"We will meet again," Kallandras said quietly. "The war has not yet begun in earnest."

"I have no desire to come late to that field," Celleriant said. He had sheathed his blade, and did not now condescend to draw it.

"And I," Kallandras replied, with more gravity, "have no desire to come to that field at all." He bowed.

Watched as the Arianni lord and the Winter King retreated into the outskirts of the forest.

The Serra Diora di'Marano had been raised in the High Courts. It had never been the intent of her father that she become bride to the kai Leonne, but he had had his pride; if she was never to be wife to a Tyr, she was to be-in all ways-the equal to the women who would occupy that position. She sang, of course, but she sang well; she read, and she could write in a hand as perfect and delicate as the Tyr'agar's Serra. She could serve sweet water and wine, could arrange flowers, hangings, the fall of chains of gold; she could make a room that was empty an elegant, even an opulent, place simply by becoming some part of its center.

And she could recognize, at a distance, the golden glint of a half circle, six distinct rays rising above the sword that formed its horizon: the standard of a Tor'agar.

At her side, the Radann par el'Sol stiffened. His hand fell to his blade, but he was cautious enough not to draw it; twenty mounted men were not wisely antagonized before one knew their intent. Or perhaps even after.

As Serra, the option to draw such a weapon had never been granted her. She had a dagger, of course, but daggers in the hands of Serras were seldom considered weapons; they were defense of a last resort, and turned as easily inward as out.

She did not draw hers. Instead, she lifted hand, pulled hood from her face, touched the strands of hair that now hung there, untended by seraf, unadorned by jade or pearl, by flower or comb. Her clothing was almost inexcusable; she felt a pang as she looked at the heavy robes and saw them as they would be seen by the men who now approached on horseback: dusty, dark with the dirt of forest travel, of desert travel, of too little water.

She felt a moment's panic; her palm still bore a faint, red mark-a blemish made more obvious by the pale, perfect lines of a Serra's skin.

The fear-one she had not felt since she had stood at the heights of the Sen tower in the Tor Arkosa-told her that she had, at last, come home. It settled about her, familiar, unwanted.

It must have shown. It must have, because the Radann par el'Sol turned to her at that moment and lowered his head.

"I am sworn to defend you," he said quietly.

She nodded.

She nodded, and she felt grateful, for she had no other family here; she was a woman, without cerdan, without brother or father-and such women's honor lay at the mercy of the men they encountered.

Margret would have been angry.

She bowed her head, thinking it, knowing it for truth, and finding in that truth the strangest of comforts. Margret would be angry, when she learned of it.

As the horses drew closer, the standard grew clearer. The six rays were unmistakable; the crescent sword the perfect horizon for the embroidered sun, and beneath it, in orange, red, and gold, a shield of fire.

The clan Clemente.

"The Tor'agar has taken to the road," the Radann par el'Sol said softly.

She nodded. But she did not speak; she had pa.s.sed the boundary of the darkest of forests, and that border, paid for by the blood of the Havallan Matriarch, had been closed against them. There was only one way, and that, forward.

She was once again a Serra of the clan Marano.

Garbed in desert robe or not, she knelt in the tall gra.s.s, and her seraf, her perfect seraf, came to stand by her side, choosing, carefully, where he might best plant his feet to protect her from the sun's glare.

No one joined her; Jewel ATerafin did not bow, and the Havallan Matriarch, supported by Ona Teresa, stayed her ground with a bitter twist of her lip. The child that had come to them, like ghost or doom, in the heart of desert night, was held fast in the arms of the domicis; Diora was alone upon the ground, knees bent in a familiar posture of obeisance.

But because she was gifted-and cursed-she heard the sharp intake of the Radann's breath. She did not glance up to see his hand tighten about his blade; it would not be seemly, and besides, she had a good view of the feet that trampled the slender stalks of dry gra.s.s, and saw that he had planted them firmly apart in a sword stance.

Such a stance would not be lost upon the Tor'agar.

The horses came to a halt; she heard their hooves slow and become silent. A moment pa.s.sed; the sound of men's boots were less thunderous, and more dangerous, when they came. The Radann Marakas par el'Sol did not move; his shadow joined Ramdan's as the Tor'agar's men made their way across the wilderness of land that had not yet been cleared or tilled.

She had a wild, terrible urge to look up.

Could remember the time she had sat thus, in a dark, cold desert night, when Adam of the Arkosa Voyani had come bearing the instrument of Kallandras of Senniel College-a gift, to her, that had almost cost him his life, and that had, in the end, cost him the only family he had.

Could even she be changed in so short a time? Could she be ruined, destroyed by the freedom and the conflict in the desert's heart, her own laid bare?

No.

No. She was Serra Diora di'Marano. She understood duty.

But it was hard, much harder than she had expected it would be, to sit in silence, head bowed. To be perfect.

She did not pray to the Lady for strength or guidance; the Lord reigned. Instead, she waited, her hands palm down in the fold of her lap. Palm down, so that the imperfection might be hidden, that it not trouble the sight of men.

Ramdan bent, still shielding her from sun's rays by the breadth of his shoulders, his back. In his hands, pulled from the robes of the Voyani desert, he held a simple fan. Painted silk, spread by straight, slender jade spokes. She took it as if it were an anchor; raised it in grat.i.tude and hid her face.

"Strangers," a man said. She heard worry in his voice, the vague edge of fear, the certainty of duty. "You have entered, without permission, the lands of the Tor'agar Alessandro kai di'Clemente.

"Identify yourselves, and state your business clearly."

Swords were drawn. Clemente swords.

"I am the Radann Marakas par el'Sol, and these, my companions, have come to your Tor's lands in haste. Accept our apologies for the unsuitability of our dress and our manner; we have been on the road these past weeks, and we have seen little in the way of hospitality."

"You traveled the roads?" Disbelief in that voice. Suspicion.

"No," the Radann said quietly. "We traveled through the forests at the border's edge."

"The forest?"

"Indeed."

The Serra waited. Silence followed the single word; she wondered if the man would challenge the Radann's words. But the Radann par el'Sol was granted, by right, the symbol of the sun ascendant, and if it did not adorn his chest in the open light, his name carried its weight.

"Radann par el'Sol," the man said. His armor spoke as he bowed; she heard it clearly, the clink of metal against metal, the chaffing of surcoat. In the Southern Terreans, armor was rare. "We . . . did not expect . . . a man of your import. Your companions?"

"I will speak for them," he replied evenly.

"Then speak," a new voice said. A strong voice. Not, the Serra Diora thought, a friendly one. But this man spoke with the certainty of power: this man was the Tor'agar.

"Kai Clemente," the Radann said. "My companions are varied, but as you can clearly see, they are not a band of war."

"Give me their names, par el'Sol, and let me judge their worth for myself."

The silence was stiff. But the command in the words was almost laced with threat. Diora lifted her face, protected now by folds of translucent silk, her eyes seeing between the painted petals of lilies.

She saw, veiled in gauze, a man dressed in armor, his coat adorned with the full symbol of the rising sun, its six rays reaching to throat and shoulders as they caught light, glittering. His hair was dark; he wore a scant beard. His eyes, she thought, were dark as well, but the fan's folds hid their color, and she did not dare to lower it; he was not a man given to missing even the slightest of gestures.

"Very well, Tor'agar," the Radann replied. He turned and bowed to Yollana, the Matriarch of Havalla.

The old woman's nod was visible.

"May I present the Matriarch of the Havalla Voyani," Marakas said gravely, "and her cousin, Teresa."

The Tor'agar stiffened slightly. That he did this much showed the depth of his surprise; he was Court trained, after all. After a marked hesitation, he lowered his head. No other courtesy was demanded of a clansman of his rank; indeed, not even that much was necessary. But etiquette and prudence often diverged, and he had chosen prudence.

It spoke well of him, if nothing else did.

"The others?"

Again, the Radann par el'Sol turned, and again, he received a slight nod.

"Kallandras of Senniel College. He is . . . of the North."

"So it would seem."

"He travels with Jewel ATerafin."

"ATerafin? If I am not mistaken Terafin is one of The Ten Houses that have prominence in the Empire."

"Indeed, Tor'agar."

"The man?"

"Her domicis."

"I am not familiar with the term."

"There are no serafs in the North," the Radann replied evenly. "But there are those who choose-free of constraint-to serve. He is one."

"I doubt that, par el'Sol. I doubt that highly." The Tor'agar held the words for just a second longer than necessary, and then added, "Although it is clear that the claim is his, and not yours. And the other man is also Havallan?"

"He is Arkosan."

"Arkosan?"

"Even so."

The men who had ridden at the side of the Tor'agar were silent, but beyond them, their voices clear to Diora's strange gift, the others spoke. They gestured toward the forest, the forest heart, the forest height.

"It seems that old tales have some truth in them after all," the Tor'agar said. "But I notice that you have failed to introduce the last member of your party." And he stepped forward, into the shadows cast by the bower of ancient branches.

Marakas par el'Sol moved as well, interposing himself-with far less courtly grace-between the Tor'agar and the Serra Diora. His hand was on his sword, and Diora thought-for just a moment-that he might draw it. She held her breath; contained it in the same way she contained all motion. Remembering, now, how to wait.

Marakas par el'Sol glanced toward her; met the sheen of fan, the shadow of seraf. "Serra," he said quietly, "it would honor us both greatly if you chose to grace us with your presence."

As his words died into silence, the Serra bent slowly and delicately toward the earth, aware that there was no mat against which to place her forehead. Her hair brushed the undergrowth, revealing the curve of the back of her unadorned neck.

Ramdan was at her side in an instant, offering her a hand with which to steady herself. It was unnecessary; she had no need of his aid. But it was also necessary, for he showed himself to be a seraf of breeding and refinement, and by so doing, showed that the woman who owned his name was worthy of note.

The Serra Diora di'Marano rose quietly, unfolding as delicately as she had unfolded the fan, her movements both conscious and unconscious. The line of her shoulders both rose and fell, lengthening her neck, accentuating the perfect line of a back hidden by folds of stiff desert cloth.

Ser Alessandro kai di'Clemente met her gaze, his eyes widening as he recognized her exposed face. He gestured sharply, and his Toran fell back a step.

"I understand," he said softly, "why you chose to forgo the open road, par el'Sol."

"Will you allow us to pa.s.s, kai Clemente?"

"That is a complicated question," the Tor'agar replied, his gaze fixed upon the face of the Flower of the Dominion. "But you have been on a dark road, and you must be in need of rest and refreshment. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my domis. It would be my honor to have such noteworthy guests."

She heard all the words that he did not choose to speak. None of them brooked refusal.

The Radann Marakas par el'Sol was no fool. "The honor," he said, bowing, "is ours."

The Tor'agar nodded. And then he bowed to the Serra Diora di'Marano, and gently offered her his hand.

If the cerdan were ill pleased at being unhorsed, they did not show it. Ser Alessandro offered horse to Yollana of Havalla and her companion; he offered horse to Jewel ATerafin; he offered horse to Kallandras of Senniel College, and to the Radann par el'Sol.

But he paused a moment, the line of his lips shifting as Avandar approached the horse upon which the Northern ATerafin woman sat so awkwardly. They spoke quietly, and he helped the child he bore into the saddle; the woman enfolded her in arms that were a shade too stiff. "You failed to introduce the child." He spoke quietly.

"We found her wandering the road in Raverra. Her parents are dead," the Radann replied. Again, his hand found the hilt of his sword.

"And you travel with her?" Ser Alessandro smiled; the smile was as sharp as sword's edge. "You have always been an unusual servant of the Lord, par el'Sol. It seems that the fate of the helpless and the barely free continue to be of concern to you. I am impressed. But the Lord's steel must hide beneath the gentleness of your demeanor. I would not have guessed, years ago, that you would have risen to the rank you now hold."

"The ATerafin has chosen to extend the protection of her House to the child; she eats little, and she interferes with nothing."

"I see. She is not a seraf?"

"She bears no brand."

"Good." He placed foot in the stirrup of one of Mancorvo's finest horses; a great, black beast with gold markings. "We must ride in haste," he said quietly. "Word will travel."

Marakas par el'Sol nodded. "You travel in numbers."

"Indeed. There are bandits upon the roads, and worse." His smile was grim. "Twenty mounted men might give pause to even the most foolhardy of outlaws."

The dwelling of the Tor'agar of Clemente was not so grand a dwelling as Marakas might have expected, for the lands in Mancorvo were rich. Yet if it was not grand, it was deceptive in its simplicity; it was built of stone, and the gates, great, rolling walls, were of steel and wood. Men stood upon the curtain walls that girded the city; men armed with spears and, to Marakas' great surprise, bows.

Ser Alessandro noted his surprise with an ironic smile. "We have learned that not everything that comes out of the North is evil."

"It is said that weapons of distance breed poor warriors."

"Indeed, I have heard it said," the kai Clemente replied. "If you are unfortunate, you will judge for yourself the truth of that adage."

Radann Marakas par el'Sol stilled a moment. "You are at war?"