The Barbed Coil
by
J.V. Jones

J.V Jones was born in Liverpool in 1963.  When she was twenty, she
began working for a record label and was part of the Liverpool music
scene of the early eighties.  She later moved to San Diego, California,
where she ran an export business for several years and was the
marketing director for an interactive software company.  Praise for The
Barbed Coil:

The Barbed Coil is a superb novel, sculpted from colourful vocabulary
and fantastic clarity of thought from an author who is sure to continue
her dazzling literary career.  Read it, or regret it later SFX

J.V. Jones was born in Liverpool in 1963.  When she was twenty, she
began working for a record label and was part of the Liverpool music
scene of the early eighties.  She later moved to San Diego, California,
where she ran an export business for several years and was the
marketing director for an interactive software company.  Her interests
include music, history, cooking and computer games.

The Barbed Coil is J.V. Jones fourth novel.  Her first three, making up
the Book of Words trilogy, were The Baker's Boy, A Man Betrayed and
Master and Fool.  She is currently working on A Cavern of Black Ice,
the first novel in a new fantasy trilogy.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I owe thanks and appreciation to Betsy Mitchell for her invaluable help
and advice, to John Murray, Wayne D. Chang, Russell Galen and Danny
Baror, Man C. Okuda, Sona Vogel, and Daniel R. Home.  On matters of
illuminated manuscripts, their painting and preparation, I am indebted
to works by Michelle P. Brown and Janet Backhouse (though I must admit
to inventing a few of the nastier preparations such as ground glass
suspended in a binding mineral pitch myself!).  And, as always, thanks
to Richard...

PROLOGUE:

The one who would soon be king ran naked through the woods.  Night
birds, night creatures, and night insects traveled with him through the
vein-dark maze.  Smells were sharp, the air was thin.  The moon was a
blade meant for cutting.

Tree roots thrust like fists through the soil.  Tree branches cracked
like whips as he passed.  Everything the faraway stars, the
night-tainted clouds, the rain-moistened earth, and the beasts in the
shadows were his for the taking this night.

Five weeks before kingship.  Five weeks before the start.  Five weeks
to prepare himself to do what must be done.

So much power in the number five, so much ancient and terrible magic.

The one who would soon be king turned his gaze to the west.  The Vorce
Mountains were spikes in his mind's eye.  The last vestiges of snow on
their peaks were a virgin's colors meant to taunt him.  He would enjoy
bloodying the mountain passes; thrusting through the time-worn gorges
to the fertile land beyond.

Garizon had been too long without a saltwater port, too long without a
shore to call its own.  But then it had been too long without so much
more as well.  Crushed, defeated, subjugated, then forgotten, Garizon
had survived on blood and dirt and bile.

Fifty years had passed since it last had a king.  More than enough time
for those to the west to die, or forget, or lose their minds to
syphilis.  More than enough time for Garizon to be styled our grain
field in the east and our friend in times of need?

Garizon would soon be no one's friend in need.  Ganzon had needs of its
own now.  Pride had to be restored.  Land had to be reclaimed.  A king
had to be crowned with the Barbed Coil of gold.

Fifty years of subjugation versus five hundred years of conflict.  The
one who would soon be king smiled to himself as he ran through the
trees.  The west had a short memory, and those who failed to remember
were destined to a fate far worse than repeating their mistakes.

San Diego Union-Tribune, March 28

THWARTED BANK ROBBERS MAKE OFF

WITH SECURITY DEPOSIT BOXES

By Jeff Welz

Special to the Union-Tribune

A security officer was shot in the chest and approximately three
hundred safety deposit boxes were stolen in a break-in on Tuesday night
at the La Havra National Bank in Chula Vista.

Samuel Ossaco, 46.  is listed in critical condition at Scripps Memorial
Hospital.  He was able to alert the police approximately forty minutes
after the robbers left the scene by setting off a manual al ann  All
telephone lines appear to have been cut before the break-in.

The robbers attempted to gain access to the main holding safe by using
a mini-incendiary device.  Police speculate they broke into the
security deposit vault after this attempt failed.  As yet there are no
leads.

This is a very professional job, said Lt.  Janile Peralla of the
Special Investigation Division.  These men knew what they were doing.
They knew which lines to cut, they knew where all the alarm devices
were situated.  They came fully equipped.

George Bonnaheim, president of the bank, has offered a $10,000 reward
for tips leading to the recovery of the security deposit boxes.  These
thieves have stolen fragments of people's lives, he said.  There's no
telling what is in those boxes?  (See BOXES on Page A-3)

ONE

down to enjoy her breakfast, Tessa ettling

McCamfrey skimmed over the first few pages of the Union-Tribune.
Headlines, photo captions, and advertisements were the only things she
stopped for.  She could see and read the smaller type of the art ides
and editorials, but she didn't like to concentrate on the characters
for very long.  Their size made her nervous.

Leaning over her white, laminated desk, Tessa grabbed her bacon
sandwich from its place by the phone.  As always before she bit into
the toasted English muffin, she took a peek inside, checking that
everything was just right.  She liked to see the grain of the meat.

Satisfied, she took a bite of the sandwich, then flicked the paper to
the next page.  Hum she mumbled to herself as her gaze flicked across
the headline STILL NO SIGN OF THE MISSING BOXES.  How long had it been
now?  A month?  Six weeks?  They'd probably never turn up again.

Just as Tessa threw the paper on the desk, the phone rang.  Her body
stiffened for the briefest moment.  Three more rings, and then the
brand spanking new Sony Deluxe Home Answering System clicked into
action.  Cassette wheels turned, appropriate lights blinked, then a
voice that was not Tessa's own advised the caller, Our family isn't at
home right now.  Please leave a message after the tone and we will call
you back.

Tessa grimaced.  Our family.  She really should replace the prerecorded
message with one of her own.  Even as the thought occurred- to her, she
knew she'd never change it.  She never could bring herself to do
anything that needed to be done.

An efficient beep sounded and was quickly replaced by a soft male
voice.  Tessa?... Tessa?  Are you there?  A pause followed, and when
the voice came again it had lost some of its softness to frustration.
Look, I know you're there.  I'm coming over.  We need to talk.

Tessa was out of her chair and pulling on her shoes before the last
sentence started.  The bacon sandwich was discarded, car keys located,
pocketbook checked for, and wool sweater pulled over her cotton shirt.
It was time to go for a walk.

Tessa hated those end-of-relationship talks.  She hated the look in the
man's eyes, hated herself for failing again.  All her relationships had
ended the same way, with the same phone call and the same
recriminations and guilt.  How could she tell the men she felt nothing
for them yet couldn't understand why?

There was no way to tell them, which was why she spent her money on a
series of successively better answering machines.  She couldn't tell
them, so she'd screen them out instead.  And if, like Mike Hollister,
they threatened to come round and confront her in person, she'd simply
take off to the woods.

The southern California sun was brighter than Tessa liked.  Despite the
fact that it was now May and the temperature was in the low seventies,
Tessa didn't discard her sweater.  She always felt too exposed with
just a single layer of fabric be Her yellow Honda Civic was a good
friend.  Unlike those tween her and the outside world.  f faithless
cars in movies that always stalled when the heroine needed to get away,
the Civic purred into action the moment the key was turned.

Where to go?  Tessa wanted to see some green.  Not the chemically
enhanced green of land graded and ready for building, or the clipped
and cultured green of the Mission Gorge golf course.  She wanted some
real green.  Some living green.

Turning the car onto Texas Street, Tessa headed north from University
Heights and east on Highway 8, past lines of hotels, shopping malls,
bowling alleys, and driving ranges.  It was early Saturday morning, so
the freeway was a breeze.

The sky was southern California blue: pale, cloudless, hazy.  The
sunlight filtering through the driver's side window was warm on Tessa's
hands and face.  h some deep and secret part of herself, Tessa was glad
to be on the run.  It seemed the only times she was really happy in her
life were when she was on her way somewhere.  If she was lucky, there
were minutes, even hours, when the anticipation of arrival was so
overpowering that she forgot about everything except the journey
itself.  Without exception, when she finally reached her destination
she was always vaguely disappointed.  She never seemed to get just
where she wanted to go.

As Tessa drove she was aware of a mild ringing sensation in her
temples.  Shssssh, like fingernails scraped across a chalkboard.  Tessa's
heart slowly sank in her chest.  Not now.  Not today.  She'd gone so
long without feeling it, she'd secretly hoped it had gone.  Pushing her
foot down on the accelerator, Tessa tried to put some distance between
herself and the noise.  From experience she knew the longer and faster
she drove, the less her tinnitus would bother her.

Tinnitus: a buzzing or ringing sound in the ear.  Tessa had first been
diagnosed with it when she was five years old, just before her family
had left England for America.  She clearly remembered sitting in the
square stretch of grass that passed for their front garden in those
days, pushing her fists into her ears and asking her mother when the
pinging noise would stop.  It felt as if a tiny bell had been struck
inside her head.

The noise went on and on.  After a week the family doctor was called.
Dr.  Bodesill was a large, red-nosed man who smelled of port and had a
peculiar fondness for wearing brightly knitted waistcoats.  After much
highly Impressive umniing and aahing he advised Tessa's mother that
Tessa needed to go to London to see a specialist.  Ten days later Tessa
was bundled up in a thicic winter coat in defiance of the heat, her
hair was pulled back and her socks were pulled high, and she was
dragged along to the station, protesting all the way.

Tessa liked the train.  The rhythmic thug, thug of the metal wheels
skimming over the track and the multi pitched sound of the engine
masked her tinnitus completely during the two-hour journey.  So
completely, in fact, that by the time they arrived in London Tessa was
sure the ringing in her ears had gone.  Just as they coasted into
Euston Station, Tessa turned to her mother and said, Mummy, the noise
has stopped?

Tessa's mother had looked genuinely distressed at this statement: all
the way to London, a specialist waiting to see them, and now her unruly
and ungrateful daughter had taken it into her head to pronounce herself
cured!  Tessa's mother was saved the anxiety of facing the London
specialist with a miraculously and most selfishly cured child by the
approach of a porter with a loud whistle.

In all her life, Tessa would never forget the sound of that whistle.
The train window had been rolled down since Stoke, and it was still
down when the porter walked along Platform 4 and, picking a position
less than three feet away from Tessa's left ear, blew sharply on his
professional stationmaster's whistle.

The sound razored through Tessa's left ear, slicing nerves and tissue
and membranes, setting her whole brain, her whole being, ringing with a
dense clamor of noise.  It sounded like a great metal machine clanging
away inside her skull.  Tessa remembered screaming hysterically and
begging her mother to make it stop.  Hours later she learned that the
sound of her own screams had aggravated her condition further.

By the time they reached Harley Street, Tessa's mother had tied her
daughter's hands behind her back with her yellow nylon scarf.  It was
the only way to stop Tessa from beating the noise from her temples.

The specialist, an otolaryngologist named Dr.  Hemsch, gave Tessa a
sedative, a glass of lemonade, and a teddy bear to hold during the
examination.  Over the course of the following hour, Tessa's ears were
probed with light and cold metal instruments, her hearing was tested by
exposure to series of low- and high-pitched sounds, and urine and blood
samples were taken by a plump nurse with cool hands.

Dr Hemsch explained his conclusions separately to mother and daughter.
Tessa would he forever grateful to him that he spoke to her first.
Tessa, he said, leaning forward and taking off his glasses, revealing
blue and kindly eyes beneath, you have what we call tinnitus.  Now what
that means is that you hear buzzing noises in your ears.  There will be
times just like today when the porter blew his whistle in the station
when the noises will sound louder than normal.  And other times when
you'll hardly hear anything at all.

The doctor touched Tessa on her shoulder.  You and I, Tessa, are going
to be a team.  We've got to make sure that you stay well away from loud
noises like the porter's whistle, because although we don't know what
causes tinnitus, we know that loud noises make it worse.

Can you make the noises go away?  Tessa asked, emboldened by the
exciting thought of her and Dr.  Hemsch being a team.

Dr.  Hemsch looked her straight in the eyes.  I can't do anything to
make the noises go away.  I can do things to lessen their effects, and
if the tinnitus doesn't get better on its own account, we will have to
look into those alternatives together.

Tessa smiled, a little sadly, as she overtook a black pickup truck in
the left-hand lane.  She and Dr.  Hemsch never did get chance to be a
team.  Shortly after that first visit, she and her parents had moved to
New York.  The tinnitus stopped sometime during the nine-hour flight
and didn't reappear until seven years later, relegating the blue-eyed
doctor and his cool-handed nurse to fond memories in the past.

The driver of the pickup truck hit: the accelerator and roared past
Tessa in the inside lane.  As the pickup pulled ahead, Tessa noticed
the bumper sticker I DON'T TAKE IT I CREATE IT spelled out in bold,
black script on the back bumper.  Instinctively she eased off the
accelerator.

She knew she drove too fast.  She couldn't help herself.  During the
summer she learned to drive, her tinnitus reappeared, and-she quickly
discovered that the farther down her foot was on the accelerator, the
more noise the car engine made.  The best way to deal with tinnitus was
to mask it: to offset the high-pitched sound in the ears with an
equally loud but low-pitched external noise.  The theory was that the
two sounds canceled each other out.  Which wasn't entirely true, but it
did help.  Sometimes more than others.

Spotting the turnoff for the 1-15 North, Tessa guided the yellow Honda
onto the left lane, slipping directly behind the black pickup.  The
brake lights on the pickup flashed the moment her car was in lane.
Tessa's foot found the brake pedal.  The freeway was clear, yet the
pickup's lights flashed twice more in rapid succession, forcing Tessa
to slow down.  to The 1-15 junction was a third of a mile ahead,
according the California Transit sign.  As Tessa's gaze dropped from
the sign back to the pickup, the noise in her ears sharpened.  The
brake lights flashed red again.  Tessa slammed her foot on the brake. 
She felt the force of the seat belt pushing her back in her seat.  The
driver of the pickup smiled into his rearview mirror.  He had a dark
mustache, a double chin, and a small mouth crammed with teeth.  Anger
flared hot in Tessa's sights.  She wanted to ram the back of his truck,
ram it, then cut in front and slam on her brakes.

Old words came to her ears, though.  Words of caution well worn from
twenty-one years of use: Calm down, Tessa.  Calm down.  The doctor said
you were never to get excited it might make the noises come back.

A lifetime of- self-control exerted itself over Tessa and she pumped
the brake, forcing the Honda to fall back to fifty five  The pickup
shot ahead toward the turnoff.  Tessa was shaking.  Gray noise ground
through her temples.  Suddenly she didn't want to take the 1-15 North.
She didn't want to meekly follow the pickup truck, defeated.  Palms
damp upon the wheel, Tessa pulled out of the exit lane and slipped back
onto the 8 East.

Angry at herself now, she felt the tinnitus growing worse.  It was
always this way: She wasn't supposed to get excited, yet the very act
of not getting excited agitated her even more.

The Honda sped eastward along the 8, past clinics and strip malls, D1Y
warehouses, and apartment complexes promising Free Move-in and Cable on
worn pastel signs.  Back up to seventy now, Tessa tried to relax and
let the engine noise soothe her worn nerves.  She no longer knew where
she was going.  Mission Trails, with its old oaks and pines and its
hiking tracks leading through shaded valleys and over sandy hills, had
been her intended destination.  Now she was simply driving east.

The incident with the pickup had left her shaken.  Tessa tried to put
it behind her, but the tinnitus.  the ringing in her ears that appeared
and then disappeared in sharp bursts throughout her life was getting
worse.

Soothing music, her last doctor had said, will help whenever the noises
start.  Dr.  Eagleman had handed Tessa a cassette of something entitled
The Healing Ocean, for which he had billed her $99 one month later. The
cassette turned out to be a mix of waves lapping against the shore,
threaded through with some tinny New Age music that would have sounded
right at home in a small-town airport lobby.

Fumbling in the driver's door pocket, Tessa's hand closed around The
Healing Ocean.  She brought it up to the dashboard, took the cassette
from its striped blue box, and yanked on the length of exposed tape.
Streams of shiny brown ribbon raced through the spools and into the
air.  Holding the cassette firmly against the steering wheel, Tessa
pulled and pulled on the tape until there was-nothing left of it in the
cassette.

The sight of the tape spaghettied on her lap made Tessa grin.  Dr.
Eagleman's Healing Ocean did have therapeutic properties after all it
had just taken her a while to find them.  For good measure she tossed
the empty cassette onto the backseat.  Yes, she definitely felt better
now.

The Honda Civic sped eastward past La Mesa and the sprawling expanse of
El Cajon.  Tessa, her nerves eased by the small act of destroying the
cassette, risked turning up the radio.  Something classical was playing
Bach, she guessed.  If her father had been with her, he would have
known for sure.  Easing back into her seat, Tessa settled down to enjoy
the drive.  Hospitals, gyms, and furniture stores gave way to
self-storage units, gun shops, and For Sale signs.  The freeway
narrowed to two lanes and began to climb up toward Alpine Heights.

Despite the fact that the Honda was speeding along at seventy, the
shrill, metal ringing increased.  The sound was close to the surface
now.  Tessa could almost feel it straining to break free of her skin.
She turned Bach up a notch and deliberately shifted her thoughts away
from the noise.

Mike Hollister would be arriving at her door right about now.  Always
polite, he would knock softly even after -he realized that she had run
away on him.  Tessa felt bad about that.  She liked Mike a lot.  He was
a kind man, a good father to his four-year-old daughter, and he shared
Tessa's interest in illuminated manuscripts.  That was how they had
first met at an exhibition of medieval books of hours given by the San
Diego Museum of Art.  Mike was the curator.  When Tessa reached out to
touch one of the tiny, leather-bound prayer books, Mike had been the
one to tell her touching wasn't allowed.  The penalty was dinner with
him and his daughter.

Tessa smiled as she guided the Honda around the twists and bends in the
road.  She couldn't understand why she felt such a great need to break
up with him.

By turns the freeway wound then sliced through the hillside, offering
dizzying views downward one minute and high walls of jagged rock the
next.  The way ahead was steep, and Tessa slipped into third.  The
gears screeched as they moved into place.  Tessa winced.  The noise in
her ears sharpened to a high buzz.  It sounded like someone
screaming.

Why was it getting worse?  She'd done nothing to bring it on.  Since
moving to San Diego seven years ago, the only time she had experienced
the sensation was when she attempted to do anything that required great
concentration, like filling out her IRS forms or attempting to copy a
pattern that caught her eye.

Patterns fascinated her: Celtic jewelry, Oriental rugs, Victorian tile
work Roman mosaics anything where shapes and f9ms repeated themselves
to form a design.  Whenever she came across a complicated pattern she
tried to copy it.  At some point during the process, though when she
became so involved that she began to perceive the strategy behind the
lines and the grid beneath the forms, catching a whiff of the artist's
intent the ringing in her ears would softly start.  Gentle as a pulse
felt by hand, but a warning nonetheless.  Tessa had long since given up
trying to do anything too ambitious.  She allowed herself only to
admire patterns now or trace them idly with little thought.

Tessa yanked the steering wheel left.  Her concentration had been
slipping and the Honda had begun to drift to the right.  A drop of
sheer shadows had torn chunks from the roadside, narrowing down her
lane and exposing a dark pine wooded valley like a bed of nails below.
THE BARBED COIL 4 ii

The buzz in Tessa's ears extended outward, forming a band of noise
across her forehead.  A needling migraine of a noise, a thousand times
worse than any headache.  Tessa bit her lip.  Her eyes never left the
freeway for an instant.

She was surrounded by a world of green now.  Hills and valleys bristled
with pines.  Bushes and shrubs crowded close around the road.  She hadn't
been this far east on the 8 for nearly a decade.  If she remembered
correctly, the freeway led through the center of the Cleveland National
Forest.  By the looks of all these trees she must be getting close.

A sign on the left of the road welcomed Tessa to Alpine.  The
population was offered beneath, but Tessa couldn't take in the numbers.
 The tinnitus was a serrated blade cutting through her thoughts.

Something flashed red in her lap.  Glancing down at the ribbons of
cassette tape still coiled there, Tessa saw a drop of blood soaking
into the fabric of her jeans.  Quickly she wiped her chin with the back
of her hand.  The skin came back bloody.  She had bit right through her
lip.

She knew she should stop.  Pull into one of the quaint wayside
restaurants with wooden eaves and old-world signs promising fresh pies
and hot coffee, and rest.  Take a couple of Tylenol, massage her aching
temples, close her eyes, and wait until the noises subsided.

Tessa didn't stop, though.  The distance between knowing what was best
and doing what was best was growing longer with every second.  The
ringing in her ears was no longer an irritant, it was a crowbar driving
a wedge between reason and action.

The Honda sped through Alpine and into the wooded hills beyond.

Tessa felt as if the tinnitus were driving the car for her.  Bends were
taken sharply, motor homes were passed with rally like precision.
Accelerate, brake, turn.  Tessa had little experience driving on
mountain slopes, yet her hands shifted gears with the skill of an
old-timer.  When a turnoff came, she took it without question.  With
her thoughts ripped to shreds by screaming sirens, questions were the
last thing on her mind.

She drove and drove.  No longer on the freeway, Tessa wound inward
toward the heart of the forest.  The paved road gave way to a dirt road
and then deteriorated to a hunting track.

Tall gangling pines formed armies to either side of the path, blocking
out light and barricading all exits.  Tessa had no choice but to move
forward.  When she glanced in the rearview minor, the very forest
itself seemed to have closed in across the road.

Noises hammered through Tessa's temples.  Tears swelled in her eyes.
What was happening to her?  The noises had never been so bad before.

A grove of oaks and willows appeared ahead.  The wide and sloppy trees
looked liked a haven amid the disciplined pines, and Tessa, spying a
fork in the path, steered the Honda toward them.

The temperature in the car cooled the moment she turned the wheel. Once
in the shade, the light level dropped farther and midday took on the
look of twilight.  Tessa shivered.  The dirt track flared out to form a
semicircle and came to an end.  Bringing the Honda to a halt, Tessa
rubbed her throbbing temples.  Blood drummed fast and hard against her
fingers.  She had to get out of the car.  The Honda door squealed as
she opened it another sharp ribbon of noise that bound the tinnitus
tighter.  The sound in her ears was unbearable now.  Hardly aware of
what she was doing or where she was going, she stumbled through the
trees.  The canopy of oaks and willows blocked out the midday sky.  To
Tessa's tear-glazed eyes they seemed unnaturally close to each other. 
On and on she walked, finding a path then losing a path, through brush
and grass and trees.

The pain in her head was like a wire that pulled her forward.  Her feet
took steps that her mind had no part in, and her eyes discerned forms
she was no longer able to name.

The terrible, unbearable noise defined Tessa McCamfrey.  She was no
longer a twenty-six-year-old woman with a job at Clairemont Telesales
and an apartment short of furniture and attention; she was a child
seeking comfort.  And when she topped a small rise and came upon a
cleared glade, she found what she was looking for.

Lying amid the yellow grass and long-dried-out bushes,

nestling in a collection of positions and angles, like playing blocks
scattered over a nursery floor, were hundreds of dull gray boxes.  All
open.  Their contents in small piles, flapping gently as their weight
permitted.  The minute Tessa saw them the noises in her head stopped.

TWO

eve nc counselor to kings, scholar of the ancient texts and master of
the old patterns, slumped against his scribing desk, clutching his
chest.

A trickle of dark blood ran from his nose.  Following the lines of his
much creased face, the droplet slid down to his chin and then splashed
against the illumination that lay beneath his left hand.  Blood
spattered both manuscript and skin.  Even now Deveric was more than
wise enough to know a message when he saw one.  This would be the last
pattern he ever scripted.  His last and his best.

Five days and five nights he had worked on it, his old eyes squinting,
his shaking hands stilled first by drugs and then by his assistant.
Every pattern Deveric knew was encompassed in the illumination.  Every
rule had been adhered to, every interlacing of animal and plant life
properly separated by the correct set of lines.  Everything the
symmetry, the repetition of shape and color, and the mirroring of motif
and symbol had been perfectly rendered down to the last line and
curve.

Great power had been drawn into the illumination.  Enough power to tear
through the magic of the Shedding.  In that deeply creviced place,
where the debris shed from all worlds accumulated as silently and
inevitably as dust above a mantel, something stirred.  Deveric had felt
it building as he worked; each turn of his quill was a summoning,
every scratch of the nib drew forth something extra with the ink.
Patterns so intricate they defied the eye, paired with symbols of such
weight that even to paint them seemed a kind of sacrilege, combined to
make the illumination shine.  Not with light, as the word suggested,
but with truth and meaning and might.

The pattern, with its elaborate filigree of loops, shapes,

and colors, was a work of sorcery as much as art.  Creating it had
taken everything Deveric had inside him.  His heart, his mind, his very
soul, were now lost within the lines.

It was only fitting that his blood was now upon it too.

My lord?  came a soft, hesitant voice.  My lord, are you all right?

Deveric heard the words, understood the meaning, but was powerless to
reply.  His very old heart had beaten for the last time.  The second
the final curve was drawn, the instant the pattern was complete, his
heart had broken in two.

He had done his job, drawn forth a chance for hope.  The world of warm
sunlight and cool evenings was lost to him now.  It was a good life he
had lived, with children and grandchildren and a wife who loved him
dearly.  If his sons had only been kinder, he could have asked for
nothing more.

My lord.  Wake up!  Please, wake up!

Deveric smiled.  Emith, the gentle man who was his assistant, whose
love and loyalty could be heard on every breath and whose life for the
past twenty-two years had been dedicated to serving his master, had no
idea of the power that had just been drawn.  The tanglings of the
pattern the strands.  that twined and're twined across the parchment,
the shapes that chased each other around the borders, and the threads
that brushed quill close yet never met were the key to its drawing. Yet
to Emith they were little more than lines.

Pain cleaved through the collapsed muscle that was now Deveric's heart.
He would miss his old assistant very much.

All he could hope for now was that this final pattern, which in itself
formed part of a larger pattern that he had worked on for the last
twenty-one years, would do what it was scribed for: bring together
those who could set a monstrous wrong to right.

Today a man would crown himself king of a country that lay east beyond
the mountains.  Garizon had been fifty long years without a sovereign
and with good reason.  The ruling house of Garizon consumed land with
all the mindless greed of a firestorm.

Even now, before the Barbed Coil had been placed upon his head, the one
who would be king was looking to the west.

Deveric knew what he wanted.  He knew the nature of the man.

Glancing down, Deveric counted the specks of blood that had splashed
from his chin.  Five: three on the parchment, two.  on his hand.

As the world faded away, as his assistant fussed and pleaded and
physicians and family were called for, Deveric did the last thing he
would ever do.  Turning his wrist so that his palm was facing upward,
he smeared the two drops of still-wet blood on the back of his hand
onto the parchment.

There.

Five drops of blood on the illumination.  Five drops of blood on a
pattern colored crown gold, sea blue, forest green.

House deeds, wills, stocks and bonds, war medals, marriage
certificates, naturalization certificates, employee of the month
certificates, high school and college diplomas, address books, love
letters, hate letters, children's drawings, hair clippings, faded
ribbons, photos, videos, and greeting cards.  Tessa sat in the yellow
grass surrounded by a spiked railing of pine trees and sorted through
the contents of the security deposit boxes.

The papers and photos on the tops of the piles were fading with the
sun.  Those on the bottom, lying upon the ground, were damp and covered
in blue-black mold.  Tessa knew what they were the instant she had
spotted them: the stolen security boxes from La Havra National Bank.
Already she had seen enough to know that anything of value had been
removed.  There were no family heirlooms, no jewelry or currency.  No
cash, coins, bearer bonds, or gold.

The only things remaining were papers, books, and photographs.

Tessa was beginning to know the people who owned these boxes.  The
Sanchez family's box was a testament to their good-natured pride; all
five of them smiled up at Tessa from photos of family reunions,
engagement parties, high school sports galas, and Disney World
vacations.  A handsome family with wide brows and square shoulders.
Their father had taken out a second mortgage on their house.

Lilly Rhodes box smelled of violets.  A newspaper clipping proclaimed
her Deb of the Season for winter 1938.  A second clipping told of how
her fighter pilot husband was shot down over the English Channel in
1944.  It showed the couple on their wedding day; Charles and Lilly's
shoulders touching as they leaned forward to slice the cake.  Lilly
looked like Rita Hayworth.

Gary Ubois was dead.  His box contained a photocopy of his death
certificate.  He had been an athlete.  Dozens of photographs showed him
limbering up before races, crouching for his mark, running across
finish lines, and holding up trophies to small but enthusiastic crowds.
Neatly lining the bottom of his box was a single row of birthday cake
candles.  Nineteen.  One for each year he'd lived.

Tessa felt like an interloper.  Prying, reading, searching, then
discarding, she rifled through everything within reach.  She couldn't
stop herself.  She knew it was wrong, yet the sight of one more folded
document, or a faded report card, or a last will and testament, was
enough to send her into a frenzy of wanting to know.

These were her people now.  She knew their legal status, their
financial standing, their college grades, and their secrets.

Hours passed.  The sun sent shadows circling around the glade.  Tessa
was blind to everything except the latest fragment in hand.  By turns
she was a detective hunting for clues and then a child scrambling for
prizes.  One married couple had their own separate boxes: The man had
kept all his wife's love letters tied together with a satin bow.  The
wife kept Polaroids of herself nude with another man.  the Almost in a
trance, Tessa knelt forward and reached for last pile.  Fat with
envelopes, legal pads, greeting cards, and computer printouts, it
looked much the same as the others.  Tessa had only one rule: If an
envelope was sealed, she wouldn't open it.  She knew it was a hypocrite's
law but kept to it all the same.  If someone wanted to keep something
so secret that locking it away wasn't nearly enough she felt bound to
honor their wishes.  (

The robbers had opened most envelopes anyway.  Certainly the larger
ones that may have contained jewelry or cash had been torn apart, their
contents thickened by shuffling hands, their once gummed flaps now
paper curls on the breeze.  i8 j.v. JONES

Take this last pile: almost everything had been opened and searched.
Tessa sorted through the various envelopes.  A company sales report, an
adoption certificate and all the attending legal papers, a collection
of fishing flies taped to bright yellow cards, and a series of old
girlie magazines featuring fifties starlets in swimsuits and ostrich
feathers.  It was funny what people considered valuable.

In the whole lot there was only one envelope that did not appear to be
opened.  A long manila envelope that had somehow got wedged between the
fishing fly cards and the adoption papers.  Instinctively Tessa knew it
belonged to neither pile.  The envelope was too frail, too delicately
colored, to fit in with the rest of the papers.

Glancing around, she checked the boxes nearest to where the pile had
been.  It was impossible to tell which document had come from which
box.

Turning back to the envelope, Tessa spotted a thumbprint smudged upon
the top right-hand corner just where a stamp would be.  She knew the
mark well by now.  She had seen it before on Lilly Rhodes newspaper
clippings and the Sancjiez family portraits.  It was the mark of a
thief.  The man who had pried open these boxes and sifted through their
contents like a prospector panning for gold had picked up traces of ink
along the way. .  His fingers bore the vestiges of all the documents he
had touched.  Greed-driven sweat had ensured the ink was stamped from
deed to deed.

Tessa's own hands were cool and dry.

As she flipped over the letter, a gust of wind cut across the glade.
The flap of the envelope lifted up from the gummed line.  Something
small shifted in Tessa's chest.  The letter had been opened.  The flap
was merely resting against the seal.

Grasping the envelope by its top corner, she shook it open.  Nothing
fell out.  Disappointed, she pried her fingers into the slit and looked
inside.  The shaded manila interior revealed no contents to the eye.

Something wasn't right Tessa weighed the envelope in her palm: the
subtlest of pressures was weighing down the bottom corner.

Excitement fluttered from Tessa's chest to her stomach.  Grasping the
envelope in both hands, she tore it in two.  The paper ripped with an
oddly musical sound, like the skitter of beads in a jar.  Discarding
the top part with the flap and the seal, Tessa turned to the bottom
half and pulled it open.  The late afternoon sun thinned to a buttery
line and shone straight down upon the dark inner folds.

First glance revealed the usual creases nd lines.  Second glance
revealed that the main fold running down the center of the envelope was
oddly distended.  Something was jammed behind it.

Tessa's heart was beating fast now.  She tore the envelope a second
time right down the center.  A spark of golden light flashed in the
air, and then something very small yet heavy landed in her lap.

It was a ring.  A golden ring made up of thread upon thread of precious
metal, wound in an intricate design.  Trapped behind the seams of the
envelope, it had gone unnoticed by the thieves.

Tessa picked it up.  Closer inspection revealed the threads had thorns.
The ring was a miniature coil of barbed wire.  As tangled as a pit of
smoke-drowsed snakes, the gold didn't reflect light, it sprayed it.
Tessa blinked three times in quick succession: it was difficult to
focus too long upon the design.  When a chill draft blew east across
the glade, Tessa was braced and ready.  For some reason she had been
expecting it.

There was something here, something locked within the coils of the
ring, and if she could only stop blinking and concentrate for a while,
she would surely uncover it.  A faint buzz sounded in her ears.  Unlike
earlier, when the noise was high and jarring, this time it was a mellow
rush: a seashell held to her ear.

Tessa turned the ring in her hand.  The gold writhed in circles with
neither beginning nor end.  It was ancient that much she knew but the
period and style eluded her.  The basic design had a Middle Eastern
feel, yet the interlacing of the threads was almost Celtic.  The gold
work itself was so exquisitely wrought, it could only have been created
by a master craftsman.

Tessa wondered how it would look on her hand.  She wondered if it would
fit her.

With the sound of a distant sea sifting softly through her ears, and
the last shaving of sunlight slicing light from the glade, Tessa chose
to put on the ring.  In the fifth hour past noon, on the fifth day of
the month, in the fifth month of the year, Tessa McCamfrey opened her
fingers wide and slipped on the golden band.

She didn't feel the barbs until the moment the ring was in place.  The
gold slid upon her hand like a cool-fingered caress.  Down it went over
knuckle and nail to the broad base of the joint.  Only then did it show
its teeth.  Tessa felt a tiny pinprick near the back of her finger.
Then another, then another, then another after that.  Within seconds
her finger was circled by a ring of biting thorns.  Somehow the barbs
on the outside had turned in.

The pain was like nothing she had felt before.  It was shocking, like
warm feet on cold tile, or hands thrust under a scalding tap, but there
was something more as well.  She was reminded of medieval texts that
spoke of exquisite, enlightening pain.  She felt breathless,
exhilarated, close to the core.  She felt the old world moving away.

The sound of the sea grew louder, the light wavered once, then died.
Blood formed a lacework upon pumice-pale flesh, as five golden barbs
etched their secrets upon the bone.

Ravis couldn't understand why he'd missed his ship to Mizerico.  He was
not a man to overstay his welcome.  And he never needed much sleep.
Why, then, had he overslept, waking a full two hours past the crack of
dawn?  And, more important, why had Clover's Fourth seen fit to sail
without him?  Biting down on the scarred flesh of his lip, Ravis
switched his gaze from the empty dock out to sea.  He had to leave this
city today.

After a moment scanning the sparkling blue water of the Bay of Plenty,
Ravis spied a dark thumbprint about to disappear over the horizon.
Clover's Fourth.  It was the last he would ever see of his ship.

Aye, my lord Ravis, said a dockhand, breaking into his thoughts, they
must have thought you were already aboard.

Tis an easy mistake to make

Two things struck Ravis about the man.  First, if the ship had sailed
an hour ago, why was he still on the dock?  And second, how did he come
to know the name Ravis?Raising his teeth from his scar, Ravis forced
himself to speak calmly.

Did you happen to see the good captain this mo ming

The dockhand beamed, his teeth offering an eye-catching collection of
texture, color, and gaps.  Aye, that I did, my lord.  But you know
Captain Crivit never one to speak with the likes of me.

Ravis did know Crivit, and although he would indeed prefer not to speak
with the likes of the man before him, he wasn't above paying for their
silence.  The dockhand smelled of fine berriac and the
mountain-pressed, oak-aged liqueur sold in the dockside taverns for ten
pieces a glass.  The dockhand would be lucky if he earned half of that
in a week.

Ravis took a coin from his scored-leather tunic, looked at it, then
tossed it into the sea.  The silver piece flashed once and then
disappeared into the dark blue waters of the harbor.  Satisfied by the
sight, he repeated the action.  The dockhand watched him with growing
disbelief.  By the time the third piece sank, the dockhand spoke up:

My lord Ravis, if it's money you're wishing to throw away, why not toss
it toward a family man rather than straight out to sea?

A family man?  Ravis sucked at his lip.  Suppressing his impatience, he
tossed a fourth coin into the water and said,

I'm looking for the truth, my friend, and I'm hoping the old woman of
the sea will help me find it.

Comprehension dawned on the dockhand's pitted face.

The old woman of the sea had the tides to turn this morning, my lord. I
doubt if she saw a thing.

Another coin in the water.  Ah.  Then perhaps you watched the bay on
her behalf?

That I did, my lord.

Ravis threw the next coin toward the dockhand, who caught it like a
lizard snagging flies.  For a man who stank of wine, his reflexes were
remarkably good.  So, my friend, what did you really hear this mo
ming

The dockhand bit on the coin before he spoke.  Captain knew you weren't
aboard.

And?  prompted Ravis, tossing another coin the man's way.

No one knew where you'd got to.  Captain ordered the ship to be
searched, and when there was no sign of you, he upped anchor and set
sail.

Things were becoming clearer now.  Crivit had searched for him.  So the
good captain had genuinely not known where he was, which ruled out foul
play such as sleeping drafts in wine but still left open the
possibility of profiteering from a fortunate happenstance.

Did Clover's Fourth set sail on time?

To the minute.

Ravis made a small hard sound in his throat.  All his worldly goods all
his weapons, his possessions, and his profits from the last three years
had sailed off into the sunrise with that ship.  By sticking
meticulously to his sailing schedule, Crivit had secured himself quite
a stash.

Did anyone suggest they hold sail until I arrived, or send men into the
city to look for me?  Ravis threw the dockhand a third coin.

Catching it, the dockhand shook his head.  First mate wanted to send
someone into the taverns, but Captain said they didn't have time.  Said
the tides would likely turn at any minute and the ship would be stuck
in the harbor for another full day.

Ravis drew a thin breath.  The tides were a captain's best friend and
his most often used excuse.  Crivit had executed a perfectly legitimate
robbery.  Ravis knew he would never see his possessions again; they
would be lost.  at sea, stolen by pirates, ruined by salt water, or
eaten by marauding sharks.  Any half-plausible excuse the captain could
come up with.

Ravis kicked at the rotten, bird-limed timbers of the gangway.  How had
this happened?  He never overslept.  He had been drugged often enough
to rule out that possibility his head and stomach were feeling
altogether too settled for that yet there was no other explanation.  He
had not been knocked out, bound up, or seduced to the point of
passionate abandon.  Nothing to unduly tire or hold him.  Yet here he
was, an hour late for the ship that would finally have taken him a safe
distance from this place.

Glancing over his shoulder, back toward the hazy blue gray mass of the
city, Ravis found himself shaking his head.  BayZell was about to run
out of time.

My lord said the dockhand, idly reeling in the last of the mooring
rope, if you be needing a place to stay until the next ship south ups
anchor, you're welcome to stop with me.

Ravis waved him away.  I doubt very much I could afford your rates, my
friend.  Anyone who drinks fine berriac for breakfast is bound to
charge too much for me.  After bowing to the man, Ravis made his way
back up the gangplank to the quay.  Truth was, his finances were now
stretched to the point of breaking.  He didn't need to weigh his purse
to know that it held a good deal more silver than gold.  And even that
was scarcer following his stunt of throwing coins out to sea.

Well.  That would teach him.  Impressing dock hands with shows of
nonchalance was a lot more expensive than it was amusing.  Now he had
some real problems to deal with.

He was stranded in a city that would see him hanged if they discovered
who he was and what he had done.  He had barely enough money to buy
silence from a gatekeeper.  And one hundred and fifty leagues southwest
of here, somewhere in the jasmine scented south-facing hillsides of
Mizerico, a certain beautiful lady would be counting the days to his
arrival.  Doubtless she would have to count a few extra now.  And she
was exactly the sort of woman who hated to count and wait.

All in all there was little amusing about it.  Later today, on the far
side of the Vorce Mountains, Izgard of Garizon would crown himself a
king.  Now the people of Bay Zen, the finest port and northernmost city
in Rhaize, might think this no concern of theirs.  Yet they were about
as wrong as it was possible to be.  Izgard had spent the last ten years
planning the taking of just two things: the Barbed Coil and all the
land that lay between Garizon and the sea.

Things were going to get very difficult for the people of Bay Zen, and
Ravis had no intention of being here when they did.

Walking along the harbor front, Ravis tried to ignore the fishwives
pulling backbones from herrings and drunks drying out in the shade. The
everyday sights of Bay Zen made him uncomfortable.  When the wind
tugged stray hairs from its binding, he shoved them behind him like
buzzing flies.

What by all four gods was he going to do now?

Aagh!  A high-pitched scream ripped through the spring clear air.

Automatically Ravis turned his head in the direction it came from: an
alleyway nestled between two inns.  He knew the place well; prostitutes
took their one-silver clients there.  Two-silver clients were treated
to a bed.

Get away from me!

Ravis had just decided to carry on walking he was in enough trouble
already without venturing into the notoriously dangerous world of pimps
and their charges when the second cry sounded.  He was struck by the
foreignness of the woman's voice.  She might be a whore, but she wasn't
a homegrown one.  He had never heard an accent quite like hers before
husky, rhythmic, and oddly compelling and try as he might he couldn't
place it.

A small, hysterical gasp came from the alleyway.

Hearing it, Ravis glanced out to sea.  It was turning out to be quite a
day: for the first time in his life he had overslept and missed his
passage, and right now, when he should be contacting the one man in the
city who could help him, he was about to do something very rash
instead.

He changed his path.  Cutting across the cobbled road toward the inns
and the alleyway, he felt for his knife.  The movement was smooth,
fluid, almost a reflex action.  For seven years he had entered no
taverns, brothels, private homes, or palaces without first feeling for
his blade.  Hard lessons had been learned the day his bottom lip was
sliced in two.

Ravis stepped into the alley.  Shadows fell on his back.  His eyes took
a moment to grow accustomed to the dark, but his body moved ahead of
his sights.  Out came his knife.  The blade sharpened every morning
before he shaved or splashed water on his face was pointing up.  The
pattern-welded edge was as dark as acid could make it.

Three figures formed a triangle at the alleyway's end.  Two large bulky
men and a woman, back pressed to the wall.  Thrusting his body forward,
Ravis drew zagging lines with his blade.  The steel skin whistled as it
cut the air.  The largest of the two men moved forward to meet him.  He
was canying the tanged, cross-guarded blade of an Istanian mercenary.

Ravis feinted to the left a simple move designed to test the speed of
his opponent's reflexes.  As he pivoted his weight onto his left knee,
Ravis caught a sharp whiff of the tanner's yard.  Falling back into the
space he had just vacated, Ravis took his opponent by surprise.  His
blade sailed toward the man's exposed right flank.

Even as the fabric of the Istanian's tunic parted, Ravis assessed the
threat from the larger man closest to the wall.  Lashing out with his
right foot, he kicked the first man to the ground.  Mud sliding beneath
his boots, he swung toward the wall.  The second man had bloody scratch
marks on his cheek.  Someone with very sharp nails had just raked
through a portion of flaking, scrofulous skin.

Ravis toyed with the idea of marking the other cheek in a similar way
with his blade.  Toyed and then discarded it: far better to go for his
throat.

Ravis worked swiftly.  Moves were shaped by his body with only a
passing bow to his brain.  Keeping the injured man down with a series
of hard kicks to his wounded flank, he struck out at the second man,
sticking arm and shoulder flesh with his knife.  Falling into the
cadence of a well-rehearsed dance, Ravis did what was required of him,
nothing more.  No plays were wasted, no thrusts failed to bite.
Everything was executed with hard-learned thrift.

Oh, he had been party to showier fights, but down a dark alleyway set
well back from Bay Zen's northern harbor, with two men attacking him
and an audience of merely one, show had little meaning.  Ravis could
see no benefit in wasting his talents on the dark.

When finally he pulled his knife from the brittle bone of the second
man's shoulder, he was out of breath and shaking.  A gob of skin and
muscle tissue slid down the wax-stewed leather of his tunic.  As he
turned around to face the third figure, whose presence he had barely
registered during the fight, he worked hard to control his ragged
breaths.  Even in the dark he preferred to keep his weaknesses
concealed.

Are you injured, my lady?  The honorific was probably more than the
woman deserved, but Ravis had known enough prostitutes in his time to
realize that many had better manners than the finest court-bred
maidens.

The woman pressed her slight form against the wall.  She said nothing.
Judging from the play of shadows on her body, she appeared to be
dressed most strangely.  By the gods!  She was wearing men's
britches.

Ravis disguised a deep breath beneath a mocking appraisal.  You're
either a little too early for carnival, my lady, or your last client
had a fancy for a boy.

Where am I?

Ravis was surprised by the anger in the young woman's voice.  Most
prostitutes were skilled masters at parrying insults.  And then there
was that accent again: soft, raspy, rounded.  He tried once more.  Did
someone drug you and bring you to this place?

What is this place?  The woman all but screamed out the words.  In her
frustration she stepped forward into the sliver of light that marked
the alley's center.

Ravis bit on his scar.  Hair the color of dark honey caught the light.
Eyes spindled in black and gold flashed in anger.

If you are not willing to tell me where I am, then you leave me no
choice but to find someone who will.  She stepped over the second man's
body.  Thank you for saving my life, by the w4

Ravis almost laughed; but didn t. As every second passed he was less
sure of who the woman was.  She looked, acted, and spoke like no
prostitute he knew.  Someone must have brought her here either
blindfolded or unconscious.  Catching hold of the woman's ann, he said,
You are near the harbor front.

The woman pulled away.  What harbor front?  What city?  Why are you
dressed like a man from a film?  And why do you sound like a she
struggled for words like a pirate?

Ravis did laugh then.  Long and heartily, his chest pumping hard
against the lacings on his tunic.  The woman looked at him with barely
concealed malice.  She didn't move away, though" he noticed.  After a
moment he calmed himself.

I have been called many things, my lady, in many different cities, but
I have yet to stoop to piracy.  I would need a ship for that, and
following a rather regrettable set of circumstances this morning, a
ship is the one thing I definitely don't have.

Ignoring this statement, the woman said, Please, just tell me where I
am.  She sounded tired now.

Ravis noticed a trickle of blood dripping down her right middle finger.
The source of the cut was hidden by a ring of many-stranded gold. There
was something vaguely familiar about the interlacings of the threads. 
Ravis felt a pulse of unease beat deep within his heart.  You are in
Bay Zen, in the kingdom of Rhaize.

Bay Zen?  What language is that?

My lady, Bay Zen is an ancient city.  Its name goes back further than I
care to recount at this moment.  Ravis glanced at the body of the
second man.  We must go now.

Why?

Why?  Because I have just killed two men this day.  And I don't know
about where you are from, but I assure you that here in Bay Zen they
skin men for less.

Ravis took the woman's arm once more, and when she resisted him this
time, he didn't allow her to pull away.  Marching her out of the
alleyway, he checked the harbor front for likely witnesses.  Everyone
the fishwives, the drunks, the passersby, and the dockworkers were all
looking ostentatiously out to sea.  Which meant everything was worse
than he thought.  They all knew what had gone down in the alley and
were trying, very badly, to pretend that they didn t. The good
citizenry of Bay Zen were famous for many things, but the ability to
hold their tongues wasn't one of them.

Keep your head down, he hissed to the woman, positioning himself so
that his body was between her and the people on the street.  There was
little point in hiding his own identity now, but there was still a
chance the woman might go unnamed.

Where are you taking me?  she demanded.

Lady, for someone on the run you ask far too many questions.  Normally
Ravis would find pleasure in issuing such a tidy reply, but the truth
was he had no idea where he was headed.  He just knew he had to get
away.

The woman struggled to free herself as they raced down the street.
Ravis pressed his fingers deep within her flesh.  She was going
nowhere.  He hadn't saved her just to let her get away.  A foreign
accent, a lack of basic geography, and a ring whose golden strands
defied the eye were just a few of the things that intrigued him.

Ravis marched the woman on a course back toward the main docks.  With
rows of tall ships, mazes of rigging, and a fleet full of street girls
and merchant seamen on the move, it was the perfect place to fall in
with the crowd.  Of course it didn't help matters that the woman was
dressed like a boy.  Ravis shrugged.  The port city of Bay Zen had seen
stranger things in its day.

As he drew level with the gangway that had been so recently vacated by
Clover's Fourth, Ravis spied the dockhand he had spoken to earlier. The
man was sitting on the dock, legs swinging out above the water, an un
stoppered flask in his hand.

Hey!  You!  Ravis cried.

The dockhand looked up, squinted, and then laid a palm on his chest.
Me?

Yes, you.  Ravis beckoned him over.

Draining the last drop from his flask, the dockhand scrambled to his
feet.  He was dressed in flamboyant rags, like an actor playing the part
of a beggar.  His green linen britches flapped about his ankles, and
his flour-sacking tunic was tied and belted with string.  He scuttled
forward quickly, walking with his shoulders hunched and back bent in
the manner of a man twice his age.  When he spotted the woman standing
behind Ravis, he touched his forelock with exaggerated respect.  Good
day to you, miss, he said, his gaze dropping swiftly to her leg wear

The woman opened her mouth to reply, but Ravis silenced her by scoring
his fingernails into her shoulder.

A thin cry sounded in the distance.  Other cries followed quickly.
Ravis guessed the two bodies had been found.  There was no time to
waste.  Turning to the dockhand, he said,

Earlier you mentioned you had a place where I could stay until the next
ship sailed south.  Take me there now.

The dockhand lifted his chin in the direction the cries had come from.
Matter of some urgency, is it?

THE BARBED COIL 4. 29

Ravis was losing his patience.  Reaching forward, he grabbed the
strings of the man's tunic.  Take me there now or I'll slit your belly
where you stand and leave your innards for the gulls.

The woman gasped.

The dockhand nodded.  Aye, he said calmly.  If that's the way it is, my
lord, you'd better come with me.

THREE

am ron finished the letter and then leaned back in his chair.  His head
ached and his thoughts didn't seem as clear as they had earlier.
Clenching his fist, he beat down on the letter and the table beneath.
There was no way to get around it: his father was going to be hurt.

Berick of Thorn was a great and noble man everyone said it.  Yet
sometimes Caruron thought his father was too great, too noble.  It was
hard to argue with a legend.  Cameron took a deep breath, then
unclenched his fist.  He had to believe that what he was doing was
right.

He could leave right now, with no warning, retreating into the darkness
like a smuggler rowing out against the tide.  That wasn't his way,
though.  Disagreements were one thing, deception another.  Caruron
smiled gently, but not without bitterness.  Perhaps he had more of his
father in him than he knew.

Uncomfortable with that thought, Camron stood and made his way across
the room.  Flinging back the shutters, he looked outside, searching for
something, anything, to distract him.  The lights of Bay Zen sparkled
to the west and Camron focused upon them with almost mad intent.  He
didn't notice the quill still nestled in his hand.  He didn't feel its
tip jab hard against his leg.

The letter was all but done now it waited upon a signature, nothing
more.  Camron could imagine his father reading it, the parchment held
only as close as his fierce pride would allow, the tendons on his
wrists taut with the strain of steadying his grip.  Only Camron knew
just how hard his father worked to prevent his hands from shaking.

It was then, thinking about his father's courage the terrible strength
of his will now pitted almost exclusively against the slow wasting of
his limbs that Camron knew he had to deliver the letter himself.  He
owed his father that.

Back at the oak wood desk, he brought the quill to the ink.  A drop of
his blood gleamed upon the tip.  Cainron shrugged, dipping the nib into
the silver pot and replacing the red bead with black.  With a heavy
hand he signed his name.  Cameron of Thorn.  It was a formal signature,
but then it was a formal letter: a notice of leave taking and a
declaration of intent.

Harsh words had been said earlier.  Words that even now, hours later,
brought heat to Cameron's face.  He loved his father, but things had
been said and ultimatums had been given, and now there was no going
back.

Camron shaved a portion of sealing wax from the block and held it in a
spoon above the flame.  Tinted by a complex mixture of sulfates and
vegetable dyes, the wax had an unmistakable purple cast.  It was the
color of veins stretched over bone.  Besides Cameron and his father,
only one other person on the continent sealed his letters with that
hue.

When the wax smoked and turned to liquid amethyst, Cameron let it spill
upon the page.  He stamped it with a seal that he kept inside a box,
and then, just as the wax began to harden and bloom, he scored a C upon
it with his n8il.  The sight of the crude initial made Cameron frown.
He hadn't sealed a letter that way for years.  When he was just a boy,
before he had been allowed to use the family emblem or colors, he had
sealed all his letters with a C. His father had insisted upon it,
saying he always wanted to be sure of reading his son's letters
first.

Camron tugged his hands through his hair.  Closing his eyes for a
moment, he tried hard to find some peace.

There was none to be found.  He and his father had moved too far apart,
their differences were too many.  Berick refused to move against the
Garizon king.  He wanted to watch and wait and see.  Camron respected
his father sjudgment in all things, but he was wrong about this.  You
didn't watch a man like Izgard of Garizon, you destroyed him before he
destroyed you.

Camron heard a faint sound in the distance.  Smashing pottery.  One of
the servants must have dropped a tray.  The noise prompted him to
action.  Slipping the letter inside his oxblood tunic, Camron made his
way down to his father's apartments.

Castle Bess was situated on the coast southeast of Bay Zen.  Like a
crab, it nestled amid the rocks and tidal pools: dark, secretive,
shielded.  It was not an elegant structure like the manor house at
Runzy.  There were no gardens, or fountains, or dainty facades, no
courtyards or shaded arbors or palisades.  There were stone walls cut
ten paces deep and foundations that bored straight down to hell.  It
was a Garizon-built castle in the heart of Rhaize, and there were a
score of others like it along the coast.

Garizon had twice conquered and occupied Rhaize.  Once five centuries
ago in the dark, chaos-filled days following the breakup of the
Istanian empire, and then again three hundred years later during the
time of the plague.  Fifty years ago they had tried again.

And Berick of Thorn, Camron's father and the person he was about to
leave to his life of nursing stick-thin bones and muslin-thin skin, was
the man who had smashed the Garizon forces at Mount Creed.  Nineteen,
Berick was.  Nineteen, commanding a force of twenty thousand men.  The
Garizons had not been expecting opposition.  The Sire and his forces
had traveled to the lower south for the Shrine Wars, and Berick had
been forced to raise an army single-handed.  The Battle of Mount Creed
was one of the bloodiest in history..  Forty thousand men died over two
days and a night.  Berick had won a hard-fought victory, coming down
from the mountain with less than fifteen hundred men.

Caruron pressed his lips into a hard line.  That victory had lain
heavily on his father's mind for half a century.  Only hours earlier,
in the heat of their fight, when Cameron had blasted his father for
refusing to take action against the Garizon king, Berick had cried:

What value is victory when all a nation's sons are dead?  That was at
the heart of the matter: his father's conscience.  Berick lived every
day with regret.  Every night he dreamed of forty thousand corpses laid
out upon the northern face of Mount Creed.

At nineteen Berick of Thorn had been a general.  At twenty he was a
diplomat, a politician, a man of peace.

Slowly Camron shook his head.  Peace was a fool's policy now that
Izgard was king.

Footfalls sounded in the distance.  Camron tensed for the briefest of
moments, then relaxed.  It was the mghtwatch taking their positions
for dusk.  A little later than usual, but then everyone in the castle
knew that Hum's normal punctuality was currently waylaid by lust.  The
captain of the guards was attempting to bed the plump, beautiful, and
famously cool shouldered Catilyn of Benquis.

More footsteps padded softly below.  The tiniest of warnings pulsed
high in Camron's cheek.  The castle guards were not known for stepping
lightly.  Hum insisted that all his men wear stiff, boiled leather
boots.

Caruron stopped for a moment and listened.  Nothing.  The only sound
came from cooling beams shifting in their couchings.  He hurried
downward: something wasn't right.

He saw the blood before he saw the body.  At first he thought it was a
cloak a wide flare of crimson spread over the bottom three steps then
he spied a pale hand trailing in the pool of silk.  Camron's gaze
traced the line of an arm up through the shadows to a torso of raw
meat.  The guard, a young nephew of Hum new to his post this past
winter, had been sliced open from throat to groin in a series of clean
butcher's cuts.  The skin and soft tissue beneath had been pared from
the rib cage, then pulled back to expose the heart.

A ritual slaying.

Cameron's stomach clenched shut like a trap.

Fat he

The pulse in his cheek became a sharp, rapping pain.  The world
sloughed away to a single, desperate line.  The distance separating
Camron from his father's study was the one thing that mattered in the
black pit that had become the night.

Cameron moved with the savage intent of a madman.  He saw, heard, and
felt nothing unless it was directly in his path.  His life was reduced
to a series of doorways and passages.  He had no weapon, no plan, no
thought for himself: everything that counted lay dead ahead.

Distances were measured in heartbeats.  Seconds passed like jabbing
needles through his heart.  The sound of his feet slapping against the
stone was the only thing he heard as he ran.  Camron raced across the
main hall and into the solarium beyond, down through the south wing and
up to his father's apartments.

Two guards lay dead at the entrance.  Camron's throat tightened.  His
gaze flicked from one body to the other.  No ritual slaying for these
men: cross bolts fired at close distance.  Dimly Camron was aware of
what that meant, but his hands were on the door and his mind was bent
on reaching his father, and anything that had no bearing on those
things didn't count.

Father!

Camron burst into the room screaming.  A rancid animal smell, like
bones left to rot in a lair, filled his lungs on his first breath.  The
blaze in the great hearth dazzled him.  Dark forms moved around it like
witches about a cauldron.  A seam of blind terror shot through Camron's
temples, sharp as a metal spike.  He felt sick with fear.  The room was
crowded with light.  The air itself was heavy as a blanket.  Camron had
to push his way through it like a diver through water.  He had a knife
in his hand though he had no memory of where it came from and he
brought the blade forward to slice his way through.

A low, cackling laugh sounded to his left, and Camron whipped his head
round.  A face emerged from the light.  Teeth bared, nostrils
quivering, it was barely recognizable as a man.  Even as a fresh wave
of terror crackled down Camron's spine, anger rose up to meet it.  This
was his home.

Throwing his arms against the light, he beat his way toward the
cackling face.  The dark forms by the fire made no move to intercept
him.  Only bodies blocked his path.  Camron stepped over men he had
broken his fast with at dawn: Hum; his second, Mallech; and his father's
old servant, Bethney.  Limbs were torn from bodies, entrails seeped
from wounds.  Drying blood sucked at the soles of Caruron's shoes.

He reached the cackling figure.  The light began to dim.  Shadows and
shadings began to reshape the room.  Camron found himself close to a
bookcase.  The figure in front of him grew silent; now that
recognizable forms were emerging from the brightness, he was beginning
to look more like a man.  Was it a trick of the light that had turned
him into a monster?

All questions slipped from Cameron's mind as he spied the body at the
man's feet.  The green robe, the gray hair, the worn leather sandals:
it was his father.

Cam on's throat closed.  Breath turned to ice in his chest.

He fell upon the body.  Tearing away his father's tunic, he clamped his
fist against the open wound.  Blood pooled around his fingers as his
hand sank into the unresisting muscle below.  Scared, Camron pulled
away and began pumping at his father's chest, striking the rib cage
with increasing force until one of the old bones snapped beneath his
fist.  Biting back a cry, Camron picked up the body and hugged it fast
against his chest, smothering, shaking, then cradling determined not to
let his father go.

The figures by the fire began to move toward the door heads bowed,
their bloodied swords bounced light across their faces.  Cameron knew
they wouldn't touch him.  The ritual slaying by the stairs had been
meant as a marker.  Someone wanted him to bear witness to this cam age
Someone had exacted revenge and issued a warning and left one man
standing to tell the tale.

The armed figures filed out of the room.  Just men now.  Just a room.

The one who had laughed walked away.  When he reached the door he threw
something down upon the rug.  By the time the object landed the man was
gone.

Cameron held his father's head in his lap.  With a small movement, he
brushed the hair from his face.  Such fine gray locks.  Silver almost.
Funny how he had never noticed just how bright his father's hair was.
Cameron swallowed hard.  Closing his eyes for a moment, he reached for
his father's hand.  A childhood's worth of memories pressed against his
thoughts, and for one brief moment he expected his father to meet him
halfway.

The body in his arms was unresponsive.  A tight band of pain ringed
Cameron's chest.  The letter was a lead plate against his heart.  Dear
father, it read, I am leaving Bay Zen tonight.  I can no longer honor
your wish for peace.  I must take action of my own against the Garizon
king.

Cameron opened his eyes and saw a room sprayed red.  He scanned the
bodies of the three men he had known and respected before his gaze came
home to his father.  For the first time he noticed a knife in his
father's right hand.  Bone-thin fingers were curled around a blade
tipped with blood.

Seeing it, Camron clenched his fists so hard they shook.  Berick of
Thorn had gone down fighting.  This great man, who had fought wars in
his youth and long-held beliefs in his prime, had taken up a knife and
defended himself against his attackers.  He was almost seventy years
old.

Cainron nestled close to his father's body, trying to press back the
heat; he couldn't bear the thought of him growing cold.  Only hours
earlier, in this same room, with the afternoon sun slanting obliquely
through the rosewood shutters, Camron of Thorn had called his father a
coward.

So where are you from, then, miss?  The woman, who had introduced
herself as Widow Furbish, sister to the dockhand named Swigg, reached
forward and touched the fabric of Tessa's blouse.  Must have come from
somewhere fancy, with linen as smooth as that.

Tessa opened her mouth to say that the fabric was in fact cotton, not
linen, then held her peace instead.  She wasn't sure if the woman would
know what cotton was.

You must be a mite cold with such a thin stretch of cloth on.  Widow
Furbish walked over to the shutters and opened them wide.  Are you sure
you wouldn't like to change into something warmer?

A cool breeze cut through the room.  Tessa shivered.  She had been fine
until the shutter was opened.  Do you have a shawl I could borrow?

Widow Furbish shook her head emphatically.  She was older and heavier
than her brother.  When Tessa had first met her, she was wearing an
elaborately embroidered eyepatch over her left eye.  Now the eyepatch
was pushed up to her forehead, revealing a perfectly fine, if rather
beady, eye beneath.  No shawl, miss.  No.  But I do have a warm woolen
dress I could give you.  As she spoke, she opened the second set of
shutters.

The smell of decaying vegetables, rotten meat, and urine wafted up from
the river below.  Tessa took shallow breaths.  How could people live
with such a stench?

Of course, I'd need something of yours in return.  Widow Furbish
waggled a fat finger.  Favor for a favor, as they say.

Tessa frowned.  She had figured out some time earlier that the woman
wanted her blouse.  Sky blue with white buttons and a single breast
pocket, it really wasn't much of a prize.  Very well, she said.  You
can have my clothes in exchange for a dress.

Both of Widow Furbish's eyes narrowed, though the one that had been
under the patch shrank the most.  All of them?

Yes, all of them.  But I want to see the dress first.

Widow Furbish looked set to protest her cheeks puffed out, her finger
came up, and her lips shrunk ready for spitting but after a moment she
swallowed hard, made an odd pecking motion with her head, and left the
room.

Tessa drew a huge sigh of relief.  Alone at last.

She stood up and walked across the rush-strewn floor to the first of
the windows.  Her hands crisscrossed her body with every step:
scratching, swatting, flicking.  Mosquitoes buzzed past her collar and
cuffs, and an acrobatic flea was busy hopping down the length of her
arm.  The place was crawling with vermin.  Other creatures crawled up
Tessa's back and inside her jeans, their touch as light as dangling
thread.  Tessa slapped at her legs and shoulders, flattening.  She
hated bugs.

As she pulled her left hand off her blouse, she heard the fabric rip.
Damn.  It was the ring.  Its barbed edges had caught on the shoulder
seam.  She had completely forgotten she was wearing it.  Carefully she
freed the ring from the cotton fibers, working the fabric over the gold
until she could pull her hand free.  Her palm was still caked with
blood, but apart from a faint itching sensation at the base of her
middle finger, she felt no pain.

The light in the room came from a smoking brass lantern, and Tessa
moved toward it to better see the ring.  Sulfurous fumes caught in her
throat as the dim mustard flame cast its glow upon the gold.  What
would happen if she took it off?  Would she return to the glade?

And if she could, did she want to?

The last thing Tessa remembered of the forest was the smell of dry
grass.  She remembered it clearly because it stayed with her through
the journey or whatever it was that had brought her here.  The sound of
the ocean and the smell of dry grass.

There was pain and darkness, then light.  There were separate instances
like dots upon a page: pain, anticipation, and fear.  Tessa remembered
moving through each state stomach hollowing, rib cage pressing lung
against lung, eyelids like heavy coins against her face.  She
remembered the exact instant when the stench of the alleyway replaced
the smell of dry grass.  And then the very sun itself changed angles.

From west to east it moved.  Not in one quick shift, but in a gradual
turn.  Tessa felt the sunlight pass from her right cheek to her left in
a continuous, slow-moving arc.  In all her life she had never
experienced anything like it.  Her body, her soul, and most of all her
skin reeled with the sheer force of the shock..  The sun never moved
that way.  Never

Then, as the sun settled into place and new sounds slipped in with the
sea, she opened her eyes.

Everything had changed.  Seagulls shrieked above her head.  Dogs
barked, pigs squealed, geese honked.  The smell of the place was
overpowering.  The sweet, sickly odor of rotting vegetation vied with
the smell of the sea.  Sunlight blazed across her face and the wind
ragged along her body, pushing her blouse against her chest.  Rats
scuttled and bluebottles hummed.  Tessa's head spun with all the new
sensations.  Her feet slipped in something that she hoped very much was
mud, and as she tried to right herself two men approached.  Seeing
them, Tessa realized that everything hadn't changed after all.  Men
were still men.  And strangers were still dangerous.

She stepped from the sunlight running down the center of the alley into
the shade of the wall.  The two men one large and fleshy and one just
large stepped with her.  Tessa shivered.  The shade was colder than she
expected.  Keeping her eye on the two men, she moved back, using her an
ides to feel the way.

When her left anlde smashed into a wall she knew she was in trouble.
Spinning around, she came face-to-face with a dead end.  Even as she
turned back, she heard the first man shout:

Let's have her.

Tessa saw them coming for her.  She saw them draw their knives.  A fist
of pure fear slammed down her spine, and in that instant she did
something she hadn't done for twenty one years.

She screamed.

A note high and clear came from her lips.  It rose like a battle cry,
cutting through rival sounds as if it were a blade.  With it came
memories of warnings long given and well heeded.  Tessa, remember the
porter's whistle.... Don't get excited.... Stay clear of loud noises.."
and never ever scream.

The two men stopped in their tracks.  Finished, Tessa pressed her lips
together.  She held her breath.  Waiting.  It took her a moment to
realize what she was waiting for: the ringing to begin in her head.
Seconds passed.  The noise didn't come.  The only sound from inside was
the rap of her heart.  Something deep within her relaxed.  There was no
metal rasping.  No punishment.  There was silence where there should
have been noise.

When the two men stepped closer, she screamed again.  Words this time,
loud and clear: Get away from me!  There was power in her voice she
could feel it.  Once again the two men hesitated.  The fleshy man
glanced sideways at his accomplice, waiting for a nod to carry on.
Tessa had her eye on his knife, and when it swung toward her in a
wavering curve, a short gasp of horror escaped from her lips.  And then
she scratched the knife-man's face.

After that things moved too quickly to track.  A stranger appeared out
of nowhere and attacked both men.  Wasting nothing of himself as he
fought, the stranger took no breath that wasn't needed, landed no blow
that didn't count.  Tessa remembered feeling blood spray across her
face as the stranger flicked his knife clean between stabbings.  She
heard his teeth grind together as he moved in for the kill.  It took
him less than two minutes to dispose of both men.  Tessa didn't want to
remember the soft hiss of their flesh and last breaths.

When it was over and his knife was back at his waist, the stranger
turned to her.  His face was yet another surprise in a day brim full
with them.  Dark hair, dark eyes, and a full bottom lip with a scar
cutting through to the left.  He had the richest voice she had ever
heard; low and soft, it seemed to come from the space directly behind
his scar.  Tessa had been about to tell him he sounded like an actor
when she chose the word pirate instead.  He sounded far more dangerous
than any man on a stage.

A fact that was proven true only five minutes later when he threatened
to kill the dockhand Swigg if his orders weren't obeyed.

The hour that followed was the strangest one of her life.  Swigg took
them on a journey through the heart of the city and into the fringes
beyond.  Up until that point, Tessa hadn't given any thought to her
surroundings fear liked a clean slate to work with but as she walked
down lanes piled high with refuse, pushing past small-eyed, angry hens
and dogs nursing crusted wounds, the truth began to sink in.

She was somewhere else entirely.

Not in a different land, or a different time, but an altogether
different place.

Bay Zen, the man who called himself Ravis had said.  Northernmost city
in the kingdom of Rhaize, greatest port upon the Mettle Sea.  Tessa
thought at first she knew these names they were oddly familiar and
sounded right upon the tongue yet when she tried to place them, her
mind came up blank.

The city itself was a dense, narrow-streeted maze of buckled buildings.
White and gray stone structures, sinking beneath their own weight, were
propped up by huge black timbers that wept turpentine under the strain.
Strings of mist escaped from covered wells, and piles of refuse smoked
as they decomposed.  High lichen-corroded walls cut down the light, and
brightly painted doorways and shop fronts shone out of the dimness like
lit signs.

Tessa was overwhelmed.  She couldn't take it all in..  As Swigg led
them through a series of increasingly busy streets, noises assaulted
her senses.  The jarring sound of metal hammered against metal rang in
one street, the sound of sawing timber in the next, a huge market
square was filled with the flapping and cawing of birds in bamboo
cages, and on every other street corner young women wearing black lace
hoods called out to passing men.

Nothing had any effect on Tessa's hearing.  She frowned.  Here, in this
strange city filled with a carnival of noises, she had finally found
some peace.

Turning to Ravis, she had said, Tell me about Bay Zen.

Ravis gave her a hard look.  After glancing ahead at Swigg, he leaned
close and murmured, Bay Zen is a beast marked for the kill.

Tessa shivered.  Ravis voice was cold.  There was a glint of something
hidden in his eyes.  Unnerved, she pulled away.  He made no move to
stop her, and they walked the rest of the way in silence, feet apart.

Swigg led them down to the riverbank.  Swarms of darting mayflies
formed squalls across their path, while dragonflies and mosquitoes
stalked beggars in the shade.  The smell became unbearable.  Even to
Tessa's untrained eye, the district seemed to have taken a turn for the
worse.  Houses squatted close to the ground, shutters rotting on the
hinge, walls crumbling to dust.

The river itself was more mud than water.  Banks of gray brown silt
flared wide to either side.  A stone bridge arched across its width,
and Swigg guided them toward it.

Buildings crowded along the bridge's length, some leaning out over the
river on stilts and others meeting in the middle to form tunnels. Swigg
came to an abrupt stop by a door boasting the sign WIDOW FURBISH

FORTUNE-TELLER TO

THE MERCHANT CLASSES AND SEAMSTRESS TO THE

HOLY LEAGUE.

Widow Furbish promptly manifested her powers of foretelling by opening
the door before them.

Tessa's first instinct was to step back.  The woman was large and
heavy, with a network of broken veins across her nose and a gold,
embroidered eyepatch over her left eye.

You're late she said to Swigg.  And you've been drinking.  Her voice
was flatter than the floorboards she stood on.

Swigg shrugged magnificently, his shoulders reaching up to his ears.
His gaze circled the sky like a vulture in mid flight before coming to
land on Ravis.  I have visitors, my little herring.

Catching sight of Ravis, Widow Furbish underwent something close to a
metamorphosis.  Her thin lips fattened to cushions and her eyebrows
parted like gates.  After a quick scan around to ensure no one was
looking, she pushed the eyepatch away from her eye.  Aah, guests. Come!
 Come!  Swigg, hurry inside and pour some arlo for our friends.

The two-year?  asked Swigg.

Tessa, fearing the sight of slack eye sockets or sewn-up eyelids, had
closed her eyes the moment the widow's patch went up.  When she opened
them again, she not only saw that Widow Furbish did in fact have two
perfectly good eyes, but also that both of them were now trained on
Ravis kid-leather tunic.

Gaze rising from Ravis tunic to the gold medallion at his throat, the
widow said, Let's open the seven-year flask.

Just before Tessa walked over the threshold, Ravis caught hold of her
arm.  Tell these people nothing about yourself, he hissed.

Arlo tasted vaguely of apples, and burned going down.  Until she took a
mouthful, Tessa hadn't realized how much she needed a drink.  Without a
doubt it had been the strangest day of her life.  Funny, but not once
during the whole day had she thought she was imagining it all.  Bay Zen
was real, Ravis was real, and arlo was so strong and biting that it
could never have existed in a dream.

My lady friend and I need shelter for a night or two,

madam.  And your worthy brother was good enough to offer us refuge.
Ravis bowed from brother to sister as he spoke.

They were sitting in Widow Furbish's parlor, a gloomy room with many
cupboards.  Widow Furbish filled Ravis glass.  Tessa's was also empty,
but the good lady chose to ignore that fact.  Swigg takes after our
dear papa, she said, fat fingers toying with the strings of her patch.
Hospitality nestles in the bosom of our family.

You are both very kind.

Widow Furbish nodded with satisfaction, as if receiving the exact cue
she had hoped for.  Just as you are generous.

Ravis showed his teeth.  Madam, I have already given your brother my
last gold crown as a deposit.  Would you demand the rest up front like
a bath keeper or a bawd?

Widow Furbish slapped a large hand to her chest.  Sir, I am seamstress
to the Bay Zen Holy League.  My reputation is second to none.

Tessa looked at Widow Furbish's big-knuckled hands.  Seamstress?

Madam, Ravis said smoothly, I meant no offense.  You are obviously a
good woman who keeps a highly reputable house.  Now, if you will excuse
me, I must take my leave for a short while.  I trust you will keep my
companion entertained in my absence.  With that he rose and walked
toward the door.  Think of her as a further deposit.

As soon as Ravis left, the flask containing the seven year-old arlo was
returned to one of the many cupboards.  Swigg mumbled something about
seeing to his vats and scuttled out of the room before his sister had
chance to object.  Widow Furbish snorted but made no attempt to stop
him.  Having collected and counted all four arlo glasses and flicked an
offending speck of dust from her sleeve, she turned her attention to
Tessa.

How long have you known Lord Ravis?  she asked, pulling up a high stool
and sitting barely a foot away from Tessa's knees.

Oh, it seems as if we've known each other forever, Tessa said with a
dismissive wave of her hand.  Dodging questions was a way of life for
her she had never felt comfortable talking about herself.  There was so
little to say.

The next hour passed with Widow Furbish questioning Tessa's accent, her
marital status, her occupation, her relationship with Ravis, and her
age.  When the good lady failed to get the answers she required, she
moved on to the subject of Tessa's clothing.  For some reason she
seemed especially interested in the blouse, and when, she offered to
swap one of her dresses for it, Tessa quickly accepted.  She knew that
if she was going to stay in this place, she needed to look like
everyone else.

Which brought her straight back to the question of the ring!  Tessa
glanced at the gold strands glowing in the lamplight.  Was she going to
stay here?  Did she want to?  And, when it finally came down to it, did
she have a choice?

Widow Furbish could be heard rummaging through chests in the next room,
looking for a dress that would fit.  Tessa had a feeling that the one
she chose would be ugly, shapeless, and dull.  Widow Furbish was not a
woman's woman.

Frowning, Tessa crossed to the window.  She wasn't sure what she felt
about being here.  Everything had happened so fast, she hadn't had time
to form opinions.  Bay Zen wasn't some magical fairyland where
everything was peaceful and pretty.  It was a real place, with real
people and real dangers.  In the space of one day she had been
attacked, rescued, marched through a city, and then left in a lodging
house in lieu of a deposit.  Events moved swiftly here, and Tessa had a
feeling that she had somehow been thrown into the middle of them.

There seemed little for her to return home for.  Her parents loved but
didn't need her.  Living close to a golf course in Arizona, they were
just settling down to enjoy their retirement.  Whenever Tessa called
they always seemed to be on their way out to play bridge or a round of
golf or to visit with friends.  Tessa was glad they were happy, secure
in the knowledge they were safe.

She had no friends to worry about, she never had.  There was always a
distance between herself and other people.  She found them hard to
judge, got wary when they drew too close.  People called her shy, but
Tessa didn't feel shy, just reserved.  She had never felt free to make
commitments.

Her possess ious had never amounted to much.  Her rented apartment
contained only the barest amount of furniture.  Her wardrobe contained
just a minimum of clothes.  Even her car was over ten years old.  There
was nothing and no one to draw her home.

Nothing and no one.

Tessa felt a prickling sensation at the back of her neck.  Against her
will, she remembered the journey through the forest.  She remembered
thinking how she never seemed to get where she wanted to go.  She
glanced through the window to the city beyond.  Had she finally got
here at last?

Slowly, very slowly, Tessa's hand came up to grasp the ring.  The outer
barbs had lost their bite and her fingertips could press against them
without fear of piercing the skin.  Grasping the ring between thumb and
index finger, she began to pull it off.  Pain stung her bone as she
twisted the band up toward the knuckle.  Then, as the inner barbs broke
free of the skin and the ring slid along her finger, Tessa felt a
shearing sensation pass along her body.  Noises, light as feathers,
skimmed past her ears and a warm breath of air glided across her
face.

As soon as the ring was free of her finger everything stopped.  Tensed,
ready for something she could neither name nor imagine, Tessa felt only
relief when she found nothing had changed.

She was still in Widow Furbish's parlor.  Mosquitoes still pestered and
the oil lamp still smoked.

Drops of dried blood were set within the latticework of the ring like
jewels.  Their presence changed the pattern, making it easier to follow
with the eye.  The gold threads now had markers.

Here we are!  Found the dress.  The color's a little wanting, but the
quality of the fabric is second to none.  Widow Furbish burst in the
room, brandishing something that looked like a horse blanket.  Here she
said, thrusting the shapeless cloth into Tessa's hands.  Feel the
quality.

Tessa closed her fist around the ring.  Widow Furbish's sharp eyes
caught the movement.  Very nice, said Tessa, speaking to distract her.
Very..  . er... durable.

Durable!  Durable!  Why, this is fine Taire wool.  Worth more than any
fancy linen blouse from overseas.  Widow

Furbish looked pointedly at Tessa's fist.  Worth over two gold crowns
at market.

A deal is a deal, Widow Furbish.  The dress in exchange for my clothes.
Nothing more.

Widow Furbish's mouth hovered like a wasp contemplating a sting.  Her
left hand plucked at the strings of her eyepatch.

However: Tessa said, surprising herself with the shift of her thoughts,
if you can get me something to draw with and a clean sheet of paper,
you can have one of these.  Reaching up, Tessa uncipped a gold earring
from her ear.  She held it out toward Widow Furbish.

Paper?

Tessa thought for a moment.  Parchment, slate anything will do?

I've got a length of charcoal and a smoothed hide.  Widow Furbish took
the earring.  Though the hide alone is worth the pair.

Nodding, Tessa undipped the second earring.  Bring them now while I try
on the dress.

As soon as the woman left the room, Tessa opened her fist.  She didn't
know why, but all of a sudden she had a strong desire to try to copy
the separate threads in the ring.  It was the blood, she supposed.  It
gave the gold depth by adding contrast, made the whole thing easier to
see.  Tessa felt as if she could trace the lines to their source and
discover the design behind the curves.

Quickly she shrugged off her clothes.  With the shutters open the
parlor was cold and she wasted no time pulling the dress over her head.
The fabric was rough, but her skin had already been assaulted by fleas
and dive-bombed by mosquitoes, so a little coarse wool was merely one
irritation more.  The dress didn't come even close to fitting.  It was
made for a woman shorter, plumper, and Tessa judged more thick skinned
than she.  Briefly it occurred to her to ask Widow Furbish to take it
in, but she rejected that idea.  Despite the sign outside the door, the
lady of the house couldn't look less like a seamstress.

Charcoal.  Bleached cow's hide.  Widow Furbish reentered the room and
handed over the items.  Looking Tessa up and down, she sniffed with
satisfaction.  Decent at last, I see.

Tessa ran her fingers over the hide: it was very rough.  Is there
anywhere I can be alone?

There's the stock room but I'm not lighting a fire, and I can only give
you tallow, not a lamp.

Not really sure what tallow was, Tessa nodded.  Sounds fine.  I just
want somewhere quiet to work.

Quiet?  Why on earth would you want anywhere quiet?  Widow Furbish
looked genuinely perplexed.  She shrugged.

Ah well.  Follow me.

The stock room was filled with bolts of clothes, pincushions, reels of
thread, and ribbons.  As soon as Widow Furbish left mumbling warnings
about touching the wares and pilfering the trim Tessa placed the hide
on a chest and knelt beside it.  Tallow turned out to be some kind of
candle, only smokier, and she brought the flame forward to better
inspect the ring.

Knees resting on floorboards covered in hay, eyes squinting from the
smoke, and palms damp with sweat, Tessa began to draw.  The charcoal
was brittle and inclined to break.  The hide was rough and knotted; odd
hairs from the cow still clung to the underside, and the flesh side was
creased with lines.  Nothing mattered.  Tessa sketched on and on.
Tracing and retracing, studying, smudging, judging angles and curves:
trying to copy the ring.

She drew for hours.  At first she was tense, waiting for the first
telltale signs of tinnitus to reappear, but after a while, when the
only sounds reaching her ears were the distant hoot of an owl and the
creaking of cooling wood, she began to relax, letting her newfound
freedom work its way onto the page.

FOUR
're
both men dead?  Izgard of Garizon shrugged off his crown of gold.
Some kings, it was said, had bled to death after wearing the Coil.

Izgard's skin wasn't even broken.

The scribe Ederius looked tired and ill.  The moment he hesitated,
Izgard knew something was wrong.  Tell me, my friend Izgard said,
bringing a hand up to rest on Ederius shoulder, what happened?

Ederius was old and thin and silver haired.  His flesh shook beneath
Izgard's palm.  Sire, something went wrong a miscalculation, a
mistiming, a curve gone awry.

Izgard's fingers idled along the scribe's collarbone.  You wouldn't
tell me they are both still alive.

No, sire, Ederius said quickly, his whole body shrinking from the touch
of his king.  One is dead.  The raid on Castle Bess went as planned.

And the son?

The son was left alive

Izgard nodded, once.  Good.

They were in Ederius makeshift scriptonum.  Pots of powders, dyes,
inks, and brushes huddled on trestle tables, scenting the air with a
chemical tang.  The largest windows in the fortress, cut barely a month
ago to Ederius exact requirements, were shuttered for the night, and
three custom-made candelabras blazed in place of the sun.

It was the first killing that didn't go as planned, Ederius said, his
feet scraping softly against the bare stone floor.  Rushes were seldom
spread in a scriptorium the vermin they harbored could distract a
scribe during a vital pen stroke causing a break in concentration that
might take hours to rebuild.

I thought everything was in place, Ederius continued.

I was sure I'd done my part.

What went wrong?

Sire, I do not know.  The harras turned up as planned, but the man wasn't
there.

You were supposed to ensure he was there.  Izgard's voice was soft
enough to soothe a fretful baby.  His fingers continued drumming along
the scribe's left collarbone.

I made the illumination..  . I felt it working.  I thought all was
going welU Ederius attempted to shrug, but Izgard pressed hard on his
bone and wouldn't let him.  I was weary, and I had to draw a second
illumination to strengthen the harras we had to be sure they would
defeat the guards at Castle Bess.

So you rushed the first illumination?

No, sire.  No.  Ederius actually managed to sound indignant.  The
pattern was a simple one.  There was no need to rush it.

Izgard took a thin breath and said, Let me understand this: you are
telling me that you did your part and the harras did theirs?  So how
then did our old friend escape?

I do not think escape is the right word, sire.  Just as I began the
second pattern I felt something what I can't be sure but someone or
something intervened on his behalf.

Why then did you not take measures to stop it?  Izgard's voice was a
whisper now.  His fingers pitter-pattered along the scribe's
shoulder.

At the time I wasn't sure, I

Izgard slammed the heel of his hand into Ederius collar.  The bone
split as easily as rotten timber, and it made the same damp, muffled
crack. The scribe screamed.  His hand shot up to his collar. 
Fingertips black with ink grasped at the knot of bone.  Pigment pots
rolled along the desk, some smashing to the floor.

Izgard drew his fist to his chest and held it there.  He wanted to
strike Ederius again.  The desire was strong stronger than the times
before and for a moment his whole body shook as he fought it.

The scribe collapsed downward in his chair, shuddering and crying
softly.  Watching him, Izgard was struck by the way the light from the
candles shone upon the old man's skin.  Ederius looked like a painting
by one of the great Veizach masters.  This observation calmed Izgard,
and after a moment he trusted himself enough to reach out and touch the
scribe.

Ssh, Ederius.  Ssh.

The bone was broken.  A jagged point pressed against the coarse wool of
Ederius tunic.  Even as the scribe's eyes filled with tears, he let
himself be calmed by his king, nuzzling his cheek against Izgard's palm
and pressing his lips together to hold back cries of pain.

Izgard fought back a stab of regret, reminding himself that the man had
deserved the blow.  The pain will pass, he said after a moment,
touching Ederius jaw to force him to look up.  You should know enough
about my position by now to realize that I cannot afford to let anyone
who fails me go unpunished.  He waited for Ederius to nod.  Good.  I
will send the surgeon to you at once.

Izgard ran his finger down Edenus throat, pausing to smooth a flap of
loose skin that hung from the scribe's jaw like a yellowing leaf, and
then walked across the room.  The man's muffled whimpering accompanied
him to the door.  By the way, Izgard said, spinning around upon the
threshold, I expect you to be back at your scribing desk by dawn.

He didn't bother to wait upon an answer.  His point was made.

Izgard took a deep breath as soon as the door clicked shutl He was
surprised to find himself trembling.  When he first struck the scribe
there had been a moment when he felt out of control.  Something inside
of him had not wanted to stop.

Letting the air roll out of his lungs, Izgard forced himself to shrug.
His anger had been justified.  Ederius needed to realize that things
were different now.  They were no longer friends.  The time when the
Barbed Coil drove them closer had passed.  All those years spent
planning, struggling, and fighting had finally paid off.  They had both
got what they wanted: Ederius had exclusive rights to study the Coil;
and he had exclusive rights to wear it.  Whatever happened in the
months to come, neither could claim the other had stepped forward
blindly.

Not liking where his thoughts were heading, Izgard swept them away with
a snap of his wrist.  He was king now.  And kings had no friends, only
servants.

Besides, Ederius would recover soon enough.  Izgard had made sure of
that: he seldom struck a blow that wasn't planned.  A broken collarbone
was painful in the extreme, but it wasn't seriously debilitating.  In
choosing the left side, Izgard had ensured the scribe would still be
able to use his right hand to lean on and scribe as normal.  The pain
might bother him.  Drugs were out of the question; they might slow his
mind and impair his work, endangering long-term plans and sudden
strikes.

Walking through the low, barreled passages of Sern Fortress, Izgard
turned his thoughts to his coronation.  It had been a simple affair: no
processions, no fanfares, no show.  Only those whose presence was
absolutely necessary had attended.  Lecturs, warlords, counselors, and
enemies: everyone who held power was kept close.  The ceremony itself
was brief.  The choir sung their prayers over the rumble of supply
carts, the clerics chanted their blessings to the hammering of nails.
Even the sacred oil had been anointed with haste.

Until ten days ago everyone had thought the coronation would take place
in Veizach.  The capital was the usual site for such stately affairs.
Not this time, though.  Matters of war took precedence over pomp.

Sem was a mountain castle.  Hard as rock, plain as stone, impenetrable
as the very mountain it clung to.  Its walls had been standing for over
five hundred years, and not once in that time had an invading force
managed to breach them.  The fortress itself had been hewn from the
face of Mount Iviss.  The ramparts had been known to sheet with ice in
midwinter, but the north wind always passed them right by.  No one
could build a fortress like a Garizon.

Izgard permitted himself a small, satisfied smile.  Useful though Sern's
defenses were, it was its position at the foot of the Vorce Mountains
that had lured him here for his king making  Half a day's march from
the Rhaize border, two days march to Mount Creed: it was the perfect
position from which to mount an attack.

It wasn't enough to be crowned king of Garizon one had to spill the
blood of one's enemy to keep the throne.  The thorns on the Barbed Coil
bit outward as well as in.

And Ederius, old man and mystic, illuminator and scribe, was the one
who would ensure each barb dealt only mortal blows.

My lord, came a high, breathless voice from behind.

Izgard tensed.  He was not in the mood for tears and childish tantrums
tonight.  He had meetings to attend, battle plans to finalize: war and
the Garizon crown walked hand in hand.  Without looking around, he
said, Go to your chamber, Angeline.

Light footsteps tapped a path to his heels.  Can't I come with you?

Izgard felt a hand grasping for his.  Pulling his own hand away, he
hissed, I want to be alone tonight.

But, Izgard, Gerta said

I don't care what that old maid of yours said.  Leave me now.  Izgard
spun around to face his wife.  Her pale child's mouth was trembling.
Her pale blue eyes were already filling with tears.  She was as
exquisite and transparent as a jewel, and without her he could not have
taken the throne.

Angeline of Halmac owned a third of Garizon land.  This past year her
family had been hounded by tragedy, and now only the womenfolk were
left.

Last summer her father, the great land baron Willem of Halmac, had
burned to death.  Like many foolish men who spent their youths in the
lower south fighting the Shrine Wars, Halmac suffered from periodic
bouts of wet fever.  During a particularly bad attack, his physician
had ordered that Halmac be closely bound in brandy-soaked cloth to
encourage sweating.  Every night a cleric came and bound him, sewing
the linen strips around his torso and his limbs.  One night the poor
man drew his candle too close and a lick of flame caught the cloth. The
bandages ignited and Willem of Halmac was engulfed by flames.  As the
cleric tore off the bindings, Halmac's skin came with it.

Both men perished that night.  Halmac died screaming in agony, while
the cleric wisely killed himself, jumping off old Banas Bridge into the
cold black water of the Veize.

Most said he got off lightly.  In this country, where the forests ran
like rivers and the pastures curved more gently than a thousand open
palms, land barons were second only to God.

Angeline's brother had died two months later.  Blind, stinking drunk,
he'd choked on his own vomit in a tavern in Veizach's Arlish Quarter.

The physicians called it a terrible tragedy.

Izgard called it fate.

A soft sob escaped Angeline's lips, stirring Izgard from his memories.
She held out a plump hand, hesitant, like a child touching something
she thought might bite.  Don't send me away she said.  I get so lonely
here on my own.

Despite everything, Izgard felt himself weakening.  Sickened, he pushed
her from him.  Angeline's bottom lip trembled as she tried, very hard,
not to cry.

Shadows flickered in the far corridor.  People were heading toward
them.  Izgard's gaze shot from the shadows to his wife.  He had no
choice but to play the part of a loving husband.  Even here, a hundred
leagues west of Veizach and its ever-vigilant court, in a mountain
fortress designed to let in neither enemies nor light, certain
appearances had to be maintained.

Come, my love Izgard murmured, offering Angeline his arm.  Let us share
a cup of wine before we retire.  The words burned as they slid down his
throat.  He could no longer understand what he had once seen in his
wife.  What at one time he had admired as childlike innocence, he now
realized was plain simple-mindedness, nothing more.  Gaining possession
of the Coil had helped him see that more clearly.

Izgard marched Angeline to his chambers, his fingers bearing down upon
her arm.  They crossed paths with two lords who knelt before them, yet
Izgard spared them not a passing glance.  Anger beat at the pulse
points in his jaw as his eyes focused directly ahead.

Today he had been crowned a king, yet his queen was no more than a
childish little girl.  He wished he could be rid of her, but a
suspicious death too soon after a marriage might result in the loss of
both the Halmac lands and his crown.  And he had worked far too long
and hard bringing his country together to let one small act of personal
satisfaction get in his way.  Only when old scores were settled and new
victories were won could he safely turn a dagger to her throat.

You have to kiss me, Izgard$ Angeline murmured as they approached the
entrance to his chamber.  Gerta says we don't kiss nearly as much as we
used to.  Her breath plumed hot on his cheek and her breasts pushed
hard against his side.  Izgard felt his body respond to her touch and
was powerless to stop it.  Briefly he found himself thinking back to
their betrothment.  Had there actually been a time when he'd wanted her
as much as her land?

Although the two sentries who guarded the door looked away, Izgard did
not prevent his wife's tongue from curling down his neck.

By the time they were in his chamber, Izgard's anger was mixed with
desire Angeline still had that over him.  Her hands cupped and
caressed, assuming countless subtle forms.  Her neck arched backward
and her chest came up, and all the while, as her body twined around his
like a vine around a tree, she whispered words of encouragement in her
soft, little girl's voice.

When finally she drew him to the bed, her skirts up around her waist,
her tongue darting across his throat, he was torn between the desire to
crush the life right out of her and begging her never to stop.

I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Ravis, Marcel said.  But I had some
business to attend to in Fale.

Ravis raised an eyebrow.  Fale?  Last time you left Bay Zen was when
the Great Fire razed the entire banking quarter to the ground.  And
even then you stayed within sight of the walls.  Although Ravis had
been waiting in Marcel's town house for over two hours, he kept his
tone light.  Tell me, what business could possibly be pressing enough
to drag you away from the city?

The Bay Zen banker filled two small glasses with berriac.  Judging from
the way the pale coppery fluid clung to the side of the glass, it was
at least an eighteen-year-vintage.  Well fed,

well dressed, and well heeled, Marcel liked his creature comforts.

Just how much he liked those comforts could be seen in the furnishings
of his study.  Glossy bookcases and richly colored tapestries lined the
walls, silver oil lamps shone from satinwood chests, and hide-bound
benches strained under the weight of enameled boxes, gold-bound
primers, and ivory figurines.  It was well after midnight now, but even
so Marcel traveled around the oak-paneled room, systematically checking
that all the shutters were closed and bolted.  He was a man who valued
safety and privacy in equal measure.

An old friend of mine died this morning.

You have no old friends, Marcel.  Only clients.

Marcel's mouth tightened only for the briefest instant.

Then we have a lot in common, you and L

Ravis laughed: he wanted something from this man.  So, my friend, who
died?

Once, in a bout of maudlin brought on by the aftermath of heavy
drinking, Marcel had confessed that he had yearned to be an actor in
his youth, and watching him now, Ravis could well believe him.  The
banker put on a fine show of bankerly reticence, shaking his head
slowly as he sucked in his breath.

It might be a little indelicate for me to say.

So it was someone important.  Ravis knew better than to betray his
interest Marcel would work himself round to a revelation soon enough.
As long as his own plump neck wasn't in danger, of course.  In matters
of personal safety or enrichment, no one could be as discreet as Marcel
of Vailing.

Well, Marcel said, stretching the word into a dramatic introduction,
you know that old scribe who used to be the late sire's chief counselor
before he fell out of grace?

Deveric?

Marcel nodded.  He had a seizure at dawn.  Terrible tragedy.  He died
right at his scribing desk.  No one was expecting it his wife said he
had been in excellent health prior to the attack.  The banker took a
sip of berriac.  Of course the first thing his eldest son did was send
a messenger into the city to fetch

You hold his will?  The question was merely cursory.  If you were a man
of substance in Bay Zen or its surrounding towns, you banked and
litigated via Marcel of Vailing.

Yes.  He left his estate in a terrible mess, Marcel said.

Sentimental men always write the most preposterous wills.  They make
the mistake of trying to befafr of leaving everyone something of value.
Of course all that happens is that everybody begins to resent
everybody else.  One son gets a south-facing meadow, while another is
stuck with a field that won't drain.  The Holy League is bequeathed the
family home, while the widow retains the contents.  Squabbles start
over land and property, and then, before one knows it, grown men are
busy fighting over belt buckles and spoons.  Marcel shuddered in mock
distaste.  And it's all so unnecessary.  A man should leave his
property to one person and one person alone.  Family fortunes can
flourish only as long as they remain undivided.

Ravis clipped the base of his glass against the table.  The words were
too tree for his liking.  So, he said, working to change the subject as
smoothly as he could.  What did you bring back from your trip?  He
indicated the square-shaped wooden frame that Marcel had been carrying
as he'd entered the room.

The banker reached over his desk and patted the object.

Illuminations.  The press prevents the parchment from being damaged.

Something half-forgotten turned over in Ravis brain.  He leaned
forward, suddenly interested.  Diuminations, you say?

Yes.  Deveric's assistant Emith is his name slipped them to me as I
left.  Apparently Deveric left them to him in his will and he wanted to
be sure they were kept safe.

Can I take a look at them?

As a rule Marcel was hard to surprise, yet Ravis could tell from the
subtle narrowing of his eyes that the banker had been caught off guard.
I don't believe you came here to admire works of art, Ravis.  In fact,
now I come to think of it you shouldn't be here at all.  Wasn't your
ship due to sail this morning?

Some people might make the mistake of falling for Marcel's faltering
memory act.  Ravis knew the Bay Zen banker never forgot a thing.  He
had over three hundred clients, and at any given time he could tell you
the exact financial standing of all of them.

Ravis strolled over to the desk.  Taking the wooden press in his hands,
he said, May I?

Marcel shrugged.  Go ahead.  See what you think.  I intend to
commission an appraisal of them as soon as possible.  I have a feeling
they may be worth something.

Ravis began twisting the copper pins from the press.  A labyrinth of
spiraling snakes and birds was carved upon the heavily waxed frame.

Did you decide to sail at a later date?  Marcel asked, pouring them
both a second glass of berriac.  Or has something come up to keep you
here?

One by one the pins came out.  Something came up.

Business?  Marcel breathed a perfect mix of greed and fear into the
word.

No.  I missed my ship.

A short laugh escaped Marcel's lips before he realized that Ravis wasn't
joking.

Ignoring him, Ravis removed the last pin from the press and pried apart
the two wooden layers.  The acrid smell of fresh pigment rose up from
the parchment.  Straight away, Ravis could see it was the finest
calfskin, stripped from the newborn before the flesh was marred by age.
Lightly colored to begin with, the vellum had been further whitened
with chalk.  It was smooth to the touch, so perfectly scraped that
Ravis couldn't tell whether he was looking at the flesh side or the
hair side.

He flipped over the first leaf and looked upon the face of the
illumination.

In this day and age, Ravis, no one misses their ship.  Why, the damn
shrine bells alone are enough to wake the dead.  Not to mention the
cockerels.

To Ravis, Marcel's words were like so many buzzing flies.  He was
looking at something so complex, so exquisitely detailed, that his eyes
couldn't take it all in.  Ribbons of color spread across the parchment,
forming a skin of shape and light.  Animals with grotesquely long
tongues and tails twined around each other in an endless variety of
ways.

Threads of gold and blue and green wove through the pattern likes
arteries and veins.

Ravis ran his tongue over the scar on his lip.  He had seen patterns
like this once before.  Over two years ago noW, in a certain well-built
castle in the east.

Very pretty, Marcel said, taking the leaf from him.

Done in the old Anointed style if I'm not mistaken.  Of course there's
little market for this sort of thing today.  Nowadays collectors want
to see people, not patterns.

Just as Marcel took the vellum from him, Ravis spotted several dark
drops on the bottom left-hand corner of the pattern.  It looked like
blood.  Something cold, like a freezing splinter, worked its way down
Ravis spine.  Unsettled, he pushed away the rest of the illuminations,
unseen.

Ravis decided it was time to state why he'd come here he no longer had
the stomach for small talk and games.  He took a deep draft of berriac
and then said, Marcel, I need your help.

A smile so quick Ravis would have missed it if he'd blinked flitted
across Marcel's face.  The banker let the illumination fall onto the
desk.  What can I do for you?

Hearing those words, Ravis suddenly wished he were anywhere but here. I
need cash, he said.  A lot of it.  Clover's Fourth set gail with all my
gold on board.

Marcel nodded like a doctor listening to symptoms.  I see.

Until I catch up with Crivit and force him to repay me, I have nothing
to my name.

Most unfortunate.  Marcel's smooth finger rimmed the berriac glass.
However, it was a little naive of you to take the gold straight to the
ship.

No more so than if I'd taken it to the place where I chose to spend the
night.  Ravis abandoned all attempts at good humor.  I need no lessons
in asset management from you, Marcel.  I just need a loan.

Yes.  A loan.  Marcel sat back in his chair.  What collateral can you
give me?

I have just told you I have nothing.  Ravis voice was very low now. His
hands sought out the manuscript press.

What about Mizerico?  Surely you must have another contract awaiting
you there?

Ravis shook his head.

Friends?  Lady friends?  Savings?

In one fluid movement, Ravis slammed the wooden press onto the desks It
landed just short of the banker's plump fingers.  Look, Marcel, I need
cash, and either you're going to loan it to me or not.  Now which is it
going to be?

Marcel's eyes hardened, but his voice remained calm.

How much are you looking for?

A hundred crowns.

Shaking his head, Marcel pushed away the wooden press.  Can't be
done.

I think it can.  Ravis ran his tongue over his scar.  The thick knot of
skin burned cold in the warmth of the chamber.

You owe me, MarceL

Owe?  I owe you nothing, my friend.  I received and banked your
payments while you worked in the city this past year, and that's as far
as our relationship goes.

I don't think the city fathers of Bay Zen would excuse our relationship
so lightly.  They'd see your part as treason.

Marcel stood up.  He walked over to the door and opened it.  I don't
think either of us would benefit from the truth coming to light.

Ravis showed his teeth.  How many locks do you need to turn before you
rest easy at night, Marcel?

His words had the desired effect.  The banker looked him straight in
the eye, and although he tried to hide it, Ravis could tell he was
afraid.  It was obvious what Marcel was thinking: he was weighing up
his risks, deciding whether or not he could trust Ravis to keep his
silence.  Moments passed, and then finally he said, You have no future
contracts, you say?

So I can presume you are looking for employment?  Marcel looked to
Ravis for an answer.  When one didn't come he said, Of course, I could
always initiate inquiries on your behalf, contact certain associates,
make appropriate overtures

You are not my pimp, Marcel.

You can hardly expect me to loan you money without surety.  I must have
some sort of undertaking from you that the amount will be repaid.

Ravis decided it was time to move toward the door.  You will get your
hundred crowns back before the year is out.

Marcel made a hard sound in his throat.  If you live that long.

Reaching forward, Ravis flicked a stray hair from Marcel's tunic.  As
he moved, he had the satisfaction of seeing the banker ffinch.  If you
need to worry about anyone's neck, Marcel, I'd suggest you worry about
your own.

Marcel's throat quivered as he swallowed.  The door was already open,
but he forced it even wider.  I think you should leave now.  I'll see
what I can do.  Contact me in the morning.

Ravis nodded.  It was never a good idea to push a man too far.  Until
the morning, then, he said, stepping past Marcel and over the
threshold.  I know your conscience won't stop you from getting a good
night's rest.

Marcel opened his mouth to issue a reply, but a servant appeared in the
hallway, so he kept his peace instead.

Ravis bowed and walked away.

There was not a corridor or wall in Marcel's house that wasn't lined
with silk, and as Ravis made his way down to street level, his feet
barely made a noise.  Approaching the main hallway, Ravis heard voices:
a servant girl asking a visitor if he'd like a drop of brandy to warm
his blood and then the visitor's low-spoken reply.

Uneasy for many different reasons, Ravis checked for his knife.

He need not have bothered.  As he took the last steps and the two
people came into view, the stranger turned his face to the wall.  Ravis
had slipped in and out of Marcel's town house enough times to recognize
the behavior of a genuine client when he saw one.  Marcel was
well-known for receiving attention-shy midnight guests.

Ravis waved away the maid and let himself out of the door.  He was
eager to be gone.  Deep in thought, he made his way back to the river.
His every instinct warned him not to trust Marcel, but he didn't really
have a choice.

FIVE

essa first became aware of an itch on her right She ignored it
successfully until it began to move.  Her eyes snapped open and her
head prang up.  Throwing off the blanket, she slapped at her thigh.
Something black and shiny was crawling up her leg.  Horrified, she sent
it flying toward the wall.

A soft laugh caused her to whip her head around.  Ravis stood in the
corner of the room, his face half-covered by shadow.  He gestured to
her thigh.  You'd make a fine pikes man with reflexes like that.

Tessa drew the blanket over her leg.  Her mind was still heavy from
sleep, and the right half of her face was numb from being pressed
against a floorboard all night.  Blinking hard wake-up blinks, she
tried to think of something scathing to say.  Nothing clever-came to
mind, so she settled on an indignant snort instead.  A bell began to
toll at exactly the same instant as she made the noise, robbing it of
any impact she'd intended.

Church bells.  Her thoughts skipped from Ravis and how he came to be
standing over her, to the stark reality of where she was: in a
oak-timbered house built on a bridge that spanned a muddy river, in a
city named Bay Zen.

Tessa rubbed the sleep from her eyes, half expecting when she opened
them again to find herself back in her bedroom at home.  Instead she
found herself looking at Ravis once more.  Her stomach fluttered.  It
felt as light and hollow as a paper bag.  All that had happened
yesterday came back to her: the tinnitus attack, the safety deposit
boxes, the alleyway, the fight.."  the ring.  Tessa brought her left
hand up to her face.  The ring wasn't there.  Panicking, she looked
around the room.  What had she done with it?  Where had she worn it
last?

Is this what you're looking for?  asked Ravis, uncurling his fist to
reveal the jagged golden band.  One of the barbs had cut into the meat
of his palm, and a fat bead of blood rolled between his fingers.

Tessa's jaw snapped shut.  Hardly aware of what she was doing, she flew
off the bench and snatched the ring from Ravis hand.  It was hers.  No
one else had a right to handle it.  No one's blood should be upon it,
only her own.

As soon as the ring was in her possession, its weight reassuringly
familiar in her hand, Tessa began to feel foolish.  Her breathing was
accelerated and her cheeks were flushed.  What had she been thinking?
Embarrassed, she stole a quick glance at Ravis.

He caught her gaze and smiled, the scar on his lip growing taut and
pale.  That's a very interesting trinket you have there.  You caught
its likeness well.

Likeness?  Tessa was confused until she saw what Ravis held in his
other hand.  It was the sketch she had worked on last night.  The
patterns within the ring.  For a moment she was overcome with the
desire to snatch the sketch away from him too.  Scared by an impulse
she didn't understand, she forced herself to hold back.  The act of
holding back, of restraining herself, was so ingrained within Tessa
that it was almost a reflex action.  Don't ......... Don't get
excited.... Always think before you act.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Tessa dropped both hands to her
side.  What had she been thinking?  What difference did it make if
Ravis saw the sketch or held the ring?  She was acting irrationally.

There's something about this drawing that reminds me... Ravis words
trailed away as he raised the sketch into the band of sunlight cuffing
into the room.

Of what?  Tessa asked, taking the opportunity to smooth her dress and
hair while Ravis attention was elsewhere.

Of something I saw last night.  Ravis looked at her sharply.  Mter a
moment of silent scrutiny, he turned, rolled up the sketch in his fist,
and handed it to Tessa with a bow.

Make yourself ready.  You're coming with me this morning.  I'll wait
for you outside on the bridge.

Tessa opened her mouth to object, but Ravis was already at the door.

Don't be long, he said.  I have neither the time nor patience to wait
upon a woman preening.  With that he stepped smartly out of the room,
letting the door bang shut behind him.

Annoyed at being ordered around in such a manner, Tessa glared at the
door.  No one had spoken to her that way in years, and she didn't like
it one bit.  What could she do about it, though?  Besides Widow Furbish
and Swigg, Ravis was the only person she knew in this place.  He was
certainly the only one who would help her.  And at the end of the day,
she did need help.  She had to find out more about the city, discover
where she was, how she had got here, and if there was any reason behind
it.  She needed Ravis for that.

As she thought, Tessa toyed with the ring, turning it in her hand and
tracing her fingertips over the barbs.  Although taking it off last
night hadn't changed anything, it was still her sole contact with home.
She couldn't let anyone else handle or even see it.  She had to keep it
safe.  That decided, Tessa looked around the room for a suitable piece
of ribbon or string.  The best thing she could do would be to keep it
tied around her neck, out of sight.

She had spent the night in the stock room, among all of Widow Furbish's
embroidery paraphernalia, falling asleep on the floor amid a nest of
rough blankets and thinly stuffed cushions.  The blankets smelled
vaguely of camphor and old dried goods, and the entire room had the
dry, woody feel of an attic.  Shelves crammed with all manner of
materials lined the walls: bolts of cloth, reels of thread, wooden
frames, and other odd-shaped things that Tessa had no name for.

Spying what looked to be a loose length of ribbon hanging down from a
work top, Tessa yanked on the end, attempting to pull it out from the
papers that were piled high on top of it.

The moment she pulled, Tessa knew she had made a mistake.  The layers
of boards, cloth, and parchment that lay on top of the ribbon slid off
the table and went crashing to the floor.  Black dust, lots of it,
wafted up from the odd stack of materials, billowing over her dress and
catching in her nose and her throat.

Damn, she hissed, eyes closed, hands fanning the dust cloud away from
her face.  What was this stuff?  Mister Furbish's remains?

The pounces!

Tessa spun round in time to see Widow Furbish burst into the room.
Ignoring Tessa, the woman dashed over to the pile of papers on the
floor, knelt, and began dusting them off.

You stupid girl!  she hissed, gathering a pile of the papers in her
arms.  Don't you know better than to upset the powder?  Knees cracking,
she stood upright and began laying the boards and parchment on the
table.  She shook her head savagely.  It will cost you, you know.  I'll
have to bring Bernice in to spread them again, not to mention the
originals looks like one of them's been cracked to me.

What are you talking about?  Tessa broshed down her dress with venom.
She was beginning to get tired of being ordered around and scolded.

Widow Furbish snorted.  The pounces, girl.  For copying the embroidery
patterns.  Some of these originals are years old cost the late Mister
Furbish a fortune, they did.

Tessa, still unclear about what the widow was talking about, went to
touch one of the thickly painted patterns.  The widow slapped her away.
Get out!  she cried.  Get out before you do any more damage.

As a reflex action, Tessa raised her own hand to retaliate, but she
willed herself to stop before returning the blow.  Slapping the woman
back would only make everything worse.  I'm sorry, she said, teeth
grated.  I'll be on my way.

You just be sure to tell Lord Ravis that he'll be paying for the
damage?  Widow Furbish shook her head some more.

The gods only know what replacing an original will cost.

Despite everything, Tessa could not resist issuing a huff of disbelief
as she walked toward the door.  Widow Furbish was just the type to
exaggerate the cost of any damage.  She was probably cracking the
originals herself right now whatever that meant.  Just as she stepped
from the room, Tessa remembered the sketch.  For some reason she didn't
want to leave it where Widow Furbish might find it.  Bending, she
scooped up the scrap of parchment, folded it in half, and tucked it
away down her bodice.  If Widow Furbish saw the action, she didn't say
a word.

As Tessa crossed into -the main room, she was forced to dodge Swigg to
get the door.  The man smelled of booze, and his eyes were watering.
The vats he'd seen to last night were obviously something to do with
brewing.  And from the look of him, he'd been sampling his wares.
Either that or he'd fallen into them headfirst.

As she went to raise the latch on the door, Tessa realized she still
had the ribbon in her hand.  Turning her back on Swigg, she threaded
the ribbon through the ring and tied it around her neck, slipping the
slack beneath her bodice.  It was getting quite crowded down there.
Feeling rather pleased with herself, she stepped onto the bridge.

The early morning sun dazzled her, and it took her eyes a moment to
adjust.  Blinking, she focused on a dark form moving toward her.

Well, I must say you're the first woman I've ever met who looks worse
after-freshening herself up.  Smiling, Ravis took her arm.  Tell me, is
black dust on one's face considered a beauty enhancement where you are
from?

The powder!  Tessa rebbed a hand against her face: it came back black.
Seeing her look of honor, Ravis laughed.  Tessa felt herself blushing.
She must look terrible.

Here, Ravis said, handing her a silk square pulled smoothly from his
tunic.  Use this.

Tessa took it, turned her head away, spit on it, then scoured her face.
Ravis had the decency to look out over the bridge while she cleaned
herself up.

Did the widow give you that dress?  Ravis asked as they came to the
section of the bridge that curved down to the bank.

No, I exchanged it for my clothes.

The skeptical syllable turned Tessa's head.  What do you mean, aah?

I mean you struck a poor deal.  They reached the end of the bridge and
took a path down a narrow street.  Ravis carried on talking as normal,
but his eyes flicked in all directions, as if he were expecting trouble
or worse.  Tessa suddenly felt nervous.  She became aware of a bitter
taste in her mouth: the powder from the pounces.

Ravis continued speaking, his light tone and manner in direct contrast
with his bearing.  The dye used to color your undershirt is the most
precious to be had on the continent.  Women spend years saving up just
to buy a stretch of cloth that shade of blue?

Tessa's eyes narrowed.  So that was why Widow Furbish was so eager to
get her hands on the blouse.  But sky blue?

Surely gold or purple or some other royal color would be more
precious?

Ravis shook his head.  No.  Light blue dyes are made from lapis lazuli,
which is mined from the foothills beyond the Azhensas.  It takes a full
year for the raw stone to reach Rhaize by cart.  As he spoke, Ravis
guided Tessa down a wide street and into the shade cast by west-facing
buildings.

Azhensas?

Ravis gave her a hard look.  They are a range of mountains far to the
east.

Tessa looked quickly away.  From Ravis tone she guessed she'd just made
a glaring error.  For all she knew the Azhensas were as well-known here
as the Himalayas were at home.  To cover her mistake, she said quickly,
Have you ever seen them?

I have been to many places and seen many things, none of which are
fitting discourse for daylight hours in Bay Zen.

The hairs on Tessa's arms stood up.  Ravis voice was cold, hard, and
unpleasant.  What had she said to change his mood so quickly?
Breathless from the pace Ravis was setting, and shaking from his tone
of voice, Tessa stopped in her tracks.  She didn't care for Ravis
company anymore.

Ravis pulled at her arm.  Come, he hissed.  We cant be caught idling on
the streets:

You mean you can t, Tessa said very precisely.  I can idle all I want.
In fact, that's exactly what I'm going to do.  With that she snatched
her arm from Ravis hold and set back in the direction they'd just come
from.

Ravis was upon her in an instant.  You fool!  he hissed, his fingers
biting into the flesh of her upper arm.  You won't last till midday on
your own in this city.

You don't know me.  You don't know what I'm capable of.  Again, Tessa
went to walk away.

I know you're not from here.  Ravis made no move to stop her this time.
He stood his ground.  His voice was very low as he spoke, but it
carried well all the same.  You're not from this city or this kingdom
or even this continent.  Any child on the street knows more about the
world than you do.

Tessa stopped in midstep.  Spinning around, she looked at Ravis.  How
much did he know or guess about how she had come to be here?

Ravis smile gave nothing away.  And you may have forgotten, but when I
found you yesterday morning you were in no fit state to look after
yourself.  He shrugged.  Then again, I may have misinterpreted the
whole situation: those two men I found you with may have been about to
proposition, not murder you.  I've killed men before now for more
foolish mistakes than that.

Even though Tessa hated his sarcasm, she knew he was right.  She was in
no position to go storming off on her own.  Where would she go?  Back
to Widow Furbish's parlor?  She glanced down at her dust-covered dress.
She would hardly be welcome there at the moment.

The truth was she was alone in a city she didn't know.  A foreign city
with narrow-shuttered buildings harboring lots of shade and thin
streets winding past dark doorways, crumbling arches, and dead ends.
She already knew the alleys were dangerous.  And judging from the look
on Ravis face, wide-open streets like this one were too.

No.  Going off on her own wasn't a good idea.  Yet, she thought, gaze
dropping from Ravis face to his white-knuckled hands, there were
advantages to be gained by pretending she was still considering
stalking off.  Ravis ill liked standing here in the street where anyone
could see him.  The desire to move on was so stroug, it could be seen
as a palpable force in his face.  His teeth scored away at his scar.

Looking at Ravis, seeing his gaze darting from an old man pulling a
cart, to two stout-hipped women balancing a tray laden with pies
between them, to a young man standing in a shop doorway doing nothing
at all, Tessa guessed he could be persuaded to make a concession or
two.

Toe tracing a figure eight in the dirt, she said, I'll come with you
only if you agree to answer some questions.

What questions?

Gaze carefully on the ground, Tessa tried to think of some questions
she needed answered.  She didn't want Ravis guessing she had none ready
to ask.  Very well, tell me where you're taking me.  And why.

Ravis bit at his lip.  Walk with me, and I will answer your
questions.

Hearing the tone of his voice, Tessa could tell he was running out of
patience, so she let herself be led along the street.  There was little
to be gained from pushing him further.  Besides, Ravis nervousness was
catching, and Tessa found herself eyeing everyone who crossed her path
with the same suspicious glances

The street they were on was lined with shops.  Tables laden with carved
boxes, bolts of cloth, wheels of cheese, pyramids of fruit, and bundles
of spices jutted out onto the road.  Shopkeepers stood guard by their
wares; some carried brass scales, others pewter scoops, bone spoons,
lead weights, or coiled wire.  All had a club or stick tucked in their
belts.

Morning was passing, and the shade provided by the buildings slimmed to
a dark line.  Seagulls shrieked overhead and a sharp breeze sent shop
signs creaking back and forth.  Tessa's hair blew in her face.

You were about to tell me where we are going?  she prompted as they
turned into another, less populated street.

I'm taking you to a frie Ravis caught himself.  A business associate of
mine.  I expect him to loan me some money so I can leave Rhaize.

So why take me?

Ravis raised an eyebrow but didn't deign to look Tessa's way.  You are
here purely so I can keep an eye on you.

The arrogance of this statement annoyed Tessa, yet she said nothing,
preferring to ask more questions before Ravis grew tired of the game.
Why are you so anxious to leave Rhaize?  It seems like a perfectly fine
place to me.

Ravis turned on her.  By all the gods, woman!  I will not be questioned
like a prisoner dog-hooked to a wall.  My private affairs are just
that: private.  Having reached a fork in the road, he cut sharply to
the left, his fingers bearing down on her arm much harder than was
necessary.  This way.

Tessa felt a flutter of fear.  At five feet three and a hundred and
twelve pounds, she couldn't put up much of a fight if things came to
it.  Certainly not enough to overpower this tall and powerful man at
her side.  She'd have to settle for a swift kick to his shins, followed
by an even quicker retreat.  Tessa smiled despite herself.  The idea of
kicking Ravis appealed to her.

The district was gradually changing.  The farther away they got from
the river, the better the buildings and the people looked.  Dirt roads
gave way to cobbled streets, and the smell of baking bread and
woodsmoke mixed with, then overpowered, the stench of rotting waste.
Tessa's stomach rumbled.  For the first time in over twenty-four hours
she thought of food.  Breakfast: bacon, eggs not scrambled mushrooms,
tomatoes, and toast.  Tessa's stomach rumbled again.  Plenty of hot
buttered toast.

To stop her mind from torturing her stomach, she asked the first
question that popped into her head.  You said by all the gods before.
Does that mean you have more than one god here in Rhaize?

Ravis made no move to answer the question, didn't even acknowledge
hearing it, so Tessa followed his gaze to see what was distracting him.
His attention was focused on a group of young men blocking the pathway
ahead.  Keep your eyes down, he ordered.

Tessa felt her face coloring.  But I was just looking

Women don't just look in Rhaize.  Women hold their peace and know their
place and open their legs when needed.  Now be quiet and do as I say.
Ravis pulled her arm to the right.  Follow me.  He steered her to the
far side of the street, away from the group of men.

Even though Tessa was looking down, she saw Ravis free hand stray to
the knife at his belt.  She smelled his sweat.

A second later one of the men called out.  Hey, mate!  Fancy sharing
your good fortune?  She looks more than woman enough for two.

One of his companions, a stocky man with a broken nose, cried out in
agreement.  Another man whispered something that Tessa couldn't quite
catch, and then all five men laughed at once.

Tessa felt Ravis tense.  Ignore them, he told her quietly, fingers
closing around the hilt of his knife.

Tessa felt her heart pumping in her chest.  Despite Ravis warning, she
risked another glance at the men.  Are you going to fight them?

Ravis made a hard sound in his throat.  For both our sakes I hope not.
Odds of five to one are a little too high for my liking.

Tessa shuddered.  Why did he have to sound so brutal?  Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw two of the men moving toward them.  A third
man, the tallest, held his position against the wall, a fourth was
slapping a club into the palm of his hand, and a fifth was making crude
gestures with his hips.

Ravis didn't take his eyes off them.  Looking at the expression on his
face, Tessa felt her stomach clench.  A hot flush of panic rolled up
her chest.  Things were getting too much.  Ravis brutal words jarred in
her thoughts.  The fourth man slapped the club loudly.  The fifth man
shouted an obscenity.  Tessa felt herself becoming stiff.  She knew
from experience that tinnitus would soon follow.  There were too many
noises, too mhny things happening all at once.

The sun slipped behind a bank of clouds, plunging the street into
shade.  The sound of wood cracking against wood filled the air as a
street full of vendors decided that now was exactly the right time to
close shop.  People scuttled into doorways or took the fastest,
shortest turnoff they could find.

On my word run back the way we came.  Don't stop until you get to Parso
Bridge.  Ravis spoke between clenched teeth.  His scar was white.

Tessa was rigid.  She could barely move her legs.  The pulse points
around her temples began to throb.  Any minute now the ringing would
start.

Did you bear what I said?  Ravis voice was harsh.

Dazed, Tessa nodded.  Run back the way we came.

The two men were feet away now.  The other three were on the move,
gravitating inward to form a wall across the path.  The man who had
first shouted out drew a knife.  His companion rolled up his sleeves.

Tessa swallowed, looked down.

Come on, bitch.  Show us what you've got.

Get rid of the foreign bastard, and we'll show you what real men can
do.

The words were addressed to Tessa, but she could tell they were really
meant for Ravis.  This wasn't about her now.

Blood rushed through Tessa's ears.  This place wasn't safe.  Two days.
Two attacks.  She wanted to go home.  Without thinking, she brought her
hand up to finger the ring.  Even through the rough fabric of her
dress, the barbs bit into her finger.  Strangely, the pain helped her
relax.  Without realizing it, she had been holding her breath: waiting
for the tinnitus to start.  The sun appeared from behind the clouds,
shining directly on her face.

In a movement so swift, Tessa's sun-dazzled eyes couldn't follow it,
Ravis drew his knife.  With one mighty thrust he pushed her away.

Run!

Tessa felt herself falling back.  As she struggled to keep her footing,
three of the men rushed toward Ravis.  The man with the club raised his
weapon above his head.  Tessa flung out her right arm to steady
herself.  As she brought up her left arm to shield her face, she felt
something wet on her lips.  Just as she realized it was blood drawn by
the ring, a voice rang out in the street.

Everyone stay where you are.  A cold voice.  A deadly voice.

Automatically Tessa found herself responding to it.  Her footing
regained, she looked up in time to see the man with the club slowly
fall forward onto his face.  There was something comical about the
sight of him keeling over, and Tessa was struck with a mad desire to
laugh.  Something that might have been his nose or jaw cracked as he
hit the ground.  Then she saw the arrow shaft quivering in his back. He
had been shot.

Suddenly Tessa didn't feel like laughing anymore.

Everyone, including Ravis, stood still.

Tessa's gaze followed the line of the arrow back in the direction it
had come from.  A man stepped out from the splinter of shade remaining
on the west side of the street.  He was hooded, the fabric forming a
dark eyelet around an even darker face.  His left arm was extended, the
bar of a crossbow resting on the crook.  His free hand was on the
trigger.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tessa saw more men step forward into the
street.  She counted three.  There might have been others.  All had
crossbows.

Ravis knuckles formed a bracelet of bone around the hilt of his blade.
The only thing that moved were his eyelids.  They dropped slowly,
reducing his eyes to black-and-white strips.

The hooded man made a minute gesture with the crossbow.  His head
turned toward Ravis.  Walk on, sir, he said, his voice softer but
infinitely more compelling than before.

Go about your business with your lady.  I will see these men bother you
no more.

Tessa didn't doubt him for an instant.  His fingers slid over the
trigger.  Ravis remained where he stood.  Minutes passed.  The two men
faced each other; one with his features hooded by shadow, the other
with his eyes hooded by flesh.  Finally Ravis moved.  Tessa released a
pent-up breath as his shoulders relaxed and his back curved into a
softly mocking bow.

It would seem that I am in your debt, stranger, he said, rising to his
full height.  Show yourself so I may know the face of my creditor.

The crossbow shifted in the hooded man's hands.  It was now pointed
directly at Ravis.  You owe me nothing, my friend.  I saved you purely
for my own ends.  Now begone before I change my mind and shoot you in
cold blood instead.

Tessa shuddered.  The stranger's voice had an edge of madness to it.

Suddenly one of the four men in the middle let out a cry and dropped to
his knees by the corpse.  Even as Tessa's gaze sped back to the hooded
man, she heard the soft thuc of the bolt.

The kneeling man screamed.

Tessa closed her eyes.  Her stomach turned to liquid.  The urge to
retch was overpowering.  She couldn't understand why she felt so sick:
one man had already died within her sights today.

Ravis seized her arm.  He grabbed her so hard, the ground seemed to
fall from under her feet.  Off balance, gorge rising,

she was dragged away like a naughty child.  They flew past the three
remaining assailants and then past two men with crossbows.  Although
Ravis had his eyes on the hooded man, his feet never mis stepped  He
knew exactly where he wanted to go.  In the whole street they were the
only things that moved.  No shutters rattled, no gulls swooped, no dogs
fought over scraps.

A sickening burn rose up Tessa's throat.  Her saliva tasted sharp and
sweet, like milk gone slowly sour.  Jabbing her tongue against the roof
of her mouth, she swallowed as hard as she could.  For some insane
reason that she couldn't begin to fathom, she began to count as fast as
she could.  One two three four five six seven eight nine.."  one two
three four five six seven eight nine.  Over and over again, under her
breath.

It seemed to work.  By the time Ravis spun her round the corner, her
stomach was settling down.  She didn't risk unclenching her jaw,
though; despite the counting, her mind was still replaying the dying
man's scream.

Once they turned onto a new street, Tessa expected Ravis to slow down.
He didn t. His grip didn't let up, either.  He seemed full of fury. The
scar on his lip was white and knotted like a fossil.  His heavy-lidded
eyes carried a look just short of murderous.

After marching to the end of the street, taking a quick turn, and then
another one, they came to a halt by a well-kept three-story building.
White stone steps led up to a gleaming black door.  Without a word,
Ravis rapped against the wood.  Fewer than five seconds passed before
the door swung open.  Ravis went to walk in first, then stopped himself
at the last minute.  With a sharp bow, he indicated that Tessa should
go ahead of him.

Only as Tessa walked into the cool, dark interior of the house did she
remember about her tinnitus.  The attack hadn't started after all.

Pear liqueur, said the man named Marcel as his eyes flicked from the
glass to Tessa's breasts.  I find it most..  invigorating when one has
had a minor upset.

Tessa took the proffered drink, intending to down it in one.  Something
stopped her, though.  Perhaps the look that passed between Marcel and
Ravis as they watched the glass pivot upward to her lips.  So she took
a cat lick instead, letting the thick and perfumed liquid merely scald
along her tongue.  From the taste of it, it was a close relation of
arlo.  And from the look of the flask it came in, not a poor one at
that.

Tessa liked Marcel's house.  She liked the silk rugs, the fragrant
woods, the cushions stuffed to bursting, and the shiny, bony, grainy,
artifacts that were scattered from room to room.  She didn't like
Marcel, but he had given her refuge, and she was so relieved because
her tinnitus hadn't reappeared that she was inclined to treat him
benignly.

Ravis leaned against the broad white-stoned fireplace, drink in hand,
lips curved to half a smile, eyes firmly on Marcel.  In the six paces
it had taken him to mount the steps and walk through the man's door,
Ravis had changed entirely.  The angry look, the flashing eyes, the
crisscrossed brow: all gone.  Even his scar had receded.  Watching him
shrug off his mood as casually as others shrugged their shoulders made
Tessa uneasy.  She made a mental note not to forget it.

A soft knock came upon the door, and a beautiful darkhaired girl
entered The room.  Sir she said gently, gaze cast down to the floor,
may I have a word?  Marcel nodded once and left the room.  He closed
the door behind him.

Are you feeling better now?  Ravis asked, turning his lazy smile upon
Tessa.  Your color has certainly improved.

My color didn't improve as quickly as your mood.  Tessa was beginning
to feel in control of her day at last.  From the very instant she awoke
she had been ordered around, shouted at, dragged about.  She wasn't
used to such treatment, and somewhere along the line, instead of taking
a stand and protesting, she had simply given in to it.  This might be a
new place, but she was still Tessa McCamfrey.

Or was she?

Tessa's hand flitted to her temple.  Two days she had been here.  Two
instances where she was sure the tinnitus would come on.  Loud noises
and extreme stress were the main precursors to an attack.  In the past
forty-eight she had been subject to both of them, yet nothing had
happened.  The first time didn't mean anything it was a fluke.  But
today ... Tessa shook her head.  Today she had been sick with fear and
still nothing had happened.

It didn't make any sense, but then neither did anything that had
happened since yesterday morning.  No sense at all.

Tessa stood up.  She needed to make sense of everything; find the
design behind seemingly arbitrary events.  She knew from years of
studying patterns that if you looked at them too closely, you saw
nothing but so many lines and curves.  You had to stand back to see the
whole.

Which meant she had to find out all she could about this place called
Rhaize.  You never answered my question from earlier she said to Ravis.
 How many gods do you worship here?

To her disappointment, Ravis face didn't register even a flicker of
surprise at being asked such an abrupt and arbitrary question.  Only
one, he said with a small shrug.  A thousand years ago we used to
worship the four old gods, but counting the devil himself, that added
up to five.  He smiled.

So now we just have the one.

Nodding, Tessa tried to understand what Ravis said: four gods and one
devil?  What's wrong with having five gods?  There was little point in
pretending she knew any of this now.  Establishing the background
detail of the pattern was more important than keeping up lies. 
Besides, Ravis had already guessed that she wasn't what she seemed.

Ravis took a sip from his glass.  Old superstition.  Many people
believe that five was the first number ever named.  They say there were
no sorrows in the world until the one true God had his fifth son and
the child's mother died upon the birthing.  Now all sorrows, deaths,
and misfortunes are counted in fives.  Pregnant women once cut their
growing babies from their wombs rather than risk giving birth in the
fifth month of the year, and fathers smothered their fifth-born
children, lest they bring bad fortune upon the families who raised
them.  Even today, scholars still hold that more calamities.  occur on
dates with the number five in them, and that more wars are won and
lost.

But none of this is true?

Ravis made a hard sound in his throat.  Tell that to the men who fought
the Shrine Wars they spent most of their lives in the lower south
destroying all the temples and shrines built to honor the old gods.
Tell that also to Izgard of Garizon.  He likes to plan his military
campaigns in fives: five battalions, five warlords, five of anything he
can think of.  A tooth scored over his scar.  He believes there's power
in it.  A lot of people do.

Struggling to keep up, Tessa said, So the devil was the fifth god?

That's what the Holy League came to believe, anyway, so they forbade
all worship of the old gods and made everyone worship the one true God
instead.  Ravis drained his glass.  They sought to rob the devil of his
due.

Tessa plucked at the rough fabric of her skirt.  Her own world seemed
very far away.  And who is Izgard of Garizon?

Izgard of Garizon is a man who takes what he wants?

Ravis voice was so cold when he spoke, Tessa felt the words on her
cheek like ice smoke.  Where is Garizon?

Just then the door swung open.  Marcel walked into the room.  The
elegantly dressed banker looked slightly rumpled.  A lock of his hair
jiad fallen onto his face, and there was a red mark circling his
wrist.

Ravis shot Tessa a warning glance.  When next we see a map, my love, I'll
be sure to point it out.

Map?  echoed Marcel.

Ravis yawned.  Yes.  Our lovely Tessa here is developing quite an
interest in the lapis mines in Azhenestan.

Marcel smiled at Tessa His gaze alighted on her breasts, then quickly
shifted away.  Beauty and a thirst for knowledge.  Ravis is a lucky man
indeed.  He bowed.  Now if you will excuse us, my dear lady, Ravis and
I have business to discuss?  And then to Ravis: I have a new case of
berriac in the cellar.  Would you care to step down and take a look?

While Marcel was speaking, Ravis rubbed a bony knuckle over the pink
flesh of his scar.  When the banker had finished, he turned to Tessa
and smiled.  It was a mischievous smile, and the first one she had seen
that actually reached his eyes.

Marcel, he said, Tessa has lived in Taire for the past five years and
there's no need to tell you just how uncivilized that sheep dip of a
town is.  I'd wager my last silver that she'd like to join us for a
sip.

Hearing him speak, Tessa couldn't help but return his smile.  This was
a new and charming side of Ravis, and a rather crafty one as well.  How
could Marcel refuse such a genial request?

He didn t. Very well, Ravis, if you insist.  A long glance was
exchanged between the two men.  Marcel was the first to look away.
Follow me.

Marcel led them down a narrow flight of stairs.  Tessa descended three
steps behind him, eyes firmly on his bald patch, nose inhaling his soft
bookish scent.  The temperature dropped with the light.  Wooden panels
gave way to flaking plaster, which in turn gave way to naked stone.
Tessa shivered.  She was suddenly very aware that her stomach was
empty, though she didn't feel hungry at all.  Behind her, Ravis steps
sounded as light and weightless as leaves rustling against a window in
a breeze.

Marcel was carrying a lamp that burned with a steady, almost smokeless
flame.  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he handed it to Tessa as he
patted his waistcoat for the key.  The key went in the lock, and it
rattled against the barrel, but Tessa had her eye on Marcel's
red-wealed wrist, and she saw neither bone nor tendon turn.

Here we are, he said, swinging open the door.  My personal little
treasure trove.  The heart of my humble abode.

Tessa glanced at Ravis.  Surely he could see that something wasn't
right?Ravis inclined his head slightly, an indication that she move
forward straight away.

Marcel disappeared quickly, taking the light with him and leaving Tessa
and Ravis in the dark.  A moment later a large wall lantern came to
life, flooding the cellar with light.  Tessa looked around.  Row upon
row of crossed shelves dissected the room into squares.  The shelves
were cut into V's and small casks, bottles, and earthenware jars were
piled at varying heights within the slats.  The floor was formed from
diamond-cut stone that didn't quite match the lines of the shelves. The
disparity jarred in Tessa's sights: the cellar was a pattern with a
noticeable flaw.

True to his word, Marcel tapped a barrel and filled three wooden cups
to the brim.  In an unspoken agreement, neither Tessa nor Ravis drank
until the tendons in Marcel's throat pulsed, indicating liquid had been
swallowed.  Tessa took a sip of her berriac.  Ravis emptied his cup.

So: he said, handing the cup to the banker to be refilled.  Have you
had any thoughts on our conversation of last night?

Marcel's gaze flicked to Tessa.  Raising her cup so that it rested
against her chin, Tessa attempted to cover her breasts.  She needn't
have bothered.  Marcel was already looking away, his pale eyes focused
firmly on Ravis.  It was just the same as earlier in the street: she no
longer mattered.  Slowly Tessa backed away from the two men, putting a
hand out behind her to feel for a shelf she could lean against.

I have given our conversation my deepest consideration, Ravis, Marcel
said.  Nothing else has been on my mind since.

Nothing?  Ravis tone was light.  Did he glance at Marcel's wrist? Tessa
couldn't tell from where she stood.

So, will you make the loan?

Yes.  Marcel's voice was a tapering line.

Hand it over.

It's not as easy as that.  I

You what, Marcel?  Ravis tongue lashed against his scar like a whip.

I need surety.  Marcel's eyes flicked to his left.  Tessa followed his
gaze.  A tall block of shelves that might, or might not, have been
resting against the back wall.  I need to be sure I won't be cheated?

Ravis took a step toward Marcel.  And what do you have in mind?

The banker looked frightened.  Just as he opened his mouth to reply, a
voice echoed through the cellar:

I will act as underwriter to your loan.

Tessa gasped.  She had heard that voice before.  This morning.  On the
street.

A man stepped out from behind the far shelf.  He was wearing a hood,
and as he stepped into the lantern's halo, he drew it back to reveal
his face.

SIX

avis, let me present Camron of Thorn.

Marcel's words hung in the room like smoke.  No one moved.  Tessa
glanced at the newcomer: his face was hard, gaunt.  His eyes looked
artificially bright.

Ravis face was no more than a dark backdrop for his scar.  A jagged
line marring perfectly formed lips.

The two men looked at each other.  Tessa felt the hairs on her arm
prickle.  If she was an outsider this time, she was not alone: neither
man spared an eye blink for Marcel.

An overhead beam creaked and a rat scuttled along the floor, its little
pink feet following the cracks in the stone.  Time was impossible to
gauge.  Every muscle in Tessa's body ached with the strain of holding
herself steady.  She knew she had no business moving first.

Ravis sucked in air, then exploded into motion, covering the distance
to the door in just three steps.  He turned on the threshold and faced
the room.  A hand shot out toward Tessa, but his eyes found and settled
on Caruron of Thorn.  As you pointed out this morning, I am not in your
debt.  And I think it better for all concerned that we leave matters
that way.  Good day.  He bowed and turned to Tessa.  Come, my love, it
is time we broke our fast?

Leave now and my men will cut you down before your boots skim the dirt
on the road.

Tessa froze.  The stranger's voice was utterly cold.  His eyes held a
spark of insanity.

Marcel raised his hand to speak, but Ravis snapped out his forearm,
warning him to stay silent.  If you would be so good as to see Tessa
home for me ... Ravis waited for Marcel to nod his assent before
turning to look at the 8o j.V. JONES

stranger.  All things considered: he said, looking directly into Camron
of Thorn's gray eyes, I think I'll take my chances with your men.

With that he sent a regretful smile to Tessa and took his first step
out the door.

Would you also take your chances against Izgard of Garizon?

The softly spoken words stopped Ravis in midstep.

Tessa felt a feather of icicles drift along her spine.  The cellar,
with its jarring, mismatched angles and its lines that ran in all
directions, suddenly seemed like a cage.  Tessa wanted to leave.  She
didn't understand anything, not what had happened earlier in the street
nor what was happening now.  The only thing that kept her from speaking
out was the curious feeling she was watching a scene from a play.

What would you know about Izgard of Garizon?  Ravis forced his voice
low to mask his anger.  His hand sought and found the hilt of his
knife.

The man called Camron shrugged.  I know he tried to murder you one
mdrning ago as you slept in your bed.

Ravis ran his tooth along his scar until his smile pushed it out of
reach.  He laughed, waited until the arrogant curve slackened from
Camron's cheek, then stopped.  The silence in the cellar was his now.
One step upon the diamond-cut stone and the space was his as well.

Murder is a strong word, my friend.  You should be sure of your facts
before you say it.  As he spoke, Ravis took his first real look at the
man.  Camron was angry, yes, but there was something more.  Something
that showed itself in mercury flashes as he blinked.  Something that
Ravis knew all too well.

Facts, Ravis of Burano?  Cameron said, running his hand through his
dark, golden hair.  Here are the facts: At midmorning yesterday four of
Izgard's harms burst into the brothe a quick look at Tessa tavern you
stayed at, and sliced the bed you slept in into ribbons.  For some
reason they obviously expected you to be there at that hour.

Ravis went to bite his scar, then didn t. After he'd missed Clover's
Fourth he hadn't returned to the brothel.  Which meant that what Camron
said could be true.  After all, it was only a matter of time before
Izgard made his move.  There were a world of reasons why the Garizon
king wanted him dead.  And now that the contract was over between them
there was much to be lost, and nothing to be gained, from letting his
former hired hand walk away.

A small part of Ravis scar ran on the inside of his lip, and he trailed
his tongue across it as he considered all that Camron had said.

Ravis of Burano.  No one in the city besides Marcel knew his full name
all those he had been acquainted with this past year called him Ravis.
So if Marcel had told Cainron that secret, what else had he disclosed?
And why?

Then there was the timing of the assassination.  Ever since yesterday,
Ravis had assumed he had overslept and missed his ship.  Now, if Camron's
words were to be believed, it sounded as if he had undersiept
instead.  Ravis knew Izgard.  He knew that Izgard would not send his
assassins out to kill a man without first being sure that everything
was in place.

The harras had probably traveled overland from Veizach and may not have
reached Bay Zen until after first light.  la gard wouldn't have wanted
to run the risk of his intended victim sailing to Mizerico before his
assassins had a chance to do their job, so he would have taken action
to ensure Ravis missed his ship.

Ravis made slow fists with his hands.  Izgard had arranged for
something sorcery, alchemy, drugs to make him sleep.  His assassins had
burst into the brothel expecting him to be there.  Only he wasn t. For
some reason he had awoken earlier than he was supposed to.

The memory of serpents and ribbons coiling across a page flashed in
Ravis mind.  Intricate patterns burned into the vellum like tattoos on
naked flesh.  illuminations.

Three times now he had seen designs like that: once in Veizach when he
had interrupted Izgard in a meeting with his scribe, late last night in
Marcel's study, and then again this morning when by chance he
overturned a sketch drawn by the woman whose life he had saved
yesterday by the docks.

Ravis didn't believe in coincidences.  He didn't believe in anything
except himself.

Quickly he glanced at Camron.  Looking at his gold streaked hair and
the deep shadows under his eyes, Ravis suddenly realized Camron was the
man he had passed in Marcel's hallway late last night.  The man who had
gone up to see Marcel after he left.  The revelation didn't make
anything clearer, it was merely one more morsel to digest.

What did this man want with him?  The Thorn family was one of the
oldest and wealthiest in Rhaize.  Known as Thoren on the far side of
the Vorce Mountains, they had a well documented claim upon the Garizon
throne.  Indeed, the very castle they now occupied on the outskirts of
Bay Zen had once belonged to the first Garizon king.

Ravis smiled.  He'd finally caught a whiff of the main course.  Tell
me, my friend, he said to Cameron, why are you so willing to act as
underwriter to my loan?

Marcel sucked in air for speaking, but it was Cameron who spoke first.
I have need of your services.

Not only will he guarantee the loan, he'll pay you extra as well.

Ravis quieted Marcel with a single piercing look.  Marcel's neat banker's
hands twisted into knots.  It was obvious why he had arranged this
meeting: Marcel didn't want to loan any of his precious gold without
surety.  Camron's father was one of the five richest men in the
country: Berick of Thorn could provide surety enough for a lifetime's
worth of loans.  The only question that mattered now was how much
Marcel had told Camron.

My services?  Ravis raised an eyebrow.  I'm afraid I have no services
to offer; I roll dice tolerably well, dance the tar ella with only
limited grace, and although I have been known to write love sonnets, no
maiden has yet succumbed to their charms.

Cameron shot forward.  His arm swung up and his fist barreled toward
Ravis.  Pivoting sideways to throw Cameron off balance, Ravis swung
back at the last instant and caught his wrist.  Camron was younger and
stronger than him, but Ravis knew a few tricks of his own.  Twisting
Camron's wrist back toward his body, Ravis forced the young nobleman to
his knees.

Gentlemen!  Please!  Marcel came rushing forward.

There is a lady present.

Lady?  Ravis almost laughed.  Marcel had no interest in protecting
Tessa.  He had stepped forward only.  when it looked as though Camron
might lose the fight.  Wealth and wealthy people were the only things
that mattered to Marcel of Vailing.

Ravis released his grip.  Camron straightened up.  Gray eyes nail hard
with hatred never left Ravis for an instant.  Again Ravis got the sense
that there was something raw and hurting inside the man.

Rubbing his wrist against his cheek, Cameron said, I know who you
worked for and what you did.  Don't insult me with petty tales and
foolish jibes.

Ravis shot a glance at Marcel.  The banker wouldn't meet his eye.

Caruron continued speaking.  One year you've been in Bay Zen: watching
the ports, hand-picking men.  Recruiting an army for Izgard of Garizon.
Maribane archers, Istanian cavalry, Balgedis engineers any man who came
through this port looking for a fortune or a fight, you picked, you
paid, and you sent overland to Veizach.  Camron managed a bitter laugh.
What better place than this?  The very city that Izgard covets most. 
More men come through Bay Zen than any other port in the west:
mercenaries, fortune hunters, knights, heretics, and fools.  You had
your eye on them all.  You chose them as carefully as Marcel chooses
his vintage wines, and you bought them at the same premium rate.

Cameron's voice was low and filled with loathing.  It would have been
forgivable if you were a Garizon yourself that I could understand and
respect.  But no, you're nothing more than a Droklo bastard.  A
mercenary recruiting mercenaries for a fiend.

Ravis tasted copper in his mouth.  He had bit right through his scar.
Swilling the blood over his tongue, he willed himself to stay calm.  I
am nobody's bastard, Thorn.

Camron's lips twisted to a smile.  No.  You were just treated like one
by your brother.

Gentlemen!  Gentlemen!  Marcel filled the space between them, moving as
fast as a man could move when his assets were in danger.  Please!  Let
us have some civility!  We are here to talk of business, not of
lineage.

Ravis barely heard what Marcel said.  Blood pumped in his ears, his
temples, his cheeks.  He imagined killing the man before him in a
hundred torturous ways.  He wanted to kill both of them: Camron and
Marcel.  He knew he shouldn't be surprised that the banker had betrayed
him betrayal had been a dog at his heels all his life but even now,
after fourteen years of relying only on himself, in believing solely in
himself, the treachery of a friend still made him sick.

Friend.  Ravis smiled at his only folly.  Marcel had never been his
friend.  Marcel had but one friend, name of gold.  That was why he had
arranged this meeting today.  It was what had brought them together in
the first place.

When Izgard had needed a banker to carry out certain transactions on
his behalf in Bay Zen, most particularly the transfer of funds to cover
the costs of mercenaries and supplies, he had naturally turned to the
most discreet and flexible source of money in the west: Marcel of
Vailing.  Marcel hadn't dared turn down Izgard's offer to do business.
What if Izgard's invasion was successful?  What would happen if Bay Zen
was overrun with Garizon militia, Garizon merchants close behind, ready
to take over and exploit?  Marcel would be the first to lose his
holdings.  He thought that by acting as Izgard's banker in Bay Zen, he
was protecting himself against just such a catastrophe.  And as long as
he kept it quiet, no one in Rhaize would ever know.

Marcel was hedging his bets.  Mter all, he would argue, a banker's
first duty was to ensure the security of his assets at any cost.

Ravis shrugged.  What could one expect from a banker besides bankerly
greed?

Marcel coughed his professional cough, forcing attention to himself,
drawing the room to order.  Gentlemen... If we may get down to
business?  He looked first to Camron and then to Ravis.  Undiscouraged
by the dark looks and balled fists, he continued speaking.  Let us
start with the facts, shall we?  Ravis, you need cash.  You have no
immediate prospects and no future commitments and are free to sign any
contract you choose

I choose to sign no contracts in Bay Zen.  -Ravis didn't spare a glance
for the deal maker.  His eyes were fixed firmly on Thorn.

Traitors always have limited choices, Camron said, sauntering forward
like the nobleman he was.  They either take what is offered or knot
themselves a noose.

Ravis scar burned into his lip, his bone, his jaw.  And what exactly is
being offered?

I want you to give me all the information and assistance I need to
assassinate Izgard of Garizon.

Ravis first reaction was to laugh.  Camron of Thorn was either a raving
witless madman or an idealistic fool.  Assassinate Izgard!  No one
would ever get near enough, or be cunning enough, to take a shot at the
king.  Something stopped him from laughing, though, something to do
with the way the light shifted in Camron's eyes, revealing so many
subtle shades of gray.

What makes you think I can help you?  After all, I am just a mercenary.
Ravis tried hard to say the word lightly, but somehow the syllables
stuck in his throat, and he ended up sounding bitter instead.

I wouldn't call the man who spent two years in Garizon training Izgard's
army and instructing his warlords on warfare just a mercenary.

To distract himself from all the terrible, damning emotions Camron's
words evoked, Ravis looked straight at Marcel.  And kept on looking
until the banker was forced to give way and meet his eye.  If he had
been looking for small satisfaction, he would have found it shining in
Marcel's eyes there was fear and even a degree of shame but Ravis
wanted nothing except a reason to stay angry.

The Bay Zen banker had told Camron not only about their business
together in the city, but also about what Ravis had done before.
Secrets that were not his to tell.  Agreements struck in private
between a soulless Drokho nobleman and a man who would be king.  Marcel
had not been privy to the deal.  He had not even been in the same
country when it was sealed with hot wax, darting glances, and dry
palms.  It was purely between Izgard and himself.

Two years Ravis had spent working for Izgard in Garizon, then another
year here in Bay Zen.  Three years in all, where every day he sold
himself anew.  Everything he had learned in the east all the knowledge
he had game red while his body moved around a continent and his heart
stayed dead in one place he had itemized, tallied, and sold to the
Garizon king.

Oh, it wasn't the first time he had sold his skills.  He had been back
from the east for seven years now, and there had been many men willing
to pay for his insight and his instinct.  In the small hallowed circles
where such things mattered, his name was whispered with awe.  Ravis of
Burano, they said, he turned round Alvech's forces in less than half a
year He took the Chaniz Palace guards and made a killing force out of a
laughingstock, and after fourteen months consulting with Mallangaro of
Endez, that much beleaguered duke won a war

Ravis sucked at the dried blood on his scar.  He had not been idle
since returning from the east.

Every commission he took, he learned more.  The eastern barbarians
fought differently from those of the west.  They had no knowledge or
interest in plate armor, no desire to be caged up like birds.  They
laughed at the west's knights, thinking them top-heavy and slow,
puzzling at their reliance on defense.  The east respected tactical
planning, brutality, and speed.  Not for them the delicious code of
honor of the knights.  They attacked whenever they could regardless of
the civilities of war.  Foot soldiers were used effectively and
respected, infantry iv ere deliberately kept light to allow free and
quick movement on the field.  The east wasn't mired down in five
hundred years of tradition; they saw what was effective and used it
wherever they could.

Not that they knew all the answers.  In the past seven years Ravis had
come to realize that many countries had valuable practices, techniques,
or weapons, and the secret was to take the best of all of them Maribane
archers, northern Drokho pikes men Istaman cavalry, and eastern attack
strategies and form a single, cohesive, fighting force.

Ravis crossed the room and stood next to Tessa.  At some point during
the proceedings, she had tapped herself a cup of Marcel's vintage
berriac, and when she saw Ravis coming toward her, she held out what
little was left.  Ravis was grateful for it.  He suddenly felt very
tired.  This meeting was going on far too long.

As he raised the cup to his face, he was aware that Tessa was watching
him.  What was she thinking, this woman who did not belong here?  Where
had she come from?  And why was she here?

The berriac was an angel on Ravis tongue.  Warmed by Tessa's palms, it
released fifteen years of stillness in one volatilized sip.  It sung to
his nose and the back of his tongue and reminded him of all that was
good in Rhaize.  As he swallowed the golden liqueur it tantalized him
with images of high vineyards, lime-rich soil, and sheer limestone
cliffs.

Ravis gaze settled on Cameron.  He wouldn't be surprised if Berick of
Thorn owned the very vineyard that this wine had come from.  It was
well known that the Thorn family owned huge tracks of land flanking the
Vorce and Boral Mountains.

Perhaps thinking the same thing, Camron said, I can and will pay you
well for your services.

Ravis smiled oak-aged berriac had that effect on him.

I am no assassin's mate, Thorn.  I may have assembled Izgard's army,
but I am not party to his plans.  What he does and where he goes are
his concern, not mine.  I cannot help you.  I have neither the
information nor skills you need.

You are lying.  You spent two years with him.  You know his security
arrangements, you helped train his personal guard.  Don't stand there
and expect me to believe you know nothing about Izgard of Garizon when
in his anger, Cameron struggled for words you spent the last thirty-six
months in his pay.

Ravis let out a thin breath.  There had been the brief moment when he'd
thought Cameron was about to say something else entirely.  Something
even Marcel, with his watchful banker's eye and his clutching banker's
hands, didn't know.

Relaxed from both the effects of the liqueur and the relief of knowing
he still had one secret left, Ravis said,

Assassinating Izgard is out of the question.  No outsider will ever be
able to get close enough.  He has men who will willingly throw
themselves in the line of-an arrow or a blade aimed his way.  He has
more food testers than most kings have kitchen staff, his fortresses
and defenses are impossible to penetrate, and the harras are loyal to
him alone.

Ravis mind flashed back to the one time he had interrupted Izgard with
his scribe:

I am worried about the troops.  The harras are loyal, but the men we
bring in from Istania and the north will need to be monitored
closely.

Izgard's gaze flicking over his scribe's shoulder Patterns.  Patterns
on the scribe's desk, snaking red and blue and gold.  Matching glints
of color reflecting off Izgard's pupils as he spoke his reply Your job
is merely to train the men, Ravis.  My job is to inspire loyalty.

I don't accept there is no way to defeat Izgard.  Cameron spoke over
Ravis thoughts, breaking his link with the past.

Defeat?  Ravis replied softly.  I don't believe I said there was no way
to defeat Izgard.  I said it would be impossible to assassinate him.

Defeat!  Assassinate!  Don't mince words with me, Ravis of Burano.  I
want Izgard off the Garizon throne.  I want to see him dead.

The two things are not one and the same.  I tell you now, Thorn, it
would be easier to defeat Izgard's army here, on Rhaize soil, than try
to assassinate the man himself in Garizon.

Camron punched the wall with the heel of his hand.  Pottery clinked and
chimed.  A solitary bottle rolled off the shelf and went smashing to
the floor.  I don't give a damn what you think.  Izgard will rot in
hell before this year is through.

Why?  Ravis cried, stirred by something he heard in Cameron's voice.
Why does Izgard's death mean so much to you?

Marcel stepped forward.  Ravis

Hold your peace, banker.  This story is not yours to tell.  Camron
looked straight into Ravis eyes.  Liquid metal shifted through his
irises.  A muscle at the corner of his mouth began to quiver.  After
the harras left the brothel yesterday mo ming they headed out to Castle
Bess.  They laid low amidst the rocks until nightfall, and then entered
the castle via the garderobe shaft.  We believe there were less than a
dozen men in total, yet they still managed to butcher the entire night
watch  When I finally caught up with them they had just slaughtered my
father.

Tessa gasped.

Ravis closed his eyes.  He felt Camron's pain as if it were his own. He
knew what it took to speak calmly, rationally, about the death of a
loved one.  He knew the cost inside.

Cameron, I

Cameron had turned his back on them.  His fist beat a warning against
his thigh as he shook his head at the wall.  Don't you dare say you're
sorry.  Don't say it.  Don't think it.  Don't even feel it.  Your pity
means nothing to me.

The words stung Ravis.  They shouldn't have after all, he had beard
worse in his time, a lot worse but they did.  Flicking away at the
strings on his tunic, he feigned a nonchalance he did not feel.

Here.  Tessa's strange lilting voice broke the silence.  She handed
Cameron a cup of berriac.  Drink this.  It will make you feel better.

Ravis noticed the way Cameron looked at Tessa, as if he were seeing her
for the first time.  His eyes were very bright, and despite the dark
shadows and deep lines on his face, he suddenly looked very young. They
both did.

Abruptly, Ravis spoke.  You say the men were Izgard's harras.  How can
you be sure?

Cameron drained the cup of berriac.  Without looking at Tessa, he held
out the empty cup for her to take.  For some reason this annoyed
Ravis.

They weren't wearing Izgard's colors, if that's what you mean, Cameron
said.  They had knowledge of the garderobe shaft and the layout of the
castle Izgard could have access to that.  His ancestors built the
fortress.  It once belonged to King Hierac himself.  The plans are
probably still in Veizach.

Ravis nodded.  It would be just like Izgard to use any advantage he
could.  What did these men look like?

Look like?  Cameron spat out the words.  They looked like animals.
Animals.  Teeth bared, shoulders hunched.  He shuddered.  It was as if
they weren't human.

Tessa flashed a cautionary glance Ravis way, warning him not to push
Camron any further.  Ravis was inclined to ignore her.  I never trained
the harras to be animals.  I trained them how to best use their minds
and their weapons, how to overcome greater forces and constantly think
on their feet.  He moved forward as he spoke.  Slivers of broken glass
crunched under his boots.  The harras are Izgard's elite troop,
hand-picked for their weapon skills and their loyalty.  It doesn't
sound to me as if you were attacked by them at all, more like a pack of
rabid dogs.

Would a dog slice open a man's torso?  Camron's voice was sharp, almost
hysterical.  Would he pull back the skin to show the heart?

Ravis bit on his scar.  The practice of pulling back the skin to reveal
the heart of the corpse had been carried out in Garizon for centuries,
and he knew from experience that Izgard had a special fondness for that
old and bloody tradition.  During his two years in Veizach, Ravis had
seen several corpses prepared in such a manner, serving their purpose
as warning marker, or threat.  He had even seen a man who was still
alive laid out that way.  Heart still pumping.  More than anyone else
on the continent, Izgard understood the importance of fear.

Running his hand over his tunic, fingers tracing the leather above his
heart, Ravis tried to make sense of all Camron had said.  Animals? Less
than a dozen men defeating a full watch?  And then there was the
business at the brothel.  An empty bed sliced to ribbons?  No man he
trained would waste time destroying furnishings during daylight hours
in a hostile city, where any moment they might be caught.

What sort of evil vas Izgard dealing with now?

Before your father was murdered, were you planning to leave Bay Zen? It
was Tessa, asking Camron a question that wasn't important.  Ravis
cursed her under his breath.  He had forgotten why he had even brought
her.

Camron took a deep breath and, for the first time in Ravis hearing,
spoke in a gentle voice.  Yes, I had planned to leave the city.
Today.

Tessa nodded.  She didn't say anything more.

Silence cut the room.  Cameron's hands, which had been balled into
fists during most of the meeting, fell slack at his side.  Muscles
worked in his throat- Ravis almost reached out and touched his
shoulder.  But he didn t.

Marcel leapt into the pause.  Well, I think we all know why Berick was
murdered.

We do?  Ravis said softly.

Why, yes.  Marcel looked quickly at Cameron, perhaps expecting to be
interrupted.  Camron was silent, head tilted to the floor, eyes down,
so Marcel carried on.  Izgard was exacting revenge for the defeat at
Mount Creed.  If it wasn't for Berick of Thorn, Rhaize might be part of
Garizon today.

Ravis watched Caruron closely as Marcel spoke, looking for any
reaction.  There was none, so he decided to let the matter rest with
Marcel's explanation.  If there was more to the murder, it was not his
place to say.

So, Ravis, Marcel said.  Will you take the commission?  I can arrange
to advance you fifty crowns today.

Camron swung around to face Ravis full on.  His eyes were very bright
and his lips were pressed to a line.  Ravis was glad he didn't say
anything.

There was little choice here.  Cainron's crossbows men would shoot him
the instant he left Marcel's house, and even if by some miracle they
missed, the whole city would be after him by dark.  All Camron had to
do was go to the authorities and tell them what he had learned from
Marcel minus Marcel's involvement, of course.  Some deal must have been
struck between them last night.  Camron had probably begun the
bargaining by threatening to take his newly inherited assets elsewhere
for management.  The banker would agree to anything under financial
duress.  Marcel of Vailing had sold his own country for gold.

Ravis ran his hand over his lip.  He had no country: Drokho had been
lost to him for fourteen years.  He couldn't set foot upon its rich,
red clay soil without fear of being killed.

He had nothing.  No family, no country, no gold.

Izgard had tried to assassinate him once and would certainly try again.
The Garizon king couldn't risk Ravis expertise and insider knowledge
being used against him in the coming war.  Ravis fingers found his
scar.  At the end of the day, though, as good as that sounded, it wasn't
the real reason why Izgard wanted him dead.  Not the real one at
all.

Ravis looked at Marcel.  The banker was timing his blinks, anxious to
appear un anxious deliberately looking calm.  Watching him, Ravis felt
nothing but loathing.  The man had no sense or understanding of loyalty
he didn't even have the decency to keep up a pretense.  Whatever was
best for him, he did.  No questions, no moral uncertainty, no doubt.

And Izgard was the same, only worse.

Ravis traced the line of his scar with his fingertip.  The flesh was
cold and rough.  A ghost's worth of pain shimmered along its length,
reminding him of the time and the place his lip was sliced in two.

Ravis shivered.

So few people in his life.  So much pain and disloyalty.

He made his decision.

I will take the commission, he said, looking straight at Camron of
Thorn.  I will help you bring the Garizon king to his knees.

SEVEN

essa popped a slice of herring in her mouth IjJJJ and then quickly
washed it down with a large swig of arlo.  Funny, but the little fish
wasn't nearly as bad as she had expected.  In fact, it tasted quite
delicious.  What on earth was it staffed with?  Briefly she considered
asking Ravis, then decided against it.  There were some things it was
better not to know.

They were sitting in a small, low-ceilinged tavern close to the fire.
Rushiights on the walls sent charcoal shadows slanting downward, and
bursts of light and steam from the kitchen occasionally lit up, then
dampened, the room.  The tavern-keeper, a mournful, long-i owled man
named Stade, was busy filling every spare inch of the table in front of
them with food: terrines of steaming soup and fragrant mussels,
platters of pale white fish in even paler cream sauce, grill scorched
sausages, wafer-thin sliced duck, hard-boiled eggs, and fresh fruit
tarts.  And cheese.  Everywhere there was cheese: soft, hard, crumbly,
running, colored red and yellow and white.  Tessa didn't know where to
start.

Ravis sat beside her in silence.  They had left Marcel's house shortly
after he agreed to work for Camron of Thorn.  A few private words had
been exchanged between the two, a second meeting had been arranged, and
then Marcel had seen them to the door.  Although Tessa hadn't seen the
banker slip Ravis any money, Ravis tunic now boasted an extra bulge
above his heart.

My lord Ravis, said Stade, hovering around the table like a guest at a
funeral, you are not eating.  Is there something wrong with the food?

No, Stade.  The food looks and smells delicious.

Stade ran a shiny hand down his brilliantly white apron.

Then there is another problem?

Perhaps.

Aah.  Stade nodded his head dolefully.  A woman, then?

Ravis sent Tessa a gentle smile and then nodded.  You know me so well,
Stade.

Stade smiled with a sort of tragic satisfaction.  Women and food.  He
shook his head with feeling.  What else is there?  After sending Tessa
a reproachful look and fussing with various sprigs of mint around the
platters, he walked solemnly away.

Tessa continued eating.  This was her first meal in two days, and
nothing was going to spoil it.  After finishing off the herring, she
moved on to the duck, trailing slices in the apple glaze sauce, then
slapping them over bread rolls.  While she ate, she watched Ravis out
of the corner of her eye.  Stade was right: Ravis wasn't eating.  He
did drink, though.  Cup after brimful cup.

The meeting in Marcel's cellar had left him looking haggard, older.
Even with the firelight glancing off his face, his eyes still looked
dim.

After eating for a while longer but drinking no more, Tessa decided to
speak.  Something had been on her mind for some time now: a slender
thread seized upon while Ravis and Cameron were speaking in the cellar.
When we first arrived at Marcel's house you mentioned something about
your ship.  You said you missed it.  And then later, Camron said that
if it wasn't for his father's death, he would have left the city last
night.

Yes.  Ravis gazed into the fire.  What is your point?

All three of us, you, me, and Cameron, were waylaid yesterday.  None of
us had planned to be in Bay Zen today especially not me.  Yet here we
are.  Seeing little interest in Ravis face, Tessa struggled to make her
point clearer.  It's almost as if we've been drawn together, like lines
in a pattern.

A pattern, echoed Ravis.

Tessa thought she had lost him, but a moment later he leaned forward.
Last night I saw some illuminations in Marcel's study.  They were the
most exquisite and complex things I had ever seen in my life.  The man
who painted them died yesterday morning.

Excited, Tessa pulled on the ribbon round her neck, exposing the golden
ring.  I found this yesterday morning.  You missed your ship.

Ravis reached toward the ring but didn't touch it.  And Izgard sent his
men out to kill me, he said softly, his gaze not leaving the gold.

Stade picked that moment to reclaim the empty platters.  He shook his
head morosely at all the fish and cheese that was left.  Women.  Food.
He sighed as he walked away.

Ravis waited until he was out of earshot before saying,

What made you sketch the ring last night?

I don't know.  There was something about the way the gold weaved around
itself..  . and then when I saw where my blood had caught in the
thread, I just wanted to try to copy it.

Ravis looked at the ring a long moment and then stood.

Come on.  Wrap some of that cheese and bread in a cloth.  We're going
to visit a dead man's assistant in Fale.

Widow Furbish shined the gold coin against her sleeve, then bit on it.
Nothing tasted quite as good as gold.  This was pure, too.  No copper
or silver to tarnish the palate.  No lead or brass at the heart.

Yes, thought Widow Furbish as she flung open the shutter to search for
signs of her good-for-nothing brother Swigg, Lord Ravis and his strange
little miss were turning into quite a find.  The late Mister Furbish,
had there ever been one, would be smiling in his grave.

Imsipia Rodrina Mullet, more lately known as Widow Furbish, had learned
very early on in life that it didn't do to be a single woman in this
day and age.  Most especially a clever, ambitious one.  Her father, a
man who moved, looked, and reeked like the very fish he spent all his
days catching, had moved early to marry her off.

A fisherman himself, he'd naturally assumed that a fellow fisherman
would be the perfect catch.  Having grown up scaling, gutting, boning,
and hating fish, linsipia Rodrina did not agree.  A terrible row
followed, where terrible fishermen's curses were sworn and dire
fishermen's threats spoken: Either marry him, or leave this house now
with nothing but the dress on your back and the remains of yesterday's
catch in your basket.

Imsipia Rodrina had taken the fish and run.

She'd soon realized that being an unattached woman alone in a large
city marked you as either a prostitute or a sister of God.  Not having
any great fondness for God, the color black, or wimples, Imsipia
Rodrina had reluctantly taken to the streets.  Being a naturally
sharp-tempered and sarcastic person, she hadn't done particularly well
as a prostitute and had no regular customers to speak of.  Indeed, it
had taken her six years to save just one gold crown.

Once she had the gold crown, though, there was no stopping her.  She'd
promptly paid a year's lease on a building, purchased a crystal ball,
scrying bowl, and eyepatch, virtually kidnapped her younger brother
from her father's fishy clutches, and bribed the local parson into
scribing details of a fictitious marriage ceremony into the parish
nuptials register.  One week later Widow Furbish, fortune-teller to the
masses, set up shop.  The seamstress line came later.

She hadn't looked back since.  As a widow she was respected, admired,
and sometimes pitied.  She could go where she wanted, when she wanted,
and as long as she had the appearance of male guidance in her life
Swigg, as a supportive brother figure served nicely no one could find
anything to criticize.

Everything was proceeding to plan.  There may not have been as much
money to be made in fortune-telling or seam stressing as she had hoped,
but a clever woman never relied on trade alone.

Widow Furbish hung her fleshy frame out of the window.  Where was
Swigg? He'd been gone for nearly four hours.  He must have found those
foreigners by now.

Just after Lord Ravis and his oddly spoken strumpet had left this
morning, Bernice, Widow Furbish's housemaid, cook, and embroideress,
had turned up full of tales about two mysterious foreigners looking for
a man who had killed two people down a dark alley yesterday morning.
There were're wards, she said.  The men spoke like Garizons and were as
easy with their gold as dockside wenches were with their favors.

Widow Furbish had promptly sent Swigg out to look for them.  Lord Ravis
might have a pouch full of silver coins in his tunic, but Widow Furbish
seriously doubted that she'd be seeing any more of them.  And she did
so much want to move away from the river.  She was tired of the mud,
stench, and flies.

Just then Widow Furbish spied her brother walking across the bridge.
Two tall, dark-cloaked men were steps behind him.  Spying his sister,
Swigg waved enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together and waggling
his thumbs in the direction of the men behind his back.

Widow Furbish smiled.  At times like these she was almost fond of her
younger brother.

Springing into action, the widow tidied the room, closing all shutters
except those that angled light onto her walnut cupboards and the silk
tapestry that hung above the hearth.  There.  No one would find Widow
Furbish's house wanting in luxury.

Pulling the eyepatch over her left eye, Widow Furbish waited by the
door until she heard three pairs of feet pounding up her steps.

Welcome, gentlemen.  Welcome.  Widow Furbish flung open the door.

Swigg smiled up at her.

A crunchy, sucking noise came from close behind his back.  His smile
froze.  His eyes widened in confusion and then a soft hiss escaped his
lips.  Staggering forward, he collapsed over the threshold.

Widow Furbish caught him, firm hands slapping on his back to hold him
steady.  At the exact same instant she felt something wet trickle
between her fingers, she saw one of the black-cloaked men held a
knife.

The blade was red with blood.

She screamed.

The knife-man lunged forward.  The skin was pulled tight across the
bridge of his nose and his lips were pulled back, revealing wet, pink
gums.  A strong, feral scent of earth and blood and animal fur caught
in Widow Furbish's nostrils.  She let Swigg drop to the floor.  Still
screaming, she backed into the room, arms up to shield her face.

The door slammed shut.

The second man kicked Swigg in the soft flesh between rib cage and
hips.  Swigg didn't respond.

As Widow Furbish's gaze shifted from her brother back to the knife-man,
she felt a soft swish of air skim her face.  Pain exploded in her jaw.
Her teeth slammed together, severing the tip of her tongue.  Her mouth
filled with blood.  A white-hot razor of pain tore along her tongue.
Tears flooded her exposed right eye.  She couldn't see.

A series of dull, thumping noises came from close to the door.  Widow
Furbish blinked furiously, clearing her vision enough to see a shadowy
form bending over Swigg.  She couldn't tell what was happening, but
something blunt like a club or chunk of wood was moving so fast it was
only a blur.

Widow Furbish tried to call her brother's name.  Blood gushed from her
mouth, but words wouldn't come.  A knife jabbed at her throat.  She
sucked in air.  Her tongue rang with pain.  Kicking out with her left
leg, she tried to distance herself from whatever was at her throat. She
was no longer sure it was a man.  A hand clawed at her arm.  The
fleshy, animal smell was suddenly Overpowering.

Panicking, Widow Furbish lashed out with her free hand.  A fist punched
at her stomach and she collapsed onto the floor.  A dark form moved
into her line of vision, slowly leaning over her body.  Something wet
dripped onto her hand.  Thinking it was blood, she went to wipe it
away. The liquid was clear like saliva.

Widow Furbish let out a small, desperate breath as the shadow moved in
for the kill.

A glint of teeth.  An animal's grunt.  Her fingers grasping,
desperately raking over hard muscle and rough leather.  Fingernails
catching on a purse string.  Something unraveling.  Terrible, searing
pain in her stomach and chest.  Warm wetness soaking her dress.  And
then gold.  Gold coins like raindrops falling on her face and
shoulders, flashing with cold brilliance until everything went black.

The ride to Fale took three hours.  They followed the Chase River
inland as it snaked between hills and wooded gorges.  Forests of beech
and oak spread far on either side of the river, occasionally giving way
to stretches of yellow grass, or dense bushes, or slopes of crumbling
white rock.  Black-and-white houses crowded between the breaks in the
forest, trailing lines of gray smoke between the chimney tops and the
clouds.  White stone shrines with tall spires and deep roofs sat close
to the river's edge, their base stones darkened by damp.

A breeze gusted low from the east, cutting the river's surface into
bobbing, flashing jewels and exposing the yellow underside of leaves.

Ravis explained that there were really only two rivers that counted in
Rhaize: the Chase and the Thread.  The Thread ran the length of the
kingdom, running through the rich farmland of the south and then the
quanies, salt flats, and copper mines east of Bay Lis.  The Chase was a
different sort of river: deeper, slower, greener.  It flowed through
the moorlands of the north, linking Bay Zen with over a hundred towns
and villages on its long, rocky run from the Vorce Mountains to the
sea.

If Lzgard captures Bay Zen, Ravis said, pulling on his reins to guide
his horse around a tight cluster of bushes, not only will he be
positioned to control sea trade to the north and east, and set himself
up as sentry to the Bay of Plenty, but he'll have the run of the north
as well.  The Chase will be his.  He'll be able to ship goods and arms
north from Garizon, lay siege to Runzy, plunder the country north of
Gorut... Ravis shook his head.  The whole of Rhaize will be his within
a year.

Tessa just nodded.  She was having difficulty riding her horse.
Although she had learned to ride several years ago while she lived in
New Mexico, she was not an accomplished horsewoman.  The reins,
stirrups, and saddle were all different from what she was used to, and
to add to her troubles, the skirts of her dress kept getting caught in
the straps and stirrups.  She should never have sold her clothes to
Widow Furbish.

Ravis still hadn't said a word about his contract with Camron, but it
was clearly on his mind.  Whenever Tessa asked him questions about
Rhaize, his answers would trail away into military strategy: the high
hill to the west was the perfect position from which to launch an
attack on the city, the castle spied on the horizon was one of several
fortresses built by occupying Garizon forces centuries earlier and was
therefore as much a weakness as it was a strength, and now the very
river they walked along was a supply route waiting to be seized.

Will Izgard be thinking the same way you are?  Tessa asked, feeling a
little more confident about riding as she crested a sharp rise to find
a surprisingly manageable slope on the other side.  Now if only she
could get herself comfortable on this hard, narrow saddle... Izgard won't
be thinking of anything else.  He's a Garizon, war is in his blood.

You know him well?

I know Garizon kings well.  They live to conquer: it's how they
maintain their position, keep their warlords in line, judge
themselves.

As her horse seined to be doing just fine for the moment, Tessa risked
glancing at Ravis.  He smiled slyly back at her, knowing full well he
had dodged her question.  Tessa wasn't about to be put off that easily.
And is Izgard typical of these Garizon kings?

Even before the crown was on his head he planned to take Bay Zen.  So,
yes, you could say he was typical.  Ravis tugged on his reins as his
horse began snuffling at a tuft of grass.  Then again, it's been fifty
years since Garizon had a king, and you'd find many who'd say that all
the old tales are just that.  Old tales.

What do you say?

I'd say Rhaize should keep a close watch on its borders.

Tessa frowned.  Ravis was playing a game with her, a game involving
deflecting sensitive questions.  Why has there been no king for fifty
years?  Who ruled Garizon instead?

THE BARRED COIL 4 101

Ravis raised an eyebrow, yet he answered her question all the same.
After Berick of Thorn defeated the Garizon forces at Mount Creed, the
surrounding powers Rhaize, Drokho, Balgedis, and others formed an
alliance.  They sent a massive force into the heart of Garizon, razed
Veizach to the ground, and killed the king and his two sons.  They
issued a formal statement declaring that if anyone attempted to seize
the throne, they would reenter the country, torch it city by city, and
hack the arms off any man old enough to hold a sword.

The sun disappeared behind a bank of clouds, casting the road ahead in
dark shadows.  Tessa shivered, all games now forgotten.  It seems so
brutal.

It was brutal, but no less than Garizon deserved.  For centuries
Garizon has done nothing but cause wars: invading surrounding
territories, plundering towns and villages, annexing land, pushing
their borders.  Five hundred years ago Garizon was a small duchy in the
east, with poorly drained soil and no major waterway to call its own.
Yet once its men took to war there was no stopping them.  In the height
of its glory, Garizon ran from Maribane in the north to the river Medi
in the south.  Garizon kings fought bloody, ruthless wars, and as long
as the battle was won, they didn't care how many men either their
enemies or their own wound up slain in the mud at the end.

Look at Mount Creed Berick's forces had to slay the entire Garizon army
before the king would admit defeat.  Any other leader would have pulled
back, surrendered, cut his losses.  Not a Garizon king.  Garizon kings
are like rabid dogs.  There's no holding them back.

As Ravis was speaking, Tessa felt herself growing colder and colder.
She felt small and insubstantial, out of her depth.  This world she
found herself in was so much more savage than the one she had left.
Events moved with dangerous speed, people were more emotional, more
threatening, more real.  It was as if life had been boiled down,
distilled, to a concentrated extract.  Even the land itself seemed
somehow richer.  So many vivid shades of green and yellow, so many
tones and halftones in between.  Her own world seemed far away: a
drearuscape complete with mist and muted colors.  A watercolor next to
an oil painting.

Tessa patted her horse's neck.  Its warmth was familiar, comforting,
yet it didn't halt the sensation that her past was fading away.
Unsettled, she concentrated on the last thing Ravis said.  If Garizon
kings are as bad as you say, why have Rhaize and the others allowed
Izgard to take power?

Fifty years is a longtime.  People forget.

A pulse began to beat in Tessa's forehead.  Ravis made the words sound
flat and final, like a judge reading a sentence.  People did forget. It
was a simple truth.  Here she was, sitting on a narrow saddle in a
strange land, her whole life left behind her, yet already things that
only two days ago had meant everything to her no longer seemed so
important.  She hadn't once wondered what the people at work would
think when she didn't turn up on Monday morning or what her landlady
would do when the rent wasn't paid.  Bills, commitments, people, and
relationships: they were all slipping away.

Tessa felt for the reassuring weight of the ring around her neck.  The
barbs didn't bite this time, but she almost wished they did.

4 -A

Deveric's house was guarded by trees.  It came into view when they
rounded a bend in the road: a large, two-story building with a blue
slate roof, stone walls, and narrow slits for windows.  A line of
blackbirds perching on the lintel above the door watched as Tessa and
Ravis guided their horses through the trees.

In the cleared area at the front of the building, a small fair-haired
man was loading a cart.  Odd chairs, chests, tables, rolled-up carpets,
and linens sat on the ground, ready to be loaded.

Ravis dismounted his horse, beckoning Tessa to do likewise.  Just
before he held out a hand to help her down, his fingers flicked to his
waist.  To his knife.  Tessa pretended not to notice, but she couldn't
stop her heart from beating fast.

As they led the horses through the last of the trees, a second man came
out of the house.  Folding his arms, he leaned against the door frame
and waited for Ravis and Tessa to approach.  Sandy haired and broad
chinned, he sucked in air through his mouth, causing his cheeks to
hollow, before exhaling in a series of short puffs.  When Ravis and
Tessa reached the cleared ground, he spoke out:

If you're here for the auction, you're a day early.  Come back tomorrow
at first light.

We're not here for the auction, Ravis said.  We've come to speak to
Deveric's assistant.

The small man began loading the pile of linens onto the cart.

What business do you have with Emith?  The man on the step looked Ravis
up and down.  He barely glanced at Tessa.

Private business.

Private, eh?

You heard.  Now are you going to tell me if he's here the gracious tone
Ravis had used to begin with abruptly slid away or will I have to find
out for myself?

As Ravis was speaking, the man on the step poked through the remaining
linens with the toe of his boot.  Finding something not to his liking,
he bent over and snatched it from the pile.  This is Emith$ he said,
motioning toward the small man loading the cart.  Anything you have to
say to him can be said right here.  Out in the open.

The small man did not look up.  He kept on loading his cart.  Tessa
noticed his hands were shaking.

Ravis tooth caught at the rough skin on his scar.  What I have to say
to Emith is no concern of yours.  His gaze dropped to the sheet wrapped
in the man's hands.  Why don't you run back in the house, make your
bed, and lie in it?

The man's face hardened.  He kicked the side of the cart, sending pots
and pans scuttering to the ground.  Go on!  Get off my property!  Now!
All of you.  Wiping the spittle from his lip, he turned to the man
called Emith.  And you'd better keep your mouth shut.  If I find out
you've been blabbing around Bay Zen about the will, then I'll come
round to your mother's house and slice some silence from your tongue.
He kicked the cart once more for good measure.  Now bugger off!

Emith picked up the handle of his cart and tugged it into motion.  In
his haste he pulled too quickly and the contents shifted to one side,
causing the cart to tip over.  Wood cracked.  A roll of carpet hit the
ground like a felled tree.  Ravis shot forward.  For a brief moment
Tessa thought he was going to strike the man on the step his eyes were
dark and the tendons in his wrists were taut like wire but he came to a
halt by the cart and began pushing it back on its wheels.

An unmistakable look of relief rolled across the face of the man on the
step.  When he noticed Tessa was looking at him, he tensed, pumping up
his chest and balling his hands into fists.  Get going!  The lot of
you!  And don't come back.

Come on, Ravis said to Emith as the cart juddered back onto two wheels.
Let's see if we can hitch this beauty to my horse.

As Emith drew closer, Tessa saw that he was older than she'd first
thought.  He was dressed neatly in a surcoat and tunic, but closer
inspection revealed small patches and carefully darned threads.
Avoiding Tessa's gaze as Ravis rigged the cart to the horse, he stared
down at his hands, his feet, the ground.

The man on the step watched the proceedings.  The sheet he had taken
from Emith's pile now lay discarded in the dirt.

When the makeshift harness was in place, Ravis handed Tessa the reins
and told her to walk on ahead.  I'll catch up with you in a few
minutes.  Tessa glanced at the man on the step.  What are you going to
do?  she whispered.

Ravis shrugged.  I haven't made my mind up yet.

He was lying.  His mind was already made up.  Tessa could tell by the
way he gnawed at his scar: he was going to hurt the man on the step.
She couldn't understand why he was so angry.  The man was just a
small-time bully, that was all.  Like everything else that had happened
in the past two days, it made no sense.

Go, Ravis hissed, smacking his gelding into action.

Tessa turned the horses while Emith kept a hand to the cart to stop it
from overturning.  They made their way through the trees in silence.
The grass underfoot was soft and damp, and gauzy long-limbed insects
flew up as they passed.

Tessa didn't look back.  She knew Ravis well enough by now to guess
that he wouldn't make a move until they were out of sight.  To take her
mind off what Ravis was about to do and why, she searched for something
to say to Emith.  Glancing over the contents of the cart, she said, Are
you going into the city?

Hearing her words, Emith sprang into life.  I'm so sorry about Master
Rance, miss.  So sorry.  Since his father died he just hasn't been
himself.  The man's voice was gentle, almost puzzled.  He's taking it
very hard.  Very hard indeed.

And how about you?  How are you taking it?

Me, miss?  Emith looked genuinely surprised that anyone had thought to
ask how he felt.  I've been busy.  Very busy.  So many things to be
tidied and put in their place, so many things to be sorted out.  Master
Deveric always said,

Emith, you're here to keep things in order, that's your job.

Tessa smiled.  So now that everything is in order, you can leave?

Yes, miss.  Master Deveric's equipment is stowed safely away.  All his
brushes and mixing bowls are clean just the way he liked them.  Emith
smiled at Tessa.  A sad, sweet smile.

Reaching the road, they were forced to slow down as a series of
potholes on the surface caused the cart to lurch from side to side. For
the first time all day, Tessa felt cold.  It would be dark soon. Tall
trees cast shadows on the path, and the moon, which had been a pale
thumbprint in the sky for several hours, sharpened to a thin slice of
bone.

Here, miss.  Emith tapped her arm.  Tessa spun round to see the small
man holding out a woolen blanket.  You look a little cold.  You should
wrap yourself up before you catch a chill.

Tessa took the blanket from him, suddenly feeling very sad.  It had
been a long time since anyone had spoken so softly and with such
kindness to her.  Longer than the past two days.  Thank you, she said,
drawing the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl.  I didn't
realize it would get so cold.

You have to be careful, miss.  Mother always says that unless it's high
summer, you should never leave the house without your cloak.

Tessa smiled.  Emith's mother must be very old.  Indicating the
mattress in the cart, she said, Are you going to stay with your mother
now?

Emith nodded vigorously.  Yes, miss.  Mother lives in the city.  The
gout's been troubling her for months now, so she'll be glad to have me
home.

Glad to have me home.  Something light, like a spider's web or an
insect wing, brushed against Tessa's cheek.  The ring was heavy around
her neck.  What would her own mother be thinking now?  Would she even
know her daughter was missing?  Would the police visit the Arizona
condo?  We found your daughter's Honda Civic abandoned in the Cleveland
National Forest.  We know she stumbled across the missing security
deposit boxes from the La Havra Bank robbery, but at this time we can't
be sure of her movements after that.

Tessa brought her hands to her mouth.  Her parents would be worried
sick about her.

Miss, miss... Emith touched her arm for the briefest moment.  Are you
all right?  You look a little pale.  Here.  Let's stop for a few
minutes and rest.

No.  Tessa shook her head.  I'm fine.  I was just thinking about .. .
my family.  Ashamed that she hadn't been thinking about her family.

Footsteps sounded in the dirt behind them.  A twig snapped, and then
Ravis emerged from the shadows of the trees.  Tessa was surprised at
how relieved she felt to see him.

He smiled.  If you two keep up this rate, you'll be lucky to get to the
city by midnight.

As Ravis drew closer, Tessa searched his face for signs of what had
happened back at the house.  He looked calm, relaxed.  A few strands of
hair had worked their way loose from their binding, but apart from that
he looked completely composed.  Sir Emith began to speak, but Ravis cut
him short.

Don't worry, my friend, I did nothing to young Master Rance that a few
days lying on his stomach won't cure.

He's just upset over his father's death, sir.  That's all.  He meant no
harm.

Ravis began rearranging the items on the cart, laying all the heavy
things on the bottom.  Emith, you are a considerate man, but I think we
both know the real reason why Rance and his brother are so upset.

But, sir, Master Rance has had a bad few days.  He hasn't slept

I bet he hasn t. He's so worried that someone's going to come along and
take what he considers to be rightfully his that it wouldn't surprise
me if he hadn't once closed his eyes to blink.  Finished with the cart,
Ravis kicked the wheels.  I suppose he didn't take kindly to Deveric
leaving so many of his illuminations to you?

He may have got a little angry at first, sir, but that was only to be
expected.  Emith bowed his head.  It's the will, you see.  It's very
confusing.  Master Deveric was so generous.  He wanted to make sure
that everyone got something, and Master Rance and Master Boice are just
a little bit disappointed, that's all.

Yes, that's why they are selling off the contents of the house tomorrow
at dawn.  They don't want to risk any further disappointment.

Tessa kicked Ravis shin.  Judging from what he was saying to Emith, it
sounded as if Deveric's two sons were repressing the will and selling
everything off before anyone could object.  Even if that was the case,
there was little point in upsetting Emith over it.  The man was
obviously trying very hard to think the best of his master's two
sons.

Before Ravis had a chance to retaliate, Tessa said,

Emith, we came here to ask you about Deveric's work.  His
illuminations.  Ravis saw them last night and said they were very
beautiful.

Marcel of Vailing showed them to me Ravis added.

He thinks they may be worth a lot of money.

Emith shook his head.  That's not why Master Deveric left them to me,
sir.  Not at all.  I would never sell them.  Ever.

Why not?  Ravis took the reins of his horse from Tessa, and their
little party began to move again.  You could have a very comfortable
life if you sold them.

Master Deveric said I was to keep them until they were needed.

An owl called from the woods beyond the road.  Tessa pulled the blanket
close around her shoulders.  The light was failing fast, and thin gusts
of air hurried along her arms and down her neck.

Needed for what?  Ravis asked.  io8 4 J.v.JONES

For whoever comes next.  Emith held the side of the cart steady as the
wheels rolled over a bad patch of road.

Master Deveric always said that someone would come after him, someone
who could paint illuminations like him.  Carry on his work.

Tessa's hand stole up to the ring.  It was warm, as if it had been
touched only seconds earlier.  And Deveric wanted you to keep all his
illuminations to show whoever comes next?

No, miss.  Not all of them.  Master only gave me one set to keep. Emith's
voice was soft, but he spoke each word carefully, as if he were
anxious not to make any mistakes.

He left me the set he started work on twenty-one years ago.  Not his
most beautiful work, he left that for his wife, but his most..

Complex, Ravis said.

Yes, sir.  His most complex.

Ravis and Tessa exchanged glances.

Emith continued speaking.  Master Deveric would go years without
working on one, and then one day out of the blue he'd say to me,
Einith, I think you should run along and bring me the old set.  Now
feels like the good time to add another page.

Tessa shivered.  Deveric was working on a new page for the set when he
died?

Yes, miss.  As Emith spoke, his hands worked on Tessa's blanket,
adjusting it so that all the gaps around her neck and shoulders were
covered.  He started working on the page about five days ago: laying
down the guidelines, hard pointing He filled in one or two knots the
day he started, and after that he worked on it for an hour or two each
day.  Then, the night before he died, he woke me up in the dark hours
past midnight.  Emith, he said, mix up my pigments and soften my
brushes, I have a sudden urge to go to work.

Emith's words left a deep silence behind.  Tessa didn't know what to
say, didn't want to be the first to speak.  The wheels of the cart
creaked, the horses tack jangled, and the waxed leather of Ravis tunic
made a soft, swishing sound as he walked.  The4ay seemed suddenly very
long the longest Tessa had ever known.

Ravis spoke.  Emith, I've seen designs like ones Deveric painted only
once before in my life.  In a fortress I never want to revisit,
commissioned by a man I wish I'd never met.  At the time the man told
me I wasn't to worry any longer about something that had been troubling
me for many months he had a special way to make it right. Ravis voice
was beautiful to hear in the darkness: gentle on Emith, yet somehow
hard on himself.  I hadn't given the incident a second thought until
last night when I opened the manuscript press and saw blood on a
pattern barely dry.

I have been to many places and seen many things, and have long forsaken
the privilege of being anybody's judge.  If there were things your
master was involved in that may be considered ungodly, I would never
condemn him or vilify his name.

In the moon-pale shadows of the road, Tessa could clearly see the line
of Emith's shoulders moving up and down.  Glancing from him to Ravis,
she was struck by a sense that all of them Ravis, Emith, and herself
were caught up in something that was too large to see or understand. As
she had earlier in Marcel's cellar, Tessa felt that if she could just
step back and view events from a distance, she would be able to trace a
pattern from a seemingly random set of lines.

Emith... Tessa spoke into the darkness that lay between her and the
scribe's assistant.  Yesterday morning I was pulled here, to Bay Zen. I
was somewhere else somewhere completely different and now I feel as if
I've been placed in the middle of something important, and i don't.
understand what it is or why.

Emith did not reply.  Tessa heard him breathing.

Show him the sketch, Tessa Ravis, so close now that Tessa could feel
his breath on her cheek.  They moved apart at exactly the same moment:
he went to take something from his saddlebag, she went to take
something from hers.

A dull, tapping noise sounded.  Sparks flew, and then a golden flame
lit up Ravis face.  Tessa stopped in midstep just to look at him.  The
scar on his lip was like a seam of precious metal running through a
layer of rock.  Light from the flame gilded the jagged flesh, creating
an exquisitely detailed feature from a flaw.  Tessa wanted to touch
it.

Dismissing the impulse as foolishness, she took the rolled scrap of cow's
hide in both hands and unraveled it toward the light.

Emith caught his breath.

Tessa, who hadn't spared a glance for the sketch since she'd finished
it last night, felt her face grow hot.  The sketch was different from
what she remembered: so much more detailed than anything she had ever
drawn before.  Curves spiraled into a labyrinth of shapes and forms,
lines undulated in a dozen subtle ways while still managing to follow
their path.  Threads that first appeared to cross each other on closer
inspection revealed themselves to be a series of intricately deceptive
self-knots.  Through it all, the ring was still identifiable as a ring,
but it was so much more as well.  It seemed to mean something.

Tessa shook her head, disbelieving.  Had she really drawn this?  She
had been so tired last night, the light in Widow Furbish's stock room
was bad, the smoke from the tallow stung her eyes, and the stick of
charcoal kept breaking in her hand.

But then... Tessa's hand trembled.  The page shook.  She remembered
feeling free.  Her tinnitus, which for so long had been a hand on her
shoulder holding her back, had taken the night off.  There was nothing
to stop her from going too far.  There was no such thing as too far. No
point where she had to stop because the space between her eyebrows was
starting to ache or the blood in her ears was beginning to beat a
pulse.  No pain.  No noise.  And, after the first hour or so of
drawing, no fear that the tinnitus would start.

The cow's hide was buttery yellow in the lamplight.  The lines of the
sketch were an eyelash short of black.  Tessa studied the image of the
ring as if looking at a stranger's face.  Was this what she was capable
of when her tinnitus was taken away?

You drew this, miss?  Emith asked, pulling up the blanket around her
shoulders again.  She must have let it slip.

Yes.  Last night.

Emith made a curious sound in his throat.  I see.  I see.

Tessa looked up from the sketch to see Ravis looking at her.  His dark
eyes looked too knowing by far.  Emith he said,
gaze still fixed firmly on Tessa, tell us what you know about Deveric's
illuminations.

He snapped out the light.

Emith spoke.  I was Deveric's assistant.  I scraped, then stretched the
hides, mixed pigments and glazes.  I bound brushes, ground eggshells,
cut nibs, and boiled quills.  Whatever my master asked of me, I did. My
place was to help, only to help.  I created nothing, said nothing,
merely saved my master time.  It wasn't my place to ask questions.  I
was privileged to be where I was: with a great man, producing good
work, getting paid to do what I loved.

My master worked for the love of it, because he felt the shapes and
forms in his heart and saw the inks and pigments in his dreams.  He was
a fine scribe, with a deep vision, and he would never do anything to
hurt another living thing.  He loved life and the one true God
dearly.

Emith's voice conveyed pride and loyalty for Deveric, and although it
was easy to see that he believed what he was saying, Tessa doubted it
was the whole truth.  The man wanted so badly to think the best of
people.

What did Deveric say about the one who would come after him?

Master said that his work was very hard, and it took a rare person to
do it well.  He learned the art of illumination from the monks on the
Anointed Isle over half a century ago, and he hoped one day to pass
along that knowledge to someone else.  Emith sighed and began to shake
his head.  No one came along: neither Master Rance nor Master Boice had
the feel for the old patterns.  Boys who started as apprentices didn't
work out.  In the end Deveric became resigned to the fact that he might
never find the right person in his lifetime.  Then one day he came to
me I remember it well, for it was the same day he finished the third
pattern in his set and said, Emith, after I'm gone I want you to watch
and wait for someone to come along who has a feel for patterns just
like this, and when you find him I want you to teach him all you
know.

Him?  Tessa frowned.  And what if this person turns out to be a woman?
Ravis smiled as she spoke Tessa couldn't see his face in the darkness,
but she could tell that he did.

Did your master leave any plans for that?

Why, no, miss.  But I have seen work done by women scribes, beautiful
work, light-handed work, and I'm sure my master meant no offense.

Ravis laughed.  A noise that sounded very much like him slapping Emith
on the back accompanied the laughter.

Emith, you would have made a fine diplomat.  I do believe that if the
devil himself turned up on this road, you'd stand there and tell us he's
just a little misunderstood, that's all.

But, sir

Ravis.  Call me Ravis.  And my good, if rather indignant, lady friend
here is Tessa.  From the sound of his voice, Ravis seemed to be
enjoying himself.  Tessa found herself smiling along despite everything
what he said about Emith was absolutely true.  Besides, it had been a
long, hard day for both of them, and she was too tired to get angry. It
felt good to laugh.

Reaching the point in the road where they had to change their path and
cut across plowed fields, Ravis handed the reins to Tessa while he and
Emith saw to the cart.  The moon was high but not bright.  The way
ahead was little more than a dark sheet, and although Tessa could smell
the salty, dead leaf odor of the river, she couldn't spot any ripples
or shimmers of light.

Once the cart was settled in the soft earth of the field, Ravis came
back to walk beside Tessa.  Emith stayed a few paces behind, keeping a
hand on his cart.

Why don't you ride for a while?  Ravis said.  I'll lead your horse,
make sure she steps lightly.

Tessa shook her head.  She was tired, but she preferred to walk in the
dark.  How long before we get back to the city?

Ravis shrugged.  An hour, perhaps longer.

You're all welcome to come back to my mother's house for some hot
supper and arlo.  Emith sounded a little shy.

She makes the finest fish stew in all of Bay Zen.

Following that remark, Ravis, surprisingly, entered into a long
conversation with Emith about the best fish for stewing and whether it
was better to poach in broth or arlo.  Emith chattered along happily,
beginning most sentences with,

Well, Mother always says..

Tessa was content to listen.  As they followed the river's course
through dark, tree-striped ravines, night-fragrant fields, and steaming
marshes that sucked at their feet as they stepped, the conversation
shifted from local gossip, to rising prices, to tales of old princes
and kings.  No one mentioned Deveric and his illuminations again, but
from time to time Tessa caught Ravis glancing over at her when he
thought she wasn't looking, and although he may have been talking to
Emith about the best places to buy Istanian leather or the reasons why
the Sire of Rhaize would never move against Drokho, she knew his
thoughts followed the same path as hers.

Could she be the one who was supposed to continue Deveric's work?  And
if she was, how did it tie in with everything else that had happened
today?

EIGHT

essa's feet ached as she stepped onto the lJwooden camber of the
bridge.  She was so tired she couldn't think.  It took all her strength
to put one foot in front of the other and stop her chin from falling on
her chest.  Operating purely on instinct now, she knew it was time to
sleep.

She and Ravis had just come from stabling the horses.  Before that they
had seen Emith to his mother's house a small black-timbered building,
filling a cleft between a bathhouse and a stable and although Emith
wanted them to stop, rest, and meet his mother, both Tessa and Ravis
declined.  All Tessa wanted to do was get back to Widow Furbish's stock
room, roll herself and all the accompanying bugs up in a blanket, and
fall asleep.  They hadn't even stayed to meet Mother Emith, though
Ravis was rery careful and precise about passing along his respects.
That sort of thing seemed to matter here, and Tessa found herself glad
it did.

The clouds had long since kidnapped the moon, but the city created a
smoky, mustard half-light of its own.  The river stank.  As Tessa
walked across the bridge, she was aware of scratching, chittering,
night-animal noises coming from the banks below.

Widow Furbish's house was much the same as all the others on the
bridge; it leaned forward toward the center of the walkway, as if the
original builder had decided that if his creation ever were to fall
down, he'd be damned if it landed in the water.  With nostrils
shrinking from the stench and ears buzzing with sloppy, slapping, water
noises and high-pitched, tiny-toothed gnawing, Tessa was inclined to
agree with him.

Pale slashes of light marked the run up to the Furbish door.  Ravis
checked his knife.  Tessa put her foot on the first step, but Ravis
blocked her with his arm.  I'll go first he said.

Tessa was annoyed at Ravis theatrics.  Why did he have to turn every
arrival into an armed raid?  Pushing back his arm, she said, If there's
anyone on the other side, they can have me.  I'm too tired to care.

Ravis fingers stabbed at her arm.  Tessa winced.

You will stay where you are.  There was a cold, deadly authority in
Ravis voice that Tessa had never heard before.  Suddenly she was
reminded of what Camron had said about him in Marcel's cellar: Ravis
was a mercenary, a man who trained others to kill.  Kings paid for his
services.

She stepped aside.

Ravis didn't climb the three steps.  He stayed on the pathway, leaning
forward to knock on the door.  There was no answer.

Ravis sucked in his bottom lip.  Tessa noticed his jaw working and
realized that inside his mouth he was chewing on his scar.

Seconds passed, then Ravis shouted, Swigg!  Open up.  My arms are full
and I can't work the latch.

Nothing.

Ravis and Tessa exchanged glances.  The bridge, which only minutes
earlier had been alive with noises, suddenly seemed as quiet as a tomb.
There was no one about.  All doors were closed.  All shutters were
barred.  A wheelwright's sign swayed in the wind, but if it creaked,
the sound didn't carry.

Tessa's heartbeat quickened.  The exhaustion she felt was slowly
re-forming itself into something else.  The aching muscles in her legs
began to tingle.

On the first step now, Ravis lifted his free foot and sent it slamming
into the door.  The door swung open.  Ravis drew his knife.  As he
called out Swigg's name, Tessa got a whiff of the smell.

A musky, dog-blanket smell.  An animal smell.

And then she saw the blood.  Red blood, blue flesh, white bone.

Tessa gagged.

The lights went out.

Two dark figures appeared at opposite sides of the door.

They lunged at Ravis, knife hands drawn back to their shoulders, blades
poised to strike.  Ravis left elbow shot up and outward as his right
hand traced an X in the air with his knife.  The blade wasn't wielded
to injure the attackers there was too much distance between them for
that more as a warding device to give Ravis an instant to step back.

Tessa didn't know if she was too tired or scared to scream.  She
breathed quickly, though, for the first time in her life unafraid of
holding on to tension.  No matter what she did now scream, panic, run,
or fight she knew the tinnitus wouldn't bother her.  She was free to
act as she pleased.

Ravis foot found the path.  He had a second, perhaps less, to free
himself from the confines of the doorway before the first of the two
figures shot down the steps.

The rangy smell of animal musk got stronger.  Tessa could barely see
the two attackers it was dark and they moved too fast.  When the first
one swung his knife at Ravis, she caught his profile.  Only it couldn't
be his profile, because it didn't quite look right.  Something about
the bridge of his nose: it was too flat.

Tessa shuddered.  She must be mistaken.

The two attackers were out of the house now.  Cloaks whipping around
their bodies like shadows, they moved without making a noise One was on
the walkway to Ravis right, the other glided down the steps.  Tessa
could see him waiting for a chance to slip behind Ravis back.  Ravis,
aware that the two were working together to outflank him, had to keep
feinting attacks to give himself chance to move wide.  Both men held
their long, thin-bladed knives high at their shoulders.  Ravis kept his
own knife close to his waist.

The first man grunted and took a swing at Ravis.  Occupied with fending
him off, Ravis didn't notice the second man attack from behind.

Ravis!  Tessa screamed.

Ravis swung round.  He wasn't quick enough.  The second man's knife
glanced along his arm, slicing into the skin just below the shoulder.
Even before Ravis could pull away, the first man was on him.

Tessa's legs kicked into action.  She found herself running toward the
first man, fists out.  A noise ripped through her eardrums: the sound
of her own screams.  The first attacker's head whipped round.  Hardly
aware of what she was doing, Tessa punched him in the jaw.  Even as the
blow landed, she was conscious of the smell and the look of the man,
and something deep within her warned her to get away.

Tessa fought the impulse, standing her ground, guarding her face with
her fists, and screaming her throat raw.  Blood barreled through her
veins.  Her lungs ran hot, sore, and ragged.

She felt completely terrified and exhilarated.

The blow barely made the man flinch.  Turning away from Ravis, he
hissed as he caught Tessa's eye.  His eyes had a golden cast and his
lips were peeled back, revealing the pink knuckle of his gums. Suddenly
he shot toward her, cloak lashing out behind him like a tail.

Tessa stepped back, stumbled.

Ravis seemed somehow attached to the second man.  Chest pumping, he
glanced over his shoulder at Tessa.

Her attacker circled.  His knife was poised at his shoulder like the
beak of a carrion-feeding bird.  His breath smelled ripe and fatty. The
contours of his face were streamlined, almost fluid.  With a quick
movement he stepped out of Tessa's field of vision

Tessa tried to keep track of him.  It was so dark.  Crack!

She heard her neck snap back as something smashed into her skull.  She
felt no pain, only a sick-spiraling blackness and a sense of outraged
surprise: she hadn't seen it coming!  Tessa's legs buckled under her,
and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to stop them.
The world started rippling away, and the last thought she had before
losing consciousness was that she'd been right about the tinnitus.  It
was never coming back.

It was a gift from this world to her.

Sucked back, Tessa opened her eyes.  She had read enough stories to
know that when heroines blacked out in perilous situations they were
supposed to awaken many hours, often days later, in a large feather
bed, safe and sound.  Thin broth,

a motherly looking matron, and a crackling wood fire were usually
somewhere in the picture, too.

No such luck for her.

Tessa awoke to find herself looking at the exact same sky she'd passed
out under.  And judging from the ragged breaths and sounds of fighting
coming from somewhere to the side of her, minutes had ticked by, not
hours.

The wooden boards of the bridge rocked under her back, set vibrating by
the footfalls and lunges of the two men to her left.  Tilting her head
a fraction to see what was going on, Tessa was hit by a tunneling wave
of sickness.  A blasting, scissoring pain in her head bored all the way
down to her gut.  Eyes watering, she vomited onto the deck.

A low-pitched howl sounded.  Hearing it, Tessa felt the hairs on the
back of her neck prickle.  Wiping her mouth, blinking furiously, she
concentrated on the single shadow within her view.

The shadow was large; It moved smoothly for a moment like a bat gliding
into land, then it began to twitch.  A spasm rippled through its pooled
blackness, and then the shadow cleaved apart.  Tessa heard a breath
taken sharply, followed by a thick gurgling noise.  The shadow
separated into two.  The larger shadow rocked back and forth for a
moment before collapsing mt6 an oblique line and then receding from
Tessa's sight.  The boards under her back jerked as the body casting
the shadow crashed to the ground.

Suddenly Ravis was beside her, face spattered with blood, chest
pumping, smelling like the man he'd just killed.  He pulled her to her
feet.  Come.  Hurry!

Tessa would have liked gentler treatment just then.  Her skull throbbed
like a sore tooth, and her legs felt too thin and powerless to hold her
up.  Ravis didn't seem to care.  His eyes were focused on the near end
of the bridge.  With his free hand he cleaned his knife, first flicking
the blade downward, then wiping it against his leg.

Struggling to her feet, Tessa fought the tight braid of sickness
stretching between her stomach and head.  Ravis held her firm.  He
moved in close and whispered, Someone waits at the end of the bridge.

Tessa squinted into the darkness.  The bands of shadow and light along
the bridge's length played tricks with her watering eyes.  She couldn't
see a thing.

Over there.  Ravis made the minutest gesture with his knife.  His
shoulder was bleeding.  In the shadows.

Tessa decided she'd take his word for it.  Let's leave over the other
side.

Ravis teeth flashed into view.  I don't think, he said, speaking very
precisely, that would be a very good idea.

You think there'll be more of them?  From where they stood, just short
of the crown of the bridge, they could see only a short distance in the
opposite direction.

Ravis nodded.  Men on each side.  It's what I'd do.

And that, Tessa supposed, meant a whole lot more than she cared to
think about at this particular moment.  She said,

Well, we've got to go one way or another.  Make a choice.  As she
spoke, she felt.  the tail ends of her words slurring like a drunk s.

High up in the opposite building a shutter rattled open, and somewhere
in the distance a dog began to bark.

Guiding Tessa's arm around, Ravis said, I choose this way.

At first Tessa thought he had decided to risk the far side of the
bridge, but instead he led her toward Widow Furbish's door.  The body
of the second man lay across the step.  Ravis had stabbed him in the
back, and there was very little blood.  As Tessa got close enough to
see his features, she was surprised to see they were normal: not
distorted or streamlined.  He was just a man.  Tessa shrugged.  Her
imagination had been playing tricks on her.

Look up, hissed Ravis in her ear as she put her first foot on the step.
I'll tell you when to look down.

Tessa responded to the authority in his voice immediately, though it
took her a second to work out the reason behind the strange request. He
didn't want her to see Swigg's body.  Too late, she thought; already
seen it.  But she didn't look down again.

It was dark and cold in the house.  The smell of blood caught in Tessa's
throat: she didn't want to breathe it in.  She stood, staring at the
dark expanse of ceiling, and waited while Ravis locked and barred the
door.  Finished, he took her arm and guided her toward the stock room
where she'd spent the night.  Stay here a moment, he said as he moved
back into the other room.  Seconds later golden light spilled from the
doorway.

Outside the house, the sounds of barking became louder.  Footfalls
drummed against the boards of the bridge.

When Ravis returned to the stock room, Tessa tensed.  With the light
behind him, he looked just like one of the attackers.  Their meaty,
wet-fur odor was on his clothes and in his hair.  Did she smell the
same?  she wondered.

Now Ravis said.  We haven't got much time.  It won't be long before
whoever is waiting outside realizes we aren't coming out.  I'm counting
on them thinking we never spotted them, and that the only reason we
came in the house is to pick up our belongings.  He waited until Tessa
nodded, then knelt on one knee before her.  Wiping his blade one more
time against his leg, he said, This will only take a minute.

Alarmed, Tessa stepped back.  Ravis grabbed the skirt of her dress,
stopping her from taking another step.  I'm only going to cut it off at
your knees.  I'll be sure to keep your modesty intact.

Cutting it off at her knees?  What on earth was he tailcing about?
Tessa wished that her head weren't pounding so much and she could think
straight.

Seeing the confusion on her face, Ravis smiled.  If we're going in the
river, I don't want to risk your skirt getting caught around your legs.
Now hold still.  Pulling one section of her skirt taut, he began
hacking away at the fabric.

The river?

Ravis nodded.  It's the best way.  I'll lower you down from the window
first, then follow you out.  Don't worry, it shouldn't be too cold this
time of year.  And I'm pretty sure it's mostly mud down there, not
water.  He cut the final fistful of cloth, and the bottom of Tessa's
skirt fell swishing to the floor.  Though it's best not to take any
chances.  He thought a moment, then added, You can swim, can't you?

Tessa nodded.

Standing up, Ravis gazed at her bare legs.  Good.  Let's go.

Ridiculously, Tessa felt embarrassed by Ravis attention.

She was only showing her knees, she told herself.  It wasn't as if she
were half-naked or anything.

Ravis opened the shutters.  Sounds that had only been dull echoes
earlier grew sharply louder.  Barking, shouting, thudding.  Tessa
glanced at Ravis.  It's all right he said.

The more noise the better it will serve to cover our own.

He held out his hand.  The drop isn't bad about fifteen paces

Tessa joined him by the window; glad that the thumping in her head
prevented her from concentrating.  This wasn't a situation that would
benefit from deep thought.

The smell rose up like smoke from a poorly burning fire.  After the
stench of blood and animals, the foul air from the river was a welcome
change.  Peering out, Tessa saw the river itself glinting darkly below.
Gray silt banks flanked the sides, and beyond the black line of the
river wall, the city crowded close like a milling, angry mob.

Thrmp!  Thrmp!

The door.  Someone was trying to break in.  Tessa glanced at Ravis, and
although he looked calm, his tooth raked against his scar.

He helped her up onto the windowsill.  His touch was surprisingly
gentle, and he paused a moment to push a strand of hair from her face.
Don't worry he said softly, eyes looking straight into hers.  I'll be
down a second later.  Spread your arms wide, don't fight the current,
but try to steer your way to the west bank.

Tessa barely nodded.  She suddenly felt sick again.  The face of the
man who attacked her flashed through her mind.  She saw teeth and gums
and shining eyes.  This was a world filled with mad, dangerous
choices.

Thrmp!  Thrmp!  More banging at the door.

Ravis took her hands in his, and she scrambled out of the window.  A
cool draft blew over her bare legs as he lowered her down toward the
water.  His eyes were locked on hers and his grip was rock firm.  He
didn't want to let her go even through fear,pain, and confusion, she
could sense that.

Only an instant behind you, he murmured as he released his grip.

Tessa dropped.  Her stomach rose up to her chest and her heart found
its way to her throat.  Cold air buffeted her body, and then she
crashed into the oily, viscous water of the river.

Strangely, it wasn't as cold as she had expected, and its thickness
helped buoy her up.  Her head barely went under.  She had no way of
knowing how deep the river was, and she had no desire to find out.  Her
eyes, mouth, and nose were not going under again.  There was no way she
was going to risk any of this stinking, chunk-filled water finding its
way down her throat.  No way at all.

Unaware she was moving with the current, Tessa was surprised to see how
far away from the bridge she had moved.  As she looked up, a dark form
dropped from a half-lit window into the water.  Ravis.  Tessa raised an
arm, waved, considered shouting, then decided it was wiser to wave some
more.  Remembering Ravis advice, she stretched out her anus on the
surface and tried to steer herself toward the west bank.  Her feet were
kicking frantically, yet the water was so thick that she felt as if she
were paddling through mud.

The smell didn't bear thinking about.  Neither did the soft and bulging
floaters that kept bobbing past her face.  Grease formed a slick film
on the water's surface, a rainbow of night colors swirling within.
Tessa thought she saw patterns within the swirls.  Intricate,
shimmering lines of color, coiling around and upon each other like age
rings on a tree.  Like the golden threads in her ring.

The ring!  Panicking, Tessa felt for the ribbon around her neck.
Swollen fingers fumbled over drenched wool, desperate to feel the
smoothness of silk.  Finally her fingertips seized upon the ribbon, and
she threaded it through her grasp until her thumb was pricked by barbs.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she let the ribbon fall.  She still had the
ring.

Increasingly aware of the heaviness of her dress, Tessa forced herself
to paddle harder to keep afloat.  Her arms and legs obeyed her as best
they could, but she'd had a long, exhausting day, and she could feel
herself tiring.  Funny, but her head had cleared up entirely.  Her
skull still ached where she had been hit, but now the pain seemed to be
more of a needling, wake-up pain rather than a dull, throbbing sleep
pain.

Shouting, splashing, howling noises sounded in the distance behind her.
They seemed a long way off.

Tessa came a voice, rippling across the water's surface like a
breeze.

Swinging her head back, Tessa spotted Ravis only feet behind her.  She
stretched out her hand, and within seconds he took it.

This isn't normally where I take my lady friends in the evening, he
said, moving alongside her, but it does have its rewards.  With that he
brought his arm around her back and drew her close.  Now.  Let's get to
the bank.

Kicking together, they made good time.  Tessa could feel Ravis muscles
working to hold her up.  He didn't so much swim through the water as
attack it: slicing, cutting, lunging.  A few minutes later Tessa's foot
hit the bottom.  Feeling its soft, sludgy texture, she decided to
continue paddling for as long as she could.  Gradually she was forced
to walk, feet sinking anlde deep into the sludge with every step.  That
in itself was bad enough, until Ravis hissed at her to get down. 
Almost clear of the water now, he didn't want to risk their pursuers
catching a glimpse of them.

Cursing, Tessa fell onto all fours.  The water began to look decidedly
inviting as the silt sucked at her knees and wrists and her sodden
dress hung on her body like a dead weight.  She tried to take thin,
fast breaths so as not to take in the tenible stench of dead things
gone bad, but her lungs actively fought her.  They needed all the air
they could get.

As they crawled toward the river wall, Tessa risked glancing back.  It
was too dark to see if anyone had entered the water after them, but she
thought she heard splashing noises in the distance.

Carcasses, bones, bloated bodies of rats and birds, rotting leaves,
driftwood, and offal littered the silt.  The nearer they -got to the
river wall, the worse it became.  Long past disgust, Tessa actually
found herself wanting to laugh.  Here she was, running for her life,
soaked to the skin, crawling through a mud bank that smelled like an
open sewer.  This wasn't how adventures were supposed to be.

The river wall was a pattern waiting to be read.  The ground-level
bricks were large and well cut, though very old.  The higher the wall
became, the less care had been put into its construction, and boulders,
pebbles, and chips of stone had been added with little thought to
either long-term preservation or aesthetics.  The top layer had
crumbled away completely.  Streaks of mottled, yellow mortar laced
between the bricks and stone like fat marbling through meat.  Tessa
studied the wall a moment longer, then shrugged.  Patterns where
everywhere she looked in this strange new world.

Once she had scrambled over the wall, she didn't dare stand.  Crouching
down, teeth chattering from cold, she turned to Ravis and said, Where
do we go from here?

Ravis eyes flicked from the wall, to the river, to the city.  He chewed
on his scar a while, then caught at her hand.  You know what?  he said,
his lips curving to half a smile.  I think we may have been wrong to
decline Emith's invitation earlier.  Perhaps we should pay our respects
to his dear old mother after all.

We will begin the border attack tomonow at dawn.  Go forth and give the
order to your men.  Izgard of Garizon regarded the faces of his
warlords and generals, looking for signs of weakness.  A blink, a
muscle twitch, a failure to meet his eye: anything that suggested fear
or doubt.  No man moved, not one of them.  Izgard was well pleased.
Snapping his wrist in dismissal, he turned his back upon them as they
filed out the door.

There were emotions of his own he had no wish to betray.

Only when the door was closed and guarded seconds counted did Izgard
let the stiffness ripple from his frame.  Excitement was hot in his
blood.  As always these days when his thoughts dwelled on battle plans,
he found himself trembling and short of breath.  Crossing the great war
room that formed the lead-and-granite heart of Sem Fortress, Izgard
passed oak chests deep with maps, solid tables thick with scrolls, and
bare stone walls crossed with weapons.  In the corner of the room lay a
dozen panels covered with cloth paintings newly arrived from Veizach.
lz gard had insisted they be ripped from the walls of Castle Veize: he
had a craving to see images of war.

After tearing the cloth from the back of the first panel, Izgard angled
the painting to catch the light.  It was a battle scene depicting
Hierac's great victory at Balinoc.  The panel was alive with all the
crimson shades of cam age crowded with all the dark honors of war.
Broken limbs, weeping wounds, clenched fists, open mouths, and eyes
wide, but blank, with tenor.

Izgard's gaze was drawn to the deep crimson slash marking the death
wound of Alroy, duke of Rosney.  Slick and gleaming, his bloodied guts
seemed to spill right off the board.

Izgard licked his lips.  No one could paint blood like a Garizon.  The
Veizach Masters had named five hundred shades of red.

Letting the panel fall to the floor, Izgard stood and walked over to
the nearest desk.  Grasping one of several brim-full jugs, he did
something he very rarely thought to do when alone.  He poured himself a
glass of wine.  Red to match the blood on the paintings, strong to
match the beating of his heart.  He didn't bother to call for his
taster.  He knew the wine was safe, as two of his warlords had drunk
from the same jug earlier.  He always kept note of things like that.

Warming the glass in his fist, Izgard took a breath to calm himself.
Tomonow marked the true beginning of his reign.  Only when the blood of
the enemy had been spilled by his men and the emblem of the Barbed Coil
had been raised over territory gained could he truly count himself a
king.

Izgard swilled the wine on his tongue.  He didn't taste it.  He had he
ver tasted anything in his life.  Those who were born to wear the
Barbed Coil always came into the world with one crucial flaw.  Evlach
the First had two fingers short of eight, his son Evlach the Second had
been born with a dubbed foot, and his son after that had a disease that
caused bone and flesh to grow at random on his face.  He looked like a
monster but won wars like a king: such were the rulers of Garizon. Even
Hierac himself had been born blind in one eye.  Yet he saw more with
his one good eye than most men did with two, and it was that sense of
something lost in order for something greater to be gained that united
all the wearers of the crown.  It was a thread, though not the only
one, that linked kings past and present and added mystery and potency
to the weft of the Coil.

No whole man could wear it.

Izgard swallowed the wine.  It was so much lukewarm fluid to him.  He
could smell it that enjoyment had not been denied him but the taste
eluded him completely.

Food was nothing but texture in his mouth.  Soft, runny, oily, brittle,
or rough: his smooth lizard's tongue could tell him that much, nothing
more.  He took no joy in eating.  It was a physical chore, like
urinating in a chamber pot, or clipping one's toenails, or rubbing fat
into skin that was too dry.  Izgard ate because he had to, because if
he didn t, he would die.

As a child, he had once come close to death when he'd simply refused to
eat anything set before him.  Like fools, the kitchen staff thought to
give him the richest joints of game meat, hoping to build up his
strength.  Meat was the worst thing to eat without taste.  Leathery,
fibrous, grizzled: it needed to be endlessly chewed and ground by the
teeth before swallowing.  And when one could not taste it while
performing the task, the rewards were disappointing to say the least.
The four-year-old Izgard had simply spat it out.  After eight days of
spitting, the physicians had become involved; they'd poked, prodded,
postured, and puzzled.  What's wrong with you, boy!  they'd e&claimed.
Can't you taste how good the meat is?  Only when Izgard had shaken his
head and replied,

I don't know what you mean, had they finally suspected the truth. Tests
had been given.  All sorts of foul-tasting potions had been dropped
upon his tongue iodine, castor oil, verjuice, and strong vinegar and
his reactions duly monitored like an insect under glass.

When finally the doctors had realized that he simply could not taste
food, they'd nodded their heads as if they had known such a thing all
along and murmured privately to themselves that this young
smooth-tongued boy would one day wear the Coil.

He had the flaw for it.

By the time he'd reached his manhood, he could travel nowhere in
Veizach without people whispering, There is Izgard, son of Abor.  They
say he has a taste for nothing except blood.  In any other city in the
western continent those words would have been meant as an insult.  In
Veizach they were considered high praise.

Izgard swallowed the wine.  He did not take another sip.  He placed the
goblet upon the desk, then took the necessary strides toward the door.
Other matters needed his attention.  He had been rough with Ederius
earlier, and it had been preying on his mind ever since.  The scribe
was everything to him.  Everything.  He was the only man in Garizon
Izgard trusted to hold the Coil.  Yet whenever they were together
Izgard found himself losing control and lashing out.

Mind set on making amends, Izgard burst into the scriptorium.  Two
figures froze at his entrance: Ederius, sitting at his scribing desk,
leaning back in his chair, knife and quill resting motionless atop the
illumination set before him; and Angeline, standing at his back,
pretty-painted fingernails resting upon the coarse brown wool at his
left shoulder.  The Barbed Coil rested on a plinth behind them.  Gold
it was, but the shadow it cast matched the color of blood.

Both Ederius and Angeline stared wide-eyed at Izgard for an instant and
then quickiy sprang apart.

Izgard, breathed Angeline in her high little-girl's voice.

Poor Ederius shoulder was aching so.  He has been working so hard and
his muscles began to cramp, and the bone is badly broken

Ssh, hissed Izgard.

Angeline's mouth closed.  Her right hand fluttered by her side.  Her
left hand sidled up to the desk and silently slid a piece of parchment
away.

Izgard was beside her in an instant, fingers gripping her wrist.  Give
me that.

Angeline's face crumpled.  Her blue eyes began to tear.

It's mine.  I won't show it.

Furious, Izgard hit her with a half-closed fist.  Her neck snapped
back.  She went sprawling sideways, falling onto the bare stone
floor.

Ederius took a sharp breath.

Izgard raised his hand for a second strike.  Catching himself at the
last moment, he snatched the sheet from Angeline's hand instead.
Crushing the parchment in his fist, he worked to control his rage.
Minutes passed before it left him.  No one moved or spoke.

Abruptly, Izgard's vision sharpened and cleared.  The blood pumping
through his temples slowed.  Uncurling his fist, he smoothed out the
sheet of parchment.  It was a line drawing of a dog.  All its limbs had
been filled in with different colors, and his head and tail shone out
in gold.  A child's coloring page.

Sire Ederius said softly, I just drew a small fancy to amuse the queen.
Her Highness enjoys painting along with me.

Izgard nodded absently.  He knelt by his wife and offered her his hand.
Come, my love, he said in his most gentle voice.  Take my hand.  Let me
help you up.

Angeline didn't move.  A fat bead of blood welled up on her lip.  Her
gaze darted to Ederius.

Moving his hand upward, Izgard wiped the blood from his wife's mouth.
As his knuckle grazed across her lips, Izgard felt something deep
within his chest turn.  Angeline was trembling; her small fingers
clutched at the fabric of her dress.  What had possessed him to hit
her? She had only been comforting Ederius, that was all.  Confused by
the sudden switch of his emotions, fzgard pulled his hand away.  Go
now, Angeline, he said, straightening to his full height.  I would talk
to my scribe alone.

Angeline knew enough about his voice and moods to recognize those times
it was best to do as she was told.  She stood, brushed down her dress,
and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her as gently as a
scolded child.

Izgard turned his attention to Ederius.  The scribe's left shoulder was
a bulky, bandaged lump beneath his robe.  Izgard wanted to touch and
soothe it.  Instead he said, I never want to see you and my wife alone
again.  Is that clear?

But, sire, the queen is like a child to me, a daughter.  I would
never

Izgard cracked a fist onto Ederius desk.  Papers jumped, glazed pots
chinked.  A jug tippled over, spilling water onto Edeijus latest
illumination.  I said is that clear?

Ederius hung his head.  Water dripped from the desk onto his lap.
Perfectly, sire.

Good.  Izgard nodded.  The effort of holding himself back had left him
drained.  Now his anger had cleared, he realized that Angeline and the
scribe were involved in nothing unseemly.  Angeline had doubtless seen
the scribe's work and wanted to try it for herself.  The old scribe,
anxious to please his queen, had probably gone out of his way to amuse
her, and Angeline was always so grateful whenever anyone showed her
kindness.  Here in Sem Fortress she was isolated from her friends, and
with both her father and brother now dead, she had no family to call
her own.

An eternal little girl, Angeline had doted on her dear, drunken brother
and her pockmarked papa.  Izgard could still recall the first time he
had ever set eyes on her.  She was kneeling at her father's feet,
warming them in her hands to improve his circulation.  A vision of
daughterly devotion.  During the meeting with her father, Izgard could
hardly take his eyes off her.  She was the ideal Garizon beauty: pale,
full hipped, and fresh faced.  When she spoke she revealed yet another
charm: her sweet, uncultured nature.

Izgard shook his thoughts away.  Angeline was a fool.  She meant less
and less to him as the days went by.  War and the Coil were all that
mattered now.

Gaze circling the scriptorium, Izgard sought out his crown.  The Barbed
Coil shone gold in the candlelight.  Hammer welded at white heat like a
great sword fine rods of platinum, iron, and latten had been twisted
into the molten gold.  Once forged into a single billet, the cooling
metal had been folded in upon itself a thousand times, then extruded to
form a single strand of incalculable length before being beaten into a
coil to fit a man.  The gold looked like no other metal Izgard had ever
seen.  Its color and texture changed by the moment.  And although it
had once been tested and found to be nine tenths gold, it was harder
than the finest fighting steel.

Worked in such a way that it reflected more of itself than its
surroundings, the Barbed Coil seemed to glow with a private, inner
light.  Each strand of gold had been etched with its own set of
designs.  Cut deep to reveal the dark, multilayered interior of the
metal, subtle patterns and markings chased their way across the gold.
Recently Ederius had taken to recreating the patterns and markings in
his illuminations.  It was how he made the harras more than men.

Turning to Ederius, Izgard said, Let us consider the matter of my wife
behind us.  Tell me, have your sketchings been successful tonight?  As
he spoke, Izgard reached out and stroked Ederius thinning gray hair. He
liked to touch those who were close to him.

Ederius tried hard not to flinch.  I have failed you, sire.  Lord Ravis
has escaped us again.

Izgard shook his head sadly.  There was nothing for Ederius to be
afraid of.  Spying a lock of hair out of place on the scribe's temple,
he smoothed it back.  What happened this time?

A rivulet of sweat spilled from the hairline above Ederius ear.  I'm
not sure.  There were six men in all a pair waiting in the house and a
pair apiece keeping watch on either end of the bridge.  As you
instructed, no one took action until Lord Ravis tried to enter the
house.  Ederius voice rose higher as he spoke.  From what I can tell,
Lord Ravis overcame the two harras in the house and then evaded the
others by jumping into the river?

And the remiining harras?  Izgard ran a finger along the scribe's
cheekbone.  Did they not pursue him into the river?

Ederius nod was quick in coming.  Yes, sire.  Two of the harras jumped
in after him, but it was very dark at water level, and no one could be
sure if they had swum to the east bank or the west, or followed the
river downstream.

They?  Izgard's finger moved across Ederius brow to the bridge of his
nose.

Lord Ravis had a lady with him at the time.

A lady.  Izgard spat out the word.  He twisted away from Ederius and
stalked toward the crown.  Ederius let out a tiny, almost imperceptible
sigh of relief behind his back.  Izgard heard it nonetheless.  Born
with one sense short of five, he took pains to ensure that the
remaining four stretched themselves to fill the void.  Izgard had the
hearing of a creature of the dark.

Reaching out to touch the threads of the Barbed Coil, he said, I don't
think any woman who chose to be with Ravis of Burano would dare call
herself a lady.  A whore, certainly; a deluded fool, perhaps; maybe
even an unwilling victim dragged away against her will.  Aware of where
his thoughts were leading him, and reluctant to pursue further, Izgard
worked to change the course of his words.  I want Ravis of Burano dead.
I will order more harras to Bay Zen, and I want you to ensure they do
their job well and swiftly.  He ran his thumb over a cluster of golden
barbs.  He hadn't changed the subject at all, just honed it to a single
deadly point.

In his anger, Izgard pressed his open palm against the crown.  He
closed his eyes as the barbs bit into his flesh.  The pain was as pure
and piercing as a Garizon prayer, and Izgard felt stronger for having
suffered it.  Straight away, his mind refocused on what was important:
winning the coming war.

He turned his attention back to Ederius.  Moving close to the scribe's
side, Izgard set the fallen water jug back on its base.  The pattern
beneath was ruined; various colored inks had run into one, and the wet
stain that remained was the color of blood.

Touching Ederius broken shoulder as tenderly as Angeline had before
him, Izgard said, Come, my old friend, you must sleep.  You have had a
long, hard night, and now it is time to rest.  I need you to be here at
daybreak.  A new pattern must be started before the battle at dawn.

The scribe patted Izgard's hand gently.  Yes, sire, you are right.  I
must rest.

Izgard's smile was gentle as he helped Ederius out of his chair.  He
loved the old scribe very much.

NINE

ercury-rich vermilion ink slashed across the a thousand times more
deadly than the page, sum of its poisonous parts.  Honeyed gold ed
behind it, a gilded viper at its heels.  Red lead pinpoints blistered
onto the parchment like venom from a snake.  White lead would come
later: red's lethal sister was best kept to last.

A complex mixture of folium purple and copper blue came next.  If
mercury vermilion formed the arteries, then copper folium formed the
veins.  Skeins of amethyst ink pumped from the scribe's brush, forming
a varicose of lines.  Yellow arsenic followed.  Thickly mixed, it wept
onto the page like pus suppurating from a wound.  Through it all
through the yellow and blue and purple and red the gold ink coiled like
the serpent it was.  Fat-bodied curves entwined scarlet vessels,
constricting the flow of pigment to the upper left quarter of the page.
Made from powdered gold, honey, and glair, the gold ink cut through all
the lines in its path like an assassin slitting throats.

The scribe felt each deadly blow.  He felt them in his temples and in
the slowly mending bone at his collar and the muscles surrounding his
heart.  His eyes ached, his robe was damp with sweat, yet although his
upper ann cramped with the strain of steadying his grip, his fingers
never shook.

No one, not even an assassin, needed a steadier hand than a scribe.

The scribe didn't waste his energy on a smile, though he did let his
bitterness work its way onto the parchment, where he could be sure it
would do nothing but good.

He was an assassin.  A deft hand, a clever eye, and a knowledge of
poisonous substances: the two were surely one and the same.  Here, in
his grip and lying flat under his palms, were his weapons and poisons
of choice: brush, parchment, pigment.  His victims lay twenty leagues
to the west, and as in all expert assassinations, they didn't suspect a
thing.  Seeing only a troop of armed men not enough to be named a
company, nor sufficient to be perceived as a threat they let the men
approach.  Look, they aren't heavily armed, they said.  They surely
mean us no harm.

Ederius saw through the eyes of the creatures he had created from men:
his pulse beat with their pulse, he felt what they felt.  And even
though he had created the raw need to kill within them, its sheer
ferocity chilled him to the bone.  They smelled their victims breath
like a hungry man smelled a meal.  His tongue wetted with theirs, and
he was powerless to stop it.

Briefly Ederius glanced up from his illumination.  The Barbed Coil
rested on a plinth before him, the gold weaving a secret maze for his
eyes alone.  The frame of light and shadow burned an image on his
retina like the sun.  When he looked down at the parchment, he saw the
design he was working upon through the filter of the crown.  The two
images fit together like the pieces of a puzzle, and suddenly and
irrefutably Ederius knew what he must do.

The brush became an extra finger and the pigments gushed from it like
blood from a wound.  Colors he mixed were deeper than any he'd mixed
before.  The brush strokes he made were both swift and audacious,
executed with the careless grace of a devil and the accuracy of a
marksman taking aim.

The men approached their victims iThaize villagers in the border town
of Chalce blades warm against their thighs, vision showing all that
moved, teeth unfamiliar shapes in their mouths.  Minds were sharp,
senses keen, and, as the illumination began to shift toward its final
form, a feeling of unity swept through the group.  Before the Barbed
Coil they had been separate beings; now they acted and thought as
one.

Ederius was a master magician, orchestrating his show with a cool hand,
a swift eye, and an unshakable vision of all he could achieve.  Scarlet
ink sprayed the page as the men fell on the villagers.  The scribe
heard their cries, saw their horror at the breadth of savagery
unleashed, and, without as much as a blink of an eye, incorporated the
terror within the page.  It was binder for the ink.

So few he heard one young man whisper.  Who would have thought so few
could bring such

A spearhead of gold cut through a dark vein of purple, and the man
neither said, did, nor thought anything more.  Ederius dropped dots of
red lead around the severed edge for no other reason than it felt the
right thing to do.  Brushstrokes followed knife strokes, knot work
became strategies, and spirals became movements in the drama to the
west.  The Barbed Coil was a ghost on the page.  A terrible,
bloodthirsty muse.

Nine men there were.  Nine harras hand-picked by Izgard for their
weapon skills and intelligence, and somehow the illumination forming on
the scribe's desk brought all their training together, creating a whole
being from the sum of their nine parts.

Ederius wanted more.  He could control twenty, thirty, a hundred men. A
company, a battalion, an army could be his!  He knew everything they
knew, their strengths were his strengths, and their weaknesses sank to
the bottom like pigment settling in ink.

Line after line, the scribe carved upon the page.  Original hardpoint
guidelines, so painstakingly measured and worked out earlier, were
ignored.  Rules of symmetry, mirroring, and repetition fell away.
Nothing was important, only reproducing his vision of the Coil.  As
villager after villager was slain, new designs emerged from the flood
of colors bleeding over the parchment.  Complex, beautiful,
fascinating: they challenged the mind and quickened the heart and sent
a white hot excitement to the core.

Still the carnage continued.  No longer any men left to slay, the
harras turned on the women and children: spines snapped, jaws broke,
bladders emptied.  Ederius used each cry of terror and plea for mercy
as fuel for his great feat of scribing.  He fed off their fear.  When
finally there were no more people to kill, the harms turned their fury
on the animals.  Dogs, hens, pigs, calves: anything that moved was
hacked until it moved no more.

Nine men there were.  Nine lightly armed men, Yet they massacred a
village of over ten times their number.  And they did it in less than
an hour.

When finally there was nothing more to kill and messages were sent to
the army waiting on the far side of the pass, Ederius felt himself
beginning to fail.  With hands stained red and gold, he made the final
pen strokes, following the imagined lines to their ultimate, eloquent
end.  He was close to losing the harras.  He was even closer to losing
himself.  A feeling of well-being washed over him.  He had created a
magnificent design.  The Barbed Coil held a world full of secrets, and
it had chosen to let him glimpse one for a while.

Ederius felt his eyes closing.  His brush fell from his grip and rolled
from the desk onto the floor.  If it made a sound when it landed, the
scribe never heard it.

He awoke.  Blinking, he ran a hand over the edge of the page.  It was a
reflex reaction of all scribes: How dry is the paint?  How long have I
slept?  The paint was sticky, almost dry.  An hour and a half, perhaps
two, had passed.

Ederius wiped his old eyes, worked the cramp from his right arm, rubbed
his aching collarbone, and then looked down at the illumination he-had
scribed.

A sharp pain coursed through his heart.  Random bands and splashes of
color met his eye.  He searched and searched but could perceive no
design.  There was none.  It was pure chaos.

Seeing it for what it was, Ederius hung his head low and wept.

Emith!  Emith!  Come quickly and turn my chair.  The young lady is
beginning to stir.

Tessa opened her eyes.  She was looking at a rafter hung with herbs.  A
second rafter bristled with bacon joints, and a third was agleam with
copper pots.  Smells, good ones, sailed up her nose along with heat,
steam, and smoke.  Rising, Tessa saw that she was in a large fire lit
kitchen, cluttered with pans, teapots, bowls, and odd wooden devices
she couldn't begin to name, dominated by a large figure of a woman
sitting on an oak-framed chair facing toward the fire.

The woman, who had her back to Tessa, turned her head and nodded.
Morning, my dear.  Emith will be here in a minute, then I can take a
proper look at you.

Tessa swung her feet onto the floor.  She had been sleeping on a wooden
bench softened by a mattress filled with straw.  Blankets smelling of
things pickled and preserved slid down over her knees, and a nightgown
the color of hazelnuts brushed against the floor.  Her muscles felt
stiff, her feet were aching, and her head felt decidedly heavy.

Miss, called Emith from the doorway, I'll just wait here until you're
decent.

Tessa spun around.  Emith was staring intently at the door frame.
Glancing down at her nightgown, Tessa could only smile.  Decent?  She
couldn't remember the last time she had worn anything as decent as
this: the sleeves fell to her wrists, the hemline covered her toes, and
the neckline was high enough for strangling.  And judging from the
slight chafing she felt directly under her chin, it may well have
started out even higher.

There's a robe hanging on the larder door, my dear.  Could you be a
helpful honeybee and fetch it yourself?  My legs are just a little achy
today.  The bulky figure swiveled round a fraction farther.  And as for
you, Emith, go into the larder until I call your name.  I'll have no
one saying that anything untoward goes on in my household.  Stepping
into a room where a lady is standing in her nightgown, indeed!  What on
earth would your father have said?

Sorry, Mother came Emith's reply as his feet pattered away in the
distance.

Feeling as though she'd made a terrible mistake, Tessa dove for the
larder door.  She reminded herself that this wasn't her world now:
things that meant nothing to her meant everything to these people.  It
wasn't that attitudes were necessarily different here her own mother
wouldn't have approved of her appearing in a flimsy nightdress in front
of strangers but they were certainly more condensed.

I'm sorry, she said to the back of Mother Emith's head as she
shouldered on the robe.  I didn't mean to offend anyone.  Noticing a
set of ribbons sewn high up on the collar, Tessa tied them tight for
good measure before walking into the old woman's line of vision.

She was met by a face that was somehow both long and round, boasting a
pair of deep-set blue eyes that twinlded as brightly as the fire.
Nothing to worry about, my dear.  Twas my own fault.  If it weren't for
my old legs here, I would have brought you the robe myself.

Tessa looked down at Mother Emith's legs.  Everything but her feet and
an ides were covered by her dress.  The skin on her an ides was red and
swollen, and her feet had a purple tinge.  Mother Emith patted her
knee.  Come closer, my pet, so I may see you more clearly.  Then,
shouting over Tessa's head: You can come back now, Emith.  Pour us all
a cup of warm milk.

Tessa moved closer.  Mother Emith leaned forward in her chair and
slapped a warm palm upon Tessa's forehead.

Hmxn.  No fever.  Open your mouth, my dear.  Wide.  Tessa did as she
was told.  No swelling.  Good.  Good.  Now turn around so I can see the
back of your head.

Mother Emith hmm'd a bit more, then Tessa felt a bright flare of pain
above her ear as the woman touched a tender spot.

Easy, my dear, soothed the old lady.  You've a lump the size of a crab
apple up there.

Here you are, miss, Emith said, drawing close with two bowls full of
steaming milk.  He handed the first to Tessa with a shy smile.  I added
a sprialde of cinnamon.

I hope you put the cinnamon in while the milk was warming, Emith?  said
his mother.  Emith nodded.  Satisfied, his mother tapped Tessa lightly
on the shoulder in dismissal.

You'll need some witch hazel on that, my dear, and perhaps we should
brew up a pot of wort-leaf tea just to be safe.

Should I do it, Mother?  asked Emith, placing the second bowl of milk
on the small hand table at his mother's side

Emith's mother patted her son on the arm and smiled.

She was very old.  You're a good boy, Emith.  I'm glad you're home.  If
you could just turn my chair a shade for me first.  It's getting a
little too warm facing the fire.

Tessa watched as Emith worked to shift his mother's chair while his
mother sat in it.  How had such a large woman managed to have such a
small son?  Despite their differences in size, there were similarities
between them: they shared the same dark blue eyes, and both dressed
with extreme neatness.  Comb lines could be spotted in both Emith's
graying hair and the few snow white tufts that were left of his mother
s.

Glancing around at the room, noticing the way it was laid out, Tessa
got the distinct feeling that the solid oak chair that Emith was
currently struggling to move marked not only the geographical center of
the room, but also its very heart.  Tessa had an odd image of Mother
Emith and her chair slowly turning to face various points in the
kitchen as the day went by, ticking around like the hands on a clock.

Where is Ravis?  Tessa asked, pushing away the bowl of milk.  She had
never cared for warm milk; it reminded her of being ill as a child.

Emith wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow.  His mother was now in
place, and after settling her feet on a small footstool, he said, Lord
Ravis went out very early this morning, miss.  He asked me t6tell you
not to worry, he would be back later.

Oh.  Tessa tried not to sound disappointed, tried not to feel
disappointed.  At some point during all the madness yesterday, she had
begun to think of Ravis and herself as a team.  Foolishness, she told
herself.  What use was she to a man who was in as much trouble as
Ravis?

Tessa shivered as details of all that happened last night flashed
through her mind: Ravis fighting the two attackers at Widow Furbish's
door, the yellow glint of teeth, Swigg's broken body, the mad leap into
the river.  The journey back through the city had been little more than
a blur.

Tessa had never thought of herself as physically weak, yet after she'd
dragged herself up from the mud banks she'd barely been able to stand.
She remembered leaning heavily against Ravis and then not leaning at
all.  Ravis had picked her up and carried her through the dark, silent
streets of

Bay Zen.  By the time they'd arrived at Mother Emith's house, it had
taken all of her strength to lift her head off Ravis shoulder, and
Tessa now found she couldn't remember any of what had happened once
they'd crossed the threshold into the warm, fragrant shadows beyond.
She and Ravis had turned up wet and filthy, yet Emith and his mother
had taken them in all the same.

I want to thank you she said.  Both of you.  You've been very kind to
me, and I

Ssh, my dear Mother Emith said.  There's no need to thank me and Emith.
Emith warned me you might be coming to stay last night when you dropped
him off.

He did?  Tessa was immediately suspicious.

Yes, miss.  Emith was in the process of replacing Tessa's bowl of milk
with a bowl of something else.  After we talked about Master Deveric's
illuminations on the way home from Fale yesterday, when you showed me
your drawing, I began thinking that perhaps you were the one my master
was talking about.  Perhaps you were meant to carry on his work.

Be sure to drink all your tea, my dear, Mother Emith cut in.  There's
nothing like wort-leaf tea for soothing achy muscles.

Tessa took the bowl in her hands.  Odd flakes of dark matter floated on
the surface, bleeding green pigment into the liquid.  You have no way
of being sure it's me, Emith.  All I did was sketch a ring.

Emith nodded.  You're right, miss.  But the thought niggled away at me
all the way home.  As he spoke, Emith cleared a space on the huge
trestle table that dominated the far wall of the room.  Fat sacks of
flour and spices were shoved to one side, along with pots, pans,
cleavers, and root vegetables.  There was something about your sketch,
miss.  The way you draw curves reminds me of my master.

You should listen to Emith, my dear.  Mother Emith twisted around in
her chair to face Tessa.  He's not one to rush to judgment on anything.
Slapping her hand against her thigh, she said, I know, just to be sure,
why don't we all take another look at the sketch, here, in God's good
light of day?

The sketch?  The last thing Tessa remembered about it was folding it up
and stuffing it down her bodice on the road back to Bay Zen.  I must
have jumped into the river with it, she said, walking into Mother Emith's
sphere of vision.  She didn't like seeing the white-haired lady
strain.

It was a charcoal drawing, miss.  There's a fair chance it would have
survived a wetting ink or paint and it would have run clean away.
Having cleared a good portion of the table, Emith was now taking things
out of a chest: small glazed pots, brushes, scrolls, wads of cloth,
flight feathers, and rolls of cork.  Your clothes are in the basket by
the fire, miss.

If you don't mind, my dear, Mother Emith said, could you just fetch the
basket yourself?  I'm afraid you've caught me on a bit of a bad
morning.  Any other time and I'd be scurrying around the kitchen like a
lost ant.  Wouldn't I, Emith?

Emith nodded softly.  When he spoke his voice was subdued.  Yes,
Mother.

Tessa walked past Mother Emith, trying hard not to look at her swollen
an ides  The basket by the fire contained the remains of Tessa's dress
and her shoes, nothing more.  The scroll must have floated from her
bodice when she was in the river.  I can't find it.

It doesn't matter, miss, Emith said, mixing water and matte black
powder ifito a bowl.  I'll soon have everything ready for you to try
your hand at something else.

Yes echoed his mother from her chair.  Never mind about the sketch, my
dear.  Some things were made to be lost.

Thinking it a rather odd thing to say, Tessa looked up at Mother Emith.
The old woman looked back, at her, eyes twmlding.

Come on, miss, Emith said, knife and flight feather now in hand.  I've
just cut you a fresh nib.  Let's see if you can scribe something to
match the sketch you lost.

Tessa looked at Mother Emith a moment longer, then crossed over to her
son.  The kitchen was a large, low-ceilinged room with so many items
hanging from the rafters that she had to duck constantly to avoid them.
The floor was good, plain stone of the sort that she had seen a lot of
during the ride to Fale.  Light came mostly from the fire burning in
the hearth, but thin strips of sunlight banded the room, spilling from
two unglazed windows cut high into the wall.

Here, miss, Emith said, taking the bowl of wort-leaf tea from Tessa and
handing her the quill.  I've cut a fine tip, perfect for detailed work.
It's a hard one, too.  I boiled it myself a week ago, and it's spent
all the time since in sand.

Tessa ran a finger over the nib.  Boiled?  Sand?  She didn't understand
what Emith was saying.

Gently Emith corrected her grip, moving her fingers so she held the
quill like a fountain pen.  Yes, miss.  You can't just pluck a goose
and expect to write straight away with the feather.  It has to be
boiled to clean it and to make it soft and ready for shaping.  While it's
still hot I take my clutching hook and flatten the nib and the shaft.
See?  He pointed to the areas of the quill that had been shaped.  And
once that's done, I bury it in sand to make it good and hard.  The
longer you keep the feathers buried, the harder they become.

The nib felt as tough and smooth as a fingernail.  It was almost the
same color too.  Looking at the eager expression on Emith's face, Tessa
felt she should say something complimentary.  This feels like a good
one she said, weighing it in her hand.  I'm sure it will last a long
time.

Emith shook his head.  Master always said it's the best ones that last
the least.

Tessa was beginning to feel like a fool.  Why?

Because the better the pen, miss, the more a scribe will favor using
it, and the more times the nib will have to be recut.  I've seen Master
Deveric whittle down as many as three pens in one day.

So the nib wears down?  Feeling its hard toughness, Tessa found it hard
to imagine.

Yes, miss.  Emith spoke softly and without a trace of impatience.  But
you needn't worry about that.  I'll be here ready to recut it for you
as soon as the line thickens.

Be sure to listen carefully to Emith, my dear said Mother Emith.  There's
no one in Bay Zen who knows more about scribing than my son.

Emith actually blushed.  He hurried on, pulling out a chair for Tessa
to sit.  Here, miss, he said, guiding her 142 j.v. JONES

hand toward a pot of ink.  This is how you dip to pick up the right
amount of ink.  You need to do it at an angle.  See?  Tessa nodded. 
And then you bend your wrist a little to keep the ink in the pen when
you move it.

Tessa did as she was told, though a large drop of ink splashed onto the
table.  Emith was ready with a cloth.  Drawing the pen over the square
of parchment, Tessa was surprised at how difficult it was.  Not like
using a fountain pen at all.  The nib scratched a furrow in the
parchment and the ink pooled, then soaked into the lines created.

Emith, could you bring the vegetables over?  I'll need to peel them for
the herring bake.

As Emith collected vegetables, bowl, and knife for his mother, Tessa
concentrated on getting the nib to do as she wanted.  The parchment
itself was a problem because it was so much rougher than the paper she
was used to.  By the time Emith got back she had made a complete mess
of the page.

You don't have to press so hard, miss, he said, looking over her
shoulder.  Let the ink do the work for you, not the nib.

The ink?  As Tessa spoke, Mother Emith began humming a tune.  Vegetable
scraping sounds soon followed.

Yes, miss, Emith said.  You only need to touch the page lightly.  The
ink Will soak in of its own accord.  It's made from gallic acid, you
see, so it burns right into the page.  Scrape too hard with your nib
and the ink will sear the page like a cattle brand.

This is acid?  Tessa found herself becoming interested in what Emith
was saying.

Emith nodded.  Gallic acid, gum, and lampblack.  I make it myself.  Of
course it's going to be more difficult for me to find gall nuts now I'm
in the city.  I'll probably have to buy them at market, so they won't
be nearly as good.  Seeing Tessa's puzzled expression, Emith explained
further.  Gallnuts grow on the bark of oak trees after they've been
stung by laying insects.  There's a grove of fine oaks just at the back
of my master's house, and all I ever had to do when I needed ink was
take a walk and gather them.  I'd chop them off, soak them in water
overnight, and by the following morning they'd be ready to take the
lampblack.

Tessa raised an eyebrow.

Carbon powder, Emith explained without being asked.

It's what forms on the glass of burning oil lamps.

Emith, could you set these vegetables to boil?  Mother Emith held out a
copper pan.  And while you're up could you bring over the fish to be
gutted?

Tessa wondered how Emith's mother had gotten along before her son came.
It was beginning to look as if she couldn't move from her chair.  Yet
the kitchen was so tidy and fragrant, and good things were cooking on
the hearth.  Tessa smiled: Emith's mother had a rare talent for asking
people to do things without seeming bossy or troublesome.  That
probably had a lot to do with it.

Doodling with pen and ink, Tessa marveled at all Emith had told her.
She liked hearing the details of scribing, ink making, and quill
shaping.  She even liked the feel of the quill in her hand.  Carefully
she began to trace spirals similar to the coils in the ring, turning
the nib every so often to broaden the line to a barb.  It was good to
be here, in a warm kitchen, with Emith and his mother taking care of
her.  After all the madness of yesterday, she welcomed the peace and
quiet.  Funny, but she didn't feel like relaxing, though.  She was
determined to make the quill do what she wanted and make the ink go
where it was supposed to.  And as Emith turned his mother's chair
another degree and put the vegetables to boil on the hearth, Tessa
turned her full attention to the parchment.  She was going to draw a
better pattern than the one that had gone missing in the river, one
that wasn't made to be lost.

Ravis walked through the streets of Bay Zen.  He knew Camron of Thorn
would be waiting in Marcel's house to meet with him, yet he felt
disinclined to be prompt for his new master.  Let him and his newly
inherited fortune wait.

Bay Zen was a slow city at noon.  Ravis walked down Fortune Street with
its stylish pastry shops, elegant cobblers, and discreet pawnbrokers,
then headed north into the Hemming Quarter, where the well-to-do middle
classes and the respectable prostitutes shopped.

Prostitutes in lace hoods and carefully muted dresses of gray and brown
greeted Ravis with a raise of an eyebrow or a slight incline of the
head.  The middle-class women simply ignored him.  Sitting in shaded
arcades, they sipped warm arlo thickened with honey and nibbled at
apple tarts laced with sloe gin.  Later on in the afternoon they would
head over to Fortune Street and rifle through the pawnbroker's stores,
anxious to buy anything that had been sold off by noblemen who had
fallen upon hard times.

The middle-class women all knew their husbands visited prostitutes, but
it gave them some satisfaction to say, At least it is a girl from the
Hemming Quarter, not one of those cheap, gaudy trollops from the docks.
Still, no matter how stoically they regarded their husbands
indiscretions, the main reason they frequented the Hemming Quarter was
to keep an eye on the prostitutes, lest they develop a taste for finery
and fine airs to go with their heavy purses.  The prostitutes, for
their part saw fit to play along.  And although they wore enough red
silks and golden threads by night to upholster a dynasty's worth of
thrones, they always dressed discreetly during the day.  Such were the
moral standards of Bay Zen.

Ravis was well aware of how he appeared to the middleclass women: his
dark coloring marked him a foreigner, and his dark clothing marked him
as dangerous.  Yet, they thought as he approached their dainty arcades,
he holds himself like a nobleman, and his clothes, although
unfashionably black, are surely of the finest cut and cloth.  Then he
got close enough for them to see his scar, and each and every one of
them looked away.

Normally Ravis would force them to look at him by bowing and offering
the greeting ladies.  Today he passed them right by.

Down Enameling Street with its slight, shabby shop fronts boasting
goldsmiths, silversmiths, scribes, clerks, money lenders, and jewelers,
down onto the north quay, where the rough cobbled road gave way to
smooth dirt and a fresh easterly breeze blew away the smell of
smoldering metal, acid, and once good timbers turned to rot.

Occasionally, out of the corner of his eye, Ravis would catch a glimpse
of a man dressed in a dark green tunic with a silver insignia on his
breast.  Thorn colors.  The man dodged sunlight only tolerably well and
was slow to move from his mark's line of vision when spotted.  And
considering he was wearing a bulky winter cloak for the sole purpose of
concealing a crossbow beneath it, he succeeded only in drawing more
attention to himself.  No one in Bay Zen had business wearing such a
thick cloak in late spring.  All in all, the poor man wasn't doing a
very good job.  Camron had obviously sent him to track down and then
follow his new hired hand, and the only question that currently
interested Ravis about the matter for he guessed the man had caught up
with him just after dawn when he returned to the brothel to check on
Camron's story was the dire possibility that this guard was one of
Camron's best.

Ravis chewed his scar.  If he was to do what was agreed in Marcel's
wine cellar, then he would need good men around him.  And judging from
the lackluster performance of Cainron's guard, he was going to have to
train them himself.

Increasing his pace, Ravis walked along the quay.  The northern harbor
was smaller and less important than the western one.  No large merchant
ships anchored here, no spice boats or silk boats or pleasure crafts.
No huge merchant vessels were built in the dry docks, and no tariff
keepers could be spotted on the wharf, busy with their pens and
scrolls.  Fishermen, their boats, their lines, their nets, and their
women, were what made the north harbor what it was.  If you didn't look
back at Bay Zen, you could almost believe that the harbor belonged to a
small fishing town, not the foremost port city in the west.

Picking a path between thick coils of rope, crates of fish some still
skipping and fishermen mending their nets, Ravis made his way along the
wooden wharf.  The north harbor was busy without being bustling.
Fishermen who spent their lives sailing their two-masters in search of
sole and turbot, and their three-masters in search of cod, had little
time for show.  They worked long hours with little fuss, drank hard
before sunset, and rose before dawn, and as long as their nets were
sturdy and their hulls were sound, they counted themselves lucky and
set sail for the horizon each day.

The north harbor wasn't a place to come in search of clever
conversation, fine scenery, or fancy food, but Ravis liked it all the
same.  It was a useful place to know and be known in.  The most
up-to-date information to be had in Bay Zen could be garnered from
fishermen landing their catch.

The world was full of organizations brotherhoods, knighthoods, leagues,
and guilds yet none of them spanned borders and countries with such
regularity and unsung freedom as fishermen.  Merchant sailors swapped
positions and berths too often to build up relationships with crews of
matching vessels.  A merchant crew could change literally by the day.
But fishermen spent their lives at their work, sailing the same run, on
the same boat year in, year out their small crew never changing, their
friends made and kept for life.  Even though fishermen from Rhaize,
Balgedis, Istania, and Maribane were rivals, they depended on each
other for their lives.  Storm warnings, changing information on
dangerous undertows and shallows, pirate sightings, and dire prophecies
were exchanged in the no-man s-land of the sea.  When a fishing boat
ran aground, no fisherman ever asked what flag the boat sailed under.
They simply sailed as close as good sense would allow and did whatever
they could.

Of course, not all exchanges were a matter of life and death.  As much
idle rumor passed from boat to boat as stories about the sea. Fishermen
were notorious gossips.  Fishwives lived to hear the tales their
husbands brought home with the catch.

Ravis made it his business to befriend fishermen in every seafaring
city he passed through.  You never could tell when a salty old seadog
might bring back a gem of a bone.

Spying a familiar dark-haired figure tying his line to the far bulwark,
Ravis cut a path to the end of the wharf.  Soon he would return to
Marcel's town house and meet with Camron of Thorn, but he wanted to
gather whatever information he could before he set things in motion
that could not be reversed.

Pegruff!  Ravis called, lifting a hand in greeting.  How has the sea
been treating you lately?

A good sight better than my wife, came the reply.  Pegruff finished
looping a knot around the bulwark and then waited for Ravis to
approach.  Bay ZeIl fishermen never walked any more than they had to.

The two men clasped hands and exchanged a brief, searching glance.
Pegruff's face was a tribute to the scouring effects of sea salt.  His
skin was red, his lips were flaking, and what was left of his eyebrows
was not sufficient to form a frown.

Where's Jemi?  Ravis asked as they pulled apart.

I've sent him to the market for wax.

Ravis nodded.  Jemi was Pegruff's only son, and the first time Ravis
met him was on a small street leading off the east harbor when Jemi had
begged to be recruited into the life of a mercenary.  He was tired of
mending nets and waxing timbers.  Ravis had talked the gentle and,
sweet-natured boy out of it.  Some men weren't cut out to be soldiers.
Some were made for the sea.  Ravis sent Jemi back to his father not
with harsh words, but with the simple truth that a mercenary's life was
neither glamorous nor rewarding, and he would only be swapping one form
of hard labor for another.  It wasn't kindness that made Ravis speak he
only recruited men he knew he could teach to kill but Pegruff had
chosen to think it was, and Ravis never wasted breath on denials.

He's got a girl now, you know, Pegruff said, pulling out a flask of
arlo and offering it to Ravis.  Sturdy thing, she is.  Just the sort to
settle him down.

Ravis took the offered drink.  Pegruff might not have a fortune to
match Marcel s, but he always managed to have the best arlo to be found
in the entire city of Bay Zen in his flask.  Wiping his lips, Ravis
said, What's the word from the sea, my friend?

Pegruff took back his flask, pausing to polish the pewter against his
sleeve before he took a drink.  Magpies and sailors: neither could
resist anything shiny.  There's a Maribane brig anchored off Balinoc.
Gillif, friend o mine who keeps lobster nets near there, swears he saw
a scull full of Garizons row out to it last week in the middle of the
night.

How did he know they were Garizons?

You mean besides em rowing badly?  The fisherman's smile was not as
wide as it might have been.  As a country that had no sea to call its
own, Garizon was eyed with open suspicion by old sea hands like
Pegruff. They believed that every country that didn't have a coastline
would do anything in their power to get one.  And in Garizon's case
they weren't far wrong.  Gillif says they were carrying em new-style
pikes and not one man among em had a beard.

Ravis nodded.  He had introduced the new, broader pike blade to Izgard's
harras.  Anything else?

Pegruff looked a little disgruntled that such a juicy tidbit had been
so quickly set aside.  He handled this by taking a decent swig of arlo
and moving on.  Troubles -brewing between Medran and Istania over the
eastern passage.  Why, this month alone a dozen Medrani barks have been
pirated.  Medran swears it's the work of Istanians, and there's been
talk of sending galleons into the Gulf.

There hasn't been a warship in the Gulf for... Ravis paused to think.

Fifty years, Pegruff finished for him.  I tell you, Lord Ravis, things
don't look that rosy from out at sea.  All I ever hear about these days
is trouble.  Ever since Bay Zen doubled its port tolls last week, the
bay has been rife with pirates, warships, skirmishes and secret
dealings.  Drokho is about as snappish as a crab in a bucket.  Taken to
sending armed slops into the bay, they have.  Course, Maribane's madder
than anyone.  The Bay Zen tolls are crippling their exports, and they're
worried that Istania and Drokho will follow suit.  Maribane's even
moved its two largest galleons down from Port Shrift to Hayle.
Officially they say it's to protect their hulls from northern storms,
but every fool knows those storms won't hit for another month.

Pegruff took a swig from his flask.  i've been fishing these waters for
thirty years now, give or take a few catches, and I can't remember the
last time I felt less like setting sail in the morning than I have done
these past couple o months.  There's trouble coming for sure the sea
knows it.

With a shake of his head, Pegruff breathed on his flask, polished the
moist bit, then finished off the last of the arlo.

After slipping the flask in his tunic, he turned back to his lines and
began running them through his fist.  In his typical fisherman's
fashion, he was indicating the conversation was done.  Ravis thanked
him and made his way back to the quay.

TEN

if he harms who killed your father, did you notice his anything
unnatural about them?  Ravis turned away from Carnron of Thorn as he
waited upon answer.

They were sitting in Marcel's study.  Beech logs crackled in the
hearth, vintage berriac smoked in deep glasses, and an easterly breeze
rattled the very shutters that Marcel had taken great pains to close.
Despite the fire burning away, the room was not brightly lit.  A bronze
fireguard prevented any rogue sparks from falling on the nearby silk
rug, and all the silver lanterns were capped with colored glass.

Marcel had a deep fear of fire.  He didn't want any of his precious
paperwork going up in smoke.  Although he had lost no gold in the Great
Banking Fire twenty years earlier, he had lost a fortune in bills
codicils, payment orders, promissory notes, deeds, bills of exchange,
and leases and he was obsessed with the possibility that it might
happen again.

Briefly Ravis toyed with the idea of nudging over a lantern and
watching as lamp oil and flames spilled onto Marcel's desk.  After what
the banker had done to him yesterday, it would give him a certain
satisfaction to see the man scrambling to put out a fire.  He didn't
act, though.  Ravis had learned many years ago that there was no real
pleasure to be gained from revenge: just a brief, breathtaking stab of
spite that hurt oneself just as much in the end.

Instead he turned his gaze back to Camron and forced his mind to the
question at hand.  He needed to be sure of certain things before he
said his piece.

Camron was speaking.  When I first set eyes on the harras in my father's
study, there was a moment when I thought they were monsters.  He
shrugged, but not at all lightly.  It all happened so fast.  My heart
was pumping, my hands were shaking.  I wasn't thinking properly.  And
then I saw... He shook his head, ran his hand through his hair.  Then I
saw my father, and nothing else mattered after that.

Camron of Thorn looked worse than when Ravis had seen him last.  His
hair was lank, dark circles ringed his eyes, and his clothes hung loose
on his frame.  Ravis could see the man was in pain, but he could muster
little pity for him.  The world they lived in was a hard one: people
died, friends lied, and family was quick to betray you.  Camron's
father may have been savagely murdered in the sanctity of his own home,
but in many ways the death was a clean one.  Cameron was the only son
of an only son.  He had no brothers, half-brothers, uncles, or
stepmothers to bicker with him over his wealth.  What he inherited was
his and his alone.  And in that regard Cameron of Thorn was more
fortunate than he would ever know.

Ravis gnawed at his scar.  It suddenly felt like gristle in his mouth.
Deliberately he made his voice hard.  I need you to remember all you
can about the harras.  What they looked like, acted like, smelled
like.

Hearing the word smell, Cameron looked up.

Really!  exclaimed Marcel from behind his satiny desk.

I don't see the need to bring up such an indelicate subject.  Lord
Cameron is distressed quite enough as it is.

Ravis made his leather gloves crackle as he curled a fist.

Go back to your counting, MarceL

Marcel was about to protest when Camron stopped him by saying, It's all
right, Marcel.  While I'm sure our friend here is capable of idle
curiosity, I don't think this is one of those instances.  He looked at
Ravis.  Is it?

Ravis didn't care for Camron's tone, but he let it pass.

Yesterday you said the harras were like animals.  What did you mean?

Rubbing a hand over his face, Cameron said, I saw teeth, gums... He
struggled for details.  Not finding any, he shook his head.  They were
shadowy figures.  It was hard to see them clearly... but there was a
smell.

Of what?

Animals.  Like the stench in the stables when a mare is foaling: blood,
sweat, damp horsehair.  That sharp tang that comes off beasts when they're
agitated or excited.  Camron looked at Ravis.  His gray eyes were
dull and flinty.  Why is it important?

Ravis glanced at Marcel.  The banker was busy pretending to be busy:
shuffling papers, dipping his quill, furrowing his brow as if unhappy
about some discrepancy showing up in his figures.  He really could have
made a half-decent actor.

Leaning forward in his chair, Ravis spoke as softly as he knew how.
Last night after we took our leave of Emith, Tessa and I were attacked
on Parso Bridge.  Two men came at us, and there was at least another
pair flanking both ends.  If we hadn't jumped in the river to escape, I
don't think you and I would be sitting here, talking, today.

Camron nodded.  He didn't look surprised.

Marcel had stopped all pretense of counting but quickly resumed when he
caught Ravis looking at him.

I've never encountered men with such raw strength, Ravis continued.  It
took all I had to finish them.  They kept coming and coming and wouldn't
stop.  I had to stab the first man a dozen times in the chest before
he fell.  As I looked at his face, his features changed.  Receded.  He
began to look more like a man.  Both of them smelled exactly like you
described like animals.

You trained them, Camron said, mouth curling to a sneer.  They're your
men.

Ravis bit his scar as other people bit their lips: to stop himself from
speaking rashly.  After a second to control his anger, he said, Yes, I
trained them.  And they set the ambush up exactly as I would have done
myself two lying in wait, more closing in to block off escape routes
but they weren't my men.  I train men to kill quickly and with little
ado, to back off as soon as they're injured, and to remain detached at
all times.  These men wanted blood, and they weren't going to stop
until they got it.  Despite his detached tone, Ravis couldn't stop a
shiver from working its way down his spine.

What's your point?  Camron was concealing his interest under a layer of
contempt.

My point is that these men have been altered in some way.  Probably by
sorcery.

Marcel choked on his berriac.

Camron merely nodded.

A moment passed while Marcel of Vailing coughed and spluttered and spat
up his wine, and Ravis of Burano and Camron of Thorn stared at each
other across the room.  One of the lanterns went out.  Dark smoke
filled the amber glass, then escaped in a black thread toward the
ceiling.  Marcel's mercury-filled clock reached the hour, and its
hammer hit the cast-iron bell, producing a note that was neither mellow
nor bright.

Finally Camron spoke.  Let me tell you about what I found after I took
care of my father's body, when I went down to the barracks to take a
head count of those who were left.  His gaze did not leave Ravis for a
moment, and though his eyes were hard, his voice was rough and uneven.
I ended up counting bodies instead.  Two dozen men had been butchered.
Good men, whom I counted as friends.  Some were like brothers to me.
One man first taught me how to sit and handle my horse.  And all of
them; each and every one of them, had put up the fight of their lives.
Blood didn't lie in neat pools, bodies weren't downed by a single blow.
Guts and fingers and hair and teeth were smeared across the walls.  I've
been on battlefields, I know what death looks like, but this .
Camron finally looked away.  This was cam age

Ravis closed his eyes.  At some point while Camron was speaking, he'd
actually begun to feel pity for him.  He knew what it was like to lose
good men.  When he spoke, however, he made sure his sympathy didn't
show.  Experience told him Caruron would want none of it.  Last night I
saw a similar sight myself.  The people who owned the house I was
staying at were slaughtered by the harras.

It doesn't mean that it's sorcery, though Marcel said.

Everyone knows Garizons are as good as animals.

It didn't stop you from taking their money, though, Cainron said,
stealing the words right from Ravis lips.

Marcel stood.  Gentlemen, he said with bankerly dignity, I see emotions
are running high and imaginations are running wild.  I think it best if
I leave you two alone for a while.  Perhaps when I return we can all
sit down and talk about this rationally, like the educated men we are.
With that he bowed, first to Cameron and then to Ravis, gathered up his
papers, and stalked out of the room, head held high.

As soon as the door was shut, Ravis turned to Cameron and said, How
much commission is he getting on this deal?

Forty percent.

Forty?  Ravis threw back his head and laughed.

Izgard paid him ten.

Camron looked stricken for a moment, but then gave way and smiled.

Leaning over Marcel's desk, Ravis grabbed the decanter of berriac and
filled both their glasses to the brim.  Look, he said, handing Camron
his glass, I don't know what we're dealing with here, and that scares
me.  I trained Izgard's men and recruited mercenaries for him, but I
had nothing to do with what has happened these past few days.  While I
was in Veizach, I saw some things that I didn't understand, and right
now I'm doing my best to piece everything together.

Camron nodded.  How soon do you think Izgard will move against
Rhaize?

As soon as he possibly can.  Ravis took a deep draft from his glass. He
felt more relaxed now that Marcel was gone even though there was a
distinct possibility that the Bay Zen banker was still listening at the
door.  He can't afford to wait.  The land barons and warlords will be
expecting him to move quickly.  He needs to conquer and be seen to be
conquering: that's the way a Garizon king keeps his crown.

Camron no longer bothered to feign disinterest or contempt.  He leaned
forward in his chair.  How can you be so sure he won't move against
Balgedis first?  If it's a saltwater port Izgard's after, they've got a
dozen to spare.

Two things, Ravis said.  First, no port in Balgedis can give him access
to the Bay of Plenty and the Gulf.  If he seizes Bay Zen, then he
secures passage not only to the north, but also to the warm-water ports
of the lower south and far east.  Second, I think Izgard and the duke
of Balgedis have already come to some arrangement, where Izgard won't
invade Balgedis as long as it remains neutral.

What makes you say that?

There's a Maribane brig anchored off the Balgedis coast.  Garizons have
been spotted rowing back and forth to it.

Cameron tugged his dark golden hair out of the way of his eyes.  And
there's no possibility that Balgedis doesn't know about this?

No.  Ravis put down his drink.  He stood and began pacing around the
room.  Balgedis knows it's there.  What's more alarming, though, is the
fact the ship's showing a Maribane flag.  That means Izgard is doing
deals with them too.  And somehow I doubt very much that Maribane will
be content to remain neutral.  They want Rhaize blood.  Maribane has
always resented paying Rhaize tariffs to ship their goods into the
continent.  Just last week, Bay Zen doubled its tolls, and no Maribane
ship can sail into the Bay of Plenty without paying them.  So right
about now Maribane is looking for ways to strike back.  All Izgard has
to do is tell Maribane that once he's conquered Bay Zen, he'll reduce
the tolls to a copper on the pound, and they'll be lining up from Hayle
to Kilgrim to help him.  It couldn't be easier.

As he spoke, Ravis unlatched one of the shutters and looked out into
the street below.  Two of Camron's men wearing the green and silver of
Thorn stood on the opposite street corner, keeping watch on Marcel's
house.  Ravis continued scanning: buildings, doorways, alleyways, the
snake pit of shadows that was forming with the dusk.  Although he could
see nothing suspicious, he decided he would take no chances when making
his way back to Mother Emith's house.  He didn't want to risk bringing
any harras to the old lady's door.  Besides, Tessa was there, and as
the hours ticked by, keeping her safe was beginning to matter more and
more.  He was beginning to regret mentioning to Marcel that they had
both met with Emith yesterday.

Ravis closed the shutter.  Did Marcel show you the illuminations he's
holding for Deveric's assistant?

Yes, Cameron replied.  I took a look at them just before you arrived.
The second glass of berriac had put some color in Camron's face but no
brightness in his eyes.  He looked tired, and the hand that held his
glass shook.  He probably hadn't slept in days.

What did you think of them?  Though he hadn't intended it, Ravis was
aware that his voice was almost gentle.

Camron looked at him sharply, and Ravis immediately regretted his lapse
into sympathy.

I thought they were beautiful, Cameron said, his words cool.  I've seen
Anointed Isle illuminations before, but none as detailed as those.

Where have you seen them?

My father has one Cameron caught himself had one on his study wall.
Some old scribe stayed at Castle Bess centuries ago and showed his
gratitude by painting an illumination.  It's a much simpler work than
the patterns I saw last night, and the pigment is so thick in places
that it catches as much dust as a statue, but my father loved it.

Ravis took a quick breath and said, I think Deveric's illuminations
have something to do with what we've been seeing these past couple of
days.  It looks like Izgard's found himself a new trick, and if we're
lucky, we've seen the worst of it.

And if we're not?

Then God help us all.

Ravis moved across to the door.  He suddenly wanted very badly to get
back to Tessa.  Look, he said to Cameron, resting his palm upon the
smooth beech wood beams bonded by teeth of gilded iron, I need to be
somewhere now

Back to the woman with red-gold hair?  Cameron interrupted.  And the
strange, lilting voice?

Ravis hid his surprise.  I may pay her a visit.  What's it to you?

She has something to do with this, doesn't she?  Caruron's drawn
features took on a new, shrewd light.  Despite his attempts to look
nonchalant, Ravis realized his face must be giving something away, for
Cameron added,

Come now, Ravis, it's obvious she's not from Bay Zen.

Annoyed, but not sure why, Ravis said, There are too many things I don't
know or understand yet.  If we are to work together to overthrow
Izgard, then we must gather as much information as possible, leave
nothing to chance.  Marcel might throw choking fits over the
possibility of magery and witchcraft, but you and I have both seen
things that he hasn t. And when he's safely at his desk, toting up his
receipts and writing entries in his ledger, it will be you and I
setting ourselves against Izgard of Garizon.  Not Marcel and his forty
percent.

As Ravis was speaking, Camron's fingers tapped a beat against the
armrest of Marcel's prized orangewood chair.  He stopped tapping at the
exact instant Ravis finished speaking.

I want Izgard dead, not overthrown.  That was what we agreed yesterday
in Marcel's cellar.

You won't be able to assassinate Izgard as long as he wears the crown.
I trained his personal guard myself, I

Then you will know their weaknesses.

They have no weaknesses.  Ravis was losing patience.  He was eager to
be on his way.  While he stood here, arguing tactics with Cainron, a
world of shadows was quietly forming outside.  If he were in Izgard's
place, Marcel's house would be the first site he would order the harras
to watch.  Right now, Izgard is either at Sem Fortress or on his way
there.  Of all the Garizon-built castles I've stayed at, I've yet seen
one to match the defenses at Sern.  It's impenetrable.  There is only
one possible approach, and the minute Izgard takes up residence, it
will be so heavily guarded that even the ghost of his own mother couldn't
get through.

If his army's there, surely we could smuggle some attendants, some
women, into the camp?

Ravis ran a tooth along his seat, then smiled.  No servants, no camp
attendants.  No whores.  I put together this force.  It's not some band
of elegant knights and their entourages.  No one is paid to shine armor
and cook meals the men do all that themselves.  Infiltration is out of
the question: I trained them how to spot intruders a league away.  The
camp perimeter will be guarded by enough troops to man a fort.

Cauiron did not look pleased.  Ravis could see him thinking.  What
about the castle servants?  he said finally, standing.  Surely you
could find someone willing to slip poison into Izgard's wine?

Poison Izgard?  Ravis threw back his head and laughed.  His amusement
wasn't genuine, but he was getting increasingly more annoyed with
Cameron, and he knew from experience that the best way to cut a man
dead was to laugh at him.

Getting back to Tessa was becoming more important by the minute.  No
one on the continent could get near Izgard with poison.  The man was
born with no sense of taste.  The one thing he fears above all others
is the possibility that he might be poisoned and never know it.  He
could eat pure extract of belladonna and never taste a thing.  He's so
obsessed with being poisoned that he won't eat or drink anything,
anything, that hasn't been tasted by a score of men first.

Ravis shook his head.  No, my friend, if you want to murder Izgard of
Garizon, you will have to come up with something much, much cleverer
than that.

Camron's cheeks were flushed.  His golden hair fell across his face in
dark tangles.  When he spoke his whole body shook.  Seeing as you know
so much about Izgard, you tell me what's the best way to kill him.  Or
has he got you so frightened that you'd rather take your chances with a
Rhaize hangman than risk moving against him?

Although Ravis knew he had driven Cameron into making the accusation,
it did little to lessen his anger.  You, he said coldly, know nothing
about the situation we're dealing with.  When I tell you there's no way
to get close to Izgard while he holds the throne, I don't do so to hear
the sound of my own voice.  I know the man, I know his army, and I know
how Garizons view their kings.  He is more than just a leader now.  He
is his country personified, and until he loses a battle or makes a
mistake, they will lay down their lives to keep him safe.  The only way
to reach Izgard is to meet him on terms he and his country understand.
We need to be ready when he invades.  We need to smash his forces and
counter his advances and match whatever witchery he uses.  Then and
only then will we be able to get close enough for the kill.

Camron looked at Ravis as if he were a madman.  Smash his forces?  The
Rhaize army is more than a match for Garizon.  We have the bravest and
best-trained knights on the continent.  Izgard won't stand a chance.

Knights!  Ravis put a world of scorn into the word.

You think Izgard gives a damn about Rhaize knights, when he has five
companies of Maribane longbows men who can take out a knight or his
horse at five hundred paces, using arrowheads that can rip through
steel?  Rhaize knights will ride to their deaths not ever having seen
the men who killed them.  And God help the ones who don't, for they won't
find themselves staring into the eyes of fellow noblemen, matching
them in sword length, armor refinements, and knowledge of battlefield
etiquette.  Once the longbows men have done their work, Izgard will
send in his pikes men and believe me, those men don't go in for dainty
exchanges, elegant swordfights, and honorable deaths.  Their blades are
designed to tear out a man's guts.  And Rhaize knights, charging into
battle expecting Izgard to comply with their outdated rules of
exchange, will find themselves little more than highly visible moving
targets.

Cheeks bright with blood, Camron cried, No common foot soldier with a
pike or a longbow can ever hope to match a Rhaize knight.

Ravis palm hovered above the door handle.  That is exactly the sort of
thinking that will lose the coming war.  Voice still ringing, he hit
the latch.

The door sprang open and Marcel fell into the room.

Marcel, Ravis said, inclining his head as he worked to regain his
composure.  Oiling the lock, I take it?

Nothing of the sort, Marcel said, trying his best to look dignified as
he picked himself up off the floor.  I was just coming to offer you
gentlemen a spot of supper.

Well, I'm sorry, but I must decline.  Turning back to Camron, Ravis
sketched an elegant bow.  He pretended not to notice the look of pure
hatred on the young nobleman's face.  Practice made such things easy. 
I shall see you tomorrow by the fish market at dawn.  Then to Marcel:
No offense, my friend, but I won't be coming here again for a while. 
For some strange reason that I simply can't understand, I feel as if
every move I make is being watched.  One charming smile, one Ilnal bow,
and Ravis was off: heading down the stairs and out of the door into the
waiting darkness of the night; hand on his knife, gaze darting
sideways, trusting his feet to choose the least obvious path.

Angeline, once lady of Halmac, now queen of Garizon, sat on the end of
her bed and rubbed her little dog's belly.  Snowy loved to have his
belly rubbed.  He just lay on his back, legs splayed outward, head
rolling from side to side, tail wagging furiously.

More.  More.

Silly Snowy cried Angeline, delighted.  Who's a silly, silly Snowy?

Snowy wagged his tail in agreement.

Silly Snowy Silly Snowy.

Snowy was a no-good dog.  That's what her father had said when he first
clapped eyes on him.  Last to come out of his mother's belly, last to
be licked clean and to suckle, Snowy had been marked for drowning
before his ears had chance to dry.  That dog is no good her father had
said to the hounds master  Wrap him in a blanket and throw him in the
Veize.

Angeline was at her father's side, as always in those days, and
although she disliked the thought of drowning puppies, her father had
explained to her many times that it was a kindness to them in the
end.

Then the puppy picked up his too large head and looked at her with his
new blue eyes, and all good sense drained from Angeline's head and
turned into something warm and itchy inside her heart.  He was a
no-good dog and he knew it, and Angeline fell in love with him on the
spot.

Father could always tell the difference between things that Angeline
thought she wanted, because they caught her eye and were pretty or
bright, and things she really, really wanted.  Like Snowy.  Even though
he had given an order to his hounds master and he never liked to take
back his word, Father made a rare exception and let the no-good dog
live.

Angeline felt her eyes begin to ache.  Oh dear, Snowy, she said,
stroking the soft fur under the little dog's chin.

Father was good to us, wasn't he?  He loved us very much.

Snowy's tail drooped.

Loved him back.

And the funny thing was, Snowy and Father did end up loving each other.
Not in the same way that she and Snowy did, of course, but in a mutual
no-good dog and aloof-master sort of way.  Angeline had learned enough
since her marriage to know there were many different types of love.

Izgard loves us now, though: she whispered, tickling the silky bit
behind Snowy's ears.  He loves us just as much as Father.

Snowy growled.

Not as much.

Angeline laughed.  She tried not to think about how much Izgard had
changed since their marriage.  Snowy, you're a no-good dog.  You can't
possibly know everything.

Growl over, Snowy scrambled to his feet, tail wagging once more.

No-good dog.  No-good dog.

Straightening herself up, Angeline glanced out of the slit between the
stones that was the nearest thing to a window one could find in the
lower levels of Sem Fortress.  The sky was fully dark now, and a few
stars twinided from very far away.  Izgard would be returning soon, and
Angeline knew she should make herself nice for him.  Put on the gown
with the boned bodice and call Gerta in to tie the laces tight.  In
fact, Gerta was probably on her way right now; hairpins bristling
between her teeth, brushes, buffers, and tweezers hung like weaponry
around her waist.  Angeline actually preferred it when the pins were in
Gerta's mouth, for the moment they were out it would be Your first duty
is to Garizon, my lady.  You must provide an heir.  With that as her
opening statement, Gerta would launch into comments and advice about
lovemaking that Angeline, depending on how heavily her wine had been
watered at supper, found either unpleasant or vaguely amusing.

Well, she certainly didn't feel like listening to any lovemaking
chatter tonight.  Besides, she wasn't entirely sure that Gerta knew
what she was talking about.  Some of the things that she advised doing
to inspire child-begetting passion in her husband were nothing short of
strange.  Oh, Izgard seemed to like them well enough at the time, but
more and more often these days he was bad tempered afterward, stalking
out of the room and slamming the door behind him.  Angeline preferred
the times when Izgard was so tired from working hard all day that he
simply fell asleep in his chair.  She had a sneaking suspicion that
Izgard preferred those evenings too.  But, just like Gerta, he knew the
importance of providing an heir.

Angeline sighed.  She slapped her thigh and Snowy came scampering over.
Things were a lot simpler when there was just you, me, Father, and
Bors, weren't they, Snowy?

Snowy wagged his tail in agreement.

Things better then.

I know what, Snowy, Angeline said, an idea unfolding in her head.  I'll
go and visit Ederius.  (3erta had told her that Izgard was riding all
the way to the pass today, so he might not be back until late.  And
although Izgard had warned her not to go and visit Ederius again, if
she was clever, he'd never, ever know she'd been.  What do you think,
Snowy?

Snowy tilted his head to the side and wagged his tail only halfway.

Not sure.

Angeline laughed.  You're not happy because you know you can't come.
No-good dogs have to stay in their rooms, don't they?

Catching a glimpse of his tail; Snowy froze, eyed it with suspicion,
then pounced.  Not put off by his quarry mysteriously disappearing out
of reach, he chased in mad, happy circles after it.

No-good dog.  No-good dog.

Smiling, Angeline opened the door.  Snowy would be asleep by the fire
when she returned.  Chasing his tail always wore him out.

Guards snapped to attention as Angeline walked through the narrow,
rough-hewn corridors of Sern Fortress.  Somehow, even though it was
spring and it hadn't rained in a week, the air inside managed to be
cold and damp.  When she had first arrived at the fortress, Angeline
had thought the bare stone walls were pretty if you looked close, there
were all sorts of patterns and colors twinlding within the gray.  Now
she hated them.  They felt clammy when you touched them, and no matter
what went on behind them, they never gave away a sound.

After turning into a staircase cut out of mountain rock,

Angeline made her way up to the top of the fortress.  Just as she
passed the halfway point, she stopped in her tracks.  She should have
brought Ederius some food!  He worked so hard at his desk all day,
never stopping to eat or drink.  He could be hungry, cold, and tired
and never know it.  Just like Father before he got sick.  But...
Angeline's foot wavered on the lower step as she weighed up the risks.
She dared not go down to the kitchens; the whole thing would take too
much time.  I know, she thought, once I've finished seeing Ederius, I'll
ask Gerta to make sure he gets some food.  That decided, she hurried
up the remaining steps.

There was no answer when she knocked on the scriptorium door.  As
mistress of the house, she knew she could walk into any room in the
fortress unannounced, but somehow it never felt right.  Not like when
Izgard did it.  Balling her fingers into a fist, Angeline banged loudly
on the door.

Ederius.  It's me Angeline.  Are you there?  Angeline didn't like the
sound of her own voice much.  Before she had married Izgard, other
women used to make fun of it, saying it was too high and childish
sounding.  Now she was Izgard's wife, no one dared say a thing.  Funny,
but the women's silence didn't feel nearly as satisfying as she had
expected.  If anything, it made her feel sad.

A soft, scraping noise came from behind the door.  Sounds of coughing
followed, and then a thin voice said, My lady, please go away.

Distressed by what she heard, Angeline pushed open the door and came
face-to-face with Ederius.  Her mouth dropped open.  Ederius looked
sick, very sick.  His eyes were bloodshot and his face was bathed in
sweat.

Oh dear Angeline whispered.  She didn't say it, but Ederius looked just
like Father during a bout of wet fever.

My lady, Ederius said, not looking her in the eye, you must go.  The
king has forbidden me to see you.  The last words were spoken amid a
hail of coughing.

Angeline knew all about coughing.  Father always developed a terrible
cough before the wet fever took him.  Everyone in Castle Halmac grooms,
servants, attendants, and poor relations lived in fear of hearing
Father cough.  Coughing meant sickness, and sickness meant death.  The
minute

164 4. J.Y. JONES

Angeline heard Father coughing, she would run to the kitchens to warm
up some honey and almond-milk tea.  Though servants and physicians
always did the same, Father blatantly refused to take any of their
medicines.  I'll take a sip of Angeline's honey cup, he would say,
nothing more.  Angeline's heart always swelled to hear him say it. 
Only she could make Father well.

Ignoring the scribe's protests completely, Angeline walked into the
room.  Ederius needed looking after, and she was the person to do it. I
don't care what Izgard says, she cried, knowing it wasn't true, but
enjoying saying it all the same.

He can't stop me from doing whatever I choose.  With that, she took
Ederius arm and walked him back to his desk.

The scriptorium was a little cold and lofty for Angeline's tastes.  The
ceiling was high enough for bats, and the windows, being large, let in
dust and drafts and moths.  Angeline did like all the tiny pots of
pigments laid out around the edge of Ederius desk, and the rainbow of
powders they held were as pretty as could be, but some of the more
brightly colored ones smelled strange, and she knew from experience
that if she inhaled their scents too deeply, they would cause her head
to ache.

Gently Angeline helped Ederius into his chair.  The old scribe moved
slox ly.  He felt cold and stiff, and Angeline could tell he was
nervous.  Once he'd resigned himself to receiving her attention,
though, he seemed strangely affected by it and kept touching her wrist
and fingers, as if to ensure himself she was real.

There, she said, patting his good right shoulder.  You sit and rest
while I go and fetch us some tea.

Ederius shook his head.  No, my lady.  Please.  I will be fine.  I have
just had a tiring day.  As he spoke, Angeline noticed that his fingers
quietly pulled an unfinished leaf of parchment over a brilliantly
colored painting on his desk.

You've been working too long at your patterns she said, trying her best
to make her voice stern, like Gerta s.

Izgard has been making you do too much.  She reached over to pull out
the painting from beneath the vellum.

No!  Ederius slammed his palm upon the desk.

Frightened, Angeline jumped back.

Realizing that he had acted harshly, Edenus said quickly,

Forgive me, my lady, I did not mean to startle you.  The painting is
not fit for anyone to see.  I... I am ashamed of it.

Angeline wasn't sure how to react.  She dearly wanted to see the
painting now, but Ederius looked genuinely distressed.  Then the scribe
began to cough, and the matter was settled.  Her expert healing skills
were called for.  She couldn't go to the kitchen to make honey and
almond-milk tea it would take too long and Izgard might be back at any
minute but she could at least fetch Edenus a glass of water and pat his
back until the coughing stopped.

Painting forgotten amid the greater excitement of playing nurse,
Angeline scanned the room for a water jug.  She found what she was
looking for on a side table set back against the wall behind Ederius
chair.  Rushing over, she spied a handful of glazed cups farther along
down the table.  Picking one of the cups at random, she filled it to
the brim with clear, sparkling water.

Ederius was bent over his desk.  He was no longer coughing, but his
face looked very red.

Here she said, holding up the cup of water.  I brought you this.  I'll
just take a sip first to make sure it's not too cold.  Pleased with
herself for thinking of such a nurse like thing to say, Angeline
brought the cup to her lips.

Stop!

Angeline froze.  Her gaze moved from the rim of the cup to Ederius
face.

Don't drink from that cup, he said, standing up and walking toward her.
You must never, ever, drink from anything in here.  Ever He snatched
the cup from her.  I use these to mix pigments in, and some of those
pigments are very dangerous.  They could kill you if you drank as much
as a drop of them.  Doyou understand?

Angeline nodded, not really sure if she understood or not.  She was too
upset.  Ederius had never spoken to her like this before.  All she had
wanted to do was be a good nurse.

Seeing her expression, Ederius softened.  He placed the cup on the desk
and raised his hand toward her; not quite daring to touch her but
wanting to nonetheless.  I'm sorry, my lady.  When I saw you were about
to drink, I was frightened.  I

wouldn't want any harm to come to you.  Some of my pigments are very
strong poison.  I should have explained that to you before.

Poison, Angeline repeated, understanding exactly what Ederius meant
now.  She knew all about poison: both Father and her brother, Bors, had
feared it, and Izgard was so afraid of being poisoned that he ate or
drank nothing that had not been tested.  Sometimes he even made her try
things first.

Yes, my lady, Ederius said very gently.  You must always be careful
when touching anything you find in here.  Not everything is dangerous.
The plant dyes you painted with yesterday the saffron yellow and
turusole purple they're both safe.

Ederius worked hard to stifle a cough, and Angeline felt herself
softening toward him once more.  He had just been trying to protect
her, that was all.  Just as Father would have done.

And the red one?

Yes, kermes red is safe, though that comes from insects, not plants.

Angeline thought the idea of pigments being made from insects rather
unpleasant, but didn't say so.  Which ones are dangerous, then?  she
asked as she moved to stand behind Ederius chair.  Laying her hands on
Ederius good shoulder, she forced the scribe to sit.

Patting her fingers, he said, The sparkling white color over there on
the shelf.  He pointed to one of the pots.  That's white arsenic, and
the scarlet color beside it is mercuric sulfide.  Both can be very
dangerous.

But you have other whites and reds you can use, Angeline said, gently
working her fingers across the scribe's broken shoulder bone.  So why
do you paint with them at all?

As the itature of my work changes, so must my pigments.  Ederius
suddenly appeared to get agitated again.  He shrugged her hand from his
shoulder and glanced toward the tall windows.  You must leave now, my
lady.  People will be worried about you.

Angeline opened her mouth to object, but she knew Ederius was right.
Gerta would be looking everywhere for her, and Izgard may have arrived
back from the pass.  Reluctantly she nodded.  I'll make Gerta fetch you
some honey and almond-milk tea.

You're such a good girl, Angeline, Ederius said, using her name for the
first time.  I'm sorry I frightened you ear her  I don't know what I
would have done if anything had happened to you.

Angeline felt her eyes prickling.  Father had said something very
similar to her once when he'd pulled her off a mean-mouthed horse. That
horse has a mean mouth, he had said.  And a temper to match.  I can't
risk him turning on you the moment you're out of sight.  What would I
do if anything ever happened to my best girl?

Feeling sad, Angeline bent over and kissed the scribe on his old cheek.
His skin was very frail.  It reminded Angeline of Mother's old silk
dresses: even locked away in a chest to prevent insect damage and
weathering, they had still managed to fade to nothing over the darkness
of twenty years.

As she straightened, a wisp of night air ruffled the papers on Ederius
desk, lifting up the sheet of unfinished vellum and allowing Angeline a
peek at the painting beneath.  What she saw made her mouth go dry.

There was something monstrous on the page.

A terrible, unnatural design.

Then the wind withdrew and the vellum fell back into place, and
Angeline doubted she had seen anything at all.  Just a lot of jumbled
colors thrown together with little thought.

Are you all right, my lady?  Ederius asked, unaware of what she had
seen.

Yes, quite all right.  I must go now.  Angeline made her way toward the
door.  She was shaking but didn't know why.  The idea of being back in
her own chamber, with Gerta spitting pins and the no-good dog chasing
his tail, suddenly seemed appealing, and Angeline took the stairs two
at a time.  She needed very badly to get back to the ordered boredom of
her life.

Any finely ground powder is called pounce, Emith said, running his
hands through a dish of white powder.  I mostly use chalk to whiten the
hides, but others use ash or breadcrumbs,

and a few use ground-up bones.  Sometimes when the hide hasn't been
soaked for long enough before being scraped, I'll rub it with a little
pumice to take away the grease.  As he spoke, Emith took a handful of
the white powder and began working it into the hide with a small wooden
block.  Just before Master Deveric started work on an illumination, he
always insisted I pounce the parchment one last time, to raise the nap
and make it ready to take the ink.

Tessa nodded, trying hard to remember everything Emith told her.

They were sitting around the large table in Mother Emith's kitchen.
Mother Emith and her chair had done a full tam from this mo ming and
were back facing the fire.  The old woman's head was resting on her
shoulder, and a faint snoring noise could be heard escaping from her
lips.  According to Emith, she wasn't sleeping, though.  Merely
resting.

Pots of delicious-smelling stews, stocks, and sauces were bubbling in
copper pots over the fire.  Tessa had already eaten two meals since
this morning, but she found herself eager for a third.  Mother Emith
could cook like a demon.  Well, Emith did all the actual cooking, but
his mother was the master chef: supervising spicing, boiling,
blanching, and garnishing all from the safe haven of her chair.

Emith had expllined to Tessa that before Deveric died, he always spent
two days in every seven in town with his mother.  Deveric had insisted
upon it.  During the five days when Emith was in Fale, his mother
relied on a local girl to come and help her in the mornings.  Tessa had
yet to see Mother Emith move from her chair, and as it was now full
dark outside, and the shutters were closed for the night, leaving
trapped moths to busy themselves around the flames, she had finally
given up waiting.  Perhaps, like the toys in children's stories, Mother
Emith only moved when everyone else was fast asleep.

Tessa liked Emith and his mother.  They were both kind, if a little
odd, and they seemed very anxious to please.  If she shivered, Emith
would dash off and get her a blanket.  If her stomach rumbled, bread
would be buttered and sent her way.  if the light wasn't bright enough
for her to sketch by, enough tallow would be brought to illuminate a
church, and all she had to do was hold up a hand to test the swollen
lump on her head to be regaled with ointments, herbal teas, and
advice.

Although she had never received such attention before, Tessa found
herself growing used to it rather fast.  It was nice to be here in this
warm, busy kitchen, so unlike her own sterile, cheerless one at home,
and just sit and listen and learn.

It was a new experience for her to be able to concentrate completely on
what she was doing, not have to worry about her tmnnitus recurring, and
so be free to immerse herself in just the kinds of details she'd always
avoided before.  Work for her was normally a series of reflex actions:
hear something, acknowledge it, encounter an awkward question, evade
it.  Her job in tele sales had been about saying what she wanted to
say, while delivering it into a form that others wanted to hear.  Tessa
could do it in her sleep.  Her mind was neither challenged nor engaged
that was the way she'd liked it.  It was the way she had liked all her
life: no commitments, no details, no thought.

She'd fallen into tele sales after she'd dropped out of college.  As
always, the big changes in her life were precipitated by tinnitus.  The
first year at New Mexico State had gone smoothly enough.  She attended
all the usual run of classes, made a few close friends, kept up with
her coursework.  Everything was fine until she began her second year.
Art history was her major, and as soon as she started classes after
summer break things started to go wrong.  She couldn't concentrate in
class.  The slightest noise would distract her; the drone of the
air-conditioning, a car pulling out in the car park below, someone in
the row behind clearing his throat.  Tessa became snappish with her
roommate, Nyla, no longer able to tolerate Nyla's endless chatting on
the phone and late night music sessions.  Work started to suffer. Books
piled up waiting to be read.  Whenever Tessa tried to concentrate,
noises grated in her temples, itching away beneath her skin like
something wanting to get out.

Full-blown tinnitus attacks grew more frequent.  Tessa bit her nails
down to the quick.  Waiting.  She was always waiting for another attack
to begin.

She started dropping classes.  Soon Professor Yarback's course on the
Byzantine empire and the Coptic art of Egypt was the only class she
could bring herself to attend.  It was the patterns that drew her out
of bed in the morning, made her pull on her clothes and brush her
teeth.  The stonework of the period was rich with patterns and
geometric designs.  Intricate, fantastic devices slithered up stone
columns, over door frames, and under arches.

Tessa would spend hours in the library, copying, tracing, and
researching the designs.  And in the long afternoons when Professor
Yarback talked of the naturalism of human figures and the importance of
religious iconography, Tessa found her mind drifting away in the
lecture hall, hands doodling on her notepad, trying to reproduce the
last pattern she'd seen.

They always made such perfect sense to her.  She could see how they had
been constructed from a basic set of lines.  How even a seemingly
complicated design could be traced back to the simplest of grids.

It was during the last of Professor Yarback's lectures,

Coptic Influences on the Insular Art of Ireland and Britain, that Tessa
had her worst attack of tinnitus ever.  Professor Yarback was clicking
slides at his usual snail's pace Egyptian manuscripts, murals,
stonework when he stopped at a slide of the Lindisfame Gospels.

See how the panels resemble the key patterns and fretwork found in
Coptic design?

That was the last thing Tessa heard Professor Yarback say.  The world
began to fade away as she studied the pattern on the slide.  She had
never seen anything so minutely detailed before in her life.  It buzzed
with life and movement.  Strange, elongated birds chased their tails
across the page, twining and're twining around themselves, all claws,
scalelike feathers, and beaks.  On top of this seething bed of
blank-eyed birds were laid self-contained panels filled with geometric
designs: fretwork, knot work trumpet spirals, and interlaces.

Tessa felt her head begin to ache.

The controlling hand of the scribe was a palpable force in the room. It
was the only thing that stopped the birds from breaking into a chaotic
frenzy and spoiling the ordered symmetry of the page.

Softly, very softly, Tessa's ears began to burn.  A high pitched noise
skittered through her eardrums, and the muscles on either side of her
temples began to throb.

The slide dominated the entire front wall of the room.  Its colors
reflected off the faces of sixty students.  The lecture hall smell of
close bodies, old sweat, new varnish, and pine detergent faded away
with the sound.  Tessa caught a whiff of something strange like paint,
only spicier, more fragrant.

The sound in her ears sharpened to a knife point of gray noise.

Tessa couldn't take her eyes off the slide.  It was an enchanted tangle
of lines, curves, and forms, and she wanted very badly to make sense of
it.  Her gaze fell upon a single bird in the top left quarter of the
page.  Its wings were painted with stripes, not scales.  It was the
only one of its kind.

Professor Yarback was speaking, pacing, and pointing.  In no rush to
change the slide, he held the clicker limply in his hand.

Tessa's head was pounding.  Her vision began to blur.  Tears glazed her
eyes, distorting the patterns on the slide.  The dull eyes of the birds
all looked her way, their beaks moved, scissoring up and down along the
talons and body parts that were held in their grasp.

Tessa felt rather than heard her pencil drop to the floor.  Professor
Yarback stopped pacing.  His head formed the center of the slide.  Bird
features projected over his own features like a mask, transforming him
into a tattooed man.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, Tessa began pressing her fingers
into her temples, trying to squeeze out the noise.  It was unbearable
now, a steel wire cutting through her thoughts.  There was the pattern
and the pain, nothing more.

Tessa's books slid from her desk onto her lap.  Dimly she was aware of
people around her, mouths open, hands up, eyes

A.

as black and glassy as birds .  Tessa wanted none of them.  They
blocked her view of the pattern, stopped her from getting to the
source.

A high shriek, like the call of a sea bird, sounded.  And then Tessa's
world faded to so many shades of black.

She awoke a few minutes later in the campus infirmary.  The tinnitus
was still with her, but it was now little more than a vague background
noise, like traffic heard in the distance.  She could live with it like
that.  The nurse, a large Puerto Rican woman in a crisp white coat and
high heels, explained that Tessa had fainted at her desk.  She gave
Tessa two Percodans and a can of soda and made her promise to go
straight to a doctor.

Tessa took the Percodans, drank the soda, went straight to her room,
and stayed there for a week.  The tinmtus got steadily worse.  Every
time she tried to catch up on her work, read a course book, or even
flick through a magazine the noises would beat away in her head.  Every
night she dreamed of the slide in the lecture hall, and every morning
she awoke ill rested and drenched in sweat.

After the fifth day, Tessa knew the tinnitus wasn't going to go away on
its own.  As long as she stayed where she was, it would give her no
peace.  This she accepted as a simple fact.  She needed to get away.

The next day she loaded up her car with a mattress, bedding, clothes, a
few books, a potted plant she had given a name to, and a Rand McNally
road atlas and drove west along 1-8.  At the time she had every
intention of returning.  Just a few weeks, she told herself.  But she
never did come back.

Her original destination was Los Angeles, but somehow she found herself
in San Diego, selling office products over the phone.  The job suited
her perfectly.  No responsibility, no dress code, flexible hours, and
little paperwork: once she got her phone pitch down pat she barely had
to think.  Telesales was a numbers game.  Phone enough people and a
percentage would always say yes.  Tessa was good at it.  She made the
calls, met the quotas, and always followed up.  After two months at
First Stop Telesales she was promoted from reworking existing lists
that every operator in the shop had called before to pursuing fresh
leads.  In tele sales terms that meant she'd arrived.

The tinnitus disappeared almost completely.  In those increasingly
infrequent times when she did suffer an attack, it was always a mild
one, nothing to match what had happened in the lecture hall.  The
memory of that day was never far from Tessa's mind, though.  All she
had to do was walk in a bookstore, pass an art exhibit, spy a pattern
in tile work on a restaurant floor, or spend too long sketching on her
yellow legal pad to feel the ringing start.  She never pushed it.  At
the slightest hint of an attack, she stopped what she was doing and
relaxed.  Took a walk, sat and listened to music, went for a drive...
Tessa felt a sharp pain in her thumb.  She looked down to see she was
holding the ring between her fingers.  She had no memory of pulling it
out from under her dress.  Quickly she glanced at Emith.  He was busy
tending the supper by the fire.  Mother Emith was still snoring away in
her chair.

Tessa looked down at the ring, recalling the events that led her to
finding it: the phone call, the drive, the pickup driver, the tinnitus.
Why was it that whenever she had a bad attack of tinnitus she always
seemed to end up somewhere else?

The soup is ready now, miss Emith said, cutting into her thoughts.
Would you like a bowl?

Have you remembered to add the pepper and the cream?  piped up Mother
Emith, proving that she had, in fact, despite all evidence to the
contrary, been resting, not sleeping, in her chair.

Yes, Mother.

Tessa slipped the ring beneath her dress.  I'd love a bowl she said,
not entirely sure what sort of soup it would be but led by her nose
into thinking that beef might have something to do with it.

Standing, Tessa began clearing the table in front of her.  Emith's
pigment pots tinkled as she pushed them into neat little lines, but his
brushes, quills, styli, and lead sticks defied all attempts to be
rolled into piles.  Tessa was surprised by what she had learned about
the various instruments in just one day.  The styli were made from
either copper or bone, so the point would be strong enough to trace
lines in wax.  Emith had explained that parchment was too costly to use
for casual sketching, so most scribes used wax tablets whenever they
wanted to experiment with something new.  A wax tablet could be used
over and over again, as the wax could be heated and then smoothed back
to its original form with the flat end of the stylus.

Lead sticks were used for outlining an illumination or providing
guiding points on a page.  The lead could be handled as a plain stick
or placed in a protective metal casing called a plummet.  Emith said
the best scribes always used them raw.

What surprised Tessa most about the things Emith told her was the sheer
effort involved in each separate process.  Hardly anything was
purchased ready-made: ink, pigments, quills, parchment, wax tablets,
glues, and thickeners were all formed by Emith's own hand.  It seemed
like a lot of work to Tessa, and she was beginning to understand why
someone like Deveric needed an assistant.  He wouldn't have time to
paint a thing if he he'd to spend his days burying goose feathers in
sand.

Just the parchment making alone could be a full-time job.  Emith
purchased raw animal hides at market he said goat and sheep hides were
the least expensive, but stillborn calves were the best brought them
home, and soaked them in a bath of lime to de flesh them.  Then, while
they were still damp, he stretched them on a frame and scraped them
clean with something he called a lunular knife.

Earlier, when Tessa had gone into the yard to use the privy, she had
seen various wooden frames and metal-banded tubs and wondered what they
were for.  Now she knew.  Emith had explained that the liming stage
could be quite malodorous, and Deveric preferred that he took care of
such matters in town.  Which, Tessa supposed, went quite a long way
toward explaining why Deveric so kindly let Emith spend two days out of
every seven in Bay Zen.  She didn't say anything,

though.  She'd already learned enough about Emith by now to realize he
wouldn't hear a word said against anyone he knew.  Most especially his
recently deceased master.

Here, miss, Emith said, handing her a steaming bowl of something that
looked far too thick to be called soup.  Sit down and I'll fetch you
some bread to soak it up with.

And a glass of arlo, added Mother Emith, reviving once more.  I think
we can offer our guest a glass, seeing as it's after dark and the
clerics have all gone home.  She looked at Tessa and winked.  And I may
just take half a cup myself.

Tessa smiled.  She got the distinct feeling that Mother Emith took a
cup or two every night.

Oh, be careful, miss, said Emith as Tessa went to place the bowl of
soup on the table.  Dashing in front of her, he whisked away the sketch
she had drawn earlier.  We wouldn't want anything to spill on this.

No.  Tessa sat at the table and began plumbing the depths of the stew
for anything she could identify as meat.  Behind her, she could hear
Emith's footsteps pattering away, then pattering back.  Is the sketch
really as good as you say it is?  she asked when he returned from
dropping off a cup of arlo with his mother.

For the first time all day Emith took a seat.  I think it is, he said,
moving his chair only as close to Tessa as his strong sense of
politeness would allow.  I'm no expert on such things like my master,
but I've seen the work of many scribes, and the one thing that
separates the good scribes from the middling ones is a sense of detail.
Master always said, Anyone can draw an illumination, but it takes a
keen eye for detail to make it shine.

Detail.  Tessa put down her spoon, not hungry anymore.  Until three
days ago she had been incapable of coping with details.  For years her
life had been without long-term relationships, financial commitments,
career plans, savings plans, vacations, paperwork, or goals.

There was no detail in her life.  It had been the one thing she'd
avoided above everything else.  When offered promotions, she turned
them down because more responsibility meant more paperwork.  When
boyfriends became serious, she became distant; when friends got too
close, she pushed them away.  When bank tellers pestered her about
putting savings in CDs, she'd threaten to take her business elsewhere
just to stop them droning on about their extra half a percent over
prime.  She didn't own a computer, daily planner, or even an address
book and never bought anything mail order, as that meant filling out
forms.

And now this small, unassuming man, sitting a polite three feet away
from her, calmly told her that he thought she had an eye for detail.

Tessa laughed.  She didn't think it was especially funny, but some sort
of reaction was called for.

Enuth looked hurt.  I'm only telling the truth, miss.  To paint the
sorts of patterns that Master Deveric did, you need to be able to see
things others don't.  I only got a glimpse of the ring you copied, but
it was enough to see that you caught its likeness well.  You managed to
translate a complex weave onto the page.  Not only did you capture the
intricacy of the ring, but you found the pattern at its heart.

The ring has a pattern: Tessa said, pulling out the ribbon around her
neck.  I didn't find anything.

May I?  Emith moved forward and took the ring from Tessa's fingers.  He
smelled of mint and pigments.  I look at this and I don't see a pattern
he said softly, turning the ring in his hand.  I see fandom threads of
gold.  Layers upon layers of metal laid down with no design.  You look
at it and you see a pattern, and not only do you see a pattern, you
have the ability to transfer what you see onto a page.  When I look at
your finished drawing I get a glimpse of the ring through your eyes I
see the same pattern you do yet when I look at the ring directly, I see
nothing but random lines.  He let go of the ring and it fell back
against Tessa's chest.

Tessa suddenly felt very tired.  She didn't know how to react to what
she had just heard.  Emith believed what he was saying, that much she
was sure of, but it didn't mean he couldn't be mistaken.  What if I
invented a pattern of my own?  Just made one up that wasn't there.  How
would you know the difference?

Emith's smile was a gentle reprimand.  The pattern felt right, miss. It
wasn't forced or contrived, and for just a see ond when I held the
ring, I almost understood what you were getting at.

Be sure to listen carefully to Emith, my dear.  There's nothing my son
doesn't know about scribing.  Mother Emith tapped her now empty cup
against the chair and beamed at both of them.  I'll take an extra sip
of arlo, Emith.  It would be rude of me to let a guest drink alone.

Blushing at his mother's words, Emith seemed glad of an excuse to get
away and dashed out to the yard, where a keg of arlo had been set to
cool.

Tessa raised her cup in toast to Mother Emith, and the old woman
returned the gesture with a decidedly regal wave before resting with
her eyes closed once more.

Drumming her fingers along the wooden tabletop, Tessa thought about
what Emith had said.  She had seen a pattern in the ring, he was right
about that.  It was the reason she had wanted to draw it in the first
place to make sense of what she saw.  All through her life she had seen
patterns in things: flowers arranged in a bowl, chairs stacked in the
back of a concert hall, cars on the street, clothes in a closet, roof
tiles, book covers, cushion covers, and maps.  As a child she was
always trying to draw the things she saw, but somehow she'd fallen out
of it.  Normal growing up, she supposed.  Or was fear of tinnitus
holding her back even then?

Emith opened the door, sending a gust of night air whipping through the
kitchen.

Tessa shivered.

Just as Emith stepped into the room, a gloved hand appeared out of the
darkness and grabbed at the edge of the door.  Something wet dripped
from one of the fingers onto the floor.  A fraction of a second later,
Ravis appeared in the doorway.

Good evening, he said, nodding first at Mother Emith and then to Tessa
and Emith.  I trust I'm not too late for supper?  Noticing Tessa's gaze
on his glove, he stripped it off and tucked it beneath his tunic.
Meanwhile his foot was busy working the wet spot into the floor.

Step over here by the fire, Lord Ravis, Mother Emith said.  Emith will
fetch you a bowl of ox marrow soup and a cup of arlo.

Ravis crossed to the old lady and kissed her on each cheek.  Ox marrow
soup!  Why, I swear you read my mind, madam.  I've been thinking of
nothing else all night.  Point me to the right pot and I shall get it
myself.  Turning to Emith, he said, Hand me that jug, my friend, so I
can top up your mother's cup.

Mother Emith beamed up at Ravis from her chair as he proceeded to take
over the kitchen, pouring drinks, putting logs on the fire, tasting
sauces, and talking spices.

Neither Emith nor his mother appeared to notice how fast Ravis chest
rose and fell when he spoke, the fine film of sweat on his brow, or the
wine-dark stain on the collar of his shirt.  Tessa noticed them all.
Details, she thought with a quick, humorless smile.

Ravis proposed a toast to Mother Emith and another to her cooking and
one more for the night.  Tessa didn't realize what he was doing until
he held the empty jug to the light and said, Why, I do believe we've
finished it off.  I'll just go out to the courtyard and fill it from
the keg.  Tessa, could you follow me out with a candle?  Having eaten
Mother Emith's delicious marrow soup, I now have the strength of ten
men and the mental capacity of a college full of scholars, but I still
can't see in the dark.  He smiled charmingly to Mother Emith, who
smiled charmingly back.

I'll fill the jug, Lord Ravis, Emith said, stepping forward.

Wouldn't hear of it, my friend.  You've done quite enough already Ravis
pulled out a chair.  Why don't you sit right here and let someone wait
on you for a change: Emith succumbed to the considerable power of Ravis
charm and sat down.

Come along, Tessa, you can show me where the keg is.

The second they were out of the door, Ravis turned to Tessa and said, I
won't be coming back here again after tonight.  It's too dangerous.
Three of Izgard's harras followed me from Marcel's house.  I managed to
lose two of them, but the third he patted the bulge in his tunic formed
by the dripping glove gave me a little trouble before he finally lost
my trail.  I can't risk leading them back here again.  They don't know
about this place, so as long as you're here you should be safe.  Never
leave the house, and make sure that both Emith and his mother keep your
presence here a secret.  Don't show yourself to anyone who comes to the
door, especially Marcel, and take this.  He drew his knife from his
belt and held it out toward Tessa.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, Tessa reached out to accept the
knife.  Her head was spinning.  Ravis leaving?

Ravis fingers caught in hers over the silver wire of the knife's haft.
His dark eyes were exactly the same color as the night.  The light from
the doorjamb caught on his scar, sending a shadow over the right half
of his lip.  I don't know how long I'll be gone.  I have to form and
train a force for Camron of Thorn, and right now Bay Zen is no place to
do it.  But I will return.  And when I do, I will come for you and
together we'll discover the reason why you're here.

Tessa nodded like a dumb child.  She felt foolish, but what could she
say?  She couldn't object.  This man didn't owe her anything.  He had
no obligation to take care of her.

Ravis leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.  She felt the rough
break of his scar, then the soft tissue of lip flesh.  He smelled of
blood and sweat and the sharp apple tang of arlo.  His hand came up to
press against the small of her back, and three seconds later he pulled
away.

Before she could stop herself, Tessa stepped toward him, mouth open,
wanting more.  Embarrassed, she worked to control the impulse, glad
that Ravis was already turning away and hadn't seen what she had
done.

Come he said, leathers cracking as he bent over to tap the keg.  Let's
get back inside.  Mother Emith will be expecting us back, and she'll
doubtless want me to propose another toast this one to fond
farewells.

Not trusting herself to reply, Tessa followed him into the house.

ELEVEN

he fish market at dawn formed the center of U Bay ll.  Without help,
directions, or signposts, a man could find his way there in the dark.
The smell was a pointing finger, and the sounds of fishmongers crating,
squabbling, laughing, and bartering provided a more reliable beacon
than a lighthouse on a rocky coast.  As a rule, Ravis didn't care for
early momings, but as far as they went this one wasn't too bad.  The
sky was clear of clouds, and the day promised to be fine and warm.
Seagulls wheeled and dipped in the lightening sky, and a lively, salty,
sea weedy breeze blew in from the east with the sun.

From where he stood, at the top of the white marble steps leading up to
the entrance of the Old Shrine, Ravis could get a clear view of the
fish market below.  Ever since the new shrine, with its vaulting
spires, brass-capped warding towers, and stone facing shot with seams
of quartz, had been completed fifty years earlier, the forecourt of the
old one had been taken over by fish.  It was only fitting, really,
thought Ravis.  After all, both shrines had been paid for with income
hauled in from the sea.

Looking down at the market, Ravis shifted his gaze from stall to stall,
from face to face, from hand to hand: searching.  He had already
spotted Camron's dark gold hair in the crowd.  The man was standing
close to a mussel seller and his many baskets, two of his guards
milling with the crowd nearby.  Ravis wasn't ready to contact him just
yet.  He wanted to make sure the market was safe.  After last night's
run-in with the harras, he was in no mood to take chances.

One man had followed him from the moment he'd left Marcel's door.  A
second and a third joined their friend as the roads narrowed and the
district took a turn for the worse.  Remembering the previous evening's
encounter, Ravis decided it was better to evade than fight and had
managed to lose two of the men, only to find himself in the shadow of
the third.  Surprisingly, the fight was a quick one.  The harrar was
just that: a well-trained fighter, nothing more.  There was no terrible
blood lust, no whip-sharp reflexes, and no sense that the fight was
destined to end in death.  Ravis doubted that sorcery had been used to
alter him.  Once stabbed in the ann, the man wisely fled.  Which, while
being fortunate in many ways, only gave Ravis more cause for alarm.

He knew Izgard.  If the Garizon king wasn't using his newfound trick to
hunt him down, then he was using it for something worse.  How long
since his crowning: three, perhaps four days?  Time enough for Garizon
warlords to grow impatient for Izgard to make his move.

Ravis chewed on his scar.  Even as he stood here, scanning the fish
market, searehing for anyone who looked as though he could be searching
for him, an invasion could be taking place to the east.  Funny, but
just four days ago he had thought he had seen and heard the last of
Izgard of Garizon.  A commission had ended and gold had been paid and a
ship's passage had been booked in his name.  His short-term plans had
involved little more than sitting out the war in Mizerico with a
certain dark-haired beauty at his side.  Now everything had changed.
Izgard had moved against him, Marcel had betrayed him, and Camron of
Thorn had him by the throat.

Or at least he thought he did.

There were a hundred different ways to leave Bay Zen, and Ravis doubted
very much that Camron knew half of them.  If he wanted to, he could
skip the city right now without leaving a trace.  Pegruff was not the
only fisherman in the north harbor who owed him a favor, and it would
be easy enough to secure passage to Maribane or Balgedis.  But for many
different reasons, Ravis now chose to stay in Rhaize.  Gold, for one.

Izgard's attempt on his life, for another.

And a woman with almost red hair and a stubborn streak, for another
after that.

Making one final scan of the crowd, Ravis made his way down the steps.
If there were harras in the market, then they must be concealing
themselves in the barrels along with the mackerel and the cod, for he'd
been standing here for over an hour now and had yet to see anything
amiss.

At ground level the stench was vigorous, to say the least.  Tables were
layered with sea salt and fish, and men as crusty and weatherbeaten as
the crates they toted called out to passersby, extolling the virtues of
their catch.  No cod was just a cod; it was white and flaky and fit for
a sick grandmother.  Fresh enough to skip a path to the oven on its
own.

Camron spotted Ravis approach from across the courtyard.  Neither of
his guards did.  Walking back and forth with the throng, the two men
had let themselves become distracted by the sights and sounds of the
market.  Matters weren't helped much by the fact that a pretty
fishmonger's daughter, all dark curls and dimpled flesh, was currently
bending over to pick through a barrel of hake.  Since hearing that most
of Camron's guards were killed the same night as his father, Ravis was
inclined to judge the remaining men less harshly.  Still, it didn't
make the task ahead any easier, and Camron was better off relying on
himself than placing his faith in ill trained men who lacked the
experience to stay focused in a crowd.

As he walked, Rlivis hand was on his knife a new one, thanks to the
fact that he had given his previous one to Tessa last night in Mother
Emith's yard.  It had neither the pattern welded blade nor the
silver-bound hilt of the one he was used to, but Ravis found he didn't
mind the difference at all.  There was still a part of him that found
romantic gestures such as handing over a knife worth fifty crowns to a
woman in the dark gratifying.  Tessa could have protected herself with
any number of knives from Mother Emith's kitchen, but it pleased Ravis
to let her have his.  He did not want any harm befalling her while he
was away.

Ravis, said Camron of Thorn, walking to greet him through the crowd.  I
see your idea of dawn is later than everyone else s.

Ravis showed a smile.  He was pleased to see that Camron was looking
better than the night before; his hair was clean, his tunic well
brushed, and the fingers that danced around his blade had been scraped
clean of dried blood.  Seeing how his hand worked in unison with his
eye, Ravis revised his opinion of the man: Camron obviously wasn't
placing all his trust in his guards.

Walk with me, Ravis said, gaze flicking around the crowd.

Camron fell in at his side.  What happened last night?

Again, Ravis opinion of Camron went up.  The man was bright enough to
guess there was a reason behind his caution.

Three of Izgard's harras followed me after I left Marcel's last night.
Gave me a spot of trouble.  Nothing much, but it means I can't afford
to stay in Bay Zen any longer.  As long as I'm here, Izgard is going to
keep sending more men after me, and sooner or later I'm going to end up
dead.

We all end up dead in the end] Camron's tone was sharp.  With his left
hand, he made gestures to the two guards in the crowd, beckoning them
to follow him.

Ravis chose to ignore the remark.  Pushing past barrels of thrashing
lobsters and trays of snapping crabs, he said, We have to move fast.
Bay Zen isn't the place to assemble and train a force.  I'll need
somewhere where I don't have to worry about being knifed in the back.
Somewhere discreet, with land and barracks to call its own, preferably
situated along the Chase.

Camron nodded.  How far along the Chase?

Anywhere between Runzy and Gorut.  I want to be able to ship in men and
armaments, keep an eye to what's happening in Bay Zen, and still be
within striking distance of the Vorce Mountains.

My father has Camron corrected himself.  I have a small manor house
just north of Runzy.  There's land, plenty of outbuildings that could
be used as barracks, and the Chase runs through the neighboring estate
to the east.

How long will it take to ride there?

Three days.  Two if we change horses along the way.

Reaching the far end of the market where the salted and smoked fish was
sold, Ravis paused to buy a hand of smoked herrings.  He waited while
the fishmonger heated the halved and boned fish on his brazier, then
asked that the jortions be split into two.  The fishmonger was happy to
oblige.  Plenty of salt and pepper, Ravis added as the fishmonger
rolled the fish in sedge weeds and how about adding a couple of pats of
best butter on top?

The fishmonger nodded enthusiastically, pleased to have such a
discerning client.  Would sir care for chives and parsley?

Ravis ran a finger over his scar, thought for a minute, and then said,
Just parsley.  Chives would kill the aroma of woodsmok&

Sir knows his smoked fish, said the fishmonger, passing the two packets
of herrings to Ravis with an impassioned bow.

Ravis thanked, then paid the man.  Spinning around, he crooked a finger
in the direction of Camron's two guards.

Gentlemen, he said as they approached, I've taken the liberty of buying
you both breakfast.  Smiling, he offered a packet of the hot buttery
fish to each man.  The guards looked nervously at Cameron, but the
smoky aroma was too much for them to resist and their hands came up to
accept the food.

Cameron did not look pleased.

Ravis ignored him and continued smiling at the two men.

Now you two stand here, enjoy your breakfast, get yourselves a jug of
beer he pressed a silver coin into the palm of the nearest man and
Camron and I will be back before you know it.  We have a little
business to discuss.

Sir began the first guard.

It's all right, Scrip, interrupted Cameron.  Do as he says.  I'll be
back within an hour.

Both guards nodded.  The second one already had his mouth full of
fish.

Ravis inclined his head to both men, waved farewell to the smoked-fish
vendor, and then led Cameron away from the market.

Perhaps you'd like to tell me what that was all about?  Cameron said as
they walked through a series of covered arcades leading down toward the
west harbor.

Your men make me nervous.  Ravis crunched salt crystals and seashells
beneath his boots as he walked.  We might as well be followed by a town
crier ringing his bell.  Two run ins with Izgard's harras in as many
days is trouble enough for me.  My neck suits me better in one piece.

Reaching the harbor, Ravis cut away from the crowds milling around the
waterfront and headed for a collection of small huts teetering on the
edge of the quay.  You should watch yourself, too.  Just because Izgard
decided not to kill you the same night he killed your father doesn't
mean he won't change his mind.  As soon as he learns you're behind this
force we're putting together, he'll send his harras out to finish the
job

Camron turned to face him.  He ran his hands through his hair.  I'm not
afraid of Izgard and his men.  If he comes, he won't find me hiding
under my covers like a child frightened of the dark.

This was the first chance Ravis had to take a proper look at Camron in
daylight, and he was surprised to see that Cameron looked perhaps five
years younger than he had in the soft, flickering light of Marcel's
town house.  Ravis had been about to shape a reply telling him that
only a fool would not be afraid of Izgard of Garizon.  Instead he said,
You know he'll think you're after his crown?

Let him think whatever he wants.  My father never made a claim upon the
throne.  Nor will I. Camron resumed walking in the direction of the
wooden huts.  It isn't about taking power.  It's about vengeance.

So Ravis said, matching him step for step, before lz gard murdered your
father, you were content to let him be?

Cameron's hands curled into fists at his side.  Seeking to depose
another is not necessarily the same thing as seeking power yourself. My
father had a claim on Garizon just as strong as some would say stronger
than Izgard s. Berick of Thorn was second cousin to the old king.  His
blood ran just as deep and was just as rich as Izgard s, yet he never
sought power, never wanted anything for Garizon except peace.

Ravis ran a tooth along his scar.  Just as well, really.  As I hardly
think the good people of Garizon would have tolerated having the hero
of Mount Creed as their king.  How many Garizons died in that baffle?
Ravis kept his tone light, as he feigned ignorance of a subject he knew
well.  Fifteen, twenty thousand?

Whipping around, Camron landed a blow squarely on Ravis jaw.  Although
Ravis had been expecting it goad a man enough and he will hit you he
was surprised by the sheer force of the punch.  It didn't send him
reeling, but it did send his head snapping back.

Seeing the punch, two old ladies in black bonnets and shawls scuffled
away from the quay side like ants caught in candlelight.  A whiskered
longshoreman stopped in his tracks, folded his arms, and waited to see
what would happen next.  When Ravis made no move to fight back, he spat
on the deck and moved on.

Don't you dare speak of Mount Creed to me Cameron cried, eyes blazing
at Ravis, fist held close to his chest.  You have no idea what my
father went through on that mountain, how the memory wounded him until
the end.  He fought because he had to because there was no one else to
do it, and he had sworn his allegiance to the Rhaize king Not because
he wanted power.  He had already disavowed all claims to the Garizon
throne.  Ruling Garizon held no interest for him.

Ravis tasted blood in his mouth.  It reminded him of the day, seven
years ago, when his bottom lip had been sliced in two.  The bitter tang
was just the same.  Wiping the corner of his mouth, he said, You're
right.  I shouldn't have mentioned Mount Creed.  I apol5gize.  Suddenly
nothing seemed worth the fight.

Cameron's gray eyes looked into his; scorn, accusatipns, and anger
weren't enough to mask his grief.  Ravis saw it, recognized it, knew
what it felt like.  After all this time, and all that had happened
afterward, he still remembered the grief.

Ravis took a second look at Cameron.  Both of their fathers had died
unexpectedly, leaving hard fights to be fought in their wake: perhaps
they weren't so different after all.

Overhead, seagulls shrieked in a cloudless blue sky.  The sea sparkled
all the way to the horizon, then shimmered away to an indigo line.
Ships of all sizes dotted the bay: sails fat as well-fed cats, prows
gleaming with wax, rigging an everchanging framework of rope.  Easterly
breezes, clear skies, and a busy sea: a perfect morning in Bay Zen.

Something shifting in the corner of his eye caused Ravis to swing his
gaze away from the sea, back toward Cameron.

Was the man going to take a second swing at him?  Even as Ravis balled
his hand into a fist, he realized that Camron was offering his hand.

Ravis halted his own protective reflexes, ashamed.  If Cameron had seen
him make a fist, he pretended not to notice, simply looked at Ravis
with his mercury gray eyes and said,

I accept your apology, Ravis of Burano.  And I'll even admit I acted
rashly myself.

A tiny, bitter voice inside Ravis told him that in all his life,
Caruron of Thorn had probably never had his hand refused by any man.
That every time he held it out confident in the assurance that he was
doing an honorable thing for honorable reasons it was always quickly
taken.  Part of Ravis wanted to be the first to turn him down.  Cut him
dead, walk away, destroy just a grain or two of that unwavering blind
pride.

Another part of him not the one that had been turned to the light by
the taste of his own blood in his mouth, but the small, older,
immeasurably damaged part that had been brought to life by the sight of
grief in Cainron's eyes urged him to hold out his hand.  There was
nothing to be gained by causing further pain.

So Ravis raised his hand to meet Cameron s, telling himself he needed
gold from this man and that was as good a reason as any not to
antagonize him further.  Yet when Cameron's fingers circled his forearm
and his gray eyes looked straight into his, the small lie Ravis told
himself began to matter less.  There was a genuine pleasure to be found
in gripping someone's forearm, of knowing you were joined in cause and
destined to fight side by side.

A wisp of a memory, fine as Istanian-spun silk, light as the touch of
the long-nailed women who unraveled the cocoons, filtered down through
Ravis thoughts.  Two young brothers, clinging to each other with a
fierce, brotherly love as they watched their father's powder white body
being carried into the crypt.  Mairay and Ravis of Burano, people
whispered to each other beneath the chanting of the gray-robed clerics.
Surely there have never been two such brothers as devoted as they.

Abruptly Ravis pulled back from Caruron.  Threads of memory proved hard
to break.  Even when his fingers no longer circld Camron's arm, he
still smelled the myrrh scented candles burning in the crypt, still
felt the warmth of his brother's body next to his, still tasted Malray's
tears on his lips.

Camron spoke, and even though his words seemed strange and distant to
Ravis, he recognized their importance and realized how much it meant to
Cameron to say them out loud.

In all the years my father and I were together, he never mentioned his
Garizon claims to me.  Not once, by either word nor deed, did he ever
encourage me to stake a claim of my own.  I am not seeking a crown.  I
simply want to be rid of Izgard.  At first it was purely because of
what he is and what he stood for; now it is because of what he did.
Izgard of Garizon picked the wrong person to kill and the wrong point
to make.  He should never have killed the father, he should have slain
the real threat, his son.

Caruron's words were bright and piercing in the clear air of that
perfect Bay Zen morning, solemn against the cloudless backdrop of the
sky.  Listening to them was enough to chase away the last trace of
Ravis childhood memory.  Things were not, nor would ever be, the same
as they had been.  And he wasn't the only person standing on the quay
at that moment who had to live with pain and regrets.

Come, he said to Camron, motioning toward the end of the quay.  There's
a man in thatThut over there staying awake just to see us, and every
minute we keep him from his bed will end up costing you more gold.
Ravis headed up the path, Camron less than two steps behind.

Segwin the Ney shook his large, fleshy head.  Ravis, you said dawn.
With surprisingly slender hands for a man who was undeniably fat, he
tapped the nearby window frame, indicating the clear blue sky beyoncL
What do you call this?

Ravis shrugged.  Your gain.

A noise that might have conveyed either satisfaction or displeasure
escaped from Segwin's colorless lips.  With a practiced movement he
shut and latched the shutter, closing out the light.  Segwin the Ney
didn't like daylight.  He swore it ruined his night vision, gnawing
away at his special talent, developed and nurtured meticulously over
half a lifetime, for spotting illegal activity in the dark.

Segwin the Ney was a Bay Zen port officer, yet his name could not be
found on any roll and his job did not officially exist.  Segwin watched
the harbor at night.  Every evening at dusk he opened his shutters,
made himself comfortable on his well-cushioned chair, brought his
custom-made glass to his eye, and stared out to sea.  Unlike bailiffs,
harbor officials, tax examiners, and other functionaries whose main
business was to police the bay, Segwin had no desire to catch
smugglers, tariff dodgers, black-marketeers, known criminals intent on
entering the city, or wanted criminals intent on leaving.  His job was
simply to record.

The merchant fathers of Bay Zen knew that sometimes it was better to
ignore the sins of a smuggler or a foreign merchant, and so gain a
bargaining tool to be used at a later date, rather than take a man to
task, make him pay all tariffs due on goods smuggled, or penalize him
for illegal activities, and ultimately turn a friend and beneficiary of
the city into a watchful, resentful foe.

Obviously such enlightened and liberal thinking wouldn't sit well with
Bay Zen's own hardworking merchants and harbor officials, nor indeed
with the Sire of Rhaize himself, who as overlord of the city took a
healthy portion of all monies levied from the port.  So the whole
thing, much like Segwin the Ney himself, was kept very much in the
dark.  To anyone who asked, Segwin was just an aging drunkard whose
wife had left him in a fit of pique because he never rose before dusk.
In keeping with this fiction, empty beer barrels, arlo kegs, and spirit
bottles were always stacked outside his door.

Although it was dim inside the hut with the shutters closed, Segwin
didn't offer to light a candle.  He enjoyed having his visitors at a
disadvantage, for while they could barely see his silhouette, he saw
every nuance on their faces.  It made for good bargaining, and although
there were several men in the city equally clever, quick-witted, and
resourceful as Segwin the Ney, none struck a harder deal.

Gentlemen, he said with a short, impatient sigh, first you keep me up,
now you keep me waiting.  Am Ito take it you intend to see me
recompensed for my ordeal?

Ordeal?  Cameron began.  Why, I see no evidence

Ravis quieted him with a quick jab in the ribs.  Of course we intend to
see you recompensed, Segwin.  My friend here has assured me he values
your time highly, and he will personally see to it that on top of
whatever payment we agree upon here and now for your services, there
will be an extra silver piece included for every minute you have been
kept awake beyond the break of dawn.

Satisfied, Segwin nodded.  For some reason, the pale rolls of flesh
under his chin were the only part of his visage that caught the light.
The rest of his face remained dark.  Goon.

Ravis focused on what was visible of Segwin's many chins.  My friend
and I have need of your expert help.  Men, supplies, armaments: the
usual requirements.  Only this time I will need them sent upriver to
Runzy.  I will not be here to arrange pickups or to inspect the men
personally, so I will need to rely on you and Thrice.

Again came that sound that might have been pleasure or disapproval. The
chins wobbled.  I keep Thrice very busy these days.

Thrice was SegvC in's assistant.  All the various side deals that
Segwin made to supplement his income selling confiscated goods,
extortion, turning a blind eye, dealing in weapons, mercenaries, and
occasionally slaves were carried out by his man in the field.  Ravis had
never actually spoken to Thnce merely nodded to him from a distance
over crates of Istanian helmets or the heads of Maribane archers but
judging by the quality of men and weapons he selected, the man
obviously took pride in his work.  Some of Ravis best mercenaries had
been hand-picked by Thrice of Culling.

As busy as both you and Thrice are, I'm sure you'll find time to help
us out?  Ravis jabbed Cameron in the ribs.  The moment called for a
little verbal support.

We'd be most grateful, said Cameron.

Not to mention generous, added Ravis for good measure.

Segwin the Ney held perfectly still for a moment, then let out a deep
sigh.  Very well.  Men, you want?  Arms and supplies?  I'll see what I
can do.

I need archers longbows men if you can get them, though crossbows men
would do.  I'll want at least five dozen fine yew wood longbows, and
double that number of Drokho pikes not the lowland ones, mind, the ones
made in the mountains with the broad blades and hooks.  I'll need
boiled leather armor, no plate

No plate?  intermpted Cameron.  Do you like sending men to their
deaths?

Ravis first instinct was to lash out at Cameron: now was not the time
to discuss tactics.  A deal was being struck.  Controlling his anger,
however, he spoke very softly, all the while keeping his facial
features relaxed, aware that no detail would escape Segwin the Ney's
all-seeing eye.  Any force I assemble has to be light on its feet.  I've
seen too many men die because they were wearing full armor and
couldn't right themselves after a fall from a horse an eye blink is all
it takes for an enemy to move in with a blade.

At least they'll be well protected when they're in such a vulnerable
state.

Ravis was losing patience.  A man wearing leather can be up and back on
his horse before anyone realizes he's down.  Speed and agility are all
the protection he needs.  To end the subject once and for all, he
turned toward Segwin's chins and asked, How much gold will you need to
get started?  It was an indelicate way to broach the subject, and
normally Ravis would use an entirely different approach, but he needed
something to stop Cameron's tongue.

The question had the desired effect.  The tension drained out of
Cameron's body as he leaned forward to hear Segwin's reply.

Segwin the Ney acted as if nothing were amiss.  Several noncommittal
noises emanated from the area directly above his chins.  After a bout
of nodding, some finger drumming, and a slight retraction of his chins,
he said, Well, I can't guarantee numbers on the mercenaries, but I'll
see what I can do.  As for the other items, they shouldn't be too much
of a problem.  Though Thrice is very busy, and I myself am fully
burdened as it is.  Segwin paused, waiting for appropriate words of
understanding and sympathy.

Which Ravis happily gave.  You push yourself too hard, Segwin.  No man
in Bay Zen works such long hours as you.

The chins wobbled in what Ravis hoped was gratification.  A moment
passed, and then Segwin rustled into action.

The cost will be five hundred crowns.  I'll take two hundred and fifty
on deposit, plus the extra silver promised for my inconvenience.
Payment must be in coin and should be received no later than sunset
tonight.  He stood up.  Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must
sleep.  Two hours you have kept me awake.  One hundred and twenty
silvers, and not a minute less.  The chins headed for the door.

Sensing that Camron was about to speak either to object to the price or
the terms Ravis spoke up loudly instead.

We wouldn't dream of keeping you from your sleep a moment longer,
Segwin.  So, seems we're all agreed on the price, I say we discuss the
details later.  After dark?  Negotiation may have brought down the cost
somewhat, but it would have taken so long to convince Segwin to drop
his price that any money saved in gold would be more than matched in
compensation at the rate of one silver coin per minute.  Besides,
Rlivis felt disinclined to save Camron's money.  As one of the
wealthiest men in Rhaize, he could well afford to pay the price.

Camron didn't say anything, but judging from the way the silhouette of
his hand tugged away at his hair, it was obvious he wasn't pleased.

After dark, gentlemen, and not a moment before.  Segwin the Ney opened
the door.  Light flooded into the hut, blinding Ravis completely.  By
the time his vision had cleared enough to see details, Segwin had
ushered him over the threshold.  Before he had chance to shape a
farewell, the door was closed in his face.

Five hundred crowns!  Cameron said, sweeping into Ravis line of vision.
Five hundred crowns for leather an nor pikes, and mercenaries!  Are you
quite out of your mind?

Ravis was more than a little annoyed at the fact that Cameron had
recovered from the shock of being thrust into the light faster than he
himself.  He began walking back up the quay.  You forgot the
longbows.

Longbows!  Archers!  What use will a man with an arrow be against a
troop of fully trained knights?  Although Ravis was moving quickly,
Camron had no problem keeping step.

You obviously haven't seen the Maribane longbow in use.  It can cut
down a cavalry line faster than any other weapon I've seen.

I've seen archers before now.  The only thing they're good for is
taking out their opposite numbers: archers to kill archers.

The new longbows can shoot three times farther than a short bow  They
fire arrowheads that can cut through steel, and for every arrow loosed
by a crossbows man a longbows man can loose two.  Archers don't just
kill archers anymore: they stop charges, break defenses, win wars.

Having reached the main harbor thoroughfare, Ravis cut a path back
toward the market.  He cared little if Camron followed.  The man was
typical of all Rhaize lords living on memories of a glorious past,
where knights in gleaming armor fought other knights in gleaming armor,
and any common foot soldier in the field, or archer stringing his bow
in a trench, wasn't worth wielding a sword at.  War was a nobleman's
affair.

Izgard didn't play by those old rules, though.  No one who wanted to
prevail on the battlefield these days could afford to.

Cameron caught up with Ravis on the steps leading up to the market.
Some fishmongers were already closing shop for the day, and they
marched down the steps, crates above their heads, buckets sloshing in
their hands, tunics straining with the round-edged bulk of coinage.
Children, dogs, and seagulls competed for scraps.  Snapping at the
salt-strewn steps, they fought over sprats, whiting, cockles, and
clams.  Whatever scales, shells, and fins the scavengers left behind
were cleared away overnight by the rats.

Ravis heard Cameron order him to stop so they could talk face-to-face,
but he was damned if he was going to explain any more of his tactics to
a man who would ieither listen nor understand.  He carried on up the
steps, pushing against the market crowd, fixing them with his dark
Drokho eyes, causing all but the poor sighted and reckless to move
swiftly out of his way.

I said stop, cried Camron, grabbing a fistful of Ravis tunic.

Ravis slammed the heel of his hand into Camron's knuckles, forcing him
to release his grip.  I didn't choose to heed you.

Well, you'd better heed me from now on.  Even though Ravis knew he had
delivered quite a blow to Camron's hand, the man didn't stop to nurse
it.  He continued speaking, his low, aristocratic voice taut with fury.
You work for me.  I'm financing this force.  I'm the one who decides
who's party to it, and what they wear and how they fight.  I intend to
pull men from Thorn and Runzy trained knights, fine horsemen.  Good,
solid Rhaize troops, not some mismatched concoction of foreign
mercenaries and common foot soldiers.  I'll pay the five hundred crowns
to the fat man with the chins, but I warn you now, I don't want to see,
hear, or cross paths with any man you bring down to Runzy.  And I
certainly don't want them fighting by my side.  In battle I need men I
can rely on, ones who won't leave injured soldiers to die on the field,
or turn tail t the first sign of a rout.

Camron drew level with Ravis on the steps.  Bringing his face close, he
said, You're here to help me get to Izgard, not to tell me how to
fight.  Is that clear?

Ravis chewed on his scar.  Many things came into his mind to say
objections, sarcastic put-downs, verbal lessons in tactics but he let
none of them out.  He'd been a hired hand for too long to let anger get
in the way of business.  Cameron wasn't the first man to remind him who
was master, and he probably wouldn't be the last.  A man who inherited
neither land nor wealth from his family could expect to have many
different overlords through the course of his life.  He learned early
on to do and say what was expected, and he always knew when to bite his
tongue or, in Ravis case, his scar.

Cameron was angry.  His pride had been hurt, and a few of his dearly
held beliefs had been challenged.  One day would not make him a
convert.

With one quick movement Ravis reached inside his tunic.  Cameron tensed
for a moment before realizing that Ravis was merely taking out his
gloves.  With slow movements just short of insolence, Ravis pulled on
the gloves, pausing to ensure that each finger slid down to the bottom
seam and that the leather sat well over his hand.  Only when he was
satisfied with the fit did he look Cameron in the eye and say, I will
do exactly as you wish.

To his credit, Cameron neither frowned nor gloated.  He nodded once,
then started up the steps.  Ravis followed after him, and together they
headed back to the market, where Cameron's two guards lips still greasy
with butter, breath smelling of beer and smoked fish came running up to
tell them that a rumor was sweeping the city that Izgard had invaded
Rhaize to the east.

What happened yesterday at dawn?  What did you do?  Izgard of Garizon
was tired of getting no answers.  He was sick of seeing his scribe's
head shake and his good shoulder descen4from a shrug.  The warlords
were pressing to drive farther into Rhaize.  They wanted to see plans.
Move forces.  Fight.

I have told you already, sire.  I drew my normal pattern, nothing more.
Ederius twisted his purple-stained fingers into knots.  The tendons on
the back of his hands looked like bird claws.  Izgard swore he could
hear the man's heart pounding beneath the rough-woven fabric of his
cloak.

The room smelled vaguely of urine, of a chamber pot tucked in the back
of a cupboard or a bed wet in the mid die of the night.  Izgard didn't
normally notice such things in a fortress this large and cold, men
pissed wherever they could rather than get up to use the latrines after
dark but Ederius was different.  Once a monk on the Anointed Isle, he
was a man of strict personal habits and always took care to keep
himself and his rooms well tended.  At this moment, though, both the
scribe and his scriptorium looked a little unkempt, and even though it
was an hour past noon only one of the great windows had been opened to
let in the light.

The sky above the mountains was filled with plump white clouds, and as
the wind was high they continually blew in front of the sun, plunging
the room into cool gray shade for minutes at a time.  As the sun
emerged once more from behind a bank of feathery down and shone through
the tall window onto Ederius, his desk, pigment pots, brushes, quills,
and works in progress, Izgard took a closer look at his hands.  The
purple stain wasn't as it first seemed.  It was made up of two
distinctly separate colors: red and blue.  The blue sat over the red,
masking, altering, filtering out the hue.  The skin on Ederius hands
was sore and flaking, and it looked as if the scribe had first tried to
scrub off the red stain, and when that failed, he had worked in blue
pigment to veil it.

Excited, but not sure why, Izgard licked his lips.  Stepping into the
sun's rays so his shadow fell upon the scribe and his desk, he
whispered, Let me see the pattern you drew yesterday.

Ederius gaze flicked from his red-blue hands to the eyes of his king. I
threw it on the fire.

Why?  As Izgard spoke the word, his breath plumed white across the
space separating him from the scribe.  It was not cold, merely cool,
but sometimes his breath did that: changed, became something else
entirely in his lungs.

Eyes blinking away the moisture, Ederius said, After I finished the
pattern, I knocked over a cup of tannic acid... it spilt upon the page.
The pattern was un savable  The parchment was ruined.

Izgard nodded.  I see.

Ederius waited for his king to say something more, but Izgard merely
curled his hands around the edge of the desk and leaned forward.  After
a moment of silence the scribe felt compelled to speak.  Forgive me,
sire.  I did not stop to think.  The acid was everywhere.  I was
worried it would burn through to the parchment beneath destroy new
designs I was working on, things that could prove valuable in the
months to

Raising up his index finger to silence the man, Izgard said, What
fire?

I..  . I don't understand, sire.  Ederius was looking worried now.

As well he might.  One of the bones in Izgard's wrists cracked softly
as he pivoted farther forward, drawing face to-face with his scribe.
When he spoke, his voice was softer than the cracking bone.  What fire
did you throw the design on?  The one in here hasn't been lit in a
week.

Ederius glanced toward the great fireplace.  It was cold, black, swept
clean.

The one in your bedchamber, perhaps?  Izgard's lips stretched to
something close to, but not quite, a smile.  Should I go there and
check for myself?

No!  No, sire, Ederius said quickly, his hands fluttering up toward his
king.  A bead of old man's sweat trickled down from the white hair at
his temple.  I gave it to one of the maids.  Told her to take it away
and burn it for me?

Izgard smashed his fist into Ederius jaw.  Knuckle blasted against
bone.  The scribe's head shot back.  The base of his skull slammed
against the headrest of the chair, sending the chair teetering onto its
back two legs.  Izgard stopped it from falling over by slapping a hand
down onto the armrest.  The chair thudded back onto all four feet,
jolting Ederius forward, so he was once more within striking distance
of his king.

Where is the pattern?  Izgard demanded.  The urge to lash out again was
strong, and Izgard had to grind his fist into the armrest to fight it.
The imprint of his hand was clearly visible on the scribe's face, and
for a brief moment Lzgard found himself wondering when it had become
normal to strike him.

Muscles contracted in Ederius throat as he worked to contain a cough or
bout of choking.  A tear, just one, spilled out of his right eye.

Izgard moved his hand from the armrest.  A splinter driven deep into
his fingertip had drawn blood.  Izgard felt no pain.  Reaching over, he
went to touch Ederius.  The scribe had such an old and beautiful face,
hair so perfectly white.  When they had first met five years ago it had
just been turning gray.

As Izgard's fingers brushed against his cheek, Ederius jerked back,
eyes wide, inhaling sharply.  Izgard caught himself.  Surely Ederius
wasn't afraid of him?  Don't be scared he said.  I won't hurt you
again.

Ederius hesitated, glanced into Izgard's eyes, and then moved forward.
The mark on his jaw was now a bright, flaming red.

Izgard's touch was gentle as he stroked Ederius cheek.

Remember before I was king, Ederius?  When there was just you and me
and old Gamberon?  Remember how close we were, how we swore we would do
anything to help each other?  How we were all united in the desire I
should be king?  They were good days, weren't they?  You, me, Gamberon:
friends and scholars first, master and servants second.  I miss those
days, my old friend.  I miss Gamberon's wisdom and our special
closeness.  Imiss the dreams we spun in Veizach after dark.

All the while Izgard spoke, Ederius sat perfectly still, accepting, but
in no way responding to, the touch of his king.  It looked not so much
as if he were afraid to move, but rather that he physically couldn t.
That somehow he had been lulled into a trance by a sly Gypsy or a
master magician and his body was no longer his own.

Izgard smiled warmly at the scribe; his heart felt very full.  Oh, to
go back to those days when there was just we three.  The discussions we
had!  The books we pored over!  The bonds of love, friendship, and
obligations we shared!  The scribe's face was smooth hot where he had
taken the punch.  Izgard enjoyed feeling the fine old flesh slide
beneath his fingers.  Touch was important to him.  Do you miss those
days too, Ederius?  Do you miss Gamberon?

The questions Vere an enchanted kiss.  They broke the spell that bound
the scribe.  Ederius moved, not away from his king's touch, but toward
it; tilting his cheek so it was parallel with Izgard's finger. Touching
all he could of his king.

I do miss the old days, sire.  I miss Gamberon more than I can ever
say.

A second tear glistened in the scribe's eye.  Izgard felt its pull in
his own.  The muscles in his chest tightened.

Gamberon didn't have to die, did he, my old friend?  He didn't have to
move against me?

The tear ran down Ederius cheek and then slid along la gard's finger,
glazing his skin with its thin, salty wetness.  The sensation of cool
tear and hot flesh moved Izgard deeply.  Perhaps because he had been
born with one sense less than other men, he appreciated the ones he did
have all the more.  There was a world of beauty to be found in one's
fingertips: the sweet beating warmth of another's pulse, the exquisite
texture of aging skin stretched over smooth bone, and the sharp pain of
snuffing a candle by hand.  Sometimes Izgard thought he had been born
with a sense of taste after all, only his tastebuds lay beneath his
fingertips, not his tongue.

Ederius nuzzled his wet cheek against Izgard's finger as he shook his
head.  Gamberon should not have done what he did, sire.  He acted
rashly, without thinking... . He should have stopped to discuss his
fears with you.

Izgard leaned close and laid a kiss on his scribe's forehead.  The man
may have lied and prevaricated earlier, but surely now he spoke the
truth?  Gamberon should have come to him.  Should have shared with his
one master and his sworn friend all his fears about the Coil.  Instead
he had taken the crown from the convent at Sirabayus, where it had been
kept safe for fifty years by the holy sisters of Martyr Ehlise and,
with his own hands, tried to destroy it.  By the time Izgard caught up
with him on a dark, storm-lashed hillside a league east of the convent,
his arms and chest were torn to shreds; flesh hacked, gouged, and split
by the action of the barbs around the Coil.

Weak, raving, and losing cup after cup of blood, Gamberon still might
have lived if it hadn't been for the fact that Izgard's blade slipped
between his ribs mere seconds after he released his grip upon the
crown.

Friends they had been, but a traitor was a traitor, and any man with
desires upon the Coil was either a rival or a foe.

Drawing back from the kiss, Izgard said to his scribe,

You want me to win this war, don't you?

Sensing a subtle change in his king's mood, Ederius was quick to nod.
Yes, sire.

And you would do anything to help.  Anything?

Yes, sire.

And you would not turn upon me like Gamberon.  Try to destroy that
which is mine?

Ederius took a short breath.  For a second his face looked older and
heavier, as if burdened by invisible weights upon his eyelids, nose,
and cheeks.  No, sire.  I cherish all that is yours.  I would destroy
nothing that belonged to my king.

Swear it.  Izgard's breath plumed white once more.

And even before the water crystals faded to nothing, the scribe
whispered, I do.

Satisfied, Izgard nodded.  The desire came upon him to touch Ederius
face once more, but he checked himself.  The business in hand wasn't
finished yet.  Turning away from the desk, Izgard pulled himself up to
his full height and began to move around the room.

When he spoke to the scribe this time he did not look at him.  You know
that in the coming weeks I plan to push the border raids farther and
farther into Rhaize territory?  I aim to steal through the mountains
into the heart of Rhaize, and as soon as my feet hit level ground I'll
turn north toward the Mettle Sea and restake Garizon's claim on Bay
Zen.  I have confidence in my army.  I know we will prevail.  Yet many
months of bloodshed lie ahead.  Men will die our men.  Sons of Garizon,
brothers to you and me, husbands to our women and fathers to our
children, will find themselves cut down in the prime of their lives.

And although glory will belong to their eternal souls, their bodies
will rot in shallow graves and their earthly remains will be claimed by
Rhaize.

Izgard spun around to face his scribe.  Yet you and I both know that
our men don't have to die in such nunthers.  Yesterday at dawn in a
little mountain village called Chalce, just beyond the Garizon-Rhaize
border, I watched as nine of my brave men fought their way to victory
over a force that outnumbered them ten to one.

A force!  Sire, they were defenseless villagers, not a force!  Ederius
actually rose from his desk.  It was slaughter, not battle.  Women and
children were killed along with all the rest.

Sit, Ederius.  Izgard kept his tone gentle, though in truth he felt
annoyed.  Aware that his anger was building and not wanting to hurt
Ederius again, he moved farther away.  Picking a spot against the far
wall where he could see but not touch the scribe, he said, You were
there, weren't you?  You were behind those men.  You saw what they saw,
you made them do what they did:

Ederius went to speak, but Izgard waved him to silence.

It wasn't the same as the times before, was it?  The men acted in
unison, like a close-knit fighting force.  They warned each other of
dangers, watched out for each other's backs.  Their desire to destroy
was still the same, and their bodies changed in the usual way, but
their methods were different, more calculating.  They fought and acted
as one.

Izgard ran a finger along the rough coolness of the scriptorium wall.
No castle or fortress he had ever stayed at had stone that felt as good
as Sern.  It had the texture of fossilized suede.

Now that Ederius had the opportunity to say something, he chose not to.
He sat, purple hands knotted on his desk, eyes either closed or gazing
very far down, pressing his lips together as if afraid his tongue might
turn on him and somehow force him to speak.

Nodding as if the scribe's silence were the answer he looked for,
Izgard said, When I saw what those men had done and with what speed and
efficiency they had done it, I said to myself, Ederius has been working
with the Coil.  No longer just repeating patterns he had rubbed from
the outer rim, but using the structure itself as the base for his
design just as we discussed all those weeks ago in Veizach.  Just as he
promised me he would do.

Pushing himself away from the wall, Izgard began to move toward the
scribe.  Each word he spoke brought him one step closer to the desk.
That's what you did yesterday morning, wasn't it?  You worked from the
Barbed Coil itself.  Izgard came to a halt by the pedestal that held
the crown.  A thick sheet of linen had been thrown over it, like a
shade to block out the sun.  Red handprints were stamped around the
cloth's edges.  Ink, thought Izgard.  Yet it looked just like blood.

Slowly, carefully, Izgard lifted the cloth from the Coil.  As the crown
emerged from beneath its linen wrap, the sun slipped out from behind a
cloud, making the metal flash and sparkle like a crackling fire and
causing specks of golden light to spray across the room.

Ederius put his hands over his eyes.

Izgard rubbed his fist over his mouth.  His lips were wet with saliva.
Show me the pattern he said quietly, not really to the scribe at all.
You must keep no secrets from me.  I own you and respect you, and as
long as you do my bidding, I swear you will come to no harm.  Now show
me what I need to see and help me win the war.

Izgard heard wood scrape against stone.  Out of the corner of his eye,
he saw the scribe rise from his chair, watched him walk across the
room, then bend at the waist as he reached down to open a chest.

You should not let what happened yesterday upset you, my friend: Izgard
called after him, feeling the need to say something kind now that there
was no question he would get what he wanted.  War has many horrors.
Innocents are often killed: we will not be the first army to make such
tragic mistakes.  Yet if we win the war swiftly, we will actually save
lives and not just those of our own Garizon sons.  In a long, bloody
war people on all sides die unnecessarily.  The shorter and more
decisive the war, the fewer the deaths.

Ederius pulled something from the chest, looked at it briefly, murmured
a few words to himself or his God, and then walked back to his king. In
his arms he held a square of parchment no bigger than two outstretched
hands, and before offering it up to Izgard, he pressed it close to his
heart.

Izgard thought how beautiful he looked, like a holy man carrying a
relic to his savior or a martyr poised to enter the underworld.  It
thrilled Ilzgard's heart just to look at him.

Kneel before me he said, instinctively knowing the moment called for
his scribe's complete supplication.

Ederius did what was asked.  As his knees hit the stone, the sunlight
withdrew from the room, sending shadows gliding in to fill the void.
The light dimmed, the temperature dropped, the air rustled for a moment
and then was still.

The scribe held out the parchment.

And as he did so, Izgard's own words slipped from his lips.  The
shorter and more decisive the war, the fewer the deaths.  They were
spoken as part question, part excuse, part magic spell to ward off
harm.

TWELVE

hat's it, my dear.  Don't be afraid of adding a little more indigo to
the pot.  The darker the wax, the better Emith likes it.  Tessa glanced
over at Mother Emith, who was sitting facing the fire.  I don't
understand why it has to be so dark.  As she spoke Tessa wiped a bead
of sweat from her upper lip.  Standing so close to the fire, stirring a
tub of beeswax that sat in a bath of boiling water, was beginning to
make her a little uncomfortable.  The wax was taking forever to melt.

Mother Emith settled back in her chair.  A question had been asked
though granted it was about scribing, not cooking and Mother Emith
liked nothing better than to give answers.  Well, my dear, if you're
scraping a design in wax with a stylus, then unless the wax is as dark
as you can make it, you're not going to be able to see your own work.
Try running your fingernail against a white candle see how far that will
get you.  Won't be able to spot a thing.  few The old lady had a point
there.  Nodding, Tessa added a more drops of indigo to the wax.  The
dark blue plant dye rippled through the translucent wax, darkening on
contact.  Emith was running low on parchment, and rather than use up
his remaining supplies, he had decided to make a scribe's tablet for
Tessa so she could practice pen movements and lnotwork as much as she
liked and not have to worry about wasting any more vellum.  Just this
mo ming Emith had hollowed out a square-shaped wooden block and given
it to her to fill with wax.  Now all she had to do was dye the wax and
pour it into the block.  Mother Emith was guiding her, as always, and
together they were getting the job done nicely.  Later there would be
supper and tale telling.

For over a month now Tessa had been living with Emith and his mother in
their narrow little town house on the south side of Bay Zen.

Ravis had left in the middle of the night, pausing only to lay a
handful of gold coins on the dresser and warn Tessa one more time to
keep herself safe.  After he had gone, Tessa wondered what she would do
with herself.  Alone in a world where she knew nothing and no one, she
would surely take a wrong tam down a dangerous street and run straight
into Izgard's harras.

Surprisingly, the weeks had passed safely, quietly, and quickly.
Following Ravis warning, Tessa never ventured far outside, and for the
first week or so she waited for familiar feelings of restlessness, of
being cooped up in one place and needing to be on the move, to take
hold of her.  Nothing came.  In fact, as the days went by she found
herself more and more content to be where she was.  She liked sitting
at the large oak wood table and lea ming about scribing from Emith,
hearing about history and design one moment and washes and glazes the
next.  She enjoyed helping with the meals: slicing, dicing, boning, and
scraping.  And although no amount of teaching would ever make her a
master chef, she had developed quite a talent for chopping things with
Ravis knife.

Tessa felt more at home, more at ease, in this strange household,
presided over by an old woman sitting in the center of the kitchen who
never left her chair, than anywhere else she had ever called home. Part
of it was her newfound ability to just sit and listen and learn. She
wasn't afraid to trace a finger over the tabletop and follow the grain
in the wood.  When Emith sketched something to illustrate a point,
Tessa could concentrate fully on what he was doing and saying without
fear that her tinnitus would start.

Her old life had been a series of mad dashes calls to be made, meetings
to be scheduled, short-lived relationships that always seemed to be
beginning or ending with no middle to speak of in between and she had
lived that way for so long, she had assumed that was who she was and
what she wanted to be.  Only now was she beginning to suspect that
without the fear of tinni.us hanging over her, she was turning into
someone else.  Still herself, only different, more thoughtful.

Her days now revolved around food: its preparation, cooking, and
eating.  Breakfast would be something hot, usually whatever was eaten
the night before braised slowly overnight so the meat was so tender, it
fell off the hone and the vegetables disintegrated into soft, nameless
lumps that all tasted the same.  At midday there would be cold pastries
filled with creamed herrings, or smoked mackerels mashed with butter on
heels of freshly baked bread.  The rest of the afternoon was usually
dedicated to the preparation of supper.

In the four weeks Tessa had stayed at Mother Emith's house, she had yet
to eat an evening meal that hadn't taken five hours to prepare.  Sauces
simmered in tiny sauce pots, meat roasted on a broad spit over the
fire, fish floated, belly up, in kettles filled with liquor, and red
cabbage, white cabbage, and sliced onions huddled together in shallow
dishes catching steam.  Smells built throughout the day like a growing
darkness before a storm.  And during the final hour before eating,
Tessa had learned to put down whatever she was working on, bring her
chair close to the fire, and just sit and enjoy all the wonderful
cooking fragrances, taking pleasure in anticipating the meal ahead.

Nothing in the household happened fast.  At first Tessa had felt a few
twinges of impatience at Emith and his mother when she asked for things
like hot water for a bath, soap to wash her face, or a cold drink of
anything that wasn't alcoholic.  Now she realized that everything had
to be done by hand: water had to be heated in a pot over the fire, so
the meat would have to be moved aside, which meant the supper would be
late to table.  Soap had to be made in a tub in the yard, boiled down
from bones and ash and other things Tessa didn't care to think about,
then scented with rosemary oiL kneaded, and formed into pats.

Gradually Tessa's expectations changed.  Days were long but never full;
food was to be savored, discussed, and enjoyed; and evenings were made
for huddling close around the fire, telling old tales, brewing strong
drinks, and nodding off to sleep in your chair.

Wax candles were expensive, and tallow, which Tessa had learned was
made from animal fat in much the same way as soap, burned with a flame
that was too smoky and acrid to be borne for too long, so although
Emith never stopped teaching and showing Tessa things in the daylight,
after dark they didn't do much work.

Sometimes, when the fire dimmed, ready to be banked, and Mother Emith
was resting, though not sleeping, in her chair, Emith would tell Tessa
some of the history of manuscript illumination.  After pouring them
both cups of mulled arlo, more to hold between their hands for warmth
and comfort than to drink, he would pull his stool up to the hearth and
whisper stories of bygone days.

He told of how all the great scribes traditionally came from across the
Mettle Sea, from an island off the island of Maribane.  The Anointed
Isle, it was called.  It was where all the great scribes were trained:
in an ancient monastery linked to the mainland by along, sandy causeway
that was completely covered by the sea at high tide.  The scribes were
monks in those days, boasting names that sounded as vivid and intricate
as the patterns they created: Brother ilfaylen, Brother Fascarius,
Brother Mavelloc, and Brother Peredictine.

The Holy League used to believe it was wrong for a scribe to try to
reproduce the perfection of God's work Emith began one night as he and
Tessa sat around the fire.  Scribes were men of God first, men of
letters second.  They were forbidden to draw anything from nature.
Instead they were forced to create new forms themselves that didn't
rival any living plant or animal the four gods had created.

So scribes began to illustrate their work with patterns and designs
that borrowed shapes from nature, without copying them precisely.  It
wasn't long before scribes began to draw creatures from their own
imaginations: four-legged animals with long bodies, flat ears, and
curling tails.  Serpents with gold eyes and segmented bodies and scales
that never quite met at the edges, revealing dark underbellies
beneath.

Emith shivered.  These paintings only pleased the Holy League for so
long, though, miss.  They began to see heathen ness in the bright eyes
and full curves of the scribe's creations.  Rumors started that those
on the Anointed Isle who had taken the art of creating patterns to its
highest form were sorcerers.  Demons who drew the devil out through the
nibs of their pens, set him free from the black ink in their jars.

Emith paused for a moment.  Tessa noticed his hands were shaking.

Over the next few centuries, those on the Anointed Isle became more and
more isolated, flouting the Holy League and common opinion alike.
Rumors increased, terrible happemngs were reported.  The abbot at the
time died suddenly one night in his sleep.  Then one of the brothers at
the abbey set about reforming the Anointed Isle: burning all the old
manuscripts and bringing in artists from Rhaize and Drokho to teach the
scribes the new lifelike styles that had become so popular there.  He
forbade anyone from drawing the old patterns ever again and
reestablished relations with the Holy League, putting all heathen ness
behind him.

Brother Ilfaylen was his name.  And in his day it was said that he was
the greatest scribe that ever lived.  He didn't mix pigments, he wove
spells of light and shade.

Hearing Emith speak so wistfully of the man's work made Tessa long to
see it.  What happened to Brother ilfaylen to make him change?  she
asked, fingers curling around her arlo cup, gaze darting to Mother
Emith, checking that her words hadn't disturbed her.

Emith shrugged.  I don't know, miss.  They say he left the Anointed
Isle for half a year and traveled to the continent to work on.an
illumination for Hierac of Garizon.  Yet no trace of that commission
has ever been found, and even though he wrote books and memoirs
afterward, he never mentioned the trip.

Was he involved in sorcery?  Tessa thought for a moment, then added,
Was Deveric?

Emith chose that moment to stand up.  Miss, I know nothing of such
things.  I am a scribe's assistant, not a scribe.

It was always the way with Emith.  He could tell her the most intricate
details about how to apply gold leaf to a page how the surface should
be raised first with a thick, chalky paint called gesso, how pink earth
should be added if the work called for richer tones, and how either
agate, metal, or bone could be used to burnish the gold if a patron
requested a finish with high luster yet he would tell her nothing of
the reasons behind it all.

Sometimes Tessa thought that Emith had deliberately avoided learning
anything about the true nature of Deveric's work: if his master was up
to something ungodly, he didn't want to know about it, making it easier
for him to believe his master was a good man.  Sometimes Tessa thought
her suspicions had been wrong and the patterns were just patterns after
all.  But every now and then something would happen to make her stop
and think and guess again.

Last week Emith had begun teaching her how to rule and mark pages
before starting work on a pattern.  It was while he was demonstrating
how Deveric went about constructing complex designs from basic
geometric shapes showing her how trumpet spirals were drawn from simple
circles, how most knot work was based on a continuous row of XXXs, and
how all key patterns were built upon a diagonal lattice that Tessa
began to perceive something hidden between the lines.

Emith had pulled out an old parchment that Deveric had ruled and
pricked years earlier yet never gotten around to filling in with ink
and paint.  Looking at it, Tessa immediately saw the patterns he had
intended to construct.  She had no way of knowing what forms those
patterns would take whether they would be elongated birds, vines,
ribbons, ammals, or just plain threads but she could make out the
overall desigu.  She saw the way the lines would dip, curve, and cross
each other.  She knew the lay of the page.

It was as if a secret code had been revealed to her eyes alone.  She
cried out to Emith, Can't you see it?  and although he nodded and said,
Yes, miss, she knew he didn't see it the same.  The design didn't jump
out of the vellum at him, demanding to be finished there and then.

Before Emith could stop her, Tessa took up a horsehair brush and began
painting over the lead point markings.  She quickly inked in the major
lines, moving from curve to curve, knowing instinctively when to turn
and raise the brush.  In her mind she no longer saw Deveric's rough
outline, but the finished design, complete with shadings, colors,
borders, and background.

Emith uhm'd and ahh'd and didn't seem at all pleased that Tessa had
taken it into her head to paint over his master's work, yet after a
while of pacing, hand wringing, and anxious murmurs, he grew quiet and
came to stand at the back of

Tessa's chair, peering over her shoulder to watch the design unfold.

Tessa was aware of him, but as the brush whisked across the page,
trailing a line of acid and lampblack ink in its wake, the world around
her began to matter less and less.  She became caught up in the angles
of the pattern.  Lines were no longer just lines, they were secret
passageways leading to other places.  The page itself was no longer
stretched and beaten lamb's hide, it was a landscape to be navigated,
shaped, and explored.

Deveric might have laid down the blueprint, but all of a sudden Tessa
realized she was in control.  The brush did her bidding, no one else s,
and as her gaze darted ahead to the next pinprick on the vellum, she
decided to strike out on her own.  Deveric's intentions were perfectly
clear too clear-and she felt a mad, intense itching to create something
new.

Palm gliding two knuckles above the tabletop, fingers gripping the
hog-bone handle of the brush, Tessa veered the line away from Deveric's
pinprick, sending it reeling toward the virgin whiteness in the middle
of the page.

Over her shoulder, she heard Emith catch his breath.

Under her hand, the pattern stopped being Deveric's and became Tessa
McCarnfrey's instead.

The brush turned and spiraled, broadening into the deep cleft of a
curve, then thinning into a whip stroke on the turnout.  Tessa no
longer saw the pattern in terms of points to be met and rulings to be
guided by.  She saw a complex grid, many-faceted like a fly's eye, with
jutting, eclipsing angles and a mesh of potential lines.  She could
move anywhere on the page, manipulate the design in any possible way,
and as long as she kept to the grid laid down a decade earlier by a
dead man, a pattern would emerge from the ink.

Tessa felt herself entering the design.  She felt her mind crowded with
fragments of lines, brushing against her thoughts like insects
antennae, bristling against her skin like hair just cut.

A faint noise sounded.  Ringing.

Tessa panicked.  She had let herself concentrate too deeply, opened up
the door and let her tinnitus come in.  She should have known better.
Angry with herself, she pulled back, dragging the brush tip away from
the parchment and her mind away from the design.

She closed her eyes.  And as she did so, she caught a glimpse of
something hidden beyond the screen of meshing lines.  A land of dark
curves, like rolling hills seen by night.  A spark of something glinted
in the valley between the slopes: a pool of black oil.

Miss, are you all right?  Emith touched her shoulder, gently, as was
his way.

Tessa nodded, suddenly feeling uncomfortable inside her body.  Looking
down, she saw where she had let her brush go idle for too long, causing
the ink to run into a puddle on the page.  Seeing its dark, shiny
surface, she shrugged.  The vision of the pool wasn't a vision after
all.

A week had passed since then.  A week where, depending on her state of
mind, Tessa either excused the sensation of entering the pattern as
mere foolishness or tried to recapture the feeling in her head.

Sometimes the ringing sound came back to her.  For the first few days
she froze when she heard it, yet only last night it had woven its way
into her dreams and in the half-light, half-consciousness of sleep, the
ringing no longer seemed like a threat.  It wasn't the same as noise
caused by her tinnitus.  It began in a different place.

That's enough, my dear, Mother Emith said, pulling Tessa back to the
present, back to the task she was doing with no thought whatsoever. The
wax should be hot enough by now.

Tessa wrapped her hand in a cloth and lifted the pot containing the
beeswax from the bath.  I'm sorry if I left it too long, she said, not
knowing how long her mind had drifted away or what her hands had been
up to in the meantime.  I was just... daydreaming.

Mother Emith nodded.  No harm done, my dear.  Daydreaming never hurt
anyone.

Funny, but Tessa almost knew what Mother Emith was going to say before
she said it.  The old lady was always so good to her.  Always.

Tipping the pot on a angle, Tessa poured the hot, liquid wax into the
hollow tablet, filling it to the edge.  Almost as soon as the wax hit
the wood it began to cool, growing duller and more opaque by the
second.  That done, she set the pot to one side and placed the tablet
on the table, ready to show Emith when he returned.  The wax was a fine
dark blue color now, and she couldn't resist scoring her fingernail
along the cooling surface.  Mother Emith was right: the mark showed up
perfectly.

Tessa crossed to the fire and poured Mother Emith a cup of celery tea
to help the circulation in- her bad legs.  Why are you and Emith being
so kind to me?  she said, handing over the cup.  You've looked after me
for all these weeks, yet you didn't have to.  No one made you.

Mother Emith put the cup on the small stand she always kept close to
her chair.  Knitting, darning, dried herbs ready to be packed in oil or
vinegar, and fish ready to be scaled: all her works in progress rested
atop the three-legged stool.

Mother Emith took so much time settling the cup down, then settling
herself back in her chair, that Tessa didn't think she was going to
answer the question.  Perhaps she had been too forward?  Or rude?  It
was hard to judge these things.  Her only points of reference were
Ravis, Emith, and his mother.  In the short time she had spent with
Ravis, Tessa had got the distinct impression he would say and do
whatever he liked and not care ajot what anyone thought of him.  Emith
and his mother were different, though; more considerate.

How does Emith look to you these days, my dear?  Mother Emith said,
startling Tessa by finally speaking up.

Fine, she answered automatically.  Very well.

Yes.  He is, isn't he?  And you know why?

Tessa shook her head.

Because of you, my dear.  Mother Emith beamed at Tessa She was looking
very wise, enthroned upon her chair with all her instruments of power
surrounding her.  Emith worked for Deveric for twenty-two years, you
know.  Twentytwo years of hard work, long hours, and unquestioning
devotion.  For Emith to lose his master so suddenly was a terrible blow
terrible.  Yet having you here has helped ease his pain.  By teaching
you all he knows, he feels as if he's carrying on his master's work. It
gives him a purpose, gives him chance to pass on the skills he loves,
and stops him from brooding over Deveric.

So that's why you keep him as busy as possible all day?  Tessa said,
beginning to see things in a whole new light.  To stop him from
brooding?

Mother Emith neither confirmed nor denied Tessa's assertion, merely
smiled and said, It's so very hard for me to get around.

Tessa smiled with the old lady.  What she said made such sense that
Tessa wondered why she hadn't figured it out on her own.  Sometimes the
most obvious things passed her right by.

In many ways Emith is like his father, you see, continued Mother Emith,
her thin voice falling into the cadence of a much repeated phrase. Both
Maribane men at heart.  And if there's one thing Maribane men like more
than the feel of rain beating against their faces in a storm, it's
feeling sorry for themselves in the dark.  Such a damp, drizzly island.
Made for brooding, it is.  Why, if my dear old husband hadn't married
me when he did, he would have brooded himself right into the grave.

As she spoke, Mother Emith rocked back and forth in her chair, and for
some reason Tessa found herself doing the same on her little stool by
the fire.  Rocking was obviously contagious.  Has Emith ever been to
Maribane?  Now that she and Mother Emith shared a secret, Tessa was
hoping to coax her into talking a little more about her son.

Been there?  Mother Emith sounded surprised.  Why, he lived there for
six years.

Tessa felt the hairs on her arm prickle.  Did he visit the Anointed
Isle?

Mother Emith nodded.  That's where he learnt his trade.  Of course he
was only a young boy when he sailed there not even old enough to scrape
a razor across his cheek but he was quite determined to go.  Nothing
would stop him, and his father all but tugged the ship out of the
harbor for him.  Never was a man more eager to see his son visit the
land he once called home.

What did Emith do once he learned how to scribe?

Oh, he never lea mt how to scribe, my dear?  Mother

Emith's voice was a gentle reproof.  He lea mt how to be an assistant,
not a scribe.

Annoyed with herself for making a mistake just as she was getting
Mother Emith to open up, Tessa stopped rocking.  Did Emith work for any
Anointed scribes?

Why, yes, my dear, I believe he did.  Mother Emith picked up her cup of
celery tea and blew off some imaginary steam.  What was his name now...
Tessa stood.  She was afraid of revealing how interested she was in
what was being said.  Looking around for something to do, she caught
sight of the iron poker by the fire.

Avaccus.  That's it.  Mother Emith nodded to herself.

Brother Avaccus.

The poker felt good and heavy in Tessa's hand as she began poking at a
beech log near the bottom of the fire.  Did Brother Avaccus do the same
kind of work as Deveric?

Why, I think so, my dear.  But then it's all pretty much the same to
me.  Mother Emith drained her cup.  Tessa noticed how well tended her
fingernails were.  They looked as strong and bright as a young girl s.
Terrible shame what happened to him in the end, though.  Terrible
shame.  Emith had to leave Maribane straight after.  The holy fathers
insisted on it, seeing as he had been working for Brother Avaccus at
the time it happened.

Tessa tended the beech log as if it were an only child.  When she spoke
her voice was as casual as she could make it.  What happened?

Mother Emith didn't reply.  After a minute or so her chin fell to her
chest and her eyelids batted a few times, then closed.

Realizing that Mother Emith was launching into one of her rests, Tessa
made a sudden jab with the poker, sending logs tumbling forward in a
flurry of smoke, sparks, and steam.

Mother Emith sat bolt upright in her chair What?  What?  she cried,
head jerking left and right.  her Stepping away from the fire, Tessa
hid the poker behind her back.  She felt bad about shocking the old woman. 
Oh, it's nothing.  Just a log rolling onto the hearth.  Here, she said,
moving forward and taking Mother Emith's cup from the stand.  Let me
fetch you some more tea while you tell me what happened to Brother
Avaccus.

The old woman regarded Tessa suspiciously for a moment, looked at the
fire, then out of the window to check on the time of day.  Finally she
said, BrotherAvaccus, you say?

Tessa poured tea in her cup.  Yes.  Remember how you were telling me
how Emith had to leave Maribane because the; holy fathers sent him away?
To keep the old woman busy, she thrust the brimming cup into her
hands.

Aah.  Yes, yes.  Mother Emith struggled to get a proper hold on the
cup.  Well, it had something to do with demons.  The abbot said Brother
Avaccus was drawing them, you see.  Drawing craven, ungodly things to
stir up the devil and his kind.  Of course Emith was the one assisting
him at the time the illuminations were found, so naturally he was sent
away.

Craven, ungodly things.  Tessa ran her hand across her chin, thinking.
If Avaccus had been working on designs similar to Deveric s, that would
explain why Emith had avoided knowing the purpose behind his master's
work: because he knew it was considered ungodly.  Suddenly feeling hot,
Tessa moved away from the fire.

What happened to Brother Avaccus?  As she spoke she glanced up at the
window.  It was almost dark now, and Emith would be back soon.

Mother Emith made a soft, clucking sound in her throat.

They severed the tendon on his right thumb.  Stopped him from ever
taking up a pen again.

Tessa looked down at her own hands.  Her own thumbs.

Did he leave the Anointed Isle with Emith?

Oh no, my dear.  He was one of their own, a fellow brother; they would
never let him leave.  Those hard Maribane holy men pride themselves on
expelling demons and breaking the spirit of a man.  They like nothing
better than redeeming the sinned, that's what my dear old husband used
to say.  Probably did all manner of things to the poor man in the name
of saving his immortal soul.  As Mother Eniith uttered the last words,
her chin began to drift downward toward her chest.  Another fit of
resting was coming on.

Unwilling to shock the old woman twice in one day, Tessa let her be.
She'd gotten enough to think about for the time being.  Moving around
the room, she began to make the usual preparations for the evening:
taking butter from the larder and placing it near the fire so it would
be good and soft by supper, pushing wicks into the bowls of tallow,
stirring the fish stew so the bottom wouldn't burn, and sprinkling
dried hellebore roots on the windowsill to keep out moths and gnats.

Strange how quickly she had become accustomed to this new world of
hers, she thought as she pulled a linen square out of a bath of oil and
wrung it between her hands.  Here she was, preparing the cloth to be
hung over the window in the morning oiled, so it let in as much light
as possible as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  Back
home she let everything collect dust.

Things were different here.  Jobs needed to be done, so she did them:
it was part of staying in the house.  She couldn't imagine it any other
way.

Back over at the fire, Tessa grabbed hold of one of the small,
thick-bottomed copper pots.  She felt like trying her hand at making
sauce.  She wasn't sure what sort of sauce it was going to be yet, and
had serious doubts about whether or not fish stew even needed a sauce,
but the idea of cooking something had suddenly caught her fancy, and
sauce seemed the easiest place to start.

As she scooped a spoonful of butter from the crock, the latch on the
door rattled.  Tessa froze.  An image of the night on the bridge shoved
the kitchen from her sights.  The harras.  The mis formed faces.  The
smell.

The butter crock slipped from her hands.  It thudded onto the hearth
stone, cracking but not smashing.

What?  What?  cried Mother Emith.

The latch lifted.  The door swung open and Emith walked in, arms filled
with bundles, cheeks reddened by fresh salty air.  Greetings, all!  he
called, nudging the door closed with his elbow.  I'm-sorry I'm late. It
took me an hour to push through the crowds in Fullers Square.  I think
the whole city is out on the streets tonight.  After shrugging off his
parcels onto the table, he crossed the room, kissed his mother on each
cheek, and then turned to Tessa.  I've brought lots of things to show
your he said.  And perhaps even a surprise for later.

Tessa smiled automatically, but her mouth was so dry that her lips
caught against her teeth.  Her heart was beating fast.  The memory of
the harras on the bridge was slow to leave.  At her foot, butter began
to run out of the crock, warmed to a glistening yellow ribbon by the
heat from the hearth.  The fatty, animal smell sickened her.  Why are
so many people on the streets?  she asked.

Emith glanced at his mother, then leaned in close to Tessa and
whispered, News has just come today that Izgard has taken Thorn.

Thorn?  Tessa remembered the man who bore the name: dark gold hair, gray
eyes that shifted from light to dark, and a voice used to snapping
orders.

Yes.  It's a town northwest of the Vorce Mountains.  Emith made a small
movement with his head, motioning Tesa to step with him, away from his
mother and her chair.

People are saying Izgard's harras have done monstrous things: slain
women, children, and old men, slaughtered pigs in their pens and cows
in the fields, not stopping until everything and everybody was dead?

Tessa shivered.  The butter began to sizzle, then burn, on the hearth.

Cainron of Thorn ran until he could run no more.  Until his lungs were
bursting and sweat stung his eyes and his throat was raw and scorched.
He ran until his legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed on the wet
earth of Runzy, chest heaving, breath steaming, muscles cramping in his
stomach, chest, and back.

The summer rain stung him.  He imagined he heard it hiss as it touched
his flesh.  He hated the fact it was warm.  In the darkness it might
have been anything dripping onto his body, rolling along his cheeks,
soaking through his shirt.  It might have been his father's blood.

Bringing his knees up toward his chest, Camron curled into a tight ball
and tried to ease the tightness in his chest.  The smell of damp earth
reminded him of home.  Not Bay Zen with its two harbors, two shrines,
and two faces, but real home.  The small community nestling in the
joint shadows of the Boral and Vorce Mountains, that anywhere else in
Rhaize would have been named a village yet in the northeast was called
a town.

Thorn, with its hillsides dotted with meadows, its soil heavy with clay
and rich with lime, and its people so full of local pride that they
taught their children to tell strangers they lived but a valley away
from God.  No poets, philosophers, or artists had ever come from Thorn.
Farmers, grape growers, daiiymen, blacksmiths, wheelwrights, and
charcoal burners crowded in the taverns at night for a platter of
smoked goose livers and a glass of berriac.  The town black sheep was a
man who made clocks.  The town prostitute was a sensible matron called
Amy, and every man in Thorn, Carnron included, had partaken of her
delights at some point in their lives.

Thorn was where his father's ancient stable hand Phelas had first sat
him on a horse and showed him how to ride; where Man of Merly, the old
Vennish cook who knew only a handful of Rhaize words, most of them
curses, had plied him with gooseberry tarts until he felt sick and then
forced clove oil down his throat until he felt better.  It was where he
had slit open his cheek trying to shave like his father, broken his arm
trying to fight like Hum, and shaved his head in an attempt to look
like Monas the Bald, the man who was his father's second at Mount Creed
and widely held to be the greatest fighter in Rhaize in his day.

All gone now.  All those fine, mountain-bred people gone.

Phelas, Man of Merly, Amy, Monas, Sterry the clock maker, Barleaf the
innkeeper, Dorsen, master of his father's estate: so many friends,
casual acquaintances, and loved ones, dead.  Men whom Cainron had grown
up waving to in the streets or fields, women he'd nodded to in the
chapel or marketplace, children he'd raced and fought with in the
forests, stables, and limestone quarries: all slaughtered by Izgard's
men.

Camron grabbed at the soil, filling his palms with its warm, grainy
wetness, plowing it inward toward his heart.

What was it the messenger had said?  Izgard has taken

Thorn.  By all accounts he sent his harras in first to kill those who
refused to surrender You should be proud of your countrymen, my lord,
for not one of them gave in.

What he really meant was that none had escaped alive.  The harras had
killed them all.  They hadn't been given the chance to surrender;
Camron felt the truth of it in the soft insides of his bones.  The
Garizon king had first killed his father.  Now he had destroyed his
home.

And for what?  A claim, centuries old, never mentioned, never pressed,
that linked the Thorn family to the barbed Garizon crown.

Camron punched the wet earth.  He and his father had done nothing to
deserve this.  The townsfolk of Thorn had done even less.  For
centuries the Garizon-Rhaize border had shifted back and forth across
the Vorce Mountains, and the town had belonged to both countries in its
time named Thorn or Thoren, depending on who held it.  Yet fifty years
ago, eight weeks to the day after Berick won his victory at Mount
Creed, the townsfolk met in the market square and declared themselves
for Rhaize.  And from that day on the town had been known by its Rhaize
name: Thorn.

Only now there were no townsfolk, and without them there was no name.

Camron shook his head so hard, his entire body shook with it.  He
couldn't bear the thought of Izgard's boots sinking into Thorn soil. He
couldn't bear what his mind showed him every time he closed his eyes to
blink.  Heaving himself up, he struggled to his feet.  Exhaustion
rippled across his chest, but he fought it.  Wiping the dirt from his
cheek and hands, he began the long walk back to the manor house.

It's too early to move against Izgard yet Ravis had said only two hours
earlier in the frickeringcandlelight of the great hail.  Half of the
mercenaries won't arrive in Bay Zen until next week, and I haven't
finished training the ones we do have.  Your men may be excellent
knights and horsemen, but Izgard's archers will shoot the horses from
beneath them the moment they take the field.  And a knight without a
horse might as well paint a bull s-eye on his breastplate and call
himself a moving target.  Though moving might be too generous a
description.  With the full body armor that's popular in Rhaize these
days, a knight has a better chance of staying on the ground and rolling
to safety than he does trying to stand and walk away.

Camron's back stiffened as he walked.  How he hated Ravis of Burano's
cool, mocking voice.  The man picked apart all that was good with his
biting wit, excusing a hundred years of military development with a
single, sarcastic remark.  He didn't care about people and causes.  He
thought only of himself.

War was about more than tactics: it was about heart and soul and belief
Rhaize knights hadn't won victory at Mount Creed because they had
superior expertise; they'd won because they had a great leader they
believed in and were fighting to defend their families and homes.

Caruron brushed his wet hair from his face.  He had no home now and
nothing and no one to believe in.  Responsibility was the one thing he
had left.  He owed something to those who had been slaughtered because
they lived in the town bearing his name.  He had to take action leave
right now.  Tonight.  It couldn't wait.  He owed it to Mad, Amy,
Phelas, and the clock maker.  He owed it to himself.

The pale golden glow of the manor house came into view on the horizon,
and Cameron hurried toward it, a dark figure on a dark night, perfectly
alone.

THIRTEEN

The scribe sat alone in his scriptorium.  Pigment hides pallets and brushes
lay waiting to be cleaned, the shutters needed closing for the night,
and hung from a hook set into a ceiling beam, waiting to be cut to
size.  From as far back as he could remember, from his first eight
years spent growing up in Garizon and the next twenty spent in study on
the Anointed Isle, Ederius had been taught that it was wrong to be
idle.  His mother had feared idleness would lead to sin.  The holy
fathers on the Anointed Isle had sworn it would turn him into a
weak-minded fool.  Yet right now Ederius found himself wishing that he
had not been quite so hardworking all his life.  Hard work had led him
to this.

Sending the chair legs scraping backward as he stood, Ederius moved
across the room toward the small trestle table that held the pure grain
alcohol he used to clean his brushes.  Even now he could not sit
inactive for very long.  Both his mother and the holy fathers had
agreed upon one thing: idleness led to idle thought.

Izgard had not paid his daily visit yet, and as Ederius poured alcohol
into a glazed bowl, he found himself listening for the first sounds of
his king.  When a wolf howled far in the distance, Ederius jumped at
the noise, spilling alcohol over his fingers.  The liquid tingled as it
evaporated into nothing.  Ederius attempted to shrug his fright away,
but a needle of pain shot through his healing shoulder.  Face
crumpling, he shook his head.

He wished Izgard would come and get it over with.  The pain he could
stand, the blows he could stand, but the waiting was too much to bear.
It turned him into a frightened old man.

Ederius grabbed the bowl, pressing his fingers hard against the glazed
edge.  He was an Anointed-trained scribe he would not forget that and
nothing and no one could take that from him.

With a firm step, he walked back to his desk.  After collecting all the
pigment-caked paintbrushes in his fist, he dumped them into the bowl to
soak them a while before cleaning.

One other thing that he must not forget was that he had brought this
upon himself.  Ambition had led him to the man who had then been known
as Izgard of Alberach.  Five years ago they had met.  Izgard arranged a
meeting in Veizach's Arlish Quarter in a perfectly square room above an
inn.  The smell of the Veize wafted up through the open window as
Izgard laid out his plans.

You must work with me, Ederius.  I need you.  Gamberon tells me you are
the best scribe in all of Garizon, the only one who knows the old
patterns and the old ways.  The only one who can help me.  Garizon must
have a king again.  We must be strong.  We are a great country, with
great people, yet here we are trodden beneath so many boot heels that
we barely remember our victories and have long forgotten our pride.

Izgard knelt and took Ederius hand.  Do you not love your country,
Ederius?  Do you not want to see Garizon restored?

In all his life Ederius would never forget the look on Izgard's face as
he'd asked those two questions.  His eyes were shining and his skin was
flushed.  He looked like an angel, and his touch was warm and full of
need.  Ederius was deeply moved.  This brilliant young man needed him.
As he gave his reply, Izgard raised, then kissed, his hand.

Even now, Ederius felt his heart ache at the memory.  Izgard had been
different back then.  Ambitious, yes.  Violent to those who opposed
him, but fiercely protective of those he loved.  Ederius still
remembered the time he fell ill that first year, catching a chill from
working long hours in cold, unheated rooms.  Izgard was at his side
night and day.  He would let no one else take care of him, insisting on
being the one who sat with him day and night, not sleeping until the
fever broke some three days later.  When Ederius finally woke,

Izgard was there leaning over his bed.  Tears glistened in the young
man's eyes.

A gift, he said, fingers brushing against Ederius cheek.

I have been given a precious gift.  I don't know what I would have done
if you had died.

Ederius closed his eyes.  That seemed like a lifetime ago.  When there
were just he, Gamberon, and Izgard.  The scribe, the scholar, and the
man who would be king.  Four good years passed until things turned.
Gamberon had been worried for many months.  The more he researched the
Barbed Coil and its history, the more nervous he became.  Late one
night he burst into Ederius sleeping chamber.  Spittle sprayed from his
lips as he spoke.

We cannot allow Izgard to take the crown.  Come with me now to
Sirabayus and help me destroy the Coil before another sunset darkens
the Veize.

Grabbing the paintbrushes in his hand, Ederius lifted them free from
the alcohol.  Pigment had turned the liquid red.  With quick, almost
frenzied movements, he began to scrub the brush heads clean.

He had loved Gamberon like a brother, but Izgard like a son.  The
choice was surprisingly easy.  Gamberon left straight away, alone.
Ederius waited in the darkness for one hour, counting seconds, then
went to wake Izgard.

You must make haste for Sirabayus, he said.

Gamberon is on his way there to destroy the Coil.

Ederius made a soft, rasping sound in his throat.  It had been the
longest night of his life.  He had been unable to move.  He sat in the
darkness on the edge of Izgard's bed, his bladder aching with fullness,
his breaths shallow as a dying man, waiting.

Daylight came and half a day passed before [zgard retamed.  The Barbed
Coil was tacked under his arm.  Slivers of Gamberon's tissue still
clung to the barbs.  Ederius remembered thinking it strange that Izgard
had managed to carry the Coil all the way back from the convent without
his own skin being broken.  Izgard did not speak as he entered the
room.  He placed the crown on a chest, crossed to where Ederius sat,
and smashed his fist into the right side of Ederius jaw.

Shaking his head, he left the room.  You did not come to me straight
away, he hissed, disappearing into the darkness beyond.  You gave him
an hour's start.

Ederius raised his hand to his cheek as the memory of the old pain
gripped him.  It was first time Izgard ever struck him: the night he
took possession of the Coil.

The door hinge creaked and Izgard stepped into the scriptorium.  Lost
in the past, it took Ederius a moment to come back.  He had not heard
his king approach.

Ederius, Izgard said softly, pushing hides out of his way as he walked
forward.  I'm glad to find you still at your desk.  We must talk about
my plans for Thorn.

Nodding, Ederius dropped his hand from his cheek and listened as Izgard
spoke.  Perhaps if he was lucky, his king would.  not strike him
tonight.

And this, Emith said, handing Tessa a swath of cloth, is the plant dye
tam sole  As you see, this is pink, but turnsole plants can produce
rich purples, too.

Tessa took the small section of cloth from him.  It felt stiff.  Her
fingertips came away deep pink where she touched it.

Someone didn't do a very good job of fixing the dye she said.

Emith gave her a rather curious look.  It is the dye he said. Clothlets
are how most plant dyes are transported overseas.  All I have to do now
is put that small piece of cloth in a bowl of clarified egg white, let
the pigment bleed.  out overnight, and then the next day I'll have
fresh pink paint to use for glazes or to add to other pigments. was all
Tessa could think of to say as she regarded the small square of cloth
with renewed appreciation.  There was so much she didn't know.

Emith had come back from the market loaded down with pigment samples to
show her.  Tonight he was teaching her about how to make the various
inks and paints used in illuminating.  He was very excited about the
whole affair, so much so that he had even lit two fine wax candles,
which gave out sweet-smelling, smokeless light.  Mother Emith was
resting in her chair.  Supper had been eaten, pots had been cleared
away, the fire was burning quietly on fuel of old, pressed wood, and a
light rain pattered against the shutters like insects against glass.

What's in that?  Tessa asked, indicating a small cork stoppered jar
Emith had just taken from his pack.  As the days went on, she found
herself wanting to learn more and more about scribing.  She wanted to
know all the details.

Emith held up the jar to the light.  This is murex purple.  It's a
stronger pigment than turusole, though more expensive.  It's made from
warm-water shellfish.

Shellfish?  Tessa took the stopper from the jar and let a drop fall on
the back of her hand.  The pigment was an inky purple.

Oh yes: Emith said, eyes twinkling.  There's a pigment made from
cuttlefish secretions, too.

Tessa held out her freehand.  Emith didn't disappoint her.  After a
little rooting in his pack, he produced a second jar, identical in
every way to the first.

Cuttlefish ink makes a warm sepia-colored dye.  Good for glazes or
backgrounds.

Tessa decided not to test the cuttlefish pigment.  The shellfish one
had sunk into-her skin like a tattoo.  As she tried to rub off the
stain, Emith went on to produce a yellow powder made from crocus
stamens; a deep maroon paste called reng that was a mixture of henna
and indigo; a red dye called kermes that was prepared from the dried
bodies of insects found on evergreen oaks; powdered gold and silver for
fancy inks; yellow and orange ocher extracted from iron-rich soil;
verdigris, a greeny blue powder that was scraped off weathered copper
or bronze; and red, yellow, and white lead powders that Emith warned
her not to get on her hands.  Last he pulled out a tiny mother-of-pearl
box not much bigger than a thimble.

This, he said, flicking open the lid with his thumbnail, is lapis
lazuli.  The rarest of all of the pigments.  This box cost me double
its weight in gold.

Not daring to breathe, Tessa leaned forward to examine the contents of
the box.  A deep, brilliant blue powder sparkled against the white
pearl.  So this was what Widow Furbish had got so excited about?  A
pigment the color of the sea.  Looking at the powder, Tessa felt her
mind working on something else.  As soon as she realized what it was,
she sat back in her chair and asked the first question that came into
her head.

So, how do you go about making it into paint?  Her mind had shown her
the last picture she had of Widow Furbish her broken body doubled up in
the doorway of her house, her skin shiny with blood and she didn't want
to dwell on it.  Not tonight.  Not after Emith had told her that Izgard's
harras had done the same thing to a town full of people.  And not
just any town: Camron of Thorn's home.  It didn't take much intuition to
guess where he and Ravis would be heading this night.

Tessa rubbed hard at the murex stain on her arm, even though she knew
it wasn't coming out.  Would she ever see Ravis again?  She honestly
didn't know.  Without realizing what she was doing, Tessa felt for the
ring hanging from her neck.  Whenever she thought of the future or the
past, her fingers always found their way to the ring.

Emith began placing a collection of glazed pots on the table.  Some of
them, like the large one normally stored in the larder that contained
clarified egg white for binding, she had seen before, but most of them
were new to her.  Up until now she had been doing most scribing work in
plain black or brown ink with a quill pen, and this was her first real
sight of Emith mixing and binding his pigments.

He used shells as his palettes, oyster or mollusk depending on the
quantity of pigment he needed.  He began with egg white, added pigment
either in powder or liquid form, stirred it with a tiny stiff brush
until the mixture was all one color, and then, depending on what his
needs were, added various other items to the mix.  Sometimes he added a
few drops of water if the paint needed thinning, or a glistening bead
of fish glue to increase the pigment's adherence to the page.  Chalk
was added to increase opacity and lighten or modify the color, and for
some pigments Emith used ground-up eggshells instead.

Emith moved like a head surgeon: confident, well practiced, graceful.
Tessa felt as though she were seeing him for the first time.  No longer
was he the short, neat, aging man who jumped when his mother spoke and
treated Tessa with such polite deference that in the month they had
known each other he hadn't once called her by her name: he was a
skilled craftsman now.  His movements were quick, his eye sure, his
lips pressed firmly to a tight line.

This was his element.  This was where being a scribe's assistant
reached its highest form: the preparation, mixing, and modifying of
pigments.  Tessa could imagine Emith mixing away in the background as
Deveric worked on his latest design, calling out what colors he needed
next.

Powdery orange ocher was given a smooth gleam by the addition of a
spoonful of honey, kermes red was thickened to a gel by the addition of
earwax, and indigo blue was thinned and paled by adding just three
drops of stale urine Tessa didn't ask who or where it came from. Acacia
gum, a dairy glue called casein, pink earth, gallic acid, powdered
sulfates of green and turquoise, soot, lampblack, red wine, white wine,
woad, ground bones, and gesso all modified the pigments in some way:
thickening, creating textures, darkening, lightening, and altering
color, shine, and absorbency.

By the time Emith had finished, the tabletop was filled with dozens of
shells, bright pigments nestling in their midst like fantastic sea
creatures pulled up from the deep.  From a base of perhaps ten
pigments, Emith had created a complete palette of colors ranging from
the subtlest flesh pink to the bloodiest crimson, from the palest worm
gray to the deepest midnight blue.

Tessa was dazzled by the colors.  Each one was a jewel set in an
iridescent casing of shell.  Just looking at them filled her head with
possibilities.  She saw bands of color crossing a page, dots of shining
silver, steps of gold and red, and knots of darkest purple throwing
shadows of purest black.  She wanted to pick up a brush and painL

When she held out a hand to grasp a paintbrush, Emith clamped a palm
upon her wrist.  You're not ready to use the full palette yet he said,
gently returning her hand to the tabletop.  Before you start
illuminating properly, you must understand the colors completely, know
what they represent and how and why they are chosen.

Tessa looked at Emith.  How much did he know about his master's work?
Judging from his reluctance to meet her eye just then, enough to know
it could be dangerous.

Pulling a small rectangle of vellum from his robe, Emith said,
Sometimes, especially when working from copies, it's important to match
the colors exactly.  He laid the sheet on the table, at the point where
the two circles of light from the candles met.  The desigu painted on
it was simple, just trumpet spirals surrounding a central medallion,
but the colors used stopped the design from appearing crude.  Shades of
green, gold, yellow, and mustard darted across the page.

Some dyes are impossible to get hold of, Emith continued, wiping his
hands with almond oil to remove the last traces of pigment.  Take this
yellow color here.  It's made from a rare type of mullein plant that
only grows in high meadows in a remote mountain region of Drokho.  It's
not an especially good pigment saffron would have done.  a better job
but scribes who live in remote areas tend to use whatever is readily
available.  The makeup of pigments changes from region to region,
depending on local tradition and resources.  Even here in Bay Zen, you'll
find more scribes using turns ole purple rather than murex purple,
because it's cheaper and easier to get hold of in the north.

Nodding, Tessa picked up the sheet of vellum.

As a scribe's assistant, one of my jobs is to match pigments as closely
as I can.  Copying existing patterns is at the heart of all
illuminating done by the old-style scribes like Deveric.  They never
create purely on impulse, but always work off existing models either
copying them exactly or adding a few touches of their own.  Unlike the
new scribes today who all want to create something new, something
original, the old scribes just wanted to rework the past.  dWhile Emith
was speaking, Tessa had noticed something about the vellum.  When she
held it up to the light, thousands of tiny pinpricks appeared on the
page.  More than just marking points, they were actual holes punched
through the page.  Candlelight streamed through them in crisp, golden
lines.

Those are pinpricks made with the tip of a knife, Emith said, seeing
what had caught Tessa's eye.  Whenever a scribe

wants to make an exact copy of a pattern and doesn't have the time or
patience to construct a grid by measuring lines and angles, he'll place
the original on top of a blank sheet of parchment and puncture the
major points of the pattern with the tip of his knife.  That way the
parchment below will be marked with an outline of the original and a
scribe can then go on and reconstruct the design from the pinpricks.
Copies have been made that way for centuries.

Tessa traced her finger over the vellum.  It felt stiff, which meant it
was very old.  As she looked at it, one particular color caught her
eye: a silver black pigment that didn't fit in with the rest of the
design.  Its cool tone was at odds with the warm yellows, greens, and
golds.  Was this used for a special purpose?  she asked, pointing to a
spiral outlined in the color.

That pigment was originally red lead, Emith said, obviously pleased
that she had noticed the discrepancy.  Over years, metal-based pigments
can weather in the air and either fade, as that did, or bleed into
other colors.  Some copper greens can even eat through the parchment
completely as they age.  That's one of the more difficult things about
my job sorting out what pigments the original scribe used.  It helps if
they finish their paintings with a vegetable wash or an extra coating
of egg white; that way the pigments retain their original color
longer.

Tessa ate up all the details Emith gave her.  She fed on them like a
hungry child, grabbing all she could to fill up the hollow space
within.  For years she had been starving herself of details, knowledge,
and involvements.  Coming here, to this world, to this house, was like
sitting down at a banquet table and being allowed to eat until she
dropped.  She didn't have to pass things by anymore.

There was nothing about her old life she missed.  Nothing.  She had
grown accustomed to chamber pots and the accompanying bail of straw,
water that came from a pitcher and not a tap, lighting that had to be
carried, dresses that had to be laced, fires that had to be tended as
if they were a rich but sickly relative whose generosity everyone in
the household depended on, floors that had to be swept clean one minute
and then sprinlded with hay and herbs the next, wool stockings that
scratched and bagged at the knees, no underwear, toothbrushes, or
toothpaste to speak of Tessa had learned to clean her teeth with a
slice of marshmallow root-and pig lard, lanolin, and animal soap as the
only available beauty treatments.  There was no mirror in the house, so
she hadn't seen what she looked like in over a month, and although
there was still a part of her that wanted to look her best, right now
it didn't seem so important.

There was little from her past that did seem important.  When she
looked back on it how she lived, what she chose to do, the distance she
always kept between herself and the people she knew it was as if she
had been waiting, bags packed, all along.

A sharp rap on the door startled Tessa from her thoughts.  Immediately
worried, she glanced at Emith.  He was already rising from his chair.

It's all right, he said.  It's only Marcel.  I sent a message to him
earlier, asking him to bring Deveric's illuminations to the house.
Marcel.  Tessa remembered Ravis words: Don't show yourself to anyone
who comes to the door especially Marcel.... Does he know I'm here?  she
asked.Emith thought for a moment, then shook his head.  No, miss.  I
didn't mention you in my note.  But surely there's no harm in Marcel
knowing?  Mter all, he's a very good friend of Ravis .

Tessa had seen Marcel of Vailing in action.  She had seen him
double-cross his very good friend, betray him without blinking an eye.
There was no point in explaining all this to Emith, though.  He'd
believe the best of someone stabbing him in the back.  Instead she
said, Emith, I'm going to hide in the larder.  Promise me you won't
tell Marcel I'm here.  Promise

A second rap came at the door.

What?  What?  cried Mother Emith.  Who's there?

Emith turned toward the door, clearly anxious to open it.

Now that he was no longer at the table creating pigments, he had
reverted back to his normal soft-spoken, eager-to-please self.  I won't
say anything, but hurry now.

Tessa was already at the larder door.  She pulled it open and stepped
down into the darkness.  As the latch clicked shut behind her she heard
the main door swing open.  A pocket of cool air swept under the larder
door, and then a voice called out: Emith, my dear, dear friend.  How
are you and your excellent mother this evening?  It was Marcel of
Vailing.

Tessa took a deep breath.  Meaty ham smells raced up her nose, followed
quickly by the ripe, fatty smell of triple cream cheese.  Despite
everything, she felt her mouth watering.

Emith said something that Tessa couldn't hear.

Yes, I have them, Marcel replied.  Just last week a gentleman passing
through Bay Zen on his way to Calino made me quite an offer for them.
Enough to keep you and your excellent mother in silks and fine lobsters
for life.

Can't eat lobster more than once a month, said Mother Emith.  Gives me
terrible wind.

Tessa smiled.  She wished she could have seen Marcel's face just
then.

Footsteps echoed on the floor.  The noise of something being placed,
not gently, on the table followed.  Well, here they are, Marcel said,
his voice as smooth and level as ever.

If you ever need hard cash, I could forward you a fair amount on the
strength of the last one alone.  You know, the one marked with blood.

They are not for sale.

Tessa was surprised by the heat in Emith's voice.  She had never heard
him speak so harshly before.  Taking a step toward the door, she risked
placing her ear against the wood.  She didn't want to miss anything
that was said.

Working late, aren't you?  Marcel again.  Tessa detected a suspicious
catch in his voice.

Emith started to say something, probably a poor excuse, but was cut
short in mid mumble by his mother saying loudly,

And what if be is, Marcel of Vailing?  Do you know of any law he is
breaking?

It was Marcel's turn to mumble this time.  Tessa was beginning to
realize that being a very old lady had its advantages: no one dared
contradict anything you said.

Letting herself relax a little, Tessa leaned back against the wall.  To
reduce vermin, the floor in the larder wasn't covered with rushes like
the kitchen, and she could feel her-feet growing numb with cold.  The
entire larder was built two feet lower than the rest of the house, to
keep the food as cool as possible in summer.  Up until this point Tessa
had doubted the worth of those extra two feet.  The goose pimples on
her anus told her the true story, though.

Turning her attention back to what was going on in the kitchen, she
listened to the rise and fall of voices.  Marcel was talking about the
war.

Oh, there's nothing for us here in Bay Zen to worry about, he said.
Izgard will never make it this far.  Now that it's obvious he's set on
invading Rhaize and not just flexing his newly crowned muscles, the
Sire will bring his armies up from Mir Lor and stop him before he
crosses the Chase.

Tessa's lip curled.  Marcel of Vailing was simply repeating a
well-practiced phrase.  He probably had a second one ready just in case
Izgard did happen to make it to Bay Zen.  Tessa could imagine how it
would begin: These may be hard times, but we must endeavor to make the
best of them.... She stopped in mid composition as the name Ravis
filtered through the cedar wood door.

He and Camron will put up quite a battle, of course, Marcel said.
Unlike the last time when Tessa had met him, he seemed to be doing all
the talking.  Their force should reach lz gard before the Sire's army
does.  Where were they based again?  The name of the place escapes
me.

Tessa clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.  The name didn't
escape Marcel at all.  Ravis hadn't told him where they were going,
she was sure of it.  The man was rooting for information.

I don't know where Lord Ravis is, Emith said.

Marcel let out a long, wistful sigh.  And what about his pretty lady
friend?  The one with the reddish hair and strange voice.  I believe
you met her once.  Do you happen to know where she might be?

Sucking in her breath, Tessa listened for Emith's reply.  All of a
sudden the larder seemed unbearably small and confining.  She knew
Emith would do what he promised, but he wasn't the sort of man who
could lie easily, and his nervousness might give him away.

A long moment passed.  Even though she was in the dark, Tessa closed
her eyes.

Mother Emith's voice broke the silence.  How would we know where Lord
Ravis keeps his women?  Does this kitchen look like a brothel to you?

No, madam, Marcel replied quickly.  I just thought

Well, don't.  Don't waste any of your time thinking about Emith and me
and what we get up to, and we won't waste any time thinking about
you.

Tessa fought back a cheer.  Old Mother Emith was turning out to be more
than a match for Marcel of Vailing.  All that resting in her chair must
have given her plenty of time to hone her tongue.

Footsteps pattered, rather quickly, across the kitchen floor.  Marcel
said something, probably a farewell, but for the first time since
entering the house he whispered and Tessa didn't catch what it was.
Mother Emith wished the banker a fond farewell and the door was duly
opened, then seconds later closed.  Tessa began counting to five just
to be safe, got impatient before reaching halfway, and pushed open the
larder door.  She was greeted by the sight of Emith and his mother both
grinning from ear to ear.

Come over here by the fire, my dear, said Mother Emith.  A person could
catch their death in that larder.

Tessa walked over to Mother Emith's chair and caught Mother Emith
herself in a long, deep hug.  The old woman protested, just as Tessa
knew she would, but she hugged her even harder when she did.  She owed
these people so much.  They had taken her into their home, fed,
clothed, and lied for her, but most of all they had protected her.  And
that feeling of being protected, of knowing someone cared enough to put
themselves out and, in the case of Emith and his mother, put themselves
at risk to keep her safe, was something she hadn't felt in a very long
time.

Emith circled the two women, drawing nearer and nearer with each pass,
until he eventually plucked up courage to step forward and pat Tessa's
arm.  Mother and I would never tell anyone where you are, he said
softly.  Never.

Ravis stood, hand pressed against the great stone mantel, booted foot
resting upon the hearth, eye to the sand drizzling down within the
hourglass, and waited for Camron of Thorn to return.  Briefly he had
toyed with the idea of having a measure of berriac waiting for him when
he did.  Ultimately deciding against it, he had drunk Caruron's portion
himself.

Noticing that the mud caked on the tip of his boot had finally dried,
Ravis knocked it against the hearthstone.  Pale gray powder sifted to
the floor.  Cameron of Thorn was not the only man who had ventured
outside tonight.

A few minutes after he and Camron had argued and Cainron had stormed
off across the grounds, Ravis had pulled on his cloak, lit one of the
sturdy glass lanterns that the seneschal kept gleaming in the entry
hall, and walked across the courtyard to the stables.

He talked to the grooms first.  Walked with them along the stalls,
discussed the condition of the horses, listened to their opinions and
advice, and then asked them to have four dozen horses groomed, saddled,
and ready within two hours.  The grooms hadn't liked the order, for it
was past dark and one skittish horse could affect the mood of them all.
Yet Ravis had taken time to get to know the grooms at Runzy, both the
ones who had arrived with Camron's knights and the ones who had lived
here all their lives, and once he had explained his reasous, they were
willing to do what he asked.  One or two of the older men had even been
expecting it.

Next Ravis went to the kitchens.  The cook and the servant girls were
sitting around the table playing cards, tippling on strong local-brewed
beer, and eating slices of the sweetened carrot tarts that were so
popular in Runzy.  The cook threw her shawl over a large baked ham when
he walked through the door, and one of her girls slipped a flask up her
sleeve.  Ravis pretended to see neither.  Cameron's food and wine were
nothing to him.  The goodwill of the kitchen staff, however, was a
valuable asset to a man planning ajourney.

Having complimented the cook on the fine dinner she had cooked that
evening, and flirted with the shyest and plainest of the kitchen girls,
Ravis asked them, very kindly, if they would be so good as to prepare
and pack enough travel food to feed four dozen..  . no, he corrected
himself, six dozen men for six days and have it ready within the
hour.

The cook's plump arm rested on the shawl that rested on the ham Ravis
could tell what she was thinking: with the master and his men away she
could sell off the extra food that had been purchased at market that
week.  Fresh venison would fetch a premium price at this time of
year.

By the time Ravis left the kitchen to head to the great hall, pots,
pans, knives, chopping boards, parsley, hardboiled eggs, and fruit were
flying through the air like dust from a saw.

Most of Camron's knights two dozen seasoned campaigners, a dozen or so
young bucks, a handful of arrogant nobles, a few men past their prime,
and one or two truly outstanding fighters waited in the great hall.
They fell silent when Ravis crossed the threshold.  All were tense: ale
had gone flat in tankards and pitchers, the fire had burned low from
lack of tending, and the normal bevy of tavern wenches and servant
girls was missing.  The massacre at Thorn was on everyone's mind. Three
of the men had been born there.  All were shocked by the news. They
were Camron's men and, in some cases, his personal friends, and an
attack on his land and holdings was as good as an attack on their
own.

Watching their hostile stares as he cut to the center of the room,
Ravis judged it wise to speak plainly.  Get your packs, weapons, and
armor ready.  We ride tonight for Thorn.

The knights, who had spent a good portion of the past month questioning
every instruction, drill, and order he had given, immediately did as
they were told.  All wanted to go.  Their eagerness crackled through
the room like ice on a thawing lake.  One of the men even patted Ravis
on the back.  Up until then Ravis had been the villain who forced them
to watch senseless weapon drills, talked nonsense about swapping their
plate armor for chain mail or boiled leather, who was opposed to taking
quick, decisive action against Izgard of Garizon, and whose harsh words
were responsible for sending Cameron of Thorn running out into the
night.

The last thing wasn't true, of course Cameron's torments were of his
own making yet as no one else had been party to the conversation, the
knights had naturally assumed that their leader's sudden departure was
all Ravis fault.  It was easy to hate a man who wanted you to change
your ways.  Most especially when that man was a foreigner who brought
in mercenaries to show you how you should fight.

Ravis had met that sort of resistance on every job he had tackled. Time
was the only solution.  Time and perhaps a practical lesson in
technique.

Take only what is necessary, he had said as the last of the men filed
out of the hail.  There will be no wagon trains or packhorses to carry
your dress armor.  We need to be light on our feet.  None of them
acknowledged the order.  He had not expected them to.

After topping the lantern up with oil, Ravis had made his final
excursion of the evening: across the forecourt, through the palisades,
past the dairy, and toward the barracks.  The mercenaries and longbows
men Segwin the Ney had sent from Bay Zen were housed there with their
horses.  Ravis met with the men, gave them his orders, then left.

The rain beat against his face as he returned to the manor house.  It
was a bad night for travel, and they wouldn't make good time in the
muddy and moonless darkness, but that really wasn't the point.  The
simple fact they were on the move would be enough to satisfy Camron of
Thorn.

Ravis knew that when Camron returned from whatever place his grief had
driven him, he would want to do just one thing: leave straight away for
Thorn.  Ravis had known this from the moment the news came in from
Runzy.  Still, he had to say his piece, raise objections, and give
cautions, for first and foremost he was a professional fighter and it
was his duty to give his considered opinion to the man who was paying
his way.

The truth was they weren't ready.  The mercenaries had been training
for less than two weeks, the longbows men had arrived from Bay Zen only
eight days ago, and Camron's knights were a mixed bunch brought
together in haste.  They had no real knowledge of what the situation
was in Thorn, whether they would encounter a full occupation, a minimal
safekeeping force, or just a ravaged, deserted town.  They didn't know
the location, intent, or makeup of Izgard's forces, and they still didn't
know what lay behind the terrible blood lust of the harras.

All in all it was a bad situation.  Ravis didn't like launching blindly
into a campaign with no foreknowledge of the enemies tactics.  He didn't
like it at all.  But he had been in similar situations before now,
and by the grace of the gods-all four of them he had always managed to
survive.

There were a number of reasons Ravis had held off making his
preparations, some of them petty.  By moving now, while Cainron was
away from the manor, Ravis effectively took control away from him.  He
prevented Camron from returning in a lordly rage and cracking orders
like whips.  Ostensibly this would be Camron's campaign, but
ultimately, beneath the surface and behind the scenes, Ravis would be
in charge. He had to be Thorn was too emotional a subject for Camron. 
He saw it through a mist of grief and rage, and although fiery emotion
bred bravery in men, it seldom bred anything as useful as common
sense.

Strategy aside, though, the real reason Ravis chose to wait was not
nearly so significant or high-minded.

He liked to throw people off guard.  He knew that when Canmron of Thorn
walked up to the manor house the last thing he woukj expect to find in
the courtyard was a force provisioned, ready, and mounted.  Ravis
smiled to himself just thinking about it.  It had been many years since
a man had last taken his measure correctly.  If someone knew you inside
and out, could gauge your beliefs before you stated them and guess your
decisions before you made them, then that made you theirs to
manipulate.  They could play on your weaknesses, goad you in your sore
points, and appeal to whatever vanities you nursed.

Twenty-one years ago Ravis had thought he knew his brother completely,
yet Malray had held something back.  While Ravis himself had been open
and trusting, his elder brother, whom he had loved above all others,
had kept a bracelet of knives up his sleeve.

These days Ravis liked to keep things just as close.  No man would ever
find him gullible or predictable again.

Footsteps sounded in the entrance hall.  A long shadow cast by a
lantern hung at chest height stretched a dark line across the doorway. 
Ravis glanced at the hourglass: the last grains of sand raced through
the middle to the fat globe below.  Everything would be ready as
planned, yet Cameron would not be aware of anything.  He had entered by
way of the main doors, which meant he wouldn't have seen all the
activity going on in the courtyard to the rear.

Camron stepped into the room.  His hair was a dark mat against his
face.  There was mud on his clothes and his left cheek.  His eyes had
given up all semblance of gray; sunk deep into their sockets, they were
black.  Even as he crossed the threshold his right hand was massing to
a fist.

We leave for Thorn tonight, he cried, marching toward Ravis.  And you
will be with me, riding by my side, and God so help me I will hear no
word against it.

Ravis had waited with delectable anticipation for this instant for
exactly an hour.  He had planned what he would say and the careless
manner in which he would say it.  He had even stripped off his gloves
so he could make a nonchalant show of pulling them on as he said, Come,
my Lord Camron, your men grow restless waiting.  Not all of us can
afford the luxury of running out into the night like lovesick fools.
Yet seeing what state the man was in, watching his chest rise and fall
with exhaustion, hearing the desperation in his voice, but most of all,
listening to the words he said, made Ravis catch his breath.

And you will be with me, ridingbymyside.... Ravis felt the muscles in
his chest tighten.  Surely Malray had said those words to him once?
Long ago when their father first died, when the whole world seemed set
against them and they were as close as two brothers could be.

Standing there, booted foot resting on the hearth as he watched the
last grains of sand trickle to the bottom of the glass, Ravis suddenly
felt old and cynical.

He didn't like himself very much.

Caruron despised him, yet the first words from his mouth were as close
to an appeal as a proud man like him could manage.

Ravis looked into his face.  There was little of Camron's arrogance
left.  Grief and rage had taken something from him.  His father had
been murdered, his childhood home had been destroyed, and the burdens
of loss and revenge fell on no one's shoulders but his.

Ravis took his boot from the hearth.  Reaching down along the mantel,
he caught hold of the hourglass, then turned it upside-down.

After you left, he said to Camron in a voice carefully measured to be
neither gentle nor harsh, I gave some thought to what our next course
of action should be, and I came to the conclusion you were right.  We
cannot allow Izgard of Garizon to get away with what he's done.  The
Sire will move against him now, but it will take him at least two weeks
to rally his army from the Drokho border and Mir Lor.  In the meantime
you and I can take a close look at Izgard's forces, jab a thorn in his
side, and gather what intelligence we can.

Cameron nodded.  And Thorn?

I can make no promises.  It depends what kind of force, if any, we find
there.

The words were the simple truth, and although they weren't what Cameron
wanted to hear, he accepted them without protest.  How long will it
take to get the men ready?  Can we move by first light?

Ravis bit his lip.  All his earlier delight over the situation had
gone, erased by a handful of words from the past, still yet he managed
a ghost of a smile as he told Cameron they would be leaving that
night.

FOURTEEN

4nowy was up to his no-good dog tricks.  He was barreling around the
courtyard chasing sparrows, shadows, dandelion puffs, and fresh air.

Anything that moved and a good few things that didn't found themselves
the object of the little dog's pursuit.  Snowy liked being outside in
the courtyard; inside he had nothing to chase but his tail.  There were
always rats, of course, but Snowy was afraid of them.  He was a no-good
dog, after all.

Gerta watched Snowy's performance from the thinly cushioned stone bench
opposite.  Angeline had brought out two beautifully plump cushions for
them both to sit on, but Gerta had said it wasn't fitting for a maid to
sit as well as her mistress and had promptly produced her own thin
cushion from the vast storage space under her skirt.  Angeline, not
wanting to give away how disappointed she was that Gerta had turned
down one of her matching cushions, now sat high atop of both of them.

Gerta disapproved of the whole concept of being outside.  She had a way
of saying the word that made it sound about as unsavory as a
witch-hunt.  Outside?  she would exclaim.

Out-side?  Even now, as she sat there, unraveling a silk surplice
thread by thread, fingertips peeking out through gloves that had been
sliced off at the knuckles, thumbs encased in leather protectors, pins,
as always, forming a pine cone around her teeth, she had an air of a
martyr about her.  Her fingers picked at the silk surplice as if it
were a horsehair shirt.

Going outside in Sern Fortress wasn't the same as going outside
anywhere else.  The courtyard was about the size of four large
tablecloths laid edge to edge.  Stone battlements so high they limited
the view of the sky to a distant blue square fenced in the area.
Sunlight shone directly onto the courtyard for only an hour every day.
A few plants did manage to grow, poking through the hard soil in the
boxed borders dug long ago by some hopeful cook or gardener, but
Angeline didn't recognize any of them.  There were no violets,
rosemary, fennel, or tansy, just stout-stemmed yellow things that
looked as dour and invulnerable as the fortress itself.  Even Snowy
could muster up no interest in them.

The truth was Angeline wasn't fond of being outside either.  Not here,
anyway.  Not in Sem Fortress, with its thin mountain air, pale mountain
sky, and chilly mountain breezes.  It wasn't anything like being
outside in Castle Halmac.  Within the grounds at Halmac there were
hedged gardens, rose gardens, walled gardens, herb gardens, fountains,
a fish pond, pretty pink paving, and a holy martyry for Martyr Assitus.
The sun shone all day, not just for an hour at noon, and butterflies,
dragonflies, and all sorts of nice birds darted through skies that were
a proper shade of Garizon blue.

Angeline, Gerta said sharply.  Come and help me roll this thread onto a
bob.

Angeline blushed.  Gerta always knew when she was thinking about the
old days in Castle Halmac.  I can't help with the silk, Gerta, she
said, brow furrowing as she tried to come up with a feasible reason to
get out of the hateful thread reeling.  Her eyes alighted on Snowy's
muddy feet.  Petting Snowy has made my hands dirty.

Snowy, hearing his name spoken, stopped chasing whatever it was he
imagined he was chasing and looked his mistress's way.

Snowy did something wrong?

Angeline laughed.  Snowy's face looked funny.  Patting her side, she
beckoned the little dog over.

Let me see them, then Gerta said, nodding at Angeline's hands.  I'll be
the judge of just how dirty they are.  Gerta was the only woman in the
entire world whose voice was actually clearer when speaking through a
mouthful of pins than without them.

Angeline glanced at Snowy for support.  The little dog had caught wind
of the situation and had suddenly found something very interesting to
sniff at in the corner of the yard.  That was the sort of thing no-good
dogs did all the time.  Slipping down from her cushions, Angeline
dragged her feet across the courtyard and came to stand next to Gerta.
My hands aren't as dirty as I thought she admitted.  They look clean
enough to hold the thread.

Gerta nodded.  Hold them out, then.

Still standing, Angeline spread out her hands and let Gerta weave silk
thread around them.  She was beginning to feel a little sick in her
stomach, just like yesterday morning.  Coming outside hadn't been such
a good idea after all.  Neither had eating in the kitchen last night,
or lighting a fire in the great hearth, or searching through the
dungeons for treasure.  Now that Ederius had left, nothing was fun
anymore.

According to Gerta, Izgard was doing very well in Rhaize so well, in
fact, that he had occupied all the towns and villages directly west of
the Vorce Mountains.  Towns and villages, Gerta was fond of saying,
that were rightfully and legitimately Garizon s. Gerta usually went on
to say why and how they rightfully belonged to Garizon, but Angeline
never listened past the first sentence or two.

She hadn't minded much when Izgard left.  There were times when her
husband frightened her, like after lovemaking, when he would get angry
and force her to dress and leave the room.  Sometimes he called her
names, and if he became really agitated, he would hit her.  He was
always sorry afterward, of course.  She had to give him that.

The first week after he left was heaven for Angeline.  She could run up
and see Ederius whenever she wanted.  The scribe would draw things for
her, tell her stories, and let her paint with his fat-headed brushes.
In turn, Angeline saw to it that his room was kept tidy and well
brushed and his food was always delivered hot.  Although she passed
along those mundane chores to the maids, she saw to his nursing
herself.  Whenever Ederius cough got bad or his head ached, she would
run to the kitchens and brew up her special honey and almond-milk tea,
just as she had for Father.  Ederius was always so grateful.  He would
pat her hand and smile gently and drain every last drop from his cup.

Angeline frowned.  She missed him so much now he had gone.  Izgard had
called him to the front.  Two weeks back a message had arrived saying
that the scribe's skills were needed imminently and he was to leave
straight away for Rhaize.  Ederius had packed all his pigments and
brushes into a great birch trunk and departed the fortress in the
company of a dozen armed men.  He'd barely had chance to say good-bye.
Take care, my sweet one, he had said.  May the good Lord keep you from
harm.

Hold your hands steady, m'lady!  cried Gerta, breaking into her
thoughts.  While you've been busy daydreaming, the silk's been getting
slack.

Even though her arms ached with the strain of holding them up for so
long, Angeline did as she was told.  It wasn't wise to dismpt Gerta in
mid ravel

Gerta tutted.  The pins in her mouth stood to attention like guards. It's
being outside that's turned your head this morning, if you ask me. No
good has ever come to a lady while she was out-side.  No good at all.

Snowy picked that moment to come bounding up to his mistress's heels.

Snowy here!  Snowy here!

Angeline dearly wanted to bend down and pet him, but Gerta had her
handcuffed in silk.

Have your menses come on yet, Angeline?  she asked.

You look a little pale.

Gerta felt she had a right to know all of Angeline's most delicate
affairs.  Angeline would have liked to tell the old maid to mind her
own business, but she couldn't quite bring herself to say the words.
Reluctantly she shook her head.

Another couple of days and you will surely be late, m'lady.  The pins
in Gerta's mouth twinkled as she spoke.

If that's the case, there'll be no more talk of you joining Izgard
across the mountains.

What talk?  Angeline had heard no such thing.  Izgard never sent
messages directly to her.  He sent them either to the seneschal, Gerta,
or Lord Browlach, the man currently in charge of defending Sern
Fortress.

Gerta lifted the last of the silk thread from Angeline's hands.  Why, m
lady, if you're not pregnant at the end of this month, then you may
have to join Izgard in Rhaize.  The king needs an heir almost as much
as he needs to win land for his warlords.  The campaign could go on for
months years, even and whilst you're here in Garizon and the king's
hundreds of leagues away in Rhaize, there's no chance of you providing
the son the country needs.

Angeline's mouth fell open.  Joining Izgard in Rhaize?  Why, she had
never even dreamed such a thing was possible.

Mistaking Angeline's surprise for trepidation, Gerta patted her arm.
Never mind, m'lady.  if you are with child, then you won't have to go
anywhere I promise you that.  You'll be safe and sound here, with me,
for the duration of the war.

Briefly Angeline recalled the sick feeling she'd felt in her stomach
earlier.  Surely if I were pregnant, I'd be allowed to go to Veizach?
Or home to Halmac?  The idea of spending nine months holed up in Sem
Fortress with only Gerta to talk to and no outside to speak of, only
the dismal little courtyard they stood in now, was more than a little
distressing to Angeline.  Snowy was her only friend here.

Izgard won't let you travel back to Veizach if you're with child, m
lady, Gerta said.  What with all those narrow mountain roads, sheer
drops, and rock slides, it's just too great a risk.  All it takes is
one rock tumbling onto the road to scare a high-strung horse.  Look
what happened on the way here: that good-for-nothing dairy maid Enna
was thrown from her filly when a doe ran across the path.  Of course,
if the girl hadn't been flirting with the chamberlain at the time, the
whole thing might have been prevented.

Angeline didn't see how Enna and the chamberlain's flirtation had
anything to do with the doe crossing the path, but she was willing to
let the point drop, as she had another more important one to make.  No
harm came to the girl, though she said.  Her leg was bruised a little,
but she got on her horse straight after and never once cried out in
pain

Gerta shook her head for what seemed to Angeline to be a very long
time.  Makes no difference, m'lady.  When a woman is with child her
womb is as delicate as white-fired Istanian lusterware.  One little
bump in the road, one skittish horse, one sudden storm, and Gerta spat
her pins out into her hand your innards could shatter like glass.

Feeling a little queasy at the thought of her innards shattering,
Angeline bent to pet Snowy.  The little dog was snoozing by her feet.
Not feeling confident enough to meet Gerta's ever-vigilant eye, she
kept her gaze firmly on Snowy as she said, How will you know if I'm
pregnant or not?

If there was anything Gerta liked more than talking about women's
matters, Angeline had yet to discover it.  At the sound of the
question, Gerta's face came as close to lighting up as was humanly
possible in a gloomy courtyard on an overcast day in the mountains.

Sliding her pins into one of the many pouches that hung from her waist
like meat on a hook, Gerta said, Well, the first indication is the
menses.  If they don't come in the next few days, then that will be a
very good sign indeed.  But a warning finger came u that doesn't
necessarily mean you're pregnant.  You could just been sickening after
your missing husband, or be poorly from not eating enough meat.  No,
the real signs are feeling sick in the morning, soreness in the
breasts, and a tendency to feel flushed for no reason.

Down on the ground by Snowy's feet, Angeline felt her face growing hot
for no reason!  She had been feeling sick this mo ming too.  Angeline
frowned.  She didn't want to be pregnant if it meant being locked up
with Gerta all summer.  Silently she counted out nine months on Snowy's
toes.  Why, she'd be cooped up here until next spring!  No butterflies,
no pretty birds, no real outside, and no friends.

Snowy, awakened by the indignity of having his toes poked one by one,
scampered to his feet and began to dart around his mistress's heels.

Snowy ready to play now

Angeline wasn t. Her glance shifted from the little dog to the nearest
of the fortress walls.  Blocks of square-cut stone rose up and up into
the pale blue sky.  Dark, damp stone.  After a moment Angeline looked
at the adjoining wall, and then the next one, and then the one after
that, spinning around until she was right back at the first one again. 
Apart from a few differences in arrow slits and crenellations, they all
looked just the same.  Like jailers.

Funny how they hadn't seemed that way when Ederius was here.  The
scribe would be in Izgard's camp by now: his painting things getting
dirty from lack of care, his cough getting worse from lack of her honey
and almond-milk tea.

Angeline contemplated the walls for a few seconds more and then made a
decision.  Pulling herself up to her full height, she turned to Gerta
and said, If I do get my menses, that means I'm definitely not
pregnant, doesn't it?

Gerta was in the process of tucking her thin cushion under her fat
skirts.  Yes.

And if I'm not pregnant, that means I'll have to go and stay with
Izgard until I am?

It's not what anyone wants, but it may well come to it, for the king
dearly needs an heir.  Gerta crossed the courtyard as she spoke.  You
shouldn't worry about that happening, m'lady.  My hopes are high that
you're with child.  Picking up Angeline's two cushions from the bench,
she said,

Come on, m'lady, we've had quite enough time out-side.  It's getting
chilly now the wind's started cuffing from the east.

Although Angeline wasn't feeling chilly at all, she patted her thigh to
bring Snowy to heel.  What's Rhaize like at this time of year?  she
asked, following Gerta inside.

Use the peat salt, not the sea salt, for the filling, said $ Mother
Emith from her chair.

Peat salt?  Tessa said.

Yes.  It's in the jar above the mantel to keep it dry.  Mother Emith
was giving Tessa instructions on how to cook plaice and shrimp
dumplings for their midday meal.  Tessa was anxious to get the whole
thing over and done with so she could take a proper look, in full
daylight, at the illuminations Marcel had dropped off last night.  The
manuscript press lay on the table, sunlight slanting across the
etched-wood frame, pins loosened ready to be pulled.  Emith had given
her a peak at one of the patterns last night, but the light wasn't good
and it was very late and they had both decided that any serious
examination was best left until the mo ming

Hurrying over to the mantel, Tessa grabbed the jar that g Mother Emith
had pointed out.  Inside she found plain white salt, a little finer
than table salt back at home, but essentially the same color and
texture.

Seeing her examining the salt, Mother Emith beamed with pride.
Beautiful, isn't it?  Nothing's as fine for cooking as peat salt.  It's
a little more expensive than the usual, but for special dishes like
dumplings and savory custards I wouldn't use anything else.

What makes it so expensive?  Tessa asked, sprinkling a small portion
into the creamy mix for the filling.  Mother Emith liked to be asked
questions about all things related to cooking: it was how they passed
the time whenever Emith was outside chopping wood or scraping hides or
seeing to his arlo stocks.

The trouble taken to make it is what makes the price so high.  The peat
burners first have to burn the seawater peat to get the ashes, then they
stir the ashes in water until the mixture runs clear, and then boil the
whole thing up for a day and a night until there's nothing left in the
pan, only salt.  Mother Emith shook her head in gmdging respect.  The
only task harder than burning peat is digging it out of the ground in
the first place.

Tessa nodded absently, only half listening to what Mother Emith said.
She'd heard enough stories by now about the way things were done to
know that similar tales of drudgery, long hours, and complicated
processes involving boiling, burning, scraping, aftd soaking lay behind
even the simplest of household items.  Mother Emith had yet to answer
one of Tessa's questions with a simple, Oh yes, that takes but five
minutes to make from scratch.  To her mind that would be sacrilege.
Anything not laboriously produced at great expense by a team of
hardworking professionals was not worthy of space in her kitchen.

Transferring the saucepan over to the table, Tessa mixed in the
mushrooms, shrimp, shallots, and flaked plaice that would make up the
filling for the dumplings.  As she stirred the mixture together, the
manuscript press kept catching her eye.  The corners of vellum peeked
out from beneath the wood, their colors aging from snow white to warm
amber.  Two decades had passed between the painting of the first
pattern and the last.  Twenty-one years, yet Emith said he could
remember the day his master picked up his brush and began the series as
if it were yesterday.

Deveric chose red to begin, he said.  I had six other colors mixed and
ready, but his hand went straight for the red.

Tessa's own eye fell on the one glimpse of color that was visible from
the manuscript press: a thin curl of yellow reaching out toward the
corner on the whitest of the leaves.  A very bright, glossy yellow the
color of her Honda Civic at home.

Saffron, my dear, reminded Mother Emith from her chair.  Don't forget
to add a pinch or two to color the sauce.

Tessa blinked.  An idea, half-formed in her mind not really an idea at
all, just one thought linked to another by a thread as fluid and
tenuous as a string of saliva flashing between teeth disappeared from
her mind upon hearing Mother Emith's words.  By the time the blink was
finished she'd forgotten what it was.

The yellow color on the illumination was the same one used every day in
this kitchen: saffron yellow.  There was nothing unusual about it at
all.

Opening up the spice box, Tessa searched out a few of the golden crocus
stamens and then flaked them into the sauce.  Gradually, as she stirred
the sauce, the cream took on a pale lemony hue.  Mother Emith, had she
been standing over Tessa's shoulder, would probably have advocated
adding more saffron to the mix: her eyesight was failing somewhat, and
the more subtle tones didn't register too well.  Tessa glanced over at
the old lady, remembering how she had taken care of Marcel last night.
Perhaps a few more sprinides wouldn't go amiss.

As Tessa's fingers found their way back to the spice box, Emith walked
in the door.  He had been out in the yard, doing one or other of those
unpleasant tasks that could only be done outdoors: skinning,
butchering, plucking, scrubbing the pots with hay and ashes, boiling up
bark and lye to make kindling for the fire.  Judging from his red face,
he had been doing something that involved steam or hot water.  Tessa
decided against asking him what he'd been up to.  She didn't want to
know.

You sit down, miss.  I'll finish the dumplings, he said as he rinsed
his hands in small bowl kept by the door.  You've had no time to rest
all mo ming

Tessa opened her mouth to protest but the edge of the manuscript press
caught her eye: she dearly wanted a chance to look at the illuminations
properly.  I'll just put the sauce on the fire.

Emith moved over and took the saucepan from her.  Tessa didn't
object.

Reaching over, she grabbed the press and then dragged it across the
tabletop.  The metal pins rattled as it moved.  Seen up close, the
carvings on the wood were exquisitely detailed: serpents coiled around
quills and paintbrushes, their fangs sinking deep into their own tails.
Behind her, Tessa was aware of Emith rotating his mother's chair,
turning it away from the window toward the fire.  In front of her, the
sunlight moved to catch up with the manuscript press, circling onto the
frame, her hand, the pin between her fingers.

She pulled out the first pin, sent it skittering over the table and off
into the shadows.  The second and third pins followed.  The fourth pin
was warm to the touch.  It wasn't as loose as the others and needed
twisting before it came free.  As Tessa pulled it from the frame, a
fine mist of sawdust came with it.  Free from its constraints, the
press cracked softly like a ceiling timber at night.  Tessa ran her
hand along the top edge, feeling the serpents bodies as thin furrows
against her skin, and then opened the press like a book.

The sweet-sharp chemical smell of pigments and binders prickled the
inside of her nose as five leaves of vellum fell like playing cards
into her hand.  The leaves were not large.  Tessa had learned enough by
now to know that their small size and smooth texture marked them as
uterine vellum.  Emith said only the most precious of documents were
scribed upon the hides of stillboru calves.

Tessa fanned the leaves out in her hand.  It seemed important to see
them all at once in her first real look; get a feel for the colors,
designs, and patterns that ran through the series as a whole; work out
their common elements; and discover how and why they were connected.

The sunlight, having circled swiftly to catch up with the press, now
seemed in no rush to go away.  It shone on and through the five pieces
of vellum, warming umber-toned inks,

glowing on moss-colored greens, shimmering on amethyst and ruby glazes,
but most of all glancing off gold.

Threads of gold ink shot through the series like arteries through an
outstretched palm.  Lines were joined, bridged, severed, or diverted by
hooks and knife edges of gold.  The golden pigment seemed to feed the
designs, sending spirals spinning and curved lines lashing and knot
work buckling across the page.  Looking at the sheer movement in the
illuminations made Tessa catch her breath.  It was difficult to take it
all in.

Dipping her head downward, she moved even closer to the leaves.  She
wanted to breathe in the chalk smoke, see the details of the patterns
up close.  The sunlight reflected off the vellum onto her face, and
only when she'd blinked away the dazzle in her eyes did she see the
minuscule barbs on the gold.  The golden thread that traced its way
through each illumination, pattern, border, side panel, and interlace
bristled with rosebush thorns.

It had its tiny little hooks into everything.

Tessa became aware of a dull weight around her neck.  For a moment she
thought it was just the strain of holding her head forward for so long,
but then she felt something itch against her skin near the base of her
throat.

It was the ring.

The sunlight slipped away between Tessa's fingers, leaving the five
sheets of vellum to the shade.  The illuminations felt thick and rough
in her hands, and suddenly she didn't want to hold them anymore.

Tessa shivered.  She placed the sheets side by side on the tabletop,
then reached for the ring around her neck.  Its warmth wasn't a
surprise, but the color of the gold was.  It matched the pigment used
in the illuminations exactly.  Its shades, highlights, low lights and
middle tones were all captured, with perfect precision, on each page.

And then there were those tiny little barbs.... Running a finger across
the gold, Tessa recalled the image that had sparked an idea minutes
earlier: the plume of yellow curling toward the manuscript's edge.  The
saffron pigment the same color as her car.

Even before she looked down at the illuminations, she guessed that the
yellow thread would only be on the lightest, and therefore newest, of
the leaves.

She was not mistaken.

The only illumination containing that particular color was the one
Deveric had died completing.  One of his drops of blood had splashed
across a yellow curve.

Tessa felt her scalp tighten.  Her mouth was as dry as the
chalk-finished vellum beneath her hands.  Eye muscles aching, she
scanned the pattern.

Yellow spirals were interlaced with a zigzagging line of green.  Odd,
she thought, that color is usually reserved for plant forms.  Yet the
meandering peaks of green looked like no other plant designs she had
seen.  They looked like a string of miniature pines.

Something shifted in Tessa's brain.  An idea skirted around earlier but
excused as nonsense before it was fully formed unrolled within her mind
like a bolt of cloth.  Her car.  The Cleveland National Forest.  The
ring.

Tessa swallowed hard.  She could hardly believe where her thoughts were
pushing her.  The idea was too fantastic, but even as she tried to
dismiss it, it wouldn't let her go.  The pattern portrayed her drive
through the forest.  It was an illustration of the journey that had led
her to the ring.

A smooth yellow line weaving through a forest of green braid to a
spiral of barbed gold.

The hairs on Tessa's arm bristled.  Her scalp seemed to contract,
pulling at her forehead and temples.  The skin just behind her ears
flushed hot.  She could feel the blood pulsing past the tendons in her
neck.

Her eyes darted across the page, searching.

There were some sections that meant nothing to her spirals of red,
knots of sea blue, and ribbons of waxen violet but her gaze fell upon
the single gold coil that formed the center of the illumination.
Surrounding the coil was a fretwork panel of niello ink.  The
lead-based pigment, consisting of silver, copper, lead, and sulfur, had
a drab plate metal finish one shade darker than slate.  The fretwork
panel was little more than a ring of dull, gray squares: the safety
deposit boxes.

Tessa's stomach condensed to a tight, heavy ball.  She felt physically
sick.  Deveric had drawn her here.  He had picked up his brush and
quill and painted away at her life.

This illumination was a summons.  It was no coincidence she'd found the
ring, no coincidence at all.  Deveric had led her to it.

Emith!  she cried, angry, excited, breathless.  Come here and look at
this!

Her voice must have sounded strange, for Emith was at her side in an
instant.  What is it, miss?

Tessa hit the vellum.  This is me the day I found the ring.  Her
knuckle grazed along the yellow line.  This is how I got here.

A ripple of anxiety crossed Emith's features.  I don't understand,
miss.

Tessa watched him closely.  How much did he know?  He looked worried,
but then he often looked that way.  Deveric brought me here: she said,
testing the words as she spoke them, seeing if they sounded sane.  This
pattern he painted guided me to the ring.

Emith began shaking his head.

How much do you know about this?  asked Tessa before he had chance to
speak.

I never questioned my master's work, miss.  It wasn't my place.

You were afraid of knowing what he did, weren't you?  Tessa was angry
now.  Someone had interfered with her life.  Some man whom she had
never met and never would meet-had pushed her car along the freeway
that day, sweeping everything else aside with the tip of his brush. 
Mix your pigments, sharpen your quills, ask no questions, and take no
blame. You knew Deveric was interfering in people's lives.  You just
didn't want to be burdened with the details.

Emith shrank back from Tessa, visibly upset.  No, miss.  It wasn't like
that Deveric wouldn't do anything to harm anyone.  He was a good man.
He brought me here against my will.

Did he?

Emith's softly spoken question stopped Tessa in her tracks.  It had
been her decision to put on the ring; Deveric had not forced her hand.
And in the five weeks she had been here, she had made no effort to get
back.  Annoyed at Emith for bringing up the subject and, if she were
honest, feeling guilty for not thinking about home in so long, Tessa
searched for something cutting to say.  Deveric did hurt me: she said
finally.  He brought on the noises in my head to force me to change my
path.

As she spoke the words, Tessa's gaze flicked over the remaining four
patterns.  A twenty-one-year series, Emith had said.

The lead ball in Tessa's stomach turned.  The skin on her scalp felt as
tight as a drum.  Emith was speaking, but she didn't hear a word he
said.

Twenty-one years.

Grabbing hold of the newest illumination, Tessa brought it within
blinking distance of her face and scrutinized the yellow-and-green
weave on the page.  Running alongside the saffron pigment was a fine
corkscrew spiral of gray.  Fine as a strand of hair, it was so pale
that it looked more like a shadow than a line.  Yet it had force.  Like
a cheese wire, it sliced through objects ten times it size, severing
plump yellow veins and entrails of gold.

Tessa looked down at the other four illuminations.  This time she didn't
alloW herself to be distracted by the gold, she just searched for
more of the fine gray spirals.  They were hard to spot at first.  The
silvery filaments had been applied with a quill pen, not a brush, and
as the pigment itself was fluid ink, not paint, the lines produced were
so fine that they almost disappeared into the vellum.  Burnt in, Emith
would have said.  Yet once Tessa's eyes spotted the first gray thread,
twisting its way around a border like a chain around a gate post, she
began to see them everywhere.  The whole series was marbled with the
cobweb-thin coils.

Taking a deep breath, Tessa told herself they weren't what she thought.
They couldn't be.  Turning to Emith, she asked, Do you know the dates
on these illuminations?

Emith, who had stopped speaking some time earlier and now stood over
Tessa's shoulder, keeping watch, didn't hesitate before answering.
Before my master put ink to parchment, I always scribed the date on the
underside.  Turn the leaves over and look in the bottom left-hand
corner

Before Emith had even finished speaking, Tessa was looking at the date
on the newest parchment.  Fresh black script read: At this juncture,
being the first day in the Lord's fifth month, in the thirteen
hundredth and fifty-second year since He revealed His True Self,
Deveric of Fale began this work with the intent of glorifying, not
imitating, the Lord.

Tessa counted back seven years from thirteen hundred and fifty-two and
then flipped over the second-to-last illumination in the series.  Emith's
neat, now not-quite-so-black script, proclaimed the date as the
twelfth day in the eleventh month of the thirteen hundredth and
forty-fifth year.

Seeing it Tessa leaned back against her chair, her body suddenly
seeming too heavy for her bones.  The date on the manuscript the month
and the year corresponded exactly to the last major tinnitus attack she'd
had before the incident on the freeway.  The lecture hall at New
Mexico State.  Professor Yarback.  The slide from the Lindisfame
Gospels.  It was the attack that had forced her to leave college and
move to California, to San Diego.  Where she stayed for seven years
until she found the ring.  4 Tessa put her hands over her face,
covering her eyes and nose and mouth.  She couldn't believe the scale
of what Deveric had done.  The depth of his interference in her life. 
He had used her tinnitus as casually as he used Emith's pigments.  It
was just another of his scribing tools, like his lead point plummet,
his wax tablet, and his knife.

Those pale gray coils that hung suspended within each page like smoke
trapped in glass were a record of her tinnitus.

Five major attacks in her life.  Five illuminations in Deveric's grand
design.

Hands enclosing around the yellow est and stiffest leaf, Tessa took a
quick guess at the month she had experienced her first ever tinnitus
attack.  She remembered being outside t the time, wearing a
short-sleeved dress and feeling warm: ometime in high summer, perhaps
July or August.  She all exactly years old at the time.  cady knew,
without seeing the date, that the year would be right.  Twenty-one
years ago it had happened: she had

Once again, Emith's script, now faded to a pale, uneven brown,
proclaimed the date: The third day of the eight month in the thirteen
hundredth and thirty-first year.

August.  Twenty-one years earlier.

Deveric had been manipulating her all along.

Tessa's head was reeling.  Not in a fast, chaotic way, but in one slow,
incredulous turn.  She couldn't begin to imagine the implications,
couldn't begin to think what it all meant.

Two months after that first attack, she and her family had moved from
England to New York.  Her father had been offered a job in his company's
U.S. office, and Tessa could still recall her mother urging her
father to take it: The change might do Tessa good.  We don't want her
having another of those attacks like the one on the lawn.

With a quick breath, Tessa picked up the second illumination in the
series.  The eighteenth day of the eleventh month in the thirteen
hundredth and thirty-eighth year.  The year and the month were not a
surprise.  She was twelve at the time, living at an apartment on
Riverside Drive with her parents.  She was on her way home from school
when the tinnitus began.

The traffic was bumper to bumper along Broadway.  Tessa remembered
getting off the school bus before her stop, thinking she could walk the
distance home faster.  As soon as her feet hit the road, things began
to go wrong.  A car cut alongside the bus, brakes squealing.  The
driver screamed abuse at Tessa for causing him to stop.  When she
reached the sidewalk a second car sped through a puddle, sending cold
muddy water splashing over her coat.  In a nearby doorway two men were
arguing, their rising and falling voices jarring against Tessa's
nerves.  Suddenly the whole street seemed full of noises: horns
blasting, music blaring, children shrieking, metal shutters rattling as
shop owners shut up shop for the night.  A woman in a camel coat too
short to cover her calf-length dress walked past Tessa, pulling a thin,
yelping dog at her heels.  Somewhere in the distance a police siren
began to wail.

Tessa ran all the way home, palms pressed close to her ears to shut out
the noise.  By the time she got to her building she realized she was no
longer keeping outside noises out, but rather keeping her tinnitus
in.

Looking back on it now, seeing it through the filter of the gray
spirals on the vellum, Tessa realized the attack coincided with another
move.  Her father again: some sort of reshuffle at work had left him
unhappy, and he was contemplating leaving to take up a position as
sales manager to a distribution firm in St.  Louis.  Tessa's doctor
saying to him,

Your daughter will be better off away from all the noise and bustle of
the city, may not have been the deciding factor, but they had moved the
following month all the same.

Tessa placed the illumination on the desk.  All her earlier excitement
had drained away, leaving her feeling too tired to be angry or
amazed.

She didn't have to look at the date on the third illumination to know
what it was and what it corresponded to.  A company picnic: Tessa,
fourteen years old, sitting at the executives table with her parents,
her father gripping her wrist and refusing to let her leave.  Flies
buzzing past her ears, sweat trickling down her back, children
shrieking around the little people's table.  The tinnitus came on so
quickly and with such venom that Tessa blacked out.  Right there.  She
fainted in the middle of the sales director's speech, falling across
the executive picmc table, upsetting paper cups and plates and
checkered paper towels, sending plastic ketchup and mustard containers
rolling to the floor.

Everyone had been as kind as they could be.  They'd picked her up,
given her water and aspirin.  The sales director's wife had even
brushed down Tessa's dress.  But the next week, during an unscheduled
management meeting, the sales director had informed Tessa's father that
a promotion he had been expecting was going to Jack Riggs in the
Lexington office.  There's a lot of traveling involved in the job, and
we felt it was best tackled by a younger man who doesn't have a family
to worry about.

Three months later, faced with the possibility that if he stayed with
his current firm, he would always be passed over for promotion, Tessa's
father had moved -his family to Albuquerque, New Mexico.  Another job.
Another state.  Another move westward toward the ring.  Here, miss.
Drink this.  Mother says you're looking a little pale.  Emith's voice
was gentle as it broke through Tessa's thoughts.  A hand touched her
arm very lightly, and another laid a steaming drink on the tabletop
beside the illuminations.

Are you feeling quite well, my dear?  came Mother Emith's voice from
her chair.

Although she wasn't feeling quite well at all, Tessa nodded.  Her head
ached with a deep, splitting pain.  Her eyes were sore, and the muscles
around her heart felt oddly tight.  Somehow, while she had sat here,
something that started out as almost impossible to believe had hardened
into plain fact.

Deveric had manipulated her life.  And not only her life, but the life
of her family too.  His pigment-stained fingerprints were stamped upon
every move she and her parents had made.

Just how deep did it go?  Where did it end?  Things that had seemed
like mere chance before, such as finding herself living in San Diego
after she'd left college when her intended destination was Los Angeles,
began to take on the look of a sinister plot, every bit as intricate
and carefully planned as the patterns Deveric drew.  A night spent in a
San Diego motel because her tinnitus had begun to bother her on the
freeway, a newspaper left outside her room, a Help Wanted ad asking for
tele sales operators with no experience necessary suddenly didn't seem
like coincidences anymore.  Deveric had been pushing her all the way.

Tessa picked up the steaming cup.  It was warm in her hands.  Lemon and
honey smells curled up with the steam.

Drink it all up, my dear Mother Emith said.  It will put some color
back in your cheeks.  Then, turning to Emith:

Take the dumplings from the pot and see to it that Tessa gets a good
portion plenty of sauce.

The old woman sounded worried.  Normally Tessa would have spoken up to
reassure her, but right now she didn't trust herself to speak.  The
enormity of what Deveric had done to her was settling in her mind like
a fine but heavy dust.  It lay like lead ash on her tongue.

Was her tinnitus real?  Or had it been something Deveric conjured up at
will, a magician's sleight of hand?  Either way he had used it against
her, summoning it forth with his fine cut nib and his diluted lampblack
ink, directing her actions with a crack of his thumb knuckle and a
practiced flick of his wrist.

Tessa shivered.  For the first time since she had come here, Mother
Emith's kitchen actually seemed cold.  The chair she sat in felt like
stone.

Tessa's eyes gazed straight ahead without seeing a thing.  Her mind
looked backward and saw a life that had never quite been her own.
Opportunities missed, friendships overlooked, interests, relationships,
and ambitions pushed aside.  Deveric had drawn her a shell.  The gray
threads that spiraled through each of his illuminations might as well
have had barbs all their own.  They kept everyone and everything
away.

Tessa took a sip of the lemon honey tea.  It was bitter and sweet all
in one.

As soon as she put the cup down, her hands strayed back to the vellum.
Why had Deveric gone to all this trouble?  Why was it so important to
bring her here?  Fingers grazing across the bands of green, yellow, and
gold pigments, Tessa slowly shook her head.  She didn't know.  Yet, she
thought, stretching the word out as her gaze came to focus on the barbs
around the gold, the answer was here, in the parchment.

Watching the gold wink slyly in the shade, Tessa made a decision.

Emith she called, sitting back in her chair, forget about the food.
Come and show me all the things I need to know about selecting and
using pigments.  Tomorrow she was going to paint a pattern of her own
and discover for herself what no one seemed willing, or able, to tell
her.

Gerta pulled back the sheet as if it concealed a wanted criminal
beneath.  Aha!  she cried, gaze locking onto the red stain that formed
the center of the bed.  When did this happen?  she demanded, moving in
closer to touch the offending mark.

Angeline kicked Snowy into action.  The little dog scrambled onto the
bed and snapped at Gerta's hand, all the while barking his piercing
no-good bark and wagging his short no good tail.  Shocked, Gerta yanked
back her outstretched hand, returning a moment later with a fist.

Bad dog!  she cried, swinging a punch Snowy's way.

Snowy defended the red stain.  Little paws dancing,

hackles rising, teeth snapping, and fur bristling: having a thoroughly
enjoyable no-good dog time.  Seeing him in action, Angeline suspected
that Snowy had harbored a secret desire to bite Gerta's hand all
along.

Having missed with the first punch, Gerta tried a second, but her heart
clearly wasn't in it and she missed by a margin as wide as her own
formidable Garizon head.  Angeline!  You really should discipline this
dog, she said, turning away from Snowy, the bed, and, most important of
all, the deep red stain.

Angeline hadn't realized she had been holding her breath until she went
to speak, and it rushed out ahead of her words like a draft rushing in
through an opening door.  I'm sorry, Gerta.  I don't know what's got
into Snowy these days.

As she spoke, Angeline moved toward the bed, casually picked up the
sheet Gerta had pulled away, and threw it back over the mattress:
Snowy, stain, and all.  Snowy didn't take kindly to being covered and
began jumping up and snapping at the descending sheet as if it were a
large, gliding bird.  The sight of Snowy attacking the covers very
nearly made Angeline laugh out loud, but she hadn't spent an afternoon
planning for just this moment to give herself away at the last
minute.

What she needed to do now was draw Gerta away from the bed and get her
mind working on something else.  The blood came on earlier when I went
to take a nap before supper, she said quickly.  I hadn't been feeling
well since midday, when I had that pheasant pie Dham Fitzil warmed up

Dham Fitzil is a born fool!  interrupted Gerta.  No one in their right
mind reheats pheasant pie two days after it's been cooked.  Why, she
might as well give us all a dose of henbane and poison us on the spot!
Gerta shook her head vehemently, her entire body and its many
attachments girdle book, sewing bag, scissors, handkerchiefs, combs,
tweezers, perfume flask, and cosmetic purse swinging with it.  I swear
one day she'll kill us all!

Angeline nodded in complete agreement.  Gerta hated the cook.  She and
Dham Fitzil were the two highest-ranking female servants in Sern
Fortress, and the rivalry between them was neither friendly nor
subdued.  They disliked, distrusted, and disagreed with each other at
every given chance.  Both women felt it was their right to oversee the
housekeeping and all the remaining women servants in the fortress.
Angeline didn't care ajot either way who was in charge, she just knew
that Gerta liked to criticize Dham Fitzil almost as much as she liked
to discuss women's troubles.

Walking away from the bed toward the fire, Angeline said, This means I
m not pregnant, doesn't it?

Gerta glanced back toward the bed.  Snowy, who had successfully managed
to extricate himself from the sheets while Gerta was speaking, growled
right on cue.  Gerta made a noise that sounded just like a growl right
back at him, then turned toward Angeline.  From what I saw of the blood
it looked good and dark, m'lady.  She lowered her voice slightly, made
a minute eye gesture toward Angeline's stomach, and said, Is it still
flowing?

Angeline nodded.  She thought for a moment and then sat on the bench
nearest the fire.  Sitting suddenly seemed more appropriate than
standing.

Gerta sighed.  It's menses, then.  I've been hoping against hope that
you would have conceived, but it doesn't look like it's to be.  Her
smile was gentle.  Perhaps next time, m'lady.

Feeling a teeny bit guilty, Angeline nodded some more.

I'm sorry, Gerta, she said.  I did everything you told me.

I know you did, m'lady.  I know you did.  Gerta patted her shoulder.  I
just don't like the thought of you being dragged across the mountains
to Rhaize, that's all.  A military camp is no place for a young lady
like you.

You'll come too, won't you, Gerta?  The idea of travel rug to Izgard's
camp without Gerta was unthinkable.  Gerta might be many things bossy,
nosy, and overly familiar, to name but a few but Angeline cared for her
all the same.  She had grown accustomed to having her around.

Gerta nodded.  Of course I'll come, m'lady, she said in her most
motherly voice.  What sort of lady's companion could I call myself if I
let my lady travel to Rhaize alone, with only guards and horses to
speak to?  As she spoke,

Gerta moved back toward the bed.  Well, I'll just take these sheets to
the laundress and then go and advise Lord Browlach about your
condition.  He'll be wanting to send a message to the king this very
night:

Angeline darted from the bench.  Snowy, whose sole job in this whole
scheme was to guard the red-stained sheet until Gerta left, was nowhere
to be seen.  The little dog was up to his no-good tricks.

Diving into the rapidly diminishing space between Gerta and the bed,
Angeline cried, lease take the sheets downstairs, Gerta.  You go straight
to Lord Browlach and tell him the news.

A moment of silence followed.  Gerta's face registered bewildered
surprise, followed by something that may well have been suspicion.
Angeline's heart beat against her rib cage so hard, she was sure the
old maid could hear it.  The stain on the sheet wasn't blood at all. It
was pigment.  Vermilion ink she had found in a chest in Ederius
scriptorium after she and Gerta had left the courtyard this morning.
Slipped into her bodice, brought to her chamber, and spilled into the
appropriate dip on the bed: it had both the look and feel of blood.

Angeline didn't want to stay in Sem Fortress.  Not for nine months. And
although she wasn't sure whether or not she was pregnant; she was
taking no chances.  If Gerta needed to see blood to let her go to
Rhaize, then blood she would see.  Only now it looked as if she wouldn't
see blood at all.  The pigment may have been the exact same color and
consistency of blood, but it didn't smell the same, and if Gerta got
her hands on it, she would surely be able to tell the difference.

Nonsense, m'lady, Gerta said, pouncing into action.  I can't let you
walk up and down the stairs feeling as you do at the moment.  You need
to lie down, not go running about the fortress with laundry.  With that
she pushed Angeline aside and made a grab for the sheet.

Angeline furrowed her brow, stamped her foot, and willed a clever
excuse to come into her head.  Nothing came.  Her mind was a blank,
Snowy was nowhere to be seen, and Gerta's hand was making a beeline for
the stain.

Cursing her own stupidity, Angeline gritted her teeth and closed her
eyes, preparing to be caught.  Why couldn't she be as clever as other
women?

A second passed.  A soft, sheet-swishing noise came from the bed.  One
of Gerta's old bones cracked as she bent forward.

Angeline couldn't bear to look.  She was in just about the worst
trouble a person could be in.  What would Izgard say when he found out?
Angeline shuddered.  What would he do?

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a finger being poked against a
mattress was followed swiftly by a sharp intake of breath.

Why, that dirty, disgusting dog!  exclaimed Gerta, voice rising to an
indignant squeal.  Snowy!  You come here this minute!

Confused, Angeline opened her eyes.  She had been gritting her teeth so
hard, her jaw ached.

Gerta yanked the sheet from the bed and thrust it toward Angeline. Have
you seen what that no-good dog has done?  she cried.

As Angeline shook her head she caught a strong ammonia whiff in her
nostrils.  The stain on the sheet was larger and pinker than she
remembered it.

That dog of yours has wet the sheet right on the bloodied spot.  Gerta
waved the offending linen in front of Angeline's nose as if it were a
severed head.  It's disgusting.  If you don't start training him soon,
m lady, then by all five gods I will!

Gerta was shaking so hard that all of her various ma idly attachments
chimed together like tinkling bells.  Fuming, she bundled up the sheet
into a loose ball, dog urine and bloodstain packed out of sight in the
center, and stormed toward the door.  If this happens again, she said,
spinning around on the threshold, then I'll get the seneschal to slice
off his tail.  With that she stalked out of the room, one solitary
corner of the sheet trailing behind her like a train.

Angeline stared at the door, stunned.  She was so amazed that she hadn't
been caught out that she could barely take it all in.  Snowy wetting
the bed?

As if aware that his name was being thought of, Snowy waddled out from
under the bed.  He looked about as smug as it was possible for a dog to
look.  Tail up and wagging, he scampered over to his mistress's side.
No-good dog.  No-good dog.

FIFTEEN

awn could offer a thousand shades of gray, and in his time Ravis of
Burano had seen all of eIi them.  As they walked the horses alongside
the

K limestone cliff, the sky was the color of charcoal.  A thin line of
silver cut across the horizon, illuminating clouds of ash, trees of
lead, and hills of naked slate.  Even the mist was gray.  It swirled
around the horses fetlocks, dampemng all that it touched and most of
what it didn t. Ravis could feel it as a dank greasy film next to his
skin, between his thighs and his horse, and deep within his lungs.  It
was everywhere yet nowhere, and there was no way to stop it.  At least
a man could put on a cloak against the rain.

The town is just over that rise hissed Carnron of Thorn.

We could be there in less than an hour.

Ravis nodded.  For the past two hours words had been kept to a minimum.
They were in the valley just northwest of Thorn.  It had taken them two
full nights and a day to reach here, and although most men had slept
for less than five hours during that time, none were drowsy. Even now,
in the thin mists and subdued grays of predawn, all were alert, sitting
forward on their mounts, eyes darting from side to side, hands never
far from the hilts of their swords.

Two men rode half a league ahead of the rest.  Trained scouts brought
in from Istania, they rode horses whose vocal cords had been cut at
birth, lest they whicker at an inopportune moment and give away their
riders position.  Minutes earlier Ravis had noticed a circle of
hoofprints on the trail marking where the scouts had stopped and
dismounted.  A single snippet of leather discarded on the side of the
path was enough to tell Ravis that they had stopped for the express
purpose of binding their horses hooves with cloth.  They were getting
nervous.  And when an Istanian scout got nervous it was wise to be
nervous oneself.

Ravis reined in his horse.  The gelding had been straying away from the
shadows cast by the cliff, following its natural inclination to walk in
the lightest possible path.  Ravis patted its neck, glanced over at the
horizon, then checked the looseness of his sword in its scabbard for
the eighth time in less than an hour.

We'll stop soon, he whispered to Camron.  Wait for the scouts to report
back:

Camron shook his head.  He was riding barely a neck in front of Ravis.
The two horses were so close, their barrels touched from time to time.
We've only got an hour before daylight.  We can't afford to wait.

We can't afford to take any chances, Ravis thought, but didn't say
it.

Something moved in the foliage to the left of the path.  A pair of
geese took to the air, their undersides lit by the broadening light on
the horizon, their wings beating against the mist.

Ravis glanced over at Camron.  That could have been one of Izgard's
harrs lying in wait.  As he spoke, he felt the mist curl along his
tongue.  It tasted of things from the earth.

We need to know what sort of forces we're dealing with before we
approach the town.  Izgard could have two hundred men stationed
there.

I don't see why he would Camron snapped.  Everyone is dead.  The
animals have been slaughtered, the crops have been burned.  Why in God's
name would he set men to guard a derelict town?

Ravis could name several reasons why Izgard would set men to guard
Thorn, yet he chose to disclose only the most obvious one.  It's his
territory now.  From what we've seen so far, I'd say this marks his
deepest thrust into Rhaize, and I tell you now, he won't be prepared to
give it up without a fight.

Camron's face was a gray mask against the cliff side.  His grip on his
reins was too tight.  In the quarter-light of dawn his knuckles showed
up whiter than his eyes.  Seeing them,

Ravis knew anything he said would be ignored: Camron heard only the
cries of the slaughtered inside his head.

Kicking his gelding, Ravis rode on.  The light level was increasing
steadily, and the horses responded to the dawn by becoming restless.
Behind him, he heard a gust of nickering and blowing.  Tack jingled as
a fretful horse pulled against his reins and another shook out his
mane.  The gray mist thinned.  No longer steaming clouds, it formed
itself into thin wisps, then glided toward the earth.

Ravis chewed on his scar.  He didn't like any of this: riding blindly
into enemy territory, not stopping to hear the report from the scouts,
not knowing what, if any, forces they might run into.  They didn't even
have a proper purpose not one they agreed upon, at least.  The only
thing a force this size was good for was spying or sabotage, and
judging from the look on Cainron's face and his white-knuckled grip on
his reins, he plainly wasn't interested in either of those.  He was
spoiling for a fight.

And knowing Izgard, he would probably get one.

Ravis stood on his stirrups and looked back along the column.  Beyond
the four dozen mounted men, deep in the shadows perhaps three-quarters
of a league behind the main party, rode the mercenaries and archers
supplied by Segwin the Ney.  Camron hadn't wanted them riding with him
none of his men did and although Ravis knew he could have forced
Caruron's hand in this matter, he'd chosen not to.  The mercenaries
were exactly where he wanted them: bringing up the rear.

Wheeling round in his saddle, Ravis spotted a smoke trail breaking the
line of the horizon ahead.  A second later he tasted woodsmoke in his
mouth.  Woodsmoke and something else.

Someone's cooking breakfast, hissed Caruron.

Ravis nodded.  Though in truth he wasn't sure if it was breakfast at
all.  Glancing down at the path, he searched for the hoofprints of the
scouts horses.  The light was growing brighter by the minute, and the
two pairs of hoofprints, softened and distorted by the thick cloth
covering that now bound them, were clearly visible to the eye.  Seeing
them, Ravis felt only a small measure of relief.

He couldn't shake off the feeling they were walking into a trap.

They had come within a league of what was, presumably, an occupied town
without seeing any signs of soldiers: no campfires, no camp waste, no
lookouts, no tracks.  And now a single line of smoke had mysteriously
appeared on the horizon, and even as Ravis guessed it was a foil to
lure them away from the path, Camron pulled on his reins and turned his
horse toward it.  The rest of the party followed without a word.

Ravis held his position, letting the men pass him.  He heard their
breath coming sharp and fast, saw faces slick with sweat and backs held
so straight, they had to be in pain.  Plate an nor did that to a man:
wound him up in a tight metal case where every move was weighted, every
breath was forced, and each bead of sweat had nowhere to go and nothing
to do but form a damp haze against the skin.  It was cool now, but the
clouds were clearing and the earth was sucking back the mist, and it
was only a matter of hours before the sun would be up and shining.  By
noon Camron's men would be steaming at the neck.

They had made a short, cheerless camp through the darkest hours of the
night.  No fires lit, no voices raised, no tents to cordon off the
mist.  Some men had chosen to sleep, most had sat in silence polishing
their swords, waiting for the signal to strap on their armor and move.
The mercenaries and archers had made a separate camp on the far side of
the limestone cliffs.  Ravis had ridden over to them.  Handing around
flasks of berriac still warm from being pressed against his horse's
flank, he had run through his last minute instructions.  By the time he
had returned to the main party it was time to up camp and head east.

Hand slipping from his reins to his sword, Ravis scanned the area ahead
as he waited for the rest of Camron's men to pass him by.  The source
of the smoke was unclear: it could be coming from before, or beyond,
the ridge.  In the shifting gray light of dawn, distances were hard to
judge.

Briefly, just before he turned his horse to follow Camron, Ravis
glanced back at the limestone cliff, his gaze traveling upward to the
rocky brow above.  If he were setting a trap, he'd have lookouts
positioned there.

Nothing met his eyes but chunks of jagged rock and bands of thinning
clouds.  Shrugging, he kicked his horse into motion and followed the
rest of the men from the path.

Tessa worked the pounce into the vellum with a small wooden block. Even
so, she managed to get the chalk-and-bread crumb mixture under her
fingernails.  Emith had offered to do the job for her, arguing that
preparing the parchment to take the ink was the work of an assistant,
not a scribe, but Tessa had refused his help.  This was her first real
illumination, and it seemed important to do as much as she could
herself.

She and Emith had stayed up most of the night going over all the rules
and proper procedures for illumination.  The rules seemed strangely
primitive to Tessa: plant forms and animals forms must be kept separate
at all times, every line within an animal pattern must turn out to be
part of an animal, and no matter how fantastically elongated a creature
became as its body formed a latticework of knots across a page, its
various parts had to adhere to the rules of nature: two eyes, four
legs, one tail.  Plant forms had to be seen to come from a source, like
the ground or a pot, and they could not trail arbitrarily around the
page, unattached to the earth.  Colors had to be chosen from nature;
certain forms had to be mirrored on both sides of the page and others
repeated a set number of times.

Tessa had sat in silence while Emith told her all he knew: nodding
occasionally, repeating things back to herself in her head,
concentrating hard on all the details.

At some point during the night the tallow had gone out, and as neither
she nor Emith had made a move to relight a fresh pat, they had spent
several hours in the dark.  As Tessa listened to Emith speaking through
the darkness, her eyes conjured up the lines and forms of Deveric's
illuminations.  Against a black backdrop, she saw green spirals, yellow
ribbons, gold coils, and silver cord.  Her life was caught up in those
angles and x curves, and seeing them there, in the shadows long past
midnight, made Tessa more determined than ever to draw out the truth.

She had to know why she had been brought here.

Do you want to put a stain over the parchment before you begin?  Emith
asked, his voice gentle, as if he had known her thoughts were
elsewhere.  Or are you going to put the pigment straight onto the
pounce?

Tessa looked down at the even, now almost white surface of the vellum.
The chalk and breadcrumbs had raised the nap, making it ready to catch
and absorb the ink.  Emith had ground the pounce coarsely, and the
rough grains of chalk had irritated her skin.  All her fingertips were
red.  One was bleeding.

As she stared at the parchment, its perfect unmarred whiteness began to
look too clean and new, like a child's coloring book waiting to be
filled in with colored crayon.  She needed a more personal beginning
for her first illumination.  The ink should burn into a color of her
choosing.  It suddenly seemed important to exert her control over every
element on the page.

Glancing up through the window to the broadening dawn beyond, Tessa
felt the skin on her scalp tighten minutely.  A headache like pressure
pulsed in her temples as she gazed out at the dull expanse of sky.

Gray, she said softly after a moment.  The vellum should be stained ash
gray.

It took them forty minutes to track down the source of the smoke.  They
rode through row after row of scorched vines, their charred branches
rising from the earth like monstrous many-legged insects, and then down
along a dried-up stream bed and through its accompanying maze of
reeds.

Camron knew every rock, bush, ridge, goat path, and cattle path they
crossed.  He knew the lay of the land, the colors of the trees in full
sunlight, and the quality of wine produced from each particular row of
vines.  This was his home, and as he rode past torched dairy farms and
vineyards, deserted fields and decaying animal carcasses, a hard core
of rage hardened in his gut.  Izgard of Garizon had destroyed his
homeland, his friends, his family, and his life, leaving him nothing
and no one to fight for but his memories and himself.

The column of smoke came from a rocky outcropping at the far side of a
narrow valley.  Chunks of limestone broke through the thin soil around
the slopes, aild pine trees ringed the area, creating a barrier between
the valley and the dawn.  Belts of dim gray light banded the valley as
the sun, still below the horizon, sent ghost light filtering through
the trees.  The ground underfoot was hard.

Strangely enough, the smell of woodsmoke and cooked meat had receded as
they drew nearer to the source.  Perhaps the breeze was blowing in the
opposite direction.  Yet when Camron looked up he saw the smoke rose in
a level line, indicating little or no wind.

Briefly, Ravis words of some fifteen minutes earlier crossed Cainron's
mind.  Take a look around.  We're heading from high ground to low
ground, from an open road to an enclosed valley.  This is a trap, and
we're walking straight into it like fools.

Glancing up at the fringe of rocks and trees enclosing the valley,
Camron had to admit there was something to what Ravis said.  He only
wished it mattered more than it did.  The truth was he had followed the
smoke knowing it could be a trap.  He was in Thorn country now.  He had
come here to fight, and Ravis could advise, plan, and strategize from
dawn to dusk, yet it would do little but postpone the inevitable.

People had died here: good, honest men and women who had loved their
country, respected the land, reared God-fearing children, and taken
pride in their work.  And somehow to approach the place of their death
Jike frightened clerics at dawn, clinging to shadows provided by cliff
sides, accompanied by fore guards rear guards, and mercenaries, seemed
like sacrilege.  The people of Thorn deserved more than that.  They
deserved a tribute from brave fighting men.

Over here!  came a cry, breaking the silence of dawn.

I've found the fire.

Caruron looked ahead at the dense cluster of rocks and bushes that
formed the far side of the valley.  Although he hadn't been aware that
any of his knights had ridden ahead of him, he took a grim pleasure in
discovering that at least one had.  He was not the only man who needed
to fight.

A sharp intake of breath, like a hiss, echoed around the valley.  A
muffled thud followed seconds later.  Hearing it,

Camron kicked his horse into a canter and rode toward the rocks.

The column of knights was close at his heels.  No one was concerned
with silence anymore, and tack jangled, horses whickered, plate armor
cracked, swords rang from scabbards, and curses were spat into the air.
Camron felt his chest muscles tighten.  His mouth was perfectly thy. As
he fell under the shadow of the rocks, Ravis words were like dust in
his mind's eye.  This is a trap, and we're walking straight into it
like fools.... Almost unaware of what he was doing, Cameron shook his
head.  No, not fools.  Brave fighting men.

Even as that thought brought him comfort, his eyes circled the valley's
slopes, searching for signs of movement.

They found the knight's horse roaming loose by a thick heel of
limestone.  The smoke, little more than a wiry gray line now, rose from
the center of a crown of rocks.  They would have to dismount to reach
it.  As Cameron swung his feet down from his horse, he glanced behind
him, looking for Ravis face in the crowd.  He half expected the man to
speak up, telling him that it was pure madness to dismount now, while
they still didn't know what they were dealing with.  No words of
warning came, however, and although Cameron searched, he could find no
sign of Ravis.

A dozen men dismounted along with Cameron, unbuckling shields from
leather pouches, sliding daggers from sheaths, and adjusting grips on
their swords.  One man whispered a prayer.  Another man tapped Camron
on the shoulder and begged to be the first to go in ahead of the troop
to check for dangers.

No Camron said, trying to find words to sum up the way he felt at that
moment.  We must act and be as one in this.

The man nodded and fell in by his side.

Caruron turned to the remaining troop on horseback.

Spread out around the rocks and keep watch until we return.  No man is
to ride so far that he cannot see his companions at his front and his
back.  He waited until all men nodded.  Looking into their faces,
Cameron realized that during the last few minutes the collective mood
had changed.  The troop was no longer merely watchful, it was ready. By
unspoken consent they had decided the time was fast approaching when
they would fight.

May God watch over us, Cameron said, his throat aching as his gaze
passed from man to man, and see fit to lend us His strength and His
light.

The words were a simple enough prayer, spoken by Thorn farmers every mo
ming in the field, whispered by Thorn women to their children every
night; but as he said it, Camron heard it spoken through his father's
voice.  A blessing from the grave.

Abruptly, he turned from the troop.  He couldn't trust himself to say
more.  As if aware of his leader's mood, the young knight who had
begged to go alone into the rocks gave the order to move on.

Cameron headed in the direction of the smoke.  Almost daybreak now, the
light changed by the minute, altering shadows and perspectives. Someone
called out to the knight who had found the fire.  There was no reply.

Up close the rocks were larger than Cameron had first thought.  They
towered above him, blocking the view ahead and casting dark shadows on
already dark ground.  Jagged splinters of stone poked through the earth
like spikes, and Caruron was forced to watch his footing, lest the
soles be ripped from his boots.  Somewhere in the distance water
dripped onto rock.  Hearing the sound, a memory slid into place in
Cameron's mind: he had been here before.  Twenty years ago, when he was
just a boy.  The Valley of Broken Stones.

It had been midwinter and the snow was thigh deep.  A sudden storm had
isolated the entire flock of Long Angrim's sheep, and everyone in Thorn
from Camron and his father to Sterry the clock maker and Bowleg the
village drunk turned out to look for them.  It wasn't done as a great
favor, it was just what people did in the mountains: looked out for
everyone else.  Of the three dozen sheep that were missing, thirty were
swiftly found, huddled together in a high pasture; their bleats drew
the search party to them in less than an hour.  As the morning wore on,
the search was extended westward onto rockier terrain.  Four sheep were
spied high atop a snow-covered cliff, and another was found, scared and
disoriented, skirting the banks of a frozen lake.

With dusk approaching and only one remaining sheep unaccounted for, any
other farmer would have counted himself

lucky, said a prayer to Martyr Assitus, the fabled shepherd who had
died defending his flock, and headed home.  Long Angrim refused to
return until he had found his last sheep.

Eventually, as the sun set over the limestone cliffs, the search party
came to the valley.  As they waded through snow three paces deep, Long
Angrim heard the sound of a sheep bleating.  His flock were like
children to him, and to hear one crying out was more than he could
bear.  Shouting, Papa will be with you soon, he ran ahead toward the
rocks.

Afterward people said it was the snow that killed him.  Blown into
shoulder-deep drifts against the rocks, the snow covered all the sharp
edges of stone with a smooth blanket of white.  Long Angrim, the sound
of his lost sheep ringing in his ears, stepped onto one of the drifts,
expecting the snow to be packed solid.  It wasn t. The snow had formed
into a loose, grainy layer.  And the instant Long Angrim's weight fell
upon it the drift collapsed, sending Long Angrim's body crashing to the
spears of rock below.  His skull was smashed and his spine was broken,
and by the time the search party reached him, he was already dead.  The
lost sheep stood over the body, nuzzling gently at Long Angrim's
hair.

Camron's father hadn't let his son see the body, but Cameron remembered
getting close enough to hear the sound of Long Angrim's blood, dripping
drop by drop onto the chunk of limestone below his neck.

Even back then Cameron had known that the villagers weren't telling the
truth about the real cause of Long Angrim's death.  It wasn't the snow
that killed him.  It was the rocks.

Shivering, Cainron clambered over stone slickened by the retreating
mist.  Rhif!  he called to the missing knight.

Rhif!

This time when there was no reply, Cameron wasn't surprised.

With a dozen men right behind him, Cameron made his way through the
rocks.  As he stepped onto a knuckle of limestone, the faint smell of
charred wood met his nostrils.  Looking ahead, he spied smoke escaping
from a nest of tall, lichen-covered stones.  There was no sign of Rhif.
Running his sword hand through his hair4 Cameron took a deep breath.
Almost against his will he found himself looking over his shoulder,
checking for Ravis of Burano.  No matter how much he disliked the man
he valued his opinions.  And right about now, faced with a situation
that looked benign enough on the surface but his every instinct told
him was dangerous, he could do with the Drokho mercenary's advice.

Ravis was nowhere to be seen.  Although he didn't much feel like it,
Camron shrugged, jumped down from the rock, and made his way forward.

Entering the nest of broken stones was like entering a tomb.  The
temperature dropped along with the light level.  The ground underfoot
was no longer soil; it was solid stone.  A small burned-out campfire
formed the center of the ring.  A few lingering breaths of smoke
escaped from its loosely built timbers.  Cutting toward it, Cameron was
aware of his men, steps behind.

As he drew close, he spied a vaguely familiar shape set amid the
blackened timbers of the fire.  Seeing it, a warning pulsed high in
Caruron's temples; and even as he took the last few steps toward it, he
knew he wouldn't like what he found.

It was a human forearm, burned black near the elbow where it had been
thrust into the fire.  Cameron would not have been able to recognize it
for what it was, had it not been for the fact that the hand had barely
been touched by the flames.  It protruded from the charred, smoking
firewood like a salute from the underworld.  All the fingernails had
been removed, and the index finger had been crooked into a slyly
beckoning curve.

Swallowing hard, Cameron tried to look away.  Something caught his
eyes, though, some tiny little detail on the hand.  A gold ring resting
at the base of the fourth finger; an amethyst stone sparkling in its
center like alizard's eye.  Cameron recognized the ring immediately.
The man who wore it had been the first to show him how to handle and
care for his sword.  His father's second at Mount Creed.  Monas the
Bald.

Cameron's stomach turned.  He bit down on his lip, right down until his
teeth pressed against bone and his mouth filled up with blood.  What
had the harras done to him?  Why had they left part of him here to
burn?  Cameron fell onto his hands and knees and pulled the arm from
the fire.  He couldn't bear to see it there amid the burned timber and
ash.

That was when he smelled it.  The foul animal stench from the night his
father died.  The stench of blood and sweat and urine decomposing
within warm fur.

Smelling it, Cameron felt himself falling into a deep black pit where
the sides were formed from a coven of shadows and the bottom was
amethyst wax.  He was in his father's study again.  Men who weren't men
at all glided around the room like witches.  And no matter how hard he
tried, how fast he ran, and how loud he shouted, the dagger still slid
into his father's chest.

May God help us all: came a cry to Camron's left.

Camron blinked back to the present.  His breath was coming in short,
quick bursts.  His hands were shaking, and something deep within his
chest ached like an old wound.  He felt lost.

We've found Rhif came a second cry.

Cameron struggled back to the present.

From the tone of the second man's voice, he guessed that what the men
had found wasn't Rhif at all.  It was his body.  Adjusting his grip on
his sword, Camron pulled himself upright.  The animal stench had gone.
All he could smell now was charred timbers and burned flesh.  His mind
must be playing tricks on him.

Walking over in the direction the shouts had come from, Cameron tried
hard to control the beating of his heart.  He had to appear calm and in
control before his men.

He found the men just outside the nest of stone, gathered around Rhif's
body.  Their faces were grim.  Hands were bunched into knots.  Lips
moved, in prayer or warding, Cameron didn't know.  Seeing their leader
approach, they parted, allowing Cameron a clear view of Rhif of Hamster's
body.

He thought he was prepared to see the worst.  He thought after what he
had seen in his father's study and what he had found on the fire,
nothing would shock or surprise him.

He was wrong.

Rhif wasn't dead.  Not quite, not yet.  The skin on his chest had been
torn off, and the chest cavity had been ripped open.  The rib cage had
been pried apart, and flesh and muscle had been scraped away to allow a
clear view of the heart.  It was still pumping.  Rhif's eyes were open,
and his breath came in powerless gasps.  The muscles in his right hand
contracted involuntarily, and a small wound in his leg dripped blood
onto the ground.  The fabric of his britches was soaked in urine.

Cameron closed his eyes.  His throat felt raw.  The air in his lungs
felt as heavy as water.  Taking a quick breath, he fought back the
memory of racing down the stairs in Castle Bess and finding Hum's
nephew laid out on the bottom step.

This wasn't about him now.  It was about this young man who had wanted
to fight so much, he'd ridden ahead of the troop.

Cameron knelt beside him.  Dimiy he was aware of someone saying the
Lord's True Prayer.  Rhif's eyes were dark with pain.  He was trying
hard not to look frightened.  Cameron took hold of his right hand,
gripping hard to still the spasms.  There were many things he could say
to him just then questions about what happened, where his attackers had
come from, how many there were what weapons they had.  Yet he chose to
ask nothing.  Instead he moved his whole body close to Rhif s, hugging
the young man to his chest, and murmured, May the Lord take and
cherish you; May you find your way home.  May your deeds be neither
forgotten nor in vain, and may you rest in eternity knowing your loved
ones could not have loved you more.  With that Camron took his knife
from his sheath and slit the arteries leading to Rhif's heart.  Laying
down beside him, he held him tight until the last breath left his
lips.

The men above were silent, swords pointing toward the earth, eyes
closed.

When the contractions stopped, Cainron let go of the young man's hand.
Leaning over, he laid a single kiss on his cheek.  Strangely, he felt
calm.  The words he had spoken had been wrapped around his heart since
the night his father died.  Now, finally, they had been said.  Not for
his father-they had always been too late for his father but somehow
that didn't matter anymore.  The words had been said and a brave young
man had heard them, and that was, surprisingly, enough.

Camron stood.

A sharp breeze cut from the east.

The stench of animal excretia caught in Carnron's nostrils.

Thinking his senses were failing him, he glanced at the nearest man.

Something reeks around here, the knight said.

Even as the words left his mouth, the nature of the dawn changed.

The air was filled with harsh, animal braying.  Hundreds of torches
blistered to life, creating a ring of fire around the valley and the
stones.  Swords rang.  Horses squealed.  Hooves drummed over rock.

The shadows of the stones seemed to come to life, and dark forms slid
from even darker recesses, knives catching, then reflecting, the sun's
first rays.  They came from everywhere from beneath rocks the troops
had scrambled over, behind bushes they had walked past, and from the
trees they had leaned against to catch their breath or lace their
boots.

More and more poured from the rocks, the valley's slopes, the periphery
of the broken stones.  Within seconds they were everywhere, like a
spill of black oil.  Cloaked and dressed in darkest gray, they seemed
to crawl from the very earth itself.  Swords held high at their
shoulders, they stalked rather than moved.  Their shoulder movements
were strangely fluid, and their heads remained level as they drew
close.  Cloaks whipped from side to side, eyes darted, mouths were
open, revealing notched pink gums, white in places where the bone and
roots pressed against the surface.  Saliva, thick as mucus, flashed
between crowded teeth.

The foul animal stench of meat left rotting in a lair was overpowering.
It caught in Cameron's throat, making his gorge rise.

The harras brought a hail of light and shade.  Their torches robbed the
dawn of its glory, creating a fistful of shadows for each man and
standing stone.

The smell.  The shadows.  The light.  Thin blades, bared teeth, gums
like animal vertebrae in their mouths.  Cameron swallowed bile.  He
gripped the hilt of his sword so hard, veins broke in the meat of his
hand.

It was the night his father had died all over again.

That terrible, damning night.

Cameron looked at his men and saw they were ready.  He looked at the
body of Rhif of Hamster and saw a man at peace.  The cam age of his
flesh was nothing compared to the expression on his face.  It was faith
Camron saw nestling there between Rhif's eyelids and his mouth.

Pure, unquestioning faith.

Caruron felt a weight so heavy on his heart, he was sure it would
break.  Every man here was his father, son, and brother.  And if he
couldn't save them, he would go down with them, and a terrible wrong
created the night his father died would finally be redressed.

He should have died saving him.

With the harras calling to each other in their howling half animal
voices, and the stench of animal waste and naphtha soaked torches heavy
in the air, Cameron called out the order to take up positions.

The enemy was a dark fluid line spilling closer as, without a word
being passed between them, a dozen men formed a circle around the body
of Rhif of Hamster.

The ruling and lead pointing was done now.  A gray-washed leaf of
vellum, stiff from being dried on the hearth, lay waiting beneath Tessa's
hand.  As she looked at it, she was aware of her stomach muscles
contracting in a long-drawn-out wave.  She felt sick with
anticipation.

Here's the first one, miss, Emith said, handing her a bone-and-sable
brush.  I'll oil a finer one next, just in case.

Tessa nodded.  She couldn't speak.  Already, in the seconds between
finishing the ruling and Emith handing her the brush, the world had
started falling away.  Behind her back and to her sides, she felt
shadows railing her in.  As she dipped the brush into the gleaming,
viscous blackness of pitch and lampblack pigment, she felt the room
around her contract to a single square of light.  The vellum, her
hands, the pigment, and the brush were all that mattered now.  Even the
air felt heavy on her fingers, as if that had contracted, too.

Emith was speaking, perhaps giving last minute advice or first-time
encouragement, but Tessa could no longer understand what he said.  His
words were so much dust in the ink.

The knuckles in Tessa's right hand cracked as she drew the paintbrush
down toward the page.  The loaded tip trailed a line of purest, deepest
black onto the vellum.  Tessa imagined she heard the pigment hiss as it
settled against the chalk.

With a practiced flick of her wrist, she sent the line curving upward
toward a guide mark on the top left-hand corner of the page.  The
movement was swift, and Tessa could feel the brush gathering speed, see
the pigment racing behind.  Halting the trajectory of the brush, she
used the built-up momentum to send a wide band of ink flaring on the
page.  Brush freshly dipped, she then sent a curve spiraling downward
to the baseline ruled in lead.

As the brush moved in her grip in a series of slow, repetitive loops,
and the pigment slid from the tip in a succession of ever-thickening
lines, Tessa felt her head begin to spin.  Her stomach contracted
sharply.  The skin on her scalp bris tIed as if a thousand tiny insects
were crawling through her hair.  The brush slid in her hand, sweat
oiling the grip.

She caught a whiff of woodsmoke and something else.  Before she could
identify it, it was gone.

The black curves drew her in like a beckoning hand.  Thick, shiny, and
guarded, they promised secrets if she would follow their path.  Tessa's
eyes and hand moved as one.  She felt her physical self dimming to a
silhouette of lines.  A flutter of panic rose in her chest, but the
urge to keep painting was too strong and she half swallowed, half
willed it away.  The brush turned, pigment flowed, spirals uncoiled
like silk from a reel.  Leadpoint lines and pinpricks glowed against
the gray: no longer simply guidelines, they were a roadmap to another
world.

A soft noise hummed in her head, but she ignored it.  It was a ghost
attack of tinnitus, that was all.  Deveric, his fine haired brush, and
his even finer ink were no longer here anymore.  They couldn't do
anything to stop her.  Not this time.  Not here and now.  Not ever,
ever, again.

From now on she could do what she wanted.

Feeling a mad rush of adrenaline, Tessa pushed the brush across the
page.  A skitter of sound grazed her eardrums: harsh metal clanging
muffled by stone.  She tried to focus her mind upon it, but the noise
trailed away like smoke.

Down she went, down deep into the vellum with the lamp black and the
pitch; down to where the pigment seared the hide, and the bristles
touched flesh, and the page gave birth to the design.  Tessa's head
spiraled with the brush.  Her thoughts soared with the ink.  Catching a
glimpse of the landscape that lay beyond, through, and behind the
design, she began mirroring the pattern on the right-hand side of the
page.  This time there was no going back.

As her brush turned curve after curve, the shadowy territory beyond the
design grew clearer.  A pool glinted darkly in the center.  Almost
unaware of what she was doing, Tessa took a second brush from Emith's
outstretched hand, dipped its tip into niello ink, and began painting
knots.  A string of XXXs wove their way off the brush as Tessa moved
closer to the pool.  The landscape was a construction of shadows and
shadings.  Not really a landscape at all anymore, rather a series of
lifting veils.  Black, gauzy, and infinitely thin, they rose from the
illumination like fumes from the paint.

Suddenly uneasy, Tessa bit on her lip.  Just like Ravis, she thought.

She tasted blood in her mouth.  Or was it the ink?  Both tasted of
copper and salt.

The line between what she was, and what she was painting, began to fade
away.  A shiver passed down her spine.  A cool breeze brushed against
the left side of her face.  The smell came again.  And this time Tessa
recognized it at once: the stench from the night on the bridge.

The rangy, spoiled-meat odor of the harras.

Blood, ink, whatever it was, turned to powder in Tessa's mouth.
Something soft and malleable pulled at her stomach, causing a sickening
hollow to form beneath her lungs.  The dark, shifting forms of the
harras knives held at shoulder height, knuckled gums wet and dripping
fixed themselves in Tessa's mind.  Their images passed along her body
to her fingers, where they became slants in the brush strokes  Shadows
in the ink.

A spine of knots spilled from the brush, propelling Tessa further,
deeper, into the world on the other side.  Tinnitus rang its ghost
chimes in her head, as the harras cloaks formed a whipping, undulating
pathway to the pool.  Panic began to beat in Tessa's temples, and this
time she couldn't will it away.  Her scalp felt as tight as a
bowstring.  She didn't want to go, didn't want to see, but the patterns
kept spinning from her fingertips, illuminating the way.

Remember Deveric, she told herself.  Remember what he did.

Grinding her teeth, Tessa forced an image of the damning gray spirals
to come before her eyes.  Lines as fine and abundant as facial hair
that had held her back most of her life.  Twenty-one years she had been
misused and manipulated, and now she had a chance to find out why.

She could and would take that one last step.

Be careful, miss.  Please don't go too far.  Emith's voice was a vague
undertone.  By the time he'd finished speaking, Tessa had forgotten
what he said.

Through the pigment, vellum, and chalk she moved, down to somewhere
deeper, darker, and immeasurably distant, far on the other side.

While her mouth counted knots and her eye controlled the brush, Tessa
McCarnfrey entered the design.  A shearing sensation passed along her
body, and the tissue lining her nose and throat became sharply and
suddenly dry.  Taking a running man's breath, she forced her way
through to the pool that lay at the heart.  Human cries and animal
cries and sounds of fighting followed her.  The smell of the harras no
longer tantalized, it overwhelmed.

As she moved forward, Tessa was overcome with the feeling that she was
walking into familiar territory after all.  She knew this place, or at
least the feel of it.  The darkness was as warm as her belly and as
soft as her skin.  On the vellum, her hand worked its magic, drawing a
warren of predatory lines.  Another dip into the ink, one final knotted
X, and Tessa found herself at the pool's edge.  Taking a deep breath,
she leaned forward and looked into its black, glassy depths.

She saw nothing but her own face staring back.

She should have been surprised.  But she wasn t. Some small part of
her had already guessed the truth.  She hadn't stepped into some
fantastic otherworld, summoned up by sorcery or sleight of hand.  She
had withdrawn inside herself.

Slowly Tessa's head began to shake.  Deveric had used tinnitus not only
to manipulate her, he had used it to mask who she was.  By preventing
her from concentrating, from thinking too deeply and going too far, he
had kept a portion of her mind locked away.  Something inside of her
had been cordoned off: out of sight, out of use.  Out of mind.

No, she murmured, not knowing if the words were thought or spoken.  No.
Slamming her palm upon the vellum, she stamped her fingerprints in the
ink.  What had given Deveric the right to interfere with her life?
What?

Miss!  Miss!  Are you all right?  Please speak to me.  Please.  Even
though Emith's voice seemed to come from far away, Tessa could tell he
was genuinely distressed.  Hearing the concern in his voice helped calm
her down.  Emith and his mother cared about her, and she cared about
them.  Deveric and his patterns may have robbed something from her, but
his assistant had given something back.

I'm fine, Emith, she said slowly, her tongue almost a stranger in her
mouth.

Emith's hand brushed her shoulder.  I think you should stop now, miss.
Come and sit by the fire and rest.

Tessa shook her head.  The brush was already back in her hand.  She had
to return to the place she'd just found.  Follow the stench of the
harras and the clashing of their knives, and discover why she had been
brought here.

Running the brush along the page, she said, Pass me the blood red
pigment, Emith.  This pattern isn't finished yet.

SIXTEEN

if he harrar's gold-cast eyes appraised him.  Saliva dripped from its
dog-toothed maw as it swept closer with the pack.  Back bent, shoulders
crouched, it swayed from side to side as it moved.  A thin knife held
at chest height projected from its leather body armor like a spike.  It
was no longer recognizable as a man.  Its nose was flattened and
streamlined like a snout.  Its cheeks were bone-hard hollows, and its
eyes were slits.  It didn't blink.  As it padded over ridges of rock
and twisted fists of brushwood, its gaze never left Camron for an
instant.

It smelled like a butchered carcass, the gamy odor of blood no longer
fresh, mixed with the harsh ammonia tang of stale urine and the cloying
ripeness of fecal matter.

The knife it held was unclean.  A dark stain ran along the edge, and
something white and loose, like a gob of animal fat, clung to the blade
near the hilt.

As Camron watched, the harrar let out a low, yelping sound.  Others
responded, and within seconds the Valley of Broken Stones rang with the
sounds of their calls.  The air bris fled  The sun rose.  Golden eyes
glinted with hunger and need.  Cameron swallowed hard.  The sword in
his hand the twice fired lead-weighted steel falchion his father had
given him as a naming gift felt as light and flimsy as a bamboo cane.

By his side the troop held their circle, waiting for the harras to
approach.  Lured, trapped, and surrounded: there was nothing else they
could do.

Smoke from the harras torches formed a swirling, noxious haze around
the rocks.  Camron felt his eyes watering.  Behind him, one of his men
began to cough.  Paces away now,

the harms didn't move as much as spill over the remaining space. Cloaks
cracking behind them like bullwhips, they drew a writhing black ring
around the troop.  Camron watched the face of the hanar whom he knew
without question had come to kill him.  There were many things he had
expected to see shining in the creature's eyes, yet cunning wasn't one
of them.  It was there, though: cold, calculated cunning.

Cainron shuddered.  The harms weren't animals after all.

Even as Camron forced his body to still, the harras fell on the troop.
Blades hacking downward, teeth bared and dripping, they shot forward as
a single, unified mass.

Camron sucked in air.  Swinging his sword in a mighty half circle
around his chest, he stepped forward to meet the monsters who had
slaughtered his father.

His blade glanced against the first harrar's knife.  Metal screeched.
The gob of animal fat on the creature's blade was sliced in two. Before
Camron had a chance to draw back his sword for a second blow, the
harrar's knife was already on its way down again.  As a reflex action,
Camron raised his left forearm to protect his face.  The harrar's blade
blistered down on the steel gauntlet, puncturing the plate with a
soft-metal hiss.  Serrated edges of steel gouged Camron's flesh.  The
blade tip jabbed against his wrist bone.  Grinding his teeth together,
Camron forced himself to swallow the pain.

In the half second it took the harrar to free his knife from the metal
trap of the gauntlet, Camron sent his sword hacking into the soft flesh
of the creature's side.  The harrar's eyes widened.  Its jaw unclenched
and its spiked yellow teeth sprang apart.  A breath of foul air escaped
from its mouth as it let out an explosive sigh.  Springing forward, it
threw its entire body against Caruron.

Blood sprayed Camron's hands and cheeks.  The harrar's knife was like a
machine: up and down it went in a single hacking line.  The hairs on
the back of Camron's neck prickled.  His skin felt like a heavy cloak
weighing his body down.  He was so close to the harrar, he could smell
its breath, see the gray cast of its skin, and feel the terrible,
unnatural heat from its body.

It wasn't going to stop until it was dead.

Weighing his sword across his chest, Camron used it as a shield.  To
either side of him, he heard the grunts and ragged breaths of his men.
The dark forms of the harras bore down upon the troop, always moving
forward, never back.  Ahead, he could see more still coming.  Cloaks
snapping, knives raised, wasp eyes glinting black and gold, they poured
down the valley's slope toward the rocks.  There was no end of them.

Briefly Caruron wondered what had happened to the three dozen men who
had been left on the other side of the rocks.  Not liking what his mind
showed him, he pushed the thought aside.

A second harrar came to back up the one Caruron was fighting.  Covering
his partner's wounded flank, he slashed at Caruron's sword arm, rib
cage, and thighs.  A low growl sounded deep in his throat as he fought,
and his buckled maw clenched and unclenched as if he were crunching
invisible bones between his teeth.

Cameron was forced to step back.  Making quick sweeping motions with
his blade, he moved side on to the two harras, giving them less of a
target to aim for.  There was blood in his eye he didn't know whether
it was the harrar's or his own.  His left wrist felt as if scalding
water had been poured on it.  Blood pumped through the puncture hole in
the gauntlet, spilling down his arm and onto the rocks below.

The sun slanted upward through the trees.  Caruron could feel its
warmth on his shoulders and the back of his neck.  The smell of burning
grass was carried on the breeze.  Grass and something else.  Camron
switched his mind back to the fight.  It was yet another thing that
didn't bear thinking about.

The long, thin knives of the harras were no match in size or weight for
the troops broadswords, yet that hardly seemed to matter.  The harras
were fast faster than any fighters Camron had ever known and their
leather armor kept them light on their feet.  They lashed out with
deadly, unstoppable focus.  They wanted blood, and nothing, absolutely
nothing, was going to stop them from getting it.

To Cameron's left, a man went down.  A harrar's blade punctured his
breastplate above his heart, and he stumbled forward, breaking the
circle formed by the troop.  As Caruron sent his sword glancing in a
series of defensive broad strokes he watched as half a dozen harras
fell on the wounded knight.  Saliva frothed between their teeth,
spilling down their jaws in thick, viscous strings.  Long knives
flashed in the sunlight as they hacked away at the downed man.  Arm
raised above his face to shield himself, the man was helpless to stop
them slicing away at the exposed flesh of his forearm, neck, and
throat.

Get up, Camron willed him between gritted teeth.  Get

The knight didn't respond.

Ravis words filtered through Caruron's mind: I've seen too many men die
because they were wearing full armor and couldn't right themselves
after a fall

A wave of anger swept over Camron and he lashed out with his sword. The
blow caught the wounded harrar in the center of his flank, slicing
through muscle and kidney tissue.  Even before the creature could
react, Caruron switched his grip on the leather-bound hilt, adjusting
it so the blade was facing inward toward himself, and sent the pommel
of his sword smashing into the second harrar's snout.  Bone cracked,
teeth caved, blood spilled down from its nostrils.  As the creature
stumbled back, Camron switched his attention to the wounded harrar. 
Sword whirling in his hand, he regained his grip on the hilt, and using
the built-up momentum of the blade to add power to the blow, he hacked
at the harrar's throat.  He felt the blade go in, yanked it out, and
then moved swiftly sideways toward the downed knight.

By all the gods, he was going to make him get up!

Blood stung his eyes.  Trapped sweat steamed beneath his armor.  The
muscles in his sword arm ached with the strain of wielding his sword.
AM around him, he was aware of the changing nature of the battle.  His
troop was tiring.  No longer grunting, thrusting, and parrying; breaths
came quick and shallow as they held their swords close to their chest.
Faces were red and dripping sweat.  Slowly, step by step, they backed
inward in an ever-decreasing circle toward Rhif of Hamster's body.

Hacking a path toward the downed man, Cameron risked casting a glance
over the dark, mewling forms of the harras.  Teeth glinting, chests
pumping: they were just getting started.

Sword slashing Xs in the air around his torso, Camron approached the
pack that had fallen on the wounded knight.  The man's armor straps had
been cut, and the harras were busy tearing off his breastplate.  The
leather ailettes over his shoulders and upper arms, and the cuisses
protecting his thighs had been sliced to ribbons.  The harras clawed at
the remaining armor, tearing at the padded undershirt beneath in their
eagerness to get at flesh.

There was a lot of blood.  The knight's helmet had come off, and two
harras were stabbing at his head, ears, and throat.  The knight's arm
was still up, protecting what he could of his face.  The arm itself was
a bloodied mass of raw meat, the gauntlet long since cut away.

Cameron bore down on the pack.  He saw them through a red haze of blood
and anger.  That could have been any one of the Thorn villagers lying
there, defenseless, unable to stand against the savage frenzy of the
harras.  It could have been his father, that night in Castle Bess.

Not caring anymore about protecting his back and sides, Cainron took
swings at anything that was in front of him.  Again and again his sword
came down, on limbs, shoulders blades, skulls, and breastbones.  The
harras were monsters.  Monsters.

If blades cut into his flesh, he didn't feel them.  If the harras cried
out to each other in warning or support, he no longer heard their
calls.  All that mattered was getting to the downed man and pulling him
away from their black, nightmare clutches.  His sword was an angel in
his hand: flashing silver in the sunlight, it formed a protective halo
of steel around his chest.  Cutting a path through razored teeth and
spiked blades, he stepped through blood and viscera toward the clearing
where the injured knight lay.  Keeping the wall of lashing, furious
harras at bay with his sword, he held out his left hand toward the
man.

Come, he said, the words stinging the raw flesh of his throat.  Fall in
behind me.  I'll keep you safe as long as I can.

The knight grasped Cameron's hand.  His flesh was hot, sticky with
blood, yet never had a single touch meant so much or felt so good. With
one mighty tug, Camron pulled the man to his feet.  Even before he was
fully upright, Camron stepped in front of him, shielding him from the
harras blades.

Step back into the circle, Caruron murmured, eyes aching, lungs
burning.

The knight didn't move.

Puzzled, Camron glanced over his shoulder to the circle at his rear.

A fist of lead twisted in his stomach.  The steam in his armor turned
to ice.

There was no circle.  The troop was gone.  The harras were everywhere
he looked: dark, eager, triumphant.  A high-pitched cry rippled through
the pack as they moved forward for the kill.

The paintbrush became a dead weight in Tessa's hand.  All the silver
ink was used up.  There was no more left: not on the brush, or in the
shell, or in the glazed pot Emith used for mixing.

A band of pain ringed Tessa's forehead.  She felt as if metal plates
were being pushed against her temples, only they weren't really her
temples at all.

She was there.  With Camron amid the rocks.  She could smell his sweat,
taste the blood in his mouth, feel the pressure building in his
temples.  Her stomach churned with his.  The wet-fur stench of the
harras was all around her, yet at the same time it was nowhere at all.
Her hands, which had stayed so steady through everything, through what
seemed like hours of painting and concentration, shook for the first
time against the page.  She felt drop-dead tired.

Then again, perhaps she wasn't tired at all.  Perhaps she was feeling
Caruron's exhaustion as if it were her own.

She had drawn herself to this battle.  To a valley she had never seen
before in her life, to a forest of broken stones.  The harras smell and
the ringing of their blades had been her paper trail.  She had followed
their tracks on the vellum, sent ink curling into the imprints left by
their footsteps, painted an interlace of key work tiles to pave herself
a road.

She had even drawn the harras themselves.  Carbon and gallic acid ink,
dimmed minutely with sulfur, then thinned once more with stale urine,
had been their medium.  The black pigment had a yellow cast where it
caught the tallow's light.  Its fumes stung Tessa's eyes.  Even though
she knew in her mind the harras were men, she painted them as
four-legged creatures with dog's snouts, claws, and thick, muscular
tails.

Quadrupeds, Emith had called them, his voice sounding oddly strained.

The pattern was not pretty.  A graveyard of bleak colors ran across the
page: grays, charcoals, blacks, deep reds, and cold, fleshless blues.
It was almost as if the colors weren't really colors at all, more
shadows cast by pigments after dark.  Looking at them, Tessa felt her
mouth go dry.  What had Deveric drawn her into?  What was she, Tessa
McCamfrey, doing sitting here creating these monstrous designs?

All of a sudden she wanted very much to go home.

Running a finger along the edge of the vellum, Tessa sighed.  The
breath ached in her throat as it came out.  How could she return home,
though?  Even if the ring could take her back, how could she leave
Camron among the rocks, with the harras closing in on him and the man
whose life he had just saved?

Tessa turned the paintbrush in her hands.  She had drawn the pattern in
search s-f answers, yet it had only raised more questions instead.  She
knew how she'd got here; how she had drawn herself a path along the
vellum; and how the path didn't really lead outward at all, but rather
inward toward herself.  Yet she didn't know how to affect anything. She
was just an observer, that was all.  She couldn't change anything. She
didn't know how to.

A bead of sweat trickled down Tessa's temple.  Curving inward with the
line of her cheek, it ran into her mouth.  It tasted of bad things.
Tessa shivered.  Her vision of Caruron was already beginning to fade
away.  She could hold on to it only as long as the brush pushed pigment
across the page.

What can I do, Emith?  she asked, not really sure how much Emith knew
of what she was doing or where she had been.  How can I change what the
pattern shows me?

The air above her left shoulder shifted as Emith shook his head.  I don't
know, miss.  I don't know.

The bone brush snapped in Tessa's hand.  Splinters punctured the meat
of her thumb muscle.  There has to be something.  Think.  Think

Emith's hand brushed her shoulder.  Come away, miss.  Leave the pattern
now while you're

While I'm what?  Tessa cried.  While I'm still safe?

With every second that passed, Caruron and the battle were sliding away
from her.  She felt as though she were deserting him.  Even though
Emith was busy explaining what he had really meant to say, Tessa cut
him short.  I need a new brush and more pigment.  I'll use whatever
colors you have left.  Knowing her words sounded harsh, she added,
Emith, someone is in great danger.  I can't leave the pattern now.  I
can t?

Emith made a soft sound in his throat.  She could tell he didn't
approve of what she was doing, yet he handed her a new brush all the
same.  Tessa felt bad she knew he was worried because he cared about
her but she had to carry on.  All her life she had shirked involvements
and responsibility, but she couldn't go on doing that anymore.  Things
were different now.  SIZe was different.

There was no walking away this time.

This is the only pigment I have left, Emith said, sliding a shell of
gold ink along the tabletop.  I'll mix up some more while you work.

Tessa nodded.  She wasn't surprised at the color of the pigment:
everything in this world began and ended with gold.  After dipping her
brush into the ink, she trailed the loaded tip onto the page.  This
time when the pigment touched the vellum it didn't hiss, it sizzled.

Ederius stopped in mid brush stroke  A sharp pain raked along his brow
bone, just above his eyes.  His vision blurred.  The ink on his brush
pooled onto the page.

What is it?  hissed Izgard.

The words made Edenus flinch.  He had forgotten his king was at his
side.  Nothing, sire, he said quickly, bringing his left hand up to his
forehead.  The greater, duller pain of the slowly mending bone in his
shoulder canceled out the pain in his brow.  A muscle cramp, that is
all.

What is happening in the Valley of Broken Stones?  Izgard's breath fell
like cold mist on Ederius ear.  His fingertips hovered a moth's wing
above Ederius face, not touching the skin itself, only the raised
hairs.  Oh, he wanted to touch more Ederius knew just how much his king
loved to touch those he considered his yet even he dared not interrupt
an Anointed-trained scribe at his work.  Even now, five hundred years
past the golden age of the isle and its scribes, The stories and rumors
still retained a power all their own.

People had died, they said.

Men had burned.

Ederius smiled, but even though it was his first in twenty one days,
there was no joy in it.  People were right to be afraid.  There was
power.  Not in the ink, or the parchment, or the designs, but in the
act of creation itself.  When the ink burned into the vellum in a
well-practiced curve, when a scribe's vision of a pattern took form
upon a page, and when a thousand years of tradition gave rise to
something new, a summons was sent out into the overwrld.  Power was
demanded.  And those scribes who had the ability to sense and accept it
could shape themselves a weapon, or a shield, or an ivory tower from
its fabric.  They could bring their weight to bear on lives that were
not their own.

Ederius never questioned where the power came from.  He had stopped
asking himself hard questions the day Izgard slaughtered Gamberon on
the hillside east of Sirabayus.  It was how he survived from day to
day.  It was how he lived with the choices he had made.

Another spasm clawed across his temples.  Vision blurred by many
different types of pain, Ederius looked down at the design he had
created.  He didn't see the page itself as much as a fine tapestry of
meshing, vibrating lines.  Something wasn't right.  The pattern was
being interfered with in some way: a faint tremor resonated in the
background like an imtant.  A fly in the ink.  Aware that Izgard's gaze
was upon him, Ederius tried to give nothing away.

He didn't succeed, for Izgard's breath plumed cold across his neck once
more.  What is it, Ederius?  Tell me what is wrong.

Ederius shook his head.  I don't know, sire.  As he spoke he cleaned
his brush of gray ink, then reached for the deepest, blackest pigment
in his palette: pulverized jet and obsidian in a binding of mineral
pitch.  Dense, gleaming, and razor edged; minute slivers of volcanic
glass were suspended in the mix.

I don't want anything going wrong this time, Izgard whispered into
Ederius ear.  His breath smelled of sweet things turning sour in an
absence of light.  This trap has been planned for too long.  The town
was taken for one purpose alone: to lure Cameron of Thorn and his
latest hireling here for a fight.  I want both of them dead now both of
them.  Thorn was given a warning and he chose not to heed it, and that
wasn't only his mistake, it was mine.  I should have had him killed the
same night as his father.

And as for Ravis of Burano Izgard's hand shot from Ederius face down
toward his desk.  By the time it slammed into the wood, it was a fist.
That man will find himself well received in hell.

Izgard's voice was a distant murmur.  Ederius heard the hate but little
else.  His mind was smoldering with the ink.  Borne inward and
downward, his thoughts raced along a well-worn trail to the valley and
the battle to the east.  Izgard kept speaking, and as his emotions
suited Ederius purpose well enough, the scribe let him be.  Something
wasn't right and his job was to fix it, and if that meant destroying
whatever was interfering with his design, then so be it.  A master
scribe had to master so much more than mixing pigments and drawing
lines.

Blood pounded through Cameron's veins.  His chest was pumping so hard,
it pushed against the metal plate above his heart.  Sweat poured down
his neck and his chest, running in rivulets beneath his armor before
hissing, then turning to steam.  Wounds in his legs, side, arms, and
neck blistered with white-hot pain.  Evely breath he took scorched his
lungs.  His sword was glued to his palm by dried blood, and as he
wielded it before the harras, his grip had never been surer, and strike
after strike landed true.

Broc of Lomis, the knight he had pulled free from the pack of harras,
was at his back.  Not only had the man managed to stand, but he'd also
found the strength to lift his blade.  His right arm was unusable, but
he could do enough with his left arm to keep the harras at bay.

Just knowing he was there, behind him, his torn shoulder plates
brushing against his own, gave Camron a feeling of well-being.  He wasn't
alone in this.

The sun was working for them.  Oblique morning light shone directly
onto the harms faces.  Cameron could see the gold filaments in their
pupils and the fine saliva strands between their teeth.  Their jaws
worked furiously as they fought: palates grinding, lips spreading,
tongues lashing in mouths that seemed too small for the fist of gums
and teeth they contained.

Cameron's sword never stopped it couldn t. The constantly moving edge
was the only thing that stopped the harras from tearing him limb from
limb.  He and Broc stood a head above them on a smooth shoulder of
rock.  All torches had burned out now, and the smoke had long
dispersed.  The spoiled-meat stench of the harras was the only thing
that marred the air.

The other knights were nowhere to be seen.  As he fought, Camron tried
to pick out their forms amid the dark, milling mob.  He hadn't spotted
them yet, but it didn't stop him looking or hoping.  Perhaps somehow
they had managed to escape.

Whether it was the effect of being dazzled by the light or something
else, Cameron couldn't tell, but for some reason the harras were
beginning to slow.  They were becoming more wary of his blade, giving
it a wider berth on the thrusts, and hesitating before springing
forward after withdrawals.  Even their features seemed to be shifting.
As Cameron looked on, the gold light in their eyes wavered and their
lips fell slack over their gums.  They began to look more like men.

A breeze suddenly picked up from the west, and Camron got his first
whiff of fresh air since dawn.  Risking a glance over his shoulder, he
locked gazes with Broc of Lomis.  Broc didn't smile events were too far
gone for that but his hazel eyes were no longer filled with fear.

He sensed it, too.  The harras were beginning to fail.

Grasping the hilt of his sword in both hands, Cameron hefted it high
above his head, ignoring the ripping, straining muscles in his arms and
chest.  Even though he knew hope was a reckless luxury he couldn't
afford, he couldn't stop himself from being filled with it.  Perhaps
somehow, by the grace of God, they just might get out of this.

Tessa painted with a mad, intense fury.  She didn't know what she was
doing, or how she was doing it; she just knew she had to keep pigment
pumping onto the page at all costs.  Everything depended on it.

Her head ached.  The muscles in her arm felt as if they were being
clawed by some invisible sharp-nailed beast.  Her left hand was numb
from supporting the weight of her chin for so long.  Behind her, Emith
mixed up pigments she knew she would never use, and his mother sat
ticking away in her chair.

Time no longer had meaning.  Tessa couldn't tell if ten seconds or ten
hours had passed since she'd first dipped her brush into the gold.  The
only way she had of keeping track of the world was the developing
pattern on the page.  It was not turning out as she had imagined.
Somehow it had taken on a life of its own.  Thick branches of color
swerved across the vellum.  Thin-limbed, many-jointed creatures crawled
through spirals and under knot work their tongues and tails curling
around fretwork borders like vines suffocating a tree.

Tessa felt as if she were swimming in the dark.  She had no idea where
she was heading or what she might encounter next.  Her only guide was
herself.  She could only do what felt right.  The gold ink was right
that much she knew.  And when she sent gold lines slashing across the
sulfur-tinted forms of the harras, tying them up in knots, she felt
sure it was having some effect on the battle amid the broken stones.
The pads of flesh on her fingertips tingled as she worked, and she took
that to be a good sign.

Mostly she relied on willpower.  It pushed every brush stroke she made,
gave momentum to curves, and kept key work and knot work in line.  She
was going to help Cameron of Thorn.  She had to.  Deveric had brought
her here for something, and as the brush strokes built up on the page
in increasingly tangled layers, and as forms emerged from the ink like
landmarks from lifting mist, she began to realize that he had brought
her here for this.  To work against the harras.

They were unnatural beings aberrations.  She could feel their wrongness
burning away in her stomach like acid.  When her mind showed her
visions of the writhing, baying pack, the hairs on her scalp bristled. 
From above they looked like cockroaches teeming over a carcass.  Eyes
and teeth flashed amid the winged darkness of their cloaks.

Then, as she looked on, paintbrush dancing beneath her hand, one of the
creatures looked her way.

One moment it was just another harrar in the pack, head thrashing in
time with the rest.  Abruptly it stopped moving, held still for a
moment, then turned its streamlined maw toward her in a slow liquid
arc.  Sulfur eyes focused through a haze of light and shadow, their
gaze finding, then resting, on her face.  Without blinking, the
creature regarded Tessa with the narrow-eyed leer of a predator.  After
a moment its lips stretched to a unhurried smile and its jaws sprang
open like a trap.

Tessa jerked back.  The legs of her chair skittered across the stone
floor.  The paintbrush jumped in her hand, sending the line running
askew.

Tessa!  Tessa!  Are you all right?  Emith, using her proper name for
the first time since she had met him.  Come away now.  Let the pattern
be.

Tessa's heart was racing.  Her body felt hot and cold all at once.  I'm
fine, Emith she said, trying hard to make her voice sound level.  It
was nothing.  Just... Words failed her.

Nothing.

I think you should stop right now, miss.  Right now.

I can t, Emith?  She wanted to say more, to explain that she couldn't
leave Camron alone and helpless surrounded by harms and that she had to
carry on no matter what, but instinct told her it was best not to
speak.  Anything she said would only turn to hysterical nonsense in her
mouth.

Adjusting her grip on the brush, she dipped it once more into the ink.
Already her mind was working to calm her: how could anything she saw
through a pattern cause her harm?  She was far away from the battle,
here, in Mother Emith's kitchen, safe and sound.  The harras weren't
about to come bursting through the vellum.  It wasn't possible. Telling
herself she was foolish to feel frightened, she brought the gold ink
down onto the page.  Her hand shook, and the curve she drew wasn't as
smooth as she would have liked, but it was enough to push her back
toward the battle.

Sounds of grunting and metal whistling against metal greeted her.  The
stench of animal waste caught in her throat.  There's nothing to be
afraid of, she told herself as she began painting over the dark,
snaking forms of the harras.

Gold ink skimmed across black.  Colors bled.  Pigment smoked.  Tessa's
hand wouldn't stop shaking, and sable hairs began to work their way
free of the brush, catching on the vellum like splinters.  She thought
of the harras, imagining them fleeing, gone, dead.  Not knowing what to
do, she hemmed them in with strips of gold, fettered them with a
manacle of knots.

It was working.  She could feel them slowing down.

Wanting to do more, she struck through a row of harras with a single,
slashing line.  As the gold soaked into the parchment, Tessa caught a
whiff of something else.

Another pigment, freshly applied.

And even as she realized it was not her own, a splitting pain seared
across her forehead.  Her vision blurred, then dimmed.  Gold-cast eyes
glowed from the darkness, seeing her, knowing her, gloating.  A second
wave of pain tore through head.  It felt like ground glass was being
rubbed into her flesh.  Tessa tried to take a breath and couldn t. Her
eyes burned.  Falling forward against the tabletop, she felt another
spasm rack her skull.  The pain blinded.  She couldn't see anything
except the gold eyes.  Brush still in hand, she stabbed at the vellum.
A blast of heat scorched her palm, but she couldn't let go of the
brush.

Pain stopped her from thinking, breathing, acting.  Tears streamed from
her eyes.  Razors raked along her temples.

She couldn't bear it.

Breath wouldn't come.  Darkness opened up before her: cold and
infinitely deep.

Something tugged at her hand.  Fingers prying her palm open.  A
terrible cleaving pain as the brush was stripped away from her flesh.
Arms tugging her away from the chair.  Sobs, hysterical sobs.

The gold eyes winked closed, and then everything went black.

The harras turned.  It happened in the space of an instant.  One moment
they were sluggish, wary, their features shifting gradually inward,
revealing them to be nothing more than men.  The next they were like
rabid dogs.  Baying, clawing, thrashing: they pressed forward in a
continuous black wave.

Breath caught in Cameron's throat.  His stomach clenched shut, leaving
a sickening vacuum between his ribs.  There were too many harras.  They
were coming too fast.  His sword arm ached with a deep bone weariness.
He could feel himself slowing, see his blade tip dipping as he drew
protective rings around his chest.  He didn't know how much longer he
could keep this up.

Behind him, Broc of Lomis was struggling for breath.  Blood and spittle
rasped in his throat.  His sword wasn't down yet it hovered in
increasingly slack circles around his lower abdomen but it wouldn't be
long before it fell by his side.  The man was losing a lot of blood.
The soles of Cameron's boots stamped footprints entirely in red.

Pull closer Cameron cried, reaching back with his left hand to touch
the young, dark-haired knight.  Draw to my back so I can shield both
our flanks.

A second passed, and then Cameron felt Broc's shoulders knock against
his.  He let out a sigh of relief.  It wasn't much, but it was all he
could do.  Broc only had to worry about the harras directly ahead of
him now.  Cameron would take care of those to either side.  It meant
hefting his sword in broader, deeper circles, exerting further pressure
on muscles already ripped to shreds, but there was no other choice.
They had to keep fighting.

Although his throat felt as though it were on fire, Camron forced
himself to take long, deep breaths.  He may have ridden here to perish,
to fight against his father's killers until they hooked him with their
long knives and sent his soul spiraling to heaven or plunging down
hell.  But as every minute passed he realized he didn't want to die.

Not here.  Not now.

He wanted to live.

Dying wouldn't bring his father back.  It wouldn't change the course of
events that night in Castle Bess.  Nothing could or ever would change
that: not this fight or a thousand others like it, and certainly not
his death.  His death would mark the end of Thorn the town, its people,
and the family who had shared that name.  It would mark the end of
everything his father had known and loved.

Glancing out over the wet and snapping jaws of the harras, Camron tried
not to feel afraid, tried not to think anymore about dying.  All that
was left now was to fight.

A thin cry sounded behind him.  Metal screeched.  Caught in the middle
of a deflective blow, with three harras blades raking against his sword
and more on the way to meet it, Cameron couldn't look round.  Another
cry sounded.  A sharp, desperate breath followed, then Cameron felt
Broc fall against his back.  Bringing a foot forward to steady himself,
pulling in his sword close to his ribs, Cameron turned toward the
knight.  His left hand shot out.  Harra's blades stabbed against the
punctured gauntlet.  Something sharp pierced his undefended right
flank.

Broc was on his knees.  His sword was gone.  Harras clawed away at
legs, feet, and arms.  Broc saw Cameron's outstretched hand but didn't
have the strength to reach for it.  A muscle pumped in his forearm, but
the arm itself didn't move.

Cameron felt a blade slash the back of his head.  A second later
another slashed his ear.  Pain caihe in sharp waves.  Tears flooded his
eyes.  Bending down, he reached for Broc's arm.  Even as his armor
creaked at the joints, he felt a salvo of knife stabs at his back.  The
metal plates fell from his chest and back.  His mouth filled with
blood.  He looked into Broc's hazel eyes and saw a reflection of his
own.  Fear made his mouth go dry.

The harras closed in.  Dog maws grinding, knives hacking downward, they
filled the remaining space like tar poured into a ditch.

Cainron braced himself.  Pain scorched his body in a dozen places as he
raised his sword high above his head.  One harrar broke from the path
and made a lunge for him with his knife.  Cameron mouthed the words
Forgive me.  Whether it was to his God, his father, or Broc of Lomis,
he didn't know.  Perhaps it was to all three.

His sword rang against the harrar's blade.  He didn't have the strength
to match the attacker's blow, and the hilt went spinning from his
grasp.  Even as the sword left his hand, it was snatched away by a
black-gloved grip.  The first harrar's lips curled to a sneer as it
tilted its blade to an angle fit for slipping between ribs.

Defenseless, Cameron could do nothing but cross his arms over his
chest.  Bracing himself for the impact, he tensed the muscles in his
right leg: he would go down kicking.

A soft thuc sounded.  It was so soft that Camron doubted he heard it.

The harras gold eyes widened.  A hiss of breath puffed from his lips
and he fell forward against Camron's chest.  An arrow jutted from his
spine, shaft still humming.

As Camron stepped back, something soft whirred past his ear.  Another
thuc sounded, then another, then another after that.  Before Cameron's
foot fell flat against the rock, the air was filled with a hailstorm of
arrows.  Wooden shafts skimmed past Camron's cheeks and shoulders.
Flight feathers grazed his temples.  Steel heads exploded into harrar
flesh, finding muscle and ligament and bone.  Harras dropped to the
ground, eyes bulging, hands clawing at the oak and ash wood shafts. 
The pack began to break up.  Some scattered, others crouched low or
crawled behind rocks.

Cameron didn't move.  He held perfectly still, letting his hot skin be
cooled by the breeze the arrows created.  Broc lay flat against the
rock.  His face was dark with blood.  He was breathing, though. Cameron
didn't take a breath himself until he was sure of that.

Still the arrows kept coming, finding their marks as surely as prodigal
sons returning home.  More harras fell.  They thrashed on the ground at
Camron's feet; their features slowly re-forming, their cries becoming
lower more human.  Within seconds none were left standing.  Scattered,
lying low, playing possum, wounded, or dead: Camron didn't know or
care.  He was so weak, it took all his strength to stop his legs from
buckling beneath him.

The hail of arrows tapered off.  An order was shouted.  Tack jingled.
Camron raised his head in time to see a man riding clear of the rocks.
A second riderless horse trailed behind.  As Cameron watched, the man
slipped a short bow into his saddlebag.  Then he looked up and
smiled.

Ravis of Burano inclined his head.  Gentlemen, he called.  Forgive me,
I am a little late.

A snap of his wrist brought a ring of archers into view.  Like the
harras before them, they appeared from behind rocks and trees.  They
carried staved longbows taller than themselves.  Less than a dozen in
all, they held their positions, arrows nocked and ready.

As Ravis drew nearer, Camron saw that he wasn't as cool and unruffled
as he appeared from a distance.  There was blood on his gloves and
sleeve.  Sweat dripped from the hair at his temples, and his breath
came in quick, shallow bursts.  He didn't waste any time.  Drawing his
sword, he trotted the spare horse through the ring of downed harras. As
soon as he reached the crop of rock where Camron stood, he dismounted,
crossed to where Broc lay, dragged his body off [Si,

the ground, and hefted him over the back of the spare horse.

That done, he turned to Cameron.  eh Arrows shot through the air,
picking off two harras who ose that moment to move.

Ravis looked Camron in the eye.  I would have come before now, only I
had business to take care of on the far side of the rocks.  His voice
was lightly mocking, but his eyes told a different story.  They were
dark, shining, filled with pain.  As

300 LV.  JONES

he helped Cameron onto the back of his horse, Cameron saw where a blade
had sliced open a gash in his side.

Cameron didn't say anything, just closed his eyes, dropped his head
against Ravis shoulder, and waited to be gone from that place.

SEVENTEEN

t took Tessa a while to realize she was awake.  She was warm and
comfortable in a softly scented cocoon.  Pain barked away in the
distance like a neighbor's dog: annoying, but not worth making any
effort to stop it.  In fact, the idea of doing anything other than
lying still and thinking of nothing didn't appeal to her at all.  It
was only when someone told her she was awake that she actually started
believing it.

There, there, my dear, came a gentle voice.  You're just coming round.
There's nothing to worry about.  A little patting followed.  Tessa felt
some part of her body being touched, but she didn't have a name for it
just yet.  Emith, hurry.  She's waking.

She's awake?  Thank all four gods.  I'll be right there.

Tessa couldn't help but feel a little annoyed.  All this talk of waking
up was making her feel as if she had to do something.  Bracing those
parts of herself she still didn't have names for, she made a break for
the surface.  Rolling her neck in the direction the voice had come
from, she opened her eyes.

A large meaty hand slapped against an even meatier chest.  Emith!
Quickly!  Linden flower tea and hot broth.

Tessa's eyes traveled upward past the hand, the chest, and the neck to
the face.  Mother Emith.  Standing!  The shock of seeing such an
unnatural phenomenon had a profound effect on Tessa's brain. Everything
snapped into place at once: names of body parts, memories of where she
was, how she had got here, and what she had last done and why.  She
even found her voice.

Mother Emith, sit down.

Mother Emith looked at Tessa as if she were a kitchen pot that had
suddenly decided to talk.  The hand descended

from her chest and landed, slap, in the middle of Tessa's forehead. The
tea, Emith.  The tea!

Here it is, Mother.  Emith appeared in Tessa's line of vision, looking
older than she remembered him.  Older and more frail.  Oh, miss, miss.
Are you all right?  Are you in pain?

Tessa nodded, even though she knew everything wasn't all right.  Not
all over.  Her head felt heavy and stuffed up as if there were no room
for her thoughts.  The muscles in her neck ached, and a niggling
soreness was working away at her right hand.

Miss, just lift your head so I can slip this under.  Emith held out a
pillow.  His voice was so gentle, it made Tessa's throat ache. Already,
in the back of her stuffed-up mind, some tiny bit of her knew they
would soon be parting.  She didn't say anything, though, simply did as
she was told and tried not to let the pain show on her face.

Here you are, my dear.  Drink up.  Mother Emith bent forward with a
bowl of steaming liquid.  Tessa moved quickly to drink it more to
minimize the time Mother Emith had to spend on her feet than in
eagerness for a strange-smelling, scalding drink.

It's good, Tessa said after swallowing a mouthful.  She knew Mother
Emith was waiting expectantly to be asked what was in the tea, how it
was made, and in what way it would make a person better, but she didn't
have the heart for it.  Catching Emith's gaze, she tilted her head
toward his mother.

Emith nodded.  Laying a hand on his mother's arm, he said, Come,
Mother.  Come and sit down.  I'll turn your chair so it's facing this
way.

Mother Emith grumbled a bit, ran her hand over Tessa's brow, made her
promise to finish all the tea in the cup, and then let herself be led
back to her chair.  She moved so slowly, it was painful to watch. Tessa
reached out her hand toward her, wanting to touch the soft woolen
fabric of her dress before she walked away.

Pain sizzled in Tessa's palm as she straightened out her hand. Although
she tried, she couldn't keep herself from inhaling sharply. Her right
hand was heavily bandaged.  Only her fingertips were visible from
beneath a swath of linen strips.  Tessa remembered stabbing the vellum
with her brush, feeling her palm burn.  Letting her hand fall back
against the sheet, she tried not to think about all that had happened. 
It didn't work.  Her mind showed her flashing images, like sunlight on
a lake, of the pattern she had drawn and the things she had seen.

Tessa drew her body into a tight ball beneath the sheets.  It wasn't
fair.  She had only just woken up, yet already her world was shaping
into something she didn't like.  She had responsibilities now: of all
the things that had happened while she painted the pattern, that one
fact was perfectly clear.

She had been brought here to destroy the harras.  Stop those who made
them what they were.  Someone was behind them, turning them into
monsters, creating their need for blood, and shaping them into a pack.
Tessa had smelled the pigment that pushed them, got a whiff of the man
behind the beasts.  And he, in turn, had spotted her.  That was why one
barrar had stopped and looked at her.  It was why she was > lying here,
head aching, palm burned.  Someone had seen her and wanted her dead.

Suddenly aware of a lump in her throat, Tessa swallowed hard.  It didn't
go.

Have you drunk all your tea, miss?  asked Emith.  It will take away any
pain you might be feeling.  Help clear your head Although she didn't
feel like it, Tessa smiled.  She doubted if any medicine in the entire
city of Bay Zen could clear her head just then.  Emith, how long have I
been asleep?

A full day, miss.  Having settled his mother in her chair, Emith moved
back toward Tessa You collapsed yesterday morning and slept through the
day and night.

Tessa nodded.  Her hand felt as if it were on fire.  You pulled me away
from the table, didn't you?  And tore the brush from my hand?

Emith didn't answer her question.  Pulling up a stool to sit beside
her, he said, It's a bad burn, miss.  More your palm ; than your
fingers.  Mother washed it and put pot-marigold paste on the worst
part, but I doubt if you'll be scribing again for a good few weeks ...
and there might be a scar.

Ssh, Emith said his mother.  Just keep it bound up for now, my dear.  I'll
clean it again tonight.  I don't want to be causing you any more
pain just yet.  You need to rest.  Eat.  Emith, has she got that
broth?

I'll give it to her as soon as she's finished the tea, Mother.

Be sure you do.  With that Mother Emith turned her attention to some
vegetables in need of scraping.  Tessa wondered if the old lady knew
they wanted to talk.

Nursing her hand against her chest, Tessa said to Emith,

What happened yesterday morning?  Have you ever seen anything like it
before?

Emith shook his head.  He rubbed his temples and then glanced quickly
at his mother before speaking.  I'm so sorry, miss.  I should have
pulled you away before I did.  I wasn't thinking.  I've heard stories
of scribes being burned as they worked, but I didn't know whether they
were true or not.  When I saw you fall forward onto the table I knew
something was wrong, so I did the first7 thing that came to my mind I
pried the brush from your hand and dragged you away.  It was all my
fault.  Emith looked down.  I don't know what Mother and I would do if
anything ever happened to you

As Emith was speaking, Tessa glanced around the kitchen.  Soft buttery
light filtered through the oiled panels over the windows, and the fire
crackled within the hearth, giving off a golden glow.  She had come to
love this place and the people in it.  It wasn't your fault, Emith, she
said at last.  You can't protect me against things you don't know.

Tessa glanced at Emith, anxious to see how he reacted to her words.  He
was still looking down.  His hands were in his lap.  When he made no
motion to reply, Tessa decided it was best to continue speaking.  She
needed to say these things to herself just as much as to Emith.  We
both know Deveric drew me here for a reason, and now I think I know
what that reason is.  Only I don't know what to do about it, or even
how to start.  You've taught me the important things, given me the
bones, now I need to go and learn the rest.

Those five patterns Deveric created were a summons,

and whether I like it or not, he's given me something to do.  There are
terrible things out there, Emith.  Terrible things.  I've seen them.
And I think I'm meant to fight them, and unless I know what I'm doing,
I have a feeling I'll end up getting hurt.  Tessa smiled, almost
laughed.  She felt as if she were saying things a madwoman would say.

Still Emith said nothing.  He did not look at her.

Tessa shifted beneath the sheets.  Her hand burned.  Suddenly she didn't
feel like laughing at all.  She felt tired, and her body seemed to be
growing heavier by the minute.  If only she could clear up the
stuffiness in her head.

Deveric kept a part of me locked away, she said, willing Emith to look
up at her.  A part that has sdmething to do with scribing, that helps
me see through the vellum as if it were glass.

Emith's head came up.  His eyes were red.  If my master kept things
locked away from you, miss, I'm sure it was to keep you safe.

Tessa nodded.  She knew how important it was for Emith to think the
best of Deveric.  Yes, judging from what happened yesterday, I think
you might be right.  I went in blind, drew a pattern without knowing
what I was doing and why, and I ended up with this.  She raised her
bandaged palm toward Emith.  Pain made her bite her lip.  A long moment
passed before she could speak.  I think Deveric knew that what I did
would be dangerous, and he didn't want to risk me hurting myself before
I was here, in this place, and could be properly taught Words came from
her mouth only a fraction of a second before the ideas formed in her
head.  It was almost as if her brain were too tied up to work properly,
so her tongue was doing the thinking instead.

I can't teach you any more, can I, miss?  Emith said, not really asking
a question at all.

Tessa considered replying several ways, but in the end she said, No.
Caruron of Thorn had surely died yesterday, and if she had only known
what she was doing, she might have saved him.  Things were different
now: what she said and did mattered.  For the first time in her life
she had real responsibilities.  People's lives depended on her.  She
might not like it,

and she certainly wasn't prepared for it, but that was the way it was.
She was going to have to learn a lot more about a lot of things, and
scribing was only the first of them.

Emith glanced over at his mother.  When he saw she was resting with her
chin against her chest, he said to Tessa, I don't want you to leave us.
Not ever.  But you're right; what you are doing is dangerous, and I
don't think Mother would ever forgive me if I let anything happen to
you.  Emith's hands were in knots.  His voice was very low.  Tessa
thought he was finished speaking, but after a moment he carried on.

There is someone who can teach you things I can t. A man in Maribane,
on the Anointed Isle.  He was a master scribe once.  Now Emith shook
his head.  Now I don't know what he does.  He won't have forgotten,
though.  Nothing the holy fathers could have done would make him
forget. He was too great a man for that.

Brother Avaccus?

Emith's eyes widened.  Yes, miss.  Brother Avaccus.

I got your mother talking one day, Tessa said quickly, not wanting to
leave Emith hanging.  She told me a few things about what you did
before you began work with Deveric.

Brother Avaccus didn't do any of those things the holy fathers accused
him of, miss.  He was a scholar, he wanted to learn.  He drew patterns
to gain knowledge, not to draw forth the devil like they said.

Tessa nodded.  The need to defend people he cared about was in Emith's
blood.  He would do no less for her when she was gone.  Feeling the
lump return to her throat, she said,

Do you think Brother Avaccus will help me?

Yes, miss.  If he knows that I sent you, he will.

If he's still alive.

Emith shook his head.  Oh, he's still alive.  I'd feel it in the ink if
he wasn t.

Tessa looked into Emith's dark blue eyes, and she knew what he said was
true.  Scribes assistants obviously had a little magic all their own.
How long will it take to get to the Anointed Isle?

Four or five days, usually.  The nearest port is Kilgrim.  From there
you travel overland to Bellhaven and then cross the causeway to the
isle.

Will you make the arrangements for me?  Tessa continued to look into
Emith's eyes.  I need to leave as soon as I can.

You need to rest for a few days, miss.  Get your strength back.  Your
hand wasn't the only thing that was hurt.  Emith seemed agitated.  His
hands buckled in his lap, and his gaze traveled from Tessa, to the
floor, to his mother, to the window.  The weather at this time of year
can be very unpredictable terrible winds.  Hailstorms.  You haven't
even got a cloak.  And a young woman shouldn't travel anywhere on her
own without a comp

Tessa cut him short.  Will you make the arrangements?

Even though Emith only let out a gentle sigh, his whole body seemed to
deflate; his chest shrank inward and his shoulder slumped.  His gaze
fell to the floor.  Yes, miss.  I'll make the arrangements.

Although she had got what she wanted, Tessa felt no satisfaction.  She
didn't want to go, leave this place and these people.  She didn't want
to cause them pain.  Reaching out with her left hand, she brushed Emith's
arm.  Thank you, she said softly.  Thank you.

Emith patted her hand.  He smiled, but it wasn't convincing.  I'll go
down to the harbor first thing tomorrow morning.  See about securing
passage.  With that he stood, walked across the room, drew his mother's
shawl around her shoulders, picked up his lunular knife from the bucket
near the sink, and let himself out into the yard.  He didn't slam the
door, but Tessa felt as if he had.

She shouldn't have been so hard on him, should have said things
differently, explained things better.  Been kinder.  ( More like .. .
What?  Her old self?  Surely the old Tessa McCamfrey would have handled
it even worse.  Or would she?  Tessa didn't know the answer.  Head
hurting, she drew her hand up to massage her aching temples. Forgetting
about the burn, she used her right hand instead of her left. The
movement caused pain to tear along her arm.  She closed her eyes, held
her breath until it was gone.

Apples, chestnuts, and onions roasted on the fire.  Although every man
present had meat in his saddlebag, none had the stomach for it.

It was getting dark.  A breeze cut from the east, from the mountains
and the passes that marked the Garizon-Rhaize border.  There was no
moon.  A few bright stars twinkled close to the horizon, but a bank of
clouds was sweeping across the sky and soon there would be nothing but
darkness left.

No one spoke.  They huddled around the fire, though in truth the night
was not that cold, and drank heavily from pewter flasks that passed
from hand to hand as silently and fluidly as whispers from ear to ear.
By unspoken agreement the fire had been built both broad and tall.
Every man had helped collect wood for it.  Every man who could walk,
that was.

Ravis looked from man to man.  Mercenaries sat next to knights, archers
sat next to noblemen, their faces all looking the same in the warm glow
of firelight.  Fear could be seen in the hollows beneath their eyes and
the lines leading down to their mouths.  The rational part of their
brains told them the harras would not come after them, but it didn't
stop them from being afraid.  Ravis had been on scores of campaigns in
a dozen different countries, been set against the odds and natural
wisdom more times than he cared to recount, yet he'd never seen
anything to match what had happened yesterday at dawn.  The men were
right to be afraid.  He was afraid himself.  The harras were not
creatures of God.

Glancing through the flames and rippling air, Ravis picked out Camron's
form on the far side of the fire.  He was tending to Broc of Lomis. The
man had lost a lot of blood yesterday, and Ravis didn't know if he
would survive another night.  Yet Camron seemed determined that he
would.  And if time spent and care given counted for anything, then
there was a chance Broc might live to see dawn.

Cameron, as if aware someone was looking at him, turned to meet Ravis
gaze.  The two looked at each other for a long moment, and then Ravis
nodded once, handed his flask to the man next to him, stood up, and
made his way around the fire.  He and Cameron had things they needed to
talk about, and although Ravis would have liked nothing more than to
get drunk with the troop just then, he knew that he would better serve
his men by staying sober and keeping watch.  There were not many things
in life that mattered to him, but the responsibility of having a troop
under his command was one thing he never took lightly.

Is Broc sleeping?  Ravis asked as he approached.

Cainron nodded.  I hope so.

Ravis thought Camron was in need of sleep himself; his skin was gray
and blotchy, his neck was shining with sweat, and wounds on his hand
and leg had reopened and fresh blood was soaking the bandages.
Frowning, Ravis said, Let's go and sit by those trees over there.  I
need to rest my legs:

Camron glanced down at Broc's motionless form.  I don't want to go
far.

They settled on a patch of grass a short distance from where the
wounded lay.  Camp had been made on the high slope of an east-facing
meadow no man trusted valleys after yesterday and even though it meant
the troop was more exposed, it suited Ravis just fine.  The first sign
of movement from the east and they could up camp and withdraw to the
west within minutes.  They would not wait around for a fight.  Luck had
been with them yesterday morning.  It would not be so again.

Do you think the fire is a good idea?  Cararon asked, wincing as he
lowered his body onto the ground.

Ravis shrugged.  It's a fine fire.  The men need it.

No.  I mean do you think it will draw the harras to us?

If Izgard's looking for us, then yes, the fire will give our position
away, but I don't think he'll come after us tonight.

Why are you spending so much time looking over your shoulder, then?
Camron pressed his fist into the wound on his thigh.  He closed his
eyes for a moment.  His arm and chest shook and his breath came in a
series of halting rasps.  Ravis waited until he took his fist away
before he spoke.

Because I can't predict Izgard's moves as well as I thought I could. He's
involved with things I have no knowledge or experience of.  I don't
know the game anymore.  And that makes me nervous.

You appeared to know the game well enough yesterday at dawn.

Ravis bit on his scar.  While his teeth raked over the rough tissue of
knitted flesh, he reminded himself that Camron of Thorn was a wounded
man and that he must have gone through hell yesterday fighting the
harras in the Valley of Broken Stones.  Of the twelve men who entered
the rocks, only two got out alive.  All bodies had been left behind.
Ravis didn't want to think of what had become of them.

Taking a deep breath, he said, I didn't know what the game was
yesterday.  I guessed it was a trap.  From the moment we first heard
Thorn had been taken, I had a suspicion that the whole thing the
burnings, the mindless destruction, the mass deaths was meant to draw
us there.  Izgard could have taken a hundred villages between the Vorce
and the Borals, but he chose to take Thorn.  And not only did he take
it, but he took it in such a way that the news spread like wildfire. He
wanted us there.  Ravis looked into Camron's dark gray eyes.  You and
me.

Camron ran his hand through his hair.  His knuckles still bore the
blood from his wound.  You knew all this, yet you didn't try to warn
me?

Would you have listened?

That was enough to silence Camron of Thorn for a while.  His chin
dipped to his chest, and his hands found each other, matching fingers
clasping tight.  Both men were silent, looking out past the camp and
the fire down the slope to the east.  The wind picked up, blowing
sparks into the air with the smoke, and somewhere on the far side of
the camp a man began to sing.  It was a low, mellow song that mothers
sang while their newborn babies slept, to keep evil spirits at bay.

After a few minutes, Cameron spoke.  It was wrong of me to lead the men
down into the valley, I know that now.  I wanted to die fighting.  I
thought that somehow, if I fought hard enough and took as many harras
down with me as I could, that it would make up for He took a breath,
closed his eyes.  Not being there the one time I was needed.

As Ravis listened to Cameron speaking, he traced a furrow in the soil
with his thumb.  The cut on his right side pained him, but he'd had
worse in his time, and his body had reached the point where it could
deal well enough with flesh wounds.  In a few weeks time it would be
just another scar.  Like the one on his lip.

Looking up at Camron's face, Ravis said, I didn't hang back to teach
you a lesson.  I've lived for over thirty years now and still have none
to teach.  The dangers were obvious you were being led into an enclosed
space ringed with rocks and trees.  Someone had to stand by while you
went there.  I made mistakes myself.  Men died because I didn't get
there soon enough.  And for all my cleverness and forward planning, I
never imagined Izgard would send a force such as he did.

While he spoke, Ravis was aware that Camron was watching him closely.
Even with all the bruises and lesions on his face, the Rhaize nobleman
looked very young, and Ravis found himself envying that.

Slowly Camron began to shake his head.  I shouldn't have done it.
Shouldn't have led those men into the rocks.  Everything I've done
since my father's death has been a mistake.

Ravis slapped his tunic for his flask before realizing he had given it
to the man sitting next to him around the campfire.  With no drink to
offer as comfort, he was forced to speak instead.  Strong emotions
breed mistakes.  They create them.  There's not one man here tonight
who hasn't done something in anger or rage that he didn't later
regret.

Cameron tilted back his head and looked at the night sky.

And what about you?  Have you made mistakes?

Ravis made a hard sound in his throat.  Me more than any man.

And how do you live with yourself?

You move on.  Always on.

Still looking at the sky, Camron nodded.  The clouds had long since
covered the stars, but strangely enough the night seemed better for it.
Smaller.  More comprehensible.

After a minute or so, Cameron said, So, what do we do now?

We make plans.  Move forward.  Try to understand what happened and
why.

Well, if you're right about the whole thing being a lure from the
start, then that means Izgard now wants me dead.

Ravis smiled.  You're in good company.

Cameron managed half a smile himself.  Would you say Izgard knows you
and I are collaborating?

Say it!  I can guarantee it.  And not only that, I can tell you the
name of the man who told him.

Marcel of Vailing?

Ravis nodded.  Camron was catching on just fine.  Marcel would sell his
own mother's soul for a handful of promissory notes and a bankable bill
of sale.

How much do you think he knows?

Enol4gh to be dangerous.  Ravis shrugged.  Marcel isn't the real threat
here, though.  Izgard is.  If he's not stopped soon, he will make it to
Bay Zen.  You've fought against the harras, you know what they're like.
Do you really think Rhaize knights are capable of putting up a
feasible resistance?

But the longbows.  You shot the harras down.  You

Ravis cut Camron short.  First of all, the Rhaize army has no longbows
men  The longbow isn't like a sword or a pike you can't just pick it
up, have a few lessons, perform a few drills, and then expect to know
how to use it.  A good longbows men is gmwn into his bow.  In Maribane
they start training early; they take young boys who are at an age where
they still hate girls and thrust a lxw with a thirty-pound pull in
their hands.  When the boys have learned to shoot with them, and their
muscles and reaches have developed, they give them a forty-pound bow,
then a fifty-pound one, then a sixty-pound one after that.  And they
keep doing it until some ten years later they have a full-grown man on
their hands, whose body has been shaped for and by the bow, and who's
capable of drawing a longbow with a hundred-and-fifty pound pull and
shooting arrows as heavy as your fist to targets at over four hundred
paces.

Cainron went to speak, but Ravis didn't give him the chance.

Second of all, we were lucky in the valley.  Nothing more.  Izgard
failed to back up his harras with archers why, I don't know.  But more
important than that, he hadn't counted on us having any.  The harras
were taken by surprise.  They weren't expecting any real resistance.
They saw a few of their own go down, and they got scared.  They won't
be next time.  Next time they'll be prepared.  Whatever or whoever is
behind them will see to that.

Ravis saw Camron's expression change as he spoke.  Too bad.  He still
wasn't finished yet.

The harras weren't mounted.  They were using long knives  They were
equipped purely for close combat against foot soldiers that was why
Izgard lured you into the rocks, that's what he planned for.  But don't
think for one minute he won't plan something entirely different when he
meets a fully mounted army on the field.  Izgard knows war, and he won't
join a battle lightly.

As the last of Ravis words rang off his tongue, they seemed to hang in
the air like the chime of a bell, resonating long past their saying.

Camron sat in silence, head hung low, right hand skimming the bloody
bandage on his left.  The wind blew across his face, lifting his collar
and tugging his hair away from his forehead.  Ravis knew what he said
sounded harsh, but he couldn't see anything to be gained from speaking
otherwise.  Things had gone too far for smooth words softly spoken.
Izgard of Garizon had seen to that.

When minutes passed without Camron saying anything, however, Ravis
began to wonder if he had said too much.  Sometimes he took pleasure in
presenting the worst side of things he couldn't stop himself.

There are things we can do, though, he said, tearing the sleeve from
his tunic and offering it to Camron.  Blood from his leg wound had
soaked right through the bandage.

Actions we can take.

Camron looked up at Ravis.  His gray eyes, which had seemed so dark
earlier, suddenly seemed light.  Silver almost.  After a moment, he
reached out and took the length of sleeve.  What can we do?

Ravis felt unaccountably pleased that Cameron had taken the cloth, and
when he spoke it showed in his voice.  First thing tomorrow morning we
send the Istanian scouts back home.  They have the fastest horses of
any man amongst us and they can be in Bay Lis and on their way to
Mizerico before we reach Bay Zen.

And what's in Mizerico?

The best longbows men to be had outside of Maribane.  I

did a commission for the Lectur there a few years back he'll send me a
company if he's asked nicely enough and his palms are well greased
enough.  Draft him a letter promising him payment in full for his
inconvenience plus a suitably sparkling bauble for the real power in
Mizerico his wife and within a month or so we should be in command of a
hundred-plus archers.

Camron nodded.  Ravis thought he might smile, but he didn t. Instead he
thought for a moment and said, And what do you and I do?

Ravis took a breath, looked north.  He was getting tired and the knife
wound in his ribs was beginning to bother him.  Some of the harras had
unclean blades they lined their scabbards with unwashed pigs intestines
and worse and he was beginning to think the cut might be infected.  He
would have to deal with that later.  For now he had a difficult
question to answer.

Planting his fists on the ground and levering his weight forward, he
said, We go our separate ways from here.  You need to go to Mir Lor,
force the Sire to meet with you, tell him what you've seen the harras
do.  Warn him.  Let him know what sort of enemy he'll be fighting.  Get
him to recruit foot soldiers and archers crossbows men longbows men
shortbowsmen anyone he can get his hands on quickly.  Make him see that
unless he meets Izgard on equal footing his army will be destroyed.

Cameron nodded so slowly, it hardly looked like a nod at all.  Why me?
he said, his voice low and difficult to read.

Why not you?  I haven't been to court in five years not since my father
and the Sire disagreed over Izgard of Alberach.  My father advised the
Sire to watch him closely; to send emissaries, make overtures of
friendship, minimize the chance of war.  The Sire wasn't interested. He
couldn't see why he, the Sire of Rhaize, should consider a rogue
Garizon nobleman a threat.

Ravis caught and held Cameron's gaze.  You are the only one who can do
this.  The Sire would never accept the word of a Drokho mercenary.  He'll
listen to you, though.  Past disagreements count for little.  You're
the son of Berick of Thorn, sole survivor of one of the oldest and
noblest families in the country, joined by blood to the Garizon throne:
he'll have to see you.  And if you're direct enough, he'll take heed.

You go to Mir Lor, take the troop with you and put the fear of God into
the Sire of Rhaize.

Camron had gone back to pressing the wound in his leg with his fist. He
didn't look young anymore.  The pain in his eyes aged him.  And you?
What will you do?

I've got to find out what's behind the harras.  For some reason Ravis
found himself whispering.  They aren't turning themselves into monsters
someone is doing that for them, and unless I find out what or who is
behind them, then Rhaize isn't just going to lose the coming war, it's
going to be annihilated.  Thorn was just the start.  Izgard wants land.
Only land.  He's not interested in people, families, farmhouses.  He's
promised his warlords territory, and he'll do anything to get it.  The
harras are perfect for him; they go in, kill everything in sight, clear
the land before it's occupied.

Unless we do something about them, every time we meet Izgard on the
field, the odds will be in his favor.  The harras terrify men.  They
stop them from thinking or acting rationally.  They force them to make
mistakes.

And how do you intend to find out more about them?  Camron's voice was
subdued.

Ravis could tell he didn't want to go to Mir Lor.  He would go, though.
Two days ago he would not have even considered it.  But he was a
different man now.  The battle in the Valley of Broken Stones had
changed him.  And Ravis didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing,
he just knew he could use it to his advantage.

Remember the woman who was with me in Marcel's cellar?

The girl whose hair is one shade short of red?

Yes, Tessa.  I think she has something to do with this.  She draws
patterns, and I once saw Izgard's scribe drawing similar things.  I
didn't think much about it then, but it's been a lot on my mind these
past weeks.  I've got to go back to Bay Zen, talk to Tessa, find out
just what she knows and how she got here.

Camron raised an eyebrow; And make sure she's safe?

Yes.  Ravis saw no point in denying it.  I don't want her to come to
any harm.  He shrugged.  I may take her to Maribane, to the Anointed
Isle.  That's where Deveric and Izgard's scribe were trained.

Sucking in his cheeks, Camron said, So, you're asking me to take the
men and head to Mir Lor, while you sail to Maribane and search for
answers?  He did not wait for a reply.  How do I know I can trust you?
And that you won't just ride away and I'll never see you again?

Because I give you my word.

Cainron didn't blink.  For a long moment he just stared into Ravis
eyes.  The singing had long stopped and the wind had died down, leaving
the east-facing slope perfectly quiet.  After what seemed to Ravis to
be an eternity, the muscles in Carnron's throat started working.  Still
looking at Ravis, he swallowed hard and said, That is guarantee enough
for me.

Until that moment Ravis had been unaware he was holding his breath.  He
exhaled deeply, and as he did so a small trace of bitterness escaped
with the breath.  No one had trusted him in so long, he had forgotten
what it felt like.  Good.  It felt good.

Not wanting to give away his emotions just then, Ravis pulled himself
to his feet.  Offering a hand to Cameron, he said,

We'll arrange to meet in three weeks time in Castle Bess.

Even with Ravis help it took Cameron a few moments to rise.  Knife
wounds crossed his back, arms, and legs.  In three weeks time, then, he
echoed.

Ravis nodded and made his way back to the camp.  He needed to find a
quill and ink.  There was a certain darkhaired beauty in Mizerico who
was owed an apology, and right now for some reason he felt like
offering one.  The Istanian scouts could deliver it along the way.

In the darkness the girl's flesh felt so frail that Izgard could
imagine he was touching the bone beneath.  That was what excited him:
the feeling that he was touching something deep, personal, inside.
Something never touched by any man before.

The girl was emaciated.  Starved.  Izgard had spotted her along the
roadside, begging for food.  Bones shone white through her skin, and
her eyes had receded so far back in their sockets, they hardly seemed
like eyes at all.  More like two coals burning at the bottom of a deep
pit.  Dressed in a tattered red cloak, mud caking her face like dried
blood, Izgard had ordered his men to pick her up.

The girl slapped her hands on either side of him as he entered her.
Even that touch thrilled him.  Dry palms.  Eager.  There was so little
meat left in her thumb and finger pads, Izgard could imagine he was
being clutched by a corpse.  His breaths were ragged, short.  The girl
hardly seemed to breathe at all, as if over time her skeletal body had
grown accustomed to surviving without air as well as food.

Izgard's eyes were open.  The darkness in his private tent was
complete, and he could see nothing before or under him.  It was the way
he wanted it.  If the lamp was lit, he would have to look at the girl's
face, and that wasn't what he was interested in at all.

Saliva rolling from his tongue, Izgard reached back to touch the girl's
hand.  His finger found the smooth, parchmentlike skin of her wrists
and then moved down over the back of her hand, fingertips trailing over
the protruding veins counting, caressing, feeling the blood pump
through.  More excited than ever, he moved his fingers down along her
thumb.  The skin stretched over the knuckle was the thinnest yet, and
Izgard lingered long over the joint.  When finally he'd had his fill of
that, he edged his hand down to the hard skin above the girl's
fingernail and then to the nail itself.

Something jagged pricked against his fingertip.

Izgard inhaled sharply.

Although some distant part of him knew it was only a rough edge of the
girl's thumbnail, another greater, deeper part told him it was a thorn
on the Barbed Coil.  In the darkness they felt like one and the same.

Izgard froze.  He could feel nothing other than the point digging into
his flesh.  The darkness in the tent thickened.  He was aware of it
pushing against his back, settling in his lungs, and coating his
thoughts like molasses rolled around a glass.

The Coil shone in his mind's eye as its surrogate barb pricked his
flesh.  He saw his own face reflected in the twisting bands of gold.
Other images, shifting so quickly that individual portions could not be
recognized, flashed within the metal like salt crystals thrown on a
flame.  Even though Izgard was unable to name the parts, the whole was
perfectly clear.

He licked his lips.  The Coil was showing him images of war.

Suddenly they were no longer before his eyes.  They were in his head,
spinning, thrashing, cutting a path to his core: blood, sliced flesh,
the hollow 0's of opened mouths and the immaculate glint of steel.
Izgard saw things he didn't understand and many that he did.  The
images scorched the raw tissue of his mind, branding him with the mark
of the Coil and destroying whatever matter lay beneath.  When finally
the visions slowed, and all ideas obstructing their path had been
converted or consumed, one final image lingered within the smoking
embers of his thoughts.

He, himself, standing in the great western harbor of Bay Zen, master of
the trade routes to the wet, far east, and lower south, master of
Rhaize, the Bay of Plenty, and the Gulf that lay beyond.

And all that was just the start.

Izgard pulled away from the girl and struggled to his feet.  The girl
clutched at him, but he didn't even acknowledge her.  Her emaciated
body repulsed him now.  Desire had left his body to nestle solely
within his mind.  He wanted what the Barbed Coil showed him.  All of
it.  He wanted the glory of victories won, power taken, and acclaim
given freely by land barons and lords.  Yet he wanted the dark side
too: rotting carcasses, festering wounds, muck and dirt and flies.
Heart pumping, palms damp, Izgard moved around the darkened tent,
pulling on his clothes.  He hadn't done enough.  He should have pushed
harder, fought longer, not stopped for either breath or sleep.  If he
wasn't careful, everything could be lost.  Everything.  He needed to
talk to his scribe.

Cool night air buffeted his body as he stepped out into the camp.  The
girl knew her place and didn't call after him.  And he might spare her
just for that.

Guards snapped to attention as he made his way through the ordered
lines of tents.  Situated a day's ride east of Thorn in the foothills
where the Bonds rose to join the Vorce, the camp formed the heart of
territory gained.  No man who was not a Garizon by blood or leaning now
lived within a circumference of thirteen leagues.  It was the harras
doing.  They killed for the sake of it, because they needed to see
blood and smell fear, and because any breath that was not a man's last
burned like poison in their lungs.

With a few exceptions, Izgard was well content with their services.
They cleared the land of all impurities, made it fit for occupation by
Garizon sons and lords.

Ederius tent was in darkness.  As Izgard had brought no torch with him,
he slipped through the slit unannounced.  The scribe was sleeping.  His
dark form lay curled up on the ground, knees raised close to his chest.
Even in the grainy quarter light Izgard could tell he was shivering.
The blanket covering his chest rose and fell in tiny, shallow bursts.
The battle yesterday morning had left him weak.  He had been in the
care of the physicians ever since.

Izgard knelt by the sleeping scribe.  Reaching over, he covered Ederius
face with his hands, blocking his nose and mouth.  A second passed
while Ederius lungs tried to suck in air, then the scribe's body
convulsed and his eyes flew open.  Izgard pressed harder, keeping the
man down.

Awake now, I see, he murmured.

The scribe blinked furiously.  The whites of his eyes were very bright.
His hands jerked by his side and the muscles in his jaw worked a silent
cry.

Still Izgard did not allow him to breathe.  Look at me, he hissed,
bringing his face within a thumb length of the scribe s. Look at the
man who wears the Coil.

Panicking, Ederius tried to struggle free.  His chest thrashed from
side to side and.  his heels kicked the ground, but he was weak and
lack of air was taking its toll.  After a few seconds the scribe
settled, his hands falling limp and his back lying fast against the
ground.

Izgard nodded.  His palm was pressed so hard against the scribe's
mouth, he could feel the curve of his teeth.  Am I your master,
Ederius?  he whispered.  Am I?

Ederius eyes were bulging.  His lungs sucked his chest into a cavity as
he managed something close to a nod.

And you have sworn a sacred oath to me?

Again Ederius nodded, the action more in his eyes than his face.

And if there were any dangers, you would you will tell me?

The scribe's body convulsed.  His rib cage beat against the blanket,
and his shoulders and arms began to twitch.  Tendons rising like cords
in his throat, he forced himself to nod.

Feeling a bite of misgiving, Izgard withdrew his hand.

Ederius bolted forward, coughing, choking, hands out, chest pumping
wildly.  Tears spilled from his eyes.

Watching him, Izgard let out a long breath.  The air exhaled from his
lungs was white.  There, Ederius, he said, turning away to hide
his-confusion.  It's all over now.

Wheezing noises that may or may not have been words escaped from
Ederius lips.

Glancing around the tent, Izgard searched for a jug of water.  Even
though it was still dark, he could see objects clearly and, spotting a
flask sitting on top of a chest, he grabbed it in his fist.  Drink this
he said, flicking off the cap and handing it to Ederius.  Judging from
the smell, it was spirits, not water.

Ederius took the flask, drank, swallowed hard, and drank some more. His
body was still jerking and twitching, not quite in his control.

As he watched the scribe drink, Izgard felt his anger returning.  The
man was weak.  Weak He leaned forward.  What happened during the battle
yesterday?  Why did my harras fail to kill Camron of Thorn and Ravis of
Burano?

Archers, my lord.  Ederius forced the words out between coughs.  Surely
you already know that.  The harras must have returned to the camp by
now.  The scribe's words were halting.  Spittle frothed from his mouth
as he spoke.

Izgard went to step back, away from the scribe and the temptation to
strike him, but he caught himself.  He was king.  He wanted answers,
and he was going to get them.  Why did the harras back off?  Why didn't
you force them to keep fighting regardless of the archers and their
arrows?

Ederius rubbed his hand over his face.  He didn't speak.

You have promised me answers, scribe, Izgard reminded him.

Hand shooting to his heart, Ederius cried, Because I was too weak to do
anything more.  Someone a girl interfered with my illumination.  I was
forced to use all my strength to stop her.  She was dangerous,
untrained The scribe shuddered.  There was no telling what she would
have done if she had been allowed to canyon.

A girl.  Izgard ran his fingertips over the skin on his own throat. Who
is she?  Why was she trying to interfere with my plans?

I have seen her face once before.  Ederius took long, deep breaths to
still his body.  She was with Ravis of Burano the night the harras
attacked him on the bridge.

Izgard beat his fist against his thigh.  Ravis of Burano!  Ravis of
Burano!  Always his name.  His filthy, sordid name.  What is this girl
to him?  What is he involved in now?

Drawing the blanket up around his body, Ederius backed into the corner
of the tent.  The girl is a scribe, sire.  A raw beginner.  But she
does have knowledge of the patterns, and she was working to stop the
harras.

Did you destroy her?

I tried.

Izgard caught the end of the blanket and yanked it away from the
scribe.  Tried is not what I want to hear.  Is she dead or isn't she?

Ederius shook his head.  Without the blanket he was naked except for a
linen wrap around his hips.  I don't think so.  Burned, certainly, but
not dead.

That's not enough.  She must be sought out and destroyed.  You say this
girl is untrained, yet she diverted your attention, your resources,
stopped you from doing your job.  She is a threat to the harras, to
myself, and to the Coil, and she cannot be allowed to carry on.  As
Izgard spoke, the vision of the crown beat in his temples like a pulse.
He felt excited, anxious, eager for action.  Where is she now?  Do you.
 know?

Ederius was shivering.  His knees were pulled up to his chest.  Bay
Zen, perhaps.  I'm not sure.  I saw a kitchen and her face, nothing
more.

Izgard nodded.  Bay Zen is a good place to start.  I will send a pack
of harras there tonight.  Throwing the blanket back to Ederius, he
said, Cover yourself up, old man.  I don't want you catching your
death.

There may be patterns I can use to search for her, sire.  I shall look
through my books at first light.

Look through them now, old man, Izgard said, stepping out of the tent.
Within minutes I will have this camp lit up like day.  I am here for
war and war alone, and I will not rest, sleep, or pause until all my
enemies are defeated and I name myself master of Bay Zen.

EIGHTEEN

ngeline sat very gingerly on her horse, choosing her path with almost
fanatical care, intent on preventing her innards from shattering like
glass.  Every so often Gerta would look over at her from high atop her
huge old nag, and at such times it took all Angeline's powers of
determination to stop herself from blushing.  Sometimes she dug her
fingernails into her thigh, but even that didn't work all the time.
These days everything made her blush.

They were traveling up through the Vorce Mountains toward the Rhaize
border and the pass.  Izgard had called for her presence at the camp,
so a small party had been assembled her, Gerta, Snowy, a dozen armed
men, and a trail cook and they had left the morning after the messenger
from Rhaize had arrived.  Angeline had been a little surprised by how
fast it had all happened, and only now was the whole thing beginning to
sink in.

She was on her way to an armed camp.  To war.

Angeline frowned, not liking that thought very much, and reached down
to pet Snowy.

Snowy was packaged up in her right-side saddlebag and was about as
miserable as a no-good dog could be.  He looked up at Angeline with his
big dark eyes, cocked his head in puzzlement, and squeaked like a
mouse.  Snowy down.  Snowy down.

Angeline thought he might be suffering from riding sickness and would
have dearly liked to stop and nurse him, but although she knew she was
officially head of the party and so could call a stop whenever she
liked, she didn't dare do it.  What if she gave an order and everyone
ignored it?  What if the armed guards, all twelve of them, started
laughing at her voice?  When Father was alive all she had to do was go
and tell him what she wanted and seconds later he would boom out orders
in his deep, rumbling baritone.  No one ever ignored him, not even
Izgard himself.

Feeling sad all of a sudden, Angeline tickled the silky bits behind
Snowy's ears.  There, there, Snowy she said.

We'll just have to make the best of it, you and me.

The truth was she wasn't feeling much better than Snowy.  And even the
excitement of being properly outside on a beautiful, blue-skied,
flower-scented day in the mountains wasn't nearly enough to take her
mind off feeling sick.  It didn't help that Gerta was watching her like
a mother hen, making her feel about as guilty as a girl who had lied
and deceived could feel, and that the path they were riding along was
bumpier than the crust on one of Dham Fitzil's apple-and-hazelnut
pies.

Apples and hazelnuts.  Just the thought of them made Angeline feel
queasy.  In fact, the idea of any food whatsoever, even her favorite
strawberries and clotted cream made her stomach turn, and not at all
silently at that.  Gurgling, watery noises kept emanating from deep
within her belly.  Distressed, Angeline let out a faint sigh.  To top
it all off she was starting to feel flushed again!

Are you feeling well, my lady?  called Gerta from across the path.
Minus her usual grooming paraphernalia and mouthful of pins, Gerta
looked ill at ease, like a fiddler without a bow.

I'm fine, Gerta.  Just a little Angeline glanced around for
inspiration: she saw high cliffs of gray stone, small patchwork meadows
filled with flowers, odd little bushes that even odder little birds
flew out of, and the sun, large and yellow, hanging in a cloudless sky
hot.  That's it.  I'm just a little hot.

Well, we'd better stop for a while, then.  Gerta swiveled around in her
saddle.  All halt!  All halt!  Tents up!  Her Highness needs to rest in
the shade for a while.  You over there.  Yes, you with the pole arm run
and find some cool stream water for the lady.  And you with the
saddlebags, unroll one of the best blankets and lay it on the ground.
Now!  Not when you've finished inspecting the dirt under your
fingernails.

Watching Gerta in action, Angeline felt a mixture of guilt and relief.
She greatly admired the way Gerta made everyone do what she wanted when
she wanted and was extremely grateful for the chance to rest a while,
but she couldn't help feeling bad all the same.  Gerta cared for her,
truly cared, like Snowy did, like Father had, yet here she was keeping
up a terrible deception.

Frowning, Angeline slid off her horse.  She felt veryquensy, and not
even holding Snowy tight could make her feel better.  If it was just
guilt that was making her feel ill, she could probably cope with it,
but she knew in her heart it was much more than that.

She was really, truly pregnant.  All the symptoms were there: the
blushing for no reason, the sickness, the soreness in her breasts, and
the absence of womanly bleeding.  She was pregnant, yet she couldn't
tell anyone.  Gerta would be angry that she had been deceived, and
Izgard would be furious that she was jeopardizing her unborn child by
crossing the mountains on a horse.  Why, her innards could shatter at
any turn of the path!  Everyone would be mad at her.  Everyone.

Dropping Snowy to the ground, Angeline sat on a nearby rock and watched
as the midday camp took shape.  The truth was she wanted this baby very
much much more than she thought she would and the idea that she might
be harming it by riding was so upsetting, it made her chest ache.
Father had dreamed of having a grandchild.  A bouny little baby, just
like my best girl, he would say.  Only now there was no Father, and she
was no one's best girl.

She was a bad girl.  She had lied, fooled Gerta, and tricked Izgard
into sending for her.  And for what?  To be outside?  Angeline looked
around.  The mountains were gray and hazy in the warm air, and
dandelion puffs and insects floated past her fac.  It was a lot
prettier than Sern Fortress, but she wasn't going to stay in the
mountains, she was going to live in the middle of a waning camp,
surrounded by armed men, guarded at all times, pregnant, yet not daring
to tell anyone, with Izgard close by, temper ready to boil over like
water above a fire if she as much as put a foot out of place.

Angeline shivered despite the heat.  She had made a terrible, terrible
mess of things.

As always when she was afraid or upset, the first thing she did was
slap her thigh and call for Snowy.  The little dog came straight away
he just wasn't his no-good self at the moment.  Bending down, Angeline
scooped him up in her arms.  Fighting off another bout of queasiness,
she laid one hand on her stomach and the other on Snowy's neck and
whispered, You and me are all alone in this, Snowy.  Just you and me.

And, miss, here's an extra ten silvers for hiring a horse.  Emith
handed Tessa a second purse.  There should be a little extra in it for
emergencies.  Oh, and remember to keep this one in a separate place
from the other.  And be sure to watch yourself at all times.  All
times.

Even though Emith had given her the same piece of advice at least a
dozen times since breakfast, Tessa nodded.  She took the purse which
felt as if it contained at least double the number of coins Emith had
stated and tied it to her belt.

They were standing on the quay, in the shadow of the three-masted
vessel that would take Tessa to Maribane.  Longshoremen pushed past
them, toting barrels, chests, and crates up a series of gangplanks to
the ship.  Sailors called to each other from high atop the riggings,
crying insults, warnings, and instructions.  Seagulls shrieked, wood
warming in the morning sun creaked, passengers waiting to board chatted
in subdued groups on the wharf, and high up on the quarterdeck, a man
wearing a turban and chewing on licorice root shouted orders to
everyone in sight.

Tessa couldn't really believe she was going.  Only five days ago she
had wakened in her bed, head sore, palm burned, and asked Emith to find
her passage to Maribane.  Things in the Emith household had moved
quickly after that.  Emith, although reluctant at first, had been as
good as his word.  Better, even.  Tessa now had new boots, gloves, a
cloak and a dress, a scabbard for Ravis knife, a leather belt and
pouch, and a leather sack for her belongings.  Emith had even purchased
combs and ribbons for her hair, though granted they were probably his
mother's idea, not his own.  No one could think of everything quite as
emphatically as Mother Emith.

From the safe haven of her chair Mother Emith had directed the whole
operation: supplies to be bought, items to be pawned for cash, meat to
be dried for travel food, leather sacks to be patched, and tales to be
spun to explain why Tessa, as a woman, was traveling alone.  Mother
Emith was a planning demon: ship schedules, weather reports, local
custom, and word of mouth had all been taken into account in the
raveling of her grand design.

Tessa herself had been scrubbed, laced in, and primped to.  the point
where she looked respectable without appearing too comely.  Mother
Emith had spoken long and hard about the dangers of catching the eye of
a lecherous man while at sea

At least you're at an age where everyone will assume you're wed she had
said earlier as she'd pinned up Tessa's hair in a tight, matronly knot.
And be sure to insist that everyone on the ship, most especially the
captain, calls you madam, not miss.

Tessa drew a hand over her newly styled hair and smiled.  It had been
hard to say good-bye.  Very hard.  Mother Emith had almost, yet not
quite, risen from her chair, and she had hugged Tessa so tightly that
Tessa thought she might never let go.  She did, though, and by the time
Tessa was at the door she had already taken up her little knife and
begun scraping vegetables for the pot.  No matter what happened in a
day, there was always supper to be prepared.

Swallowing hard, Tessa swung around to face Emith.  He was kneeling,
tying the drawstring on her sack, checking that nothing was about to
fall out.

All aboard!  Captain says: All aboard!  The man with the turban spat
out his licorice root.  We sail within the quarter.  All aboard!

Passengers started gravitating toward the gangplanks, bags in hand,
trunks in tow.  Tessa counted over a dozen men and women boarding,
though according to Mother Emith Tamer was first and foremost a
merchant ship, carrying cargo between Kilgrim and Bay Zen.

All aboard!  shouted the turban man, looking directly Tessa's way.  All
aboard!

Here, miss.  Here's your pack.  Emith handed Tessa her sack.  Out of
his normal setting of the kitchen, he looked small and lost.

Just like she felt.  Looking into Emith's dark blue eyes, Tessa felt
her throat begin to ache.  All her life she had loved journeys, loved
the excitement of being on her way, of traveling somewhere, anywhere,
always to another place.  Yet here she was today, finally free of
Mother Emith's kitchen, about to embark on a journey to an unknown
land, to an island off the island of Maribane, and all she wanted to do
was follow Emith home.

She didn't want to go.  For the first time in her life she didn't want
to walk away.

Tessa let out a quick breath, considered launching herself at Emith,
and then decided against it.  The affection would just embarrass him.
Take good care of your mother while I'm away.  Tell her I said
good-bye.

Emith appeared suddenly interested in his sleeve.  I will.  I will.  If
it wasn't for her, I'd

I know.  You'd come with me.  Tessa tried to smile, found she couldn't
so turned it into a lopsided grin.

All aboard!  All aboard!

You really should go, miss.  Remember to watch yourself at all times.
Don't talk to strangers, and always try to stay in the company of other
women.

Tessa stared at Emith's sleeve along with him.  I won't forget anything
you said.  Anything.

The sleeve rose.  Tessa felt Emith's hand upon her arm.

Go, miss.  May all four gods watch over you, and bring you back to us
safe and sound.

Reaching up, Tessa put her left hand over Emith s. She felt so many
things just then.  New things, like being afraid and not wanting to let
go.

Last call!  All aboard!

Tessa heaved her sack over her shoulder, looked into Emith's face for a
moment until he finally met her eye, then turned and walked away.  She
had a journey to begin.

The sun was warm on her back as she made her way up the gangplank.
After seven weeks of being secluded in Mother Emith's kitchen, the
throng of noises, people, and smells was overwhelming.  Tessa felt as
if she'd emerged from a protective cocoon.  Funny, but during the time
she had spent with Emith and his mother, she had almost forgotten where
she was.  Now, today, it all came back to her.  She was in a strange
land, with strange people, an impossibly long way from home.

Without conscious thought, Tessa's hand stole up to the ribbon around
her neck, to the ring tucked beneath her bodice.  Forgetting to use her
left hand instead of her bandaged right, she felt heat scorch across
her palm.  Wincing, she took the golden band in her fingers,
deliberately pressing the barbs into her flesh.  The tiny jabs of pain
seemed to help.

Here, missy called a young, gap-toothed man, reaching out a hand as
Tessa's foot landed on the deck of the ship.

Let me help you with that sack.

Remembering all of Emith's advice, Tessa shook her head.

No.  It's not heavy.  I can carry it myself.  And it's not miss, by the
way, it's madam.

As she spoke, Tessa felt some of her old strength coming back.  She
hadn't slept well the past five days.  Blisters had erupted along her
burned palm, oozing blood and pus, puffing on her skin and cracking
open healing flesh.  Pain had kept her twisting in her sheets at night.
When she did fall asleep, she got little rest.  The harrar with gold
eyes watched her from the dark edges of her dreams.

The gap-toothed man backed off, and Tessa walked onto the ship. Tarrier
pitched lightly in the water, reminding her she was no longer on dry
land.  Pushing past a gaggle of squabbling children and a woman wearing
a pointed hat with a veil that barely covered her eyebrows, she made
her way to the rails.  Her right hand hovered above her sack, while her
left lay beneath the shifting folds of her cloak, fingers resting not
at all lightly upon the hilt of Ravis knife.

Emith was easy to spot on the quay.  Among a milling, chattering,
disheveled mob, he was an island of quiet neatness.  He had taken great
pains to dress well today, and catching a glimpse of his wine-colored
waistcoat beneath his outer coat, Tessa wished she had thought to tell
him how very fine he looked.  Leaning forward, she waved wildly,
determined to catch his eye.

She needn't have gone to such trouble.  Emith waved back straight away,
as if he had never lost sight of her once.

Seeing his gentle, well-known face lifted up toward her, Tessa felt the
soreness come back to her throat.

Tarrier lurched sharply as the lines from the rowing tugs pulled taut
across the water and the ship began to feel the pull.

All hands!  All hands!  The turban man stood, bare feet wide apart on
the quarterdeck, and began to direct operations.  Anchors up!  Hatches
down!  Lines in!

Sailors darted from quarterdeck to midships, from the prow to the
stern.  Knives between their teeth, ropes looped over their shoulders,
metal cups filled with wax and grease bobbing at their waists, they
moved through the passengers like dancers among statues.  Overhead, the
masts swayed in the rising breeze, stays humming, sails dropping,
rigging wrestling with the weight of swinging booms.

Tessa felt the breeze tugging at her hair, pulling tendrils loose at
her temples, ears, and neck.  Under her feet, the ship juddered and
pitched as it began to move away from the dock.  Emith looked up at her
from the wharf, his face small and pale.  No longer waving, Tessa just
watched him, left hand curled fast around the rail.

Suddenly horses hooves thundered along the quay.

Make way!  called a voice.  Make way!

Tessa watched as a horseman blasted through the crowd, dressed in
black, crop in hand.  People ran screaming from his path.  Women fled.
Children cried.  Seagulls took to the air.  Undeterred, the rider kept
up his pace, wooden boards splintering beneath him as he drove his
horse toward the wharf.  Tessa thought he must be mad; he would surely
ride himself and his horse straight into the sea!

Then the sunlight caught his face.

Breath hung in Tessa's throat.  Her fingertips ground into the rail. It
was Ravis.

Run a plank!  he cried, pulling in his reins, sending the crowd of
well-wishers scattering like ants.  As God is my witness, I will not
miss this ship.

Tessa glanced down at the gap widening between the ship and the jetty.
The sea was the color of mud below.  On the main deck, two sailors slid
out a plank to bridge the gap.  It didn't reach.  More sailors came.
The plank was retracted to half its length and then all five sailors
leaned their weight to the ship's end.

You're gonna have to jump, shouted the first of them, spitting into his
palm.  If ya have the balls for it.  Ravis horse skittered to a halt.
One hand grabbing his saddlebag, the other flinging his crop to the
ground, Ravis leapt off the saddle and raced along the wharf.  Boards
pumped under his feet, his hair pulled loose from its bindings.  The
tendons on either side of his neck were as white as the gulls he sent
flying.  Tessa saw his hands ball into fists and his teeth come down on
his scar as he tore tQward the end of the jetty.  Knuckles bristling
around the rails, she watched as he reached the final board and
launched himself toward the ship.

For a fraction of a second Ravis was nothing more than a dark blur.  He
ripped through the space between the ship and the jetty like a bolt
from a crossbow.  A soft rasping sound escaped from Tessa's lips.  The
sailors waiting on the plank huddled close.  Ravis body seemed to hang
in the air for an instant before blasting onto the plank.

Right leg extended, his foot slapped down hard against the wood.
Crack!

The wood split.  The outstretched section of the plank dropped beneath
Ravis foot, yet although he fell downward, the momentum of his body
kept him moving forward toward the ship.  Fists beating air, Ravis
whipped his left hand forward, trying to reach the deck.  Tessa didn't
blink or breathe.  Ravis body was as quick and malleable as mercury.
His fingers caught the deck.  The sailor who spat into his palm slapped
his hand on Ravis knuckles.  A second man gripped his wrist, and a
third man went for his arm.  Together they hauled in Ravis body as if
it were a catch: arm, shoulder, head, second arm, chest, body, then
legs.

Tessa let out a deep breath.

Chest thumping, limbs shaking, Ravis was dragged to his feet by the
sailors.  He was quick to recover.  Very quick.  Running a hand through
his tangled hair, he turned to face the passengers and crew, who, like
Tessa, had been watching

from the aft deck.  After taking a few long breaths to cpntrol himself,
he bowed deeply, sweeping around to include everyone on the ship, and
said:

Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen.  I had hoped to arrive some ten
minutes later, when I really could have put on a show.

A huge cheer went up.

Crewmen banged their cups against the deck, children ran forward, and
the sailors who had saved Ravis all slapped him on his back.

Tessa smiled, then, catching Ravis eye, she laughed.  He really did
look quite magnificent just then.

When Mother Emith told me you were sailing to Maribane, I took for the
docks straight away.  Ravis shrugged.  I may have flattened a few rats
underfoot.

He had just come from paying the captain for his passage and was in the
process of making himself comfortable in Tessa's cabin.  His riding
boots, cloak, and saddlebag formed a small pile near the hatch.

The cabin itself was tiny and oddly shaped like the spaces found under
stairs and was barely long enough for a grown man to lie down in and
just high enough for Tessa's hair to snag on the wooden ceiling beams.
This close to the hold the air smelled of Uried spices going stale
between cracks in floorboards and narrow corners missed by the broom. A
boxed pallet that seemed to be made mostly from nails, not wood, took
up most of the available space.  The place was lit by a hanging lantern
capped with brass, and as it swung back and forth with the motion of
the ship, it drew an arc of light and smoke in the center of the
room.

Ravis sat on the pallet, back against the cabin wall, while Tessa knelt
on the floor.  Up close, he looked pale and tired, and although he
tried to hide it, he winced as he moved.  Tessa wondered how he had
managed the jump from the jetty to the ship, as he was obviously
unwell.  Even though twenty minutes or more had passed since the jump,
his chest was still pumping.

How far did you ride today?  she asked, not wanting to betray her
concern.

I'm not sure twenty, thirty leagues.  Ravis dark eyes met hers.  You
wouldn't happen to have any berriac in that sack of yours?  I drained
my own flask a league past Runzy.

Nervous but not sure why, Tessa dragged her sack to her side and began
to look through it.  Ravis suddenly seemed like a stranger to her.  She
didn't know him at all.  They had spent only one full day together what
seemed like a very long time ago.  Yet here he was sitting before her,
taking up most of the space in the cabin, smelling of sweat and horses
and faraway places, having raced through a city to be with her.

Tessa rummaged through the packages in the sack until her fingers
brushed against the smooth coolness of a pewter flask.  Pulling out the
cork stopper, she brought the flask to her nose.  Volatile fumes rose
up her nostrils, making her blink.  Here she said, handing the flask to
Ravis.  This should help.  Ravis took it from her and drank without
pausing to smell or sample.  Judging from the tilt of the flask, he
drank a good third of its contents before stopping.  Wiping his mouth
dry with the back of his hand, he said, I see you still have my
knife.

Tessa glanced down at her waist.  The knife was not visible beneath her
cloak.

Seeing her puzzled expression, Ravis stretched his lips to a smile.  I
caught a glimpse of it as you leant over to hand me the flask.

Do you always watch the people you are with that closely?

Always.

Feeling challenged by the self-assured expression on his face, Tessa
said, So what else can you tell me about myself?

So Ravis inclined his head.  Very well, if you insist.  You have a bad
wound beneath the bandage on your right hand.  bad, in fact, that you
had to take the cork from the flask with your left hand instead of your
right.  You've put on weight since last time I saw you and, may I say,
you look better for it.  And despite Mother Emith's attempts to make
you appear less attractive by pulling back your hair like a sister in a
convent, she has only succeeded in making you more beautiful instead.
Any man looking at you now will be forced to look at your eyes, not
your hair.

Annoyed with herself, Tessa blushed.  She looked down at her hands,
unable to meet Ravis eyes.  What had possessed her to ask such a stupid
question?

Ravis handed her the flask.  Perhaps you could do with a drink right
now?

Tessa snatched the flask from him.  Although she couldn't see whether
he was smiling or not, his amusement was evident in his voice.

And you, he said softly.  What can you say about me?

Tessa didn't hesitate.  You're in pain, yet you're acting as if there's
nothing wrong.  Still feeling nervous, she took a hefty slug from the
flask.

Ravis watched her for a moment without blinking.  When he finally spoke
all his former amusement had drained from his voice.  I was wounded a
week ago in battle.  The tip of the blade was unclean, and the wound
has become infected.  He brought a hand to rest upon his ribs.  I don't
think five days of hard riding has done it much good.

Tessa handed back the flask, suddenly not angry or embarrassed anymore.
Battle?  Were you with Cameron of Thorn amid the broken stones?

Ravis looked at Tessa hard and long.  He did not take the flask from
her.  What do you know of that battle?

The burn on Tessa's hand flared, sending pain sizzling over her palm
and wrist.  The ship pitched sharply and the lantern smacked against a
ceiling beam, causing the light to dim and black smoke to stream from
the wick.  Although she wasn't cold, Tessa pulled her cloak close
around her shoulders.

I was there, she said slowly, not wanting Ravis to mistake her meaning
in any way.  I saw Cameron of Thorn surrounded by the harras.  I saw
him trying to save the other man's life, and I watched as he tried to
keep all those monsters at bay.

You drew a pattern:

It was not a question, but Tessa nodded all the same.

Yes.  I drew a pattern.  And at some point everything began to slip
away from me.  I could smell the harras.  Hear them.  She shuddered. 
The burn throbbed away in her hand.  I kept painting, and it was almost
as if I were seeing through the parchment.  I could see everything
clearly: Cameron, the harras, their knives, the blood.

Aware that her voice was starting to break up, Tessa cried, I tried to
help him.  I just didn't know what to do, didn't know how to start.  At
one point I thought I was having some effect the harras began to back
away but then..  . She shook her head, unable to speak.

What happened?  Ravis voice was hard.

Something came after me.  It saw me, knew I was there, and came through
the vellum to get me.  The pain in Tessa's palm was unbearable, and she
rocked back and forth over her hand.  I saw eyes watching me, felt a
terrible pressure in my head, and then my hand began to burn.  Tessa
made a small, helpless gesture with her shoulder.  The next thing I
knew I was waking up in Mother Emith's kitchen and a whole day had gone
by.

Ravis bit on his scar.  How could you have done something so foolish?
Didn't Emith warn you?  Didn't you stop to think?  You could have been
killed.  Killed.  This is not a game we're involved in.  The dangers
are real.  You should have stopped the moment you smelled the harras.
Put the brush down and walked away.  You should never have tried to
interfere.  Never.

Tessa was stunned by Ravis anger.  She couldn't understand it.  I'm not
a little girl.  I knew what I was doing was dangerous, yet what choice
did I have?  Camron was surrounded by harras.  I couldn't leave him
there.  I had to do something anything.  I had to try.

There was no need for you to risk yourself.  I had everything under
control.  There was something besides anger in Ravis voice that Tessa
couldn't quite name.

Ignoring whatever it was, she cried, You didn't do too well, though,
did you.

What do you mean?

I mean Cameron is dead.  And if I had known more or tried harder, he
might be on this ship today.  As Tessa spoke, she felt herself close to
tears.  Why was she acting so emotionally?  She didn't recognize
herself anymore.

Cameron isn't dead.  Ravis voice was only a fraction softer than
earlier.  He's alive and on his way to Mir Lor.  I pulled him away from
the harras.

Thewooden braces in the cabin creaked and strained as Tessa tried to
make sense of Ravis words.  The pain in her hand, together with the
rocking motion of the ship, was combining to make her feel sick.  You
saved him?  she said finally, feeling like a small child who needed
everything explained in the simplest terms.

Yes.  Me and a dozen bowmen.  Ravis ran a finger along his lip, pausing
to linger over his scar.  I held my company back.  I knew the whole
thing was a trap, yet I didn't know what form that trap would likely
take.  The last thing I expected to encounter was a troop of harras
like the ones you and I met on the bridge.

Someone is behind them, Tessa said.  I felt them come after me.

Ravis nodded.  I think it's Izgard and his scribe.

Yes.  There was a scribe.  Tessa felt her heart beating fast.  Before I
blacked out I smelled pigment, and I'm sure it wasn't my own.

Can you remember anything else?

Tessa shook her head.  She was still trying to accept the fact that
Camron of Thorn wasn't dead.

Think.  Think!

There's nothing else to remember.  I was painting a pattern, I saw the
harras attack Camron, I tried to help, didn't know what I was doing,
and got caught.  Tessa's temper was coming back.  That's sill there
is.

Ravis didn't even blink at her raised voice.  Instead he said, So,
whoever it was Izgard or his scribe only noticed your presence when you
tried to work against them?

I can't say for certain.  I'm not sure Seeing another question ready on
Ravis lips, Tessa halted it with one of her own.  She didn't like being
the one under attack.  You haven't said why you are here yet.  Or did
you just happen to find yourself in Bay Zen and thought you'd look me
up?

Ravis smile was dazzling in the dim, smoky light of the cabin.  It
changed the mood instantly, warming the very air itself.  I seem to
have overstepped my question quota.

Tessa didn't want to be charmed by his smile, yet she couldn't help
herself.  His dark eyes twinkled with delight, well aware he had
accurately pinned down her motives.  Just answer my questions, she
said, pleasantly surprised at how serious her voice sounded that, at
least, was still under her control.

Ravis eased himself forward on the pallet.  The only sign he was in
pain was a slight deepening of the lines around his eyes and a flicker
of white tooth biting down on his scar.  Details, Tessa thought as he
spoke.

I came to Bay Zen to find you.  To make sure you were safe, and keep
you safe, and try to find out why you're here.  Ravis voice was low
without being a whisper, rough without being harsh.  You're connected
to this whole thing in some way even before you told me you'd seen
Camron in the valley, I guessed that.  What you've just said proves
it.

I don't know what you're capable of, but I've seen what Izgard's harras
can do, and it frightens me.  I've never fought men like them before.
They're not like normal troops, they have no fear or sense of
responsibility.  They keep coming and coming and don't stop.  I sliced
one man open from the throat to the navel, yet he didn't go down his
face didn't even register pain he just kept on attacking until he was
so weak from loss of blood that the knife fell from his hand.

Ravis shivered.  His fingers hovered around his rib cage.

When a man's that badly injured his first instinct should be to back
off and save himself not fight until it kills him.

What frightens me more than anything else, though, is the thought of
thousands of men like that.  I don't know how many harras there were in
that valley probably a lot less than there seemed at the time but their
numbers were nothing compared to what Izgard held in reserve.  He has
an army of twenty thousand men.  Twenty thousand.  And over a quarter
of them have been trained to the point where they can handle weapons,
horses, and drills well enough to be called harras.  What if Izgard can
turn them all into animals?  We've seen what can happen when the harras
are let loose on a town:

they annihilated Thorn.  Women and children, armed men or animals: it
made no difference to them.  They kill everything that moves.

Ravis gnawed at his scar.  Believe me, if Lzgard has got the means to
turn his entire army into monsters, he won't hesitate to use them.  And
if he does, I don't see any way that Rhaize can stand against him.

Kneeling quietly in the corner, Tessa closed her eyes.  She knew Ravis
had deliberately spoken to frighten her, yet it didn't make any
difference.  She was frightened.  Her stomach ached, and a dull pain
sounded in her temples.  No tinnitus, though.  No tinnitus ever
again.

Not knowing if that thought made her feel strong or angry, she said, I
know why I'm here.  Deveric drew me to Bay Zen so I can stop the
harras.

Ravis looked at her, the lids on his eyes dropping to conceal his
thoughts.

Tessa rushed on.  Those patterns Deveric died completing, the ones
Emith gave to Marcel of Vailing to keep safe, were a summons.  They
brought me here.  They're a series of five illuminations that Deveric
began working on twenty-one years ago, and every time he completed one
of them it brought me closer to finding the ring.  I've checked out the
dates-they match exactly.  Deveric has been pulling me along for most
of my life, and the day he finished the final pattern was the day I
found this.  She pulled the ring out from her bodice, held it up toward
Ravis.  And when I put it on it brought me here.

Ravis made no move to touch the ring.  He held his position on the
pallet, looking neither worried nor surprised.  He didn't ask where she
had come from; instead he said, And that was the morning I found you by
the docks?

Yes.

And a week ago, when you were drawing the pattern and saw Cameron
fighting the harras, there was a point when you thought you were
actually making a difference?

Tessa nodded.  I'm sure of it.  The harras began to slow down, to
change.  They began to seem more like men, and if I'd known what I was
doing, I think I could have stopped them.

So that's why you're on your way to Maribane?  To learn what to do?

Yes.  Emith can't teach me anything else he's a scribe's assistant, not
a scribe.  He only knows so much.  Tessa found she no longer minded
answering Ravis questions.  Saying these things out loud seemed to make
them more comprehensible.  It helped that Ravis accepted everything she
said without question.

When I was painting that pattern last week, just before I saw Camron, I
found something inside of myself, something buried deep beneath my
skin.  It was as if a part of me has been hidden away for twenty-one
years, and only by coming here did I get to find and use it.

Ravis felt the flesh around his rib cage.  He suddenly looked tired and
pale.  So you're going to Maribane to find answers as well as advice?

Emith has given me the name of a man there, Brother Avaccus, who he
thinks might be able to help

As she spoke, Tessa began rummaging through her sack.  Mother Emith had
supervised the packing of all sorts of herbs and pastes You never can
tell what dangers might befall a woman alone on a ship, she had said
and Tessa thought she might be able to find something to help Ravis.
The pot marigold paste she used on her burn might help his wound heal
cleanly, and the dried willow bark Mother Emith had included for aches
and fever could ease his pain.  After opening various small packets
wrapped in sedge weeds and tied with string, Tessa found what she was
looking for.  The willow bark would have to be boiled in hot water
first, but the paste could be used right away.

Take your shirt off, she said.

Ravis eyes widened.  So soon?  We've only just left dry land.

Tessa saw the smile playing around his lips and frowned.

You know what I mean.  I want to take a look at your wound, put some of
this on it.

What is it?

Pot-marigold paste.

Ravis nodded.  It might help.  After tugging the lacings from his
tunic, he dragged it over his head and then pulled off his undershirt.
Part of the linen was stuck to the wound, and he winced as it came
away.

Tessa drew in her breath.  The wound was caked in dried blood, and the
skin to either side was bloated.  All that she had picked up about
healing from listening to Mother Emith in those long afternoons around
the fire didn't seem nearly enough to cope with anything like this.

See that knife in my saddlebag?  Ravis motioned toward his belongings
piled by the hatch.  Pull it out and heat the blade over the flame.

Glad that Ravis appeared to know what he was doing, Tessa did as she
was told.  Once she'd unhooked the lantern from the ceiling hook, she
flipped off the brass cap and exposed the flame.  The blade blackened
as she heated it, and when it started to smoke Ravis said, Enough. Wipe
the edge with the paste and bring it to me.

The ship pitched sharply as Tessa stepped forward, and she was forced
to grab the cabin wall to stop herself from falling.  Her stomach
appeared to move independently of her body, though, and even as she
managed to steady her feet, a wave of nausea rippled up from her gut.
Biting down on her tongue, she handed Ravis the knife.

Ravis didn't waste a second.  He pivoted the handle in his grip bit
down on his scar, and sliced the skin just above his bottom rib.
Grimacing, he grabbed his shirt and pressed it into his flesh, forcing
out blood and pus.  Tessa wasn't normally squeamish about such things,
but her stomach wasn't playing fair right then, and the sight of thin
yellow fluid oozing from Ravis wound made her gag.

Have you got any ginger in that pack of yours?  Ravis asked, wincing as
he pushed against a tender spot.

I'm not sure.  I'll check.  Tessa was glad for a chance to turn away.
What do you need it for?

It's not for me.  It's for you.  You look pretty green from where I
am.

Green?

You've got a bad case of seasickness.  Ginger is the best thing for it.
Ravis lifted the shirt from the wound, then concealed the blood and
fluid stains by rolling it in a ball.  Pass me the rest of the paste
and a clean cloth if you have one.

As he tended and bound his wound, Tessa searched for ginger among all
of Mother Emith's various packages.  How come you know so much about
medicine?  she asked, bringing something yellow and disk shaped to her
nose to smell.

I need to.  It's part of my job.  I I ship men expecting them to fight
on arrival, then I'd better be sure that they don't spend the entire
voyage losing their meals and groaning in their bunks.  Same with
sending troops into battle you have to know how to deal with the
wounded, how to stop bleeding and prevent infection using whatever
materials are close at hand.  If the word gets round that in your
company you leave your wounded to die, then no amount of gold will help
you recruit more men.

Having discovered that the yellow disk was in fact dried, sliced
ginger, Tessa popped it in her mouth and began chewing on it.  What
Ravis said made cold business sense, and she found herself strangely
disappointed by it.  Changing the subject, she said, How long will your
wound take to heal?

Ravis finished tying a knot around the bandage and then reached for the
berriac flask.  Although he had given no verbal indication of being in
pain while he tended his wound, beads of sweat trickled down from his
brow and there was blood on his lip where his tooth had bit through his
scar.  Having swallowed a mouthful of berriac, he said, By the time
this ship docks in Kilgrim the wound should be dry.

Three days?

Ravis laughed.  This old heap of nails will take more than double that
to reach Kilgrim.

But Emith said the voyage took three days.

It can if you happen to be sailing in an Istanian bark or a Medrani
cutter.  In an old merchanter like this one we'll be lucky to get there
within a week.

Tessa didn't understand.  But it has three masts

And it needs all three of them just to pull its load.

But Mother Emith chose Tamer because it had the highest masts and
broadest sails of any ship leaving for Maribane.

Emith and his mother are very dear people and they may well know a lot
about food and scribing, but neither of them knows the first thing
about ships.  Ravis made himself comfortable on the pallet.  He seemed
amused.  You can't judge how fast a ship is by the number of its masts.
You look at the shape of its bow, the length of its hull in relation to
its beam, and the cut of its riggings.  You can hardly tell the bow of
Tarrier from its stern, and it's nearly as wide as it is long. Smiling,
Ravis shook his head.  Not a good sign in a ship you're hoping will get
you somewhere fast.

Annoyed at Ravis smugness, Tessa spat out the ginger into the palm of
her hand and said, I suppose you make it your business to know all
about ships so you can move your men into battle faster?

Ravis shrugged.  Not really.  I just pick things up as I go along.  He
thumped the cork into the flask and let it drop to the floor.  Pulling
a blanket over his chest, he said, If you don't mind, I think I'll take
a short nap.  You need to keep chewing on that ginger, go on deck,
breathe in some fresh air, and get accustomed to the motion of the
ship.  We have a long journey ahead.

Still mad, yet unable to think of anything to do or say about it, Tessa
crossed to the hatch.  Despite all his sarcasm and bravado, Ravis was
genuinely sick and he did need some rest.  Feeling an odd mixture of
anger and excitement, she made her way up through the ship.  Part of
her old self came back to her as she climbed the steps to the main
deck: her old love of traveling to new places and seeing new things and
waiting for adventures to happen.

NINETEEN

arc el's cellar was dark, and that was the way he liked it when he was
receiving guests.

He didn't like to look at the harras.  They scared him.  He didn't like
to smell them, either, but there was nothing to be done about that.
After they left he usually burned cinnamon-scented candles to cancel
out the smell.  It was not the sort of thing a connoisseur like himself
would normally do in a wine cellar containing such rare vintages the
aroma of cinnamon might slip through the corks and casts, corrupting
the wine beneath yet he did it anyway.  The smell of the harras really
did bother him quite badly.  He even had to wash it off their gold.

Just one harrar had come through the gate in the back courtyard.
Pulling open the wooden trap door, he had let himself in.  That was
another thing Marcel didn't like, but he knew from experience that if
he bolted the door against them, they would simply tear it off.
Unannounced guests were one thing, suspicious noises in the early hours
of the mo ming were another thing entirely.  There was no worse sin in
the banking business than drawing unnecessary attention one's way.

What do you people want this time?  Marcel asked, the actor in him
injecting the words with a measure of impatience and mastery he did not
feel.  I've already told you that I do not know where Ravis of Burano
is.

The harrar's face was in shadow, and all Marcel could see of him was
the whites of his eyes and the glint of saliva on his teeth.  This one
looked more like a man than the last one, but the smell was still the
same.

We need to find a girl a woman.  The one who was with Ravis of Burano
the night we attacked him on the bridge:

The harrar spoke in a whisper, his jaws smacking together as he
pronounced the words woman and bridge.

The girl's name is Tessa.  She's a foreigner.  Ravis brought her here
that same morning.  Marcel edged away from the harrar as he spoke.
Sometimes he wondered how he had got himself into all of this.  Things
had started out simply enough a nice middleman deal between Izgard of
Garizon and Ravis of Burano but ever since the night Berick of Thorn
was murdered at Castle Bess, events had taken a more serious turn.
[zgard didn't want him in the middle anymore, he wanted him firmly on
his side.  And Marcel of Vailing always prided himself on being
accommodating to his clients.  Most especially those who mattered.

Izgard of Garizon had manpower and might, and it didn't take a clever
man to see he'd soon have more.  He wanted Bay Zen and he was likely to
get it, and Marcel planned on being one of his sympathizers when he
did.  Just because power changed hands didn't mean that money had to.
Fiscal continuity was what really counted.

Where is the girl now?  Saliva slapped around the harrar's mouth as he
spoke, giving the impression he was chewing on something tough like
gristle.  His thin-bladed knife was hooked on a strap beneath his
armpit, and the leather bound hilt was stamped with blood.

Averting his eyes from the knife as he spoke, Marcel said, I have no
idea where she is.  She could be anywhere.  Feeling his voice wasn't
doing the best job it could, and knowing how very important it was that
the harrar believed he was telling the truth, Marcel threw his hands
into the air for extra emphasis.  Anywhere.

The harrar's boots made no noise as he stepped toward Marcel.  We think
she is in the city.  Where is she likely to be?

All of Marcel's actor's instincts weren't enough to stop himself from
shaking.  The harrar might not be one of those mad-dog men now, but he
had been, and it wasn't only the smell that still clung to him.  Seen
close up, the whites of his eyes had a faint golden cast and his gums
were a splintered ridge of bone.

Marcel attempted a nonchalant shrug as he cleared his throat before
speaking.  I can't begin to think where the girl might be.  I... I... I
just don't know.

She was in a kitchen.  There was a broad table spread with pigments and
brushes.

Still recovering from the blow of his voice giving way, Marcel
attempted to rally his thoughts.  Kitchen?  Table?  How gould he
possibly be expected to pin down such things?  Why, there must be ten
thousand kitchens within the city gates alone!

The harrar leaned close and breathed on Marcel.  His breath was moist
and gamy, like the mist steaming off mud banks at night.  I need to
know where she is.  Think!

Marcel thought; it seemed the wisest thing to do just then.  Kitchen...
table..  . pigments!  His plump lips pulled tight as he recalled the
night he'd dropped off Deveric's illuminations at Mother Emith's house.
The table had been loaded with pigments!  And neither Emith nor his old
bat of a mother could wait to be rid of him.  Emith had been about as
nervous as an Istanian courier carrying gold, and his mother had all
but pushed him out the door.  That was it!  They were hiding the
girl.

Glancing at the harrar, Marcel let his new discovery settle around his
body like a fine silk cloak, enjoying the feeling of confidence it gave
him.  This time when he spoke he didn't bother to clear his throat.  He
had a feeling his voice would come out well.  There may be one
particular place worth a look.

Where?

A small town house on the west side of the city, in the same street as
the old milk stone martyry.

The harrar's hand flicked from his waist to his knife.

Who lives there?

Marcel hesitated, wondering whether to give details about Emith and his
elderly mother or leave matters as they were: vague.  Surely there was
no danger in telling?  After all, the harms would probably only put a
watch on their door, and what was the harm in that?  Indeed, thought
Marcel, he could probably get himself into worse trouble by not
telling.  Izgard's men were notorious for ferreting out lies and
evasions.

Glancing from the harrar's knife to the shelves of his own prized
vintages, Marcel took an actor's breath and then spoke.  He had to
think of himself first.  Besides, he was rather fond of the sound of
his own voice.  4 -4

Tessa was on the foredeck, leaning against the rails, the bridge house
behind her and nothing but the sea in front.  It was early morning and
the sun shone at an oblique angle on the water, creating veins of
silvery light on the surface.  If she watched the shifting silver
threads for long enough, she began to see patterns within their forms.
Shapes winked at her, then vanished, like letters written in invisible
ink.

Frowning at her own foolishness, Tessa deliberately shifted her gaze to
the sky.  No clouds, no birds, no banks of lifting mist: the uniform
grayness suited her just fine.  She didn't want to spot patterns
wherever she looked.  She wanted to look at the sky and see the sky,
not some grand and intricate design.

Pulling her cloak over her arms, she turned from the railings and moved
across the deck toward the steps.  Her new boots made good, slapping
noises against the wood as she walked, and a handful of sailors turned
to look at her as she passed.  Tessa's frown turned to a smile.  She
was beginning to feel at home on the ship.

The ginger Ravis had prescribed worked.  In fact, everything he had
said yesterday worked: the ginger, the walking, the fresh air, and the
suggestion that she familiarize herself with her surroundings.  The
seasickness had gone completely, and barring high storms and spoiled
food, it didn't feel as if it were coming back.

Tessa had spent most of yesterday just walking around the deck.  It
felt good to be outside after so many weeks of staying in.  The female
passengers on the ship mostly ignored her, either sending disapproving
looks her way for daring to walk around deck unaccompanied or glancing
nervously at the knife she wore at her waist Tessa quite enjoyed those
glances: it amused her that people thought she might be dangerous.

The male passengers made her thankful for Ravis presence  They stared
at her openly, and Tessa couldn't tell whether they were interested in
the contents of her money pouch, her body, or both.  Nothing she did
either staring them down, making a show of feeling for her knife, or
walking away could stop them until she mentioned loudly to a passing
deckhand that her husband needed an extra pallet belowdecks.  No one
had bothered her since.  Tessa didn't like to think what she might have
had to do if Ravis wasn't with her.  This world was no place for a
woman to be on her own.

When she had finally returned to her cabin she found Ravis still
asleep.  No food was supplied on board, so she had taken an apple and a
wedge of cheese from her sack, eaten a quiet supper, curled up on the
second pallet that the deckhand had somehow managed to squeeze into the
room, then quickly fallen asleep.

She'd woken early.  Hand throbbing, muscles aching, and shivering with
cold, she had brushed down her dress, clipped on her cloak, grabbed the
chamber pot that had so thoughtfully been supplied with the cabin,
relieved herself in the deserted silence of the latrines, then made her
way above deck.  The few sailors who were up and about gave her no
trouble, and after she had bathed and dressed her burn, she'd gone to
stand on the deck to watch the sun rise.

The yellow, haze-stretched sun looked just the same as ever.  And until
Tessa spotted its first rays glowing on the horizon, she hadn't
realized how important it was for her to see it.  Like the ring around
her neck, it was a connection with home.  It was the same sun that had
shone down on her the day she'd found the security deposit boxes, she
was sure of it.  When she had first put on the ring in the clearing in
the forest, and the world had begun to switch beneath, above, and
around her, the sun may have changed angles, but its heat and light
remained the same.

Tessa didn't know what it meant, but leaning over the railings,
watching the sunlight glance off the waves, she decided it was a good
thing.  Her old world and her old home couldn't be far away.

Just in time for breakfast.

Tessa spun around.  Ravis was standing in the hatch that led down to
the galley, steaming jug in one hand, a basket filled with bread and
pastries in the other.  Tessa felt a wave of pleasure seeing him, then
told herself she hadn t.

You will join me, won't you?  Ravis smiled.  He looked a lot better for
his long sleep.  I haven't just bribed the ship's boy, two scullions,
and a very irritable cook to eat all this by myself.

Finding herself smiling along with him, Tessa said, I thought
passengers had to bring their own food on board with them?

Well, they do if they want to arrive in Maribane with anything more
than holes in their pockets.  I could have bought a chanunail vest and
matching leg arms for what this stash just cost me.  Ravis stepped out
of the hatch and onto the deck.  Follow me.  I have it on good advice
that the aft deck is the place to be at this time of day: quiet, sunny,
and sheltered from the worst of the wind.

Ravis walked on ahead of Tessa, assuming she would follow.  Tessa
hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to protest his assumption by
staying put or just go along with him as expected.  The old Tessa
McCamfrey would certainly have objected.  But then, thought Tessa,
planting her foot in the space just vacated by Ravis, the old Tessa
McCamfrey would have missed out on breakfast.

The aft deck was just as Ravis said it would be: quiet, warm, and
sheltered.  One crewman was busy adjusting the sails on the aft mast,
but if he noticed Ravis and Tessa sitting on the sun-bleached bench by
the railings, he didn't show it, just kept winding in the rope and
squinting into the wind.

Ravis surprised Tessa by serving her breakfast.  He pulled two square
cloths from the basket and laid one on her lap, passed her a bread roll
and two fat pastries, poured a brimming cup of cider and, after pausing
to blow off the steam, handed it to her.

Is there anyone on the ship you haven't bribed this morning?

Ravis grinned.  The captain, the first mate, the helmsman and the ship's
cat.  He poured himself a cup of cider.

Though in fairness, if I could have found the cat, I may well have
bribed it.

Smiling, Tessa tore a chunk off the bread roll.  While she had been
spending the morning leaning against the railings, gazing out at sea,
Ravis had obviously been busy arranging things belowdecks.  So that's
how things are done around here: bribery?

Not just bribery, no.  I always make it my business to get to know the
men around me.  You never know when you might need their help.

Tessa nodded.  Everything Ravis did seemed to have a calculating edge
behind it.  How are you feeling?  she asked, motioning toward his right
side.  How is the wound?

I won't lie.  It's as sore as hell, but the skin's resting flat and I
think it's starting to dry out.

What about Camron?  How was he when you left him?  As Tessa spoke, she
broke open the pastry, checking to see what was inside.  It was some
kind of chopped-up sausage filling, so she put it back in the basket
and broke open another.  She liked to know what sort of meat she was
eating.

Camron was in a poor way.  He lost a lot of blood and his legs were cut
up badly, but he's young, strong, and where he's going he can be seen
to by the best doctors in Rhaize.

Tessa tried to remember the name of the place Ravis had mentioned
yesterday in the cabin.  Mir Lor?  4 Yes.  Ravis split open his own
pastry, inspected the contents, then handed it to Tessa.  It's where
the Sire and his mother, the Countess Lianne, are.  Camron's gone to
warn them about Izgard's army, tell them what to expect when they meet
the harras.

And will the Sire listen to him?  Tessa examined the pastry Ravis had
given her.  It contained slices of ham, the meat clearly identifiable,
packed between layers of pale yellow cheese.  She was quietly
impressed.  Not only had Ravis been watching what she was doing, he had
guessed the reason behind it.

Sandor is not a stupid man, but he's not a clever one, either.  He'll
listen if enough people tell him to.

You know him?

Ravis shrugged.  I've met him once or twice.

Why didn't you go to Mir Lor instead of Cainron?  If you know the Sire,
surely he would listen to you?

Ravis made a hard sound in his throat.  The Sire of Rhaize would not
listen to any warning given by a mercenary.

Tessa looked up from her pastry.  Even though the sunlight shone down
on his face, Ravis eyes were the darkest she had ever seen them.  His
bottom lip moved minutely, and she realized that inside his mouth, he
was chewing on his scar.

The sailor who had been adjusting the sails picked that moment to take
his leave.  After knotting the rope around the lanyard, he stripped off
his gloves, spat over his shoulder, and leapt from the masthead to the
main deck below.

When Tessa's gaze returned to Ravis, she caught him with his hand
around his ribs.  He grabbed the fabric of his tunic as soon as he
realized she was looking at him; made as if he were straightening his
clothes rather than easing his wound.  Tessa pretended she hadn't
noticed anything and took a deep draft of her cider.  Later she would
make sure he got some rest.

What do you think Izgard will do next?  she asked.

Izgard will push for Bay Zen as quickly as he can.  He won't be pleased
that Camron and I are still alive, and he'll be worried about what harm
we can do him now that we know what sort of men he's fighting with.

I think he'll be worried about me, too.  As Tessa spoke, she pulled the
edges of her cloak together.  Her voice sounded unfamiliar to her:
serious and firm.  Someone spotted me when I drew the pattern.  They
looked into my eyes and saw my face.  They knew I was trying to work
against them.

Ravis nodded slowly.  Then that makes three of us Izgard's after.

Tessa shivered.  A sharp spasm of pain coursed up her arm from her
burn.  She almost expected the sun to slip behind a cloud, but it didn
t, just kept shining down on the bench, her cheek, and Ravis face.

The ship's timbers creaked all around them and the sea had a sound all
its own, yet to Tessa everything suddenly seemed too quiet, and she
spoke to fill the imagined silence.

What do you know about sorcery?

Ravis ran a hand through his hair, thinking a moment before answering.
Not much rumors, hearsay, like everyone else.  Sorcery is like the
devil: some people think it exists, some don't, and no one wants to
talk about it either way.  Years, decades, even centuries pass with no
mention of it.  A thousand years ago in Drokho they burned old women
who live don their own, saying they were witches who had communion with
demons.  Five hundred years later every Maribane scribe on the
continent was hunted down and hanged.  The Holy League claimed they
summoned devils as they painted.

Ravis shrugged.  The stories still carry to this day.  You can walk
around any town or village in Rhaize and Drokho and find people who are
afraid of scribes, old spinsters, and holy men from the Anointed
Isle.

But there is some truth to the stories, isn't there?  Tessa pushed
aside her food as she spoke.  She wasn't hungry anymore.  Deveric is
proof of that I am.

I don't think you'll find many people on the Anointed Isle willing to
admit it.  They're very careful these days about what they do and say.
Officially they don't even admit to scribing the old-style patterns
anymore.  They paint pretty pictures now, with proper subjects:
landscapes, portraits of the great holy men, recognizable plants and
flowers.  Nothing shocking or abstract.  Their work is still sought
after on the continent, though, and I've seen people pay good money for
a manuscript transcribed and illuminated by their holy men.

Yet Deveric learned how to draw the old-style patterns there, Tessa
said, and so did the man I'm going to see: Brother Avaccus.

Taking a deep draft of cider, she looked out toward the horizon as she
listened to Ravis reply.  Even though his voice was pitched low it
carried well over the sound of the sea.

Izgard's scribe was trained there as well.  And Izgard himself has
exchanged letters with the abbot.  Ravis eased himself forward on the
bench.  We have to be careful when we get there.  Garizon and the
Anointed Isle have had a long association with each other.  They share
secrets, histories, God knows what else.  When Hierac himself needed
some patterns scribed, he commissioned an Anointed Isle scribe to do
the job.

Hierac?  Tessa felt like a fool.  There was so much she didn't know.

The greatest war king Garizon has ever known.  Or the worst, depending
on who's writing the history books.  Ravis poured cider into Tessa's
cup.  Tessa was surprised to see it was empty.  Had she drunk that much
already?

Hierac was the first man to wear the Barbed Coil, Ravis continued.
Before his reign Garizon was nothing more than a poor duchy surrounded
by uncleared forests, with no major waterways to call its own.  Hierac
built it up field by field, league by league, stream by stream.  There
was no stopping him.  His army was ruthless, his strategies as cool as
a blade packed in ice.  By the time he died Garizon wasn't just a
country.  It was an empire.

Did he take over Bay Zen?

Not just Bay Zen, but all of Rhaize.  The Istanians ruled most of the
continent at the time, and Hierac broke their hold on it.  He drove
them out of Rhaize, Drokho, Medran, Balgedis, and Maribane.  He killed
millions of people.  Millions.  Even so, there were many who were glad
to see him come rather a Garizon overlord than an Istanian.  At least
Garizon was one of their own.

But I thought Istania was just across the sea from Bay Zen?  Surely
that counts as part of the continent?

The country does, but its ruling classes don't.  They originally came
from the distant east, across the stretch of barren land that rings the
Gulf.  Their language and customs were foreign to the west, and they
were cruel in different ways from Hierac and his Garizon warlords.

The bench Ravis and Tessa were sitting on was covered by a fine layer
of sea salt, and while Ravis spoke, Tessa found herself tracing a
design in the dust.  What happened after Hierac died?

Other Garizon kings followed.  Some were greater than others, but all
pushed for territory: for trade routes, for coldwater ports, then
warm-water ports, for passes and rivers and land.  Hierac may have been
the first of the great Garizon war kings, but he definitely wasn't the
last.

As Ravis said the word last, Tessa put the final flourish on her
pattern in the salt.  It was crude, with thick, fingertip wide lines,
yet the design was unmistakable: it was the ring she wore around her
neck.  She hadn't realized what she was drawing until Ravis stopped
speaking.  Unnerved, she swept her hand across the pattern, wiping it
out.  Let's take a walk around the deck, she said, standing.

If Ravis was surprised at her request, he didn't show it.  He merely
inclined his head, gathered the breakfast things into the basket, and
came to stand at her side.  Lead the way.

Tessa led Ravis down to the main deck.  Remembering his injury, she
moved slowly, feeling guilty at making him walk.  The sea was calm, and
the ship hardly rocked at all beneath Tessa's feet.  Every passenger
and crewman on the ship seemed to be above deck, and children ran
yelling along the main deck while sailors worked on the sails and women
worked on themselves.  The woman with the veil that covered her
eyebrows was busy patting powder and something that looked like pig's
lard onto her face, and farther up the deck, two old ladies were
soaking their feet in barrels of warm, soapy water.

It was turning out to be a fine day.  The sky was very blue and the
wind was high enough to fill the sails, nothing more.  There was no
land in sight, and after a while Tessa gave up trying to spot any.  It
was more interesting watching people's reactions to Ravis.

His presence drew some sort of response from everyone they passed.  He
had a way of meeting people's eyes, of forcing them to look at him and
then holding their gaze until they were obliged to look away.  The
woman with the veil had sneered at him, but Tessa also noticed that she
drew in her breath and smoothed down her dress as he approached.  The
two old women laughed nervously as he walked by, bobbing their heads
and smiling quick, worried smiles.

It was partly his scar, Tessa supposed.  It made him look dangerous,
hardened.  And his coloring was so much darker than the fair-skinned,
fair-haired people of Bay Zen.  She could tell they thought he was a
foreigner.  In fact, she had a feeling that was exactly how Ravis
wanted to look.  The dark clothing he wore only enhanced his
foreignness.  He was the one man on the ship dressed in black.

Fo some reason, as she walked alongside him, Tessa found herself
thinking about the night he'd kissed her.  Six weeks ago now, yet it
seemed like much longer.  She wasn't the same person anymore.  Living
with Eniith and his mother had altered the way she looked at things,
made her realize that being tough and self-sufficient wasn't
everything.

Ravis hadn't realized that yet.  Every glance he gave was designed to
say, I don't want or need your good opinion or respect.

Feeling an odd mixture of emotions, and remembering the feeling of
Ravis lips against hers, Tessa slipped her hand through his arm.

At last she had managed to surprise him, for he tensed for a moment and
turned to look at her face.  Tessa didn't know what was showing in her
eyes just then, but after a second Ravis made an almost imperceptible
movement with his lips and, relaxing slightly, switched his gaze back
ahead.  During his next few steps, he gradually altered the angle of
his arm, making it more comfortable for Tessa to hold.

What's Drokho like?  she asked, steering him toward the relative calm
of the quarterdeck.  It was time he sat and rested for a while.

Ravis took a breath but didn't answer.  He gazed straight ahead, yet
Tessa had a feeling that the last thing hews seeing was the ship. After
a moment he took a second breath, held it in his lungs for a long while
as if he were trying to draw strength from it, and said, Drokho is many
different things to many different people.

What's it to you?

Home I can never return to.

Tessa felt Ravis words in her heart.  He spoke softly, yet there was no
mistaking the pain in his voice.  It ran through the words like the
scar on his lips: deeply rooted, long shadowed, irrevocable.

Tessa's free hand stole up to the ring around her neck.  Home I can
never return to.

She could have said those words herself, yet she knew she would never
say them with the same raw longing as Ravis.  Her home meant a
different thing to her, and although it wasn't easy to admit, she knew
that if it wasn't for her parents, she wouldn't have spared her old
life a second thought.

This world was becoming her home now.  And Emith and his mother,
waiting patiently back in Bay Zen for her to return, were her family.

Unsure what to say next, Tessa gently increased her pressure on Ravis
arm and decided not to speak.  She didn't know Ravis at all, couldn't
begin to guess what had made him so bitter.

Ravis kept walking until they reached the end of the quarterdeck.
Turning so his back rested against the railing and he could look Tessa
in the face, he said, What?  No more questions?

Tessa thought he might be angry, but she wasn't sure.  His voice was
soft enough, but the tendons at either side of his neck were raised and
taut.  A muscle pumped high in his cheek.  Seeing him like that, she
remembered the day they'd ridden to Fale to find Emith.  She remembered
how Ravis had left her and Emith walking down the road while he went
back and beat up Deveric's son.  Before he had gone, he looked just as
he did now.

Why was it so important for you to hurt Deveric's son in Fale?  she
asked.  He was just a small-time bully, nothing more.

Ravis flashed a quick, dark smile.  You do have a way of getting to the
heart of things, don't you?

Tessa didn't like Ravis smile, and she didn't like the sharp edge to
his voice.  If it hadn't been for something else shining in his eyes,
she might have turned and walked away.  Drawing closer to him, she
said, I don't think you were upset with Deveric's son because he was
mean to Emith.  I think there was another reason behind it.

Ravis looked at Tessa.  He drew his hand across his mouth so his scar
didn't show, lowered his heavy-lidded eyes, and searched her face.
Seconds passed.  He didn't speak for a long time, just kept taking deep
breaths and watching Tessa with a steady gaze.  His eyes were so dark,
most people would have mistaken them for black.  But they weren t. They
were a rich, sable brown.  The color of sepia ink.

Finally something in his gaze shifted, and the muscles surrounding his
eyes and mouth shaped his expression into something new.  Inclining his
head toward Tessa, he dropped his hand from his lip.  You're right, of
course, he said, speaking more gently than she had ever heard him
speak.  I wasn't angry over how the man treated Emith.  I wasn't really
angry at him at all.  More at the way things are done, conventions,
people's greed.  He shrugged.  Myself..

Death brings out the best and worst in people.  Deveric's son was just
protecting what he thought was rightfully his.  And likely his brother,
sisters, and mother were busy doing the same thing too.  Ravis spun
around so he could stare out to sea.  I don't know.  I just hate to see
people scramng for possessions.

Why?  Tessa came and stood by his side.  She tried to follow his gaze,
but his eyes were focused on a point far beyond the horizon, and she
could see only so far.

Because I did it myself once, and it brings back memories I don't care
to recall.

Bad ones?

No.  Ravis shook his head.  Not all bad memories.  Some good ones as
well.

He let his words hang for a few seconds and then spoke into the
distance.  When my father died he left his estate in Burano in chaos.
He was a gentle man, not a great leader or a manager of men, not even a
good custodian.  His one ambition in life had been to become a village
cleric, but his older brother died without producing a legitimate heir
and the lands and title of Burano fell to him.  He never wanted them.
Didn't know what to do with them.  Ravis smiled.  He spent the first
ten years managing the duchy in a sort of bewildered daze.  He just
wasn't cut out to be overlord of a great estate.  Sometimes I would run
into the small library and find him immersed in his prayer book,
planning sermons in his head, blind to the mountain of paperwork that
surrounded him.

Malray and I were young at the beginning and couldn't help him, but
over the years we grew to love the land.  We worked on it together:
clearing forests for planting, building up the estate stock,
introducing new breeds, and planting new crops.  Malray was four years
older than I, but we took decisions together, worked always together.
We were so young boys, really yet we built that land up.  Toiled on it
for five years.  And then our father died?

Ravis paused.  His knuckles were white where he gripped the railings. A
droplet of sweat trickled down from his brow, and Tessa suddenly
remembered he was ill.  She didn't say anything, though.  She doubted
he would hear any words spoken just then.

He never left a will.  Ravis voice was flat, unemotional.

He wasn't that sort of man.  The only thing the executors could find
that even came close to one was a letter he wrote and sent to the
Lectur at Jiya.  In it he stated that after his death he would like to
see his wealth divided fairly amongst his family.

Fool's words.

What family?  His sons, Malray and me?  His sister and sister-in-law,
his nephews and nieces, his younger brother, his elder brother's
bastard son?

Ravis beat his fist against the rail.  What family?

Tessa flinched.  Her own hand was on the rail, and she felt the impact
of Ravis punch like a blow.  Even before the rail stopped vibrating,
Ravis had managed to control himself.  His tooth was down on his scar,
reining in his anger.  When he spoke again, seconds later, his voice
was calm.

In a normal case the fact there was no will wouldn't have mattered the
estate would have passed over to Mairay, the eldest son.  Yet by that
time people began coming forward with claims of their own.  A bastard
son of the original duke was the first to press his claim.  He brought
papers, conveniently smudged by spilt wine, that stated his father had
been about to legitimize his parentage when he died.  The old duke's
widow was next.  She claimed she had been left part of the estate in a
separate codicil that had just come to light.  Our own aunt, Rosimin,
who had lived off our father's generosity for twelve years, claimed
that he had promised to set aside a third of his wealth to be
distributed evenly among his nephews and nieces upon his death.  There
was even a great-uncle, my grandfather's brother, who claimed he owned
the rights to all fish pulled from the river and game shot down from
the sky above Burano.

Ravis made a hard sound in his throat.  It was madness.  Everyone who
was brazen enough to make up a lie and stick to it claimed part of the
estate for their own.

It was because there was no will, you see.  It brought out the worst in
people.  They saw a weakness and used it.

Still staring straight ahead, he ran a hand through his hair.  The wind
had picked up while he spoke, and the sails of the mizzenmast were
making tearing, snapping noises behind him.  Tessa didn't need to look
round to know that a sailor was up in the mast, adjusting the riggings,
as his shadow formed a dark slash that ended at her feet.  The sun was
in the west and the day was wearing on.

Part of Tessa wanted to guide Ravis away from the railings, make him
sit down, rest, sleep.  Another part wanted to hear the rest of his
story.  It was almost as if he were casting a spell with his words,
taking them both to a place that was neither past nor present,
suspending them in the warm light but hard substance of memory.

Knowing that by speaking she would break the spell, Tessa said nothing.
She waited, and after a while Ravis carried on.

I was seventeen.  Malray was twenty-one.  The day of our father's
funeral was the last day of peace we had in seven years.  We clung
together as they carried Father's body to the crypt.  Both of us tried
to be strong, but one of us started crying I don't know who and then we
were both crying.  Leaning against each other and crying.  And the
strange thing was it didn't matter.  As long as we were crying together
and had each other it didn't matter.  We loved each other that much.

The next day the fighting started.  The first duke's bastard son,
Jengus of Morgho, led a force onto the estate.  Malray and I had no
choice but to defend our home.  By more luck than skill we managed to
force them from the grounds.  The only real advantage we had was our
knowledge of the estate.  It was just after spring thaw, and a handful
of the smaller streams had overrun their banks, turning some of the low
lying valleys into marshes, and somehow we managed to drive Jengus and
his men onto them.  As he withdrew, Jengus threatened to be back with
more men within a week.

Ravis halted for a moment.  Tessa glanced up at his face and was
surprised to see he was smiling faintly.

Malray and I were terrified, though we both pretended not to be. Jengus
was ten years older than us, a fighting man with real experience on the
battlefield and with contacts in all the mercenary companies in the
north.  We were just two young boys who knew how to tend the land and
little else.

To make things worse, other people began to press their claims that
same week.  Magistrates came to the gates, armed with clubs and
torches, demanding money and goods to the value of a third of the
estate in the name of Rosimin and her six children.  The next day,
Savarix, duke of the province bordering Burano, sent out his steward to
warn us that if any fighting occurred on land adjacent to his property,
he would be forced to come in and occupy as much Burano land as he
judged fit to protect his borders.

Vultures were closing in.  Jengus would be back in a few days, the
magistrates could only be put off for so long, and as young as Malray
and I were, we knew enough to realize that Savarix wasn't really
interested in his borders at all.  He wanted Burano land.

Two nights after we drove Jengus from the estate, Mairay came and woke
me in the middle of the night.  Ravis, we must learn to fight, he said.
This land is ours by right and by use.  We have loved it and worked on
it and called it our home for fifteen years.  No one is going to take
it from us, even if it means waking up every mo ming and buckling on a
breastplate and sleeping every night with a knife close at hand.  I
will neither rest, negotiate, nor relent.  And you will be with me,
fighting by my side, as my brother and my friend.

As Ravis spoke the last sentence, Tessa felt the hairs on the back of
her neck bristle.  The words sounded like a prayer spoken without
belief.  She felt them resonating in the space within her inner ear
where the tinnitus used to start.  They made her long for something,
but she wasn't sure what.  Family?  Love?  The past?

Ravis gaze had shifted from the point beyond the horizon, and he now
looked down at his hands.  Tessa wanted to touch him she even moved her
hand up from her waist but at the last minute she stopped herself.  She
didn't have the nerve.

Head tilted down toward the railings, breath coming in deep but
irregular bursts, Ravis continued.  His voice was rich with opposing
emotions, yet as his words wore on and he spoke of fighting alongside
his brother, all his pain seemed to slough away.  And the one emotion
left behind was, surprisingly, joy.

So Mairay and I fought.  Together, always together.  We made mistakes,
a few terrible ones, yet somehow we managed to learn from them.

Jengus came close to defeating us more times than I can remember.  He
was a fine fighter.  He never stopped pushing, never stopped testing,
searching for our weak points.  Years passed that were no more than one
crisis after another.  Jengus burned our crops, poisoned the
groundwater, slaughtered our cattle, and burned all the outbuildings.
He never did love the land.  At one point he joined forces with Rosimin
and her sons, and Malray and I spent six months barricaded in the manor
house, and to this day I can't remember if it was because we couldn't
come out or wouldn t.

One wet spring Savarix sent out his men and claimed the long stretch of
Burano land that ran adjacent to his southern borders.  All hell broke
loose after that.  Jengus didn't know whether to fight Savarix, join
with him, or ignore him and carry on his own campaign.  A gentle laugh
escaped from Ravis lips.  You know, to give him credit, I think he
tried all three.

And through all this madness terrible bloody fights, sieges, ambushes,
shifting alliances, and double crosses Malray and I were always by each
other's sides.  We recruited men of our own, fought on hard ground and
in the courts.  learned what it was to fight, really fight, over weeks
and months and years.

We relied on each other completely.  Trusted each other completely.  We
anticipated each other's moves, compensated for each other's
weaknesses.  If I went first into a battle, then I knew without
question Malray would be at my back.  If I was on the ground and
wounded, I knew all I had to do was wait until he found me and brought
me home.  When Mairay was sick, I tended him.  When he was worried and
thought everything was about to collapse around us, I could not rest
until I had eased his mind.

And he Ravis shook his head slowly he did no less for me.

We were young and we grew into manhood fighting.  And sometimes it wasn't
easy; sometimes we had to fight those we loved, like our cousins and
Rosimin.  Yet as long as Mairay was at my side there was no question of
right or wrong.  We were brothers fighting for what was ours.

Seven years we fought.  Seven long years, where hardly a day passed
without some new challenge sent to try us.  Rosinmi tried to have us
evicted, Jengus turned the gatehouse into an armed camp, and Savarix
sent letters to the Lecturs at Jiya and Parafas, demanding our
excommunication, swearing that one night he spied us fighting on the
consecrated ground of the estate martyry.

Somehow, by sticking together and not giving up, we managed to live
through everything.  And the day I killed Jengus the madness finally
stopped.

I suppose, if I were to judge honestly, I was a better fighter than
Mairay.  It was I who planned the strategies, trained the men.  Even
back then I had a talent for it.  Mairay had passion, though.  He was
stronger than I, and when he fought a rage came upon him and nothing,
absolutely nothing, could make him put down his sword.  One morning, he
and a few men rode out to the edge of the estate to check the traps we'd
set for Jengus.  Jengus was lying in wait.  He had three times Malray's
numbers.  If I had been there, I would have withdrawn, got the hell
out of there as fast as I could, made sure I lived to fight another
day.

Malray didn't withdraw.  He stayed and fought.  He was sick and tired
of fighting.  He wanted the whole thing over-we both did.  But he felt
it more than I. He was nearly thirty, and I think he wanted what other
men his age had: a wife, family, peace.

As the afternoon wore on and Malray didn't return, I went out to look
for him.  I finally came across the battle.  Found Mairay lying in a
plowed field, blood pouring from a gash on his thigh.  Jengus standing
above him, sword poised to enter his throat.

Ravis hand flitted up from the railing in a small gesture of
self-denial.  After that I hardly know what happened.  I have heard
accounts, but whether I believe them or not I can't say.  I remember
only rage.  Absolute, blind rage.  Mairay was all I had.  And Jengus
was about to take him from me.

According to some, I rode my horse over four men to get to him. Crushed
the skulls of two, cracked the ribs of another.  Some say I screamed as
I rode.  Others say I was silent as the dead.  I felt only the weight
of the sword in my hand and the sheer terror of losing Malray in my
heart.

Jengus barely had time to straighten his back.  I came at him, swung my
sword, and beheaded him in a single blow.

Tessa closed her eyes, pressed her lips to a tight line to stop herself
from making a noise.

After that I didn't stop couldn't stop until all Jengus men were dead.
Ravis voice was soft, almost bemused.  Malray had to pull me off the
last man's corpse.  He'd been dead for God knows how long, but still I
couldn't stop beating him.  I don't know what happened to me, don't
know what I became.  I think by the time Malray reached me it was
already too late.

Something like a shiver passed down Ravis spine.  Tessa could see Ravis
harboring its momentum, using it to give his body strength.

Things moved swiftly after that.  Jengus had always been our greatest
threat, and with him gone all other disputes fell away.  Savarix could
no longer claim his borders were threatened, Rosimin could find no one
new to back her suit, the local magistrates were sick of the whole
thing, and everyone else who had ever raised a greedy eye or a
clutching hand toward Burano finally backed away.

As Ravis spoke, Tessa was aware of the light fading around them.  How
long had they been standing here?  Hours?

So you won?  she said, filling the pause after he finished.

A hard, bitter laugh burst from Ravis lips.  Not me.  No.  I didn't win
anything.  Only Malray won.

A month after the whole thing ended and the lawyers finally agreed to
sign the estate over to us, he turned on me.  My own brother, whom I
had loved and fought with for seven long years, turned.  He said I had
tainted everything by what I did that day in the plowed field.  He said
I still smelled of the blood.  He didn't want me on his land.  His
land.  His!

The fist at Ravis side shook so violently, it made the rest of his body
shake with it.

He said our father's property was his now, and to split it would
diminish it.  A great estate like Burano had to be preserved intact. He
told me I wasn't made for the land.  Told me I was a born fighter and
should go away and fight.  Ravis voice dropped abruptly, as if he
himself could hardly believe what he was saying.  When he spoke again
he sounded as confused as a child who had grabbed something shiny only
to find that it burned.  Offered me five hundred pieces of gold and
pointed the way to the gate.

Tessa swallowed hard.  Her eyes ached.  Stretching out her hand, she
touched Ravis arm.  I'm sorry.

Ravis reacted to the words as if they were acid.  Snapping back his
arm, he pushed himself off from the railing and turned to walk away.
Don't be sorry for me he said.  I made sure I got my revenge.

Spying a handful of drunks on the nearing street corner, Emith scurried
across the road to avoid them.  He had two hot, butter-drenched
lobsters wrapped in grease cloth in his hand.  And if the drunks got as
much as a single whiff of them, his mother's favorites wouldn't stand a
rowboat's chance in a storm of ever making it home.

Mother really loved lobster, you see.  She only said she didn't to
Marcel of Vailing to stop him from asking questions about Tessa. Mother
was good at things like that far better than he himself.  Which was
just as well, really.  Every household needed one person capable of
showing troublesome guests the door.  Not that Marcel was bad, of
course.  He just had a way of asking questions in his commanding banker's
voice that made it impossible not to give answers.

Well, nearly impossible.  Emith had yet to meet the person who could
get Mother to say anything she didn't have a mind to.

Smiling, Emith clutched the package containing the lobster to his
chest.  He didn't want them going cold before he got home.  It wasn't
often Mother had lobster, and it was even less often that it arrived on
her doorstep shelled, hot, and ready to eat.  It would be a nice treat
for her and one Emith hoped would cheer her up.

Mother had been lonely since Tessa left.  Oh, she tried to hide it this
morning alone she'd gutted enough fish and peeled enough onions to make
a mountain of herring bake-but she was all the same.  Emith knew it.
She couldn't fool him He saw the way she stared into the fire and never
once wiped the tears from her cheek when the onions made her cry.

Mother missed Tessa.  They both did.  Tessa was so full of life, so
strong.  The house just wasn't the same without her.

Emith had tried various things to cheer his mother up.  Last night he
had opened their second-best flask of arlo, lit wax candles instead of
tallow, and picked out her favorite tunes on his fiddle.  He wasn't a
very good player, but that didn't matter to Mother.  In her mind she
heard the music as if it were played by angels he knew it because she
had told him so a very long time ago.  And Emith never forgot things
like that.

No matter what she heard, though, it had only seemed to make her
sadder.  So Emith had decided that tonight they would have a makeshift
feast: lobsters, a nip or two of the berriac that was kept in the back
of the larder for feast days, medical emergencies, and special guests,
and this time no music, just some tale telling instead.  Mother liked
to be read to, and Emith still had a few of Master Deveric's books
lying around the house.  One of these days he really must return to
Fale and hand them over to Master Rance.

It was just getting dark as Emith turned into his street.  Two shadowy
figures passed him by on the far side of the road.  Emith paid them
little heed: they looked in too much of a hurry to bother a man about
lobster.  Besides, this street was a safe one, unlike other parts of
the city.  He would never have agreed to work five days a week in Fale
if he hadn't been sure of that.

Working out the earliest day in his head when Tessa might arrive back
from Maribane, Emith made his way to the house.  It just might be
possible that Tessa could be back in less than nine days time.  If he
remembered rightly, the passage only took three days, and Tessa as a
laywoman would only be allowed to stay one night on the Anointed Isle
itself.  The abbot was very strict about things like that.

Feeling excited about the idea of telling his mother that there was a
chance Tessa could be back earlier than they first thought, Emith made
his way to the back of the house.

Mother had a front door, but in the thirty-four years she had lived
here, Emith had only seen it open once.  That was the day Mother's
sister, Aunt Pelish, had arrived from Mir Lor to stay for a month.  At
the time her own house was being refurbished with the latest and most
fashionable of amenities a red brick oven and Mother said she was far
too grand to enter via the yard.

The smell of lye and quicklime bristled at Emith's nostrils the moment
he opened the yard gate.  Judging from the faint sweetness accompanying
the smell, the hides would soon be ready to be scraped.  Nowadays he
didn't need nearly as much parchment as when he'd worked with Master
Deveric, but old habits died hard.  Making parchment was a link to his
old life with Master Deveric, and the idea of giving it up was as
unthinkable to Emith as jumping into the sea in midwinter.  He was a
scribe's assistant, and although he had no scribe to work for and, with
Tessa gone, no one to train, he still had to do his job.  It was what
made him who he was.

Shouting out to his mother he was home, Emith reached for the door.

It was ajar.  A narrow band of light spilled out onto the cobbles.

Emith frowned.  Surely he hadn't left it open?

Grabbing the handle, he opened it fully, then stepped into the
kitchen.

A cool breath of air replaced the smell of lye with something else,
like wet animal fur, only stronger.  Something sticky caught at the
sole of Ernith's shoe, and he looked down to see what it was.  A hard
knot twisted in his stomach.  The package of lobster meat in his hand
suddenly felt as cold and greasy as pig fat left overnight in the
yard.

Almost unaware of what he was doing, Emith shook his head.  Just
because the stain was red didn't mean it was blood.... It could be one
of his pigments he was always spilling those or one of Mother's
raspberry sauces.

Mother?  Although he hadn't intended it, the word turned to a question
in his mouth.

The room was dim.  The fire was burning low, and no lamps had been lit.
The knot in Emith's stomach rippled into a liquid band as he looked
over to his mother's chair.  The back of her head was visible above the
headrest.  Even from behind, Envth could tell her hair was mussed.

Mother?

There was no response.

She was resting, that was it.  Just like her to be resting the one day
he returned home with cooked lobster.

Smiling faintly and shaking his head, Emith crossed to the fire.  Other
red stains pulled at his soles, but he tried not to think about them.
He'd clean them up later, after he'd woken Mother.  As he took the last
few steps toward her chair, Emith twisted the package of lobster meat
in his hands.  He twisted it so hard, butter squeezed through the
cloth.

A trickle of grease ran down his thumb as he spun around to face his
mother.

A short noise, like something broken, escaped from his lips.  His grip
gave way on the lobster meat and the package hit the floor.

Mother was covered in something.  Covered.

Emith sprang forward.  How could she sit there, sleeping, and not be
aware of it?  Even as part of his brain formed that thought, another
part warned him that something was terribly wrong.  He pushed the idea
away.

She was resting, that was all.

Mother he called, trying to roll saliva in his mouth so he could spit
on his sleeve and wipe the dark stuff from her chin.  No saliva would
come, though.  His mouth was completely dry.

Collapsing at the foot of the chair, Emith hugged his mother's lap and
begged her to wake up.  She didn't hear him.  He grabbed at her wrist
to shake it, and as he did so a scrap of paper fell from her grip.

Emith recognized it straight away.  It was a copy of Tessa's bill of
passage to Maribane.  Mother had scrunched it up into a very tight
ball, as if she had been trying to hide it.  The bill contained all the
details about Tarrier, its tonnage and ports of call, and Mother had
insisted on keeping it close in case anything should happen to Tessa's
ship.  Anyone holding a bill of passage would be sure of receiving
disaster information first.

Emith picked up the scrap of paper, smoothed it flat in his hand, and
then slipped it onto Mother's side table, where she liked all her
important things to be kept.  That done, he turned back to Mother and
sat and waited for her to wake up, until the dairyman found him the
next mo ming and forced him to come away.

TWENTY

arrier had a smooth and peaceful voyage to jJMaribane.  There was no
bad weather or high winds, no close brushes with jagged rocks, sea
creatures, or pirates.  Just long days and short nights and sunsets
that were broad and blood red.

Tessa lost count of how many days she had been aboard the ship
certainly more than seven, but surely not as many as ten.  The extreme
monotony of the days made them hard to track: they all felt like one
and the same.  Up at dawn, breakfast, walk around the deck, midday
meal, sit on the deck, evening meal, and then bed.

Talking to Ravis was the only thing that broke the monotony, but ever
since the day he had spoken about the fight for his father's estate,
Ravis had been subdued.  He had made it clear that he didn't want to
discuss his past any further and had kept all talk impersonal since. He
wasn't rude exactly, just guarded.  The stories he told were never
about Drokho, and the people he mentioned were casual acquaintances or
former employers, never family or friends.

His wound got better, but slowly.  Pain kept him awake late at night,
made him toss and turn and throw off his sheets.  Even now, a week
later, sudden movements could still make him wince.  The burn on Tessa's
palm was healing well, and scabbed skin broke off in flakes revealing
a hard, raised scar beneath.  Tessa hated to look at it.  When she ran
her finger over the scarred jissue, it didn't feel as if she was
touching herself at all.  All sensation had gone.

Thanks to Ravis powers of persuasion, they had been well taken care of
along the way.  At least once a day the ship's boy would knock at the
cabin door, bearing a tray loaded with fresh bread, hot cider, and
joints of meat.  Tessa couldn't be sure whether or not Ravis was still
bribing the crew for food; his purse never looked any lighter.

Land ahoy off the port side!

Tessa turned to see who was shouting.  It wasn't a seaman.  It was a
young boy imitating one, but when she followed his gaze port side she
saw he was right: land, a hazy gray wall of it, looming to the
northwest of the ship.  Something tingled in her stomach.  Maribane.
Another journey ended.

Making her way to the foredeck, Tessa pushed past excited women and
children, dodged deckhands, and gave all male passengers a wide berth.
She was at home on the ship now, sure of herself in every way.  Even
her long skirts no longer hampered her, and she scrambled up ladders
and jumped from deck to deck with the skill of an old hand.  Ravis
laughed at her sometimes.  Told her she'd never make a proper Rhaize
lady.  The words might have been an insult, but Tessa had a feeling
they weren t.

The midday sun beat down on the crown of her head as she leaned over
the ship's railings and tilted her body out to sea.  A seagull shrieked
overhead the first one in days and Tessa convinced herself the air was
fresher, less salty, now that land was in sight.

There's a sight to warm a man's blood.

Hearing Ravis voice behind her, Tessa nodded without turning to greet
him.  Wonderful, isn't it?  How long before we get there?

A warm, throaty laugh sounded from behind.  It wasn't the land I was
admiring.

Embarrassed, Tessa swung about and stepped back from the railings.  he
tried to issue an indignant snort, but it ended up sounding more like a
peeved squeak instead.  Ravis always managed to throw her off guard.

He smiled.  I didn't mean to embarrass you.

Yes, you did.  That's exactly what you meant to do.  Spying a crease in
her skirt, Tessa went about smoothing it with venom.  The purse at her
waist jingled as she moved.

Have you got all your belongings from belowdecks?  Ravis asked.  Right
about now, when everyone is so excited by the sight of land that they
forget their own good sense, is when most thievery takes place.

Still irritated, Tessa motioned toward the pack at her foot.

I carry all my things around with me.  When will we dock?  Ravis gazed
out to sea.  Not as soon as you think.  That land over there isn't
close to where we're headed.  We won't dock until a good few hours
after dark.

Ravis was right; Tarrier didn't pull into port until the moon was high
and the sky was completely black.  The approaching dock was ablaze with
torches, and standing where she was right at the prow of the ship,
Tessa could smell their smoke and feel their bitter fumes sting her
eyes.  Rowboats clustered around the ship's hull, some drawing so close
that she wondered how they managed to avoid harm.  All sails except the
aft had been reefed, and Tarrier glided into port with little help from
the waiting tugs.

Only a mild wind blew, but somehow the night managed to be the coldest
of the voyage so far, and Tessa had her cloak tied at the neck and
chest.  The lights of Kilgrim were muted compared to Bay Zen s, and the
town seemed scattered and loose, with buildings dotted across the
surrounding hills, robbing the town of central focus.  Ravis said
Kilgrim was a way port not a real destination in itself just a place
people passed through on their way to somewhere else.

Tessa hadn't seen Ravis for over an hour.  He was probably plying the
crew for information about the best place to spend the night, eat, and
hire horses.  He was always busy with things like that.

As she looked on, the ship drew alongside the dock.  Longshoremen
jumped across from the wharf, and the crew threw ropes and secured
lines.  The Maribane men had strange voices, harsh and guttural, and
they swore outrageous curses, pausing only to bow low to the ladies and
wink at any awestruck child.

Within minutes the ship was transformed.  Everyone was on the move:
passengers, seamen, longshoremen.  Hawkers boarded the ship and did
brisk business selling hot pies and cold beer to people who had seen
neither in over a week.

Tessa held back from the crush.  The blazing torches, harsh cries, and
flickering shadows made her uneasy.  They reminded her of the battle
amid the stones.  Without being aware of what she was doing, she drew
her burned palm up to her face.  The skin was hot against her cheek.

I thought I'd find you here.

Tessa jumped at the words, even though she realized straight away it
was Ravis.  He had changed clothes since she had seen him last, slicked
back his hair, and put a shine to his boots.

Are you all right?  he asked.  Not waiting for an answer, he held out
his hand.  Here, let me take your pack.

Tessa handed it over.  She didn't feel in the mood to make a point by
insisting on carrying it herself.

As their hands met over the rough canvas of the pack, Ravis said, There's
no need to be afraid, you know.  I'll be with you all the way.

Tessa hadn't heard him speak so softly since the day on the quarterdeck
by the railings.  She met his gaze for a moment, long enough to see
that he meant what he said, and then turned on her heel and stalked
away.  She didn't like the way he pinned all her emotions down.  It
made her feel vulnerable.

Come on, she said, calling over her shoulder.  Let's get off this ship
and into the town.  Feeling her voice sounded harsh and knowing her
actions were, she added, Last on dry land buys the other supper and
ajug of ale.

Ravis didn't reply, but somehow he managed to beat her to the ladder,
and when he jumped down to the main deck, she noticed his eyes were
sparkling.

Without saying a word, Ravis bade farewell to what seemed like the
entire crew.  Meeting the eyes of every seaman they passed, he either
nodded, inclined his head, or pressed his lips together in some kind of
sailor's salutation that was halfway between a frown and a smile.
Watching him, Tessa was drawn to the scar on his lip.  It was the first
time she had noticed it in days.  Strange, she thought, how quickly she
had grown accustomed to it.

Ravis picked that moment to turn and offer his arm.  Are your legs
ready for the shock of dry land?

Not knowing what he meant, she nodded.  Her legs felt fine to her.

Together they walked down the gangplank and onto the wharf.  Ravis held
back slightly, allowing her foot to hit the wooden boarding first.

He sighed amiably.  Looks like I'll be buying supper.

Again Tessa was surprised by him.  She had been sure he would try to
win the bet.

Carry your bags, sir?

Trinkets for the lady?  Ribbons?

Horse and cart to take you to the best inn in Kilgrim?

People crowded close.  Hawking, begging, and pro positioning they
thrust out their hands, speaking in fast, thick dialects that Tessa had
to strain to understand.  Ravis shook them all away.  Unlike with the
other passengers who had disembarked earlier, one flat rebuff from
Ravis and they left him well alone.

The torch smoke was so thick it made Tessa's eyes water, and flecks of
burned matter caught in her mouth and throat.  As she walked along the
wharf, her legs began to ache.  The bones felt heavy, and every time
the pads of her feet hit the ground, she felt a jolt coursing up
through her ankles as high as her knees.

Sea legs, Ravis said, placing his hand beneath her arm for support.
Happens to the best of people when they've been on a ship as long as we
have.  Bones get used to the give and take of a ship.  Land just takes,
doesn't give.  He smiled like a rogue.  It'll get worse when we reach
the hard ground of the dock.

I suppose that's another of your military considerations?  Annoyed by
Ravis smugness, Tessa tried to walk as steadily as she could.  Every
move she made seemed to give something away.

A minor one.  As he spoke, Ravis released his hold on Tessa's arm.
Coming to an abrupt halt, he stared into the crowd of people waiting at
the end of the wharf.

Looking up, Tessa followed his gaze through thick bands of smoke,
shifting shadows, and bright bursts of torch light, to a hooded figure
dressed in black.  As Tessa watched, the figure drew hands to the hood
and pushed it back.  Tessa caught her breath.  It was a woman with
violet eyes and gleaming dark hair.  A murnur passed through the crowd
as everyone turned to look at her.  She was strikingly beautiful.  The
torch light, which succeeded in making everyone else look red faced and
haggard, made the woman's skin glow with soft, golden tones.

Quickly, Tessa glanced at Ravis.  His tooth was down upon his scar.
Without returning his hand to Tessa's arm, he moved forward.  Tessa had
no choice but to follow after him.  As Ravis walked, the crowd parted
before him, opening up a path to the woman standing on the flight of
steps leading up from the wharf to the dock.  Taking deep breaths to
calm herself, Tessa inhaled the sharp, sweet odor of violets.

As Ravis drew close, the woman's eyes darkened and her lips curved
minutely.  Suddenly feeling grubby and plain, Tessa brushed back her
hair and smoothed her dress.  The woman with violet eyes let her own
hair blow in the wind.  Glossy curls framed a heart-shaped face and
flawless skin.  When a sharp breeze cut from the east, her cloak parted
to reveal a dress of scarlet lace beneath.

Without looking once at Tessa, the woman remained motionless until
Ravis came to a halt before her.  We need to talk, she said, her voice
low and husky.  Not waiting for a reply, she turned, climbed the steps,
and began to walk along the dock.  Ravis moved to catch up with her.

Tessa stood on the bottom step, watching them.  They shared the same
dark hair and quick, fluid movements.  For a moment she felt as if she
were looking at two people made from the same substance.  Then Ravis
turned.  His expression was strained as he searched out Tessa's face in
the crowd.  When their gazes met, he relaxed imperceptibly, beckoning
her forward with a brief tilt of his chin.  The violet-eyed woman saw,
but in no way acknowledged, the exchange.

She led them along the dock and up into the city.  The streets were wet
and slick with grease.  Horses, litters, covered carts, and laden
donkeys choked the roads.  When a barrow boy wheeling a cart full of
apples strayed too close, Ravis took hold of the woman's elbow and drew
her away.  Tessa tried not to notice how long his hand stayed upon her
arm afterward.  Crossing a busy thoroughfare, the woman guided them
through a series of short turns and then up the steps of a sandstone
building, into the light and warmth of an inn.

They entered a room dominated by a fireplace large enough to stable a
horse.  Spits ran from one side of the fire to the other, thick with
roasting chickens, onions, and joints of meat.  The sound of fat
hissing above the flames competed with the sounds of laughter and
singing.  The air was heavy with smoke, smells, and liquor fumes.  Men
and women sat in close groups, their cheeks flushed from drinking,
their hands busy with gaming chips, ale tankards, coins, and drawstring
purses.

The moment the small party appeared in the doorway, a short man
standing by a row of beer casks made his way forward.  Rubbing his
hands against his apron, to bresh off either dirt or sweat, he bowed
deeply as he approached the violet-eyed woman.  Lady Arazzo, you have
returned.  Please, come this way.  Such a night to be out!  You must be
cold and parched.  I've had Mulch baste a brace of good pheasants, and
I've personally taken the liberty of setting ajug of berriac to warm by
the fire.

Ignoring the man completely, the violet-eyed woman turned o Ravis.  We
must speak in private.  Although she didn't so much as glance at Tessa
while she spoke, Tessa felt the words like a cool draft upon her
cheek.

The short man with the apron moved toward a doorway that led through to
a small, dimly lit room.  From where she stood, Tessa could just catch
the gleam of rich furnishings beyond: dark woods, crimson silk, and
silver-capped lanterns.

Ravis turned to Tessa.  You will sit here, he said, guiding her toward
a table in the center of the main room.  And will not move until I say
so.  I'll have the innkeeper bring you food and drink.

Tessa blinked.  She thought of many things to say, but in the end she
simply nodded.  Ravis face was dark and unreadable, his voice hard.

And you, he said, spinning around to face the innkeeper, will extend
the same courtesy to this lady as you have to the Lady Arazzo.  See she
gets the same plump pheasants and fire-warmed berriac.  And be sure the
word gets around that she is to be left well alone.  Any man coming
close enough to cast a shadow on her chair will have me to contend
with.  Ravis made a point of pushing back his cloak to reveal his
knife.  Those watching him from various alcoves and corners dotted
around the inn all found reason to look away.

With one final glance at Tessa, Ravis let himself be ushered into the
private room.

Tessa watched him go.  The violet-eyed woman waited by the doorway
until Ravis had passed into the room, then put a pale, un jeweled hand
upon the door, meaning to close it behind him.  Ravis said something to
her, and a second later her hand dropped from the wood, door unclosed.
As the two receded into the darkness of the room, Tessa strained to see
more, but the light level dropped further as the woman moved to snuff
out oil lamps, and soon all Tessa could see were shadows.

Here, my lady.  Pheasant and berriac.  The innkeeper startled Tessa by
depositing a tray upon her table.  Mulch has boned the bird, and I've
taken the liberty of pulling the stuffing out myself.  I know how you
ladies hate catching grease on your sleeves.  The innkeeper spoke
pleasantly enough, but his gaze was fixed firmly upon the darkness in
the private room.

Tessa nodded.  She suddenly felt sick.  Trying to convince herself it
was the smell of pheasant, the long day, and the smoke from the tallow
that was making her queasy, she let the innkeeper go.  A moment later
she let out a small sigh and called him back.  The smells weren't
bothering her at all.  Something else was.

The innkeeper was quick to return, wiping his hands against his apron
as if somehow, in the minute he had been away, he had managed to get
them dirty.  He leaned close.

Yes, my lady?

Who is the lady in the private room?  Tessa said, hating herself for
asking yet wanting to know all the same.

Violante of Arazzo the innkeeper replied, obviously pleased to be
asked.  The most famous beauty in Mizerico.  The Lectur's bastard
daughter.

Feeling the muscles in her throat contract, Tessa waved the innkeeper
away.  Mizerico.  That was where Ravis was headed the day she'd met
him.

What did you come here for, Violante?  Ravis glanced through the
doorway into the main room as he spoke.  He could just see the edge of
Tessa's table.  Although the innkeeper had left a tray laden with food
minutes earlier, Tessa had not touched it.

Violante of Arazzo walked across the room, coming to stand directly in
front of the partially closed door.  Silk rustled as she moved.  I've
come to warn you she said, her pale fingers working on the ties of her
cloak.  With one quick shrug of her shoulders, the cloak fell to the
floor, revealing her lace-clad body beneath.  Your brother means to
kill you.

Tell me some new news, Violante.  Ravis looked away from her, turning
his attention to the jug of berriac by the fire.  Even after all this
time he still found Violante of Arazzo's beauty unsettling.

Malray knows you have left Rhaize.  He also knows you have come here,
to Kilgrim.

And how does he know that?

Does it matter?  Violante's curved lips were so perfect that every
female portrait commissioned in Istania for the past five years boasted
a copy of them.  Make my lips fuller, more curved the fine ladies of
the court would plead with their portrait artists, just like Violante
of Arazzo s. Some ladies even went so far as to have their maids slap
their lips before dances and banquets, just to give them that flushed,
swollen look of Violante s.

It was the peasant in her, the fine ladies of the court were fond of
pointing out, that gave Violante her charm.  Her fine cut bones and her
violet eyes would be nothing without those peasant lips.

Ravis tugged a hand through his hair.  Just tell me the truth,
Violante.

Violante's expression changed imperceptibly.  Ravis thought he saw her
bottom lip tremble, but then she stepped into the shadows against the
far wall and he was no longer sure.  Malray was in my house the day the
two Istanian scouts delivered your message.  I tried to hide it, but he
guessed it was from you.  Violante took a quick breath.  He tore it
from me, read it, found the part where you mentioned your travel plans,
then raced out of the house.  He didn't even stop to collect his
cloak.

All the time Violante was speaking, Ravis watched Tessa's table through
the doorway.  One man had strayed close, only to be intercepted by the
innkeeper carrying half a dozen foaming tankards.  After a brief
exchange of words and ale, the stranger moved away.  Relaxing a bit,
Ravis turned his attention back to Violante.

In the narrow, dimly lit room with its red-painted walls and its
crimson silk upholstery that Ravis suspected was normally used for
cushioning prostitutes and their wealthy clients, Violante looked liked
a creature from another world.  While the red furnishings surrounding
her had the cheap look of cherry and vermilion dyes, the fabric of
Violante's dress looked as if it had been dyed by grinding rubies,
distilling fine red wine, and reducing blood.

It wasn't worth asking her what Malray had been doing in her house.
Ravis knew Violante well enough to guess.  Left alone in Mizerico for
nearly a year while he finished his commission for Izgard of Garizon,
she had no doubt taken other men to her bed.  It was hardly surprising
that one of those men should be his own brother.  Mairay would have
made it his business to seek her out.  Any woman who interested Ravis
always interested his brother as well.

How long ago did this happen?  Ravis asked.

Violante sent dark curls tumbling as she shook her head.

Six or seven days back.  Makay sent his assassins out that same
evening.  The next morning I set sail on a local bark.

That explained why Violante was here, ahead of everyone.  No one could
build a hull as fast and smooth as an Istanian shipbuilder.  Their bows
sloped so wickedly from the stern that their ships were able to slice
clean through oncoming waves.

Pouring two cups of berriac, Ravis said, When do you think Malray's men
will arrive?

The captain of the bark said we passed a Drokho cutter two nights back,
so perhaps late tonight or early tomorrow morning.

Ravis glanced into the main room.

Why does Mairay still hate you so?  Violante asked, directing his
attention back toward herself.  He got the money, the land, the title.
What did you take from him?

For the first time since meeting her on the wharf, Ravis smiled at
Violante.  It was a cold smile and she knew it, for she looked quickly
away.  Seeing the faint blush on her cheeks and the way her slender
fingers plucked at the fabric of her dress, Ravis wondered why she had
come.  Violante of Arazzo was beautiful enough to choose any man she
wished.  Even the highest-born noblemen crumbled beneath her cool
violet gaze, presenting her with extravagant gifts of land, gold, and
family jewels.  Glancing at her unadorned neck and wrist, Ravis shook
his head softly.  Although Violante had received a fortune's worth of
jewelry, she never wore any.  She didn't need it.

Ravis crossed the room and handed her a cup of bern ac

What makes you think I took something from Malray?  He had meant his
tone to be light, but somehow it wasn t.

Because I saw the look on Mairay's face when the scouts arrived with
your letter.  I saw the hate.

Closing his eyes, Ravis bit down on his scar.  Seven years had passed
since his last contact with his brother, yet he could still feel Malray's
malice pressing against him like a splint bound to a bone.

What did you take from him, Ravis?  Violante said, her voice low.  Was
it a woman?

Ravis turned away.  In the main room he saw Tessa shifting in her
chair.  She had rolled back her sleeves and was about to start on her
food.  A quick scan of the room assured him that no one was paying her
any special attention.  He wanted to go to her anyway.

When he spun around, he caught Violante watching him.  In that
ungnarded moment she looked young and unsure of herself.  Ravis ran his
hand across his face.  Violante had traveled all the way from Mizerico
to warn him about Mairay, even though she knew she was no longer
wanted. The note Ravis sent her had been a farewell.  At some point
during the past six weeks he'd come to realize he'd been mistaking his
eagerness to be gone from Bay Zen for a desire to see her.

Suddenly feeling tired, Ravis said, What difference does it make?  The
past is gone.  Dead.  Glancing up at Violante's face, seeing the
question repeated again in her eyes, he sighed and gave in.  Mairay was
betrothed to a girl once fourteen years ago, when he first took legal
possession of the estate.  When I heard of the betrothal I couldn't
stop thinking about it.  It ate away at me.  Mairay had the land, the
wealth.  Why should he have a wife too?  As soon as I learned who the
girl was I sought her out, made her fall in love with me instead of
him.  Ravis shook his head, laughed coldly.  It was easy.  I told her
about the rift between Malray and me, cast myself as the villain...
women always love black sheep.

A month later we ran off to the east and got married.  Malray was
publicly humiliated.  He'd had a grand wedding planned, invited heads
of state, dukes, duchesses.  He'd even arranged to have the ceremony
performed at the Liege's palace in Rhiga.  Then to have to tell
everyone that the wedding was canceled because his betrothed had run
off with his own brother..

He took it badly?

Ravis made a hard sound in his throat.  So badly that when I finally
returned to Drokho some seven years later he had one of his men welcome
me home with a knife.

Violante's gaze dropped from his eyes to the scar on his lip.

Ravis nodded.  Half a second later and it would have been my throat.

Fingers grazing across her own perfect lips, Violante said, How is it
that no one ever talks about this?

Both Malray and the girl's brother had an interest in seeing the story
buried with time.  No one gained from what happened.  No one.

What about the girl?  Violante drained the berriac from her cup.  What
became of her?

Ravis teeth found his scar.  It felt like cold wire in his mouth.  She
died two years after we were married.  She wasn't made for the sort of
life I lived in the east.  I took work as a mercenary, living in
mercenary camps, following the winter campaigns east and the summer
ones south, moving from one stinking dugout to the next.  Within a
matter of months she caught hura aya, swamp sickness.  It took her over
a year to die.  She was blind for the last month.  Ravis, she would
say, I'm frightened.  Hold me.  Tell me what you see

Stop it!  cried Violante, her voice sharp.  Stop it.  Their gazes met.
Violante's eyes were bright.  A high flush blazed across her cheeks.
After a moment she looked away.

My lady.  Sir.  The innkeeper stepped into the room, carrying a silver
tray loaded with food and a second jug of berriac.  I'll just put this
near the fire soit won't go cold.

Neither Ravis nor Violante acknowledged what he said.  They stood
looking at each other while he laid out salt dishes, silk napkins, and
little silver bowls for spitting gristle.

Who was the girl?  Violante asked the moment the innkeeper was gone.
Mairay isn't the sort of man to marry for love.  She must have been
someone highborn.  An heiress, perhaps?  Although she tried, Violante
couldn't quite keep a trace of bitterness from edging into her voice. A
bastard herself, she was feted by society while never quite being
allowed into it.  The noblemen who wooed her seldom had marriage on
their minds.

Ravis made a negligent gesture with his hand.  Just a girl from
Veizach.

Just a girl from Veizach?  Yet the Liege offered to marry her in his
palace?  Violante shook her head.  I think not, Ravis of Burano.

Turning to face the fire, Ravis took a deep breath.  The past was long
gone.  Why should it still hurt?  After a long moment he let his wife's
name out.  Lara of Alberach?

V iolante let out a short gasp.  Izgard's sister?

Ravis nodded to the fire.

Yet you've spent the last three years working for him.  How can he

Because he needed my services.  And that's just the sort of man he is

As Ravis said the word is, voices rose in the main room.  Something
wooden, like a chair or table, crashed to the floor.  Ravis spun
around.  The door was shut the innkeeper must have closed it on the way
out.  Cursing himself for not checking sooner, he raced across the
room.  As one hand came down upon the latch, the other reached for his
knife.

The door swung open.  Tessa was sitting exactly where he had told her,
only now two men were standing over her.  One man had his hand on her
shoulder.  Straight away, Ravis took in their dark hair, blood red
cloaks, and the square-shaped clasps at their throats.  Malray's men.
Two more were busy pressing the innkeeper against the wall, and another
pair was guarding the door.

All six men stopped in their tracks when Ravis appeared in the
doorway.

Behind him, Ravis heard Violante take a step forward.

Stay where you are, Violante, he hissed.  Then, sending his gaze in an
arc to include all six of Malray's men before coming to rest upon
Tessa, he said, Gentlemen.  This is a little disappointing.  I had
hoped you'd come all this way to see me, not some two-copper trollop
from the docks.  With that he launched himself into the main room,
heading for the back of the inn, away from Tessa and the door.

Run!  he cried at the top of his voice, launching his body toward the
area where the two men held the innkeeper.

Run!  The words were for Tessa, only for Tessa, but it suited Ravis
that every patron in the inn every old man supping barley beer, every
drunken sailor with a hand down a girl's blouse, and every old maid
getting quietly potted chose the exact same moment to heed his advice
and make toward the door.  People began screaming and pushing, and when
Ravis looked over his shoulder he could no longer see Tessa or her
table for the crowd of people rushing to escape.  Telling himself that
was good, he turned his full attention to the two red cloaked men by
the wall.

With no finesse whatsoever, he sent his elbow cracking into the first
man's face.  The man was young and sallow skinned, and he was wearing a
high silk collar that quickly soaked with blood.  Deliberately making
as much commotion as possible, Ravis paused to push over the wooden
frame that supported half a dozen beer barrels on a slant designed for
settling dregs.  As barrels rolled onto the cobbled floor, he stepped
onto the downed frame and hiked himself above the crowd, ensuring that
all six of Malray's men had a clear view of him.  He wanted them coming
after him, not Tessa.

linmediately, Ravis felt a blade jab against his spine.  Bucking his
shoulders backward, he wheeled around and slammed his forearm into the
blade holder's wrist.  The blade, a short sword inlaid with curls of
silver wire, spun out of control and dropped to the floor.  The man who
wielded it slid his hand into the shadows of his cloak, meaning to draw
a second weapon.  Briefly, Ravis got a whiff of the man.  He smelled
like all fighters: of sweat and linseed oil and dirt.  Yet there was
something else.  A faint undertow of plain herbs and dry grass.  And
even as he recognized it as the smell of Burano and home, he sent his
dagger plunging into the man's flank.  The man's blood red cloak, his
wool tunic, and the loose-knit chain mail beneath were all driven deep
into the wound.  Sickened, Ravis pushed the man away, turned to face
whoever was next.

Ravis fought savagely after that.  Lashing out with brutal force,
breaking bones and slitting skin, he tore his own knuckles to shreds in
his frenzy.  Always he moved away from the door and the place he had
last seen Tessa.  Dragging down smoke-yellowed tapestries, spice racks,
and meat hooks and even kicking the spits clear from the fire, he
worked to buy Tessa time.  He wasn't sure if Mairay's men knew whether
she was with him or not, but he was taking no chances.  Fourteen years
ago he had run away with Mairay's betrothed, and Malray still held him
responsible for her death.  Ravis bit down on his scar: he still held
himself responsible.

Three of Mairay's men were down: one dead, one too busy stanching a
knife wound to be interested in further fighting, and one groaning on
the floor amid the beer barrels, nursing his groin.  The man whose face
he had smashed earlier was madder than ever, and despite a continued
stream of blood and mucus running from his nose into his mouth, he had
managed to maneuver Ravis into a corner.  Carrying a cleaver shaped
falchion with rain damage along the hilt, Bloody Nose was clever enough
not to draw too close until his two remaining companions joined him.

The main room of the inn was empty now, except for the innkeeper
himself, who was crouching in the shadows behind the bellows, and one
old man in an alcove near the door who appeared to have passed out,
either from drunkenness or shock.

Seeing the last three of Malray's men moving to form a half circle
around him, Ravis glanced from side to side, searching for anything he
could use to throw them off guard.  Nothing.  He was backed into a
corner with not so much as a soup ladle within striking distance.  In
vain, he tried to catch the innkeeper's eye all he needed was a short
disturbance to distract the attacker's attention but the innkeeper
seemed intent on wiping grease stains from his boots and wouldn't look
up.

Shifting minutely to the left, Ravis was aware of a strained tightness
hugging his ribs: the battle wound inflicted by the harras.  Lowering
his knife ann a fraction to decrease the strain on the muscle beneath,
he looked into the faces of Mairay's men.  Their features were hard,
focused.  All three were wary of him he could tell that from the number
of times they exchanged glances yet they knew the advantage was theirs.
Slowly, Ravis felt back with his free hand, testing the distance
between himself and the wall.  Recent encounters with the harras had
made him careless.  He had forgotten that men didn't have to be
monsters to be dangerous.

Blood from knuckle wounds trickled between Ravis fingers as he settled
his knife at his chest.  Falling back against the wall, he took a quick
breath as he waited a split second for Mairay's men to start forward,
then kicked off with all his might, meeting the attackers head-on.

It wasn't much of a strategy, but it gave him a moment of stunned
surprise as all three men were forced to reposition their weapons for
defense.  Already Ravis was working out what he could afford to lose.
This wasn't a fight he was about to emerge from unharmed.

Pain sizzled across Ravis ear as Bloody Nose's blade found his lobe.
Hot blood rained down his neck and shoulders.  Black dots streaked
across his vision as a second man cracked something hard against the
back of his skull.  Ravis bit down on his scar, biting back pain,
nausea, and blurred vision.  Sticking his knife into the tangle of arms
and weapons attempting to rein him in, he gathered his strength for a
break toward the door.  The harrar wound on his ribs tore open as he
pulled his knife free of a tough, boiled-leather gauntlet.  Pain
gripped his chest.  flaring outward along old fever lines, it shot
toward his heart.  Ravis felt his strength drain away.

A knife stabbed at his shoulder, and another slid across the blood at
his throat.  As Ravis spun around to strike the two men who were
attacking him from behind, Bloody Nose screamed.  His body stiffened,
and for a moment he seemed to grow taller as his chest and shoulder
muscles stretched forward.  A fraction of a second later, Bloody Nose
fell to the floor.  Ravis didn't spare a glance for his body.  Strange
things happened in fights, and those who stopped to wonder wound up
dead.

Ravis grabbed hold of a cloak tail and wrenched it down toward the
floor.  As its owner reached up to loosen the ties at his throat, Ravis
stu3k him with his knife.  Two blows: one into the ribs, cracking them,
one sliding into the muscle between, puncturing lung tissue.  Taking a
ragged breath, Ravis spun around to face the last man.  Only he wasn't
there.  He was on the floor, one of the inn's metal spits embedded in
his throat.  Bits of chicken skin and slivers of onion were squashed
into a lump against the entry wound.

You, came a cool female voice.  Yes, you.  Innkeeper.  Bring me some
hot water in a bowl, clean towels, good brandy, and a hand of valerian
root if you have one.

Such was the crisp authority in Violante of Arazzo's voice that the
innkeeper emerged immediately from behind the bellows stock and began
to do her bidding, stepping over Malray's men with only a minor shudder
of distaste, as if they were drunk rather than dead or mortally
wounded.

Brushing back hair wet with sweat and blood, Ravis turned to face
Violante of Arazzo full on.  He thought of saying something clever
about her newly discovered talents in the kitchen, but he saw that as
she cleaned blood and grease from her hands, her fingers were shaking.
A quick glance at Bloody Nose's back revealed that she had used her own
personal knife on him before picking up a spit and impaling the third
man.  Ravis spat blood and cloak wool from his mouth, then pressed his
fist against the harrar wound.

What?  Do I get no thanks, Ravis of Burano?  Violante dropped the rag
she had been using to clean her hands.

Would your fair-haired friend have done so much?

Ravis took a deep breath.  He hoped Tessa was far away across the city
in another inn, safe.  Thank you, Violante, he said after a moment. You
saved my life.

A quick, sad smile flashed across her face.  Not enough, though, is
it?

Seeing two bright spots shining behind her eyes, Ravis suddenly knew
why she had come all this way to see him.  It made him feel ashamed.

Come, she said, stepping forward.  That wound on your ear needs
stanching.  You're losing blood.

Ravis let Violante care for him.  With gentle hands and crisp words,
she cleaned and bound his wounds, administered brandy and valerian
root, massaged almond oil into the stretched flesh surrounding the
harrar wound, warmed sheets before he lay upon them, and removed all
his worries about the bodies, the state of the inn, and the financial
loss to the innkeeper by spreading good portions of her own Istaman
gold.  It wasn't the sort of thing Ravis would normally do give someone
else leave to take care of his body and his problems but Violante
wanted to do it.  And after all she had done for him this night, it was
little to give in return.

TWENTY-ONE

know!  Let's count Snowy's toeys.  Angeline of Halmac dragged her
no-good dog onto her lap and began counting its no-good toes.  Well,
she wasn't actually sure if dogs had toes, but whatever they were she
was counting them.  One toey, two toey, three toey..

Snowy was more than a little indignant at having his toes counted, but
he made no effort to struggle away.  Here, in Izgard's armed camp,
there was little else for mistress and no-good dog to do.

They couldn't leave the tent.  Gerta said that just the sight of
Angeline's golden hair could create a not among the men.  She was the
only woman here, you see.  Not counting Gerta, a few ancient cooks, and
one or two hangers-on, of course.  Gerta herself said she just didn't
figure as a woman anymore.  According to her, all men suffered from
what she called old maid's blindness, which meant they simply couldn't
see women over a Gertain age.  Angeline had thought it rather a strange
condition and wondered if there were any cure.

Anyway, they could see Angeline.  And queen or not, everyone said it
was best for her to stay inside.

Which, Angeline thought ruefully, probably served her right.  It was
the desire to be outside that had got her into this whole mess in the
first place.  Out-side.  Out-side.  Angeline could almost hear Gerta's
voice telling her that's what ill scrupled liars got for scheming to be
out-side.

Frowning, Angeline pushed Snowy from her lap.  Father had hated liars.
Angeline remembered the time he'd discovered his treasurer had been
fiddling the estate accounts.  That man is an ill-scrupled liar, he had
said.  Bind a rope around him and flog him till he bleeds.

Angeline shivered.  She was a liar now.

Snowy, having recovered from the upset of being pushed onto the floor,
came and sat at his mistress's feet.  His tail was down and his eyes
were big, and when Angeline ignored him he rolled on his back and
howled.

Snowy here!  Snowy here!

Angeline laughed despite herself.  Snowy always knew when she needed
cheering up.

As she leaned forward to pet him, a spasm tore along her side. Angeline
screwed her face up tight, dug thumbnails into her palms.  It wouldn't
do to cry out.  Just wouldn't do at all.  Gerta was in the adjoining
chamber, separated only by a stretch of cloth no thicker than Snowy's
ear, and even the softest of noises had a way of carrying like war
cries.  The walls of Izgard's tent couldn't hold a candle against Sem
Fortress when it came to muffling sound.  Why, sometimes at night she
heard Gerta breaking wind!

Bringing a hand to her side, Angeline massaged the bruised flesh.
Izgard had been rough on her last night.

Not wanting to think about that, Angeline patted the bench for Snowy.
Hungry, Snowy?  she asked, suddenly feeling hungry herself.  How about
I get us some supper?

There was no mystery about what Snowy's answer would be.  No-good dogs
were always hungry.  It was the main reason they did so many no-good
things.

Jumping up, Snowy wagged his tail wildly.

Snowy starved!  Snowy starved!

Gerta!  Angeline called.  Gerta!

Gerta now controlled all the food in Izgard's tent.  All cold things
like cheese, fruit, smoked sausages, bread, butter, and pies she kept
locked in a wide-bottomed chest, metering them out through the day as
needed.  Isolated from her normal surroundings and with no female
servants to boss over, Gerta needed something to be in charge of.
Normally Angeline wouldn't spare a thought for such things, but these
days she was hungry a lot.  And asking Gerta for food every time she
had a craving was beginning to annoy her just a bit.

Yes, m'lady?  Gerta's large head emerged from the tent slit.  Is it
your hot milk you'll be wanting?

Not milk, no.  I'm Angeline glanced at Snowy.

Snowy's hungry and needs some supper.  She had already asked for two
extra lots of food today.  A third might make Gerta suspicious.  Mter
all, she was an old maid and Angeline knew they were trained to look
for signs.

That dog's getting no supper off me!  Gerta stamped her way into
Angeline's chamber.  Even at this late hour she was still equipped for
battle: tweezers, scissors, brushes three separate kinds crochet
needles, and curling irons were all hooked around her waist.  No pins
in her mouth, though.  Angeline supposed she had to spit them out
sometimes.

Angeline made her eyes as big as Snowy's and tried not to think of the
fate that awaited ill-scrupled liars.  Please, Gerta.  Just some cold
chicken and a sausage.  Snowy's sad at not being allowed to go outside,
and some supper would help cheer him up.  As she spoke, Angeline poked
Snowy's belly with her foot.

The no-good dog took the hint, howling dolefully on impact.

Two sets of large blue eyes pleading with her was too much even for
Gerta.  Turning on her heel, she went back the way she came, muttering
something about old bones.

Angeline felt bad.  She didn't like deceiving Gerta.  Gerta loved her,
really, and she loved Gerta back.  The trouble was that her one little
lie had gotten out of control.  Others popped up around it like
mushrooms around a tree.  She couldn't seem to open her mouth these
days without adding to her sins.  Lies about how she felt, why she didn't
want her lacings tied as tightly as normal, and why she was sick so
often tripped off her tongue so frequently, they were beginning to feel
like truth.  Now she'd demanded food for Snowy that she really wanted
herself.

Tickling Snowy's chin, Angeline sighed.  If she was only clever like
other women, she could think of a way out of this.

It didn't help matters that since she'd arrived at the camp, Izgard had
barely taken notice of her.  He was different from before.  Colder.
There was a dullness in his eyes.  At least it looked like dullness
until you got very close, then you saw it was something else instead.
His pupils looked as though they'd been etched by barbs.

He wasn't interested in her a bit not in a husbandly sort of way.  All
he thought about was war.  He spent all his days riding out with his
men and all his nights with his maps, his warlords, and his scribe.
Gerta said the Garizon army was doing very well and had yet to meet any
organized resistance.  Every town they entered, they took, and the camp
now moved northwest on an almost daily basis.  Angeline was draped in
cloaks and veils for the duration of each ride.

Sometimes Angeline thought Izgard asked for her just to keep up
appearances, like last night.  He wasn't interested in kissing or
anything, and when she had touched him, he'd pushed her aside.  What
happened next was her own fault entirely.  A clever woman would have
known when to stop.  Angeline shook her head.  Not her.  She thought
that if she could just get close enough to him, he'd forget about his
maps and scrolls and start acting the way he used to in the days before
he acquired the crown.  She had been wrong, though.

Angeline's hand stole to her side, and as she touched the bruised flesh
she winced.  Just as wrong as she could be.

The problem was she had to keep trying.  Her only hope of getting out
of this mess was to pretend she had conceived at the camp.  That way
she could admit she was pregnant, confess openly to the sickness,
soreness, and blushing, and leave all the mushrooming lies behind. Only
Izgard wasn't interested in her anymore, and if Gerta didn't already
know it, her old maid's nose would sniff it out soon enough.

From her side, Angeline's hand curved across to her belly.  She couldn't
feel anything, but she could tell her baby was there all the same.
Gerta had once said, A woman knows about these things, and she was
right.  Angeline did know.  She knew because she felt such love.

It was like the first time she'd seen Snowy, only more so.  Her heart
ached sometimes when she thought about it.  She wanted her baby very
much, and every day that went by she wanted it more.  When Izgard had
pushed her into the table last night, she had very nearly pushed him
back.  There was a minute or two when she was so angry that she forgot
every caution Gerta had ever given her about dealing with her husband.
All she wanted to do was hurt lz gard for hurting her.  Balling her
fists, she had scrambled up from the floor and actually gone to strike
him.

One look from those dull gray eyes was all it had taken to stop her.
Angeline had seen something she didn't like nestling within the
dullness.  Something that made her afraid.  If provoked, Izgard could
do much worse than push her.  The truth of it was in those eyes.

Feeling her lip trembling, Angeline bit down on it before any sound
escaped.  She wished Father were here.  Father would make everything
right.

Father had loved babies.  He always kissed them and stroked their
heads.  Sometimes he took them in his big, rough hands and held them up
for Angeline to see.  Look, Angeline, he would cry.  You'll have a
beauty like this one day.  A sweet granddaughter for your old papa to
fuss over.

Still biting on her lip, Angeline shook her head slowly.  Father wouldn't
have stood for Izgard pushing her.  He would have taken her to Castle
Halmac and spoiled her until his grandchild was born.  Angeline stamped
her foot on the packed, carpet-covered earth of the tent.  And
afterward he would have spoiled her more.

Here you are, m'lady.  Gerta said, emerging platter first into the
chamber.  I've found some drumsticks and a little chicken skin.  More
than enough for that no-good dog.  oh?  Angeline's face dropped.  She
had been hoping for sausages and breast meat.  Remembering that the
food was for Snowy, not herself, she forced herself to nod.  Thank you,
Gerta.  You can go now.

Gerta's eyes widened.  Angeline never dismissed her.

Yes, go.  I'll take care of my own toilette tonight.

But, m'lady, your hair

Go, Gerta!  Angeline tried her best to copy the tone of voice Gerta
herself used when barking orders to servants in Sem Fortress.  It
seemed to work, as Gerta's lips came together rather quickly and her
forehead dipped in something close to a nod.

Yes, m'lady she said.  After slipping the platter onto a nearby chest,
Gerta pulled the tent flap to one side and stepped through to her
private chamber, an offended sniff following her from the room. Hearing
the sniff, Angeline very nearly gave in and called her back. She hated
giving orders.  Somehow she never got them right.

Here, Snowy she called, standing up and crossing over to the platter.
Supper for you and me?

The drurusticks were thin and greasy, but Angeline tore at them all the
same.  Her own hunger surprised her these days.  She was sure the court
ladies at Veizach would never stoop to gnaw at bones.  Snowy dutifully
ate the chicken skin, though he knew quite well there was meat.  When
Angeline had finished with the bones, she teased Snowy with them,
making him jump high, rollover, and fetch.  Snowy only went along with
these games for only so long before pouting in his doggy way and
skulking to a corner.  Angeline wasn't fooled.  It was just another of
his no-good ploys.

After a while of playing, bone munching, belly tickling, and resting, a
noise sounded from the adjoining chamber.  Angeline held her breath,
listening for the noise to come again.  Which it did.  Good.  It was
Gerta snoring.  The old maid was fast asleep.

You stay here, Snowy Angeline whispered, grabbing her cloak from its
place near the entrance.  I'll be back before you know it.  I mjust
going to see Ederius.

Snowy was lying, belly up, on his cushion, too well stuffed with
chicken bones for any meaningful sort of prutest.  Angeline patted his
no-good head and slipped out into the night.

The camp smelled of woodsmoke and horses.  A mild wind forced Angeline
to keep a hand on her hood as she walked, and the ground was muddy
enough to make her watch her step.  The two guards posted outside the
tent stood to attention as she passed.  Emboldened by the fact that she
didn't recognize either man, Angeline acknowledged them with a little
wave.  It was always easier to act queenly around those she didn't
know.

The coldness of the night had little effect on her.  Halmac born and
bred, she could endure a lot worse than a mild chill and an easterly
breeze.  Father always said that in all of Garizon there was no winter
to match Halmac's when it came to matters of frost and sleet.  Once,
when Angeline was very young, she had gone running to Father in tears
because they'd been snowed in for weeks and she was tired of being cold
and bored.  We should be thankful for the snow, Angeline, he had said.
Every day it stays here it teaches us how to be strong.  It's what puts
the steel in Halmac bones.

Angeline frowned as she made her way through the camp.  Her bones didn't
feel much like steel now.

The lights in the command tent were blazing.  A dozen separate shadows
flickered across the canvas, and although Angeline could not pick out
Izgard's form among them, she was sure he was there.

Slipping into the darkness, she avoided the command tent guards,
veering off to the quiet side of the camp, where surgeons, clerics, and
aides pitched their tents.  Ederius tent was among them.  Angeline
spotted it straight away, as it was the only one brightly liL Izgard
had him working hard these days.  Sometimes Ederius even jotted
patterns in his girdle book as he rode.

Ederius!  It's me Angeline.  As soon as the words were hissed, Angeline
stepped into Ederius tent.  She didn't want to risk anyone catching her
loitering outside.

Ederius head came up from a book as she entered.

M lady?  The scribe sounded more startled than angry.  His gray hair
looked as if it had been slept on, then not brushed.  His tent didn't
smell nice, and books, scrolls, and paint pots were scattered on the
floor.

Angeline pushed back her hood.  I've come to see how you are, she said,
conjuring up an image of Gerta scolding scullery maids in an attempt to
sound commanding.

You must go, m'lady.  Ederius eyes flicked to the tent flap.  At once.
It would not be fitting for you to

Ssh, Angeline said, cutting him short.  I've come to see how you are,
and I'm not going until you tell me.  Rather pleased with the way her
words came out, she walked into the center of the tent and sat on the
tallest of Ederius chests.  Made from satinwood and thick with varnish,
the chest was polished so smoothly that Angeline felt her bottom
sliding as she settled herself on the lid.

So, how are you, Ederius?  You look terribly pale.

I am well, m'lady.  Very well.

Angeline doubted that.  Izgard works you hard, doesn't he?

Ederius, as if becoming resigned to the fact that Angeline wasn't about
to leave until she got some answers, pushed the book he had been
reading to one side.  I am the king's servant to command, m'lady.

And he commands you to read books after midnight?

Ederius began to nod, paused, then shook his head instead.  It is by
choice I work this late, m'lady.  There are things I must study

Like your patterns?

Yes, like my patterns.

Angeline frowned.  Ederius really did look ill.  He sounded ill, too.
Like Father had the year before he died.  Reaching forward, she brushed
her hand against Ederius cheek.  The scribe flinched.

Realizing what he had done, he shook his head softly.

Forgive me, m'lady.  My nerves are not what they were.

Angeline had seen dogs flinch like that.  Dogs beaten by Father's
hounds master for being cowardly or bad.  Before she had time to think,
words spilled out of her mouth.  Does Izgard hurt you, too?

Ederius looked at her a very long time before answering.  His old face
looked worried and sad.  My lady, he said gently, his hand hovering
above his lap, as if he wanted to touch her but didn't dare, you must
promise me never to make the king angry.  Try to say nothing that will
upset or agitate him, and if he ever does become angry, you must always
run to Gerta straight aiay.

But

Promise me.

Angeline had never seen Ederius so firm.  He sounded just like Father,
the time he forbade her to ride past the boundaries of Halmac land.
There are brigands on the free roads, he had said, I will not have my
best girl riding on highways that are unsafe.

For some reason Angeline found it hard to meet Ederius gaze.  Her eyes
ached.  Head bowed toward the floor, she said,

I promise.

Even as she spoke it, she knew it would be impossible to keep.  There
was no telling what would make Izgard angry these days.  The slightest
word or look might provoke him.  Yet even knowing that, Angeline was
glad Ederius had made her promise.  Father would have done just the
same.

Ederius stood.  Good.  Now you must leave, m'lady.  I sent a messenger
to the king but a few minutes back, asking him to join me in my tent.
He could be here any moment.

But

No, Angeline.  Remember your promise: you must do nothing to anger the
king.

Angeline closed her mouth.  She felt as if she'd been tricked, yet when
she looked into Ederius eyes she knew she was wrong.  Very well, I'll
go, she said, slipping from the chest to her feet.  For a moment she
considered asking Edenus to make the same promise as she had made to
him, yet she didn't quite have the nerve for it.

Instead she said, Izgard won't be angry with you tonight, will he?

No, Ederius said.  I have just found something that should please him
greatly.

What?

A pattern that lets me find people in the dark.

Angeline shivered; she didn't like the way Ederius said the word dark.
Pulling the hood over her face, she slipped out into the night.

As she made her way across the camp Angeline passed within three paces
of Jagard, yet by some miracle he failed to stop her.  His gaze was
turned inward, toward himself.

Izgard looked over his shoulder, watching the silhouette as it receded
into the darkness of the camp.  Any other time he might have turned,
tracked the figure down, and demanded to know what they were doing
walking through this section after dark.  Small things were beginning
to matter less and less, though.  He had just spent the past four hours
in conference with his warlords, and anything not directly concerned
with war and its making had a hard time finding purchase in his mind.

Pulling back the canvas flap, Izgard stepped into Ederius tent.  The
scribe stood motionless in a halo of golden light.  He was holding a
quill pen, and the veins of the feather shook along with his hand.  For
a brief moment Izgard found himself surprised at how frail Ederius
looked.  Had he always been that pale?  How long had those dark circles
ringed his eyes?  Shaking aside his unease, Izgard said, What news do
you have for me, scribe?

Ederius moved behind his desk before he spoke.  Sire, I have been
looking through Gamberon's old books and have come across a sequence of
patterns that allow me to track certain people down over great
distances.

What kind of people?

Those who venture into the darkness beyond the ink.

Scribes, you mean?

Ederius shook his head.  He dragged one of the large pigment boxes from
the corner of his desk, bringing it to rest directly in front of him.
Izgard got the impression the scribe was arranging his defenses.

Not all scribes, sire, Ederius said.  Only those who deal in the old
patterns and draw forth power through the vellum.

The girl?

Ederius nodded.  I believe I can find her.  Once someone has passed
through to the other side, to the folds that lie beneath the ink,
traces of power cling to them like pollen to an insect's wing.  I think
I can paint a pattern that will illuminate the way.

Excited, Izgard stepped forward.  Ederius moved back.

You have done well, my friend, Izgard said.  Of all those who surround
me, you are the only one I love and trust.

A small, sad smile stretched Ederius lips.  I know, sire.

Hearing the catch in Ederius voice, seeing the way his entire body
strained backward away from him, Izgard paused in midstep.  How long
had Edenus been afraid of him?

Tomorrow I will discover where the girl is, Ederius said, breaking
through Lzgard's thoughts.

And send the harras after her?

If she is still in or around Bay Zen.

What if she is somewhere else, out of range of the harras?

Edenus pulled upon a piece of cloth and uncovered the Barbed Coil. Then
I will use someone close to hand instead.

Izgard's eyes were drawn toward the Coil, all his earlier concerns
about Ederius forgotten.  You can change others in the same way you
change the harras?

I believe so.  Ederius voice was low.  The Coil harbors far worse
demons than those loosed upon harras.

What else?

Gathelocs.

Izgard shuddered at the word, and as he listened to Ederius description
of the creatures he shuddered more.  By the time the meeting was over
and Izgard spoke the words

Kill her quickly but discreetly, the chill he felt had passed down to
his lungs, where it turned the air he exhaled into mist.

Tessa walked.  She walked until her feet were sore, her leg muscles
were stiff, and the darkness took on the grainy look of predawn.  She
didn't know where she was headed, didn't even know why she was walking
at all.  Sometimes people called to her men, usually yet for the most
part the night folk of Kilgrim left her well alone.  She supposed she
looked like one of them.  Her cloak was long gone, her dress was
ripped, and she had a gash on her left shoulder from being pushed
against a nail-encrusted door frame by someone rushing to escape from
the inn.

Kilgrim was a dark, dripping maze.  Water gurgled beneath drains set
deep amid the cobbled road.  Moisture glistened on walls and seeped
from crumbling mortar; overflow ran along storm channels and bubbled
from lead pipes.  Archways rained water on Tessa's back as she passed
under them, and every dip in the path formed a wet and glistening
pool.

It drizzled for an hour or so in the middle of the night.

Tessa was glad of it at first, as it cleared her head a bit and emptied
the streets of the few people who were still about.  Then the rain
began to soak through her dress and make her shiver.  Just when she
decided she really should find some shelter, the rain stopped, robbing
her of all resolve.  She hadn't gotten around to making another
decision since.

Somehow, when the air cleared from the rain she found herself outside
the inn Violante of Arazzo had led them to.  The building was quiet
now, shut up for the night.  Tessa approached the door, but as she
raised her hand to knock, she smelled violets.  Hours later, and the
air still smelled of Violante of Arazzo's perfume.  Suddenly unsure of
herself, Tessa turned and ran away.

She tried not to walk in circles after that, and somehow her mind had
picked up on this idea and turned it into a game.  She was never to
walk down the same street twice or backtrack and retrace her steps. 
There were times when she became so caught up in the game that she
walked streets out of her way just to end up on the far side of a
promising wall or forced herself to march past dodgy-looking men to
prevent breaking her own rule about doubling back.

As the night wore on the game grew more elaborate, involving counting
steps, dodging archways, and never falling under the same shadow
twice.

Tessa knew it was madness, but it didn't stop her from playing.  At
least while she played, she could push all decisions to the back of her
mind, and she didn't have to think about Ravis.

Ravis.  No Tessa turned down an alleyway at random, daring it to be a
dead end she wouldn't think about him.

Tessa's throat felt sore for a moment, and she had to swallow once or
twice to make it better, but by the time the alleyway's shadows
engulfed her she was caught once more in the game.

The gash on her shoulder stung from step to step, and Tessa used the
distance between stingings to judge her pace.

For some reason, now that the darkness was lifting and dawn was on its
way, she found herself walking faster.  She hadn't walked down every
street yet, seen what lay beyond every dripping archway and moss-lined
wall.  Gaze fixed firmly on the cobbles beneath her feet, Tessa rushed
down the alleyway into the shadows and away from the dawn.

A dead end stopped her in her tracks.  A tall wall, twice her height,
blocked the way ahead.  Seeing it, Tessa felt her heart sink inside her
chest.  The game was over now.  She'd have to break all her own rules
just to get back onto the street.

Tessa spun around, put her back against the wall, and slowly let her
body sink to the ground.  She ached all over.  Muscles in her calves,
ankles, feet, back, neck, and arms all throbbed in disunion.  The
soreness in her throat returned, and no amount of swallowing would make
it go away.

The sky grew lighter by the second, revealing steaming banks of thick
gray cloud whipped by invisible winds.  It was going to rain again some
time soon.  Tessa smiled weakly.  Mother Emith had been right to call
Maribane a damp, drizzly island made for brooding.

Resting her head against her knees, Tessa sighed.  What was she going
to do now?  The game was over, dawn was breaking, and she had to get
out of Kilgrim.  This place wasn't safe.  A shudder started in Tessa's
ankles and worked its way up her body to her shoulders.  Her mouth
burst open and a high, choking sound came out.

What had become of Ravis?

Tessa ground her forehead against her knee bone.  Everything had
happened so fast armed men bursting into the inn, demanding to know
where Ravis of Burano was, then Ravis appearing in the doorway, the
first words from his lips a warning to Violante of Arazzo.  Tessa
swallowed hard.  He had been afraid for Violante, not for her.

Lifting her head, Tessa took a long, hard breath.  What did she expect?
She'd only known Ravis for a few weeks.  Violante acted as if she had
known him for years.  They had planned to meet in Mizerico.  And
Violante was so beautiful ... Tessa shook her head.  She couldn't
compete with a woman like that.

Suddenly uncomfortable with the turn her thoughts were taking, Tessa
forced her mind back to the present and struggled to her feet.  She
still had to get to the Anointed Isle.  Nothing had changed that.

Her body had grown heavier while she crouched.  The sting on her
shoulder felt sharper than she remembered, and she suddenly became
aware she was cold.  Glancing down the alleyway, back the way she'd
come, Tessa forced her mind to go to work.  She needed a cloak,
somewhere to freshen up and eat, and someone to point her to Bellhaven.
Ravis would be all right without her, she was sure of that.  It would
take more than six armed men to get the better of him.  Besides, he had
Violante now.

As Tessa thought, her hand felt for and then curled around the money
purse at her waist.  Now she was no longer playing games, it seemed
dangerous to have it swinging in full sight, and she plucked it from
her belt, took out one silver and two gold coins, then tucked it deep
inside her bodice.  This one small act of decisiveness calmed her,
helped her remember who she was.  Taking a quick breath to brace
herself, she began walking down the street, breaking three of her own
rules with her very first step.

TWENTY-TWO

$ and or Sire of Rhaize, laughed.  A fraction of a second later his
entourage laughed, too.  When he stopped, so did they.  You mean to
tell me, Camron of Thorn, that you think my armies, my knights, my
strategies, and my wits are no match for the Garizon king?

Camron felt his palms sweating.  Sandor's entourage knights, generals,
lords, and lecturs all looked his way for an answer.  Finally, after a
week of appeals, the Sire had granted him an audience.  Camron had
prepared every word, every gesture.  Broc of Lomis waited in the back
of the hall to bear witness to his story if needed, and more men waited
outside.

Yes, sire, Cameron cursed himself.  I mean no, sire.  Rushing on to
cover his blunder, he said.  What I mean is that I have seen Izgard's
army fought them.  They're not like other men.  The harras are..  .
Cainron bunched his fists, willed the right word to come.

The harras are what?  Sandor's voice was light, his gaze flicked around
the court as if they were all party to some clever joke.

Monsters.  Camron spat out the word.  It silenced the court.

Sandor regarded Cameron.  After a moment he stroked his fingers across
his close-trimmed beard.  You tell me nothing I do not know, Thorn.  I
received reports from the town bearing your name.  I have read the
catalog of Izgard's sins.  I know his men built a bonfire and threw
women and children upon it.  Sandor paused.  He no longer looked at the
court; his blue eyes gazed solely at Cameron.  That is why my forces
are on the way to intercept him, and why tomorrow I go forth myself.

Silence followed the Sire's words.  The court shifted uneasily,
transferring their weight from foot to foot.  Cameron glanced around
the Hall of Kings at Mir Lor.  Burnished candelabras as large and many
branched as pear trees blazed against walls and ceilings of midnight
blue.  Stars, comets, moons, and winged creatures voyaged across the
make believe sky.  The floor was a glittering patchwork of stone.
Quartz, granite, marble, slate, mica, bluestone, onyx, shale, and more:
samples of every kind of stone mined in Rhaize shone beneath Camron's
feet.

Cameron suddenly felt tired.  This was no place for him to be.  There
was nothing for him to do here.  Sire, he said, knowing it was not his
place to speak into his king's silence, but helpless to stop himself, I
beg you, take precautions with your men.  Do not fight at close range,
use arrows and missiles, lances if you have to.  But do not head into
anything blindly.  Know that the harras will fight until their legs are
hacked from under them.

A buzz erupted in the court.  A woman near the back inhaled sharply.
Someone coughed.

Sandor tapped his hand on his chin.  But you survived, Thorn.  His
smile was faint but unmistakable.  As did the man behind you.

Sire

Sandor's hand shot up from his chin, silencing Camron.

You hire and fight with mercenaries, do you not?

Cameron tugged his hair m frustration.  And if I do?  That has no
bearing on why I am here.  I came to warn you, to help you prepare.  He
was losing them; he could tell from the way they refused to look him in
the eye.  In his desperation, he motioned toward Broc.  Ask Broc of
Lomis, ask any of my men they will tell you what the harras are like.
Rhaize knights will die if

Enough.  Sandor cracked the word like a whip.

Cameron pressed his lips together.  He was dealing with this badly. Not
so long ago he could have shaped words smooth enough to convince Sandor's
urbane and worldly court of the dangers, yet now he knew only how to
speak plainly.  Too much was at stake for anything less. Stepping
forward, he spoke again.  Sire, I want to travel north with you.  My
men can help you with the harras, tell you what to expect.

Cameron of Thorn, Sandor said, addressing the court rather than the man
he had named, I am not a fool, and will turn down no one who offers me
help in this hour.  I have seen your men and I know they are worthy,
and you yourself, despite a certain rashness of manner, seem young and
strong and able.  Indeed, just for your name alone I would bid you ride
at my flank your father's victory at Mount Creed has not been
forgotten.

Sandor paused, better to pounce on his next sentence.

But you must remember that Rhaize knights have remained unbeaten in
battle for the past fifty years.  Ffry years.  No small feat, I'm sure
you'll agree.  The court was favored with a deprecating smile.  So,
while I note your concerns and those of your men, you must forgive me
for remaining un cowed by your warnings.  I am a leader and must lead
my armies without fear.

A second passed, then the court erupted; men stamped their feet and
spear butts against the glittering floor.  Silk rustled, palms were
slapped against silver cups.  Aye!  was shouted loudly by many.

Cainron's heart sank.  He tugged at his hair, cursed himself again.
Sandor's speech was faultless puffing Cameron in his place in the most
disarming of manners.  There was nothing to speak up against now.
Sandor had maneuvered himself onto the high ground of kings.

Locking gazes with Cameron over the uproar, Sandor smiled.  Cameron
didn't know whether it was out of sympathy or satisfaction.  He didn't
even know if he cared.

He had failed.

Have your men report to Balanon tonight.  You will find him camped on
the east side of the hill.  Sandor.  It was a dismissal.

Cameron inclined his head.  As you wish, sire.

The uproar had died down quickly, and all eyes were on Cameron as he
walked toward the double doors.  Cameron didn't bother to hide his limp
as he had upon entering.  He was wounded let them know it.  Broc came
forward to join him, lips stretching to a sympathetic curve.  Camron
was glad of a smile he knew was genuine.  Despite the fact that great
sections of his arms, legs, and lower abdomen were still bulked up by
bandages, Broc had dressed with care.  The brass on his belt and
buckler shone like gold, and beneath his tunic he wore an undershirt of
bright red silk.  Broc had admitted earlier, a little gingerly, that
his younger sister had made him wear it.

Sandor chose not to say anything as the two men left the room.  Perhaps
he knew the sight of the two men limping was more succinct a statement
than any words he could think of just then.

Camron held out his ann to Broc, taking as much of his weight as he
could while still allowing Broc the appearance of walking freely.

I can't believe the Sire didn't listen, Broc murmured as they passed
under the shadow of the door.

Camron didn't reply.  Truth was, he had acted in just the same way with
Ravis only two months earlier.  Rhaize pride was hard to break Sandor
could hardly be blamed for that.  Camron held his breath a long moment
before letting it out.  The fault was all his own: he should have
handled things differently, spoken more eloquently, played the court at
its own courtly games.

My lord Thorn?  came a soft voice.

Caruron swung around to see who had spoken.  A young girl, dark haired
and dressed in white, curtsied.  Camron nodded.  I am he.

The girl glanced around, curtsied again, then spoke in a whisper.  Sir,
the lady Lianne requests that you visit her apartments tonight at
dusk.

Sandor's mother.  The countess of Mir Lor.  What could she want with
him?  Camron found himself glancing around the antechamber just as the
girl had.  The doors leading to the Hall of Kings banged shut as he
spoke his reply.  Tell Her Highness I would be honored to attend upon
her?

The girl bobbed once more and then scurried off down a corridor, silken
slippers pitter-pattering against stone.

Broc made a soft sound in his throat.  Some say the countess is the
real power in Rhaize.  You should try to get her on your side.

I'll try, but I'm no ladies man.

Well, perhaps you could be a little less direct with the mother than
you were with the son.  Try not to mention hacking limbs in her
presence.

Camron managed a grim smile.  I made a mess of things, didn't I?

No, you didn t. You spoke honestly and bravely, and I. think people
will leave the hall thinking about what you said.

Hearing sounds of strain in Broc's voice, Cameron resumed walking
across the antechamber.  It was a mistake to have brought Broc here.
The knight should be resting in his bed, not walking around leagues of
palace corridors on the chance that his support might be needed. Edging
closer, Cameron took more of Broc's weight upon his arm.

How can I get Sandor to understand, Broc?  he asked.

How can I make him see that the harras are Cameron checked himself.
Broc knew what they were just as well as he.

Use the journey up north to talk to people.  If you can get them to be
cautious, that should be enough.

Cautious.  Cameron flinched at the word.  If he hadn't been so caught
up in his own problems the day they rode into the Valley of Broken
Stones, they might never have encountered the harras.  Men would be
alive today.  Caution could have saved them.  Feeling a sickening pull
in his stomach, Cameron forced himself to speak.  I'll do what I can.

Broc nodded.  I know you will.

They were both silent for a while after that.

Canna give it yer gratty, lovey.  Why, me wife would poll ox me on the
spot.

Tessa nodded wisely, though in truth she hardly knew what the stall
holder was saying.  She guessed his tactics, though.  Well, I'll be off
to look somewhere else.  Thank you for your trouble.  She spun around,
sending her skirts swishing after her, and began to walk away from the
used-clothing stall.

The stall holder called after her.  I mebbe able to rub a little suet
off the top.

Tessa carried on walking as she cried, I can't give you any more than a
silver for it.  I'm sorry for wasting your time.

Come back, lovey.  I'll see what I can do.

Tessa held her ground.  One silver.

The stall holder sighed.  One silver it is.

Resisting the urge to jump on the spot, Tessa returned to the stall.
The cloak she had just negotiated for was made of dark blue velvet, and
as she approached, the stall holder ran his fingers along the fabric,
raising the weft.

A bargain, lovey!  A bargain!  He sighed again, shook his head.  Me
wife will surely poll ox me.

Tessa handed him a silver coin.  She really did want the cloak.  Where
can I get some breakfast around here?  And freshen myself up before my
journey north?

Wicks Supper n Board will be the place ye're after, lovey.  All thems
that head north start their journey at Wicks.

Tessa nodded.  While the stall holder was speaking, she had been
pulling the cloak off his table, winding the fabric around her wrist.
The marketplace she had stumbled upon seemed safe enough, and the stall
holder looked as honest as any, but she felt better taking precautions.
Which way is Wicks?

Down the Aspeys and short right on Kings.  Canna miss it.  Big red
shutters, lots o smoke.  As he spoke, the stall holder rolled his eyes
to indicate the direction.  Going to Palmsey, are yer?

No, to Bellhaven.  To the Anointed Isle.

The stall holder sucked at the insides of his cheeks.  He let go of the
last corner of the cloak, allowing Tessa to pull it away.  Best be
getting a move on, then.  Y ill be wanting the early start.

Tessa took the cloak, threw it over her shoulders, thanked the stall
holder, and walked away.  She told herself it wasn't fear she had heard
in the man's voice at the mention of the Anointed Isle, just
surprise.

Rain began to drizzle softly as Tessa walked the length of the
still-forming market.  Merchants were busy setting up stalls, packing
tables with wares, unloading mules, and throwing curses at the rain.
The place had a different feel to it than Bay Zen; it was drabber, more
subdued except for the cursing, not a good place to linger now she wasn't
protected by mindless games.  Tessa wished she weren't here.

She couldn't go back, though.  She had to do what she was brought here
for: to fight against the han as send them back to wherever they
belonged.  Deveric had believed she could do it, and there was some
small part of Tessa that believed she could too.  She had felt many
things that morning in Mother Emith's kitchen when she'd picked up her
brush and painted the pattern, yet looking back on it now, in the damp
and dismal light of a Maribane dawn, Tessa realized the most potent
thing she felt was power.  For a few seconds she, Tessa McCamfrey, had
held the harras back.

Tessa snuggled her shoulders against her new cloak.  She didn't feel
any better, but she was clear about her job.  She had to get to the
Anointed Isle.

Wicks Supper n Board was easy to spot.  Shutters as large as doors were
flung open onto the street, and clouds of water vapor burst from them
like steam from a geyser.  Puzzled, Tessa looked up, squinted, then
nodded.  No chimney.

Breakfast, board, or delivery?

Tessa spun around to see a young boy tugging her cloak tail.  The boy's
cheeks and forehead were flushed red, and a film of sweat gave a high
gloss to his nose.

Breakfast, board, or delivery?

Breakfast.

As if she had uttered a magic word, the boy grabbed her elbow through
the fabric of her cloak and led her through one of the open shutters
into the dark, steamy interior of Wicks.  Don't have no doors at Wicks,
the boy offered without prompting.  Missis Wicks won't have

Tessa blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the darkness.

Don't have no candles, either.  The boy spoke in a matter-of-fact
manner.  Missis Wicks says only God-given light is right and proper to
eat by.

Tessa wondered what Missis Wicks customers did at night.  The smell of
fresh-baked bread, fried onions, and smoked bacon soon put a stop to
all conjecture.  Yes, Tessa thought to herself, mouth watering despite
everything, I'd sit here and eat in the dark.

The boy ushered her to a long bench beside a long table and bade her
sit.  The room was noisy and packed with people eating, drinking, and
chatting.  Tessa scooted along the bench so she could sit in the
shadows of the wall.  She didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention
her way.

Ere you are, lady.  The boy returned with a jug of something hot and a
loaf of bread with the middle scooped out and melting butter and honey
spooned in its place.  I'll be back with the rest soon's it's done.

Tessa went to thank him, but he had already moved away.  There was no
cup Missis Wicks probably didn't believe in those, either so she drank
from the jug.  It was some sort of tea, spiced and very sweet, and
absolutely delicious.  Tessa drained the jug she hadn't even realized
she was thirsty.  The bread was warm and filled with nuts and grains.
As she ate, Tessa leaned back against the wall, put her feet on the
base of the table, and rested her aching muscles.  She wasn't tired in
a yawning, stretching sort of way she had long since walked her way
through that stage she was just plain exhausted.

Ere you are, lady  Sausages and bacon, with a slice of ham thrown in
gratty.  Compliments of Missis Wicks.

Gratty?  It was time she learned what the people of this strange,
drizzly island were talking about.

Free, lady.  Missis Wicks always gives new customers a free slice of
ham.  The boy dabbed at his brow with his sleeve.  You'll be needing a
cloth for it, though.  Cart leaves for Palmsey within the quarter.

I'm not heading to Palmsey.

The boy took this piece of information and chewed on it.  His jaw
worked for a moment and then he spoke.  Where you be heading, then?

Bellhaven.

Glancing into the banks of steaming clouds that obscured the fire and
cooking range from view, the boy repeated the word as if it were an
answer to some long-mulled-over puzzle.  He spun on his heels and
headed back into the steam.  I'll be gone just a spit.

Tessa let him go.  She didn't know what he was up to, but she didn't
sense any danger.  As she went to pull the platter containing the bacon
and sausages toward her, the pain in her shoulder flared.  She tensed
her jaw, counted to three, then relaxed.  The pain was slow to recede.
The muscle, which she had kept loose all night by walking, was
beginning to stiffen up.

The fatty smell of the ham and bacon caught in her throat, making her
feel sick.  Against her will, her mind replayed what had happened last
night at the inn.  She heard Ravis warn Violante to step back and then
watched as he launched himself toward the two armed men holding the
innkeeper, shouting at everyone else to run.  Tessa shoved the platter
to one side.  She had to believe he was all right.

Are you the young woman heading to Bellhaven?

Startled, Tessa looked up.  A woman with fat red cheeks and high gray
hair stood before her.  Annoyed to find herself shaking, Tessa worked
hard to regain her composure.  I am.

And do you intend to leave this morning?

The pain in her shoulder made Tessa snap.  What's it to you?

The woman's chin receded into the folds of her neck, and she blinked
several times in quick succession.  After a moment the chin came out
again, looking blunter than before.

I've been meaning to make that journey for weeks now, but as a woman I
refuse to take the road alone.  Simply won't do it.  The woman shook
her head emphatically.  No, by God's good name I won t.

Something in the woman's manner prompted Tessa to ask, Missis Wicks?

The woman nodded.  One and the same.

And you're going to Belihaven, too?  This morning?

I am if there's another woman by my side for decency's sake.

No other women travel to Bellhaven?

None that are decent.

Tessa thought a moment.  How long is the journey?

Day and a half.  There's a party of three leaving within the half hour?
The woman sniffed.  Though a word from me will slow them down soon
enough.

Tessa- didn't doubt it.  Is there anywhere I can freshen up before
leaving?

This is Wicks Supper n Board.  If a traveler has a God given need, we
attend to it.  Follow me and I'll show you to a room

Tessa followed.  She walked in Missis Wicks considerable wake through
billowing clouds of steam and ever-increasing darkness, too tired to be
surprised at her own willingness to let someone else take charge for a
while.

Camron tugged down his tunic, smoothed a hand through his hair, and
knocked on the gold-and-white-striped door before him.  Despite its
delicate look, the door was made of solid oak and Camron's knock
sounded muffled and flat.

Enter called a soft voice.

Camron pushed on the wood and took his first step into the room.
Glancing at the edge of the door, he saw the wood was almost a fist
thick.  How had someone's voice managed to penetrate its thickness
while sounding so soft?

Welcome, Camron of Thorn.

Camron looked up to see a woman dressed in a shimmering gray dress,
with hair perfectly white and eyes so blue that even from this
distance, in the failing light of day and the flickering shadows cast
by candles just lit, they drew one's gaze as surely as jewels cast upon
a jet black cloth.  As if well aware of the worth of her eyes, the
woman did not blink once as she crossed the space to the door.

Your Highness.  Camron bowed to cover his surprise.  He had not
imagined he would meet the countess so soon upon entering her chambers.
 Where were her ladies, her attendants?.

As if he had spoken the question out loud, the woman held out her hand
and said, Come, I am too old to waste my time standing on ceremony, and
have well passed the stage where I need an entourage to excite respect.
A well-arched eyebrow arched one degree more.  Pour yourself a glass of
wine, then sit or stand as you wish?

Camron's fingers barely had chance to close around the cool palm of
Lianne, countess of Mir Lor, before the woman withdrew her touch.  She
turned her back on him, and he followed her toward the center of the
room.  Unlike the formal sections of the palace, the countess's private
chamber was low ceilinged and intimate.  Umber-painted panels glowed in
the candlelight, thick saffron-colored carpets muted Camron's steps,
and deep within a red stone hearth, a small but forceful fire blazed
with purely golden flames.

Reaching a cluster of high-backed chairs, cushioned benches, and
tables, the countess turned and made a small gesture to a silver tray
laid with goblets and a single jug of wine.  Even though his mouth was
dry, Camron did not want a drink.  Something told him he would need all
his wits about him when talking to this woman.  He could not refuse her
request, though, and poured them both a cup of wine.  As soon as he
tilted the jug, the fumes of fourteen-year-old berriac rose up to meet
his nose.  Memories, brittle as autumn leaves, gathered in the back of
his throat: Thorn, his father, long evenings sitting around the great
hearth, talking weapons and supplies and estate business.

Camron swallowed hard.  Aware that his hand was shaking, he forced
himself to concentrate on pouring the wine as evenly as he could.  When
he looked up, he saw the countess was watching him.

There is no wine to match that made in Thorn, she said.

Seeing her this close, Camron realized she was very old.  Small, too,
though he had not noticed it when he followed her across the room.

What do you want from me?  he asked.  She seemed less surprised at the
question than he was.  Camron could hardly believe he had asked it. 
Was it the fumes from the wine or the sheer.  weight of the countess's
presence that had forced him to speak so openly?  He didn't know.  But
he did not take the question back.

Taking the second goblet from his hand, Lianne said,

You will be heading north with my son's forces at dawn.  It was not a
question, but she paused all the same, giving

Camron time to realize that she knew all that had happened that morning
in the Hall of Kings.  Fixing him with a gaze as direct as only eyes
that color could allow, she said, Tell me, Camron of Thorn, when you
meet Izgard's army on the field, what will you be fighting for?

Camron felt blood flush up his cheeks.  He looked down, away from the
scrutiny of those perfect blue eyes.

Vengeance?  she said.  Love for Rhaize?  Or do you see it as a chance
to step out from your father's long shadow and create a new generation's
Mount Creed?

Angry now, Camron shook his head.  I will fight for my father's memory,
and for Thorn and the people who died there.

Aah, Lianne said, ringing the goblet with her finger.

All three, then.

No.  Camron slammed the jug onto the tray.  Silver goblets tinkled like
bells.  What was it about this woman?  What gave her the right to say
such things?  Feeling almost drunk, as if he had swallowed rather than
inhaled the wine before him, Camron stepped away from the countess and
her nest of tables and chairs.  I did not come here to talk of myself.
As you say, the Rhaize army moves north first thing tomorrow.  I came
to Mir Lor to warn your son that Izgard is fighting with Camron checked
himself, remembering his earlier performance in front of the Sire's
entourage.  Unnatural advantages.

A husky sound that might have been a laugh sounded deep within Lianne's
throat.  Turning toward the light from the fire, she took a long drink
from her cup.  Cameron saw then how beautiful she was: the long sweep
of her neck, the upward tilt of her cheekbones.  What was it people
used to say about her?  All of Rhaize is met within her eyes.  There
was something else, too.  Something about her having had the two most
powerful men in the country as her suitors.  Besides the old Sire
himself, Camron could not guess who the other man might be.

Lianne, countess of Mir Lor, trailed a long finger over her lip.  For a
moment she looked just like her son.  What if I could give you another
reason to fight, Camron of Thorn?  What would you say to that?

Camron tugged at his hair, frustrated.  Men and women were dead.  His
father was dead.  Why couldn the get the people in this palace to see
that?  Why wouldn't they listen?

I have reasons enough to fight, my lady.  Anyone who sees the harras
cannot doubt that.

Unaffected by the force of his words, Lianne smiled slowly.  You are so
like your father when you are angry, you know.

A muscle tightened in Camron's chest.  He felt disoriented, as if he
had been thrown into the middle of a game with no rules.  You knew my
father?

Lianne nodded.  For the first time since Camron had walked through her
door, she looked down.  You could say that.  Many years ago now.  Back
in the days of war and Mount Creed.

Camron's first reaction was disbelief.  How could his father have known
the countess of Mir Lor and not mention it?

We were of an age, he and I, Lianne said, turning her back on Camron
and walking toward the fire.  He and I were the only two left who
remembered Garizon for what it was.  She shrugged at the flames.  Now
Berick is dead, and I am the only one.

Abruptly she turned from the fire.  Her eyes were bright, and two spots
of color blazed high on her cheeks.  So don't think you come here
telling me things I do not know.  All tales of Garizon and its kings
are old news to me.

Camron bowed his head.  Every time this woman spoke she stole a little
more of the solid ground beneath his feet.

He never spoke of you.

There was much he never spoke of.

What do you mean?

He never spoke of Garizon to you, did he?

You are mistaken, my lady.  He did speak of Garizon.  He told me how,
twenty-one years ago, he relinquished his claims upon the crown because
he wanted to give the Garizon people peace.  He said they had suffered
enough at Mount Creed and a civil war would only tear them apart.

Lianne made a small flicking motion with her hand.  If your father
relinquished all claims on Garizon, why then did he sign all his
letters with the amethyst wax of Garizon sovereignty up until his dying
day?

Camron kept very still.  His chest felt so tight, he didn't risk a
breath.  Amethyst wax.  The same color he had used to seal the very
last letter he'd written to his father.  The same color that was caked
under his thumbnail as he'd pumped at his father's heart.

Lianne watched him with a steady gaze.  He made you use it, too, didn't
he?

Carnron felt the pressure in his chest shift down toward his gut.  He
shook his head.  It meant nothing.  Nothing.  It was just a family
custom, that was all.  Even as he spoke he felt the lie.  The fire
suddenly seemed close enough to burn his face.

I don't think you really believe that, do you?

And with that, Lianne, countess of Mir Lor, took away Cainron's last
patch of solid ground.  Cameron felt himself falling.  He was back in
his father's study once more, kneeling over Berick's body.  The room
was full of light, the air tasted of wet fur and warm blood, and as the
harras changed from monsters to men, they cast shifting, liquid shadows
on his back.  Camron watched them leave.  He felt the vibrations of
their boots on the stone beneath his knees and heard the dull thud as
the last harrar threw something on the floor before he left.

Cameron shuddered, coming back to the present with a jolt.  His hands
formed fists by his side.

Sealing wax.  The last harrar had thrown a block of red sealing wax
onto the study floor.

During all the madness that had followed the terror of his father's
cooling body, the men below stairs, butchered, their blood steaming in
the heat from the furnace he had pushed it from his mind.  There was no
space for anything except death that night.  Carnron pressed his lips
into a hard line.  He should have gotten to his father sooner.

Sit, sit.  A hand brushed against his shoulder, then up to his cheek.
Cameron looked up to see Lianne of Mir Lor watching over him.  How
could he have been so wrong about her eyes?  They weren't cold like
jewels.  They were soft and deep, with so many sorrows collected in
their irises that they made his throat go dry.

She guided him to a chair, plumped a cushion for his back, brushed a
lock of hair from his forehead, and handed him his cup of wine.  Drink$
she said.  I know you do not want to, but do so because I ask.

He brought the cup to his lips, closed his eyes, and drank.

The wine tasted of home.  He felt it slipping down his throat like a
prayer mouthed in the dark.  It calmed his pumping heart, released
something in his chest, making it easier to breathe.

Lianne smiled softly.  See, she said, sounding just like a mother
teasing a stubborn child.  I told you it would help.

Camron couldn't stop himself from returning her smile.  She made him
feel very young.

Raising her own cup to the light, she made a toast.

Rhaize.  Camron repeated the word and drank.  After a moment Lianne
brought her cup down to her lap.  Her eyes shone brightly, their focus
shifting to some unknowable point before coming to rest on Cameron's
face.  You know I speak the truth about your father.

Cameron didn't reply.  He didn't trust himself to recognize the truth
anymore.

Izgard didn't kill your father because of the victory he won at Mount
Creed.  Lianne shook her head.  No.  He was killed because of the
amethyst wax.  Izgard knew, you see.  He knew that by continuing to use
the wax to seal all his correspondence, your father despite all his
fine, selfless words of denial was keeping alive his claim.

But he said he never wanted to rule Garizon.  He swore it.

He wasn't doing it for himself.  Lianne tilted her chin as she spoke,
offering Cameron the answer with her eyes.

Cameron shook his head, refusing to take it.

Lianne shrugged and spoke it out loud anyway.  Yes, Cameron of Thorn.
He kept alive the claim for you, just for you.

The room seemed suddenly hot and dim.  Cameron felt sweat trickle past
his ear.  Even though deep down he knew the countess was right and that
the block of red wax thrown by the harrar was a sign that Izgard knew
it too no one was to use amethyst except him Cameron still shook his
head.  To accept what she said changed too much.

Lianne continued spe*ing, her soft voice turning rough.

Even though your father was cousin to the old king, he knew he could
never rule Garizon after Mount Creed.  They would never have him back.
He was the great Rhaize hero, the man who fought and won the greatest
battle in half a century, who slew twenty thousand Garizons on a
mountain in midwinter and didn't leave a single man standing to bury
the frozen dead.

Caruron frowned.

Make no mistake about it, Carnron of Thorn, your father wanted to rule
Garizon.  He wanted it in his heart, his bones, his blood he wanted to
wear the Coil.  Yet he could not take back his victory at Mount Creed,
and fifty years wasn't nearly enough for the Garizon people to
forget.

But the people of Rhaize forgot.  They forgot all about Garizon's
past.

Lianne's smile was gentle, but her words when they came were hard.  The
defeated always remember the longest.  All Rhaize remembers, all this
court remembers, is that half a century ago Rhaize won a magnificent
victory over Garizon.  Tomorrow my son rides north believing he will do
the same.

Camron locked gazes with the countess of Mir Lor.  He was beginning to
understand things now.

Lianne's hands made a swishing sound against the silk of her dress as
she brought them together in a knot.  I loved your father once.

Carnron nodded.  He had heard as much in her voice minutes earlier.

I would have married him, too.

If he had taken the Barbed Coil?

Lianne didn't blink.  She regarded him with such a look that Cameron
felt his cheeks grow hot.  What had possessed him to say such a
thing?

Then she smiled; the countess of Mir Lor smiled with such brightness
and warmth that it took Camron's breath away.  I am too old for lies,
Camron of Thorn she said, and have long forgotten the art of verbal
dancing.  So even though it hurts my vanity to do so, I will confess
that you are right: I was young and ambitious and determined to marry a
king.

She was so beautiful when she spoke, her eyes sparkling with such dark
brilliance, that Camron could see how she had gotten away with it.  She
could tell a man to his face she wanted him for his title and his
wealth, and he would go right ahead and marry her anyway.  She was that
sort of woman.

Yet even as he admired her and fell a little bit in love with her
himself, the tightness returned to Camron's chest.  His father had
given up so much at Mount Creed: his country, his future, the woman he
loved.

Shaking his head, Carnron murmured, Fifty years is so long.

Yes, Lianne said, knowing immediately what he meant, it is, but he had
his conciliations, you must not forget that.  He had a wife who loved
him dearly and his work as a peacemaker: to this day the Garizon people
do not know that Berick saved ten times as many lives as he took.  He
stopped Rhaize generals from tearing Garizon apart after Mount Creed,
forcing the destruction to be limited to Veizach.  God alone knows how
much suffering he saved by that.

Lianne paused, bringing her gaze up to meet Camron.  Behind her, the
fire crackled softly, throwing out a halo of wavering, golden light.
And then there is you, Camron of Thorn.  Your father had a son to love
and dream for.

As she spoke, Cameron felt his body becoming heavier.  He felt drained,
as if he had run and run until he could go no farther.  Looking into
Lianne's dark blue eyes, feeling too many things to put names to,
Cameron made a decision.

My father wanted me to rule Garizon in his place?

Lianne smiled like a wise teacher.  Yes.  Though for many different
reasons he couldn't say it.

Why?

He feared for you.  Assassination is a way of life in Garizon.  Izgard
moved to kill his rivals the day he was crowned king.  If you had
openly opposed him, it would be you who are dead today, not your
father.

Cameron flinched.

Still Lianne wasn't finished.  Second, he didn't want to push you into
it.  If you were going to stake a claim on Garizon, he wanted you to
come to him.

So much.  So much he hadn't understood.  Cameron covered his face.  All
those years his father had been waiting... that last night in his study
he had been waiting.  Yet his son never came.

It's not too late Lianne said, her voice gentle.  You can still fight
for what he wanted.  Even now.

Go and talk to Balanon, Lianne said, cutting him short before he knew
what it was he was about to say.  He is the real leader of the Rhaize
forces.  My son talks a fair game, but he has yet to meet war full on.
And when he finally does it won't take him long to realize how little
he knows and turn to Balanon for help.  Here Lianne crossed over to
Cameron, pulled his hand from his face, and pressed something warm and
smooth into his palm.  Give Balanon this.  He will know it's from me.
It's enough to make him listen.

Cameron closed his fist around the object.  He did not look at it.

For all its grand halls and corridors Mir Lor is really a small place.
Lianne smiled a small private smile.  Most here owe me a favor or
two.

Cameron stood.  He had to be alone.

Lianne took a few steps with him, then halted, letting him find his own
way to the door.  Sleep on what I said, then go talk to Balanon at
dawn.

Grabbing the door handle, Camron said, Why did you tell me this?

Lianne, countess of Mir Lor, pulled herself up to her full height.
Jewels that Camron had hardly been aware of before flashed at her
throat and wrists, and as she spoke her eyes reflected the golden light
from the fire.  I tell you this because I am Rhaize's memory and its
heart.  I am the only one left who knows what Garizon is and what its
war kings are capable of.  She shook her head.  And perhaps I'm too
proud to admit I made a mistake all those years ago by not marrying
your father; but even so I still find myself living with regrets.

Camron tried to say something, yet the words wouldn't come, so he
nodded once, then left.

TWENTY-THREE

iding on the mud-mired, drizzly road that led north to Bellhaven, Tessa
was beginning to realize two things.  One, a velvet cloak was good
against the rain; and two, Missis Wicks had an opinion on everything. A
farmhouse wasn't just a farmhouse, it was a scandalous misuse of timber
and a waste of good paint, and a bundle of logs wasn't just a bundle of
logs, it was oak: perfectly fine for chests, joinery, and milking
stools, but wholly unsuitable for clocks, tables, and decorative bowls.
Missis Wicks didn't as much say these things as pronounce them, as if
she were a rather irritable god bestowing wisdom on mere mortals too
dim to realize what was good for them.

That meadow over there, Missis Wicks said, sitting high atop her horse,
back straight.  That's owned by the monks on the Anointed Isle.  Good
land for grazing, but unsowable in spring.

Tessa nodded, hoping that Missis Wicks wouldn't see fit to elaborate
further on why the land was unsuitable for sowing she was feeling wet,
miserable, and sore all over, and she really didn't care.  It was
midday.  The small party of five that had left Kilgrim yesterday at
noon had spent the night in a tiny wayside inn that Missis Wicks had
pronounced as one large breeding ground for fungus, wet-rot, and sin.
Tessa rather liked the place at least it had candles and doors.
Everyone had bundled down in a common room around a fire, and the only
thing Tessa could remember thinking as she'd wrapped herself in a
blanket was, I'll never fall asleep on this hard floor.  She was woken
from a deep, dreamless sleep at dawn by Missis Wicks, who urged her to
brush and clip up her hair for decency's sake and drink a bowl of whey
for stamina on the road.  Tessa had wound her hair into a tight knot
but refused to drink the whey, which as far as she could tell was some
thin, watery cheese by-product that smelled like sour milk.

One night's sleep hadn't been nearly enough.  Tessa found her body
ached more than ever now, and in new, alarming places: the base of her
spine, her inner thighs, and the column of muscles to either side of
her neck.  The gash on her left shoulder was beginning to heal.  Once
all the dried blood had been cleaned away, she was surprised to see how
small and shallow it was.  Clean, too, which was good considering it
had been caused by a rusty nail jutting from the inn door.

Tessa pulled sharply on her reins, guiding her horse around a ditch in
the road.  She didn't want to think about that night.  She didn't want
to think about Ravis or his relationship with Violante of Arazzo.
Reaching the Anointed Isle was what counted, and anything that took her
mind away from that had to be pushed aside.  She had to carry on. There
was no choice here, only the thought of the harras and what an army of
them could do, and a series of patterns, twenty one years in the
making.  What do you know about the Anointed Isle, Missis Wicks?  Tessa
asked, keeping an eye on the way ahead.  Rain was causing the road to
deteriorate rapidly.  The land they were traveling through was flat and
unremarkable: low bushes, scrubby trees, the occasional plowed field,
and whole banks of reeds growing in circular clumps or winding lines,
marking deep-set ponds and hidden streams.  If it wasn't for the fact
that the road was built a few feet higher than the surrounding land,
the whole thing would have been waterlogged by now.  Tessa wondered why
anyone had bothered building it in the first place.

The Anointed Isle is no place for a woman, Missis Wicks said, shaking
her head with venom.  No place at all.  My daughter's a match for you
in age, young lady, and I can tell you now all the land between Kilgrim
and Hayle would have to sink clean to the bottom of the sea before I'd
even allow her to set foot there.

Tessa let out a small sigh.  This wasn't going to be easy.  Glancing
around to check that none of the men were in earshot, she asked, Why is
that?

Missis Wicks shook her head some more for good measure.  Because it's a
bad place, simple as that.  The monks don't like women, for one thing.
Say they distract the monks from their work.  My brother-in-law
Moldercay would still be there today if it wasn't for some young
baggage catching his eye.  All the while she was speaking and shaking
her head, Missis Wicks hair never moved.  Despite being rained on for
over an hour, its height and style remained unchanged.

Not that it was a bad thing in the long term, you understand.  Wicks
were made for trade.

Your brother-in-law used to live on the Anointed Isle?

Aye.  Record keeper, he was.  He had a good hand, but an eye prone to
wander.  And not just over women, I'll have you know.  That man couldn't
look at anything without wanting to unravel, unfold, or undress it!
Missis Wicks executed a forceful, pouting tut.  Of course, he didn't
get that from the Wicks side.  No, my good shoes, he didn t!  That came
from his mother's side: the Polliers.  There's not a Pollier living who
isn't famous for putting his or her nose into other people's business.
Disgraceful, it is.  Though it can make for good business from time to
time.

What does Moldercay do now?

Bone keeperY Missis Wicks spoke the words with grudging pride.  He runs
his own charnel house in Bellhaven keeps all the decent people's bones
there.  No trollops, beggars, or tinkers ever find their way into
Moldercay's pot.

Moldercay's pot?  Tessa shivered; she didn't like the sound of that one
bit.  And he was cast out of the monastery for falling in love with
someone?

No, girl.  You're just like my daughter, Nelly too busy thinking to
listen.  You should pay more heed to what I say.  Moldercay wasn't cast
out no one is cast out of the Anointed Isle.  It would take an act of
God himself for those hardhearted stone-faced holy men to give up one
of their own.  Heaven forbid, no.  Moldercay chose to leave so he could
marry the girl.

Missis Wicks settled herself more comfortably on her saddle while
managing to keep her back ramrod straight.

The holy fathers put up quite a fight.  I'll have you know.  They had
Moldercay fast for thirteen days before they finally agreed to let him
go.  Poor Moldercay was so delirious that he walked right across the
causeway as the tide was rolling in.  Had to swim the last ruvit to
shore.  Never been in the water since, and I can't say I blame him.
Salt water might be good for the eyes and inducing the vomits, but it's
murder on a person's skin and teeth.  Wouldn't catch me dead in it.  I'd
rather soak in lye for a week.

Tessa could think of no suitable response to that, so she stayed quiet
for a few moments, thinking.  The three men in the party were riding a
few paces ahead.  Tessa hadn't spoken to any of them apart from the
briefest of nods and greetings.  Missis Wicks said it wasn't proper.
And she said it in a loud enough voice, with a sweeping enough glance,
that all three men had got the message and had duly kept their distance
ever since.

The Old Hoot's cum ming up, Missis Wicks, shouted the oldest man
without looking around.  Will yer be wantin a stop or press on?

We'll press on, Elburt.  Stop now and we may not reach Bellhaven by
dark.  And I won't have us riding through unit streets like mounted
trollops or Vennish spies.  I just won't have it.

Elburt grumbled, but quietly.

Tessa didn't pay much attention to the exchange; she had quickly grown
accustomed to Missis Wicks bossy ways.  Her mind was still on the
Anointed Isle.  If she was lucky, she might be there tonight.

Fingers searching out the ring around her throat, Tessa said, Why are
the holy men so reluctant to let any of their own go?

Missis Wicks sucked in a good amount of air to aid thinking.  After a
moment her brow lifted and she let the air right out.  Secrets,
suspicions, and second nature.

Tessa didn't say anything, just waited for Missis Wicks to elaborate.
Which she did.

Those holy men have been keeping secrets for so long that it's just
part of their nature now.  They're a close bunch, I

can tell you.  Comes from them being isolated out there on that island
year after year.  At certain times during the winter they can be cut
off for weeks on end, and even when the causeway's clear, visitors have
to move across it sharpish, else risk being caught in the tides.  Up
there, perched high in their spiraling towers, with nothing below them,
only sea and rocks, it's easy for them to forget about the real world.
They won't have any dealings with the mainland Holy League.  No, my
spring greens, they won t!  Have their own secret little world, they
do, with their own hidden purposes and their own furtive alliances.
Missis Wicks shook her entire body along with her head.  If you ask me,
Moldercay is better out of it.

Tessa pulled her cloak close, suddenly acutely aware of the damp and
the cold.  She was aching all over, and sharp splinters felt as if they
were working their way down her spine.  Her scalp itched.

The Old Hoot turned out to be a low-walled, flat-roofed inn just to the
east of the road.  Smoke rose in a broken line from a short chimney,
and the sign above the door had faded in patches, leaving only the
letter o's remaining.  Looking at the dismal little place, Tessa was
glad they weren't stopping.

That man is quite mad, if you ask me pronounced Missis Wicks as she and
Tessa rode past the inn.  Business has been dry here for years, decades
even, yet he still insists on keeping up that slop bucket.

Tessa sat up on her horse and surveyed the surrounding land.  A few odd
buildings were dotted across the green, reed-striped landscape, but
none of them looked to be in use except the inn.  No smoke trailed from
chimneys, shutters banged loose, and many of the houses were without
roofs.

Noticing where Tessa was looking, Missis Wicks said,

The Venns That's who did this.  Used to be a fair-sized village up
until twenty years ago, when the Vennish raiders began besetting the
coast.  Now there's no small towns and villages within leagues.
Everyone headed to the big towns ten years back, and no one's returned
since.

The Venus?

Dirty, weaseling dark-eyed raiders from across the north em sea Missis
Wicks pursed her lips.  Can't grow crops or rear cattle to save their
lives, but they do have a way with salting fish.

Tessa brushed a lock of wet hair away from her face.  She was coming to
realize how large this world was.  All the time she had stayed with
Emith and his mother she had never once heard about the Venus.  And the
big towns manage to defend themselves from the Venus?

Aye, Kilgrim, Palmsey, and Port Shrift do a fair job.  They have to.
Trade is their life blood can't have the coast unsafe for merchant
ships.

What about Bellhaven?

Missis Wicks regarded Tessa with slowly narrowing eyes.  Bellhaven's
not one of the big towns, girl.  She shook her head.  No, my winter
coat, it isn t!  Why, it must be less than a third the size of Kilgrim.
If that.

Tessa sat back on her saddlle.  She was beginning to feel like a fool,
and more important, Missis Wicks was becoming suspicious as to why she
knew so little.  Even though Tessa knew the best thing would be to
change the subject get Missis Wicks mind working on one of her pet
hates, like doors or candles she had to ask one more question.

If Bellhaven is such a small town, how do they manage to defend
themselves against the Venus?

Missis Wicks eyes, still narrow from her last pronouncement, narrowed
even further.  Because it's barely a league away from the Anointed
Isle.  Everyone knows that.

More puzzled than ever, Tessa tried to come up with a way of
discovering what Missis Wicks was talking about while not revealing any
more of her ignorance.  Rain dripped down her neck, though, and the burn
on her hand was aching from being wrapped around the reins for so long,
and deep inside her boots ten toes simmered in a steam bath of damp
wool.  She was in no mood for subtlety, couldn't think of anything
clever to say, she just wanted to know.

What has being close to the Anointed Isle got to do with anything?

Young women these days!  Missis Wicks tutted so hard, tiny flecks of
spittle sprayed from her lips.  Really!  It's quite bad enough you
journeying alone in the first place, without being entirely ignorant of
where you are going and what you are getting yourself into, If you want
my opinion

I don't want your opinion, interrupted Tessa, wet, sore, and rapidly
losing her temper.  Just tell me what keeps Bellhaven safe from the
Venns.

Missis Wicks jerked her head back as if Tessa's words were something
unpleasant thrown her way, like a rotting tomato or a dog-chewed bone.
Her lips moved a moment, and Tessa could almost swear she heard the
sound of grinding teeth.  Finally Missis Wicks nodded once rather
solemnly and said, You could be a Wicks with a temper like that.

Tessa kept her face stony.  She wasn't sure whether to take it as a
compliment or not.  Bellhaven?  she insisted.

Right, right?  Missis Wicks tugged at her reins, pulling her horse away
from an especially eye-catching clump of grass.  Well, it's nothing to
do with the town, that's for sure.  It's the abbey on the Anointed
Isle. Been there for nine centuries, it has, and for the last five
hundred of those nine him deed years no invading force has ever set
foot on it. In my lifetime alone, we've had the Venus, the Balgedins,
and the Hoks all seizing parts of the coast, yet not one of them has
ever ventured within twenty leagues of the isle.  Missis Wicks nodded
as if such a thing were only right and fitting.

It's tradition.  No one takes the isle.

Why not?  As she spoke, Tessa caught a glimpse of the sea.  It was a
white-flecked band of gray to the east.  The wind was beginning to pick
up, and the rain driving against her face tasted of salt.  Shivering,
she patted her mare's neck.  It was a gentle old horse, hired from
Missis Wicks own stables, and Tessa was glad of its warmth.

Missis Wicks was also looking out to the east, but just before she
spoke, she made a point of shifting her gaze back to the road ahead as
if she didn't want to risk being distracted by whatever she saw out at
sea.

Tugging her reins to the left, she said, Well, by all accounts, it's a
mixture of history and hearsay.  It all started five hundred years ago
when Hierac of Garizon conquered Maribane.  There was no part of the
country he didn't take, not one stream trickling down a hillside or one
pebble lying flat in the sand.  The man was a bloodthirsty demon.
Missis Wicks pursed her lips.  To give him his due, though, he did know
how to fight.  Anyway, being the sort of arrogant brute that Garizons
usually are, he went on a tour of the country making sure everyone knew
who he was, executing any pour soul who didn't cheer at the sight of
him, and having every farm, stronghold, and village counted.

Bouncing her chin against her thumb, as if it were just the sort of
thing she would have done in his position, Missis Wicks continued.
Well, eventually Hierac arrives at Bellhaven.  Now, by all accounts the
tide is in when he gets there, and waiting around for the causeway to
clear so he can cross to the isle makes him about as mad as an archer
in the rain.  He'd heard tales that the holy fathers keep gold and
other treasures hidden away in the abbey, and he was quite determined
to have them.

Anyway.  Eventually the tide goes out, and he and his forty best men
gallop across the wet sand to the island, swords out and ready.

To this day no one knows for sure what happened when they got there
some say the holy fathers put a spell on them, others swear they
beguiled them with their clever talk and sly ways but one hour to the
minute later, the forty best men ride back.  Hierac has ordered them
away.  He wants no armed men within a shadow's fall of the island.

Hierac himself spends the next day and night in conference with the
holy fathers on the isle.  When he finally emerges the following
morning, riding through the rising tide, water up to his horse's flank,
he announces that the Anointed Isle will be free from the rule of
Garizon law and all Garizon tariffs.  No Garizon officials will set
foot on it ever again, and all Garizon soldiers will leave with him,
never to return

Tessa felt her scalp moving slowly as Missis Wicks spoke.  Despite the
rain, her throat felt dry.  She suddenly wished she were back in Mother
Emith's kitchen.  She missed Emith and his mother very much.

Well, Hierac was as good as his word Missis Wicks said, breaking into
Tessa's thoughts, and he and his men withdrew from Bellhaven that very
same day.  And throughout his forty-year reign and then the reign of
his son in fact, right up until the Garizon occupation ended some
hundred years later, the Anointed Isle remained free of Garizon rule.

Missis Wicks twisted around in her saddle, rummaged in her saddlebag,
pulled out a glazed and stoppered jar, and handed it over to Tessa.
Here, drink this.  It will warm you up a portion.  It's no hard
alcohol, mind.  It's what I give to my Nelly when she looks like she's
catching a chill.  You remind me of her, you know.  Both headstrong and
uppity, the pair of you.

Tessa, touched by Missis Wicks sudden kindness, thanked her and took
the jar.

Missis Wicks waved away the thanks with a broad sweep of her arm. Wicks
can't notice a need without tending to it.

Pulling the stopper from the jar, Tessa said, What happened when the
Garizons withdrew from Maribane?

Well, after that any force who invaded Manbane made a point of keeping
well away from the Anointed Isle.  If Hierac of Garizon, the greatest
war king ever known, refused to take it, then he must have had a
spitting good reason.  Tales spread, fears grew: it was considered bad
luck even to attempt to take the isle.  The fact that no one really
knew what happened between Hierac and the holy fathers just added more
spice to the pot.  Some say that Garizon still protects it to this
day.

Missis Wicks drummed her gloved hands against her horse's neck. Anyway,
one way or the other, the Anointed Isle became no-man s-land. Still is.
The holy fathers are many things, but they're definitely not stupid. 
Officially they say all heathen ness and superstition is well behind
them, that they are men of God: scholars, clerics, and monks. Yet they
still keep those old tales alive.  I swear by my summer petticoats they
do.

It sounds to me: Tessa said, wiping a drop of honey beer from her lips,
that Hierac and the holy fathers reached some sort of agreement on the
isle during the night and day he stayed there.

Exactly!  Missis Wicks pounced forward in her saddle.

That's what I've maintained all along Wicks can smell out a deal a
league away.  If you ask me, it was good old give and take, not some
superstitious fish-kettle of spells and curses,

that transpired that day on the isle.  Missis Wicks smile was almost
motherly as she turned to look at Tessa.  Have you ever considered
going into trade?

Tessa smiled.  Missis Wicks was beginning to grow on her.  So, if it
was some sort of deal that was struck, why is the isle still benefiting
from it long after Hierac and the Garizons have gone?

Those holy fathers are no fools.  They know as long as people are
scared of them and they remember the old tales, they'll be left well
alone.

Tessa nodded, even though she thought there must be more.  Five hundred
years free of invasion due to one visit from a Garizon king?  Almost
unconsciously, she felt for her ring around her neck.  The metal was
several degrees warmer than when she'd touched it last.  Abruptly she
let it go.

I'm surprised Beffhaven isn't a lot bigger than Kilgrim, seeing as
everyone who lives there is guaranteed protection from invasions.

Missis Wicks snorted.  You won't be when we get there.  Thoroughly
miserable place, it is.  No harbor to speak of because of the long
beaches, no decent freshwater source, soil that's fit for turnips,
little else.  To say nothing about the people themselves!  Motioning to
Tessa to hand back the jar of honey beer, she said, And then there's
the weather.  I make this journey once a year to visit Moldercay God
and female traveling companions permitting and no matter what season I
come, I can count on there being a storm.

Tessa looked out to sea The sky had darkened, and flashes of white foam
streaked across the water's surface as low winds sliced away at the
waves.  Missis Wicks storm was right on cue.

How long before we get to Bellhaven?  Tessa was surprised to hear a
tremor in her voice as she spoke.  It's just the cold, she told
herself.  That and the damp.

Roads permitting, four hours.  Maybe even a little less if those three
Missis Wicks projected her voice forward, verbally aiming for the three
men who rode ahead of her sluggards would kindly pick up their pace.

Elburt, taking the hint, kicked his horse into action, and soon the
small party was trotting at a brisk pace.  Fields,

marshes, and reed beds fell behind them, giving way to yellow-grassed
flatlands and long, sallow beaches.  Mud splashed up around Tessa's
cloak and the rain beat against her face.  The path was slippery and
uneven, and she forced herself to focus on the way ahead.  The sea kept
catching her eye, though.  Its color bothered her: it was a different
shade of gray from the sky.  The line of the horizon where they met
seemed unusually dark and dense.  From where Tessa was it looked almost
black.  Then, far in the distance, she spotted a dim silhouette.  A
blank speck against the sea, it had shape but no mass, like a shadow or
the hollow cavity of an open pit.

Breath froze in Tessa's throat.  When she exhaled the air came out
white.

The Anointed Isle.

Shivering, Tessa whipped her head forward, determined not to look out
to sea anymore.  That was when the wind began to bother her.  It
whistled past her ears, high and piercing, sounding just like
tinnitus.

Ravis walked with Violante down to the dock.  The wind was beginning to
pick up, and far to the east a dark band of cloud was moving in.  The
four masts of the Istanian bark Fine Shore creaked and listed, and her
furled sails snapped impatiently against their posts.  Already lines
had been secured, connecting her to the thirty-man tug Bullser She'd be
ready to set sail within the hour.

A storm's moving in from the east, Violante said, her voice carrying
well above the wind.  It should give the ship an extra push from the
harbor.

Ravis listened for sounds of hurt or bitterness in her voice but could
detect none.  He glanced over at her.  Any other woman would shy away
from the wind, pull up her hood to protect her hair, clasp her cloak
seams tight.  Not Violante.  She stepped into the wind as if it were
another layer of clothing to be worn.  Cold gusts heightened the color
of her lips and cheeks, sharp breezes teased curls free from their
bindings, and a steady push of air served to mold her cloak against her
body, revealing the form beneath.

Ravis reached out and touched her arm.  You should be safe from Mairay
in Mizerico.  I've had a word with the captain.  He'll escort you back
to your lodgings.

Violante smiled slightly as she stepped onto the wharf.

You forget who I am, Ravis of Burano.  My father may be Lectur, but my
mother's mother was a bandit who worked the roads and foothills north
of Sullin for thirty years before she died.  So you'll forgive me if I
m not afraid of Malray or his men.

You're not going to see him again?  Not after what happened at the
inn?

Violante turned to face him.  You lost whatever sway you held over me
the day two Istanian scouts delivered your letter.  Besides, I have
business of my own with Mairay.

Ravis caught at Violante's wrist.  You're not Abruptly he stopped
himself.

Not what, Ravis?  Violante asked softly.  Not going to harm him?  Kill
him?  When he didn't meet her eye, she said,

You still love him, don't you?  After all these years and all he's
done.

Ravis shook his head.

Violante made a soft clicking sound in her throat and moved on. Neither
spoke again until they fell under the shadow of Fine Shore.

So, Violante said, elegantly skipping aside as two deckhands toting a
pallet loaded with sheepskins attempted to pass.  From here you'll ride
east?  Catch up with the girl you brought here?  I heard you talking to
the red-faced boy from Wicks.  You'll have to hurry.  The girl has
nearly two.  days start.

Ravis nodded.

You didn't have to stay here with me last night and today.  You could
have left the other morning.  Your wounds weren't so bad you couldn't
ride.

I wanted to see you safely on your ship.

Violante smiled her full dazzling smile, her eyes suddenly bright.  You
think you owe me, don't you?

I don't want to see you hurt.

I'm not.  Violante's smile failed.  She looked away.

You can leave my bag here.  I'll have the ship's boy carry it to my
cabin?

Ravis started to say something, thought again, and then laid Violante's
bag on the striped oak wood boards of the wharf.

Violante boarded the ship.  Ravis stayed on the dock and watched as
Fine Shore was pulled from the shallow anchorage of her mooring into
the deeper, quicker waters of the harbor.  He continued watching as her
crew worked to drop her sails, adjusted them to catch the wind, then
set her under way.  Only when the bark's red-and-gold pennant finally
disappeared into the inky darkness of the open sea did he turn and make
his way back to the quay.

TWENTY-FOUR

ye, yer be lucky, lovey.  Tide's just rolled out.  Elburt motioned
across the sandbars to the causeway and the mountain of rock beyond.

The Anointed Isle was a black fortress against a nearly black sky. Tiny
pinpoints of yellow light flickered within its charcoal form.  As Tessa
looked on, a series of them snuffed out.  It wasn't late early evening
as far as she could tell yet it was very dark.  The wind screamed past
her ears, reminding her of tinnitus, making her temples ache.  Thinking
straight wasn't easy.  She was so tired, it took all her strength to
sit upright in the saddle.  All she wanted to do was sleep.

Bellhaven lay just ahead of them.  They had approached the town from
across a broad beach of wet sand.  It was too dark for Tessa to make
out any details of Bellhaven itself except for the varying levels of
rooftops, the occasional puff of smoke from a chimney, and the bright
sheen of water on varnished awnings and doors.  Missis Wicks had
insisted the party travel past the causeway before entering the town.
She wasn't happy about Tessa riding to the isle alone and in the dark.
Tessa guessed Missis Wicks had been hoping the tide would be in.

Tide'll be out till just past midnight, lovey, Elburt said.  For some
reason that Tessa couldn't understand, he had taken off his cap as they
approached the causeway, and he used it now to indicate the way.  Yer
just ride straight for the rock.

S best to keep t middle, where sand's at its driest.

Thssa nodded.  The distance to the isle was difficult to judge.  Sand
stretched out endlessly before her.  High on the horizon, a line of
foaming water marked the receding tide.

It's madness to cross the causeway after dark.  Madness.

Missis Wicks whole body quivered as she spoke.  Come into town with us,
Tessa.  Get a proper night's rest, a hearty traveler's breakfast, and
give that wet blanket of a cloak chance to dry.  Velvet indeed!  What
sort of material is that to wear in the rain?

I can't stay in town.  I've got to get to the abbey tonight.  Tessa dug
her heel into her horse's flank, guiding the animal round.  She was
tempted by Missis Wicks offer, but she knew she had to go.  This was
her duty now.  Deveric had chosen her with his patterns, summoned her
with his sorcery.  People were dead, and more were going to perish, and
she didn't know if she could prevent it from happening, but she knew
she had to try.

I must be on my way.  Tessa's gaze took in the whole party and then
came to rest on Missis Wicks.  Thank you for everything.  She kicked
her horse, slackened her hold on the reins, and trotted onto the
causeway.

Elburt's voice called after her: Y ill be guaranteed a bed n meal for
the night.  The holy fathers never turn travelers away.

And then Missis Wicks: Watch yourself, Tessa.  Long robes, bald heads,
and prayer books mean nothing if you ask me: men are always men.

Tessa's mare found its way with little prompting.  It was a good horse,
gentle, affectionate, seemingly impervious to the rain and wind.  You
must be tired, too, Tessa whispered, rubbing its neck.  Tired and
hungry and sore.

Even though the sea was far away, its spray beat against her face.
Carried on low, gusting winds, it stung her eyes and the inner lining
of her nose and left a sharp, salty taste in her mouth.

Ahead, the lines of the abbey and the isle emerged from the artificial
darkness of the storm.  Two towers reached up from a skeleton of black
rock, piercing the leaden clouds overhead.  Structures rose around the
towers, protecting, strengthening, then ultimately falling away,
leaving the spikes of curving stone alone in an in stable sky.  Light
shone from slits in the lower walls.  Tide pools rippled at the base of
the rock and to eiiher side of the causeway.

The wind shifted momentarily and Tessa caught a whiff of the abbey.  It
smelled of old things dredged up from the sea with the silt.  She heard
a sound, focused on it, yet the noise trailed away before she could
pick out any details.  It sounded like voices chanting.  Tessa
swallowed.  Not for the first time that day she found herself wishing
she was back in Mother Emith's kitchen, sitting around the fire, safe
and sound.

Chunks of rock and stone began to litter the causeway as Tessa drew
near the isle.  Shells crunched under her horse's hooves, and tendrils
of seaweed wrapped around its forelocks.  Dead things decayed in the
sand.  Jellyfish lay dying; stranded by the tide, they quivered with
every turn of the wind.  Tessa's horse needed no prompting to avoid
them.

Then, all of a sudden, she was there.  The Anointed Isle.  One moment
it seemed impossibly far away, like a castle in a fairy tale, and the
next it formed a barricade between Tessa and the night.  Breaking
through the rock like the roots of a powerful tree, the abbey walls
blocked everything else from sight.  Thick and curving, they were laid
out in a pattern Tessa couldn't quite grasp.  Spying a path winding
between boulders and crumbling wedges of stone, she guided her horse
toward it, glad to be on firm ground.  Ahead, she caught sight of a
gateway sheltered within an alcove in the wall.

The wind seemed louder as she took the path, and it bounced from rock
to rock, blowing in all directions.  Tessa's ears ached with the
pressure and the noise.

The gate was twice as tall as Tessa.  The metal crosspieces that held
the door to the hinge were as big as her horse's head.  Any varnish the
door boasted had long since been blasted away by the wind.  There was
nothing to knock with, so Tessa pulled Ravis knife from her belt and
rapped smartly on the wood with the butt.  The sound pleased her.  It
was loud and carried well, and it made a nice change from the wind.
While she waited for a reply, she dismounted from her horse.

As she worked out a cramp in her thigh, the door swung open.
Straightening, Tessa took a breath and held it in.  A young man stood
in the gateway.  He was dressed in an unbleached linen robe and held a
lit candle in his hand.

Welcome he said.  Come inside and take shelter from the storm.

Tessa let out her breath.  For some reason she hadn't expected to be
greeted by a young man.  All Missis Wicks talk of holy fathers had made
her think everyone on the isle was old or aging.

Allow me to lead your horse.

Nodding, Tessa held out the reins.  She was suddenly aware of how
weatherbeaten she must look.  Bringing up a hand to push wet hair away
from her face, she said, Does Brother Avaccus still live here?

The young man led the horse through the gate and into the courtyard
beyond.  He did not answer Tessa's question.  Thinking he hadn't heard
it, she repeated it again.

Brother Avaccus is no longer with us, my child.

Startled, Tessa whipped her head around in time to see a second man
emerge from the shadows behind the gate.  Clean shaven and white
haired, he was old without looking frail.

I'm sorry I startled you, my child he said, coming forward and taking
Tessa's arm.  I am Father Issasis, the abbot here.  Come, let me find
you something hot to eat.

Tessa allowed herself to be drawn through the gate.  The abbot smelled
strange not unpleasant, just of things she had no name for.  His grip
on her arm was firm.

Where is Brother Avaccus now?  Tessa asked.

The abbot took a heavy breath.  Alas, my child, we all must pass

The young man holding the candle snuffed out the flame by hand.  Tessa
heard his skin sizzle.

Come, this way.  The abbot guided her away from the young man and the
gate.

Tessa pulled back.  What about my horse, my saddlebag?

Child, Brother Erilan will see to your horse, and you may bring your
bags with you if you choose.

Feeling foolish, Tessa shook her head.  The only thing in her saddlebag
was a loaf of bread and some oats for her mare.  Her knife hung from
the belt around her waist, and her money was tucked away down her
bodice.

The abbot led her across the darkened courtyard to a stone arcade far
on the other side.  The sound of voices chanting accompanied them as
they walked.

Cerallos, said the abbot.  Our prayers to thank God for the blessings
of the day and to beseech his protection for the night.  As he spoke,
the abbot pulled on Tessa's ann, guiding her toward a doorway.  Come,
we must hurry if you are to eat and find a cell by Eighth Toll.

Eighth Toll?  Tessa suddenly didn't like the abbot's hold on her arm,
and she pulled away.  She thought it strange that such an important man
would come to the gate to greet visitors.

The abbot tried to pull Tessa back for an instant, then abruptly let
her go.  Eighth Toll is when the last light goes out.  No one may eat,
raise their voices, or move from their cells once it sounds.

A door opened before them, pulled back by a shadowy figure who slipped
quickly away as they entered.  They stepped into a long corridor set
with many doors.  Finally free of the wind, Tessa let out a sigh of
relief.  She thought the ghost ringing in her ears would stop.  But it
didn t. It kept sounding, like an alarm bell heard over a great
distance.

Tessa shivered.  The temperature inside the abbey was colder than
outside in the courtyard.  The floor beneath her feet was formed from
an intricate mosaic of thumbnail-size tiles.  Worn and faded from
centuries worth of wear, patterns branched out in all directions,
inhabiting every shadow-filled corner, following each curve in the
wall.  Tessa recognized some of the designs from Deveric's
illuminations.

The chanting was very loud now.  Tessa couldn't make out any words, but
listening to the tone of the men's voices, she found it hard to believe
they were giving thanks.  Briefly she considered leaving, tracing her
steps to the gate, sending for her horse, and riding back over the
causeway into the town.  After grumbling a bit about the dangers of
women riding alone, Missis Wicks would welcome her in.  She was so
tired, though, and the thought of wind, wet sand, and an extra half
hour in the saddle was disheartening.  Besides, she wasn't sure if she
believed what the abbot said about Brother Avaccus.  Eniith had seemed
sure he was alive.

How long ago did Brother Avaccus pass away?  Tessa asked as the abbot
led her into a large, high-ceilinged room.  The room was split in two
by a long refectory table running straight down the center.  Two neatly
placed rows of chairs ran down either side of the table, and the top
was laid with pewter candlesticks and bowls.  A few men dressed in the
same unbleached linen robes as the abbot were busy cleaning away the
remnants of the last meal.  Dishes and goblets were piled into wooden
tubs, then carried off through a small door in the opposite wall.

Ignoring her question, the abbot crossed to the nearest man, spoke a
word in his ear, touched him lightly on the arm, and bade him go.  The
man slipped away into the darkness beyond the far door.

I said when did Brother Avaccus pass away?  Tessa was surprised by the
strength in her voice.

Child, you are tired and soaked to the skin.  Sit down a moment while
Brother Llathro brings you some bread and hot soup from the kitchen.
The abbot pulled the nearest chair from the table.  Sit.

The seat looked tempting and her entire body ached, but Tessa made no
move toward the chair.

The abbot shrugged.  Very well, child.  He pushed the chair back under
the table.  Brother Avaccus died five days ago.  He was very dear to us
here at the Anointed Isle, and I'd be grateful if you would refrain
from any further mention of his name.  The abbot's voice sharpened.  It
grieves me to hear it spoken so harshly.

Tessa looked down at the floor.  She felt her cheeks growing hot.  If
what the abbot said was true, then that meant Emith had been right in
believing Brother Avaccus was alive.  The man had died later, while she
was at sea with Ravis.

Brother Llathro, take this child to a cell.

Glancing up, Tessa saw the man the abbot had given orders to minutes
earlier return to the room, carrying a wooden tray laden with a bowl, a
jug, a loaf of bread, and a thin wedge of cheese.  He crossed to the
abbot and spoke so softly, Tessa cold not hear what he said.

No, Brother Llathro, replied the abbot.  You will take the food along
to the cell with our visitor.  He met Tessa's eye.  We will leave it to
her own conscience to respect the conventions of Eighth Toll.

Tessa's cheeks burned.  The abbot had a way of making her feel like a
disobedient child.

This way, my sister.  Brother Llathro walked past Tessa to the door.
His shadow felt cold as it glided over her face.

You will be woken at First Toll, said the abbot as Tessa walked out of
the door, and shown to the gate.  Unfortunately we cannot allow
visitors to stay more than one night.  The abbot's smile was brisk. God's
rest, my child.

Tessa didn't reply, simply followed Brother Llathro into the corridor
beyond.  She felt drained of all strength.  Coming here had been a
mistake.

Brother Llathro led Tessa down a maze of curving corridors.  Stone
arches braced the walls and supported the weight of floors above.
Patterns were everywhere: in the masonry, in the woodwork, on the rise
of every step.  Loose tiles rocked beneath Tessa's boots as she walked.
The chanting had stopped, and the only sound as they walked was the
patter of footsteps and the faraway thrum of the sea.  The ringing in
Tessa's ears receded to a mild buzz.

Here, my sister, Brother Llathro said, stopping by a door located at
the end of a long, remote corridor.  This will be your cell for the
night.  He pushed open the door and walked in.  Tessa followed him
through.  Using the flame from the candle on the tray, he lit a second
candle, waited for the top layer of wax to melt, then fixed it upright
on the floor in a pool of its own wax.

The cell was tiny and very cold.  A draft blew around the room.
Shutters blocking the only window raffled along with the wind.  It
sounded as though the storm were moving in.

God's rest, my sister.

Tessa looked around in time to see Brother Llathro closing the door
behind him as he left.  The tray he had been carrying now lay on the
floor next to the candle.  The soup in the bowl rippled with every gust
of the wind.  Tessa took a deep breath, ran a hand across her temples.
She was so tired, she could barely think.  Tomorrow.  She would decide
what to do tomorrow.

A woven rug laid over with a blanket was the only item in the cell, and
Tessa collapsed onto it, unhooking her cloak and unpinning her hair.
Pulling the food tray forward, she tore a piece of bread from the loaf.
Her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow, and she didn't take
another bite.  As she lifted the bowl of soup from the tray, a bell
began to toll.

Eight times it tolled: long, hollow notes that hung in the air minutes
after sounding.  Eighth Toll.

No one may eat, raise their voices, or move from their cells once it
sounds.

Tessa put down the bowl.  She didn't want to tempt fate.

Lying on the mat, she pulled the blanket up to her chin.

Patterns.  There were patterns etched into the wood-and plaster ceiling
overhead.  Too exhausted to pick out.  any details, Tessa closed her
eyes and began to drift off to sleep.  Dimiy, in the back of her mind,
she remembered the abbot saying Eighth Toll was when the last light
went out.  Only her candle was still burning, and before she could make
the decision to snuff it out, she fell into a dark, dreamless sleep.

lz gard held out his hand and ran his fingertips over the scribe's
shadow.  The canvas was rough and streaked with dried mud, yet the
sensation pleased him all the same.  The only part of the shadow that
moved was the section cast by the scribe's right arm.  Ederius was
inside his tent, putting the final touches to a pattern from the Coil.
Izgard wanted to enter the tent, wanted to sit quietly and watch the
old scribe work just as he used to before he was king.

With a heavy sigh, Izgard pulled himself back from the canvas and made
his way across the camp.  He could not risk disturbing Ederius tonight.
The design he was working on was important enough, but nothing compared
to the great feat of scribing he would begin in the darkness before
dawn.

The camp was unnaturally still.  Men gathered around low-burning fires,
feigning or waiting for sleep.  No one sang, or drew a blade over a
whetstone, or held a cup to the barrel and tapped.  There was no need
for last minute preparations and no desire for the companionship of
song.  The Garizon army was ready for war.

Tomorrow at dawn the first battle would be joined.  The Sire of Rhaize's
forces would meet the Garizon army on territory south of the rise.
Izgard had picked both the time and the place, and he knew in his
heart, his liver, and his bones that victory would soon be his.

One battle was all he needed.  One bloody, decisive battle to give him
the war.

The brave, arrogant knights of Rhaize would advance into a valley
marked for death.  The Garizon army would surround them like the Barbed
Coil itself: wounding, impaling, casting shadows red with blood. Sandor
would be too proud to plan for retreat.  His pride only allowed one
vision of the battle, and his memories only began at Mount Creed. He
didn't know what a Garizon war king was capable of.  He had been told,
but he didn't really know.

Tomorrow he would receive a lesson in the dangers of forgetting: he,
his army, and the country for which they fought.  Fifty years ago
Rhaize knights had burned Veizach to the ground, and although little
blood was spilled in a torching, a blood debt still remained.  The
Barbed Coil had been driven out of sight and out of mind, and it had
fifty dormant years to reclaim.  For half a century it had lingered,
like an assassin in the shadows, in the darkest, deepest cellar in
Sirabayus.  The holy sisters couldn't wait to be rid of it.  They said
it robbed them of their peace of mind and poisoned all their dreams.

Coming to a break in the dirt path, Izgard considered walking the camp
perimeter, talking to the latest scouts to return from the Rhaize camp,
and checking that everything was going to plan.  Deciding against it,
he took the turn leading back to his tent.  His troops had no need of
last minute precautions.  As their leader he would honor them the
same.

All was ready.  Traps had been laid.  The harras who would be drawn
together by the patterns on the Coil had been hand-picked by Izgard
himself.  One thousand of them.  Onetwentieth of the number gathered
around Garizon campfires this night would emerge as a ruthless fighting
force at dawn.  Ederius and his patterns would see to that.

An animal cry broke the silence of the camp.  The high, haunting howl
drove through the night like splinters of broken bone through flesh.
Although he had grown accustomed to such sounds by now, Izgard could
not help but flinch.  It meant one more harrar would have to be
slain.

The Barbed Coil exacted a price for its gifts.  One-third of the harras
who had been sent into the Valley of Broken Stones to fight Ravis of
Burano and Camron of Thorn were now dead.  They had to be slaughtered
for the good of the camp.  When the illumination was finished and the
ink long dry, there were those who held on to the patterns in the Coil.
The bboodlust never left them.  Their features shifted between man and
beast.  Bones thickened, appetites sharpened, claws curled inward and
grew into flesh.  The physicians didn't care to discuss what caused the
harras so much pain that they howled, but Izgard only had to look at
their jaw lines and fingernails to guess.

They split open the first victim: the third rib on the left had
detached from the sternum and grown into his heart.

They slaughtered all of them now the moment they felt any pain.  Deaths
as discreet as the howls of pain would allow, bodies carried from the
camp in utter darkness.  Izgard could not risk the wrong sort of fear
sweeping the camp, so he had instructed his warlords to inform the
troops that the harras were under attack by foul Rhaize sorcery.  It
made everyone more eager to fight.

Izgard approached his tent, noted the pale light still burning and the
shadow cast by his wife's silhouette.  Angeline was still awake,
petting her silly, little girl's dog, talking to herself in her high,
little girl's voice.  Izgard pulled his lips to a line as he yanked the
flap to the side and entered the tent.

Izgard.  Angeline jumped up from her chair at his entrance, sending her
little dog rolling onto the floor.  A guilty flush stole across her
cheek.  There was aplate of food next to her on a chest.  Seeing Izgard's
look at it, she said, It's leftovers.  For Snowy.

Izgard noticed Angeline swallowing something herself.  He sucked at his
cheeks.  The stupid girl had now taken to eating scraps meant for her
dog.  She was getting worse.  He wished he had never sent for her.  Go
to your chamber and take that animal with you.

Angeline raised her hand toward him, took a step forward.  But,
Izgard

Go!

He didn't know who flinched first: Angeline or her dog.  Both of them
stepped back.  The creature moved to his mistress's heels.  Bending
down, Angeline petted the cowering animal.  Izgard noticed the
expression in her eyes change as she stroked the soft fur behind its
ears.  Fear was replaced with something else.

Angeline swallowed again, only this time there was no food in her
mouth.  Gerta says we need an heir.  And the only way we can get one is
if you and I... Her words trailed away as she suddenly became intent on
plucking a bit of straw from her dog's coat.

Izgard was in no mood for Angeline.  His mind was on war.  Everything
had to go as planned.  He had an entire night to get through, and he
knew he would not sleep.  One decisive victory tomorrow and the road to
Bay Zen would be cleared.  Oh, the Sire and what remained of his army
would eventually regroup and reattack, but stories would have spread,
and old memories would have stirred, and fear would have set in by
then.  Every Rhaize knight who survived the battle at dawn would have a
tale of horror to tell: popping bones, tearing flesh, harras attacking
in black waves.  Word of demons would drip from every fever-bloated
tongue, and fear of death would shine in every bloodshot eye.  Izgard
is the devil inca mate they would say, and his harras are more monsters
than men.

Terror would do half the work for him.  Many would desert the Rhaize
army rather than fight such unnatural forces.  Those who stayed would
be blighted by fear.

Izgard, here, let me take your cloak.

Izgard's thoughts snapped back to the moment.  Angeline.  He had
forgotten she was here.  Mistaking his lack of response for consent,
Angeline moved forward to unhook his cloak.  Izgard raised his hand to
stop her.

I said go.  Do you no longer understand what I say?

Angeline froze, her arm suspended in midair.  Blue eyes regarded him
with a child's hesitant indignation.  The little dog shrunk farther
away.

Chin tilting upward, Angeline said, I understand what you say.  I'm not
a child.  It's you who aren't making any sense.  You brought me here to
beget an heir, and now you do nothing but ignore me.  How am I supposed
to become pregnant unless you take me to your bed?

Izgard felt a muscle pumping in his neck.  How dare Angeline speak to
him in such a way?  She was picking up ideas from that fat, lazy
servant of hers.  Do you know what tomorrow means?  he said, snatching
her wrist from the air and twisting it.  Do you?

I .. . I ..

Izgard's finger dug into her tendons.  Her wrist was so small, he could
feel his fingertips pressing from the other side.  Tomorrow is the
first Garizon battle since Mount Creed.  Mount Creed.  Twenty thousand
of our sons died there bodies frozen on that mountain until spring thaw
brought them down, the Veize choked with their remains for two
seasons.

As he spoke, Izgard pictured the scenes of cam age and corruption: the
Veizach masters had painted them all.  Inventing new colors as they
worked, they detailed all the subtle variances of rotting flesh and
crumbling bone.  Izgard's heartbeat quickened.  Saliva filled the dip
beneath his tongue.  Lying beneath the images, like initials etched
into the trunk of an ancient tree, was the shadow of the Barbed Coil
itself.

Angeline pulled against his grip.  She looked frightened now.

No Izgard murmured, excited by the visions flashing through his mind.
Angeline's wrist was damp beneath his finger.  Damp and hot as it
shook.  You wanted to stay.  Well, stay you shall.

Digging fingertips through tendon to bone, Izgard twisted.  Angeline's
arm back toward her body.  Angeline was forced to lower her shoulders
and step back.  The tension on her forearm was enough to break the
bones if she tried to fight.  The dog howled and then slunk into the
shadows well behind his mistress's back.

So you want me to bed you, do you?  Izgard hissed.

This night before I head to war?  Before I send Garizon sons to die?

Angeline shook her head.  Drops of spittle speckled her right cheek.
Dimly Izgard realized he must have sprayed them from his own mouth.

I'm sorry, Izgard, she said.  I'm sorry.  Gerta said

Gerta said!  Gerta said!  Izgard jabbed Angeline's wrist toward her
body with every word.  Her back was almost doubled up.  Should I tell
you what I say?  I say that woman will be gone by morning.  Gone.  Get
her in here now.

Angeline bit her lip.  Although her face was only a hand's span away
from his, she avoided looking into his eyes.

Call her.

Angeline shook her head.  I'm sorry, Izgard.  It's not Gerta's fault.
It's mine.  I just felt... lonely.

She was lying.  Her cheeks were so hot, Izgard could see his own
spittle evaporating before his eyes.  Beneath his fingertips, Angeline's
pulse throbbed as blood forced its way round his grip to her hand.
She had a strong heart, this child wife of his.  Call Gerta, he
murmured, his voice bearing the lode of his visions.  He saw bone
growing into a beating heart, felt the ground throb in time to Angeline's
pulse as an army charged toward him, blades drawn.  Tomorrow suddenly
seemed too far away.  He needed to see the blood of his enemies. Now.

Gerta.  Angeline's heart wasn't in the call.  Tears reddened her
eyes.

Call again.  Louder.  To his own ears, his voice sounded calm.  But
Angeline must have heard something he didn t, for she called again
straight away.  Loud enough to draw sailors in a storm.

Looking at Angeline's plump, flushed cheeks and the awkward curve of
her back, Izgard felt only contempt She became one more thing to break.
Like Rhaize.  He would soften her with fear first, take the fight right
out of her before the battle was even begun.

Mistress.  Sire.  The servant woman Gerta parted the tent slit with
capable hands.  Too large and graceless for curtsies, she bowed her way
into the chamber as if the ceiling were too low for her to stand.  Her
eyes registered no surprise at the scene that awaited her, and after a
quick glance at Angeline's face, she met Izgard see with a level gaze.
You have need of me, sire?

Prepared to be angered by her shock, Izgard found himself even further
enraged by her lack of response.  She sought to rob him of the fear
that was his due.  Your mistress no longer requires your services.  You
will head back to Garizon this night

This night!  Angeline cried.  But

Izgard silenced her with a twist to her wrist.  Angeline drew in
breath.  From somewhere deep in the shadows, her dog growled.

Gerta stood her ground.  Her large Garizon frame lost none of its sense
of purpose by being bent in supplication at the waist.  If you give me
but a few hours, sire, I can have both myself and your lady ready to
journey back to Sem.  We will need an escort of six armed men, a
covered cart, and a

Releasing his grip on Angeline's wrist, Izgard sent his fist smashing
into Gerta's square jaw.  Angeline screamed.  The old servant reeled
back but didn't fall.  Various metal items hanging from her belt
jingled as she steadied herself against a timber.

I said you will return to Garizon.  Not my wife.  You alone.  Get your
belongings together.  Get a pony from the stable hand pick an escort
from the wounded, then make haste out of my sight.  As he spoke, Izgard
glanced toward Angeline to see her reaction.  Blood drained from her
face, making her skin look as if it were covered by a layer of rapidly
cooling wax.  Izgard wanted to touch her cheek, monitor the withdrawal
of blood firsthand.  He didn t, though.  Other urges called with more
powerful voices.

Returning his gaze to Gerta, he said, Do my bidding.

Gerta hesitated.  She looked at Angeline, passing along a message with
her eyes, before bending her back into a deeper bow and murmuring the
word, Aye deliberately omitting his title.

Izgard saw red.  He saw the caked-in shadow of old blood and the bright
flaring spill of new.  His mind's eye fractured into a dozen separate
images like the surface of a diamond cut stone, each individual facet
reflecting a vision of what it was to win a war.  Glory, immortality,
power, reverence, and fear: victory would inspire them all.  He would
inspire them all.

Mouth thick with saliva, Izgard watched as Gerta began the process of
backing out of the chamber.  He detected insolence in the way she dared
to nib her injured jaw in his presence defiance in the slowness of her
gait.  How dare this woman hesitate?  How dare she raise her eyes to
flash a warning to his wife?  How dare she question the orders of the
wearer of the Coil?  llzgard went for her.  Tomorrow at dawn he would
command an army.  Garizon sons would jump at his bidding, eager to
please their country and their king.  Yet this woman, with her placid,
old-maid toughness and her message sending eyes, deliberately defied
him in his own tent, in front of his wife.  He would not have it.

Although Izgard had a knife sheathed at his side, it never occurred to
him to draw it.  He needed to touch, to feel.  Hands grasping at the
rolls of fat beneath Gerta's chin, lz gard felt a momentary
satisfaction as his fingers slipped over skin slick with sweat.  She
had been scared all along and hadn't shown it.  The woman was strong in
her heavy-limbed way and fought back by pushing and slapping.  But
Izgard was fired by a dozen burning visions, and her blows fell like
cushioned punches on his chest.  Cupping her chin in his hands, he
drove the back of her skull into the wooden timber she had used minutes
earlier to steady herself.

Angeline screamed and screamed.  Her dog came out of the shadows and
danced a snarling, snapping circle around Izgard's heels.  Izgard
lashed out with his foot, sending the toe of his boot smashing into a
nearby chest, barely missing the creature by a tail.  Out of the corner
of his eye, Izgard saw Angeline scoop the animal into her arms and hug
it very tight.  Both mistress and dog were quiet after that.

Again and again, Izgard rammed Gerta's skull into the wood.  The pewter
cup and brush suspended from the old maid's belt chimed like a cow bell
with each blow.  The pole itself began to loosen in its seating, and
the oilcloth ceiling it supported began to shake.  Izgard continued
beating Gerta against the listing timber until he got what he wanted.

Finally blood flowed, running down from the back of Gerta's large
Garizon head, across her jaw, and onto Izgard's hands.  Gerta's body
was limp, her arms dead by her sides, her eyelids fluttering as if in
deep sleep.  A thin stream of mucus ran down from her nose.  Izgard
felt the warm thickness of her blood coat his fingers.  There was not
much,

really, barely sufficient to fill four thimbles, but it was enough to
appease the visions in his head.

Like smoke rising from a once hot pot, the visions deserted him in
thin, curling plumes.  The need for victory passed, leaving him as
disoriented as a man stripped of a blindfold and then pushed into the
brightness of day.  Removing his hand from Gerta's throat, Izgard
lowered her body to the floor, careful not to cause any further damage.
Looking down at the old maid's crumpled, bloodstained face, Izgard
trembled so deeply that he felt muscles in his chest working to still
his heart.  He could no longer remember the reason behind his rage.

It was not midnight, yet Ederius chose midnight blue.  The sea was over
a hundred leagues to the north, yet he thinned his pigments with salt
water.  He hadn't stepped on the Anointed Isle for thirty-five years,
yet he remembered its features as if it were yesterday, and its colors,
textures, and smells he re-created in his inks.

No scribe trained on the isle ever forgot the shifting gray of the
rising tide or the shrieking of the gulls.

Pigments all but mixed, brushes clean, parchment raised and pounced
with chalk, Ederius moved from his makeshift desk, taking the four
steps required to cross his tent.  An hourglass rested on a camp table,
its contents long settled, its time long passed.  After pulling a fine
linen square from his personal chest, Ederius picked up the hourglass
and wrapped it in the cloth.  Twisting together the four corners of
linen, he made himself a makeshift handle, and after tracing the four
steps back to the desk, he raised the bundle high above his head and
sent it smashing into the wood.  Glass shattered.  Pigments pots
chimed. Parchment fluttered and then was still.

Ederius released his hold on the twisted ends of linen, allowing the
cloth to fall open.  Shards of glass jutted like transparent teeth from
a mound of glittering sand.

Slowly Ederius began to pick the glass away piece by piece.  The large
slivers were easy to remove, but some of the glass had shattered into
splinters not much bigger than the sand itself, and after a while of
sorting he finally gave up.  Precious minutes were passing, and the
illumination had to be started.  The guiding points for the design lay
etched inside the densest weft of the Barbed Coil.  Ederius knew
he-would need time to grow accustomed to the unfamiliar forms.

He could not afford to make any more mistakes.

Once he'd gathered the cloth into a tight bundle, Ederius transferred
it to the scribing side of his desk.  Holding the package above the
various pigment pots crowding around the parchment, Ederius took his
knife and stabbed a hole in the fabric.  A fine stream of sand flowed
through the hole to the pigments below.  Cupping a hand beneath the
flow, he filtered it through his fingers, catching the last splinters
of glass.

Sand was what he needed.

Yellow sand to mark the beaches that stretched around the isle.

TWENTY-FIVE

c he buzzing noise grew steadily louder She was running thmugh a maze
of patterns and could find no way out.  Gold-eyed snakes hissed at her
heels, and razor-edged barbs caught in her dress and hair Something was
coming after her; she could hear its footsteps padding against the
earth, feel its breath curling past her cheeks.  Gaining speed, it
stepped on her shadow and then slapped its claws on her back.

Tessa snapped awake.

The cell door burst open.

Light from the candle flickered then died.  Utter blackness was left.

Something entered the room.  Tessa could feel it pouring into the cell,
robbing the available space, sucking at the air she meant to breathe. A
smell, like the harras, only different, older, deeper, bloodier, pushed
against her face like heat from a furnace.  The hair at the base of her
scalp bristled.  She tried to swallow, but something hard blocked her
throat.

The thing moved closer, its weight setting the walls vibrating and its
mass killing all drafts stone dead.  Even though it was still feet away
from her, Tessa could feel its presence pulling at her skin.  Grabbing
the blanket as if that could somehow protect her, she scrambled upright
on the mat.  There was nowhere for her to go except back.  One step and
her ankle hit the corner of the cell.

Pottery crunched like dry sand as the creature took another step.  Its
smell sharpened.  Tessa didn't want to take it in, but she had to.
Forcing her lips apart, she took a breath through her mouth instead of
her nose.  Blood.  The taste of blood smothered her tongue.  A tiny
quivering noise sounded in her throaL She couldn't move.

The thing that matched the darkness sprang at Tessa.  Air pushed past
her face.  Something flashed tooth, eye; she didn't know what and then
the creature fell on her.  It slammed her rib cage into her lungs,
sending air exploding from her mouth.  A wet claw raked across her
cheek.  Wet fangs sank into the meat of her shoulder.

Tears rushed to Tessa's eyes.  The darkness blurred.  Pain tore along
her ann and down to her chest.  She had no breath to scream.  Yanking
the blanket up toward her face, she beat against the creature with
bunched fists.  It was like beating against solid ground.  Driving up
her right hand, she sent her knuckles blasting into its snout.  The
creature's jaw sprang apart, and it lost its grip on her shoulder.

Head shooting back, the creature exhaled.  Its breath was hot and
sweet.  Tessa felt the vapor condense as it hit her face.  She smelled
blood and something else the stench of old, hateful things rotting away
in wet soil.

Tessa was glad then of the darkness.  She didn't want to see what was
in the cell with her.  She didn't want to know what it was.

Hearing the soft click of bone as the creature pulled back its arm for
a blow, Tessa threw the blanket in the direction of the noise.  It was
nothing a handkerchief before a charging bull but it gave her a quarter
second as the creature tore it aside.  Tessa sprang off the mat toward
the window.

As her hand fell down by her waist, her wrist brushed against something
hard.  Ravis knife.  Before her fingers had chance to close around the
shaft, something blasted into the back of her head.  Tessa's teeth
smashed together.  Her upper torso fell forward into the deep alcove of
the cell window.  Her forehead cracked against the shutter.  Everything
dimmed.  Thoughts and intent slipped away.  Tessa's legs buckled and
her body slid off the ledge toward the floor.  Claws ripped down her
back.

The cell began to spin.  Tessa couldn't think, couldn't move.  Specks
of light shot across her vision, leaving white motion trails where they
passed.

In the spinning, thrashing, sharp-clawed darkness, Tessa became aware
of the ringing in her ears.  The high-pitched noise that had begun
burrowing through her mind at the start of the storm, accompanying her
ride across the causeway and then infiltrating her dreams, grew louder
with every beat of her heart.

It stopped her from forgetting who she was.

Forcing her thoughts into focus, willing her muscles to work, Tessa
tried to curl herself into a ball against the ledge.  Movement was
difficult, as her limbs felt heavy, and there was a wet, sticky
substance coating her skin.  Surprisingly she felt no pain.

The creature tore at her back and shoulders, its claws shredding her
dress, its fangs searching for muscle to grip.  Tessa felt its mass
pressing against her spine, crushing her ribs and lungs.  The smell of
blood was overwhelming.

Noise ground through Tessa's temples, forcing her to breathe, move,
think.  One small shift of her right arm brought her hand back in
contact with Ravis knife.  The handle felt large in her palm.  Drawing
it from her belt seemed to take forever.  It was heavier than she
remembered; awkward to hold.  As she turned the blade to face outward,
the heel of the creature's hand smashed into her temple.  Tessa's
entire body was thrown sideways.  The darkness flashed white for an
instant, and then her hips and rib cage hit the floor.

That, thought Tessa as slowly and carefully as a drunkard reciting
lines, was a very great mistake.  The blow only made the ringing
louder.  She would never black out now with all this noise thundering
through her head.  Belly flat against the stone floor, knife in hand,
blade parallel to her chest, Tessa waited for the creature to come to
her.  Wet stuff poured down her cheek.  Her left thighbone throbbed,
her lungs burned, but her mind was perfectly clear.  One two three four
Jive six seven eight nine, she breathed.  One two three four The
creature shot toward her.  Air pushed against her face, claws sank into
her scalp.  A frothing, saliva-thick breath sounded directly above her
head.  The noise was all she needed to aim her knife.  Twisting around,
she lashed out with the blade, hacking at the creature's jaw and
snout.

A choked howl sounded.  The creature stepped back.  Something hot
sprayed against Tessa's face.  Struggling to her feet, she wiped away
the wetness with what was left of her sleeve.  Her legs weren't working
properly, and as she took her first step forward, her knees buckled
beneath her.  She had to lean against the alcove for support.

Glancing into the darkness at the far side of the room, she tried to
recall the exact location of the door.  The creature was blocking her
way out.  Hearing a soft hiss of rage and feeling the air switch as if
cracked by a whip, Tessa sucked in her breath.  A wave of nausea rolled
up from her gut.  The creature was tensing for another attack.  She was
never going to make it to the door.

As she altered her grip on Ravis knife, preparing to use it like a
sword to defend herself, the blade tip scored against something metal.
The clasp on the shutter.  The noise in Tessa's ear shifted to a higher
pitch.  The window.  The creature was too large to fit through the
window.

But she wasn t.

Even as the thought formed in her head, the creature lunged at her.
Tessa stabbed the darkness surrounding the clasp.  Hands shaking, she
drove the blade into the metal.  The edge caught, a spark flashed, and
then the creature yanked at her hair.  The bones in Tessa's neck
cracked all at once, but she managed to keep her grip on the blade.
Desperate now, she drew back the knife and sent it plunging into
wood.

The catch gave.  The shutters flew open.  A high, furious wind filled
the room.  Tessa smelled salt and seaweed and sand.  A sheet of rain
blasted against her face.  The light level remained unchanged.  It was
as dark outside as it was within.

The thing, the creature that smelled like fresh blood and old earth,
sank its fangs into Tessa's upper arm.  Tessa wheeled round and stabbed
the blackness above the area where she felt the pain.  The creature's
bite loosened for an instant, and Tessa wrenched her arm free.  Pulling
herself up into the alcove with her left hand, she swept the air behind
her with her knife.  The window opening was a fraction narrower than
her shoulders, and she had to squeeze her way through.  The blood
helped; warm and slick, it lubricated her skin, allowing her shoulders
to slip through the frame.

As she forced her way through to the exterior ledge, Tessa felt
something sharp puncture the flesh on her right shin the creature had
bit right through the boot leather.

Close to hysterical, she wrenched her leg back.  Skin split, pain
sizzled down her leg, and then her foot came free of the boot.

Thrown off balance, Tessa careened off the ledge.  She tried to grab
the exterior wall, but it was too late, and she fell into the darkness
below.

She landed in a shallow pool of salt water.  Her body stung in a
hundred different places.  Pebbles and smooth rocks lay beneath her.
Ringing sounds clanged through her ears like the toll of a mighty bell.
They cleared her mind in an instant.

A cracking, splintering noise sounded directly above her.  As she
looked up to see what it was, the claw marks on her back pulled open. 
Tears filled her eyes.  Wind and salt water blew in her face.  She
could barely see the outline of the abbey wall.

Something landed in her hair.  Raking her fingers along her scalp, she
pulled out the object.  It was a thick splinter of wood.  Tessa's
stomach contracted to a solid mass.  The creature was tearing away at
the window frame.  It meant to come after her.  Scrambling to her
knees, she plunged her hands into the water, searching for Ravis knife.
Her fingers felt nothing except the smooth surface of sea-worn rocks.
She must have lost the knife when she fell.

The creature made a soft, throaty hiss.  A wood-splitting noise
followed, and then something heavy splashed into the water by Tessa's
hand.  The window frame was coming apart.

Abandoning her search for the knife, Tessa thrashed in the rock pool,
trying to get her legs to take the weight of her body.  Her thigh
muscles were shaking.  What was left of her dress hung like a wet
curtain on her back.  It was hard to orient herself in the darkness;
the water from the pool dragged at her body, and the wind blasted her
face from all sides.  Slapping her hand against the abbey wall, she
dragged herself to her feet.  Water sloshed around the one boot she was
still wearing.  Briefly Tessa considered pulling it off, but she
doubted she had the strength.

Smiling grimly, too tired to retain any thoughts more complicated than
the need to get away, Tessa pushed herself off from the abbey wall like
a rowboat leaving a jetty.  Her body felt strange, heavy and slow to
react.  If it wasn't for the noises grinding in her ears, she had a
feeling her mind would feel the same way too.

Walking was difficult.  The ground beneath the window was little more
than a mound of loosely piled pebbles.  Stones dug into the arch of her
bare foot, making her wince with every step.  Blood dripped down her
shin from the bite wound, and each time she transferred her weight
forward, she had to fight the buckling action in her knees.

Ahead, she spied a gray line stretching across the coupled darkness of
the storm and the night.  It was either the sea or the mainland shore
she couldn't tell which.  Squinting into the rain and sea spray, she
tried to pick out more details: the rise of the mainland, the lights of
Belihaven, the angular forms of buildings in the town.  Nothing.

Pebbles crunched directly behind her.  The back wind carried a whiff of
blood.

Tessa closed her eyes.  The ball in her stomach twisted, pulling the
muscles in her abdomen into a tight, quivering band.  She was so tired,
she felt physically sick.  She just wanted to lie down on the pebble
beach and drift away to sleep or unconsciousness whichever came first:
she didn't care.  Yet the high, piercing, cold-metal ringing wouldn't
let her.  It told her the creature that had just torn off a window frame
to get to her would slice her body to shreds the moment she stopped for
breath.

Tessa sucked in two lungs worth of air and broke into a run.  She'd
lived with her tinnitus for too long not to listen when it spoke.  she
She ran and ran and ran.  Heart pumping, lungs scorching, headed into
the oncoming wind.  The ground underfoot gradually changed.  The
pebbles became smaller, smoother, more scattered, and then they gave
way to sand.  Tessa's feet splashed through tide pools clicking with
crabs, stamped over lumpy patches of seaweed that made popping sounds
as she passed.

The rain came in short, savage bursts.  There would be nothing for
seconds at a time, and then Tessa would be blasted with rain and sea
spray.  Specks of wind-driven sand flew into her mouth, lodging between
her teeth and forming a salty,

gritty layer beneath her tongue.  Her eyes stung so much, she kept them
closed as she ran.  In the utter darkness of the storm there was
nothing to see.

Hard, crunching footsteps gained on her.  Tessa felt the creature's
momentum as a palpable force against her back.  It pushed her forward,
made her take step after wavering step, forced her to flee into the
black tunnel of the night.  She didn't think.  It took everything she
had to breathe and run.

The noise in her temples grew louder.  Before long it blocked out the
sound of the wind and the storm.  She heard blood pumping through her
temples, sand shifting beneath her feet: little else.  After a while
the creature's footsteps seemed to recede into the distance.  Tessa
didn't trust her senses, though, and kept running on and on.  Ringing
meant danger, and the louder it became, the worse the danger was.

Beneath her feet the sand grew wetter.  Channels in the beach began to
fill with water and large patches of ground deteriorated into soft mud.
Thinking she was veering off course, Tessa changed her direction,
running away from the waterlogged channels.

Within seconds she ran into more.

Thin plumes of icy water spilled over the sand.  Tessa felt the water
foaming beneath her bare foot.  A thick gust of wind sent a wave
breaking against her anlde.  The noise in her ears became so loud, she
could no longer hear herself breathe.  A second wave followed the
first, and this time it didn't need the wind to roll over her foot; it
flowed smoothly across the sand in air that was nearly still.  Half a
minute later another wave hit from the opposite side.  The water level
crested Tessa's shin.

Tessa stopped dead.  Her heart and lungs seemed to collapse inward,
leaving a hollow ache inside her throat.

The tide was coming in.

Rubbing her closed eyes, working the grit and sea salt into the outer
corners, Tessa tried to take a deep breath.  She didn't manage it.  Two
waves hit her shins from either side.  Before the water had chance to
recede, a third slapped against her knees.  The ground underfoot was no
longer solid; it was a rapidly liquefying mire of sand.  Tessa felt her
feet sinking in.  Panicking, she dragged her booted foot from the
bottom.  The sand sucked at the leather, not wanting to give it up.
Pivoting her weight onto her other leg, Tessa pulled her foot free of
the boot.

A series of waves hit as she planted her newly freed foot in the sand.
Thewater hardly retreated at all this time, just kept rising steadily
against her leg.  The hem of her dress floated like an open flower
around her shins.

Working the last grains of salt free from her eyes, Tessa peered into
the darkness.  Ragged gray lines rolled out of the shadows toward her.
Breaking waves, somehow managing to catch and reflect minuscule traces
of cloud-filtered moonlight, rose and fell in the distance as far as
she could see.  Spinning around, she looked back toward the abbey. 
Only when she looked she wasn't sure if it was the right direction
after all, as the view looked the same as dead ahead: a black curtain,
featureless except for the tide-driven waves skimming across the
sand.

Tessa pressed her lips together very tight, stifling a cry.  There were
no lights allowed in the abbey after Eighth Toll.  She'd have nothing
to guide her back.

A hard gust of wind sent water splashing up to midthigh.  Below the
surface, uncoiling like a rope pulled from both ends, a current was
beginning to form.  Tessa could feel it tugging against her an ides
shifting her weight from side to side.

Stay calm, she told herself.  Stay calm.

A trickle of salt water ran into her mouth, depositing more grit
beneath her tongue.  Now that she had stopped running, the ringing in
her ears seemed less intense.  She had to think.  Think

Planting her feet well apart, Tessa spun back in the direction she had
been headed.  Looking into the darkness, she realized there was no way
of knowing for sure if Belihaven lay ahead.  In the madness of the
chase she had run without any thought.  She didn't even know on what
side of the abbey her cell was located: the window may have faced
straight out to sea.

Tessa ran her hand along her aching temples.  She had no choice but to
try to make it back to the abbey.

Carefully tracking the degree of her turn, trying to recall the exact
angle she had used earlier when changing course, Tessa spun around once
more.  The water level reached past her knees now, and the skirt of her
dress dragged behind, making it difficult to step clear of the waves.
It had to come off.  Bending, she grabbed a fistful of fabric and
yanked it away from her body.  The creature's claws had torn the dress
to shreds, and a great portion of the skirt came away in her hand. 
Just as well, thought Tessa, bunching the skirt in her fist, as Ravis
wasn't here this time to cut it away with his knife.

Ringing the skirt into the water, Tessa fought the desire to collapse
into a small, defeated ball.  A tendon in her throat began to quiver.
Ravis.  Why hadn the spoken up to warn her in the inn?  Why had his
first thought been for Violante?

A wave broke against her hip.  Sea foam splashed as high as her cheek.
Below the surface, bands of cold, fast-moving water began to move in
with the undertow.  Tessa shivered.  She wouldn't be able to keep her
feet on the bottom for much longer.  She had to find her way back to
the abbey.

Thinking about Ravis, wishing for something she could never have, was a
waste of energy.  She couldn't let herself get distracted.  She had to
be tough, focused: more like the old Tessa McCamfrey.  She had to think
of herself.

Wind sliced across the rising tide, cutting the waves into lines and
driving sea spray into her open wounds.  As she leaned into the wind to
keep herself steady, Tessa's thoughts turned to Emith and his mother:
they would both blame themselves if anything happened to her.  She
shook her head violently, trying to dispel a sudden tightness in her
chest.  She didn't want to think about them being hurt.

The ringing in her ears altered pitch, becoming softer, deeper, more
urgent.  Time was running out.

Looking out over the darkness, Tessa searched for anything that would
indicate the direction of the abbey.  The sky and the horizon were
perfectly black.  The only variance in light was provided by the wave
crests, which flashed a dull, barely luminous gray as they rolled
together over the sand.  Tessa watched the waves for a moment, studying
the shapes they formed before disappearing into the dark swell of the
sea.

As she watched the wave crests flashing then fading, something began to
shift in Tessa's brain.  Forms and lines caught her eye.  Threads of
light would disappear, only to be replaced by similar ones seconds
later.  The skin on her scalp slowly pulled tight, making her hair
bristle at its roots.  There was a pattern in the waves.

The point at which the breakers met, where the sea closed in from both
sides over the causeway, a crude spiral pattern had formed.  Waves
hitting each other from opposite directions bounced back into the
oncoming swell and were driven outward once more before rippling back
into the join.  The center of the causeway was marked by a flashing
gray interlace of waves.  Tessa followed the weave of light with her
eye, tracking its course back into the darkness, seeing it as a roadway
leading straight to the abbey.

Chest aching from too many hard breaths, thoughts full of all the
people and places she missed, Tessa took her first step back toward the
Anointed Isle.  Pulling her foot from the bottom, she forced her leg
through bands of jarring currents and columns of swirling foam, moving
her entire body into the center of the swell.  The pattern would lead
her back.

Each step was a fight against the current and the rising water level.
The water temperature was colder than the air, and as the level rose to
waist height, Tessa could feel a chill settling against her bones.  She
was so very tired.  All the energy she had left what little she could
pull from her muscles, lungs, and heart she focused on moving forward
against the crosscurrents.  Eyes staring straight ahead at the
shifting, repeating patterns of the waves, Tessa let her mind drift
away.

She worried about Mother Emith, about her legs and her health, and
Emith and their safety, and about how bad they would feel if she never
came back.  She tried not to think of Ravis, but her mind seemed to
grow numb along with her body, and it was as difficult to switch her
thoughts from subject to subject as it was to force her feet onto the
bottom with every new step.

Water rose.  Wind dropped.  Rain came in ever-decreasing bursts.  Tessa's
body cooled so slowly, she was hardly aware of the change.  Limbs
became heavy and liquid like the water itself, and she began losing
sensation in her feet.  The ringing in her ears sounded far away now.."
not really like ringing at all, more like a mild hypnotic buzz.  The
patterns shimmered before her eyes, showing her the way.

By the time the water reached shoulder height, Tessa could no longer
keep her feet on the bottom.  Spreading out her arms on the surface,
she concentrated on keeping her head above water.  Swimming was out of
the question: she didn't have the strength to fight the waves.

Bitter, salty sea water washed in and out of her mouth.  A deep cold
gripped her chest, and the only breaths she could manage were shallow.
The current tugged her back and forth as if she were as weightless and
insubstantial as the seaweed that twined around her ankles and wrist.
Only the flashing wave crests kept her on track.  Floating through the
darkness felt like being nowhere at all.  She was completely and
utterly alone.

Tessa hugged the surface of the water as if it were a living, breathing
thing.  The sea no longer seemed cold: it was the exact same
temperature as her body, and it brought comfort as it pressed against
her chest.  In the black, edge less night, it was all she had left.

She missed Emith and his mother and their warm, golden kitchen.  She
missed Ravis and his softly mocking voice.

Too tired to hold her chin up any longer, Tessa rested her head against
the surface and let the motion of the waves ease her neck.  Slowly,
against her will and her very best efforts, her eyelids began to close.
The ringing in her ears faded to a mosquito's hum, and the sea rocked
her body back and forth.  Strange how she felt the emptiness inside
much more than she did the cold.

Gerta.  Gerta.  Please, please, please, wake up.  Angeline was too
frightened of hurting Gerta to shake her, so she squeezed her arm
instead.  Snowy made an odd whining noise from his position at the base
of the camp bed.  Angeline could tell he wanted to jump on the bed and
lick Gerta's face, but no-good dog's remorse kept him from it.

Snowy's sorry for not being brave.

Angeline smiled a small, relieved smile.  She wasn't the slightest bit
sorry Snowy wasn't brave.  Izgard was brave.  Gerta was brave.  Being
brave meant you either did bad things to others or got bad things done
to you.  Angeline didn't think she could stand it if bad things
happened to Snowy.  Bending, she reached out and ruffled the fur under
the little dog's chin.  Snowy was so pleased to be touched, his tail
thumped against the floor double time.

No-good dog.  No-good dog.

I know Snowy, said Angeline, very softly.  I love you and I know.

M lady... Spinning around, Angeline looked up in time to see Gerta's
eyes open.  A milky film ran over her irises, and even when she
blinked, it didn't quite go away.

Angeline squeezed her ann a fraction harder.  You're in the surgeon's
tent, Gerta.  Izgard had you moved.  He ordered his best surgeon to
stitch you up.

Gerta made a. small movement that might have been a nod.

I'm sorry, Gerta.  Truly.  I should never have said anything to Izgard.
I'm so sorry.  Aware that her voice was rising, Angeline forced herself
to calm down.  She took a breath.

The surgeon says you were lucky.  He said you have a skull like a
horse.  No broken bones, just a split head.  It took a dozen stitches
to fix you up.

Gerta licked her lips.  They were pale and looked very dry.  Did he
hurt you?

Angeline shook her head for a very long time.  It pained her to see
this woman, whose strength and sense of purpose she had always envied,
in such a weakened state.  It wasn't right.  Speaking in a rush, to
stop her voice from breaking, Angeline said, Izgard was just worried
about the battle, that was all.  It was my fault he Her words came to
an abrupt halt as she realized that what she was about to say might be
considered disloyal to her husband.  It was hard sometimes to remember
things like that.  Anyway.  The good thing is you won't have to go home
now.

Is that what the king said?

No.  Angeline was confused by the question.  He didn't say that.  But
you can't cross the mountains until you're well.  You just can t.

I see she's awake.  The surgeon strode into the tent, forcing Angeline
to step aside so he could reach Gerta's pallet.  Angeline didn't like
the surgeon.  If it wasn't for the fact she was his queen, she felt
sure he would never have remembered her name.  He had neither love nor
patience for women.  The long dark apron he always wore was dry now,
and Gerta's blood, which had wetted it earlier, was no longer visible.
That was, Angeline supposed, the reason why surgeons wore black.

Suddenly feeling cold, Angeline went to pet Snowy.  The little dog was
already off, sniffing out dust and rat droppings and hairballs.  His
hind legs protruded from under a nearby pallet and his tail was
suspended at half-mast, meaning he was on the hunt of some large hairy
spider or poised to battle with ants.  Angeline immediately felt better
for seeing him.  Some things never changed.

She turned around to see the surgeon grabbing hold of Gerta by the
shoulders.

What are you doing?  she cried.  You can't take Gerta out of bed.

The surgeon did not stop as he replied, There's a cart and an escort of
two armed men outside, waiting to take her from the camp.

But... but... Angeline was so surprised, she could find no words.

Ssh, m'lady.  Ssh murmured Gerta.  The king gave an order.  He cannot
take it back.

But ..

The woman will be fine, the surgeon said, speaking as if Gerta weren't
even in the room, let alone in his arms.

She's old, but I've given her tonic, pulled the splinters from her
wounds.  She's lucky the king thought well enough of her to send for
me.

Angeline surprised herself by thinking of a nasty reply, then lost her
nerve and didn't say it.  Please leave us a momenC she said.  I would
like to speak to my servant alone.

The surgeon continued dragging Gerta from the tent, not even bothering
to acknowledge Angeline's words.

I said leave us!

The surgeon stopped in midstep.  Gerta drew in a thin breath.  Snowy
backed out from the pallet and cocked his head.

Angeline covered her mouth in shock.  In all her life she had never
spoken so harshly to anyone.  What was the matter with her?  Her first
instinct was to apologize, to make an excuse about being tired and
irritable, but as she formed the sentence in her head, she saw the
surgeon begin lowering Gerta, very carefully, onto the floor.

Angeline felt a warm wave roll over her body.  She felt dizzy with
triumph.  Standing a little straighter, forcing her shoulders back, and
tilting up her chin, she said to the surgeon, Get a pillow for Gerta's
neck.  Bring me a flask of honey and almond-milk tea and then leave.

Yes, Your Highness.  The surgeon's voice was different now.  For the
first time, Angeline noticed how small he was.  Strange, how he had
always seemed so tall before.

Watching him struggling to pull a pillow from the pallet with one hand
while cupping Gerta's head in the other, Angeline was tempted to help
out.  She even stepped forward, but Snowy growled: Stay.

So she did.

The surgeon didn't only bring a flask of honey and almond milk tea, he
poured two cups to the brim with the pale, milky fluid.  Angeline,
frightened that if she spoke she might lose her resolution and start
apologizing, acknowledged his services with a nod.  The moment he
stepped from the tent, Snowy came bounding up, yelping and jumping and
demanding to be taken into her arms.

Bad Snowy Angeline said, laughing as she bent to pet him.  How could a
night manage to be so very bad and yet good all the same?  Bad, bad
Snowy.

M lady ... Gerta's voice was weak.  It immediately brought Angeline
down to earth.  You must make the king find another woman to tend
you.

But I don't want anyone beside you, Gerta.  I'm sorry I never listened.
Sorry I was always bad.  As she spoke, Angeline remembered how she had
tricked Gerta into letting her come to the camp.  A guilty flush spread
across her cheeks.  Without realizing it, her hand came up to rest upon
her stomach.  Sorry for everything.

Gerta was very pale.  Her skin looked heavy yet transparent, like wet
linen hung to dry on a line.  The milky film floated across her pupils
as her gaze flicked from Angeline's face to her stomach.  You must take
care of yourself when I'm gone.  Eat right.  Sleep properly.

Angeline frowned.  First Ederius and now Gerta.  Why did everyone warn
her to take care of herself?  I'll be fine, Gerta.  Honestly.  It's
getting you safely across the mountains that I'm worried about.

Gerta blinked slowly.  She made a small motion with her wrist.
Angeline, taking it to mean she wanted to be touched, grasped Gerta's
hand in hers.  The coolness of Gerta's fingers was a shock, but she
tried her best not to show it.

I'll be fine, m'lady, Gerta said.  It's high summer, I'm mountain born,
and the king has cleared the passes of brigands.  There's nothing for
you to worry about.  See?

Even though she wasn't convinced, Angeline nodded she knew that was
what Gerta wanted.

A cough sounded behind.  It was the surgeon.  He waited for Angeline's
attention before he spoke.  Your Highness, it's best if your servant
leaves now.  Dawn is only two hours away, and already some of the
troops are moving to the east.  Her party must clear the camp perimeter
before daylight.  He waited for Angeline to say something, and when she
made no effort to reply he added, It is what the king advises.

Angeline rubbed her aching wrist.  She was tired of pretending to be
strong, worried about Gerta, exhausted down to her bones.  Very well.
You may take her.  The surgeon took a step forward.  But she said,
halting him, call someone else to help carry her.  I will not have her
dragged across the ground like a sack of grain.  It wasn't much, but it
was all she could do.  Gerta was right: Izgard would never change his
mind and let her stay.

Gerta's cool fingers pressed against hers as the surgeon slipped out of
the tent.  You be strong like that every day she said.  Be strong for
yourself and the baby.

Angeline looked into Gerta's eyes without blinking.  She didn't trust
herself to speak.

Gerta spoke softly into the silence.  Do you think I didn't notice, my
little one?  An old maid like me?

In all the time she had known her, Angeline had never heard Gerta speak
with such gentleness.  It made her heart ache.  Leaning forward, she
pressed her lips against Gerta's cheek.

Gerta smiled as she withdrew.  As soon as I figured it out, I started
sending Snowy better scraps.

You knew all along I ate them?  Angeline brushed a stray hair from
Gerta's face.  She was relieved Gerta knew.  It meant she could stop
being a liar.

Not even a clever dog like Snowy could tear the meat right off a bone,
while leaving all the fat.  Gerta patted Angeline's hand.  Then there
was the morning sickness and the redness around your neck and chest.
Babies and the business of making them is my trade.  I don't know many
things, but I know when a woman's with child.

Angeline didn't like the way Gerta's voice grew weaker as she spoke,
but even though she knew it was best to let Gerta rest, she had to ask
one question.  Why didn't you tell Izgard?  Wasn't your job to watch
over me for him?

Gerta closed her eyes.  It took a few breaths before she was able to
speak.  I know what my job was and no one loves their country as much
as me.  No one.  But you and that no-good dog of yours wheedled your
way into my heart.  I didn't mean to love you, but there it is.

Snowy issued a low howl.  Padding over the floor, he came and rested
his head on Gerta's ankle and stared up at her face.  Angeline
swallowed hard.  She had gotten all three of them into such trouble.

Right.  There she is.  Be careful with her.  The surgeon entered the
tent flanked by two other men.  After a quick glance toward Angeline to
check that it was all right to do so, he began moving Gerta out of the
tent.  Angeline and Snowy followed behind.

It was pitch black outside.  The air was choked with smoke as campfires
were extinguished one by one.  Soft noises pierced the darkness: the
catch of metal fastening to metal, the skim of leather hooked through a
clasp, the blowing of nervous horses, and the clicking of bones as men
straightened legs after six long hours of crouching.  The ground
beneath Angeline's feet trembled.  Izgard's army was on the move.

Looking over toward the horizon, she caught sight of a line of troops
cresting the rise.  The harras.  Even in the darkness, she could tell
they moved too fluidly for men.  Blacker than the night itself, they
seemed to bleed from the shadows like juices from a roast.  Angeline
heard them call to each other, then told herself she hadn t. Men didn't
sound like that.  Wolves did.

Shivering, she turned back to the surgeon.  He was directing the laying
of Gerta's body in the covered cart.  Angeline looked over the two men
who would escort Gerta back across the mountains.  They looked
restless, gazes darting across the camp, hands twisting around their
horses reins.  Like all Izgard's men, they wanted to fight.

Take care of this woman for me, Angeline said, surprising even herself
when she spoke.  I will count it as a great personal favor if she
arrives at Sem Fortress in good health.  Normally when she spoke to
men, Angeline averted her eyes downward, preferring not to meet their
gaze.  But this time she looked both guards squarely in the face.  And
didn't look away until they answered.

Both fell to one knee, pledging to do her bidding.  Angeline held out
her hand and let each man kiss it in turn.  Neither gave any indication
of noticing the red weal Izgard had raised on her wrist.  Go she said.
Take my servant home.

Mouthing the words, I love you, Gerta$ Angeline watched as her old
servant was pulled away.  Two men, one woman, three horses, a cart, and
a pony.  The pony had a longbow strapped to its flank.  Good.  That
meant Izgard had sent along one of his prized longbows men to protect
Gerta on the jourpey home.  Recognizing it as an act of remorse,
Angeline ran her aching wrist over her lips.  Perhaps her husband wasn't
so bad after all.

When the small party disappeared into the shadows, Angeline slapped her
side for Snowy to come to heel and then cut a path across the camp.
Even though it was an hour before dawn, she had no problem finding her
way.  There was still one bright spot left to navigate by: the oil
lamps blazing like a furnace within Ederius tent.

TWENTY-SIX

am ron stared at the sky until he could no longer see the stars.  He
crouched in the gorse until he lost all sensation in his legs.  He held
on to his breath until it turned to poison in his lungs.

Waiting on a hillside west of the Vorce Mountains, half a league
northeast of Izgard's camp, in the last hour of darkness before dawn,
Camron waited.  Sandor and his first-in command Balanon, were camped on
the opposite hill.  East facing, it would be the first to catch the sun's
rays at dawn.  The Rhaize army would begin their first charge with
the sun in their faces.  Sandor had no mind to such matters when he
picked the slope.  He saw only that it was broad and clear of rocks and
afforded a good view of the land adjacent to Izgard's camp.

The enemy camp itself could not be seen.  Izgard had chosen the only
spot for leagues that was sheltered on three of four sides by cliffs
and sharp slopes.  The fourth side was bounded by the quick-moving Hook
River and then a forest thick with birches beyond.  Unlike Sandor,
Izgard had planned for retreat.  Pontoons were in place at the
narrowest point in the river.  If the retreat was sounded, Izgard's
army would withdraw across the river and then destroy the makeshift
bridge.

Camron himself had scouted the enemy camp.  He went in alone, for he
wanted to skirt close enough to count numbers and could ask no one to
share such danger.  Izgard's army was all Ravis of Burano had said it
would be: a massive, well-organized fighting force.  Even though the
camp was a temporary one, it had been planned with an engineer's care.
Row upon row of white tents were laid out in concentic circles to
protect the central corral for the warhorses and an oiled-hide arcade
for artillery and bows.  Four sentry posts constructed of timber
towered above the camp, huge, many spoked wheels at their bases for
ease of movement from site to site.  Latrines to prevent camp waste
from poisoning the water supply had been dug downwind and down river of
the tents, and the entire camp was ringed by a circle of guard posts,
man traps, and covered ditches.

As he looked over the arrangements, counting tents, campfires, and
warhorses, Caruron could not prevent himself from feeling a sting of
bitterness.  How much of this was Ravis of Burano's work?

Now, though, eighteen hours later, bruised from half a day scrambling
over rocks and hard earth, cut in many places from shouldering through
fields bristling with thorns, and with an eye full of blood following a
bad landing into one of Izgard's branch-covered ditches, Caruron had no
mind for Ravis and his past.

His thoughts were all of his father.

Caruron ran a hand through his hair, let out the air that burned in his
lungs.  Berick of Thorn.  How could he have wanted so much for his son,
dreamed of him taking the one thing he could never take himself, and
yet never spoken out loud?  Then, more important: How could his son
have failed to see the one thing his father wanted most?

Rubbing temples that ached with a dull, persistent pain, Camron
switched his gaze away from the night sky.  There were no answers. None
that he could live with.  All he had to hold on to were the words of
Lianne, countess of Mir Lor.  It's not too late.  You can stilifight
for what he wanted.  Even now

And that was what he would do today.

Briefly Caruron glanced over to the Rhaize camp.  The first signs of
movement could be seen above the rise.  Sandor and his knights would be
rousing from a night spent sleeping in half armor.  They thought it
would save time and demonstrate readiness for a surprise attack.  In
reality it meant sore muscles, aching backs, leg cramps, and painfully
full bladders.

Camron caught himself, then frowned.  He was beginning to think like
Ravis of Burano.  Feeling a strong sense of disloyalty for finding that
thought less abhorrent than in the past, he turned his attention to his
troop.

Fully awake for the past two hours, clad in chain mail or simple
breastplates, short bows strung to the backs of all except the longbows
men eleven score men crouched in the darkness behind Camron's back.

The morning following his meeting with Lianne, Camron had gone to meet
with Balanon as she'd suggested, taken her token, and retold his story
to the man who would stand beside Sandor in baffle.  Balanon had
listened to the full account of the baffle in the Valley of Broken
Stones, interrupting Caruron every few minutes to ask some detail about
the liarras, their weapons, and their tactics.  Unlike Sandor, Balanon
had not dismissed the story lightly.  And although he'd promised little
except increased caution, he had assigned Caruron a troop of one
hundred men and given him the task of alerting the main army to any
unusual dangers posed by the harras.  In addition to the hundred foot
soldiers, Camron had a dozen of his own knights to command and two
dozen longbows men courtesy of Segwin the Ney.

Camron had no illusions about Balanon.  He had listened only because of
Lianne's token, allowed Cameron his own troop to command purely because
of favors owed to, or admiration for, the countess of Mir Lor.  Still,
it was something.  Enough to stop Camron feeling powerless.  Enough to
stop thoughts of his father eating a hole in his mind.

Movement on the slope north of the camp.

Camron responded to the hiss of one of his men by raising his gaze to
the north.  He saw nothing at first, only the dark curve of a second
slope tucked behind the camp slope like a shadow.  Then, as his gaze
skirted across the mushroomshaped silhouette of a copse of trees in
summer foliage, he spied a line of pure darkness spilling down the side
of the hill.  Caruron's first thought was that it wasn't possible.  A
guard of eight dozen men had been set on that rise to watch the rear of
the camp.  And then there were the sentry posts: scores of men in
tight-knit groups of six, set five hundred paces apart to form a ring
around the camp.  All were heavily armed, and one in each squad carried
a horn to send early warning.  Confident Sandor might be, but even he
followed the accepted wisdom of securing the camp perimeter.

Camron's second thought wasn't nearly as rational.  It was hardly even
a thought at all.  It was a reaction to the dark, undulating nature of
the line.  The harras were back.

Every hair on his body bristled.  All moisture evaporated from his
mouth.  A tightness gripped his chest, pushing his ribs against the
soft tissue of his lungs and his heart.  He saw his father.  Dead.  He
saw Hum.  Dead.  He saw Rhif of Hamster, exposed heart still
beating.

Alarmed by the sheer strength of his reaction, frightened that if he
didn't act now, his memories would overpower him, Camron barked out an
order.  Mills, Toker, Stango.  Take a squad each.  Make your way down
the slope as fast as you can.  When you've covered a quarter league,
raise the alarm.

Why not raise it now?  The camp must be warned.  Mills.  He was one of
Balanon's men.

I don't want the harras knowing our position.  They don't know we're
here.  Let's keep it that way.  Camron looked at the three men, daring
them to defy him.  He was almost sorry when they didn t. Anger would be
a welcome distraction.  Go.  Keep your heads down.  Don't return.

All three men scrambled to their feet and began gathering their men
around them.  Balanon's men were ready.  Eager.  But then they hadn't
encountered the harras before.  What did they know?  Camron stopped
himself.  His bitterness was directed the wrong way.  Watch yourselves,
he hissed.

Mills barely nodded.  His expression was hard.  Any message for
Balanon?

Camron shook his head.  No.  His gaze returned to the moving line on
the horizon.  The harras seemed to suck away the darkness from the
night, keeping it all for themselves.

None, save we do what was agreed.  Before the last word left his lips,
the men were on their way, running down the slope, backs bent at the
waist, swords sheathed to prevent telltale flashes of light from giving
them away.

Right, Camron said quickly, finding it hard to tear his eyes away from
the black line descending on the camp.

Izgard's sending the harras around the rear, hoping to cause the camp
to panic.  By the time they realize what's hit them, his main force
will have taken position for a full frontal attack.  Izgard's using the
harras as a diversion.

Working things out as he spoke, Camron paused to consider his next
move.  He found it hard to concentrate.  A hundred and thirty pairs of
eyes looked his way.  Even in the darkness it was easy to tell which
men were his and which were Balanon s. His men had fought the harras.
Knowledge lay over their eyes like a film of ice.

Camron dragged his hand over his face, forcing himself to think. Should
they move to intercept the harras?  Block off the line?  Or should they
head into the valley and attempt to slow down Izgard's main force? 
Following Ravis of Burano's advice, Cameron had equipped all his men
with bows.  Working quickly and at close quarters, they could target
horses and take out the first few lines of the Garizon charge. Segwin
the Ney's longbows men with their greater skill and range, could target
troop leaders, warlords, even Izgard himself.

But then, realistically, what impact could eleven score archers hope to
make upon a force of twenty thousand?  Tugging at his jaw, as if he
could somehow pull the answers from out of his mouth, Camron considered
what Ravis of Burano would do.  The answer came straight away.  Ravis
would double back around the harras and take them by surprise.  Play
them at their own game.

The wind, which had been blowing at their backs for the past hour,
suddenly switched direction and blew into their faces instead.  As
Cameron's hair was pushed back from his cheeks, he caught a whiff of
something carried on the breeze.  All the muscles in his chest
contracted as his body recognized the stench even before his mind had
put a name to it.  It was the fresh-urine, stale-kill stench of the
harras.

Almost unaware of what he did, Caruron took a step back.  He felt
something touch his shoulder.  Glancing around, he saw it was Broc of
Lomis.  The battle in the Valley of Broken Stones had cost him his
spleen, two fingers on his right hand, and loss of muscle in his
thighs, arms, and chest Still, he had come.  Camron had begged him to
stay in Mir Lor, but Broc wouldn't hear of it.  He said his place was
by his leader's side.  Cameron hadn't known at the time if he meant
Sandor or himself.  Looking into Broc's face now, in the slowly
draining darkness of dawn, the truth was plain to see.

It made Cameron feel old.

Despite his injuries, Broc had slowed no one down.  Working twice as
hard as any other man to produce the same results, he had never once
complained or shown signs of pain.  He took breathers only when the
troop did.  Slept six hours each night like the rest.  Camron felt
responsible for him.  He felt responsible for all those who had ridden
with him that day into the valley.  He had acted without thinking, yet
they followed him anyway.  They were owed a debt for that.

Moving his gaze upward, Camron looked on as the black line of harras
flared out across the hill.  They were near enough so that the sound of
their movements should have roused the camp.  Yet their increased speed
and activity raised no cry, nor caused one oil lamp to be lit. Watching
them, Camron saw how they moved as one body, like a plague of locusts
massing beforee feeding frenzy.  They had one mind.  One intent.

Camron found his fingers had dug deep into the muscles at his jaw.
Should he circle around to the rear of the camp?  Engage the harras? 
Or should he move forward into the valley instead?

At that moment, noise blasted through the night.  A horn was sounded.
Then another.  Cries followed, and a covey of burning arrows was shot
high into the air.  The commotion came from an area directly below
where the troop stood.  It was Mills, Toker, and Stango.  The alarm had
been raised.  Camron froze for perhaps half a second, waiting to feel
some sense of relief.  When none came, he refocused his attention on
the camp he didn't want to think why.

The horn calls had an immediate effect on the Rhaize camp.  Horses
squealed, torches blistered to life, dark silhouettes poured out of
tents.  From where he stood, Camron could just hear the ring of drawn
steel.  It sounded muffled, tinny.  Powerless.  The camp was not the
only thing affected by the alarm.  The harras broke into a full charge,
skimming over the hillside like the shadow of a great bird of prey.

Camron?  Broc spoke his name with soft urgency, breaking through the
wired cage of Camron's thoughts.  Turning to look at him, Carnron spied
a line of bright yellow silk peeking out above Broc's collar.  It came
close to making him smile: Broc's sister obviously had something to do
with the packing of her older brother's clothes.  What is the order?

Cainron looked back over his men.  How could he send them to fight the
harras knowing what they were?  How could he fight them himself after
the battle amid the stones?  There was no glory in fighting them.  No
clean kill.  No swift death.  Yet what was the alternative?  Attack the
main force of Izgard's army from the sidelines?  Let terror stop them
from taking the one action that might have any real effect?

Cainron's hand dropped from his chin to his chest, then down to the
scabbard of his sword.  He looked into Broc's eyes.  Seeing something
in the soft hazel irises that he could only describe as faith, Cameron
made his decision.

We move to intercept the harras, he cried.  Double back behind the
camp.  Attack them from the rear.  A hundred and thirty men moved at
his word, drawing bows from their backs as they descended the slope.
Camron waited a moment, his gaze defying him by coming to rest one last
time upon Broc of Lomis.  The young knight nodded.  He knew the reason
behind the choice: the harras main weapon was fear.  Any action other
than attacking them would be an admission of defeat.

Abruptly Carnron turned and followed his men down the bank.

It was the smell that woke her.  As piercing as any sound, as
persistent as the patter of rain, and as forceful as a shake of the
arm, the smell pushed against her nostrils, forcing her awake.  Tessa
opened her eyes.  Blinked.  Above her lay a canopy of red rock.  As she
opened her mouth to breathe, a wave of sickness hit her.  Rolling onto
her side, she vomited onto the rock.  The quick movement brought tears
to her eyes.  The muscles to either side of her shoulders burned.  Her
head began to spin, immediately bringing on a second wave of nausea.
Tessa vomited again.  Clear, salty bile.

Bringing up a hand to wipe her mouth, Tessa checked for her ring.  It
was something she did without thinking.  A reflex action, like blinking
dust from her eyes.  Her hands skimmed over fabric and then skin.
Nothing.  Panicking, she sat up.  She beat her hand against her chest,
looked wildly around the area where she lay.  Where was it?

Is this what you are looking for?

Tessa looked up.  An old, old man held something toward the light.
Dressed in a dull brown tunic, hair perfectly white and close shorn to
his head, he regarded Tessa with a faint smile.

Without thinking, Tessa began to scramble to her feet.  She wanted the
ring back.  Nausea twisted in her stomach like a fist.  Her legs
refused to stiffen beneath her, and she collapsed back down against the
rock.

The old man made a soft, whisking sound in his throat.  He tossed the
ring toward Tessa.  Hold on to it as tightly as you can, my sweet one,
but you will still find it lost in the end.

The ring landed on a flat plate of rock by Tessa's side.  She snatched
it up, closing her fist around the gold.  It felt warm, as if it had
been in the sun.  Just having it-tack in her possession made her feel
calmer, stronger.  She pressed the meat of her thumb against the barbs,
willing the nausea to pass.

Suddenly aware of how cold she was, Tessa pulled her knees to her
chest.  She was dressed in a coarse woolen tunic, and the only parts of
her body that were visible were her shins.  Her skin was crisscrossed
with angry, red lines.  Among the cuts and bruises was a bite mark. 
The imprint of three teeth could clearly be seen in the torn and
puckered flesh.  Shivering, she looked away.

She was in a deep cave.  Daylight filtered from some unseen point high
above the old man's back.  The roof of the chamber dipped low above
where she sat and then soared high into darkness in the center of the
cave.  The rocks ranged in tone from red, to umber, to soft sandy
browns.  A few were gray, but even they had red mineral deposits
bleeding through them.  Water dripped.  When Tessa placed a hand upon
the nearest rock, it came back damp.  Specks of orange dust glistened
on her drying fingers.  There were many smells, but only one that
demanded attention.  The sharp, sour-milk odor of a dairy.  Letting her
gaze arch downward, she saw that the entire floor of the cave was laid
with pale, circular objects.  Lying on beds of something that Tessa
guessed to be seaweed, the circular objects were an off white color and
looked to be coated in coarse salt.

Cheese, said the old man, following Tessa's gaze.

This is where we age our best wheels.  A cheese cave, if you will.  He
made a negligent gesture with his hand.  Damp air, seaweed, salt, even
the rock itself: they all lend their flavor to the wheels.

Tessa nodded.  She felt as if she had fallen into another world.  If it
wasn't for the sound of the sea drumming far in the distance and the
soft Maribane accent of the old man, she could easily have believed the
ring had taken her to yet another place.  How did I get here?

The old man sighed.  Yes, yes.  Of course you'll want to know that.  He
looked quickly at Tessa, then away.  I should ask how you are feeling
first, though, shouldn't I?

I'm fine, Tessa lied, impatient to hear what he had to say.

Fine, indeed?  The old man raised his eyebrows.  After a moment he
nodded.  Well, I suppose that is for you to judge.

Tessa felt a faint blush come to her cheeks.

Picking a path between the wheels of cheese, the old man made his way
toward her.  He was small, smaller than Tessa herself, but his body had
the dense look of something that had been compressed by weights.
Briefly she glanced upward.  Massive hands of rock dipped from the roof
of the cave like stone chandeliers.  Tessa imagined she could feel
their weight pressing against her ribs.  Shaking her head quickly, she
drove away the sensation.

Please, drink this.  The old man stood before her, holding out a cup.
As you say, you are fine, so have no need of my medicine, but I am an
old man with a hard head, and once it's taken me an hour to brew
something, I'm loath to see it go to waste.

Chastened, Tessa took the cup.  It was warm and made of bone.  As the
old man pulled his hand away, Tessa noticed that his right thumb lay
tucked away in the palm of his hand.  Mother Emith's voice murmured in
her head: They severed the tendon on his right thumb.  Stopped him from
ever taking up apen again.  Tessa looked from the old man's hand to his
face.  Brother Avaccus?  she asked.

And if I am?  What of it?

Tessa found she couldn't stop shivering.  It wasn't the air in the cave
that was cold.  It was something inside of her.  She took a sip from
her cup and then said, They told me you were dead.

Who did?

Father Issasis.

The old man looked genuinely surprised.  He did?  He shook his head.
That must have cost him dear.  To lie like that to a stranger.  That's
not the sort of man he is.

He seemed to lie smoothly enough to me, replied Tessa, instantly
regretting it.  Whatever was in the bone cup had gone straight to her
head.  She felt it drawing the blood to the surface, pumping away at
her thoughts.  Putting down the cup, then pushing it out of reach, she
said, Why didn't Father Issasis want me to see you?

Yes.  That's the question.  The old man who Tessa was now almost
certain was Brother Avaccus lowered himself to the ground.  Arranging
himself into a compact form, he folded his hands in front of his chest.
Father Issasis does not like me to see anyone.  That is why he has kept
me here, in the cheese cave, turning the cheeses from month to month,
from season to season, for the past twenty-one years.

Something clicked by Tessa's side.  Looking down, she saw a crab
scrambling over a rock.  Its shell was covered in glistening specks of
rock dust.  Unnerved, she nudged it the way of the cup.  Turning back
to Avaccus, she said, You never answered my question.

Avaccus light-colored eyes twinkled for the briefest moment.  Which
one?  I don't believe I've answered any yet.

He was right.  He hadn't told her anything so far just some nonsense
about cheese.  Tessa wished she could think more clearly.  She was so
cold, though.  As cold as the sea in the dark.  Memories of thejising
tide and the currents and the darkness pressed against her mind,
crowding out the light of the cave.  Tessa gasped for air.  What
happened to me?  she cried.  Tell me how I got here.

Avaccus looked at her calmly.  I brought you here.  I rowed a boat out
across the causeway, found your body floating on the surface, dragged
you aboard, and brought you home.  He smiled.  You very nearly made it
on your own, you know.  Another hundred paces and you would have been
back at the abbey.  Remarkable.  Quite remarkable.

Tessa didn't feel remarkable.  She felt cold and edgy and out of her
depth.  Forcing herself to think, she said, You knew I was out there?

Brother Avaccus made a small, self-deprecating gesture with his damaged
right hand.  I had an inkling.

Do you also have an inking as to why I'm here?  Tessa's voice was
sharp. She felt at a disadvantage.

I could make a guess, Avaccus said, his tanned and salt-reddened face
forming a carefully placid expression.

But it would save us both time if you told me instead.

Tessa rubbed her eyes.  Despite his soft voice and gentle facade,
Brother Avaccus was as sharp as a tack.  She took a breath.  I came
here because a friend of mine, Emith, told me that you know about the
old ways of scribing.  I have a job to do, and I'm not sure how to do
it, and I need some help.  I need to know how to stop Izgard from
taming his harras into monsters.

Avaccus greeted this information with a barely perceptible nod, as if
it were something of minor interest, like a comment about the weather
or a suggestion for a first course at dinner.  Tessa felt disappointed.
She was considering restating her purpose in stronger terms when he
spoke.

You do know that ring you have there is an ephemera?

Tessa was losing patience.  She shook her head.  An ephemera?  I don't
understand.

A relic of an old age, when all the worlds were bound into one, before
the Shedding began, before the layers fell away.  Before time and space
slipped into the breach, creating new worlds from each fragment shed.
Avaccus spoke softly, his gaze focusing on some far distant point
before coming to rest on the fist Tessa had formed around the ring.

It's very old and very precious, and the fact you have it with you
tells me all I need to know.

Tessa felt her head spinning.  The rocks in the caves bluffed out of
focus.  They looked like the walls of a deep, red pit.  New worlds?
Shedding?  Uncurling her fist, she held up the ring until it caught the
light.  She heard herself say,

What did you mean when you said I would surely find it lost in the
end?

Aah.  Lost.  That's the thing.  Avaccus shifted slightly, making
himself more comfortable.  Again Tessa was struck by how dense his body
seemed.  Even though the light in the cave was pale and diffused, he
cast a shadow that was dark and well defined.  It is the nature of an
ephemera to be lost.  It is what they are, what they were forged for,
what they strive to do.  They pass from hand to hand, from time to
time, from world to world.  Slipping through cracks in ages, through
fissures in time and space, they fall into the keeping of countries and
men, only to disappear as quickly as they are found.  Grasp it as
tightly as you can, but you will never manage to hold it.  Watch it day
and night, and one morning you will wake, blink, and find it gone

Tessa's gaze never left the ring as Avaccus spoke.  The sparkling gold
seemed to wink at her, as sly as an old married man slipping out to
visit his mistress.

Avaccus continued, his voice tripled by soft echoes bounding from the
walls around the cave.  Ephemeras never stay long in one place.  They
are ephemeral, temporary: a shooting star in the night sky, a sudden
storm that rages and then is gone.  They may lie, undiscovered and
unused, for centuries.  Tucked in the dark spaces between worlds, in
the gaps and clefts of time, they bide their time and await their time,
and then appear as they are called or needed.  Ephemeras can incite
causes, en flame conflicts, inspire transformations, and shape lives.
There is power to them.  They are where light and dark meet, where
worlds converge and time becomes less substantial than the slow tick of
a failing clock.

They pass through all worlds; holy grails, magic rings, stone arcs, and
sacred jewels.  People believe they find them, but in reality it is
they themselves who are found.  Ephemeras are not a gift; they are not
a bauble to be displayed or a treasure to be hoarded.  They are a
burden.  A taskmaster.  A force unto themselves.

As Avaccus spoke, Tessa felt herself growing warmer.  The sea cold
lifted from her limbs and chest, leaving her feeling drained yet
relieved.  She felt as if she had been waiting outside in the cold
overnight and was finally being allowed in.  Her aches and pains dimmed
and her stomach rested flat.  She didn't stop shivering, though.
Weighing the ring in her hand, she said, Are you saying this ring has
some purpose?

Avaccus tilted his head up toward the roof of the cave.  He held it
there a moment before finally bringing it down in a nod.  Oh, yes.
Ephemeras always have a purpose.  Some great, some not so great.  Some
have purposes that cannot be fathomed in a single lifetime.  They cause
something seemingly insignificant the death of an infant, the birth of
an idea, the loss of a time-honored custom and only lifetimes,
sometimes even centuries, later can the true importance of those events
be judged.

Ephemeras are catalysts for change.  They slip into a world, slip out
of a world, never leaving it the same?  Avaccus sighed, his entire body
collapsing inward.  And you, my dear girl, are in possession of one of
them.

Tessa met Avaccus gaze.  The ring was heavy in her hand, and she wished
for a moment that she could nudge it away like the crab and the cup.
Even as she felt the urge, another part of her dismissed it.  The ring
was hers.  Avaccus watched Tessa, his face devoid of emotion, like a
scholar exanuining text.  She didn't doubt what he said.  All along,
from the very first day in the forest, she had known the ring was
special.  Is there magic in it?  she asked.

Yes and no.  Avaccus smiled.  His teeth were the exact same color as
the wheels of cheese he turned.  Ephemeras work through people.  Whoever
holds one is granted a portion of its power, or allowed a glimpse at
its vision, but I do not believe it makes a magician out of anyone.

Tessa found herself nodding.  This has fallen into my hands because of
Izgard's harras.  I think I was brought here to oppose them.

You do, eh?  Avaccus rubbed his smoothly shaven chin.  His arms were
bare, and despite his age, his flesh was solid.  Not plump, but weighty
with ligaments and bone.

Tessa waited, expecting him to speak and confirm her belief.  He
remained silent, breathing evenly, his face absent of expression.  The
light dimmed.  Colors in the cave grew deeper, redder.  Shadows cast
were the color of blood.  From somewhere to Tessa's side, the crab
could be heard, clicking its way around the bone cup.  The steady drip,
drip of water droplets into some unseen pool suddenly stopped.  The
smell of curing cheeses mixed with the salty, bitter odor of old places
once frequented by the sea.  Although she was lying against the back
wall of the cave, Tessa felt somehow she had been pushed to the center.
That the ring she held made any place she chose to walk, crawl, or lie
dead center of wherever she was.

The silence continued.

Tessa thought.  She considered all she knew about Deveric, the harras,
and Izgard of Garizon.  She cast her mind back, trying to find any
small thing she may have missed.  It had felt so right when she'd
scribed against the harras.  Glancing down at the ring, she followed
its golden folds with her eye, tracing the inner weaves as they
expanded outward into the light.  Perhaps the harras were only one
small part of the whole.  Perhaps it was Izgard himself she was meant
to oppose. Abruptly her thoughts turned to Ravis and Camron.  Both of
them were committed to bringing about-the downfall of the Garizon king.
What if she were part of that same commitment?  All three of them had
been pulled together the day she'd put on the ring.

Maybe it's more than just the harras, she said.  Maybe it's the man who
commands them.

Avaccus flicked a finger.  Yes.  No.  Perhaps.

Again Tessa felt as if she were boring the old man with trivial detail.
If you know the answer, why don't you tell me?  she demanded.  I came
all this way to see you.  I've been attacked, chased, and nearly
drowned.  I've left people I cared about to be here, and now all you
can do is sit there looking smug and keeping secrets.  Worlds shedding,
hidden causes, ephemeras: if you know so much, tell me.  Somewhere
during her outcry, Tessa's voice lost its sting.  She felt more tired
than she could ever remember feeling.  Against her will, her mind
conjured up the last image she had of Ravis, of him racing away from
her in the inn.  All the cuts and gashes on her body suddenly ached so
sharply, they brought tears to her eyes.

When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, normal except for an
undertone of rawness as she worked to control hey emotions.  Please.  I
was brought here by this ring.  I

came from a different place perhaps one of your worlds that split away
during the Shedding.  I don't know.  All I do know is I was brought
here for something.  Deveric called me here.  The ring brought me here.
I have to find out why.  Until today I thought I had to destroy the
harras and the scribe who summoned them.  Now you look at me and
although you don't say it, I can tell you think I'm wrong.  If I'm
missing some piece in the pattern, I need to know.

Avaccus sat very still while she spoke.  When the last echo of her
voice died away, he blinked slowly, as if his eyelids were a burden to
be lifted.  He spoke, but not before he had taken a deep breath to fill
himself.  I am eighty-two years old, young lady.  Eighty-two.  And for
seventy of those years I have made the Anointed Isle my home.  I first
came here to learn my letters, as many young boys my age did.  The holy
fathers have long supplemented abbey stipends by teaching young boys to
read and write.  It was not my intent to become a scribe, not in those
days.  No.  I do believe I wanted to be an astronomer, mapping the
night skies from behind a thick round of glass.

Avaccus smiled at Tessa with genuine warmth.  It wasn't to be.  Once
the holy fathers found I had talent with pen and parchment they were
loath to let me go.  I could be a great scribe, they said.  An
illuminator the likes of Fascarius, Mavelloc, and Ilfaylen.  I should
stay, learn, be initiated into the brotherhood.  The smile on Avaccus
face faded.  We are a possessive lot here on the island, and when we
consider a man our own we like to keep him close.  Tessa glanced at
Avaccus thumb, tucked away, useless, against his palm.  When she looked
up, she saw Avaccus had followed her gaze.  He made no effort to
conceal his hand.

The holy fathers are filled with love and fear, he said.

We all are, but they most of all.  If you were to enter the abbey now,
you would likely find Father Issasis lying prostrate on the floor of
the great chapel, seeking forgiveness for the lie he spoke to you.  In
many ways he is a good man.  In all matters save this he is an honest
one.

He came to meet me at the gate, Tessa murmured.  He showed me to a
cell, and after I fell asleep I was attacked.

The memory of the creature in the darkness came so strongly,

it made her flinch.  The smell, the sound, the sheer mass of the
creature.  It was like utter darkness condensed.

Avaccus let his damaged hand drop to the ground.

Father Issasis sent no creature to kill you.  That is not the holy
fathers way.  The threat came from another place.

Yet Father Issasis allowed it to happen?  Tessa was only guessing, yet
something in Avaccus face told her she might be right.  For a moment he
looked immeasurably sad.

I hope not.  By all that this isle once stood for, I hope not.

Is there a connection between the ring and the isle?  Tessa hadn't
known what she was going to say until she said it.  Avaccus light brown
eyes seemed to pull the words from her mouth.

His nod was slight but unmistakable.  Patterns can be used to draw
knowledge.  I learned that very early on.  All one needs is the right
designs painted in the proper sequences ad proportions, and one can
revisit the past.  Not as it was, but what remnants it leaves behind.
Everything sheds skin.  Things are left for us to find, if we are
lucky, we stumble across them: study, classify, come to our own
conclusions. That's what illuminations enabled me to do: journey beyond
these walls in search of truth

Avaccus voice began to falter.  Tessa saw something shining behind his
eyes.  Something bright and sad and still young.  It was my talent and
my downfall.  Emith's too.  Though he was young and only did my
bidding, and knew very little of the nature of what I did, the holy
fathers punished him the all same.  They separated us, exiling him
because he was not truly one of their own, not quite, not yet.  Another
year and perhaps he may have been.  But they thought it best to let him
go.  And me He made a small gesture with his hand.

They cut your tendon to stop you from scribing?

They did.  That and more?  Avaccus arched his gaze across the cave. All
the rocks were blood red now.  They have old secrets to protect, you
see.  Secrets five hundred years old:

Tessa pulled the hem of her dress down over her shins, disturbed by the
color of her skin in the light.  She didn't speak.  In the distance she
could hear the sea pushing against the shore.  It sounded like someone
breathing.

That ring you have is a replica of the Barbed Coil, Avaccus said, his
voice matching the cadence of the sea.  I believe they are bound
together through time and space and forging.

The Barbed Coil is an ephemera too?

Avaccus smiled very softly.  Yes, perhaps the greatest one of all.  It
slips into a world with only one purpose beating deep within its heart:
to win wars.

Tessa felt something pass along her body.  The skin on her scalp
puckered, causing her hair to bristle at the roots.  She was suddenly
aware of her body as an assemblage of parts.  Her limbs seemed heavy
like clubs, her hands no more than a useless coterie of bones.  Her
middle was like a soft, malleable waters king  She was inconsequential,
vulnerable.  How could she have come so far and fought so hard with her
body as her only protection?  Surely it was madness.

Eyes painfully dry, Tessa blinked many times in quick succession.  She
tried to swallow and found she couldn t. So she spoke instead.  The
Barbed Coil has been Garizon's crown for five hundred years.  If it is
an ephemera as you say, then surely it shouldn't be here?  It should
have disappeared centuries ago.

Now that, my.  dear girl, Avaccus said, pronouncing every word
precisely, is the problem.

TWENTY-SEVEN

$ moke rose from the illumination as acid burned the vellum.  Black ink
settled against black washed parchment, gliding through the fibers like
a panther hunting in the dark.  Hair shed from the paintbrush, a tear
of drool gained mass beneath Ederius chin.  Sunlight streamed through
moth holes in the tent canvas, spraying pinpoints of light across the
desk.

Ederius was aware of none of this.  The only smoke he saw came from the
torching of the Rhaize camp, as the harras set light to a hillside
Izgard had marked one week ago as dry.  Those grasses will go up in
flames the minute a torch is taken to them, he had said.  Let's make
sure Sandor finds it a tempting place to camp.

It had taken Garizon troops nearly two days to roll rocks and other
impediments from the slope.  Another day had been spent building a dam
five leagues downstream of a local waterway.  The resulting overflow
had been diverted northward, turning a tiny, summer-dry creek into a
water supply big enough for a camp.  Fresh water, a cleared hillside,
and a prospect that allowed a view of the land directly adjacent to
Garizon's camp had been more than enough fuel to sway Sandor's choice.
Izgard hadn't even raised an eyebrow when the Rhaize forces began
pounding stakes into the hillside yesterday at noon.  It was what he
had planned on all along.  That and southwesterly winds to drive flames
through the camp and thick tunnels of black smoke onto the battlefield
beyond.

Ederius saw, smelled, and tasted the smoke now.  He watched the havoc
it created, and even as he noted its effect on the Rhaize vanguard, he
weaved the harras through it like pieces on a board.  Black moving
through black: they knew what all knew, saw what all saw, took orders
as a single corps.  Their terrible half-human braying keened away in
Ederius ears.  Any other time it would have chilled him.  Here and now,
though, he found his lips opening and closing involuntarily, mimicking
their calls.  He was one of them.  All of them.  Their leader, their
creator, the thread that bound them to the Coil.

Ederius felt needs so deep and so base, they could only be expressed in
images, not words.  And although there was still some part of him that
was afraid and appalled at the honors his mind's eye showed him, his
hands never shook against the parchment and he never lost sight of the
design.

Black moving through black.  The harras swept down the burning slope,
long knives clawing downward, driving the confused and terrified Rhaize
forces before them.  Smoke stung eyes and choked lungs.  Flames licked
heels.  The noise was deafening, maddening.  It inhibited rational
thought.

Herded as surely as cattle, the enemy fled down into the valley.  Most
wore full armor.  All had blades.  If they had stopped and thought and
held council, they would have turned on the harras and fought they
outnumbered them ten to one.  Yet there was no council.  Or if there
was, it went unheeded amid the roar of the fire and the howling of the
harras.  Panic overtook the camp, just as Izgard had said it would.
Just as he had planned.

Seeing the Rhaize forces running at full charge into the valley,
Ederius risked switching his attention back to his tent.  His vision
blurred for a moment and then came sharply into focus.  The Barbed Coil
lay before him on the desk, more vivid and more golden than he
remembered.  No longer gleaming like polished metal, it shone.  Just
one look was enough.  Izgard had given him orders.  The Barbed Coil
offered him the means to carry them out.  Quickly, eagerly, Ederius
returned to his design.

Ink scorched the vellum as the harras moved to form a half circle
behind the enemy: chasing, goading, and ultimately propelling them to a
valley partitioned for death.  Dark figures they were, darting through
showers of soft, burned flecks and a barreling storm of smoke.  Black
moving through black.

It was Hierac who found the Barbed Coil Avaccus said.

Legend goes that the young king was battling the Venns in the Upper
Vjorhad at the time.  Seventeen he was.  Not a clever fighter, so they
say, but a tenacious one.  He was leading a raid on a Vennish village
in retaliation for some incident involving the slaughter of Garizon
merchants the previous summer.  It was a mountain town, situated within
the folds of the great northern glaciers.  The Venns knew their
territory and had long since perfected the strategy of driving invaders
onto the glacier.  They knew the glacier, you see, knew where it was
weak and likely to collapse.  Knew just by looking at the texture of
the packed snow which areas were unsafe to tread.

Avaccus paused in his telling to take a sip from his cup.  It was
almost dark in the cave now, and Tessa could no longer see the old monk's
face clearly.  She could not guess what time of day it was.  Perhaps
the sun had simply stopped shining through the cave entrance.  Perhaps
the sky was overcast.  Perhaps it was night.

Avaccus had prepared them a light meal of butter-soft cheese, pale
bread, and water.  Tessa had no appetite, but she forced herself to eat
a little of the bread.  It was as dry and tasteless as rice paper, and
it caught in the back of her throat.  From the shadows behind a rock,
Avaccus had brought forth a fat white candle and then spent many
minutes trying to light it with a flint.  Watching him struggling to
strike the flint at the correct angle to produce a spark, Tessa guessed
that Avaccus lit the candle only for her benefit.  That either from
frugality or choice, he usually spent the long hours of darkness in the
dark.

The candle burned now, on the floor of the cave, sending a low tissue
of light across the chamber.  With candlelight grazing their curves,
the wheels of cheese took on the look of craters on some remote alien
landscape.  Looking down at them from her position against the wall,
Tessa felt as if she were floating in the darkness above another world.
A loose pile of dried seaweed smoked away in the far corner behind
Avaccus back, giving off the sweetly decaying aroma of the seashore at
low tide.  Avaccus said the smell drove away bats.

Tessa couldn't decide which she thought was worse: the smoking seaweed
or the cheese.

Strangely, she was no longer tired.  Sore and hurting all over,
shivering now and then as drafts took her, but wholly alert.  She didn't
want to miss anything Avaccus said.

Putting down his cup, Avaccus took a sharp breath, shifted his body
from side to side as if it were some troublesome weight he had to bear,
and then continued with his story.

The Venns sent the entire Garizon raiding party over the edge of the
glacier, driving them back until they had nowhere else to go.  The
shelf of packed snow they were forced onto collapsed beneath their
feet, calving away from the dam the moment it bore their weight.  All
but Hierac died, their falling bodies crushed by walls of ice, their
spines snapped by rocks impacted in the frozen snow.

Hierac fell with all the rest.  How far, I do not know.  His body was
flung outward as well as down, and by some miracle he landed on the
rain-softened remains of the previous calving.  His right leg was
broken in two places, his rib cage crushed.  He was unconscious for one
night and a day.  When he finally opened his eyes he saw it, shining
gold in a stream of white glacial milk, embedded in the.  meal of
gravel, clay, and sand.  The Barbed Coil.  It had been uncovered by the
very calving that had sent Hierac's men to their deaths.

Hearing Avaccus speak, Tessa shivered so deeply she felt a trembling
motion in her heart.

It is always the way with ephemeras.  They never enter a world quietly
with a kiss; they claw their way through with a vengeance: diverting
lives and history and nature itself.  They like to make an entrance.

Tessa nodded.  She knew.  A long, tortured ride in the car, a head full
of noises, and three hundred lives laid bare, courtesy of two robbers
who likely thought it bad luck when the main safe wouldn't open,
forcing them to raid the vault instead.  How long could the thread be
traced back?  How long had the ring been waiting for her?  Perhaps it
had not waited one instant.  Perhaps it had held off until the last
possible moment before slipping between the envelope's folds.

Avaccus made a soft noise, drawing Tessa's attention back.  Hierac took
the Coil back with him to Garizon.  How he managed the journey is a
story in itself, but I do not see how you would benefit from the
telling.  Things were never the same for him again.  Up until that day
on the glacier, he had been a hard-fighting, hardheaded soldier duke,
with modest ambitions and a limited vision incorporating nothing more
sophisticated than border raids and blood feuds.  Garizon was a small
dukedom with small ideas and even smaller plans.  Hierac changed all
that.

Within a month of crowning himself with the Barbed Coil, he won his
first war.  Fighting against Balgedis in the north, he managed to claim
the pasture lands of the Berrans.  From there he never looked back.
Victory fired and inspired the Garizon army; appetites grew, ambitions
expanded, possibilities opened up before them like fields of summer
wheat.

Most of the western continent was under Istanian control at the time.
The Istaman infidels had conquered Rhaize, Medran, Drokho, west
Balgedis, and south Maribane.  They controlled the Bay of Plenty, the
Gulf, the Mettle Sea, and were masters of the middle east.  Terhas, the
desert state where they had originally risen from, was theirs, along
with Harassi, Ranypt, and Arpur.  The world had never seen an empire
like it.  The infidels placed no value on life.  They entered a country
and slaughtered its men and women until they had robbed it of its
heart.  Goods were what counted: grain, silks, gold, wool, precious
stones, and human flesh.  They herded hundreds of thousands of Drokho
and Medrani children onto slave boats and sent them to the east. Adults
were too old, they said, too set in their western ways to be trained
for service at infidel courts.

All men of fighting age who were not slaughtered were maimed the
infidels wanted no army massing in the shadow of their turned backs.
They favored pouring scalding oil into ear canals, ruining a man's
hearing and sense of balance, and rendering him unfit to fight.  The
operation is painful in the extreme, and if not carefully done, it can
result in brain damage, madness, and death.  The Istanian infidels
cared little either way.  They had a saying: The blood of a westerner
washes quickly from the blade.

The same spring that Hierac found the Coil, the

Istanians decided to invade Garizon.  Some say the Istanians had become
lax, that they had grown accustomed to meeting little or no resistance,
and that they set out for Garizon ill prepared.

Avaccus pushed a hard noise from his throat.  They are wrong.  The
Istanian forces moved across the Veize in late spring.  They had taken
note of Hierac's victory over Balgedis in the north.  They came
expecting resistance.

And they got it.  The likes of which they hadn't seen in over a
century.  Hierac had been reborn in the brilliance of the Barbed Coil.
It showed him visions of war, brought forth skills he never knew he
possessed, endowed him with the confidence necessary for command.  It
made a war king of him.

Not only did Hierac succeed in halting the Istanian invasion, he drove
them back.  Back into Rihaize and Balgedis, back across the Veize.
Within three months Hierac claimed Balgedis for himself.  One year
later to the day he took Rhaize.  There was no stopping him.  His
armies went from strength to strength.  His strategies were bold,
ingenious. The Istanians matched his brute force, but they could not
compete with his sheer relentlessness.  No one could stand in his way. 
Always he pushed forward, claiming one field, one village, at a time. 
Hierac changed the way the world fought.  He didn't plan single battles
or campaigns, thinking two, perhaps three moves ahead.  He planned an
entire war.

He broke up the empire?  Tessa spoke more to hear the sound of her own
voice than to ask a question for which she already knew the answer. The
further Avaccus went with his tale, the less substantial she felt.
Things grew larger with every word he said.  Five hundred years.
Empires.  Thousands of deaths and countless generations.  It didn't
bear thinking about.  The fact that she was here and caught up in it
seemed some terrible mistake.

It took Hierac only a decade to achieve what no other army had managed
in over a century.  Avaccus was as composed as a historian reciting
dates.  The infidels were driven from the west; from Rhaize, Medran,
Maribane, Drokho, and even the greater part of the Istanian peninsula.
Garizon forces hounded them south and then east, and ultimately
annihilated them.  At the last great battle, on the red sandbanks of
the river Medi, Hierac's army massacred one hundred thousand men.  The
Barbed Coil had a hand in every death.

Tessa closed her eyes.  The silence following Avaccus words seemed to
press against her eyelids.  She didn't want to open them again. Opening
them would mean facing things she didn't want to face.  Seconds passed
and then, with eyes still closed, she let out a small, defeated sigh
and said, That was the reason the ephemera entered the world, wasn't
it?  To dismantle the Istanian empire.

Even though her eyes were closed, Tessa knew when Avaccus nodded.  I
believe you are right.

And somehow the ephemera outstayed its welcome?  It failed to slip
away?

Yes.  Yes.  A subtle change could be detected in Avaccus voice.
Thoughfailed is hardly the right word.  He met Tessa's gaze, and in
that instant she immediately knew the great weight of responsibility
that came with the knowledge he had gained.  Even as he spoke again,
she felt a portion of that weight transferring to herself.  It was
shared now.

The Barbed Coil was prevented from leaving this world, Avaccus said.
Hierac commissioned its binding.

Tessa pulled her knees to her chest and rested her head against them.
Her body felt as heavy and brittle as slate.  All around her the walls
of the cave soaked up the light from the candle, converting its tiny
golden flame into a dozen shades of red.  It was like sitting in the
middle of a glowing hearth.  Only there was no warmth.

It's why I'm here today, isn't it?  she said, looking Avaccus straight
in the eye.  Not to rid the world of the harras or their leader, but to
send the Barbed Coil away?

Avaccus hand flitted upward and then stopped abruptly, as if he meant
to touch her yet quickly realized she was beyond his reach.  Yes, he
said, dropping his hand to his side.  I believe that is why you were
brought here.  The ring and the crown are paired ephemeras.  The ring
is a sister piece to the Barbed Coil, and is working through you to
free it.

Tell me what I must do.

Avaccus eyes widened, and Tessa realized she had spoken the words as a
command.  He looked at her a long moment and then nodded as if she had
spoken something unpleasant but ultimately true.  To understand what
you have to do, you must first know how and why the Coil was bound.

Something in Avaccus voice made Tessa's heart race.  She put a hand on
her chest, to calm herself.  As she pressed her palm against her ribs,
she noticed Avaccus was looking past her toward the entrance to the
cave.  Somewhere up there lay the abbey.

Avaccus began speaking, his voice low enough to whisper secrets, his
gaze flickering from time to time back toward the entrance.  After
Hierac crushed the infidels at the river Medi, he traveled back to the
west to consolidate his territories.  He went on a massive three-year
tour of all the lands, towns, and dukedoms he had conquered.  He wanted
people to know him as a king.  He wanted them to see him on his mighty
warhorse with his broadsword in his hand and the Barbed Coil upon his
head and realize it would be futile to oppose him.  Specially trained
troops went into towns after Hierac had departed, slaughtering rebels,
torching their homes and meeting places, seizing property, gold
anything of value in the name of the king.  Those who did not give
willingly were forced to watch as their homes were drenched with
naphtha and then burned.

It is how the harras got their name: Hierac's arsonists, his bringers of
horror.  His harras.

Tessa felt a hand of ice slide down her spine.  Bundling herself up
into the smallest ball she could manage, she pressed her knees fast
against her chest.

During this time, Hierac made it his business to seek out scholars in
every town he visited, as he was anxious to discover more about his
crown.  He was fiercely possessive of it, never allowing it to be
handled by another or let out of his sight.  He knew, you see.  He knew
it was the reason he won the wars he did.  And he wanted to find out
why.

He came here, didn't he?  Tessa surprised herself by interrupting.
Fragments of old conversations weaved through her mind, revealing
connections as she spoke.  There was a pattern here.  She could sense
it.  Hierac came to the Anointed Isle and visited with the monks.  They
knew what the Barbed Coil was, didn't they?  They helped him bind it to
the earth in return for As Tessa let the thought dangle unsaid, Avaccus
supplied the word for it:

Immunity.  His entire body shifted downward as he spoke, as if someone
were high above him, piling weights on his shoulders.  He regarded
Tessa a moment, his light eyes full of pain, and then said, Yes, it is
so.  Hierac came here, lured by talk of holy relics, priceless
manuscripts, and the reputation of the Anointed Isle for lea ming  He
came to plunder, either gold or knowledge whatever treasure he found
first.  The holy fathers came out onto the rocks to meet him.  They
were full of fear.  They had heard all the stories of Hierac and his
harras.  They believed he would burn the abbey to the ground, rob their
ancient treasures, and take lives.

Instead he brought them the Coil.  Look at it, he commanded.  Tell me
of its nature and its history.  Give me reason to spare your lives.

And they did.  A full Quire of scribes was called to the abbey
scriptorium and immediately began work on a pattern to reveal knowledge
of the Coil.  Twelve men there were.  Twelve men working for twelve
hours through the night, each contributing a pattern to the whole.  It
wasn't like today, where gathering knowledge through the painting of
illuminations is considered a trespass against God and his domains. The
holy fathers considered it a blessing, bestowed upon their scribes for
their use alone.

Avaccus shook his head.  I do not know the right and wrong of it.  I,
of all people, am not fit to judge.  His head sank against his chest
and his breaths were labored for a while.  Mter a few moments of
working to control something inside of himself, he continued, his voice
firm.  At dawn the Quire had their answers.  They called the holy
fathers to them and spoke what their patterns had revealed.  They knew
it all.  They knew the Barbed Coil was an ephemera, one of many that
slipped from world to world, each with its own intent.  Winning wars
was the Barbed Coil's purpose, and now that it had won one of such
import it would surely slip away.

The holy fathers made a decision.  I believe they thought that even
without the Coil, Hierac would still be a demon king, that they and the
rest of the world would continue to suffer from whatever poison had
been administered through its barbs.  Avaccus shrugged heavily.
Whatever their reasons, the holy fathers went to Hierac within the hour
and passed along the findings of the Quire.  Hierac was immediately
overcome with a deep fear that the Coil would be lost to him.  He
turned to the holy fathers and demanded they find a way to harness it
to the earth, to prevent it from leaving his side.  He threatened to
burn the abbey to the ground and kill the monks one by one.

The holy fathers turned him down.  They could not in all conscience
agree to it.

Frustrated by their reluctance even in the face of his threats, Hierac
then promised them the ultimate gift.  Bind the Coil for me, he said,
and as long as Garizon is acountry or even a memory of a country, it
will protect the Anointed Isle from all invaders.  Your monastery will
never be torn asunder while the Barbed Coil remains in this world. You
will be free of all Garizon taxes and levies, and my troops shall
withdraw, never to return, unless it is for your protection and at your
request.  This I do hereby swear by all the blood the Barbed Coil has
shed.

So that is what the holy fathers did.  Not there and then.  Not right
away.  But a promise was struck and a contract was drawn, and Hierac
was as good as his word.  Withdrawing his men that very morning, he
issued a warning to all who gathered at the beachhead to meet him that
from henceforth no one was to set foot upon the Anointed Isle unless
they came in peace.  Garizon would protect the abbey as its own.

Meanwhile the monks set their most gifted scribe to work upon the
problem of binding the Coil.  Brother Ilfaylen spent six months
designing the illumination that would hold the ephemera in place.
Inventing new forms and new metaphors as he worked, ilfaylen studied
first on the Anointed Isle and then in Garizon itself.  For the last
month of the six he did nothing but trace designs directly from the
Coil.  It is inlaid with them, you see.  Every strand of gold upon the
crown is etched with patterns and devices.  I have never laid eyes upon
them myself, but I believe there is much power to be drawn from such
markings.

Hearing Avaccus words, Tessa couldn't resist glancing down at the ring.
The gold strands formed smooth threads, broken only by the barbs.
Nothing was etched into the metal.

Avaccus continued speaking.  Finally Ilfaylen judged himself ready to
begin the illumination, and so presented himself to Hierac.  By this
time Hierac was a man possessed.  He forced himself to stay awake for
days at a time, fearing he might lose the Coil if he slept.  When he
did sleep, it was with the crown laid across his chest and a servant
standing close to warn him of the slightest change.  The moment
ilfaylen came to him, he bade the man begin, and for the next five days
and five nights, the scribe worked on a pattern that was as good as a
cage.

Lashing the Coil with his brush, weighing it down with his pigments,
Ilfaylen designed an illumination that defied all the magic of the
Shedding.  The Barbed Coil, the mighty ephemera that flitted from world
to world like a harlot from lover to lover, became nothing more than an
insect under glass.  ilfaylen bridled and contained it.  He placed his
hand upon it and pressed its nose to the dirt.

During those five days it is said the moon failed to show in clear
night skies, that dams dropped their foals before their time, that
tides pulled high onto beaches and water levels dropped low in wells.
Infants weak from jaundice and old folk weak from dropsy died in
unheard-of numbers, and all cities on the continent reported a record
number of flies.

Ilfaylen did what he had been chosen for: he fixed his shackles to the
Barbed Coil and chained it to the earth.  When he had finished the
ephemera became little more than a harnessed ox, destined to plow the
same furrow on the same field, over and over again.

Seconds passed.  The silence following Avaccus words had an expectant
quality to it, like the moment immediately following the end of a play,
when the last line has been uttered and the actors hold their poses,
waiting for the audience to respond.

Unable to resist the pressure, Tessa finally said, So it's remained
here ever since.  Suddenly tired of sitting, she made an effort to
scramble to her feet.  Pain pulsed along her right thigh.  The puncture
wound on her shin pulled apart, and blood trickled down to her anlde.
Frustration at her weakness made her fight her buckling knees and pull
herself up in spite of the dizziness washing over her.  She had to
think.  A wound she couldn't see on the back of her shoulder prickled
as the rough fabric of her tunic rubbed against the scabbed flesh.
Leaning against the cave wall for support, she said,

What happened to the pattern Ilfaylen drew?

Avaccus made a sound that might have been a sob or a laugh.  My, my,
young lady.  You certainly know how to get to the point.  He scratched
his finely shorn hair.  It was sealed in a lead box and then buried in
an undisclosed location in Veizach.  All three men who worked on the
grave were slaughtered before they had chance to clean the dirt from
their fingernails.

Avaccus use of the word grave made Tessa shiver.

Were there any copies made?

Copies?  Avaccus shook not just his head, but his entire body.  No.
Right from the beginning Hierac forbade it.  Whenever Ilfaylen left the
scriptorium he was watched.  Everr night before he retired, he was
searched from head to foot, his scribing materials were confiscated,
his sleeping quarters inspected, and the parchment itself was held up
to the light and checked for pinholes.

Which would have been a sign Ilfaylen was keeping a copy?

Yes.  But true to Hierac's orders, the manuscript was not pricked.  No
copy was ever made.

What about ilfaylen's sketches, his blueprints?

It was all done on wax tablets.  Hierac insisted that nothing ever be
put to parchment.  After the illumination was completed Hierac himself
stood over Ilfaylen's shoulder and watched as the scribe melted the top
layer of wax from over two dozen tablets.

Tessa nodded.  She thought for a moment and then said,

Two dozen wax tablets would have been a heavy, burden to carry on a
long journey.  Did Ilfaylen have an assistant?

Yes.  That is why we know so much about the scribing.  His assistant
kept a journal of his master's journey to and from Garizon: the places
he stayed along the way, the food he ate, other matters such as that.

And did he include any details about the illumination?

Little more than I have told you.  He was bound by the same restraints
as his master.  He could write nothing about the contents of the
illumination

Tessa felt her legs giving way beneath her.  She couldn't recall why it
had been so important for her to stand and so let her body flop to the
floor.  She landed badly, twisting an anlde that was already weak.
Thirst gnawed away in her throat, but she was reluctant to ask Avaccus
for anything to drink.  She wanted no more potions administered in bone
cups.  Does the account of ilfaylen's journey still exist?

All the while Tessa struggled to stand and then keep standing, Avaccus
maintained his cross-legged sitting position.  Watching his composed
stance, she got the feeling he was accustomed to sitting in one place
for long periods of time.

Sadly the journey book no longer exists, he said.  Twenty years ago
there was a fire in the abbey's west tower and many books and scrolls
were lost.

So there was nothing to go on.  No copy of the pattern.  No record of
its making.  Tessa let out a long breath.  If a pattern had bound the
Coil, then it would take another to free it.  One that incorporated all
the elements found in the original design, then turned against them
like a traitor in the ink.

What became of fifaylen after he returned to the isle?

Avaccus clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Yes.  That's the thing.  The man was never the same again.  He took ill
during the journey overland from Veizach, and it was several days
before he had the strength to make the sea crossing from Bay Zen to
Kilgrim.  By the time he finally arrived back at the Anointed Isle he
was a different man.  I think painting the pattern wasted him more than
any illness.  Whatever the cause, he had lost something from inside
himself.  He never painted another pattern again.  For many years he
lived the retired life of a scholar, writing, lea ming rebuilding his
strength.

Eleven years later, when the old abbot died, it was ilfaylen who came
forward to fill his place.  The holy fathers had thought Ilfaylen would
be quiet, malleable, a defender of the old ways.  Yet those eleven
years of silence had distilled something in his soul.  The day he was
made abbot he changed everything.  He broke up the Quires, forbade all
painting of the old patterns, and had every manuscript contaimng
details of the old designs thrown into the sea.  He fonzed the abbey
back into mainstream beliefs and spent the rest of his life working for
peace.

He never tried to undo his binding?

No.  What was done was done.  He had sworn tenible oaths that he would
never revisit his work upon the Coil.  And he didn t. He lived a long
life and changed many things, but that was the one thing he left
untouched.

And the Barbed Coil?  Tessa felt herself growing sleepy.  The sea
coldness was slowly reclaiming her aching limbs.

That has stayed in Garizon ever since?

Yes.  Avaccus stood.  Weaving a path through the wheels of cheese, he
made his way toward the candle.  The Barbed Coil has been the power
behind the Garizon throne for five hundred years.  Always, the king who
wears it seeks to invade and destroy: claiming land, victories, lives.
Their ambitions are never their own.  People make the mistake of
thinking that it is Garizon itself or its kings that have this driving
need for conquest.  They are wrong.  It is the crown that directs every
battle, pushes every blade, nestles at the heart of all ambitions. 
Even bound as it is, it cannot forsake its nature.  War is, and always
shall be, its purpose.

Very cold now, Tessa settled herself down amid the rocks.  When she
spoke, her voice dragged with exhaustion.  All she wanted to do was
sleep.  Perhaps when she woke in the morning all this would turn out to
be a bad dream.

What if the Coil continues to stay in this world?

Avaccus knelt in front of the candle, blocking most of its light.  I
think the entire continent will be destroyed.  The Barbed Coil is a mad
dog chewing on its leash.  It has been dormant, its powers uncalled
upon, for the last fifty years.  Now Izgard is the first king in half a
century to wear it.  It has lost time and lost battles to make up for.
Its sphere of influence is growing.  Its power is growing.  Leaning
forward, he snuffed out the light.  And ten days from now it will have
been upon this earth for five hundred years.

The silence following Avaccus words was broken by the sound of a bell
tolling in the distance.  The long, muffled notes set the air in the
cave resonating.  Tessa felt as if the darkness were pulsing against
her skin.  Even though there was no longer any light to see by, she
could hear Avaccus returning to his place at the back of the cave.  His
joints cracked with the dull sound of striking weights.  The bell
continued tolling.  On the fifth toll Avaccus stopped moving and
said,

There is power in the number five.  Ancient power custom shaped to be
used by ancient things.

The bell rang three more times, marking the beginning of Eighth Toll,
and Tessa and the old monk spoke no more.

Camron spat blood.  He squinted into the darkness, searching. Something
moved.  His right thumb released the trigger, and a cross bolt exploded
from the plate.  It hit nothing.  Shooting off into the distance, it
skimmed a bank of smoke, or a shadow cast by the moon, or a fleck of
ash caught in Camron's eye.  There were no targets left. All the harras
were dead.  It had taken them thirteen hours to die. Still, Cainron
kept his position on the skirt of the hill and watched. And even as the
cross bolt fell wasted to the ground, he drew another from his pack,
cocked it, and set his sights.  He couldn't believe the harras were
finally gone.

Fingers encrusted in dried blood, hands that wouldn't stop shaking,
eyes so raw they hurt when he blinked, Caruron lay belly flat on the
ground and waited.  Cuts striped his body, bruises blackened it.
Exhaustion so deep it caused blackouts ate away at his muscles and his
thoughts.

He was alone, that much he knew.  The battle had been lost.

The stench was terrible.  Blood in all stages from freshly spilled to
burned dry could be smelled with every gust of wind.  The rotting,
animal-lair odor of the harras was everywhere.  Caruron could taste it
mixing with the blood in his mouth.  Smoke hung in tired bands, too
heavy to be dispersed by the breeze.  There was no longer any ash or
burned matter in the air.  It had settled to the ground before dark,
turning all the surrounding hillsides black.  The moon was full, but
cloud cover robbed most of the light.  Strangely, it was as warm as
day.

Which, thought Camron, his mind stumbling from subject to subject like
a blind man from step to step, was really just as well.  As his cloak
had been burned off his back hours ago.  Or had it been sliced to
shreds by a harrar's blade?  He found he couldn't remember.

Frowning, he tugged his fingers through his hair.  A fistful came free
in his hand.  Black and brittle as dead insects, he threw the charred
locks onto the ground.  A second later his finger was back on the
trigger.  Someone was coming.

They approached from the rear, forcing Camron to swing his body around
in the mud.  As he spun about, his bow stock jarred against a stone,
causing the bolt to jump from the string.  Cameron hissed a curse.  He
hated crossbows.  He had no memory of how he came to have one in his
hands.  Surely, at the beginning, he had started out with a short bow
Shaking his head, he worked to fix the bolt back in place.

A dark silhouette drew nearer.  Camron centered him in his sights.  His
finger felt large and awkward on the trigger.  It wouldn't stop
trembling.

Who lays there?  The voice was challenging, aggressive, but the Rhaize
accent was unmistakable.  Name yourself or be speared.

Cameron didn't move.  He knew he should take his finger off the
trigger, but a part of him wouldn't let go.  Blood pouring from a gash
in his gum made it difficult to speak.

Cameron of Thorn.

A quick inhalation of breath followed his name.  If you're injured,
sir, I'll walk you back.  The figure took a step forward.  He was young
and dark haired.  Large eyes looked out from a face that was black with
blood and soot.  He stooped down toward Cameron.  Here, let me help you
stand.

Cameron flinched.

The young man backed away immediately, raising his spear above his
shoulders in a gesture of no harm.  Are there any others here with
you?

Camron shook his head.  He wasn't sure of much, but that he knew.  They
scattered.  Most are dead.

The young man nodded.  I think you should take your finger off that
trigger and come with me down to the river.

The river?  Camron didn't understand.  He felt himself blacking out.

He came to.  Something that stung his sliced gum was being poured in
his mouth.  Swallow, said the young man.

It'll do you good.  Cameron swallowed.  The fluid was both hot and
cold. It washed away the taste of blood.  As he pulled his shoulders
from the mud, he noticed the familiar weight of the crossbow was
missing from his elbow.  Looking around, he spied it, tossed aside, in
a charred hand of grass.

Seeing where Camron's gaze was focused, the young man managed a tired
smile and said, There was a moment I thought you were going to use that
on me.

Camron couldn't deny it.  He nodded.  Slowly the liquor was helping
patch together his thoughts.  All sorts of pain came with increasing
reason.  Grimacing, he took another drink from the flask.  As he wiped
his lips dry, he said, How many survived?

The young man looked down.  He went to speak, but a muscle quivering in
his jaw failed him.  He shook his head.  Claw marks raked along his
throat.  Camron handed him the flask, but he refused it.  After a
moment he said, Five hundred.  Perhaps less.

Carnron closed his eyes.  He was too tired to feel shocked.

What happened?

How can you not know?  The young man's voice was rough.  Something
shone from behind his eyes.  If it wasn't for you and your archers,
everyone, even the Sire, would have died.  You shot them.  You shot all
the harras.  You had less than a dozen men in the end I watched you
from my post.  The harras kept coming and coming, forcing our troops
into the valley.  We were cut off.  The harras were blocking our
retreat.  There was smoke everywhere.  Flames.  The young man
shuddered.  Balanon was burned alive.

There was still no shock.  Cameron felt dead inside.  The Sire's
survival meant less to him than the loss of his crossbow.

You opened the retreat.  The young man continued speaking.  Cameron
heard something akin to awe in his voice but couldn't understand why.
No one else was fighting the harras.  The Sire marshaled the charge
into the valley.  We weren't ready.  There was no time.  The harras
were on our heels.  Shaking off the memory with a violent snap of his
neck, the young man cried, It was like being in hell.  The smoke.  The
harras.  The screams.

Cameron wanted to say something to comfort the young man, but he had no
words.  Memories ripped through his mind: the soft tearing sound as
naphtha ignited behind his back.  The warm blast of air on his neck.  A
voice barking orders could it be his own?  Screams.  Feet scrambling in
mud.  Arrows and cross bolts pulled desperately from dead men's packs.
The snapping maw of a harrar tearing at his cheek.

Unbidden, Camron's hand rose to his face.  Dried blood flaked between
his fingers.

They had run out of arrows.  Weaving in and out of the smoke, the
harras had made poor targets.  They could take half a dozen hits
without going down.  Arrows shot from the short bow needed to be aimed
well to cause damage, and except for Segwin the Ney's longbows men none
of the troop were skilled archers.

Hampered by smoke, low on armaments, their position had been overrun
twice.  The close contact fighting was the worst.  Caruron had seen a
score of Balanon's men flee.  He didn't blame them.  He would have done
so himself if he had paused to think.  Strangely enough, the harras
didn't fight with the same intensity as they had in the Valley of
Broken Stones.  At some point Cameron remembered feeling more like an
obstacle than a target.  The harras had a specific job to do:to spread
terror through the Rhaize troops and drive them down into the valley.
Whole companies of longbows men waited there, cool, collected, ready.

Cameron felt a sick pull in his stomach.  Thrusting his hand out toward
the young man, he said, What is your name?

The young man's fingers closed around his.  Pax.

Help me stand, Pax.  Take me down into the valley.

But the Sire stands by the river, awaiting news of survivors.  All
those in the valley are... Pax's voice faltered for an instant, but he
worked quickly to control it.  Dead.  Izgard's troops are looting their
bodies.  We can't go down there.  It's not safe.

Cameron was about to object, tell Pax that the darkness would conceal
them, but something in the young man's face stopped him.  He wasn't the
only one who had fought today.

Take me only as near as we can safely go.

Pax glanced the way of the retreat, thought a moment, then pulled
Camron up.  He asked no questions, and Camron was grateful of that.
Together they hiked down the hillside.  Bodies littered the charred
grass.  Many had fallen to surprisingly light wounds.  Slowed by their
injuries, they had been caught in the smoke and forced to inhale the
hot, reeking air.  Some had burned to death, others had bled.  Many
bore the marks of the harras claws and fangs on their necks.

In the darkness their features were hard to recognize.  Cainron found
himself unable to walk past a body until he had seen each man's face
for himself.  Pax helped him turn them.  Sometimes skin came away in
their hands.  Other times the bodies were still warm and blood was
still damp upon their clothes.  All of them seemed light.  It took
nothing to lift them.  Bows and swords fell from their grips as they
were turned.  Pax was quiet as he worked.  He breathed silently, as if
ashamed of the sound of his own body laboring to keep him alive.
Caxnron knew how he felt, but he also knew the dead couldn't hear, and
his own breaths came hard and laden.

Camron put names to many faces.  Those he was unable to identify
troubled him.  He spent longer with them, looked closer, committed them
to memory.

Each time he and Pax turned a body, a muscle deep in Cameron's chest
tightened for the briefest instant.  He feared finding Broc among the
dead.  Of all the people who had fought here today, Broc was the least
fit to outrun the smoke and the flames.  His old wounds were slow to
heal.  Cameron tried to recall the last time he had seen him, the last
word or glance they had shared.  When no memory came to mind, he felt
the muscle in his chest tighten once more.  This time it stayed tight.
Only when he and Pax finally made it down into the lip of the valley
did he realize that the sensation he was experiencing wasn't a physical
one at all.

It was anger.

The harras had robbed him yet again.  First they'd taken his father,
then they'd stolen his childhood home.  Now they had lifted his
memories.  He could not recall when he had last seen Broc.  He had no
memory of what he had said to any of his men during the battle.  Had he
given encouragement along with the orders?  Had he warned them to watch
their backs?  Stay clear of the smoke?  Withdraw when wounded?  Had he
stopped to squeeze the hands of the dying?  Or helped carry the injured
away?

Cameron pushed his teeth together until his jaw ached.  He remembered
the battle and the orders, but nothing else.

Sir.  We should go no farther than this.

Cameron looked up at the sound of Pax's voice.  The young man's eyes
held no fear, just concern.  Handling the dead had changed him.  I need
to see the valley for myself Cameron said.  I have to see the bodies

After a long moment Pax nodded.  He made a small gesture with his hand,
indicating a line of trees to the east.  If we use them as cover, we
should be able to move closer without being spotted.

Cainron nodded back.  He was suddenly very glad he was not alone.  Let's
go.

They skirted around the periphery: two figures winding in and out of
the trees, the dried blood on their clothes and faces the perfect
camouflage for the night.  No owls called.  No foxes or voles snapped
twigs or rustled leaves as they passed.  Black ash coated branches and
bushes like a layer of negative snow.  The moon came and went.  Cameron's
muscles ached as he walked.  A molar raffled loose in his jaw.  Long
past fatigue now, his body had emerged from the other side of
exhaustion to be rewarded with a tooth-and-gristle sort of strength. He
felt as if he had been stripped, skinned, and then pared to the bone.

The tree cover weaved down into the valley.  Cameron and Pax slowed
their pace.  Directly ahead lay the battlefield.  At first Cameron
could make nothing out The moon had disappeared behind a bank of
clouds, and the valley seemed little more than a black pit.  Slowly
details began to emerge from the darkness: the curve of the land, the
broken thread of a stream, the charred skeletons of bushes.  The cloud
cover thinned minutely, and Cameron was able to pick out figures
bobbing up and down across the entire stretch of the valley.  Izgard's
men.  They were looting whatever dark forms lay on the valley floor.

A sharp wind cut across the valley.  Camron's hair was pushed from his
face.  The last of the clouds blew clear of the moon, and the valley
was suddenly filled with silver light.

Camron heard Pax draw breath.  The young guard was a pace or two ahead
of him.  The butt of his spear trailed in the dirt at his heels.  His
knuckles cracked as they tightened around the shaft.

The valley was crowded with bodies.  Heads, limbs, torsos, hands,
necks, and shoulders were packed so closely together, they stopped
being parts of individual men and became something else instead.  Part
of the whole.  The Rhaize dead formed a single mass.  Black with soot
and dried blood, their bodies had set in a jagged clot of arms and legs
and fingers and feet.  Like debris dumped by a hurricane, they covered
the valley floor with a cluster of broken parts.  One man.  One
corpse.

One death.

Cameron dropped his chin to his chest.  He had never seen anything like
it in his life.  He had no words to use or images to compare it with.
It was death, that was as much as his mind would allow.

Directly ahead of him, Pax fell to his knees.  Cameron himself was
frozen.  He felt lost.  Ever since the night of his father's death he
had been trying to find his way.  Seeing the bodies was one more step
back.

They could be anyone, he thought.  Rhaize, Garizon.  Anyone.

Ten thousand, murmured Pax, breaking a silence so absolute that it
seemed like blasphemy to speak into it.  Ten thousand men died here
today.

Then, hearing Pax's words, Cameron knew why he had come here.  He had
come to bear witness.  Berick of Thorn had seen forty thousand die at
Mount Creed, and now his son saw ten thousand dead in a valley north of
the river Hook.

Cameron looked hard.  His eyes, still raw from smoke burns, stung and
watered.  But he didn't blink.  He was seeing what his father had seen
fifty years before.  Bodies covered in ash, not snow; the breeze warm,
not mountain cold on his cheek: yet it made no difference.  The truth
was the same.

No.  Cameron didn't know if he said the word or thought it.  He didn't
know if it was a denial or a promise.  He only knew he had been wrong.
No matter who had won today, he had lost.  Just like his father at
Mount Creed, he was in the middle.  His countrymen died either way.
Slowly, his gaze not faltering from the sight before him, Cameron began
to shake his head.  He understood now why his father had fought with
him that last day.  He had not wanted his son to repeat his own
mistakes.

Taking a step forward, Cameron laid a hand on Pax's shoulder.  He
intention was to comfort the young guard, but as soon as his fingers
closed around Pax's shoulder blade, he realized he needed support.  It
was all he could do to keep standing.  Strength drained from his body
with every breath.  All this time he had been running around, looking
for a fight, not once stopping to think about the future or the past.

The Countess Lianne had assumed Berick wanted his son to wage war
against Garizon to win back the crown.  Yet she was wrong.  Berick
wanted no wars.  What value is victory when all a nation's sons are
dead?  They were as good as his last words.

Cameron smiled grimly.  He had been a fool.

Come on, Pax, he said, his voice more level than he could ever have
hoped.  Let's get away from here.  We've seen enough.

Pax stood.  Like Cameron, he did not take his eyes from the bodies as he
moved.  When he spoke, it was in a child's frightened whisper.  This is
just the beginning, isn't it?

No.  Cameron tried to look away from the dead and found he couldn t.
This is the end.

TWENTY-El GHT

a sa's breaths grew shallow as she slept.  The passages in her nostrils
closed, and her sprang open to take in air.  Only the air asn't right.
It was thick and bitter, hardly air at all.  It blocked her throat like
a wad of cloth thrust down a pipe.  Her lungs did the only thing they
could: they contracted violently to expel the unwanted matter.

The muscles in Tessa's chest convulsed.  Her eyes blinked open.  Sheer
terror hit her like a smash in the jaw  She couldn't breathe.  Vaulting
upward into the darkness, she called Avaccus name.  Smoke pushed out of
her mouth with the cry.  Smoke was sucked down into her lungs with her
very next breath.  The cave was filled with it.  What was happening?

Avaccus!  Tessa stumbled in the direction she had last seen the monk.
Her lungs burned.  Her heart pumped strangely, erratically.  It kept
missing beats.  Smoke scoured its way down her throat.  Avaccus!

No response.  Blind panic, seized Tessa.  There was no air.  As she
rushed forward, her shin slammed against a rock.  Pain exploded in her
leg.  Tears stung her eyes.  Her bladder weakened but didn't give.
Knowing it was foolish to do so, but unable to stop herself, she gasped
for another breath.  Foul, smoke-laden air choked her lungs.  Retching
and coughing, she thrust out her hands to feel the way ahead.  Darkness
had turned the cave into a shark's open maw.  Every rock was a tearing
tooth.  The blackness closed about her like a swallowing throat.

Help!  she screamed.  Help!  That was another foolish thing: screaming.
But even as she scolded herself, she screamed again.  Hysteria was
close to overwhelming her.  Someone had set a fire to kill them.

Dimly Tessa realized she must be taking in some small portion of
breathable air with the smoke, or she would already be dead.  A bout of
coughing racked her body.  Seconds passed before she brought the spasms
under control: As she spat out a mouthful of thick saliva, a small
noise sounded to her right.

Avaccus.  Tessa didn't wait for a reply.  She made her way in the
direction of the noise.  The darkness pushed against her body like
black steam.  Taking rapid breaths through her nose to filter out what
smoke dust she could, Tessa moved across the cave.  Pain throbbing in
her leg reminded her to step cautiously, but her lungs ached with a
raw, near-to-bursting pain, and except for sweeping her arms out before
her, she did little to feel the way.

The sound came again.  Softer, shorter: it sounded like a last
breath.

Tessa's foot stamped into a round of cheese.  Rind broken, it released
its sour-dairy odor like a flower releasing pollen.  Tessa sneezed. 
Her lungs cleared for an instant and she sucked in more air.  As she
wiped her face with her wrist, she crushed another round of cheese with
her heel.  They were everywhere.  Frustrated, she rushed forward,
sneezing and stamping cheeses with every step.  The sneezes helped,
clearing smoke debris from her nose and throat in between each
breath.

Just as she approached the area where the noise had come from, she
stepped on a wheel of cheese that hadn't ripened.  It collapsed beneath
her foot like a souffid, spilling out fungus-warmed liquid onto the
rock.  Tessa slid in the wetness, losing her footing and falling
forward onto the cave floor.  She landed well, cushioned by the cheese
rounds. Her nose touched rock.  When she took a breath to calm herself,
she found the air was clearer.  Her lungs didn't fight it tooth and
nail. They drank it up.

Of course, she thought.  Smoke rises.  The best place to be was on the
ground.  Why hadn't she thought of that sooner?

Not stopping to consider the answer, Tessa bellied her way through the
last of the cheeses, nose pressed firmly against the rock.  Her throat
still burned, but she could feel muscles deep inside her chest
relaxing.  Her rib cage released its lock on her lungs.

Avaccus Tessa cried.  Make a sound so I can find you.

Nothing.  The silence made the darkness seem even darker.  As she
waited, she raised her hand to her neck to check for the ring.  It was
there.  Before she had fallen asleep, she had tied it in place.
Touching it, she remembered all Avaccus had told her about ephemeras.
It hardly seemed possible she was holding one.

A thin scraping noise sounded directly in front of her.  Letting the
ring drop back to her chest, Tessa crawled forward.  Smoke was moving
in to fill the gap at the bottom of the cave.  The air was beginning to
get hot.

Shooting a hand forward, she grasped something smooth and heavy.  If it
hadn't been for the fact that it was warm, she would have assumed it
was a wooden club or a metal bar.  It was Avaccus leg.  Tessa shook
it.

Avaccus!  Wake up!  Wake up!  When there was no response, she shook
harder.  Please.  Wake up.  Still no reply.  Tessa lowered her nose to
the cave floor and took a breath.  Avaccus must have been lying down
the whole time, in the center section of the cave.  Surely he would
have been breathing fresh air?  So why wasn the responding?

Cursing the darkness, the smoke, everything, Tessa leaned forward and
grabbed Avaccus shoulders in her hands.  Panic and anger at the
unfairness of everything that had happened to her since she'd reached
this blasted place made her shake Avaccus body with mad fury.  He
couldn't die.  It would be her fault if he did.  The smoke wasn't meant
for him.

Wake up!  she screamed at the top of her voice.  Wake up!

A muffled choking noise gurgled up from Avaccus throat.  Tessa bobbed
her head down to the floor, took a quick breath of air, and then pumped
Avaccus chest with her fist.  His body felt as heavy and unresponsive
as a lead jacket.  What had living in this cave for twenty years done
to him?  Come on, Avaccus, she coaxed.  Take a breath.

Avaccus chest rose beneath Tessa's fist.  His entire body trembled, and
then the muscles in his chest contracted in a rhythmic wave.  He took a
breath.  Immediately he began to cough and splutter, attempting to
raise his head from the floor.

Tessa pushed him back down.  She didn't want him repeating her mistake.
Standing, even sitting up, was certain death.

Hot clouds of smoke pushed against Tessa's back.  No longer curling
idly around the cave, the smoke rippled through it with intent.  In the
distance she heard a faint crackling sound.  Fire.

Avaccus, Tessa said, not sure if the old monk was in any state to hear
her words, we have to get out here.  Where is the entrance?

More coughing, followed by the terrible thin wheezing sound of an old
man struggling for breath.  Ahead, through the bed of cheeses.

It took Tessa a moment to realize that Avaccus had spoken.  His voice
was very weak.  Sucking in a mouthful of air from the cave floor, she
said, Come on.  Turn on your stomach.  You have to keep your face
against the rock.  It's the only way to breathe.  Even as she spoke,
she was aware of smoke scratching away in her throat.  The air at the
bottom was no longer fresh.

You go.  Avaccus's voice was raw.  He stopped between each word to
cough.  I can't make it to the entrance.  I would slow you down.

Without even giving it a thought, Tessa shook her head.  The idea of
leaving someone in this pitch black smoky hell was intolerable to her.
She couldn't just run away.  At one time she might have done just that.
Running away was her specialty.  Her party piece.  The one thing she
did well.  But things were different now.  Ederius and his patterns,
Avaccus and his ephemeras, Emith and his mother: whatever or whoever
had changed her didn't matter.  The fact was she had changed.

Grabbing hold ofAvaccus left side, Tessa began rolling the old monk
onto his stomach.  He protested.  She didn't listen.  He slapped her
hand away.  She slapped it back.  Strength came from somewhere lots of
it and with one mighty heave, she flipped him over.  He coughed and
groaned, and his bones made terrible dull clicking noises, but Tessa
ignored everything.  She had to.  Smoke was hitting them in hot, thick
waves.  The crackling sound grew steadily louder, and a warm breeze
began to whip around the cave.  In a few moments, smoke wouldn't be
their only danger.  Fire was somewhere close.  Out of sight for the
time being, but there.

Tessa tried to drag Avaccus across the cave floor, but the sheer
density of the old monk's body was a problem.  She might as well have
tried to drag solid rock.  The rough, uneven texture of the cave floor
didn't help either, as the slightest protuberance could jab against
Avaccus skin, tearing and bruising his flesh.

Breathe the air right off the floor she reminded him, hoping the more
air he got, the more alert he would become.  Avaccus did as he was
told. Tessa could hear him taking in air.  Come on, she said, realizing
their only chance of escaping was if Avaccus could be made to move by
himself.

We've got to start moving.  One leg at a time.  Her tone started out
gently enough, but the same panic that had overrun her earlier began to
reassert itself in her voice.  The temperature was rising sharply. Now!
 Now!

Pulling at Avaccus shoulders, his arms, his hands, his robe, Tessa
dragged him into motion.

Fresh air was increasingly harder to come by.  Tessa breathed in great
wads of smoke with every breath.  The urge to cough was overpowering.
The stench of smoke drowned out the odor of cheese, and as she crawled
through the maze of split wheels, she no longer had the urge to
sneeze.

Hurry, she cried, making no attempt to hide the fear in her voice.
Hurry!  Hot air blasted her face.  Even though her eyes were closed,
the heat penetrated her lids.  The inside of her mouth felt as if it
had been grated by hot sand.

Avaccus did his best, easing his body over the cave floor as quickly as
he could.  It wasn't enough.  At this rate they would both be
suffocated by the heat and smoke before they managed to make it to the
entrance.  Tessa knew she shouldn't get angry with him, but she couldn't
help herself.  He had to move faster.  He was going to be saved.

Sending a hand through the soft, milky soil formed by the squashed
cheeses, Tessa searched for Avaccus arm.  We have to make it out of
here, she cried, grabbing his wrist not at all gently.  You've still
got things to tell me.  I still don't know how to scribe properly.  You
have to show me what to do.

Avaccus made an odd sound in his throat.  Tessa thought he might be
laughing.  She couldn't tell.  You've been taught by Emith of Bay Zen,
young lady, he said.  You should know all you need to know.

But Emith is just an assistant.  He doesn't know how to draw
patterns.

Air brushed against Tessa's face as Avaccus shook his head in the
darkness.  Emith knows more about scribing than any other man alive. If
he's taught you all the rules of pigments and forms, then you have all
the information you need to know.  Paint the problem, then solve it. 
Emith Avaccus words came to a halt as a blistering sheet of smoke hit
them both.  Hot flecks of burned matter flew into Tessa's face.

Tessa slipped her fingers from Avaccus wrist and grasped hold of his
hand.  She told herself she wasn't scared, yet when the old monk's hand
closed around hers, she was glad to her very core.  Together they moved
forward through the smoke.

With great effort, Avaccus began clearing his throat.  It took several
minutes of coughing and swallowing before he could speak.  Tessa told
him to concentrate on moving forward, not speaking, but he was set on
saying what he had to.

Emith is a modest man; you must not forget that.  If it wasn't for his
modesty, he would have become a brilliant scribe.  He had the eye and
the feel for it.  He just never had the confidence.

Avaccus succumbed to a terrible bout of coughing.  Squeezing his hand
as his entire body was racked with convulsions, Tessa willed herself to
be strong.

Orange light now marked the cave entrance.  It flickered and hissed and
grew brighter by the minute.  The air was so hot, Tessa could no longer
open her eyes.  Beneath her body the wheels of cheese softened into a
warm, grainy mush.

Avaccus forced out words as he coughed.  Tessa could only guess what
effort it cost him.  You must trust your own abilities, Tessa.  Trust
yourself and trust Emith.  An ephemera did not fall into your hands by
chance.  It found you because you are capable of doing what is
needed.

Ssh, Avaccus.  Ssh.  Tessa patted the old monk's hand.  She wanted to
hear more of what he had to say but could no

longer bear to hear him struggling for breath.  Tell me everything when
we are safe.

Avaccus fell silent.  He didn't even cough.

Tessa nodded, pleased.  Right.  Let's get out of here.  Scrambling
forward, she released her hold on Avaccus hand.  A dull slapping sound
followed as Avaccus hand fell to the cave floor.  Something in Tessa's
stomach dropped with it.  Spinning around, she grabbed the monk's hand
again.  It was limp.

Tessa drew a short, frightened breath.  Scalding soot filled smoke
poured into her lungs; she had taken the breath without dipping her
head into the layer of fresher air.  She started choking and couldn't
stop.  A searing pain ripped through the back of her chest.  Her eyes
stung, but she couldn't risk opening them to let out tears.

Avaccus!  she screamed, shaking and then pulling on the monk's hand.
Wake up.  Wake up.

He wasn't going to wake.  He needed help.  He needed fresh air.  Tessa
defied her good sense and glanced toward the entrance.  The smoke was
so thick now, it stifled the light from the fire.  Heart pumping
wildly, mouth so dry it ached, she made a decision.  She had to make it
to the entrance on her own.  Avaccus didn't have much longer.

Placing her right cheek against the cave floor, she took the deepest
breath her damaged lungs could manage.  As she breathed, she ripped the
collar from her tunic.  Working quickly, she flattened out the fabric
and placed it over Avaccus face.  She didn't know if it would do any
good, but at least it would filter out the worst of the dust and ash.
She didn't waste any of her breath on speaking, but in her mind she
told the monk to stay where he was she'd be right back.

Tessa scrambled to her feet and ran.  Eyes and mouth sealed against the
ash, face scrunched up against the heat, she tore at the smoke.  Heat
rose.  Sweat streamed down her back and throat.  Scorched air blasted
her from all sides.  Finally she could go no more.  The temperature
ahead was too high.  Tessa could feel the skin on her face burning.
Although she didn't open her eyes, she guessed she was only a short
distance from the cave entrance.

The spent air in her lungs burned with a hot, searing pain.  She had to
let it out.  Yet when she did, she wouldn't be able to take another
breath.  This close to the fire there would be no more fresh air.

I'm sorry Tessa formed the words in her head.  They were meant for many
people scattered over two worlds.  Her mother and father.  Emith and
Mother Emith.  Avaccus.  All those who would fight and die because of
the Barbed Coil.

Taking her ring in her hand, raising her head against the heat, Tessa
braced herself for a moment, then let out the air in her lungs.

So you have no recollection of a young woman coming here?  l\vo,
perhaps three days back?  Ravis thought he heard a faint cry as he
spoke, but dismissed it as the wind or a night flying bird.  Reddish
golden hair, slight build?  Stubborn?

No, my son.  No young women have visited us since spring.  The old monk
smiled, showing even, white teeth.  I surely would have remembered if
one had.

Ravis looked at the old monk.  His manner didn't suit him.  His teeth
were too well cared for and his eyes far too sharp for the fumbling
character he was playing.  Five minutes earlier Ravis had presented
himself at the abbey gate.  The young man who had greeted him was
quickly replaced by the one who stood before him now.  Ravis questions
had brought the old monk here with such speed that he wondered if the
man hadn't been listening the whole time in the shadows behind the
gate.

Pulling his cloak close to his chest, Ravis said, The young lady in
question is called Tessa.  She came to meet with one of your brothers.
Avaccus, I believe his name is.

When the old monk met his eyes over the word

Avaccus, Ravis knew he was dealing with a man accustomed to deceit.

The old monk traced a prayer with his hand.  Brother Avaccus passed
away early this summer.  The words were a reprimand.  Now, if you will
excuse me.  My brother and I have already broken our vows by speaking
with you this late, so I would be grateful if you could turn your horse
and leave.  The causeway should be safe for another hour at least.  God's
blessing on you this night.  The old monk went to close the door.

Father, Ravis said, choosing the word deliberately.  He was rewarded by
the old monk looking up at the sound of the honorific he obviously wasn't
the lowly brother he pretended to be.  I have spoken with several
people in Belihaven who claimed they kept watch from the tavern as
Tessa rode across, the causeway the other night.  Are you telling me
she never made it here?

The monk shook his head and then closed the door.  Ravis heard bolts
being hastily drawn.  A whole fist of them.  He chewed on his scar.
Behind him, his horse nickered softly, pulling on its reins.  The old
gelding wanted to be away.  Ravis regarded the closed door.  He had
ridden nonstop for a full day to reach here.  He hadn't paid a visit to
Belihaven, as he had claimed.  The line to the monk was just that a
line.

Reluctantly Ravis turned from the door.  Moonlight shone on the
surrounding rocks, making salt and other mineral deposits glitter.  A
few ancient barnacles clustered down near the high-tide mark, clinging
to the rock for grim life.  As Ravis looked on, a breeze sent a series
of shallow tide pools rippling.  A second later he smelled smoke.  Not
woodsmoke, he thought idly.  Or at least not wholly wood.  Peat, dried
seaweed, and pitch.  The sort of mix Drokho fishmongers used for
smoking fish, as it produced the greatest volume of smoke with the
fewest flames.

Strange.  If the monks in the abbey had vows about speaking after dark,
then surely those vows would cover any kind of physical labor, too?
Like tending fires or curing fish.

Ravis patted his gelding.  Spying a rock with a narrow cap, he looped
the reins over it.  Once he was sure the gelding had enough slack for
comfort, he checked his knife.  He was going to take a look around.

Leathers creaking as he stepped from the path onto the rocks, Ravis
made his way into the wind.  The smell of burning grew stronger with
every step, and patches of blue-gray smoke began to blow along the
abbey's outer wall.

Rocks formed a jagged jaw around the abbey.  Thick tails of seaweed and
layers of crusted salt made the going difficult, and when Ravis looked
ahead and saw the rock rising to form a cliff against the abbey's east
wing, he was tempted to head back.  Still, the worst thing that could
happen here was he'd end up with some freshly smoked fish for his
trouble.  Yet even as the thought occurred to him, he realized
something wasn't right.  There was no fish smell accompanying the
smoke.  No delicate aroma of slowly cooking herring or trout.

Tessa.  Ravis didn't believe in coincidences: first the monk had lied,
now smoke burned at midnight with no purpose.  The two things had to be
related.  Increasing his pace, he jumped from boulder to boulder.  The
rock face rose sharply, stretching high against the abbey wall.  Ravis
stopped jumping and began to climb.

Smoke choked the surrounding air.  Rising in great clouds above the
cliff, it was pushed into Ravis face by the wind.  Soft flecks of
burned matter rained down on his hair and shoulders.  Many feet above
the high-tide mark now, the rock was easier to navigate.  It was drier
and smoother, free of all the churned-up refuse of the sea.  Ravis
reached the top with surprising speed.

As soon as he saw what was there he knew what was happening.  The rock
face he had just climbed harbored some sort of cave.  The entrance to
the cave had been blocked with a stack of wood, peat, seaweed, and
anything else that could burn or give off smoke, and the whole thing
had been set alight.

Ravis sucked on his scar.  Now it could be that the good brothers were
trying to rid the cave of bats after all, it was the season for them.
Yet Ravis didn't believe this for one instant.  Scanning the abbey
wall, he spied a small door set deep within a hood of cut stone,
affording the monks easy access to the cave and its entrance.  So if
people in the abbey could reach here at any time of day they pleased,
why not build the fire in broad daylight instead?  Midnight was no time
to smoke out bats.

Ravis pulled off his cloak and threw it onto the fire.  The moment it
was in place he kicked at the heart of the blaze, scattering the
burning embers to the wind.  The fire had been built in haste, and with
its core disintegrating, it dwindled quickly.  Abandoning his cloak to
the flames, Ravis began stamping on burning logs and squares of peat.
As the fire collapsed downward, a huge column of smoke started pouring
out from the cave.  Seeing it, Ravis grabbed a smoking log from the
fire and started beating away at the flames.  If his hands burned, he
didn't feel them.

Anyone caught in the cave would surely be dead.

Not waiting for the last of the flames to die down, Ravis stepped
inside the cave.  Smoke enveloped him.  He could no longer see the log
he was holding.  Every breath he took was loaded with reeking ash.
Tessa, he called into the darkness.

Tessa!

Nothing.  He went farther into the cave.

As he felt his way through the smoke, the toe of his boot hit something
soft.  Falling to his knees, Ravis sent out a hand to feel for whatever
was blocking his way.  A body.  He risked opening his eyes.  It was
Tessa.  He couldn't tell if she was dead or alive.

Ravis chest tightened.  He let out a single animal cry.  He felt anger
so intense that if the monk who had lied to him were here now, he would
have snapped the man's neck with his bare hands.  Then kicked the body
until it was nothing more than splintered bones.  What had they done to
her?

Gently and with great care, taking time to ensure he put no undue
pressure on her wounds and bruises, Ravis scooped Tessa up in his arms
and carried her out of the cave.  Her cheek fell against his.  It was
hot and coated in soot.  She felt so light, it made his throat ache.
Although he tried to halt them, memories of his wife flooded his
thoughts.  During the last month of her illness, Lara had been so weak
she could not raise herself out of bed.  He had carried her everywhere.
She had been ashamed of her weakness.  He'd seen it as a chance to
touch her more.

Ravis bit right through his scar.  The brief stab of pain wasn't nearly
enough to kill the memories, but it did force them back to their usual
place.

Clear of the fire now, he searched for somewhere to lay Tessa down.
Spying a shallow depression surrounded by chunks of weather-split
rocks, he hurried toward it and carefully laid her on the ground.  As
her body came in contact with the rock, a faint noise, like an inhaled
sigh, sounded deep within her throat.  Hearing it, Ravis stopped what
he was doing, closed his eyes, then tilted his head back as far as it
could go.  Most of the time he didn't believe in God.  Then there were
times like this.... He opened his eyes.  Stars shone down from a black
sky.  If anyone had asked about them in that moment, he'd have sworn
they gave off warmth as well as light.

Shrugging at himself, the stars, and the night, Ravis turned his
attention back to Tessa.  He had work to do.

Smoke injuries were not uncommon in battles and an everyday hazard in
sieges, and Ravis was familiar with the problems that came from
inhalation.  Crouching beside Tessa, he took a deep breath of air, held
it in his lungs, then pressed his lips against her mouth.  Softer than
a kiss, he let it out.  Air filled Tessa's mouth and then her throat,
then traveled down to her lungs.  Her chest rose and fell.  Ravis took
another breath and then breathed for her again.  Her lips were as hot
as her cheeks.  They tasted of ash.

Slowly, gradually, breath after breath, Tessa began to respond. Faintly
at first, her chest rose and fell on its own, and beneath her eyelids,
her eyes began to move.  Ravis talked to her, saying gentle, nonsense
things he would never have said if she were fully awake.  He stroked
her hair and brushed the ash from her cheeks, all the time continuing
to breathe for her.  After a few minutes, Tessa's chest began to pump
rapidly and she started to choke.  Her shoulders flew forward and she
coughed violently.

Don't open your eyes.  Ravis pressed her shoulders back against the
rock.  You're with me, Ravis.  You're not in the cave anymore, and you're
safe.  He spoke firmly, as he would with a wounded soldier; troops
waking after being injured in battle needed to be tQld they were safe.
I won't let anyone harm you.

Tessa raised her hand.  Muscles in her chest, neck, and jaw pumped
wildly.  She opened her eyes and winced.  Quickly she closed them
again.  Got to... got to... Even though her voice was raw, she seemed
intent on saying something.

Ssh.  It's all right.  Ravis placed a finger on her lips.

Tessa jerked away from it.  Got to go back

Ravis leaned forward.  Was there someone else with you in the cave?

Tessa nodded.  The tendons in her neck were white with strain as she
forced herself to speak.  Ava..  . Avaccus is still in there.

Standing, Ravis said, I'll be right back.

A good portion of the smoke had dispersed from the cave, and although
the remains of the fire still smoldered, there were no more flames.
Ravis found the body quickly.  It was lying amid a bed of cheeses in a
shallow cavern that appeared to form the center of the cave.  A scrap
of Tessa's tunic lay over the man's nose and mouth, and as Ravis drew
closer he watched it for signs of movement.  The scrap lay perfectly
still.

Ravis took a hard breath.  Judging from all the small footprints
stamped in soot around the body, Tessa had tried her best to save
him.

Kneeling, Ravis ran a finger over one of the many imprints of Tessa's
bare feet.  She was brave, this woman whom fate had thrust upon him.

Abruptly he turned his attention back to Avaccus.  It was strange to
touch a dead man whose body was so warm.  When Ravis lifted up the
body, its heat wasn't the only thing that surprised him.  Avaccus
corpse was as dense as stoned Slowly, his thoughts in many places,
Ravis carried the old monk's remains from the cave.

Tessa sat up as he approached.  Despite his earlier warning her eyes
were open.  She closed them when she saw the expression on his face.
Ravis wanted to say something to her, to tell her he knew what it was
to lose someone you had tried very hard to save.  Yet after he had laid
Avaccus body across a crown of rocks, he found his arms painfully
empty, and all he could think of doing was crossing to Tessa and
holding her as close as he could.

And that was exactly what he did.

Izgard forced himself to take another mouthful of food.  Judging from
the look and smell of it, the dish was barley and vegetables cooked in
a thin beef broth.  What little meat there was had been sliced and then
shredded into so many tiny filaments that it looked like little more
than shaving stubble tapped out into a bowl.

Izgard didn't like meat.  He didn't like to think of it trapped between
his teeth.  He liked to chew on it even less; with its thick, fleshy
texture it was like biting into one's own tongue.  Still, he forced
himself to eat a little just the same, as he always had, as he always
would.  Physical strength had to be maintained at all cost.

Ederius had already finished his food.  The same dish as his king, of
course, begun some twenty minutes earlier just in case the food tasters
had failed to do their job and there was still some small measure of
poison gliding, undetected, through the broth.  Izgard didn't believe
in taking chances with his own life.

Not that he wanted Ederius to die.  Far from it.  Of everyone gathered
in the victory camp this night, the scribe was the only one who meant
anything to him.  Ederius had stood by his side for the past five
years.  His loyalty was absolute.  Izgard loved him, and that was
partly why he chose to share his food with him.  If, by some sleight of
a clever poisoner's hand, a slow-working poison took Izgard, then it
would also take Edenus.  Izgard hated the thought of the scribe living
on without him.

Brushing aside the pewter bowl, Izgard said, So, my old friend, how did
it feel to be on the field today?  Did running with the harras make a
young man of you?

Ederius grew paler and more weak looking by the day.  The circles under
his eyes were the color of bruises.  He had spent the past thirty hours
at his scribing desk, painting patterns.  Since Izgard had entered his
tent some half an hour earlier, Ederius had done little but shake his
head.  He shook it now, no more or less strongly than before.  They are
all dead.  I sent them to die.

No.  I sent the harras to do a difficult job, to run into a camp where
they were outnumbered ten to one, and drive the Sire's forces onto the
battlefield.  They were not sent to die.  If it hadn't been for Camron
of Thorn, most of them would have returned home.

Ederius made a hard sound in his throat.  Returned home to what?  To a
slow death, where their bones grow into their organs and the roots of
their teeth split their jaws?  The scribe continued shaking his head.
Do not think I haven't seen the harras bodies.  Do not think I haven't
seen them carried from the camp late at night.  Your men may have been
ordered to thrust wads of cloth down their throats, but still I hear
their screams.

Izgard went to speak, but Ederius wasn't finished.

I create them he said.  I paint them and incite them, they are
creatures born of my hand.  Yet as soon as my purpose is done, I
abandon them to their fates.  Their bodies fight the sorcery, and the
sorcery fights them back.  Monsters they may be, but they are my sons
in the ink.  I am responsible for them.  And today I sent them to their
deaths.

Izgard had a dozen words, ready, upon his tongue the harras were not
Ederius men, they were his; Ederius hadn't sent them into the camp, he
had; the Barbed Coil created the harras, Ederius was just a cipher yet
he decided to say none of it.  Ederius was very beautiful to him at
that moment.  There was fire in his old eyes and a damp sheen of sweat
on his skin.  He was tired, that was all.  Overworked to the point of
exhaustion.  He needed to be tended by a physician, wrapped in warm
blankets, and given herbs and ewe's milk to help him sleep.  Izgard
nodded softly.  He would see to the arrangements himself.

Listen, my old friend Izgard said gently.  We won today.  Garizon won.
Harras may have died, but the vast majority of our sons survived.  The
harras made that possible.  They gave to save the whole.  Just as you
do, just as I do.  We must not lose sight of our mission.  There are
only hard choices in war, and every time I issue an order on the field
I make one decision more.  As he was speaking, Izgard felt for Ederius
hand.  The scribe fought the contact only a moment.

We are alike, you and I. Our conscience troubles us over the means,
even though we know in our hearts that the end is Garizon's due.  You
may have spent two decades on the Anointed Isle, but you were born a
Garizon and are still a Garizon and will remain one until you die.
Think not of those harras who were killed this day; think of all those
you helped save instead.

Ederius shook his head some more.  I can t..  . I don't..

Hush.  Izgard's voice sharpened.  Remembering what had happened the
last time his anger had been provoked, he released his hold on the
scribe's hand and moved away.  He did not want to risk hurting Ederius
in the same way he had hurt Gerta.  Abruptly he changed the subject.
Has the girl been seen to?

Responding to the sharpness in his master's voice, Ederius was quick to
reply.  Yes, sire.  I contacted the holy fathers.  They said they would
deal with her themselves this time.  The incident with the gatheloc
troubled them.

You called one forth?

Ederius nodded.  His voice was grim when he spoke.  I brought it to
bear upon one of the holy brothers.  It was caught in the rising tide
and drowned.  Its body washed up on the isle at dawn.  Many brothers
saw it before the holy fathers had chance to drag it away.

And was it as you thought it would be?

Worse.  It was a creature wholly of the dark.  There are no words to
describe..  . Ederius shook his head.  It seemed older than the Barbed
Coil itself.

Izgard glanced at his crown.  Resting on a plinth directly in front of
Ederius desk, the Barbed Coil sparkled like broken glass.  A moth
darted around it, mistaking it for a light source.  When Izgard leaned
forward to touch the crown, he didn't bother to brush the moth away.
Neither insects nor dust ever came to rest upon the Coil.

There are many patterns for us to discover yeC Izgard said, his fingers
tracing the inner etchings of the crown.

Yes, sire.  Many.

In the old days when they had talked about the Coil, Ederius longing
had always come through clearly he had so badly wanted to possess its
secrets and draw its patterns.  Here and now, though, Izgard heard
nothing but exhaustion in the scribe's voice.  It worried him.

Turning to face Ederius, Izgard said, Rest now, my friend.  I will send
the physician to you with herbs to help you sleep.  Tomorrow at dawn
you must contact the Anointed Isle and confirm the girl is dead.  She
associates with the wrong people and visits the wrong places.  You say
she can scribe patterns, and I say she has her eye on what is mine.

Ederius gaze flicked to the Coil.  She should be dead by now, sire.

Only if your precious holy fathers have devised a way to kill her
without wetting their hands with blood.  Seeing Ederius flinch at his.
words caused Izgard a moment of regret.  Taking the few steps needed to
cross the tent, he said,

You have done well this day, Ederius.  Take comfort in that.

Ederius let his head slump forward onto his chest.  He did not speak.

Izgard pulled back the tent flap.  The sounds and smells of victory
floated in with the breeze: men sang, meat sizzled, ale foamed into the
mud.  Izgard had promised his men women tomorrow, and he had already
picked the town that would provide them.  Merin, a market and dairy
farmer's town, was half a day's hard march at most.  Plump, milk-fed
maidens could be harvested there, along with meats, grains, and
supplies.  Izgard had no appetite for meat and was losing his interest
in women, yet he would make sure his men got both.  It cost him so very
little to do so.

Besides, Merin was en route to Bay Zen.

Mistress of three seas, central to more trade routes than any other
city in the west: Bay Zen was the ultimate prize.  From its harbors a
man could take a continent.  Five hundred centuries earlier, that was
exactly what Hierac had done.  He'd even built himself a fortress as a
base.  Castle Bess: now in the hands of Camron of Thorn, presently to
be reclaimed by the wearer of the Coil.

As he thought, Izgard's fingers tightened around the tent canvas,
imagining it was skin.  Today the first battle had been won.  Soon the
first city must be taken.

Rest, Ederius, he said, relinquishing his grip on the canvas.  Tomorrow
we begin the journey north.

TWENTY-NINE

essa remembered little about the night Ravis pulled her from the cave.
What memories she did have seemed patchy and unrelated.  She recalled
Ravis arms around her as she sat on the cliff top catching her breath,
heard him whispering in her ear that everything would be all right.
Next she remembered the ride to the mainland.  Bound to Ravis back so
she wouldn't fall from the horse if she passed out, she and Ravis had
ridden across the causeway one step ahead of the tide.

After that a long period of darkness followed, where Tessa remembered
nothing except varying degrees of pain and the creak of old floorboards
as she was carried up a flight of stairs.  The next thing she was fully
aware of was waking up in a warm bed, in an oak-paneled, windowless
room, listening to the sounds of drinking, arguing, and eating
filtering up from what she guessed was a tavern below.

Three days later she was still here.  Ravis stayed with her most of the
time.  Drawing up his chair to the bed, he would tend to her wounds,
cleaning and binding them every few hours, rubbing ointment or grease
into them, depending on what he found.  He would feed her, too; blowing
on each spoonful of broth until it was cool enough to run down her
throat without causing further pain.

Swallowing hurt a lot.  Breathing hurt even more.  Her back ached every
time she inhaled, and fresh air stung like vinegar in her lungs.
Sometimes she had to force herself to breathe.  Other times her throat
closed off, blocking the path to her lungs.  Two times she had woken in
the night, unable to take a breath.  Ravis would hold her tightly,
smothering her panic as he rubbed something oily and sharp smelling
under her nose.  Peppermint oil, he told her as he worked.  To ease the
spasms in your throat.

Much of the time Tessa kept her eyes closed.  It hurt when she opened
them, and Ravis told her the longer she kept them protected from light,
the quicker they would recover.  She felt weak all over and could never
get warm, despite the blankets and the fire.  Cold chills shook her.
Hot flushes heated her skin but left her insides cold.

She tried not to think about Avaccus.  They had left his body on the
top of the cliff.  Tessa felt it was the right thing to do.  Avaccus
had spent his entire adult life at the abbey, and even though the holy
fathers had exiled him to a cave for twenty-one years, it had been his
own decision to stay there.  He could have walked across the causeway
any time he chose.

Tessa sighed.  In her heart she knew Avaccus choices weren't really as
simple as that; he was old and set in his ways, and the severed tendon
on his thumb prevented him from pursuing the only trade he knew.  Even
so, she still believed Avaccus body belonged on the isle.  It was, and
always had been, his home.

Sliding down amid the blankets and pillows in her bed, Tessa tried to
rest.  She didn't want to sleep.  Sleep brought dreams, and dreams
brought all kinds of bad things.  The night in the cave played itself
over and over again in her dreams.  Sometimes she woke sooner, or shook
Avaccus harder, or ran to the cave entrance straight away and
immediately kicked out the fire.  Whatever she did, the outcome was
always the same.  Avaccus died, and she was left with the feeling that
if she had just done something different, she might have saved him
instead.  When she woke the dreams faded, but the sense of
responsibility remained.

Tessa's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps drumming
along the hallway.  A key was turned and Ravis entered the room.  How
are you this morning?  he asked, placing a tray of food on a small
trestle table near the bed.  You look better.

It was morning?  With no window in the room, times of day were
difficult to judge.  Tessa could sometimes guess when it was midday or
suppertime, as the sound coming from below was punctuated by the
clattering of plates and THE nARBED COIL 523

the chiming of cutlery.  I'm fine, she said, not sure if it was the
truth or not.

Ravis nodded.  Your voice sounds stronger.  How is your breathing?

Better, I think.

Good.  Then you should be able to eat better, too.  With that, he
picked up a bowl from the tray and began stirring it with a spoon.

Feeling as if she had been tricked, Tessa pulled herself up
reluctantly.  She didn't want to eat.

Ravis blew across the bowl a few times and then handed it to her.  It's
oxtail broth, he said, eyes twiniding.  A guest downstairs in the
tavern was most insistent that you get some.  Why, she even went to the
kitchens herself to make sure the cook prepared it just right.  She
managed to upset so many people in the process that it's just as well
she's leaving Bellhaven today.  She actually told the cook her stock
wasn't fit for washing dishes.  Ravis laughed.  And the cook here has
arms the size of beer barrels.  I'd think twice before in suIting her
myself.

Tessa found herself smiling too.  Does the lady's name happen to be
Missis Wicks?

One and the same.  She wanted to come up here to see you but I wouldn't
let her.  She's been visiting the tavern every day, hoping to find a
lady companion to travel with her back to Kilgrim.  One of the maids
here is leaving with her at noon.  Ravis patted his leather tunic, then
pulled out a small handwritten card.  She gave me-the name and address
of her brother-in-law.  Said if you didn't find what you were looking
for on the Anointed Isle, you should pay him a visit.  Ravis read the
name on the card.  Moldercay.

The bone keeper.  Tessa suppressed a shudder.  He used to be a monk.
Missis Wicks said he kept records at the abbey for many years.  She
also said he had eyes prone to wander over anything not just women.

Sounds much like any other man of God to me.  Ravis chose an apple from
the tray and bit on it.  So, he said, are you going to tell me what
actually happened on the isle?  Did Avaccus teach you about the old
patterns?  Or did you and he find something else to talk about?

*

Tessa spooned her soup to give herself time to think.  The man before
her had worked for Izgard of Garizon.  Could he be trusted?  What
Avaccus had told her was too important to be passed around lightly. She
was the only one he had ever spoken to about ephemeras she was sure of
it.  Now he was dead, and the burden of that knowledge fell upon her
shoulders.  It was yet another responsibility in her growing
collection.

Briefly, Tessa glanced at Ravis.  Part of her still couldn't believe he
was here.  She had assumed he would return to Mizerico with Violante of
Arazzo.  Omy he hadn t. He had ridden all this way to be with her,
Tessa McCamfrey, leaving Violante to sail home on her own.

Tessa raised a spoonful of broth to her lips.

Be careful, Ravis said.  Blow on it one last time to be safe.

She met his eye.  Over the past few days she had seen things in him
that she could never have imagined before.  He was gentle with her,
careful.  It was as if she were something precious that he was afraid
might break.  He was still the same man she had come to know on the
ship, yet in between being his normal sardonic self she now caught
glimpses of something else.

Returning the soup to the bowl, Tessa said, Avaccus told me the real
reason why I'm here.

Ravis raised an eyebrow.  And what is it?

Tessa took a small breath.  Ravis w4as the first person she had made
contact with in this world, he had protected and saved her, and for the
past three days he had tended her day and nighL In all ways that
counted she had trusted him right from the start.

Pulling her ring from its usual place around her neck, she turned it
toward the light, waited a moment until there was a lull in the noise
rising up from below, and said, This ring is the key to it all.

Slowly, pausing as her breath left her or the pain in her back bit too
deeply, taking long blinks from time to time to ease the stinging in
her eyes, Tessa told Ravis all she had learned about the Barbed Coil.
She told him about ephemeras, what they were, what little she knew of
where they came from, how Hierac of Garizon had found one, and what it
had caused him to become.  She spoke of Hierac's visit to the Anointed
Isle, of the agreement struck between the Garizon king and the holy
fathers, and of the binding of the Coil to the earth.  She explained
why Avaccus thought she had been brought here and what he believed she
must do.

Through it all, Ravis sat and listened.  He never interrupted once.
Sometimes he nodded or ran a hand through his hair, but mostly he
chewed on his scar.  If Tessa had been hoping to surprise him, she
would have been disappointed, for his expression never changed during
the telling.  She could tell he was listening intently, but although he
was hearing things he could not possibly have heard before, his face
gave nothing away.  Finally, when she had finished, he reached out to
touch the ring.

Five hundred years he said, his fingers touching Tessa's over the gold.
And all this time we thought Garizon and its kings were responsible for
their wars.

Have you seen the Barbed Coil?  Tessa asked.

Ravis shrugged.  Once.  From a distance.  Izgard's scribe was drawing
patterns from its base I remember his fingers bled as he worked, yet he
didn't seem to notice.  Ederius is the only man alive Izgard trusts
with his crown.

Do you think Izgard knows about the Coil?  What it is, what it does?

I can't say.  Perhaps not all of it.  Perhaps Izgard knows only that he
cannot afford to lose it.  After five hundred years old tales can
become distorted and diluted, and the truth of the matter may well be
lost.  The agreement is still intact, though.  Izgard is committed to
the safety of the Anointed Isle, and judging by the attempt on your
life three nights ago, the holy fathers still feel some sense of
obligation in return.

Even though Tessa agreed with Ravis, she found herself shaking her
head.  Avaccus had been wrong about Father Issasis.  He'd thought the
abbot would take no action to harm her, that even the small lies he'd
told her would trouble his conscience.  Tessa pushed her lips together
as hard as she could.  She hoped Father Issasis conscience troubled him
into the grave.

This pattern you have to draw, Ravis said, how can we find out more
about it?

Tessa was suddenly very glad she had told Ravis everything.  She liked
the way he used the word we.  I'm not sure.  Avaccus said I had to
paint the problem, then solve it.  To do that I need to have some idea
of what the original looks like.  I have to know how Ilfaylen worked.

And there are no known copies of the illumination?

No.  Every night after ilfaylen had finished work on the manuscript, it
was taken from him and checked for pinpricks.  Whenever he wasn
tworking on the pattern, all his brushes and pigments were removed, so
he couldn't even make a rough sketch of it.

Ravis nodded.  And the original is in Veizach?

Avaccus said it was sealed in a lead box and buried in a secret
location deep beneath the city.

Hmm.  Ravis stood up and walked over to the fire.  As Veizach is one of
the five largest cities on the continent, I would say we have quite a
problem.

Perhaps Missis Wicks brother-in-law knows something that might help us,
or even Emith.  Avaccus told me Emith could have been a great scribe if
he had chosen to be.

Only he had no faith in his own abilities?

Tessa found herself surprised at Ravis astuteness.  Yes.  That's the
same thing Avaccus said.  As she spoke, Tessa was aware of her voice
thinning.  She took a breath, but it caused a sharp, stabbing pain in
her back and didn't fill her up.  As she took a second, deeper breath,
she felt her lungs begin to burn.

You need to rest.  Ravis was beside her before she knew it, drawing the
covers up around her chest, laying a hand on her brow to feel the
temperature of her skin.  Close your eyes for awhile.  Don't try so
hard to breathe.  From his pack he pulled out a small greased-paper
pouch and dabbed a little of its contents onto the skin directly above
Tessa's upper lip.  Peppermint oil.

Closing her eyes, Tessa allowed herself to be calmed by Ravis.  Air
passed easily enough down her throat, but the farther it went the
harder its journey became.  She felt as if her lungs were closing up.

Easy now, Ravis said, stroking her hair.  One small breath at a time.

The urge to panic was great, but Ravis kept talking to her and touching
her, and gradually she began to relax, allowing air to pass down to her
lungs.  Tessa was left feeling physically drained.  She couldn't stop
trembling.  The back of her nightgown was soaked in sweat, and she was
aware of a salty, slightly chemical odor rising from her skin.  She
didn't even smell like herself anymore.

Sleep, Ravis said.  You can't expect to get over injuries like yours
overnight.  They are too serious.  Sleep now.  I'll watch over you.

You've looked after someone like me before, haven't you?  Tessa spoke
mostly to test her breath and her voice.  After a few seconds, when
Ravis didn't answer, she opened her eyes.

He was looking straight at her.  His dark brown eyes had lost the one
subtlety of shading that stopped them from being black.  Something
shone through them, but it wasn't light, nor was it any kind of emotion
Tessa could put a name to.

I was married once, he said after a moment.  My wife died of hura aya.
Swamp sickness.  Seconds passed, and just when Tessa thought Ravis
would say nothing more, he did.

Huraaya eats into the lungs first, and from there it travels outward
to the kidneys, the liver, the brain.  At first you think being unable
to catch your breath is the worst part of it, and then you learn it isn
t. Ravis ran his thumb knuckle over his scar.  Hura aya takes
everything in the end: breath, sight, ability to move, urinate, think.
Everything.

Tessa glanced down.  She couldn't look into Ravis eyes.  She now
realized what shone through them, changing their color from brown to
black: self-control.

Not knowing what.  to say to him, and suspecting anything she did say
would be wrong, Tessa closed her eyes.  She didn't expect to sleep, but
somehow she did, and when she opened her eyes again, Ravis was gone.

Pass the word.  Everyone in this village must leave their homes.  Not
later today, not this evening, but now.  Take only what you can carry
and flee to the west.  Do not head to Bay Zen looking for safety.
Izgard will be there in less than a week.  You must save yourselves and
your children.  Your village is directly in his path, and unless you
act now you will all.  be dead by sunset.  Now go.

Caruron forced his jaw together as he regarded the dozen men and women
gathered before him.  He knew his words were harsh, but he also knew
harsh words were the only way to reach them.  He had spent his
childhood in a small, isolated community like this one.  People grew up
thinking no harm would ever befall them, that the world and its changes
would pass them right by.  They were wrong.  Izgard was coming.  He and
his army were on the move, and less than five hours hard march
separated them from the village of Shale.

What about our grains?  said one man with yellow gray hair and patches
of skin flaking from his sunburned nose.

Our summer stocks?

Leave everything you cannot carry.  If Izgard burns the grain in your
fields and the grapes on your vines, be glad you and your family weren't
there to be burned as well.

A moment of shocked silence followed.  A plump, welldressed woman was
first to break it.  But what about our animals?  You can't expect us to
leave those too.  Her words met with grunts of approval from the
others.

No.  Take only those animals you can safely load onto carts.  Your
herds must be turned boo se7

Turned loose!  Why, that's madness.

Keep them in their pens and Izgard's men will seize and slaughter them.
Take them with you and they will slow you down to the point where you'll
be unable to outrun the Garizon forces.  The only thing you can do
is let them loose.  Scatter them.  Izgard's men won't have time to run
down and catch individual animals.  It's summer, there's plenty of
grass in the valleys; the animals will be able to fend for themselves. 
When it's safe you can return and round them up.

The villagers didn't like that at all.  Their faces were drawn, their
shoulders hunched.  They shot each other nervous glances.  The
well-dressed woman clutched at the fabric of her blue linen dress.
Camron wished he could deal with them more gently, yet he knew fear was
the one thing that would make them leave their homes.

When will it be safe to come back?  It was the old man with the yellow
gray hair.

Camron shook his head.  I don't know.  Soon, I hope, but in truth it
could be many weeks.  Months, even.

But, our homes, our livelihood, our

If you stay, you will die.  Caruron's voice was as cold and sharp as an
ax breaking ice.  Your daughters will be raped, your sons will be
mutilated, your homes will be set alight, and your animals will be
taken.  These are not empty words.  I have seen what Izgard and his
army is capable of.  He tore the town of Thorn apart.  No man, woman,
or child was left standing.  And right now he and his men are
frustrated and angry.  They won a battle, yet there were no spoils. 
They need food, drink, women, and supplies, and they won't think twice
about taking them.

But if we leave, Izgard can still burn our homes, torch our crops.

A second man nodded in agreement.  We'll have nothing to return to.

Camron looked at the two old men who had spoken.  He looked at all the
villagers who had gathered in the plowed field to meet him.  Morning
sunlight shone in their faces, showing up wrinkles, broken veins,
sunburned skin, and chapped lips.  These people worked on the land, it
was their life.  He would not lie to them.

Yes, he said.  Izgard could order everything to be burned, I will not
mislead you in this.  It comes down to a choice between your homes and
your lives.  What do you value the most?  Three nights ago I saw ten
thousand corpses laid out in a valley west of Hook River.  Chances are
the bodjes are still there.  With limited manpower and even less time,
the Sire has little choice but to let them rot.  Camron's gaze traveled
from face to face.  Would you want to meet the same fate as those men?
Would you want your children to?

One by one the villagers looked down, away from his gaze.  Camron didn't
know what was showing in his eyes, but he was conscious of a catch in
his voice.  Three days hard riding, moving from village to village and,
in some cases, farmhouse to farmhouse, had taken their strain.  But
what else could he do?  What choice did he have?  Izgard was only half
a day behind him.  The towns and villages that fell within his path to
Bay Zen had to be warned.  Cameron had seen his lifetime's fill of dead
bodies.  He did not want to see any more.

The villagers shuffled their feet.  Some shook their heads.  More than
one man glanced over his shoulder, in the direction Izgard's army would
approach from.

The well-dressed woman spoke first, releasing her grip on her dress and
checking the faces of her companions before she began.  I am a
grandmother.  I have four grandchildren and another on the way.  I love
my land and I tend it well, but it's been twenty years since I tended
it with myself in mind.  Every time I hitch my plow to my ox, I do it
for my sons and daughters, that they might have something of value
after I'm gone.  Now, I'm no fool and I'm no spring lamb either, but I'd
rather leave now and let Izgard run around after inS chickens and
pigs than risk having no one left to plow my fields for but myself.

A moment passed.  No one moved.  The woman stood perfectly straight,
chin high in the air.  A breeze rippled through the group, raising
collars and tugging at hair, and the moment it died away everyone spoke
at once:

Send for Wells.  He's got the fastest horse in the village.  He can
ride to the outlying farms and spread the word.

We must keep the children calm.

Let's tell them we're off on an outing.

No.  We must tell them the truth.

Ethee, get Amis to pull out his four-wheeled cart.

Let's all meet back here one hour from now.

Make it forty minutes instead.

As he watched the villagers organize themselves, Cainron took a long,
deep breath.  Checking that no one's eyes were upon him, he moved
closer to his horse and rested his weight against the creature's flank.
He was dead tired.

Each place he visited was different.  Each group of people he spoke to
reacted in a different way; some hurled insults at him, told him he was
a liar, or a con artist, or a deluded fool.  Others barely waited to
hear the end of his story: they packed their belongings into a cart and
left.  In the three days he had been doing this, Cameron had evacuated
close to a dozen towns and villages, yet he still didn't know what to
expect.  He only knew it had to be done.

The night following the battle had been a hard one.  Camron had no
memory of how he and Pax had managed to pull themselves away from the
bodies.  They retraced their steps up the slope and spent the next hour
looking for Broc of Lomis.  Finally they found him, lying in a rocky
depression on the west side of the hill.  He was as cold as the stone
that lay beneath him.  Part of his face had been torn away, and a deep
gash had severed his windpipe.  Blood from the wound had turned the
undershirt Broc had worn to please his sister from bright yellow to
black.

Caruron picked up the body and carried it back to the retreat.  Many
times during the journey Pax asked if he could help bear the weight,
but Camron refused.  He had no memories, no family, no hometown.  Broc's
body was all he had left.

As he laid Broc down close to the riverbank, the Sire sent for him.  He
wanted Camron to accompany him as he traveled first west, then north,
and gathered a new army about him in preparation for a second battle in
Bay ZeU.  Caruron refused.  Sandor hadn't liked that.  He would have
issued an order, only Camron didn't give him the chance.  Calling
together the twenty or so men who were left in his troop, Camron rode
from the retreat.  Pax accompanied him.  The young guard had seen the
bodies in the valley; he had seen what was missing from Broc of Lomis
face.  He shared Cameron's need to get away.

Riding north from the camp in darkness, they had no purpose at first.
Camron felt only loss.  He had been too exhausted for anything else.
Hours passed.  The night passed.  When dawn came the small troop
happened upon a cleared road cut with freshly marked wheel furrows and
followed it into a town.

His men were tired, dispirited to the point where they let their wounds
bleed when heavy riding reopened them and fought viciously among
themselves over the last drops of berriac.  They needed food, rest,
reason.

As they came to a halt by the town's first inn, a young boy came out to
water their horses.  An even younger girl tagged along on his heels,
mimicking his movements, and breaking out in high, excited giggles
whenever he turned to shush her away.  Judging from their coloring and
dress, the boy and girl were brother and sister, busy doing whatever
mischief brothers and sisters normally did.  Camron found himself
smiling.  They were such happy, bright-looking children.

That was when it struck him.  Izgard would be on his way.  Here, to
this sleepy little town of Merin.  An army that size needed supplies,
grain, alcohol, livestock.  High on victory, they would be looking for
victims to torture and taunt.  And women.  Izgard would have promised
them women to lie with.

Camron turned cold.  His horse, feeling a sudden change in his master,
brayed nervously and flicked its mane.  He patted the creature's neck
as he glanced around the town.  But for the slanting copper awnings on
the buildings and the partially paved roads, Merin might have been
Thorn.

Cameron looked back at the brother and sister.  The boy had refilled his
bucket at the well and was letting his younger sister help carry it
back to the horses.  They were laughing and pushing each other and
losing great splashes of water to the dirt.  Watching them, Cameron
felt a dull pain building behind his eyes.  His vision blurred.

He had seen such terrible things in the past twenty-four hours, sights
so appalling they had stripped all sense of normality from him, leaving
him nothing inside but the kind of knee-jerk anger that wasn't really
an emotion at all.  Now, to see something good, something simple and
normal from everyday life, was like walking from a darkened room into
daylight.  It dazzled him.  It made the ground shift beneath his feet
one last time.  This wasn't only about soldiers anymore.  This was
about people and families as well.

Turning his horse, Camron gave orders to his men.  The town had to be
evacuated in less than an hour.  Izgard's army could reach here by
noon.  As he shouted the orders, Cameron heard his voice grow stronger.
He took deep breaths and, for the first time since the battle, focused
his mind on what he could do, here, in the present, rather than all he
could not make up for in the past.

They made mistakes that first time in Merin.  They caused panic and
anger and confusion.  Twenty bloody and battle weary troops riding into
their midst, ordering them to leave their homes and abandon their
possessions, had been met with open hostility by the townsfolk.  It
had.  taken a lot of time to persuade them to go.  Some chose to stay
behind, yet most decided to leave in the end.  The gashes and claw
marks on the troops thighs and chests persuaded better than words
alone.

When Izgard and his forces rode up some four hours later, they found a
ghost town.

Cameron and his men had been moving steadily north ever since.  Hugging
the foothills, following the course of the Hook and then the Veize,
sometimes half, sometimes a full day's march ahead of Izgard, they had
moved from town to town and village to village, warning everyone of the
enemy's approach.  Fanning out, they had split up into groups to cover
as many villages and outlying areas as possible.  In four days time
they would meet up in Bay Zen.

Cameron ran his hand over his horse's flank, enjoying the warmth of
flesh and blood.  Most of the villagers of Shale had left the plowed
field and only a few remained, discussing last minute changes to their
evacuation plans.  The woman in the blue dress was among them. Catching
Cameron's eye, she mouthed the words Thank you and walked away.

Nodding an acknowledgment to the shadow cast by her back, Cameron led
his horse from the field.  What he and his men were doing was so
little, and unless Izgard's army was somehow stopped at Bay Zen, it was
a temporary measure at best.  Cameron swung himself up in the saddle and
headed due north.  There had to be another way.

Izgard has won the first battle.  He slaughtered ten thousand Rhaize
troops on ground to the west of Hook River.  Ravis paced the room.  His
leather tunic snapped as he moved.

He'll be in Bay Zen in under a week.  Water droplets glistened in Ravis
hair and on his shoulders.  His boots left wet imprints on the
turquoise rug lying in front of the fire.  He had just come in from the
rain.

We need to get back to Bay Zen, don't we?  Although Tessa had been
awake for some time, she hadn't been aware it was raining.  She didn't
like being in a room with no windows.  We should leave tonighC

Ravis shook his head.  No.  We'll stay until you're stronger.

We can't afford to.

Something in Tessa's voice caused Ravis to stop in mid pace  What do
you mean?

Tessa took a breath to steady herself before she spoke.

Just before I fell asleep the night of the fire, Avaccus said something
to me.  It was a warning.

What was it?

He said that in ten days time the Barbed Coil will have been upon the
earth for five hundred years.

Ravis tooth came down upon his scar.  He closed his eyes for a long
moment, then spoke, This is what Izgard has planned for all along.  He
believes in all those old superstitions.  He waited until the fifth day
of the fifth month to make himself king.  He even picked the year
crowning himself on the fiftieth anniversary of the last king's death.
Ravis began to pace again.  Izgard will take Bay Zen on the Barbed Coil's
five hundredth anniversary.  That means we have only six days left.

Tessa didn't like to hear Ravis sounding so openly worried.  So you
think there's truth in what Avaccus said?

I think Izgard believes there is.

Gritting her teeth together, Tessa swung her feet onto the floor.  All
sorts of pain fought her, but she fought them back, fists clenched. Let's
get out of here.

Ravis abandoned his pacing.  You're not going anywhere.

Tessa smiled.  You don't know me very well, Ravis of Burano.  If you
did, you'd know that leaving is the one thing I do well.  And you can
either help or ignore me, but I warn you now, you won't even come close
to stopping me.

Ravis mouth fell open.  He looked at Tessa as if she were a bug he'd
long dismissed as merely a crawler, only to find that if pressed in a
certain spot, it stopped crawling and started flying instead.

Tessa's smile widened.  She had finally succeeded in surprising him.  I'll
use that new cloak of yours for now.  We can buy more things when we
get to Kilgrim.  Have you got Moldercay's address?  We should pay him a
visit before we leave.

You have to promise me to be careful.

Tessa nodded.  I will.

Ravis took her arm and helped her out of bed.  The muscles in Tessa's
legs hurt as she shifted her weight onto them.  Her eyes began to
water. Ravis stood behind her, letting her use his weight to support
herself. Feeling foolish for her show of bravado seconds earlier, Tessa
waited for the weakness to pass.

It didn t, not quite.  But somehow she managed to get ready, brush her
hair, splash water on her face, and pull the ties together on Ravis
cloak.  Ravis was beside her every minute, helping only if she needed
it, allowing her time to do things for herself.  Getting down the
stairs was difficult.  She had to take them one at a time.  Her back
ached a lot, but it was the shortness of breath that bothered her most.
She hated being weak.

Moldercay's address turned out to be on the same thoroughfare as the
tavern, but on the far outskirts of town.  Ravis led the horse while
Tessa rode.  A moderate rain set the street cobbles shining and made
Ravis wool cloak stink.

The dull afternoon light did Bellhaven no favors.  Threestory buildings
blocked the streets; their gray stone facades bird stained and salt
stained, their gutter less roofs spilling great jets of water onto the
streets.  Ditches were choked with empty beer casks and wine skins. The
few people they passed held bulky objects under their cloaks and seemed
to be in a hurry to get somewhere.  Little business was being done. 
Most shop fronts were shut up, and the ones that were still open had a
feeling of being closed.  No candles had been lit to illuminate the
wares.

They smelled Moldercay's place before they saw it.  An odd, almost
familiar odor of stale things, mineral salts, and mold was borne along
the street on a ragged plume of smoke.  Three-story buildings gave way
gradually to cleared lots, fenced-off enclosures, and squat,
window-starved constructions that might have been warehouses,
granaries, or stables.

The last building on the street was two-storied and smart compared to
its neighbors.  It was the only building Ravis and Tessa had passed
that was whitewashed.  All the window frames and shutters were painted
white too, and the roof was covered in a layer of gray white lead.  A
thick chimney stack swelled from the west-facing wall, and a large plot
of land to the east of the building boasted freshly turned soil, spiked
with white markers at regular intervals, looking, for all intents and
purposes, like an oversize seed bed.

You didn't tell me Moldercay kept a charnel house.  As he spoke, Ravis
laid a hand against Tessa's cheek.  Feeling something he didn't like,
he pulled a small envelope from his pack.  Here, swallow this.

Tessa did as she was told.  The envelope turned out to be some
semi-liquid substance wrapped in a coating of sugar paper.  The taste
of sugar did little to mask the her by tang of comfrey and thyme.
Missis Wicks called Moklercay a bone keeper.

Ravis rapped on the door.  The two are one and the same.

A minute passed.  Ravis helped Tessa down from the horse, and together
they stood and stared at the finely painted white door.  A few seconds
later a panel was pulled back and a pair of extremely light gray eyes
regarded them through an ornate metal grille.

Visitation or bereavement?

Tessa looked to Ravis to supply an answer.  She had no idea what the
question meant.  Neither, he replied.  We've come to see Moldercay.
This lady here is an acquaintance of his sister-in-law Missis Wicks.

The man whom the light gray eyes belonged to pondered this information
a moment.  He nodded once, pondered some more, and then drew back the
bolt and let them in.

Tessa stepped into a small, carefully lit hallway.  Candls burned on
waist-high sconces, sending an equal amount of shadows darting upward
as well as down.  The odor she had detected earlier on the street
sharpened.  The air was clammy and cool, and condensation dotted the
walls.  Seeing where Tessa's gaze lingered, the gray-eyed man said, It's
boiling day today, miss.

Boiling day?

The man, who was dressed in a blue tunic with a white apron tied over
it, nodded.  Yes, miss.  We only dig and clean the bones once a week.

Crust!  A cry sounded from somewhere within the building.  Who disturbs
us at this hour?

People to see you, Moldercay.  Crust regarded Tessa rather solemnly.
Acquaintances of Missis Wicks.

Bring them in!  Bring them in!  Can't be leaving the bones for
chitchat.

Tessa and Ravis exchanged glances.  Crust wiped his hands on his apron
and guided them toward the voice.  The building was a warren of
whitewashed passageways.  Plaster had been molded onto the corners
where opposing walls met, cutting down on angles and giving a round,
cavelike appearance to what were otherwise normal rooms.

Crust led them into a large, tiled kitchen.  A man stood with his back
to them, tending an iron pot the size of a hip bath that was suspended
on a grill above the fire.  As soon as Tessa entered the room, her eyes
began to sting and water.  Without so much as a word to anyone, Ravis
crossed over to the side door and opened it, letting the boiling fumes
out and fresh air in.

Moldercay turned on them.  What's this!  What's this!  Crust, did you
give these people permission to open the door?

No, Ravis said.  He didn t. I've had an aversion to harsh vapors for as
long as I can remember.  They make me break out in boils, and I'm sure
you wouldn't want to risk aggravating such an unfortunate condition?

No, sir.  I would not.  I thank you for speaking plainly.  Crust, open
the shutters and pull up some chairs near the door.

Ravis walked Tessa to the door, supporting her weight until the chair
was in place.  The fresh air began to make her feel better.

Moldercay resumed stirring his pot.  He was a small, angular man, bony
and perfectly bald.  Both he and his assistant, Crust, shared the same
hunched shoulders and curved backs.  You don't mind if I carry on
working, do you?  This last batch is nearly done.  They'll be clean as
a pick before you know it.  As soon as they're finished I'll rub them
with a spot of spirits and set them to dry.  Crust, bring this fine
lady and gentleman some refreshments.  Sage tea, perhaps, with honey
and a splash of sloe gin.  Let's have some spice cakes, too.  Currant
ones, I think.  Moldercay turned to Tessa.

Unless the dear lady would care for candied peel?

Tessa shook her head.  Eating was the last thing on her mind.  Currants
will be fine.

Excellent!  Crust, set them to warm on the griddle, would you?
Moldercay began stirring his pot with renewed vigor.  Boiling water
frothed and bubbled, belching out huge gasps of steam to the chimney
above.

You boil people's bodies?  Tessa found she could no longer contain
herself.  She had to know what was going on in that pot.

Moldercay slapped his free hand to his chest.  Good grief, no, miss.  I
boil the bones, not the bodies.  Unless they're heretics or murderers,
of course.  Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted the puzzled
expression on Tessa's face.

I can't speak from where you are from, miss, but here in Maribane no
one who is an unbeliever or a murderer can have their bodies raised
from the earth once they've been placed there.  Just isn't fitting.

Not fitting at all, chimed in Crust from the far side of the kitchen.

You raise the bodies from the earth?  Tessa was aware of Ravis sending
her a cautionary glance, warning her that she was asking about things
she should already know, but she couldn't help herself.

My companion here was raised in a convent.  Ravis spoke in a
condescending voice.  She knows little of the outside world and its
customs.

Moldercay nodded knowingly.  Indeed!  Indeed!  Well, miss, Crust and I
take the bodies from the bereaved

In a cart, interrupted Crust.

Yes, in a cart, bring them here, wash and prepare them, then bury their
remains in our garden of peace.

With quicklime packed around their bodies added Crust.  To make em rot
faster.

Tessa suppressed a shiver.  The plot of land on the east side of the
building must be where Moldercay and Crust buried the bodies.

We never use quicklime on holy men, of course, Moldercay said.  Men of
God are allowed the privilege of staying in the earth for as long as
the process naturally takes.  Up to half a year in winter.  When a body's
been limed, though, it's usually ready within a month.  Crust here
pulls them up for me and we clean and bleach the bones in my pot.  Lye
for normal folks.  Ashes and calf urine for men of God.

Tessa nodded.  She had learned a little of such matters from Emith, who
used lye to remove flesh from hides.  What do you do with the bones
when they're done?  she asked.

Give them back to the families?

Sometimes, my dear lady.  Mostly, though, we keep them here, with us.

That's what we like best, said Crust.

We keep them in the catacombs that run beneath the house, the road, and
the grounds.  Crust keeps track of whose bones are where, how long they've
been interred, and so forth.  These days I can't remember a thing
for myself.  As soon as a fact's in my head, then poof!  it's out again
the other side.  Finished with his pot, Moldercay called Crust over and
together they moved it from the flames, setting it on the tiled floor.
The water was murky and gelatinous, and Tessa was glad she couldn't see
what was in it.

How's your long-term memory, Moldercay?  Ravis asked.  Do you still
recall your time on the Anointed Isle?

Take these outside and drain them for me, Crust, Moldercay said,
tapping the side of the pot.  I'll be out a little later to wash them
down.  He waited until Crust had dragged the pot away before answering
Ravis question.  Scrubbing his hands with a wet brush, he said, I don't
like to talk of the Anointed Isle in front of Crust, you understand. It
might upset him.  He's Bellhaven born and bred, and everyone in this
town grows up believing that once those holy fathers have got their
claws into a man, they hate to let him go.  Crust thinks that one day I'll
be dragged kicking and screaming across the causeway and confined to
a high tower or low dungeon never to be heard of again.

They kept Brother Avaccus in a cave: Tessa said.  In the dark, alone,
for twenty-one years.

Moldercay nodded.  Yes, it was so.  The holy fathers feared him.  He
was too clever by far with his paintbrush and his ink.  The things he
could draw!  Beautiful, they were.  But worrying.  Very worrying.
Avaccus could learn things from them, they said.  He must be a very
wise man by now.

Tessa felt a stab of pain in her back.  Moldercay didn't know Avaccus
was dead.  She closed her eyes.  Why hadn't she managed to save him?
Why hadn't she moved faster?  Been stronger?  Something touched her
ann. She opened her eyes, looked down.  It was Ravis hand.  Although he
never seemed to, he always watched her closely.

You were a scribe, weren't you, Moldercay he said.  A record keeper?

Finished with scrubbing his hands, Moldercay crossed to the kitchen and
picked up a tray filled with steaming bowls and plates of hot spice
cakes.  I was never an illuminator of manuscripts like Avaccus.  No,
indeed.  No.  I was a copyist.  Chosen for my neat script and quickness
of hand He pulled up another chair next to Tessa and laid the tray upon
it.  I was charged with copying all the old scrolls onto new vellum.
They had been stored below sea level for centuries, you see, and were
badly damaged.  They'd fall apart in my hands as soon as I picked them
up.  Terrible to behold it was: all that old knowledge grown over with
mold, ruined by salt air, water-stained by the damp.

While Moldercay spoke, Ravis handed Tessa a bowl of sage tea and a
plate of spice cakes.  Tessa hadn't wanted to eat or drink anything,
but the toasty, buttery aroma of the spice cakes broke down her
resistance, and she soon found herself munching and drinking.  The tea
was sweet with honey and bitter with sloe gin, and it made Tessa's toes
tingle.  Soon, she no longer thought it strange at all that she was
sitting in a charnel house, having tea.

Moldercay continued speaking.  The holy fathers made me work down in
the cellar.  They didn't want to risk moving the manuscripts upstairs
to the scriptorium the parchment was just too frail to be exposed to
daylight.  It suited me well enough at the time, I must say.  Alone
most of the day and a good portion of the night, no one looking over my
shoulder except the good Lord himself.  Brother Pettifar was supposed
to come down each morning and sit with me, but between his bad knee and
his fondness for gin-soaked oatcakes, he barely made it down the stairs
once a week.  Moldercay smiled fondly.  Those were the days.

Of course, in the end the whole thing was a waste of time.  The holy
fathers took my newly copied manuscripts, packed them in open crates,
and ordered them to be stored high aboveground in the west tower.  One
year later they sent in Brother Boddering to bind the loose leaves into
codices.  Boddering had been sewing books for thirty years, and no one
could match his eye for detail on matters of kettle stitches and
cording, but when it came to spotting obstacles from a distance he was
as blind as a bat.  Poor man tripped on an uneven timber the minute he
stepped in the room.  His candle went one way, he went the other, and
by the time he righted himself the first of the four boxes was alight.
Moldercay shook his head gravely.  Everything went up in smoke.

What about the originals?  Ravis said.  Weren't they still in the
cellar?

They'd been left to the devil.  I never packed them away in crates. All
it took was one damp winter for wet rot to take them.  Three years of
copying wasted.

Tessa put down her bowl.  Did you ever copy a manuscript written by
Brother Ilfaylen's clerical assistant?

Moldercay thought.  He stroked his face, pursed his lips, pointed his
chin one way and then the other.  I cannot say as I did, dear lady.

It would have been very old.  Illuminations may have been mentioned in
it.

Moldercay looked blank but regretful.

Tessa stood up.  Think, she said, as much to herself as Moldercay.  It
would have mentioned a journey, first by sea, then overland.  Veizach
would probably be named in it Tessa struggled Veizach, Rhaize.  Bay
Zen.

Moldercay's chin came up.  Bay Zen, you say?

Yes, yes.  ilfaylen and his assistant went on a journey to Veizach.  On
their way home they stayed in Bay Zen.

Come to think of it, I do remember reading something similar now.  The
scribe never mentioned Ilfaylen's name, though.  He just wrote my
master, or my brother in God.  Moldercay was now circling the kitchen,
nodding to himself.

Some of the leaves were badly damaged and the colophon was unreadable

Colophon?

The inscription page, where the scribe would have recorded the date and
details of the manuscript, given it a title, and so forth.  When the
colophon was lost, so was I. I was reduced to copying blindly with no
sense of what I wrote.

Feeling her chest beginning to ache, Tessa sat down.  She didn't want
to risk another attack like the one earlier.  Not now.  So, you do
recall the manuscript mentioned Bay Zen?

Moldercay took a deep breath and smiled.  For a moment his short, bony
body was transformed, and Tessa got a brief glimpse of what he might
have looked like in his youth.  Oh yes.  Bay Zen.  Franny loved me to
tell her stories about faraway places.  She liked to hear all the
details of what people ate, how they lived, what they wore, and so on.
She said that just because her body was stuck in one place, it didn't
mean her mind had to be as well.

Franny was the woman you left the brotherhood for?  Ravis said, asking
a question man to man.

Yes.  I was quietly courting her all the years I spent copying in the
cellar.  Seeing how she loved to hear tales of distant places, I'd hunt
out manuscripts that mentioned foreign cities and customs and recite
the details back to her when we were alone.  Moldercay smiled again,
this time to himself.  Some women like to be wooed with gold trinkets
and flowers.  Not my Franny.  She liked words.

Did the manuscript mention Veizach?  Tessa was be ginning to get
frustrated.  Ravis hand was back on her arm, warning her to stay
calm.

I'm not sure, Moldercay said.  Parts of the manuscript were unreadable.
Mostly I remember the details of Bay Zen.  The scribe's master was
sick, if my recollections serve me, that's why they couldn't make the
crossing back to Maribane.  So while his master recovered his strength,
the scribe went out and about in Bay Zen, making notes on customs and
habits, talking with the locals.  Franny liked the journal because the
scribe had an eye for women's fashions.  He pronounced them scandalous,
of course, but not before he'd described just how low cut their
dresses

Does it not strike you as odd Ravis said, flicking his hand upward to
silence Moldercay, that with his master sick, the scribe went out and
about every day in the city?  Surely his first duty would be to look
after his master?

Moldercay shook his head.  I believe his master insisted he go out.
Perhaps he was the sort of man who preferred to be alone in his
illness.

Ravis made a soft, clicking sound with his tongue.

Perhaps.

What about Ilfaylen's work in Veizach?  Tessa said, stepping in to fill
the silence Ravis had caused.  Can you recall any mention of an
illumination?

Moldercay pulled on his lower lip.  Boiling the bones had bleached his
hands, and he looked as if he were wearing white gloves.  I believe the
scribe did mention something about a pattern.  He mentioned that his
master was working hard day and night.  Said he went through six bone
styluses in a single day.

Styluses.  That meant he was using wax tablets, drafting out the
details before he started work on the illumination.  Tessa felt like
grabbing Moldercay around the throat and forcing the information out of
him.  What about the actual parchment itself?  Can you remember
anything about it?  Its size, color.  Anything.  Think.  Think

Hearing the change in Tessa's voice, Moldercay glanced nervously at
Ravis.

Ravis shrugged.  Convent girls, he said.

Moldercay accepted this explanation with a solemn nod of his head.
Indeed.  He walked over to the door and peered out into the early
evening shadows.  Crust, don't let those bones dry out before I've had
chance to rub them down.  I'll be there in just a minute.

Thinking she had gone too far, Tessa went to apologize, but Moldercay
chose that instant to swing around from the door.  You know he said, I
think there was something about an illumination after all.  Quite
strange it was, really, now I come to think of it.  I remember a page
badly eaten by mold.  I could only catch one word in half a dozen, but
there was some kind of warning.  Something about the, scribe being
Moldercay scratched his chin.  How did he put it now?  Ah, yes.  Bound
to silence.

Yes, Tessa said, excited.  Avaccus said that both Ilfaylen and his
assistant swore an oath to Hierac, vowing never to speak of the designs
on the pattern.  Did the journal mention anything else?

Moldercay shrugged.  Nothing that I can recall.  He spoke a little
about the vellum its preparation and finishing.

Leaning forward in her chair, Tessa said, Can you remember exactly what
he wrote?

Just the usual things every scribe knows and takes for granted.  How
the vellum was b1eaed, scrubbed, painted, glazed, then pounced. Nothing
remarkable.

Was there anything else?

I don't think so.  Moldercay began to clear away the bowls and plates.
The rest of the section was ruined by mold, and the next thing I
remember mention of was the master's illness.  The scribe believed his
master first caught a chill on the day he completed his work, as his
master complained of being cold and requested that a shawl be brought
for his shoulders.

Tessa went to ask another question, but Moldercay stopped her.

Please, my dear lady.  There was no further mention of an illumination.
I'm quite sure of that.  The narrative skipped to Bay Zen and then the
passage home.  Now, if you will please excuse me, I need to bathe the
bones.

But began Tessa.

Come on, Tessa, Ravis said, cutting her off.

Moldercay has a job to do.  He stood up.  Thank you for all your help,
Moldercay.  We'll show ourselves out.

No, dear me.  No.  I can't have you doing that.  Moldercay called for
Crust.  Come and take these good people to the door.

He bowed to Tessa.  Good night, dear lady.  My sister spoke most highly
of you, you know.  Said you reminded her of Nelly.  I'm sorry I couldn't
be of greater help.

Thank you, Moldercay, Tessa replied.  She was beginning to think she
had pushed the bone keeper too hard.  Avaccus had been right all along:
there was no mention of Ilfaylen's illumination in the journal.  There
would be no mention of it anywhere.  Which meant she had nothing to go
on, and time was running out.  I'm sorry I was so... rusistent.  I don't
know what came over me.

Not to worry, my dear lady, said Moldercay.

We all end up as bones in the end.  Crust appeared in the doorway.  His
white apron was soaked through, and his hands were now bleached like
Moldercay s. Follow me, please.

Ravis and Tessa followed Crust from the kitchen.  Just before Ravis
stepped from the room, he turned to Moldercay and said, You don't
happen to recall where Ilfaylen and his scribe stayed while they were
in Bay Zen?

Moldercay stopped in midstep, cloth and rubbing alcohol in hand.  Why,
Castle Bess, I believe.  King Hierac had just had the place built, and
they stayed there with his blessing.

Tessa glared at Ravis, annoyed that after all the questions she had
asked, he was the one who had finally uncovered something worthwhile.

Ravis smiled winningly, pretending not to notice Tessa's glance.  Thank
you, Moldercay.  You've been most helpful.  Crust guided them through
the house in silence.  Most of the tiny candles in the hallway had
burned low.  One or two had gone out.  When Crust opened the door, wind
and drizzle blew in Tessa's face.  The idea of riding to Kilgrim turned
her stomach.  All she wanted to do was sleep.  She was exhausted.

Let's head back to the tavern, Ravis said as Crust closed the door
behind them.  You're in no state to ride tonight.

Tessa wanted nothing more than to return to the tavern, wrap herself up
in warm blankets, and fall asleep.  It took all she had to shake her
head.  No.  We have to leave now.  We've only got five full days.  Even
with a fast ship it'll take three to get to Bay Zen.

Ravis looked at her without speaking.  Tessa sent her last scrap of
strength flashing into her eyes.  She had responsibilities now.  There
was no running away.

After a long while Ravis nodded.  Very well, he said, turning to untie
his horse's reins.  Let's get started.  Camron will be expecting us in
Bay Zen.

THIRTY

he girl is still alive, sire.  Ederius looked down at his hands.  The
middle and index fingers on his left had been bandaged above the
knuckles with silk.  Angeline couldn't tell if it had been done to
protect against blisters or to cover ones that had already formed.  He
looked ill.  Very ill.  Yet Izgard seemed not to notice.

From her vantage point in the adjoining chamber, Angeline could see
most of Izgard's quarters.  She and Snowy had just been about to settle
down for the night when she heard Ederius voice filtering through the
tent canvas.  He had come to tell Izgard something, and from the tone
of his voice, it was bad news.

What else?  Izgard said, turning so his back was toward Angeline.  You
haven't just come here to tell me that.

Angeline took a step nearer to the tent flap.  Her own chamber was in
darkness, but Izgard's was well lit.  Lamp smoke floated through the
slit in the canvas, making Angeline blink.  Snowy was at her heels,
legs bent, tail down, belly brushing the floor.  He was stalking
something, but Angeline wasn't sure what it was.  It might have been
the smoke.

Easy, Snowy, she breathed.  No noise now.

Snowy pulled back his no-good head and frowned at his mistress.  Snowy
insulted.  Making no noise.

Sire, said Ederius, still looking down at his hands, my patterns make
me uneasy.  I fear the girl is a greater threat than we first thought.
She carries a ring that is a match for the Coil.

A match?  Izgard stepped forward.  What do you mean, a match?

Ederius took a step back.  I have seen it, sire.  It is cast from the
same gold as the Coil and it mimics every twist and turn and barb.

Angeline didn't like the way Ederius sounded when he spoke.  Surely his
voice had once been a lot stronger than that?  It was all the long days
of traveling; that was it.  Ever since the battle at Hook River, Izgard
had made everyone ride from dawn to dusk each day.  Long hours in the
saddle, hasty camps, ill-prepared food, and little sleep were taking
their toll on everyone.  Angeline hated it.  She wished with all her
heart she had never left Sern Fortress.  Izgard was heading for Bay
Zen, and judging from what she'd heard around the camp, there was going
to be another terrible battle when he got there.

Frowning, Angeline turned her attention back to what was happening in
the adjoining chamber.  Ederius was speaking:

I think they might try to destroy the Coil, sire.

They?  Who are they?

The girl and Ravis of Burano.

Izgard moved so quickly, Angeline saw him only as a blur.  Swinging
about, he sent his fist slamming into the camp table, setting charts
rolling, papers jumping, and metal boxes full of pins and chalk
jittering against the wood.  He is still with her?  You told me he was
gone.  Said the girl had traveled to the abbey alone.

Ederius began to cough.  Softly at first, but then as he tried to speak
through the hail of coughing, spasms racked his chest, shaking his
entire body.  Spittle flew from his lips.  A wet, frothy noise gurgled
from his throat as he fought to control himself.

Angeline's first reaction was to go to him he needed her.  Yet as she
put her hand on the edge of the canvas to push it back, Snowy growled:
Stay.

Glancing from Snowy to Ederius to Izgard, Angeline hesitated.  Her
fingers brushed the canvas.  Snowy's eyes narrowed.  Angeline looked at
the no-good dog a moment and then dropped her hand to her stomach.
Snowy was right.  Now wasn't a good time to annoy Izgard.  Ever since
Camron of Thorn had evacuated the town of Merin only hours before the
Garizon army had planned to take it, Izgard had been as snappish as a
hound on a hunt.  Anything could set him off: a wrong word, an improper
glance, an ill-timed intrusion into one of his private meetings.

On the other side of the tent flap, Ederius coughing fit slowly began
to subside.  He held a white cloth to his face, and as his coughing
ceased he folded it away.

Cupping her belly in her hand, Angeline breathed a sigh of relief.  She
had to learn to think before she acted.  Ederius would not have
welcomed her help it would have meant trouble for both of them.  He was
just so ill, though, that was the problem, and no one else seemed to
care.

Izgard was working him too hard.  While the rest of the camp slept,
Ederius would be at his desk, scribing through the night.  Angeline
knew because whenever morning sickness hit early, or hunger pangs
stayed late, she'd peek out across the camp and check for Ederius tent.
Standing out amid the flickering yellow glow of watch fires and
braziers would be the cool, steady burn of night oil.  Ederius hadn't
taken a full night's sleep in weeks.

Drink it.

Angeline's attention was diverted by the sound of her husband's voice.
She looked up in time to see Izgard handing Ederius a filled goblet.
Angeline hoped it contained water, not wine.  Wine was bad for people
with coughs everyone knew that.  What Ederius really needed was her
honey and almond-milk tea.  Perhaps later she would send Gerta over
with some.

Angeline's face crumpled in the darkness.  Gerta wasn't here anymore.
She was on her way across the mountains, guarded by two strange men who
didn't care about her, sick and all alone.  Angeline twisted her
fingers into knots.  Why couldn't she remember that one simple fact?
Because she was stupid, that was why.  She didn't think before she
acted.  Her brain was full of holes.  Why, even a no-good dog like
Snowy had more sense than she did.

Now, Izgard said to Ederius.  Perhaps you would care to tell me where
Ravis of Burano and the girl are?

Angeline could no longer see Ederius, but she heard the sound of a cup
being laid on the table, followed quickly by a muffled cough as the
scribe cleared his throat.  I believe they are currently en route to
Bay Zen, sire.  They should arrive a day ahead of us.

Izgard ran his hand across his cheek.  It fits.  They will have
arranged to meet Camron of Thorn there.  Abruptly he turned to face the
tent slit.

Angeline froze.  Snowy bristled.

Izgard stared into the shadows behind the slit.  Although he was
staring directly at Angeline, right into the darkness surrounding her
face, he seemed to be looking somewhere else entirely, somewhere beyond
the room, the tent, the camp.  His eyes dimmed.

After a moment he spoke: All three want what is mine.  Thorn would have
my throne and my country, Burano would have my life, and the girl would
have my crown.  They cannot be allowed to continue.  Bay Zen must be
taken, and swiftly.  In three days time the Barbed Coil turns five
hundred years old, and I will have its power as my own.

Hearing Izgard's words, Angeline felt a cold weight form in her
stomach.  The skin on her hands and face stiffened, then cooled.  It
didn't feel like skin at all, more like tent canvas after a nighi of
frost.  At her heels, Snowy began to scratch at the mat beneath her
feet.

Ssh, now, Angeline mouthed, guessing that Snowy felt the same way she
did: frightened, yet unable to express why.

It's all right.

Izgard chose that moment to spin around and face his scribe.  His
finger was up and pointing.  You and Gamberon were the ones who told me
of its power.  You both agreed I should take Bay Zen five hundred years
after its founding.  Now you stand there and tell me you think some
slip of a girl can take it from me.  How can that be?  You said the
Barbed Coil could not be destroyed.  Look what happened to Gamberon he
nearly died trying to crush it.

Stepping into Angeline's field of vision, Ederius spoke.  His voice was
still raw from coughing.  Sire, we know so little about the Coil.  We
know it is a powerful weapon of war, that Hierac feared losing it and
commissioned an illumination to bind it to Garizon and its kings.  We
also know that it is inscribed with patterns that can alter a man's
strength, his THE BARBED COIL 55j mind, even his body.  Yet for the
most part we use it blindly.  I am not a great scholar like Gamberon. I
need more time to

Time.  Izgard's jaw snapped as he spoke.  There is no time.  In three
days we arrive in Bay Zen.  Nothing can be allowed to interfere with
its taking.  Nothing.  Sandor and his armies are of little consequence
to me, Bay Zen's defenses have been seen to.  There is only one
fortress in the entire city that stands a chance of holding out against
me, and that fortress is Castle Bess.  Garizon designed, Garizon built:
it was shaped for foiling sieges.  Now you tell me that Ravis of Burano
and the girl who wants my crown are on their way there.

As he spoke, Izgard ran his hand along the tent pole, feeling for
splinters or knots.  Angeline knew her husband well enough by now to
guess he was planning his next move.  He liked to touch things when he
was scheming.

Angeline suddenly wished she were in bed, fast asleep.  She didn't want
to hear what came next.  Yet even as she sent her foot out behind her
to check that the way back was clear, Izgard's head began to shake.

We have no time for learning, my friend.  I want them dead.  All three
of them.  We will wait until they are together in Castle Bess and then
destroy them.  I will send out a troop of men tonight.  They'll have
the fastest horses in the camp, and orders to stop for neither man nor
beast until they reach Bay Zen.  Ihold the plans to Castle Bess.  If
the troop arrives in good time, there's a chance they an take the
fortress by surprise.  Thorn won't be expecting an attack so soon.
Neither he nor Burano will guess we've sent a separate force ahead of
the main army.

Izgard stepped toward Ederius.  Angeline knew instinctively he would
touch the scribe, and she was right.  Reaching out with his hand,
Izgard drew his index and middle fingers across Ederius cheek.  And
you, my friend, he said gently, almost lovingly, will ensure they do
not leave Castle Bess alive.  I will send the men.  You will send the
Coil.  Everything you have learned these past months must be drawn to
defeat Burano and Thorn.  Every pattern that can be used, must be used.
Every creature that can be created from the raw flesh and bone of the
troop must be sent to attack the fortress.  We can take no chances. The
Coil is mine, Garizon is mine, and revenge for past wrongdoings is long
overdue.

Izgard's voice dropped low.  His index finger burrowed into the scribe's
cheek.  Burano had been on this earth twelve years too long.  Because
of him I no longer have a family to call my own, just a mindless
child-wife and a sister long dead.

Although Izgard continued speaking, Angeline no longer listened.  A
mindless child-wife.  She blinked, letting the words sink in.  The
world around her dimmed, growing colder and narrower like the walls of
an underground tunnel.  She felt trapped.  Her bottom lip began to
quiver.  She was nothing to kgard.  Nothing.  He had loved her once he
had said so on the day of their betrothment.  Yet now he hated her.

Snowy, sensing a change in his mistress's mood, came and laid his head
on her foot.  Angeline knew she was supposed to look down and smile as
she normally would but she didn't have the heart for it.  She didn't
feel like smiling.  Father's words came out of nowhere to reprimand
her:

That's what wide-eared girls get for listening at doors.

Angeline's chest hurt.  The tunnel seemed to be closing in around her.
Izgard hated her, Father was dead, Gerta had gone: she was completely
alone.

Snowy picked that moment to issue a soft, doggy yawn.  Snowy here.

Angeline nodded her head.  She loved Snowy, but there was only so much
a no-good dog could understand.  Everything had changed.  She no longer
lived in a big, protected cocoon where nothing bad would ever happen to
her because she was Izgard's wife and his queen.  She lived in an armed
camp, watched over by one man alone: her husband, who issued orders to
kill people as easily as other men spoke of the weather she had heard
the truth of that tonight with her own wide ears.  And now she knew
what he really thought of her, it was easy to imagine other, more
personal orders, on his lips.

Angeline felt a small, fluttering movement in her stomach.  She thought
it came from fear, but then as she waited it came again.  It was her
child growing inside.  Her body was its protected cocoon, the only
thing that kept it safe from the outside world.

Slowly Angeline began to back away from the tent slip, Snowy at her
heels.  Izgard continued to speak and touch and scheme, but she was no
longer interested.  Never again would she make the mistake of imagining
Izgard loved her.

Tessa walked the decks of The Mull, designing patterns in her head.
Every now and then she would stop by a masthead, a railing, or a flight
of stairs, pull her ring out from under her bodice, and just stare at
it.  What had Ilfaylen painted on that parchment?  How had he managed
to bind the Barbed Coil?  What designs had he used?  What structures
had he imposed?  How did he know where to start and where to end?

Tessa sighed.  For the eighth time in less than an hour, she tucked the
ring back in its place.  She had no answers.  If only she had some idea
of how Ilfaylen had carried out his task.  Draw the problem, then solve
it, Avaccus had said.  Yet how could she draw it when she didn't even
know what the problem looked like?

Feeling a telltale soreness in her back, Tessa headed for the nearest
railing and leaned against it for support.  Walking around the ship for
a full afternoon had made her lungs ache.

She and Ravis had been on The Mull for two days.  Tomorrow they would
arrive in Bay Zen.  The journey so far had been a quiet one, and Tessa
had used the time mostly to rest and rebuild her strength.  The Mull
was a fast ship, manned by efficient sailors dressed in sun-bleached
linens who went about their work adjusting ropes and folding sails,
never seeming to notice the dozens of passengers milling around the
decks below them.

Tessa was glad to be left alone.  She was getting better, but slowly.
Things took her longer to do than before.  She couldn't take a flight
of stairs without resting halfway, and last night when she awoke in
darkness, desperately needing to relieve herself, she had used the
chamber pot in her cabin rather than take the short walk to the
latrines.  Ravis told her it would take weeks, even months, for her to
recover her strength completely.  Gritting her teeth, Tessa released
her grip on the railings.  She had no intention of letting it take that
long.

Three days.  That was all they had left.  Izgard would arrive in Bay
Zen with his army, and the Barbed Coil would turn five hundred years
old.  Ravis was right: Izgard had planned it from the start.

Without conscious thought, Tessa pulled the ring from her bodice.  She
had to think.  There must be something she had missed, some detail that
could help her understand what she had to do.  According to Avaccus, no
copy of the illumination had ever been made; ilfaylen had been searched
every night to ensure that nothing was ever smuggled from the
scriptorium.  Even the parchment itself was checked for pinpricks.  Yet
Ilfaylen had obviously come to regret his work on the pattern.  So why
had he never tried to undo it?  It made no sense.  Tessa let the ring
fall against her chest.  She felt as if she were grasping at moths in
the dark.

Choosing a path along the sunlit port side of the ship, Tessa began
replaying Avaccus words in her head, trying to recall everything he had
said to her during the one day they'd spent together in the cave.

The smell of lemon oil and wax rose up from the sun warmed deck, and
all around her timbers creaked and strained as the ship rode wave after
wave.  On a bright, cloudless day like this, it was easy to believe
other worlds and other places existed.  The idea of ephemeris seemed
somehow less shocking.  Surely they were all ephemeras, each and every
one of them.  They lived and died and were gone.  Perhaps they were
reborn in another time and another place.  Perhaps not.  Tessa didn't
know.  One thing was certain though: just like ephemeras, people could
make things change.

Tessa stopped in her tracks.  She could make things change.  Avaccus
had hinted as much to her in the cave.  Trust yourself he had said. The
words were close to his last.  Turning about, Tessa headed back toward
the main hatch.  She needed to find Ravis.

Sailors moved high above her, shinnying up knotted ropes, leaping in
and out of rigging nets, turning sails, and securing lines.  As Tessa
stepped from the shadow of a newly dropped sail, she spied Ravis
emerging from belowdecks.  Just as she was about to call his name,
someone stopped to speak to him.

THE BARBED COI 555

It was a woman in black, and for one awful moment Tessa thought it was
Violante of Arazzo.  Then the woman turned and Tessa got a clear view
of her; she had neither Violante's height nor her fine chiseled
features.  Tessa let out a relieved breath.  It was one of the
passengers who had sailed over with them on Tarrier The woman with the
veil that only barely covered her eyebrows.

As Tessa looked on, the woman ran a hand over her veil and laughed.
When Ravis laughed in response, she reached out and touched his ann.
She was flirting with him!  Heat rushing to her cheeks, Tessa dashed
forward.  She had stood by and let one woman lead Ravis away from her,
and she wasn't about to let it happen again.

Ravis saw Tessa coming, but the veiled woman did not.  She continued
laughing in a way that caused her chest to rise and fall conspicuously,
all the while sending her hands darting into the space that separated
her from Ravis.  Tessa didn't stop to think, she simply came to a halt
alongside Ravis and very firmly put her arm through his.

There you are, she said to him, not even sparing a glance for the
veiled woman.  I've been looking for you since midday.  Then,
pretending to notice the veiled woman for the first time: Oh, I'm
sorry.  Am I interrupting anything?

The veiled woman regarded Tessa coolly.  She was attractive in a
well-groomed, expensive way.  Her veil was made from fine lace
embroidery, and it fluttered about her face as she spoke.  No, not at
all.  I was just inquiring as to when we might dock in Bay Zen.

Aah.  You'll need to speak with the captain, then.  Tessa edged a
fraction nearer to Ravis.  I just passed him on the quarterdeck.  If
you hurry, there's a chance you can catch up with him before he retires
for the night.

The woman pinched her lips together.  Her face was heavily powdered,
and specks of fine oyster-colored dust caught in her veil.  Well, she
said, ignoring Tessa completely and speaking only to Ravis, I'll be on
my way, then.  Good night, sir.  I trust I'll see you again before the
journey ends.  Bowing with irritating slowness, she managed to reveal a
great deal of cleavage before turning and walking away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Ravis pulled himself free of Tessa,
folded his anus over his chest, threw back his head, and laughed.

It was the most irritating sound Tessa had ever heard in her life. Come
on, she said sharply.  Don't just stand there laughing.  Help me back
to the cabin.  I've spent the best part of the afternoon on deck. For
some reason Tessa found herself blushing while she spoke.

Ravis stopped laughing, but his eyes didn t. Inclining his head in the
direction the veiled woman had taken, he said,

That was, without a doubt, the most efficient dismissal I have ever had
the pleasure of being witness to.  Obviously where you come from women
are taught to deal swiftly with their rivals.  I dread to think what
might have become of the poor woman if you'd actually caught her
kissing me.  He pretended to shudder.  Doubtless the deckhands would be
mopping up the blood as we speak.

Tessa tried very hard to frown, but Ravis eyes twinlded brightly,
encouraging her to smile.  Just help me down the steps, she said as
sternly as she could manage.

Bowing, Ravis came forward and took her arm.  His kid leather gloves
were as warm and smooth as skin.  With no effort at all he shouldered
half of her weight.  I was about to come looking for you, he said.  We
need to talk about what we're going to do when we get to Bay Zen.

Tessa nodded, glad of the change of subject.  I need time.  I have to
find out what Ilfaylen's original pattern looked like: what the main
elements were, what designs he chose, what pigments he used.  Otherwise
I might as well sit down and paint a landscape in the dark.  I need to
have something to work from.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Ravis guided Tessa toward his cabin.
How much time do you need?

Tessa shrugged.  Too much, probably.  Eiruth might be able to help me,
or perhaps there's something in Deveric's papers that might offer a
clue.  I don't know.  If I hadn't let She shook her head, corrected
herself.  If Avaccus were still alive, I could ask him how to draw
patterns to gain knowledge, and actually search for ilfaylen's
illumination myself.  Frustrated, she ran a hand over her face.  Given
enough time, I can work things out on my own I'm sure of it.  That's
what I was brought here for.

Tessa let herself be led into the warm, timber-scented darkness of
Ravis cabin.  Unlike on Tarrier, here they had separate cabins.  Ravis
had insisted she get as much undisturbed rest as possible.

Striking a flint, Ravis lit an amber-colored candle and placed it on
one of the crossbeams bracing the walls.  Its golden light lit up a
room that had been laid out with a soldier's sparseness and sense of
order.  Tessa recognized all the medicines Ravis gave her each day,
arranged by size and type on a banded shelf above the bunk.  Seeing
them there like that, the only items on a shelf designed to hold much
more, made Tessa feel sad, but she didn't know why.

Sitting on the bunk, she brought her hands together on her lap.  Now
that she had finally stopped moving, strength drained from her body,
leaving her feeling shaky and overly conscious of the breath in her
lungs.  After looking at Ravis a moment, she said, I think we are all
ephemeras.  You, me, Cameron.  All three of us were drawn to Bay Zen.
You and Camron were forced to stay in the city, I was pulled there from
another place, and somehow we came together.  Tessa felt for the
hardness of her ring beneath her bodice.  I think it's because we can
make things change.

Ravis regarded her carefully.  For twenty-one years I have been unable
to change anyone or anything, even myself.

Tessa's hand hovered away from the ring and toward Ravis.  She went to
speak but caught herself.  Twenty one years.  The skin of her scalp
pulled tight.  Deep inside her chest, close to her heart, a muscle
ticked away like a clock.  There was a pattern here.

Twenty-one years ago?  she said.  That was when your father died?

Ravis nodded.

And seven years later your brother sent you off his land?

Land we fought side by side for.  A trace of bitterness crept into his
voice.  He told me I was a fighter and should go away and fight.

Did anything happen to you Tessa made a quick calculation two years
later?  In summer?

Ravis whole body stilled.  There was no other word for it: the muscles
on his face hardened and set, his chest stopped rising and falling,
letting the hollow dip in his throat collect shadows.  Slowly his eyes
darkened from brown to black.  After what seemed like many minutes, he
spoke.  My wife died two summers after Malray turned on me.

Tessa was disturbed by his bluntness.  I'm sorry.  I

Don't be sorry he said, cutting her short.  Ask your questions, make
your point; we haven't got time for the past.

Feeling the words like a physical blow, Tessa took a breath to steady
herself.  There was so much she didn't know or understand about Ravis.
They were strangers, really.  It was easy to forget that.

With Ravis gaze pressuring her to move on, Tessa asked her final
question.  Only it wasn't really a question at all, as she had already
guessed the answer.  Something happened five years after your wife's
death, didn't it?  In autumn?  Something important?

Ravis tooth came down upon his scar.  I returned from the east in late
autumn.  The day I set foot on Drokho soil, Malray sent out his
henchmen to kill me.

Tessa dropped her gaze to her hands.  She couldn't look at him.  The
anger in his voice covered only so much.

Twenty-one years, she said softly, knowing it was better to speak than
let the silence be.  Twenty-one years.  Five patterns.  Mine wasn't the
only life Deveric manipulated.  Yours was too.

Meaning?

Meaning that both of us have been held back.  You said it yourself for
twenty-one years you haven't been able to change anyone or anything.
Nor have I. Tessa risked looking up.  She was surprised to see interest
on Ravis face.  Up until now, until that day I met you in the alleyway,
I was never able to be myself.  Not properly.  It was as if someone had
a hand on my back and was directing every move I mad

Ravis stripped off his gloves and ran a hand through his hair.  He
looked tired, and for the first time Tessa wondered when and for how
long he slept.  He was always awake when she needed him.

The dates on Deveric's patterns correspond to events in both our lives?
he asked.

Yes.  We're both caught up in something a pattern, a plot.  Fate.

And you say we can make things change?

Tessa nodded.  I believe that's why we're here now, together.  And why
Cameron of Thorn waits for us in Bay Zen.

And what of you and me, Tessa McCamfrey?  Can we change ourselves
too?

We can try.

Ravis smiled then, slowly, allowing it time to reach his eyes.  You're
very beautiful, you know.

So was the woman with the veil.

What woman?  What veil?  Ravis was no longer smiling.  He caught Tessa's
gaze and held it.  I saw no one on the deck today, only you.

Tessa opened her arms and let Ravis come to her.  He j moved swiftly
and silently, as if he had been waiting for such an invitation all
along.  Kneeling at the foot of the bed, he drew Tessa to his chest and
held her tight.  He didn't kiss her,

Just pressed her body to his as if she were something he needed to keep
him warm, or safe, or both.  Tessa held him.

She ran a hand through his hair and down his cheek.  Touching him
seemed like an incredible luxury.  She couldn't believe she had been
granted the right to do it.

He smelled good, clean and fragrant and slightly foreign.  The skin on
his neck was rough, prickly, and Tessa rubbed her open palm against it,
feeling as much as she could.  Lying in his arms, pushed against his
chest, touching his face and neck, she felt as if she were giving him
something, yet she couldn't understand what.

Time passed, timbers creaked, the candle formed a staY lactite of wax
beneath the beam.  Hands pressed into her shoulder and back, Ravis held
Tessa fast against his chest.  When finally their breaths drew shallow
and their limbs cooled and the motion of the ship lulled them into a
dreamy half sleep, they pulled apart.

Ravis caught Tessa by the shoulders and looked into her face.  You need
to rest, he said.  I'll watch over you while you sleep.

Tessa shook her head.  No.  Don't watch over me, come and lie alongside
me instead As she spoke, she moved back onto the bunk, bringing up her
legs and making room for Ravis.  We both need to rest?

Ravis went to say something, then stopped himself.  In silence he
pulled off his boots and then moved across the cabin to the candle.  As
his fingers closed around the flame, Tessa looked at him one last time.
His hair was damp with sweat, and his scar seemed almost white.  The
imprint of her body on his kid leather tunic was the last thing she saw
before he snuffed out the light.

Tessa fell asleep the moment Ravis body settled next to hers.  She
dreamed of patterns and other things: Moldercay and his charnel house,
the woman with the embroidered veil, and the impression of her body on
Ravis kid leather tunic.

In the morning when she woke, she found Ravis still asleep beside her.
Moving quietly so as not to wake him, Tessa rose from the bunk,
smoothed down her skirts, brushed back her hair, and let herself out of
the cabin.  Mter stopping to relieve herself in the latrines, she made
her way above deck.

Dawn had washed The Mull with silvery light.  No one was about except
an old seaman braiding a rope and a cabin boy waxing the deck.  Tessa
passed both without saying a word.  When she reached the foredeck, she
leaned over the railings, looked out across the prow, and searched for
signs of land in the distance.  After a moment or two, she spied a
jagged line on the horizon.  Bay Zen.  Seeing it, she felt the wall of
muscle around her chest tighten.  Her whole life had been leading to
this.

As she watched the city grow larger, Tessa replayed her dreams in her
head.  After a while she turned from the railings and headed back
belowdecks.  Avaccus and Moldercay were wrong: ilfaylen had made a copy
of his illumination, and she knew how.

THIRTY-ONE

t took them three hours to disembark the ship.  Armed guards searched
The Mull from prow to stern.  Local Bay Zen militia lined the wharf,
pening trunks, firing questions at passengers, frisking anyone they
didn't like the look of.

Ravis was detained for an hour.  The militia didn't like the look of
him one bit.  He was a foreigner, they said.  He had one too many
knives in his pack.  He claimed to have been out of the city for only
eighteen days, yet he had no outward-bound shipping documents to prove
his claim.  In the end Ravis had to send for a local sea captain to
vouch for him.  The man, a red-faced, eye browless fisherman named
Pegruff, had not been quick in coming.  Yet when he finally sauntered
onto the wharf, arlo flask in hand, rope looped around his neck as if
he'd come prepared for a hanging, it took him less than five minutes to
secure Ravis release.  A few words, a knowing laugh, and the arlo flask
passed from hand to hand was all it had taken for the militia to let
Ravis go.

Ravis didn't thank Pegruff for the favor.  He said the man had owed him
and this now discharged the debt.

Pegruff didn't wait around long.  After rubbing the rim of his flask
against his sleeve to clean it, he handed the arlo to Tessa and said,
You two best watch yourselves from now on.  Militia's as jumpy as
mackerel in a net.  They know Izgard's coming, and they think that by
closing down the harbor, patrolling the streets, imposing curfews, and
terrorizing every foreigner they come across, that somehow they can
keep him at bay.  Scared, they are.  Though you'll never get a one to
admit it.

Ravis nodded.  He took the arlo flask from Tessa, drank,

then handed it back to Pegruff.  How long before Izgard arrives?

A day.  Mebbe two.

And the Sire?

Pegruff spat on his flask.  Word on the street is he'll arrive half a
day before Izgard.

And word on the sea?

That he'll come a day too late.  With that Pegruff took his leave.  He
asked no questions and offered no farewell, simply spit-polished his
flask and walked away.

Ravis turned to Tessa.  Let's go and pick up Emith and his mother.

Tessa shook her head.  You won't be able to get Mother Emith out of her
chair.  She won't budge even for Izgard.

Then I'll hire a cart and pick her up, chair and all.  For I tell you
now, Emith won't agree to come with us without his mother.

Tessa nodded.  Ravis was right.  Bay Zen was too dangerous a place at
the moment.  Izgard's army could be here any day now, and Emith would
never leave his mother alone and afraid.  She was all he had.  Tessa
picked up her pace.  She couldn't wait to get back.

Walking quickly, but not so quickly as to attract the attention of the
militia, Ravis and Tessa made their way across town.  Bay Zen was a
different city from the one they had left eighteen days earlier.  No
longer brash, busy, and selfabsorbed, it cowered like a child awaiting
punishment.  Shops were open, but only those that sold household items
and dried goods had any wares.  Fresh food was already in short supply,
and when one unfortunate fruit seller wheeled his barrow into the
street to set up shop, he was mobbed before he had chance to pin back
the awnings on his stall.  By the time the militia came in to break up
the riot, the fruit seller had been robbed of all his wares.  Peaches,
plums, and other soft fruits had been stamped into mud at his feet.

Ravis guided Tessa away from the scene.  It's the militia's fault he
said.  I've seen it happen a dozen times before.  Armed men on the
streets can cause more panic than an entire invading army.  Bay Zen
should have access to enough fresh food to live out a six-month siege,
but now with people hoarding, most of it will go to waste.  A man can
grab as many freshly killed chickens as he can carry, but if he doesn't
cook and eat them within two days, he'll end up throwing them away.
Ravis squinted into the midday sun.  Especially at this time of year.

For the most part the streets of Bay Zen were quiet.  People looked out
from half-shuttered windows, stood trading whispers in doorways, or
walked alone in the middle of the road, wheeling carts or dragging
bedding behind them.

Tessa didn't like any of it.  She felt as if the entire city of Bay Zen
were condemned.

Her spirits picked up when they turned into a narrow, paved street.
Looking ahead, spying the neat, blue-and-white facade of Mother Emith's
house, Tessa swallowed hard.  She felt as if she were coming home.

Despite Ravis protests, she ran the last hundred paces.  All her life
she had been moving forward toward the ring; this was the first time
she had come back.

In her mind, she could already see Mother Emith's face, see her chair
and her table, hear her instructing Emith to tap another keg, We have
guests.  Tessa smiled a mad, happy smile.  She had missed them both so
much.

Catching Ravis hand in hers, she dashed across the road toward the
house.  Ignoring the front door, she opened the side gate and let
herself into the courtyard at the back.  Everything was the same as
normal: the hides soaking in lye, the kegs of arlo in the corner, the
pile of pots and pans near the drain.  Even the ash fire was burning.
All the little details left Tessa feeling relieved.  Nothing had
changed.

Ignoring Ravis plea for caution, she rapped firmly on the door.  Emith.
It's me she called.  Tessa.  I'm back.

There was no reply at first.  Ravis hand crept to the hilt of his blade
as they waited.  Just as Tessa was about to knock a second time, the
door swung open.  Emith stood in the threshold, looking as neat and
well groomed as ever.

His eyes were dead.

Tessa's heart stopped.  All the heat left her face.  Emith.  She meant
to say more, but her voice failed her.

Emith smiled.  Yes, miss.  It's good to have you back.  He sounded like
a dead thing.  There was no inflection in his voice.  Standing back
from the doorway, he said, Come in.  I've just put a pot of tea on the
hearth.

Ravis put a hand on Tessa's arm.  She shook it off and followed Emith
into the house.  Every hair on her body prickled like a cold spike. Her
stomach contracted in sharp, jabbing punches.  As her eyes grew
accustomed to the dim light of the kitchen, she had to bite the inside
of her mouth to stop herself from retching.

The kitchen was just as she remembered.  The hearth burned brightly and
was loaded with pots, the kitchen table was scattered with cooking
utensils and spices, and Mother Emith's stool was laid with her usual
things: paring knife, silver scissors, embroidery bag, and spice boxes.
There was even a plate of apples waiting to be peeled.

Mother Emith's chair was facing the outside wall, as it normally did in
early afternoon, and when Tessa failed to see the back of the old lady's
head peeking up from it, she shot a quick glance at Emith.  He was
looking down.  Throat aching with dryness, Tessa took the few steps
needed to bring her in front of Mother Emith's chair.

It was empty.  She had known it from the moment she had entered the
kitchen, the instant Emith had opened the door.  His eyes had told her
everything.  She just hadn't wanted to believe them.  Mother Emith was
gone.

Turning back to face Emith, Tessa waited for him to look up..  But he
didn t. To look up meant seeing everything for what it was, and judging
from the carefully tended appearance of the kitchen, he had spent
several days avoiding just that.  Everything was laid out as if his
mother were still here.

Finally, slowly, the force of Tessa's stare drew his gaze.  Looking up,
he revealed eyes blank with pain.  A muscle in his throat quivered.
Mter a moment he began to shake his head.  She's gone, miss.  I went to
fetch lobster, and when I came back, she was gone.  He made a small,
helpless gesture with his hand.  They hurt her.  Scared her.

Tessa felt herself swaying.  Who hurt her, Emith?

I don't know.  They left a smell like wounded animals.

Ravis hissed.  Tessa grabbed the back of Mother Emith's chair for
support.  Izgard's harras.  They had come looking for her.

Tessa closed her eyes.  When she opened them a moment later she found
herself staring straight into Emith's face.  Some deep, deep part of
him had gone.  He looked lost.  The world, which to him had always been
filled with people who were either wholly good or just a bit
misunderstood, was suddenly a place he no longer knew.

Tessa went to him.  Knowing he was too timid for hugs, she slipped her
arm through his and led him toward the hearth.  There was an awkward
moment at first when he shied away from her, but Tessa wouldn't let him
go.  She couldn't bear to think of what had happened, couldn't trust
herself to speak, but at least she could hold him.  And beheld
herself.

Cainron stood high on the battlements of Castle Bess and waited.  He
was exhausted, but the idea of sleep seemed ludicrous to him.  It was a
luxury he didn't deserve.

As he looked out toward the west and the city of Bay Zen, the sun
dipped toward the horizon, creating layers of orange and purple light.
Shadows lengthened, a breeze picked up, and the first of the night's
stars twinlded to life.  Camron took one deep breath and then another.
He knew he should go downstairs to the great hall, see his men, issue
orders, arrange defenses, listen to the latest intelligence on Izgard's
position.  But he couldn't bring himself to do any of it.  Not yet.

It was the fault of Castle Bess.

He had thought he could just return and defend it.  He hadn't counted
on its memories: on the bloods ming on the stair, or the arrow nicks in
the study door, or the sheer emptiness of its corridors.  The place was
darker than he remembered.  And so quiet he could hear the past.

He couldn't bear to be in it.  His father was everywhere, nowhere. Time
stretched so that it took an eternity to pass through the guardroom,
where a dozen men had died, then shrank to a pinhead whenever he
stopped to think.  Losing himself on a ghost of a memory, he would look
up to see a nearby candle had burned down a full mark while he
blinked.

They had arrived late the night before, so late it was daylight before
the fires and ovens were lit.  Water had been drawn from the well,
supplies had been sent for, and all the horses had been brushed out and
boxed.  Most of the twenty men who had ridden with him from Hook River
had slept throughout the day and were only now awakening.  Cameron didn't
begrudge them rest.  The past week had been hard on everyone.

Merin, Shale, and a score of other towns, villages, and hamlets along
Izgard's path had been cleared.  It was thankless work.  There were no
good sides to it, only bad.  Loath to leave their homes, livestock, and
fields, people were hostile to Cameron's troop, somehow managing to
blame them for Izgard's approach.  The worst thing to Cameron was that
his men accepted the blame.  They felt guilty about surviving a battle
where so many of their connades had died.  Cameron hadn't known how to
deal with this, so he let his men be.

Truth was he didn't know how to deal with anything.  Ever since the
night his father died and Izgard of Garizon had crowned himself king,
his beliefs had caved in one by one.  He was sure of nothing anymore.

Turning about to face the darker sky of the east and then the
southeast, Cameron tugged a hand through his hair.  His lips formed a
grim smile. He remembered the day when he'd first met Ravis of Burano
in Marcel of Vailing's wine cellar.  Everything had been black and
white then: his father was dead and someone had to pay, and Garizon was
an enemy that needed to be crushed.  Nothing was as simple as that
anymore.  His father had spent twenty-one years dreaming of the day his
son would take the Garizon throne.  Which meant that Garizon troops
were no longer his enemies, they were his countrymen.  Cameron shook his
head. He didn't know if he wanted any of it.

The only thing he did know was that another massacre like the ones at
Mount Creed and Hook River had to be prevented at all costs.  Both he
and his father agreed on that.  Finally.

Finding some unexpected comfort in that thought, Cameron pushed himself
off from the battlements and headed toward the iron gate that led to
the interior of the fortress.  He had things to do, defenses to
prepare, and as he descended the granite steps of Castle Bess he prayed
the ghosts would leave him alone long enough to get started.

Emith checked one last time that the back door was locked and then
followed Tessa to the front of the house.  It was dark now, and Tessa
could barely see the cobbles beneath her feet.  A quarter moon hung low
in the sky, giving off a thin blade of yellow light.  Even though it
was not cold, every shutter on Emith's street was shut and bolted.

Ravis waited in the road with a filly and two ponies.  He had slipped
out an hour earlier, returning with horses, supplies, and various items
Emith had requested for scribing.  Catching sight of Emith and Tessa,
he came forward and took the heavy bags from their hands.  Within
minutes every: thing was packed, strapped, and ready.  They were on
their way to Castle Bess.

It had been hard to talk in the house, so Tessa had said very little to
Emith about her trip to the Anointed Isle.  She had told him she needed
his help to paint a pattern and that he should gather together all the
parchment, pigments, and brushes he could find and prepare himself for
a short journey.  Emith seemed glad of something to do.  It wasn't his
way to ask questions, and he set about his tasks with quiet efficiency,
pausing every now and then to run through lists in his head or recite
the names of pigments he especially didn't want to forget.

When it came to choosing parchment, Tessa had asked that he bring only
uterine vellum.  She could not imagine Ilfaylen painting the pattern
that bound the Barbed Coil on anything else.  Emith had a dozen sheets
of calfskin left over from his time with Deveric they were a little
stiff, but handling would soften them and he placed these in a press to
keep them flat during the ride out of Bay Zen.

The city was quiet as they rode through it.  Occasionally dark figures
flitted in and out of the shadows, but no one besides their small party
walked openly in the road.

Militia's closed the gates, Ravis said, guiding his horse away from a
thick patch of shadow.  Although he looked as calm as could be, Tessa
could tell he was wary.  His right hand rested on the hilt of his
knife.  It won't do them any good, though.  This city was never built
to be defended at close range.  Its walls are old and tumbled down.
They have so many gaps and weaknesses that even a determined band of
wandering minstrels could break their way through.

The Sire should have got here a week earlier, manned all the old
fortresses around the city, and forced Izgard to engage there, not in
Bay Zen itself.  As it is now, the first thing Izgard will do when he
gets here is move to take over the fortresses.  There's a couple being
defended by the militia, but Izgard will have them ousted in no time;
most of them are Garizon built anyway, so his engineers will know them
through and through.  Ravis made a hard sound in his throat.

Bay Zen is a sitting target.

Tessa glanced over at Emith, concerned about how Ravis words would
affect him.  She was accustomed to Ravis and his cool military-type
assessments of situations, but the place he had just dismissed as un
defendable was Emith's home.  Emith met Tessa's eyes and smiled wealdy.
 After a moment he looked down.

Hearing Ravis gathering breath for another pronouncement, Tessa spoke
to head him off.  She didn't want Emith any more upset than he already
was.  Castle Bess is the strongest fortress for miles, though, isn't
it?  Hierac built it to be his command post in Bay Zen.

Ravis turned his head and looked at Tessa a moment.  Nodding softly to
her before he spoke, he said, Yes.  It's the finest fortress in the
city.  We'll be safe once we're there.  Tessa knew he didn't believe
what he said, but he sounded as if he did, and she was grateful for
that.

What do you know about transcribing manuscripts, Emith?  she said,
changing the subject before Ravis had chance to broach another of his
own.  Did the old scribes ever use any other methods besides pricking
holes in the parchment to make copies?

Emith moved alongside Tessa.  Surprisingly, he rode well, and his pony
seemed eager to his bidding.  Let me see, miss.... There's measuring
and ruling, of course, and taking notes and rough sketches, but those
two methods take more time and effort than simply pricking the
underlying parchment and then using the pinpricks as a guide.

Tessa nodded.  According to Avaccus, Ilfaylen had been searched every
night for parchment and written notes he hadn't even been allowed to
take quill and ink to his chamber so anything involving writing notes
or sketching was out of the question.  Briefly Tessa thought back to
the woman on The Mull, recalling the way her face powder had caught in
the elaborate embroidery of her veil.  What about pounce, Emith?  she
asked.  Can it be used to transfer patterns?

Emith made an interested noise and then thought for a minute.  Well,
miss, I think perhaps a long time ago it was.  I read about it once. In
ancient times, well before the abbey on the Anointed Isle was built,
even before the art of scribing was brought to the west by eastern
mystics, scribes used to grind obsidian so finely that it could settle
in the shallowest

Excited, Tessa nodded.  And they spread this onto the ridges left by the
finest sable hair brushes.

finished pattern?

Yes.  Emith gave Tessa a curious look.  Once the pattern is covered
with powder, the entire thing is shaken lightly to give the powder
chance to settle into the depressions created by the paint.  When that's
done, a second sheet of parchment is prepared with casein, so the
powder will adhere to it.

I.

This new parchment is laid over the original, pressed against it firmly
for some minutes, and then removed.  If done correctly, the original
pattern is re-created in its entirety on the second sheet of
parchment.

Like Widow Furbish's embroidery pounces, Tessa said under her breath.
Seeing Emith's puzzled look, she said, It's how her embroidery patterns
were copied.  I upset a whole tray of them once and got covered in dark
powder.  I thought it was dust at the time.  She shook her head.  The
powder creates a negative impression on whatever is laid across it.

Dust?  Powder?  What are you saying?  It was Ravis.  Although he was
now a good few paces ahead of her, his voice carried well, and Tessa
realized he had been listening to everything she and Emith had said.

Tessa took a quick breath, then steadied herself in the saddle.  I
think Ilfaylen did make a copy of his pattern, and I think he used
pounce to do it with.

Ravis made an noncommittal noise in his throat.  He pulled on his
reins, slowing his horse as they entered a dark courtyard closed in by
high buildings.  Taking his lead from Ravis mare, Tessa's pony slowed
without prompting.

Remember the woman aboard The Mull?  Tessa said.

The one with the embroidered veil?

Ravis turned and threw Tessa a smile.  No.

Tessa felt her cheeks heating up.  She couldn't help but return his
smile.  Well, there was a woman with a veil aboard The Mull, and she
had face powder on her cheeks, and when she spoke it rubbed off on her
veil.  I didn't think much of it at the time, but later it got me
thinking.  It reminded me of that morning I met you on Parso Bridge
when I was covered in powder.  Widow Furbish used it to make copies of
her embroidery patterns there's no ink, measuring, writing, note taking
or pin pricking involved.  You just need powder and something to
transfer the image on to.

But didn't Avaccus say that ilfaylen was searched every night?  Surely
Hierac's guards would have found any sheet of parchment he tried to
conceal?

Tessa glanced at Emith.  He was looking puzzled, not really
understanding what they were talking about, yet too polite to ask any
questions.  She would tell him everything about Avaccus and ilfaylen
later.  To tell the full story now would only hurt him more: another
person he had known and loved was dead.  Wanting to touch him, yet
knowing he would only shy away from her, Tessa patted his pony
instead.

To Ravis she said, What if ilfaylen hadn't used parchment to make the
copy?  What if he had used something else?  Something that even the
guards wouldn't have given a passing glance to?

Such as?

Remember what Moldercay said about Ilfaylen?  He said that the day the
pattern was complete, ilfaylen fell sick and asked for a shawl.  What
if he had used that shawl instead of parchment, transfeming the powder
image onto the fabric?  It would work, wouldn't it, Emith?

Yes, miss, Emith said, a trace of eagerness creeping into his voice,
providing the shawl had been prepared with casein first and was rolled
and handled carefully afterward.  A little of the detail might be lost,
but the greater part of the pattern would surely be identifiable.

Tessa had to resist the urge to lean over and kiss him.

Yes, that's what I thought.  Perhaps Ilfaylen asked for the shawl, wore
it all day long, used it to take a copy of the pattern the moment the
paint was dry, and then simply carried it out of the scriptorium when
he was finished, c1ainijxg he was suddenly hot?

What about the pounce?  Ravis said, unconvinced.

How would he smuggle that in?

Tessa was ready for this one.  It wouldn't have to be smuggled.  It's
fine black powder Ilfaylen could have passed it off as pigment.  All he
needed was five minutes alone with the pattern to apply and shake down
the powder, then take the copy.  Even Avaccus said Ilfaylen was allowed
a certain amount of privacy while he was scribing.

As she spoke, Tessa guided her pony up a series of low steps that led
toward the city wall.  Despite the cutting remarks Ravis had made about
it earlier, Bay Zen's outer wall looked tall and imposing enough to
her.  She didn't waste a minute wonying about how they were going to
get through it, though.  Ravis would either know the gatekeeper, be
owed a debt by his son, or have some other acquaintance waiting to lead
them to a secret gate.  A snijie began at the corner of her mouth.
Ravis way of handling things suddenly seemed very endearing to her.

How can you be sure of any of this?  Ravis voice got lower the nearer
they drew to the wall.  Who's to say Ilfaylen's shawl wasn't just that
something to warm his bony old shoulders?

Tessa made an impatient gesture with her hands.  Details itched against
her skin like ground glass.  Moldercay said something that started me
thinking.  At first I thought it was a mistake and just excused it, but
it stayed in my mind.  And the other night after you and I Tessa
stopped herself, glanced at Emith finished talking on The Mull, it
niggled away at me.  I even dreamt about it.  Moldercay said the ve1
lum was bleached, scrubbed, painted, glazed, then pounced.

Emith looked up, understanding instantly what she said.

Pouncing is always done first to the vellum, miss, to prepare it to
take the ink.  If it was done after the pattern was painted and glazed,
it would scrub the paint clean off.

Yes, said Tessa.  That's it.  I think Ilfaylen purposely dictated the
list of vellum treatments to his scribe, making sure that pounce was
itemized last.  To anyone looking at the manuscript later, it would
appear to be nothing more than a simple clerical error.  Yet to those
looking for a clue about the pattern itself, it would be a signpost in
the dark.  Ilfaylen even made sure that his assistant didn't have to
lie about what was done.  The scribe's account states nothing but the
truth: the pattern was pounced last.  It was dusted with fine powder
Tessa sent a gentle smile Emith's way and, Emith, you were the one who
told me that any finely ground powder is called a pounce.

Emith smiled back.  Yes, miss.  I believe I did.

Seeing Emith smile made a lump form in Tessa's throat.  He had lost so
much, yet here he was, encouraging and helping her.  She didn't deserve
it.  5o Ravis said, pulling the reins on his horse and bringing it to a
halt, assuming you're right and Ilfaylen did take some kind of copy of
the pattern, what did he do then?

He traveled to Castle Bess, where he painted a proper copy from the
outline on his shawl.

Ravis whistled.  You've thought of everything, haven't you?

Tessa inclined her head.  I try to.

Inclining his own head in return, Ravis said, Well, that would explain
why ilfaylen, sick and supposedly in need of care, sent his assistant
into Bay Zen every day to take notes.  He didn't want the man knowing
he was painting a second pattern.

Tessa nodded.  I think ilfaylen made his entire illness up.  Like you
said, it gave him privacy, but it also gave him time.  He knew he would
never be able to paint a copy of the pattern on the Anointed Isle, so
he gave himself an excuse to stay in Bay Zen for a few extra days to
complete it.

While the original was still fresh in his mind, miss.  Emith deftly
pulled his own pony to a halt.  Working from an outline of a pattern is
one thing, but unless you can recall the exact colors used in the
original, you can expect to create an inexact copy at best.

Hearing Emith speak, Tessa was reminded of Avaccus words: Emith is a
modest man, you must not forget that.  If it wasn't for his modesty, he
would have become a brilliant scribe.  Yes, she said out loud.  I hadn't
thought of that.

Emith looked down.  You would have sooner or later, miss.

Ravis swung down from his horse, landing with a small thud on the hard
earth surrounding the wall.  So, where do you think this pattern is
now?  Did ilfaylen carry it back to the Anointed Isle?  Did he send it
to someone for safekeeping, or simply dig a hole and bury it?

Following Ravis lead, Tessa dismounted.  Her legs betrayed her by
buckling as she hit the ground.  Cursing to herself, she worked quickly
to lock her knees together before Ravis noticed.  Taking a few light
breaths to steady herself, she said, I don't think Ilfaylen would have
taken the pattern to the Anointed Isle.  If it was found there, the
holy fathers would have destroyed it.  No.  I think he put the pattern
somewhere for safekeeping.

Castle Bess?  Ravis took the pony's reins from her, managing to brush
his hand against her cheek as he did so.  Their eyes met for a moment,
and Tessa knew her weakness had not gone unseen.

Perhaps, she said, pulling away from him, conscious of Emith
approaching her from behind.  If not, there may be some clue there,
some record of Ilfaylen's comings and goings; what visitors he
received, what orders he gave to the servants.  Something.

Tessa felt another hand touch her shoulder from behind.  It was Emit
this time, pulling her cloak over her shoulders where it had fallen
away during the ride.  Could she conceal nothing from these two?

With two pairs of reins in hand, Ravis began to walk up the
packed-earth incline to the wall.  Watch your footing, he warned. 
There's all sorts of loose bricks and refuse ahead.

Tessa was glad to have both hands free.  The wall blocked off the
moonlight, making it difficult to see anything except the dull shine of
the horse's tack and the handle of Ravis knife.  The air smelled of
damp and decay, and as they drew nearer the wall, the ground dipped
into a dank trench, giving Tessa the feeling that she was walking
through a giant hollow left by an overturned stone.

A gap in the wall appeared ahead.  At first Tessa thought it was just a
narrow strip, but as she drew closer and her eyes grew more accustomed
to the darkness, she realized an entire section of the wall was
missing.  Stone slabs formed jagged heaps to either side of the trench,
and a sharp breeze cut through the opening in the wall.  She noticed
that the edges of the surrounding bricks were still sharp, the mortar
barely discolored, and the exposed inner surface of the wall free of
moss and damp.

Glancing over her shoulder, Tessa checked Emith's position.  Satisfied
that he wasn't close enough to overhear what she had to say, she
touched Ravis arm and whispered, This isn't one of those tumbled-down
weak points you mentioned earlier.  The whole section's been newly
dismantled all the inside edges of the bricks are clean.  I doubt if it's
been like this since spring.

Even in the shadowy darkness close to the wall, Tessa clearly saw Ravis
tooth come down on his scar.  Quite the one for noticing details, aren't
you?

Tessa blinked.  She was surprised by Ravis sharpness, but then as she
looked into his eyes, saw just how black they were, she began to
understand.  You did this?

Ravis shot a quick glance at Emith.  Bringing his mouth close to Tessa's
ear, he said, Yes.  I ordered this section and others like it to be
destroyed.  Before she could react, he took a breath and spoke again.
Never forget I am a mercenary, Tessa.  I was in Izgard's pay for three
years.  My job was to do what was needed.  When Izgard wanted extra
troops to swell his numbers, I came to Bay Zen to recruit men in his
name.  Later, when Izgard hinted at his plans to invade the city, I
took the necessary steps to guarantee him ease of entry.

Tessa opened her mouth but found she couldn't speak.  Unable to meet
Ravis eye any longer, she looked down at the angry red flesh of his
scar.

Ravis laid a hand on her throat, forcing her to look up.  I

make no pretenses about what I do, I never have.  A man pays me to do a
job any man and I do it.  There's no right or wrong for me, just orders
and missions and gold.  Seeing Emith approach with his pony, he
released his grip and let Tessa go.  Never forget that.

Tessa made no move to step away.  To her left, she was aware of Emith
stopping to check his pony's bit.  Bringing her hand up to touch her
throat, she said to Ravis, What else have you done in Bay Zen on Izgard's
behalf?

Ravis shrugged.  A few things.  I saw to it that all fortification and
defense plans fell into Izgard's hands, ordered the key bridges to be
weakened to the point where a direct hit with a missile will collapse
them, encouraged drinking habits in those whose job it is to watch the
city walls, and ensured that any armaments Bay Zen has purchased in the
past year have been of poor quality: the bow staves brittle, the arrows
made of elm, not birch or ash.  Ravis made a small gest are with his
hand.  Would you like me to go on?

Tessa shook her head.  Emith was still tending his pony, and she got
the impression he was doing so only because he did not want to disturb
their conversation.  Suddenly feeling tired, and not really
understanding why Ravis was so intent & on making her hear the worst
about him, she inclined her head in the direction of Castle Bess.  So
this is just another job to you?  Another payment in gold?

All Ravis old bitterness stretched across his face in a smile.  I'm a
born fighter, so I fight.  This is just one battle more.  He held Tessa's
gaze for a moment, then turned and led the horses through the gap.

After a minute or so Tessa followed him.  Just like earlier, when he
had told Emith they would be safe in Castle Bess, she didn't believe
what he said.  It sounded like the truth, but it wasn t. Ravis just
didn't know that yet.

In the salt marshes to the southeast of Castle Bess, where the ground
was fed by a thousand narrow channels that ran from the sea at high
tide, where sandpipers came each spring to feed on tiger moths and
ghost crabs, and where nothing but salt grass and sandwort grew, forty
men rode their horses at full gallop.

It was dark, but the terrain was flat and featureless, so they feared
no damage to the horses.  The horses themselves might have been
skittish for other, more instinctive reasons, but snuffle caps dowsed
in pine oil had been fitted around their nose bands and the changing
smell of their riders bothered them less than their shifting weight.

The riders gained mass as they rode.  They gathered the night to them
like blotting paper soaking up ink.  Muscles swelled, skin stretched,
bone thickened and compacted into plates.  Teeth grew large in their
mouths, tongues plumped, and jawbones reset themselves with a series of
dull clicks.  Blood ran from one man's nose.  Clear liquid wept from
another man's ear.  All bodies shifted, fluid as shadows lengthening at
sunset one moment, jarring as dogs tearing themselves from sacks the
next.

Eyes dimmed.  Colors drained from irises like wine from a glass.
Blinking patterns changed.  The glaze wetting the riders corneas stung
as it thickened and saltened.  The saliva between their teeth smacked
as they worked their jaws.  Swallowing often, they tried to rid
themselves of the excess.

The riders cumulated and densened.  They became.

Thoughts and desires left them as soundlessly and unobtrusively as
sweat evaporating from an upper lip.  Their names fell away like
shedding skin.  If they were aware of anything, it was the golden
warmth pulsing up from their bellies, If they retained memories, they
were all of the womb.

Slowly, as their horses bore them west and northward, shape and meaning
formed from the shifting pulp of thoughts, flesh, and bone.  Gristle
hardened.  Purpose sparked.  Eyes devoid of color borrowed a cast of
purest gold.

The Barbed Coil sang to them.  It shaped and created, fixing motive and
mind-set and might.  As the riders followed the tide channels to the
gates of Castle Bess, they stopped being men and became other instead.
They were creatures of the Coil now.  And even as their smell and bulk
finally spooked the horses, forcing them to abandon the creatures and
proceed on foot, the Barbed Coil took them farther and deeper.  Its
barbs shredded what was left of them and created something new.

The horses screamed and reared and galloped back the way they came.
Ghost crabs scuttled back to their pools, and tiger moths settled flat
against rocks.  The moon disappeared behind a bank of cloud, yet it
made no difference to the creatures of the Coil.  Through their eyes
the darkness looked like the clear light of day.

THIRTY-TWO

ud this scribe Ilfaylen stayed here, in Castle Bess?  Cameron leaned
forward in his chair as he waited for Tessa to reply.

Yes, Tessa said.  According to Moldercay, flfaylen spent a week here
while he recovered from his illness.

Camron made a soft sound and then stood.  As he walked across the
kitchen, light from the hearthstone caught his face, giving Ravis his
first real chance to study him since they had arrived at Castle Bess.

Cameron looked ten years older than when he'd seen him last.  A scar
ran down his cheek, and a second intercepted it along his jawline,
creating a knot of white-and-yellow flesh.  His skin was dark beneath
his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks.  Lines had formed on his
brow and alongside his mouth.  His eyes were still bright, but it was a
different type of brightness from before.  The underlying core of
arrogance had gone, and while Ravis couldn't tell what burned in its
place, he decided that whatever it was gave Cameron the look of a
starved man.

Ravis wasted no time wondering how and why Cameron had changed.  War
did all sorts of things to men.

Having reached the hearth, Cameron turned and faced Tessa.  The only
sound in the room was the snapping of logs on the fire.  The only light
came from the flames.  Tessa had just finished telling both Cameron and
Emith about her trip to the Anointed Isle.  She spoke of her ring and
its connection to the Barbed Coil, about what they were and where they
had come from, and what the Coil had been forged to do.  She told them
how the Coil had been bound to the earth for centuries and how, two
days from now, it would have been here for five hundred years.  Both
Emith and Cameron drew breath at the mention of five hundred years. Like
everyone else on the continent, they knew that bad things were always
counted in fives.

Strangely, both men had accepted Tessa's explanation about other worlds
and how they had shed from the first one like old skin.  Perhaps they
were tired, thought Ravis.  Or perhaps, in their separate griefs, talk
of other worlds, other places, and other lives gave them hope.
Shrugging, Ravis turned his attention to his surroundings.  Such
speculation was not for him.

From the general tidiness of the kitchen, Ravis guessed that Cameron and
his men had been in Castle Bess perhaps a day or two at most.  Soldiers
set little store by neatness, and given half a chance they would have
turned the room into a mess hall.  Chicken bones would litter the
floor, the pine refectory table would be scattered with herbs a
fighting man could find no use for, and several days of sloppy eating
would have drawn a summer fair's worth of flies.

In the corner of the kitchen, close to the inner courtyard door, lay
several unopened crates and sacks of grain.  Seeing them, Ravis nodded.
Supplies had been brought in from the city.  That was good.

A famous scribe did stay here once, Cameron said, breaking into Ravis
thoughts.  Many centuries ago, I think.  As to whether his name was
Ilfaylen or not, I couldn't tell you.

Tessa nodded slightly, gathering her hands into loose fists.  Do you
have records that go back that far?  Account ledgers?  Diaries?

Cameron thought for a moment and then shook his head.

No.  I don't think there's anything here dating back from that long
ago.  Certainly nothing written.

Frowning, Tessa sat back in her chair.  Her hands were now fully formed
fists, and from the look on her face Ravis could tell she was deep in
thought.  While her attention was elsewhere, he took the opportunity to
check the rise and fall of her chest, assuring himself that her
breathing had settled down following the ride.

The journey to Castle Bess had taken three hours.  At first

Ravis had been worried for both Tessa and Emith, but seeing how well
Emith handled his horse and how unaffected he was by the cold and the
wind, Ravis had given all his attention to Tessa.  Not wanting to let
her know he was looking out for her, he had ridden most of the way at
her flank, positioning his horse to act as a windbreaker, ready to
steady and guide her pony as it picked its way through the sand dunes,
sand grass, and rocks that overran the path to Castle Bess.

By the time they approached the castle, Tessa was slumped forward in
the saddle, and Ravis could hear each breath she took.  She appeared to
improve once they arrived at the fortress, but Ravis still worried
about her.  He had no way of knowing what the next day would bring.

Ravis glanced at Cameron.  Soon he would need to talk with him alone.
From the moment they had presented themselves at the castle's outer
gate, Ravis could tell Cameron had a limited number of men: the
battlements weren't manned; it had taken minutes to raise the gate, not
seconds, which meant that only one pair of hands was on the block; the
entire north wing of the castle was unlit; and although their small
party had been challenged twice once at the main gate and then again as
they crossed the outer courtyard both times it had been by individual
guards, not pairs.  Ravis needed to find out just how many men there
were, what weapons and specialties they had.

He also needed to know when Izgard and his army were likely to arrive
in Bay Zen.

All these thoughts he put to one side for the time being.  Tessa had
cautioned him earlier about speaking of such matters in front of Emith,
and although holding his tongue wasn't the sort of thing Ravis normally
did, he would do it this time.  For Tessa.

As if aware she was in his thoughts, Tessa raised her head and looked
at him.  Her eyes were red from lack of sleep, her skin pale, yet Ravis
thought she looked beautiful.  She didn't have Violante of Arazzo's
perfect features or glossy hair, but she had an irresistible softness
to her cheeks that made him want to reach out and touch them.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Ravis said to her, You need to
sleep.  And then to Emith: Both of you.

Tessa's head started shaking before Ravis had finished speaking.  I can't
sleep.  There's no time.  I have to find out what Ilfaylen did with
his copy of the pattern.  She looked from Ravis to Cameron.  I think the
ring brought me to Bay Zen because the answer is here, somewhere in
this city, this fortress, or the surrounding area.  We know Ilfaylen
planted a marker in his assistant's journey book, so I think it's a
fair assumption that he left other indicators either here in Bay Zen or
on the Anointed Isle.  He wanted the copy to be found.  Not in his
lifetime, probably not even in his century or the next, but at some
point in the future he hoped someone would come along, discover what
the Barbed Coil was and what it did, and get rid of it.  He planned on
them reading his assistant's journey book and then heading south to Bay
Zen.

According to Moldercay, the journey book was badly damaged, Ravis said,
his hand ringing his empty cup.  What if it contained other markers
that have been destroyed?

Tessa jumped on his point in a way that made Ravis smile.

Yes, she said.  In all likelihood it did.  But I don't think Ilfaylen
would have left all his clues in one source.  He was too meticulous a
man for that.  He must have realized there was a chance that his
assistant's book would be lost or damaged.  She leaned across the
table. A man who spent his days planning and painting minute patterns
would surely have taken the time to think through the details of his
plan.

Emith nodded while Tessa spoke.  Of all of them sitting around the
scarred pine table in the one-sided light from the fire, he was the
palest and most withdrawn.  He had not said a word while Tessa told her
story, and although she had omitted the part about Avaccus death, Ravis
had a hunch that Emith already knew the truth.  He was a quiet man,
attentive to other people's feelings.  And when Tessa skipped over the
events in the cheese cave with a quick Something happened and we had to
leave, he would have noticed the forced smile on her face.  Certainly
he saw her shiver, as a moment later he was beside her, offering his
cloak.

Clearing his throat with a polite cough before he spoke,

Emith said, I think you're right, miss.  I've known a fair few scribes
in my time, and all of them spent more time planning than they did
sleeping.  They're nothing if not cautious men.

Tessa ran a hand along her temples.  A thumb-sized burn could clearly
be seen on her palm from the time she had worked against the harras in
the Valley of Broken Stones.  Ravis didn't like the look of it at all.
He liked what it meant even less.  Painting a pattern to free the
Barbed Coil was going to be dangerous.  Izgard and his scribe wouldn't
just stand by and let Tessa unbind it.  Ravis knew Izgard.  He knew the
Garizon king wouldn't be content with merely defending the Coil.  He
would strike down anyone who tried to take it.

We could search the fortress, Tessa said.  There might be something
hidden away.

Camron made a small gesture with his hand.  It would take us days to
search Castle Bess from top to bottom.  The cellars alone form an
entire story below ground  And beneath them there's a maze of tunnels,
cells, and natural caverns.  He smiled his first since he had met them
in the courtyard.

As a boy I got lost down there once.  It took my father half a day to
find me.

You have no men to spare.  It wasn't a question, and once again Ravis
realized how observant Tessa was.  He wasn't the only one who had
noticed Cameron's lack of men.

Cameron glanced at Ravis.  Crossing to a high shelf, he pulled down a
second bottle of berriac and cracked open the wax seal.  Without a word
he went around the table, filling everyone's cup.  Watching him, Ravis
realized that two months earlier Cameron would never have dreamed of
serving his guests with his own hand.  He would have expected Tessa as
a female or Emith as a lowly scribe's assistant to perform the task for
him.  Now he did it without a thought.

When all cups were full, Cameron turned to Tessa.

Izgard could arrive here as early as tomorrow morning.  If this pattern
is as important as you say, then it must be found soon, before the
fortress is overrun.

Cameron sat down, adjusting his chair so he could face both Emith and
Tessa.  Please understand me he said, looking from face to face.  I
don't mean to frighten either of you, but we have very little time.
Castle Bess is the strongest fortress in northern Rhaize, but Izgard
has the plans to it.  He knows its weak points, and even if he didn t,
he is coming here with such numbers that I doubt if we'll be able to
hold him off for more than half a day.  As things stand tonight, I
could spare two men to accompany you from the castle and take you to
safety.  Not Bay Zen its days are numbered but inland to Runzy.  Once
there you can move south or west.  In the meantime I will search for
the pattern myself, both in the city and here in the fortress, and the
moment it's found I will bring it to you.  I promise this on my father's
name.

Ravis was struck by how much Camron of Thorn had changed.  For someone
about to defend a fortress with what Ravis guessed to be fewer than two
dozen men, his offer was generous to say the least.  Ravis chewed on
his scar.  For some reason he found himself thinking about what Tessa
had said to him on The Mull, about how Deveric's patterns had held them
back.  Perhaps Cameron had been held back too.

Shrugging off the thought, Ravis looked to Tessa, knowing she would
turn down Cameron's offer.

He wasn't disappointed.  Placing her hand on Cameron's arm, Tessa said,
I can't accept your offer.  It's not a matter of personal choice.  I
have to do this.  If I can't find the pattern tonight, then I'll try
something else, think of something else.  I have to stay here and see
it through.  Too much is at stake, too many lives have been lost.
People have died because of me.  She turned and looked at Emith.  A
woman I loved is dead.

Emith gazed down at his hands.  A muscle quivered in his throat.  After
a moment he spoke.  I can't go either, miss.  I can't leave you here
Mother would never have allowed it.  Your job is to stay with Tessa;
help her any way you can, that's what she would have said.  She loved
you dearly, miss.  Dearly.

A tear rolled down Tessa's cheek.  She didn't reply.  be Cameron nodded.
If that is what you both want, then so it.  I'll mention the subject no
more, except to say this.  Until the moment that Izgard and his army
appear on the horizon, my offer still stands: two of my men to take you
to safety.  He looked first at Emith and then Tessa.  Seconds passed.
Then, as a log splitting on the hearth caused the light to waver, all
of them nodded as one.

Watching the three people at the opposite end of the table, knowing the
value of what Cameron offered, Ravis felt a stab of jealousy.  He didn't
want to become an outsider again.  And even as the thought formed in
his mind, another one dropped into place like a gift.

Cameron, he said, leaning forward into the space occupied by the three
of them, remember the night we met in Marcel's town house?  When we
talked about Deveric's illuminations and you said Marcel had let you
take a look at them?

Yes?  What about it?

Well, if I remember rightly, you mentioned Ilfaylen then.  Not by name,
but you said a scribe had stayed here once, and before he left he
painted a pattern to show his gratitude to the staff.  You said it hung
in your father's study.

Tessa looked up.

Cameron nodded.  Yes, I remember.  But it's only a rough painting. There's
nothing written on it.

Can I see it?  Tessa's chair scraped against the stone flags.

It's still in my father's study.  Cameron spoke the words as a warning
His face paled.

Guessing that he had not visited the room since the night of his father's
death, Ravis said, I'll get it for you

No.  Cameron laid a fist on the table.  No one will enter that room
except me.

Ravis stood.  Let me walk with you as far as the door.

Running his hand through his hair, Cameron said, I had not planned on
returning there just yet.  His voice was soft, distracted.

After a long moment Ravis crossed to Cameron and offered him his hand.
Cameron clasped it briefly as he rose from the chair, and together they
left the kitchen side by side.

Ederius coughed blood as he painted.  Not much, a few specks.  He kept
a cloth close at hand, which he held to his mouth as needed.  He never
worried about anyone discovering it, as it loojced to be just another
of his pigment-spattered rags.

The blood had begun some days ago.  At first it was nothing more than a
pinking of his saliva, and he had managed to convince himself that it
was a touch of stomach trouble or an acute soreness of the throat. Only
now blood formed red streaks in his saliva, and if he coughed
violently, it speckled his cloth.  He was old, that was it.  No longer
capable of sustaining the pace Izgard had set since the battle at Hook
River.

Even so, Ederius had started to notice that the worst instances of
speckling happened while he was at his scribing desk, painting
patterns, rather than sitting in the covered cart traveling from town
to town.

Not liking the implications of this observation, Ederius turned his
mind to the pattern in hand.  His time was limited, as Izgard wanted
him finished and ready to travel within the hour.  The army would march
through the four remaining hours of darkness, reaching the outskirts of
Bay Zen at dawn.

Ederius planned to rest during the journey.  Izgard had recently
ordered a camp bed to be laid in Ederius cart and had taken to
encouraging him to sleep while they were on the road.  Ederius supposed
he should be flattered by his king's attention, yet he knew the reason
behind it, and it left him feeling numb.

Sighing, he dipped his quill into the sepia ink he had prepared
specifically with Castle Bess in mind.  Cuttlefish secretions for the
fish that could be caught directly off its coast, topaz quartz for the
minerals that shot through its granite heart, and vermilion for the
blood that had been spilled within its walls.  It was a fluid pigment,
easy to work with, and Ederius preferred to apply it with pen, not
brush.

The illumination was almost complete.  The creatures had been created
though in truth he hardly knew what they were anymore and they had
arrived at the outer walls of the fortresses, unseen, unheard, and
except for a colony of.  nesting terns that had fled to the night skies
the moment they'd caught wind of the smell, undetected.  Currently the
creatures were stalking the battlements from the shadows surrounding
the wall.  Now all Ederius had to do was give them singleness of
purpose so nothing would stop them until all inside were dead.

It was the simplest part of the pattern: a few lines dancing around the
creatures, binding them together so all felt and acted the same, plus a
little scoring with the sharp side of the nib, ensuring the ink burned
more deeply than any other pigment on the page.

The Barbed Coil winked from its pedestal as Ederius finished the final
design.  It was becoming easier to work with by the day.  The terrible
dark creatures it had called forth tonight should have taken hours,
even days, to create.  Yet as the Coil turned toward its five hundredth
year, it had taken merely an hour or two at most.  Ederius felt less
and less like a scribe and more and more like an assistant.  It was as
if he were no longer working with the crown, but for it.  He felt his
hand was being pushed through each spiral, line, and curve.

Unaware he was shaking his head, Ederius stood free of his desk.  The
illumination was complete.  Marginalia had been scripted in the blank
parchment.  surrounding the pattern to ensure its effects would
continue long after the pigments were dry as long as needed for the
Coil's creatures to do their work.

Coughing a little into his cloth, Ederius stepped across his tent and
out into the night.  He needed air and sounds and smells.  He needed to
feel part of life.

As he stepped free of the tent ropes, he noticed a white curl of smoke
rising up from the ground close to the flap.  Peering down, he saw what
it was: a bowl of steaming, milky fluid.  Straight away the smell told
him it was honey and almond-milk tea.  Angeline.  She must have heard
him coughing and prepared her special remedy.  Perhaps not wanting to
disturb him as he worked, or provoke her husband's anger, she had left
the bowl outside.

Ederius felt his eyes stinging.  Kneeling by the little bowl, he cupped
its warmth in his hands and drew it to his chest.  He wanted to smile
but couldn t. In his soul he knew Angeline's kindness was a gift he
didn't deserve.

I have twenty men in total.  Five of the original longbows men you
commissioned from Segwin the Ney, eight of my own knights, and six of
the men assigned to me by Balanon.  Cameron thought for a moment,
smiled slightly, and then added, And one guard sent to pull survivors
from the field at battle's end.

Ravis nodded.  It was worse than he thought.  What of Broc of Lomis?

Arriving at a door splintered by crossbow heads, Camron came to a halt.
Without turning to look at Ravis, he said,

Broc is dead.  The harras slit his throat.

Ravis touched his heart.  I'm sorry.  Broc was a brave man.  A good
fighter to have at one's side in battle.

Muscles to the side of Cameron's neck worked for a moment, and Ravis
thought he was about to speak, but instead his hand came down on the
latch, releasing the locking mechanism and opening the door.  He
stepped across the threshold into the darkened room.

Ravis stayed where he was.  Glancing down, he avoided looking into the
darkness, but he could do nothing to avoid the smell.  The room stank
of blood.  Ravis guessed it had not been cleaned following the deaths.
How many weeks ago was that now?  Nine?  Ten?  He kicked at the flagged
floor with the toe of his boot, passing time.

Minutes passed.  A soft sound came from inside the room.  Something
scraped against stone, and then Ravis heard Cameron's footsteps padding
toward the door.  Cameron emerged into the lighted hallway, looking like
a ghost.  His eyes were bloodshot, but there were no tears shining in
the corners.  He carried two things: a small painting the size of a
roof tile pasted onto a wooden panel and a block of red sealing wax as
big as a curled fist.  Without saying a word, he handed the painting to
Ravis and then turned and locked the study door.

Ravis wanted to say something to him, to offer what consolation he
could, but anything he thought of didn't seem nearly enough.  In the
end he said, Let's get back to the kitchen.  I think we both need a
drink.

Cameron weighed the sealing wax in his hand.  His eyes were the color
of cooling metal.  Is there any way we can stop this war without
bloodshed?

Ravis shook his head.  I don't think so.  People will die.

How many depends on several different things.  This for one.  He turned
the painting to the light.  Can Tessa find what she is looking for?  Is
she capable of pulling it off?

Do you believe what she says?

Implicitly.

Is it our only hope?

Ravis ran his free hand over his scar.  Even if she succeeds in sending
the Coil back to wherever it came from, it still leaves us with Izgard
and his army to deal with.  The field may be leveled, but it remains a
field of war.

And you and I?  Cameron said, holding the block of wax so tightly, the
heat of his hand molded the blood red edges.

What part do we play in this?

We stay here, defend the fortress, give Tessa the chance to do what she
needs to, then escape as soon as we can.  Once we're clear of Bay Zen
we'll have time and distance to plan our next move.

Cameron shook his head.  Relaxing his hold on the sealing wax, he said,
Remember when we first met in Marcel's town house and I swore to you I
had no desire to take Izgard's place?  Ravis nodded.  I've learned many
things since then, seen sights I wish I'd never seen.  And I think the
time has come for me to fight for the throne.

Ravis took a breath and held it in.  Things had just become a whole lot
more complicated.  Cameron could not fight with Rhaize forces against
Garizon if he someday hoped to take the throne.  The Garizon people
would never forgive him.

Ravis met Cameron's eye.

Then there were things that Cameron of Thorn knew nothing about, other
claimants to Izgard's throne.  Like he himself.  Izgard's
brother-in-law, husband to his deceased sister, equal claimant to
Izgard's wife, Angeline of Halmac, in the event of her husband's
death.

Cameron continued to watch Ravis, waiting for him to speak.  Inside his
mouth, Ravis tooth found his scar.  It felt like knotted rope.  The
past was ooming to life all over again.  This man before him was
proposing they fight side by side for something they both had claims
to.  He was a good man, too.  Just as Mairay had been all those years
ago.

Feeling an unexpected tightness in his chest, Ravis took a few seconds
to still himself.  Why did things hurt more now than they had in the
past?  Nothing had changed.  The facts remained the same.

Careful not to let his emotions color his voice, Ravis said, Our only
hope of seeing a fast end to this war is if Izgard is assassinated, and
quickly.  If we're lucky, his warlords will start fighting over who
should take his place.  If we're very lucky, they may even race each
other back to Veizach in their eagerness to stake their claims.

You said an assassination couldn't be done.

Not by an outsider.  No: Seeing disappointment on Cameron's face, Ravis
added, After Tessa has completed her pattern, then perhaps we might
find a way.

Camron looked down at the sealing wax, then up again at Ravis.  His
eyes were bright with need.  Will you help me take the throne?

The tightness in Ravis chest lifted.  He felt as if he were seventeen
years old again.  After what seemed like a very long time he surprised
himself by saying, Yes.

Tessa didn't bother to wait for Cameron to return with candles.  She
took the wooden panel and settled herself close to the hearth.  In the
blue-and-orange light of the ash wood-and peat-packed fire, Ilfaylen's
painting glowed like the skin on the back of her hand.  It was signed
with an I in the lower left margin, and it looked like no other pattern
she had ever seen.

Straight away she knew it wasn't the copy she needed.  The palette was
limited, the parchment lower grade, and the design itself was oddly
angular.  The borders were typical enough spirals and interlacing XXXs
but the main pattern area seemed to be a series of loosely connected
geometric shapes.  Squares, oblongs, ovals, and other more irregular
shapes were outlined in a sepia-colored pigment, then filled in either
with more sepia or one of a handful of other colors.  Amber, a deep sea
blue, a yellowy green, and a dull sandy red were the only other shades
used in the design.  All the pigments had been applied liberally,
forming ridges and clots that could be felt with the hand.

Five colors, miss, Emith said, coming to stand by her side.  Only five,
and look what he managed to create with them.  There was awe in his
voice.  You're holding something painted by the great master himself
five hundred years ago.

Tessa held the wooden panel toward him so he could take a better look.
Five colors.  Five hundred years.  Surely it had to mean something?

Light for the lady.  Cameron strode into the kitchen, carrying two great
pewter candelabras.  His mood had changed from earlier, not lightened
exactly, but something close to it.  He seemed more sure of himself
now. As she looked on, he lit and placed candles in all of the separate
holders, flooding the area around the hearth with a whiter, more
serious light.

The colors on the illumination shifted with the change of light;
geometric forms sharpened, and a score of minute details came into
view.  The pattern began to look less like a work of art and more like
an architect's plan.  The border consisted of all five colors threaded
through each other in sequence.  Directly above it, brushing against
the main design, was a second, paler border consisting of spiky,
loosely crossed XXKs.  A date could now be seen on the opposite corner
to the signature, but Tessa couldn't quite make out what it was, as one
of the digits either a 9 or a O was oddly misshapen.

Cameron leaned over Tessa's shoulder to look at the painting.  I've
never really looked at this before, he said.  It was just one of a
dozen other things hanging in my father's study.

Those XXXs look like plant forms, miss.  Almost like reeds or grass.

Tessa nodded, instantly seeing the same thing as Emith.

A floorboard creaked to her left, and although she didn't look away
from the pattern, Tessa was aware that Ravis had come to stand by her.
His smell reminded her of the night they'd slept side by side on The
Mull, and disguising the gesture as a sleepy stretch, she reached out
with her free hand to touch him.  His hand came up to meet hers, and
for a brief moment their fingers locked.

Does this mean anything to you?  she said to Caruron,

returning her hand to the painting.  Spark any memories, resemble
anything you know?  As she spoke, Tessa stroked her finger over an
especially thick clot of blue pigment.  Surely ilfaylen could have done
a better job of thinning his paints?

Camron shook his head, but slowly.  I'm not sure.  There's something
about it..

Tessa circled the clot of pigment with her index finger.

Miss, Emith said, those XXKs remind me of the salt grass we passed on
the way here.

That shape there Cainron hit the center of the board the square with
the corners sliced off, is similar to the shape of the main hall.  But
it's not drawn to scale, and the other shapes sunounding the square don't
match the adjoining rooms.

Tessa flicked at the clot of pigment with her fingernail.  The lump
broke off from the parchment and went skittering to the floor.

Emith caught his breath.  The bones on Cameron's wrist cracked as he
leaned forward another degree.  Ravis shifted his weight from foot to
foot, causing his kid leather tunic to swish.

Lying within the crater of blue paint was a shock of pure gold.

A sharp thrill coursed down Tessa's spine.  Blood pumped to her face.
The hand that held the board shook, causing the illumination, to shake
along with it.

Emith stretched out a steadying hand.  It's an under painting, miss.  A
marker.

A marker, eh?  Ravis moved closer, touched the pinpoint of gold.

Tessa swallowed hard.  She was having difficulty breathing and didn't
want Ravis to know.  After a moment she had collected enough breath to
speak.  Tilting the board toward Cameron, she said, Is this a plan of
Castle Bess?

I'm not sure.  I can't make any sense of it.  I think I recognize one
or two shapes, but that's all.

Scraping the last traces of pigment from the gold, Tessa studied the
pattern.  Everyone was quiet.  The fire dimmed.  A few moments passed
and then she looked up, not at the three men forming a circle around
her, but at the room they all stood in.

Details, she reminded herself.  Details.

Fixing every angle of the kitchen in her mind, Tessa looked down again
at the pattern.  Her cheeks felt so hot, she was sure they must be
glowing red.  Her spine ached near the back of her lungs.  Gaze
skimming across the board, she tried to pick out the shape of the
kitchen amid the dozens of forms incorporated in the design.

She found nothing.  Her eye jumped from color to color, from shape to
shape, unable to find a match.  Frustrated, she banged the board
against her knee.

What's wrong, miss?

Tessa waved her hand at Emith.  I thought I would be able to find the
shape of the kitchen somewhere in the design, but it's not here.  As
she spoke, she flicked her fingernail over a second, less pronounced
pigment clot.  There was nothing but thinned sepia base paint beneath.
She tried a handful more.  Nothing.  Which meant all the other clots
and ridges were there purely to disguise the one holding the gold.

Emith made a polite humming noise.  While Tessa had been scraping
pigment, he had been studying the pattern.

That one there Emith's hand hovered above the board, not daring to
touch it looks like it might be the same shape as the kitchen, miss.

Tessa followed the line of Emith's hand.  He was indicating a tiny
oblong shape, no bigger than a baby's thumbnail.  It matched the shape
of the kitchen exactly, right down to the recess housing the hearth.

Reaching up, she planted a kiss on Emith's cheek.  Of course!  Why hadn't
she thought of it sooner: nothing was drawn to scale.  She had been
looking for something large to match the size of the kitchen itself.
Yet ilfaylen knew he couldn't draw a true plan of the castle it would
only cause too much suspicion he had to draw something that didn't look
like a plan.

Emith, startled by the kiss, actually took a step back.  I could go and
take a survey of all the other main rooms in the fortress, he said.  It
might help us get some perspective.

Tessa wondered if he volunteered such a thing just to avoid being
kissed again.  She shook her head.  No.  It's not just a case of scale.
It's perspective as well.  Thinking for a moment, glancing from the
large square Camron had pronounced as the main hall to the tiny shape
representing the kitchen, she felt her scalp begin to itch.  Yellowy
green pigment had been used to color both.  What floor is the great
hall on?  she asked Cameron.

The second floor, like the kitchen.

And how many floors does the castle have in total?

Four counting the cellar.

Tessa checked the color of the oval shape surrounding the speck of gold
pigment.  Didn't you say that beneath the cellar was a maze of old
tunnels and caverns?

Yes, but

There's only five pigments used to color these shapes.  What

Then that would count as five floors, wouldn't it?  Seeing the puzzled
look on Camron's face, Tessa continued.  if each color represents a
floor?  The kitchen and the main hall are on this floor.  Then this
shape in blue here she tapped the oval containing the gold must be on a
different level.

Camron put a hand on the board.  if you're right, then that would
account for the fact that none of the shapes adjoining the great hall
correspond to the actual rooms.

Yes, Tessa said quickly, because they represent rooms on different
levels.  See, there's an amber-colored room here, what looks to be a
passageway just by it in sand red.  Ilfaylen jumbled the whole thing up
because he didn't want people to look at it and see a plan of Castle
Bess.  He wanted everyone to think it was just some abstract design.
She could barely contain her excitement.  The whereabouts of the copy
had been hanging in full view of the castle and its occupants all
along.

What we have to find out, then, Ravis said, is which color corresponds
to which floor.

Camron nodded.  The sepia color is the ground floor.  I recognize the
shape of the inner bailey.  He indicated a large circular shape.  And
this his hand strayed to a long, sandy-colored oblong with many side
branches books like the great corridor that runs beneath the
battlements.  So that would place it as the top floor.

Then we have amber and blue left.  Tessa's gaze didn't leave the
pattern as she spoke.  The cellar and the level that lies beneath it.

Emith coughed.  I may be mistaken, miss, but surely the blue color
represents sea level.

Tessa smiled at Emith.  He looked ready to flee if she made another
attempt to kiss him.  Taming to Camron, she said, Are the cellars above
or below sea level?

Above.  To stop them flooding in extreme high tides.

Then the tunnels and caverns below the cellar are at sea level?

Yes.

Then that's where Ilfaylen hid the copy.  Tessa stood.

Are there any oval-shaped rooms down there?  As she spoke, her eyes
skimmed across the board, checking all the other shapes colored in
blue.  There were about seven in all, mostly long oblongs representing
corridors.

I'm not sure.  One of the caverns beneath the east wing might be oval
Aaarrh!

As Cameron said the word oval a scream ripped through the air. Everyone
stood still.  No one breathed.  Camron and Ravis exchanged glances.  A
second scream sounded, and then a mighty bang shook the castle.  Tessa
felt the ground beneath her feet vibrate.  Her skin prickled.  Eight
fingertips dug into the pattern.

Harras, hissed Ravis, his hand stealing to his knife.

Tessa, Emith, take those candles and head down into the cellar.

Tessa opened her mouth to speak.

Now!

Another scream sounded.  Cut off prematurely, it was replaced by a
deep, rumbling noise.  Cameron's face paled visibly.  He moved toward
the door.

Emith looked to Tessa for guidance.  She nodded.  Do as Ravis says. You
take the candles.  I'll take the bags.

Water, miss.  Emith's voice quivered.  I'll need water for the
pigments.

Ravis cut across the kitchen, plucked a pitcher from a shelf, and
filled it with water from a bucket.  He thrust it at Emith.  Here. Take
it.  Now go.

Tessa wanted to speak.  She needed to tell Ravis that the Barbed Coil
was capable of creating things far worse than the harras whatever had
chased her onto the causeway was darker and more massive than any
harrar yet Emith was already at the door, and the look on Ravis face
barred any kind of talk.

He drew his knife.  Cameron, how do they make their way down to the
cellar and the level beyond?

Metal squealed in the distance as Cameron turned to Tessa.

The stairway at the end of the corridor will lead you down into the
cellar.  Once there, follow the north wall until you can go no farther.
Eventually you'll come to a flight of steps only they're not really
steps at all, more rough-hewn rocks.  Take them and they'll lead you
into the tunnels.  He placed his hand on Tessa's shoulder.  Even
through the fabric of her dress she could feel how cold his flesh was.
It's very dark down there.  You have to be careful.  Some of the deeper
passages might be waterlogged.

Tessa swallowed hard.  All her previous excitement over working out the
details of Ilfaylen's painting was gone.  This wasn't some game,
arranged so she could show off her newfound skill for reading patterns.
This was real.  Grabbing Emith's bags from the kitchen floor, she
followed Cameron and Emith out of the kitchen.  Ravis brought up the
rear.

As they came upon the staircase Cameron had mentioned, Ravis leaned
forward and whispered in Tessa's ear.  Stay down there until I come and
get you.  Take this He handed her a small pack.  There should be enough
food and supplies here to keep you going for a few days.

Tessa was frightened by the tone of his voice.  Food and supplies?
Above her head, she was aware of footsteps pounding on stone.  Someone
called out an order.  Looking ahead, she discovered Cameron was no
longer at the foot of the stairs.  Something dropped in her stomach:
she had lost her chance to wish him well.

Ravis ignored everything going on around them.  He looked only at
Tessa.  If the worst happens and the fortress is breached, I want you
and Emith to stay in the level below the cellar for as long as you can.
Don't venture up here for any reason.  Do you understand?

But

Ravis put his hand on her lip.  His scar was a white line cutting his
mouth in two.  His eyes were no longer dark.  They were black.  Ldon't
want to lose you, he said.  Stay down there and keep yourself safe.

Tessa looked at him a moment, then nodded.  She couldn't speak.

Good, Ravis murmured.  Now go.

THIRTY-THREE

avis ran toward the noise.  Although he had 1J never been in Castle
Bess before tonight, he ,.Wwas familiar with its layout.  Garizons
built K all their fortresses much the same.

In his mind he was counting men.  Three screams meant three dead, maybe
more.  After switching his knife to his left hand, he drew his sword.
In the distance he caught a glimpse of Caruron running across the inner
courtyard.  His hair was dark with sweat.  Ravis considered calling out
for him to wait but pushed the idea aside.  Cameron would heed no one
until he got to the gate.

Just as Ravis stepped onto the fine gravel of the courtyard, a low
animal cry tore through the air.  It sounded like a wolf, only deeper,
colder.  Every hair on the back of his neck stood upright.  He had
heard the harras cry out to each other in the Valley of Broken Stones.
It was nothing like this.  Swallowing great lungfuls of air, he cut
across the courtyard, following Cameron's footsteps to the gate.

The smell hit him less than a minute later.  It made him gag.  Once,
many years before, he had been commissioned by a Terhas warlord to
patrol the perimeter of his estate.  One morning he had stumbled upon
two men digging up a patch of earth.  They were retrieving the bodies
of two cattle thieves whom the warlord had posthumously pardoned.  Dead
and buried ten days, the bodies fell apart in the workers hands as they
raised them.  Ravis still remembered the stench.  The air smelled of it
tonight.  Of corrupted flesh, damp soil, and death.

Spitting to clean his mouth, Ravis approached the inner bailey.  A
handful of men were in the process of barring the gate.  Caruron was to
the side, talking to a young man with dark hair.  Two archers were
positioned high in the east gate tower, firing at targets on the far
side of the wall.

Ravis ran his fist across his scar.  Things were worse than he thought.
The outer bailey had been breached.  Something had broken it down and
was now in the main courtyard of Castle Bess.

The sound of the sea grew louder as they made their way to the second
flight of stairs.  Stone flags grew rougher, wetter.  Many rocked as
Tessa stepped on them, revealing damp undersides alive with crawling
insects.  It was very dark.  Even with the two candelabras fully lit,
they could see only a few paces ahead.  Light hitting the granite walls
was converted to a dull amber sheen that strained the eyes.  From time
to time odd pinpoints of light sparkled as if caught in the bevel of a
jewel.  Emith said it was the quartz in the stone.

Heavily laden with all of Emith's scribing equipment, Tessa struggled
to put one foot in front of the other.  The ceilings were so low, she
was forced to walk with her back not quite straight, and her lungs
ached with the strain.

Crates, chests, covered furnishings, beer barrels, stuffed and mounted
animal heads, boards hung with rusting armaments, archery targets, and
a variety of metal cages and clamps that might have been torture
devices were all packed along the facing wall.  A salty, moldy sea
smell permeated everything, and as Tessa and Emith turned at the end of
the corridor and headed down a flight of rough-hewn steps, it grew
worse with every step.

One of the candles snuffed out, then another.  Tessa and Emith
exchanged glances.  A thin breeze brushed past their cheeks.  Tessa
felt her toes getting wet.  Dips in the steps had formed pools of
water, and ancient-looking tide marks of white salt banded the
surrounding walls at various heights.

If the copy is down here like you say it is, miss, Emith said, let's
hope Brother ilfaylen had the foresight to store it somewhere high.

It took several minutes to descend the steps.  Emith offered many times
to assist Tessa with the bags, but she held on to them stubbornly
herself.  All sorts of items jostled together with each step; painting
boards rattled, pigment pots chimed, and mixing shells clicked together
like crabs.  Emith spilled a lot of water from his pitcher, but he
maintained he didn't really need that much, just a drop.

When finally they reached the end of the steps, Emith was the one who
decided which direction they should take.

This way should lead us beneath the east wing, he said, picking a
narrow tunnel that was barely wide enough for two people to stand in
side by side.

Breath laboring heavily, Tessa followed him.  Her mind was in two
places: here with Emith on their way to find Ilfaylen's copy, and above
stairs with Ravis and Cameron.  Unconsciously she picked up her pace. 
Although she and Ravis were floors apart, they were working for the
same end, and it suddenly seemed important that she find Ilfaylen's
copy as soon as possible.  Time was running out.  Even if Ravis and
Camron did succeed in defending the fortress against the harras or
whatever in God's name they were Izgard and his armies might arrive
straight after.  Tessa felt her scalp tighten around her skull.  Once
that happened they were trapped.

Miss, are you all right?  You look pale.  Emith held one of the candles
up to her face.

I'm fine.  Really.  We have to hurry.  Even to her own ears her voice
sounded unsteady, and Tessa glanced down, avoiding Emith's gaze.

The tunnel led steadily downward.  Passageways branched off every few
steps, and from time to time Tessa caught sight of cavelike chambers.
Darting light from the candles revealed glimpses of high ceilings
spiked with stalactites, cut stone walls built around great fists of
natural rock, and pools of still water that seemed an unnatural shade
of blue.  Occasionally Emith would stop, pop his head into a chamber,
and pronounce, No.  This one's not oval, miss.  The echoes produced
were maddening.

Abruptly the tunnel came to an end.  Three ways presented themselves:
two fairly wide tunnels marked with broad chisel strokes where stone
masons had chipped away at the rock, and a third, narrower opening that
was little more than a fissure in the granite wall.

Emith moved toward the first of the wide tunnels.  This will take us
under the greatest part of the east wing.

No.  Tessa spoke so sharply, Emith took a step back.

We go this way.  She raised her arm in the direction of the slit in the
rock.  Something about its shape reminded her of the misshapen date on
flfaylen's pattern.

Emith looked at her a moment, blinked, then stepped toward the slit,
raising the candelabras as he did so to improve the light.  Tessa was
glad he didn't question her choice, as she hardly knew the reason
behind it herself.

The fissure was a maw of jagged rock.  As Tessa squeezed through, the
sleeve of her dress snagged on a sharp edge.  When she pulled her arm
away, the fabric tore, sending echoes ripping through the cavern. Tessa
cursed.  She felt blood rolling down her ann.  Forcing herself through
to the other side, she was met by Emith shaking his head.

No oval here, miss.

Tessa looked around.  They were in a small, low-ceilinged chamber
consisting entirely of natural rock.  The ground was hard and uneven,
and water had formed pools in the low points.  Seams of crystal
glittered around the walls.

Is there a way through?  Tessa asked, rubbing the scrape on her arm.

Emith glanced quickly to his right.  Not really, miss.

Following his gaze, Tessa saw a small opening at the base of the cave
wall.  It looked barely large enough to squeeze a body through.  When
she looked up, Emith was shaking his head.

Surely not, miss.  ilfaylen wasn't a young man.  He wouldn't have tried
to force himself through that.

Far in the distance an animal howled.  Its cry cut through the cavern
like a whiplash, killing all echoes stone dead.

Tessa's mouth went dry.  Emith looked quickly to the ceiling, then down
to his feet.  Dropping the scribing bags, Tessa crossed the cavern. She
was going through that opening come what may.

Emith ran after her.  Miss

No, Emith.  Tessa shook her head without looking round.

Cameron said he was just a boy when he got lost down here and what are
young boys famous for?  She answered her own question.  Squeezing
themselves through every nook and cranny in sight.

Rolling up her tattered sleeves more for effect than any practical
consideration, Tessa knelt by the opening.  She tried not to think
about what sort of creature could produce a sound so piercing that it
cut through layers of rock.  Purposely being rough with her body to
dispel such thoughts, she launched herself at the opening.

Rock grazed her cheek, then her jaw.  Eyes closed, breath held, Tessa
forced her shoulders and chest through the narrow fissure.  Feeling
cool air on her forehead, she opened her eyes.  Everything was black.
Bringing her arms forward, she felt for handholds to pull herself
through to the other side.  Her arm began bleeding again as it scraped
against a rough edge.  Sweat trickled into her eye.  Feeling the
beginnings of panic, Tessa kicked back with her feet, propelling her
body forward.

Losing hair, dress fabric, and skin in the process, she managed to push
herself through the split in the rock and into the adjoining cavern. As
soon as her legs and feet were free, she called out to Emith, Pass me a
light.

Seconds later Emith's hand appeared in the gap, offering a single
candle.  Wiping sweat and rock dust from her face, Tessa took it from
him.  Swinging around, she then peered through the halo of light into
the shadows and darkness beyond.

The cavern was massive.  Salt and quartz crystals glittered from the
floor and walls.  Towering pillars of rock rose toward the ceiling like
fossilized trees.  Below them strangely shaped boulders lay in heaps,
as smooth and flat as giant pebbles.  The cavern floor was a snarl of
warped and fissured stone, and salt and other mineral deposits formed
pale rings of white, blue, green, and amber around a dozen shallow
pools.

Holding the candle at arm's length, Tessa drew a slow semicircle of
light before her.  Eyes straining to see into the shadows concealing
much of the far wall, she traced the outline of the cavern.  At some
point during the arc, the hair on her arm began to prickle.

She was in an oval-shaped chamber.

Tessa swallowed hard.  Tears ached in her eyes.  She felt a  
J.V.

JONES

great rush of emotion: fear for those defending the fortress, love for
Ravis and Emith, and a deep aching grief for Mother Emith.  Everything
was true.  Ephemeras, the Shedding, ilfaylen's illumination to bind the
Barbed Coil.  Everything.

Miss, Emith called through the gap.  Are you all right?  Please say
something.

The worry in Emith's voice forced Tessa to take control of herself. Now
wasn't the time to stand and wonder at how such things had come to be. 
She had to accept the truth and move on.

I'm fine, Emith, she called, scanning the chamber for places likely to
conceal a chest, sack, or manuscript press.

I'm in the oval chamber.  The ground looks pretty treacherous I'd stay
where you are if I were you.

No, miss.  I can't let you look on your own.  I'll just

Please, Emith, Tessa cried, cutting him short, stay where you are. Your
shoulders are wider than mine you might get trapped.  As she spoke, she
moved away from the gap, gingerly testing the rock beneath her feet. 
It held firm, and she shifted her weight forward, choosing a path to
take her into the center of the cavern.

Stones and chips of rock rattled loose as she stepped around pools,
over smooth-edged boulders, and beneath great columns of rock.  Light
from the candle revealed translucent, ear-shaped fungi growing in damp
patches beneath boulders.  Tessa didn't like the look of them one bit
and changed her path whenever she spied any.

Scrambling from rock to rock, she became acutely aware that she was
following in ilfaylen's footsteps.  Somehow he had managed to force
himself through the gap and into this chamber.  He must have crossed it
in much the same way as she did: wary of his footing, anxious to
disturb as little of the peace as possible.  It was a fitting resting
place for the only copy of the pattern that bound the Barbed Coil.  The
cavern had all the scale and stillness of a mausoleum.

Approaching the center of the chamber, Tessa lowered the candle to
waist height and began peering into the shadowed recesses beneath
boulders and overhanging rocks.  She felt certain the copy would be
located somewhere close by the speck of gold had been painted dead
center in the blue oval.  Finding nothing but mineral deposits and more
fungus, she switched her search higher to the stone columns that
spanned the chamber from ground to ceiling.

Thick cords of rock twisting around each other created ridges of
shadow, gaping hollows, and hole like recesses in the stone.  Fixing
the candle in a pool of its own wax, Tessa began running her hands
along the stone.  It was cold and smooth, wet in parts where water
trickled through gaps in the ceiling above.  After finding nothing in
the places she could reach, Tessa moved to the next column.  Ilfaylen
had obviously been a slight man or he would never have been able to
squeeze through the gap in the first place so the copy probably wasn't
concealed at too great a height.  Tessa dismissed the idea that he may
have climbed the stone weight on any part of the structure could cause
the entire thing to collapse.

The gray, amber-flecked stone of the second column was laced with
fissures and cracks.  The ground surrounding it consisted of loose
boulders and fragments of rock that made Tessa nervous.  As she circled
the column looking for shadows marking recesses, she found it hard to
keep her footing.  Some of the fragments looked to have broken off from
the column, and she wondered if her movements might cause others to
fall.  Glancing up toward the top of the column, she checked for any
branches or swellings likely to break off.  Spotting too many
precarious-looking outcroppings for her liking, she took a step back.

As soon as her toe alighted on the boulder, it rocked.  Tessa felt
herself falling.  Springing forward quickly to regain her balance, she
grabbed hold of the column to steady herself.  The portion of rock her
hand fastened on to broke off instantly, sending her body tumbling into
the column.  Tessa's shoulder slammed into the stone.  Something
cracked.  The entire column shuddered.  Rock dust flew into her eyes.
Chips of stone rained down from the column.  The light went out.  Then,
as Tessa brought her hands over her head to protect herself from
falling debris, a huge slab of rock crashed at her feet.  Splitting on
impact, it sent splinters of stone flying into the exposed side of her
body.

Dust choked the air.  Echoes ringed the cavern.  In the distance, Tessa
was aware of Emith calling her name.

Still.  She kept herself very still, waiting for the echoes to subside
and the cavern to return to normal.  Her left arm and leg were
bleeding, though she didn't feel much pain.  The dust agitated her
lungs and throat, making breathing difficult.  Even though she knew the
best thing to do was not to move until Emith came with the light, she
decided to shift her body to the left, away from the dust flying out
from the rock.  Not being able to breathe fresh air reminded her too
much of the night in the cheese cave.

Placing her left hand on the ground amid the jagged pieces of rock, she
pushed her body round.  Then, as she dragged her hand free of the dust,
her fingers brushed against something that didn't feel like stone.

Everyone get back while I pour the oil!  Ravis shouted over the clamor
of splitting wood and thudding timbers.  Get back and stay back.
Cloth-covered bit between his teeth, flint swinging in a pouch at his
belt, and a full barrel of lamp oil wedged against his chest, he took
the last remaining steps to the gatehouse.

Smoke choked the air the creatures doing, not theirs and Ravis eyes
stung as he came to stand directly above the pile of dry kindling,
furniture, floor rushes, and wall coverings that Camron and his men had
just finished building.  Paces in front of the gate, on the cleared
gravel ground of the inner courtyard, the makeshift fire had been built
with the intent of slowing down the enemy.  Any second now Izgard's
monsters would break through the gate.  And it was high time they were
given something to think about.

So they wanted to play with fire, eh?  Ravis dug his knife into the top
of the barrel, prying the boards apart.  Well, let's see how fast they
burn.

Balancing the barrel over the battlement wall, Ravis poured the lamp
oil onto the firewood below.  As he shook out the last few drops, the
entire gatehouse shook.  The gate itself rocked forward.  Metal hinges
screamed.  The holding bar creaked like a ship at sea.  Ravis threw the
barrel the way of the lamp oil and then freed the flint from its pouch.
He didn't take the wooden bit from his mouth.  Not yet.

Swallowing a mouthful of naphtha-tainted saliva, Ravis glanced across
the courtyard.  The drawn bows of all four longbows men caught the
light, the men themselves mere shadows behind the string.  To either
side of them, the eight remaining swordsmen waited, weapons unsheathed,
shields up.  Most wore either chain mail or breastplates.  All had
helmets.  None wore full armor.  With the bit in his mouth, Ravis
couldn't smile, so he shook his head instead.  Camron and his men had
finally seen sense.

As if aware of the reason Ravis was shaking his head, Cameron raised his
hand in salute.  Of all the men forming a loose semicircle around the
fire and the gate, he was the most focused, standing forward a few
paces ahead of his men, his knuckles white around the haft of his
sword.  He didn't want to fight his countrymen, yet he would do so,
hoping to prevent a greater number of deaths later, when Izgard's army
arrived in Bay Zen.  Ravis didn't know if such a thing were possible,
yet he had no mind to dissuade Cameron from his beliefs.  He was just
beginning to remember what it felt like to have some himself.

A tearing sound rose from behind the gate.  Hearing it, Ravis took the
bit from his mouth where the naphtha soaking the cloth had remained
damp while he climbed the steps held in his hand, it would have
evaporated within seconds and dropped it onto the floor while he lit
the flint.  As he struck the flint stone at arm's length from his body,
a shot of cool air pushed past his face.  Crack!

Just as the flint sparked, something smacked into the gate.  The
holding beam exploded from its casing, snapping in two.  The gatehouse
and bailey shook.  The gate caved, metal staves popping like dislocated
bones as it fell.  The air was filled with the sound of cracking and
splintering wood.

Ravis grabbed the wall for support as he bent to pick up the wooden
bit.  Drier than seconds earlier, it ignited with a soft snap, bursting
into white blue flames.  Keeping his face well back, lest traces of
naphtha around his mouth catch any wayward sparks, Ravis held the bit
over the wall, holding back until the first creature emerged from the
other side.

He didn't have long to wait.  A fraction of a second later, a dark
shadow blasted through what remained of the gate.  Calling on the old
gods all five of them, the devil included Ravis dropped the flaming bit
onto the oil-primed fire below.

The moment the bit left his hand, he raced across the battlements,
heading for the stairs.  Even before his foot hit the first step, the
fire took the spark.  Less volatile than naphtha, the lamp oil ignited
with a short gasp, spilling channels of hot yellow flames into the
heart of the fire.  Drapery and soft furnishings kindled instantly,
creating a fierce wall of flame.

Something howled.  Glancing down as he descended the steps, Ravis saw a
creature thrashing through the flames.  A second one followed, also
alight.  And farther back, in the shadows behind the gate, others moved
forward.

Ravis ran a knuckle over his scar.  What in God's name were they?

So dark they defied even the light from the fire, they sucked away at
the very fabric of the night, consuming space and air and light.
Massive, but liquid fast, they seemed the complete opposite of
everything warmed by the sun.  Ravis mouth went dry.  He tried to make
out details, but somehow the creatures resisted scrutiny, like
reflections cast on a rippling lake.

More creatures moved through the gate and into the flames.  Some caught
light, some didn t, yet the fire slowed none of them down.

As Ravis stepped onto the gravel of the courtyard, Camron shouted an
order and the longbows men released their strings.  Arrows shredded the
air: gray flecks tunneling through the darkness, humming as they sped
toward the gate.  Ravis felt their breath on his skin.  A wafer-thin
second later, he heard them thudding into the meat of the creatures
chests.

Bone cracked.  Punctured skin hissed.  The creatures brayed and howled.
None went down.

Hit full in the chest by broad-headed arrows shot from a longbow at a
hundred paces, and not even one man fell.

Ravis licked the cold wire of his scar.  As he watched, more creatures
broke through the warped remains of the gate.  Stamping through the
flames, they dampened the fire with their bodies, making the area a
fraction more passable for the creatures following after.  Paying no
heed to burns and arrow shots even though their flesh bled and seared,
they advanced into the fortress.

Ravis drew his sword and knife simultaneously, making his way to Cameron's
side.  It had been twenty-one years since j he'd last fought with the
odds stacked so firmly against him.

No, miss.  You open it.  Emith pushed the leather pouch toward Tessa.
It's only right and fitting.

Tessa nodded once.  Her throat felt so dry, it ached when she breathed.
As she raised her hand toward the brown, agewrinided pouch, blood from
a stray puncture wound rolled down her arm.  Pausing to press her palm
against the wound, she took a moment to pull herself together.

Everything had happened so fast: the column breaking up, the rock
smashing to the ground, the darkness, fingers feeling the soft patina
of old leather amid the debris of stone, then Emith making his way into
the cavern to save her, bringing light for her eyes and water for her
throat and rubbing alcohol for her wounds.  Emith had been so gentle
with her just the way he used to be with his mother.  Watching him
bandaging the worst of her wounds, always mindful that he cause no
further pain, Tessa realized he needed someone to take care of.  He was
that sort of man.

Together they had cleared the area around the column of rock chips and
boulders and pulled the leather pouch from the dust.  Tessa didn't know
if the pouch had been lodged against the chunk of rock that had broken
off or had been somewhere else within the column when the impact
occuned and simply fallen out.  It didn't matter.  Ilfaylen's mark was
stamped upon it, and from the minute she had seen the highly stylized I
to right now, where she and Emith sat cross-legged in the small,
low-ceilinged chamber adjacent to the oval cavern, everything else had
been a blur.

Here, on the ground before her, was a leather portfolio that had once
belonged to ilfaylen.

There, miss, Emith said, placing both candelabras on the ground before
Tessa.  I've relit all the candles.  It should be bright enough to
paint by now.

Paint?  Tessa swallowed.  That was what the ring had brought her here
to do: paint an illumination to free the Coil.  Fingers rising
automatically to her neck to check for the golden barbs, Tessa met and
held Emith's gaze.  I'll need your help, Emith she said.  I know so
little.

Emith didn't hesitate.  Miss, the strength in my body, the wit in my
hands, and the knowledge in my head is yours.  I don't claim to be a
great man with a great mind, but what skills I have managed to acquire
in my time, as an assistant first to Brother Avaccus and then Master
Deveric, I willingly offer to you.  He smiled gently, his eyes very
bright.  Mother would have stood for no less.

Tessa pressed her lips together, unable to smile or speak.  First
Ravis, now Emith.  What had she done to deserve love from one man and
complete loyalty from another?

Holding that question in her mind, she turned to the portfolio, cut the
binding with the sharp-bladed lunular knife Emith carried in his pack,
and pulled the covers apart.

Rock dust and leather dust wafted up from the crease.  Smells five
hundred years in the keeping rose along with the dust: sweat, the warm
itchy scent of old leather, and the chemical bloom of dozens of
pigments.  Tessa smelled copper, arsenic, sulfates, ammonia, and many
more.  Hands trembling, heart beating hard in her chest, she pinned
apart the covers and looked upon the contents of the pouch.  A
manuscript rested in a makeshift press of two beech wood boards held
together by string.  A letter folded in four, then sealed with a thumb
of wax, rested on top of the press.  Beneath the press was something
that looked to be a length of wool or some other material, also folded
and packed neatly.  Flecks of dark powder sparkled within the weft of
the fabric.

Tessa drew in a deep breath.  To her side, Emith held as still as the
stone that surrounded him.  Flames from the candles flickered, creating
an ever-changing sequence of light.  Quartz glittered.  The sound of
the sea throbbed through the chamber like a pulse.  Tessa picked up the
letter and broke the seal.  The script was sepia ink, the lettering
sparse and readable.

Friend,

Do not despise me.  There is no need to name the wrong that was done by
my hand, we both know the nature of the act.  lam an old man with many
oaths broken: think not of the pride that drove me forward, think
instead of the Faith that led me back.

Act swiftly upon the matter within.  I swear it is as accurate a
transcription as the One God gave me leave to make.  Follow it well and
it will lead you to the four places you need to be.  May your paints
flow smoothly from your brush and your achievements begin and end
within your heart.  I will be a long time awaiting forgiveness,
ilfaylen

Tessa closed her eyes, a pressure pain ringing her forehead.  She felt
Emith take the letter from hand.  Everything except the sea was silent
as he read.

A minute or so later he spoke, his voice low and uneven.

Oh, miss.  He had such a terrible burden to bear.

I bear it now, Emith, Tessa said, surprised at the hardness of her
voice.  Avaccus bore it too, keeping it to himself for so long that it
turned his bones to lead.  She shivered, remembering the old monk in
the cave.  She didn't want to end up the same way.

Reaching down, she freed the woolen wrap from beneath the press. Specks
of black powder fell from it as Tessa brought it to her lap. ilfaylen's
shawl.  As she handled the fabric even more powder fell away the casein
that had once bound the powder to the wool long since turned to dust. 
Stopping herself before the shawl was fully open, she handed it to 6io
j.v. JONES

Emith to put to one side.  She didn't want her first sight of the
pattern to be some negative, colorless chart.

Emith handled the shawl as carefully as if it were spun glass.  Taking
his cue from Tessa, he opened it no farther.  You were right, miss, he
said, laying it on the ground.  About everything: the copy, the pounce,
the shawl.

Tessa shook her head, not wanting to hear any congratulations.  She had
done nothing except string a few details onto a single thread.  Emith
could have done the same if he had known all the facts.

Shrugging aside these thoughts, Tessa put her hand on the press.  The
beech wood boards were rough and cracked, and as soon as she cut the
first length of string, they began to fall apart.  Pulling off the
remaining ties, she handled the wood carefully to avoid splinters and
then opened the disintegrating press like a book.  Coming face-to-face
with a leaf of protective yellow parchment, she removed it and looked
upon the pattern beneath.

Dust settled.  Light from the candles ceased flickering.  The sea grew
as quiet as a lake.  The air in the cave gathered into itself, becoming
heavy and charged like before a storm.  Tessa felt all these things as
shadows on her back: they were inconsequential, curtains parting to
reveal a stage.  The only thing that mattered was the pattern itself.

Red, gold, and black were its primary colors.  Lines of blood red
pigment pumped minerals across the page.  Flowing outward from the
centerpiece to the side panels, they nourished the design like a mighty
aorta, breathing life into every outlying line and curve.  Gold was at
the heart of the page.  Gleaming on the outside edge of spirals,
carrying messages from knot to knot, it drew the pattern together like
a skeleton of spikes.

Black formed the shadows.  Nothing was drawn without it; it underlined,
undercut, and undermined everything.  By turns it robbed the gold of
its luster, then ran alongside scarlet threads, creating contrast.
Forming deep hollows for spirals to fall into, then cutting fretwork
and knot work stone dead, black took as much as it gave.  Maybe more.

Tessa's gaze darted from detail to detail.  The pattern was beautiful,
frightening, filled with power.  Spirals were taut springs, lines
hummed with tension ready to snap.  Curves strained against their arcs,
XXKs bulged like drawn bows, and borders seemed less like decoration,
more like shackles, lashing the pattern to the page.

There was nothing of nature in it.  No plant life, animal life, land,
sea, or stars.  The entire illumination had a deadness about it, an
unnaturalness that showed itself in each buckling line and curve.  It
had all the glassy-eyed false luster of a preserved corpse.

Tessa shuddered.  She felt out of her depth.

The pattern was an aberration.  Looking at it, she knew in her heart
what Ilfaylen must have known as he'd painted it.  The work was not
meant to exist.  Grotesque, artificial, and constrained: it was begging
to be undone.

Placing it on the ground before her, unable to tear her gaze from the
design, Tessa spoke.  Start getting everything ready.  Emith.  Mix your
pigments and prepare the vellum: we have a pattern to paint.  The words
were formal, stilted, but she forced herself to say them.  She didn't
want Emith to guess she was afraid.

Yes, miss, Emith said, his voice small and filled with awe.  Should I
match the pigments exactly?  The red is mercury-based vermilion, the
black looks to be carbon with jet.

Yes, Tessa said.  Then, No.  Whenever you can I want you to use
vegetable and animal dyes, not minerals.  This is a dead thing before
me.  I need to draw something with life.

Izgard flicked his wrist, and his lieutenant cried a halt.  The order
was immediately picked up by others down the line, propagating and
amplifying until every man, horse, and pack animal had heard it.
Slowly, gradually, over the course of a thousand paces, the dark,
pounding mass of Garizon's army ground to a halt.

It wasn't dawn, not yet.  But birds took flight, foxes found refuge,
and the heat and motion of the horss thinned the dew.  Mosquitoes still
bit.  Izgard saw blood on his lieutenant's neck and matching spots on
his horse's flank.  Izgard himself had not been bitten.  Insects
settled on him less and less these days.  It was yet another gift of
the Coil.

Should we build a full camp, sire?  It was the lieutenant.  Like every
other man in the ranks, he already knew his orders, yet he would never
presume to act upon them without direct confirmation from his king.

Izgard found himself warming to the man even though his skin was
pockmarked and uninviting to the touch.  He nodded.  I want everything
finished by dawn.

Turning to the horizon, Izgard searched out the yellow and-black haze
of Bay Zen.  He was not-normally a man given to smiling, but his lips
stretched pleasingly when he realized just how close he was to the
greatest port city in the west.  Seeing where Izgard's gaze was
directed, the lieutenant dared to join his king in a smile.

Izgard did not begrudge the man the shared intimacy, though he saw fit
to cut it short with further orders.  Set two squads to watch whilst
the camp is made.  And send a further two to patrol the borders when it's
done.  Our sons must be secure whilst they sleep.  Let Bay Zen stew
for half a day, waiting for an attack.  They had neither the manpower
nor the balls to seize the offensive.  While they sat and worried and
waited for the Sire to save them, three of their key fortresses would
be taken.  One to the west, one to the north, and one to the east:
Castle Bess.  By the time the sun next set over the city of Bay Zen,
the full force of the Garizon army would be poised and ready to
strike.

The lieutenant bowed his head.  Any further orders, sire?

Izgard spun around.  Scanning the ranks and columns of his army, he
noticed a single line of covered carts rumbling to a halt near the
rear.  Seeing them, he felt a tremor of unease pulse down his spine.
His two most precious possessions lay beneath the canvas of the second
cart: his crown and his scribe.

Unable to shake off his disquiet, Izgard turned to the lieutenant and
said, See to it that the first tent erected is my scribe s. I want him
ready and able to work within the hour.

THIRTY-FOUR

111I ax, fall back to the door.  Keep it clear until I lIHI sound the
retreat.  Camron spoke through a mouthful of blood.  Kicked-up gravel
shot

IJ against his left thigh and side.  In the acrid, smoke-filled
darkness, he could barely see Pax's face.  Yet he heard all the
eagerness in the young guard's voice.

Aye, sir.  I'm as good as there.  Don't waste another man to watch my
back.  With that Pax was off, slipping through the crossfire of blades,
claws, teeth, and gravel, heading for the main entrance to the keep.

Cameron wished him luck.  Heneeded it.  Izgard's creatures had overrun
the inner courtyard.  Stamping down the fire with their bodies, they'd
forced their way through the gate, impervious to arrows and flames.
Even the harras had fallen under thestrain of multiple arrow wounds,
yet these creatures seemed to feed off their injuries and their own
spilled blood.

Pain quickened them.  Grunting or howling when they took a hit, they
lashed out with taloned fists, sharp-boned elbows, and forearms as
heavy and deadly as lead staves.  All teeth, bone, muscle, and sinew,
they pushed, clawed, and cleared themselves a path.

Every part of them was a weapon.  Shoulders were battering rams sent
barreling into doors, fists were clubs, claws were sharpened blades,
and their dark open maws had all the jagged-tooth readiness of
man-traps.  They carried knives and short swords yet they used them
with no finesse, merely hacking and cutting, never switching their grip
to parry or block.  When they lost their weapons to hand wounds or
deflections, they used their claws and teeth instead.

Cameron still wasn't sure how they had managed to break through the
outer bailey probably exploiting some weakness Izgard had discovered
from studying the plans.  That didn't worry him as much as the fact
that the creatures themselves were obviously familiar with the layout
of the fortress and were currently trying to block all retreats.  They
looked and fought like monsters, yet intelligence shone cold in their
eyes, and a single will united them, making them think and act as
one.

Bodies lay crushed underfoot.  Cameron couldn't bear to look at them. He
knew he should keep track of how many had gone down, but he didn't have
the heart for it.  He had known these men for too long now.  To count
their corpses seemed a kind of betrayal.

Start moving back.

Cameron looked around at the sound of Ravis voice.  The mercenary was
directly behind him, his body a black shadow except for the
quick-moving silver of his sword.  Cameron was glad to see him.

Pax is keeping the main entrance clear, he replied, his voice hoarse
from shouting orders.

Good.  Ravis lunged at one of the creatures.  Then let's get the hell
away from here.  Glancing over his shoulder, he changed the grip on his
sword, hefting it over his shoulder like a spear.  Seems there's just
you and me left out here now; I think it's time we stopped playing
fair.  On the word fair he aimed the sword directly at the nearest
creature and flung it toward its chest.

Bone splintered with a sharp crack.  The blade penetrated deep into the
creature's chest, bringing forth a stream of dark, foul-smelling blood.
Howling in rage, the creature stepped back.  As it brought its claws up
to pull out the blade, Cameron felt a mighty yank on his arm.  It was
Ravis, dragging him back toward the keep.

If I'd known you wanted to stay around and watch the show, I would have
arranged to have dancing girls next.  Even as he spoke, Ravis eyes were
scanning the area around the doorway, searching out the course of least
resistance.

Realizing he was now the only one of them with a sword, Camron shook
his arm free of Ravis grip and began sweeping his blade in a defensive
arc.

While the creature hit in the chest howled and stumbled,

clutching at his heart, others moved in to take his place.  Feet
crunching gravel, jaws smacking, eyes small and hard as flint, they
spilled around their wounded ally like sea foam around a rock.

Ravis and Camron broke into a run.  High above them in the keep, two
longbows men took up position and began firing down on the first line
of creatures.  The arrows weren't enough to halt the advance, but those
who had taken previous hits, or were scorched by the flames, slowed.

Cameron felt a band of muscle relax in his chest.  If the creatures
could be slowed, they could also be killed.

The sound of swords clashing came from the darkness surrounding the
door.  Ravis flicked his knife from his left hand into his right.
Cameron brought his sword hand close to his waist.  Relying on the
archers to take care of the enemies behind their backs, both men turned
their sights to those who waited at the door.

Pax, broadsword in one hand, lime wood shield in the other, was
standing in the doorway, fighting off two creatures at once.  Blood
poured from a gash on his forehead and a seeond, lesser wound on his
arm.  Judging from the way his shield kept dropping, he was tiring
fast.

They're expecting us to keep them out, hissed Ravis to Cainron.  I say
let's force them in instead.

Camron barely acknowledged what he said.  His mind was focused on
reaching Pax.  Sword up, he met the first of the beasts head-on.  Anger
drove his blade deep into the grizzled meat of the thing's shoulder.
Sick of death, furious that another person he cared about was in
danger, Cameron fought with the blind, heedless frenzy of rage.

He hadn't wanted to fight again, yet there was no choice here.  He
couldn't stand by and see his home invaded and his men slain.  His
father had been right to condemn war Cainron had seen the truth of it
for himself on the battlefield at Hook River but that didn't mean all
fighting was wrong.

This was right.  It had to be.

Shaking off his doubts, Cameron pushed the two creatures back behind the
door.  Jaws open, saliva frothing as they breathed, they sucked up the
space in the hall.  Their smell was sickening.  Cameron couldn't bear the
thought of it in his lungs.  Exhaling sharply, he lashed out with his
sword, hardly caring if he sliced flesh, bone, or air.  Izgard was the
real monster here.  What sort of leader would do this to his men?

Feeling the beginnings of a new type of anger, Cameron stopped focusing
on the creatures before him and started focusing on Izgard instead. How
could that man call himself a king?  How could he send his countrymen
into battle in such a state?  What became of their bodies later, when
all the battles were won?  Barely aware of what he was doing, Cameron
forced the creatures to defend themselves against him. Anger took him
farther than any clever move; it raised his sword, placed blow after
cutting blow, made him forget what it was to be afraid.

All along he had been trying to figure out what his father really
wanted from him, yet here and now Camron started to realize the only
thing that counted was what he wanted for himself.  He couldn't rule a
country because his father wished it.  He had to feel it in his heart.
And right now, fighting against a shadowed enemy that smelled as if it
had been dragged from a grave, all he wanted to do was put an end to
Izgard and his plans.  The man should never have been allowed to take
the crown.

Wood rumbled behind him.  Glancing around, Cameron saw Ravis barring the
door.  Pax's sword was in his hand.  The young guard was nowhere to be
seen, but a trail of blood leading down the stone steps to the granary
meant he'd probably gotten away.  Cameron heaved a sigh of relief. There
was just he, Ravis, and the two creatures in the hallway now. The bar
across the door would hold for a few minutes, at least.

Ravis came and took up position by Camron's side.  Feeling the heat
from his body, Camron realized he had no idea what it had taken for
Ravis to close the door.  Sweat poured from his neck and temples. 
Spots of blood spattered his face, yet it didn't look to be his own.

Smiling, Ravis began tearing into the nearest creature with his sword.
You did a good job pressing these devils back, he said to Camron
between ragged breaths.

Despite everything, Cameron found himself returning the smile.  There
was something showing in Ravis face a kind THE BARBED COIL 4 6i of mad,
reckless joy that was impossible to ignore.  The man seemed to relish
all the danger of the fight.

Working together, they isolated the first of the creatures.  Already
wounded many times, the beast was sluggish, dazed from loss of blood.
Cornered, it lashed out ineffectively, roaring and spraying saliva,
whipping its head from side to side.  While Ravis watched his back and
kept the second, more dangerous creature at bay, Cameron moved in for
the kill.  Fear bubbled in his stomach, hot and black like boiling oil.
Knowing he was either going to have to take the beast's head off or
puncture its heart, Camron bided his time, feinting and badgering,
waiting for the right moment to strike.

Then, as if Ravis somehow knew what Cameron needed, he went on a rampage
across the hall: smashing unlit lanterns, splintering wooden chests and
doors, and sending displays of crossed weaponry crashing to the floor.
Camron's creature looked up at the noise.  With its guard down for half
a second, Cameron struck.  Putting the strength of his entire body
behind the blow, he sent his sword slicing downward, through shoulder
bone, ribs, and heart.

The creature screamed.  Chest convulsing, it fought all the way to the
floor.  Cameron tried to remove his sword, but it was too deeply
embedded in bone and wouldn't come out.  Unable to bear the sight and
smell of the dying beast, he turned away.

The second creature came straight at him.

Tired, shaking, and weaponless, Camron looked for Ravis.  In the blink
of an eye, the mercenary was there.  Dipping to the floor for the
briefest of moments, he picked up one of the weapons he had just
dislodged from the wall and with a quick flip of his wrist sent it
flying through the air toward Cameron, haft first.

Catching the sword easily, Cameron parried the creature until Ravis
joined the fight, and together they battled side by side.  Stronger and
more alert than its dying companion, the creature fought with all the
rage and desperation of a wounded animal.  When Ravis disarmed it, it
tore at them with its claws and teeth, springing forward, slashing
their clothes and skin.

Behind his back, Cameron was aware of more of its kind beating against
the door.  And somewhere high up in the fortress, the sound of further
battle could be heard.  Izgard's monsters had found another way in.
Over in the far corner of the hallway, the dying creature's howls grew
weaker and more human sounding, then eventually stopped.  Stealing a
moment to glance over his shoulder, Camron found himself looking into
the face of a dead man, not a beast.

Strangely Cameron grew more relaxed as he fought.  Ravis was always
there: behind his back, guarding his flank, stepping in front of him to
deflect or ward off a blow.  If Cameron felt his sword arm dropping,
Ravis noticed immediately and moved in to take the battle from him,
holding the creature back until he had regained his strength.  When
Ravis himself took a bad blow to the neck, Cameron stepped ahead of him,
taking the brunt of the creature's fury until Ravis had recovered
enough to rejoin the fight.

Cameron came to rely on Ravis without question.  It felt good to swing a
blow knowing that in the crucial seconds when his arms were extended
and his chest was wide open, the mercenary was there covering his weak
spots.

Together they wore the beast down.  Bit by bit, blow by blow, cut by
cut, they weakened the creature, until it was so groggy from loss of
blood that it began to make mistakes.  That was when, without a word
exchanged between them, Cameron and Ravis moved apart, encouraging the
creature to step into the open space in the center of the hallway, and
then attacked it from both sides.

Cameron lost count of how many blows it took to kill the thing.
Exhausted, drenched with sweat, sick to his stomach with the smell and
the gore, he kept stabbing the creature's flank until Ravis pulled him
away.

I think we can call this one dead, the mercenary said softly, putting
his arm around Cameron's shoulder.  That makes two down and only three
dozen more to go.

Cameron nodded.  There was no breath in his body to speak.  Unable to
stop himself from shaking, he lifted his sword to his thigh and began
to clean off the blood.

Here, Ravis said, raising a hand toward Cameron's weapon, I'll do that
for you.

Thinking it a strange offer to make, Cameron glanced at Ravis.  The
mercenary was sporting a purple lump above his right eye and claw marks
on his neck and cheeks.  A mixture of sweat and blood ran from his nose
in pink drops.

Ravis looked uncomfortable under the scrutiny.  He shrugged.  I used to
clean my brother's sword between battles.  He said it brought him
luck.

Seeing something he didn't understand in Ravis eyes, Cameron
relinquished his grip on the weapon.  I want to thank you

Ravis cut him short.  Don't thank me.  We're fighting for the same
thing, you and I. After holding Cameron's gaze for a moment, he began
cleaning the sword.

Cameron wanted to ask him what he meant, but before he had chance to
frame the words, the entire hallway was rocked by something slamming
into the door.  Splinters shot from the wooden crossbars, hinges
strained, and the creatures outside began braying like a pack of
winter-starved wolves.

Come on, Ravis said, handing back the spit-and-sweat cleaned sword. 
Let's get away from here while we can.  These things can only be taken
out one at a time I say we go find ourselves another doorway and let a
handful of the bastards through.

Cameron smiled, glad in his heart Ravis was with him.  The mercenary was
a stranger, full of unknown motives and hidden emotions, yet in all his
life he had never met anyone better suited to fighting at another's
side.

Tessa painted.  Belly down on the floor, vellum on a board before her,
eyes squinting, wrist aching, she held her hand as steady as she could
and copied a storm of scarlet spirals onto the parchment.

Glancing from her own pattern to ilfaylen s, which lay propped against
a rock to her left, Tessa worked on the detailed borders that would
frame the main design.  Instinctively she knew that copying ilfaylen's
pattern line for line wasn't right.  She needed to do more than
Ilfaylen, go further, deeper.  Use his designs to gain access to the
bindings and then blast them away with patterns of her own.  Ilfaylen's
copy was the map that would show her the way.

Aching all over, tired to the roots of her teeth, Tessa focused all her
remaining strength into the design.  To give less was unthinkable. This
was what she had been brought here to do.

She just wished she were better prepared.  There was so much she didn't
know, so much she had to simply guess.  Ilfaylen's illumination was
subtle, sophisticated she still hadn't worked it all out.  If it hadn't
been for Emith's quiet encouragement, she would have lost her way on
the very first line.

Emith was everywhere, doing everything at once.  If Tessa needed a
clean brush, all she had to do was hold out her hand and he would place
one into her palm.  If a new pigment was called for, not only did Emith
anticipate the exact color required down to the opacity and texture,
but he also knew how much of the pigment was necessary and what brush
size Tessa needed to apply it.  If Tessa made a mistake and applied too
much pigment to the vellum, Emith was there with his knife, scraping
off the excess.  If she painted too fast and her lines weren't as
smooth and fluid as they should be, Emith would cough and urge her to
rest.

Often, while Tessa painted one corner, Emith would quietly trace the
exact same design on the opposite corner in lead point  Mirroring the
pattern completely, he saved Tessa valuable time by providing a grid
for her to paint over later when she was ready to work on that part.

Emitlt forced her to drink when she was thirsty, stretch her arms and
legs before they became cramped, and chew on tiny clippings of rue leaf
to head off eyestrain and headaches.  There was nothing Tessa needed
that Emith didn't think of first.  if a candle grew too smoky, he cut
away the offending wax and then relit the wick.  When it grew cold, he
put a shawl around Tessa's shoulders, and when a cool draft started
blowing from the entrance, he blocked the opening with his pack.  He
even produced a small vial of almond oil from his tunic, which he
rubbed into Tessa's wrists to soothe her aching joints.

Always he was there, in the periphery of Tessa's vision,

helping, advising, preparing pigments and glazes, shuffling around the
cavern; by turns busy or thoughtful, never stopping to take a rest.

Although he never offered advice directly concerning the pattern,
sometimes, when Tessa came to the end of a section and found herself at
a loss for what to do next, Emith would hand her a shell filled with
pigment and say, Perhaps you should use this color now, miss.  It might
work well in that section over there.

He was always right.  As soon as he spoke, Tessa realized immediately
what had to be done next and chided herself for not seeing it sooner.
Never interested in taking credit, Emith simply carried on with his
work, silent until the next time his help was needed.

Part of Tessa was aware of all this, of all Emith was doing for her, of
the flickering light in the cavern and the sound of the sea on the far
side of the wall; but another, deeper part of her was gradually.
slipping away.

With the background painted and the borders and corner work fully
fleshed, the pattern stopped being a simple sketch and became an
illumination instead.  The vellum Emith had brought was now soft,
smooth, and pale as skin.  With neither pores nor hair follicles to mar
its surface, pigment glided over it like oil.

As Tessa put the last touches to the border, gaze darting constantly to
Ilfaylen's pattern to check for details, she was aware of a shearing
sensation passing along her body.  Thinking it was another cool draft
of air, she glanced over at Emith.  He had his back to her and was busy
mixing pigments as if nothing were amiss.  Turning back to the pattern,
Tessa continued painting.  Pinpoints of pain began to pulse in her
temples and her vision blurred, only to refocus sharper than before.
She could now see depth between the layers of paint and dark flecks of
impurities in the pigments as they dried.

Tiny tremors of tinnitus pattered in the bone behind her ears.  Tessa
felt things switching on her: the cavern appeared to flatten and dim,
Emith's body took on the look of a shadow, light from the candles
receded.  And while everything else grew smaller and less substantial,
the pattern expanded outward, becoming more than it was.

Tessa's first instinct was to pull back she had spent her entire life
avoiding the first telltale signs of tinnitus, and even now, after
months of being in this world, the need to save herself from pain was
strong.  Yet she knew she had to continue.  Upstairs, Ravis and Caruron
were fighting to give her time.  Somewhere out in the night, Izgard and
his army were preparing to conquer Bay Zen, and deep within his camp
the Barbed Coil ticked away like a clock.  One day from now at midnight
it would have been here for five hundred years.

Avaccus words echoed in Tessa's head: There is power in the number
five.  Ancient power custom shaped to be used by ancient things.

Shivering, Tessa fought to keep her hand steady as she painted.  She
wished she were stronger, braver, more sure of herself.  More like the
old Tessa McCamfrey.  Tessa's knuckles tightened around the paintbrush.
She hadn't changed that much, had she?

Unsure of the answer, she clamped her jaws together, gritted her teeth,
and drew a thick golden line on the page.  Tinnitus thrummed against
her temples, and all the aches and pains in her body flared as if they
had been rubbed with salt.  The gold pigment held the light long after
it dried.  Tessa caught the faintest whiff of an odor that had no place
in the cavern: the rich wet-earth scent of decay.

Tessa was aware of herself splitting.  The clearheaded part of her that
kept an eye to the pattern, kept the brush strokes in line, and took
things from Emith as needed stayed the same.  But another, less
detached part ran with the pigments down into the vellum.  Colors
brightened.  The air grew warmer, thicker, wetter.  Sounds, noises, and
sensations beckoned from the other side.  Tessa thought she heard Ravis
shout an order and then Cameron hiss a curse.  Something warm ran down
her cheek, yet when she raised a hand to wipe it away, her skin felt
perfectly dry.

Things crowded close: the high-pitched grind of tinnitus; sounds of
fighting, animals howling, and footsteps on a wooden stair; smells of
blood, sea sail, pigments, and smoke; and pain from every cut and
bruise she'd ever had.

Tessa wanted it to stop.  She was under attack from all sides; her skin
crawled with sensations, her head throbbed with noise.  Taking a deep
breath as if she were preparing to thrust her head underwater, she
braced herself and pushed her way through.

Through the paint, through the vellum, through the clamor of sights,
smells, and sounds, through to the other side.

Darkness.  Tessa opened her eyes in darkness so complete, it was hard
to believe she was alive.  Everything was gone.

Dimly she was aware of another part of herself far in the distance,
painting furiously away at a pattern.  The image faded rapidly, like a
dream upon waking, and soon all Tessa could conceive of was the dark.

She was nothing in it.  Nothing.

If her body was with her, she could neither see nor feel it.  If she
took breaths to sustain herself, they came and went with nothing to
show.

Isolated, rapidly losing perspective, Tessa tried to make her way
through.  All the nights she had ever slept through were nothing
compared to this.  There was no weight, no direction, no right or wrong
way; the only marker she had was herself.  All she could do was move in
the direction she perceived as forward.  Only every way was forward,
and every turn led her back.

Time passed.  Blackness folded around Tessa, leaving nothing for her
thoughts to fasten on to.  All sense of purpose drained away.  Light
was a dead memory.  Warmth was something beyond hope.  Feeling the
first flutters of panic, she tried to recall the reason she was here.
She had something to do... something to work against... Shaking
herself, Tessa fumbled in the dark.  The only thing she could remember
was her name.

Tessa McCamfrey.

And the fact that she possessed a ring.

As soon as the word ring formed in her thoughts, she felt something
pull against her neck.  Warm, sharp, heavy for its size, the ring
slipped into the darkness as discreetly as a letter pushed under a
locked door.  Aware of her body now, Tessa raised her hand toward it,
and for the first time since the day she'd found it, she put on the
golden band.

Instantly the darkness changed.  It grew edges and depth and began to
stretch ahead like a road.  The pain of wearing the ring was like a
slap in the face.  Tessa remembered everything, became aware of what
was happening on the other side of the vellum.

She saw herself, nose pressed close to the pattern, about to begin work
on the first of four knot work panels.  The corresponding panels on
Ilfaylen's illumination dominated his design.  Intricate, thickly
twined cords of gold, black, and scarlet wound around each other to
form a hard spine of knots.  Even after many glances, all four panels
appeared the same.  Looking at them now, though seeing them through
eyes that were, and at the same time weren t, her own Tessa saw that
each panel was minutely different.  It wasn't as much that their
contents differed, more the tension running through them.  All four
knots strained in different ways.

Tessa rubbed the barbs on the ring, thinking.  What was it Ilfaylen had
said about his illumination?  Follow it well and it will lead you to
the four places you need to be.

Four panels straining as if they held something down between them...
Tessa dug her thumb into a barb.  That was it!  Each panel represented
one of the Barbed Coil's bindings.  Her job was to re-create the four
bindings, then break them one by one.  Paint the problem, then solve
it, Avaccus had said.

The other, faraway Tessa took up her lead stick and began outlining the
first knot.  Emith was close by, cleaning gold paint from one of the
brushes.  He seemed pleased.

Turning away, leaving part of herself to work on the pattern, Tessa
took her first step down the darkened road.  Now that she knew what she
had to do, it was time to search for the strength to do it.  Painting
was only half of the job.

The ring led the way.  Pulling Tessa along by the finger, it guided her
through the darkness and into another place.  A vacuum rush filled her
ears.  Something sucked her in.  Black tendrils, heavy as lead
splinters, brushed along her skin.  Black filaments filled her eyes,
nose, mouth.  Mercury-slow lightning carved her image in the air. Panic
seized Tessa for one terrible moment, and then a memory came to her
like a gift.

She had been here once before for the briefest of instances when she'd
traveled from her own world to the world of the Barbed Coil.  She was
in the cracks and folds between time and space.  The place ephemeras
slipped in and out of, the place where Avaccus said the Shedding
began.

Like sand settling in still water, the black filaments cleared from her
eyes.  Things became known to her.  Other worlds, other places, other
times, other lives.  Other ephemeras, their purposes so subtle that she
could never hope to fully understand them, glistened before her like
raindrops on glass.  Waiting.  Tessa recognized one of them from her
own world.  Yes, she thought as she passed it, that too had slipped
away.

Pain, suffering, joy, love, and hate were all there in the refuse of
the Shedding.  Tessa felt the quiet push of other people's emotions.
There was power to them: the kind of power generated when a river
suddenly switches course in midstream.  Emotions were all changes of
mind and heart.

And with that thought in her mind, Tessa left the place.  The truths it
harbored were too vast, the secrets it kept too revealing.  It was a
place of utter ness  A crammed void.  Tessa didn't want to know and
understand it.  Like an ephemera, she was just passing through.

Turning away from Shedding and all the knowledge and confidences it
held, Tessa stepped onto the darkened road and let the ring lead her
back.

Moving through degrees of darkness, back toward the cavern and the
pattern and the shadow of herself she'd left behind, Tessa became aware
of all the noises and troubles around her.  Her wrist throbbed, her
back ached.  Fumes from the pigments stung her eyes.  Far above her,
separated by layers of black space, Cameron and Ravis fought for their
lives.  Tessa heard their straining breaths, tasted fear on their
tongues, felt sweat and blood roll across their faces.  She experienced
what they did.  And surprisingly, among all the panic and fear, there
were instances of joy.

Ravis fought with a heart full of memories.  Cameron fought with a mind
gradually clearing of doubt.  They protected each other like brothers:
battling side by side, watching each other's backs, sensitive to each
other's injuries and weaknesses.  As Tessa looked on, she got a sense
of something growing between them, a closeness built on spilled blood,
shared danger, and growing trust.  Both men were hungry for it.

Tessa's throat began to ache.  Something rolled down her cheek.
Thinking it was another ghost sensation, she ignored it.

As she came back to her body and reaffirmed her grip on her brush,
Ravis looked at her.  His gaze cut through all the layers and space
between them.  He knew she was with him.  For a quarter second, perhaps
less, they were together.  Nothing was said, no messages were passed,
yet when Tessa turned back to the pattern, she found the beginnings of
a new kind of strength.

There was power here, among Ravis, Cameron, and herself, and as Tessa
began applying paint to the first knot work panel, she drew on it,
shared in it, and gave out all of her own.

Ravis felt Tessa leave him.  There for less than an instant, she
brushed against his mind, then left.  Ravis couldn't decide if she had
taken something from him or given something back.  He just knew he felt
blessed.  Tessa was alive and well and had come to no harm.

Hey!  Aren't you supposed to be helping me with this?  Cameron put his
foot on the massive granite block he had been struggling to move.  Who's
stopping to watch the show this time?

Ravis raised his hands in an admission of guilt.  Truth was, from the
moment he had first become aware of Tessa's presence, he wasn't sure
what he had been doing.  Another of the creatures lay dead at his feet,
and his sword was wet and dripping blood.  Glancing down the steps to
the floor below, he saw a dozen more of the things breaking through the
barricade of chests, bookcases, stone statues, and doors ripped from
their hinges that he and Camron had built minutes earlier.  The beasts
tore through the barrier as if it were made of under wood

Ravis and Caruron stood on the second floor of the keep, at the top of
the stairs, in the great gallery that lay open to the floor below.  So
far they had barely managed to stay ahead of the creatures and
slaughtered less than a handful.  Ravis entire body was shaking with
exhaustion, fear, excitement, he didn't know.  Probably all three.
Cameron stood to his right, sweat soaking his undershirt and plastering
his hair to his head.  Ravis took a quick survey of Camron's wounds,
checking that none of the bloodstains on his undershirt and britches
had gotten bigger.  Satisfied, he came and stood by Cameron's side.
Together they pushed, kicked, and dragged the stone block to the edge
of the stairs.

Weighing more than a good-size millstone, it was dislodged from its
position at the foot of the gallery's main window, where it had been
placed as a window seat or lookout step.  Wet blood helped the block
slide along the floor.

Once it was in place, resting on the brink of the top step, they waited
for the first of the creatures to break through the barricade and move
forward onto the stairs.  As they looked on, one creature smashed its
shoulder into the last stack of chairs and chests, toppling it over and
freeing the way to the staircase.  Jaws snapping in triumph, it shot
forward.  Others came behind it.  The air was filled with the sound of
their hard, frothing breaths.

Ravis and Cameron didn't move.  By unspoken agreement, they waited until
the stairway drummed with footsteps and the first creature's head was
level with the top step.  Kicking out at the exact same instant, Ravis
and Camron sent the granite block toppling down the stairs.

Slamming into the first creature's chest, it sent its body flying out
and down.  The creatures behind tried to move out of the way; some
succeeded, but most were hit by the block or the falling creature as
they crashed from step to step.  Bodies bounced down after them; the
cracking of skulls and bones was almost indistinguishable from the
cracking and splintering of wood.

Cameron turned to Ravis and held out his hand.  Eight down, he said,
Less than three dozen to go.

Ravis grinned.  He took the offered hand and gripped it hard.  Let's go
and find the others.  Spinning around, he moved away from the stairs.

Ravis.  Camron halted him.  Do you feel it too?

Feel what?

Camron shrugged.  I'm not sure.  It's as if what we are doing is
important.  It means something.

Feeling his old harrar wound throb against his ribs,

Ravis nodded.  Camron was right.  By fighting here, together, they
weren't just buying Tessa time.  They were feeding her strength as
well.  Unable to find the right words to explain how he felt, Ravis
said, You and I have to keep fighting that's all I know.  It was more
than that, a lot more, but Camron seemed to accept what he said.

Let's go and fight then.  Camron glanced down the stairs.  Some of the
creatures were already recovering, pulling themselves off the floor,
their bodies jagged with broken bones.  Those aren't the only creatures
in the keep.  Others have broken through around the rear.

Ravis nodded, and together the two men made their way across the main
hall and through to the gallery beyond.  The sound of fighting grew
louder with every step.  There was no clashing of metal, no ringing of
blades, just the dull thud of flesh meeting flesh, high screams, ragged
breaths, and cracking floorboards.  As they approached a curved
doorway, the noise became deafening.  Blood spilled from under the
door.

Ravis drew his sword.  He knew he should be afraid of what he and
Camron would find on the other side, but a part of him was eager to
face it.  It was like fighting for his father's estate all over again.
They were being attacked on all sides, the odds were against them, they
never knew what they'd be called upon to deal with next.  Ravis glanced
at Camron.  And by his side was a man he was learning to trust.

A wet-throated scream set the door timbers vibrating.  Something
smashed against a wall.  Glass shattered.  Cameron drew back his foot,
ready to kick down the door.

Ravis placed his hand on Camron's arm.  Before we go in there I want to
tell you something.

What?  Camron barked out the word.  He was impatient to get to the
other side.

You're not the only one with a claim on Garizon.  Ravis increased his
pressure on Cameron's arm, holding him while he looked into his eyes.  I
was married to Izgard's sister.  She died without leaving a will.

Camron drew a breath.  His eyes shifted color from gray to slate. Cords
of muscle strained in his neck.  Why tell me this now?

Ravis ran a tooth across his scar.  He wasn't sure of the answer
himself.  It had something to do with Tessa, yet there was more to it
than that.  I want you to know you can trust me.

Seconds passed.  Something massive moved on the other side of the door,
causing the stone flags beneath their feet to vibrate.  Ignoring the
noises filtering through the wood, Cameron looked at Ravis without
blinking.  Finally he said,

Then we are together in this.  As brothers.

Hearing Camron's words, something deep in Ravis chest shifted into
place.  His eyes stung, so he closed them.  When he was ready, he
opened them again.  Finding himself staring into Cameron's face, he
nodded once.  There was nothing further to be said.

Right, Ravis cried, taming away.  Let's kick this door down on the
count of three.  One, two, three

Bursting into the archers gallery, they were met by the sight of
blood-sprayed walls, broken swords, and mauled limbs.  A creature
charged straight at them, claws smeared with tissue from whatever man
it had slaughtered last.  Behind it came something darker, larger, cold
et Walls shook as it moved.

Ravis fought.  He fought until blisters burst in his sword hand, until
the muscles in his shoulders sizzled with white hot pain and every part
of him was covered in blood.  Through it all, through the terror and
the pain and the killing, he never lost sight of Camron of Thorn.  The
man was seldom far from his side.

Quickly, Ederius.  Quickly.  Izgard leaned forward over the desk.  I
need to know what is happening in Castle Bess.

Ederius managed to nod as he coughed.  It took him longer than usual to
control the attack, and after it was over the cloth he held to his
mouth was speckled with blood.  He folded it quickly away.  Outside,
the sounds of hammering, construction, and rolling carts could be
heard as the camp was built around the one tent standing: his own.

I will work as swiftly as I can, sire, Ederius said, binding the
calluses on his painting hand with silk.  Though the gathelocs should
have done their work by now.

Izgard exhaled, spraying Ederius cheek with a fine, milk colored mist.
Take no chances, scribe.  Paint.

Ederius did as he was told, dipping his brush into pigment and letting
the first mercury-rich drops bruise the vellum.  He had hoped his king
would leave him to work on his own, but Izgard pulled up a stool and
brought his elbow to rest on the scribing desk, settling down to watch
the pattern emerge on the page.

THIRTY-FIVE

Come here this minute, Snowy, cried Angeline, too tired to chase after
him any longer.  The no good dog had found grasshoppers in the grass
and was jumping around like a mad thing, gnashing his teeth, pouncing,
bristling, and barking as loudly as he could.  Not all the grasshoppers
he barked at were actual grasshoppers, though.  Some of them were plain
old leaves.  Snowy didn't seem to care either way.  Anything that moved
and was a great deal smaller than him was fair game.  Snowy here. 
Snowy here.

Snowy came tearing up to Angeline, tail wagging furiously, tongue out
and lolling from side to side.  Angeline wanted to be angry at him for
running away from the cart before her tent was ready, and making her
chase around the campground in the dreary light of dawn, but Snowy
looked so funny and happy and just plain doggy that she couldn't even
bring herself to frown.  What else could you expect from a no-good dog?
Besides, it was rather exciting to be out and about so early, watching
all the goings-on in the campground.

Spying Ederius tent in the middle of all the mayhem of carpentry,
staves, poles, and piles of folded canvas that would soon become the
camp, Angeline found herself wondering about the honey and almond-milk
tea she had left for the scribe the previous night.  Had he found it?
Had he drunk it?  Had it made his cough go away?  Keeping a tight hold
on her hood, lest the wind blow it back and reveal her hair to the
surrounding workmen, Angeline made her way toward the tent.  She knew
Izgard would be angry if he found out about the visit, but more and
more these days she cared less and less about her husband and what he
might think.

Snowy chased a few more grasshoppers just to prove that he could, then
followed along at her heels.

Approaching the tent, Angeline listened out for any signs of activity
inside.  Sounds of coughing shook the canvas.  Not liking the thought
of Ederius being sick and all alone, Angeline pushed her way into the
tent.  Then froze.

Izgard was there, back facing toward the slit, sitting close to
Ederius, the Barbed Coil on a pedestal before him.

Control yourself, Izgard said to Ederius, who was coughing into a
cloth.  Finish what you have started.

Snowy growled.

Ssh Angeline hissed, letting the tent slit fall closed behind her.  If
Izgard noticed her entrance, he was too preoccupied to care.  His
fingers dug into the back of Ederius chair.  The side of his face that
was visible to Angeline was lit up by golden light from the crown.  A
line around his mouth hardened as Ederius continued to cough.

Recognizing the first signs of anger in her husband, Angeline willed
Ederius to stop.  She didn't want him coming to harm.

The scribe rocked back and forth in his chair, his shoulders shaking
and his throat pumping out hard, hacking coughs.  Angeline hated to
hear them and scrunched her face up very tight.  At her heels, Snowy
was so quiet and well behaved that Angeline wondered if he was actually
asleep, eyes open.  A few seconds later, Ederius finally brought his
coughing under control.  Folding away his hand cloth he picked up his
brush and continued painting.  Breathing a great sigh of relief,
Angeline bent and petted Snowy.

Now Izgard said very softly to his scribe, tell me what you saw in the
pattern that made you afraid.

Ederius shook his head.  When he spoke his voice was so low and weak,
it made Angeline's throat ache.  Sire, something is wrong.  The girl is
painting a pattern.  I can feel her knitting pigments around the Coil.
She is trying to undo its bindings.

Izgard punched his fist into the back of Ederius chair, splitting the
cross timber in two.  Go after her.  Destroy her.  Burn the skin off her
hands, her arms, her face.

Angeline shivered.  Snowy fastened his teeth on to the hem of her
skirt, then tugged on it sharply, pulling Angeline back toward the
slit.  Let's go.  Let's go.

Angeline snatched her skirt away, leaving Snowy snapping air.  Snowy
was right: they should go.  But Ederius was very ill and Izgard was
very angry, and she wasn't a little girl any longer.  And she wasn't
going to run away.

Tessa felt her body changing.  Close to completing work on the first
knot work panel, she drew shallow breaths and her heartbeat slowed.
Sweat stopped trickling down her back and along her neck.  Her eyes and
mouth grew dry, and her senses retracted, leaving her aware of little
but the paintbrush in her hand.

Her body was filling like a waters king growing heavier and denser and
slower.  It became increasingly harder for her to push pigment across
the page.  Somewhere high above her, Cameron and Ravis battled for
their lives.  Surrounded by a dozen thrashing creatures, they fought
with a singleness of purpose that allowed nothing to come between them
except their blades.  To break them up would have been more difficult
than to slaughter them both at once.  Tessa felt the power of them; her
body gathered it up and stored it, converting it to something else.

As she joined the final two lines on the page, she was aware of a
strange taste in her mouth.  The ring, which was still on her finger,
tightened around her bone.  Tessa felt only pressure from the barbs, no
pain.  Before her, the finished panel hummed with all the tension of a
coiled spring.  A perfect copy of a copy, ink still wet.

Emith, I need your knife.  The words fell from her mouth like stones.
She noticed blood running down her finger from where the ring had
broken her skin.  And a clean brush.

Emith was quick to do her bidding, handing her the finest sable brush
he possessed.  All the time she had been painting,

he had been matching pigments.  Using only vegetable or animal dyes, he
had re-created every color in Ilfaylen's palette.  Now, though, Tessa
wanted none of them.

She was going to break the first binding with her blood.

Ilfaylen's copy was as dead as stone  Its colors were mneral bright,
its vellum had the yellow-and-blue cast of a cadaver.  To break the
Barbed Coil's bindings, Tessa knew she had to give them life.

Raising a hand that felt heavy as lead, she turned the knife handle
until the blade was facing down.  As she leaned over the pattern, the
ring dug farther and farther into her flesh, itching away at her bone.
Blood rolled down her hand and onto her wrist.  Still, there was no
pain.  A slow, thick shudder passed down Tessa's spine.  Her body didn't
feel like her own anymore.

Swallowing hard, she brought the blade over the panel.  Eyes searching
out the main thread that bound the knot, she fought the desire to let
her arm drop to the floor.  She wished she could be sure of what she
was doing.

The panel consisted of one large, many-coiled knot, and although
several colors meandered through the design, one single black thread
held all the tension.

Tessa took the knife and began scoring along the line.  When the line
weaved through threads of red and gold, Tessa severed them with her
blade; when it twisted itself into tight, snaking curves, she slashed
along each minuscule fold, pinning them one by one.  Like a surgeon
preparing to operate, she opened up the panel, drawing back the skin
and exposing the raw muscle beneath.  The vellum was still in the
process of absorbing the wet pigment, and as Tessa's blade traced along
the line, it drove the blackness farther and deeper into the vellum.
Yet at dead center, where the tip of the blade scored deepest, a thin
furrow of pigment was scraped away.

The taste in Tessa's mouth sharpened.  Her entire body seemed to
condense.  Everything blood, senses, moisture, ligament, and bone
shrank inward like a curling fist.  When she breathed, she sucked up
more than air.  Pigment fumes, fibers, and chalk from the scored vellum
raced down her throat and into her chest.

Tessa felt the Barbed Coil.  Straining against its bindings like a god
on a leash, it glittered with complete and utter coldness.

It knew nothing of good and evil.  It knew only of war.

Blind, powerful, older than both worlds Tessa had walked on, the Coil
was a force unto itself.  One purpose drove it.  One thing fed it.  One
image alone was reflected in its gold.

Tessa's heart contracted, shifting downward in her chest.  A dry, tight
sickness shook her to the core.

The Barbed Coil had to go.

Nothing, nothing it had done so far, no wars, butchery, bloodshed, or
invasions, came even close to all it could do.  It could take a world
and destroy it.

With a hand too heavy to shake, Tessa picked up the sable brush and
dipped its tip into the blood running around the ring.  As fast as
falling rock, she brought the tip down onto the page, letting her blood
flow into the naked furrow within the black.

Everything that had been stored inside her body came out: all the
power, love, and brotherhood she had pulled from Camron and Ravis; all
the grief she felt over losing Mother Emith and the guilt she bore for
failing to save Avaccus life; all the anger she held toward Deveric and
his patterns.  And every bit of frustration, pain, and loneliness her
tmnnitus had ever forced her to bear.

Blood blazing with emotion, Tessa gave the pattern life.

Vellum crackled.  Black pigment hissed.  Tessa drove her blood into the
page, working it into the heart of the pattern; going against every
line, curve, and convention Ilfaylen had used to bind the knot.  Hot,
furious power flowed through her body.  Spurting out with her blood,
lashing downward with the brush, it tunneled through the parchment like
a terrible, fast-moving worm.

Something snapped.

A noise, like an arrow shot, whipped through the air.  The cavern
shook, sending stones and rock dust spraying from the walls.  The air
buzzed, ringing in Tessa's ears like a thousand tiny bells.  Pressure
blasted along her body, then everything stopped.

The first binding was cut.  The Barbed Coil was coming unloose.

Miss!  Get back!

Disoriented, it took Tessa a moment to respond to the sound of Emith's
voice.  Whipping her head around, she saw Emith standing at the
entrance to the chamber.  Something was trying to force its way in.
Tessa saw an arm thick with muscle and then a claw.  A dull thud
sounded, and chips of rock fell to the floor by Emith's feet.  A
hairline crack appeared in the wall directly above the entrance.
Whatever was on the outside was too large to fit through the opening
and was smashing its way in.  Inhaling sharply, Tessa got a whiff of
the smell.  She recognized it immediately.  The stench of the creature
in the abbey.

Miss!  Get to the back of the cave.  NOW!

Tessa jumped at the command.  It was the first time she had ever heard
Emith raise his voice.  With her last scrap of strength, she edged
backward.

The entrance wall shook.  Chunks of rock fell away.  A great laboring
breath sounded as the creature forced its shoulder through the gap.
Seeing its seared and bloody flesh, Tessa let out a small cry.  The
creature was massive, distorted, not human at all.  Even as she looked
on, it struck out at Emith, ripping its claws along his chest.

Emith!  Come away.

Emith shook his head.  Red lines bloomed across his tunic.  No, miss.
It has to be stopped.

As Emith spoke the creature blasted the wall with the full force of its
body.  The cavern shuddered.  Tessa's teeth banged together.  A huge
slab of stone crashed to the floor like a closing gate.

Tessa tried to scramble to her feet.  Emith needed help.

Stay where you are, Emith cried, rifling through the contents of his
pack.  It's not going to hurt you.  I won't let it.

With that he wheeled around and threw something at the creature's body.
It was dark and fluid, and it took Tessa a moment to realize it was
ink.  The black liquid coated the creature's arm and shoulder, acid
falling onto flesh that was already burned.  The creature let out a
high, piercing cry.  Emith snatched the lunular knife from the floor
where Tessa had dropped it and began stabbing the creature's ann and
shoulder.  Tessa looked on closemouthed as Emith flung him self at the
creature, striking out time and time again with reckless frenzy,
oblivious of the damage he was doing to his own body by driving himself
toward the rocks.  Tears gathered in his eyes.  His lips moved back and
forth, and he began murmuring words that Tessa couldn't hear.

Watching him, seeing how his knife hit rock as many times as it hit
flesh and his entire body shook with a kind of furious fear, Tessa
realized that Emith was no longer in the cavern.  He was back in his
mother skitchen, fighting to save someone who could never be saved.

When the creature began to back away, Emith pushed forward, continuing
the onslaught.  Sobs shook his chest as he fought.  Sticking its upper
torso dozens of times with his knife, Emith forced the creature back
through the entrance and into the tunnel beyond.  Tessa thought that
would be enough, but it wasn t. Emith followed after.

No longer able to see what was happening, Tessa listened to the sound
of feet slapping against stone and the soft gasp of breath.  Sobs and
animal cries soon blended into one.  The entrance wall shuddered from
time to time, and drafts of air caused by the moving bodies wafted
through the entrance, making the candles flicker.  After what seemed
like a very long time there was silence.  Minutes passed.  Tessa
strained to hear something, anything.  Then Emith appeared in the
entrance.  He held the knife out before him.  The blade was bent and
misshapen from being driven into stone.  Dark blood coated Emith's
face, his hands, and his knife.  Great strips of fabric had been torn
from his tunic, and his hair was ashy with rock dust.

It won't hurt you now, miss, he said, his voice soft, almost bemused. I
promise.

Tessa dropped her head into her hands.  Her shoulders began to shake.

Miss, please don't cry.  It will be all right.  Emith rushed across the
cavern and knelt by her side.  I'm sorry if I frightened you.

Tessa couldn't speak.  How could she say that of all the things she had
gone through, nothing disturbed her more than the sight of Emith
holding the bloody knife?

Here, miss.  Emith handed Tessa a scrap of cloth.  Although he tried to
hide it, Tessa felt his hands trembling.  You mustn't let what happened
upset you.

Bringing her head up, she said, I'm sorry, Emith.  For everything

Emith smiled weakly and patted her arm.  It's all right, miss.  Really
it is.

Tessa noticed that the blade of his knife was now free of blood.
Somehow, in the seconds she had spent looking down, Emitithad found the
time to wipe it clean.  It was just like him to clear up a mess
straight away.  This small observation had a calming effect upon her,
and after a while she let Emith guide her back to the pattern and the
pigments.

Taking the bent and jagged blade from Emith, she began scoring the
vellum.  Once again her body built up strength as she worked.  When she
was ready to use the paintbrush, the ring drew more blood from her
finger and she dipped the tip into the fattest red bead and sent it
down to the panel, to the center of the knot.

The moment Tessa's blood came in contact with the page, a wave of heat
blasted her hand.  A pair of wolf eyes winked at her through the
vellum.  Tessa jerked back.  Pain ripped along her arm and up toward
her face.  She smelled burned flesh.  Emith screamed at her to put down
the brush, but she didn't want to let go.  Someone had to pay for what
had happened here tonight.  Emith should never have been forced into a
situation where he had to stab and kill someone.  He wasn't that sort
of man.  He was kind and gentle and always thought the best of
everyone. Now his mother was gone and his life had changed, and someone
lay dead by his hand.  None of it should have happened.  None of it. 
This wasn't Emith's fight.  This was hers.  Setting her mouth into a
hard line, Tessa went hunting for the wolf in the vellum.

Ederius screamed.  His palm flew open and he lost his grip on his
brush.  A tremor, less pronounced than the one half an hour earlier,
shook the tent and the ground it stood on.  Automtically Angeline
looked to the Barbed Coil.  When the first tremor had occurred, the
crown seemed to waver, like something seen through the heat of a fire.
This time the gold dimmed.  The reflections it gave off darkened, and
for a moment Angeline thought she saw something monstrous reflected
there.  When she focused her gaze it was gone.

Here, Izgard cried, thrusting the paintbrush into Ederius hand.  Paint!
Stop her!

Ederius nursed his palm.  Even from where Angeline stood, she could see
the burned meat of his flesh.  Sire, Ederius said, his breath racing, I
cannot

Izgard slammed his fist into the back of the chair.  Already split into
two pieces, the wood fractured and broke apart.  Splinters whistled
into Ederius flesh.  Stop her!  Stop her!  STOP HER!

Angeline stepped back.  Snowy stepped right along with her, cowering in
the folds of her skirt.

Edenus began to cough.  His eyes watered and his skin grew waxy, and
his entire upper body began to shake.  Blood dotted his robe where
splinters had pierced his skin.  Angeline winced as he closed his
burned palm around the paintbrush.  Surely he wasn't going to carry on?
But he did.  Fighting the spasms gripping his chest, Ederius dipped the
brush into the nearest of his pots and drew pigment onto the page.

Angeline clutched the fabric of her skirt.  How could Izgard make him
work when he was sick?

The scribe's coughing grew worse as he painted, and with his free hand
he held a cloth to his mouth to catch spittle.  The lines he drew were
thick and heavy-handed.  When a hail of coughing pumped from his
throat, paint pooled on the parchment.

Izgard punched his finger into the spill, then thrust the
paint-wettened tip into Ederius face.  What do you call this?  he said,
snatching the cloth from Ederius mouth.  Take control of yourself.

PAINT!

Edenus tried, but Izgard's fury only upset him further and he leaned
over the desk, his shoulders shuddering.  Angeline twisted the fabric
of her skirt.  If only Izgard would give him a minute to recover. 
Seeing Ederius laboring for breath only made Izgard angrier, though,
and he pounded the desk with his fist.  Spittle flew from Ederius mouth
onto the parchment.  Only it couldn't be spittle, because it wasn't
clear. It was red.."  with blood.

Seeing what it was, Izgard screamed at Ederius to stop coughing.

Angeline let out a tiny cry.  She took a step forward.

Snowy growled: Stay

Ederius face was turning blue.  More blood sprayed from his mouth.  He
couldn't stop coughing.

Unable to bear it any longer, Angeline rushed over to the desk.  Her
arm came up and her hand bunched to a fist, and before she knew it, she
smashed Izgard in the jaw.  Stop it!  she cried.  Leave him alone.

Izgard whipped back his head.  Blood trickled from the corner of his
mouth, and he wiped it away with his fist.  His eyes were etched with
gold.

Seeing them, seeing what was and wasn't behind them, Angeline stopped
breathing.  Her stomach collapsed downward into soft folds.  Behind
her, she was aware of Snowy making anxious, yelping noises from the
area close to the slit.  Let's go.  Let's go.

Angeline turned.  Even before her skirt started moving to catch up with
her body, something exploded against her spine.  Joints cracked.  The
world flashed red and white.  Pain streaked across her ribs and back.
Stumbling forward, she tried to get away.  A shadow fell across her
face, a thick breath was sucked in, and then Izgard's fist found her
mouth.

Angeline's teeth smashed together.  Her bottom lip split, spilling out
blood.  The room began to spin.  Suddenly she didn't know which way was
up or down.  Toppling sideways, she brought up her hands to protect her
belly as she fell.

Please, she thought as she landed badly on her shoulder and hip. Please
don't hurt my baby.

In the background, Ederius coughing grew weaker and more wet sounding.
As Angeline struggled onto her stomach, she risked glancing over at the
desk.  Through vision blurred by tears and punches, she saw Ederius
body sliding to the floor.

Somewhere in the distance, Snowy howled frantically.

Let's go.  Let's go.

I'll teach you to strike me.

Angeline barely had time to work out what Izgard said before pain tore
through the back of her skull.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw
Izgard pulling something back: it was one of the cracked boards from
the back of the chair.  It has blood on it, she thought, preferring to
look at the board rather than the dark blankness on Izgard's face.

He wasn't going to stop until she was dead.

The board came down again and again, on her shoulders and arms and her
ribs.  Angeline tasted blood.  Dots of light shot before her eyes. Warm
wetness ran along her shoulder, pooling in the pit of her arm. The
world around her began to fade.  Then the board came up one more time,
at an angle to catch the soft flesh at her side.  Seeing it, Angeline
froze.  She tried to mouth a prayer, but her words wouldn't come.  The
board blurred as it came toward her, displaced air that cooled her
face.

Tiny paws raced across the chamber.  A low, vicious growl sounded, and
then something white streaked through the air, heading straight for
Izgard's arm.  Angeline saw teeth and dog fur and raised hackles.

Snowy, she cried, tongue heavy with blood.  Stop!

Fur bristling, tail down, eyes bright with purpose, Snowy locked his
jaw onto Izgard's arm.  Paws kicking air, the little dog shook his head
furiously from side to side, teeth sinking deep into king flesh, blood
welling over pink-and-black gums.

Izgard dropped the board in mid swing  Crying out in anger, he whipped
his arm back, trying to shake Snowy off.  Frothing at the mouth, Snowy
wouldn't let go.

Angeline screamed and screamed for Snowy to come away.  Pain was
everywhere in her body, but it meant nothing.  Only Snowy counted.

Moving back toward the desk, Izgard lashed his arm back and forth, but
Snowy's grip held firm.  Jaw fixed in place, teeth grinding bone, Snowy
lowered his tail.  Snowy here.  Snowy here.

Izgard spat out a curse.  His face was purple with rage.

Blood welled over his forearm as his body thrashed air.  Glancing
ahead, he drew back his arm and sent it smashing into the side of
Ederius desk.

Angeline murmured, No.

Snowy's body shot forward, slamming into the wood, back first.  A short
cry sounded.  Bones cracked lots of tiny ones Snowy's jaw sprang apart,
and his body thudded to the floor.  A second passed.  The no-good dog
made no move to get up.  The right side of his skull was strangely
flat, and fluid began to leak from his ear.

Close by, Ederius lay motionless.

Snowy?  Angeline asked.  Ederius?

Neither answered.

Izgard brought his hand to his chest, rubbing at the tooth serrated
flesh.  His eyes were on the Barbed Coil.  The crown seemed somehow
less than it was.  It looked almost weightless.  Izgard scooped it up
in his arms and, without sparing a glance for Angeline, stormed out of
the tent.

Angeline let her head slump to the floor.  She wanted to close her
eyes, but wetness kept getting in the way.  The tent was quiet.  Snowy?
she called to fill the silence.  Snowy?

Knowing no answer would come, yet powerless to stop herself from
hoping, Angeline cupped her belly with both hands.  And waited ... and
waited..  . and waited.  Still Snowy didn't move.  Mter a long while,
she shook her head.  Such a silly, disobedient, reckless, fearless,
no-good dog.  And she loved him so much, it tore at her heart.

Struggling to her feet, feeling so much pain in so many places that she
found herself oddly detached from it all, Angeline made her way toward
the desk.  Broken bones slowed her down but did not stop her.  First
she went to Ederius, laying her hand over his mouth to check for air.
There was none, so she closed his eyes and folded his hands across his
chest and told him she was sorry many times.  His face looked very
beautiful, and it seemed to Angeline that he looked younger than he
ever had before.  Worry no longer creased his brow.  She would have
liked to lay a kiss on his cheek, but her lip was still bleeding and
she didn't think it was right to stain his skin.  Ederius had always
been so tidy about himself.

Turning away from the scribe's body, Angeline took a breath to steady
herself, then looked at Snowy.

The no-good dog looked asleep.  Angeline took him in her arms and held
him to her chest.  He didn't feel like Snowy anymore, more like a
pillow stuffed with bones, but she held him all the same.  He was warm
and his gums were still wet, and a torn-off bit of grasshopper was
lodged between his paws.  No, Angeline corrected herself, pulling away
the fleck of green stuff.  It wasn't a grasshopper at all.  Just a
leaf.

Smiling gently, Angeline put down the little dog.  It was hard to pull
away.  Rising to her feet, she cupped her belly with both hands, trying
to fill the emptiness left by Snowy.  It didn't go.  It wouldn't go. It
would be with her always.

Biting down on her broken lip, trying to be as strong as Father had
taught her, Angeline made her way to the opposite side of the desk.

THIRTY-SIX

( blood drying beneath Ravis tunic reeked.  stung his left eye.  A
blister on his Something word hand leaked pus onto the handle of his t
made his grip surer.  Half a dozen paces ahead of him, Camron traced a
line in blood.

They were on the battlements, at the top of the keep, standing beneath
the blue-gray sky of a new dawn.  One more of the creatures lay dead
his skull cleaved in two by Cameron's ax.  Cameron drew its blood across
the flags with the toe of his boot.  Ravis knew it would have been his
blood on the flags if it hadn't been for the quickness of Cameron's
hand.  Cornered, unweaponed, out of breath, space, and time, Ravis saw
the blade coming that would tear throigh his side.  He saw his own
reflection in the metal.  Then Cameron, whom he had left searching for
weapons on the stairs, was there, burying his ax deep into the creature's
skull, stopping the blow in midstrike.

Ravis glanced at Cameron.  His face was a patchwork of claw marks,
bruises, lumps, and scabs.  Half his left eyebrow had been torn away,
and the eye beneath was leaking blood.  Catching Ravis looking at him,
Cameron gestured toward the line he was drawing.  Standing around doing
nothing again, Burano.

Ravis grinned.  It hurt quite a bit of his face to do so and reopened
at least two scabbed-up wounds, but it was worth it.  Cameron of Thorn
was worth it.

Beneath the ripping of the wind and the crashing of the sea, a third,
more insistent sound could be heard: footsteps rising from below.  The
last of the creatures were coming.

Caruron stepped onto Ravis side of the line and came to stand beside
him.  Both ipen weighed their axes across their chests.  Ravis didn't
know how many of Izgard's creatures were left after the first dozen
slaughtered he stopped keeping count.  He didn't know what weapons they
would carry or what state they would be in.  He just knew that it felt
good to be here, with a woman worth fighting for many floors below him
and a man worth fighting with an ann's length from his side.

This was all he wanted.

Chewing on his scar, watching the line Cameron had drawn across the
battlements dry and turn brown in the warm, salty air, Ravis wondered
if Mairay had been right all along.  Perhaps he could never be more
than a fighter.

Suddenly that didn't seem like such a bad thing.  Maybe, when all this
was over, he would send a letter to Malray.  Maybe he would ask for a
truce.

At that instant, the battlement gate burst open and Izgard's creatures
charged onto the roof, pushing the last traces of the night before
them.  Maws bristling with teeth, snouts notched with bone, they
siphoned off the fresh air of the sea and replaced it with a stench all
their own.

Ravis and Cameron exchanged a glance.  They waited until the creatures
crossed the line of blood and then came out to meet them.

Tessa drew the last line of blood on the fourth panel.  Closing her
eyes, she tensed her muscles and waited to feel the impact of the
unloosing.

Nothing.  The overhead rock creaked once and a small amount of dust
tumbled to the floor.  The ground didn't shake, the air remained still,
there was no sense of anything changing.

Tessa's chin fell to her chest.  Glancing at Emith, she said,

I don't understand.  All four bindings are broken.  Ilfaylen said in
his letter that there were four places I needed to be and I've been to
them, yet the Barbed Coil is still here.  I can feel it.

Emith made a thinking noise.  Did you do everything the same, miss?
Perhaps you ran out of strength.

Tessa shook her head.  Power was all around her.  It fed the air in the
cave.  Wherever Camron and Ravis were, whatever they were doing, what
emotions they were feeling, were so strong that Tessa could feel them
weighing upon her shoulders like a thick winter coat.  There was a new
source of power, too.  Another person farther away, but still close
changing, fighting, becoming someone else.  Tessa's body gathered
strength from all three.

But for what?  The final binding had been broken.  Her work should be
done.

Tired, frustrated, the burns on her palm jabbing away at her nerves
like hot needles, Tessa went to pull off the ring.  She couldn't stop
her hands from shaking, though, and when she tugged at the gold, the
barbs dug deeper into her skin.  Fresh blood welled around the base of
her finger.  She beat her hand against the cavern floor.  The ring
wouldn't give.

Miss, come away.  Rest for five minutes.  Emith tugged at her arm.  Let
me bandage those burns.

Tessa's scalp itched.  She barely heard the last thing Emith said.

Five minutes.

Five.

Avaccus words echoed in her ear: There is power in the number five.
Ancient power custom shaped to be used by ancient things.

Tessa felt as if she were hearing them for the first time.  Her pulse
quickened.  Leaning forward, she looked over Ilfaylen's copy.  The
scribe believed he had bound the Barbed Coil four times.  What if the
entire pattern itself formed a fifth binding and Ilfaylen hadn't known
it?

Throwing back her head, Tessa closed her eyes, took a long deep breath,
and counted to five.  She had no choice but to carry on.  I need some
new pigments, Emith, and a clean brush.  As she spoke, she was aware of
her voice dragging over the words.  She was exhausted.  She couldn't
remember the last time she had slept.  I'm going to paint another
panel.  In the center.

Are you sure it's safe, miss?

Whoever was trying to stop me is gone.  Tessa shuddered.  Dead.

Emith bit back a small cry.  I'll get the pigments ready.

Tessa waited.  She felt her body growing heavier and slower, filling up
with strength.  Like a magnet attracting metal filings, the ring pulled
it in, fastening the power to Tessa's bones, preparing her for the work
she had to do.  Paired ephemeras, Avaccus had said.  The ring is a
sister piece to the Barbed Coil and is working through you to free it.
Feeling the base of her finger pulsing, and the barbs scratching away
at her bone, Tessa knew he was right.  Izgard's scribe had seen the
truth of it, too.  Her own anger had carried her only so far; the ring
had done the rest.

Here, miss.  Emith held out two shells filled with black and gold
pigment.  I've made them nice and thin so they'll be easy to work
with.

Tessa took the shells from Emith.  Seeing him now, she found it hard to
believe he had killed the creature only two hours earlier.  The blood
on his cheeks and beneath his fingernails had gone.  The tears in his
tunic had either been pinned, patched, or pasted, and the rock dust had
been combed from his hair.  Yet even though he looked neat and
composed, his hands still trembled as he passed Tessa the shells.

The skin on her own hands was taut, burned.  Her stomach felt heavy and
jagged, like a split stone.  Crouching before the pattern, she groped
for the image of the Barbed Coil.  It came to her immediately, blinding
like a glance into the sun.  The paintbrush felt awkward in her hand,
but despite the burns and the fear and the heaviness, she didn't lose
her grip.

The first dot of pigment on the page set the cavern floor rumbling.  A
band of cool air unsettled the dust.  Light from the candles
brightened.  The crashing of the sea grew louder, more insistent.  It
sounded like a beating heart.

Drawing power from many sources, eyes darting constantly to ilfaylen's
copy for guidance, Tessa painted.  There was ancient power in the
number five, she could feel it massing in the bones behind her wrist.

Marcel of Vailing always slept well and deeply.  When the city of Bay
Zen shook, causing his town house to tremble and his bed to rock, it
only sent him further to sleep.  He dreamed he was lying inside a giant
purse swinging from a rich man's belt.  He did not wake.  Upstairs, one
of his glass-topped lanterns still burning due to an oversight by his
ravishing but absentminded maid fell to the ground and smashed.  Still
he did not wake.  Nor did he wake when oil-hot flames spilled over his
desk, setting his latest set of figures a little chart designed to show
his most valued clients that enemy occupation needn't necessarily have
an adverse affect on their investments ablaze.  Similarly, when flames
spread to the curtains and walls, and the entire top floor filled with
smoke, Marcel continued to sleep like a baby.  The rich man's purse was
so very, very cozy.

It was only when smoke started pouring beneath his bedchamber door, and
flames from the floor above began to tear through the ceiling, that
Marcel finally stirred.  And by that time it was too late.

Black clouds rolled across the sky, turning the thin light of dawn into
night.  The earth rumbled, causing partially constructed tents and
corrals to collapse.  Izgard heard camp workmen calling to each other,
shouting warnings and curses, speculating over the cause.  All agreed
it was a bad omen.

The air stank of sulfur.  The darkness itself seemed to be tinged with
a yellow casL Izgard didn't like it.  He moved farther from the camp,
the Barbed Coil pressed close to his chest.  Men and lords approached
him, but he sent them all away.  He couldn't bear to look at them.  To
meet their eyes for even half a moment meant shifting his gaze from the
Coil.

The barbs drew less and less blood as he walked.  The pain they
inflicted became duller and less substantial.  And then there was no
pain at all.

Izgard fell to his knees, clutching at his crown.  The Barbed Coil felt
as light as a shadow.  Its gold edges dimmed as he watched.  Its long,
gleaming coils stopped reflecting the outside world and began
reflecting something inside instead.  Something dark and unavoidable,
like death.

Thunder crashed down from the sky.  The earth Izgard knelt on buckled
and thrashed.  Grasshoppers and grass flies took flight.  A sound, like
the howl of a wild animal trapped below ground in a tunnel or a well,
broke through the darkening air.

The Barbed Coil winked once, then slipped away.

No!  screamed Izgard, tearing at the emptiness it left behind.  NO!

Angeline took the pins from her hair and shook out her golden locks.
She undid the ties on her cloak and let it fall to the ground as she
walked.  Soldiers stared at her.  Workmen called to her.  One lord
offered to accompany her back to her tent.  She shook them all off.
Perhaps they thought she had been beaten witless by her husband or
gripped by sudden madness.  She didn't care.

It wasn't hard to walk, not really.  One arm and perhaps a rib or two
were broken.  Other pains in her head and jaw and back bothered her,
but she knew Father would have considered it cowardly if his daughter
had given in to pain.  So she didn t. She hadn't even changed her dress
from earlier, but she had cleaned away as much of the blood as she
could reach.  The water she bathed in turned red rather quickly, and
she had avoided looking at it after a while.

The flask she held kept her hands warm as she walked.  The lid was on
extra tight to keep in the heat of the drink.  Angeline wondered why
she felt so cold, as the air surrounding her was stuffy and humid, like
before a summer storm.  She shrugged.  Perhaps it was the steel in her
Halmac bones.

She walked through the long grass out of the camp.  She didn't think of
anything as she hiked over banks of crumbling white stone and fields of
yellow grain.  Thinking only made her weak.

After a while she spotted him, lying facedown in the shade of a beech
tree.  The Barbed Coil had left him she knew that even before she got
close enough to see.  His shoulders were shaking, and odd sounds not
quite words escaped from his throat.  He was covered by many different
types of blood, and his fingernails were caked in dirt.

He looked up as she approached.  Angeline?  His voice was soft,
distracted.  She had brought the sun with her, and he squinted as he
looked into her face.  It's gone.

Angeline nodded.  I know.

Ederius?

He is dead.

Izgard closed his eyes.  God forgive me.

Angeline knelt at his side.  His eyes were clear now, and it hurt her
to look into them.

Raising a hand to her cheek, he said, My beautiful Angeline.  My angel.
What have I done?

His touch was gentle.  Angeline felt her body respond to it against her
will.  She fought herself.  I have brought you something, my lord she
said, indicating the flask.  Some of my special honey and almond-milk
tea.  I always made it for Father when he was unwell.  As she spoke,
she took the stopper from the flask, allowing the aroma of honey and
almonds to fill the space between them.  I've even brought a cup.

Izgard stroked her cheek, then her hair, as she poured the drink. Tears
glistened in his eyes.  Ederius, he said softly.  And then: Did he feel
much pain?

Angeline did not answer.  She tried to stop her throat from aching but
couldn't She offered him the filled cup.

My lord she said.

He looked into her eyes.  Will you not join me in this?

Everything that was inside Angeline wavered.  Breath caught in her
throat.  Sweat formed like dew on the palm of her outstretched hand.
She couldn't think of Snowy and Ederius the pain was too new, it hurt
too much so she thought of her baby instead.  Her free hand came to
rest on her belly, and from somewhere she found the strength to meet
his eye.  Perhaps I will take a sip later, my lord.  Your need is
greater than mine.

Izgard hesitated.

Do you not trust your own wife, my lord?  Angeline asked, holding the
cup steady.  I prepared it myself.

After what seemed a very long time, Izgard held out his hand.  Their
fingers touched for a moment, and then he brought the cup to his lips.
He never took his eyes from her as he drank.  Angeline, held his gaze
all the way.  Inside her heart was pounding, and a terrible sickness
churned away in her stomach, but outwardly she remained calm.  For
Snowy.  For Ederius.  For the baby.

When he had finished drinking, Izgard settled himself back in the
grass.  He yawned.

Rest now Angeline said.  I will watch over you while you sleep.

Izgard nodded.  He closed his eyes and within minutes he was asleep.

After listening to the rhythm of his breaths for a while, Angeline
struggled to her feet.  It was time to go.  She didn't know how long
Ederius white arsenic pigment would take to work, and she couldn't bear
the thought of healing Izgard cry out in pain.  Picking the flask from
the grass, careful to get none of the milky fluid on her skin, she
replaced the stopper, tucked the flask under her belt, and then turned
and walked away.

Through grass fields and into the beech forest, through the forest and
onto the salt marshes, through expanding bands of sunlight and warming
air, she walked until she could go no farther, until the edges of her
broken bones pierced her skin, until the bruise on her jaw swelled up
so much that she could no longer open her mouth to breathe, and until
the memory of holding Snowy's lifeless body in her arms finally went
away.  Collapsing amid ghost crabs, tiger moths, and sandwort, on a
stretch of salt white soil, Angeline drew her aching body into a ball
and settled down to rest.  She couldn't go any farther, couldn't think
anymore, couldn't decide if what she had done was wrong or right.

Closing her eyes, drifting off into the welcoming darkness, she
imagined herself back at Castle Halmac with Father and Snowy, sitting
close around the fire, safe and sound.  She wished with all her heart
she were back there.  Gerta was right.  No good had ever come to a lady
while she was outside.

THIRTY-SEVEN

vis made his way down through the keep.

sand odies littered every step and passageway, he passed none by
without checking for of life.  Pax helped him carry the few who were
still breathing.  Together they moved the injured men into the kitchen,
placing them close to the fire and wrapping them in blankets, seeing
that each man got water or brandy, or both.  Quickly Ravis showed Pax
how to stanch wounds.  He wanted to go and find Tessa, check that she
and Emith were unharmed, yet somehow there was always one more task to
do.  Wounds had to be cleaned and wouldn't wait; embedded claws and
teeth needed to be picked out by hand; alcohol had to be splashed onto
raw tissue, blood vessels cauterized, and skin stitched.  Pain had to
be eased.  These were his men, his troop.  They had fought long and
hard against all odds, and he couldn't turn his back and leave them.

His own pain was nothing.  His tongue and gums had been split, a
portion of his cheek had been sliced away, and knife and claw wounds
crossed his shoulders and arms.  Strange, but the only thing he felt
was the scar on his lip.  It throbbed against his jaw like a toothache.
Thinking perhaps the old wound had been reopened, Ravis brought his
hand to his mouth.  The knotted scar tissue was dry and unbroken.

Ravis.  Go to Tssa.  I'll take care of the men now.  It was Camron,
appearing in the kitchen doorway.  Ravis had left him on the
battlements after they'd finished off the last of the creatures. Camron
had asked for time alone, so Ravis had gone on ahead.

Sit, Cameron.  Let me see to that cut above your eye.

Cainron shook his head.  It's nothing.  He smiled.  Far better to spend
the time on, yourself.  You look awful.

Ravis smiled back.  That makes two of us, then.

Against Ravis will, memories of the last fight flashed through his
mind.  Claws slashing, jaws clicking as they opened wide to tear flesh,
and then the sickening crunch of compacted bone as ax heads severed
spines.  Ravis shuddered.  He could hardly believe that he and Cameron
had made it through.

Ravis.  Go.  Find Tessa.

Looking up into Cameron's face, Ravis felt a muscle knot in his chest.
He wanted to say something to Cameron, to hold him there, by the door,
and stop time moving forward past this point.  They would never be this
close again.

After a long moment Ravis conceded to time, nodded once, and left.
Camron would take good care of the men.  He would not have done once,
but now he would.

It was easy to follow Tessa and Emith's trail down through the cellar
and into the caverns below.  Neither of them had given any thought to
concealing their tracks.  This struck Ravis as endearing at first, then
he spied spots of dark blood upon the rock beneath his feet. Increasing
his pace, he raced along the pathway, calling Tessa's name. Sweat was
pouring into the gash on his cheek when he finally came upon one of the
creatures lying flat on plain of rock, dead.  Its legs and lower torso
were burned black from walking through the fire set at the gate. 
Broken arrow shafts jutted from its back and side, sword wounds bit
deep into its neck.  Still, that wasn't what had killed it.  Not quite.
Hundreds of small knife cuts over its chest, neck, arms, and flank
were what had finally finished it off.

Ravis crouched by the body for a closer look.  Some small part of the
thing's features had reverted back to what they once were, and he could
see the man lying beneath the misshapen bone and swollen gums.  His
eyes were open, and they were no longer cast with gold.  They were
brown.

Ravis.

Ravis looked up to see Tessa emerging from an opening in the rock wall.
A clean bandage concealed a wound on her right hand, and the underside
of her chin appeared to be burned.  She was shaking slightly, leaning
against the rock for support.  A moment later Emith appeared behind
her, and straight away Ravis knew that he had been the one to kill the
creature, not Tessa.  Something in his eyes had changed.

Quickly Ravis tore away what remained of his sleeve and placed it over
the creature's face.  He didn't want Emith seeing it as a man.  Better
to let him believe he had killed a monster instead.

You are both all right?  Tessa?  Emith?  Ravis looked from one to the
other as he rose.  Each nodded in turn.  And the Barbed Coil?

Gone.

Ravis closed his eyes.  When he opened them again Tessa was beside him,
touching his cheek.  He opened up his anus and let her come to him,
stroking her hair, feeling the warmth of her body against his.  He held
her only for a moment, conscious of Emith's presence and not wanting to
embarrass him or shut him out.

Come Ravis said, touching Tessa one last time as he let her go.  Let's
go upstairs.

I'll just get my paints together.  Emith began to move away.

Leave them, Emith.  I'll come down and get them for you later.

But the brushes need to be

Tessa put her hand on Emith's arm.  Let's go upstairs for now.  We'll
worry about cleaning everything later.

Emith made a small gesture with his hand.  Yes, miss.

Ravis stood in front of the creature's body as Emith and Tessa walked
past.  Exhaustion was beginning to set in, and he felt his feet
dragging as he followed the path up toward the cellar.  By the time
they climbed the last of the cellar steps and emerged once more into
the main body of the keep, pain had begun to cloud his vision.  The
gash on his cheek stung fiercely.  His sword arm ached, and the scar on
his lip continued to burn away at the nerve beneath.

Cameron sat in the kitchen, close to the fire.  Wounded men lay asleep
or resting in a loose circle around the hearth.  Dead men lay on the
opposite side of the room, near the door.  Pax was nowhere to be
seen.

He's gone to take a look at Izgard's camp, Cameron offered, unasked.  I
told him not to draw too close.

Ravis nodded.  He pulled out chairs for Tessa and Emith, while Cameron
brought over a pewter flask filled with brandy.  No one, not even
Emith, bothered with cups, and all drank from the flask.  Seeing Tessa
wince as her wounded hand closed around the metal, Ravis fought the
desire to go to her and hold her tight.  There would be time for that
later.  For now .. . Ravis finger trailed along his scar.  For now he
needed time to think.

He left Tessa and Emith in the kitchen, telling them he was going back
to collect Emith's things.  Truth was, he didn't know where he was
going.  Taking a path at random, he found himself in the great gallery.
The place smelled of death.  Spills of dark blood had run into the
mortar cracks between stone flags, into worn depressions on steps, and
down along the slanting stonework surrounding the great hearth, where
it had collected in a pool around an island of firewood.

Ravis shifted his gaze away from the blood, only to find himself
looking at bodies instead.  Half a dozen creatures lay scattered around
the room, some lying at the foot of the staircase, others close to the
tumbled barricade of doors and chairs.  Broken bones pierced their
skin, arrows jutted from their shoulders and chests.  Some had terrible
burns on their hands and faces, and others had great chunks of flesh
hacked clean away by great swords  All had slit throats.

Seeing the deep gashes stretching from one side of their jaws to the
other, Ravis realized that Cameron had done something he had not thought
to do himself.  He had given these men peace.  While he himself had run
down to the cellar in search of Tessa and Emith, Camron had moved among
the creatures, ensuring that all were dead.  From the fresh blood
spilled from some arteries, Ravis could tell that one or two had still
been alive when Camron came upon them.

Sobered, Ravis took a deep breath and lowered his aching body to the
ground.  Camron had thought to put an end to the creatures suffering.

To him they were his countrymen.

Mter a long, long while, Ravis stood.  As he had promised, he went back
to collect Emith's scribing equipment.  Forcing his body through a slim
fissure in the rock wall, Ravis found himself in a small cavern
scattered with inks, pens, pigments, and sheets of vellum.  ilfaylen's
illumination lay atop a wooden support board in the center of a cleared
space.  The vellum had been torn in parts, and what might have been a
beautiful pattern was ruined by streaks of blood and thumbprints.
Without looking at it closely, Ravis picked it up, held it over the lit
candle he had brought with him to light the way, and set it alight.  It
released the smell of sulfur as it burned.  Within seconds it was gone,
leaving behind nothing but a band of yellowish smoke and a handful of
ashes.

Tired and hurting all over, Ravis gathered Emith's belongings into a
sack.  As he packed away the last items, his hand came to rest upon a
single sheet of unmarked vellum.  Glancing to his side, he saw a quill
pen cast amid the debris of pigment shells, pigment-stained rags, and
broken brushes.  He picked it up, turned it in his hand.  A minute
passed, and then he bit down upon his scar and reached back inside of
Emith's pack, looking for a container of ink.

Settling down into the space that hours earlier Tessa had occupied,
Ravis wrote a letter.  To his brother.  It wasn't easy; sometimes he
couldn't find the right words, and other times the cut on his cheek
stung so much, he couldn't think.  Yet he wrote it, and by the time he
was finished the burn had left his lip.

I ask for nothing from you, it read, except that you remember the past.
All of it, the good as well as the bad, and the love that was there
before the hate.... Ravis tucked the folded vellum into his tunic, then
made his way upstairs.

Pax met him by the door.  The Garizon camp is in chaos, he said. Izgard
is dead.

Ravis nodded.  Any sign of his warlords?

I'm not sure.  I watched as a whole troop mounted their horses and rode
east.

They've started scrambling for power already, Ravis said.  It won't be
long before others follow suit.  The Sire and his army should be able
to send back those who are left.

I'm going to ride out and take a look myself.  Camron entered the
kitchen via the courtyard door.  His wounds had been bandaged, and he
was wearing a clean tunic.  Ravis noticed he favored his left leg as he
walked.

Keep yourself safe, Ravis said to him.  If you 7re not back within a
couple of hours, I'll come looking.

Camron acknowledged the caution with a grin.  You forget who you're
talking to, Burano.  I know a thing or two about the land around here.
With that he left, slipping out into the courtyard and the bright
morning beyond.  Seconds later Pax followed him, claiming his own horse
needed brushing down, and a moment after that Emith picked up his bags
and went the same way, mumbling about fresh water for his brushes and
fresh air for himself, and finally Ravis and Tessa were alone.

Ravis came to Tessa and held her close.  Touching her soft,
pigment-flecked hair and her hot, scorched cheeks seemed like a
blessing he didn't deserve.  He couldn't let her go.  So they stayed
together, holding each other, until Camron rode back into the courtyard
hours later, safe and excited, calling for everyone to join him outside
in the warm light of day.

EPILOGUE

e birch, oak, and chestnut woods of Runzy light ere beautiful to walk
through in the dimming of a breeze-driven day in mid autumn eaves
crunched beneath Tessa's feet and swirled along with her cloak.  Some
even got caught in her hair.  As she made her way back to the manor
house, she found herself feeling for her ring: something about the gold
leaves reminded her of ephemeras.  Perhaps it was the fact that next
time she came here they would be gone.

The ring felt warm and heavy in her hand.  Its barbs flashed as they
emerged from the darkness of her bodice.  Satisfied that all was as it
should be, Tessa tucked the ring back into place and moved on.

Emerging from the woods to the cleared area surrounding Cameron's manor
house, she spied Cameron and Ravis on the steps.  Ravis spotted her
instantly and waved.  Tessa felt her heart jump a little as she
returned the gesture.  She had so much to be grateful for.  Walking
suddenly seemed too slow, and she burst into a run, hoisting her long
skirts around her knees and making for the manor house as fast as she
could.

Camron grinned as she approached.  Ravis flat-out laughed.  Doubtless
she was breaking all sorts of rules of conduct by running in the
company of men.  Not caring one whit about that, Tessa came and sat by
Ravis side.  He made a space for her and hugged her close, then
whispered something soft in her ear.  Blushing, she jabbed him in the
ribs.  Really!  How could the sight of bare knees have that effect on
anyone?

All sorts of papers and charts were laid out on the step between Ravis
and Camron.  Tessa glimpsed inventories, bills of sale, and maps of
Garizon and its borders.  Seeing where her gaze rested, Ravis said, We'll
be heading into Garizon before the first snow blocks the passes.

Tessa nodded.  She'd known this was coming.  After Igard died from the
shock of losing the Barbed Coil, the war had turned inward.  The
Garizon forces had broken up and returned home.  The death of their
king, the loss of the Coil, and the bad omen of the earthquake had been
nothing compared to the havoc wrought by Izgard's warlords.  Fighting
among themselves over who would take the king's place, they had raced
back to Garizon, each determined to be first to claim the throne.  Many
bloody battles had been fought since.  Thousands of Garizon soldiers
were dead.

We have to do this, Tessa, Cameron said, his gray eyes shifting colors
as he spoke.  We can't let Garizons go on killing each other.

Izgard is dead Tessa said.  Isn't that enough?

No.  Not anymore.  Cameron ran a hand through his hair.

It stopped being about revenge for me a long time ago.  It's about
people now.  My people.

Tessa leaned forward and put her hand on Cameron's arm.  She could
hardly believe this was the same man she had met all those months ago
in a wine cellar in Bay Zen.  He had changed so much all of them had,
but perhaps he most of all.  Does this mean you're going to try to take
the throne?

Cameron shifted his gaze to Ravis.  There was a question in his eyes.
The two men looked at each for a long time, and Tessaknew that to them,
she was no longer there.

Ravis scar was white in the failing light.  His eyes were inky,
unreadable.  After many minutes he spoke.  I am a fighter, Caruron.  My
brother told me that a long time ago, and whether it was true at the
time or whether it became so later doesn't matter anymore.  I'm not a
man to rule and watch over land.  I have all I want here Ravis found
and pressed Tessa's hand and here He patted the scabbard con taming his
knife.  And I will fight with you, at your side, because you are a
brother to me, not because I expect to share in your rewards.

Cameron looked down.  Heavy breaths pumped through his chest, and it
was a while before he could control them "o 4 J.V. JONES

enough to speak.  If you wanted this if you wanted to bring peace and
rebuild Garizon in your own name I would stand by you.

I know.  Ravis created silence for those two words to rest in, then
said, But you will do a better job of it than I. You think of Garizons
as your own countrymen.  I never will.  I have no wish for the
throne.

The breeze picked up, strewing golden leaves over the steps.  Camron
caught one in his hand.  Closing his fist around it, he stood.  I never
knew what it was to fight for myself, for something I believed in,
until that night I fought at your side in Castle Bess.  Opening his
palm, he let the crushed leaf fall to the ground and held out his hand
for Ravis to take.  I owe you more than I can ever repay.

Ravis rose and gripped Cameron's hand.  There are no debts between
brothers.

Caruron held Ravis gaze.  He went to say something, then stopped
himself, simply nodding once instead.  With a short wave of his hand,
he turned and made his way back to the house.  Ravis watched him go.

Tessa took a deep breath and settled down to wait until Ravis was ready
to speak.  Surprisingly, it wasn't long.

I received a message from Malray today he said, his voice soft, almost
puzzled.  He's here.  In Runzy.

He wants to see you?

Yes.  Violante persuaded him to meet with me.  She spoke with him in
Mizerico.  Told him I was a fool.  And that while he was busy plotting
some new way to kill me, I had actually spoken up to save him.

I don't understand.

Ravis made a small gesture with his hands.  I hardly understand it
myself.  Violante and I spoke so little about Malray.  I thought He
shook his head.  I thought I'd made my feelings clear.

Perhaps you did.  Tessa met Ravis gaze, and after a moment he looked
away.  Is Violante here, with Mairay?

No.  She's in Rhiga.  Mairay says in his message that she's caught the
eye of the Liege's son and is busy being wooed.

Tessa tried not to let the relief show on her face.  Just the memory of
Violante of Arazzo was enough to make her feel plain and disheveled.
Absently she smoothed down her dress.  So will you see him?

Yes.  Soon.  Ravis glanced up at the darkening sky.

Tonight.

How can you be sure it's safe?  It might be a trap.

Ravis leaned forward.  He's willing to come here, Tessa.  Unarmed and
alone.  Remember what you said on The Mull?  About how Deveric has been
interfering with our lives for twenty-one years?  Well, it's over now.
This could be a new start for all of us: Caruron, you... me.  Something
shone in Ravis eyes as he spoke, and TessR reached over and kissed his
cheek.  Scar tissue brushed against her lips.

Do you still want a portion of Burano land?

Ravis shook his head.  No.  It was never about the estate.  I would
have fought for anything just to be at Malray's side.  He made a small
gesture toward the woods.  Autumn leaves, even.

A strong breeze rustled the leaves underfoot.  Tessa stood and tugged
Ravis up.  Come on.  Let's go inside.  It's getting dark.

Hand in hand they entered the house.  Warm light from the candles
surrounded them, and warmth from the fire made their cheeks glow. Emith
came dashing over to greet them, a wax tablet in his hand.

I think I've found something, miss, he said, holding out the tablet to
catch the light.  This pattern here, the one with the double row of
knot work looks similar to the one you were working on just before you
broke the first binding in the cavern.

Tessa nodded.  Where did you copy it from?

Master Deveric's last painting, miss, the one that drew you to the
ring.  The pattern's repeated several times: in the border and around
the central medallion.  As he spoke, he helped Tessa off with her
cloak.  It just might be the one.

Tessa took the panel from him and looked at it more closely.  A string
of S-shaped knots had been etched into the green-black wax.  Frowning,
she brushed flakes of excess wax from the surface.  For the past few
weeks she and Emith had been working to find a pattern that would
enable her to get in touch with her family back home.  She didn't want
to go back, but she wanted to let her parents know she was safe.  And
she needed to say good-bye.

I've already traced it out in hardpoint, miss.  So all you'll have to
do is paint.

Tessa smiled.  There were times when she thought that killing the
creature in Castle Bess had changed Emith, yet it was hard to pin down
how.  Sometimes he stayed in his room for hours at a time, mixing
pigments and binding boars hair onto brushes.  Other times he didn't
act like himself at all.  Last week he had told Pax to stop returning
from town with his horse lathered and overworked.  Tessa smiled at the
memory.  Pax hadn't known what to say though he had gone easy on his
horse ever since.

Have you two got your bags packed?  Ravis was busy building up the
fire.  Pax will be wanting an early start in the morning.

Tessa nodded.  She and Emith were going back to Bay Zen.  She had
decided to spend her time there until Ravis returned from Garizon, and
Emith had plans to turn part of his mother's house into a small school
and teach local children how to read and write.  He didn't say it, but
Tessa suspected that one day he hoped to come across a child who was
talented enough to be trained as a master scribe, so he could pass on
all the knowledge he had gained from Avaccus and Deveric.  Tessa hoped
very much that such a child would come along.  Emith had a lot more to
give.

I'll just see to the last of my things, Emith said, shaking down Tessa's
cloak and draping it over a chair close to the fire.  Miss Gerta
promised to help me pack the food for the journey.  She says that bread
should always be wrapped in waxed linen to stop it from turning
stale.

Tessa and Ravis exchanged a glance.  The old Garizon maid had been in
Runzy for less than a month, yet Emith had already taken it upon
himself to care for her.  She was blind in one eye and her body jerked
and trembled as she moved.  Watching them together made Tessa's throat
ache.  Every time Emith opened a door for Gerta or brought her a shawl
or a hot drink to warm her blood, it was like watching him with his
mother all over again.  He was the kind of man who needed someone to
care for nothing had changed that.

Gerta and her mistress were planning on staying in Runzy until it was
safe for them to return home to Garizon, so tonight was Emith's last
chance to look after the old maid before he left.  Tessa's smile was
sad as she watched Emith deciding whether to return to his chamber or
cross the entry hall to the kitchen.  After a little anxious brow
furrowing, he took the path to the kitchen: Gerta's domain.

Ravis came to stand by Tessa.  You be sure to keep yourself safe in Bay
Zen he said, taking the wax tablet from her hand and placing it on a
chair.  I don't want anything happening to my wife while I'm away.

Tessa didn't reply.  She slipped her arm through his.  After all these
months she still found it hard to believe she could touch him whenever
she wanted.  She loved him very much.

Ravis put his palm flat upon her arm, holding it against him.  Come on,
he said, moving toward the double doors that led into the great hall.
Let's go and catch up with Cameron.

Holdon a minute!  Both Tessa and Ravis turned at the sound of Pax's
voice.  The young guard dashed from the kitchen, nearly bumping
headlong into Emith, who was heading the opposite way.  Pax was
carrying a jug of wine that sloshed liquid over his tunic as he moved.
A handful of pewter goblets were tucked under his belt.  Grinning from
ear to ear, he stopped, extracted two goblets from his belt, and poured
wine for Ravis and Tessa.  Handing Tessa a cup, he tilted his head in
the direction of the double doors.  I wouldn't go in there just yet.

Why not?  Tessa asked.

Because Camron is in there, asking a certain young lady to marry him.

Tessa glanced at Ravis.  Do you think she'll say yes?

Well, according to Bay Zen law she's his anyway.  Anything that washes
up on the beaches and sand marshes surrounding Castle Bess belongs to
the landholder.  Cameron found her, he holds the land, so legally she's
already his.  Smiling, Ravis pushed against the door.  Let's go and
find out what the lady herself says, though.

Grinning all the way, Tessa and Pax followed Ravis through to the great
hall.

Angeline of Halmac and Camron of Thorn were standing at the far side of
the room, looking out at the courtyard beyond.  They were holding hands
but pulled quickly apart as soon as they realized they were no longer
alone.  Seeing Angeline by the window, her face lit up by the setting
sun, Tessa marveled at how quickly she had recovered from her injuries.
Tessa still remembered the terrible state she was in when Camron
brought her back to Castle Bess.  She was barely alive, her lips
cracked and dry, her body limp and broken.  Numerous bones in her ribs
and fingers were cracked, and deep gashes marked her shoulders, neck,
and back.  She was horribly bruised.  Although Angeline had fought with
all her strength to keep the baby she had been carrying, she lost it
two weeks later.  The physicians were cautiously optimistic of her
chances for having more.

All of them had cared for her.  Emith, Ravis, Tessa herself, Pax, and
most of all Cameron.  It was hard not to love her.  She was gentle and
sweet natured and strangely tough when it came to bearing pain.  No one
questioned her about how she had come to collapse on the sand marshes
that day Cainron wouldn't allow it.  Right from the start, right from
the very first night he'd stayed awake by her bedside, seeing her
through the worst of the pain, he had been fiercely protective of her.
He was like a young boy who had found a stray puppy: he would let other
people care for her, as long as everyone knew she was his.

They had not spent a day apart in weeks.  Tessa had watched their
closeness grow.  Sometimes, just for fleeting instances when Angeline
looked into the flames of a roaring fire, or heard a door slammed shut
by the wind or voices raised in anger, Tessa saw a glimpse of something
dark and afraid in her eyes.  There would be a moment when Angeline's
entire body stiffened, then Cameron would be beside her, touching her
hand, brushing a stray curl from her face, making whatever scared her
go away.

Does no one knock in this place?  Cameron asked, eyes twinkling as he
turned to greet them.  Seeing Pax loaded down with wine jug and
goblets, he beckoned him forward.

Come and pour Angeline a cup of wine, Pax, before we lose whatever's
left to your tunic.

Tessa noticed Cameron's fingers're twining around Angeline's as he
spoke. When Pax had poured wine for everyone, Carnron leaned toward
Angeline and said softly, Tell them.

Angeline glanced nervously at Cameron, then cleared her throat.  A long
moment passed while everyone waited to hear what she would say. Looking
down at the floor, she worked to control a muscle quivering in her
throat.  Finally she spoke, her voice shy and halting.  I want to thank
all of you for taking care of me these past months.  All of you. You've
been so good to me.  I don't deserve it.  I feel as if I've been given
a second chance.  She hesitated, glanced again at Camron, who smiled
back at her with such gentleness that Tessa felt a lump form in her
throat.

Angeline took a gulp of air and let the rest of her words out in a
great rush.  What I actually mean to say is Camron and I are getting
married, tonight, before he goes away.

After that everyone in the manor seemed to find their way to the hall.
Gerta came and passed out food.  Her bad eye was covered by a patch and
she couldn't judge distances too well, but Emith was more than happy to
help her carry heavy trays loaded with ham and drumsticks and lay bowls
of fruit and cheese on tables of her choice.  Pax called in the entire
troop and spent the good part of an hour devising a series of festive
toasts, each one more elaborate than the last.  Servants bustled,
filling glasses and removing empty trays.  One man started singing, and
someone else began plucking on a fiddle.  Through it all Camron never
left Angeline's side.  He was very gentle with her, giving her plenty
of time and space to speak for herself.

Tessa ate and drank and danced.  Like everyone else, she couldn't stop
grinning.  It was only when she had drained her third cup of berriac
that she noticed Ravis was nowhere to be seen.  Feeling a small pulse
of unease beat in her temples, she set her cup on the nearest table and
worked her way across the room.

The entry hall was empty, and the fire was burning low from lack of
care.  After stopping to pick up her cloak, Tessa approached the
outside door.  Sounds of merriment from the great hall made it
difficult to hear anything outside except the wind.  Gently, so as to
make no noise, she lifted the latch and pulled open the door.

It was full dark now, and Tessa's eyes needed a minute to adjust.  A
sharp gust of wind made her blink.  She headed down the steps and into
the courtyard.  All the shutters had been closed, and only thin strips
of light escaped from the house.  Somewhere ahead a horse snuffled and
shook out its mane.  Tessa heard the metal fastenings on its bridle
jingle.  Focusing on the sound, she made out the form of a sleek
stallion.  Its shanks shone an oily black color in the darkness.
Looking past the horse to the stable wall, she saw two figures standing
close.

She recognized Ravis straight away.  His dark hair was pulled back from
his face and his hands were ungloved.  The man he was speaking with
matched him in height and coloring but was more heavily set.  The two
men seemed to be involved in a heated discussion, as their jaws worked
furiously up and down as they spoke.  The stranger made mercury quick
gestures with his hands.  The same sorts of gestures that Tessa had
seen Ravis make a thousand times.

Tessa's heart thumped in her chest.

It was Mairay.  Here.

Grabbing the edges of her cloak against the wind, Tessa risked taking a
few steps forward.  The horse smelled her and stamped its feet. Neither
man noticed.  Ravis was talking; his right hand moving up from the
knife at his waist to his lip.  Abruptly Mairay shook his head. Tessa
heard Ravis raise his voice, caught a brief snatch of a sentence, where
the words father and brother were said.  Malray took a step back. His
hand fell to his side, and for a fraction of an instant Tessa thought
he was about to draw a weapon.  The wind died off.  Then something
happened.  The space separating the two men seemed to contract.  Both
men tensed for a fraction of a second, then somehow they came together.
Tessa couldn't tell who was the first to step forward or the first to
open his arms.  She just saw them fall toward each other, saw their
shoulders shaking and the fierce intensity of their first contact.  She
heard them draw ragged, hungry breaths.

After too brief a moment they pulled apart.  Even from where she stood,
Tessa saw tears shining in Ravis eyes.  Both men edged back into their
own separate spaces.

Tessa turned away.  She had intruded upon them long enough.

As she took her first step toward the door, she became aware of
something pulling against her neck.  The surrounding shadows thickened.
A breath of cool air fluttered across her cheek.  Gray noises ground
against her eardrums, working their way through tissue and bones until
they formed a wedge of darkness, like a blind spot, inside her head.
Tessa lost seconds.  She was aware of nothing except a brief skim ruing
motion, light as a thief's touch, above her collarbone.  The stench of
sulfur brought her back, banishing the noises and darkness as quickly
as they came.  Immediately, she brought her hand to her chest.

It was gone.

The ring was gone.  The ribbon that held it was hot to the touch, and
tiny fibers bristled along its length.  Looking at it, Tessa shook her
head.  Even though she had known for many months that one day the ring
would disappear, she hadn't thought it would happen so soon.  It seemed
so sudden.  So final.  It felt like the end.

No, Tessa thought, ripping the ribbon from her neck.  It wasn't the end
at all.  It was just another beginning.  Crushing the empty ribbon in
her fist, she went to wait for Ravis in the hall.  The
End....................