and his breathing quickened a 
little. He laid his hand on the belted blade at his waist, 
and sniffed deeply. He could smell nothing, but that did 
not allay his suspicions.
    "Come out, if you are there," he said casually. "This 
is a private meeting, and it would not be well for anyone 
to spy on it."
    Silence.
    Which meant nothing, of course.
    Herran's hands tightened on the reins, and he tapped 
the horse's side with his left heel. She pricked her ears, 
and stood still, ready to lash out with a kick if he 
should so command it, or to rear and fall like lightning 
if someone emerged in front of her.
    There was silence.
    The birdsong returned at last, and though Herran 
thought someone might still be there, there was nothing 
that he could do about it. He could not afford to go 
searching in danger, with nothing but a horse and a dagger 
to defend himself; for some reason, the King of Carmai had 
told him that he must not bear a sword to this meeting, 
and Herran had agreed.
    He fixed his gaze on the path that led out from the 
clearing towards the river.
    Especially as the sound of hoofbeats was coming 
towards him, and unless the intruder was bold and had 
summoned help, this must be the party that he had come to 
meet. Herran tapped his heels on the horse's sides again 
and urged her a little further into the center of the 
clearing, ignoring the discomfort of the sun's heat on his 
hair.
    It was worth it, for the impression that he made when 
they emerged from the forest, haloed in light and crowned 
in radiance, the sun setting his hair afire as if it were 
molten metal.
    The white-robed Elwen in the lead blinked and covered 
his eyes, and Herran understood the strange request that 
he should not bear a sword. This was a priest of Suulta, 
and bearing a sword would offend him.
    "I give you greetings," said Herran, dipping his head 
and fixing his eyes, not on the priest, but on the man 
just behind him.
    This was the diplomat. Herran knew him for his mixed 
blood if for no other reason.
    His slightly darker skin, his round eyes, and his 
brown hair, so rare among Elwens that it was an almost 
infallible sign of human blood, gave him away, as did the 
way he sat a horse, with that slight discomfort that meant 
he had no telepathic communication with the animal and 
must rely solely on what its muscles told him. But Herran, 
though he studied him closely, did not mean to make him 
unduly uncomfortable.
    Only uncomfortable enough to win the upper hand, and 
see that some things were established at the beginning.
    He said, his voice low and pleasant, "Is that you, my 
Lord Belirth?"