Radiant and Glorious
                         Prologue
         1114, Age of Ascent, First Day of Spring
    He opened his eyes to the sure and certain knowledge 
that it was time to go back.
    He could hear little in the stirring silence of the 
world just before dawn- here and there the irritated 
squawks of those birds who stayed throughout the winter, 
usually the jays and crows, and in other places the 
scrabbling of small animals or insects as they awakened to 
hunt a path through the glittering snow- and so he did not 
think that anything outside his own skull had given him 
this message. He lay there and dreamed himself into 
wakefulness, and readiness to return.
    Ready to return?
    He chuckled under his breath and closed his eyes. In 
truth, he had been ready to return long ago. It was 
Tandra, more than himself, who had told him he should stay 
out of the city until he felt it was right.
    And now he did.
    Herran Turnlong pushed himself to his feet and walked 
over to one of the trees that encircled the grove. He laid 
a hand on the silver bark and closed his eyes, leaning in 
close.
    He still could barely feel the magic caged in him by 
an outpouring that had very nearly crippled him, but it 
was there, a faint, distant hum, like that of the sap that 
would soon begin its rise through the roots of the tree he 
had created. He stood there, hand plastered to the bark, 
and tried to convince himself to have the tree's courage.
    He was afraid, in spite of the unshakable certainty 
that filled him.
    Then one of the branches came down and brushed leaves 
across his neck in what was meant to be a gesture of 
comfort.
    He did not feel it that way, however. He felt it as 
something dangerous, that could all too easily shock him 
with lightning or torture him with the feeling of acid. He 
sucked in a harsh breath and jumped away from it.
    The branch hastily retreated, and he could sense a 
kind of underground muttering as the grove promised itself 
revenge upon the curalli for the way they had captured and 
tortured him.
    Herran stood, shaking, eyes closed, for a long moment. 
Then he told himself that there was little to be gained 
from standing here, and turned to face the sky through the 
gaps in the forest.
    Today was the first day of spring- always a special 
day in Arcadia.
    It was a fitting day for him to make this decision.
    Overhead, the first faint edges of light overtook the 
dark gray of night. He could see the lightning whiteness 
of the winter sky, as well as a hint of deeper color.
    He dropped to one knee out of old habit, then realized 
that he would not feel the earth's joy as the time of life 
returned, or at least not as clearly, given the caging of 
his magic. He sucked in a breath that this time came out 
as a chuckle, and rose to his feet again, watching, almost 
breathless with anticipation.
    There was a movement behind him, but he knew who it 
was, who it must be, and he did not turn to regard her. 
Instead, he stared at the sky.
    The sun rose.
    From the east, racing behind it, came the greenness 
that turned the sky the color of the richest leaves in 
celebration of spring.
    And again he sighed out in surprise, this time because 
he could feel the joy and the rapture at the splendor 
running through him after all. He lifted his arms and 
stretched forth his hands to embrace the newness, laughing 
aloud for one of the first times since he had begun to 
heal.
    The light continued to swell, to grow, and then the 
green was spreading across the sky rapidly, in all 
directions, like water rising through a cracking ice floe, 
shattering the whiteness. What Herran saw was not the 
death of winter, however. He saw the spring, and he knew, 
as he had always known it, that it was a time of birth and 
rebirth for the world.
    And for him.
    It had to be. As concerned about him as Tandra was- as 
concerned as she had reason to be, he admitted in a moment 
of honesty that he found hard enough to share with 
himself, never mind with her- he would not submit to the 
voices that screamed in his head. He would not let being 
mostly without memory for almost two months as they 
tortured him destroy him. He was going back to Rowan, to 
bear all the things they had trained him to fear. He was 
going back to his home.
    He still could not bear touch, but even that, in time, 
he thought, would bear.
    When the sun had finally fully risen, he turned to 
face the maker of the noise, who still stood behind him, 
her face streaked with tears.
    "Don't cry," he said softly, at once, coming to her 
and forcing himself to reach out and take her hands, in 
spite of the pain and panic that the touch of anything 
against him could cause. "Please, don't cry. I will do 
what I can to heal."
    "It is not that," said his wife, her orange hair blown 
behind her by the rising breeze, her eyes fixed on his 
face. "I have the feeling that you have decided to go 
back."
    Herran ducked his head and smiled shyly. How did she 
know him so well?
    "Am I wrong?" Tandra prodded.
    "You are not wrong," he said, and gathered her into 
his arms as they stood there.




                        Chapter 1
                         Sunrise
    "Eternity is as brilliant as sunrise."
    -Attributed to Lilendi Casamir, High Priestess of the 
Seamaiden for Buinema.

    Herran gritted his teeth a little at the seemingly 
harsh steps of the horse beneath him, but still more at 
the feeling of Tandra's hands wrapped around his waist, 
her head resting on his back. She needed this contact, 
needed it, and he...
    But at last he could bear no more, and shrugged her 
sharply off.
    She nodded when he looked back at her, and he could 
see the understanding in her eyes, hear it in her voice 
when she spoke, even if he could not feel the emotions 
stirring the mental air around her as he once would have 
done. "It is all right, Herran." Her hand came up as if to 
rub his back soothingly, but when he tensed, she lowered 
it, and concentrated on soothing his taut nerves with her 
voice. "I promise that you do not have to do anything you 
do not wish to do."
    Herran shut his eyes in relief. "Thank you," he 
whispered.
    They rode in silence for a few moments more. The road 
to the city he had not seen in dances seemed longer than 
he remembered.
    Everything was going to be very much different from 
what he remembered, he was afraid.
    "How did you know where to find me?" he asked Tandra 
abruptly, touching on something he had wondered about for 
some time now.
    Always before, she had hedged, as though thinking that 
if he would not speak freely of what had really happened 
to him, he should not speak obliquely of it either. This 
time, she answered without hesitation. "I received a 
message telling me where Kerlinde was keeping you, and a 
map to the place." She paused, and then spoke again, a 
wavering hesitation in her voice. "And what he was doing 
to."
    "From whom?"
    "I do not know. She did not tell me. I have the 
feeling that she feared discovery by Kerlinde."
    "A curalli?" Herran asked incredulously. For all the 
years he had spent in alliance with the shadowed Elwens, 
he found it harder to think of them in shaded terms now 
that he had been on the receiving end of their whips. He 
feared that as well, that tendency to quickly change, and 
yet feared that terrible gift would linger with him almost 
as long as the tendency to flinch when someone touched 
him.
    "So I thought," said Tandra. "Certainly, no one else 
knew where you were being held. Daemon did not. He did not 
wake from the drug until the curalli were long gone. He 
blamed himself for losing you, but at least was able to 
tell us it was shadowed Elwens who had taken you."
    Herran blinked and turned again to look at her; they 
were on a smooth part of the path that the mare could 
navigate without guidance. "I am sorry," he said softly. 
"It must have been terrible for you."
    She met his gaze for just an instant, black eyes 
glinting with tears to concerned pyrite ones, and then 
ducked her head. "It was," she acknowledged. No more, and 
no less.
    She was honest with him; she had almost always been 
honest with him.
    Which made his lack of honesty with her all the more 
hurtful, for them both.
    But Herran did not have the words for it yet. When he 
did, she would be the first one he gave them to.
    They both had to be content with that, especially for 
the next little while, for Herran saw smoke rising from 
not far ahead and frowned. It was too large for a 
campfire, and a campfire would not have been lit so close 
to the path in any case. Besides, why camp when Rowan and 
lodgings were only a few miles away?
    "Tandra."
    "I see it." Her voice was the voice of the woman who 
had been Captain of the Guards for almost three centuries 
and a Guard herself for sixty years before that. "Should 
we look at it?"
    "Yes."
    Herran had made the decision before he even realized 
it, hard as his first contact with strainers was going to 
be. He turned the horse, and kicked her gently when she 
balked, fearing the scent of fire. A few moments passed, 
and then she went forward reluctantly, her nostrils flared 
and her steps light and prancing, shying to the side 
almost as often as they made progress forward.
    They left the path and moved through a few scattered 
clearings and thick undergrowth that the mare breasted 
like waves before they came into a broad space newly 
burned by fire. Elwens were lying on the ground, all of 
them so badly hurt that Herran was glad for once that he 
could not feel their pain. Two horses lay on the ground, 
their throats slashed open, and a third was kicking feebly 
at the traces of the cart it was still entangled in. 
Herran could also smell the scent of black roses, and the 
sweet, ill-omened scent of elwenfire.
    Elwen bodies had burned here, gone to the stars, and 
another one burst into flame as he watched, a woman who 
had died just an instant before they would have been able 
to help her.
    Suddenly sick, and feeling rage at himself for sitting 
on the horse when there were people to be helped, he 
hopped down violently off the mare and strode to the 
nearest man. He was not as badly wounded as some of the 
others, but he was unconscious, as Herran saw when he 
pulled him over onto his back. He stared at the others and 
began a steady stream of cursing.
    Tandra made a small sound. He turned to see her 
crouching with her hands on the speared shoulder of a 
child, trying desperately to heal the wound with her 
compassion and grief alone. Healing liquid trickled 
sluggishly through her fingers.
    He did not think it would be enough to help.
    And he did not have his magic.
    He shook his head, told himself there had to be some 
other way to help these people, and then went to digging 
through the slashed and torn bags that lay about, 
searching for healingbloom. He found a plant almost at 
once and took it back to a woman whose breathing was more 
shallow than any of the others.
    He poured the silver sap down her throat without 
hesitating, even though he did not think it was good for 
anyone so wounded to drink so much at once. She took a 
racking cough, though, and opened her eyes. He sighed in 
relief. The wound had indeed threatened her life more than 
the consumption of the full-strength sap had.
    "More."
    He nodded, a little surprised that she could speak, 
and then poured more sap on her face and neck as well as 
down her throat. She drank it as if it were the sweetest 
honey, not wincing when he broke the stem apart even 
further for more sap that would bind the leaves and petals 
of the flower to her wound. She clasped his arm when he 
would have moved aside her tunic to look better at the 
deep wound on her shoulder, though.
    "I will live, for the moment." Her eyes were as bright 
as a hawk's. "Find my daughter, Lemabell, if you can. She 
will need-"
    "She is here."
    He turned at Tandra's solemn voice, heart thudding, 
for a moment thinking that she had not managed to save the 
child. But she was there, and so was the baby girl, who 
clutched at her mother's tunic and began to cry the moment 
his wife set her down.
    The woman sighed, and her face cleared. For a moment 
Herran thought she was lapsing back into the death-like 
sleep that had so nearly claimed her, but she turned to 
him, fighting the effects of the sap, stroking Lemabell's 
hair.
    "Who- are you?"
    "Herran Turnlong is my name," said Herran gently. "And 
this is Tandra Leafflower, my wife." He was gratified to 
note that the woman did not seem to know his name, but 
looked at Tandra with respect and awe.
    "The Captain of the city Guards of Rowan?"
    Tandra inclined her head, accepting the reverence in 
the woman's eyes more easily than Herran would have a 
similar emotion directed at him. "The same," she said 
softly, sadly almost, with a hint of a smile curving 
around the sides of her mouth. "I am only glad I was able 
to heal your child. What happened here?" The smile faded 
into tones of sorrow and anger as she spoke.
    "Curalli attack," said the woman, with all the 
bewilderment that might have been expected to accompany 
such a statement. Unprovoked curalli attacks were unknown 
since-
    Since the beginning of the alliance between Shadows 
and Rowan, the alliance Herran had begun and worked so 
hard to maintain.
    The alliance now in ashes.
    Herran shook his head and concentrated on asking the 
woman the questions that needed to be asked. "What is your 
name?" he asked, gently enough, as he walked over and 
knelt beside the man he had tried to awaken before. A 
quick check reassured him that the man would need only a 
small amount of healingbloom, and he began to provide it, 
his gaze fixed on the woman the entire time.
    "Caeli," she said shortly, looking at him 
suspiciously. 
    "And where did the curalli come from?"
    "Towards the west." She was staring openly now. Herran 
ignored it. Yes, the new scars on his face were visible 
from under the edges of his hair, and yes, they were quite 
spectacular. Her staring was understandable, and not the 
most important thing right now.
    "The west?" That concerned him. To the west, for 
thirty miles and more, lay Rowan, the immense city of his 
people that the curalli might dare to sneak into, but 
could not overcome in force. That they would have a 
stronghold beyond it was possible, but to come all that 
way just to attack an isolated caravan?
    "Yes." Caeli apparently lost the battle against 
temptation. "Forgive me," she said hesitantly, "but I must 
ask. What happened to you?"
    "Curalli," said Herran, all the explanation he was 
willing to give. Not going to mention torture or slavery, 
chanted one part of his mind, and another part teased that 
not to do so was a confession of weakness. At the moment, 
he did not really care.
    "But how? Did they hold you for a dance or so?" 
Caeli's voice held an odd tone that he could not identify, 
and perhaps could not have identified even with his magic 
working at full force. A glance at her revealed blank eyes 
and a tight mouth. Almost as if she were seeing something 
in her mind and was angry about whatever it was she saw 
there, though she was waiting intently for his answer. 
    "Something like that," said Herran, hating the 
stiffening in his body and voice alike, but not wanting to 
betray anything more if he could help it.
    "I think I have a right to know."
    "Why?" said Tandra, drawing the woman's gaze back to 
her. Though her voice remained polite and her eyes 
friendly, she leaned a little towards Caeli and put a hand 
on the hilt of her sword. "You were just attacked by 
curalli, and anyone can see how horrible that was for you. 
You thought your daughter might have been dead. That would 
affect anyone. Relax. You should sleep if you could, with 
that wound."
    Caeli backed away a little, speaking to Tandra and not 
to Herran as the male land Elwen finished splaying the 
healingbloom across the man's face and went on to the next 
victim. "I have heard something about a Herran Turnlong. I 
don't really remember where, but I think he was an ally of 
the curalli. If this is true, this could be a trap."
    "That still gives you no right to know about the scars 
on my husband's face." Tandra's voice had somehow 
acquired, indefinably, the faintest overtones of a snarl.
    "Your husband? But..." The woman's voice trailed off 
uncertainly. "I have heard of your hatred for curalli, my 
lady. Why would you marry a man who had willingly allied 
himself with them?"
    "All things are more complicated than you seem to 
think them to be," said Tandra. "Now, answer me. Why are 
you so interested in scars on my husband's face?" Her hand 
was white-knuckled around the hilt of her sword.
    Though the protectiveness annoyed him, Herran remained 
quiet. It was true that Caeli had no right to know, and 
Tandra must be nearly as tired of strangers snapping at 
and being suspicious at him as he was. She had a right to 
have some of her own back.
    Caeli slumped, and bowed her head a little. "We have 
suffered at the hands of curalli, just as you said," she 
mumbled. "And this is not the first time. When he began 
healing us and asking us questions about the attack, just 
as if he had a right to know, as if he could do something 
about it, and then I saw the signs that he had suffered 
himself... I'm sorry. I suppose that I thought he would 
begin comparing his suffering to ours in a moment. I was 
not in the mood to hear that."
    "He will not compare your suffering to his," said 
Tandra. "He never does that." She darted a glance at 
Herran, asking a question without words, either aloud or 
in her mind. Herran hesitated, sighing as he looked down 
at the wounded woman he was feeding the sap, and then 
looked back up and nodded at her. He did not want Caeli's 
pity, but if it would stop the questions...
    "He was held by the curalli and tortured for two 
months," said Tandra evenly to Caeli. "Before that, he was 
a slave and crippled in magic for several dances. He will 
not start complaining about it. I am telling you only so 
that you will not ask about it again out of your own 
misguided curiosity. Do you understand?"
    "Yes."
    Caeli was staring at Herran with her mouth slightly 
open, her eyes pale and her eyes round with horror. Herran 
kept his gaze away, fixed on the woman under his hands, 
who was slowly beginning to wake up.
    "My lady?" he said gently. "Can you hear me, my lady?"
    She opened her eyes, saw him, and drew in a slight 
gasping breath, struggling to sit up at once. Herran laid 
a hand over her shoulder and held her down. "Lie easy. You 
are alive, and among friends."
    "The curalli.. took my son from me..." she said, still 
struggling to sit up.
    Herran closed his eyes, remembering the short time 
when he had believed, because of Kerlinde's lies, that his 
own daughter was dead. He did not even consider before he 
spoke. "Which direction did they go?"
    The woman pointed weakly back the way they had come, 
and dropped into darkness again.
    Herran laid aside the cloth he had been using to put 
the sap on her wounds, and made his way quickly to Tandra, 
who was talking quietly to Caeli as she worked 
healingbloom sap into a young boy's wounds. "Tandra," he 
said. "I have learned that the curalli took a child. Will 
you be able to tend them while I go after them and try to 
rescue the boy?"
    She stared at him. "Herran-"
    "Someone has to stay with them," he said, knowing the 
words were falling over each other, but not caring. "I 
have to try something."
    "How can you do anything?" she asked, not cruelly, but 
pointedly. "You have no magic to turn them back if they 
attack you."
    Herran touched the sword he wore, the sword she had 
brought him from the city days ago when she thought he 
could stand to use it again. "I have my blade," he said, 
smiling faintly. "And other tricks. I was a patrol leader 
long before I was a mage, my love. Please." He geld her 
gaze, trusting her to understand.
    Apparently, she understood- both his desire and need 
to be away from others for a while, and his need to take 
vengeance on the curalli if he could. And his desire not 
to let an innocent child be hurt, of course. Her face 
softened, and she nodded.
    "Of course. Go if you must. But call if you can, and 
at least take the horse." She did not say what she was 
thinking, and he could tell it without looking at her. If 
the horse came back without a rider, it would be one 
indication that he needed help.
    "I'll be careful," he promised quietly, trotting up to 
the mare and mounting her in one swift motion. Caeli and 
the few others awake watched in silence as he urged her 
out of the clearing. Tandra did not watch him, still 
urging the little boy to wake up.
    Herran found the trail easily. The curalli had taken 
no pains to hide it, and though they were skilled 
foresters and even a careless trail left few signs, he had 
grown so used to the scent of black roses that he would 
notice and smell it unless they used magic to hide it.
    Even then, he thought that he might have been able to 
find it...
    He shook his head to urge the thoughts away, and sent 
the mare trotting through dead grass and the melting slush 
of the dregs of winter. The trees around them changed to 
pines from hylea and oak, and the sunlight to deep green 
as it filtered through them.
    Herran drew a deep breath to take the piny scent deep 
into his lungs, letting it smother the scents of magic and 
black roses and the remembered scents of blood and more 
magic and pain.
    Not now.
    The life of a child was at stake. The memories must 
not be allowed to overwhelm that.
    And then, amazingly, they did not. Suddenly he was the 
man he had been after the slavery and the ordeal that had 
caused him to lose his magic, aware of the pain and the 
joy that he caused, both of them, balanced in his soul and 
strong.
    It was amazing how easy it was.
    Too easy?
    Time to worry about that either.
    He tapped the mare hard with his heels, and she began 
following the trail that wound in and out among the trees, 
still faint but more visible now than before. The curalli 
had clearly walked it.
    Smell of black roses.
    Smell of blood.
    But not white, this time. The smell of silver blood. 
He dismounted briefly to gaze at a tiny, bright patch on 
the needles.
    When he stood again, his face was quiet and 
reflective. He patted the mare, taping her neck twice in 
the signal that most of the horses of his people were 
trained in, telling her to wait.
    She stood there and watched as he went ahead, flitting 
into the forest, fitting in among the trees nearly as 
skillfully as any shadowed Elwen.
    It was not long after sunrise, but long enough that 
the shadows were beginning to fade. They would have 
sentries in the places where shadows lingered: under thick 
trees, beside great bushes, anywhere else where they could 
use magic to make sure they were not seen. Herran's 
thinking flowed along in those patterns he had once been 
so accustomed to using, ready and quick. He knew that he 
was right, knew that his thinking could be relied upon.
    The thinking of a patrol leader.
    He had been right in what he said to Tandra. Those 
skills really were the oldest ones of all.
    He paused when a great bloodwood bush reared up beside 
him. It was shaped like a miniature pine, called for the 
shining silver twigs that stuck out from the waxy green 
tiers of leaves.
    He smelled the scent of black roses. It could have 
come from the trail on the ground in front of him, but it 
didn't.
    He sighted with one of his knives on a small flicker 
of movement, and threw.
    He heard a strangled gasp, and moved in, sword 
sweeping high and then low, forcing the curalli out of the 
shadows and into the light where he could see him. The man 
winced as the sunlight struck his eyes, proving that his 
training was not complete: he could resist and the sun 
would not actually do him harm, but it could still cause 
his eyes pain.
    Herran surged into the sunlight, swinging his sword so 
as to send a sudden flash into the eyes of the man before 
him.
    The man managed one scream before he died, but he 
might have sent a telepathic message ahead as well. Herran 
would not have been able to tell if he had. He rested 
beside the body, arm over his knee, body heaving very 
slightly, and tried to remember the last time he had 
killed someone with his sword alone.
    It seemed like a very long time.
    Something rustled in the bushes beside him, and he 
knew with the instincts of a patrol leader that it was not 
a bird or a rabbit. He spun, another knife flying.
    This one did not strike the target, but it startled 
the woman keeping watch enough that she emerged and showed 
herself before dodging back into shadow. Herran leaped for 
the branches of a tree at once, catching hold and hauling 
himself high.
    Unless there was someone already above him, no one 
would be able to strike at him here, and any blade thrown 
or arrow fired would reveal the direction from which it 
had come.
    He ignored the fact that it might also kill him. Of 
course it might, but was that not the same question he 
faced every time he went into battle?
    There was a child's life at stake.
    An arrow flashed towards him, and he rolled off the 
branch and dropped to the ground, using his eyes and mind 
to track the direction from which it had come even as he 
fell. Then he was back on his feet, listening intently to 
the very small sounds of movement, and the knife left his 
hand and flew precisely-
    And found a target who fell with a cry of extreme 
pain. Must have been one of the blades he had coated with 
long-lasting poison, Herran thought as he darted off, 
staying low to the ground.
    He was inside their circle now, close to the camp 
where they would have the boy. On the other hand, they 
almost certainly knew he was here.
    He ran, and then stopped and whipped around the trunk 
of a tree as a dart came in low, almost head-height. He 
ducked and let the next one pass, and then snatched the 
third out of the air and threw it back towards the 
thrower.
    Another cry of pain.
    Three down, one at least dead, two of the others 
probably badly wounded from poison.
    He could not know how many there were, and he found 
himself wishing that he had asked that question, over and 
above any of the others.
    Too late now.
    Something that he once would have done as effortlessly 
as breathing- speaking telepathically to Tandra and asking 
her to ask Caeli or one of the others- now took too much 
effort and could not be helped.
    He dropped to one knee as another dart went overhead, 
smelling the poison as he went by and grimacing. It was no 
wonder that the curalli he had flung the dart back at was 
down. The venom smelled virulent, not one that he knew or 
cared to know.
    He came back up onto his feet and darted through the 
wavering patches of sunlight, cutting deeper and deeper 
into the forest, noting absently that the slush under his 
feet was making the grass more and more slippery, and 
adjusting his position accordingly.
    He came at last to the edge of a wide clearing where 
several curalli were gathered. His gaze took in perhaps 
ten who had remained to guard the child while the rest had 
gone hunting for him in the forest.
    Too late for them.
    He rolled forward, not pausing to worry about who 
might be coming up beyond him, and fired once with the 
small hand crossbow he had just now had the time to load. 
The nearest man fell, letting out a scream of pain. The 
poison on the quarrel was another thing that Tandra had 
brought him from Rowan.
    The curalli remaining in the clearing reacted 
smoothly, according to a defensive plan they probably had 
set in place already. They dropped to the ground and 
rolled in opposite directions, some of them coming up 
behind the slender sapling the boy was fastened to and 
surrounding him more closely, some darting into the 
shadows where they could use their magic to wreak severe 
damage on Herran.
    If he let them.
    He could not use his mind to sense them, or fling fire 
in so many directions that it would not matter where they 
came from, the usual defense of a land Elwen. He did the 
next best thing, tracking them with his eyes until they 
vanished and then turning and yelling back into the 
forest.
    "I'm going to need help! There are more of them then 
I'll be able to handle alone!"
    Instantly, he sensed motion off to the sides as two of 
the shadowed Elwens believed his ruse and ran to head off 
his imaginary allies, Failure to find them would just make 
the curalli more certain they were there, and keep them 
away from the clearing for a longer period of time.
    That done, he turned to face the seven- five visible, 
two hidden- who were left. He drew his sword and began 
stalking forward, letting them see without qualms that 
part of his training had been guided by them.
    "Wait," said one of the men standing behind the boy 
suddenly, staring intently at Herran.
    The command could have been for his comrades hidden in 
the shadows, and probably was. Herran ignored it, at any 
rate, continuing the same slow stalk forwards. The sword 
swung low in front of him like the tongue of a serpent 
about to strike.
    "Wait," the man repeated, sounding a little desperate.
    Herran continued to ignore him.
    "My lord, I know you," said the man then, directly. He 
turned to glance at the other shadowed Elwens over his 
shoulder, as if hoping they would give him some help, but 
they merely looked vaguely embarrassed that he knew a land 
Elwen, and did not offer any help. He turned back again. 
"The Lord Herran Turnlong, the ally of Shadows?" he said, 
without much hope now.
    "I was once," said Herran, pausing and gazing at him 
without emotion. At the sound of his Melli, he could 
almost feel looks being exchanged- not literally, as he 
once would have been able to, but almost.
    "Really?" said the man, with a tone of polite interest 
in his voice. "What happened to change that?"
    "It does not really matter." Herran was almost sure 
that if he let the man know he had been tortured, he would 
be anxious to finish the task. Even if the man who said he 
knew him didn't care, Herran was not willing to take the 
chance. "Now, if you will, please let me take the boy. You 
have no quarrel with him."
    "We have a quarrel with you," said the man. "We were 
told to attack Rowan until you did something to renew your 
alliance with the curalli."
    "By whom?"
    "Kerlinde, the Master of Discipline in the School of 
Shadows."
    Herran laughed, a harsh and ugly sound, and now that 
it would serve a purpose, he had no qualms about revealing 
that he had been tortured. "Really? It seems a shame that 
he has so thoroughly played an intelligent man like 
yourself for a fool."
    The curalli stayed silent, eyes on him, waiting for 
the joke.
    "I have been in his hands for the past two months," 
said Herran. "Being tortured. Not out of passionate 
revenge for a crime that I committed to someone he cares 
about, but as a punishment for what he claims happened to 
his people."
    Again, the curalli before him exchanged glances. "That 
seems a wise choice to me," said one of the women, her 
dark hair and pale blue eyes indicating Frigid Waste 
blood. "Why not take you and punish you himself if he 
wanted, if you had to suffer? Surely no one would be more 
skilled at it."
    Herran smiled at her. "But why do it, if he really 
wanted to repair the loss of faith between our two 
peoples? Why tell you to attack Rowan when he knew there 
was no chance of the breach being repaired?"
    "Is there no chance, my lord?" said the spokesman of 
before in a soft, persuasive voice.
    "No. I am less than sane at the moment. If one of you 
can mindlink with me, then I give you permission to do it 
and feel the horrors that I have endured." Herran stared 
at the man unflinchingly. "If you think that it would not 
kill whoever you assigned to do it."
    "You have no proof that it would not?"
    "No. No one else has done it."
    "That seems odd, given that you are the pet and 
student and child of the master torturer," the woman mused 
in the same reasonable tone she had used to justify 
Kerlinde's capture and torture of him.
    "I have not yet returned to Rowan. You would be the 
first ones to do it... if you decide that you want to take 
the risk."
    Herran let out a soft breath when the man before him 
nodded, and motioned the pale-eyed woman forwards. She 
stepped towards him and then closed her eyes and appeared 
to enter a light trance. He could sense nothing of what 
she aws doing, though.
    In a moment, her eyes flew open and she screamed.
    "Brintal." The man's voice was both short and 
soothing. "Come back to us. This is Raran speaking. You 
have my permission to stop what you are doing and come 
back to us."
    Brintal continued to scream for a moment, and then 
wrenched herself free of the link with an almost audible 
snap. She shook all over as she met Herran's gaze, and 
then turned and looked at Raran.
    "He is what he says he is," she said, and would not 
elaborate when the other curalli pressed her. Raran had to 
be content with that at last, nodding and turning to 
Herran.
    "All right. What you say may be true. But why should 
we give you the child?"
    "Why did you take him in the first place?"
    "He killed a curalli."
    Herran glanced at the child for the first time. He was 
not so young as Herran had thought, closer to eight or 
nine than five or six. He had wide blue eyes that shone 
with hatred and hope, completely unclouded by the fear of 
death. His hair was the dark red-gold of a dragon's scales 
by firelight or a lion's mane.
    "And if I killed one of you for each land Elwen that 
died there?" Herran's voice was calm. "I could do that, or 
my wife would if you killed me, and there would be carnage 
for years and years then. It would be best if you let the 
boy come with me."
    "No."
    "Raran, please," said Brintal. "He is close to the 
edge of sanity as of this moment."
    Raran hesitated, staring at Herran, and then nodded. 
"If the child means that much to you, you may have him. 
But we will speak of this again, and decide what you owe 
us for allowing you to take him now."
    "As you wish," said Herran, and stepped back, keeping 
his sword leveled as they went to untie the boy. He would 
have liked to do it himself, but he knew that they would 
kill the child and take their chances with his sanity 
before they let him in so close among them.
    Brintal continued to watch him suspiciously, and he 
could feel Raran doing the same, though the man's head was 
bowed and all his attention supposedly focused on the boy 
in front of him. It seemed to go on like that for a 
timeless time, with no one sure what he was going to do 
next, with Herran not sure himself. 
    And then he seined a movement from behind him, just in 
time to save his life.
    He turned to face the curalli, who saw that she had 
been spotted and reacted with instincts that he would have 
applauded had she not been one of the enemy. The moment 
she saw him looking at her, she skidded to one knee and 
flung the knife she held towards him.
    Herran ducked the blade and then turned back towards 
Raran. If the woman behind would not close sword to sword, 
she was the lesser danger.
    The curalli leader held his blade to the boy's throat. 
the child continued to glare, bright blue eyes burning 
with the fire of their kind, not in the least afraid. Once 
Herran might have wondered at that. Now, he thought the 
boy knew just as he did that showing fear in front of the 
curalli could be fatal.
    "Let him go," said Herran.
    "No," said Raran, smiling a little. "I must admit that 
we will have to let you go, as you could kill one of us, 
but I think that you will do nothing as long as we have 
him. And if you will be content to leave with your life, 
then we can keep him for the purpose that we originally 
took him for."
    Herran shook his head in disgust. "You will endanger 
your lives for vengeance?"
    "Nothing more than land Elwens have done, many times," 
said Raran, with a slight shake of his head. "Yes, my 
lord, we will. But you will leave here, now." His eyes 
narrowed slightly. "Always hoping that we will not kill 
him. We might not, if you leave the clearing quickly and 
quietly enough-"
    His voice cut off in a short scream, more of surprise 
than of pain. The boy he held had bitten him. As Raran 
snatched his hand- but not the blade away- in instinctive 
reflex, the child slipped away from him and began to run 
towards Herran in an awkward juggernaut of limbs, his 
circulation having been cut off by the ropes used to tie 
him.
    Raran said something in Melli so swift that Herran 
could not understand it, and then arrows sprang from the 
trees and towards the boy.
    The boy flung himself to the ground and under them, 
and then came up, limping from a shaft in his thigh but 
still running. Herran guessed that the tip was not 
poisoned, or he would have been dead by now.
    He could not carry the boy, weakened as he still was 
by his own ordeal. He grabbed him close, though, spinning 
him around his body so that his momentum would help the 
child, and whispered fiercely into his ear, "Your mother 
is still alive. She will want to see you. No trying to 
make yourself a hero before you will have reached an age 
for that."
    Surprised blue eyes shot towards him, and then the 
child smiled faintly and nodded. He ran, head down and 
legs flailing again, towards the trees, and disappeared 
within them.
    Herran snarled at the curalli who remained, 
challenging them, daring them. "Will Kerlinde be pleased 
with you if I die?" He spoke rapidly, hoping to dissuade 
them and still get into the forest in time to rescue the 
boy. "If nothing else, he will want to take personal 
vengeance on me for escaping his care." He paused, eyes 
raking them. "And killing his daughter."
    There was a long moment of silence, during which 
Herran expected to hear a shrill scream from the forest at 
any moment. Then Raran nodded. "A debt of personal 
vengeance, we understand."
    Herran spun.
    And heard the scream.
----------------------------------------------------------
    An eternity later, the world, blurred as if with 
tears, faded from the blur, and Herran found himself 
slowly climbing to his feet, choking something back down 
his throat that might have been saliva, or blood, or 
phlegm, or some unholy combination of the three. He closed 
his eyes, then opened them.
    Tandra stood in front of him, a grave expression on 
her face.
    "The boy?" Herran asked at once.
    "With his mother," said Tandra. "He took a minor 
wound, not poisoned, that I healed. He will be all right, 
save for memories." She paused. "I fear the same things 
may be hurting you."
    "Memories?" He did not know what she was talking 
about. He wished he could remember what the starhell 
happened. One moment he had been facing down the curalli, 
then he had heard the boy he had been trying so hard to 
rescue scream from the forest, and then...
    "Yes," said Tandra quietly, watching the dawning of 
fear and understanding, both, in his eyes. "You fought 
your way through the shadowed Elwens and brought him back 
here, and then collapsed, kneeling on the forest floor and 
coughing as if you would bring up a lung. I did not know 
what was wrong with you." She paused. "But when I asked 
you something, you claimed not to remember any of it."
    Herran shut his eyes. Not remembering was a torment to 
him, despite the very likely fact that his mind had shut 
the images of the torment out of his memory because they 
were too horrific to retain without costing him his 
sanity. That he could be out of control.. that he might 
have done something that would mean the alliance with the 
curalli was forever dead...
    But still.
    They had captured an innocent child and been prepared 
to torture him for what had been an act of defiance and 
defense, committed in the heat of battle, not a murder.
    However they saw it.
    Should the memories return to him, he doubted they 
would carry the weight of guilt.
    He felt something touch him, and pulled away sharply, 
without even thinking. It had become an instinctive 
reaction, before the pain could start. Looking down, he 
met Tandra's confused eyes, and swallowed. "I'm sorry," he 
whispered. Really, he was.
    She shook her hair out of her eyes, and smiled at him. 
"You don't have to be," she said. "You don't appear to be 
wounded."
    He did grasp her hand and squeeze, briefly, as long as 
the fear and the pain would let him, to let her know how 
much he appreciated her letting this slide without saying 
a word.
    She smiled back at him, squeezed back, and then 
stepped away to turn and look at the wounded still 
scattered on the ground. "How soon do you think your magic 
will return?" she asked over her shoulder, without really 
looking at him.
    "It should be soon."
    She nodded. "I called for help from the city- Kecir 
and Ell and Telistin- but I doubt they will be here soon 
enough to spare everyone more pain." Her mouth tightened. 
"I've been healing the ones awakened only. Do you know how 
many of the curalli you killed?"
    "At least one that I know of. Probably two more, 
because I flung poisoned weapons at them. Any number 
during the final rush."
    She nodded again, and then went to comfort a woman who 
had begun to scream as she discovered one of her hands 
gone, and use what she could of her small healing gift. 
Herran hesitated, wondering if there was anything he could 
do.
    And then realized that he knew very well what he could 
do, and began to move in a different direction.
    He walked all around the circle, his voice low and 
comforting, speaking in an almost absurdly quiet way of 
the things he had done to the curalli. It was not the most 
healing of conversations, but his people would know that 
something had been done, that justice and mercy had not 
ceased in the world. Words were all he had to give, as he 
had done so many times before.
    And they worked. Heads turned to him, eyes filled with 
new life. They stared into his scarred face, and whether 
they saw there a sorrow deeper and greater than their own, 
or simply a tireless determination to do something on 
their behalf, they responded. Some rolled over to talk to 
him. Others discovered they were not so badly wounded and 
waited patiently for Tandra.
    And soon, the sound of hooves came through the trees. 
Herran lifted his head to see three horses at the head of 
a string of horses emerge, one bright, two dark, the 
bright one bearing the psychic assaulter and mage Kecir, 
the last the two curalli who had attached themselves as 
his guardians.
    Herran had been a little afraid that he would now fear 
Ell and Telistin, as well as he did almost anything else 
shadowed Elwen, but he quickly found that was not the 
case. Perhaps the experience of being slaves together had 
bonded them too deeply for anything to interfere. Whatever 
it was, he nodded at them without speaking and went back 
to his task.
    Kecir was the first to come to him. Not touching him, 
she stood a discreet distance away as he rose from tending 
to a woman who had decided that losing her husband was not 
the end of the world, and said, "Are you all right now, my 
lord?" Her great, dark eyes raptly searched his face.
    "Yes," he said, with a grave smile to let her know 
that he understood and respected the seriousness of the 
situation, but with enough serenity to let her know he 
meant what he said.
    She nodded, and turned away to give him the privacy 
she seemed to sense he needed.
    One person, then another. Their faces blurred in his 
memory, as did the speeches that he gave them. But all of 
them took some comfort. None of them stared at him with 
hatred or even the same suspicion that Caeli had showed. 
None of them seemed to care who he was, though a few eyes 
widened as if they had recognized the name.
    It was wonderful.
    And at last he came to Caeli again, and after a long 
gaze she let him hold the baby Tandra had saved. Lemabell 
was a light weight in his arms, her large golden eyes 
staring up into his like tiny copies of the sun. Herran 
bowed his head and let her grasp a strand of his hair and 
laugh.
    He was going to heal. Years, months, it did not 
matter. In that moment, he thought he was going to heal.
----------------------------------------------------------
    "My lord. I would like to know what they did to you, 
if you find it at all possible to tell me."
    Herran turned his head and regarded the man riding 
beside him with a faint smile. "Ell, if I told you, you 
would try to find and punish them, I think. Not because of 
what they did to me, but because you would want to try out 
the techniques."
    "At least tell me what they did to make you so afraid 
of touching anyone," said Telistin, on the other side, 
leaning forward. They rode at the head of the column 
heading for Rowan, the refugees from the curalli attack 
mounted on horses the two of them had brought along. "I 
would like to know. I think it would be a useful gift for 
Kerlinde when we capture him."
    "I do not want you going after him."
    "You do not have the right to command us to do 
anything that does not directly concern you," said 
Telistin mildly, not really scolding, simply pointing out 
something that he thought Herran might have forgotten 
during his captivity.
    "In this case, it does. He is my personal enemy now, 
because I killed his daughter. The settling of that debt 
should belong to me."
    Telistin inclined his head slowly, after a long moment 
of waiting. Herran looked over to see that Ell was already 
looking up from his own bow.
    "As you wish."
    Herran sighed, and was grateful to change the subject. 
"How has the city accepted your presence? Has anyone 
challenged you?"
    "Not for long," said Telistin, with a smile as he 
lowered his hand to rest on his weapon. Ell shook his head 
and laughed, something that Herran could not remember him 
doing in the time that he had known him. 
    "Good," said Herran. "And the master torturer... have 
either of you spoken to him?"
    "He appeared again and asked to test me," said 
Telistin. "Or if I would accept training in lieu of 
outright gifts of knowledge. I told him no. Is that what 
you meant?"
    "No. I was more interested in knowing if he knows what 
I have planned for him."
    "As we do not know ourselves, how could we have told 
him?" Telistin countered irritably. Herran was a little 
astonished to realize that he was speaking in Aril, 
struggling with the words, but fighting to speak in the 
High Tongue. After a moment, he gave up, and reverted to 
Melli. "Do you think that we would?"
    Herran shook his head. "No. I was more concerned that 
he would somehow figure it out, and if he had revealed 
anything unusual to you, I would have to change my plan."
    "What is it?" Ell asked, leaning forward in his saddle 
to fix Herran with a thoughtful stare.
    Herran shook his head again. "I would prefer to keep 
it to myself for a short while still, if you do not mind," 
he replied, sitting back.
    They looked at each other, shrugged, and then nodded 
and let him keep his precious secret. The buildings of 
Rowan were coming into view in the distance anyway, and 
they began to check the sides of the trail, to be sure 
there were no last-minute ambushes lying in place. Herran 
fixed his gaze on the distant silver light and struggled 
to deal with the conflicting emotions that coming home 
raised in him.
    He was glad beyond words to be home.
    At the same time, the thought of people gazing at him 
in wonder or pity made him want to flinch. Just the 
thought, not the action itself. 
    But at the same time...
    He was glad beyond words to be coming home.
    He smiled to himself and told the unquiet part of him 
that it could complain all it wanted. He would deal with 
it as he had dealt with all such complaints in the past. 
He would ignore it, and do what had to be done, the things 
that no one else had the courage to do.
    Or, in this case, the things that he should have done 
a long time ago, and had been putting off for reasons that 
were no longer entirely clear to him.
    Insanity changed things.
    He tapped the mare with his flanks and urged her a 
little further ahead, ignoring the curalli's annoyed 
hisses. They might complain, but would do little more. He 
dropped their complaints into the same part of his mind 
that was listening to his own complaining voice, and 
reined up on the highest bluff, gazing down at the city 
below him.
    This was the bluff where he had gone one evening long 
before, an evening when he had wanted only to die. Then, 
in the wake of the failed Rebellion, the woman he loved 
had committed suicide on his sword, and he had thought 
that he would follow her. He had also thought that he 
would never know greater pain.
    Or be alive again.
    He had felt both those things, and if he gazed out 
over Rowan with tears in his eyes now, they did not come 
from sorrow or bitterness. He looked and accepted the gift 
of the vision that the city gave him.
    City of his people.
    Beautiful, resplendent in raiment of light.
    Even the winter sun shone and bounced wildly off the 
great silver sculptures of animals and plants and 
geometric shapes. There, the leaping stag of the 
Deerfriends. There, the rearing dragon of the Council. 
Here, the rising, paws-outstretched Bear of the Prison. 
Here, the butterfly of the School.
    And somewhere in the midst, invisible from this place, 
the great, twisting, amorphous mass of his own home, the 
home of the Turnlong line.
    Where his daughters waited.
    Or one of them, at least.
    That much more recent grief tried to bite at him 
again, and the thought came to him that when Kerlinde had 
told him that Teffulia was dead- the sentence deliberately 
designed to provoke that had ultimately resulted in the 
death of his own daughter- in a way he was right. She had 
gone into the Church, and so deep and permanent was 
Herran's disagreement with that that in a very real sense 
she was dead to him.
    But in another she was not, and he forced away the 
temptation to think that she was. Physically, she was 
alive; spiritually, she was more alive than she had ever 
been. She was waiting to welcome him along with her 
sister, he was sure.
    He heard movement behind him, and turned, expecting to 
see that Tandra had come up or that the curalli had 
finished their inspection and were returning to report 
every broken twig or smashed branch. But it was another 
woman, one who stopped riding when she saw him and 
regarded him wistfully.
    Herran blinked. He would not have recognized her 
except that he had known her face too long not to do so. 
For one thing, she was so heavy with pregnancy that he 
thought she sat a horse with difficulty, though still with 
grace. For another, every trace of a shadow was gone from 
her golden eyes. She looked at him with light pouring from 
that gaze, and...
    "Keesa?"
    The woman who had been his friend, his enemy, his 
political ally, and his self-declared check on power all 
at once bowed her head, almost shyly. "Yes. I thought that 
you could stand to be welcomed." She met his gaze and held 
it for a long moment. "I would have found you if I could 
have, Herran."
    "Thank you," he said, and for more than that. She 
would not say anything about what he had suffered, no 
matter that her face aws pale as her eyes swept over the 
scars on his temples. She was giving him the privacy and 
the space to decide what he wanted to tell her at his own 
pace and time.
    "All I could do," she said, responding to the silent 
thanks more than the spoken one. "Now, if you will tell me 
when you will be ready and willing to speak with me 
next... we have problems on the Council."
    Herran laughed for the first time in a long time, the 
sound feeling as if it tore unfamiliar channels in his 
throat. "Yes, tell me about them."
    "I can tell you very neatly. Aereri is being a fool."
    Herran sat there for a long time, and then nodded. "I 
think that you were right."
    "About what?" She raised an eyebrow as she considered 
him for a long moment.
    "He will have to be removed from the position of 
Councilmaster." Herran shook his head ruefully. "It is 
probably something that we should have done long ago."
    "Do not be too hard on yourself. He had a few months 
to prove himself, and before that everyone was clamoring 
for him to assume the seat, not only you yourself. But, 
you are right. He will have to be removed."
    Their gazes held, in perfect accord for a long moment, 
and then Ell and Telistin came galloping up and their 
understanding melted into the more usual words of reunion. 
Herran wondered just how bad Aereri had become, though, 
and silently decided that he would find out as soon as he 
could in the city.
----------------------------------------------------------
    "My lord. Welcome home."
    Tandra must have spread the word. The mage Irrlosta, 
who had served his family and tutored his daughters in 
magic for almost twenty-five years, was grave and calm as 
always, though her eyes shone with joy. But she made no 
attempt to touch him.
    Herran looked back at his wife, riding onto the lawn 
behind him, and felt his love for her swell yet again. Had 
there ever been a woman like her in Rowan, or in the 
world? At least, not in his life.
    "Thank you, Irrlosta," he replied, slipping to the 
ground, and then forced himself to walk up and clasp her 
hands. "I know that you must have been worried. Thank all 
the stars, Tandra found me before they could cause me to 
lose my sanity."
    Then he could take no more, and stepped back from her, 
wringing his hands.
    "Really, my lord?" There was a faint frown on her face 
as she regarded him. "Are you sure of that?"
    Herran nearly laughed aloud as he realized what 
Irrlosta was really worried about. "Of course," he said. 
"There have been times I sought the refuge of madness, 
Irrlosta, and times when I have been mad. Always, I never 
sought to turn from it. This, I seek to turn from. This, I 
will conquer if it takes me the rest of my life to do it." 
He fixed his eyes on her, daring her to disagree with him, 
but she only nodded.
    "If you are sure..."
    "I am."
    "Then let me welcome you home again," said Irrlosta, 
with a lower bow.
    Herran let a faint grin close his lips as he 
understood. Irrlosta really was closer in friendship with 
Tandra than she was with her employer. She wanted to be 
sure that he would not inflict her friend with the 
conviction that he could not overcome this, and drag her 
down to hell with him.
    He would not. 
    That understanding established, Herran turned back to 
Tandra. "How long has it been since you slept?" he asked, 
staring into her eyes.
    Tandra blinked. "This morning, in the grove-"
    "No, I meant really slept." Bracing himself again, 
Herran reached out and clasped her arm, guiding her away 
from the horses and towards the house, leaving Irrlosta to 
see to their horses. From the veiled approval in her eyes 
as she moved to take the bridles, he did not think the 
mage minded. "Slept without worrying about me, without 
worrying about anything."
    "I- can't remember."
    Nodding as if he had expected this answer- though in 
truth, he was a little shocked and sorry for her- Herran 
pushed her forward, and guided her up the stairs to their 
room. "I will be here," he said softly as he opened the 
door, "in the same room. Not somewhere far away where only 
your nightmares can reach me. Lie down, and sleep."
    "Herran..."
    She was on the brink of tears. Herran took her gently 
in his arms and kissed the top of her head, and this time- 
was it his imagination, or was it a little easier to 
remain still as her arms slipped around him and her head 
came to rest above his heart, a little harder to step away 
at last and run a hand down her back, the only contact 
between them as she wept?
    "I am here," he said. Vow and promise and something, 
he thought as she looked up at him through grateful tears, 
that was almost a threat. "Sleep now."
    "Herran," she said sleepily as he guided her, 
stumbling, to the bed.
    "Yes?"
    "Can you sleep beside me?"
    The tension that flooded through him was answer 
enough. She saw it, felt it, and knew what it meant. She 
raised herself up on one elbow to look at him, running a 
hand down his arm. He did not flinch or shy away from the 
touch.
    "I am sorry that I did not find you sooner," she said 
softly, and then smiled into his eyes. "Not only for you, 
but for myself."
    Herran gathered her close and kissed the top of her 
head again. "I know," he said. He controlled the 
fluttering, the spasming memories that wanted to overcome 
him and send him spiraling down into oblivion, and soothed 
her back into bed, pulling the blankets smoothly over her. 
"Go to sleep now. I can let you hold my hand for as long 
as you are awake."
    "Not... fair." A yawn almost buried her words when she 
took his hand and rolled half-over, keeping it imprisoned 
in the crook of her arm. "I'll be asleep in a few 
minutes." And then she proceeded to close her eyes and 
keep the promise.
    Herran waited until he was sure her breathing was 
deep, even, and steady before he removed his hand, though. 
He would have touched her brow one last time, but he 
thought the jerk away the touch would probably produce in 
him would wake her. He settled for caressing her with his 
eyes. At least they had not managed to steal his pleasure 
in sight.
    Then he rose to his feet, and turned away from her, 
walking to the window which he used to have to have open 
while he slept, the window that had admitted assassins and 
accusations of betrayal in its time.
    He leaned on the sill and stared down at the far edge 
of the garden, tilting his head just a little until he was 
certain that he could see someone standing in the shadows.
    Ell, Telistin, or someone else- possibly someone from 
Quirrin- they did not intend to let his rest be unguarded. 
It had been during one of the unguarded times that he had 
been taken.
    Herran sighed, closing his eyes, and turned back to 
Tandra again. He would have liked nothing better than to 
crawl into bed beside her and close his eyes, and at the 
same time the gibbering began in the back of his mind when 
he merely considered the thought.
    Well, he wouldn't consider it, then.
    He closed his eyes and let the moment he had been 
dreading begin, as there was nothing else to think on, and 
almost anything would seem pleasant after the fear he had 
just felt.
    The city came flooding into him at once.
    His connection with the city of Rowan aws not magical 
in nature- at least not more magical than the spirit of a 
sentient place could be- and he had thought that not even 
his torture could destroy it. But he had not wanted to 
test it, just in case the unimaginable had happened and he 
had lost the one source of connection he had, the only 
other spirit who would understand everything.
    In a moment, he realized that he had been wrong. The 
connection had deepened, and for a few long moments he 
lost awareness of himself. He could feel his consciousness 
expanding in all directions, in rippling rings. He could 
feel himself as the hardness of the silver-paved streets, 
and the many millions of feet moving along those streets. 
He could feel himself as the sweep of the Corallen Valley 
and the green gardens inside the walls, and he could feel 
himself as the trees that grew in that valley, the flowers 
that grew in the gardens. It was a completeness in which 
his pain was knocked down and swept away, not because 
there was greater pain to sublimate it, but just because 
there was so... much... else.
    When he opened his eyes again, he was crying, the 
first time since his ordeal that he had allowed himself 
the release of tears.
    He felt the city hum reassuringly back at him, and 
then something did move in the shadows at the far edge of 
the garden, and he knew what it was. One of Quirrin's men, 
keeping an eye on him as he had thought it might be. He 
smiled out the window and resisted the temptation to wave. 
Quirrin would not be amused, and neither would Tandra or 
anyone else he could think of.
    But even that did not matter. All that mattered was 
that he had the strength he needed to go on, without 
having to dig the wound in his soul further open for 
Tandra or anyone else.
    He moved quietly back into the room and sat down, 
closing his eyes, his mind dancing in whirling patterns 
for what could have been hours or minutes before his hand 
moved to ring a bell that would bring Irrlosta. It was 
almost never used for anything except urgent errands, and 
even in this case Herran needed her only because he could 
not think of a way to do it himself, with his telepathy 
gone.
    Irrlosta came into the room, and stood looking at him 
expectantly.
    "My lady," he said, keeping his voice low so as not to 
awaken his sleeping wife, "will you speak to a man 
telepathically for me if I tell you the colors of his 
mind? I would, but-" He made a gesture to his head that 
had her nodding understandingly.
    "Understood," she said, with a glance at Tandra again, 
as if wondering how this would affect her if she was awake 
to see it. "I cannot promise that I will make contact with 
the man, though, my lord, as mental magic is not my area 
of study. You would be much better off asking the Lady 
Kecir in that regard." Her voice was mild, but there was a 
reproof in the back of it. She had always maintained that 
he would be better off asking Kecir, that he should trust 
the young psychic assaulter more.
    "I trust you, Irrlosta."
    She blinked, looking suspicious, and then flattered, 
and then understanding again. "Very well," she said, 
closing her eyes. "Tell me."
    "Bright gold on the outer ring, pale gold on the ring 
inside, then black, then green, then deep blue."
    She had opened her eyes to give him a curious look, 
but closed them again the moment he described the green 
ring. He assumed that she was reaching outward, though he 
could not feel anything and had no choice but to wait 
patiently.
    "I... think I have him," she said a moment later. 
"What is his name and rank?"
    "Asoron Likarai, a High Priest of Sarastaa." She 
opened her eyes to look at him again, as he had been less 
than religious most of his life, but Herran shook his head 
and gestured for her to close her eyes again. "But he is 
also a leader of the Dedicated, a group that wants to end 
wars among the various races of the Tableland, and that is 
the capacity I need you to address him in."
    "As?"
    "My lord of the Dedicated," said Herran. He had no 
idea if there was a more formal title, and thought this 
one should be more than enough.
    Irrlosta swayed slightly, as if in a strong wind, and 
he thought he saw her lips part and heard her voice 
whisper, "Stars, he has a strong mind!"
    Then she was within Asoron's mind itself. He could 
tell by the glazed expression on her face and the fact 
that she stopped swaying and speaking at all and stood 
perfectly still. He waited until she opened slightly 
unfocused eyes and said, "He wants to know what you want."
    Herran smiled faintly. The man had always been 
unusually direct for one of the rhetoric-obsessed dawn 
Elwens. "Tell him that I would like him to come to Rowan 
as soon as he can. I would travel to him, but the changes 
must be enacted here. He will understand that," he added, 
when Irrlosta gave him a doubtful look.
    She looked at him again, then shrugged and closed her 
eyes. A moment later, she opened her eyes again. "He says 
that he will be able to come in a month at the earliest, 
but that once he does, he will travel with all speed. Will 
that be satisfactory?"
    Herran nodded. "Give him my compliments, and tell him 
that whenever he wishes to come is fine. I am going to do 
this. I thought that he would like to be informed of it as 
a courtesy and because it is something that he has fought 
for, no more."
    Irrlosta spent a longer time engaged in mental 
conversation, and then said, "He says that he appreciates 
the courtesy, and will come when he can, as a lord of the 
Dedicated, not as the High Priest of Sarastaa of Ava- 
Sunriver. He warns you that Sarastaa's grace may well 
shine on you for this."
    Herran smiled in spite of himself. "Tell him that I 
accept the threat."
    That done, Irrlosta brought herself back to 
wakefulness and an obviously devouring curiosity. "My 
lord, what is this about? What do you plan to do? And why 
would you want a dawn Elwen here in Rowan while you do 
it?" Land Elwens and dawn Elwens came almost as close to 
being natural enemies as land Elwens and curalli did, with 
the pacific doctrines of the dawn Elwens denying most 
things that the land Elwens stood for.
    "I am planning to do what I said," said Herran 
serenely. "To change things in Rowan, in any way I can, 
and I thought that he would want to be informed of it. The 
Dedicated and I have fought at opposite ends as often as 
we have fought on the same side. He might want to move his 
spies and workers out of the way until this wave has 
passed."
    "What will you do?"
    Herran shook his head. "I would prefer not to speak of 
that to anyone."
    Again, a look of understanding filled her face. "Of 
course." A pause, and then a pointed look at Tandra. "I 
think that you should speak of it to her before you do to 
anyone else, in any case. She was frantic for you, my 
lord. She blamed herself every waking moment, and tried to 
find you so hard that it nearly killed her."
    "I know," said Herran softly, looking again at 
Tandra's sleeping form as Irrlosta left the room without 
looking back.
    That done, he closed his eyes and planned for another 
few minutes before he moved to the door and opened it, 
gazing down the hall. No one was obviously in sight, but 
he did not think that would stop the one he called, as it 
did not.
    "Telistin."
    He appeared in a moment, glancing at Herran 
inquiringly even as his eyes redoubled their search for 
enemies hidden to most Elwen senses.
    "I am not in danger," Herran assured him. "I would 
merely like to ask you some questions. How many curalli 
attacks have there been on Rowan in the months since I was 
gone?"
    "At least twelve that we heard of," said the young 
curalli, bringing his attention back to Herran's face. 
"And probably more, your lady said, since some of the 
outlying farms like to think that they can stand 
independently of Rowan and would not necessarily report 
any raids they received."
    Herran nodded. "I think they are more than ready for a 
payback."
    Telistin smiled. That smile transformed all his face, 
making him look both younger and more feral, destroying 
the lines of dark experience that he had gained as a slave 
in the mines of the Mountains. "And will this be your 
vengeance as well, my lord?"
    "I had not thought of it that way." Herran was more 
than a little startled by the idea.
    "Might I?"
    Herran met the dark eyes that gauged him steadily, and 
then nodded once.
    "Then I will help you," said Telistin, with such 
relaxed casualness that Herran did not doubt for an 
instant he would have refused if Herran had not agreed to 
let him see this as vengeance. "What would you like me to 
do?"
    Herran spoke the commands in a whisper, so as not to 
alert any ears that might be listening. Even listening 
wards would not pick up any sound below a certain level, 
and besides, the secrecy seemed to make it all the more 
dramatic for Telistin. He was almost skipping like a child 
as Herran finished, smiling in glee, though he did look 
slightly disappointed.
    "That is all?"
    "It will be more than enough, given what I know of 
Shadows curalli."
    "It is not enough for two months of pain."
    Herran smiled faintly. "If you think so. I am not 
really in any position to judge. But do not do more than 
you have to- the absolute minimum you think will suffice 
as revenge. I do not want to be accused of starting a war 
until I am damned good and ready."
    "The war had begun," said Telistin. "When I began 
killing my own people to defend land Elwens, I knew that."
    He was gone before Herran could ask him what that 
might mean. After a long moment, the land Elwen shook his 
head and retreated into the bedroom again.
    Only to see Tandra awake when he turned to face the 
bed and look at her. He smiled apologetically and came 
over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek before stepping 
back to a safe distance. "I'm sorry I woke you," he 
murmured, keeping his voice low out of habit. He had never 
been sure there were not listening wards in their room, 
and with one of Quirrin's agents and Irrlosta both so 
close and interested in what would happen if Tandra had 
awakened...
    "You didn't wake me. I slept for a few hours. I didn't 
need anything more." Tandra sat up, arms draped loosely 
around her knees, gaze fixed on him. "Except..." Her voice 
trailed off almost teasingly.
    "What?"
    She tilted her head, and said, almost without letting 
the breath she used to speak move her lips, "Herran, you 
know. You could read my mind and my emotions once without 
even trying. You know."
    Herran glanced away from her. "I am sorry. I think it 
will be a long while before I can give you that gift 
again." He fought to keep his voice steady, but it was 
wavering before the end.
    "Herran. What did they do to you?"
    Her voice held no pity, and not even compassion, but 
only a terrible love. She was asking because she wanted to 
know, not for any other reason. She gazed at him steadily, 
waiting for an answer. He could feel it even though he was 
not looking at her.
    "Tandra- I-"
    "Tell me." Not a command. Not a plea. Only an 
invitation, for him to accept if he wanted to. And because 
he was free to accept or reject it, he should have been 
able to do something.
    He... was not.
    He stood there, eyes closed, body shaking, memories 
flashing through and around him, and then with a gasp he 
forced his eyes open and moved to kneel beside her. 
Already, he had relaxed enough to be this close, if not to 
actually touch her.
    "Tandra," he said forcefully, meeting and matching the 
invitation in her gaze, "it doesn't matter."
    "Yes, it does." Her hand rose as if it would smooth 
his hair, and then she grimaced and dropped it back to her 
side, but her eyes never left him. "if you are willing and 
able to talk about it- when you are willing and able to 
talk about it- it will."
    Herran shook his head impatiently, dismissing the idea 
of a someday. He had had enough of somedays to last him 
the rest of his life. He would speak in terms of reality 
and possibilities, pure and present and now.
    "Tandra, I want you to know that I will not let this 
cripple me for the rest of my life. I have no intention of 
flinching every time someone moves near me, or being prey 
to memories at the oddest moments." She seemed fascinated 
by the way his face was clenched in determination, at the 
way his fists balled and he raised them to show them her. 
"I will conquer that. I will send the memories away. I 
will heal. You need not worry about me."
    "I have the feeling that you are running from the 
memories rather than healing, Herran."
    Herran shook his head. "If running is the only way 
that I can conquer them, that is what I will do. But it is 
not. It is turning to dreams- all the dreams I only 
dreamed and did nothing to make real for so many years- 
and helping to make them come true."
    "What I don't understand is why," she said, both voice 
and frown soft. "Why now, when for so many years you did 
only dream them?"
    "Because I have lived too long in the darkness." 
Herran drummed his fists gently on the bed. "It is not 
your fault or anyone else's- save the curalli for making 
the darkness last a little longer and feel worse than ever 
before- but I will not let the darkness triumph any more. 
I can do something about it. I still have power that is 
not the power of my magic or the power of the Council." He 
met her gaze evenly. "I am a lord of the high blood, and a 
Gameplayer. It is time that I began manipulating the 
consequences of the Game to my own satisfaction."
    The sadness in the backs of her eyes did not clear. 
"Just what do you mean by that?"
    "Removing Aereri from power, first of all."
    Her eyes widened.
    "And then curbing Quirrin's power."
    Her smile widened to match her eyes. "Finally, he will 
pay for what he has done to you?" she asked hopefully, 
touching the hilt of the sword that rested among the 
bedclothes beside her. 
    "Not so much that, as making sure that he cannot hurt 
anyone else in the way that he has hurt me again," said 
Herran firmly. "It will be vengeance, Tandra; you may 
think of it that way if you like. But I will not think of 
it that way or give it that name. Vengeance is a thing of 
the darkness and the past, both things that I am trying to 
cast away."
    "You would cast away the past?"
    He did not even have to feel emotions to see the blast 
of hurt in her eyes. He held those dark and suddenly 
bleeding wounds in her face with his own determined eyes 
for a long moment, and then nodded.
    "Everything about it?"
    "Most things about it."
    Tandra sighed. "It is odd. I have the feeling that you 
do not really care if you ever recover the ability to let 
me touch you, or to share a bed with me, again. You want 
to touch me, to comfort me. I have seen you striving to do 
that. But the comfort for yourself... you are running from 
it as hard as ever you have."
    "It is not the important part of all this."
    He met her furious gaze with a small smile. "It really 
is not, Tandra," he said soothingly. "So long as I can 
comfort you and give you what you need from me, then I do 
not care what happens to me. That is part of my soul," he 
added with a small chuckle. "I do not think that you will 
strip it from me now."
    He could sense even more than see her biting her lip, 
trying to decide how to deal with this man who was not the 
Elwen she had fallen in love with, but something grown 
from that root. Deeper and stronger, Herran thought as 
held her eyes. At least, he saw it that way.
    Dear stars, please make her see it that way.
    At last, she nodded and laid her hands over his. "A 
truce?" she said softly. "I have not been as compassionate 
as I could have been since rescuing you. I was too 
obsessed by my own pain, as my asking just now if you were 
ready to take revenge on Quirrin shows. Will you forgive 
me for that?"
    "Nothing to forgive." He raised her hand to his lips 
and kissed it. "I love you, Tandra. All I ask is that you 
understand if I do not see things the same way."
    "Then will you do the same for me?" She held his eyes, 
would not let him turn away even though he considered the 
discussion over, and even went so far as to retain her 
grasp on his hand. "Understand that I feel these things, 
even if you will not accept my worry?"
    Herran hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. It was not 
such a sacrifice, if one thought of it that way. It was no 
more than he asked of her.
    "All right."
    "Good," she said, and let him go then, just before he 
would have had to embarrass himself and hurt her by 
violently twisting away. Herran brushed some imaginary 
flecks off his tunic to cover the movement he had begun to 
make, and then accompanied her to the door. 
    "How do you plan to make Quirrin pay, exactly?" she 
asked as she opened the door.
    He told her, and watched her eyes open and her mouth 
fall in laughter. She leaned against the door, so overcome 
that she could not move for long moments. Then she clasped 
his arm briefly but firmly again, to smile into his eyes, 
her own eyes still sparkling with approval and delight.
    "So long as you can still think of things like this," 
she said softly, "you need never worry about having to 
change."
    Herran nodded his contentment, and they went to eat 
bread and dried fruit and other food that Herran would be 
having for the first time all winter.




                        Chapter 2
              The Slanting Light Of Morning
    "Even the sun rises and falls and declines throughout 
the day. Noon endures forever no more than night does."
    -Attributed to Laetha Sundrell, Elven Assassin.

    It actually took longer for the message to come than 
Herran thought it would, given that Quirrin's messenger 
must have been reporting laughter to him and an unusually 
high level of contentment in a man tortured to within an 
inch of his life. But finally it did come, just a day 
after when Telistin spoke privately with Herran and told 
him that their plan for vengeance on the curalli had 
begun.
    "My lord? The master torturer is here to see you." 
Irrlosta's voice was carefully neutral, and she stepped 
aside with a bow as Quirrin swept into the room. Herran 
had no time to prepare himself; at least, he was sure that 
was Quirrin's intention.
    But Herran had been prepared for this confrontation 
for years. The only thing that had been recent was his 
decision about what form it would take.
    "My lord." He rose to his feet with a nod of his head. 
"Will you take wine?"
    Quirrin halted in the middle of the room. "What in the 
name of the stars are you doing?" he said with quiet 
force, making no attempt to respond to Herran's offer in 
any other way.
    "I don't know what you mean," said Herran, which was 
actually true for once. He had several plans in motion, 
and Quirrin could be speaking of any or all of them, or 
even of his general state of good-health.
    "What do you mean in burning a field as important to 
the curalli as that?"
    He was talking about Telistin's plan, as Herran had 
thought he might be. The Lord of Turnlong took his seat 
again and smiled at the justice master. "Are you sure that 
you will not take wine?"
    "Damn you!"
    Herran raised his eyebrows and made a soft clucking 
sound; his tongue had only recently healed well enough for 
him to do that. "Really, my lord. In the middle of the 
day? I will grant that the offer of the wine is a little 
unusual, but not so unusual as all that." Keeping his gaze 
steady, he motioned Quirrin to take a seat. "Now, tell me 
what is bothering you."
    Quirrin still made no move to sit down, staring at him 
in utter contempt. "You can sit there and pretend not to 
know?" he burst out at last. "Curalli acting at your 
direct order burned the largest cropfield for all of 
Shadows, the one that supplies the School Masters and 
their servants. They sowed the ground with salt." He made 
it sound as if it were the greatest crime that had ever 
crossed his sight. "They cast some kind of stars-know-what 
enchantment on the water, or spread a poison- the rivers 
that flow there carry nothing but pollution now. Is this 
your idea of a joke, stars damn you?" He was leaning 
forward until his forehead was almost touching Herran's by 
the end of the sentence, his body jerking spasmodically 
from the force of his yelling.
    Herran did not let himself back away. "I had no idea 
that my actions would be so upsetting to you," he 
murmured, another truth. He had hoped for some kind of 
reaction, but not one this violent. Quirrin was the 
supremely controlled justice master, never showing 
anything unless it suited him- unless he was provoked 
beyond reason. "What, exactly, do you find so unusual 
about them? Are we not in the middle of a war?"
    Quirrin drew breath, and then quieted, staring at him.
    "I thought we were," Herran confirmed. "Almost daily 
attacks on the outlying farms, twelve attacks on the city 
to test her strength and readiness for war as much as 
anything else- what else would this be? I have a score to 
settle with the curalli, on account of myself and my 
people. This burning and salting is the first blow."
    "You are needed to make peace-"
    "There will never be peace between me and the Lord 
Kerlinde ever again."
    Quirrin stood still, eyes on him, and then moved over 
and sat down, his back to the door for the first time that 
Herran could remember. If it was meant as a gesture of 
trust, it failed miserably. His breath remained quick, his 
body coiled like a cobra ready to strike.
    "You should explain what you mean by that," he said. 
"And quickly."
    "Think, Quirrin." Controlling what he would otherwise 
have done and said was almost second nature to Herran by 
now. He kept his body slumped, his voice easy, his gaze 
steady and open. "I killed his daughter, because he told 
me my own daughter was dead. Should I have to make peace 
with him? Should he let me live?"
    Quirrin did not once drop the stare. "You have 
changed," he said.
    "You, of all Elwens, should know that torture does 
that," said Herran briefly.
    "I do know that. But you- I thought nothing could 
break you. I thought that you would find some way to 
endure if it killed you. Death before breaking. You have 
told me that time and time again."
    "You were wrong."
    They sat eye to eye for another long moment, and then 
Quirrin stirred. "So. You want me to attack Kerlinde then, 
and begin the next phase of the war?"
    "Why should I want you to do anything?"
    Quirrin smiled for the first time since entering the 
room. "Come now," he said softly. "We all know who is 
Councilmaster, even if another holds the seat. You are the 
one who should command the forces of Rowan, by all rights. 
I am willing to give you that chance."
    "I have given up the power of the Councilmastery. If 
you really think that someone other than that incompetent 
fool in the Councilmaster's seat should command you- a 
fool you owe loyalty to until the Council deposes him, may 
I remind you- take to the Lady Keesa. She was my patrol 
comrade, and is a better fighter. Many of her thoughts 
will be the same as mine."
    "You have never been unwilling to tell me what to do 
before." Herran could see the same searching look he had 
seen in the silver eyes when Quirrin first walked into the 
room. Unsure, he was, looking to try and guess the next 
move of this new man broken by the curalli and reforged 
anew. 
    "That was before."
    After a long silence, Quirrin slowly inclined his head 
and made for the door. He paused when he reached it, 
though. "Perhaps I should not be surprised that you choose 
to make war on the shadowed Elwens at last," he mused 
without turning around. "Debts of personal grief can 
inspire Elwens to do things they never would have 
considered before."
    "There is that."
    After a moment more, Quirrin moved out of the room 
without speaking further. Herran let out a long breath and 
slumped against the back of his chair, shaking and closing 
his eyes.
    He had almost felt hints of the master torturer 
probing at him, trying to find the new cracks. He did not 
think that Quirrin had done any actual mental work, or he 
probably would have reacted the same way the curalli woman 
Brintal had. But still, it had been a strain keeping up 
the facade.
    So much of a strain that he found himself closing his 
eyes and retreating towards a place that had become very 
familiar to him during his torture, a secure corner of his 
mind where no one could intrude. Hours or days could pass 
in the outer world while he lingered there, not so much in 
memories of beauty as in blank peace. If he could just 
find it...
    He gasped, forcing his eyes open again, and feeling 
cold water trickle up his spine. He had a better idea now 
of what had happened to the memories of his time under the 
whip and the blades. 
    He stood up, stretched, and then stepped from the 
room, almost running into Keren Deerfriend. The younger 
man stopped and regarded him with a smile a shade too 
friendly to be merely that of a guest. He had been staying 
with them since his father had almost killed him the past 
summer in a fit of violent rage.
    "My lord? Did you sleep well?"
    Herran blinked, remembering only then that he had told 
the others he was going into the small private room where 
hardly anyone but himself passed any time in order to 
sleep and see if he could find some release in writing his 
music from the memories that hounded him.
    He forced a smile. "Not well, but I think I know 
better now how to deal with the memories, if not how to 
keep them from overcoming them."
    Keren tilted his head and studied him with a slightly 
skeptical expression. Herran knew that he was considering 
the answer, and finding something he disliked within it. 
He was much better at reading emotions than Tandra and 
Irrlosta were, and would find something behind the smile 
that Herran did not want him to see.
    Herran gave him no time to consider it. "My lord, how 
would you like to help me bring one of the high lords who 
sold slaves last year into the Mountains to the ground at 
last?"
    Keren's black-gold eyes sparkled as the subject 
shifted. "I would like it very well, of course," he said. 
"But whom do you mean?"
    "Aereri."
    "He is not a high lord any longer," said Keren, 
obviously wanting to be sincere on this point.
    "I know that. Force of habit, I suppose, referring to 
him as one." Herran shrugged. "It really does not matter 
that much. Regardless, if I told you there was a part that 
I would like you to play in his downfall..."
    "Whatever you have suffered, my lord, your planning 
has improved," said Keren in satisfaction. "You are 
actually taking your enemies to task instead of nattering 
about them being an important and necessary part of Rowan, 
which will cause the city to collapse if you take them 
away too suddenly."
    Herran smiled politely. In truth, he was not sure that 
that was not still true of Quirrin, and only his hatred 
for torture was causing him to see it differently. But it 
was sure that Aereri no longer mattered. Keesa would hold 
the reins of the city more capably and confidently than he 
ever had.
    "All right. Here is the part that I should like you to 
join me in..."
----------------------------------------------------------
    Keren locked his jaw and glared at the dumbfounded 
guards. He had told Herran that they were not strong in 
emotional magic, and would not know that he was 
playacting. Herran, having trouble containing his 
laughter, was only hoping that the young man would not 
overdo it.