The line of Manelan Toran stood unbroken before the dais; the drums answered, louder now, a threat and not a greeting.

Alessandro waited with a patience he did not feel. Such was the way of the High Clans: to wait; to hide behind the perfect composure of waiting all anger and all fear.

"Ser Amando kai di'Manelo," one of the Toran said, "will speak with you now."

The drums roared; their beat grew loud now, wild. The horses reared in terror.

Beyond his back, Alessandro heard something like the rumbling movement of earth; heard above it the cries and shouts of voices made unfamiliar by fear. He could not turn-not easily-until he had mastered Quickheart. But he did not need to turn in the saddle, for Quickheart's leap was a dance, a circular movement that almost unseated him.

Part of that dance brought him to the East, where Alessandro could see what he had heard, although in that instant neither made immediate sense to him.

The water in the river had risen from its bed like a wall, sundering bridge from either side of the village as if the wood and stone that anch.o.r.ed it were kindling and pebbles, children's toys.

They crested the edge of the forest as if the forest itself had finally chosen to draw curtains and reveal the outer world. Jewel stumbled over a root and bit her lip; she righted herself, palm planted in damp earth. But she did not curse; did not cry out. There was a watchful silence in the village of Damar that reminded her of storm laden sky before the beginning of a torrent.

Avandar offered her a hand, and she accepted his aid before she realized what it meant: he had dismounted. Her eyes narrowed, but he shook his head in warning, and she subsided. Time, later, for argument.

Celleriant lifted a slender arm. In the distance, she could see the village wall rising into the dark of horizon.

And she remembered, as she looked at its odd shape, that Damar had no walls.

"Yes," Celleriant said quietly, seeing the shift in her expression. "The river has risen."

"Where is the Tor'agar?"

"I cannot see him," the Arianni lord replied, after a pause. "The dwellings are in my way."

Hers too. Now what? she thought, watching the moon's light against the surface of moving water.

"Now, ATerafin, we play a dangerous game." Avandar's voice was soft.

So what else is new? Her legs ached. She wasn't sure why. "If they see us-"

"I believe we will know if we are spotted. But we have the advantage of numbers here," he replied. Distant.

"Advantage?"

"We ride no horses, we wear no armor, we carry no banner. We are five, but the men who are stationed here will count us three; they will see threat in neither you nor . . . the Winter King. Unless," he added softly, "you choose to ride him, in which case, they will see a threat in the two of you that will diminish ours."

It occurred to her, as he spoke, that he knew the name of the stag. The name he had been known by before he had chosen to accept the offer of the Winter Queen, before he had lost her dangerous game.

Yes, he said quietly. I believe I do know it.

Tell me? she asked him, without much hope. It evoked a grim smile.

If you wish to know, do not ask him. Command him. He is yours, Jewel. Arianne did not release him-she gave him to you.

But he knew she wouldn't.

She knew that he knew.

I'm that predictable.

Yes. But predictability is not always a sin, ATerafin. When you choose to trust a man's word, why do you trust?

Which man?

He smiled. Why does it matter?

She hesitated and then snorted. "All right. All right, I get it. You can stop the lesson now."

He bowed, expression grave. "Not all lessons are so easily halted, but I, too, am in your service." And rose. "And as we are all in service to you-all of us save the master bard-we now await your decision. Which way, ATerafin?"

b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Warm air blew across the back of her neck. She turned to meet the luminous eyes of the Winter King. They were striking, the silvers and grays of night. More so, she thought, than they ever were when the sun rode the sky. She heard the question he didn't ask, and she nodded; he knelt.

She lifted herself across his back and held tight to his antlers as he rose.

"All right," she said curtly. "Kallandras?"

"ATerafin."

"Do you want to split off with Celleriant, or will you follow my lead?"

"I think it wisest that we remain together."

She nodded. "All right," she said again. "That way." It was time to play the game by instinct.

Instinct. She smiled a moment and turned to catch the frown forming on Avandar's lips.

"Remember, ATerafin, that it is always wise to have a goal before one sets out."

"Wisdom and being here have almost nothing in common," she replied.

The Winter King's laughter was silent, but she felt it and took comfort from it.

Ser Amando kai di'Manelo stepped out from behind the ranks of his Toran; he crossed the height of the dais slowly, and with perfect grace. He removed his helm, and his hair, even by moonlight, was silvered; age was his mantle. He wore a beard, long and thin; like to a Widan's beard, and not a Tor's. His ears were pierced with rings.

Only in the plains of Mancorvo could a man be so adorned without risk of scorn or derision. They were war rings, as much a part of the ferocity of his face as the scars he bore.

At his side, tucked into the dark silk of broad sash, Ser Amando kai di'Manelo wore two swords. They were his finest adornments; their sheaths glittered brightly, even in the half-light. The Clemente war sheath was more practical. Alessandro had chosen to wear it for expediency, but he regretted the lack of formality now.

He was aware, however, that formality was far more than simple dress. Quickheart had stilled, but it had taken effort; the Manelo Toran were witness to that effort, and it was a costly humiliation.

Or perhaps not; he noted as he dismounted that there were no horses present. The Tors of Mancorvo did not divest themselves easily of their mounts.

Nor did they divest themselves of their men in time of war. Alessandro did not spare a glance to the obscenity of the river, although it cast an odd shadow at his feet; the shadow spoke of its height. What was done was done; he railed against it at his peril.

Reymos and Adelos were likewise silent. They would fall here, if he chose a poor word, offered a poor gesture, but they would die like men; their hands were upon the hilts of their swords, and although the blades had not yet been drawn, such a gesture did not proffer disrespect.

"Ser Amando," Ser Alessandro said. His chin dipped; he did not offer a formal bow.

Reminder of the difference in rank between the two clans. More of a reminder could not, in wisdom, be offered.

"Ser Alessandro," Ser Amando replied. He, too, forbore a bow. "I had almost despaired of your presence within Damar. The speed of your response to my requests was . . . uncharacteristic, cousin."

"Indeed. I was detained in Seral. Preparations for war are time-consuming, but you must be better aware of this fact than I."

Ser Amando revealed the grimmest of his smiles. "Must I? We are both the Lord's men."

"Ah," Alessandro said quietly, seeing the opening. "But which Lord, Ser Amando?"

Jewel's head snapped up.

"ATerafin?" Avandar and Kallandras spoke as a single person.

"Something bad just happened," she told them. "And no, don't ask me what." She edged the stag forward. "But we've just lost a lot of time."

The smile ended abruptly. Alessandro was not grieved to see it pa.s.s. He stood at his full height; Amando had the advantage given him by the dais, no more.

"Surely," another voice said, "the Lord."

A man joined the Manelan Tor upon the wooden platform. That Alessandro's hand did not fall to blade spoke well of his self-control; everything about this stranger spoke of power. "Ah. Forgive me, cousin," he said, emphasizing the kinship, "but I do not recognize your adviser."

"Enough."

The burden of silence was not difficult to shoulder.

"The man is Widan," Amando said coldly. "An ally of the Tyr'agar."

Alessandro studied the Widan, his eyes narrowing. The man was tall; taller than the Tor'agnate of Manelo. His build was slender, but not slight; indeed, nothing about him gave the impression of a small man. His hair was night dark, and it fell about his shoulders, unfettered by braid.

But his chin was smooth; no beard descended from its sharp line. Widan?

No.

"He does not choose to wear the Sword of Knowledge."

Ser Amando frowned. "Will you play at games, Alessandro? I am disappointed. Of my son's kin, he counted you closer than brother.

"He does not wear the Sword, but the river is his work; what other proof of his claim is required?"

Here and there, dirt track had been worn through gra.s.s; it was covered in layers of straw and mud, like a dense imitation of stone. The tracks that were little worn were not wide; Kallandras found them, and Kallandras led the way, walking a few paces ahead of Jewel, no more.

Buildings now added a texture to the scant light; lamps were lit, and Jewel doubted that they always burned this late. Shadows stirred to one side of the track.

They were familiar to Jewel because, in her youth, she had been such a shadow. She lifted a hand; the stag was already still beneath her.

"We mean no harm," she said, speaking quietly but clearly into the empty night. "We travel at the behest of Clemente."

"Clemente?" A voice. A woman's voice.

"Clemente," Jewel said more firmly.

"The Tor does not travel through the forest," the woman said, and the shadows resolved themselves into a single form.

"No. We do not travel by his side."

The woman nodded. "We know."

The villager approached now, lit by moon; she carried neither torch nor lamp. Nothing, Jewel thought, that might give her away to the casual observer.

Jewel had walked as carefully through the streets of the twenty-fifth holding. But they had never been so quiet, those streets; even at night, the taverns' noise spilled into the cobbled stone, and the loud, varied voices of men who indulged in smoke and alcohol provided some cover for the sound of moving feet.

"We?"

"Not all of the people of Damar are in hiding," the woman answered.

"No," another voice said, older but definitely feminine. "Only the smart ones."

The woman in the road froze, but not with fear; although Jewel could not yet see her face-might never see it clearly-she thought she sensed irritation in the stiffening of posture.

"There is no good place to hide," the younger woman said, and her tone conveyed clearly what her posture had hinted at. "Surely Maria's and Serge's deaths made that plain."

Silence.

"The Tor'agnate is here," the figure said. "But he is . . . alone."

"Alone?"

"He has seven men by his side."

"Impossible," Jewel said flatly. But it wasn't-and she knew it.

"As impossible," the woman replied, "as a woman riding a creature of the Old Forest. As impossible," she continued, "as a woman who is clearly served by one of its lords."

Almost against her will, Jewel smiled. "How? How was he isolated?"

"He crossed the Adane," the woman replied. "And the river itself was raised from its bed as the Tor'agar and his escort stepped off the bridge."

"But-"

"The river destroyed the bridge; it destroyed the narrow foot pa.s.sage as well. The rest of his men will not be able to cross the river unless they turn East and make for the bridge near Sarel."

Which would mean they'd have to leave Damar. Jewel knew just how likely that was.

The woman lowered her head. "By then, it will be too late."