

Walls of Earth

And

Stone

———————————

A Novel

by

Nathaniel Firmath

Copyright 2019 Nathaniel Firmath

Smashwords Edition

Split

Though the sun had yet to win free of the horizon, I had already slain many. We had charged with twenty-three against a force of more than five score, and not one of our enemies had lived long enough to surrender.

I shouted, 'TO ME!', and the survivors rallied. More death was to be had within the treeline. My blade was entirely red, the blood still hot from the veins of the foeman, and I could see not a glint of the metal beneath. We had fought no longer than a quarter-hour, and many of our number still appeared fresh. Not a single wound among them. They were dead or eager—heaving chests and steaming breath the only discernible difference.

We moved forward at the march. None of the combatants ahead would expect us, and very few would have time to turn, even in the midst of our assault. My armor had been brilliant in its sheen only moments before, and now everything was red. Crimson colored the living even more than the slain, and the naked blades that traveled with me were as sanguine as my own. Even my hands were wet, my fingers beginning to stick as the blood congealed, though my grip remained firm upon the hilt of my Sword.

The enemy behind us were dead to a man, and I had no fear of their encampment, for it still burned brightly in the smoky light of that gray morning. Many of the men smiled at the prospect of further bloodshed—had they been strangers, I might have hated them for that. The women were more reserved, and not one of them had been slain. They were clean, their clothing unstained by battle. The sight of their unspoiled robes, even in the midst of so much bloodshed, lent them an almost godlike appearance. They fanned out with arrows nocked, ranging far behind the surviving men.

Of all the survivors of that awful fight, only one remained behind. His strength would be missed, but none judged him harshly for his absence. We were one hundred paces away—only a few more from the edge of the treeline, and even over the din of battle, I could hear him weeping far behind me.

I knew the names of all the slain—my story had only begun, and already I hoped to join them in stillness. And yet I lived on, punished by the frailty of age with nothing left but the confused guilt of a failing memory, the pain of my burden crystallized only in the clarity of vivid nightmares. Had I been less arrogant in my claim to glory my dreams would be haunted now only by an ancient shame. It was only through the sacrifice of those countless thousands that my story continued, and I have not forgotten them, even now.

Death finds us all. Glory seeks but few.

The crows never taste the difference.
Meadrow

Meadrow, the home of my birth, is a land of plenty. It isn't much by the standards of the other Banners—little more than a quiet backwater nestled deep in the wastes of the Eastern Nowhere. The Nowhere contains nothing, and without the Meadrun—the river that flows through our fertile valley—Meadrow would fare no better than the tribes of nomads that surround it.

South of the Hirav mountains, my ancestors encased the Meadrun in a roofed canal of stone, transforming the river into a massive aqueduct. Carefully placed irrigation ditches have ensured that the farms of Meadrow yield three crops a year—four with the get of a mild winter, and no field is ever left fallow.

Denied an adequate source of water, the nomads wander elsewhere.

It has been the long-held belief of our Farmers that the remote location of Meadrow has served as an adequate safeguard against banditry and invasion. Throughout my life, I have learned that the masses often speak without thought of the great pains taken to ensure their comfort and security.

At three times the height of a man, and fronted by a deep trench, our wall of turfed earthwork sees to the safety of the people behind it. The result of twenty generations of back-breaking toil, the wall encompasses Meadrow entirely—a landmass of over nine hundred thousand acres. Of course, wastelands can be crossed, and walls easily climbed: unguarded gates repel no one.

Long before the wall and the hoarding of the river, my people were a tribe of Warrior and Farmer. They were as the nomads, and drifted constantly between desolate lands in search of water. They had herds, as all nomads, but their true talent was in the tilling of the soil. The Farmers carried a wide variety of seed, and knew always what would grow from season to season, even in the harshest environments.

Nomadic planting is a difficult practice, unusual to a wandering people, and much time is needed for the sowing and reaping. The Farmers had time, and plenty, for the Warriors guarded well the herds and ever-changing croplands, that never were the people forced to leave their crops in advance of a rich harvest.

When my people first settled the land along the Meadrun, they did not find it empty. The strongest of the warlike tribes crowded the valley in vast numbers, and it was only through the strength of the Warriors that the Farmers gained any purchase, at all. Later, as their numbers grew, my ancestors drove out the other tribes, winning the valley with disciplined tactics unknown to the Eastern Nowhere.

It took many centuries to build the wall, and many more to channel the river, but when the task was finally completed, the time of the Warrior was at an end. Warrior became Guardsman, and from the backs of their shaggy garrons they have patrolled the wall daily for nearly five thousand years. None within my Banner have ever feared invasion, for we are well provisioned—a walled farm with the exclusive use of an entire river. The garrison of Meadrow is renowned for its courage—a tradition of fearlessness almost unbroken since the building of the wall.

CHAPTER ONE

Latch Bolt

The nomads attacked but once in the time of my childhood. It was a raid, ill-advised and numerically weak, and my father died in the fighting of it. He was a Forester, a rank not unlike that of captain, and he fled for the wall, leaving those under his command to fight on without a leader.

Many of his men died before the battle's end.

My father's corpse was found face down—his spear and shield discarded far behind him. No such act had ever occurred in the history of Meadrow. Fifty centuries of Guardsmen, and only one coward. My father. The people were outraged, and, unwilling to allow the Guardsmen to see to their own, they called upon their _Phulako_ —Warden of the Builders' Light; Emissary to the Kenalkan Banners.

Each Banner employs its Phulako differently; in Meadrow the most successful Farmer bears the responsibility, and most have considered the title nothing more than an inconvenient distraction. In the time of my youth, Edam held the title. He was called upon only rarely in matters of justice, for that was the responsibility of the Guard, but with so many slain as the result of my father's cowardice, the people cried out for retribution.

The Guardsmen loved my father, but the Phulako had been called, and his decision was final—irreversible. My mother and I were proscribed, outlawed, and the speaking of my father's name was forbidden under pain of harsh reprisal. We were no longer protected by the law, and any harm done to us would not be treated as a criminal act. All of our possessions were forfeit, and we were forced into the cold with only the clothes upon our backs. We lived briefly on the streets, begging what we could, but Edam had poisoned the ears of the people. We were treated by most with a cold indifference, while a few reacted violently to the mere sight of us.

The forest outside the wall was far gentler, and we lived there for many years, foraging as needed. In time we learned to live rather well, but my mother feared for the future. Our fortunes changed when an aging apothecary, too old to range far beyond the wall, tasked my mother with the gathering of herbal remedies. By my twelfth year, and the eighth spent living in the forest, my mother had scraped enough coin together to build a rude tavern.

Rude is perhaps a polite description, for it was of the poorest quality in Meadrow, though we did well by keeping prices low, the difference to be made through volume. Though I am now Onidai—War Marshal of the Kenalkan Banners—I was treated in my youth with a heady mixture of total neglect and open disdain. Loneliness and self-loathing grew familiar, a trend unbroken until my sixteenth year.

* * *

The Harvest of Third Seed was at an end. In Third Seed, barley is the primary crop, and nearly half of the arable farmland is allocated to the growing of it. Our barley beer is famous, and the finest brews are valued more highly even than the wines of Viharth. That year, the Farmers seemed to be drinking the excess, and their thirst for violence was equally strong. My mother's patrons fought each other at the slightest provocation, and the third brawl of the day was by far the worst.

A half-dozen brawny drunkards thrashed about the room, cursing and spitting in a crush of angry limbs. Their fight was the result of some drunken debate, and I stood among them, trying to find words that would appease both sides. I was still too young to understand that rational speech would have no effect on the irrational: nor would any words of mine have gleaned any reaction, short of violence. And so, for all my trouble, I succeeded only in trapping myself within the tangle of combatants.

At one point, the group collided, and the heavier brawlers succeeded in pinning their opponents to the door. I was still between them, and I could hear the door frame groaning behind us. As we swayed there in those silent moments that always precede minor disasters, I remember thinking that the door could easily support our combined weight.

And of course, I was sorely mistaken.

The door gave way with an explosive crack, and we collapsed into the entryway, the Farmers still fighting over an argument they'd long forgotten. The belly of a particularly fat and sweaty brawler pinned my head and neck to the lower back of the man beneath me—I can still recall the stench.

Amidst all the biting, gouging, grappling, and cursing I heard the muffled command of a voice from above, and the fight ended immediately. I tried to rise with the man above me, but the jerking motion of the one beneath threw me to the ground before I could move. The sight of my helpless collapse filled the air with a nasty, mean-hearted laughter. This was nothing new, and I did not feel the sting of their ridicule, for it was more familiar to me than the warmth of a father's embrace. Their laughter was short-lived, even in their drunken state, for the same commanding voice shocked them all to silence.

"Get those drunkards to the quarry. If they refuse to sleep off their drink in peace, we'll let them sweat it off at honest labor. And enough of that giggling! If I hear one more chortle out of you Ladies of the Guard, you can split stone with the rest of these layabouts! Get moving!"

They did as they were told, and said nothing in response. I knew the voice well. He wore the armored regalia of a Stabler—one rank above Forester—and he dropped from his mount to offer a clean, calloused hand. I wiped my own on my shirt before accepting his assistance, which earned me a smile, complete with a flash of white teeth.

He was taller than most, strongly built, and he wore the armor of a high-ranking Guardsman as an ordinary man might wear his second best tunic. Though his close-cropped scalp was covered by his helmet, I knew that his hair would be a ruddy brown beneath, shot through with patches of gray, a match for his close-shorn beard. He wore a white cape and helmet crest, and though his armor was marked by more than a few pits and shallow dents, it bore the bright sheen of meticulous care.

Garth, son of Dowan had been my father's subordinate, a mere Shielding only fourteen years earlier. Promotions are rare in peaceful lands, and those that advance in rank with any frequency do so by virtue of merit alone. Garth was a man of great importance, and when he treated me with any measure of kindness, none dared comment.

He lifted me easily, and the moment I regained my balance he clapped me on both shoulders.

"Three in one day? Keep it up and you'll be a veteran by the end of the harvest—if you survive."

I understood his meaning, but there was still my pride to consider—I had none.

"You must be joking. I had everything under control from the start! You and your men broke us up just as I was about to make my move."

"Now who's joking, boy? They'd have killed you out of hand. Wouldn't even think to scrape you off their boots!"

"Kill me? I'd like to see them try. Just the same, I'm glad you arrived when you did—the sweat-reek on that fat one has grown into a life all its own. If he scrubbed his belly with a wet cloth, you'd have to try him for murder. In all honesty, I'm glad the door's broken—anything to air out the stink."

His laughter was hearty and good-natured, and we spoke for a while in the clear light of a cloudless autumn. He inquired of my mother, and at length we discussed the tavern business, the harvest, wall patrol, the new duty rosters, and even took a few moments to trade the latest rumors. After more than a quarter-hour he paused, his eyes darting about in search of something I'd already noticed. Three garrons remained, but the Guardsmen were nowhere in sight. He glanced over my shoulder and sighed deeply.

"Drinking on duty! Wouldn't have happened when I was in their place, back when your—back when things ran differently. Just as well, I have duties to attend, and no time to play nursemaid today. Next thing you know, they'll be swinging from my teats like a couple of teething infants! Just tell them from me that they're to remain in the neighborhood...mounted and outside. If you have any further trouble with the filth in there, just stick your head out, and those two layabouts'll handle it for you. No use breaking your back. Give your mother my best, and if someone does start another fight...feel free to finish it. A good beating is all this lot understands, anyway."

I watched him mount up. At sixteen, I should have been riding with him. As he disappeared around the bend, I looked to the sky. Clear blue, and only the faintest wisps of white. The day was bright, and I could feel the heat of the sun, even against the slight chill of the faint breeze that spilled over the wall.

The damage to the door was only minor. The door frame bore minimal damage as well, with only slight splintering in the area of the latch bolt, which had flown free of the door. We had been lucky. Had it been a severe break—something requiring replacement or extensive repair, our profits would have suffered from the reduction in stock required to pay for it.

I took another long look at the brightness of the day and inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of fresh air. I held two more breaths in like manner, and when I could stall no longer, I exhaled explosively. With the sights and smells of that fair day frozen in my mind, I plunged myself into the sour stench and inky blackness of my mother's tavern. It was barely midday.

* * *

The door slammed behind me with a warbling, hollow sound that proved, without consideration of fragility that it was crude, nearly to the point of worthlessness. I ran immediately to fetch a set of wash-gray bedclothes from the loft—we'd had guests only rarely, for as I have written, ours was a poor establishment. Unable to simply rope it into place, I fastened the sheets as a curtain against the daylight, and wedged the door open wide. The billowing cloth gave the tavern an even sadder appearance, though none of our regulars seemed to notice.

At the end of Third Harvest, the tavern was usually busy, and that year we seemed to be tending the needs of every Farmer within a thousand hectares.

This was no idle occurrence.

A week before the harvest began, my mother paid the bakers in advance, offering a bit above their asking price to deliver to our tavern alone, and she assured them that the demand of her patrons would keep pace with their supply. She had treated with the butcher in like manner, and though the brewers had resisted corruption, the freighters proved far less virtuous, and required only the promise of free drink in exchange for their complicity. As a result, half of our competitors lacked an adequate stock of food and ale, and many of their customers found themselves beneath our truly humble roof. We turned a handsome profit, but not without risk.

I was granted little time to catch my breath in the aftermath of the brawl, and I spent the next few hours sweeping up broken jugs and replacing chipped ale pots while my mother saw to the needs of the entire room. Nuda was a fair and agile woman—gifted with the kind of grace that many women claim, and few actually possess. At work, she was in constant motion, exchanging jokes with the regulars, playfully chiding some oaf as he attempted to fondle her in passing, and never did a patron of hers complain of an empty vessel. She was not at all in her element, but did well to adapt. My mother had lived eight years in the forest, and she had no wish to return.

Luckily, there were no further fights that day, and the two of us labored side-by-side until well after sundown. I hated the work, but knew it was not without purpose, for my mother thought our clapboard shack behind the tavern far preferable to the forest hut she had built with her own hands. I preferred the hut, though I kept the thought to myself. Perhaps it was the safety of community that she favored, though for my part, I only felt secure far from disdainful eyes—another opinion I kept well hidden.

As we prepared to close for the evening, I set about mopping the floor. By the end of the night, the rough-hewn wooden boards were always covered in a semi-viscous concoction of ale, weak mead, cheap wine, jam, smeared butter, grease, a fair amount of drool, and a few other things that didn't bear thinking about, so I knew I would have to change the mop water a half-dozen times before the floor would again feel slick and clean beneath my feet.

The room was nearly empty, with only a handful of regulars and the same pair of Guardsmen that had neglected their duties earlier in the day. They were well into their cups by then, though they were far from our worst customers.

I was finished with the floor, and had started clearing the tables when one of our regulars began groping at my mother. He had made similar attempts earlier in the evening, and she had treated him with a playful non-interest. Had my mother been anyone else—a woman protected by the law—the man might have treated her reaction for what it truly was: outright refusal.

My mother was very attractive for her age, and drunken advances were common. She was not yet forty, and her skin was pale and flawless, so that she retained a youthful appearance. Her figure was ample, though she was not by any means overweight, and she possessed the same high cheekbones, pale blue eyes, and raven hair that marked us as mother and son. In better times, I have no doubt that she would have been considered quite the prize. As the proud wife of a senior Guardsman, few of the lower Farmers would have had the courage to look her in the eye.

Unfortunately, we were in disgrace, and the bastard pawed at her like an expectant husband. He was no prize at all. The man appeared to be in his early fifties, though I could only guess, for excessive drinking might have aged him considerably. He was short, broad-shouldered, and shorn completely bald, while his tangled mess of a beard was clotted with the dried stickiness of poorly aimed ale. He had only one eye, a leather patch covering the mishap on the other side. Eventually, he calmed in response to mention of his wife's reaction, should she learn of his behavior. For a while, things returned to normal, and I gave the incident little thought until an hour later, when the one-eyed man rose, as if preparing to leave.

My mother had been on the other side of the room, carrying a load of dirty dishes, and the man turned abruptly as he made to pass, grasping her by the shoulders from behind, spinning her with such force that she dropped her load of plates—I was already in motion as they crashed loudly upon the newly dried floor.

They struggled violently, and though my mother was not a feeble woman, I knew that the man would have the better of her, sooner or later. One of the Guardsmen craned his neck to look on the disturbance. He assessed the situation and then returned to his drink, his owlish eyes betraying not an inkling of sympathy.

My memories of that night are vivid, even now. I remember nothing of anger, only a dry-mouthed, panicked worry as I crept forward at the crouch. At that moment, I was reminded of my father, a singular occurrence, as I could scarcely remember his face. I could not have been more than three years old as I watched him polish his shield. There, in our strong house of stone, he rubbed the thick, triangular sheet of slightly curved bronze with an oil-damp cloth. He spoke with eyes to his work.

"This ward does not belong to me, and it isn't for my benefit that I carry it. When enemies approach, I am not shielding myself when I crouch behind it. This shield and my body are all that stand between those I love, and those I must fight to protect them. This shield belongs to you, and to your mother. Someday, it will belong to your son. You'll protect them, and they'll protect you. Behind this shield, you are invincible."

My left fist made contact behind One Eye's right temple, and I stepped into it, accidentally delivering a perfect blow. I was not strong, even for my age, but momentum, my opponent's drunkenness, and the fact that his missing eye had obscured my approach, all conspired in my favor. He released his hold on my mother, and I stepped forward to separate them. As I write this, I feel no shame in admitting that I was terrified.

My mother shouted something from behind, but I had focused my full attention on One Eye, who shook his head like a wet dog. He bellowed something unintelligible and swung at me clumsily with his right arm. I ducked beneath the blow, moving to his blind right side as I struck again with a left hook. The most basic rule of fist-fighting is that the dome of the skull is far too thick to strike with a clenched fist; I learned that rule well that night, and felt as if all the bones in my hand might have been broken. With a swift backhand, One Eye launched me onto a nearby table. Dishes scattered as I landed, and he did not even bother to look over his shoulder as he turned again to my mother.

Ever since I was a child, I have been able to employ either hand equally well, though until that night, I had only been able to use the talent at menial labor. I grasped a ceramic mug by the handle with my undamaged right hand, and whistled loudly to turn the lout's attention to me. I held my right hand low and cocked my left fist—the latter throbbed hotly in complaint of its recent misuse.

I made as if to strike, and he raised his right hand to block, his left fist low. I feinted clumsily and side-stepped, swinging my right arm with every ounce of strength that remained. The fire-hardened ceramic collided with One Eye's temple like a hammer upon a glowing billet, and the tankard shattered. One Eye dropped like a felled ox. The shock on my mother's face was slack-jawed and absolute.

The Guardsmen, heavily intoxicated, chose that exact moment to come to their senses. They lifted their spears in a clatter of cups and half-empty plates, and in my terror, I did not wait for them to give chase. Their response, my mother's expression, and the heap at my feet were all the evidence that I needed—I was certain that One Eye was dead, and had no illusions about my fate.

Before his disgrace, my father had been treated as a hero. Even the Farmers loved him, and the other Guardsmen were in awe of him.

They abandoned his naked corpse in the street, and my mother and I buried him in a shallow grave outside the wall.

My father had not been a murderer.

CHAPTER TWO

Mushrooms and Baskets

Outside my mother's tavern, I looked to the garrons of my pursuers. A mounted escape would have been faster, but I had not ridden since before the death of my father. Deciding against theft and the conspicuous sight of a mounted boy, I turned the beasts in opposite directions and struck them hard to send them flying. The Guardsmen were drunk and without mounts, and so I hoped to gain an early lead.

My flight was frantic at first, for I had it in mind that they might not bother about capture. They knew their Stabler to be an intimate of my family, and it is likely that they feared Garth's reaction, should I live to corroborate the truth—of One Eye's attempted rape and their refusal to intervene. And, as all knew, it was not against the law for them to kill me, even without the suspicion of murder.

I stayed in the shadow of the mercantile district at the join of East and Southwall, and feared at every moment that I would hear the vibrant clanging of the alarum. No warning had sounded, and at that point I was sure that the pair of drunken Guardsmen had no intention of capture.

I crept in the alleyways between low-lying buildings of mud and brick for nearly an hour.

At the edge of the mercantile district I found myself without cover, with nothing between myself and the gate but the dirt of the open road. I was in the shadow of Southwall, though near also to the turf of Eastwall, with the southernmost minor gate of the eastern stretch a paltry two hundred paces away. I could not crouch in the turf or range from the road, for the narrow track was cut directly through the side of a high hill, and ended in the southernmost bridge over the Meadrun, uncovered within the bounds of the wall. As I merged with the packed dirt of the narrow track, I looked behind. None in pursuit. The bridge was only thirty paces away. I fought to control my breathing.

It was then that I saw the Guardsman.

He had turned from a crossroad beyond the bridge, and he kneed his garron forward, his spear shouldered at rest. The man was sober, alert but relaxed. It was late, and most of the drunks were abed. Night duty is little more than a pleasant evening ride, and he hung an oil lantern from one of the short flukes below his spearhead. I could hear the whistling of an old march, and he kept his green cape wrapped around crossed arms as a measure against the slight chill of late evening. He marked my presence, but did not react in any way. I kept my pace steady and continued to move forward—I had to remind myself to breathe.

When less than twenty paces separated me from the mounted Guardsman, I saw him lift his head in the light of his lantern, even as his mount began to cross the bridge. His gaze was beyond me, fixed on some sudden urgency. I heard an unintelligible shout from far behind.

To the credit of the mounted man, he required but a moment—with no need to make out the slurred bellowing of my pursuers—to understand what was happening. Very calmly, he dislodged the lantern from the socket of his spear and leaned forward to place it gently on the ground. As his eyes met mine, I knew what I would have to do.

He raked his spurs, and his mount lurched forward with an agitated whicker. I do not think he intended to kill me, for he reversed his spear, threatening me only with the rounded buttcap. I made first for the edge of the path, and scooped up a handful of dust; I bolted towards the fast-walking garron, charging as swiftly as my feet could carry me. When less than five paces separated us I slid to a halt, crouching low and bringing my hand to my mouth. Making a tube of my fist, I blew the dust upward. The Guardsman's mount rose upon two legs at once, bucking violently with stinging eyes, its nostrils choked with dust. The animal would be fine, the discomfort only temporary, and the rider was helmeted against his fall—he moved little, but did not appear to be injured.

The gate was closed, and the men at the gatehouse were already mounting. The alarum clanged loudly from the towers abutting the gate, and behind me I could see my drunken pursuers, open-mouthed and gasping for breath. They were very close, their jutting iron points betraying their intentions.

I took up the discarded lantern, whirled it about my head and released. Ceramic and translucent glass shattered upon the ground, erupting before the feet of those who'd thought to kill me; gouts of flame bloomed upon their trousers as they leapt away in shock.

The newly alerted Guardsmen were many, and I knew that I could not escape on foot, so with a silent prayer to the Lady of the Harvest, I leapt from the bridge.

The chill shocked me, and I was deafened by the roaring of the water. The canal ranged along a gradual defile, speeding the current that the river was as foam. I could see the drainage culvert ahead, and I was thankful, for I knew that it bore no grate.

Then, as I reached the level of the wall, I remembered why the current had carried me so quickly.

At the edge of the Meadrun river valley, beyond the wall, the runoff from the river collects in a pool—a wide, narrow bowl of limestone rubble. Depending on the season and volume of the river, the southern pool can range in size from puddle to pond, or, as it was at the time of my escape, a small mere. And it is not fed directly—the drop from river to mere is twice the height of the wall.

I plummeted, tumbling. My weight and the force of impact wrung the very air from my lungs. I clawed at the water above me, fighting my way to the surface in a fit of desperation, anticipating at every moment that the next heartbeat would carry me to the open air. The thought was maddening, and I had to fight against the urge to inhale in anticipation. I gasped for breath the moment I won to the surface, and the beads of water scattered by the splash caught in my throat with the welcome air. I sputtered and coughed, but was glad to be alive.

I wasted no time in paddling clumsily to the water's edge, and in the madness of the moment I laughed, thinking that, as first swims go, mine had not ended too badly at all.

I lifted myself at the slip between two of the small boats used for fishing in the spring and summer months—a sad end for the intrepid river fish that survive the drop—and did not pause to deliberate before stripping my body entirely. It was a ludicrous moment for anything approaching humor, but again I found cause to laugh when I looked to the treeline and remembered that there was little water to be had in the forest at that time of year, and none at all that could be considered safe to drink.

One of the boats contained a wooden bucket, and I stole it without hesitation, dunking it hastily into the clear water before fleeing. Only my feet were covered, my buskins squeaking loudly as I stole into the treeline. The southern pool was within the circuit of regular patrol, for the Nomads of the Eastern Nowhere can smell water the way other men might detect the aroma of roasting meat. Nomad or Guardsman, I wanted no witnesses to my naked vulnerability, and I knew exactly where I might hide.

* * *

In the untamed wilderness of the Meadrun Valley, survival is a matter of shelter. There are no caves in which to hide, and stones of adequate size to build a sturdy structure are few and far between. In my first few years in the forest, my mother and I were forced to weather nights so cold that I wept in outrage, even as she held me in her arms. She had tried lean-tos, but the wind always changed direction in the night, and we were buffeted by the relentless chill of bitter winds in spite of her most cunning contrivances.

Finally, just after I had reached my seventh year, my mother found in herself the genius that I would come to know well, and she went to extraordinary lengths to end my suffering. She wove our shelter out of thumb-thick branches, and at first, it appeared much like a great, upturned basket. I often marvel at the knowledge shared by most women, and having woven a basket or two as a young girl, my mother employed the technique on a much larger scale. She remembered every twist in the pattern, and wove our new home from memory. I can remember the rarity of laughter in the forest as she made a game of covering the wickerwork frame in clay. We laughed little thereafter, but I have never forgotten that alien feeling—the joyous state of simply being a child.

The following day we traveled far from the forest in search of the wastes of the Nowhere, and the fine crystalline sands that accumulate there. When the layer of clay was evenly coated, sparkling with the sands of the wastes, my mother upturned the shelter, leaning it against a nearby tree. And there she lit a fire.

Together, we turned the clay-coated basket, feeding the flames throughout the day, and when we were finished, our shelter was complete—glazed, waterproof ceramic, covering a strong frame of woven branches. She dug a roundish hole up to the height of her waist, then fitted the basket above it and staked it to the ground. As a final touch, she piled mud at the perimeter to block out the wind, so that at long last, we would be shielded from the elements entirely.

In time, the floor would come to be tiled in the same glazed ceramic as the roof, and she stoned the earthen walls with rocks from the ancient dry river bed to the southwest.

She was no stonemason, but determined to protect me from the chill of winter, she fashioned a hearth of her own design. Gathering remedies for an infirm apothecary, she was able to scrape together the coin necessary to purchase two dozen tapered ceramic cups. After chipping away the bottoms, she formed a pipe of the overlapping vessels, which she bound with strong staves and flaxen twine. Beneath the improvised chimney, she built a hearth of river rocks and clay, and allowed the fires within to bake the ceramic.

Only our hinges of thick copper were built by hands other than her own, and we salvaged planks for the door and frame from the piles left at the southernmost sawmill.

Our beds were canvas sacks, suspended by networks of rope. Even when the fire died in the ceramic hearth I had no fear of the dark, for above my head a luminous moss—known as 'weevil wither' to the apothecary—bathed the room in a gentle cerulean glow. On the outside of the hut, my mother had encouraged the growth of a darker moss, and like weevil wither it was known for its properties as an insecticide and pest repellent, though it gave off no glow of its own. To further shelter us from hostile eyes, she transplanted bushes, shrubs, and all manner of undergrowth, surrounding the hut entirely.

Yet in spite of all the care taken to build a comfortable home, she regarded her life in the forest with shame, and that I will never understand, for a house built with love, be it hovel or hut, towers above the most opulent mansion.

Where my mother was content to forget her ingenuity, I had made regular visits, the latest only months before my escape. In the four years prior to my flight I had accumulated a few tools and comforts, mostly salvage. I had a small knife and an old copper hatchet, as well as a whetstone, a tinderbox, a glazed ceramic cup and another of copper, a number of fat beeswax candles poured from the stumps that my mother had seen fit to discard, a tattered blanket patched crudely by my own hand, a fair amount of flaxen twine, a length of thin rope, and a sling that I had used in my rare successes at hunting.

At that time of year I felt sure the hours spent with snare and sling would only be wasted, but I knew the forest well, and even as I ran naked through the dying underbrush I was able to snatch up a handful of white caps. Wet, cold, and naked, my thoughts were only of comforting warmth in the hidden safety of my mother's hut, but I knew that I would not survive long without food. I would have to forage.

CHAPTER THREE

Dreams and Thunder

My task was simple, even in late autumn. The sun was again bright, the weather warm enough for comfortable travel, and no one had foraged outside the wall in nearly four years. I found piles of white caps, and even hazelnuts and a few acorns within fifty paces of my hut. There were more mushrooms in the wide clearings, as well as garlic and green onions, and a wealth of butterwheat, which, properly ground, made a coarse but flavorful bread.

There were herbs for tea, and even a few for unguents to apply to the minor cuts and scrapes I had acquired in my mad dash through the forest. I had fashioned a wide pouch from one of the canvas bed sacks and the length of thin rope, and with the sun beginning to descend and my pouch filled nearly to bursting, I prepared to retrace my steps.

I was in a clearing and still far from home, when suddenly I dropped to the ground in a panic. A sound had broken the quiet idyll of autumn—more alien in the depths of a forest than the sight of flames on a still pond. I had ranged more than three miles, with not a single Guardsman in sight throughout the day.

I knew well the rattling shuffle of mail, but the sound was heavier than I remembered, and the bronze scales of low-ranking cuirasses rattled but little on garron-back. I flattened myself in that clearing, unable to move, though I was certain that the treeline offered more safety. It seemed an hour, but the faint shuffling faded into nothingness. I didn't stop to scavenge further as I stole home, and I lit no fire until long after dark.

* * *

No peace, even in dreams. I watch myself, barely four years old, on the day my childhood ended. My mother has to be restrained as my father's naked corpse is dragged by the neck behind a mule. The shaft of a red javelin protrudes from his back, and I wonder idly if they had removed the javelin with his armor, only to stab him again for effect.

I gaze upon the face of my younger self, and his expression is blank and lifeless. To his credit, he does not cry. All gather to watch the spectacle in the great square of the mercantile district, and upon a platform erected there, Edam, then barely forty— sneers at the form of my slain father.

"He ate our food, lived within our fertile valley, thrived behind our guarded walls, and we asked nothing but his courage in return. And yet he, Forester of the Guard, fled for the wall, leaving his men leaderless; trapped within the contradiction of conflicting wills.

"With my own eyes have I seen the clutter of their corpses; with my own ears have I heard their spirits groaning. By the manner of their deaths—the positions of their corpses—I need not guess at what befell them.

"A few held their ground and fought, sparing no thought for withdrawal until the foe was beaten back.

"Some others realized the folly of their disarray, the tangled chaos of individual fighting; they tried fall back in good order, hoping to gain the ground, the distance and time, that they might return to a fixed formation. But by the time they were of one mind, it was far too late.

"They had no leader, and so they were divided; they were indecisive; they were unable to coordinate the whole of their force.

_"The Guardsman tasked with command, that...Forester...that..._ coward _...has caused the deaths of twelve Guardsmen—two of them without sons of their own. Two families of Guardsmen, lost forever! Three, in fact, for my judgment must be harsh._

"Hereafter, the name of this man is proscribed by law. His armor, weapons, garron, house, and all possessions clearly of his name will be auctioned, the proceeds to be offered to those families now doomed to die without sons to continue their line.

"Those he has left behind will not carry the name of his forefathers; they shall eke out an existence at the lowest level of our society, serving as a warning to all. No harm upon their flesh will be treated as crime. May all stare upon his loved ones, feel their shame and know, through them, the awful price of cowardice."

The boy and his mother were given no aid, even in the burial. They had to venture outside the wall, where the woman scraped the ground with a pair of yarn shears. I watched young Ralph, standing no taller than his mother's hip, as he helped dig his father's shallow grave with nothing more than a wooden bowl. It was nightfall before they finished covering him with what stone they could find, and when they returned to their home, they found it barred.

They slept on the ground that night, huddled on the doorstep of what was once their home. That tiny, innocent child did not understand what had happened during the long-winded speech of the Phulako. He knew only that his father was dead, and that his mother mourned much more than the loss of her husband. He slept, his head in her lap, unaware as she stroked his mop of raven hair, that he had enjoyed his final dream in a land that hated his father's name.

I stood in silence, aware that I was dreaming, and knew I could do nothing but watch. That was not the first time I had seen my father's body dragged through the streets. There was something oddly comforting in despair, for it was familiar, and I knew the feeling far better than any other.

As my younger self drifted off to sleep, the world faded to near darkness. In that place, surrounded by calm and warmth, I felt truly safe. The young boy before me slept without stirring—his childhood would end with the following dawn. Disgrace would await in time. For the space of those last few hours, his head in his mother's lap, he was burdened only by the weight of despair.

I awoke violently in a fevered sweat. A fire still burned in the hearth; I'd not been out more than a few hours. Few things can stir me before my body claims its tithe; summer storms may topple trees, and horrific nightmares play out to their conclusion, and I'd still not wake until my time.

But I had heard something out of place; as to waking, that was another matter entirely.

I threw on my buskins and smothered what remained of the fire, leaving only the faint glow of the moss above, then crouched low beside the door and listened nervously, my heart hammering spear points in my chest—I feared greatly that I had been discovered.

With closed eyes, I strained to hear the source of the disruption. Thunder. No wind in the trees. Rain, though rare in the Nowhere, always thumped loudly, even on the moss covering of the roof. And yet, I had heard no such drumming. I waited for long moments, hearing only the pounding of blood in my ears. Thunder echoed again, a single clap, but with the addition of something else.

The ringing of metal stood out clearly in the forest, and there was no mistaking the throaty roar of male voices.

I cannot now, with any certainty, recall the reasoning that compelled me to leave the safety of my mother's hut. Perhaps I thought it the continuation of my dream—a chance to see the battle of my father's death. What I do remember clearly, is that it was not courage, but curiosity that pulled me toward the sounds of battle that night. I crept forward on the trail north and slightly west, and all the while the noises grew louder and more frightening.

When I arrived at the clearing—a shallow ravine formed by the bed of a dry rivulet—my first thought was that I was more than a mile from the wall, with no Guardsmen to patrol the area until dawn. I was hidden by a close-set stand of cedar trees, and from that spot I witnessed a battle, the odds weighted heavily against those I judged to be the defenders. There was a fire and wagon situated beyond the site of the melee. Clearly, it had been an ambush.

Many of the attackers were already dead, their corpses within the influence of the firelight; most wore leather armor with a uniform insignia, and skull caps of iron. They were swarthy of skin, their hair and eyes dark, and what officers remained among them were armored with rounded cuirasses of iron plate, and open-faced helms surmounted by bulbous crests. Their weapons were foreign to my eyes, most of them relying on pike, as well as sword and shield; others hung back from the fray, aiming strange weapons, akin to tiny ballistae.

There were but five defenders, and they fought fiercely against the remaining dozen attackers, their backs to the hitched wagon. In truth, only four were combatants, as one, a huge, broad-shouldered youth in mail, hid behind his shield, but did not engage the enemy. His hair was ash blond, and he was pale and handsome. His eyes betrayed no fear.

Of those fighting, there were two men and two women, and the men fought with sword and shield, flanking one of the women. The taller of the swordsmen was yellow blond, his skin slightly bronzed, and he fought with a leaf-bladed longsword of bright iron in a highly disciplined style. His was an intricate dance of sword and shield, and he committed the shield to defense alone, never striking with it offensively, while his sword was used only for the kill. His strikes were mechanical and precise, and with every movement of his right arm, an enemy fell before him.

The other swordsman was shorter and bald, and he was the oldest of the group, outstripping the blond swordsman by at least twenty years. His sword was of a more even taper, and he showed none of the discipline of his counterpart. He fumed and roared, and was just as likely to strike with his shield.

The woman fighting on the ground was a giantess, towering head and shoulders above her comrades. She was clothed in crude linen, and her lower arms were covered in a strange armor fashioned from stone and brightly glossed wood. She wielded a club so massive that I wondered if she hadn't uprooted the trunk of a tree—that is, until I saw the stone that surmounted it. It was the size of a human skull, jet black and bound in woven root burls, transforming a formidable length of wood into a hammer of seemingly unmanageable weight. Her enemies were in terror of her, and I could see why—more than a half-dozen were piled at her feet with crushed helmets, their heads resting at unnatural angles. Each swing landed far beyond the reach of her foes, and even the enemy pikemen could not win close enough to attack in safety.

The other woman, an archer, plied her trade from atop the wagon. She was dressed in sleek robes of a rich dark fabric, and wielded her bow with tremendous skill. She did not loose with excessive speed, as some would consider a virtue, and yet her shafts always found their mark at precisely the right moment, aiding those that fought upon the ground with every shot. Her hair was black as sackcloth, and though her face was flushed, her neck and the sweep of her shoulders were pale as fresh cream. I saw that she was beautiful, even from that distance. Her face did not betray anger or fear, only a veiled excitement.

The battle was short-lived, and though the attackers often showed signs of hesitation, they were goaded on by their officers until only one remained. The last of them was slain as he rose from the refuge of a fallen tree. He had been fumbling with his strange weapon, a curious iron rod attached to a wooden block, and as he rose to join the battle, the archer loosed a final shaft, transfixing his brow beneath the rim of his helmet.

As he collapsed a bit of burning rope fell upon the iron haft of his weapon, and the stave belched smoke and fire, emitting a noise like thunder. I leapt at the sound and fell to my back, though rising it appeared that none had taken notice.

The taller swordsman ran to the spot, bounding over the fallen bodies of his foes, and there he sheathed his sword and retrieved the device. His robe was of some similarity to the archer, though different in hue and decoration. White, yellow, and bronze were his colors, and even his shield of bronze and white hide bore the device of a golden sun. He offered the weapon to the giantess, who leaned her tree trunk against the wagon. When she brought her nose close to the iron stave, her face contorted wildly in a comical expression of disapproval.

With a straight arm, she offered the weapon to the bald swordsman, who declined the offer. The archer had little interest as well, but the huge youth, who had taken no part in the fighting, accepted the weapon and turned it over in his hands with a look of curiosity. He hefted and balanced it, mimicking the stance of their enemies.

The others began to talk, but I could make out little from that distance, so I moved closer, picking each step carefully to avoid the sparse scattering of dry leaves, and at each footfall I turned to watch, fearful that I might miss something. Only the hulking youth remained silent, his mailed arms crossed as the others argued, and the giantess interjected only rarely. The blond swordsman held up the weapon and pointed it north, before waving it about in the direction of their fallen enemies. I was behind the bald swordsman, who wore mail and tunic of a similar make to those of the non-combatant. Within five paces, I crouched behind a broad birch, where I caught the bald one in mid-sentence.

"...the only of its kind that we know about, and there are doubtless thousands more! I'll not risk another fight, not where any more of those things are to be found. We were cautioned to prepare for war, not slaughter. You saw what that...that thunderer did to the tree!"

I followed the tip of his finger to the bough he had indicated, slightly higher than the level of his head. The bough was as thick as my upper arm where it had shattered, and it dangled only by a bit of bark and a strip of wood. The face of the beautiful archer was innocent of fear or wonder as she reached into her quiver. Though her eyes and bow were for the tree, her words were aimed at the bald swordsman.

"Did we do battle with woodsmen, Boers? Was it their hatred of the trees that fueled L'mah's fury? Did she crush the helmed heads of a dozen lumberers? Ignore the power of the weapon, and consider the skill of the wielder. Had he aimed for the tree—rather than your head—you might well have fallen. Though he bore a terrible weapon, his hands lacked the skill to employ it. Their soldier found no mark, and an army of poor marksmen is of little concern to Ashad!"

With her final word she drew and released in rapid succession, timing the spin of her shaft that the edged barb of the arrow point sliced cleanly through the clinging bark. The bough fell with a crash upon dry leaves, and Boers stroked his bald head with the palm of his hand.

"I have no doubt of your skill, Lady. The archers of Ashad are legendary—and I've seen Lior's men in combat." The tall swordsman bowed politely, his face creased in a toothy grin as Boers charged ahead. "My fear is not of a single strange weapon in unskilled hands, but thousands of them fired in the same direction. Accuracy aside, there's no doubting their power. And from the look of that one's late owner, any untrained fool can learn the use of them. I fear for the future, Lady Brenna, not for the present."

Lior's grin broadened in response to Boers's careful deference, or perhaps he thought the respect misplaced. He revealed the flash of white teeth as he spoke.

"In any case, we all saw the burning rope. If the weapon cannot work its evil without the aid of fire, we shall simply deprive them of it. If the large-scale incursions are held at bay until winter's end, the springtime shower may yet prove our strongest ally. I must admit, my savage friend, that I am surprised by your apprehension. Look to Sigmund, and ask your young master if he fears the strike of their weapons. The two of you should count yourselves fortunate, for what weapon anywhere could penetrate Hjarrleth iron?"

Lior's words seemed to cause Boers further discomfort, and his silent master had trouble concealing a smile.

"Hjarrleth iron, indeed! A great comfort, were I firstborn of my house, but I have three older brothers! Even if I live to the end of a twenty-year war, I'll never see the inside of an ironskin. Live or die, I'll have to do my fighting in mail. So, if it's all the same to you, I'll be prayin' for rain!"

This brought general laughter, through which Lior spoke again.

"In Viharth we will pray for rain together. A torrential downpour, beneath the Banner that worships torrential downpours. In that place, what gods would refuse us?"

The travelers moved past their wagon and horses, where their campfire had been left to burn. They made no attempt to move the corpses of their enemies—perhaps a sign that they were not unfamiliar with the sight and smell of the recently slain. I waited until they were all seated before moving closer.

I had seen their fire, but noticed that they cooked nothing upon it. Their close proximity to the wall—an easy walk, were they so inclined—and the narrow, half-sunken wheels of their wagon, were clear evidence that they'd had no intention of camping for another night. Most of them gnawed at smoked and salted meats or nibbled at dry wafers, with the exception of the giantess, L'mah, who crunched loudly on green apples from a large sack at her side.

The two horses and the pair of white oxen chewed lazily from within their nosebags. I marveled at the placidity of the oxen, for though they had been hitched to the wagon, they made no attempt to move throughout the battle. The horses had simply removed themselves from the site, trotting off to a safe distance; they returned only when summoned by their masters.

I scanned slowly from face to face, though I held my gaze on the archer much longer than the others, for as I have written, she was beautiful. They appeared to be from three separate Banners, and spoke Vulgar Kenalkan as their common tongue. Boers had identified Lior and Brenna, and their home Banner of Venibrek, while Lior had in turn identified Sigmund and his servant Boers as Hjarrleth of Sangholm, the Banner to the far northwest.

L'mah, the savage giantess, was no enigma at all, and the mere sight of her was a singular delight. As a child, I had been told stories of her tribe, the First Chosen, from the land of Tulakal, close neighbors of the Wise Kenalka. Passive unless provoked, they despised killing and resorted to violence only when given no alternative. They ate nothing of any animal, and, much in the way of draft horses, were known to grow large on vegetation, alone.

I had heard tales that the average height of their women was half again that of our own, and the men were said to grow even larger, with heavy ropes of muscle growing in proportion to their great height. In spite of their fearsome size, they were renowned for their gentle nature, and wore not even the hides of slain animals. What scant clothing they did choose to wear was crudely woven of flax and other plant fibres. Truly, these wanderers were well traveled, for Tulakal was far to the southwest of Meadrow, with Venibrek situated roughly at the center of Foundation, and Sangholm, as I have written, was to the northwest, stretching along the coastline.

I lowered myself to the ground, crawling upon my belly to the edge of the gully, and found my spot not a moment too soon, for the giantess had finished her pile of apples, eaten whole. She then rose, dragging a blanket from the edge of the fire, collapsed near the wagon, and began snoring instantly. Their meal finished, those that remained took little care to govern their voices, and spoke over the rumbling of their sleeping companion. It was Boers who broke the silence.

"I don't mean to trample on sacred tradition, but why travel to Meadrow at all? There's nothing there but farmland! You'll not find the Onidai there, any more than you'll find an army. Not that I'm complaining, of course—I enjoy a pint from time to time, and ale and kvejka go down well together."

Lior looked to Brenna, smiling, his arms raised as if surrendering the answer to her. The two rose together and moved to the cart. Brenna was the first to return, a cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms, and it rang with a metallic clatter when she dropped it at Boers's feet. Lior followed, placing his load—a wooden crate of considerable size—at the edge of the fire. Brenna's face cracked into a warm smile at what must have been a memorable look of confusion from her audience.

"We may find none worthy to be named Onidai in Meadrow or anywhere else, but we cannot trample, as you say, upon 'sacred tradition'. The Meadrow Phulako will be needed in the coming years, with or without Rorik's successor, and we must keep him informed, though I am loath to hazard standing within the perimeter of his stench. And yet, I would not discount Meadrow so readily. History is full of surprises, and an unexpected Onidai might prove more successful than the claimant of a more warlike Banner. The Onidai's strength is in his legend, and he who commands the faith of his allies is the match of any army."

At this, Lior broke in.

"Do my ears deceive me, or did the High Priestess of Ashad just identify the Onidai as a man? It was only a matter of time, I suppose. At last, you admit the truth of male superiority!"

He must have thought this a jest of high wit, for he braced himself against the archer's impending attack by snatching up his shield and cowering in mock terror behind it. Boers and his master laughed openly, but Brenna betrayed no anger.

"I admit only the truth of male savagery and superstition. The Onidai will rally all allies to our aid, and who, at least in Meadrow—where young girls are treated as expendable commodities—would expect to find a woman bold enough to stand the challenge of the test?"

Boers pressed on, as if clashes between the two were no rare occurrence.

"I'm still a bit unclear on the particulars of the challenge, Lady. We've had no claimants, and we'll not likely have any takers in Meadrow, either. At this rate, I may never witness the test, so if you'll indulge me-"

Brenna looked to the others. She curtsied sweetly at their nods of approval, and Boers let slip a low, barking chuckle. His face resumed the appearance of sobriety as he pressed on.

"What I really want to know concerns that altar. How can it kill a false claimant, simply for choosing the wrong tool, and what does a random object have to do with the title of Onidai?"

Brenna unfurled her bundle, revealing many delicate and disparate shapes of fine make. Tools, devices of measurement, as well as many I did not recognize, and all of them were fashioned entirely from metal. The beautiful archer raised her voice slightly, in order to be heard over L'mah's snoring.

"The Kenalka were Builders. Before they became great thinkers and fabricators of legendary devices, they laid stone upon stone as none that came before. Above all else, the Onidai must know the secrets of the Builders to prove himself worthy. Survival of the first test requires little more than luck. Though a claimant favored by fortune would not go amiss, the first test is a measure of bravery. He who risks death has courage...and luck, and both will be needed in the time ahead. Of course, if anyone in Meadrow volunteers, it is unlikely that they will survive. To touch any other instrument upon the altar would bring instant death, as those in Sangholm and Venibrek were well aware—none volunteered, just as you saw. In a place like Meadrow, where tales are rumor and books are kindling, we may witness boldness where wisdom dares not dwell."

"And what of the second test? I've read nothing of its origin, nor any detail of the risks involved. Does the volunteer face death a second time?"

Lior began removing the contents of his crate. When he finished, a row of thirteen stones lay on the ground in front of Boers. By Brenna's leave, it was his turn to speak.

"If courage and luck defeat wisdom and chance, and the claimant chooses the proper tool, he'll have everything he needs to pass the second test, and all the time he requires to complete it. There will be no further risks to his life, though he'll receive no aid, and the tool must be employed, for it is the only way a single man can complete his task of building. The Kenalka are gone, and with them any methods they might have employed to choose a man worthy of the responsibility of power and leadership. Their ancient methods of measure, in terms of worthiness, were called Orinsos, and our own method of selecting a worthy leader, our Orinsos, must serve equally well in our search for Rorik's successor. Meadrow is a backwater, but it is also one of the Banners. All would wish for the Onidai to hail from their Banner, and we will have need of all of them, even Meadrow, before this war is over."

The skepticism in Boers's voice was eloquent.

"A handful of stones and a randomly chosen tool as his only guide to success? It doesn't take a builder to make a lucky guess, but even a builder might find the task impossible without knowledge of what he was building. If the Onidai is, as you say, only a symbol to rally allies in a time of need, and not the living embodiment of Kenalkan wisdom known in legend, how is he to build anything without the proper knowledge? It can't be done! No man could-"

A gesture from Sigmund's upraised hand silenced Boers immediately. His finger rose to his lips, commanding silence. He then pointed to Lior, who bowed in thanks before continuing.

"As I was beginning to say, Master Boers, the claimant will not succeed simply by fumbling at random with a pile of stones. With the challenge goes a riddle. Would you like to hear it?"

Hearing Lior's words, I had a smile of my own. I knew from the tales told by merchants who had dealt with the Hjarrleth that haggling over the price of trade goods often ended in a riddle contest, the victor to gain his desired five percent in inflation or discount. The Hjarrleth were a riddle people, as had been the Kenalka. Entry to the long-abandoned ruins of the Builders often relied upon the solution to some riddle or puzzle, and death often resulted from the wrong answer. Lior replaced the stones and lowered his crate into the wagon. As Brenna rolled up her bundle of tools, he spoke:

"On a shoulder of stone may rivers flow,

And man stride above the wave.

Atop this shoulder cities grow,

As mountain straddles cave."

The travelers continued to speak at length, but I was absorbed in the mystery of their presence, and heard without listening thereafter. From their mention of the Meadrow Phulako (Brenna seemed to have known Edam by his stench alone) and the Onidai, I came to suspect that at least three of the travelers were Phulakoi.

Little was known of the people of Venibrek in the time of my childhood. They were renowned recluses, the whole of their society living behind high stone walls, and even traveling merchants were denied entry. Brenna and Lior seemed equally qualified to hold the title of Phulako, though for a time I resigned myself to ignorance, for they had made no distinction. I knew Boers to be a servant, and so it stood to reason that his taciturn master Sigmund was Phulako of Sangholm.

I was certain that L'mah was Phulako of Tulakal, simply because it was the only reasonable explanation for her presence. The journey to Meadrow might have taken months, even if they had traveled directly from L'mah's home Banner, and from Brenna's mention of the lack of claimants in Sangholm and Venibrek, I suspected that they had taken a far more circuitous route. They might have been traveling for years.

From the moment they mentioned the Onidai in relation to the tests, Lior's 'Orinsos', I understood the full scope and importance of their task: the story of the Onidai was known even to the smallest children of every Banner. Less than five strides from the fire, with the aroma of woodsmoke blending with the copper tang of blood, I recalled all that I could of the Onidai—the man once known as Rorik.

Rorik was born to a lady of Tahlrenic nobility, and his father was a Hjarrleth chieftain. The boy grew strong, living equally in the lands of his mother and father, that he possessed the strengths of both tribes. As a man, he proved himself fearless in battle, possessing the iron will of the Hjarrleth and the ferocity of the Tahlrenic people.

When the Nalbans invaded Tahlrene, Rorik rallied his father's people to the aid of his mother's lands. Though the natives would have been of little concern to heavy Nalbanic cavalry, the shield walls and solid weight of the armored Hjarrleth stood in unmoving defiance of the horsemen. The Nalbans were crushed within two years in what became known as the Great Hedge War, and Rorik was hailed as a hero.

Three thousand years before my time, and less than a decade after the war of Rorik's early fame, a great incursion threatened Foundation. From a land far to the east, fearsome invaders sailed in innumerable ships, landing in endless waves to claim the fertile land as their own. They sought the subjugation of the native people, and had no respect even for the Wise Kenalka, who suffered great loss with every raid, for the Builders had never been soldiers. In the wake of the earliest attacks, the Kenalkan Banners were called to war.

Even in the face of destruction, the Kenalka gave wise counsel: choose one great warrior to lead all; to unite all armies and command them in battle. There had been little trust between Banners, and the Kenalka knew that divided, they would never prevail. Though the allies were wary, even in their acceptance of clear wisdom, they agreed to the proposal, with the provision that the Kenalka should choose a champion themselves. The Wise Ones agreed, and used their own tongue for the naming of the title. Thus, Onidai, 'The Anticipated'—a name chosen to reflect the impatience with which the Banners had awaited their decision, though in truth they were swayed to decisiveness by the unlikeliest of recommendations.

With such a storied enmity between them, it came as a great surprise, even to the Kenalka, when the Nalbans stood in support of Rorik. Though they had been enemies, the Nalbans had great respect for any warrior that could unite mere footmen, let alone compel them to stand against the charge of heavy horse. With the support of his former enemies, and that of Sangholm and the Tahlrenic Tribes, Rorik was named Onidai: War Marshal of the Kenalkan Banners. As a sign of his authority, the Kenalka crafted for him a sword of great power, a weapon known in my time as Sequiduris, though I know not if the Kenalka named it thus.

From his home in Sangholm, Rorik traveled to each Banner, accepting the approval of the people and preparing them for war. For their part, the Nalbans were gracious, and when Rorik arrived in their lands they gifted him with the finest of their war-mounts.

At every stop on the road east, the Onidai's following grew. For years, the war raged on, and all of the strengths of the Banners were put to use.

The Nalbanic cavalry hammered the ranks of the enemy infantry, scattering them far afield and driving them into the waiting throng of ironclad Hjarrleth, and the ambushes of fearsome Tahlrenic warriors. The men of Venibrek fought with the aid of their women, each swordsman covered by the keen eye and steady bow of a fair archer. The Viharthians were strongest at sea, and there they harried enemy transports, forming a blockade before the eastern coastline. Meadrow did not go to war. The strength of my people has always been at tilling the soil, and it is by my home Banner that the others were fed.

Year by year, Rorik grew stronger. His Sword made of him a terrible foe, and from the back of his great Nalbanic mount—the creature armored in bright bronze—he served as a beacon of hope. But the Kenalka were not impressed. Though his huge armored mount was unstoppable in battle, they saw it as nothing more than the subjugation of a dull beast. The Sword, a weapon of their own make, was but a rudiment—the proper crafting of a crude tool. Great thinkers that they were, they sought to amplify the Onidai's legend. The Kenalka returned to their forges.

With each passing year, the Builders gifted Rorik with another device of extraordinary power, and where the enemy grew weary of battle, the Onidai grew ever stronger. I had never believed the outrageous tales of the Seven Devices, for most of them defied belief. It was said that Rorik could run without betrayal of footfall, easily overtaking his enemies with not a sound to warn of his approach. Highly respected historians swore that he could see in the dark, light campfires in the midst of a torrential downpour, travel without weariness or heed of the weather, command wild beasts and enemy horses, and recover from any wound sustained in battle within days, a faded scar the only proof that he was not a god.

When the war ended, the Devices were divided among the Banners and locked away in impenetrable vaults of Kenalkan make. Though envoys had long been employed to treat between the Banners, the Kenalka had need of them, and elevated their status with yet another title borrowed from their own tongue. The mighty vaults in place, each envoy was granted the title of Phulako, or 'Warden of the Light'. The title was created without thought of universal qualification, that it might be fitted to the individual customs of the Banners.

The Phulakoi became guardians of the vaults, known later as 'gifting pools', and it was they that would protect the Devices from false claimants, and from tyrants seeking to elevate their own power.

The Key was left to Rorik, and at the time of his death, the Kenalka interred his remains with honor. They bound Sequiduris within Rorik's tomb, to be released by the same Key they had entrusted to the hero himself. Though Rorik was but one man, the title of Onidai lived on, carrying with it the promise of rebirth and renewal, though none had ever stepped forward to claim it. A man can be slain, but his legend lives on.

Titles are immortal, and can only be borrowed by the men that shape them.

What I had been hearing, there at the edge of that clearing, was a discussion involving the renewal of the ancient title of Onidai, mingled with worried talk of a coming war. The Kenalka were long dead, and their stories had faded into myth—how then, could they hope to rally the Banners to war?

The campfire burned low, and I watched as the travelers prepared to sleep. Only Sigmund sat at watch, his back to me. As I eyed the massive frame of the proud young Hjarrleth, I wondered how people such as his could ever be convinced to offer the command of their army to a foreigner, based solely on the fact that he was brave and stupid enough to tempt fate as part of a pointless demonstration. How could they be moved by the clever arrangement of a pile of stones?

From my unique position—somehow beneath the lowest level of society—I was gifted with the ability to learn much from the observation of singular events. Well beneath the notice of others—unless they thought me worthy of abuse—I was left with a great deal of time to think on the more memorable events of my early life. Some memories never fade, even in advancing years. The images crystallized, the words of the players long memorized, they can be recalled without difficulty. Even in my youth, I knew of the magic of memory. The recesses of my mind have been forever branded with a perfect recollection of the public spectacle that followed my father's death.

Edam was a strategist. He could not simply announce the proscription of my father's family, for he had been popular, even loved, and many would have defied the Farmer Chief's ruling. Had he informed the Guardsmen of Meadrow that their most beloved hero had fled from battle, few would have believed him. To convey his message to the people, Edam required a spectacle. The people believed what they were shown.

Trust is gained through the eyes, while the ears deal only in gossip.

It was clear enough to my mind that such an esteemed party, containing at least three Phulakoi, would not travel the length and breadth of Foundation, with only the strength of their words and a peculiar ritual to sway the hearts of foreign onlookers. I felt that whatever hidden advantage they relied upon, it would have to be universally understood. Seven separate and distinctive cultures would have to look on their spectacle, and know beyond any doubt that the Onidai had returned.

These were not hucksters, but Phulakoi, Guardians of the Kenalkan Light, and they would not lightly brave the dangers of the road, only to bark at gawking foreigners. Theirs was, at least symbolically, an important and time-honored trust. Without leave of the Phulakoi, the reclaiming of Rorik's Devices would not be possible.

Knowing the nature of the people involved, I asked myself: 'what could these travelers show to their audience that would so easily sway them?' The hairs on the nape of my neck began to rise, and a chill ran down the length of my spine. They could show them truth in legend. They could show them the Key.

My breath quickened uncontrollably, and I had to ease quietly from my hiding spot to avoid detection. My mind rebelled as I crept through the forest, retracing my steps.

In the safety of my mother's hut, I battled with my own conflicting opinions for long hours. It was nothing more than myth, of that I was certain. And yet, there they were, clearly intending to revive an ancient title.

In my bed of suspended canvas, I stared listlessly into the faint glow of the moss above. I allowed my thoughts to wander, to venture even into the realm of the frivolous and impossible. Whether the stories were true or not, I thought to myself, the arrival of the Phulakoi and their Orinsos presented me with a very interesting opportunity. For my part, I bore the thoughts of my own death stoically. I knew that death would be likely for any claimant, but when I realized that I was probably going to die, with or without the aid of the Orinsos, I shook violently, laughing uncontrollably in a way known well to the condemned.

With the Reaping Festival only two days away, the Phulakoi had managed to choose the worst possible time to air matters of any great import. All of Meadrow would be drunk well in advance of their arrival. I laughed again when I imagined the effect I would have on Farmer and traveler alike: sober, eager, and fully prepared for trials that had been unwittingly explained by the Phulakoi themselves.

CHAPTER FOUR

Bridge, Aqueduct, and Cave

My dreams passed in the blink an eye, a series of fleeting images, and the shock of it woke me abruptly, that I came to wonder if I had been asleep at all. I saw in that vision a bridge of stone, massive in size, spanning a river between two mountains. Before I could examine the entire scene in detail, a huge veil of white cloth fell from the sky to obscure my view completely. It rose again almost immediately, revealing an entirely different scene.

In an arid wasteland, I saw water flowing atop an aqueduct, and the structure stretched across an impossible expanse. A huge city sprawled on the horizon, far in the distance, and as I flew forward with the current of the water, I could see that many lived therein. Even as I rode the current of the aqueduct, the white cloth fell, to obscure my vision once again.

The flash of white leapt from my eyes a second time, and as it disappeared behind me, I felt the heat of a brightly burning torch upon my face, and its solid weight and rough texture in the palm of my right hand. At first, I thought the expanse to be the interior of an ancient cavern, but as I held the torch aloft, I noticed an altar far ahead. Many benches of smooth, ancient oak were ranked neatly at either side of the expanse, and a row of tall windows lined the walls, though I could see no scene beyond them. I looked up, raising my torch even higher, to banish the shadows from the ceiling. There were no columns of any kind, and I was amazed that such a structure could exist without visible means of support. Even the beams were not solid, but formed from segments of stone. It was then that I heard my mother's voice, and her song echoed loudly upon the high walls.

"A-top this shoul-der...cit-ies grow! As Moun-tain...stra-ddles..."

I rose the moment my eyes opened, fearing that I had missed my opportunity. I was wrong. I had slept only briefly. It was still midmorning. Eight hours and more remained before sunset.

I ate the last of my food, drank my fill of the remaining water, and hurried about my task.

* * *

Stripped of all bark, dry wood makes an excellent fuel. More importantly, it burns with little smoke; it is a clean burn, offering a radiant, satisfying heat. What I needed was a thick, highly visible plume of smoke, with as little fire as possible. My difficulties were twofold: I needed to draw the Guardsmen from their post at a minor gate, and I needed to be in position before that diversion attracted their attention.

I filled a canvas bag with char cloth and green bark, rolled it into a bundle and suspended it from a high branch. I had placed the device within the treeline just beyond the wall, the sack dangling only a few handspans from the ground, and beneath it I positioned all four of my remaining candles. To protect their flames from an unexpected breeze, I placed them inside my stolen bucket, where they could burn with a steady heat, their flames separated from the base of the canvas bundle by only half the length of my thumb.

I stole into the tall grass at the edge of the clearing, and inched forward on my belly. During a festival, the presence upon the wall would be skeletal at best, and I knew that the Guardsmen would never interrupt the festivities without first leaving their post to investigate the source of the fire. And yet fire it was, requiring their full and immediate attention, with no time to replace the eyes upon the wall—none would remain to bar the gate behind them.

A pair of Guardsmen hurried past on foot, oblivious to my presence as I hid in the cover of the long grass. Their eyes were fixed on the thick plume of gray smoke rising beyond the treeline. I rose the moment they were out of sight and lurched forward at a dead run, skirting the wall within a single pace of its turfed surface. I scanned the interior, peering around the corner at the edge of the gate, and walked slowly, controlling my stride and assuming an expression of casual boredom as I passed beneath its arch of stone.

By the time I reached the lower fields, it was almost sundown. I had entered through a minor gate northeast of my goal, then passed unnoticed among faces unknown to me. It was a long walk even to the gate, though in truth I'd had to run much of the way.

My feet were sore by the time I reached my destination.

Only four fields were left fallow in Meadrow. The Marching Fields had never been planted, those thirty-acre plots serving instead as campuses for trainee Guardsmen, as well as parade grounds for monthly inspections. With every other stretch of land constantly under the plow, they were the ideal location for the Reaping Festival, and by luck or by fate, that year the festivities were being held in the southeast, less than a half-day's hurried walk from my point of ingress.

I wove my way between carelessly erected tents, past the makeshift camps where the festive and stubborn from other districts would sleep off their drink, then strode through the empty middle distance between camp and crowd, trying in vain to disguise my need to blend in among the press of bodies.

Though only a half-mile from the turf of Eastwall, it was a distance of eleven miles from gate to field, and the gathering was already packed when I arrived. I was surprised and relieved when I saw that few Guardsmen were in attendance, and did not concern myself with the cause. I remember feeling oddly insulted, for I had spent days hiding from the very men with whom I now stood elbow-to-elbow, and none took notice, though I was well within their reach.

Brenna stood in full view. She carried her bow in hand, even in that time of gaiety, and I could see the dark fletchings that rose above her right shoulder. She had replenished her quiver, and bright mail peeked above the collar of her robe. The dais seemed miles away, but as she began to speak in a clear voice, all turned in silence to listen. Hers was a voice of note, at once lyrical and full of gravity; beautiful and commanding. I had missed the opening lines of her speech, but much I remember with perfect clarity, even over the drunken babbling and the occasional feminine scream.

"...war has found us once again. Terrible are their weapons, and countless are their numbers. Even here, behind your green walls, deep within the Nowhere, your people will not long evade the roving eye of the enemy. We cannot win this war without unity. We need courage. We need leadership. A strong arm. A bold heart. A keen mind. Our ancestors had Rorik, great hero of Foundation, to lead them into battle. Now, in our time of dire need, another must be called to wield the Sword and bear the Devices—a beacon to all warriors upon Foundation! The Onidai must have the wisdom of a prophet and the courage of a hero. If any beneath this Banner: Farmer, Guardsman, tradesman, or merchant—noble or peasant, warrior or priest wishes to take the test—to answer the Riddle of Stone, they will not be refused. Nothing defies possibility! Is there one here who will answer the call?"

As I drew the breath required to answer, another took the initiative. His voice was bolder, his frame stronger, and he stepped forward to meet Brenna's challenge. A full head taller than most, he was brawny and youthful, and the crowd parted before his approach. He showed no fear.

"I Stanoth, son of Edam, will answer the call!"

The crowd roared in approval as the only son of Meadrow's Phulako rose to meet the challenge of his father's equals. I was less impressed. Did Edam know of the test? Did he give the answer to his son? Was this even permitted? If Brenna disapproved, she gave no sign, and as Stanoth ascended to the dais, she moved to a table draped in black cloth. At her lightest touch the cloth leapt into the air, revealing the glint of burnished metal. Stanoth waited beside the tools at Brenna's bidding as she explained.

"The builder's greatest instrument is a firm foundation. Always it lies beneath, even as the builder labors with other tools. Choose, and face the judgment of the altar. Death awaits the foolish. Destiny follows the wise."

Brenna extended her arm to direct all eyes to a great silvery orb, surmounted by a coiled serpent of copper. The serpent stared upon the crowd with radiant crystalline eyes, its head poised to strike. The altar emitted an ominous hum throughout the ceremony.

Stanoth did not labor over his choice, and within moments he selected a hammer, fashioned head and haft of polished iron. Bold as ever, he raised the hammer for all to see. The delighted crowd roared with excitement, and the powerfully built youth turned to approach the altar. Brenna gave no indication of approval or disappointment, and she kept her tone and features neutral as she spoke into the chaos.

"Now is the time of judgment. Place the instrument upon the serpent's eye, and ward yourself, for none have yet proved worthy."

The crowd fell silent as Edam's only son extended his arm. Only the hum of the altar broke the stillness, but at the moment of Stanoth's judgment, the silence ended in agony. He flailed violently, struggling against some unseen torment, and his bold voice, once throaty and booming, degenerated into a feminine groan. Even from the rear of the crowd, I caught the faint aroma of roasting flesh. Finally, the young giant fell.

Further screaming from the crowd, and Edam shoved his way to the stage. He knelt beside his son, and bellowed for a healer. The examination took only a moment. The healer turned to Edam. A solemn wag of the head brought a low wail from the midst of the gathered thousands.

In a fit of outrage, Edam leapt for Brenna, his hands raised to strike her. Lior was faster, and caught the brawny Farmer by the fist. Lior was a skilled swordsman, but he was no brawler, and no match for Edam's raw strength. The Farmer Chief hurled him to the ground, and would have pursued Brenna once again, had L'mah not ended the fight with a glancing blow to the dome of his skull. He fell to the ground, unconscious, to be lifted onto a litter of spears and shields by a handful of Guardsmen. He was carried from the field, to rest beside his fallen son.

Brenna returned to her place on the dais.

"He acted with courage in absence of wisdom, and so he fell. Is there no one else who will answer the call?"

Muttering from the crowd, but no answer. Brenna's head sank to her chest. She looked to her companions, their countenances grim, and made for the edge of the stage. None were worthy. The Onidai would fade into myth.

"I...I Ralph, son of...Nuda, will answer the call!"

I had skirted the edge of the crowd, working my way to the side of the stage opposite Brenna and her companions. There was an explosion of laughter, and more than a few glares of anger cast my way. I had been sure that the Guardsmen would rush to detain me on sight, but none did, though in truth I had seen few Guardsmen in attendance. Brenna did not hesitate.

"Step forward, and choose your instrument."

I labored over my decision far longer than Stanoth. My eyes darted from one tool to another, but I saw nothing relevant to the cause I had envisioned. It was then that I remembered Brenna's words, 'The builder's greatest instrument is a firm foundation, always it lies beneath...'.

Beneath the tools, I recognized the same bundle of cloth and rope that Brenna had used as a sack to contain them. With an involuntary smile, I pulled at the cloth, scattering the tools about the dais. More laughter from the crowd, and a shout of, 'Good riddance!' I rolled the bundle, making a parcel, and leaned forward to await my judgment. Nothing. No flash, no pain. Brenna appeared beside me. She guided me by the shoulder, and we turned to face the crowd as one.

"The boy has chosen well. Through boldness he has proved his courage, and wisdom and cunning are evident in his choice. He has faced death, and survived judgment."

Brenna paused, and if she had expected applause, she was sorely disappointed.

"And now the test of wisdom. Solve the Riddle of Stone, and prove yourself worthy to bear the weight of leadership."

Lior approached, lowered the crate, and lifted the lid. I counted four cubes, six acute triangles, and two that were neither cube nor triangle, but vaguely both—with one side about half the width of the other. The remaining stone was darker than the others—a flat, narrow triangle, save the two adjoining peaks that should have ended in a corner. Lior recited the poem I had heard two nights before, this time in a powerful, sonorous voice for all to hear:

"On a shoulder of stone may rivers flow,

And man stride above the wave,

Atop this shoulder, cities grow,

As mountain straddles cave. "

I laid flat the cloth. Four base stones, two at an angle to rest on the base and support the shape of the load above, six triangular pieces to form the structure, and a keystone to hold it all together. I had formed the shape of an arch, one of the first and greatest gifts bestowed by the Wise Kenalka. Bridges, gates, aqueducts, the roofs of high, open buildings and all other great structures built to bear weight for any length of time did so with the aid of the arch.

My arch was yet a suggestion, still upon its side, for no man could construct even a small arch unaided. I wrapped the structure in the cloth beneath it, top and sides, and fastened it with the rope. As I lifted it, the cloth and tightly knotted rope held it all in place, and when I pulled the cloth away it stood without aid—a perfect, standing arch.

Ribbons of light formed upon the surface of the stone in an intricate pattern of whorls and knots, and the seams between blocks appeared to vanish, melding the entire structure into a single piece. Suddenly, the humming of the altar was overpowered. The arch rang out in a clear and vibrant tone—something between the peal of a trumpet and the whine of a flute.

For long moments the crowd remained silent, dazzled by the beauty of the brightly glowing arch—in awe of its music. Bits of rubble began to fall from the keystone, and while the glow continued, it lessened in intensity. The crowd erupted, forgetting past prejudices, knowing not what had happened, and caring not at all. At that moment, I hated them more than ever, but loved as a discerning drinker the flavor of their adulation.

The giantess wept openly, hiding her face in her hands, the massive club discarded at her feet. Wise and ancient were her people, and her tribe had close kinship with the Kenalka. The arch's song grew in resonance, and she wept all the more. Sigmund applauded with guarded enthusiasm, while his servant cheered loudly and without restraint. Only Brenna and Lior contained their excitement.

The bottom of the keystone continued to crumble as Brenna approached the center of the stage. Her smile, at once both drawn and pursed, contained more of guile than pride or enthusiasm. She stood beside me, closer than comfort should have permitted, and turned, bringing her lips close to my ear. I understood her every word, even over the call of the arch, and felt the heat in every syllable.

"Hear me now, for I will not speak these words again. Where this charge will lead, many deaths may find you. Even if you should survive, you may find glory less sweet when bitterly tainted by its terrible price. Refuse the charge, feign modesty, and your people will love you no less. Respect, elevation, and love will be yours until you find a peaceful death in ancient age. Worry not for the wars of others. Consider my words, and be proud. For now, step forward, and sample the wonder of glory."

I took three steps forward and raised my eyes to the crowd. For long moments, I scanned their faces and weighed fault against virtue. Most of the Guardsmen had treated me with reluctant indifference, for they had loved my father, even in disgrace. I saw many of my tormentors in the midst of their drunken cheering; the louts that had caused me to suffer from the moment of my father's death. I had slain one of their number, and in the tangled morality of their ale-dulled minds, they saw no need to protest my sudden elevation. Had they no thought to justice, or even vengeance? I looked to the farm girls I had once desired, and now they looked on me with admiration.

After a lifetime spent dreaming of the day when I would be accepted, I realized that acceptance meant less than nothing from the people I had grown to hate. I was not filled with the glory of their love, but with the cold disdain of one who had finally outgrown his surroundings.

At last, I found my mother. She stood beside Garth, and the aging Stabler cheered as loudly as all of the others. Even from that great distance, I could see the pride in his eyes. Not envy, nor the excitement and surprise of a man entertained. Garth was as proud as a father, and for the first time in distant memory, I did not feel alone.

When at last I looked upon my mother, I was surprised by the sobriety apparent in her features. Though her eyes wept rivers, she held me in her gaze. Her face betrayed nothing of pride, joy, or excitement, and she bore only the suggestion of a smile, though she appeared lighter of mood than she had in many years. Was it fear of my death that gripped her? Or did the threat of my absence give her pause?

For long moments, I stood, entranced by my mother's unbroken gaze. It was then that I understood. Her expression was not of pain, fear, or loss, but relief. Her son was finally free.

Seeing my face brighten with recognition, she at last had cause to smile.

I took three steps back, to return to Brenna's side. She spoke through her teeth while facing the crowd.

"Have you decided?"

My great triumphant grin was audible in my response.

"I have passed the test, and earned the right to try my hand at greatness. I will follow Rorik, and hope to be seen from within the darkness of his shadow."

Brenna raised her hands, and then lowered them by degrees, calming the crowd to silence.

"The trials have concluded, and the die is cast. Soon, war may find the peaceful, and the cruel may conquer the weak. After a valiant battle, all heroes and warriors may fade from song and tale, to be forgotten in a gray time devoid of mirth and love. For now, take heart, for the Marshal of the Kenalkan Banners will live once more! Glory to the Builders! Courage to Our Warriors! Victory to the Onidai, as our champion is reborn!"

CHAPTER FIVE

Eastwall

The forceful cheers of the assembled people of Meadrow struck me with such strength and volume that I was compelled to cover my ears. So raucous were their shouts of jubilation, that none heard the alarum bell upon the wall. Even thunder in the midst of a clear night sky was lost in their praise. The strange lightning, more than a half-mile distant, created pinholes of illumination along the eastern wall. I was the first to see it, and the travelers followed my eyes.

Sigmund hefted his great shield, rushing forward even before the others had drawn their weapons. When the people heard, 'to battle!', in Lior's sonorous, throaty roar, they thought it just another part of a moving spectacle. It was Boers that ended the chaos. He scooped up his great silver-lined horn even as he ran, and blasted a sharp chord so resonant that the throng was shocked to stillness by its power. As the note faded, the people at last heard the bell of the eastern gate, and the thunderous blasts beyond.

The Phulakoi had not made a secret of their experiences upon the road, and at last I understood why so few Guardsmen had attended the festivities. Of the four Stablers in Meadrow, only Garth had attended the celebration; the southeastern quarter was his jurisdiction, and he had not been in attendance to enjoy the Ale of Third Harvest. Only a few dozen had been allowed off-duty, mostly for the sake of appearance.

The vast majority of our fighting strength—nearly two thousand Guardsmen, had been at their posts throughout the day. While stout warriors by any measure, the two thousand of the Meadrow Guard were spread rather thin, for none had known where the enemy might strike. A double garrison was placed at every tower and gatehouse upon the wall, with garrons at the ready for a quick response from neighboring outposts. Even with advance warning, we would have fewer spears than needed, but would not be so easily overwhelmed by an enemy that had counted on surprise.

In the confusion of those first frantic moments, I had gone entirely unnoticed. Having watched Sigmund, and his impressive leap from the dais—made more so by the huge iron round shield on his right arm—I followed behind him on force of curiosity alone. The other travelers were with us, but trailed far behind, hampered by the weight of their mail, and though L'mah remained unarmored, she had shortened her strides to keep pace with the others.

In spite of my thin clothing and light buskins, Sigmund outstripped me without difficulty. I marveled at his speed, but even more at Brenna's, for she had not worn heavy armor upon the wagon two nights earlier; though she was light of frame, I could hear her panting only five or six paces behind, her hauberk rattling loudly with every stride.

As I fought to keep pace with Sigmund, it never occurred to me that I was rushing into battle unarmed, untested, and untrained. When we crested the low hill that covered our approach, I saw that battle had spilled over the wall. I continued forward, but not without hesitation. The enemy already outnumbered the Guardsmen by at least three-to-one, with more trickling through the narrow minor gate with each passing moment.

Dozens of the enemy bore thundering weapons and small ballistae, and they rained death upon the Guardsmen from atop the wall itself. The soldiers of the Meadrow Guard fought only with spear, dirk, and banded cudgel—not an archer or peltast among them. The sixty-man double garrison had sustained heavy losses, and though Garth and his two dozen were already en route, significant reinforcements were miles from the site of battle.

All hope might have been lost, but as I surveyed the scene upon the wall, I caught sight of something I had not expected. One of the thunderers fell, and before he had rolled to the base of the wall, another dropped out of view. Brenna had crested the hill. It was a welcome sight, for I must admit that I was deathly afraid. I then saw Sigmund break away, even as I ran at full speed, and he barreled headlong into the crush of battle. Many fell in his wake as he disappeared into the fray, unarmed but for his mighty shield of iron.

The enemy were as before, the soldiers in leather harness, the officers in cuirass and open helmet of iron, and those upon the ground fought with pikes and swords—the blades of the officers were long and thin, with heavy hilts of twisted bar and wire. They were almost of a height with the average Guardsman, and broad-shouldered, though they appeared as children before the length and breadth of Sigmund, who was, in fact, only a few years older than I.

I came to view the enemy as poor strategists, for though they were clearly at an advantage, the minor gates were too narrow even for a cart to pass. Such portals existed only for speed of deployment on patrol, and had been designed specifically to aid in defense. Through the narrow passage of a minor gate, two could pass abreast only with difficulty.

My observations passed in the blink of an eye, and Brenna had slain only three or four from the vantage point of the low hill, while Sigmund had only begun to spread terror from within the ranks of the enemy. It was then that I witnessed the killing of a Guardsman.

I had seen many upon the ground, but none had yet fallen before my eyes. I did not know the man, but his helmet had been battered from his brow, and from the look of him, he was not more than twenty-five. A hard flung dart had pierced his shirt of bronze scales, and he had dropped to his knees from the pain of it. The wound would have killed him sooner or later, for it was a low strike to the left belly. Kidney or liver, it made little difference: he did not have long to live.

His wounding and collapse had cost him his spear; though he knew his end was in sight, he reached for it, blindly, even as he suffered. Had he turned his head to look, he might have drawn his dirk or cudgel; the spear had landed far beyond his reach. But the Guardsman's eyes were occupied, fixed on the approach an enemy officer.

He moved forward almost casually, with the relaxed, self-important gait of a nobleman, wiping the long, narrow blade of his sword and looking at the destruction all around him, though never did he stray from his intended path. Rather than seeking a fresh foe, he preferred to make sport of the dying. I was no more than four paces away, but he did not appear to see me.

I can still remember the wry grin on the bastard's face as he drew back his sword for the thrust. But his blow never found its mark, for my hand was the quicker, my movements more urgent and deliberate, and I was filled with rage. I drew the edge of the Guardsman's spear from the neck of the officer, and his eyes went wide as he fell. I will not now lie in the telling of my tale: the reversal of my enemy's expression, from arrogant sneer to death-song scowl gave me great pleasure, though I feel no pride in the admission.

From behind, I heard a concerted roar and the clatter of footsteps. Lior, Boers, and L'mah passed me as I turned. The cries were not from their lips, but from the mouths of Garth's two dozen, and from the many more that had joined them in their rush to battle. I did not have time to count, but there may have been fifty or more. We were still outnumbered, but the fight was no longer hopeless. They charged, and seeing them charge in full armor, I remembered the dying Guardsman.

I looked down to see his eyes locked on mine. He was older than I had thought, and I could see the pain, but also the shock, as he realized who had avenged him. Though he had not been at the Reaping Festival, and could not have known of my accomplishment, he nodded slowly and deliberately, and even managed a grim smile. I could see the blood on his teeth as he gasped his final words.

"Your...father's...son."

As he fell to his back, he released the grip of his shield and threw his arm forward. The slightly curved triangle of bronze and leather leapt into my field of vision, and I caught it by the edge. It was far heavier than I had expected. The Guardsmen were yet ten paces away when I turned, to fight with implements of war I had never used, even in training.

Before that night, I had never even witnessed the use of spear and shield, and yet I strode forward to join the fight. With my first step, I knew that the Guardsman I had avenged was already dead. I had heard his death rattle, even over the thundering weapons and the din of battle, and the knowledge of his end filled me with a rage that aided me greatly in combat.

Throughout my young life, I had battled with conflicting opinions of my father—the conditioned belief that he was a coward, and the love and awe that I remember feeling at the very sound of his voice. With three labored words—the last words of a dying man—I had been gifted with a feeling that I had forgotten entirely. Pride. My father's forgotten name was at last a source of pride. The man that had offered me redemption in the form of simple approval was now dead—slain by a craven foreigner from far beyond his reach.

Though Brenna never missed a shot, her arrows were limited. Where forty and more still aimed their weapons from the wall, the beautiful archer might have been down to her last dozen arrows. I crouched low in the advance, and was surprised in the extreme to discover in that moment that my mind could function under the strain of fear and outrage—formless though it began, I felt a plan take shape even as I battled before the place of its function. While others tended wholly to the fight on the ground, only Brenna and I had given any thought to ridding the night of thunder.

By the time I pushed forward to join her, L'mah had already slain more than a dozen with her massive club. She held her position, and as the bodies began to pile, they formed a growing breastwork that surrounded her on three sides. Lior and Boers fought together to the left of the giantess, and I moved at once to join them.

Boers was as much a Hjarrleth as I remembered. He spat and fumed, bull-rushed with his shield, and often pummeled his enemies, or punched with a mailed fist before striking the final blow. Even his shield, the lighter cousin to Sigmund's, was treated as a weapon, and he bashed with it as often as he blocked.

By contrast, Lior's intricate dance of sword and shield appeared to border on the supernatural. His movement was constant; steady and graceful, smooth and deliberate. Every time I stole a glance he was already in mid-stride, positioning himself ideally, even before his chosen enemies had committed themselves to the offensive. His kills were often the result of a single movement, in which his shield would move to deflect an incoming blow, even as his blade flew forward to end the foe outright.

He never parried with his weapon or attacked with his shield, and I understood the need for such discipline, for his arms were heavily burdened. His sword was of exceptional make, long and leaf-bladed, highly polished and deadly, and the shape enabled a wide range of attacks—chop with the weighty leaf, stab with the wide, sloping point, or slash with the belly curve on either side. The only disadvantage of such a weapon was the weight, and though Lior wielded it with precision and skill, I had little doubt that he would tire quickly without the careful aiming of each attack.

I could tell that his concave round shield was heavy as well, comprised as it was of multiple layers of white hide and bronze, and though it was far thicker than the ward carried by Boers, the slight flexibility told me that it contained not a splinter of wood.

The movements of either hand had to be reflexive and precise, and he never attacked with more force than needed, often bringing his blade around just enough to cut deeply into the necks of his enemies, though the weight of his weapon could have claimed heads with little effort. In spite of his intricate style, Lior required little concentration in combat, and he spoke in a merry, excited tone, even as he fought.

"Well met, Master Onidai! Lior of Brek. Your servant. To my right, Boers-"

He introduced them all briefly in like manner, punctuating each introduction with a killing blow, and I suppressed the urge to smile as I fought in a style of my own. The constant reversal, from ferocity to timidity led me to strike with more force than needed for the kill, though I was careful to thrust underhanded, keeping the blade of my spear flat, to avoid snagging between ribs.

But I was like a child at play against older, stronger children, and if an enemy moved forward before I could free my weapon, I would cower behind my shield, retreat two paces to recover my balance, and raise my ward before the attack. The peculiar style of thrusting beneath my own guard was apparently strange enough to confound my enemies, for none ever thought to attack in low-line.

As the disciplined lines of Garth's men hurried in on the left to relieve our position, I remembered the weapons above. The enemy were poor marksmen, just as Brenna had implied two nights earlier, but a handful of our men fell to every sporadic volley. I turned to Lior.

"There's a staircase inside the gatehouse. If we can fight our way there, we can take those—things from the wall."

I could tell from his smirk that Lior was on the verge of saying something witty, but he shook it off and spoke quickly.

"What do you need from us?"

"Four shields and someone to hold the gatehouse door. Cover would have been nice, but your archer will be out of arrows."

I could hear the mirth in Lior's response.

"She has two quivers. Hid the second behind the altar. Grabbed it at the run. Dangerous neighborhood, of late."

At his mention of the dangerous neighborhood, he killed two more with a spinning slash.

* * *

Lior showed discipline even in communication with Brenna, and he had no need of a runner. With two fingers, he pointed to his eyes, and then to her. He waved his arm around the group of us, where Boers had already returned with Sigmund, and pointed to the gatehouse, before covering his head with the palm of his hand. He then raised his outstretched finger to the level of the wall, flailing his arm from left to right, and finished by repeating the motion of covering his head. She nodded deeply, and he retrieved his sword. I understood the message perfectly. Watch as we move forward. Cover us to the gatehouse. We will strike atop the wall from either side. Cover our attack. Lior let loose a high-pitched whistle, and the others slew the opponents they had sought in haste. Lior grinned, though again he kept it comparatively brief.

"Apparently there is no law against killing with a shield, eh, Sigmund? We'll make use of you, and next time you can do the fighting while I guard the stones! Take point to the gatehouse. After we pass, L'mah will hold it from the inside. Sigmund and Boers to the right, Ralph and I move left. Nothing fancy, just push them off. The local spears can finish them later. Understood?"

They nodded, and we made for the gatehouse without another word. Sigmund held his shield high against any attacks from above, and from the three enemies that fell in our path—all with pierced helmets—I could tell that Brenna had taken a position further to the right to improve her vantage point.

When I tried the door, I found it heavily barred, and though I almost wept in frustration, the others were on the verge of laughter. The jamb splintered as the door flew open—L'mah had used her club as a ram, and hadn't even required a running start. Lior and Boers were the first inside, and I followed with my spear held low. Only four men held the gatehouse, and L'mah did not even bother to help.

I cursed at the sight of the severed pulley ropes, for I knew then that the gate could not be closed from within. Lior and I made our way up the winding staircase, behind the rushing Hjarrleth. L'mah was already throwing furniture before the partially broken door.

As I ascended, I reversed my grip, placing the shield in my right hand, the spear in my left, and I held the weapon point-down for overhand thrusting. Lior noticed, and he nodded with pursed lips. There were no sentries at the top of the stairs, and none of the enemy at the top of the wall had eyes for anything but the scene below.

I moved to Lior's right side and shifted the position of my shield, gripping the supple leather of the handhold and forearm strap tightly in my hand, holding it far from my body with my spear tilted against it. I wanted speed more than strength of attack. Lior understood perfectly. We would charge with our shields facing either side of the wall, employing our weapons only when an enemy stood directly in our path.

They had been firing in unprompted volleys. We waited. Powerful though their weapons were, they were slow to reload.

Dusk was a memory, and the evening was clear, illuminated further by the staggered torch staves driven diagonally into either side of the packed earth of the wall at every ten paces. The cruel thunder rolled, and an easterly breeze blew their own foul smoke back upon them.

Lior and I charged ahead like madmen, and the result was nothing less than slaughter. Unlike those fighting on the ground, the poor creatures on the wall were not warriors of any description. Their eyes were filled with horror, and I found myself unwilling to kill them. Instead, I pushed them from the wall with my shield, and used my spear as a lever to throw more stubborn foes off-balance. Lior killed indiscriminately, but pushed forward also, if only to keep pace.

Those I sent tumbling did not even move to retrieve their weapons. The wall was covered in springy turf, and though the slopes on either side were not gentle, they were hardly acute. The fall was not deadly, or even remotely dangerous, and yet the fallen soldiers had no more wish to fight. I puzzled over their flight until I looked to the north.

The light of torch stave and harvest moon reflected beautifully upon the burnished bronze of many shields, all formed into even lines and wavering in cadence with the footfalls of the Guardsmen that carried them.

The enemy had been betrayed by the flashing of their own terrible weapons.

I would later learn that the garrisons of the minor gates north of our position had organized a forced march. They traveled on foot, for they had expected immediate resistance. Halfway to the site of battle, they were overtaken from behind. The garrison at Eastgate, the primary gate of the eastern wall, had traveled on garron-back to speed their own advance, and dismounted only as they passed the minor gate nearest the battle. The double garrison of the primary gate held two hundred and forty men, and none of the outposts north of our position had left more than a skeletal crew behind. A full three hundred marched in lockstep against the reserve force of the enemy—nearly twice their number—which turned to meet them.

With the last of their skirmishers dead or far below, and the enemy afield enjoying the hospitality of hosts now eager to receive them, I turned to look on the battle behind. The Guardsmen were faring far better, and with no more thunderers atop the wall, their ranks held. As the divided ranks closed together, they reinforced their center and pushed. I cheered excitedly, and wanted to fight among them, but before I could decide whether to return to the gatehouse or pick my way carefully down, a wave of intense, searing pain set fire to my left shoulder.

I lost my balance and fell, losing my grip on spear and shield as I toppled end over end, trying in vain to roll upon my side. Somehow, I managed to land on my borrowed shield, headfirst. For hours unknown I drifted in uneasy darkness, the noise of combat drawing me near to the shallows of consciousness many times. And each time, without fail, the throbbing in my head and shattering agony of my shoulder dragged me back into troubled depths.

By the time I was able to wake fully—and bear the pain sufficiently that I might find my feet and stand—it was over.

The scene was calm, the stillness beyond the wall a silent promise of victory.

And then my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I saw the many bronze-clad corpses. Even fallen in death many of the Guardsmen of Meadrow lay supine in rows and columns, as if they had died en masse. At center, the formation was unbroken, shoulder-to-shoulder, sole-to-helm. I could not stomach taking count of them, yet their orderly sprawl made of estimation a simple task; that field was choked with corpses, the warriors of my homeland forming at least a third of its grisly crop. In that moment, my eyes proved the lie that my ears could not. Not a single living body moved before my eyes, and now, standing stock-still and breathless, the sounds of carrion fowl, faint but growing, put an end to that eerie calm.

For those hundreds piled unmoving upon the ground, victory held no more meaning than defeat. For the dead, silence is a promise of nothing.

I rose, turning away from that awful scene, and still my eyes beheld not a single living man; there were many dead, even behind the wall. Wounded, exhausted, and beyond worry, I made for the homeward path, though whether friend or foe awaited me there I had not the heart to guess.

CHAPTER SIX

Beauty at the Edge of Death

"I killed him. I will not deny it."

The following day found me bruised and battered, my left shoulder stitched and bound in strips of clean linen, with my entire arm tightly slung and immobile. I had been wounded from behind by an enemy dart, and I was fully aware of the irony. I had felt ill all morning, but as I had been summoned to the office of Cyrtis, the High Stabler—Supreme Commander of the Meadrow Guard—to await judgment as a convicted murderer, a bit of nausea and a turned stomach were to be expected.

Cyrtis was a brawny man, not overly tall, but broad-shouldered and strong-looking. He had dark, piercing eyes and a thick, coal-black beard that belied his age. He was deeply tanned from endless daily patrols, and wore the dark tunic and black cloak of his parade uniform, even on the hottest of summer days. His plate cuirass had been hammered to fit his own sturdy physique, and he wore always his matching greaves, vambraces, and pauldrons of silvered iron. Cyrtis was the paragon of military justice and order, and the embodiment of authoritarian menace.

He sat behind a heavy desk of ancient oak, his chin resting atop a double fist, and though his expression remained stern, his posture was that of a man waiting to hear an entertaining tale. I had decided to keep my words brief, and against the threat of treacherous emotion, I said nothing more. Finally, he looked to Garth, who stood behind me. Garth had nothing to add. Cyrtis shook his head glumly, with a look of genuine regret.

"Have you nothing to say then, in your own defense?"

I bit my lower lip, resisting the urge to accuse my mother's attacker of attempted rape. I had no proof. I wagged my head, and prepared myself for a prompt sentencing and execution. What I had done the night before, on stage and in combat, might have been impressive, but the law was the law, and applied to everyone. Cyrtis rose, unclasped the rosettes that held his cloak in place, and slung the heavy garment over his chair. He walked around to the front of his desk and seated himself at the edge, his face half a pace from my own.

"You've no fear then, of what's in store for you?"

I tried to smile as grimly as the Guardsman I had avenged the night before.

"I'm terrified, but I've run far enough."

"That you have, boy. Impressive trick with the dirt, by the way. Blinding the garron to escape, I mean. Reminds me of your—well, things were different, back then."

Garth charged in so abruptly from behind that I almost leapt from fright.

"I'll say they were! No rape-mad Farmers spoiling women back when I was a colt! And those two wastrels of mine sat and watched the whole damned thing! If they weren't already dead, I'd flay them both myself!"

Cyrtis must have seen my look of shock. His eyebrows leapt half the height of his forehead.

"Aye, we know what happened, and between you and me, boy, you did fine. No accusations of being a bad son, that's for sure, but laws are laws. You killed a Farmer, after all. Are you ready to face the consequences?"

A deep breath, and a slow nod. The High Stabler smiled a wistful, sympathetic smile. He took my right wrist in his huge paw, and held up two fingers of the other hand. The slap was gentle, especially from a man of his size. The look on his face was a portrait of humorless gravity.

Suddenly, his shoulders began to quake, and I heard a faint rumbling in his throat. He was laughing! From a faint chuckle, to a full, deep, throaty laugh, and finally heavy, convulsive guffaws. He gripped his knees in an effort to regain control.

"Didn't I tell you, Garth? He thought he was going to die!"

His laughter was wholehearted, unrestrained by the self-possession of high office, and the sound, truly unexpected in that place, compounded the relief I then felt. But when that moment of levity had passed, he snapped again to an expression of unyielding martial sobriety. He rose, then turned as if moving to the chair behind his desk, but stopped short. He stood with his back to me, his hands interlocked behind him. A few dozen heartbeats later, his head bowed, as in slumber or deep thought. He loosed a great sighing exhalation; he nodded deeply and silently to himself, then turned again to face me.

"Ralph, I want you to listen to me. I, Cyrtis, High Stabler of the Meadrow Guard, am about to break the law. I loved your father. Garth, too, and a good many others. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find a veteran who didn't love him. He was a man among men and always did more than anyone asked of him. There were nearly three thousand Guardsmen in his day—and he knew every one of them by name. He'd have had my job, and I'd be in Garth's place now, if that javelin hadn't taken him.

"Ralph—look me in the eyes, boy. Last night, you earned the right to call yourself his son. And I'm not speaking of the Kenalkan puzzle you solved on stage. Such things are beyond me. Stones and riddles! I've not the head for such matters! No, son, it's iron and sweat and blood that earned you my pride.

"You saw a man go down—a trained Guardsman got hit right in front of you, and what did you do? You snapped up his spear and killed the man preparing to finish him! And did you stop at vengeance? Did you? Did he? Of, course not! You took up the shield of the fallen and fought on in his stead. That's your father's blood at work! You even had the kindness to offer our recent guests a tour of the gatehouse. Sweet gesture, that! The way Garth tells it, you swept them off the wall like a clutter of dry leaves! You've your father's brain, as well. He was always thinkin', that one. "

Cyrtis plucked up a spear from a rack in the corner, then spun on his heel to face me and presented the weapon, beckoning me to take it.

"Soon you'll be moving on to greener pastures and bigger battles, so no matter how much I'd like to, I can't induct you. Nonetheless, this is yours by right. And if any Farmer thinks to take it from you, you'll get no complaint from me if you decide to use it."

I accepted the spear, but I had nothing to say. I'd heard Cyrtis, and understood every word, though his voice was barely audible over the roaring in my ears. Cyrtis clapped me on the shoulder and I collapsed in a heap. I felt my eyes roll back, and the world went black while spinning madly.

* * *

The heat of the hearth dragged me back to awareness by degrees. I felt warm and oddly comfortable in my bed of straw-filled grain sacks, and did not wish to rise. I felt weak, but I was in no pain. As I opened my eyes, I saw that I was abed in the dilapidated loft of my mother's tavern, and not in the shack behind it. I did not lay upon a bed of grain sacks, but on a heavy, oak-framed bed with a thick mattress, fresh linens, and dark red blankets of soft wool. My head rested on pillows of eider down. Through the wooden slats of the only window, I could see that night had fallen.

I needed to relieve myself, but my wounded shoulder punished every movement with a cruel and lasting pain, and my one attempt to rise was met with appalling failure. I had attempted to stand, but neglected legs refused the chore and I collapsed, my face pressed to a rich burgundy carpet that I had never seen before.

Rushing feet upon the stairs. I felt pressure at my right shoulder, and then at my midriff as I rose into the air, gently landing on the rarely known luxury of clean sheets. I raised my head from the pillow to see L'mah's smiling face, and behind her stood Brenna, whose face bore an expression of genuine worry.

"Try to rest. Your wound has brought you fever. Many who were wounded are suffering, just as you are. Try to sleep. In the morning, we will talk again."

I responded to Brenna's gentle words with a weak smile, and a look of embarrassment. L'mah would not countenance my discomfort.

"You need something? We brought all we could, to make comfort for you. You need something else?"

Her concern was touching, but I was hesitant to ask. My apprehension appeared to concern and mildly insult the giantess. Seeing this, I relented.

"I need to...make water."

L'mah was confused. While she understood Vulgar Kenalkan, it was not close to her second language, for the tribal tongues of Tulakal are many. She turned to Brenna with a look of confusion, and the beautiful archer pointed to something on the floor at the foot of the bed. L'mah made to grab it as she spoke.

"You need the bucket! I will help you!"

She pushed away my blanket and prepared to lift me. I suddenly found a strength that I did not know I had, and paid the price of pain to raise both of my arms in protest.

"I can do this much myself! Please, just go downstairs for a moment, and I'll tell you when I'm done."

Brenna grasped her gently by the arm, extinguishing her protests. I had to lay upon my side, and though I managed without disaster, the exertion was completely exhausting. I lost consciousness and dozed uncomfortably.

I awoke many times, and much changed with each return to awareness. The far side of the room had been cleared. A few tables rested against the wall, covered with bowls and flasks of varying sizes, makes, and contents, and also a few of the enemy weapons: a spearhead, a few daggers, the darts of the strange, hand-held ballistae, and the narrow, straight-bladed, intricately-hilted long sword that had been favored by their officers.

I often saw Boers and Sigmund seated against the adjacent wall, where they poured liquids and powders and heated foul-smelling pastes upon a brightly glowing brazier. From time to time, some of the other travelers climbed the stairs, inquiring of the Hjarrleth with hopeful expressions—though Lior was never among them.

Though Sigmund and Boers did not seem confident, many times I heard the word 'roane' spoken with an air of expectation. During one such meeting, Garth arrived, his face as grim as my own. His discussion with the Phulakoi turned to hot debate, though Garth did not lose his temper, and exited without a word.

It was late on my third day of awareness that my mother arrived. From that moment on, she alone saw to my needs, and tolerated no resistance from Phulako, Stabler, or son. Only the ministrations of the Hjarrleth were treated with civility, and in spite of my weakened state, I can recall smiling at their savage timidity in the presence of a worried mother.

I weakened day by day, sleeping often, and awakening only briefly. There came a day when I was too weak to keep my eyes open, and always I felt the burning, persistent, deepening pain—even in my dreams I was not free of it.

Those dreams, feeling very real and yet unlike reality, were at first unnerving and deeply disturbing. A few, as my fever worsened, were comforting: a soft, misty light and warmth. One, more terrible than any other, never changed. Recurring and horrific, the parts played out like a scripted performance, and nothing I thought or felt could ever change the outcome.

In the center of a vast, gently sloping valley, a crowd of countless thousands awaited some momentous event. They stood silently, filling the beautiful green expanse, and leaving only a long, central aisle, extending from the mouth of the valley to a tremendous mountain of shining black onyx, far in the distance.

The day was warm and mild, the sky a bright, solid blue, with unmoving clouds of perfect white. A lone man made his way down the aisle, and I followed, crouching, as if afraid I might be discovered. The man was tall and disproportionately lithe, but with broad shoulders. He did not appear to be armed, and walked casually, his hands locked behind his waist—but something in his nature filled me with an unnamed dread.

The onlookers were dead. Clearly dead, with pallid skin and rheumy eyes. They were not conscious, nor did they move, though the tall man spoke to many of them, calling them by name and trading jokes, or complementing a batch of fine ale or a gaggle of beautiful daughters. The men were mostly soldiers, bedecked in parade uniform, or in their finest and best-kept equipment, and they were of many nations, as were the women.

The faces of the men were expressionless, cold, and undeniably dead. It was the women that frightened me. Their faces were twisted in expressions of unending terror, mouths open, eyes wide, though they too were dead and unmoving. Countless thousands, and all of the women had apparently died in the throes of unspeakable agony. They all stared blankly, vaguely in the direction of the central aisle. The tall man continued forward, whistling a half-forgotten tune, nodding to a familiar corpse, stopping to speak to a long-neglected friend—not one of them answered his voice.

It was then that the moment of dread arrived. A twig, unseasonably dry, lay in my path; I saw it at once, and knew that I could not avoid it. It snapped loudly beneath my foot, and the man stopped in his tracks. I saw him raise his head to gaze upon the mountain; perhaps he worried that there might not be enough time for the horrible act that would follow.

And then he turned. I could never remember his face, only that it was not grotesque or deformed, though I had never seen its like before. His mouth twisted into a wide, curling smile, his features alive with a terrifying mischief. And then, all at once, the head of every standing corpse from the mountain to the edge of the valley turned, to stare lifelessly upon my quivering frame.

The tall man stepped once in my direction, and every time I was shaken awake through force of panic alone. I took little solace in the realization that it had only been a dream. Death happens once, while a nightmare can return to terrify its victim a thousand times.

Throughout my fever, that horrific vision returned nightly.

On one such occasion, I opened my eyes to find that I was not alone. A beautiful face, no older than my own, stared down at me, seeing only my uncovered wound and its network pattern of darkening flesh. Her hair was a dark red, her eyebrows forming long, narrow, neatly trimmed lines over large eyes of emerald green. Her skin was kissed with a suggestion of tan, her face slightly reddened by the wind and sun. She was dressed for riding, and the frame of a pack-horse lay in the corner, heavy with parcels and ceramic jars of many shapes and sizes.

Sigmund and Boers stood behind her, impatiently awaiting the judgment of the newcomer. She spoke without turning, as if speaking directly into the wound.

"How long ago was he wounded?"

"Eighteen days ago, exactly."

"What treatments have you administered?"

"A paste of boiled aeviberries, applied to the wound twice a day. We washed the wound with the distilled liquor of kvejka mead before applying each poultice. For the fever, a tea of laufsvell, with meinbana added to treat the pain."

"What has he eaten?"

"At first, nothing at all. He simply would not swallow anything. Eventually, we forced a tube of layered sheep intestine down his throat, and fed him on broth. Better results were had with beef broth, and when he became a bit stronger, he started eating on his own. Now that he rarely wakes, we're back to the sheep-tube."

At every question, Boers turned to his master, waiting for leave to speak, and inviting input in their wordless language of gesture and expression. It was obvious to all that he was worried, about me and perhaps about the consequences of my death.

The young woman smiled, her gaze still locked on the wound.

"You've done well. It's the feeding that saved him—and your strange northern medicine. Were all of the wounded poisoned thus?"

"Most were stricken ill the night of the battle. We cannot be certain, but it seems that only the darts were tainted. I was wounded myself, by one of their swords. Scraped my right upper arm something fierce, but no fever. We were surprised at the boy's delayed reaction. The dart pierced clean through, from behind."

"How many have died of fever?"

"All but the boy."

"And how is that possible?"

"None of the others had the benefit of Hjarrleth medicine. The Meadrow physicians wouldn't let us near. These people are mad! Dung and filth are piled on wounds, men weak from blood loss are bled further, and they keep the feverish in tiny rooms with braziers lit to 'stifle the fever'. Honestly, I'm glad they pushed us away. We didn't bring enough roots and leaves to treat four hundred men. Not saying I wouldn't have helped if they'd allowed it, but this one's too important to die of fever."

"Yes, I've heard that. Lior kept me well informed throughout the journey, whether I cared to listen or not."

The girl was foreign, that was clear, and at Boers's estimate of eighteen days, I wondered at Lior's speed in bringing her to Meadrow. The man himself ascended the stairs, just as I had been thinking of him. He appeared weary, and his clothes were dusty. He was unarmored, clothed in riding leathers—far finer than the girl's. He leaned against the wall with reddened eyes and a dusty face; his voice was slightly hoarse.

"Will he live?"

"He may, if I am allowed to work in peace."

"When can we move him? They've gained on us already, and Brenna won't travel without him."

"If you move him within the week, I'll be surprised and impressed by his survival. If you're finished, I have work to do."

Lior held out his palms in surrender and descended the stairs heavily. The girl rose and turned to the corner, a thick tome tucked beneath her arm. She cleared the tabletop, placing everything but the head of a dart neatly on the floor, then opened her book and lit a candle; she spoke as she scanned the pages for the proper entry. Her words were for Boers and Sigmund, and Boers flew into motion the moment she began speaking.

"I'll likely need a phial of blue ceramic, specifically the one stamped with the image of a yellow butterfly. I will also need the small brazier and boiling bowl from the bottommost parcel. It is brown leather, and marked with the image of a crimson waterfowl."

I watched, but understood little, and less as my vision began to fade. The voices weakened and began to echo. The room went black, and for once I did not dream, at all.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Music in the Trees

"What is your name?"

If she heard the wonder in my voice, she gave no sign, but her smile was immediate and memorable.

"How long have you been awake?"

"I've only just opened my eyes."

In truth, I had been awake for the space of several heartbeats. After an awkward silence, I tried again.

"Do you dislike your name?"

Another smile, and my head swam from the warmth of it.

"My name is Rowan, and after such a long—rest, I'd have expected your mind to be burdened with many more pressing questions."

The creak of a wagon wheel reminded me that I was not in my mother's tavern. We were covered by an awning, and the rear of the wagon had been covered, as well, to keep out the chill of what must have been an early winter. Two lamps hung from the awning frame, and burned with a surprisingly bright light. I could see my spear at the front of the wagon, its head rising above a pile of parcels. I swallowed thickly, and the soreness I felt made it apparent that Boers's 'sheep-tube' might have been the cause.

Rowan retrieved a heavy bladder from somewhere beyond my field of vision, and squirted a bit of the fluid into my open mouth. It was an herbal tea, warm and flavored with honey, and I guided it around my mouth with the edges of my tongue before tilting my head, allowing the concoction to drip gently down the back of my throat. She repeated the process, and my throat felt much better. She then wiped my lips with a damp cloth, and cleared the sleep from my eyes. My vision had been blurry on awakening, but the fog lifted gradually throughout her ministrations.

For a while, I said nothing more. Her face was remarkably beautiful, and I stared without pretense. Again, the wagon rumbled on rough terrain. I was a child in the midst of a pleasant dream, but my chores were pressing and many, and so I returned to the cares of the waking world with much reluctance.

"Rowan, was it? Where are we going, and when did we leave?"

Rowan nodded, as if satisfied by my choice of questions.

"We took the road north for five days, and this is our fourth day of following what Lior swears is a clear trail leading northwest over the barren wastes. In answer, I've no idea where we are going, and I'm starting to doubt Lior's sense of direction, as well."

I could hear Garth's muffled laughter from beyond the cargo bed. My questioning look was all Rowan needed.

"The Stabler is driving the wagon. Brenna rides behind, and Lior is out ahead...scouting."

"And where are the others? L'mah? Sigmund? Boers? Where's my mother?"

"You are riding to eventual war, Ralph, no place for your mother! L'mah's people do not approve of riding horses, even if one could be found to carry her, and there was no room in the wagon for Sigmund and Boers. They'll await any news in Meadrow."

I heard every word, and though I found them hard to digest, I was oddly pleased with the way she had pronounced my name. She struggled with the foreign sound of it, that her tongue altered it entirely. I thought seriously of changing my name to 'Hrahlph'.

"Why did they remain behind, at all?"

Rowan's brow furrowed, but only gently. Ripples, but no lines.

"There are still wounded in Meadrow, and much work to be done in rebuilding. Plenty of work for L'mah's strong shoulders, and who knows how to treat the wounds of battle, if not the Hjarrleth? They will have plenty to occupy their time, and besides, we had to travel in haste. Have you forgotten so much, or are you ill-informed? With the likes of Lior leading the way, it is fortunate you are awake, at all."

"What do you mean, ill-informed? I last saw the sun the day after the attack on Eastwall."

She sighed, and her head slumped, her lips pouting in a manner that encouraged me not to die.

"You've been ill nearly thirty-four days. Your fever broke only yesterday."

_Thirty-four days!_ I shouted it in my mind, but fought hard to control my shock. It seemed oddly important that Rowan should be impressed by my manly self-possession. I nodded slightly, trying to purse my lips as she did.

"The dart was tainted, that much I know—but what sort of poison takes so long to kill?"

"Kurume Yanik."

The girl's mouth formed the words as if she had been cursing.

"Were you sneezing just now, or was that your answer?"

The flicker of a smile, and it vanished quickly, replaced by a frown of general disdain.

"It means 'Smoldering Rot'. It is a cruel and well known venom, Nalban in origin, though until now I'd thought its use long since discontinued. The composition of the toxins ensures a slow death, with the goal of straining the resources of the enemy, and hampering them with the care of the convalescent."

Her cheeks flushed—an appealing shade of red, and I sought to prolong her ardor.

"I would expect the dosage to have some bearing on the effect. Eat one horn cap, mistaking it for a white cap, and you're sick for a week, though perfectly capable of recovery with the proper care. Eat two, and you're dead in a matter of days. The dart passed clean through, and yet I was near death for over a month. Wouldn't a more lingering penetration amplify the effect?"

She smiled, showing teeth for the first time, and nodded at my mention of horn caps. Such a mishap had befallen me, and the 'proper care' had been in the form of my gently scolding mother. When I finished, she leapt upon the topic in the manner of an excited youth, permitting the flavor of her ire to season her speech only occasionally. It was obvious that she loved her profession, but hated the cruelties she was called upon to treat.

"Surprisingly, the wound has only a slight influence on the severity of the Kurume's effects. Of course, in the case of a mortal wound, the effects of the venom are never felt, but even glancing scratches and pinpricks have been known to produce fever. In the case of a certain Nalban warlord, death was assured by the slightest scratch. His death became a mere footnote in Nalban history, and many thought his death the result of natural causes.

"It was only through the deathbed confession of his second favorite concubine that the true nature of his end was brought to light. She had been jilted for a more...experienced consort, and jealousy drove her to murder—not an uncommon practice among Nalbans. She painted her nails with the Kurume, and during their final tryst she scratched him—again, not at all an uncommon practice among Nalbans. She did not even break the skin, and the man was far too preoccupied to notice."

I enjoyed the tale even more than the underlying topic. She had finished, but in the way of the ale-craving drunkards that had frequented my mother's tavern, I found myself in need of the sound of Rowan's voice.

"And how is such a storied nightmare produced? Is it a process of herblore, or do ancient crones chant over a bubbling cauldron?"

Her herbal tea had done wonders for my voice. She took a place beside me, sitting upright and tipping the tea bladder into my open mouth occasionally as she spoke in the manner of a young girl telling ghost stories.

"The process begins with a certain snake, common to the wastes of the Nalban Steppe. Only the venom sac is needed, and it is extracted whole from a living specimen: if the serpent dies during the process of removal, it releases a fluid into its own tissues that renders the venom useless to the poisoner's cause.

"When a successful extraction is achieved, a rope of toxic plant fibres is immediately woven around the venom sac. The saps and resins of the various residual plant compounds cause the serpent membrane to bind strongly to the plant fibres, ensuring that the venom sac will not leak, and in time, the potent plant toxins will lend themselves to strengthen the venom's potency.

"The newly formed 'venom pouch' is then suspended in the steaming tea of a wide variety of spores and flowers—all very deadly. The tips of the serpent's fangs must be held above the tea throughout the infusion to prevent direct exposure, or the venom is ruined.

"The second component is gleaned from the spines of a freshwater urchin that can only be found in a small lake in the southernmost quarter of the Nalban Steppe. From that same lake, the Nalbans favor a certain freshwater sponge of pale-orange coloring as the traditional vessel of their venom. After the careful injection of augmented snake venom, the still-moist sponge is impaled with one dozen carefully selected urchin spines. Mild heat and steam are applied, and when the spines become soft, they are squeezed to extract the toxin, and removed.

"The entire process is usually performed in late spring, and the sponge is left in a dank, warm environment to ferment until the beginning of autumn. Though the Nalbans used the Kurume to great effect over the course of several bloody wars, there has been a cure in Tahlrene for many years. The needful extracts are not uncommon, and the preparation of the ingredients is not at all difficult. A very effective remedy, provided the application is prompt."

I was impressed by the recipe.

"And how did the Tahlrenic people overcome such a horrific poison? Surely the process of trial and error took many generations."

"Not at all. In the matter of the Kurume Yanik, my ancestors were granted great knowledge in a very short time. No trial. No error. The poisoners of Nalbanilek were eager to share the nature of their cure. They were equally accommodating when asked of the venom's origin and preparation."

I knew immediately that she had been baiting me. As a child, I had been taught the simplistic, tale-based history imposed upon most children. And like most youngsters, I came to learn that the Nalbans were instinctively despised by most of the other Banners. They had been painted as horse-bound slavers—villains of the worst sort, while the Tahlrenic Tribes were hailed as oppressed heroes, and granted the acknowledgment of Rorik's shared parentage, free of the ancient stigma of Hjarrleth bloodlust.

I said as much to Rowan, and though I knew she was of Tahlrene, I feigned ignorance as I touted the virtues of her people. When she revealed her nationality, I assumed a shocked expression, and responded with a tone intended to convey a genuine pleasure in making her acquaintance. It was a clumsy attempt at flattery, though it earned me another smile, so I did not consider the effort wasted.

At length, we returned to our discussion of the Kurume Yanik, and by then my interest was genuine, for it provided a chance to learn more of Rowan's people. I must also admit to a mild curiosity, for I would not have expected the Nalbans to gift their enemies with the antidote to their own toxin.

"The Horsemen must be a far kinder people than I have been led to believe. I don't know much about the other Banners, but I'm well aware of the enmity between those two. From what I've heard, the Nalbans would sooner share their prized breeding stock than gift your Banner with anything but chains."

"Not true, Ralph! The poisoners were more than willing to share their cure. What better way to cure themselves? When a man is bound to a stake, unable to prepare his own antidote, he will do anything to ensure his survival.

"I was surprised, really, that anyone would bother to use the Kurume anymore, for as I've said, the cure is easily obtained—with the proper knowledge, of course."

I said nothing more, and we lapsed again into silence. Charmed as I was by Rowan, my thoughts were drawn elsewhere. Something of our conversation had left me with a strange suspicion. The venom, obviously employed by the Nalbans, suggested that I was to lead a war between Banners. I knew the Nalbans to be a powerful and warlike people, and the strength of their heavy cavalry was legendary, but the war Brenna described at the Reaping Festival had left me with the impression that victory would not be certain, even in the presence of unity.

With Sangholm, Venibrek, and Tulakal, I knew that the Nalbans would be hard-pressed even to survive. Such a war was hardly the endgame I had expected. If it was only another inter-Banner war, why did they feel the need to call upon the Onidai?

I was placed in further confusion by what I had seen at Eastwall, for the Nalbans were a horse people, and never traveled, in trade or battle, without the protection of at least a small contingent of heavy cavalry. When I finally broke the silence, Rowan was miles away, staring blankly into the waxed leather of the canopy. I'd have traded anything to know her thoughts, but I had my own to consider.

"If the Kurume Yanik is of Nalbanic origin, the natural assumption is that our attackers were Nalbans. And yet, I do not think the Nalbans would hazard thousands of miles of travel on foot, particularly when a direct route would require them to cut across Tahlrenic holdings. And what of the armor? The Nalbanic horsemen weigh themselves down with plates of brittle iron, and I've heard tell that even their footmen wear ring coats of iron wire.

"The enemy at Eastwall wore mostly leather, and even the officers were armored only in cuirass and open helm. How then did our enemies acquire the venom, and from whence did they come? And as long as I'm feeling well enough to ask questions, why were they attacking us in the first place? Meadrow's in the middle of the Nowhere! It's a thousand miles to our gates from the edge of the Nowhere, with hardly any water in between, and they were all on foot."

In the midst of my ranting, the canopy flew clear of the roof, peeling forward on one side to reveal the wastes that surrounded us. Lior rode alongside the wagon with a casual poise, smiling brightly in the chilly, dull gray morning. So relaxed were his features that he might have been on an afternoon outing. He spoke in the manner I had observed before the Reaping Festival—often and incessantly. This was the Lior I would come to know well, and that morning, he was at his loquacious best.

"You are quite right, of course. They were not Nalbans. The Nalbans possess neither the innovative spark nor the strategic genius to coordinate such a strike. The saddle, stirrups, and a few clever poisons hardly compare to the thunderers and their strange bows, and while they are not the most precise weapons ever contrived for ranged warfare, you must admit that they possess an advantage that slingers, peltasts, and archers lack entirely."

I was amazed by his willingness to dive in without even so much as a half-hearted greeting. When he paused, obviously waiting for me to solicit further information, I toyed with him, stretching the silence until the chill of the morning encouraged me to move things along.

"And what advantage is that?"

"Speed of training. You saw the faces of those men on the wall. They were terrified! It is obvious that they were trained briefly in the use of their weapons, and deployed as soon as they knew which end was the more dangerous. Imagine the effect of thousands of the things, loosing their evil in disciplined volleys. Given enough time to produce more of their weapons, they will have the strength of arms to annihilate us with nothing more than an ill-trained rabble. You must admit, it is a brilliant stratagem. I would love to meet their general. Come to think of it, I may yet have the opportunity."

He paused, looking off into the distance, his features schooled to sobriety; moments later, his relentlessly sunny countenance returned as if it had never departed.

"I nearly forgot the where in your question. These particular vermin have traveled here from beyond the Central Sea. They followed us with great interest from the day we left Algrae. Probably thought it strange to see two oddly-dressed Trathnona traveling with a pair of savage Hjarrleth and a giantess from Tulakal. I cannot say that I blame them; we paint quite the portrait. As for your question about the Nalban venom, and how it found its way onto the tips of foreign projectiles, the answer is quite simple: we have no idea. It is good to see you up and around, by the way."

Lior was not one to leave anything unsaid. I had further questions, and counted myself lucky that he was so fond of answering them.

"As long as you are in the talking mood, perhaps you can tell me why I have been traveling for nine days, when my fever broke only yesterday?"

A derisive feminine grunt drew my eyes to Rowan, but even as her mouth began to move, Lior spoke loudly to drown out any response.

"Your services are needed in Venibrek, Lord Onidai, and after a brief detour we will ride there with all speed. Time is not our ally. Rowan had us all believing that you'd been traveling with both feet in the mausoleum, yet here you are, awake, and none the worse for wear, thanks in no small part to her own noble efforts. For my part, I had little fear of your death. Rowan is known as a prodigy among her people. In fact, she possesses such impressive skill, particularly for her age, we began to suspect that she might be poisoning you, just to prolong the pleasure of toying with your raven hair!"

Rowan was not amused. A number of curse words leapt from her tongue—I can only assume they were curse words, for her language was beautifully unintelligible—and she pulled the canvas back into position, cinching it up tightly. She spoke with her back to me.

"It is too cold, too gray, and too early to listen to that man speak for any length of time!"

Her voice carried, and I could hear laughter from Garth and Brenna. Lior's horse quickened its pace.

Lior's mention of Rowan was nothing more than a form of highly attractive bait, intended to deflect the question I had asked. His attempt was nearly successful, but I was not accustomed to the attentions of any girl, and she was by far the most beautiful I had ever seen, so I found it easier to pretend Lior had said nothing at all. Whether or not he had been speaking the truth, the pretense of temporary deafness seemed to set Rowan at ease.

Still, he had left me with a puzzle. Two nights before the Reaping Festival, I had arrived at the conclusion that, as Rorik's Key was the only means of claiming the Sword and Devices (I still did not believe, but accepted that others might), and the Sword and Devices themselves were the Onidai's only means of proving his legitimacy, that the Key was the reward of which the Phulakoi had spoken, at their camp and later, at the Orinsos.

In battle, as we prepared to take the gatehouse, Lior stated outright that Sigmund had been guarding the stones during their battle, two nights earlier. While their melding, glowing, and singing had been impressive, and a clever proof of the Onidai's passing of the Orinsos, the impact of such a display would carry beyond the walls of one Banner only on the strength of rumor—in other words, not at all. The spectacle of the arch would only strengthen the claimant's cause within his own Banner, a feat equally accomplished by a claimant of long-standing popularity. But the Onidai was to command far more than the spears of his homeland.

It was the crumbling of the aptly named 'keystone' that left me in little doubt. The Key would have dropped from the arch in the midst of the glowing and singing, at which time I would have claimed it. Again, I had little faith in fanciful myth, but a shiny key was yet a symbol, and would carry as much strength in the proving of legitimacy as any other.

During the battle, all eyes had been on Eastwall. After the battle, they had ample time to present me with 'the Key', though they had made no attempt to do so. Later, close to death (I was more inclined to take Rowan at her word than I was to trust in Lior's) they had loaded me onto a wagon with no thought of turning back, though I had suffered eight days of fever in transit. Clearly, the Key had been stolen, and we were in the midst of the hunt. My presence was more expedient than my absence, and it was likely that they wished me close. My death would not be acceptable until I had served my purpose.

Lior was right. We were pressed for time. I would be needed—in Venibrek, and probably to establish my legitimacy in some form. It was in my mind that Lior and Brenna intended to use me, in the hope that they might yet have time to prepare their people for war, and Sigmund and Boers might well have had similar intentions, though I had no suspicions about the motives of gentle L'mah, for her people would be far from any conflict in their lands of the southern peninsula; and besides, they warred only when threatened. Perhaps they had duped her into unwitting complicity.

Rowan proved herself to be fine company. She said nothing of the Key, perhaps sworn to silence by the others, but we spoke from midmorning well into the afternoon. She eventually revealed, somewhat casually, that she was the Phulako of Tahlrene, and I made no attempt to hide my shock in learning of it. In Tahlrene, the Phulako is chosen from among the young women of their oldest families. She shied from the topic, but warmed visibly at my mention of her knowledge of herblore, and I thanked Meadrow's Lady of the Harvest long after for the harsh life that had led me to learn of such things. Though of course, I did not possess a fraction of her own knowledge.

With the kinship of the Banners as threadbare and worn as the fabric of their namesake, and the Kenalka long-dead and Rorik's legend all but myth, the Phulakoi were rarely called upon. The title of Phulako was often an addition to the responsibilities of the high-born of other Banners, but to the Tahlrenic Tribes, it was nothing more than a lot of foreign nonsense, to be offered to one of their young girls. Though she showed disdain for the robes she refused to wear, she must have preferred the title to a life governed by doting parents, for she was free to occupy her time at whim, her schedule regimented only by obsessive fascination.

She had been chosen to serve as Phulako at the age of twelve, and in the four years that followed, she had busied herself with the study of herblore and medicine. In spite of her young age, I grew to believe that she had forgotten more of medicine than the healers of Meadrow would ever learn.

In time, I grew feverish, though to this day I still believe it was her presence more than the Nalban venom that brought color to my cheeks. She brewed a sleeping draught and I drank it, fighting with all my strength to ignore the bitterness of the steaming, milky concoction. Awareness faded, and her face was the last thing my eyes beheld. As I slipped from consciousness, I prayed a silent prayer that all my remaining days might end the same way.

* * *

I awoke painfully in the hour before midnight. Somehow, I had managed to catch my arm beneath some obstruction, and as I attempted to roll in my sleep, the pressure on my wound drove me immediately to sharp, searing consciousness. I was on the verge of cursing, and preparing to wrench my arm free, when I opened my eyes to find that the obstruction was far softer and warmer than I had expected. Rowan had fallen asleep in the wagon, and had nuzzled into the crook of my arm. Thankfully, my sudden movement had done nothing to bring her to awareness.

How she could have been comfortable uncovered and exposed to the cold wind of an unusually early winter I cannot say, and yet there she was—a visage of serenity and innocent beauty soundly sleeping beside me. I could feel her warmth, even from beneath the thick wool of my blanket, and again I was amazed, for she slept soundly, completely unprotected from the ravages of winter.

From that position—one I had no wish to alter—there was little I could do to survey the scene around me, but the glow of a fire, burning to the left beyond my field of vision, and the total silence beyond the wagon told me that we had made camp for the night, and that my companions were already abed. At first, I attempted to return to sleep, but even with my eyes closed I knew that Rowan was achingly close. Her hair was perfumed, smelling of wildflowers and some heady spice; the smell of it drove away any possibility of sleep.

I contented myself for a while simply staring—drinking in the beauty of her sleeping form. I knew that beneath closed lids her eyes would be a luminous, near-gemstone shade of green. Her hair, thick and dark red fanned cleanly upon flawless white shoulders. Full, blood-red lips were all that broke the perfect smooth paleness of her skin, achieving naturally a coloring attempted by lesser women through the subterfuge of artifice and falsehood.

Rowan was beautiful—naturally, effortlessly beautiful in a way that defied the battered imagination of my early life. And it was not a fragile beauty, of the kind men preserve through the provision of safety and inactivity. Hers was an active beauty, for she had the high cheek bones and lean, feminine jawline that belied any suggestion of fragility.

I wanted to reach out, to touch her and feel the softness of her lips, the sweep of her jawline, the smoothness of her skin—to know that the girl sleeping beside me was not some fevered illusion born of Nalban venom and the counter-effects of Tahlrenic and Hjarrleth medicines. But I did not wish to wake her. I could not disturb the perfect stillness, nor threaten the ending of dreams that must have been almost as beautiful as the dreamer herself.

Of course, I had to move eventually.

It was not the discomfort of my wound that drove me to hazard waking Rowan, but a very real need that should have been tended much earlier. If not for the sleeping draught—called in her tongue Framlach—that she had imposed on me at every sign of waking, I might have attended to the need while the sun was still shining. The bladder of herbal tea had been half-empty by the time her Framlach had taken effect, but at that moment, my own was entirely full.

I did not feel at all as weak as I had expected, and the pain of my wound had diminished as well. The clean line of stitches at my left shoulder lacked any discoloration of blood or drainage, and the skin surrounding it had returned to a healthy flesh tone. It was only in awkward posturing or sudden pressure that I felt any pain at all, and while sharp, it was hardly unbearable.

I slid my left hand beneath Rowan's resting head, and, cradling it gently I moved my own pillow beneath her, a movement made difficult as I rebelled against the urgent summons of my bladder; I had to will myself to move slowly. Her breathing never changed, and I flipped my blanket, pulling it from beneath my right side and rolling it gently to cover her, leaving me shirtless and uncovered in the cold.

I fumbled quickly and quietly for my shirt, shrugging into it against the sharp complaint of my left shoulder, and threw on my tunic for good measure. I belted myself, though I know not why, for I had no thought of a prolonged absence from the warmth of the wagon, but I threw on my shoes against the rough ground of the Eastern Nowhere, and shuffled carefully out of the rear of the wagon.

I found myself in a lush, green clearing. How long had I been asleep? The trees that surrounded our small encampment were far older than those of the half-dead oases that sometimes dotted the Nowhere.

No one was at watch. The realization surprised me, for in our band only Rowan and I could have been considered non-combatants. I didn't bother to count the number of bedrolls covered around the fire, but I saw that none sat upright, and accepted that the Phulakoi considered this to be friendly territory.

The liquid drumming against my tree at the edge of the firelight lasted far longer than I believed possible, and when I finished, I felt myself stones lighter. Feeling better by degrees, I turned in the direction of the wagon, but stopped before my first footfall at the sound of gentle music. It was a flute of some kind, the pitch low and resonant, the tune beautiful and haunting, though it was little more than a whisper, carried to my ears only by a momentary calming of the winter breezes.

I craned my neck to detect the source of the sound.

Though the others apparently felt no fear of the place, I returned to the wagon and retrieved my spear. Cyrtis had given me one of his best, no mere Shielding pike, but custom-made and heavy. The shaft was not the kiln-dried, lathe-turned ash of the common Guardsman, but a coal-black, non-reflective hardwood. Its polished iron butt cap was nearly the size of a doorknob, but served the purpose of balancing the weapon for a one-handed grip, and I knew that in the case of a broken shaft, it would lend itself well to the function of mace or hammer.

It had three broad handholds, grips of pale leathern ribbon cut from the hide of some great sea beast, and exceptionally rough in texture, ensuring a firm grip through rain, sweat, and the blood of battle. The socket of the spearhead covered nearly a full third of the shaft's length, protection against the attacks of heavier weapons. The blade was longer than my forearm and almost a handsbreadth in width at the base, with a thick cross-section. It tapered in thickness only half a thumb's length from the point, ensuring great power in the thrust, without any loss in durability. Grounded, it rose three full handspans above my head. I had little doubt that Cyrtis had commissioned it for his own use, and it was the sort of weapon that offered a feeling of great security, granted by virtue of its weight alone.

There was no underbrush in the forest. Though the trees were ancient and massive, they were spread far apart, permitting the light of the heavens to bathe the forest floor; the sun and rain had reached the ground with equal success, for the turf was springy, thick, and innocent of weed or bramble.

The notes of the song grew stronger.

The moon was a waning crescent, and the stars appeared to shine all the brighter in contrast. The forest was not as dark as it might have been, and I smiled at the thought of weevil wither growing in abundance there. At that moment, the face of my mother flew into my mind.

I had never in my life been so far from home, and never had I left her sight without saying goodbye. It was an awkward time, for I was half man, with a beautiful young girl waiting for me to sleep beside her (whether or not she was aware of it), and half quavering boy, wracked by pangs of homesickness and longing for my mother's ready embrace.

In time with the notes of the flute, I could hear the thrumming of drums—taut for the marching and deep for the dancing.

There were chimes in the trees. The sound was alien to my ears, for it was not made from river cane, nor from iron or bronze. This was a rattling, heavier than wood, but lacking the resonance of metal. As the wind shifted, altering the rhythmic rattle above my head, the music followed, matching the weather in tempo and volume.

The first instruments I had heard were matched well to a cadence of the wind, for they were wind instruments. The drums thumped and rapped as concussive mediums, seeming to translate the sound of the chimes, and thus the tempo of the music, even as the flute dictated the tune. As I grew closer, I could hear the throaty twang of a deeply vibrant stringed instrument. I had ranged far from Rowan's warmth.

The tune was melancholy and yet sprightly; not solemn, but inviting in a way that made me believe the music was intended as a warm invitation. The light grew much brighter when I crept close enough to fully appreciate the sound and the rhythm.

This was indeed a call of invitation, and the rattling above acted to conduct the musicians ahead. Invitations aside, I held my spear point down and behind me, and wrapped a handkerchief around the polished iron butt cap to hide its reflective surface. I crouched on the approach, keeping my pace in time with the beating of the drum.

I hid behind a tree at the edge of a wide clearing, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the opposing treeline, for there was another, smaller clearing behind it. Though obscured by the ancient, widespread trees on the opposing side, I saw clearly the narrow mouth of a cave beyond—the light emanating from within was pale and steady. I heard the humming clearly as well, even over the sound of the music, for it was an even, unwavering drone, akin to the sound of the serpent altar.

A large bonfire burned at the center of the clearing, surrounded entirely by white, roundish stones. There, in the midst of the forest, as out of place as the glowing cave mouth, a group of skilled musicians played their haunting tune. There were seven in all, and they were masked from the nose up, each carved in the likeness of a different animal. I saw bear, wolf, horse, ram, bull, and owl, while the flute player wore an eagle mask of dark wood, trimmed in a metal of unusual color. The masks looked very old, and yet they appeared a perfect fit for those that wore them.

They were dressed in bright colors, of the type one might wear to festival, though the garments were mismatched, chosen apparently from among the garb of many tribes; from the look of the clothes that covered the larger frames of Bull and Bear, it appeared a fitting was out of the question. Some of the articles they wore looked almost new, while others were threadbare, with much evidence of mending. Well traveled then, this troupe of performers, and they seemed also well groomed and healthy.

Only two of the musicians stood, the rest sitting with folded legs at either side of the fire. Of those standing, only Eagle had a place of his own; Bull remained on his feet out of necessity, beside the two on the left, plucking at a huge, four-stringed instrument, much too large for seated play.

I was leaning forward, my feet planted well behind, almost on my belly, if not for my hold on the tree. Suddenly, one of my feet lost purchase, and the butt cap of my spear struck against an exposed root. The music stopped, though it appeared as if the song had ended naturally, and I was not yet prepared to panic—that is, until I heard the voice of the flute player.

"Come, Traveler, into the light. The darkness is no place for an honored guest! We have been expecting your music for some time. Our own tune has grown rather dull."

I didn't move. They were not expecting me, in any case. I was alone, more than a mile from the safety of my companions, only then realizing that I had erred in judgment. I was beginning to rise, with the intention of flight, when Eagle peaked my interest.

"Fancy that, Laeko, our new musician is bashful! Much different than the southerner we met on the last moon, wouldn't you say? I wonder if they're kin? Hard to tell, really. There's no resemblance in the bark of yonder tree."

Laeko, whoever he was, hadn't said a word.

I had been barely conscious for well over a month, and Lior had been following a faded set of wagon tracks...who had this man met, in the middle of the Nowhere, a month before my arrival? I rose, hefting my spear, and emerged from behind the tree. No one rose to meet me. Eagle and Bull kept to their places, though Eagle bowed politely.

"Ah, there he is! No, no resemblance at all, I fear. The same dust upon his trousers, though! And no musician, this one. A warrior calls upon us this night! Or is he? I wonder at that, for the other thought himself a fighter of some aplomb, as well. A fine swordsman, that one! A fine sword, as well. What was his, now belongs to me! Sheath of far-flung leather, lock of ancient lore, shank of tender meat—all things find their place, eventually."

I stopped abruptly, as something had caught my eye. The men on the ground were smiling amiably, and I had grown close enough to see the teeth they had exposed in doing so. Canines. All of their teeth were canines. They were dazzling white, but there was no mistaking a mouth filled with fangs. The sudden realization transformed my perception of their welcome, and the warmth of their smiles grew instantly chilling. Eagle saw clearly my look of horror, but continued without care.

"Will he taste of fine beer, Laeko? Scrawnier than the other, so no beer for him, I fear. Just as well, I suppose. Beer clashes with the Hot Wine of the Ancients. He's not much meat, but a lean feast is better than none at all! Bones, at least, do not grow fat, nor do they wither in absence of plenty. He shall make fine music in the wind! His chime will rattle violently beside the other, for I can see that he does not mourn his compatriot's passing. What sweet music they shall make!"

Eagle held out his arm, extending his flute to indicate a tree to my right. It was then that I saw the manner of their chimes. Bones. The ribs hung from the long bones, and those of hand, finger, foot, and toe hung loosely from the ends of the shorter ribs. I did not need to look again at the ring of stones that rimmed the fire to realize they were human skulls.

Wolf glanced at my spear and pointed at the butt cap, still wrapped in my handkerchief. His smile was as lupine as his mask.

"What a weapon! Does it sneeze, Traveler? Winter takes its toll on all, or so they say!"

His fellow musicians laughed with him, but not Eagle.

"Shame, Arma, shame! This is a guest, a fellow musician at heart! He does us honor to visit at the opening of winter's frigid maw. Too few have seen fit to visit us from year to year, and this year brings a bounty! The two that came before were rich beyond belief, in taste and treasure alike! And now a third, young and tender ventures forth at the beckoning of his compatriot's tune. We will do him honor for his visit, and offer him accompaniment and compensation—a lively tune to replace the rhythmic cadence of his beating heart!"

He nodded then, savoring his own words, and placed his flute gently on the ground while Horse ran to the mouth of the cave. He was fleet of foot, and I had no illusions of outrunning him, though every throb in my veins implored my feet to try. He returned with a familiar weapon, one of those swords I had seen at Eastwall, with the intricate hilt of thick, twisted rods and the long, narrow blade of mirror polished iron. Eagle stripped it from its sheath and tossed the belt and flaccid leather behind him. He took two steps back and charged, leaping over the fire to land a few paces beyond. Already crouched for combat, he held the guard in front of his face before flicking it away in a strangely formal gesture, then turned to the others with an impish grin.

"Music, my fellows! Music! Lively and grim! Hearty and mournful! Death of a man. Commencement of a feast! Play on, and I'll dance with our Dinner while our weapons do the singing!"

And then he turned to me. He had no advantage in reach, but his single extended arm made him a poor target. I had killed a man who carried such a sword. The point is well balanced by the weight of the intricate hilt and pommel. In function, it is more spear than sword, with no strength in the edge at all.

Unfortunately, I had hefted no shield into the clearing, and unlike Eagle, my weapon did not balance so close to the wrist. I had to grip the shaft at one-third of its length with one hand, and just above the butt cap with the other. His arm fully extended, the point of his weapon had a reach greater than his own height. My spear was three handspans taller than I, and Eagle and I were almost of a height. My advantage was only slight, and knowing that he could not simply lop off the head of my weapon, I took a more defensive posture, hoping that, in spite of his great agility, his arm would eventually tire.

As the music began, he lunged immediately, striking low, perhaps to hobble me against escape. I dropped the butt of my spear against his attack and stepped away nimbly, lowering my point again to face him. The music was impressive, and I noticed its quality even in my panicked state. Every note seemed to follow our movements—more ominous and rhythmic in focus without the flute.

Eagle hazarded a step forward, well into the range of my spear, and attempted to bat my weapon away as he flicked the point of his sword directly at my face. Again, I stepped away, surprised at the gall and clumsiness of his strategy. I remember thinking that if all of his attacks were as risky and predictable, I might yet survive to excoriate myself for stumbling into that clearing in the first place.

It was then that the tempo changed. As the rhythm of the music gained in speed and complexity, so too did Eagle's attacks. At one point, he tried to roll and slash at my left hamstring, but again the butt of my spear deflected the blow. The music grew in speed again, and as it did I noticed something that I might just as easily have missed. He had stopped for the second time. The music was not bound to our movement. _His attacks were bound to the music!_

I did my best to bide my time, and halfway through the third stanza I pressed the attack, thrusting again and again, from high-line to middle, and again to high, finally sweeping the point of my spearhead at his knees. He leapt away deftly, but I followed, coming close and waiting for him to attack. He must have felt the heat of the flames at his back, for he was only a pace or two from the edge of the bonfire.

He was on the verge of beginning another phrase when the musicians arrived at the end of the stanza. As they prepared to change tempo again, Eagle paused, and I spied movement at the edge of my vision as I committed to the thrust. Bull leapt as I lunged, and I heard him shout in an alien tongue as my spear point slid cleanly between Eagle's ribs. The full length of the spearhead pierced him to the left of his breastbone, and the stark white of his fine tunic was instantly darkened by blood.

I heard Bull, and he was very close. I wrenched my weapon from Eagle's heart, but struggled for a single heartbeat as it snagged between his ribs. My blade free, I turned too late, and my thrust had been anticipated. Bull was angry, and he leapt away from my attack, bringing down an iron-banded club, similar to those used by the Guard of Meadrow, but far longer and heavier. His blow struck upon my spear with terrific force, breaking the shaft and wrenching it from my hands.

At that moment, the motion of everything around me slowed nearly to a halt. The longer piece of my spear, splintered and headless, rebounded upon the packed earth of the clearing and rose before me, even as Bull raised the heavy club high above his head to crush my own beneath it. I reached out and grasped the jagged shaft, and as Bull began to lower his arms in attack I lunged forward, striking at the heart for the second time. His eyes and mouth flew wide, and I stepped away as he began to fall, watching as his hands released the cudgel. I snatched it from the air, even as it fell behind its late owner, and turned to the other five. For the briefest of moments, I felt invincible. Only then did their music cease.

Two were dead, my spear was broken, and I had one of their weapons. It was as long as my leg, and felt heavy in my grasp. A stout weapon for L'mah's strong hands, but I was only a boy, and there were five swift enemies still seated around the fire. I digested their looks of shock, and watched as they shifted to outrage. I considered flight, but knew I'd never outdistance them. They had every advantage, and my weapon was far too cumbersome for a swift strike. In spite of a fine start, I prepared myself for death.

Weapons appeared in their hands, and they rose to the attack. Horse leapt over the fire, a short spear in his grasp, point angled downward. I prepared for a clumsy parry, but in the midst of his flight his head whipped violently to the side and he landed at my feet before the fire. I saw the arrow, white-shafted with feathers of midnight blue, and knew I had nothing to fear. Brenna had taken Horse in the right temple. Of all those I had seen slain by her hand, most had been pierced through the skull.

I spied movement to my right, and turned to see two men charging from the treeline in full roar. Their swords were as Lior's, though they carried no shields, fighting instead with broad, leaf-bladed daggers in their left hands. Brenna emerged on my left, reaching into her quiver as Owl reeled from a shot to center chest. I rushed at Wolf, confident now of my survival, though we clashed but briefly, for another of Brenna's arrows found his left eye before I could gauge the full measure of his strength. Bear fell quickly thereafter, and he fought well, expecting no quarter, though there was more in him of monster than animal.

Ram was the last standing, and the swordsmen were closing from either side, with the creature's back to a huge oak tree. Brenna began to draw, and in my panic to stop her I stepped into her aim and shouted. The others halted their attack—Ram had all the time he needed. With a throaty wail, intended to be a last, defiant roar, he flew between his assailants, his iron mallet raised high overhead. I side-stepped the charge and reversed my grip on Bull's weapon, striking Ram full in the head with the wooden grip. He collapsed. I prodded him a few times, to ensure he was unconscious, then hurried about removing his belt.

Brenna did not sound pleased.

"Are you in the habit of risking the lives of brave men for the sake of your own childish sport? Or was it mercy you planned to offer? He refused, in any case. What are you doing?"

I didn't bother to look up as I bound the madman's hands tightly behind his back. I checked the knot, and satisfied that he could not free himself, I turned to Bear. Bear was larger, as was his belt, and I spoke casually as I wrapped Ram's legs from knee to ankle.

"We needed one of them alive. A prisoner, even half-crazed and defiant, can still yield valuable information. Dead men yield only a stench."

"What could that man possibly tell us?"

"Much, if we're to find the Key. It's here—nearby. I can feel it. If we don't find it before he wakes, he can aid us in the search."

All three of them froze in such a way that I might have laughed, had I not realized my error in mentioning the Key. Rowan had deliberately avoided the subject, and aside from Lior, none of the others had spoken to me at all, of the Key or anything else, since I had last lost consciousness in the aftermath of Eastwall. Brenna was the first to speak, but her voice betrayed nothing of suspicion. She spoke in hushed tones. Shame was apparent in her features.

"What do you know of the Key?"

I had to think fast.

"Nothing. Only that it is here. I dreamed of it during my fever. This forest, the music, the strange chimes in the trees—and a key, a bright key, glowing, as the coals in a forge. It grew brighter as I approached. I heard the music when I left the wagon to relieve myself. It's a good thing I brought my spear."

Brenna rose to her full height, thrusting her breasts into prominence. I could see wheels turning behind deep blue eyes. She scanned the terrain, as if searching.

"And where did you find it, in your dream?"

"I don't know, only that the light grew brighter and the music louder as I approached."

It was then that another thought came to mind. I matched it with an idea, and swaddled it in a suitable lie the moment it was fully formed. The cave. Horse ran to the cave to fetch the sword for Eagle. If the thieves' belongings were there, the Key might be among them. I had to lead them to the cave.

"Maybe the light I saw in my dream was the same as the light coming from the cave."

"What light?"

This from one of the swordsmen. When I turned to look, the mouth of the cave was dark.

* * *

The swordsmen were named Lambek and Loswol. I relate it now, in such an awkward fashion, because I cannot remember the manner of their introduction. Many years have passed since our first meeting in Eagle's Clearing, and I grew to regard Lambek as a close friend. The nature of our friendship was casual, so I suppose it is only natural that I have forgotten precisely how he came to introduce himself. At any rate, I knew their names well enough as we entered the cave.

We left Ram bound, gagged, and tied to a tree, and we had little fear of his escape. Loswol saw to the disposition of the enemy corpses. We had taken brands from the bonfire, the ends wrapped in cloth from the tunics of the slain musicians, and Brenna, Lambek, and I entered the cave with torches held aloft.

Their fire pits guttered angrily, as if fed on tallow. The cave was enormous, and though the white light had vanished from within, the steady humming continued; Lambek was the first to detect its source.

"Sun's Beacon!"

We turned at once to see him staring up at strange columns. There were three, all of them shaped like hourglasses, and they were built from an odd material—as much iron as stone. There was a crack in the center column, and from its base, a thin stream—only a trickle—of brightly glowing liquid rolled lazily down a narrow channel and into a deep pool, evidently filled by the water that fell like rain from the cave ceiling. The liquid of the pool was only faintly luminescent. Drinking vessels lay about, many polished and white, a few of them fashioned from human skulls. Lambek was less shy about the liquid. He knelt beside the stream and held out his hands, as if warming them by his own hearth.

"The pool is warm, and the stream is even hotter. What do you think it is?"

He was reaching out to touch the bright stream, and I stopped him, taking hold of his wrist.

"Hot Wine of the Ancients!"

Lambek was puzzled.

"I think our friends outside were drinking from the pool. Aside from eating human flesh, what other practice would explain the manner of their madness?"

Lambek's face became ashen, and he rose, before taking a few steps back. I looked to Brenna, but she had eyes only for the pool, and the devices beyond. Knowing that she would need one hand for her torch, she had left her bow in the clearing; her knuckles were white as she gripped tightly at the hilt of a broad-bladed dagger. She was afraid, but for some reason—one that I cannot adequately explain—I felt no fear at all.

"Perhaps their wine will find them in the afterlife. In any case, I'm not thirsty. Let's find the Key. "

In the second chamber, we found their hoard. There were many dilapidated carts and wagons, a half-dozen containing mounds of cloaks and clothing that the monsters had stripped from their victims and used as bedding. Weapons were piled in a corner, some of them very old, and many forged from bronze. Armor lined the rear wall. There were helms, breastplates, shields, and piled shirts of mail, many rusted from the dampness of the cave; of the quality pieces, many were well kept, tended perhaps by those same creatures that had dined upon the previous owners.

One of the wagons, large and well crafted of dark wood, was definitely a recent acquisition. The oxen were still yoked, and only a number of branches, thrust through the spokes of the wheels, kept them from lurching forward. They lowed in panic the moment we approached. They were well formed beasts, with coats, horns, and hooves as black as soot, and when they had recovered from their shock, and permitted my approach, I rubbed their muzzles gently, whispering reassuring words.

Lambek joined me, scratching one of them on the inside of his ear.

"Lucky pair, to escape the fate of their companions."

I looked around in a manner that Lambek took as an expression of humor.

"I'm telling you boy, they're lucky. See the other yoke?"

At first, I saw nothing. Lambek lowered his torch, and with the other hand lifted an object from where it had been propped against the small trough that held water for the beasts. It _was_ a yoke, identical to the one the oxen still wore. He lowered his torch again, and I saw the blood. Two gouts, long dry. They had been butchering them, one-by-one. I looked then at the sad pile of leaves that had been left for them to feed on, and imagined the blisters that must have risen between the yoke and their flesh in the weeks they had been confined. I was certain that the Key would be hidden in the thieves' cart, but I had to make a show of searching the cave.

"Would you lead the oxen outside, Lambek? With their cart, if you would. They could use some fresh grass, and maybe a soft pad to cushion between the harness and their backs."

He looked to Brenna, who nodded her consent. Lambek must have been an animal lover, for the request earned me a smile. We cleared the branches from the spokes, and the oxen needed little encouragement; they lurched forward the moment they felt movement in the wheels. Lambek led them, not bothering to seat himself on the padded bench.

I was left with Brenna, who had busied herself searching the crumbling wagons. She kicked at the piles of miscellaneous goods and personal belongings, hoping to find the bright glint of metal within a sea of refuse. It was obvious that she did not suspect, as did I, that a trader from Meadrow had stolen the Key.

There was much worth exploring, and I moved to the piled weapons and armor first, looking them over, and occasionally turning them over, as if expecting to find the Key hidden beneath. As I have written, much of the armor had been left to the ravages of neglect, and in the dampness of the cave, little but rust was left of them. Of those few pieces that had been maintained, many were foreign to my eyes, but I recognized one of the shields immediately. I knew well the old style of the Meadrow Guardsman.

The shield before me had been retired for more than four hundred years. It was heavy, and this I knew even before lifting it, for it rose from the ground to the height of my breastbone, and was fronted by a layer of solid bronze. The Meadrow shields of my time, and the time of my father, were shaped much like the common spearheads—short and wide, triangular, the length more than twice the breadth, the sides arching gently to a point.

The older shields were made with finer bronze—still triangular, but much longer. While the modern shields were backed only by a single layer of boiled leather, the older style was reinforced with overlapping layers of hardwood, bolted beneath three layers of leather. They were well known for their weight, but also for their impermeable quality, and their shape made them easy to carry in the saddle.

In those days, more bronze went into the making of the shield than the rest of a Guardsman's equipment combined, and though Cyrtis' men (with the exception of officers) wore only a cuirass of bronze scales—the rest of their armor made from hardened leather—the classical Guardsman was covered in bronze from greave to helm. It was the greed of the Farmers, and the laziness of undisciplined Shieldings that had brought an end to the old style. Miserly Farmers did not wish to preserve the men that protected them, and when young trainees complained, as all trainees do, that their gear was too heavy, the Farmers seized upon the opportunity to 'lighten the load'.

How and why the shield had come to that place, remaining in near-perfect condition until my arrival, I will never know, but I felt the same chill of superstition that Brenna had betrayed at my mention of the Key. Such omens are not to be ignored, and so I took that ward for my own, and cared not at all that I lacked the strength to heft it, the skill to wield it, or the training of worthier men that would make such a weight worth carrying. The handholds were long-ruined, but the leather backing was pitted with only the suggestion of wear—a testament to the craftsmanship of its time, if not the strange compulsion of the madmen that made their home in such a place.

I set aside the shield as I continued my search, and turned to the weapons at the rear wall of the chamber. The pile upon the ground was pitted, notched and ruined, but many still appeared serviceable, the axes, spears, and weighted clubs angled against the cave wall, while the sheathed swords were pressed between the rock face and a large casket, so that they stood upright.

I had left Bull's cudgel outside, convinced that the noise of the battle would have called more enemies from the darkness, had any existed. The weapons the musicians had abandoned to rust and ruin were masterworks in iron and bronze, better by far than anything the brigands had wielded in combat, and I suspected later that it was some compulsive need to preserve their trophies that had prevented their use.

I placed my guttering torch in a notch that I decided was some sort of cresset, and began to examine the swords. One caught my eye immediately, and I recognized it by the scrollwork on the hilt and sheath. It was of Tahlrenic make, and exceptionally heavy. The grip was the length of my forearm, and when I retrieved the blade from behind the casket, I saw that it was wide and flat, and also that I could never hope to fight with its like—with the point planted, the pommel rose to the level of my brow. It was a beautiful weapon, though, with a simple knob for a pommel, and a diagonal hilt, moulded to resemble the antlers of a mighty stag. It would not have surprised me if both hilt and pommel had been cast from solid gold, though I suspected that they were only clad in the soft metal. Gold inlay stretched from the hilt down half the length of the blade, chasings of serpents and strange beasts. I tried to lift it, though it moved through the air only with difficulty. Brenna caught sight of my childish display, though if she was amused, she gave no sign.

"You will have a sword of your own—after we find the Key."

I simply shrugged and continued with my childishness.

"This is Tahlrenic, and very old. Rowan might like to have it."

Though I could not see it, I felt the heat of her glare. I turned, with the intention of ignoring her, but did not account for the length of the sword. The point of the blade struck against the heavy bronze head of an ancient battleaxe, and all at once the stand of weapons clattered to the ground. Brenna, I knew, was on the verge of taking me to task for my carelessness, but I gave her no ear, for I had heard something far more interesting. The head of the axe had landed upon the casket, and, even beneath the clattering of hafts and blades upon stone, I'd heard a metallic clink from within.

I dropped the Tahlrenic monster, and turned to find the edges of the lid. Casket is the only word that might adequately describe the dimensions of the box, as it was neither chest nor crate. It could indeed have served as a coffin. I feel I must emphasize the dimensions of that box, for how else could I adequately express the breathless shock I felt on lifting the lid, only to uncover a wealth of coin and jewelry?

The coin was mostly silver, though I saw several dozen of gold; I'd had to pick through the pile to be certain of that estimate, for my view of the coinage had been obscured by the several handfuls of jewelry and loose gemstones that had been scattered haphazardly on top. The leathern sack that surmounted the pile contained the lesser coins of brass, bronze, and copper.

More money than my mother could have earned in ten lifetimes, all scattered before my eyes! I heard Brenna expel another exasperated breath behind me.

"You are bored by this sudden fortune, Lady?"

She laughed, as I had heard my mother laugh when on the verge of tears or angry words.

"Precious metals and shiny stones have worth, but worth is ephemeral, living only as long as those who imagine it. What value has wealth when none are alive to count it? The tools and trappings of war will shortly be all too common, scattered about for the taking on every battlefield—what value to those who dropped them? Silver is nothing. Gold and jewelry are nothing. The war-tools of the slain are nothing. The Key was everything!"

I took note of the past tense and slammed the lid, then spoke over my shoulder as I hurried past.

"Would you do me the favor of asking Lambek and Loswol to return and retrieve my new shield? Oh, and that sword for Rowan. Perhaps her father would like to have it."

The tone of her voice was rich with sarcasm as she followed.

"And what of the treasure? Surely you haven't forgotten the treasure!"

I was ready for her.

"The treasure can wait. You were almost in tears just now, and alas, my only handkerchief was recently lost. They can fetch the loot when you have your Key."

* * *

There was much of worth in the wagon, but little of value to Brenna. Aside from the personal belongings of the thief, we found fourteen barrels of Meadrow's finest ale, of a far better quality than that served in my mother's establishment. I had never tasted it myself, but it was the ale in those casks that had made Meadrow famous. Local myth even credited the expensive brew as responsible for the Kenalkan naming of Meadrow as the last of the Banners, and the recipe had only improved over time. Not a single barrel had been touched by Eagle or any of his cohorts, and I knew that he had not poisoned the beer with the expectation that someone might kill him and take it.

Brenna made my requests known to Lambek and Loswol with an empty tone, and the two grinned knowingly to one another as they turned instinctively to obey. She made no mention of the coin, but I knew that the effort would require all four of us, so I took no issue. I was deep in thought, trying to put myself in the shoes of the thief, considering the possibility of hollow boards in the wagon or coating the Key in wax and simply tossing it into one of the beer kegs, when I locked eyes with Ram. He was sitting stock-still, awake, though safely gagged and bound.

Without his mask, he was little more than a man. He was short and fair of face, with dark brown hair and pale gray eyes. I placed his age at around thirty-five, though he may have been far older. Indeed, from the look of his hoard and the state of the crumbling wagons, he and his ilk might have been hundreds of years old. I had considered simply inquiring of his age, of his nature and that of his fellow musicians, and especially of the Kenalkan machinery, but it took only moments to realize that his mind was not as those of other men.

"A fine song, theirs, a song of six, but not mine, never mine! Sweet music they will make in the trees! The others will rattle, scatter in the wind to flee from them, in fear of the teeth! The sharp in the dark! The wine is with them! The wine of time! Forgetting time we sleep and wait to play in the night!"

He went on much longer, and we listened to it all, waiting for him to finish before asking anything of him. I remember being glad that he was beyond the bounds of sanity. He showed no anger or despair, and did not mourn the fate of his companions. In truth, we would have had far more difficulty questioning a sane man. When he did eventually stop, I tried to speak in his own manner, hoping that it would aid in his understanding.

"The last song, the man that tasted of beer—did his hands hide a secret thing?"

"No secrets hold in hands so cold! While warm they think to hide from eyes, and cold they cannot a thing disguise from eyes that seek to find! North! North he thought to bring a thing, when here he met the bones that sing! His own bones sing now in the wind! Rend! To rend his flesh from bone, its flavor fine, a fine thing, to dine and drink the wine with music in the trees!"

Again we let him finish. It was clear that Brenna understood none of it. She had not been close enough to hear the ranting of Eagle and Wolf.

"And where the song, before he sang—the beer man? Where, to what land? And what wind to bear his bones?"

"Ah, the far land over salt! His friend a song made bitter! Burst did he in black smoke foul, a stench most loud! Nor rude were we! Free was he to warm his bones before our fire! Not his desire to rot in cold! His carcass clothed did kiss our fire! Fire spat fire! Thunderous wind! Bright wind and stench and smoke! Bad meat with bright heat and broken bones, a token! A token to open the light, bright and old. The Bold Man leads with seven!"

I could hear Lambek and Loswol exiting the cave behind me. Early winter bit through the trees, and chimes rattled all around us. There were more than I had expected. In the quiet clearing, without music or the din of battle, it sounded as if there were thousands of them. Ram grinned with closed eyes and a look of total serenity, savoring the rhythm created in the breeze. I waited until the chimes died out, but he spoke again before I could break through his frenzied wall of words.

"Five from seven we could be! The boy to wear Eagle at his brow! And woman! From stone height and sun with moon. Walls within walls! A pretty tune they make! Owl she can take! For the swordsmen, Bull or Horse or any other they can bear! Or Bear they can wear! I swear to share the cups that shine! The wine drinks warm, and we can sleep through sun and storm in stone! Hone then the teeth! Beneath the trees! Bones in the breeze will rattle while we dine and feast with wine and play through night, then sleep by day. Five of seven to sing and chime! Time for perfect song was long, but time we have, while wine flows and glows from ancient heart of Land That Knows!"

I knew that to Ram, the proposition was far too tempting for 'meat and music' to refuse. And besides, he couldn't play alone. I tried his manner of speaking once again, and hoped he would trust in one of his own.

"If friend you be, tell all. You spoke of token from broken man of fire. Desire music to play? Say and we stay! To confine for all time we must know trust. Speak of thing we seek. Find in mind and bring—then on my brow an eagle's wing!"

His countenance brightened as I made my bargain.

"Free from tree and I agree!"

Brenna did not want to release him, and even with his most winning smile, a mouth filled with fangs did little to comfort me in the decision. I cut his bonds with Lambek's dagger, and Brenna kept her bow nocked and drawn as Ram rose. He made no effort to stall, and no move to any of the weapons scattered upon the ground. He made directly for a tree at the edge of the clearing—the same tree Eagle had indicated in reference to the thief. Ram pointed to the bone chime above.

"The token rattles in his broken brow. Now honor oath as spoken."

Brenna had tired of his nonsense. She retrieved a bloodstained arrow, drew and released into the darkness of the tree. Though skillfully aimed, I feared her mark unreachable. Within a dozen heartbeats, the winter wind lashed again through the clearing. The tearing was faint, and the chime dropped from the tree, almost striking Ram as it fell. He yelped as bones clattered to the ground beside him, then leapt and took to his heels. Lambek and Loswol gave chase, but knowing a bit about Ram, I knew they would never catch him.

Raising the skull of the unfortunate thief, I could see something through the empty sockets, but could not rattle it free. Finally, using Bull's cudgel and the point of my broken spear, I managed to prise free one of the bones from the dome of the skull.

Inside, I found the Key.

It was much smaller than I had expected—not much more than a handsbreadth in length, though it was remarkably heavy. A spiral of teeth ran down its shaft, and the bow was really more of a pommel, perfectly round, the size of an acorn. It was strange to my eyes, but lovely, and crafted from a metal I'd never seen. As the Key moved, its color changed—no less metallic, but ranging from violet and blue-green to pale yellow and silver.

Brenna stood watch against Ram's return, and Lambek shadowed me like a nursemaid while Loswol retrieved his horse and rode back to camp to wake and fetch the others. As I waited in the clearing, my only thoughts were of Rowan. All around me, madman and Phulako alike had lofty plans of greatness, in one form or another. Through it all, the only ambition clear in my mind was another night spent in the innocent comfort of a Hjarrleth wagon bed, with the scent of Tahlrene perfume and a Tahlrenic body to warm it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Another Crowded Clearing

Garth arrived at the clearing an hour before dawn, crashing through the treeline in Boers's wagon and cursing at the pair of Hjarrleth oxen that pulled it. The others rode solemnly behind, and though I had known none of them consciously for more than the space of a day, I had never seen Lior's face without some sort of smile. From lopsided smirk and toothy grin to shocked grimace and panicked wince, his features were never neutral.

As he entered the clearing, he did not dismount. His face was entirely blank, his eyes narrowed to slits. Without a word, he gave his mount its head, his hands free of the reins, and controlled the magnificent white stallion with the pressure of his knees alone. His arms were crossed, his eyes only for me. When the muzzle of his horse was less than two paces from where I stood, he kneed it to a halt, and for a while, he said nothing. Finally he spoke, his voice at first little more than a whisper as he dismounted.

"Feeling better, are we? The day before yesterday you were all but dead, though you seem in fair spirits now. You chose this place—and the dead of night, for a bit of exercise?"

I didn't budge.

"You left no sentries. With nobody on watch, I had no reason to fear for my safety."

"You skulked away during Brenna's watch. You'd have seen her, had you but looked to the trees. Apparently, she followed you. Fortunate. If not for her, you would now be little more than a pile of bones—a series of bowel movements for a horde of mad cannibals. That my men arrived when they did was nothing short of fortune. Loswol here heard the same strange music you did, and was watching from behind the treeline even before you arrived, though again, it was Brenna that saved you. You're lucky she stepped into the clearing after she loosed her first arrow. If Lambek and Loswol hadn't seen her, you'd have been on your own. If you ever attempt anything like that again...you'll outshine Rorik himself!"

His face broke into a huge grin almost immediately after he dismounted, and he strode forward, gripping me in an embrace that threatened to crush my body against the mail beneath his robes. He then held me at arm's length, looking over his shoulder at Brenna and Garth as he continued in excited tones.

"A dream! He recognizes a faint tune from over a mile away—a tune that he heard in a dream, no less, and followed it to the Key's exact location! There were no tracks! Must have been the thick turf here, but there were no tracks moving in this direction, at all. We'd have passed right by! And you fared well enough in the fighting, too, from what I hear! Two of them, before Loswol had time to blink! And what about the prisoner? They were going to kill him, Ralph! And what's all this talk of mysticism? Loswol tells me you worked some sort of magic, to make the madman impart his secrets! Tell it truly!"

I spent the next hour telling the tale—though it bore little resemblance to the truth. When it came to my conversation with Ram, I simply told them I had no memory of anything but Ram's agreement to show me to the Key. Even Garth, who had known me since the day of my birth, was mystified by the tale. By the time I'd finished, the sun was already rising.

After a breakfast of dry stores, we loaded the casket into the reclaimed wagon, and set about collecting the hoard of weapons and armor. With the casket in our possession, I had little thought to plunder of any other sort, but Lior insisted, stating simply that the collection would serve me well in Sangholm. He offered no further explanation, though his mention of Sangholm apparently reminded him to order the retrieval of Cyrtis' broken spear. When he set his men about the gruesome task, I decided that my labors could have been far worse, for the shaft of the spear was still buried deep in Bull's chest. From that moment on, I labored beside the others without further question or complaint.

Most of the armor of metal plate and scales remained entirely free of rust, as did many of the sheathed swords. Most of the pieces we liberated were recent, no more than two hundred years old, though a few were even older than my Meadrow shield.

Discussions broke out almost immediately about the nature of the musicians, of their age, and of their 'Hot Wine of the Ancients'. None doubted their immortality, though I must admit that I was skeptical. While it may have taken hundreds of years for lone travelers to fall prey to those that crafted the bone chimes, it was far easier for me to believe that others had begun the practice—perhaps as a ritual of war, or even a funerary rite—before it was again taken up by the musicians.

As the work continued, I began to worry that some other poor traveler might just as easily fall prey to the pool's effects, or that, lacking six of the original seven, Ram might attempt to expand his repertoire. Lior beamed brightly when he heard me voice my fears.

"Lambek, Loswol, you are needed in the trees. I want as many of those chimes as you can retrieve—at least thirty of them."

The two obeyed their master without grudge or complaint, and spent the remainder of the day moving many of the bone chimes far from the clearing, hanging them in easy sight at the eastern edge of the forest, on the lowest branches.

That night, the Hjarrleth wagon was packed to capacity, and I slept on the ground. The bodies had been dragged well away, that we might sleep beyond the influence of their growing stench. There was no great appetite in camp that night, and I did not sleep well.

In time, Rowan retired, gracing me with the smell of wild perfume and driving away all hope of sleep as she made her bed beside me. Hours later, I learned that she had fared no better than I.

"Ralph, are you awake?"

"Of course I am. What I don't understand is how the rest of them can sleep in this place."

I must have shocked her with the speed and enthusiasm of my response. I cursed myself for my over-eagerness in the deafening silence that followed, and was greatly relieved when she spoke again.

"Do you think he will return?"

"I hope not."

"So do I. Ralph?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think his sanity will return, now that he's free?"

"I hadn't considered that. Is that even possible?"

Another long, agonizing pause.

"I hope so. Strong drink can bring about a powerful stupor, but such things run their course, and the drinkers return to sobriety, given time. Perhaps the Hot Wine is no different. Do you think he is immortal?"

"I'm not sure. Do you think he's immortal?"

"I hope not. His family may yet be alive and awaiting his return. I'd hate to think that they lived and died without any hope of reunion."

She surprised me. I had not considered that she might fear for anything but her own safety. Ram was a monster, and she pitied him. She thought of those he might have left behind, a wife and children, and hoped only for an end to their mourning. I had been proud of my exploits throughout the day, my pride inflated by Lior's constant praise, and now I felt ashamed. It is a sad statement of the hero's reality, that even the slaying of monsters must be met with some form of guilt. I let her words ruminate, but in time, she broke the silence again.

"Ralph?"

"I'm awake."

"Were you afraid? Of the musicians, I mean. Loswol said you strode out from behind the treeline, spear in hand, like something out of an old tale. There were seven of them. Were you afraid?"

"I hadn't really thought about it, until now. In truth, I wasn't thinking. Consciously, I mean. I knew that the Key was here. I took up Cyrtis' fine spear, and my feet carried me forward. I could hear the bone chimes, and the music, and even the flautist as he threatened to kill me, though I said nothing in response. Throughout the fight, my arms and legs moved, but not at my behest. My only thoughts were of the Key."

She said nothing more. Much later, it was I who broke the silence.

"Rowan?"

"I'm here."

"Yes. I was afraid. I am afraid, even now."

"So am I."

She sounded more relieved than frightened, and something in the admission granted me relief, as well, for I began to feel drowsy, even as I spoke the words. We had only spoken twice, and I had known her consciously for little more than a day. Through our brief association, I already felt myself a better man—or boy, as the case may have been. As I dozed there, oddly drowsy, even beneath the music of the bone chimes, I knew that I loved Rowan, though at that age, the nature of love was yet a mystery. Perhaps, in time, I thought, slipping slowly out of consciousness, she might cure me of even baser faults.

While the others had busied their hands elsewhere, mine had been at work in Eagle's casket. In my scrip I fondled a half-dozen heavy coins of solid gold, while around my neck, hidden beneath my tunic, I wore a golden necklace, set with large emeralds.

The hoard was my discovery, after all, and no mention had been made of the distribution of the wealth. With less than half of the gold I held in my grasp, I could keep my mother out of the tavern business, well fed and clothed and far from the drunken ravages of low Farmers for at least a year. For the necklace I had no defense—I thought it fair to look upon, and knew it would be fairer still around Rowan's neck, competing with the verdant gemstones of her eyes for the attention of all who looked upon her.

* * *

After one night of Rowan's gentle care, the rescued oxen looked far better. They had dined heavily on oats borrowed from the store kept to feed the Hjarrleth team, and a viscous blue unguent, applied to their blisters and covered with clean cloth, seemed to place the creatures immediately at ease.

The following day, Garth and Lambek hitched the Hjarrleth team to the reclaimed wagon, with the blacks positioned to pull behind them. Rowan's pair of pack mounts were then hitched to the Hjarrleth wagon, along with the splendid mare she employed for riding and Lambek's own dappled gray gelding. Though it had been laden with liberated arms and armor, Boers's wagon was far lighter, the other weighted with fourteen barrels of fine ale and a fortune in silver and gold.

I was surprised to see Loswol climbing into the thickly padded wagon seat beside Lambek, and the man shouted to me as they rumbled past.

"Take care that he doesn't throw you! He isn't fond of strangers!"

Before I had the opportunity to digest his words, I felt Garth's heavy palm on my shoulder. I turned to him, and saw that he looked uncharacteristically solemn.

"Well, boy, time to part again. We'll be waiting for you when it's over. Above all else, be careful. Don't be ashamed of flight, in the event of a lost cause. You won't be riding into battle, after all—you'll have plenty of that in time, and by then you'll know the difference. Do what you have to, but don't force me to tell that mother of yours anything to inspire tears. She's been through enough already."

He made no attempt to embrace me. Instead, he held out his right hand and we clasped arms as equals. He clapped me on the right shoulder with his free hand, turned, and walked away. It was then that it dawned on me—our departure was three-fold.

I'd heard none of their plans the night before, and slept rather late, but I had hoped that, lacking a horse, I might travel in the wagon with Garth and Rowan. Now I saw that Lior and Brenna were mounting up, their horses packed with parcels taken from Boers's wagon, and Loswol's own bay gelding had been saddled and laden in similar fashion. It was larger than any horse I had ever seen in Meadrow. Lior held out the reins.

"There's nothing to it. Just stand a bit in the stirrups to take the pressure off your arse from time to time. And try not to fall off, as we'll be moving rather quickly."

I tried to appear confused.

"Where is everyone else going?"

Lior looked to Brenna with a strange smile before answering.

"Rowan and the Stabler will be heading north and slightly west to the small village of Iurna. Not much of a town, I'm afraid, but the people mind their own business, and there's an inn of acceptable quality. There they will await our arrival. They have plenty of silver, compliments of our dearly departed hosts, and it should be more than enough to pay for their lodgings, food, and anything else they might need. As for my men, they will be making their way to Algrae. Any other questions?"

I mounted uncomfortably, aided by Lior's strong arm. As I fidgeted in the saddle, I drank in Rowan's beauty while pretending to wave farewell to Garth. I spoke over my shoulder.

"Where are we going?"

The question earned me honest, good-natured laughter.

"Where are we going? We are going to retrieve your sword, my boy!"

* * *

We rode throughout the day, stopping only at sundown to rest for four or five hours. At full moonrise, or what little illumination the overcast sky permitted to light our path, we continued, often at a full gallop, for as I had learned, Brenna could see at night nearly as well as by day. She rode ahead, scouting the path for rocks and obstructions, and I followed, with Lior guarding my back. I had little need to control my horse, and learned later that the mounts of Venibrek are trained to shadow one another, a skill that permits most of their riders to focus on the terrain all around them, rather than fixing their eyes only on the path ahead.

Of Brenna and Lior, I had discovered much. Though I knew nothing of the customs of their granite-walled city of Venibrek, I had long suspected that they were far more than Phulakoi. They had the bearing of leaders, the swagger and boldness of warriors, and the sense of cultured pretension known only to the priesthood. I had little success in speaking to Loswol, but Lambek was not nearly as reserved, and spoke freely of both of them. When I related my impressions—attributing to them the qualities of Leader, Warrior, and Priest, Lambek was amused, and laughed heartily. I had been correct, all three times.

Lior and Brenna were generals of a sort, commanders of the armies of Venibrek. In addition, they were the High Priest of Brek and High Priestess of Ashad, though at the time I did not understand the meaning of either name, and Lambek was no help in answering, saying only that I would learn of his Banner in due course.

For two more days, we traveled in like manner, stopping only briefly at sunset, the horses of Venibrek seemingly inexhaustible. We traveled almost directly west, and then turned due south at moonrise on the fourth day. During the few intervals of rest, Lior told me all he knew of the sword that was to be mine—the weapon known by most as Sequiduris.

Its edge was legendary, sharp beyond belief, and even in Meadrow I had heard of its ability to slice cleanly through enemy weapons and cleave armored opponents as if they wore no protection at all. Fanciful legend or not, I knew it would be a fine blade, for the Kenalka were beyond the crafting of rudiments, and would have thought the forging of a sword—any sword—a practice unworthy of minds as transcendent as their own.

If the weapon existed, and if the counterfeit key succeeded in fooling the ancient Kenalkan vault that held it, I would have everything I would need for my first Proving—the ceremony to be held in Venibrek. Truly, I thought they had intended only to present the false key.

Though I had already known much about the Sword, Rorik's tomb had been a mystery to me. My curiosity was short-lived, however, for Lior's tongue was not long idle from the moment I inquired of the subject. He told me the tale, and I listened with great interest, even as exhaustion urged us both to sleep.

Rorik had served well as war marshal. Throughout the remainder of his life, the Banners lived in peace, and at the time of the champion's death, the Wise Ones built for him a tomb. Rorik's final resting place was simple and unadorned, placed in a land without grass or rain, in a neutral territory at center of Foundation. With his body, they placed his Sword.

According to the legends that followed, the Sword could only be claimed with the approval of Rorik's ghost. I did not believe in ghosts, but neither did I believe in Key or Sword, and so I humored the High Priest and Priestess, not wishing to offend them, or hint that I might not be worthy of the title I had claimed under false pretenses.

By the beginning of the fourth day, the time of slow travel and conversation had come to an end. The terrain once again became solid and even, and the turf, though dying in winter, offered strong footing for the horses. For a while, I thought I might even become accustomed to horse-bound travel.

Remembering a bit of Lior's lengthy tale, I found myself confused.

"This is the land of Rorik's tomb?"

Lior had to shout from behind me to answer, and the effort made his answer short.

"It is."

"Then why is there grass beneath our feet?"

Brenna slowed her mount to the walk, and my own matched pace instantly, then drew up alongside hers in response to a gesture of command. Her features grew ominous, her voice grave, and looking to Lior, I saw that he shared her misgivings.

"When the Kenalka entombed Rorik, his spirit blessed the land with rain. A grove of trees sprang from the barren earth, in time growing into a forest. The tomb was surrounded, leaving only a wide clearing at center. Though the land had been desolate, it was inhabited by a tribe of gentle people. They did not wage war, and did not care for violence, but they praised the long-dead warrior for his gracious gift of rain and green. A village grew around the tomb, and for a time the people were happy. It was when the Kenalka vanished, or not long after, that the trees surrounding the tomb began to die. No, that isn't quite true..."

She paused for a moment, with pursed lips and furrowed brow. She chose her next words carefully.

"Those trees are not truly dead, and it is the same for the grass. The grass is without color, and the trees without leaves, but they are not dead. Not truly. They neither rot nor wither.

"Here the dead chill of winter hangs always in the air. Sullen clouds color the sky gray, and by night all is darkness; the moon aids the eye but little in this place. This land is suspended—trapped between life and death.

"The gentle tribe abandoned the clearing when the rains ceased, fearing the look and chill of eternal winter. The village remains, its buildings mouldering while dead trees stand tall. We would not travel there without dire need, nor will we linger when the task is done. Claim the Sword and take your leave—do not even pause to admire it."

Her tale was at an end, and with her mount rested, she kneed it to the gallop. Lior and I followed in silence.

For many miles, the land remained flat, before breaking suddenly into a collection of tiny hills and valleys. In the distance, upon a gently rising slope, I saw the grove of trees, completely gray, where in Meadrow they would still bear a stubborn few of their brightly colored leaves.

Brenna raised her right hand, and her horse halted without hesitation. Before I could fully appreciate the gesture, my own horse followed suit at no bidding of my own, and I heard the hoof beats ceasing from behind, as well. All was quiet, until I heard a low, sharp whistle from behind my left shoulder. I hadn't learned how to turn my horse, and while Brenna's mount rose on two legs, turning quickly to land again upon four, I had to make do with contorting in my saddle to look behind.

Six women, each dressed in like manner to Brenna herself, stood in a single row, their hands burdened with bows of dark wood and white hide. From behind them, thundering over the crest of a small hill, six men charged in bright robes of yellow and white, bearing brazen round shields covered in white hide and rimmed and bossed in bronze. They each carried a pair of javelins through the grips of their shields, and wore braided belts of similar make to those of Lambek and Loswol. Their sheaths were long and wide, and slapped against their hips, and the mail beneath their robes rattled as they ran. They formed a row of their own to the left of the women, and halted, standing at attention. Their panting filled the air with steam.

Lior grinned, in spite of the gloom that surrounded us, while Brenna sat without expression. Two representatives strode from their ranks at the silent bidding of their masters, who dismounted. I stayed in the saddle, not wishing to stumble on the dismount before so graceful and disciplined a gathering, though I listened avidly to the report. The woman spoke first.

"Your Eminence, it is as you said. They wait in the village for your arrival."

"How long have they occupied the Clearing?"

"Nigh on two months, though we've let none of their couriers through."

"The count and admixture?"

"Thirty-seven: One dozen swordsmen, ten spearmen, nine lockbows, and six of those that belch fire and thunder."

"Thank you, Ulsa. You may return to your ranks."

Lior then looked to his man, somewhat less formal than his counterpart.

"Sorry about that, Taemon. Ladies first, as always. How are the men?"

"Fit sir, but bored and ready for a fight. We've no fear of them."

"Not afraid of their loud new toys?"

"No sir, not after we saw them hunting. They tried for a few hawks, and even took aim at a half-starved fox. In both cases, they were within range of a slingstone. Missed every time. What's more, you should see them prepare for a second blast. They sent us novices, sir, pure and simple. Their weapons are loud, and terrifying for those not used to them, and when they hit, they hit hard, but it's like rolling the dice every time. We can take them at the march, and by the time we get in close, it'll be over. Probably won't last long enough for a proper bleed. When we ride home, our robes'll be cleaner than when we first set out."

Lior chuckled to himself and dismissed his man with a nod in the direction of his ranks.

"Well, there you have it, Brenna. A hopeful report if ever I've heard one. Lead your women to the edge of the clearing. Kill their sentries. My men will sneak in quietly along the open path, and take the rest under your protection. Does that sound agreeable to you?"

She nodded, and Lior was on the verge of deploying his men, when I cut him off.

"Wait! It's thirty-seven to fourteen! They outnumber you more than two and-a-half to one! You're going to get a lot of your people killed!"

"Killed in your service, Lord Onidai, in the act of retrieving your Sword! A great honor, and a small price. We'll take the Clearing, in spite of a few losses, and Sequiduris will be yours!"

Lior had said half of this, and particularly my title, with more than a little irony. I still hadn't earned his respect, and I knew that I would have little respect for myself if I allowed my hands to be stained with the blood of his men. I turned to Brenna.

"I need to move quietly in total darkness. Who is your best scout?"

She looked to her women, then to me, and smiled.

"I am."

* * *

The plan was set after much argument. Reluctantly, Lior agreed to hide his men on either side of the dirt path, fifty paces from the mouth of the clearing where the crumbling village sat. Under cover of the new moon, Brenna and I would creep silently to the side of the grove opposite the path. Her women would follow quietly, fanning out on either side, so that they could cover our retreat from the safety of the treeline, should we be detected.

For my plan to work, we would have to proceed in perfect stealth. Her women removed their robes and strange armor of linen and leather patchwork to expose the sleek, form-fitting breeches of dark suede, and shirts of dark gray linen beneath. Brenna had been armored as her women, and in time I learned that the warriors of Ashad served a variety of functions, and armored themselves accordingly—for stealth or battle.

All wore their quivers save Brenna, who gripped four arrows through a bow borrowed from Ulsa. Brenna's bow appeared to be crafted from a ribbed shaft of solid iron, heavily clad in silver, and though it was of fine make, Ulsa's lighter, non-reflective weapon would be needed for stealth.

We slept in shifts from late afternoon to the hour past midnight. In the gray light of that cold afternoon, I felt certain that I would never be able to sleep, but as I have learned through years of worry, a troubled mind finds refuge in slumber during times of great distress—I slept from the moment I fell to my bedding to the task's appointed hour.

My dream was strange. I saw a man, towering head and shoulders over all those around him. His armor was bronze, his sword long, and his countenance fierce. Seven banners fluttered behind him, and he rode upon a horse, long-legged and black. He made for the shore, far off in the distance, where a thousand ships prepared to land. Many warriors blocked the path to the beach, and their armor was dark, their weapons foreign to my eyes. The bronze-clad giant laughed in the face of his enemies, and drew his sword as he roared the order to charge. The ground shook at his approach, and all enemies grew faint in his presence.

Crows blackened the sky. Below, all upon the ground lay dead. Enemy ships smoldered on the beach, while others floated, splintered upon the water. On the horizon, the mounted warrior faded from sight.

Brenna's touch was as a feather upon my shoulder, and I opened my eyes without moving. She smiled gently, then tilted her head wordlessly in the direction of the gray forest.

Lior's men left in armor, traveling slowly to muffle the sound of their movements. Brenna and her six did not set out immediately, preparing instead for a ritual unknown to me.

The women formed a circle, surrounding Brenna, and knelt with eyes cast to the ground, their hands raised to the heavens. They pressed the heels of their hands together, but spread their fingers, giving them an appearance like the antlers of a stag. Brenna remained standing, her hands at her sides, her face raised to the heavens. In the darkness approaching midnight, she chanted a ritual prayer in her own tongue, her voice barely a whisper. Their chant took only a few moments, and I knew well when it had ended, for they all rose without ceremony, gathering their weapons to follow Brenna and myself. I was unarmed.

There was no underbrush in the forest, and all of the leaves had long since blown away or rotted to the ground. I could see almost nothing, and had to lock hands with my guide, allowing her to lead me as a blind man. Brenna's eyes saw everything, and we moved noiselessly through the winding tangle of trees. Occasionally, the wind breathed life into the darkness, and the bare branches rattled loudly, to be followed by the creaking of ancient boughs. In those moments, Brenna's pace would quicken, taking advantage of the noise to cover our footfalls.

It seemed like several hours, but I felt sure that it had been little more than two before we finally came to the edge of the treeline, and saw the glow of many fires inside the roofless buildings. They had planted torch staves everywhere, obviously made from the strangely dormant wood of the clearing, and they burned brightly, with unwavering flames. I heard no voices, and saw only one sentry.

Brenna tapped me gently on the shoulder to gain my attention, and raised two fingers to her eyes, before pointing to the clearing. She then raised one finger, a sign that she had seen only the lone sentry. Her eyes held a look of disbelief. I raised my own finger and nodded, and her mouth curled into a wide grin; I saw then in the report of her narrowing eyes that disbelief had faded, leaving mischief in its place.

We waited for the sentry to make his circuit, and he did, passing us at less than ten paces and seeing nothing. He made his way to the other end of the clearing and stopped, looking in all directions. I feared that we had been discovered, but his searching eyes were not for us. He pulled a flask from his side, and sat on the last remnants of a crumbling foundation, facing the only building with unbroken walls and the warmth of the firelight within, his back to our approach.

The stone building that housed the body of Rorik was small, far too small for any to sleep within. It had a high ceiling and walls of solid stone, and sat less than ten paces from where we had left the treeline. We hid at the rear of the building for a time, until, convinced that the solitary guard would not move, we made for the entryway.

A dozen shallow stairs opened into the small chamber, where an accumulation of some strange moss gave off a faint and steady glow, far brighter than weevil wither. If the roof had seemed high, it seemed higher still from beneath the level of the ground. Yet, something was off— _odd—_ about that ceiling; by relation to the height of the roof outside, I thought, should it not be even higher?

The walls were covered in carvings of Kenalkan figures, a more complex version of their written word than the common, alphabetical form used by the Banners. The inscriptions glowed even more brightly than the moss, casting shadows at our approach.

The casket of seamless stony-iron spanned nearly the entire width of the chamber, and was half that in breadth. It rose above the level of my waist, and the surface, though weathered beyond sheen, still appeared to gloss in the near darkness. Its surface was pitted with scars and scorch-marks—obvious evidence of the many attempts to steal the treasure hidden within. On the surface of the casket, only two marks had been placed with constructive intent. The first, a hole, the inner-bounds filled with numerous serrations. Two handspans beyond, perfectly centered, a narrow slit formed the second. I recognized the first, and drew 'the Key' from its place behind my belt.

I looked to Brenna, who raised a single finger to her lips to caution my movements. As I fitted the Key, let it slip gently into place, I watched from the edge of my vision as my companion nocked an arrow, her eyes cast to the entrance. I had been certain that what I possessed was nothing more than counterfeit, but we had traveled far, risking much in transit. I tensed myself against the ancient countermeasures known to guard the sites of the long-dead Kenalka, fearing that at any moment the ceiling might crash down upon my head.

I tried turning the Key to the right, and was met with resistance, but as I turned it to the left, I heard a series of faint clicking sounds—not from within the casket itself, but from above. As I completed the revolution of the Key, a gentle rumbling issued from the ceiling, and a bolt of gold fell swiftly before my eyes, to plant itself in the slit with a metallic slither.

After thousands of years of confinement, the three metals of the blade were dulled only by a suggestion of dust, and the colors of copper and gold highlighted the third, akin to silver or polished iron, but far brighter than either. The hilt, a flawless, four-sided pyramid of golden scrollwork and pearl, shone in perfect livery with the pommel, a solid sphere, its scrolled surface broken only by the ring of alternating emeralds and pearls, fourteen in all, that surrounded it.

Too regal for a king. Too pure for a priest. Too beautiful to weight the hand of a warrior. It seemed a shame that such perfection should ever be marred by blood. In spite of its evident power, my first thought was that it looked far smaller than I had expected. The blade was double-edged and straight, as wide as the length of my thumb, and no more than six handspans in length. I remember thinking, 'I can carry this!'

The moment was broken by Brenna, who had employed the clicking sound she normally reserved for her horse to gain my attention. Footfalls approaching, but not quickly. Her face betrayed nothing of fear or apprehension. The footfalls maintained pace as he descended. Perhaps he suspected that the noise had been a trick of the wind in the trees, or maybe he had heard nothing, and wished only to escape the cold. His feet had barely reached the floor, when Brenna rushed beside him, empty-handed. With one quick movement, she clapped her hands to the front and back of his bare head, twisting forcefully. A dull, sickening snap, and he saw no more.

In the throes of death, brief though they were, the man threw his arm forward and released his shield. Brenna leapt away to catch it by the rim, forsaking the enemy corpse to prevent the concussion of flat iron upon stone. I had been less than a pace away, and I lurched forward to catch the sentry. I succeeded, and even managed to stop the blade of his sword with the top of my foot before it fell. I reeled at the sight of his head lolling unnaturally to the side, but was glad of Brenna's foresight. Death-by-arrow might have been far louder.

As I stood there, holding onto his body, the blade of his sword balanced atop my foot, an idea came to mind. Communicating with motions, Brenna and I coordinated the effort, dragging him to the base of the stairs, belly down, one foot over the other. His helmet had been hanging by the chinstrap, laced through his baldric, and I removed it and placed it on his head, taking care to fasten the leathern ribbon tightly beneath his jaw. I then sheathed his sword and took his flask, spilling a bit of the strong vapor on his face before placing it near his hand. When they found him in the morning, they would think he had stumbled down the stairs in a drunken stupor, and fallen to his death. We left no evidence to the contrary.

I grasped the Key first, discovering that I did not need to turn it the other way, for it slid out quietly and without resistance. I thought at first about grasping Sequiduris by the blade, but knew that to be a fool's errand. Standing on the casket, I tucked the Key behind my belt, and lifted the Sword gently by the hilt with my right hand, so that it emerged with a gentler version of the noise it made upon entry.

Our task complete, Brenna signaled to Lior with the call of a meadowlark, and we stole into the forest, unseen and unheard. At just under two miles from the edge of the treeline, we rendezvoused in the appointed valley.

Lior must have known that we had succeeded, and though he responded to our meeting with a casual enthusiasm, his face betrayed him—he was dumbfounded at the mere sight of the Sword. For a moment, it appeared as if he might weep. I was yet unsure of my destiny, but marveled at the cunning of the counterfeiter that had fashioned 'the Key'. I knew that somewhere, Lior and Brenna had made a master craftsman very rich.

We took no time to celebrate in such close proximity to our enemies. Instead, Brenna and Lior ordered their soldiers to retrieve their horses, and ours, while I told Lior the tale of our victory. Brenna was content to listen, her face wreathed in a broad grin. Several times in the telling, when I looked to Brenna for confirmation of some detail, her expression seemed alien, her attention diverted. Her gaze was cast upon me, or perhaps upon the Sword, but when brought to full attention, she appeared abashed and simply nodded—this to the apparent amusement of Lior, but at the time I did not understand.

And there was more, for as I recounted those events, they exchanged repeated glances. Those conspiratorial expressions were eloquent, though of a meaning unknown to me, like poetry voiced in a foreign tongue.

When I finished my account, all was silence, and it continued, uncomfortably, for some time; but eventually—and perhaps inevitably—it was broken by Lior.

"This could not have gone any better for us. In truth-"

He stopped himself then, at a sudden and rare loss for words. He turned and stepped away from us, staring off in the direction of the forest; he ran his fingers through his hair absentmindedly. I looked to Brenna then, and though she hid it swiftly, I saw apprehension, writ large upon her face.

Lior took a deep breath, released it explosively, then turned back to the place of our meeting. He wagged his head very slightly, and though he did not look in her direction, I knew it for a message—a signal to his counterpart. When he spoke, he voiced nothing of apprehension; but in his questioning tone, I heard the sound of awe, followed swiftly by excitement.

"The enemy knows nothing of your actions? Truly? Well, I, for one, will do nothing to lift the veil of their ignorance. Sun's Beacon lad, you've done well! Posturing the guard as a careless drunk was a stroke of utter genius! You'll have the Key, the Sword, and the first two Devices before they're any the wiser. When a courier finally gets through to Rorik's Clearing, they'll have nothing to report to their superiors other than the death of a drunken watchman! Ha! You've done it! We've done it! We found him, Cousin!"

He lifted Brenna from her feet in an excited embrace, but at the sound of hoof beats, they released one another, and I realized that they were not permitted to behave as cousins or equals. I puzzled over this, and their earlier strangeness, for some time on the ride to our meeting with Garth and Rowan. Though my ignorance of their order and culture would persist until my arrival in Venibrek, the truth of their apprehension was revealed to me all too soon. But for a time, they were content to resume the journey, and so I followed their lead.

At Lior's advice, I took from my saddlebags a length of cord and the rough blanket I had used for a ground sheet. One of his men brought thick strips of tree bark, longer and wider than the blade of my new weapon, and we lined these with strips from the blanket against the ravages of errant sap. With the bark on either side, pressing against the blade and overlapping the edge, I wrapped the Sword tightly in the remainder of the blanket. With the length of cord, I tied a loop around the knot at either end of the resulting bundle, and wore the makeshift sheath across my back, the blanket covering even the pommel—a shroud against inquisitive eyes.

I mounted with the rest of them, and we rode in a prearranged formation, with the six Initiates (the title of their soldiers, as I would later learn) of Ashad riding out ahead, their keen night vision ensuring a route over even terrain. Behind the scouts, I rode between Lior and Brenna, Lior's men following closely in a single column of six. I was not at all tired, as I had slept from late afternoon to the hour after midnight.

It was not yet dawn. As we rested our horses, I exchanged a few friendly words, primarily with Lior. Brenna had grown taciturn, and every so often I caught her staring at me with that same outlandish look. Lior, now far less worried about the future, and pleased with the outcome of recent events, was even more inclined to humor than usual. With dawn approaching, he grew even more daring, and the laughter of his men only encouraged him. When his humor became derisive, directed at me, the men grew quiet, in a show of respect that gave me great pleasure.

"We shall have to see about changing you out of those rags, boy. Meadrow's finest they may have been, and warm, no doubt, but look at the state of them! Were you leading him through the forest, Lady Brenna, or hunting wildcats with your bare hands for five hours? The lad's a mess!"

I hadn't noticed the state of my clothing, but after a brief self-inspection I found myself amazed at the havoc a few stray branches and a bit of rough tree bark could wreak on otherwise durable materials. My clothes were indeed ragged, and in no state to keep out the wind, much less to present myself as Onidai within the massive, fabled city of Venibrek.

"Yes, perhaps you are right about my clothing. I don't suppose I could stop briefly at Algrae in passing? It wouldn't take more than a moment to buy myself a new tunic and trousers."

Lior must have found great humor in this, for he laughed in such a way that I thought he might fall from his horse.

"Oh, I'm sure we can find someone in Brek with clothes befitting a man of your stature. Can't have an innocent like you wandering around naked during Revelry!"

Though apparently another jibe at my expense, the men could not contain themselves, and on hearing his remark, I feared that many of them would suffer Lior's narrowly avoided fate. I looked ahead, and saw a few of Brenna's Initiates glancing back with knowing smiles of their own, but with no trace of mirth.

I caught Brenna staring yet again, and this time she looked away, beaming at the horizon moments later. I understood none of it, and decided that it mattered little whether I did or not. If I could move about their city without subjecting my arse, balls, and thighs to the constant jostling of a galloping horse, I decided that I would be immensely happy.

CHAPTER NINE

A Long and Happy Road

It grew cold rather suddenly. We rode on for five days, moving directly northeast and avoiding the roads. Late in the afternoon of our fifth day of riding, my body, from lower back to ankle, was awash in unrelenting pain. Where an envenomed missile had failed, the ravages of the saddle seemed all-too-close to success. If I had been required to spend even one more hour flopping helplessly on the back of Loswol's mount, I would have leapt from the saddle, thrown Sequiduris to the ground, and made my way homeward on foot.

As it happened, we found Iurna just in time, and after nine consecutive days on horseback, I wanted nothing more than a hot meal, warm clothes, and a real bed. If Rowan had greeted my arrival totally naked and shouting lewd intentions, I would have refused her outright.

But we were not greeted, at all. Not a soul in the streets. Not a sound. No hammer upon anvil, saw upon timber, laughing children, scolding mothers, or curious chatter at the arrival of newcomers. We rode on in silence, and I could tell that my escort shared my misgivings. Brenna and her Initiates surrounded me, riding with arrows nocked, while Lior rode ahead with two of his own, the remaining four riding in pairs at front and rear of the main body.

I recognized the weathered, nearly unreadable sign of an inn in passing, then halted my horse, causing some confusion among my escort. When they had reined in their own mounts, Brenna turned to me with one eyebrow riding high. I didn't give her a chance to speak, and shouted slightly, so Lior could hear me.

"You told them to wait at the inn, did you not? Well, here we are!"

Before they could chide me for my irreverent shouting in the midst of an eerie stillness, the door of the inn flew wide. There I saw Garth, though only for a moment, and his smiling expression of welcome was quickly transformed into an open-mouthed, panicked grimace as he disappeared behind the open door—I could hardly blame him, for Brenna and her women had swung about in their saddles, their arrows drawn to aim at the sudden movement. I could hear his muffled shouts from behind the door.

"Don't shoot! It's Garth! It's Garth!"

The bows creaked in unison. I was off my horse before anyone could protest, and Garth must have heard the movement of the women, for he emerged immediately and crushed me in an iron embrace.

"You made it! I knew you would! Does this mean I can go home, boy?"

"A long way home from here, Stabler. You'll want a wagon, in any case. I've been bouncing in that huge saddle these past nine days, dreaming all the while of a wagon on an even road—with wide axle-springs and a soft cushion beneath my bruise-covered arse. And who needs a horse that big, anyway? They eat too much, spook too easily, and jostle you with every stride. No soft, smooth, fast-walking gait like that of Meadrow ponies."

Garth was unconvinced.

"Aye, boy, but they're faster, and that's what counts. They can carry more weight, and they're taller, and that counts for something, too."

I had little patience for common sense.

"Tell that to everything below my chest. I may never walk again! Do they have beds here? Real beds, I mean?"

He nodded with a wry grin.

"Aye, and decent beer and hot food. We'll have to see about clothes as well, it seems. No blood, but they've seen some kind of battle, to be shredded in such short order."

"And I'll explain it all when I'm warm, fed, quenched, and rested, and not a moment sooner."

The inn was far better kept than I would have expected, and as Lior had said, the people minded their business. When they saw fifteen riders charge into town with weapons drawn, they retreated into their homes, fearing the worst. Even later, when our true nature was made known, we saw not a single soul in the inn, outside of our own party.

The innkeeper made no complaint, and on the contrary seemed thrilled with the prospect of seventeen potential guests. Unfortunately, she had only five rooms, two of which had been occupied by Rowan and Garth. The Initiates were permitted to sleep in the stables, and they accepted the offer without hesitation, no doubt thinking any roof desirable after months of sleeping in the open.

I recounted the entire tale to Rowan and Garth, who listened attentively, and my words were covered by the varied conversations of the Initiates, encouraged by Lior and Brenna to baffle the ears of any curious bystander.

Rowan was unusually taciturn, even shy in my presence. She had trouble meeting my gaze, often staring off into the distance when I attempted to make eye contact. And yet, she did not appear ashamed, angry, or dismissive. She was an attentive listener, offering appreciative gasps when my tale became suspenseful, and she smiled weakly in response to the same humorous observations that had Garth grasping his sides. She said nothing as my story ended, and I grew angry at the sight of her meekness, for that was not the embodiment of Tahlrenic beauty and brilliance that I had grown to worship.

As the evening wore on, Rowan and Garth rose to retire, and as I made to follow, I felt Lior's hand at my shoulder, pressing me gently back to my seat. Brenna dismissed her people, and Lior paid the innkeeper handsomely to take her leave also, joking as she descended to her basement bedchamber that she could sleep well, being so well guarded. When he was certain that we were alone, he returned with three small stone cups, and Brenna placed a narrow flask of glazed black ceramic on the table. She had already stoked the fire in the hearth, and the room felt warm and pleasant.

My clothes had been replaced with a simple, warm tunic of thick wool, and supple doeskin breeches lined with a surprisingly soft linen. I was sore, but comfortable and well fed. Lior pulled the stopper, lowered his nose to the neck of the flask and inhaled deeply. Whatever aroma might inspire such a man to silence, I could not have guessed, though, true to form, he did not long leave me in suspense.

"Wine vapor. A Viharthian liquor. Not their container, of course. Their bottles are of thin glass, poorly blown, and many are broken in transit, though honestly, I'm surprised this bottle survived in one piece. It has been in my saddlebag nearly six months. Still, I thought it prudent to bring along a bit of the vapor, in case we had something to celebrate."

I knew all about wine vapor from the humorous tales inspired by the practice of attempting daring trade excursions. The risk was always high, as was the potential profit. It was common for desperate or foolish traders to risk everything on a single haul, often returning with nothing to trade but broken glass and highly flammable straw; the most common trade route for wine vapor would eventually be known as the 'Eggshell Express'. I had always thought the practice beyond stupid, for not a single character in any of the tales had ever thought to drain the numerous bottles into a few sturdy casks.

Lior poured a measure into each cup, and offered two of them to Brenna and myself. He sniffed again, this time over his cup, swirling the liquid beneath his nose with closed eyes. He exhaled with a relieved sigh, then opened his eyes to smile at my scrutiny.

"It's very good. Normally, I would tell you to sip it, but we have much to discuss in short order and I know you're exhausted, so drink it all down in a single draught and I'll pour you another while we get on with it."

I did as he asked, and he and Brenna followed. The liquid burned with a hotter fire than even the cheapest mead I had sampled in my mother's tavern. I coughed and sputtered, but knew that it could have been far worse, for in spite of the fire, the liquid rolled smoothly down my throat. I wondered then at the nature of the strange clear liquor that had filled the flask of the guard at Rorik's Clearing. The stuff had burned my nostrils! Wine vapor is amber in color, and, in spite of its potency, it is fragrant and smooth. Lior poured us all another, and I contented myself with sip and smell, as he 'got on with it'.

"First, you should know that Garth will be leaving tomorrow with five of my men. He too, will know the pleasures of the saddle, though they'll doubtless arrive at the gates of your Banner much sooner than he expects. The road, horses, and elements willing, they should win home within two weeks. Perhaps sooner, as I'm unsure of their route. Dorid, one of those escorting Garth, knows the way far better than I."

I accepted his words with little difficulty. I had known that Garth would have to return to his duties sooner or later, and besides, I needed him to convey word to my mother that I was well—to mention nothing of the pilfered coin I would ask him to deliver. I took another sip, and Lior continued.

"Now then, on to the difficult business. We have a confession to make. Our people will not be expecting you."

"I know. How could they be expecting me? We've been on the move since the Reaping Festival. I never expected you to send messengers at every bend in the road. Is that what has you ill-at-ease?"

I turned to Brenna, and she was squirming timidly in her seat. I'd never seen her in such a state. She was as meek as Rowan had been—unable even to meet my gaze. Lior pressed on, and he had no difficulty staring straight at me. His voice held the frank, forthright tone used between men, and he spoke so quickly, so forcefully, that I had no time to interrupt.

"The truth is, we aren't going to tell them. Never intended to. That wasn't a part of the plan. We were going to bring him in undercover, presenting him only when we had the ear of the Council—our governing body. With all of the warlike Banners too suspicious of one another to offer their support to a claimant from the lands of any of their rivals, we were sure that a backwater Onidai would succeed where any other would fail. You have to understand lad, we didn't expect to find you at all. The true Onidai, I mean.

"With time running out, and the Banners unwilling to come together, we formed a plan of our own. The only problem was that our plan was left in the hands of a complete fool. The Onidai could not be well known, any more than he could hail from one of the more...prominent Banners. Rorik's time has flown—the mediations of the Wise Kenalka long forgotten. Edam was informed via courier that we needed someone who could meet the appearance, if not the qualifications of the Onidai—a big, strapping man to lead the people. We needed no philosopher. So long as he held Sequiduris and the Key, we knew that the Banners would rally.

"Unfortunately, we couldn't be sure of the loyalties of even our fellow Phulakoi. Sigmund, for example, is the son of the Hjarrleth Matriarch, and his loyalties to his mother might have clouded his judgment. His ties to the ruling class made him a liability, so he remained in the dark, as did L'mah. Edam, however, proved himself to be suitably corruptible. And again, the nice, quiet backwater of Meadrow proved the perfect spot to select someone of the proper...stature."

"Stanoth."

"Yes, Stanoth. The moronic bastard chose his own son! When Edam informed us of his choice, we told him that it was unacceptable. Stanoth was too close to Edam. Imagine the suspicion that might have arisen, when the son of one of the Phulakoi—one of the only two permitted to marry, much less father legitimate children—stepped forward to fulfill ancient prophecy. At any rate, Edam lost his temper, and said he would expose us if we didn't give Stanoth what he needed to pass the Orinsos. In the end, we had no choice."

"You gave him the wrong answer. You killed him."

Lior frowned momentarily, an unusual occurrence, and the expression appeared foreign on his normally sunny face. He paused for the space of five heartbeats and sipped delicately at his vapor, before continuing.

"Technically, he killed himself. We tried to warn him that, even with the 'correct choice', he'd be slain if he wasn't worthy. Pity he didn't listen. Either way, with Edam's son dead, or too afraid to make the attempt, our problem was solved. The truth is, we would have returned the following year—assuming we could afford to wait that long—with a false Onidai of our own choosing already in place."

I do not know why, but I felt betrayed. I had been no more honest in my actions than Lior, Brenna, Edam, or any of the others involved. I had cheated at what should have been a sacred test, one that was meant to ensure that no man could take power unless the Banners stood in dire need of a symbol—a savior, to lead them into battle. And even so, I convinced myself that my crime had been far less heinous than their own.

What had I done, truly, that could be considered cheating? The advantage I had taken was small, insignificant. I'd heard their riddle and seen their implements in advance. The only difference between my trial and Stanoth's, was that I had taken the time needed to solve the riddles. My crime was minuscule.

And after all, it was my courage that led me to fight, without reason or experience, in the battle at Eastwall. It was I who found the Key—the redemption of their bungling lack of foresight. It was my plan that resulted in the recovery of Sequiduris—which succeeded without any unnecessary bloodshed—and I who had spun the death of the guard to look like a drunken accident, leaving our enemies three steps behind us. Those were my victories, and they far outweighed my crime.

They, on the other hand, had attempted to sully ancient tradition, twisting the tests of the Wise Kenalka to manipulate the people! And yet, perhaps it would have been for the good of the people. I knew nothing of the world at large, and had no right to question the actions of those that knew it well.

After a long silence, I felt Brenna's hand upon the nape of my neck. As I looked up, her eyes met my own. She held me there, in her eyes.

"We did not know that you would Prove yourself, and we will tell our people when the time is right. Until then, you will simply be our guest, honored and welcomed—our authority extends that far, I think! Until that time, we will need the Sword and Key. We would not ask if we thought that Sequiduris could pass unseen, but it is a long ride, and Lior and I must make haste. Our people will await your arrival at Algrae, and from there you will ride to our gates, welcomed and expected...or welcomed, at the very least."

I had no reason to trust her.

"How can I be certain that you do not have some bulky husk in mind for the title I have already earned? How long will it take, with so much time to consider your options, for Stanoth's fate to become my own, once you have both Sword and Key? Why should I trust you, when your faith has long since faltered?"

I had never seen much in the way of emotion from Brenna, but there, her hand still upon the nape of my neck, I could see as she looked into my eyes that her own were filled with tears.

"You will trust me because _you_ are the Onidai! I had no faith—none, that we would find one such as you. In answering the call of the Orinsos, you risked your life, finding hidden meaning in my simple recitation. You watched Stanoth die—you knew the fate that awaited failure, and in spite of great risk you stepped forward to answer the needs of the people. Then, in a land without buildings of stone, you conjured the arch from the ancient esoterica of a Kenalkan riddle.

"The loss of the Key was our failing, for you knew not of its existence, and yet it was you that recovered it, risking death at the hands of seven monstrous villains! Loswol saw you step into the clearing, and he thought you foolish, facing seven men alone—but I was there as well, and what I witnessed was not the act of a fool, but the sort of heroism known only in ancient myth! Two died by your hand, and it was your prisoner, through some strange power of suggestion in his language of rhyme, who brought about the recovery of the Key. It was your refusal to risk our people that led to a bloodless victory in recovering Sequiduris, and your cunning that leaves our enemies in ignorance of our progress.

"Who but the Onidai would charge into battle, unarmed, to claim the weapons of a fallen cousin, and fight on in his stead? Who, without the Onidai's great heart and cunning mind, would choose to save the lives of people he did not know or care for, and risk his own life, claiming his destiny and using the death of an enemy to further the cause of freedom? We will choose no other, because there is no other! You have come this far, and with only seven turns of a key, you can change the world. You will trust me, because I have no need to trust you. It is not trust that compels me, Ralph. It is faith."

I felt my own eyes welling with tears, and when I turned against the force of her grip, I saw that Lior was wiping his on the hem of his robe. They had acted in absence of hope, and now they sought to make amends. They were contrite, and had they wanted Sword and Key for any nefarious purpose, they could have slain me at any time upon the road. I removed her hand from about my neck, and pressed the Key gently into her open palm.

When I offered Lior the wrapped Sword, finally freeing it from its place at my back, he sat it gently in a vacant chair. I leaned back in my own seat, and downed the last of my wine vapor. There, in the warmth of that far-flung inn, we allowed the strength of emotion to pass, and sat in silence.

Eventually, I turned the conversation to less pressing topics, offering my dismissal of past affronts as a form of the forgiveness they obviously desired.

"With the two of you riding off home, and Garth riding off to my home, how am I to make my way to Algrae?"

Lior poured a bit more of the liquor into my cup, and as I began to swallow, he gave his answer.

"You will ride in the Hjarrleth wagon—with Rowan."

In my surprise, I gulped too quickly, and all at once I was sputtering again, swallowing hard against the cruel burn. Lior continued, pretending not to notice my discomfort.

"It is entirely out of her way, you know. Tahlrene is to the southwest, and Algrae is almost due east along the roadway. We had no right to ask her, really. It was presumptuous, I know! We broached the subject while you were being fitted for new clothes. She offered surprisingly little resistance. Honestly, I think you owe Garth a debt of gratitude. I've no idea what he and Rowan have been talking about for the past nine days, but it must have been something of great import, for her mind was made up even before I'd finished asking the favor."

I was abed shortly thereafter, thankful for the chance to sleep in warmth and comfort. I thought of Rowan as I slipped out of consciousness, and smiled; I felt as though I could smell the wild perfume of her hair, even from the opposite side of the inn.

* * *

I was late in waking, and had to rush through breakfast alone. When I emerged from the inn, the men of Brek were mounting. Five remained, and I saw that Taemon, the youngest of Lior's retinue, was not among them.

"The others left an hour ago. Didn't want to wait while you slept the day away."

I turned to see Garth in full uniform. His own shield was lashed across his back, and he held the much older Meadrow ward in his hand. The bronze was well burnished, the bits of green patina scrubbed away, and when he held out his arm, I could see that the strap and handholds had been replaced.

"I noticed this in the back of the wagon. The blacksmith here brought it back to life, and the tanner replaced everything else. I'll tell you boy, they don't make them like this anymore! Heavy, but solid. You can trust it. More than that, never let friend nor foe forget the land that birthed you. Stinking, scheming Farmers we may have, but we have the Guard, too, and that's something worth remembering!"

He released the handhold, letting it dangle heavily from the replaced shoulder strap, and held it out to me. I nodded deeply, feeling the heat behind my eyes that threatened to wet my cheek with tears. It was a strangely emotional moment. Garth had taken my father's place, though neither of us would ever have said it outright. I fought back the tears, willing myself to show no weakness to the man. He must have seen it, for he smiled a bit, and with a shallow nod began to turn and take his leave. I stopped him, and held out the pouch containing my stolen gold.

"Don't clap me in the stocks, but I took these from that big box we found in the cave. Give a few to my mother when you see her, and feel free to keep a few for yourself. You may even decide to buy a horse or two...if you enjoy the ride."

He laughed, blissfully unaware of the pain he would experience within the next few hours. Again, he started to take his leave, but suddenly he turned. He took the shield from my hand, placed it on the ground, then hugged me as a father, and I did not fight the embrace. When he released me, he placed a hand on each of my shoulders, and stared directly into my eyes.

"You've made me very proud, son. Very proud. I'll tell your mother what you've become, and see that she has no fear of your return. You're a fighter, same as your father. I'll not be ashamed at the mention of him. You do what you have to, and come home. If you can find it in you, try not to hate them. The Guard, I mean. Most of them never did you any harm. You'll find the place different when you see it next, so don't linger too long in strange lands when it's over."

He smiled, the warmth of pride in his eyes, then turned to mount his borrowed horse. Garth did not look back, and for that I have always been grateful, for my resolve melted as he rode away, and the heat behind my eyes returned. I wiped my cheeks, conscious of the fact that Rowan was waiting behind me, then placed my shield in the bed of the wagon, and took my place beside her.

* * *

The same flat landscape surrounded us for much of the first day. It was warmer than I had expected, and the wind was gentle. The gray clouds had dissolved by midmorning, bathing the dying winter landscape in sunny brightness.

In spite of the wide detour she was taking—several days of sluggish travel in the wrong direction—Rowan seemed in fine spirits. Lior and Brenna had assured me the night before that the road east would be safe, especially after their party of nine armed warriors rode through on the same road. Though they would be gaining distance with each passing moment, I was confident that they would not leave dangers in our path, and so I, too, was uncharacteristically relaxed, delighted by the company, as well as the strangely temperate weather.

And, of course, we traveled in silence, a condition both awkward and comforting, for in spite of the ten days of travel ahead, I found I had nothing of import to say. I would be expected to live as a leader of men—a bold example to those serving beneath me—and I couldn't even pluck up the courage to look at her. I felt foolish for being so bashful, but then, I was alone with her—truly alone for the first time, with no illness to elicit sympathy or justify her attention.

"Tahlrene is rarely flat. Nothing but hills and green. This place is beautiful."

I thought that perhaps she was trying to start a conversation, but there was little I could add without sounding argumentative. The weather was glorious, a spring day in the midst of winter. The landscape, however, was gray, flat, and uninviting. Seeing no beauty in the dead of winter, I held my peace.

We continued for a time in silence, and all the while I watched her from the corner of my eye. If I had passed the entire day without a word, catching only the suggestion of her while pretending to stare at the path ahead, I would not have considered the time wasted.

"Thank you, for the sword."

I hadn't expected that, but I thought quickly, and responded in the confident manner of many clever boys.

"Huh?"

"Ah, so he can speak! The sword. That great Tahlrenic cleaver in the back of the wagon. Brenna told me you picked it from the hoard just for me. Thank you. Weapons are not my passion, but it was thoughtful, nonetheless. Perhaps I'll melt it down and arm fifty men."

"Actually, I thought your father might like it. A sword that large must be meant for some sort of chieftain."

"Aye, and it would be, were my father a chieftain. Still, he may find a use for it, as proud men often will. Likely he'll hang it over the mantle, or wear it to clan meetings—it's a heavy one, but he could do with the exercise, chieftain or not, and no amount of laughter from men of higher station would stay his pride in wearing it."

"So he works for a living? I felt certain he was a chieftain of some sort, with the grand high Phulako of Tahlrene for his daughter."

"Ach, it's not so grand a title as all that—mostly just a symbol of status, so Tahlrene can retain its own as one of the Banners. In truth, I was chosen at random. And to be sure, my father's no chieftain! He's a shepherd, from a family of shepherds, and my mother is a weaver, from a great clan of weavers. A marriage of convenience and little else, though I'll not gripe about it. In fact, I have naught but cause for gratitude."

"What do you mean?"

"Well think on it—if they'd no thought to marry, convenience or otherwise, I'd not be here, to enjoy this fine day in the country."

"I see your point. Now that you mention it, I suppose I should thank them as well. No marriage, no Rowan—no Rowan, no Ralph. For now, I'll have to settle by way of thanking you. Sigmund and Boers kept me alive far longer than should have been possible, but if you hadn't arrived so quickly, I would be dead."

"And don't be so sure I won't call on you to return the favor. I may yet have need of an Onidai, farm boy or not."

I grinned at the thought of paying her an unexpected visit. Tahlrene is isolated by a thousand miles of wilderness, much like Meadrow, but by green hills and untamed forests, rather than dust and sun-cracked clay.

"At your service! But what could the Phulako of the great Tahlrenic Tribes require of a lowly farm boy? Though in truth, I am but a humble tavern boy. I serve the brew of the wheat, and leave others to the sowing and reaping."

"Distraction would be service enough, and a tavern boy might be well suited to the task. Get my people drunk, so I can sneak away under cover of night. I'd be twice indebted to you: first for freeing me from the title, and again for freeing me from the fate of all young women."

"Fate? What fate could they impose upon you? Does your title grant you no authority? No respect?"

"Oh, respect I have, to be sure, though I only have authority over myself. Mine is a unique position—revered and unneeded, honored and ignored. Until now, the title has been just that—a foreign honorific, devoid of application, and identified only by the respect heaped upon it. And the fate I spoke of was marriage, and children."

"You seek rescue from a husband and children?"

I was deliberately vague, seeking any excuse to keep her talking, about any subject. As long as she continued to speak, I had an excuse to look at her.

She was driving, and the wagon had been heavily loaded with a mismatched team. Three were hers—her mount and two pack-horses, and the fourth belonged to Lambek. Lambek's mount was not keeping pace with the Tahlrenic mares, for his strides were longer, and the wagon often jostled as he fought against his harness. Her need for concentration provided me with the ability to stare shamelessly without fear of discovery.

"Children I would love! Damn that Venibrek gelding. Keep pace, you long-legged glue kettle! It's the husband I'm in fear of, though I'm no worse-off than any other. My fate is only delayed."

"Ah, I see. You have no love for your betrothed. Plenty of marriages are arranged in Meadrow, for the Farmers at least. Only the families of the Guardsmen are permitted to marry for love."

"Your father was a Guardsman, was he not?"

"He was, but how did you know that?"

"Think you that Garth and I spent the past nine days speaking of the weather? By now, I know more about you than most. You were our only common ground!"

There was something in her revelation that made me nervous, though I can't imagine what, if anything, Garth might have told her that I would have found embarrassing. Maybe I was ashamed of my past. I was insecure—a boy playing at the role of a man.

"And what exactly did he tell you?"

She smiled, flashing white behind crimson, clearly aware of my sudden discomfiture, and taking thorough pleasure in the knowledge that she could evoke such insecurity with so innocent a remark.

"Oh, he told me a great deal. First of your father, and how he was ill-used by your people. Wouldn't tell me his name, but spoke of him as a great captain. Then he spoke of your mother, and her strength in raising you. Long odds, raising a healthy son against the abuse of so many. Later, we spoke of you—he had much to tell of you."

I waited, unwilling to appear insecure a second time by prodding her further. She understood the inner-workings of my mind better than I did, and she rose to the challenge, drawing out the silence until it grew uncomfortable. She grinned again, her body quivering almost imperceptibly in what would have been a girlish giggle, had it produced any sound.

"I know everything from the time of the Orinsos to the battle—and your wound. Lior spoke at great length throughout the journey to Meadrow, and Garth filled in the gaps. You fought the drunken wastrels that damaged your mother's tavern, even knowing you could not win, and you slew one of them when his attentions to your mother grew amorous. It would have been rape. Two of your Guardsmen—Garth had harsh enough words for them—watched it happen, and did nothing. Before they died in the battle, they both bore witness against you, but your mother swore to Garth that your killing of the man was an accident. Was it?"

In truth, I did not know myself.

"Accident or not, my mother and I were proscribed—unprotected by the law. The killing of a Farmer would have been a death sentence, so I hid in the forest for a few days. I stumbled into the Orinsos when I returned to surrender. I was in fear of what the people might do to the outlawed mother of an outlawed murderer, had I escaped 'justice'. The Farmers care not who pays for a crime, so long as someone pays."

My 'attempted surrender' had been the talk of Meadrow. Of course, it was a lie, or a half-lie—my mother's safety had been among my chief concerns. If I had been killed at the Orinsos, the Farmers would have had no further need for retribution. And if I survived, I and mine would be beyond the reach of any Farmer. Alive or dead, I would have accomplished my goal.

"Would they have executed her?"

"No. The Guard would have been...sympathetic. Many of the higher-ranking officers loved my father, and besides, the Men of the Guard serve as the instruments of justice—true justice, I mean. Wouldn't have mattered to the Farmers, though. One morning, they'd have found her dead, and no one would have answered for the killing. The outlawed are not avenged."

Neither of us spoke for a while, but as I thought about it, I realized the truth in my own words.

"No."

She turned to look at me and almost drove the wagon off the road.

"No, what?"

"No, his death was not an accident. I hadn't considered it until now, because at the time, I would not have thought myself capable of killing a man. The truth is that I did want to kill him, and he died as a result. He wanted my mother, not out of love, but out of a passing, drunken fancy. He would have used her against her will, and nobody—Guardsman, Farmer, Garth, or I—could have responded justly, according to our own laws. He tried to rape my mother, and I killed him. I'm sorry that it had to happen, but I'll not apologize for the act.

"In any case, proscribed or not, she's now Mother to the Onidai, and anyone that touches her will answer to me. Actually, they'll answer to Garth, with me so far from home."

"Garth really loves your mother, doesn't he?"

"Certainly, after his own fashion. My father was his superior, already a Forester when Garth was a mere Shielding. Garth was in awe of him, and they became fast friends. He cares for my mother in honor of his memory. So yes, I suppose, in a way, he does love her."

She took a deep breath and sighed, shaking her head in what must have been an expression of pity, though at the time, I did not take notice; I was far too busy watching the fabric of her white linen shirt, unique in its softness, as it yielded to the force of a gentle breeze, moulding perfectly to the celestial form beneath.

"You really don't see it, do you?"

"Hmm? What have I missed?"

"Garth loves your mother. He is...in love...with her. I cannot be sure because I only saw them together on a half-dozen occasions, but I believe she feels the same about him."

I will take the opportunity now, while the moment permits, to explain my rather unusual response to Rowan's casual revelation. I had known my father only briefly, and had only a handful of memories of him. I had known Garth far longer, and loved him, almost as a father. His attentions had been fatherly throughout my young life, though they took the form of encouragement and occasional advice, rather than the ever-present tutelage offered by a real father, for he had four sons and a daughter of his own. His own wife had died five years earlier, in childbirth.

Only disgrace kept Garth and my mother apart. By law, they could not marry.

I knew, from observation of other boys, that in early youth a son is often jealous of his mother's attention, allowing only his father to turn her from his sight. But my mother was alone. Garth had no wife. My father had been dead more than twelve years, so the loyalties born of a long and happy relationship did not exist, and my mother's happiness was paramount.

I loved my mother. I loved Garth. If the two were happier together than apart, I would see them both happy. Rowan was turning repeatedly, trying to watch me and the road simultaneously.

"Yes, you're right, Rowan. I suppose they do—they are in love. Hmm. It never would have occurred to me."

"What will you do then, with this newfound knowledge?"

"Nothing. What can I do? If Garth loves my mother, I'll let things follow their natural course."

"La, well of course you will! It's been working so well, 'ere now! Think you that has something to do with your opinion?"

"What difference should my opinion make? I have no authority over my mother. If Garth wants to marry her, that's his business."

She took the reins in one hand, and closed her eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose before halting the team.

"Here—you can drive now, while I do the talking."

I did as she said, and saw immediately the source of her difficulty in driving. I knew that the team had been mismatched, but not that the Trooper-Initiates had been so thorough in their ineptitude. Rowan's pack-horses, sturdy and short-legged, had not been leading. Nor were they following. The shorter horses were at lead right and rear left. Rowan's mount had longer legs than either pack-horse, and was only a hand shorter than Lambek's gelding.

I halted the wagon and set about rearranging them, and Rowan did not respond to the act in any way, in support or protest. The task was more challenging than I had expected, and took almost half an hour, but when I finished the pack-horses were at lead, side-by-side. Now bound to the pace of the shorter horses, the big brutes adjusted their gait, awkwardly at first, but within another half-hour, we were riding smoothly and without difficulty.

It was not yet noon, but Rowan had taken advantage of the momentary pause, and retrieved a loaf of bread and a heavy ale skin from the stores behind us. We split the loaf, and passed the ale back and forth, and by midday the weather was still perfect. The sky was clear, its azure emptiness broken only by a few fluffy white clouds, and with the light of the sun and a warm, gentle breeze billowing over the hills throughout the day, we had only the lifeless terrain to remind us that it was winter.

Rowan took the reins when the skin ran dry.

"Thank you for rearranging them. Some of Lior's men hitched the team early this morning, and Garth fretted over the work. He was about to set it right himself, when you came along.

"Now, back to Garth and Nuda—I think you'll need to tell Garth that you favor the match, before he'll make any move to court her."

"Why would he need my approv-"

"Tsk, tsk! Just listen! Your father was his friend, his Forester—rather like a middling officer, yes? He loved him and respected him. But he's gone. What then, would prevent Garth from marrying your mother?"

She waited for the space of ten heartbeats.

"You, Ralph! You are a living reminder of Garth's loyalty to your father. He needs your blessing to move forward."

She let it sit, and I waited. When she did not continue, I put myself to the hazard.

"May I speak?"

She nodded slowly, and with much exaggeration.

"Even if I could speak with Garth—and I cannot, for he is miles away by now, and I may never see him again—my mother cannot legally marry anyone, any more than I can. We are disgraced, outlawed, and our line is not permitted to continue.

"I want to see them happy, Rowan! His wife has been gone for five years. My mother has had only me for more than twelve years. I love them both. They're lonely. They love each other. It would be an ideal match, though I know it will never happen. Disgrace is stronger than love—at least to a heartless Farmer."

I took the reins from her, and she could tell that I was upset. When I awoke that morning, I had no idea that Garth and Nuda—the two people I loved the most, were in love themselves, and completely powerless to do anything about it. It hurt me deeply to think that my mother might die alone, for if I died—and that was a distinct possibility—she would have no one left to care for her.

Even from the depths of despair, I felt Rowan's hand on my shoulder.

"Sweet and dense is an odd combination, when paired with wise and brave. I wonder if Rorik shared those traits? Of course they'll marry! You said it yourself, she's now 'Mother to the Onidai'. If she wants to marry, who's to stop her? And Garth's of high rank, is he not? Who's your general—the leader of your Guardsmen?"

"Cyrtis. He's High Stabler. One rank above Garth."

"Is this Cyrtis the type of man that would stand in the way, should Garth choose to marry?"

I almost laughed at the question.

"No. He loves Garth like a brother, and I think he loved my father even more."

"So, there you have it. The Onidai—future Commander of the Armies of the Kenalkan Banners—wishes for his mother to marry, and her suitor is a high-ranking Commander of the Guard, the Army of Meadrow, in effect. Further, the marriage is supported by the General of the Army, your High Stabler. With the Banners behind you, and the spears of your own people in support of Garth, think you the Farmers will be eager to stand between the two of them?"

I took great pleasure in the thought of my mother and Garth happily married; the sensation grew to euphoria as I imagined the Farmers' impotent displeasure at the sight of my mother's happiness. Married, happy, and nothing the filthy bastards could do about it!

"The Farmers will not be pleased. In fact, I'm sure they'll be outraged. A public wedding, perhaps."

She gifted me with the lyrical sound of her laughter, and we spent the remainder of the afternoon hatching plans and deciding how best to go about marrying my two favorite people as quickly as possible.

That night, while I pitched the only tent in our possession, and saw to the needs of our horses, Rowan set about cooking dinner. By the time the horses were brushed and fed, their shallow trough filled from the large barrel of fresh water we kept in the bed of the wagon, I caught the aroma of a variety of spices that set the juices of my stomach churning.

Her knowledge of herblore had many uses, and cooking fell into her ever-widening circle of casually mastered arts. I dined that night on mutton stew, the broth made from the local ale of Iurna. To the earthy, yeasty flavor of the brew, Rowan added several bundles of spices, thrown into the pot just as the beer began to steam. Carrots, peas, string beans, and small onions filled out the stew, and I ate three full bowls before my distended belly begged me to stop. And there was little of greed to add to my gluttony: the only pot we had was far too large for a small meal, and we had provisions enough to feed ten in the time it would take us to find Algrae.

I had placed our tent on the sharp incline of a hill overlooking the road. It wasn't much of a climb, but steep, and I positioned the wagon at its base, with the stockade of tethered horses to one side. With a sheer drop facing the road, we were guarded on all sides but one. I was on the verge of building on the fire, to keep it burning throughout the night, but Rowan stopped me, again making me feel foolish. A late-burning fire could attract trouble of the kind we should fear, where wild animals would be scared off by the sight of iron weapons and bucking horses.

I took her advice, and left the fire to die. Instead, I retrieved my shield, and a sword that had caught my eye. It was no Sequiduris, but the short, stiff, double-edged blade left little room for untrained folly. Many more of the weapons in the wagon were intricate, heavy, and finely made, and though they looked truly fierce, my hands were not yet fit to wield them. With a short sword, I made a very real threat, amplified by the desperation that would require me to use it, and the high tower of my shield would ensure that I made at least a fair showing before its weight exhausted me. I propped my shield against the tent flap, and tucked the sword beneath the bedclothes, confident that it would stay sheathed unless I should require it.

I was not at all nervous when I took my place in the tent beside Rowan. The events of the day had transformed her, so that she seemed more like a friendly young girl—more youthful companion than the beautiful apparition that had roused me from a horrifying nightmare. That night, I slept dreamlessly, and awoke without shame, late in midmorning.

* * *

Slow progress offered me little cause to grieve. Good food, leisurely travel, unseasonably sunny weather, and a beautiful traveling companion appealed to me far more than any length of time spent trapped within the confines of a drab, stone-walled city. When we set out on the second day, I remembered a bit of our previous conversation, and put her to the question immediately.

"You mentioned something about your delayed fate yesterday, before we spent most of the day talking about the upcoming marriage of my mother and good-father Garth. Today, the topic is Rowan of the Tahlrenic Tribes. And...begin!"

She smiled, and offered another silent giggle.

"Are we to speak of my delayed fate, or of some other looming catastrophe?"

"Well in truth, I was hoping to discuss anything that might encourage you to smile, but this talk of catastrophe demands redress, or at least the pretense of impartial attention. Let's start with catastrophe, and see if things get any lighter from there. Your betrothed was the source of your grief, was he not?"

Rowan's disdain was eloquent. She blushed, and twisted her face into a grimace.

"He would be, if I knew him. He does not yet exist, at least in that capacity, but it is only a matter of time."

"Your parents haven't chosen yet?"

"Haven't and won't; not if I have any say in the matter. According to our laws, I was free to trade the emissary's robe for an apron at thirteen. Most only take the title for a year—they are then free to marry. If those are my only choices, I'll die in my robes."

She was plainly dressed, in leather riding breeches and the same white linen shirt she had been wearing the day before. In fact, I had never seen her in the robe of a Phulako.

"It seems we are sailing in the same ship. I hope you know how to swim, Rowan, because I'm no warrior. I'm disgraced, and I may die soon. You claim that you'd rather die than marry, but is there no young man in all of Tahlrene with the power to make you happy?"

"How can I be happy when I'm given no choice? How can any of us? Our young girls are married to old men—sold like prize sows to any toothless old goat willing to pay the price. The older they are, the wealthier they are, and few girls my age are married to men less than thirty years their senior. I'll not live as the bed warmer to some ancient lech, who has no more care for me or my happiness than he would for the brood of daughters produced by his nightly advances.

"Under the protection of my title I cannot be forced to marry. I'll live without children, but I'll live freely. In any case, Tahlrene is going to need an experienced Phulako, if Lior's 'great war' is upon us. Maybe I can fake my death before its end, and find a home in Sangholm or Viharth."

What she had failed to mention, whether blinded by rage or bound by modesty, was that beautiful young girls were the true commodity, and the wealthy paid dearly for them—the very wealthy are never very young. The less beautiful, and even the homely were often married off to boys or young men close to their own age. In Tahlrene, beauty has always been a curse.

"Do your parents know how you feel? Have you spoken to them of this? If they knew they were abandoning you to such a fate, they might be less inclined to marry you off so quickly."

"And how am I to do that? Do I confront them both at once, telling my mother that I do not want to marry an old man, to be used for his sick pleasures—in front of my own father, who is himself seventeen years older than my mother? They've grown to love each other through the long trials of a troubled marriage, though it is not a passionate love. Still, am I to insult my father, and remind my mother that she is nothing more than chattel? Would they thank me for that? No, I'll not cause them pain for my own benefit!"

She said nothing more, and I had nothing to add. A quarter of an hour later, I broke the silence.

"Alright then, it's settled. No marriage for you. No young Tahlrenic bucks vying for your attention. No old geezers trying to buy you at a discount. No men chasing after you at all. I'll try to contain my disappointment. Just how much do these old men pay? Would a huge casket filled with silver and gold suffice?"

She turned, and from the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the warmest smile I'd ever seen. Her skin had flushed to a full red, whether from embarrassment or fading ardor I could not tell, but with her hair only a few shades darker, her teeth flashed brilliantly in contrast, and the greenness of her eyes blazed against the crimson of her cheeks, that they seemed almost to glow.

At that moment, I made a mental note to inquire of a third-party the traditional bridal price of a shepherd's daughter. If I survived the war, I would pay it one hundred fold.

Still deep in the throes of unblinking awe, my attention was not focused where it should have been. I had not seen the dip in the road ahead. The heads of the horses dropped as they tackled the depression, and the sudden, unexpected jerk of the reins rekindled a fire Rowan had quenched only weeks earlier.

A sharp, indescribable burning permeated through my shoulder, and I dropped the reins, almost losing control of the wagon. Rowan pulled the team to a halt, and her warmth was replaced at once by worry. I waved her away, blaming the pull of the reins for the spasm, and sought to replace worry again with warmth.

"Those Nalbans are innovators, that I'll grant them. Fine horsemen, true, but that venom of theirs—pure genius! When my travels lead me there, I'll have to thank them for the experience. Or maybe I'll share it with them. Why don't you join me? They might need a healer."

She clearly had no love for Nalbans. The thought of curing them of the effects of their own venom was supposed to make her laugh. Instead, she set her jaw and pursed her lips. I could tell that she was angry, but again, I found the expression appealing.

"By all means, share it. I'd be happy to join you, but only as a spectator. Tahlrenic vengeance for thousands of years of subjugation. Their recent crimes will require a more creative solution. I'll be sure to tell you when I think of something appropriately gruesome."

"I was given to believe that Rorik had put an end to their attacks on Tahlrene—more than three thousand years ago. Even old hates mellow, given time."

"Attack can mean far more than the destruction caused by an army. As to time, I've not known them to take an idle breath between schemes. Tahlrene was much like Meadrow once, with wheat fields stretching to the horizon. Now most of the farms are gone, and the Nalbans have us tearing the land apart to feed their sick desire."

"And what do the Nalbans desire? I don't know much about them, admittedly. I know exactly two words of their language: Kurume and Yanik, and I'm only aware of those because you taught them to me."

"They desire the destruction of any nation they cannot enslave. When they cannot defeat their enemies at war, they encourage weakness in any form they can. At one time, they delighted in tainting our crops with swarms of insects, and they did the same to the fields beyond Venibrek, but three generations ago, some of their people decided that weakness could be encouraged through trade.

"When iron deposits were found beneath the soft soil of our southern hills, the Nalbans began to buy it, paying very high prices and encouraging the strip mines that destroy our farmland. Much of the iron they keep, but the rest they trade with the Hjarrleth, who have mined their mountains hollow, and drained their bogs in search of iron-rich peat. The Hjarrleth pay handsomely for any iron they can buy, trading their strong liquors and clothing of heavy wool—not as soft as our own, but thick and strong. The wool clothing is traded to the Viharthians at a steep profit, and the Nalbans trade the Hjarrleth liquor in Tahlrene for more iron.

"As a result, the Hjarrleth are at their forges again, making weapons and armor they do not need, while every strike of the armorer's hammer brings them closer to the bloodlust of their ancestors. My people have turned to drink, and do not realize that they could simply raise barley, as your people do.

"Within three generations, the Hjarrleth will be senselessly howling for war, the Tahlrenic Tribes will consist of the starving and the drunk, and the Viharthians will discover that they have paid a king's ransom for warm clothing, when an ocean voyage might have gleaned the same goods directly from the Hjarrleth at a fraction of the price. Meanwhile, the Nalbans will have grown rich from trade, they will have stronger armies than ever before, and the only enemy they will have to fear will be the Hjarrleth, who will be too busy fighting a hopeless war in the Central Sea to prevent the burning of their homeland.

"The Nalbans are rapacious monsters, and nothing more. Travel there at your own peril."

"How many of your people know this? Has no effort been made to prevent the destruction of their land?"

"Our farmers own the land. Own it, in the truest sense of the word. They cannot be persuaded that their children's children will suffer while they grow fat through trade that cannot last. The use of cropland can only be regulated after the declaration of martial law."

"Martial law? So the leader of the armies of Tahlrene gains control of all Tahlrenic farmland?"

She simply nodded, looking off into the distance. I already had my eyes on her, for I knew my next words would evoke a beautiful response.

"If only we knew someone—a war-leader, perhaps, who could command such power; someone who has been informed of the unfortunate situation by a pretty Tahlrenic lass, and who will be traveling through Tahlrene just as soon as his business takes him there."

Moments later, the color vanished from her face, and I was not at all disappointed. The sight of flawless porcelain skin was an acceptable consolation.

"Could you really do that? Command the farmers to return to farming?"

"I'd get around to it, eventually. First, I'll have to convince a shepherd to accept payment in silver, instead of livestock. For all I know, such a negotiation might take years."

For the second time that day, I was rewarded with the warmth of her smile.

We spent eleven glorious days in like manner, and the weather never broke. The Lady of the Harvest had seen me at last, and had spoken of me to her ancient father, who, as all in Meadrow are aware, commands the weather as a skilled rider controls an unbroken garron. Who else could have known of the girl's importance—and held back the ravages of winter—so that I might come to know her better?

We spoke of her homeland, her family, the festivals of the Tahlrenic people, and her wide array of interests, which included, but were not limited to: herblore, medicine, music, poetry, cooking, riding, games of athleticism, Kenalkan history, philosophy, and mathematics. I learned that she hated the taste of pork, loved the music of the lyre, lute, and eight-stringed mandol, and refused to face the day without chafing her body with a wet cloth. She scented her hair to suit the season, preferring cinnamon and redmint in autumn and winter, and lavender and heather blossom in the spring and summer months.

I also learned of her brothers. She was raised with three, one of whom had died of fever when he was only just learning to walk. Her older brother had been slain in a bear attack while hunting, leaving only one, the younger brother Mod, of whom she was fiercely protective.

When she would speak no more of herself, I filled in what she did not know of me, though in truth there was little to speak of, for my life had been uneventful before the time of the Orinsos. We had many common interests, such as music and poetry, and though I knew little of herblore, we spoke for a time of what I did know—the flora of the Meadrun valley forest.

When the well of conversation ran dry, we enjoyed a comfortable, companionable silence, free of the awkward fumbling for common ground that besets unhappy spouses and unfamiliar acquaintances.

In the final days of travel, when her confidence permitted, she gifted me with the sound of her voice in song. Hers was a strong voice, free of the shrillness of youth or the androgynous depth of old age. She sang softly of her country, proudly of her people, but also mournfully—the songs of war, from the perspective of grieving and expectant wives and mothers. I did not speak of the confusion caused by such songs. Truly, I had thought of Tahlrenic women as warriors themselves.

I wished to ask her much of the method of her Banner at warfare, but dared not break the mood. I came to learn in that time that she accepted violence as a way of life, often necessary, but ugly and undesirable, to be avoided at all costs. I kept my peace, leaving the matter of warfare to the warriors of her country that I would meet in time. If she hated violence, I would simply make an effort to avoid such talk.

Even in silence, my mind was at work, for I had much to consider, and many adjustments to make. For the first time in my life, I had a flawless sense of direction—never again would I consider myself lost if I was in her company. I was perfectly willing to make Rowan's happiness my life's pursuit, and, rewarded by the sight of her smile, I knew it would be a life well lived.

CHAPTER TEN

Algrae

I have often heard it said that the most enjoyable moment of a long journey is the first sight that marks that journey's end.

But at first glance of the bustling town of Algrae, I wished only to turn back and start again.

I knew that Rowan, having reached her goal, would rest her horses and charge for the treeline as soon as she was able. We were both silent for much of the morning, content to watch Algrae grow larger with every hoof beat, and never did it occur to me that the beautiful Tahlrenic lass might despair of the parting as much as I.

Ours had been a friendly companionship, playful at times in the innocent manner of youth, though for reasons that I did not understand, I felt no sexual attraction to the beautiful girl. Perhaps I was in awe of her beauty, unable to see her in the primitive manner of lustful desire. I am aware now, as I write this, of many men that have never experienced such inhibitions—never hesitated to see a beautiful woman as nothing more than a potential mate. Even at that young age, I had leered at many a ripe young Farmer's daughter, seeing them exactly as I wished to see Rowan.

At the time, I knew nothing of love, and after a while I began to fear that perhaps she and I were destined for nothing more than friendship. Of course, that would not stop me from buying her freedom. If I could join the Banners, and lead them to victory in a hard-fought war, surely I could scrape together the silver I would need to see Rowan free of ancient suitors, and the robes that enabled her to avoid them.

I had not considered my share of Eagle's silver, other than in jest, but I knew that from the size of the thing, it might not be a bad start—if they had considered cutting me in on the loot, at all.

She would be free at least, and free also to choose any man that she judged worthy. I had no thought of tying her down, and even the thought of her unhappiness made my mind rebel. Still, it did not occur to me that such feelings might be the foundation of something more—a great adventure, known only to those lucky and wise enough to sense it.

I felt far better, firmly grounded in boyish ignorance, confident that I might even possess the strength to part from Rowan without weeping like a frightened child. As the Hjarrleth wagon rolled through the wooden gates of Algrae, I resumed the carefree, joking banter to which she had grown accustomed, and spent that last hour fighting for a glimpse of her incomparable smile.

Algrae was a settlement known throughout Foundation and beyond. From all faraway lands, merchants peddled their wares, free of the worries of the outside world. It was said that within Algrae, 'war is but a word, and everything has its price'. Indeed, I saw stalls peddling everything from clothing, to food and drink, weaponry and armor, livestock, medicine, curiosities of all sorts, and even the warm company of pliant men and women.

I beheld many interesting sights in that town, from musicians and various street performers (a rarity in Meadrow), to a thousand alien wares with which I might have spent a period of several months acquainting myself, had I only the time and limitless funds to do so.

It was an exceedingly large but simple town, with wooden stalls and streets of common cobblestone, but well proportioned, and clearly by design. Each stall occupied a set number of units upon a single block; some were comprised of one unit, roughly five paces wide and fifteen deep, while others occupied many. A few, mostly taverns and brothels, had consumed an entire block, erecting a building of their own rather than relying on a temporary structure.

After nearly an hour of traveling up the street at the walk, with the outward road in sight in the distance, I came to recognize a friendly face from within a sea of strangers. Upon the bench of a large wagon of plain construction, teamed with brown oxen, sat Lambek: my savior of Eagle's Clearing. He hadn't seen us yet, all of his attention focused on a large, meaty pastry in the palm of his right hand.

I shouted something forgettable, and in any case it should have been unintelligible over the din of the crowd, but with a look of surprise and pleasure Lambek dropped his lunch into a waiting basket. He whistled to a troop of men across the street, and they made their way to relieve his position in the wagon. Rowan turned to me, her eyes shining against the morning light—I stared closely as she spoke, and saw that they were welling with tears.

"This is where we part. I will tell my people to expect you, and what to expect from you. All of Tahlrene will welcome you when you arrive. Do not disappoint them, or make me a fool in the telling of outlandish tales."

And there she kissed me. It was my first and as I remember it now, the warmest and most welcome kiss of my early life. Even in the midst of so many people she embraced me, and held me close far longer than I had any right to expect. I could feel the warmth of her body, and in spite of our long travels I could still smell the suggestion of wild perfume in her auburn hair.

I did not speak, before or after, but I remember the feeling of joyous confusion, and cared not for the meaning of the kiss, living, as a young man, alone in the moment.

I then took the necklace of gold and dark green emeralds from my pocket, caring not at all that Lambek could see. Holding an end of the delicate chain in the fingers of either hand, I spanned the whiteness of her neck, and clasped the golden tether, all the while looking deeply into her eyes. She leaned forward, and rewarded me with yet another kiss. My lips were only a handsbreadth from her own as I spoke.

"A man could lose himself in your eyes; the stones are there as a distraction. I want no man to find himself so pleasantly disoriented—until we meet again."

My voice cracked even as I said it, which surprised me. A pursed smile and labored nod were her only response. I watched as a single tear reflected the sun's light down the length of her reddening cheek, then feared for a moment that I, too, might begin to weep.

I dropped from the seat of the wagon, and one of Lambek's companions took my place, guiding Rowan to the livery further down the street. There, she would load her pack mounts, saddle her mare, and ride without a moment's rest, retracing her steps in the company of Brenna's Initiates, who would see her safely home.

* * *

Lambek's grin had been as sunny as his master's when I arrived, but as I turned from watching the wagon disappear around the bend, he assumed a far more somber expression.

"Made a friend, did you? That Rowan's a fine girl. Smart and kind and beautiful. A real catch, if any man could catch her. Let's go inside and have a drink."

I followed Lambek across the busy street, and he led me to the door of a fair-sized tavern, holding it open that I might enter first. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness; the few windows were curtained, and though a new fire burned in the hearth, only a few candles were lit.

When my eyes finally adjusted, I saw that we were alone, save the tavern keeper, who emerged from behind the bar, bowed low at first sight of us and brought his hands together in an odd gesture, fingers and thumbs pressed together in a mirror image of one another to form the shape of an empty circle. Lambek nodded in response, and the man took his leave, moving upstairs to attend to other matters. I turned by gaze from the tavern-keeper to Lambek, who winked with a knowing grin.

"Don't worry about Lachie, he's one of ours. We can sit if you like. He'll keep the tavern closed all day, if necessary. A good one, that Lachie, and he'll do as needed."

I seated myself at a table in the middle of the room, where Lambek hefted a large ceramic pitcher and two tankards. He poured for both of us, and I drank, surprised to find the beer ice-cold. It was only faintly bitter, and far lighter in color than the ale of Meadrow. Lambek saw the appreciation in my eyes.

"Good, eh? Not normally the brew of choice for winter, but it's been warm here the past few weeks."

"It's delicious. I don't mean to offend by leaping into business right away, but how much time do we have here?"

"Business can wait as long as needed. My dense subordinates were supposed to have the Hjarrleth oxen and horses here three days ago. None of my men at the road have sent any word, so I won't expect them for at least another day. Maybe two."

I sighed with relief, and Lambek must have seen it, and understood the cause, for he said nothing of Rowan. I had no wish to travel until my thoughts were free of her, or at least of the pain they caused. My responsibilities were too great, and I could not afford to weep like an ill-behaved child when all about me were expecting a man.

"Might even have time for some shopping before you leave. No clothing, though. Lior insisted on it. He wanted me to tell you that preparations have been made in advance, and that the finest clothiers in Brek are working their fingers to the bone to see to your needs. Our styles are a bit different than most, so it might be better if you humor the man."

"Shopping? Unless they accept road dust as a form of currency, I'll have little time for shopping."

Lambek's eyes leapt open as I said that, and he stifled a laugh behind his hand. He looked left and right to ensure that we were alone, and leaned in, but made no attempt to lower his voice.

"And what do you think my man's doing in that hideous wagon we brought, enjoying the aroma of ox shit? The contents of the big wagon are out there—the barrels, anyway. And we have something to show you. In one of the barrels, I mean. Something odd about one of them, but that can wait.

"That huge box is in here, away from enterprising eyes. We even counted the coin to wile away the time. Trouble was, the coins were of different weights, from almost every Banner, and even a few from some of those tiny kingdoms scattered all about.

"One of my men had the bright idea to measure them—to weigh them against a more common currency. We used Brek coins for comparison, since our silver coins are equal in weight to the kind used in Tahlrene, Sangholm, and even your own Banner.

"As for the gold, we were at a loss. None of us had any gold of our own to measure it against, but most of those were of a common weight, and there weren't so many of them, so we settled for counting them.

"We divided them into units of equivalent weight; the commonest denomination of silver coin is seventy-one grains in weight, and after adding up the combined weight of silver, dividing the sum by the standard weight of seventy-one, we were able to come to an understanding of the value of your little trove. Of silver, by weight alone, you have the equivalent of four thousand nine hundred and twenty-two silver lunariats. Plenty of gold, too. We counted three hundred and eighteen coins, all about the same weight. Nothing we could do to appraise the value of the jewelry. Couldn't show it around without advertising that we had it.

"And in case you're wondering, we didn't sell those poor oxen. They were fine beasts, and Lior put them out to stud. Said they had been through enough, watching the slaughter of the rest of their team. I saw how you felt about them. Thought you'd like to know. The wagon is back in Brek. Didn't want anyone to see us with it."

I sat, sipping my beer as Lambek spoke. He was obviously taking great care to tell me of his efforts in detail. I offered a token look of surprise, and even let out an appreciable whistle when he highlighted the accumulated value of the treasure. My responses seemed to wear on the man's patience, and when I said nothing at the end of his report, he chuckled, his eyes to the bottom of his cup. He muttered to the empty chair beside me, as if enlisting the assistance of some unseen companion.

"Ha! Children today! Nothing shocks them! I tell the boy he's rich, and he acts as if we're still talking of the weather!"

His incredulous rant dissolved into uncontrollable laughter when he saw my eyes widen in disbelief. I had to lean back to digest what the man had told me, and my every move seemed a further cause for hilarity. By the time I had taken hold of myself he was nearly on the floor in tears. His good-natured laughter brought about another thought entirely. I spoke while he was still composing himself.

"I'm rich? We, Lambek; we are rich. The seven of us who found the cave may be rich, or at least the four of us that fought, but I alone can claim nothing. We fought together, remember?"

"Fight we did, and we may fight together again, boy, but that loot is yours. Loswol and I had no intention of risking combat, not even when we first saw you step to the hazard. It was first sight of Her Em that brought hand to hilt, and you'd finished off those first two even before Lady Brenna risked a shot. High Priest and Priestess both agree: your dream, your fight, your discovery of the Key—your treasure. Enjoy it in good health. It's over there, in the corner."

I left my cup at the table, and lifted the heavy lid of the casket to find several canvas sacks within. There were six in all, and the two lighter bags contained the jewelry and lesser coins of copper and brass. The two largest were at the bottom, grain sacks of some sort, cinched at the top with strong twine, and their girth spanned the length and breadth of the container. Of the two remaining bags, one contained more than three hundred gold coins, and the other was weighted with several hundred silver coins. I heard Lambek approach from behind.

"That big sack at the top contains the seventy-one grain silvers that'll pass muster here in Algrae. They're stamped foreign, but should serve well enough. Eight hundred thirty-four coins, in all. Not that anyone would try to stop you if you wanted to pay in heavier coin. Still, it might ease any difficulties in haggling."

Haggling? There was more wealth before my eyes than I could have imagined. With the contents of that chest, I could offer Rowan's father a bridal price that would triple the size of his flock, and send Garth enough silver to build the biggest house in Meadrow and staff it with a dozen servants, while still retaining enough to live in comfort for the rest of my life.

I remember thinking that the rest of my life was not likely to fill even a fraction of the time needed to spend such wealth. What good would any amount of coin do for a dead man? I scooped up a few handfuls, and let each stamped and heavy piece slip through my fingers. By the look of them, the _sheen_ present on every coin, it was clear that Lambek and his fellows and tended to far more more than calculating the value of that wealth.

Returning to the table I drained my cup (Lambek laughed heartily at the sight), then returned to the casket, still holding the empty vessel. Using it as a coin scoop, I hefted a pile of silver to my table. And then I did it again. And again. Five times, all told, and once with a tankard half-filled with gold. Lambek must have thought I was losing my mind.

I counted out every last coin, stacking them into six groups. The two largest of the piles held ten gold coins apiece, with fifty more in silver surrounding them, while the other four held thirty coins, each in standard silver. Six silver coins and a single gold piece remained.

"You have three men in town, do you not? And one rider to fetch the horses? The smaller piles are for them. The larger two are for yourself and Loswol. I'd offer more, if I thought you'd take it."

"But I can't take it, Ralph! We were sent to guard that coin, and nothing more. A soldier doesn't get rewarded for doing his duty. I did only as the sight of authority demanded in the moment. I just followed the Lady's lead. I can't take your reward. None of us can."

"What reward? I said nothing of any reward. I'm giving you a gift, Lambek! In what land is a man forbidden from gift-giving? We'll leave the last gold piece and the six in silver with Lachie. Good beer should always be rewarded."

* * *

He accepted my gift after much argument, and kept Loswol's in trust while I spent much of the day at market under heavy escort. Regrettably, there was little to buy for myself. I had no need of weapons, for I knew that Sequiduris awaited my hand in Venibrek, and Lior had forbidden the purchase of clothing. As I passed the stall of a clothier, however, I noticed many fine dresses, and found a use for my silver, after all.

In addition to dresses, of which I purchased more than a dozen, I selected also a half-score bolts of finely cut cloth, that my mother could then use to fashion any garment she might desire. There was satin, velvet, and brocade of silk, but also light linens and soft wool, likely from Tahlrene; each and every roll of fabric was of weave, pattern, and hue far beyond anything known in Meadrow.

As the day progressed, my tastes grew more extravagant, and I weighted down the Hjarrleth wagon with perfumed oils, incense, exotic spices, three beautiful Viharthian tapestries, a complete set of bedclothes woven of soft Tahlrenic wool and Viharthian silk, several casks containing fine wines, four large, intricately woven carpets, four heavy drapes of black and gold brocade, and four dozen thick panes of flawlessly transparent glass—a commodity unknown in Meadrow, where the finest windows are small, and only barely translucent.

When one of Lambek's men suggested that my mother might find use for a looking glass, I set him about purchasing the largest he could find—he returned with the merchant. The mirror was so large and heavy they had to work together to heft it into the wagon, and it was by far the most expensive of the day's purchases: five gold coins, and a dozen in silver. It was wrapped in cloth to protect it against scratches, but I was assured by Lambek's man that it was flawless, and felt no need to inspect it.

At one of the stalls boasting some very well crafted weaponry I bought a pair of short swords, complete with matching daggers, belts, and sheaths. The first, hilted in bronze, with fittings of the same metal, was intended for Garth, and the other, with silvered iron appointments upon black leather, seemed fit for Cyrtis's hand, alone. Swords were unknown among Guardsmen of Meadrow, as such weapons took years to master, and, to the minds of miserly Farmers, the amount of metal required in the crafting made them a drag on resources. Swordsmiths had never successfully conducted business in my homeland, and as a result, swords of any kind were a rarity there. Whether they chose to wear them or not, I knew both Stabler and High Stabler would not fail to appreciate the gesture.

I rounded out that outrageous shopping spree with a mating pair of magnificent roan horses, complete with matching saddles chased in silver leaf. Garth would have his new mounts after all, and I laughed to myself in thinking that he might be less enthusiastic after his two-week nightmare ride over trackless, uneven terrain.

Before I had really finished squandering my newfound wealth, Lambek pleaded jokingly on behalf of the oxen, and I relented. Finally, I filled a large sack with one hundred gold coins, and three hundred in standard silver, and sat down to compose the letter I would write to Garth.

My mother had learned little of reading, and she could write even less. Her life had been busy before, as a young wife and mother, and she had neither the time nor the patience for anything not immediately essential to the daily needs of herself or her family. The memories of her life of sacrifice faded in the exuberance of the moment, and I smiled at the thought that my mother would have time aplenty to learn of reading, writing, and anything else she desired when her fortune arrived.

In truth, I had learned to read only through the good graces of Garth, who had paved my way to education through the use of threats, bribery, and the occasional violent outburst. I had been forced upon my tutors, and my education had not been pleasant. Even now, writing is not foremost among my talents.

At sixteen, knowing that I would be communicating with the paragon of all things upright, manly, and courageous, I was completely at a loss as to how I might convey my wish that he should marry my mother. Finally, I settled on writing two separate missives: the first to be read directly to my mother, through Garth, and the other for Garth's eyes alone. Of course, the composition of the first letter was nothing short of procrastination, but I consoled myself with the thought that I really did have two separate motives in mind. The first was easy.

To Nuda - [Through the able eye and voice of Garth; Stabler- Third Fielding- Meadrow Guard]

Mother-

I am alive. Do not concern yourself with my safety, for as you read this, I am likely still within the stone confines of the city of Venibrek. I will remain in that place—safer even than at home—until the arrival of the other Phulakoi. It may please you to know that you will no longer have need of the tavern business, as the gold and other rarities that have arrived with this note will be enough to keep you safe, warm, comfortable, and well fed until long after my return. You may burn down that filthy taproom at your earliest convenience. As always, you have my love.

-Ralph

The second letter was far more difficult. Three separate drafts ended in failure, and I finally settled on the simplest possible approach: the truth.

To Garth; Stabler- Third Fielding- Meadrow Guard

Garth-

I have just arrived in Algrae, after a journey of nearly eleven days spent in the delightful company of a mutual acquaintance. It seems strange that a girl who lived only briefly in Meadrow should come to understand so much about its inhabitants. Nevertheless, Rowan has shown that spark of brilliance known to many women, though not a single man born has ever possessed it.

It has come to my attention that you are in love with my mother. I suppose I have always known, but only through Rowan's insistent wisdom have I allowed myself to truly see it. If Rowan and I are correct, there is but one path for you to take. Marry my mother. You have my permission—not that you require it—as well as my blessing.

If you fear the response of the community, think on this: you command one-fourth of the Meadrow Guard. The Farmers command rakes and plows. The wife of my father may have been disgraced by his actions, but those of her son have made her Mother to the Onidai. I know not if one cancels out the other, and truly, I could not care less, for I have a shiny new Sword, and any resistance from the community will give me ample cause to test its edge. Also, I think (through Rowan) that Cyrtis might prove a useful ally, should the Farmers offer more than a verbal protest.

You are a strong man, Garth—the strongest I have ever known, in fact, but no man should ever have to live alone. You have your children, but children grow and live lives of their own. I have done so already. As a result, my mother is alone, and I think (again, Rowan helped) that she feels as you do.

If you ask her to marry, you may encounter a token resistance, caused primarily by fear for your reputation. Even when reassured that you will not be drummed from the Guard on the back of a mule, she may show hesitation, and of this I fear that I may be the cause.

While time and urgency do not permit me to journey south at the moment, I have taken steps to ensure your success. You will find enclosed an item well known to her. Show it to her; if her answer is yes, wear it proudly to the end of your days. She will explain.

-Ralph

The item I had mentioned was a lozenge of wood, the thickness of my thumb, and twice as long and wide. It had been polished by the chafing of an abrasive stone, and carefully engraved with the outline of a key.

One of the few things I have always been able to remember about my father is that he loved my mother—truly loved her, in a land where marriages were not much more romantic than they were in Tahlrene. He called her 'his heart'. We had one of the finest, sturdiest houses in Meadrow, and my father worked himself nearly to death in the building of it. As the story had been told to me, every time she asked him to stop, begging him to conserve his strength for the disposition of his duties, he would grin, and reply, "Oh, but I cannot stop now, my dear! My heart is precious, and I must lock it away against harsh weather and jealous eyes until my return. While I protect the people, these walls protect my heart."

When we were in disgrace, cold and hungry, the bite of uncertainty and scorn still a sharp-felt novelty, I asked a foolish question nearly every night:'Where is my father?' If I had known how much pain I caused in the asking, I'd have kept my peace, for I knew full well that my father was dead. She understood the question better than I—that I was not simply inquiring of his whereabouts, but feared any future in absence of his strength.

One night, before I could ask the ritual question, she tied the wooden key around my neck, where it hung on twine made from her own carefully braided raven hair. She kissed me on the forehead, held up the key, looked into my eyes, and said, "My heart has grown strong, and I will look after you, if you will look after me. Life is going to be hard for both of us now, and I will need to grow hard with it. Soon I may seem like a different person, but I will always love you. My heart is locked away, but just for you, I've made a key."

I had been entrusted with two Keys; the most valuable of these I offered to Garth, and hoped that my mother would understand the meaning.

* * *

I slept well that night, the thought of my mother's impending happiness overshadowing Rowan's departure almost entirely. The next day, just after sunrise, Lambek's Initiate arrived with the Hjarrleth horses and oxen, and to my pleasant surprise, Lior and Brenna rode with him, under escort of two dozen Initiates of their own.

Taemon, the man that had reported to Lior outside Rorik's Clearing, rode behind the formation, trailing three spare mounts.

After the initial greeting, and more than a few jibes from Lior about buying out all of Algrae and sending it to my mother, it was explained that Taemon would ride ahead as a messenger, a dozen of Lior and Brenna's escort to travel with the wagon.

Taemon snapped to attention beside the horse he had been riding, his three spare mounts air-tethered behind him. He was not robed, and was armored only in cuirass, bracers, and greaves of light brown leather. He wore his sheathed sword diagonally across his back, for the purpose of ease in the saddle, and had replaced his heavy shield with a lighter one of wickerwork and leather, which he had lashed over his left saddlebag.

Even with his man at attention, Lior assumed a casual air, his hand on Taemon's shoulder—more concerned father than leader of men as he spoke.

"Right then, Taemon, I chose you for this task because you are the best of my riders—and that's saying a lot! You have my missive for the other Phulakoi in Meadrow? Good! Ralph? Any additional messages?"

I wagged my head in a clear negative, but he tilted his own to the side, in mock ignorance of the expression, compelling me to speak.

"My messages will arrive with the gifts for my mother. Her message explains the gifts, so they must arrive together, and I think the burden might kill his horses."

That earned me a laugh.

"You joke, but he would attempt it in response to your faintest whim. Taemon, are you prepared? Enough rations in those saddlebags of yours? Warm clothing? Water? Oats for the horses? Good! When you meet L'mah and the others, tell them not to worry, 'the boy has it in hand'; you know what that means already, I know, but after all, it's the message we agreed upon."

I could tell that he was on the verge of dismissing the man, but he stopped short, and when he turned briefly in my direction I saw in his eyes the light of sudden inspiration. He continued, assuming a tone of thinly veiled excitement.

"I've told young Ralph that an ox cart, traveling at the walk along the trade road, can make the journey from Algrae to the gates of his Banner in twelve days. I know this, because I had to make the journey myself, moving at a snail's pace alongside that very cart. Let's see how fast a rider can make the trip on a galloping horse, trailing three additional mounts along any route he chooses. Care to hazard a guess?"

Taemon was young, not more than two years my senior, and I remembered him from his report to Lior at Rorik's Clearing. Of those six men, he had been the ranking Initiate, and the importance of his previous assignment, as well as that for which he now awaited leave to pursue, made evident that his rank, and Lior's confidence, had both been awarded by merit. His grin was pure self-confidence, and he had an air of cockiness I had seen before, among the younger Guardsmen in Meadrow.

"With the weather in my favor, seven days, Your Eminence."

"Ah, seven days. Remember his words, Ralph, and I have no doubt that in fourteen days we'll see him with a reply."

He had numbed his every syllable with the sound of mild disappointment. Taemon's shock was genuine, though he fought hard to conceal it.

"No, Your Eminence—my apologies, but I meant seven days for the entire journey, there and back. Three days to the Onidai's home gates, one day to receive any reply, rest the horses, and acquire additional rations, and three days to return. I was under the impression that the spare mounts were for riding, in the event of my previous mount's exhaustion. Was I incorrect?"

Clearly, Taemon had no intention of following the paths that had been packed by the wheels and hooves of the slow and careful. Lior chuckled heartily at the veiled sarcasm of his recruit. It was clear that he encouraged it. He even applauded.

"Well done! All right, Taemon, I'll make a wager with you. Return within nine days, and you'll get nine of the same in furlough, and nine full crowns for your trouble. If it takes more than ten you'll receive only three days and three crowns. If you arrive in seven, assuming you don't kill any of your mounts, you'll receive twenty-one crowns, and your closest friends may have to start addressing you as 'sir', for I must say lad, seven days will be very impressive! No more than nine of furlough, though, in any case, or the others will get jealous. What say you, Initiate?"

"Done, Your Eminence!"

"Good! Good! Hold on now, don't rush off just yet. Any other instructions or messages, Ralph? No? Taemon, you have the missive pouch? Good lad! Mount up!"

The smiling Initiate leapt into the saddle as if he weighed nothing at all.

"All set, Tae? On the mark, prepare, and...GO!"

He slapped Taemon's horse hard on the rump and sent him flying. Even as he flew past in a blur, I could see the look of pure delight on his face. And why not? Fair compensation for difficult and possibly dangerous duty that few of his comrades would have wanted (soldiers are not messengers, and do not delight in being tasked as such), the excitement of competition, the possibility of promotion, a nine-day furlough, and the wealth to enjoy every moment of it. Crowns were the highest denomination of commonly used currency in Venibrek—a heavy coin cast from equal quantities of gold, silver, and copper.

It was clear from the way Lior dealt with his men, and the way they behaved in his presence—like children before an unspoiled hero—that they loved him far more than they would ever fear him. He seemed to prefer it that way, and I came to learn that his style of leadership encouraged his men to behave always with audacity, pairing able bodies with sharp and agile minds.

By comparison, Brenna bore at all times the appearance of a martinet, rarely speaking to her women unless giving an order. As a result, her Initiates spoke little, and maintained a posture of rigid discipline at all times. They followed their orders to the letter, and never questioned the feasibility of any strategy, or the outcome of any battle.

The Hjarrleth wagon and twelve Initiates followed, as Lior had said, at a 'snail's pace', and the dust of Taemon's passing had already settled before the white Hjarrleth oxen lurched forward, the Hjarrleth mounts and Garth's roans tethered behind it. My mother would receive her gifts in twelve days, and I wondered how much longer it might take for Garth to summon up the courage to combine newfound wealth with well deserved happiness.

We spent that day in Algrae, while Lior and Brenna saw to some long-neglected business, and with Lambek and his four men relieved of duty, they immediately set about spending their coin. When informed of my decision to undermine his orders, labeling a forbidden reward with the innocuous title of 'gift', Lior simply smiled and shrugged his shoulders. I knew that he would not deny such a sacred tradition as that of gift-giving, a practice respected by all Banners. He seemed almost proud of my clever maneuvering.

Still, I did not know the newcomers, and while they set about tending to their horses, I decided to purchase a jug of strong drink and sleep the day away. Lachie had a beer that Lambek swore was as strong as any wine—his preferred drink when he could afford it, and he had imbibed heavily the night before.

I opened the door to my room and entered with my back turned, cradling the jug in one hand, with a plate of hot food in the other. I had not asked for anything to eat, but Lachie had nearly fallen to weeping when I gave him the seven coins; from that moment forward, he treated me with the concern of an overwrought mother.

One silver coin of lunariat weight would buy a full week's lodging in his establishment, and an even heavier coin of pure gold, as the one I had given—with which no one ever paid—might well have purchased food and shelter for several months.

As I turned with hands full, I nearly tripped over the massive casket, which took up almost the entire width of the room. I spilled a bit of the strong beer, and was on the verge of cursing, when I realized the stupidity of losing my temper over the inconvenience of possessing a fortune in a room too small to house it.

I laughed, ate, drank, and slept soundly until late afternoon.

* * *

"I'm not sure what it is, Lambek, or what it's doing in a beer barrel."

The others had been mounting in preparation for the moonlit ride into Venibrek, when Lambek remembered his puzzling discovery. He and his four were to follow after sunrise with the barrels and my casket of silver, and so he found me, seeking advice.

While they were loading the contents of the thief's wagon into the simple brown one they had ridden into Algrae, they noticed that one of the barrels felt different than the others: not only was it noticeably lighter, but as Lambek had described it, 'it didn't slosh'. Further inspection revealed that the barrel had been filled with a coarse powder, coal-black in appearance, and shot through with bits of gray-white. Lambek wanted to know whether to keep it, or discard it to lighten the load.

"I guess that settles it. We figured it for some sort of brewer's spice. Thought you'd be able to identify it. Guess it's garbage, then."

"Not necessarily. I don't think they would load something useless, only to haul it around disguised in a beer barrel. Why would they do that? And they probably dumped the beer first, since none of our brewers would sell a marked barrel without filling it. That beer is the finest brew in Meadrow. In the taverns there—not on the other side of Foundation, mind you, in Meadrow—it sells at a silver piece per gallon! The wealthiest Farmers only drink it on festival days. My mother couldn't even afford to serve it! And it probably sells for twice as much up here.

"Why would they throw away two hundred silver pieces or more, just to fill the barrel with useless powder? You should keep it. That's my advice, anyway. Do what you think is necessary. And make sure they load that Kvejka, would you? I feel I owe Boers something, after he wasted all that vapor trying to keep me alive."

I had purchased the cask on impulse, and the thought of Boers's probable reaction never failed to make me smile. Rowan may have cured me, but it was the work of Boers and his Hjarrleth master that had prevented my death in the interim.

Lambek had been stroking his jaw, his eyes narrowed to slits throughout my entire rant. He wagged his head mechanically.

"Nah, you're right. Not worth depriving ourselves of something useful, just to lighten the load. The oxen can handle it—and the Kvejka. Enjoy the ride!"

He pointed, and I turned. Lior rode towards us, followed closely by a splendid bay gelding, a few hands taller even than Loswol's had been; the High Priest had led him with nothing more than a gesture of his outstretched hand. Lior clicked his tongue, and the beautiful horse trotted to my side. He began nuzzling my arm without a moment's hesitation, and I heard Lior's voice as I stroked its muzzle.

"You'll need one of your own. Now maybe my men can stop carting around behind oxen!"

Every one of his Initiates laughed, and I felt certain that there was some circulating joke concerning the Hjarrleth cart, the thieves' cart, the plain brown cart, and the fact that Lior's Initiates had been driving them in every direction as a result of my exploits.

The gelding's bridle and saddle were of black leather, chased with a bit of silver. I mounted up, waving to Lambek as I followed the others on the road to Venibrek. The sun's light had vanished from the horizon.

The eyes of Brenna's Initiates were not needed on the broad stone way. Lampposts, staggered every twenty paces, offered bright illumination far beyond the gates of Algrae. I rode at front and center of three columns, with Lior on the left and Brenna on the right, and the escort, following closely, was arranged in a pied sequence, with their cloaks of white and midnight blue alternating in the darkness.

In the light of the many lampposts, the legs of our horses cast dark shadows upon the ground, first on one side, then on the other, the silhouettes moving in time with the unified hoof beats so that they resembled a living thing—a shadowy creature, traveling with us on a broad, well-lit road, the sound of iron-shod hoofs upon stone announcing our presence to all in passing. They wore their weapons and their robes openly; this was their country, their territory, and they had nothing to hide.

The new moon had passed; what loomed above was but a sliver, and yet the land around was illuminated. The sky was clear, lending the light of a million stars to brighten our path. As our horses rested at the walk, passing into a quarter of the road that was naught but well trod earth, I could hear the sounds of the countryside, and though the call of cricket and frog had long since vanished in the chill of winter, the night was alive with the songs of a thousand birds.

In reverence to the moon and its gift of illumination, the women began to sing in their native tongue, a language both pleasing and utterly foreign to my ears. The men remained silent, and whether they appreciated the singing of the women, I could not tell, but to my ears, it was beautiful.

Brenna too, sang into the night, in a high, full voice that shocked me in its apparent youthfulness. She appeared just past her thirtieth year, but her voice, though variant and rich, was of a pitch higher and more youthful than that of any grown woman. The song ceased as Brenna urged her mount to the gallop, and I was saddened by its end, fearing strangely that my life would know little of song in the coming years.

By the ninth hour of our ride, I could see in the distance the silvery outline of a winding river to the right of the road. Lior must have been looking for it, and I heard him shout to me over the galloping of our horses.

"That is the Allazia, the mighty river that gives us our strength and feeds our families. We are getting close, though I wouldn't fill the water skins just yet!"

The men laughed at this, and even a few of the women, though again I understood none of it. But that river did not seem at all mighty to me—little more than a narrow stream in the middle of a wide floodplain. As we continued, I saw many fields, though they varied greatly from one side of the river to the other.

To the west, I saw that there were wheat fields as far as the land remained flat, easily identified by the stubble of their last harvest, and in the hills beyond I could hear the lowing of cattle, newly awake for their predawn milking. To the east, beyond the river, I saw neatly arranged groves of trees. When I commented on the endless rows, Brenna smiled, saying that it was not so deep as I might think, a paltry eighty-to-ninety acres, with the vineyards hidden beyond them.

Then, in the gray light of predawn, we crested a hill and I saw the city. It was of massive size, and walled-in to unbelievable heights. I was further amazed when told that we were yet a few miles from the gates, though I could clearly see the needle points of many evenly spaced towers rising high along the perimeter of that great wall.

It seemed that the Allazia flowed beneath the very center of the city, and as I looked to the tiny gray line at the point of exit, I noticed that the shadowed floodplain was matched by a space at the foot of the wall, which seemed to surround it entirely. Lior identified the trench noncommitally, as a long-unused provision of defense, and though I could not see the application of so trifling an addition to the defensive strength of massive stone walls, I did not wish to voice my ignorance of such matters, and so I kept my peace.

As we grew closer, the walls of the city filled my vision, and as the sky lightened, I found myself amazed all the more. On the westernmost side of the river, the stone appeared much lighter in color, and when I asked of this, Lior explained, even as we slowed our horses for the final approach.

"Brek is walled in white granite, while Ashad's wall is built of black granite. Both varieties are rare within the lands of the other six Banners, and now they are rare, even here."

"Why do you refer to Brek and Ashad as two separate cities? I see only one wall; two halves of the whole."

"That is so. We have one wall, and yet we have two. The same can be said of the city. It is one, and they are two. Brek and Ashad. Venibrek is what foreigners have called us for fifty generations and more, and now we use it ourselves, when speaking in concert.

"Foreigners hear our men when they say that they hail from Brek, and they assume that the women are no different. Thus Venibrek, adding to Brek the Ald Kenalka word Venil, or 'walled'. Other societies are communal, dominated by men, and so they assume that all live thus, but we are not our neighbors. Incidentally, Trathnona is the proper name for our tribe, just as it was before the city was built. And within the city, and especially before the assembled men and women of the Piebald Council, it might be best to use the true name of our tribe, rather than that employed by foreign merchants."

Brenna took advantage of a rare pause in Lior's explanation, and spoke before he could continue, diving immediately into a tale of their Banner's history, though it seemed that it was more recitation than common tale.

"Long before the walls were built, before any knew of the Wise Kenalka, we lived as others—communing, cohabiting, and dominated by men. Before our writing, or any writing that we now know, our people came to be under the yoke of the Laeki, the name once used by those now called _Nalban_. From horseback, no distance was too great to raid or demand tribute of people far and wide.

"Though Warriors lived among us then, they were few, and restrained by the Wise Women that read the stars; still others, made weak by fear, gave in to the desires of the Laeki, giving even of their women.

"For ten generations, the tribute continued, and the Warriors—still few in number—burned with rage over the loss of the fairest of their wives, and still the Wise Women cautioned against war, knowing the Laeki to be fearsome in battle. One night, the day after tribute, the oldest of the Wise Women read the stars, prayed to the moon, and was answered in a dream. Her advice was wise and far-seeing. 'Dam the river and flood the plain. More crops to grow, and fewer hands to tend them.'

"The Warriors made mock of the Wise Woman, their bitter jest that no amount of grain would save their wives and daughters from the lust of the Laeki. But the Wise Woman returned in kind, laughing the long, labored laugh of a woman who knows all, and much before ever it comes to pass. 'The empty hands will not lay idle, nor will they long remain empty. While the women till the fields, now soft and green from the flooding of the river, the men will work in stone, and all will keep watch, under sun and moon, lest the prying eyes of the Laeki divine our purpose.'

"By day, the men shaped the granite of the earth; they rested in shifts, that they might watch the road by day.

"By night, the women tilled the earth, though at first only by the brightest phases of the moon. As the years wore on, their eyes grew accustomed to the night, and they worked diligently beneath the stars.

"Only by dusk and dawn did man and woman meet, eager to couple, though tired from their labors, and their numbers did not dwindle as years became decades, but grew, just as the rich harvests reaped from flooded fields.

"In ten generations, the custom never changed, and none thought to abandon the half-forgotten dream of the long-dead Wise Woman; the men grew strong as they shaped stone, and their sons grew taller, fed well bounty of every harvest. The women, now skilled in the tilling of the field, found themselves idle by winter, and took to hunting beneath the moon. They learned of the bow, and mastered its art, their arrows rarely missing the smallest of marks on the darkest of nights.

"The Laeki were no longer able to take the women so easily, for on the day of tribute they took to the darkness of the forests, daring any to tempt their shafts, or ride their horses through dense undergrowth. And the Laeki had little to say to this, for their tribute had grown—as had the strength and stature of the men that offered it.

"By the passing of the twelfth generation, the men found their tally complete. From ten quarries they took their stone; white granite from the bluffs to the west, and the darker variety from beyond the river's eastern shore. For five years more they waited, swelling their granaries and numbering the stone, each to be laid with speed in its appointed place.

"After the offering of the fifth year's tribute they began their labors. All worked in earnest, and little farming was done. Stone upon stone, all numbered, their labors performed just as an orderly dance long in the rehearsal, and within the year, their wall was completed.

"Hooves were heard upon the trade-road. Alarum sounded, and the people made ready. The Laeki were in fine form. The Trathnona were growing in number, their women (when they could be caught) had grown ripe and firm, and their crops had improved in quality. Wine had become a common drink, and beer was plentiful. The horde thundered down the valley, excited by the prospect of plunder and rape, only to be shocked to a halt by the sight before them.

"The wall, three times the height of a man, nearly as thick, and backed by earthworks, was not the sight they had expected. Beyond the wall, the fields lay barren. The true crop had grown between, rather than beyond. No more than a month did they test the circumference of the wall before striking out homeward, in search of easier prey.

"Thus began our tradition. Continuing the custom of our forbears, we divide ourselves, man from woman, coupling only between the task of day and night. It is through this custom that we have achieved our greatness: the empowering of women and the strengthening of men. Much has changed, but some traditions are never forgotten."

As she spoke those final words, I felt the day suddenly darken, and as their horses came to a halt, I reined in my own, and looked up to discover the reason. The wall filled my vision, and I found that I had to turn my head to either side to find the end of it, though we were yet fifty paces distant. It towered so high above my head that as we had turned west on the approach, the sun, now risen above dawn for nearly an hour, was blocked entirely from view. And this at fifty paces! I was aware that my jaw had gone slack, my mouth hanging open, and Lior must have seen it.

"Of course, the wall has grown larger since the time of the Laeki. Our occupations—High Priest and Phulako—did not even exist back then. And Brenna was telling the tale in its simplest form, entertaining though it was. The Priests of Brek and Ashad have been in service for nigh on five thousand years. Initiates serve as our army, leaving the wall in times of war or dire need, while the Priests and Priestesses stand guard; the men by day, the women by night—and, of course, they see to our sacred rites.

"Then there are the High Priests, or rather the High Priest and High Priestess. We serve as leaders in times of war, and guides in times of peace. Guides, mind you, not kings or emperors. We do not govern the people. For that, we have a Council, and they are chosen from among the people, through the will of the people. Sun's Beacon, they are going to love you! A foreigner, commanding the Initiates of Brek and Ashad! This is going to be fun, Cousin!"

I looked to Brenna, and though she was on the verge of laughter, she shook her head in protest; amused with the jest, uncomfortable with the timing. Lior continued.

"There is one more thing we should discuss, and I'm afraid the topic is rather sensitive. If you are going to be seen by these people, as Onidai, you will need to look the part. First and foremost, we'll rid you of those rags you're wearing. It's a good thing most of the politicians sleep until noon.

"Secondly—and I say this in the hope that it will not offend—but, well, your odor...offends. It has for some time now. Not unusual for a boy living in a farm town, where washing is done with a wet rag, and soap is for scrubbing floors, and most of the water is earmarked for crop irrigation, but here it just won't do. Oh, but don't worry about Rowan—her people are much the same way, even if she isn't."

"What are you talking about?"

"You need to take a bath. Now. And once again, no offense, but you may need to bathe several times before you smell...human, at least to our people."

"What's a bath?"

He laughed only for a moment. Brenna, perhaps in an effort to avoid a similar outburst, turned sharply and rode away, calling her women to follow as she skirted the circumference of the wall. Lior dismissed his men and waited for them to pass well beyond the gate. There, before the open gate of Brek, he explained to me a practice thought simple and understandable, even to the smallest of their children.

His words were as alien to my ears as the bone chimes of Eagle's Clearing.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Brek
Passing through the brazen gate of Brek, I learned that the Kenalka were not the only builders upon Foundation. The gate passage was supported by an arch, and the thickness of the granite transformed simple portal into long corridor; at its weakest, the wall was fully eighteen paces thick.

Beyond the gate, we made our way through an enclosed loading dock, where crops and imports were off-loaded and placed in the small barges employed in the network of narrow canals that twisted through every corner of the city. No foreigner was ever permitted to enter either Brek or Ashad without the approval of the Council—which required a vote, and that only after endless debate—or the direct invitation of High Priest and High Priestess. As a result, all imports were traded on the spot, the freighters paid and the goods unloaded for transport to whichever corner of the city they were bound.

In addition to a loading dock, the high-roofed reception facility housed the common stables. Unlike the Initiates and commoners, who were required to dismount upon entry, I was permitted to ride with Lior to the temple stables at the center of the city.

As we exited the reception area, facing north, with an unobstructed view to the northeast, I noticed the Dividing Wall—mentioned by Brenna earlier, after her tale of Venibrek's history. From the distance of a quarter-mile, I could see that the wall that divided the city was no less high or thick than the one that surrounded it. It had two main gates and a dozen lesser portals, as well as a number of canal passages, and this I had heard from Lior, for I could see only one of the gates from that great distance. As we rode closer, stopping at less than one hundred paces, I could see that many people stood outside the barrier, and when I asked their purpose, Lior pointed directly east, to the southern junction of the two great walls.

"Keep your eyes on that point, as well as the gate. This is a good time for an object lesson. I won't always be around to keep an eye on you, and at your age curiosity often overwhelms propriety. The men standing before the main gate are likely young husbands, waiting to see their wives, and that is no surprise, since they will not be expected to return to work until the day after tomorrow. Even then, their labors will be resumed only at their leisure, for luck has placed our arrival at the beginning of the Trathnonan New Year—a three-day celebration that begins after this Moon Day. You are a lucky lad, for I cannot remember the last time a New Year celebration began after Moon Day.

"Each week begins with the Days of Sun and Moon, as with the calendars of many cultures. On the Sun Day and the Moon Day, the gates remain open, that families may be joined together as one. On those days, a man can sit quietly, and hear the songs of happy families on both sides of the gate, though many spend that time at...other pursuits. Do you see that building to the east, just south of the dividing gates?"

"What am I looking for?"

"Stupidity, lad. Stupidity and laziness, and an example of the kind of behavior you cannot afford to imitate. It will take only a moment. Watch."

A few moments later a bell began to chime loudly. I counted six tones, each note followed by another, just as its neighbor began to fade. As the sixth tone rang out, far more loudly than the preceding five, the gates began to open, and the waiting men made their way to the other side in an orderly fashion. Further south, I saw scores of boys and even a few young men rushing into the building that had been pointed out by Lior. It was large and domed, and had its own rising gate in front of a heavy wooden door. The young men rushed forward, and the last of them began to disrobe even before he had made his way inside.

"That, Ralph, is Revelry. The buildings now used for the practice were originally intended for the transport of goods from one side of the Dividing Wall to the other. They became obsolete when the canals were completed. Why open one gate at a time, swapping goods in a mind-numbingly slow process of transport, when goods can be passed through the canals? When the canals fully replaced the exchange chambers, certain members of the Council saw the outdated buildings as a potential solution to a problem that has plagued this city for nearly five thousand years."

He paused, clearly waiting for me to ask. When had he ever required my leave to speak?

"And might I inquire as to the nature of the problem?"

"Young instinct. For nearly five thousand years, we have had...unnecessary fatalities, usually involving some stupid child with uncontrollable instincts that attempted to climb a nearly seamless wall of solid rock. And in many cases, there wasn't anyone waiting on the other side! And of course, women have made attempts as well, though I must grudgingly admit, this was an overwhelmingly male failing. Revelry was intended as an end to the foolishness. I am going to tell you something, Ralph, and when I do, there will be an end to it. Do not interrupt, as I have no intention of embarrassing myself twice. If you have any questions, they can wait until I have finished. Agreed?"

As I nodded, he turned his horse around, and my own turned sharply to follow, at no bidding of mine. We continued directly north along the easternmost edge of the southwestern quarter, traveling side-by-side at a leisurely pace.

"As I have said, every week, throughout the two days named for Sun and Moon, the gates dividing Brek and Ashad remain open, and this is not an action timed by man or woman. The gate is operated by the current of the river, which controls a device that opens the gates at predetermined times. When the gates are opened, the young people are permitted to engage in Revelry. There is a gate on the other side, through which the young women gain entry, and there they do...as nature encourages. Most young people do not engage in Revelry, which is considered by most to be a depraved and unnecessary practice that too easily indulges those that should learn to control their more basic urges.

"Fortunately, there is a more civilized practice, which takes place at the northern end. It is called Dusk, and allows young people a forum through which they can socialize, without indulging themselves too completely. And now that you are duly informed, I am going to give you my trust; you have trusted me, and so I will trust you not to behave in any way that might distance you from the persona that you will be expected to assume. Any questions?"

I wagged my head, unable to think of anything more that I wished to know, content to learn of my surroundings as I experienced them. We rode on slowly, and on occasion, at the sight of something of interest, he would halt his mount and explain its function and significance.

The canals, ingenious in make and application, were meant to serve as channels for the irrigation of the vast orchards, vineyards, and wheat fields that surrounded the city. Initially, these were to be covered, but when an enterprising freighter saw that barges could be placed, making use of the steady, fast-flowing current, a system of transportation was developed through which goods and citizens could travel throughout the city, the cross-currents providing a circuitous route for multi-directional travel. Thus, one barge, transporting as many as a dozen citizens would eventually return to its original place of departure, making several predetermined stops along the way. As a result, the streets were rarely crowded.

The canals found further use though the brilliance of the Wise Kenalka, who often traded their insight and clever machinery for the foodstuffs and raw materials that they never bothered to acquire for themselves. Like the timed gates of the Dividing Wall, many contraptions within the city were controlled by a system of wheels and gears driven by the current of the river. The hammer, bellows, saw, chisel, drill, grindstone, and many other tools moved independently of the artisan's hand, greatly speeding efforts normally bound to the limitations of human sinew.

Lior dismounted at a street wholly occupied by the shops and forges of some of Brek's most gifted craftsmen. He commanded our horses to stand fast with a silent gesture, then led me to the open door of a smithy. There I watched as a single man held a heated billet of iron, the tongs gripped in both hands. From strange devices attached to the walls, three hammers struck upon the metal with great force, landing always in the same place, so that the metal-worker was only required to move the glowing billet between each strike. Never before had I beheld such wonders. I cannot remember what, if anything, I might have said in response to such sights—in any case, I climbed back into my saddle in silence.

The buildings were of stone, though not granite, as Lior explained. The city wall had been the priority in Venibrek for more than five thousand years, and it had grown yearly, often to such a degree that the entire structure had to be taken apart and rebuilt by an alternate design. When the walls were finally of a height and thickness to satisfy the Council, and of a circumference to lay to rest the fears of prolific families, the surrounding countryside lacked a single stone suitable for building, in either shade of granite. The rubble, as I discovered, was put to use as an aggregate component, for the production of concrete.

While here and there I saw many trees and tiny, manicured parks placed for cosmetic effect, the ground beneath me was entirely paved with concrete of dark granite rubble and black sand, molded to resemble solid flagstones. As I leaned in my saddle to peer into the clear water of the canal to my left, I saw that concrete blended with the lighter granite had been used to line them.

According to Lior, the city had been built in a wheel-and-spoke pattern, and this was intended to accommodate the temple as the de facto center of the city. On the left side of every thoroughfare a canal flowed gently, with the surface of the water about a spear's length below the level of the street. At the end of almost every block, a cobbled bridge of patterned stone and concrete arched steeply across the canal beneath, and this allowed the passengers of the barges to travel while standing, thus increasing the carrying capacity of every vessel.

As the temple grew nearer, buildings grew smaller to accommodate the decreased proximity between the streets and canals, an unavoidable occurrence, though it had a remarkable effect on the organization of society. Further from the temple, in the shadow of the wall, the larger buildings found a use as temple barracks in the southwestern and northeastern quadrants, accommodating the unmarried Initiates. Closer to the center, some of the buildings were divided into two or three sections, each with ample living space. As most of the buildings, all living quarters rose multiple levels above the ground, and the extra space would be needed, for though the population had continued to thrive, the city would grow no larger.

The finest living quarters stood in close proximity to the temple, and these varied in construction. Built of brick, limestone, and even marble, with roofs of ceramic, shale, and copper, they appeared more tower than house, for in spite of their narrow construction, a few of them rose to nearly twice the height of the wall. I had to crane my neck to take it all in.

We passed the inner ring, and into the wide campus that stretched before the looming temple of Venibrek; it was lined with perfect rows of pruned ash trees, and they radiated from the center, just as the buildings beyond.

The temple stood as a single spire, rising high above the level of the wall, and served as the site of all religious rituals—to Sun and Moon alike. The base of the temple had been built in a pied pattern, the stones alternating between light and dark granite. It was there, from within the administrative center of the city, that Lior and Brenna served the people as generals, and there that the Council served as the voice of the people.

The spire and the temple above were formed of alabaster, or perhaps some stronger stone of an equally bright hue. Perhaps five times the height of the wall, the spire was enormous—matchless—and from within the campus I marveled at its make. The temple proper that surmounted the spire was formed in the shape of a flat bowl, reinforced with buttresses of a strange and beautiful corrosion resistant iron. The site was open to the sky, permitting the Priests and Priestesses to commune with their celestial gods.

We turned together at the entrance to the temple campus, wheeling left from the main road, which faced due west. The temple district was uncharacteristically serene in the midst of a vast and bustling city.

At the temple steps of white marble, two men awaited our approach.

Lior dismounted, and motioned for me to do the same. For weeks on end, I had endured both saddle and jostling wagon bench daily from dawn to dusk. Now, having reached my destination, I allowed myself to hope that I would remain afoot until the moment of departure. As I kneaded my sore thighs and arse, Lior pointed his finger to the north, and with a few clicks of his tongue sent our mounts flying; they skirted the edge of the temple, mine following his own.

"He knows the way to the stables by now. Those stable boys spoil him, and he knows it. I'm only glad your new mount has the good sense to give chase. Well Ralph, I have duties to attend. While you wash off the dust of the road, change out of those filth encrusted garments, and sleep the day away, I'll be hard at work. Try not to smile at the thought."

He pointed to the taller of the two men that awaited us, obviously an attendant of some sort, and then gestured to the door of the temple; he obeyed mechanically. At another, far less cordial gesture, the second man stepped forward. He was cleanly dressed and neatly groomed, but of an age difficult to guess—he could have been anywhere between fifteen and thirty.

"Ralph, this is Piers, he will be seeing to your needs during your stay. Piers, is everything prepared? I know you've had little notice, but you will earn my thanks if you see to this man's every whim. He is of great importance to our city, and I want him treated well. Respect his privacy, above all else. There will be no questions between the two of you, in either direction: not only are you to ask him nothing, but he should have no need to ask anything of you. Have I made myself clear?"

The peevish little man became very nervous as Lior spoke, and I felt myself pitying him immensely. His voice was nearly a whimper.

"Yes, Your Eminence. He shall want for nothing. They've set about cleaning No. 19 again, and it was cleaned three days ago, on schedule. The tailor has performed admirably, given what little he knows of the gentleman's sizes; further fitting can be made available as soon as it is required. Food has been prepared, and at dusk an escort will await the gentleman's pleasure to guide him to the festivities. Will there be anything else, Your Eminence?"

Lior gave the man a long, scrutinizing look, a deep frown twisting his features.

"No, no, that will be fine, I suppose. Anything else, Ralph?"

I wagged my head sheepishly, and Lior clapped me on the shoulder. Without another word, he disappeared into the temple. Piers eyed me nervously.

"If you will follow me, sir, I'll guide you to your accommodations."

As I followed him, I noticed his head hanging low, so I quickened my pace until we were walking level and in lockstep.

"I'm not the complaining type. Lior is being overprotective. You'll not receive anything but praise from me."

A huge weight seemed to fall from the man's shoulders. He was hugely relieved, though I could not understand why.

"Does he speak to everyone that way?"

Piers looked in all directions before answering.

"Never, and that's what had me so frightened. He's the most powerful man in Brek, and he's normally as sunny as a spring day. Thought I'd been sun burnt for a moment, to be honest."

Piers stopped in front of a tall, narrow house, built of white marble. It had a copper roof, its age betrayed by a solid green patina, and a gentle smoke wafted from three of the four pipes of the chimney. There were four rows of narrow, rectangular windows, enclosed in sheets of flawless glass. Piers held out a largish silver key.

"Here we are sir, No. 19. If you find yourself in need of anything, the pull cords inside operate a bell, and the other end of the line is in my quarters, down the street. Please do not hesitate to call upon me, should the whim arise, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?"

I grinned, and made no attempt to hide my wonder at the opulence of it all.

"Thank you, Piers, but I think you can safely make plans of your own, for today. If Lior asks about you, I'll be sure to sing your praises."

A relieved smile, and he hurried down the street, eager to be about his own business. And after all, it was a Sun Day! I wondered idly if he'd be visiting Revelry as I turned the key in a lock of silver, then opened the heavy door of smooth, dark timber.

* * *

I had never seen the like of my living quarters in Brek, and to this day I have never known comfort on such a carefully arranged and deliberate level. I spent nearly an hour on the first floor alone, sitting at a table of brilliantly wrought iron, on a deeply cushioned chair of ancient oak, and dining from the two enormous trays of food sent to feed me alone. I remember thinking that there was enough food in front of me to feed a family of ten, though I did my best to disprove the estimation.

The first platter was ceramic, covered to keep the contents hot, and contained a large loaf of fresh bread, as well as a wide variety of meats, including a thickly cut slab of pork, a roasted quail, beefsteak, and a mutton joint. In an adjoining container, I found several jam-filled pastries, still hot from the oven.

The second tray, of deeply glossed wood, was covered by a lid of the same make. Inside, I found an assortment of cheeses and fresh fruit. All this, to be washed down with a delicious drink that I later discovered to be a combination of red wine and unfermented grape juice. As I ate, I made a mental note to find the person charged with feeding me, and reassure them that I was not some gluttonous royal from a faraway land.

Though ravenously hungry, I was careful not to overindulge, and I realized as I covered the remainder of my meal with a large napkin, that I had yet to explore the remaining three stories.

I took time to admire the stairs as I climbed them: even they had been carefully covered with a rich burgundy fabric. I stopped at the second floor, which was occupied by nothing more than a large and comfortable parlor. Thickly cushioned couches and chairs, tables of dark and ancient wood laden with decanters of fine liquors, heavy drapes on every window, and, as on every floor, a small hearth of bronze and stone, already lit and burning brightly.

As I climbed to the top of the stairs, I found that I had misled myself by counting the rows of windows. The third story was open to the level of a small loft, accessed by a spiraling staircase of iron. The loft covered the area of the bed, the heavy down mattress of which was contained in a strong frame of oak. I found that the loft, little more than a sitting room and study, held a pair of high bookshelves, complete with a wheeled ladder for reaching the upper rows. From the level of the bedroom, I felt far less cramped; the room was filled with the natural light of two rows of windows, and in that high, open space, the narrow house appeared much larger and far more comfortable.

On a low couch, pressed against the far wall of the bedroom area, I found a pile of neatly folded clothing, all of rich and colorful fabrics. A note had been pinned to the tunic at the top of the pile:

I hope this will serve the needs of His Eminence's esteemed guest. More may be acquired if necessary, and the young master may present himself to be fitted for further clothing at any time.

Your Willing Servant,

-Danith

Proprietor- Priest's Armoire Clothier and Drapery

No. 338 Quarryman St. - Canal No. 7

-Postscript- The formal wear and footwear may be found in the wardrobe.

I opened the wardrobe to find it filled with hanging coats, cloaks, tunics, trousers, belts, shirts, and robes of the finest quality, and lining the bottom, from end to end, were various pairs of shoes, from riding boots, sandals, buskins and light shoes of the richest leather, to slippers of fine cloth and many others I did not recognize.

I then looked to my own clothes. Even in Iurna, I had thought them plain, but they were now worn by travel, the shirt beneath my tunic stained yellow, and my trousers stiff with dried sweat from my labors in the saddle. Even my shoes of supple doeskin had not escaped the hazards of the road. Still, I knew that I could not change my clothing until I had seen to Lior's request, so determined to do as needed, I grabbed a few items from the neatly folded pile, and a delicate pair of sandals from the wardrobe, before making my way down the carpeted staircase.

I had learned from my brief conversation with Lior that wash water could be found in ample supply in the basement of any house in Brek. From the ground floor, I descended a narrow staircase of stone, and much to my surprise, I found the room awash in a dim light. Narrow, diagonal slats high on the far wall permitted the room to be illuminated by the natural light of day, and they were thickly glassed, that light would be permitted to enter, while the elements remained outside. There were lamps aplenty for bathing by night, but I found them unnecessary, the natural light of late morning being more than adequate.

Only one lamp had been lit, and this I knew was for the lighting of the braziers beneath the heating tanks, of which there were two, the first low, its base rising half a spear-length above the enameled floor on a stand of iron. A spout and stopcock stood out at the base of the lower tub, of similar nature to the two spouts protruding from the wall, which Lior assured me would produce all the water I might need.

The second heating tank rose much higher than the other, and its own spout stretched out and pointed to a depression in the floor, a drain at center. Its brazier was mounted on a stand, and the stopcock of both wall and tank spout had to be controlled by chain. I turned the lower of the wall valves slowly, unsure of what might happen. First a drip, then a trickle, and finally a torrent of water erupted from the wall, filling the tank quickly. I closed the valve and lit the brazier, and as I opened the second wall spout, my bladder reminded me of my overindulgence—I'd had too much wine.

The privy sat in the corner; a marble plinth with a hole at center and a locking, hinged cover of enameled wood. As I lifted the lid, I caught the aroma of some sweet-smelling spice and heard the noise of rushing water far below. Finally, I understood Lior's joke about filling the water skins downstream. I tended to my urgent need, and rushed to the running spout, closing the valve as the heating tank began to overflow. This had been provided for, and the lip of the tank, lower than the other sides, spilled directly into a drain beneath. I lit the second brazier, which was smaller than its neighbor; a precaution against overheating, as I would later learn.

As I waited for steam to rise from the lower tub, I took the time to examine the implements and strange unguents that Lior had described. On a stone table beside the wash tub of white enameled iron, sat three glazed ceramic flasks and a large square of clean, rough cloth. Pulling the cork of each flask, I sniffed at the contents, to find that they were all perfumed with complementary scents.

I looked to the heating tub, and saw that thick plumes of rolling steam were rising from the surface of the water, so I clapped down the brazier lid, instantly extinguishing the flames, and turned the lower stopcock. The tank spout was not so torrential, and the bathtub filled slowly. I disrobed, glad to be rid of the filthy, travel-worn fabric, and placed my hand in the water, to find the temperature bearable, and even agreeable.

At Lior's behest, I took a small towel from the stand beside the second heating tank, and soaked it in the steaming water. As I scrubbed at my skin, I understood the request. The towel became discolored, and it took a while to scrub away the accumulated filth. Even in jest, Lior had been right all along; I had indeed been too filthy even for a bath. Had I attempted to bathe without scrubbing away the filth of the road, my body would have had the same effect in the tub that a soup bone has in a boiling pot.

Relatively innocent of filth, I immersed myself, deciding that hesitation would only prolong the experience.

I felt an initial prickling sensation, thoroughly disagreeable, though it ended quickly, and moments later I began to feel a deep relaxation at the root of every muscle. I leaned back, took a deep breath, and plunged beneath the water, rising slowly to float just above the bottom of the tub. I felt weightless, warm, and deeply comforted, and completely forgot that I had expected the experience to be unpleasant.

Finally sitting upright, I reached for the first of the flasks. It was glazed and painted blue, and I took also the square of rough cloth. In Venibrek, the soaps used for bathing vary, and the soap of the blue bottle is for the washing of the body. Unlike the soaps of Meadrow—which are never used for the washing of the body—those of Venibrek are not made with animal fat, nor do they employ the stinging lye that is often used for the washing of clothing and cookware. The cleansers of the Trathnona are made primarily with wood ash, seed oil, and tree sap, and for the costlier soaps, herbs and perfumed oils are applied.

I immersed the cloth and stood, and the steaming water splashed and rippled in the light of midmorning. The strange soap smelled earthy: sandalwood with floral undertones. I rubbed the sides of the cloth together until nothing but a thick foam remained, then applied the rough fabric in even, circular strokes until my body was completely coated. As I immersed myself, I took care to keep the cloth above the waterline. This done, I lifted my feet and calves high above the water to wash them in like manner. Looking back, I can freely admit that I enjoyed the experience thoroughly. I felt somehow new—unencumbered by the weight of past experiences.

I then grasped the red bottle, and poured a bit of the liquid, no less thick than that of its blue counterpart, but clear, its scent of cinnamon and spice. The unguent of the red bottle is for the washing of the hair and scalp. Rubbing my hands together, I spread it evenly and applied it to my hair, massaging gently as the liquid transformed itself into foam. I closed my eyes tightly, forewarned that contact with any of the foam or liquid would burn painfully. A tingling sensation, this one far more pleasant, covered my scalp, which I raked with my fingernails to scrape away the stratified layers of dead skin and dirt. That done, I plunged my head beneath the water once again, and would have succeeded in rinsing, had not the water been thick with foam.

In spite of my precautions, the water darkened; discolored by the dislodged filth of a life innocent of hygiene. I splashed water across my arms, combing away foam and rinsing my hair with spread fingers and cupped hands, and then rose from the water, by then lukewarm, to grasp the white flask. This final touch was not a part of the effort to remain clean, but intended to unravel the tangling of hair that might result from long neglect or overzealous care.

The unguent of the white flask was creamy and more solid than that of the blue bottle. I shook out a mound a bit larger than my thumb, and spread it through my messy tangle of raven hair, noticing that, as I pulled my fingers through, the locks seemed to slip free of their chaotic knotting, until I was able to slide it all back in one clean mass. I lifted the plug of polished ebony and filigreed cork from its place in the middle of the tub's base, leaving the water to drain as I traversed a thick black carpet to the area beneath the second spout.

A gentle, steady steam had begun to rise from the copper heating tank, and so I allowed the brazier lid to clang home, and took my first close look at the strange device. It was a simple pipe, angled diagonally down from the base of the heating tub, before terminating in a near right angle to point directly to the floor. The end of the pipe resembled the head of a broom, branching out from the main body into dozens of tiny pipettes.

Knowing what to expect, I stood well away from the device, then pulled gently on the attached chain. The lever of brightly colored bronze above released a narrow valve, resulting in an instant torrent—a miniature downpour, contained within dozens of perfectly defined jets of steaming water. I placed my hand beneath, and though very warm, it was not nearly as hot as I had expected. Long after the suds had been washed from my body, and the creamy unguent from my now thoroughly clean locks, I stood beneath the deluge, delighting in the sensation until the final drop had fallen. I dried myself with a thick towel of soft, springy fabric, and scrubbed it against my back.

I was alive—rejuvenated and transformed by the sensation I now understand as simply being clean. On the stone counter beside the device, I found a comb of dark wood and a small mirror of perfectly flat bronze. The metal was very light in color, and I can remember thinking that that was the first time I had ever seen my own face. In truth, I must have seen my reflection before in the surface of still water, but never before had I seen myself so clearly. I stared into that mirror for a long time, touching my face to ensure that it truly was my face, and not some strange trick of the light.

I had high cheekbones and a slender jawline, terminating in a tall chin. My mouth was a bit wider than the breadth of my chin, my lips full. It was not at all an unpleasant face, though as I write this, I cannot help but laugh, for truly, to a man of my advancing years, all youth is beautiful in its way. I combed my hair, aware that it needed little attention, and as unkempt mop was no longer an option, I combed it back, allowing it to part more-or-less naturally in the middle.

Finally, I scrubbed my teeth with a tiny brush of stiff boar's hair, and a paste made from hot water and cave salts. I can still remember that first taste of the substance, bitter and foul, though it left my teeth whiter than I had ever seen them. A similar practice is common enough in Meadrow, accomplished with a frayed hawthorn twig, but it was never paired with any form of cleanser. In truth, few Farmers bother with scrubbing their teeth, beyond its introduction during their brief education. Understandably, most Guardsmen only converse with the Farmers from beyond a respectable distance.

I would be expected to dress more thoughtfully for the night's festivities, though at the time I could not imagine clothes more extravagant than those I wore in the interim. I leapt up the narrow stone staircase in trousers and shirt of white linen and a sky blue tunic of a light, airy material that might have been silk, though I'd never known the fabric to feel so soft. The light sandals were delicately woven ropes of supple brown leather over soles of hide and linen.

Again at ground level, I resisted the urge to grab a snack as I passed the covered trays, and climbed flight after carpeted flight.

At the top of the stairs, I removed my sandals and turned down the heavy blanket to find that even the inner bedclothes were made from silk. Collapsing on the bed, I fell asleep almost instantly, oblivious to the time of day. Though the light in the window faded and the house grew dark, I didn't stir an inch.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Festivities

I awoke by degrees, realizing first that while the room was well lit, the light was not coming through the window. As I opened my eyes I saw that the curtains had been drawn, and I looked up to see strange lamps burning in sconces, just above my head. Even beyond the lowered level of the loft, the tiny flames burned brightly, flickering but little. More hung from the walls, and the effect was incredible; the house was more brightly lit than it had been at midmorning.

I jumped without pretense when I heard a gentle coughing to my right. I was not alone, though I suppose I should not have been surprised, as the lighting of so many lamps would have taken great effort. Even though the little man, advanced in years, cleanly dressed and neatly groomed had been standing politely to the side, it took a few moments to get over the shock. He spoke in respectful tones, slowly pronouncing every word in a friendly voice.

"One hour past sunset, sir."

"I...see. And who lit the lamps?"

"That would be Piers, sir. He wanted to linger, that he might dress you for the evening's festivities, but his wife is in labor. He wished me to convey his apologies. I hope you don't mind. There's a basin of hot water on the table opposite the bed for washing. My name is Coisis, and I was sent as your escort. His Eminence the High Priest conveys his regrets, and his apologies for not informing you earlier of his unique circumstances, which will prevent him from joining you this evening."

"Circumstances? I thought this was a festival day. What could possibly stop Lior from attending a festival?"

The man tilted his head, his eyes to the ceiling, as if trying to decide how to answer such a foolish question. It was an expression more of personal difficulty than of sarcasm, and I found it thoroughly endearing.

"The Priests of Brek do not leave the confines of the temple barracks by night, or in the High Priest's case, the abode of the High Priest, sir."

"But that makes no sense, Coi...Coisis, is it? I have seen him travel by night many times."

"Coisis it is, and I can understand your confusion. The High Priest of Brek is permitted to travel by night, as the High Priestess of Ashad may travel by day, for the sake of practicality, but within the bounds of the city wall, the High Priest is never seen by night, just as the High Priestess confines herself to her own abode by day. And the Priests, guardians of the wall, may not travel, at all. Her Eminence the High Priestess, however, will be delighted to receive you, though we are running a bit late. You must have been tired, sir. I don't believe you stirred once in all the time I've been watching."

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Piers was here four hours before sunset. I took over when he left."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"To be honest, we were unaware of the protocol. We've been told that men of foreign nobility refuse to be awakened by unnatural means. Or rather, Piers has been told that, sir. That is what he whispered to me when I suggested waking you."

"And now his wife is giving birth. He stood here knowing that? I admire his dedication, especially since the birth of his child has landed on a Sun Day. He'll be there to witness the birth, I mean. Probably good luck if she gives birth to a boy."

"Indeed, sir! Very good luck! Now then, I'll head downstairs until you've washed yourself, and when you're ready to dress, just give the name Coisis a shout, and I'll be up here before you can say it twice!"

"Wait, Coisis. I...thank you for waiting, though it was not at all necessary. I wake when needed, though rarely have I slept so well, and I can dress myself, as is my custom. In the meantime, if you find yourself hungry during the wait, there's a giant platter of food on the first floor, beneath a cloth on the table, and a jug of some delicious drink. I know not why they sent so much, when a bit of meat and bread and a flagon of beer would have sufficed, but I suspect that Lior has frightened the butcher and baker as much as poor Piers. Please help yourself while I wash and dress. And I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

For some reason Coisis seemed greatly touched by my words. Perhaps the other men that had occupied No. 19 were more fussy and less cordial than I. His face reddened a bit and he pursed his lips. When he tried to respond, his throat tightened, and he was unable to speak. He nodded wordlessly, and descended. If he had expected a tyrant, I was determined to disappoint him.

I moved to the table two paces from the foot of the bed, where a large bowl and clean towel had been placed, the surface of the water steaming gently. Coisis must have kept the kettle near the hearth, and poured the water just as I was beginning to stir. I splashed my face, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, patted dry with a clean towel, and ran a comb through my hair as I took stock of my new clothing.

From the wardrobe, I chose slim-legged trousers, a very dark green, and made from a thick, felt-like material formed of vertical ribs. For a moment, I considered wearing the delicate sandals I had chosen before bathing, but they seemed impractical in early winter, so I browsed the collection of more than a dozen pairs of shoes that had been delivered for my use, and settled on a pair of brown leather clogs, crafted from dark, glossy bull hide. I threw on a long-sleeved shirt of gray silk, and fitted it to my frame beneath a narrow belt of suede with an ornately decorated buckle of dark bronze. Over the shirt, I wore a sleeveless outer robe of dark green, gold, and black brocade that extended to my knees; it had but one button, at the collar, and though I wasn't aware of the local custom, I left it open. I knew festivals to be noisy, sweaty affairs, and I wished above all else to be comfortable. In that spirit, having decided against the many jackets and coats hanging in that spacious wardrobe I took instead a heavy black cloak with mantle and hood-lining of sable, knowing that I could remove it, once inside.

Fully dressed, I made my way downstairs; as I approached the final flight, I heard Coisis, his mouth apparently full as he muttered, _"Oh, dear!"_

He had taken me up on my offer, and had been enjoying a delicious pastry, no less so for being a bit cold, when a careless bite squirted the blackberry filling all over his tunic of bright yellow wool. He looked to me and my finery, and then to his jam-covered tunic, his face twisted in an expression of unmasked panic. I didn't intend to make a bad situation worse, for I knew he had probably planned on attending the festivities after escorting me, but it was too funny for words, and despite my best efforts, I began to chuckle softly under my breath, and eventually let loose the full force of my laughter.

As I calmed myself, I could see that the poor man was in despair, and I could imagine why. It was a very large city. By the time he'd escorted me, found his way home, changed into a fresh tunic (if he had one) and returned, the festivities might well have been over.

"Don't panic, Coisis, you are in luck. Some thoughtful page has seen fit to leave a basin of hot water and a damp towel upstairs, while one of his neighbors has left a huge array of finery not far from that. Our sizes aren't exactly the same, I'm afraid, and if it had been a shirt, you'd have me at a loss. As it's only a tunic, it can be replaced with ease, but first, I think you'd better finish that pastry. It would be a shame to let it go to waste after all that trouble."

I broke into laughter a second time as he took another bite.

* * *

The bulk of my early life lacked anything approaching levity, and perhaps I should have been thankful. Sustenance is far more flavorful after a time of want, and water all the sweeter after days of thirst. I must then credit the dull, humorless existence I had endured before the time of the Orinsos, for it served to amplify the grandeur of all my later experiences. Meadrow was the home of my suffering, its people as drab and unforgiving as a winter landscape. But in Venibrek, where the common people were kind, interesting, and never once rude or demanding, I felt myself part of a warm community, if only for a short time.

I was led to festival by the affable Coisis—now properly dressed in a pristine yellow tunic, similar to the one he had stained with jam, but possessing an intricate pattern in silk, similar to the brocade of my outer robe. We left his own tunic to sit in my wash basin, hoping the water would leach out the jam.

The night was mild, the high city walls softening the bite of even the strongest winter breezes. Though the moon was still in an early phase, and the clouds obscured the stars, the streets were brightly lit in the same manner as my lodgings, so that people moved about much as they did by day.

As we crossed the bridge at Canal No. 13, I saw that a long line of citizens eagerly awaited passage to the festivities. At No. 14, the passage to the canal had been cordoned off by a rope of some soft black fabric, akin to velvet. Coisis untied the rope, coiling it neatly over his shoulder, and bid me follow him down the stairs. At the docking point, a small barge containing a few chairs fought the current, secure in its moorings. I had seen citizens in Brek traveling on barges that were much larger, though they had always remained standing in transit.

Coisis took a chair beside me, though only at my invitation, and immediately the gondolier untied the mooring ropes. I spoke with the gondolier at length, and the circuitous route provided for lengthy conversation. He controlled the boat with a wheel attached to a rudder chain, and in this manner one man could control the barge from the bow, rather than employing the more primitive rudder found at stern upon other vessels. From his position he could see all obstacles, aided at night by the same unusual lamps that the people of Venibrek employed even within the open canals; they were staggered upon the smooth stone walls, and we passed one every ten paces. I smiled to myself in thinking that the city appeared even brighter by night.

Coisis eventually emerged from his shell, content as he saw me converse with a common gondolier that I was not some strange foreign noble that delighted in luring common men into false comfort, only to chide them mercilessly when they failed to cower in my presence. Over the course of a long and pleasant conversation he told me his story, and I learned much of the temple, and Lior, in the process.

As a youth, Coisis had served as an Initiate, and for a time even guarded the wall as a Priest of Brek. When I asked him why he would choose to end such a promising career prematurely, he offered the best of all possible answers.

His true love had married by arrangement, just as the daughters of many of the Tzela eit Arga—or 'Chisel and Bow' class. Though of the same class as Coisis, she had been betrothed to the firstborn of a more fitting family, with complementary occupations in Brek and Ashad.

Most men, forced to endure such a miserable fate, think first to rail against it. In short order, the anger subsides, crushed by the weight of cruel reality; without anger, without hope, all gives way to mourning. But in the fullness of time, as life continued and the pain of loss diminished, those men, still young, would move on; they would settle for the attainable, likely submitting to the same form of arranged betrothal as that which had authored their pain. Then, if favored by chance, or a betrothal arranged by thoughtful parents, happiness—or at least contentment—might yet replace the pain of that first lost love.

But Coisis was not most men. His love was true, his devotion to his woman absolute. He never sought another woman, instead devoting his life to the temple—the defense of the city wherein his true love dwelled. Decades elapsed, with duty his only comfort. His days were filled with all the dangers of the life militant, his nights by the pain of a broken heart.

Finally, forsaking hope he took the holy orders of priesthood. As a guardian of Venibrek, he would stand his daily vigil, looking down upon the world from the great high towers of the Trathnonan wall. He would live out his days in celibacy and segregation of gender, isolated even from the women of the opposing order, those keen-eyed Priestesses who stood the watch by night.

But fortune found my new friend in time, for that union had yielded no children. And then, eleven years before the time of our introduction, the arranged husband died peacefully in slumber. To his credit, Coisis spoke only words of kindness for the man who had married his true love. Linis and Coisis had been childhood friends, and despite circumstances that would have driven most men to hatred and violence, it seemed that Coisis felt no ill will at all. Linis had not been a false friend, only an obedient son; abiding by his arranged betrothal he had done nothing more or less than his filial duty.

Coisis mourned the loss of his friend, wept for him. But though it caused him no end of guilt, and did not diminish his grief-borne heartache, that very same heart was lifted by joy. Many years had passed, and yet those same affections, forgotten from the time of his youth, were awakened once again. He realized then that while time possessed dominion over life and death, it held no sway over love. And feeling the return of what he once hoped to forget, he realized that his devotion to Alis, the one true love of his life, had not diminished.

Though duty had been the driving force of his life, he could not serve two masters. He had been an able Initiate, and made a fitting addition to the priesthood, but hearing news of his true love's freedom, he begged to be released. He pleaded his case to Lior himself, who at the time had seen only twenty-four summers. He was sympathetic, and perhaps had known love himself at one time. Coisis was released from his oath—one of the few Priests ever granted the privilege. Then, seeing that the man had served as a soldier most of his life, and had no marketable trade, Lior granted him the newly formed title of Page of the High Priest, a position at which he might pass his remaining years in the employ of the temple, while remaining free to marry.

It was a tale that restored my faith in the man with whom I had entrusted Sequiduris, and a testament to the true nature of love, even in a city that divides man from woman, sacrificing tenderness and the warmth of a unified family upon the altar of order.

We let his tale pass for a time in silence, and I turned my attention again to the wonders of his fantastic city. I marveled at the sheer size of it, for we had traveled nearly a quarter of an hour, moving swiftly on the channeled currents of the river, and still had yet to turn at any of the cross-current junctions. I then asked Coisis of the social classes, and their relation to the governing of the city and its people—though in truth, I remember asking these things in a much simpler manner.

Meadrow had no chief or governing body. From generation to generation it was always the most successful Farmer that held sway over the ordering of the community, and it was he that bore also the title of Phulako. Only in matters of order and enforcement of the law did Meadrow's Phulako lack supreme power, as well as in times of war—these were within the purview of the High Stabler.

In Venibrek, there are three classes, and none of them holds greater influence than any other. The Chisel and Bow, the class of Coisis himself, held claim to the evolution of the warriors that now serve as Initiates and Priests. The High Priest and Priestess were almost always chosen from Chisel and Bow, and the class commanded great respect. When I repeated the name in Vulgar Kenalkan, as he had done, he corrected me, saying that, in fact, 'Sword and Bow' might be a closer translation, as they had no word for 'sword', and simply used their word for 'chisel', in memory of the long tradition of stone-cutting that built their mighty wall and strengthened the arms of their men—readying them for battle, even as they built hurriedly to avoid it.

He spoke then of the Stra Zela Kiviri, or 'Stone Cutter and Hunter' class. These families, from the old nobility in the time before the wall, occupied a variety of stations—everything from gondoliers and soldiers to merchants and magistrates. Finally, he told me of the Faln Vhoiti, the 'Field and Quarry'. These had initially been farmers and stone-cutters, and remained so, even after the building of the first wall. But as time wore on, and the new wall replaced the old, the needs of the people shifted; Laborer then became Merchant and Tradesman.

The final societal shift—followed by unbroken millennia of static prosperity—was owed solely to circumstance, for when the interior wall rose, dividing the two halves of the city, all land in the west fell under the charge of Brek. Ashad kept to its own, the women tending exclusively to the vast groves, orchards, and vineyards east of the river.

A full millennium had passed, the scarred hands of men made strong by toil. The acclimation of the minds of Brek to the concerns of stone construction was in evidence in all quarters, their mastery of masonry proved with but a glance. In the thirty generations that had passed, building had become their pride, the strong shoulders and bronzed skin bought in the quarry a mark of highest honor.

Yet owing to the strange inborn drive possessed by the Trathnona, the men rose to their task without question. So it was that empty quarry, long stripped of stone, gave way to crowded field, the chisel abandoned to the work of plow and scythe. From that time to the moment of my arrival—a period of more than four thousand years—the Trathnona had lived without fear of domination, knowing as they did the safety and promise of independence granted by virtue of devotion and self-sacrifice. And through famine, plague, and wars of foreign aggression, the willingness of individuals to bend to the needs of all had made of them an unbreakable tribe, sterner even than the stone of their highest pride.

To the Trathnona, civic duty is as instinctive as the breathing of air; when I said as much to Coisis, he beamed with open pride.

But the strangeness of their history did not account for the abnormal ordering of their society. It was clear that Trathnonan social classes were more in name than they were in delineation, and that I could not understand. Even as a boy I was fully aware that social classes were unnatural to free societies; such pedestals and barriers were conceived by the pairing of greed and ambition, and rarely profited society as a whole. I remember asking Coisis the purpose of a caste system that imposed no restrictions, granted no elevation to any one group, but he appeared to struggle with the inquiry. Eventually, I reassured him by saying that in time I might learn the answer by living among them, rather than by asking too many questions.

I discovered the reason for our lengthy ride through the canal when the gondolier thanked me for my patience. The festival, located to the far north of the temple district, required a circuitous route southward and west, before we could travel north and east. No direct route north of the temple was possible, as the canals that crossed the district were entirely subterranean. The gondolier laughed, shouting as we climbed the stairs to street level that the man who designed the irrigation system had been born one generation too soon, while the woman who had thought to use the canals for transportation had been born one generation too late.

As we rose to the level of the street, six Initiates of Ashad, all familiar to me from our adventure in reclaiming Sequiduris, approached in two lines of three. They all wore armor, but remained unarmed, carrying instead intricate staves, carved from white ash with ferrules of silver, and surmounted by large feathers of midnight blue, made to resemble massive fletchings. As they halted, I bade farewell to Coisis.

"I think they are here for me. Enjoy the festivities, Coisis, and please convey my best wishes to your lovely wife."

"Thank you, sir! And may I say that it has been a pleasure to walk in your company. I sincerely hope that our paths cross again."

"So do I Coisis. After all, I still have your favorite tunic."

That earned me a smile, and as we parted ways, I approached the silent Initiates.

"Good evening, ladies! Should I take this as a sign that Brenna would like to speak with me?"

It was Ulsa, apparently the leader of their cadre, that responded.

"Whether she wishes to speak with you, sir, I do not know. We have orders to escort you to Her Eminence's table. If you will follow us."

They marched in lockstep, and I tried very hard to walk casually between their columns of three. I remember thinking that if this was Brenna's way of seeing that my first days remained low profile, Ashad might be of an even grander style than Brek. From the canal entrance, we approached a huge, orb-like building that straddled the Dividing Wall. It was fronted—at least on the Brek side—by an entryway of white columns, and the approach was a rise of two dozen alabaster steps. A welcoming yellow light shone from inside, giving the spherical building the appearance of some strange prison designed to detain the sun itself.

Within, I saw several rows of long tables that spanned much of the room's length, save for a section on either side comprised of a few hundred sizable round tables. The borders of the room were lined with even more tables, longer, less than half the width, and laden with food and drink of every description.

At the edges of the banquet hall, stone staircases skirted the curving walls, the steps alternating in a pied sequence from ivory-white to a rich, glossy black, and as my eyes followed them up, I saw that while the interior space was both high and wide, it was but the first of three tiers.

The din was incredible: families swapped news at the round tables, and younger people battled noisily for the attention of the prettiest of the opposite sex, while here and there I caught fragments of unintelligible songs sung in volumes that I knew had been encouraged by excessive drink.

The crowd parted in quiet deference at the sight of my escort. I felt the tension born of a thousand curious stares, and felt relieved when we passed the first level. My discomfort returned briefly at the second level, for it was nearly identical to the layout of the first. The third tier was smaller than the rest, and with a much lower ceiling. There, I felt much more at ease, and the chaotic noises below were greatly muffled by the stone of the floor. To my surprise, the conversations on the third tier were spoken in the common tongue, and again, this did much to ease my discomfort.

Our approach was covered by cloths of gold and dark blue that I observed on entry to be arras or banners, and they each bore an identical device: an orb formed of two halves—black sun in a field of white and pale crescent moon in a field of black, surrounded by a thick, pied ring matching the pattern of the inner device.

My eyes found Brenna almost immediately. She stood attentively before her audience in a gown of pale yellow and open robe of blue-green silk; though little more than a disguise, the trappings of femininity favored her well. The cluster of gathered listeners had forced her retreat, that she had backed very nearly into one of the same tapestries that bordered the hard stone stairs. A number of extravagantly dressed people, merciless in pursuit, had hemmed her in, ignoring her attempts to withdraw; few were under the age of fifty.

She had retreated so near to the edge of the unrailed floor that I feared she might tip over and fall to her death. I felt worry, mingled closely with amusement, that she should fall to the thoughtless attentions of a demanding throng after all she had survived in the short time I had known her. She caught sight of me, and something in her eyes pleaded for assistance, so I approached slowly, carefully avoiding the press of bodies, and halfway to my goal I looked back to find that my escort had vanished. I marveled at the low register produced by so many people, and as I drew nearer I was able to hear enough of the conversation to understand Brenna's plight.

A portly man was doing most of the talking. Of advanced years, he had a thick beard and a mop of hair not unlike my own before bathing, save that his was whiter than fresh snow. His moustache bristled as his voice became stern.

"Surely you are aware, Your Eminence, that the affairs of the divergent populations are not our own. Thundering weapons they may have, but powerful enough to pierce masonry of granite? I think not! Assuming for a moment that Your Eminences were correct, that war is indeed upon us, who would we count as allies, in this unavoidable war of yours? The strongest of the other Banners are the Nalbans and the Hjarrleth—surely you've not forgotten the foulness of the Laeki! And what of the Hjarrleth? If they can be goaded into a war—an unlikely prospect, regardless of what their mute Phulako has implied to you—they would be an even greater liability than the Nalbans! Bloodmad swordsmen in impenetrable armor? They would pose more danger to us than the enemy!"

"At the moment, sir, I am more concerned with the danger that you pose to Her Eminence."

I made the interjection as loudly as I could without shouting. Everyone turned to face me, and especially Brenna's portly assailant, whose woolly beard was even more impressive, face-to-face. He was surprised, but unimpressed, and a bit put-off by the interruption.

"And who might you be, young man? A foreign military consultant, here to offer us the wealth of your many years of worldly experience?"

I waited for the throaty, airy laughter of the crowd to subside before responding.

"No sir, nothing of the sort. I'm simply a guest of Their Eminences, and my concern is for the danger currently posed to the Lady—as well as that which you may pose to yourself."

"And what danger is that?"

"Well sir, as I approached, I noticed that you tend to stamp your feet, moving forward a bit for emphasis, when in the midst of a debate."

"Well, what of it?"

"If you don't mind my asking, what is the penalty for murder under this particular Banner?"

"In Brek the penalty is beheading, and in Ashad I believe it is death by arrow volley. Why do you ask?"

"And what about a neutral location, such as this?"

He paused for a moment to consider the question, and shrugged widely as he answered.

"I do not believe that such a crime has ever taken place in a neutral location. It would fall to a tribunal of magistrates. There is, I suppose, some point to be made from this string of tiresome inanities?"

"Just that it might have been a spectacular trial indeed, for you were about to send the lady to her death. We are on the third floor, after all."

My remark earned a much more appreciative laughter, and as it died down, Brenna made an end of it.

"Councilman Tamsal, I think we both owe my guest a debt of gratitude. I must admit that I felt a bit like a flightless bird at the edge of a cliff!"

Her words earned a laughter all their own.

"Now if you will pardon my absence, I think I should see to the needs of my guest."

She guided me near the edge opposite the gathering and beckoned me to sit, then motioned to someone behind me as she took her own seat at the edge of the tier; a position that afforded her the opportunity to scan the room periodically. I kept my back to the crowd, relieved for a time to sit in relative quiet without being jostled by a press of bodies.

From behind, a pair of hands lowered a large wooden tray containing fruit, a warm pastry, a beefsteak, and hard-boiled eggs, while another pair plumped down an ornate bronze goblet and a ceramic jug. Brenna nodded her thanks, and I would have done the same, but when I turned, the helping hands had gone to work elsewhere. I shrugged, looked to my plate, and then to the empty space in front of the High Priestess. My look must have been eloquent.

"I dined as the festivities began. You are late. I had planned on introducing you to the councilors and councilmen. Lior and I have been attempting to beguile a few of the more difficult elders. I must admit that I was expecting a far more difficult introduction, but you managed well enough on your own. My thanks."

I lifted my goblet half-heartedly in response, and took a sip. The flavor was unexpected.

"Is this wine?"

She nodded, and I shrugged and drained the vessel. It was not as bitter as I might have expected, but then I had never tried undiluted wine before. It was a deep, flavorful red, tasting of plum and spice, with just the slightest hint of bitterness. The wine fell upon an empty stomach, reminding me that I had not eaten since midmorning, and it took great restraint to maintain some semblance of manners as I began to empty my tray.

I asked broad questions between bites, attempting put the burden of conversation on Brenna as I ate. She was a difficult person to read, and it became impossible to discern the length of her answers; I had to cover my mouth frequently to ask another question. I looked ridiculous, but did not stop eating. The beef had been slow cooked in red wine with spices, and it was tender beyond belief. Even the grapes, miraculously innocent of pits, tasted far more flavorful than those harvested from the few vines in Meadrow. That stated, I did my best to keep her occupied, and learned as much as I could.

"That man, the attempted murderer—who is he?"

Brenna smiled, seeming content to watch me eat, or perhaps she was amused by my sad attempt at proper table manners. Hearing the question, she looked beyond me, and I could tell her eyes were for the fat councilman as she replied.

"Councilman Tamsal? He is the dominant Council member of the Arrowstone Faction—one of the chief opponents to the idea of militarizing the state. He seems to think that the trade values of iron, copper, and charcoal are simply too high at present to justify the forging of the weapons and armor we would require, and he visibly quakes at the idea of general recruitment from within every class of society."

"Is the concern valid?"

She wagged her head, her eyes blazing in a way that had been absent, even in Rorik's Clearing. It looked as though she would do far more than break the councilman's neck if she could but find the justification.

"He knows nothing of current trade values, nor is he aware that we have no need to import charcoal. Charcoal burners have labored daily inside the wall for more than sixty generations. And the mere implication that he knows more about the potential combat strength, or the will and capabilities of our people, than Lior and myself..."

She stopped herself, red-faced, her hands clenching tightly beneath her chin in a double fist.

"Why does the Council have factions at all?"

I had intended this as a vote of support, but with a mouth full of beef, I was unable to finish the question. I'd meant to finish with _'...do they not simply vote the will of the people?'_ , but because I was hampered by my own gluttony, the question appeared more a distraction to calm her, rather than a vote of support to gain her favor and prolong her show of passion. There was something appealing in the look of her face when she blushed.

I felt oddly disappointed when she smiled, her face returning to its normal, creamy complexion; she brushed a bit of gloss-black hair behind her ear, and I became aware of the contrast. She directed her gaze to meet my own, filling my vision with a flash of deep blue before returning her attention to the events behind me.

"Different interests band together. In this case, the interests are more complex than you might expect. The Arrowstone, for example, is comprised of some of the more militant councilors of Ashad, but also the more defensive and isolationist councilmen of Brek. The name 'Arrowstone' is meant to imply that, while we should not involve ourselves in the affairs of the other Banners, particularly war, we should maintain a strong military presence. Thus, two entirely different interests, from opposite sides of the Dividing Wall come together in times of dire need and imminent danger to tie my hands behind my back. They would have me watch, as the other Banners fall, one-by-one, and by the time any of them wish to join together and end the coming war, too few will remain to fight it."

I swallowed at the thought, my mouth too full for the attempt, and I had to gulp at my wine to wash it down without choking. She saw, and must have seen it as a sign of worry. She smiled to reassure me.

"When they see what we have to show them, Tamsal and the other stubborn elders will fall into place. You may enjoy the Approving. It is a ceremony, and it has taken place only once or twice in the last one hundred generations; the councilors and councilmen kiss the back of your hand as a sign that they approve of your proposal. It is considered a sign of humility, symbolizing the debt owed to an outlander responsible for some momentous decision."

"How many are there?"

"Four hundred and eighty-two, at the moment."

I wrinkled my nose at the thought.

"Can I wear a glove to the Approving? I just bathed..."

That earned me a laugh—full, clear, and lyrical. I leaned back in my chair, fully sated but not overstuffed, and pushed gently at my plate before refilling my goblet. It had been the perfect meal: plenty without overindulgence. I left the boiled eggs, which have never been to my taste, as well as the pastry; I'd not forgotten Coisis's own recent mishap. The night was still young, and I had no wish to miss anything while scrambling for a clean tunic. Brenna reached for my plate, and took one of the eggs. She nibbled delicately while speaking. Her eyes remained on the crowd.

"Those clothes suit you, you know. And the bath, as well. A few more days here, and you may even become used to the smell of perfumed oil. Unless, of course, you miss the smells of the farm..."

This was not a jibe, merely a jest. She was baiting me, expecting a reaction of offended pride. For a master archer, she could not have flown wider of the mark.

"The smells? Not at all, though I do feel that the benefit of an uninhibited and natural lifestyle has gifted those beneath my Banner with a few skills that might confound you Trathnona. And who knows, you may actually forget your manners long enough to enjoy yourselves."

Her eyebrow quirked at that, clearly surprised at my cool-headed appraisal of her attempt to goad me. She stared into my eyes with an expression that I found unsettling—and somehow primally appealing.

"And to what skills are you referring?"

She had missed my point entirely, but her expression—an eloquent, smoldering look—had gotten the better of me. I broke eye contact, draining my cup and planting it on the table before hazarding a second glance. Her expression had not changed, and I began to worry that others in the hall might see her. Beneath her gaze, I felt like a deer in the midst of the hunt.

"Skills? I...we just...well, you were at the Reaping Festival! Is there not a single musician in your grand city? Is there not a single space of empty floor for a reveler to dance upon?"

At first her look gained in intensity, possibly in response to my mistaken use of the word 'reveler'—revelry had but one meaning in Venibrek. As she realized that my words had been a challenge, her smoldering look transformed almost instantly, her features alive with adventurous mischief. She looked again at the crowd, rose slowly, and motioned for me to do the same. When she nodded in the direction of the stairs, I followed, glad of any excuse to win as far from the endless droning of drunken politicians as my willing feet could carry me.

When we passed behind the cover of the tapestries, she took hold of my hand. With the other hand, she raised the hem of her gown, then pulled me downward in a fleet-footed display of agility, her legs a blur of perfect white. As I stumbled behind, in terror of this sudden show of childlike madness, I could not but regret that fourth cup of wine.

* * *

We exited through the other side, and I could not protest, still dizzy from the long, winding descent at daredevil speed. The shock of the cold brought me back to sobriety, and I was acutely aware of the blushing redness of my face. I threw on my cloak, which took some time with only one free hand; Brenna still held tightly to the other. She turned to smile with that same look of light-hearted insanity, and I saw evidence of the cold against the soft fabric of her gown. But if she had noticed my scrutiny, she gave no sign.

Ashad appeared no different than Brek as we rushed through, though I remember being convinced that everything seemed a shade darker. She did not bind herself to the open streets, but rushed on through alleyways, cutting over the steeply rising bridges. At one point, we exited a particularly narrow alley to find that _there was_ no bridge. She stopped and looked at me, her wide grin a promise of further mischief, then ran forward and leapt effortlessly across the expanse. My inhibitions dulled by wine, I did not hesitate to follow, refusing to shrink from the challenge of any woman, no matter how formidable.

I seem to recall a more-than-adequate sprint to the edge, and a leap that made a mockery of the narrow canal, but even so, I failed to account for my voluminous cloak. It fluttered in the breeze, dampening my momentum and slowing my ascent, so that I felt lucky when I landed with dry feet. Though my feet were planted, my footing was tenuous, and I lost my balance, flailing my hands like a flightless bird—as clumsy fools are wont to do, even knowing that it will do them no good. Brenna saved me by grabbing hold of my narrow belt, then pulled hard to reel me in. My first fleeting thoughts were of voicing gratitude, but by the time I came to a halt my mind had been shocked to stillness, for I had stumbled forward one step too many, and found myself standing far too close.

I could feel the heat of her, though our bodies made no contact. The first thought that rattled about in my drunken head was the realization that I was, in fact, taller than Brenna. Standing erect, with my shoulders square, the top of her head rose to the level of my cheekbones. I raised my head to look behind her, and at once my nostrils were filled with the scent of her hair—jasmine, narcissus, and the merest suggestion of some exotic spice. I exhaled gently, fearing to startle her; she had not yet tried to back away.

In the distance, a bell rang in silver tones: three double rings, and a single ring to follow. It was three and one half hours after dusk—the night was young. She stepped back, not looking at all in my direction, and disappeared into a narrow alleyway. When she returned, I saw that she had twisted her wide red lips into another mischievous grin.

"We're near, if you think your legs can make the journey."

I removed the cloak, deciding belatedly that it was slowing me down, and hurried to give chase.

* * *

The Bowyers' Hall was the birthplace of Ashad's greatest pride, and so it stood as little wonder that it was also frequently the site of celebration. The wide hall was alive with music, as viols, lutes, drums, pipes, and lyres drowned out laughter, footfall, and the whoosh and whirl of dancing garments. The dance was highly complex, the partners often dividing as far as the breadth of the hall, but all the while their movements remained as one; at the end of every song, the pipes rose in volume and tone—wailing joyfully in time with the reunion of lost lovers.

Applause followed as the music stopped, and the few that saw Brenna and I enter bowed their heads in deference. I realized, on recognizing a few of the faces, that this was a celebration of Initiates. I noticed a few faces of an age with mine, though it appeared that none were much older than Brenna. I then began to wonder, and not for the first time, at the age of the High Priestess. I made some calculations that made sense at the time, and decided that she could not be much older than thirty, and certainly no older than thirty-three. Twice my age, and perhaps a bit more, but she was not old by any stretch of the most critical of imaginations, and no one would have dared deny her beauty, unless prodded by pangs of bitter jealousy.

As the musicians deliberated on the title and delivery of the next song, a bold, broad-shouldered man in his mid-twenties approached. He was devilishly handsome, but it appeared that Brenna was not impressed. He had dark green eyes, a strong chin, short-cropped rings of curly, golden blond hair, and his skin was lightly bronzed, a quality shared by all Initiates of Brek. Again, she seemed unimpressed, but she had no apparent disliking of the man, and smiled gently, nodding her head slightly in response to his gracious bow.

"Your Eminence, your ladies, those that knew you as an Initiate, I mean, they, I would appreciate, no...I would be greatly in your debt if you would do me the honor of this dance, My Lady."

I could tell that she was delighted by his discomfort. She looked to me with an expression that sought approval or denial, to which I offered a broad grin, and dipped my head politely. He laughed sheepishly when she nodded her approval, and took her hand, guiding her to the center of the room, just as the music began. I turned, seeking refreshment, mumbling inaudibly something to the effect of: 'he's no threat to me'.

I made my way along a side wall and found the refreshments at the far end, but decided as I scanned the table that I would not deplete the scant drink that the Initiates apparently purchased from what must have been little pay. As I turned to observe the dance, I was aware that I was being watched. He wore a white tunic—linen of weave and softness such as I had never seen; it was trimmed with orange, and the man wore a brown belt with a gilt buckle to tighten the tunic about his waist. He must have been aware of my scrutiny, for he turned to meet my gaze. I looked away immediately, but he had already begun to make his way across the hall. I was awash in self-pity, though I knew not why at the time, and did not wish to meet any new people. I felt him stop beside me, and saw in my periphery that he had turned to face the dance.

"So, you get washed up, drape your bruise-covered arse with a bit a' silk, and suddenly you're too good to talk with old friends. Or new ones. Guess that depends on how you look at it."

My face lit up with recognition of the tone. Lambek had returned earlier than I had expected. I looked him up and down, admiring the richness of his clothing, and wondered at his speed.

"If I knew you could goad oxen at such a pace, I would have taken the wagon myself. My bruised arse would have preferred the ride."

His grin was enormous, and he hugged me about the neck with one arm, relaxing his grip only when he realized that others had taken notice.

"Sorry about that, boy. Didn't mean to sully the dignity of your high office. Just damned glad to see you! I've been shopping, as you might have noticed. Bought some new clothes and a fine horse, with coin left to burn! You really are too generous! Got here mid-afternoon at the gallop. Just flew by that wagon. Beer's pretty heavy, you know! That tyro in the wagon never saw me coming! Just blasted past like a pigeon from an open sewer! Ha! What a rush!"

"Speaking of the wagon, do you think it might have arrived by now?"

"Should have, I sent it on its way just behind the rest of you. When I saw a long-legged white dozing in a stall, I knew just what to do with that coin you gave me! Had to trail my old horse behind, but he kept up well enough."

He stopped, as if he'd forgotten the topic at hand. He was clearly drunk.

"Oh, right, the wagon! Should be here. Why, change your mind about trying that Kvejka? I'm sure Boers won't miss a drop or two, so long as we water it down a bit."

"Actually, I was wondering how long it might take to bring in one or two of the larger barrels. From the looks of the refreshment table, these people aren't as well-off as the likes of you."

"Ralph, my friend, you have the heart of a priest, but I thank the Sun's Beacon that you still have the mind of a tavern boy! Let's hope they've stored it somewhere cold!"

He turned to one of the younger Initiates, who was of an age with myself, and as Lambek whispered to him, his smile gave off a glow that would have rivaled even Lior's. He ran to two other boys, and they disappeared into the street. I felt thoroughly pleased with myself, until I realized I might have made an error in judgment.

"Is it folly to give evidence that I'm from Meadrow? I'm supposed to remain incognito until the Council's been dealt with."

Lambek appeared amused that I already knew of the Council. He smiled and threw his arm about my shoulders, lowering his voice to a whisper. But even at a whisper, I could hear the humor in his words.

"They...already...know. Lior...told...us. Bren-na...told...them."

Then he stood straight up and clapped me on the shoulder. His voice returned to normal.

"There are no secrets kept between men and women-at-arms. You need not worry though, jovial as this lot is tonight, they're tighter-lipped than a prude with an ugly date. Besides, boy, you're the hope of this city. Most of us already like you. And when we're all good and drunk, we'll love you more than our wrinkled old grandmothers!"

It took less than an hour for the beer to arrive, which came as a surprise, until much later, when I learned that Brenna and I had flown southeast to cover nearly a fifth the breadth of Ashad. A south-facing canal led right past the Bowyers' Hall, which gave the young Initiates a direct barge ride to the loading dock, where the beer had been placed in a roofless storage locker, not ten paces from the entrance.

Two other boys and a girl from Ashad had scampered in the direction of the nearest tavern, where they scooped up all the tankards, flagons, and beer pots they could carry—there was plenty of space on the sad refreshments table. When I had overseen the placement of the taps, popped the vent corks, and drained the foam, I handed the first full tankard to Lambek. He tasted it, delighting in the full, rich flavor of the finest Meadrow Barley Brew, and his eyes rolled back with pleasure as he swallowed his first draught. When he stood on the table, waving the musicians to silence, the dancers stood in complete confusion, a few of them a bit put-off by the interruption.

"Attention, Archers and Swordsmen; Ladies and Gentlemen! For the past several years, we hard-laboring soldiers of this great city have fallen prey to the oversights of our own society. The pittance that the Council refers to as pay has forced us to live at the most ragged edge of poverty, doing without while they grow fat! On festival days we suffer yet another embarrassment—we are all too poor to drink to our own health! Tonight, we find ourselves fortunate, for we are in the company of true friends, and among friends generosity is a casual thing—so casual that these same friends might fail to see the grandness of their gestures. Tonight, our friend is Ralph of Meadrow, who invites you to share in the bounty of his homeland! This round's on the Oni-dai!"

He shouted my future title, stretching it out to fill the hall, but even before the ending of his speech, the room erupted into wild applause, everyone cheering as they moved forward to quench their thirst. I suddenly became nervous, worrying at Lambek's drunken reference to the Onidai, but when I scanned the crowd in search of Brenna, I found her smiling.

Lambek handed me a ceramic beer pot, the foam hanging precariously over the edge. I took a drink, and it was as if I had forgotten the taste of beer, though in truth, I had never tasted the finest brew of my home Banner. It was yeasty perfection, thick and smooth and flavorful, and only pleasantly bitter. I drained the pot, unaware that I was being watched. As I lowered the rim of the pot from my lips, they cheered yet again. Lambek shouted over the throng.

"Apparently, it isn't poisoned!"

The whole room broke into laughter as he leapt from the table to the floor.

* * *

No one ever forgets their first party. It took sixteen years for those around me to decide to celebrate, and it was the single most enjoyable night of my life. I danced, once with Brenna herself, traded jokes and amusing tales, drank pot after pot of ale, and discovered, to my delight, that most of the men in the room knew many of my favorite drinking songs. It was a night to remember...or so I thought at the time.

At nine double chimes, or the second hour after midnight, I stumbled from the hall, still hearing the steady strength of the celebration behind me. Brenna guided me gently, though I remember little of the journey home, save that it took nigh on an hour. Or so it felt.

I felt better when I exited the barge, perhaps aided by the brisk air. As I write this, I must admit that I was not drunk in the manner I had seen at home. This was, however, the first occasion I had imbibed to thorough intoxication. I did not feel sick at all, and truly do not remember why I left the party. As I know it now, I could likely have bolted down three or four pots more and left as the sun rose.

I struggled to insert the heavy silver key, until at last Brenna pushed me gently aside and opened the door herself. Until that moment, she had acted as if my behavior was no different than usual. We stepped inside, and she loosed a low whistle.

"So Ralph, living well, I see. What do you think of your new surroundings?"

I grinned drunkenly, and began removing my clogs.

"I have been in awe since I arrived....shhh...tell no one, I want them to like me. Now if you will pardon me, Your Eminence, I really must retire. But first, I think I'll go downstairs."

I hurried to the basement plinth, lifted the lid, and stood there longer than the limits of anatomy should have allowed. Brenna was still there when I closed the basement door. I removed my stockings, narrow belt, and knee-length outer robe as I bade her farewell.

"I thank you for your courtesy in escorting me home. I hope to see you tomorrow evening, and thank you for a lovely time."

I did not see her to the door, but instead ascended the stairs. When I rose to the top of the first flight, I saw her looking up at me, that same smoldering look in her eyes. From that moment forward, I thought I heard footsteps behind me, but dismissed it as a trick of my drunken stupor.

Stumbling into my bed chamber, I removed the silken shirt, dropping it with the other articles on the low couch. I chortled quietly to myself when I saw Coisis' tunic, still floating in my wash basin. I had just started to untie the laces of my trousers when I heard the sound of breathing behind me, and as I turned, there was Brenna, closer even than she had been at the edge of the canal.

Her smoldering look had vanished, and was replaced by a blushing hesitation, or perhaps it was another of her games. Suddenly, she placed her hands on my lower back, and I felt their startling warmth against my bare flesh. She clenched her fingers tightly, and I felt the sharpness of her nails as she pulled me forward, pressing her body to my own. She released me and took hold of my hands, placing them about her waist. I could feel the softness of her body beneath the thin fabric of her pale yellow gown, and I squeezed gently, pressing her even more tightly against me.

She took this as a sign of consent, and gripped my mop of dark hair, pulling me down to press her lips against my own. It was only my third kiss, and like the first two, it should have been clumsy, just as my over-eagerness should have ended the affair in the first fleeting moment of contact. Perhaps it was the drink, I know not, only that I was alive with passion—excited, thoughtless, hurried, and eager in the capacity of a virile male for the first time in my life.

I could not believe the reality of it, and I brought my hand to her throat to feel the warmth of the pulse beneath. I raised my hand even higher, my thumb caressing her jawline, and felt it move as she worked her lips, pressing them together to tease my lower lip, and flicking her tongue against my open mouth.

I was a man possessed, bold suddenly in the realization that she wanted me as I wanted her. Unwilling to move my right hand, for fear that she might pull away, I raised my left, pushing back the material of her outer robe, so that it rested at her shoulder. She did pull away, but only at my suggestion, removing the outer garment, then turning away from me, at work on the laces of her dress.

The light of the hearth illuminated her figure, that her gown became translucent, and overcome with desire at the sight of her naked silhouette, I thrust myself against her back, pressing my body to hers, kissing her neck and nibbling passionately at her ear. My hands found purchase beneath her arms, just as the stubborn laces gave way, falling to the level of her waist, and I grasped her breasts, firm and round; not over-large, but filling my hands to perfection.

She moaned, a gentle, pleasured purr, then tugged at the fabric about her waist, and I pulled away, allowing the dress to drop to the floor. I pressed my body to her again, and she guided my hand, leading it down to the warmth below. I could feel the heat of her, even before my quavering hand made contact, and I was amazed by its intensity, even as I felt the evidence of her arousal.

Men talk, and as the beer fills their bellies, the talk turns to women. Bragging is short-lived, in terms of plain experience, but the success of various techniques, real or imagined had been discussed at length in my mother's tavern throughout my early childhood—eavesdropping had been my only hobby, but I had learned much, even after sifting through the rubbish. I worked my fingers thus, and her moans grew louder, her breathing deeper and more deliberate. I could hear her hissing through her teeth, and sought to intensify every moment.

I then lifted my fingers, searching for the mound of scalding flesh that I had heard touted as the surest inroad to intensifying feminine pleasure. I found it, and she began to quake, her knees buckling, and suddenly I could wait no longer. I finished the half-tied laces of my trousers with my left hand.

I lifted her arms with both hands, bending her body at the waist, and pressed her palms to the marble shelf above the hearth. She spread her legs to shoulder width, allowing her back to arch, as if inviting me to take her. I bent over her back, kissing her bare shoulder blades, and waited, lingering there, teasing her with a heat all my own. She grew impatient, and took my manhood in her hand, balancing against the hearth with the other, and guided me to her. I felt myself inside her all at once, and reveled in the aching, torrid heat, and thrusting further, the scalding lubricated friction.

Even as we coupled I gripped her about the neck with my right hand, working the left as before, and again she began to shudder. I saw her fingers curl on the marble shelf, and her moaning turned to gasping. She struggled, as if fighting to catch her breath, and I felt her insides as they gripped me, and the torrent of fiery wetness. I lost control and exploded without warning, my own body paralyzed and tremulous; wholly unprepared for the unimaginable pleasures that a drab early life had denied me. I kissed her bare, white shoulders, and she turned, gripping the back of my neck to pull me in close.

"Do not think that I am finished with you, Onidai. I watched you dine tonight. I watched patiently as you sated your own hunger. You will not sleep tonight, not until I have been filled to satisfaction."

She saw the confusion, and perhaps the disappointment that I made no attempt to hide, and she smiled, showing me the whiteness of her teeth. As the smile ended, her face resumed the smoldering look that had confounded me for much of the evening.

"Do not mistake long-standing hunger for a lack of appreciation. You felt me as I reached satisfaction, but long have I fasted, and in this, my first true feast in years, we have only just broached the first course."

She began to step forward, her predatory stare forcing me into retreat, and as my calves reached the foot of the bed, she pushed me bodily upon the cool, silken softness of the sheets. She leapt upon the bed, straddling me, and leaned forward to press her lips to mine, before pulling me up by the turf of my hair to whisper passionate nothings in my ear. She exhaled with each word, that I felt the heat of her every breath. When she felt my arousal against the lean muscle of her thigh, she rode me there, working the same magic that I had witnessed in the saddle. She willed me to control my lust, groaning my name, then leaned backward on her haunches to roll her hips and send me again into oblivion.

Later, as she lounged beside me with her head upon my chest, and talked almost casually of the night's events, I felt the taunt in her disinterested tone, and shocked her to an awareness of youthful virility, turning on my thigh and throwing her beneath me. That was my final memory of that night. I collapsed, finding ecstasy for the third time.

The fading effects of drink conspired with total satisfaction and physical exhaustion, and I was powerless to resist. I fell asleep, and slept dreamlessly—or so I thought until waking.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dreams and Guilt

The curtains were drawn, and though the hearth had grown cold, the unwavering flames of the strange sconces continued to burn brightly. I turned, thinking to ask Brenna of the hour, expecting I-know-not-what—recognition, perhaps. I must admit, with some embarrassment, that as I awoke that morning I felt as proud as a stallion chosen to stud.

Brenna was gone, the bedclothes by my side untouched, and the neighboring pillow was smooth, bearing not the slightest sign of indentation. Her clothes were absent from the floor, as were my own, which had been piled upon the low couch. My head ached as I rose, and I made my way to the curtain, eyes half-closed against the light of the sconces.

The sun had risen well into midmorning, though I did not feel that I had overslept. On the contrary, nothing had yet been asked of me. Neither did I feel slovenly or guilty. I have always believed that time spent sleeping is never wasted: the body takes what it requires, and nothing more.

Downstairs, I found that the fires had been rekindled, and that breakfast had been served. I gave no thought at all to the fact that I was completely naked; my head was thick beyond caring, and no one was there to notice. I was not at all hungry, though I did drink deeply from the jug of water that had been left beside a beading ewer of white wine. The very thought of eating, and especially of drinking anything stronger than water filled me with discomfort, but I drank the jug completely dry—the need that followed led me to the basement.

The floor was cold beneath my feet, and the lack of heating at such a bitterly chilly time of year set me cursing at my own thoughtless lack of clothing. There was a hearth there, a match for all the others, but unlike its neighbors it remained unlit. Relieved, and still greatly impressed by the convenience of the simple plinth, I decided to drive away the chill with a hot bath. The steam did wonders, and I felt better by degrees, so that when I emerged from the basement, wrapped in a thick, clean towel, I was able to recall the majority of the night's events without any trace of nausea, though I remained puzzled at Brenna's disappearance. Indeed, there was little evidence that she had entered my house at all, though I could remember everything clearly from the moment she crossed the threshold behind me. Had it all been a dream?

I dressed in simple attire, not knowing what to expect that day, and I took comfort in a white linen shirt and brown trousers—the latter needed no belt; it was held up by a pair of shoulder straps, cleverly designed as permanently attached baldrics, so the wearer could adjust the length of the straps to the proportions of his own body. Again, unaware of local customs, I hadn't the slightest clue whether I should wear the straps over the shirt or beneath, and so I compromised, wearing open the light brown coat that had obviously been designed to match the trousers. Both articles were soft as felt, and made with the same pattern of vertical ribs as the trousers I'd worn the previous evening.

I wore thick stockings against the cold, and chose a pair of light shoes, wonderfully flexible, and marvelously crafted of starched linen and leather. Wearing those shoes, with their thick, carefully cut, multi-layered soles of leather, my every step felt lighter. I took a dark green scarf of thick wool from the wardrobe, admiring its softness, and wore it untied, to drape down either side of my open jacket. Clean and warmly dressed, I felt my hunger returning.

My meal had been covered by a fabric of waxed wool and a lid of thick hardwood, and whether this had been the sole innovation of those that saw to my feeding, or a general practice of the chefs and bakers of Venibrek, I could not tell. A full hour and more had passed since I had risen, and yet the bread was still warm and soft, as if it had just emerged from the oven. Coisis had apparently informed them of my gratitude, but not of my simple, undemanding tastes, for even as I filled myself completely, I could see that there was more than ample remainder to feed five men of equal appetite.

I started with the bread, paired with a soft, salty white cheese that I smeared over every bite, and then followed with a small meat pie contained within a soft, buttery crust. It had been filled with a stew of wild hare and root vegetables, heavily spiced, and I left not a crumb in the small ceramic bowl. Finally, I enjoyed a pastry, still warm from the oven, filled with blackberry jam and glazed with honey. Remembering Coisis, I dined with knife and fork, my torso protected by a large napkin.

Thoroughly sated, and now convinced that the events of the previous night were some trick of a hopeful imagination, I turned to the white wine. Halfway through my second cup, I heard a knock at the door, and when I granted entry verbally, not wishing to rise from my seat, Coisis himself entered, heavily robed in thick wool. He was surprised to see me up and about, and made no effort to disguise it.

"Good morning, sir! His Eminence sent me to wake you. I trust you slept well."

He was full of vigor, and having spent the evening in the company of his true love, I did not have to guess why, even of a man of his advancing years.

"I slept dreamlessly, Coisis. Dreamlessly. And I can tell from that grin of yours that you slept...not at all."

His expression was a blend of mock shame and overt pride.

"Well sir, we can't all lead the virtuous lives of Their Eminences..."

I could not tell if there was more to his comment than self-effacing humor, but I shook it off as nonsense. I convinced myself that I was looking for meaning where there was none. Coisis seemed ill-at-ease, unsure of how to proceed, with his chore fully attended, and me drinking by the hearth.

"Oh, where are my manners? Come, sit! We have plenty of time, by your own accounting, so I don't think Lior expects to see me hoofing it to his temple at the run. Once again Coisis, they've brought enough food to feed ten, and I'm convinced that they're throwing out my leftovers. Too much waste here for my taste. Does everyone in Venibrek eat like this?"

Coisis had taken a seat across from me. He scanned the pastries briefly, clearly waiting for my suggestion to avoid the appearance of presumptuousness. This became clear when he began to speak before making a move to dine.

"I must admit sir, that you take your meals more in the manner of the councilmen. Most of us eat no more than we must, as is our custom."

"I'd better invite more people to breakfast, then, or I'll look like that tub Tamsal before I take my leave."

His look of terror at my flippant mention of the fat boor was priceless, though I pretended to take no notice.

"Try the meat pie, and the honey glazed pastries. I'm afraid I drank all the water, but the wine in that ewer is excellent. Well, then..."

I rose to leave, and Coisis began to rise, but I stopped him with an upraised palm.

"I know you planned to escort me, but I would like to surprise His Eminence myself this morning. He won't expect me, and I already know the way. Please, enjoy your breakfast, and don't forget, your tunic is still soaking in my wash basin. Good morning!"

* * *

The temple plaza was nearly empty. Only a handful of young Initiates stood upon the open campus, armed with wooden swords and heavy shields, and sparring in two neat rows.

Lior faced two at a time, and he worked his opponents hard, showing them no mercy. It was clear that the younger combatants were expected to strike back with all their might, but no matter how hard they pressed him he made a mockery of their efforts, his shield absorbing the force of every blow before the arc of their attacks reached full momentum. His strikes were flawless, and his method, as I had observed previously, required his sword arm to carry only the burden of offense—never parrying—while his shield was employed only in defense.

I had seen Boers fighting with far less reserve, striking with the edge of his shield, bull-rushing, and parrying with his blade, and though the Hjarrleth style was chaotic, it was a terrifying sight to behold.

Lior's method was far more graceful, more dance than fighting style, with every movement of his arms and legs clearly defined and flawlessly executed. His body was in constant motion, and he responded to incoming attacks as they began, either deftly evading or blocking. When he chose to absorb the strikes of his foes, he preferred to step forward, cutting off the impetus to reduce impact, then flash his shield to parry and throw the opponent off-balance, or root in preparation for a low-line strike.

When the two Initiates separated, with the intention of attacking from both sides, his shield arm contorted to cover his back, enabling him to strike at them in turn. I watched in amazement as he shifted his balance from one leg to the other, swaying to and fro as he struck upon the shields of his earnest foes. To my unblinking eyes, he appeared as a long-beaked waterfowl defending his nest, and the rhythmic percussion of wooden sword upon shield followed every graceful turn.

When facing the two head-on, he stood directly behind his shield, attacking above, below, and to either side, keeping it always between himself and any danger. I wondered then if Brenna drilled her women in like manner, for I knew that many of her Initiates lived diurnally, while Her Eminence was permitted to emerge from the temple only by night.

At the thought of Brenna, memories of my peculiar dream carried me miles away. I saw the milky white of her flesh, felt the warmth of her body. Her eyes were filled with an animal lust, her voice a frenzied whisper as she breathed, nearly hissing, through clenched teeth. I was shaken from my thoughts by Lior, and was glad of the distraction, for it had come not a moment too soon.

"Ralph, my friend! The time has come to earn that pretty sword of yours."

He handed his sword and shield to one of his opponents, and with a command in his native tongue, sent the other running. Lior strode forward, his face wreathed in its brightest smile.

"Brenna told me you'd started bathing, and even that your attire had improved. She was impressed by your sense of style, though I'm glad you've decided to dress more plainly today. Speaking of bathing: I hope you haven't already—if so, you're going to find yourself in need of another. The festival may continue this evening, but you'll have to earn your right to feast.

"Today, you are going to learn how to use a sword—and while we're at it, I'll even teach you to use a shield. It's going to be a rough day, and your muscles will burn like coals in a forge in the coming weeks—try to remember that it is all for your own good. After all, that Kenalkan antique of yours is not without heft, nor is that oddly shaped mass of bronze you liberated from Eagle's cave. Just out of curiosity, why are the shields of Meadrow so oddly shaped? Vague triangles, old and new alike, are they not?"

"Yes, and they were both designed to protect the same sensitive area—the thigh. In case you failed to notice, garrons are smaller than horses, and to prevent our feet from falling too low to the ground, we mount our stirrups high and forward. Sitting with back straight, a round shield cannot be balanced on the thigh—not without bruising it—and, as the primary duty of a Guardsman is the patrolling of our own wall, we needed a shape that would allow us to rest our shield arms. Never know when they might be needed, even in the Middle of the Nowhere."

"Hmm. Sound reasoning, I suppose. Still, it will be interesting to see how your strange shield lends itself to defense when paired with a sword. In fact, it's likely that no one has ever tried.

"Hand your coat to Benrad there, and we'll begin. Benrad's in a similar boat today: too young for love, too old to shirk his responsibilities."

All the Initiates in the plaza were of an age with myself, and a few were even younger. Trainees, one and all, learning their trade for the first time, and the youthful inexperience of these potential opponents made me slightly nervous. Any failure on my part would not be seen as that of a beginner; it would be a failure among beginners. I felt oddly relieved to find that Lior would be instructing me himself, leaving me to individual drills only when his trainees required further direction.

Benrad took my coat, then handed me a wooden sword of a size, shape, and balance nearly identical to Sequiduris. One of his fellows then approached from the left, offering a long triangular shield, built of overlapping layers of wood covered in leather, and planed perfectly to the shape of my recovered piece of Meadrow's antiquity. The wooden copies felt much heavier than I had expected, and I could swing the sword only with great effort. If Lior intended to strengthen my arm in the short time that remained before my Proving, he had great confidence in the resilience of my body.

The High Priest finished giving his long-term orders, and the trainees formed into groups for metered sparring. He then retrieved his shield and sword—the latter long and leaf-bladed like its cousin of finely crafted iron—and the training began immediately. He attacked without warning. So swiftly did he rush me that I had no time to crouch in my own defense, so I didn't try; I side-stepped, then raised my shield to oppose his sword and brought my own up for a short, guarded thrust. My immediate reaction surprised him, and he grinned in appreciation, though not long enough to interrupt the phrase. For the span of several moments, I simply dodged, blocking but little, for his strikes came at full speed and hurt, even through my heavy shield.

I knew, even before his first swing that I could not win on even footing, so I used the rows of neatly trimmed ash trees to my advantage. After backing into a nearby trunk, I allowed him to attack, making no move to evade, then dropped to a low crouch in the midst of an overhead, horizontal slash—he had no time to slow the strike. His blow was stout and solid, and the impact jarred the weapon from his hand.

When I rose, I saw that he was already moving to retrieve his sword, and I lunged forward, bringing down the full length of my own. Lior leapt deftly out of the way, his shield behind him as he recovered. I grinned, thoroughly satisfied with myself as I stepped between the High Priest and his only means of attack.

Now I had the advantage, and I pressed it shamelessly, striking at him repeatedly as he hid behind his shield. At one point, as my arm began to tire, he flailed out and struck my blade with his upraised boss—I was thrown off-balance, and Lior rushed to recover his weapon. He won beyond my reach before I could regain my footing, then grabbed the sword in passing as he rolled upon the ground, his shield spinning like a wheel to protect his left.

As the roll ended, he was on his feet, crouching low, sword balanced atop his shield, and I knew at once that I had been undone. I was already tiring, while Lior's breaths were yet shallow and even. I thought of simply dropping my shield, pleading a tired arm or a poor night's sleep—and the thought disgusted me. Is that what my father had done? Had he seen danger in an unfamiliar form, and responded by refusing to fight? Was there something in his blood—my blood—that caused such irredeemable cowardice? I knew little of my family in the time before my father's public shame, save that all of my forbears had served as Guardsmen.

If I had inherited the potential for cowardice, I might also have gained the courage and instincts of those that had fought and died in Meadrow since long before the time of my father's birth.

I had fared well, disarming my opponent—a master of sword and shield—on my first try. I had seen battle at Eastwall, and the 'cold sweat' form of combat in Eagle's Clearing, and I had not fled from either conflict, in spite of a near-paralyzing fear.

I knew that I would not beat Lior. I had missed my chance, which had only been a gamble, made possible by a clever strategy. I would lose, and through the bumps and bruises I would learn to win my victories even in the absence of guile and good fortune.

Pain no longer had meaning, and fear became nothing more than the cause of a collection of symptoms: a way of explaining a dry mouth or nerveless fingers. I cast aside my shield, raised my sword, and gripped the hilt in both hands. The two-handed grip felt far more comfortable, in spite of the vulnerability it produced. Vulnerable or not, my arm was far too tired to shoulder the effort alone.

I roared as loudly as I could—though at that age it probably sounded more like a boyish wail—and rushed him at full speed, holding my weapon high, like an axe or a heavy club. Lior had no choice; without the encumbrance of a shield, the arc of my attacks would be far too wide. He could not side-step the charge, nor counter without exposing himself, and I knew already that he never parried with his sword. He crouched low, protecting himself as I rained blow after blow upon his shield.

He knew I would tire, and I knew it too, but I did not stop. I wanted him to know that I was not a trainee to be batted about by a man of superior strength. I wanted him to know that I was not impressed by his beautiful city, impenetrable walls, disciplined armies, or formidable skill. I wanted him to know that I was not afraid.

I cared not at all that I might lose his liking. I wanted his respect. He had treated me thus far like nothing more than a slight improvement over his initial plan of fraud, but he had reckoned without considering the events. I earned the Key, and when they lost it, _I_ reclaimed it. Sequiduris was mine. Onidai or not, I had earned, at great risk to my own life, the right to be treated with respect.

I was beyond exhaustion, and had only a few attacks left in me, but I would stretch the encounter as far as I could. At one point, I broke cadence, leaving twice the normal amount of time between attacks. Lior seized on this, and lunged wildly after the landing of the next blow. He had not taken the time to peek over the rim of his shield before committing himself, and I was nowhere near when he completed the attack. I had taken two steps to his left, and one step back, and as he turned to face me he noticed the difference in the scene behind us.

Every last recruit had been watching, uncaring of any reprimand or punishment they might incur. I stood there, hilt in both hands, crouched low, and prepared myself for another round. I had nothing left, but hoped that Lior hadn't noticed. He smiled, sunny as ever, then transferred the weapon to his left hand, gripping his own hilt, point-downward through the leather handhold of his shield as he turned to his recruits. He gestured with his empty right hand—for emphasis, and to show them our match had ended.

"Apparently, our methods of training are not universal. No matter. Each to his own. If the rest of Meadrow shares his madness, they will make fine allies. Take note, however, that if I see any one of you discard your shield, in training or in battle, you will be required to relinquish your sword as well, and from that moment forward you will labor only with shovel and bucket. The battlefield or the stables; the thrill of glory, or the stench of horseshit. For the Trathnona, there can be no middle ground. Eagles soar, ships sail, lightning strikes, and the Men of Brek fight with sword and shield! Some things never change. _First positions!_ "

The trainees returned to their mock battle, and Lior strode forward, his smile returning. He did not appear offended at all.

"Message received, lad. You won't be bullied. Well done. There might even be something to that barbaric, two-handed technique of yours. Rorik was a big man, and even a grown man might tire of hefting Sequiduris, single-handed. For my sake though, and for the sake my priestly dignity, train with the shield from now on. If you want to train two-handed, you can do so with L'mah—I'm but an aging soldier, set in my ways.

"In any case, you did well; most trainees flee when I do that, which is the entire point of the exercise. On the first day, I learn how they respond to attack, so I can learn how best to train them. But you side-stepped, even lured me into a trap! Just the kind of thinking you'll need as Onidai.

"Of course, if you're going to fight two-handed, you'll have need of heavy armor—if you won't carry a shield, you'll have to wear one. A lot of extra weight, but where the arms adapt, the back must endure. I'll speak with Sigmund when he arrives, and maybe he can send word to Sangholm. Fortuitous, as Sangholm will be the site of your second Proving. Right then, fetch your shield and we'll get on with the actual instruction."

I kept my features blank, and even a bit severe as I listened. This was not a game, as Lior had implied, and I was not play-acting in an effort to prove a point. I had proved my point. I was training for war.

My left shoulder continued to ache, and the bruise of Eastwall was still black beneath a closed wound.

We trained until two hours past midday, moving at half-speed to ensure that I learned the appropriate swinging motions. I loved Lior's dance of sword and shield, but knew that there would never be enough time to master it. Nonetheless, I submitted myself to his tutelage, and prepared for the reality—I would have to take his basic instruction, learning what little I could in the short time available. The experience would be valuable, and I would learn two important lessons, basic though they might be: how to block with a shield, and how to attack with a sword.

As for the rest—the dance, the fluid movements, the disciplined techniques—those I would have to discard, for I did not have a lifetime to master them. I felt sure that sooner or later I would have the opportunity to train with Boers and Sigmund. Their skills were no less formidable, but far more suited to improvisation, to which I owed my title and survival, to mention nothing of Sword and Key.

I looked forward to the next day's training, and gave serious consideration to confounding Lior; he would have little experience fighting against a left-handed opponent, and, as I have written, I have always felt equally comfortable at work with either hand. Even now, writing as an arthritic old man, I have still found use for the talent.

Two hours after midday, I felt the effects of the day's training. My heart was proud, but the rest of my body felt sore and ill-used. And so, after spending my entire young life completely ignorant of hygiene, I took my second bath within five hours, stopping first to enjoy the lunch that had been left for me: herbed pheasant, poached quail's eggs—which I declined to eat, as again, eggs have never been to my personal taste—a loaf of warm bread, assorted fruits, and another ewer of wine; white, but darker in color than the last, and it complemented the pheasant to perfection.

My meal finished, I descended to the basement and bathed, scrubbing gently and enjoying the aromas of the tricolored flasks, and though I did not tarry in the tub, I rinsed thoroughly beneath the hanging spout.

Clean, filled and mellowed, though stiff and sore, I took again to my bed in preparation for another night of festivities. I remember thinking, as I drifted off to sleep, with the hearth crackling and the curtains drawn, that this Onidai business had not been too bad by half.

* * *

Coisis shook me awake, unaware of the wound at my left shoulder. I gritted my teeth against the pain, not wishing to scold the man, when he had only done as I had asked the evening before. I rose, fought the urge to grunt in response to the stiff ache at my midsection, and smiled at Coisis, who dipped his head in deference.

"Sundown exactly sir, just as you asked. You'll find wash water in the basin—which I made sure to clean, for obvious reasons."

I looked to the windows. The curtains were still drawn. The strange lamps were lit throughout the house, just as the evening before. I rose, and after splashing my face and patting dry with a warm towel, I began combing my hair with the aid of the brazen hand mirror.

"Those strange fires, Coisis—what are they, and how do they function?"

He offered a thoroughly satisfied smile in response, as if my question had been completely understandable.

"They are fueled by an underground mist, sir, a noxious fume, known even to be deadly, should any chance to inhale it. When the Founders began flattening the plain inside the wall, the haze issued forth like smoke from beneath the ground, killing many. For years they tried to stifle it, smothering it with mud and rubble; they even resorted to sheets and slabs of iron and concrete. But no matter how they covered it, the foul wind always managed to seep from the edges.

"Then, after many years of simply avoiding the site, some clever fellow discovered that it burned with a steady flame. There were many explosive mishaps, but within ten generations or so, the man's descendants finished his work. The streets, walls, canals, temple, and many of the finer houses boast the haze lights. Hadn't thought of that in years, sir. Now that I think about it, it's something we too often take for granted. It really is a blessing to walk the night upon brightly lit streets."

"It is indeed. And I find great relief in knowing that there is a perfectly natural explanation for your local magic. Try to imagine my shock, on waking to find this place lit up brighter than daylight!"

I chose a shirt of dark green silk, a waistcoat of silver-gray wool with matching trousers, and a pair of light shoes in pale brown suede. Against the weather I took a long coat, jet black, woven of a light, soft textured fabric; it hung just below my calves and was lined at the torso, cuffs, and collar with dark fur.

I allowed Coisis to make his own way; he might have wished to meet his love at a different location, this being the second of a five-night period of celebration. Being two or three hours earlier than I had been on the previous night, I chose to walk to the festivities—by way of the streets, my journey would be far more direct, potentially saving even more time.

The city was beautiful. The streets were nearly empty and more brightly lit than they had been on the previous evening, and the sky had not yet faded fully into dusk. The heavens assumed the hue of Ashad robes, with not a cloud in sight.

I stopped abruptly in the street, thinking that I had heard something peculiar, but as I listened, I detected nothing out of the ordinary and continued. Hearing it again, I froze, but still I heard nothing to evoke concern. I was beginning to grow frustrated, for I could not detect the source of my suspicion.

A quarter of an hour later I stopped once more, making it appear that I was adjusting my stockings, and that time I heard it, though only for a moment. I did not look back, fearing greatly that I might give myself away, but I found adequate excuse to stop on a half-dozen more occasions.

I was being followed.

Finally, I arrived at a canal crossing, and though I did not have to cross there, I started for it. A few paces from the bridge I stopped abruptly; I peered about in every direction and made a great show of being lost. As I turned in the direction of my follower, I saw a figure disappear into a narrow alleyway. I did not give chase. Unarmed and uncertain, I could not reveal my suspicions only to lose them in a tangle of unfamiliar alleys, or stumble into a confrontation I could not win. Direct confrontation might even cause unnecessary harm, for I had it in my head that my follower might be a guardian—an Initiate assigned to see to my protection.

I decided then to inform Brenna of my suspicions at the earliest opportunity. If my follower had been assigned to protect me, there would be no need for him to skulk in the shadows. Indeed, I would be glad of a constant companion, for the attention of Their Eminences was a rare and valuable commodity. I laughed to myself at the thought of inviting my unwitting guardian to dinner, and whistled gaily as I made my way to the festival.

Much of the grandeur of the city had escaped me previously, or perhaps the rituals of the Sun Day differ from those of the Moon Day, for even as I write this I cannot fathom how I might have missed it. The haze lights at the entryway were lit before the massive domed enclosure, illuminating the faintly reflective stone of the broad staircase from within thick globes of finely wrought glass. Staggered lampposts at the edges of the streets, atop the walls of the narrow canals, and even eyelets carved into the surface of the dome itself were equipped with similar sconces, that the scene fairly glowed, and my jaw dropped at the sight.

Though the sky had darkened well beyond dusk, it seemed that all of Brek had been bathed in the light of a cloudless day. I laughed to myself in thinking that perhaps Coisis had misled me in his explanation of the haze lights, for the thousand bright pinpoints before me might easily have been scooped from the heavens.

* * *

The evening's festivities had only just begun, and so the throng was far larger, the tide of families that had been unified on the male side of Brek pressing together to gain entry all at once. I had ample cause for mirth at the sight of such joyous chaos, for throughout my journey in the company of the High Priest and Priestess, as among their highly trained Initiates, I had thought the capacity for unerring discipline universal among the Trathnona.

Beside the steps of the canal exit, I saw my escort, six strong as earlier, and I knew them well; I had even danced with a few of them the night before. I had no wish to fight through a crowd, and had just decided to wait, when Ulsa, eagle-eyed as always, spotted me within a throng of thousands. The six women marched in lockstep, taking their places around me, and Ulsa halted, beaming as widely as an Initiate of Brek.

"A fine party last night. You disappeared before we could properly thank you for your generosity. It means much, that you would share the wealth of your homeland with a collection of poor soldiers."

I smiled, dipped my head in gratitude, and pinched the collar of my shirt.

"You are very welcome, Lady Ulsa, though the generosity has hardly been one-sided. I had rarely laid eyes upon such rich fabric, let alone worn it. My thanks to you and yours, as well."

Ulsa had been taciturn and resolute from the moment we met, and now she curtsied sweetly, more jovial in word and appearance than I had ever seen her. Looking from face to face, I saw that the other Initiates were in high spirits, as well. Truly, I had suspected for some time that the Ashad Initiates were as incapable of levity and humor as those of Brek in matters of gravity and quietude.

Just as Lior's men were full of humor and guile, addressing their leader informally much of the time, Brenna's women laughed little, and rarely smiled on duty. Since I had met them, their order had seemed to treat discipline as most priests are wont to do with piety. They had been unyielding, humorless, and precise—and now they smiled openly, exchanging whispers and covert laughter—making veils of their open palms like the blushing farm girls I'd left in Meadrow. I pretended not to notice, and as Ulsa took her place, they snapped to attention, awaiting my first step before taking theirs.

The crowd parted before my eyes—a miraculous feat, as there had been little enough room to stand.

Inside, there were few people dining, and many were still seating themselves.

At the third tier, the rarefied company of the previous evening had not diminished. Brenna saw me as I arrived, and when she approached, I thanked Ulsa and the others, joking that, if a few of them would be willing to escort me home, we might attempt to travel through the canals on foot, as even the water might fear to crowd their steps. They laughed appreciably, even in the presence of Her Eminence.

Again, I noted the difference in behavior.

Brenna dismissed her women cordially and motioned for me to follow, and as we approached the well dressed pack of elders, she spoke through an open smile.

"They have been speaking more than ever against the possibility of war. Do not rile them. We will bide our time. We must charm them this evening. Try to behave yourself."

Her tone was filled with honey, and she introduced me as-

"Ralph of Meadrow: a farming consultant, here to discuss the feasibility of a three-crop cycle. According to his claims, his people leave nothing fallow, though they never fail to reap in plenty.

"Ralph of Meadrow, these are the esteemed Councilmen Tamsal and Esselbert, and Councilors Irshal and Bitony."

Tamsal was far more pleasant than he had been the night before, though I detected a falsity in his manner. Esselbert, a wizened, rail-thin man, far advanced in years, appeared pleasant enough, as did Councilor Bitony, who seemed a bit young for her title, barely fifty by my own reckoning.

The other woman, Irshal, made no pretense of pleasantry, and resembled a hungry old vulture—simply awaiting further blood loss before claiming a fresh prize. She was the Councilor in charge of all agriculture on the eastern shore of the Allazia, and the thought that some child from a tiny backwater might improve on the time-honored practices of Trathnonan farm-craft offended her greatly.

"What does a child know of tilling the soil that the people of Brek and Ashad have any need to learn? In my many years of service I have learned one thing for certain: a Banner's pride is not necessarily a sign of superiority. You think because your lives revolve around the successes and failures of your southern crops that you know better than all others—but when has Meadrow ever proved itself to be the finest of all Banners in the harvesting of grain? Your people have no care for the affairs of the Trathnona, and have never been of service, ere now. Truly, I have heard it said that your Farmers serve only their appetites for strong brews, and would starve to death, in absence of yeast!"

There was laughter, an outburst restrained only by propriety. I agreed with her completely, and my diplomatic smile remained, though I did not laugh with the others. Her words had been rhetorical, intended to put me in my place. I kept my response casual and assumed a polite tone, bordering even on humility, as I responded.

"In truth, I know little that might aid in agriculture east of the river. Orchards and vines will bear fruit in their time, and little can be done to change it. However, in the raising of barley and other cereals, just as in the raising of root vegetables, greens, oilseed, fodder grasses, beans, and low-lying crop fruits, such as strawberries, I believe I might be of considerable use.

"Please understand, Councilor, that, just as yourself, I care not for the arrogance of assumed superiority. I am but a lowly Farmer—bred and trained by Farmers, and I wish only to be of assistance, lending a helpful voice when I can. My people chose me to represent them, and I have no wish to return, at least for a while. Bathing, I find, is more enjoyable, and far more effective than chafing with a damp cloth."

That earned me laughter, even from Tamsal, and I continued.

"While we lack many of your marvels and splendid conveniences, and have nothing remotely comparable to your history as a culture of brave and unstoppable warriors, we have always been excellent farmers. In fact, I was raised on stories of our usefulness during Rorik's War. We had no warriors to send, or very few, but we did have ample cropland. Our little valley, one thousand miles from any of the hostilities, afforded us the isolation needed to till the soil in peace. Though we gained little in the way of glory, we did manage to feed the armies of an entire continent for nearly a decade. In fact, many of your own ancestors are owed a debt of gratitude, Councilor, for it was they that acquired a taste for our 'yeasty brews', and it is to their appreciation of our ale that we owe our paltry fame as brewers."

She frowned slightly, nodding her approval, and said nothing more. Councilman Esselbert was more openly accepting. He grinned widely, his features animated throughout his response.

"Sun's Beacon, young man! Speechless! The Viper of the Piebald Council has been rendered speechless! A politician in the making, of that I have no doubt! You were right of course, on many points, but mainly that it is not the Councilor with whom you will be dealing. I am the councilman overseeing the laying of crops on the western shore of the river, and it would give me genuine pleasure if you would dine with me, and tell me of this 'three-crop cycle' of yours."

It was not difficult to slip into the role I had been given. For much of my young life, eavesdropping was my sole pastime, and the earliest conversations in my mother's tavern—before the drink began to take hold—concerned nothing but agriculture. I knew individual crop yields per acre, proper irrigation ditch configuration, the ideal rotation of crops, and the planting patterns that ensured a variety at every harvest. I even knew of a low-lying grass that would grow in harsh winters; it made excellent fodder for sheep, goats, and garrons, and replenished the soil for the planting of grain in early spring.

For his part, Esselbert knew his land well, and from what he told me, the fields on the western side of the Allazia did not meet Meadrow standards. Brek farmers reaped a paltry two crops per year, and left a full third of their arable land fallow. Though an optimistic estimate would more than double the potential yield of all field crops, Esselbert appeared skeptical about the feasibility of my suggestions. He felt that if draining the Allazia resulted in stunted crop growth, while our own crops grew tall from the waters of the Meadrun, it must be due to a superiority in Meadrow soil, or even the waters of the river, itself.

I told him, with much show of ineptitude in such matters, that I had noticed no difference in his native soil, but would be glad to inspect it more closely at a later date. Esselbert did far better, suggesting a collection of soil from every crop parcel on the western shore. It would take a week, he said, for the collection of the samples, but more importantly, for the Council to come to some agreement as to the means of compensation they might offer.

When I told him that compensation in the form of beer or grain might be out of the question, he laughed airily, and stated that he was certain they could find something more substantial. The thought that I might be sending far more than a bag of gold and silver home to my mother gave me great cause to celebrate, though I drank sparingly, not wishing to repeat the vivid hallucinations of the night before—or the thick head of the morning after.

By that time I was certain that the romantic escapades of the night before had been nothing more than a dream. Throughout dinner, Brenna was congenial and well mannered; not at all the mischievous, passionate woman I had dreamed of, and I found myself slightly ashamed. Brenna was a breathtakingly beautiful woman, and of an age that demanded the attentions of a man. I was but a boy, or so I believed at the time.

Dinner was excellent, the primary dish an aromatic stew of root vegetables and beef in wine and venison broth, served on high-rimmed platters—I ate my fill, but took care to drink only a cup or two of wine. As the evening wore on, I made my apologies to the councilors and councilmen, begging exhaustion, and after Esselbert swore that those samples would find their way to me on schedule, I made my way to the Bowyers' Hall, peering over my shoulder every so often. On a few occasions, I felt that I heard footfalls, moving in concert with my own, but concluded that it was a trick of the buildings; the sound of my own footfalls echoing upon walls of stone.

* * *

The Bowyers' Hall was no less lively on the second night of celebration, and though I entered the spacious room alone, I received cheers of recognition on entering. I drank only one tankard, feeling not at all in the party mood, though at the time, I was not fully aware of the reason.

After peering through the vent holes, I decided that they would have need of another barrel, and I set Lambek to the task. I made my apologies for the second time that evening, then took my leave with excuses of a rough day of swordplay. They responded with many fine jibes; all of the younger men knew well of Lior's first day of training.

Though early in the evening, the streets were utterly deserted, and I could hear the songs and cheers of mirth from inside the larger buildings. As I passed the smaller residential buildings I heard the proof of life within high-walled Venibrek, voiced in animated tones—laughter, argument, and the telling of tales—all the sounds of a united and thriving household. Many other buildings remained dark, the families celebrating elsewhere, likely united on the male side of Brek.

Suddenly, in spite of all the wonders and conveniences of that great city, I missed my home—I missed my mother. All around me I could hear the sounds of loving families, while my mother waited more than a thousand miles away for a son that might never return.

Consumed with self-pity, and feeling very much like a kidnapped orphan, I wept softly—not the bawling of a child, but the bitter tears that I found later were all too common, even among fearless warriors—whether they admitted it or not.

I trudged south and then west, wandering vaguely in the direction of the Dividing Wall, and cut through alleyways and crossed bridges as I found them. I could have stopped at any of the half-dozen canals that I crossed, but I had no desire just then to reveal myself to any of the natives. To my very young sensibilities, weeping was entirely unmanly, and was not to be seen by anyone.

My father, disgraced though he was, once towered over me as a giant, brave and invincible. When I was very young, he told me that there was no shame in crying, but for leaders of men—as he was, and as he swore I would be—tears were to be treated as the blood of a superficial wound. A leader could not afford to be seen by his men as anything less than invincible, for on that illusion of invincibility depends the courage of his followers. For a boy, that principle applied just as strongly to tears. A boy that never cried was untouchable, insensitive to pain, and impervious to jibe or insult.

Whether from friend or enemy, warrior or coward, master or servitor—wise counsel is always wise counsel, and any man can recognize it, if he can but will himself to listen. Weeping is no different than any other urgency of the body: it can be put off for a time, but not forever. Coward or not, my father was right, and I kept to the shadows, allowing my tears to roll, but avoiding the eyes of those that must soon view me as their leader in war.

I could see the Dividing Wall, and even one of the gates as it loomed over the buildings. I had only to travel south, and so I made for the nearest alley; it was long and narrow, the length of three buildings, crossed twice by intersecting passageways that permitted travel, east to west. I stopped to gain my bearings, looked from left to right, and rose to my tiptoes to ensure that the portal was indeed a cross-gate—many of the gates were water-bound, allowing passage through the canals. Suddenly I stopped, and my arms prickled with goose-flesh, even beneath the lining of my coat.

I was experiencing the same forgotten paranoia, and though I had spent much of the evening in her company, I had failed to inform Brenna of my suspicions. Knowing without a doubt that I was being followed, my choices were clear. I could turn, calling out to whomever had been stalking me—a practice that bordered on the ludicrous if my follower was indeed, just following. Alternatively, I could continue to move forward, in which case I would have to decide whether to break into a dead run or walk evenly, encouraging my potential attackers to bide their time. Followers follow, protectors protect; only an attacker attempts to draw near.

I felt great fear in that narrow place, for even in that crowded city I had found myself alone. I was unguarded, unarmed, and at a loss. Running was unacceptable; it would encourage any potential attackers to give chase. Knowing that I was aware of them, they might grow desperate, fearing to lose their last chance to accomplish whatever end they were pursuing.

More importantly, I refused to run. My father had been killed while trying to flee from battle, and though I was not yet a warrior of any description—the recipient of a single day's sword training, and with no sword to make use of it—I still felt bound by a newly formed pride. The thought of my mother's fate, should the cowardly nature of her son's death become known, was all I needed to steady myself against all comers.

Let them tell her that I died alone—but never let them forget the manner of my death.

I considered all of this in a moment, and it took far less time in thought than it does now in writing. I stepped casually forward, not wishing for my followers to guess at the nature of their quarry.

Garth once told me that there are three rules to facing multiple assailants. First, fight only one opponent at a time, a goal easily accomplished in a narrow alley.

Second, find something to place between yourself and any attack. If you have a shield, use it; if there's furniture, step behind it. There was no furniture in the alley, but I removed my heavy coat, feigning discomfort, and wrapped it around my left arm, leaving an ample amount of the fabric loose, that it hung nearly to the ground.

Finally, a weapon is more than an object wielded in the hand, and leniency, mercy, and the rules of fair play do not apply until the fighting's done. If stabbing an unarmored groin will end a fight, there should be no hesitation. In situations such as my own, mercy and leniency would have a place only with the presence of relative safety.

I listened carefully, continually breaking the rhythm of my stride, and I heard clearly the footsteps following my own. The narrow expanse between stone walls amplified every sound. The footfalls grew louder, a sign that the man behind took longer strides in an effort to win nearer, while still attempting to match the rhythm of my feet.

As I passed the second intersection, I flinched against some imagined attack, and the footfalls gained in speed. Whether the attacker had seen my nervous reflex, or lost patience as I neared the open street, I could not tell, but I waited, sweating in spite of the cold with every passing heartbeat, in terror that the attack might come sooner than expected. At the final moment, I whirled about to face my attacker, and much happened, in far less time than the length of any manner of description.

I saw the man, his image solidifying from a blur as I turned my head to face him. I remember thinking that there was little of him that I might fear, for he did not appear menacing, by any means. He wore a pink tunic and high boots of thin brown leather, and his head was swathed in a light blue cloth, partially covering his mess of greasy brown hair. He appeared more laborer than assassin, though his knife, held point down, made a lie of the observation. I remember little of his face, but his implement was no utensil for feasting; it was a dagger for thrusting, the blade long and narrow and cruelly-pointed.

He gripped his weapon in mid-thrust, and his strike was high and completely lateral, angled to stab at temple or neck. I leapt back, lowering my head, and raised my left arm as a final defense. My assailant missed; his point pierced the mortar of the neighboring wall, grating loudly and embedding deeply. His eyes were yet in shock, and he had little time to right himself before I threw my left arm forward, draping his body and covering his eyes as I lunged and brought the dome of my skull up into the area of his nose. I heard a loud, sickening crunch as we made contact, though the padding of my coat dampened the impact, that I felt little of it. He tumbled backwards, thrown off-balance as he stepped away, his feet tangled in my long coat.

Against the force of fear and the instinct to flee outright, I felt a sudden bite of anger, perhaps at the cowardly nature of his attack. Remembering the manner of my father's death, I have a particular distaste for any and all vermin that view a turned back as a prime target, and so I turned at once to retrieve the dagger, wrenching it free of the crumbling mortar: I would show no mercy. As I turned to face my foe, still supine, but beginning to throw off the drape that would have been his shroud, I saw the silhouette of a second figure behind him.

He grew closer at the run, and I saw him clearly in the light of a faint red glow. I recognized the ember, burning at the end of a short, thin rope, and turned immediately as the man dropped to one knee. The thundering weapons of the Central Sea were far from accurate, but in a narrow alley I had become an easy mark. I was in the street as I heard them muttering to one another unintelligibly, and whether they were arguing about the impending noise, or the thunderer's hesitation at firing, I will never know. I scanned the scene ahead, searching frantically for the bridge, and for all my trouble found only that it was further down the street. I ran, knowing my second attacker would not have a clear shot until he exited the alley.

It was too far, I knew that from the start, and I felt rather foolish with the realization that crossing a bridge would do nothing to stop the flight of any missile. I halted suddenly and turned, and saw the man as he knelt in the shadow of the alley, angling his weapon around the corner. As the burning rope began to descend, I dropped from the edge of the canal and into the icy water. I heard the blast, but felt no pain—at least, until I landed.

Though the winter had been mild, the water was truly frigid, and my limbs grew numb almost instantly as the swift current carried me to safety. When I turned to assess my speed, I saw the assassins peering over the edge, already thirty paces and more behind me. The second man did not hazard a second attempt, and perhaps he lacked the time, for the moment they turned their gaze upstream, they disappeared. I could already hear the gondolier as she shouted to me, her words in the native tongue of the Trathnona, and though I understood not a single word, I was certainly glad of the company.

* * *

For the second time in as many months, a leap into frigid waters saved my life. Soaked to the bone, freezing in a shirt of thin silk, and weighed down by my saturated woolen trousers, I lumbered to the door of No. 19, looking about in all directions for any sign of my attackers.

I had lied to the gondolier, who then gave ample proof of her culture's rare interaction with clumsy foreigners. Where most would have been driven to exasperation on hearing of the misadventures of a drunken outsider, her first reaction was one of concern, followed closely by gentle chiding, and finally politely restrained laughter. Throughout my exaggerated display of wine-induced idiocy, the assassin's dagger remained hidden inside my belted waistband, though any careful observer might have spotted it, for it was exceedingly long.

My hands shook so violently that I struggled to insert the key. Finally successful with the use of both hands, I locked my door from the inside for the first time, and threw down the crossbar for good measure. Then, thankful that there were no other entrances, and that the windows on the first floor were too narrow for an assassin to gain entry, I stripped off my clothing in haste.

The shirt came off easily, slapping loudly on the marble floor, and I removed the assassin's dagger; I left it by the hearth as I wrestled with my shoes. I had no wish to sit, in fear that I might soak the ample cushions of the dining chairs, and it seemed nearly an hour before I could untangle my laces. Even in the ample warmth of my house, with its four hearths, my nerveless fingers responded to my commands only with difficulty. I had to roll down the legs of my trousers, and it was the same for the stockings and undergarments. Finally, I left my clothes in sodden piles on the floor, and stood before the hearth completely naked, extending my hands and allowing the warmth to return in its own good time.

My fingers ached, chiding me for the damage very nearly done to them, but when the feeling finally returned, I felt myself drawn to the assassin's dagger. I retrieved it, squeezed the hilt in my thawed hand, and admired the craftsmanship of the weapon that had nearly killed me.

It was long and lethal, with a blade the length of my forearm, and as wide as the length of my thumb at the base. The edges tapered evenly from hilt to point, and the cross-section slanted perfectly from either side of a central spine. The iron was light in color and well polished, and the hilt was a bronze disk, dark and deeply etched in an intricate pattern, all right angles, foreign and uninspired—more geometry than art. The bronze pommel was perfectly round as well, its own pattern designed to resemble the spokes of a wagon wheel.

It was a fine weapon, exceedingly sharp in spite of a single-minded design, and without a dent or bend in the blade, even after being pried from the mortar of a brick wall. The thought of the dagger's stabbing power, and what it might have done to my head or neck set my teeth on edge; I placed it on the shelf above the hearth as the only evidence of an attempt on my life—an attempt that had very nearly succeeded.

Even as I recovered before the light of the hearth, I had little fear of my assassins' flight. Like warmth to the fingers of a frozen hand, justice finds the wicked in its own good time. The city gates were closed, as always, and without the permission of High Priest or Councilor, escape would be impossible. Unlike Ashad's Priestesses, their councilors and people slept at night. There would be no escape for my assassins until after daybreak, and they would be easily identified, for one of them had a freshly broken nose. I smiled at the thought, and newly warmed by the bright flames of the hearth I ascended the stairs in search of fresh clothing and sleep. I was suddenly very tired.

I considered the knife as I rose, but knew I would not have need of it. In the shadow of the Dividing Wall, and within shouting and shooting distance of the keen-eyed Priestesses of Ashad, I had little to fear. The door was barred, the closest accessible windows were on the second floor, and after all, I was no warrior.

I chose warm clothing, and grabbed first a shirt of thick, white wool. Perhaps it was the recent chill, but as I began to pull down the shirt, midriff still exposed, I felt a sudden heat—a _nearness_. Warm hands gripped my chest from behind, and I jumped, shocked by the sudden attack. I was on the verge of cursing myself for failing to search the interior of the house, when I felt the warmth of lips upon the nape of my neck, and caught the scent of jasmine and narcissus. She spoke between her soft kisses.

"I waited for nearly two hours. If not for the festival, I would have been missed upon the wall, and I would have missed you, as well. Would have missed— _this_."

She gripped my organ, suddenly warm and full of life, and breathed deeply on my neck, her mouth wide as she did so. The heat of it drove me wild.

"It was considerate of you to bathe for me. You did so for the warmth? I say that, because you do not smell of perfumed oils. That suits me well. I want you to smell like a man."

She spun me around, pulled the shirt free of my head, and gripped the back of my neck, her mouth agape, her eyes wide with that familiar look of wildness and passion. This was real; as real as the attempted murder and the sharp, numbing cold of my ride through the canal. She wanted me, and my self-pity, half-forgotten in the fear of death, melted like snow in bright sunlight. I was alive, wanted, and nothing mattered but the warmth of the body before me.

I gave little thought to telling Brenna of the night's events. Not until much later. I would be safe with her, and she with me, and we would be awake in the event of any attack.

I did not shrink at the reality of her aggression, as a boy before an experienced woman. On the contrary, with the shock of revelation gone, and newly victorious in the face of death, I asserted myself as a man, grasping her tightly about the waist and leaning forward to press her lips to my own.

As the night grew in passion, and I lay on top of her, pressing her hands above her head with my own, her legs wrapped tightly about my waist, I worried about the pain such roughness might cause. As I paused briefly to consider this, she took the initiative and rolled violently, flipping me effortlessly to my back—and there she rode me without mercy.

Much later, thoroughly exhausted, I did not think to mention the earlier events of the evening. We collapsed together, and I held her silently. She rolled over, to bring her mouth close by my ear, though she said nothing, content to toy with my hair and gently stroke my chest, nothing apparent in her features but a lazy, sated grin. _She was beautiful._ Seeing her there, fully appreciating the woman at rest beside me, I was beset by a question I could no longer contain.

"Why me?"

Her brow furrowed in mock confusion, and she was on the verge of some clever answer, when I pressed the initiative.

"I've seen you at work with that bow of yours, so I know you're not blind. You've seen the way men look at you. You can't doubt your own beauty, and the way you affect every man around you belies any pretense. Full grown, successful, handsome men find themselves totally at your mercy. So why choose me? Not that I'm complaining!"

I added the ending as an attempt to stifle the slight look of offense, and she stopped me with an upraised palm before I could continue. Finally, she reclined again, and I held her tightly beside me. She looked into the frame of the loft above as she spoke.

"Lior is High Priest in Brek, but even if the High Priest and Priestess were permitted to...form an eclipse, Lior and I may not. He is my cousin; the son of my mother's brother. He is also my only equal.

"I had no one. There was no one with whom I could be close. There are male Phulakoi, of course, but I am also High Priestess—and no man my equal. You are the exception. You are Rorik's successor—Onidai, above all Banners to unite them as one, and I intend to use you. You will be my plaything. We will keep it a secret, for propriety's sake, but this will continue, as long as it may."

_Plaything?_ She did not love me, at all. And yet her words had failed to crush me. She needed the closeness of a man, and though young, I was well within reach and more than willing. She read my thoughts, or appeared to, and her wide red lips twisted into a curled smile.

"I am not Rowan, but I am warm and soft. I was even called beautiful once, by a warrior. A legendary warrior, in fact. He feared my beauty—questioned his worthiness."

I returned her smile, but her mention of Rowan turned my thoughts to the passion of that first kiss. My first real kiss. I was nothing, then—filthy and pathetic, a wounded boy she had nursed back to health. And yet, there was more than pity in her kiss.

To my eyes she was beyond perfect—the nightmares of the Kurume had matched well the grim reality of my early youth, that the sight of her on waking had felt more of a dream than that which she'd silenced on her arrival. For the second time, Brenna snatched the thoughts from my mind, and read them as many lesser priestesses might have read bone, leaf, or entrail.

"There will be time for love when your task is done, but the road is dangerous, and the war will be long. You may never see young Rowan again. Take what you may have, and dream of what you wish. She will not know of us, and when you leave this place, you may fill your bed without fear, for never again will I attempt to take you at my pleasure. That does not mean that you may not take me, and I will never deny you."

She bit her lower lip, then pulled me to her, wrapping her smooth, pale, muscular legs about my waist. I gave her ample cause to linger, even as the evening drew past midnight.

* * *

I collapsed again, perhaps for the fifth time, though now, these many years later, I cannot remember. She had tried to rise, to find her way to the temple in secret many times, but never did her feet reach the floor.

I felt I had truly exhausted her, and finally, she made no attempt to leave my side. We did not speak. She rested her head upon my chest, bringing the smell of perfume to my nostrils. I kissed her head gently, and sighed a deep sigh of satisfaction.

The shattering of glass brought an end to the idyllic silence, and Brenna leapt up like an unstrung bow. At the sound of footfalls, she flew from the bed, freeing a broad-bladed dagger from within the pile of her clothes. I did not question her, but leapt up behind, weaponless—until I saw the array of hearth tools. I grabbed at the fire iron, pressing the flat of my thumb against the tip of the long barb, bent sharply in the middle; more spike than hook. Brenna saw that I was armed, and shot across the top of the stairwell, occupying the other side. She motioned for me to crouch low, and I did, balancing the shaft of the weapon at my right shoulder, both hands gripping tightly at its base.

I heard footfalls, slow and steady in spite of the noise they had made upon entry. She raised the first two fingers of her left hand, and then, her palms facing inward, she held up the index of each hand side by side, while raising them gently. I nodded, understanding her message: 'Two men, climbing the stairs abreast.' I heard rattling at every footfall. They were armored. Brenna had heard as well, and she raised her knife, pointing the blade at her own temple. 'Strike at the head.' I nodded again, keeping the hearth iron in the same position. The movement of her lips suggested a coordinated strike. '3...2...1...'

"...NOW!"

I rose to my full height, all my weight behind that point of iron, and the spike bit deeply, its full length driven home until I felt the upper end of the shaft pressing against the flesh of his scalp. He dropped like a felled ox, and landed on his belly at my feet, even as the second man tumbled backwards. I watched, as he crashed to the bottom of the carpeted staircase, his eyes still wide with shock, both pupils fixed upward—the last sight those eyes beheld was the hilt of the dagger lodged firmly in his brow.

She did not retrieve her blade, and took instead the weapon of her slain enemy, a broad knife, single-edged and heavy—akin to a cleaver, but with a wickedly serrated blade. I had no wish to take the other weapon, the thundering monstrosity of iron and wood and burning rope, so I retrieved my own; a thoroughly gruesome maneuver, and for my own sake I will not now describe it. Following Brenna's lead, I stepped over the bodies, climbing slowly and carefully down the stairs.

In the sitting room of the second floor, the middle window was in ruins, the table that once sat before it upturned, the decanters of fine vapor either broken or spilling their precious contents upon the floor. We continued downstairs, finding nothing, and we even searched the basement, before returning to the first floor. I took the assassin's dagger from the hearth as I made to follow her up the stairs, and she took notice of the weapon immediately.

"Was there a third?"

"No, only two. I took this when they tried to kill me...earlier this evening."

I told her the whole tale, and her anger abated when I explained that I was on the verge of telling her, when she had other things in mind. We climbed the stairs again, and searched the bodies for any indication of their identities. One of them had a freshly broken nose. In their scrips we found many silver coins, all of them stamped with the same cleated wheel that I had seen upon the pommel of the dagger.

At the base of one of the larger pouches attached to their belts, beneath a dice cup and a ball of tightly bound twine, Brenna found a folded piece of finely pressed paper. Only a few of the words were in Vulgar Kenalkan, but I saw my name clearly, as well as the number at the bottom of the leaf, though without an understanding of foreign currency, it meant nothing to me.

I did not know the trade values of foreign coin, but the message was clear: I had a price on my head. These had been bounty hunters. Clearly foreign, at least to Venibrek, as they were filthy and reeked of axle grease, strong drink, fouled eggs, and soon, the stench of rot. The thunderer was of the Central Sea, but Brenna remained unsure of their origin.

"That crude ring mail is Nalban, once worn by their foot soldiers, though they will sell it to anyone for a price. I do not recognize the long dagger, though this heavy knife is not likely a weapon."

"It was weapon enough when he came up the stairs with it, intent to cut us down!"

Brenna was unconvinced.

"They were here to cut you down—not us—though the cutting was not intended to kill you. They thought you were alone, and probably followed you here. I was here long before they arrived. They intended to claim your head."

I gulped audibly, cringing as I imagined the effect caused by such sharply pointed serrations sawing at my flesh, even after a heavy blow. It was then that another thought occurred.

"The man that stole the Key and passed it to the courier—he knew my name. No one else could have known to pass on the information, and who but he could have identified my severed head? They know I'm here, but what of Sequiduris? Do they know I have it? And what of my mother? What might happen to her if they know who she is?"

Brenna stopped me with an upraised hand. She could tell that I was growing hysterical, and we had to think fast.

"I cannot be seen here. I will find my way back to the wall, and at the next chiming of the quarter-hour you will call out the alarum—the silver bell, twenty paces west, as you exit the door. Ring it until someone comes, then lead them to the bodies. They may try to accost you—to hold you for questioning. Do not resist them, and remain unarmed—Listen! I know you are afraid, and I am as well, but when I hear the alarum, I will hurry to this place, feigning surprise.

"You will tell me that you slew these men when they made an attempt on your life. You first hurled my dagger, which I lent, on hearing of your suspicions. As the second man turned to aid his accomplice, you leapt from the stairs, bringing down the iron with the full force of your fall. I will dress downstairs, and you must dress as well, but first we have to place these bodies to match your tale."

We positioned the corpses together, and she took the assassin's note with her as she descended the stairs, her clothes held well above the gore. I thought to follow, but such a practice would have been pointless; she would vanish into thin air as soon as she was properly dressed.

I looked around at the top of the stairs, and knew that while Brenna's tale was simple enough in the telling, the floor of my bedchamber might bear witness against me. I needed to look shaken and bloody, but everything beyond the supposed site of battle would have to look as pristine as on the day of my arrival.

I used my shirt of thick wool to mop up some of the blood, and with a towel and one of the abrasive cloths used for bathing I scoured away the rest. That done, I had blood on my hands and beneath my nails—no need to worry about acting my part. The front of my shirt—which I was now wearing—was smeared and spattered with blood.

During most of the chore of cleaning, I teetered at the precipice of nausea, willing myself not to vomit. I came close when I first discovered that the tiny bits of gelatinous gore were actually gobbets of spattered brain upon the floor. The thought of Brenna, who had defended me yet again, kept me steady throughout the task, for I had no wish for her to be shamed by our association—nor did I wish for that association to end.

That last thought brought me shame, though I still do not know why. Those men had tried to kill me, and would have killed Brenna, also, had we failed to stop them. But those many years ago, when principles had yet to be replaced by realities, I viewed death—any death, and even that of an enemy—as repellent and regrettable.

I suppose that lying about the manner of their deaths, which would result in some form of undeserved recognition, also gave me pause. To any who've read this account attentively, that last bit will appear more than a little hypocritical.

Perhaps my guilt was authored by the realization that my true motive for perpetuating those lies was the possibility that Brenna might feel safe returning the following night.

It was long after the chime of the quarter-hour by the time my task was done, and I hid the gore-stained towels beneath my bed. I walked the path west, looking about in all directions, in needless fear of a second attack. Gripping the hammer, silver in appearance, though light with a wide, double-head, I rang loudly upon the bell, and for several moments, nothing happened.

Long before the arrival of the watch, I saw doors opening on either side of the street. Curious on-lookers—many of whom were annoyed at being awakened—peered and leered at me from lit doorways. Finally, I saw torchlight reflecting on stone, and heard mailed footfalls, and as I turned to address the guard, I saw that they were of Brek. These were Initiates, unknown to me, and I was unsure if they were aware of my identity. There were nearly two dozen of them, and they carried torches and drawn swords, their shields slung across their backs.

The Initiate captain—identified by a silver sun stitched to the left breast of his robe—addressed me curtly, but without rancor.

"Where's the trouble here? I see nothing worth diverting twenty men from their patrol. Do you know the penalty for sounding false alarums, boy?"

It was then that one of his subordinates pointed out the blood on my shirt. Seeing my calm, almost distant expression, the captain assumed a gentler tone.

"Alright then, lad. Why don't you show us? Just lead us to the trouble. We can handle anything you can escape. Two Abreast. Follow at Three Paces. Ready..."

The captain and I walked ahead of the guard, and as we took our third step they followed without ceremony, in two columns of ten. I informed him, softly, and with much hesitation, of the failed attempt on my life, describing in detail how I slew them both. His eyebrow quirked at the mention of Brenna's dagger, but there was no disbelief in the expression. I explained that I was a guest of Their Eminences, and it seemed that he fought down a smile, struggling to maintain a blank expression, but whether this meant that he could be trusted, I could not tell.

At the door, he ordered his men to form up and surround the house, then took two of his own inside. I was asked to wait with the others while they appraised my story.

Moments later, he called me inside, and we climbed the stairs together. From the center of the second flight, he questioned me.

"Heard the glass break, did you?"

I nodded, feeling that no more detail was required.

"So you threw the dagger, the one protruding from this man's head? You're right-handed?"

He pointed at the corpse to our left.

"Not really. In truth, I can use either hand equally well."

The captain seemed impressed, though my words were intended simply to convey a fact.

"And did you snatch up the fire poker before or after you threw?"

"Before. The noise of rushing feet made me worry that there might be more than one of them."

The captain walked to the corpse, and looked closely at the dagger's hilt.

"Well, that's Her Eminence's, all right."

He climbed the stairs, standing at the estimated place of my throw, then whistled loudly and grinned.

"That's a sweet throw, lad! Threw it with the blade parallel to the ground, did you?"

"I've never been much of a knife-thrower, but I had little choice: two of them, one of me. Nothing else I could have done."

"Hear that, Lionel? The Onidai is being modest! Years from now, when we're telling this story in the taverns, just a pair of graybeards, no one will believe it! 'Just a lucky throw!' And him the grand high Marshal of the Banners!"

His grin subsided when he saw my look of relief.

"Just a formality, really. I need to know these things so I can scribble the particulars in my daily report. In the meantime, we'll send someone to clean up the mess, then get about the small matter of identifying these two. Lionel, take a peek out the window and find out how they scaled a wall of sheer marble. Right then, how did you take the second one?"

"I jumped from the banister, and brought the iron down as I landed. Again, I had little choice, especially after I saw what he had in his hands. They used similar weapons in an attack on Eastwall, back in Meadrow. From the way he'd been pointing it, I don't think he planned to swing it at me."

That earned a chortle, low and nasal, from the captain, and he was on the verge of continuing when Brenna strode in, flanked by a pair of her own Initiates.

"Your report."

He recounted her own lies perfectly, and when she appeared satisfied, she pulled her dagger from the head of the man she had killed, wiped it on his filthy pink tunic, and replaced it in the sheath at her belt. All the while, her gaze was fixed upon me.

"You will have no further need of it."

She then looked to the captain.

"Dismiss all but four of your men. Two of them will remove these from this house. Strip them, collect all of their belongings, and have them sent to me. Make a note of any identifying features or marks, and dispose of the bodies. Your other two men will act as runners: one will seek help in removing all evidence of tonight's unfortunate events. The other will wake the finister, as I expect that window to be replaced by sunup. Ralph, you will follow me to the temple, where there are vacant rooms aplenty, and there you will rest in safety. Tomorrow, you may return to this house, and there will be nothing here to convince you that this unfortunate incident ever took place. Everything will continue...as if this never happened."

Her final statement seemed redundant, but she stared deeply into my eyes as she said it, and I understood her true meaning. My head swam, and I had to fight against the urge to smile. Gathering what clothes I could, I followed her to the temple of Ashad, the eastern half of the temple complex, a place taboo to men, though under the circumstances none of the Initiates batted an eyelash.

Through halls of dark stone and arras-covered walls, Brenna led me to her own office. There she opened a door to a small room, little more than a closet set in a side wall. She called for a spacious cot and hot wash water, that I might scour my hands and wash the drying gore from my chest. Covered in clean, warm clothes, I watched Brenna as she left, and the heavy door of ancient timber closed behind her with a dull thud.

I was beyond exhaustion. The threefold excitements and terrors of that night had stretched well beyond all expectations of my own strength. I had survived an attempt on my life, watched fading dreams transform into warm, pleasurable reality, and then survived yet another attack. I had slain one, and then pretended that I had killed two.

I dropped heavily to the cot, and immediately felt secure in that small room, surrounded on all sides by walls of dark stone—but I was unable to sleep. I dozed uneasily, then shot up, shocked to awareness by an unfamiliar noise. Again I felt it—the now-familiar nearness, even in the dark—and I remembered the scent of night-blooming flowers.

She made no move to sate passion, or to awaken my arousal, but slid down in front of me, lifting my arms and pulling them around her—her head did not fall upon the pillow until I held her close. With the smell of jasmine and narcissus, and surrounded by solid stone in the darkness, I felt her warmth, and was glad. I do not remember falling asleep, and when I awoke, she was gone.

That night, I learned of being a warrior what no battle could ever teach me: that the strength brought about by unity applied to far more than the power of an army. And from Brenna, I learned that the freedom of equality, beneficial to all, could yet rend the life of one.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Generosity

When I emerged from the westernmost door of the temple, late in midmorning, I found the campus of Brek filled to capacity. The Initiates of Brek and Ashad were at training, and I saw then for the first time the true might of the Trathnona at war.

In the distance, women loosed arrows across my field of vision. Their targets hung from ropes, mounted on a wooden frame, and though they swayed steadily, they did not seem to offer much of a challenge—many of them fairly bristled with arrows.

The men facing west at roughly the same distance were just as skilled in the use of missiles, but theirs were javelins, and in training they made their casts in full armor, heavy Brek shields burdening their left hands, with sheathed swords slapping at left hip. Yet in spite their many encumbrances, and throwing at a distance that compelled them to loft the projectiles skyward, it seemed that they struck full upon the center of their moving targets no less than four times out of every five attempts.

Closer in, the men fought in the same neat rows I had seen in training with Lior. They were spaced wide, more than a full shield's width between each man, and I remember thinking at first that the practice would be foolish in the extreme in actual combat, for the onrush of an enemy formation could easily break their front line. But I had reckoned without accounting for their swords, and now, watching their mock battle, I understood completely.

The Brek sword was too long for fighting in close formation, the wide arc of slash and chop just as hazardous to allies that drew too near, and with its profound weight, the neighboring Initiates were in as much danger of decapitation as the enemy. The added space between swords was necessary to ensure the full combat effectiveness of each man, but when I witnessed how the Men of Brek transformed that vulnerability into an advantage, the sight renewed my admiration entirely.

Their lines had grown layers, the columns eight men deep, and the officers—located at center, and forming their own column of eight—controlled the pulse of that mock battle with a great show of precision and martial discipline. Though Brek helmets were a close fit—and crested among more advanced ranks, much in the way of Meadrow officers—the officer at front always managed to divide his attention, his eyes peeled to left and right to see to the disposition of his men, while simultaneously attending to his individual conflict with the officer in the opposing formation.

When his men grew tired, the fighting officer struck the flat of his blade twice upon the slightly bulbous boss of his shield, signaling the rotation with a sound much like the deep booming of a brazen gong. The men at front would then swing wildly in full extension to end or harry any immediate foe, then turn about, moving hurriedly between the columns to retire to the rear of the formation, even as the rank behind surged forward to relieve their position.

The fighting officer did not, in most cases, withdraw with his men, and it seemed that there was no permanence of command, each officer taking responsibility of the men that happened to fall under his charge. Among most formations, I saw that the senior officer would only relinquish command of the front when he had reached total exhaustion, and I smiled in thinking that that was probably how they had earned their commissions in the first place.

Rotating their front lines, they could fight always with fresh men, and the occasional relief would be sorely needed, for as I have written, Brek sword and shield are both exceedingly heavy.

Standing even closer than the battling men, though completely silent and almost otherworldly by contrast, I saw the women training in their own method of close-fighting. With broad dagger and curved sword, the Initiates of Ashad danced in perfect cadence, battling imaginary foes.

The swords of the women were single-edged, a full handspan shorter than those of the men; the cutting planes curved forward, and though the blades were wide, the agility of the wielders spoke to me of lightness. I decided that they must be _very_ sharp. Nor was I mistaken. Brenna's Initiates wielded them like talons, slashing at the empty air with their razor-thin points, spinning with horizontal blades to strike at neck and belly, their broad daggers held underhand to thrust at temple and armpit.

It seemed more a style of evasion than direct confrontation, and that was fitting, for women, even brave and formidable women would find themselves at a disadvantage, fighting toe-to-toe against brawnier, battle-hardened men. Should the Initiates of Brek venture too far forward to aid their Ashad sisters in close-fighting, talon and dagger, paired with their graceful dance of evasion, would serve as a last resort.

I heard a sharp whistle off to my left. There stood Lior, leaning against an ivory-white column. He had been chomping at an apple, which he waved, motioning for me to join him. As I approached, he reconsidered and strode to meet me.

"Have you eaten?"

I wagged my head gently, and he nodded and opened the door to the temple, leading me back inside. As the heavy door slammed to, the noises of mock battle died instantly. He led me forward, and dropped his apple into a square wooden bin in passing.

"You've already been granted access, so I don't see the harm in a little breakfast, do you?"

I wagged my head again. I had eaten nothing since before the time of the assassins' first attack, and considering the passions and terrors of the previous evening, as well as the shock of my frigid ride through the canals, it is little wonder that I felt truly empty.

We entered Lior's office, identical in size and shape to Brenna's, though the stone was far brighter, as were the decorations.

He sat behind his desk, a sizable counter of white marble, and lifted a tiny stick, surmounted by a heavy wooden head. A single strike upon a small gong of bronze—cleverly wrought to resemble the face of the sun—and Coisis emerged instantly through a side door. Lior motioned in my direction.

"Our guest is hungry, and cannot be expected to return home for much of the day. Given the events of last night, I believe we can accommodate him."

Coisis turned to me with a smile of recognition, which he replaced with a solemn look, and nodded. He was well aware of my misfortune.

"Yes sir, right away!"

He disappeared instantly, and Lior nodded to the door.

"Invaluable, that man. Kind-hearted, too. When he heard of the attack, he rushed straight to my chambers, shook me awake, apologized profusely, and informed me of everything. He knew that I could have him flogged for waking me before sunrise, but he did it anyway. When I had the situation well in hand, he asked me if he could do aught to help you. Can you imagine? He apologized for that! It was only an hour before sunrise! Big heart, that Coisis."

He shook his head briefly, as if trying to dislodge water from his ear, then leaned back in his chair and pressed his hand to a pile of parchment. Though his posture was relaxed, his words were rather disturbing.

"Anyway, on to business. It seems you've a bounty on your head."

He held out a piece of thin paper, and rattled it angrily as he continued.

"We've had our scholars look at it—in pieces of course. It's written in three languages. There's Vulgar Kenalkan—well encoded—Nalbanic, and another language no one is familiar with—we think it's the writing of our aggressors, though I suppose there isn't any way to prove it. It appears to be the same message, all three times—an appeal to a diverse range of predatory scum. In short, it gives your name, home Banner, a brief description, and the sum of a bounty. It's huge—the bounty, I mean, and the two that you killed had already been paid. A retainer, perhaps, and it was quite a little fortune in itself. Could've been your man in Meadrow that paid them off.

"It's hard to believe, I know. You left Meadrow only a few months ago, and already they have these bum-wipers all over Foundation- Aha! There's Coisis with our breakfast! Come in, man, and set that down. You look like you're planning to feed a whole division with that tray!"

Coisis had to enter sideways, and it looked as though he'd snapped off a tabletop and emptied the temple kitchens onto its surface. Roasted fowl, salted pork, two loaves of bread—still hot from the oven—a variety of cheeses, a pile of freshly cut melon, an assortment of apples, a cluster of dark red grapes, a few pastries, and a tall ceramic jug with two cups, resting on a pair of plates; the platter covered most of Lior's desk! The High Priest chuckled merrily at the sight.

"More valuable than a mild winter, this man! My dear Coisis, I do believe our friend Ralph might just find a meal beneath one of these piles, and when we're finished, we'll have enough left over to throw a banquet. Take the day off, and rest that back of yours. Hefting such a weighty load could not have been easy!"

Coisis nodded with a smile for both of us, and I returned in kind, then waited until his exit to load my plate with a thick leg of pheasant, a large hunk of bread, a generous helping of soft, salty sheep cheese, and a few small wedges of a harder, more pungent variety preferred by the Trathnona. I ate in silence, washing the meal down with the familiar taste of red wine, blended with unfermented grape juice. Lior, less bound by hunger to eat in silence, continued where he'd left off, chomping at yet another apple as he paused between sentences.

"I've sent word to your High Stabler, by way of Garth, and the courier should arrive four days after Taemon. In the meantime, I've also deployed a squad of my own men—mounted, of course, and with spare mounts for the other Phulakoi. We even managed to find a two-wheeled cart for L'mah, as well as a team of long-legged horses big enough to pull her weight at the gallop. We'll have to move up our timetable, I'm afraid. When the others arrive, we will have only to await the following Sun Day, at which time you will stand at your first Proving. The Approving will follow soon after, and then we'll be off for Sangholm—under heavy escort."

I had nothing to add. As usual, Lior had volunteered all of the information I needed, and much that I would not have thought to ask.

There was an unrelated question that I had kept to myself, ever since the battle at Eastwall, and with Lior lounging comfortably, I could think of no better moment, and no better man to ask. Though his sunny countenance favored him with the appearance of relative youth, he would have been nearly forty, by Coisis's own accounting. Who better then, to ask such a difficult question, than an experienced leader of men?

"How long was it before you grew accustomed to fighting? To killing, I mean. Did it ever give you pause, knowing that you were killing other men?"

Lior dropped his apple on the platter and took a mouthful of wine.

"A man never learns to love killing. And when I say 'man', I speak of men such as those who fight for Meadrow and Brek, and even for Sangholm and Tahlrene—the so called 'honorable Banners'. Men like those thousand training out there on the campus. And the women, too.

"Lovers of violence are not men, and those who enjoy even the killing of animals are not men. We kill because killing is required to preserve our own lives, and the lives of those we love. Hunters must kill game, to feed themselves and their families, and warriors are no different. We do battle when we must, but it is not for the sake of battle that we fight. In fact, we do not have to look beyond the history of Foundation for an object lesson in the folly of needless violence. The Hjarrleth are a prime example.

"The Hjarrleth of Sangholm had everything: a huge army to protect their borders, arable soil, rich deposits of bog iron, copper, and silver, and the most fertile fishing waters on Foundation—lake, river, and coastline! Their land contained an embarrassment of riches. They had wealth without cost, and prosperity without sacrifice. But everything—was not enough for them.

"As their metal craft became the stuff of legend, and their army grew strong enough to challenge any three or four of the other kingdoms—I say kingdoms because this all happened long before the Kenalkan Period—they decided to start a war, but fought without any cause, at all. Their warriors crushed every army they faced. They consumed all of the local crops and burned everything that remained. They claimed nothing of any real value, taking only the means to feed themselves from one battle to the next, and though they refused to harm women and children, it is only because they saw in them the future of their endless war. The slaughter continued for years, and they slew any group of warriors they could find. Again, the women and children were never harmed, but many starved to feed their army.

"It wasn't until the first recognizable alliance was formed, between the Tahlrenic Tribes, Nalbans, and Trathnona of Brek and Ashad, that the warriors of Sangholm were finally defeated. In truth, the war might have gone on much longer, but the well aimed arrow of one of my ancestral grandmothers found the eye of the Hjarrleth king, a man named Malmheith. He had been bloodmad all his life, and everyone knew it, so no move was made by the surviving Hjarrleth to seek vengeance—nor did they seem greatly vexed by his end. The war ended in a truce, and that was for the best. And after all of that needless running around, do you know what the Hjarrleth learned?"

"That battles are not to be fought for the sake of excitement?"

"No, they learned nothing. And yet, their culture changed for the better. The only brother of Malmheith had served as the king's regent, but died of fever during the war, leaving only Malmheith's daughter, the princess Drotning. She'd ruled Sangholm four years by the time the soldiers had returned home, and in that time she had managed to alter the focus of their entire society.

"The bogs they had drained in search of iron-bearing peat made fine farmland, and, once plastered as a seal against moisture, the mountains, mined empty, made the finest granaries and storehouses. The song had been transformed into a way of life, and all forms of art became the focus of Hjarrleth culture. It was in the time of Drotning that the name of Sangholm, or 'Isle of Song' was used to describe the lands of the Hjarrleth, and though their people dwell in the mountains of the northwestern mainland, they believe that their artists are without equals, an ' _isle of song amidst a sea of silence_ '.

"Drotning ruled for nearly seventy years, dying at ninety years of age. The people had loved her, and though she had died without heirs, they wanted the wisdom of her rule to continue. From that time to this, the Matriarchs of Sangholm have served at the pleasure of the people. A vote of two-thirds of the Hjarrleth population is required for the choosing of each new queen, and since that time there have been naught but cunning and wise women at work in high Hroaht Hall. The Hjarrleth war but little nowadays, though their songs are still primarily songs of battle. They continue to train to a man every day, for a war they hope will never come.

"And there you have it. In spite of their worst efforts, the Hjarrleth changed. And at the same time, they didn't change at all, if you catch my meaning."

I didn't understand his point at all, but I loved the tale, and so I said nothing. Lior pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply.

"You really are going to make me do all of the work, aren't you? We were speaking of the nature of killing, and how we, as men, must view the practice. The tale was meant to illustrate the difference between fighting for a purpose, and fighting for the sake of fighting. There is no glory in killing, but there are times when violence becomes necessary. A man must learn to fight, training himself as best he may, in preparation for the day he is required to fight. And on that note...follow me."

* * *

Lior rose without ceremony, and motioned for me to follow as he passed. Outside, the training continued, and though the sun had risen to midday, they fought on without any sign of fatigue. I was feeling much better, well fed and mellowed by wine, that no longer did I feel meek or insignificant in the company of so many true warriors.

Lior whistled to one of his guards, and shouted some instructions in his own tongue. The man hurried into the temple without a moment's hesitation, and Lior returned to my side.

I was led to a reviewing platform—a long slab of white granite, and Lior nodded with a knowing smile, pointing to me, and then to the platform beneath my feet. Moments later, he returned with a pair of guards, both bearing long trumpets. He motioned to them with his right hand, and they loosed three lung-emptying blasts. I have no doubt that the sound would have been stirring from a distance, but it was truly deafening up close.

The training ceased immediately, the din of fighting replaced by silence. Lior leaned in, his hand on my shoulder, and whispered softly.

"When I say 'guest', I mean Onidai."

He nodded to an Initiate, helmed with a white cape. His upright crest of white horse hair stretched from shoulder to shoulder, and appeared to be a sign of high rank. He shouted, " _Form ranks!_ " The soldiers moved about as ants, in a manner seemingly chaotic, and yet within moments, the two thousand and more before me had formed up in ranks approaching one hundred each. The command had been in Vulgar Kenalkan, and I later learned that the High Priest and Priestess had begun the practice nearly two years earlier, in preparation for battles fought among foreign allies.

The ranks alternated between those of Brek and Ashad, the colors shifting from white and pale gold to midnight blue and silver. Lior moved to the edge of the reviewing stand, and motioned for me to do the same. Again, he placed his hand on my shoulder, but this time his words were for the Initiates. He did not whisper.

"MY SONS!"

At this, the men shouted his name as one, following with a chant of 'Brek! Brek! Brek!'.

"WOMEN OF ASHAD!"

They did not speak, but raised their bows high above their heads in salute.

"Our guest has proved his courage, and is worthy of our praise. Those who thought him less than worthy may now think differently. For those of you who still doubt the legitimacy of our guest, you may take issue with him this evening. He will be more than happy to speak with you—by the light of the hearth!"

Hearty laughter followed his remark, and it was clear that all in attendance knew of the previous night's events.

"And yet, I worry that he may have reason to fear the night."

He reached out to another Initiate, and took from him a long bundle, wrapped in cloth, then threw off the covering, exposing the hilt and worn sheath of a sword, in the style of his own Initiates.

"When I carried this, I was as they are: Initiate to the Temple of Brek. I may only lend it, for the weapons forged for use by our order are not my own to give. I offer it now to you, for as long as you dwell herein."

He then began to shout, his voice raised to carry throughout the city.

"And let all those who would threaten this—MY GUEST—know, that he is not only under my protection, and under the protection of my men, and Her Eminence's women, but under the protection of his own formidable hand! Woe to the Oath-breaker! Woe to the Knifeman! Glory to Bright Sun and Waxing Moon!"

At this, all Initiates drew their swords and lifted their bows. Their cheers were wordless, a thunderous shout, but the sound was far from meaningless. Before the cheers faded, Lior took two steps to the left, creating a gap between us, and this was quickly filled by a table hefted between a pair of Initiates. A third brought out a heavy bundle. Lior took the bundle and dismissed them.

"The spoils of battle are for the victor alone, and our victor has earned the wealth of his foes. Upon their bodies, we found weapons, some of them terrible to behold, and others beautiful. Their tools are now his for the taking."

When he lifted the thunderer and held it high, the Initiates gasped as one.

"You've heard of these? The High Priestess and I saw many of them on the road to Meadrow—and again in Meadrow itself, in a battle before its eastern wall. Though powerful, they are wildly inaccurate from any great distance. Though they breathe smoke and a noise of thunder, they also flash as lightning. Her Eminence knows the sight better than most—it made fine targets of them!"

More laughter, this from the women. He then lifted the serrated cleaver.

"They had strength in numbers, and their plan was simple: slay him as he slept, and claim his head as evidence!"

The crowd gasped yet again, and Lior threw the cleaver to the table with an eloquent grimace of disdain.

"They thought him a boy, an easy kill, and they scaled the wall of his abode not five hundred paces from where we now stand! Awakened by their entry he slew them both, armed only with dagger and hearth iron!

"They were well paid, these assassins. Overpaid, in fact. Those that hired them might have accomplished far more by paying one thousand men a reasonable wage!"

I surprised myself by laughing. Greater numbers might not have been able to enter the city unnoticed, but they would have been a terror upon the road. Then, when I considered the length of my continued journey, and the apparent depth of the enemy treasury, I stopped laughing.

"Here is the bounty, half-paid by all estimates, though still a fortune by any measure."

He poured the two bags upon the table, allowing every coin to fall before the eyes of those that watched. He then took one, raising it for all to see.

"A gift, from the land beyond the Central Sea! This is White Gold! And this is no mere alloy of gold and silver, but a substance far more valuable than either of them! In their own land, the metal is not so uncommon. It is truly valuable where it is rare, and it is rare everywhere else! With these coins, a man could purchase ten large houses, one thousand fine horses, an army of servants, and live without another day's work on the remainder! This is how courage is rewarded!"

I was in shock. I had thought the coins simple silver, not without value, but common enough under all Banners. With ten of the coins—of which there were more than one hundred—I could make my mother one of the wealthiest women on Foundation.

But what else could I do with it?

I knew I might be dead before the end of winter, and I still had the casket of silver, two hundred coins of common gold, and a small fortune in jewelry. An image of Lambek flashed in my mind, and I chased the thought away, the parallel between his reversal of fortune and my own obvious and unneeded. And then I saw him again. He was standing on a table in the Bowyers' Hall. '...too poor to drink to our own health...'

I pulled Lior aside mid-speech. He did not seem annoyed—more amused than anything else.

"How much silver would each of these coins be worth? Enough to reward a few underpaid soldiers?"

Lior's eyes closed immediately, brow creased and mouth clamped shut in a mild expression of pain. My implication had made an impact. He flipped his coin into the air and caught it without looking, then held it out to show me.

"With this single piece of metal, I could pay my own Initiates for nearly a month."

"And how many would it take to fill the hand of every Initiate with a bag of silver?"

The High Priest pursed his lips, and breathed a deep, ragged breath. His eyes welled with tears.

"Far less than you have here. But are you sure you want to do that? It only goes so far, you know. Before you know it, you'll have fewer coins than ideas on how to spend them."

"Dead men spend nothing. I may rot in an open field before this is all over. Some of these people may die, as well, if this war is going to last as long as you say. Let them enjoy themselves before the fighting starts. You were right about one thing, though. I do have a few ideas.

"Seems I met a kindly old man a few days ago on the way to a festival. He told me his tale—a wonderful love story—and the only sour note was that his true love's family would only consent to their marriage if he was gainfully employed. He had been an Initiate, and later a Priest, with no marketable skills to meet the demands of his would-be in-laws. As I recall, his previous employer thought up something to fill his days, though in truth, it is only the fear of poverty that keeps him from retirement. It appears to me—and correct me if I'm mistaken—that a few coins from yon table might see him retire in comfort."

When Lior heard this, he actually shed a few tears. When he finally gained control of himself, he acted every bit the fop that I had thought him when first we met.

"You'd rob me of my page? What would I do without him?"

"You'll manage. And before I make my mother a wealthy woman—or wealthier, in any case—I find that I may have further use for some of that white gold."

"Planning to buy the temple?"

"A drink. Several, in fact. For every Initiate in the city. Where I'm from, it's good luck to buy the drinks—and I'm going need all the luck I can get. Can you see to the arrangements, for the celebration after my Proving?"

"There will be no celebration, Ralph. There isn't any time for formalities. We have to be on the road to Sangholm as soon as possible. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. They can drink to my health and future tonight. And tomorrow night. We are in the middle of a festival, are we not?"

He actually laughed at that.

"That we are, but you're burning through your fortune rather quickly. You'll be a third of the way through it, executing those plans of yours."

"All the better. The less gold I have, the fewer curious fools will wish to see just how much I have, and how much they can take. So, a bag of silver in every soldier's hand, a few nights of good drink for them, and a cozy retirement for a kindly old man. Can it be done?"

"Can and will. It's a fine start, Lord Onidai. Anything else?"

I picked up the serrated cleaver, trying to match Lior's look of disdain.

"Give this to the butcher. It was meant for my neck, and I don't want it in my house."

* * *

The three days that followed were an eventful blur of celebration, broken only by hard days of training and sultry nights of passion. Lior became convinced that his style of combat was not for me, and must have viewed the realization as a point of shame, for he said nothing of the sort. Instead, our training sessions became far simpler.

First, I would train with the shield, alternating from one arm to the other, as Lior and two Initiates attacked me simultaneously. It took some time to adapt, even with equal dexterity in either hand, and if not for the heavy padding, and the fact that his Initiates already loved me more than half as much as they loved Lior, I might not have survived.

Later in the day, he handed me my wooden Sequiduris, took away my wooden shield, and he and one other would then attack, their shield hands as empty as my own. At offense, I fared much better, for Lior was not accustomed to fighting without a shield, nor were any of his men. They batted away my attacks as best they could, but by the afternoon of the third day I made fools of them, feinting, then turning to strike the other, moving without fear to dodge their attacks while pressing my own with both hands. My fear had abated, and a sense of detached intelligence remained in its place, so that I could think as I fought.

The evenings were no less satisfying, and all of the Initiates shared in my newfound wealth, drinking their fill, man and woman, to the exclusion of none. My beer was long gone, and we nearly drained Brek and Ashad of ale and wine in the attempt to keep an army afloat, but on the second day, the men Lior had sent returned from Algrae with fifteen large wagons filled with barrels of drink, all of a quality that no Initiate could afford.

Two more wagons followed, containing a gift that required a twenty-man escort. That evening, as the sun began to set, and Lior took his leave, I announced my gift to the soldiers in the temple courtyard of Ashad. No building could hold us, and in truth, the thousands that had turned out to celebrate were nearly too much even for the great expanse of the spacious stone plaza.

All who were not bound by templar obligation were in attendance, and in three days, not one among them had missed out—Lior and Brenna had seen to it that duty shifts would cycle on those days, that every Initiate might be present two nights out of three. I felt glad that the wagons from Algrae had arrived when they did, as nearly seven thousand celebrants, with the capacity for drinking shared by all soldiers, had combined their thirst sufficiently that little drink remained.

Algrae had been drained of silver, of that I was certain. I had seen the contents of the open strong boxes, and it took a dozen honest men much of the day to divvy the coins into pouches of leather. At final tally, I had spent thirty-seven of the one hundred and eighteen white gold coins, and with them purchased enough quality drink to intoxicate nearly seven thousand Initiates for three days, filled ten thousand pouches with silver—better than a year's pay for a struggling Initiate—and given an old man the ability to retire comfortably with the woman he loved.

When I casually tossed Coisis a small pouch containing seven of those precious coins, he stared at me blankly, before offering a confused smile. When Lior explained, he wept and hugged me about the neck. That afternoon, we had to halt training when Coisis returned with his wife. She kissed each of my cheeks, thanking me profusely, for she had feared the toll such an occupation might take on a man of advancing years. In truth, I shed more than a few tears, myself.

And, after all of that, I still had eighty-one coins left, with not the slightest notion of what I should do with them.

When I announced my gift at the height of the third evening's celebrations, their cheers issued so loudly that someone raised the alarum. I then announced that I would have to leave early, to prepare for the arrival of those who would ensure that all the Men of Brek and Women of Ashad would accept me as their true 'guest'. Another cheer, this one even louder, and I took my leave, choosing that moment to exit through the crowd, heading south to the nearest pass gate.

My back could have been bruised by the vigorous patting that I received as I moved through the crowd, and I had to remind myself that they were simply giving their thanks. I smiled, in spite of the discomfort, for my back had been pre-bruised by the hefty blade of Lior's training sword.

I was home for an hour, and already beginning to doze, when I felt the warmth and weight of Brenna's thighs as they straddled my waist. She thanked me in her own way. When she rose to leave, just an hour before down, I motioned to the bag of valuable coins. It contained fifty-nine of them, her half of our shared effort to slay the assassins. She smiled, kissed me in a way that threatened to draw the very life from my body, and brought her lips close to my ear.

"Those coins belong to you. Forgetting that I cannot be seen spending them without raising suspicion, you have given me something that I had despaired of ever knowing again. A gift beyond price. And if tonight was any indication, you will make far greater use of that bag than I ever could."

She kissed me again, and with dawn arriving in an hour, I had to fight against the urge to bear her down upon the smooth silks. She took the bag anyway, at my insistence, to put it under lock and key, deep in the temple treasury. As she left, I wondered how she would defy detection while hefting a heavy bag of gold, then slept until well after noon, enjoying the rare gift of pleasant dreams.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Friends

With the festival long over, and my training resumed in earnest, I felt that the bruises might yet be worth all of the trouble. Though sore beyond belief, on that day I faced Lior. I fought alone against the High Priest, and I was doing far better than all the days previous. He was at a loss without his shield, and totally unaccustomed to parrying with his sword.

Lior had dodged my attacks nimbly earlier in the day, but just after midday he began to grow impatient. He attacked wildly, leaving himself unprotected from the wide arc of my longer weapon, and the heftier strikes of a two-handed grip. But in spite of his frustration, he remained light-hearted and jocular throughout the day, and I had little doubt that he saw fighting without a shield as a mere curiosity. Fighting with sword and shield, and barring any guile on my part, I would have been totally helpless—a clumsy tyro stumbling about in the midst of his complex, perfectly timed dance of offense and defense.

And then his smile broadened; he gripped the hilt of his wooden sword in both hands, rushing me with a terrible roar. I began to backtrack, and prepared to side-step, when suddenly I was met with resistance. I'd been fighting between the rows of ash trees in a wide lane at the edge of the open plaza, and yet somehow I had managed to crash against a wall, lapped in some sort of metal. All at once I was lifted from the ground—bound tightly in the unyielding confines of heavily muscled arms. Lior had halted his attack, and was laughing gently, which encouraged further laughter from behind me, guttural and low-pitched. The tone was familiar.

"You'd think, after all the stories we've heard on the road, that the Onidai might have expected an attack from behind—for what fool would dare face him?"

I recognized Boers's voice immediately, and knew also that it could only be Sigmund who held me thus. The festival was over, and L'mah would not be permitted in Brek again until Sun Day. Lior grinned in the direction of the voice behind.

"I don't suppose you have the energy to take my place, after such a long journey? The boy is hopeless with sword and shield, and when you see the size of Rorik's weapon, you'll understand why he uses both hands."

The iron grip relaxed, and I was lowered to my feet. I turned to Sigmund, his face a study in mirth and mischief, and he spoke silently to Boers in his language of hand signals. Sigmund clapped me on the left shoulder with his right hand, holding it there as his servant spoke, and this I knew to be the manner of greeting favored by the warriors of Sangholm.

"My master asks if you know of the Hjarrleth art of Azslaethi, or 'Axe-Arm', as it would be known in the common tongue?"

I wagged my head innocently, and Sigmund nodded in the direction of his servant, giving him leave to finish.

"The oldest son of every house wears the white iron armor of his forefathers, and this leaves him in no need of a shield. We all carry them for mutual protection within the shield wall, but the oldest sons sling them across their backs. Encased in their armor, and with no need of a shield, the oldest sons—or Athleith, as they are called—fight while gripping larger weapons in both hands.

"The ancient swords wielded by the clan chieftains are called hjarrviht, and the blades are not overlong, but have long grips, an innovation intended to improve balance. The younger chieftains—with sons not yet old enough to wear the Ironskin—wear it themselves, while bearing the hjarrviht in both hands."

Sigmund signed again. He tapped his index finger above his right eye and pointed to me. Even before Boers moved to follow the bidding of his master, I thought the meaning clear: 'Show him'. Boers nodded, removing the shield lashed to his back, and then removed the cloth-wrapped bundle that always seemed to be slung at his shoulder. I knew this to be a sword, for it had been uncovered during their fight in the dry bed of the rivulet, though I had never seen it up close.

As he removed the cloth, I was surprised that the unusual scabbard had not a suggestion of metal anywhere on its surface; it was crafted from richly polished dark wood and supple leather, and I later learned that this was a precaution intended to guard against the dulling of ancient blades.

The strange sheath did not draw the eye long, for the pommel and hilt were themselves a thing of beauty.

The pommel, deeply engraved and semi-circular in shape, was encrusted with pearl and amber, and the metal was something akin to bronze, though it was darker and far richer in color than any alloy of copper that I had ever seen. The hilt was of similar construction—semicircular, the curve facing the handgrip.

Even the grip was decorated, its rough surface of dark stone or ancient wood assuming the appearance of a tightly coiled serpent with deeply carved, but smoothly wrought scales. When Boers drew the sword from its sheath, I understood why the metal of the blade was called 'white iron'. Out of direct sunlight, the smooth metal appeared simply white, but in the full light of day it blazed brightly, reflecting the sun as a flawless mirror.

As Boers had said, the blade was not overlong, though not short by any means; less than a handsbreadth shorter than the length of Lior's own weapon, though very nearly as wide at its widest point. It tapered only slightly from the hilt, and the point taper, little more than a thumb's length, was sloped and rounded, as that of a short spearpoint.

The cross-section of the wide blade was complex; it had three fullers and two diamond sections, alternating, with a fuller at center. Both rolled edges sloped to opposing curves. I could see that it would have power in the cut, while remaining capable of a deadly thrust.

It was meant to last, sturdy from pommel to point, and when Boers looked to his master, Sigmund nodded reverently. The servant reversed his grip, holding the weapon out to me. I took the sword with hesitation, first placing my own wooden weapon on the ground, and wiping the sweat from my hands before accepting it.

It was heavier than I had expected, but perfectly balanced at the hilt. This was a weapon fit only for the strongest of warriors, and it would tear through unarmored flesh and bone like an axe through sodden paper.

They stopped me when I attempted to test the edge of the blade with the ball of my thumb, and Boers laughed when he said that I would be of little use in battle if I could grip with only one hand. I accepted this, convinced that it was exceedingly sharp, and asked of them the meaning of the symbols etched at the top of the guard. Boers needed no help from his master.

"The first runes, carved there on the left, name the craftsman. That blade was made by Bjodlund, one of the greatest smiths of Hjarrleth lore. To the right, you can read the year of its make. That sword is four thousand eight hundred and eighteen years old, with not a dent in the blade for its ancient age."

I nearly dropped the weapon. It was hard to imagine anything that old. The making of the blade in my hands predated the first contact with the Wise Kenalka! But it seemed to me that sword-smithing was an art to be developed—improved over time, and when I said this, Boers smiled sadly and drew his own blade.

"My old head-cleaver's a fine weapon—the equal at least of any iron in Brek—but it's dull and blunt compared to swords of white iron. I'm third-born in my family, and my oldest brother has an exceptional blade—just as his oldest son, my nephew, has a fine suit of armor—but in more than four thousand years, we still haven't managed to catch up. The secrets of our ancient sword-craft were lost only a few centuries after we turned to farming. Not that I'm complaining, of course! I'll take peace over war, any day. No need to scratch up priceless heirlooms, and us ignorant of the craft to repair them."

I looked again to the blade, but something bothered me. When I realized what was missing, I must have surprised Sigmund and Boers, who were thrilled with my knowledge of their Banner.

"Doesn't it have a name? I see no other runes inscribed. I thought fine blades had names."

"That's right! Of course, they weren't named by their makers. The men that first wielded them gave them their names, though if asked, most of us would admit that our forefathers lacked creativity in the naming, or perhaps they had too many of them. By the time of the Wandering War, every warrior in our land had many white swords, and I suppose it was too much of a chore to name all of them well."

Boers held up the wood and leather scabbard.

"See the runes? We carve them here, to pass on the name, and always transfer the name to each new sheath. That one is called Starkdrepa, the 'Strong-Striker', and if you ask me, it's a lazy name for such a blade! Great warriors, our ancestors, and that I'll freely admit, but they had skulls thick enough that they had little need of helmets."

I handed back the sword, and was surprised when Sigmund refused to take it. I turned to Boers, who took it gently, and replaced it in its sheath. When he again wore his shield on his back, and Starkdrepa beneath, I reminded them of Lior's request.

"This Azslaethi, would you be willing to teach me? I know I don't have the protection of your fine armor, but when you see Rorik's weapon, you'll understand how hopeless it is for me to train with sword and shield. It's simply too heavy for a single-handed grip, at least until I've grown stronger. In any case, Rorik's father was of Sangholm, so perhaps the style will add legitimacy..."

Sigmund began signing as I spoke, and Boers struggled to keep up, so that he cut me off before I could finish.

"Of course we'll teach you! Or rather my master will, with your permission. I'd be helpless without my shield, though my style isn't as pretty as Lior's. He'll begin your training tomorrow."

"Why not today?"

"Because he's hungry and tired! So am I, and my legs are still stiff from all of that hard riding Lior's man put us through. L'mah's comfortable enough, and probably asleep right now, if they can find a bed big enough to bear her giant frame."

* * *

Lior ordered food brought, and for the first time the second floor of my marble house found a use beyond an assassin's entryway. When the meal arrived, borne by Piers and a trio of servitors, I whispered to Lior that the time had come to offer the gift of Kvejka to Boers. The High Priest gave covert instructions to one of the servants—the poor fellow must have been unaccustomed to Lior's attention, for he hurried out immediately.

When I saw that Piers had turned to leave, I stopped him with a shout, and rushed upstairs. When I returned, I congratulated him on the birth of his firstborn, and he smiled broadly, informing me that it had been a boy, born on a Sun Day, a sign of good fortune to his people. I congratulated him again, and flipped him a coin. As he caught it, he maintained his sense of good taste, thanking me and nodding with an easy smile. He dropped the coin into his pocket without looking, and I had to stop Lior before he could explain. It would be quite a surprise when he returned home to find that his pocket contained enough wealth to feed, clothe, and overindulge his firstborn throughout most of the child's early life.

The tables that lined the windows were laden with platters containing cold and hot meats, fresh bread, cheese, assorted fruits, and a large bowl steaming with a thick soup of mutton and aromatic herbs, while an entire table had been covered with jugs of beer and ewers of red and white wine, the goblets and tankards assembled in orderly ranks before them.

Lior and I had trained all day, and were as ravenous as our companions. When the pangs of hunger were no longer so sharply felt, we dined at a leisurely pace and traded news. I told them the tale of Eagle and the Musicians, of Rorik's Clearing, and finally of my experiences with the assassins. They praised my victories, and my cunning in making use of the slain guard at Rorik's Clearing, and as the conversation grew sparse again, there came a knock at the door.

I had to guide the two servitors up the stairs as they hefted Boers's gift. When I informed him of the contents of the heavy cask, and offered it as reparation for all the Kvejka he'd wasted in the dressing of my wounds, he lifted me in an embrace no gentler than Sigmund's. He cracked the barrel on the spot, and we began drinking at once. At first, I did not care for it. Though sweet and spiced, the bite that struck as I swallowed sent me into a fit of coughing.

Then, learning of its effects—immediate, and far less demanding than those of wine or beer—I found myself enjoying it thoroughly. I preferred the taste of Viharthian wine vapor by far, but the Kvejka was more potent, a 'man's drink', as the Hjarrleth would say. We sipped at it thereafter, and spoke for hours on end, and occasionally Boers sang at the behest of Sigmund; songs of battle, and of iron—that which burns brightly, beyond the forge's light.

We talked of Sangholm for a time, and I learned all I could, for I knew I would find myself beneath that warlike Banner before the first day of spring. I told them all I knew of the Hjarrleth—mainly what Lior had told me—and I left out the tales of Sangholm known to all children, even in Meadrow.

They took great pains to explain their history in full, at least in terms of the founding of their Banner, and the nature of its governing body. As the day drew to evening, and Lior's time among us was nearing its end, we dined again from the amply weighted platters, and when the conversation once again grew sparse, I asked of Sigmund a question that had burned in my mind all day.

"I hope you won't be offended, but I have to know—why will you not touch the blade of your ancestors?"

Sigmund nodded slowly, his long, braided golden hair billowing against his shoulders. His face was wistful, but not sad or mournful. He looked to Boers, and with a simple gesture gave him leave to speak freely on the matter. Boers sighed deeply.

"When the Wandering War ended, the other nation-states feared us greatly. We had peace, but had not earned the trust of any of our neighbors, and rightly so—we were a bloodthirsty lot! When an emissary of the Kenalka reached our borders—flying through the air beneath a great white sail, no less—we greatly desired to treat with them, and thence between the Banners.

"Trouble was, no one wanted any Hjarrleth, and especially not an armed, armored man, inside their unguarded territories, for they thought us nothing more than mindless killers. Perhaps they were right, for we had killed many a man that offered us no aggression. The Matriarch's decision was not an easy one, but it was just. Our Phulako, the eldest child of our Matriarch, was charged with title and responsibility until the coming of age of the next sibling in line.

"While Phulako, no man may bear his blade, nor wear his skin of white iron until the next in line takes his place. My master became the head of his house when his father set sail on his fiery pyre, nigh on seven years ago. He has no children of his own, for Phulakoi are not marriageable during their time of service. Reya, my master's noble sister, chose to marry _before_ the swearing of oaths, and with no younger siblings to relieve her of the title she could hardly do otherwise.

"Reya's next birthday marks the beginning of her term as Hjarrleth Phulako, but until that time my master is bound by ancient law to remain unarmed, his only protection a sparse cladding of gray mail."

"And when is her next birthday?"

Sigmund smiled, signing briefly to Boers.

"Six days after the new year, according to our own calendar, which would make it...thirty-one days from today! So I suppose he'll be wearing his armor before we reach Sangholm. It'll be a comfort to my back, the day he wears his own blade for once."

"And where is the armor now?"

"Still in my wagon, and I'll tell you, Lior, your men have no respect for authority. They refused to bear my master's armor tree on any of their horses. 'These are for riding, not for baggage!' You should have words with those Initiates when they arrive. Wanted us to leave an irreplaceable heirloom in the back of a wagon, while we rode off into the wastes! I must have looked over my shoulder a thousand times during that nightmare ride. If I never ride another horse, I'll die with a smile, even in the absence of dry kindling."

When Lior offered the Hjarrleth their usual quarters at No. 23, they declined. Through Boers, Sigmund admitted to being nervous. The Proving was set for the day after next—should the Council permit the ceremony. The hulking Phulako worried that I might again be in danger, and asked if he and his servant might simply make their beds on the second floor, where we had been dining. Lior argued against the idea.

"My friends, I am deeply touched that you wish to put yourselves to the hazard, but it is not within my power to grant your request."

"But it seems to me-"

"Boers, please, allow me to finish. I doubt neither your prowess nor your courage. I know you to be a swordsman of great skill, and your master is strong enough to fight even without weapons, should the need ever arise. My reservations are born of fear, not doubt. You are Phulako, Sigmund, the emissary of Sangholm, and only Phulakoi are permitted free passage here. We have few guests, and I shudder to think of the three-day scolding that would result, should the Piebald Council hear that the Hjarrleth Ambassador made his bed on a low couch, when a house of marble—with a thick down mattress and silk sheets—had been furnished for his use, alone."

Sigmund wagged his head and began to sign, his face expressive beyond words: 'My people will hear nothing but praise from me.' Before Boers could relay the message, Lior continued in haste.

"Think of my Initiates! Think of the Priests that have sacrificed their lives as common people to spend their days and nights patrolling the wall! Ten thousand Initiates! Two thousand Priests and Priestesses! If not for your own comfort—the soap and hot water, the silk sheets and clean clothes—think of my people and their pride! If you fear for Ralph's safety, you can sleep soundly, for I have ninety men—working in eight-hour shifts of thirty men each—in constant surveillance, ready to burst through the door of No. 19 within moments of any real threat. Even the Priests and Priestesses have their eyes fixed on this house; they have an unobstructed view from a tower at the Dividing Wall, less than a furlong from this very spot!"

Sigmund locked eyes with Boers, with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, and I could not read his expression as he signed to his servant.

"My master has only one question: where is No. 23? We've not been here in some months, and he fears he may have time only to make use of the clean clothes and silk sheets, for he is suddenly very tired."

Lior laughed appreciably, and looked greatly relieved. I was relieved as well.

I wondered how long the Priestesses had been at watch, for Brenna had been a regular visitor by night, and I had no wish for our parting to arrive any sooner than might be necessary.

* * *

The High Priestess of Ashad provided ample diversion. I thought not at all about my upcoming Proving, nor did I question how Brenna had been capable of bypassing the guards that flanked the only door. By that time, I had simply accepted her inborn ability to move about unnoticed, and was glad of it. When I mentioned Lior's ninety-man security detail, and the Priestesses at watch by night from the nearby tower, she simply laughed, then threw her arms around me.

We adjourned to the basement, where she half-filled the bathtub with warm water, and we dallied there while the braziers were left to burn. I have no memory of the passage of time, for time held no meaning in the warmth of the tub, but when she rose from the water and beckoned me to follow, the room was comfortably warm, and the contents of the heating vessels near to boiling. Brenna released the stopcock of the lower vessel to fill the bathtub completely, and when she opened the valve of the torrent spout, scalding water rained upon the tiles of the floor, bathing the room in steam.

Even to this day, I can remember her beauty in the baths; tiny droplets of perspiration lingering on her upper lip, a stray strand of raven hair hanging untended across her cheek, and the glorious alabaster of her body as it gleamed in the moist heat of the rising steam.

More than an hour later, we returned to my bedroom, running naked up the stairs, heedless of the vigilant guards just outside my door. The walls were of thick marble, and we had little to fear of making noise. She reached the top long before I, and I consoled myself by walking across the sitting room to retrieve a ewer of red wine, untouched, as the men had passed the day with the drinking of beer and vapor—Boers had warned against mixing it with wine. A pair of silver goblets and the ewer in hand, I ascended to the third floor to find the bedroom brightly lit, though the haze lights were extinguished, and the hearth, still remarkably warm, was left to burn behind a drape of iron mesh, so that it gave off little light.

The new moon was a distant memory. Three-quarters waxing bright, the moonlight spilled through the upper row of windows, and even with the lower row curtained, that high-lofted room was bathed in a silver glow. There stood Brenna, the light of the moon intensifying the whiteness of her smooth skin, contrasting sharply with her lips, while her hair, still bound, rebelled against its bonds, and here and there a wisp swept down—a streak of charcoal upon a sea of porcelain.

I could not see the blue of her eyes with the moon behind her, though I caught clearly the shape and expression, and guessed at her thoughts immediately. I placed the ewer and vessels on the floor, and we collided, drowning each other in kisses, unaimed, colliding with neck and cheek and ear and shoulder, until at last we collapsed to the floor in our urgency.

Much later, and finally upon the bed, we drank and talked, and I asked her of her life—if she would ever be free. At this she seemed surprised, and perhaps she had never thought of herself as a prisoner, but as she lay there, beside me, I could see that she had grown pensive.

Did I misspeak? Was my question disrespectful? I knew not, and did not wish to make the situation worse, so I sipped at my wine and said nothing, content to cradle her head beneath my left arm, inclined upon a ramp of piled pillows. So long did she linger in answering, that it took a moment to remember the question. Her voice was unbroken, clear and without any hint of sadness or regret.

"Someday, when I grow too old to draw my bow, they will release me. I had not thought of that, until now. Tulia, my predecessor, mentioned nothing of a wasted life, though she had married and lost her husband years before she took up robe and quiver. Her family cared little—she was barren and without sisters, so that nothing was lost in her elevation.

"I have three sisters, all married, and each with a flock of their own daughters. I was the youngest, and so my mother thought me a small loss. I was the best archer in Ashad, and by far the best hunter, though I had been taught little of the temple, and cared even less. I was chosen for my skill, and my youth showed promise for a future of duty and piety. I had thought little lost myself, until now.

"One of the two most powerful people within our high, impenetrable walls, and all address me by title, never thinking to speak my name. Five thousand Initiates—warriors, treat my every word as law; they obey my every whim without question, and love me as a second mother. No one has ever thought me a prisoner. But when you say it, as if it is beyond question, I know it to be true."

She said nothing more, and all strength suddenly drained from my limbs. I felt I had used her, that if I had only refused her first advances, she would be none the wiser, and in no pain. Worse yet, I began to feel sorry for myself, for I knew that, even without the restrictions of long, repetitive tradition, I too was a prisoner. Even if I survived the trials, the Provings, the assassination attempts, and the long war against a superior force, as Onidai, I would never be free. The demands placed upon me, even in victory, would far outweigh the privilege and glory of my title.

At that moment, I felt the urge to leap from my bed, take her by the hand, and flee from Brek in a mad dash. We would race across the stone streets, naked in the moonlight, warmed only by the rushing of blood in the excitement of the moment. Through the wall, and into the forest upon stolen horses, we could live together in peace and freedom. I would build a house of sod, and she would hunt to feed us.

We would be filthy, barely surviving on wild game, forced to fight off wild predators, and exposed to the ravages of the weather—but we would be free. The shame and pity of it all was that I knew these thoughts to be nothing but idle fancy. We could no more flee than fly through the air. She was a leader of her people, and as ridiculous as the thought felt at the time, I knew that I would be needed as well. I smiled in spite of myself.

"They forget the woman beneath the robes, and hope you will forget, as they do. Even so, there are other options. You need not be a prisoner, Your Eminence. Not with Revelry such a short walk south along the Dividing Wall."

Her eyes darted up, her face a portrait of offended pride, but when she saw the mirth in my eyes, she slapped me hard on my bare chest, and returned my smile. She took my cup and drained it, before tossing it aside to fall with a dull thud upon the floor, and clawed at the turf of the hair just above my neck, an overture that I knew well, and she knew that it excited me. The look on her face was that of an experienced hunter—one that threatened to devour me.

"I would sooner steal you away to my bed chambers, and chain you there. People would wonder, for a while, what had happened to that generous, kind-hearted boy, but they would forget in the fullness of time. Only my poor cousin, dear Lior would suffer, having made a fool of himself before the Council, for I do not think I could make it there in time to warn him. Not after sunrise, at any rate. Or didn't you know? By day, I must adjourn to my chambers, passing the time in any way that I can."

She exhaled the final word, breathing hotly upon my lips, and her mouth snapped shut a hair's breadth from my own, her teeth clamping together just short of biting.

"Why don't you do it? Chain me, I mean? Who do you think would enjoy that the most?"

Still gripping me tightly, she pulled back, forcing my gaze skyward. She spoke as she nibbled at my neck and jawline, the other hand clawing at my chest.

"When the war is over, you may dwell where you wish. Stay here, if it pleases you. When you are Onidai, Proved beneath every Banner, the secrecy will be needless. You will then be my equal, and perhaps of a much higher rank than I."

My first thought was of Rowan, and Brenna knew the inner-workings of my mind even better than I.

"You may love her, but you are still young, and love is a mystery. I will take you as I can, as often as I can, and whatever your decision, I will harbor no grudge. You have much to think on."

She rose then, guiding me close. As I felt the scalding grip of her body, I fell back upon the sheets. She did not take her leave until just before dawn, and we did not lay idly in the interim.

* * *

Lior spent the entire day locked in tedious debate with the Council. I know this only because I was told. I was nowhere near the Council Chamber as the arguments raged on, for I had my own battle to worry about, and my opponents, while instructive and helpful, pressed me savagely.

Azslaethi was not the simple style I had expected, but highly complex, and with many variations. As Boers explained, the style encompassed more than the use of a sword wielded in two hands—the other, more obvious purpose was the training of axemen, and the Hjarrleth preferred weapons of great size, with long hafts and wide, bearded blades. These warriors lashed their wide round shields to their backs for a purpose altogether different from their Athleith older brothers.

Wearing only shirts of gray mail, and what little plating they might consider worthy, they had need of the extra protection of their shields. With both hands occupied, the axemen learned to absorb incoming strikes in the most peculiar fashion. Seeing an attack too forceful to parry with their heavy, offensive weapons, Hjarrleth axemen turn, exposing just enough of their shoulders and backs that their shields might absorb the blow. They would then use the initial turning motion to lend power to an attack of their own, and this was said to leave wounds of impressive magnitude. Boers swore that men had been cleaved from scalp to scrotum by the strike of those great axes.

For Azslaethi with the use of a sword, the technique was similar, but with the greater defensive capabilities of that weapon the turn to absorb an incoming attack would be rarer, with the occasional exception of shifting the body as a part of some clever fighting stratagem.

For much of that day, Sigmund, communicating through Boers, instructed me on proper stance, and the appropriate positioning of the weapon against different opponents. To my surprise, the defense against cavalry occurred with the blade held low, the intention being to parry an attack with exceeding strength and throw the enemy off-balance, that they might then be thrown from their mounts—a practice much safer than attempting to kill a mounted opponent outright.

The position taken against infantry, however, was with the blade angled high, the tip of the pommel dipping no lower than the level of the midriff. Fighting with a shield lashed at the back, a weapon held high did not necessarily expose the warrior to attack, as he could turn at the final moment. And of course, the Athleith had no need to turn, at all. The technique required far more range-of-motion than I had expected, and that in heavy armor.

Just before midday, when Boers and Sigmund thought I had learned all I could through simple instruction, the fighting began in earnest. Their training method was clever, alternating between Boers, with a wooden sword and shield, and Sigmund, who fought with a variety of weapons, including a long wooden stave, wielded as a spear, his own wooden sword, of a size with his blade Starkdrepa, and a longish wooden stick ending in a triangular protrusion, meant to simulate a long axe.

In this way, I was forced to adapt continuously against different weapons, and as each bout ended—and the weapon and opponent changed—I found that the opponent's strategy changed, also. Boers began with a highly aggressive style, and when his turn arrived again, he became more defensive, striking at me occasionally with his shield. At other times he would crouch, letting me exhaust myself; he brought his sword to bear only when I could no longer defend with my own.

Sigmund's style varied as often as his weapon, so that I found myself scrambling to adapt. My only advantage, the ability to switch hands at will, did not serve well against the hulking Hjarrleth. Sigmund was left-handed, a tricky opponent for a right-handed man, but equally awkward when fighting with the left hand, as _I_ had never faced a left-handed opponent.

I was hard pressed throughout the day, and gained confidence only by degrees. Two hours before sundown, I suggested an end to it, and an early start for my Proving the following day. They agreed, and said that I had learned well, and would have time for more training upon the road. They assured me that by the time I reached Sangholm, I would be a warrior worthy of song. I hoped in spite of the flattery that they were right, as the Hjarrleth would have difficulty accepting a stripling as their leader, and might well have something contrived to test me, beyond the mere turning of a Key.

I made for the baths, glad of the steam; I took pleasure in the feeling of stinging pores and abrasive cloth. Thoroughly clean and refreshed, I returned to the first floor, finding at the wrought iron table a platter of food. I was no longer surprised to find my meals delivered by the unknown courier; at that point I was glad of the convenience, and hungry after the day's exertions.

I drank only water, saving the wine, and left ample remainder on the platter, that Brenna and I might dine together, as we had on the first night of the festival. To that end, I took a small table and chairs to the loft above the bedroom, hefting them up the spiraling iron staircase only with great difficulty. I then carried the platter, followed by the wine and vessels, and took great care not to spill a single drop.

The moon would be even brighter on that night, and though it was fully winter, the day had been cloudless. I left the haze lights low, an operation learned from Coisis days earlier, and he had taught me to light the hearth, as well. The hearths were fueled by the haze, but also by a specially prepared kindling, made from bundled sticks, coal, charcoal, cloth, and oil. The packet was shaped vaguely like a cloth-wrapped log, and the manner of its burning was not entirely unlike that of a candle—the oil serving a similar function to beeswax. It was the haze that acted most in the capacity of fuel, leaving the kindling to burn slowly, though with a remarkable heat.

The house had been a bit cold the night before, and so I stoked the flames, and turned the strange stopcock to strengthen the issue of the haze. The flames grew, and by the time I had set the hearth blazing on every floor, the sky had already grown dark.

I felt rather foolish standing there with my eyes on the front door, as if I expected her to saunter through and kiss me on the cheek. I laughed to myself and began to climb the stairs. I had never seen her enter through the front door. Or any door!

At the top of the stairs, she took hold of my shirt collar and threw me against the wall. I was startled, but not surprised in the least. She was breathing deeply, almost panting, her mouth agape, baring her teeth, and she kissed me deeply every few breaths. It was a long time before she attempted to speak, though I was in no hurry.

"No bath tonight. No pretense. No wordplay. There will be no talk of times past, or of an uncertain future. Pool your strength, Onidai. We will have to make this last, for tomorrow you are Proved. This may be our last night together. Give me cause to remember it."

What followed was a night of frantic, almost panicked passion that stretched from early evening until well past midnight. This is not to imply that we did not stop—though High Priestess and Onidai, we were yet man and woman, and we halted many times, panting, and held each other close.

We spoke little in our passion, and leaving, Brenna said only that she would see me again at dusk. The statement did not offer great hope of future dalliance, for the Proving would be at dusk, a time considered by the Trathnona to be the gateway between the times of Sun and Moon, and thus more sacred to them than any other.

As I watched her descend the stairs, I laughed, realizing that in all that time, I hadn't once thought of the food and wine sitting directly above my head.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Proving

I slept well through the earliest part of the day, from predawn to early morning, but had forgotten to draw the upper curtains, and the bright sunlight of a cloudless day roused me prematurely. I tossed about for an hour, finally resorting to the wine I had abandoned in the small loft, then broke my fast on cold bread and cheese.

Drink-induced drowsiness conspired with a blazing, muffled hearth, and heavy curtains, drawn to stifle the light of day. I was lulled by the comfortable warmth and darkness; surrounded by slumber's soft embrace.

But my sleep was uneasy, troubled by ominous dreams.

Faces of iron stared lifelessly in my direction. Plumes of black smoke filled the sky, blotting out the sun and darkening the earth beneath. I saw a city, massive beyond imagining, and filthy streets lined with starving, mutilated people—not one of them whole, missing hand, arm, foot, or leg, and unaided by the mindless hordes that passed them by continuously, heedless of their presence.

Engines of great power pushed ever forward on a pathway of iron. Armies trained on an empty wasteland, firing terrible weapons into man-sized targets of wood and straw. They were many, and I remember feeling more outraged than in awe of their countless thousands. I was as an eagle passing swiftly overhead, though I saw it all in great detail, and flew even higher, until I could see the land as a whole.

It was a peninsula, with impassable mountains and canyons to the north, and surrounded by a landlocked sea to the east, south, and west. I could smell the brine, salted beyond the possibility of aquatic life, and in spite of this, I remember thinking that it was darker than even brine should have been. Boats traveled between the peninsula and the mainland without sail or oarsman, and they belched always the same sour smoke and moved steadily and impossibly forward, without the aid of wind or sinew.

Upon the southern shore, the boats unloaded their cargo—wave upon wave of ranked soldiers, mostly afoot, with a few propelled by the power of smoke and wheel. They fed themselves on plundered crops and livestock, and killed without exception every living person they encountered.

Villages burned in their wake, and I recall that this was only a minute portion of the men that waited for transport on the opposing shore. I did not remember most of that dream until many years later, when I set about the task of recording the story of my life.

Though much of the settlement burned, the army moved forward to plunder what remained.

My only shelter against the guilt I now feel is that the period that followed was frantic and eventful, so that I was left without time to ponder the meaning of what amounted to, in essence, just another disturbing dream—the continuation of a long series, and no less frightening than any other. I wish I had understood its importance—guessed at it somehow, but I did not, and many died, though I had ample warning.

* * *

The brightness of the day shocked me to awareness, as did the sudden chill that followed when the bedclothes were stripped from my naked body, leaving me under the scrutiny of several familiar faces. Lior, Brenna, Lambek, Sigmund, Boers, and L'mah stared down at me, surrounding my bed, and all but Brenna and L'mah seemed amused by the discovery of my naked form—of the two, L'mah was the only one that appeared offended.

The giantess snatched the blankets from Sigmund, who had hidden behind them in a mock show of bashful offense; she threw them at me forcefully, so that my body was draped in silk and heavy wool from the neck down, and the force of it knocked me back upon the sheets. Seeing that, they laughed all the heartier, and Lambek spoke, unabashed in spite of the lofty company.

"A less offensive sight if you weren't sleeping alone!"

Lior silenced him with an unusually withering glare, and held up a preemptive hand to prevent my response.

"We're sorry, lad, but it's nearly noon! We thought to meet you here to discuss your Proving in advance. Not to worry, still plenty of time. For now, bathe. Take your time, relax, and be back in the sitting room within the hour. We'll have food brought. Lambek, give him the clothes, then be about your duties. The armor can wait until we have time to lend a hand."

The clothes came in two sets, and the first articles were simple linen. The other garments, which I chose to leave hanging on a chair on the ground floor, were far heavier—a blend of light wool and linen, jet black and patched with bits of flattened, bronze-lapped mail in the strangest places. I was glad that Lior had not classified this as armor, for only at the insides of the thighs, beneath and inside the upper arms, and at the flanks of the torso did I see protection of any kind. I left it, in fear of the effects of steam on thick wool and bronze.

I made for the baths, finding that the heating tubs had already been filled, and the braziers lit beneath. Already, a thick steam rose in sinuous wisps from the first of the tubs. I turned the valve and lingered in the warmth, until Lior's words began to sink home. I had forgotten the Proving altogether, angered by the rude awakening, and I had been in a hurry to retreat to the baths with the offered clothing.

Now, aware of the day, I lingered no longer, and bathed without delay. Though I rinsed thoroughly beneath the torrent spout, and cleansed my body totally of the previous night's exertions, I was chafing my body with a thick towel the instant the final drops disappeared beneath my feet.

I combed my hair gently, but quickly, and allowed it to part naturally, aware that the months away from home had seen prodigious growth, transforming an untamed mop into a respectable black mane that hung just below my jawline.

The clothes were thin and light, clearly intended to act as a simple undergarment, and I dressed quickly. I felt better than I had upon awakening, and though I had eaten a bit—much earlier, before my second sleep—I was hungry enough to kill the meal myself. I could smell the food, even as I climbed the stairs, and on the ground floor I hurried about the task of struggling into the outer garments. Hearing the noise of conversation, and even the pouring of drink, I grew frustrated, and discovered too late that the stockings could only be worn before shuffling into the heavy trousers.

I tried again, though it was an odd fit. The legs of the trousers were far too tight, and though low-seamed and roomy at the knees, providing unhampered range of motion, I found myself having to pull from underneath the bottom of the outer pants leg to prevent the undergarment from bunching. As I did this I found the laces at the bottom of the trouser legs I was already wearing, placed there with the obvious intention of looping around foot or ankle to draw the inner trousers down in concert with the leg. That done, I had little difficulty in throwing on the outer tunic; I gripped the sleeves of my linen shirt as I did so, to prevent similar obstruction.

The belt was narrow, with a simple buckle, laced through the waistband to suspend the trousers, and there were more laces to bind tunic to waistband.

The shoes were light and ankle high, with a supporting arch, and somehow fitted exactly to the size and shape of my feet. Though they were cinched with buckles, there were yet more laces, corresponding with those at the bottom of my trouser legs. I tied all of the laces tightly, double-checking those already bound, and satisfied that I had done my best to fit into the heavy clothes, I ascended the stairs to break my fast. Lior rose as he saw me, his face alight with a surprised smile.

"Ah, well done! Lambek owes me five pieces of silver. He wagered that you would have to call for help. My faith was well placed. Now, eat hearty! You may be too tired to dine later."

The tables were burdened once again with heavy platters. I wondered at Lior and Brenna's level of fitness, hailing from a Banner always bursting with an abundance of food. I chose mostly meat: a leg of roasted pheasant, a small portion of beefsteak, a bowl of heavily spiced venison stew, and a thick slice of gently steaming bread, with a hunk of soft, salty sheep cheese, and I washed it all down with a blend of red and white wine that I had come to favor. Lior did the talking, and Brenna broke in where she could—though I had not expected to see her before the Proving, and was surprised to see her standing in the light of day.

The gist of their long, slightly worried dialogue, was that I would have to Prove myself before the entire city. The Council, sending only a few of their number as witnesses, would await my return from the Gifting Pool in the Council Chamber, housed within the temple complex, at the very center of the ground floor, straddling either side of the city.

While they waited below, I would ascend the stairs within the spire, where the Gifting Pool awaited beneath the open sky, in the alabaster bowl of the temple proper, high above the city. This would all occur at dusk, the divide between night and day, during which all of Venibrek—Priest, Initiate, and Citizen might watch, the genders united. And, after all, it was Sun Day.

I felt myself growing nervous, and so I drank more heavily; far from being put off, Lior and Brenna seemed to encourage my overindulgence, perhaps hoping it would bolster my courage. They had not shown such consternation even at Rorik's Clearing, and I found that more troubling than anything else. Even the other Phulakoi appeared nervous; it was my first Proving, and crucial to the continuation of my journey.

There were three steps to the Proving in Venibrek, and Lior outlined them carefully as I continued dining and drinking. First, I would proceed to the Council Chamber, where I would present my proofs and yield to the scrutiny of the Council. The second step would begin when the Council, unable to deny the evidence of my claims—namely Sequiduris and the Kenalkan Key—granted passage to the temple spire.

I would then employ the Key, retrieve the Device, and return to the Council, where I would give the final proof, confirmed by the aides sent to bear witness. The proof given, the Council would accept or deny my claim, and if accepted, I would face the final challenge: the people of Venibrek. With the Council's consent, upon the Dividing Wall, atop the first tower south of the temple I would turn, first east, for the symbolic approval of Ashad, and then west to Brek. If the people approved, I would return to the Council Chamber, where they would announce my Approving at a later date—Lior assured me that he would see to it that the 'later date' was as close to the Proving as possible.

To put it politely, I was numbed by the influence of wine by the time Lior had finished. When he told me that the time had come to don my armor, I corrected him, saying, in a wine-induced lack of restraint, that unless the stone privy in the basement was guarded by the enemy, the armor would have to wait.

The armor was not at all heavy, and had been built to fit my frame, though how their armorers could have achieved this without a true fitting, I may never know. Perhaps the padding of the heavier outer garment had been chosen to aid in the fitting, for they did not appear to match; leather protected most of my body, while stronger chainmail filled in the gaps. Fashioned of a rich, dark brown leather, the cuirass was in the shape of a man far more strongly built than I, and possessed an attachment of bronze-studded pterugi that spanned the entire circumference, extending to my knees to aid in the protection of my thighs.

A unique device was blazoned in bronze upon the front of the cuirass and upon both pauldrons, which were also crafted from rich leather. The symbol, a wide arch covered by seven planted staves, each ending in a long, triangular banner, was intended to represent the unity promised by the Onidai, and each banner touched upon the cloth of its neighbor; a seven-planed arch upon a solid foundation of stone.

The matching bracers and greaves were of finely scrolled bronze, and with the ancient Meadrow shield lashed to my back, I thought my armor complete, until Sigmund produced a cloth-wrapped bundle, and drew from it the bronze helmet of a Forester of the Meadrow Guard. When he nodded to Boers, the servant spoke, his words prearranged.

"Garth wanted you to have this, that your homeland and your family might be well represented. It belonged to your father. The Stabler wanted me to tell you that your father's shame is not your own, and that one moment of weakness should not be the death of his name. His name was Hugh, and he loved you from the moment of your birth, to the moment of his death. Remember the father. Bury the shame."

_Hugh_ —the sound was familiar, though I had forgotten it, unsaid and forbidden for more than a decade. I took the helm, my eyes welling with tears, and ran my fingers over the brushed bronze, touching the cheek flaps and pressing my thumb to the high crest of stiff, white horsehair. I loosened the laces that bound the cheek flaps, and placed the helmet gently on my head. It fit perfectly—snug, but not tight, and as I laced the flaps that held the helm in place, the others rose.

Brenna halted me, offering the final touch: a snow-white cape of soft cloth, akin to wool, bearing the same symbol as my armor, in light blue. She attached it to the rosettes of my cuirass, and I had to remove the shield to allow the fabric to hang properly. I toyed for a moment with simply carrying the shield, before settling on wearing it over the cape; it would look no less impressive, and the Sword was already burden enough.

On a thin belt of black leather, buckled with silver, I wore the long, pointed dagger of my slain foe; the hilt, pommel, and sheath fittings added further splendor to my costume. The Key I tucked behind the thin belt, fastening it there with a thong of leather, as I would be needing it shortly. Lior offered me my Sword, thoroughly cleaned and polished, that it shone like the sun. I offered Sequiduris to Sigmund, returning the favor he had shown me, and he marveled at its make; he hefted it and grinned in satisfaction.

Clearly, he loved battle, and as he returned the weapon, Boers explained that that had been the first time he had held a sword since the day he took the oath of Sangholm's Phulako. He had broken his oath momentarily to admire a weapon of legend, and none begrudged him the experience, or saw it as affront or betrayal. Something passed then, as the weapon returned to my grasp, between master and servant. It was to them a look of recognition, and it said to me that Sigmund's time would soon arrive.

All of the Phulakoi wore their regalia—robes bearing the colors and symbols of their Banners, and even L'mah possessed one, though she did not appear to relish the experience of wearing it, preferring her own simple cloth of crude linen to wool, silk, or any fabric harvested from animals. The device of her lavender robe was a square-toothed wheel, golden-yellow, and trimmed in that color. It was opulent in make, and beautiful, though I had no doubt that it had been made by a clothier beneath one of the other Banners.

Sigmund, too, wore his proper regalia, replacing his knee-length tunic of rich blue wool with a robe that extended below his calves, though he had not forgotten to wear his chainmail beneath, which rattled loudly with every movement. His device was the head of a red wolf, contained in an equal-sided triangle, rimmed crimson. His robe was snow-white, but trimmed in red, and though Boers continued to dress in tunic and trousers, his colors were in livery with his master.

Lior and Brenna matched to perfection, their device an orb, half sun, half crescent moon, surrounded by a circle—one side silver, the other gold. Their robes had been dyed to match the darkest blue of the sky, just after dusk, and were trimmed in the golden red of early dawn.

They were all armed as for war, and armored as well, with chainmail rattling beneath robes, and bright bracers peeking from the edges of their sleeves. Upon Brenna's hip I saw a blade much like that which had been employed by her women in practice, but longer and heavier, its curve less pronounced, and she wore as always her tightly packed quiver and carried her long, silver bow. L'mah bore her massive club, and in a sheath of crude starched linen wore a large, wide-bladed dagger of chipped green stone—a broad-bladed short sword to a lesser hand.

Lior had his sword and dagger and carried his shield, and as we arrived on the ground floor, he retrieved a spear of white ash, the iron of the wide undulating head worked in bronze. Only Sigmund went about unarmed, though he again bore his shield. Boers hefted the blade of his master upon his back, as always, and carried his own shield on his arm, bearing the sword he proclaimed common at his hip, though it was of fine iron and serviceable make.

Brenna stopped me as I neared the door, and spoke, stalling Lior with an upraised hand.

"You must travel the road without aid or guard of the other Banners. We will await your arrival, and support your claim—three Banners for the Onidai, as there were for Rorik. You will hear trumpets: these mark our arrival at the temple. At that moment, you may make your way. Do not fear, for you will not truly stand alone."

She kissed me gently, her face innocent of passion, and none saw this as odd. Sigmund and Boers placed their right hands on my shoulder, each in their turn.

L'mah crushed me in an embrace without guile or pretense. I was shocked when she spoke, a rare occurrence, as she knew little of the common tongue.

"We make no dreams of war. We dream of last war, last death. With you, we dream while waking."

I knew her meaning, and returned her embrace. She was in tears when my feet landed gently to the floor. Retrieving her club, she took her place, and Lior chose that moment to point his spear at me.

"And now you must turn your back. Until we reach the temple, we represent two separate causes. We must wait in the temple plaza to be convinced of your wisdom, and swayed by your proof. You cannot see us leave."

When compared with previous experiences, his request did not seem strange in the least. I turned on my heel, balancing Rorik's Sword at my shoulder, and when I heard the door slam behind me, I turned again, waiting.

I was yet a boy, and held a shiny toy of mythic make, so I played with it, as a boy might play with a stick, pretending that he grasped in fantasy what I held at that moment in reality.

It was truly beautiful, well balanced, and not as heavy as I had expected. It had been beyond my reach from the moment Lior had confessed his attempted fraud, and had been wrapped in cloth, lashed to my back, for nearly the entire time it had been in my possession.

The blade was a bit wider than the length of my thumb, slightly longer than the length of my leg. It had an unusual cross-section, with neither central spine nor fuller. The closest description might be oblong, for it arched evenly from either side, sloping to hair-thin edges. I thought then to test it, and looked around for an object that would not be missed.

When I found nothing, I consoled myself with swinging it about the room, cutting through the air to fell imaginary foes. At one point I spun about, scything my blade through the air, listening to the song of its edge. But, still a boy, I was clumsy and thoughtless; heedless of my surroundings; unaware of where my feet were planted. I ended my spin half a step from where it began.

The tip of the blade, with its handspan point taper, sliced cleanly through the body of the cloak-tree by the hearth. The shaft of the cloak-tree was as thick as my fist, and I had severed it, against the grain, with the mostly expended effort of a half-hearted, imaginary attack. The power of the weapon frightened me, and I held it away from my body, in fear of its edge. Any mistake or false movement, and I could easily have severed my own foot, or, curious to test the edge, I might have lost a finger.

The blade bore not the slightest trace of a dent, and there was no sign of dulling. This truly was Sequiduris, and it was mine alone. Only at that moment did it sink in—there had been a voice in my head, a chiding, mocking, cruelly-pitying voice, and it had told me, at every bend in the path from the time I had left Meadrow, that while the Onidai might exist somewhere, I was not he.

When I had held Sequiduris in Rorik's Clearing, the voice had been there, even as Brenna and I stole into the perpetually sleeping forest, and it told me, beyond misunderstanding, that I was only keeping it until a worthy man came to claim it. The voice was silent as I held the Sword, and I would hear it only rarely from that moment forward.

I heard the trumpets, and they called loudly through the air of late afternoon. I breathed deeply, checking my armor to see that it hung properly. I tightened the strap where I'd slung my shield, double-checked the laces that fastened the cheek flaps of my father's helmet, looked to the gaps in my armor to ensure that the mail filled them without exposing any of the black cloth that surrounded it, and ensured that my cloak hung evenly from either shoulder, pulling at the fabric from beneath the point of the shield at my back to ensure that it didn't blouse. I looked good. Splendid. Impressive! I required only the confidence, dignity, and grace to complete the illusion—for I still thought it nothing more than an illusion.

* * *

As I opened the door of No.19, I found myself in familiar company. No one had thought to tell me of their role in my Proving, and now, far older and more experienced in such matters, I can understand why. My escort, in two columns of six, stood on either side of the gentler Edam—the bay gelding that had carried me from Algrae to Brek.

That lovable steed had been treated like equine royalty, brushed until his coat gleamed like burnished copper—or at least what I could see of it, for his barrel had been covered in a strange and magnificent blanket of brazen mail. His legs bore greaves of bronze, and his head was protected by a cover of small bronze plates. Even his saddle and bridle had been replaced—the scant silver appointments abandoned in favor of gold-laced hepatizon—an alloy of copper and gold. I had already believed that horse fit for a chieftain, and now he looked the part.

The mounts of my escort were far smaller. They were garrons, the mounts of the Meadrow Guard. I knew their faces, and many of their names, and they all smiled openly, a few of them marveling at the sight of a formerly disgraced tavern boy—now clean, dressed in fine armor, and wielding a weapon of legend.

They had traveled long, simply to ride at either side as I approached the temple. Indeed, I later learned that the pace of the shorter-legged garrons had slowed the travel of the others, prolonging the time of their arrival by a full day.

They wore the armor of the Guard—leathern greaves and vambraces, studded with the lesser variety of Meadrow bronze, though they had polished them to the point that few could call the metal inferior. Their chests were protected by coats of bronze scales, of the finer variety, as was the metal of their shields and helmets. The modern shields of the Meadrow Guard paled in comparison to my own of better-equipped antiquity, and their helmets were similar to my own, but not as fine in make—only two of them had crests of horsehair, and these were smaller, shorter, and black, signifying the rank of High Spear, the first above plain Guardsman.

The High Spears approached, and I recognized the one on the left. His name was Bertram, and he was only two years my senior. I knew that the medal on his chest, a small arch of silver suspended by a short gray ribbon of silk, had been awarded to those of the Guard that had distinguished themselves at the Battle of Eastwall. Citations were awarded rarely, and he wore it with pride.

Judging by his age, I would have guessed that his actions at Eastwall had earned him his rank, and if asked, I doubt he would have denied it. He was the first to speak, for he knew me as well as I knew him. We had played together, when we were still of an age that defied social convention. His occupation, as all in Meadrow, was hereditary, and I knew that his father had known my own.

"Well met, Ralph! Or Onidai, I suppose I should call you, if that's the custom. We're here to see you to that high mountain of a temple they have here. Have you seen it? Place is huge! Anyway, we're ready when you are, though we'll look a bit silly, ridin' beside that frightful big pony of yours."

His drawl, the provincial accent of my Banner, was never apparent, at least to my own ears, in my spoken word in the common tongue, or even in the Clay Speech, as our native language is called. But Bertram was a man of his people, and his every syllable was transformed by his drawl. 'I' became 'e', 'r' sounds rolled savagely, and some words sounded as though they should have alternate meanings in Vulgar Kenalkan.

I returned his enthusiasm with a mock frivolity, unwittingly mimicking his accent, as all people are prone to do, when conversing with long-missed neighbors.

"They can wait a while. I waited for them long enough. So, High Spear? You must be held in high regard, and you a High Spear at eighteen. But what're you doin' out here, Bert? Unconscionable, to put the 'garries through such a journey. Which one of Edam's daughters did you pleasure to earn such a punishment? Must've had her right there on the table while the old bastard was tryin' to eat his supper—tits swinging over his plate—to have him banish you all the way out here!"

I said this loudly enough for the other Guardsmen to hear, and their laughter made a lie of all their discipline and presumed authority. Edam was a terror to all around him, and few had the courage to speak of him with such blatant disrespect. Some of the Guardsmen bent forward at the waist, gripping their sides in vain through rigid armor. As they returned to stillness, Bertram's smile faded, and his tone grew serious.

"I volunteered for this duty, Ralphie. We all did. The other Spear here, Garrett, lost his brother at the wall, and it was his brother's spear and shield you took up. We saw you standing over his body, and it was a sight indeed, to see you there, daring anyone to come near the corpse of a man you'd never met. Though he fell, you saw to it that his spear claimed a few more, and that was probably the first time you'd held a spear, let alone killed with one."

Garrett's face had grown red, his eyes welling in spite of his position of authority. Indeed, many of them had long faces.

"Nah, you plowed his daughter!"

They laughed again, and the moment of somber reflection was over.

"Right then, let me just mount up on Edam here, and we'll be on our way."

Garrett took the bait.

"Edam?"

"Aye, Edam. Figured I'd ride him around, for a change. He's a gelding, you know. The horse, not the man. No pretty daughters coming out of this plowshare, eh, Bert?"

They laughed again as I mounted, and I saw their capes as they did the same. They were a bright and verdant green, and bore a symbol formed of four long, bright yellow triangles, the narrow ends meeting at center. This was the device of the Meadrow banner, and signified its windmills. When the Kenalka found my homeland, they offered the power of the windmill in trade. All Meadrow stood in awe of their ingenious harnessing of the elements, and so it was chosen to represent the land as a whole.

* * *

I kept Edam moving forward at the walk, allowing my escort to keep pace with that fast-walking gait unique to the garrons of Meadrow. They rode on either side, maintaining their formation in two lines of six, and I remained at the center, staggered between the third and fourth escort.

Horses were generally proscribed for use within the bounds of that great city, but I rode my tall bay for the second time, with special permission from Their Eminences. There were no canals or bridges between my house and the temple, and so we traveled, never breaking formation, though the distance was short, even on foot.

As we swung around, turning east into the temple plaza, I saw there the reversal of my worst nightmare. The ground was of stone, and flat, unlike any valley, and to the east, the high monolith of the temple stood white as alabaster. The waiting citizens were not dead by any means, though they were brightly dressed—they cheered loudly at our approach.

I knew not what I had expected, for I had been absent from the political maneuvering, but the people, many of whom must have seen me before, accepted my revealed identity without question or suspicion. They were not Farmers living in a fertile valley in the middle of a vast wasteland, where nothing behind the wall was worth stealing.

The Trathnona had dealt with the realities of war throughout their long history, and in those days they had heard rumors of a growing threat. They knew that war loomed on the horizon, and that only through unity could they ever hope to survive it. The Onidai had become a legend, more than three thousand years in the making, with nothing in the interim to prove that Rorik had ever lived. I _was_ the proof, or so they hoped, and so they made me welcome.

We continued down the wide aisle that had been left for our approach, to find Lior and Brenna standing atop the steps. Ten paces from the first step I halted, dismounting left-handed as I held on to my weapon with the right. The Guardsmen had done their part, and sat unmoving astride their mounts. At the first step I halted, and Lior nodded, raising his arms, spear held diagonally, to silence the roaring crowd that filled the plaza. They did as he bade them almost instantly, and he spoke in a booming voice.

"Let the Claimant approach, and all bear witness. Above, a light will shine if the Key turns true. If the Council yields, he will return, that all may meet this, Onidai—War Marshal of the Proud Trathnona!"

The response was deafening.

I crossed the temple threshold of Brek, Sequiduris resting upon my shoulder. As the door closed, a booming echo behind us, Lior pointed to the weapon with a grin.

"Arm getting tired? We're about to remedy that. Stay calm, and when the questions are posed, let us do the talking. Let's go!"

He tapped his spear upon the ground, leaning on it as he moved forward, like a bent traveler with a walking stick. I walked two paces behind, following in the space directly between Lior and Brenna; I untied the laces of my helmet, removed it, and tucked it beneath my left arm.

We walked directly to the Council Chamber, more than one hundred paces from the entrance, and a pair of ancient wooden doors—once white, but now gray with age—creaked before us, pulled open by a pair of Lior's waiting men.

We entered a high and wide expanse, perfectly round, the walls lined with banners of yellow-orange and midnight blue. The chamber was arranged as an amphitheater, with four banks of seating divided at center, the men on the western side, the women on the eastern side. I followed Lior and Brenna down the aisle, directly between the first and second banks of male seating.

Everyone rose at our entry. There were nearly five hundred of them, just as Brenna had said, all advanced in age, with few younger than fifty. The amphitheater faced a high dais built of black and white stone arranged in a pied pattern. There I saw L'mah, Sigmund and Boers awaiting our arrival in silence.

We ascended the wide, shallow staircase, took our places on the dais, myself at center, and turned to face the Council. An ancient man at the second bank of seating rose, his voice high and nasal. Lior stepped forward to answer.

"Has the Claimant arrived?"

"He has."

A woman then rose, tall, but bent with years. Her voice was deep and vibrant, belying her ancient age.

"Whence came he, and under what name was he born?"

Brenna answered.

"The Banner of Meadrow claims him, and he bears the name of Ralph—the son of Hugh and Nuda."

"And which Phulakoi—chosen embassy of the Wise Kenalka—stand in support of his claim, and on what grounds do they offer their support?"

This from an unknown voice, aged to androgyny, and I cannot say from which side of the chamber the speaker posed this question, for I was distracted by L'mah's sudden step forward; she raised her club, booming out an answer even before the councilor or councilman had finished.

"I—L'mah, daughter of T'rka and 'Lkha; Phulako of the Ya'abkach—the combined tribes of the land of Tulakal—do offer my support, and pending his Proving under my Home Banner, the support of my people. I bore witness as the Claimant chose the Instrument of the Builders, gained Approval upon the altar of the Wise Kenalka, and formed the Arch—foundation of all wonders."

This must have been memorized, for she spoke with perfect fluency, and I had little doubt that Brenna had aided her thus. Her part done, her support given, she nodded to me and stepped back, retaking her initial position. Sigmund stepped forward, signing mechanically, and Boers called out, translating his master's words.

"I, Sigmund—son of Rigga, Matriarch of Sangholm, and of Sigred, bravest of all the Hjarrleth—Phulako of Sangholm, do offer my support, and pending his Proving under my Home Banner, the support of my people. I have seen, with my own eyes, the Key to the Gifting Pools, that the Claimant recovered from the remains of the brigand charged with transporting it to the enemy. The thief had been slain by the eaters of men, and it was only through the Claimant's vision, cunning, and prowess in battle that the recovery of the Key was made possible. His enemies dead, he now holds the Key; he awaits the approval of this Council to employ it."

They stepped back politely, and Lior and Brenna spoke as one, unmoving.

"We—High Priest and Priestess of the Trathnona—of Brek and Ashad; Phulakoi of all who now dwell herein—do offer our support, and pending his Proving under our Home Banner, the support of our people."

Brenna looked at my weapon, then pointed to the ceiling; I raised the Sword high for all to see as she spoke alone.

"I bore witness, and was with the Claimant when he retrieved Rorik's Sword, called Sequiduris by those that know of its legend. With the Key he laid claim to it, and when the enemy sought to end him through ambush, we slew their sentry together. It was through his cunning that they yet think their man died of drink and clumsiness, and, through his wisdom, that they are not yet aware the Sword is in his possession."

Lior spoke, and motioned to the others, who guided me to a staircase behind the dais that wound about in a high spiral, hidden behind the cover of the banners upon the wall.

"Our support is given, our proofs offered. We go now to the Proving. When the Blade is housed, and the Claimant thus protected, the fate of the Traethnui, and all our brave allies, will be decided here. Think on the future and debate as you must, but remember that war will not await the pleasure of this Council. Prepare to fight, or prepare to die, for in either case we may yet be too late."

Lior followed, with a half-dozen of the younger Council members. I know not if they were chosen for the chore because of their inexperience, or for the keener eyes of comparative youth, but I suspect that it had something to do with the climb. The stairs spiraled gradually up the height of the Council Hall, and when we reached its peak, I was relieved—until I saw the second staircase, that wound along a more narrow, but far higher spiral.

* * *

The ascent seemed to take hours, and my lower back and thighs burned more acutely with each passing step. I knew that behind me, Lior would be making light of the ascent, his face wreathed in that easy smile I would come to know as his resting expression. Perhaps he had meant no ill, but I could not help but think that my introduction to armor might have been better made at an earlier date—the steady rattling of his mail only served to deepen my resentment as we made our way skyward.

We emerged from a narrow tunnel that wound about the circumference of a wide, shallow bowl of flawless white stone, and already the sun appeared little more than a finger's breadth above the horizon. For the first time in weeks I felt the chill of the wind, for I was no longer sheltered by high walls. For a moment, I took no notice of my surroundings—I had to will myself to breathe deeply against the unexpected shock of the icy draft.

The High Temple was perfectly round, stretching at least fifty paces from end to end, and the whole expanse was surrounded by eight banks of marble seating with a shallow, empty pool at center. The entire scene was dark, lit only by the suggestion of swiftly fading sunlight. Before the benches, waiting in silence, stood many Priests and Priestesses, none below the age of fifty, and all were silent and somber.

The Priests were bronzed by their daily vigilance, the Priestesses pallid from a life devoid of the sun's light. They wore the robes of Initiates, and only their advanced years served as proof that these were the eldest, wisest and most experienced of all the Trathnona under arms. These, above all others, were worthy to bear witness; they had labored daily and tirelessly in an effort to protect those they loved, and they had lived thus for many years.

As our procession made its way down the aisle, the waiting throng began to sing—the voices of the men deep and resonant—near ominous, though the power of the sound did nothing to mar its beauty. The women followed, and their voices were clear, the pitch high, like the ringing of gold upon silver. The music of the opposing choirs melded in perfect harmony, and the sound filled me with sadness.

The two orders of the priesthood sang often during the rites of sun and moon, though never did they meet to raise their voices together. I could tell by the faces of many of the hundreds in attendance that their united song—two complementary yet distinctive tunes—was rarely heard, and more than a few of them shed tears as they sang—and it was beautiful. A rare beauty, born of isolation and years of long practice.

Those of us approaching the pool were moved by the song, and for long moments we halted as one. Brenna caught my gaze, and I saw that her thoughts were as my own. Her smile and the single tear that shone upon her cheek confirmed that this was a sound unheard in many lifetimes. I returned her smile and held my place. It was in the native language of the Trathnona, and I listened, trying at first to divine some meaning, but all thoughts were soon driven away.

I thought of nothing at all—and was glad. I despaired of its ending, then thought myself a fool for allowing the fear of the song's end to ruin the experience. It was then—at that very moment—that I learned how I might live well, untroubled by concerns of self and fears of failure. I learned then, from the words of a song I did not understand, that a man cannot truly live if that life is plagued by worry. Fleeting, startling beauty taught me that the fear of loss would not serve to prevent it.

Their voices halted as one and I stepped forward without hesitation. I had learned my lesson well, and dared not forget it, for I felt certain that I would never hear the like again. I stopped in front of the empty pool, following a gesture from Brenna, and she continued around the pool's edge to claim the easternmost of a pair of high, narrow platforms, fronted by steps of startlingly white stone.

In the High Temple, the stone was of one color, and though I have hazarded a guess that it might have been alabaster, I cannot be certain. By day and night the holiest of their rituals were performed there, paying homage to sun and moon, and the stone, perfectly white, served as a blank canvas, that the celestial bodies might bathe the surface of the temple in the color of their respective light.

I heard movement behind, and knew that the representatives of the Council were taking their places, as were the Phulakoi of Sangholm and Tulakal. As they halted the sound grew fainter, the shuffling of cloth and rattling of mail, as Lior, who had followed last, took his place on the westernmost platform.

High Priest and Priestess stood well above all others in the High Temple, the level of their feet even higher than the unobstructed edges of its bowl. None moved, but when Lior and Brenna cast their shielded eyes to the west, and saw the sun merged halfway into the horizon, they nodded to one another, and together raised their right hands.

It was only then that I noticed their hands were not empty. They each held a long sash, intricately woven of silk with inlay of another material—metallic, and yet fabric itself. The metallic fiber glinted strangely, and seemed to shift in color as it flapped about in the winter wind, in like manner to the metal of the Key. The silk of Lior's cloth shone like spun gold, but was smooth and seamless, just as Brenna's, though silver fluttered beneath her grasp.

Lior spoke first and Brenna followed, and then Lior again—as equals seeking to divide a task meant only for one, though for their part they divided it well, and chose the parts best suited to their voices and strengths. To my ears their words held an unknown meaning, or perhaps it was memorized by rote, passed down from one generation to the next, half-remembered again and again and thus meaningless. And yet it was tradition.

So meaningless were their words that I do not remember them, even in impression of their meaning. Their recital continued for long moments, so that my thoughts drifted, and I began to turn my attention to the strange pool in front of me. It was cut into the stone and perfectly round, placed in the exact center of the High Temple. The pool was silvery in color, and unusually bright, even for silver.

There, open to the weather, it should have tarnished, even in defiance of a long tradition of meticulous care. How it might be called a 'pool' I could not understand, as it was empty, its bottom dry, and no more than a handsbreadth in depth, in any case. I could see the opening in which I would place the Key, an aperture no different than that of Rorik's Clearing, and it was located directly in front of the pool—I would have to kneel to unlock my prize.

I snapped quickly from my thoughts as I heard my name; I had missed the ending of the High Priests' recital. All eyes were upon me, and if not for Brenna I would have been at a total loss. With her mouth she formed the word 'key', and if anyone had taken notice, they gave no sign.

I stepped forward, kneeling with Sequiduris balanced at my shoulder, and withdrew the Key from my belt. It fell into place without resistance, and I turned it from left to right, as I had done in Rorik's Clearing. A familiar metallic twisting and scraping issued far beneath my feet. One complete revolution, and I could turn no more.

Nothing happened.

I waited there, still kneeling, in fear of some trickery. Perhaps Lior's counterfeiter was not such a master, after all. It was then that the sickly-sweet tone of that familiar voice returned. Rorik had been a great warrior, and I was but a boy. How could I have thought myself worthy of the honors that I had taken for granted? Though Rorik's tomb had yielded Sequiduris into my keeping, perhaps the Pool was of a more discerning nature. This was a Proving, far more than the simple claiming of a weapon, for the lives of hundreds of thousands would depend on the Onidai, in Venibrek alone.

Had my intentions been pure from the start, I might have wept; instead I felt relieved. The honor would not be mine, but then, neither would the responsibility. Sequiduris would pass into fitter hands, and the discernment of Key and Pool would ensure his worthiness. With a better man fighting in my stead, the Banners might yet stand a chance.

I was fortunate that my escort was in attendance far below, for they could see to my safety on the road. I had wealth, and the people of Meadrow no longer seemed to hate me. I could live my life as the Hero of Eastwall and pass my remaining days in comfort. Truly, I felt far better, for I was finally free of obligation—and the fear of death.

I began to rise, already planning my retirement. And without my lofty title, I would know the true nature of Rowan's affection. I smiled, thinking that, with the casket of silver and gold as her bridal price, we might actually have to work for a living—when I remembered Eagle's jewelry and the remaining white gold, I nearly laughed.

It was then that the winter wind met its match in the machinery of the Wise Kenalka. Heat, immediate in its intensity but devoid of fire's light, rose from within the pool. As it grew hotter, I began to worry, for I was already beyond the point of mere discomfort, and had to close my eyes against its growing severity.

And then, from beneath closed eyelids I bore witness, as the dusk became brighter than any dawn. The temple was illuminated by a sudden explosion of white light, pure and unwavering, and the heat abated to reassuring warmth. I opened my eyes to see that the Gifting Pool had been filled with a substance, at once light and liquid, and I cannot adequately describe the nature of it, though it was not water, nor the shining of light beneath the surface of water. But it was more than merely light, for it seemed to fill the pool as liquid, concentrating its illumination therein.

Lior's face was a portrait of unmasked wonder. He spoke the words prescribed by his station easily enough, but made no effort to disguise the shock in the sound of his voice.

"Father of Day; Patron of the Honest; Keeper of All That Is Good; Master of Labor; Lord of the Field—May our Father of Brightness grant him warmth and light, and strengthen his arm in battle!"

With that, he released his length of cloth. For a moment, the wind carried it, but the light fought against the breeze, and pulled the golden ribbon into its waiting depths. As the last bit of fabric vanished into the glow, the light grew even brighter and began to swirl gently.

Brenna then spoke, controlling the sound of her words far better. She was clearly in awe, but did not share Lior's open shock.

"Mother of Night; Lover of the Unloved; Protector of All That Is Unknown; Mistress of Peace; Lady of the Hunt—May our Mother of Shadow guide his steps, and shroud the eyes of his enemies."

Her own cloth fluttered through the air, fighting far less the strength of the brightly glowing pool. The ribbon coiled and spun in tandem with the swirling liquid, floating parallel to the light, so that it disappeared all at once. The glow intensified, and the churning currents gained in speed. I looked again to Brenna, entirely at a loss, and she pointed to me with an outstretched finger. Her lips formed the word 'walk', and with her finger she drew an invisible line from my feet to the center of the rotating glow.

I rose fully, but hesitated, unsure of how I should proceed. All my life, before the events of this account, I had lived in caution. Nothing was ever hazarded, and I took no risks, no initiative, even in dealing with the most mundane tasks. That was Ralph of Meadrow—and he had lived in shame. Denied a life of safety. Denied respect and warmth. Denied common courtesy and the simplest of opportunities. Denied the name of his father, and forced to watch his mother eke out an existence in shame and disgrace. Happiness was a feeling totally unknown to him. He had known hunger far more often than satisfaction, and the chill of a cold house far better than the comfort of a well fed hearth. He could not take for granted that he had a single friend, and none that he knew would admit to seeing him as such. Ralph of Meadrow had nothing. He was hated by his people, and loved by no one. He had no father, no past, and though he had a strong mother, she had raised him without the illusion that he might have a future.

The liquid light felt simultaneously warm and cool. I felt it even through my clothing and armor as I sank well below the handsbreadth's depth of my estimation. I stopped sinking as the light rose to the level of my waist, and though I moved forward with each step, I felt nothing solid beneath my feet.

The light rippled as water, the surface broken by my forward movement, though I did not feel the wetness or weight of sodden clothing. I felt in those depths the relaxing warmth of a steaming bath, and also the refreshing chill of a gentle brook. So pleasant and gentle was the experience that I felt I could stand there forever.

I stopped less than a pace from the center of the pool, and though I tried to kick my way forward, I made no progress. Again, I cast my eyes to Brenna, and this time she reached downward, gripping an invisible object and raising it skyward. I lowered my left arm and searched for something that had never been described to me. My hand displaced only the liquid light, which felt somehow lighter than the very air above it.

I bent my knees, allowing the surface of the light to climb to the level of my chest, and reached in up to my left shoulder, my right arm craning upward. Even as I searched, I gripped the hilt of Sequiduris tightly in my right hand, fearing to drop it where I might lose it forever.

And then I felt it—the light had increased in density, that the outstretched fingers of my left hand became more difficult to close. The light resisted further as I clenched tighter, but before I could make a fist, something solid materialized in my grip.

I raised my left arm, pulling the object free of the depths that contained it, and stood to my full height. I heard the intake of breath, even in that great expanse, and murmurs followed from an audience that had remained almost perfectly silent from the moment of their song's ending. I tried to see what my left hand held, but I was blind to the darkness above, having stared so long into the brightness of the pool.

I walked to the point of entry, finding that I rose higher with each step, and within two paces of the pool's edge I was walking atop the light, my footing as firm as on solid ground. Then, as I left the pool, I saw it. A sheath of white jade, white coral, and flawless white hide, encrusted with clear gemstones and pearl and glowing with silver leaf. The Key and the light began to spin from right to left, and Brenna and Lior spoke in tandem.

"Forget not the Sheath for love of the Sword. While the Blade is housed, you will not be harmed by rock or arrow. Walk with confidence by day; fear not the assassin's dart by night."

At the ending of their words, the Key clicked to a halt in its original position. The light faded, swirling into unknown depths, its task of more than three thousand years finally complete. The temple was left in darkness, and so the haze lamps hissed to life, bathing the entire expanse in an even, bearable light.

Lior and Brenna appeared at my side as I admired my prize, but as I made to sheath Sequiduris, Lior stopped me, though he made no attempt to explain himself. Brenna returned the Key to my belt, unwilling to allow either Sheath or Sword to leave my grasp for even a moment.

I held the sheath aloft at Brenna's bidding, and for the second time I was gifted with the singing of the united Priests and Priestesses. Their song was different, less sad and faster in tempo, as if in celebration. From far below I heard a low roaring—distant, unending thunder—an entire city united in joy.

L'mah's face was awash in tears, while Sigmund and Boers wreathed themselves in smiles of excitement and congratulation. I wished to linger there and hear the song until its ending, but Lior started in the direction of the exit, and the councilors and councilmen followed. I held back, counting one hundred heartbeats, and allowed the others to pass, nodding to reassure them that I would follow.

I closed my eyes and listened to the song, aware in spite of a second occurrence that I would never hear its like again. I remembered then the reason I had entered the city in the first place, and set my jaw with bare blade and sheath in hand, to follow the procession and Prove my worth.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Road to War

When I arrived behind the others, bearing my prize, no one seemed to take notice. The entire chamber was in an uproar, every urgent opinion voicing itself at once, and I could see, even as I entered, that the tumult had arisen at the behest of a man standing on the dais, exchanging words of his own with Lior.

So great was the chaos that I could not hear what the newcomer said, but whatever it was, it must have been insulting in the extreme, for Lior's face was red with rage. He looked to the ground, his spear planted firmly, his grip threatening to crush the shaft in his hand.

The other man wore the robe of a Phulako, and his device was a horse, blood-red upon coal-black cloth. He was swarthy of skin, his dark hair and beard immaculately groomed, and he was of average height, though nearly a full handspan shorter than Lior. His eyes betrayed cunning, and the curve of his mouth as he spoke told me that he relished greatly what he was saying.

Gray, interlocking plates of iron covered his hands, forearms, lower legs, and feet, and his robe bulged at the midriff, where his chest and shoulders were protected in like manner. His helm was an adorned dome of iron, surmounted by a wicked spike; a drape of gilded mail hung stiffly from its rim.

Dangling from an ornate silken baldric, and housed in a jeweled sheath, he wore his sword; both hilt and pommel glittered brightly. He carried a small round shield covered in scrollwork of silver and gold, and in his hand he gripped a long lance, the whole of its shaft shod in gray iron; he shook it in Lior's face, even as he taunted him.

I knew Lior would not shed blood in his own temple, but saw that his patience was wearing thin. Perhaps it was the claiming of the sheath, but I had grown bold.

I strode forward, gripping Sequiduris in my right hand, and with a back-handed slash sought to bat the pike away and take my place between them. Though I wished only to show my support for Lior, and had no intention of asserting dominance, I did not account for the power of my weapon, and when it struck, it bit cleanly through, severing the stranger's pike just above his grip. The point and broken shaft snapped sharply and leapt from the dais, the dull whining and ringing of that heavy length of iron replaced by a metallic clatter as it landed at the feet of an astonished councilman.

The room grew silent, and I stopped in mid-stride, no less shocked by my actions than they were. The color drained from the face of the newcomer; Lior's resumed its accustomed brightness. The High Priest took the initiative, and recaptured the attention of the Council before his opponent could recover.

"It seems that my brother of Nalbanilek, newly arrived, would question the validity of the Claimant. I think, at least in speaking of Sequiduris, that he may put his misgivings to rest!"

That won him laughter, though half-hearted, for many were still in shock.

"Does the Nalban Phulako wish to continue, or may the Council be left to deliberate?"

The newcomer cast his eyes to me, scanning from helm to boot in appraisal, though he kept his conclusion hidden, and turned again to his audience.

"Such proofs are bold and beyond dispute, though he still has no proof that the trinket he carries is the true sheath of ancient story. Would it even fit? If so, why does he stand before the Council with a naked blade?"

"I wished for the Council to witness the final proof, and cared not for the suspicions of any newcomer, Phulako or not. I know little of your Banner, but I can say with certainty that your people produce fine poisons. I have tasted of the Kurume Yanik. An excellent venom, by all accounts, though I found its flavor lacking, as was its potency. The only effect that lingered, it seems, is that I have little patience for the ramblings of any Nalban, and far less for one that would rattle his spear in the face of a High Priest, even in his own temple!"

I shouted that last bit, and the Nalban Phulako said nothing in response. Though I had lost all patience, I had found my tongue in its place. Before all assembled, I held Sword and Sheath high above my head. With great care that it should not miss and catch upon my hand, I joined the tip of the blade to the throat of the sheath, and pushed my weapon into its housing.

The clear gemstones flickered for a moment, and I heard the faint singing of intricate gearwork—a tiny cousin to the Gifting Pools and Rorik's Tomb. The Council found its voice again, and they spoke amongst themselves. The Nalban Phulako remained unconvinced.

"A sheathed sword is hardly proof of Kenalkan heritage. Where is its power? Arrow, sling-stone, javelin, and dart...we all know the tale. Prove it, if you have the courage!"

The moment he formed his final word, Brenna drew from her quiver, nocked, and loosed an arrow directly at my head. I had turned at her sudden movement, and saw the arrow in flight. She had been standing at the other end of the dais, thirty paces away, and I watched, the action too fast to evoke a response of terror, shock, or any other. Less than two paces away, the arrow lost all speed. The power drained from its flight—it fell point down, rebounding upon the stony floor, then rolled to my feet and moved no more.

I was surprised by Brenna's lack of hesitation. Her faith had been unwavering, perhaps even before her confession in Iurna; still, I had thought myself of no small importance to her—whether the former was stronger or the latter weaker than I had thought, I could not tell.

She strode forward in silence, winking at me as she retrieved her arrow from the ground, though I could not yet return her confidence. She passed me by, and I turned to watch as she slapped the shaft upon the Nalban's chest, waiting for him to take it. When he did, she spoke.

"Go home, for we do not require your aid. Tell your people what you have seen here, and to expect the Onidai in due course."

He left, shame-faced, but she stopped him with a whistle, and as he turned she pulled another arrow from her quiver, though this one she held in her hand.

"Most men feel the shafts of Ashad upon their flesh but once. Count yourself lucky, Vahei, and tread more lightly hereafter, for should a second arrow find you it will strike far faster, and all of your heavy raiment will count for nothing."

For all of that, he did not appear angry, which left me in question of his character. There was no love lost between Nalbanilek and the other Banners, and history had them well established as warlords and subjugators of the worst kind. Even so, the popular view might have been nothing more than prejudice.

A man cannot be held responsible for the actions of his forbears—this I knew well; I was not then in such a rush to judge Vahei or his people. In the matter of the Kurume Yanik, I could not condemn the Nalbans, for Rowan had spoken of their dwindling use of the poison, while any mercenary might have chosen to employ it, far from the curatives of Tahlrenic healers.

* * *

I read Garth's message many times before even considering the lengthy missives sent from the various envoys of Meadrow. Even the packet from Cyrtis would have to wait, and I was told that his message was urgent, at least in terms of the news it offered. Still, I ignored the more weighty matters shamelessly, and devoured every word of Garth's message:

To: Ralph- Onidai- War Marshal of the Kenalkan Banners- Extremely Generous Son

I attempted to enlist your mother's help in writing this—she sends her love, but has been busied with the building of a fine house. It is amazing how quickly and obediently our builders work when real gold is to be used as compensation.

Ever since your treasure wagon arrived under heavy escort, Nuda has been treated with deference and courtesy—mixed liberally with a justifiable fear of retribution. If that display at the Reaping Festival wasn't enough, the fact that you made your mother rich within a month of leaving home has left the locals in little doubt of the weight of your new title.

After only a day or two of cowardly procrastinating, I was able to summon up the courage to speak with your mother. You were right. About everything. I love her, and after receiving your letter, I found the courage to tell her so. I waited too long, of that I am certain. You were also right about the key. She put up a fight at first, but when I read her your letter and showed her the key, she wept. She also said yes. We were married that day. My children were delighted, and are already calling her 'Goodmother Nuda'—except for my youngest daughter. She has trouble with her speech, and finds it easier to call her 'Mother', instead.

You'll be pleased to know that the tavern is no longer in business. Nuda had it torn down without relish, and the construction of a new building is already underway at the site. She has sent word to Tahlrene, Viharth, and Sangholm, offering payment in gold to healers willing to teach their trade in Meadrow. She intends to buy and plant their herbal remedies in a garden on the former site of your father's house, and within another month, the first real hospital in Meadrow's history will take the place of the tavern. She claims she's only working so hard to make use of all that gold and silver, but I know that she misses you, and the work keeps her mind occupied.

I am proud to call you my goodson, and prouder still that you have the wits about you to listen when gifted with the wisdom offered by a woman. On that note, what of Rowan? I sensed more than a passing interest, from the both of you.

Your mother wants you to know that she loves you, and that you have 'freed her heart'. Though you offered me the Key, she swears that you will never have need of another.

-Garth

The Stabler had ordered my escort to deliver his letter after the Proving. After the claiming of the Sheath, I had thought myself happy, or at least contented with the outcome, but Garth's message had made me truly jovial.

My proofs accepted, the evidence clear, the Council remained in deliberation, as was tradition, until the moon had waxed full and waned, and there was little Lior could do to goad them. Twenty-eight days passed and I was summoned again, in full armor and followed by my Meadrow escort. My proofs confirmed, their decision unanimous, I was named Onidai-of-the-Trathnona.

The Approving began immediately, and each in turn, the councilors and councilmen kissed my right hand as a sign of fealty in war—and friendship, should peace return while I yet lived. A few of the faces I knew.

Tamsal, the corpulent man with the wild mop of white hair was no longer the boor I remembered. He spoke of his gratitude and wished me luck, while Irshal and Bitony offered their support, should the Council turn against me or speak ill while I ranged far from earshot. Esselbert was by far the most memorable.

"I have your soil samples, though I don't suppose you will have need of them. Even so, if you are any indication of your Banner's knowledge of agriculture, we would do well to gain their appraisal. Perhaps we might send these things to them by way of the next courier?"

I actually laughed as he said it, for I had forgotten our earlier conversation. Cooperation between the Banners would be of great importance, and every acre of land would have to be used to its utmost potential. Furthermore, I saw in this the opportunity to prepare my people for a war that would not wait for them to do so at the relaxed pace they normally enjoyed.

"I may do one better, Councilman. Twelve Guardsmen of Meadrow are waiting outside as we speak, and any one of them can carry your samples back. I think there is much we can learn from one another, and I know that such an arrangement will profit both sides.

"While I have you here, I feel I should ask—are you aware of the current trade values of bronze and white gold?"

We spoke for nearly an hour, heedless of those waiting behind, and accomplished much. Meadrow needed Guardsmen to replace those that had fallen at Eastwall. Regardless of Edam's hesitance, I would send word to Garth, that he might begin a search for volunteers.

Among Farmers, fertility was a curse. The Meadrun Valley would grow no larger, but in many cases, Farmers found themselves with four or five sons and little enough land to divide between them. They were strong, these farm boys, and where little land was to be found for the plowshare, there would be ample work for spear and shield.

With most of my remaining white gold, I would set traders from Venibrek on a mad hunt for bronze, leather, iron, and ashwood, and employ smiths from anywhere I could find them—they would work in tandem with our own smiths, and would be sorely needed. A single coin of white gold was worth a heavy cartload of silver, and so there would be little difficulty in purchasing all of the materials required.

Time was our only obstacle, and five hundred new Guardsmen would be needed simply to replace those lost at Eastwall. Beyond that, another thousand might offer a force of respectable size, even without garrons. I had little hope of a well trained army, but a militia, well armed and armored, might serve as an acceptable ward against invading forces. In any case, I knew that Meadrow's role, as it had been in Rorik's War, would be that of breadbasket to the other Banners, a task both fitting and safe.

Though I was more than willing to sacrifice my fortune in white gold to strengthen the defense of my homeland, I never even considered parting with the remaining gold and silver in Eagle's casket. I knew not if I would live long enough to free Rowan, but free her I would, even if that freedom released her into the arms of another man. I tasked Lior with the storage of the casket, and he made sure, through instruction to his men, that even if both of us fell in battle, Rowan would be free.

Our discussion at an end, Esselbert made for my escort to speak with Bertram, and I continued with the tedious Approving.

In the midst of the ritual, a band of Initiates burst through the western doors. Two from Brek were carrying a third, injured man. Lior leapt from the dais, landing deftly in spite of his armor, and hurried through to his Initiates. I followed, using the stairs. Lior tossed his spear to a man at his side, and knelt beside his wounded subaltern.

"Marnet, what have I told you about Revelry? It's for the younger people."

The wounded man smiled, coughing in an attempt to laugh.

"Algrae sir, we tried to hold it. Too many. At least a thousand. Maybe more. The town is burning."

* * *

I was led into an octagonal room with a large table at center. The table bore a detailed map of soft hide displaying the landscape beyond the wall for five hundred miles. Algrae, less than sixty miles away, was highlighted by a red flag. Ten black stones were piled beside the flag, each bearing the white mark of '100'. Senior officers in full armor crowded the room, their weapons left upon racks near the entrances. At our entry, they backed away and lined the walls in complete silence. Lior took the lead, his Initiate having brought the news.

"We know of the attack, their approximate numbers, and that our scouts and patrolmen could not hold them. Small wonder. What I want to know now: the position and encampment of their army—if army it truly is—whether there are more of them nearby, possible armaments, unit admixture, and so on.

"I'll start with the least pressing—give the rest of you time to think. Why did a single thirty-man patrol party decide to make fools of themselves? Did Marnet choose a hopeless fight over a simple report, or did the enemy choose for him?"

A tall, rail-thin Initiate answered. He was one of Lior's, and far from being abashed in the presence of his leader, he was angered, offended, by the question. And yet, he did his duty.

"The other survivors were too badly wounded to report to you themselves, Your Eminence. Only Marnet, First Beacon that he is, refused to visit the infirmary before delivering word to you in person. The initial attack was small, probably intended to lure out any local militia so they could wipe them out. It is also possible that they sought to prevent the bother of a herald escaping to warn a stronger force. Hard to tell at this point.

"Marnet set one of his men to organizing the evacuation, and led the rest to hold the southern gates. They managed to bar the southern passage, losing only two men and an Ashad scout in the process—none were wounded aside from Marnet himself. One of the others heard something in the quiet after the fighting, and when he climbed a lamppost for a better vantage point he was torn to pieces. Massed volley of the thunderers, most likely. They fought as long as they could. Most of them died.

"When only three remained, Marnet among them, they came to their senses and rode out to bring news of the attack. Using the horses of the dead scouts for spare mounts they were able to speed the word, and to their credit they killed nearly seventy of the enemy, while many of the townsfolk were able to flee with their women and children.

"A tall accomplishment...for a band of fools, wouldn't you say, Your Eminence?"

Lior's face matched the red of his subordinate's, but only for a moment. His shoulders slumped, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with eyes half-closed.

"One of your brothers in the party, then? Which one?"

The subordinate smiled grimly.

"All seven of them, Your Eminence. Corman survived, and I'm glad of that, at least."

"Don't worry, Diurec, you'll have blood for them soon. Anything else? No? Go to your father, then. Tell him the news. If you feel up to it, you can come with us. If not, feel no shame. Your family will have need of you."

Diurec bowed, turned on his heel, and stalked away. Lior waited for him to close the door before continuing.

"Now, to business; who's the officer on duty? Marka, if I'm not mistaken. Marka?"

A broad-shouldered man in his late twenties turned from the table where he had been writing. His brown hair was cropped short and he was clean-shaven in a manner common among the younger Initiates. Marka appeared more nervous than Diurec. Though he spoke with a tremulous voice, his words were clear and articulate.

"I interviewed Corman at length, and though he fared no better than Marnet, he remained conscious long enough to provide valuable information. My report, based on his findings, is as follows:

"Troop count is above one thousand, but no greater than fifteen hundred, and this is based on a combination of individual count and the fact that they move at speeds greater than they could achieve with any sort of supply train or commissary in tow. It is possible that this was an exploratory force sent out from a much larger whole, but it is extremely unlikely. A larger force would occupy, rather than burn an important source of supply, permanent shelter, and trade goods. It is my opinion, and the opinion of my junior officers, that they burned the settlement because they could not take and defend it against a larger force.

"As to enemy position, we have little information, but their willingness to burn a large and permanent shelter is evidence enough that they have a camp of their own—temporary, and probably to the southwest, which places it south of the Tekasi, and possibly within a single day's march of it. I wouldn't expect Algrae to be much more than that distance again from their camp."

Marka took a long pair of wooden tongs and lifted the plate of ten pebbles from its place beside the dot marked 'Algrae', then moved it near to the thin blue line of a small tributary, measuring its placement and readjusting before continuing.

"That entire area is flat, save a single cluster of hills in the north, with tree cover to the northwest and grasslands due east.

"Addressing unit admixture and armament: the scouts brought back what weapons they could in haste. For the most part, they continue to fight as before. Pikes, lockbows, swords and shields, and thunderers. With the exception of skirmishing parties, they seem to concentrate their units into groups, like unto like. They press the offensive with massed units of thunderers, of which they appear to have no more than eighty, in four units of twenty, though we cannot be entirely sure until we've received a more thorough scouting report.

"Finally, one new weapon has been introduced, and Corman swore it killed ten of our men, all at once."

Marka crossed to a far table and returned with an orb of dark gray iron. It filled his fist entirely, and was surmounted by a long candlewick that emerged from a wooden plug. Lior motioned for it, and when Marka tossed it, he hefted it and passed it to me. It was not as heavy as I had expected.

"This thing killed ten of my men? Marka, you have my attention."

"They throw them, sir, a dozen or so at a time. When the flame of the wick reaches the inside of the iron ball, it bursts—similar in sound and smell to the thunderers. There's a noise like thunder, and bits of iron fly out in every direction."

He retreated to the table again, and returned with a pouch of plain paper.

"They brought back two, and we took one of them apart. The plug is simple enough to remove, and the ball is hollow, filled with this."

Again Lior examined it, and when he passed the pouch to me, I recognized the contents immediately. I had seen the black powder before, hidden in a beer barrel. Lior frowned deeply, but betrayed no emotion. He was deep in thought. Suddenly, he realized that the room was filled with prying eyes and inquisitive ears.

"A fine report, Marka. Everyone is dismissed to the refectory for half an hour. Say nothing of any of this to your fellow Initiates, and remain quiet—especially within earshot of civilians. Half an hour. Move out!"

The men leapt at his final words, but the women stood as statues. Only when Brenna nodded and waved them away to their own refectory did they turn to leave—Her Eminence's slight smile expressed her amusement at their refusal to follow the orders of a man. The door closed gently behind the last of the women, leaving the room empty of all but the Phulakoi, Boers, and myself. Lior did not wait for them to collect themselves.

"Well Ralph, I think it's time for you to make a decision. The unified war has yet to begin, and with only one Banner behind you, you have two options, at least by my own accounting of it. You'll need my support, and Brenna's as well—at each and every Proving. With our Banner already offering its support, it would look amiss if we were absent during your claim. We will make for Sangholm this very day, should you wish it. You have that right, and, if we are lucky, we will pass unnoticed.

"The second option is that you allow us to stay, and fight with us. I have no right to ask this of you—not as a man who has been goading you on at risk to your own life; not when everything we've accomplished thus far has been in pursuit of unity. It would be a risk in favor of one Banner, and if you should die before the battle's end, that unity dies with you. Even so, Brenna and I are generals, as well as Phulakoi, and there are enemies at the gates."

I was deep in thought, and Lior mistook silence for hesitation.

"At least we know that this isn't the advance party for a siege. Wrong time of year for something of that size. With any luck, we will be finished with this whole nasty business in less than a week."

Still, I remained silent. Boers spoke, and I could hear the rattling of mail as evidence that the words were Sigmund's.

"Have no fear of insulting the Hjarrleth. A minor detour like this could only strengthen your case. A few well fought battles can teach us much, and the Matriarch would be greatly impressed, were we to present her with the spoils of war."

Finally, I found my tongue, though I'd made my decision well in advance of Lior's appeal.

"We will need at least one wagon—or a few pack-horses. I have a mislabeled beer cask that might be of some use, and Sigmund will need to bring his armor. It is fortunate that we will be riding into battle—what better time to break it in?"

The blond giant hugged my neck from behind in a way that threatened decapitation, and Lior's sunny countenance returned instantly.

"Commander Ralph! Yet another title that suits you. How many men can you handle, in your first command? Ouch! Alright, alright! How many men—and women in your first command?"

The correction was caused by a cousinly kick to the shin, delivered by the High Priestess of Ashad.

* * *

Two hundred scouts of Ashad, traveling in units of twenty, and ranging in parties of four each, thundered west on horseback, heedless of the road, to be followed by a squadron of twenty Initiates of Brek. The men would take hold of the horses, freeing the women to scout afoot; the men would also serve as messengers, even as the women continued to ply their trade by night. Word traveled far faster than I would have thought, and I learned this to be to the credit of the men, who employed red hawks to fly by day, bearing tidings upon their talons in tightly rolled parchment.

The army had taken its leave within four hours of my decision. We kept our numbers small, and rode with twelve hundred Initiates from Brek and an equal number from Ashad. My own escort of Meadrow had wished to join me, and this I refused them, though I allowed six of their party to travel with me as far as Algrae, where they would then take the road south in relative safety.

Bertram stayed behind in No. 19 as liaison and emissary for his Banner. I knew that I would not see that luxurious marble house for some time, and perhaps never again, for as the battle ended my party would journey west to Sangholm, leaving the Initiates to carry home the tidings of victory.

The remaining five from Meadrow would journey to the north and northeast under heavy escort, to the Viharthians and to the mining settlements of the Hiravian mountains in search of iron, tin, copper, leather, and shaggy mountain ponies. We had an army to train, Guardsmen and soldiers to equip for war, and rare gold of inestimable value to trade for the purpose. I kept ten coins for myself, thinking it wise to travel to Sangholm—a land well known for ironwork—with the capacity to barter.

Traveling atop my armored bay, with fine armor of my own, and wearing the sheathed sword of legend on a richly accented baldric and belt of white hide—overlaid leaf and wire with silver and gold—I felt myself ready for battle. Through the full cycle of the moon we'd awaited Approval from the Council, and my hands had not been idle in the interim.

Sigmund and Boers had worked me to a pulp. They had been merciless, and I was glad of it, for the three of us were fully aware that the enemy would treat me no differently. The Hjarrleth traveled by my side upon their long-legged mounts of pale gray, and from the moment we left the safety of granite walls, they rode in total silence. They knew my mind and kept their peace: I was fuming with a petty rage.

For all their talk of my first command, Lior and Brenna had placed only twenty at my disposal, ten from each side of the Dividing Wall—a small guard at best, chaperons, to see to my safety. Though I was Onidai-of-the-Trathnona, they withheld even the pretense of allowing me to ride at the head of their army.

We were the rearguard, riding behind their commissary wagons, and my 'command' followed behind the six of Meadrow. Our first commission would be to see the six remaining Guardsmen safely to the road south. L'mah did not travel with us—she was too big to ride any horse for very long, and so she sat upon the bench of their largest wagon, far ahead of us in the supply train.

It was clear enough to me that Lior and Brenna still thought me a child, and it mattered not at all that they were right, for I was a child, and had never seen real battle outside of my brief involvement at Eastwall, the fight in Eagle's Clearing notwithstanding. This was to be pitched battle, of the kind that drives the veteran graybeards to drink in silence, and still I stewed in vain rage, utterly impotent without the leave of Lior and Brenna. I know now that these were safeguards taken to prevent my death, and to their credit they kept me informed, reporting to me each evening of the events that had transpired; they asked politely for my opinion before making any major decision.

We moved slowly, traveling south on the wide road to Algrae, and maintained that sluggish pace as the scouts that ranged south kept us safe from foreigners of the same trade. Those already at work in the west sent their falcons often with news of the enemy.

On the morning of our third day, three or four hours journey north of Algrae, we were prepared to break from the train and travel unencumbered; I was glad of this, and glad to be finished with the drudgery of slow travel. By midafternoon, the Guardsmen would take to the road with four wagons, each heavily laden with billets of bronze and gray iron, and many hides for the making of leather harness. This was all that could be purchased in Venibrek, though I had little doubt that ten times the amount would eventually find its way to Meadrow. White gold was rare, and though we sought iron and bronze in great quantity, we required only ingots. Harness at least would be available to the new recruits, for hide, even boiled, hardened hide was to be had in every settlement.

As I mounted and called for the wagons and my twenty, Boers galloped to my side, absent his master. When I questioned him, he merely shrugged, stating that he had business in one of the wagons, and that we should proceed without him. I found patience, and realized also that I was acting the thorough fool when told that Sigmund would catch up at the gallop, for I knew that we could not travel any swifter than the fast-walking gait of the Meadrow garrons.

I spent an hour and more riding beside the train of slow-moving Initiates, and though they showed great respect at my passing, I was in an ill-humor; self-conscious, and filled to bursting with self-pity. Not even Sigmund thought enough to travel beside me; he was likely dallying with some comely Initiate, while I rode on in silence.

Even over the sound of rolling wagons and galloping horses and garrons, I heard the thundering of Sigmund's approach from behind. I did not turn or halt to greet him, but saw from the edge of my vision that Boers had wheeled away from my side. Moments later he returned, and I spoke to him without looking.

"Has your master chosen to favor us with his presence?"

Boers replied with vigor.

"Turn your head and see for yourself!"

I did, and all at once I was assailed by the brightness of the rider beside me. I knew then why the horses of Sangholm were bred so large. Sigmund was armored from head to foot in iron, and the work was breathtaking in its intricacy. Only a few places on his body were not protected by plate of some kind, and those were guarded by patches of mail, likely stitched to an arming jack beneath the armor, not unlike my own, though the mail was white, the links tiny and flat, leaving no space to reveal the fabric beneath.

His hands were protected by gloves, the plates articulated to enable perfect dexterity. His boots were likewise covered in overlapping segments, and a collar rose from his breastplate to the level of his jaw to protect his neck, leaving ample space, so that the movement of his head remained unobstructed. The pieces upon his torso, shoulders, upper arms, and thighs were hammered into ridges, undulating into perfect hills and valleys, and this was done to improve the absorption of impact, though I could not see how any weapon could hope even to dent such a masterwork of white iron.

The metal of his armor gleamed brightly, though it was not white in the manner of Sigmund's blade, or even the mail patchwork. Shining a deep, dark blue, it approached the midnight hue of Brenna's robe, and the deep liquid gloss of it was perhaps more beautiful even than the pure, blazing white of his sword. Though clearly metal, the sheen of the plates gave the appearance of depth I had only seen in the still waters of a stone well.

Through Boers, Sigmund told me that this was the work of their finest armorer, a brilliant ironsmith named _Stjarsla_. None knew how he had prepared the metal, which began as white iron, of the type of their legendary blades. So skilled was he in preparing the iron, that he was not permitted to act in the function of true armorer, and was instead tasked with the preparing of iron billets and sheets, that all might wear his impenetrable skins. Stjarsla had only crafted three suits of armor in his lifetime, and Sigmund himself was now the owner of the finest ever made.

Many songs of Stjarsla are still sung in Sangholm, and their stories vary in their telling of his secrets—everything from the grinding of the bones of a fire-breathing monster into the molten iron, to the addition of bits of rock from a falling star. A few even tell that he cut strands of white-golden hair from the head of his youngest daughter, lending the purity of her beauty to the strength of the iron, and this tale was Sigmund's favorite, though he did not guess at the true nature of Stjarsla's secret.

Even the Wise Kenalka marveled at the resilience of the metal, many generations after the time of Stjarsla, and they offered his ancestral grandson—the final smith to bear his name—untold riches in exchange for the secret. The man refused, though politely, and told them that the secret mattered no longer, for the one substance needed for its make had been exhausted in the time of his father. His refusal to gain from a secret that could not profit the Kenalka earned him the title of 'Stjarsla the Honest', and such forthright behavior became the foremost virtue of his people, even before courage in battle.

Upon every section of his armor there were lines of runes, hammered onto the metal in dark gold, so that they bordered the perimeter of each segment like a form of decoration. And yet the pattern varied, only a few of the symbols recurring. When I asked Sigmund of this, Boers rolled his eyes. He did not wait for his master's leave to speak, and his voice fairly dripped with irony.

"Another testament to the dim wit of our forefathers. Take my master's right pauldron. It bears the name of the armorer who crafted it, as does every other piece of armor on the suit. The other runes indicate its use. His right pauldron, after the name of the armorer, bears the inscription, 'haegri bogr', meaning 'right shoulder'. Not the most cunning of men, our ancestors, but standing a few paces away, you can't even tell."

For hours thereafter, we rode in cheerful conversation, and I marveled at Sigmund's strength, for he continued to sign in his wordless language, heedless of the weight of his thick armor. He spoke through Boers of his sister, Reya, who by then had already taken the oath of Phulako—at dawn, as was the custom in Sangholm. She was a year or two older than I—in truth, I have had trouble remembering her exact age—and married to one of the finest voices in all of Sangholm. She had been quick with child a year into Sigmund's long absence, and by the time of his return she would be a mother. According to Boers, the child would be several months old by the time we arrived.

Just after noon, we took our leave of the Guardsmen. I made them promise to carry tidings to my mother, and to tell her of my condition. They were not permitted to leave until they swore to say nothing of the dangers I had faced—or would face, long before our reunion. Upon a wide track of packed earth, they traveled in formation; three abreast in front of the wagons, and three following as rearguard. I did not fear for their safety, as each wagon was pulled, not by oxen, but by a team of horses, and driven by a pair of Initiates.

The moment they disappeared behind a shallow dip in the road, I reined in my horse and my twenty formed up behind me. The Hjarrleth at either side, I kneed Edam to a full gallop, exulting in the rush of speed. The clothing beneath my armor was of thick wool, and a wide scarf of scarlet protected my neck from the cold, winding even around the front of my helmet to ward off the winter up to the level of my cheekbones. We made excellent time, and arrived at the prearranged campsite, well in advance of the army.

* * *

Only a few tents stood in the clearing, and as I brought my horse to a halt, I recognized the riderless mounts of Brenna and Lior, tethered to a raw wooden upright by the side nearest the eastern approach. One of the scouts witnessed our arrival and disappeared inside. I dismounted, leaving the Initiates to tend to my horse, and moments later Lior and Brenna emerged from the tent together. They were dressed in simple attire, with no armor, and Lior was wiping blood from his hands on a bit of rough cloth. He shouted his greeting while we were yet several paces off, and his words were for the armored giant beside me.

"Dressed for battle, I see! Sigmund, you look brilliant. Never let it be said that the Hjarrleth are not accommodating. We need a Phulako, and he travels with us, performing all of the tasks required of him. And then, the moment we need one of their indestructible warriors, he appears before us in his legendary armor. Fitting, as you may find a use for it tomorrow—or the day after.

"For now, I'm afraid you've come at a time when the work is less...honorable. Blood spilled in battle, hot blood, is done with no choice in the matter—kill or be killed. You are welcome to join us if you wish, but you may find the violence...colder...than you prefer. We have a prisoner. An officer of sorts, judging by the quality of his armor and his...conveyance. He refuses to speak the common language, though we're certain he is able. Four of Brenna's women heard him speaking with a subordinate just before they took them. Only the officer made it back alive, and they dragged him here in his cart. No horses. Those Ashad girls swear that it moves on its own, though none of us have been able to divine how it works."

Sigmund moved his arms rapidly, the afternoon light dancing on his vambraces and gauntlets, his face a portrait of curiosity and excitement. Boers spoke quickly to keep pace.

"No, it wouldn't work, not without the strange mining track they use. Some of our people saw them in the far north, from the sea. They belch smoke and roll steadily—an unending chain of carts, connected so that they move together like a serpent. So far, they've stayed clear of Sangholm, likely transporting timber. Trouble is, they're bound by the same constraints as mining carts—no track, no movement. Did the ladies find a track nearby?"

Lior looked to Brenna, clearly at a loss. She smiled at this, for Lior was a man rarely at a loss for words. She raised her right arm, two fingers extended, and a young Initiate appeared at her side. She was no older than I.

"Find Ulsa and Maekara, and bid them join us at the enemy cart."

Brenna's arm dropped to her side, and the girl left in a rush.

We were led to a large tent of gray-brown canvas, and inside the room gleamed in the clear light of beeswax candles. A single lantern, large and long-wicked, hung from the peak of the tent on a thin chain and glowed brightly, crossing its light with that of the candles and leaving a multitude of barely perceptible shadows. It was nearly as bright as day, and so we saw clearly the vehicle that sat before us.

It was built not unlike a cart.

The frame was wood, though much of its surface was reinforced by iron. The wooden wheels were smaller and thicker than those of a cart or wagon, and wrapped in a cladding of sharply-cleated iron. There was no bench, but two high seats sat behind the front wheels—the leftmost chair sat higher than the other, mounted on a rod that permitted it to spin. The rightmost seat sat in front of three control levers, similar to those I had seen at the gate house at Brek, and the lever at center was surmounted by a clamp that held it in place.

A box served to divide the two sections of the cart, and its upraised lid revealed strange machinery. Behind the machine box there were no benches or seats, though it was clear that someone had labored there. A huge bin, half-filled with charcoal sat opposite a heavy vat of water, mounted atop some manner of furnace. Boers was already in the cart and toying with this last device. He was excited by the discovery, and I could tell that his was a mind suited to puzzles and machinery.

"If a kiln coupled with a distillery one drunken night, this would be their bastard."

His brow furrowed, and his squinting expression spoke to me of puzzlement. Nor was I mistaken.

"A small furnace though, and a massy tank above it. If I'm being honest, I've no idea what it's supposed to do."

"It is supposed to roll through underbrush and uneven terrain."

This from an Initiate who entered while Boers had been speaking. She stood beside Ulsa, who had smiled and nodded to me in deference as they entered. Brenna took the initiative.

"Ralph, Sigmund, Boers, this is Maekara, one of my best, and it was she who first saw the cart. She ended its movement with a single arrow; no others have seen it in motion."

The young woman shrugged innocently.

"I had little choice. The driver was about to roll into the tree that held me, and I did not wish to fall with it."

I shook my head in disbelief.

"It was about to fell a tree, simply by colliding with it?"

"It was little more than a sapling, but there was nowhere else to hide. See those blades? I saw them clearly enough, and they tore through trees even thicker than the one that held me. I was lucky—had I been any larger, I'd have had nowhere to hide at all."

She said this with a mischievous smirk. Maekara was a wisp of a thing, and it surprised me that she would choose to live as a soldier.

On closer examination, I understood her fear of the wagon's blades. They were welded to the body of the vehicle, each jutting forward, the curvature as that of a scythe, and all were wickedly serrated. Even the serrations were serrated; the pattern was multi-layered and complex. The sight of those many iron fangs brought to light the monstrous nature of our foes; this was not the clean-shearing power of Sequiduris, but an end far bloodier and more painful. The outrage I'd felt at Eastwall was kindled anew, and little did I know that it would soon be needed.

Lior pulled me from my thoughts, and I was glad of it.

"Perhaps Boers, as you know something of this, you and your master might aid Maekara in bringing the vehicle back to life. Is that agreeable? Our other task will appear less pleasant by comparison."

Sigmund and Boers nodded their assent, and Lior motioned to me.

"Ralph, we will need your assistance in the other tent. The enemy is not yet aware that you possess the Sword; where pain and fear of death have failed, awe may yet succeed."

* * *

I was led to the tent of the prisoner, where Lior stopped to whisper, and he did so loudly enough for Brenna to hear.

"We do this to learn how we might win without loss. Think of this, not as the tearing apart of a man, but as an act that will save the lives of hundreds that I regard as sons—that Brenna loves as her own daughters. Speak however you see fit and we will follow your lead. Brenna and I have already made our introductions. He does not believe we hold positions of authority—to tell an enemy otherwise would be futile. But he has yet to meet you. You have the look—the singular appearance, that betrays a position of leadership. Perhaps he will speak with you. Show him no pity, and brace yourself, for he is now a sight to behold."

The room was dimly lit. To the right of the prisoner a single lantern burned low, upon a table covered with tools and blades of iron and bronze. Opposite the table, to the prisoner's left, sat a tall brazier filled with burning coals, and a blackened poker buried among them.

The prisoner's feet were bound individually to the front legs of his chair, and his wrists were tied tightly, with separate lengths to restrain him at the elbows. The chair was newly made from raw wood, the parts hammered together with the long, rectangular nails used in fastening the floor boards of wagon frames.

He was not gagged or blindfolded; in fact, his head and neck were the only parts of his body that remained unscathed. His beard was well trimmed, covering only his chin and upper lip, with two thin lines of jet black hair spanning the distance from beard to moustache. His olive skin betrayed no weathering from long hours in the sun, and he had strong cheekbones and a well proportioned aquiline nose. The light of the lantern produced pinpoints on coal-black eyes, and there was nothing of fear in them, though I knew well the look of pain that he fought to conceal.

His arms, shoulders, and bare chest were riddled with clotting wounds and burned flesh, and two joints had been severed from the smallest finger of either hand, so that only a single cauterized stub remained. The canvas room was small, and rank with the stench of seared meat and the sickly copper tang of blood. I know not how long they had plied the inquisitor's trade, but the look of him, the extent of his wounds, and the black stains drying at his feet served as evidence that Lior and Brenna had not long been idle from the moment he came into their possession.

He looked me up and down, and I knew that my appearance was of interest to him. Brenna and Lior were not dressed in livery, as Phulakoi or as High Priest and Priestess. Aside from the Initiates he might have seen since his capture, he had not been presented with the appearance of rank or authority. I must have been a sight—a boy, armed, armored, and dressed in finery, and when he had finished his appraisal, I saw his lips purse, and his head dip in a slight nod.

Brenna must have passed her gift to me somehow; from his expression I was able to discern his thoughts. His torture had ceased briefly, and his torturers had gone to greet the sound of a party approaching on horseback. Time enough had passed for a report. I had then appeared before him, bearing arms and armor of a quality far beyond the reach of a common soldier.

The fingers of my left hand gripping the hilt of my Sword, I took a step forward, trying to swagger as I guessed wealthy men of authority might. I hardened my features, sneering slightly, looking down the length of my nose at him—yet all the while my heart ached with pity.

I cared not that the man was my enemy; such treatment of any man was as repellent to me then as it is now. But Brenna and Lior were not monsters—I would be remiss in the telling of this portion of my tale if I did not make that clear. It was their love that caused them to treat their enemy thus, not any hatred of his kind. I could not understand that concept then, though I learned of it in later years.

I stood in silence for the count of one hundred heartbeats, my expression of disinterested contempt and casual loathing unchanging, until finally I broke the silence, trying to assume a tone that matched my implied bearing.

"My inquisitors tell me that you have no tongue, Foreigner. I was given to believe that all people of Foundation speak Vulgar Kenalkan. Even the giants of the Southern Wilderness know a bit of the language. Imagine my surprise, then, when I hear from these _very talented professionals_ that their labors have produced not a single syllable of civilized speech.

"We know that you are aware of the Wise Kenalka, even from beyond your lifeless sea. How else could you possess such a fantastic conveyance? That you use the device for warfare is only a testament to your cunning, for as all people know, the Builders were not a warring people.

"Let us examine the facts together, shall we? You ride upon a cart that moves without horses—clearly of Kenalkan design, you are fairly clean—for a foreigner, at least—and well groomed. You were dressed in costly fabrics when you were captured. It is clear to me that you do not labor for a living, since my man here told me of the softness of your hands—a softness that he felt as he severed bits of your uncalloused fingers. So, we know that you are high-born, as high-born as your people can be, that the Kenalka are well known and remembered by your people, and that you have lived a life free of the distraction of labor.

"Why then do you not speak the common language? Are you perhaps mute? Is he? No, I thought not. Tortured screaming is a language all its own! I know you understand my words, I can see it in your eyes. So I will bargain with you now, though the word fills my mouth with a bitter taste. You will tell me all that you know about your comrades—their numerical strength, their position and fortification, whether they can be petitioned to withdraw short of their annihilation—and I will swear an oath here and now to return your remains and all of your possessions to your people.

"Refuse, and my inquisitors will return to their labors, and you will live far longer than the rest of your people. Remain silent, and you will die only when pain no longer has meaning. I have excellent physicians, and my inquisitors know well how to feed you against your will. You will continue to scream my name, long after you have forgotten your own, and by the time you breathe your last, there will be little left to bury.

"You know already that you will not be allowed to live. You will not be the last to die by this Sword of mine, and yours will not be the first blood that has stained its blade, but tell me all that I wish to know, and you will have the signal honor of being the first of your people to die by Rorik's edge."

He had been passive, meeting my gaze but showing little interest or understanding, until he heard me speak of the Sword. When his eyes darted to the hilt at my side, he winced. He knew that he had been undone. He tightened his lips in a grimace of displeasure, looked into my eyes once again, then spat upon the floor and licked his lips. He swallowed heavily. I turned to Brenna, raising my hand to halt the prisoner's tongue as I did so.

"Bring the prisoner a cup of wine."

She left, and we waited there until she returned. I took the cup myself, and held it to his lips. He sipped delicately, sluicing the wine around his mouth to wet it before swallowing. When he had drained the cup I placed it on the table. He spoke immediately, shocking me with the fluidity of his speech, though I fought hard to contain my surprise.

"My thanks. So, you are the Onidai? Rorik reborn? You are young for the job, I think. Why should I believe you?"

I smiled, trying to assume Brenna's grin of mischief.

"Do you receive regular reports from Rorik's Clearing?"

For a fraction of a heartbeat, he appeared surprised by the reference. He smiled with me then, nodding slowly as he replied.

"We do, now that our couriers are returning. The first two did not return, at all. I suppose you expect me to believe that your people killed them? These are foreign lands, Master Onidai, and our carriers are no older than yourself. They might have fallen from their mounts, or given in to fear of death and deserted. You will have to do better to convince the likes of me."

I laughed, the sound mean-spirited and mocking, as those I'd heard as a child.

"I can do better, friend, and in fact, I already have. One of your guards took a fall in Rorik's Clearing, only a few months past. Drunk, was he? His neck was broken, I believe. He was drunk, if you wish to know the truth, but it wasn't the foul liquor in his flask that killed him. As long as we're here, perhaps I should tell you of a few more memorable deaths, and of these I doubt you have been informed.

"The army you sent to Meadrow? Dead to a man.

"Your courier—the man paid to smuggle the stolen Key for exchange—he died, also. Rather suddenly, in fact, though he was killed before we caught up with him. Not surprising, really, since he did not know the land his benefactors have seen fit to invade.

"Then, after I claimed Sequiduris, your assassins visited me in the Granite City. They were fantastically well paid, and armed with the weapons of your people. I killed them.

"Your interest in the Onidai has cost you greatly. And we've only just begun."

I turned to adjust the wick of the lantern, brightening its glow, and I threw the tattered remains of the prisoner's shirt upon the coals of the brazier, engulfing it in flames. The room was brightened doubly in the time it took me to continue.

"If you are still shrouded in the darkness of your ignorance, and remain in doubt of my identity, you may think of this as a beacon—a candle, to illuminate your mind in the radiant glow of certainty."

I drew Sequiduris, conscious of the ringing produced as the flat of the blade scraped against the silver leaf of the scabbard. The rigid sheath grew suddenly limp at my side—before springing to life. It coiled about my waist as a serpent! I had not expected the Sheath to behave in such a manner, for I had yet to draw Sequiduris—in truth I had been fearful of its edge. Still, I contained my shock as well as I could, and if the man noticed my look of surprise, he gave no sign.

Lior opened the tent flap to vent the smoke of the burning shirt; the waning sunlight cut streaks of illumination through the haze. The sight of the drawn Sword and coiling sheath caused his eyes to open wide in shock.

The Key and Blade shifted in color in the flickering light of the lantern, and as the now-thoroughly charred shirt guttered and burned its last, the fire in the brazier died. Lior closed the tent flap, leaving us in smoky darkness. I grounded my point easily, and folded my arms across my chest, allowing him to gaze upon Sequiduris until I decided that his time was at an end.

"I have no more patience for you. You have a clear choice. Decide now, or I will leave this place in favor of more pressing tasks. These two are not soldiers, and will not be missed in battle. I cannot spare you, but I can promise a quick death, and if your leader is a man of reason, perhaps this can end without war. Think of your men; think of your family, your home, and make your decision."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Guilt

The prisoner, an officer of middling rank and exceptional courage, gave up only the information that he knew would offer us little advantage. As promised, I killed him myself, and allowed him to stand. Before I could strike, he asked that I leave his head upon his shoulders, and whether this was another show of courage or a mandate of his religion, I did not know.

I lunged, thrusting diagonally upward from beneath his breastbone, piercing his heart and severing his spine, that he died instantly. I had feared that I might hesitate, but to my surprise, I did not. Nevertheless, I loathed myself and the Phulakoi of that cursed granite-walled city for the act, and for the part they had required me to play in it.

For all our ill-doing, we learned only that this was not a force of occupation, but one of annihilation. Their numbers had grown beyond their capacity to feed themselves, and their advanced weaponry and machinery had finally provided them with the means to take the fertile land that they already saw as their own, by right of superiority.

I cleaned my blade on another cloth, offered by Lior, and thought of nothing but removing my armor and casting off my blood-stained clothes. Then, when I looked down, I saw by the dwindling light that my attire was clean. This puzzled me, for my thrust had been to the prisoner's heart.

For a moment, I wondered how I might dislodge the sheath from about my waist; I soon discovered that, with but a touch of the Sword's point upon the throat of the sheath, the latter uncoiled, returning to rigidity even as I housed the blade.

I looked around to see an orderly camp. The interrogation and execution had passed in a heartbeat, making a lie of the belief that time passes more slowly while toiling at unpleasant pursuits. I spotted my tent, large, white, and trimmed in azure, between those of Lior and Brenna, then made immediately for the promise of solitude, when all at once my ears were assailed by a loud roaring. When I turned to the source, I saw black plumes of smoke billowing from beneath the tent containing the mysterious cart.

Suddenly, the vehicle lurched from its hiding place, and over the ripping of canvas I could hear the shouting of Boers, followed closely by the shrieking of women. The tent collapsed, and the fabric whipped over their heads, the cart flying forward at nearly the speed of a galloping horse. The vehicle tore off between the rows of tents, and would have collided with the flank of a wagon, had not Boers been able to bring it to a screeching halt with a pull of the center lever.

Someone might have been injured—could have been killed—I did not even slow my pace.

The small stove at the center of my tent was burning brightly. The interior was comfortably warm and unnecessarily spacious, a continuation of the remarkable luxury born of Trathnonan hospitality. I did not marvel at the sight of steaming water in the portable copper bathtub situated in the corner—I must admit with some shame that I had grown accustomed to such royal treatment.

I sent my father's helmet rolling as I closed the flap of my tent, then unbuckled my baldric, slapped belt and laden sheath atop one of the two small tables, and dropped my shield on top of it. I folded the fabric of my cape around my arms and tossed it on the shield. Sitting on a high wooden stool, I fumbled with the buckles of my greaves and the laces of the boots beneath. Vambraces, pauldrons, cuirass and studded pterugi, arming jack, and finally shirt, trousers and stockings: all fell to the richly carpeted floor in a heap.

I lowered myself into the steaming tub, closed my eyes and immersed my head, holding my breath as long as possible before rising to the surface, then smoothed the mess of my black hair and inhaled deeply.

Floating there with eyes closed I could hear the sounds of toil, and I yearned for the honest, bloodless labor that I had abandoned beneath my home Banner. The Men of Brek were inexhaustible, though in truth they'd been tasked throughout the day only with swaying in the saddle or jostling about in troop wagons. In any case, though the sun was already setting, they had begun felling young trees from the edges of the clearing.

I knew that several hours would pass before the sound of woodcutting would cease; tall torch staves had been planted all around the perimeter of the newly erected tents. They would labor through the night to build a palisade around the camp, as well as a stockade, to serve as an open air stable for their mounts.

The women had labor of their own. They would range for miles as scouts, surrounding and securing the perimeter of the camp until long after the defenses were completed. Many more would take to the woods as hunters, seeking what game might be found in the midst of winter. I wondered if our defenses would vary greatly from those the enemy had built, and the thought brought to mind the image of the nameless prisoner's firm voice and tortured form.

I rose and chafed myself dry with a thick towel; I convinced myself that I did so because the water had grown cold, though steam still rose from within the tub. I hadn't eaten since dawn, and I lifted the lid of the tray that covered the second table. A fresh loaf of bread—still warm beneath its cover and cloth wrapping—my favorite soft, salty white cheese, and a bowl of thick, meaty stew with root vegetables. The ceramic jug at the sideboard contained my favored wine, a blend of dry red and sweet white that I knew Brenna and Lior did not care for, and it was brought along with only my enjoyment in mind, for I had not seen any Initiate drink so well in our time upon the road.

I dropped the lid back over the platter and turned away in disgust. Was the prisoner hungry when he died? In the time that I had known him, he had been thirsty. He might have found comfort in a last meal. Why didn't I think to ask?

I collapsed to my cot, though it was only cot in name. It was spacious, and had a thick mattress of soft down. The bedclothes were clean, as they had been every night upon the road. Only the canvas beneath the mattress and the skeletal framework that held it above the ground could have earned that luxurious bed the title of 'cot'.

I rolled from the mattress, tumbling in a careless heap, and made my bed upon the carpeted floor, taking only a blanket to cover my shame. I don't know how long I waited, curled upon my side, hugging my knees in desperate anticipation of alleviating darkness. Eventually, guilt, hunger, and the ample warmth of my tent conspired, that I drifted off to a dreamless but troubled sleep.

* * *

I heard the shuffling of fabric, and looked up to see Brenna's face, red, her cheeks awash in tears. She had thrown off her clothes, and had clearly bathed, for her hands were innocent of blood, her body clean. Her hair was still damp, and she had left it down to dry; I felt the coolness of it against my chest and neck as she fell in beside me, uncaring that she had found me on the floor.

Naked, but without passion we held each other, sharing our warmth in silence. I knew she felt as I did, though I said nothing, and I was glad that I did not have to suffer alone. I watched her, unable to sleep, until her breathing slowed, and I knew that she had achieved the escape that I could not.

I could still hear the sounds of honest labor. The steady cadence of toil had not diminished; it filled my ears from every direction.

I rose quietly, carefully pulling on my clothes, but left the armor in its place. I laced up my boots, then left without sparing a moment's thought for the chill outside. My breath steamed in the frigid air, and I looked to the sky. It was well before midnight. I had not slept more than an hour. The night was young.

As the Men of Brek labored at the palisade in teams, droves of others dug a trench in front of completed sections.

I found an abandoned shovel and began to work alongside a short-handed crew. Many stopped working when they saw this, and when I looked up they continued shoveling, their faces wreathed in Lior's sunniest smile. Following the example of the others, I cast the uprooted dirt to the base of the palisade wall, packing it with the flat of my shovel every ten pulls.

An hour or so on, my team was permitted to rest. I was offered a draught from a wineskin as a ward against the cold, and drank deeply; it was thin, acrid, and strong beyond belief, but I kept my features expressionless and nodded my thanks. The drink did wonders, and the cold bit without fangs thereafter. As work resumed, one of the men in my team began to sing.

He belted out the line without warning, his energetic tempo the evidence of sudden inspiration, and everyone in the team followed, repeating his words at each natural pause. The next crew, starting to our left followed our lead, singing the line verbatim, and so on, until we'd heard it from the crew to our right. In this way, every team of men would hear the song, though each line had to be repeated nine times. By the time the last line reached the crew to our right, every group of diggers knew the song by heart. They then sang together, repeating the entire verse.

"The Men of Brek must be at war, for they labor beneath the moon!

While Women hunt our backs grow sore—we'll work from night to noon!

With blistered hands and frozen hide, we raise our shovels high!

If I should die tell my sons with pride, that I toiled beside the Onidai!"

Much later, another song began on the other side of the growing palisade. This one I sang myself, and I was glad of the news it carried.

"The trenches deep, the cordon high—we'll pray it holds through the fight!

Our shields will shine and arrows fly—our foes to feel the chisel's bite!

At labor's end, our cots await—the sleep of the frozen and sore!

Though we'll not lounge abed too late—we've worked no harder than Lior!"

It was clear to me then, that I was not alone in my guilt.

Three hours past midnight, we finished our task. My hands were blistered and my clothes dirty, but I felt far better. The water was cold when I returned, and yet it served to free my body of dirt. The bread was cold as well, but still soft, and the salty cheese had not ceased to be delicious. I drank two cups of wine, then felt at last that I could rest.

Through all of this, Brenna waited, pretending to sleep upon my bed, but when I climbed in beside her, she rolled over on top of me. Her cheeks were no longer marked with tears.

"The Men of Brek have fine voices."

We rutted quickly, but thoroughly.

I slept dreamlessly, untroubled by guilt, and awoke alone in my bed, only a few hours before noon. I dressed in clean clothes and shrugged into my armor. Outside, I saw the completed palisade by day for the first time and breathed deeply, letting the cold air fill my lungs.

The face of every man I passed bore an open smile.

I learned then, that while a heavy pouch of silver can purchase a cheerful greeting, a night of hard labor in the cold can earn love and respect. And if Lior felt that he had five thousand sons, I found myself with a legion of brothers.

* * *

By early afternoon, Lior and Brenna had reached an agreement regarding their plan of attack. And, in the process, they had also managed to dispossess me of the role of leadership in an admirably manipulative manner. The key to victory would be my initial signal to attack, or so they said.

I understood their need to lead their own people, but feared the trend that might develop, should Sigmund see my minor role in those events and choose to inform the Matriarch that I was to be treated as Onidai in appearance alone. In truth, it was a selfish desire for position and power that drove me to think thus, but as I have written many times ere now, I was but a boy, playing at being a man.

Their plan, following my highly visible signal to attack, relied heavily on intelligences gathered on the surrounding terrain. We would make use of the grasslands one hundred and twenty paces south of the enemy camp, where Sigmund, Boers, myself, and my escort of twenty would lie in wait, until the others had reached their starting positions—Ashad within the cover of the treeline, one hundred paces and more directly east, and Brek in the clearing east of their position, further within the forest.

At the moment of my signal, all of Brenna's archers would loose volley after volley into the encampment. The women, spaced in twenty wide lines of nearly fifty each, would be instructed to loose their shafts in prearranged positions, varying the angle of each volley so that no one within the enemy camp could count themselves safe from harm. They would commit half of their quivers to the initial strike—twelve volleys of one thousand arrows each. If the survivors had any taste for battle after such a rain of death, the Trathnona would be more than willing to feed them.

From within the treeline, Brenna's Initiates would hurry south, just as two hundred of the Men of Brek began to move west. The men would emerge from the cover of the trees to taunt the enemy, and lure them to attack what appeared to be a lesser force. If they took the bait, Lior's two hundred would flee to the clearing east of the copse, rejoining the eight hundred that had stayed behind.

As the last of the enemy force passed into the treeline, Brenna's one thousand would move west and then north, taking up a flexible and advantageous position between the treeline and the enemy camp—close enough to the forest to loose straight line volleys into armored targets, but far enough from the palisade that thunderers and lockbows posed little threat.

With her archers facing west and east in twenty formations of fifty, they would cut off any hope of escape from the enemy west of the copse, while hampering all that remained inside the enemy camp. Brenna joked that, after a rain of twelve thousand arrows, few would survive to join the battle at all. I hoped that she was right, for I feared greatly the outcome of direct combat between Lior's men and even a few hundred of the enemy, armed with their lockbows and powerful—though wildly inaccurate—thunderers.

Lior's men were impressive to behold—heavily mailed, robed, and armed with their long, leaf-bladed swords and javelins, but their shields, while heavy, were not at all thick or sturdy enough to defend against thunderers at close range. They would win the day, of that I had no doubt, but I feared the cost of victory, for I had grown fond of the Men of Brek. I worried less for the clever Women of Ashad, who fought at a distance, safe from all but the luckiest of carefully aimed shots.

I had wished to lead the attack, but the signal was my idea, and it was my task to see it through. I could not argue with their logic, and would not, for all my posturing, for I feared to see battle again; I will not now be ashamed of the admission.

General orders went out immediately, and in the middle of the afternoon that camp grew quieter than a midnight in Meadrow. Two thousand were abed; a further four hundred would remain as a holding garrison. I slept better than I had expected, aided by a long pull taken from an ox horn that Boers filled to the brim with his native vapor.

In Sangholm, it was a tradition to drink prior to sleeping the night before battle. Drunken fighting was against one of the ancient laws of the Hjarrleth, and on the day of battle, no warrior was permitted even to look upon intoxicating drink. A drink before bed, however, would ensure a sound sleep, with none of the worried tossing and turning that might plague a sober warrior.

It was a large horn, and I drank last so that Sigmund and Boers might demonstrate. When my turn came, the horn was still more than half-full, and Boers told me, with a toothy grin, that the final draught must drain the horn; failure to do so was considered bad luck, and insulting, as if the drink of the host was of an inferior quality.

With squared shoulders and inflated chest I pressed the vessel to my lips, my features hardened against the burn. They laughed when I broke into a fit of coughing, my face red from the fire of their strong drink. Clearly, Boers's warning of the implied insult had been some manner of practical joke.

But when I turned the horn upside down, proving that I had, in fact, managed to drain it completely, they cheered loudly, as did all of the surrounding Initiates—they all remembered my previous occupation.

For a moment, I held the horn high, then handed it to Boers.

"Not bad. Hjarrleth ale, was it? Perhaps next time we can try some vapor."

Boers sniffed the horn in mock surprise, and everyone laughed. Something in the jest struck Sigmund particularly, and though his laughter was muted by the same malady that prevented his speech, the clacking of armored hands against armored sides was evidence enough.

Inside my tent, I collapsed to my mattress face-down, as unmoving as one already slain in battle. When dreams are to be avoided, vapor is the needful tonic.

Apparently, I had consumed an adequate dose.

* * *

I awoke—still tipsy and a bit thick-headed—to the light of a lantern, lit by a helpful member of the commissary staff. In the time it had taken for me to reach full awareness, he mentioned cheerfully that he had prepared clean clothes, filled my tub with hot water, set out a meal, cleaned and polished my armor, and fed, brushed, and saddled my horse. He informed me that he would return when I was ready to be dressed, then disappeared before I could form the words to thank him.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, reveled in the steamy heat of the tub, dressed myself, and dined on bread, cheese, jam, and a roasted game fowl, whose telltale chest wound identified him as the recent acquisition of one of Brenna's scouts. Further eating would be done in transit, and march food is by no means filling, so I cleaned my platter to the last crumb. I drank two cups of wine as a ward against the cold, and then gargled and spat a mouthful of water, before drinking deeply from the ceramic jug—there was no need for Boers to know that I had indulged before battle.

I did not bother to call on the helpful servitor that woke me, for I had grown accustomed to dressing myself, even in armor.

My arming jack and cuirass were missing, and in their place much finer pieces stood out upon my armor tree. The new armor was of a similar design, and the jack was nearly identical to the other; a soft black fabric with patches of flattened, riveted mail to cover the gaps in my armor. The notable difference was in the mail, as it was of a finer quality, with smaller rings, and hundreds more of them. They were still of good iron, as Lior later told me on the road, but plated with bright hepatizon, which was an entirely aesthetic touch, so the mail would match the rest of my new armor.

Also nearly identical to its older counterpart, the cuirass left on my armor tree was shaped like the torso of a man far stronger than I, though the new one was made from six plates of iron: one covering the chest and belly, a backplate, a short, curving rectangular plate below the waist, front and back—with pterugi to protect my thighs—and a pair of pauldrons, each with four short pterugi of their own, for the protection of my upper arms. The whole suit was plated in lustrous hepatizon, the alloy present even on the studs of my pterugi.

I laughed to myself briefly, thinking that my vambraces, greaves, helmet, and shield would look dull, formed as they were of a less costly bronze; the laughter died on my lips when I saw that they had all been burnished to a bright sheen—if I had not known of my minor role in the coming battle, I might have feared for my ability to travel in stealth.

The Kenalkan Banner symbol was worked in pure gold over the chest piece of my cuirass, and I saw that its counterpart on the cloth of my white cape bore none of the dust of the road.

Dressed and armored, I emerged into the early darkness to find that I was surrounded. Lior, Brenna, and a handful of their higher-ranking Initiates stood around me, ranging sporadically—they had come to me as individuals. Brenna spoke first.

"The Temple Sergeants that will remain to guard our camp wish to offer gifts to aid you in battle."

One of the sergeants produced a low stool, and Brenna motioned that I should sit. I obeyed, and the High Priestess spoke as two of her women began to labor at removing my greaves.

"Heavy boots are a fine choice for fighting; they protect well the feet of the wearer, and when the enemies begin to fall, their cleats aid in gaining purchase on ground made wet by blood. The thick, unyielding soles allow a warrior to fight, heedless of the discarded blades of the slain that threaten to pierce the feet of the unshod.

"But the strength of the enemy lies in his strange weaponry. The thunderer is powerful and deadly when it finds its mark, but slow beyond belief in preparing a second shot. We must strike fast, and the thick, unbending leather of strong boots will hamper any man that wears them. Take instead the gift of our women; flexible shoes of soft hide—black as a moonless night, weightless as an arrow flight, and quiet as a bashful rumor. For haste, you may now trust in your feet. May they serve you well. You should know that you are the first man to be shod in like manner to our warriors, and this is an honor we do not offer lightly."

When I looked down, my greaves were again buckled firmly, but my feet were covered in soft hide. I flexed my feet, and grinned at the possibility of running with full range of motion.

Before I could thank the women for the honor, Lior beckoned me to rise. One of his men approached without ceremony and offered me, with a single hand, a pair of Brek javelins. The shafts were much thinner than spear shafts, formed of a dark wood and slightly flexible. When grounded, they rose to the level of my armored pectoral, and were surmounted by long, gently waving spear points that were themselves equal to one-half the length of the shafts.

The metal of the spear points was a strong iron, blended with a bit of copper. The alloy formed an incredibly sharp edge, and even a glancing blow from the wavy point would shear through flesh like a heated knife through snow. The addition of copper also produced a glossy, brazen appearance which transformed a clever design into a work of art, and I found it amusing that I might hesitate to hurl something beautiful at an enemy. Lior spoke then, but was uncharacteristically brief, for unlike Brenna, he did not have to speak over the fitting of the gift.

"Brek never raised hunters, but we learned through many generations to become fine warriors. We carry no bows, but strike with the strength of our arms from well beyond the reach of our enemies—may the Sun's light guide your aim. And remember, a thrown spear is aimed, not at the man, but at the part of his body you wish to strike. Aim at his heart, and a strike to neck or belly will fell him just the same."

I didn't have the heart to tell Lior that I did not know how to aim a javelin at all, but I accepted the gift, and was glad at least of the ability to answer an attack from a distance with one of my own.

Lior and Brenna walked hurriedly to their mounts, and the same servitor that had cleaned my armor led my own horse forward; I took advantage of the moment to thank him, then mounted. I stalled High Priest and Priestess with an upraised hand, then turned to the sergeants and stopped them as they began to walk away.

"My friends! You have honored me greatly. While I have no doubt that you have longed for the battle ahead, I also have no doubt that you are here only because of a poor drawing of lots—an unlucky roll of the dice. Take heart, then, for there will be many more battles before the invaders have lost their taste for violence, and many more eyes and necks for you to grace with introduction to the arrows and swords of Ashad and Brek. That day will arrive sooner than you think, and though I pray that I am wrong, I will be honored to fight by your side—honored to tell all those I meet, that though my mother gave birth but once, my brothers and sisters live behind mighty walls of stone. My thanks for your gifts, and, if battle favors us, we will drink to our victory—and all our future victories—as one."

I bowed deeply from the saddle, aware from the edge of my vision that Lior and Brenna were beaming with the same bright smile, and then turned my horse, conscious of the higher degree of comfort Ashad footwear offered in the stirrups.

We rode with fifty men and women from the holding force, who would lead our horses back to camp when we were within a respectable distance of the battlefield. From there, we would travel in greater stealth on foot.

The noise of our travel did not concern me, for two hundred scouts still ranged widely, and would slay any observer they suspected of complicity with the enemy.

We rode in silence and darkness for nearly eight hours, each to his own thoughts. At the appointed time we halted, turned our mounts, waited for our escort to halter the horses in three long lines, then divided into three groups and continued on foot. We did this all without a word, not hazarding any exchange, for fear that it might encourage a similar outburst from the others.

Brenna and Lior continued west down the road, for their paths divided only gradually, while Sigmund, Boers, and my twenty ranged with me. We traveled south for half an hour, before again turning west, and most of the men were tasked with pulling the steam cart of our captured enemy.

The foreign cart would convey our signal to attack, and we would aim it for their southern gate with the enemy corpses tied to their seats. For fuel, Boers ground high-grade charcoal and blended it liberally with Kvejka, lamp oil, and small pebbles of coal. He stirred the mixture into a large portion of the lower quality charcoal that half-filled the container from which the enemy had fed the furnace. This would ensure a long, hot burn, for we could risk no failure—we needed the cart to reach the gates, and hoped the enemy would open them on sight of their people and device.

The signal to attack was contained in the barrel I had liberated from the wagon of the key-thief. Boers and Sigmund prepared a cord in like manner to those of the weapons that the enemy threw. They had found that these were made by rolling simple cord of cloth in the same powder contained in the barrel, which was large enough that I could have hidden inside it, had it been empty. After much testing of the rate at which the cord burned, they produced a long coil of it, and prepared to adjust its length to ensure that flame kissed powder soon after the cart passed behind enemy gates. The quantity of powder inside the barrel left me hoping that few would live on to test the points of Brenna's arrows.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Battle

The Ashad scouts signaled us to a halt. I passed my helm to Boers, then wrapped myself in a horse blanket; my armor was not so stealthy as my new footwear. Though the terrain had not been difficult, I gained ground slowly; I'd been cautioned to guard my armored movements.

Maril, the lead scout, did not turn to mark my approach. Her eyes were on the faint torchlight in the watchtower that rose before my eyes, even as I climbed to the level at which she had been crouching. The grasslands were twenty or so paces east of us in a depression, well hidden behind another series of low, gradually sloping hills.

The palisade wall of the enemy camp was just over one hundred paces away, the watch tower only a few paces beyond. I knelt beside her, keeping my body low to the ground. She leaned close, her voice the faintest of whispers.

"One hour to sunrise. The others will already be in position. Signal now, or wait?"

"We wait. Half an hour. Gray light. Guard must see the passengers. Should still be too dark to see the blood or faces. If they send out a patrol, speed the word."

I backed away, almost crawling. When I was far enough down the hill, I rose slowly and returned to Boers. I accepted my helmet and gave the men of Sangholm my final instructions. They leaned in, straining to hear my muffled words in such a comical fashion that I felt rather foolish.

"Their southern gate is one hundred and twenty paces directly north. Prepare the cart and fire cord. One hundred twenty paces. Its full speed is roughly equal to that of a horse, according to Maekara. Is that close enough for an accurate cord length?"

Boers nodded.

"Aye, but it would be better if I had a look, myself. My legs are a bit shorter than yours, and our idea of a pace might be a bit different. While I'm there, we should position the cart so that the gate will intersect perfectly with its path. Just a moment."

He rushed over to the Brek Initiates, giving them instructions of some kind, and then climbed into the cart; he emerged with a strange-looking stave with a single cross-piece at a perfect right angle. A long thin rope coiled about the cross-piece, and after tying the loose end to the middle of the iron framework at the front of the cart, he returned.

"Figured the aiming of the cart would be difficult, so I took this from one of the commissary wagons. Normally, this little arm is for hanging a pot of cooked food, so another can be put over the fire in its place. And sometimes they hang lanterns from them. The rope is meant to be pulled taut, drawn from the exact middle of the cart."

I had seen the stick in the capacity of a makeshift lamppost before, but did not know how it could possibly aid in aiming a rolling steam cart. Then again, three days prior to those events, I did not even know that steam carts existed—nor did Boers, though that fact had not prevented him from innovating in a time of need. He moved slowly, battling well the influence of his obvious excitement. Clearly, he enjoyed innovation and clever machinery; but as a servant, chosen as a younger man to act as Sigmund's voice, he had rarely been presented with the opportunity to test the sharpness and flexibility of his mind.

The cord uncoiled behind him, and as he took his place beside Maril he dropped to the ground, alternating between positions prone and supine. He lowered his head frequently, looking down the length of that peculiar stick of his. He used the cross-piece to rewind any loose cord, then steadied the shaft until it sat parallel with the horizon. When he felt it had been positioned properly, he turned on his side to examine the cord, before delivering a prearranged signal, single-handed, to his master.

Sigmund disappeared from my side, and I turned to watch as he motioned to the men of Brek. Sigmund braced himself beneath the rightmost corner at the front of the vehicle, with four men of Brek close behind. Another six braced themselves beneath the leftmost corner, then, at Boers's signal, they lifted it together, raising the front wheels off the ground until they reached the height of Sigmund's knee.

They must have oiled every moving part of that vehicle, for it made little sound; I heard only the dull scraping of the rear wheels, those still in contact with the ground. They lowered it, Boers took another measurement, and they repeated the process. Five times they tilted the vehicle, and when Boers finally returned to us, his face expressed deep satisfaction; the tone of his hushed voice offered confirmation as he recoiled the thin cord.

"Should be perfectly centered on the gate now, and as luck would have it, we've picked a fine spot. I couldn't see a single stone or dip in the ground from here to there, so there shouldn't be any deviation. I'll lock the steering levers so they won't move on their own. And you'll be pleased to know, Master Ralph, that while I was aligning the cart with the gate, I was able to come to a fair estimate of the distance.

"I painted this cord yesterday afternoon, to divide it into fixed units. We Hjarrleth have more exact units of measure than the lengths and breadths of our extremities, which are, for the most part, unique from one person to the next."

He showed the painted rings, and with a smile I concurred with his assertion that the distance between each painted stripe was indeed, uniform.

"We use battle measurements, each based on the length of an object that never changes in size. The shortest is based on the width of our barbed arrowheads, and they-"

Sigmund stopped him, apparently commanding him to be brief. He pointed to the lightening horizon, and then motioned to the cart. Boers accepted this, and continued.

"Anyway, the distance from the cart to the crosspiece of my stick was almost exactly the same as the length of seventeen Hjarrleth arrow shafts. From the crosspiece to the gate, I simply estimated in multiples of the cord length. Adding the distance from crosspiece-to-cart to the distance from crosspiece-to-gate, I was able to estimate a distance of one hundred thirty-six shafts, or argeis. At top speed, the cord will burn at the rate of one arga for every twenty-two traveled by the cart, so I'll cut the cord at a bit over six arga. Perhaps six-and-one-half, as it needs to be well within their camp before the cord reaches the inside of that barrel. I can't wait to see what happens!"

He hurried past me, and I was glad to see him busied with a pursuit that presented him with an adequate challenge. It may have been my idea, but without Boers we'd have been at a loss to carry it out. Seeing his servant in such an unusual state, Sigmund smiled good-naturedly; his gladness was something of a surprise, for he'd been denied any chance of battle. I knew that he had greatly desired to test himself before returning home.

And after all, he had much to prove. Though he had been the chieftain of his clan in name for seven years, he had been Phulako even before that time. It would be regarded as strange, and perhaps even unmanly for a chieftain to walk about unarmed, especially when the white sword of his clan remained always upon the back of his servant.

His mother also expected much of him, for she was Matriarch of all the Hjarrleth.

To stand so close, and yet so far away must have been nothing short of maddening, and yet he bore it stoically, even managing to appear happy for his servant. Sigmund must have been aware that I watched him, for when I finally pulled myself from the depths of contemplation, I could see that he was returning my stare. I closed the distance between us, then leaned in, close enough to whisper.

"I've taken you far from the battle. It would have done much, I think, to aid your case at home. Armored, armed, and with news and spoils of your victory, they would forget the Phulako, and remember the chieftain. I've cost you much it seems, and for that, I am sorry."

He nodded, his eyes cast to the ground, and took a deep breath. When he looked up, his face was twisted in a humorous scowl, and he released the intake of breath in an equine fricative, though softly so it would not betray us to the enemy. He pointed northeast, in the direction of the treeline where the army had positioned itself, and then to the cart where Boers was trimming the fire cord.

He clasped his hands together and then splayed them apart, making a gentle thundering noise with his mouth. He then assumed the stance of an archer, tilting his invisible bow so the arrow would arc high. The string all the way to his ear, he loosed his shaft, and then brought his hands around his throat in a comical depiction of a dying man. He did this all as quietly as he could, and the slow execution of his silent dance made it all the funnier. I understood his meaning completely.

"You're probably right. I'd be very surprised if they had any taste for battle after the coming blast—to mention nothing of twelve thousand arrows. Just the same, perhaps they'll leave a few alive. I'd hate to see you return with a dry blade. After so many years of peace, Starkdrepa must be awfully thirsty."

He laughed silently, and I was thankful, for once, that he could not chortle as loudly as his servant.

* * *

I could not wait any longer. The sun had not yet risen over the trees to the east.

But I worried with each passing moment that the day would grow too bright before I dared to make my move.

The corpses were dressed as they had been in life, and their clothing and exposed flesh had been washed as best we could manage—we had even stitched their wounds to prevent further leakage. They wore their armor, bore their weapons, and were fastened to their seats in such a way that they sat upright.

One of Lior's men had made a humorous comment comparing the corpses to scarecrows, and this in turn led to the idea that rods should be employed to keep them sitting as though they were alive. Fastened about the waist and forehead with bindings of strong linen, the rods kept them level, so that they stared lifelessly into the horizon. A more drastic measure had to be taken for the coal shoveler, as he had no seat; he'd been obliged to stand while working. This required a framework, which they nailed to the floor of the cart, and it was covered by his clothing.

At first, the dead shoveler was positioned at the furnace, but that looked ridiculous, as though he had been frozen in the midst of his labors. Finally, someone thought to lean him lazily against the rear wall of the cart, near to the charcoal bin and away from the heat of the furnace. That appeared more natural, and I was certain that from a distance, seeing the cart and the men within, they would be granted passage. Then, if the enemy realized that the men were dead, they would not likely see the trap for what it was until it was far too late.

With the sun rising, I began to worry. Late predawn was the time Lior and Brenna had been told to expect, but even though I knew dawn was near, I had no idea how near. The sky was still gray, and lightening, but in the full light of day the enemy would not be fooled by the sight of stationary, pallid, expressionless men. I was still uncomfortable with using the bodies of the dead in such a way, but none of the others appeared greatly concerned, and so I accepted it as one of the acts made tolerable only in times of war.

Boers had already lit the furnace to allow it time to heat up. He'd explained that it took time for the heat to build to the point at which forward motion could be achieved. I yielded stoically, though with much effort—my apprehension being the match of his excitement. There was nothing that could be done about the plume of black smoke; we had to hope that it was still too dark for the sentries to see it.

Finally, I gave the order. From within the cart, Boers lit the fire cord and leapt to the front of the vehicle to release the front wheels. This he did reaching over the dead driver's arms, which had been positioned so that they grasped the frozen steering levers. The cart lurched forward immediately, but Boers had been expecting this, and had positioned himself on the far side of the cart when he squeezed the release lever. He leapt from the cart as it rumbled past and landed heavily at my side.

As the cart crested the hill, I punched Boers on the shoulder to catch his attention. When he turned to me, I quirked an eyebrow and tilted my head in the direction of the cart—a silent permission for him to watch the scene unfold in my stead. I had cautioned them all to remain as they were when the cart rolled past, fearing that twenty-three spectators might be visible, even crouched against the far side of the hill. He smiled, nodding his thanks as he rushed by, heedless of the clatter of his mail; the roaring and creaking of the steam cart covered the sound of any movement. I waited there, slightly jealous that he would be permitted to see the outcome of our signal, though he had earned the right, for he had made possible a difficult and complex plan.

The rumbling grew faint, and I heard a chorus of challenges at the vehicle's approach, all unintelligible to me. Boers looked back from where he crouched, throwing out his right hand to form some sign in Sigmund's silent language. Sigmund tapped me on the shoulder, and again he spoke to me without words. He held his palms erect in front of his face, the backs of his hands facing me, then rotated his palms in the manner of an opening gate. The face behind his armored hands was filled to bursting with a savage excitement. He clapped me on the shoulder with his right hand in congratulation.

They had taken the bait.

We waited, and my heart pounded with apprehension. _Was the fire cord too long?_ I did not know, but a thousand catastrophic possibilities flashed through my mind in the span of only a few moments. Before I could take inventory of any of those maddening doubts, the barrel performed as planned, to a degree we had not anticipated. I was thrown bodily, lifted from the ground in a wave of heat and a roar of thunder that rang sharply and painfully in my ears.

Had I not donned my helmet moments before, and been covered in heavy armor, the awkward posture of my landing might have caused great injury. As it happened, I landed on Sigmund, and the heaviness of my armor left me in fear for his life, but when I lifted myself, painfully, to see to his safety, his eyes held only concern for my well-being—his armor was not even dented by the impact of our collision. Suddenly, his eyes went wide, and he rose with a speed that made mock of his armored weight. His eyes scanned the terrain, and he ran, heedless of the rattling noise he produced. I followed, and we found Boers and Maril, both sprawled prone upon the ground.

They had been thrown much farther than I, but aside from the soot that covered their faces and clothing, neither appeared the worse for wear. A cursory examination revealed that none were injured, and while the scouts retrieved the arrows that had fallen from their quivers, Boers, Sigmund, and I crept up the narrow hillside.

No one spoke, I remember that well. We were all shocked by the sight before us. The entire southern wall of the enemy camp was gone, scattered in pieces that ranged all around—a few fragments had landed within an arm's length of where I crouched. The thundering powder had worked its evil far within the camp—a full third of it had been utterly obliterated, and much of the rest lay in ruins, battered and burnt.

The charred, flattened, soot-stained earth reached all the way to the treeline to the east.

My stomach clenched with acid anxiety.

Brenna's thousand remained idle, even in the eerie stillness that followed the signal to attack. Perhaps they had chosen to seize a more direct opportunity; the eastern portion of the wall was heavily damaged. Indeed, the force of fire and thunder had peeled back the log and rope structure; it curled upon the ground like a discarded rind. The camp would be in easy view, especially for keen-eyed Brenna.

I could see movement within the camp, men running about in all directions, and still I saw no cloud of arrows. Brenna was not an idle woman, nor was she hesitant in matters of violence. If she stayed her hand, she did so with purpose. I scanned the scene before me, but saw nothing, only a few men moving about to assess the damage and search for survivors. There were corpses, scattered all about, and even limbs that had been torn loose and thrown far from the bodies.

Why were there so few? A third of the camp had been destroyed, and nearly half of their tents must have been torn and thrown violently away, for canvas and thin shattered guy poles were scattered everywhere. The remaining tents could not have housed more than a few hundred, and most of them would have been asleep at the time of the explosion. I saw only two or three dozen whole corpses, and perhaps the same number again were strewn about in pieces.

It was then that I heard it. A familiar thunder roared repeatedly, resonating deeply from the grasslands beyond the hills to the west. The forest shuddered, and it was little wonder, for I saw the landing of heavy stones. The trees cracked heavily and loudly, and many fell. I heard a roaring and a clashing to the northeast beyond the copse.

Battle had found the Men of Brek.

I did not think at all as I ran. Not of what I should do, or how those around me might react. I simply ran, unaware of the weight of my armor and filled with dread. I threw on my helm mid-stride, which I'd removed to prod my skull for signs of injury; though my left hand was laden with the pair of Brek javelins, I managed to armor my head, single-handed. I climbed the hills to the west to look into the grasslands, heedless of stealth.

Perhaps as many as one hundred of the enemy labored there, ignorant of my scrutiny. They had been little more than one hundred paces away from me for hours, and I had taken no notice. The half-dozen iron behemoths they busied about preparing for a second shot appeared as giant cousins to the smaller thunderers they carried, and the tubes were angled high, to strike down upon Brenna within the useless cover of the treeline.

I turned to see that I had been followed. I backed down the hill and looked to Sigmund, Maril, and Dorid, the Brek leader. I had an idea, but had I taken even a moment to explain it fully, I would have lost my nerve.

"Wait for them to attack. When you hear thunder, crest the hill. Brekmen charge on me with Sigmund and Boers. Ashad to attack from the hilltop."

I said nothing more and climbed. The enemy did not mark my approach; they were thirty paces distant when I shouted from atop the hill.

"BRE-EK!"

The first of them turned to face me as I threw my first javelin. It flew wide of the mark, and a few of them began to laugh. I ran the second time, taking a few steps before I threw, and fared far better. My weapon sailed gracefully, and ripped deeply into the thigh of one of their officers.

I was bolting recklessly even before the missile's landing; by the time the screaming of one had drowned out the laughter of the others, I was already down the hill, legs pumping to close the remaining distance. They took aim upon me—the order to attack followed almost instantly. I faltered, nearly halting as their weapons erupted in smoke and fire, and dozens of them shot at me with lockbows. Most were armed with weapons for ranged fighting, and I saw their missiles—little more than tiny flashing blurs before my eyes.

I gripped the sheath in my left hand as I drew Sequiduris with my right. The coiling sheath was mounted high, and as a result, the effort expended in the drawing of my blade caused me to wheel away from the straight line of my charge. This was fortuitous, and saved me from the rapid thrust of a pair of pikes, which lunged into the air where I had been standing. Gripping my hilt in both hands, I slashed at the weapons with a weak, underhanded swipe that severed their hafts cleanly. The eyes of the pikemen snapped wide, and wider still when struck by a pair of white shafted arrows. Of the dozen or so that had rushed at me with pikes and swords, none had survived—they all fell to the arrows and javelins of my escort.

I loped forward, hacking wildly. Flesh, bone, wood, and even iron resisted little the attacks of my Sword, and I felt a surge of savage bliss—a hateful, manly euphoria that I regarded later with little pleasure, though I will not now be deceitful in my accounting—I enjoyed the sensation greatly.

I was carried away by the need for bloodshed, and pushed deeply into the throng of my enemies with an almost sexual urgency. This was an error, for now they could attack me from every direction; I saw the flashing of swords and daggers, heard them slither from their sheaths. Archer, thunderer, and siege engineer—all would now fight as soldiers, and I knew that I could no longer press the offensive as I had in the charge. Any dedicated strike would leave me exposed to attack.

I turned about again and again, waiting, inexplicably grinning with bared teeth and panting. Their expressions were less enthusiastic. They worried over who would attack first, risking an almost certain death. This all happened in far less time than it takes to recount, and when the first of them attacked, I had not been fighting for more than a few moments.

One of their officers, perhaps ten years older than I, was the first to chance an attack; I saw him in my periphery as he rushed me with an upraised sword. I spun about, slicing through middle neck to claim his head. I felt no resistance. Before they could voice their shock or redouble their efforts I heard a crash, and I turned away from the rising sun to see the hulking form of Sigmund. He stood over the bodies of two foes, both killed by collision, alone. Starkdrepa was stained with bright blood.

I shouted, _"Back to back!"_ Sigmund grinned, his open mouth clearly defined even within the confines of his closed helmet. He halved the distance between us, turning mechanically as I did the same. There we fought all-comers.

When many of the enemy began to move in the direction of the attacking Men of Brek, I turned my head, shouting again so that Sigmund could hear me. _"Break!"_ We moved in opposite directions, fighting those that had taken refuge beyond the reach of our swords.

From that moment, it seemed that the battle was all but finished, and with the few enemies that had remained among the giant thunderers already dead, I turned to seek battle elsewhere. There I saw Sigmund, a terror to all foes that tested his strength. When his blade was engaged, he often struck with an armored fist, and I had little doubt that every punch would be felt as a killing blow.

I caught sight of an enemy in my periphery; when I turned, I saw him at work with his lockbow. The weapon was strange, the thick arms of the bow fashioned of iron, and he labored at a strange crank, attached opposite the shoulder-end. I had seen similar devices upon the walls of Brek, and knew that they were used to wind ballistae of a strength exceeding the capabilities of human sinew.

He aimed for Sigmund, and from that distance, barely ten paces from where the giant Hjarrleth fought, I was greatly in doubt of the strength of his ironskin to turn the heavy dart. I ran to aid him, but knew that I was much too far away. The man took aim, and my eyes were only for him. I was only a few paces away when the enemy loosed his weapon—I heard the impact, and the thud that followed; I did not dare to look.

Finding my voice at last, I screamed in outrage.

The enemy made no move to defend himself; I gave him no chance. Sequiduris held high, I struck upon the dome of his skull; I followed through, dragged my edge through flesh and bone. At that moment, I revealed the truth of Azslaethi—and the power of Sequiduris.

My enemy fell upon the ground—two halves of a bloody whole.

Boers was dead. The dart had pierced his heart as he lunged in front of his master. Only a few knots of fighting men remained. Few of ours were slain.

I sought more bloodshed, unable to mourn in my outrage.

I heard Sigmund, even as he knelt over the corpse of his servant. I had thought him mute, totally incapable of voicing any sound. But I was wrong.

Even over the din and clash, I could hear him weeping.
Author's Note:

The first leg of Ralph's journey has been arduous, and clearly, any reader dedicated enough to reach this point is not to be dissuaded. My thanks. This tale has been a joy to write.

And now, I have a favor to ask. If you enjoyed the experience, please take a moment to review this story, on whichever site you found it. Such a favor will be of great help, to myself, and to the Onidai. His story cannot continue without you.

-Nathaniel Firmath

To learn about upcoming tales, you may find me on Facebook, and on Twitter, keyword Firmath.

Comments and suggestions may be sent to nkfirmath@gmail.com
