Ramiro kai di'Callesta said nothing.

"He is blessed by the Lord."

And how is worth in a man judged?

3rd of Corvil, 427 AA Terrean of Raverra Although Marente was not among the richest of the clans, it was among the oldest; if Alesso had not spent his life in the idle and frivolous luxury that the dead kai Leonne had imported from the North, he had spent enough of it in its presence.

He knew the cost of silk, of gold, of gla.s.s-especially gla.s.s, that pane of artifice that kept the world at bay. He understood that there was a beauty in the garish designs and workmanship that the Northerners so prized; understood-with a much clearer precision-just how much of the Southern gold had, through merchants from the Terrean of Averda, left the Tor Leonne.

He valued none of these. It was not his desire to impress the Northerners by the conceit of wealth, although he did desire to leave upon them a lasting impression.

Here, in the building his cerdan had constructed, the maps around him like the pieces of a great mosaic, were the things he valued. He dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword and stood a moment in perfect repose, gazing upon the whole of the Terrean of Averda.

As if it were, line by line, a dense, irregular poem, he studied it, absorbing it whole. He knew the roads, knew the rivers, knew the valleys. He knew where the cities lay, and where the villages-those villages that provided food and sustenance in abundance-were most vulnerable.

What the maps could not tell him was more subtle. He could be certain that Ramiro di'Callesta was housed in Callesta itself, grieving over the death of his son. But he could not be certain of where the last of the Leonnes was now encamped.

The armies of the North had moved, and in numbers greater than either he or Sendari had expected. If his spies were correct, they had brought with them the three Generals who had experience in the terrain of Averda: the flight. The Eagle, the Hawk, the Kestrel.

Thirteen years had pa.s.sed since he had last been called upon to take arms against these Commanders; against Commander Bruce Allen, Commander Devran Berriliya, and Commander Ellora AKalakar. The kai Leonne had been a fool; he had completely discounted the third division, the division over which the Kestrel presided, simply because it had been led by a woman.

What harm can a woman do, on the field? What loyalty can a woman command, among men?

With respect, Tyr'agar, the Demon Kings do not grant control of their armies to fools and those with an inability to lead.

How can she lead? There must be another upon whom she relies.

The Tyr's overly heavy face was a permanent part of the geography of Ser Alesso's memory. In just the same way that he read maps, read the stuttering chaos of the movement of whole armies across the landscape, he read that expression. He had chosen to retreat, while retreat was a possibility.

But Ramiro di'Callesta, Tyr'agnate of the Terrean in which their armies were housed, said what Alesso, at his vastly inferior rank, could not in safety say.

She commands the Black Ospreys. They report to her. And, Tyr'agar, she will not forsake them; she values them overmuch. Perhaps there is weakness in that.

The Tyr'agar had not chosen to respond to the edge in that observation. But he had not chosen to heed the advice in it either. He had been-and had died-a self-indulgent fool.

It was not a mistake that Alesso would make.

The field was now his.

He rose. The doors to the room slid open just enough to allow a man's face to peer in. The man, a seraf, pressed his forehead to the ground and left it there.

"Speak."

"The Sword's Edge has arrived."

"See him in."

The doors slid shut. He listened; heard the fall of a single set of steps. When the door slid open again, it opened wide; the seraf stayed upon the other side of the screen. Ser Cortano di'Alexes entered the room. When the Widan had fully crossed the threshold, the seraf saw that the doors slid quietly, and completely, shut.

Only then did Ales...o...b..gin to speak.

"Ser Cortano."

"Tyr'agar." Cortano's bow was brief, but it was not perfunctory.

"Ser Sendari?"

"He is occupied at the moment, but will return with word when he receives it."

"Good enough. Have you carried word?"

"From the North?"

"From our allies."

Cortano's gaze was like light on water. His eyes, a pale blue, were unblinking; like Northern gla.s.s, they offered the illusion of access without its fact. "Lord Ishavriel sends word."

"Word?"

"He has been delayed, but will arrive within the week."

Alesso glanced at the man who ruled the Widan-if such a group of men could be said to be ruled. "The Sword of Knowledge?"

"Those that I deem a liability have been deployed as messengers. They are crafting the tubes that we will require to send word among the Generals."

Alesso grimaced. Cortano's words were a veiled criticism. He had not yet chosen the men who would take command of the armies. Ser Jarrani kai di'Lorenza, Tyr'agnate of Sorga.s.sa, and possibly the shrewdest of his allies, had a younger son. That son, Alef par di'Sorga.s.sa, he wished to have at the head of the first army. Alesso had considered this carefully; Alef was quiet, and completely loyal to his brother. He was also competent.

But this, this was his war.

He walked, putting the table, with its detailed map, between them. Bending, he said, "Will they be of use to me?"

"The Widan?"

"The Kialli."

"Ah."

The silence was a Southern silence; movement broke it, but words had to be gathered, and offered, with care.

"Lord Ishavriel will arrive in person?"

Cortano nodded.

"Does he intend to remain with the army?"

"To the best of my knowledge. He is prized among the Kialli for his ability in war."

"And his followers?"

"For the moment, the Lord's Fist has agreed to your request. They will send only those who can pa.s.s themselves off as men."

Alesso nodded. He moved a pin across the map. "Here," he said. "The valleys narrow; if we are to gain the advantage of the terrain, there are three places we must avoid."

Cortano nodded again.

"There will be some difficulty with the Kialli."

Cortano's smile was brief. In its fashion, heavy with irony at the understatement, it was also genuine.

"Have you ever seen one ride?"

"Never."

"Nor I. But I have been horsed once or twice when they chose to show themselves, and even I had some difficulty controlling my mount.

"We cannot afford to take them with the cavalry."

"No."

Alesso moved another pin across the map. "Nor can we afford to have them reveal themselves."

"No."

"Have you thought upon the role you wish them to perform?"

"I? No. But I am not a General."

"Well said. I have."

"Then I should warn you, Alesso, that there has been some rumor in the Shining Court about the deployment of . . . His forces."

"What warning?"

"There is some chance that Anya will be on the field."

Alesso, were he less cautious, would have spit. "On our field?" he asked at last.

"By Lord Ishavriel's side."

The silence stretched; the map lay beneath him, and he saw it shift as he looked: Anya a'Cooper was mad. Powerful, yes, but her power could not be trusted; could barely be contained. If containment was a word that applied here. He struggled a moment with anger.

Into that silent emotion, Cortano spoke again. "If they risk her here, they require her power."

"To what end?"

"They wish to win this war, Tyr'agar. To destroy the Commanders will deal a blow to the North."

"Ah, yes. They fear the North." It was a bitter statement. The South did not seem to be of concern. He would teach them the error of this a.s.sumption. "Cortano," he said quietly.

"Tyr'agar."

"I wish a small delegation to be deployed. I have received a letter, carried by a clansman of some standing; he awaits my reply."

"Ah."

"It is from Ser Amando kai di'Manelo."

Cortano frowned. "He serves the Tor'agar of Vellens, does he not?"

"He does."

"His Torrean is deep within the boundaries of Mancorvo."

"Indeed."

"What does he wish, and what does he offer?"

"He offers his allegiance, Sword's Edge."

Cortano said nothing.

"And I wish to reward that offer. I would send Kialli among my delegates; let them travel to the Torrean that Manelo now holds. If he can be of aid to us, let us use what he offers."

"You will court war with Lamberto."

Ser Alesso di'Alesso smiled thinly. "Perhaps. But I think not. In the end, with some loss, the kai Lamberto will not stand by the side of the Callestan Tyr; too much has happened between them, and the Callestan Tyr now travels in the shadow of the Northerners."

Cortano bowed. The hatred that Ser Mareo kai di'Lamberto bore the Northerners was legendary.

"Do not discount the threat he poses," Alesso said softly, guessing at what Cortano did not say out loud. "The subversion of the Leonne Tyran was . . . distasteful to him, and if he desires vengeance, he is not a fool. He would not surrender the whole of Mancorvo in order to achieve it."

"And how will you then send word?"

Alesso par di'Marente's ghost haunted the plains fifty miles from the intersection of the disputed Mancorvan-Averdan border.

Sendari met him as he traveled, horsed now-on a beast that Alesso himself had chosen and given, in public, to his most trusted adviser. He met him when his shadow pa.s.sed over the trampled gra.s.s; met him when his horse cantered through the wide stretches between rows of tenting and the wooden structures that serafs had spent the better part of a month constructing and perfecting.

He heard his laugh, saw the edge of his smile, saw the glint in the eyes of a perfectly still face; he saw him, horsed, and on foot, Terra Fuerre by his side, in the colors of Marente, a minor clan of the High Court. He saw him, not in the men who, little better than cerdan, had been gathered from the villages of the Terrean of Raverra, but in the men who commanded them; in their youth and the vibrancy of their quest for victory.

Dark hair, dark eyes, strong jaw, broad shoulders that had filled out in the strength of early manhood-that had been Alesso.

Of himself, Ser Sendari par di'Marano saw little. His home had not been on these fields, and his name had not been made upon them. His battles had been personal, his losses inflicted not by the harsh and sudden stroke of a sword or the pointed haft of a spear, but by the simple expedience of living a life in the Dominion of Annagar.

Of loving those whose lives had touched his.

When Alesso had last ridden to war as a promising commander of note, he had ridden under the banner of the kai Leonne. But his men had looked not to the Tyr; they had looked to Ser Alesso. And it was Ser Alesso di'Marente who had managed to salvage a retreat from a rout, saving face and lives in the process, and becoming worthy of the t.i.tle General.

The years were gone. Twelve, almost thirteen. Ser Sendari now wore the rubied sword that told the ignorant he had pa.s.sed the hidden tests demanded of the Widan; his edge was the hidden power, the will, of the Sword of Knowledge.