been blood spilled- some of it her own-and worse; her eyes held that tale in their perfectly black depths. Depths which, Evayne knew, were only half-illusion.

"The G.o.d-born walk freely in the City," she said quietly.

Kiriel shrugged.

The sky, flushed with dawn, grew brighter; Evayne thought for a moment that if her companion disappeared with the last of the shadows, it would be somehow fitting.

She did not.

"You don't speak much." Midnight-blue robes curled up around her face as her hood rose; the robes themselves had been restive since Kiriel had come from between the pa.s.ses to join them.

Kiriel shrugged. Then, as if it were drawn out of her, she added, "I've nothing to say."

"Very well. Let me explain the rules."

A dark brow rose as the young woman bridled.

"These streets are not the streets you grew up in. The strong do not kill the weak, either for display or to gain ground. Magic is not used without writ and consent, except in enterprises that the Mysterium supervises. Weapons may be worn, but not drawn without provocation."

"And who," the young woman said brittlely, ignoring the barrage of names and items to cut through to the heart of the matter, "enforces these rules?"

"They are enforced," Evayne said coolly. "Or do you think the City was built in the Northern Wastes because the climate was perfect for it? There is power here, Kiriel-do not test yourself against it. I promise you, you will fail."

It was, of course, the wrong thing to say, but once said, it could not be withdrawn. Evayne had no desire to try. "Here, they will not search for you if you do not make yourself known. Your coloring is... unusual." At this, Evayne did smile. "But in Averalaan, it will only make you striking, not strange."

Silence, long and almost painful. Kiriel had never looked young to Evayne, and the glimpses of youth in the lines across her brow were a cry for comfort that could not be answered. "Where- where will you be?"

"I don't know. You are not the only child to walk under a G.o.d's shadow. I have lived with that burden a long time."

At this, black eyes narrowed. "You lie," Kiriel said.

"Do I?"

"Your eyes."

"Could be as much illusion as your own," she smiled wryly, and added, "were you not who you are. Yes. My eyes are not the gold-ringed black of the G.o.d-born. But I do not lie, Kiriel. I do not believe I have ever lied to you."

"Why do you speak of me as if you know who I am?"

"Because," Evayne said softly, "In some other place, and some other time, I will." Dangerous to

say, that, but the geas did not bind her lips. "If you wish, I will take you to a place that will offer you safety and food in return for your service."

Kiriel shrugged.

Evayne sighed and began to walk down the slope toward the demiwall. There, along with the

fishers, they would meet the main road that led into Averalaan.

"Evayne!"

The violet-eyed woman stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"You dropped something." Light glinted off platinum as Kiriel rose, holding a ring-a slender,

unadorned band-between her fingers.

Although she knew what she would see, Evayne still raised a shaking hand to her face. There, in

the morning light, three gemstones caught and bound rays of sun. Three: Emerald, Ruby, and Sapphire.Myrddion's rings had a destiny of their own; they chose their bearer. Evayne was their steward, the woman who had freed them to begin their long work; she had no say in where they went, or to whom. Nor did she always understand why.

She lowered her hand and then looked up the slope to where Kiriel stood with the fifth of the five rings of Myrddion; the fifth, reputed in legend and bard-lore to be the most powerful. The shadow that Kiriel cast seemed long indeed; of the Five, it was Kiriel alone Evayne was not, and had never been, certain of. Even Kallandras, bard-born and death-trained, she had trusted from the moment he first made his choice: For no game, no whim, no power struggle, could drive him from his brothers to her side.

Why did I not see this? she thought. Although she had seen very, very little of Kiriel in her life thus far, she had seen enough to know that Kiriel's hands were as unfettered as her throat, her ears, or her hair.

"Evayne?"

It was not her choice, in the end; it was Myrddion's. And she could question, she could guard, she could watch-but she could not hold a ring from its intended. "Keep it," she said, as neutrally as she could, although her left hand curled tightly around the three that remained under her stewardship. "It is yours."

But Kiriel heard the fear and the doubt in the older woman's voice-the first fear and first doubt that she had yet heard there. It made her smile softly as she slid the ring effortlessly onto her left hand.

Such an expression was not an unfamiliar sight for Evayne, but it chilled her nonetheless. "Come, Kiriel," she said, her face betraying nothing. "We have far to walk."

They came at last to the bridge across which lay Averalaan Aramarelas, and there Evayne paused to pay the toll. The men who stood guard at the foot of that bridge wore the comforting familiarity of the crown over the crossed sword and rod, and she paid their toll cheerfully, which caused a slight raising of eyebrows; rich or poor, no one liked an obvious form of tax.

But the journey had been one of silence, none of it companionable, and Evayne mistrusted the way that Kiriel's eyes darted to and fro across the human crowds as if searching for prey. She had seen such expressions before, and it never boded well. If she could reach her destination quickly, so much the better.

The younger Evayne would have given Kiriel the benefit of the doubt; after all, Kiriel had never been in a large city before-not one teeming with human life in such a variety of guises. The dark-eyed gaze might have been a sign of avid curiosity; it might have been a gesture of apprehension; it might have been the reflex of a woman used to defending her life against all manner of attack.

But it was none of these things. It was hunger. For what?

She gave you her word. And the value of that word? Evayne cast a sidelong glance at Kind's profile. Were it not for the icy set of her jaw, the narrowing of her eyes, she might have been beautiful-but she was cold for it; she exuded the type of danger that only a fool would be willing to tempt.

And in a city this size, Evayne thought ruefully, there were fools aplenty. She just prayed that none of them were thieves-for Kiriel's reflexes were easily a match for the most professional of cutpurses. And Kiriel's temper was not to be trifled with. "You're worried," Kiriel said. "You should be used to it," was the crisp reply. Kiriel's smile was as sharp as her sword. But it was not so malicious a smile as that first one by the bay had been. Shrugging, she began to follow Evayne across the bridge. She stopped once, at the peak, to gaze into the moving water below.

"Have you seen the ocean before?" Shrug. And then, so softly that Evayne barely heard it, she said, "No. But she told me about it."

"She?"

There was no reply, and Evayne, who regretted little at this age, regretted that single spoken word.

They came to the manse on foot, but only Evayne knew how unusual it was for visitors to arrive that way; Evayne knew who The Ten were. She glanced across at her dour companion and found that the isle's buildings, vast and beautiful though they were, were not enough to draw attention away from the spa.r.s.e and thinning crowds.

She knew that this city was not the city that Kiriel was used to. The daily affairs of the Essalieyanese would be almost incomprehensible to her. But she knew well that Kiriel would not betray her ignorance of the lives of the pa.s.sersby by asking anything so simple and direct as a question. Not yet.

"We come to the House in which you will find a place. Follow me," she told the younger girl. "But do not speak. The guards will lead us into the courtyard while they wait on The Kalakar's word."

Of all The Ten, Kalakar was the most straightforward in its handling of security. The men at the gates were soldiers, not House Guards, and although some concession had been made for dress, the colors-silver-edged gray and a brilliant, dark blue-were those of the uniforms of the Crowns' defenders. It made Evayne smile softly. That concession, no doubt, had been the decision of the House Council, and not The Kalakar herself.

But perhaps not; The Kalakar understood ceremony when ceremony was necessary for the good of the army.

The men at the gates raised a hand in both greeting and command; Evayne stopped, and gently placed a hand upon Kiriel's shoulder to prevent the younger woman's unfamiliarity with Essalieyanese gestures from causing a minor incident. But Kiriel was still.

Of course. The men were armed and armored; this, she understood.

"State your name and business."

"I am Evayne a'Nolan, and I have come, albeit belatedly, at the behest of The Kalakar."

The man snapped out a curt order to a runner behind the gate. Before he could leave, Evayne raised a hand, the gesture almost an exact duplicate of the gate guard's. "She will not be completely familiar with my name. But give her this; by it, she will recognize me." Gold glinted in her cupped palm. Seeing its color, the guard stiffened in anger.

Then, seeing more, he stilled. His gaze was sharply focused as he met her violet eyes. "Karlson!" He took what she offered, closing his callused fingers almost gingerly around it. "Sir!"

"Take this to The Kalakar at once. You will find her in the drill hall."

At that, Evayne did smile. "She hasn't changed much, has she?"

"Not for me to say, ma'am." But the guard looked at her long and hard, as if coming to a decision of his own. "Primus Greyhame," he said. "I've heard about you."

They were led into the courtyard, and from there, onto a wide, flat terrace that was beautifully adorned with trellises and summer blossoms. Leaves and petals provided privacy of a sort from common traffic.

Kiriel touched them carefully and slowly, as if by doing so she might memorize their texture, their color, their scent. Evayne said nothing at all as the young woman explored; it was the first sign of natural curiosity that she had yet seen. But it did not escape her notice that her charge's right hand was always upon her sword hilt.

"A'Nolan," someone said, and Evayne turned in time to catch the low bow of the young runner at the gate. Karlson? Yes, that was the name Greyhame had shouted. He was young, this man; but so many of them seemed to be too young these days. "The Kalakar will see you. Please follow."

"My companion?"

"She will see you. Refreshments will be brought for your companion if she wishes to remain upon the terrace."

"Very well." She turned to Kiriel. "Wait here. Do nothing." There was no request in either statement.

If Kiriel resented command, there was no sign of that anger across her pale features.

When Evayne entered the drill hall, she was amazed at just how much noise a hall could contain. There was blade work being practiced here, and more; she could see the glint of field-plate as she cleared the narrow, ancient doors. Sweat hung in air already heavy with midday sun, but the sea breeze was sharp and cool as it pa.s.sed through the many open windows, blending the scent of salt into the human mix.

"Kalliaris' Curse!" A young man's voice, with enough frustration behind it to force it above the din. It was followed quickly enough by laughter.

"She's got you again, Michale-and she's armed with a G.o.d-cursed ladle!" Another man's voice -older, surer, a mix of amus.e.m.e.nt and annoyance.

"I'd say G.o.d-blessed," Evayne said wryly as she cleared the shoulders of the gathered spectators and glanced down into a slightly inclined basin. A quick glance told her all she needed to know; a young woman in an ap.r.o.n, with-yes-a ladle, sat firmly upon the chest of a young man twice her size. Her knee was pressed a little too heavily into his throat.

"Kalakar?" The dark-haired, clean-shaven soldier-a Primus by his markings-stepped up to the rim of the basin.

Following the direction of the man's gaze, Evayne shifted slightly. Standing on a narrow platform that was separated from the pit by height and nothing more was a lone woman in serviceable gray and blue, with a feather- a kestrel's feather-embroidered across her left breast in silver thread. She was not a young woman, although still Evayne's junior, and the furrows in her brow hid the scars across her forehead from view. Momentarily.

"Primus, I thought you said these were the trained corps?"

"I thought they were," was the rather grim reply.

"Then Kalakar is in trouble; if Carla had chosen to attack in earnest, the bearers would be

bringing him out of the pit. Continue."

"Sir!" Fist struck chest.

"I think," Evayne said softly to her guide, "that it is safe to interrupt now."

"Then you don't know The Kalakar," the young man replied under his breath. But he straightened

his shoulders in good humor and nudged his way gently toward the platform. For a young man, he was a sizable one-she really hadn't noticed it because his demeanor was not a large man's demeanor-and he cleared a good path for Evayne to follow.

And so The Kalakar saw Evayne a'Nolan for only the second time. Their eyes met, blue-gray and violet, the pale shades of steel and gemstone. It was The Kalakar who bowed."So. It is you.""It's been a long time."

"For me, yes. But you've hardly aged a day."

She'd aged a month, at first guess, but did not choose to speak it. Instead, she stared at this woman, seeing in her expression a bridge between the younger Verms, the older Commander.

There had been very little continuity in Evayne's life, and even now, with regret and resentment far behind her, she still looked for the signs of it.

The scars across The Kalakar's forehead had faded as much as they ever would; those across thighs and forearms were well-hidden. A month ago, Evayne had scrubbed The Kalakar's blood from her own cheeks, her hands; the robes, of course, took care of themselves.

"I've missed this," The Kalakar said, as she lifted the signet ring that the young runner had brought her as proof of Evayne's ident.i.ty. "But I'm well enough known that it wasn't necessary to have a new one made."

"You waited for me to return it." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. That, and-as The Kalakar-they've given me a better ring." Grim humor, but humor nonetheless, transformed The Kalakar's face, brightening it and sharpening its details. By no stretch of the imagination was The Kalakar a cla.s.sically beautiful woman; she was large-boned and square-jawed and her hair-what little there was of it-was fine and pale. But there was

strength about her, and among the defenders, she was a legend for the loyalty that she expected from-and gave to-her men.