More Than Glory Abounds
                         Prologue
             819, Age of Ascent, High Summer
    The sobbing brought him to the window, as it always 
did on this night.
    Herran Turnlong opened his eyes and stared grimly at 
the ceiling as if it could keep him from having to rise 
from his bed, go to the window, and bear witness to the 
grim spectacle. But the carvings of lions and prancing 
unicorns, dragons and hyleas, that he had believed 
protected him as a child could not help him now. They had 
not helped him for the last century and more. He stood, 
slowly, and went to the window.
    The lawn of the Turnlong estates was visible below, 
clad in shining dark green from the thick, waxy leaves of 
the fruit trees, littered here and there with drifts of 
blossom petals that had been blown off the trees by the 
spring winds and never really taken away. He could see in 
the golden moonlight; the Lady Lureth was full tonight, 
and lit the scene perfectly.
    Walking beneath the trees was a figure that made his 
eyes bleed tears, as always.
    She looked as she always had, as he had always known 
her. Clad in fighting clothes- neither too tight nor too 
loose- the colors of the forest, she looked almost 
childishly trusting nonetheless. She carried a bow and a 
quiver of arrows, but both of them were securely slung 
across her back, where she would not necessarily be able 
to reach them quickly. Her indigo eyes and golden hair 
both caught the golden moonlight and reflected it back 
with lambent fire as she turned her head, seeing someone 
invisible to him as yet.
    Then she moved forward. Her cry of welcome was like a 
hoarse breeze. Herran turned to see the figure she was 
awaiting, visible to him now.
    Himself.
    His hands clenched on the sill hard enough, almost, to 
tear him from the vision, and his breathing went ragged, 
but that did not stop the pitiable, terrible play on the 
lawn before him.
    Or his compulsion to bear witness.
    The figure that walked beneath the trees glowed with 
the dark light of evil. Golden hair and pyrite eyes 
stained with that darkness, as his clothes and hands were 
stained with blood.
    Herran's mind had long ago ceased to argue with his 
heart, to present the truth of what had happened that 
night. His heart accepted this symbolic truth, and that 
was the only thing that mattered. He had slain Chemilli by 
betraying her, by not loving her as she deserved. It did 
not matter that she had wanted to die, that she had flung 
herself on his sword and cursed him to live and never love 
again as she died. It mattered that he had been the one to 
make her wish not to live.
    Chemilli- the Chemilli of the vision- moved forth to 
greet the transparent Herran with a loud cry of welcome. 
She did not seem to see the blood that stained his 
clothes, the blood that had come from his watching 
hundreds of her comrades slain in the rebellion she had 
masterminded. She wrapped her arms around him, the flame 
embracing the darkness. "I love you," she whispered.
    The dark vision, holding her, said nothing. He turned 
and looked up at Herran as if they shared some terrible 
secret.
    As indeed they did.
    The vision vanished then, and Herran lowered his head 
and panted miserably. Tears glistened on his cheeks, 
stroking skin already hot and tender and stiff with their 
passage. He had begun weeping hours before the nightfall, 
knowing what he would see this night.
    And still he cried, on this anniversary of the night 
she had died so long ago.
    He turned when he felt her presence in the room with 
him, and saw her there. She did not wear the clothes she 
had worn in the vision; there was a limit even to her 
vengeance-
    -which only proved that she had been good and wise and 
compassionate, and that he did not deserve even these 
visits that she gave him-
    -but the long, silvery, flowing gown she had worn once 
when she had come to ask if she might ride with him to the 
city of Oak.
    She had come into the heart of danger, selflessly 
sacrificing everything. Herran turned his head away so 
that the tears did not overwhelm him.
    "Herran?" Her hand brushed gently across his hair, 
discoloring some strands of it with the dead cold that she 
carried with her. Herran had treasured those silver 
strands amid the brilliant gold at first, thinking them 
more indicative of his true nature, but he had found they 
would not stay. In a decade or two, they would fade. And 
she did not come to him like this every night when it was 
another year since her death. Only on some of them.
    The vision, every time.
    "Have you not yet learned that I have nothing more to 
offer you?" Herran said softly into his clasped hands, as 
he raised them to cover his face. "I cannot love you any 
more than I do, and yet that was never enough. I cannot 
join you. I cannot do anything to fulfill the goals that 
were yours in life."
    "Ah, but you can," Chemilli whispered, leaning against 
him. Her gown and her flesh felt just as solid, if colder 
than, his own clothes and skin.
    "How?"
    "You are a Councilman. You have all the power to do 
everything we ever dreamed of doing." Her hand slid along 
his cheek, nestled into the crook of his chin as she 
nestled in his arms. He opened those arms to her 
willingly. It was the increasingly rare visits like this 
she made now that kept him alive, he knew. He lived on 
remembering the feel of her in his arms, the gentleness in 
her voice- all things they had shared little of with each 
other when they were alive.
    Since that day, Herran often thought of himself as 
dead as well. He had one vision that he intended to make 
come true, but he had no one who shared his heart and life 
the way she had. His friends had others. His father, 
grieving for his own dead love, Herran's mother, grew more 
and more distant every year.
    But he had her. So long as he did, he would not ever 
be truly dead, or truly poor.
    "I love you," he whispered into her hair, as she had 
done to him in the vision.
    As he had in the vision, she did not respond, but only 
leaned her head against his chest and seemed to sigh. The 
transfigured silver beauty of her, with skin and hair and 
eyes all the color of starlight, was a miracle. He had 
missed the colors of life at first, but as he saw them now 
only in the vision, he had grown to be a little wary of 
them.
    "I have a task for you," Chemilli said at last, and 
Herran started. Her voice had not sounded this firm, this 
like a bugle-call, at any time since her death. He had 
only rarely heard her speak like this when she was alive. 
He shifted her in his arms so that he was looking into her 
face.
    "What is it?"
    Chemilli stared into his eyes. "It is true that, as 
one Council member among twenty-one, you do not have the 
greatest strength that would be possible." Her fingers 
worked into his hair, twining through the straight strands 
and the few curls. Herran would merely have shut his eyes 
and enjoyed the sensation if her words hadn't been so 
important. "I love you," said Chemilli. "But you must 
become Councilmaster."
    "Liant is Councilmaster."
    "He can be displaced."
    Herran closed his eyes. He did not have the strength 
to refuse this, but even more, he did not have the 
strength to agree.
    He shook his head, slowly.
    "What?" Chemilli shook her head in turn, at least when 
he opened his eyes to see it. "You claimed the last time I 
saw you that you owed me any debt, and that you would pay 
it, for me."
    Herran ground his teeth. "Any debt save this one," he 
said, in a voice that he knew sounded angrier than it 
should be. "It would kill me, and then you would have me 
earlier than you had bargained for."
    In an instant, she was gone.
    Herran had to wait an instant to calm the raging self- 
loathing before he settled back into bed.




                        Chapter 1
                      Shadow Strike
    "Those who sleep by night burn by morning."
    -Curalli Proverb.

    "In conclusion, my ladies and lords, I would simply 
like to say..."
    Herran put a hand over his eyes, desperately trying to 
hide their closing as he yawned. He could not hide the 
yawning itself. It cracked his jaws open and made him look 
as if he were shaking with palsy whenever he tried to hide 
it.
    Ceretha Summereyes paced up and down on the dais 
where, traditionally, criminals or petitioners or those 
undergoing the Choosing stood before the Council. Being a 
Councilwoman herself, she was none of those. She merely 
liked to use the dais to make it sound as if her points 
mattered more than they did, and to make sure that no one 
could sleep during one of her speeches without her seeing 
him.
    It did not help that her voice was a flat monotone; 
her passion for the topic currently under discussion 
showed only in the words themselves. There was no spark, 
no trembling underlying wildness that would suggest she 
was about to burst into singing or wild raving under the 
force of her own belief. Her words were calmly measured 
and reasonable-
    No, that was not it. Herran liked calm words as well. 
It was the feeling that she was unable to care less about 
this, that she was only arguing it to keep in practice.
    "And what do you think, my Lord Herran?"
    She had caught him as he yawned again, but she had not 
caught him napping. Herran sat forward and pitched his 
voice so that it could be heard all over the great Council 
Chamber. Some of those slumbering in the high heat 
twitched.
    "My lady, what you argue is ridiculous on the face of 
it."
    She stared at him. She did not like him, and he did 
not like her; she had been opposed to his Choosing to the 
Council, for reasons he had never been able to figure out, 
and he disliked her for the irrationality of her enmity. 
But this was the first time he had ever said anything like 
this, even so calmly.
    "You dare?" she breathed.
    "Of course I dare. What is life without daring?" 
Herran shrugged, his eyes on hers. "But I shall refrain 
from using moral arguments, if you like, in order to 
follow your tactics."
    There were a few chokes and chuckles from the Council 
at that. There were plenty of Council members with their 
own grievances against Ceretha, and not so many against 
him, since he was so young and had no ambition that could 
not be achieved with waiting.
    The Councilmaster, Liant, turned burning gray eyes 
always tormented by the helplessness of his own power on 
both of them. "Lord Herran," he said, with a chill that 
was more a reminder of the need for decorum and restraint 
than it was a warning. "Will you explain to us what you 
mean by this?"
    "There is always a moral question when it comes to 
slavery," said Herran. "However, it seemed that the 
esteemed Councilwoman did not want to address those. I was 
proposing that we leave them out of the discussion."
    Liant stared at him, not believing for a moment that 
these were Herran's true feelings, but unable to prove it.
    "Continue," he said at last.
    "Gladly and with thanks, my lord." Herran turned back 
to Ceretha. "Your argument was that we confine prisoners 
in the Prison, and this wastes space and time, when in 
fact we could enslave them and use them on the northern 
farmlands."
    Ceretha nodded, her brilliant blue eyes wary.
    Herran examined one hand, then sighed and looked up to 
meet the Councilwoman's gaze, as if he disliked being 
troubled by such things. By now, she was furious, and 
would not be thinking clearly. Good.
    Ceretha was a sullen woman who felt the world owed her 
something. Usually, Herran pitied her at least a little, 
but not today. Not when she was arguing for the slavery of 
Elwens for no reason but to make herself look good by 
convincing the others to pass a law that would make this 
ridiculous thing legal. She was succeeding only because no 
one else cared very much, and she was a good speaker.
    Herran was a better one, and he did care. Very much. 
He wore the yoke of a less tangible slavery himself, and 
though he had been able to do nothing as yet about those 
races who had worn the yoke since before he was born, he 
could prevent it from being hung on anyone else.
    "My lady," he said with courtesy that they all knew 
was false, but too perfect to be called so, "you know that 
we train our children from the moment they are born to 
think for themselves, to have their own spirits, to 
disobey rather than obey where they can." He spread his 
hands as if finished, and sank back into his seat.
    Ceretha could not resist the bait. "And so? How does 
this relate to slavery?"
    "If you make any others of our people into slaves, 
they will fight it. That will not make good economic 
sense. Why force the sullen to work, and their overseers 
to deal with continuous uprisings, when we have free 
workers on the northern farms who do quite as well without 
that chain?"
    "There are some who do not fight the chain."
    Herran cocked his head, eyes narrowed. He had not 
expected her to bring the battle to a personal level. 
Apparently, he should have.
    "Indeed," he said. "There will always be Elwens like 
that. Just as there will always be Elwens who tie the 
chains." He had the satisfaction of seeing her face pale, 
and smiled, just a little; the others would not note it. 
    "But it makes no sense to be either one," he said 
softly, watching her. "Don't you agree?"
    Her face paled with terror rather than anger this 
time, though Herran doubted that anyone else in the 
Chamber could tell the difference. He was practiced in 
reading emotions because he had had to do it so often as a 
patrol leader, and he had seen no reason to let the 
practice lapse when he became a Councilman, despite the 
Laws that forbade open expression of emotion and the 
practice of any magic related to it. The fact that he kept 
up on it had proven to be valuable several dozen times to 
him in the last century.
    Ceretha choked back the things she wanted to say, and 
said, "The prisoners are taking up space."
    "From what?" Herran lifted his hands, in the open 
ignorance he was sure the rest of the Council was feeling 
but simply did not want to express. "I don't really 
understand."
    "From the Prison!"
    "Most of them are executed soon, or released, or sent 
to Elwenhonor. Few of them are confined for any length of 
time. My lady, what would we use the extra space for even 
if we had it?"
    "Granaries."
    Herran laughed before he could help himself. He 
composed himself quickly, before Liant could do much more 
than glare at him. "My lady, with all due respect, I 
cannot imagine anyone wanting to eat meat, or fruit, or 
any other kind of food, that has been stored in the 
Prison. There would be too many superstitions that would 
cling to it."
    "Surely you do not believe those sorts of things, my 
Lord Turnlong?" Her eyes were shining. She thought she had 
stolen a march on him.
    "Of course not." Herran bowed his head with modesty 
that, like the courtesy, they could not prove was false. 
"I was only thinking of the common temper of Rowan's 
people who we are, after all, here to serve."
    There was nothing she could say to that, and nothing 
she could do but bow her head and concede defeat, that 
they did not really need the space in the Prison for 
anything, and there was no real reason to enslave Elwens 
no matter what their crimes.
    Herran pushed the advantage before he could lose it. 
There were other things he needed to say, but they needed 
to be said to other Council members in private. Everyone 
else must be as bored as he was, but no one else would try 
to call the meeting to a halt. All of them were too timid, 
or too deeply asleep from the summer heat. "My Lord Liant. 
I believe that there is only one more case we need to 
hear?"
    Some of the others looked at him gratefully when he 
said that, confirming his opinion. Herran smiled to 
himself and watched Liant's eyes, usually so dull and full 
of pain, fill with fire.
    "Yes. A case that is a mixture of crime and petition 
so great I do not think that Quirrin could figure it out." 
He gave Herran a bewildered smile, seeming oblivious to 
the ripple that that name sent through the Chamber. "I 
would like to judge it as quickly as we can, so that I do 
not have the impossibility of it hanging over my head, if 
nothing else."
    Herran felt a small worm of discomfort stir in his 
stomach. Liant was offering him a proposal of alliance 
with Quirrin's name, but Herran was sure that it was not 
the same proposal he had been planning to offer the 
Councilmaster later. He kept his face bland as he nodded.
    "I would like to hear this impossible case, my lord. 
Any case that can confound Quirrin must be interesting 
indeed."
    For a moment, their eyes held; no one noticed as they 
were caught in another wave of fear and hatred for that 
name. Then Liant nodded, sharply and once, conveying 
answer both to Herran's reply and to the acceptance of 
alliance, and turned towards the intricate door that led 
into the western side of the Council Chamber, made of 
bronze and shaped as a dragon's looping coils.
    "Bring him in."
    Two guards in the livery of the Council marched a man 
into the Chamber. The prisoner walked calmly between them, 
but he was so nervous that Herran could smell his sweat 
from here. He wondered what was strange about his face for 
a long moment before he noticed,
    The man had dark hair and eyes, and though his skin 
was mostly pale, there was a silver tint to it.
    Herran caught his breath in understanding and pity, 
knowing why Liant had said this was a mixture of petition 
and crime. The man was part curalli, shadowed Elwen, and 
he was likely petitioning for leave to live in the land 
Elwen city. But he had committed a crime just by entering 
the Gate. Rowanian law forbade entrance to the city for 
any member of another race, unless he was a visiting 
dignitary or a slave.
    This would be difficult.
    Especially considering his own alliance with the 
shadowed Elwens, who might have sent this man- boy, 
perhaps, for he was very young- expecting Herran to 
protect him, and perhaps even win him leave to live in the 
city. The curalli were getting impatient for the gains 
that Herran had promised them, even though they had known 
when they swore the oath with him that it would take time 
before anything could be accomplished.
    On the other hand, this might be one of Etredi's 
practical jokes. Herran ground his teeth even as he smiled 
unwillingly. He swung between intense admiration for the 
leader of the Ebony Singers, for she had courage and 
daring and truly cared about the gang she led, and a 
fierce rage that was almost hatred. She loved jokes, and 
would sometimes jeopardize anyone or anything that was not 
part of the Ebony Singers for the sake of one.
    She had never threatened the alliance that lay between 
Herran and the curalli before, but there was always a 
first time for everything- especially if she did not feel 
that the alliance was granting the Ebony Singers anything 
anymore. It had been several months since Herran had been 
able to find a job for a curalli who wanted to leave the 
city, or hide an Ebony Singer who had seriously offended 
the School Masters from the curalli notion of "justice."
    He studied this man intently as he was led to the 
center of the dais and left there. He looked to be a child 
still, in the strict consideration of most Elwens- which 
meant under a thousand, though almost everyone above 
thirty in most societies was treated as an adult. His face 
was covered with knife-scars, and he walked as though he 
were expecting an attack at any moment, as any survivor of 
the curalli streets of Shadows would.
    A streetrunner, more than likely. Herran hid a sigh 
behind his hand. It was looking more and more like, 
genuine wish for a life in Rowan or not, he would have to 
protect the boy.
    "Your name," Liant said, when the guards had 
withdrawn. They did grant those of mixed blood they tried 
that much privacy, at least, Herran thought, perhaps out 
of respect for the land Elwen half.
    "Chirren," he said. His face twisted when he spoke, 
setting the scars dancing. He looked at Liant as if he 
expected the Councilmaster to change into a School Master- 
which, given the way the morning had been going, Herran 
almost thought he would.
    "Any family?"
    "No."
    "And what is it that you wish of us?" Liant had chosen 
to deal with the petition before the crime. Herran 
approved of that- more for his own peculiar philosophical 
reasons than anything else, but he approved of it.
    "I want to live in Rowan."
    "For how long?"
    "For the rest of my life." Suspicion crept into 
Chirren's voice, and he wrapped his arms around himself as 
though seeking a knife, though the guards would have 
disarmed him very carefully before they led him into the 
Council Chamber. Only the guards and Council members were 
permitted armed inside the Chamber. "Is there some reason 
that I would want to live here for less time than that?"
    "You would know better than we would, on that score," 
said Liant, folding his arms across his chest and gazing 
down at the boy in a mockery of the defiant posture the 
boy was using to gaze at him.
    Chirren recognized the mockery and flushed, but did 
not relent. He did, however, unwrap his arms and allow 
them to drop to his sides, where his empty hands could be 
clearly seen. Herran saw that they did not have as many 
callouses on them as he would expect a sword-wielder, or 
even a knife-fighter, to possess. Interesting. "I am 
running from the curalli."
    "Your crime."
    "Being as I am." There was deep bitterness in the 
boy's voice. He raised a hand to touch a silver-white 
cheek, in case anyone hadn't gotten the point. "I want to 
live here because I heard the land Elwens are more just 
than curalli."
    "And yet you did not know enough to know that entering 
the Gate would brand you as a criminal?"
    "I knew."
    "Then why-"
    "I must live somewhere!" Chirren cried in a passion. 
"I have done nothing that should be condemned, by the laws 
of Shadows- such as they are- and yet I am marked for 
death. I would like to live in a city where I can be 
surrounded by Elwens who have at least half a hold on 
sanity!"
    "That is debatable," said Liant, in one of the rare 
jokes that he ever cracked. Smiles and laughter flashed 
among those not stupefied by the heat. From that, Herran 
knew what tone this hearing of the petition would take, 
and he moved quickly to change it.
    "My Lord Liant."
    Liant turned gray eyes that were almost at once somber 
again on him. Herran winced at seeing that he had stolen 
one of the tortured Councilmaster's rare moments of joy, 
but he persisted.
    "My Lord Liant, I think that we should at least hear 
him out."
    "You would, Herran." The lack of a title, and the 
slightly impatient tone in his voice, told Herran that 
this was a bad time. He thought he had seen an easy way 
out of a case that could otherwise prove extraordinarily 
complicated, and raise questions either about the 
Council's justice or those of less-mixed blood, with 
curalli or other ancestry a few generations back, who were 
permitted to live in Rowan. Liant didn't want that. He 
wanted this meeting finished.
    "Yes, my lord, I would."
    Liant stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. 
"You have the same right to speak as any other. Speak, if 
you wish to do so."
    "Thank you, my lord," Herran said, even as he wondered 
what message, or lack of it, was hidden in those simple 
words. He looked at Chirren. Chirren faced him with the 
kind of stubborn hopefulness that Herran had seen before 
in the faces of curalli. He was beginning to think that 
Chirren had come here on his own, though. Etredi, 
Kerlinde, and most of his other allies despised the mixed- 
bloods as firmly as most of Rowan did.
    Perhaps Gercom...
    But the speculation would have to wait until later. 
Herran needed to speak now, needed to use the power of the 
tongue that some admired in him, some feared, and many 
envied him for.
    "My Lord Chirren," he said, a courteous title that the 
young man had not asked for and by most accounts did not 
deserve, but which would soften some of the defiance that 
he was showing and make this easier. "Is there any reason 
that you chose Rowan above some of the land Elwen villages 
on the border that would have been more accepting of a 
half-curalli's presence?" This would be the time to find 
out, if he could, if Chirren had come seeking his help.
    Chirren looked down. "It was the closest sanctuary," 
he said in a mutter.
    "Ah." Rowan was seventy miles from Shadows, an hour- 
long run for an Elwen if he pushed himself. That confirmed 
that Chirren had come from the city itself, not from the 
surrounding farmlands, which were mostly on the other side 
of Shadows, and in any case a good deal further away than 
that.
    "And justice? Was your seeking of justice the only 
reason that you came here?"
    "My gang leader told me that I had done something to 
offend a School Master. She didn't say what."
    "And your gang?"
    "The Ebony Singers."
    Herran drew in a long breath. It seemed that his 
suspicions had been right, and even if Chirren had run to 
Rowan on his own to escape the vengeance of the School 
Masters rather than being sent here, he would have to 
protect him.
    And it was really not very likely that he had not been 
sent, whatever he thought. Etredi knew the thoughts of 
every member of her gang, and must have known how Chirren 
would react if he was told that he had offended the School 
Masters.
    Damn Etredi.
    Whatever game she was playing.
    "And is there any price that you could pay for your 
sanctuary?"
    Chirren stared at him with his mouth open. It was a 
moment before the rest of the people in the Council 
Chamber realized what he had said, and then the entire 
room exploded into tumult.
    "My Lord Herran!"
    He knew that was Ceretha. He did not turn around. He 
kept his eyes on Chirren.
    "There is a price, my lord."
    "And what would you be willing to pay of that price?"
    Chirren dipped his head slowly, as thought surprised 
that Herran knew the curalli and the nuances of their 
speech that well. Herran was growing more and more 
convinced that the boy did not know who he was, or what 
tie he had to the Ebony Singers and the other lords and 
ladies of the curalli. That only made his task of 
protecting the boy all the more difficult.
    He had never thought that his life would prove easy, 
but he had not thought that it would be this hard, either. 
It had been stripped down to a single clean vision of 
Rowan's glory in his own mind, and he had thought that 
would work.
    He was so lost in something dangerously close to 
self-pity that he almost missed Chirren's answer.
    "I have information about Shadows for you, my lord." 
His eyes sparked sullenly when Herran stared at him, and 
he lifted his head as though expecting to hear an 
accusation. "That is all I have to help you with, my lord. 
My lords," he added, with a glance at Liant.
    The boy was not stupid. He had figured out that the 
Councilmaster really held the power here, which was not 
always the case. Herran stored the fact away for future 
reference.
    "I had not considered it because I had not thought 
about your unique position," he said sympathetically. "You 
have little reason to be loyal to either the land Elwens 
or the curalli, unless there is something that we can do 
for you."
    The other Council members stared at him. No one ever 
did this, making such a show of personal feeling, or even 
friendship, towards a criminal. It could lead to too many 
political consequences.
    Herran did things that no one else did, and he had 
never greatly cared about the political consequences, 
given that he had not won his way to the Council of his 
own free will, but had been forced. He leaned forward, 
holding Chirren's eyes and waiting.
    Whether or not the boy knew it, he had a message for 
Herran, and the message was important. So important that 
it did not matter if it was shared with the whole of the 
Council, this once. Herran was willing to wager on that.
    If it was important enough that Etredi would send, not 
one of her trusted people, but someone who did not even 
know the message that he carried...
    Chirren continued to stare, and then a light flared in 
his dark eyes that Herran recognized. He was coming to 
some realization of his own power, with all these 
increasingly eager stares fixed on him. He would demand 
more than they would let him have.
    And then they would refuse, and he would refuse to 
tell them, and they would torture him to death, and 
everything would be back the way it had him, save that the 
Rowan would be in danger of attack by the Ebony Singers, 
which it had not been in a hundred years and more. The 
Ebony Singers were one of the most vicious of the gangs; 
they had killed for pleasure before Herran made the 
alliance with their leader that leashed them, and they had 
burned and salted the grounds of the farms they took in 
raids, with no purpose other than utter destruction on 
their minds. It was in Herran's interests to check them.
    Not for the first time, he cursed the ability that let 
him read what others were going to do before they did it. 
It was almost as bad as precognition.
    "My Lord Chirren." Again, his voice rang out with a 
power and purpose that stopped someone from saying 
something unfortunate. Liant glanced at him as if 
wondering that the coincidence was too great, but Chirren 
only looked at him in wonder, seemingly soaking up that 
title, drinking it in.
    "Yes, my Lord Herran?" There was more than a hint of 
cockiness in his voice, and though Herran did not love to 
accuse other Elwens of disrespect and disobedience as did 
so many of the other Council members, he grimaced. It was 
no wonder that this one had offended one, or more, of the 
School Masters.
    "I wonder if it would make you more comfortable to 
confess the information to me in private."
    No one save perhaps Liant in the Council would know 
what he was doing; they would be too grateful to get out 
of the heat and the Council Chamber. Chirren's chest 
swelled, and he inclined his head, seeing only the honor 
that Herran's agreeing to speak with him alone seemed to 
grant him. "I will come at once," he said in a lofty 
voice, and swaggered towards the door that led from the 
eastern side of the Council Chamber. Herran rose and began 
to work his way down through the tiers of the seats, 
following him.
    "Herran!"
    It seemed that his name was the most common word on 
everyone's lips this morning, Herran thought dryly as he 
turned to meet the Councilmaster's gaze. "Yes, my Lord 
Liant?"
    "Take Helena and Daemon with you."
    Herran's eyes narrowed. Such an elementary instruction 
implied that he would foolishly trust Chirren to be alone 
in his office with him, but he also knew that he would do 
just such a thing, and never think twice about it. He 
hated being guarded. It drove him mad to think of all the 
other things that the guards could be doing, instead of 
wasting their time on a man who did not need their 
protection.
    No one else shared that opinion. And the coldness of 
Liant's eyes showed that he would be checking up this 
time, and not forgive the younger Councilman if his orders 
were not obeyed.
    Herran swallowed the words he would like to speak, 
nodded, and stepped through the door after Chirren.
    The half-curalli was waiting in the great hall that 
occupied the hindquarters of the great dragon-shaped 
building that held the Council, trying in vain not to look 
impressed. Herran smiled smugly at him. The rain of light 
through the windows, these made of even more elaborate and 
beautiful stained glass than those in the Council Chamber, 
dazzled and dizzied, and the view up the grand, sweeping 
staircase at the center was a wonder. And dizzying as 
well, Herran had to admit. All of it was as unlike the 
norm of curalli rooms as anything could be, and for that, 
at least, Chirren was probably thanking the stars in the 
depths of his heart.
    "Come," he said, and turned up the staircase that led 
to his office.
    Chirren followed at his heels, looking around now and 
then at the immense room and shaking his head in wonder.
    They wound into one of the dragon's wings, the left 
one, where the floor was only slightly sloped and the 
walls only slightly curved. It looked more like a room 
that a curalli would be used to than many of them. Herran 
thought that he should take the curalli there rather than 
to his private rooms higher in the dragon for that reason, 
if no other.
    He opened the door by tapping one fist lightly against 
each it, in a sequence that released the wards that 
guarded it and the numerous other magical traps that would 
spring if someone simply opened the door. There was no 
lock. None was needed.
    The room beyond was austere for the Council; Herran 
liked it that way. It held only a few cushioned chairs, a 
single table decorated with all the instruments that one 
would need for writing a letter, and two Elwens in the 
silver livery of the Council guards.
    Both of them looked at him evenly, without expression, 
when he entered the room, but Herran flushed nonetheless. 
He looked down at hi feet and shrugged in defeat. "I'm 
sorry that I forgot."
    "Lord Liant thought you would," said Helena, a woman 
as tall as he was and with the same golden hair, though 
blue eyes that rivaled Ceretha's. There had been mistakes 
for her as his sister in the past, with all the pain that 
promised. Most of his enemies seemed to know that she was 
not, now. "You would, of course, and prove him right." She 
looked at Chirren with a plain unfriendliness that took 
some of the glint out of his eyes and sent his hand 
reaching for a knife that he did not have again.
    "Steady, Helena," said Herran. He looked at Daemon, 
who stood by Helena's side as he always did; Herran had 
rarely seen them apart. The indigo hair and diamond eyes 
meant they were unlikely to be mistaken for each other, 
though. "The Lord Liant sent you to me for what reasons?" 
he asked, with a slight lift in his voice. Chirren raised 
his head again. Might as well let him know that someone 
was one his side, at least in the annoyance for the guards 
that he displayed.
    "He sent us because there was another assassin come 
calling for you this morning," said Daemon, in a soft 
voice that nevertheless held the ring of steel. Herran had 
heard that voice before only when the guard was warning 
him of danger.
    He winced, and looked away. He had no real enemies but 
Ceretha on the Council, no, but there were plenty of 
enemies outside it.
    "You wouldn't have known," said Helena, in the same 
tone that said he would have forgotten the guards.
    "No," said Herran.
    Chirren interrupted. "How many assassination attempts 
have you had made on you since you became a Councilman?" 
He sounded frightened, Herran knew he was wondering about 
the amount of power and reputation this man made, and how 
much he could really help Chirren to attain Rowanian 
citizenship at all.
    Herran switched into his perfect, accentless Melli, 
hoping that would make the half-curalli a little more 
comfortable- or at least show him what Herran was. "I have 
about one a dance. Won't you sit down?" He patted the back 
of one of the chairs. Chirren ignored the gesture, staring 
at him with a horrified expression.
    "One a dance?" His voice rose, and he did not bother 
to speak in Melli, meaning that Helena and Daemon glared 
at Herran for telling this outsider and possible assassin. 
"And you survived them all?"
    "Yes, I did, but I am no School Master," said Herran. 
"I used my sword-"
    "And the swords of others," Helens said, in a whisper 
that was loud enough to be heard. Herran ignored her and 
continued.
    "-and the swords of others to survive. I will not turn 
on you in hysteria and certainty that you are an assassin, 
Chirren, though-" He cocked his head and dropped his voice 
a little, into something was just short of a growl. "It 
would make me easier if you would keep your hands where I 
could see them."
    Chirren started guiltily and pulled his hand back into 
sight. "Sorry," he muttered. "Habit."
    "Of course," said Herran, in the best conciliatory 
voice that he could manage. "All of us get nervous 
sometimes."
    "Not you," said Chirren, watching him with an 
expression close to awe as he at last sat in the chair 
Herran had offered him minutes ago. "I never thought I 
could see anyone in your position talk like that about 
assassinations."
    "In my position?"
    "A cat," said Chirren, lapsing into Melli at last, as 
Herran had been stubbornly speaking all along. "Someone 
who can kill the rats of the streetrunners if he wants to. 
But you don't want to."
    "No." Herran made his way around the table and to his 
own seat. "I am here to serve them, instead." He did his 
best to Chirren, though he was beginning to feel 
uncomfortable from the glares that Helena and Daemon were 
directing at him, as well as the nearness of the 
assassination attempt. He had almost convinced himself 
that he would get through the day without one.
    There had been four in the last dance; this was the 
fifth. He saw no reason to tell that to Chirren, though. 
The boy would hopefully simply tell the story that he 
wanted to, hand over the information that he wanted to 
give, and then abandon Herran before Herran came to harm 
as the result of him, or he came to harm as the result of 
Herran.
    Herran had to admit that the last was much more the 
likeliest happening.
    "Why don't you tell me what you wanted to say in the 
Council Chamber?" he said encouragingly, when Chirren 
remained silent, looking around the office and out the 
windows with their fine, if slightly skewed, vision of 
Rowan.
    "I have to have someone kind of assurance, first," 
said the half-curalli.
    "Assurance?" Herran was so startled that he said that 
in Aril. Ignoring the guards' inquiring looks, he hunched 
forward on his chair and looked into the boy's eyes. 
Chirren shifted on the seat a little, but said nothing. 
"What more assurance can I give you? I'll find a place for 
you to live in Rowan, and make sure that you get to live 
there."
    "I want to live there," said Chirren harshly.
    "Ah." Herran sat back, studying his visitor 
thoughtfully. Chirren was trembling as if with cold, 
though in truth he was shaking with the courage it took to 
keep up the facade that he was not afraid of Herran. 
Herran had that effect on some people- never, it sometimes 
seemed, the people that he should.
    "You don't think that the School Masters would stop 
hunting you if you became a citizen of Rowan?"
    "That's right."
    Herran decided to reveal the existence of his alliance 
with the curalli, as it was probably this that Etredi had 
sent the boy here to find. "I have an alliance with some 
of the curalli in Shadows, Chirren. I think that I can-"
    "You would!"
    There was no warning. Chirren came up at him out of 
the chair like a snarling dog, his teeth flashing and his 
hand clutching a knife after all, that the guards had 
somehow missed.
    No warning, save if one knew. Chirren had reached for 
the knife too often for it not to be there. Herran was 
expecting to see it, though he was a little surprised that 
it had appeared so quickly.
    He need do nothing more than speak a single word, a 
name, under his breath.
    A snapping snake of blue light uncoiled from the wall 
and curled tightly around Chirren's throat. His scream as 
his head flew back and every muscle in his body convulsed 
as with a stroke of lightning was agonizing. Herran let it 
continue for a moment, and then whispered another name.
    The ward went back into the wall, and Chirren slumped 
into the chair again, sobbing and now and then touching 
his throat as if it hurt from the scream. Or trying to 
touch his throat. His muscles still wobbled wildly, no 
longer completely under his control. They would not be for 
some time. It was a simple and remarkably effective way to 
discourage an assassin, or simply an angry petitioner.
    Herran had dealt with curalli before. Some of them 
respected nothing but a show of strength, and some of them 
nothing but pain. More had died in this office than Herran 
suspected any but he knew about.
    And Quirrin. Quirrin was the one who had created the 
ward, and he could feel the use each time Herran made 
exercised the magic.
    Herran grimaced. There would be a visit from the 
master torturer soon. That was something he would simply 
have to put up with, and hope would not take as long as it 
sometimes could.
    "Listen to me," he said to the panting, sobbing, 
terrified half-curalli, who stared at him as if he were 
about to go out of his mind with fear. "I will do nothing 
to harm you if you do not do anything to harm me. Nor will 
anyone else," he added, with a stern glance at Helena and 
Daemon, at whom Chirren had been staring from the corner 
of his eye.
    "We will if you try to hurt the Lord Herran," Helena 
told Chirren in a dead, passionless voice that was almost 
worse than a more passionate declaration of undying 
vengeance would have been.
    "Helena."
    It was true. Chirren would have known it was true even 
if she hadn't said it. Herran supposed that it being said 
made it less frightening, and so he reluctantly nodded his 
approval when Helena looked at him in response to her 
name. She gave him a small smile and a nod.
    Herran looked away from her, and towards Chirren. "You 
said that you could give me information on curalli 
activity in Shadows. Tell me."
    "Tell me about this alliance, first. How am I to know 
that you won't give me right back into the care of the 
School Masters?" Chirren's voice was hoarse; the words 
seemed to scrape as they came up from his throat, if only 
because he was constructing his throat with his constant 
gentle rubbing of it.
    "I am allied with Master Kerlinde, Etredi, and several 
other School Masters, gang leaders, and individuals." 
Herran saw no need to lie if it would make a difference in 
Chirren's ability to thrust him, though he also saw no 
need to tell the truth. The streetrunner was the kind that 
would distrust anything anyone said to him. Why would he 
ask? "Sometimes they tell me things that affect Rowan, and 
sometimes they send me curalli who might need to vanish 
for a time. I make sure that they disappear, and that the 
information is used."
    Chirren's mouth hung open. "Then the Lady Etredi..." 
he whispered after a long moment.
    "Used you. Yes."
    Chirren buried his head in his arms. Helena made a 
little coughing sound and stirred impatiently. Herran 
responded to the silent demand by reaching out and 
touching the half-curalli's arm.
    "Chirren. She must be fond of you, or she wouldn't 
have sent you here. She wanted you to get away. She might 
even have sent you with the message knowing it was the 
only thing that would buy you passage. That's not 
important right now. Telling me this message, so that you 
can buy your way into citizenship in Rowan, is what 
matters now."
    "She used me."
    "She is a gang leader. Not a Rowanian Councilwoman, or 
any other paragon of truth and justice that you might have 
been taught to revere. But neither is she a School Master. 
She must be fond of you," Herran repeated insistently, 
when it seemed that Chirren would sit there with his head 
cradled in his arms until the end of time. "Tell me so 
that I can help you."
    "She said- she said-"
    "She said what?"
    "She said that one of the School Masters had dangerous 
allies."
    "Which one?"
    "Kerlinde."
    Herran sat back in his chair. Kerlinde was the Master 
of Discipline at the School of Shadows, the closest thing 
that Shadows had to a Quirrin or master torturer. He was a 
proud man, verging on the arrogant, who had no use for 
land Elwens.
    He was also Herran's ally, and one of the fiercest 
recruiters of curalli to the cause of seeing the shadowed 
Elwens brought into a new age of light. Herran could not 
imagine Kerlinde trying to move against him, at least not 
while a single curalli he cared about was still living 
inside the darkened sivleth walls. 
    "You see?" said Chirren miserably. "That must be what 
she wanted me to report, but that isn't news. She could 
have been talking about you, for all I know. I didn't know 
anything about this until just now." There was a note of 
bitterness in his voice, the sound of betrayal and the 
constant cynicism of a halfbreed who expected the world to 
betray him forever because of his blood.
    Herran sat in silence for a long moment, while Chirren 
trembled on the verge of sobs and Helen and Daemon stared; 
the entire conversation having been in Melli, they had not 
understood a word of it. Then he reached out and laid a 
hand on Chirren's shoulder.
    "It may be that she was talking about me, but I do not 
think so. Is there anything that you night have overheard 
for yourself that you think would have bearing on this? 
Something that Kerlinde wants, perhaps, that our alliance 
could not give him?" It was the only reason Herran could 
think of. The Master of Discipline had never struck him as 
being someone who would pass the test, if it came down to 
the test, of wanting something for others more than he 
wanted something for himself.
    He had made the cause of curalli leaving Shadows for 
the light, and even eventually establishing an enclave in 
Rowan, his own goal, something he wanted for himself, and 
that was why the alliance had worked successfully so far. 
But if something else came up, something even greater and 
more personal...
    "There is something that I heard." Chirren's voice was 
heavy and reluctant.
    "Yes?"
    "It's probably just a rumor."
    "Even rumors can sometimes tell the truth, by pointing 
to the thing that the truth is not," said Herran 
encouragingly. "Go on," he added, when he thought that 
Chirren had hesitated too long.
    "I heard that someone committed a crime against him, 
and that the criminal was under land Elwen protection, so 
that he might turn to someone else to get the revenge he 
wanted."
    Herran whistled between his teeth. Yes, that made 
sense. A personal wrong could turn Kerlinde from the path; 
it was the very fact that he took things so personally 
that made him so valuable. In most of the School Masters, 
the heart and soul for anything greater than the lowest 
level of survival had died. But he could be distracted by 
vengeance, as any other Elwen could. "What kind of crime 
was it? Theft?" He could convince the thief to return the 
stolen property, he was sure, if he could find a trace of 
it.
    "Rape."
    Herran was too shocked to respond.
    Chirren raised his head and studied Herran with the 
mild curiosity of one wondering why the man one was 
speaking to didn't answer. He was too aware of his own 
misery to feel sorry fro someone else at the moment, no 
matter the words that came from his mouth. "His daughter 
was raped."
    "His daughter?" Herran had never heard that the Master 
of Discipline had a daughter. He had not known that the 
man was married.
    "Yes. Corandra. I think." Chirren frowned as though 
trying hard to remember the name he could not have heard 
more than once or twice in his life. "She's seven. Eight, 
perhaps."
    A great, roiling ball of disgust rose in Herran's 
stomach, and for a moment he thought he would vomit, or 
begin to bleed through his skin. Then he leaned back in 
his chair and waited until the fit passed, before asking 
in a low, calm voice, "Kerlinde was the School Master you 
offended, wasn't he?"
    "Yes."
    "Do you know who raped Corandra?" Herran did not 
realize, until he noticed the looks that Helena and Daemon 
were giving him, how full of bloodlust his own voice was. 
He forced himself to calm a little and smile at Chirren, 
to show that he didn't really think he knew who raped 
Corandra.
    "I think he's angry because I found about it. I don't 
think he wanted anyone to find out."
    "He wouldn't."
    Herran's mouth ran along with the intervention of his 
mind only, and not his heart. His heart was turning and 
bubbling like molten metal now, in rage so absolute that 
he knew he could not let it touch him, lest it burned him 
and those around him to ash before he could control it.
    Literally. There was good reason for the Laws. If 
Herran expressed anger now, it could create a blast of 
magic that would create fire, or lightning, or acid. This 
kind of fury could destroy the entire Council building. It 
was best that he keep it inside until it subsided, or he 
was away from here.
    The very thought of an Elwen being raped, being forced 
into something against his or her choice...
    The very thought of a child...
    The desk beneath his hands was beginning to smoke. 
Herran lifted his hands, folded them against him, and 
spoke more calmly than he had thought he knew how.
    "I appreciate your willingness to tell me this, 
Chirren."
    "It's obvious now why he would want me," said Chirren, 
staring at his hands. "I don't understand why I didn't 
figure it out before."
    "No reason why you should. He is acting a little 
unreasonably if he wants to kill or capture everyone who 
heard the rumor."
    I can see why. The pain that he must be feeling, the 
hatred... I think I want to kill whoever did this almost 
as much as Kerlinde does...
    Now his own flesh was burning. Herran controlled his 
fire with a firm flex of will, and looked Chirren in the 
eyes. "You told me something that will prove very 
valuable. It is possible that Kerlinde will move against 
Rowan in an attempt to bring back the criminal that he 
thinks is hiding here."
    I want to find him for Kerlinde. I want to be present 
at the torture. I want to perform it myself. I want to 
recommend Quirrin for it...
    Stars, but it was an effort to control himself, to 
force himself away from bloody thoughts of rage, and the 
thought that he could rush out this door right now and 
find out in an hour who did it. He knew the places to 
look. He knew every land Elwen in Rowan who had any 
contact with Shadows.
    "I'll hide you," he assured Chirren. His voice grated. 
He forced it back to normal. "I can't promise that you 
won't have to say something if we catch the rapist, but 
I'll protect you."
    "Thank you."
    Chirren seemed sincerely grateful, and Herran was able 
to smile even through the madness that tore at his vitals. 
This was the one side of power that he liked, the ability 
to do things for others and know that they would get done.
    Someone hammered on the door, coincidentally in the 
sequence that was needed to disarm the traps, and Quirrin 
strode into the room.
    He looked straight at Herran, and said, "I could feel 
the rage from halfway across the city. I think everyone 
felt it. It's as if a volcano had exploded here." He 
smiled very slightly. "What happened?"
    Quirrin was a tall, slender man with brown hair that 
turned glinting red in the right light, and calm silver 
eyes. He studied Herran calmly now, the only sign of being 
ready for anything unusual the twenty-one tailed whip at 
his ship. This was not the ornamental one that was the 
master torturer's badge of office, but the real thing, a 
formidable weapon in hands as skilled as Quirrin's.
    "I found out something," said Herran in clipped tones. 
He knew that Quirrin would not understand his outrage, and 
he did not want the purity of that feeling, or the 
strength of his resolve to search for the criminal, 
diluted by Quirrin's practicality.
    "Tell me."
    Herran glared at him in fury, and felt lightning 
dancing behind his eyes. It would be so easy to release 
it, to kill this man who had enslaved Herran with threats 
to his family, who had used the woman Herran loved 
mercilessly, who had forced him onto the Council and was 
pushing him more towards the position of Councilmaster 
with every passing day...
    Save that it would never be that easy to kill Quirrin. 
He said that he could feel the presence of death, having 
been so close to her so many times, and Herran believed 
it. There could be no other reason he had escaped her so 
many times.
    He sucked in a deep breath. "I learned that Master 
Kerlinde's daughter was raped."
    Quirrin's first reaction was one of puzzlement, as 
Herran's had been. "I did not know that he had a 
daughter-"
    "Corandra. A child. Seven or eight."
    A long moment passed, and Herran realized he should 
never have thought that Quirrin would discourage him from 
the search for the rapist. Quirrin was justice master as 
well as master torturer, and he merely kept his feelings 
about people like this under better control than Herran, 
obedient to the Laws as he was. He did not smoke or stamp 
or scream.
    But Helena and Daemon backed a step, and Chirren 
whimpered in fascinated horror, and Herran fought the urge 
to cringe, at the look that came into Quirrin's eyes. 
Herran had never seen anyone look so angry. He had not 
known that someone could be that full of rage and still 
continue to breathe.
    Quirrin looked at him for a long moment, and then 
glanced at Chirren. "And this young- man," he said, after 
only a moment's pause as he took in the features that were 
unmistakably curalli. "I trust that he knows who did it?"
    "He has heard rumors, nothing more," said Herran. His 
own rage was calming a little in the face of Quirrin's, 
perhaps because he did not feel that he could compete, 
perhaps because he now felt that the problem would be 
taken care of.
    "But he might be able to tell us something about the 
rapist?" Quirrin was intense. Herran looked at him in 
surprise. He had never seen this side of the man before- 
that is, any side intent on something other than the glory 
of Rowan. He had supposed that it must exist, but Quirrin 
kept it well-hidden.
    "He said that Kerlinde thinks the rapist is hiding 
herein Rowan, under our protection."
    "And this could jeopardize the alliance that you 
made," said Quirrin, with a soft draw of breath into his 
lungs.
    "Yes."
    "We cannot allow that."
    "We cannot allow a child's rapist to get away, 
either," said Herran, more harshly than he had intended 
to. For a long moment, they looked at him in surprise, and 
he was forced to turn away and stare at his hands.
    "Allow me to apologize," he said in a quiet voice. "I 
know that you did not mean it that way."
    "No, I did not," said Quirrin. "But you are right to 
remind me that there are things in this world beyond 
alliance and glory. Thank you, Herran, for doing that. 
That is yet another reason that you must become 
Councilmaster." He spoke the last sentence in Humanspeech, 
so that no one but Herran could understand him. Helena and 
Daemon did not seem bothered by it; Chirren lifted his 
head and stared from one to the other of them with 
narrowed eyes.
    "I prefer to speak in Melli, as long as Chirren is 
here," Herran said in Melli, and saw a look of bad grace 
flit across Quirrin's face for a moment before he slowly 
dipped his head.
    "Very well. We shall. I assume that you have promised 
him protection?"
    "And Rowanian citizenship, yes."
    "No," Quirrin said. "This information is not worth 
that. That is the greater prize." He looked at Chirren 
with his eyes narrowed speculatively.
    Herran's stomach churned with emotions. Damn it, there 
was so much that Quirrin was jeopardizing by looking at 
Chirren like that. Chirren should stay here because he 
might recognize the rapist, because Herran had promised 
him that he could, because protection really was the 
greater prize against the forces the School Masters could 
bring to bear, because-
    But Herran knew that that was not what Quirrin wanted 
to hear, and he knew that he could not make those 
arguments in anyone else's hearing. There was only one 
argument that Quirrin would understand and respect, and he 
would have to make it, no matter how heartless it made him 
look to the others.
    He spoke in a low voice made at least as savage by his 
hatred of doing the wrong things for the right reasons as 
by his genuine indignation. This time, he used Aril. "Will 
you tell me that you will reverse my decisions as a 
Councilman, Quirrin? Will you tell me that I must answer 
to you, and obey your will? If you do that, then I will 
never grow into the vision that I have told you about. I 
will be ever under your shadow."
    Quirrin grew still, staring at him. Then, with a small 
smile, he inclined his head to Chirren.
    "Forgive me, my lord," he said, with a courtesy that 
Herran had never seen him display to anyone he did not 
genuinely respect, but which was as perfect and polished 
as every other thing about him was. "If Lord Herran sees 
something of worth in you, then of course that is enough 
for me."
    He turned to look at Herran, to touch him on the 
shoulder and saw in a comfortable, companionable voice 
with just a hint of laughter in it, "You are learning."
    Herran ground his teeth, but silently. He had learned 
the trick of that after five years or so.
    His greatest fear was that he would become what 
Quirrin wanted him to, do what Quirrin wanted him to, all 
in the name and interests of doing the right thing. 
Compelled to it by his own morals and his own conscience. 
A slave to the destiny that he did not even believe in, 
that only Quirrin had ever seen and managed to persuade 
others of.
    What happened to separate good and evil? Where could 
he draw the line, and say that he would not yield further 
to darkness, even if yielding to the darkness meant 
gaining in the light?
----------------------------------------------------------
    Herran tried to ignore the presences of Helena and 
Daemon as he knocked on the Councilmaster's door. They had 
guarded him like lions ever since he had faced Quirrin, 
and they had heard Quirrin say what he had. Their first 
loyalty was to the master torturer, and they would serve 
Herran if Quirrin said that he was the one to become 
Councilmaster, to the point of guarding him when he did 
not want to be guarded.
    There was a series of almost soundless movements, 
during which Lord Liant went through the process of 
disarming the magical traps on the door so that someone 
else could enter. Then he called in a voice that sounded 
distracted even after that preparation, "Yes, what is it?"
    "My lord?" Herran gently pushed open the door. "It is 
me. Herran."
    "Lord Turnlong." The voice held a cool tone that 
warmed quickly as the door opened further and he could see 
the guards who accompanied the young Councilman. "Come in, 
come in. I was considering sending for you myself, to 
discuss a proposal of alliance with you. I thought you 
might be interested."
    "Yes, I am."
    Helena and Daemon stayed with him even when he came 
into the room. Herran had thought that Liant might order 
them to leave- guards were rarely present during probate 
discussions between Council members- but the gray-eyed 
Elwen only nodded and looked pleased that they were there. 
On seeing Herran's frown, he rose to his feet, looking 
sterner than ever as the last traces of a smile vanished 
from his face.
    "My lord, there was another assassin this morning."
    "I know. I was told-"
    "Then there was another, my lord. Two of them."
    Herran shuddered. Counting the attack Chirren had made 
on him in the office, which he was doing even though he 
knew he shouldn't, that made seven attempts on his life in 
the last ten days. Herran supposed that he should be 
flattered, and he would have been, save for the certainty 
that all of the assassins had different sources. He had 
not one persistent enemy who hated him beyond reason, but 
a great number of them.
    Many of whom did, indeed, hate him beyond reason.
    "This one was a curalli," Liant continued, taking a 
seat on the cushions that were scattered on the floor and 
motioning Herran to do the same. Helen and Daemon took up 
position on either side of him, like great jungle cats 
crouching on their haunches. Herran shot them glances. 
They did not take the hint, instead staring patiently 
ahead.
    Or seeming to. It was really only their bodies and 
heads that stayed still. Their eyes moved to every corner 
of the room, seeking the signs of unusual activity or 
magic that might signal an attack was about to being. 
Herran was simultaneously angry and flattered that they 
were taking such an interest in his safety. It was yet 
another paradox to add to the many that throve within him 
already.
    Even though he knew he was incapable of it, Herran 
wished, as he had often done, that he had the ability to 
see any issue from only one side.
    Well, as a matter of fact, he did. He could not think 
of any motive that Corandra's rapist might have had for 
doing what he had done. That was one thing, he 
acknowledged with a grim smile, that he had only one 
opinion on.
    He almost missed Liant's continuation of his original 
statement. "And this one appeared to be professionally 
paid and trained..."
    Herran finally forced himself to pay attention to what 
the Councilmaster was saying. He stared. "A curalli? And 
he got past all the wards and traps on the walls and in 
the Council building that were placed there for the 
detection of curalli?"
    "Yes. He was found hiding in your chambers, waiting 
for you to return."
    Herran concealed his shaking with a grim smile. "It is 
lucky that he was not when I returned." He had paid, 
recently, for an extremely nasty magical trap to be 
installed on the door, active only when he was in the 
room, and someone else was in there as well, without his 
permission. He liked to flatter himself into thinking that 
not even Quirrin knew about it.
    But he had not known about the curalli, either, and an 
assassin who could evade his detection had to be extremely 
skilled. And cost so much money that Herran did not even 
want to consider how much his unknown enemy wanted him 
dead.
    "Be that as it may," he said, dismissing the problem 
with a motion of his head, "we have another problem to 
deal with."
    "Which is?"
    "Chirren fled here because he was accused of knowing 
something about a rape. The rape of a child," Herran 
continued, observing the fire that was rising in Liant's 
eyes. "Master Kerlinde's seven-year-old daughter." Even 
though Liant knew nothing of the alliance that Herran 
maintained with the curalli, he would know that name, and 
realize what it meant, beyond the immediate moral 
implications of the thing.
    Which were quite enough for Herran. He would like to 
see this rapist before they took him back to Shadows. Even 
though Herran was willing to concede that they would do 
things to him there would hurt more than anything a land 
Elwen could do, there were land Elwen tricks that a 
curalli would not be able to practice. He hoped they let 
Quirrin have him, at least for a little while.
    He hated torture, but he would beg to be present to 
watch. That would please him more than anything had since 
Chemilli had died.
    "No, Herran."
    "What?" He looked up. Liant was watching him with a 
knowing expression that cut through the pain in his gray 
eyes.
    "You're going to stay as far away from this as you 
possibly can."
    "What?" Herran snarled. "I'm the one who's sheltering 
the one who brought the news of this rape to us. I should 
be at least-"
    "No."
    Herran winced. He forgot, every once in a while, why 
the Councilmastery had settled on Liant even though he 
hated it. He had a will that he rarely bothered to employ; 
when he did use it, no one, not even Quirrin, had ever 
dared to cross him.
    "Sheltering him is all you will do," Liant continued. 
"I will not see my successor to the Councilmastery 
destroyed before he succeeds."
    Herran stared at him with narrowed eyes. Liant nodded 
slowly, once.
    "Quirrin told me. I must say I approve."
    "Why?" Herran asked. "You live in this trap. You know 
the pain of it in ways that I never can, as long as I 
stand outside it. You hate every waking moment, and have 
for as long as I have known you. And yet you would inflict 
this horror on another Elwen?"
    "Rowan must be served," said Liant inflexibly. "And I 
must inflict this pain on another Elwen strong enough to 
bear it. That is what you are. I should know; I have 
watched you, seen you. You were born to wield power. You 
will work out fine, just as Quirrin has always assured me 
that you will."
    "No Elwen can endure without joy."
    Liant smiled without humor. "And no city can endure 
without a ruler of some kind, king in name or not. We can 
quote platitudes at each other until the moons tumble, 
Herran, but it will prove nothing save that we are both 
right. This is a burden that no Elwen should ever have to 
bear. And it is a burden that someone must, until another 
can be found to take his place."
    The words hit Herran like a lightning bolt, and he 
felt as if a curtain had been drawn back from his eyes at 
last, to show him another world shining soundlessly in the 
immense light o that bolt.
    He had never thought of that. Why had he never thought 
of that? Even Quirrin, who had been nursing the dream of a 
leader for Rowan for over a thousand years, since the Lady 
Eleriad's death, had kept a list of likely candidates. 
Herran was merely the one he had chosen from that list.
    Why could Herran not keep a list of his own, and 
choose someone worthy from that, who could replace both 
him and Liant?
    There had to be someone in this city of over a million 
land Elwens, most of them fiercely dedicated to Rowan 
herself, who would have the strength to endure the 
Councilmastery and the desire for power not to-
    The desire for power, just strong enough to seize the 
reins while at the same time being aware that he or she 
had seized the reins.
    Herran must have looked too faraway for Liant, or 
perhaps it was his smile that gave him away to the 
Councilmaster. The gray-eyed Elwen leaned forward, staring 
at him sharply. "What is wrong with you?" he asked, in a 
voice that combined bewilderment and anger. "I hope that 
you will do nothing more than shelter Chirren."
    "I won't."
    Liant eyed him for a long moment, but apparently could 
find nothing wrong with this promise, and nodded 
reluctantly. "Very well. Then there is nothing else that I 
need to say to you. You may go."
    "The alliance that you proposed to me, my lord?" 
Herran asked as he stood.
    "There are other matters to concern me at the moment 
than the ones I wanted to discuss with you, the ones that 
might have led to an alliance," Liant said, standing and 
making his way beak towards his desk. "I think that they 
will have to wait, as will our alliance, until a more 
auspicious time."
    Herran dipped his head in acknowledgement, and made 
his way to the door.
    "Herran."
    Herran was beginning to wonder if he would get out of 
a room today without being called back. He turned and 
waited without expression for the Councilmaster to ask him 
the question that blazed in his face.
    "You- have not told Quirrin of this?" Liant asked 
after a moment.
    "I could not have kept it from him if I wanted to," 
said Herran. "Chirren tried to kill me over a mistake, and 
the ward that I keep in my room to deal with such things 
acted against him. Quirrin felt it act and came to me, to 
make sure that I had survived the attack with my skin 
intact."
    Liant stared at him. "Your voice reflects bitterness. 
Would you really prefer to die rather than serve Rowan in 
the position of Councilmaster?"
    He plainly did not expect the silent, fervent nod that 
Herran gave him, and did not call again as the young 
Councilman exited the chamber.
----------------------------------------------------------
    "I don't understand. What is so evil about the 
Councilmastery? Why don't you want it?"
    Herran looked up at Helena. She was standing in the 
doorway of his room, watching idly as he gathered up 
papers and those other things he needed to take home with 
him.
    "Think about it," Herran said tensely, as he stopped 
for another armful of paper. "Just think about it, and I 
think you will see what I mean."
    "I don't think I will."
    Herran looked up. noting that there was another tone 
in her voice. Helena had taken a step into the room, and 
her hand was resting on her sword as she gazed at him, 
grimly and without expression.
    "And I do not appreciate being spoken to that way by a 
man I was only trying to help," she continued in a 
dangerously soft voice.
    Herran threw up his hands. "And I do not appreciate 
being asked to explain what is wrong with the 
Councilmastery over and over again," he snapped, in a 
voice made snappish and thick by the heat. He felt as 
though a glistening coast of sweat covered him from his 
head to his feet, and he could not break it, could not 
move out of it to confront the world as it was meant to be 
confronted. Summer in Rowan was rarely this hot, and the 
strain was getting to everyone. "I know what is wrong with 
it. It is not a sacrifice of part of your life for Rowan, 
as the Council is, but the sacrifice of the whole of your 
life for Rowan. Liant has no one that he loves, nothing 
that he loves other than Rowan- and the strain of that 
love is killing him- and no chance to be Elwen. He cannot 
disdain power because he wields it, but he cannot trust it 
because he is Elwen, and he must always be afraid that 
there are dark depths in his soul hungering after the 
power that he does not know about, but which may gain 
control someday. It is killing him," he repeated, to 
Helena's blue stare.
    "It did not kill the Lady Eleriad. It will not kill 
you."
    "I have often thought the Lady Eleriad more than a 
little mad," Herran replied, as he gathered up the last 
sheaf of paper and moved out the door. Helena walked 
beside him without being invited, Herran opened his mouth 
to dispute her presence, and then decided that it was not 
worth it. She might truly guard him all the way home, but 
there, she would surely leave him.
    "Why?"
    Herran shrugged. "She enjoyed wielding power, and yet 
it did not corrupt her. That comes from incredible 
strength-"
    "Yes, the kind of strength that you have."
    "-Or fearlessness. And who is fearless is mad."
    "Not of necessity."
    "In her case, I think it was. The humans could sense 
it, too, I think. They are better at seeing evil in our 
leaders than we are. Why do you think they fled the 
battle, or came to, whenever the Running Stag appeared on 
the horizon? They knew that she would kill them without 
mercy."
    "That was what was needed."
    "I'm not saying that it wasn't." Herran had fought in 
the War, had stared into too many human faces that hated 
him for having magic and wanted to wipe his kind from the 
face of the earth, not to agree. "But I'm not that kind of 
Elwen, and I am beginning to fear that mercilessness, 
ruthlessness, is as needed in Rowan as it ever was on the 
battlefield. I cannot do that."
    "The very fact that you have seen the need for it 
indicates that-"
    Herran cut her off with a sharp shake of his head. 
"I've heard all the arguments, Helena. I always will. I 
simply don't agree with them. And I'm in no mood to hear 
them tonight."
    He changed the subject before she could insist that he 
needed to hear them in order to become convinced of them, 
as Quirrin often did. "I haven't seen Daemon for a little 
while. Where is he?"
    "He went ahead."
    Herran stopped at once. "No," he said quietly.
    "Did he come back?" Helena looked around as though she 
expected to see him standing on a roof and grinning down 
at them.
    "No. I meant that you will not come with me to my home 
tonight and guard me as if I were a child. I refuse to 
stand for that."
    "Too late."
    "There are assassins about-"
    "The point. That is why you need us."
    "No," said Herran fervently. "Have you forgotten the 
way that they used to mistake you for my sister and try to 
kill your or capture you because of that? I would not see 
you come to harm if I can help it."
    Helena shook her head gently. "But that is part of 
what we do, part of what we chose to do," she said, more 
gently than Liant but as inflexible as he had been. 
"Better that we be hurt, if hurt we are, than that you be 
hurt."
    "I do not feel that way."
    "That does not matter in this case."
    "I know," said Herran, with a sigh that left his mouth 
like a winter wind, cold and bitter and dark. "I only 
wanted you to know that I would prefer most everyone was 
far away from me, and that I will be sorry if you are 
hurt."
    "That, my lord, I never doubted of you." There was a 
warmth in Helena's voice that, for one of the first times 
in their association, seemed to express genuine affection 
for him, rather than concern and care because he was 
Quirrin's chosen tool. Herran nodded in thanks and then 
looked ahead, down the hall of the Council building that 
glowed with sunset light.
    "Chirren has been taken care of?"
    "Yes."
    There was nothing more that he needed to do here, 
then. Herran began to walk the hall, with Helena moving 
vigilantly at his side, one hand restring on the sword 
that hung at her waist.
    Herran looked around carefully as he walked, but could 
see nothing but the shimmering panes of glass, and the 
late, bloody sunlight that flooded through them. There was 
no sign that there had ever been an assassin walking this 
hall; Herran had been told that they had stopped the first 
one here. It looked as though it had been made for peace, 
as if it should be the hall to a temple rather than the 
entrance to a building where men and women with uneasy 
eyes on each other and on the city plotted war and 
assassination.
    Herran was not very religious, and did not pray to 
Suulta, the Goddess of Peace and the Lady of his people, 
but just then he felt inclined to try. He bowed his head 
and murmured, trying to remember the ritual words that his 
father had tried so often, in turn, to drum into his head. 
Helena gave him a curious glance but did not interrupt 
him.
    Herran had almost reached the end of the prayer, and 
they had almost reached the end of the hall, when the 
attack came.
    Herran jerked his head up a moment before Helena did, 
and pulled out the patterned blade that hung at his side, 
a gift from the curalli gang leader Etredi. He cut in a 
diagonal slash at the two Elwen women who had emerged from 
nowhere.
    A glowing blur gate in the air had produced them, 
actually, and there was nothingness on the other side. But 
Herran did not know what it was, or how to close it.
    At the moment, he did not really care. At the moment, 
he was too busy fighting for his life against the attacks 
of a woman who made Vindia Leaflaughter, the Captain of 
the Guards, look weak and slow. The blows of the great 
sword she wielded numbed his wrists.
    It quickly came clear, however, that she was not 
really trying to kill him. The other one was holding off 
Helena, but-
    Herran figured it out then, and turned, screaming a 
warning.
    Helena did not hear him. She would never hear anything 
again. A sword had plunged between her breasts, out her 
back, and then back through and in again in so many places 
that she looked like a leaf the caterpillars had been busy 
at. She crumpled to the ground, streaming with blood, as 
the two women backed up and made for the gate again.
    Herran, screaming soundlessly in rage and hatred, 
turned to face the woman who had killed Helena; the other 
was already gone through the gate. This one had lingered 
to give him a mocking smile.
    She did not smile as their eyes met, and Herran's rage 
took the form of a glare that reached into her mind and 
simply stopped it. She crumpled to the floor at once.
    The gate snapped shut at once.
    Herran fell to the ground beside Helena's body, and 
through the rage and hatted came the pain. He did not know 
how long he wept before Quirrin arrived.




                        Chapter 2
                       On The Hunt
    "A friend is the one treasure that cannot be replaced,
     Sift the sands of the world-shores though you might.
     She will come never back through hylea-leaves laced,
     Though you look through the world in day and night."
    -First verse of the song, "A Friend Never Returns," 
early Age of Dawn, author unknown.

    "A blue gate in the air?"
    Herran nodded wearily. He was feeling little of 
anything now. Quirrin's questions were beginning to run 
together, and he answered them automatically. He knew 
there was danger in the shock that was slowly overcoming 
him, but he did not care.
    And it was not even really shock. It was an empty 
numbness that settled over him like a cloak and would not 
move, however hard Herran tried to lift it. It was a 
heaviness in his limbs, a touch of sleep in the corners of 
his eyes, the certainty that he would have dark dreams 
tonight.
    It was despair.
    Quirrin stopped pacing and stared at him as the 
feeling escaped Herran's controls and radiated into the 
emotional air. "Despair?" He approached Herran and gripped 
his shoulders, staring into his face. "Why? We will find 
those who did this, easily, and you killed her killer. It 
was as she would have wanted."
    "I told you. It was her they targeted, her they were 
after, not me. One held me back to keep me from her, and 
the other killed her as easily as you would kill a human. 
They wanted her death."
    "Yes, you told me that. The only thing I cannot 
understand is why."
    "I know why!" Herran clenched his hands in helpless 
frustration. He had said this before, as well, but no 
matter how many times he repeated it, quirrin would not 
believe it. "They wanted to hurt me. They wanted to steal 
her life, knowing that would hurt me even more than the 
loss of my own. And they wanted to send a message, that it 
is dangerous to be close to me. I am to be shinned and 
isolated, in case someone comes close to me and dies 
because of it."
    "Why would they do such a thing?"
    "They have tried assassination until there are a 
ridiculous number of Elwens dying trying to kill me, and 
none of them have succeeded. They may have decided that 
that won't work, and that they should not waste time and 
money by trying any more. They will kill me, then, by 
taking my friends away from me."
    "You're overreacting."
    "Am I?" Herran stared blankly at the master torturer. 
"Helena is dead," he added on a rising note. "Do you even 
know that? Or care about it?"
    "I know."
    The silence stretched long, as Herran waited for 
Quirrin to say something else, and Quirrin refused to say 
it. Or, simply, did not care, and saw no use in staring 
the obvious.
    "I can't believe this," Herran whispered, Fire pressed 
against his skin again, and he welcomed the anger as a 
release from the grief that would otherwise threaten to 
overwhelm him. "She served you well all her life that I 
knew her. She saved your life several times. And yet I 
care more about her death than you do."
    "I did not say that."
    "Then what did you say?" Herran was shaking, He could 
not believe that the master torturer sat there, and looked 
him in the eyes, and told him that he did not care about 
Helena, when everything that Herran had said was true.
    "I am truer to her spirit than you are," said Quirrin. 
"I want to know why they killed her before I grieve. And I 
want to know who. She would want that. She would have 
hunted down my killers before she wept, were our positions 
reversed."
    "I-"
    "You did your part," said Quirrin. "You avenged her, 
as she would have wanted. Now it is for me to avenge her 
in another way that she would have wanted."
    "I-" Herran started again.
    "Did not really know her." Quirrin's voice was oddly 
gentle for so implacable a face. "I am sorry, Herran. You 
would feel that, as the man supposedly responsible for her 
killing, you should known more. But it is the truth. 
Daemon and I knew her much better than you did, and for 
much longer. And I am, not sorry for her death in the way 
that you mean because I knew her too well, and know that 
she would not think grief permissible, save in the larger 
sense of the word."
    Herran's head was spinning. This happened every time 
that he thought he could finally call Quirrin inelwen and 
untrue to the glory and land Elwen soul that he tried so 
hard to preserve. Quirrin presented the problem in another 
way, and left Herran wondering what was true and what was 
not.
    "You have done your part," Quirrin repeated 
reassuringly. "You need do no more. Go home, and sleep 
under Daemon's protection, and count yourself lucky and 
blessed to survive the attack this day." He urged Herran 
gently to his feet and pressed him towards the door.
    "I grieve for Helena," he said to Herran's back, "but 
as I grieve for what the world loses every time someone 
like her dies. Not for her death in and of itself, because 
that was not the way she would have wanted it."
    Herran, who had decided that he would never ask the 
stars for anything again save for someone to weep fir him 
when he died, could not understand this, but he said 
nothing, instead walking out the door of Quirrin's office 
and down the warded hall where a guide waited to take him 
from the Prison.
    No, he had not understood Helena. He had not even 
understood the affection she had seemed to express for him 
moments before her death.
    Herran felt the tears threatening. He had been 
dreading telling Daemon the news, but Quirrin's words 
seemed to indicate that the other guard already knew. 
Herran hoped so. He did not want to tell the story in a 
manner that would disgrace either Helena's memory or 
himself.
    And, also given Quirrin's words, it now seemed 
inevitable that he would end up doing one or the other.
    The night had fallen by the time he found his way 
through the intricate maze of traps and wards that 
protected the Prison to the outside. He felt the breeze 
touch his brow for a long moment before he actually 
stepped outside, but it did not seem as if he was free 
until he was beyond the slender silver fence that 
surrounded the lawn in front of the Prison. Then he took a 
deep breath and stood there, his eyes closed, soaking in 
the wind and the starlight and the cold sweetness of the 
night.
    It soothed him a little, though not much. He glared at 
the stars, and wondered, not for the first time, if he 
really believed in the central tenet of his people: that 
they had been created by the stars, but that the stars, 
unlike the gods, had given their children utterly free 
rein in the world, and would not intervene unless the 
survival of the entire Elwenkind was at stake.
    Actually, he did believe that. He was beginning to 
wonder if it was a good thing, though. When things like 
Corandra's rape and Helena's death could happen and go 
unpunished, the guilty party fleeing as easily as the 
wind, what sense was there?
    He had thought things like this before, but never so 
intensely. For a moment, he felt as if he were drowning in 
despair, as if its dark waters would claim him, close over 
his head, and he would never be able to rise again.
    He turned his head to the side, and saw the figure 
standing there he had expected to see. Chemilli had cursed 
him and still sometimes tormented him, but she also came 
to him and comforted him in his moments of falling stars.
    She held out her arms. He came into them at once, not 
caring about the cold or the scars that her hands would 
leave on his skin. At the moment, he did not even care 
that she was dead. It was enough just to hold her, and to 
know that there was someone in the world that he loved 
like this, that his heart was not dead.
    "What is it, Herran?" she breathed into his ear.
    He told her, though he did walk towards the Turnlong 
estates while he was doing so, at her gentle insistence. 
She seemed to feel that standing in the street with no 
guards was too dangerous.
    When he finished, she was silent for a long moment, 
and then said in a voice that made it sound as if she 
would weep, "That poor child."
    "Corandra?" Herran's mind was numb, unable to hold new 
thoughts, barely able to grasp the ones that were already 
there. He felt relaxed after telling this to her, and he 
knew that he should be paying more attention to the 
surroundings, but the simple fact was that he did not 
care.
    "Of course," said Chemilli. "You know that you will 
have to do something about this?"
    "Of course. I know that Liant said the Council would 
try to find the rapist, but I am the one with the contacts 
and the knowledge to find out what we need to know."
    "Of course," Chemilli said again. She patted his arm 
and smiled into his face. "I knew that you would do it. I 
merely wanted to make sure that you knew you could do it, 
that you wouldn't give in to despair." There was an 
undercurrent in her voice that Herran liked to think was a 
tone of anxiety for him.
    The concern warmed him, as the chill night and even 
her chill touch did not. He looked at her and touched her 
hair. "Thank you for coming to me tonight," he said 
softly. "After last night, I was not sure that you would."
    "I understand your feelings," she said, leaning her 
head against his shoulder. "I did not plan on being Queen 
of Rowan myself when I first raised the rebellion against 
the highbloods. But that was the idea that proved to be 
most popular."
    "I know."
    Herran needed no reminder of those days, the terrible 
things that had happened, and most especially not the fact 
that he had killed his own love, Like it or not, meaning 
to or not, she was reminding him.
    "I am sorry," she said quietly. "But I think that you 
could accomplish what you want to a great deal more 
quickly and completely if you were the Councilmaster, and 
had al the resources of the Council at your disposal to 
search for the rapist and Helena's killers. You could do 
so much more of everything if you were Councilmaster. Even 
achieve our goals."
    Lately, Herran reflected, when she spoke of "our 
goals," she did not mean the goals of the Low Ones, the 
rebels she had led when she was alive and who had been 
dedicated to the death of highborn families like the 
Turnlongs, but the more important goals of the movement 
that she and he had shared. The abolition of the Laws, 
slavery, the prohibition that prevented other races from 
entering the city...
    And torture.