She knew he would command them.

She knew they would obey; what else was left them in the face of the power he now displayed? Power defined men in the South. Power elevated them; lack of power destroyed them.

Without thought, she leaped from the back of the stag.

Heard his voice, a clear warning that reverberated through her limbs as if she were struck bell. Music there, and worse. She knew what bells tolled.

"Avandar!" She shouted the word; it was almost lost to the gale, for the air's voice had not stilled, and the water's had grown loud indeed. Neither air nor water troubled him, and if the earth did, it did not show in the cold, smooth lines of his face.

He did not turn; did not give any hint that he had even heard her.

And her instinct failed her-as it sometimes did-because the fear that she felt was suddenly too loud. He turned from her toward the bridge, and beyond his shoulder, she saw that Kallandras fought a single kinlord. The kinlord had the advantage of height, of reach, but Kallandras had something else-something that she was certain had not been defined or refined in Senniel.

His fight was a dance; not even the storm could deprive it of grace.

But she could not watch; her eyes turned to Avandar's back. He had not yet summoned the Clemente cerdan.

She could not afford to let him do that.

Yet when he turned, at the height of the bridge's curve, she froze again; she did not know how she-how anyone-could stop him.

For just a minute, wasn't sure that she wanted to.

Truth, too much truth this eve. "Avandar!"

Was not sure that she wanted to because he seemed unstoppable. Remote, broken, a killer. Maybe even her killer, if she could reach him. She wore his mark. He-wore it, twin to hers.

And he would be a killer that she never need fear-not the way she had feared Duster, in the end. Because in the end, Duster had died.

Yes, the Winter King said. Unfair, that a single word could say so much.

Lefty had died. Fisher had died. They had all left her. Nothing she had done, nothing she could do, could prevent their desertion.

Teller could easily have been killed had Haerrad not chosen to offer warning in a way that would clearly show the cost of open warfare. The fear of that had almost destroyed her. And it would, she thought, bitter now.

She shook her head; hair was already arrayed against vision, and she did nothing to push it out of the way.

Avandar lifted his arm, his sword arm.

And she lifted hers, struggling a moment with the b.u.t.ton that held shirt to wrist.

"Viandaran!"

The words that he might have said did not come. Instead, he looked at her for the first time since he had drawn sword and taken up the mantle of the Warlord.

Enough, she said softly, as if speaking to a wild creature. Enough, Viandaran. You have done enough here.

He lifted his arm; she could not see it clearly, but she felt hers respond. Warmth. Heat.

Everything would change. She knew it.

But everything did, anyway.

You swore yourself to my service, she told him, arm burning as if the brand itself were being applied for the first time, or as if the pain of it had been delayed until she had at last accepted its presence.

I . . . serve . . . you?

We serve each other, she replied. Raw now. Words she hadn't spoken for so many years they made her feel young and vulnerable.

He stood. It was not an act of hesitation.

The Clemente cerdan began to gain their feet, to find their weapons, to find their ranks. She heard, above the din of so many different storms, the call of horn; heard it answered.

Harmony, she thought.

I've seen your dead, she told him.

Lady, he said, although the word itself was composed of syllables that she had never heard. The servants of the shadow G.o.d leave no ghosts.

No, she said, because it was truth. They leave scars. You've done enough. I-I asked for too much.

How much was too much? The words seemed small, irresolute, the whimpering denial of a child.

But because they were true, she stood behind them.

Golden light shrouded his face, his features; made him hard to look upon.

I am not Avandar Gallais, he told her.

I know. She took a step forward; bent her head into the driving wind. Something struck her in the shoulder, but not hard enough to knock her off her feet; she glanced back to see the flat of a board. Some part of a building that had not survived the night's work.

But you're not the Warlord either.

Am I not? Sword, now. Eyes too bright to be dark, although they looked all of black.

No. Because if you were, you would never have taken the name Avandar Gallais. You would never have come to Terafin. You would never have been- The blade lowered a fraction. She had all of his attention now, and she found that she didn't want it.

Mine.

Everything, everything, would change.

She made her way to the bridge. The debris that swirled lazily in the air no longer touched her; it swooped past her face, shadowed her steps, ruffled her hair-but it caused her no harm.

His work, she knew.

Do you understand what you are saying?

As much as I ever do.

His brow rose a fraction. It was almost familiar.

This is a war that you cannot fight, ATerafin. This, these-they are not enemies against which you or your den can stand. Will you take that risk? Will you disarm yourself?

Could you protect them? she asked. Could you, when you couldn't even protect- Silence.

Funny, how much she wanted the answer to the question she suddenly didn't have the courage to ask.

Put up the sword, Avandar. Viandaran. Whatever you want to call yourself. Put it up. You should never have drawn it.

Oh?

Because now, she continued, the words carrying themselves beyond volition and intention, now they'll know. Where you are. What you've done.

Ah. Yes, he said. He will know. And he looked to the North.

No, she thought, the City coming unbidden to mind. No. But she knew that the G.o.d in the North could grant him what he desired, what she had never desired for her den. Death.

"Avandar." Close enough. Close enough to touch him. The blade was between them, its edge a thing of light.

He looked down at her.

She reached out, arm shaking, and touched his chest. With the flat of her hand. She stopped there, staring up at his eyes, her hand illuminated now by the red, red light of a brand that was glowing in the recess of night, in the light of sword.

His hand touched the back of hers.

His fingers lifted her chin, forcing her eyes up.

"Are you afraid, ATerafin?"

"Yes."

"Good." His smile was cool. Foreign.

And she realized, as he offered it, that the hand that touched her chin was the hand that had borne the sword.

Ser Alessandro kai di'Clemente waited out the storm. Although the plains seldom saw a storm such as this, he felt the danger of it at great remove; the beasts that had harried and killed his men were dead; the Widan-or whatever it was they styled themselves-gone. If victory was counted in a hundred dead, he had victory. The Adane had exacted its price along the riverbanks. His boot hit hard ground, kicked up rocks that had struggled to broken surface. He wondered what would grow here, in the months that followed, if anything did.

Reymos was by his side. His forehead was covered in a sheen of red; slick and shiny, it stopped at his lids. The banner of Clemente he bore with a quiet determination, but his hands shook with fatigue.

"He will pay," Alessandro said quietly. "For Adelos. For my men."

Reymos nodded. No other words need be said.

But other words came. Practical words. "The Tyr'agnate," Reymos said quietly.

Alessandro nodded. Not even a Tor'agar could kill the head of a ruling clan with impunity. "We will inform him of the night's events. Look," he added.

The river was subsiding.

If, by subsiding, one meant shrinking back into the containment of its bed. It was slow to yield; it reached out to destroy what was within its reach-but almost nothing was. Wooden planks, men's swords and shields, the detritus of old buildings-these were pulled in by the force of the water, to be carried or h.o.a.rded in the movement of its stream.

But the bridge made by the Warlord remained unmoved and untroubled by the water that lapped at its curve.

Upon the bridge, sword sheathed, the man stood, the Northern girl in his arms.

Calm came slowly to the Lady's Night. Silence descended.

Across the width of new bridge came the Northern bard; his chest was red with blood, his arm wounded, but his expression denied the existence of injury. He paused at the back of the Warlord, and the Warlord turned.

What he said, no one could hear, and Alessandro bitterly regretted it. The bard's speech was short; the Northern woman nodded and he stepped around them, tracing a clear path toward the ruling kai of Clemente.

He bowed before him, feet steady above the wreckage of buildings. The bow itself was perfect; it accorded Alessandro the full measure of respect due his rank. In spite of himself, Alessandro felt the debt he bore grow subtly.

"Kai Clemente," the bard said, choosing the less formal t.i.tle, as if to alleviate some of that burden.

"Kallandras of Senniel," the Tor'agar replied.

"If your negotiations within Damar have been completed, I would respectfully suggest you withdraw your forces."

Alessandro raised brow; a question.

"Not all of the men sent to Damar were stationed within it; not all of them were gathered by the Adane. Sarel offers some safety against their numbers-but that safety diminishes with time." He paused. "With your leave, kai Clemente, I will bespeak the Radann par el'Sol; I believe he has duties to which he must attend."

Alessandro nodded at once.

But the horses were scattered, and he had no idea of how many had survived the onslaught; the return to Sarel would be slower and more c.u.mbersome than the arrival in Damar had been.

He lifted horn to lip, drew breath.

But before he could wind it he heard the voice of another horn, its song raised in cry of war.

He closed his eyes. "How many?" he said softly.

Kallandras of Senniel turned to the South and listened a moment.

"Many," he said softly. "And they are close now."

Weary, Alessandro blew horn. But it was not the note he had hoped to sound.

The forces of the Tyr'agar had begun their march into the town of Damar.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.