"a.s.sa.s.sins," the Serra replied, serene now, the knowledge a sharp weapon. A weapon, she thought, with some regret, that could only be used once.

"What was the nature of the a.s.sa.s.sins? Is it known?"

It was not the question that Donna expected, if she had expected any at all, but it told her much. It changed the face of the conversation.

"To the Callestans," she said, with deliberate care, "it would seem that he was killed by Lambertan men. By," she added softly, "the Tyran that serve my husband."

"Impossible," Varya said, and from that moment on, Donna felt that she must like this sharp-tongued, p.r.i.c.kly woman.

Nadia, however, said nothing. She was not yet her mother's equal, but the potential now lay before the Serra, open to inspection. "Were there witnesses?"

"I think there must have been," the Serra replied quietly. "But although the bodies of the killers were identified by a source that both the Callestans and the Lambertans must consider above reproach," she continued with care, "the Serra Amara en'Callesta is cautious."

"How so?"

"She has asked me if my husband ordered this killing."

"And your answer?"

"Ah, forgive me, Nadia. I have not yet tendered a reply; I was late to meet with you because the information was of import enough to the Tyr that I attended him first."

Nadia frowned.

"My husband, of course, did not order the a.s.sa.s.sination."

Nadia nodded. If she doubted the words, the doubt was kept from her otherwise fluid expression.

"Yet the men who carried it out were, indeed, his men."

Impa.s.sive, the Voyani woman waited.

"We do not treat with Widan, except at need," the Serra continued, "and their arts are not our arts. But it is not my husband's belief that such . . . deception is within their capabilities."

"No," Nadia said quietly. "It is not."

"How, then, could this be achieved?"

Nadia looked toward the opaque screens. She bowed her head a moment. "There are two ways," she said quietly. "And I will offer you both, Serra Donna en'Lamberto, and more.

"If the killing itself was carried out by a third party, it would be a difficult-but not impossible-task to then leave the bodies of the supposed killers behind. The Voyani could do it, although it would carry some risk to us, and the witnesses could not be people with any sophistication."

Donna said nothing at all, but folded her hands in her lap as Nadia spoke.

"We did not, nor would we, a.s.sa.s.sinate the Callestan kai. Not now. Especially not now."

"And the other way?"

"The other way is not within our grasp," she replied. "But it is within the grasp of the servants of the Lord of Night."

The hands in her lap shook briefly; Serra Donna stilled the tremor.

"Even here?" she said at last, when it was clear that the Havallan would not continue.

"Even here." Nadia lifted wine, not water, to her cracked lips. "We did not come to barter with old wives or to offer fortunes and mystery, Serra. Were that our intent, we would never have approached the plateau." She drank; there was no grace in the bitter, deliberate gesture. "The wine is sweet."

"And the water."

"Nadia-"

"No, Varya." She raised her head and ran fingers through stiff hair. "We have come with word, and with an offer."

"What offer?"

"The Voyani have, among their number, people who can detect the servants of the Lord of Night. They are few," she added quietly, "and we do not expose them willingly."

"And word?"

But Nadia's face smoothed into lines of impa.s.sivity as she studied the Serra's face. A decision was being made; Donna knew better than to attempt to influence it.

"The Tor'agar of Marano," Nadia said at last, "arrived at your gates some days before we did."

Serra Donna en'Lamberto frowned. "Yes," she said quietly.

"He carried word, we believe, from the General Marente. No, Serra; if it places you in a difficult position, do not answer; it was not a question."

Serra Donna said nothing.

"The General Marente has made, in one action, enemies of the Voyani. We will not serve him; we will not treat with him."

Serra Donna nodded. She longed for the safety of her fan, but although it rested beside the cushions on which she knelt, she did not dare to draw attention by lifting it.

"I do not know what offer the letter contained; there was some discussion about whether or not it was wise to let the message pa.s.s." Another look pa.s.sed between the sisters. "But in the end, we must have some faith in Lamberto; we did not intervene. And in the end, Serra Donna, we had pressing concerns; taking action against the Tor'agar would have hindered us in our other operations.

"Some small number of these servants of the Lord of Night have crossed the border of Mancorvo; they are someplace within the Terrean as we speak."

13th of Corvil, 427 AA Dominion of Annagar, The Dark Deepings Kallandras turned to Lord Celleriant when he stilled. Ahead, in the darkness, he could hear the clear sound of snapping twigs, dry branches that had fallen from the ancient trees that seem to gird the path chosen by the Havallan Matriarch.

"Celleriant."

The Arianni lord lifted his silver head. The night had waned; the moon had pa.s.sed above them inches at a time; day weighted it as the horizon shifted toward light. "Now," Lord Celleriant said softly, "we had best be wary."

Kallandras nodded. He could not see what Lord Celleriant saw; that much was clear. But he knew how to listen; he could hear. The forest was devoid of the voices that would otherwise give it some semblance of life. Only dry branches spoke, at the behest of the weight of footsteps.

"Do you know this place?"

Celleriant offered the bard a rare smile. "I knew it in my youth, and it has . . . changed little. I am surprised."

"What dwells within this forest?"

"Now?" The smile dimmed. "The dead," he said softly. He spoke with regret; did not trouble himself to hide it in the folds of silken voice. "And the living-you, the others-had best be wary. But there is some benefit to this road. If we are followed here, it will go ill with the followers."

"Where will this path take us?"

"I do not know. It is not a path of my making." He lifted his head. Listened a moment. "Understand," he added, staring up at the bower of dark trees, "that in a place such as this-in any of the oldest places the world harbors-paths are made; they are not made, as they are elsewhere, by the simple expedient of walking them time and again. This forest lives, and the will to make an impression upon it-any impression-must be both strong and personal."

Kallandras heard nothing but the sound of Lord Celleriant's voice. It was almost enough. "We will fall behind," he said softly.

Celleriant nodded. Nodded, and drew sword. It came in the graying dark of early light, as bright as moon or stars in the clear, cool sky. Its edge traced a blue symbol in the air; one that hung there, like afterimage, burned into awareness and vision.

Kallandras lifted a pale brow.

"It is . . . my name," Celleriant said, answering the question that the bard had not-would not-ask.

"And you expect to meet someone who will know it?"

"This is an ancient place, a Deeping." Celleriant began to move, taking care to place his feet against the earth, grounding heel, bending toe. "The old woman has written her name, her blood's name, in the earth; she seeks to use what already exists."

"You see her name?"

"Yes. You don't?"

Kallandras shook his head. "I neither see it nor hear it, and perhaps that is best. I may cling to the delusion that mortals do not possess mystic names." But he, too, drew his weapon. As he lifted it, the ring that had come to him in the oldest of the mortal cities burned blue against his pale flesh.

"Be wary," Celleriant told him, eyeing the ring. "For the power that guides us is not a friend to the power of that ring."

The master bard of Senniel College bid the ring be silent, speaking softly and pleasantly; making a plea of the command. He cajoled, where another might have ordered, and in doing so, avoided an argument.

Celleriant watched him. "You are . . . unexpected," he said at last, when the ring was silent, its light momentarily stilled.

Kallandras looked up.

"It is the way of men of power, is it not, to rule?"

And shrugged.

"The wind is silent," the Arianni lord continued, "and if I judge its voice correctly, it will remain so."

"Be glad that it cannot so easily hear yours."

"Ah, but it can." He smiled. "It is not our way to speak softly to the wild ones, and we have ruled them for millennia."

"You are not mortal."

"No. But in my time, I have met many who are, and I have not noted that lack of pride comes with lack of longevity."

The bard shrugged. "Pride?"

"Where there are no witnesses, your words are your own. But where witnesses preside, your words are carried, and they are carried at the whim of the watchers. I would not speak so softly to the wild ones."

"Perhaps I trust the witness."

"Perhaps. Trust or no, it is not a gambit that I would chance. You are strange, Kallandras of Senniel."

"Perhaps. Perhaps it is something I learned in Senniel College."

"In Senniel? The college of bards?"

"Songs serve their purpose. Each is chosen to invoke either memory or emotion." He glanced up, along the hidden forest path. "I am not a man who is destined to rule. If I am seen as weak, it may even be truth."

"And this does not concern you."

"No. Should it?"

Celleriant's hair fell about his shoulders as he shook his head. "I have seen you fight," he said softly. "I have seen you kill. I would not have guessed that you could speak so quietly, that you could offer plea where command would also serve."

"Death is the Lady's," Kallandras whispered. "All else comes from me. Perhaps we have something to teach each other."

"I would have said no."

Kallandras smiled.

And then he froze, for he heard, in the road ahead, the sound of a short, terrible cry.

Yollana's voice.

The stag froze in mid-step.

Jewel had heard that phrase before, but she had never seen words given such visceral life; his foremost left hoof hovered above the ground between the impression of pale steps. The child dozed in her arms, legs to either side of the stag's great back, and Jewel tightened her grip just enough that the girl stirred.

She forced herself to relax, as much as she could, craning back, eyes squinting in the shade and shadow of forest at dawn. And what a forest: a ragged wall of trees that stretched from the earth to the heights so far above she could not see their tops without taking the risk of falling off the stag's back.

Jewel.

Stag's voice.

That was Yollana.

Yes. His voice was smooth and deep.

Should we ride back?

No.

But- No. If she summons you, turn; if she does not, do her the grace of ignoring what should have remained unuttered.

But she- No.

Her knees tightened, as if the stag were horse; his antlers rose, like cool tree branches, at the whim of his stiffening neck.