Touched With Glory Prologue 897, Age of Ascent, Midautumn Herran turned quickly at the sound, his eyes scanning the shadows, searching for some sign of the man he had come to meet. His muscles rippled with angry tension for a moment, and then subsided. He had wanted to meet here and now, and he was late... The sound was repeated. Herran moved a few steps forward, his steps light and flowing, graceful, unconsciously a fighter's, even though a scroll was more often in his hands than a sword now, and things had been this way for almost two centuries. "Councilmaster." The voice came floating from the other side of the huge room, beyond the dais where petitioners and criminals stood before the Council to defend themselves or spit their defiance. "I had thought to find you here before now." Herran checked a response and moved in the direction of the voice, his footsteps echoing well from the silver that formed the walls and floor. The Council Chamber at night seemed a different world, with the light of the moons rather than the sun pouring through the high stained-glass windows and falling over the seats where the twenty-one members of the Council stood. Herran paused to study a scene of a silver unicorn trampling an Elwen beneath his hooves in the fall of Rowan, and felt a shudder run up through his spine. It was worth the impatience that showed when the voice spoke again, though. "Are you coming to me or not, Herran? I do not have all night for foolishness like this, though you may think so." Herran smiled without taking his eyes from the window, his faith restored. "You know Council protocol, Aereri," he said casually. "By all that is under the stars, I should make you come to me." There was a soft hiss, and then the man who had summoned him here came into view. Herran turned with slow and deliberately disrespectful ease, running his eyes over Aereri and then biting hard into the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. What was funny was not so much the fact that Aereri wore golden clothes that would be less visible in the golden moonlight than black clothes would, but what those clothes implied. The young Councilman, Herran's most implacable foe on the Council, was too clever in the ways of intrigue to need such clothes as these; he could enter the Council Chamber by any one of a dozen passages, as any Council member could. He was wearing the clothes to make Herran think he needed them, to encourage the Councilmaster to underestimate him. And Herran never underestimated anyone. It was amusing that Aereri thought he could force him into making that mistake with him. Amusing, but not enough to make Herran forget the interruption of the first real sleep he had had in twelve dances. "What do you want?" he asked softly, his pyrite eyes seeking and finding Aereri's blazing green ones as the amusement died from both of them. It seemed that Aereri thought it was his turn to be amused. "My lord, I should think you would know." "Aereri, I keep track of all the business that goes on in the Council. I don't have time for all the foolishness as well." It worked. Aereri's cheeks flushed silver with rage. "You will not think this so foolish, when you hear it," he said, his voice low again, as though someone could enter the Chamber and listen to them without both of them sensing it. "I know something that you will pay me not to say to others." "Which thing would that be?" Herran yawned, and leaned against the dais, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He could feel the slight humming of the silver; with so much magic spent here over the years, during attempted assassinations if nothing else, the Chamber had a slight and constant magical resonance. It comforted him. "How you really gained the Council seat." Herran snorted. "Oh, by all means. Tell anyone anything about that, and you will find yourself on a table in the Paws of the Bear quickly enough." "I will not, because you're going to destroy the master torturer for me." "When I destroy him, it will be for myself," said Herran quietly, studying Aereri, wondering why he was so in earnest about this. It had been almost two centuries since the master torturer, Quirrin, had murdered his father Aerian and filled the empty seat on the Council with Herran. Aereri was a patient man, but Herran's sources said he had forsworn vengeance. This seemed a little late, and entirely unnecessary. "I want his life. And I want him to suffer." "Why should I do this?" "I have a witness who is prepared to swear that you knew about the killing of my father before it happened, and you are not the victim of Quirrin's countless plots that you pretend to be." "Impossible. I did not know about it, and our people can tell truth from lies, in case you were born not knowing that." Aereri flushed again. "But with the right spells, that magic can be defeated as easily as any natural ability of Elwenkind." Herran eyed him closely. "Why now, Aereri?" he asked quietly. When in doubt, likewise confuse the opposition with the direct attack. "Why would you risk everything that you have for this?" "What risk?" Aereri shrugged. "You have no choice but to do as I say. Even if you manage to convince the others that you knew nothing about it, your seat on the Council will still be suspect, and you will most probably lose it." Herran tried not to let his swallow show. He had never craved power, but he could not lose the Councilmastery, not now. He had too much to do, so many visions to fulfill that sometimes they pressed on him. "I know things about you as well, Aereri." "Such as?" The man was almost smirking, and Herran could almost read his thoughts, as he so often could. The heart was no secret to him. Aereri was thinking that whatever it was would not be enough to make anyone he told about Herran's seat and his way of obtaining it forget Aereri's news in favor of Herran's. "That you have a lover." Aereri's face paled, and went still. Then he said in the fragile voice of someone about to break a mirror, "Don't you hurt her." Herran snarled before he could help himself. "If you think that is what I am, then why in the name of the stars did you come here tonight?" "I brought-" There came a muffled cry from somewhere in the shadows. Herran smiled. "The Councilmaster's guards tolerate no threat to the Councilmaster," he said, and then the smile dropped from his face. "You have forgotten what I am, Aereri, in terms of power as well as in terms of soul. Do it again, and you are likely to die of your own stupidity, with me having nothing to do with it." "Do not tell anyone of this." "Will you agree to keep this away from those you planned to tell, as well?" "Only for a dance. Find it in your power to destroy Quirrin, or I will tell anyone and everyone. By then, she will know of the danger you pose her and will be able to defend herself." Herran's heart sang with anger and fear. He ignored it. "And if I do not?" "Then you will lose your seat on the Council, and I will kill you with my own hands." He turned and walked away. Herran stood breathing softly for a moment, then called into the shadows, "Did you hear that, Lapida? All of it?" "Yes, my lord." There was a movement, and a tall, slender woman with a drawn sword in her hand dropped onto the dais. Silver eyes flashed as she looked in the direction Aereri had gone with undisguised hatred. "I am almost certain that I know who his lover is. I can have an assassin in the Prison by tonight." Herran's lips curved in a reluctantly amused smile. "There are other ways to solve this than by the sword." Lapida's face remained grave. "Are there, my lord?" she asked. "I hadn't noticed." Chapter 1 Wolf and Dreamlord "Visions are unreliable at best, useless at worst. Or perhaps that should be the other way around." -From Toa Tumblao Vlicai Zaina, or The Book of Doubtful Maxims. Herran strode firmly along the hall in the direction of his chambers, absently avoiding the patches of golden moonlight. The Lady, Lureth the Golden Moon, was surrounded by a gleaming and misty halo this night that was said to bring bad luck to those who walked in her light. Herran did not really believe that, but all he needed now was to have one of the Forces paying attention at the wrong moment. Lapida, around the turn from him as she checked that one of the traps that would signal the presence of an intruder had not been sprung, called out to him. "Are you sure that you do not want assassins sent to the Prison?" "Yes," Herran called over his shoulder. She was a fine fighter, true and noble of soul, but when she fastened her mind on one idea, it could take her all the startime to let go of it. Then she called again, and her voice was sharp. "My lord-" But Herran had already fallen to his knees, so that the blade cutting for his head went over it instead. He had seen the shadows move and reacted without even thinking about it. "Another one," he sighed as he rose to his feet, but excitement wound through his exasperation. There had only been two assassins this dance, and he had not faced one alone for far longer than that. It would be a good way to test the skills he had remaining to him. The assassin swung down from the rope he had been holding- Herran made a mental note to see how he had attached it to the smooth silver when the fight was done- and stood braced and ready, the unusually heavy broadsword he carried clutched in his hands. The weapon's size and weight alerted Herran that something was strange about the man, but it was not until he stepped into the moonlight that Herran made out for sure what it was. Round eyes, coarse skin, hair beginning to gray or whiten, ears with lobes- by all the stars, the man was human! Herran lowered the blade he had begun to draw. "Is this someone's idea of a joke?" he asked the assassin in disgust. The man stared at him. "Not only a human, but stupid as well," Herran noted. "I would be so lucky." There was an unconscious sigh in his voice that he knew would not escape the attention of the assassin, however stupid he might be. "I was paid to kill you," said the man, and moved forward with confidence that belied the confusion he must be feeling. "I will do that." "Profound," Herran said, and met the first cut, whose strength he could not possibly match, with a light and spinning cut that turned into a feint for the human's left side that sank into his right. The man let out a horrible howl, and Herran saw something like fire burst from his side. He danced backwards at once, thinking the human was a disguised Elwen after all and would have the scalding blood, as hot as molten metal, of his own kind. Or perhaps he had struck a package of some exotic poison that was going to coat him if he wasn't careful. But it wasn't either of those things. It was simply his sword. The patterns on the blade that he normally paid as much attention to as he did his arm were afire, catching the golden moonlight and blazing with it until they made a beacon that lit the hall. But the light was not the pure gold it should have been. It was as red as the human's blood, and glowed dark blue at the edges. "What in the name of the stars-" Herran's oath faded as he saw the fire reach out, glowing a deeper and darker red now, and touch the skin over the human's chest. There was a terrible tearing sound, worse than the noises the man was trying to make, and the human's heart floated into the night and hung there gleaming like a ruby earring. Herran could see it pulsing faintly for a moment before it went still, at almost the same moment that the body of the man it had come from settled to the floor behind it. The heart then spun for a few moments, all the blood in it being drawn off and consumed in the fire. Then it fell to the floor as well. Herran stared at the body of the human, which would need to be gotten rid of as it would not burn cleanly like an Elwen body would, and then at the still-glowing blade of his sword. The fire pulsed like the heart, and then faded. The patterns on the blade glowed like molten gold for a moment, and then the light faded as well, though the patterns remained. Just not as visible now. All of this had taken less time than it took Lapida to round the corner. She slowed at once, struck and subdued, as he was, by the presence of heavy magic of an unfamiliar kind in the air, an almost sickening smell of burned sugar. She slowed and sniffed, looking sideways at Herran and mostly at the heartless body. "How did this happen?" she asked, still without looking at him. "I don't know." The confusion in his voice seemed to convince her to look at him. A reluctant smile ran through her voice as she answered. "I am glad of that. I would hate to think that the job I had been performing was useless all this time, that you really did know how to use it like that and were just humoring us by letting us protect you." "I am just humoring you," said Herran, changing the subject as he slipped the sword into the sheath. There was no blood on it. Dimly, he wondered why he was not more surprised by that, but he knew. He simply did not want to speak of it aloud, any more than he wanted to say what it was that had just happened. "Of course," said Lapida. "That would be why you were almost killed five days ago." Herran raised his eyebrows. "I didn't try to fight him on my own. He slipped through. When that happens, whose fault is it? That is something that I have been meaning to ask you." Lapida sighed and looked down at the floor. "I'll tell someone about the body," she said softly. "The servants shouldn't find it in the morning." It was a tacit agreement between Herran and almost all his guards that no one else should ever know how close to danger he was every day. That might cause panic, and then Herran would not be able to do half of the things that he did now; he would lose what limited freedom of movement he did have. "Thank you, Lapida. Is there anything that you would like me to say, to swear to?" She stared at him, then shook her head. "I'll never distrust you, my lord," she said softly. "I simply- would have been more comfortable if this had not happened." Her eyes went to the sword, as if wondering how he could wear it so casually, and then flicked away as if they had alighted on something nauseating. They probably had, Herran thought with a grim smile. "Fair-night, Lapida." He turned to examining the rope attached to the silver, wondering if he was doing the right thing even as he knew he was. Lapida would need to think, and to be alone to do so. She had seen things lately that were making her reconsider her decision to remain as leader of the Councilmaster's guards when the old Councilmaster died. Herran knew that he could not blame her if she gave the position over to someone else; he could only hope that she would not, that she was determined to go through this beside him. The rope was attached to the silver with a sticky substance that he did not at first recognize. Then he did, and smiled grimly. Spider silk. And he had some enemies who raised giant spiders, on the farms to the south. He shook his head, sighed, and gently scooped up the spider silk, making sure that it didn't stick to his bare skin; he would have a hard time getting it off. Then he turned and walked the few remaining steps to his chambers, the Councilmaster's quarters, without being attacked. Once the door closed behind him, he felt a little safer. The room, bound about with wards only he knew the words for and doors where guards on a rotating watch always waited, would require more thinking than a simple assassin like the human could do. And any enemies who could afford to hire the assassins who could enter the room would leave telltale signs. Like the spider silk. He placed it gently on a table and took a seat on one of the numerous cushions that covered the floor, closing his eyes and falling into what passed for thought, at this time of the night and so soon after an assassin attack. It took him a few minutes, but he had reached a solution, he thought, if the one he spoke to would be willing to help him. At the same time, he was sure he would be. But he never liked to ask for too many favors. There were too many enemies who would kill those who helped him- all of those who helped him- if they knew how often he called upon them. ^Gercom.^ The telepathic link was almost instantaneous, as Gercom recognized him. ^My lord,^ he said quietly. ^I am glad that you have spoken to me.^ ^Why?^ It was not pleasant to contemplate another problem, or should not have been, and yet it was. At least it meant that he was not thinking about the things that he would have to do to confuse and worry Aereri. ^There are some- new tenants here- who do not understand about dobluth.^ There was a tightness in Gercom's voice that told Herran he was struggling to keep from exploding into a mental shout that would hurt his lord's ears. ^In what way?^ Herran leaned back on the cushion and stared at the ceiling, which was carved with small and delicate figures in a dizzying pattern like a maze he had never managed to thread his way through. There was something in that thought, he thought, but it was gone before he could grasp it, swept away by the grateful pressure of Gercom's voice. ^They think that Stinarall should be cleared, and the sunlight allowed to fall where it stood. They do not understand, or will not believe, that some kinds of grass can grow without sunlight.^ Herran shook his head. At times, he thought it was a good thing that he did not have to pay as much attention anymore to the farms where curalli and land Elwens both lived, and at times he regretted that he did not do it. ^Did you not tell them it was your Claimed land, and that it will obey any command you give it, and that it would be worse than useless if they try to take it from you? Did you not give them a demonstration?^ ^I would need your permission to do that, my lord,^ said Gercom in a determinedly casual voice. Herran laughed, startled out of his melancholy in a way that he had not been for years. ^Gercom, my friend, are you becoming land Elwen?^ ^Corrupt? Yes.^ Still chuckling, Herran said, ^You have my permission to show them what a dark hylea wood allied to the will of a shadowed Elwen can do. Have they Claimed the land they live on?^ ^No.^ ^Then tell them that I am thinking of letting you Claim their land as well.^ ^Will they not sense a lie?^ ^No. I am thinking of letting you do it, as of this moment. I think it foolishness that they will not respect a Claim when they see it, and if they cannot, they should leave in any case. I will have no tenants who do not recognize the validity of a Claim.^ ^My lord- thank you.^ ^You may not thank me when you find out why I forged the link.^ ^Why not?^ ^Two things, I fear-^ ^My lord.^ Gercom's voice was soft with both exasperation and affectionate amusement, the mental world flashing white and gentle aqua. ^You have given me two things, and me- and my people- much more than I could ever repay. Tell me what it is that you want, and I will do my best to get it for you.^ ^Information, Gercom. And I am afraid that one of them will necessitate you leaving Stinarall for at least a short while.^ ^I am confident that one demonstration will be all they need, my lord. I do not think they will challenge the validity of the Claim after this.^ ^Very well, if you think so. The first thing is this: a human assassin attacked me tonight-^ ^Sent by whom?^ ^There is a reason I do not tell you that, Gercom, and you know it damned well.^ There was an edge in Herran's voice that he could not hide now, even though at least half the amusement remained. ^I know that. But I killed the enemy who needed killing, my lord, and I always will.^ ^That is why I am not telling you,^ said Herran, letting Gercom feel his firmness to keep his vow and his thanks at the same time. ^Now, to business. A human assassin attacked me, and the sword flared up in the moonlight, pulled his heart out, drew the blood into itself, and then let the heart fall. The human was dead, of course. All I had done was wound him, but it almost set the wound on fire when I did. The light from the sword was red, deep blue at the edges, and the smell of magic almost overpowering. Can you tell me anything about this? It is a curalli blade.^ There was a little silence. Herran could almost see Gercom's head bowed, dark silver face wrinkled in thought, the bright eyes that made him look at least half land Elwen closed. ^Have you asked Etredi, my lord? She was the one who gave you the sword, as I remember.^ ^I would prefer not to ask her. She world treat it all as some grand joke, and I cannot deal with that at the moment. I am in danger of losing a friend because of it, and the fear.^ ^You always are.^ Herran gave a short mental nod that he knew would be felt, unconsciously echoing the gesture with a physical movement. ^Yes, I am.^ He did not react to the concern in the curalli's voice, but felt something in him thaw a little all the same. ^Now. It seems to me that you do know something.^ ^Yes, my lord. Etredi once bragged that she had forged it herself, during the Battle of Esshellen. I had no idea that it was the same sword she had given to you, and that is the truth.^ ^I believe you, Gercom.^ It was hard to speak. His mental voice was as unsteady as his spoken one would have been. Even now he could not think of that battle, the second bloodiest one in Arcadia's history, without shuddering. It was the valley where the greatest Councilmaster in memory, the Lady Eleriad Deerfriend, had fallen, felled by a traitor's arrow, and the place where land Elwens driven mad by her death had gone on fighting, without supplies or reinforcements, until the allies from the other races, including the curalli, had arrived. Against humans. The great, faceless swarm of them haunted his dreams even now. ^My lord?^ Herran started, then shook his head. ^I am sorry, Gercom. I fought there.^ Gercom waited in the silence of someone who had not, but understood pain. He should, Herran thought with a sympathy he felt often. He had seen his land Elwen wife murdered by their own half-blood daughter. ^She said that she forged the sword in their blood, by the light of the golden moonlight, fighting against scouts before she reached the battlefield itself. She knew what kind of hell she was going into, and she wanted to have a weapon ready she could handle and depend on without much trouble.^ ^And it was-^ ^Yes, my lord. A banesword. She claims now that she cannot remember how she made it, that a kind of madness was on her, forged out of the struggle for survival and some knowledge.^ Herran nodded slowly. He should have guessed. He had heard of baneswords, blades given magic by the sheer heat of an Elwen's will and determination to stay alive. Baneswords were deadly in one specific way. In this case, against humans in golden moonlight, the conditions under which it had been forged. Usually, though, baneswords had a connection with the soul of the Elwen who had created them, and could not be wielded by another Elwen, or even touched by another Elwen, without great pain. But Herran did not think that Gercom would know the reason for that difference in this case, and would not waste his time by asking him. Besides, there was something else that he did not understand. ^I thought that she said she took it from an Elwen who was less daring than she was, and was giving it to me because I had proved myself to be more daring than she was.^ ^The blade itself, lord, I believe so. It is possible that she had forgotten she had made it a banesword. It must have been a long time since she had used it.^ Herran nodded absently. The War of Acceptance against the humans had been over for almost nine hundred years, and the Battle of Esshellen for almost eleven hundred. Etredi was a high-ranking gang leader in the city of Shadows, leader of the Ebony Singers, the most vicious and largest of the gangs. She would have more guards than he did. She had likely not had to fight humans hand-to-hand for decades. Other Elwens, of course, because there was no other way that a gang leader could keep his or her position. But humans were weak, slower than Elwens and without magic, beneath contempt. That the Glints would employ one was almost laughable, but they had thought enough of him to give him spider silk, whoever he had been. ^Was that all, my lord?^ ^No, but thank you for telling me. I did want to know what it was and what it did.^ Gercom nodded and was still. He knew that Herran had something else to say to him. ^There is a threat to my continued Councilmastery from the Lord and Councilman Aereri Sulonin. I would like you to travel to Akasa and look at the orchards there, to see if there might be a way that we could raise per fruit again.^ Gercom laughed eagerly. ^You see the possibilities, don't you?^ Herran murmured, smiling. ^Yes, of course, my lord. The Sulonins- or Sulonin, as I think he is the only one left- raise per fruit. I think that he will have something to worry about, if you spread a rumor that you would like to see the orchards growing again near Akasa.^ ^Of course. And this way I don't need to kill anyone, or have anyone killed.^ ^It is a more permanent solution, my lord.^ ^I don't think you need to worry about becoming land Elwen, Gercom.^ ^I am glad for that.^ Gercom's voice lost the amusement and became more serious. ^Do you think that I should leave the moment after I give the demonstration, and should I ride or walk?^ ^I leave that to you. You can convey the speed or the slowness that you want. Either way would have its advantages, and its uses in convincing Aereri that this is really what we want to achieve, and that it isn't just a ruse to attract his attention.^ ^Soon, then, my lord. And when I have determined if the trees can be used or not?^ ^Then send me a messenger, very publicly. Someone who can ride up to me and shout out the news in a grand voice that Aereri will hear about very shortly.^ ^I know just the man I should send.^ Gercom's self-satisfied tone made Herran chuckle and wonder, but he knew that Gercom would not respond if he was questioned any further, just as Herran would not give up the names of the enemies who had hired the human. ^Good,^ said the land Elwen. ^I will leave you then, if you do not mind me doing that.^ ^I need to unleash Stinarall on the ones who think they know curalli.^ Herran nodded, and then the link broke and he was left staring at the ceiling, wondering if he had done the right thing. It was what he wondered every single time he asked someone else to do favors for him, things he could not do himself. He was only relieved that this time he had been able to repay Gercom quickly, that he had not had to come up with favors in return that the curalli would not really have wanted or needed, and would have known the truth about at once. Then he considered something else he could do, and a smile drifted across his face, even though there was no one else there to see it, except the guards waiting patiently behind the sealed doors. He would confuse Aereri with the simplicity of the attack. At the same time he was using the feint, the rumor that Aereri would almost expect, he would also try a frontal attack in the Council. Insults so light that no one save Aereri would make anything of them, simple statements, and opposition to every plan that Aereri as Councilman raised, unless the city needed it. That would nudge him, keep him off balance, and make him uneasy, especially when he had an attack that he was not sure was an attack on his flank. "Like a wolf," he said aloud with another smile into the darkness. "Slash and dart away." There came a knock at the door. Herran jerked his head up, heart pounding and body shaking even as he realized that he knew the scent, and only one person in the world could have gotten this close without the guards and traps reacting. "Herran?" Herran dropped his head with a sigh of relief and made the gesture that would relax the wards on the doors. "Tandra," he said. She stepped easily into the room, though with one hand on the hilt of the sword at her side as always. It was a gesture that she had become so used to making since she became Captain of the city Guards that he did not think she realized she made it anymore. "Herran, are you all right?" she asked, staring st him. She would smell the last vestiges of fear and anger that were only slowly fading from him; she was land Elwen, after all, and as sensitive to emotions as all their kind were. Herran frowned. Thinking of which, he could feel her own nervousness from where he sat. He rose to his feet and made his way towards her, studying her with a slight frown that made her scowl back. "What?" she asked, raising a hand before her as if she might clasp his or strike him with it. He clasped her wrist in the manner of warriors, his gaze never leaving hers. "Is something the matter?" he asked quietly. She sighed, and her cool, quiet black eyes fell away from his. "There is," she said, "but it is nothing that you can help. There is something else troubling me, and I came here to speak with you about it, because I think you might understand it." Herran nodded and drew her over to a seat on a cushion, lighting a lamp as he went to fetch the wine that she usually drank, a very mild golden liquor called honeyberry. But she shook her head when he started to pour her a glass. The light revealed, better than nightsight had, the lines ion her face, the bruises around her eyes, and the tangled state of her brilliant orange hair. Herran stood still in shock for a moment, long enough to see that the bruises around her eyes were really deep shadows. He had never seen anyone look wearier in his life. "Tandra, what is it?" She nodded to the wine as if he had been referring to it. "I would like something a little stronger than that, please," she said, shutting her eyes and leaning back against the divan that stood not so far away, the divan where Herran almost never sat because it was the place where the old Councilmaster had died. Herran hesitated, wanting to ask her if she would prefer to lie on the divan, but he trusted her to make it up there if she really did want to. He went to fetch the blue wine that he sometimes kept to entertain visiting diplomats and anyone else who would be insulted by being served only honeyberry. She was asleep when he came back, her head leaning against the divan in the same position that would give her cramps in the neck when she woke up. He set the glass of wine on a table and eased her gently into a lying position on the floor, doing it so slowly and carefully that he did not wake her up. "Herran?" He cursed under his breath as he realized that her eyes were open anyway, her hand reaching out for the wine. He sighed and sat on the divan to reach the wine, then pulled her up to sit beside him. "Have you been to see a healer lately?" he asked her. "I can't." "Why not?" Tandra closed her eyes. "There's nothing wrong with me that some rest won't cure," she said. "The young Guards are learning to handle themselves without me, though of course I have to watch them. I can leave them for a few days and rest." "That doesn't explain why you don't have the ability to see a healer, though, Tandra." "I know." She opened her eyes and swallowed half the wine, Herran winced as she coughed and spluttered, and pounded her on the back a few times when the coughing did not immediately stop. She drew away from him as though his hands had burned. "Tandra? What is the matter?" He wanted desperately to divine the source of the utter misery in her eyes, but he could not, and would not ask, if she did not want him to do it. "Do you know what they call this kind of wine in the south?" Tandra asked when she could speak again, staring at the wine in her glass. "No. What?" She shook her head, and quite abruptly her hand was shaking as well. She set the glass back on the table with extraordinary care, as though she were already drunk, but at the last instant Herran thought she would have liked to grind it into the wood of the table and break the stem. She stumbled away with her hands over her face. "Tandra." He would have left her alone if she truly wanted to be left alone, but the harsh sob that broke forth from her at that moment decided him. He came swiftly to her and gripped her shoulders, turning her around to face him so that he could look into her eyes, glimmering bright with tears. "I don't think that you should leave, with the condition that you're in," he told her, quietly and truthfully. "No," she said, in a calm voice, and then seemed to shatter. Weariness and panic came pouring out of her in a flood that would have drowned Herran had he not seen her a time or two before and known how to deal with this. Gently, he helped her to the divan and kept an arm around her shoulders as she wept. She could not take much more of an embrace than that; her fighting instincts would go mad, and she would wound him without wanting to. He could still feel the scar on his side that pulled tight when he moved his right arm in a certain way, legacy of a time when he had tried to keep her from hurting herself and had accidentally been on the receiving end himself instead. He let her weep, and then she began to speak, as he had known she would. "I- the thing I can't let- the healers can't help me, because I would need a spirit-giver, to take the pain from me for a short while, and I don't want any spirit-giver to see the source of my pain." She didn't want him to know the true source of her misery, in other words. Herran sighed and did his best to dim his magical senses, to keep from seeking out the true nature of the wave of pain and desperation that washed over him. "The other thing, the thing I came to you to talk about-" She did turn to him then, embracing him in a way that signaled that the dangerous time was done. Herran smoothed her hair and held her quietly as she spoke, her words spilling over each other. "I went to the Temple tonight. I didn't really understand why, but it felt almost as if I was called there." Herran grimaced. He did not share her faith in the Goddess Suulta; he understood that it was different in the south, where she came from, but here in Rowan, it was the stars and the principles of pride and passion that were honored. Suulta's influence, as Lady of Peace and Calm, showed only in the Laws that strangled the open expression of emotion in public, and that he was using all his power to Councilmaster to try to tear down. "I understand," he said, remembering the nights when it seemed the stars sang to him as well as him singing to them, and struggling to put that understanding in his voice. "I do understand." "And while I was there, I saw a vision in the smoke and fire." Ah. Herran gently stroked her back. She didn't need to say anything more. Tandra hated fate or foretelling, and the very ideas of them. She had left the south in part because her parents had hired a fortune-teller to tell her that she never would. Anything in Rowan that suggested she might be destined to do something terrified her, and disgusted her. A vision would have provoked a reaction like almost nothing else could. "I am sorry," he murmured into her hair, and wished he could tell her that it was nothing more than the incense the priests burned, and which had been responsible for at least as many visions as the Goddess. But she would hate that even more, because she knew about the incense, and would be furious at herself for succumbing to it. "I thought that you would know," she said, "you would know if it was real, because you have had visions directed at you." "But never seen them myself," he said as casually as he could, feeling his muscles tense. It was Tandra's turn to stroke his back. "Herran, I know that you don't like to talk about it," she said soothingly. "And I know that you don't really know what caused them or what they meant, But you might have abetter idea than the priests do themselves." "What was the vision?" "I saw myself standing before an altar," said Tandra. "It looked like the altar in the Temple, but I knew it was not." There was loathing in her voice; she hated that kind of mysterious knowledge when it affected her, and scorned it in others. "I was staring at something in my hands. I couldn't see what it was." "Could you see light coming from it?" She pulled back to stare at him. "Yes, I could." She stared at him for a moment, and then smiled. She would not ask how he knew. At last she seemed to have accepted the fact that he could read her heart, as he could the hearts of most, and hers better than most. For a moment, her hand brushed lightly through his golden hair in a gesture of thanks. "Go on." "I saw something move behind me then, a shadow. It was reptilian-" Herran's stomach tightened. His symbol was a celestial dragon, and he was well-used to being represented as shadowy in visions, though he did not think she would like to hear that. "-a serpent." She did not miss his sigh of relief, but only looked at him curiously before going on. "It came into view, and I could see that it was beautiful, more beautiful than anything I had ever seen in my life. Its scales glowed and scintillated, and they had patterns on them that I could not make out." "All colors?" "Yes." "A dreamlord cobra," said Herran softly. "It was that, wasn't it?" "Yes." Herran drew in a soft breath. "I have never heard what they mean when used ass symbols," he said. "I am sorry, but I do not think there is anything I can do to help you." "Then the cobra struck me." Herran made a terrified sound before he could stop himself. She stopped and smiled at him, a smile that had a hint of pain in it. "I am sorry," he said, lowering his eyes from hers. "Please go on." "It is flattering to know that you can feel that way for me, Herran." There was a teasing tone in her voice, and something else he had heard before and refused to learn to identify, for fear that it would be what it sounded like. He raised his eyes to her and shrugged his shoulders a little. "I love you, you know that. I would not want to see you hurt." "But if the vision says so?" "It may not mean literally," said Herran, grasping at feathers the wind was wafting through his fingers. "It may not, you know." "I am hoping that it does not," she said fervently. "I have heard things about the venom of dreamlord cobras in the past that makes me wary." "You have good reason to be," he had to tell her. "It kills the victim very quickly, sometimes before anything can be done for him or her, and it works like an acid on the inner organs as well." She made a face. "I would do almost anything to protect you from that," he told her softly. "Almost anything?" Herran knew, then, what the other thing was that she did not want to tell him, and he ached for her and wished there was any way to ease that. But the one way out, the one thing that would heal her, he could not do, and knew she would never ask it of him. He did not show his sudden knowledge in his voice, keeping it calm and neutral. "You know there are things that I will not do." "Yes, I do." The rage burning in her eyes was sudden. It had never arisen so suddenly before. But Herran held her gaze, and at the end of a reasonable amount of time said, "I sometimes think there are things you will never understand." She tilted her head, her eyes blazing. "And at other times I know how wrong I was," he said, with a small smile. She leaned back against the divan, never taking her eyes from him. They had stopped embracing her; they always had to whenever this subject arose. And it had been arising more and more often lately. Herran would have suspected her of steering the conversations that way, but she always exploded in rage, and as she hated doing that, he thought it was happening of its own accord. He hated it. Everything that they had to say on the subject had been said, and was out of the way. He knew that she thought he was being childish in keeping a vow he had sworn to someone who did not deserve it, but she had told him so and that was an end. Except that they kept returning to it, as if compelled to prod it like a tongue prodding a sore tooth. "If I was free, you know that I would do everything that I could," he said, and was astonished to hear himself say it. Usually, she was the one who said things like that, who moved them directly onto the line and into the canyon instead of hovering over it. She stared at him and blinked, as surprised as he was. But she recovered quickly, to gaze at him with proud and shining eyes. "I know you would," she said. "I will never doubt you in that way, Herran." "But in other ways?" he asked quietly, eyes boring into her as he waited for an answer. "I doubt that you will ever really understand just how foolish that vow is." Herran relaxed. He had been afraid that she would say there was something she did not trust about him, that she would not be able to do anything but shut him away from some parts of her life. "I knew that already," he said. "Did you really come here just to ask about the vision?" "No," she said, "but I did not think that you would sense the other thing. I should have remembered how sensitive you are." There was a slight undertone of bitterness in her voice that Herran chose to ignore. "Come," he said. "Finish your wine." He handed the cup back to her. "You never did tell me what they call this wine in the south, where you come from." "No, I never did," she agreed, taking a calmer sip of the wine this time and swallowing it the way it was meant to be swallowed, and slowly savored. "Well?" She looked at him searchingly, and then said, "Cuivisi is the Primal name. You are well-schooled in that language, my lord." Herran felt himself flush, and he looked away from her, forcing his eyes to focus on the wall instead of on her face. She was probably not even aware of the accusation that he saw in her eyes, and it might not even exist. But he saw it, and he thought it would exist someday, if it did not now. "Herran?" Her hand gripped his shoulder, asking a silent question with the gentle pressure of the hold. "I-" He stopped and shook his head. "Tandra, you told me once that you would let nothing limit your dreams. Not you family, not fate, not Quirrin, not anyone else in Rowan who tried to stop you." He looked at her, seeking recognition in her eyes. She had made that statement only twenty years ago. "Yes?" "Why do you permit me to do it?" he asked softly. "I do not understand." Tandra closed her eyes, and sat with her hand tight around the glass and her other hand tightening on his shoulder for a long instant. "You do not understand," she whispered. "Oh, my lord, you do not." She opened her eyes, and they glistened with newfound tears. "You have showed me some dreams that I did not know existed, and always encouraged my ambitions," she said. "When I became Captain of the Guards, you were more joyful over that than you were over your own ascent to the Councilmastery." "That had another reason behind it." She dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment, but would not be dissuaded from her main point. "You do not limit my dreams, Herran, and you never have." The words were painful to say. He forced them out. "But without me- if I did not exist- then you could have had a husband and children. You told me once that nothing would ever give you the joy that holding a child of your own blood in your arms would." "I told you that, and it remains true." "Then why, Tandra?" She shrugged. "That is something that I will leave you alone to think of." She stood. "I will leave you now, indeed, my lord. I thought you should know about the vision, in case you knew what it meant or it concerned you in some manner, but there is really nothing that I have left to do here." "Tandra, I..." "I know, Herran." She moved to the door, finishing the last of the wine and giving the glass to him as she went. "Thank you for the wine and the ears." She turned at the door and stared at him. "You know that it will not always be this way." Herran met her gaze and held it steadily. "No, it won't," he said softly. Her gaze sharpened. "I don't think that you mean the same thing that I do. What happened to you tonight?" He could not lie, and he could not tell her what he had really meant, and so he settled for something that was a lesser truth. "A human assassin came after me tonight, and my sword killed him in a way that made it reveal itself as a banesword." She stared at him as if he had slapped her, and then shook her head and moved from the room like a shadow, as fleeting and as suddenly gone. Herran closed his eyes, wondering if he should have asked her if she wanted an escort. But she would have, and she would have wanted more, something that he could never give. His gaze fell on the empty wineglass when his eyes opened, and the trembling blue droplets that still clung there glittered at him like the accusation in her eyes that might not exist had. Cuivisi. Lovers' wine. Herran shook his head, sighed, and stood, carrying the wineglass back to the small bucket of water that had melted from the ice kept to chill the wine. He washed it carefully, and lingered there, touching it, for longer than he needed to. He knew that it might be a year, or even a decade, before they would speak of it again. Or it could be tomorrow. The way things had been going, it was most likely to be tomorrow, and he was not sure how much longer he could continue to be what he had to be, the oath-keeper, and ignore the pain. But he had limped on with the wound thus far. He had not even begun to feel the wound until after he had met Tandra and began to love her. And when did he decided that he was crippled? He shivered as he stared out the window at the stars, but was suddenly and violently glad that it was not a summer night. ---------------------------------------------------------- He awakened to another knock at the door, and blinked sleep from his eyes as he made the hand pass and called out for the servant to come in. He had fallen asleep on the divan, much to his surprise. Usually, it was impossible for him to sleep there. The memory of Liant, whom Quirrin had killed, and what he had been forced to do to the man in the last moments of his life- crash into his mind and take all the information about secret passages and other things that Liant did not have time to tell him- still haunted him, and the cushions of the divan. When the servant did not enter at once, Herran quietly reached for the banesword and rose to his feet, awake at once, evenly repeating the invitation. He heard small embarrassed cough, and then a quiet voice. "Lord Herran, if I try to open the door, I'll drop the tray." Herran smiled and slid the banesword back into its sheath. He strode over and opened the door, standing aside as the servant entered the room. She was a young woman of near his own age- he had become good at judging ages in the past few years, even though the agelessly smooth faces of his people made it hard- with brilliant blue eyes and long black hair wound into a neat braid around her head. "Sorry," she murmured as she set the tray on one of the tables. "No need to apologize," said Herran easily as he picked up one of the pieces of the bread on the tray. "Will you join me?" She started and looked at him in awe. Herran sighed. The awe that they all paid to him was irritating. He had accepted the title of "lord" and of "Councilmaster" because they were too prevalent to get rid of now, and she thought that some respect was his due, and he was happy if others took the effort to be civil to him. But this abashed cringing, as if he might hurt her, or as if he were one of the starfolk... "Please," he said quietly. "I would like to talk to you." "Why?" There was a sharp tone in her voice now, as if she suspected that he was about to make a fool of her. Herran smiled. Good. That was much better. The spirit that infused her eyes and voice banished the wan sickness of nervous admiration that had possessed her just a few moments before. "There are things that servants hear that Council members never do," he admitted casually. "I am not asking you to become a spy, but if you have heard of anything interesting that you think could be of use to the city, and that has come to the Council's attention only lately or not at all, I would like to hear about it." He bit into the cheese, his eyes never leaving her face, seeing the rapidly flitting expressions condense into one of surprised belief, and then acceptance. "All right," she said, sitting down one of the cushions and taking a piece of bread for herself, ignoring the silver cup of water. "What would you want to know about most?" "Anything at all," said Herran. "Anything at all could be important." She wrinkled her nose and pretended to laugh at him. She was stream relaxing, though Herran thought she was determined not to show that, as if she thought it might insult him. "That doesn't really tell me what might be important." "Literally, anything." She nibbled on the cheese and considered. Herran, feeling his mouth dry, gestured that she should take some water first, but she shook her head. He shook his head in turn, in acceptance, and lifted the cup of water to his lips. He swallowed and set the cup down again. She was watching him with a kind of rapt wonder, and he raised his eyebrows at her. "You really do eat and drink just like an ordinary mortal!" she blurted at him. It had worked. Herran felt a flash of sadness travel through him even as he smiled at her. "I do," he agreed. "Was that what you wanted to tell me? That there are rumors going around that I am immortal?" "There are rumors-" she began, and then stopped, looking at him. "There are rumors that I cannot be killed, I know," said Herran, taking another piece of cheese and biting into it. She began to shake. He stared sadly at her and nodded. "Yes, I did smell the poison in the water," he said quietly. "There are some that smell no matter how well-dissolved they are. And the greenish color always gives vernya away. I would guess because you used vernya, though, that you wanted me sick and crippled, not dead." The woman stood, still staring at him, but her shaking had ended. She lifted her head, her eyes defiant, and the demeanor of shyness gone. "All of us will fight to the end to avenge her, you know," she told him, her hand clasping a pendant that hung around her neck, of which he could see only the chain. Herran closed his eyes. Of all the factions after him, this one was the most hurtful, because of the pain of his own memories. All these years, and she was with him still, in his vow and in the form of fanatics like this, who believed he had killed her. Rather than had her commit suicide on his sword, and then been cursed by her when she died. "I think the memory of Chemilli Glint deserves more than this," she said in a considering voice. "It might, but she will not get it," said Herran softly. "She has too much of me already." "We heard that you had taken a lover, my Lord Herran. Breaking your vow to her." Herran took a deep breath, and then another, to control the rapidly rising fury. He was deadly in a rage, and he did not have time for this right now. She would do something stupid and heroic in a moment, such as trying to commit suicide while killing him, and he did not want to have to kill her. "Chemilli," he whispered. Something moved from the wall, so fast that even he, who knew what it was and what was going to happen, blinked at it and could not see it. The snapping snake of the ward coiled around the assassin and spilled her from her feet to the floor, cracking her head against the silver with just enough force to render her unconscious. It had killed a few of his enemies before Herran learned the right amount of pressure and refined the ward to include it. He stooped over her for a moment, then dismissed the ward with another whispered word, "Viana," the name of Chemilli's cousin whom she had murdered because of him, because he had not protected her well enough when Viana, disgusted with her murderous cousin, had betrayed her plans for rebellion. Then he moved to look out the window and let the wind dry his tears. The future was ahead of him, and the shining vision he was struggling so hard to birth. But it seemed to be tied to the past- It was tied to the past. The visions he was working so hard to make come true, by methods other than the ones she had used, were Chemilli's. -and he could never be rid of the chains, no matter what happened, no matter what visions he accepted and fulfilled as best he could. No matter who else he found to love. He leaned his cheek on the windowsill and stared out at the city until he was sure that he would be able to face the guards, and then dumped the tainted water into another cup. Quirrin's poisons experts would want to see it later, to make sure that it was vernya and not some new poison. If it was, they would first cut off the source of the supply, and then learn to make it themselves. He sighed and turned to look back at the woman's body, then went briefly to kneel beside her and look at the pendant she was wearing. Yes, it was a small wire sphere that she was wearing, threads of silver twisted into the shape of a gleaming and almost transparent ball around a central ring, also of silver. The symbol of the Low Ones. Herran looked out the window, and found himself having thoughts he had never possessed, wondering if it wouldn't have been better to have let them win. He would be long dead by now. Chemilli would have killed him, or someone jealous of his influence with her would have. The Game they had played was nothing to the Game he played in brilliance or complexity, but it had been simpler and far more brutal, the kind of Game that Lapida and Gercom would have liked to have played, with swords and blood flying, no subtlety at all. At times like these, he wished that the poisoned water had succeeded. When the guards arrived to help him remove the body, he was still staring at the window and shaking his head as if to clear it. ---------------------------------------------------------- "Exactly what you are you saying, my Lord Herran?" Herran smiled, and felt the last vestiges of the grief that had possessed him fall away. "I think that you know, my Lord Aereri," he said. "But I will explain it again, if you wish." Aereri flushed, and then inclined his head, choosing the embarrassing course of asking for it again rather than continue on without having any idea o what Herran was walking about. "Please." Herran nodded graciously to him, and then continued, turning to meet the eyes of the other Council members as he did so. "The trade in human and curalli items among our people has increased of late. In particular, the chaos- sculptures that the curalli create are in demand, and there have even been some killings over the finer specimens that have appeared in Rowan as recently as a dance ago." He shook his head to show how he felt about the killings. "But what is the point of telling us this?" Aereri asked, smacking his hand on the arm of his seat, leaning forward, his chest heaving and his green eyes blazing with the rage that he showed whenever he thought someone was making fun of him. "We know about it. What is the point?" Herran cocked his head. "Must I spell it out for you, Councilman?" Aereri gnashed his teeth. Given the incomprehension he had just expressed, and the several Laws he had just broken- though they were relaxed in the Council Chamber, where the heat of debate was often intense- any answer to that question would damn him. "Very well," said Herran with a sigh, and turned to look at them all. He stood before them on the dais, not a position that he normally liked to adopt, because convincing them silently that he was harmless was one of his favorite tricks and he did not want them to catch on too quickly. He paced back and forth, his eyes locking with twenty other pairs, and with Aereri's last of all. He stopped and made his explanation directly to the young Councilman, ignoring the delighted chuckles at his trick. The trick here was not to impress or convinced them, though he hoped to do that as well. It was to unnerve Aereri. Open mockery of his enemies was something that Herran Turnlong never did. And one he was finding that he was good at, and intensely enjoyed, at least in the bitter mood he had been in for some hours now, ever since the last assassin had failed to kill him. "I mean, my lord, that there is no reason to prohibit trade in the items that these races craft when our own people are dying from them. There is no reason to watch an innocent child die because he was trampled in the rush from a crowd fleeing from a chaos-sculpture merchant's stall when the Guards arrived." That had not happened, but his very careful truth- dancing was convincing them that it could, or that it would, or that it had. And actually, the man killed trying to buy a chaos- sculpture had been a thief whom the merchant had recognized and killed all at once, in the full sight of at least thirty people. None of which stopped Herran, who could not have prevented the death, from using it as a tool in this play of the Game. "You know why you prohibit such things," said Aereri with a cold fury in his voice. "You have always known. We must preserve our purity." "Ah." Herran stood there, nodding, for a moment, as if this wisdom had never struck him before. Then he said, "Apparently, my lord, preserving our purity is more important than preserving our lives so that we may enjoy our purity." Not only a direct attack and a quiet way of calling what Aereri was saying stupid, but emphasizing, gently, the fact that Aereri had used no title when he was speaking to Herran. The thoughts of the assassin, and Chemilli, faded from his mind, or at least quieted. He was playing a Game that he never had while she was alive, something she would never have understood or appreciated. It left him feeling free of a taint he had not known he possessed. "I will no longer debate this with you," said Aereri, rising to his feet. "It is ridiculous." "Then you are turning away from the debate," said Herran calmly. That stopped Aereri. Under the Council protocol, anyone who backed away from debating something was giving the debate to the other side. And, also under Council protocol, not giving the title to the Councilmaster- not showing respect to the man or woman all members of the Council were supposed to look to for wisdom and guidance- was punishable by a public flogging. Aereri did not dare allow thoughts of the protocol to arise in anyone's mind. He turned slowly back, his cheeks and eyes absolutely ablaze. Herran felt the emotion and lapped it up like cool water- or hot, for it made the mental air burn. THe could feel it, because he had trained himself to feel it, and he could almost guess what his opponent would say next because of it. That was a gift that Aereri would never have, and constantly forgot that Herran had. "I swear to you," he said, in a low and passionate voice, "that I do not think humans and curalli entering the city would be a good thing for our people." "I was speaking of their merchandise, my lord, not the races." Aereri's body was tense with frustration. He knew what Herran was really talking about; everyone in the Chamber did. But because Herran had not actually said it, there was no way that his enemy could call him on it and force him to reveal it. Herran smiled at him. He was going to win, because Aereri would have to concede or publicly accuse him, moving their private little war into the eyes of the Council and anyone else who might care to watch. Aereri had family to embarrass. Herran had no one left, and he did not care about embarrassing himself, because he knew he was too good at this ever to do it. Aereri bowed his head shortly, and sank into the seat, ending the debate. Herran smirked, a little, allowing himself that, at least. He was right, of course, and Aereri knew it; that was the thing that he could not call Herran on. Slow moving into the city and acceptance of the crops that the humans farmed and the dark art and weapons that the curalli created would slowly mean more acceptance of the two races themselves. The idea would enter the minds and then the hearts of his people without them even being aware of it. They would change their minds eventually, and then they would change the law. He would see to that. He would see that vote in the Council Chamber, he swore silently to himself as he stared into Aereri's eyes for one more long moment. He would see the day they opened the Gate, perhaps do it himself, with his own hands, and then... One part of the vision would be complete. Herran knew, as he turned at last away from his flushed enemy, that neither Aereri nor anyone in the room understood his smile. That did not mater. They had not seen the vision, and Herran had learned that he could impart only parts of it, not the shining whole that he had seen in his test for the Council. He had learned to do it slowly, and he would do it. That was another part of the private promise he had sworn to Chemilli. For once, the thought of her did not bring bitterness. He was thinking that he could use her beside him now, with all her passion and the charisma that had led her into endless fights and brought her endless followers, when a harsh voice rang out, interrupting his reverie and leading him into a far more unpleasant one. "My lord, you are surely not saying that we should let curalli into the city?" Herran looked up cautiously. He did not know what to make of the look in the golden eyes of the woman who stared defiantly back at him. Once, they had been allies. But these days, he was unsure of Keesa Firehair. She had been a member of his patrol, the most skilled fighter he had ever seen save for Tandra, but so wild and impulsive that her allies had feared her almost as much as their enemies in battle. And she hated curalli with a cold passion that was terrifying in someone who normally screamed out her joy or battle-rage. "Keesa," he said softly, and then louder: "My lady, I said nothing of the kind." "But that is what you are implying." Herran hissed under his breath. Keesa never took any note of the unwritten rules that the rest of the Council obeyed, and while that gave her a kind of power, it also undermined her, made her seem silly and childish at times, as she insisted that her opponents had said words they had not actually said. At that, she is probably more honest than the rest of us, Herran thought wryly, even as he reached for the words that he knew would convince her. "My lady, they kill us in the field." There was no one who would take offense at that; curalli fought for their lives every day of their lives, while land Elwens were formally trained. Everyone knew that curalli were the better fighters. "Must we give them the triumph of killing us in the middle of our own cities, as well?" Keesa looked half-mollified, but she only nodded jerkily and said, "I think that we should compete with them, though. Show the merchants and our people that land Elwen craftsmanship is still to be respected, and can compete with the patterns of chaos." "Of course," said Herran, grateful to have channeled the rage and hatred that had threatened to come pouring off her in another direction. "I was thinking of inviting several artists here for Whitefall," he said, turning to the other members of the Council now, as well as Keesa. "I would wait before soliciting wider approval, but as the issue has arisen now, is there anyone who has any objections to the idea?" There were interested looks on the faces that he looked at, though, instead of the resentment that he had half-expected to see. Some of the Council members resented him for coming up with ideas that would never have occurred to them. "What kind of artists, my lord? Portraitists and painters and sculptors alone, or musicians and poets as well?" The question came from the newest member of the Council, and Herran turned to answer her as easily as he answered all her questions, because she always made them simple. "Musicians and poets of course, my lady. They would be the majority, in fact. As most of the world knows, land Elwens invented music." As the others laughed, the Lady Duanni sat there with her eyes boring into him. Her hair was a soft silver, a normal color for a land Elwen, but her eyes were a direct and unnerving gray that could alter with her moods. Right now they were the color of iron. And Herran found himself swallowing his own amusement at having put her off so easily as he met the gaze and saw that she knew what he had done. She knew, but she was not going to tell anyone, that gaze told him, because she approved and shared some of the same goals. Herran blinked, and in that moment Duanni turned her head to answer a question someone beside her had asked, most likely her scribe, an older woman who was hard of hearing. The flash of something at her neck caught Herran's attention. It was a smooth silver chain, holding a pendant fashioned in the shape of a leaping dolphin. The dolphin itself was made of some rich blue-green stone, and wore a crown. Herran caught his breath. The pendant was pretty, not outwardly very unusual, but it unmistakably showed human craftsmanship to the trained eye, and the leaping, crowned river dolphin was the symbol of the House of Herves, a land Elwen family who ruled the northern nation of Carmai, the only country that was mostly human. This was something that he would have to consider, he could see that much. He managed to shake his head and move on to the next topic and the next attack on Aereri, but he clung to the idea, as always, that there was more in the world than he had ever known, and that he could never have imagined what it would be like to be Councilmaster. ---------------------------------------------------------- Daemon was waiting for him when he stepped from the Council Chamber, and there was a brightness in his eyes that Herran recognize. It only came from one source in the world. "There are reports that he has been training assassins again, my lord." Herran gave a restrained smile. Quirrin making a new move in the endless and painful Game between them was just what he did not need now, but he knew that Daemon was elated at the prospect of having something to punish or warn his former lord about. "Would you like to carry the message to him? If the rumors are confirmed, that is." "They are. This is a source in the Prison, not one outside it." Daemon's diamond eyes were brilliant, brighter than the gems they resembled. "And, yes, my lord. I would like to do this, very much. There is always her shadow to avenge." Though he was speaking of a different person than the one who sprang immediately to life in Herran's mind, he understood. How well he understood. And in this case, the woman Quirrin had murdered had been his friend as well. He was sometimes sorry that he had not known Aereri's father, though by all reports the man would have made an ineffective leader, and there had been no reason for his presence on the Council. There were some things, though not many, that it would have made easier to bear and do. "Then go, Daemon." The guard was gone at once, walking down the corridor and towards the door with a spring in his step that would have been appropriate for a young man going to ask his love to marry him. Though it had not been like that for him... Stars, what was this? He had had more than his share of arguments with Tandra lately- an unusual number with the Elwen he trusted above all others- but it was something that should not have prompted these appearances of Chemilli in his mind. He was going to keep his vow. He did not need her ghost to remind him. He had thought he had that for the first years after her death, and it had turned out to be only an illusion that Quirrin, a talented psychic assaulter, had created, stemming from his memories and wishes. That thought caused the old and burning anger to rise again, and he gladly thought about that, and what Daemon was on his way to do, rather than Chemilli. He could feel Daemon go if he tried: a consequence of the bloodvow between them. He listened as Daemon traveled, drawing strength from his rage, rage that rekindled the moments of what Quirrin had done. It seemed impossible that he could ever forget, but there were so many other things to think of that sometimes, despite his best intentions, he released his tight grip on the past. He summoned the diamond look and feel that had become second nature to him, and turned to face the next challenge. And froze. He could feel eyes on him, and it must be an enemy, because the guards that surrounded him, if not openly with him, were too skilled to betray their presence in so simple a way. His eyes made a circle of the room, and finally made out a man he had never seen before leaning against the wall, staring at him intently. That unnerved him more, for some reason, than the simple notion of an assassin attacking him. The thought that the man must know that he had betrayed himself- no professional would be that clumsy except on purpose- and continued watching, openly and brazenly, was all the more unnerving. He had powerful enemies. And, stars, sometimes he was so simply tired of doing all this. The news that came to him a few moments later, that the captured Low One assassin had somehow escaped her cell, made him grit his teeth and wish that he had seen Tandra's vision of the dreamlord cobra, so that he could have something he knew was insubstantial to prey on his mind and wind its tendrils into his dreams. Chapter 2 Persinorr "If you find the true answer in a maze of lies, If you would see the light of the rising sun, Then look not to the light of stars' eyes, But for the simple and clear, the simplest one." -From an elven song, Pues Corra. Herran started as a telepathic link sprang into his mind. ^Gercom?^ ^Yes, my lord. I have divined the true nature of the per orchards here.^ His voice was grim. ^The soul looks to have been deliberately salted, my lord, and the trees have been cut down and removed for firewood unless they were hopelessly rotted. The tenants swear they had nothing to do with it.^ ^I know. I believe it. Will you be sending me the messenger soon?^ ^He rides, my lord, Is there anything that you want me to do about this?^ ^I will send you money back with the messenger. Try to buy per seeds if you can, and make district inquiries, if you will and as I will, to see if anyone would be interested in moving to Akasa to tend the restored orchards.^ ^You do mean to do it, then.^ ^Yes,^ Herran said. The per fruit was a rare and valued fruit in Rowan; not hard to raise, but the necessity of constantly trimming the fast-growing trees and hauling water for the thirsty trees caused many with the right kind of soil to give up in disgust. ^On salted soil, my lord? Some of it is burned, as well.^ ^I will come out there as soon as I can and Claim it again to heal it.^ Herran frowned as the odd details of that finally twitched in his mind. He must have been blind not to have seen it at once. ^I would have thought I would have felt it when they burned the land, or salted it, or cut down the trees.^ It was one of the hazards of Claiming land, and the benefit, as well. Anything that happened to the land- damage by fire or flood or storm- would be echoed on or in the body of the Claimant. The Claimant, in return, could command the land and heal it. It was one of the reasons that not many other land Elwens save those of the high blood, who were linked to the land because of their ancestors' deeds, bothered to use the old ritual magic and spill blood on the earth while choosing elements to protect it. ^I think that you should have, as well, my lord.^ Gercom's voice was not a rebuke, but full of puzzlement as his own. ^The tenants already told me that they do not know when it happened, but I could ask them again, if you like.^ ^Don't bother. I trust that your demonstration of your own Claim went well?^ ^Yes.^ That smug, self-satisfied word was more than enough to tell Herran everything, that and the flood of images that accompanied it. He smiled, listening to the images and then broke off his complete concentration on the link briefly when someone knocked on the door. ^Pardon me, Gercom.^ ^Of course, my lord. Starspeed.^ And with that unusual and very land Elwen farewell the curalli broke the link and was gone from his mind. Herran had to make several passes with his hands to diffuse the wards that guarded the door; his office was more heavily secured than his own chambers or his family home, as he spent more of his time there than any other place his foot touched. "Come in," he said, evenly, at last, one hand still on the hilt of the banesword at his side and another on a hidden knife, even though it only looked as if the gesture that he was making was no more than a casual cross of his arms. The door opened, and Lapida stepped in, with a younger and very pale woman behind her. "This," said Lapida, in the tone of someone pronouncing deserved condemnation, "is Erlena. She was on duty during the time the assassin escaped." "I don't know how it happened," said Erlena, staring at the floor. "I believe you," said Herran quietly, and he did. Though he did not think even Lapida did- only the Council members did- all the cells were secured with wards that reacted hostilely to the attempt of anyone to enter unless he was a Council member or accompanied by a Council member. It would be impossible for anyone to get out by convincing a guard to help him or her, even if any guard who lived under Lapida's command would dream of doing something like that. All of which made it impossible that anyone should escapee at all, of course. But someone had. Herran made his voice as soothing as possible. "Did she speak to you at all, my lady? Or make any threatening or unusual noises?" "She laughed, my lord." Erlena was relaxing now, and managing to hold his eye. "She did? About what?" "She was sitting in a corner of the cell- I know because I looked in on her whenever she moved- and she was shaking her head back and forth and chuckling. I asked her what it was about, but for a few hours she wouldn't tell me. Then she said that you were a stronger opponent than she had thought, and that you knew the Game, which she had not been told. She sounded mildly annoyed at that, as if she had been given instructions on how to kill you and they had not been correct." Herran exchanged glances with Lapida, enough to see the worry in the silver eyes, and then he looked back at Erlena and nodded. She nodded back, and her eyes, as brilliantly gold as the sun, began to flash with something like indignation. "I asked her what that meant. She gave me a look of contempt and said that I would only tell you if she told me, which removed the fun. Then she closed her eyes and seemed to sleep. I turned away from the cell. I thought I heard her laugh again, and when I turned back again, she was gone." Herran nodded in resignation. "Did you detect any magic in the air?" "I did, but- my lord, it was not like anything I had ever smelled before." "Of a different kind?" "No," said Erlena. "So strong that I felt as if I would vomit." She grimaced and then shuddered, her face settling into stern lines. "I promise that I will find her, my lord." "It is not your fault," Herran reassured her. "Did she happen to give her name?" "I asked her, and Lady Lapida asked her," Erlena said, inclining her head at the command. "She told us that she had none." Herran let out a soft, whistling breath. That, too, was typical of the Low Ones- to place the mob above the individual to such an extent that they would insist they had no names, even when the buzz in the ears of the listener, and surely in their own, revealed that it was a lie. "I see." He looked into her eyes, saw the determination there flash like a rare jewel again, and shook his head. "I do not think that we will catch her," he said gently. "I would be willing to-" "I know, but I need you for other things," he said, knowing it was true. The young guard had not really gained anything in training by this experience, but she had proven herself, and he knew that such metal would be needed. She was a fighter to her bones, like most of the other Elwens he knew. She swelled at the compliment and inclined her head sharply, in something that was almost a bow, except that she would not abase herself that far, even for him. And that was another proof, one that made Herran smile. "Go now, Erlena. I will speak to you and tell you what your next duty will be soon." Erlena bowed her head, golden eyes still radiant, and left. "I do not really understand why you were so indulgent with her," said Lapida at once, the moment the door closed behind the young guard. "I could not help but be." Herran leaned back, stretching his arms. It had been another mostly sleepless night, and the fact that this was the second day of the dance Aereri had given him did not help. "It was not her fault the prisoner escaped." "There are some of the wards that could have been defused by a guard." Herran locked up at her. "Do you really think she's a traitor? I could have someone watch her." Lapida shook her head. "No. I already have someone watching her, and following her, and spying on most of the places she goes." She fell silent with a startling abruptness, as if she had meant to say something else, and stood there watching him. "What is it?" "We caught three more assassins this morning, my lord." Her voice was as weary as his own would have been had he not long ago trained himself to speak without showing it. "Three. There are so many enemies... not even Liant had this many come after him. I do not understand the difference." "Eleriad?" "Yes, the Lady did at one time, in the early days when her Councilmastery was not secure and there were many who still hated the Deerfriend family because of Yubro." Lapida slowly shook her head, a smile infusing her face. "She insisted on killing most of them herself," she finished in a tone soft with love and awe. Herran nodded. He had become used to the fact that Lapida's heart and soul really belonged to the remarkable woman who had died during the Battle of Esshellen and begun the slide into darkness for Rowan that Quirrin had been so desperate to end. It did not make him trust her any the less; it simply meant that he would have to allow her these little silences, and not become offended by her reminiscent smiles. He was not. He and the Lady were different; he had always known that. She was what Chemilli should have been, the great leader who had ruled through principle and passion, charisma and the love she inspired in the hearts of others. He did his best to rule through speeches and respect, as her way was not for him. Then the smile faded from Lapida's face, and it returned to its weariness. "But never this many," she said softly. "Never for years on end." Herran sighed, thinking he understood what this was about. "I understand how hard it is," he began. "I would be sorry to see you go, but-" "That is not it." He watched in wonder as she clenched her eyelids shut, struggling to maintain her composure. He had not thought her so angry, and wondered idly what he had done to make her so. He had not thought he had done anything, and yet... Then he saw her eyes open, clear and glinting silver, and knew that he had been mistaken yet again. It was not anger that filled her eyes. It was tears. "What is wrong, Lapida?" Herran stood, ready to move away, to duck if he had to. She was in the kind of mood that would have her ready to fling lightning bolts in a moment, if it continued on as it was. Alternatively, she might accuse him of having something to do with this. He might have something to do with him. He had no idea what could be causing the tears. "You know," she said. "I do not, unless the strain is too much," he said quietly. "Or unless you simply need rest." His crystal gift was not working; he could feel her emotions, but not exactly what she would do next, as he usually could. He wondered if that was because she did not know herself, or because he did not want to understand. It could be both, as he discovered with her next words a moment later. "It is silly not just that they get away with this," she said. Her voice was not hysterical, as he had feared, but low and filled with the same weariness, and an intense but quiet sadness that might almost have been called melancholy. "Was someone killed?" he asked, in swiftly rising alarm. "Tell me, Lapida." "No," she said. "But it is unjust that they are cramping me from doing my true work, and you from doing yours, and forcing you and I to live in constant fear- you for your life, and me..." She bowed her head, indigo hair falling about her face. "Yes?" "For my duty." She nodded as if she had spoken the words, or as if she were going to sleep, still without looking up at him, every motion tight with weariness. Herran felt his eyes soften with compassion. "You need not be," he said. "You have always performed your duty better than anyone else." "But for how much longer?" She jerked her head up, eyes flaring like the fire that formed part of the Turnlong sigil, the blazing sword, the fire that had destroyed the silver unicorns long Ages ago. "How much longer can I guard you? I will fail you someday, my lord." Her rage was fading into sadness again, but she looked determined to finish. "Someday, you will die. On that day, I fail my duty, myself, you, and something I never have."