The Radann glanced down at her, but serafs came and went, and besides, the pitcher in her hands made clear that she was to travel to the waters of the Tor Leonne, at the behest of her Serra. The kai el'Sol's permission to gather those waters, strictly and quietly granted, had been given at the gathering of the Radann who were to serve in the unusual position of guards to the Lord's Consort for the Festival.

They were meant, these Radann, to keep clansmen from entering, not to keep serafs from leaving. They did not shift position to acknowledge this serafs presence, although she knew that they were well aware of it.

She pa.s.sed two other serafs in the halls before she found her pa.s.sage to the outside; the cerdan who served her father and her aunt nodded quietly as she left. Not a single one of them paid close attention to her face.

Even so, she did not breathe easily until the stars, and not broad wooden beams, were above her head. She walked quickly to the lake, and there, the Tyran that served the General Alesso di'Marente did stop her, but they were perfunctory in their inspection-for Diora had, every night for the last four, sent Alaya to the lake to retrieve the waters. This night was no different.

Her hands did not shake as they touched the waters, although the waters were surprisingly cool. She filled the pitcher carefully and then, in her kneeling position, bowed respectfully to the Tyran. They were clansmen of note, if not merit; they would expect respect.

Carefully balancing the full pitcher, she lingered a moment to catch the soothing lap of waves against the sh.o.r.e, desiring a moment of peace, no matter how brief. Then she left the waters of the Tor Leonne behind, carrying only this small portion with her.

She did not return to the harem.

Instead, she found the long and carefully tended road that led to the gates of the Tor Leonne; the gates through which any lawful visitor must pa.s.s. In the shadows, they were still very fine, and she paused a moment as she saw the lights that glowed brightly by them.

Did she falter?

A moment, no more. If the Tyran were at their duties, she was safe; if they were not, she would make no approach.

The night was very dark.

She heard his voice before she saw him, because she knew how to listen better than she knew how to do almost anything except breathe. And sing.

The Voyani's voice she would have heard in any case, and the listening magnified it, made of it a piercing, horrible scream instead of the whimper she knew it to be. A plea for mercy. A denial of knowledge.

"You know this is not necessary," he said, his voice a blend of neutrality and distaste. "Only tell us what we wish to know, and we will leave you in peace."

We.

She froze; she knew how to stand in a silence that was almost absolute.

"Who sent you?"

"Cortano, with all due respect, I believe that I am better able to handle this interrogation."

"Lord Isladar, with all due respect, I believe that you are not within your jurisdiction."

They were of a kind; they spoke with the same precision, the same distance, the same surety of

power. She measured the silence after this short exchange by the labored breathing of their victim. Her knees bent; she knelt, slowly, the folds of her robe crinkling beneath the breaths, heavy and hoa.r.s.e, of the Voyani woman.

"You were with the Radann." Not a question. "Who sent you?"

Serra Diora di'Marano knew how to wait.

Folding her knees, bowing her perfect, ivory face, she began her vigil, praying to the Lady's

Moon for strength and guidance and an end to this-and all-torments.

"Well, Peder?"

"I don't know. I did as you instructed, and discovered her presence-but I do not know how she

was used, or at whose instructions." She heard his shrug. "I a.s.sure you," he said blandly, "that she was not present during the meetings of the Radann; Fredero is weak, but is not a fool."

A lie.

She tensed and then relaxed, fighting her reactions. She had never trusted Radann Peder par el'Sol, and she did not trust him now-but he lied to his allies, and he lied about the Radann kai el'Sol, and in that, he found some small favor.

They did not hear it.

"Well?"

"The wanderers caused us trouble once before," the man called Lord Isladar said softly. "They

were a great people once, and they had cities that make the Tor Leonne seem paltry and dim by comparison. We thought them scattered, but the Annagarian winds seem to carry the dust and debris for a very long time. Cortano, may I?"

Silence.

No, Diora thought, willing the answer.

But she knew by the time it took him to answer, what the reply would be. "Yes." There was warning in the word.

"Thank you."

She heard him step forward, and then she heard the woman scream, and every cry that she had ever heard- save only one-lost strength and meaning; from this point on, pain would be defined by a lone Voyani woman, one who was almost a stranger.

One that she had come this distance to kill. Quickly. Cleanly.

She could never have said why afterward, for it was her habit when in danger to sit perfectly, rigidly still. But this once she lifted her hands-both of them, and clutched a pendant that sat, unseen by even her own eyes, around her neck. It bit into the flesh of her palms as her fingers locked around it.

Light flared in her eyes, blinding her with its flash. But it was a light more felt than seen, and although it terrified her, it was not because she feared the exposure it would bring. She moved; felt something beneath her feet- although she knew her feet were folded under her legs- and moved forward.

Into the clearing.

There were three men there; she could see their backs as she approached. One wore the robes of the Radann's office, one the silks of an evening's disturbed leisure. And one wore black, a color darker than the night or her hair or the nightmares that had plagued her since the death of the clan Leonne. She wondered what hand had fashioned the cloth, and then wondered if it were cloth at all.

She did not wonder long; they did not see her. And she was drawn forward by a compulsion that she could not explain, and would never have ignored. The light bit her palms. Standing before the three men, she cast no shadow at all; they could not see her. And she could not look back to see their faces, for she found what she had come seeking, and it held her gaze and all of her attention.

In the savaged ruins of the woman's face, Diora could still recognize the rictus of humiliation and agony. Blood was there as punctuation, and bone where flesh had been casually gouged away. She did not think that a body could suffer so much and still cling to life.

Or be forced to it.

The Voyani woman lifted her face with effort; the collar that clung to her neck far too tightly came with it, clinking and rattling. She raised hands-a single hand- and it, too, trailed chains.

Margret, she said, although her lips did not appear to move, this is your mother's death. Understand what it is that you face. As if pushed, Diora turned-and when she saw the visage of Lord Isladar of the kin, she froze anew. For the darkness of his robes was nothing compared to the darkness that was his eyes. Beneath a face that was strangely, savagely beautiful was a chill that the wind's loudest voice could barely touch.

She had never seen a creature that was outside of the Lord's dominion before. Having seen him this once, she would not forget. And she would try, at least once, before this war was over.

This is our d.a.m.nation and our salvation. I have come to the end that the Oracle's road decreed. And the bearer of this gem has paid the price to bring it back to the Voyani. Do not let our past be forgotten; do not let your past rob us all of a future.

This is your mother's death, she said again, and Diora turned. Blessed death. Peaceful death.

Avenge it.

She reached out, the chains grew taut with the whole of the force she could muster. The three men watched in unseeing silence as the Serra Diora di'Marano lifted one hand, one free hand, and reached out, touching the fingertips of the Voyani woman with her own fingers, as if, for a moment, they stood on either side of a piece of gla.s.s.

Aye, you are the Lady's dagger, the woman said, Grant me the Lady's death.

Diora reached into the fold of her robes with her hand, with the one free hand, and pulled out the dagger that she had slid so carefully from beneath her bed. She had meant to blood it. She had meant to end both threat and torment. But as she looked at her hand, she saw that it was translucent, a ghostly image of a hand.

I did not break. They know nothing.

"What is this?" Lord Isladar said, stepping suddenly forward. "Cortano-are we watched?"

"No. There are none within the boundary save us."

The creature bent forward, and caught the woman's chin in his hands.

Diora raised the dagger, and it, too, seemed translucent, but shone with a pale light. She hesitated a moment, for the creature was now in her path, but the woman faced her, unblinking.

"There is someone. We are at risk- Lady's daughter, please-hurry. He is kinlord; if he is prepared, he will hold my spirit for the Three Days, and this will be nothing in comparison. Please. Strike.

"There is an older magic here. They have it. Hold, Cortano. I need a moment or she will escape us."

"Escape?"

"There are many avenues of escape," Lord Isladar said coolly. "Death among them. But I almost have her now."

Diora drove the dagger into the Voyani woman's open left eye. It slid through the flesh as if it had no substance; the ghost of a knife, and not the knife itself.

But the kinlord cried out for the first time in anger. His hands tightened. She could see the struggle beneath the woman's torn flesh; a struggle that eyes alone were not meant to see. And she could see that death was somehow losing. Without thought, she drew the dagger again, but this time, brought it about in an arc that drew blood from the creature's hand. Real blood.

His grip faltered for a second, for less than a second, but it was enough. He was left with empty flesh, a sh.e.l.l, devoid of the ability to offer either answers or pleasure.

Diora took a step back and froze; the clearing was gone. She sat, her hands clenched around the pendant that pulsed like a heart of light in her palms; to either side was a bush in full bloom in the darkness. Roses, she thought, or another exotic bloom. She did not dare open her palms; did not dare to release the crystal or let it fall back into the folds of her robes. Rising clumsily, she began to run with

'tJV-r her hands clasped in front of her-for she knew that he would come for her.

The last thing she had seen had been his eyes, and their gazes, for an instant, had met.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

The Radann Marakas par el'Sol was waiting for her, although she did not realize this until they collided.

The Serra Diora had not been the cause of a collision such as this since she was a child of four or five; she was stunned a moment, and before she could continue to run, he caught her wrists. Her hands were pressed into the pendant; the strength of his grip did not break the strength of hers.

She wondered if anything could; the pendant seemed a part of her flesh; she could not tell whether the pulse she felt was hers or the crystal's. It didn't matter. The presence of a man without the Lord of Night's eyes was a blessing and a comfort, even though he was a man of power.

"Radann par el'Sol." Her soft voice was completely natural.

"Serra Diora di'Marano," he replied. "It is late, and it is not seemly that a woman of the clans should be seen, alone, with a Radann of the Lord. You will forgive me, but I have taken the liberty of a.s.suring your privacy, and I believe it is best that we retire immediately."

That way.

The words came on the crest of a warm summer wind.

"As you say," she replied, but she could not stop herself from glancing over her shoulder. Moonlight silvered shadowed trees; the Tor Leonne seemed to be sleeping within the Lady's night.

He pulled her along, and after a moment, noticed how her hands were clasped. Marakas was not known for his attention to detail, either among the Radann, or among clansmen who were powerful enough to have to be wary of them. "Follow," he told her softly, releasing one wrist. "Speed is of the essence."

He did not tell her where she was going, and she did not care to argue; she could hear what he could not: the movement of the kinlord; the words of the Widan; the curses, quiet but heartfelt, of

the Radann Peder par el'Sol. And although the listening was exhausting, she could not stop.

So she listened, sparing only enough of her attention that she might walk in the Radann's wake while clutching the pendant's warm crystal in the folds of her palms. And because of this, she did not recognize where their retreat took them until she lifted her face to the wide doors that guarded the sanctuary of the Sun Sword.

The Radann Marakas par el'Sol opened them and led her in.

There were servitors within: four, each armored and armed as if for combat and not the duty of guarding a highly placed official. They were watchful, but they took a moment to pay the Lord's

Consort her due; they bowed, very low, and held that bow a fraction of a second longer than etiquette demanded. Respect. Why?