When the sedative Doctor Corrinides had given her wore off, she thought for certain that the Bhandreid had had her transported into the prison. Margaine woke to find herself in a cell without windows, and indeed no other features besides an unadorned slab of stone and the chains that ran from the wall to iron bands about her ankles.

Someone had left a single fat candle on the slab, and it was burning when she regained consciousness. By its feeble light she made out faint lines in the age-blackened walls around her, paler traces that showed the edges of the ma.s.sive blocks of granite that had built this cell. Likewise, she could discern stains on the stone near the candles, stains whose rust-brown hue she could not bring herself to closely consider. Nor did she want to think too directly about the stench of the place. The air stank of ancient must and the slow rusting of iron, giving her every breath a tang she didn't normally taste except in the deepest grip of winter.

She'd been left in the gown she last remembered wearing, and whose weight against her skin did little to ward off the chill of the place. But someone, perhaps the same someone who'd provided the candles, had placed her on a thin mattress on the floor and covered her in a woolen blanket. There was a pillow as well, a soft one, which might well have been appropriated from her very own bed.

Apparently I'm not expected to go cold and naked in this place.

But that was meager comfort at best, for Margaine heard no sounds around her in the darkness, not even the scrabbling of rats. There were no other voices that might have been prisoners raving in fright or delirium, or praying in terror to the G.o.ds whose worship had consigned them to their fate. There were no footsteps, no jangling of keys, and no orders from implacable guards. More than anything else, the silence warned her she couldn't be in the Barrows-and the cell's door gave her a stark picture indeed of where she might be instead.

The door was made of good strong oak. Even in the candle's dim light she could see that much. More disturbingly, she could see a wide swath of damage up and down the length of the door, scores and burns and what might even have been cracks. She couldn't tell for sure from across the chamber, and her chains wouldn't let her reach the door. Yet she could think of only one thing that could have launched an a.s.sault that would leave burns on such st.u.r.dy wood, and even on the stone to either side.

And it made sense-logical and terrifying sense-that the Bhandreid would now see fit to sequester her in the very cell where she and the High Priest had imprisoned the Anreulag. Margaine had no way of knowing for certain, of course. But no other conclusion presented itself in the silence and gloom of her confinement.

Nor did she have any way of marking time. She could do nothing but pace, doze on the mattress, or watch the candle grow slowly shorter as it shed globules of wax onto the stone. Eventually she had to sing or pray out loud, just for the sake of having something to listen to, and to distract herself from the greater worry that gnawed incessantly at her mind: what had they done with her baby?

When someone finally came for her, she'd grown faint with hunger and thirst. But she couldn't lose herself in sleep, for her nerves had been stretched thin, and the deep groan of the door being pushed open snapped her out of an uneasy doze.

Somewhat brighter light poured into her cell as the door came open, just enough to show her the silhouette of a woman bearing a lamp in one hand and a basket hanging from her arm. Margaine's eyes stung at the sudden influx of illumination, but she didn't need to see the figure to recognize her. Ealasaid's voice, as chill as the air around her, made her ident.i.ty clear.

"I see you're still alive, then."

That she had to blink furiously until she could see was vexing, but Margaine didn't let that stop her from replying. "As you surely must have planned, or I'd be dead already. Where am I, exactly?"

The Bhandreid came into the room, and with a frisson of dismay, Margaine noted that her sovereign didn't bother to pull the oaken door closed behind her. Not that there was much to see beyond-just a fragment of corridor, layered in gloom scarcely leavened by either the sputtering candle or the lamp. There was no one else behind Ealasaid, and the woman moved with a certain unhurried deliberation that suggested all too plainly that she expected to remain undisturbed. Deliberate, too, was the lift of her head as she stopped on the other side of the stone slab, setting the lamp and the basket on it.

"This is a cell beneath the palace catacombs, accessible via a pa.s.sageway known only to me," she coolly replied. "I trust you've had time to consider its purpose?"

"You kept Her here." There was no way Margaine could remain lying down as long as the Bhandreid was in the room-she had to maintain a modic.u.m of pride. And so she hauled herself stiffly to her feet, even as she draped the blanket around her shoulders to hold on to its meager warmth. "How did you do it? Why did you do it?" Then she had to catch herself, letting out a bitter crack of laughter at her own demands. "Though I suppose I can hardly expect you to explain yourself to me if I'm now your prisoner in the Anreulag's stead."

"In any other situation, you would be correct. I owe you exactly nothing. My priority is and always has been the safety of this nation. Yet you are the mother of my heir, and my grandson did love you. For his sake, I will give you what I was unable to grant to him-a chance to choose to sacrifice yourself willingly for the good of your land and your people."

Blanket or no blanket, Margaine grew colder. In the unsteady light Ealasaid looked even older than she had the last time the princess had seen her; her features were haggard and colorless, her gaze as dark as the shadows around them both. "The High Priest said he killed my husband for you," she said. The Bhandreid had addressed her with a disturbing lack of inflection, and so she let unfettered fury into her own voice in response. "Royal blood to bind the Voice of the G.o.ds."

It finally occurred to her what purpose the slab of stone between them had to serve-and what the stains had to be.

"Dear G.o.ds. You killed him in this very room, didn't you?"

"For all the good it did. The Anreulag has broken nearly nineteen hundred years' worth of binding on her, because the old blood magics have failed. I have given Her my own son. I have given Her my grandson. And still She runs free to unleash Her fire on the people who should adore Her as a G.o.ddess. If She is left unchecked, She will kill us all, and I have no one left to give Her but my great-granddaughter."

"You will not kill my baby!" Margaine lunged, only to stumble and then wail aloud as the chains that bound her ankles stopped her short. She could only just reach the slab, and with a snarl she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the candle, wondering wildly if she could strike Ealasaid down if she hurled it at her head.

Even then the Bhandreid's uncanny calm didn't waver. She showed no sign of irritation, much less anger, merely raising her brows as if Margaine's outrage were nothing more than the barking of a small dog. "If you throw that," she pointed out, "all you will accomplish is to ensure that you will die here alone in the dark-and possibly on fire, depending on the accuracy of your aim. And for the record, I would prefer to avoid sacrificing Padraiga. She is my only remaining heir, and were she to give her life for Adalonia, House Araeldes would fall."

The n.o.ble-blooded were not supposed to gape, and yet Margaine gaped anyway, unable to believe her ears. At last she had no choice but to set the candle down again, while laughter made raw by the threat of hysteria clawed its way free of her. "Adalonia in the hands of rulers who might not make a habit of murdering their own blood kin? Well. We certainly can't have that. Are you asking me to die in my daughter's stead, then?"

"Yes. I offer you the chance to die to save her life." Ealasaid's tone remained entirely conversational, though now, the faintest trace of curiosity finally colored her words. "You would, wouldn't you?"

Margaine stopped and simply stared at her, her horror and anger giving momentary way to an appalled comprehension. "Any mother worth the name would give her life for her child. You've done exactly the opposite. That's the point of all this, isn't it?"

"You approach understanding," the Bhandreid replied, beckoning expectantly. "Come now, work it through."

"Not just you, either. You said nineteen hundred years. That means..." Her throat went dry and her frame began to tremble, and so she clutched once more at the blanket draped around her shoulders, just to give herself an anchor for her hands. "This has been going on throughout the history of the realm. The Anreulag's always been here, so all the Bhandreids and Ebhandreids before you have been killing too. To keep Her in control." The idea wouldn't sit firmly within the confines of her thoughts; it writhed, refusing to let her keep hold of it, and Margaine wished with all her might that she could let it go. "Has it just been the rulers and the High Priests, my lady? Or are there more with blood on their hands? How many of the royal family in each generation have had to die?"

"It has been only us-the one who sits on the throne, and the one who leads the Church. For the good of the realm, we spill the blood that feeds the magic. Once a generation, once another heir has been born to carry on the line." Ealasaid lifted her chin slightly as she spoke, a gesture Margaine had come to know as a mark of the older woman's pride, and a spark of that pride flickered across her countenance now. "For the good of the souls of the realm, we accept the burden of the sin as our own and no one else's."

To this, too, Margaine had to choke out bitter laughter. "Such self-sacrifice. Am I supposed to commend you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, girl. I neither require nor want your approval, and I certainly do not seek your forgiveness."

"Good, because I do not offer it, you old harpy." Her anger was rising again, and Margaine welcomed it. If nothing else, it gave her a ghost of warmth. "You killed my husband, and now you're going to kill me, and you have the gall to come to me and claim it's for the good of the country? If I could reach you, I'd strangle you with my bare hands!"

Since the Bhandreid remained infuriatingly out of arm's reach, Margaine had to content herself with spitting at her-and even that fell short, barely grazing the edge of the stone altar between them. Nonetheless, one corner of Ealasaid's mouth curved upward for the first time, though that faint hint of pleasure didn't reach her eyes. "It's the truth, whether you like it or not."

"I'm in the royal line by marriage, not by blood. How is killing me going to help?"

"By now the Church has convened to choose the next High Priest or High Priestess. When their choice is made, their candidate will come to me. We will go back to the beginning, when the Rite of the Calling was first cast, and redo the original sacrifice that wove the magic. But we will need a willing volunteer, or else the sacrifice will be meaningless."

Margaine poised herself to spit again, or scream curses, but even as she opened her mouth the Bhandreid kept speaking, an implacable litany of the fate closing in around her with the weight of ancient granite walls. Against the a.s.sault of those words Margaine faltered, for the horror and disgust were becoming too much. "And Padraiga's only an infant," she whispered. "A baby can't agree to die of her own free will."

"Just so."

"How do I know you haven't killed her already?"

Ealasaid's expression didn't soften; it remained coldly resolute. Nor could Margaine deceive herself with the hope of compa.s.sion in her queen's eyes. She couldn't begin to imagine that a woman who spent her entire life murdering her own kin could show her compa.s.sion now. But there was understanding in the Bhandreid's eyes, and her tone grew milder as she said, "If you agree of your own free will to partic.i.p.ate in the Rite, I will let you hold your daughter one last time."

Fear clutched at Margaine's heart, and in that moment she could think of nothing but little Padraiga, growing up with neither father nor mother, and never knowing what happened to either. Ealasaid would never entrust the raising of her heir to Margaine's own kin, and so the child would have no one in the palace to call family but the Bhandreid herself. Revulsion filled her at the entire idea.

But Ealasaid had the upper hand. She had the power to hide her away in darkness, and if she'd wanted it so, Margaine would have been dead already. What could she do against the weight of centuries of bloodied, secret tradition?

I need more time.

Margaine could think of no way to get it except to stall. And so she straightened, looked her ruler in the eye and lied.

"I'll do it, but not here, not in darkness, away from the eyes of the G.o.ds and of the people. If you want me to lay down my life for the realm, the realm must know. My daughter must know. Not only what happened to me, but to her father as well."

The older woman blinked, with enough visible surprise that her gray brows rose, and a note of intrigued interest livened her voice. "What gives you the conception that you have the power to negotiate?"

Good. I've surprised her. She would have to seize the opportunity and run with it. "Think of it, my lady. From what you've told me, these are the options I see before you. If you do nothing, history will remember you as the Bhandreid whose reign saw the Voice of the G.o.ds turn against the people. If you sacrifice me in secret and the magic fails, the same is true. The people have already seen the Anreulag's wrath-they know that the G.o.ds themselves must be angry. Even as we advance into an age of industry and reason, at our core we are still a people who fear the rage of the G.o.ds."

"If the sacrifice succeeds," Ealasaid retorted, "the problem will be rendered moot."

"But the people will still remember. And until the day you die, any little thing that goes awry in the realm will haunt you. If they go hungry, if plague strikes or if war threatens our borders, they'll wonder if it's because we angered the G.o.ds again. They'll live in fear that the Anreulag's fire will strike them and their loved ones down. And they'll ask each other why you never did anything about it."

Tilting her head, the Bhandreid considered her. "You make a compelling argument. What do you propose?"

At any other time, at any other place, Margaine might have taken joy in securing her sovereign's praise; the Margaine of five years past or even three would have been elated. The Margaine of now, however, didn't dare think of anything past the need to live for another hour, and the chance to hold her daughter once more. "Let the first act of the new High Priest or Priestess be to oversee my sacrifice in St. Merrodrie's Cathedral. Let there be song and prayer and candles in the hands of the faithful, so that even if the Voice of the G.o.ds no longer chooses to speak to us, the G.o.ds will hear our own voices lifted to them. And let the people honor not only me, but all those who've fallen since the Night of Fire."

"And if I were to tell you that you clearly wish to die a public martyr?" Ealasaid's gaze turned sharper, more challenging. "What would you tell me then?"

"I'd tell you I simply want my daughter to remember me well," Margaine replied, offering a sardonic little smile. "Wouldn't you want your children to do the same-if you had any left?"

If her barb struck home, Ealasaid offered no sign of it. Instead she simply stared back for a long moment, before finally inclining her head and reaching into the basket. From it she withdrew a pistol, a heavy thing of bra.s.s and silver, one of the new sort of which Margaine had read broadsheet reports-the sort that could fire multiple shots. It was oddly beautiful in the candlelight, more graceful of design than she had thought a gun could be, and the Bhandreid bore it as if long familiar with its shape and weight. With her other hand she pulled forth an iron key, which she tossed to Margaine. "I accept your terms. Free yourself with that, and then I'll escort you back to your chambers. If we are to put on a public spectacle for the people, you must be made ready."

Somehow Margaine couldn't be surprised that the basket had contained a weapon, though it frankly astonished her that the Bhandreid had brought a key. You could hardly have expected a loaf of fresh bread or a bottle of wine, she chided herself, even as she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the key and crouched down to find where it fit the shackles about her ankles. "Was the gun necessary? One might be led to believe that you don't trust me to come with you quietly."

"One would be correct. Yet you will do exactly that, or I'll shoot you where you stand. You'll still die, and your name will be stricken from the rolls of the House. Your daughter will know you only as a traitor to the realm and to the G.o.ds. If you wish to press your luck, though, by all means, do so." Now at last, as she lifted the gun, Ealasaid did smile. "But I a.s.sure you, girl, that I am an excellent shot. And this gun has been specifically crafted to never miss."

Chapter Fourteen.

Outside Dolmerrath, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 10, AC 1876 Kestar didn't linger in the tent as Faanshi healed the Hawk prisoners. For one thing, it reminded him uncomfortably of how much it had hurt to feel that magic working deep within his own flesh, at least until the pain finally vanished. For another, he saw no virtue in staying to aggravate the already inflamed tempers of his former comrades. He had faith that Faanshi would be able to soothe them-the girl who'd chased off the Anreulag twice now would have no problem with that, especially once their wounds no longer troubled them.

But what sent him out into the open air most of all was seeing a scowling Gerren precede him. There was no mystery as to why-the steward of Dolmerrath had even more reason than he did to avoid the tempers of nine traumatized Hawks.

There was a mystery, though, that needed answering.

He found Gerren not far from the tent's entrance, staring fixedly at the activity of the camp around them. Men and women moved briskly in all directions, though some of those were youths and maidens not yet old enough to wed. Some were Tantiu, which was no surprise with a Tantiu-born d.u.c.h.ess as their leader. But all of them were human, and it didn't surprise Kestar much to see Gerren regarding them all as if they'd turn on him at any moment.

"What do you want, Kestar Vaa.r.s.en?"

It didn't surprise him either that the elf heard him coming-or perhaps smelled him. The Order had always taught its cadets of the acuity of elven senses, though he'd had no opportunities before coming to Dolmerrath to see those senses employed to any purpose but avoiding capture. The elf didn't bother to turn to face him, and there was a flat dullness to his voice now, a resignation that Kestar hadn't heard in his speech before.

"First of all," he ventured, "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about your brother."

Gerren offered no reply, at least not at first, and for a moment all Kestar could do was watch his slim frame stiffen in reaction. Then, in a short, sharp twist, his head came partly around toward him. Many Hawk legends spoke of elves' ears twitching; Kestar saw no such thing now. But he was willing to gamble that the steward could hear him breathing, and perhaps everyone else in the tent behind them. "Thank you," Gerren said finally, two hoa.r.s.e syllables, nothing more.

"I didn't know him well. But he came to Arlitham Abbey because Faanshi asked him to, and he showed us how to keep out of each other's heads. We might have driven ourselves insane if not for his help." The words tumbled a little faster out of Kestar than he intended, but he let them flow nonetheless. There was no sense in hiding his nervousness. "And he fought beside us when the duke and his men came in and called the Anreulag down on us. He came to Shalridan to help set me free. I understand what I owe him. So as I said... I'm sorry."

The elf said nothing as he spoke, and only when he finished did Gerren finally nod, a milder gesture this time. "Do you have a brother?"

"No, though Celoren's close enough, and I know how I'd grieve if I lost him."

That, at last, convinced Gerren to look at him directly. "I suppose I should take some consolation in how in this, at least, your kind and mine have something in common-mourning those we love. But I have the feeling this wasn't all you wished to say to me."

"You'd be right. I couldn't help noticing how our visitor back there, the one who took exception to being called a deific mouthpiece, kept looking my way." Reaction flared in Gerren's face, though he didn't yet speak, and Kestar pressed on, "She said something. 'Dalrannen's heir.' What did that mean to you?"

Gerren stared at him for a long moment, and then at last blew out a long, soft breath. "It means that if the Anreulag is who I think She is, there's another thing about your tie to my people that you need to know. But I'm not going to talk about it here, not where any human ears could hear. We will hold council in Dolmerrath-after we attend to those we've lost."

Dolmerrath, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 10 and 11, AC 1876 Most of Dolmerrath's people had escaped in the boats, and of those who'd remained behind, many were now dead. As night fell, those who'd survived the attacks finished gathering the bodies from the battlefield. Some washed the fallen and wrapped them in clean linen; others built pyres on the open ground between the caves and the northern edge of the woods. Gerren himself laid his brother Kirinil on the final pyre, and once he'd done that, a pale-faced Tembriel cast a molten stare at the wood that bore Kirinil's lifeless form. The wood began to burn, and at the first sparks other scouts followed Tembriel's example, doing with torches what she'd done with her magic. There was nothing left of her brother Jannyn to burn-but Tembriel built him a pyre anyway, writing his name as well as her memories of her sibling on sc.r.a.ps of paper to burn instead. No one gainsaid her, and indeed, the surviving scouts brought her sc.r.a.ps of their own to cast into the flames in Jannyn's name.

Voices rose with the lighting of the flames, first one and then another, layer after layer of somber harmony, in words Kestar didn't need to understand to identify as a lament for the deceased. With Celoren, he did his part to help with the building of the pyres, but once that was done, it seemed proper to hang back and let those who'd lived in Dolmerrath longer sing out their sadness. Humans and elves alike sang, sometimes weaving fragments of Adalonic into the Elvish, for not all of the warriors Dolmerrath had sent to fight had been of the blood of the elves. Even the d.u.c.h.ess Khamsin and her cohorts, Sister Sother and Father Grenham, came to bear respectful witness. The priest and the priestess, once they were known to worship the Allmother rather than the Four G.o.ds, were welcomed among Dolmerrath's human populace so that they might offer Nirrivan final rites for the dead and give solace to those who still lived.

Faanshi stood as far away from the pyres as she could get, anguish etching lines into her features, and Kestar supposed that the presence of so much death had to be a cloud upon her healer's heart. Even she, however, began to murmur a rhyme in honor of the dead-and with surprise, he recognized what she uttered as her ridah prayers. The guardsman Semai and the d.u.c.h.ess Khamsin joined her, echoing in Tantiu what she proclaimed in Adalonic, as all three called upon the Crone of Night to guide the souls of the dead to their next lives to come.

The vigils, prayers and songs lasted long into the night, and only when the sky was beginning to lighten with the approaching dawn did Tembriel make one last pa.s.s along the pyres. Each one flared blue-white at her pa.s.sing, one last burst of radiance before the flames died away into ash.

When she was done Gerren pa.s.sed the word for all to gather for council, including the d.u.c.h.ess Khamsin's party, for Dolmerrath stood open now. They won't be staying, Kestar thought as they gathered in the central cavern. Much of the place had been damaged by the Anreulag's attack. They'd had to clear fallen rubble out of several of the pa.s.sageways, and had evacuated the remaining horses from the stable cavern. Some of those who hadn't been busy attending the fallen had worked to recover supplies out of what parts of the stronghold could still be reached, though an entire section of Dolmerrath had collapsed, blocking off access to caverns where they'd been growing food.

Then he shocked himself as he realized that they were in truth we, for he was as much of Dolmerrath now as anywhere else-though that wasn't saying much, for he was still unsure of whether the surviving elves would want him to remain among them.

"There aren't many of us left now," Gerren said, speaking up so that his voice could carry to all. "The Mother of Stars willing, those of our people who fled on the boats will find safety somewhere across the waters-perhaps in Vreyland if they make it that far, or in some other country as of yet untouched by the Bhandreid's hand. Three dozen of us remain, and I must warn you all now that we cannot stay here. The Wards have fallen. Faanshi's powers are great, and she did give the Wards one last burst of life to save our lives in turn. But she has not had the training to restore the protections to the state they were in before. Even if she did, many of the pa.s.sages and caves are destroyed, and I cannot guarantee the stability of what remains.

"But if we leave this place, we walk into the very heart of war. The army of Nirrivy seeks to retake its ancestral homeland, and by their actions, the Anreulag once more walks the land. But for the first time in decades, we also have hope. Nirrivy of old was the ally of our people, and if we choose to ally ourselves with the sons and daughters of the Nirrivans we once knew, we may well strike killing blows against those who made slaves of us.

"Even the threat of the Anreulag may once and for all be lifted from our people. Most of us have known her only as the Voice of the G.o.ds, the bringer of death and fire. But our healer Alarrah, along with Faanshi, Kestar Vaa.r.s.en and Celoren Valleford, heard her speak in our own language in Arlitham Abbey. And yesterday we heard her say things that have never been heard by living elven ears-that she has, like us, been enslaved. She spoke the name of the Amatharinor, the Moonwise, they who were the greatest mages to serve in Astllerame before the fall of our own land. And when she laid eyes on Kestar Vaa.r.s.en, she called him Dalrannen's heir." Half the elves in the cavern cried out as one, and to silence them, Gerren lifted his hand and called out more loudly still, "Please, my friends, let me finish. I've read what books survive Starhame's destruction, along with the destruction of every other settlement our people ever established in this country. And I can draw only one conclusion, that the Anreulag is not only one of us, she was in fact the most infamous of the Moonwise. Marwyth. The Black Sun."

He paused, his face gravely set, while shouts once more broke out around him. The voices blurred together in Kestar's ears, and all the faces around him ceased to make sense to his sight. The world itself suddenly made far less sense-and at the same time, it made a far more terrible sense than he could have imagined.

The Anreulag is an elf.

Kestar's mind almost refused to accept it. The sheer idea was beyond folly. Any priest or priestess of the Four G.o.ds would have called it the worst kind of heresy, and sentenced anyone who uttered it to execution if they didn't recant. Even now, it slammed into his psyche like cannon fire-until without warning, everything and everyone around him vanished. Behind his eyes, he saw instead the Anreulag, surrounded by a corona of power. But he could barely recognize her, for she was not the bone-pale wraith who'd appeared in Arlitham Abbey. Her hair was purest white gold, undimmed by any hint of silver. Her face was the same, and yet fundamentally different-and only with a sharp jolt did he realize it was because her features were unlined, unmarked by care and deprivation, and at the root of it all, younger. Unfamiliar, too, was the feral smile that slashed across that younger visage, and the untrammeled joy with which she hurled fireb.a.l.l.s at Kestar- No. Not at him. His inner sight shifted again, and Kestar had a brief fleeting glimpse of a dark-haired, green-eyed elf. Not as like him as Riniel Radmynn, though something in the shape of his jaw and the way he carried himself marked him as nonetheless familiar. As the fireball streaked toward him he snapped a sword up into a defensive position-a sword that blazed in the presence of the magic, and cast the fire aside- Then, with one final jolt, Kestar saw the central cave of Dolmerrath once more. "Dalrannen fought her, didn't he?" he said. His premonitions had always shown him the future before, never the past-why was it changing now? Continued proximity to the elves, or some other cause? His voice felt rough in his throat, and yet every face turned to him, many of the elves in outright dismay, and even Celoren and the two a.s.sa.s.sins looked at him as though seeing a stranger. Only his mother and Faanshi seemed somehow unsurprised, though that was no particular comfort. "Riniel Radmynn is descended from him. I'm descended from him."

"But who then was the An-Marwyth?" Faanshi spoke in the anxious and slightly embarra.s.sed tones that always colored her questions. Kestar had seen enough of her thoughts to know how her lack of knowledge of the world troubled her, and he resolved to take her aside at some point and answer any question she might choose to ask-but for now he was grateful she'd spoken, for that question was haunting him too.

"She's a name most of our people know only in tales to tell naughty children," said Tembriel. "Especially mage children, if they show their powers early enough."

"The most powerful of the Moonwise, the youngest, and the most arrogant," added Alarrah, who gave Gerren what would have been a wry nod if not for the weary sadness in her face. "You may be the custodian of our people's history, beloved, but I've read those books too."

Gerren didn't quite smile even as he inclined his head in acknowledgement. He considered Faanshi and Kestar as well as the rest of the humans in the room. "Your ancestors had scarcely begun to form tribes when Marwyth was in the height of her power, and you hadn't found us yet when her love of the strength magic gave her led her to decide that she and she alone should rule Astllerame. That she would cast down the rest of the Moonwise, disband the Council of Winds, and claim the Starlight Throne for herself. She was more powerful than the rest of the Moonwise combined, and so they carried out one final, desperate act against her. They poured all their power into the forging of the sword Amathilaen, which they entrusted to the prince Janlec Dalrannen."

"Who clearly didn't actually kill her," Julian said, dark eyebrows raised. "So how did what I presume is the inevitable battle between them go?"

"Badly. They did nearly kill each other, and almost destroyed the city in the process, while the army of Queen Nivarre guided the people in fleeing out of their path. When the fighting died down at last, there was no sign of Marwyth. There was only the prince, burned and bleeding in the center of the wreckage. He had just enough life left in him to cling to the hilt of Moonshadow, and his hand would not release it. And so they took prince and sword alike to his bed, to let him bear the blade until he recovered. They searched the width and breadth of Elisiya for any sign of his foe, but she had utterly vanished. Thus, when Janlec opened his eyes again and could stand before the people, they made him king. And that was the last our people saw of Marwyth-or at least, the elf we knew by that name. None of us recognized her when the human tribes began to report the coming of the Anreulag among them, a generation later. We don't know who or what caught her-but it was in those first days that the Four G.o.ds began to gain their power. I can only conclude that somehow, humans figured out how to control her when we could not. With magic born of blood."

Ganniwer called out, "I thank you for the history lesson, steward, on behalf of those of us who were not in a position to know and understand. But what precisely does this mean in the here and now for my son?"

His arms crossed, his mouth curled, Nine-fingered Rab looked from the baroness to Kestar and back again. "Target practice, I expect," he drawled, and then blinked when Julian shot him a quelling look. "What? We're all thinking it. We all saw it. The Anreulag, or Marwyth or whatever her name is, was h.e.l.l-bent on blowing a hole through Kestar. The rest of us would simply have been icing on a particularly well-burned cake. Perhaps she wants another round."

Like Julian, Faanshi glowered at Rab. But she offered the younger a.s.sa.s.sin no rebuke, and instead turned a worried regard back to Kestar. "She did say I was standing between her and you."

"I was there, Faanshi, I did hear her." With so many eyes upon him, Kestar had the discomfiting feeling he was blushing; his face felt hot. But there was nothing to be done except keep as steady a gaze as possible on Gerren, and remind himself to not strangle Rab later. To Gerren, then, he added, "So I'm descended from Janlec Dalrannen-so what? Why does the Anreulag care? It's not as if I have the sword-"

Then he remembered what his great-grandmother Darlana had said upon her deathbed. Finish what Riniel started. Save his people. They're your people too. All at once her words became part of a larger, terrible pattern, one that had begun to take shape from the moment his premonitions had sent him in search of Faanshi. "But she doesn't know that. And just before she died, my great-grandmother told me the sword was the only thing that can kill her. Is that true?"

Gerren nodded. "So the histories say the Moonwise had decided, and as Amathilaen was forged for Prince Janlec alone, its strength cannot be wielded by any but one of his blood. If Marwyth is aware of you now, she has most likely decided to eliminate you before you become a threat."

"So to keep Kestar alive, we need the sword," Celoren said. "Which Dolmerrath doesn't have either, or else we wouldn't be having this discussion now. Where is it?"

Kestar's heart sank as he realized that his aged kinswoman had answered that too. "Darlana thought it was in the palace. Probably hidden where no one could ever find it."

"It would be logical," Gerren agreed. "When Darlana was taken from us, that was the last time any of us saw Moonshadow. Riniel was wielding it when he died, and the Anreulag destroyed him. The Hawks must surely have captured it and surrendered it to the Church for safekeeping."

"And Marwyth doesn't know what they've done with it, or else she would have it, or would have destroyed it." Faanshi's voice remained quiet, far graver than usual, with a dire kind of understanding in her eyes. "They wouldn't have let her have it. The master doesn't give weapons to the slave."