Because Rhyys denied the old beliefs and punished those who spoke of them with expulsion, yet the simple truth was that without the spirit of Rakshi guiding you, the dance was nothing more than trained motions.

With the upcoming visit of Mikhyel dunMheric, training had been stepped up, preparations were underway for a massive celebration showcasing the students, a celebration that would end with the competition for the new radical dancer.

For Thyerri, watching from a rooftop, the sight was pain- ful, but he seemed compelled to return here, day after day.

He should be down there, practicing with that elite handful preparing for the competition. He'd been among those still to compete when the rings had gone down. Afterward, his petition to Rhyys for a second chance had been ignored, for no other reason than that Rhyys could deny him that chance.

Rhyys dunTarec was obsessed with controlling his danc- ers' lives. For all he frequently called the dance frivolous, for all he had been gone to Rhomatum for Nikaenor dun- Mheric's wedding at the time of the last fateful competition, Rhyys recognized the political advantages of his city's unique approach to the imported entertainment and pa- raded his dancers before visiting dignitaries like a breeder of exotic beasts showing off his prize stock.

It was humiliating. But then, so was much of life for a Khoratumin dancer.

Suddenly the musicand the exercisesstopped, and a form the size of three dancers combined flowed out across the white sand. Rhyys, dressed in billowing red-and-gold robes. And behind Rhyys, in simple black, was the scar- faced moth.

Thyerri drew back instinctively, for all the chances of their noticing him were small and of their doing anything about him if they did were nil. The excitement over the destruction of Bharlori's had passed by. Those who had died had been, like Bharlori himself, without importance to any but their closest friends.

The patrons who once shouted for Thyerri, had shifted their loyalties to Bharlori's former competition. Those tav- erns now thrived, with dancers of their own. Thyerri sur- vived on his small stash of coins and the occasional odd job.

Thyerri hadn't danced since the night of the fire.

Wouldn't, even without the threat of arrest. He wasn't even tempted: Rakshi's price for the night of the fire. And so, lacking other direction, he came up here to torment himself with images of the past and what could never be. Not even if Rhyys were to personally invite him back into the pro- gram could he find that person he once had been.

The dreams had become too much a part of him.

Rhyys had begun to call up the dancers, a group at a time, to perform their exercises for his scrutiny. After each demonstration, he would select one or sometimes two to perform a solo.

It was, so Rhyys claimed, his way of creating a competi- tive edge within the group. It was also, so he claimed, his way of maintaining control over the quality of the dance.

For the most part, the person Thyerri had been in that former life had been spared these ordeals. That person had not been a favorite of Rhyys', had, in fact, frequently been banned from this exercise field. He'd been declared too different, had joined the program too old ever to be able to move properly.

When Rhyys came to the radical competitors, he ordered them to go through the entire routines of all other levels, and finally, to perform individually. Two among them, who had been engaged in a strenuous routine when Rhyys inter- rupted, collapsed before the set patterns were completed.

Flaring with rage, Rhyys had them thrown out of the stadium, possibly from the program itselfcertainly Rhyys was capable of such capricious acts. Even so, if their spon- sors greased Rhyys' palm sufficiently well, they might still be allowed to compete.

Such was Rhyys' power, such were his principles.

Those remaining were ordered to begin solo routines, improvised to a piece ordered by Rhyys and chosen at ran- dom. Rhyys wandered among them as they danced. It was an all-too-common conceit for him, but one the competitors learned to ignore.

This time, perhaps to impress the moth, Rhyys edged closer to the dancers than usual, close enough, at times, to touch them. Particularly his favorite, Tabinth, whose virtues he'd extolled at that fateful dinner.

And when Tabinth, in an elegant display of flexibility, lifted her leg high above her head, and spun, she brought the leg down to discover Rhyys there. Too late to adjust the angle, her foot caught on his shoulder, and she stag- gered off-balance.

Rhyys laughed and grabbed her, holding her upright, with all the pretense of good will and aid. Tabinth stood rigid in his hold. Fearful. Certain, as Thyerri himself would have been, that Rhyys was about to throw her out as well.

But Rhyys cupped her face between his hands, and smoothed her hair back . . .

And kissed her.

Thyerri hissed and leaned forward, thinking how he wished Rhyys had died in that fire, not Bharlori, and how, if it were he down there, with Rhyys' mouth on his, he would bite Rhyys' tongue off.

A dreadful shivering consumed him and he thought at first it was in horror at his own violent and vengeful thoughts. But the shivers wouldn't go away, and he pulled the cloak tightly around his shoulders, wondering if he was taking ill. Down on the sand, the moth turned from the spectacle and stared upward . . . directly into Thyerri's shadow.

The shivers intensifiedand in that moment, Thyerri knew who had watched him from the lake's edge that night the mountain returned to life.

Terrified, he slipped back into the shadows until the sand was far beyond his vision, then leaped to his feet and ran.

Chapter Four.

My dearest friend, the note began, and it ended: ... until sunset tomorrow . . .

Sunset. Now a good two hours past.

Mikhyel crumpled Nethaalye's note and his own pain- stakingly composed letter into his gloved fist, and thrust them into his coat pocket.

Strange, he didn't feel as if his mind were going. From recent decisions, however, it did appear that such was the case. First, Ramblin' Rosie's, now - . .

Whatever had possessed him to entrust Nethaalye to Ganfrion's coarse methods? Nethaalye had, Ganfrion in- sisted, been eager to see him, had chosen the meeting time and place herself, and written the note to reassure Mikhyel on that point.

In retrospect, she'd obviously told Ganfrion whatever it had taken to get him out of her room the previous night.

One could scarcely blame her for that.

But Nethaalye's expediency put him here, waitinglike a love-struck simpletonbeside a garden fountain in the full moon's light, and destined for the common fate for such simpletons.

Nethaalye wasn't coming. Nethaalye had told her father that Mikhyel dunMheric had lost his mind and was dealing with . . . Crypt-bait.

He removed the thick envelope from his pocket, smoothed and folded it, and slid it into a different, more secure pocket, resisting the temptation to tear it through and throw the pieces in the fountain: a grand gesture that would allow the pieces to possibly retain enough legibility in the morning to start rumors of a nature he'd never unmake.

He'd burn it, when he was back in his room.

Though it was a good hour past his last real hope of her appearance, he began one more slow circuit of the garden's interweaving path, hoping against hope he'd simply misun- derstood her very clear instructions.

The public garden would have been an excellent meeting spot: when he'd arrived, it had been well-populated by young couples, most, though by no means all, meeting under the watchful gaze of a chaperon.

Their chaperon was to have been Ganfrion, so Ganfrion had claimed, which had given new meaning to the phrase "a show of propriety."

He was disappointed, but not surprised. His relationship with the Giephaetum heiress had never been simple. Neth- aalye had originally been matched with Deymorin, until Deymorin grew old enough to know the fate their parents had planned over his bassinet; what might have been a stimulating, comfortable friendship between in-laws had been marred and confused when Deymorin's role of future husband had ceded to Mikhyel.

The first of many such abdications. But Mikhyel had never allowed resentment of Deymorin's irresponsibility to his birthright to rule his actions before, and he wasn't about to start now. If he had to wait until facing the open Gie- phaetum Senate to request Nethaalye's aid in Rhomatum Tower, for the sake of the web and the cohesion of the Syndicate he'd wait.

Never mind he'd hoped to secure her willing partnership in private. Never mind he'd hoped to placate, if not heal, this growing rift between the Northern and Southern Cres- cents, virtually overnight with such a fait accompli.

But that was not to be.

His wanderings had brought him back to the fountain, where two cloaked figures brought momentary hope, dashed in the next instant by the wide-skirted profiles.

Mikhyel nodded to the moon-shadowed ladies, and passed quickly, giving every signal that he was looking else- where, keeping his own face bent beneath the velvet hood of his evening cloak. Best to just go back to his rented rooms, to wait in abject boredom for Gan "My, my, my, Sudsly." The broken falsetto whisper caught him in midstride. "How rude. Isn't that just like a Southerner, my dear?"

He stumbled.

"Clumsy, too. Best we leave him, child. He's hopeless."

The voice broke completely.

Mikhyel turned cautiously, peering into the shadows. But there were only the two skirted silhouettes, one, he realized on closer inspection, rather on the large side. The smaller of the two had risen and now crossed the pebbled walkway with a natural, gliding grace.

"Khyel?" Gloveless hands, pearly-white in the moon- light, extended toward him. "I'm so sorry. I tried to get away sooner, but Verti, my brother, you know, chose to- night of all nights to start railing again about power fluctu- ations in the web, and once he begins, the only thing for it is to let him wear himself out. I'm surprised to find you still here. Please say you forgive me?"

He accepted the white hands with relief. "There's noth- ing to forgive, Talli, as you know." He turned her face to the light. "But you are here willingly? Ganfrion didn't, well, coerce you, did he?"

She laughed, lightly. "Oh, I wouldn't call it that, but"

She cast a sidewise glance at her large companion. "I must say, you are looking rather more robust than I'd been led to expect."

"I assure you, child," the squeaky falsetto arrived, along with the voluminous cloak, "pining was certainly the appro- priate term, when last * saw him." Two lace-gloved hands appeared from the folds to cup Neethaalye's face, and the hood descended, then rose. "I'll leave you two lovebirds to talk, but mind you, I'll be watching. So behave yourselves!"

The large shadow floated off to settle on the nearby stone bench, arranging its skirts with, Mikhyel had to admit, a fair grace. A gloved hand waved them off, then settled with its mate in the voluminous lap.

Nethaalye's laughter again sparkled in the night air like the leylight on the fountain. "Where did you find her him, Khyel?"

"Don't ask."

"All right, I won't. Now. But I intend to have the full story one day soon, I promise you. Either from you . . . or from him. Your choice."

"Rings," he cursed softly. "If it means I'll have the chance to tell you, I shall indeed regale you with stories."

"Of course you'll have the chance, dear Mikhyel. I'm terribly sorry about the letters; I didn't realize they were for me. Verti said they were for Father, and he's not here.

I thought little of it, though I was disappointed that you were here and not asking to see me. But I do try not to judge you on such matters; you know that."

"You are, if anything, too reticent to judge, my dear."

He glanced about. "Would you like to sit? Walk?"

"Walk, please. I spend far too much time sitting these days. One of the hazards of growing older that no one ever warns you about."

He held out his arm, she placed her hand on it, and they started slowly along the moonlit path.

"I hope you don't mind the subterfuge of meeting here.

When your Ganfrion appeared in my window, along with your letter, I realized, of course, what Verti had been up to. I thought, perhaps, it would be best to consult with you before letting him know."

"Verti is the other ringspinner in your family, isn't he?"

She nodded. "Second, now, to loniia, as he's ever quick to remind me."

"I thought I remembered that correctly. And your fa- ther? Where is he?"

"They haven't told you?"

"Only that he's been unavailable to see me."

"He's . . . " She stopped, turned slightly, hiding what little he could see of her face. When the light again touched her cheek, her expression was as calmly impassive as ever.

"Tell me one thing, Mikhyeland please, on our friend- ship, don't lie to me."

"I notice you do not ask me to swear on our betrothal."

"That was of our parents' forging. Our friendshipthat's unqualifiably dear to me."

He squeezed her hand, fingerlinked, now, in his. "Any- thing."

"Are there plans to cap the southern node? Is that, in fact what is disrupting the web? Was that the cause of the firestorm and the power drain now?"

"Is that what your senators believe? Is that why they're avoiding me?"

"I would imagine. It's certainly what my father believes."

"I see . . ." And such concerns might well inhibit useful dialogue. "Truth, Talli, the firestorm had nothing to do with that node, and everything to do with Mauritum and a dan- gerous technology the ringspinners have been keeping se- cret from all of us for years. The current power drain is, we believe, due to damage that occured to the Khoratum line during that firestorm. My primary objective on this trip was to quietly alert the ringmasters and organize a unified attempt to repair the line and get the web stable again."

"And you wouldn't want that public, because there was so much resentment about capping Khoratum in the first place. Particularly in the Southern Crescent."

"Precisely. I wanted their guaranteed support in writing before I came up here."

"And you have that?"

"I do."

"And the node to the south?"

"Talli, a month ago I'd never heard of that southern node. I find its existence interesting, its potentialfor disas- ter as well as useinteresting, but no one will cap anything that affects the Rhomatum Web without full knowledge of the Towers and proper debate in the Syndicate, if we have to put Lidye in Sparingate to prevent it. But I don't believe that will be necessary. The agreement was of Anheliaa's making, and Anheliaa is dead."

Her breath caught. Then she lifted a hand to his cheek.

"You must be so relieved."

That surprised a short laugh out of him. "That's not ex- actly the reaction of most people."

"Barring outside malpractice, any half-competent spinner should be able to hold the Rhomatum rings. Anheliaa was . . . obsessively possessive." She began walking again.

"And what Anheliaa looked for in her successor lay far beyond web stability. I must be honest with you, Mikhyel.