Summer King, Winter
      Fool
             Lisa Goldstein



               A 3S digital back-up edition v1.0
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                      Contents
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  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK
  Tor books by Lisa Goldstein
  The Red Magician
  Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon
  Summer King, Winter Fool

  “Her first straight-no-chaser heroic fantasy… shot
through with witty irony. With its clear, spare style and
knowing reversals, Summer King, Winter Fool is a
fantasy that uses its exotic setting to universalize a
poignant examination of the follies of the human heart.”
  —Interzone

  “There are a lot of elements that make this special and
    set it apart from the pack. There is a rightness to the tale,
    a sense of justice, balance, and order… the structure as a
    whole is believable and works like a charm in practice.”
       —Locus

       This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events
    portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance
    to real people or events is purely coincidental.
       summer king, winter fool Copyright © 1994 by Lisa
    Goldstein
       All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
    this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
       Cover art by Kevin Johnson
       A Tor book
       Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
       Fifth Avenue
       New York, N.Y.
       Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty
    Associates, Inc.
       ISBN: 0-812-53503-0
       Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-
       First edition: May
       First mass market edition: June
       Printed in the United States of America



                        To Doug, once again



             Summer King, Winter Fool


                                 One
                                                                    ^»
On a cold winter night in Ettara, two figures strode toward the
palace. A loud wind blew, and the torches of first one and then the
other flared into brightness, casting their faces into light and
shadow.
   One of the men was tall, with brown hair and slate-gray eyes.
But the other was taller, his hair and eyes nearly black. Their
cloaks coursed behind them in the rough wind. The lighted windows
of the palace shone before them; they pulled their cloaks closer and
hurried on.
  They passed Sbona’s fountain, a statue of the goddess creating
the waters with her tears. Wind gusted through the yard and sent
an icy spray of water over them. The torches guttered and nearly
went out.
  “Cold,” Valemar said to his cousin. “They say this is the coldest
winter anyone can remember.”
  Narrion said nothing. The wind blew his long black hair behind
him, and he paused to fit his half-mask over his head.
  Valemar did the same. His silver mask gleamed in the dim light.
  “Listen,” Narrion said. His tone was low, conspiratorial, though
there was no one in the courtyard to overhear him. “I have some
business to attend to tonight. You can come with me or not, as you
choose. But don’t ask questions, and don’t hinder me.”
  “When have I ever hindered you? You’ve always done as you
pleased.”
 But Narrion had hurried on ahead. What business? Val thought.
He saw his cousin knock at the outer palace door and go inside.
  The door closed as Val came up to it. He knocked, and the porter
opened the small spy-hole. “Who is it?” the porter asked.
  “I—” Val said, his mind still on Narrion. What business?
   The porter began to close the spy-hole. “It’s Valemar, of the house
of the willow tree,” Val said.
  The outer palace door opened. A fire burned in the grate in the
entrance room and candles lit the walls; compared to the chill
outside the palace seemed almost hot.
  Valemar handed his cloak and torch to the porter and went into
the banquet room. A page came to escort him and his cousin to
their places. Valemar sat and looked around at the other guests,
searching for Tamra and not finding her anywhere. She had told
him she would be at the banquet. Perhaps she had come in a clever
disguise, but he felt certain he could recognize her from her mouth
and figure alone.
   The half-masks hid the eyes and foreheads of all the guests but,
as always, Val could make fair guesses at who they were from their
position in the room. The king’s half-brothers and half-sisters sat on
the raised dais, two each on either side of the carved chair reserved
for Gobro IV. At one of the lower tables Val saw the King’s Pen and
at another the King’s Axe; he looked around for the King’s Coin and
found him at the far end of the hall, nearly opposite the king. The
treasurer had refused to grant more money to the private purse and
was still suffering Gobro’s displeasure.
   The broad-shouldered man near the front of the hall had to be
Andosto, said by some to be the grandson of the god
Callabrion—said in whispers, because his grandparents were still
alive. He sat next to Riel, talking to her in a low voice. Appropriate,
Val thought, because Riel, a former lover of the king, was herself
rumored to be the daughter of the god Scathiel. Her beauty, at any
rate, was legendary; even men who had never met her composed
sonnets to it. On her other side sat her husband, newly ennobled by
the king in gratitude for his wife’s favors. He looked startled and
confused and delighted; the gold ring of his knighthood reflected
back to the candlelight.
  Now Val could see three or four of the king’s old lovers scattered
throughout the room. And in the shadows at the far corners sat a
few cripples and beggars; it was the king’s custom to welcome the
Wandering God in all weathers and not just at the changing of the
seasons.
  Trumpets sounded. Conversation stopped as the herald
announced the king: “Gobro IV, King of Etrara and the Southern
Marches, Ruler of Udriel and Astrion, Master of the Seas and the
Son of Sbona.” The king was a short plump man, addicted to sweets
made of vanilla and ginger; folks whispered that his hands were
always sticky. His clothes and mask were gold and black and white,
the royal colors.
  “Look where he comes, the Ascending God,” Narrion said as the
king climbed heavily to the dais. A few folks at the table laughed;
Gobro was not popular with either the nobility or the people.
   The trumpets sounded again and a train of knights came into the
room, carrying several dishes. One of the knights tasted the meal
and then set the dishes before the king. Gobro nodded, and at that
signal pages began to pass through the room with trays of food.
  A page set a dish of oysters covered with sauce in front of Val,
then moved on to set another dish before Narrion. Val took a bite; it
was too sweet, as were all the dishes served by the king. Near him
he heard someone talking about King Tariel III and his legendary
banquets. Tariel, Gobro’s father, had died five years before; Val had
been seventeen then and too young to be called to court.
  The pages returned and poured the wine. Val sipped at his and
recognized with surprise a vintage from the inland country of Shai.
Narrion nodded in approval and held out his glass for more.
   The candles burned low, casting a golden light on the lords and
ladies at the tables, on the rich tapestries of the Seven Virtues and
Seven Vices lining the walls. Jewels winked and glittered in the
darkness at the edges of the room. Silks changed color in the soft
light.
  The sound of a drum reverberated through the room, and
trumpets answered. A troupe of actors danced into the banquet hall
and climbed to the stage behind the dais. The guests applauded, and
a few people at Val’s table murmured in approval. “He’s learned
something, has old King Gobro,” Narrion said. “This banquet might
not be as tedious as I thought.”
  “Quiet,” Val said. He was applauding too, but for a different
reason: he had seen Tamra among the actors. She stood serenely on
stage, her reddish gold hair framing her face; he thought he could
almost see the blue eyes he had once compared to the sea in a
poem.
  He would like to have acted with her but of course that was
impossible; twenty years ago King Tariel had passed an edict
making it illegal for men to act in plays. Having to pretend to be
someone else, Tariel had said, robbed men of their dignity.
  The men and women on the dais turned their chairs to face the
stage. The Prologue, a tall woman dressed in a man’s breeches and
tunic, came forward to set the scene: it would be a play of mistaken
identities and a king forced into exile.
  “Daring, aren’t they?” Narrion whispered beside him. Val nodded.
The actors were indeed taking a chance by presenting this
particular play; the king did not like to be reminded of the dangers
that     beset     his     throne.      One     of     the     king’s
brothers—Arion?—applauded a little too loudly at the end of the
Prologue’s speech.
  Tamra and another actor came forward. Tamra began to speak,
but at that moment six women in black rags stepped to the stage
and began to dance.
  At first they seemed to be part of the play. Then Val felt rather
than saw Narrion grow alert beside him, heard gasps and
exclamations from around the banqueting hall. The women turned
as they danced, showing their hoods of badger skin to the audience.
The Maegrim. Someone’s fortune was about to change.
   The women danced faster. Now Val saw seven people where
before he had seen six. The king sank back in his chair, looking
pale. He had reached the pinnacle of his fortune; if the Maegrim
had come for him his fall from the ladder was assured. He glanced
nervously at the four dukes and duchesses. Arion seemed eager,
Mariel shocked, Callia apprehensive; Talenor had no expression at
all on his face.
   The Maegrim sank to the stage. One of them took out her bundle
of flat conjuring sticks and threw one down. “Winter!” she called,
meaning that the stick had shown a winter face.
   Val wondered which face the stick had shown; he would have to
ask Tamra about it later. Tamra stood just behind the Maegrim on
the stage, frozen by their nearness. Had the conjurers come for
her? She had high birth, beauty, wealth; if her fortune changed she,
like the king, could only fall from the ladder.
  “Summer!” the Maegra called.
  The king groaned aloud.
   “Summer!” the Maegra said again. She stood heavily. Had she
finished? Two summer casts in a winter month was an ill omen
indeed.
  Another stick fell from her hand. She stood unmoving, still as a
statue. Tamra walked forward tentatively and looked at the stick
on the stage. She said something in a low voice, and then, realizing
that no one had heard her, she repeated it: “Winter!”
  The king sank back in his chair. Two summer casts and two
winter ones. The Maegra gathered up her sticks and she and the
other women left the stage. Val turned to Narrion. “Four casts,” he
said, whispering.
  Narrion nodded. “I never heard of a cast that wasn’t an odd
number. Always three or five—sometimes seven, like the Maegrim
themselves, but never four.”
  “Maybe that last one was an accident.”
  “Don’t say that too loudly,” Narrion said. He was whispering as
well. “The king doesn’t want to hear ill omens. If anyone asks you
saw four casts, just like everyone else. I wonder what they were.”
  “We’ll ask Tamra after the banquet,” Val said.


But later, when everyone had gathered in the Duchess Sbarra’s
room, Val did not see Tamra anywhere. Sbarra was the wife of
Duke Talenor, a beautiful and witty woman whose hospitality was
legendary. King Gobro retired early and woke late, and after he
had gone to bed the nobles and courtiers met in her apartments. No
one knew if the king was aware of this arrangement or not, but the
thought that he might not be, that the true business of the court
was decided without him, added spice to the gatherings.
  The people who met in Sbarra’s room had another bond as well:
most of them thought the reign of King Gobro would be a short one.
King Tariel had fathered five illegitimate children on five different
women, and when he had died suddenly, of a fall from a horse, he
had not had time to designate an heir. After months of rancorous
argument among the five siblings they had compromised on Gobro
as the next king. His brothers and sisters thought him stupid and
ineffectual, and no doubt one or two of them had agreed to him for
precisely that reason; he would be easy to overthrow.
   Gobro responded to his election as everyone thought he would.
He behaved modestly for the first few months of his reign,
deferring to his brothers and sisters in everything. Gradually,
though, he realized he had real power. He bought fabulous suits of
clothing and arranged lavish entertainments. He took women to his
bed nearly every night, and when he grew tired of them he
showered them and their husbands with land, money and titles,
until the King’s Pen complained that there was no land left to give,
and the King’s Coin told him most of the money was gone from the
treasury, and the nobles complained that he was cheapening their
titles.
  “Really, Arion, you shouldn’t have applauded so loudly at the
Prologue,” Duchess Mariel said. “Our brother has ways of showing
his displeasure.”
  “What do I care?” Arion said. “After tonight his fall from the
ladder is assured.”
  “Do you think so?” Sbarra asked. She sat in a high-backed chair
under a tapestry depicting the battle of Arbono. Her poet sat in a
smaller chair at her feet.
  “Of course. You saw the Maegrim.”
  “The Maegrim could have come for any of us in the room,” Sbarra
said. “For you or me, or even for Narrion here.”
  Everyone laughed. Narrion had been singled out because he
seemed proof against Sbarra’s charm; his silence at her gatherings
had become the stuff of gossip. Val was certain his cousin had his
own plans, his own designs, that he used Sbarra’s gatherings as a
place to collect the information he needed to act.
  Suddenly he remembered that Narrion had said he had business
that night. Should he go with him?
  “What were the casts?” Duchess Mariel asked. “Did anyone see
them?”
  “The actors did,” Val said.
  “And where are they?” Sbarra said. “Carousing across the river,
no doubt. The king must have rewarded them handsomely—they
did well to continue the play after the Maegrim left.”
  “What could Gobro have given them?” Callia asked. “The King’s
Coin has a tight hold on the purse strings.”
 “Did you see the poor man?—sent to the outer reaches of exile. It
must have taken him hours just to get his first course.”
  “Ah, but no doubt he had a wonderful conversation with the
Wandering God,” Arion said, meaning the beggars King Gobro sat
at the ends of the banqueting hall.
  “The King’s Coin isn’t here either,” Sbarra said. “I suppose my
influence must be waning.”
  A chorus of voices protested. At that moment the door opened and
Tamra and her companions entered. “You do know your cues,”
someone said. “Your names were mentioned just a minute ago.”
   “Favorably, I hope,” Tamra said. She and the other actors were
still in their costumes; she wore a green satin dress with the
flowering skirts fashionable a generation ago.
  “That depends,” Mariel said. “We wanted to know what the casts
were.”
  “Everyone’s been asking me that,” Tamra said. “And I always
wanted to be famous for my beauty.”
  A dozen courteous flatteries rose to Val’s mind in an instant. He
opened his mouth to speak, remembered just in time that Sbarra,
as their hostess, should be praised before anyone else. Tamra
should not have been so tactless.
  “Don’t worry, my dear—your beauty is legendary,” Sbarra said
gently, and the awkward moment passed.
  “The casts,” Tamra said. “Let’s see. The first one was winter,
wasn’t it?” She closed her eyes to better call up the conjuring sticks;
she seemed to be enjoying the attention. “The Sun Obscured by
Clouds. And the two summer casts were the Tree in Flower, and
the Running Brook.”
  For the first time Val wondered if the casts had been intended for
him, if the Maegrim had come to announce that his fortune was
about to change. And what did it mean if they had? His family
could trace their ancestors back twenty generations, to the reign of
Ellara the Good, but at present they were not high in the king’s
favor. He could rise on the ladder, then. He touched the charm at
his throat for luck.
  The room around him had grown silent. “And the fourth cast?”
Sbarra asked.
  “You know, I don’t remember,” Tamra said. “I was terrified—I
didn’t even know if she’d meant to drop that stick, or if I should be
announcing it… It was a winter cast, I remember that.”
  A few people looked dissatisfied. “We should go, Tamra,” the
woman who had played the Prologue said. “They’re waiting for us
across the river.”
  Tamra stood and smoothed the skirts of her costume. “That’s
true, they are,” she said. “Good fortune.”
  Several people called for her to stay. She walked to the door and
turned to face the gathering, brushing back her red hair.. Her hand
touched the earring Val had given her. It was a gesture as old as
the court itself; he rose from his seat and followed her.
  As he went he saw Narrion frown. Val knew that Narrion paid
court to Tamra as well, and he smiled to think that for this one
evening, at least, she had favored him over his cousin. He went
with the actors into the hall and closed the door behind them.
  “I thank you for the sonnet,” Tamra said.
  “Ah,” he said. “How did you know it was mine?”
   “You asked everyone I know for the names of my favorite
flowers. Hardly discreet, Val, especially when you included those
flowers in your rhyme.”
  “Ah,” he said again, pleased. He had wanted her to know the
poem was his, and she knew he had wanted it; the court game had
been played out to the end. “Did you like it?”
  But Tamra seemed to be thinking of something else. “Listen,” she
said suddenly. “I have to tell you something. But you must swear
never to repeat it to anyone, on the honor of your house.”
  “Of course.”
  “Do you remember that last cast, the one I said was winter? It
was a summer cast, just like the two before it.”
  “Three summer and one winter, in a winter month?”
  “Aye. A terrible omen. I doubt the king will last the year.”
   What did she expect him to do with this knowledge? He could
give it to Narrion, of course, but Narrion would use it for his own
ends, and lately Val had come to suspect that those ends included
the overthrow of King Gobro. And what would happen then? Val
had come to adulthood during the long and peaceful reign of Tariel
III, and he feared the chaos of civil war.
  But she had sworn him to silence, he remembered The choice was
not his to make, all the gods be thanked. “Good fortune, Val!” she
said. She kissed him and hurried down the corridor with the other
actors.
   He watched her go, reluctant to return to Sbarra’s rooms. She
seemed to have more life within her than all the rest of the court
combined; for a moment he felt tempted to go with her across the
river. Could she save him? Could she rescue him from the tedium
and hypocrisy of the court?
  He shook his head. No, not her, and not any of the women whose
favors he had sought in the past few years: they were, if anything,
more frivolous than he was. Perhaps he should leave the warmth of
the court, see what the great world around him had to offer.
  He laughed at his fancies. Sign on for a voyage across the great
ocean to Astrion or Udriel, perhaps, or fight in a border war against
the Shai! No, it was best to stay with what he knew, to remain at
court and be himself.
  Narrion looked up as he came into Sbarra’s room. An old man
was speaking, someone Val didn’t know. He wore a long unadorned
tunic in a style that had been popular among the nobility five or six
years ago, and his breeches were nearly worn through at the knees.
  If he hadn’t seen him at Sbarra’s gathering Val would have taken
the man for one of Gobro’s beggars. But who was he? King Gobro
raised or lowered those around him almost at his whim, but Val
thought he knew all the players at court, both those who stood high
in the king’s favor and those who had fallen.
  “Two summer casts and two winter ones could mean balance,”
the old man said. “Stability.”
   “Or stagnation,” Lord Varra, the King’s Pen, said. “No one falls
from the ladder, but no one rises either.”
  “Would that be such a bad thing?” Duke Talenor asked. The
candle flames glinted on his newfangled spectacles as he looked up.
  Everyone stared at him in surprise. Like Narrion he almost never
spoke at Sbarra’s gatherings, but unlike Narrion he was not
resented for it. Everyone knew that he spent his days studying old
strange books, musty volumes of philosophy, and that he barely
seemed to notice anything that happened outside his library. It had
taken a philosophical question to rouse him from his musings.
  “Of course,” Duchess Callia said. Her golden hair—unusual
among the darker folk of Etrara—caught the light as she spoke.
“The world exists only because of change. Without it summer would
never succeed winter—the crops would die.”
  “But if stagnation meant that Gobro’s reign was long and filled
with peace?” the old man asked.
  “And cold,” Sbarra’s poet said, shivering. “It does sometimes seem
as if this winter will never end.”
  “Gobro’s reign is peaceful only by accident,” Callia said. “He has
no idea what he’s doing.”
  “But we need wars,” Arion said suddenly, ignoring the last few
speakers. “How else would we prove our bravery, our skill at arms?
How else can we gain honor?”
  “Is honor so important, then?”
  The talk turned to the Virtues. The old man interrupted Arion’s
defense of honor and valor to champion love as the chief Virtue.
Duchess Sbarra spoke up for loyalty. “Loyalty!” Mariel said,
laughing.
  Val yawned. It seemed to him that he had heard this discussion
hundreds of times before. “Listen,” Narrion whispered to him. “This
is tedious. Let’s go—you can help me with the business I spoke of.”
   Val nodded. What could Narrion’s business be? He had heard
rumors that his cousin belonged to the Society of Fools, a group of
men and women who used the early winter months to spread
misrule as a reminder of the cold about to come. But winter had
nearly ended; in a month the summer god Callabrion would ascend
to the heavens and wed the goddess Sbona, and the days would
begin to lengthen. Val had heard nothing about the Society of Fools
for months.
  They murmured excuses and moved toward the door. Val heard
laughter behind them; probably someone had speculated that they
were going to look for Tamra. “Love!” the old man shouted as they
stepped into the corridor. “Love is the only Virtue!”
   Val felt his interest grow as he walked through the palace with
his cousin. He had desired excitement, adventure; it was almost as
if the gods had heard him and granted his wish. They stopped at
the porter’s room and retrieved their cloaks and torches, lit the
torches from the fire in the entrance room and went outside.
   The wind had died down during their stay in the palace. The air
was cold and sharp as crystal. Val stretched his arms and felt its
clearness suffuse him; he knew at once that he belonged here,
hurrying down Palace Hill toward the city, and not in the stuffy
rooms of the palace, discussing Virtues long dead.
   The full moon was up and gazing benevolently over the glittering
gold and white city, its light picking out arches and turrets, towers
and gateways. From the hill Val could see past the city to Darra
River, its changing surface reflecting back the unchanging light
from the moon. Beyond the river the lower city lay shrouded in
darkness.
   Bells pealed out from the tall clock tower at the university. He
and Narrion made their way down the hill, passing the great
manors of the nobility. Three or four ladders leaned against each of
the houses, their rungs plaited with ribbons and bells and ivy.
Narrion turned at the theater and again at the university, and
finally came out on the Street of Stones.
  “Dotards!” Narrion said. “When will they do something useful?”
  “As well expect fish to fly,” Val said. “They’re ornaments, jewels
on the fingers of the king. Does Gobro ask his rings for advice?”
  “He might do better if he did. We’re headed for ruin as long as
that man leads us.”
  “Ruin? We’ve lived in peace for five long years. And which of that
pack of his brothers or sisters would you raise if you could? No, it’s
far better to let Gobro remain king. The chaos of King Galin’s time
could come again if he fell from the ladder.”
  “King’s Man,” Narrion said. It was an old insult.
  Val shrugged. “It suits me to live under Gobro’s rule.”
  “Suits you! It suits you to write poems to every beauty at court,
never lifting your nose from the paper you write on. Great things
are about to happen, and you—you’ll never notice them unless they
interfere with your pleasures.”
  “What great things?”
  Narrion paused, seemed to weigh what he was about to say.
“What if you could rise by Gobro’s fall?” he asked.
  “I won’t speak treason, Narrion,” Val said quietly.
  They were coming to the river, and the Darra Bridge. What did
Narrion have planned for this night? “Where are we going?” Val
asked.
  “The lower city,” Narrion said.
  They crossed the bridge into the lower city. The air changed as
they went; it smelled of rot here, of too many people living in too
small a space.
  Almost immediately they passed a criminal in a hanging iron
cage. The man’s hair and beard had grown to nearly cover his face,
and there was a pile of excrement beneath his cage. “Some food,
please, my fine lords?” he said. “Some food, good sirs?”
  Val and Narrion went past him. The caged criminals relied on the
kindness of their neighbors to stay alive: if they had been
unpopular, or if they had committed a particularly horrible crime,
they could not hope to get fed. They would die, and their bodies
could remain caged for weeks as a warning, until the watch decided
to take them down.
  “I stole a crust of bread for my child,” the man in the cage called
after them. “That was my only crime, to keep my child from
hunger. Please, my kind lords!”
  Val knew that couldn’t be true. Still, he cursed himself for not
remembering to bring food for the criminals. He wondered what the
man had done.
  Darkened taverns and gaming houses edged the street The
wooden ladders of the Ascending God were here too, sometimes
dozens of them, leaning against the sides of the buildings. After the
Feast of the Ascending God, when Callabrion had arrived safety in
heaven, the ladders would come down; the children of the city
would add them to the bonfires lit on every street.
  Val started to whistle. Narrion turned, frowning. “You’ll rouse all
the dogs within miles,” he said.
  In answer Val began to sing. “She told me she would love me,
forever and a day,” he sang. “But then one day in winter, she said
she could not stay.” It was a cheery tune, despite the subject
   Narrion moved on ahead. A man stepped from the gloom between
two buildings and came toward them. Val stopped his singing.
Narrion put his hand on his sword and edged past the man. Val
walked closer to his cousin, his hand to his own sword, then turned
to watch as the man made his way unsteadily down the street.
  At last Narrion stopped at a tavern and then, seeming to come to
a decision, opened the door. Val saw a wedge of light, heard
laughter and a quoted line of poetry. Narrion shouldered his way
into the room.
  Val followed, standing by the door and studying the crowd. He
could see none of the noblemen and women who usually frequented
the taverns, and he wondered again what business Narrion had
among these people of the lower rungs.
  His cousin was studying the people too. He called to a man across
the room and the man broke off his conversation and hurried over.
Then he bent his head toward Narrion’s and said something Val
couldn’t hear.
  Narrion returned. “He’s not here,” he said.
  “Who?” Val asked.
  Narrion seemed not to hear him. They went outside and into
another tavern, and then left that one too. The wind had returned;
rags and bits of paper gusted down the street. Val was growing
weary. Why had he agreed to come?
   A well-dressed young man appeared out of the darkness. “Good
fortune to you, my lord,” the man said. “I wonder if you could direct
me to the Street of Roses.”
  “The Street of Roses?” Val said “Go back across the bridge and
turn right at the university—”
   “I met a young woman there once. She had been jostled by the
crowd—she dropped her purse, and I helped her pick it up. She
looked at me in gratitude. Her eyes were light brown, like leaves in
the fall—Do you know the way to the Street of Roses?”
  Val turned away abruptly. He had met several of the ghosts that
walked the streets of Etrara; he should have been prepared, should
have looked to see if the man’s irises shone silver in the darkness.
  He looked back to see the young man accost someone else. The
ghost’s memories were still bound up with the sight of the woman
on the Street of Roses, Val knew, and he was condemned to repeat
his question until he finally forgot her. And what would my
memories be? Val thought. Court banquets and sonnets? Have I
ever loved anyone as that ghost loves a woman he barely knew?
  Narrion had gone on ahead while he had stood there like a fool,
having a witless discussion with a phantom. He could barely see his
cousin’s torch. He hurried up to him, intending to tell the other
man what had happened. They should rid the city of its plague of
ghosts, he thought, irritated. That’s something for Arion to do
during Gobro’s peace. There’s honor enough.
  Someone called from a window overhanging the street; Val
stepped aside quickly as a woman emptied a chamber pot.
Somewhere a dog barked. Narrion went into one of the gaming
houses down the street and Val followed.
  Narrion was already deep in conversation when Val entered. He
yawned. This business of Narrion’s was as tedious as court
philosophy. He longed to be home, out of the cold.
  He stepped toward the gaming tables. The sight of the flat
conjuring sticks being used as counters made him uneasy for a
moment, but then he spied an actor friend of Tamra’s and went
over to talk to her. The men and women turned toward him for his
wager. “A gold sovereign on a summer cast,” he said, taking the
coin from his purse.
  Loud voices came from the other side of the room. Val turned
quickly. Lord Carrow, the King’s Coin, stood up from one of the
gaming boards, his hands brushing his fur-lined cloak. “Look what
you’ve done, you stupid oaf!” he said to Narrion.
   “Play the sovereign for me,” Val said to Tamra’s friend, dropping
his counters. “If it wins give the money to Tamra.” He moved to
join his cousin, his hand ready at the hilt of his sword. “Good
fortune!” the woman called.
   The King’s Coin was surrounded by a group of finely dressed men
and women, all of them standing in his defense. He was a fat,
dignified-looking man, his fingers nearly covered by heavy golden
rings signifying his holdings. His hand dropped to his sword, then
moved upward to stroke the chain of office at his throat. His rings
glittered in the candlelight.
  “Are you picking a quarrel with me?” Narrion said, his dark eyes
shining. He sounded amused.
  “I?” Lord Carrow said. “It was you who spilled your ale over me,
and deliberately too. I’ll teach you to respect those who stand
higher than you on the ladder.”
  “Will you?” Narrion said. “What makes you think you stand high
on the ladder? The king showed his displeasure with you at the
banquet tonight, and that was only the beginning. I’m surprised
you think you can walk freely in the king’s city.”
  One of the men around Carrow was looking at Narrion curiously.
After a moment Val recognized him; he was Lord Damath, the
treasurer’s friend. There had been some court gossip about Damath,
but Val could not remember what it was. “I saw you the other day,”
Damath said to Narrion. “At the apothecary’s, I think—”
  “Where I go is my own business,” the King’s Coin said,
interrupting him.
  “Is it?” Narrion said softly. “Your behavior has gone beyond mere
insolence, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if the king had you
executed for treason.”
  Carrow’s hand fell to his sword again. His wife grasped his arm,
restraining him, then bent close to whisper in his ear. Val could
hear the words “Maegrim” and “fortune.”
  “No,” Carrow said angrily, shaking off her hand. “I won’t leave
this—this puppy unchallenged. Do you call me a traitor?”
  “Yes.”
   It was Carrow Narrion had been searching for, Val realized.
What could his cousin want? Narrion was one of the best men with
a sword in all of Etrara; if he fought with Carrow, a much older
man, he would almost certainly win. Did he think the king wanted
his treasurer dead? Or had Gobro himself given orders for the
execution of the King’s Coin? But surely Narrion would not cast his
lot with Gobro; his cousin had never spoken well of the king.
  The owner of the gaming house hurried over to them and elbowed
his way through the crowd. “If you’re going to duel, then do it
outside,” he said.
  “Ah,” Narrion said, looking at the King’s Coin. His expression
was unreadable. “And are we going to duel?”
  “Of course,” Carrow said.
   Somehow news of the fight spread through the gaming house;
folks were already jostling each other to make a path for Narrion
and Carrow as they moved toward the door. Others left the boards
and tables, their wagers uncompleted, to follow the men outside. By
the time Val made it to the street the crowd had cleared a space for
the two men.
  Carrow attacked first. Several people cried out, and someone
near Val offered a wager of ten to one for Narrion. Narrion stood
his ground and parried the other man’s thrust easily. Carrow
lunged forward again. Val realized that Narrion planned to tire the
man out before he went on the offensive, that he was playing with
him.
  Carrow raised his sword awkwardly, his breath coming in short
gasps. Narrion had barely moved except to raise his sword and
brush his long black hair out of his eyes. There was a cruel smile on
his lips that Val had never seen before.
   Suddenly Lord Damath, the treasurer’s friend, drew his sword.
Val touched the charm at his throat and drew his own sword.
Narrion motioned him back. At the same time Damath took the
offensive, forcing Narrion down the street with driving blows. The
treasurer dropped back to catch his breath.
   Narrion returned blow for blow. His sword rang like a bell in the
cold air. For a long moment Damath did nothing but defend
himself, and Val wondered if he was like so many gallants in the
city who depended on one or two tricks to frighten their opponents
away. Sweat coursed down Damath’s cheeks. He began to counter
Narrion’s thrusts, but his moves seemed sluggish, uninspired, as if
he had lost heart.
  His expression changed suddenly; he looked withdrawn, almost
unearthly. Narrion’s sword protruded from his chest. The final
stroke had been so fast that Val hadn’t even seen it. Someone
screamed; a few people backed away.
   Narrion held on to the sword as Damath fell to the street, then
pulled it from the other man’s chest. He wiped it on the man’s
clothing and grinned up at the circle of people surrounding him.
  Before any of them could react he sheathed the sword and
grabbed Val by his arm. “Quickly!” he said. For a horrible moment
Val thought he could smell the blood on his cousin’s sword.
   They ran south down the Street of Stones, farther into the lower
city. Two or three of Lord Carrow’s friends called after them,
perhaps only now beginning to understand what had happened. Val
heard footsteps behind them and put on speed.
   Past more taverns, more hanging cages. The footsteps dropped
back. The moon had gone behind a cloud and the city ahead of them
looked deserted; for a moment it seemed a ruin long dead. Then the
face of the moon reappeared and by its light Val could see the city
wall ahead of him. A gate in the wall stood open.
                              Two
                                                           «^»
Narrion hurried through the gate and Val followed. He had rarely
been out of the city, and had never left by this way, through the
Gate of Stones. “Where are we going?” he asked.
  “South,” Narrion said. He had slowed but was still moving
quickly; in a few minutes they had put the seven-gated city behind
them.
  “Why?”
   Narrion turned impatiently. “Do you know who it was we just
killed?”
  “Lord Damath. Carrow’s friend.” It was only after he had given
his answer that Val realized Narrion had said “we.”
  “King Gobro once took Damath’s wife as his mistress,” Narrion
said. Val nodded; that had been the court gossip he had forgotten.
“What do you think the king’s thoughts will be when he finds
Damath dead? People will start whispering that Gobro hired us to
do it. No husband would willingly let his wife sleep with the king
again.”
  “The king will look for someone to blame,” Val said.
  Narrion nodded. “He can’t let it be said that he kills
husbands—he’s noted for rewarding them with money and land.
We’re the ones who killed him. We’re the ones who should be
punished.”
  “I didn’t kill anyone.”
  “Do you think that matters? You drew your sword in front of
witnesses. You’ll be charged along with me.”
  The path before them narrowed. Something bulked in front of
them; as they came closer Val saw a forest, a great dense stand of
trees. “We’re leaving Etrara,” he said. “We’re going into exile.”
  Narrion nodded again.
  Val stopped. “This was the business you had tonight,” he said
bitterly.
 “No. No—my errand had nothing to do with Damath. I didn’t
mean to kill him.”
  “Should I believe that? Very well, I’ll believe you. But I’m certain
you planned something as dangerous, as deceitful. You spoke
treason earlier—”
  “I said nothing—”
   “You said I could rise by Gobro’s fall. I don’t know what game it
is you’re playing—”
  “I spoke of possibilities, nothing else. Grant me the sense not to
speak treason to a King’s Man, at least.”
  “I’ll grant you nothing. I’m in no mood to be reasonable. With one
stroke of your sword you killed all my future in Etrara. How long
will I have to wait before my exile is ended?”
  “I’m certain it won’t be long. I have friends at court, as you
do—I’m certain Gobro can be persuaded that we killed Damath in
our own defense.”
  “You killed Damath,” Val said. “I did nothing.”
  They walked in silence for a while. Val touched the charm at his
throat, a silver heron. He had spent his entire life in Etrara, the
center of the world, the crowded, exciting, treacherous,
ghost-ridden city. When would he be able to return?
   The Maegrim had come for him after all. Three summer casts in
a winter month—an ill omen indeed. He had thought that he could
fall no lower on the ladder, but he had been wrong. He had had a
long way to fall, a long way indeed. “Where are we going?” he asked
again.
  “Tobol An,” Narrion said. He had moved ahead on the path; Val
could barely hear him.
  “Where?”
  Narrion said nothing. Tobol An. What had he heard about the
place? “Is that where the library is?”
   Narrion turned. His teeth shone in the moonlight as he grinned.
“It is indeed,” he said.
  A few paces later he stopped. Val saw that they had come to the
beginning of the forest; dark trees stood before them, tangled
together, a few stars shining through their bare branches. “We’ll
spend the night here,” Narrion said. “We can continue on in the
morning.”
   They took off their cloaks and spread them on the path. The air
before them seemed stale, like an attic long unvisited, and no
sounds came from the forest. Val stretched out on the dirt path and
fell asleep.
  It seemed only a few moments later when he felt the sun through
his closed eyelids. Narrion stirred beside him. “Time to go,” his
cousin said, standing in a single movement. “Carrow must have
brought word to the king by now. Come—we have to hurry.”
  Val stood. His back had cramped in the night and he stretched to
ease it. The ranked trees of the forest stood silently before them,
casting long shadows. He remembered their hurried flight from
Etrara, remembered too Narrion’s decision to go into exile. He
turned and looked back the way they had come, toward Etrara and
the Gate of Stones. “What if I choose not to go with you?” he asked.
  “What?” Narrion said.
  “I’m innocent—I had no part in your plans. I told you that last
night. Suppose Carrow tells the king you killed Damath but says
nothing about me. You would have to go into exile, yes, but I could
stay in Etrara.”
  Narrion studied him a moment. For the first time Val thought he
saw doubt in his cousin’s eyes. “Can you afford to take that
chance?” Narrion asked softly. The doubt was gone; it might have
been a trick of the pale light. “Gobro could have you put to death,
you know. Or have you caged, and all your property confiscated.
Come—it will only be for a little while, as I told you yesterday.”
   Narrion turned and began to walk. Val stood for a moment and
then followed him down the path and into the forest. As the sun
rose its light began to filter through the branches, too thin and cold
to warm them. A thick fall of leaves lay on the ground.
  He had a lesson with his fencing master in the morning, Val
remembered, and later in the day he was to meet with his gardener
to plan an herb garden. When would they begin to miss him? When
would they realize that he was not coming back?
   It was true, as Narrion had said, that King Gobro had the power
to sentence him in his absence, to confiscate his property and goods.
His friends might never learn the truth, that he had killed no one,
had never even raised his sword. But surely Narrion was right,
surely their allies at court would convince the king to be lenient.
  He sighed. When they were children Narrion had been able to
make him agree to almost any scheme; they had climbed the clock
tower together, stolen a priest’s robe, been chased by the watch. It
seemed that he had spent his life following his cousin in one
adventure or another.
  They walked on. The place felt unnatural, haunted by something
more than the harmless ghosts of Etrara. But the forest was not
hostile; it seemed to be entirely indifferent to the two figures
entering at its gates, as if they were no more than the beetles
scurrying over the forest floor.
   Val remembered the banquet the night before, and the herald
calling out King Gobro’s titles—King of Etrara and the Southern
Marches. Were these the southern marches? He had never thought
of them as an actual place before; they had seemed just another
piece of ritual surrounding the king. Did Gobro rule in these parts
too, then? He would wager all his wealth that the king had never
been here. How strange to rule over a place and a people you had
never seen.”
   But were there people in this wood? Val could see nothing ahead
of him but the path pillared by the great trees. The sun had climbed
higher in the sky and cast a strange hazy light through the wood. A
dry leaf fell before him, rustling like paper.
  The silence felt oppressive. Val whistled a few notes; they
sounded thin and off-key. Suddenly he realized he was hungry.
“When will we get there?” he asked.
  Narrion did not turn around. “It’s a while yet,” he said.
  Val thought of the poet Cosro, who had been sent away from
Etrara for writing sharp satires against King Tariel I. Perhaps he
too could use his time in exile to write poetry; perhaps he could
write sonnets to Tamra.
  Tamra. He hadn’t thought of her since they had started on their
journey. He found, to his surprise, that he missed her. What would
she think when she heard of his exile? Would she believe the
proclamations King Gobro would surely issue, telling all Etrara of
his supposed crime?
  Did he love her, then? Would future generations sing songs of the
love he felt for her, lost in his exile? Or was he simply adopting
another courtly pose, the distant lover longing for his mistress?
   Past midday the path turned east and they followed it, walking in
silence for a long time. Slowly the forest around them grew dark;
Val turned and saw streaks of the red and copper sunset through
the trees behind them. They stopped and made camp for the night.
The trees stood silent around them.
  Another day of walking took them to the outskirts of the forest.
The trees here grew farther apart; Val saw light ahead of them.
“Look,” his cousin said, pointing.
  A knight on horseback blocked their path. A standard Val had
never seen before was planted in the earth in front of him, and a
trumpet lay across the knight’s lap. As Val watched he noticed
motes of sunlight drifting through the man and his horse, and he
realized that they were ghosts.
 “Legend says he’s sworn to protect Tobol An from her enemies,”
Narrion said.
  “What enemies?” Val said, thinking that the knight must not
have stirred for centuries. Who would want to attack a place as
insignificant as Tobol An?
  They continued on. The knight made no move to stop them,
though his standard fluttered a little in a wind long gone. We’re not
enemies, then, Val thought. He certainly intended no harm to the
people of Tobol An, but he could not speak for his cousin. Narrion
had killed someone he barely knew and had no quarrel with; Val
was starting to think he didn’t know the other man at all.
  The knight apparently marked the border of Tobol An. The trees
thinned out, and Val could see the village beyond. His heart sank.
The place was nothing but a few stone cottages clustered together
in the middle of a windy plain. A large white building, shaped a
little like a chambered shell, stood in the distance. A thin rain tell.
How long would he and Narrion have to spend in this forsaken
place?
  “Come,” Narrion said. “Let’s find lodgings.”
  They went forward into the village. Narrion knocked at one of
the cottages, and an old man opened the door. The man frowned
when he saw them; probably the people of Tobol An didn’t see many
strangers.
  “Yes?” he said.
  “I was wondering if you have a room to let,” Narrion said. “My
cousin needs a place to stay.”
  Val looked at Narrion sharply. Wasn’t Narrion going to stay here
as well? His cousin shook his head; something in his eyes warned
Val to say nothing.
  The old man watched them carefully. Val had an idea that little
escaped him. “Yes, I have a room,” he said slowly. “But I’ll need to
know who you two fine gentlemen are before I rent it out.”
  “Who is it, Uncle?”
  The man turned. A young woman came up behind him. “Did I
hear you say you wanted a room?” she asked Narrion.
  “I do, my lady. Not for myself but for my cousin here.”
  Val saw that Narrion was paying court to this simple country
woman, treating her as if she stood high in the king’s favor. He had
to admit that, as always, Narrion’s eye was good; the woman,
dressed in a dark blue skirt and loose white blouse, both homespun,
was not unattractive. She was small, fine-boned, with closely
cropped black hair. Her eyes held Narrion’s in a forthright gaze.
She seemed so different from the women of the court that Val
thought she might almost be a foreigner, someone from Shai or a
barbarian from beyond the seas.
  “Ah,” she said. “And why would your cousin want a room?”
  “Let me take care of this, Taja,” her uncle said.
   “I want to get away from court for a while, my lady,” Val laid to
the young woman. No woman, however lowborn, would have cause
to say that he was less courteous than his cousin.
  “Why?” the old man asked.
  “I need a place to write poetry,” Val said. Taja was looking at him
with interest, and he went on. “I want to put the distractions of the
court behind me, to find a quiet place where the goddess Sbona
might speak to me more clearly.”
  “A poet,” the old man said. “And did the king send you into exile,
as King Tariel sent Cosro?”
  Confronted with erudition in a place where he had expected only
backwardness, Val could think of nothing to say. For once, he saw,
his cousin Narrion was speechless as well. “No,” Val said finally.
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
   The old man grinned at their discomfiture. “Well, come in, then,
come in. I’ll show you the room. As long as you’re sure the king isn’t
displeased with you. We’re fond of our life here—we wouldn’t want
to see the peace of Tobol An destroyed.”
  Could the old man have guessed something? But no, he would not
have allowed them into his house if he had.
  The man and Taja led them to a small room at the back of the
cottage. The place was obviously used for storage; Val saw tightly
stoppered pottery jars, a broom made of straw and twigs, wool
blankets, a purple fishing net, a broken butter churn. “We’ll put a
bed in,” the old man said. “And we can sweep it out a bit. As for
rent, well—I suppose I can let you have it for a sovereign.”
  “A sovereign a month?” Val asked, surprised.
   “A sovereign a year,” the old man said. He grinned again. “You’ll
find that things are less expensive here than they are in the city.
It’ll be a good place to work.”
  Val opened his purse. How much money had he brought with
him? He remembered throwing down the gold sovereign in the
gaming house—could that have been his last coin? No—he had
several more sovereigns, most stamped with the head of King
Tariel III; only two or three were the debased coins from Gobro’s
reign.
  “I hope so,” Val said. “I’ll take it.”
  “That’s settled then,” Narrion said. “Come see me off, Val.”
  They went outside and stood a little away from the old man and
his niece. “I don’t think we should send letters for a while,” Narrion
said softly. “At least not until we know—”
  “I thought you were going to stay here with me,” Val said.
   “I can’t,” Narrion said. “We have to split up. That way if the king
finds one of us he won’t find the other. Trust me—this is the best
way.”
  “Where are you going?”
  “I don’t know yet. I’ll write you when it’s safe.”
   Val looked around him. After the noise and crowds of Etrara the
silence of the village seemed oppressive. Two or three faces had
appeared at the windows of the other cottages, studying them with
open curiosity. Wind blew, bending down the knotted grasses
growing along the path, turning the thin rain into small gusts.
“What in Callabrion’s name am I to do here?” he asked.
  Narrion turned to go. “I thought you said you’d write poetry,” he
said.


Narrion went south, walking slowly until he was certain that Val
had gone inside the house. Then he stopped at the last cottage on
the road and knocked at the door.
 Another villager came to answer it. “I’m here for the horse,”
Narrion said.
  “Of course, my lord,” the man said. They walked together to the
back of the cottage; the man went into the stable and returned with
a chestnut gelding. It seemed a little too magnificent for its
surroundings, a duke’s horse at the very least.
  Narrion thanked the man and mounted, throwing him a purse of
coins as he left. Then he turned back and rode into Thole Forest,
making the long journey north to Etrara alone.
  As soon as he came to the city he rode to the palace, gave his
horse to a stablehand and knocked on the palace’s outer door. The
porter had orders to admit him, and he was brought to the king’s
Presence Chamber immediately.
  Gobro paced the chamber, stopping every so often to look out the
window. Narrion would wager his place on the ladder that the king
saw nothing of the city spread out below him.
  “Good fortune, my lord,” Narrion said to Gobro’s back. “I brought
Val safely to Tobol An, as we agreed.”
  The king turned. “Why in the name of the Wandering God did
you kill Damath?” he said. He was as close to anger as Narrion had
ever seen him.
  “Your orders were to bring Val to Tobol An. I did that. You didn’t
mention how I was to get him there. Do you really think that a
courtier of Etrara would willingly give up his place here to go off to
the ends of the earth? I needed something dramatic, something that
would convince him to go into exile.”
  “It was certainly dramatic. If I didn’t need you and Val I would
have had you both executed—yes, executed on the same day. What
a show that would have been!”
  “Val is innocent, my lord. He did nothing.”
  The king walked the length of the Presence Chamber, turned and
came back. “It’s my ill luck that my fortune is tied to yours at the
moment. But by Callabrion’s big toe, why Damath? Do you have
any idea how badly I need Lord Carrow’s favor? With his friend
dead I can forget about seeing any money from the treasury at all.”
  “I thought you didn’t need Carrow. I thought he was out of favor.
You sat him at the opposite end of the hall the night of the
banquet.”
  “I did, yes. I was angry with him and I wanted him to know it.”
The king began to pace again. “And all the while I should have been
currying favor with him. I’m so deeply in debt I have no idea how to
get out of it.”
  “Replace him.”
  “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? I can’t—everyone loves
him. He hasn’t raised taxes since I ascended to the throne.” Gobro
looked directly at the other man. “What made you kill Damath? He
was one of my strongest supporters, especially after I made him a
lord. I don’t trust you, Narrion. You had some reason—”
  “I didn’t like the man. I owed him a gaming debt.”
  “I wish I could believe you.”
  “Why did you want Val sent to Tobol An?”
  “Are you questioning my orders now?”
  Narrion had never heard that note in the king’s voice before.
Gobro sounded authoritative, used to obedience. What had the king
learned to make him send Val away?
  “Leave me,” Gobro said.
 It was a dismissal; Narrion would get no more information today.
He bowed and left the chamber.
   How much did Gobro know, or guess? Had someone overheard
Narrion and Mariel and Callia whispering together a week before
the banquet? Narrion went over his conversation with Gobro
carefully, studying each phrase for hidden meanings, looking for
clues.
  He began to hurry through the halls of the palace, searching for
Mariel. There were too many plots here, he thought; the threads
might come unraveled before the whole thing was done.


Val woke the next day to the smell of hot oatcakes and tea. He left
his room and sat with Taja and the old man, whose name he
discovered was Pebr, and they ate in comfortable silence. After Taja
cleared the breakfast things away she returned to her place
opposite him at the white oak table. “How do you write poetry?” she
asked.
  Val looked up at her, remembering only then his deception of the
day before.
  “Do you plan the entire poem in your head and then write it
down?” Taja asked.
  “No. No, I don’t do it that way.”
  “Would the library have some of your poetry?”
  “I doubt it. I’ve never published any.”
  “Never—Why not?”
  “A gentleman doesn’t write for publication.” He saw the looks of
disbelief on the other faces and smiled wryly. Much of his life at
court, he saw, was going to be incomprehensible here.
  “Well, then, what does he write for?” Taja asked.
   “Other gentlemen, I suppose. But that’s not why I write. Poetry
is the voice of Sbona. It’s a way to ascend, to become like a god. And
sometimes—sometimes you write a poem to a lady, and she reads
it.”
  “Ah. And is there a lady who reads your poems?”
  “One or two. The subject of a poem must be beautiful, of
course—as beautiful as you, my lady.”
  Taja looked startled. What had he done? He was so used to the
conventions of the court, to empty flattery, that he had not
considered the effect his words might have in such a simple place.
  Pebr was frowning. Val cast around for another topic and
remembered the question he had asked Narrion the day before.
“Why is there a library here in this”—he nearly said “forsaken,”
caught himself in time—“place?”
   “Tobol An was once a great city, a place that rivaled Etrara
itself,” Pebr said, taking a sip of his tea. “More poet-mages lived in
the two cities than walk Sbona’s earth today. But the wizards of
Tobol An quarreled with the king in Etrara, and he sent his
sorcerers against them. Tobol An was ruined, all but the library,
but the victory went to us—all the poet-mages of Etrara died. The
survivors in Tobol An caused the forest of Thole to grow up between
here and Etrara, as a message and a warning to the king—they
would not be subject to his command any longer.”
  Val nodded, understanding now why the forest had felt so still, so
haunted. “What did they fight about?” he asked.
  “No one knows.”
  “But the king—some of the kings—still have magicians. The last
king did.”
  Pebr looked at him sharply. “What do you know about that?” he
asked.
  “Only what everyone knows. The wizards died. They were killed,
people say.”
 Pebr nodded. “Aye, they were killed. That’s what happens to
magicians, that’s why it’s unsafe to meddle in their art.”
  “You shouldn’t have started him on the subject,” Taja said,
laughing a little. “He hates it that I work in the library.”
  “I have enough money to support us both,” Pebr said. It had the
sound of an oft-repeated argument. “There’s no need for you to
work.”
  “About a third of the library was destroyed in the war,” Taja said.
“Books of magic, mostly. He’s got it into his head that it isn’t safe to
work there.”
  “What other books do you have?” Val asked.
  “Oh, everything. History, poetry, languages, old stories.”
  “I’d love to see it.”
  “Why don’t you come with me? Oh—but I wouldn’t want to
interrupt your work.”
   “You won’t,” Val said. “Perhaps I can find inspiration in the
library.”
  “Good,” Taja said. She said farewell to Pebr and they went
outside.
   She led Val down the village path, heading toward the tall white
building he had noticed earlier. Fog shrouded the building, clung
white as cobwebs to the stone cottages. As they walked he saw
dozens of ladders leaning against the houses, and his heart lifted a
little to see them: so they celebrated the Feast of the Ascending God
here too.
  “What do the other people in the village do?” he asked. “They
don’t all work in the library, do they?”
  “No. They’re fisher-folk, mostly.”
  “Fisher-folk?”
   “Aye. We’re on the coast here. Or don’t gentlemen read maps
either?”
  He frowned; he didn’t like the teasing in her tone.
   “Look, I’ll show you,” she said, and turned off the path that led to
the library. They came to a steep cliff; looking down Val could see a
cobblestone harbor and tiny, fragile-looking boats bobbing in the
water. Waves hissed in to shore. The fog had started to lift and he
noticed that the ocean was a dull gray, nothing at all like the color
of Tamra’s eyes. A fisherman mended a purple net stretched out on
the sand. A heron preened nearby; without thinking about it Val
put his hand to the charm at his throat.
  A huge stone arch, nearly covered with moss and weeds, stood on
the cliff overlooking the ocean. Taja followed Val’s gaze. “That’s the
arch of Sleeping Koregath,” she said.
  “Sleeping—”
  “Legend says that the arch is the giant Koregath, turned to stone
during the war of the poet-mages.”
   A giant, Val thought, trying to imagine that much power. A gull
cried in a shrill voice above them.
  They headed back toward the library. Someone called out to Taja,
and she turned.
  At first Val thought the thin old woman coming toward them was
one of the Maegrim. She wore the same black, shapeless rags, and
her gray hair hung lank to her shoulders. His heart began to beat
loudly. What prediction did this woman have for him?
  As she came closer, though, he saw that she had no hood of
badger skin, and he breathed easier. And now that he had time to
think he realized that no one he had heard of had ever been
approached by a single Maegra; there were always six of them, and
then seven. But the hint of something uncanny still clung to this
woman. He wondered who she was, what she wanted.
  “Good morning, Taja,” she said. One of her eyes was brown, Val
saw, and the other webbed white with cataracts. “Good morning,
my young lord.”
  “Good morning, aunt,” Taja said.
  Val nodded to the old woman. For a moment he had the feeling
that she knew everything about him, his place on the ladder, his
reasons for coming to Tobol An, all his innermost thoughts.
   She tilted her head back and looked at the sun. The fog was
completely gone now; Tobol An seemed a little warmer than the
cold-locked city to the north. “A good day,” the old woman said,
looking back at them with her brown eye, nodding toward him
shrewdly. “A good day to work, to search, to discover one’s fortune.”
  Some answer seemed to be required of him, but he had no idea
what it could be. Taja saved him by saying, “Thank you for the
salve, aunt. Uncle Pebr says his arm is much better.”
  The old woman nodded again, briskly, and pushed past them
down the path. They continued on toward the library.
  “Who in Callabrion’s name is that?” Val said when he was certain
she could no longer hear them. “Is she really your aunt?”
  “No,” Taja said, laughing a little. “Her real name is Mathary, but
everyone in the village calls her aunt. Everyone except Pebr, who
won’t speak to her.”
  “Why not?”
  “I don’t know. I think he thinks she’s one of the ancient wizards,
the last survivor of the great battle.”
  “But she would have to be—”
  “Hundreds of years old, I know. Pebr has some strange ideas. To
be honest—” She began to whisper, though the old woman couldn’t
possibly hear her. “—he threw out the salve I gave him. He said
he’d rather live with the pain in his arm than use anything that has
the taint of magic on it. She knows that, of course—did you see the
way she looked at me when I thanked her?”
  “Do you think she’s a wizard?”
  “No, of course not. She’s, a harmless old woman who knows
something about plants, that’s all.”
  The library had grown closer as they walked. Now Val could see
that his first impression had been correct: it had been built in the
shape of a shell, spiraling out from an unseen center. Taja unlocked
a door set into the wall and they went inside.
  They stepped into a corridor lined with books. The corridor
seemed to turn in slightly. “It leads inward,” she said, pointing.
   He had never seen so many books in one place; not even the
library at the university had had so many. Their deep musty smell
was not unpleasant, the moldy odor of scholarship and discipline.
“Do you have to walk through the entire building if you want a
book all the way inside?” he asked.
  She laughed. “There are entrances and exits all over the library,”
she said. “And there are stairs leading to higher levels. Tell me
where you want to go and I’ll show you how to get there.”
  “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s here.”
   “Well, this book for example,” she said, taking one off the shelf.
“It’s an old story about a man who dreams about the same woman
every night. Every night he struggles to free her from danger and
every morning he wakes exhausted from his efforts. But finally,
after seven years, he rescues her. And when he wakes up that
morning she’s lying in his bed next to him.”
   Now Val could see that the shelves held more than books;
unbound manuscripts and loose rotting pages and scrolls competed
for space with books bound in brass and iron and jewels. “This one,”
Taja said, replacing the book she had shown him and taking
another. “The book itself is completely worthless. But here—” She
opened the rotting pages; Val saw lists of words filling the margins.
“It was owned by the wizard Hanra, and her commentary is on
every page.”
   Suddenly Val realized that he hadn’t seen her strike a flint or
light a candle, yet the library had no windows. “Where does the
light come from?” he asked.
  “From the floor and ceiling,” she said.
  “How is that possible?”
  “We don’t know.”
   The light was clear, he saw, and brighter and steadier than that
of candles or oil. “I’ll tell you what I want,” he said. “Do you have a
book of Cosro’s poetry?”
   “If we do I haven’t seen it. I don’t know every book here—just the
ones I’ve added to the catalogue. I calculated once that if I live to be
five hundred I’ll be able to list them all.” She looked around her.
“Sometimes I imagine all the old librarians and poet-mages working
here, walking the corridors, studying, whispering to each other over
an old book. There must have been dozens of them, hundreds
perhaps. And now there’s just me. Don’t you feel it?”
   Val stood still for a moment, trying to see the ghosts she had
summoned up. But no one walked the corridor lined with books; the
library remained empty, silent. He shook his head.
   Someone knocked on the door to the outside, and Taja opened it.
A woman stood there, her arms filled with notebooks and
manuscripts and a pen case. “Good fortune,” she said. “I’d like to
look at the birth records, please.”
  “Of course,” Taja said. “This way. You’d better come along too,
Val—it’s easy to get lost here.”
  They started up the corridor. The other woman was probably a
natalist, Val thought, someone who sought to predict a person’s
future place on the ladder from his or her birth date. “Do you have
birth records here too?” Val asked.
  “The king sends us the records of birth and marriage and death
every year, along with a small subsidy for our work.” Taja opened a
door; it led to a flight of stairs and they began to climb. “He’s late
with this year’s subsidy.”
  “He’s had a lot of expenses,” Val said.
   If Taja was impressed that Val knew court gossip she didn’t show
it. They went down another corridor, through a door leading inward
and another door opening on another flight of stairs.
   Finally they came to a small room off the main corridor. A
polished wooden table stood in the middle of the room, and cabinets
lined the walls. “Is everyone’s birth recorded here?” Val asked.
  “Of course,” Taja said. “When were you born?”
  “The seventh year of the reign of Tariel III.”
  She directed him to one of the cabinets and pulled out a drawer.
“You’d be here,” she said, turning to help the other woman.
  Val opened the drawer. Almost immediately he found names he
recognized, schoolmates, fencing partners, men and women he had
met at court, all of them mixed indiscriminately with people from
the lower rungs. Here was Narrion, Val saw, and Tamra, and
Dorio, his friend from the university who had become an
astronomer-priest.
  He came to the end of the births for that year. He had not seen
his name anywhere. Puzzled, he searched through the records
again. The natalist had settled herself at the table, surrounded by
records and charts and pens and inkstands holding ink of different
colors. “I can’t find my name here,” he said to Taja.
  “Are you certain of the year of your birth?” Taja asked.
  “Of course.”
  “Well, the scribe may have made a mistake. Check the years
before and after it.”
  He turned back to the cabinet. Taja searched with him, perhaps
intrigued by the mystery, but neither could find the missing record.
  He laughed, trying to make light of it. “Perhaps I don’t exist,” he
said. He shivered; he had spoken truer than he knew. No place at
court, no hope of rising on the ladder, no birth record. He shivered
again and touched his charm to ward off evil.
  “I have to start work now,” Taja said. “I’ll show you the way
back.”
  He followed her, trying to forget his disquieting thoughts.
  Probably it was nothing, a scribe’s mistake, as Taja had said.
  They came to the outer door. “You can stay if you want,” Taja
said. “I’ll find you something to read.”
  Val shook his head; he had had enough of the library.
  “A good day to discover one’s fortune,” old Mathary had said.
Whatever Pebr might think, the woman was certainly no wizard;
she could not have been more wrong. It would be a good day for
someone else, maybe; he was starting to think that he might have
no fortune to discover.



                             Three
                                                             «^»
By the time he returned to the stone cottage he had managed to put
all thoughts of the library behind him. He borrowed paper from
Pebr and began a sonnet to Tamra.
  A few hours later he read what he had done and set the poem
aside in disgust. He had written that Tamra was the daughter of
Scathiel, the winter god; that explained her beauty, he said, and
her coldness to him. But she was not cold; she had simply not
decided among the dozen or so courtiers that vied for her hand.
Would he marry her if she wanted him? Or was it only the chase
that mattered, and not the conquest itself?
   He stood and began to pace the small room. He had been in Tobol
An less than a day, and already he was starting to question his old
life, the artifice of the court. He laughed harshly. Perhaps he would
marry Taja. They would live together with Pebr in the stone
cottage; he would become a fisherman, and bring up the silver
wealth of the sea in his purple net.
   Why in Callabrion’s name had Narrion killed Lord Damath?
When would he be allowed to return to Etrara? He was not suited
for a life spent in solitude, for endless questions.
  Restless now, he left the cottage. He walked along the cliffs,
watching the waves below. As evening fell the sky turned rose red
over the water and dark blue farther up, with a thin line of
blue-gray separating the two. Clouds drifted overhead,
archipelagoes in the vast blue gulfs of the sky. A seagull called;
another answered. The colors deepened, becoming the same dark
mass as the sea, and he turned to go.
  When he got to the cottage Taja and Pebr were already eating.
Fish—he should have guessed. He served himself and sat at the
table with them.
  “I have a few ideas about your birth record, Val,” Taja said.
“Could your parents have been out of Etrara when you were born?”
  Val shook his head. “They would have told me if they had been,
surely,” he said.
  “Can you write to them?”
  “They died a while ago,” Val said. “The plague.”
  “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Val.”
   “Don’t be.” Their deaths, which had been an aching grief to him
for several years, had given him less sorrow as he grew older. Still,
he would remember them at odd hours, and the old sadness would
catch at his throat.
  “My parents died too,” Taja said. “In a storm at sea, when I was
very young. They lived in Mirro An, down the coast. Pebr brought
me here and raised me—I don’t remember them at all.”
  “I’m sorry,” Val said.
  “Well,” Taja said. “I didn’t mean to make us so gloomy. Here—I
brought you a book.”
  Val took it from her. It was faded, and there was no title on the
cover or spine. He opened it and saw poems by a number of people,
some of whom he recognized as contemporaries of Cosro. “Thank
you,” he said, genuinely pleased. “Thank you very much.”


So the days passed. Val began a number of poems in the morning,
but by noon he would always lay them aside and read one of the
books Taja brought him from the library.
  A day came when he finished a book and had no more to read,
and he went by himself to the library. He met with no one while he
was there, though at first the sound of his own footsteps alarmed
him.
   He was astonished to find such richness. Hours passed as he took
down book after book from the shelves: plays he had never seen and
poems he had never read and accounts of voyages to lands on no
current map. There were books on natalism, on chemistry, on the
science of watching the stars. And in every third book he saw long
lists of words in the margins: sun and leaf, sea and stone. Wizards’
commentary.
   A week after he had come to Tobol An he went for a walk by the
cliffs. A cold wind blew around him. “She told me she would love
me, forever and a day,” he sang. The ocean’s rush answered below
him.
  Taja came toward him from the library. “But then one day in
winter, she said she could not stay,” he sang.
  “Good fortune, Val,” Taja said. She was smiling; did she enjoy his
singing?
  “Good fortune.”
  “I saw you out walking. It’s getting late—I thought we might go
home together.”
   He looked at the sky. It was not only late but overcast, with
clouds like sodden gray wool. A harsh wind bent back the grasses of
the cliff and roughened the waves beneath him. He shivered.
  Heavy rain began to fall. Val took Taja’s hand and headed toward
the stone cottage. “Wait,” Taja said.
  “Come—the storm will only get worse.”
   She studied the fishing boats drawn up in the harbor, then looked
out to sea. The ocean had turned slate-gray, almost black. “What is
it?” he asked.
  “One of the boats hasn’t come back.”
   She hurried down the slanted path that led to the harbor. He
followed her, wondering what she thought she would do. Against a
storm like this, he thought, they would almost certainly be
powerless.
  More people joined them on the path, which was slick with rain.
“Who is it?” someone asked.
  “Dochno,” Taja said, her voice blown back by the wind. “His boat
hasn’t returned.”
   The crash of the ocean was louder as they came closer. The
fisher-folk studied the sea as Taja had, clearly wondering if they
could venture out and survive. Pebr stood among them, huddled
against the wind.
  “Look!” someone said. “It’s Dochno. He’s swimming back!”
  A small figure appeared above the waves and then was tossed
under. A few of the fisher-folk hurried toward their boats. Val ran
down to the sea, taking off his boots as he went. “Val!” Taja called.
“What are you doing?”
  He could not stop to explain. He had swum in the races in the
Darra River for the last three years, and had won the last one. He
touched the amulet at his throat and plunged into the waves.
  The water was chilling, as cold as the rain. He surfaced, brushed
hair and water from his eyes, and looked around for Dochno. There.
He swam toward him, his strokes cutting through the water.
  A wave battered him, turned him around. He struggled to the
water’s surface, took a deep breath, searched for Dochno again. The
drowning man seemed no closer.
  He renewed his efforts to reach him. His muscles felt like lead.
He looked around a third time, saw Dochno almost on top of him.
The man seemed to make one final effort to reach him. Val held out
his hand and Dochno grasped it.
   Val pulled him closer, got an arm around him, then turned back
to the shore. He had come farther out than he thought. Using his
free arm, he began to swim wearily toward land.
  Halfway there his leg began to cramp. He nearly cried aloud with
the pain. And Dochno had grown heavier; his eyes were closed and
he made no effort to dodge the beating of the waves.
  Val struggled against the water again. A wave caught him, filled
his mouth with water, pulled him down. He fought his way toward
the surface. His chest burned. He gained the surface and breathed
deeply.
  “Val!” someone called.
  It’s Sbona, mother of all, he thought. She’s calling me home. I’ll
feast in heaven tonight.
  He began to relax. “Val!” He raised his head to look up out of the
water; it was the hardest thing he had ever done. Taja sat in one of
the fishing boats. She tossed him a net.
  He grasped it. Someone drew him into the boat, and pulled
Dochno in after him. He fell like a catch of fish to the bottom of the
boat and lay there gasping.
  “Val, you innocent,” Taja said. “We use the boats to go after
drowning folk.”
  “I got him, didn’t I?” Val said, and closed his eyes.


He woke. He was in Pebr’s cottage; they had wrapped him in warm
blankets and laid him next to the fire. His clothes were drying on
the hearthstones beside him, but he saw that they need not have
bothered; the clothes were so tattered that the poorest man in
Etrara would not want them now. The ruin of his court finery did
not upset him; he had worn them for weeks, having come to Tobol
An with nothing else.
 What worried him was the question of who had undressed him.
He sat carefully. Pebr stood by the fire.
  “How is Dochno?” Val asked.
  “He’s well, praise the gods,” Pebr said.
  “How did I—What—”
  “Taja and I brought you in, and I undressed you. I never knew
one man could wear so many different kinds of clothing. You’ll have
to wear my trousers and shirt now, until we can get you to Soria
and buy you something new.”
  “Thank you,” Val said. He put his hand to his amulet; it was still
there, Callabrion be thanked. He lay back among the blankets,
suddenly tired.
  “Good night,” Pebr said. Then, grudgingly, “You were very brave.
And perhaps the boats would not have reached him in time.”


A few weeks later Val found himself talking about Etrara to Taja
and Pebr. The three of them had finished their dinner and had
drawn closer to the hearth for warmth.
  “The city has seven gates,” Val said. “The Gate of Stones, the
Gate of Roses, of Shadows, Fire, Agates, Keys. And God’s Gate,
which has been closed since the time of Queen Ellara the Good.
Legend says that when she was very old she walked out that gate
to meet Callabrion, who had been her lover when she was a young
woman. The people of Etrara closed it in mourning for her—they
say that no ruler of Etrara since that time has been worthy to walk
through God’s Gate.”
  Pebr stirred impatiently. Val had already noticed that the other
man didn’t like to hear talk about Etrara. “Callabrion will ascend to
heaven this week,” Pebr said, rubbing his thin arms. “Praise the
gods—this winter has been the coldest that I can remember.”
  “Praise the gods,” Val said. “How do people in Tobol An celebrate
the Feast of the Ascending God?”
   “We—” Pebr said, but Taja laughed and said, interrupting him,
“It’s not very exciting. What do you do in Etrara?”
  “We set up a great arena in the palace courtyard,” Val said. “The
strongest wrestlers in the city fight one another, and at the end two
men who represent Callabrion and Scathiel come out and challenge
each other. Callabrion always wins, of course, but sometimes
Scatihiel gives him a good fight.”
  “We don’t have anything like that,” Taja said. “The children light
the bonfires, and then at midnight the priest announces that
Callabrion has ascended to heaven and the days will start to get
longer. And everyone wishes everyone else good fortune in the
coming year and we go off to sleep.”
  “But don’t you want to see Callabrion win the fight?” Val asked.
   “The gods don’t fight in Tobol An,” Pebr said, lighting his pipe. “I
told you—we’re a peaceful people here.”
  “They don’t fight? What do they do?”
  “They pass each other on the ladder. Callabrion ascends to wed
the goddess Sbona, and Scathiel descends to lose himself on earth,
to become the Wandering God. And six months later they change
places.”
  Val nodded impatiently. “Of course. But are you saying that
Scathiel gives up his place in heaven willingly?”
  Pebr nodded. Smoke plumed around his face. “He misses the
earth. He’s anxious to lose himself here among us.”
  Val thought of Arion, and the young duke’s insistence that valor
was the chief of the Virtues. And wasn’t there something, well,
womanish about the people of Tobol An? Didn’t Gobro’s long peace
mean that no one’s mettle would ever be tested, that the brave
could never be told apart from the cowardly? The gods would never
shrink from a fight, he felt certain of that.
  He had studied courtly politeness for so long that he could not
bring himself to say any of this, for fear of insulting his hosts. But
Taja must have seen something in his face, because she said, “Why
don’t you go back to Etrara for the feast?”
  “I can’t,” he said. Pebr watched him shrewdly; he had to come up
with some story. “I’ve taken a vow not to return until I finish my
poem.”
  “Well,” Taja said, “you can go in disguise.”
   He looked at her. Why not, after all? Everyone in the city would
be masked on the night of the Ascending God, and there would be
crowds coming from the provinces and farmlands. He had gotten
homespun clothing in the neighboring town of Soria; to the people
in Etrara he would be just another rustic.
 What would Narrion say? But there was no way to know;
Narrion hadn’t written in the weeks since they’d fled the city.
  “Where would I get a mask?” he asked.
  “We have a few somewhere, don’t we, Uncle?”
   Pebr nodded. He stood and left the room, rubbing his arms, and
returned a moment later. “They’re not what you’re used to in the
city, I’m sure,” he said, holding out two masks. “We don’t go in
much for disguising here.”
  Val took them, disappointed. One had been crudely fashioned out
of wood and cloth; he thought it was supposed to be the god
Callabrion but it looked more like the pictures of Gobro’s
grandfather, a fat man with a face like a toad. The other was even
worse, a half-mask made of disintegrating lace and moth-eaten
feathers.
  He fitted the wooden mask over his head, thinking with longing
of the mask maker he knew on the Street of Apricots. Taja laughed,
delighted, and took the other mask from him. Even before she put
it on he could see that it was too big for her. It slipped forward
immediately, revealing her dark eyes.
  “Here, let me tie it,” Val said. “No one will mistake you for a
great lady, you can be certain of that.”
  “Do you mean—Can I come to Etrara with you?”
  He hadn’t meant that at all. Still, why shouldn’t she?
  “No,” Pebr said.
  “Why not?” Taja said. She took off the mask and looked at her
uncle. “What are you worried about?”
  “Everything,” Pebr said. “You know nothing about the city,
nothing at all.”
  “Then it’s time I learned, isn’t it?” Taja said.
  “I’ll see that no harm comes to her,” Val said.
  “I can take care of myself,” Taja said sharply.
  “Oh no, you can’t,” Pebr said. “I’ll let you go, but only if you stay
with Val. Promise me that.”
  Taja looked between Val and Pebr, then nodded slowly. “No one
would mistake you for a great lord either,” she said to Val.
  He still had the mask on. Feeling foolish, he lifted it over his
head and nodded toward her in a bow. He was a lord, though, if not
a great one. That was the difference between them. Or was he?
What was a courtier, without the court to surround him?


A few days later he and Taja stood in the great courtyard at the
palace in Etrara, struggling to keep their footing among the vast
numbers of people. The crowd swayed like a tide, pushing a woman
in a dress of silk and gauze against him. She looked up, the smile
under her velvet half-mask fading as she caught sight of his mask.
On his other side he saw Taja step nimbly backward as a torch
threatened to set her woolen cloak on fire.
  He had been trying to make his way toward the arena for the
last half-hour. The wrestlers hadn’t arrived yet; on the stage
acrobats tumbled and balanced on ropes and tossed brands of fire to
one another.
   He and Taja had moved near the edge of the crowd now; he could
see the golden light rising from the bonfires. The fires and the press
of people made him feel almost hot. He welcomed the sensation;
this season winter seemed to have lasted for years. All praise to
Callabrion, he thought, who would ascend this night.
   He smelled roasting chestnuts and hot cider, heard a group of
people singing hymns to Callabrion. A silver mask glimmered in the
light from the bonfires, a mask very like the one he had worn to his
last banquet in Etrara. The man wearing it was tall and lean, with
long dark hair—could that be Narrion? He remembered he had
given his cousin the name of the artificer who had made his mask.
Could Narrion have had the same idea he had, to come to Etrara in
disguise?
  The crowd shifted, moved between him and the other man. He
shook his head and turned his attention back to the arena. When
would Narrion have had time to commission a mask?
  “We don’t need to see the wrestlers,” Taja said, standing on her
toes and shouting to make herself heard over the noise of the
crowd. “Let’s see if we can get some roasted chestnuts instead.”
  “Oh, you’re wrong,” Val said. “People in the city wait all year to
see these men.”
   She laughed and headed toward the chestnut vendors on the edge
of the crowd. She was surprisingly self-possessed for a woman who
had never been out of Tobol An in her life, Val thought, and he
wondered for a moment what Pebr feared would happen to her.
   They passed a man selling ale, then a woman offering to tell
fortunes. The woman was dressed in a black mask and a hood made
of black rags; Val thought of the Maegrim and then wondered if he
would always be haunted by those grim reminders of fate. But even
the Maegrim, he thought, would not dare bring bad news to the
Feast of the Ascending God.
   A juggler dropped a wooden spoon at his feet and picked it up,
looking sheepish. Taja returned with a paper cone filled with hot
chestnuts. The crowd closest to the arena cried out; the wrestlers
had arrived. Val looked out over the heads of the people around
him.
   The fortune-teller took his hand. Val glanced down quickly and
pulled his hand away. “I see a marriage for you soon, my young
lord,” the fortune-teller said.
  “I don’t want my fortune told,” he said sharply.
  “Oh, why not?” Taja said. “Tell mine, please.”
  “I’m not finished with this young man,” the woman said. Her
voice sounded low, croaking, but something told Val that she was
acting, that he might have known her in his earlier life at court.
She took his hand again. “You will have great fortune and rise high
on the ladder. And you will marry soon—you will marry a woman
whose name begins with—begins with T.”
  The mask slipped from Taja’s face. She pushed it back quickly.
  “Callia,” Val said.
  “How did you know?” Duchess Callia said. She sounded
disappointed.
  “Tell me how you knew who I was first.”
  “Come, Val—I know all the charming young men at court. You
wrote me a sonnet once, don’t you remember? I always thought it
was a pity you became so distracted by that actor, that Tamra.”
  “And you wanted me to believe that I’d marry her. That wasn’t
very amusing, Callia.”
 “Yes, it was. It would have been, if you hadn’t recognized me.
How—”
  “Your voice gave you away. You’re no actor.”
  “I’ll have to study with Tamra, then. But what have you been
doing? Something exciting, I hope.”
  How much did she know? She had never been an intimate of the
king, her half-brother; she didn’t appear to have heard that Narrion
had killed one of Gobro’s favorites. Her ignorance made his role
much easier to play. “I’ve been in Tobol An,” he said.
  “Where?”
   “A fishing village on the coast. I became tired of the court—I left
to write poetry.”
  “That isn’t very flattering to us.”
  “Oh, I’ll be back.”
   She didn’t seem to have heard him. “Tobol An—that’s where the
library is, isn’t it?”
  He nodded, realizing only then how much he had missed the
company of the men and women of the court. He had been raised to
take his place among them, after all; no wonder he had felt so
restless with just Taja and her uncle for company. “Do you know,”
he said, “they have the records of everyone’s birth in the library.
Everyone’s but mine. I couldn’t find mine anywhere.”
  “Really?” she said. The crowd roared again and she turned in the
direction of the noise. One of the wrestlers seemed to have won.
   He had hoped she’d show more interest. Had he lived among dull
fisher-folk so long that he had become like them, incapable of
courtly conversation? “How’s Gobro?”
  She looked back. “What? Oh, Gobro’s the same as ever.”
  “And the others at court?”
   “Sorry,” Callia said. “Sorry, I think I see someone I know. Good
fortune, Val!” She hurried off and was lost in the crowd.
  He looked at Taja. She appeared tired; her mouth, under the
half-mask, looked drawn. Perhaps she didn’t know who Callia was;
she didn’t seem at all impressed by the duchess, one of the
contenders for the throne. “Do you want to go back to the inn?” he
asked.
  “No. No, let’s stay. Look—I think they’re starting.”
  She pointed toward the arena. A man wearing the gold and green
colors of Callabrion had climbed to the stage and stood facing
another wrestler dressed in the blue and silver of Scathiel. An
astronomer-priest gave the signal and the two men grappled
together.
  The crowd called out encouragement to the Summer God. The
wrestlers struggled back and forth across the arena. They had
found exceptionally good men this year, Val thought; for a brief and
terrifying moment it looked as if the Winter God would triumph.
Then Callabrion threw Scathiel to the floor.
  The Winter God lay still. Callabrion stood. A cheer went up from
every throat; the man who had played Callabrion was pelted with
coins and masks and rare fruit from the tropical south.
  The priest stepped forward and raised his hand. The crowd
quieted. The priest looked into the sky. “Look where he comes, the
Ascending God!” he called.
   Callabrion had been received into heaven again this year. All
around Val the crowd went wild, strangers hugging and kissing and
clasping hands. Trumpets blew, and drums answered. The children,
on edge from having stayed up so late, ran off screaming to collect
the ladders and throw them on the bonfires. Val turned to Taja.
“Good fortune, Val,” she said.
  “Good fortune!” he said, hugging her. His luck would change this
year, he knew it. He would be called back from his exile; he would
return to Etrara.
   They made their way through the crowd. Earlier in the day they
had been fortunate enough to find an inn with a few spaces on the
floor still free, and they headed toward it. On the streets around
them they saw people pouring coins into the outstretched hands of
Etrara’s beggars; Scathiel had descended to the earth in the guise
of a beggar and could be any one of these ragged men and women.
The beggars made the most of it; they would not receive so much
bounty for six more months, when Scathiel ascended and Callabrion
came to earth to assume the aspect of the Wandering God.
   Val took a sovereign from his purse and pushed it into the hand
of an old man. “Good fortune, my young lord,” the man said.
  Lord? How did the man know? “Val!” Taja said urgently.
  Val turned. Someone fell into him, punching him hard in the
stomach and knocking him to the cobblestoned street. He struggled
to rise, to draw breath, to call out. He heard one or two people
laugh and realized that no one around him knew what had
happened; probably they thought the man drunk on too much
excitement and ale.
  The man hit him again. He pushed out with his hands and elbows
but the other man had him on the ground now and would not let
him up. “So, Val,” the man said.
 “Who—” Val said. He struggled to see his opponent’s face but the
mask covered it completely.
  The man reached for the dagger at his belt. Only one arm
pinioned Val now; Val twisted and managed to force his opponent to
the ground. They had traded places, gods of summer and winter.
But the man had drawn his dagger and was pointing it at Val’s
throat.
  “Help!” someone said. “Help! Murder! Help!” It was Taja.
  The crowd parted. Hands lifted him from the ground. “The
wrestling matches are over, my good lord,” someone said, and one
or two people laughed.
  Val stood carefully. He heard the sound of cloth tearing and
watched as his opponent ran off into the crowd. His hands shook as
he fastened his cloak. He took a deep breath, another. Someone had
wanted to kill him.
  “Should we follow him?” someone asked.
   “No,” Val said. His breathing was steadier now. The crowd had
closed over the retreating figure. “No, we’ll never be able to find
him now.”
  A young man handed him a piece of cloth and he studied it for a
moment, but he could make nothing of it save that it was finely
woven and dyed. “This came from his cloak?” he asked.
  “Aye, my lord,” the young man said.
  That made the second time someone knew him for one of the
nobility. He rubbed his hand wearily over his eyes and realized that
his mask had disappeared. “You called the other man ‘my lord,’ ” he
said. “Do you know who he was?”
  “No, but he seemed noble. He wore fine clothes, and rings, and he
carried himself like a highborn man. Like you, my lord.” Sometime
during this recital the other man had taken in Val’s tattered,
homespun clothing and his lack of land-rings, and his voice trailed
off doubtfully.
   Val nodded. “Thank you,” he said. He felt for his purse, intending
to give the young man a coin for his trouble, and then changed his
mind. It would be better to keep the other man uncertain of his
identity, unsure even whether he was noble or not. Far too many
people knew he had come to the festival as it was. He had behaved
foolishly, very foolishly.
  “Do you want to call the watch?” the young man asked.
  The last thing he wanted was to come to the attention of the law.
“No. I’m sure the watch has better things to do tonight.”
  He turned to go. The crowd was thinning out; parents were
calling for their children and preparing to go home. He barely saw
them. Callia had recognized him, and so, apparently, had the
nobleman who had attacked him. And who else?
  As if guessing his thoughts Taja said, “Do you have any
enemies?”
   He laughed harshly. All he had, it seemed, were enemies. Even
the king was his enemy. But the king would not have done this, not
with the entire body of the law behind him. “I don’t know,” he said.
“I don’t know.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes again and realized
that without his mask he was still in danger. “Lend me your mask,”
he said.
  She looked at him appraisingly. He could see the questions in her
eyes, the realization that he might be different from what he
seemed. Finally she took off her mask and handed it to him
wordlessly.


They spent the night at the inn and rode through the forest of Thole
the next day, saying little. Val wondered if Taja would tell her uncle
about the attack. But when they came to Tobol An and Pebr’s house
the next day she said nothing about it. He was grateful for her
silence; he did not want Pebr’s shrewd eyes measuring him,
guessing his secrets.
  A week after Callabrion ascended, Val went with Taja and Pebr
to the house of one of the villagers. All the village, it seemed, had
crowded into the small stone cottage to hear the elders read from
the Book of Sbona. Only three or four people had been able to find
seats, and the place smelled strongly of fish.
   Val thought of his aunt and uncle, Narrion’s parents, who would
even now be getting together with others from his house to read
from the same book. All over the mapped world, in Etrara and the
provinces, in the barbaric country of Shai, people were telling the
story of the goddess Sbona. Even in the colonies across the seas, in
Udriel and Astrion, they would light candles against the vast
loneliness around them and read to each other about the creation of
the world.
   “Sbona ruled alone in heaven,” one of the villagers read. “Then
she gave birth to the twins Callabrion and Scathiel, and she created
the world we live in and she gave it to them. But the two sons
quarreled over who was to have her favor, and they carried their
fight to the newly created world, using it as a battleground. For
hundreds of years they fought each other, and their struggles made
the hills and valleys and mountains, and in the end each killed the
other.”
   The villager passed the Book of Sbona to Pebr. But Pebr did not
consult the book at all as he continued the story, reciting solely
from memory.
  “Sbona wept for her sons in heaven, and her tears fell to earth
and created the seas,” Pebr said. “She descended to the world she
had made and searched for their scattered limbs, and she created
men and women to help her in her quest. Finally she gathered
together the bodies of her two sons, and she breathed life into them.
But Callabrion had lost forever his right toe, and Scathiel his left,
and for their disobedience Sbona sent each of them into exile for six
months out of the year.”
  Pebr handed the book to the next villager, Dochno, the man Val
had saved from the sea. “Every year in winter Callabrion ascends to
heaven, and so things grow, and become strong. And every year in
summer Callabrion comes back to earth and his brother Scathiel
ascends to heaven, and so things are reaped, and they die. Each is
brother to the other, as summer is brother to winter, as life is
brother to death. Every year the seasons change, but from year to
year the seasons remain the same.”
  Dochno closed the book. In Etrara at this time Val would spend
the evening with Narrion’s family, his closest relatives since his
parents died. Narrion’s father would bring out the golden goblets
used only twice a year, and his mother would pour the good Shai
wine they had saved for this occasion. Val hoped… And there, to his
delight, he saw their host setting out clay mugs and pouring ale. He
reached for a cup and then, seeing Mathary come up next to him,
he gave it to her and turned back for another. She drank it down
gratefully.
  The villagers settled in for stories. All around the room they
went, telling the legends of Callabrion and Scathiel on earth, their
lovers, their quarrels, the disguises each had used and how they
were unmasked, the gifts they had given and the justice they had
dispensed.
   When his turn came Val repeated a story he had heard in Etrara
about Andosto, said to be the grandson of the god Callabrion, and
how he had routed the Shai during the reign of King Tariel III. The
villagers listened quietly, rapt, but when Val said that he knew
Andosto, that he had spoken to him, they roared with disbelief. The
more he protested the more they laughed, until finally one of them
slapped Val on the back and claimed he was the finest storyteller of
all.
  Since they were still laughing, the next speaker, an old woman,
began a humorous tale of Scathiel in disguise, of mistaken identity
and misunderstanding. The night grew older; everyone vowed to
stay awake, to encourage Callabrion by their example to make the
days longer and longer.
  Then the parents with small children went home, and the old
people. Val leaned against the wall and fell asleep in the middle of
the famous tale of how Callabrion had taken his leave of Queen
Ellara the Good.
   Someone shook his shoulder. Val opened his eyes, surprised to
find himself in a small dim room reeking of coal-smoke and fish.
“Narrion?” he said. What had his cousin gotten him into this time?
  “Pebr,” the old man said. His eyes were bright and alert despite
the late hour. “It’s time to go home.”
  “Oh.” Someone opened the door and a blast of cold air blew in,
chilling Val to the bone. He rubbed his eyes. He had missed the
story that was always saved for last, how the goddess Sbona came
to earth and gave birth to the ancestor of the ruling family of
Etrara. “Good fortune, Pebr,” Val said.
  “Good fortune to you, my lord,” Pebr said, his tone more kindly
than usual, and he and Val and Taja set off under the black night
sky for home.


The days returned to what they had been before the feast. Taja
went to work in the library, and Val sat alone in his room or went
for walks by the cliffs. The weather stayed bitterly cold, the sky so
dull and overcast that on some days the sun could not be seen.
Some folks wondered if Callabrion had ascended after all.
  A month after he had come back from Etrara Val sat at his desk,
studying the clutter of papers around him. He was no poet; he had
learned that much from his stay in Tobol An, if nothing else.
  His candles guttered. A sudden movement made him look up.
Taja came into the room, carrying a lamp in her hand like Sbona
bringing light to the heavens. “I’ve made dinner,” she said.
  For a moment he could not say anything, overcome by the
strange sight, a goddess dwelling in a humble stone cottage. Then
he shook his head, dismissing his fancies, and followed her.
  Evening had fallen while he had sat dreaming at his desk; the
sky through the windows was black, with no star to light the
darkness. Taja lit candles and built up the fire while her uncle
brought their supper to the table. Fish again, Val saw. He was
starting to long for the oversweet food of the court, for anything
that hadn’t come out of the sea.
  In the past few weeks he had started to tell Taja and Pebr about
his life in Etrara. Taking a bite of his fish he began to describe King
Gobro’s great banquets, and the gatherings that took place
afterward in Duchess Sbarra’s apartments. “All the court meets
there in the evenings,” he said. “The lady, and her husband the
Duke Talenor, and her poet—”
  “Her poet? Why does she have a poet?” Taja asked.
   “Why?” Val said. He had never realized how strange his life at
court must seem to an outsider. “Everyone high on the ladder has a
poet. If someone’s poet writes a satire about you then your poet has
to respond.”
  “What if he doesn’t?”
  “I can’t think of one that didn’t. If your poet doesn’t respond then
I suppose you lose the respect of other noblemen. You lose your
standing at court.”
   Pebr scowled. He disapproved of the court, though Val didn’t
know why. “You would think people would have better things to
do,” he said. “Dancing and hawking and music and poetry—not one
of you has ever done anything important.”
  “Of course not,” Val said. “It’s important to seem frivolous, to
appear to occupy yourself with the games and fashions of court. But
at the same time most courtiers spend their time scheming, plotting
ways to rise on the ladder.”
  “Bah,” Pebr said. “That’s even worse. Hypocrites, all of them. Do
you do this? Are you as cunning as the rest?”
  “I suppose not. Life at King Gobro’s court suits me. I have to
admit I’m as frivolous as everyone thinks I am.”
  Pebr scowled again. A horse whinnied outside the cottage, and a
few moments later someone knocked loudly at the door.
 Pebr went to the door. A man stood there, shivering in the cold.
He handed Pebr a letter. “For my lord Valemar,” he said.
  Val took the letter from Pebr as he returned to the table. It was
sealed with a willow tree, the crest of his house. A message from
Narrion, at last. He broke it open and began to read.
  “My dear Cousin,” the letter said. “Our exile is at an end. The
reign of King Gobro is over, and we have achieved everything we
have hoped for. Come to Etrara.”
  He read it again to make certain there was no mistake. Then he
looked up; the other two were watching him closely. “Good news?”
Taja asked.
  “The best,” Val said. “I’m going home.”
  “Ah,” Pebr said. His shrewd eyes did not leave Val’s face, and Val
remembered that Pebr thought he had come to Tobol An
voluntarily. It didn’t matter; he would never see these people again.
Nothing mattered, nothing but the fact that he would be gone soon,
traveling through the haunted forest and then home.
   The next morning at dawn he bought a horse with the remainder
of his money and bade farewell to Pebr and Taja. His premonition
on the night of the feast had been a true one. His fortune had
changed; he had ascended with Callabrion.
  As he entered the forest he began to think about Narrion’s letter.
How had Gobro*s reign ended? Gobro must have died, of course,
but how had it happened? Who ruled in Etrara now? And what did
Narrion mean when he said they had achieved everything they had
hoped for? Val hadn’t hoped for anything but a return to Etrara.
What plot did Narrion spin now?
   The shadows of the trees began to lengthen around him. His
apprehension grew. Would he be safe in Etrara? The last time he
had returned to the city someone had tried to kill him. Narrion’s
letter no longer had the power to cheer him; his cousin’s news
might be a two-sided coin.
  When the sun set he stopped to eat the bread and cheese Taja
had given him, then spread his cloak a little ways off the path. He
stretched out on the ground and watched as the first stars appeared
among the trees.
  Moments later he heard horses’ hooves, and the chiming of
bridles. “Ho!” a man’s voice said. “How much longer before we make
camp?”
  Val sat up in the darkness. Who were they? Should he greet
them?
  “We’ll go a ways yet,” another voice said. “Our orders are to get
there as soon as possible.”
  “Are you frightened of the wood?” said a third.
  “Not at all,” the first man said. “Only tired.”
  The second man said something Val could not hear, and then they
were gone. Who had they been? They had been wrong not to fear
the wood; Val had learned that much at least about wizardry. He
was glad he had not hailed them.
  He reached the Gate of Stones by midmorning the next day. As
he rode through the lower city he was surprised at how little had
changed in his absence. The ladders he had seen before were gone,
burned in the great bonfires on the Feast of the Ascending God, but
already several new ladders had been raised to commemorate one
piece of good fortune or another. He urged his horse through the
Street of Stones.
  He saw no one he recognized in the lower city. He crossed the
Darra River, passed the crowded marketplace where the Street of
Stones and the Street of Roses met. He hurried on; he wanted to
know what folks said about him before he took part in the idle
gossip and political discussions of the marketplace.
  The street widened. Statues of the Seven Virtues and Seven
Vices stood to either side of him. The whitewashed houses with
their timbered roofs became taller, two and even three stories high.
On his left he saw the theater and the university, the tall clock
tower capped with gold. Bells rang out eleven times as he passed.
  The street grew steeper as he neared the hill and his house. His
apprehension returned. What would he find when he returned? Had
Gobro confiscated all his wealth?
  As he reached the hill he saw an old friend from the university.
“Dorio!” he called.
  Dorio turned. He was wearing the green and gold of Callabrion;
after graduation he had apprenticed himself            to    the
astronomer-priests. Val had not seen him often since then; the
priests were not allowed to leave the observatory except on
business. “Val!” he said. “Good fortune!”
  Val dismounted, and they embraced. “I hear the king was angry
with you,” Dorio said.
  “Aye,” Val said warily. How much had Dorio learned, cloistered
within the observatory?
  “But Narrion told me he’d taken you to a safe place,” Dorio said.
  “Narrion? Is Narrion back already?”
  “What do you mean? He never left.”
  Never left. Val rubbed his eyes; he was tired from the long
journey through the forest, and tired of treachery as well. “What
did Narrion tell you about me?” he asked carefully.
  “He said that you had done something to anger Gobro, but that
you were safe and out of the king’s reach. That he was working
hard to bring you back.”
  “Did he tell you what I was supposed to have done?”
  “No. He assured me it was not treason, and I know you would not
have done anything to harm the royal house—What was it?”
   “Nothing,” Val said. His weariness gave way to anger. Narrion
had used him, had played with his life as casually as a man might
throw down a conjuring stick. “I’ve done nothing. Narrion killed a
favorite of the king and told me I was in danger. He convinced me
to go into exile. And now you tell me that he never even left the
city.”
  “Damath,” Dorio said. “Narrion killed Damath. But he convinced
the king that it was self-defense. Gobro never punished him for it
at all. Val? Is there something wrong?”
  “Something, yes. I have a few things to say to Narrion when I see
him next.” He thought quickly. He had been right to be careful; he
was not yet out of danger. “Who rules Etrara now?”
  “Queen Callia.”
  “Callia?” Val said, surprised. Any one of Gobro’s half-brothers or
half-sisters would be more suited to rule.
   “Duchess Mariel supported her, and she convinced Duke Arion to
join them. I suppose Arion thinks Callia will be easy to overthrow,
just as Gobro was. Only Duke Talenor opposed them.”
  “What happened to Gobro?”
  “He was poisoned.”
  “Who—”
  “No one knows. Everyone suspects Mariel, of course.”
  “Mariel? Not Callia?”
   “Mariel’s the real ruler. Callia does what her sister tells her. But
you’ll see it all for yourself soon enough—I hear the Duchess Sbarra
still holds gatherings in her apartments.”
  Good, Val thought. He could confront Narrion then. He would be
interested in hearing the man’s excuses.
   He sighed. He had become unused to intrigue in the quiet months
he had spent in Tobol An. Suddenly he longed for the peace of the
fishing village, the nights by the fire talking with Taja and her
uncle. But no—he had forgotten how tedious that life was. He
wondered what sort of place he was suited for, if he would ever be
happy anywhere.
  “How is Tamra?” he asked.
 “Oh, aye,” Dorio said. “That’s an interesting thing. She and
Narrion got married.”



                               Four
                                                               «^»
Taja was walking to the library when the trumpet sounded. At first
she didn’t know what it was: she had never heard the trumpet of
Thole. Then she saw people leave their houses and hurry down the
path, and she realized that the ghost of the forest had been roused.
Someone threatened the peace of Tobol An.
  The trumpet blew again. Taja joined a group of people heading
toward the forest. She saw Pebr ahead of her, and Mathary, and
she realized that the crowd consisted of old men and women and
children. Everyone else would be out on the fishing boats. She
laughed a little to hide her fear. What could this sad little band
hope to accomplish against—against what?
  The ghost-knight had blocked the forest path with his standard.
Three riders dressed in the gold livery of the royal family stood
before him, each mounted on a horse with gold trappings. The
trumpet sounded again.
   The crowd pushed forward as far as the standard. Their brown,
lined faces showed little but stubbornness, but here and there a few
had given way, almost against their wills, to wonderment. No one
living could remember a delegation from Etrara.
  Taja felt a great love for them, for their stolid, hopeless
determination to protect Tobol An against these armed and
armored men. She sought out and found Pebr near the front of the
crowd. If trouble came she could at least see to it that he was safe.
  “We bring greetings from Queen Callia,” one of the mounted men
said.
   A few in the crowd murmured. Taja had known that things had
changed in Etrara; something had called Val away from their
village and back to court. But word of a new queen had not yet
reached as far as Tobol An. Why should it have, after all? The kings
and queens of Etrara had ignored Tobol An since the wizards’ war.
   “Tell Queen Callia that we pledge to serve her as we have served
all the royal family of Etrara,” Pebr said. He made a slight bow,
and Taja smiled. She hadn’t thought her uncle knew that much
about court etiquette.
  “She wishes us to consult some records at the library,” the
queen’s man said. He seemed to be the leader.
   Pebr looked lost. By law everyone had a right to consult the
library, but these men could not mean the people of Tobol An any
good. “We—I’m afraid we cannot let you—”
  “But this is insolence!” another of Callia’s men said, his hand
moving to the hilt of his sword. He rode forward as far as the
knight’s standard and stopped, clearly afraid to continue. “Why are
we standing here bandying words with these peasants? We’re not
asking their permission. We’re giving them a command from their
lawful queen. Any more obstruction and we’ll charge them with
treason—tell them that.”
  Mathary pushed her way through the crowd toward Taja. “Let
them pass, dear,” she whispered. “But see to it that they don’t find
what they came for.”
  Taja looked at the old woman, startled. “Do it, child,” Mathary
said.
  Taja moved forward. “Let them through,” she said. “I’ll show
them to the library.”
  Pebr and a few others looked doubtful. Mathary whispered to
another old man, who nodded and signaled to the crowd to fall back.
   “Good,” the queen’s man said. The hand that grasped his sword
hilt fell back to his side. “At least one of you has some sense. Call
off your guard dog.”
  “He’s not mine to command,” Taja said. “Step through him—he
can’t hurt you.”
  For the space of a heartbeat the man did nothing. Then he closed
his eyes and urged his horse forward. The colors of the knight’s
standard played over him like ripples of firelight.
  The man opened his eyes and looked around him. “He’s like the
ghosts in the city!” he called back to his companions, looking
relieved. “He can’t hurt you. Don’t believe everything you hear
about the haunted forest!”
  The leader pushed his way forward. The third man, who had
hung back a little, walked his horse gently through the standing
ghost Taja thought that he might be a little embarrassed by the
rudeness of his companions.
   The knight returned to his accustomed place on the road. Taja set
off toward the library and the men followed.
   She walked slowly, knowing that the riders would be anxious to
finish their task, that it galled them to have to rein in their
mounts. When they saw the white spire of the library in the
distance they galloped on ahead of her. By the time she reached the
library they had dismounted and were waiting impatiently.
  She unlocked the door to the library and led them in. “Where’s
the librarian?” the leader asked.
  “Here,” she said. “I’m the librarian.”
  The man who had threatened them laughed. “Everyone else is
out guarding the forest, I suppose,” he said, and the leader laughed
with him.
  “What are you looking for?” she asked.
  “The queen wants the records of the royal family,” the leader
said.
  She nodded, and as she did so she saw in her mind the location of
the records, a wooden box on the third level near the library’s
center. She could not recall ever seeing the box before.
   Lately she had been able to find all sorts of things, from Pebr’s
lost drinking cup to a child’s mittens. Pebr always looked fierce
whenever she did it; no doubt he thought it was sorcery.
   But she was beginning to fear that there was magic in it as well;
she thought that no one could live long in the city of wizards
without coming to understand a few tricks. Witchcraft was in the
air they breathed, the food they ate. She had even consulted a few
of the old books of magic, trying to understand what was happening
to her; she had stared hard at the long lists of words, but the books
refused to give up their secrets.
  She put aside her worries for the moment and concentrated on
the men before her. Mathary had told her not to give them what
they wanted. “The records, yes,” she said. “Follow me.”
   She started up the corridor, then opened a door leading to a flight
of stairs. The third man caught up with her as she started to climb.
“That knight in the forest,” the man said. “Who was he?”
   “Legend says that he betrayed the village to a king of Etrara,”
Taja said. “The king had him put to death, quoting the old proverb
that a man who was false once would show himself to be false
again. The knight swore that he would prove his loyalty, and he
vowed to defend the village against all its enemies forever.” They
left the stairs and came out on another corridor.
  “Why did he think we were enemies?”
  “I don’t know,” Taja said. She looked at him. “Are you?”
  The man seemed startled. Taja tried not to laugh. Val had told
her the women of the court were not usually so direct.
   The man said nothing more as she led him and the others
through the library and into the room with the birth records. “This
is everything the king sent us from Etrara,” she said.
  “Where are the records of the royal family?” the leader asked.
  “I don’t know. Somewhere in this room, I imagine.”
  “You don’t know? What kind of librarian are you?”
  “A very busy one. If you don’t mind, I should be getting to my
work.”
   “You won’t be going anywhere. You’ll stay here and wait until we
find what we came for, and then you’ll escort us back. Or did you
think to lose us in the library?”
  She heard the fear in his voice, and knew the other men had
heard it as well. Probably he was unused to libraries and
scholarship, and uneasy in a place with a reputation for sorcery.
   She sat at the table and watched as he and his men opened
drawer after drawer. The leader grew angrier and angrier, and the
man who had insulted the people of Tobol An began to frown as he
rifled through the records. Only the third man remained calm as he
studied the papers in front of him, the lists of children born to
shoemakers and nobility, merchants and scholars.
  “It’s not here,” the leader said finally. “By the Burning Ladder,
you’ve brought us to the wrong place. Where are the records we
want?”
  “I thought they were here,” Taja said. The picture of the wooden
box was strong in her mind.
  “Do you know the penalty for lying to the queen’s men? I could
have you hung for treason.”
  “I’m not lying. If the royal records aren’t with the rest of them I
don’t know where they are.”
  The leader slammed a drawer shut. “Let’s go,” he said. “Show us
the way back.”
  Taja stood. She had not been afraid to exchange words with him,
but now that it was over and they were leaving she felt herself
trembling. She took a deep breath to steady herself and led the men
out of the library.
  After they had gone she walked through the library. She came to
a room filled with uncatalogued books; they lined the shelves and
were piled unsteadily on the floor. A scarred table stood in the
middle of the room, and a small alcove opened off to the side. She
went into the alcove and took a dusty wooden box from a shelf. The
box was locked, but the same vision that had directed her to it now
showed her where to find the key.
  She took the box back to the table and sat for a moment,
studying it. She knew, as strongly as she had ever known anything,
what she would find if she opened it. For a moment she considered
putting it back in its alcove and continuing on as though nothing
had happened. But she could not do that; Callia would not stop until
she learned the truth, and it was better that Val learned it from her
than from the queen.
  And what would he say? She had liked Val at first, thought him
handsome, with his gray eyes and brown hair. He had been very
brave the night of the storm, but the memory that would stay with
her was the sight of him walking along the cliffs, his carefree
singing. He must have been so pampered at court, so protected; he
knew nothing of the harshness of the world. There was an
innocence at the heart of his sophistication.
   But as she grew to know him she had come to see his unthinking
arrogance, his conviction that because he was from the higher
rungs he was somehow superior to Taja, whose parents had been
fisher-folk. She remembered the feast night in Etrara, and how he
had never thought to introduce her to Duchess Callia. And she
remembered his surprise whenever she or Pebr understood one of
his literary references. What did he think they did in the evenings,
with a library the largest thing within miles? Even the fisher-folk
had been known to read a book or two.
   Still, he deserved to be told the truth. More than that, he needed
to know. Taja had only met Callia for a moment, but in that brief
time she had seen that the woman would be a dangerous enemy.
Val should be warned about the new queen, and about other things
as well.
   Taja took a deep breath, stood and found the key behind one of
the books on the shelf. She unlocked the box and saw the papers
she had been expecting. Then she left the library and went into the
village to borrow a horse.
   As she rode into Thole Forest she saw what looked like diamonds
falling from the sky in front of her. The diamonds touched her
hands on the reins and melted, and she realized that she was seeing
snow. She had never encountered it before, not so far south, though
she had read about it in books.
  The severe winter had not lessened after the Feast of the
Ascending God. She said a brief prayer to the Summer God and
pulled her cloak closer around her.


As fortune would have it Narrion was the first person Val saw on
his way to Sbarra’s apartments. “Narrion!” Val said. “What game
are you playing now?”
  “Hush,” Narrion said, looking at the men and women heading
toward Sbarra’s rooms. He pulled Val down a deserted corridor. “I
did nothing.”
   “Nothing? You forced me into exile—because of your devious plots
I spent weeks eating fish and listening to unlettered rustics.” He
was being unfair to Taja and her uncle, he knew; at the moment he
didn’t care. “And all the while you sat at your ease in Etrara. Why?
Because you wanted to marry Tamra? Surely you could have
worked out a less complicated scheme—surely you could have
accomplished your ends without disrupting my life quite so much.”
  “The king wanted you in Tobol An.”
  “Gobro? Why?”
  “I don’t know. He told me—”
  “You don’t know! Why in Callabrion’s name should I believe
anything you say now? Gobro wanted me in Tobol An?
Come—you’ve never been a King’s Man.”
  “Hush,” Narrion said again. He was whispering, though no one in
the corridor could possibly overhear him. This was the Narrion Val
remembered, subtle, secretive, conspiratorial. “I swear by the
Burning Ladder that what I’m telling you is true. Gobro wanted
you in Tobol An for some reason. He paid me, paid me well, to see
that you got there.”
  “What are you telling me? That you killed Damath just to make
certain I went to Tobol An?”
  Narrion grinned. “Well, I have to admit I didn’t like the man very
much. But yes—killing him was the only way I could think of to get
you out of Etrara.”
  “And Tamra had nothing to do with it.”
   “Listen. Listen, Val. I’ve ascended very high on the ladder. Callia
could not have become queen without the help I gave her. I’m in a
position to do you good—you can rise with me. What do you want?
Do you want Tobol An? Lord of Tobol An—it sounds fine, doesn’t
it?”
   Once again his cousin had caught him off balance. He thought of
the stories and laughter of the fisher-folk the night they had read
from the Book of Sbona, of their faces flushed with ale and firelight.
What would they think of him if he returned with the land-ring of
Tobol An on his finger?
  He looked down at his cousin’s hands. Narrion wore three
land-rings on his fingers; he had had only one when Val had left
Etrara. It was true then; Callia and Mariel had rewarded him with
land and titles. But how had he helped them?
 Suddenly Val remembered something Damath had said the night
Narrion killed him: “I saw you at the apothecary’s…”
   Gobro had been poisoned. Narrion had gotten the poison at the
apothecary’s; that had been the help he had given Callia. Perhaps
he had fought with Damath to force Val to leave Etrara, but by
killing the man he had also gotten rid of a dangerous witness. And
with Val out of the way he had been free to marry Tamra.
   There was no end to his cousin’s deviousness, Val thought; the
man never did anything without having three or four reasons for it.
If the plot to kill Gobro hadn’t succeeded Narrion would still be high
in the king’s favor because he had sent Val to Tobol An. He had
worked for both sides.
  “Val?” Narrion said. “Did you hear what I said?”
  “I don’t want any gift of yours,” Val said. “You killed Gobro,
didn’t you?”
  “Quiet—”
  “No, I won’t keep quiet! You committed treason against your
lawful king—”
  “I didn’t kill him.”
  “You bought the poison to kill him, then. Do you deny that?”
   “Mariel and Callia asked me to find the poison. Mariel is a
powerful woman, and even Callia has her supporters. A request
from the royal family has the weight of a command—surely you
understand that.”
  “But you did well out of it. You rose by Gobro’s fall, just as you
said you would.”
  “I couldn’t disobey them. Even you can see that I didn’t have a
choice.”
  Val studied his cousin for a moment. “Of course you had a
choice,” he said softly. “You could have gone into exile.” He turned
and left the corridor without looking back.
  “Val!” three or four people said as he entered Sbarra’s
apartments. “Good fortune, Val, and welcome back. Tell us—”
  “Come sit next to me,” someone said, and the others fell silent.
Val looked in the direction of the voice and saw Queen Callia,
dressed in royal gold and black and white. So the new queen was
serving notice that she would not tolerate any conspiracies begun in
Duchess Sbarra’s rooms; she would not retire discreetly as King
Gobro had. “I want to hear all about the wonderful poetry you
wrote,” Callia said, playing with the black pearls at her throat.
  He took a seat next to her, noticing the golden land-ring of
Etrara on her hand as he did so. Should he tell her what had
happened? With Gobro dead he no longer had to hide the truth. But
Narrion stood very high in the queen’s favor, and it would not do to
accuse his cousin in front of Callia on his first night at court.
  “I’m afraid I have no poetry to show you,” he said. “All I learned
in Tobol An is that I’m no poet.”
   He looked out over the faces around him, all of them eager for
something to break the tedium of the court. Perhaps he would start
a fashion; perhaps now every young courtier would travel to distant
places and write poetry. He hoped their quests would prove more
successful than his had been.
  Tamra and Narrion came into the room and sat near the queen.
Narrion put his arm around Tamra and she leaned closer to him.
Val felt nothing. It had all been a pose, then: he had not loved
Tamra. The knowledge was bitter to him; it would almost have
been better if he could have written her reams of poetry, or
challenged Narrion to a duel.
  But did Narrion care for her? Or had he only married her to rise
higher on the ladder? Tamra had high birth, and her family’s
wealth was far greater than that of the house of the willow tree.
  The talk swirled around him. Listening to them Val realized how
quickly fashions at court changed; he did not know half the people
they mentioned. Gobro had apparently made a secret treaty with
Shai, their old enemy to the east. Callia and her faction—Duchess
Mariel, Narrion and others—thought the treaty shameful, and had
broken it as soon as Callia ascended to the throne.
  “It’s no wonder Gobro’s peace lasted so long,” Arion said. “The
man was a coward, anxious to placate anyone who rattled a sword
in its scabbard. Imagine—he was about to give the Shai access to
our ports! Did he truly think no one among us would object?”
  “As if we’d let them have our riches,” Callia said, playing with
her ring. “As if we’d share the wealth of the colonies across the sea
with them.”
  “What does the Shai ambassador say?” someone asked.
  “Oh, he’s gone home,” Callia said. “Silly man. He said I’d broken
a peace of five years’ standing.” She giggled. “He didn’t understand
that that was exactly what I wanted. And they say the Shai are
subtle folk!”
  “Who says they’re subtle? They have no pageants, no court
amusements—they’re nothing but barbarians.”
  “But they have great poet-mages among them. People say they
speak in poetry.”
  “Will they declare war, do you think?”
  “I hope so. If they don’t I’ll have to do it myself.” Callia giggled
again.
  War, Val thought. So it’s come to that. The world he knew
seemed to have turned upside down while he had sat at his ease in
Tobol An.
  The man sitting at his side turned to him. “And will you fight in
Callia’s war?” he asked.
  “Oh, aye,” Val said.
  “Ah. But do you think valor is the greatest of the Virtues?”
   Val remembered him now; he was the man who had argued in
favor of love the night before Val’s exile. His appearance had not
improved since then; his tunic was, if anything, more threadbare
than before, and his breeches had a hole at the knee. His thick
white hair rayed out from his head, making him look like an image
of the Summer God.
   “No, I agree with you,” Val said. “The greatest of all the Virtues
is love.”
   “Of course it is, my lord,” the man said forcefully. “Of course it
is.”
  Suddenly Val thought he recognized the other man; he had been
the beggar at the Feast of the Ascending God, the one who had
thanked Val for the sovereign and called him “my young lord.” But
no, that was impossible. Although Duchess Sbarra was known for
her charity to beggars she would certainly not have invited one to
her gatherings.
   The other man watched Val shrewdly. For a moment he seemed
to become what he resembled, the Summer God, the Wandering
God. Gold sparked from his eyes. The room grew warmer, seemed
to pulse with heat. Val felt dazed, unanchored. Could this man be a
god? Was Val blessed by a god’s nearness?
  He had never encountered one of the gods, though he knew
people who claimed they had. He glanced down at the man’s right
foot to see if he had lost his big toe, but the other man wore old
leather boots that came to his calves.
  Val shook his head. This man could not be Callabrion; Callabrion
had ascended. “I’m sorry—I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” he
said.
  A noise came from the corridor outside. Duchess Sbarra motioned
to her poet, who stood and went to the door. “It’s a woman,” the
poet said when he came back. He cast a knowing smile over the
gathering. “She says she’s looking for Valemar.”
   Val stood, puzzled, and went to the door. “He’ll ascend to heaven
tonight,” someone in the room said, and the others laughed. He
closed the door behind him.
  Taja waited for him in the corridor.
  “Taja,” Val said, bowing slightly. “Good fortune.” He understood
the poet’s amusement now; the man had no doubt seen immediately
that Taja was from the lower rungs.
  “We can’t talk in the hallway,” Taja said. “Is there somewhere we
can go?”
  “Of course,” Val said. Almost all the rooms in the palace would be
empty; everyone had gone to the gathering in Duchess Sbarra’s
apartments. He led her down the corridor. A cold draft blew
through the stone and marble halls, and he shivered.
   They came to Duke Arion’s rooms. Val glanced inside and then
motioned her to follow him. She looked around as they entered, but
if she was impressed by the opulence, the tapestries and carved
beams and huge hearth, she didn’t show it. Candles burned in front
of displays of gold plate, casting a warm glow over the room.
  “What brings you to Etrara?” Val asked.
   “Queen Callia sent her men to Tobol An,” Taja said. “She wanted
to consult some records in the library. Records of the royal family.”
  Val nodded, wondering why she was telling him this. Certainly
Callia had the right to use the library.
  “I found the records after they had gone,” Taja said. “They…
Here. You’d better read it yourself.”
  She took three folded pages from her purse and gave them to
him. The first recorded a marriage between King Tariel III and a
woman named Marea. The second showed that a child had been
born to them in the seventh year of Tariel’s reign. The child had
been named Valemar.
  He held the records loosely, uncertain what she wanted of him.
Surely she didn’t think—
   “You’re the lawful king,” she said, whispering. “See, here—it says
they had to keep the marriage secret because the king had so many
illegitimate children. The mothers of these children were ambitious,
and would have had Marea or the child killed. Would have had you
killed. Etrara was at war with Shai then, and at least one of the
mothers sided with Shai against Tariel. And look here—” She
pointed to the third page. “Marea eventually died. Of unknown
causes, it says. Usually whenever that appears in the records it
means poison.”
  “What are you saying?”
   “Here. Look here. There’s a description of the charm King Tariel
gave his son—a heron, it says. You’re wearing it now. You’ve worn
it every day since I’ve known you.”
  Without thinking, Val put his hand to the charm at his throat.
“My mother gave me this,” he said. “My parents—are you saying
the king gave me to them to raise?”
  “I don’t know. Your parents might not have known who you are.
They could have been childless, and one of the king’s men could
have given you to them. It’s happened before—an unmarried
woman of the court has a child, and someone finds a place for it.
Maybe that’s what your parents thought.”
  Val shook his head slowly. He remembered his parents’
discretion, their unwillingness to push themselves forward, and he
thought that they might have been trying to hide him, to keep him
and themselves from coming to the attention of the royal family. It
would be dangerous to claim the throne, whoever ruled.
  His heart beat loudly against his chest. The throne, he thought.
King of Etrara. Son of Tariel. Son of Sbona.
  “Callia tried to have you killed that night, at the     Feast of the
Ascending God,” Taja said. “She knew that the royal       birth records
are kept separate from the rest, and she guessed who      you must be.
When she became queen she tried to make certain.          But she still
doesn’t know.”
  Val said nothing. Only an hour ago Narrion had offered him
Tobol An. Taja’s news seemed fantastic, a dream that would fade on
waking. But at the same time it felt more real than anything that
had gone before, the truth beneath the glittering deceptions of the
court. King of Etrara. The rightful king.
  What should he do? His parents had been right; it would be
dangerous to act. But if Callia knew his secret it would be
dangerous not to.
  “What will you do?” Taja asked.
  “Nothing.”
  Was that the truth? He thought that it was. He could hide his
knowledge from Callia, remain a minor nobleman at court. But he
would watch very carefully as the counters of fortune fell. Perhaps
he could rise to the highest rung a mortal might attain, just below
the gods in heaven.
   “Your life is in danger,” Taja said. “Callia’s tried to have you
killed once already.”
  “I’ll be safe. The queen will see that I have no desire to rule. But I
thank you for coming all this way on such a cold night.”
  “Well, then—give me the records back.”
  “What will you do with them?”
  “They’ll be safe.”
  He studied the records again before he gave them to her. Three
pages, and his life and fortune were changed utterly. Had the
Maegrim come for him on that dark night? But then why had they
predicted ill fortune? “Do you have a place to stay?” he asked.
  She nodded. “I have a room at an inn. Good fortune, Val.”
  He bowed to her as she left. It was too late to return to Sbarra’s
gathering, and he needed time alone to think. He walked down the
darkened hill to his house. His parents, his real parents, had been a
king and queen; he was king of Etrara.
  Halfway down the hill he understood why King Gobro had sent
him to Tobol An. Gobro had wanted him to discover the truth about
his birth. The king had known his place on the ladder was
uncertain and had wanted to abdicate, but could not risk favoring
one brother or sister over another. Perhaps he thought that if Val
learned the truth through his own efforts he would return to Etrara
with an army. Poor man, poor doomed man. He had not understood
Val’s caution; he had guessed wrong in this as in so much else.


Taja led the horse she had borrowed through the streets of Etrara,
looking for the inn she and Val had visited the night of the feast.
The streets wound beneath her feet like a skein of yarn, and she
wondered how anyone in the city managed to get from one place to
another. Tobol An was an honest place compared to the cunning of
Etrara; everything there was open, in plain sight.
  A group of people came out of the house in front of her, singing
and laughing. She cursed and reined in the horse. She felt angry
with Val, angry with herself for coming all this long way on a
fruitless errand. And it had started to snow again; she shivered in
her light homespun clothing.
   He was hiding something from her, she felt certain of it. “I have
to admit I’m as frivolous as everyone thinks I am,” he had said
once. But she had seen the shadow that came over his face as she
talked to him, the watchful, guarded expression in his eyes; he had
lost a little of his innocence.
  She cursed again. She had lost her way in Etrara; there could no
longer be any doubt of it. Her talent for finding things seemed to
have deserted her in this strange place. She had been unable to
reach to Val’s heart, to discover what he planned.
  Well, it was her own fault, after all. No one could receive such
astonishing news and remain unchanged; she should have expected
that. But already she found she missed the lighthearted courtier
who had come singing to Tobol An.
  She would have to rest soon; she was weary from her long
journey. Up ahead she saw the signboard of an unfamiliar inn, and
she urged the horse forward.
  What these fine men and women did was none of her business,
she knew that. But she remembered the frivolous woman she had
met at the Feast of the Ascending God, and she could not help but
think that Callia’s reign would be disastrous.



                                Five
                                                                «^»
A few days later Val went to a ladder maker on the Street of
Spiders. As he carried his ladder through the streets of Etrara folks
smiled to see him, and a few called out “Good fortune!” as though to
share in his luck. People in the city bought ladders to commemorate
especially fortunate days, birthdays or weddings or festivals. Val
had gotten his to thank the god Callabrion for ending his exile.
   He set the ladder against the wall of his house and stepped back
to look at it. The first ladder of the new year, the first piece of good
fortune to come to the house of the willow tree. Later he would plan
how to decorate it. He said a brief prayer to Callabrion and then
went off to the Street of Apricots to take care of some errands. The
food in his buttery had rotted in his absence, and his clothes were
several months out of date.
  Taja had told him that there was no ladder maker in Tobol An,
that the villagers made their own ladders. But already the flat,
dreary plain of the village was fading from his mind like a dream,
replaced by the bustle and color and clamor of his city. Nothing
could stop the business of Etrara, he thought as he went, not even
the lowering sky and the threat of snow.
  A group of actors dressed in the costumes of The Sorcerer’s
Tragedy stood outside the theater, arguing heatedly. A merchant
drove his cart toward them without stopping, and they scattered,
turning to shout curses at him. Past them a broom seller called out
her wares, and beyond her Val saw a solitary student leaning
against a statue of Patience, the scholar’s Virtue.
  But all the time Val made his way through the streets of Etrara,
he was conscious of the extraordinary news Taja had brought him.
King of Etrara. King of the actors, and the broom sellers, and the
students. He would have to be careful now, as cunning as Narrion.
Did Callia suspect he knew? Did Taja guess his ambitions? It was
best for the moment to remain hidden, to remain Val.
  A battalion of soldiers on horseback blocked the road in front of
him. “Good fortune!” the passersby called to the soldiers as they
passed, and one or two grinned back and made the sign of the
Ascending God. They looked shockingly young, almost like children.
  The soldiers continued toward the river and across Darra Bridge.
People lined the road now, forced to stop until the procession had
passed. A few cheered. “They’re going to fight in the border wars
with Shai,” one woman said to another. “We’ll show those
king-killers they can’t have our ports,” a man near Val said.
   Val watched the soldiers go. He frowned. He had heard enough
court news to know that the war with the Shai had not begun yet.
And if the soldiers were on their way to Shai then why were they
riding south, toward the Gate of Stones and Thole Forest?
Shouldn’t they be headed east?


The soldiers reached Tobol An late in the afternoon. The
ghost-knight sounded his trumpet but the commander had been told
what to expect and rode through him with only a barely perceptible
shiver of fear. His men followed.
   Taja had returned to Tobol An several hours earlier. She had
hidden the records of Val’s birth in the library and then gone home
to tell Pebr what had happened in the city. “He said he doesn’t want
to be king,” she said.
  “Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Pebr asked.
  “I don’t know. He’s hiding something, I’m certain of that much.
He’s become like the courtiers he used to talk about, the ones who
say one thing and mean another. I’m afraid for him—he’s never
really learned to be deceitful.”
  Pebr shrugged. “It’s none of our business what those grand folks
get up to at court.”
  Now, hearing the trumpet of Thole Forest, Taja knew exactly
what had happened. The queen’s men had returned for the records.
Would they be able to find them where she had hidden them,
among tax registries from the reign of King Gobro II? She didn’t
think so. She and Pebr hurried out and watched as the soldiers rode
toward the cluster of cottages.
  “Citizens of Tobol An,” the commander said to the people who had
gathered in the dirt road between the cottages. A thin rain fell.
Wind blew across the plain, bending the hardy grasses that grew in
the dirt, and Taja shivered. “We are here by the queen’s command
to protect you from the Shai. We are here to see that these
barbarians do not gain access to the port of Tobol An, or to any of
our lands beyond the seas. By the power of the queen I am
authorized to garrison my troops in your houses, and to requisition
any food that they may need. Are there any questions?”
  “Aye,” someone said, an old woman whose husband had died in
the great storm the year before. “We’re not one of the great ports
here—no one has ever set off from Tobol An to any of the lands
beyond the seas. Why do we need protection?”
  The commander motioned to two of his men, who dismounted and
took the old woman by the arms. The men looked very young,
almost like boys. “Mother of light!” Pebr said, moving forward. A
few of the others came forward with him.
  The expression on the commander’s face stopped them. “It is
treason to question the commands of your lawful queen,” the
commander said. “I’m going to cage her, as a warning to the rest of
you. Do you understand?”
  “No,” an old man said. The commander signaled to his soldiers
again, but before they could move the old man said quickly, “What
does that mean, to cage someone?”
  “Watch,” the commander said. Taja, who had twice seen the
caged criminals in lower Etrara, thought there was a slight smile
on the man’s face; he seemed to be enjoying himself.
  Other soldiers went to the provision carts and took out an iron
cage, and the old woman’s guards forced her into it. There were
none of the cage supports in Tobol An that Taja had seen in the
city; the soldiers looked around for a moment before they found a
tree whose branches looked high enough and strong enough. One of
the soldiers lifted the cage by himself, and he and the others joked
about how light the woman must be.
  Another man set up a ladder near the tree. Taja saw with shock
that the man carrying the cage paused to say a prayer to the
Ascending God before he climbed the ladder, and she wondered how
in Callabrion’s name he could possibly consider himself godly. And
these people called the Shai barbarians!
  After the soldiers had hooked the cage on a tree branch, the
commander addressed the people again. “If you think that this
woman’s dreadful crime—and treason is a dreadful crime—merits
her punishment, then you will avoid her until she has served her
sentence.”
   “How—how long will her sentence be?” someone asked. The
woman in the cage had not spoken a word since the soldiers had
pinioned her arms, but her face had turned the color of bleached
linen.
  “As long as I want it to be,” the commander said.
  “But—” someone else said, and was hushed.
   The commander looked around at the assembled faces. Taja saw
that he didn’t understand the villagers of Tobol An, that of course
the woman’s friends and kinfolk would feed her while she remained
in the cage. Even people who had quarreled with her, who hadn’t
spoken to her in months, would band together against the invaders
from Etrara. Folks did things differently here.
  She watched stolidly as the commander assigned a soldier to the
house she shared with Pebr. Pebr opened his mouth as if to protest,
then closed it.
  Taja went with him to their house, intending to see that he kept
out of trouble. She knew that the old woman, now swaying above
them in her cage as if in judgment of them all, had been right. The
soldiers hadn’t come to Tobol An to protect the harbor against the
Shai. They had come for the birth records. Callia intended to make
certain that her claim to the throne was secure.
The proclamations appeared in Etrara within the first months of
Callia’s reign, large sheets of paper glued to the walls of the city
and to houses and merchants’ shops and stalls. It was forbidden to
stay out-of-doors past a certain hour, except on feast days. All
visitors to the city must register with the watch, stating where
they came from and how long they intended to stay. Anyone
overhearing treason against the queen had to report what they
heard to the watch. All the Maegrim must come forward and give
their names to the Queen’s Pen.
  This last proclamation caused the most surprise, and some
outrage, when the queen’s men posted it on the walls, when those
who were literate read it aloud to people from the lower rungs. No
one knew for certain who the Maegrim were. Most folks thought
them ordinary women—seamstresses and actors, laundresses and
noblewomen—who heard the call of the gods and came to dance.
There were always six of them; the seventh was summoned during
the dance and disappeared when the dance ended.
  Val had heard people guess that they must be unmarried; no one
with a husband or children could hide their calling so successfully.
But others thought that they might have married especially
discreet men, people who could keep the secret entrusted to them.
  Within a few days the astronomer-priests had formed a
delegation to protest the decree. The Maegrim were holy women,
the priests claimed in their petition, bound to the goddess Sbona
herself. Their rituals were older than recorded history. Acting, they
said, had developed from these rituals, just as the custom of poets’
feuds had grown out of the wars of the poet-wizards.
   Queen Callia kept the priests waiting in the palace antechamber
for three days before finally letting them see an official, who turned
out to be the assistant to the undersecretary to the Queen’s Pen.
The assistant would not take their petition, explaining that Callia’s
decree could not be changed. “We can’t allow magic to flourish
unchecked in this city,” he said. “Those who are not directly under
the queen’s control might someday turn against her, don’t you
think?”
  “It’s not that simple—”
  “Do you remember the king’s banquet last year, when the
Maegrim prophesied ill fortune?” the assistant said. A few of the
priests made as if to speak, but the official raised his voice and
spoke over them. “Yes, we know about that last cast, that it was a
summer cast instead of a winter one. You see, that’s my point.
Everyone knew, or had heard rumors. People panicked—some even
packed up and left the city. With the Maegrim speaking only for the
queen this sort of thing won’t happen in banquet halls or public
streets anymore. No one need worry about things that don’t concern
them.”
  “But you can’t regulate magic,” one of the priests said. “The
Maegrim can’t control when their call comes, or who it’s intended
for.”
 The assistant smiled. “You priests think you know all about
magic,” he said, showing them out.
  As they left, one of the priests turned and said, “That last cast,
the one that predicted ill fortune—that was meant for all of us, for
the city of Etrara.”
  This priest and some of the others were arrested and caged a few
days later. The cages grew more numerous, and the queen’s men
began building cage supports north of the river, in upper Etrara.
Women suspected of being Maegrim appeared in the cages too, and
people living next door to unmarried women began to distrust their
neighbors. But none of the Maegrim ever came forward.
   Officers began impressing young men into Callia’s army, and the
sight of soldiers became a common one on the streets of Etrara.
Excitement grew; it was an open secret that the army would invade
the country of Shai soon. But at one of Duchess Sbarra’s gatherings
the Queen’s Axe told Val, in whispers, that Callia had no money to
pay the soldiers, that Gobro had emptied the treasury.
  Perhaps it was this that caused the people to turn against their
queen. Folks began to feed the caged criminals, openly at first and
then, when ordered to desist by the watch, at night and in secret.
Satires about the queen and Duchess Mariel, about the Queen’s
Coin, Pen and Axe, appeared overnight on the walls of the city, but
despite the edict Callia issued against the satirists they were never
caught.
  Callia took a poet-mage into her service. Folks laughed when
they saw him, a pompous-looking man in an overlarge cloak. The
age of magic is past, people said, nodding to one another sagely. It
ended when King Tariel’s wizards died.
  And through it all Val watched and waited. As Callia grew more
unpopular he thought it would soon be time to act, to speak to a few
trusted men and women. If Callia fell from the ladder, he himself
might rise.


Callia waited at the council-chamber door as the herald announced
her. She had ordered him to add “Queen of Shai” to her list of titles,
and she listened with satisfaction as he spoke all the
sonorous-sounding phrases, all the lands she owned. When he had
finished she stepped into the council chamber.
  Everyone else, of course, had already arrived and was waiting for
her. Mariel sat to the right of Callia’s chair at the head of the table,
Arion and Talenor to the left. The Queen’s Pen, Coin and Axe were
farther down the table. Penriel, the poet-mage, had taken a seat
next to the Queen’s Axe and was bent toward him, deep in
conversation.
  Callia nodded to Penriel as she sat. Gobro had been a fool not to
have taken a wizard into his service, she thought.
  At the foot of the table sat Narrion and a few of the others who
had helped Callia come to power. A scribe had taken his station at a
small side table, ready to record whatever was said at the meeting.
  Arion looked at her expectantly. “When are we going to invade
Shai?” he asked.
  “Soon,” she said. “But we need money to raise an army, and
there, I think, Lord Carrow can help us.”
  The Queen’s Coin looked up from his notes and she smiled at him.
Callia knew that he approved of her; she did not waste money on
spectacle as Gobro had. And if the invasion of Shai succeeded they
would all be far wealthier; Shai’s vineyards and vast silver mines
would be theirs.
  “We can raise the taxes on the ships returning from the colonies
in Astrion and Udriel,” the Queen’s Coin said. “And I have a list
here of other items that can be taxed as well.”
  Carrow began to read. Arion stirred restlessly in his seat. He had
always been impatient; when he and Callia had been small children
together he had hated the pageantry and ritual of King Tariel’s
court. “I don’t understand why we can’t invade now,” he said when
Carrow had finished. “Gobro had a standing army, after all.”
  “Some of the army has been sent south,” Callia said.
   Mariel looked at her in alarm. Callia knew that Mariel thought
her as stupid as Gobro, that her half-sister had intended to rule the
country even though Callia wore the land-ring of Etrara. But Callia
had proved less malleable than Mariel had hoped, and more capable
of taking care of herself.
  “South?” Arion said. “What’s in the south?”
  “There’s been an uprising,” Callia said. “In Tobol—”
  “In several of the sea villages,” Mariel said, interrupting her.
“Nothing important, but we have to see that we keep control of the
ports. It would be ironic, wouldn’t it, if we won the war against the
Shai but let the very ports we fought over slip from our grasp.”
 Arion was frowning. “But why wasn’t I told?” he said. “If there’s
war—”
   “It’s not a war,” Mariel said. “Those villagers have never fought
anyone in their lives. We could have sent the watch to take care of
it, if we could have spared them. There’s no honor in battle there, if
that’s what you’re looking for.”
  Arion seemed satisfied. Callia sat back, relieved; it could prove
disastrous if Arion went to Tobol An.
   She wondered why the men she had sent were taking so long to
find the records she had asked for. The commander wrote her
letters complaining about the stubbornness of the villagers, but she
knew that there was always a remedy for stubbornness—the cage,
and then, if that yielded nothing, torture on the ladder.
  Did Val know that he was the rightful heir? He’d been a little
distant since he’d come back from Tobol An, but Mariel had said
that that might be the result of exile, and of seeing his cousin
marry the woman he had courted. Callia knew, as all the king’s
children had known, that the records of the royal house were kept
separate from the others, and she had heard rumors since she was
a small child of a legitimate heir. But Mariel had assured her that
those rumors had never left the palace; there was no reason to
believe that Val had heard them too.
  Still, she would have to deal with Val sooner or later. He
represented too great a danger to her throne.
  Lord Varra, the Queen’s Pen, was looking at her expectantly. She
realized that he had asked her a question and was waiting for her
reply. “I’m sorry?” she said.
   “I was told that several astronomer-priests came to see me the
other day,” the Queen’s Pen said. “They wanted to protest your
latest decree, the one about the Maegrim. It seems to me that
challenging the Maegrim might not be wise at this time, that you
might want to reconsider…”
  “We want to know who the Maegrim are,” she said, smiling at
the Queen’s Pen. “Uncontrolled magic is a danger to the throne.”
  “Why do you say that?” Varra asked. “The Maegrim are ordinary
women, nothing more.”
  “How ordinary can women be who are possessed by the gods?”
Callia asked.
  “This isn’t a fit subject for a council meeting,” Mariel said.
  “I would like to go on record—” Varra said.
  “Very well,” Callia said. “Lord Varra is on record as protesting
our decree.” She smiled again. She would have to find another Pen,
someone less argumentative. She certainly couldn’t rescind her
decree now; she could not let the people think her weak.
  But even if she could back down she wouldn’t do it. Ever since
she was a girl her mother, Lady Godemar, had stressed the
importance of magic to a ruler. And there was no doubt in Callia’s
mind that Godemar believed what she taught; she had been the one
to poison Tariel’s wizards, though no one but Callia knew that. Her
mother would have gone on to poison Tariel himself if she hadn’t
died of the plague.
  What would Lady Godemar think if she could see her daughter
now, wearing the land-ring of Etrara and presiding over her council
meeting? Callia studied her councilors. “Is there anything else?” she
asked.
  “Yes,” someone said.
   Callia looked down at the foot of the table. Narrion. She frowned
a little; she had made him a council member because of the help he
had given them, but she had intended the position to be an
honorary one. She certainly hadn’t expected him to speak in
council. “Yes, what is it?” she asked.
  “As you know, my lady, I am a member of the Society of Fools,
sworn to Scathiel, the winter god.”
  “Yes, yes,” Callia said impatiently.
  “I’ve talked to several members of the Society, and all of them
say the same thing. The days continue to grow shorter. Callabrion
did not ascend this year.”
  Penriel looked startled, Carrow thoughtful. Arion said, “Are you
certain—” and at the same time Varra nodded and said, “Aye, I’ve
heard something of this.”
  “I’m certain,” Narrion said.
  “What do you expect us to do about it?” Callia asked.
   “I don’t know,” Narrion said. He spread his fingers on the table.
“But I think this news is more pressing than anything we’ve
discussed in council so far. We cannot live without the summer god.
If the days continue to grow shorter we will lose everything we’ve
worked for.”
   “I don’t see how this is your concern,” Callia said. “You’re sworn
to the winter god, you said so yourself. If he still rules in heaven, so
much the better for you.”
  “There is a balance here,” Narrion said. “Summer and winter, life
and death—”
  “This is a subject for philosophers at the university, not a council
meeting,” Callia said. She waved a hand, dismissing him. “I’d like to
hear more about the invasion of Shai. What are our plans for that?”


Mariel’s head was pounding by the time her sister finally dismissed
the council. All around her people were standing and bidding good
fortune to their fellows; several council members extended
invitations to others to continue some discussion over wine. The
Queen’s Axe rolled up the parchment maps he had displayed, and
her scribe capped his bottles of ink and carefully put his quills back
into their pen case.
  “Good fortune, sister,” Callia said to her.
  “You shouldn’t let the meeting run away from you like that,”
Mariel said. She hadn’t intended to sound so blunt, but her head
hurt far too much for her to be polite. Everyone else had left the
council chamber, though; she could say what she wanted without
fear of being overheard.
  “What do you mean?”
  Mariel saw with surprise that Callia seemed pleased with the
way the meeting had gone. “You don’t have to answer to Lord
Varra,” Mariel said, rubbing her forehead wearily. “He’s your
minister—he has to answer to you. When he asked about the
Maegrim you should have changed the subject.”
  “Oh, don’t worry about Varra. I’ll have a new Pen soon enough.”
  “Do you think that people will let you? Varra has a great many
supporters. And what about Narrion?”
  “What about him?”
  “Is what he said about Callabrion true? Why have we heard
nothing about it?”
  “It’s a rumor, nothing more. Or a jest of that society of his, the
Society of Fools. If it were true, the priests would have brought it to
our attention.”
  “Why did he speak in council at all? We should never have given
him a seat. The land we gave him should have been enough.”
  “He’s always tried to rise above his station. He should remember
that his house is weak and nearly powerless. His and Val’s.”
  “No, sister,” Mariel said. “Not Val’s.”
  “True,” Callia said. She giggled. “Not Val’s.”
  “It’s fortunate we never told Narrion about Val’s birth,” Mariel
said. “You and I are the only ones who know. But what will we do
about Narrion?”
  “It’s simple. We’ll force him off the council.”
  “We can’t—he knows too much about our affairs. He’s a
dangerous man.”
  “Well, then, we’ll have meetings without him, meetings of the
inner council. Don’t worry—Narrion has no real power.”
  “And Talenor—”
  “Talenor? He never said a word during the entire meeting.”
  “That’s what I mean. What was he thinking? He’s plotting
something, there’s no doubt of that.”
 Callia laughed. “He never takes his nose out of his books. Come,
Mariel—your imagination’s running away with you.”
  “I don’t think so. Remember that he was the one to oppose you—”
  “Listen,” Callia said. Her voice was hard now. “We agreed that I
should take the land-ring when Gobro died. I think you should trust
me to act like a queen.”
  Mariel watched as her sister left the council chamber. That was
the problem, she thought; her sister did act like a queen. Only there
was no substance behind her actions; she might just as well have
been impersonating someone in a history play, a queen long dead.
  Mariel leaned back in her chair. The meeting had been one
disaster after another. Everyone now knew that Callia had business
in the south, and had probably heard the name of the village that
had aroused her interest. Not a few people would wonder what had
happened there.
  And Varra, and Narrion, and Talenor… Dangers beset them from
every direction. She had never realized how difficult it would be to
govern, to protect the throne.
  She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. As soon as she
did so she saw Gobro’s face as it had looked after they had given
him the poison. He had been gasping, struggling for breath, and his
hands had reached out to his half-sisters. Callia had giggled a little.
Mariel had seen a terrible recognition in his eyes; he had known
what was happening to him. And his skin had turned as blue as
robins’ eggs. Narrion hadn’t said anything about his skin turning
blue.
   She opened her eyes. She wondered if she would see the picture
of Gobro dying before she went to sleep, as she had seen it every
night since Callia had ascended to the throne. She rubbed her
temples again, determined to visit another apothecary. The potion
she had gotten from the last one hadn’t done her much good.


Narrion walked up Palace Hill toward the observatory. Callia was a
simpleton, and that blunt-witted council of hers was worse. Not one
of them could face the truth: if Callabrion did not ascend, the crops
would die. First the crops, then the people. And everything he had
worked for would be lost. He would be excluded from the council
after this, he knew. No one welcomed the bearer of ill news.
Everyone on the council was busy planning the invasion of Shai,
planning a thousand ways to rise on the ladder; they would take
care not to see the approaching darkness. He would have to go his
own way.
  He stopped at the observatory and knocked loudly. The porter
opened the door. “I’d like to see Dorio,” Narrion said.
  “Wait here,” the porter said. He turned and went down the halls
of white stone, and came back a few moments later with Dorio,
Narrion’s friend from the university who had become an
astronomer-priest.
  “I need to talk to you,” Narrion said when the porter had gone.
“Where can we go that’s private?”
  Dorio hesitated. “What do you have to tell me that can’t be said
here?” he asked.
  “Come, Dorio,” Narrion said. He stepped inside the observatory
and moved closer to the other man. “We’re both of us keepers of
mysteries, disciples of Scathiel and Callabrion. Surely there are
things we might say that should not be overheard by anyone else.”
   Dorio nodded. “I’d heard you’d joined the Society of Fools.
Strange—when we were together at the university I never thought
of you as a religious man.”
  “I am. My god is Scathiel, though—the god of winter and death
and misrule, god of the cold wind that whispers at your back. He’s
very different from yours.”
   Dorio hesitated. “I’ll take you to one of the towers,” he said
finally. The observatory had a differently shaped tower at each of
its four corners; they stood even higher than the palace. “No one
uses the telescopes during the day.”
  Narrion followed Dorio down the corridor, passing other men
wearing the green and gold of Callabrion. They went through
another corridor, then up a flight of stairs.
  They continued to climb. Shallow depressions hollowed the stone
stairs. Generations of priests had come to the towers to study the
heavens, at first using only their naked eyes and then, beginning
twenty-five years ago, the telescopes.
  They gained the top. A wooden telescope bound in brass stood
there; its base was at least two feet around and its top broke
through the roof of the tower. It was fitted with a brass wheel so it
could be moved, and an oak ladder climbed to the eyepiece.
  As soon as they reached the top of the stairs Narrion closed the
door behind him and turned to face Dorio. “You know, of course,
that summer hasn’t come,” he said. “Callabrion hasn’t ascended.”
  Alarm showed on Dorio’s face. Narrion felt gratified to see it.
“How—how do you know this?” Dorio asked.
  “You and your priests thought the secret safe within the
observatory, didn’t you? Yet anyone who follows the track of the
sun has noticed that it sets earlier each day. The Society of Fools
knows this, and so do some of the farmers in the provinces.
Callabrion did not wed the goddess Sbona—Scathiel still reigns in
the heavens.”
  Dorio nodded. “We’re aware of that.”
  “Are you? And what will you do about it?”
  “Why does that concern you? Winter hasn’t ended—the disciples
of Scathiel should be pleased. The god of winter rules still in
heaven.”
  “What do they teach you in this place?” Narrion said, suddenly
angry. Dorio stepped back a little. “Winter is brother to
summer—you of all people should know that. Scathiel cannot rule
alone. We have to convince Callabrion to return to the heavens. If
he doesn’t everything will die. Our world will end.”
  “Is that what the Society of Fools says?”
   “The Society says nothing. We’re not an order like the priests,
living separately in our observatories. We have no leaders, no
followers, only men and women devoted to spreading misrule in the
early months of winter. I’ve spoken to a few friends of mine, and
they all agree that something should be done, but none of us knows
what. That’s why I decided to talk to you. Because the two of us
need to discuss such things, and to make certain that summer
returns.”
  “You made this decision on your own?” Dorio asked.
  “Yes. Is that so surprising?”
  “We don’t have that luxury. My order is a strict hierarchy—I’ll
have to talk over what you’ve said with my superiors.”
  “Good,” Narrion said. “But you have to hurry.”
  “Why?”
   “Because the queen is about to declare war. Do you hear nothing
of the world outside in this great observatory of yours?”
  “Very little,” Dorio said. “The order does not encourage us to
leave the observatory.” He looked down at Narrion’s hands, at the
land-rings on his fingers. “I know that the queen has raised you
high on the ladder, that you have the queen’s ear. Can’t she help
you?”
  “I’ve just come from her council. All her thought is on war. I
would not put my trust in the queen.”
  Dorio said nothing for a moment. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll talk to
the priests. You’re right—those of us who are bound to the gods
should discuss this matter.”
  “Good.”
  “When do you think war will come?” Dorio asked.
   “Within the week,” Narrion said. “I’ll let myself out. Good
fortune, Dorio.”
  He turned and left; his boots echoed in the stone stairway as he
went. Would Dorio help him? The priests thought themselves
inviolate, he knew; they had survived generations of war and
plague and treachery hidden behind the walls of their observatory.
But no wall in the world could keep out the darkness that was
about to come.


Duke Arion went down Palace Hill to visit Valemar. As fortune
would have it the other man was just leaving his house when Arion
arrived. “Val!” he called. “Valemar!”
  Val turned. “Good fortune, Arion,” he said.
  “I have to ask you something,” Arion said. “You went to Tobol An,
didn’t you? Is there anything there?”
  “What do you mean?”
   Arion hesitated, not wanting to reveal what he had learned from
Callia in the council meeting. “Someone was asking me about it the
other day. He wanted to visit the place for a few days and asked me
to come along.”
  Val laughed. “I wouldn’t. There’s nothing there but a few cottages
and some ruins. Fish every night.”
  “Ah,” Arion said. He took his leave and went back to his rooms at
the palace. What did his sister want with such an uncivilized place?
He frowned, puzzled. Perhaps he should go to Tobol An after all.
                               Six
                                                            «^»
Arion’s journey through the Forest of Thole was uneventful. The
ghost-knight in the path startled him for a moment, but then he
saw the cold rain falling through the man and his horse and he
nodded and continued onward. He had heard tales of the wizardry
of Thole Forest, but now he thought that these were stories told to
frighten children, nothing more. He did not see that there was
anything here more terrifying than the ghosts of Etrara.
  When he came out of the forest he saw that Val had been right;
Tobol An held nothing but stone cottages and a few ruins. No—a
white spire towered in the distance. What was that? Should he go
there? Or should he see how Callia’s troops fared against the
uprising?
   One of the Maegrim stood before him on the path. His pulse
quickened and he looked around for the other five, his heart filled
with a strange combination of fear and hope. His fortune was about
to change.
  But none of the other women appeared, and after a moment
Arion realized that she was alone. A harmless old aunt, nothing
more, he thought. She came closer and he saw that her hood was
not badger skin but plain black cloth.
  “Welcome, my young lord,” she said.
  “I thank you, aunt,” he said. “Could you tell me—”
   “Aye. I can tell you many things. You will love a foe and hate a
friend, and one will betray you and the other save you. You will
have your heart’s desire.”
  “I—I thank you—”
  “Do you?” She looked at him shrewdly with her one good eye.
“You may not be so grateful when it comes to it.”
  “Do you know where the queen’s commander is?”
  She said nothing, but pointed upward.
  He looked where she pointed and saw only rain and sky.
“What—what do you mean?”
  “You asked for the queen’s commander. Surely the only one to
command the queen is the goddess Sbona, who lives in heaven.”
  He sighed. The woman had lost her wits, that much was certain.
He could not help but feel a little regret at the loss of his heart’s
desire; none of the fortune-tellers and natalists he had consulted in
the city had ever promised him such a marvelous future.
  “Good fortune, aunt,” he said, and continued on the path toward
the village.
   He passed a few men and women in cages, and saw that the
criminals here were better fed than those in Etrara, almost plump.
He frowned. What had the commander been doing? Callia was
fortunate that he had decided to come here; he would straighten
things out for her.
  He saw a man in the queen’s uniform and asked the way to the
commander’s house. To his relief the soldier pointed out one of the
small houses along the path; the old woman’s madness hadn’t
infected the entire village, then. He went up to the cottage and
knocked.
  The guard who came to the door recognized him and let him in
immediately. Arion had always taken pains to get to know as many
soldiers as he could, and as a result he was very popular with the
army. He did not think that Callia could have ascended to the
throne without his approval; in effect he, and not the Queen’s Axe,
commanded the soldiers of Etrara.
  “Duke Arion!” the commander said, rising from his chair and
coming to greet him. “Good fortune! We are honored, sir, honored
indeed. Do you come from Queen Callia?”
   “Yes,” Arion said. Now he noticed that the commander seemed a
little nervous, and he saw how that could be used to his advantage.
“What is happening here? The criminals are well fed, and the people
won’t answer a direct question—”
  “These things take time, sir. Tell Queen Callia that we’re
working hard, and that we’ll have the information she wants soon.”
  “How—how far have you gotten?”
  “We’re searching the library room by room. It’s only a matter of
time before we find the birth records.”
   Library, Arion thought. Birth records. There was no uprising at
all, then. By the Ladder, what was Callia playing at?
  His face must have shown some surprise, because the
commander backed away a little and said smoothly, “I would like
nothing better than to help you here, but as you can see I have a
great deal of work to do. Should I appoint a man to show you
around the village?”
  “No. No, I thank you.”
  Arion left and rode aimlessly down the path, angry at both the
commander and himself. He was not clever, like Talenor, or
cunning, like Mariel; both of them would have made certain they
gave nothing away to the other man. But by all the gods, why did
Callia want the birth records?
  He could think of only one reason. She wanted to forge them so
that she would seem to be Tariel’s rightful heir. But if the people
accepted Callia he would lose his chance at the throne.
   A shrill wind blew, flattening the knotted grasses on the plain.
Arion shivered. He remembered when Mariel had come to him,
seeking his support. She had been reasonable, persuasive; she had
mentioned the chaos of King Galin’s time, and had warned him that
civil war might come again if all of Tariel’s children did not unite
behind a single ruler.
  And he, stupid fool, he had agreed. Certainly, Mariel, by the
Ladder let us have Callia on the throne, he had said. Had Mariel
suggested to him that Callia would be easy to overthrow, that he
would be the next to wear the land-ring of Etrara? He couldn’t
remember. She had done something clever, had woven her web
around him the way she had always been able to do when they
were children. And now she ruled Etrara in Callia’s name.
  The white spire shone before him. Should he go to the library?
No—he knew enough about Callia’s plans, and the soldiers would
certainly report his movements back to her. He urged his horse
back toward the forest.
   For a brief moment he wondered why Val hadn’t mentioned the
library. But Val was guileless, uninterested in court politics. It was
his own treacherous brothers and sisters that he had to watch out
for.
  He reached the forest. The ghost-knight stood before him on the
path. He moved through him, grinning a little. He would see to it
that Callia fell from the ladder, and Mariel with her, and that he
would rise by their ill fortune. Callia was the least clever of all of
Tariel’s children; surely he could think of a way around her.


The man assigned to watch Arion reported to the commander. “He’s
gone, sir,” the man said. “I saw him ride through the forest.”
  “Did he go to the library?”
  “The library? No.”
  “Good,” the commander said. Duke Arion had lied when he’d said
he’d come from Queen Callia, that much was certain. What had the
duke wanted? He went over their conversation in his mind, hoping
that he hadn’t given away any of the queen’s secrets. But if Arion
hadn’t visited the library then he probably had no idea what the
queen wanted here.
   He dismissed the soldier and went back to his work. Suddenly he
looked up at the door, a little frightened. Why hadn’t the ghost’s
trumpet announced Arion? Did the ghost consider Arion a friend to
Tobol An?


Two days after Arion visited Tobol An the queen declared war on
Shai. Suddenly everyone in Etrara ordered a ladder to assure their
good fortune in battle; the ladder makers on the Street of Spiders
worked day and night to fulfill their commissions. Fortune-tellers
and natalists grew rich predicting a rise on the ladder for anyone
who consulted them.
  The wine sellers nearly sold out their entire stock as the people
threw one party after another to celebrate the declaration. No one
would buy the Shai wines, though, and these were eventually
poured into the Darra River, or finished quietly among the wine
sellers and their friends.
   The parties spilled out into the streets, and Etrara shone with
torchlight and lantern light as it had not done since the reign of
Tariel III. A few nights after the declaration people near the Darra
River saw a sight to delight and amaze them: the royal barge
floated past, its banners showing the queen’s colors of black and
white and gold, its lights reflecting silver on the water. Folks stood
spellbound as it went by, and as it passed they heard the sound of
flutes and drums.
  But there were those who complained that taxes were too high,
higher than anyone could remember. And with every healthy young
man impressed into the army it grew harder and harder for
families to meet the demands of the Queen’s Coin, to say nothing of
the landlords and shopkeepers. A man whispered that the army had
not had nearly enough time to train; he was caged for speaking
treason a day later. He had spoken quietly and among people he
had thought his friends, and in the months that followed, hanging
above the pageantry that filled the streets below, he had ample
time to wonder who among his friends had turned informer.
   Most of the young noblemen at court had joined Callia’s army,
and Val was no exception. As he had expected he was made an
officer, and he spent all his time in the fields outside the Gate of
Shadows drilling his men.
  But there was another reason he had volunteered. He was eager
to see battle, to test himself against an enemy. He wanted to
understand the valor that men like Arion spoke of. He was not yet
ready, not seasoned enough in battle, to claim, the throne. And if he
returned a hero the people would welcome him; he might gain more
support among them than Callia had.


Duchess Mariel stood next to the queen on the Street of Roses,
watching as the troops filed past them. A fine rain drizzled on
soldiers and nobility alike, and she was not the only one who
glanced up at the thick clouds enfolding the high towers of the city,
the palace and observatory and the clock tower at the university.
Folks feared a stronger rain, or even snow.
   She shivered in the cold air. She could not forget Narrion’s speech
in council, his warning that the days were growing shorter. She and
Callia had had several council meetings without Narrion since then,
had demonstrated to him in a dozen subtle ways that he had not
risen as high on the ladder as he had thought. Still, the rumor that
Callabrion had not ascended had spread through the city like an
infection. Could it be true? Could the gods be displeased with Callia,
and with the part she herself had played in Gobro’s death?
   She rubbed her forehead. No—they had poisoned poor Gobro
after the Feast of the Ascending God, not before; there was no need
to fear divine retribution. She forced herself to pay attention to the
soldiers marching in front of her, trying not to wince as their booted
footsteps set up an answering echo in her brain. Folks cheered as
the men passed, and the bells of all the towers of the city rang out.
  Callia touched her arm as Val rode by, and she waved. “He’s not
wearing anyone’s favor,” Callia said.
   Of course not—whose favor did Callia think he would wear?
Callia seemed to regard war as a kind of game, just another of the
pageants and shows put on to entertain the nobility of Etrara. As if
to confirm her thoughts the queen said, “I wish we could have sent
them off later in the year—we could have showered them with
roses then.”
  In her mind Mariel saw the soldiers pelted with the spiky
branches of winter roses. She shivered; she hoped the evil vision
was not an omen of ill fortune.
  At last the long line of troops came to an end. She watched as
they headed east toward the Gate of Roses. Then she left without
waiting for Callia, going up the hill to the palace.
  Except for a few guards the palace was deserted; everyone was
out seeing the soldiers leave for Shai. She walked wearily up the
main staircase and along the corridor to her rooms, looking forward
to drinking the potion the apothecary had given her. Perhaps she
would even be able to sleep.
   She opened her door. Something moved at the corner of her
vision and she turned toward it quickly. She screamed.
  Gobro came toward her, wearing the puzzled look she had seen so
often when he was alive. “Do you know where Riel is?” he said. “I
can’t seem to find her anywhere.”
  She screamed again. Outside she could hear the guards come
pounding toward her room.


Val rode out through the Gate of Roses, his men marching behind
him. They passed a few houses clustered around the gate, then
farmland and fields enclosed for pasture. A few hours later these
gave way to the grassy plain of Wathe.
  It felt good to be out of Etrara, away from the close, stifling air of
the court. A clear wind blew against his face. In the city they had
passed under the arch raised to the heroes of the battle of Arbono,
and he had thought, as no doubt many of his company had thought,
that before the year was out there might be a new arch on the
Street of Roses, one with his name inscribed on it. And what then?
Callia could not remain queen forever.
  Val could barely see Arion’s company up ahead of him. He hoped
the duke would not leave him behind in his eagerness to join battle.
They and all the other commanders had studied the battle plans the
Queen’s Axe had drawn up, but Arion had seemed too impatient to
pay much attention.
  The wind blew over the plain, bending back the tall grasses. He
thought it might even be colder here than in Etrara, and he pulled
his woolen cloak closer. He turned and saw that the men marching
behind him had slowed, and he reined in his horse to let them catch
up.
   As he waited for stragglers he thought about the men he had
been sent to fight. He had heard the stories, of course—that the
Shai queen married a man who was crowned as the summer god,
and that the priests killed her husband six months later, when she
married the god of winter. But he thought that the stories could not
possibly be true, that they were tales told to frighten children and
to keep the people of Etrara at odds with their age-old enemy.
  The last of his men had come up, walking wearily toward the
company. Several of them shivered with cold, and he eyed the vast
plain before them uneasily. They were at least a week from the
blue-white mountains that marked the border of Shai. The Teeth of
Tura, the mountains were called, after an ancient hero who had
searched for Sbona’s children at the beginning of the world.
   Val and his men continued on. After a few hours of marching the
plain seemed no different, and Val remembered the tales of sorcery
that had always been told about the Shai, stories of the power that
was loosed with the killing of kings. The people of Shai drank blood,
folks whispered, and their children spoke in poetry from the cradle,
and every one of them grew up to become a poet-mage.
  Val glanced up ahead. Penriel, the queen’s wizard, was traveling
with Arion, but Arion’s company had disappeared. The wind blew
stronger now, and seemed to cry out with a voice of its own.
  The sun began to set behind him, and Val remembered something
he had heard whispered in the streets of Etrara. The days were
growing shorter, folks said; Callabrion had not ascended. It seemed
to him now that wizardry had been loosed on the land, that
something was stirring that had been stilled since the deaths of
King Tariel’s mages. He thought of Tobol An, the ruins of the
wizards’ war.
   He looked at the plain ahead of him and decided to halt and make
camp; his men did not seem to be able to travel much farther. They
would catch up with Duke Arion later. He spread his bedroll on the
ground and thought once more of Tobol An. At least Taja was safe,
he thought. At least her village was spared the horrors of war, and
of so much else. He smiled; she knew so little of the great world
around her, after all.


Val hardly slept at all; one of his men had been shivering so
violently that Val had shared his blankets with him, and the man
had trembled all night. Finally, toward dawn, the man seemed to
have found the warmth he sought so desperately, and both he and
Val dropped off to an uneasy sleep.
  It seemed to Val that he had closed his eyes for a few minutes,
but when he woke he saw the sun on the horizon and the long
shadows of the grasses in front of him. He cursed; Arion would be
far ahead of them by this time. He hurried his men through their
small breakfast of hard bread and beer and they continued on.
  A few days later they had their first sight of the Teeth of Tura.
The peaks ahead of them shone white with snow. The sight
heartened the men for a moment, and they pushed on.
  A march of two days brought the mountains no closer. But Arion
had made it through, certainly. And yet Arion had had the queen’s
wizard to guide him.
  Had the duke used wizardry to reach the mountain range? But if
Penriel had helped him then why hadn’t they waited?
   For the first time Val doubted the duke. He remembered that
Arion had asked him about Tobol An, and he wondered why the
other man should have been so interested in such an insignificant
village. And he remembered too that he had been tricked before by
a member of the royal family, and that that had been in connection
with Tobol An.
  Something had happened to him in the months he had spent in
exile; he had grown older, less willing to trust those around him.
Narrion had spun his plots and had risen like a spider on the thread
he wove, and Val had been enmeshed for a brief time in his cousin’s
web. He shook his head. The duke was not nearly as cunning as
Narrion; there was no reason to suspect treachery from him as
well.
  A day later the land grew stonier, harder, and the tall grasses
gave way to matted weeds and small yellow flowers. They had
reached the foothills, but instead of being encouraged by the ground
they had gained Val felt tiny, dwarfed by the bulk of the
mountains. And it had started to rain, a cold, driving rain that
made him shiver despite his warm cloak.
   For a long time they climbed over the large rocks that lay at the
feet of the range. Val had to dismount and lead his horse over the
stony ground, watching closely to see that the animal did not break
a leg in the treacherous crevices. Boulders and stunted trees,
formed into fantastic shapes by the wind, blocked their way more
than once, and several times they had to retrace their steps, giving
ground to the mountain.
  Finally Val found a path that led upward. He waited for the
company to catch up with him, and when they appeared rested
enough he mounted his horse and set off.
  The sun was setting. It was starting to snow. Behind him he
could hear his men complaining, and he stopped to allow one of
them to mount up and ride behind him.
  Something white beckoned to him from the path. He reined in his
horse. But no—it was the snow falling, nothing more. He could
barely see in front of him now, and when he glanced over his
shoulder the sun was a blur of gold along the horizon.
   He turned back. The white figure waved to him again. Its sleeves
were long, and billowed outward a little in the wind. He could
almost hear words, and although he didn’t understand the language
its speech froze him into cold despair.
   The figure was right; they should turn back. There was nothing
for them here, nothing but cold and aching misery. Slowly, as if
moved by a will not his own, he lifted the reins. The man behind
him on the horse began to speak.
  Val turned, a little annoyed. He did not want his men to panic; he
was already doing all that was necessary to protect them by leading
them off the mountain. But the man’s voice sounded clear and
strong, and Val realized with a sort of dull surprise that he was
speaking poetry.
  Wizardry, Val thought. The Shai wizards had sent the apparition,
and this man behind him was trying to counter it with his own
halting verse. Now, paying close attention to the words, Val
realized that the man had not received any formal training as a
poet-mage, that his verses were cobbled together from village songs
and chants and barely rhymed.
   But the figure in front of them wavered a little, like a flag blown
in the wind. The man redoubled his efforts, playing with the names
of gods and heroes, repeating one or two of the words he had spoken
in the first verse. As he went on he seemed to gain in brilliance,
manipulating alliteration and meter as Val had heard the great
poet-mages had done.
  The figure seemed to fly toward them. Val held the reins tightly
and watched as it frayed outward in the wind. It passed over them
as a gust of snow. He let out a breath he did not realize he had
taken.
  He turned to the man behind him. “I didn’t know I had brought a
poet-mage along with me,” he said.
  “I learned a few tricks in my village, that’s all,” the man said,
grinning.
  “More than a few, I’d say. I’m certain you’ll rise on the ladder for
this. What’s your name?”
  “Anthiel.” The man grinned again. The snow had stopped,
perhaps as a result of Anthiel’s efforts, and Val decided that his
company had gone far enough for one day. They went back to
where he had seen the road widen and made camp.
   It was only when he had eaten and settled into his blankets for
the night that Val wondered why he hadn’t spoken to the apparition
himself. He had written poetry, after all, unlike the man from the
lower rungs whose verses had hobbled like a lame horse. But he
had not sensed the presence of magic until it had been too late.
Perhaps there was more to being a poet-mage than the ability to
create poetry. He tried to think what it might be, but confused
images whirled in his mind—Pebr’s cottage, and tall white
mountains, and the sound of the sea—and he found himself drifting
off to sleep.
  Over the next few days they met with more of the illusions: a
giant white bird with a snowy crest, a tree with branches burdened
by snow, an icy brook that appeared suddenly in their path. But
Anthiel spoke his verses to them and they dispersed, spreading
across the wind.
  Val wondered if the Shai were toying with them, if they were
saving their greatest magic for the battle ahead. It seemed to him
that anyone could counter these child’s fancies, even a man who
had had no formal schooling. But whenever he faced the apparitions
he stood as if enchanted, without a rhyme in his head.
  As they picked their way along the mountain path Val spoke to
Anthiel, trying to understand how he had banished the apparitions.
“Why do you repeat the same words over and over again?” he
asked.
  “Those words hold the spell together,” Anthiel said. “A traveling
wizard once told me they’re called keystones.”
  Keystones, Val thought. He remembered the lists of words in the
ancient books Taja had shown him: wizard’s commentary, she had
said. And he had seen locked books, bound in brass and iron, that
Taja had not been able to open. The mages must have guarded their
keystones jealously. How did this man come upon words it had
taken the wizards a lifetime to discover?
  “How do you choose the words?” Val asked.
   “I don’t really know. I use solid words—tree and rock, table and
door—they seem to stand better against something like those
illusions.”
  Anthiel had had to repeat his keystones, each time in a different
context, and weave them in with a spell of banishment, and an
invocation to the gods, and keep in his head all the while the meter
he had chosen, and the alliteration… It seemed to Val, who
sometimes took an entire day to write one sonnet, that what
Anthiel had achieved was very nearly impossible.
  “Why didn’t you apprentice yourself to a mage?” Val asked.
  “We were too poor. I grew up in a small village, and my family
couldn’t afford to lose my labor.”
  Val nodded. Anthiel was a man to cultivate, someone who might
become a great poet-mage. If Anthiel came home alive from the
wars Val would reward him generously.
  Finally they reached the crest of the mountain range and began
to descend. From the path Val could see Etrara’s army ranged
across the plains, and he wondered how the others had crossed the
Teeth of Tura. The uneasiness grew that had started when Arion’s
company had pulled ahead of his.
  They reached the plain a few days later. The sun was setting and
he felt cold as the snowdrifts in the mountains, felt as if his bones
were made of snow. He told his men to make camp and went in
search of Arion, walking quickly to get warm.
  The duke was standing before a large bonfire, talking to three of
the commanders. “Arion!” Val said.
  The duke turned. Even in the fading light Val could see his face
go pale, as if he had seen a ghost.
  “What in Callabrion’s name is happening here?” Val said. “Why
didn’t you wait for us?”
  “I—we thought you lost in the mountains, Val,” Arion said. “It’s
good to see you.”
  “We encountered magic. It was our good fortune that there was a
sort of poet-mage among us. If he hadn’t been there I have no doubt
we’d still be wandering in the snow.”
  “Magic? I saw nothing.”
   “Come with me,” Val said shortly, leading Arion away from the
other commanders. When a man came to accuse a member of the
royal family of deception, he thought, it was best to have as few
witnesses as possible. “Surely you saw the things we did, the white
birds and trees—”
  “I swear by Scathiel’s toe—”
  “You’re a very poor liar, Arion. Who asked you to kill me? Was it
Callia?”
  “No—”
  “But it might well have been, isn’t that so? The Queen’s Axe,
then?”
 Arion said nothing. “You were told to lose us somewhere in the
mountains, weren’t you?” Val said.
  The duke nodded slowly. “Why, Val? Why would Callia want you
dead?” he asked.
  If Arion didn’t know that he certainly wasn’t about to tell him.
He had seen the capricious gods turn the ladder of fortune on its
head so that the high became low and the low high, and he had no
doubt that the man in front of him might someday be king. “I don’t
know,” Val said.
  “She wants something in Tobol An, I know that much. And you
were there, weren’t you? But what is she playing at? She has no
talent for strategy—”
  Val said nothing.
   “It’s Mariel who’s behind her, Mariel who plots Callia’s every
move,” Arion said. “My treacherous half-sister. She warned me
about civil war, said that the chaos of King Galin’s time would come
again if I didn’t cast my vote with Callia. We’d be fighting the
battle of Arbono all over again, she told me. And at the same time
she insinuated that Callia would be easy to overthrow, that I would
soon be king in Etrara. But all the while she planned to rule in
Callia’s name. I should have waited, should have gathered my
forces…”
   How easily these brothers and sisters disposed of each other, Val
thought. He had been right to be careful, right not to lay immediate
claim to the throne. “What about me?” he asked. “Did the Queen’s
Axe tell you what to do if I came out of the mountains alive?”
  “Yes. Yes, he did. I was to see to it that you were sent to
wherever the fighting was the thickest. He said that Callia would
be very disappointed if you returned to Etrara.”
  “And will you?”
  “No,” Arion said slowly. “No, I don’t think so. She has spies in my
company, men who would tell her if I refused to follow her orders.
But a great deal can happen in the confusion of battle. I swear on
my honor I’ll do everything I can to bring you back alive.”
  Val thanked him and returned to his men. Arion had not told him
everything, he was certain of it. A thoughtful note had come into
the duke’s voice as he spoke, as though he had made other plans.
  Val scowled. He had been used as a counter once before in the
great game the brothers and sisters played with one another, and
he did not want it to happen again. But what did Arion have
planned?



                             Seven
                                                             «^»
The fighting in Shai started early the next morning. The men woke
to the sound of trumpets, harsh and discordant; they reached for
their swords and shields.
  A messenger from Arion rode into Val’s camp as they were
arming themselves. “That’s the Shai’s poet-mage,” the messenger
said. “He’s calling for Penriel. It’ll be a duel of magic, for now.”
  A duel of magic, Val thought. He remembered the first time he
had seen Penriel, remembered wondering why the queen had
wanted a sorcerer when magic had died out of the world. But he
had been wrong, he realized; magic was very much alive. He had
seen that much when he had come over the mountains.
  Penriel left his tent and climbed a small grassy rise near Val’s
camp. He looked small and a little foolish in his cloak. Val saw him
stare across the plain at the Shai forces.
  The noise of the trumpets grew louder. Clouds formed overhead,
obscuring the sun. The clouds thickened, layer on layer of them; the
sky became dark as night.
  Heavy rain fell to the camp, plummeting like knives. Water
drenched the men through to their skin. They wrapped blankets
around themselves and brushed the wet hair from their eyes. Drops
resounded against the commanders’ tents.
  Penriel began to speak, raising his voice to be heard above the
rain. Val listened as the poet-mage chose his keystones, “sword”
and “glass.” Penriel recited an invocation to the god Callabrion,
playing with the sound of his keystones and with the god’s name,
weaving in spells of illusion and banishment.
   For a moment the rain seemed to lessen. Then the torrents
returned, heavier than before. Wind tossed the rain into towers,
spires, a city made of water. Land and sea had changed places; Val
felt he might drown with the force of the waves.
   Penriel spoke again, shouting. A loud wind gusted across the
plain, blowing the rain before it. The clouds overhead tore, thinned
to rags. The rain began to subside.
  Penriel hurried through a few more verses. But the rain did not
end, though the sun shone weakly through the remaining clouds.
   The drizzle continued all day. The men grumbled and pulled their
cloaks around them for warmth. A few whispered against Penriel,
but others, loyal to the queen, swore by Scathiel that the rain was
natural and no wizard’s sending.
  Val wondered. Even he could see that Penriel was much more
accomplished than the ignorant villager who had brought his
company safely out of the mountains. And yet something seemed
missing from Penriel’s verses; at times he seemed almost lost,
unable to understand the Shai’s magic.
  Over the next few days the Shai’s poet-mage sent several
apparitions toward their camp. Penriel countered them all, but his
verses were weak, uninspired. His illusions would waver and
become dispersed, and several times a sending of the Shai’s passed
over the camp, causing panic and despair.
  Val wondered if he should offer Anthiel’s services to someone, to
Arion, perhaps, since Penriel seemed unapproachable. But as the
days wore on he realized that he understood almost nothing about
the arts of the wizards, and he decided to keep silent.
  As long as the battle was fought between the poet-mages he and
his company remained idle. He spent the days drilling his men and
going for long walks through the camp. His walks always seemed to
end at a small grassy rise overlooking the plain, the place from
which Penriel worked his magic.
  Five days after the battle began he stood on the rise and gazed
out at the Shai camp. The grass of the plain, tall and sharp as
swords, bent backward in the wind, shifting color as the wind
passed, gray and yellow and green.
  Something moved toward him, a line of mounted men riding
toward the camp. Horses’ hooves beat against the plain. The
soldiers held their lances straight in front of them, their golden
armor and helmets burning far brighter than anything else in the
weak sunlight. As they came closer Val could see that they were
very tall, nearly twice the size of ordinary men.
   He turned to look for Penriel, but the poet-mage, summoned by
the sending of magic, was already climbing the rise to look out over
the plains. Penriel hesitated a moment, studying the strength of the
illusion sent against him, and began to speak.
  He started with a ritual opening verse and then moved quickly to
a spell of banishment. Perhaps because of the brightness of the
soldiers he chose the word “shining” as his keystone. But the men
ranged against them continued onward without slowing. Val could
hear the ring of the horses’ bridles, the shouts of the men. He
braced himself for the horror he would feel when the apparitions
rode through the camp.
   The illusion began to waver. Penriel spoke louder, faster. He
began another verse, chose another keystone—“jewel”—and made
the two words dance around each other in intricate patterns. Then
Val saw Penriel frown, hesitate for a moment, and he knew that
the poet-mage had forgotten something, that he had failed to hold
all the vast complicated verse in his head. He spoke another line,
but it did not rhyme with the line before it, and it used no
alliteration at all.
   The mounted men reached the camp. Their forms had started to
break up and dissolve; Penriel’s verses had been effective enough
for that, at least. The soldiers from Etrara ran from the path of the
illusion. The touch of a sending was enough to drive men to despair,
and already one soldier had died from it.
   The apparition reached the camp as a confused blur of color. One
of the mounted men formed again for a brief moment and touched a
soldier with the point of his lance, and the man fell to the ground,
screaming. Then the sending passed over them and dispersed in the
mountains.
  Val had been out of the path of the illusion but he had felt the
bleak hopelessness of their position, the terror at being exposed to
such an uncanny power. His heart was pounding loudly. We can’t
survive much more of this, he thought.
  Men came forward to lead Penriel to his tent. Val left the rise
and sought out his own tent, drained.
  A few hours later he emerged. He had seen some of the tricks
Penriel had performed for Queen Callia; the man was doubtless
talented enough for court magic. But Penriel could not hold his own
against the trained wizards of Shai. Something had happened to
the wizardry of Etrara, Val thought; when Tariel’s poet-mages died
an entire generation of knowledge had died with them.
  If Arion agreed Val would offer him Anthiel’s services. Penriel
wouldn’t even need to know that another wizard was helping him
against the Shai. Two mages working to counter the illusions might
be able to succeed where one, almost certainly, would fail.
  But when he came to Arion’s tent his second-in-command told
him the duke was studying the battlefield, planning strategy. Val
returned to his company and ate a light supper with his men.


The next day Val found Anthiel and drew him aside. To his surprise
the other man, who had been so quick with his help in the
mountains, began to shake his head. “One poet-mage knows
another,” he said. “If I speak my verses Penriel can’t help but be
aware of it, just as he’s aware of the sendings from Shai.”
  “Well, then, he’ll have to agree,” Val said.
  Anthiel shook his head. “The poet-mages are jealous people. He
may stop his work altogether if he senses someone else speaking
verses.”
  “But he’ll die. We’ll all die if he backs down.”
  The other man shrugged. “I know only what I tell you. I’ve met a
few wizards in my life, though none as knowledgeable as Penriel.
But I have never heard that any of them was able to work with
another mage.”
  “He may have to. We can’t continue on like this.”
  But that morning no illusions came from the Shai camp across
the plain. The duke returned from wherever he had been, but Val
could not find a time to get him alone. And then, as the camp was
taking the noon meal, the sentry blew the trumpet that meant an
attack of men, not magic.
  Val put down his bottle of ale and stood quickly. He could barely
make out the Shai, specks small as birds riding toward them across
the plain. The sun sparked off their golden armor, and as they came
nearer he could see the helmets shaped like half-masks that
covered their eyes and nose. They had more horses than the men of
Etrara, and they rode them in tight formation.
  Val mounted his horse and called to his men. Before they had
gone halfway across the plain they met with the enemy. A mounted
soldier armed with a sword attacked, and he raised his own sword
to strike.
  The sendings of the wizards began while Val and the other man
fought together. Bells and thunder pealed across the plain, and
after a while he heard a strange music of trumpets and drums. The
music seemed to put heart into his opponent and he fought with
desperate strength, urging his horse to advance. Suddenly, before
Val could raise his sword to counter the attack, the other man fell,
his breast pierced by an arrow. Val turned to see his rescuer but
there was no time; another man was upon him.
  The lessons of his fencing master came back to him and forced
out all other thought. He became like the mechanical figure he had
once seen at the palace, capable of a bare half-dozen actions,
moving only in response to his opponent. Somewhere on the field
men screamed and horses neighed and an unearthly music played,
buthe managed to hear none of it. His world had narrowed down to
the flashing blade of the man before him.
   Finally the other man allowed him an opening. He moved
forward and drove his sword to the man’s heart.
  There was no time for a respite, though; more of the Shai were
heading toward him. It seemed a long time before he could stop and
take stock of his troops, but by the sun it could barely have been an
hour. The sendings had ceased for the moment; the field was a little
quieter now.
  Something shone to his right and he turned. The hero Andosto,
said to be the grandson of the god Callabrion, fought his way
through a knot of men. The light seemed to radiate outward from
the man, and Val wondered if it could be the immanence of the gods
he had heard about. The light gladdened him, and he wheeled his
horse toward the fighting.
  He slew two of the Shai fighting his way toward Andosto. By the
time he reached him Andosto had killed the others. The hero
grinned at Val, the only one on the battlefield who did not look
weary. The light around him was stronger now.
  Andosto called out something, but it was drowned out by another
loud peal of bells. “What?” Val said.
  “Where’s Arion?”
  “Arion? I don’t know.”
  Val saw Andosto frown. Had the Shai taken Arion prisoner?
Could they be trusted to ask for a ransom, like civilized men, or
would they put the duke to death?
   A half dozen of the Shai rode against them, and Val put the duke
out of his mind. He and Andosto faced the enemy at the same
moment, and side by side they stood against their attackers,
forming a wall the Shai could not pierce. The light that came from
Andosto warmed him, moving him to a courage he had never
known, making him dare much against the enemy.
  They killed four of the Shai between them, and the others fled.
Val looked around him. In the distance he could see Arion and his
men, near the Shai camp: the duke’s standard waved in the chill
wind from the mountains. Dozens of soldiers had gathered around
the duke, and Val realized with amazement and joy that most of
Arion’s company had survived the battle. He rode toward them.
  As he drew nearer he saw one of Arion’s archers fit an arrow to
his bow and aim it toward him. “Stop!” Val called across the plain,
raising his hand. His voice sounded weak among the confused
noises of battle. He saw the arrow leave the bow and managed to
turn his horse aside at the last minute. The arrow grazed his thigh.
  Had the archer taken him for one of the Shai? Val hurried on
toward Arion, intending to berate the man for his stupidity. The
archer took another arrow from his quiver.
  Val wheeled his horse away from Arion’s company. The man was
mad. Did he, Val, wear golden armor and a helmet? Was this the
sort of discipline Arion kept among his men?
  He turned in time to see the archer’s second arrow fall several
yards short of his horse. But he saw something else as well,
something far more chilling than the sight of a lunatic shooting his
own men. Arion had lowered his lance and was shaking the hand of
one of the helmeted men.
  Betrayal, Val thought, feeling cold. We’re all betrayed. This is the
plan Arion made against Callia.
  Arion’s company and the Shai turned as one, and they headed
toward the soldiers of Etrara.
  The men of Etrara began to give ground. Some, probably, did not
want to fight against their duke, and others did not yet understand
that Arion had changed sides.
  The Shai came on. They were close enough that Val could see a
man riding near the leader and chanting, the poet-mage who had
done them so much damage. A sending formed in the air, a huge
wave coming on across the plain, unstoppable.
  Where is Penriel? Val thought. His leg throbbed, and he looked
down at his wound. Blood had drenched his breeches. He felt the
despair of the sending reach him before the actual apparition did.
He would die of his wound. They would all die, all the men of
Etrara, lost here on a plain far from home. Where is Penriel?
   The wave roared over him. His horse reared in fright and he fell
to the ground, dazed; he managed to get clear of the animal just in
time. Then it seemed as if the wave lessened, began to calm.
Callabrion be thanked, Penriel had come at last. Val lifted his head.
  But it was not Penriel that Val saw calling out verses against the
noise of the water. Anthiel stood on the grassy ridge, his voice
barely audible over the rush of the waves. The water of the wave
subsided and finally disappeared.
  Val looked around him. Did they have enough men to stand
against Arion and the Shai? And would the soldiers fight on,
against the duke, against such terrible odds?
  Anthiel was still speaking. A sending formed in the air above
him, a vast forest of moving trees. Val saw the Shai wizard say
something, a spell of banishment, probably, but the forest continued
on, implacable.
   Val laughed, his heart lifting at the sight. Truly the man was an
artist, a poet. But as he watched he saw this sending dissolve as the
first one had. And the Shai, joined with Arion’s forces, had not
succumbed to despair but had continued on across the plain.
  He got to his feet quickly and looked around for his horse. The
animal lay nearby but would not be coaxed up; it had been stunned
by the sending or by its own fall.
  The Shai were nearly upon him. He raised his sword. Andosto
rode up next to him and engaged one of the armored men. Val
thought he could hear Andosto reciting poetry and he felt hope grow
briefly within him; had the man been trained as a mage?
  But as he listened he realized that Andosto was speaking an
invocation to his grandfather, the god Callabrion. If Callabrion
heard he did not choose to help his grandson; the light around
Andosto grew stronger but his enemies did not retreat.
   One of the Shai in front of him drew his sword, and Val parried
the attack wearily. He heard Andosto call out triumphantly but
could not spare the time to look at the other man. At the edge of his
vision he saw a man fall from his horse. Arion.
  Val doubled his efforts against his opponent, hoping to fight his
way toward the duke. But others had seen Arion as well, and a
handful of soldiers on both sides pressed toward him. In the
confusion Val lost sight of the Shai he had been fighting. Something
hit him hard, and he fell.


When he woke it was night. He could not hear the sounds of the
battle, and he wondered if it might be over, wondered who had won.
Where was he?
  He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his chest made him lie
back. He had probably broken a rib in addition to receiving the
wound in his thigh; he was no soldier, that much was certain.
  Someone near him spoke in the barbaric accent of the Shai, and
the shock was enough to make him sit up despite the pain. He had
been taken prisoner, then. He remembered wondering if the Shai
ransomed their prisoners or killed them. Suddenly the question did
not seem at all theoretical.
   There was no moon, and the stars did not provide enough light
for him to see anything but the distant bulk of the mountain. He
put his hands out and felt grass, and then another body only a foot
from where he sat. The other prisoner groaned. Val drew his hand
away quickly.
  The prisoner groaned again. “Water,” he said. “Water, please,
before I die.”
  Val felt thirsty too, and very cold. He listened for the Shai who
had spoken before but could not hear him anywhere. In the dark
Val felt rather than saw the other prisoner move.
  “Who are you?” the man said.
  “Arion?” Val said, astonished. “It can’t be—Arion?”
  “Yes,” Arion said hoarsely. “Who are you?”
  “Val.”
  Arion laughed shortly. “Val. Sometimes I think you worry Callia
more than the Shai, you and Tobol An. By all the gods, I wish I
knew what she’s planning. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me now, now
that I’m dying.”
  “Come—you won’t die here.”
   “I will, though. I can feel my death coming for me—I’ll be
feasting with Sbona before the night is over. She told me, the old
woman. She said I will love a foe and hate a friend, and that one
will betray me and the other save me. The Shai betrayed me, that
much is certain. They accepted my help, but they never intended to
let me live.”
  “It was Andosto who attacked you.”
   “Was it?” Val heard the bitterness in the other man’s voice. “Then
why am I wounded in the back? They killed me, the Shai did, after
I had given them the forces of Etrara. And you’ll save me, Val,
won’t you? You’ll tell them in Etrara I fought bravely in the defense
of my country.”
   How many people had seen Arion riding at the head of the Shai’s
forces? It didn’t matter; if Val repeated his story often enough no
one would question it. And he would do that one favor for Arion, for
his brother, would grant the man the heroic death he so desperately
wanted. “I will,” he said. “Who told you this? Who was the old
woman?”
  “She said I would have my heart’s desire. What is my heart’s
desire, though?”
  “A hero’s death,” Val said.
 “Yes.” Arion coughed. “A hero’s death. They’ll make songs about
me in Etrara after I’m dead, won’t they?”
  “Of course they will. I’ll make a few myself.”
   Arion said nothing for a long moment. Then, “Betrayed,” he said
finally. “Betrayed by everyone. Penriel left the field after that last
sending, did you notice?”
  Penriel hadn’t fought because Anthiel had made his own verses.
The poet-mages are a jealous people, Anthiel had said. “Who won
the battle?” Val asked. “Do you know?”
  “Oh, the Shai, of course.” Arion sounded weary. He coughed
again. “Their forces are far better than ours, and their commander,
Rakera, is a brilliant man. Callia was overconfident—she knows
nothing about the realities of war.”
  He laughed harshly. “Callia. Valor is nothing without honor, I
learned that much. There was no honor in fighting for my sister,
and none in fighting against her.”
   Arion was silent a moment. Then he said, “No, Val, tell them how
I died. Tell them that there are better things than a hero’s death.
Tell them I said that heroes should live, not die uselessly in battle.”
  “I will, Arion. Come, you shouldn’t spend your strength talking.
Sleep. I’ll tell them.”
   Arion said nothing. Val slept a little, fitfully, waking when the
pain in his side grew worse. It was only when dawn came that he
saw Arion stretched out cold on the grass; the duke had died
sometime in the night. He feasts with Sbona now, Val thought, and
closed his half-brother’s eyes.


Taja sat in the central room of the library and worked on the
catalogue. The room’s great walls curved inward and met in an arch
far overhead. Rows of scarred wooden cabinets were bunched
together in the center, looking somehow out of place in the vast
hollow of the room.
  She leafed through a book called A History of the Battle of Arbono
and, as she had feared, found another book sewn into the binding.
She sighed; she would have to catalogue it twice. The second book
proved to be a hymn to the goddess Sbona. And there was a third
book after that, a treatise on medicine.
   When she had finished she put the triple book back on the pile of
those already catalogued and opened the next one. A book by the
poet Cosro, according to the title a hymn to the Ascending God. She
read a few lines and nearly laughed out loud. The book was in fact
about a man’s first night with a woman, and used the images of
rising and falling to mean something very different.
  Two soldiers came into the room. “We need to get back to the
records room,” one of them said. He spoke carefully, as if he
expected his voice to echo in the enormous spaces of the room.
Instead he sounded plain and clear, like the actors who had once
visited Tobol An. Taja tried not to smile. She had seen people
respond this way to the catalogue room before.
  “Take that staircase over there,” Taja said. “Turn left when you
come out and:—”
 “No,” the man said. “You show us.” He had a large mustache,
which he smoothed after he spoke.
  She sighed and put down her pen. As the weeks passed the
soldiers had grown more uncomfortable with the small traces of
wizardry left in Tobol An. They did not go into the library alone,
and they began to avoid the ruined stones left by the wizards’ war.
They did not travel into the forest at all.
  As she led the two men to the records room she passed five more
soldiers, who demanded to know the way out of the library. “By the
Wandering God, I think the place changes shape whenever we come
here,” one of them said. No one laughed.
  They were actually within two doors of the exit. She directed
them to the outer door and then climbed a staircase to the next
level. Since the soldiers had come she seemed to spend half her time
showing them through the library.
   She usually didn’t mind being helpful; it was part of her task as a
librarian. But like the rest of the villagers she resented the soldiers
for other things, for the men and women—five of them now—who
had been arrested and put in cages, for the huge amount the
soldiers consumed in food every day, for the fact that they insisted
on paying for their meals and lodging with the debased coins of
King Gobro III.
  They came to the records room and she turned to go. “No, you’ll
stay with us,” the man with the mustache said. “The records have
to be somewhere in this room. And I think you know where they
are. I think you’ve lied to us.”
  She sat and watched as the two soldiers went through the
drawers. They worked methodically; unlike the first men she had
brought here they studied every name, not just the file headings. It
took them more than an hour to finish.
  “By the Burning Ladder, the records have to be here somewhere!”
one of the men said, slamming the drawer shut. “You know where
they are, don’t you?”
  “No,” Taja said. She looked directly at him; she had noticed that
the soldiers always turned away whenever her eyes met theirs. Val
had done the same thing.
 “She’s lying, as I said,” the other man, the one with the
mustache, said. “She’s the librarian, after all.”
  “The queen’s getting impatient. The commander said she wants
us to try torture on the ladder.”
  “Aye, sometimes torture’s the only way to get to the truth.” The
second man moved closer to Taja, looked down at her. “Would you
give up your secrets then? Your hands stretched over your head,
your legs tied, your body hurting in every joint? You’d beg to tell us
the truth, wouldn’t you?”
   The first man seemed uneasy; he had probably mentioned the
ladder only to frighten Taja. “We—we should ask the commander
first.”
  “We’ll take her with us to the commander, then.”
  They moved toward her. She was ready for them and managed to
hit one in the midriff and knock the wind out of him, but then the
second came for her. She tried to fight him off but the first one had
recovered and seized her from behind. She struggled and the second
hit her across the face.
  “How do you suppose you’ll get out of here without my help?” she
asked.
   The second man drew a knife and laid it across her throat. “We’ll
kill you if you don’t help us,” he said. “Your body could lie here for
days before anyone found it.”
  The first man stirred behind her. “Tell us where the records are,”
he said.
  She thought he sounded a little desperate; things had moved too
quickly for him, had gotten out of his control. She tried to turn and
face him, but the other man pressed the edge of his knife into her
throat. “I don’t know,” she said. “I told you—I don’t know.”
  “Good,” the second man said. “Let’s take her.”
  She directed the soldiers out of the library. It was raining hard
when they left, but a few people had business out-of-doors and they
stared after her in horror. No one said anything; they had already
learned their lessons in the months the soldiers had been in Tobol
An. She was only glad that Pebr wasn’t there to see her.
  The commander had taken over the cottage of the first woman he
had caged, and the soldiers led her toward it and knocked on the
door. A guard let them into the front room. The commander sat
behind a desk, studying a few pieces of paper before him.
  The second soldier and the commander talked together in low
voices, stopping every so often to glance over at Taja. The first
soldier had remained to keep watch over her. Finally the
commander looked up. “Good,” he said. “I was about to suggest
something like that myself.”
  They took her into another room. Everything had happened so
quickly that she had had no time to feel fear. Now, seeing the
strange ladder against the wall, its rungs spaced only an inch or so
apart, she understood what the gods had chosen for her. She said a
brief prayer to the goddess Sbona, mother of all.
  The soldiers tied her feet to the ladder’s rungs, then stretched her
arms above her head. “Where are the records?” the commander
asked. The soldiers tied her hands to the ladder.
  “I don’t know,” she said.
  “I can raise you even higher on the ladder,” he said. The soldiers
moved out behind him, and the one with the mustache grinned. “Or
you can tell me what I want to know. Where are the records?”
  “I told you—”
  “Well,” the commander said. “I’ll leave you here for a few hours.
When I come back I’ll want to know where those records are. And if
you don’t tell me I’ll tie you a few rungs higher. Think about that
while I’m gone.”
   He and the two other men left the room. After only a few
minutes she felt the weight of her body pull against her arms. Her
joints seemed on fire. What would it feel like to be tied higher on
the ladder? They would have to untie her first, and she would have
a few moments where she wouldn’t feel stretched like a god
between earth and sky. But perhaps she would have grown used to
the pain by then; perhaps it would hurt even more to be untied.
  Rain fell heavily outside. Her hands felt numb. What if she told
them what they wanted to know? Val said he hadn’t wanted to be
king; she wouldn’t really betray him if she told the commander
where she had hidden the records. And then the soldiers would
leave Tobol An, and the cages would come down…
   Footsteps sounded in the front room and she tensed, thinking
that the commander was about to return and stretch her higher on
the ladder. The pain in her joints, which she had managed to ignore
for a while, returned stronger than before. She closed her eyes.
Why should the entire village suffer for one callow, foolish courtier?
  She opened her eyes. Mathary stood in front of her. “How—” she
asked.
  “Hush, child,” Mathary said. “You must not tell the commander
where the records are. You must save Val, so that Val may save
Tobol An.”
  “What do you mean?”
  “Hush.”
  “Val won’t save Tobol An. Val has never thought of anyone
besides himself in his life. How can he—”
  But Mathary had gone. Probably the old woman had never been
there, Taja thought; probably the pain had caused her to see
visions.
  The commander came into the room. “What were you saying?” he
asked. “Did you want to tell me something?”
   “Yes,” she said, feeling light-headed from the vision. Her gift for
finding things led her to the heart of this man, laid his life and
thoughts bare before her. “You don’t want to be here. You fear that
Callia sent you to this backwater as punishment, that she won’t
allow you to go with the troops to Shai and so win honor in battle.
And you fear the traces of magic left—the poet-wizards haunt your
dreams—”
  “Quiet! How dare—how dare you—”
  “You think we’ll never surrender—”
  The commander moved toward the ladder, but at that moment
she heard hoofbeats on the path outside. The commander turned. A
messenger hurried into the room.
  “I bring you a message from the queen,” the man said. “You and
your men are to leave Tobol An at once and return to Etrara.”
  “What? Why?”
  “I wasn’t told that. There are rumors that the fighting in Shai is
going badly for us.”
  The commander turned toward Taja, a look of great satisfaction
on his face. “So much for your prophecies, wizard’s get,” he said.
“You can hang here until I get back.”
   She must have fainted. When she woke she saw Mathary’s face
close beside her, and she realized that the other woman had
climbed the ladder in order to reach her bonds. Mathary helped her
lower her hands.
 “Why did you—What did you mean when you said that Val—”
Her voice was hoarse.
  “Hush,” Mathary said. “You must not speak of that.”
  “Were you really here? Or was it a vision?”
  “Shake your hands to get the blood back in them. Do you feel
well enough to stand? I’m going to untie your feet next.”
  “But what—what happened?”
  “Great things, child. Great things.”



                              Eight
                                                             «^»
Val stood and walked the confines of his tiny cell. He stopped once
to stare from the small window set into the side of his room, but he
could see nothing except other featureless buildings, other cells, he
thought. He turned and began to pace again.
  Light came from lamps of twisted iron hanging from the ceiling.
A faded rug covered the floor, red with an intricate pattern of
twined gold and blue.
  How had it come to this? How had the great army of Etrara lost
the battle, and perhaps the war as well? What would happen to
him, and to Queen Callia, and the rest of the royal family? We were
overconfident, Arion had said. Val laughed harshly.
  A key turned in the lock, and the door opened. The guard,
bringing him his meals. Like all the Shai Val had seen the man was
tall and flaxen-haired. The guard had said nothing when they had
marched him and Andosto and the other captive soldiers to their
cells, and had not spoken since.
   The guard set Val’s tray down on the wooden table. A brown
spider scuttled across the table, and the guard made a fist and
killed it before Val could speak.
  “Why did you do that?” Val asked, startled.
  “Why not?” the guard said in his strange accent.
   So the man had a tongue after all, Val thought. He longed for
conversation, even with one of the barbaric Shai. “Why? Because
spiders are holy. They ascend to heaven like the gods. It brings ill
fortune if you kill one.”
   To Val’s surprise the guard sat and studied him across the table
for a long moment. Finally he said, “We don’t believe in that.”
  “Don’t believe in the gods?” Val asked.
   “We don’t believe that men should rise and fall like the gods. Men
should know their place and stick to it. My father was a soldier, and
my grandfather, and my son will be a soldier after me. That’s my
place on the ladder—that’s what the gods ordained for me. You men
of Etrara are far too ambitious.”
  “But it’s good to be ambitious. You might almost call ambition
one of the Seven Virtues. If it hadn’t been for ambition we would
never have sailed for Astrion and Udriel, the lands beyond the
seas.”
  Was he truly discussing philosophy with an unlettered man of the
Shai? Did he miss the court that much? But he felt pleased when
the guard answered.
   “You discovered those lands because your country lies on the sea.
If we’d had the ports and our priests had told us to sail west we
would have done so, even if we fell off the edge of the earth.”
  “But—”
  “And we’ll have your ports soon, and Astrion and Udriel as well.”
The other man grinned. “We fight border wars with our neighbors
to the east—we’ve learned a great deal about warfare while fat
Gobro ate sweets and lean Tariel dallied with his mistresses. It was
your ambition that convinced you you could win a war with us.
Your ambition will be your downfall.”
   “Do you truly think you’ll win this war? Soldiers with ambition
fight harder, and in my country a common soldier can rise to be a
knight or a great lord.”
  “In our country a common man can become a king, and wed a
queen. But only for six months, and then he is put to death. That’s
what happens to men who try to rise on the ladder.”
  Val said nothing. So it was true, then, that the Shai killed their
kings. And what of the magic that was loosed by the shedding of
the kings’ blood? Were those rumors true as well?
  No, that was folly. Folks said magic was so common in Shai that
the people spoke in poetry. But this man before him was no
poet-mage.
   Still, he could not help but wonder about the Shai sorcerers,
about the man he had seen riding at the head of the army, chanting
his verses as he came. The wizards of Shai seemed to have
knowledge that those of Etrara did not. Something had been lost
since King Tariel’s time.
  “Your poet-mage—” Val said cautiously.
  “Kotheg,” the guard said. “The greatest mage of our time, or
perhaps of any time. It’s no wonder that your troops could not stand
against him.”
  “But what gives him his power?”
  For the first time the guard showed surprise, almost
astonishment. “You mean you don’t know? Ah, but then your people
would have no reason to sing the praises of our poet-mage. Kotheg
has spent the night on Wizard’s Hill.”
  “What’s that?”
  The guard shook his head. “Truly your people are ignorant, very
ignorant. If a man wants to be a sorcerer he spends the night on
Wizard’s Hill. And in the morning he is either dead, or mad, or a
poet.”
  “But our wizard, Penriel—”
  “Aye, he has some ability, it’s true. And ability counts for
something. But to be a true poet-mage a man must risk
everything.”
  “Must be ambitious, then.”
  “The rules are different for the wizards, you know that. They
ascend to heaven by their poetry. Your people had a poet, a famous
poet, who went to Wizard’s Hill. Cosh-ro.”
  At first Val could not understand the guard’s barbarous accent.
Then, “Cosro?” he said. “I never heard that.”
  “Aye. And when he came back to Etrara he was unable to lie, and
so your king sent him into exile.”
  “But what happened to them there? What did Kotheg see, and
Cosro?”
  “I don’t know. And by all the gods I hope I never find out. I would
not on my life go to Wizard’s Hill.”
  The guard left shortly after that. Val sat and ate his dinner in
thoughtful silence. He had to agree with the man; although he had
long wished he could write like Cosro he did not think he would risk
his life for the sake of a sonnet, however beautiful.


Narrion went up Palace Hill toward the observatory. The weak sun
glinted from one of the observatory’s four towers, a green copper
dome. He hurried on.
  All the news he heard was bad, very bad. Etrara had lost the
battle, and perhaps the war. The Shai had more men and more
horses, and their poet-mage, Kotheg, had spread terror among the
soldiers of Etrara.
  He knocked at the door to the observatory. The porter recognized
him, and led him without speaking to Dorio’s room.
 Dorio looked up from his studies. “Did you talk to your priests?”
Narrion asked.
  “Yes.”
  “What did they say? Will they help us?”
  “I don’t think so.”
 “What? How long will they pretend that nothing has changed?
Why won’t they help?”
   “They said they are certain Callabrion will return to the heavens
in his own time. And that they do not think it is our place to meddle
in the affairs of the gods.”
  “By Scathiel’s big toe! Whose business is it, then, if not the
disciples of the gods?”
  Dorio shook his head. “I don’t know.”
  Narrion was silent a moment. “You’ll have to help me on your
own, then,” he said.
  “I? What can I do?”
 “Your library has certain books I’ll need. Invocations, verses of
magic…”
  “Magic? I can’t help you with magic. I’m no sorcerer.”
  “I didn’t say you were. I asked for books, nothing more.”
  “I can’t take books from the library without permission. We’re
not like your lawless Society.”
   Narrion said nothing. He had heard rumors that the
astronomer-priests had come to an agreement with the Shai: they
would give the enemy their support in exchange for safety,
sanctuary within the observatory. If that was true then he could
look for no further help from Dorio.
  “You’ll be safe here, for a while,” Narrion said softly. “You can
cower behind the walls of your observatory, and so avoid the Shai
altogether. But the days continue to grow shorter. What will you do
when the sun goes out forever, leaving us in eternal darkness?”
   He turned and left without waiting for Dorio’s answer. In a very
short time, he thought, the Shai would be at the Gate of Roses. He
had to get himself and Tamra to safety, had to find the books he
needed to continue his work. Otherwise what he had told Dorio
would become a reality: the sun would disappear forever. And even
if, by some miracle, Etrara stood, all he had gained would be worth
nothing.


The troops sent from Tobol An were too few and too late. A week
after Val had been captured the Shai won a decisive victory, and
they marched over the Teeth of Tura toward Etrara. No apparition
stopped them, and they reached the city wall and the Gate of Roses
a week later.
  The Shai saw no one as they rode their horses down the Street of
Roses. The commander, Rakera, looked around him uneasily,
remembering the stories he had heard about Etrara. Ghosts
haunted the city, they said, and there were fortune-tellers who
could blight a life with a single glance.
  A figure moved out of the shadows. Rakera stopped and put his
hand to his sword. “My lord,” the figure said, kneeling.
  “Rise,” Rakera said, startled. It was true, then—these decadent
people had no honor. He smiled. A traitor in the city would make
his task much simpler. “Who are you?”
  “One who wishes only to serve,” the man said. Light glinted from
the glass before his eyes, and Rakera, who had never seen
spectacles before, looked at him in amazement. “Here—I have
prepared a small pageant in your honor.”
  “Your name,” Rakera said harshly. “What is your name?”
  “My name is Talenor, my lord,” the man said.
  Duke Talenor, Rakera thought, no longer surprised at the extent
of these people’s treachery. The traitor waved his hand. Others
came forward out of the shadows. Someone played a flute, and a
woman began to recite a poem welcoming the Shai to Etrara. As
she spoke she motioned him forward, toward a black cloth stretched
across the street.
  Rakera’s hand had never left the hilt of his sword. Now he looked
back at the soldiers massed behind him, searching for his
poet-mage. Kotheg spurred his horse forward until he was nearly
even with his commander, and together they rode toward the cloth.
Rakera motioned his men forward.
  Two men of Etrara parted the cloth. Rakera almost laughed. The
traitors had built a triumphal arch to honor their conquerors. A
woman came through the arch, made him a curtsy, and began to
speak in praise of valor.
  When she had finished another woman joined her, this one
reciting verses about honor. Rakera listened, puzzled. Why did
these people speak of valor and honor when they had none? “The
Seven Virtues, my lord,” Talenor said near him.
  Rakera nodded. He had heard about these, the frivolous court
games of Etrara. He tried not to show his impatience.
  Finally all seven Virtues had spoken, and an eighth woman came
through the arch. She repeated the names of the Virtues and
recited a short poem praising Rakera; the Shai commander, she
said, combined all seven Virtues in his person.
  All the women curtsied once more, and then the eighth woman
invited the Shai to the palace, where more entertainment awaited
them.
  Rakera motioned the troops forward again. Talenor moved to
Rakera’s side. “Any of these women would be pleased to share your
bed,” the traitor said.
  “Where is the queen?” Rakera asked.
  Talenor frowned, as if it pained him to hear questions asked so
openly. “She’s fled, my lord. Queen Callia and her court went to the
countryside. Only a few remain in the palace.”
  “Where in the countryside?”
   “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. My sister the Duchess Mariel
also stayed behind—perhaps you could ask her.” They passed
through the triumphal arch. “What do you think of this arch, my
lord? Is it not fine?”
  Rakera glanced around him. Every inch of the stone had been
carved. The commander shrugged; he had never liked the
overelaborate art of Etrara.
  A short while later they reached the Street of Stones, and Rakera
motioned the troops toward Palace Hill. At the courtyard the
commander sent Kotheg and some of his men into the palace to
make certain that they were not walking into a trap. But even here
the people of Etrara proved themselves cowards; the soldiers
returned to say that the palace was almost deserted.
  Rakera dismounted and sent his horse to the stables. Talenor
walked before him and knocked at the outer door. A porter opened
the door to them, bowing deeply.
  Talenor led Rakera and his men through the entrance room and
into the banquet hall. The traitor waved his hand. The tables in the
banquet hall were set with linen and crystal and silver. Candles
burned at every table, and more shone in sconces on the walls.
Talenor clapped his hands. “We will have more entertainment here,
and then a banquet. Does that please you, my lord?”
  “If you will taste every dish first,” Rakera said.
   Talenor looked pained again, then smiled grimly. “Certainly, my
lord,” he said.
  “Good.”
  Rakera’s men began to find seats at the tables. Talenor led the
commander to the dais and turned their chairs around so that they
faced the stage. They sat. The traitor clapped his hands again, and
gestured in front of them.
  Women danced to the stage. “A play, my lord,” Talenor said. He
smiled again. “ The Comedy of Hendo and Hendist. ”
  A woman stepped to the front of the stage and began to speak the
Prologue. Rakera frowned. Of all the things he had seen so far in
Etrara the strangest was this, that these women should display
themselves so openly in front of men. He himself was not as strict
as some in the matter of women; he even let his own wife come
with him to the major festivals. But he felt with conviction that
here the people of Etrara had gone too far. Disgust and displeasure
rose so strongly within him that he missed the sense of the
Prologue.
  The actor who had recited the Prologue left the stage. Two
women dressed as men came out. They spoke slowly and with broad
gestures; Rakera understood that their speeches were intended to
be humorous, but he could not follow them any more than he had
understood the Prologue. For the first time he wondered if this
entertainment was a jest at his expense, if he had underestimated
the subtlety of these people.
  A woman in black rags climbed heavily to the stage. One of the
actors clapped her hand to her mouth; she seemed to be suppressing
a scream. Another woman in black appeared on the stage, and
another.
  Someone finally did scream; Rakera felt almost grateful for it.
Here at last was something he could understand. “What are these
women?” Rakera asked the traitor. “Surely they’re not Virtues?”
  Talenor had gone very pale. “Maegrim,” he said.
  “What?”
  “The Maegrim. Someone’s fortune is about to change.”
  The women began to dance, turning slowly so that Rakera saw
their hoods of badger skin. These are the fortunetellers, then,
Rakera thought. The ones who can change a life with a glance. He
had almost thought they were no more than stories.
  The women danced faster. There were six of them, and then
seven. One took out a flat bundle of conjuring sticks and sank to
the stage; a stick fell from her hand to the floor. “Summer!” the
woman said.
  “What does that mean?” Rakera asked.
  “A summer cast in a summer month,” Talenor said. He seemed
pleased about something. “Good fortune.”
  “Summer!” the woman called again.
  “Good fortune?” Rakera said. He laughed. “It’s still winter—can’t
you tell? Callabrion hasn’t ascended this year.”
  “Summer!” the woman called out one final time, and then
gathered up the conjuring sticks and left the stage.
  “Stop them!” Rakera said. He put his hand to his sword and
half-stood. Men ran up to the stage. Rakera blinked in confusion.
The women had disappeared.
  He turned back to Talenor. “Where did they go?”
  “I don’t know, my lord. They—”
  Rakera motioned to his men, who caught the traitor in a ring of
swords.
  “They come and go as they please,” Talenor said. “They are—they
are witches, sacred to Sbona—”
   “Quiet,” Rakera said. He had grown weary of the games of
Etrara; he needed time to think. Finally he said, “Someone’s
fortune is about to change, is that what you told me?”
  Talenor nodded.
  “In Shai there are only two people whose fortunes change, the
king of summer and the king of winter,” Rakera said. “We kill the
kings at the end of their reigns, to make the crops fertile and to
show what happens to people who aspire to more than their place
on the ladder permits. Everyone else does exactly what his father
did and what his grandfather did before that.”
  Talenor said nothing.
  “The god-king still rules in Shai,” Rakera said. “It must be
someone from Etrara whose fortune is about to change. And the
only man of Etrara I see in this room is you, traitor.” He scowled.
“Tell me why I should not have you killed.”
  “I—I can be useful to you, my lord,” Talenor said.
   “You weary me, traitor. I don’t want your help. Haven’t you
heard the proverb? ‘A man who is false to one king will prove false
to another.’
  “It’s an honor to be killed by one of our guards,” Rakera went on.
“In Shai we put out the eyes of traitors before we kill them, so that
they will not see the honor being done to them. As for barbarians—”
  Talenor moaned. Rakera reached out and gently removed the
duke’s spectacles. Talenor shut his eyes. “You’ve already proven you
have no honor,” Rakera said. He motioned to one of his men. “Kill
him. And find me the Duchess Mariel.”
  The man moved forward and stabbed Talenor to the heart.


For a week the Shai left Duchess Mariel alone. They hammered
their lamps of twisted iron into the ceilings of the palace,
splintering the paintings in the royal suite of the goddess Sbona
creating the world. They laid their barbaric rugs of gold and blue or
black and red over the patterned marble tiles. They burned herbs in
the fireplaces that made Mariel’s eyes sting and her head ache, and
whenever two or more of them met in the hallways they beat their
swords together, making the corridors ring hollowly.
  A guard was posted at the door of the royal apartments, but
Mariel seemed to be free to walk through her rooms and those of
her brothers and sister. But the rooms were deserted; she met no
one on her wanderings, not even Talenor.
  She wondered what had happened to Talenor; he had told her of
his plans to gain favor with the Shai. Even he had proved to have
designs on the throne, she thought. He had fooled everyone for so
long, pretending to be a scholar, interested only in his books. She
had been the only one who hadn’t been taken in.
  One day she came upon a man sitting in a pool of shadow. At first
she took him for another ghost, but then she recognized Sbarra’s
poet. “Sorth,” she said.
 “My lady,” Sorth said, standing quickly. “Please—I beg you—take
me with you when you go.”
  So Duchess Sbarra had gone with Callia when she fled, Mariel
thought. She could imagine the arguments between Sbarra and her
husband, the accusations each had made; Sbarra, unlike Talenor,
would not find it so easy to turn traitor.
  “I’m afraid I’m not going anywhere,” Mariel said dryly. “I seem to
be a prisoner here too. Why didn’t you leave with the duchess?”
  “There was no room for me. She took her personal servants and
no one else. And now I—I’m trapped here.” He looked into the
shadows as if he saw enemies lurking there. Perhaps, Mariel
thought, he had ghosts of his own.
  “Why do you say that? The Shai have left us alone so far. There’s
no danger here.”
  “There’s a danger to me. Don’t you understand? A masterless
poet is a target of scorn for every other poet—their satiric verses
could kill me.”
  She could see that he believed it; he looked gaunt and
hollow-eyed, as if he had not slept since Duchess Sbarra had gone.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.
  “I beg you—”
  “I’ll take you into my service. Would that do?”
  “Yes,” he said immediately, gratefully. “Yes—I thank you, my
lady. I’ll write a poem praising your generosity—future generations
will remember your goodness. But why didn’t you leave with the
royal family?”
  “I don’t know,” she said.
   He looked doubtful, as if he thought her about to do some heroic
deed he could set down in verse. But she had told him the truth;
although Callia had pleaded with her to go with them she had made
up her mind to stay. Leaving the palace would do her no good at all;
she could not escape her guilt.
  She had thought it would be easy to kill Gobro. It had been she
who had raised the idea of poison, who had asked Narrion to visit
the apothecary, she and Callia who had given him the poisoned cup.
She had not reckoned with his ghost.
   A few days later she finished her sleeping potion, but she was not
allowed to send a servant to the apothecary’s for more. She stopped
her wanderings and lay in her rooms with her eyes closed, trying to
dispel her headache. In the long hours alone she began to think of
her brothers and sister, Tariel’s children.
   Tariel had been a scrupulously honest tyrant, treating each of his
children and their mothers with equal fairness. She remembered
walking in some procession or other; she and Talenor, as the oldest,
had each held a corner of his train, and Callia and Arion and Gobro,
tiny children then, had walked behind them.
  Once, though, Callia’s mother had displeased Tariel for a reason
Mariel could not remember, and Tariel had banished his former
mistress to the kitchen and ordered her to do scullery work. The
children of the palace servants had understood immediately that
Callia could now be taunted without reprisal; they had called her
“God’s child”—the peasant term for someone who was illegitimate
or whose father was not known—and worse names than that.
Mariel did not think that Calh’a had ever forgotten it; from that
day forward she would never set foot in a kitchen, not even to give
orders to a servant. Perhaps that explained her sister’s obsessive
need for pageants and finery. Perhaps Callia still thought of herself
as somehow less noble than the rest of them.
  Poor Gobro was dead now, and Arion too: she had heard about his
death when the remnants of the defeated army had come home.
Some of the soldiers had whispered that Arion had betrayed them,
and Mariel had wondered if that could be true. With Arion dead
there were only the three of them left.
  And Val, of course, though Val didn’t seem to know that he might
be the legitimate heir. Even after coming back from Tobol An he
had gone on being Val, courteous and pleasant and a little distant.
When Callia had asked her what she thought, Mariel had advised
her sister to do nothing.
  But Callia had apparently not taken Mariel’s advice; Mariel had
heard that Val had been sent to where the fighting was the
thickest. And Val was another who hadn’t come back; perhaps he
was dead too, another death on their hands, though she had heard
rumors that he had been captured. But who remained to ransom
him?


The next day a delegation of the Shai came to her room. She was
still lying on her bed, her head having gotten no better after a
night’s sleep. “Where is Queen Callia?” Rakera said.
  “Callia?” Mariel said. She knew quite well where her sister was;
the queen and some of her courtiers had fled to relatives in the
country. “I have no idea. Surely you asked Talenor.”
  “Of course. He said his sister refused to talk to him when she
found out he intended to turn traitor. He didn’t put it that way, of
course—no man thinks of himself as a traitor.” Rakera paused.
“Talenor’s dead,” he said.
  “Dead?” Mariel asked. Fear filled her; the pounding of her head
grew worse. It was impossible to think. But she would not ask this
man how her brother died; she would not give him the satisfaction.
  “Where is Queen Callia?” Rakera asked again.
  “My sister comes and goes as she pleases. She’s the queen—at
least she was. She has no need to ask my leave for her actions.”
  “Shall we use the ladder then?”
  “The—the ladder?”
  “Aye. Or did you think your position here would protect you?”
  She felt stretched on the ladder already; her head had given her
no peace all night. She did not think she could survive torture. “I
have no position here,” she said.
  “That’s true, quite true. The ladder, then. And if you still resist
we’ll have you put to death.”
  They would take her out of her cool dark room and force her into
the dreadful light of the iron lamps. Then they would bind her arms
and legs to the rungs of the ladder. And if she didn’t die of the pain
they would kill her; they had already proven their cruelty in killing
Talenor.
  “I don’t—” she said feebly.
  “Come, come, Duchess Mariel. We’ve already got your poet tied to
the ladder—he’ll be a little taller when you see him next. It’s only a
matter of days, of hours, really, before he tells us what we want to
know. Why don’t you save his life, and your own, and tell us where
she is?”
  “She’s with her mother’s relatives,” Mariel said weakly, lying
back against her pillows.
  “Are you certain?”
  “Yes.”
  “And where is that?”
  She told him. As the Shai left she heard one guard say to
another, “A decadent people, as we thought. There’s no honor left in
any of them.”
  First Gobro and now Callia, she thought, closing her eyes: she
marveled that betrayal seemed to grow easier with time. Would
they truly kill the queen? They seemed to know all about killing
royalty.
  Something moved in her room and she opened her eyes
cautiously. Gobro stood in front of her, the weak light from the
window shining through him. A jewel at his fingers glittered. “Do
you know where Riel is?” he asked.
  “Go away,” she whispered. “Go away—you’re dead, go away.”


Val heard the key in the lock and his guard came in, bringing him
breakfast. Since their conversation about ambition the guard had
spent a few minutes of every day talking to him, and Val had begun
to look forward to his visits. The man had none of the courtly
graces of Duchess Sbarra and her friends, but Val had quickly
learned to overlook his shortcomings in exchange for his company,
however brief.
  “The news from Etrara is good,” the guard said now, putting
down Val’s tray. “The city has fallen without resisting.”
  “No,” Val said, profoundly shocked. “No one fought at all?”
  “No one.” The guard sat at the table opposite Val. He grinned.
“Some of them even turned traitor, making our task that much
easier.”
  “What of Queen Callia? And Talenor, and Mariel?”
  “I don’t know. My commanders don’t tell me such things. Why
should they, after all?”
  “Do you know—what will happen to me?”
  “Ah, that I do know. There’s no one left to ransom you—you’ll be
sent as a slave to Shai. They’ll put you to work in the silver mines,
perhaps, or the vineyards.”
  A slave. From king of Etrara to slave. Despair overcame him; he
put his head in his hands, saying nothing.
   No—he would not sit quietly, waiting to be shackled and bound.
He looked up. “It seems that you were right about ambition after
all,” he said carefully. He stood and went to the window, looked out
at the other cells.
   “That’s true,” the guard said. “The gods dislike a man who tries
to rise on the ladder.”
  “Aye. And now the gods have struck me down, as easily as I
might cut the thread of that spider there.”
  The guard turned to see where he pointed. One step brought Val
to his side. He drew the other man’s sword and moved away
quickly.
   “Open the door,” Val said. The sword was unfamiliar, heavy, but
it did not waver as he pointed it toward the guard.
  The guard went to the door. “The city you knew is gone,” he said.
“Where will you go?”
  “That’s my business. Open the door.”
  The guard put his hand on the ring of keys at his belt. Suddenly,
so quickly Val did not see him move, the other man drew his
dagger. He moved toward Val, the dagger poised.
  Val picked up a chair, threw it at the other man. The guard went
down, hitting his head against the wall as he fell. Val wrenched the
dagger from his hand and took his keys. The guard stirred a little,
moaning, but he did not wake.
   Val unlocked the cell, fumbling with the keys and the dagger in
the same hand, and hurried outside. “Andosto!” he called. “Andosto,
it’s Val! Where are you?”
   Someone answered from another of the cells. Val ran toward the
sound and turned one of the keys in the lock. Nothing happened. He
tried again, and the door opened.
  Andosto came to the door. Val threw him the sword. “Hurry!” he
said. “Etrara’s fallen. We have to get away, get free.”
  Two more of the Shai came toward them, moving quickly.
Andosto could deal with them, Val thought; he ran to open the
other doors.
  Men left their rooms, blinking in the unfamiliar light. “Go help
Andosto!” Val said, not staying to see if they understood. One cell
opened to Anthiel, the untutored poet-mage who had saved them in
the mountains. Val unlocked the last cell and looked around him.
  More of the Shai had come up; Andosto was holding off two of
them, and a third lay dead at his feet. One of the Shai saw Val and
broke off to run toward him. Andosto bent, took the dead man’s
sword, and threw it to Val. Val caught it by the hilt, a trick his
fencing teacher had taught him.
  As the Shai came closer Val saw that it was his guard, the man
who had spoken so eloquently about ambition. He had roused
himself, then, and had found another sword.
  Once again the lessons of his fencing master came back to him,
and he parried the other man’s strokes until he found an opening.
His opponent, caught off guard by his sudden movement, took two
steps backward and stumbled against a rise on the ground. Val
thrust his blade forward and the man fell.
  Val looked around him. One of the men Andosto fought with was
down, and the other seemed to be tiring. Val hurried toward them.
  “How—” Andosto asked.
  “Not now,” Val said. “We have to get away before they realize
we’ve gone.”
  The second Shai guard turned and ran as Val came up to
Andosto. The other men of Etrara joined them. “Hurry!” Val said,
leading the men away from the cells.
   As they went Val heard Anthiel speak a brief spell of illusion,
cloaking them from the Shai, and a spell of protection against
whatever evil magic remained. After a short time they topped a rise
and Val could see the plain stretch out before them, and the Teeth
of Tura in the distance.
  They came down to the plain. The grasses, sharp as swords, bent
in the cold wind. For the first time since his escape Val felt his
wounds, the dull aches in his rib and thigh.
  He looked over his shoulder, but no one seemed to be following
them. “How did you escape?” Andosto asked.
  “I took my guard’s sword,” Val said.
  “And—Etrara’s fallen, you say?”
  “So my guard said, and I see no reason to doubt him. He said
they would not ransom us, that we would be put to work as slaves.”
  They walked for a time without speaking, passing trampled,
muddy earth. He felt very weary. No one in Etrara had thought
they would lose; all their talk had been of conquest, of the riches
they would find in Shai.
  “What will you do now?” he asked Andosto.
  “I’ll go back to Etrara. Maybe I can help—help somehow—”
   For the first time Andosto sounded uncertain. Val saw the other
man’s future very clearly: he would fight on, waging a hopeless
battle against the Shai until he was overcome and killed. He could
not exist quietly in a conquered country; it was the nature of heroes
to be heroic.
  “What about you?” Andosto asked. “Where will you go?”
   Val was silent a moment. Until now, he saw, he had been content
to follow where others led. He had gone into exile because Narrion
had told him to, and had fought in Callia’s war because it had been
expected of him. But what did he want for himself? Did he want to
be king? And could he claim the throne if the Shai ruled Etrara?
  No—there were traitors in Etrara, his guard had said, and one or
another of them might have given his secret to the Shai. It would
be dangerous to return.
   Suddenly he thought of Tobol An. He felt a profound desire to see
it again, to sit by the hearth drinking tea, to talk with Taja and
Pebr about the great world outside. The war had probably left the
tiny village untouched; its harbor was certainly too small to interest
the Shai. He could stay there until he decided what to do.
  “I’m going to Tobol An,” he said, and felt relief sweep through
him as he said it.


They came to their abandoned camp at the foot of the mountains
and stopped to forage for food. Then they began to climb, shivering
in the cold wind blowing across the snow. The rumors had been true
then, Val thought. Winter had not ended.
  No apparitions appeared in the mountains; Val thought that
Anthiel’s verses might be protecting them. Even so their second
journey seemed to be much harder than their first. Without horses
they were forced to trudge through the snow on foot, and at night
they slept wrapped only in their cloaks. One of the men took sick
and could barely continue for the coughing that racked his body.
For the first time Val understood what his men had gone through
while he had sat at his ease on his horse, and he marveled at their
hardiness. There were more ways than one to be a hero, he
thought.
   On his second day in the mountains the wound in Val’s leg began
to ache, and by the third it pained him so greatly that he was forced
to rest several times. He found a tree branch and used it as a cane,
walking carefully along the snow-laden trail; the other men stopped
several times to wait for him.
   And always, as they picked their way through the snowdrifts,
they kept one eye toward Shai in case of pursuit. They could see no
one on the trail behind them, but the snow made it impossible to
look down into the plain. He hoped that the Shai had decided to let
them go; it would not be worth the trouble to follow them when
they could have their pick of slaves in Etrara.
   Finally they came to the plain of Wathe. On their second day of
marching Val bid good fortune to the other men and turned south.
The food he had gathered at the camp was running low, but he
went a little faster now. He would see Taja again, and Pebr, would
sit in their stone cottage while the harsh wind gusted against the
door.
  He traveled for several days, favoring his injured leg. On his
third day alone he came to a bridge made of weathered oak planks.
He crossed it, realizing with surprise that the noisy hurrying river
beneath him must be the Darra, which had turned south from
Etrara.
  On the other side of the river, fern and wet green moss climbed
the banks and fanned out onto the shore. Tall trees shadowed the
path. As he walked he left the sound of water behind; the trees
became more massive, silent, oppressive. They seemed dry as
paper, the fallen leaves the accumulation of years.
   He had reached the Forest of Thole, he realized, and he turned
south once more, hoping to leave the forest completely. After a
while he saw the weak winter sun breaking through the trees, and
he hurried out into the light. He kept the ancient trees on his right,
not wanting to return even to search for food. He had had enough
of magic, he thought.
   Finally the houses of a village appeared ahead of him. For a
moment, filled with hope, he thought he had reached Tobol An, but
as he came closer he saw that the town was far larger than Taja’s
village. Soria, he thought, remembering when he had gone there to
buy clothes. Pebr and Taja had gotten candles and soap and bolts of
cloth at the same time.
   Evening had begun to fall, the strange oppressive dusk that
seemed to blanket the land earlier and earlier since the Feast of the
Ascending God. He did not want to stop, did not want to speak to
strangers, but his leg hurt too badly to continue. He went into the
village and found an inn.
  The common room was crowded. He limped between the trestled
tables and called for the innkeeper. A man hurried toward him. “I
need a room for the night,” Val said.
  “Did you fight?” the innkeeper asked. “What news of the war?”
  “Etrara’s fallen.”
  A dozen people in the common room began to speak at once.
“Fallen, did you say?” one of the men asked, louder than the rest.
  “Aye.”
  Something in the way Val spoke silenced their questions. The
innkeeper gave him a key, and he walked slowly up the stairs. They
had to hear it sooner or later, he thought. But he was too weary to
stay and talk; he wanted only to sleep.
  He had an early breakfast and set off the next morning. A day’s
walking brought him to a ruin from the time of the wizards, a huge
black boulder that seemed made of glass. The sight heartened him;
he was getting close, then. For the first time in a long while he
began to sing.
  Two mornings later, as the weak sun lightened the sky, he saw
Tobol An, approaching it from the east rather than the north this
time. The white spire of the library gleamed against the horizon. As
he came closer he saw the familiar stone cottages rising from the
barren plain, huddling together as if for warmth. A gull called
overhead, and he could smell the complex salty odor of the sea.
  He felt hunger and weariness strongly now, and the wound in his
thigh ached sharply as he walked. It would be good to have a meal
by the fire, and a bath, and to sleep for a very long time…
  Suddenly he stopped. A group of people dressed in fantastic
costumes stood by one of the houses, all of them arguing furiously.
Actors, he thought. What in Callabrion’s name were actors doing in
Tobol An?
   Tamra and her friends had acted for the love of it and never for
pay; their high station forbade it. Their performances were only for
the men and women of the court. Other companies in the city acted
professionally, and had the patronage of one noble or another. But
less fortunate, masterless troupes roamed the countryside and put
on performances wherever they could, in barns or alehouses or open
fields, hoping to catch the eye of a rich man or woman and
exchange a play for one night’s shelter in a manor house.
  These women had to be masterless, Val thought. Why else would
they travel to tiny Tobol An?
  He came closer. The women were beautiful, he saw, fairer by far
than the slatterns he had expected. One of them, wearing a dress of
blue brocade, turned and looked at him.
  His breath stopped. “Taja,” he said finally.
  “Val?” Taja said, lifting her skirts and hurrying toward him.
“Val—it is you! Where have you been? Did you fight? What
happened to you?”
  For a moment he could not speak, amazed by the sight of her as a
noblewoman, a woman of the court. He had thought of her so often
during the war, he realized; it had been the image of her that had
sustained him through all his pain and hunger and hardship. Now,
seeing her, he felt as if he had come home.
  “I fought, yes,” he said. “Not very heroically, I’m afraid. I was
captured, and managed to escape. But what of you? The last place I
would have expected to find you is in an acting troupe.”
  “They needed someone to play Jerith. Galin’s wife, in The
Tragedy of King Galin . I have three sentences to speak.” She
laughed.
   He glanced at the colorful troupe. One of the women looked
like—But no, it couldn’t be. “Some friends of yours are here as
well,” Taja said evenly. “Narrion and his wife. Tamra.”
  “What in Callabrion’s name—”
   “They had to flee. Narrion was on the Queen’s Council—the Shai
would have imprisoned them if they hadn’t left. Narrion came here
once before, with you, and he remembered it. Tamra and her
friends disguised themselves as traveling actors—they got away
just as the city fell.”
  “What of the others? Callia, and Mariel?”
  “I don’t know. Callia would know better than to come to Tobol
An.”
  “What do you mean?”
  “She sent troops here,” Taja said, speaking quietly. “She wanted
to find your birth records. Don’t worry—the records are safe. But
we were caged, and—and tortured. I was tortured on the ladder.”
   At first Val thought she was speaking metaphorically. Poets who
had had ill luck often said they had been tortured on the ladder of
fortune. But she continued to look at him with her level gaze, and
he realized that she had truly been subjected to the ladder. She had
been tortured for his sake.
  He remembered thinking that Tobol An, at least, was safe, that
Taja would never know the horrors of war. He cursed himself for
his stupidity. “I’m sorry,” he said, hearing as he spoke them how
inadequate the words sounded.
  “It’s all right, Val. It’s all right. We came through, and the troops
are gone—”
  “What about Narrion? He was on the Queen’s Council, you said.
Didn’t he have something to do with sending the troops here?”
   “He says that he wasn’t in the inner circle, that he had little
power in the council. Pebr believes him, and most people in the
village will follow Pebr. They respect him.”
 Val shook his head. “Narrion could sell wine to the Shai if he
wanted.”
  “Do you think he’s lying?”
  “I don’t know. Yes. Yes, he’s lying, if not about this then about
something else. He’s a liar. Don’t trust him, Taja.”
  “Don’t trust whom?”
   Val turned quickly. Narrion stood there, his arm around Tamra.
“Good fortune, Narrion, Tamra,” Val said, nodding toward them in
a slight bow. “Taja tells me you had nothing to do with sending the
troops to Tobol An.”
  “No. No, that was Callia’s doing. Why did she want the troops
here, by the way? And why did Gobro send you here in the first
place?”
  Did Narrion truly not know? It would be fortunate if Callia had
told no one of her suspicions. “I don’t know,” he said.
  Narrion shook his head. “And you call me a liar, Val.”
  “Yes, I do. A liar, and a conspirator.”
   “Gobro told me to bring you to Tobol An—it was no doing of mine.
I thought we’d agreed to put that behind us.”
   “You’d agreed. I haven’t agreed to anything. And you bringing me
to Tobol An was the least of your treachery.”
  “I explained everything to you.”
  “I don’t trust you, Narrion. I’d give a lot to know what you’re
planning now.”
  “Nothing, Val,” Narrion said. “Nothing, I assure you.”
  One of the actors called out, “We’re rehearsing act three now.
Tamra, we need you. And Taja—you too.”
  Taja and Tamra joined the rest of the troupe. Narrion followed
them. Val watched him go. Was it just ill luck that had brought
Narrion here, to Tobol An? Val would have to be vigilant now; it
could prove disastrous if his cousin guessed the secret of his birth.
  Taja took her place among the rest of the women. He had never
realized how beautiful she was. Val shook his head. Narrion, and
Etrara, and the Shai—none of them mattered now. The most
important thing in the world was seeing her walk.


Rakera took Mariel with him when he and his men went after
Callia. He assigned her two guards but Mariel thought that he
might have saved himself the trouble; the pain in her head was so
great she could barely move.
  They reached the manor house of Lady Godemar’s relatives after
a half day’s ride. The doors were barred against them, but once the
Shai battered them down the people of the house offered no further
resistance. The Shai hurried inside, spreading out to find all the
members of the household.
  Within a few moments everyone had been brought into the vast
banquet hall. Mariel saw her sister immediately. She had changed
into servant’s clothing, as had the other members of the court, but
the way she walked, holding her head high, was unmistakable. The
two women looked at each other and Mariel looked away quickly,
worried that the Shai would ask her to identify her sister. Worse,
she feared that Callia would guess who had betrayed her. Poor
Callia,
  Mariel thought. All her life she had dreaded becoming a servant.
   But Rakera did not even look at Mariel. Instead he took a coin
from the purse at his side. A gold sovereign, stamped in the reign of
Queen Callia.
  He held the coin up to each of the women in the hall, servants
and nobility alike. Twice he paused for a moment and then
continued on. Finally he came to Callia.
  Carefully, almost gently, Rakera pulled back her peasant’s hood.
Her golden hair shone in the light from the windows. Even her
expression was similar to that on the coin, imperious, unyielding.
  No one spoke. Rakera led her to another of his men. “I want to
know who the rest of her courtiers are,” he said. “And anything else
she chooses to tell me.”
  The man took her into another room. After only a few minutes
Mariel heard a deep, terrible scream. None of Tariel’s children can
stand up to torture, Mariel thought in despair. We should all have
been drowned at birth.
  Another scream came from the next room. Mariel put her hands
over her ears.
  After what seemed like an eternity the man returned alone to the
banquet hall. He went unerringly to Talenor’s wife Sbarra, and
then moved on to others of the court. Soldiers separated the men
and women he had picked out from the servants and peasants of
the household.
  “Where—What happened to my sister?” Mariel asked.
  “Dead,” the man said.
  Mariel slumped against her guard. Was this why she had been
brought with them, so that she could witness the result of her
treachery? Would Callia haunt her now as Gobro did? Perhaps her
society would consist entirely of ghosts; she did not think she was
fit for the company of the living.
  “What will happen to us?” Sbarra asked.
 “Nothing,” Rakera said. “Nothing as long as you do as you’re told.
We’ve treated Mariel well, haven’t we, Mariel?”
   Very well, Mariel thought. Except for killing my brother and
sister. She said nothing.
  “She said something before she died, sir,” Callia’s torturer said.
“Something about another brother.”
  “Another brother! How many bastards did this Tariel have?”
   “This one might not be a bastard, sir. She thought he could be the
rightful heir.”
  “The rightful heir,” Rakera said. He looked thoughtful. “They will
not like this news in Shai—it could prove dangerous to us, very
dangerous. Was Tariel married, then?”
   “He seems to have been. The queen said something about a
library, birth records. I didn’t fully understand her—she was
babbling by then.”
  “Do you know the brother’s name?”
  “Yes, sir. Valemar, she said. And she gave me a description, and
the name of a village he might have gone to if he isn’t in the city.
Somewhere called Tobol An.”



                               Nine
                                                              «^»
War belongs to Scathiel,” Osa, one of the actors, said. “Everyone
feels cold when war comes.”
  “No—war is hot and fierce,” Tamra said.
  “Not for the dead,” someone said. “No one is as cold as the dead.”
  “I was never so cold as in this last war,” Val said. “Scathiel had
this one, if none of the others.”
  The actors sat before the hearth in Pebr’s cottage, along with Val
and Narrion and Taja. Pebr had scowled when he had seen them
coming, and had hurried off to the cottage of a friend. He had done
this every night the actors had visited; his dislike for the court of
Etrara had, if anything, grown stronger in the months Val had been
away.
   Val sat on the floor near Taja and stretched his legs out in front
of him, grateful that the pain had gone. Mathary had given him
some salve for his wounds and they had healed quickly.
  “And poetry?” Taja asked. “Who does poetry belong to?”
   Val looked at her, pleased. She had never spoken at one of the
gatherings before. Osa and a few of the others were looking at her
as well; probably they hadn’t expected a daughter of the fisher-folk
to understand court games.
   “Poetry?” Osa said. The actor had pale brown hair that fell to her
shoulders and curled back toward her face. She wore large round
spectacles that she removed before every performance; now they
glinted in the firelight. “I don’t think—”
  A slightly puzzled tone had entered her voice, as if she was
uncertain how she had come to address one of the lower rungs. In
fact, Val thought, annoyed, Taja’s question had been well within the
rules of the game.
  “Yes, poetry, very good,” he said quickly. “Poetry belongs to—to
both the gods, of course. Poetry helps us ascend—”
  Three or four people cut him off with cries of “Unfair! Unfair!”
The point of the game was to assign each attribute to one god or
another.
  “Poetry is like music—”
  “Not at all—poetry is more like magic—”
  Val watched them as they argued. He had never seen before how
unimportant these games were, how ineffectual all the court was.
Etrara had fallen, and still they danced the old measures as though
nothing had happened. But then he had done the same; he had even
discussed virtue and ambition with one of the barbarous Shai. For
the first time he realized that that man was dead now, that he
would have no more discussions on any subject again.
  How could he have thrown in his lot with these people, all glitter
and trifles? How could he have pursued Tamra, and all the other
women before her? That day when he had come back to Tobol An he
had seen Taja for what she was, and it seemed to him that since
then he had seen everything clearly, without pretense. He had
never before understood the court’s unconcern for others, their
disregard for those who stood lower on the ladder. Taja had shown
him more of the world in one season than he had learned in all his
years in Etrara.
  Finally the troupe left, and he was alone with her. They returned
the chairs to the storeroom, Val’s room, saying nothing. When they
had finished Taja said, “Mathary told me you would save Tobol An.”
  “Did she?” he said, startled. “I wonder why.”
   “Arion saved us, I think,” she said. “He turned the battle against
Etrara, and drew the troops away from the village. That’s why the
ghost-knight didn’t warn us about him. Because he was an enemy
of Callia, and so were we. So he was our friend.”
  He did not know what to say. He was unused to her bluntness,
her openness about the royal family. No one from the court had
mentioned Queen Callia once during their exile. How strange her
manner was, after all, how different from the cloying subtleties of
the court. How new it all was.
  “Taja,” he said.
   She turned to look at him, one of the mugs left by the company
still in her hand.
  “Did you get the sonnet I sent you?” he asked.
  She nodded.
  “Did you—did you like it?”
  She set the mug down. “I don’t know, Val,” she said. “The actors
say that you used to write poetry to Tamra, and even to Callia,
before she became queen. And how many were there before her?”
   How well she knew him, after all: she could strip him bare with a
look. She had summed up his life in a phrase, the way the
poet-mages did in the old books. “Tamra meant nothing,” he said.
“The others meant nothing—”
  “Then how do I know what I mean to you? If this is a game,
something you do for your own amusement—”
  “No. No, it’s nothing like that.”
   “If this is a game, then it’s one I don’t know how to play. And I
don’t understand why you would want to send me poetry otherwise.
I’m a daughter of fisher-folk, and you—you’re a lord, a king.”
  “I send you poetry because you’re beautiful. When I came back to
Tobol An after the war it was like returning home. I saw you for
what you were that day—”
  “You saw me dressed in court finery. I’m nothing like that.”
  “Taja, I swear by Callabrion—”
  “Hush,” she said. “Don’t swear. What would I do now, if I were a
lady of the court?”
  “You would thank me for the sonnet. But you would leave me in
doubt as to your meaning, and I would have to write you another,
and probably a few more after that. Then you would chance to drop
something of yours while talking to me—a scarf, perhaps, or a
handkerchief. And I would wear it on my sleeve, so others would
know that I courted you.”
  She shook her head, smiling a little. “Why is it all so
complicated?”
  “It’s not complicated. It’s amusing, enjoyable—”
  “A game,” she said.
  “No—no, it’s—”
  “Good night, Val,” she said, still smiling, and turned to go.


The days ran on, one into the other, and the company created a
court in miniature in Tobol An. They talked about the attributes of
the gods, about the Virtues and Vices, about the old poetry and
plays they were finding in the library. But no one spoke of politics,
or the Shai, and no one mentioned what they all surely thought,
that they would have to make plans before their money ran out.
None of them, Val knew, would be at all suited to the life of the
fisher-folk.
  Val had not spoken directly to Narrion since his first day in Tobol
An, though he had watched him carefully. Was his cousin speaking
the truth for once when he said he had nothing planned? How could
he trust Narrion after all the other man had done to him?
  Rehearsals of The Tragedy of King Galin continued. Taja
suggested that they stage the play in the library, but a few of the
actors disliked the presence of so much magic and the company
decided to use the open plain instead. They had one final rehearsal,
and then they announced the date of their performance.
  On the day of the play Val arrived at the makeshift stage early.
Nearly the entire village had turned out on the plain, and he was
hard-pressed to find a place from which to see the stage. Finally he
sat on a slight rise at the back of the crowd, close to Mathary.
   The Prologue stepped forward. As he watched the woman speak
Val felt a superstitious dread; the last play he had seen had been
marred by the presence of the Maegrim at just such a moment. He
looked at the plain around him, unable to help himself. The sound
of the ghost-knight’s trumpet came toward them, faint and far
away.
  The Prologue stopped. “Soldiers!” someone on the stage said, and
at the same moment someone in the audience called out, fearfully,
“The Shai!”
  “They’ve come for you,” Mathary said to Val.
  “What?”
  “They’ve come for you. They know who you are.”
  He did not think to doubt her. “What should I do?” he asked.
  “Play a part,” she said. “You should be good at that, at least.”
  He studied her for a moment, not understanding. Then he ran to
the stage. “Give me a costume,” he said urgently to Osa. “Teach me
what to say.”
  “What?” Osa said. She peered at him nearsightedly.
  “The Shai. They’re here for me. Find a costume for me—they’ll
never think to look for me among women.”
  Taja grinned at him. “You can be the King’s Pen,” she said.
“You’ll be on the stage in almost every act, but you only have two
sentences to speak. Do you think you can do that?”
  Val nodded. “Quickly,” he said. Someone handed him a costume
of faded velvet and a chain of office, and he hurried behind the
stage to change.
  The costume had been made for a woman; it was too broad in the
hips and chest and too tight at the waist. The breeches, Callabrion
be thanked, were almost long enough; he remembered the tall
woman who had spoken the Prologue at court. He left them
unfastened and tied a belt around his waist; to his relief the tunic
came down far enough to cover the belt. He ran his hand over his
face, glad that he had shaved that morning in honor of the play.
Then he tucked his amulet beneath the tunic, said a brief prayer to
Callabrion, and went to find the others.
  A few of the Shai stood on the stage; in their gold breastplates
and helmets they looked like actors in a play about strange and
fantastic outlanders. “We are looking for a man named Valemar,”
one of them said.
   Val glanced up, then looked away quickly. He had only caught a
glimpse, nothing more, but he felt certain that he had seen the man
who had shaken Arion’s hand the day they had all been betrayed:
Rakera, the commander of the Shai. He remembered that Arion
had called the commander brilliant, and his heart sank. How could
he hope to fool this man?
  The troupe of actors clustered by the stage. Val joined them
hurriedly, standing near Taja. No one in the audience spoke. With
his senses sharpened by fear Val could see Narrion and Pebr and
Mathary, and beyond them more soldiers guarding Duchess Mariel.
  “Valemar,” Rakera said again. “We know he is here. Bring me the
lady Mariel.”
  One of the soldiers led Mariel to the stage. “Where is he?” the
commander asked her. “You know him—tell me which one he is.”
  Mariel looked out at the audience and then at the small group of
actors. Despite his apprehension Val felt shocked at the change he
saw in her face; she looked haggard, bled white, as if she had been
tortured on the ladder. “I don’t—I don’t see him,” she said.
  “Come, Lady Mariel. You know what happens when you lie.”
  “I don’t—he’s not here.”
  The soldiers began to move through the audience. Would Mariel
betray him? And what of Narrion? The other man had given Val
scant reason to trust him.
   Two of the soldiers came over to the troupe by the stage and
looked at them closely. “Actors,” one of them said. “They pretend to
be other people. They’re all women.”
   The other soldier peered at Val. He did not seem to have
understood his companion. Could it be that they had no plays at all
in Shai?
  Finally the second man shrugged and moved away. “Women,” he
said, sounding doubtful.
  “Yes,” his companion said. “So I said.”
  The soldiers returned to the stage. To his horror Val saw the man
who had studied him speak to Rakera. Both men turned toward
him, and then the commander grinned. “Come,” he said. “Let’s see a
play.” He led the soldiers off the stage and they took seats among
the audience.
   Val looked at Taja. She had not even had time to teach him his
lines. “Don’t stand like that,” she whispered.
  “What?” he said. He had been leaning against the stage; his legs
were shaking.
  “Don’t sprawl like that. Women take up less space than men.”
  “What are my lines?”
  She told him. They marched onto the stage and stood ranged
behind the king.
  For the first few scenes Val saw and heard nothing of what went
on around him. He left the stage with the king and court and
returned with them, and all the while he wanted only to glance in
the soldiers’ direction. They must have guessed, he thought; surely
he looked nothing like a trained actor.
  By the second act, though, he had calmed enough to pay
attention to the play. He saw with admiration how Osa, the actor
playing the king, commanded most of the space around her, how
she became a king in the eyes of the audience. He saw how the
wicked councilor managed to suggest disloyalty with a few words
and a manner of standing. He heard gasps from the audience when
Tamra, dressed as a fortune-teller, spoke her prophecy. And soon,
to his great surprise, he began to look forward to saying his lines.
He was a man disguised as a woman disguised as a man; the part
would call for great subtlety.
  Finally he heard his cue. He risked a look into the audience and
saw that the Shai were watching him intently. He faltered. What
had he been about to say? Taja whispered something but he could
hear only the blood pounding in his ears.
  “My lord must guard against his treachery,” he said finally,
warning the king against his evil councilor.
   The play continued around him. Val could      not bring himself to
look directly at the audience but it seemed      to him that no one
moved, that his deception had been successful.   But as they marched
off at the end of the scene Taja passed him      and whispered, “Too
loud.”
  He nodded, feeling his fear return. Had the Shai noticed?
  Nearly everyone appeared in the final scene. The evil councilor
poisoned Taja, the king’s wife; she lay on the stage and winked at
Val with her head turned away from the audience. Finally, too late,
the king began to realize the extent of the treachery around him;
the nobles had conspired against him, the trap in the garden had
been laid, the tragedy continued inexorably to its end.
  Despite himself Val began to get caught up in the drama
unfolding in front of him. The king and his councilor killed each
other in a duel and lay in a heap together. “And so are good and evil
strangely mixed,” Val said. Then all that remained was to carry the
three dead bodies off the stage.
   He had never heard any audience applaud so loudly and so long,
not even when Callabrion climbed to the heavens at the Feast of
the Ascending God. He looked out into the crowd and saw that the
Shai had gone. The audience was applauding for him, he realized,
for him and for themselves; together they had triumphed over the
Shai.
  He jumped down from the stage and joined the crowd of actors
and villagers. “Val!” three or four people said at once. “We did it,
Val. We fooled them!”
  Pebr laughed and clapped him on the back; Val had never seen
the old man so demonstrative. Even Mathary was looking at him
with something that might have been approval. “You did well, Val,”
someone said. He turned, and saw Narrion.
  “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” he said, grinning.
  “Why were the Shai looking for you?” Narrion said quietly.
  “I don’t know.”
  “Come, Val—surely you must have some idea.”
  “I tell you I don’t know,” Val said, irritated. He sought Taja in the
crowd and waved at her, then pulled away from Narrion.
  He had been wrong; he could not be at ease at Tobol An, could
not be an idle courtier, ignoring the world around him. He had to
spend every moment guarding against his cousin. It seemed as if all
the world knew his secret: Taja and Callia and Mariel, and now the
Shai knew it as well. It would be only a matter of time before
Narrion guessed, or bribed someone to tell him.
  And then what? What would Narrion do with the knowledge,
Narrion with all his ambition? My lord must guard against his
treachery, he thought.
  “Why so grim, Val?” Taja said.
  At any other time he would have been glad of her concern for
him. Now, though, his worry forced all other thoughts from his
mind. “Narrion,” he said. “He guesses something.”
 “Why don’t you tell him the truth? He might have some idea of
what to do.”
  “I can imagine the kind of idea he’d have. King Narrion the
First—he’d like that.”
  “Do you think so? Is he that ambitious?”
  Val laughed harshly. “He’d climb the ladder and storm heaven if
he could,” he said. “Cast down Callabrion and Scathiel and rule in
their place.”
  Taja looked doubtful.
  “He’s an ambitious man,” Val said. “Do you know why I came to
Tobol An the first time? He’d convinced me that our lives were in
danger, that we had to flee the anger of the king. And then he
returned to Etrara, betrayed Gobro, married Tamra, became a
council member. All the while I was in exile he was spinning a web
so complex I’m still not certain I’ve unraveled it all.”
  “Well, then—what will you do?”
  “I don’t know. I know only that I have to be on my guard against
him. He said he has no plans, but I don’t believe him.”
  “The queen is dead—did you know that?”
  “Callia? Dead?”
  “Narrion managed to talk to Duchess Mariel during the play. The
Shai killed Callia, and Talenor as well. There’s only Mariel left now,
and she’s under guard. She said Talenor turned traitor—that’s why
they killed him. He tried to offer the Shai a masque.”
  “Traitor?” Val said. He felt sorrow for the man’s death, but there
was relief as well. Talenor would surely have pointed him out to the
Shai.
  They talked a little more, and then Taja left. He would have to
decide what to do soon; his few sovereigns would not last much
longer. And then what? Perhaps he could join the acting troupe, and
travel over the countryside. He laughed. He did not think he was
much of an actor.


A week later Val left his room to walk along the cliffside. He had
spent the day reading and thinking and had not realized how late it
had become until he stepped outside. The strange early dusk had
fallen, casting a sooty darkness over the village. Spring had failed
to arrive, Val knew; trees which should have been putting forth
new green leaves remained stark and bare. Folks in the
neighboring countryside had planted their crops but whispered
about the possibility of failed harvests, of plants dead in the ground.
  He left the path and walked toward the ocean. As he came
toward the ruined arch of Sleeping Koregath he heard the sound of
voices above the hiss of the waves. At first he thought the women
he heard were rehearsing a play. But then a voice spoke louder
than the others, and he realized that Narrion was there with them.
  Val started to move forward. Then he stopped, and without
thinking about it he crouched behind the ruin and listened. Cold
wind whistled through the arch.
  “Say it again,” Narrion said. “It’s not like acting, where you can
drop a line or two. If you forget a single word here we might as well
have done nothing.”
  “Great king,” one of the women said. “Sovereign and ruler, we
beseech you—”
  “Our sovereign. Our sovereign and ruler.”
  “Our sovereign and ruler—”
   “Narrion!” someone said, another woman’s voice. The actor broke
off. “Is that you?”
  “Over here,” Narrion said.
  “Good fortune, Narrion,” the second woman said, coming up to
the group of actors. Taja, Val thought. “I found the book you asked
for.”
  “I thank you. And I wanted to ask you about another matter as
well. Do you know why the Shai asked for Val?”
  Val leaned forward and peered around the arch. The actors were
black shapes against the dark gray sky; they looked a little like
ruined stone themselves.
  “No,” Taja said. “No, I wondered that myself.”
  “Have you asked him?” Narrion said.
  “Yes. He says he has no idea. What are you doing out here in the
dark? It’s cold as Scathiel’s heart here.”
  “We were just going in,” Narrion said. “We’ll walk you back to
the village.”
  The actors left. After a while Val followed them, walking slowly.
What in Callabrion’s name had Narrion been doing? Who was the
great king? There was no king in Etrara now, nothing but—
  He stopped. Nothing but the Shai, and their kings who died each
year at the Feasts of the Ascending and Descending Gods. Narrion
had been rehearsing a play to present to them, to the ancient
enemy of Etrara. Like Talenor and Arion, he had decided that the
quickest way to rise on the ladder was by treachery.
  Val continued, barely feeling the wind against his cloak. How
much would Narrion do to gain the Shai’s favor? Narrion had been
there at the play, and had heard them ask for Valemar. Would he
betray the man he thought was his cousin in exchange for a little
power?
  Val thought that he would. Narrion had proved that he had no
morals at all; he pretended to work for several sides at once but his
true loyalty was to himself alone. He had already killed at least one
man, and helped poison another; Val thought he would surely be
capable of killing again to get what he wanted.
   Val hurried toward the village and Pebr’s cottage. Suddenly he
felt the cold; he started to shiver and could not stop.


The next day Val went to the cottage Narrion and Tamra rented
from one of the fisher-folk. “Val!” Narrion said, looking up from the
book he was reading. “I’m glad you’ve come. I’ve been thinking
about that strange visit the Shai paid us.”
  “Have you?” Val said.
  If Narrion noticed the edge in Val’s voice he didn’t show it. “Do
you have any idea why they were so interested in you?” he asked.
  “No, I don’t. Why do you want to know? Are you planning to sell
the information to the highest bidder?”
  “I wish you trusted me more, Val.”
   “How can I trust you? Look where trust got me—a month in
exile, shivering in fear of the king. And all the while you were
living comfortably in Etrara—”
  “I told you—Gobro said he wanted you in Tobol An.”
  “Gobro said. And then you helped poison him. Do you see why I
can’t trust you? What are you plotting now?”
  “Nothing.”
  “Come, Narrion—I’m sick of lies.”
  “I haven’t lied to you since you returned to Etrara.”
  “You lied the moment I stepped in the door, when you said you
were glad I’d come. You weren’t glad to see me—you wanted to ask
me another of your endless questions. And how can you say you’re
plotting nothing? I heard you yesterday, rehearsing a play—”
  To his surprise Narrion laughed. “Yes, we were rehearsing
something,” he said. “Is that treasonous?”
  “It can be. Talenor offered the Shai a masque—perhaps you had
the same idea.”
   “They killed Talenor for his masque, didn’t they? Poor man—he
was never very clever, for all his learning.” Narrion brushed his
black hair out of his eyes and handed the book he had been reading
to Val. “Taja got this for me from the library,” he said.
  Invocations to Callabrion and Scathiel , Val read. “Callabrion and
Scathiel!” he said. “What have you to do with the gods?” he asked.
  “I’m a member of the Society of Fools,” Narrion said. “I thought
you knew.”
   Val nodded. Most people thought of the Fools as little more than
jesters; they forgot that the Society was bound to Scathiel in the
same way the astronomer-priests were bound to Callabrion.
  Despite his mistrust of Narrion Val smiled a little, remembering
last year’s Feast on the longest day of the year. The sun had shone
brightly; it had seemed impossible to believe that Scathiel had
ascended and the days would grow shorter again.
  The Society of Fools danced and capered through the city. They
wore masks shaped like skulls and clothing painted like skeletons;
they were there to remind the revelers of the death that lay
beneath life, the misrule beneath apparent rule, the coming winter
threatening the beautiful summer day.
  For one day they had taken over the offices of king and priest,
councilor and commander of the army. Riot was let loose in the
streets as the Shadow King, the Fool acting in Gobro’s place, issued
one ludicrous proclamation after another. Val saw a Fool march a
battalion of soldiers backward, heard another Fool disguised as a
professor give a lecture in praise of mince pies. Long lines had
formed in front of the bakeries and wineshops; the Shadow King
had decreed that all pastries and wine were free.
   The masks of the Fools covered their faces completely but Val
thought he saw Narrion at least once in the streets that day. He
listened, fascinated, as the man sang the traditional songs, “Bones
Brown as Ale” and “The Lord of All Misrule.” Like all the male fools
he had a dark and melodious voice.
  When he had finished singing the Fool picked up a small child
and tossed her to another skeleton-clad man. The girl screamed, but
with excitement more than fear. The second man put the child
down, gave her a sweet and twirled gracefully away.
  “Callabrion hasn’t ascended this year,” Narrion said now. “Surely
you must know that, or guess.”
  Val nodded.
  “I want to restore him to the heavens,” Narrion said.
  “Restore Callabrion?” Val asked. “Why? That hardly seems a fit
occupation for a queen’s councilor.”
  “I’m barely a councilor any longer. Mariel and Callia used me to
get the poison and then left me to my own devices. I have no
support at all on the council.”
  “So you were a pawn as well, just as I was. Not a very pleasant
feeling, is it, Narrion?”
  Narrion shrugged. “Mariel is a prisoner, and Callia is dead. The
council is gone. But even if they still ruled in Etrara they would
soon cease to matter. If Callabrion does not ascend the days will
grow darker and darker, and finally the sun itself will go out.”
  “And you think you can persuade Callabrion to return? With that
book?”
   “If not with this one then another. I’ve spent hours in the
library—it’s amazing what’s hidden there. People have no idea.”
  That’s true, they don’t, Val thought, remembering the birth
records Taja had found. Was that what his cousin had been
searching for? It was difficult to believe that Narrion was concerned
with Callabrion. Had he somehow found the records, learned the
truth about Val’s birth?
  He had to get away from the cottage, Val thought, had to get
outside and clear his head. Narrion seemed to be telling the truth,
but he had sounded as sincere when he had led Val into exile.
Surely if Narrion wanted to betray him, to turn him over to the
Shai, he would not admit to it. “Good fortune, Narrion,” he said.
  Heavy rain was falling when Val stepped outside. He wrapped
himself tightly in his cloak and walked toward Pebr’s cottage. Had
Narrion been truthful for once? He couldn’t know; he was no
poet-mage, able to understand everything in a man’s heart. If
Narrion was honest then Val could stay in Tobol An. But if the
other man had lied then Val’s life was in danger.
  Val hurried down the path. Could he afford to trust Narrion, to
wager his life on nothing but his cousin’s promises? If the past was
any guide Narrion was treacherous indeed; Val would be open to
attack from the Shai every day that he stayed in Tobol An.
  No, there was only one way left to him now, the way Taja had
shown him when she had come to the palace so long ago. It was
time to return to Etrara and claim the kingship, to seek out
Andosto and free the city from the tyranny of the Shai.
  He was running now. He reached the cottage, but neither Taja
nor Pebr was home.
  Panic seemed to grip him; the tap of a branch against the window
made him start as if the Shai were already in Tobol An. He could
not wait for Taja to tell her his plans. He packed his few belongings
quickly, putting the heavy Shai sword in with the rest of his things,
and left the cottage to hire a horse.
   He felt his amulet through the cloth of his tunic. Whatever his
shortcomings he was certain he would prove a better ruler than
Gobro, or Callia, or the Shai. And if he took the throne he would
finally be safe, would no longer have to fear Narrion’s treachery or
danger from the Shai.
  He paid a sovereign for a horse, and rode off into the Forest of
Thole. The next face to be minted on a sovereign, he vowed, would
be his own.


Taja took a book from the pile in front of her and opened it, then
dipped her pen in the inkwell to record the title. It was getting late;
she should finish these books and then go home. Pebr worried if she
stayed out too long.
  Something caused her to look up. A noise? No, she could hear
nothing. She glanced around but no one had come into the
catalogue room, not villager or soldier or ghost.
  The strange feeling returned. It was almost as if she had grown
another organ like eyes or ears, something that helped her perceive
whatever it was that had happened. She shivered.
  She had had this sensation before, but never so strongly. She
rested her head on the table helplessly, waiting for the visitation to
end.
  Val had told her about the Maegrim in Etrara. She had listened
entranced, wondering what it would be like to see first six women
and then seven, all the while hoping or fearing that her fortune
would change. But now, as wave after wave of the unearthly feeling
washed over her, the Maegrim did not seem nearly so quaint. Now
she felt certain that they were calling her.
  She shivered again. She did not want to be one of the Maegrim,
did not want to stop her work or leave her family whenever she
heard their summons. It was dangerous now, very dangerous, to
put on the hood of badger skin and cast people’s fortunes. Val said
that Callia had demanded the names of all the Maegrim, and the
women probably fared even worse under the Shai.
  The sending stopped. Taja raised her head and took several deep
breaths. Then she put on her cloak and went to find Mathary.
 “The Maegrim?” Mathary said. “No, I don’t think it’s the
Maegrim.”
  They sat before the fire in Mathary’s cottage. Although the old
woman had placed lamps and candles on the tables and mantelpiece
these did not seem able to penetrate the gloom Taja remembered
from her other visits. Shadows gathered in the corners, parting
when the fire danced high to reveal shelves and shelves of
stoppered ceramic jars. Even in winter Mathary’s house smelled of
wild growing things, of tangled roots and loamy soil.
  “What is it then?” Taja asked.
  “Someone is using magic.”
  “Someone—here? In the village?”
  “Aye.”
  “But who?”
  “I don’t know. I don’t recognize it.”
  “What are you going to do?”
  “Do?” Even in the candlelight Taja could see the web of cataracts
covering Mathary’s eye. “I’ll do nothing, child. He’ll reveal himself,
whoever he is.”
  “He?”
  Mathary nodded. “It’s a man’s magic, I can tell that much. You’ll
learn the difference soon enough.”
 What did the old woman mean? Taja did not want to learn the old
magic; Pebr had warned her about it often enough. “What—”
   “I had a dream the night you were born,” Mathary said. “It was
cold that day, but Callabrion ruled in the heavens—we knew that
the days would grow warmer soon. In my dream the wind blew the
door open and it seemed that spring had come into the room—I
could smell the scent of roses and fresh grasses. My cat walked
through the door, the cat that had died, oh, ten years before. And
she said to me, ‘Take care of this one. She’s Sbona’s child.’ ”
  Taja shook her head impatiently. She did not want to hear
Mathary’s dreams; she had come on a far more pressing errand.
“But what if the man’s dangerous?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you—”
  “The knight in the forest hasn’t warned us of any danger. The
best thing we can do now is wait.”
  Taja nodded, dissatisfied. Did Mathary know what was best for
Tobol An, or had she lost her wits, as Pebr thought? Her mind
seemed to wander more and more these days; Taja thought she
might be too frail to be entrusted with the care of the entire village.
   She bid good fortune to the other woman and began to leave. As
she put on her cloak Mathary said, “Don’t say anything about this
to your uncle, child. You know how he feels about wizardry.”


The sending returned the next day, while Taja was in the library.
She had been sitting with her pen poised over the catalogue,
thinking about Val. He had not returned to the cottage the night
before, and someone in the village had said he had seen him ride
north, toward Etrara.
   Val was free to come and go as he liked, of course. Still she could
not help but wonder if he had gone to claim the kingship. And if he
had, why hadn’t he waited for her? She knew that his protestations
of love for her were part of a courtly game, nothing more, but she
thought that he might at least have told her of his plans.
  The sending came again. She forced herself to stand and go
outside, and then to follow its source down to the cliffs.
  Narrion and the acting troupe stood by the arch of Sleeping
Koregath. Taja understood immediately that they had chosen the
ruin because it remained from the time of the wizards; they
thought that it might still hold magic within it.
   “Great king,” one of the women said. “Our sovereign and ruler,
lord of summer, god of the waxing year…”
  As she listened, horrified, Taja sensed the presence of magic all
around her. The currents were not focused, as she somehow knew
they should be, but wild, undisciplined. She felt the invocation as a
terrible wrongness, a sickness that invaded her soul.
  Narrion began to speak, reciting an invocation to Callabrion. Was
he a poet-mage? She had heard that wizards’ verses had no power if
they were not composed at the very moment of their sending,
though of course the mages all used the same ritual names and
phrases. But Narrion seemed to have memorized his poem
beforehand, and he had anchored his spell badly; he had used an
inappropriate ritual verse at the beginning and an ill-chosen word
as his keystone.
  Magic gusted around them, discordant and fierce as wind. The
waves beneath them crashed to shore. Narrion continued, speaking
with difficulty, reciting a poem about leaving the pleasures of earth
and returning to heaven. What in Sbona’s name was he trying to
do?
  One of the actors cried out in terror. For a moment Taja saw two
ruins on the cliffside where there had been one before; the actors
were turning to stone like the giant Sleeping Koregath. Her lips
began to move, whispering poetry.
  Nothing changed. She spoke louder, chanting an opening ritual
verse. She chose her keystone, understanding only as she delivered
the words how the poem had to be constructed, how to use her
meter and alliteration. The poem required another keystone; she
found one almost without thinking and hurried on.
  Narrion continued to speak. She felt the force of his will, strong
as the magic he had called up. The actors were immobile now,
caught in stone, but still Narrion refused to stop. Finally she heard
his voice slow, saw his hand freeze as he lifted it. He had turned to
stone like the others, captured by the magic he had raised.
   Suddenly she knew the words she had to speak, saw them as
clearly as if they had been written in one of the books of magic in
the library. She chanted her verses more easily now, unhampered
by Narrion. The wind of magic lessened; the dreadful torrents
subsided. The actors began to move slowly, as if waking.
   The arch moved too; she had gone too far, had roused the giant.
There was the terrible sound of boulders breaking. She spoke her
final verse quickly, using both her keystones, and Koregath drifted
back into his deep slumber.
  Narrion came toward her. She had never seen him look so pale,
so uncertain. His long hair had knotted in the wind. “I thank you,”
he said. His voice was hoarse.
  “What—what were you doing?” she asked.
  Narrion looked around. She followed his gaze and saw a crowd of
old people and children, everyone who hadn’t set out to sea that
day.
   “I tried to summon Callabrion. He hasn’t ascended this year—the
days grow no lighter, and the trees are bare. I thought to—to
convince him to return to the heavens. The book you found for me
in the library had some invocations, and I thought—” He moved his
arms behind his back and stretched in one supple gesture, as if
trying to convince himself that he hadn’t turned to stone. “I didn’t
know you were a poet-mage.”
  “I’m not,” she said abruptly, and turned to go.
   She made her way toward her cottage, seeing almost nothing
around her. She opened the door cautiously, but Pebr was not at
home. He had been among the crowd of people at the arch; she
thought that he must be horrified at what she had done. She sat in
a chair by the hearth and put her head in her hands.
  Not the Maegrim, no. She was something worse than that, far
worse: a poet-mage. How else had she known how to speak the
invocation, to use the keystones?
  Even the soldiers from Etrara had known who she was; the man
who had tortured her on the ladder had called her “wizard’s get.”
She remembered a saying Pebr was fond of: “Even a dog might
speak a prophecy.” Had everyone known, everyone but her?
  She shuddered. Pebr had told her that poet-mages never lived
long; their enemies feared their power and found ways to kill them.
Someone had killed King Tariel’s wizards, and once, long ago, a
storm of magic had been loosed in Tobol An. She did not want such
terrifying power.
  She looked up. Well, then, she would renounce it. There was no
call for a poet-mage in Tobol An; Mathary nursed the sick, delivered
the babies, made up charms for love or fertility or good fortune. She
would assure Pebr that she would never recite another invocation,
and convince the villagers that they had not heard her speak a
word at the arch. Mathary would know, of course, but Mathary
could be trusted to say nothing.
   A memory came to her then. She was riding hard through the
falling snow in the still forest of Thole; she was hurrying to deliver
her message to Val in Etrara. How would he receive the news that
he was the true king? What would he think when everything he
had ever known proved to be false?
  She knew now how he felt; the same thing had happened to her.
Only she had learned that she was something far more dangerous:
a poet-mage.
  Val had gone on to Etrara, she thought now. And suddenly she
saw to Val’s heart, understood everything that had happened since
Val had visited Narrion. He thinks Narrion is his enemy, she
thought. He thinks he’ll betray him to the Shai. But Narrion had
only been trying to summon Callabrion, to return warmth and light
to the land. The “great king” had not been a king of the Shai but
the summer god.
   It was time for her to claim her birthright, whether she wanted
to or not. She had to help Val, had go after him and warn him.
  Her heart lifted; it would be good to see him again. It seemed to
her that he had changed during the war; he had gained in wisdom,
become more thoughtful. His innate courtesy had grown to include
her, and all the people of Tobol An.
  And it would be good to help him claim the throne of Etrara, she
thought, remembering all the books filled with heroic deeds that
she had read in the library. She put on her cloak and hurried from
the room.


The daylight faded almost as soon as Taja entered the forest. She
rode hard for several hours more, hoping to reduce the distance
between her and Val. Finally the light disappeared altogether, and
she knew that if she caught up with him she would pass him all
unknowing in the dark. She dismounted and spread her cloak on
the ground.
  The soft earth, covered with leaves and twigs, felt very cold. She
turned and wrapped herself in her cloak, trying to get comfortable.
No wonder Narrion wanted to summon Callabrion, she thought,
cursing the early darkness. But who would have guessed that he
would be so religious? Val had told her that Narrion might be a
member of the Society of Fools and sworn to Scathiel—what
business did he have with Callabrion? But she was not versed in the
mysteries of the Society; misrule needed rule, apparently, as winter
needed summer.
  She thought of Val, of Narrion and Tamra and the quarrelsome,
treacherous royal family of Etrara. And then somehow she was in
the city, drifting silently through the streets like one of its famous
ghosts. She saw the burned ruins of houses and knew that the Shai
had set them on fire to punish the inhabitants for some
disobedience or other. She saw soldiers returned from the wars;
some had turned to thievery after they had gone through their
meager wages, and others, maimed in battle, sat near the fountains
and statues with their beggar’s bowls in front of them. The sky was
edged with smoke and the streets were eerie, silent; other than the
soldiers and caged criminals few people ventured out-of-doors.
   She was in the palace now, moving through the marble corridors.
It was darker than she remembered; the Shai had hung heavy
tapestries over the windows and the only light came from iron
lamps. She went to the royal apartments, passed the rooms where
she had delivered her message to Val. Someone moved through the
gloom reciting verses; she thought he must be one of the pet poets
Val had mentioned.
  At the end of the corridor Taja saw the woman the Shai had
called Duchess Mariel. “I told you—I don’t know where Riel is,”
Mariel was saying. “Is Callia there with you? Will she torment me
next?”
  Now Taja could make out the ghost in the corridor with Mariel.
His irises shone silver, and his jewels sparkled in the sooty
darkness. She had seen his face before, stamped on coins: King
Gobro.
  “This is why I stayed, isn’t it?” Mariel said. “Callia wanted me to
go with her, but I knew I had to stay here. To beg your
forgiveness.”
  “She told me she would be here,” Gobro said. “But I can’t find her
anywhere.”
  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I killed you. Everything’s gone wrong since
we gave you the poison. You were right—it would have been better
to make peace with the Shai. You were always right—we never saw
what a good ruler you were. We never knew.”
  The ghost said nothing.
  “Is it better where you are?” Mariel asked. “Is it simpler? All the
complexities of your life, reduced to one foolish riddle: Where is
Riel? And what will my question be, I wonder? Where is Gobro?”
  “She’s never been late before.”
  “I’m sorry,” Mariel said. A dreadful note had come into her voice,
a cry of terror and longing and fear. “I’m sorry I killed you—I’m
sorry, I’m sorry!”
   Taja struggled to come awake. The dream was ending, Callabrion
be thanked; if she could only open her eyes she would be out of the
dreadful city Etrara had become. She saw a jagged hill, and two
figures, small against its bulk, struggling to the top. She woke.
   For a moment she did not know where she was. Then she felt the
cold around her, saw the cobwebs of fog still clinging to the trees.
She was in the haunted Forest of Thole, and she was searching for
Val.
   She stood and mounted quickly, trying to forget the painful
lonely sound of Mariel’s screams. She knew beyond any doubt that
her dream had shown her what Etrara had become, that the
understanding she had gained let her see things as they truly were.
And if the city had changed so greatly then the sooner Val ascended
to the throne the better.


Val woke from a confused dream of Etrara, of the hot sun striking
the green copper dome of the observatory and the golden turrets of
the palace. He sat up in the near darkness and rummaged through
his traveling bag, finally finding one of the slices of Taja’s oatmeal
bread he had packed the day before.
  As he ate, and later as he mounted his horse and rode through
the forest, he struggled to remember his dream. But he saw only
the cold white fog and bare outlines of the trees around him, and
the last remnants of the dream vanished.
  The fog grew thicker; he could barely see the trees in front of
him. His horse moved to the left and he let the animal go, trusting
in its ability to find the path.
   The cold matched his mood; he felt cold within as well. Had
Narrion been about to sell him to the Shai? He was alone, in the
forest as in the world, with no one but himself to protect him
against treachery. He drove his horse forward.
   A few moments later the horse moved to the left again, and he
looked around him. Hadn’t he seen this path before, those three
trees together and the bare one near it? The bare tree’s limbs
splayed outward; he could imagine them as cage supports, or as an
anchor for a hangman’s noose.
  The horse turned left again. There could no longer be any doubt;
he remembered this clump of mushrooms growing by the side of the
path. He reined in his horse and looked around him.
  Fog still shrouded the forest. He dismounted, intending to study
the path, and as he did so he knocked his traveling bag from the
saddle.
  The bag felt light to him, too light. He looked through it and saw
to his horror that he had no food left; he had eaten all the bread
and hard winter apples he had packed. How long had he been
wandering through the forest? It had seemed like a day, a day and
a night, but now he thought, terrified, that it might have been
longer.
  Who had raised this magic? It could have been Narrion or Mariel
or the poet-mage of the Shai; he had no shortage of enemies. As he
stood, holding the pack in his hands like a witless man, he heard
the sound of hoofbeats on the path.
   He turned, straining to hear them. In the dense fog the sound
seemed to come from every direction. How many horses? He moved
off the path quickly.
   The fog parted. Taja rode toward him, her eyes finding him
unerringly. “Val!” she said, dismounting quickly. “Thank the gods
I’ve found you!”
  “Taja?” he said. “Were you behind this magic?”
  “Magic?” She studied him for a moment and then nodded. “Oh, I
see. You were lost in the forest. No, I think the forest itself did
that. It wanted me to find you.”
  “The forest? Why?”
 “Because I have things to tell you. Listen—Narrion tried to use
magic yesterday.”
  He nodded. What mischief had Narrion done now?
  “He recited a spell by the arch of Sleeping Koregath,” she said.
“He was trying to return Callabrion to the heavens. You thought he
wanted to betray you, but he didn’t.”
  “He told me something of this,” Val said slowly. “But I didn’t
believe him. I don’t think I believe you either. How can I, after all
Narrion’s done to me?”
   “Because I understand him. And I understand you as well. I—I
think I’m a poet-mage. Narrion’s magic failed, and I spoke the
verses to counter it. I knew exacdy which words to use, and how to
use them, how to find a keystone… and I know other things as well.
I know why you’re returning to Etrara, why you want to claim the
kingship.”
   Once again she seemed to find his heart, to understand him
effortlessly. “Do you mean Narrion was telling the truth?” he asked
slowly.
  Taja nodded. “He would never harm you,” she said. “He would
send you into exile, yes, and use you for his own purposes. But even
when he brought you to Tobol An he knew you would be safe.”
  Relief overcame him; his legs nearly gave way under the weight
of it. He had thought himself alone, had not understood the
strength of Taja’s concern for him. “He told the truth,” Val said,
grinning. He hugged Taja, spun her around on the path. “He told
the truth! He broke his long habit of silence and told me
everything. And I—I was so used to treachery I could not believe
him.”
  “Do you still want to return to Etrara?” Taja asked. “Or did you
only want the throne to revenge yourself against Narrion?”
 He thought of Gobro’s vast expenses, of Callia’s disastrous war.
Whatever happened he knew he could rule Etrara better than his
half-brother and sister. “I hope my reasons are better than that,” he
said slowly. He took a deep breath. “I would like to see Etrara free
of the Shai. And I would like to return home.”
  “Well, then,” she said. “You’ll need a poet-mage.”
  “You’ll come with me?” he asked, surprised.
  “Something brought us together, a king and a poet-mage.
Narrion may have sent you to Tobol An for King Gobro’s sake, but I
think that we were meant to meet.”
   Val nodded slowly. “You may be right,” he said. “There are more
things working here than even Narrion could know.” He thought
for a moment. “I learned something while I was a prisoner that
might help us. But it’s dangerous—It’s—No, I won’t tell you.”
  “What do you mean? Is it something that might save Etrara?”
  He nodded reluctantly.
  “Come, Val—if it can help us—”
  “A man in Shai, my jailer—he talked to me about their
poet-mage, Kotheg. He said that Kotheg had spent the night on
Wizard’s Hill in Shai, that to gain power a man—or a
woman—must spend the night there. And that by the end of the
night they would be either dead, or mad, or a poet.”
  “That was my dream!” she said. “I dreamt I went up a mountain.
And Val, you were there with me. It was a true dream, then, a
dream of the future.”
  “No,” Val said. “No, I have no right to ask this of you. You can’t
know what will happen. Dead, or mad—”
  “I know what you’re hiding from me, Val. I know that Callia’s
mage Penriel did not go to Wizard’s Hill, and neither did Anthiel.
But Kotheg did, and he was able to overcome them both.”
  Taja hesitated a moment. “Something tells me to go with you,”
she said. “I think that I will not be whole, will not be a true
poet-mage, until I spend the night on Wizard’s Hill. I want to claim
my birthright, just as you do.”
  He turned to her. Only an hour ago he had been alone, fleeing
Tobol An in fear of Narrion’s treachery; now his fear was gone and
he had a companion, a poet-mage, at his side. The outcome was still
uncertain; it was probably folly to think that they could walk
unseen into the enemy’s country. But his heart was strangely light.
“Well, then,” he said. “I thank you.”


Val and Taja returned to Tobol An, intending to look for maps of
Shai in the library. They decided to tell no one but Pebr about their
decision; the Shai might return, Val said, and it would be best if as
few people as possible knew where they had gone.
  “No,” Pebr said. “This is lunacy—I won’t let you go.”
  “We’re going anyway, Uncle,” Taja said. “We just wanted to tell
you first.”
   “No, you’re not. Think about what you’re doing—going off into
the enemy’s country, for one thing, and that isn’t even the worst of
it. You could be dead at the end of it, isn’t that what you told me?”
  “Nothing will happen to us.”
 “You can’t promise me that. If you survive this you’ll be a—a
mage, and mages never live long.”
  “I have to go, Uncle.”
  Pebr sighed. He looked frail, defeated, his arms thin as bare
branches. “I would have spared you this if I could,” she said softly.
  “You’re the only family I have,” he said.
  “I know. But I’ll come back to you, I promise.”
  “Your father said the same thing,” Pebr said.
   “What did Pebr mean?” Val asked Taja. They had spent a few
hours in the library but had not found a good map of Shai. Now
they were heading back, hurrying toward Pebr’s cottage before the
light failed. “You promised you’d come back, and he said that your
father had said the same thing.”
   “I don’t know,” Taja said. “My parents were fisher-folk—they
lived in a village to the south, in Mirro An. They drowned in a
storm when I was very young, and Pebr brought me here. I suppose
my father told Pebr he’d always come back from the sea.”
  “That’s strange,” Val said.
  “What?”
  “Look. Over there. Your uncle’s talking to Mathary.”
  “No!”
  “Yes. Near the cliffs.”
  “By all the gods,” Taja said slowly. “I wonder what they found to
talk about.”



                                Ten
                                                            «^»
A week after Val and Taja left Tobol An, Narrion and Tamra rode
into the Forest of Thole. The sun had not yet risen, and the trees
were blacker shapes against the darkness. As they picked their way
carefully along the path a strange gloomy light, like the light seen
through stained glass at the palace, began to filter through the
trees, and they could see flakes of snow, small as jewels, fall from
the sky. Their breath ghosted white in the air.
  As they rode Narrion thought of his failure. He had spoken the
wrong verses, used the wrong ritual. Doubtless the library at Tobol
An had the invocation he needed, but he could not find it without
Taja; he had no idea how to search through all the books on his
own. And Taja had made it clear she would not help him. He had to
go back to Etrara, had to talk to others at the observatory and in
the Society of Fools.
  He had explained his decision to the troupe of actors the night
before, but all but Tamra had refused to follow him. It would be
dangerous to return to Etrara, they had said, and even more
dangerous to try to work magic. They still remembered the
terrifying moment by the arch when they had almost turned to
stone.
   They came to the city by midafternoon. The Gate of Stones was
closed and guarded by two men in the golden armor of the Shai.
Narrion dismounted. He and Tamra wore the homespun clothing of
Tobol An, but his tunic concealed some of the jewels he had taken
when he fled Etrara. It would be dangerous if the guards stopped
them.
  “What is your business in Etrara?” one of the guards asked.
   “I’m here to see some of the merchants in the city,” Narrion said.
“I have messages from Tobol An.”
  “Messages? What sort of messages?” the first guard said, but the
second guard was already opening the gate and motioning them
through.
  Narrion mounted and followed Tamra through the gate, his face
impassive. He had invented a story about fish merchants and trade
but he could not be certain that the guards would believe him.
  Most of the houses on either side of the Street of Stones had
burned to the ground. Men and women lay sprawled in the street
with their begging bowls in front of them, and more people squatted
in cages above them. The air smelled of smoke. “Please, master,”
one of the beggars said. “The Shai burned my home—”
   Narrion urged his horse past him. Another man came up to him.
“Scathiel will reward your charity,” he said, looking up at Narrion
slyly.
  It was the manner of beggars in Etrara to imply that they were
whatever god had descended to earth, Scathiel in summer and
Callabrion in winter. Any storyteller could tell a tale of generosity
rewarded a thousandfold by the gods, of people whose casual gift of
alms had caused them to rise high on the ladder. But Narrion knew
that this man could not possibly be Scathiel; Scathiel still ruled in
heaven.
  Tamra slowed in front of him. “It’s—it’s terrible,” she said.
“Look—that’s where the gaming house was.”
   He nodded. But he could do nothing against the Shai, he knew
that. His own concerns were far more desperate than who ruled
Etrara: if Callabrion did not ascend to heaven the harvests would
fail.
  They came to the Darra River and crossed the bridge, then
continued up toward Palace Hill. Even here, in the upper city,
Narrion could see beggars and burned houses. Pale winter grass
grew up between the cobblestones on the streets. Soldiers marched
two and three abreast, and the few people who had ventured
out-of-doors fell silent as they passed.
  The marketplace at the crossroads was closed, the stalls
shuttered and locked, the colorful banners furled. The university
was deserted save for a few Shai guards, and one of its buildings
had been laid bare by fire. As they passed, the bells from the clock
tower rang out. Narrion looked up in surprise. He would have
expected the Shai to silence them, along with everything else.
   He had hoped to see Val in Etrara; Pebr, when asked, had said
that Val had returned to the city. Narrion suspected Pebr of not
telling the truth; like Val, the old man was a poor liar. But he could
not think of anywhere else Val might have gone. Now, though,
studying the streets before him, he saw how vain it had been to
expect to meet anyone in this desolate place.
  He turned down a crooked way near the theater and halted
before one of the houses. Then he dismounted and knocked at the
door. No one answered. He knocked again. After a long moment he
heard footsteps. The door opened a little, then was flung wide as
the man inside saw who stood on his doorstep. “Narrion!” the man
said, obviously delighted.
  “Good fortune, Noddo,” Narrion said.
   Noddo laughed. “No one wishes anyone good fortune anymore,”
he said. “There’s so little of it around, after all. But come in, come
in. There’s a stable at the back.”
  After they had seen to the horses Noddo led them into the house.
He was a small man, with tufts of brown hair growing at the sides
and back of his head. He had a way of walking on the balls of his
feet that made children laugh, even when he was clothed in the
skeleton of the Society of Fools. “It’s good to see you,” Noddo said.
“You hear all sorts of rumors, you know. Some folks said that you’d
died.”
  “No, I’m alive—very much alive. Do you know my wife Tamra?”
  Noddo made her an elaborate bow. “I’ve had the pleasure of
seeing her act,” he said. “Sit, please.” He motioned them to
high-backed wooden chairs. “Where have you been?”
  “A fishing village called Tobol An. We fled Etrara when the Shai
invaded.”
  “Would you like some tea, or some ale?” Noddo asked. “We can’t
go to a tavern, you know—it’s no longer possible to talk where you
can be overheard. And I have the idea that what you want to say is
dangerous. You were never one to sit safe at home.”
  “Dangerous? Everyone knows that Callabrion has not ascended
this year, but is it dangerous to say so?”
   “It is, yes. The Shai are fearful that the people will panic at the
slightest sign. Tell the citizens of Etrara that their crops will fail
this year, that they’ll have to go hungry as well as homeless, and
they’re likely to revolt.”
  “But the days continue to grow shorter. Surely that can’t be kept
a secret.”
   Noddo shrugged. “People see what they want to see. If you can be
caged for saying the sky is dark rather than light you’ll keep your
observations to yourself. And who knows?—the sky may even start
to look lighter to you.”
 “Well,” Narrion said. He leaned back in his chair and told Noddo
what had happened when he had tried to summon Callabrion.
  “And you did all this—alone?” Noddo asked when he had finished.
  “With the actors’ help, yes.”
  Noddo’s slightly foolish expression had vanished; his brown eyes
were hooded and he looked serious, almost worried. “I can’t say that
I can help you, or that any of the Society can help you. Our
business is with the rituals of the Descending God, after all. If
Callabrion has not ascended it’s a matter for the
astronomer-priests—or would be, if the priests had not made a
treaty with the Shai.”
  “I’ve heard rumors of that,” Narrion said. “But this is our concern
as much as theirs. Scathiel needs Callabrion, as misrule needs rule.
You taught me that.”
  Noddo laughed a little. “Aye. But this is a far cry from my
experience as a Fool. If the songs and dances of the Feast of the
Descending God could help you I would be the first to offer my
services. But I      couldn’t   imagine   how   you   would   summon
Callabrion.”
  “I thought the Society might have books, or know of rituals—”
  “No—none of our books deals with the summer god. What about
the library at the university?”
  Narrion shook his head. “They have no books of magic.”
  “Ah. Books of magic. As to that, you just came from the greatest
collection of wizards’ books in all the world. Or is the library at
Tobol An less than legend says?”
  Narrion said nothing. He had no desire to explain how he had run
afoul of the librarian of Tobol An.
  “Duke Talenor had a library,” Noddo said.
  “Talenor,” Narrion said. “We heard that he turned traitor.”
  “Aye, he did. Tried to offer the Shai a pageant—he thought he
was still a courtier, poor man. They killed him, of course.”
  “Is his library still in the palace?”
   “It should be. But the Shai guard the palace at all times—Mariel
is still there.”
  “And Callia? Mariel said that she died—that she was killed.”
  “Yes. That was bad, very bad. On the streets you can sometimes
hear the Shai sing what sounds like a counting rhyme.” Suddenly
Noddo began to sing; like all members of the Society he had a
beautiful, evocative voice. “ ‘One is for Gobro, he was poisoned they
say. Two is for Arion, his men led astray.’ They mean to imply that
soon all the royal family will be dead.”
   Narrion shook his head. “It’s worse than I thought. We hear none
of this in Tobol An.”
  “The news is not all bad. Folks say that King Tariel left an heir, a
legitimate heir. That a king will come to free us.”
   Narrion made an impatient gesture. “That’s nonsense. What else
do they say—that he’ll come walking through God’s Gate, locked
since Queen Ellara’s time? No one will free us but ourselves.”
  “They also say that the hero Andosto is alive, hidden somewhere
in Etrara.”
  “Alive? Where?”
   Noddo shook his head. “I don’t know. Someone was killing Shai
soldiers, secretly and at night, but then the Shai executed ten
citizens for every man dead and the killings stopped.”
   “Andosto,” Narrion said. Suddenly he smiled. “I think I know how
to get to the palace. Can you find Andosto for me?”
  “I don’t know.”
  “I thought the Society knew everything that happened in
Etrara.”
   “We did, once. Things have changed beyond recognition since you
left. But I’ll try to find him for you.”


Taja and Val rode along the southern outskirts of Thole Forest.
None of the maps in the library had showed them Wizard’s Hill but
they had decided to leave anyway; Taja felt certain that she could
find her way once they reached Shai. Sbona fashioned us for
finding, she thought. The proverb was meant to refer to the first
man and woman, created to help the goddess find her lost dead
sons, but Taja understood now that it also spoke of the power of the
poet-mages and their gift for finding. She had discovered the right
invocation when Narrion had raised his destructive magic, and she
had seen immediately which words to use as her keystones. Soon,
she thought, she would be able to feel the pull from Wizard’s Hill.
  She repeated the proverb to Val, hoping to cheer him. He
laughed. “Aye, but did even Sbona think to see two idiots walking
recklessly toward their enemy?”
  When dusk fell they dismounted near Soria to eat and make
camp. Taja took out her tinderbox; they built a fire and cooked
some of the fish and vegetables they had brought. After the meal
they moved their blankets closer to the fire to get warm. Stars
burned overhead, hard and sharp in the crystalline air.
  “Is it strange to be returning?” Taja asked.
  “Stranger than I can tell you,” Val said. “It almost seems as if the
young man who went off so cheerfully to war is dead. I’ve seen so
much since then… I’ve seen that Callia was wrong to war with the
Shai, that we were unprepared. Gobro, of all people, was right. We
should have never broken the treaty.”
  “The people wanted war, though,” Taja said.
  “Aye,” Val said. “And what can a king or queen do then?”
  He sounded thoughtful; Taja marveled at how much he had
changed from the frivolous courtier she had known. Suddenly she
desired him, his warmth, the laughter in his voice. What would he
do if she moved her blanket next to his? There were probably rules
governing that as well in Etrara; the courtiers seemed to make
everything far more complicated than it needed to be. And in all the
sonnets she had ever read she had never come across a simple
description of a man and a woman lying together. He would
probably be horrified.
  She reached out for him in the dark. Her hand found his, and he
drew her toward him. They embraced, holding each other for
warmth and comfort as much as for desire. “Taja,” he said, kissing
her. “Taja.” She ran her fingers through his hair.
   The next morning they went into Soria to buy food and heavier
clothing. His manner toward her had not changed; he was still
easy, companionable. She wondered what would happen to them
when they returned to Etrara, wondered if Val’s fine courtier
friends would call him a fool for lying with a daughter of fisher-folk.
But for the moment it was enough to know that she had a friend on
the road.
  A few days later they crossed the weathered bridge over the
Darra River. They continued on. Several mornings after that they
topped a rise and saw the Teeth of Tura to the east, a dark shape
against the gray-black light of dawn. Taja looked up at the
mountain range and shivered. “Did you really climb that?” she
asked.
 “Twice,” Val said, grinning. “And we did it to the north of here,
where it’s steeper.”
  The sun rose slowly above the Teeth, and they rode on. The next
day they came to the foot of the mountains and began to climb.
   As they went Val told her a little about the apparitions he had
seen in the mountains. Taja looked around uneasily, wondering if
she would be forced to battle with monsters appearing out of the
snow. She was not yet a poet-mage, she knew; she understood very
little about sorcery. But no wizard’s sendings disturbed their climb,
and a few days later they reached the crest of the mountain.
   The snow stopped as they descended; probably, Taja thought,
they had traveled even south of Tobol An. But somehow she knew
that they were headed in the right direction. Whenever they
stopped to eat she could feel the pull of Wizard’s Hill, and if she
closed her eyes she saw the outline of the mountain, stark against
the sky, and two small figures making their way up the side.
  As they traveled down toward Shai they saw a town the size of
Tobol An lying near the Teeth. “I don’t know where we are,” Val
said. “I’ve never been this far south before.”
  Without discussing it they began to take paths leading south,
hoping to skirt the village. Anyone coming from Etrara would be an
object of suspicion, they knew, especially in a town as small as the
one that lay before them.
  They reached the flatland. The land around them looked like a
desert, parched and wan, the only growing things a few grasses and
stunted shrubs. Taja thought that in summer it must be hideously
hot, but in this unending winter it was cold, a chill wind blowing
constantly from the mountains. No rain fell; the shrubs looked
starved for water.
   They continued east. During their first day in Shai they met no
one on the road, but on the second day Taja, who was in the lead,
saw a straggling line of people walking toward them. She pulled her
hood closer to her face and motioned Val to do the same. The people
of Shai were taller and fairer than those of Etrara, and it would not
be wise to pass them uncovered.
  As the file came toward them, though, Taja saw that these men
and women were citizens of Etrara. Their hands were tied with
rope to their neighbors’ hands, and their feet hampered by a sort of
hobble. Slaves, Taja thought, feeling cold. Slaves from Etrara.
  She and Val rode off the path as the line passed. Shai guards
with whips rode among the slaves, but only one man spared them a
glance. Probably they had been told to do their job and not dawdle,
Taja thought; Val had said the Shai had little ambition or initiative
of their own.
 She let out a breath after they had gone. “Lord Varra,” Val said,
whispering as if the Shai could still hear them.
  “What?” she said, urging her horse along the path, away from the
Shai.
  “Lord Varra, the Queen’s Pen. I saw him among the slaves. He
didn’t leave Etrara in time.”
  She shivered. What would the Shai do to one of Queen Callia’s
advisors? Worse, what would they do to a king, the rightful king of
Etrara?
  She realized, startled, that she had almost forgotten Val’s
birthright. The king of Etrara. She remembered how she had
desired him, and she felt hot with shame. What would he want with
her, a simple woman from Tobol An? All his poems and
protestations had been part of an elaborate game, something to
occupy him now that Tamra had married; he would forget her as
soon as they reached Etrara.
  “I never saw him without his finery before,” Val said. “He seemed
almost naked.”
  “He might have said the same about you,” Taja said.
  Without discussing it they began to ride faster, hoping to put as
much distance between them and the slaves as they could. Her
sense of where Wizard’s Hill lay was strong now, as if it were a
magnet and she a piece of iron it pulled.
  As evening fell they saw more people on the path, all of them
traveling east. One man dropped back to ride with Val and Taja.
“Are you riding to see the king?” he asked.
  At first Taja could not understand his accent. But Val said,
nodding, “Oh, aye. The king.”
  “Where are you from?” the other man asked. “Your accent is
strange.”
  “North.”
  “North? Did you see the barbarians from Etrara? Did you fight?”
  “Aye, I fought.”
  “I heard they were a weak and decadent people. And I heard that
their poet-mage was no match for Kotheg.”
  “No,” Val said. “No, he was not.”
   The other man would have said more, but Val urged his horse on
ahead. When they had gone far enough he turned to Taja. “The
barbarians from Etrara,” he said, laughing. “He little knew how
close he came to a barbarian from Etrara.”
  “What did he mean about the king?” Taja asked.
  Val shook his head. “We’ll find out, I’m sure.”
   The number of people on the road continued to swell; there were
soon dozens of men and women traveling with them. When night
fell the Shai left the path and pitched tents on level ground. Taja
and Val joined them, spreading their blankets on the hard desert
floor.
  That night she and Val slept apart; none of the folks they
traveled with showed much affection toward each other, and they
thought it best not to do anything that would call attention to
themselves. But for a long time Taja could not get to sleep; as the
land around them grew stranger she found herself desiring Val
more. She missed the closeness they had shared.
   The Shai called to one another in their harsh alien accents; they
lit cookfires and prepared their meat with strange-smelling spices.
As she drifted off to sleep she heard them start to sing, a ballad in a
minor key about the deeds of their heroes. Their wavering voices
and laughter were the last things she heard that night.
  The Shai rose early the next day. Taja and Val remained wrapped
in their blankets, hoping no one would draw them into
conversation. But the man who had questioned Val the evening
before had been unusual for one of the Shai; even among
themselves they did not seem to talk much. Taja noticed that they
stayed in the same groups as the day before, and that each group
had a different-colored tent, red and black or purple and silver. She
thought that they must travel in clans or tribes.
  More caravans thronged the roads; they found it impossible to
avoid one clan or another. She wondered what they thought of her
and Val, two people traveling alone and without a clan, but for the
most part the Shai did not even glance at them.
  They passed fields that stretched to the horizon on either side of
the road. Ancient twisted vines climbed supports built of wood.
Vineyards, she thought; the good Shai wine must come from here.
But the vines looked as dead as their supports, showing no bloom of
leaves or grapes. Even here, so far from Etrara, the spring had not
returned.
  By midday they came to a few straggling houses. The road
widened, became a small street paved widi cobblestones. People at
the front of the line began to call out in excited voices. Finally she
could make out what they had seen; ahead of them stood a city that
seemed even larger than Etrara.
   The houses were low, one story or two at the most, with sloping
roofs; they looked a little like the tents the clans had pitched on
their journey. Colored mosaics in dizzying, intricate patterns
surrounded the doors and windows, but as the travelers walked
through the crooked streets Taja noticed that the same two or three
designs repeated themselves over and over. Mirrors set among the
tiles winked in the sun as they passed. Caged men and women hung
overhead; that at least was no different.
   She saw no fountains, no parks. There were no statues or images
of any kind, and she remembered from her dream that the Shai had
hidden or destroyed the beautiful murals in the palace, covering the
walls with patterned rugs and tapestries, and that they had
hammered their iron lamps into the painted ceilings.
  The street widened again. The travelers stopped, their way
blocked by a massive crowd. From her seat on the horse, above the
heads of the people, Taja could see a huge low building almost
completely covered with designs in gold and silver and black—a
temple of some sort, she thought.
  A man came out of the temple and stood on the stairs above the
crowd. He blew a long wailing note on an instrument made of horn,
and the people fell silent. More men came out of the temple, and
then a woman, dressed in white with a crown of massy gold on her
head.
   The horn sounded again. Another man joined the people on the
stairs. He wore white as well, and the jewels on his crown were
clustered together as thickly as melon seeds.
   The king, Taja thought, remembering what she had read in the
library about the Shai. He had wed the queen, the woman in white,
at Callabrion’s feast, and he would be killed a half year later, at the
feast of Scathiel.
  People bowed their heads. Beside her she saw Val do the same,
and she quickly imitated him. When she looked up the king moved
near his queen. He was young and muscular, Taja saw now, and
she was at least fifty, and very plain. He took the queen’s face in
his hands and kissed her.
  The crowd cheered. Taja shivered, wondering what the two
people on the stairs thought of this ceremony. The queen might
have wed and bedded these young fine-looking men for thirty years
or more, and lived with each of them for six months, only to see
them go off at the end to be killed. And the king—although he had
great power, his every desire satisfied, he had to know that he
would die in a few short months.
  But perhaps they didn’t think of it that way. Perhaps they had
taken on the roles assigned to them, so that the woman became
Sbona, creator-goddess, mother of light, and the man her son and
consort, the god Callabrion. The king and queen raised their hands
over the crowd in blessing. The people cheered again, and the horn
blew, and the ceremony ended.
  The crowd dispersed. For the first time since she had come to
Shai Taja heard groups of people speaking at once. Several of the
Shai looked around as if fearing to be overheard, and they lowered
their voices when they saw Taja and Val. Still, she managed to
catch fragments of their conversations: “… should have killed…”
  “… the old ways…”
  “… bought him time, at least.”
  What did they mean? Did they want the priests to kill the young
summer god now, before the Feast of the Descending God? Why?
   The people they had traveled with now journeyed west, going
home, but Taja and Val joined another caravan heading east. At
night, after they had unrolled their blankets and settled down to
sleep, Taja heard the day’s discussion continue around her. “It’s
clear the man’s not Callabrion,” one of the Shai said. “Scathiel rules
still in the heavens.”
  “Aye,” another man said. “I heard that Scathiel did not die an
easy death at the sacrifice last year. It was a warning—Callabrion
did not ascend.”
  “They should have killed this man now. If Scathiel rules still then
he mocks us, mocks the gods.”
  “They should have performed the old wedding rites, there on the
steps. No one’s seen him take Sbona as his bride. Perhaps he
hasn’t—perhaps that’s what keeps Callabrion from returning to the
heavens.”
  “Aye, the old ways are best.”
   “I hear that he is not unblemished, this king. That he’s deformed
in some way.”
  “They should have shown him to us naked, as in the old days.”
  “They should have killed him, I say. And they will, if the days
continue to darken. Mark my words—this ceremony did nothing but
postpone that day.”
  The voices swirled around her. Then the heavy scent of meat and
spiced tea thickened her senses. The hill she had seen in dreams
rose behind her eyes, steep and sharp, and she slept.
  She managed to draw Val a little apart from the main body of the
caravan the next day. “Did you hear what they said last night?” she
asked, whispering. “They want to kill the king.”
  Val nodded. “I heard that magic is loosed with the shedding of
royal blood.”
  “I don’t think that’s true,” she said, frowning. She felt the
presence of the hill at every step now, and dreamt of it at night; it
was like a nagging thought that would not leave her. “I think the
power of their wizards comes from their hill, nothing more. But
what has happened to Callabrion? The days continue to grow
shorter—he did not ascend at the feast.”
  “I don’t know.”
  “Narrion tried to summon him—I told you that. But he’s no
poet-mage. I wonder if he’ll try again.”
  “Probably. Nothing can change his course once he decides to do
something.”
  “I hope he doesn’t. He knows nothing about the power he
unleashed—it would be dangerous for him to meddle in magic.”
  Some of the Shai joined them then, and she fell silent.
   By midday most of the Shai had returned to their homes, to
villages and vineyards and pasture. Taja rode easier, feeling freer
with every traveler who left them. By the time they stopped for the
evening meal only a dozen men and women remained.
  The men built up the campfire and sat to eat. They passed
carafes of their hot spiced wine—“king’s blood,” they called it—over
the fire, and laughed and sang while they drank.
   In a short while they grew loud, almost bellicose, repeating their
arguments for killing the king in fierce voices. Taja thought that
the wine had freed their tongue, or perhaps this clan was more
garrulous than the others they had traveled with. They seemed
different in other ways, too; the men had colorful scarves wound
around their hair, and the women wore thick gold chains, and
earrings so weighted with gold and jewels, they pulled at their
earlobes.
   “And what do you think, strangers?” one of the men said, turning
to Val. “Is it right to kill the god-king?”
  He didn’t expect her to answer, Taja saw with relief; she had
noticed before that the women never spoke in public. “If the days
will grow longer—” Val said carefully.
  “If!” the man said scornfully. “You speak like one of the
womanish priests, arguing a thing over and over until no one can
say what he believes. Let’s kill him now. If the days grow longer
then we were right, and if they don’t—well, they’ll chose a new king
at Scathiel’s feast.”
  “But if you were wrong it would be sacrilege.”
  “Sacrilege? Why?”
  “To—to kill a king—” Val said.
  Taja looked from one man to the other, worried. Val knew
nothing but the elaborate debates of the court, the deft wordplay
passed from one person to another. But somehow she understood
that these people were unused to arguments, that they followed the
orders they received from their priests without questions.
  “Sacrilege to kill a king?” the Shai said. “Why, when we do it
every half-year?”
   All around the fire men and women put down their cups and their
meat and looked at Val. Their eyes and jewels glittered in the
firelight. Taja held her breath.
  “I meant that it would be sacrilege to kill a king out of season,”
Val said. He raised his hand as if to touch his amulet, then quickly
lowered it to his side. “Of course this king must be killed at
Scathiel’s feast.”
  “This king? What is this king’s name, stranger?”
  Val laughed. “Well, of course everyone knows—”
  “His name,” the Shai said.
  Val glanced at Taja. Without speaking they got quickly to their
feet and began to ran. Several of the Shai called out, and Taja
heard footsteps behind them. A man grabbed her and she cried out.
He put his hand, still greasy with meat, over her mouth.
  She kicked and lashed out with her arms as the man dragged her
back to the camp. “Who are you, then?” the man who had
questioned Val asked. She saw with despair that another of the
Shai had captured Val as well; as she watched he took Val’s sword
and scabbard and studied them by firelight.
  “We’re from the north,” Val said. “Merchants. We came to see the
ceremony, and we won’t be treated—”
  “From the north,” the man repeated flatly. “North Etrara, I
guess.”
  “No! No, we—we’re merchants—”
  “Bind their arms and legs. The priests will pay us well for spies
and witches from Etrara, I think.”
  “Priests?” another man asked. “But Rugath, we can’t go to the
priests—”
  “Quiet!” Rugath said. “I said they’ll pay us well, and they will.
Not in coins, but in pardons. For all of us.”
   They had fallen among outlaws, Taja realized, feeling hopeless.
Now she remembered that the men and women had been heavily
cloaked and covered with scarves at the beginning of their journey.
She had thought the cold bothered them, nothing more. Religious
outlaws, she thought, men and women who had disguised
themselves to see their god-king. Would Shai never stop surprising
them?
   One or two of the men began to nod; the shadows cast by the fire
glided smoothly over their faces. “Aye, they’ll pardon us indeed,”
someone said.
  Wordlessly, the women began to take out coils of rope from their
packs and hand them to the men. Two men bound the prisoners.
Taja struggled as they tightened the knots. “Quiet,” one of them
said. “We’ll kill you here if you fight us.”
  “How do you know these folks are from Etrara?” the man who
had argued with Rugath asked. “Could it be that they’re telling the
truth—that they’re truly merchants?”
  “Merchants!” Rugath said scornfully. “Why would they run if
they were merchants?”
  “They might have feared we would rob them.”
  “Look in their purses,” Rugath said.
  The Shai who guarded Taja and Val fumbled for the prisoners’
purses. “Two sovereigns,” one of them said, sounding disgusted.
“Stamped with a king of Etrara—that fat one who looks like a
toad.”
  “As I thought,” Rugath said. “They’re witches, witches from
Etrara. Come, Cor—when have you known a merchant not to carry
dozens of coins and jewels? They take their wealth with them, just
as we do.”
  The company laughed; apparently they found it amusing to
compare lawful merchants with a company of outlaws. Cor looked
dissatisfied but said nothing.
  “I think this man from Etrara is right,” Rugath said. “It would be
sacrilege to kill the god-king. But what if we substitute another
man for the king, as the king himself is the substitute for
Callabrion? What if we kill this man instead?”
  The men and women laughed again.
  “See how well I argue theology?” Rugath said proudly, grinning
at the other outlaws. “Would I not make a good priest?”



                            Eleven
                                                            «^»
Narrion and Tamra took lodgings at the Dolphin, a small
rough-timbered inn by the Darra River. “It’s a strange time to come
to Etrara,” the innkeeper said as they climbed the stairs. “What did
you say your business was?”
  “The fish trade,” Narrion said. “From Tobol An.”
  “Fish, well, we could use fish,” the innkeeper said. He opened the
door to their room. “The crops aren’t growing, they say. They say
we’ll all starve this year.”
  Narrion said nothing. He had not wanted to speak to anyone
except the Society of Fools while he was in Etrara. The innkeeper
said, “Tobol An, now—I’ve never heard of that. Where is it exactly?”
  “South,” Narrion said.
  “Ah,” the innkeeper said, nodding as if he had been enlightened.
“South.”
  Days passed with no word from Noddo. Tamra and Narrion could
not leave the room; both of them were too well known to risk being
seen on the streets. Narrion grew impatient, pacing the floor,
practicing swordplay in the small confined space. They were forced
to see the innkeeper, who brought them their meals, and his
daughter, who cleaned the room, but otherwise they spoke to no
one.
  After several days the innkeeper grew suspicious. “The fish trade,
was it?” he said as he brought them their supper. “I don’t see fish
merchants thronging to your door.”
   “Is it your business to question your lodgers?” Narrion asked. The
innkeeper had interrupted his sword practice; his hand still gripped
the hilt of his sword. The innkeeper backed away and Narrion
closed the door behind him.
  The next day the innkeeper grew bolder. “Sometimes I’m forced
to question my lodgers,” he said. He had clearly been thinking
about Narrion’s question all day. “When I suspect them of doing
something unlawful.”
  “By Scathiel’s big toe,” Narrion said, exasperated. “We’re
expecting a message, nothing more.”
  By good fortune the message arrived the next day. The innkeeper
brought it to their room. “I apologize for doubting you,” he said,
smiling broadly.
   Narrion waited until he had gone before breaking Noddo’s seal.
“I’ve found Andosto,” the note said.


Narrion took the stairs of the inn two at a time and hurried out
onto the streets of Etrara. Behind him he could hear Tamra
following him.
  “Narrion!” Tamra said. He continued on, too impatient to stop.
“Narrion!” Tamra called again. “Narrion, wait!”
  He turned. He should not have brought her, he thought; she was
unused to hardship, to the world outside the court. “What is it?” he
asked.
  “You walked under a ladder,” she said.
 “Did I?” He looked around him, saw that she had been correct.
He had passed through the connection between the earth and
heaven, and in doing so had briefly severed it. Ill fortune, he
thought. He had offended the gods at the very beginning of his
attempt to raise Callabrion; it seemed the worst possible omen.
  He shook his head, trying to banish his evil thoughts. He could
not afford to become distracted, not now when he was so close. He
turned down the street near the theater and came to Noddo’s house.
  He knocked. The door opened almost immediately, as if Noddo
had been waiting for them. “Come in, come in,” Noddo said
cheerfully, motioning them into the room.
  Andosto sat in one of the high-backed chairs. Narrion, who had
known him at court, was unprepared for the sight of him now; he
had lost a great deal of weight, and an unhealed scar festered on
one hand. “Good fortune, Narrion, Tamra,” Andosto said.
   Narrion grinned; he liked the fact that Andosto continued to hope
for good fortune after he had fallen so low on the ladder. “Good
fortune,” he said. “Has Noddo explained what I want you to do?”
  “You need to get into the palace,” Andosto said.
  “Can you do it?”
   “I think so,” Andosto said slowly. “We may have to kill a few of
the guards, though, and there will be reprisals if we do. Ten citizens
of Etrara killed for every guard.”
  Narrion shrugged. “We’ll have to do the best we can.”
  “I’ve made a study of the guards,” Andosto said. “I know when
their watches change. And I can help you with other things as
well.”
  “Good.”
  The two men talked a little longer, working out strategy, and
then Narrion and Tamra walked back to the inn. He felt confident,
his earlier offense against the gods nearly forgotten. The meeting
had gone as he’d hoped it would.


Narrion and Andosto had decided to attempt the palace during the
dark of the moon, which took place two days after Narrion had met
with Andosto. On that dark night Narrion waited three hours after
the bells of Etrara tolled midnight, and then walked quietly down
the stairs of the inn, hoping to avoid the innkeeper. His caution was
rewarded; as he passed the innkeeper’s room he heard him snoring
loudly within. He met Andosto at the agreed-upon place on Palace
Hill.
  Without speaking the two men slipped through the dark to the
palace courtyard and came to the slight rise at the fountain of
Sbona. They crouched behind the fountain and watched the guards.
   “There he is,” Andosto said, whispering. He pointed to a guard
who was fond of taking a nap as soon as he had finished his first
circuit around the palace. This guard and another one beat their
swords together and then separated on their rounds.
  Narrion and Andosto waited. Stars lit the sky, Sbona’s lamps
created to help her search for her lost children. They shone brighter
than usual in the absence of the moon. The light needs the dark,
Narrion thought, just as summer needs winter. He felt more
certain than ever that he had chosen the right path.
  The two guards returned to the front of the palace and clashed
swords again. One of them took up his station before the main door,
and the other, the man Andosto had pointed out, moved to the back.
They followed him, and were in time to see him stretch out on the
lawn in the formal gardens and fold his cloak around him.
  They waited until they were certain he had fallen asleep, then
walked through the garden to the rear door. The door had been
barred from the inside, of course; Narrion smashed a window
nearby with the hilt of his sword. The guard stirred at the jangle of
glass but did not wake.
  They climbed through the window. As Narrion had feared, the
Shai had stationed another guard just inside the rear door. The
man slashed at Narrion as he came through the window. Narrion
twisted nimbly to avoid his sword and then cut him down as he
turned.
  Ten citizens of Etrara, he thought as they ran down the corridor.
Was the death of ten people worth the return of the god to the
heavens? He hoped that it was. He hurried on.
  They ran to the main staircase, then upstairs to the royal
apartments. Another guard stood at the entrance to the rooms. He
lunged forward to attack Andosto, and as he did so Narrion stabbed
him in the back. He turned to face Narrion, not yet dead, a look of
cold horror on his face. Andosto thrust his sword to the man’s heart.
  They stood still, waiting to see if anyone had been roused by the
noise. When no one came Narrion bent and took the ring of keys at
the guard’s belt. He opened the door and they stepped inside.
   The iron lamps hanging from the ceiling had nearly burned down.
In the dim light they saw something wink in the shadows. Someone
moved. Andosto turned suddenly, his sword ready. A man stepped
from the gloom, his irises glinting silver.
  Andosto went forward. “Wait,” Narrion said, putting his hand on
Andosto’s arm.
  “Do you know where Riel is?” the man said plaintively.
  Gobro’s ghost. Narrion began to laugh, not caring that the guards
might hear. “I can’t find her anywhere,” the ghost said.
  “Quiet,” Andosto said, sounding annoyed. The door to one of the
rooms opened and a pale young man stepped out. “Narrion!” the
man said.
  Sbarra’s poet. “Good fortune, Sorth,” Narrion said, continuing on
toward Talenor’s apartment.
  “What are you doing in the palace?” Sorth said, hurrying after
him. “Did the Shai let you in? Were you captured?”
  “No,” Narrion said. He went past Gobro’s empty rooms, past
Arion’s and Callia’s. One is for Gobro, he thought.
  Duchess Sbarra came out of the suite of rooms she had once
shared with Talenor. “What is it?” she said. “Narrion?”
  “I need to see your husband’s library,” Narrion said.
  “His library? Why?”
  “Now, Sbarra. There’s no time for questions.”
  The poet gasped; Narrion guessed that no one had ever treated
his patron so rudely. “Follow me,” Sbarra said evenly.
  She led him and Andosto through her door and down a long
corridor. The poet followed after them. Only a few oil lamps burned
here. They passed the room that had held so many of Sbarra’s
nightly gatherings; the duchess pointed to the door beyond that.
“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll get a candle.”
  Sbarra returned and lit the oil lamps. Narrion followed her inside
and nodded in satisfaction. He had never seen Talenor’s library.
Noddo had been right: books of all colors lined all the walls and
reached to the ceiling, many of them treatises on magic. Soft light
moved against the polished bindings. The room smelled strongly of
leather.
  He went to the nearest wall and studied the shelves. There were
hundreds of books here, maybe thousands. How in Scathiel’s name
would he be able to find the one he wanted?
  “What are you looking for?” Sbarra asked. “Maybe I can help.”
  “I need a book of invocations to Callabrion,” Narrion said. “The
god has not ascended this year, and I hope to persuade him to
return to the heavens.”
  “So it’s true,” Sbarra said. She was smiling slightly. “You’re a
religious man, a member of the Society of Fools. Is that why you
were always so silent at my gatherings, because you were collecting
information for the Society? But you took part in other plots as
well, didn’t you? Didn’t you help Mariel and Callia kill King Gobro?”
  “I don’t have time for this, Sbarra,” Narrion said evenly. “If I’m
successful here I’ll sit with you over a pot of ale and tell you
everything you want to know.”
  “Why don’t you ask Mariel for help? Wasn’t she the one who
raised you high on the ladder?”
  “Mariel and I have had our differences. Can you help me?”
  “I suppose so.” She went to the shelves and started to look
through them.
  Narrion watched her, a little surprised. She seemed to know as
much about the library as her husband had; she was not Talenor’s
ornament, his wife and hostess, but a scholar in her own right. He
had never known that about her, just as she had not known he
belonged to the Society of Fools. All the masks were coming off
now, all disguises laid aside as winter and hardship gripped the
city.
  “Here,” Duchess Sbarra said. She took down a small faded book
bound in black leather. “I think there’s an invocation in this book
that might help you.”
  Narrion took the book. Taja probably has this in her library, he
thought. Ironic that we had to travel so many miles to find a copy
here. But he knew that Taja would not help him, not after what
had happened at the arch of Sleeping Koregath. And even if she
would he could not ask her; she had left Tobol An with Val weeks
ago.
  He leafed through the book. Keystones and Invocations , the title
said. “It was once in the library of a wizard of Tariel’s,” Sbarra said.
  The poet Sorth looked at the book over Narrion’s shoulder. A
combination of excitement and awe shone from his face; he had
probably never been this close to true wizardry in his life.
 “Sorth,” Narrion said, the idea coming to him at that moment.
He put the book in the purse at his belt. “I’ll need you to leave with
me. I need someone to recite the invocation.”
  “I—No,” Sorth said. “I’m a poet, not a mage. I can’t speak magic.”
  “Come—don’t be afraid,” Narrion said.
  “I’m not afraid—”
  “Good. You’ll leave with me then.”
  “No, I—”
  “I think you will. Your patron commands you. Don’t you, Lady
Sbarra?”
  Narrion saw that the duchess was about to refuse; perhaps he
should not have been so insulting earlier. But the poet said quickly,
with relief, “She’s not my patron. I serve Duchess Mariel now.”
  “Mariel?” Narrion said. He raised an eyebrow.
  “We left Etrara without him,” Sbarra said. “He was masterless,
and Mariel offered to take him into her service.”
  The poets at court played at being poet-mages, Narrion knew,
and liked to emphasize the similarities between their lives and that
of the wizards. Sorth had probably complained that without a
master he would be a target for all the other court poets. Narrion
thought it nothing but affectation; he had never heard of a poet
killed by another’s verses.
  “You sought a master, is that right?” Narrion asked the poet
softly.
  Sorth seemed to see where Narrion’s questions would lead. He
shrank back against the bookshelves, looking from Sbarra to
Narrion.
   “You might be killed if you were masterless,” Narrion said. “Poets
have the power to kill, is that what you believe? A power like that
of the poet-mages. And if you have this power—”
  “No,” Sorth said. “No, I won’t do it.”
   He seemed terrified. Probably few people understood the dangers
of wizardry as well as the poets; they liked to dabble in spells and
invocations but they lacked much of the innate power of the true
mages. Narrion had never known a kept poet who was not in some
way a failed wizard.
  “Quiet,” Narrion said. “If you have this power, you can surely
speak an invocation or two. A few verses.”
  “Help!” Sorth said loudly. “Guards! Help! Treachery!”


No sun lit the streets of Etrara, but the bells rang out to signify
morning. Noddo climbed the steps to Narrion’s room and knocked
on the door.
  “Who is it?” Tamra asked.
  “Noddo.”
  “Oh,” she said. “I thought—I thought you might be Narrion.
Come in, please.”
  The door opened and he went inside. “Is Narrion back?” he asked.
  “No,” Tamra said. She sounded worried.
  “Did he say when he would return?”
  “No.”
 “He’ll be back. I’ve never known him to fail—he’s always done
whatever he set his mind to.”
  He had meant to reassure her. But she drew a little away from
him, and he wondered if he had done just the opposite, if he had
reminded her of how little she knew her husband.
  He and Narrion shared a past of which she knew nothing.
  Did she love Narrion, then? Noddo had heard that their marriage
was one of convenience, a joining of her family’s old wealth with
Narrion’s newly gained riches. To put her at her ease he said, “Did
Narrion ever tell you how he came to join the Society?”
  She shook her head.
  “You know that some children born in summer are given names
that end in ‘ion,’ ” he said. “Like Callabrion. And those born in
winter have names ending in ‘iel.’ All the members of the Society of
Fools are supposed to be winter-children, did you know that?”
  “But—but then Narrion—”
   “Narrion.” Noddo smiled a little, enjoying the memory. “He was a
boy when he came up to me at the Feast of the Descending God and
said he wanted to learn how to dance like a skeleton. I asked him
his name, and when he told me I said, as gently as I could, that we
did not accept summer-children into the Society. He didn’t cry, I
remember that. He just turned away, as though he were thinking
of something.”
  “I’ve seen that,” Tamra said.
   “He asked me about the Society every       year. Somehow he could
tell me apart from all the other skeletons,   even though he was only
a child. And I had to disappoint him          every year. He was a
summer-child, I said, and we could make       no exceptions. I thought
he would outgrow his desire.”
  “But how did he—”
  “Years passed. He went to the university. He told me at the feast
that year that he was studying very hard, and he smiled that smile
he has, as though he knows something you don’t. And in the library
at the university he discovered a book about the founding of the
Society of Fools, and the book said nothing about whether the
members had to be winter-children or summer-children. So we let
him in. What choice did we have?”
  Tamra laughed.
  “Aye, it’s an amusing story,” Noddo said. “But I told it to you for
a reason. There’s a darkness in his soul that won’t go away,
something that drew him so powerfully to the Society that we made
our first exception in nearly five hundred years. He knew this even
as a child, when he asked me if he could join the Society. No matter
what his day of birth he belongs to Scathiel, flesh and bones and
soul.”


“Guards!” Sorth said again.
  Andosto moved behind Sorth quickly. He clapped a hand over the
poet’s mouth; his other arm tightened around Sorth’s windpipe.
Narrion raised his sword casually; it seemed almost an accident
that the sword was pointed at the poet’s stomach.
  “What—what will you do with him?” Sbarra said. “It’ll mean your
death if you kill a poet, you know that.”
  “Quiet,” Narrion said roughly, listening for the guards Sorth had
called. No one came. “Death if you kill a poet,” he said scornfully.
“That’s another story they tell, to make themselves as important as
the wizards. Do you truly think the other court poets will band
together and write me out of existence? Kill me with their dreadful
meter? Slay me with bad similes?”
  No one spoke.
  “Mariel might be upset for a while,” Narrion said. “Her honor is
at stake—she’s his patron, after all. But Mariel’s lost any power she
might once have had—I have nothing to fear from her.”
  “Let him go,” Sbarra said.
   Narrion said nothing. Sorth squirmed in Andosto’s grasp.
“Promise him you won’t take him with you,” Sbarra said. “He’ll be
silent—he wants no more than to be left alone.”
  Andosto let go of his prisoner. “Don’t—” Narrion said. Sorth
raised his voice over Narrion’s. “Help!” he said. “Murder!”
  Narrion thrust his sword forward. Sorth sagged against Andosto,
who pushed him away. The poet fell to the floor. Blood welled from
his mouth; it looked golden in the light from the lamps.
  Now they could all hear the sound of footsteps hurrying up the
stairs. Narrion hurried away from the library and ran quickly down
the corridor, then out into the main hallway. He had once seen a
servants’ staircase but could not now remember where it was.
Andosto followed him.
  They came to the end of the royal apartments. There had been a
door here, he was certain of it. He pulled aside one of the hanging
tapestries and saw only a wall, pushed against another and felt
something give way on the other side. He moved the tapestry aside
thankfully. A door stood behind it, half-open.
  They hurried down the stairwell. It was dark here; no lamps had
been spared for this part of the palace. Despite the gloom he took
the stairs two and three at a time, going forward mainly on
instinct. Behind him he heard Andosto blunder into a wall and
continue on. He opened the door at the foot of the stairs, felt a cold
wind on his face.
   Once outside the palace they ran through a darkness barely
lighter than that of the stairwell. Despite that, he knew somehow
that it was morning. The watch would change soon, and the dead
guards would be discovered.
  He ran faster, turning once to look back at the palace. The noise
they had made had roused the sleeping guard, he saw; the guard
stood stupidly as the others came out of the palace. That would stop
them for a minute, Narrion thought, and a minute might be all
they needed to get free.
  As they ran the darkness lightened a little, becoming a dirty
gray. Narrion led Andosto through crooked roads and back alleys,
the hidden streets he knew that appeared on no map. The book hit
his leg as he ran, a welcome weight.
  Finally they reached the Darra River and the inn at the sign of
the Dolphin. He hurried up the stairs, ignoring the innkeeper’s
shouts, and opened the door. Andosto ran after him.
  Tamra and Noddo turned toward him. “Come quickly,” he said.
“We have to leave.”
  “Leave?” Tamra said. “Why?”
  Narrion looked at Noddo. “Can we go to your house?”
  “I—I suppose so,” Noddo said. “But—”
  “We have to hurry,” Narrion said. “I’ve killed two people—three,
but the Shai won’t count a court poet. And the innkeeper saw me
come in this morning. Do you think that when the Shai start
asking questions he’ll pretend he saw nothing? Can we trust him to
keep silent, especially when the Shai will offer a reward?”
 Tamra began to collect a few things. “There’s no time for that,”
Narrion said.
  They went down the stairs. “We’ll go on to Noddo’s,” Narrion said
to Tamra. “Settle the bill with the innkeeper and meet us there.”
He hurried out into the streets without waiting for an answer.
  Noddo and Andosto followed him. Somewhere a guard called, and
another answered. They ran quickly past the theater and turned
down the crooked way that led to Noddo’s house.
  Once inside Narrion took out the book he had gotten. “Sbarra
gave me this,” he said, showing it to Noddo. He opened it; there on
the first page was an invocation to the god Callabrion. It seemed a
good omen. “Great king,” he said. “Our sovereign and ruler—”
  “Are you going to begin now?” Noddo said.
  “Of course,” Narrion said. “Why not?”
   “Because—because you know nothing of magic. Study the book
first, and decide which verses you’ll need. Don’t be so impatient.”
  “Noddo,” Narrion said, as carefully as he could. The excitement
that gripped him was strong, too strong to allow him to stop now.
“The Shai might have seen which street we took. If they did they’ll
question your neighbors, and it will be only a matter of time before
they are led to us. We might have only a few hours. Forgive me, my
teacher, but I think that in this matter we cannot afford patience.”
  “Then we’ll go somewhere else—” Noddo said.
  Narrion ignored him. He began the invocation to Callabrion
again. As he spoke he felt certainty rise within him; this time he
would succeed, this time the summer god would yield to his will.
And he would not need Sorth, that pale, puling imitation of a
wizard, to help him.
  The currents of magic began to move around him. Understanding
was nearly within his grasp; soon he would be able to control the
magic, to shape it to his purpose. He paged quickly through the
book, looking for a poem with an appropriate keystone.
  The correct verse eluded him. He sensed the magic begin to slip
away; the power around him grew stronger, wilder. He turned the
pages rapidly. Noddo called out to him but he could not hear what
he said over the gusts of magic.
  He glanced down a page, saw a poem with its
keystone—“fire”—printed in red. What better word to use to
summon Callabrion? He read the verse quickly, hoping to finish
before he lost control of the spell completely.
  The room around him, chilly like all the rooms in Etrara, began
to grow warm. He turned the page and continued to recite, certain
now that he had chosen the correct verse. As he neared the end of
the poem he saw, too late, that the second keystone was the word
“ember.”
  The room grew warmer. The heat was pleasant, lulling him
nearly to sleep. It would be dangerous to stop the spell in the
middle, he knew, and so he read on, reciting the words without
really seeing them, until he came to the end.
  His eyelids closed. At that moment he understood the extent of
his folly, saw clearly that he had spoken a sleeping-spell. Soon he
would sleep, perhaps forever. He struggled against the spell but the
very words he had spoken worked against him, calmed him,
smoothed the currents of his fear.
  He opened his eyes. He tried to turn the page, to find a
counterspell. His hand grew heavy; he could barely lift it.
  Someone whispered something. Noddo? He tried to raise his
head. No, Noddo was asleep.
  The whisper came again. He shook his head, trying to come
awake. The voice sounded familiar; he thought that he had once
known and trusted this person. He was in the presence of a strong
poet-mage. Who could it be? He listened intently.
  The mage spoke louder. Narrion heard the words of a poem and
struggled to repeat them, understanding that they were the
counterspell he had sought. As he recited the verses he saw with
admiration how the poet-mage was constructing the poem, choosing
keystones and alliteration and meter almost effortlessly.
  The warmth left the room. Andosto woke, gasping. “Narrion!”
Noddo said, urgently. “Narrion, stop!”
  But Narrion could not stop. The voice continued, giving him the
verses he needed to summon Callabrion. He spoke them with joy,
seeing with the poet-mage where they would lead, almost able to
anticipate the rhymes. The two keystones joined brilliantly. The
poet spoke a final invocation and then was gone.
  A fourth man stood within the room.
 The man wore patched breeches and a faded tunic; his hair was
white and streaked with dirt. “Who—” Narrion said.
  The man said nothing. He stood blinking in the center of the
room as if he were witless.
  “I know you,” Narrion said finally. “I’ve seen you in Sbarra’s
rooms, at her gatherings. But you—Who are you?”
  “Who?” the man asked, a mournful echo.
  “What is your name?”
  “My name?”
  “I summoned the god Callabrion,” Narrion said, feeling the
exaltation of the last few moments fade. Surely this man could not
be Callabrion; Narrion saw no trace of the immanence of the gods,
the radiant light he had heard others speak of.
  “Callabrion,” the man said slowly. Narrion sighed impatiently.
His first guess had been correct; the man had lost his wits.
“Callabrion. I could be… Yes. Yes, I think I might be Callabrion.”
  Narrion looked at the others in the room. Andosto frowned;
Narrion remembered that he was rumored to be Callabrion’s
grandson.
   “Callabrion—yes, that’s who I am.” Before Narrion could stop him
he sat on a chair and took off one of his boots. The big toe on his
right foot was missing.
  Narrion forced himself to say nothing. He felt tricked; he thought
that there might be dozens of men in Etrara who had lost a toe.
And yet he remembered the story, how Sbona had searched over
the earth for the remnants of her murdered children, how when she
had gathered them together she had seen that Callabrion had lost
his right toe and Scathiel his left. He shivered despite himself.
Could the man’s claim possibly be true?
  The man seemed to see Andosto for the first time. He stood
hesitantly, still holding his boot. “My son?” he asked. His voice was
that of an old man, trembling, querulous.
  Andosto nodded.
  The man who claimed to be Callabrion went toward Andosto and
embraced him. Andosto held him awkwardly. Now Narrion thought
he could see light emanating from the man, but it was thin,
uncertain. They released each other; Callabrion returned to the
chair and sat slowly.
  Narrion shivered again. If this man was truly Callabrion then he
was in the presence of something ancient, holy. He had not
expected the feeling of deep awe that rose from somewhere within
him. This man was Sbona’s child, Scathiel’s brother. The god of
summer.
  “Why—why didn’t you return to the heavens this year?” Narrion
asked.
  “The heavens,” Callabrion said. He hesitated. “Yes, I was
supposed to ascend to the heavens.”
  “Why didn’t you go?” Narrion’s voice was almost gentle. “Your
bride Sbona waits for you.”
  “I—I don’t know. I fell in love.”
  “In love? With who?”
  Callabrion looked around him, as if hoping to find the answer
with him in the room. “I don’t know,” he said again. “With—with
the earth.”
  “With—”
   “Yes.” Callabrion stood; he spoke more forcefully now. The light
that shone from him grew stronger. He seemed to become younger
before their eyes; his thick white hair radiated out from his face
like the rays of the sun. “With sun and stone, wood and water. She
created well, my mother.”
  “But you—you’ve lived with us on earth before. Every year, for
thousands of years.”
  Callabrion nodded. “And I never saw it before. Never truly saw it,
until now. The earth holds more beauty than heaven does.”
  “You must return to the heavens, my lord. You must wed Sbona,
or the sun will fail. The earth you love so much will die.”
  “No,” Callabrion said. His voice was deep, commanding. The light
of his face was nearly bunding now; Narrion was forced to look
away. “No, I will not.”
  No one spoke. What could they say to him, to this god? His eyes
shone like suns; his hair was like a crown of white gold. His legs
were as strong and powerful as the trunks of trees.
   The door opened, and Tamra stepped inside. She stopped a
moment, her eyes blinking in the blazing light. She looked from
Narrion to Callabrion. Then, as her husband and the others
watched, she bent to the god Callabrion in a deep curtsy. “My
liege,” she said.



                            Twelve
                                                            «^»
The day after the outlaws had captured Taja and Val they changed
direction, heading west toward the city Taja had seen. Taja thought
that Rugath probably hoped to give them to the priests there. And
what would happen to them then? They might be sacrificed, as
Rugath had said; surely people who killed their kings would not
balk at murdering two strangers.
   The closer they came to the city the quieter the men became, as
if to match the seriousness of their errand. As they approached the
city both men and women stopped and muffled themselves in layers
of cloaks and scarves and headdresses. Taja dismounted
awkwardly; the Shai had left her hands bound.
  One of the women slipped a bulky red and gold cloak over Taja’s
shoulders. She nearly shrugged it off, thinking that she and Val
might be able to attract the attention of some other clan traveling
east. But any other clan would give them to the priests as well;
they were the enemy, from Etrara. She kept the cloak on. It
smelled of sweat and strange spices.
  They met few people traveling toward the huge city; Taja
thought that most folks had returned to their homes after the
ceremony. The clan rode in silence until they came to the dead
vineyards. “Perhaps it’s witchcraft that’s blasted these vines,”
Rugath said. “We’ve conquered Etrara, but they can command the
very forces of nature. They hope to kill our crops in the ground, to
starve us out of Etrara.”
  “Is that true?” Cor asked quietly. Taja had not even noticed him
come up and join them. “Are you witches?”
  “No, of course not,” Taja said. “We’re merchants—I—”
  “Aye, we’re witches,” Val said, speaking over her. “We’ve spent
the night on Wizard’s Hill.”
  Cor paled. “Have you indeed?” he said, nearly whispering.
  “Aye,” Val said. “Do you know what happens to those who kill a
poet-mage? First their flesh rots off their bones. Then their bones
dissolve—”
  Cor made a noise deep in his throat and urged his horse on
ahead. Val laughed softly.
  “Do you think that was wise?” Taja asked quietly.
  “They might not kill us if they fear us,” Val said.
  “Well, perhaps. But perhaps they’ll kill us sooner.”
  They reached the city two days later. The twisted streets were
deserted; their    horses’   hooves   sounded   loud   against   the
cobblestones.
  A man rode out from one of the alleyways. He wore a golden
helmet and breastplate; Taja noticed that Val started at the sight of
him. A soldier, she thought, or a man of the watch. “Hold!” he said.
   “We bring two prisoners to the temple,” Rugath said. “Witches
from Etrara.”
  “Etrara?” the soldier said doubtfully. He looked at Taja and Val,
both weighted down with layers of Shai clothing. “I’ll have to come
with you.”
 Rugath seemed about to argue. Then he shrugged. “As you wish,
my lord,” he said.
   Rugath said nothing more as they rode to the temple. Several
young men dressed in blue stood at the foot of the steps; they
clashed their swords together as the Shai soldier approached them.
   As Taja saw them she realized she knew the details of their lives
as surely as if they had told her. These were the acolytes of Sbona;
the next god-king would be chosen from among their ranks. They
felt excited at the prospect, eager for the honor and the chance to
live in luxury for half a year. But at the same time she sensed their
uneasiness, their feeling that no honor was worth death six months
later.
  The acolytes and soldier spoke together for a few minutes, and
then the soldier said something to the outlaws that Taja did not
catch. The Shai dismounted, and after a moment she and Val did
the same. A few of the acolytes came forward to take their horses.
Taja gave hers up reluctantly; it would be difficult to escape
without it.
  They climbed the steps to the temple. Two of the acolytes had
come with them, and these spoke to others just inside the door.
Now Taja could see that a great hallway ran down the length of the
temple, lit only by iron lamps on twisted chains.
  One of the acolytes said something to Rugath. “Never!” Rugath
said. Taja had never heard him speak so loudly; his voice echoed off
the marble walls of the temple. “By Scathiel’s big toe I swear—”
  “If you do not give up your weapons you will not be allowed into
the temple,” the acolyte said. “Only the god-king’s servants can
carry weapons in a holy place.” He and the others stood before the
outlaws, their hands on the hilts of their swords.
  Rugath shrugged, apparently resigned. He took a sword from a
scabbard at his side and a knife from his boot, and the other
outlaws followed his lead. Taja watched, surprised and a little
alarmed, as the pile of weapons in the hallway grew. Val’s sword
was thrown down; the outlaw who had taken it when they were
captured had evidently kept it. She had had no idea that they were
so well armed.
  When they had finished, the acolytes motioned them down the
corridor. Identical rooms opened off on either side of them. The
rooms on the right were brightly lit, and draped with the gold and
green banners of Callabrion. People bustled in and out, coming out
to speak with the acolytes and even with Rugath and the other
outlaws.
  Taja caught only a quick glimpse of the rooms on the left. They
were dusty, the pale light coming through windows obscured by
dirt. Hangings and tapestries in blue and silver, Scathiel’s colors,
covered the walls; gray spiderwebs dimmed their luster.
  An acolyte motioned them forward into a room on the right. They
had come to the throne room, Taja saw; a great chair fashioned of
gold and emeralds stood before them. She turned and saw an
identical room across the hall, and a tarnished throne of silver and
sapphires, before her way was blocked by the crowd.
  A handsome young man sat on the golden throne. Taja was
surprised at the expression of slack indolence on his face; he looked
as if he might be drugged. Priests in white stood ranged on a
platform behind him. She looked for the old woman, the
goddess-queen, but could not see her anywhere.
  Soldier and acolyte and outlaw bowed their heads toward the
king, and after a moment Taja and Val did the same. He gave no
indication that he saw any of them.
  “Are these the prisoners?” one of the priests asked, indicating
Taja and Val. Suddenly Taja understood that this man was the true
ruler of Shai, that the god-king and the goddess-queen had no
power, no tasks except those they were assigned at the festivals.
The priests here were nothing like the astronomer-priests in
Etrara, whose sole task was to study the motion of the sun and
stars.
  “Aye, my lord,” Rugath said.
  Two priests stepped down from the platform to study them. One
pushed back the hood of Val’s cloak, and Taja remembered her
earlier fear. What would the Shai do if they discovered Val’s
identity? How would they treat the true king of Etrara?
  “This is the first time in memory that the Tathlag have entered
the god-king’s temple,” the ruling priest said. “Tell us why we
should let you go free.”
   A few of the outlaws looked at each other, a complex glance that
Taja did not completely understand. She wondered if it meant that
some of the outlaws doubted their chief, that Rugath’s hold on the
clan was uncertain. The thought cheered her a little; she and Val
might be able to take advantage of a division in the Tathlag clan.
  “We bring you these captives to demonstrate our loyalty to Shai,
and to the god-king,” Rugath said. “If we were nothing but thieves
and clanless men, as you and others have claimed, we would have
kept these witches for ourselves.”
  “Witches?” the priest asked. A few of the men near Taja and Val
stepped back uneasily.
  “Aye, my lord,” Rugath said. “So they told us. I thought they
might be sacrificed in place of the king, so that—”
  “Quiet,” the priest said. “The Tathlag clan stands very low on the
ladder—certainly not high enough to tell the god-king what to do.
We will take these prisoners, and then decide what to do with
them. And we will take you as well.”
  Acolytes moved forward to seize Taja and Val. Others took
Rugath and Cor and the men surrounding them. “But—” Rugath
said. “But my lord—”
  “Quiet.”
  At that moment Taja saw that her insight had been correct, that
men in the clan doubted Rugath’s ability to lead, and for very good
reason. Rugath had enough charm and bluster and cunning to guide
a small tribe of outlaws, but he was no match for the subtleties of
the god-king’s court. He had fully expected to walk into the temple
and receive his pardon.
  “Don’t—” Cor said, holding his hand out to Taja and Val. The
acolytes forced it down roughly.
  “Don’t?” the priest asked.
  “Don’t kill them. It’ll mean your death to kill a witch, and ours
too. We brought them to you—the witch’s curse will light on us all.”
  A few of the acolytes looked uneasy. “Ah,” the priest said. “But
are they witches? We have only your word for that.”
  “They told us so,” Cor said. “They said they’ve been to Wizard’s
Hill.”
  One of the acolytes turned pale, exactly as Cor had. But the
priest laughed. “Wizard’s Hill!” he said. “How did a man and
woman from Etrara manage to reach Wizard’s Hill?”
   Rugath spoke a few words. In the space of a blink all the outlaws,
even the women, had taken out swords, drawing them from cloaks
and boots and hidden pockets of clothing. They had given up only a
fraction of their weapons in the hall, Taja saw.
  Rugath held his sword toward the acolytes, keeping them at bay,
and at the same time motioned the outlaws into the hall. They
moved warily, used to fighting. The servants of the god-king stood
uncertainly for a moment and then came after them, drawing their
weapons.
   In the confusion Taja ran for Scathiel’s throne room across the
hall. One of the outlaws followed her and broke a window with the
hilt of his sword. Cold wind whistled through the room, blowing up
dust and cobwebs. People ran for the window.
  Rugath and a few others hurried after them into the throne
room. Blood flowed down one of his arms, and he was breathing
heavily. Taja saw him engage one of the acolytes, and then the
press of people crowding her against the window was too great and
she had to turn.
  The man in front of her clambered through the window to safety.
She held out her bound hands and jerked the rope against the
broken glass. The rope frayed but did not break. Someone fell
against her and swore angrily. She tried again; this time she
managed to cut the rope and climb to the window. As she turned to
drop to the ground she saw Rugath fall to the acolyte’s sword.
  The man who had pushed her followed her out the window. A
woman came after him, holding her heavy skirts as she fell to the
ground. Then, to Taja’s vast relief, she saw Val leap from the
window and run toward her.
  “Rugath’s dead,” he said. “Come—we’ve got to hurry.”
  A few of the outlaws moved toward them. “Let them go,” Cor
said.
  “Let them…” said one of the outlaws.
   “Aye. Rugath’s dead. I’m the leader now, and I say to let them go.
It’ll mean our death if we kill them, or allow them to be killed.”
  The outlaws hesitated. “Come!” Val said again. He began to run,
and she followed him.
   They hurried down the strange crooked streets of the city. No one
came after them, and she thought that the acolytes must have been
stopped by what remained of Rugath’s band. It was strange to think
of Rugath dead; he had been so filled with life, so exuberant. She
would not have expected a man of the Shai, a people used to
obedience and conformity, to do what he had done, to confront the
priests in their own temple.
  After a while she and Val slowed. She saw that he had cut his
bonds on the window as well, and the sight of them made her think
that they should find a knife to finish the job; a clanless man and
woman wandering through Shai tied with bonds of rope would
surely attract some attention. And they had to get rid of their
heavy cloaks as well; they could not afford to be mistaken for
outlaws.
  But they saw no one on the streets, and Taja began to think that
they might keep the cloaks after all. The bulky fabric covered their
darker features and made them less conspicuous.
  “I’m almost sorry he’s dead,” Val said, echoing her thoughts about
Rugath. “He seemed more like a man from Etrara than a clan chief.
A courtier, or even a king.”
  “Aye,” she said. “He was like a man in a tragedy. He had too
much ambition for a man of the Shai—it was almost inevitable that
he died.”
  She led the way through the twisted maze of the city, stopping
when the streets branched out into two or more directions. Yet
every time they stopped she was able to choose a street and
continue on.
   After they left the city the rough spire of Wizard’s Hill appeared
in her mind for the first time since they had been captured. It called
to her, drawing her toward it. She hurried on, anxious to reach
their destination.
   A day later Taja saw a more direct way to the hill, and she
turned south onto a dirt track that led off the main road. Val
followed. They had said little all day; both were hungry and worried
about pursuit.
   They passed fields and farmhouses. Dogs barked at them from
the safety of their houses, and when she and Val came to the barns
and storehouses she saw that they were locked. She had heard of
similar things happening in the provinces around Etrara; farmers
wanted to protect what little food they had as the crops began to
fail. She nearly groaned aloud with hunger. And something else had
started to worry her: the Shai had taken Val’s sword. How could he
guard her while she spent the night on Wizard’s Hill?
   When night fell they stopped at an open field and spread their
cloaks on the ground. There was little warmth in Val’s arms; he
held her as she lay on her back, shivering and staring at the thin
shell of the moon. The next night would be dark, moonless. Only
once did she think of turning back, but she put the thought away
from her as something impossible, as if a fish had thought of
walking on dry land.
  “Taja?” Val said. “Are you awake?”
  She turned to face him. “Yes.”
   “I thought of something that might help you. I met a poet-mage
during the war, Anthiel, and he told me something about the ways
of magicians. He used solid words as his keystones, he said—tree
and rock, table and door.”
  “Solid words,” Taja said. The advice meant little to her; she had
not thought of the night she would have to endure on Wizard’s Hill.
All her strength had gone toward getting there. She turned over
and drifted off to sleep.
  She saw blackness broken by a thousand stars when she woke;
the sky reminded her of a courtier’s jeweled cloak she had seen the
night she had ridden to Etrara to find Val. Despite the darkness she
knew that morning had come. She roused Val and they set off.
   The weak sun rose some hours later, barely lightening the world
around them. As they walked she forgot everything but the hill that
loomed before her in her mind. Once Val said something and she
started, remembering with surprise that she was not alone.
“What?” she said impatiently.
  “There are orange trees here,” he said.
   She could not imagine what he wanted. But he turned off the
path and picked a few of the thin-skinned, wizened oranges and
gave her one. “Eat it,” he said, peeling one and taking a bite. “Gods,
it tastes horrible.”
   As she ate she realized how hungry she was. But a few steps
later she stopped, all thoughts of the orange in her hand forgotten.
They had topped a rise and she saw, off in the distance, the
silhouette of Wizard’s Hill. It looked exactly as she had seen it in
her dreams.
   She hurried on, not turning back to see if Val followed. The land
around the hill was featureless, with no houses or pasture or
cropland to break the flat expanse. After she had gone some
distance she realized that the bleakness of the land made the hill
look closer than it really was; they would not reach it until
nightfall.
   The hill grew larger as they walked. Its pointed top seemed to
reach to the heavens, to the court of Sbona. One side was jagged, as
if something had broken off from it long ago; the other was smooth
and looked impossible to climb.
  The pale sun had set by the time they reached the hill. She could
no longer see the top; black had merged imperceptibly with black.
  “Look,” Val said.
   Strange shapes of stone and metal crouched at the base of the
hill. The ruins looked nothing like the arch of Sleeping Koregath,
but she thought they shared some kinship with it; they had been
built by the same people, perhaps, or ensorcelled by them. Would
the ruins come alive sometime in the night? She shook her head;
her task would be difficult enough without such child’s fancies.
  She began to climb. “Wait,” Val said. “This path doesn’t lead all
the way up. Look—it’s blocked by that boulder there.”
  She stopped, impatient at the delay. Had they come this far only
to be turned back by the hill itself? But Val had gone around an
outcropping of rock and called back to her. “Over here,” he said.
  She didn’t wait to hear more, but pushed in front of him and
began to climb.
   For a while she could hear Val behind her, but soon she thought
of nothing but the hill. She felt that everything she had ever done,
her strange lonely childhood by the sea, her work as the librarian of
Tobol An, her meeting with Val, all of it had been nothing compared
to her ascent of Wizard’s Hill. Her life before this could be summed
up in ten lines of verse and spoken by a Prologue in a play; here, on
this hill in front of her, her true life would begin.
  She pulled herself up over several large boulders. The path
leveled out and she hurried on.
  “Taja!” Val called behind her. “Taja—where are you?”
   She had made it to the top, she saw; there was a small plot of
level ground ahead of her, with nothing on it but a white stone
shining palely in the darkness. She walked toward the stone and
sat, knowing as she did so that countless men and women had done
the same before her.
  “Taja—the hill won’t let me join you. I’ll wait for you here, and
guard you. May all the gods protect you and defend you. May I see
you whole and well tomorrow morning. Good fortune!”
Val stood near the crest of the hill. Strange forms had approached
him as he climbed, blocking his way to the top: soldiers and trees
and great cats, apparitions like the ones he had encountered in the
Teeth of Tura.
  Taja had appeared not to see them. Well, he thought, the
mountain existed for her and for people like her, wizards,
poet-mages.
  There were more shapes here, metal and stone like the ones they
had passed at the mountain’s foot. He went closer.
   These forms were not as ruined as the ones he had seen earlier;
perhaps the power of the mountain had preserved them. He could
see statues nearly twice his height, smoothed by generations of
wind and rain; looking up he saw that what was left of their faces
still showed an unearthly beauty and wisdom.
   He would spend the night here, then, guarding her and praying
to Callabrion. And if she descended whole in the morning she would
be a poet-mage; she would help him take the throne of Etrara. He
glanced up once but the dark bulk of the mountain kept its secrets;
he could not see Taja anywhere.
  What if she failed? How would he face Pebr if he brought her
dead body back to Tobol An? Worse, what if she went mad, if she
spent the rest of her life staring sightlessly from the windows of
Pebr’s cottage?
   He shivered. He had met sorcerers before, Penriel and Anthiel,
but never one who had gone to Wizard’s Hill. What would happen
to her? Had she understood what she was doing when she agreed to
help him? What had he unleashed in his desire to be king?


Dead, or mad, or a poet, she thought. Almost as if the thought had
conjured up whatever force was at work on the mountain the sky
above her began to slide sickeningly, to change places with the
earth below. The stars wheeled beneath her. A shape appeared from
the plains overhead, a great bird of prey. The bird flew toward her,
and as it came closer she saw that it carried a warrior on its back,
his sword aimed unerringly toward her heart.
   She drew a deep breath. It had begun, then. She spoke an
invocation to the gods and began to construct a spell to turn the
apparition aside. Halfway through her second verse she saw how
the poem should end, how the two keystones came together in a
phrase that strengthened both of them. She spoke the words
triumphantly. The bird gave a loud cry and disappeared.
   A ship came toward her out of the strangely twisted sky, its hull
and mast shining like pearl. She saw that each challenge would
require a different spell, that her invention must not be allowed to
flag once during the night. She recited a brief prayer to the goddess
Sbona, mother of light, and found to her surprise that the first
word of the prayer—“mother”—could be used as a keystone. Solid
words, just as Val had advised. She spoke the rest of the spell
confidently. The apparition wavered, frayed into gusts of light, and
was gone.
   Nothing moved in the sky for a long time. But someone came
toward her over the crest of the hill, a soldier wearing a tattered
cloak and carrying an old rust-eaten sword. His eyes glittered silver
in the darkness. He was a ghost, she realized, one of the many who
had spent the night on the mountain before her.
  Dozens of ghosts crowded around her now, clamoring for her
attention. A man held his arms out to her beseechingly; she could
see the places where he had slashed his wrists with his sword. A
woman with a glittering crown came after him, the legendary
Queen Ellara I, the beloved of Callabrion. She hadn’t realized that
Ellara the Good had been both ruler and poet-mage. And there was
Cosro, a short round man who had been capable of writing both
piercing satires and sonnets of surpassing beauty.
  Cosro smiled at her. She remembered the stories told about him,
that he was unable to lie, and she wondered what that smile might
portend. It seemed knowing, almost unpleasant.
  She forced herself to look back toward the sky. Another sending
came toward her, a great forest of moving trees. She began an
invocation, thinking that the challenges were simpler than she had
anticipated. But then why had Cosro smiled?
  One of the ghosts began to whisper to her. She shook her head,
trying to concentrate on the sending before her. The muttering of
the ghosts became louder. She hurried through the remaining
verses of the spell, hoping to finish before the sighing voices of the
ghosts forced out all other thought.
  Pictures formed before her, blocking out the sight of the trees.
She shook her head but the pictures remained. She was in Soria,
watching a thin, unhealthy-looking woman come toward her from
an alleyway. She remembered seeing the woman when she was a
child, remembered asking Pebr who she was. Pebr had hurried her
into a shop; he had pretended to have business there.
   Now she realized that the woman had been a prostitute. But why
had she been shown this picture? The voices of the ghosts grew
louder, a susurrus rushing past her like a brook in full flood. She
was helpless against this magic; it had none of the formal logic of
meter, alliteration, rhyme. A whisper came out of the darkness, a
mocking echo of the invocation she had used earlier. “Mother of
light.”
  Was this woman her mother? No, she thought. Revulsion twisted
within her so strongly that she almost screamed aloud. Another
ghostly voice whispered: “Aye, your mother…” She shook her head
again, but the insinuations continued.
   The pictures wavered for a moment and she saw that the
apparition of the forest had moved closer. She had forgotten most of
her spell, could not even remember the meter she had chosen.
Panicked, she spoke something, anything. The trees gusted as if
blown by a wind and then returned, as solid as before. She reached
for her keystones, joined them in a final phrase. The trees frayed
outward again, grew transparent, and then disappeared.
  As soon as they had gone the picture of the woman returned.
Could the ghosts be right? She did not remember her parents. Pebr
had said they were fisher-folk, but Pebr might have lied. At that
thought she heard Cosro whisper, “Aye, Pebr lied.”
  Cosro. Cosro, who always told the truth. She closed her eyes,
barely caring what apparition might be sent against her. Despair
overwhelmed her. She rested her head on her arms, wanting only
for the night to be over. She understood then why the ghost she had
seen had killed himself.
  “God’s child,” one of the ghosts whispered mockingly, and the
others laughed. “Was your father Callabrion or Scathiel?”
  “You are like your mother,” someone else said. “Think of your
feelings for Val. You want him, don’t you? You, the daughter of a
woman as common as dirt, a woman at the very base of the ladder.
You even believed his protestations of love for you. You must have
known he didn’t mean it—courtiers flatter as easily as breathing.”
  “It’s ludicrous, isn’t it?” another of the ghosts whispered. “To
think that the king will even notice you after he claims his
birthright, that he would ever think of you as other than lowborn.”
   She looked up. The ghosts massed before her stepped back a
little, and she saw with surprise that they feared her. At that
moment she felt her power grow within her, knew with certainty
that she was the strongest poet-mage to sit on Wizard’s Hill since
Cosro. Hadn’t she triumphed over every apparition sent against
her?
  She faced them all defiantly. It didn’t matter who her mother had
been. She would be stronger than the ghosts before her, strong
enough not to give in to despair.
   Another form appeared in front of her. No glow of silver came
from the eyes; this person was not a ghost. Val? she thought. How
had Val braved the terrors of the night to come to her? But the
person before her was smaller than Val, and bent over like someone
of great age. “Very good, my child.”
  “Mathary?” Taja said, astonished. “Why—How did—”
  “You have survived your night on Wizard’s Hill,” Mathary said.
The ghosts hurried away before her, dispersing into the night air.
“By our customs another poet-mage must come to welcome you
among us.”
  “Poet—but then—are you a poet-mage?”
  “Aye, my child.”
 My child. Taja gasped, hardly daring to hope. “You’re—you’re my
mother,” she said.
  “Aye.”
   Pebr had lied, Taja thought. Pebr had lied and Cosro had told the
truth. She wanted to ask a thousand questions, but at the same
time she thought that all her questions had been answered with one
word. She understood who she was now; that seemed all she needed
to know.
  But Mathary was speaking. “I was one of Tariel’s wizards. My
husband was as well, your father. Godemar, Callia’s mother,
wanted her daughter to succeed to the throne, but she knew that
she would have to defeat us all before she could kill Tariel. We were
prepared for magic, but not for ordinary poison. I was fortunate—I
was not at the banquet where the wizards died.”
  “But where—where were you?” Taja said, whispering.
 “You were sick that day—I stayed home to nurse you. You saved
my life, my child.”
  “And then you came to Tobol An.”
   “Aye. After the poisoning Lady Godemar and her wizards turned
their attention to me. Her wizards were strong—Penriel’s father
was one of them. My husband was dead, by Godemar’s hand, and I
could not think what to do, where to go. Then I remembered my
husband’s brother Pebr, and I managed to escape to Tobol An. Pebr
offered to raise you—you would be in great danger if Godemar
discovered where I was.” Mathary shivered a little, remembering
something. “So Pebr took you away from me. I didn’t know he
would turn you against me, against all magic. His brother had died,
you see, and he wanted to keep you safe…”
  “All these years—” Taja said, breathing the words. It seemed
incredible that such a secret had been kept from her. “All these
years you pretended to—to be a little foolish, a harmless old
woman—”
   The other woman shook her head. “It may not be pretense, after
so much time. When they came after me I was badly injured. I had
to give up a good deal of my power just to survive.”
  “And my father—”
  “He was a good wizard, and a just one. Our heritage was strong
within you—I hoped that despite Pebr you would one day find your
way to Wizard’s Hill. You did well, my child.”
   Mathary was crying, Taja saw, and that seemed the strangest of
all the strange things she had seen that night. Why should she cry?
Taja had learned the truth and come into her power at the same
time; from this night forward there would be no more lies.
Mathary’s long time of waiting was over.
  She reached out to the other woman uncertainly. My mother, she
thought. The words seemed strange, foreign; she had never used
them before.
  Mathary came forward and held her in a long embrace. Then she
stepped back and wiped her eyes. “A foolish old woman,” she said.
“Come—Val is waiting for you.”


The wind whistled loudly past Val as he sat among the old ruins.
Several times he thought he could hear shouts from the summit of
the mountain, someone reciting a string of strange words, and once
a silver light flared out and shook from horizon to horizon.
   He forced himself to stay where he was; he could do Taja no good
if he went scurrying toward her like a rabbit. But it galled him to
do nothing; he wanted to fight an enemy he knew, someone of flesh
and blood, not insubstantial things made of sorcery. He spoke the
same mindless prayer to Callabrion he had been repeating all night,
and felt again for the amulet beneath his tunic.
  A light moved on the plain before him. He stared at it, trying to
bring it into focus. The plain was dark; the only light came from the
stars. Had he truly seen it, or had he conjured it up out of boredom
and fear? No, there it was again, closer this time.
   He stood, reaching out blindly in the dark. His hand fell on an
iron bar and he picked it up. It would do against a lone traveler, a
single bandit or outlaw, but what if he faced a clan the size of
Rugath’s? Or what if others had seen the shining light and had
come to investigate?
  The light moved closer. It resolved itself into a string of lights,
torches. The torches turned and headed toward the base of the
mountain, then disappeared as the men began to climb.
   Val stood, uncertain. Moments later the torches appeared again,
bright enough now so that he could see the men carrying them,
acolytes wearing blue and priests dressed in white. They came
closer, stood before him.
  “You said you’d been to Wizard’s Hill,” a priest said. Val thought
he might be the same man who had spoken to them at the temple.
“An absurd claim, of course—only men and women of Shai can
spend the night on that hill and survive. But we thought that
perhaps you had given away your intentions, that perhaps you were
going to Wizard’s Hill. And so we followed you.”
  Val said nothing.
  “Take him,” the priest said. “And there was another, a woman—”
  The acolytes came forward. Val raised the iron bar. At that
moment he saw something move at the edge of his vision. The
acolytes stopped, hesitant.
  Val turned quickly. Taja stood there. A corona of light surrounded
her, and there was a distance in her eyes that he had never seen
before. For a moment he thought he saw someone behind her, but
then the light faded and the figure was gone.
  “Drop your weapons,” Taja said. The acolytes’ swords clattered to
the ground. “Go back to your temple. You have never seen us. You
do not even know that we are here, in Shai.”
 “We have never seen you,” the priest said. He turned and led the
men away from the mountain.
  Val looked at Taja. She seemed a figure out of legend, wise and
stern and unapproachable. A queen made of light. He did not know
how he should think of her. Was she still the daughter of fisher-folk
that he had hoped to dazzle with fine words and splendid poetry?
Or did she stand high above him on the ladder, as far above him as
a king to a peasant girl?
  “Come,” she said to Val.
  “Who was—Was there someone with you?”
  “Aye. My mother.”
  She said nothing more. The mystery of her initiation surrounded
her; he thought that she might still be half walking on strange
paths he could not imagine. What had happened to her, there on
the mountain? Hadn’t she told him once that her mother was dead?
   He bent to take one of the swords dropped by the acolytes and
followed her. She led him along the featureless plain, then turned
and continued along a dirt road leading north. He would have
missed the path in the dark; he wondered how she had found it.
  The sun rose, revealing a gray and featureless world before them.
She stopped and looked at him; she had the disinterested gaze of a
cat, or a god. She said a few words and the bonds of rope at their
wrists dropped to the ground. And something happened to his cloak
as well; the bright gaudy colors of the outlaws swirled and then
changed to somber gray and black.
  A short while later they came to a locked storehouse. She spoke
something and the lock broke open and fell to the ground. He
hurried forward and opened the door, remembering suddenly how
hungry he was. Shelves of nuts and dried apples and cured meat
stood before them.
  To his surprise she sat on the dirt floor and began to eat. But she
would probably be able to tell if they were threatened, he thought,
and he joined her. The food tasted wonderful after days of hunger.
  Suddenly she stopped and looked up. “What?” he said, alarmed.
“What is it?”
  “I don’t—”
  “Is someone coming?”
  “Something…” she said. “I think—Yes. It’s Narrion.”
  “Narrion?” he said, astonished.
  “He’s trying to summon Callabrion.”
  “How do you know?”
  She raised her hand for quiet and began to speak. He listened,
amazed, as she spoke what seemed to be a counterspell for magic
that had somehow spiraled out of control. Then she began a poem of
such complexity that he soon lost the thread of it, and only realized
how brilliantly it had been constructed when she finally joined the
two keystones together. She recited a final invocation and then fell
silent.
  “What did you do?” he asked.
  “I called up Callabrion for him,” she said. To his surprise he saw
that she was smiling; she had started to come back from wherever
she had been. “And what will he do now, I wonder? No one sees a
god face-to-face without being changed in some way. I wonder if he
considered that.”



                           Thirteen
                                                             «^»
Narrion followed Callabrion to the Street of Stones and turned with
him toward the Darra River. The Street of Stones was too wide, too
public, for Narrion’s liking; it was one of the main thoroughfares of
Etrara. But Callabrion had insisted on going out into the city, and
Narrion could not let him wander through the streets alone. He
sighed. Whatever he had expected when he had summoned the god
it hadn’t included acting as nursemaid.
  Three Shai guards came toward them. Narrion pulled up the
hood of his cloak and pretended to shiver with cold. The guards
continued on.
  Narrion threw back his hood and shook out his long hair. It was
warm work following Callabrion; the god seemed made of fire. He
could not remember when he had last been so hot.
  They came to the bank of the river. Callabrion stopped and stared
down into the clear depths. Small waves beat against the shore.
  “Where would you like to go, my lord?” Narrion asked.
  He wanted to take Callabrion to the observatory; he would enjoy
seeing the faces of those cowardly priests when they realized just
who it was who visited them. That would be a jest worthy of the
Shadow King, the Lord of Misrule himself. But the Shai guarded
the observatory, letting no one in or out.
  “Where? Here. The river.”
  “The river, my lord?”
  “Yes.” Callabrion looked at Narrion. His strange eyes, the golden
green of the sun on leaves, shone with delight. “The changing
colors, and the sounds it makes against the shore… Look—it moves
quicker there, where it is forced between the pilings of the Darra
Bridge. Do you see it?”
  “You must forget the earth, my lord. The earth will be here when
you next return.”
  Callabrion said nothing.
   “You must ascend to heaven,” Narrion said. “There is a balance in
all things—summer must follow winter.”
  “You killed a kinsman of mine, did you not?”
  Narrion looked up quickly. Callabrion’s deep, even voice had not
changed; he might still be discussing the river. “I—What do you
mean?”
  “You killed King Gobro, a son of Sbona.”
  “I did not kill him, my lord. Callia and Mariel asked me to find
poison, nothing more.” He had made the same excuse to Val, he
remembered, but what had seemed reasonable in the palace of
Etrara now sounded hollow, contrived.
  “Did you think of what might happen if Callia ruled? Her poor
judgment, her disastrous war? You speak of balance, but there is no
balance in your own actions. You have bound yourself too closely to
Scathiel, the god of death.”
  “I—”
  “Was it worth it to kill Gobro? What good is your high position
now?”
   “I—Nothing,” Narrion said bitterly. He looked down at the river.
“It is worth nothing at all.”
  “We should go,” Callabrion said gently. “The others will be
worried.”
  They walked back to Noddo’s house, saying nothing. Once there
Narrion took out the key Noddo had given him and opened the door.
Tamra looked up; she held conjuring sticks in her hand.
  Noddo hurried toward them. “Did he say anything about
returning to the heavens?” he asked quietly.
  Narrion shook his head. “We’ll have to think of something,”
Noddo said. “The days grow shorter—”
  “Close the door,” Tamra said. “It’s cold as Scathiel’s heart out
there. Come inside and wager with me.” Narrion closed the door
and locked it carefully behind him.
   Callabrion moved to the small table and took the sticks from
Tamra’s hand. He threw one down. His image gazed back up at him
from the conjuring stick, the green and gold face of the summer
god. “Summer,” he said, and laughed.
  The door opened again, letting in a gust of cold air. Narrion
turned quickly, one hand on the hilt of his sword; he would have
sworn by all the gods that he had locked the door.
  At first he did not recognize the two people who came into the
room. They wore bulky gray and black cloaks that nearly hid their
features. But as he watched the colors shifted, swirling to become
the barbarous hues of the Shai: red and gold, purple and black.
  The man shook back his hood and looked around him. There was
a purposeful expression on his face that Narrion had never seen
before. But it was the woman who caught and held his attention;
she seemed to command a power as unmistakable as Callabrion’s.
  “Good fortune,” the man said.
  “Val?” Tamra said.
  “Val, yes. And Taja, who has spent the night on Wizard’s Hill,
and is now a poet-mage.”
  “You—you were the mage I heard,” Narrion said to Taja. “The
wizard who helped me summon Callabrion.”
   Taja nodded. “Yes. You must not meddle in magic again,
Narrion—it is too subtle for your understanding.” She turned to
Callabrion and bent in a slight curtsy. “My lord,” she said, and then
looked back at Narrion. “You have your wish—you’ve summoned a
god. What do you intend to do with him?”
  “I thought to ask him to return to the heavens,” Narrion said.
“The days grow dim and cold, the crops begin to fail throughout
Etrara… Perhaps you could help me.”
  Taja shrugged. “Over the gods I have no power,” she said. “We’ve
come to free Etrara from the Shai.”
  Andosto looked up sharply at that. “To free—” he said. His face
bore a strange expression, a mixture of exaltation and purpose.
  Before they could respond the god Callabrion spoke. “I know you,”
he said, his green eyes lighting on Val.
  “Yes, my lord,” Val said. “You argued in defense of love at one of
Lady Sbarra’s gatherings. And I agreed with you.”
  “Yes. I remember that. But I think that I’ve always known you,
that you are a kinsman of mine. A child of Sbona. A son of Sbona,
yes, and the rightful king of Etrara.”
  “King—” Narrion said. He looked at the man he had thought was
his cousin, astonished beyond words.
   “King, yes,” Val said. “The son of King Tariel III and Queen
Marea. There are records in the library at Tobol An, if any doubt
me.” He looked at each of them in turn. No one spoke. “I’ve come to
claim my birthright.”
  King Valemar, Narrion thought. His legs seemed unable to hold
him; he sat down at the table next to Tamra. How had he
miscalculated so badly?
  But the day was to hold one final surprise. Andosto drew his
sword from its scabbard and sank to his knees. “My king,” he said.
“Will you accept my sword?”
  “I will,” Val said. “I would be pleased to command a man who
fought so bravely against the Shai. Rise, my friend.”
  Andosto stood slowly. “What do you intend to do?”
  “I have some ideas,” Val said. He looked around him. “And in this
room I see a god, a king, a poet-mage, a warrior and two Fools.
Surely together we can make some plan that will stand against the
Shai.”


Val looked around the table. For just a moment he wondered how
he was to lead this band of people; he did not have a fraction of
their experience. Then he put his doubts aside and concentrated on
the task before him; he would have to learn a great deal in a very
short time if he was to be a king.
  “I think we should begin with small raids on the palace,” Andosto
said. “Skirmishes with the watch.”
  Val made a note on a piece of paper in front of him, and nodded
at Andosto to continue. “I’ve done it before,” Andosto said. “It’s a
way to gain support among the people. More and more of them will
come to join us.”
   “They say the Shai execute ten people for every man of theirs
killed,” Taja said.
  “We’ll never free ourselves without bloodshed,” Andosto said.
  “Is that true?” Taja said. “We could use sorcery.”
  “The Shai have a poet-mage,” Andosto said.
  “Kotheg,” Val said thoughtfully. “I saw him in the mountains.”
  “They might have more than one,” Narrion said. “You said
yourself that Wizard’s Hill is in Shai.”
  “Even with one wizard, a battle of sorcery is always dangerous,”
Noddo said. “We might lose more soldiers than with Andosto’s
skirmishes.”
  “And we might not,” Taja said forcefully. “Why not let me try it?”
  “You might be killed,” Andosto said.
  “So might you—”
  “Quiet,” Val said. Everyone turned to him, expectant. “We’ll try
Andosto’s plan at first,” he said. “We’re not strong enough for
anything else right now—we need to win more followers among the
people. And we need to learn more about the Shai, to discover how
strong they are and if Kotheg is with them. Then we’ll fight them
with magic. Will you be ready, Taja?”
  “Of course, my lord.”
  “Good,” Val said. “I’ll lead a raid tonight.”
  “My lord,” Andosto said. “You must not risk your life on a raid. I
have friends who feel as I do about the Shai—I’ll go”
  “A king must protect his people.”
  “You protect them best by keeping yourself safe.”
  Val said nothing. Noddo had taught him the dreadful counting
rhyme the Shai sang, and he had heard it once himself on the
streets: “One is for Gobro…” Four was for Callia, he remembered;
would five be for Valemar?
  He sat back, defeated. “Very well,” he said. “May all the gods go
with you, Andosto.”


That night Andosto went out into the streets of Etrara and called
upon his friends, the men who had gone with him on his other
skirmishes against the Shai. They were reluctant to fight, unwilling
to call death down on themselves and their neighbors. But he told
them about the new king, and as he spoke he watched them grow
eager, excited at the news.
   When he had collected his men they headed east down the Street
of Roses. They passed under the triumphal arch the traitor Talenor
had built; a few of them spat on it as they went. Then they reached
the gate that opened east, to Shai: the Gate of Roses. They
concealed themselves near the wall inside the city.
   Wheels and horses’ hooves sounded in the distance, and Andosto
looked out carefully through the gate. A convoy was headed toward
them, one of the caravans that came nightly from Shai, bringing
the food that was becoming rarer and rarer as the days declined
and the crops rotted in the ground. Andosto saw two men in bulky
robes riding horses at the head, and then half a dozen carts and
wagons. He frowned. They had added guards to their convoys since
his last raids; the two men in front could not be anything else.
  One of his men stepped out of hiding and stood in the road,
blocking the convoy. The guards were forced to pull up on their
reins, and the rest of the convoy came to a halt. “Have you seen my
wife?” the man said. “I can’t find her anywhere.”
   “A ghost,” one of the guards said to the other. “Don’t be
frightened.”
  “I’m not frightened,” the other guard said, but Andosto heard the
shiver of fear in the man’s voice. Taja had said that all the ghosts in
Shai were bound in some way to Wizard’s Hill, and he believed it;
no country where ghosts were common would kill their kings as
recklessly as the Shai did.
  “She told me she would meet me here, at the Gate of Roses,”
Andosto’s man said, sounding plaintive. “Have you seen her?”
  “Move aside,” the first guard said. He touched his reins and the
horse danced a little, unable or unwilling to move on.
  “What’s happening here?” someone from the convoy asked.
  “There’s a ghost in the road,” the second guard said.
  “A ghost?”
  The sound of muffled conversation came from the convoy, and
then Andosto heard the creaking of wheels as men climbed down off
their carts and wagons. Probably they had been raised on stories of
the ghosts of Etrara, just as he had been told the people of Shai
drank their king’s blood. They crowded forward, fearful and eager.
   Andosto moved back toward the carts. His men followed. One
man had remained to guard the convoy; he had risen in his seat and
was craning his neck to peer past the crowd. Andosto’s men came
up behind him and pulled him down, binding his hands and mouth.
It was done so silently and skillfully that no one from the convoy
turned to look.
  Andosto signaled to his men to wait. He climbed up to the bench
behind the driver and looked out at the Shai, watching as they
moved farther and farther down the Street of Roses. If all went
according to plan the man who acted the ghost would lead them as
far from the convoy as he could, speaking of enchantments and the
strange knowledge acquired after death.
  Andosto motioned to his men again. A few of them climbed onto
the carts and quickly tossed down wooden boxes and clay jars to the
men waiting below. Others hurried to store the provisions in an
abandoned well; the cover would be dragged back over the well at
the raid’s end and the provisions retrieved later.
  A man rolled a cask of what smelled like wine to the edge of the
cart. It slipped and hit another cask. The man cursed softly.
   One of the men from Shai turned, called out. Andosto and the
others jumped from the cart and ran down one of the narrow alleys
inside the city wall. He heard running footsteps, too many of them
to be his men; the Shai were following them. At a junction of three
streets he and his men split up. Someone cried out; someone else
screamed.
   He hurried on toward the agreed-upon meeting place. The sounds
of pursuit were far behind now.


The next morning Val sat at the table and studied the crude map of
Etrara he had drawn. The lines of the map—the city walls and
gates, Palace Hill, Darra River—began to blur and he forced
himself to pay attention. Andosto had left the night before and
hadn’t come back.
   A noise from outside roused him. He went to the window and
then dropped back as he saw several Shai soldiers leading a group
of citizens of Etrara. A herald for the Shai began to call out in a
loud voice, but Val understood what had happened long before he
heard the man’s explanation. Andosto’s raid had been successful:
these unfortunate men and women would be killed in retaliation.
  Val sat back at the table and put his head in his hands. He had
hoped he would not have to face this when he had asked the others
to fight the Shai. How could he deal with a people who had no
honor? And they had called him decadent!
  Had he been wrong to order the raids? Had people died because of
his mistakes?
 Someone sat next to him. Val raised his head and saw Narrion.
What did the other man want? “This is what happens in war,”
Narrion said.
  “Not in any war I was ever in,” Val said. “This is—It’s dishonest,
and cowardly…”
  Narrion shrugged. “All wars are the same. One side has
something, and the other side tries to take it from them by force.”
  “But some causes are more honorable than others. We’re trying
to free what is ours, not take something from the Shai.”
  “Oh, the reasons for war differ. But the result is always the
same—pain and sorrow, confusion and death. War belongs to
Scathiel, whatever the others might say.”
  “And you believe that this is a good thing? You and the Society of
Fools?”
  “We say that it exists. That’s all.”
   “But how can I—” Someone screamed in the street. Val stood, as
if driven from his seat by the scream, and began to pace the small
room. “How can I stand by and let this—this horror continue?”
   Narrion turned to watch him. “I don’t know,” he said. “The
followers of Scathiel only ask questions—we’re not used to
answering them.”
  “And who provides the answers? Callabrion?” He looked over to
where Callabrion sat with Tamra, their heads bent over a game of
chess. He lowered his voice. “It’s been a long time since Callabrion
answered anything.”
  “Sometimes it’s just enough to ask the question,” Narrion said.
  Andosto unlocked the door and came in. Val turned quickly.
“What happened?” he asked.
   “You saw the Shai,” Andosto said, motioning toward the street
outside the room. “We took some provisions for Etrara, but we had
to kill a guard.”
  Val nodded. He took a deep breath, forced himself to put his
doubts aside. “How many soldiers were there?” he asked. “Did you
see Kotheg? Come—sit here and tell me all about it.”


The skirmishes continued. So did the retaliations, ten citizens dead
for every Shai killed. Twice Val thought to give the order to stop
the raids; he thought that nothing could be worth so many deaths,
not even the freedom of Etrara.
  But the amount of information Andosto and Narrion brought
back with them grew: soldiers and troop movements and times of
the watch. And more and more people joined them each night;
excitement ran through the city like a river.
  A week after they had begun the raids Narrion and Andosto went
out and did not return. Val spent the morning pacing the room
impatiently. “Sit, Val,” Noddo said. “Your worry won’t help them.”
  Val glanced around him. Noddo sat with Val’s map of Etrara in
his lap; Tamra and Callabrion were studying the chessboard on the
table. The god could not toss the conjuring sticks without casting
his own face, the face of the summer god; he had quickly abandoned
the sticks and played game after game of chess with Tamra instead.
He had resisted every attempt to draw him out; he would not talk
about his place in the heavens at all.
  Val wondered if Narrion had been wrong about Callabrion.
Perhaps he did not return to Sbona’s court because he had forgotten
his life there. Perhaps he had wrapped himself so completely in the
beauty of the world, had lost himself so fully in his mother’s earth,
that he did not remember the way back to her. If that was true
then all Narrion’s arguments would not change things; the god
needed something more.
  Val shook his head. Now was not the time to worry about
Narrion’s schemes. “My worry won’t help them, no,” he said. “But I
might rescue them.”
  “And get yourself killed as well?”
   “It’s time to do something,” Val said. “The others are risking their
lives while I sit here in safety. And I’ll have Taja with me, a
poet-mage.”
  “What about Kotheg?” Noddo asked. “Is he in Etrara? Does Taja
know enough to stand against him?”
  “I don’t know,” Taja said. “But I won’t learn more by staying
here.”
   “Let’s go,” Val said. He opened the door and looked out. A gust of
icy wind blew past him down the deserted street.
  He shivered and pulled his cloak closer around him. As he
glanced down he saw the shimmering colors of the cloak fade back
toward somber black and gray; Taja was renewing her spell.
  “Wait,” Noddo said. “Take me with you.”
   Val shrugged. He didn’t think the older man could help in any
way, but he could not prevent him from coming along. He turned to
look at him. If I could have anyone in this room, he thought, I’d
take Callabrion. Who could stand against us if we had a god on our
side?
  But Callabrion was still playing chess with Tamra. His hand,
nearly as big as a dinner plate, moved out over the board; it
hovered over a knight, then lifted his astronomer-priest. He did not
glance up as they set out.
  “Do you know where they are?” he asked Taja.
  She nodded. “I think I can find them for you,” she said.
  The streets were silent. Darkness lay upon them like thick soot.
Lamps and candles shone from the houses as they walked by, but
the light seemed unable to penetrate the gloom.
  “The Shai issued an edict,” Noddo said. His voice sounded muffled
in the layers of shadows. “Ever since the days started getting
darker like this. Every house has to keep a light burning.”
  They came to the Street of Stones and headed toward Palace Hill.
Almost immediately Taja stopped. Val followed her gaze. Andosto
hung in an iron cage above them.
  “Andosto!” Val said, not daring to speak above a whisper.
  The man in the cage above them stirred. For a dreadful moment
Val thought that they had made a mistake, that this person could
not possibly be Andosto. He looked weary, defeated. “I am called
Borno,” the caged man said. “I know no one named Andosto. Do you
have any food?”
  “Sorcery,” Taja said. She was whispering as well. “I’ve never seen
anything like this. They’ve made him forget who he is.”
  “Andosto,” Val said again. “Wait for us—we’ll find a way to get
you down.”
   “My name is Borno,” Andosto said. “Go away—please go away. If
I’m seen with rebels I’ll be killed—they told me so.”
  Val looked up and down the street, remembering the information
Andosto and Narrion had brought him. The watch might come upon
them at any moment. Then he looked back at the cage. He could
not believe that anyone could be so changed; they had taken not
only Andosto’s name but his sense of who he was. “Can you do
something?” he asked Taja.
  “I’ll try,” she said. She began the words of an invocation, chose a
keystone.
  “My lord,” Noddo said. His voice was urgent.
   A troop of men came toward them down the street; in the gloom
Val could not see how many there were. Their swords caught the
light from the houses and shone silver in the darkness. Taja
finished her verse quickly, quieting the currents of magic she had
raised. They stared at the men as they came, uncertain whether to
flee or fight.
   The man in front went down on his knees and offered Val the hilt
of his sword. “My king,” the man said.
  “Rise,” Val said.
  “My name is Oldo, my lord,” the man said, getting to his feet.
“We’ve heard about you from Andosto.”
  The word “king” was a kind of keystone, Val thought. It changed
things as if by magic; it bound together people who would not
normally have anything to do with each other. This man will follow
any command I choose to give him, Val thought, and follow it
without question. For the first time he felt shaken with the extent
of his power. Suddenly he understood Gobro’s lovers, Callia’s
cruelty.
   “They’ve ensorcelled him,” Oldo said, indicating Andosto. “We hid
and watched their poet-mage. A man named Kotheg, with a face
like a stone.”
  “Kotheg,” Val said.
   “He was mad,” Oldo said. “He mumbled his verses, and then
screamed them aloud. In the village where I grew up they say that
all poet-mages are mad.”
  Val looked around him into the gloom. “The watch will come
soon,” he said. “We have no time for spells. Do you know where
Narrion is?”
  “Narrion?” Oldo said. “I don’t know.”
  “Go away!” Andosto said loudly. He began to rock the cage back
and forth in his terror. “I told you—I won’t have anything to do
with you. I’m not a rebel.”
  “Narrion’s near the palace, my lord,” Taja said.
  “Is he caged? Ensorcelled?” Val asked.
  She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
 “Good,” Val said. He turned to Oldo and his men. “Come with
me.”
  Oldo nodded. He gave orders to the troops standing before him,
and they went up the Street of Stones toward the palace.
  Val kept an eye on the cages above him as they walked, in case
Taja had been wrong. But he did not find Narrion, though he saw a
few people he recognized from court. The courtiers all turned away
as the troops passed, clearly hoping that Val had not seen them in
such reduced circumstances.
  At last they came to the courtyard of the palace. Wind ruffled the
water in the fountain of Sbona. Val stood for a moment, trying to
decide what to do next.
  Someone called out in the gloom; someone answered. In less than
a heartbeat the palace guard had assembled before them, their
swords raised for battle.


Once again Val was not allowed to fight; Oldo and the other rebels
kept him away from any danger. Instead the troops looked toward
him for guidance, for strategy. He stood at the edge of the palace
courtyard and wondered, not for the first time, what he had
wrought. The lives of these men were in his hands.
   More guards came from the palace. He could barely see the
clashing figures in the darkness. If the information Narrion and
Andosto had brought him was correct then the palace was
unprotected now; all the guards had come out to meet his men. He
raised his arm and motioned Oldo and the others toward the outer
door.
  “Good,” someone said near him. “Exactly what I would have
done.”
   Val turned quickly. Narrion stood there, his slight smile barely
visible in the dim light.
  “Narrion!” Val said. “Where have you been?”
  “Escaping the watch.”
  Val looked back toward the battle. The sound of sword on sword
came to him clearly through the darkness. In the gloom he could
not be sure, but he thought that no more guards issued from the
palace.
  More people were coming up the Street of Stones toward the
palace. Some of them carried ancient swords; others had no weapon
but a kitchen knife. “King Valemar!” someone called, and for a
brief, crazy moment Val wondered who it was the man meant.
  “Salute them,” Narrion said, his tone amused.
  Val gave what he hoped was a royal salute. A few men cheered.
More and more joined in, their voices ringing out in the empty
street; Val heard his name echo from the stone and marble around
him. Now he could see a crowd of men, a darker river flowing
through the streets of the soot-black city. Some wore the homespun
cotton of the lower rungs; they had come all the way from across
the river.
   He began to laugh, covered it by motioning the men forward. But
it looked as if the battle was breaking up, the guards falling back.
Some of them lay dead or wounded; others had fled. Could it be that
easy? Would they overrun the palace now, take control of the city?
  “Behind you,” Narrion said.
  Val turned quickly. Shai soldiers had come up the Street of
Stones, dispersing the men of Etrara as they went. Some of them
rode horses; all wore the golden helmets and armor Val
remembered.
  The men in the courtyard turned to face the soldiers. The Shai
pushed their way through the men in the streets. They were
hemmed in now, fighting on either side of them. For a brief
moment Val wondered if his people could overwhelm the Shai, if
both sides would be able to join forces.
  Then the battle swirled around them, became confused. He could
not see distinct armies anymore, only individuals fighting one
another. A soldier on a horse moved forward to cut down one of the
rebels. Another of Oldo’s men hurried forward but he was too late;
he was trampled by the horse as the sword killed the first man.
  Val heard horses screaming, and the clash of swords. Someone
was calling out orders in the barbaric accent of the Shai.
  Through it all the Shai pushed forward, toward the palace.
Finally they cleared a path through the fighting and gained the
door to the porter’s room. They filed through the door and hurriedly
pushed it shut behind them.
   Early night fell; inky blackness surrounded the men on the
streets and in the courtyard. They looked at each other as if waking
from a dream. The silence seemed tangible after the noise and
confusion of battle.
  “What happens now?” Narrion said.
  “Now it becomes a battle of magic,” Val said. “We’ll make camp
here, and Taja will fight in the morning. If, that is, there is a
morning.”



                            Fourteen
                                                              «^»
Val’s words proved prophetic: no dawn lit the streets of Etrara the
next day. A thin rind of frost lay over the water of Sbona’s fountain.
Val stood, shivering, and wrapped his cloak closer around him.
  Pale, weak light grew up around them, almost as if seeping from
the stones. All around him men were waking and peering at each
other in the dim light, expressions of disbelief and amazement on
their faces. Val could almost guess their thoughts; each wondered if
he had truly fought with the Shai the day before.
  In another minute, Val thought, they would disappear, melt back
toward the shops and houses of Etrara, become once more the
obedient citizens of an occupied country.
  Then one man turned toward him, and another. Silence spread
out in waves from where he stood. Slowly, all the men around him
went to their knees.
  He should speak to them, he knew. But what could he say? He
did not even know what to call them; he had never spoken to so
many of the lower rungs before.
  “My friends,” he said. Suddenly it was easy to continue. He told
the men of his love for Etrara, the seven-gated city, once proud but
now alien to the Shai. He spoke of his hope to see Etrara free again,
and he saw the long rows of men nod.
  Callia could have done this long ago, he thought. If she hadn’t
treated her subjects so cruelly, if she hadn’t fled to the countryside,
she could have been one of the heroes of Etrara. Triumphal arches
would have been built in her name; generations yet unborn would
have written songs to her.
  As Val watched, a group of men at the edge of the crowd broke
away and began to hurry down Palace Hill. He thought he saw
Oldo and the rest of Andosto’s rebels among them. The sight
unnerved him. They had decided not to fight for him.
  Would the others follow them? What could he have said that
would have kept them here? He paused in his speech and looked out
over the crowd. No one else moved.
   He finished speaking. The men cheered, their voices loud enough
to be heard by the Shai. As if in answer he heard trumpets sound
from the palace. The porter’s door was flung open, and the Shai
marched out into the courtyard to do battle.
  But Val could not spare the time to watch them. Someone moved
in the window of a high turret in the palace. Val recognized the
face; he had come to know it well in his sojourn in Shai. “Kotheg,”
he said. The name felt like a curse in his mouth.
   He looked around for Taja, saw her make her way toward the
rise by Sbona’s fountain. Her face was impassive; her eyes seemed
to see to a place beyond the battlefield.
  Kotheg said a few words. At first Val could not hear the wizard
over the clamor of battle in front of him. His voice grew louder,
stronger, until he was almost screaming. Was he mad, as Oldo had
said? Was it true that all poet-mages were mad?
  Kotheg chose solid words for his keystones, as Anthiel had
recommended, “stone” and “sword.” He wove the two together in a
sentence so intricate Val did not see how he could possibly finish it,
but the poet-mage reached the end of his verse easily, with a phrase
that seemed inevitable. Val gasped in wonder at his cleverness.
   A great chorus of bells pealed out over the courtyard. Soldiers on
both sides dropped their weapons and put their hands to their ears,
cringing away from the sound. Val felt panic in the pit of his
stomach; he wanted to flee the battlefield and never return.
  Some soldiers around him did run, their hands still clasped over
their ears. The men of Shai fled too. Kotheg must be confident
indeed, Val thought, if he thinks he can win this battle without
soldiers.
  Something gleamed in the air above him. Val looked up and saw
a vast thicket of swords, all poised to plunge downward to the men
below.
  Taja spoke. He had nearly forgotten her; the panic Kotheg’s spell
had raised had driven every other thought from his mind. To his
surprise she took Kotheg’s keystones—“stone” and “sword”—and
began to weave them into her own verses. He had never heard of
anyone doing such a thing.
  But as he listened he understood that she was turning the words
against the other poet-mage, subtly shaping her verses so that she
made the keystones her own. The swords became a dazzling silver
rain and dropped harmlessly to earth. Some men lifted their faces
toward the rain and laughed with delight.
  Taja continued to recite her verses, introducing a third and then
a fourth keystone, juggling all four in intricate patterns. The
maddening noise of the bells diminished. Mist began to rise from
the marble paving stones in the courtyard.
  Kotheg spoke over her. For a moment Val wondered if he would
use Taja’s cleverness against her and take over her keystones as
well, but he introduced new words instead. Val thought that he
might be less able to shift his strategy when he had to; he was older
and therefore less resilient. But he would also be more experienced;
Val could easily imagine him poring over old books for their lists of
keystones.
  But Taja had had access to the old books as well, Val thought,
remembering the books of the wizards she had shown him, and the
long lists of what he knew now were keystones. He watched with
fascination as Taja took up Kotheg’s challenge. They cast their
spells and counterspells across the courtyard, braided verses in
which keystones sparkled like jewels. She understands him, Val
thought, and he her; no two people on Sbona’s earth are so well
matched.
  The noise of the bells subsided, calmed by Taja’s verses. Kotheg
spoke a few words and the mists Taja had called up disappeared. A
last bell tolled out over the courtyard, but the unnatural fear it had
caused was gone. Soldiers hurried to the battlefield.
  The soldiers were too eager, Val saw; they were excited at the
opportunity to return to the battle. They flung themselves against
the Shai without caution. “Wait!” Val called.
  “What a mess of things you must have made in Shai,” a voice
said near him.
  This time Val didn’t need to turn to know who stood there.
“Everyone made a mess of things in Shai,” he said.
  “You should have waited for me here.”
  “There was no time,” Val said, finally looking at the man next to
him. Narrion yawned and brushed his hair from his eyes. “How in
Callabrion’s name did you sleep through that unearthly noise?”
  “I’m awake now. Hold some of the men back—the Shai might
have more soldiers to send against us.”
  “I know,” Val said.
   But there were no men to hold back; everyone had joined the
fighting in the courtyard. Val shouted into the confusion.
  No one seemed to have heard him. He shouted again. The
trumpet sounded, and more men issued from the palace.
  The first rush of enthusiasm had carried the men of Etrara far
into the courtyard. But as more and more soldiers came toward
them they began to look around in horror, as if realizing only then
where they were. A few turned, trying to retreat, but they were
quickly surrounded. Others stood as if enchanted, rooted by panic
and terror.
   Kotheg spoke into the confusion. Taja shouted over him. Val
looked at her quickly; every muscle in her body seemed strained in
her attempt to hold Kotheg back. Val had not thought wizardry was
such terrible work.
   Men wearing the clothing of Etrara rose up from the battlefield.
The Shai soldiers closed with them, only to stand back, amazed and
fearful, when their swords met with nothing but air. More soldiers
formed; the courtyard filled with people.
   Kotheg spoke quickly. His loud, rough voice seemed to be reciting
lists of curses. The phantom soldiers grew transparent. The Shai
soldiers pressed forward, heartened by their mage’s skill. Taja
spoke louder, her eyes closed in concentration, but the soldiers she
had called up continued to fade.
   In the gloom the Shai soldiers in armor seemed to shine with
their own light. A wave of gold swept the courtyard, pressing
forward toward the fountain of Sbona. As he watched Val saw one
Shai soldier after another overwhelm his opponent. The Shai began
to close ranks, marching steadily toward him and Narrion.
  Narrion grabbed his arm. “We have to get to safety,” he said.
“Quickly.”
   “No. Wait.” Val shrugged Narrion away and put his hand on the
hilt of his sword. But how much help he could possibly be against
the might of the Shai? He looked again at Taja. Her eyes were
closed; she seemed almost defeated.


“Awake!” Oldo called as he and his men hurried down the Street of
Stones. “Awake! The city has risen against the Shai. Awake and
come join us!”
   The men pounded on doors and shuttered windows with the hilts
of their swords. “Come join us!” they called, their voices exultant.
The men of the watch had all gone to the courtyard; this time no
one would cage them for speaking their minds.
   Up and down the street men and women were stepping outside,
carrying the lamps required by Shai law. In almost every doorway
the same drama was repeated as men hastily grabbed old swords
and armor and hurried out to follow Oldo and his men. Others ran
down the twisted streets and narrow alleys of Etrara, shouting
breathlessly to Oldo, “I’ll get my cousin!” “My father will want to
join us!”
   But Oldo did not turn back to the courtyard. He continued down
the Street of Stones until he came to the cage he remembered. He
motioned to a man carrying a lamp, and as the man stepped
forward he managed to make out Andosto in the dim light.
  “No,” Andosto said. “Go away—the watch will come.”
   “The watch is busy elsewhere, my lord,” Oldo said. He lifted a
ladder away from one of the houses and set it against the cage
support, then said a brief prayer to the Ascending God and climbed
to the top.
  “A saw!” he called down to the men waiting below, and one of
them ran back to his house to fetch it.
  The man returned with the saw and handed it to him. He put it
between the bars of the cage and began to work to break the lock.
“No,” Andosto said, almost incoherent with terror now. “Oh no.
Please.”
  A crowd gathered at the base of the cage to watch. Some of them
called encouragement; others looked around uneasily for the watch.
  The lock broke. Oldo opened the door and helped Andosto down
the ladder. The other man went slowly, hesitantly, picking his way
past the ribbons and bells twined in the rungs as decoration. “Don’t
worry,” Oldo said gently. “You’re free now.”
   When he reached the lowest rung of the ladder Andosto became
frightened again. “The watch,” he said, turning as if to climb the
ladder. “They told me they would bring the watch.”
   The crowd stirred uneasily, clearly wondering why Oldo had gone
to such trouble for this coward. A young woman pressed forward. A
tall, broad-shouldered man came with her. As the man approached
Oldo saw the lines in his face, the white-gold hair that rayed out
from his head; he was older than he seemed.
  “Move aside, grandfather,” Oldo said, not disrespectfully. He
turned to Andosto. “Come, my lord.”
  “He’s—that man is my grandson,” the old man said.
  “Your grandson,” Oldo said, surprised. “Well, then, tell him who
he is and what he has to do. He thinks he’s a man called Borno.”
  The man touched Andosto lightly on the face. “My son,” he said.
“You are my child Andosto, the grandson of my beloved Torath. Do
you remember?”
  Andosto shook his head.
  The man touched Andosto again. Andosto’s eyes seemed to clear,
and he looked closely at the man standing before him. “Aye,” he
said. “My grandfather. Callabrion.”
   Oldo stared at the two men. He had heard the rumors, of course;
some said that Andosto was the grandson of the god Callabrion. He
had never believed it, thinking that people had invented the story
to explain away their own cowardice. “I could be as brave in battle,”
they seemed to be saying, “if I were descended from a god.”
  Could it be true? Could his commander be the child of Callabrion?
A light seemed to shine from Andosto, the immanence of the gods.
Oldo felt shaken with wonder.
   But he knew that they could not stand here forever. He was a
practical man, unused to these holy matters. “We must hurry, my
lord,” he said to Andosto.
  “Aye,” Andosto said. He signaled to his men, and they turned to
go up the Street of Stones. The men Oldo had gathered followed
them.
  A son of Callabrion, Oldo thought, a child of summer. Well, it
would give them an advantage in battle, if nothing else.


Something moved up the Street of Stones. Narrion turned quickly,
unwilling to take his eyes off the battle in the courtyard.
  A group of men marched toward them, more Shai soldiers,
probably. It was over, then. Beside him he saw Val draw his sword.
  “Don’t be a fool,” Narrion said urgently.
   The men came closer. In the darkness it was hard to make out
their features, but as they approached Narrion saw that these could
not possibly be soldiers from Shai. Some wore silken tunics, fur
collars, and the great chains of their houses. Their hands seemed
weighted with their land-rings, and they carried swords with
lineages as great as their own, from battles so ancient they had
become legends. Others wore faded and patched homespun, and
held scythes and pitchforks: farmers, from the land outside the city
walls. And someone had freed the people in cages, now that the
watch was occupied with the fighting; Narrion saw noblemen he
had last seen caged.
   At the end of the procession came Oldo and his men. Val laughed,
a strange sound in the gloom. “I thought they’d run away,” he said.
“I thought they’d had enough of fighting.”
  He turned to Narrion. “I won’t forget that you called me a fool,”
he said. “If we win this battle I expect to be made a member of the
Society.”
  Narrion said nothing. He had miscalculated again, had thought
the battle over. Callabrion’s optimism had triumphed over
Scathiel’s pessimism.
   He looked at the man he had thought he knew so well, the
innocent courtier he had used to further his own ambitions. Val had
turned; his hands were stretched out to Oldo’s men in welcome. His
cloak was thrown back, and his eyes held strength and wisdom. He
seemed a king out of legend, a son of Sbona.
   Callabrion was right, Narrion thought. He had bound himself too
closely to Scathiel, the god of darkness and pain and death. He had
been about to run from the battle, to leave the fighting to others.
He had killed Damath, and caused King Gobro’s death. Even his
attempt to return Callabrion to the heavens was motivated by
greed and selfishness: if Scathiel ruled forever the earth would die,
and he, Narrion, would not be able to enjoy his new-gotten wealth
and power.
  And here beside him stood a man who seemed bound to
Callabrion, a king of light. He had disrupted Val’s life to pursue his
own ends, and yet Val seemed not to have been touched by his
machinations; instead he had risen high on the ladder. They were
two sides of the same conjuring stick: life and death, light and
shadow.
  What would happen to him if Val won out against the Shai?
Would he continue to hold his high position, or would Val take
revenge for the time he had spent in exile in Tobol An? Should he
change his life? Should he swear fealty to Callabrion, the god of
summer? Narrion laughed harshly, and turned his attention back to
the battlefield.


Val watched as the men came up the street. A broadshouldered
man strode at the front of the procession; he turned aside and came
toward them. “Andosto,” Val said when he reached them.
   “My liege,” Andosto said. “I have knelt to you once and received
your favor, and I have failed you. I know I am not worthy to ask
your pardon—I can only say that I will not fail a second time. You
have my sword, and it is yours to claim whenever you have need of
it.”
  “I thank you,” Val said. Was this the same man who had
trembled in fear in his cage?
  Andosto rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I was someone else for a
time, my liege,” he said, as if seeing Val’s doubts. “They made me a
coward called Borno.”
  “How did you overcome their sorcery?”
  “I remembered who I was,” Andosto said.
  Val watched in amazement as the other man went toward the
courtyard. I remembered who I was, he had said, as if it could be
that simple. Val had not been ensorcelled as Andosto had been, but
he thought that he might never come to know himself that
completely. Courtier, poet, soldier, actor: in the past year he had
played more roles than he could count. And now he acted the part of
a king, and the people around him had taken up their parts and
become his courtiers and soldiers. But there was more to being a
king than he had guessed. What would happen when the play
ended?
   He looked out over the battlefield. In the dim light he could make
out the figure of Andosto at the head of a group of soldiers, pressing
toward the palace. The tide of battle began to shift as Andosto
encouraged the men. All of them had heard of his exploits in the
war against the Shai; some had even fought under his command.
With his leadership, and with the reinforcements that had come
from all over Etrara, the men began to fight with a new heart.
  “Look!” Val said. “The Shai are retreating toward the palace.”
  “The day is not yet over,” Narrion said. “I’m certain someone has
gone for more men. The Shai have soldiers in most of the outlying
provinces.”
  The darkness around him began to deepen: soot gray, charcoal
gray, nearly black. Val strained to see the men in the courtyard but
the air before him became black as pitch. Early night had fallen; he
could barely make out Narrion in the gloom.
   He heard the sound of sword clashing against sword, and then
silence came from the courtyard. Men put away their swords; the
citizens of Etrara began to make camp, and the Shai soldiers
hastened toward the palace. Could it be night already? He had
heard the bells of midafternoon a few minutes ago.
  He looked up toward the heavens, searching for the constellations
he knew: the Ladder, the Keys, the Palace of Sbona. But he saw
nothing he recognized; unfamiliar stars arched across the sky. He
shivered.
  Campfires bloomed in three or four places across the courtyard,
their light shining red-gold in the black night. “Come—let’s get
warm,” Narrion said, leading the way toward one of them.


It was far too early to sleep. On their way across the courtyard Val
and Narrion passed men wagering with conjuring sticks or telling
stories or singing bits of old ballads. They sat at a fire and listened
to a storyteller repeat the old tale of the battle of Arbono. And what
stories are the Shai telling each other this night? Val thought. Tales
of their own heroism, probably, accounts of battles won and
enemies overcome.
  Someone looked at Val, looked again as if to make certain that
the flickering light had not played tricks on him. “My liege,” he
said, startled.
  Others looked as well. “King Valemar!” someone else said. All
around the fire men stirred, turned toward him, whispered to their
neighbors. The storyteller stopped in the middle of a sentence.
  “My liege,” one of the men said shyly. “May I ask you a
question?”
  Val nodded. “Certainly.”
  “We have heard rumors—folks say that when you have gained
the throne you will return Callabrion to his rightful place in the
heavens. Can that be true?”
  Val hesitated. What could he promise this man? A twig in the fire
snapped, sending up golden sparks. The man beside him stirred
impatiendy. Val nodded again. “I will try,” he said.
  “You must, my lord,” the man said, serious now. “The land cannot
survive much more of this cold and darkness.”
   Val looked around the circle at the men. Their eyes shone in the
firelight; their faces were grave. What had he done? He had given
them his word, the word of a king. They would hold him to it, he
knew. They looked capable of anything, capable even of killing him
like one of the Shai kings if he could not restore summer to Etrara.
  Then one of them moved, breaking the spell. “May I continue
with the tale, my liege?” the storyteller asked.
  “Of course,” Val said.
  The storyteller took up where he had left off. As Val listened he
realized that the other man was altering the tale, though it was
done so subtly that most of his audience had probably not even
noticed. The hero of the story became not Brion, the warrior who
defeated the Shai after the country had been torn by civil war, but
Tarea, the daughter of King Galin who had ascended to the throne
when she was just ten years old. And whenever the storyteller
mentioned Queen Tarea he was always careful to add her epithet,
“the daughter of Sbona.”
  The daughter of Sbona, Val thought much later that night, lying
by the campfire. He pulled his cloak closer around him, listening to
the men shift and settle, hearing a few of them snore.
  He knew the story, of course. Sbona had come to earth to find
her children, Scathiel and Callabrion. After a month where she had
searched and found nothing she saw a wooden hut standing alone in
the middle of a plain. She made her way toward it and asked the
man within for food.
  The man invited her inside. She saw that he had little to eat, but
he served her the best that he had, and when night fell he offered
her his rough pallet and said that he would sleep on the floor.
  “I am the goddess Sbona,” she said, thinking to reward him for
his kindness to her. “Creator of the earth; kindler of the sun, moon
and stars; mother of all. I will grant you anything you wish in
exchange for your hospitality here. What is your desire?”
  The man said nothing.
  “What is your desire?” she asked a second time, and a second
time the man said nothing.
  The goddess Sbona became angry. She grew in stature and
reached up to the rafters, intending to bring the house down around
them. “What is your desire?” she asked him for the last time.
  The man sank to his knees. She saw then that his reverence had
prevented him from speaking his mind to her. She found his
thoughts, and knew that his sole desire was to kiss her hand.
  She drew him up. Then she kissed him and led him to the pallet,
seeing on his face his astonishment, and terror, and great delight.
  Nine months later she returned to the cottage, bringing with her
the child they had conceived together. “From her line will come the
rulers of Etrara,” she said, and she left the daughter with him.
  After she found her sons Sbona never came to earth again.
Callabrion and Scathiel visited the earth separately, each one
sowing his seed in every country he came to, but only the rulers of
Etrara could claim descent from the goddess directly.
  A son of Sbona, Val thought, a child of the great goddess. The
story showed him what his kingship meant. Sbona had cared for
her children; a king must think not of himself but of his people.
  He had not had any idea of the responsibility he had taken on
when he had claimed his birthright. They would follow him
heedlessly into any battle, just as they had followed Callia into the
war against the Shai. Even he had gone to war; he had enlisted as
an officer without thinking of the justice of the cause. They had
invaded a country not theirs, had sought to take it from the people
who lived there… Surely Callia could have made peace with the
Shai. Surely peace was better than war.
  And yet he had asked these people to fight again. He could only
hope his cause was more honorable than Callia’s. He shivered and
moved closer to the fire, trying to get warm.


The battle continued the next day. The men clashed together in the
strange dusklike light; Val stood at his place by the fountain and
tried to make some sense of the dim confused forms. Taja and
Kotheg shouted over the sounds of battle, but neither could gain the
advantage.
  When the bells of the clock tower pealed at noon he saw that the
battle had turned again. The Shai had slept in comfort in the
palace; they seemed rested, eager to make up for their losses and
the humiliation of the day before. His own men had spent the night
on hard ground, exposed to the chill of winter.
  A trumpet sounded. Val turned. Once again he saw men come
marching up the Street of Stones, but this time he understood that
Narrion had been right, that Scathiel’s pessimism had triumphed.
Row after row of Shai soldiers headed toward them, their golden
armor shining despite the dim light like a field of wheat struck by
sunlight.
   It was over, then. Val had seen the men of Etrara put up a brave
fight; no king could have done more. Would the Shai let him
surrender? Would they take prisoners, with no one left to ransom
any of them?
  Val looked around him. Taja was speaking, her words inaudible
in the din coming from the courtyard. She raised her voice; Val
heard a ritual opening verse and an invocation to the gods.
  The Shai soldiers came closer. Val clenched his fists impatiently.
Poetry and fine phrases were all very well, he thought, but they
could be dead if the Shai met them before her spell ended.
  “This is how it has to be done,” Narrion said. “Slowly, with each
verse building on the one before it. I learned that if nothing else
when I summoned Callabrion.”
  Taja spoke her first verse, using the word “street” as a keystone.
As Val watched, a thin mist began to curl up from the cobblestones
in the street. The strands of mist grew stronger, tighter, webbing
themselves together. In the thick fog first one soldier and then
another stumbled forward, each unable to see more than a
handsbreadth in front of him.
  Taja began a second verse, and then a third. Her keystones
shuttled through her poetry, acquiring new meanings, meeting each
other in seemingly endless variations. The fog in the street
thickened to a cloud so dense Val could no longer see the men
within it.
   The men did not emerge from the cloud. Perhaps Taja had turned
them all to stone; Val did not think that lay outside her power. She
finished the spell and turned toward the fighting in the courtyard,
ready to begin another ritual verse.
   All around them the light began to fail; the untimely evening was
descending. Taja spoke a verse and Kotheg answered; Val saw with
fascination that they both worked together to call up an unearthly
light that welled from the ground. Taja recited another verse,
weaving Kotheg’s keystones into her spell. The light around them
strengthened, grew brighter.
   Kotheg answered her again, using the meter she had chosen for
her verses. The courtyard became bright as day: brighter, for the
sun had not shone with so strong a light for many months. Gold
flared from the domes and turrets of the palace.
  Kotheg continued to speak. A sending formed above the
courtyard, a vague mist that the poet-mage began to fashion into a
solid apparition. Now Val saw that Kotheg had continued to use
Taja’s meter, turning it against her; he had worked together with
her only for as long as it had taken to learn some of her strengths.
Kotheg, like Taja, knew tricks to make the other wizard’s magic his
own.
  He had been watching the battle of magic as a spectator might
watch a wrestling match, Val thought. Now he saw that the Shai
poet-mage had been cunning indeed, had pretended to weakness in
order to trap Taja. The man was even more dangerous than he had
realized.
  A roiling fire formed above them; its red glare lit the courtyard.
Val looked quickly at Taja. She seemed lost; she had been able to
counter Kotheg’s spells but could not fight an apparition made from
her own strengths. She started a verse, using the word “doorway”
as her keystone. But she did not repeat the keystone in the second
verse, or in the third, and by the fourth she had changed meter for
no reason Val could see. Kotheg had unnerved her, Val thought.


Taja looked at Kotheg. He had tricked her, she saw; she had
thought him weak, elderly, almost a dotard. Now he had revealed
his true power. His verses were strong and supple and oddly
beautiful; he seemed to know an infinite number of keystones,
learned over a lifetime of study.
  The fire grew larger, a vast lowering cloud of heat. Discordant
noises sounded above them. She closed her eyes, feeling despair.
What did she know, after all? How could she be expected to save
Etrara, she who had grown up among simple fisher-folk? She had
never truly studied wizardry, knew only the little things Mathary
had managed to teach her and what small store of knowledge she
had gleaned from the library.
   The library. She had been wrong about her knowledge; she had
learned a wizardry of sorts in the dusty corridors of the library. She
called up a book in her mind, a list of keystones. She spoke the
keystone “leap,” feeling the power contained within the word as she
said it. She saw how it would fit into the verse she had constructed
so far, how it would rhyme at the end. A cloud formed to meet the
fire.
  The two apparitions joined in the sky. Kotheg spoke over her
spell; the fire blazed upward. She had used the keystone “leaping” a
second time when she spoke of water, and now Kotheg seized on
that word to describe a strong red fire leaping against the sky.
   She forced herself to become calm, to concentrate on the solid
edifice of verses she was building in her mind. Sparks shot from the
fire as it met the cloud. The red air above them hissed and turned
black. Kotheg spoke louder. She had made him angry, she saw, and
the thought delighted her.
  She finished her spell. The fire faded and died. She took a deep
breath before beginning another spell. Someone shouted in the
courtyard.
   She looked away from Kotheg and saw that soldiers from both
sides had massed again. Andosto stood at the head of a group of
men, shouting something she couldn’t hear.
  Kotheg spoke. An army of great silver cats appeared above them.
The cats joined ranks and seemed to walk down from the sky,
moving smoothly toward the soldiers. Muscles bunched and relaxed
as they came; their fur shone nearly white in the strange light.
  The men ran from the apparition. But Andosto spoke something,
encouraging them by his words to rally and stand their ground.
Someone cheered. Others called out “Andosto!” and “King Valemar!”
  She turned quickly and saw that a crowd had formed outside the
courtyard. To her surprise she saw Tamra, standing near an old
man. Was that Callabrion?
   The crowd cheered again. The sight heartened her and she turned
to face Kotheg.
   But she had missed his last keystone. The cats neared the
courtyard.. One of them struck out playfully at a soldier, as though
it had seen a mouse; the man screamed and fell writhing to the
ground.
  The bells pealed out again. Andosto was shouting now, screaming
into the din. For a moment it seemed as if he would prevail against
the panic cast by Kotheg’s spell, but then tne soldiers broke ranks
and ran like madmen in every direction. A cat came to rest in the
courtyard and made for Andosto, its tail high.
  Andosto raised his sword; Taja had never seen such a gesture of
foolish bravery. The cat struck. Andosto fell.
  Kotheg was still reciting his verses. His power seemed to
emanate from him like a black tide. She had missed more than one
keystone, Taja saw; she did not understand the structure of his
spell at all. It seemed huge, dizzyingly complex.
  Once again she felt despair, knew that she did not have the
experience to counter such expert wizardry. And she felt terror as
well. What would happen to them if they failed?
  She reached out, found his thoughts. They were grim, unyielding,
so filled with hatred she nearly recoiled from them. She saw the
plan of his entire spell, rhyme upon rhyme creating a strange
intricate structure so vast she could barely grasp it all. Finally she
made out his last verse and said something to counter it.
  Kotheg paused. She saw that he was unaware of what she had
done, knew only that she had anticipated him somehow. For a
moment his whole edifice seemed about to come crashing down. He
began a verse to steady it.
  She countered him before all the words had left his mouth. The
cats wavered for a moment. A sudden loud wind struck the
courtyard; the cats dispersed like mist.
  Taja felt Kotheg’s fury grow until it overwhelmed him. She
struggled to pull away from his mind, realized that she was caught
within the coils of his power and anger. She listened helplessly as
he began another spell.
   At first she did not understand what he was doing. Then she saw
that he had used three keystones in his first verse, and the audacity
of it astonished and terrified her. She could not imagine using more
than one keystone at first; his wizardry must be strong indeed.
  He used four more words of power in his second verse. How in
Sbona’s name could he possibly tie them all together?
   He didn’t intend to, she saw. She tried to cry out but his power
still held her fast. One of the palace’s towers cracked and began to
topple dangerously over the courtyard below.
  The tower fell. The crash echoed through the courtyard. Soldiers
screamed, or shouted curses to the gods. Horses reared and
stamped, trying to get free of their riders.
    Kotheg’s anger overwhelmed her, became her entire world. He
hated her for besting him, if only for a moment, hated the strange
barbaric land of Etrara, hated even his masters among the Shai for
forcing him to fight a battle he could not win. But he would win this
battle, she saw, if he had to crack the foundations of the earth to do
it.
  Another tower fell. Some of the soldiers ran to safety but most
stood unable to move; Kotheg had included a spell of binding in his
last verse. Lightning shot from the sky and hit Sbona’s fountain.
Taja saw herself from Kotheg’s perspective as she stood near the
fountain, unmoving, unable to free herself from the vast
machinations of Kotheg’s brain.
  A jagged rent appeared in the palace wall, running from one of
the balconies to the porter’s door. Kotheg spoke quickly, sweat
pouring down his face. The breach in the palace grew wider; the
walls shook.
  People ran from the palace. Someone shouted to Kotheg, ordering
him to stop. The poet-mage paid no attention.
  One of the many ladders leaning against the palace clattered to
the ground. Taja heard it but could not see it, her vision limited to
what Kotheg looked at. Another ladder fell, and then a third.
  Shouts came from the courtyard. “Look!” a voice said.
  Kotheg turned toward the palace wall. Someone was descending
one of the remaining ladders, a woman, strong and regal. The air
around her seemed to burn with her beauty. She stopped halfway
down the ladder and gazed out over the courtyard.
  “Sbona,” someone whispered. “Mother of all.” Kotheg looked out
across the courtyard; Taja saw Val and Narrion fall to their knees,
saw herself standing straight, unyielding, still bound to Kotheg.
   Kotheg’s anger melted away, turned to fear. Sbona had not come
to earth for thousands of years, not since her children were lost. His
grip on Taja slackened. She slipped the bonds that held her, slipped
them as easily as if they had never existed, and found her body
again.
  She raised her hand and spoke a short verse. Kotheg stilled,
turned to stone. Then she knelt to the goddess.
  “I thank you, my lady,” she said slowly. “We are unworthy of
your help.”
  “I did not come to aid you,” Sbona said to Taja. “I came to find my
child, lost on earth a second time.” She motioned to the old man
Taja had seen in the crowd; Callabrion went toward the ladder
unquestioningly.
   “I fashioned you for finding,” Sbona said. “When my children are
lost I need you to discover them for me. And so you have.”
  She looked out one last time at the ruins in the courtyard, at the
people she had created. Then she turned and began to climb the
ladder. Callabrion followed her.
  “Look where he comes, the Ascending God!” someone said next to
Taja. She turned. To her surprise she saw Narrion, still on his
knees, watching the god he had rejected climb to the heavens.
There was an expression she could not read on his face.
  Taja rose; Val and Narrion did the same. All over the courtyard
soldiers began to move, freed now from their spell of binding. The
men of Shai looked in horror at Kotheg, standing frozen at the
turret window. They dropped their weapons and began to run.
  The soldiers from Etrara pursued them. Two or three of the Shai
went down before their weapons. Someone beside Taja shouted,
“Hold!”
  She turned. Val had climbed to the small rise near the fountain
to stand beside her. “Don’t kill them,” he said. “Capture them for
ransom or let them go.”
  “Let them go, my lord?” Oldo said scornfully. “After what they’ve
done to us? After Andosto?”
  “Will you argue with your king?” Val asked.
   Oldo turned away, saying nothing. A moment later Taja saw him
forcing men inside the palace. Val left them and moved among the
men in the courtyard, stopping to speak to one or two of them.
  “Search the palace before you go in,” Val said. “And capture only
those of the upper rungs. We’ll need to ransom them.”
  The strange light in the courtyard started to dim. She began to
speak the spell to restore it, realizing only then how tired she was.
“Leave it,” Val said. “You can’t do any more work here
tonight—you’re dropping as you stand.” He raised his voice. “We’ll
meet in the council chamber early tomorrow morning.”



                            Fifteen
                                                                 «^
But Taja watched, amazed, as Val worked tirelessly through the
night. He spoke to the wounded and saw that the fallen were
prepared for burial. When he came to the body of Andosto he bowed
his head for a moment; as he looked up Taja saw tears in his eyes.
“He feasts in Sbona’s court tonight,” he said.
   Finally he motioned to Taja and they went into the palace. He
stopped in the banqueting hall, where his men had taken the Shai
prisoners, and talked to Oldo; when he left he gave orders that the
prisoners were to be fed from the stores in the palace buttery. One
of the guards seemed about to protest, but Val stopped him, saying,
“When I was a prisoner in Shai they were generous with their food
and drink. I would not have them say their hospitality surpasses
ours.”
  He turned and went up the vast stairway. Mariel stood at the
doorway of her rooms in the royal apartments. “Is it true?” she
asked. “Are the Shai gone?” She looked haggard, even older than
she had appeared when she had watched the play in Tobol An.
  Val nodded
  “I heard them call you king,” she said to Val. “Callia told me the
story of your birth.”
  “And do you contest my right?” Val asked softly.
  Half-brother and half-sister stood for a moment, each studying
the other. The last of Tariel’s children, Taja thought. What will he
do if she claims the throne? Will she try to take it from him? He
thought that Mariel’s rule could prove as disastrous for Etrara as
Callia’s and Gobro’s had.
  Mariel looked away first. “No,” she said. “No. Gobro has given me
no peace since Callia ascended.”
  “Gobro?” Val said.
  “Aye. He haunts me day and night.”
  “Because—because you killed him?” Val asked softly.
   Mariel laughed harshly. “I wish that were so. If he accused me, if
he said something about the manner of his death, his haunting
might help me atone for the crime of killing him. No—all his talk is
of Riel. He asks me daily where she is. He is useless, Gobro is, as
useless in death as in life.”
  Mariel turned back to her room. Val climbed another stairway.
Taja followed him. She saw that they were headed toward the
turret holding the stone figure of Kotheg, and she began to grow
uneasy. “My lord,” she said.
  Val did not stop. They came to the turret and ascended a small
spiral stairway. Kotheg stood with his back to them, unmoving.
  “Can you undo your wizardry?” Val asked.
  “I—No. No, I don’t think so. I was in his mind, trapped there,
when Sbona came. I took the knowledge of binding from him. If
there is a spell of unbinding it is lost with him.”
   They walked to the front of the statue. Kotheg’s face had frozen
in a rictus of fear and anger. “What will you do with him, my lord?”
Taja asked. “Bury him? Return him to the Shai?”
  “I think I’ll keep him where he is. We need something to remind
us of the dangers of wizardry.” He looked out over the courtyard,
seeing his men sleeping by the campfires, and then turned to Taja.
  “I first sought to become king to protect myself from Narrion,” he
said thoughtfully. “I never thought—” He gestured to the men
below. “No sane person would seek the office. Gobro, and Callia,
and Talenor—they were all mad. And no wonder. I understood
yesterday that I am responsible for the deaths I caused.”
  “But you are responsible for life as well, my lord.”
  “Aye. For the lives of all these people, each and every one of
them.”
  “And Narrion?” Taja asked. “What will you do with him?”
  He seemed not to hear her. “I will need a poet-mage when I am
king,” he said.
  The change of subject nearly caught her off balance, but she took
his meaning quickly enough. “I am honored, my lord,” she said.
“But I’m afraid I must refuse.”
  “Why?”
   “I was—I told you I was bound to Kotheg, trapped in his mind.
He was unaware of me, and at first I was able to trick him, to
counter his verses before he spoke them. But his anger was so great
it overwhelmed me, and I was unable to free myself.”
  “I don’t see—”
  Taja stopped him. “My lord,” she said. “I understood his anger.
Don’t you see? I am more like him than I am like anyone in the
world. I knew what it felt like to want to crack the foundations of
the world, to destroy all of Sbona’s creation. And a part of me could
not help but delight in that destruction, to rejoice that I had the
power to do it.”
  She hesitated a little and then went on. “I know so little about
wizardry, after all. Kotheg’s power, and my power—it frightens me.
I would like to go back to Tobol An, to spend my days studying the
books of magic, to learn whatever Mathary has to teach me.”
  “Well, then,” Val said. He took a long breath. “I will also need a
queen.”
  “No, my lord. I am—I am far beneath you on the ladder. The
people will never accept me as queen.”
  “When I saw you speak your verses against Kotheg I thought the
same of you. It seemed to me that you were so far above me on the
ladder as to be unreachable. I thought that even a king could never
aspire to wed a poet-mage.”
  “I’m sorry. It is as I said—I would like to return to Tobol An.”
  “Very well. But even a king—even a king might have reason to
consult the library.”
  She smiled. “That’s true.”
  “Then you will let me visit you?” He looked young, hopeful; for a
brief moment she saw the innocent courtier who had once come to
Tobol An seeking lodging.
  “Of course,” she said.
  “And perhaps I can persuade you to change your mind.”
  She said nothing, unable to deny him again. He seemed to take
her silence for assent. “I might send you sonnets,” he said. “I hope
this day has not made you sick to death of poetry.”
  She laughed, and they went down together into the courtyard.


Narrion sat at the table in the council chamber. To his right sat
Oldo, to his left Tamra. Taja and Noddo were across the table. No
one had seen Val for hours.
  He remembered one of the last times he had sat in this room.
Callia had declared war on the Shai, and, by issuing her edicts
against the Maegrim, on her own people as well. A great deal had
happened since then—the war, the fall of Etrara, the summoning of
Callabrion. And the most surprising thing of all—Val’s ascension to
the throne.
  He almost wished they could return to those days. He had
understood Callia’s ambition, her desire to rule, but he did not know
the man Val had become at all. What would Val do with his
newfound power? Would he seek revenge for the way Narrion had
used him? What judgment would Val pass on him?
   Everyone turned toward the door. Val entered, looking drawn;
although he had told everyone to go to sleep, he must have worked
through the night.
  He should have had a herald announce him, Narrion thought.
There’s so much he doesn’t know. I could help him—he could make
me the King’s Pen, or the King’s Axe. He needs me—my position
here is not as hopeless as it looks.
  Val looked around the table. “I want to thank all of you for your
help yesterday,” he said. “And for your help in the weeks and
months before that. I know what you went through to overthrow
the Shai.
   “I don’t want to spend time on state business now, not while we
still have to negotiate with the Shai. But I want to make some
appointments before I do anything else. Oldo will be the new King’s
Axe, and a man named Anthiel my poet-mage. He returned to his
village after the war with the Shai—I will send for him later.”
  A few people looked surprised. But Narrion, who had spoken to
Taja that morning, knew why Taja had not accepted the office.
Someone started to speak; Val cut him off. “And Narrion—” he
began.
  Val looked down the table to the man he had once thought of as
his cousin. Everyone was silent, looking back at him. Now it comes,
Narrion thought, and knew that the others around the table were
thinking the same thing. Now we find out what our new king is
made of. His heart was beating quickly.
   “Narrion, my old friend,” Val said. “Twice a year, on the Feasts of
the Ascending and Descending God, we are told that Callabrion
needs Scathiel, and Scathiel needs Callabrion. The gods are two
sides of the same coin, the priests say. But I never understood that,
not until this year. You helped me see that. Death exists within life,
and life within death.”
 He’s toying with me, Narrion thought. He didn’t make speeches
when he announced the other appointments.
  “In the middle of the battle you called me a fool, and I told you
that at the end of it I expected to be made a member of the
Society.” Val grinned at Noddo, who had started to frown. No king
had ever been a Fool; no one could be king and Shadow King at the
same time. “Don’t worry—I won’t hold you to that. I have decided,
though, in view of everything you have done for me, to make you
my Shadow King. I would have no one else dance and sing for me at
the Feast of the Descending God, would trust no one else to issue
the proclamations of the Shadow King for that day. That is, of
course, if you accept.”
  Everyone looked at Narrion. He said nothing, his breath nearly
taken away by Val’s cleverness. Val could have done no different, he
thought. The king could not have risked sending him away; he still
had friends and influence among the nobility of Etrara. But Val
could not have trusted him enough to give him a position of
authority either; his desire to rise on the ladder was too well
known. “In view of everything you have done for me,” the king had
said; Narrion had heard the underlying meaning, even if no one else
had.
   What could he say? The position of Shadow King was many rungs
down the ladder from his place as Callia’s advisor. Tamra would not
like it, Tamra who lived for her position at the king’s court. Still, he
could not expect Val to offer him anything else.
  “Very well, my lord,” he said. “I would be honored to become your
Shadow King.”


After Callabrion ascended to the heavens the days began to move
toward spring again. The sun rose earlier and set later, and the
crops flourished. After a hard year of winter, a year under cold
Scathiel’s rule, the citizens of Etrara were only too happy to take
Callabrion’s advice and enjoy the bounty of the earth.
  Even in the first year of his reign people began to call their king
Valemar the Good. The Shai had paid a great deal of money to
ransom their prisoners and Val used it wisely, helping city folks
burned out of their homes by the Shai and farmers who had lost
crops to the ravages of winter. He built a triumphal arch to
Andosto, and another, because he had promised, to Duke Arion.
  But not all his decisions had been popular. The Shai demanded
that he apologize for invading their country and he did so, only to
be accused by his own people of love for the king-killers. But he felt
strongly that Callia’s war against Shai had been wrong.
  Six months after Callabrion ascended, on the Feast of the
Descending God, he wandered through the streets of Etrara. While
the Shadow King ruled he was a private man again, and he enjoyed
talking to his people without the strains of ceremony and protocol.
  Laughter came from the street ahead. Val made his way toward
a crowd of people and saw a Fool struggling with a huge wheeled
telescope. The Fool turned; the telescope tipped to point at the
ground. Several children screamed with laughter. The Fool stood on
tiptoe to look in the eyepiece, and then made a comment on the
heavens in the sonorous tones of the astronomer-priests.
  Val grinned and moved on. Three Fools stood near the university.
Two hit their drums in a simple rhythm; the third joined in several
times, always missing the beat. Finally, after much cursing, the
three managed to play together, and they began to sing. Men and
women around them joined in, singing the traditional words, and
after a while Val sang as well.
  “There is a skull that bides beneath each skin,
  There is a time when high and low must fail.
  The prince, the priest, the poet all must die,
  When death receives them even kings are pale.


  So fill the cup and raise your glasses high
  And lift your voices loud to sing the tale.
  Today we drink, tomorrow we may die
  And lie in earth, our bones as brown as ale.”
  People smiled to see their king, and waved, and when the song
was over they came up shyly to talk to him about one thing or
another. A child gave him a mock chain of office made of flowers; he
draped it around his shoulders. They could never be totally at their
ease with him, knowing that he would assume the land-ring of
Etrara the next day, but that day he learned a number of things
about his country that his courtiers had not told him.
  When the clock at the university struck two he headed back to
Palace Hill. Narrion had told him there would be entertainment
that afternoon, and he was curious to see what edicts his Shadow
King had issued in his absence.
  The palace’s fallen towers had been replaced, the vast breach in
the walls repaired. He looked with satisfaction at the white and
gold building, and then glanced up at the stone figure of Kotheg in
his turret. Death in life, and life in death, just as he had said to
Narrion a half year ago.
  He knocked at the palace door. “Who’s there?” the porter asked.
  “Valemar, a private citizen,” he said without hesitation.
  The porter opened the door. “Our gracious King Narrion has
reserved a few seats for beggars,” he said. “Enter.” In a lower voice
he added, “That’s a beautiful chain of office, my lord.”
  Val looked down and saw that he was still wearing the flowers
the child had given him. Well, why not, after all? He grinned at the
porter and went inside.
 He went to the banqueting hall and took one of the outer seats.
Murmurs rose around him: “The king.” “Look—King Valemar.”
  King Valemar the Good looked with pleasure around the hall. At
one table sat Lord Oldo, the King’s Axe, and near him sat Lord
Carrow, who had taken back his office of King’s Coin. Lord Varra
was at another table near them; Val had ransomed him from the
Shai and had confirmed him in the office of King’s Pen. And there
was Anthiel, the poet-mage.
  Many faces were absent, of course; many people had died in the
battle against the Shai. And Mariel was not at the banquet; she
haunted the royal apartments upstairs like a ghost.
  Narrion climbed to the dais. He wore the skeleton and mask of
the Fools, and the land-ring of Etrara, but his tall lean figure was
unmistakable. “My people!” he said. He seemed to be enjoying
himself hugely. “By edict of your king, Narrion the Good—”
Laughter came from the audience. “By edict of Narrion the Good, I
say, there will be special entertainment on this day. First we will
have a play, The Comedy of the Two Courtiers .”
  Val tried not to smile. No one knew it, least of all Narrion, but he
had written that play, and had given it to an actor to pass off as her
own. Dozens of people were writing plays now; hardly a day passed
without some young author following the example of their king and
traveling to the library at Tobol An for inspiration. No one could
remember a time when the invention of poets had flowed so freely.
  They thought he went to the library to read the old stories and
poems, the ancient histories, and so he did. But he also went to see
Taja; her calm strength and her wisdom refreshed him in a way
that his courtiers could not. On some days he thought that she
might change her mind and become his queen, on others that she
would stay at her library, living there like a priest in an
observatory. But she had never returned any of the poems he had
sent her.
  The Shadow King clapped his hands, and the actors climbed to
the stage. There were men players as well as women now; one of
the first things Val had done had been to rescind King Tariel’s
decree forbidding men to appear on stage. He had spent a year
acting in one part or another, and it had done no harm to his
dignity that he could see.
  The men on stage seemed uncertain, unused to performing, but
the women faced the audience like the seasoned actors they were.
Out of long habit Val looked for Tamra, but did not see her
anywhere. One of the men, the Prologue, moved to the front of the
stage and began to speak.
  A few people in the audience stirred uneasily. They still
remembered the play interrupted by the Maegrim a year ago. But
no one came into the hall, and the play continued.
  The Maegrim’s prophecy had come true that year, Val thought.
Nearly everyone in the room that night had fallen from the ladder.
But the grim year was over; Callabrion had ascended, thank the
gods.
  He forced himself to pay attention to the play. The inept courtier
was about to say something funny; he hoped that people would
laugh. They did. He sat back in his chair, gratified.
  The play ended to strong applause. Narrion climbed to the stage
again and announced that the banquet would be served.
  To Val’s surprise Narrion did not return to the dais. Val watched
as the Shadow King moved to the back of the hall and sat at an
empty chair next to him. “My lord,” Val said, “I am a humble
beggar, not at all worthy—”
  Narrion took off his skeleton mask and brushed back his long
black hair. The land-ring of Etrara glittered on his finger; Val
wondered briefly, as he would no doubt wonder for years to come, if
Narrion would return the ring at the day’s end. “I read your book,”
Narrion said.
  At first Val thought he meant the play, and he wondered how on
earth Narrion could have known. Then he realized Narrion meant
his book about the perfect courtier, the only thing he had published
under his own name.
  “What did you think?” he asked.
  “I can’t say I know much about the subject. To be honest, I may
be the worst courtier on Sbona’s earth.”
  Surely Narrion hadn’t broken with tradition to talk about books.
Val waited, knowing that the other man had something on his
mind.
  “Do you remember when I summoned up Callabrion?” Narrion
asked. Val nodded. “He said he had fallen in love with the beauty of
the earth. And I asked him why he had never noticed that beauty
before—do you remember that?”
  Val nodded again.
   “The gods fall in love with earthly women, not with abstractions
like beauty. I wondered then whether he might have been hiding
something, but I said nothing. But as it turned out, I was right. He
was in love.”
  Val remembered Callabrion’s impassioned speeches in favor of
love at Duchess Sbarra’s gatherings. “Riel?” he asked.
  “Tamra,” Narrion said. “She’s pregnant. She says the old stories
are true—when a woman carries a god’s child she knows it.”
  Val could not think what to say.
  “She thinks she might leave me,” Narrion said. “She says I’m too
concerned with court politics, with the Society.” He looked at Val,
his expression unreadable. “They don’t care about us, the gods,” he
said. “I don’t say they’re evil. But I doubt they’re good, either. Don’t
you see? We mean nothing to them. Sbona didn’t care if we
destroyed ourselves fighting a wizards’ war. All she wanted was her
son.”
  “Do you truly think so? At the end of the battle for Etrara, when
Callabrion ascended, I looked at you and I thought—”
  “What am I to think, my lord? You made me your fool. It’s not
that I don’t deserve the office—I probably deserve it twenty times
over. But what do I say to Tamra? She married a courtier high in
Gobro’s favor, and now that courtier is nothing but the king’s fool, a
man who takes office one day a year.” He paused. “Sbona fashioned
us for finding—the goddess said that the night we overthrew the
Shai, the night Callabrion ascended. But did you ever think what
the old proverb really means? We were created to search for
Sbona’s lost children, nothing more. When she found them we had
outlived our usefulness. What happens to us then is not their
concern.”
   “I don’t think that’s true,” Val said slowly. “Sbona fashioned us
for finding—I think that means she gave us the greatest gift she
could. We can understand things, see to the heart of them. The
poet-mages are the best at this, of course, but all of us can do it to
some extent. I know that to be true from my own experience. At
the end of long searching I was able to understand who I am.”
  “Of course,” Narrion said bitterly. “You’re the king. But what
about those whose search leads them down less fortunate paths?”
   The pages came out of the kitchen and began to serve the meal.
Val studied the man he had thought was his cousin. They were
more than kin, he thought; Narrion was his double, his dark twin.
Summer and winter, they were bound together for as long as they
lived.
  He had planned to tell Narrion about the gift of land he would
give him, but now he decided to say nothing. It would not do for
Narrion to think he could sway him in this fashion; he would find
out about the gift soon enough.
  “How can you ask me that, my old friend?” Val said. “You taught
me that everything changes, that nothing stands still. I am sure
you will not be a fool forever.”
  Slowly Narrion’s expression eased, lost some of its harshness.
Perhaps he had heard rumors of the gift of land, and Val’s hint had
confirmed them. Or had Val finally made him understand
something of the god of summer, of the balance the gods make
together?
  “The Maegrim are always right,” Val said. “Someone’s fortune is
always about to change.”
                         —«»—«»—«»—
        [scanned anonymously in a galaxy far far away]
        [A 3S Release— v1, html]
        [October 26, 2007]