Fear was no open handshake, no accepting welcome.

Of course, only a stupid man would set aside his cautious behavior, his fear of her-especially after he'd sat so close to death beneath the open, afternoon sky.

Cook shook his head ruefully. He could be stupid without ever opening his mouth.

Solran Marten, the bardmaster of Senniel College, pulled a dark strand of hair from her eyes and twisted it between forefinger and thumb. At her back, the sun illuminated the colored gla.s.s which depicted The Ten, in two rows of five, as they made their way collectively to Avantari-the Palace of Kings-after the long battle with the reigning barons had finally come to its proper close. The Artisan who had crafted this towering window had captured perfectly the dignity that these Ten, in their righteous joy, displayed. They were a force, standing together, to be reckoned with; a force that the barons, with their petty bickering and their politics of a.s.sa.s.sination, could never have broken.

It was a d.a.m.ned good thing, Solran thought, that the Artisan had long pa.s.sed into history. He would have been heartbroken otherwise.

"They aren't as bad as they have been," her companion said, modulating his voice so that it carried only to her ears.

Solran Marten was one of the few chosen bardmasters who was not bard-born; she could not reply in kind to the man who stood across the divide on the other side of the open gallery. She grimaced, the expression exaggerated enough to carry her skepticism. Lifted her hands, signing with blinding speed.

He smiled. "Yes," he said softly. "It is harder without the presence of the Kings. But the Kings have chosen not to interfere."

Solran, as head of Senniel College, knew full well why; she suspected that Kallandras did as well, but wisely did not choose to speak of it. She nodded grimly and stared down into the chamber.

Four hours had pa.s.sed. Four hours, with the day getting hotter and more uncomfortable all around them.

The Terafin and The Kalakar began the morning with a motion that had shocked every other member of the Council: Do not retaliate.

Princess Mirialyn ACormaris immediately joined them- she sat in on the Council meeting with the status of adviser. She had a voice-and used it-but no vote. The Fennesar, of all The Ten the most subdued in appearance, quietly added her voice to the motion, to carry it to the table.

The Kalakar spoke with a voice most unlike her: strained, even subdued. But there was no tremor in the words, and no doubt. She held her head up with a battered pride as she finished the motion.

Where the Kalakar voted, The Berriliya could not. This was a truth almost universally acknowledged by the denizens of Averalaan Aramarelas to be more a rule of nature than an act of political will. Solran did not understand-and felt certain that she never would-how these two could form two sides of the triangle that had won the Southern wars for the Empire. She considered it nothing short of miraculous that they hadn't turned the armies under their command upon each other.

She was certain that, had they had them now, they would have. And it was a pity. The Berriliya was the only man on the Council who was The Kalakar's match, in more ways than one.

The Darias rose next. She was much like a younger version of The Terafin; elegant, willowy, very much a cla.s.sically beautiful woman. It came as a surprise to Solran- and, judging by his momentary frown, to Kallandras-when The Darias spoke against the Annagarians in quiet but certain terms.

The Morriset declined to vote, watching the proceedings with the same quiet that marked most of his dealings. He was not a swordsman, not a soldier, and not an athlete; he had rounded with the years, developing a quiet, paternal demeanor-a demeanor which was not greatly changed by the state of emergency. She was grateful for it.

The Tamalyn also declined, although Solran thought it was more because The Tamalyn had no real idea of the significance of the events that were pa.s.sing around him, than any uncertainty about the right course of action. He was a bookish man, and if not for his House Council-a bevy of mothering men and women-would no doubt have lost his rulership, or his family prestige, to the study of books and odd bits of fact and lore.

But he had a way about him that she loved. Solran, bardmaster, war-witness and sentence-speaker, hovered around him when she could, seeking to protect him-just as his council did- from the worst of the ravages of politics. Why, she couldn't say, for she was not his mother, and he was, in any event, no child, but there was something about him, curly-haired and completely honest, that held fast to the essence of childhood long after the fact of it had fled.

She shook herself ruefully. The Korisamis, long the voice of quiet and persuasive reason, stood quietly. He was unprepossessing in size or statue, but when he spoke, he was listened to. It was with regret, he said, that he found it necessary to support the motion in favor of execution of the Annagarian hostages. He did not advocate a public execution, or anything as barbarous as the Southerners had inflicted upon their own-but death, yes. Solran had long suspected that he had some bardic talent, hidden away by lack of training and years of disuse, but the bard-born among her master bards denied it, and she chose-usually-to trust their opinions, for they recognized their own. Yet his was the very voice of reason in tone and texture. Had she not counted some of the Annagarian n.o.bles among her friends, she might have been swayed.

The Wayelyn spoke last, as he was from the least of The Ten Houses. And perhaps because his was least, the hostage the House had offered as a means of binding the Southern Dominion had been closer, personally, to The Wayelyn than any other hostage had been to their leader.

She was pained, but not surprised, to hear him call for the Annagarians' death, eye for eye. He was the only one there close to tears.

And there it was. Mirialyn with no voice made it three against five, with two abstentions. Four hours. Solran raised her ivory face, met Kallandras' eyes squarely, and exhaled. Four hours to decide the fate of over twenty people.

The Terafin rose, her face pale, her hands as steady as the scepter of office in King Cormalyn's hands. "By the will of the Council," she said, each word sharp and clear. "The message will be sent to the Dominion of Annagar." She turned to the Princess who waited, her face a white cloud. "Tell the Kings Cormalyn and Reymalyn of the decision of the Council."

"And when would you have this act carried out?"

"It would be fitting," The Berriliya said, rising, "if the hostages could be executed upon the eighth of Lattan."

Solran closed her eyes. Of course. The Festival of the Sun. He would know what it would mean to the Annagarians; it was the height of the Lord's rule, the day in which the warriors reigned. A slap-worse-in their faces. It did not surprise her at all.

When she opened her eyes to gaze across at her distant companion, she saw that the gallery was empty. Kallandras had already gone. And it was time, now, that she leave as well; the meeting was over. Or was it?

The doors to the hall opened; the sun from the ceiling and the magnificent window shone down as if it had only been waiting for his presence. His hair was shining, ringlets of gold, for all that the years had paled them, and he walked with the sure confidence of a man in his youth. He wore workaday clothing, linen and cotton in cream white and watery blue, and his boots were the standard issue of bardic colleges throughout the Empire. Only Kallandras would have walked, so attired, into a gathering of the ten most powerful people in the realm next to the Crowns. Across his hip, Salla lay unstrummed; she was his sword, his armor, his badge.

"This is a private meeting," The Berriliya said coolly. He recognized the master bard; they all did.

"Indeed. And I would not have interrupted, Berriliya, but I have word from the hostages that will not wait."

"They are not in a position to demand that word-any word-be carried to this Council."

"They are not in a position to demand anything," was the quiet reply. "And they know it. Or at least, most of them do."

"What is this?" The Korisamis rose also. He was dwarfed by the Berriliya, but where The Berriliya was the obvious danger, The Korisamis demanded his due in more subtle fashion. "Speak plainly, Master Kallandras of Sen-niel. We have been here four hours, and will not look kindly upon a longer stay."

"Understood, Korisamis," the bard said, and he bowed quite low. "I will be brief.

"The Tyr'agar Markaso di'Leonne-and his clan- were a.s.sa.s.sinated almost three weeks ago."

"We're aware of this."

"No man has taken up the Sun Sword; no man has claimed the Tor and its waters. We have been told that there will be no Tyr'agar until the eighth day of Lattan. But in the eyes of the Lord of the Sun, there is a Tyr'agar-the blood-anointed ruler of the Dominion of Annagar. He has sent me to you to speak on his behalf, for he claims the right of rulership."

Mirialyn turned sharply to stare at Kallandras, but Kallandras was calm, even quiet.

"As the Tyr'agar was not responsible in any way for the deaths of the Imperial hostages, he asks that you consider the act a criminal act, and not a political one-and in defense of this argument, points out the provisions for accidental death, death by force of nature, and death by criminal element among the hostages of either signatory power."

"Accidental death?" It was The Wayelyn. Tread carefully, Kallandras, Solran thought. "Your pardon, Wayelyn," the master bard said, bowing very low. "I did not mean to imply that these deaths were anything other than an act of brutality." His expression was somber, his voice neutral. No bard practiced the use of his talent in a situation of this nature.

"That's it, then." The Kalakar rose, a grim smile hardening her features. She turned to the Princess. "ACor-maris," she said, as much respect as she ever showed adorning the word, "This is not a matter for the Council of the Ten. It is a request from the head of one state to the heads of another."

"I beg to differ," The Berriliya said, to no one's surprise. "You must forgive me for speaking out of turn, Berriliya, but I must ask, how so?"

The Berriliya favored Kallandras with a grim glare. "The boy's no Tyr."

"I must, again, disagree. The rule of the Lord's grant of Dominion is quite clear, and if you are interested, I will quote at length."

"I'm not interested in the babblings of moronic religious fanatics."

"But I, Berriliya, find it of some interest indeed." The Korisamis nodded politely, but not distantly, to the master bard. "And if it will not discomfort the other members of this Council, I would hear what you have to say." He glanced around the too quiet table, looking for resistance and finding its lack in all but two faces. Neither man- Berriliya or Wayelyn-spoke.

"Very well," Kallandras said, and he shifted Salla's position slightly, playing the strings in a long, downward sweep as if she were a foreign instrument and not his beloved lute.

"We can do without the accompaniment, bard. This is not a dramatic event."

"As you will, Berriliya." But although the strings were still, the lute remained as he had placed it. "In the Southern Dominion, if you are born to a clan, it owns you unless you rule it. A slight to the clan's honor is a call to battle that ends with the destruction of one clan or the other. When the Lord of the Sun offered the Dominion of the plains to his people, he placed them above the land by giving them the use of his most treasured beast: the horse."

"Kallandras-you try our patience."

"And you, Berriliya," The Kalakar snapped, "try mine no less."

"The men of the clans understood this gift, and they accepted it, and they rode, under the banner of the Lord, to His glory, freeing the lands from those who did not believe, and would not believe, in the light of the Sun.

"There came a time when the lands were cleansed, and the clans gathered together for the first time, and their great skills turned inward-for they were warriors, with no war. Each of the clansmen felt that it was his place to rule the others, and each boasted of his skill in battle, of his victories, of his allegiance to the ways of the Lord.

"But there was one who swayed the others, for he promised the Lord dominion over the night itself." Kallandras' fingers had found the strings once again, and played them now, gently and quietly. "The Radann spoke against this, for they understood that there is balance between light and dark, life and death-that the Lady's face is necessary, if less desirable. They were driven underground or put to death publicly.

"For decades the clan that cannot be named ruled, but they ruled falsely, bringing not light into the darkness as they had promised their people, but darkness into the light. And the Lord of the Sun saw, understood, and was not pleased. The clansmen vied now for the approbation of the Lord of the Night, thinking him fair, thinking him Bright.

"But one man followed the old ways, and such was his strength that he could not be put down by mere clansmen. The Lord of the Sun came to him in a vision, and gave into his keeping the Sun Sword. 'Take this, you who of all my people have remained true. When you wield it, those who have the spark of my fire within them will come to your call, and you will lead them to victory against the darkness.'

"Ser Valens di'Leonne lifted the sword, and it seared the darkness with its fire. 'My Lord,' he said, 'I have THE BROKEN CRO WN.

fought in your name since I could wield blade. I will honor you, and in your name, I will take the Dominion. But after, will we not again stand upon the same plateau?' "And the Lord said, 'No. The clan Leonne has always proved true. The Sun Sword will be the scepter of your office. No man but the heir to Leonne will dare to lift this sword while the blood runs true. Leonne is my choice, and my choice will stand until no member of Leonne who is worthy does. Let the Sun Sword be the test and the proof that you require; let any man who dares to question my will take up the sword that will lead you to victory.'

"It pa.s.sed as the Lord decreed. And when Valens di'Leonne at last found peace in the Lady's dominion, three men sought the Tor. The first of these was not of the clan Leonne. He dared to lift the sword under the Lord's sight, and he burned; his screams were the wind in the valleys, the howl upon the mountain's peak. The second man, of the clan Leonne, held the sword; it did not burn him. But the third man-the kai-lifted the Sun Sword to a blaze of perfect light. No man, no true man, could see this and not understand the Lord's will."

The music stopped abruptly, although none there could say for certain when he had started to play. "I thank you for your indulgence. There remains one member of the clan Leonne, who by blood-right and bloodline takes the t.i.tle Tyr'agar and challenges any pretender to take the ancient test."

"He is no ruler," The Berriliya said, but his voice was quieter. "He is no ruler unless the test is taken."

"By Annagarian law of succession, he is the Tyr'agar."

"It is out of our hands," The Kalakar said again, but her expression was an odd one as she turned to face the Berriliya. "Or are you afraid? Has the Hawk lost his flight feathers?"

"No more," The Berriliya said, the same odd light in his eyes, "than the Kestrel has hers. Very well. Berriliya will abide by the decision of the Crowns."

The Korisamis was very pale. "And I pray that the Crowns tender the wise answer."

"And that answer?" Mirialyn ACormaris asked softly.

"Wisdom is not always justice, as well you know, ACormaris. I have seen war. I have seen its effects; they surround us now, and if we embark on no further conflict, we will feel the ramifications of the last Southern war for decades yet. You know, as I, how many innocents perished, and how horribly, at the hands of the Southerners. You know better than 1-than any of us save The Berriliya and The Kalakar-how many of their innocents perished at the hands of our soldiers." He lifted a hand, calling for silence as The Kalakar and The Berriliya both made to speak. "Will you plunge us into this chaos again for the sake of one life? For the sake of twenty?"

She lifted her chin; her hair gleamed as if it were bronze helm, and not braid. "Yes," she said softly, "if we had no other choice, I would. Remember: Valedan di'Leonne has thrice been under threat of death-and the a.s.sa.s.sins sent were no mortal creatures." She walked to the doors, turned, and bowed. "I will carry this new word to the Crowns."

Jewel Markess ATerafin had only twice been called to the Hall of The Ten in her fifteen years of service to The Terafin. And at neither time was it for a full Council meeting, in which the Kings, the Queens, the Lord of the Compact, the bardmaster of Senniel, the representative of the Council of the Magi, and the Holy Triumvirate were also to be present. She remembered, quite clearly, the last time that she had seen most of these people a.s.sembled in one place, and she had no desire to ever be in such a position again.

Avandar had fussed-and he was not a man so inclined-to insure that her appearance at least was excruciatingly correct. That she allowed him to do so spoke volumes to anyone who knew her; she was nervous.

The Terafin sat beside her in the horse-drawn carriage, gazing out at the waters that surrounded the isle. The road to Averalaan Aramarelas was busy, and the carriage traffic quite slow, given the early hour of the day. Both women were tired, but wore the lack of sleep as artfully as they wore the clothing that had been chosen for them by men. To either side of the carriage were three of The Terafin's Chosen; an escort of six. The Terafin was allowed six guards and two advisers when a full meeting of the Kings' Council was called. Gabriel ATerafin was the second of the two advisers that she was allowed. The circles under his eyes were dark, long, and far too obvious. Although he normally carried himself like the ATerafin that he was, his hair had grayed in the last few days, and his face had taken on the gauntness of age. Jewel knew that he wanted the Kings to refuse the young boy's transparent attempt to save his own life, although she didn't know why. All of the Chosen did.

No one spoke the words aloud after The Terafin made her will known.

"Why take me?" Jewel had asked.

"Because," The Terafin replied, "I want you to look at Valedan di'Leonne. I want you to listen to him. I want you watch as carefully as a seer has ever watched anything in her life."

"You know that I can't just-"

"I know that answers come to you at the strangest times, without rhyme or reason. If you have an answer there. I want to know it." Her face was pale. "You mentioned war, Jewel. And I think I feel its rumble."

Duarte AKalakar rode in the procession of wagons, aimed and armored although no sane man would have been either in sun as scathing as this. At his back rode Auralis, and behind Auralis, Alexis. She was in a foul mood, as was he; it was just as well that something-even someone as annoying as Auralis could be-separated them. He wasn't certain why The Kalakar had chosen Ospreys-any of them-as part of her escort; the Ospreys, sadly, were not noted for their ability to drill and present well.

What made things worse was that the mysterious Kiriel was in the carriage with The Kalakar and Verrus Korama. Verrus Vernon had been relegated to horseback. And he knew well why...

"Have you ridden before?" The Kalakar had asked.

"Yes."

"Good. You will ride on the left of the carriage with Cook and Sanderson."

She'd opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it. He should have known then. But no. Preoccupied with his ongoing argument with Alexis, he ordered a horse for her. It was a big, dress warhorse-something that looked like it could carry an armored man into battle without working up a sweat.

Admit it, he thought sourly. You chose Nightwind because the d.a.m.ned horse looks like it should have fangs. You knew she was uncomfortable. You wanted to drive it home. Teos, she makes you act like an overweening Sentrus.

It wasn't Kiriel who showed fear first.

And the fear that Nightwind showed the moment she touched his flank wasn't the hesitance or

even the friski-ness that horses are wont to show. It was primal, and worse, it was savage. Hooves with that much weight behind them weren't meant to strike ground that hard, that fast.

Neither were slender, underweight girls in too much armor.

What was the thing that he remembered most clearly from the entire incident? She didn't kill the horse.

Just that: She hadn't killed the horse.

"Kiriel," The Kalakar said, "did you know that this would happen?"

The girl was silent, although for the first time ever, Duarte saw her sweat. What was disturbing

was that the sweat was probably not from the effort of escaping the hooves, head and teeth of the stallion-she'd had longer workouts, and harder ones, in the circle. No, he felt, although he did not say it because more than just Ospreys were present, that it was due to the effort of staying her hand.

"Kiriel," The Kalakar said, "did you know that this would happen?"

The girl shook her head, sheathing her sword as she turned to face the Commander.

"Did you suspect it?"