"Good." Sendari's smile was humorless. "Tell me."

"The Council of the Five was called."

"The Hand of G.o.d?"

"Yes, Widan."

"And?"

"The Radann have either discovered, and neutralized, the foci that we had placed in the Chamber of the Five, or-or one of the Widan was with them, and cast the spell of private speech."

It was clear, from the look on Alberto's face, that he thought the latter the more likely possibility of the two, and that he found it troubling. Sendari was inclined to trust the younger man's judgment in such matters, although he asked for justification of that opinion as a matter of course. "Why do you say this?"

"Because I heard them speaking-although they may have been outside of the periphery of the chamber when they began to do so-and then I heard nothing. Absolutely nothing. No breath, no rustle of cloth, no slapping of the table, no clink of cup. Nothing."

"There was no hint of what they might have been discussing?"

"No, Widan. I pressed the power. I am-fatigued." He looked wan now; pale, as if the mission to disclose his secret had been his only source of color. "I did not press too hard."

"Could you have breached the barrier?" Alberto frowned, and when he spoke, he spoke slowly. He was, of all things, a modest man, and he was uncomfortable speaking about his power. It was why so many of the Widan had pa.s.sed him over-they confused weak demeanor with inability. "I -I believe so. But I did not wish to alert the Radann. Perhaps they chose to be cautious in this discussion, where they have not been in any of their other private sessions. I did not wish to fuel their suspicions by announcing my presence."

Sendari frowned and then nodded. "Very well. Did you get a sense of the power that we may be facing?"

"Not a good one, no. It is... easier to listen than it is to shield."

"I am aware of that, Alberto."

The younger man flushed. Sendari immediately regretted the words, and the irritation they conveyed. Alberto was difficult enough to put at ease. "Yes, Widan. Whoever cast that spell ceased before the Radann were finished; I caught half-sentences that stopped abruptly. Then there was noise. Movement."

"I see. The servitors?"

Alberto shook his head. "I haven't had a chance to speak with them, or to have them spoken with. I called you immediately. I thought-I thought you would want to know."

"And I do," Sendari said, smoothing all strain from the words. "You did well. I will begin my own investigation along the sharpest edge of the Sword. If the mage who cast that spell was Widan, and among the Widan here, we may be in some... difficulty. If he was not, well." The Widan smiled grimly. "The Widan have dealt with rogue magery before."

He set down his cup, aware that it was now empty, although he did not remember the slow savoring of a very fine wine that should accompany such an emptiness. "Alerting us to the fact before the Festival may well save us from overlooking an enemy that cannot be safely overlooked."

Every word was true; every word was meant.

He watched as a momentary color returned to Alberto di'Ecclenses' face, thinking that he and Teresa were not so different. That truth was only another mask, even if it was the best fit, the closest to skin and all that lay beneath. He saw the younger man's pride as if from a great distance; he rose with grace, nodded, and left the Inner Chamber, making his way into sunlight, heat-the world of the Tor Leonne. There were people; clansmen of note surrounded by the cerdan, Tyran or Toran who served them. There were serafs carrying water, fruits, and fans with beautiful ease. The clans-both those that ruled the Tor and those that visited it-allowed only their best to publicly display their brands upon these grounds. There was color; flags and banners, their sharp clap in the breeze a reminder that the Lord's dominion held the winds.

And the winds were howling; he could hear them; they grew louder with each step he took. He could not silence their voices; could not submerge, forever, his response to their mocking words.

The walk across the Tor Leonne was long and ugly; each sight was an intrusion upon the privacy that necessity demanded he make. The mood was upon his face; he saw its reflection in the hurried movements of serafs and cerdan as they averted their gaze or turned, too quickly, to the tasks that suddenly seemed to absorb the whole of their attention. Sunlight slid off the surface of gold, the darkness of rubies. He announced his presence, and his t.i.tle, without speaking a word; indeed, without the desire for such an announcement.

But he could not stop, could not school his face; there were names upon his lips, and if he spoke them at all, their syllables would reverberate across the waters of the Tor. And one of those names, spoken thus, would destroy him. How long had it been? How long, since his anger had been so clear, so complete?

Not since he had been a young man. Not since the day she had died, in the arms of the sister that he could not-quite-hate, but could never forgive.

He followed the path around the building, noticing only that it was thin and long. Later, perhaps, he would appreciate the sight of the Tor Leonne at summer's height. Perhaps not. The blend of sky and tree and flower flowed past him as if they were shadows cast by the Lord's face; they had no color of their own, no smell, no texture in which the eyes might delight.

There.

Pulling his robes around him, he stopped and bowed, perfunctorily, before the closed screens that bore his mark and his name. And then, without speaking a word to the seraf-or the wife-who waited, he entered into the heart of the illusion of privacy that was his home.

Radann Peder par el'Sol waited in silence on the mats of General Alesso di'Marente's waiting platform. His knees were beneath him, his hands, palm down, upon his lap. He wore a sword; the Radann were, by the Lord's law, allowed the grace of a weapon anywhere in the Tor Leonne, and not even the Tyr'agar himself would have insulted the Lord's service, or the Lord's Chosen, by breaking that edict. This side of the Festival of the Sun, the General chose to do likewise. The servitors waited outside, in the heat of the afternoon sun. They, too, bore arms, but they bore them as guards and escorts; they were allowed into the presence of the General only if they chose to set those arms aside-or if the Radann they accompanied so ordered.

Radann Peder par el' Sol did not desire the company of servitors; no man was better aware of how easily their loyalty could be bought or broken. He left them, and they were content to remain, in the open air. Wise men avoided the counsel of the powerful when the question of power itself had become so unsettled.

The General rarely kept Peder waiting, although it was his wont to annoy the kai el'Sol, much to Peder's private amus.e.m.e.nt. Fredero was not an easy man to like, as his arrogance was mingled with that least enjoyable of traits: self-righteousness. Although each of the Radann had taken the oaths which bound them to the Lord, birth and blood could not easily be forced into a seamless whole, and Fredero kai el'Sol proved himself, time and again, to be Lambertan. In all but loyalty.

If not for the interference of Samadar, Peder was almost certain that Fredero would have destroyed himself, and quite possibly the Radann, by confronting the a.s.sa.s.sins of the Leonne clan directly. Almost certain. Never underestimate your opponents. Years, Peder had labored within the confines of the Church, honing the skills necessary to be seen as-to be-a leader. He could wield a sword with an ease and skill that was almost unearthly, could ride and handle beasts better than the raiding clansmen, could speak deftly without that cloying hint of subservience that often marred the speech of diplomats. He considered himself as able a judge of character as all but Samadar.

And he, like any n.o.ble-born, loathed the evidence of mistaken judgment.

The seraf returned to the room that was serene in its simplicity, joined Peder on the mats a moment, and bowed her perfect forehead into their smooth, jade-green surface, her hair an artful cascade across downturned shoulders. Then she rose, silent, and with a gesture bid Peder follow. He did, thinking that Alesso had a perfect eye for grace and beauty-that he did not need a wife to choose these things for him.

The screens were pulled wide as he approached the largest room in the grand structure which had served the Tyr'agar's informal needs since the founding of the Tor. It was empty, or almost empty; Alesso used the Tyran, although they served him in an unofficial capacity-as volunteers, Peder thought, with a certain cynical amus.e.m.e.nt-until the Festival rites. There were cushions here, and a deep recess in the floor which, although empty, could be filled with water at an hour's notice. The support beams were decorated with the colors of the Lord, but even these seemed too small for the room. Or the man.

He stopped at the mats, knelt in a purely perfunctory way, and then left the seraf to her duties, as he turned to his.

"General Alesso," he said.

"Radann." The General's smile was slightly sharp. "I expected word earlier."

"Indeed," Peder said, taking the edge off his shrug with the faintest of apologetic smiles. "But the Hand of the Lord was to meet today, and while the matter was raised, it was one of many to be discussed and resolved. The kai el'Sol said you spoke of the matter as a 'thing of minor consequence'; he felt that the meeting of the Five could continue to its natural conclusion before word was sent."

"And he did not choose to carry that word himself?" Before the Radann could frame a reply, Alesso smiled. "Good, I tire of the man. Come, Peder. You are fortunate to find me here; 1 have business which will shortly demand my attention, but for the moment, I will take the peace that is offered. Join me."

The Radann acceded gracefully to the General's request.

"A question, Alesso."

"Ask it."

"Why the Serra Diora di'Marano? It is not the first time that she has been in so public a view, and it will remind the clans of that previous occasion, under a different lord."

"Bold, Peder." But the General's tone conveyed no displeasure. He waved, and two serafs appeared from the sides of the room, walking in perfect unison to the screens-the large screens -that shielded this room from the world. "The kai el'Sol did not object to the choice?"

"He objected only to the manner of its presentation, as you must have expected." The Radann watched as sunlight haloed the room's west-facing wall, open now to catch a glimpse of the Tor Leonne's quiet surroundings.

"He is used to a power that he will never again enjoy," Alesso said, lifting a hand to catch the goblet that appeared in the hands of an older seraf.

"And will the Radann, under your rule, never be of consequence in the Dominion again?"

"The Radann," the General replied smoothly, "as we agreed, will not be under my rule. They will be yours; you will be kai el'Sol. Whether you lead them wisely to power or foolishly to insignificance will be your decision."

Peder said nothing; the General expected no reply. They drank the water the serafs brought in silence. Then the younger man smiled.

"Alesso," he said, "I notice that you did not answer the question."

"How refreshingly observant."

"Sarcasm is unnecessary. If you do not wish to answer the question, I will abide by the decision. However, I have a request to make."

"Make it."

"That you refrain from further debasing the authority of the kai el'Sol. After the Festival you will be free to do as we have discussed. I do not need to remind you," he added, in a tone of voice that made it clear he was about to, "that we cannot afford to have the kai el'Sol pitted against us for this Festival. That two of the Tyr'agnati have refused the call to the Tor Leonne is bad; that the Sun Sword itself cannot be drawn is worse. Do not add a kai that speaks against the man who will wear the crown to that list."

"It is five days from the Festival."

"It is three days to the Festival; five to Festival's Height." Peder knew that Alesso knew the difference; knew as well that to the General the only moment of consequence was the moment in which the dedication of a new Tyr could take place: Festival's Height, the day during which the Lord's grip over his earthly dominion was strongest.

"As we've discussed, a month from the Festival under these circ.u.mstances would not be enough to obtain the Lord's favor and ascertain his earthly choice. This kai's death is not an option if you wish the legitimacy of his- of my-office." Peder smiled coolly. "After the Festival, it no longer matters."

"I see." Alesso di'Marente emptied his cup; his jaw was slightly clenched. A bad sign.

Peder braced himself for the cool tone that conveyed the greatest anger. This once, he braced in vain.

'Tyr'agnate Jarrani kai di'Lorenza came to me yesterday or the day before. He'd heard her," the General continued, his eyes unblinking, "singing. He said he would see no other, be they even Lorenzan, take the t.i.tle of Lady of the Festival.

"Tyr'agnate Eduardo di'Garrardi was present. He seemed pleased by the choice, and concurred. I do not know the girl well, although she is the favored daughter of my oldest friend. But if she can cast such a spell over the two men whose support I most need..." he shrugged. "It costs me little enough to honor their choice, and it pleases them both." He smiled, and the smile added a subtle menace to the lines of his expression. "Now. Tell me. The meeting."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

There were always secrets.

Between father and son, husband and wife, brothers, sisters-there were secrets and they were kept for their own precious reasons. Hatred was a secret. Power, if it was subtle, and especially if it was wielded by a woman. Anger was a secret, although sometimes in keeping it one broke other vows. Vows. Love.

Memory. .

Do you see that, Na 'dio ?

Yes. Yes, she said, gazing intently at the light that the spider web caught and reflected. Wondering at the fineness of the woven thing, the splendor of the delicate trap.

No. Closer. There.

She'd looked, following the slender fingers of her aunt's perfect hands. A small fly was caught, and as it struggled, the weave stuck and clung, and the web began to shake, a foreshadowing of the death that was to follow.

Can we save if.

Whyl If the fly is freed, it will be caught and crushed by the serafs; better that its death serves some purpose.

But it's not a clean death, Diora had said.

The Serra Teresa was silent a moment, and it was the silence of a teacher who thinks a lesson is about to be learned. No death is a clean death, Diora. But if you will, you may try.

Dior watched the web a moment, and then left her aunt. When she returned, she bore a small, sharp dagger.

And she came late. During her search, the spider had been drawn to its victim by struggles that the web made futile, and the fly was already coc.o.o.ned in something far less forgiving than the single strand that had caught it. Diora watched the spider solemnly; watched it feed.

Well!

It's too late.

Yes. But if you'd like, you may destroy them both. The fly will feel no pain, and the spider will perish for destroying something that you have decided is worthy of saving.

She'd raised her youthful hand, her shaking hand, as if the dagger's edge could crush the web and its occupants and the drama that unfolded there as they watched. And then she lowered her hand.

It is not so easy as that, Serra Teresa said. Because the web is beautiful, and because the spider has no other life, no other means of living.

And the lesson?

What lesson?

Serra Diora di'Marano stood at the foot of the steps that led to the Sun Sword. The sun's height had cleared the skylight, but the Sword still glittered. It would, she knew, in the darkest of nights; the only thing that guttered its fire was either of the sheaths that lay before it. At her back, the Marano Toran stood. They were two, and they wore the full dress uniform of Adano's personal guard. Serra Teresa had given them leave to follow the Serra Diora-and because they had been a.s.signed to Serra Teresa by the clan's kai, the Toran had no choice but to obey. Yet they did not seem to mind following the commands, gently worded and implacable, of a woman.

"Serra," one of the Toran said, and she turned, folding into a deep bow as she met the gaze of Tyr'agnate Eduardo di'Garrardi. It was a chance meeting of eyes; she lowered her face and let fall the veils about her cheeks, but not before he had seen-could see-her naked face, the adornment of blush rising in either cheek.

He smiled; his face, exposed, was far easier to read than hers had been. "Serra," he said, as her Toran moved to stand between them.

"Please, Tyr'agnate," she said, again lowering her face, "forgive me. I did not realize how the sands had run."

The pleasure in his smile was unfeigned; she recognized him, and although he expected it, he was flattered at the acknowledgment. "And I," he replied, "did not realize that the clansman who kept me waiting was neither unwelcome, nor a man. You have given no offense, indeed, the opposite.

Are you interested in history?"

"I am the daughter of a Widan," she said, and then she folded her hands before her and said nothing, as if the reply itself were too bold, too inappropriate.

"You are the daughter of Widan Sendari par di'Marano. I know you, Serra. I have seen you many times, each at a distance greater than I care for."

She took a step back as he took a step forward; her Toran did not follow. Instead of shifting position they changed their posture; two right hands moved, simultaneously, to the hilts of sheathed swords. The gesture made their meaning as clear as the Lord's law allowed; it was forbidden to draw swords in this chamber. This room, as her father's study in so many of his dwellings, had no screens; it had two doors, fine and old, and was made of wood and stone and magic.

Diora did not think she could live in a world where doors and walls such as these were more common than screens and light and air. They seemed so heavy, life had to be escorted in; it would never find purchase without a guardian.

"Ah," the Tyr'agnate said, "forgive me. I mean no insult to the Serra."

The Toran did not speak; it was not their place. Nor did they move.

"I heard," he said, "that you sang in the presence of the Tyr'agnate Jerrani kai di'Lorenza. I would be honored, Serra Diora, if you would consent to sing for me."