LORD Celleriant descended slowly. He had turned to face the South, and he observed the march of lights from the distance of height; his sight was keen, and his instinct gave him numbers.

He did not fear mortal armies, but he knew that he had spent the better part of his power in an act of preservation that now seemed futile. For Viandaran had sheathed his blade-against all tale, all legend, of his time before the fall of man-and stood, cloaked again, his power shuttered, his head bowed over the head of the ATerafin woman, his arms, incongruously, around her.

His was not the only blade of power upon the field; Lord Celleriant's was a bright slash of blue against the vision as he touched ground.

Kallandras of Senniel College stood five yards to the west; their eyes met. The blood that adorned the bard was like a poem, and Celleriant desired the privacy-and the leisure-in which to appreciate it; he had neither. Not for the first time would he curse the hurried pace of mortal life.

And death.

He stepped lightly above the fallen, and knelt a moment to close the eyes of a dead man.

When he rose, Kallandras was at his side, his brows lifted slightly in curiosity.

"It is a mortal custom," Celleriant said.

"Yes," Kallandras replied, no more.

But they were watched; Lord Celleriant was aware of the observers. He did not intend to answer the question Kallandras had not asked, although he was as aware of it as he was of the regard of the Clemente men.

But he said, "It is reparation for failure. He died by the water's hand."

Kallandras said, "The dead are dead; their eyes see nothing."

"That is not what the mortals of old believed."

"It is the truth."

He shrugged. "It is reality. But . . . all custom, all pageantry, all ritual, are based in things that hold deeper truths at their heart. Come. They gather."

He walked toward the lady he had been given to serve. Bowed, although the bow was a war bow, and not the ritual, perfect abas.e.m.e.nt of a distant Court.

She was slow to detach from the Warlord, or perhaps he was slow to release her, but she did turn. Her eyes, living eyes, were round and wide.

"There are a thousand men," he said quietly, "who march even now through the streets of Damar."

"The villagers?"

She could surprise him by the simplest of questions.

"I did not think to look."

It was true; armor's glint, and sword's, had captured his attention, as if he were magpie, and they, treasures to be gathered when the night's work was done and the story at last told.

"ATerafin," Viandaran said quietly. "The villagers present no threat to Clemente; let them fend for themselves a while longer."

She stiffened; her lips opened, presaging argument.

But they closed again as she nodded. She let go of Viandaran completely, and gained two inches in height as she squared slender shoulders.

As if she were of the North, as if the South had no part of her blood or her heritage-and it was there, to Celleriant's admittedly untutored eye-she marched toward the Clemente Tor who had just lowered horn.

"You have my grat.i.tude, Lady," he said, offering her a bow that was in essence foreign.

As was she; she did not seem to note the significance of the gesture. And perhaps it had no significance to one who could command such . . . men . . . as hers. "Maybe," she said quietly. "But there are a thousand men marching through the streets of Damar. They'll be here soon."

"They come from the South?"

She nodded.

"Then they will be forced to the Eastern half of Damar."

"Why?" Her eyes were too wide. He looked at her, and he saw a woman, a tired, frightened woman. But beyond her, he saw . . . the Warlord. He did not pity her, and he did not despise her; that he did not understand her was a mercy.

Almost gently, he said, "there are no roads upon the Western bank; they will not chance the forests at night, even if they do not understand our customs. They will arrive by the Eastern road.

"We gather beyond the bridge," he said, looking at the edifice of perfect stone with something akin to wonder. And weariness. "If we can hold the bridge for some time, we may give them cause to regret their presence in Mancorvo."

"You a.s.sume," the Northern bard said quietly, "that they will content themselves with your destruction. If they choose to ignore the bridge, they can march upon Sarel."

"They will not leave us at their backs," Ser Alessandro said evenly. "They will seek the advantage of numbers to destroy our forces here before they proceed."

Jewel ATerafin frowned openly, but the battleground was already such a strange, destroyed place that it mattered little. "That makes no sense," she said.

Reymos, bleeding, bridled. But Ser Alessandro nodded, bidding her continue.

"If I were them, I'd leave some small number to contain us, and I'd ride to Sarel. If they take Sarel, you cannot win, even if you survive."

"ATerafin," Kallandras said quietly, "they are led by Kialli, whether they know it or not. We are too great a threat."

"Can we win?"

"I cannot say." Ser Alessandro gazed at the silent sky, and then at the stag, at Lord Celleriant, at Kallandras of Senniel. "But . . . against their numbers, without some greater intervention, I would say that the possibility is slim. We can retreat, but the retreat would be costly, and there is no guarantee that it would not become a rout; once they cross the bridge, once they enter the Western half of Damar, we are outnumbered."

"What if they try to cross the river to the West?"

"If they choose to cross the road beyond Damar, we have no way of defending it; they will come late, but they will come at our backs; we cannot hold bridge and land, both.

"And they have seen no battle, if I am not mistaken; they come fresh to the fight."

"You are not mistaken," the Old Forest lord said. "And . . ." he gazed a moment at the man upon the bridge, and then turned back. "I am spent; you will have my sword, and it will count for tens of men-but more than that, I cannot in safety offer; were I to unleash the wind, it would take more from you than it would preserve."

Alessandro bowed head, accepting the inevitable.

"Then we will hold the bridge," the Tor'agar replied. "Until we have, ourselves, none who are up to the task."

The Serra Teresa di'Marano looked up, neck snapping in a parody of grace. Her eyes were wide and dark; they gazed into the center of the perfect, spare room as if she could see a ghost that did not choose to haunt the room's other occupants.

But the Serra Celina en'Clemente, lamb or no, was not unwatchful. Her eyes rose as the Serra did.

"Serra Teresa?"

The Serra's grace returned, but she did not sink back into the fold of lap and rough Voyani cloth. Instead, she turned to the Matriarch of Havalla, her gaze skirting the upturned face of the Serra Diora di'Marano.

The Serra's fingers lay still against samisen strings, where a moment ago, they had moved; she did not otherwise acknowledge the change in the Serra Teresa's demeanor. Was not otherwise acknowledged.

"We must speak," Serra Teresa said quietly to the Havallan Matriarch.

Serra Celina rose at once; after a heart's beat, the Serra Diora did likewise. Grace, Celina thought; exquisite grace. For she knew the Serra Diora had traveled through the Deepings at the side of both of these women. Celina reached the sliding screens of the interior room, and paused as she waited for the seraf without to slide them across their recessed rails.

The seraf did not respond.

First fear. The night had fallen, and its hold was strange; she could taste a wildness in the wind that wound its way through open screens and veils of incense until, in subtlety, it reached the harem's inner heart.

Best not to hear the words of the Voyani; best not to notice the words of their Matriarch. She pressed her hands against the screens, determined now to perform the menial task left her by the absent seraf.

But before she could open the doors, the Serra Teresa spoke a single word. "No."

The Havallan Matriarch, crippled, rose by the grace of the Serra Teresa di'Marano and made her way to the single lamp that burned upon the low table, its shadows long and wavering.

Celina was quiet; it was in silence that the most oft used refuge of women lay. But the Serra Diora glanced once at the swirling fiber contained in the opacity of screen paper, and then she bowed and returned to her place against the wall.

Without asking leave or permission-and in the end, what Voyani woman knew such grace-the Havallan Matriarch took a slender stick of wood from the dirty folds of clothing she had been unwilling to surrender to the ministrations of the serafs.

The scent of sweat, of blood, of road, lingered in the room in spite of the costly oils and incense that Celina had chosen to burn; her husband would be ill-pleased at the expense, she thought.

And knew herself a foolish woman to think so.

The wood was a sweet wood, but it was not a soft one; it was slow to take fire from the lamp, and Celina thought the lamp itself might gutter before surrendering any share of its flame.

But the stick took fire and began a hesitant crackle, and only when it spoke thus did they speak.

"Serra Celina," the Serra Teresa di'Marano said quietly, "I have traveled long upon the Voyanne at the side of the Matriarch, and in return for my aid, she has gifted me with some measure of the Voyani lore.

"What I say, therefore, is of the Voyani, and if you will have peace between her people and yours, you will hide the source of the words while you live."

Celina nodded.

But she sat, knees shaking into the soft mat that held them, hands now bunching in graceless fists around folds of pale silk. Orange, it looked, in the fire's dim light. Orange and shadow.

"Send for your son," the Serra said. "Tell him to man the curtain wall with the archers the Tor'agar left behind."

The Serra Celina gazed into the fire, into the dwindling length of stick. "I am not a man," she said at last, and softly. "It is not from me that he will take his command."

"Tell him," the Serra Teresa continued, as if the necessary and formulaic words had not been spoken, "that the forces of Alesso di'Marente have gathered a thousand strong in Damar, and that they will march-if unhindered-to the very gates of Sarel."

She closed her eyes. Thought of her son.

"Not all of the Clemente men were seconded; those that can fight must be ready to fight. Summon the Radann," she added, "for their foes are on the field."

Bright Lady, Dark Lady. She bowed her head.

"And Serra Celina, I bid you be deaf to the sounds of battle that you hear within your domis; seek only your son; deliver only this message. Return," she added quietly. "We will be waiting, with the child."

The child. For a moment, Celina's expression softened into lines of gentle worry. But the child had not heard; her breath remained steady, an even, gentle sound.

The Radann par el'Sol heard the words as if they were the voice of G.o.d. Clear, clearer than the roar of winds in open desert, they came to him as he stood in watchful silence with his gathered Radann, his men of the Lord.

It is time, Radann par el'Sol. Draw your blade. Do what must be done.

And what of you? he whispered, his lips barely moving. What of the kai Clemente?

But there was no answer; his voice was not like unto the Lord's; it traveled the brief span of air allowed men who must breathe to exist.

Turning to the Radann he lifted finger to lip; they nodded in the dim light. Around them, the domis of the clan Clemente slept; cerdan manned the gates, but they gazed out, toward the sleeping road, and the shadows of the Old Forest.

He placed his hand around the hilt of Verragar, and after a brief pause, he drew the sword. It shamed moonlight; it shone blue.

Radann eyes widened; heads bowed in respect. The swords that left sheath in reply to his own were dull glints of moon-touched sharpness. But they were men's weapons, all; Marakas par el'Sol felt not empowered, but humbled, for they drew their weapons as purposefully as he, and theirs was the greater risk.

"Not so," the eldest of the Radann said, divining the thought that Marakas did not hide behind courtly expression. "The only risk that matters is failure."

Marakas bowed to these men, rank forgotten a moment as the voice of the Sword became his own.

He began to move, and they followed in silence.

The Serra Celina returned to the heart of the harem, her face as pale as the powdered Serras of the Highest Court in the land. No artifice gave her color, and she paused a moment to gather breath, strands of her hair falling across her face like shadowed web.

"My son-" She was not used to running.

Which of them were, who lived in the harem?

The Serra Teresa di'Marano waited.

"My son bids me ask, what of my husband?"

The Serra Teresa shook her head. Had it been in her power, she would have lied. But the war had not yet come to the harem's heart, and only when all hope was gone would she use her gift in that way.

Instead, she said softly, "Serra Celina?"

The Serra nodded.

"If it is not too bold a request, and not too difficult a burden, I ask that you take the child. I must tend to the Havallan Matriarch."

The Serra's brows rose, and then she nodded. Was she grateful? Perhaps. Or perhaps she simply accepted the Serra Teresa's words.

She lifted the sleeping girl, settled her in her lap, and bowed her shaking head.

Verragar spoke in a voice that grew louder and louder; Marakas wondered-briefly-why the light of the blade did not blind, as the sun's light did. But gazing at the blade did not make the shadows darker; when his eyes returned to the halls, they seemed clearer. Harsh, bereft of all softness.