Storm Breaking

"Mage-power, as we know and understand it, is an energy that is given off by living things in the same way that fire gives off heat and light in the act of consuming wood," he said, his manner easy and casual, his tone exactly the same as if he were describing the weather and not a power that could wreck kingdoms. "It tends to want to gather together, and tends to follow well-worn paths. In that, it is more like rainwater than fire."

"And mages can see this power?" Karal asked, though his mouth was dry with nervousness.

"That's what makes someone a mage," Sejanes replied. "I can see that power any time I make the effort to—and someone like Firesong has to make an effort not to see it."

Karal glanced over at Firesong, who looked no different from any other absurdly handsome Hawkbrother, and shook his head. Seeing power all the time... was it like seeing things with an extra color added? Was it like seeing particles and waves swirling all around you like swimming underwater? And when the power got too strong, did it blind you, like looking into the sun?

"Now, the power itself obeys rules," Sejanes continued. "When the threadlike paths, or tiny streams, merge together enough to make them of a different magnitude of strength, we call them 'ley-lines.' These tend to be straight, at least in the short term, and that, besides strength of power, is what makes ley-lines different from the trickles that feed them."

"Is it the strength that makes them straight?" Karal hazarded.

Sejanes looked pleased. "We don't know for certain, but that is the theory," he said. "It makes sense; a trickle of water will meander more than a powerful river. We think that after a certain point, the power can cut through the world taking the shortest distance which, as Master Levy will tell you, is always a straight line."

Karal nodded; no wonder Sejanes and Master Levy got on so well!

"Now, sooner or later, since power is attracted by power, these lines will meet. The places where two or more ley-lines meet forms something called a 'node,' where power collects." Sejanes looked at him expectantly.

Karal hazarded another question. "It can't collect indefinitely, though, can it?"

Sejanes looked very pleased. "No, it can't, and it will either be used up or drain away into the Void, and we honestly don't know what happens to it after that."

Karal seemed to recall An'desha telling him something about a third option, something that the Hawkbrothers used called a Heartstone, but that was a complication he didn't need right now. First, learn the rules, and worry about the exceptions later.

"Now—about using power," Sejanes continued. "Mages can use the power that they themselves produce. Mages can use the power given off by things in their immediate vicinity. Mages can also store power for later use in reservoirs; those can be available only to a single mage, or can be a group effort, built by group contributions, for as long as the group lasts."

"Everybody?" Karal asked, more than a bit alarmed by the notion of a barely-trained Apprentice being able to use such power.

"Oh, no!" Sejanes chuckled. "No, fortunately, lack of training and practice provides some control. The common titles for levels of ability refer to what power they can tap, and not their absolute skill. As with any venture, some people are more skilled than others, but I digress. Apprentices can only use their own power or what is immediately available around them below the level of a ley-line. Journeymen can use ley-lines. Masters can use those reservoirs. If a mage is part of a particular school, he is given the key to the reservoir built by the mages of that school at the time he becomes a Master. At that point, part of his duty every day is to feed the reservoir as much power as he has time to gather. Eventually, over the years, with these reservoirs being filled more often than they are drained, they are ready for anything the Masters might need, but that power is tame, like water in a still pond."

"Because it isn't flowing anywhere?" Karal asked, and was rewarded by Sejanes's nod. "But what about nodes?"

"That," Sejanes said with a shading of pride, "is what only Adepts can do. Adepts don't need to bother with the reservoirs, though they sometimes do simply because they are so still—for very delicate work, for example, such as Healings. Adepts can tap into and use the raw power of the nodes. The stronger the Adept, the larger the node he can control. Ley-line power is harder to control than reservoir power or ambient power, because, as you guessed, it is 'moving,' so to speak. But node power fights the user, because it is moving swiftly, sometimes in more than one direction and is wild and unconfined. Have you understood me so far?"

Karal nodded; so far this all seemed very straightforward. Perhaps Altra would also be able to help him with this, since the Firecat seemed something of a mage.

"Last of all of those who handle mage-power come the Channels." Sejanes nodded at Karal. "As I said when I began, the one thing that all life-path mages have in common is that they have what the Valdemarans call the Mage-Gift, and that ability enables them to actually see magic power. Channels, however, usually do not have Mage-Gift, or if they do, it isn't very strong."

"Why?" Karal asked.

Sejanes rubbed the side of his nose. "I don't know if there is a reason. There is some speculation that this is partly a protection for them, and partly a protection against them. The ability to sense magic power might be blinded the first time a Channel was used by very powerful magic. And if you can sense something, you can use it, so it might be better for all of us that anyone who can handle power stronger than any Adept would even dream of touching cannot actually use that power himself."

Again, Karal nodded. If you went on the basic assumption that any Karsite would—which was that it was Vkandis who granted such abilities—such a system of checks and balances made complete sense. Vkandis would not have placed extraordinary power within the capacity of mere mortals without some curbs on the system.

The explanation might also simply be that the act of attempting to actually use that much power rather than just direct it could be fatal. If mages who were also Channels died before they could wed and bring forth children with the Gift, such a combination wouldn't last for long. Look what happened to those with mind-magic in Karse. They'd been gathered up and given to the Fires for generations, and as a result, just before Solaris took power, there were so few such "witches" and "demons" that there hadn't been more than four or five Fires a year, with a single victim apiece.

Sejanes looked down at his hands for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Think of a funnel; the wide end catches scattered drops of water or small pieces of matter, and focuses it down into a small, directed stream. That's what a Channel does, and roughly how a Channel does it. And because a Channel actually forces the power going through him to flow through a 'smaller space,' he increases the force of that flow and its 'speed," if you will. So what a Channel needs to work perfectly is someone to guide the power in, however wild it may be, and someone to direct it as it goes out again. Remember that directing something—much like shunting a stream a few degrees—is much easier than using it."

Karal nodded numbly as Sejanes continued.

"Magic is much like water, Karal, but it is far more versatile. It can be manipulated by force of will, by natural aptitude, by specialized devices, and by other ways. Water, essentially, can only get things 'wet,' if I may use a crude analogy. Magic, however, can get things wet, turn things to dust, set them ablaze, make them into stone, give them life, put them somewhere else, and so on. But magic in its wild forms works in very gradual and subtle ways. It is not until magic is manipulated by someone that it has 'quick' effects. Without mages, magic takes its natural course."

"Like a river," Karal offered. "And mages make water wheels and dams and bridges."

Sejanes leaned back, apparently impressed. "That," he said slowly, "is essentially it. Yes. That is what we do."

Karal bit at his lower lip and offered, "And what happened here, is that long ago there was an explosion in the magic that—scooped a hole out. And the water—I mean, the magic—is rushing back to fill the hole."

"Close," Sejanes nodded. "Very close. You are a bright young man, Karal. Now, back to just what you are. A Channel. For whatever reason, a Channel collects power that is brought 'to' him, and directs it in a more purely directed, less stormy fashion."

"That's all there is to it?" Karal exclaimed. "I am a funnel?"

Sejanes smiled. "That's all the theory," he chided gently. "But now comes the practice that will help you keep parts of yourself from interfering with or even fighting that stream of power. And it will be all the harder because you will be dealing with something you yourself can only sense dimly, like playing blind-man's bluff with an unruly stallion. And to continue that analogy, I'm not going to show you how to catch and ride the beast, because it will kill you if you try. Instead, I'm going to try to teach you how to keep 'yourself' out of its way."

At the end of the lesson, Karal was quite certain that Sejanes' analogy of a game with an angry horse was the correct one. The inside of his head felt bruised, somehow, though certainly not as bad as he had felt after the first time he'd acted as a Channel. The lesson was over when Sejanes clapped him on the back and told him that he had done very well for his first attempt.

"You aren't the worst Channel I've ever seen, and we tend to use them more than you Westerners do," the old mage said cheerfully. "I don't know if the ability occurs more often in the Empire or if we Imperial mages are so lazy that we'd rather use Channels than focus power ourselves, and so we make an active effort to look for the ability. But you aren't the worst, that's for certain, and you've come to the lessons late in your life, so that's encouraging."

:Faint praise, but better than none, I suppose,: Altra observed, wrapping himself around Karal's legs. :Natoli is waiting to talk to you.:

"I'm going to assume that since my lord Altra is here, that your young lady is ready to speak to you," Sejanes observed. "Go on, off with you. By the by, you'll toughen up as you practice; this should be the worst training session you'll ever endure."

:You'll notice he said training session,: Altra observed, as Karal got up from his stool and followed the Firecat. :That doesn't say anything about the real thing.:

That hadn't escaped Karal's attention, but he really didn't want to dwell on it, not when he was finally going to get to see and talk to Natoli.

Karal took his place on the empty stool in front of the teleson; Altra draped himself over Karal's feet, and the Herald in the crystal winked, and stepped away. A moment later, Natoli moved into the place he had vacated.

She looked as if she had recovered from the boiler explosion. Her hair was a little longer than it had been when he left, and she looked at him as if she had forgotten why she was there. Suddenly he felt very shy.

"Hello, Natoli," he said awkwardly. "You look in good health."

He winced as he listened to himself; was that any way to speak to a girl he really wanted to be able to kiss?

"You don't," she said bluntly, peering at him. "You're too pale, and too thin. What have you been doing to yourself?"

That was so very typical of her that he had to laugh, and relaxed immediately. "As to the first, we've been living underground, and we mostly don't get to see the sun. And as to the second—have you ever tasted Firesong's cooking?" He shuddered melodramatically, and she laughed in return. "Seriously. We're mostly eating as the Shin'a'in do; it's not that bad, just a little odd."

"And you don't often see a fat Shin'a'in," she said shrewdly. "Things were quiet until Altra showed up with this contraption. We Artificers all wanted to take it apart, of course, but when we were told that the first person to try would be skinned, we gave up on the idea." She grinned. "We'll have to make do with trying to duplicate it from those manuscripts. If we can, we'll send one by fast Herald-courier to Solaris, and then you'll get to talk to her on a regular basis."

"Must I?" he asked weakly. He was not ready to face Solaris just yet. He wasn't sure he would be for quite a while, actually. Her Radiance was not a comfortable person to speak to, face-to-face. For that matter, she wasn't a comfortable person to communicate with, letter to letter; he always had the feeling that he was reading something intended for an audience rather than a personal letter.

"First we have to duplicate it," she pointed out, and smiled. "You know, I'm very glad to see you again. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'd wake up, and I'd wonder if you were—quite real."

Oddly enough, he knew exactly what she meant. "It's hard to imagine someone being real who's that far away," he agreed. "It's as if they never existed except in your mind."

She flushed a little, and looked away for a moment. "Anyway," she continued awkwardly, "we've been busy, though it doesn't have anything to do with the important things." She sounded wistful. "There's just nothing we can do right now to help with what you're doing, so we're back to the old projects like bridges and steam boilers."

"There's nothing wrong with that," he countered. "Don't these things have to be done no matter what disaster might be looming?" He managed a crooked grin. "If everything else falls apart, your bridges will be there to get people across rivers that can't be ferried or forded. Surely that's worth something."

She shrugged but looked pleased. "At least what we're doing is useful," she admitted. "It's odd, though. The folk around and about Haven have the funniest attitude; you can tell them and tell them that the protection we've given them from the mage-storms is only temporary, but they act as if it's permanent. They aren't doing anything to prepare themselves for the worst, they aren't even thinking about it." Now she sounded and looked very frustrated. "When you ask them why, they just shrug and can't give you an answer, or they say something stupid, fatalistic, or both."

"I think," he said slowly, "that ordinary folk just can't imagine anything awful happening to them. It always happens to someone else."

"Well, you'd think after years of war and bandits and all they should know better," she replied acidly. "At any rate, now that things have settled down, they aren't at all interested in asking us about things they can do when the Storms come again, they just want to know how long it is going to take before a bridge will be up. Or if the steam boiler is likely to explode again."

"I hope you're on bridges," he said, trying not to show alarm. "And not steam boilers."

"Actually, I'm on metal stress," she replied, running her hand through her hair absently. "I get to make some very interesting and loud noises. We're trying to make tougher alloys, but I don't want to bore you with what we're doing. I spend some time in the forge, because at the moment, work on steam boilers is stalled until we can find a better way to make the boiler itself."

He sighed, resting his chin on his hands. "It wouldn't bore me, but I'd be lost," he admitted. "Sejanes is trying to teach me some specific kind of exercises for working with magic, and those would probably mean about as much to you."

"Probably." The conversation died for a moment. "Still, I hope you aren't—I mean, I don't want you to think that—" her face twisted with frustration. "Just, if you're doing something dangerous, don't take more on yourself than you can carry all right?"

He smiled. "As long as you promise to do the same," he replied, and she laughed.

"Grain for the gander is good for the goose, hmm? Well, I'll promise to try but my judgment is sometimes faulty."

"So is mine, so don't hold it against me." His smile took on an ironic edge. "We can't all be infallible Sons of the Sun."

"Oh, even Solaris admits to fallibility," she chuckled. "Believe it or not."

"Solaris?" he chuckled. "That would be an entry in the annals, especially if she admitted that she was fallible to you polytheistic barbarians."

"But she did!" Natoli protested, and as he continued to regard her askance, she looked surprised. "Oh! I'll bet no one told you, any of you! You will not believe what has happened with Grand Duke Tremane!"

As she outlined the astonishing developments in Hardorn since the arrival of Elspeth and Darkwind, Karal felt his eyes growing larger and larger. No one had seemed to think that any of this was significant enough to pass on to any of the other members of his party—

Which is probably because they all have their own preoccupations and not a one of them thinks anything is important outside those preoccupations! But you'd think someone would have said something to Sejanes!

"We have a Herald and a Companion stationed down in Karse in Solaris'—court, I suppose you call it—" she added.

"Conclave," he corrected.

"Conclave, then. We sent him down so that we could get information to her by way of his Companion and Talia's Rolan." She laughed. "Actually, it's not just a 'Herald,' it's my father, and he seems to be enjoying himself. Anyway, we sent her word about this, and the reply she sent back was: 'Since he has voluntarily placed himself in the hands of a higher judge of character than myself, I feel impelled to point out that Natoli, An'desha, and Karal were correct in their assessment of his basic character, and I was at least in part swayed by nothing more substantial than emotion.' What do you think of that?" She grinned, as if she had somehow won a great prize. Then again, winning a concession like that from Solaris would have been a great prize, particularly as it was her father who had sent the message on to Haven.

It's a small thing, but she just proved to her father that she doesn't have to be a Herald to accomplish something important, he realized. And maybe she just proved it to herself as well.

"I think she didn't use the ecclesiastic plural, which means that she was speaking for Solaris and not for the Son of the Sun," he told her, but he felt very pleased, nevertheless, for the sake of his own people. Historically, it was a tremendous temptation for the Son of the Sun to always think of himself as speaking for Vkandis, until even the most minor personal opinions were incorporated as doctrine. Solaris appeared to have overcome that particular temptation. "Which is not a bad thing."

"No, it's not." She appeared to have run out of things to say, and another awkward moment of silence descended. "I suppose you'll want to go tell all this to Sejanes.…"

He did, but he also didn't want to go, even though he didn't really have anything to say. The silence lengthened and became more strained. She glanced to the side, and her expression lightened a little with relief even while it darkened with disappointment. "Oh, here's someone for Master Levy. If Altra will hold the teleson open while you get him—"

"Of course!" he said, feeling both emotions himself. "Natoli, take care of yourself! And I—I miss all of you."

He didn't dare say that he missed only her, but he hoped she got that impression from his hesitation. "I—we miss you too," she replied, with a smile more shy than usual, and vanished from the crystal. Karal ran to get Master Levy, who nodded and hurried to the device carrying a sheaf of notes as if he had been expecting to be summoned back.

Karal glanced around and couldn't find Sejanes in the upper rooms; he listened carefully and heard the old mage's voice coming thinly from the workshops below. He hurried down the stairs to find Sejanes chatting away comfortably with Lyam, though Tarrn was nowhere in sight.

"Sir!" he called, "I've got the most amazing news about Duke Tremane!"

"Well," Sejanes said, chuckling softly. "Well, well, well." He was inordinately pleased with Karal's news, and Karal could not help but wonder why.

That's an odd way to react, considering that Tremane has acted quite unlike a proper Imperial officer. "I thought you might be upset, sir," he ventured, tilting his head to one side. "Aren't you?"

"Upset? No, this is rather good news, all things considered," Sejanes replied, and chuckled again. "It seems that my former pupil has learned at long last that there are things that do not always answer to his logic. I am quite glad to hear this, truth be told. This is going to be a very good thing for everyone concerned."

Karal kept his inquisitive expression, hoping to prompt more information from the mage, and Sejanes enlarged on his statement.

"I am pleased for Hardorn, for that sad, maltreated land could not have found a better caretaker." He blinked, and his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond Karal. "I am pleased because Tremane could not have found a better trust than Hardorn. He was wasted on the Empire; he has the misfortune to be that rarest of Imperial creatures, a man of high rank who still maintains a shred or two of integrity and compassion. That is not to say, at all, that the military is composed of heartless men; far from that, in fact. He might have done well had he remained within the military, but as Emperor, he would have been a victim of one of three unpleasant fates—eaten alive by those conspiring to use him, murdered, or corrupted."

"That much I can see," Karal replied. "It's quite logical, but..." He faltered, unsure how to ask what he wanted to know without being rude. Imperials were not—quite—irreligious, but they were hardly as devout as even the average Valdemaran. And when compared with the average Karsite, they were positively atheistic!

Sejanes seemed to understand what he wanted to know. "Not all citizens of the Empire are so immersed in practicality as you think." His gaze softened and turned inward for a moment. "Those most likely to become cynical, believers in nothing that they cannot see, are the career courtiers. Those least likely—probably the folk who live nearest the land, and those who live by magic. My young protege was poised between the cynic and the believer, and he could have taken either path. He may be the rarest of all, one who can see the truth in both."

Karal wanted badly to ask just what Sejanes believed in, but he sensed that Sejanes would not tell him now. He might never. That was his right, of course. And it would be horribly impolite of Karal to ask him. If he ever wanted to tell Karal, he would.

"It is my own opinion, that whatever else has happened, Tremane has discovered that there are those other paths. Perhaps that will open his mind to those other possibilities." He rubbed his eyes for a moment, as if they were tired. "And I am pleased that he has an outside governor in this earth-binding, something to—shall we say—keep him from succumbing to other temptations."

"He is that weak, then?" asked Lyam, with the careless tone of one to whom Duke Tremane and his men were no more real than the folk in the Chronicles of a thousand years ago.

They might not be. The Kaled'a'in are so different from the Imperials that they must seem equally unreal to each other.

"Not weak," Sejanes amended, and his wrinkled brow knitted, as he searched for words.

He's trying to explain Tremane to a couple of youngsters for whom the Empire is only a name, who cannot even imagine the levels of intrigue that someone like Tremane must negotiate every day. Karal waited for the aged mage to find the right words. And he can't know that the Temple of Vkandis is—or was, anyway—as much a hotbed of conspiracy as any court. I don't think Lyam could ever understand the stresses that Tremane must have been under, but I do. I wonder if Tremane ever got tired of it all, and wished for things to be simpler? "No, he's not weak." Sejanes repeated. "The trouble is that certain habits, certain ways of reacting, become ingrained. It would be all too simple to revert to the ways in which business is conducted in the Empire, without thought for what was good for Hardorn. That, more than anything, would be the temptation; to take the way that is easiest, rather than the one that is best for the people and the land, and doubly so when resources are low."

Lyam looked baffled, but shrugged, accepting what Sejanes said for the moment.

Karal nodded. "Trying to do things the way he was used to would probably get him in great difficulties in Hardorn, wouldn't it?" he asked. "It might even break up the peace, and he might not know why that had happened. Now, he hasn't a choice, you see; he'll know what is best and he'll have to do it, or he knows how he'll suffer for it. And you know," he continued, feeling a certain amount of surprise at the insight, "the thing is. since people will know he can't do anything selfishly or maliciously, they're likely to be easier on his mistakes, if you take my meaning. They'll be more likely to forgive and explain."

Sejanes flashed a mildly surprised but appreciative look at him. "Exactly so. And I am very fond of Tremane; I should like to see him as happy as anyone burdened with power and the ability to wield it can be. He has a strong sense of responsibility, and this may be the one opportunity of his lifetime to exercise that responsibility with people who are likely to appreciate the care he will take." Once again, Sejanes' gaze turned inward. "He had his estate. of course, but those on it were used to being ruled gently. The folk of Hardorn were subjected to every ill imaginable. That will make them grateful to a gentler hand."

Lyam uttered the breathy equivalent of a laugh, showing very sharp, pointed teeth. "He will be finding himself burdened with more than power, I think. Earth-sense is as jealous a mistress as responsibility."

"But the earth-sense and his own responsibility will work in harness amicably, rather than pulling him to pieces between them," Sejanes countered. "Had he risen to power in the Empire, he would have spent every day being torn among fear, duty, responsibility, expediency, and the right. I think it might have driven him mad. I know it would have changed him into something I would no longer recognize."

The hertasi shrugged again. "Good, then. We take what small victories we can. I hope that all this gives him aid if we cannot stop the Storms. He shall need every help he can muster to protect these people who are now depending on him."

"It might." Karal knew something about earth-sense, though few Sun-priests had it. The ability was much valued among the farmers of the Karsite hills, where the soil was poor and the weather chancy. If you knew that it would be a bad decision to plant corn this year in a particular field, and a good one to plant clover, you might prosper when your neighbors failed. And if you shared your expertise with your neighbors, you might all be able to pay the tithe in goods instead of your own flesh-and-blood, come harvest time. It wasn't exactly a witch-power, and it wasn't exactly one of the things that would get you sent to the Fires, but it also wasn't the sort of thing that you spoke about to the Sun-priests. The Sun-priests in their turn were careful not to ask about it, and all was well.

"Another small victory, then." Lyam nodded decisively, and seemed to think that a change of subject was in order. "This Natoli, who gave you this word—is she kin to you? Or something else?"

That was not the subject the young Karsite would have chosen, and Karal felt himself blushing furiously, as Lyam's quick eyes and quicker wit filled in the truth. "Ah—" the little lizard said, not without sympathy, his head bobbing. "She is to you what Jylen is to me, I think." He sighed gustily. "I do miss her company, but I would not have her here. She could not have endured the journey, and I think she would have felt herself useless, which is a bad thing for anyone to feel."

"Natoli would have felt the same," Karal admitted. "Oh, I feel useless about half the time, and it makes me want to bite something. I'd rather not think how she would react."

"Nor I, Jylen." Lyam laughed. "A trimmer tail there never was, nor a more graceful snout, but neither belong to a maid with an overabundance of patience."

He shared a glance of fellow-feeling with Karal, and the young Karsite experienced a definite warming in the relationship between them.

"Well, Sejanes, I will take my leave of you," Lyam told the mage. "And of you, Karal. My stomach has an overly-intimate embrace with my spine, and I think I shall venture Firesong's cooking and see if it is as terrible as you claim. Surely he learned something from his hertasi!"

"It's not Firesong tonight, it's An'desha," Karal assured him, "And he and the Shin'a'in have agreed to share that particular chore from now on."

"Thanks to the Hundred Little Gods!" Sejanes exclaimed with clear relief. "Even enduring Shin'a'in butter-tea is preferable to eating what Firesong cooks!"

"In that case, I will haste my steps!" the hertasi cried. "In case the other starvelings aloft decide to leave me with naught but scrapings!"

He scrambled down from his stool and scampered up the stairs with a staccato click of toenails on stone. Sejanes cocked an eyebrow at Karal.

"What about you?" he asked. "I was under the impression that young men were never quite fully fed."

It was Karal's turn to shrug uncomfortably. His stomach was still in something of a knot, and he wondered if Natoli was always going to affect him that way. If so, he was destined to grow much thinner.

"Lucky in love?" the old man asked, softly, and with a kindly and sympathetic manner. "Or unlucky? Either one can be hazardous to the appetite."

"I—I'm not sure," Karal replied, feeling his cheeks burning. "We don't know each other that well..."

Sejanes reached out and patted his knee. "Uncertainty can be just as hazardous. But I take it that she is a trusted friend?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely," Karal said fervently. "There isn't anyone I would trust more."

:Humph.:

Karal glanced hastily down at his feet, where Altra lay coiled around the legs of his chair, hitherto unnoticed. How had the Firecat gotten there? The last Karal had seen, Altra had been sprawled on the floor near the teleson.

"There isn't a human I trust more. I trust her as much as I trust Altra and Florian," he amended hastily. "And for a great many of the same reasons."

:Better. Not perfect, but better.:

"That is an excellent beginning, then," Sejanes said, his tone just as serious and his demeanor as sober as if he was discussing the next solution to the mage-storm. "One should always begin with friendship, rather than a more ardent emotion. The former will last, if the latter does not. And one should also have enough in common with a young lady to be her friend. Unless, of course, it is a case of a prearranged attachment, and in that case, there is little that one can do besides hope that one's parents, guardians, or other adults involved have some notion of what might appeal to one in the way of a lifetime companion and attempt to find those things that one has in common with her."

Karal had to chuckle at Sejanes' careful way of putting things. He was delicately trying to learn if Karal and Natoli had been joined to one another by parental agreement, or if they might be violating other such agreements with their own acquaintance. "It's not prearranged, and I also don't think her father, Rubric, will mind that we're—ah, friends—since he's 'the one who introduced us in the first place. He's the Herald who's been sent into Karse as the liaison with Solaris. I think that Natoli doesn't make friends easily."

Sejanes brightened. "This sounds more promising with every word you add!" he said with real enthusiasm. "And your feelings at the moment? Attracted, but confused?"

"Very much so." Karal was as amused as he was embarrassed. Sejanes was certainly taking a very active interest in this situation! And if Karal had not known him, it would be very tempting to dismiss his interest as that of an interfering, old-maidish busybody.

But Sejanes had never interfered in anyone's private life, as far as Karal knew; he was hardly old-maidish, and gave no evidence of being a busybody, although he had intervened to offer to teach Karal something of magic. No, this concern seemed to arise out of some genuine interest in Karal, in the manner of a master with a protege.

Just like Ulrich, his former master.

"You remind me in some ways of some former students of mine," Sejanes said quietly, echoing his own thoughts. "And you can tell me to go to the dogs if you think I'm prying where I have no right, but I hope perhaps I can give you useful advice about Natoli." He grinned conspiratorily. "I have had a number of lady friends over the years, and most of them were as highly intelligent as she seems to be. I believe I can remember what it was like to be young!"

Karal stared at him in mingled surprise and gratitude, for he'd had no one to ask for such advice. An'desha was mostly concerned with Lo'isha and the other Shin'a'in, when he wasn't working, as they all were, with the dangerous magics here. Florian and Altra weren't human, and although Lyam apparently had a lady friend, neither was he. Firesong—well, his advice would hardly apply to Karal's situation, even if he wasn't already wary of asking the Tayledras anything personal. He didn't know Silverfox well enough, he was not going to ask romantic advice of Natoli's teacher Master Levy, and the Shin'a'in were none of them approachable enough. The idea of coming to Sejanes would never have occurred to him.

But Ulrich would have helped me...

Ulrich would have given him the same advice his father would have given him, or an older brother if he'd had one. Vkandis did not require that his priests be celibate, only chaste outside of marriage. Ulrich had told his pupil more than once that he had been romantically attached twice, and that only outside circumstances had prevented him from making either of those women his wife.

Karal knew a bit more than just that, though it was still bare bones. In the case of the second lady in his life, Ulrich and his intended had an extreme difference of opinion over the internal politics of the priesthood, and had not spoken again, not even after Solaris became Son of the Sun. The first time, early in his life, the lady had suffered a short but fatal illness, leaving him brokenhearted for many years.

Ulrich himself had never told Karal the stories; he'd learned of both from some of the Red-robe priests who were longtime friends and colleagues of his mentor. They had meant to compassionately keep him from inadvertently touching salt to Ulrich's open wounds, and warned him of the things he must not press unless Ulrich himself broached the subject.

But that had not prevented Ulrich from giving him some preliminary advice about girls, and the possible pursuit thereof, though at the time he had not been at all interested even in the idea. Perhaps Ulrich had a premonition that one day, he would need that advice.

But it was far more likely that Ulrich had simply been offering what he would give any lively young person who was his protege; the suggestion that he himself had enough experience in matters of romance to offer advice. That set the scene for what was inevitable, and would have prevented him from going to his less-experienced peers for advice that had as much chance of being harmful as helpful.

Now Sejanes was offering the same thing, and Karal was only too happy to accept the offer.

"Thank you, sir," he said simply. "Do you have any ideas about what I should say to her?" He smiled sheepishly. "Don't think that I'm ungrateful, but talking with her is all I can do right now, given our current distance."

"That may be just as well," Sejanes replied mildly, but with a twinkle. "And yes, I have a few suggestions."

That was precisely what he wanted to hear.

Karal and Lyam scribbled on identical sheets of foolscap, seated side by side on a pallet bed, both of them taking full notes of this meeting. The entire group sat on pallets in a rough, three-sided square around the teleson, which was situated in front of Firesong. This was a new version of the old Council sessions that they had held in the Council Room of the Palace at Haven, and he wondered how many of the Councillors on the other side were gazing at the teleson with bafflement. Surely the device must seem to them as strange as any of the Storm-changed beasts that had been displayed for their edification. A tiny image of Queen Selenay gazed solemnly at them from the crystal lens. She had just asked Master Levy if he had any more information on when the mage-storms would begin again.

"I can't speak for magic, but I can for mathematical probability, and that has given us the ability to predict what is going to happen up to a point. The mathematics is relatively clear on this," Master Levy said gravely. "The cancellation effect of the power burst that was released from here is gradually eroding; we'll be seeing the resumption of stormlets in four days, but I don't think that even the most sensitive mage will detect them unless he is looking for them. That's all we know right now, and Treyvan will be in charge of the mages who will be looking for the stormlets and attempting to measure their relative strength. Once we have the resumption of stormlets that actually affect the physical world, we can measure how much they increase in strength and decrease in interval. We'll be able to calculate then how long it will take before the Storms have major physical effects again, and how long until they are dangerous. Once they are dangerous, however, they will build up to a repetition of the one released at the original Cataclysm. I have absolutely no doubt of that."

In the crystal of the teleson, Selenay nodded gravely. Although she alone was visible, the Haven teleson sat in the middle of the Council Chamber, surrounded by a full Council at their horseshoe-shaped table. All of them were able to hear what Master Levy said, although they only saw Firesong.

"Now we come to the question of the last Storm and the effect here, where all of the force will be concentrated. Here is where Need, An'desha, Sejanes, and I have performed our own calculations, and we're not optimistic," Firesong said with uncharacteristic restraint. "It is not good, Majesty. Although the shields of this place survived the initial, outward release, we do not believe they will survive the impact of the energies converging on this place. We think the shields will go down, and all the weapons that have not been rendered harmless will go then, and that will be bad."

"By 'go," just what is it that you are saying?" asked one of the Councillors around the Haven teleson. "And just what precisely does 'bad' mean?"

Karal restrained a nervous titter. How would you explain "bad" to someone whose idea of a catastrophe was a major forest fire, a great flood, or a landslide? How do you get him to believe that it was possible to release forces that melted rock towers and dug craters the size of some countries?

"I wish I knew," Firesong admitted. "We don't know what most of them were intended to do, only that they were weapons deemed 'too dangerous' to use. It would be supremely ironic to discover that they cancel one another out, but I gravely doubt that we can count on that. Certainly the area of destruction will cover the Plains, and since we have enough warning this time, the Shin'a'in are evacuating."

The Shin'a'in are evacuating. The Shin'a'in, who never, ever left the Plains. Would that tell the inquisitive Councillor just how grave the situation was? Karal didn't know.

"Whether the effect will carry as far as Valdemar, I couldn't say, although if I were in your place, I'd count on it." Firesong held up a hand in warning. "And don't ask, 'What effect?' because I don't know that, either. We're trying to find out, but we're dealing with weapons created in secret by a secretive mage and the only notes are in a language that was current two millennia ago. We're doing the best that we can, and having more people here would only slow things down, but what we do may not be enough, or in time."

Karal noted the grumbling on the other side, but no one said anything out loud. Probably because, as Natoli said, they just don't believe it can happen. Sheer stupidity on their part, but there it is. In a way, he couldn't blame them; they were new to true-magic, relatively speaking. For most of them, the terrible things that Ancar's mages had done were only stories, and the first time they had seen anything like magic was when the mage-storms began. Nor could they imagine a force that could turn a flourishing country into a smoking, glass-floored crater. He noted that down, in a sidebar. Tarrn had told him that his observations could be important, so long as they weren't of a personal nature, and to note them down.

Most people don't believe that a disaster is coming, or that it can affect them, even when they're told repeatedly.

He was tremendously grateful that he no longer had to represent Karse at the Council; one of the Sun-priests who had fought with the Valdemarans against Ancar had come North at the same time that Natoli's father had gone South. He had never been comfortable in such a position, had never felt particularly capable of handling it, no matter what Solaris herself said. And certainly about half the other members of the Council had doubts now and again about his competence and even his integrity. But that Sun-priest had certainly seen magic and believed in it with his whole heart. Perhaps he could help convince the doubters.

"What about the weapons themselves?" someone else asked intelligently. "If we can get rid of them harmlessly, we'd be able to lessen the danger by that much. Is there any way of dismantling them?"

"When Urrrtho sssaid he could not?" That was Treyvan, his, voice indignant. "When he left a warrrning to that effect? Arrre you mad?"

Ah, the things a gryphon can get away with saying, just because he's larger than anything or anyone else! Karal was glad that Treyvan and Hydona were there to say all the rude things that needed saying.

"We are proceeding very slowly in our understanding of these devices," Firesong said smoothly. "If there is a way to dismantle them, we will. We may be very lucky; at least one of them simply disintegrated with age, and time might have done what mortal hands could not."

It was interesting to Karal how Firesong had taken on the role of spokesman for the group. Not that anyone else had rushed to volunteer, but Firesong was by nature a bit lazy, and not apt to take on any more responsibility than he had to.

Then again, if Florian or Altra had held the teleson link open, the Councillors would have seen only Karal, the Companion or the Firecat, none of which were good choices for inspiring respect. Sejanes had no mind-magic, nor did Master Levy. An'desha did, but he was no better choice than Karal, although thanks to his magic-whitened hair, he looked a bit older than Karal. Need could have gotten respect, but if Need had held the link, they'd all be seeing Firesong anyway. At least people respected Firesong; even feared him a little. One good thing; his acidic wit made a fine weapon to wield against intransigent or argumentative Councillors.

Then again, it is a chance for Firesong to be seen, appreciated, and admired, and who else has he had as an audience lately?

"First we have to discover what, exactly, they are supposed to do. Then how they do it. Then we might be able to judge if we have the ability to disarm them," Firesong explained patiently. "If you think of them as enormously complicated traps with a weapon in the middle, this will make more sense to you."

"But—" someone began, and stopped.

"Fortunately," Sejanes picked up smoothly, "this study does not at all interfere with our studies of the mage-storms, because that is taking place up there, among you. Here we are still operating on the assumption that we may have to trigger one of these weapons to counteract the final Storm. We already know which are the best choices, and together with the notes we found in the workshop below, we are studying them to see if the same solution we found the last time is viable this time."

"And what if you can't find an answer?" That voice sounded strained and somewhat panicked, So there was at least one person on the Council who was taking this threat seriously! Karal only hoped it was not someone who was inclined to take a panicked view of everything. Getting people to organize their own defense would be easier if they did not think of the person goading them to it as a chronic overreactor.

"You really ought to be operating on the assumption that we won't, and that all we have done is to buy you time to prepare," Master Levy replied truculently. He was very impatient with the Council, and had said as much before this meeting began. "We told you that in the beginning. When I left, the Artificers were devising a formula to predict the pattern of the circles of damage."

"We're still working on it," said another voice. "The model isn't perfect, but we expect to have an answer before the stormlets start, and we'll check its accuracy with measurements as the stormlets increase in strength. By the time there's real damage, the formula will be tested and ready for use."

"So, there's your answer. If we can't come up with a simple solution, you simply keep people and livestock out of those dangerous areas, drain as much power as you can out of that stone under the Palace and shield it with everything you have, and wait for the final Storm to pass." Master Levy's tone said the rest; that any idiot should have been able to sit quietly and figure that much out for himself.

"While you all sit there safe and sound in the Tower? someone else accused angrily.

That was a mistake. Karal braced himself for the riposte. Firesong was not in a good mood, and there was going to be blood on the Council table in a moment, even if it was metaphorical blood.

"Safe? Sound?" Firesong asked dangerously. "Where did you come by that incredible notion? Would someone please remove that man for incompetence and put him in the kitchen washing pans where he belongs? If I were the lot of you, I'd throw him off the Council. I do believe in encouraging those of lesser ability, but I think that appointing a congenital idiot to a Council seat is going too far."

There was an indignant spluttering on the other side, then a certain amount of commotion; Selenay continued to look serene, but her attention was not on the teleson. It was maddening not to be able to see what was going on.

"Well?" Firesong asked, when the noise had ended.

"We will take your recommendation under advisement," Selenay replied urbanely, and clearly as much for the benefit of her side of the gathering as for Firesong's. "You are correct in one thing, if a little less than tactful; this Council can no longer afford to seat members whose attention is so concentrated on minor details within their own sphere that they are paying no attention to the greater dangers that threaten us all."

"Here here," said another voice, one that Karal recognized after a moment as Kerowyn's.

Oh, my! That was unexpected! And Karal could think of three or four Council members who matched that particular statement, too! It seemed that after treachery and invasion and war and Alliance and more war and mage-storms, even Selenay's patience had begun to run short.

And about time, too. It was all very well to say that those three or four had been loyal during the worst troubles, and that loyalty deserved reward, but there was a limit. It was not wise to let the shortsighted continue to have authority in a situation like this one. Better to find them some position with rank and privileges and no authority, if Selenay still felt impelled to reward them. Right now, being too shortsighted could very well cost lives.

She might not see any reason to continue to reward these people; and that wouldn't be all that bad either. Sometimes the hand of censure needed to be used in order to make people believe it would be used, even against those who thought themselves above censure. In the words of the Shin'a'in, "Use the whip to get the horses out of the burning stable."

He was tempted to add that to the notes, but those were the kinds of purely personal observations that Tarrn had warned him against, and he kept them to himself.

:There are two Councillors that ought to be given the sack right here and now,: Altra observed with irritation. :One of them is not entirely certain he believes in the intelligence of Companions. How can we expect him to plan for a magic-fed disaster? And the other is so wrapped up in why his district needs protection more than any other that he'll waste valuable time and probably try to divert resources he's not entitled to.:

Altra didn't have to describe the offending members; Karal knew them well enough from that notation of their personalities. :It's Selenay's Kingdom and Selenay's Council,: he reminded the Firecat. :If you'd like to make a recommendation as a Karsite representative, I'd do so privately to her. I'm sure that she would have no difficulty speaking with you after this is over.:

:I'm not such a fool as to make one publicly!: Altra snapped, and shook his head until his ears flapped. :Now I'm more than ever pleased that you're out of there. You don't need to have to deal with these idiots; they'd probably start blaming you for the Cataclysm! And I don't need to be there either; I'd be tempted to wind around their ankles as they started descending a staircase, and be certain of getting them replaced by someone with a bit more reasoning ability than a brick of cheese.:

He managed to send a mental image of himself coiling around the legs of the stupidest of the two Councillors, and of the man pitching down the staircase in a very comical fashion.

:Bloody-minded today, aren't we?: Karal observed.

:Vkandis help any rodent within a league of here,: Altra replied. :When this session is over, and after I've spoken to Selenay, I'm going hunting.:

:You won't have to go far,: Karal told him. :The Shin'a'in were complaining about mice in the horse grain. Think you can lower your dignity for a bit of mousing?:

Altra just snorted.

The Council session proceeded with admirable dispatch after that particular outburst. For his part, Karal admitted to himself that he was acting in some ways precisely like those unfortunate Councillors who could not or would not believe in the disaster threatening just below the horizon. He was conducting some parts of his life—as in, pursuing his interest with Natoli—as if nothing whatsoever was going to happen to change that life. And he was not going about in a state of barely-suppressed panic either. But the truth was that what he and Natoli did or did not do was not going to make a bit of difference to the Storms or the resolution of the problem, assuming there could be one. Neither was going about in a cloud of fear going to help resolve their difficulties. Fear wasn't an emotion you could sustain for weeks at a time either, so why try to keep himself in a continual state of near-panic?

But what he could do, he was doing, and at least one of his observations might turn out useful. It had occurred to him that the workshops had remained pristine and intact—more so, even, than the stored weapons—and that there might be even more shielding on them. Or perhaps there was a natural property of the stone, as there was of silk, that insulated everything inside from the effects of magic. Since they had always kept the hatchway open, there was no way to tell, and no one really wanted to volunteer to be shut inside just now.

Natural or not, it would have made sense to have the workshops protected from the possible effects of the weapons stored above—the more so as the workshops could serve as a shelter in case something up here went wrong. Or, alternatively, if something went wrong down there, the weapons stored up here would be unaffected.

But the workshops would make the safest place for those who were not involved to wait out the last Storm—and perhaps, for all of them to do so, if it turned out that there was nothing they could do. There was room enough for all of them, their supplies, and their attendant Shin'a'in friends to wait in a fair imitation of comfort. It would be difficult for Florian and the Shin'a'in horses to get down the staircase, but not impossible. The one drawback the place had was that it was at a level lower than the tunnel in—and if the stored weapons were affected—they might find themselves literally sealed inside, as the rock melted and ran or the remains of the building shook itself apart.

But if they waited in the tunnel or on the Plain outside, there would be no escape. He'd already discussed using the workshops in this way with the Shin'a'in, and they had agreed with him, going so far as to carry half of the supplies down there and store them, and making plans to evacuate the camp above into the workshops when the time came.

And as for the folk of the surrounding land, well, for the first time since the Sundering of the Clans, Shin'a'in and Tayledras were living together. More than three-quarters of the Clans were off the Plains and distributed among the nearest Vales. Some others had chosen to go to trade-cities and the like, where they had contacts or relatives.

Those remaining were heading South rather than North or West, taking with them all of the breeding horses and other herds, for only the baggage beasts and personal strings could be accommodated in the Vales. They were under the escort of the fighters of Kerowyn's old mercenary company, the Skybolts—those few who had retired or elected not to remain in Valdemar. They had returned to Bolthaven and formed a smaller company with the sole duty of guarding the Bolthaven mage-school run by Quenten, the town of Bolthaven, and the annual Shin'a'in Horse Faire. The herds would be safe in the wide and gentle Rethwellan valley below the fortified mage-school, as they would be safe in the hands of those who had benefited from the generosity of Kerowyn's Shin'a'in relatives in the matter of most excellent Shin'a'in-bred mounts.

Before too many more days had passed, the Plains would be empty of almost everyone but the little group here in the heart of the crater that was the Dhorisha Plains. A stranger would, for the very first time, be able to cross from one side to the other without hindrance.

Not that anyone would be stupid enough to try. The weather alone ought to prevent such an idiotic course. Only the Shin'a'in knew where game lurked in the winter; only the Shin'a'in had fuel sources and tents made to withstand the killing blizzards the Storms had brought. And in a landscape of endlessly rolling white hills with no landmarks, it would be suicide for most to try to navigate across the bowl of the Plains.

Besides, the Kal'enedral who were left were not your normal border-guards. It was not too bloody likely that anything would move into the Plains that they didn't know about the moment the breach-of-border occurred. And under the current circumstances, it would not be wise for anyone to assume that the Star-Eyed was not personally watching the borders. She would not even have to intervene directly in the event of an intruder; simply dumping a foot of ice on the cliffs ringing the Plains would prevent anyone but a skilled ice climber from getting down into the Plains proper. And dumping another foot or two of ice and snow on him while he was climbing, or arranging for an avalanche along the cliff, would see to it that not even an expert ice climber set a single living toe on the Plains below.

Good heavens, I'm as bloody-minded as Altra! Karal realized, as he serenely contemplated the notion of intruders turned into ice sculptures. But then again, they couldn't really afford to be anything less than ruthless now. The escort of Kal'enedral who remained to care for them had put their lives in the hands of their Goddess to do so, and knew it. Not only was there a good chance that the Tower would not survive the final Storm, but they were defending an indefensible position.

The Kal'enedral had defended the Tower in the past by keeping people far away from it; if there was a "lowest geographic point" to the crater that was the Dhorisha Plains, this Tower was probably cradled in the bottom of it.

Most of the Swordsworn had remained with the Clans, and rightly, to protect them during the evacuation. What if someone deliberately chose this moment to come looking for the Tower with a mind to stealing one or more of the weapons still in it? There would not be much that anyone could do to stop him if he came with sufficient force. It would have to be someone who was completely mad, but as the existence of Ancar and Falconsbane proved, there were people who were that mad, that power-crazed, to take such a chance.

But given all that this little group of seekers represented, the Star-Eyed would probably take care of such an expedition Herself—and if She didn't, it was just possible that Vkandis would.

Just as he thought that, a lull appeared in the discussion, and Karal decided to do more than add an observation to his notes. "It has occurred to me just now," he said slowly, "that there is a source of possible protection, at least for those of you outside the Tower."

"What's that?" someone asked warily.

His ears burned, for he might be stating the obvious, but it seemed stupid not to mention this. "Ah... prayer," he said diffidently. "Divine intervention. I mean, have you had people really concentrating on asking for help from other sources?"

"That is no bad answer," Lo'isha interjected, before anyone else could say anything. "If our Star-Eyed is like your gods, that could be a fat hare to pursue. You see, She only responds to peril quite impossible for mortals to deal with, and only if asked. Otherwise, She allows us to handle it ourselves. Your gods may only be waiting to be properly asked."

"Vkandis has traditionally been the same way," Karal confirmed. "I don't know what the gods do in Valdemar, but what is the harm in finding out?"

"None, of course," Selenay said gently. "And in our own pride and insistent self-reliance, we often forget that option. We would not be asking for aid for ourselves against other peoples, after all. We would be asking for aid for all peoples against an implacable force we don't completely understand. Thank you, Karal, for not being afraid to state what should have been obvious. I will have the various notables draft up notices to their Temples to that effect."

Now Karal blushed, but with pleasure, and Altra's deep purr vibrating his feet, was all he needed to gauge the depth of the Firecat's approval. He glanced sideways at Lo'isha to find the Shin'a'in gazing at him with a thoughtful smile that broadened when their eyes met.

Well, let's see if they're still pleased with me after this...

"Please, Queen Selenay?" he added. "Don't exclude the Empire in those prayers. The people of the Empire haven't done anything to hurt us, and by now they must be in terrible straits. They've been suffering the mage-storms all this time, and from all Sejanes has told us, they need magic, they use it everywhere. For you, it would be as if fire suddenly stopped giving off heat."

She nodded very slowly, with just a touch of reluctance. "I will remember to phrase it that way," she promised. "And to remember that we have no quarrel with all of the people of the Empire, only with those who harmed us."

He stole a second glance at Lo'isha, then one at Sejanes. Lo'isha still seemed pleased with him, and the old mage positively beamed.

And what about Altra, Vkandis' own representative?

:What of me? I think you have done a very good thing.: Altra's purr did not let up at all. :You manage to keep in mind that a nation is made up of people, most of whom have little or no control over what their leaders do. That is twice now, that you have urged mercy, and that is very good.:

Even for Vkandis, notorious for being a vengeful god?

:Especially for Vkandis; please remember that religions are made up of people, most of whom have very little control over what their priests decree is doctrine. Keep in mind that given that the priests and the people have free will and the means to exercise it, gods may not always be able to control their priests either. So what the priests say, and the people believe, is not always the whole truth.:

Karal blinked at that. Altra evidently decided Karal was ready for a little more doctrine smashing.

:Time for a parable. Think of a very wealthy, very reclusive man with a dangerous reputation; say a former mercenary. Assume he lives in a town but seldom leaves his home. Nevertheless—and not wanting people to think he is trying to buy good opinion—he sends his servants out secretly, day after day, to help the worthy poor, the sick, the helpless. Then one day while he is coming in his front gate, a woman with a baby is attacked by ruffians, and he reacts as he was trained, draws his sword, and cuts them all down in the blink of an eye. Say that later, in the inquiry, it was learned that those same ruffians were old enemies of his, looking for his new home. Now what are the townsfolk going to say about him?:

Karal knew very well what they would say. They would know nothing about the countless acts of mercy and charity that defined the man, they would know only the single moment of public bloodshed. At the least, they would call him vengeful, they would fear his temper, and might avoid his company. If there were those who envied him, it might even be whispered that he arranged for the attack on the woman in order to have an excuse for killing the gang. And although there would be a shred of truth in the stories of vengeance, it would by no means be the entire truth.

:Vkandis—any god—is far more than His people make Him,: Altra continued. :It is the responsibility of the priest to lead them to that understanding, so that they do not attempt to limit Him to what they know.:

That was what he had been groping for, these past several weeks! All the pieces for understanding had been there, but he just hadn't put them together in so elegant and simple a whole.

:And just at the moment, the meeting is going on without your note-taking,: Altra added, bending to clean a paw with fastidious attention to detail. :Life is attention to both the large and the small, little brother. Pay heed to the sun, but watch your feet, or you'll fall ingloriously on your nose.:

He bent hastily to his paper, with a soft chuckle inaudible to anyone else.

The meeting went on for far too long, but Firesong managed to annoy enough useless Councillors to guarantee that the next meeting would be much shorter.

It would have to be; Firesong had also cut short any attempt by the Councillors to turn the meeting into an accusation-and-blame session (with most of both being aimed at the group in the Tower). That, Karal found difficult to believe the first time one of them started. They seemed to be cherishing a variety of bizarre ideas about what was going on here, not the least of which was that they would be safe when the final Storm hit, and those outside the Tower would be the ones in the most danger.

"What was wrong with those people?" he asked Lyam in amazement, as the members of their own group broke up and went off on their interrupted studies. "Where did they get those ideas?"

The young hertasi shrugged, his tail beating softly against the floor where they both sat, organizing their notes and putting up their writing supplies. "They think we wallow in luxury here, that we spend all our time in idle pursuits and speculations that have no bearing on work or reality. They half don't believe in the Storms; they think we've got a fabulous life here and we're prolonging our stay here to continue to enjoy this glorious place and our freedom from work and responsibility."

Karal glanced around at their "luxurious surroundings," taking in the elegant appointments. Well, the inlaid stone floors were certainly beautiful, and there wasn't a ceiling like this one in all of Karse and Valdemar combined. But in between—

True, the Shin'a'in pallets were colorful, and comfortable, but they weren't the equivalent of anything in the guest quarters at the Palace at Haven. And as for the rest, he didn't think that a single one of those Councillors had ever eaten, slept, or lived like this, and he didn't think any of them would ever want to. It wasn't as bad as the poorest Karsite inn workers endured, and in some ways it was a little more comfortable than the conditions of Vkandis' novices, but those highborn Councillors would probably think they'd been exiled to hard living at the end of the world.

And what they'd make of butter-tea, I don't know. They might consider it a form of penance.

"I don't know, Lyam," he said, finally. "Is this some sort of delusionary illness they're under?"

The lizard did not have many facial expressions, but he could and did cock up a brow ridge. "Actually, it's distance. A fair number of our people back in White Gryphon assumed that because we had been given k'Sheyna Vale that we must be living in the midst of incredible luxury. Anything that's far off must be better than anything at home, you see." He snorted. "Actually, if you want luxury I'd recommend the courts of the Black Kings. I've been there, so I know. Silk sheets, private gardens, food worth dying for—now that is what I would call luxury!" He smacked his lips, or what passed for lips.

Karal sighed and shook his head, and Lyam patted his back. "Cheer up! The ones who think we're shirking are all idiots, and Firesong is going to get them to go away. If that Queen of theirs doesn't find them something harmless to do to keep them occupied, that is. I know his kind. He'll keep chipping at them until they quit."

Karal chuckled at Lyam's all too accurate assessment. "He can be diplomatic when he wants to be," he felt impelled to point out.

"Of course he can, but diplomacy is for when you've got time, and that's the one thing we're short of." Lyam shook his head as his expression turned grave. "Karal, I'm going to get serious for a moment; I want you to tell me something, and be honest. You've worked with these people—Firesong, An'desha, Sejanes, and all—for a long time. Can they do this? Can they really find an answer to the last Storm? Or should I look for a deep, dark den to hide in and hope it doesn't get melted shut behind me?"

Karal closed his eyes for a moment, taken by surprise by the sudden question. Perhaps that was why Lyam had asked it, so that he wouldn't have a chance to prevaricate.

"If anyone can, they can," he said at last. "An'desha holds the actual memories of Urtho's enemy Ma'ar, who was the second-most-powerful mage of the time of the Cataclysm. I just don't know if it's possible for mortal creatures to save this situation."

Lyam sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that." He slumped abruptly, and looked up at Karal with an unreadable expression. "Let's talk about our girls," he suggested. "You and I can't do a blazing thing to help them, so let's talk about our girls, eh?" In a mercurial change of mood, he grinned, showing a fine set of pointed teeth. "Nothing like girls to get your mind off your troubles."

"Or give you a different set of troubles to think about!" Karal laughed, only too happy to oblige.

Tarrn found them both commiserating over the way that females had to approach any difficulty sideways, like a crab, instead of meeting it head-on, a trait it seemed both hertasi and human females shared. He stood within earshot for some time, simply listening, with his pointed ears pricked sharply upward, evidently waiting for a natural break in the conversation before interrupting.

:Lyam, have you any notion where the Shin'a'in stored the gray bag of books we brought with us?: he asked. :I find I need a reference.:

"It's easier for me to find it than tell you where it is," the hertasi said, leaping to his feet. "Stay right here; I'll bring the whole bag."

He scampered down the stairs to the workroom, and Tarrn turned his attention to Karal. :You and my apprentice seem to be getting on well,: he observed mildly.

"We have a great deal in common, sir," Karal replied politely." As you probably noticed."

Tarrn's mouth dropped open in a lupine grin. :Young women, for one thing. Alas, I fear I could never give you reasonable advice on that subject; my kind are neuters, but by birth rather than by oath, as our Shin'a'in friends are.:

That left Karal more confused than enlightened. "All kyree are neuters? And where do the Kal'enedral come into it?"

It took Tarrn a few moments to explain that, no, all kyree were not neuters, but that the neuters tended to be the scholars, tale-spinners, poets, and historians. Then it took him a bit longer to explain the oaths of the Sworn, and how the Goddess herself rendered them literally sexless, which was why it was so very difficult for anyone to be accepted by Her into Her service.

Karal was not precisely appalled, but he was certainly baffled. "I can't imagine why anyone would want to be Sworn!" he said to the kyree, "I mean, I beg your pardon, but—"

:Don't apologize; I don't regret being neuter, and over the years I've often considered myself fortunate not to have to put up with what you do,: Tarrn replied thoughtfully. :As for the Sworn, whether Swordsworn or Goddess-sworn, I can well imagine any number of circumstances where a human would find the burden of sexuality intolerable. Such tales that brought them to that condition may be sad, even horrible, but at least among the Shin'a'in they have a refuge. And for some—well if their life has been spent entirely in the sphere of the intellectual, then there is no sacrifice.:

Karal took a moment to look for An'desha, and finally found him, deep in conference with—Lo'isha and another black-clad Shin'a'in. "I suppose I can think of at least one case where memories might be intolerable," he said slowly.

Tarrn followed his gaze. :The thought had occurred to me as well. If we live...:

If. There was that word again, the one he thought about all the time, but did his best not to mention. "Are we likely not to?" he asked soberly.

As if called by his gaze, An'desha left the other Shin'a'in and walked over to them, just in time to catch Tarrn's reply.

:I don't know.: Tarrn was quite sober. :I came here knowing that there was a good chance we would not, and so did Lyam. It is possible that what we record will serve to help others cope with the next Cataclysm in another millennia or two. Or it may help the survivors of this one. It seems that the only way we can be assured of survival is through the mechanism you yourself suggested.:

"Divine intervention?" he said, dryly. "Ah, but there's a catch. We can't count on it; if we do, we certainly won't get it."

An'desha nodded as he sat down beside Karal. "That is the way of things with the Star-Eyed, at least, and this is the heart of Her land. If we were to call upon anyone, it should be Kal'enel. But Lo'isha says that She has been silent of late, as if She is no more certain of what is to come than we are."

:So what are we to do?: Tarrn asked. :When the gods themselves are silent, what is a mortal to do?:

"I don't know," An'desha admitted.

"You might try calling on old friends," suggested a helpful voice from above their heads, as brilliant golden light flooded down upon them.

Tarrn Jumped straight up in the air and came down with his eyes wide and his hackles up. Lyam, whose head was just poking up out of the hatchway leading to the stair to the workroom, had to grab for the edge of the hatch to keep from falling. Even Karal, who had seen this phenomenon before, and An'desha, to whom it was familiar, gaped with astonishment as they rose to their feet.

Swooping down from the ceiling in a spiraling dance that involved Firesong's ecstatic firebird Aya, were a pair of man-sized hawks with feathers of flame. They landed with the grace of a dancer and the weightlessness of a puff of down, and the moment they touched the ground, they transformed into a man and a woman who still had a suggestion of bird about them. The man was dressed as a Shin'a'in shaman, but the woman was all Hawkbrother.

The Shin'a'in present all reacted the same way; they did not drop to their knees or grovel, but went rigid with the profoundest respect, and with naked worship in their eyes.

:What—is—this?: Tarrn managed, every hair on his body standing straight out.

"I am Dawnfire, and this is Tre'valen," the woman said, looking down at Tarrn with a smile. Her eyes were open wide, as were his, and they were perhaps the strangest thing of all about the two, for those eyes were the bright-spangled black of a star-filled night sky. "We're old friends of An'desha."

Altra and Florian appeared from one of the farther rooms, and made their way across the floor to the little gathering, and it seemed that they were the only creatures in the building capable of moving. They paused a few paces away from the bright creatures, and both made little bows of greeting in unison.

"Tre'valen and Dawnfire are Avatars of Kal'enel, Tarrn," An'desha said, very quietly. "And although I would not have claimed the privilege of saying they were my friends, they have been very good to me."

Tre'valen laughed. "Well, claim it or not, we are your friends, little brother. And more than that, we're here to help you as much as we can."

That astonishing statement broke the spell holding everyone frozen in silence, and everyone in the Tower converged on the pair except for Karal, who sat abruptly down.

We have Altra for Vkandis, Florian for the gods of Valdemar—and now this. What is that Shin'a'in saying? Be careful what you ask for?

Well, he had asked for Divine aid; whether it would be enough remained to be seen.

Eight

"All I know is this," King Tremane said, rubbing his temple in a gesture of nervous habit, "I haven't even tried to light a candle magically for weeks, but my mage-energy is going somewhere. If you can tell me where, I'll feel a great deal better."

Darkwind nodded, squinting a little against the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the windows of the King's Tower. That was what everyone called it now—"the King's Tower," as Shonar had become, by default, the new capital of Hardorn. It was a small and slightly shabby residence for a King, but Hardorn itself had seen better days. It would do Tremane no harm to be seen putting the welfare of his new country above his own comforts.

After a frenzy of make-do preparations, there had been a tiny coronation ceremony, wherein Duke Tremane had become King Tremane, and had been presented with a crown that (like the country) was rather the worse for wear. It even appeared to have been flattened before someone managed to wrestle it back into shape.

Still, it was—at least now—the authentic crown of Hardorn, and there was something to be said for that.

Tremane had accepted it graciously, worn it for the coronation. then immediately went to his private possessions and had a few things melted down and made into a very slim, gold band with minimal ornamentation that bore a remarkable resemblance to his ducal coronet.

That, in turn, had borne a remarkable resemblance to the slender coronet that Selenay wore, but Darkwind didn't see any reason to mention that. Frankly, the thin band looked dignified on Tremane's balding head, as opposed to the heavy crown. Even if it hadn't been battered, the original crown still looked rather silly, at least to Darkwind's eyes.

Crowns. This conference isn't about crowns. He turned his attention instead to Tremane's statement. "I think," he said slowly, "that your energy is going into the land—at least in making queries of where and what problems there are—and that where it goes tells you what places are most damaged. I suspect that those places producing monstrosities are the most heavily damaged, which is how you have been managing to pinpoint their lairs. You can probably stop the drainage if you choose."

Tremane considered that for a moment, then shrugged. "On the whole, I don't see why I should bother. It isn't a critical drain, and it isn't paining me or making me physically weaker. The only things I might want to do magically are things the earth-sense is giving me anyway. I just wanted to know where my energies were going; it could have been due to something more sinister."

That was astute of him, and a reflection on the changes in his thinking that he did not immediately assume it was something sinister and begin looking for an enemy, "Tayledras Healing Adepts can send their energies out to damaged land deliberately," Darkwind told him. "And they can redirect energy from elsewhere, using themselves as a conduit. You seem to have many of the same abilities, given to you by the earth-sense, rather than by accident of birth or because of training."

"Interesting." Tremane replied, his brows knitting slightly with thought. He leaned toward Darkwind as something occurred to him. "You know, there's another thing; I had assumed that I'd have earth-sense for all of Hardorn, from border to border, but every time one of those groups comes in to give me their—their pledge—it seems as if I can sense more than I could before. It's difficult to explain; it's as if I knew the place was there, but it was blank or shadowed to me. It's analogous to seeing into a room that was darkened and is now illuminated."

"That may be precisely what is happening," Darkwind admitted. "When someone has an affinity for a given area—usually a homeland, or at least the village they grew up in—a magical link naturally forms between them and the place. Location and divination spells work just a little easier when they involve that person's home area as a target, for example, over places the person may have been to only once. When these people open themselves up to your rule, they may also very well be opening up their home-affinity connection to you, too. Or, well, it could also be that the earth you take from them in the seisin ceremony links you to that place. It's fairly obvious to me that the seisin ceremony itself is a primitive piece of contamination-magic. As for details of how you can use that to advantage, I don't know; you'd have to ask someone who already has the sense."

He hadn't missed the hesitation before Tremane picked the word "pledge." Poor Tremane was enduring a great deal of personal embarrassment for the sake of these people, if only they knew it. Little groups were trickling in all the time to swear fealty to their new king, and they were using an ancient ritual they referred to as "seisin," a ritual probably as old as the earth-taking ritual. There was no doubt in Darkwind's mind that it was just as potent as the earth-taking, and just as primitive.

And it profoundly embarrassed the urbane and efficient Tremane, as most "primitive" rituals would embarrass him.

Nevertheless, it was effective, and he didn't think he needed to point out to Tremane that the reason he could sense another new area every time his new liegemen swore to him was that he literally was adding to the area he had "taken." It was entirely possible that the pinch of earth he had ingested at the ceremony that gave him this new power had been carefully made of a bit of every soil the priests could get their hands on, for that very reason, thus adding in the extra power gain from contagion.

"Speaking of your new subjects, Tremane, there's another group coming in at the gate now," said Elspeth, who happened to be standing by the window. "They're pretty heavily armed and I see someone with a pennon at the front." She frowned and shaded her eyes with one hand, looking down into the courtyard. "Is that—yes, it is, four sets of strawberry-leaves. It's a baronial coronet on the pennon-head. Congratulations! You've hooked one of the few big fish remaining in Hardorn."

Darkwind barely suppressed a smirk. :For the first time since I've been with you, ke'chara, I've just seen a Herald... act as a Herald.:

Elspeth just made a short choking sound, while Gwena tittered in their heads.

Tremane sighed, but it was with visible relief. "I'd better go right down and greet them properly, then," he said. "Can we resume our meeting later?"

"No reason why not," Elspeth said for both of them. "We'll meet you down there with Gwena and the full panoply. If you've gotten a baron, we'd better confirm your treaty and association with the Alliance."

Darkwind smiled; this was not, by any means, the first time that Gwena, he, and Elspeth had dressed up and assembled to impress the new liegemen. It had rather startled some of them to see a "horse" indoors, until they saw Elspeth's white uniform and realized that it wasn't a horse at all, but a Companion.

Tremane laughed unexpectedly; it seemed to Darkwind that the new King laughed quite a bit more than he would have expected, perhaps because he had a strong sense of humor about himself. "You should hear the things my housekeeping staff has to say about hoofprints in the wood floors. Do you have the same problem in Valdemar?"

"Sadly, all the time," Elspeth told him. "We've never found a way to prevent them, and we've tried everything." She moved away from the window with her arms crossed over her chest and a twinkle of amusement in her eye. "A silver piece says this one will be more impressed by Darkwind and Vree than by Gwena and me."

"I'll take that bet," Tremane responded easily. Darkwind stood up, smiling mostly to himself. Tremane had become much more relaxed around them since the earth-taking ceremony, treating them more often as colleagues and equals than as foreign ambassadors. Darkwind thought he knew why, although he doubted if Tremane himself was aware of the reason.

The land "knows" Elspeth and Gwena; the Valdemarans have always been good stewards of the land and good friends to Hardorn since Vanyel's time. It also "knows" me, since serving and healing the land are what the Tayledras were born and bred for. Because the land knows and trusts us, it is making Tremane feel comfortable around us and inclining him to trust us as well.

Tremane's new link with Hardorn was going to affect him in any number of ways that he was not always going to be conscious of, but Darkwind didn't see anything but good in that prospect. Very occasionally Tremane grew momentarily disoriented by some new information the earth-sense threw at him, but for the most part he was coping well. Eventually, as Hardorn recovered from the damage that had been done to it, Tremane would find that the land sustained him in moments of stress, rather than the reverse.

There was a knock on the door, and Elspeth joined Darkwind as Tremane's aide—now styled his "seneschal," though he still acted and probably thought of himself as a military aide-de-camp—entered diffidently.

"Sir—I mean, Your Majesty—there is a party below who—"

"I know, I'll be there directly," Tremane interrupted. "You know the drill by now; go see to the arrangements, and as soon as I look appropriate I'll be down. Blasted crown," he muttered, as the aide saluted, recollected again that Tremane was a King now and not a military commander, and bowed himself out. "Where did I put it this time?"

"Where you always put it, Tremane," Elspeth laughed. "Locked up in the chest."

"Right, with the robes that are too damned heavy to wear and not warm enough to make any difference in the Great Hall." Tremane swore with annoyance under his breath, and Darkwind wondered how he would ever have survived being made Emperor if he disliked the panoply of rank so much. "I won't miss winter one tiny bit. Thank you; I'll see you in the Hall and we can get this nonsense over with. Again."

"Oh, this time it looks as if it will be more than worth the effort," Elspeth assured him, as she preceded Darkwind into the hallway.

"Will it?" he asked her, as they descended the staircase to their own quarters.

"I think he'll be pleasantly surprised," she said. "I don't know much about Hardorn heraldry, but I think this new fellow may be the highest-ranking native to survive Ancar, and that means he'll be bringing a fair piece of the country with him. Not to mention his escort, and they looked as if they probably represent some major armed forces."

"So how old is this baron?" Darkwind asked. He had a good reason for asking; the surviving nobles of Hardorn tended to be mostly very old, or very young. The former had survived by being no threat to Ancar, and the latter by being hidden by their relatives, usually with reliable farmers or other family retainers.

"I'd say early teens; fourteen, fifteen at the most," Elspeth replied.

"Hence the reason he'll be more impressed by a Hawkbrother than a Herald. He may not even know what a Herald is, until someone tells him." Darkwind shook a finger at her. "You're stealing Tremane's silver, you little cheat."

"Then he shouldn't bet with me. He ought to know by now that I never propose a bet unless I'm certain of the outcome." She nodded at the guards on either side of their door and opened it herself. Their own guards from Valdemar stationed inside the door brought their weapons up until they saw who was entering; then they grinned sheepishly and returned to a deceptively relaxed posture.

"Is that any way to treat a monarch?" Darkwind asked her, and sighed as he began climbing the stair to their private quarters. "Never mind; forget I asked. I suppose it won't hurt him."

"I never treat Tremane casually in front of anyone else," Elspeth reminded him, taking the narrow staircase a little behind him. "This is calculated behavior; it shows him that I consider him my equal and will treat him as such. And as Mother often reminds me, the fact that I abdicated in favor of the twins does not make me any less a princess. It's not a bad thing in this case to have one of the Blood Royal acting as ambassador."

"True, all of it." The next floor was the purview of their guards and staff, who were currently lounging about, engaged in various off-duty occupations in the main room of their circular suite. Elspeth and Darkwind both waved at the rest of their entourage as they passed through, but did not stop on that floor. He continued the conversation. "Well, I take it you think this latest delegation is worth bringing out the full formal gear."

"Every feather, bead, bell and bauble," Elspeth said firmly. "Full Whites for me, and the circlet, with badges and medals. And don't pretend you don't like to dress up, my love."

"I wouldn't dream of it." The scent of the balsam incense he used both to perfume the air of their private quarters and to discourage pests met them as they reached their own floor. "Unlike you so-called 'civilized' peoples, we Tayledras know how to create clothing that is impressive, functional, and comfortable."

"Don't put me in that 'civilized' category!" she protested. "We Valdemarans feel precisely the same way! Well, we Heralds do, anyway, and that category includes the ruling family."

"Impressive?" He raised an eyebrow even as he went to the chest containing his clothing and raised the lid. "I'll grant you the functional and comfortable, but you Valdemarans have no sense of style, or at least, you Heralds don't. You horrified my poor hertasi with your uniform, you know. They thought you were wearing the sacks your clothes were supposed to be carried in."

They "argued" about clothing, style, and decoration happily all the time they were changing into their formal clothing, she into the Whites that he had redesigned, with the additions of rank, and he into the most elaborate outfit he owned, although by the standards set by Firesong, he was rather drab. His draped clothing of scarlet, gold, and warm brown was augmented by a sculpted leather tunic with a padded shoulder, and when he was dressed, Vree left his perch by the window and lofted straight to him, to land on the shoulder with a fraction of the impact he would have used in making a landing on a perch. Having Vree on his shoulder instead of his wrist served a double function. First, no falconer would ever have let one of his birds sit on his shoulder; that was a tacit invitation to facial scarring or losing an eye if something startled the bird or if it suddenly decided that this was a good time to strike out for freedom. This marked him to the knowledgeable as a Hawkbrother with no doubt. Only a bondbird could be trusted to sit this way, with no jesses, no hood, and no means of "control" over him. And second, if the exotic clothing would not set him apart from the rest, then Vree, who was much larger than any forestgyre or other gyrfalcon these people had ever seen, certainly would.

Elspeth, who had a lifetime of rapid changes-of-outfit to fall back on, waited with an exaggerated expression of boredom for him to finish his belt adjustments. "Bring your head over here," Elspeth commanded, the feathered and beaded ornaments meant to be braided into his hair dangling from one hand. She already wore the beaded feather he had given her as a token of love, one of Vree's own primaries, braided into her own.

"Should I leave the rest of me here?" he suggested. She made an exasperated tsking sound, and pushed him down into a chair. Vree flared his wings to stay balanced. She wove the feathered cords deftly into his long hair, as cleverly as if she had been born in an ekele rather than a palace.

"There," she said, bending to kiss him, then rapping him lightly on the top of his head with her knuckles. "Now you're presentable."

"So I am. And so are you." He rose and headed for the door, this time taking the lead down the stairs. The entire procedure, from the time they entered the room to this moment, had taken a fraction of the time it would take Tremane to get ready. But then again, they were not going to have to be laced into ceremonial armor either.

Their own entourage was so used to this by now that there had been no need for Elspeth to ask anyone to go get Gwena, drape her with her ceremonial barding and bells, and bring her to the Great Hall. The Companion was already waiting for them when they arrived at the side entrance they would use to get in place before either Tremane arrived or the delegation was allowed to enter. The members of Tremane's staff were quite used to seeing a "horse" wandering about the halls now, and let her go her own way when they saw her. Waiting with her were all of the dignitaries that could be hurried into formal clothing or uniforms on short notice, though there was always a chance that not all of them were what they were dressed up to be. Once, after most of Tremane's staff had gone to a meeting with the town council, Darkwind recalled, someone had actually borrowed an Imperial officer's tunic and a handful of medals and coerced the cook into it for one of these ceremonies! Since the folk coming to pledge their loyalty were likely never to set eyes on Shonar again, it did no harm to anyone to have impersonators fill in the ranks of Tremane's Court if it was necessary, to give the impression that every petty lordling with a handful of men was being given the highest of honors.

This time the reverse was true, for not only were all the real Officials present, but the mayor of Shonar, Sandar Giles, had been on his way for a meeting with one of Tremane's underlings when he saw the procession of armed men heading for Tremane's manor. He'd sent a now-exhausted runner hastily back to the town for his mayoral finery, and now stood waiting with the rest while the servants did what they could to make the Great Hall bearable.

"One of Tremane's mages is in there, warming the place up," Sandar was saying to Tremane's aide, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable in his nonregulation, heavily embroidered tabard. It looked like—and probably was—something that had been found in an attic and been pressed into service as the "official" clothing of His Majesty's Seneschal. A great deal of the Court garments had been made out of salvaged material or dredged out of attics. For that matter, Sandar Giles' outfit showed a touch of the moth's tooth around the squirrel-fur trim and the woolen hood, as if he had gone to storage for his grandfather's mayoral outfit.

Small wonder Tremane has difficulty taking all this seriously. His "court" is hardly up to the standards of even his Old ducal household, I should imagine. Elspeth and I are the only ones who are not threadbare and much-mended.

But none of the various delegations that had come riding or walking in to Shonar had looked any better, and most had looked much worse. By the current standards of the country, Tremane's Court probably looked remarkably prosperous.

Before this is all over, we may look back on these times fondly, as the days when we were all doing well. It was a grim thought, but one which he and Elspeth often shared. If the mage-storms could not be held back—

Well, there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on that now. Under Tremane's direction, people were readying themselves for worse to come, and Hardornens, unlike Valdemarans, were perfectly willing to believe in "worse to come." Once the ceremony was over, but just before the delegation left for home, Tremane would give this new lot their directions on surviving the final Storm, as he had every other delegation so far. That those directions were mainly guesses hardly mattered; they would have direction and confidence that he had the situation on the way to being under control.

The door opened, and a thin, gawky man came through it, a fellow with thinning hair, who squinted at them from behind a pair of glass lenses set in a lead frame that rested on his nose. "It's warm in there now, and it should last through your ceremony," the mage said, and made shooing motions as if they were a bunch of hens he wanted to drive before him. "In with you now! The sooner you get the ceremony over with, less likely that the spell will wear off before it's over!"

None of them needed a second invitation; the hallway was freezing, and the promise of warmth was all the encouragement they required to move quickly.

Elspeth and Gwena hung back until the others were inside, and Darkwind remained with them. Gwena was quite careful whenever she came inside the manor, and despite the complaints from Tremane's household staff, she left very little sign of her presence after these ceremonies. Some of the Hardornen warriors, who forgot to remove spurs or came striding in wearing heavy, hobnailed boots, did worse damage than Gwena, who picked up each hoof neatly and set it down again with the greatest of care.

Gwena was arrayed in the "riderless" version of Companion full dress; no saddle, but with a blue and silver blanket cut like her barding, decorated at all the points with silver bells, a blue-dyed leather hackamore with silver tassels at the cheekpieces, and reins bedecked with more silver bells. Had there been more time to ready her, the decorations included even bells and blue ribbons to braid into her mane and tail, but she had to be content with her mane and tail flowing freely.

"You look lovely, as always," Darkwind told her.

:Thank you,: she replied coyly, and gave her head a tiny toss so that the bells chimed. :I'm afraid we four are making a more impressive show than Tremane's own Court, but that can't be helped.:

"At least we are making our support unmistakable," he pointed out, as they took their appointed places among the rest.

There was some shuffling as the dignitaries of Tremane's Court sorted themselves out, then the young Seneschal nodded his head and the main doors were flung open to admit the latest delegation.

At the head of the procession was a youngster—no boy, but young, too young to need a razor—of about fourteen. Under his scarlet cloak and tabard, he wore full armor that had seen hard use, and his eyes were far too old to belong to that young face. The dented and slightly tarnished baronial circlet about his brow did not detract from the painful dignity with which he carried himself, and by his build and the muscles beneath the armor, he was clearly no stranger to real fighting. Behind him, more men in full armor followed in pairs, ranging in age from powerful graybeards to men only a little older than the boy-baron. One of the two immediately behind the boy carried a small wooden box. They paraded in slowly, surveying every person there with suspicion, and Darkwind smothered a smile as the boy's eyes lit on the Alliance envoys, widened, and flitted from Elspeth to Darkwind and back, finally remaining on Darkwind.

:I won,: she mindspoke unnecessarily.

The entire delegation came to a halt at the foot of the low dais. By now, several of the Shonar artisans were at work on a real throne for Tremane, since the original throne of Hardorn had been lost in looting and fires, but it would not be finished for another week or two. In place of a real throne was a prop throne, made for an Imperial theatrical production, and modified by those same artisans. They had sanded off the gilt paint, which had probably looked fine at a distance but only looked cheap and shoddy up close, and had removed all of the glass-paste jewels set into the back. What had been carved wolves adorning the back were now hounds, the Hardornen symbol of fidelity. The swords making up the legs and arms, and interlaced on the back below the hounds, had become tree branches, and the wood had been rubbed with oils and polished until it shone. The shabby cushions had been replaced with brown velvet purloined from drapes taken from storage. However, in the course of all the recarving, the wood had been pared down in some places to a precarious extent, and Tremane had been warned to be very careful when sitting on it. Everyone was going to breathe a sigh of relief when the new throne took the place of the old. It could be taken for a terrible omen if Tremane's throne collapsed beneath him in the middle of one of these ceremonies. Tremane had good-naturedly commented that having a fake Imperial throne recarved into a fragile Hardornen throne was entirely appropriate.

Tremane kept the delegation waiting just long enough for them to get a good look at the rest of his Court, and to take in the banners on the wall behind his throne, which represented those who had already come in and brought him their pledges. Most of those who had sworn their oaths had taken their banners from the arms of the former nobles of the region, although more often than not there had been no one who actually qualified to take those arms. Tremane had solved that quickly enough by confirming the delegates in their places as the new lords, and bestowing the old titles upon them as soon as their pledges were confirmed.

Sadly, besides a number of ancient titles going begging, there was plenty of empty land lying fallow and abandoned, but Tremane had plans for that, too. Once summer arrived, it would be settled, and former Imperial officers who were ready to retire would be ennobled and put in place as overlords. They would be allowed to take with them as many Imperial soldiers as wished to retire to farming and had found brides among the Hardornens; these would be given freehold-grants on reclaimed farms. Thus, the newly ennobled would have garrison and work force in one, and the newly wed couples would have more of a base for their start than most. After that particular announcement, the number of engagements and handfastings had skyrocketed, and if some of the good farmers and fathers of Shonar had been a bit reluctant to welcome Imperial sons-in-law at first, their reluctance had evaporated when they learned of the royal bride-price the foreign sons-in-law would bring, thanks to the foresight of their new King.

Darkwind hid a smile as the young Baron kept taking covert glances at him, as if the youngster had never seen anything so outlandish in his life. Darkwind had been told that rumors of his presence and powers were circulating out beyond Shonar's walls, rumors which got more and more fantastic with every league distant from the city. He wondered what the boy had heard, to make him look so wide-eyed.

There was a bit of a stir at the door just off the dais, and Tremane's major-domo stepped inside.

The major-domo rapped three times on the floor with the butt of his staff. "His Majesty, King Tremane of Hardorn!" the man announced in ringing tones, his clear, commanding voice showing precisely why he had been plucked out of the ranks to fill this position. "And his Majesty's Chief Advisers!"

Tremane and his four Chief Advisers filed in with ponderous dignity. Of course, his Chief Advisers were also members of his bodyguard, but their weapons were not carried in an obvious fashion, and there was nothing about them to advertise that fact. Tremane wore his ceremonial armor, the Hardornen Crown, a tapestry tabard with his own arms (requisitioned from his former squire), and was draped in a fine cloak of silk edged in heavily embroidered silk trim purloined from the same curtains that had provided him with material for the seat cushions of his throne. The cloak was also part of the props for some unknown play; it was ridiculously long and required the services of two small boys recruited as pages to carry the trailing end.

Both pages were from the group of five children that Tremane and his men had rescued from the grip of the first killing blizzard; Tobe and Racky were their names, and they took their duty as Tremane's pages very seriously. They had been nicely outfitted in page costumes cut down from Imperial officers' uniforms by their mothers, who nearly burst with pride at the notion that their boys were serving the new King.

Tremane took his seat gingerly, which translated into a ponderous sort of dignity to outside eyes. The pages arranged his royal mantle out before his feet, like a peacock's tail, just on sanity's side of preposterous, and retired to their positions behind the throne. The young baron tensed as Tremane nodded to him.

"Baron Peregryn, I understand that you are from Adair," he said quietly. "You are a very welcome addition to the Court."

Darkwind watched the boy and his entourage to see if they noticed the relative informality of Tremane's address. After much consideration, he had decided to completely do away with the royal plural, because Ancar had been so rabid in its use. Darkwind saw two of the older men exchange brief nods, and it seemed to him that they wore expressions of satisfaction.

The young Baron took two steps to the foot of the throne and went immediately to one knee, and the rest of his entourage followed his example in dropping to theirs. "I have come to offer you my pledge, King Tremane," the youngster said, in a high tenor that trembled only a little. "And in token of this pledge, I bring you seisin of my lands, and those of the men pledged in their turn to my service."

Young Baron Peregryn reached behind him without looking, and the man carrying the small wooden casket placed it in his outstretched hand. Darkwind watched their movements carefully, analyzing everything they did, and making some guesses about the relationship the Baron had with his men.

He is the acknowledged leader, no matter how young he appears to be, and he and the older men have worked and fought together a great deal. They trust him—and he trusts them. He has youth, enthusiasm, and charisma, and they have experience, and they all work to weave these things together. This one will be worth watching for stories and songs of noble deeds.

The boy opened the casket and held it out to Tremane, who took a double handful of soil from within and held it for a moment.

"Thus do I, Tremane, King of Hardorn, take seisin of the lands of Peregryn, Baron of Adair, and of those who are pledged to him," he proclaimed in a voice suitable for a battlefield oration. He dropped the soil back into the casket, and held out his hand to Tobe, the older of his two pages. Tobe handed him a small dagger, and with his face completely unflinching, he slashed his palm shallowly, held his hand over the casket, and allowed his blood to run into it and mix with the earth inside.

"Thus do I, Tremane, King of Hardorn by acknowledgment of the soil of Hardorn itself, give the pledge of my body to the lands of Peregryn, Baron of Adair, and of those who are vowed to his service." The other page, Racky, took the dagger and handed him a linen cloth, which he used to bind the wound across his palm. Meanwhile Tobe took the casket from Peregryn, mixed the soil and blood thoroughly with a miniature spade, and then used the spade to divide the moistened soil between the original casket and a small box. Tobe handed the casket back to Peregryn, who received it with the same reverence as he would a holy relic. Tobe gave the box to the Seneschal, who would take it to the cellars of the manor and add it to the urn of soil already there.

All of this mixing and dividing gave Tremane a chance to recover from the shock of adding yet another stretch of land to his "senses." Darkwind knew that by the time he reached his own quarters again the slash would be completely healed—and now was the moment when he would confirm his right to be King by telling Peregryn what, if anything, was wrong with his lands.

"If anything?" No, there will be a great deal wrong, there. Adair is supposed to be in the north, and there would have been reflections off the Iftel Border before Firesong and the rest instigated the Counter-Storm.

Tremane's eyes had the glazed look that meant he "felt" something very strong, which probably meant very bad. "Your lands, Baron Peregryn, include a small river valley, bounded by a lake, a hill shaped like a sleeping cat, and a forest of pines," he said slowly, as if he were talking in his sleep. Peregryn's eyes widened, and several of the men behind him began whispering urgently together. "Beneath that hill there is a cave, and within that cave there is a place where magic is pooling and stagnating. Living there is a beast, changed by magic into a monster. You cannot kill it directly; it will cost too many lives. You cannot poison it. To kill it you must feed it a cow which has been fed on datura-flower for three days. It will gorge itself, and the action of the flower will make it sleepy and it will go to the cave to hide. You must then collapse the cave or brick it up, sealing it inside."

Tremane went on, reciting the locations of several more pockets of trouble, together with suggested solutions for eliminating the problems. Peregryn wouldn't be able to implement all or even most of those solutions until summer, but at least now he and his men knew where all the trouble spots were, and would be able to deal with them one at a time. As Tremane spoke, more and more of Peregryn's men began whispering together, their expressions taking on the slightly stunned look of men who were hearing something they could not believe, and yet could verify. Evidently several of Tremane's revelations matched problems they already knew about—and knew that Tremane could not have learned by any normal means. Finally, Tremane fell silent, then blinked, shook his head a little, and his eyes cleared of their daze.

"I trust that will help?" he said dryly. He would remember everything he had said, of course; this was not a true trance, more of a state of intense concentration. And behind him one of his clerks had been taking down every word and would give Peregryn a copy before he left. If Peregryn was unable to deal with any of the problems Tremane had identified for him, there would be a record of what the problem was and where, and eventually Tremane's own men would move in to take care of it.

"More than simply 'help,' Your Majesty," Peregryn replied shakily.

He would have said more, but one of the men of his group, overcome with fervor and enthusiasm, leaped to his feet, brandishing his sword over his head.

"Long life to King Tremane!" he shouted, his voice actually cracking with excitement. "All gods bless King Tremane!"

That goaded everyone else in the entourage, and eventually Peregryn as well, to get to their feet in an eruption of cheers. Tremane remained sitting on his throne—in part, Darkwind knew, because he couldn't stand just yet—and bent his head to them in gracious acknowledgment of their accolade. Some of the oldest men were openly weeping; these were the ones who eventually thrust themselves forward, flung themselves at Tremane's feet, and kissed his hand with tears streaming down their faces. It was a moment of extreme and powerful emotion, and Tremane himself was not unmoved by it. The King took great care to clasp every man's hand, using both hands, listening to him babble, until he was ready to rise again and let another take his place. It was quite obvious to Darkwind that Tremane recognized these old warriors for what they were, and knew how difficult it was to get any sort of accolade from them, much less this kind of emotional outburst.

These older men always proved to be those who had survived the purges and who had expected to die without ever seeing Hardorn return to peace and prosperity. Darkwind knew very well why they wept, and so did Tremane. "I have given them back their dreams and their hope," he had said, a little in awe himself, after the first time this had happened. "They see a future now, where their grandchildren can expect to grow up without fear of being murdered on a royal whim."

And he was right; that was precisely what those old men saw: a future, where before had been only darkness and doubt.

It took some time before the young Baron and his men managed to calm themselves down, and more before all of the appropriate ceremonies had been fulfilled. Tremane apologized for having to house them in a barracks; they hastened to assure him that they would have been perfectly willing to camp in the snow. Tremane directed his supply sergeant—who now bore the impressive title of "Procurement Adviser"—to bestow upon his new liegemen the "usual gifts" and they made a token protest. The "usual gifts" were all surplus items, so much in surplus that their value in the town would be seriously depreciated if any more came on the market. Surplus Imperial clothing, surplus hand tools, surplus weapons. Some of Tremane's people had argued against that last, pointing out that he would be arming those who had lately been his enemies. But Tremane felt, and Darkwind agreed with him, that giving them weapons demonstrated his trust in them. It was a gesture worthy of a King.

Besides, these new liegemen needed the weaponry that Tremane gave them. Their own supplies had been depleted in their war against the Imperial forces. If they were going to rid themselves of their land's boggles, they needed weapons.

This wasn't at all altruistic. Practically speaking, Tremane would rather that they went after their boggles instead of turning to Imperial soldiers for help. They knew the lay of their own land, where a boggle might lair, where it could run. His men wouldn't, couldn't. Better to let the local experts handle it, if there was any chance they could.

By the time the presentation was over, Baron Peregryn and his men were, however, so happy they were beside themselves. They never even noticed that Tremane had gone pale, and was sweating, his hands clenching the arms of his throne so hard that the knuckles were white.

:He isn't getting up, because he can't,: Elspeth said, her Mindvoice sharp with alarm. :It's more than simple disorientation this time. It's really striking him hard.:

:What's wrong?: he asked, hoping she'd know.

:I can't tell, and neither can Gwena.: There was frustration there as well as alarm. :All I can tell for certain is that he's in nearly the same state as he was when his earth-sense was first awakened. This has something to do with the earth-sense itself, and something to do with this new area he's taken seisin of.:

Neither of them dared move to help him, not while the Baron and his people were still present; Tremane was clearly attempting to conceal his weakness and it was their responsibility to follow his wishes. He reached for her hand as she reached for his; their hands closed on each other and they stood waiting, tensely, while the last of the amenities were played out.

Finally the Baron and all of his men trooped out, to be accommodated overnight in one of the barracks. In the morning, Tremane would meet with them again and give them warning and instructions concerning what everyone here was now calling the "Final Storm," and what to do to weather it. Then, when everything had been organized for their return, they would go back home with a small caravan of supply sledges. Only after the doors closed behind them, could Tremane fold his body over his knees and his own people rush to help him.

But he waved them away before they could do more than ask him what was wrong.

"I'll be all right," he said, and Darkwind let out the breath he had been holding, for he sounded normal, just a bit shaken. "It's nothing physical, and I don't believe it's anything to worry about. Just—something unexpected just happened; let me sit here for a moment or two more while I get over it." He looked over at Darkwind and smiled ruefully. "Quite frankly, it feels as if someone just dropped me off a very high cliff, and I stopped just short of the ground."

Elspeth knelt at his side, and Darkwind joined her. "It's the new Barony, isn't it?" she asked. "It's something there. Is it the Storms starting again?"

As if her questions gave him a focus for his own sensations, he seized on them. "Yes. No. Yes, it's Adair, and no, it's not the Storms. I don't know what it is, but it's not—no wait." His eyes took on that far-off gaze again. "It's the border, the northern border. Adair is on the northern border, and something has happened up there. Something important. Something that changes everything."

"What—" one of Tremane's generals began, but Tremane just shook his head, dumbly.

"I don't know," he repeated. "I just know—it's something completely new."

"What's on the northern border?" someone else asked, and looked at Elspeth for the answer.

She had one for that question, but she had turned as pale as Tremane. "Iftel," she said, and her hand clenched tight on Darkwind's. "Iftel. The one place in this part of the world that no one knows anything about."

"So that's the message?" Tremane said, his eyebrows rising. "Just that? Nothing more?"

With his recovery, the meeting among Darkwind, Elspeth, and Tremane that had been interrupted had been moved back to the office in his quarters, but by now they had all forgotten whatever it was they had been talking about, for a message had come by way of signal-towers from the North. Unfortunately, it only confirmed that something had happened, and gave them very little other information.

"That's all there was, sir—Your Majesty—" the aide recovered from his mistake. "Just that the border with Iftel suddenly opened, and a new delegation of something friendly was coming down here to meet with you. I'm afraid," he continued apologetically, "that the signal language is not very specific."

"The signal did say they were friendly, though? You're sure you're not misreading that?" if Tremane's voice was sharp with anxiety, Darkwind couldn't blame him.

"No, sir, that much is quite clear," the aide said with certainty. "The old man at the signal did say that the term used was one that he hadn't seen very often, but that it was definitely noted as being friendly."

"Thank the gods for small favors," Tremane muttered, and sighed, running a hand over his chin. "Well, now I know what it—ah—feels like to have the Iftel Border open up. That's useful information. But how whatever is coming expects to travel in this winter weather, I can't begin to imagine."

"Peregryn and his men did," Darkwind pointed out. "There's no reason to suppose others can't, but it will take time for them to arrive, perhaps weeks on foot, ten days by horse."

"By then, I might even have a throne I can sit on without worrying if it's going to break and drop me on my rump," Tremane sighed, then laughed. "Listen to me complaining about a flimsy throne! As if that was the worst thing we have to face!"

"A delegation from Iftel," Elspeth mused, twisting one of the rings she wore around and around. "They've always allowed a single envoy from Valdemar inside their land, so long as it was a member of the Merchant's Guild—but never anyone from the Mercenary's Guild. And they would never permit Heralds inside." She shook her head. "The envoy never would tell us much, only that they 'preferred peace' but weren't particularly interested in any exchanges with us."

"Very insular," Darkwind commented, quite well aware that this was a case of the goose complaining that the swan had a long neck. One can hardly call the Tayledras anything but insular.

"They could have good reason for being insular," Tremane pointed out. "When was the first time people of Valdemar encountered them?"

"Quite some time after the Founding," Elspeth admitted. "Their barrier was already in place then, at least according to the Chronicles. It was a merchant who was first allowed inside, and it has mostly been merchants who crossed it since." She smiled deprecatingly. "They may be insular, but like the rest of us, they enjoy buying things." Darkwind hid his own smile. for that last shot had been meant for herself. She had been unable to resist spending some of her own money on a few odd trifles that had turned up in the loot of the Imperial storehouse.

"So they could have encountered someone or something extremely dangerous before they ever saw you," Tremane pointed out, his eyes speculative, as he probably tried to envision what could have been so terrible that it caused an entire country to erect a magical barrier to keep out intruders. That it was a barrier that had survived centuries and baffled the magic powers of Ancar, Falconsbane, and the Empire alike made it all the more intriguing.

"They probably did," Darkwind put in. "In those early days, there were terrible things that far north. There was at least one Tayledras Vale somewhere about there, and our Chronicles report that at some time while they lived there, they encountered and defeated a Dark Mage much like Ancar's servant Falconsbane, but with a larger following."

He did not add that this mage probably had actually been Falconsbane in one of his earlier incarnations. Tremane neither knew about Falconsbane, nor likely cared; the only person still concerned with Ma'ar-Falconsbane was An'desha, and only because An'desha still held those critically-important memories. But as for the rest of them...

Falconsbane is dead, with the past, and this time he will stay that way. And about damned time, but we have more important things to worry about. The sober glance that Elspeth cast his way said virtually the same thing. For now, the situation was grave enough that even isolated Iftel was opening her borders and sending representatives to them; there was no leisure to dwell on the past.

"I don't know what, if anything, these representatives of Iftel might offer you," Darkwind cautioned.

"If nothing else," Tremane mused, "perhaps we can get them to part with the secret that makes up their Border. It's shielded them from the worst of the Storms so far; it might be able to shield us as well."

"Provided these people arrive here before the question becomes academic," Gordun, Tremane's chief mage, reminded him dryly. "It's a long way to the northern border and the going is difficult; by the time they get here, the Final Storm could have left us in ruins here."

Tremane nodded ruefully. "A good point, though it was an entertaining thought while it lasted. Well, that brings up the next decision; what shall we tell our newest Baron tomorrow about the Final Storm?"

"Hide, and finish your card games quickly?" one wag suggested. There was a general, strained laugh, and then the discussion moved into the serious channel of what to do in the immediate future. Eventually, late that night, precisely what should be told to the Baron and his entourage had been worked out; enough to make him understand the gravity of the situation, but not so much that he would panic. Panic would be bad for Peregryn and his people as well.

Over the course of the next couple of days, the Baron got his pick of surplused supplies, was given a review of troopers interested in resettling up north, and got his briefing and warnings about the Final Storm. He and his own advisers were philosophical about that last; there was nothing they could do to stop it, and they could only hope that the physical effects were limited to places with no human populations. During the first of the storms, caught both by the initial storm waves and the reflected waves from the Iftel Border, they had suffered more damage than anyone yet reporting in. "We have already had a half-dozen people unfortunate enough to be caught in one of the things we are calling 'change-circles,' and they were changed even as beasts are," Peregryn said, with a shrug of deeply felt helplessness. "The fortunate died."

"And the unfortunate lived," added one of his advisers grimly. "Though often, that was not long, when they made the mistake of approaching others for help. It wasn't always their bodies that changed, at least not outwardly."

Tremane exchanged a significant look with Darkwind. This was something he and his people had thought of at about the same time the potential for trouble occurred to the Allies. But while those in Valdemar had been concerned with prediction of where the change-circles would occur, and thus preventing people or large animals from being caught in one, the people in and around Shonar had planned on what to do when a human became a monster.

Until this moment, that had been nothing more than a possibility. Now they knew that there were transformed humans somewhere out there in the north, and it was time to put some of those plans into action in case the hapless victims trekked south. Tremane wrote something on a small slip of paper and passed it to a page to take to his clerks. The orders, already written out, would go into the troops' daily briefing. In essence, they were simple enough; Humans have been caught in the Storms and changed. If a boggle shows intelligence and no aggression, be wary—but leave it alone long enough for it to show its intentions.

There had been some debate on the subject, with a minority objecting to the mere idea of giving a boggle the chance to attack first, and a second minority wanting to make attempts to communicate with every boggle that even paused for a moment before attacking. Finally, to end the debating, Tremane had exercised his royal prerogatives and decreed the language of the order, which predictably did not entirely satisfy anyone, not even Tremane himself.

Darkwind had noticed, however, that Tremane had applied enough of the Imperial manner not to care if anyone was satisfied (including himself), so long as his decree did the job for which it was intended.

Neither of them could ever have guessed the immediate effect of that simple order.

Not more than two days after sending Baron Peregryn and his entourage and gift sledges off, during yet another ceremony of seisin—this time for the benefit of a very old Squire who had sent his informal pledge some time earlier, but who had not felt equal to taking the winter journey until now—they learned exactly why the signal-towers had said that something was coming down from Iftel.

No one there could have expected just what the somethings were.

Tremane had just added his blood to the soil that old Squire Mariwell had brought with him, when a great clamor arose up on the walls of the manor. Darkwind started and looked up automatically, although he wouldn't be able to see a thing through the stone walls and ceiling. With great presence of mind, Racky took the casket of earth from Tremane's hands, mixed the contents quickly, divided them and handed the old man his own casket back, while all about him, his elders were behaving skittishly, staring and muttering among themselves, hands on empty scabbards. Before Tremane could send to find out what the cause of all the ruckus was, and right after Racky pressed the casket of soil back into its owner's shaking hands, one of the King's bodyguards came bursting into the Great Hall, his face as white as the snow outside.

"Boggles over the castle!" he cried. "Oh, by the gods! Great, huge, flying boggles! So many they cover the sky! Oh, gods, help us..."

Elspeth held up her hand to shade her eyes, and squinted up at the dark shapes hovering in the brilliant blue sky above the courtyard. It was too soon yet to say just what these "boggles" looked like, other than the fact that they were winged, but there was something about those black V shapes and the way that they swooped and soared that looked tantalizingly familiar.

They remind me of Treyvan and Hydona, but they don't fly exactly the same way. Could they be gryphons? There've been rumors of gryphons in the north for years now...

"Remember your orders, men," Tremane called to the nervous sentries on the walls and towers above. "No shooting without provocation."

Pray they don't take simple swooping as provocation!

"There're exactly twenty-one of them," Darkwind said absently from her right, as he peered upward into a sky blindingly bright. He bit his lip and she sensed that he was thinking hard for a moment, then his eyes narrowed as if he had just made a decision. He extended his gloved hand to Vree, who transferred his perch from the shoulder to the gauntlet with that intensity of gaze that told Elspeth he was getting silent instructions from his bondmate.

A heartbeat later, Darkwind flung Vree upward, and the bondbird pumped his wings skyward, heading straight for those twenty-one mysterious Vs. "I'll know in a moment just—" He began, his eyes half closed.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed, the sound echoing across the otherwise silent courtyard and making just about everyone in Tremane's escort jump and stare at him as if they suspected he had gone mad. He brushed his snow-white hair back from his forehead, and pointed up at the "boggles," then at Vree, who had reversed his climb and was making a leisurely descent.

"Tell your men to put their weapons away, King Tremane," Darkwind called, holding out his gloved fist for the returning forestgyre. Vree flared his wings, ruffling Darkwind's hair, and landed as lightly as a bit of thistledown, settling his talons gently around the leather-covered wrist. "I suspect that's your delegation from Iftel up there, and if they can see half as well as my old friends Treyvan and Hydona can, they aren't about to land until there's no chance that they'll wind up becoming feathered pincushions."

:They are gryphons, then?: Elspeth asked, feeling a strange thrill of excitement. :Could these be more of the "missing Companies" from the days of the Mage Wars?:

:Could be; even with the distortion of looking through Vree's eyes, these gryphons don't look quite like the ones we've seen. Millennia of separation from the parent stock would do that, I suspect.: Darkwind continued to peer upward as the Imperial guards reluctantly put down their weapons at Tremane's shouted orders. :It's either that, or some unbelievably clever Adept managed to duplicate the gryphons we know, and I doubt that's possible.:

Whatever was or was not possible, it was soon obvious that Darkwind was right about the gryphons' eyesight. As soon as the last spear was grounded and the last arrow put back in its quiver, the hovering specks above descended with a speed that put Vree to shame, and made Elspeth recall what her mother's falconer had once said: "If you want to know what the fastest bird in the world is, ask the falconer who's just had his prize peregrine carried off by a stooping eagle."

Not only did the gryphons descend with breathtaking speed, they did so with artistry. They dropped in a modified stoop that followed a tightly spiraling path down into the relatively small courtyard, one after the other in a precise formation, like beads on a string. As the first of them backwinged hard, kicking up a wind that drove debris all over the courtyard and made those who had not been prepared for the amount of air those huge wings could push shield their faces, Elspeth wanted to applaud the theatrical entrance. The huge creature landed on the cobbles of the court as lightly as Vree on Darkwind's glove, touching down with one outstretched hind-claw first, then settling neatly an eyeblink later, posed and poised with wings folded, like a guardian statue in the middle of the expanse of stone.

The next followed a moment after, and the next, until the remaining twenty were ranged in a deliberate double half-circle behind their leader, all in the same precise, regal posture.

As Darkwind had indicated, they did not look quite like the gryphons of k'Leshya. These creatures were heavier of beak, neck, and chest; like eagles, rather than stocky and broadwinged like hawks, or lean, large-eyed, and long-winged like falcons. In color they were quite unlike the gryphons of k'Leshya, who were as varied in color as the creatures they had been modeled after. These gryphons were a uniform dark brown from beak to tail, a color with some patterned shading in a lighter brown, but nothing nearly like the malar-stripes or masks of the falconiform gryphons, or the variegations of the hawk-gryphons, with their bright yellow beaks and claws. The effect was very impressive to someone who had never seen any two gryphons who looked precisely alike; as if someone had deliberately made up a wing of gryphons that matched in every way, like a matched set of horses in a parade group. They looked every bit as intelligent as Treyvan and Hydona, and their yellow eyes watched every move made by the humans before them with calculation and speculation. The heavier beaks made their faces look oddly proportioned, at least at first, but Elspeth found herself swiftly growing used to the new variation.

Each of them wore a harness and pack very similar to the ones the Kaled'a'in gryphons often wore, made of highly polished leather of a rich reddish brown, with polished brass fittings. The apparent leader also wore a neck-collar and chestpiece that looked as if it had been derived from armor some time in the far distant past. Now it served only to bear a device of three swords, hilts down, points up, with a single heraldic sun above the middle. Elspeth glanced at Darkwind, who shook his head slightly; whatever it signified, he didn't recognize the symbology.

The gryphons waited, motionless except for the rising and falling of their chests, watching for someone among the humans to make the first move. The Imperials and Hardornens, one and all, stared back at them, faces pale and limbs rooted to the spot. Elspeth thought of her first sight of gryphons, and couldn't blame them for not moving. Here were creatures, twenty-one of them, with sickles on their front and hind claws, and meat hooks twice the size of a man's head in the middle of their faces—she wouldn't have been eager to rush up and embrace them in the name of brotherhood either.

"I suppose it's up to us," Darkwind said, a touch of amusement in his voice. He stepped forward, Elspeth a scant pace behind him, Gwena following at Elspeth's side, until he stood in comfortable speaking range of the leader, who regarded him with the unwavering, scarcely blinking gaze of the raptor.

"Welcome to Shonar, capital of Leader Tremane of Hardorn, in the name of the Alliance," he said in careful Kaled'a'in. "I am Darkwind k'Sheyna, representative of the Clans of the Tayledras of the Pelagirs, the Shin'a'in of the Dhorisha Plains, and the Kaled'a'in of k'Leshya Vale and White Gryphon. This is Elspeth, daughter of Selenay, ruler of Valdemar, and Companion Gwena, representatives of the peoples of Valdemar, Rethwellan, and Karse. Behind me are Leader Tremane, of Hardorn, and his officials and advisers."

Elspeth knew only enough Kaled'a'in to follow what Darkwind was saying, she could not have hoped to make the same speech herself. Kaled'a'in was handicapped by not having a word for "king;" the closest was "leader" or "ruler," and it gave no sense of the size of what was ruled. Darkwind's three peoples freely borrowed whatever local term applied, but she suspected that he was afraid that the gryphons before him would have no idea what the Hardornen titles meant. The chief gryphon listened attentively and with great concentration, and waited for a moment after Darkwind had finished to see if he would add anything. When Darkwind said nothing more, but made a slight bow, the gryphon opened his beak. He replied in a clear enough voice, but his words were in a form of Kaled'a'in so drastically different from anything she knew that she could only recognize the origin and not what the envoy said. Now it was Darkwind's turn to listen, closely, and with immense concentration, brows knitted into an unconscious frown as he followed the carefully enunciated words. She did not venture to break his concentration by Mindspeaking to him.

:I don't suppose you're picking up anything from them, are you?: she asked Gwena, as Darkwind made a reply of which she only understood half the words, none of them in sequence. She guessed that he was elaborating on who was what, and to whom the gryphon needed to apply for reception of his delegation.

:Not a thing, they're shielded, and shielded hard,: came the helpful reply. :It would be useful to have an Empath with us at the moment, but I don't think there's anything other than a fairly reasonable level of anxiety in them at this point.:

In the gryphon's reply, Elspeth caught the word, "Hardorn," and Darkwind's face cleared. "It would be a great deal easier if you could speak in the language of Hardorn, sir," he replied in that tongue. "I fear that time has changed the language you speak from the one taught to me."

"A grrreat deal of time, young Brrrother-To-Hawksss," the gryphon rumbled, with evident amusement. "A verrry grrreat deal of time by anyone's measurrre. I am Tashiketh pral Skylshaen, envoy from the land you know as Iftel to the court of King Tremane, who we have been told has been chosen for his office by the land, as it was in the old days." He waved a huge taloned hand in an expansive gesture at the twenty gryphons poised behind him. "This is my wing. These are the representatives of the twenty hrradurr of Iftel, courageous and worthy of their offices, who each won the right to fly in my wing in the bahathyrrr."

The hrradurr were evidently subdivisions of Iftel—though what the bahathyrrr could be, Elspeth could not even begin to guess. She made a quick hand-gesture behind her back, hoping Tremane would take the hint and come up to be presented, but he was already moving before she gestured. With quick wits, he had already anticipated what was needed the moment that the gryphon began to speak in Hardornen.

He walked forward with grace that could only be trained into someone who began learning the peculiar "dance" of court movement at a very early age. When he reached Darkwind's side, he bowed his head in a slight acknowledgment to Tashiketh. The gryphon in his turn made a deep obeisance to the King, then carefully extracted a packet of folded papers from a pouch at the side of his harness and handed them to Darkwind who in turn gave them to Tremane.

"The land of Iftel sends greetings to Hardorn's new ruler, oh, Tremane, once of the House Imperial," the gryphon said, in his strangely accented Hardornen. "We have been sent by the Assembly of Peoples and He Who Made The Barrier to bear the greetings of our Assembly and our Peoples, and to offer you our personal assistance in current and future difficulties. We are," he added, with a lift of his head, "authorized to assist you in any way."

Elspeth could guess at the thoughts running through Tremane's head at the moment, though he gave no sign of them as he gravely thanked Ambassador for his greetings and his offer.

He can't take this offer seriously. Likeliest is either that Tashiketh is not aware of what he is actually promising, or that this is a polite custom of Iftel, a standard speech, and the offer is not meant to be anything more than an expression of polite esteem.

That, of course, was only logical. As welcome as the aid of a full wing of gryphons would be, how could an ambassadorial delegation be expected to perform any services that did not directly benefit their own land? And certainly there was no reason to believe that such a blank card had been given to King Tremane to fill in as he cared to. He could, conceivably, ask them to do something too dangerous for his own men to try. If they were harmed, he would have to face the consequences, but it made no sense to think that Iftel would be willing to put its citizens in danger.

Of course, Darkwind and I and our entourage are perfectly willing to put ourselves in danger—and do—but that's because we aren't really just envoys, we're representatives of the Alliance and we're performing as Hardorn's military allies as well as our other duties. In a sense, we're a very small military unit as well as ambassadors.

The next thing that must be running through Tremane's head as he surveyed the half-circle of twenty-one very large gryphons, was where on earth was he going to put them?

He couldn't put them in the stable nor in one of the barracks, surely he must see that. The stable simply wasn't suitable, even if her Companion and Darkwind's dyheli Brytha were willing to put up with it, and the earth-sheltered barracks buildings would probably give creatures of the air great screaming fits of claustrophobia. She considered the gryphons, their size, and their probable needs. They would all fit in the Great Hall; could that drafty barn of a room be made habitable as well as elegant? Each of the several towers of the manor would probably hold four or five gryphons in each of the topmost rooms, which were mostly used as armories and weapon storage for the sentries that were posted there; would the gryphons consent to being split up? If they would, there was at least access to the air from the trapdoors in each of the tower roofs. Fortunately, thanks to the spacious barracks now available, and the fact that a large number of staff persons (mages, Healers, and other auxiliaries) now were housed in the city rather than in the manor itself, the overcrowding that had been making life so difficult in the early days here had been overcome. There was room in the manor for the gryphons, at least on a temporary basis. But from Tashiketh's speech, this was intended to be a permanent delegation, and they would need permanent housing.

Tremane made a graceful, rambling speech of welcome, probably while he was trying to think of housing options.

There are still some unused buildings in Shonar. Would the gryphons be willing to be housed in an "Embassy" in the city?

But if they did, what would they use for servants? Gryphons required a lot of tending; there were any number of things that they couldn't do for themselves. Lighting fires, for instance; talons were not good at manipulating firestrikers, and feathers were dismayingly flammable. The gryphons of k'Leshya had specially trained trondi'irn to see to their health and well-being; Treyvan and Hydona had done without such help, officially at least, for several years—but the k'Sheyna hertasi had helped them unofficially. What would these gryphons do? Did they even guess that the people of Hardorn and the Empire were unready to host them?

Tremane finally ran out of things to say, and so did Tashiketh. They stood on the cobblestones and looked politely at one another for a moment, and it was Tremane who finally broke the silence.

"Now I must confess that I and my people are simply not prepared for anything other than strictly human ambassadors," he said, in a burst of that un-Imperial frankness that was becoming a welcome characteristic of his. "We were somewhat thrown off-balance when the Alliance sent two nonhumans, the Companion Gwena here, and her collegue the dyheli Brytha, who intends to present himself to you later. We were completely unprepared for them, but they were gracious and generous enough to accept the stable as perfectly adequate, though it was scarcely that."

Gwena bowed in graceful acknowledgement of the compliment, and Tashiketh glanced at her curiously, then returned his attention to Tremane.

"To be honest, Ambassador Tashiketh, I do not know what we are going to do for the comfort of you and your entourage," Tremane confessed ruefully. "I can only think of three possibilities, and none of them are ideal. There are four tower rooms that might do, if you'd be willing to split up into groups of four or five?"

At Tashiketh's headshake, he went on doggedly. "Then there is only the Great Hall, or taking a building in the city itself—"

"But that was what we had intended to do, take a building and make of it our permanent Embassy," Tashiketh interrupted gravely. "We have brought with us the hire of the building, of staff. We knew that your resources are stretched, and had no intention of straining them further. If we could just spend a few days here, somewhere, that would be enough, surely. As soon as we have established our own place, we will remove to it."

If Tremane sighed with relief, he was schooled enough not to show it. "We shall be happy to house you in the Great Hall for as long as it takes for you to establish your Embassy," he replied with commendable ease, as out of the corner of her eye, Elspeth saw the young Seneschal breaking away from the rest of the group and pounding at a dead run toward the nearest doorway to put Tremane's intentions into effect. She hid a smile; that was one benefit of having a staff composed entirely of military people. Instead of arguing that something couldn't be done, they ran off and made it happen.

"If you would be so kind, then, I would ask you to send a messenger to some representative of your city, that we might establish ourselves as quickly as possible?" Tashiketh asked, and she thought she caught a sly glint of humor as he added, "And in the meanwhile, perhaps you have someone who would conduct us in a tour? This is the first time I have seen a wholly human city; the differences are apparent even at a distance."

Elspeth tried not to choke, for this was so clearly a diplomatic gesture to ensure that Tremane's people had time to get suitable quarters for the gryphons ready! Tashiketh and his wing must be exhausted and were probably also ravenous; to ask for a tour under those conditions bespoke a consummate diplomat. :Volunteer to give him the tour yourself; I'll go help advise Tremane's people on the care and feeding of gryphons,: she quickly told Darkwind, who smoothly volunteered his services as soon as she made the suggestion.

The Iftel delegation and their reception committee quickly broke into three groups; one of humans, one of mixed humans and gryphons, and one of gryphons only. Tashiketh, Darkwind, and an escort of amused Valdemaran Guards and two solemn and militant gryphons went off for a brief tour of the grounds as built and fortified by Tremane's people. The rest of the gryphons stationed themselves in the courtyard like a group of sober and businesslike young Guard-trainees to wait for their leader's return. Gwena returned to the stable by herself, as Elspeth went with Tremane and his people, and volunteered her expertise as soon as they were out of gryphonic earshot.

Within a relatively short period of time, the Great Hall had been stripped of the trappings of power and refurbished as temporary housing for twenty-one gryphons. This turned out to be a great deal easier than she had thought it would. Remembering what Treyvan and Hydona had done, Elspeth and the Supply Sergeant went over the lists of surplus and stores, until they found enough equipment to make the gryphons reasonably comfortable, then she commanded a squad of sturdy fighters in carrying out every bit of furniture. Stage curtains and painted backdrops were sent for, to help keep the chill of the stone walls at bay, and a rainbow of rugs brought in to soften floors. Every featherbed that could be spared was brought in once the rugs were down and the draperies up, until there were twenty-one good "nests" covered with as many thick blankets and throws as a gryphon could want. Twenty of the nests were arranged along the walls, with the twenty-first up on the dais, and hastily-rigged curtains put up that could partition off that part of the room to make an individual chamber. As privacy, it wasn't much, but at least it was a good gesture in that direction, and if Tashiketh preferred to keep the curtains open, he could.

The largest soup kettles available were brought and filled with fresh water for drinking, with large, deep soup bowls arranged on a table beside the kettles in case these gryphons preferred to drink from a small vessel rather than plunge their prodigious beaks into a larger one. That took care of drink, and Elspeth advised the cook what kinds of raw meat, fowl, and fish best suited their new guests. The room looked quite odd by the time they were done, but strangely, not at all shabby. There was a curious sort of harmony in the painted canvas scenery backdrops, separated by velvet stage curtains, covering the walls, and between the bewildering variety of rugs, blankets, and throws covering the floor and the nests, the end effect was something like being inside an extremely luxurious tent.

:We're ready,: she told Darkwind. as the last of the carpenters cleared their ladders and equipment out, and the first of the kitchen staff began arriving with whole sides of beef and baskets of fish.

:That's good, because I'm running out of things to show them, and I doubt they're going to be able to express even polite interest in warehouses and latrines.: Darkwind sounded distinctly amused, and Elspeth had the feeling that Tashiketh was proving to be quite good company.

She cleared out herself, leaving the young Seneschal to do the honors on behalf of Tremane, and decided that she had best report what she had so cavalierly ordered to the King himself.

But someone had already gone to fetch him, for he met her at the door, with his escort and hers in tow.

He surveyed the transformed room with some surprise and a great deal of relief. "Bless you, Herald Elspeth," he said with feeling. "I'd have had my carpenters trying to cobble up gigantic cadges or floor perches, or something of the sort—which wouldn't have been a disaster, but it would have delayed things while Tashiketh explained what they really needed. Will this be warm enough, though?" he added, looking at the hangings with a slight frown of uncertainty. "This place is notoriously drafty."

"It will do," she replied. "Their feathers keep them as warm as our winter cloaks do, and they really only need to stay out of extreme cold and drafts. The hangings will block the drafts well enough, and they can wrap themselves in rugs and blankets to sleep. Add charcoal braziers carefully tended, and they should be fine. They'll need one of your Healers—a good, brave person, who will find them a challenge and not something to be afraid of—and about four servants to run errands, watch the braziers, and fetch things at all times."

"A Healer?" Tremane asked with surprise, signaling to one of his aides. "Why a Healer? They look healthy enough to me."

"Gryphons have peculiar strengths and weaknesses; the ones I know always try to have a specially trained helper around them to keep them healthy," she explained. "A Healer is the closest we have to that, and I expect that Tashiketh will be willing to explain their needs." She coughed, hiding her expression behind her hand. "The hardest part will be finding a Healer and a handful of servants brave enough to come tend to 'boggles.'"

But it was Tremane's turn to smile knowingly. "Not as hard as you might think, Elspeth of Valdemar," he said lightly. "We of the Empire are made of sterner stuff than that."

And so it proved; Tremane had not one, but two Healers eager to have access to the gryphons, and there was no problem in getting volunteers from the ranks for the light duty of acting as servants to the Ambassador and his entourage. As soon as Tashiketh and his corps had been installed, pronounced themselves "delighted," and dined, they had their Healer and their servants waiting for orders.

Tashiketh had displayed surprise when he saw the quarters, if an onlooker knew what to look for; he had shown more surprise and pleasure at the quality of the hospitality. He dismissed the would-be trondi'irn and three of the four servers as soon as he and the others had eaten, with thanks and the information that they all needed to rest after their journey. He asked the fourth server to stay, to watch the braziers, and in case any of them required something after they retired, which the man was not at all loath to do. The other three made themselves comfortable in a niche in the hall close by, and got out the inevitable dice.

"Are they going to sleep, really?" Tremane asked Darkwind as the King and his small entourage left the gryphons to their privacy.

"Probably so," the Hawkbrother replied. "Even given that they flew here in order to reach us, that was a tremendous distance they covered in a very short time. Judging by the amount they ate, they're going to sleep the sleep of the sated until well past sunrise tomorrow."

Tremane ran his hand over the top of his balding head, looking, at the moment, nothing like a King. "I thought that having earth-sense dropped on me was confusing," he said, slowly, looking honestly bewildered. "They're huge and like nothing I've ever been near before. Now what do I do? How do I treat them?"

"You have dinner with Elspeth and me, and you simply accept them as any other foreign ambassadors," Darkwind advised. "This is a great honor, yes. It is also the first time Iftel has sent out representatives who were not human. This can't be any easier for them than it is for you. You may not be used to having gryphons as ambassadors, but they aren't used to being ambassadors in the first place."

Tremane looked at him oddly for a moment, then began to laugh. And if there was a faint edge of hysteria to his laughter, Elspeth couldn't blame him.

Tremane's men trampled their way purposefully through the snow, hauling burdens, readying sledges and animals, shouldering packs and weapons. Darkwind guided Tashiketh and his ever-present gryphon-guards through the gates and toward the worst of the congestion, stopping often to allow someone with a more urgent task get past them.

"What is all this excitement concerning?" Tashiketh asked, watching the activity swirling around them with curiosity brimming over in his large golden eyes.

"I was about to explain it to you," Darkwind replied, quickly stepping out of the way of a man burdened with an entire bundle of spear shafts. "We had a very unexpected and unpleasant message last night."

"Ah! Now I regret vacating our palace quarters so soon!" the gryphon said brightly. Tashiketh and his own entourage had established themselves within two days of their arrival in an old inn very near the manor, cheerfully vacated by the owner at the sight of the odd, octagonal gold coins offered for its purchase by the treasurer for the gryphons. They had chosen the inn because of its large rooms on the second floor, each of which had its own balcony, and several of the staff were quite willing to stay on and serve such relatively undemanding masters. Now Tashiketh and his escort of two moved between the inn and the manor every day, taking part in daily Court and Council sessions, showing extreme interest in everything Tremane did. So far, they had neither interfered in the business of Hardorn nor done anything other than tender an opinion when asked for one. It was Darkwind's thought that they were acting in very similar fashion to the way that Treyvan and Hydona had behaved when they first came to k'Leshya Vale—willing to offer advice, but making no move to push in where they might not be wanted.

But the cause of this particular uproar had occurred very near midnight, long after the gryphons had retired for the night. The gryphons Darkwind knew did not find it necessary to be purely daylight creatures, but Tashiketh and his group had not been trained from their youth to be explorers and navigators of the unknown, and their experiences here were probably wearing them down. Between the cold and their strange surroundings, they felt much more comfortable taking to their own, warm quarters after dark, and not stirring out until daylight. So when the messenger pounded in on an exhausted horse last night, reporting that one of Tremane's newly-sworn liegemen was under attack by one of his neighbors, the gryphons were blissfully asleep. In the excitement, no one had bothered to wake them or even send them a message, and by the time anyone thought of doing so, it was already daylight and Darkwind was on his way to the gates to escort Tashiketh inside.

There was nothing in the simple attack of one set of humans upon another that would have alerted Tremane through the earth-sense, so the attack came as a complete surprise. A substantial amount of last night had been devoted to planning a defense, and with dawn the men in the chosen barracks were roused, briefed, and moving by the time Tashiketh appeared at the gates.

Darkwind, who met the gryphons here every morning, explained the situation to him. Tashiketh stopped, just out of the way of traffic, and stared at him in perplexity.

"But it will be very difficult to fight in this season, will it not?" he asked, very slowly. "And with the possibility of the mage-storms resuming soon, that could make it more difficult yet."

Darkwind nodded. "How could it not be?" he replied. "But if King Tremane does not come to the aid of this liegeman, then every other bandit who thinks to make himself King in place of Tremane will think himself free to do what he wills."

"But why did Tremane not call upon us?" Tashiketh asked, with a surprised and even injured expression. "Did we not offer to be of all assistance to him? And would his enemies not find the sight of a gryphon wing descending upon them enough to terrify them into submission? Why, look you how frightened his own people were when they knew that we were coming—how much more so must his enemies be?"

Now it was Darkwind's turn to stop in his tracks and stare at Tashiketh with shock and incredulity. "But you are ambassadors!"

"We are allies," Tashiketh replied firmly. "Even as you, Brother-to-Hawks. I am not only the Ambassador, I am the leader of this force, which members have drilled and trained together. Is it not preferable to quell disturbance with the application of a small force, rather than to wait and meet war with a greater one?" He clicked his beak and then gryph-grinned, in the way that Darkwind was so familiar with in Treyvan. "Besides, we are bored. It will be good to show our fighting prowess. It is what we are born, bred, and trained for."

"I thought that there was no fighting in Iftel," Darkwind blurted, as activity swirled all around them. "I thought that your Border prevented any such thing!"

Now Tashiketh sobered. "Simply because we do not make war on other nations, nor permit those nations to make war upon us, that does not mean that we do not prepare ourselves for war or for the day when the Barrier might fail us. I cannot tell you how long we have trained...." He shook his head "All my life, all the life of my father, and his, and his, and so far back I cannot begin to count the years. We have always trained and contested, and will always train and contest. And when the need is there, we fight."

Then he roused up his feathers, and moved so quickly that Darkwind was left behind completely unprepared. "Come!" he shouted. "We go to this King, and we tell him in a way that will make him believe!"

As Darkwind knew, even when on the ground, gryphons could move very quickly when they chose. He was left behind as Tashiketh and his escort charged into the manor, bent on offering themselves as potential victims on Tremane's altar. And he was afraid, terribly afraid, that Tremane would accept them.

But when he reached the council chamber, he found that although Tremane had accepted their offer, it was with conditions—and reservations.

"Tell the men to stand down," he was ordering as Darkwind entered. "I'll try Tashiketh's way, but—but—" he said, turning to the exultant gryphon and raising his voice. "You, sir, will obey the orders of your commander, that is, me, and you will make the preparations that I tell you to and adhere to the conditions that I set."

Darkwind could hardly believe the transformation that a few moments had made in the dignified gryphon. Tashiketh and his two escorts were wildly excited, hackles and eartufts up, eyes flashing as their pupils expanded and contracted rapidly, their talons flexing against the wooden floor and leaving gouges that would be the despair of Tremane's housekeepers. These were no longer the strange ambassadors of an even stranger culture, these were warriors, and he wondered how they had kept their nature hidden beneath those serene exteriors.

"We have the time, if you and your wing are determined to fly a warning against these people, to take the precaution that is needed to prepare you," Tremane said sternly, every inch the commander. And now Darkwind wondered at the transformation in the King as well. Here and now, there was no uncertainty, no hesitation. This was the Imperial Commander, a man who knew both planned warfare and scrimmage fighting, the man who had been entrusted with the conquest of Hardorn. "There is time enough for you to see what maps we have of the area and speak with those of Shonar who have relatives in the contested area. I would have you see my armorer, so that he can make you breast- and side-plates to protect you from arrows, and helmets to defend you from slung shot, if there were time enough." Tashiketh opened his beak to protest, and Tremane swiftly overruled him. "Not a word, sir! I am your commander, I have been fighting these people, as you have not, I know what they can and cannot do, and I will decree the terms under which you will fight. I will not dictate your tactics, sir, for that is your purview, but I can and will decree what I need for your safety!"

He looked so black and angry that Darkwind thought for a moment that Tashiketh would take offense. But one of the two escorting gryphons muttered something under his breath, and Tashiketh burst into laughter.

"What did he say?" Tremane asked, his anger fading.

"He said, 'What a surprise, to find after all these centuries, a commander who is more concerned with saving our blood than spending it!' And he is right." Tashiketh bent his head in submission to Tremane's will. "We will follow the wishes of the commander who does not waste anything. I'll send Shyrestral to bring the rest, and we will see your maps and plans rather than improvising solely upon what we find there."

In so short a time that Darkwind was astonished, the gryphons were lined up in three ranks for a none-too-hasty briefing. Only one somewhat bewildered man, who had only visited the place once, could be found to tell the gryphons about the lay of the land in that area. He found himself overwhelmed by the gryphons' relentless questioning over details of the region's wind currents.

On the fourth day after the messenger had arrived, the gryphon wing flew off to confront the enemy, and Darkwind and everyone else watched them fly off with mingled hope and dread. The gryphons seemed full of confidence and good humor; they might have been going off on a pleasure jaunt.

Except that their behavior showed Darkwind very clearly that their hunting and killing instincts were roused. When they were not moving, they were intensely alert, heads up, eyes taking in everything, bodies poised. When they moved, it was with bewildering swiftness and utter sureness, as deadly and beautiful as the dance of warrior and sword. They took no notice of the snow beneath their claws, of the cold breeze; their eyes were on the blinding blue sky, and they could not wait to be up and out. When they took to the air, they leaped up, catching the shivering wind in their talons and conquering it.

"You're sure they will have a chance?" Tremane asked, as the wing vanished into the blue distance. "I keep feeling as if I'm sending them to their doom."

"Gryphons were originally created as fighters," Darkwind replied slowly. "Very versatile ones. It's in their blood, and a millennium or two isn't going to change that."

"They may have been created as fighters, but are they trained?" Tremane said, his voice sounding strained. "I know what my men can do—but these creatures? Granted, their opponents aren't as well-equipped or skilled as my men, yet it only takes a single well-aimed arrow to kill someone. And you tell me that Iftel has kept war away from her borders for as long as the Valdemarans have known them. How can they be ready for this? Surely—"

"'Forgive me for interrupting you, but has Tashiketh told you how his twenty wingmen were chosen?" Darkwind replied, before Tremane could voice much more in the way of anxiety.

The King shook his head.

"'I thought not. Let's go inside where it's warm," Darkwind told him, as the sharp wind cut through the seams of his coat and chilled him. He shivered involuntarily and stamped his numbing feet to warm them. "I believe I'm about to surprise you."

The group retired to Tremane's study; several of his other staff members, who had overheard the exchange, had managed to tag along. The gryphons had excited a great deal of interest among the Imperials and Hardornens alike, and Darkwind didn't at all mind assuaging some of their curiosity. It was a close fit for all of them, but Tremane gave no hint that he wanted any of them to leave.

"I've managed to learn a bit about the way things are done in Iftel, at least as far as the gryphons are concerned," Darkwind told the group, once they were all settled in a circle of chairs, Tremane's only a little larger and more elaborate than the rest. "It's not the peaceful paradise you and I might have imagined."

"Oh?" Elspeth said. "But they won't even let the Mercenary's Guild establish a Guildhall there!"

Darkwind could only shake his head. "I don't know of their origin, but because of what I have learned from Tayledras history and some Kaled'a'in information, I have a few guesses. Tashiketh either doesn't know the answers, or has been ordered to pretend that he doesn't, so this is speculation."

Tremane uttered a scornful little cough. "Darkwind, at times your insistence on hedging is maddening. Tell us! Don't keep saying it's only your opinion."

Darkwind chuckled, not at all offended. "Certainly. I think that the citizens of Iftel are descended from some of the forces that were cut off when the Mage of Silence's stronghold was overrun. There were gryphon-wings with several of the armies, and since female gryphons by and large are a bit larger and heavier than the males, females always fought alongside males, often their mates, so there would have been a breeding population."

"You mean some of these gryphons are female?" one of the generals blurted, looking completely taken aback.

Darkwind laughed. "You didn't even look between their haunches, eh? Yes, some are female. Probably half; males also spend as much time tending the young as females, since they feed their young the way young hawks are fed." He raised an eyebrow at the general's stunned expression. "Oh, come now—you didn't think anything with a beak like that could suckle milk, did you? I wouldn't want to see the result if one tried!"

The general winced, and Tremane himself made an expression of sympathetic pain.

"As for the concept of females being poor fighters, I would not venture that opinion around Herald Captain Kerowyn of the Skybolts if I were you," Elspeth added crisply. "She is likely to invite you to have a practice session with a few of her ladies—or worse, with her!"

Darkwind watched the general in question as he took a second and third glance at Elspeth, finally saw the calluses and muscles, and realized that Elspeth was not the pampered princess he had thought. "So much for physiology; I am assuming that they must have come from Urtho's people, because gryphons are created creatures, and I can't imagine where else they could have originated. We know from Kaled'a'in stories that some of Urtho's people were cut off from their own forces—they knew what was going to happen when the enemy overran the last stronghold," Darkwind continued. "I guess that they threw up hasty Gates—Portals, to you—and just tried to get as far away as possible. They succeeded, and ended up in fairly hostile country and then the Cataclysm happened and the Storms began. At some point, something put up the Barrier; Tashiketh isn't being very forthcoming about that either. The problem with putting a wall around you, though, is that it walls you in as well as other people out. So, in order to keep from killing each other or losing such self-defensive abilities altogether, the Peoples of Iftel organized their aggressions."

Tremane looked troubled. "Organized? How?"

Darkwind sighed, for he was of two minds about what he had learned. He understood why, and sympathized, but he wasn't happy about what they had chosen to do. "Games, but games that verge on being blood-sport. If Tashiketh is telling the truth, no one has to participate, but in the highest and most competitive levels, there is real possibility of serious injury and even death. Serious wargames; Tashiketh says that in his part of Iftel there are several deaths among participants in every round of competition. That was how his wing was formed; every single one of these gryphons is the winner of contests in his district that pitted him against opponents of his own and other races, coming at him singly and in a group, and using weapons that were merely blunted, not rendered harmless."

Tremane blinked. "Oh, he said, thoughtfully. "Interesting. They aren't as inexperienced as I assumed."

"That isn't all, of course," Darkwind went on. "Each preliminary winner was required to participate in intellectual contests as well; what those were, I don't know for certain, but they probably included memory tests and logic puzzles. Tashiketh was the overall winner of everything. And the reason that the delegation is made up entirely of gryphons is that only gryphons would have been able to get here before the Storms started again. Now you know the gist of everything that I have learned or guessed."

Tremane and the others seemed somewhat taken aback by the fact that the right to be an ambassador had been determined by a series of often-deathly-violent contests, but Darkwind privately thought that was a more logical means of choosing someone for an important post than some other methods he had heard of from supposedly "civilized" lands. Picking someone to whom you owed a favor, or someone whose family was important, or worst of all, giving the job to whoever paid the most for the honor—all those were recipes for sheer disaster, and whoever used such means probably got the disasters he deserved. Granted, most ambassadors didn't have to compete in highly dangerous war games, but then, most ambassadors weren't also authorized to participate in their allies' real conflicts, either. He just wished that the contests weren't so lethal.

"Are you confident in their ability as a fighting unit?" Tremane asked him bluntly. Darkwind nodded.

"I know my gryphons, and I know that these are well-trained," he replied. "I also know they aren't stupid. I don't think they would have been nearly so eager to volunteer if they thought your opponents had working magic."

"Ah!" Tremane exclaimed, and chuckled. "I see. They don't expect to come within range of a normal distance-weapon, is that it?"

"Probably not; they can stay out of range of arrows and drop large, heavy objects down on the enemy." Another of the generals started to chuckle, as if he found the idea vastly amusing. "Or spears, or firepots—"

"Or any number of things that are inconvenient when crashing through one's roof," Elspeth interrupted, before the good gentleman could wax eloquent. "But telling you that they were going to do that would not have sounded nearly as heroic as they wanted to appear."

"So, we will let them believe that we are still cherishing the illusion that they flew off to battle talon-to-sword with our foes," Tremane said firmly. "If they choose to tell us what their tactics are, we will then praise their cleverness. Otherwise, we will be effusive in our praises of their bravery. In either case, they will succeed in making it clear to troublemakers that we have a formidable ally that they do not; they will accomplish what they set out to do, which is to win this single scrimmage, and that may be all we need. I would rather have a bloodless victory than any other kind."

"I've taken the liberty of ordering a congratulatory feast of wild game, sir," the Seneschal said diffidently. "I was afraid that if we left it too long, we would never get the meat thawed in time."

Tremane nodded his agreement absently, which relieved the poor lad, who was still afraid to order anything on his own that might have a serious impact later. In this case, ordering a feast might lead to a shortage later. Darkwind privately doubted that, having seen the stores of frozen meat himself, but it was a possibility. Perhaps more than a possibility, when he recalled the sheer mass of food that Treyvan and Hydona could put away without hesitation. But now that Tremane had given his approval, the young Seneschal clearly felt much easier in his mind.

I do miss Treyvan and Hydona, and their two little feathered fighters. I miss tumbling and playing with the little ones, and feeling Hydona preen my hair, and watching Vree dive after Treyvan's crest-feathers. And I miss their deep voices, their affection, and advice.

"Now, gentlemen and ladies," Tremane said, his tone turning somber, "Let us consider what we must do if our allies fail."

"It isn't likely, I don't think," Darkwind offered. "A single gryphon, half-asleep, can defeat a squad of fighters with less effort than it takes to preen. This is a group of twenty-and-one, fully awake and eager!" Several of the attendees laughed, looking quite convinced of that by what they had seen of the creatures. "But you're correct, of course. Preparations should be made for less than total victory."

The rest of the day was spent making plans for just that contingency, but as sunset reddened the skies to the west, the victors came winging home, quite intact, and with the foes' leader's personal banner, a letter of surrender, and a pledge that he would come in person to swear his allegiance, all clutched proudly in Tashiketh's talons.

The cheers that rose to greet them as they replicated their previous graceful landing in the courtyard were prompted as much by relief as by joy in the victory, but they didn't need to know that.

Darkwind assured one and all that a tired gryphon was a starving gryphon, and Tashiketh's second in command nodded firmly. At the feast, to which the tired gryphons were immediately ushered, Tashiketh formally presented the surrender and pledge, and then modestly revealed the secret of their victory.

"First we dropped rocks through their roofs," he said, with a faintly cruel chuckle. "Then we dropped one firepot on a thatched outbuilding, and circled in three subwings of seven each. After six passes, we threatened to drop more. That got their attention long enough for us to claim that we were a mere fraction of the winged army that King Tremane could command if he chose. And I hinted that we weren't too particular about waiting for provisions to arrive in a case like that, and were inclined to help ourselves. The idea of hundreds of us descending out of the sky, smashing big holes in every roof, setting fire to things, and snatching and carrying off who-knew-what to eat, had them in a panic. If that idiot leading them hadn't surrendered on the spot, I think they might killed him and served him to us on a platter with a good broth on the side!"

Several of the generals laughed heartily at this, and even Tremane smiled. Darkwind thought it best to interject a cautionary note.

"It won't do to make them think you're going to carry off children for snacks," he warned Tashiketh under cover of the laughter. "How could they trust a King who'd let his 'monsters' feed on children?"

"No fear of that," Tashiketh soothed. "I made sure we were eying the sheep when I said that, and added a bit about how tasty fresh, fat mutton was, and allowed as how we could decimate their every flock and herd in a matter of days and just feel stronger for being so well fed. For a people on the edge of starvation, accepting surrender in place of that sounds very appealing. Our rules of combat have always stressed that we're not to intimate that we eat thinking beings. We might not have done this in earnest before, but we've had plenty of training."

"Good." Darkwind relaxed enough to chuckle. "I wish I'd seen their faces when you told them that you were only the vanguard. And of course, they would never know when you were bluffing."

"It wasn't all bluff." Tashiketh said smugly, then suddenly took an extreme interest in his food, as if he realized that he had said too much.

Well. Well! Darkwind took an interest in his own meal, as if unaware that Tashiketh had let fall something important. So Iftel has more interest in Tremane's welfare than I thought. Enough that they would back him with a significant force? It certainly sounds that way.

If they would send an army to help him, what else would they be willing to offer? The secret of the Barrier? Other secrets?

And how much of that would be of any use against the coming Storms, especially the Final Storm?

Or would so little be left after that last blow that none of this would matter?

"You could not possibly have conceived of anything more likely to have turned you into the Army's favorites," Elspeth told Tashiketh, as a roar went up from the watching crowd. Five of Tashiketh's subordinates climbed, crawled, flew, leaped, and contorted themselves across a torturous obstacle course under the bright noontime sun. It was cold enough to numb feet encased in boots and several layers of stockings, but that hadn't prevented the now-usual crowd from showing up as soon as the contest began. Typically, the former Imperial soldiers had gathered to watch, cheer—and then bet on the outcome. This was probably the most exciting entertainment in the entire country about now.

There was not a great deal in the way of entertainment in Shonar, in spite of the presence of the King here; every time the one and only Bard in the town composed a new song, the tavern where he played was crowded to capacity for days, and the soldiers did their best to enliven otherwise dull days and nights with mixed results. One of the highest-priced items to be had among the soldiery was a deck of cards. But now there was a new and novel source of spectacle in their midst, one with all the finest attributes of a fair, a race, and a real contest. Since Tashiketh never participated except to practice alone, the outcome of any given competition was always subject to the whims of chance, which made it perfect for wagering. That in turn made it more attractive yet, if that was possible.

"Would it harm me in your esteem if I confessed that this was a deliberate choice, making our contests public affairs?" Tashiketh asked Elspeth, gravely.

"Hardly. I would simply congratulate you on your intelligence," she replied promptly. "The only question I have is why stage these obstacle things at all? There are other ways of keeping you all in fighting trim."

"Because we must. Our hierarchy changes as the results of the contests change, and as our own ranking changes, so will the rankings of our various counties. And that, at year's end, will decree where discretionary tax funds are spent." Just as he made that surprising assertion, Tremane joined them, relatively anonymous in a plain brown soldier's cloak with the hood pulled up against the bite of the cold wind. Tashiketh did not turn his head or appear to notice, but a few moments later, he addressed the King directly.

"So, King of Hardorn, I am given to understand that you are exceedingly curious about my people. I finally have leave to answer your questions, for you have proven yourself to be an honorable ally and worthy to hear the full tale of our land." Now Tashiketh moved his head to gaze into Tremane's astonished face with mild eyes. "Ask," he said. "The time for secrets is past."

Whatever Tremane's faults, an inability to think quickly was not one of them. "Darkwind k'Sheyna believes that your people were descended from one part of the armies of the mage his people served, specifically the one called Urtho," he said. "Are you?"

Tashiketh laughed, a deep rumble that came from somewhere down in the bottom of his chest, and he roused his fathers with a shake. "Yes. The shortest version of the tale is this. Our several Peoples were all serving the Third Army. Urtho made it his policy to group all the folk of a particular land into one Army, rather than dividing all of them amongst his Armies. However, the humans of the Third, serving a God who decreed that those who had magic power should be His priests, had no mages of their own. They had no prejudice against working with those of other faiths, and so had a group of mages assigned to them, mages who had nothing whatsoever m common with them, not even nationality. Also attached to the Third were a wing of gryphons with their trondi'irn, a pack of kyree, a surge of ratha, a knot of tyrill, and a charge of dyheli."

What am I hearing? Tyrill? Ratha? How did they get into this story?

"And these are your Peoples of Iftel?" Tremane asked.

"What is a ratha?" Darkwind asked, at the same moment.

Tashiketh wasn't the least perturbed by being bombarded with questions. "These are our Peoples, yes. Ratha are from the far north, and are to the mountain cats what kyree are to wolves. Tyrill I think you know already. Brother-To-Hawks."

"Only by legend," Darkwind replied, feeling a bit dazed. "'They were one of Urtho's last creations. a larger race of hertasi, and there weren't many of them."

"But, oh, they breed with such enthusiasm!" Tashiketh laughed, tossing his head so that the freshening wind ruffled his feathers. Behind him, another cheer rose (together with some groans) as one of the other gryphons did something clever. "They learned it from us gryphons. There are plenty of them now! Well, to make this as brief as possible, the Third, whose emblem I wear, was cut off from Ka'venusho at the time of retreat. They chose to Gate to the remotest place the mages could think of, hoping they would be beyond the reach of Ma'ar and the destruction that would ensue when Urtho's Tower was destroyed by its master. But there was a problem."

"Not enough power," Tremane guessed shrewdly.

"Nowhere safe to go?" asked Elspeth.

"No Adepts," hazarded Darkwind.

"A little of all three. the Ambassador explained. "Their Priests—the humans—had remained behind in their own land to protect their people. The only Adept with them strong enough to raise a far-away Gate was someone who, at the time, was thought to be a barbarian shaman from the far north. They had to go to the remotest place he knew of—his home, not the gryphons' home, nor that of their human charges, not anywhere near it. There wasn't much choice; they took the escape that was offered, ending in the north of what is now Iftel. They thought to wait out the destruction, then be reunited with the others. But no sooner had they all gotten across, then something terrible happened, worse by far than anything they had expected."

"The Cataclysm," Darkwind said aloud. "The Tower and Ma'ar's stronghold destroyed, and the interaction of the double release of terrible forces."

"And needless to say, they did not know the cause for many years. They only knew that things were impossible, that there would be no way to find their friends and fellows, that there would be no way for the humans of the Third to find their way home. And almost as bad, it soon became obvious that they had not gone far enough; they ran into a fresh Army of Ma'ar's." Tashiketh shook his head. "It must have seemed as if they had come to the end of the world, that everything evil had won against them, and was about to annihilate them. Battered by the mage-storms that followed, on the verge of attack by superior forces, and unable because of the high number of wounded to travel to someplace where they might escape the worst of the effects, they did the only thing they had left to do. The humans prayed to their god, Vykaendys—"

That name struck Darkwind like a blow to the head. "Who?" Darkwind blurted, as Elspeth's eyes widened.

"Vykaendys," the Ambassador repeated. "The Holy Sun, from whom all life—"

Elspeth interrupted. "Ambassador Tashiketh, do the humans of your land use a different language from the gryphons?" The huge gryphon nodded. "The sacred language is different," he replied. "The shared language is a combination of several tongues, and Old Gryphon is very like that tongue you spoke to me when first we met. Do I take it you wish to hear something of the Sacred Tongue of Vykaendys?"

"Please," said Elspeth and Darkwind together.

Tashiketh rattled off a few sentences, and Darkwind looked to Elspeth, who had a better command of languages than he did.

She listened very closely, as her eyes widened further until the whites showed all around. "I'm not a linguist," she said when he has finished, "But I would say that this is to Karsite what the Iftel gryphon tongue is to Kaled'a'in."

Darkwind whistled. :No wonder Altra kept insisting that the Border would only recognize himself, Karal, Ulrich, or Solaris! The God of Iftel and the God of Karse are one and the same! Isn't that going to put a Firecat among the pigeons!:

Gwena chose that moment to add her own observation. :Oh, this is interesting indeed. Solaris doesn't know this, but Altra does. I wonder why and why he hadn't told her?:

"They prayed for protection, right?" Elspeth asked the Ambassador." And the god established the Border to keep their enemies out?"

"Precisely," Tashiketh agreed. "And of course Vykaendys did exactly that, answering their prayers. He is the one who ordained that we send our representatives beyond the Border to help as we could with the current crisis. He sent us to Hardorn once He knew that Hardorn again had a King who had been bound to the land. Otherwise, given the gravity of the current situation, we would, of course, have been sent into Valdemar. All creatures must work together to survive the last Storms, but Vykaendys is pleased to welcome the land that lies between the two that He governs, as a brother-country rather than an enemy-state."