"Who will bear witness?"

The clansmen across the plateau roared with a single breath.

"Then let it be witnessed, and let no man of honor revoke what has been in honor offered to witnesses such as these!"

The cheering was very like the roar of the wind across the open plains.

The Tyr'agnate bowed, and then, unsheathing his sword-the Garrardi sword, with its subtle curve and its obvious weight-he turned to the General Alesso di'Marente and plunged the point of the weapon into the wooden planks. There was an audible crack, and many a swordsmith flinched at the noise, although they were probably the only men there to worry about the stress upon the sword, and not the stress upon the Dominion- for by his action, the Tyr'agnate Eduardo di'Garrardi proclaimed the General his rightful liege lord.

The General stood his ground a moment, that the clansmen who were less quick of wit might have a chance to understand what had occurred. Then he gripped the haft of the sword and levered it out of the wooden platform. He strained; it was not an easy motion.

Only Sendari was close enough to see the way his eyes narrowed, and even if Eduardo had seen the slight contraction of lids he might not have understood how close he came to receiving the sword back, edge first. But Alesso's temper had long since, like all else in his life, come under his dominion; he was graceful as he returned the weapon to this, the first and now the most famous of his servants.

There were murmurs; there would be dissent. They expected no less. But the murmurs were weaker than the breeze on the plateau, and the chants of the Radann-for they had begun their interminable song, although at what exact moment he did not remember. He was pleased to find they were to prove useful for something this Festival.

They approached, three of the four par el'Sol who served the kai; the kai el'Sol was not present. Nor was he expected to be now, although he should have been witness to the resolution of the Lord's test; his place was by the waters of the Tor Leonne. The par el'Sol were granted the right and privilege of crowning the Lord's Champion- but only the kai el'Sol could give the power of rulership over the Lord's Dominion to a clansman.

"General," the Radann Peder par el'Sol said, bowing with genuine respect. "The time has come."

"Par el'Sol. Lead, in the Lord's name, and in the Lord's name, I will follow."

At the head of the procession the Radann par el'Sol walked; they wore robes of pure white, with gold borders and gold collars, each embroidered in the form of the sun ascendant with eight rays, all of perfect fire. They seemed a brotherhood of dignity and silence, although their swords had a history as long as the Garrardi sword, and names as venerable. Alesso di'Marente had never seen them drawn, but he knew their names; what clansmen did not? Five swords had been crafted for the Radann by the Lord, and if they were not as fine as the Sun Sword, they were more jealously guarded, for the Sun Sword alone had its methods of destroying the hand of one not meant to wield it.

Samadar el'Sol wore Mordagar, Samiel el'Sol, Arral and Peder el'Sol, Saval. Marakas el'Sol bore Verragar, the least of the five, and the Radann kai el'Sol, Balagar, the greatest. It was said that when these five swords were joined, no enemy of the Lord could stand against them- and it was said that when they fought alongside the Sun Sword, the Sun Sword granted them a measure of its power.

Myth and legend-folklore which had never been, would never be, proved. And what was proof to any but one Widan-trained? Something cold and hard, a weapon. And a weapon's only place in the heart was to still it.

He joined the Radann in their long, slow walk, feeling, as he followed them, the weight of the Dominion's history. This was the triumphal march, and in truth he was triumphant, but he felt out of step with the Lord's will, and it disturbed him greatly. Markaso kai di'Leonne had been, and would have continued to be, a weak Tyr; a man with more control over his harem and his serafs than he could ever exert over either his Tyrs or his enemies. He had called one war in his life, and failed to win it, losing both precious land and face in the process. No doubt he would have been forced to call another, and that, too, he would have lost.

Alesso did not intend to lose any game he played, be it war or no. But he did not have the authority of time and tradition. He did not have the blood.

What of it? He squared his shoulders, and felt the new skin pull across the breadth of his chest. Beneath armor, beneath silk, beneath things visible. It was enough. He brought his hand to the hilt of Terra Feure, and he followed the slowly growing shadows of the Radann.

The path that wound in and around the Tor Leonne took on an edge of clarity that it had never had. His shadow was sharp as he walked the winding footpath, seeing each upturned leaf, each blossoming flower, each plant that, uprooted from its desert clime, still sought to deny the sun's heat by closing its armored petals, before he realized what the flowers were: Nightblossom. Odd, to see the Lady's flowers in the citadel of the Lord, on this Festival day. He frowned, thinking that serafs would have to be found and dispatched, if serafs were indeed the ones who had chosen so poorly. If Serras, then he would tread more carefully.

The waters of the Tor Leonne opened up as the procession reached the peak of the path. The path itself had widened, and stonework, tended and kept free of the creeping plants that alone seemed to require no work, had been laid. No natural wonder here, no hidden dell or quiet recess. This was the seat of power, and in the Dominion, power did not hide.

But the face it wore was not painted and pretty; it was not overly ornate. To the east of the lake was the dwelling which the Tyr'agar claimed as his own; it was recessed into hill and surrounded by trees, but it stood, thick-beamed and pale, as the most important edifice by the lake. The roof's wind chimes caught the breeze and made of it something delicate and soothing as they danced above the treetops. Elegance and simplicity were the rules of the Tor Leonne, and they were followed nowhere so closely as here. Gold? The light of the sun was brighter. What need of color, of banner, of flag? No man could mistake this building-or the man who dwelled within it-for anything other than it was. The home of the Tyr'agar towered above all else.

But it was not to the Tor Leonne that the procession went, although it slowed in its pa.s.sage in silent respect. The edifice was, officially, empty of all but its ghosts. And ghosts held no sway beneath the height of the sun.

There was the platform by which the waters could be viewed in the dawn's light; the platform by which the moon could best be seen as its face rippled in pleasant reflection; the platform by which the waters, under the open sun, could be seen beneath the cover of trees that just-barely- obeyed the edicts of height.

The procession came to none of these, but instead followed the path to the rocky sh.o.r.e of the lake itself. There were stones here that were smooth as gla.s.s, but harder, and stones that were larger across than a p.r.o.ne horse. But there were smaller stones and beneath them sand, and the lake lapped their edges in the silence of the day.

Standing, his feet a sword's edge from the water, was a lone man. And he wore sunlight as if it were raiment, and as he turned to greet them the lake caught his reflection. Above his brow, light glittered, and behind his head; his hair was the dark brown-black of the Annagarian clans, except where light touched and streaked it. Across his chest, burning like fire, the sun ascendant; across his wrists, for as he lifted his hands, the sleeve of his robe fell away, the white tracery of fire, of the fire's test.

The Radann par el'Sol-all of them-fell to their knees at once, their movements neither graceful nor practiced. Alesso understood this because his own knees bent in reflex, as if someone had placed firm hands on either shoulder and pushed him forcefully down.

To the feet of the Radann kai el'Sol. He rose as the kai el'Sol nodded, and he approached this man, this sudden stranger.

The General was not a man who liked surprise.

From behind came the Lord's Chosen Champion, the bloodied and unbowed Eduardo di'Garrardi. At his side, taking care not to b.l.o.o.d.y the intricate, perfect dress she wore, was the Lord's Consort, the Flower of the Dominion. The Radann par el'Sol receded, for they remained on their knees as these three, the man who would be ruler and the two Chosen of the Lord, stepped forward.

In his raised hands, the kai el'Sol carried the simple crown with which the Leonne Tyrs had been proclaimed since the founding. The Northern crowns were ornate, and they were golden, and they were covered in etching and gem work and runes. This crown, this emblem was different: It was of one piece, and it was not fashioned of gold. It was made of steel, and in shape it looked exactly like a sword might had the blade been blunted and turned in on itself, in a circlet.

This was the only crown that Leonne the Founder would wear, and it had been protected from the ravages of time by the arts of Voyani long dead. It should have looked ridiculous, and perhaps to foreign eyes it did. But the clansmen were a better breed.

"General Alesso di'Marente," the Radann kai el'Sol said, his voice carrying far in the hushed silence of lapping water and stillness. "The Lord's law is law. The rulership of the Tor Leonne has pa.s.sed, kai to kai, by the bloodline that the Lord decreed.

"But where there is no living member of the line, the Radann must deliberate and decide. The Hand of the Lord holds the Sword, and it seeks no man too weak to bear the crown in these times. There is," he said, his eyes dark and unblinking, "a darker time ahead than any of us have yet seen."

Alesso's eyes narrowed as he met the Radann's flat gaze, hearing beneath the words all of the accusations that the kai el'Sol had never dared-and would never dare- to make.

Or so he had thought. Yet this man, this man was the very Radann, the wielder of Balagar, and until this moment, beneath the open sky, with the end of his long struggle balanced between two hands, he had forgotten it.

It was not his way to make such a mistake.

"The Lord's will," Alesso said softly, so softly that the words carried only to the Radann and the two who stood beside him.

"The Radann have made their decision. Step forward, Alesso par di'Marente. Step forward and receive this, the crown of Leonne. Receive it in glory, and understand the weight that it places upon you."

Alesso was not a short man, but in such ceremony- and only in this one-he was not required to kneel to receive the benediction of the Radann.

Fredero kai el'Sol bent, and with so much care the gesture seemed oddly gentle, he lowered the crown into the waters of the Tor Leonne. His lids closed over dark eyes; his brow creased. He whispered the words of the water, and then he rose.

"Step forward, General."

Alesso di'Marente took a breath and then stepped into the waters of the lake. They were cool, but not cold, as they ringed his ankles with ripples that traveled into the stillness at the heart of the water.

Water.

The kai el'Sol had to reach, but Alesso did not bow his head to accommodate the Radann; instead, he sought the sun as drops of water trickled down steel to touch his brow, his cheeks, his eyes.

This was his moment.

"Tyr'agar," the kai el'Sol said. He turned, then, and before Alesso could reply, he cried out, "The Radann have chosen General Alesso par di'Marente as their Tyr. To him, the Tyr'agnate will pledge their allegiance-and from him, receive their commands.

"From this day forward, let there be the clan Alesso, and let this man, Alesso the Founder, be known as Tyr'agar until his death. Thus, the will of the Radann!"

There was silence, and then, beneath it, a murmur.

The Tyr'agar, Alesso the Founder, turned; the sun was at his back and above his head. Clansmen, one by one, drew sword as they met his gaze; the quiet of the lake was disturbed, again and again, by the sound of metal against metal; the unsheathed sword.

The first of these clansmen was also the most powerful: Tyr'agnate Jarrani kai di'Lorenza. He stepped forward, leaving the semicircle that had made a ragged wall across the flat stones and the spa.r.s.e sh.o.r.e. His sword was Bane, dressed in ceremonial scabbard until the moment of the crowning.

"Tyr'agar," the Tyr' agnate said, and pushed the sword, point down, into a s.p.a.ce between the rocks. It was a gentle movement, one unlikely to damage either sword or pride, as different from the gesture of the Lord's Chosen Champion as the Lady from the Lord.

"Tyr'agnate," the Tyr'agar replied.

Jarrani rose and smiled. "The long road is not so harsh a road now."

Alesso's grin was fierce. "No. Your Tors?"

"They come," Jarrani said. "All but four."

The four, he would deal with later. The Tyr'agnate stood at the water's edge while the Tor'agars and Tor'agnati who owed him loyalty and service made their trek to the water's edge. To the only man not of the Lord's Radann who had the right, by law, to stand within the waters themselves. Twenty-six.

The Oertan clansmen came next; there were twenty-eight. Of the Mancorvan clansmen, he had a handful, but among those, the clan Marrani, Tor'agar, and so of import. And of Averda, he had more, but they were so close to seraf in rank they served him only by what their presence said to the others. That even the common and the lowly were less afraid of their Tors than they were of the new Tyr'agar.

As the last of the clansmen retrieved his sword and returned to the rocks, Alesso di'Marente smiled. His shadow had grown long with the pa.s.sage of time, for this ceremony was no small and trivial affair; each clansman had to meet his eyes, and see in them the power that Markaso kai di'Leonne-the last of the Leonne Tyrs- had never truly possessed.

Still, if it was triumph, it was also grueling; he wore light armor, as befit a warring clansman, and it trapped the warmth of the sun too well. The heat was lessened by the touch of the water.

And then it was taken away completely as the Radann kai el'Sol spoke again.

"The Radann," the kai el'Sol said, "have chosen." He bent, placed both hands into the waters of the Tor Leonne, and when he raised them he carried a scabbard, one rich and fine and unmistakable.

Alesso cursed him without need for words; he had waited until the ceremony's end, so that he might be certain that each and every clansman-or woman-of significance had gathered to bear witness.

The gasp of the gathered crowd was followed by the silence of held breath, of inability to draw breath. "But the Lord has not.

"Tyr'agar, will you not take up the Sun Sword, as the Lord of the Sun has decreed all Tyrs must do? Will you not let the Lord speak?"

The lilies floated upon the surface of the waters behind the shining back of the Radann kai el'Sol, theirs the only motion in the stillness. Light, pale in color, they rested always above the water, never in it, yet the two could not be separated.

Diora ceased to breathe. The lightness that came with breath's lack made her feel like a lily upon the surface of the world. The kai el'Sol had told her that he would present the Sun Sword, and she knew voices well enough to hear the truth in his words. But in her mind's eye, in the privacy of thought, she had seen the Sword brought to the lake by servitors, as it was always brought; she had seen the Sword presented, almost as afterthought, a reminder to the clansmen of the one thing that the General lacked: the blood.

Subtlety was the way of a Serra, by necessity; it was not the way of a Lambertan. Not this man. She felt fear, and tried to wrap it around herself like a shawl; tried to grip and cling to it as if it were the skirts of her mother, and she a child.

Because she stood this close to the only action that she had conceived of for every waking hour of every day since the slaughter, and she could not afford to lose all fear, because without fear, there was no caution.

And without caution...

Her hands caught the light as they trembled, and she stared at the things that bound her: three simple rings.

Silence stretched, unbroken until the Radann Peder par el'Sol stood forward. "Kai el'Sol," he said softly, "you overstep yourself. The Lord's truest test of rulership has always been the warrior's path, and it is clear to all a.s.sembled here that this Tyr'agar rules because of his strength, where the last fell because of his weakness.

"Or do you claim that the Lord's true choice was a man who died without fight or cost in a single evening's slaughter? The Radann were chosen by the Lord. Our choice is the only choice. There is no other."

But the kai el'Sol was implacable in the face of Peder's words; he met the silent death in Alesso's eyes without flinching.

"The Sun Sword," the Tyr'agnate Jarrani kai di'Lorenza said, entering a fray that could not be resolved with weapon skill, his voice loud enough to carry but somehow calm enough that he did not appear to be shouting, "is myth. It is a part of the Leonne legend, as is the crown. You'll note," he said, with a wryness that held no warmth, "the crown rests upon the General's head in far more fitting a fashion than it ever sat upon Markaso di'Leonne's.

"The Tyr'agar has chosen to play the games of the Radann; he has followed the rules that you have set. He has paid his respect to the will of the Lord-and more- by leading armies rather than cowering behind the safety of stone walls in 'worship.'

"He is not beholden to you, kai el'Sol. Both the Tyr'agar and the kai el'Sol wear the sun ascendant, in full blossom. In the Lord's eyes, you are equals; you will not order him to perform to your will."

"It is not my will," the kai el'Sol said, untouched by the open edge of the Tyr'agnate's words. "It is the Lord's will. And I note, Tyr'agnate, that the crowning, which is also part of the 'Leonne legend,' was of the utmost import to the Tyr'agar. The legend is a body, and it is alive; you cannot cleave off the arm or the leg and say that it is the same as the whole because it is flesh."

"Have I been struck down, kai el'Sol?" the newly crowned Tyr'agar asked. "Have the winds come to bear me away? I am not a child. The clansmen gathered here are not children. We are not to be frightened by the partisan politics of a fool."

"And that is your answer?"

"It is."

"The Sword is a sword; it is significant because it is a symbol of office," Jarrani kai di'Lorenza said coldly.

There was a murmur in the crowd, a mixture of approbation and disapproval, of encouragement and fear. For there were men who were of the same mind as the Lorenzan Tyr'agnate. History for such men seemed to be a thing of the past, always of the past; only things witnessed were real.

Fredero, born of Lamberto, turned to face the clansmen of Annagar for the last time. Thinking, oddly, that it would have been nice to see Mareo one more time. That it might have been nice if Jevri kep'Lamberto-Jevri el'Sol-had been of high enough rank that he might join the clansmen and be present for this last of performances; this singular bow. Or that it might have been nice to have the opportunity to apologize-yet again-for his shortness in the early hours of morning; the robes that had been wrung, bead by bead, out of the hands of the reluctant servant, had been far more than Fredero thought he could ask in so short a time.

What might it have been like, a life like Mareo's, with a wife at his side, and a kai?

And then he remembered the kai's loss, and he was still.

It is time, he told himself, but his hands shook. He was ready, but he was not ready, and he balanced upon this edge for a moment longer.

Until he met the eyes of the Serra Diora di'Marano. The Serra Diora en'Leonne. The Lord's Consort. In finery she was second only to Fredero, both of them clothed by the genius of Jevri. In strength, in determination, he thought her second to none. Almost, he bowed.

And she surprised him. Surprised them all.

Because she did bow, lowering her fan to expose her face to the kai el'Sol.

Serra Diora di'Marano had from Fredero kai el'Sol all that she required, but she was speechless. Voiceless. Such a gift as he had given her he had given freely; not even her father had ever offered so much. And her father had never been a man of the kai el'Sol's political stature.

She did not tell herself that Fredero kai el'Sol gave her this pretty act of treachery because he knew his days were numbered. It wasn't true. She could see that clearly. His convictions alone had brought him to the Radann, and his convictions held him now; they were such that she thought, had he made a different choice, he might have met the same end. No Lambertan man could escape what he was, after all.

The Lambertans had always been loyal.

Oh, she heard the murmurs. She listened to the steel beneath the very thin veneer of the Tyr'agnate's words, and she found its power persuasive. But no matter how he-or the Tyr'agar -might try to gloss over the truth, it had been made clear: that he did not dare to take the Sun Sword.

It would do him some damage.

And the words that she had practiced, in secret prayer, in fantasy, and in tearless anger, would do the rest. It would not be his death though he deserved it. But it was the damage that she, a widowed Serra, could do, and she had worked this long month for no other goal. Yet before she could speak, the kai el'Sol turned from her, to the restless crowd.

"I have served the Lord, and serve him still, in the only way I can.

"These men tell you that they will not see the Sword raised because they do not wish to play my games. I play no game. If there is a man among you who feels that my tenure as kai el'Sol has been unworthy of the Lord- unworthy of the clans-let him speak now."

The silence was unbroken, although Alesso's face was as white as the sun's full glare.

"The Lord has his laws, and they were broken once before. And in that break, the darkness found purchase in lands where the Sun's might reigns. There are reasons for the laws that he has made, and the Lord makes no exception.

"The Tyr'agar of the Dominion, by the laws of the Lord, is the man who can wield the Sun Sword. Not a man worthy of the t.i.tle Lord's Champion; not a man worthy of the t.i.tle General; not a man whose prowess in battle is unmatched or unmatchable. It is not power, not service, and not loyalty that defines this law. Do you allow your serafs to decide to serve or disobey at their own whim, and through the merits of their own wisdom?