But that was shadow, and she could think about that anytime. Today she had remembered rabbits.

She usually hated memory. It was all bad. It took her back to the ugly times, before she had been taught just how special, how powerful, she was. She had considered making a spell that would stop her from remembering anything, ever-but Lord Ishavriel had told her it was a Bad Idea, and she had decided to trust him.

And the rabbits proved that he was right.

Today, she had been taken back to a time when colors were something she could see with eyes alone; they had no taste, no voice, no sensation. She could hear conversation as if spoken words had no smells; could touch soft fabrics, hard wood, cold metals, as if they, as they had once been, were once again devoid of taste.

And when that happened, she treasured the memory and did everything in her power to preserve it.

Everything.

She was Anya a'Cooper. There was a lot she could do. But the stone against her bare feet was really starting to bother her, it was just so wrong.

Across the grounds of the Shining Palace, from the heights of its towers to the depths of its hidden recesses, its cavernous dungeons, those creatures-human or kin-with a sensitivity to magic, lifted their heads in perfect unison, as if struck by the same blow, no matter how many walls, how much physical distance, separated them.

It had become thus since the Lord's ceremony; the invest.i.ture of His power into the flawed but inarguably powerful madwoman had not perturbed her in the slightest-but it had had the effect of deepening the range of her careless, whimsical magery.

Had they not had to endure the results, and the resultant hazards, of the blending of immortal and mortal power, there were men within the walls of the Shining Palace who would have found the entire experiment fascinating. Those men now flinched; they were closest to the balcony upon which Anya had chosen to stand.

Closest to the roar that crushed conversation, stilled movement, filled silence from one end of the Shining Palace to the other.

The wall that was flimsy protection from the Northern cold cracked like thin ice and fell away from the line of the brilliant blue sky.

Against it, for those who cared to look, stood the mad, mad mage, conversing with an angry dragon, a creature of stone and glittering scale.

Anya, the dragon said, its voice rich with the heavy scent of newly turned earth, its words a deep, deep blue. She could feel each syllable crawling across the backs of her hands as they furled around air that was suddenly cold; there was magic here. The sensations were always sharpest in the presence of magic.

She withdrew her own power without thinking, and the soles of her feet, protected until then-because she liked bare feet-from the bitter cold, now shrieked in protest. She could hear their voice like the rush of a thousand sibilant whispers.

She didn't like it when her feet spoke.

But the dragon roared again, distracting her from her pain.

"But they look so much better!" she shouted. "Everyone knows real dragons have scales!"

Thus did the Lord of Night converse with the most powerful, and the least sane, of his many servants, and it must have amused him to do so, for although the outcome of such an argument could never be in doubt, the fact that it existed at all said much.

20th of Misteral, 427 AA The Terafin Manse The moon was bright, the air still, the starlight lessened by the presence of thin clouds that huddled, shroudlike, before its silvered face.

A man stood alone beneath the delicate light of the Averalaan night. The sea's breaking rumble was a constant rhythm, the heartbeat of the High City; it could be heard in the distance because so many other sounds were absent: the movement of people, their breath broken by laughter or the harsh, sharp bark of angry syllables; the clipped, steady pace of the horses that drew carriages and coaches from manse to manse along the Isle; the heavy tread of the Kings' Swords as they patrolled the High City with a vigilance not found in the Old City.

True, those sounds were of necessity distant even during the height of day, but he had become aware of them.

Had found it necessary to become aware of them; Amarais, named before her rise to power Handernesse, and then Handernesse ATerafin, had become as silent as stone. Yes, stone, Morretz thought bleakly, avoiding the other comparison that was so colloquial and inelegant.

The Terafin was careful, during the hours of day, to tend her House and the affairs of her House as if nothing troubled her. As if she had had no warning of her impending death; as if death itself was the distant eventuality it would be for the rest of her House. But in the evenings she allowed the full weight of that knowledge to descend upon her, and shrouded by it, protected by it, she sought the solace of the Terafin Shrine-although judging by her expression, both before and after, it was meager solace indeed.

He waited. He found it increasingly difficult to wait at a distance, although he had always waited here, at the edge of this path, for the lord he had chosen to serve so many years ago. That service now counted for more than half of his life.

Amarais.

She would die. She had accepted it with a peculiar, angry grace that Morretz himself had failed to achieve. He hid it; he hid it well. But his days were absorbed by the question of her survival; his mornings-when he had ascertained for himself that a simple thing like the morning meal would not kill her-began, and often ended, with Devon ATerafin.

Devon, who understood the routines of a.s.sa.s.sination better than any other member of the House, up to and probably including the man-or woman-who would in the end successfully employ them against The Terafin. He had to. He served the Lord of the Compact as a member of his Astari, and he protected the Twin Kings.

The Terafin had not, of course, specifically told Morretz to keep his peace-and his silence-in this affair.

Nor should she have had to. In all things, Morretz of the Guild of the Domicis was her loyal servant. Hers, not House Terafin's. He had spent the better part of a decade using the two-The Terafin, House Terafin-as synonyms. That was gone; what remained was a bitter, simmering resentment, for it was the latter that would destroy the former, and she would offer herself up to it with a willing, terrible grace.

The privilege of power.

He was surprised when she returned to him early, for he had sat this vigil night after night for almost a month, and he knew the hour of its ending almost as intimately as he did the minute of its commencing.

"Morretz," she said quietly.

He bowed, waiting until she stepped off the path before he spoke. Or intending to wait. But she stood, her feet to one side of the line that divided the tended stone walk from the inner recess of the garden, awaiting his acknowledgment.

"Terafin," he said at last. He looked up, the grace of the movement marred by the hesitance, subtle and deep, with which he met her gaze.

She was standing in the shadows between the contained light of two gla.s.s lamps, and as he lifted his chin, she smiled. It was a weary expression, which did not alarm him, but it was also unusually gentle, which did. "Terafin-"

She lifted a hand. "I am not yet finished for the evening, but before I am, I must ask a favor."

He waited.

Her smile lessened, ebbing from the familiar terrain of her face as if it were tide. "Please summon the men and women who serve Jewel ATerafin."

"Summon them?"

"Yes. I will meet them here."

"Terafin-"

"Don't ask," she said quietly.

He bowed, but he did not move. They both knew that the only time men and women were summoned to this place was to give their oaths of service to the House, and even then, it was rare for any but the Chosen to be so called. "Did the House demand their presence?"

"No."

He looked at her face; she had chosen to stand where the shadows-in a garden where light was scattered in artful abundance-were strongest. Funny, that.

"What will you do?" she asked him, as the silence stretched.

He chose-as he rarely chose-to misunderstand her. "My pardon, Terafin, I will fetch the den."

But she raised a hand before he could retreat, and the movement, as subtle as command could be to one who understood it, held him fast. "Morretz, when your service here is ended, what will you do?"

He could not speak, although he understood that he could serve her best at this moment by offering her the words she asked for. And what of me? he thought, bitter now, the words so foreign they were almost another language. What of my needs?

It was so wrong.

And yet, beneath the weight of hers, beneath the years of the service he had willingly undertaken, his needs had been met. Until now.

She had always accepted his silences before. But he knew that she must want companionship very badly, for she did not choose to do so now.

"Will you return to the Guild? Will you teach? Will you return to the home that you have never once spoken of in your years in my service? Or will you choose to take another master? There are few who would not value your service, given what you have built here."

"Terafin." The familiar syllables smoothed the anger out of his voice, although it was there, it was suddenly present. He wondered if she understood how deeply she had just insulted him, and decided that she was Amarais; she must, and she had chosen to do so deliberately.

"I will never seek another Master, no matter what the outcome of this current situation is. I am done with power. I am done with the hopes-" He stopped, then, seeing, for a moment, not the glorious evening gardens of House Terafin, but the enclosed cla.s.srooms of the Guild of the Domicis.

I will serve a lord I admire.

That had been the right answer; it was the right answer now. But no one had asked him-not himself, especially not himself-what he would do when that service ended. He had made it his life, having found a lord he admired and respected, to serve her, strengthen her, provide her with the support she required that she might meet the goals she held aloft for his quiet inspection.

She was silent as he returned to the present. But he did not think the silence would last; it had a curious unfinished quality to it that spoke of the hovering presence of unshed words.

"Amarais."

"Morretz."

"I . . . cannot speak of your death."

He thought that would silence her, for she herself had never once spoken of it. It had become impossible not to know that she expected it, but he had waited, in a strained silence he had thought-until this moment-was devoid of hope.

He knew, now, that he had accomplished only the unenviable task of lying to himself. He had had hope, and she meant, this eve to deprive him of even that.

"If you accepted it, Morretz, you would speak of it. You would speak of it because you would know-as I know, and I have accepted-that my death may mean the end of all that we have built together. The heir that I chose is gone; the South has taken her. The war-a war that is larger in every way than my House, but only slightly-has devoured her energy, her time, her attention.

"You would speak of it because you would desire a plan, some course of action, that would protect what we value more than we value life."

"Seers have been wrong in the past."

"Perhaps; I will not argue with you. It is not of the past that we speak, it is of the future, and of the future, there is little doubt. What she saw, she saw; in its fashion, it will come to pa.s.s."

As if she wielded the sword of Terafin, her words were sharp and terrible. He lifted a hand. They pa.s.sed through it.

"You are astute, Terafin. I cannot accept what you accept."

"If acceptance is beyond you, can you find it in yourself to forgo anger? I have no intention of walking easily to death; it will come from a quarter that I cannot now foresee. I abjure no responsibility; anything that I can prevent will be prevented." Her smile was the wolf's smile, lean and powerful. "Let them work for my death. Let them out-maneuver me, outthink me, outplay me." But the smile was a ghost; it pa.s.sed. "Accept that there are things I cannot do."

And here was the crux of the matter. Here, at last. This woman, this slender, beautiful woman-yes, beautiful, more now than as an unformed, grave youth-was The Terafin. She had never failed at anything she had set her mind to-not even when that thing was the governing of the most powerful House in the Empire. Against odds far greater than this, she had won her seat, had survived the House War that had decimated the ranks of the House Guards, divided all.

Fight this! Fight it, you can only be killed if you choose to surrender!

As if she could hear the words he could not say, she glanced away.

"Tell me that you are not tired, Amarais. Tell me."

She was silent a moment. At last, she said, "Bring the den."

He wanted to shout at her then; wanted to grab her by the arms and shake her, as if by doing so he could force her to feel what he now felt, measure for measure. You are Amarais, you are the woman I chose to give my life to. You have failed at nothing in your life, will you surrender now?

But he was domicis; and if what he had undertaken with such profound hope so many years ago had become an almost unbearable burden, he bore it still.

He bowed stiffly and offered her his silent obedience.

Finch woke.

There was no light in her room, but she wasn't Jay; she found the darkness of the sleeping House peaceful. Whatever fears clung to her from the past that had shaped them both found its hold diminished, not strengthened, when the lights dimmed and faded. Had nights in the twenty-fifth holding been bad? Yes. But the days had been worse, for Finch. At night there were shadows, places made of moonlight and starlight in which someone slender and quiet could hide. Day forgave little.

She therefore needed no Avandar to stand by the foot of her bed, light in hand or cupped palm, as guardian against nightmares that might follow the waning of the day; indeed, had she been offered such a sentry, she would have found it hard to sleep, for she desired the simple stillness of a completely private place; she found in it a freedom from the responsibilities of the waking day.

Teller envied her for that; it was in the darkness that he, like Jay, lay awake, thinking with precision and clarity, about everything that had gone-or could go-wrong, and an hour might pa.s.s while he lay, immobile, waiting for something as elusive as sleep.

Not Finch. Covers tucked to chin-the one night foible she shared with almost every one of her den-kin-she could listen to the quiet sounds of the House.

Those noises differed from season to season, and she had grown to know them all, in the quiet and safety of this building, this gift from a merciful G.o.d. A merciful G.o.d, and Jay.

Jay.

Even in safety, there were barbs.

The House Guards were on patrol.

She heard them, heavy steps almost in unison, in the doors beyond the wing. Since Alea's death, guards such as these-perhaps these; at this time of night, she was uncertain who patrolled-had crossed one end of the manse to the other, in groups of no less than eight; Torvan himself saw to the composition of these small squads to a.s.sure that the loyalty of these men was, if not unquestioned, then at least not uniform.

They all serve The Terafin, she'd said, naive then and no doubt naive now.

Yes, he'd said, voice soft, gaze on a spot she couldn't see clearly, no matter how close it seemed to be. But they know that an heir has to be chosen, and they know-all of them-that they've never been Chosen, not by the reigning Terafin. If they choose to support one of the contenders for the t.i.tle, if they choose wisely, they're in at the ground, and they have a chance at promotion they'd never see here.

You think they'd-they'd attack her?

The Terafin? No. Never. But each other? They owe no loyalty to any other lord.

Well, she'd asked. Funny, how little comfort answers offered.

The month of Misteral was often heavy with rain, damp and cool compared to the rest of the year. This month was slightly different; rain threatened to fall, but the clouds that carried it were shunted to one side of the city-or the other-by the gusts of salt-laden wind. Nevertheless, sailing merchants that came to make their reports, and take their rest, at House Terafin, could be heard cursing the weather with seasonal fervor.

They drank, Finch thought, nose wrinkling, too much. But when they weren't falling down drunk, or unpleasantly drunk, they had the best stories to tell; tales of lands far to the South, to the North, or-almost impossible to believe-to the East, beyond the ocean that stretched across the horizon without break.

Often in Misteral, Corvil, and Henden-Corvil was worst-they spent time in the city, bound to land; they visited their families, their Lords and their bankers, and they allowed themselves to be wheedled out of a good story. Finch, small for her size and gentle in manner, had become inordinately good at wheedling.

But this Misteral the merchant voices of House Terafin were notably strained or silent; the merchants stayed away from the manse unless they were drunk or commanded to do otherwise. She didn't blame them. If she'd had a choice, she'd've been anywhere else.

But Kalliaris had already frowned, fickle G.o.ddess.

Finch missed the merchants' voices the most; they could often be heard late into the night, mingled with the songs of hapless young bards who'd been dragged into the gardens or the halls. Merchants often did that, in any House, finding the open s.p.a.ce, the acoustical heights, of the stately, fixed buildings irresistible in comparison to the vessels that were their true kingdoms.